Part Six

Sylvester was surprised to find Severus sitting at the breakfast table, slowly mangling a roll. By now he should have eaten and left for his morning with Penaia.

He sat at the table and took a good look at the man.

"Not going well?"

Severus stopped shredding the roll and allowed his hands to drop to either side of his plate.

"Severus?"

He looked up. "It's not working. No matter what, I can't seem to do what's required. I...I can feel this Core Penaia keeps talking about when he points it out to me but I can't find it by myself. He's wasting his time."

Sylvester sat back. "Is this what Penaia has said?"

Severus shook his head. "No. He's very polite about the whole thing. Far more than I would be in his case."

"It's only been three days, Severus."

Severus stared for a long time at his hands. Sylvester was about to say something when Severus finally spoke. "I can't get by the fear. It blocks my every attempt. I..." He looked up. "I find I want to scream and if I start..."

Sylvester nodded his understanding and reached out a hand, placing it on one of Severus's. It was cold and he could feel the slight tremor. He nodded again. "I'll go speak to him."

"You won't have to," muttered Solfeggio. "He's here."

Sylvester gave Severus's hand a slight reassuring squeeze then stood to greet their guest.

"I suppose you're going to want another breakfast," Solfeggio growled.

Penaia grinned but to Solfeggio's amazement shook his head. "Maybe later. Right now, there is a matter of importance to discuss."

He sat at the table, his chair growing in size to accommodate his large body. He smiled at the two men and gestured with his hand, inviting them to sit at their own table.

"So."

Sylvester waited until Solfeggio had cleared the table before he shrugged. "So Severus seems to think that you're wasting your time with him and he feels..."

"Wasting my time?" The big man turned slightly in his chair to look at Severus whose eyes were focused on his clasped hands. Sylvester noted that he looked Severus over very carefully before he continued. "Wasting my time. Is that what you truly think, Severus?"

"It's not working."

Sylvester had to strain to hear the words, but he had no trouble picking up the depression. Damn, Marguerite would have his balls if she had to come back and deal with another "freaked out" Severus.

Penaia sat back. "No, you're right, it's not. But not because it isn't in you, it is. It's because there are barriers to your Core. Severus, please, look at me."

It took a moment or two but finally Severus raised his head and, after a fortifying deep breath, turned to face the witch-doctor.

"What I say will probably cause you pain, not from my words, but at the memories they will bring up in you. But we have to do this."

Sylvester wanted to interrupt, to tell Penaia thank you but no thank you. He looked at Severus and something in his demeanor made him hold his tongue. He felt Solfeggio's presence by his side and knew that if one of them thought this was going too far, he would put an end to this then and there.

"The `wizard'," Penaia's disdain for that title was too obvious, "who hurt you knew well what he was doing."

Severus flinched. Sylvester opened his mouth but a glare from Penaia kept him silent. For the moment. Solfeggio moved a little closer to Severus.

"He left you alive but killed what he thought was the Magic in you. He made you believe that as well. He knew how much your Magic meant to you and he used that as a weapon against you."

Damn, Sylvester hadn't thought of that. He'd thought the loss of Severus's Magic had been co-incidental to the torture, not part of it. He looked at Severus and saw that was a new idea to him as well.

Penaia leaned forward, his hand reaching out to Severus. "But," said the big man, more serious than Sylvester had ever seen him, "he didn't know about the true Magic we carry in us and he didn't destroy that part of you. But right now, that's what you're doing, Severus. Killing the Core of you. And that I cannot allow.

"You are allowing the fear that thing left in you control your finding a path to the Core."

Sylvester kept his eyes on the man at his side, watching for any sign that he should step in. But Penaia, bless him, had focused on the crux of the matter and Sylvester knew that Severus's fear was something that had to be dealt with.

Penaia sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, seemingly non-chalant, but Sylvester was impressed with his handling of Severus and the situation.

"It is as...as though there has been a devastating fire. The land is burnt, unproductive. Scarred. You have to get through that burnt out tract of land to get to the spring water, to the green that is still alive. And the route is filled with traps. With fires that still live underground so that when you step on the ashes, they flare up and threaten to burn you alive.

"This journey you have undertaken is not an easy one, Severus. But you have the strength to accomplish it. I would not have taken you on, knowing what I know, if I had thought otherwise. I am not wasting my time. Not unless you feel that you are wasting yours."

Penaia leaned forward again and took Severus's hands in one of his. Sylvester noted that Severus didn't tremble when he did so.

"Severus. Do not allow him to win, this beast who destroyed your pleasure in your potions. He doesn't deserve such a victory."

Severus shook his head. "I am trying," he whispered, "but..."

"But what, Severus?" Sylvester asked quietly.

"I hear him. Whenever I try to find a way from my mind to my Core. I hear him laughing at me."

Well, that was news. And not just to Sylvester. Penaia sat back and rubbed his chin while thinking.

"You need something to overcome that laughter. Something that is stronger than the little of himself he left in you to destroy any chance you might have to ever finding yourself again. Let me think on this."

And Sylvester was both surprised and pleased to feel some of the tension leave Severus.

Penaia grinned suddenly and shifted so that he could see Solfeggio. "Now would be a good time for that breakfast you offered me."

Solfeggio groaned while Sylvester managed to laugh.

Ariette wisely found an excuse for Severus to leave them alone: Parlante was restless and needed someone to amuse him. After three months of slow convalescence, the house elf was no longer confined to his bedroom, but his strength still waned far too quickly. Ariette insisted that he behave himself and he did whenever Severus was around. They were reading their way through some Muggle series that took place on the high seas. No pirates but lots of battles which kept Parlante interested and quiet.

Sylvester played with his coffee cup while Penaia happily polished off a breakfast that would have fed the twins and Rus, probably also Remy and Severus.

He waited until Penaia sat back and sighed happily.

"How is he doing, honestly?"

Penaia wiped his mouth on his stained napkin and grimaced. "I am not a violent man, Sylvester. I think you know that about me. But if I should ever have the chance to find the man who did that to him, I think I would also find much enjoyment in tearing him apart, limb from limb. Slowly."

Sylvester nodded. "I have agents at work, locating him."

Penaia wasn't surprised. He grinned at Sylvester's inquiring eyebrow. "Well, you are not the only one with agents, my dear Sylvester. I have many cousins, and cousins of cousins. You are not unknown in certain circles. Rather wild in your younger days."

With anyone else, Sylvester would have felt the self of those long ago days rise up. Instead he countered with, "And what were you like in your younger days?"

Penaia was delighted. "We must share lies one evening." Then he grew serious. "As for Severus, he needs help in this battle of his."

"Anything I can do, I will of course do. And I know I speak for Solfeggio and the others when I say we will do."

Penaia shook his head. "What he needs is something that he believes in, far more than he believes in that laughter he hears in his head. Tell me, is there something he has that is important to him above all things?"

Sylvester sighed. "He lost everything. The only things he has are a book of his mother's essays that I had bound for him and a letter."

Penaia's interest was pricked. "A letter from his mother?"

"Not to him. To the editors of her essays. Complaining about changes." Sylvester felt a sense of pride: Severus had tackled Italian with the same passion he'd applied to fractions, with far quicker and more satisfying results. "It was all that I could find for him."

"But she touched that letter? It is in her writing?"

"Yes." Sylvester's nerves went on alert.

"And this letter, such as it is, is important to him?"

"Yes. He keeps it in the book and though the book is less at hand than it was when I gifted it to him, he sleeps with it under his pillow."

Penaia thought a bit. "And did he love his mother?"

Sylvester nodded. "Yes. Yes, he did. And she loved him."

"What happened to her?"

"She was a Potions Mistress. He was told she died in a laboratory accident."

"Told?"

Sylvester thought before answering Penaia's unspoken inquiry. "One of my agents thinks the accident was not an accident. He has information about the event that has persuaded him that it might have been arranged."

"And his mother was the only victim?"

"Yes. She was working alone in her lab the evening the explosion occurred. Severus was eight."

Penaia was silent. He clasped his hands together and his mouth tightly as he went over this information in his mind. "This letter. Would he allow me to see it?"

"We can but ask."

Severus brought the book out and laid it flat on the table. He opened it to the page where the letter in its envelope was housed.

Penaia knew that it was only because Sylvester had asked Severus to do this that the man was slowly removing the letter from the envelope and handing it all too hesitantly to him.

"Thank you, Severus." Penaia was sincere in his appreciation. He understood the importance of the gesture and of the treasure he held. He looked down at the letter then shook his head sadly. "I don't read this language." He placed the letter down on the table.

Severus spoke softly, his voice rougher than usual. "She's upset," he cleared his throat, "because they want her to shorten the length of the essay. Too many details, they said. She's pointing out to them that they are publishers of scientific reports and that they, of all people, should know the importance of details."

Penaia nodded. "So she is angry. Irritated."

Severus shrugged. "At the end, she is also conciliatory and a little humourous. She makes fun of her concern for this `child' of hers. She makes a comment about the pains of labour. She says she is as worried about its safe delivery as she was for that of her own son."

That pleased Penaia. "You."

"Yes."

"She loved you greatly."

Severus didn't answer, only nodded, his eyes as blank as Penaia had ever seen them.

"And if I am not mistaken, she mentions you by name. I recognize the letters."

Severus nodded again, his finger hovering above those same letters.

Penaia leaned forward. "Severus. I need you to trust me with this letter. I know I am asking a great deal of you, but I want you to trust me. Will you, can you do that?"

The fear that was never far from this man's eyes rose again. "It's all I have of hers."

Penaia made his voice as reassuring as he could. "Yes, I know."

Severus looked to Sylvester who shrugged. "I can't tell you what to do, Severus. You have to decide. I'm certain that should you say no, Penaia will understand."

Penaia nodded slightly to indicate that he understood Sylvester's condition. "Yes. In fact, in your place, Severus, I don't know what I would do. And I know me."

Severus stroked the unwritten border at the bottom of the letter, as though touch would help him make the decision. He looked up, meeting Penaia's eyes. "If I do as you ask, will it help me find my way through the burn?"

Penaia loved the fact that, in spite of all the damage, the man was still intelligent enough to understand without having to be told. "Yes, I believe so."

Severus chewed on his lip then he pushed the letter to Penaia, pulling back his hand and holding it behind his back with the other, as though preventing himself from grabbing it back.

Penaia was incredibly moved by the trust the broken wizard was ready to show him, in spite of barely knowing him. "Thank you, Severus."

Eyes large in a white face, Severus only nodded.

Penaia brought the paper in front on him on the table. He looked around and went down off the porch to a clump of grasses that grew by the last step. He murmured some words as he tore several of the grasses. When he came back, he placed the grasses at the top of the paper.

At his nod, Sylvester stepped closer to Severus and stood by him.

Penaia placed his hands over the letter and, concentrating, slowly murmured some words, his voice never growing louder, only stronger as he repeated his incantation over and over again.

Severus gasped loudly.

The paper was shriveling up, curling up upon itself, as though being burnt by an unseen force.

With a whimper of pain, Severus reached out to grab but Sylvester caught his hand. Whatever was happening, it was too late. He kept his arm around Severus and held him as the letter changed, the words thinning out and running liquidly so that they became nothing more than lines.

Lines that decorated the triangular shell-like shape the letter had assumed. A shell that was wider at the top nearer the grasses and tapered to a point at its far end. A shell, the same cream colour as the paper, with black markings that spiraled down the shell's form.

The grasses began to change as well. Weaving themselves into a thin green cord of intricate pattern. Which rolled onto the top of the shell where a fold rolled itself around the cord and made the cord part of it.

And then the chanting stopped and Penaia opened his eyes.

He looked at Severus, who was devastated. He reached over and picked up the cord with the letter shell dangling from the middle. He stepped around the table and up to the white-faced man whose face was barely able to contain his pain.

"A gift from your mother, Severus." Penaia reached behind him to tie the cord, murmuring yet more words. He stepped back and smiled at both men.

"Hold it, Severus."

Hand trembling, Severus reached up to grasp the hard shell that rested against the hollow of his throat.

He was standing on a hill overlooking a field that seemed somehow familiar. He could hear voices in the distance and stepped closer to the butte of the hill. Looking for the voices, he found them, a woman shouting encouragement at a small child running through the field, trying to put up a kite. Not being all that successful at it. Not that that seemed to be affecting their happiness.

Severus felt as if his heart had stopped when they came close enough for him to recognize the woman. Mamma. And the child... The boy... He gasped. With that nose it could only be...

"Severus. Faster, love. It's working!"

And it was. Some kind breeze had caught the small kite and was lifting it up, playing with it. The boy screamed in delight, running all the faster. His mother ran alongside him, cheering him on. Then they passed out of sight.

Severus moved, turning to see where they were. And there was no longer the field, but a large tree. And Mamma and the boy were sitting under its leaves. There were the remains of a picnic around them but that wasn't of interest to them. Not right now. The boy was sitting between his mother's legs, his back against her, a book in his hand. Together they were sounding out the words. Her voice soft then gradually silent as the boy continued sounding out the letters on his own.

"Mamma, I did it all by myself!" His pride radiated from him.

"Yes, you did. Aren't you a bright light, Severus, my love!" And her pleasure in her child made him beautiful.

They disappeared and Severus turned about the butte only to find them back in the field, collecting specimens as his mother explained why they were selecting each and which ones were worth picking. The boy, who was older now, maybe six, was listening with great intensity, his eyes shining with pleasure as he repeated her instructions after her.

She looked up at that point and Severus knew suddenly that she was seeing him.

She smiled at him. Waved at him before turning her attention back to the boy he had been. He waved back, releasing the shell as he did so.

Penaia smiled at the man who came back to them.

"She will always be with you. Every time you need her, all you have to do is touch the shell and she will be there for you. And the cord is spelled so that it will never come off. Not unless you take it off."

Severus swallowed loudly. "You...Thank you for this gift."

Penaia shook his head. "It is not my gift. It is Hers to you. With the approval and blessing of Mother Earth, the Source-Of-All-Life."

"And how do I thank Her?"

Penaia used his thumbnail to scoop the tears that streaked Severus's face. Then, with a smile, he flicked the wetness onto the ground.

"You just have."

Sylvester watched Severus who was sitting under a tree, eyes closed, hand on the shell at his throat.

"That was a thoughtful gift, Penaia, but was it a wise one? He'll want to live only in that world you've given him."

Penaia shook his head. "The woman...what is her name?"

"Lucrezia"

Penaia rolled the word around his tongue, lengthening the `r'. He nodded, as though satisfied. "Well, his Lucrezia is a strong woman. She knows him well. She won't allow him to stay any longer than she feels it is safe for him. Only a few memories at a time."

"How do you know?" Sylvester was curious.

Penaia grinned. "She told me so. See."

Severus's hand slipped off the shell and dropped to his lap.

"Did she happen to mention who killed her?"

Penaia shook his head, laughing. "That is your puzzle, my wizard friend. She expects you to decipher it."

Sylvester sighed loudly then shrugged. Severus was looking over the lagoon, more relaxed than Sylvester could remember seeing him.

"Thank you, Penaia Tanumafili. That is Magic I could not have done."

"Our world would be very boring, Wizard, if we all had the same Magic in us." He got up, went down the stairs and strolled over to Severus.

"Well, Student, come along. You haven't earned a holiday yet."

And Severus glanced over his shoulder then slowly rose to his feet. "As you say, Master."

And not looking back, Severus took the path to the clearing.

This new Magic was not easy to handle.

It may have come from the Core of him, but it depended on the Magic around him to work properly.

Severus sat cross-legged alone behind some high stalks that provided him with privacy from the watchful eyes of the house. As he had learnt in the clearing with Penaia, he worked on finding a safe path through himself to the Core. Now when the laughter of his torturer mocked him, he touched his shell and his mother's laughter drowned out the other's, allowing him to work his way through the quagmire of the burnt tract of his old Magic.

It was not an easy process, but it was getting easier by the day. He knew now which areas to avoid, what was solid ground, what hid quicksand. And he forged on knowing all the while that each small victory was celebrated with a lost memory of long-ago happiness.

And once he'd found his path to the Core, he had to deal with the Magic he found there. As Penaia had explained, it was less restrained than anything he had once used. It had a mind of its own: it could be cajoled, but he doubted that it could be "domesticated".

Different from the old Magic, once he had it in hand, he didn't need a wand to direct it. He had to do that on his own, which took some effort. And if it needed boosting, replenishing, focusing, he was somehow to become part of the Source-Of-All-Life and use the Magic he found in Her.

It was like learning not only a new language, but scraping away all that he had learnt before and starting off anew.

It would have been easier if he'd been a child.

He sighed and wondered why everything had to be so different. This new form of Magic was interesting in itself, but it was a long way from fitting him. Still, he tried and every time he was successful, it became easier.

Penaia had also arranged for him to be taught about potions. One of his two wives with powers was an expert in the subject.

Amta treated him as a child, patting him in the head when he did something right, scolding him when he proved to be too unimaginative.

As Penaia had told him, there were no recipes for following in this Magic. Potions were more spontaneous, something that had not been a trait of his even in his best days. He liked the rigidity of his recipes. He was comfortable with the fact that if he made a potion one way on Monday, he would make it the same way on Friday. If he used a certain ingredient in one batch, he would use that same ingredient again, more of it if it had been dried rather than fresh.

Amta couldn't grasp the notion of using anything other than fresh ingredients. So what if one plant was unavailable in November, another one was. He did understand the logic behind that. Here it wasn't as it was back in Britain: plants were always in bloom or green. No winter, only a rainy season that lasted a few weeks. And some potions could be bottled, but Amta preferred potions that were newly made. They were, she repeated regularly, more powerful.

He thought of the child helping his mother gather herbs and plants for drying, for infusing, and wondered how Mamma would have dealt with the situation here.

His hand crept up the shell and he used a fingertip to stroke the tip of it. The shell was warm, alive, and it had a temper as had his mother, now that he remembered so much more of his days with her. Yes, she had been loving, and encouraging, delighting in him, but she hadn't tolerated foolishness.

He'd refused to leave that world one day and she'd stood looking at him, her hands on her hips, scowling at him. Suddenly he'd remembered an afternoon when he'd been about three. A visiting cousin had convinced him to jump from the top of one of the outbuildings, telling him that he could fly if he did it right. He'd fallen to the ground, breaking his arm.

Mamma had cuddled him as she'd made him drink a dose of that disgusting Skele-Gro. Once he'd been better, she'd sat him down and explained, in no uncertain terms, why what he'd done had been dangerous as well as foolish. And he'd had to spend the day sitting in the corner of his room, thinking about what she'd told him. Well, not a full day. Probably not more than an hour. But it had seemed endless to the child he'd been.

Yet the next time Severus had again stubbornly decided to ignore her dismissing wave. After a minute, she'd simply disappeared and there had been...nothing. The panic had been overwhelming and she'd finally taken pity on him, appearing only faintly to wave at him.

So Severus had gotten the message. When she waved to him, Severus the man, not the boy, he accepted her dismissal and released the shell.

Now he stroked the shell lightly, more for confidence than out of necessity. He held his hand out, palm up so that it looked as though he were balancing the moon in his hand. He called upon the Magic in him, locating it, harnessing himself to it. He found words that he had selected for himself, for what he wanted to do. Nothing complicated. Nothing Latin, just something direct and simple. "Come to me," he whispered.

When he dropped his hand slightly, a ball of moonlight came along with it.

And, in his head, he could hear his mother's cheering.

Every year, Sylvester insisted that he wanted no gifts on his birthday. He had, he told his household, larger by one this year, all that he needed: health, a good life and, most of all, their friendship.

Solfeggio rolled his eyes and ignored him. As usual. For dessert, he "surprised" Sylvester with a large black-forest cake, slathered in whipping cream, oozing cherries and dripping kirsch.

Ariette presented him with a new sarong that she herself had painted: image after image of Fiji, brilliant in blues and yellows against a green background.

Parlante had fashioned a model of the "Silver Spray", done not with elven Magic, but with his own two hands. Perfect onto the smallest detail. He'd worked on it during his recovery.

And Severus handed over a small bottle.

Sylvester, surrounded by his presents, eyes alight like a boy's, smiled as he examined the bottle. "What is it?"

Severus shrugged. "It's a potion. According to Amta, it's what keeps Penaia young. I...I made it. For you."

And Sylvester thought it was the finest birthday that he'd had in decades.

Harry waited until the end of term to make his move.

He'd thought long and hard about the situation and had determined that a confession, written in Neville Longbottom's own hand and signed by him, would give Harry the grounds needed to approach Dumbledore for his support. With him by Harry's side, the Minister for Magic would have no option but to exonerate Snape.

Harry checked the address on the door of the battered-looking Muggle house against the letter in his hand. Neville Longbottom no longer lived in that fancy flat set up for him by the Ministry in recognition of his "work" in revealing the traitors still within society. How the mighty have fallen, he thought.

He had started up a scanty correspondence with Longbottom when he'd come up with this plan. Nothing much more than bait, answering only every third or fourth of the lengthy scrolls he received with barely an inch of writing. Just enough to keep Longbottom corresponding.

He looked furtively up and down the street. Dressed as he was in some old Muggle clothing that he used when coaching on those rainy, muddy days, he fit into the general ambiance of the less than savoury neighbourhood. Even if there were Ministry eyes about, there was nothing special about him to garner attention. With casual insouciance, he crossed the street and ambled up to the front door.

He wasn't expected. He wanted to take Longbottom totally by surprise.

He did.

"Harry? HARRY! You've come!"

And, squealing, Longbottom threw himself into Harry's arms, hugging the breath out of him.

Harry wanted to vomit.

He carefully schooled his expression to look delighted and gently, but firmly, moved Longbottom back, closing the door behind him. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, that you've done. Come in, come in, darling Harry."

The small house was neat as a pin. Long...Neville, he had to remember to think of him as Neville. Neville had never been messy, except in Potions where he seemed to spill, drop, knock over everything he touched. Hermione had often complained about the robes she'd had to repair after working next to Neville.

Snape hadn't helped matters much in that class. His lack of patience with Neville, his sarcastic comments on his abilities, the scathing assessments of his work, all those had, Harry was certain, contributed to Longbottom's desire for revenge. Still, there was a vast difference between arranging for a bucket of newt guts to spill over a disliked teacher's head and plotting to have him incarcerated and tortured.

Harry took a deep breath and pushed those times away. Still, now that Harry himself had to deal with inept students, he had more sympathy for Snape and less for Neville. Madame Maxime had promised him that they would make it very clear for the next academic semester that only serious students would be accepted for le Professeur Potter's specialized courses on the Dark Arts. He expected her to keep her word on that.

Neville led the way into a small living room whose furniture looked wellused. He was grinning with pleasure, his body quivering with it. "Sit down, sit down. Is there anything I can get you? Beer? Pumpkin juice? Tea?"

Harry smiled graciously as he sat in the less saggy of the two armchairs. "No, nothing. Thank you. I hope I'm not inconveniencing you: this was a spur of the moment decision. I can come back if you're busy."

"No! No, don't leave. No, not an inconvenience. None at all. I have nothing to do. Not these days." His voice was tinged with bitterness. "And no one bothers to visit me, sooo " - Harry started at the sudden purr in his voice - "we can be certain of not being interrupted while we're...ah... visiting."

Harry nodded, allowing Neville to think that there was an ulterior motive to this visit. Well, there was: only not the one that Neville was so obviously considering.

Harry averted his eyes and shrugged, as though suddenly shy. "I'm sorry I haven't had time to do more than scribble a response to your lovely letters. School takes so much of my time."

Neville batted his eyelashes. "Oh, I understood. Oh, Harry," he gushed, "I was just so happy that you'd finally understood that those things they've been saying about me are just such slander. I knew that if you read one of my letters, you'd see that I'm the innocent one in all this."

"Poor Neville," Harry allowed his voice to curl around Neville's name. The response was a slight tenting of the soft material in Neville's Muggle jogging pants. He added to it when he reached out with his hand, palm up, inviting Neville to place his in it. Which he did. With a blushing titter. Harry pulled Neville onto his lap and was rewarded with a squeal of excitement.

Up close, Harry got a good look at Neville's eyes. The pupils were dilated and, bloody hell, the man was stoned! Harry wondered just what the fuck Neville had been imbibing? Or, thinking of the neighbourhood, probably snorting. Fuck, there went Plan A. No telling how a mixture of cocaine, heroine or whatever it was that was coursing through Neville's veins would react with Imperius.

And, pulling his neck away from the assault of Neville's mouth, he thought that Plan B was pretty much out of the game. He'd hoped to be able to talk Neville into writing the confession, if only to please him, but considering how stoned he was... Not to mention the poke from a hardening erection against his stomach as Neville quickly shifted, trying to claim Harry's mouth. Well, that left Plan C. Not the one he had really cared to use, but... His smile edged into the lecherous as Harry turned his head and allowed Neville access to his mouth.

Other than the fact the kiss left him cold, Harry was surprised at how, well, professional Neville seemed. True, Neville had few magical skills by which to earn a living. And he'd certainly not been educated for the Muggle world: he did have to earn a living somehow. It was a good thing that Harry had thought to spell himself protection against all the venereal diseases he knew about before he'd come here. He hadn't wanted to do things this way, but he certainly believed in being prepared for any eventuality.

His response was minimal, but Neville didn't seem to notice. Harry couldn't avoid noticing the hard cock rubbing against him.

"Oh, Merlin! Harry! Harry! To have you here at last. In my arms. As we were meant to be. And forever."

Harry raised his chin, allowing Neville access to his throat. The soft wet sounds roiled in his stomach. He closed his eyes and wondered why he hadn't thought up a Plan D. Plan C had seemed so easy when he'd admitted to himself that it might be a possibility.

He forced himself to think of what Sirius had told him, about what Snape had endured, and mentally girded his loins.

He let his hand slip under Neville's t-shirt and rubbed his fingertips along the smooth skin to a hard, pebbly nipple. Neville's moan of pleasure made him grin ferally.

"Maybe we should move this to the couch," he whispered in Neville's ear.

Sex-glazed eyes stared at him. "The bed would be more comfortable."

Harry winced mentally: no way, not that bed! He grinned lasciviously. "Maybe for the nexttime?"

Neville sighed happily. "And the one after that?"

Harry cocked his head and tried to look coquettish. "Well," he growled, "we'll have to see what your recovery time is like, now won't we, Nevvy?"

Neville lost some of his glow. "Don't call me that, Harry. Please. Neville. I want to be Neville with you."

"Neville it is, my dear." Harry pushed Neville off him and stood, pulling his sweater off as he did.

Neville gasped with pleasure. "Oh, Harry, so buff. All that Quidditch, I suppose."

Harry laughed. "Wait till I get you on your knees. That's when you'll discover just how buff I am."

"Oh, and butch as well." With a giggle that made Harry cringe, Neville allowed himself to fall backwards onto the couch, his arms open wide. "You're going to ride me hard, aren't you?"

Sitting on the arm of the couch, Harry gestured with his hand. "Strip, Neville. Show me what you've been promising me in such detail all these weeks." In graphic detail. Neville certainly had a way with words. And quite an imagination. He'd been quite willing to jump to the conclusion that any response meant that Harry was finally accepting that Neville was the only one for him. Harry hadn't discouraged that, even knowing what it might to lead to. Well, that lust was what had brought Plan C about in the first place. He might as well use it to his advantage.

Neville bounded to his feet, rushed over to the ghetto-blaster that sat on the battered sideboard and rummaged through a pile of cassettes, looking for just the one. To the sounds of Annie Lennox reverberating in the small room, Neville proceed to give Harry his very own private strip show.

Harry had to admit that Neville was good at what he was doing. But then, when he thought about it, Malfoy had always been rather particular about what he wanted: he'd be very specific about someone catering to his needs.

Neville, thought Harry as his cock finally began to show some interest, should have been sorted into Slytherin, his cunning would have fit in though his lack of magical skills would probably have gotten him killed.

Harry moaned slightly, encouraging Neville in his private porn show.

By the time Harry had raised his hips so that Neville could slip his jeans off him - he hadn't worn underwear - Neville was sporting a hard-on that could have hammered nails into steel. His skin was shiny from his arousal and tinged a dark pink.

Harry grabbed him by the base of his cock and smiling, squeezed until he felt Neville wriggle in protest.

"No," he snarled, "no, Neville. You can't come. Not until I tell you to. Understand?"

Neville's eyes opened wide and he licked his lips. "Oh, yes," his voice quivered, "of course I do. Master."

Harry smirked. Oh, yes, well trained by Malfoy. He'd heard enough about Malfoy's kinks through the grapevine to know where Neville had picked up that term.

He reached up with his free hand and pinched the nipples poking out of the soft chest, one after the other, twisting them until he felt Neville grow harder in his hand. Neville moaned loudly, his hips wanting to jerk, but held back by the grip Harry had on his erection.

Harry rubbed his free hand hard against the balls hanging under the cock he gripped harder. Neville's moan of pain was hard to distinguish from his moan of arousal. Probably because they were the same. So, thought Harry, Nevvy liked pain. Well, maybe he had a Plan D after all.

And Harry released some of the anger that had been simmering in him since he'd accepted that he had been among those who had betrayed Snape. Not by accusing him, but by not being there for him.

He got to his feet and led Neville over to the couch. "On your knees, Neville. Chest on the seat cushions and I don't want to see that cock of yours anywhere near the couch. In fact, I don't want you touching yourself, so hands on your head. That's it."

"Oh, Harry, I mean Master. I'll be good. I don't want you to punish me."

Harry winced. Oh, well, why not? Plan D it was.

He stooped and picked up his jeans, pulling out the belt from its loops. He doubled it and, with his full strength, brought it down next to Neville on the couch.

Neville's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Oh, Merlin! Harry, yes, please, yes!

If Neville had been a dog, thought Harry, he'd be salivating. He looked at the man who was licking his lips and thought: he is.

"Not just yet, Neville dear." He'd gotten an idea. He reached for one of Neville's runners and quickly unlaced it. With a grin that would have terrified his students, Harry knelt behind Neville, slipping an hand between his legs, causing him to jerk and moan what Harry supposed was erotically. He shoved up Neville's balls against his cock. With his other hand, he reached around Neville's hip and managed to loop the lace around the handful of cock and balls. While he fashioned a sort of cockring, he blew into Neville's ear and whispered, "Like this so far, lover?"

"Oh," gushed Neville, "I love you, Harry. I love you so much. I knew if I was patient that you'd realize that you belong with me."

Harry didn't answer. He stood up and took the belt back in his hand and brought it down on Neville's white arse. After ten of the best, Neville's white arse was stripped with bars of red. Harry stopped: the moans had grown into shouted profanity. He stood back, panting from exertion, embarrassed and humiliated that his cock was bouncing hard against his belly.

"No, Harry, don't stop," sobbed Neville. "So close, so close. Don't leave me like this."

Harry leaned over Neville and, grabbing his hair, pulled his head back.

"But I will, Neville," he snarled, "if you don't give me what I want. If you don't give me what I want, I'll put my clothes back on and leave. And I'll never come back. I'll never even open a message from you. If you don't give me what I want, you'll be dead to me."

"NO! No, tell me." Neville pushed frantically against Harry, his hands still obediently on his head. "I'll do anything for you, Ha...Master. I'll give you what you want. Promise!"

"Swear it, Neville. Swear that whatever I want you'll give me. Or I'll leave. And the lace has been spelled so that I'm the only one who can take it off, Neville. And if I don't then it will only come off after what it's holding has fallen off."

Neville groaned as though near orgasm. "I will. I swear."

"I want to hear the truth from you, Neville."

Neville blinked back the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. "The truth?" His voice was breathless. "But, Master, what truth? That I adore you? That I worship you? That I belong to you and only you?"

Harry stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Instead, he rested the hand holding the belt on the small of Neville's back, allowing the leather to fan the heated skin. He made his voice as masterful as he could, only later realizing that he had based his tone on Snape's when ordering Harry about when he'd trained him.

"Tell me about that so-called diary of your parents. Tell me how you invented it. Tell me the names of the people who dealt with you on this matter. Tell me about Draco Malfoy's part in all this and where you think he is now."

Neville still didn't get it, thought Harry. The man's eyes were heavy from the whipping; he probably thought this was all part of the Master/Slave game. He continued sobbing quietly. Harry wondered if that was from the pain in his arse, or out of sexual frustration?

"Why do you want me to do that, Harry?"

Harry rubbed his free hand hard on the reddened skin of Neville's arse. "How dare you question me! Who do you think you are, Slave?"

Neville's sobs rose high as he accepted the punishment. "Master, I'm sorry, Master. I exist only to please you."

"Well then, it pleases me to demand this of you. And if you truly care to please me, if you truly exist only to please me, then you will tell me everything about it, without any further delay. Slave."

And dropping Neville back onto the couch, Harry picked up the belt and brought it down yet again, on the back of Neville's thighs this time. His screech was rather satisfying.

Neville buried his face in the cushion on the couch, bracing himself for the next blow.

Harry timed the snapping of his fingers with the next shout. A scroll, an inkwell and a quill appeared in the air, ready to take down every word of Neville's confession.

"Neville! Start talking!"

To punctuations of leather on skin, Harry heard all about Neville's decision to invent the diaries, how somehow Draco had heard about it, had come to him, offering him a portion of the confiscated Malfoy fortune in return for the proper usage of the diaries. Dumbledore's name came up, which caused Harry to flinch against a spasm of pain in his gut. How Osegood - Who the hell was Wyman Osegood? - had arranged for his reward. How Snape had been quickly spirited off to Azkaban and how Draco had made arrangements for convincing Snape to cooperate with the story that Lucius Malfoy had been the true double spy working on behalf of the Light, not the Dark. How Snape had arranged for his duplicity to be attributed to Lucius.

By the end of the confession, Harry found he couldn't play the game any longer. Neville's arse and the back of his thighs were scarlet from the `encouragement' Harry had had to provide. "You arranged to have Severus Snape horribly tortured, Neville. What the hell did you get out of it, other than some of Malfoy's money?"

"He deserved it," sobbed Neville, more loudly, his anger stronger than the endorphins. "He stood by and allowed Voldemort to torture my parents!"

Harry sighed tiredly. "He was a spy, Neville. What did you expect him to do, reveal himself and do what? Save your parents? Be real. He would have been killed, we would have lost our inner-most mole with no chance of ever replacing him, and your parents would still be as they are."

"Then he should have been nicer to me," Neville snarled through his tears. "Everyone else was."

Petty spite, thought Harry. A man had been tortured out of petty spite!

Harry reached up and took the scroll. A quick glance and he was pleased to see that the quill had ignored all screams and profanity for the bare confession. He set the scroll down on the couch by the sobbing, trembling Neville, pulled one hand away from his head and shoved the quill into it.

"Sign."

Neville blinked back tears and sweat. He looked at the scroll, eyes squinting at the sight of it, as though he didn't quite know what it was.

"Sign, Neville."

Neville looked up at Harry and suddenly his face gleamed cunning. "I will, Master," he panted. "After you fuck me. Unless," he offered hopefully, "you want to start all over again?"

Harry cringed.

Neville giggled, almost hysterically, eyes feral. "If you want me to sign, you'll have to fuck me hard and good. Master."

Fuck. Neville must be a frequent player if he was able to shift gears this quickly. Harry sighed: back to Plan C.

Harry rolled the scroll up tightly and kept it in his hand. "All right, Neville. But I'm pretty soft right now. And so if you want me to fuck you, you're going to have to get me hard. And keep me hard long enough to do the job."

He'd no sooner said the words than Neville was on him, hands on his cock, his mouth filled.

Neville, as Harry had already noted, was experienced. He had to work at it, Harry got some satisfaction out of that. But he finally got Harry hard and, with a satisfied whoop of delight, he threw himself back to the couch, chest down, arse out, his still laced cock engorged purple. Harry assumed that somewhere in the house there was some lube. With almost detached casualness, he called for it to appear.

Harry wasn't gentle, but then Neville's delight in roughness made it relatively guilt-free to pump away in Neville's crimsoned arse, in an attempt to bring himself to orgasm. When he felt that he could finally explode, he said a few words between gritted teeth and the lace looped itself off Neville's swollen genitals.

Harry's grunt of completion was lost in Neville's scream.

Harry pulled out, used his wand to clean himself up. After a moment's hesitation, he cleaned Neville, who was sagging heavily against the couch, and then placed the scroll and quill by his hand. "Sign, Neville."

And he did. He raised himself onto a hand and, with a uneven little flourish, he scratched his name.

Harry pulled his clothes on, feeling the need for a long, scalding hot shower. Neville crawled over to his feet, wrapped his arms around Harry's legs and sighed blissfully. "We are going to be so happy together, Harry."

"I fucked you, Neville, that was our agreement. One fuck in return for a signature on the unfictionalized truth." He shoved Neville away from him, quickly making for the door. "Now I never want to set eyes on you again. You make me sick."

He was outside, ignoring the roil in his stomach. He refused to vomit here on the street. A keening sound rose from within. Harry started down the stairs, scroll tight in hand, ready to apparate, when he noticed the woman watching him.

She came up to him, shaking her head. "Not very bright of you, Harry, doing something like that without back-up. Snape taught you better."

Harry had to think hard before he could put a name to the face. "Abby Decourcy."

She winced as the sound in the house shifted into one of rage. "Come on, you'd better come with me. Moody is going to be so pissed that you beat him to it."

"Moody?"

Abby looked over her shoulder. She came back and slipped her arm under Harry's, dragging him along with her. "Yes, Mad-Eye Moody. Uncle Alastor. He's going to yell his head off. Don't let him get to you. Under all that snarl, he's really a pussy cat."

Harry fell into step with her. "Mad-Eye Moody? A pussy cat?"

She grinned at him, hugging his arm tighter, offering the scent of her clean self to overcome that which he'd brought out of the house with him. "A pussy cat. But don't tell him so. He has a reputation to uphold you know."

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL MADE YOU DO SOMETHING SO FUCKING STUPID!"

Harry winced. A pussy cat, eh? Damn if he'd ever met a pussy cat that looked as though it would like nothing more than to skin him alive. And that wild eye of Moody's was spinning like a top.

He was standing in the living room of the flat that Abby Decourcy had brought him to. She was sitting on the couch, her eyes glittering with delight. She didn't even have the decency to wince whenever Moody's temper made the walls shake.

Harry closed his eyes and waited. It had been the technique he'd used whenever Snape had lost his temper. He'd finally learnt about the third month of his training with Snape that trying to explain had no effect. The only thing was to wait until Snape, and now Moody, ran out of breath and words. Snape could be counted on for a good fifteen minutes before he'd start repeating himself, at which point he always stopped. Moody, Harry was pleased to note, ran out of steam after about five. But then the wizard was a lot older than Snape.

He waited until the sound of Moody's breathing had dropped into a regular rhythm before opening his eyes.

Moody was sitting in his chair, glaring at him, his eyelid twitching down over the magical eye. Abby got up and disappeared into the kitchen, coming back out with a glass filled with an amber liquid. "Take it," she told Moody. "This one is medicinal."

Harry calculated there were at least three fingers of firewhiskey in the glass. Moody took it from her and, with a last glare at Harry, he shut his eyes and tossed back the entire contents, swallowing in one go.

Abby grinned at Harry and eased the glass out of Moody's hand.

"Tell the idiot to sit down," growled Moody, eyes still shut.

Abby bit back her smile. She pointed to the couch. "Sit down, Harry."

He did. With a sigh. He ran a hand through his hair then moved his glasses up to the top of his head and rubbed his face with both hands. What a hell of a day. He hadn't felt like this since...back in the war.

Something cool nudged his hand. He looked up and Abby grinned at him, glass of amber in her hand. He took it from her and was smart enough not to try and duplicate Moody's gesture. Harry sipped his firewhiskey, all the while wondering how the hell he'd gotten into this situation.

"You bloody youngsters," muttered Moody. He seemed calmer now: his eyes certainly were. Both were focused on Harry. "Too brash for your own good. Did you not think what might happen to you if Longbottom had been `entertaining'?"

"I'd watched the house for some time before going to the door."

"How long?"

When Harry buried his nose in his glass, Moody sighed loudly. "All right, Potter, you want to tell me what the bloody hell you were up to?"

Harry felt that anger rise in him again. "Trying to find a way to prove a man innocent."

"What makes you so sure Snape is innocent?"

Harry didn't answer. This was Moody, but he was an Auror and...

"Abby and I," Moody spoke calmly, as though the fury of minutes ago had never occurred, "we work for a man called Black. Will that help you to trust us?"

Harry lowered his drink and his glasses.

Abby sat on the arm of Moody's chair. "Sylvester Black. Your godfather's cousin. The man he and Professor Lupin and the Horrible Twins visited last January. I'm sure they told you all about that. Well, he's the one who's financing this scheme to clear Professor Snape's name."

"We know why Black has involved himself in this but, frankly, Potter, I'd like to know why, after all this time..."

Harry winced, he couldn't help it: Moody's voice was quite incredulous.

"...you've decided to get involved."

Harry looked up. The two were watching him, Abby's face more open than Moody's. And that eye of his was spinning again. Not as quickly as before, but a sure sign that Moody was beginning to get hot under the collar. Both waiting for him to explain.

It would be easy just to get up and leave. To tell them to mind their own business. Except, if he'd understood rightly, this was their business. And someone he'd never met, Rus's cousin, was funding them.

"I mean," said Moody, his eye settling, in a tone far more gentle than any Harry had heard so far, "you've been silent on the issue for quite some time now, boy."

Harry leaned his head back and finally nodded. "Yes, I have. And I shouldn't have been."

He felt the cushion next to him dip as Abby came to sit beside him. She said nothing, but her presence, the fact that she'd come to sit next to him, made him feel that at least one of them was willing to listen.

"If you're working for Black, then you know how Snape got away from Azkaban."

It was a test, to see just how much they did know. He was willing to trust them, but not blindly.

Moody understood. He laughed. "All too right, boy. You hold on to your information until you feel you can trust us. Lupin and your equally canine godfather went in and got him out. Last May. Full moon. They took him to Molly Weasley and then when it was safe to move him, Rus did. Though he won't tell us where. I think Black, Sylvester that is, knows, but he isn't telling.

"By the way, Black has a hell of a lot of money and even more connections all over the world, both wizard and Muggle. Snape could be anywhere. But what we do know is that he's safe. And that Black wants to know who's responsible for imprisoning him and who actually tortured him."

"So it's true: Snape was tortured?"

Abby and Moody both nodded.

"I was hoping..." Harry closed his eyes.

"That it wasn't?" Moody grunted. "Only wish it weren't. From what I know, Snape was close to death when they got him out of that shithole."

Harry shifted in the chair, reached into his jeans pocket and took out a squashed scroll. Without saying a word, he handed it to Abby who, eyes on him, unrolled it and carefully smoothed the wrinkles out of it. She scanned it quickly and then handed it to Moody who took his time reading it.

"Bloody hell, boy, when you decide to get involved, you go at it full steam, don't you?"

"Better late than never?" scorned Harry, his voice bitter even to his ears.

"What made you decide to move now?" Moody rolled up the scroll and handed it back to Harry. Harry looked at it a moment then shook his head. He never wanted to touch that damn thing ever again. Moody placed it on his lap and waited.

"Lots of things," Harry finally said. "It took some time for me to realize that I kept on seeing Snape through the eyes of that eleven year old who knew nothing about the world of Magic until he arrived at Hogwarts."

He looked at the two of them and saw silent encouragement, so he continued. "When it was decided that I needed special training, Dumbledore ordered Snape to add it to the other duties he had. He was teaching fulltime, with all that entails, was Head of House, was spying for the Order of the Phoenix and still he was supposed to find time to train me. It was only when I began teaching myself that I realized all that training must have been slotted into the little sleeping time he had left in the day."

"He was a right bastard," said Moody. "Even on a good day."

"Yes, but with reason," Harry found himself defending the taskmaster he had cursed so often. "And I didn't make it any easier for him. I hated him at the time and I fought him at every turn. What I learnt to defeat Voldemort was in spite of myself, only because he never gave up. He fought back and forced me to learn the Dark Magic he himself couldn't use on Voldemort because of the bloody prophecy. You know the one: that only I could rid the world of him."

"Or him you," Moody reminded in that calm voice.

Harry shrugged.

"And you did, Harry," interjected Abby, softly. "You faced him and got rid of him."

Harry said nothing for a minute, thinking of Dumbledore writhing on the ground and Snape dropping to his knees, exhausted, into a puddle of gore.

"And then I thanked the man who had taught me all I needed by screaming at him that I hated him, that I never wanted to see him again. And I left him there."

Moody nodded. "Sometimes, when the worst is over, Harry, men say and do things that they don't really mean."

Harry shook his head. "You don't understand. I wasn't the only one Snape trained. There were five of us who fought together under his...command. He had this rule: you don't leave a man or woman behind." He looked at Moody. "You know what I mean."

Moody nodded, a little sadly.

"Well, I finally realized that I had left a man behind. I left him behind to enjoy myself, to accept the applause, the praise, the medals, the...all that crap because..."

"Because you were young and you did deserve all that, boy," said Moody. "What you did, Harry, no one else could have done."

"About Voldemort, I accept that. But while I was off celebrating the truth of that fucking prophecy, someone else decided to arrange it so that my...my commander..."

Harry hid his face in his hands. "Damn it, I knew him. I knew he couldn't have done the things they had accused him of. He was cantankerous, petulant, fucking right more times than not, but he was no traitor. I should have..."

Abby patted his knee. "I think all that's important, Harry, is that you've joined us now." She stood up. "And I think what you need right now is a shower and a meal. You go take care of one and I'll deal with the other."

Harry shook his head. "No. I need to get Longbottom's confession over to..."

"Harry, boy. Just who do you think is going to accept that confession? Do you seriously think that if you hand it over to the Minister or anyone else, it will actually be used?"

Harry opened his mouth to challenge that and then, realizing the truth of Moody's statement, he closed it.

"I think it might be safer for you to remain here. The flat is specially warded. And, according to what Abby here told me, I think that Longbottom may be angry enough with you to contact some of his pals."

Harry was stunned. "Longbottom has `pals'?"

"No," said Moody, "but Malfoy does. And he's not going to be happy to learn about that scroll. Maybe Longbottom will be smart enough not to tell him. But who knows? Why chance it?"

"I know that I'd feel better if you stayed here," said Abby, "at least until we can arrange for a portkey to get you home safe to Beauxbatons. Unless, of course, you'd like to help us..."

"I don't see how I could."

Moody grinned. "You go take a shower, I'll worry about the how."

Harry leaned his hands against the wall of the shower and let the water, hot enough to scald, wash the scent and feel of Neville Longbottom off him.

He hadn't been all that honest with his new colleagues. He'd let them think that the only reason he'd gone after Longbottom was because he'd owed Snape training and the indoctrination of some rule about never leaving a man behind.

There was truth to that, but not the whole truth.

He'd had to face the fact that when Voldemort had forced him to choose between Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape, he'd chosen Snape.

Not just because he'd been trained to defend a member of the team, but...

Damn it, what was it they said about the fine line between hate and love...

He'd offered himself to Snape once. The night they'd returned to Hogwarts after a particularly harrowing battle against some Death Eaters. Harry had frankly thought that this was the end for all of them. That no matter what instructions Snape yelled at them, they were finally doomed. They'd been outnumbered and out-classed. But Snape hadn't given up and gradually, they had pushed the Death Eaters back far enough that they'd managed to escape.

He'd remained in Snape's rooms after everyone else had left so that he could check out a wound Snape had received defending them when he'd insisted that they all move out before he did. And Harry had suddenly found himself kissing the man, rubbing himself against him.

Snape had pushed him away and reminded him, in that sarcastic tone of his, that living through such events as they just had sometimes made men horny. He suggested that Harry go find his latest of the moment and deal with his hard-on that way.

It was only while evaluating that night in the darkness of his bedroom in Beauxbatons that Harry realized two things. That Snape had actually responded to his kisses initially. And that he'd looked disappointed when Harry had indeed left to find his latest of the moment.

In hindsight, Harry was disappointed that he had.

Harry found it strange to be walking the halls of Hogwarts again. Moody wasn't happy with this move of his, but Harry had wanted to give Dumbledore a chance to right a wrong. Moody had finally agreed, on the condition that it be done right away, that morning, before his visit to Longbottom became known.

It was the end of term - Beauxbatons had finished theirs two weeks earlier - and the students either didn't notice him at all, so involved were they in their own thoughts, or did a classic double-take, gaping at him, pointing him out to their friends.

He had managed, so far, to avoid being asked for his autograph. He'd used what he called his Snape Glare on the one brave soul who had dared try to interrupt him on his way to the gargoyle at the foot of the Headmaster's office.

He was kinder to Minerva McGonagall who was coming down as he waited to go up. This way he didn't need to ask for the password, the stairwell was already activated.

"Harry, what a surprise!"

He took her hand in his - making certain that she remained on the final step so that the stairwell wouldn't close - and brought it up to his lips. His former Head of House blushed a very becoming pink.

"Professor McGonagall. A pleasant one, I hope."

Harry kept her hand in his. She left it there, probably knowing why he was doing that. She smiled at him, a little sadly. "It is for me," then glanced up the stairs.

"Then I hope we can have some time to meet later on, to catch up on things."

She cocked her head and her hand squeezed his. She leaned over as if to kiss his cheek but whispered in his ear, "I would be very careful if I were you. For some reason, he's in a beast of a mood." Then she straightened and made way for him on the step. "I shall be looking forward to that, Harry, dear. You will find me in my office."

And she stepped aside, allowing him to go up the stairs.

Dumbledore was of course not surprised to see him at the door of his office. Harry hadn't truly expected to take him unaware: nothing happened in Hogwarts without the Headmaster's knowing of it.

"Potter."

The greeting was neither inviting nor off-putting: merely a statement of fact.

Harry entered without waiting for an invitation, afraid it might not come. He approached the Headmaster's desk, offering his hand in greeting. Dumbledore hesitated then offered his own. "Well, Potter, what brings you here to Hogwarts? Come to share your teaching experiences with us?"

Harry took that as approval to sit down. Which he did, even though the chair didn't seem to be very happy with the fact. In fact, it seemed a little skittish to him. He smiled at the Headmaster and reminded himself that he was the one who had faced down Voldemort. Had faced down the highly connected, irate papa of the witch who had brought plaint against him, for allowing Dark Creatures to Abuse Her. He was a grown man with a future of his own that didn't depend on this man: Madame Maxime had offered him a tenured contract for the DADA post as well as the coaching position for the school Quidditch team. His lawyers had gone thorough it with diligence before he'd signed.

Dumbledore's raised eyebrow was the only sign that Harry's behaviour irritated him. He sat down behind his desk, looking every inch the benevolent authority figure of Harry's school days.

"So, Harry Potter, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Why were you so ready to believe that fantasy of Longbottom's about Professor Snape?"

Dumbledore's mien grew cold. Had Harry been a student, he'd have immediately begun begging for pardon. Now he returned the look with an equally cold one of his own.

"I don't believe there is any reason for us to be discussing this, Potter."

Harry shook his head slightly. "The man worked for you, not just as a member of your staff, but as your spy. He put his life on the line too often for our cause to have betrayed us and yet you, who knew him better than anyone, accepted that he was a traitor. Why?"

Dumbledore's voice dripped ice. "This is none of your business, Harry."

Harry leaned forward slightly. "Yes, it is. Albus. I depended on two people while I was used to eliminate Voldemort: you and Snape. And due to some information that has come my way, I find that there was betrayal all right, but not from Snape. Tell me, Albus, on what grounds did you allow Snape to be banished to Azkaban? I'd like to know, just in case I find that you want to banish me there as well."

Dumbledore's eyes bore into him but Harry ignored that. He was picking up a slight unease from his former Headmaster.

"You are the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Killed Voldemort. Your soubriquets alone guarantee that you will never be banished to Azkaban. You could commit premeditated murder and no one would convict you. Why, you could be guilty of the crime for which your godfather spent twelve years in Azkaban and no one would think of sending you there."

Harry appreciated the subtle threat being made to Sirius but forged on. "Then should the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Killed Voldemort state publically that Severus Snape was railroaded on false charges and deserves not only to be freed and vindicated, but offered the Minister's heartfelt apology for wrong done..."

"You will never be permitted such a gesture, Potter. Oh, it's a noble one, a true Gryffindor one, but the common good must come first."

Incredibly, Harry could feel the first tendrils of unspoken Imperius. He knew that Dumbledore was strong enough to force someone to submit to him in this way, but to have it used against him shattered the last of his ideals of the man. Even if Moody had warned him that cornered dogs will do anything to defend themselves.

"It will be so sad when the medical staff at St. Mungo's announces that the truth of the matter is that Harry Potter has had a complete breakdown."

"Why, Albus? Just tell me why?" And he pushed back the Imperius with his own power. That seemed to take Dumbledore aback. Bloody hell, under Dumbledore's orders, Harry had been trained by one of the best DADA wizards around. He may have looked foolish to the old man, walking in here alone, but he'd been taught well: he'd set up a resistence shield before even entering the grounds of Hogwarts. "Why would you be so willing to accept such a fabrication?"

Dumbledore's face was developing a sheen from the effort of trying to augment the Imperius he was using against Harry."You accepted it, Potter. Why did you?"

Harry nodded, accepting the charge. With little effort, he pushed back the Imperius once more. The whole situation would have been funny if it hadn't been so tragic. "Because I hadn't been around when it happened. I was off enjoying my new celebrity as the Boy Who Killed Voldemort. But mainly it was because you did, Albus." He called up more power and turned the Imperius onto Dumbledore who was not expecting it. "Tell me, what did Snape do to you that you paid him back that way?"

Dumbledore hadn't set up a resistence shield. He was in his own office, on his own grounds. And even though his office was specially warded against outside interference, it seemed he hadn't thought of any coming from inside. Dumbledore knew the powers of his staff and his students and probably hadn't worried about anyone else. Harry pressed on with his own Imperius. Snape had been so right to tell him not to reveal that he was capable of wandless Magic.

"He was dangerous." Dumbledore's eyes were livid, understanding what was happening to him, but unable to do anything about it. "He was too powerful. He had too much Darkness in him and too much anger. He had the potential of being the next Dark Lord. We...You had just eliminated one, we didn't want to have to deal with another quite so quickly."

"Who is we?"

"The Minister. The Department of Aurors. I."

Dumbledore was trying his best to overcome the Imperius, but Harry merely pressed back a little harder. "And so you decided to use Longbottom's fiction to deal with a hypothetical situation that would never have arisen."

"The Auror who brought it to my attention was reliable. It could well have happened."

Harry made a small production of sitting back calmly in his chair, all the while maintaining Imperius on Dumbledore. As if it was done with no effort. In truth, with the increase of Harry's magical abilities, it was barely the matter of a little concentration. Voldemort had been a much greater challenge to his skills.

"Tell me, Dumbledore, how much of this determination to save the world from a pseudo-Dark Lord has to do with the fact that I stopped Voldemort's Cruciatus on Snape and not you"

Dumbledore bared his teeth in his effort to resist answering and Harry suddenly found he really didn't care to know. He went on, "And did you have him tortured just to convince him that he shouldn't entertain such thoughts?"

Dumbledore's eyes dropped. "That was not part of the plan. I knew nothing about it until Snape disappeared. All I wanted was for him to be kept from becoming the next Dark Lord."

Harry shook his head. "I worked with Snape. My life depended on him. I think now that I knew him better than any of you, his so-called colleagues." He could feel the disdain on his face. "All Snape wanted to do was retire to his lab and his potions. There was no need...to play Voldemort yourself, Dumbledore."

Linked as they were, he could feel Dumbledore's shock at the accusation. Well, if the shoe fit...

He stood up. "But I get the message. No matter what proof I bring forth, you and your partners in crime," he was pleased to see Dumbledore wince, "will counter that with a rumour campaign of your own."

Harry allowed the full extent of his powers to be loosened as he passed judgement. Dumbledore's eyes and mouth opened wide in shock. "However, hear me, Albus Dumbledore. I have Longbottom's confession in my possession. I have yours now as well." He snapped his fingers and the scroll and quill that had taken down every word were revealed. One of Moody's suggestions. At another snap, they reduced in size and disappeared into Harry's pocket.

He placed his hands on the Headmaster's desk and leaned forward, so that his eyes were close to the man he had once so respected. "You will see to it that your people clear Severus Snape of all charges."

Dumbledore, sweat dripping off his face, wetting his beard, fought hard enough against the Imperius to shake his head slightly. "It cannot be done. The people need to feel that they can get on with their lives. We've kept back the knowledge that Snape escaped Azkaban. There were rumours, but we've treated them all as nothing more than that. The people deserve not having to worry about a potential Dark Lord. That is what is most important."

"More important than a man's reputation, than his life?"

"Yes."

Harry shook his head sadly. He had no choice but to accept that for the nonce. Right now, he was on a time limit. It would have to be enough that those involved were aware that he - among others - knew the truth.

He continued, eyes forcibly holding Dumbledore's exhausted ones, "You will never again threaten one of my own. Not my godfather, nor anyone of his. No one who had the guts to help Snape when he was abandoned by his own people. No one who knows the truth about your sad, little delusions. This Ministry may be able to block the truth, but the documents I mentioned, as well as other supporting ones, are already out of your reach. And though you may be able to counter any action of mine in this country, there are other Ministries that would love nothing more than to see the downfall of this one."

Suddenly Harry thought he understood Snape's bitterness and anger. He too at one time must have felt that he could trust Dumbledore. Why else would he have sought him out on turning from all that Voldemort stood for? Had he too discovered to his peril that his hero had feet of clay? Had he too suffered the death of his illusions on discovering that he had placed his trust in the hands of someone so unworthy of it?

Harry straightened and went to the door. Before he opened it, he turned around and glared at Dumbledore, releasing the Imperius. The man sagged onto his desk. "I think you might have been worried about the wrong wizard, Headmaster. How fortunate," he scorned, "that I am not, any more than Professor Snape, interested in replacing Voldemort. Good day, Headmaster."

Instead of going down the stairs, having to cross Hogwarts to get out to the yard and then all the grounds to where he could apparate, Harry went to the window off the small hallway just outside Dumbledore's office and opened it. He raised himself up and onto the ledge that decorated the outside of the high window.

"Going my way?"

Harry nodded and joined Abby on the Firebolt, which sped away before he'd had time to seat himself properly.

"Wyman Osegood." Alastor Moody shook his head on yet another reading of Neville Longbottom's confession.

Abby tossed Harry a bottle of Guinness, placed the glass of firewhiskey by Moody's elbow and twisted open her own bottle of brew. "You sound just like Grandpa when you say his name. They meet now and then at some Ministry thing," she said as she dropped onto the couch in her favourite position, her feet this time propped on Harry Potter's lap. Harry was still damp-looking from another of those marathon showers. Mind, this one had been shorter than the one he'd taken after arriving here last night from Longbottom's house.

Moody shook his head. "The Whiner. Whining Oh So Good. That's what we called him. He used to have a minor position in the Department of Mysteries. A desk man," mocked Moody, washing the disdain out of his mouth with a swallow of firewhiskey. "Towards the end of what the Muggles called World War Two, he came out to Singapore to pontificate over us."

"Us?" Harry was watching Abby toe off her runners and wriggle her feet in his lap. He was watching Moody as his free hand took hold of one of those ankles and slowly massaged it.

Moody's eye began rolling, but Abby merely smiled innocently at him. His other eye joined the first and he shook his head. She could almost feel the sympathy generating in him for Harry.

"Us. Me. Abby's grandpa. Sylvester Black." He smiled maliciously. "After we got through with him, he asked for a transfer to the Aurors, where he would be more appreciated."

"So you think that Neville's confession is true?" Seeing that Harry was still focused on Moody, Abby took the opportunity to scowl at him. She did not want him interfering in her fun.

"Well, closer to the truth. I wouldn't accept anything Longbottom said without strong corroboration, but this gives us another name to investigate."

Abby closed her eyes and thought a moment. The feel of Harry's hand on her skin - he had shoved down her sock - was...nice. A calloused finger was stroking the soft skin just under her anklebone. He had earned quite a reputation in the tabloids after the war had ended. She was curious in seeing just how much of it was true, so this little sign of interest on his part was...

"Osegood. Osegood. They're another of those really old families, aren't they? Related to all the other old families."

"Probably," glowered Moody. He didn't say more than that. Abby appreciated his silence: it allowed her to go through what Moody called her encyclopedic brain.

"Snape's grandmother's mother was an Osegood."

"Was she now?"

"And come to think of it, Wyman's mother and Narcissa Malfoy's mother are sisters. No, I correct myself. First cousins."

"And now we have the Whiner popping up in Neville Longbottom's life." Moody swirled the firewhiskey in his glass. "He's the Auror Draco Malfoy recommended Longbottom take his disclosures to. The Auror who went to see Dumbledore with the so-called proof of the charges." He looked up. "Call me paranoid, but funny how Wyman Osegood keeps showing up."

Harry rolled the bottle of Guinness against the soles of Abby's now bare feet. She pulled a foot back and purposefully rubbed it against his groin. His response was very satisfying to her.

Moody continued ignoring them. "Abby, I want you to do another bout of research on all the people on our list. I want to know just how many times Osegood shows up, in no matter how minor a way. Even if it's only happenstance."

She grinned. "I'm going to need some help."

Moody finally looked from one to the other, both of his eyes rolling. "Harry can't go out again. Not until we can portkey him back to the safety of Beauxbatons. But," he glared at Harry, "if you're serious about wanting to help, I could use a secretary. When Abby's on a roll, the scrolls pile up faster than I can read them."

Harry nodded at Moody then he turned to face Abby. "I suppose it'll be no worse than correcting scrolls of essays." And he rubbed his thumb along the arch of one of her feet.

Moody was politic enough to wait until Abby had left to look sternly at Harry. "You know, boy," but Harry wasn't fooled by the casual tone: he braced himself, "Gerald Decourcy loves his granddaughter. Back in the old days, he was one of the best hit-wizards we had."

Shit!

"You might want to consider that before you tumble Abby into bed. And you might also want to consider that I've grown very fond of her myself. I won't tolerate her being hurt."

Well, that added spice to the game. He'd gotten the message loud and clear from Abby that she was not adverse to a "tumble". And he'd never been the one to back down when interest had been shown.

Since at Beauxbatons, he'd become far more discreet in his liaisons. Madame Maxime had pointed out to him in their initial discussions on his joining her staff that the French were far more open and understanding of one's sex life. And the gender of one's partners. But that his had been a little too open and that he'd needed to get that under control if he wanted the job.

By the time he'd begun teaching, he'd discovered how little free time he truly had and so had ordered his libido to behave. Moreover, the same rules applied at Beauxbatons as he supposed did at Hogwarts; no fraternizing between staff and students, even if his students were older than the legal age of consent. Oh, he had had no shortage of partners for quick or short affairs, but he found them during holidays or off-campus.

He would have to make certain that Abby was aware that he was into shortterm... well, he really couldn't call them relationships. They had to last longer than a week or so for the term to be used. But he was always open and up-front with his partners and so far, the rules had been understood and accepted.

It wouldn't do, he'd told himself, to have someone fall in love with him. Truly fall in love. He had never flaunted the word to his partners and he preferred that they not do so with him. He doubted that he had it in him to love someone as they deserved to be loved. Maybe it was because he'd been brought up in a dearth of it. Maybe it was because he was so afraid of giving and finding out that he was being used for some reason. And maybe, he allowed himself to think, now and then when he saw those about him in love, he just hadn't found the right person.

Harry plastered on what he called his in-their-face grin, the one he'd developed just for Media shots. "Well," he shot back at Moody, voice cocky, "I shall keep all that in mind, but the final decision is Abby's."

"True," returned Moody.

And the look he sent Harry, augmented by the man's Magic, had the grin fading off his face. He swallowed hard and nodded.

Moody's smile only made Harry resolve never to be cornered by either Moody or Decourcy.

As Amta watched, Severus finished a potion that was to be used in the healing of deep burns. As in all her instruction, the quantities had been maddeningly ambiguous. It irritated him that something this important should be made so unscientifically.

"Stop thinking, feel the power of the ingredients. They don't care, so why should you?"

Severus sighed. All this dependency on feeling. And emotions. When he'd spent so much of his life pushing feelings and emotions aside.

Intellectually, this potion should not work. It was a hodgepodge of ingredients, most of which varied depending on where the potion was being made. And, unlike back in Britain, they were all fresh. The plants were newly gathered. The insects...they were very keen on the use of insects here rather than that of small reptiles or mammals. So far not one dried frog's liver or bat's wing.

And as for the potion itself, oh, there were certain requirements. Water for a liquid, goose fat for a paste. Then there had to be a base element. Actually the same plant seemed to be the basis of most of Amta's potions: it was also the most plentiful on the island. The plant used for binding all the material was also fairly common. The one for the actual healing of burns was finally a specific plant that Amta had taken him up the mountain to pick just that morning. And the quantity of that depended on the severity of the burn.

Then they had located an ant's nest and, with the proper apology to Mother Earth, had gathered a handful of the damn things. Severus's fingers were still sore from the bites he'd received with Amta had stood by, smiling happily. They were needed to sped up the healing process.

And the proportions were only approximate! One needed three times as much of the healing ingredient as the base, but only as much binding as one thought necessary. And by changing the kind of insect added to the mixture, the potion could be used for healing open wounds instead of burns.

And if the end result was too thick, then more water or paste was added until it had the desired consistency. Which again was judged by eye or texture.

It all seemed very lackadaisical to Severus.

But the most important aspect in the making any potion in this new world of his was the fact that as the potion was put together, one had to feel the reason for its being made and infuse the potion with that emotion. For only through that could the Magic work.

Amta sniffed today's attempt, dipped her finger into it and made a variety of faces as she tasted the drop. Severus waited, wondering what he had done wrong this time. He'd tried hard to find the right emotional aspect for infusion.

She grimaced as she spat out. Then she nodded. "Yes. This one will work. And work well." She grinned at him, "I think you finally understand."

Severus released the breath he'd been holding in while waiting for her to pass judgement. He found his face splitting into a grin of its own. So that was the trick: he'd concentrated on the care he'd felt whenever he'd made Poppy Pomfrey the complicated potions that only he could make for her medicine chest. He'd been surprised to discover that he had "felt" things when working on different potions back then.

Then Amta dipped her hand into the potion, taking out some in the cup she'd formed and, with a murmured incantation, she allowed the potion in her hand to spill out onto the ground. She waited until Severus followed her example.

"Thank you, Mother Earth, Source-Of-All-Life, for your benevolence and generosity in giving me the skill for this potion." And Severus allowed the potion in his hand to spill out onto the ground.

Amta smiled approvingly.

"Bloody hell!"

Harry looked up from the scroll he was reading, still in awe of Abby's skills at digging out information.

Almost as good as her inventiveness in bed. He still couldn't believe that the quiet, self-effacing Abigail Decourcy he'd known only casually at Hogwarts was this tornado in bed! He felt like he did after a Quidditch match that had gone on too long: exhausted, muscles aching, but warm with a sense of victory. Getting Abby to admit that she'd had enough was as satisfying as the catching of an elusive snitch after a long, hard-fought match.

She smiled at him, wriggling her eyebrows. Harry swallowed his laughter: Moody didn't seem to be in the mood to put up with his contentment. Merlin, who would have thought? Abigail Decourcy, of all people! He wondered if she had ever seen Paris at night?

"Fuck it all to hell!"

Harry grimaced a little. "Moody? Language. There's a lady present."

Moody glared at Harry while his wild eye seemed to be laughing hysterically at the comment. "What? Oh. Abby. Sorry, my dear. It's just...I haven't had occasion to think about Whining Oh So Good in years, and now I can't seem to read any report of yours without him making an appearance. The bloody bastard has his fingers in more pies than he has fingers."

Abby sat next to Harry, slipping her hand behind his back, past the waistband of his jeans and underwear. A more adventuresome fingertip was investigating his crack. He wriggled, glaring at her. She smiled back innocently.

"All right. We need a blackboard." And then there was one shining blackly in the room with them. "Harry? Do you think you can cool your hormones long enough to make some notes on the board?"

Abby grinned at him as he rose, the action pulling her hand out of his jeans.

Moody growled low, warningly.

Abby shook her head. "I happen to like Harry's hormones. They're very...enthusiastic."

Harry hoped he wasn't blushing. He picked up the chalk on the edge of the blackboard and waited for Moody to stop groaning and tell him what to write.

After several minutes there was a chart delineating Wyman Osegood and his presence in the lives of the several families: Longbottom, Snape, Malfoy, Dumbledore.

"You'd better add Moody, Black and Decourcy to that list," Abby said.

The two men looked at her. Apart from flirting with Harry, she'd been rather quiet since joining the men that afternoon.

Moody's magical eye settled on her. "Well, spit it out."

"I was coming back from a special tutorial about my thesis this morning and guess whom I met in the hallway?"

"Abby?" Harry was worried and he let it show.

"Wyman Osegood. He was with the Chancellor. They stopped to greet me and Osegood wanted to know how my investigations were coming along. The Chancellor laughed and said that by now my thesis was certainly about ready for presentation. Wasn't I writing it up?"

She sighed loudly as Harry went to sit by her. She looked up a little sheepishly. "He..Osegood...patted me on the arm and said that he hoped that I was wisely selecting what I would be defending. That certain notions sounded good on paper but were hell to prove or to defend in public. Which made them hard for people to believe or accept. It would be a pity if all my hard work proved to be for nothing because I'd defended the wrong side. Then he patted me again and they went on their way."

"Bastard!" snarled Moody.

Harry squeezed her hand and then stood up and added Decourcy, Moody, Black and Potter to the blackboard.

"That's far too many for coincidence," muttered Moody once he'd calmed down. "We need a meeting with Black. And it can't be here: Black's got to know a place where it'll be totally safe."

Part Seven

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