Like A Glass

By Telanu (telanu@email.com)

Rating: PG13

Notes: Sequel to "Almost, At Times, The Fool." That took place over Hallowe’en; let us assume this takes place at the end of Book Five (you know, the climactic ending stuff). So I am making plot attempts! Obviously, this is going to wind up being very different from (and far inferior to) whatever J.K. Rowling has in mind, bless her. So I guess this takes it into Alternative-Universe territory. Hmm.

And yes, I know that in fifth year they’re supposed to take O.W.L.s and stuff, but since I don’t really know what O.W.Ls are yet I’m leaving that to The Master herself to reveal. These guys just take final exams. ‘Kay?

Summary: At the end of his fifth year, Harry has a vision which indicates Snape may be in mortal danger. What will he do?

Warning: Harry’s still fifteen. Still no serious hanky-panky. Well, I guess it all depends on how you define "serious" <cough, cough>. Oh well. But it’s got action! It’s got adventure! To paraphrase the immortal Christopher Noxious, it’s got boys-on-broomsticks!

Also, <cough again> I am somewhat redefining the length of the school year to suit my own shameful purposes. I’m sure you’ll handle it fine.

Disclaimer: All of these people belong to J.K. Rowling, and possibly Time Warner as well now, I’m not really sure. But not to me. I’m making no money off this.

Pairing: Harry/Snape

Special thanks (and glomps :) to Tinderblast, First Mate of the Harry-Snape Ship and beta reader par excellence! I’ve never had a beta before, and her introduction to the world of fanfic critique was very kind.

***

Harry Potter, though only fifteen years old, had seen and done a great many things that adults twice his age had never even imagined, let alone laid claim to. He’d flown on a broomstick, cast spells, been invisible and defeated the forces of darkness pretty much single-handedly – and more than once. He’d grown up without any real family to call his own. He’d witnessed things no child his age – or many years older – should ever have to see.

On the side of the commonplace, he’d also crammed for tests, experienced embarrassing growth spurts, tripped a lot recently, and had had tentative crushes on pretty girls.

Once he had been kissed.

It was this last that was causing him considerable consternation.

***

"Harry? Harry."

Harry jerked out of his reverie with a startled "Wha?"

Ron and Hermione were glaring at him from the couch on which they sat rather close together in the Gryffindor common room. Harry sat in an armchair opposite and stacked between the three were piles of homework.

"Harry," Hermione said slowly, as if speaking to a half-wit, "it’s your turn. Trans-fig-ur-a-tion. All right? Now, suppose you want a book to look like a lampstand for just a little while – what’ve you got for the Five-Minute-Fix Spell?"

Harry looked down at his parchment. "Um. For a Five-Minute I’ve got. . ." he looked up with a sheepish grin. "Two doodles that look sort of like spirals."

Hermione snorted in exasperation. Ron leaned over for a closer look. "You call those spirals? Look like demented worms to me." He and Harry grinned at each other. "You know, like they’re worms on some kind of weird spell where they just – "

Hermione – there was no other word for it – growled. The mirth stopped.

"I’m sorry," Harry apologised then. "I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight. I’m only holding you two back. Let me just go on up and work at it in the dorm." He began to gather his papers together absentmindedly, scarcely noticing as several sheaves fell out of the stack and floated gently across the floor.

Ron and Hermione eyed the errant papers. "Yeah, sure," Ron said. "I’ll be up soon. We can go over it more then."

"Thanks," Harry murmured vaguely and wandered out, the occasional paper still drifting out of his arms.

Once he was out of hearing range, Hermione banged her fist on the armrest. "Right. This has got to stop."

Ron just shook his head. "He’s been raving mad all year. First at the beginning when he blew up at everything that came his way. . .and now it’s like he’s not even all there."

"Well, whatever parts’re missing had better come back in a hurry," Hermione hissed. "We’ve got final exams in a week!"

"He seems to be doing okay in class," Ron objected. Hermione raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Well, sure, tonight he’s acting like a git, but he can usually do the schoolwork." He frowned, then gave a little half-smile. "Funny thing is, he’s never done so well in Potions, of all things. I was sure – "

"Oh, not that again," Hermione said wearily, and Ron backed down. Ever since Hallowe’en Harry’s confrontational attitude toward Potions Master Snape had cooled down considerably, and she was quite sick of hashing out why exactly that was. Especially since Harry himself remained absolutely closed-mouthed on the subject. Gossiping about your best friends was a wonderful pastime, but at some point it tended to grind to a halt without fresh information.

Resolutely she turned her mind away from Harry and back to problem ten, focusing extra hard. It was strangely difficult to concentrate with Ron’s knee pressed right up against her own.

***

Harry drew the curtains shut around his bed, pulled out his wand, whispered "Lumos," and flopped back down on his pillow in the illuminated darkness.

This really wouldn’t do.

He had finals coming up in just a few days. He had to focus, concentrate. It sometimes seemed like he’d been floating in a daze for seven whole months, ever since. . .ever. . .

Bugger all, wasn’t he ever going to stop thinking about that?

Seven months. That seemed like an awfully long time to hang twisting in the wind, Harry thought. But it had all gone exactly as Snape had predicted: the Potions Master had continued as nasty as ever to Harry and his friends, just as he’d promised, and most of the time Harry found himself absolutely boggled trying to reconcile the greasy, snarky Snape he’d always known to the passionate, desperate man he’d met for a few brief moments on a freezing balcony. It was like they were two different people.

Many times Harry had been on the verge of deciding that Hallowe’en had been some kind of insane hallucination on his part caused by the cold, or. . .something. He couldn’t quite decide what. He’d sit in Potions with Ron and Hermione and watch them being belittled and bullied just like always, and the Slytherins, especially Malfoy, being fawned over in the most revolting manner. And the anger and resentment would come bubbling up harshly again, overlaid with a terrible confusion: had it, indeed, been real?

But always, always just as he was on the verge of disgustedly resigning the whole episode to his imagination, he’d glance up in class one day, or in a corridor or the Great Hall or elsewhere, and see Snape watching him with hot, hooded eyes. The memory of a warm, skilled tongue would come rushing back, the promise of untasted delights; he’d get hard in his pants, go to bed that night, wake up the next morning stuck to the sheets, and be forced to admit that yes, it had been very real, maybe the most real thing that had ever happened to him.

After the second time that had happened, he’d purposefully learnt a charm to put on himself so he wouldn’t talk in his sleep. That was all he needed, with Ron sleeping so close by. Not to mention Seamus and Dean and a whole towerful of Gryffindors. . .

Seven months of this. And aside from those secret, searing glances there had been not another word from Snape. Well, to be fair, he had said there wouldn’t be, but in his heart of hearts Harry hadn’t really believed it. How could someone kiss you as if kissing you was the most important thing in the world – and then back off completely for over half a year without one single word on the subject?

Only Snape, Harry reflected bitterly. Frustrating prick.

So for those seven months, all he’d been living off of was that one semi-unbelievable kiss. No wonder he’d been so out of it; it was more than enough to drive a fellow mad. These days his only real focus came on the Quidditch field, when the sharp tang of the air and the sturdy truth of the Firebolt beneath him reminded him that he was Harry-Potter, not Insane-Kid. He might trip over his own two feet in the hallway, but his broom remembered what grace was. It had been his best year as Gryffindor Seeker yet. Except, of course, for that one single match where Snape had shown up to watch, and Harry’s concentration had been rattled so badly that he’d actually been pulled from the field. Thank God they’d been playing Hufflepuff and not Slytherin.

Snape hadn’t come to any Gryffindor matches after that. Harry told himself he was relieved.

***

He settled himself down next to Ron in Potions next afternoon. Hermione, as usual, was going to troubleshoot for what they now called amongst themselves The Neville Problem.

"This will be the final potion you learn this term before exams begin next week," Snape announced in his dark, sonorous voice. After seven months, Harry could now hear that voice without feeling his crotch twitch. Mostly. It was hell being fifteen. "It might appear on your exam; it might not. In any case I suggest you apply your admittedly limited faculties," with a disdainful glance at Neville, "to absorbing it as best you can."

Harry bent to his cauldron to hide a frown as he assembled his ingredients, while Hermione gave Neville a comforting pat on the arm. That was another thing he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. All right, so he’d told Snape he’d be okay with things continuing as they were. But it was bloody hard watching his friends being treated like utter rubbish day after day, no matter the reason. He could take Snape treating him like rubbish now; somehow, things seemed more equal when he remembered how his Potions Master desired him. (Which was, in itself, a still-shocking thought.) But when Snape talked down to Ron or Hermione or even Neville. . .it just really tried his patience.

It was all a show for the Malfoys and their ilk. Harry understood that. Right? But why did Snape have to be so stinking good at it? Why did he seem to enjoy it so much?

He crushed the araminta leaves with unwonted force, barely listening to Ron’s disgusted murmuring next to him, only making out words like "stupid," "slimy," and "bastard." He followed the instructions almost mechanically; as potions went, it actually wasn’t all that complicated – no funny spells or incantations. Just chopping and stewing and grinding and allowing to simmer. It felt like his insides were doing the same thing.

What the hell did he care, really, what Snape thought or did? One kiss didn’t mean any promises. In their case it seemed to mean the absence of promise. The important thing was they were both on the same side: working against Voldemort, against the Malfoys, no matter how things looked to other people. That’s all that mattered, Harry told himself as he diced up his yellowroot, and he had to remember that. It was all that was important.

Then he glanced up and almost chopped off his own finger.

Draco Malfoy was looking at Snape. Not just looking, but looking, the way a snake looks at a very tasty mouse. Snape appeared to be oblivious, frowning over something at his desk while the students worked, but any second he’d be sure to glance up and see that disgusting little rotter ogling him. Or, worse yet, he’d glance up, see Harry staring at Draco, and then see Draco staring at him. What a tableau. Harry swiftly turned his gaze back to his cauldron, feeling as if his face and his guts were on fire. That – that little – Malfoy! How dare he? How –

He felt sick and furious all at once, and his own reaction frightened him more than anything else. So he didn’t care what Snape thought, huh? Right. This knocked that theory on its arse. Why, why, why was he doomed to these sorts of epiphanies? Couldn’t he be normal at anything he tried?

Jealousy was an ugly thing, and he’d felt its bite before, especially lately, what with Ron and Hermione getting so close that he felt left out. But this. He felt like he wanted to grab his knife and pare that smug little smirk right off Malfoy’s face.

Snape had to be nice to Draco so people – especially Lucius Malfoy – would think he was a good little Death Eater once more. That was Harry’s theory, anyway. Just how far did "being nice" extend? Would Snape actually. . .would he really consider. . .

Harry swallowed hard and couldn’t help another glance at Draco, this one of pure misery. The young Slytherin was a handsome boy, with hair so blonde it was almost white and icy blue eyes. Peaches-and-cream complexion. Red lips. The lot. He could be bloody Sleeping Beauty out of a fairy tale, the little puke. How was Harry – he of the gangly knees and floppy hair and Coke-bottle glasses – supposed to compete with that, especially at the stakes they were playing? If it came down to the success or failure of this mission, which one of them did he really think Snape would pick?

. . .Whoa, hold on. Deep breath, deep breath. He had to be overreacting. He seemed to do that a lot, with Snape. If Snape had a problem with sleeping with students, he’d surely be able to fend Draco off with that, just as he had Harry. And then a sudden image occurred to him, of Snape hiding in his office to escape clamouring crowds of love-struck pupils. . .Harry bit his lip to keep from chuckling out loud.

"Professor Snape," a silky voice came from somewhere to his left, "forgive me for interrupting, but my potion isn’t changing colour as it should. Would you mind having a look?"

With a vague sense of certain doom, and unable to stop himself, Harry looked up again. Snape had risen smoothly from his chair, and why did Harry’s brain have to pick NOW of all times to notice how good those black robes looked on him, and was making his way to Draco’s table without any of the mocking commentary he would certainly have leveled at the lot from Gryffindor. His hand continuing to stir his potion on automatic, Harry watched, helpless and unobserved by either of them, as Draco turned a glowing face towards their teacher and actually touched Snape’s sleeve with his little git hand.

"Whoa," Ron breathed next to him, "do you SEE that?" He was staring, virtually slack-jawed, at the expression on Draco’s face. Then he turned back to his cauldron and his voice dropped to its lowest whisper. "I think I’m going to be ill. Did you SEE how he was looking at him? Malfoy and Snape. . .anybody and Snape. . . I’ll be days trying to get the horror out of my head. . ."

Harry went back to pounding his araminta leaves (which were almost dust as it was), imagining each little granule to be Draco’s face, and snuck another look. Snape’s back was to him, his posture rigidly correct as always. There was no way to tell what he was thinking. At least Malfoy’s hand was stirring his cauldron now and not sitting in places where it had no right to be.

"I mean, did you get the LOOK on his face," Ron was continuing, scandalised. "My God, talk about sucking up to the teachers – oh no, there’s another image I didn’t want – "

"Shut up," Harry hissed furiously, and at Ron’s shocked look, he added lamely, "I mean, they’ll hear us."

Whether Ron believed him or not, he still shut up, and they passed the rest of the class in silence, with one exception: Ron glanced over at Hermione and Neville, and muttered, "Sitting awfully close, isn’t he?"

Still distracted, Harry only managed a vague, "Neville? Nah."

"Hmph," Ron responded, and glared at Neville again. In this vein they finished up class, with Ron’s and Harry’s potions being clearly the worst of the lot. Hermione’s and Neville’s were quite good; this did little to improve Ron’s poor humour. Draco was, of course, roundly praised, while Harry ground his teeth almost to powder, and then Snape swooped over to his table.

"Well, well. Potter and Weasley." Snape paused. "How very. . .interesting."

The Slytherins tittered. Draco laughed out loud. Harry thought his cheeks just might burn right off his face, and Ron didn’t look much better.

"I don’t think," the Potions Master continued, "you know, I really don’t think I’ve ever seen a Panic Potion of such a terrible consistency in my life. And yet you both managed it in one day. And the intriguing colour! I distinctly recall mentioning that the final result should be brown, not this lovely. . ." he peeked into Ron’s pot, "orange, nor this. . ." with a look into Harry’s, "well, I’ve no idea what that is. Yes, yes, truly a record-breaking day for the Potter-Weasley Team of Miserable Incompetence."

"Too bad we’re not pretty little Slytherins," Ron shot back. "Maybe then we’d get a bit of personal attention from the teacher."

An outraged roar broke out from the Slytherin tables so that Harry could barely hear Snape snap, "Ten points from Gryffindor for insolence, Weasley!" His whole body seemed to have gone stiff as a board for he couldn’t help noticing that, over at the table he shared with Crabbe and Goyle, a secret smile lingered on Draco Malfoy’s lips. Snape turned on Harry then, eyes narrowed, obviously expecting some kind of cheek from him in defence of his friend. Harry simply stared back as hard as he could.

Don’t you dare, he thought, wishing he could simply will the words into his Potions Master’s head. Don’t you DARE let him touch you.

Snape blinked slowly, his eyebrows raising and for a crazed moment Harry wondered if he’d actually spoken the words aloud. But he hadn’t, after all, and Snape simply turned away when he saw no further impertinence was forthcoming, dismissing the class with a final injunction to study hard for the final.

"Merlin’s beard, I’ll actually be glad of that final," Ron mumbled, stuffing his Potions text viciously back in his bag while Harry finished scrubbing the cauldron. "It’ll mean no more Snape for a whole summer."

"Mm," Harry replied distractedly, as Hermione came storming up.

"Honestly," she said in exasperation, "what’s got into you, Ron? Ten points! You know he’s trying to get a reaction out of you!"

"Oh, sorry," Ron said, with a scowl at Neville who, it was true, was hanging rather close to Hermione’s elbow. "I guess not all of us can be up to your standards. Lucky you were with Neville - he never does things like that, sticking up for himself."

"Ron!" Harry said in horror, forgetting all about Snape as Neville went pale and stepped back. Hermione’s face went stiff with outrage, and Ron himself bit his lip.

"Neville, I’m sorry, that was absolutely beastly of me – "

"Yes, it really was," Hermione added acidly. "Just ignore him, Neville. He’s at the level of a ten-year-old."

Ron turned red again, and for the next few seconds he and Hermione were locked together in a vicious staring contest. Neville was looking miserably at the floor. Harry was glancing, appalled, at his group of friends and wondering what on earth he should say when he overheard a very familiar voice in the doorway:

"Professor, thank you for helping me today. But I’m awfully worried about that final exam. Would you mind terribly giving me a pass for tonight – if you’ve got the time, I think I could benefit from a little tutoring."

Draco! Harry froze. Nobody else seemed to be aware of the exchange, as Ron had given up trying to stare Hermione down and was continuing to apologise to Neville, who in turn was continuing to watch the floor. He didn’t dare turn and look, didn’t even think he could if his life depended on it; but his ears were straining to hear Snape’s reply. Please, he begged silently, not really sure what he was asking for, please. . .please say. . .

"Don’t worry about it, Mr. Malfoy," Snape drawled. "Your work this term has been exemplary as always. I can promise you," with significant emphasis on ‘promise,’ "that you need have no worries about the final exam."

Surely that was sufficient! Snape had just promised Malfoy a free test! Let it be enough, let it be. . .

"Oh, but Professor," Draco murmured, "I simply don’t share your confidence in me. But I think if we could just go over a few things tonight. . .the exam is on Monday, after all, and surely you could spare me just an hour. . ."

"Well, I’ve said I’m sorry," Ron said loudly, and Harry’s attention was jerked unwillingly back to his friends. "I’m really sorry, Neville, and you know what I said wasn’t true. If you’d rather go crying to Hermione then I can’t stop you, I’m sure!" He threw his bag over his shoulder with a little more force than was necessary. "Come on, Harry." Confused, Harry looked from Ron to Hermione to Neville, having no idea what to say or do.

His outburst had attracted attention, and Snape rounded on their little group. "What are you lot doing, loitering in my classroom?" he asked impatiently. "Get a move on or you’ll lose more points. I’m sure you have class. You’d best be going too, Mr. Malfoy."

Heading out the door, Harry took vicious satisfaction in Draco’s crestfallen expression. "Yes, sir. But. . .about tonight. . ."

Trailing behind his friends, Harry slowed down so he could hear the answer. He had to know. He had to.

"I’m sorry, Draco," Snape finally said in a low, firm voice. "I will be very busy all weekend preparing for exams. You’ll do fine on your own."

"But – !"

"Now run along, or you’ll be late for class."

It was strange, Harry reflected, as he hurried to catch up with the others. He’d made a lousy potion (when before he’d really been doing rather well), Gryffindor had lost ten points, Neville had been insulted, and Ron and Hermione were fighting again, but he was happier than he’d been all day.

***

It was the final Divinations class of the term. That made Harry even happier than the end of Potions, maybe because just lately he found Professor Trelawney more annoying than he ever had Snape. She was just so. . .so. . .

"Ah, Harry," came the high-pitched, musical voice as he entered the room. Sibyll Trelawney never spoke in anything below a trill. And around Harry, she trilled mournfully. He didn’t know how that was possible, but she always managed it. She was just so. . .

Trelawney regarded him sadly. "Such a brave young man," she murmured, obviously grief-stricken, "so terribly tragic. . ."

Oh yes. That was it.

"I feel fine," Harry said loudly.

"For now," Trelawney predicted in a hushed, ominous voice. Harry winced. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were already starting to look at each other fearfully. Then, with a wide sweep of her be-shawled arm, bracelets jangling, the Divinations teacher waved them all into the overstuffed chairs and ottomans that decorated the room. The incense was already so thick that Harry had to exert conscious effort not to choke. Beside him, behind Trelawney’s back, he could see Ron making gagging faces. Thank goodness they didn’t have this class with Hermione.

"You are aware, no doubt," the woman hummed, "that your final exam will take place on Wednesday of next week. In my business it is pointless to wish you fortune, good or bad; I am, of course, already quite aware of who will pass and who – " with a surprisingly sharp glance at Ron, "will not." Her eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. Parvati and Lavender regarded Ron with expressions that looked like a cross between sympathy and a smirk.

"Too right," muttered Ron under his breath, and sounding like he’d taken a leaf from Hermione’s book. "Easy to predict that sort of thing when you’re the one handing in the marks, isn’t it?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, got a snootful of incense, and sneezed. Trelawney, her eyes still closed, immediately murmured something about "a long illness, poor lamb."

Then she opened her eyes again as all the students began settling back. "We have already covered," she announced, "the important material; I have no wish to put undue strain on you," with a mournful glance at Harry in particular, "in the few days remaining to you. Ah, before your final, that is. So I think today will be a day of. . ." she heaved a humongous sigh, "reflection."

Harry and Ron sent excited glances at each other. Days of reflection meant they could fall asleep and look like they were meditating. Seamus Finnigan had already begun arranging his robe around him like a blanket.

"Free your mind," Trelawney intoned, her warbling tone starting to have a soothing effect as Harry allowed himself to relax, anticipating a nice hour or so of shut-eye. Rather nice of the old bat, really, to treat them to reflection on their last day in class. Maybe she wasn’t all bad. "Allow your brain – that admittedly limited organ – to transcend the barriers you have set upon it and reach into the infinite rhythms of the universe. . ."

Her talk was even more high-flown than usual, Harry reflected drowsily. His eyelids, already half-sunk, closed completely and he gave into the languor that came at the end of a long school week, especially when the end occurred in a hot, too-perfumed room.

When he opened them again, he stood in a clearing.

He blinked, and then shook his head. Where had the Divinations classroom gone? Where were his classmates? He was quite alone. And it was eerily silent; he couldn’t hear the wind, or birds, or even his own breath. Was he in a dream?

Well, that seemed reasonable. It was night, and when he’d closed his eyes it had only been late afternoon. There was a full moon above, and the stars twinkled gently, reminding him vaguely of the eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Illuminated under their light was a circle of six small, gray standing stones. Something lay very still in the middle of the circle.

Harry couldn’t explain the sudden feeling of dread that sat like a lump in his stomach. It was plenty bright, for nighttime, but he couldn’t see clearly enough to make out what that huddled shape was inside the stones; he only knew the sight of it made him feel sick with fear. The trees around seemed to loom like giants of darkness. The whole place was familiar, but he just couldn’t place it – though he knew he’d seen it somewhere before. . .

When one of the stones raised an arm in the air, Harry was so startled he almost fell down. Walking closer to the circle, and squinting, he suddenly saw, to his shock, that they weren’t stones, but people. People dressed from head to toe in hooded gray cloaks and standing inhumanly still. The lump in the middle, he could now see, looked like another person, crumpled and broken. It was huddled in on itself, curled like a dead baby, impossible to identify from where he stood.

"Welcome, Death Eaters," intoned the stone-person who had raised the hand. With a jolt, Harry recognized the low, malevolent tones of Lucius Malfoy, though he could not see his face. "Welcome, those faithful to Lord Voldemort. We are here to witness the destruction of a traitor."

"Destroy the traitor," intoned the rest of the circle, their voices sounding to Harry like the rasp of nails over a chalkboard.

"He came as a friend. He worked so closely with us that he was as one of our own blood. He swore allegiance to our most mighty lord. And he betrayed us!"

"Betrayed," repeated that horrid chorus.

"A spy, an informer, a Muggle-loving miserable dog. Unfit to live."

"Unfit!"

"Behold," hissed Malfoy, extending his arm out so that it hovered over the unfortunate person in the middle of the circle. His wand pointed down over the body and a terrible, red light shone from it, illuminating the huddled shape of robes and limbs. It didn’t seem to even be breathing. "Behold the lying cur. Behold the punishment the loyal have extracted."

No, Harry thought, his blood swiftly turning to ice and lead as dread turned to certainty. No, no, it can’t be –

"Behold a dead man! Behold Severus Snape!"

The light from the wand flared, and the huddled body flopped over like a landed fish, lying cruciform on the grass. Now Harry could see the face, obscured as it was by a curtain of tangled black hair and mottled with dark blood. Those open, staring eyes left no doubt. It was Snape and he was, unquestionably, dead.

Harry felt his throat contracting with the need to scream. But the Death Eaters were so near, he didn’t dare move, he didn’t dare make a sound. . .

"He thought he could come back to us," sneered Malfoy. "He thought he would be welcomed as our brother once more. He was sadly mistaken."

Harry couldn’t take his eyes away from Snape’s blank, slack face. Of all the terrible things he’d ever seen, this was the worst. Beyond a doubt. He was so cold he didn’t think he could ever be warm again. The dark eyes weren’t hot or cool now, just empty, and that mouth, which had kissed him so expressively, was just lying open and –

. . .and it was saying something. Before Harry’s horrified eyes, Snape’s dead lips shaped the silent, but unmistakable word: Harry. . .

Harry’s hand was already heading for his wand. Maybe he wasn’t dead after all! There was still a chance! He didn’t know how he could possibly hold out against six full-grown wizards, but this was Snape, he had to try, he had to do anything he could –

His wand. His wand was gone. He’d lost it. Harry looked wildly around the ground, even up at the sky as if he expected to see it hovering there in front of his face, but it was gone. Where was it? Had someone stolen it? He thought back to the time of the Quidditch World Cup, wondered if Winky was anywhere around, wondered if he was losing his mind, wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now, when the choice was taken out of his hands.

Another sudden explosion from the wand Malfoy held shocked him into looking up, and he did cry out then. A bolt of fire had poured out from the wand tip and was engulfing Snape’s body. From the space of one second to the next, the corpse had turned completely to ashes; and yet Harry still could not rid himself of the impression of those two blank eyes. He was shaking all over now.

"A fitting end," whispered Malfoy, and the wand dipped low, little streams of fire still licking its tip. Harry’s eyes shifted to it from the charred heap on the ground, and he gasped: it was his wand that Malfoy held, with its phoenix plume, his own wand that had killed Snape. His very own wand that he’d chosen at Ollivander’s, what seemed like eons ago. The wand that was the mirror of the Dark Lord’s. . .

Harry did start screaming then, unable to stop himself, but not a single Death Eater looked up, or even appeared to hear him. A soft wind came at last, rustling the dark pile of ashes that had been Snape, beginning to blow them away on the air, spiraling them up in hideous eddies. Harry kept howling, unable to contain his misery, until the ashes seemed to obscure the stars and moon above, until they seemed to coat the ground with darkness, until everything went black.

***

His eyes snapped open and his whole body jerked. He could hear himself gasp softly.

His back hurt, as if it had been cramped into position too long. For a moment, Harry sat rigidly, every muscle tense and eyes staring blankly ahead at the fireplace, trying to assimilate where he actually was, and what had just happened to him.

Divinations. He was back in Trelawney’s class again, his wand firmly in his possession. And. . .a vision. He’d just had a vision.

He looked around quickly. Had anyone else seen what had happened to him? Surely Professor Trelawney had noticed – but no, she was sitting in her own armchair and appeared to be so deep in meditation that she was actually snoring. Genteelly, of course. Ron and Seamus were deep under too, and it seemed so was everybody else.

Well, there was no time to lose. He had to do something. He quickly hunted around his chair and found his bag, stood up and slung it over his shoulder, with a plan already in mind. Dumbledore. He’d go to the headmaster and explain what he’d seen, and everything would be all right. It was a warning of some kind, it had to be. . .

"Harry?"

Even though it was softly whispered, the word still nearly scared him out of his skin. He whirled to see Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown looking at him quizzically. Of course. It figured they’d be actually meditating while everybody else, even Trelawney, was taking the excuse to doze off. "I feel sick," he mouthed silently at them, desperately hoping no one else would wake. "Sorry. Got to go."

To do them both credit, neither caused a fuss; Lavender just frowned, while Parvati’s pretty forehead wrinkled in concern as she nodded.

Harry hurried out of the room and down the seemingly infinite number of steps.

***

Twenty minutes later, he was hopping up and down in front of the stone gargoyle that guarded Albus Dumbledore’s office. He’d long moved past candy passwords and was getting closer to obscenities.

"Nimbus Two Thousand!" he shouted, feeling like he could cry with frustration. "Cleansweep Seven! Firebolt! What, don’t like broomsticks either? Maybe wands, maybe wands. . .um, elm with unicorn hair. Willow and – this is HOPELESS!" How in the ever-loving world was he supposed to guess one phrase out of thousands when he had no idea where to start? The vision of Snape’s body seemed to be burning holes in his brain, and all of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to just kick the bloody statue until it gave way and opened. He reared back –

"You’ll break your toe, you know," said a genial voice over his shoulder, and Harry whirled to see the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore behind him.

"Headmaster!" he gasped in relief, and had to stop himself from throwing his arms around the old man. "Thank goodness – I’ve got to talk to you, but I don’t know the password, and I’ve been standing here for ages – "

Dumbledore smiled again, and lay a calming hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Steady on, my young friend. As you can tell, I wasn’t even in my office, so nothing is lost. Ring Dings." The gargoyle swung aside and the door opened. "I’ve moved on to Muggle sweets," Dumbledore mused. "I was starting to run out of magical ones. Do come in, Harry."

The instant he stepped inside the circular office, Harry felt better. The portraits of headmasters and –mistresses past, all sound asleep, made the realm of nightmares and terror seem far away. And there was Dumbledore himself, of course, who radiated such a calm strength that Harry felt immediately soothed. He sat down in the comfy chair opposite Dumbledore’s desk while the headmaster puttered around a sideboard. "Tea?" the other man asked kindly. "You look like you could use a nice hot cup of something."

Harry gratefully accepted the cup as Dumbledore settled himself behind the desk. He usually wasn’t much for tea, especially in the summer, but right now it seemed the best thing in the world. Too bad there wasn’t any magic chocolate. He sipped quietly at his cup for a few moments, letting himself calm down a little more and enjoying the pleasant, minty flavour.

"S’good," he mumbled, "thank you, sir."

"You’re quite welcome," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with what looked like amusement, though Harry for the life of him couldn’t see what would be funny about tea. "Now what had you in such a state that you left class to come see me?"

Harry set his cup down carefully and took a deep breath. "I – I think I had a vision. In Divinations. I mean, I don’t normally, but it seemed so real. It was. . .about Voldemort. Sort of."

Dumbledore sat up then, and the twinkle disappeared.

"And. . .and Professor Snape," Harry added hesitantly. "I – I dreamed he was killed by the Death Eaters. That they’d learnt he was a spy, and they killed him. Then L-lucius Malfoy. . .burned him." That last seemed particularly perilous to say, even in the confines of this office. "He. . .he burned him with my wand." Feeling himself starting to shake again, Harry picked up the cup and took another long drink, letting the hot tea warm his throat and stomach.

For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing, but looked at Harry with a keen, piercing gaze. Harry forced himself to meet it without squirming. Then, the headmaster said at length, "I think we’d better invite Professor Snape up here, don’t you?"

Harry blanched a little; for some reason the idea of telling Snape himself about this dream discomfited him greatly. He’d rather hoped he could tell Dumbledore, and then the headmaster would just take care of everything. But. . . "Whatever you think is best, sir," he murmured.

"I do," Dumbledore replied, and rose from his chair, to where Fawkes the phoenix sat on his perch by the door. The magnificent bird appeared to be napping, but stirred instantly at his master’s approach. "Fawkes," Dumbledore said quietly, "I need you to go fetch Professor Snape here; I do not believe he has class right now."

Fawkes rustled and appeared to sniff disdainfully, as if he needed no instructions as to where a particular person might be, and rose into the air, flapping his incredible wings which, amazingly, didn’t turn anything over. Then he disappeared in a small burst of flame.

"Even better than an owl," Harry said, aware of the weakness of the joke, but Dumbledore smiled.

"I imagine what you saw must have been particularly upsetting to you, Harry," he said gently. Harry nodded, and then Fawkes burst back into the room. "Ah. Professor Snape should arrive within a few minutes, I should think. Why don’t you finish that tea – would you like a biscuit? They’ve got caramel chunks, I think."

Harry was so nervous now at the thought of seeing Snape that even the idea of eating anything made him feel ill. "No, thank you." Dumbledore nodded, and sat back down behind the desk, appearing to stare off into space. He ventured no conversation, no questions about Harry’s progress this term, nothing; Harry reckoned he was thinking about what such a vision might mean, and how to act to prevent it.

After about five minutes had passed, when Harry had drained the cup and was trying hard not to fidget, someone knocked on the door. "Come in, Severus," called Dumbledore, rousing from his reverie, and the door swung open to admit Snape.

"Dumbledore? What the devil is so urgent you had to send the phoenix – " Snape shut the door behind him, turned, saw Harry sitting in the chair, and went absolutely white. For a second Harry was astonished by this reaction, until he realized how it must look to Snape, coming into this office and seeing a student he’d once kissed sitting in front of the headmaster with a terrified expression. Oh no. He could feel himself going red in the face, utterly unable to speak and staring right back at Snape, forgetting completely why he’d come in the first place. What if Snape said something, or told the headmaster –

Dumbledore allowed them to stay in this frozen scene for a few moments before taking pity on them both, though when he waved Snape into another chair it was with a faintly bemused expression. "Sit down, Severus, and I’ll get right to business. Young Harry here says he has had a disturbing vision relating to your work with the Death Eaters."

Whatever Snape had been expecting, it obviously wasn’t that. He blinked as he rather shakily lowered himself to the chair, eyes firmly fixed on Dumbledore. "What? I mean, a – a vision?" He frowned.

"Now, Harry," Dumbledore invited kindly, "why don’t you tell us exactly what you saw in Professor Trelawney’s class."

Professor Trelawney’s class. Right. Harry jerked himself back to the present forcefully and began to recount what he’d seen as precisely as he could, from the time he’d dozed off to the moment of his frightened awakening. As he spoke, he glanced back and forth from Dumbledore to Snape; the former watched him attentively, while the latter kept his eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead. Harry tried to speak dispassionately, but it seemed like he was reliving the whole thing, and when he got to the part about Malfoy incinerating Snape his voice shook so badly that Dumbledore handed him another cup of tea, abjuring him to drink it before continuing. He offered Snape a cup too, but for some reason the Potions Master glared at him ferociously and declined.

Finally Harry came to the end and took a deep, shuddering breath, ashamed of how he was trembling again. It had just been so ruddy awful.

There was a moment of silence.

"What do you think, Severus?" Dumbledore asked eventually, his even voice betraying nothing. Snape paused before replying, but his words shocked Harry when they came.

"I’ve no doubt Potter means well, Headmaster, but his. . .overactive imagination is surely no secret. He admits he fell asleep in class – frankly, this sounds far more like a nightmare than a vision to me."

Harry’s jaw dropped. He was so flabbergasted he could think of nothing to say. Was it really possible Snape was going to ignore this? Even after what had happened on Hallowe’en, did he still think of Harry as just a. . .a "nasty little boy" with an "overactive imagination?"

Apparently so.

Dumbledore frowned, and to Harry’s amazement did not dispute the point. "Harry," he said kindly, "tell us about the details. For example, the clearing in which you saw the Death Eaters – can you describe it?"

"I – not really, it was just a clearing," Harry said helplessly. "I mean, it looked familiar, but I don’t know where I’ve seen it before."

"Mmm. And you say that Lord Voldemort himself was not actually present at this gathering?"

"No," Harry mumbled.

"The Dark Lord is always present at a full Death Eater gathering," Snape said firmly. "Frankly, Headmaster, it sounds to me more like the boy’s having nightmares of what happened to him – last year." His voice stumbled a little over the words, but that didn’t keep Harry from being enraged.

"There’s no need to talk about me like I’m not here," he said hotly.

"Quite right," Dumbledore agreed, his eyes twinkling again for the first time, and Snape finally leveled a glance Harry’s way. But there was no heat in those dark eyes now, no expression at all except for irritation. Harry felt all the coldness of the vision rushing away to be replaced with warm, substantial anger. How could Snape dismiss him like this?

The Potions Master turned back to Dumbledore. "I see no need for undue concern," he said smoothly and Harry clenched his fists.

Dumbledore looked troubled as he glanced between the two of them, one an ice statue and the other set on ‘boil.’ "I am in something of a dilemma," he murmured. "On the one hand, what Harry describes does, I admit, sound more like a nightmare than a vision." Harry gasped. "But on the other, of course I do not wish to take any chances with your safety, Severus. If what Harry saw is true – "

Snape leaned forward urgently in his chair. "Headmaster, we can’t turn back now. I’m far too close to – " he suddenly glanced at Harry, frustration crossing his face.

"Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if you spoke freely," Dumbledore said dryly. "I am quite sure that nothing you say will leave this room." He glanced significantly at Harry, who swallowed past the knot of anger in his throat and nodded jerkily.

Snape didn’t look convinced, but he continued. "The next meeting is absolutely crucial," he said in a low, intense voice. "Ma – my contact is going to re-introduce me into the Inner Circle at last. I will actually meet with the Dark Lord face to face and hear his plans! We cannot lose this opportunity because of a boy’s fantasy - "

"You can’t go," Harry yelled, shocking Snape into silence and causing both men to stare at him. Turning red, he stammered, "Can’t you get it? This is what I saw! They know you’re a spy. They’re going to kill you. And your ‘contact’ – it’s Lucius Malfoy, isn’t it?" Snape said nothing, but his face looked like it was chiseled from stone. Harry clenched the sides of his seat to keep from actually reaching out and shaking the other man. "How else would I know that? I dreamed it was Malfoy who got you!"

"You saw Malfoy," Snape said coolly, "at the Death Eater meeting in June. It is only reasonable that your mind should fixate on him."

Harry boggled. "How can you possibly – this is your life we’re talking about! Don’t you understand what I’m SAYING?"

Snape said nothing, but continued staring at Harry as if he were some kind of unpleasant bug. Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Harry, we understand all too well. And if this meeting were not as important as Professor Snape says, my decision would be only too easy. As it is," he paused, and seemed to struggle with himself. "Given that whatever Harry saw was not particularly clear, and that it is your own life at stake, I will leave the choice entirely to you, Severus. It is a choice I cannot make for you this time; I beg you to weigh the alternatives carefully. . ."

"There are no alternatives," Snape said flatly. "Of course I’m going."

"When is it?" Harry demanded.

"That is no concern of yours," Snape snapped.

"I – " Harry gasped, and floundered helplessly, staring at Dumbledore in appeal. "Please, Headmaster, you can’t let him do this – "

"Hadn’t Potter better go back to class, Headmaster?" Snape asked frostily.

"Class is over by now," Harry retorted, absolutely furious. Dumbledore raised his hands in the air.

"Silence, please. Harry, we thank you for your concern, but it appears that Professor Snape has made his choice." He still looked troubled, but continued, "It is not for us to interfere."

Harry looked him dead in the eye, not quite believing his own daring. "And when he – when something happens to him, how will you feel then?"

"What utter rubbish," Snape broke in irritably. "Headmaster, I have a final exam to prepare."

Dumbledore continued to look at both of them, from one to the other, and his expression became unreadable. "You may go, Severus," he said quietly, "and you too, Harry. Might I suggest you study for your exams as best you can, and try to forget what you. . .dreamed."

Defeated, and not believing what had just happened, Harry slumped back in his chair before grabbing his bag and rising out of it again. They’d done it, they’d actually done it. Ignored him completely, like he was some scared little boy. Dumbledore had ignored him, of all people. Was this particular meeting really so important that they were willing to take such a risk?

Following Snape dejectedly to the door, Harry paused to wonder for the first time: Was it a risk? Was it really possible he’d only had a nightmare? He’d had lots of them about the Death Eaters, after all. And he was so confused about Snape all the time. . .maybe Dumbledore was right, maybe it only made sense. . .

But it had seemed so REAL!

Distracted, he hardly noticed that Snape held the door open for him to pass, nor that Dumbledore watched them both leave with a very thoughtful expression on his face. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he began the long trudge back to Gryffindor Tower where, he supposed, he would find Ron and Hermione already studying, or arguing, or whatever else. And he couldn’t tell them anything about what had just happened.

"Potter," came the quiet voice from behind, pulling him back to the present moment. He turned. Snape was standing still in the hallway, his dark brows drawn together in an uncharacteristic expression of hesitation. But all Harry could see, in his mind’s eye, was that look of scorn back in the office, and all he could hear was Draco Malfoy’s soft, seductive voice asking for private lessons.

"Don’t," he said roughly, "just, just don’t," and turned around and hurried away as fast as he decently could. Snape didn’t try to stop him again.

***

"Where’ve you BEEN?" was Ron Weasley’s question as soon as Harry entered the Gryffindor common room, looking a bit the worse for wear.

"Parvati said you got sick in Divinations," Hermione added in concern. They were sitting again on that damn couch together, Harry noticed crankily, and Neville was nowhere in sight.

"Too right, Seamus and I woke up and you were just gone!" Ron said.

"Something I ate," Harry mumbled, and then sighed heavily. Really, he just wanted to go lie on his bed and bury himself in a textbook – not the Potions textbook – and try and forget this whole afternoon had ever happened. "I just. . .I dunno. I felt really sick all of a sudden."

"You all right now?" asked George Weasley, never taking his eyes from the game of Exploding Snap he was playing with Fred. "Mind you, I thought something in the soup looked a bit off. . ."

"That was ‘cos you hexed it," grumbled Lee Jordan from his seat on the windowsill, eyes on an Arithmancy text. "Ssh!" George hissed, grinning like a heathen.

"Yeah, that might’ve been it," Harry said dispiritedly, eyeing the door up to his dormitory with longing. Even Fred and George couldn’t cheer him up now. "Listen, I’m going to have a lie-down, all right? Crack a book or two while I’m at it."

"You look awfully pale," Hermione said, frowning. "You went to the hospital wing, of course?"

"Eh. . . actually, I . . ." Harry floundered for a bit. What were the odds they’d find out he was lying? Too high, with this lot, but he had to take the chance. "Yeah. Madam Pomfrey just told me to rest. Said I’d be all right."

"Well, that’s good," Ginny Weasley piped up from the hearthrug where she lay studying her notes. "You won’t be down for dinner, then?"

"Probably not," Harry said glumly, realising that to eat now would look suspicious. Damn, he was going to get hungry. "I’ll just go study something. Sorry for worrying you."

"Just glad you’re all right," Hermione murmured distractedly, eyes already veering back to her textbooks. Ron gave him another nod and then bent his head rather close down with hers.

Feeling his shoulders slumping under a weight greater than that of his bag, Harry went upstairs to his dormitory, and flopped down on his bed, heaving another mighty sigh. He told himself to relax and do what Dumbledore had instructed: study and forget about it. After all, if the headmaster didn’t think his. . .nightmare, or whatever, was any cause for concern, then maybe it wasn’t. How terribly embarrassing, to go crying to the headmaster about a bad dream, and then drag Snape into it, of all people. Harry shuddered. He’d never be able to face the man again.

But he just couldn’t get rid of this nagging –

Enough. He opened his bag, pulled out his Transfigurations text and notes, and determinedly began reviewing. He wasn’t going to let some weird dream interfere with his marks. Especially since this particular exam was on Tuesday, and McGonagall was known to be a stickler for details.

***

. . .How long had he been at this, anyway? Harry rubbed at his eyes blearily. About half an hour ago he’d heard everybody trooping down to the Great Hall for dinner which he, of course, couldn’t attend. (His stomach growled miserably.) So it couldn’t be that late. But his eyelids felt like lead, and all his Transfigurations notes were starting to blur into each other.

It’s got to be the strain, Harry told himself firmly. You’ve had a rough day. Just concentrate, Potter –

Thinking of being called "Potter" made him think of Snape now. No good.

Just concentrate!

Forcing his eyes open once again and holding back a yawn, Harry turned the page of his text. Something about beetles and chair-legs. It was quite fascinating, really, what magic could do these days. . .terribly interesting. . .just look at the illustrations, the way the beetle kept turning into a chair-leg and back again. . .

Back and forth. . .back and forth. . .

Harry pitched forward into sleep without a murmur of protest, his book falling unnoticed to the floor.

***

Ashes and wind and blood. That was all there was in the world. They swirled around him in a terrible miasma, and he heard a voice whispering to him.

Harry clawed out at the shifting darkness, trying to push through it and see what lay behind. It was like the ashes were forming a curtain between him and something important. "Let me through," he begged, and almost choked as ashes blew into his mouth. Agh, foul, he tried to spit them out, and then they got into his ears and eyes –

What was that spell? "Airus purus!" It was useful, Flitwick had told them, for finding your way through a fog. But it hardly made a dent in the dark horror that surrounded Harry now. He tried other charms, but nothing worked. Was he going to be trapped here forever? Where was here?

The voice was whispering again, and it occurred to Harry that it was rather terribly familiar.

Voldemort!

Harry floundered for his wand, unable to see anything. He risked the ashes again as he cried out, "You – you better let him go! Stay away from him!"

"How dear," the voice mocked. "Brave lad. What can you possibly do to save him?"

"I’ll warn him," Harry gagged, spitting out ash even as more blew past his lips. "I’ll tell him you were here! I’ve stopped you," he paused to spit again, "b-before!"

"He won’t believe you," Voldemort’s voice whispered, "don’t you know that? You’re a foolish little boy. . .but if it makes you feel better . . ."

Suddenly the ash cleared completely from the air around him. Harry took a deep breath of relief, which quickly turned into a hacking cough. He was floating, high in the air, above that same clearing. Below him were those six terrible figures again, the Death Eaters, and there was Snape’s body again, huddled on the ground. He could see, from this distance, Lucius Malfoy extend his wand, saw the body flop over and then begin to burn.

"It’s too late," Voldemort hissed. "I punish traitors, Harry Potter."

"No," Harry whimpered, unable to take his eyes off the horrid scene below.

"Would you like to know what killed him? It was the Cruciatus curse, of course; nothing so merciful as Avada Kedavra for that traitorous scum. Terribly painful. Yes. . .I enjoyed that. . .and then I gave what was left to my Death Eaters to play with. . ."

"NO!" Tearing his eyes away, Harry looked up and around the twinkling night sky for some source of the voice. He could hear Voldemort, but couldn’t see him. Where was he? Was this even real? He could see trees, and stars, a fat full moon and not too far distant the twinkling lights of Hogsmeade –

Yes! That was where he’d seen this clearing before – it was just outside of Hogsmeade, they’d crossed through it last year while sneaking off to visit Sirius!

This wasn’t real, it was his vision all over again. But now he knew where the meeting was, and he’d actually heard Lord Voldemort’s voice: the two things Dumbledore and Snape had said were missing. He could tell them now, explain everything, and they’d have to believe.

Harry crowed jubilantly – and woke up.

***

He jolted into full wakefulness, still surrounded by his notes. One of his quills, which had fallen to the bed, had stained the sheets with several dark blotches. He barely noticed as he scrambled off the bed, pulled the curtains back –

It was full dark outside, and he could hear the soft snores of his other roommates. Judging by the wood he was sawing, Ron was out cold. How long had he slept? It had to be past midnight. He couldn’t go to Dumbledore now.

And Dumbledore had said it wasn’t his decision anyway.

Harry’s mind quite firmly made itself up. He didn’t give a troll’s booger how late it was, he was going to go down and wake up that stupid git Snape and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that the Death Eaters were out to get him and he was not going to that meeting. Sneaking over to his trunk, Harry carefully lifted out his Invisibility Cloak and crept out of the dormitory, out of the tower, down to the dungeons.

A snide little voice in his head asked him what he’d do if he found Draco Malfoy down there. He shut it up at once.

Snape was an insufferable, pompous, posing, elitist, bloody-minded bastard of a prat, and if anything happened to him Harry would never forgive himself.

Another damned epiphany.

***

Snape took a deep breath as he stepped outside Hogwarts, accompanied only by another cloaked, shadowed figure.

"You’re nervous, I suppose?" a soft, smooth voice asked him.

"Anticipation is a better word, I think," Snape said, trying to sound as casual as possible. It was quite ridiculous, really, but he couldn’t seem to get Harry’s warning out of his mind, nor the image of the boy’s pale, desperate face. It was working at his composure like a termite at a piece of wood. "It has been far too long since I’ve laid eyes on our Lord."

"Yesss," Malfoy murmured as they made their silent way across the grounds, "almost fourteen years since you and Lord Voldemort have met face-to-face, Severus. A most momentous event for you, I’m sure."

"I see you understand."

"But naturally. When I first beheld him all those months ago, after such a long absence, I could hardly describe the joy I felt."

I’m sure it was enough to make you soil yourself, Snape thought, but of course said nothing of the kind aloud. Lucius had always been a slippery bastard, sliding in and out of trouble effortlessly, but even he must have been terrified at the idea of facing Voldemort.

How much more frightened, then, should Snape himself be. . .?

He tried to put the thought out of his head as he and Malfoy pulled their masks over their faces and mounted their broomsticks, hidden at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, well away from curious eyes. If he thought for one moment about the very real terror he felt, he’d never make it. Harry’s vision, damn the boy, certainly wasn’t making things any easier. He blinked, and hid his shudder.

A nightmare, not a vision. That was all. He had to believe it. Harry Potter was no Seer. Instead he allowed himself to focus on the treacherous tendril of warmth that would insist on snaking around inside him whenever he thought of Harry’s angry concern. True, he’d brushed the boy off like a fly and surely hadn’t endeared himself in the process, but even if it was only for a little while, Harry had cared. The thought gave him a kind of courage. If he thought of Harry Potter, and why he was doing this, he stood a chance of getting through this meeting with his sanity intact.

They flew carefully through the woods, sticking to the shadows, heading inexorably towards Hogsmeade. Snape had expressed surprise that the meeting was so near to Hogwarts, but Malfoy had merely said, "Do you think our Lord fears that ass Dumbledore, Severus?"

Snape supposed that was why they weren’t Apparating. Seven powerful wizards Apparating in one place – not to mention the Dark Lord himself – might well draw the attention of a powerful wizard attuned to such things. Mightn’t it? And Voldemort might not be afraid, but neither was he stupid.

They appeared to be the last ones to arrive, and Snape had one of the nastiest jolts of his life when he realised that all the other Death Eaters were present – and Voldemort was not. Just like in Harry’s. . .But Malfoy murmured, "He told us to await him tonight," and Snape forced himself to relax, insofar as was possible.

They all stood in a circle, which widened soundlessly to make room for Malfoy and Snape to stand in their accustomed places. Rejoining the ones he had once counted friends and compatriots, and who were now most assuredly his deadliest enemies, Snape felt a dizzying moment of déjà vu. Fourteen years? It felt like it had been yesterday when he last stood as a part of this group. Watching them, pretending to be part of them, always wondering if he would be discovered, if this would be the last night sky he’d ever stand under.

But there was one difference now: he was too old for this. If there were any justice in the world he’d be in his dungeon right now, thinking of nothing more distressing than examination questions, or studying some obscure text on arcane potions, or. . .or anything but this.

Well, there was nothing for it. Keeping his hood pulled over his head, he turned his masked face toward the cool night sky, and picked a star to focus on, awaiting the moment of Voldemort’s arrival.

***

Right, this was just unacceptable. This was the second door he’d stood outside in twenty-four hours, waiting in a fever of impatience for someone to answer him, and Harry was getting fed up. He knew Snape’s personal quarters lay beyond his office, in one of the inner dungeons, but he ought to be able to hear Harry knocking on the office door. Unless he was really deeply asleep. And Harry didn’t dare bang any louder, for fear Filch and Mrs. Norris would come to investigate. He looked up and down the dark, musty hallway. Nobody seemed to be coming. "Snape? I mean, Professor?" he hissed hoarsely, before resigning himself to the absurdity of it all. If Snape couldn’t hear him knocking, he wasn’t going to hear him whispering.

Maybe he was overreacting. If Snape was asleep, then he wasn’t likely to be in great danger unless he tripped getting out of bed. And the longer Harry lingered in the hallway, the greater the risk of discovery, even with his Cloak.

Besides, if Snape was determined to continue with the "hateful bastard" routine, he wasn’t likely to appreciate Harry’s help, at least not right this minute. Harry doubted Snape would actually report him, but he probably wouldn’t want to listen to any complicated explanations at this time of night. Or morning, anyway. How late – or early – was it? The moon had been heading for the horizon out of his window when he’d snuck out of the dormitory, so it had to be pretty close to. . .

Harry froze in the act of knocking again, feeling his heart turn to something heavy and cold.

The moon.

The moon was full tonight. Just as it had been in Harry’s vision. And Snape wasn’t answering the door. Which meant he was either asleep, or . . .

Dear God. The meeting was tonight. Harry’s feet were carrying him up the stairs two at a time before he realised what was happening, not really caring about the amount of noise he made, intent only on getting back to his room and the Firebolt. He knew where the clearing was, where Snape was. There was no time to raise an alarm, it’d be ages before he could explain properly. It was almost four in the morning, even now it might be too late – no, no, he didn’t dare think about that –

He’d never cursed his lack of Apparating skills, or Hogwarts’ prohibition of them, as much as he did that night. It seemed ages before he finally stumbled into the dormitory, keeping his Cloak wrapped tightly around him, trying to move quickly and quietly at the same time. He got his broom and his wand out of the trunk – his wand. For a paralyzing moment, his mind spun in dizzying circles. He’d seen Snape incinerated with this wand; did that mean he should leave it here? But then he’d have nothing to defend himself with. He wouldn’t stand a chance against any of them.

He’d just have to hold onto it or die trying, that’s all, Harry decided, sneaking over to the window and opening it. He mounted his broom and took off into the warming air. Almost frantic with haste, he flew in the shadows of the castle up to the Owlery, where he fished his quill and a ragged bit of parchment out of his pocket and scrabbled a nearly-illegible note, giving it to a very grumpy Hedwig.

"Get it to Dumbledore NOW," Harry gasped, "I can’t, there’s no time, I’ve got to go!"

And then, as Hedwig roused herself from her perch and flew off down the castle, Harry turned his broom towards Hogsmeade and a thinning, frightened hope.

***

Lord Voldemort did nothing so common as fly in on a broomstick; he Apparated directly into the middle of the circle, his hooded cloak – a deep blood-red – obscuring his skeletal frame and face.

He appeared facing directly away from Snape, looking at Avery, who appeared to shrink before his gaze, then straighten taller. Then Voldemort, still without moving, spoke softly, and the reality of that voice, combined with memory, chilled Snape to the bones. "Lucius."

"Master," Malfoy said quietly from two places to Snape’s right.

"You have brought our wayward friend." Not a question.

"I have, my Master."

Voldemort turned slowly and looked straight at Snape, his eyes gleaming, his thin lips pressed into a faint smile.

And at that moment Snape knew he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

"Severus," the Dark Lord murmured, taking a step forward. "It has been a long time."

Snape tried to swallow against the sudden panic that had risen in his throat and bowed deeply. "Too long, my Lord." Dear God, let him be wrong. Let him be wrong –

There was a brief silence; then Voldemort mused, "You escaped justice. Much like your old friend Lucius. You are to be congratulated."

Snape kept his head lowered in an attitude of reverence. "It is your Lordship who is to be congrat – "

"And yet," Voldemort continued as if he hadn’t spoken, "and yet, not exactly like Lucius. He merely claimed I had laid an Imperius curse on him. You went a step further, my friend. . .you made some outrageous claims, did you not? That you were a spy for Albus Dumbledore. That you had been working against me all along."

These questions were only to be expected, Snape told himself, and he’d prepared his responses in advance. But there was something in his head that was telling him this was all wrong, that nothing he said would do him the least bit of good. . . it was just panic. It had to be. "My Lord, it was the only way I had of gaining Dumbledore’s trust. I knew it was only a matter of time until you rose again; and if your faithful could get on the inside, as, ah, Lucius and I have done, then we could – "

" ‘Get on the inside.’ Yes, I see what you mean," Voldemort said softly. "And you’ve certainly done that, haven’t you? Working at Hogwarts under the very eye of old Bumble-bore himself. Potions master, yet." One corner of his mouth turned up in a horrid half-smile. "Well, then, Severus. Tell me what you have learned on the ‘inside.’ Tell me what I most want to know."

Snape could hear his throat click when he swallowed, and knew Voldemort could hear it too. No other Death Eater made a single sound. "Anything, Master."

"Tell me," Voldemort hissed, and drew a step closer, "of Harry Potter."

"An arrogant brat, my Lord," Snape said immediately, hoping the rasp in his voice could pass for loathing. He had anticipated this particular question. "As foolish as his father."

"Really?" Voldemort sounded amused. "And what else?"

"Surrounded by equally foolish friends, but well protected by Dumbledore. Watched like a hawk, in fact. There has been no chance to. . ."

" ‘Watched like a hawk,’ " Voldemort echoed again, his words ringing with mockery. "Yes, yes, of course. We must watch our prodigies, mustn’t we? May I understand – " his gaze became particularly unpleasant – "that you have been watching him, Severus?"

"Naturally, my Lord," Snape said through a mouth gone suddenly dry.

"And the other students? Do you watch them as well?"

"My Lord?"

"Malfoy’s boy, for instance." Voldemort swept his arm out to point to Lucius Malfoy, and although Malfoy’s face was covered by his mask, his eyes were gleaming with vicious delight. Snape felt his heart drop right into his stomach. "I understand young Draco is growing up to be quite a fine young man. I have hopes that one day he will prove himself sufficient to join us; already he has begun his work for me. . ." those terrible eyes focused again on Snape, rooting the younger man to the spot. "You may have been watching the students, Severus, but one of them has also been watching you."

"My Lord?" Snape managed again, the only words he could think to speak.

Voldemort turned away again and began pacing the inside of the circle, his long, thin hands clasped behind his back. "Poor Draco has told his father that you seemed completely uninterested in his little. . .flirtations. I was frankly surprised. Such a good-looking child. But that was not the greatest surprise." The stalking figure paused and looked up at the sky. Snape’s nails were pressed so hard into his palms that they were beginning to draw blood.

"You should be more careful whom you kiss on balconies, Severus," Voldemort announced suddenly. "Such public places. Even if they are dark and shadowed."

It took every ounce of willpower Snape had to keep his eyes open and not collapse in a dead faint.

"Harry Potter, Severus? Harry Potter? Of all people, you choose to give your affections to my most. . .irritating nemesis? Of course, I could be wrong. I could be misreading all of this entirely." Voldemort turned to face him again, and something rather resembling a paternal smile was on his face. "Tell me I am mistaken, my old friend."

Snape nodded, unable to speak, his blood turned to ice. He could say anything, promise anything, if it would get him out of this meeting alive and he never had to come back. He’d go to Dumbledore, tell him it was impossible, that he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do any of it, if only he could get out of here –

"That’s what I thought," Voldemort said, sounding pleased. "It was all an elaborate ruse on your part, wasn’t it? A cunning trap? Designed to lure young Potter into your confidence and trust?"

"Yes," Snape gasped, feeling as though all the air in the world had disappeared.

"And does he trust you? Have you gained his confidence?"

"Completely, my Lord!"

"Excellent." Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, and he raised a hand in the air. A large black owl hooted and came swooping down from a tree branch to rest upon the Dark Lord’s shoulder, nearly startling Snape out of his wits. He tried not to twitch. "Then this little task will pose no difficulty for you. Write a letter to Harry Potter immediately. Tell him to meet you here in this clearing as soon as he can. Tell him it is vitally important. Summon him here before me."

The world seemed to be swimming in front of his eyes, and Snape had to choke back a brief, hysterical laugh. Well, he’d been wrong. Voldemort had found the one thing he could not promise – could not do. And the old monster knew it. Harry. He should have known. He should have listened.

"Impossible," he said shakily, and when Voldemort frowned he added quickly, "Potter is well-guarded, as I’ve said, there’s no way Dumbledore would let him come here by himself, but later I could perhaps arrange it so that he – "

"But you are a Hogwarts teacher, Severus," Voldemort said quietly. "You are completely trusted by Dumbledore, or so – " with another glance at Malfoy, "my sources tell me. Write to Harry Potter. Explain that you have discovered he is in danger at the school and that you have created a safe place for him to hide. Will not Dumbledore believe you?"

Snape’s mouth opened and closed.

"Unless, of course, Bumble-bore knows that you are here already. Unless you really are what you said you were so long ago: a spy and a traitor."

Still mute, Snape shook his head.

"Then send the letter," Voldemort whispered. "I have the owl ready. I have parchment and quill here for you. Write and send it, Severus." He was holding out a quill, a grand affair with a silky black plume and dripping scarlet ink – at least, it looked like ink. It was perhaps two centimeters from Snape’s left hand.

Snape didn’t move.

"Surely this is not asking so much, after so many years of silence and. . .misunderstanding? Am I not giving you a sufficient chance to redeem yourself?"

Snape closed his eyes.

"You aren’t going to do it, are you?" Voldemort asked, and though Snape’s eyes remained closed he could still hear the terrible satisfaction in that voice. "I thought as much. Ah, Severus, you always had brains and courage, but you never had the sense to ally them with the right things. . .it’s going to get you into terrible trouble someday. . ." Snape felt the tickle of feathers as Voldemort brushed the quill against his hand again. "You will not do what I ask."

"No," Snape whispered.

"You are not a true Death Eater. You are not one of my followers." With the utmost gentleness, Voldemort raised his hand and slowly slipped the mask from Snape’s face.

"No." His own voice seemed to be coming from miles away. He was beginning to wish he had fainted; being conscious was not proving tremendously enjoyable, and it was certainly going to become even less so in very short order.

He could feel the Dark Lord’s body heat, such as it was, recede, could hear his soft footsteps drawing away. "Lucius. You have done well."

"It was my pleasure, Master." Vindictive hatred dripped from Malfoy’s voice.

"Your pleasure. I suppose that it was. Yes, I think we can safely say, Lucius, that your penance is well begun. Soon I will forget that you left me to suffer for thirteen years. . .soon. Not now. Now I must deal with one who wanted me to suffer. Who worked for my destruction."

With his eyes still closed, their lids like heavy weights, Snape wondered absently how long it would take for him to die. Hours? Days? A week? What if they tested him again in that time, tried to get to Harry through him? Would he be strong enough to resist? He wasn’t certain.

"And to think," Voldemort continued, "everything he worked for is futile! Even the wretched boy he shields at the cost of his own miserable life – even that boy is doomed as we speak. Did you know, Severus," he added, "that, when you share blood with someone, it is possible to send visions to this person?"

Snape’s eyes snapped open.

"It is difficult, I’ll grant you," the Dark Lord said calmly. "But not impossible. Very little is impossible for me. Oh, I could not send Harry a false dream – I could not show him a vision of something which did not exist. Yet. But your death, Severus, now that was a concrete plan of mine. I could show him that.

"He’s not an overly bright child," Voldemort continued. "I thought for a while I would have to draw him a map. But a second vision sufficed; just this night I revealed to him that we are meeting outside of Hogsmeade." At these words, the Death Eaters suddenly stirred, and though none dared make a sound their shock was evident. Voldemort turned to smile slightly at them. "You are surprised, my friends? Perhaps you expect Albus Dumbledore to come charging in here on a shining hippogriff to disrupt our little gathering?" They laughed nervously then. "No, no, I have studied my Harry Potter and I think I know him; he does not think well when panicked. I rather believe," with a direct stare at Snape, "that if anyone comes to save you, if anyone actually thinks you worth the trouble, it will be young Harry himself. That was why I had you fly in; I was rather hoping he’d follow you. . .but I see we shall have to wait a little longer." Voldemort smiled another, even more terrible smile. "And with a little luck. . .he won’t even bring his wand."

No. No, no, no, no. . .

"This distresses you," Voldemort said coldly. "As I knew it would. The sight of you sickens me, Snape. I shall see if I can find a vision of you that is more pleasing to my eyes."

He raised his wand. As one, the Death Eaters tensed with anticipation, craning their necks to get a good view of the death of their former ally. "Nothing easy for you, Snape," Voldemort whispered. "You will suffer before you die." The holly tip was pointed directly at Snape’s face. "Crucio."

The first bolts of blinding pain hit, and Snape fell to the ground. Then Voldemort whispered the word again. And again. And again. And again.

Snape could hear himself screaming as his nerve endings lit themselves on fire. Spots of colour began to dance before his eyes, but he knew it would be a long time before he was granted the mercy of unconsciousness, or the ultimate absolution of death.

His bones jarred again, and he howled at the sky.

***

Harry had to veer very sharply to the right to avoid crashing into an elm. He’d never flown so badly in his life. But he couldn’t help it; for the past ten minutes he’d been distracted by the splitting pain in his head. His scar ached as badly as it had last year when Voldemort was near and feeling particularly nasty. Which meant something terrible was happening, and Harry was so afraid he knew what it was. . .but he was even more afraid that the pain would suddenly stop, because that might mean. . .

There! That opening in the trees ahead – that was it! Harry slowed in his flight and swooped down lower, skimming just over the tree-tops. He clutched his Invisibility Cloak tighter about him as he approached the clearing, dread beginning to make his stomach tight. What would he see when he got in sight? Would the Death Eaters really be there? Would Snape?

He got his answer less than two minutes later.

Hovering behind the thick trunk of an old elm, Harry’s horrified gaze took in the sight of Severus Snape thrashing on the ground, clearly visible by the light of the moon, held in thrall by the pain issuing from Voldemort’s wand. His mouth was wide open, as if shrieking, but only hoarse, choking noises emerged. Terrified, Harry clutched at his own wand while keeping the Firebolt steady with another: now that he was actually here he had no idea what to do, save that he couldn’t bear watching this, seeing Snape dying by degrees under his very eyes.

"Crucio," Voldemort said again, sounding almost bored, and Snape, who’d been trying to get to his feet, collapsed again with a strangled moan. Harry squeezed his eyes shut as another blinding bolt of pain seared his scar. Neither of them could take much more of this. He looked wildly at the assembled Death Eaters, all of whom were watching the gruesome spectacle with the utmost fascination. What should he do? Could any of them see through Invisibility Cloaks, like Alastor Moody? Then, as Harry frantically ran through the possibilities, Voldemort lowered his wand slightly, raised his eyes to the sky, and frowned with irritation.

"The boy must be more stupid than I thought," he mused, sounding frustrated. "If he were coming at all, he’d have been here by now. . .surely that vision was clear enough to instruct a child half his age. . ."

Harry had to hold on tight to keep from falling off his broom. Him. Voldemort was talking about him.

Those thin lips set in a firm line. "Well, he is either truly obtuse, or – and how it pains me to say this, Severus – he doesn’t care whether you live or die. Either one is possible, I suppose. . .ah, well. Either way you shall pay the price for your treason." He looked down on Snape, who seemed to be trying to lever himself up on his elbows. "What can you be trying to do? Get your wand? But I have that now. I have it in many, many broken pieces. And surely you know it would have been useless against me in any case? Death with dignity, my friend, death with dignity, in that finest of Dumbledorian traditions! Crucio!" This time Snape did scream as he fell back again, and the sound ripped through Harry’s nerves far worse than the pain in his scar.

His mind was whirling with questions. Voldemort had sent the vision – and was expecting him? But he obviously didn’t know Harry was already here, and that was reason for hope. And action. Gritting his teeth determinedly, Harry withdrew his wand and, trying to stay behind the elm as much as possible, pointed it at a pine tree opposite him in the clearing. This was going to have to be done very fast, and very well. He wished Hermione were here.

"Inferno!" he whispered softly, and the pine tree burst into flame.

Well, it certainly served as a distraction. The Death Eaters turned as one with a horrified cry, and Voldemort whirled round, lowering his wand in the process. Snape dropped like a stone to the ground. Harry then pointed at another elm, this one nearest Voldemort himself. "Inferno!" And then at an oak. "Inferno!" Another pine. Another elm. Another. . . "Inferno! Inferno! Inferno!"

The clearing was going up in a blaze, and the Death Eaters didn’t seem to know how to react. Over the roaring flames Harry could hear someone shouting, "Dumbledore!" and Voldemort’s roared "Silence, fool!" in response, but that didn’t matter, because he was already in motion.

Setting his jaw and praying to whatever higher power might exist for young, stupid wizards, he held on tight to his broomstick and roared down into the clearing, determined not to let the flames frighten him, aware that they were far less terrible than Lord Voldemort. He paused to set another tree on fire on his way – the Death Eaters were regaining their heads and beginning to put the flames out. He had to keep them busy, that was his only chance – that, and the Invisibility Cloak –

He swooped down to where Snape lay, aware that he had to do it right the first time. There could be no second chance. He hooked his legs tightly around the broomstick, reached out with both arms, and, never slowing his flight, lifted Snape off the ground onto the broomstick, clutching him in his arms and feeling like he was dislocating both shoulders in the process. The Firebolt swayed and dipped for a moment as he urged it back up into the air, unused to the extra weight. But it was still the best broom in the world, and Harry had to count on that, because surely any moment now, in spite of the fire –

"Master! Master!" came the hysterical voice of a Death Eater. "Snape’s levitating!"

Harry could hear Voldemort’s enraged howl in response and, as he finally cleared the treetops, dared to glance back down. "He’s not levitating, you idiot! He’s half-dead! Someone invisible is CARRYING him!" Harry quickly turned his eyes forward again, but not before seeing Voldemort pointing his wand after them. Oh, God, he knew what was coming, he had to time this just right. . .

Harry veered to the right as if avoiding a collision with a bird, except that the threat was coming from behind, not ahead. He’d dodged the Cruciatus curse before, and he had to hope he could dodge this one too – and as the tree nearest him suddenly withered and turned black, he knew that he could. God, how far away was Hogwarts? Should he have headed for Hogsmeade? It was closer. But no, there was no Dumbledore in Hogsmeade, there was no one who could protect them there – he leaned forward, clutching Snape’s unconscious body tighter, urging the broom on with his legs as fast as it could go. The treetops were whizzing by so fast beneath him that the leaves were blurs, but he knew this was nowhere near the Firebolt’s top speed. How fast could he make it go, with all this extra cargo, before it began to burn out. . .?

Over the wind in his ears he heard the words, "After them!" Daring to look behind again, he saw two Death Eaters rising into the air on brooms – how strange, hadn’t Snape said they usually Apparated? – and giving chase. Their brooms were older, slower models, and both were far behind, but with only one man on each broom they could soon catch up. Harry was starting to dislike his chances. He glanced back over his shoulder again and recognized one of his pursuers; Lucius Malfoy had apparently lost his mask in the confusion, and was now pointing his wand directly at Harry.

"Oh, shit," Harry moaned, and this time swooped to the left. The hex, whatever it was, missed them by inches. His head was killing him, his hands were full with what felt like a bag of cement, Hogwarts seemed a million miles away, and now Dark wizards were right on his tail lobbing spells at him. There was no way he and Snape were getting out of this alive. No way, unless –

Harry veered to the right again, dodging another hex. He remembered something very important he’d learned in the Triwizard Tournament: play to your strengths. Admittedly, those didn’t seem so very many right now, but maybe if he. . .yes, maybe if he. . .

Without allowing himself to think of what he was doing, Harry held Snape tighter and sent the broom in a nosedive, down into the dark woods below. He heard the startled exclamations of the two wizards above him as he carefully zoomed behind a very large evergreen; he had a few seconds, at best. He shook out his Invisibility Cloak and wrapped it around himself and Snape as best he could, tried to calm his insane trembling, and waited.

Sure enough, it was only a matter of moments before Malfoy and the other Death Eater – if Harry remembered that massive bulk correctly, it had to be Crabbe’s father – dropped cautiously down into the trees. "Careful," Malfoy muttered. "I suppose my hex must’ve gotten him, but we can’t be sure."

"Who the devil do you think it is?" Crabbe asked, sounding fearful. "D-dumbledore?"

"Don’t be an idiot," Malfoy snapped. "Since when has the great Albus Dumbledore dirtied his own hands? No, it’ll be some noble fool he has in his service, you can be sure. . .careful!" For the broom Crabbe was riding had wobbled suddenly.

"Sorry," Crabbe muttered. "Looks like it’s been ages since Snape had this thing serviced. . ."

I could get them now, Harry thought nervously from his hiding-place. While they’re distracted, I could hex them or jinx them or something. . .and then get away. . .

But these were not his classmates. These were full-grown, powerful wizards (even if one of them was related to Vincent Crabbe) and whatever worked on Draco might not work on Lucius. If Harry was caught. . .far better not to take the chance.

He held as still as possible while Malfoy and Crabbe glided silently through the woods. With the canopy of trees obscuring the moon overhead it was almost impossible to see them, but Harry took heart in the fact that it would be even more impossible for them to see him.

Snape stirred slightly in his arms. Heart jumping into his mouth, Harry clutched the other man tighter and prayed he wouldn’t make a sound.

If he waited long enough, quietly enough, they might just give up and go away.

His hopes of that were dashed, however, when Lucius called softly, "Severus, my old, dear friend? Are you here? Just moan in pain." He laughed harshly and Harry gritted his teeth on a surge of rage. "You know, that was a neat trick your friend had, whoever he is. I am thinking of imitating it." He raised his wand. "Invisibility does not mean invulnerability, as you well know, I’m sure. Even if I can’t see you, you can still be burned. Come out now, before I set the whole forest afire."

He’s bluffing, Harry thought desperately. He’s got to be. From the way Crabbe seemed to hesitate, the other Death Eater was hoping the same thing.

"I say, Lucius," Crabbe hissed, "are you sure that’s an awfully. . ."

"Would you like to tell the Dark Lord we failed?" Lucius asked coldly, and when Crabbe fell silent, he pointed his wand at an old pine. "Inferno!"

Harry’s spell had been effective, but Malfoy’s was devastating. The pine tree exploded into a ball of fire, flames roaring into the sky as high as twenty feet, immediately leaping onto other nearby trees. Harry could feel the heat as suddenly as if he’d run into a wall. There was no help for it now. He coughed on the smoke and urged the broom straight up, breaking through branches and leaves and pinecones and hearing Malfoy’s triumphant "Ah-hah!" behind him.

The chase was on again, but now it was over fire. The flames Lucius had set were spreading like mad. Harry knew that if he went fast enough he could outdistance them, but as it was tongues of fire were curling into the air and made low flight hazardous, if not impossible. This was terrible, Harry thought in despair as he followed the rise of trees up a steep hill, Malfoy and Crabbe in hot (if blind) pursuit. Harry had his hands too full with Snape, it was only a matter of time before the Cloak slipped and they saw exactly where he was. If only he could get to the school –

The school! He’d cleared the hill. He could see it ahead, rising into the early morning sky, the dim hulk of Hogwarts. Safety was in sight. It still seemed ages away, but if he could just get the broom to go a little faster –

He did. And in the resulting whipping of the wind, the Invisibility Cloak flapped up in the air, showing Malfoy and Crabbe his precise position. It was only for an instant, but it was enough. Malfoy yelled something, Harry couldn’t quite hear what, but he felt his broom shudder and jerk beneath him, and then begin to dip alarmingly.

There were powerful spells on the Firebolt. After what had happened last term, Dumbledore had seen to that. But it wasn’t invulnerable, and whatever Malfoy had done to it was making it behave erratically in the air, almost too erratically to control without the use of his hands. Harry could feel his wits dissolving into panic. Not here, not when they were so close to safety! Had Dumbledore gotten his owl? Would he know they were coming, would he be looking for them, would he see Crabbe and Malfoy swooping around like bats and conclude that Harry and Snape must be nearby? Would he see the smoke? Harry could feel his throat catching with the need to scream loudly enough for his headmaster to hear him, even though that was obviously impossible.

Instead of screaming, he held onto Snape still more firmly and clutched his knees even tighter to the broom, feeling like every muscle in his body was howling in pain, and urged forward again. The Firebolt jerked into a burst of speed, then dipped down toward the trees. Malfoy and Crabbe were waiting for something to crash into the branches below, he just knew it. . .he had to stay up in the air where they couldn’t see him. . .he was past the forest fire now, but it still seemed like he could feel the heat all around him, as if he were flying straight through hell. . .

Then, due to an errant gust of wind, the Cloak flapped up again. Malfoy shouted something else. And, to his horror, Harry felt the broom under him jerk one last time – and begin falling through the air. No. NO. But as hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep the Firebolt aloft, and it started to drop toward the trees below. This was it, then. He’d failed, and he and Snape would either break their necks now or be captured and dragged back to Voldemort. He hoped it was the former – maybe if he tried he could deliberately land on his head –

Then, incredibly, as if a hand underneath it had given it a gentle push, the broom buoyed itself back up in the air. Harry opened the eyes he’d squeezed shut, and blinked. The broom continued to lift and he heard Malfoy’s outraged shout behind him. He turned and, to his shock, saw the two Dark wizards sitting still in the air, getting smaller and smaller as his broom continued on. Dumbledore, it had to be Dumbledore, Harry thought dizzily. They were so close to Hogwarts now that Crabbe and Malfoy had to turn back – they were safe!

Focusing only a section of his brain on piloting the broom – that invisible hand seemed to be doing all the work – Harry finally turned his attention to the still body in his arms. Except for that one time down in the woods, Snape hadn’t moved. Was he all right? Voldemort had said he was "half-dead," but right now, looking into that pale, still face, Harry thought Snape looked more like three-quarters dead. "Snape?" he whispered, and coughed, registering only now the amount of smoke that had got into his lungs. "Professor Snape?" No response. Starting to feel panicked again, Harry wished frantically that the invisible hand would pull the broom along a little faster.

The sun was beginning to dawn over the horizon, and squinting down, Harry could see the border of the deserted Hogwarts grounds. No, not quite deserted – two figures were hurrying across the lawn, faces turned towards the sky. The broom jolted a bit, and then began to descend, and as they approached the ground Harry could see that the two people were Albus Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. He felt himself beginning to shake with relief.

The broom dropped gently but Harry, his whole body locked into one position, couldn’t make the landing. The Firebolt hit the ground, with its rider still clutching Snape in arms that felt as heavy and immobile as lead. Harry felt his ankle give way painfully as it connected with the earth. The hood of the Invisibility Cloak slipped off his face, and McGonagall cried out, "Harry!"

"Harry," Dumbledore repeated urgently, running to kneel down where Harry lay and pull the Cloak off him. "Are you all right? Where is Professor – oh, my." He removed the Cloak completely, and revealed the strange tableau of Harry with his knees still locked onto the broomstick and his arms locked round Snape, who in turn lay sprawled and still on the ground.

"Severus," McGonagall moaned. "Dear Lord, what’s happened to him – "

"Quickly, Minerva," Dumbledore said, in as close a voice to a snap as Harry had ever heard from him. "Quickly, there’s no time. Get Harry to the hospital wing. Tell Madam Pomfrey that he was out practising Quidditch after hours to take his mind off exams, and injured himself."

"But Professor Snape – " McGonagall began.

"I will tend to Severus myself. Until we know whom we can trust, no one must know what happened here, Minerva. After you’ve taken care of Harry, go to Binns and tell him that Professor Snape has been called away on a personal matter, and that Binns is to administer the Potions exams next week; if there are scheduling conflicts, work them out later. Now, Harry, we’ve got to get you taken care of – if you could just let go of Professor Snape – "

"I can’t," Harry croaked, and it was true. His joints all felt like they were frozen solid, and even though his arms ached like mad he couldn’t unwind them from Snape. "S-sir, he’s, he’s not breathing properly, and he won’t wake up, and they set the woods on fire – "

"So I noticed," Dumbledore said grimly. "Have no fear, Harry, the Ministry is taking care of that, though I’ve no doubt that the Death Eaters are long gone by now. Here now, gently. . ." He laid hold of Harry’s arms and carefully pulled them away. Harry winced as his elbows straightened themselves out and the throbbing pain in his ankle began to make itself known. But there was no time for that now.

"Headmaster, it wasn’t just the Death Eaters. Voldemort was there too." McGonagall gasped. "He said he sent the vision to me, to lure me there and to kill Snape. . ."

Dumbledore’s mouth set itself in a thin line as he gathered Snape’s limp body in his arms, cradling the younger man as gently as if he were a child. "I’ve no doubt that’s true, Harry. But we simply don’t have time to discuss it now. I must take care of Professor Snape. Please allow Professor McGonagall to take you to the hospital wing; I promise you that I will listen to everything you have to say later."

McGonagall shook herself into action, waved her wand, and levitated Harry into the air so he wouldn’t have to walk on his twisted ankle. But Harry couldn’t go yet, not until he knew. . . "Headmaster, Professor Snape, is he, will he be – " he ended on a another cough, and tears jerked into his eyes.

"He is alive," Dumbledore said, rising to his feet as smoothly as if he were a man of twenty and Snape weighed no more than a bag of feathers. "And he will remain so. That, Harry, I promise you." And then he vanished.

Harry gasped. "I thought you couldn’t Apparate on school grounds!"

"You can’t," McGonagall said wearily. "He’s used an Invisibility Spell to make sure he can get Professor Snape to safety without being seen." For the first time, Harry remembered what Dumbledore had told him in his first year at Hogwarts: "I don’t need a cloak to become invisible. . ."

"Come now," the Transfigurations teacher added, and a measure of the customary briskness had returned to her voice. "Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will be able to do something about that ankle. Now, give me that broomstick and we’ll see if Madam Hooch can set it to rights later."

It wasn’t just Harry’s ankle, as it turned out; he’d seriously strained the muscles in his arms, and had bruises on the insides of his thighs from clinging so hard to the broomstick. Not to mention the ones that decorated the side of his body where he’d landed on the ground. A scandalised Madam Pomfrey demanded to know just what kind of Quidditch maneuvers he’d been practising, and for how long, and what on earth for.

"To take his mind off exams, he said," McGonagall said firmly. "Really, very careless of you, Potter."

"Sorry," Harry said vacantly, staring at the ceiling as Madam Pomfrey efficiently repaired his sprained ankle.

Pomfrey clucked. "I don’t imagine the other Gryffindors will be too thrilled, eh, dear? How many points has the poor boy lost, Minerva?"

That distracted Harry, as he turned to stare at McGonagall in horror. He’d just saved a professor’s life! Surely she wasn’t going to take points off Gryffindor for that!

McGonagall looked discomfited, but replied, "He seems to have been well-punished already, Poppy. I’ll wager these bruises and a few good detentions will do the trick; no need to take off House points this time."

Harry relaxed, and Madam Pomfrey nodded. "True enough. The hardest lessons we teach ourselves, I think. Right, Mr. Potter?" She patted his head soothingly, and when Harry opened his mouth to reply, he yawned. All of a sudden, he felt deathly tired.

"Er – he can sleep here, can’t he, Poppy?" McGonagall asked hesitantly. "You’ll keep an eye on him? So he won’t get into more trouble," she added hastily. "I don’t think he’s slept all night, and it might be for the best if. . ."

"Of course, the silly child," Madam Pomfrey said comfortingly, patting Harry’s head again. "You just get yourself a good sleep – eh? Now then. . .now then. . ."

Harry was asleep before she could say another word.

***

He woke up to a shockingly bright head of red hair looming over him.

"He’s awake!" Ron said excitedly.

"Of course he is," came Hermione’s exasperated voice. "You poked him."

"I never did," Ron replied indignantly. "I sort of bumped him, is all. And anyway, he’s slept long enough. How you feeling, Harry?"

He felt groggy, actually, and had to fight for a moment to remember where he was. The hospital wing. He’d come here after he and Snape had - Snape! Harry sat up far too quickly, his head spun, and then he slumped back down on the bed.

"Oh, Harry, slow down," Hermione said in quick concern. "With Quidditch injuries you have to be very careful, you know."

"And you’re the authority on that how. . .?" Ron snorted. "Attaboy, Harry. Here, have a sip of water."

Quidditch. That’s right, he was supposed to be recovering from a Quidditch injury. Nobody was supposed to know what happened, and he was pretty sure Dumbledore would think that "nobody" included Ron and Hermione. But how was Snape? How could he ask without giving everything away? Head spinning, he took the proffered glass of water and took a cool swallow. His throat felt stuffed with cotton. How long had he been asleep?

"What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Sunday morning, if you can believe it," Ron said, sounding awed. "You’ve been out for twenty-four hours. What’d you do, bang your head up?"

"You’ve lost a whole day of studying," Hermione added, sounding most distressed. "Don’t worry, we’ll help you catch up. . .look, I brought your books. . ."

Harry gaped at them both. "Twenty-four hours? How? But I just. . .I. . .yeah. Yeah, my head. I think I remember hitting my head." He must’ve been more drained than he thought, to have slept so long. . .

Hermione went from ‘concern’ to ‘lecture’ mode. "Well, honestly, Harry, practising Quidditch in the dark. What do you expect? You’re lucky you weren’t killed – and that McGonagall isn’t taking off any House points!"

"Yeah, she said she wouldn’t," Harry murmured. "Said my injuries and some detentions were punishment enough. . .I’m sorry," he said as penitently as he knew how, when they both leveled accusing gazes at him.

"You should be," Ron snapped. "I wake up at four-thirty in the morning, freezing my arse off, to find the window flung wide open and you and your broom and your Invisibility Cloak gone. Fair scared the life off me. ‘Mione’s right, you should’ve been more careful. At least you could’ve asked me to go with you."

Distracted, Harry raised one eyebrow. " ‘Mione?’ " he repeated archly. "When’s that started?" Ron and Hermione both flushed.

"Um, just a nickname," Ron mumbled, looking briefly at the floor while his ears turned pink. Hermione stared determinedly at the wall above Harry’s head, and then Ron seemed to find inspiration. "Hey, did you hear the good news?" he asked brightly.

"What, you’re engaged?" Harry asked sourly. They flushed again, but Ron hurried on anyway.

"Snape’s gone! They said this morning he’s been called off on ‘personal business.’ Binns is making up the exam. Binns, of all people – I mean, ghosts – well, whatever. You know. And Binns knows NOTHING about potions – this is going to be the easiest exam ever – er, Harry, are you all right?"

"Fine," Harry said faintly, and managed a weak smile. "Just feeling a bit off, I guess. Er. . .did they say where Snape went?"

Ron snorted. "Who cares? Just so long as he’s gone! Although this ‘personal business’ bit, I don’t buy it for a minute. Since when has Snape ever had a personal life, that’s what I want to know – " Ron sniggered. "Excepting the love of the illustrious Draco Malfoy, right Harry?"

Harry blanched. Hermione herself looked rather ill. "I do wish you’d never told me about that, Ron," she said plaintively. "I think it’s perfectly horrid. You must be exaggerating. Isn’t he, Harry?"

"I. . ." but before Harry could come up with anything half-coherent to say, Professor McGonagall’s voice rang down the infirmary corridor.

"Well, I see you’re awake at last, Potter." Ron and Hermione turned round guiltily to see her sweeping up towards Harry’s bed. "And Miss Granger has brought your books. How fortuitous. Are you up to getting out of bed?" Harry nodded. "Good. Then have a wash and get dressed as quickly as possible, and go to the headmaster’s office to await the details of your detention. Take your books; I imagine it will be some kind of study hall. The password is," McGonagall made a face, " ‘Ring Dings.’ Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley." With a curt nod at all three of them she turned and swept out again, though not before giving Harry the concerned once-over.

Ron turned around, a sympathetic comment obviously on his lips, but Harry cut him off by saying hastily, "I’d better go. Get it over with, right?" Dumbledore’s office. Maybe he could find out how Snape was. His friends nodded.

"Really, Harry, you’re very lucky," Hermione said earnestly. "Dumbledore giving you a study hall so you can catch up, instead of making you do something horrid."

"Dumbledore would never make anybody do something horrid," Ron said indignantly.

"I don’t know," Harry said slowly, but when they looked at him in surprise he quickly dredged up another smile. "Sorry. Just woolgathering. Thanks for stopping by."

He’d never bathed and dressed so quickly, but it seemed like each motion took ages to complete. By the time he’d made his way to Dumbledore’s office he felt as if his heart was about to pound out of his chest. After such a long sleep it felt like all his senses were coming back to full alert, and he was having to restrain himself from hopping up and down again as he waited for the gargoyle to swing aside and admit him.

Dumbledore’s office was empty when he entered, but the door had scarcely shut behind him when the headmaster entered from a private door in the back, looking tired and worn. Harry’s heart clenched painfully. "Headmaster," he croaked, "is. . .is Professor Snape. . ."

He was somewhat reassured by the weary smile Dumbledore gave him. "Professor Snape is resting peacefully, Harry, and I have every hope he will make a full recovery. I shan’t fool you; it was touch-and-go for a while, and my long-dormant studies in potions and medicine underwent a most thorough test, but I did my best for him. He shall sleep a long time, I think; his body has been through an enormous strain. But he will be well."

In sheer relief, Harry sagged down into a chair without even waiting to be invited. Dumbledore chose to overlook this faux pas, instead seating himself heavily in his own chair and leaning forward over the desk. "Harry, before we say anything else, I must offer you a full apology."

Harry blinked.

"It was the grossest mistake on my part to ignore what you said as I did. I am terribly afraid that I fell into the same error as Professor Snape; we both wanted so very much to make contact with Voldemort that we blinded ourselves to the consequences. . .no one is immune from such failings, Harry. I trust this lesson has taught you that." Dumbledore blinked slowly at Harry over his half-moon spectacles, and he had never looked so old or sad.

"Yes, sir," Harry said quietly, not sure what other response he could give. And then, because this was Albus Dumbledore and no matter what he shouldn’t look so miserable and uncertain, Harry added generously, "You didn’t make him go, Headmaster. You gave him the choice."

"Yes, I did," mused Dumbledore, and seemed to look all the sadder for it. "When in fact, I should have taken the choice away. Forgive me, Harry, it is not seemly for me to indulge my doubts in front of a student this way; but I am sure you will understand when I say that I feel I should have categorically forbidden him from attending that meeting. My instincts urged me to do so. Why I did not follow them in this instance, I cannot imagine. . .and if it had not been for you and your extraordinary bravery, he would have been killed."

It was a sudden flash of insight that allowed Harry to say, with utter certainty, "He would’ve gone anyway."

Dumbledore blinked; and then, for the first time since entering the room, smiled a little. "Hum. Perhaps you are right. That is our Severus, isn’t it?" Uncomfortable with that particular turn of phrase, Harry stared into his lap, but Dumbledore appeared not to notice. "All the same, I am ashamed. . .well, well, no use dwelling on the past. I shall consider it a lesson for the present and the future." And then he sighed heavily, as if attempting to purge his demons with one breath.

Frankly unnerved by this display from his so-capable headmaster, Harry said nervously, "He will be all right?"

"Quite all right," Dumbledore said firmly, regaining some of his authoritative demeanour, "and I shall let you in to see him presently. But first, to business: I need you to tell me exactly what happened early Saturday morning. Your note was not exactly. . ." a faint smile, "informative."

Harry nodded, steeled himself, and launched into the tale. This time he didn’t stop for tea, although Dumbledore offered it again, but ploughed straight through, feeling very proud of himself when he didn’t start shaking at the nasty bits. Drawing finally to an end, he said miserably, "So I was the one who set the fire to the clearing. . .but that was all, Headmaster, honestly, and I couldn’t think what else to do. I saw them putting it out, I thought it would be all right. I didn’t start any of the other fires."

"I believe you," Dumbledore said, sounding tired again. "As I predicted, the Ministry moved fairly quickly to get that under control. No Muggle towns were touched, although I understand from their newspapers there was some panic. Hogsmeade is undamaged as well. As far as that goes, we were very lucky."

Harry nodded gloomily. All the people living in or near the woods. . .he just hadn’t thought of them when setting the first blaze. Why not? Was he really that "nasty little boy" who didn’t care so much for rules? Or had he just naively assumed that the Death Eaters would put all the fires out, instead of starting more? Either way, there was probably something better he could have done to create a distraction, but under the circumstances he’d simply been unable to think of a thing.

As if reading his mind, Dumbledore said kindly, "You did fine, Harry."

Harry bit his lip, and then fidgeted a moment longer before bursting out with, "Can I see him?"

Dumbledore smiled again, and this time it was a real smile. "Of a certainty. Come this way. Bring your books." Harry wondered what was so damned important about his books, but shouldered his bag anyway and followed the old headmaster through that private door in the back.

As he entered the room that lay beyond, Harry reflected that he should have expected something like this; it was only reasonable that Dumbledore’s private rooms should lie beyond his office, just as every other teacher’s did. But. . .this was the headmaster’s home, and it seemed so odd that he, Harry Potter, should be intruding in it. Dumbledore led Harry through a small sitting-room, which held a very comfortable-looking armchair that appeared to be snoring, and then to another room in the back, blocked by a magnificent mahogany door. Dumbledore paused before the door and muttered under his breath a series of incredibly intricate incantations, waving his hands in slow, vague motions. After a moment, the door shifted open.

"Um, interesting type of lock," Harry ventured.

"I put the spells on the door after installing Professor Snape inside," Dumbledore murmured. "I flatter myself that Voldemort himself would have to take at least a few moments to figure them out. It seemed the best way of safeguarding Severus. . .after you, Harry."

Steadying himself against the butterflies that were suddenly fluttering in his stomach, Harry stepped inside Dumbledore’s bedroom. Like the office, it was a circular, thoroughly comfortable-looking room, with a large, round bed sitting as unobtrusively as possible in the back. Lying perpendicular at the foot of the bed was a cot, sprinkled with several long gray hairs, where Dumbledore was obviously sleeping, and in the bed itself was. . .

"Snape," Harry breathed, unaware of the sheer amount of relief his voice carried. Severus Snape lay quite securely tucked in amongst some rather outrageous yellow-and-scarlet sheets, head propped up on a few soft-looking pillows, hair a black shock against the riot of colour. He didn’t stir as Harry and Dumbledore entered the room, not even the slightest twitch of awareness, and Harry quickly felt the bite of concern again. "Um, is he. . ."

"In a Healing Sleep," Dumbledore murmured, ushering Harry to sit in the chair that sat by the bedside. "It’s quite the best thing for him; once the body is healed from the pain inflicted by the Cruciatus curse, the mind must find its own way of recovering. He will wake when he is ready to face life again. Knowing Severus, he’s too stubborn to stay down for long." The headmaster chuckled again, but there was an element of melancholy to the sound that Harry had never heard before.

Then Dumbledore rubbed his hands together briskly, shaking off his mood. "Well, now. In the interest of maintaining our little fiction, you are to be given a detention for your illicit Quidditch practise. Now, we both know this is rubbish, and that were it possible I would be giving you the highest honours that a student can receive. However. . ."

"He’s got to be kept safe," Harry said immediately. "I understand that."

Dumbledore smiled again, and this time his eyes smiled merrily with him. "Good. I thought you might. Therefore, I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to sit with Professor Snape while he recovers; I think this could only benefit the both of you. Not to mention giving me the chance to catch up on some much-neglected paperwork. . .if Cornelius Fudge were still speaking to me, I’m sure he’d have sent me several irascible letters demanding to know why I haven’t been attending to my correspondence. So perhaps you could take your books and try to study while you keep an eye on him for me?"

Harry blinked. It didn’t sound so bad, but. . . "What can I possibly do for him?" he asked, flabbergasted. Snape was out cold, after all. What was the point of sitting by a bedside and reading books?

"You’ve done more than enough already," Dumbledore said gently, "but I do not think you will see this final imposition as too onerous. We often find the presence of others comforting, Harry, even when we are asleep. You will do him a greater service than you know. That is, if you don’t mind. If you had rather find something more. . .interesting to do with your time, as many young men would, I can think of something more enjoyable. Naturally, you will not be punished for your actions of Saturday, no matter what you choose."

"No, this is fine," Harry said quickly, glancing again at Snape, who lay so still on the bed, even if he was a little less pale than when Harry had seen him last. "I. . .I was worried about him. I’d be glad to sit with him for a bit." Now that he thought about it, it sounded like a fine idea. He could sit with Snape and reassure himself as much as he liked that the other man really, truly was alive and well – and maybe get some studying done in the process. It was a lot quieter here than the Gryffindor Common Room would be, or even the library. Hermione would no doubt leap at the chance.

Dumbledore nodded, and with a final kind pat on Harry’s shoulder left the room, presumably to return to his office. Harry spent a few long moments staring at Snape’s sleeping face, feeling a bit out of place, before reaching into his bag and pulling out his Potions text. So Binns was giving the exam and didn’t know anything about Potions – Harry wasn’t certain he should be relieved about that. They might be asked all kinds of odd things. And the test was tomorrow. Hermione was right, he’d lost a whole day. Best to get cracking.

Half an hour later he slammed the book shut with a frustrated sigh, and then cast a quick, guilty glance at the sleeping man on the bed, but Snape didn’t move a muscle. This was impossible. How was he supposed to concentrate with Saturday’s memories ceaselessly banging at his head: the remembered sound of Voldemort’s voice, the heat of the forest fires, the sensation of his broomstick dropping out from under him? How could studying Potions compete with that? And then there were the other memories, and these seemed to undermine his concentration even more: the recollection of Voldemort’s cold hatred suddenly replaced with the memory of sensation, of a warm, hungry tongue sliding against his own, of soft dark hair brushing against his cheeks and throat, banishing the chill of a Hallowe’en night.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, keeping his book over his lap, even though nobody was there to see, and sent a vicious glare at Snape. True, remembering that kiss was a lot more pleasant than remembering the Death Eaters, but it wasn’t helping him study any. Worst of all was the element of curiosity: if Snape kissed him again (which didn’t seem likely), would he feel the same way? Or would he get excited if anybody kissed him like that? It wasn’t fair. He had no basis for comparison, and it was driving him mad. But what was he supposed to do? Waltz up to Cho Chang and say, " ‘Scuse me, but I need to find out if I’m in love with Professor Snape. Would you mind kissing me so I can be sure?’ "

Aargh. Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the headache that threatened to come pounding up. Things were just so complicated.

He heard the creak of the door and popped his eyes back open, turning to see Dumbledore’s face poking around and peering into the room. "Just thought I’d check in," the headmaster said kindly. "Do forgive me if I’m interrupting your studies. Is he still sleeping peacefully?"

"Yes," Harry said, embarrassed at how sullen he sounded. "Um, Headmaster, I’m sorry to bother you, but I can’t concentrate. I can’t stop. . .remembering." There, that was ambiguous enough. Dumbledore’s face softened into compassion.

"That’s perfectly understandable, Harry. Now, I wonder. . ." the wizened face took on a musing expression, and Dumbledore wandered over to the desk sitting near the window opposite the bed. It was a nice desk, but nowhere near as big as the one in the office. He rummaged through drawers and finally came up with a small silk bag. "Ah!" Beaming, and fiddling delightedly with the soft material as if he were a child, he then turned to Harry. "This looks to be just what you need, my young friend. A Concentration Charm." He held out the tiny purple pouch.

Harry took it, perplexed. "It’s in a bag?"

Dumbledore nodded, still smiling. "You take that thread and wear it round your neck. While you have it on you will be able to concentrate absolutely on whatever you are doing; that Potions text will suddenly seem like the most fascinating thing in the universe. May I suggest that you wear it only while looking at a book or taking an exam, or you may well find yourself memorising more about people’s nostrils, for example, than you ever wanted to know. And, of course, you can never wear it while you are trying to do more than one thing at a time."

"Wow," Harry said, awed. "It’s – it’s the perfect study aide." Hermione would kill for this. Not that she needed it.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. "Not necessarily. In another – let us say, another hour and a half, I will come in and remove the charm from you so you can eat. You would never dream of doing so unimportant a thing while wearing the bag. . .now. Focus hard on that selection of text before you. I am going to slip this bag over your head. Focus on the text."

Harry did, determined not to look at Snape or Dumbledore or anything else, though he failed to see how anything could possibly make this awful stuff interesting. It was just so incredibly – he felt something slide over his neck –fascinating. Really, he’d never thought before how Potions was so engrossing a subject. The sheer amount of memorisation and delicacy of touch required. . .he would, of course, be dedicating the rest of his life to studying this field, come hell or high water. Just LOOK at how many types and strengths of Truth Potions there were! Veritaserum was only one example.

He thought he heard someone chuckling, and then maybe a door closing, but he really couldn’t be bothered to care.

Just a few minutes later, when Harry had almost reached the end of the textbook and was feeling a very real sense of despair that there weren’t an infinite number of pages on the subject, he felt two gentle hands lift something off his neck and over his head. The words on the pages in front of him blurred suddenly, and he swayed forward, mumbling, "Whoah."

When he looked up again, he saw Albus Dumbledore’s most mischievous expression. "And did it work?" the headmaster enquired.

"Did it ever!" Harry gasped. "That – that was never an hour and a half, Headmaster!"

"Two hours, actually," Dumbledore said. "I’m afraid I got rather caught up in the office. Now let’s get you something to eat. How do you feel?"

"Exhausted," Harry admitted.

"Hm, yes. That’s often a side effect of using the Charm, and the longer you wear it the more tired you will be. I don’t think I’ll let you have it again today; in any case," those blue eyes twinkled again, "your knowledge of Potions is likely greater now than it has ever been."

"It seemed so. . .interesting," Harry said wonderingly. Dumbledore actually laughed.

"Now you know how Professor Snape feels all the time, I suppose. Ah, there we are." He waved his wand and suddenly a tray appeared before Harry, loaded with delicious-looking sandwiches, sweet biscuits and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. "That ought to hold you over for a while. I think you had better stay here for the rest of the afternoon; it will make your ‘detention’ look more convincing. I am sure you have more studying to do, though you will not have the aid of the Charm. But for now, eat up. I’ll be in to check on you later. You may, of course, come fetch me if you need anything." With another twinkle, Dumbledore swept out.

Harry set to enthusiastically – McGonagall hadn’t given him any time for breakfast, but strangely enough he hadn’t felt the lack until the food appeared before him. Now he was ravenous. He ate two sandwiches, all the cookies and had drained half the pitcher before he finally felt full. And sleepy. Extremely sleepy.

Bugger all, that Charm had made him exhausted, and a full stomach didn’t help matters. He was as caught up on Potions as he was ever going to get in his life; surely a little nap wouldn’t hurt. He cast a longing glance at the extremely comfortable-looking bed where Snape lay. No, that was a bad idea. Probably a very bad idea. Dumbledore wouldn’t begrudge him the use of the cot, surely. Or he could even curl up on the rug; it was awfully thick and cosy.

But. . .Snape lay so still.

Harry decided to throw caution more or less to the wind. He was getting good at that. He sighed, pulled off his shoes and lay down on the bed, on top of the sheets and not actually touching Snape at all. He could figure all this out when he was less tired. He’d only rest for a minute. And now, yes, now he could hear Snape breathing, in and out, deep and slow. He could see the rise and fall of the chest beneath the covers. If he concentrated, he could even imagine he heard the beat of the heart.

For the second time in as many days, Harry dropped like a stone into sleep.

***

When he woke up, it was to the gently prodding hand of Albus Dumbledore, who was looking down on him bemusedly, outlined by the sunset coming in from the window behind him. Harry blinked, totally disoriented for the second time in one day, before he glanced over, saw Snape, and remembered how he came to be lying in the bed. Mortified, he stammered, "I’m sorry, Headmaster, I was just tired, I know I shouldn’t have, I only meant to for a minute, he didn’t wake up did he – ?"

"No. It’s all right," Dumbledore said gently. "It’s all right, though I confess myself. . .surprised. You would have been perfectly welcome to the cot. Unless, of course," he added with some humour, "the long gray hairs on the pillow scared you out of your wits. . ."

"Um. Yeah," Harry mumbled, feeling as if he were about to implode with embarrassment. "I mean, no! I mean – I’m sorry."

Dumbledore nodded, and mercifully changed the subject. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered again. "I was just. . .pretty tired. But I think I know all the Potions stuff, now, thanks so much for the Charm," and I’m really sorry I repaid you by crawling in your bed next to a professor like I had tripe for brains.

"Not at all," Dumbledore said, giving Harry a hand up off the bed, before bending down to lay a hand on Snape’s forehead. His silver brows raised. "Hmm."

"What?" Harry asked, wincing as he heard the anxiety in his voice.

Dumbledore turned a searching glance at Harry. "Hm? Oh, nothing for you to be concerned about. But he seems much improved since just this morning." A faint smile. "I told you that we don’t always know when we’re helping others."

Harry shifted. "Yeah, well. . .I think if he’d woken up to me lying there, he would’ve had a relapse." Dumbledore laughed out loud at that.

"It’s late. Are you up to eating dinner with your friends?"

"I just had lunch when I fell asleep," Harry confessed sheepishly. Great, he’d slept the whole day away. He’d be up all night. Well, maybe he could study.

Dumbledore smiled, obviously amused. "Well, I’m sure you would like the company, in any case, as opposed to being cooped up in here. Take your books and go on down to dinner, and give your friends my best wishes on the coming exams, of course."

"Yeah, of course." Harry picked up his bag, cast one last glance at the sleeping Snape, and came to a sudden decision. "Headmaster. . .Professor McGonagall said I would have detentions plural."

"Hm? Well, well," Dumbledore said, waving his hand in the air as he bent to examine Snape again, "don’t worry about that. . ."

"But surely," Harry said, determined to get through this if it killed him, "practising Quidditch after hours is a serious offence?" Dumbledore turned to look at him then, cocking an eyebrow. "I mean, I really should be punished more, shouldn’t I?" Harry stared as hard at the headmaster as he dared. For God’s sake, don’t make me SAY it. . .

There was a long moment of silence before Dumbledore replied. "There is some merit in that, I suppose. Yes. Why don’t you report here tomorrow, after your Potions exam?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, feeling weak with relief. "Thank you, sir." He turned to go.

"And Harry?"

"Yes?"

He turned to see Dumbledore watching him with an expression that was kind, yet stern. "Next time, I think you had better take your nap on the cot."

***

His cheeks still burning, Harry trotted down to the Great Hall, knowing he was late for dinner and not even pausing to drop off his books at the dormitory. The gang might all be planning to head to the library afterwards, anyway.

" ‘Lo," Ron greeted him, face already stuffed with chicken, as Harry plunked down in his customary seat. " ‘Ow ‘us ‘ur d‘tenshun?"

"Fine," Harry replied quickly. "I just sat and studied in Dumbledore’s, um, study room. The study, I mean. Not bad at all. But I have to go back tomorrow," he added, doing his best to sound properly aggrieved.

"Rotten," Ron said sympathetically. "Not hungry, eh? Can I have your treacle tart?"

As he’d predicted, after dinner the Great Hall emptied in a mass exodus to the library on this, the last night before exams. Harry shouldered his bag and told Ron and Hermione he’d meet them there after they’d collected their things. On the way, he decided to make a quick stop at the loo, where he ran into Fred and George.

"Harry, old son," George greeted him as Fred splashed water on his face from one of the sinks and muttered dire things under his breath. "Heard you got caught doing something stupid. Can’t tell you how proud we are."

Harry grinned. "You two are my role models, y’know."

"Oy! Hear that, Fred?" George announced, slapping his twin hard on the back and knocking him face-first into the sink basin. Fred cursed. "That’s an honour, that is, to mould a young mind. Don’t mind Fred," he added in a confidential tone to Harry, "he’s just upset I threw pumpkin juice in his eyes."

"Git," mumbled Fred, toweling his face off on his robe, and then looking up to beam at Harry. "But he’s right. Well done, Harry. Too bad you had to knock your head."

"Er. . .yeah," Harry replied, looking from one twin to the other, feeling slightly dizzy as a sudden idea gripped his mind and wouldn’t let go. "Yeah, I was knocked on the head."

Both Weasley boys looked at each other quizzically. "You all right, Harry?" George asked.

This was so stupid. It was so stupid, and it was now or never. Harry took a deep breath. "I have a favor to ask. It’s really weird, and I’ll understand if you say no, but you absolutely CANNOT ever tell ANYONE that I asked you."

That hooked them, as he had known it would. " ‘Course not," Fred said instantly.

"Promise on your wands," Harry said darkly. "I mean it. This is personal, and I. . .well, I feel a bit silly, but. . ."

"A bit silly" didn’t even begin to cover how he felt, but the more innocent it sounded, the better. The twins’ ears were practically out on stalks.

"Promise," they said emphatically. "Now let’s have it," George added.

Harry could feel himself turning pink. "Would one of you kiss me?" he blurted. Then he closed his eyes and spent the next small eternity of seconds regretting the words.

"What for?" asked Fred, and Harry opened his eyes again. The words hadn’t sounded accusing, or disgusted, just. . .curious.

He took another breath, and launched into such an astounding lie that he was rather impressed with himself. "It was this summer. A. . .a Muggle girl kissed me. Weird, right? It’s the only interesting thing that’s ever happened at the Dursleys. . .but I didn’t feel anything much, and since we’re going home so soon and I might have to see her again, I was wondering. . ." his voice trailed off and he looked up at them pleadingly. "That is, I’m just not sure if I’m. . ."

"One of the stately homos of old England?" Fred asked, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "Perfectly understandable. I myself am of that noble persuasion. So’s George. You can trust us. We wouldn’t – "

" – Tell a soul," George continued, elbowing Fred aside. "Cross our hearts. Like I said, it’s always an honour to mould young minds. . ."

". . .especially in the finer things in life," finished Fred, elbowing George right back. "But we’ve got to get a move on and hit the books, so which one of us do you want? I feel obliged to tell you that I’m a much better kisser than he is."

"Like sod, you are!"

"I have it on the finest authority – "

"Finest drunk authority, maybe – "

"Oh, I don’t really care," Harry said desperately. "Whichever of you wouldn’t mind awfully much, er, that would be fine."

Then he was fixed by two identical, penetrating stares. "We’d neither of us mind, Harry," said George in a voice Harry had certainly never heard before.

"In fact," Fred added brightly, "why not give both of us a go? Just to be sure?"

Harry blinked, and felt dizzy again. "All right," he heard himself mumble.

"Smashing! Now I say alphabetical order wins the day – "

"I say chronological," George replied, "and I popped out of Mum ten and a half minutes before you," and before Fred could voice his outraged objections, George had bent and kissed Harry full on the lips.

It was. . .nice. Maybe more than nice. Harry enjoyed the silky lip-on-lip feel, and then the surprisingly delicate touch of a tongue that encouraged his mouth to open just a little bit. But something was. . .missing. He kept waiting for the hot urges to come, the desire to clasp George to him, or the feeling that his bones were melting. It didn’t happen.

Then George pulled away, eyeing Harry’s rather glassy-eyed state with some satisfaction. "That’s one. Now you, Fred."

"Oh, thanks very much," Fred grumbled, but set to quite willingly, and much more adventurously now that his twin had paved the way. His tongue slipped into Harry’s mouth and tickled around in an extremely interesting way. Interesting. . .but somehow just not as interesting as. . .

Fred’s lips popped off his with a wet smacking noise. He threw a smug glance at George before turning to Harry. "Well?"

"Thanks," Harry croaked. "That was. . .uh. . ." Nice didn’t seem the appropriate thing to say, but his adjectives seemed to have deserted him for the moment. ". . .Really good."

"Helped you make up your mind, did it?" George asked curiously.

"Oh! Yes," Harry said quickly, remembering the reason he’d given for the kiss. "Definitely yes. Uh. Quite yes." In spite of himself, he could feel a small, shy smile spreading over his face, though he didn’t notice how its sudden appearance mesmerised both other boys. "I think I’ve got it figured out now."

And he did, just not the way he’d said. He’d liked kissing Fred and George. He’d even got aroused, judging by the twitching feelings in his nether regions. But it just wasn’t – it didn’t compare. So it was. . .Snape. It had to be Snape. Of ALL people. . .!

"Oh, good," Fred said weakly.

"Anytime," George added in a voice just as faint. "Uh, Harry, really, anytime you want to. . .er, experiment again. . ."

"We’re here for you," put in Fred.

"Absolutely," George said fervently.

"Thanks again," Harry replied rather dreamily, and wandered out of the lavatory, forgetting completely about actually using it, leaving two very befuddled Weasley twins behind him and a slightly impatient Ron and Hermione awaiting him in the library.

***

Severus Snape woke up and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Oh, he knew where he was. He’d been in these rooms once or twice. And one could never forget, no matter how hard one tried, the magenta-coloured hearthrug. The purple velvet curtains. Those paintings. And, of course, the awful bedsheets in which he appeared to be firmly entombed.

Snape closed his eyes and tried to remember what heinous crime, sin, or alcoholic excess might have landed him in, of all places, Albus Dumbledore’s bed. Not a one came immediately to mind. In fact, the very last thing he remembered was. . .was. . .it seemed to be. . .

. . .It seemed to be Lord Voldemort, standing over him and laughing.

Snape’s whole body jerked into instant awareness and he couldn’t stop a hoarse gasp from escaping his throat.

"You’re awake," said a quiet voice, and Snape’s head jerked over to the door, where Dumbledore had entered silently. His head was whirling. Hadn’t he just been about to die? In fact, he’d been extremely sure of it. Therefore, taking in the décor –

"This is Hell," he said flatly. "I see I failed to redeem myself sufficiently in the mortal plane."

Dumbledore laughed softly. "Ah, this is just Purgatory, my friend. You’ve only recently come back from Hell." His wizened face became solemn. "By the skin of your teeth, I might add. I’m glad you’re awake at last."

"At last? How long have I been asleep? And how the hell did I come to be here?"

"It is Monday morning; as to the rest, I think we’d better get you something to eat, and maybe cleaned up a bit, before I embark on that particular – "

Monday. It took a moment for Snape to remember why this should concern him. "What? I have an exam to give. Two, in fact. Oh, damn it all, I never even prepared the tests – "

"And you will not be giving them, nor any of your other exams this week," Dumbledore said firmly. "You are to rest, Severus. You’ve been through quite a bit. Professor Binns has kindly agreed to compose and give your exams for you."

"BINNS?" Snape shouted, outraged. "He knows nothing about Potions! What the devil kind of test is he going to make up, the history of Veritaserum? I – ow." He shifted in the bed, and winced as his bladder rather urgently reminded him of its existence.

"Are you all right?" Dumbledore asked in concern.

"No. No, I’m not. But I might shift into the realm of ‘tolerable’ – I say, might – if I could use the lavatory."

"Oh, of course, of course," the headmaster said hurriedly, and helped the Potions Master out of the bed. Snape’s legs felt weak and unsteady beneath him, though he refused to make the tired metaphorical comparison to day-old colts or kittens or anything else of the kind. He absolutely forbade Dumbledore to follow him into the loo, however, so when he emerged it was with a modicum of personal composure. Perhaps now he could stand to hear about something more serious than the presenting and marking of exams.

There was a tray waiting for him with a bowl of soup and a hot cup of tea. The aromas made his mouth water. Dumbledore, for once choosing tact over mischief, had opted for a plain pot of Darjeeling, and Snape sipped at it gratefully, sinking back down to sit on the bed. He really did feel terribly. . .fatigued. Not weak. Fatigued.

"I remember Voldemort," he said eventually, after finishing the soup, "and I remember blacking out from the pain. But that is all. How on earth did you rescue me?" His voice was as flat and steady as if he were lecturing his class.

Dumbledore took a deep, rather unsteady breath. "I didn’t."

"Then who?"

"Can’t you guess?"

"I am not in the mood for guessing games, Albus."

To Snape’s astonishment, Dumbledore couldn’t meet his eyes. And rather than answer the question directly, he launched into, of all things, a story. "I’m going to ask you to put yourself in my shoes for an evening, Severus. All right? Imagine that you are sitting up in these very rooms, all night, unable to sleep for worry, and feeling deep down inside that you have made a terrible mistake. Little sounds make you jump; you rather feel you might be sick to your stomach, even though there are no Every Flavor Beans in sight.

"And then there comes a tapping at the window. It’s a white owl. A very familiar white owl, bearing a scrap of parchment.

"Now, imagine how you would feel, Severus, if you opened the window to this particular owl, took the parchment it offered, and read this."

His gnarled hand, actually trembling a little bit, held out the aforementioned ragged bit of parchment. Feeling impatient, and not a little confused, Snape took it and glanced it over.

The handwriting was terrible, nearly illegible. It sprawled all over the page, as though someone had written it in a great hurry.

I had another vision I know where the meeting is in a clearing near Hogsmeade and Voldemort’s there They’re going to kill him I have to go PLEASE SEND HELP -HP

Snape watched his hand crush the parchment into a wad as if someone else were controlling it.

"Harry saved you," Dumbledore said, his voice sounding as weighted as if Hagrid were sitting on it. "By himself. It was far too late for me to assist him; as I judge it, by the time I got the note he was already approaching the clearing. As to the how of the rescue, as Harry explains it, he. . ."

Snape hardly heard whatever explanation Dumbledore gave of the events of two nights past. He just kept staring at the balled-up parchment in his fist. Words floated in and out of his consciousness inconsequentially, words like, "Invisibility Cloak . . . fire. . .hexes. . .broom. . .the Cruciatus," but they didn’t matter at all.

"He could have been killed," Snape rasped, interrupting the narrative. "He could have been worse than killed."

Dumbledore merely nodded, and stared at his own hands as if wondering where all their power had gone. "Because we did not listen to him."

"Because he is an IDIOT," Snape exploded, feeling hysteria come rising up at last. "What the hell was he thinking? Why did he do it? WHERE IS HE NOW?"

"He is quite all right, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "The only injury he sustained was a sprained ankle when the broom landed at Hogwarts. At the moment, as a matter of fact, I believe he is just beginning his Potions exam." Brief pause. "Which he will pass, I’m sure."

Snape ignored the implied instruction completely. "Taking his Potions – taking his Potions exam. I see. And what did you say to him? How did you punish him? How did you make absolutely sure that he will NEVER do anything like this EVER AGAIN?"

Dumbledore looked hard at Snape. "I did not punish him, Severus, and I will not. His was an act of great courage. And so was yours. If it were possible – if we did not have to keep all of this so terribly secret – I would be highly inclined to laud you both as heroes from every tower of Hogwarts."

"Oh, that’s just what he needs," Snape hissed, and with a sweeping motion of his arm sent his teacup and emptied soup bowl crashing to the floor. They cracked and splintered, and Dumbledore, seemingly unruffled by the display, merely waved his wand to make the pieces disappear. "Public accolades. Lauded as a hero. Again! Does it not occur to you, almighty Albus Dumbledore, that you are only encouraging the boy to go out and break his neck?"

"His risk saved your own neck, Severus," Albus reminded him. "Do try to be grateful."

"Shut UP!" Snape roared, rising to his feet, and clinging to the bedpost to stay on them. "He must never do anything of this sort again! Do you understand me? Never! That meeting was a trap for him, set by Voldemort, and if he’d been caught – oh my God, if he hadn’t gotten away – " his knees gave out and he sank back down on the mattress, trembling all over and seeing spots in front of his eyes. He felt a cool hand on his forehead and, humiliatingly, another hand drawing the covers back over him.

"There, you’ve got yourself too worked up," Dumbledore said gently. "I shouldn’t have told you yet. . .Shush, now. I really must insist that you calm yourself, Severus. I told Harry he could come up and sit with you after he finished taking his exam, but if you are going to greet him with hysterical screaming I might rethink that particular idea."

Snape tried to think of something particularly caustic to say, but all that came out was another softly muttered, "Oh my God." He lay still for a few moments, Dumbledore silently allowing him to regain control of himself.

"Can you tell me what happened yet?" was the headmaster’s next question, leaving plenty of room for Snape to say ‘no.’ But even in extremity Snape wasn’t the type to say no, and, forcing himself away from all thoughts of Harry, he recounted all that he could remember of that hideous night. With one significant omission. He couldn’t – simply could not – confess to Dumbledore that someone, most likely Draco Malfoy, had seen him kissing Harry Potter on a balcony. Especially since Dumbledore didn’t know he’d kissed Harry Potter in the first place. Especially since that damned kiss was probably what had goaded that impossible boy to such a terrible, dangerous action. . .In the bottom of his heart, Snape cursed himself far more viciously than Voldemort could ever manage.

When he had finished, Dumbledore looked tired and sad. "Young Draco is working for Voldemort, then," he murmured. "I thought perhaps. . .but I had hoped. . .And you say he’s been spying on you?"

"So Voldemort said," Snape replied evasively. "I was not aware of it myself." Dumbledore shook his head, his silver beard swaying slowly from side to side.

"We have been sorely deceived," he said quietly. "And very nearly defeated. If not for Harry – well. I don’t like how thoroughly I was outmaneuvered, Severus. Your life was simply an unacceptable price to pay for mere information, and I should never have agreed to gamble with it. I am more ashamed than I can say."

Snape had never heard Dumbledore say anything like that before, and it stunned him speechless. When Dumbledore quietly suggested, a few tense minutes later, that he take a bath, Snape mutely acquiesced, and spent the next thirty minutes sitting in hot water, staring at the ceiling and trying to keep his own head from spinning off. Harry had saved him. Harry. Had saved him. And as he managed to piece together what Dumbledore had told him through his disjointed memories, he realised just how unsuccessful that rescue had nearly been. Albus had said he’d had to levitate the Firebolt back onto the Hogwarts grounds. . .Snape passed a shaking hand across his face, then blinked the hot water out of his eyes.

He had risen from the tub, dried off his trembling limbs and was dressing himself in fresh black robes when someone gently knocked on the door.

"I’m decent," Snape called dryly, not even bothering to wince at the irony.

"Fine," came Dumbledore’s voice through the door. "But the allotted time for the Potions exam is up. Harry will be arriving soon."

Snape took a deep, shaking breath, and willed the older man not to open the door. He didn’t want to think how his face must look right now.

"Severus," Dumbledore continued quietly, "I don’t know what to say to you. I know – I think I know – how you feel about the boy," Snape shuddered hard, "but I can’t imagine how you are reacting to. . .this. But when he comes. . .be kind to him, my friend. That is all I ask. Be kind."

Instead of answering, Snape emerged silently from the bathroom, to see that the bed had been neatly made up again, with one corner turned invitingly down. His limbs already quaked to rest themselves, but he ordered them sternly into a chair. "I want to speak to him alone."

At this, Dumbledore looked most concerned. "I am not sure – "

"I want. To speak to him. Alone. Albus."

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "As you wish. But I beg you, Severus, break nothing you cannot mend."

Even as the words were leaving his mouth, a timid knocking came at the door. The headmaster glanced at the professor, muttered a few incantations at the door, and called out "Come in" in a rather apprehensive voice.

Harry Potter entered the room.

***

Harry didn’t know what exactly he’d expected to find upon entering the headmaster’s bedroom again, but he’d rather thought Snape would still be asleep. So it was quite a shock to walk into the room and be greeted by that dark, glowering figure sitting up in a chair and sending him an unmistakable glare.

"Welcome, Harry," Dumbledore said, though Harry didn’t take his eyes off Snape. "As you can see, Professor Snape woke while you were taking your Potions exam. How was it?" the headmaster added solicitously.

Harry jerked his attention over to Dumbledore. Was it his imagination or did Snape’s hair look even greasier – no, it was just wet. So he must have just got out of the bath, oh shit, he shouldn’t be thinking about that now. "F-fine, sir," he stammered in reply, wanting to sink through the floor when his voice cracked. Could he sound any more like a scared kid? "I think. . .I think I did well."

"I’m glad the Concentration Charm worked," Dumbledore said with a smile, and Snape made a small sound of surprise that made Harry glance back at him again. Then Dumbledore rose from his own chair. "I’ve brought the professor up-to-date on all that passed Saturday morning, and since then; now I will leave you two to talk. I believe you have some things to say to each other."

What? Harry was very glad to see that Snape was well – even though that face of stone did not bode well for the upcoming discussion – but for the life of him he could not think what he could say to the man. Still, he appreciated Dumbledore’s discretion. "Thanks," he murmured sincerely. It wasn’t the headmaster’s fault Harry had got himself into such an emotional mess, after all.

Dumbledore laid a warm, encouraging hand on Harry’s shoulders, and the door shut behind him. Harry found himself staring at the floor, and forced himself to meet Snape’s eyes, which had the strangest look in them.

"Sit down," Snape said abruptly. When Harry did so, the older man asked, in a deadly quiet tone, "What were you thinking?"

Harry didn’t reply.

"Well? Answer me!" Those dark eyes were flashing now, and the thin fingers were clamped hard on the arms of the chair. When Harry remained silent, unable to say a single thing, Snape’s face twisted. "I said, ANSWER me! Are you deaf as well as out of your mind? Don’t you know you could have been killed?"

"I know you would have been killed," Harry finally replied, amazed at how steady his voice was. Not a single crack.

And as he said the words, he felt his nervousness disappear. He’d done the right thing, and everything had turned out fine. Let Snape bluster and fume all he liked. If given the choice all over again – even if doomed to failure – Harry would have done the same thing. He would have had no choice.

He felt like he had no choice in any of this.

"How brave," Snape spat, interrupting his reverie. "How very noble. Famous Harry Potter saves my life. I suppose now you expect me to thank you on bended knee?"

"Stop it," Harry said in a low voice. "Stop talking like that."

Something in his tone must have got through, because Snape actually stopped, and the wrathful expression was replaced by one that was far more uncertain. "Why did you do it?" he asked, obviously trying to sound scornful and falling rather short of the mark.

"I couldn’t not do it." Harry shrugged.

"Really. You would have done the same for anybody? Weasley and Granger, of course?"

"Of course," Harry replied, glad to be able to say that wholeheartedly.

"Mm-hm. Professor Flitwick too, naturally. Or Trelawney, or Sprout. You would have hopped on that broom and flown right to the rescue without a second thought, for their sakes."

"Er. . ." Truthfully, Harry wasn’t so sure about that bit. "I. . .I don’t know."

"Then why me?" Snape hissed. "Don’t pretend you don’t know. One ill-advised snog on a balcony does not create some sort of bond, Potter!"

The words stung like a slap, but Harry had been half-expecting them. "You’re quite right," he said, as calmly as he could, wondering how long he’d be able to keep up this reasonable, rational exterior. He never could keep his cool for very long when Snape baited him. But why was Snape baiting him now? Was he really so repulsed by the thought of being in Harry’s debt, just as he’d been in debt to Harry’s father? Or was it. . .

Was it because he was scared?

Snape had been momentarily set back by Harry’s unexpected compliance. Harry took advantage of the stunned pause to continue, "And if you really think all that was just about a snog on a balcony, then I’m a Chocolate Frog." He glared at Snape. "You know better than that. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t do it just because you’re a good kisser. You’ve saved my life before." There, now that might be something Snape could accept. He certainly seemed hung up on the whole "payback" thing.

"And gotten precious little thanks for it," Snape sneered, recovering. "I suppose this is your notion of gratitude?"

"If you like," Harry said steadily.

"Well then, I consider myself properly thanked," Snape said, his voice suddenly dripping with bitterness. "Allow me to say that if you ever do anything of that kind again, especially for me, I will kill you myself and hang your corpse from the Slytherin flagpole."

"Oh, nice," Harry shot back. "I’ll remember that. And if you ever do anything like THAT again, after I – yes, let’s not forget this bit – after I WARNED you not to go – " Whoops, look out, stay cool there -

"Oh, so we come to that now? I wondered when we’d get to it. Come to gloat, Potter? Say ‘I-told-you-so,’ proclaim yourself as the almighty visionary?" Snape’s voice was rapidly rising to a full shout.

Harry could feel something inside him wanting to explode, but struggled to hold it off. He’d nearly lost it once already. "It’s no good," he said instead. "Say all the horrid things you like. You can’t scare me, and you can’t make me hate you again."

Snape deflated like someone had punched him in the stomach, and Harry knew he’d guessed right. There was an agonising moment of silence, before Snape finally whispered, in a hoarse, hunted voice, "I should never have touched you."

Harry took a deep breath and crossed his legs with elaborate nonchalance. "Well, it’s not like you’re the only person who’s ever kissed me. Or done anything else," he added daringly, if a touch untruthfully. Well, Fred had sort of snuck a grope.

Snape’s eyes widened at that, and the guilt abruptly fled his face to be replaced with. . .something else. "What? You – who?"

"None of your business," Harry replied rather rudely, before honesty finally compelled him to add, "but it wasn’t much and. . . you were the best at it." He was not going to blush, he was not . . .

The expression in Snape’s eyes changed yet again, into a strange expression of stunned heat – and disbelief. "I. . .you. . .are joking."

Harry felt a little insulted. "What? So you think nobody else would ever want to. . .touch me?" Which was actually pretty close to the truth, dammit, but he wasn’t about to tell Snape that. "It’s not like you’ve been keeping to yourself," he added coldly, remembered anger creeping into his voice and making the hurt in it real. "Don’t think I haven’t noticed what Draco Malfoy’s been up to with you."

"Draco Malfoy!" Snape snapped, his body growing abruptly stiff in the chair. "What do you. . .what does he have to do with anything?"

"I overheard him in Potions," Harry replied hotly. "I heard him asking you for special tutoring. If you ever touch him I’ll cut his nuts off." Oops, he hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. He could feel his face flush.

Snape gaped at him, and then, for the first time all day, his lips twitched slightly. "Duly noted. Dear me, how possessive, especially considering that we aren’t anything like a – "

"Oh, shut up," Harry snarled, feeling the last of his cool evaporate, and with good riddance. Because it was good to be angry. It was a lot better than sitting here and getting aroused, thinking about kissing Snape again. "And another thing. Now your cover’s blown, you don’t have to treat me like shit anymore and pretend it’s all an act. Unless you really do hate me, I expect a little civility from you, thanks very much."

Snape bristled. At least that horrible, pale-faced self-hatred had disappeared. "I don’t do civility," he said flatly.

"I used to think you wouldn’t know how to do kissing either, so we see what that’s worth," Harry taunted. Snape glared at him.

"You have an appalling lack of manners, Potter."

"Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you."

"Why, you wretched little – "

The door swung open again, to admit Albus Dumbledore.

"All done chatting?" the headmaster asked brightly. Snape, whose mouth had snapped itself instantly shut, mutely nodded. So did Harry. "Good," Dumbledore continued. "Harry, forgive me for interrupting, but I think it’s time for you to take your leave; what exam do you have tomorrow?"

"Transfigurations, sir," Harry said. "But I think I’ll do all right. Professor McGonagall looks like she’s going to cry every time she sees me," he admitted rather sheepishly. He heard Snape make a disgusted noise behind him, but didn’t turn to look. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

"I’m sure you’ll do fine, Harry. Give your friends my best, as always."

Still without looking at Snape, Harry replied, "Thank you, Headmaster. Can I come back and see him again tomorrow?"

Eyes twinkling even more, Dumbledore said, "If you like."

Snape started spluttering. "I beg your pardon, but if you both don’t mind too bloody much I’m not going to be here tomorrow. You might be able to keep me from giving my exams, Dumbledore, but – "

Dumbledore wagged a stern finger at him. "You will be here tomorrow, Severus, and every day after that until the end of the term – possibly longer, until I am absolutely sure of your security on the grounds."

Snape gaped at Dumbledore with unconcealed horror. "Stay here? You mean – in this ROOM? Until the end of the term?"

"There are some people here who believe you are dead," Dumbledore said gently. "They will, of course, learn differently, but I wish them to remain deceived until I have built up appropriate safeguards for you. If it is privacy you are concerned about, I will sleep in my study. I am afraid that even after it is safe for you to leave these rooms, you will be confined to the Hogwarts grounds for the duration. It simply is not safe for you anywhere else. Voldemort and the Death Eaters will be looking for you."

Harry didn’t think this sounded unreasonable. As far as he could tell, Snape never even left Hogwarts anyway. But the Potions Master was looking murderous. "I’m truly sorry, Severus," Dumbledore said, and sounded like he meant it. Snape merely hissed from between his teeth, obviously wanting to explode, obviously restraining himself.

Dumbledore laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder and guided him out into the study. Before they emerged into the relatively public area of the office, however, Harry stopped. "Sir," he asked hesitantly, "what do you mean, there are people here who think he’s dead?"

The old man sighed heavily. "Harry. . .there are some details I am, after careful consideration, keeping from you. Suffice it to say that Professor Snape was betrayed by someone in this very school. Upon hearing of his sudden ‘absence,’ this person no doubt assumed he had been killed by Voldemort as planned. The truth will come to light soon, of course, but I should like to play for as much time as I can."

Harry swallowed hard, and nodded. Snape had been betrayed? But what did that mean? It would have to be someone who knew two things: that Snape was working with the Death Eaters, and that he was working with them as a spy. Who at Hogwarts could. . .Harry’s head was already spinning.

"Try not to think about it," Dumbledore said firmly. "Harry, you have done very well, but I must now ask you to step back and leave this to me."

Harry nodded and trotted obediently to his dormitory. But he wasn’t exactly planning to follow those orders. If Dumbledore had been wrong once, he could be again, and there was nothing wrong with keeping your eyes and ears open.

Especially for something as important as this.

***

On Wednesday Harry had his Care of Magical Creatures exam, but that turned out to be the least of his worries. At breakfast Hedwig flew through the Great Hall bearing a very familiar-looking red envelope that, as she dropped it in Harry’s lap, seemed to be actually vibrating. Harry, Ron and Hermione all stared at it in horror.

A Howler.

"Who’s it from?" Ron asked in disbelief.

"S-sirius," Harry whispered, looking at the handwriting and making sure nobody else heard him, though several people were staring at him with a great deal of interest. "He must have heard about. . .my Quidditch accident."

"I’m sure Dumbledore told him," Hermione said anxiously, "but really, sending you a Howler, nobody’s supposed to know where he is or that he knows you – this is really dangerous, Harry, he must be awfully angry – "

"You better open it before it explodes," Ron said, eyeing the envelope with trepidation. "C’mon, we’ll go with you, you can do it in our dormitory or – "

"No! I mean, no, don’t want this to look secret or unusual do we?" Harry sweated. "You stay here and act like it’s nothing you didn’t expect. I’ll go alone." Thankfully, they accepted the sense of that, and Harry tore off for a private place as fast as his legs could carry him. He quickly found an empty classroom. Really, what was Sirius thinking? If this was what Harry thought it was, and anybody heard him opening it, so many secrets would be blown it wasn’t even funny. Trembling a bit, and praying nobody would come, Harry opened the envelope.

He was immediately greeted by a near-deafening blast of sound. "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? MCGONAGALL SENT ME AN OWL – TOLD ME EVERYTHING – YOU COULD HAVE DIED OR BEEN CAPTURED OR WORSE – SAVING SEVERUS SNAPE OF ALL PEOPLE ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH, RISKING YOUR LIFE FOR THAT LYING, SLIMY, STUPID, DISGUSTING – "

Harry winced while a rather astounding parade of adjectives marched its way through his ears, including several words which would get him into a great deal of trouble should he ever repeat them at the Dursleys’. Or in front of a teacher.

"NO CONSIDERATION AT ALL," Sirius’s voice bellowed, finally getting back on track. "ABSOLUTE LACK OF ANY KIND OF COMMON SENSE – I CAN’T TALK TO YOU RIGHT NOW – HERE, REMUS, YOU GET ON, YOU TELL HIM WHAT’S WHAT – "

Harry blinked, and had to strain to hear Professor Lupin’s quiet tones after the noisy barrage of Sirius’s fury.

"Now, Harry, I’m sure you meant well. . .but Sirius is right, of course, that was a most ill-advised risk for you to take, you frightened us both quite badly, and I must strongly advise you never to – "

"RIGHT, LUPIN, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO DO THIS," Sirius roared, the abrupt return to high volume nearly knocking Harry out of his chair. "HARRY, IF YOU EVER – EVER – EVER DO ANYTHING LIKE THIS AGAIN I’LL HAVE YOUR GUTS FOR GARTERS, YOUR PARENTS TRUSTED ME TO PROTECT YOU, ROLLING IN THEIR GRAVES, YOU MIGHT THINK OF ALL THEY SACRIFICED FOR YOU – ABSOLUTE IDIOCY – NEXT TIME LET THE BASTARD DIE!"

The noise stopped. Harry, ears still ringing, watched as the envelope burst into flames and withered. He rose shakily to his feet and glanced around; nobody was looking in at the door. Still, someone might have hung about in the hallway. He should have thought of that. Sirius should have thought of that, come to it. Harry quickly went to the door, flung it open and stalked outside, but there was nobody waiting except Professor McGonagall.

"Perhaps I should have waited a few days before telling him," she said, in an apologetic kind of way.

Harry sighed.

***

Later that afternoon, he, Ron and Hermione all leaned on each other as they staggered back to the castle after their Care of Magical Creatures exam.

"My ankle," Ron was moaning, "my ankle - "

"Oh, pipe down," Hermione said in exasperation. "Harry sprained his on Saturday and you didn’t hear him wailing about it, did you?"

"A sprain is not the same thing as a bite, Hermione! I’m lucky I have any foot left!"

"I warned you not to poke it," Harry said glumly, limping a bit himself. "Hagrid told us they had quick tempers."

"Look, who asked you two?" Ron demanded. "Oh, God, are we ever lucky Hagrid’s teaching that class. Anybody else would have failed us for sure."

"Hagrid wouldn’t fail anybody," Hermione agreed. "I bet you even the Slytherins all pass. And we did four TIMES the work they did." She sniffed. "He’s such a softie."

"Oh, don’t even pretend you mind," Ron grumbled.

"Of course I don’t mind! You know I’m very fond of Hagrid! I’d never – what are you doing, Harry?"

What Harry was doing was disentangling himself from Ron, which meant Hermione had to bear nearly all his weight. "I’m just going to the library," he said. "Can you handle him? I need to get brushed up on Charms."

"But the hospital wing, you’re limping – " Hermione protested.

"I’m fine," Harry said. "I just bruised my shin. I’ll see you at dinner then?" Their replies were affirmative but distracted, no doubt exacerbated by Ron’s dropping the handkerchief which he was using to staunch the blood.

He wasn’t lying, not really, Harry told himself, as he trotted down the stone hallways. He was going to the library. He just wasn’t going to stay there. Feeling vaguely sorry for Snape in his confinement, he thought he might bring him some books or something when he visited. Precious thanks he was likely to get for it, he reflected sourly, but he was going to do it all the same.

He supposed he should also feel sorry for Snape being stuck at Hogwarts, but the truth was, with summer’s fast approach, that sounded like heaven to Harry. He sometimes dreamed of being allowed to stay at Hogwarts, even without his friends there, instead of going to the Dursleys’.

Harry nosed around the Potions section of the library, looking for something that might be interesting. To Snape, anyway. The only way Harry would ever like Potions was if he had that Concentration Charm on. Ugh. But most of this stuff looked pretty elementary, geared for students. Snape had probably read all of them already. Maybe down here in the corner. There, he could see some thicker tomes –

Harry had just found a fairly promising-looking copy of Asphodel and the Aboriginal Myth when a very familiar voice, accompanied by sudden footsteps just on the other side of the shelf, made him look up.

" – way it bit Weasley," Draco Malfoy’s voice was chuckling malevolently. "Did you hear how he screamed like a baby? Face as red as his hair? Most flattering view of him I’ve ever seen."

Harry’s hand clenched on the book. Two thick-voiced chuckles followed the gleeful remark, no doubt Crabbe’s and Goyle’s. "Yes, it’s been a very good few days," Draco continued. "Weasley getting bit, that idiot Binns giving the exam, getting rid of the traitor. . ." he laughed softly.

"You really think he’s dead?" Crabbe whispered.

"Of course he is," Draco hissed back. "You think anybody crosses the Dark Lord and lives? No, the oily bastard’s lying in pieces all over the countryside, you can be sure. . .Dumbledore’s just hushing it up until he can collect them all. . ."

Harry sat still on the floor, mouth open and clutching the book, hanging on every word as comprehension and fury filled him in equal measure. Draco! Draco had – ?

"Serves him right," Draco continued, his voice suddenly going sharp with spite. "Turning me down – like he could do better! I’m just as glad he did, though; dunno what I would’ve done if he’d said yes. . .the horror! It was only ‘cos Father put me up to it. . ." But his voice was definitely sulky. "Humph. A little too wrapped up in precious Harry Potter, just like the rest of them, if you ask me. . .well, he’ll never kiss him again, you mark my words, the twisted old fuck. . ."

Harry, who had been on the verge of flying over in a rage with the intent to smash Draco into many tiny pieces, froze in horror. Draco knew he’d kissed Snape? But how could he possibly. . .?

He heard the sound of a book sliding out of the shelf, and then footsteps receding again. Harry continued sitting on the floor, stunned, before he roused himself and, still clutching his massive book, staggered over to the circulation desk. Thankfully Draco & Co. were nowhere in sight. Harry’s mind spun as he shoved the book in his bag with some difficulty and hurried as fast as he could to Dumbledore’s office. He had to tell the headmaster. Draco Malfoy was the one who’d betrayed Snape, and Dumbledore –

Dumbledore surely knew that already.

Harry stopped dead in front of the stone gargoyle, staring blankly at it for a few seconds before mustering the presence of mind to stammer, "Ring Dings." As it slid open obediently, Harry reflected on what Dumbledore had said to him: "There are some details I am, after careful consideration, keeping from you." But why wouldn’t Dumbledore want Harry to know that Malfoy was the traitor? Surely Harry, as a student, was in an excellent position to keep an eye on Draco.

Of course, Harry was also in a position to attack Draco the first chance he got, and all his impulses were definitely tending that way. He sighed. No doubt that was why the headmaster hadn’t wanted him involved, not after the fire-setting fiasco. When was he going to learn to use his head. . .?

His visit with Snape that day was rather subdued, and only lasted a few minutes, since the Potions Master was tired, and not quite ready to forget the parting shot Harry had delivered the day before. Harry mentioned Draco, and wasn’t surprised to discover Snape had known already. He was surprised to find that Snape was delighted with the book – delighted in a Snapeish sort of way, meaning he sneered a little less than usual and promptly furnished Harry with a list of other books to fetch from the library. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled like mad when Harry told him this, and gave him permission to visit Snape until the end of the term.

"You’re doing him the world of good," he proclaimed, and added, "ready for your Charms exam yet?"

As it turned out, Harry was, and did fairly well on it, and his other exams. He divided his time between studying with his friends, actually taking the tests, scouring the library, and visiting Snape. He also did his best to avoid Draco and his gang completely; whenever he saw the younger Malfoy, he was filled with a rage that he hadn’t felt even on learning the truth about Peter Pettigrew, and knew that he was in danger of losing control. That was the last thing he needed.

As for the issue of secrecy, there were a few awkward moments, especially when an incredulous Ron demanded to know why on earth Harry had a copy of Ten Essential Essays On the Toxicity of Mugwump Root in his bag, but he and Hermione always accepted whatever excuse Harry gave for his absences. Of course, Harry reflected as he entered Snape’s sickroom one day, they weren’t likely to start guessing at the truth, were they?

This was Friday, and Harry was infused with the normal mixture of relief and trepidation that came at the end of Exams Week. He was finally finished, but that meant he was finally finished, and next week he’d be going back to Privet Drive. Dreadful. He tried to put the thought out of his mind as he greeted Dumbledore, who warned him, "He’s feeling a bit surly today."

"So what else is new?" Harry joked, careful to whisper, and mentally armed himself against any barbs that were likely to come his way. Snape was the worst patient he’d ever seen. Madam Pomfrey was lucky she didn’t have to deal with him: Dumbledore looked ten years older after playing nursemaid for a week.

Snape was in bed when Harry came in, instead of sitting up. He had on his gray nightshirt; evidently he hadn’t gotten up at all today. Harry blinked, but didn’t voice his concern, seeing that Snape looked irritated already. Instead he fished into his bag and silently handed Snape Ten Essential Essays. Snape laid it on the bedside table, growling something that might have been thanks. They sat for a few moments in silence.

"How was your Divinations exam?" Snape asked, so abruptly that Harry almost jumped in his chair.

"Oh. Fine," he said, feeling a bit stupid. "I predicted I would get killed by Muggles this summer in a back-alley knife fight. She seemed to like it." Snape snorted. "How are you feeling today?"

"Perfectly well," Snape snarled. "Dumbledore has some bee in his bonnet just because I was light-headed this morning." He plucked irritably at the coverlet, which by now was deep purple and matched the drapes. Harry thought the colour rather suited him, actually, though Snape never seemed comfortable in anything but black.

"Why was that?" he asked before he could stop himself. Snape glared at him.

"I’m sure I don’t know," he said scathingly. "I’m no doctor. And neither is he. Madam Pomfrey would never stand for this coddling nonsense."

Harry wasn’t too sure about that, but felt more compelled to stick up for Dumbledore. "He cares about you. He’s just worried."

"How touching," Snape sneered.

"Look, I know you don’t like being cooped up in here," Harry said in exasperation. "I wouldn’t either. And Dumbledore probably wishes he had his room back as much as anybody." True to his word, the headmaster had been sleeping in the study.

"He’s welcome to it," Snape shot back. "I’d give it back with all good grace, that I can promise you."

"Chance’d be a fine thing," Harry grinned, unable to see Snape doing anything involving good grace.

"Oh, shut up," Snape grumbled.

"Fine," Harry said amiably, having just spotted a tray of sweets and a pot of hot tea sitting by the window. He went over for a closer look. "I’ll just eat instead of talk. Who sent these?"

"McGonagall sent the sweets. Dumbledore makes the tea."

"Nice of them," Harry murmured, sniffing the air. "Smells good. Is it that mint tea the headmaster had last time?"

"I’m sure," Snape said, his voice remarkably sour. Then, sarcastically, "Do help yourself."

"Thought I might." Harry had already popped a Cockroach Cluster in his mouth. He filled two cups of tea. "You take sugar?"

"No."

Surprise, surprise, Harry thought, but refrained from rolling his eyes. He handed Snape the warm mug – and their fingers brushed.

He felt like someone had struck him with a Jelly-Legs Jinx, and sat down rather quickly so Snape wouldn’t see. His effort at remaining cool was a little spoiled when his other hand shook and sloshed the tea around in his own mug. But Snape didn’t seem to notice; indeed, his own hand seemed to be shaking a little, though that might have been because he wasn’t feeling well. Rattled, Harry blew on the hot liquid and took a careful sip. Damn. He’d been able to keep thoughts like that to a minimum over the past few days, and had rather hoped he’d be able to escape the school year with his dignity intact.

"Well," he said a little too brightly, "The feast is tomorrow night and we all go home Sunday morning. You’ll be able to leave then – nobody here to see you, we’ll all be gone, that’s good, eh?" Then he snapped his mouth shut, aware that he was beginning to babble.

Snape, who hadn’t looked at him since accepting the tea, frowned into his cup. "Yes," he said slowly. "You’ll be gone."

That wasn’t much help, conversation-wise, though Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he suddenly felt the desperate urge to fill the silence up. They’d sat without talking before and it hadn’t bothered him. "What’ll you do this summer?"

"Research, I expect," Snape answered, still staring into his cup. "Not much else to do, is there?" He shifted on his elbow, evidently intending to raise himself to a better sitting position so he could drink without choking, but the mug wobbled and some of the hot tea spilled down onto the front of the nightshirt. He hissed in pain, setting the mug on the bedside table with a clatter. Alarmed, and not thinking at all, Harry put his own mug down and quickly leaned forward, taking one of Snape’s hands in his and pulling it away so he could inspect the damage. It didn’t seem too bad, certainly not bad enough to merit the way Snape had frozen all of a sudden –

Harry abruptly realised that Snape’s face was now only inches from his own, that he was standing crouched over Snape’s body, clutching hard at his hand, his breathing elevated. He stared dazedly into those dark eyes, twin coals that seemed to have caught fire.

"Oh," he said, helplessly. Then he was leaning in to kiss Snape, wanting that more than anything and wanting it enough to risk being shoved away and yelled at. But he wasn’t shoved away – his lips pressed hard against those thin ones, they opened for him, and Harry was inside, his tongue clumsily renewing acquaintance with the other.

Snape remained frozen for a few moments, allowing Harry’s kiss but not encouraging it, as if stunned. Then he made a hoarse, growling sound in the back of his throat and Harry felt a hand come down on the back of his neck like iron, while another seized his hip, pulling him down onto the bed. Never loosening his hold or breaking the kiss, Snape rolled over until Harry was nicely pinned under him - I suppose he really is feeling all right, Harry thought vaguely – and proceeded to suck Harry’s tongue softly into his mouth, still making those growling noises.

Harry had thought he’d remembered it all: the way Snape tasted, the way he felt – he’d dreamed about it often enough. But this was no stone balcony, and the temperature wasn’t a thousand below zero. This was a soft bed beneath him, and another body lying right on top of him, wearing a thin nightshirt instead of a winter-weight robe. Harry felt his limbs start to move of their own will, twining around Snape like ivy, his legs snaking around one of the other man’s, his arms going up around Snape’s neck. He felt himself getting hard and couldn’t seem to stop his hips from rubbing, catlike, against Snape’s thigh, moaning deep in his throat at the incredible sensation this produced, even through the layers of clothes. . .and God, that mouth was so hot, and wet, and it tasted like mint-flavoured tea. . .he couldn’t stop clinging, could hear himself groaning into the kiss – this was – he was –

Snape tugged their mouths apart, causing Harry to gasp, but he didn’t go far, moving instead to tug Harry’s collar aside and lick and suck hungrily at his throat. One hand stayed on Harry’s hip, the thumb rubbing in little circles, while the other moved from his neck to trace a path down his spine with fingernails. Harry’s hips jerked and he moaned, brain blown, unable to process all the sensations.

"Whoever else did this to you," Snape hissed in his ear, "you didn’t like it so much – they didn’t make you feel this way – " he took an earlobe between his teeth and worried it, moving up to nip the ridge of the ear, and then to lick the space behind, as if mapping the whole area.

Harry whimpered incoherently, mouthing at Snape’s cheek, temple, ear, whatever part of him he could reach. "N-no," he finally managed as his mind eventually processed the non-question. "Oh, God. Oh, please." He didn’t know what exactly he was asking for, but his hips had continued to move against Snape, and he knew that in a few moments he would certainly –

Snape’s hand tightened on his hip, forcing him to stillness, and Harry couldn’t stop a soft wail of despair. He was so close he could taste it.

He could feel Snape’s forehead come to rest against his own, could hear the other man’s harsh, frustrated pants for air, could feel – good Lord. Pressing into his stomach, that had to be – he moaned again, a thready, desperate noise.

"We can’t," Snape managed.

"Oh God," was all Harry could reply. Lips brushed gently against his eyebrow, his temple, his cheek and nose, as if unable to come to a complete halt. His own lips mouthed desperately, uselessly into the air. Long fingers were gently tugging his collar back into place, covering the tiny bruise that had begun to form.

Little by little, Snape began to pull away, and as that mesmerising body heat receded, Harry began to calm down and remember exactly where he was. In the headmaster’s bed. And if Dumbledore were to come in –

"Shit," he gasped, eyes flying to the door and his arousal freezing up, but there was no disapproving Dumbledore glaring at him from the doorway. He relaxed fractionally.

"You see? Bad idea," Snape muttered in a strained voice, no longer actively kissing and touching Harry, but not untangling their bodies all the way either.

Harry took a deep breath. "Good idea," he corrected, amazed at how breathless he sounded, as if he’d been running for miles. "Just not here."

Snape merely shook his head, black eyes glazed over, looking thoroughly pole-axed. Harry unwound himself from the older man, suddenly remembering how they’d been locked together just a few days ago in their desperate flight. This was much more pleasant. Soon they were mostly separate again, lying side by side on the bed among the thoroughly rumpled covers, their hands the only body parts still entwined. Snape made an effort to pull his hand away, but Harry tightened his grip.

"You’ll write to me this summer," he said firmly, pleased that he’d got his voice back. "Give you something to do besides research."

"All right," Snape replied faintly, his breathing still shallow and unsteady.

"I turn sixteen in July, you know," Harry continued.

"Do you?"

"Mm-hm. Age of consent in Britain. I found that out." Snape’s breath caught.

"You’re still my student," he said feebly.

Harry leaned over and brushed a kiss against the other man’s forehead, awed by his own daring. "Remember? Famous Harry Potter doesn’t pay attention to rules. First time it’ll be to your advantage."

Snape closed his eyes, and Harry finally let go his hand as he scrambled out of the bed. It was almost dinner-time; no doubt Dumbledore would be poking his head in soon.

"You would be willing," Snape finally said, in a low, haunted voice, "to lie to Weasley and Granger? And everybody else? Sneak around behind their backs with someone who could choose to pass or fail you depending on how you please him?"

Harry blinked. "Not willing, exactly," he said eventually. "It’s not like I’d want to, but if I had to. . .and you wouldn’t do that," he added with quiet confidence.

"I might," Snape snapped, the glazed look finally leaving his eyes.

"But you wouldn’t."

"But I MIGHT. I am your TEACHER. Do you have any idea how much power I have over you?"

Harry glared at him. "Fine," he said flatly. "I can take that, if you can take being with someone who could get you sacked by going and crying to the headmaster that you took advantage of him if you gave him a bad grade." Snape turned a little pale. "But you know me," Harry continued. "D’you honestly think I’d do something like that? For God’s sake, I just flew through a burning forest with Voldemort on my tail, you KNOW I’ve got more guts than sense."

It was Snape’s turn to blink, and then his lips actually twitched. "I do hope you’re not waiting for a denial," he said dryly.

"I’m not," Harry said, relieved that the other man, if not in complete agreement with him, was no longer arguing. Then he bent and shouldered his bag. "I have to go. I, um. . ." he frowned, suddenly realising. "I’m not going to see you again before I leave, am I? There’ll be no time tomorrow, and Sunday morning. . ."

"I’ll survive, I’m sure," Snape said, but something in his voice made Harry take notice.

"You’ll miss me?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

Snape’s lips thinned into a line. "I rather think I’ll find ways to fill the time."

Harry nodded, trying not to smile, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t ruin everything by being stupid or awkward. "Well, I’ll miss you," he said eventually, and couldn’t help a snort. How about that? He was really going to miss Snape this summer. He dared to lay a brief hand on the gray-clad shoulder and was reassured when it wasn’t shaken off. Maybe they. . .maybe they could.

"I-I’ll see you next term," he managed, and fled the room before he said something really stupid.

To his surprise, Dumbledore was still at his desk in his office, apparently hard at work. "I see you survived," he said amusedly, not looking up from the parchment on which he was scribbling in his uniquely loopy hand.

"Uh, yeah," Harry said, "yeah, it was. . .fine." At that, the headmaster looked up. For a second Harry was speared on that piercing blue gaze and he had that feeling again, the feeling that Dumbledore knew absolutely everything that went on in his school, and that what had just happened in his bedroom was no exception. Harry began to sweat, and to wonder if he had the gumption to lie outright to Albus Dumbledore; he’d better, if there was any chance at all of having what he suddenly wanted more than – well, anything. It was rather like a madness, really . . .

Dumbledore gave him a little half-smile, and Harry felt his muscles relaxing all at once. He almost staggered. "I am sure he appreciated your visits," the old man said gently. He stared again at Harry for a few moments. "Funny, how people’s minds work. . .yes, I believe I said that to you once before about Severus. . ."

"Sir?" Harry asked, a little nervously.

Dumbledore waved his hand, turning back to the parchment before him. "Nothing, nothing. Just an old man’s wandering mind, Harry. Go down and have your dinner. I’ll see you at the feast tomorrow."

Harry nodded and escaped, feeling weak-kneed, for more reasons than one.

***

The ride to London on the Hogwarts Express was quiet and uneventful. Harry asked that Hermione and Ron lock the door of their compartment, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand it if Draco stopped by to do his usual end-of-the-term sneering. They acquiesced, a bit puzzled, but were very kind when Harry claimed he had a headache and even offered to talk in whispers the whole time. Of course, they spent rather a large number of minutes whispering to each other and going slightly red whenever Harry caught them at it, but he tried not to mind.

His best friends in the whole world. Could he really do this, really keep this from them? Dumbledore was bad enough. How could he stand this? He refrained from sighing heavily, knowing it would only arouse their curiosity.

He’d just have to figure it out, that’s all. Things would surely fall into place, wouldn’t they? And he had a whole summer ahead to think about it, when he wouldn’t have to do anything at all.

Since the door had been locked, Harry didn’t see Fred and George until the time came to get off the train. Ron and Hermione had already gone into the corridor. Harry was struggling with his bags when two identical red heads popped in.

"He’s alone!" hissed Fred in a stage whisper.

"Great," whispered George, "now’s our chance! Stuff ‘im in our bags and we’ll take him home and keep him all summer long!"

Harry turned around with a laugh. "Yeah? And where’ll you hide me?"

"Under my bed," George said promptly, swaggering into the compartment. "I’ll get rid of all the dustballs. You’ll be safe as houses. What do you say?"

"It sounds better than living at the Dursleys’," Harry replied gloomily, thinking of who awaited him on the platform.

Fred and George exchanged quick glances of sympathy. "You know you’ll get to come visit us at the end," Fred said comfortingly. "And Mum is always happy to see you. Like another son, she says."

"Like she needs one," George said sarcastically. "Hurry up, Fred, and give it to him. We’ve only got a minute before Ron comes poking around looking for him."

"Give me what?" Harry asked with no small amount of trepidation.

Fred winked, and pulled a thickish book out from one of his robe’s inner pockets. (Fred and George’s robes always seemed to have more inner pockets than most people’s.) He handed it to Harry with an unmistakable leer. "Something to remember us by," he said. "Bit of summer reading. . .help you figure things out, maybe learn a bit. . ."

Harry stared at the book, feeling himself blush to the roots of his hair. It read A Wizard’s Manual of Same-Sex Sex and the couple on the cover illustration were going at it quite. . .vigourously. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"Oy, I think I hear Ron," George said quickly. "Shove it in your bags." Hands clumsy with embarrassment, Harry obediently stuffed the book in the suitcase he had nearest to hand, knowing that having Uncle Vernon see him with it would be far worse than being discovered by his friend. As if George had conjured him up, Ron poked his head in the compartment a few seconds later

"Harry, what’s keeping – oh, it’s you two. What are you up to now?"

"I like that," Fred said, affronted. "Not even trusted by our own brother – "

"Now I know you’re up to something," Ron said. "C’mon, Harry, before they slip something explosive in your bags." George guffawed.

"And how d’you know we haven’t already?" he demanded. Harry willed his blush to die down. "Yeah, let’s go," he muttered.

The sight of Uncle Vernon waiting in the station seemed particularly unpleasant that year. For a second Harry was sure he wasn’t going to be able to bear being back at Privet Drive all summer, and thought about sending Dumbledore an owl, begging the headmaster to let him stay at Hogwarts, or the Weasleys’, or even with Sirius and Professor Lupin, wherever they were. But that was no good. Dumbledore always said no, even though he was very kind about it. The summer months stretched out before Harry in a long and lonely vista.

Then he remembered the extra item in his suitcase, and felt a little shiver in his stomach. On the other hand. . . that was something he’d definitely need privacy to look at. "Summer reading," Fred had said. And it had certainly looked. . .instructive.

Snape wouldn’t be the only one doing research this summer, Harry decided, suddenly resolved to make the best of things. He pushed his cart towards the belligerent man awaiting him. He had lots of things to think about, lots of things to decide. Lots of things.

He’d better get started.

The End