News of his double set of detentions spread quickly through the halls, and by breakfast of the next morning, whispers had begun to tail him like a wildfire creeping towards a forest. But unlike the day before, his classmates were now making no attempt now to hide away from him or keep the rumors at a low volume. Today they no longer cared whether he heard. And sometimes, when Harry walked past a particularly raucous crowd, he thought they all might have welcomed him getting angry, just so they could hear firsthand what had happened that night in the graveyard, unabridged by Dumbledore or the Prophet.
It was infuriating.
What right did they have to demand details about the night Cedric was murdered? When they thought he was insane to call it murder? What right did they have to demand he give them what they wanted, even if it made him queasy and shaky—just because they wanted to know and judge what he'd been through? What he'd seen happen?
"What I don't get," he said, in a voice so low and waspish he wasn't sure either Ron or Hermione could even hear him, "is why they all believed the story two months ago when Dumbledore told them."
"The thing is, Harry, I'm not sure they did," Hermione said in a grim undertone. "Oh, let's get out of here."
They were gathering their books when the owls swooped in to deliver the day's mail, and as Ron stood and gave the remnants of his breakfast a mournful look, Harry automatically squinted into the mass of birds flying overhead in an effort to spot Hedwig. He didn't have long to look before she dove down and perched herself on his shoulder to give his ear an affectionate nip.
"Hi, Hedwig," he said, scratching her head with one hand and trying to untie the letter she'd brought him with the other. It dropped to the floor once released; he stepped on it to ensure no one would make a grab at it and leaned over to fish out a bit of bacon from his plate. Hedwig launched herself from his shoulder after quickly preening his hair, and was quickly lost in the glare of the sunlight shining down through the ceiling.
"Expecting a letter?" Ron asked, and then hesitated, looking around like he thought they might have been under watch. Not that they weren't, Harry thought dully, because Snape hadn't looked away from him once the entire time they'd been in the Great Hall. "Maybe from…"
"Hagrid?" Harry finished, stooping to retrieve it. He brushed away the smudge his shoe had left and peeled open the seal on the parchment. Maybe it was Hagrid. Maybe it was, even though he really hadn't been expecting a letter, because who would be writing him? It had only been a day since he'd last seen Sirius, and he'd cancelled his subscription to the Prophet during his stint in Cokeworth, so who—?
Snape. It was from Snape. And not in the way he'd been hoping, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself, but was instead a detailing of his detention. And that was all fine and good, he figured, until he remembered only a moment later that he had the first of his detentions with Umbridge that very same evening.
"Think you've got a spare bit of Time Turner lying around, Hermione?" Harry asked, holding the letter out to her with a groan. "Because I reckon I'm going to need it."
—
"Close the door behind you," was all Snape said when Harry entered his office that evening. He didn't look up from the essay he was marking to hell and back; and Harry stood there and stared, wondering if it was his and Snape was trying to prove a point. When the silence had stretched on for too long, Snape finally looked up with an exasperated expression and said, "The door, Potter. Close it and take a seat."
The condescension in his voice reminded Harry why he hadn't wanted to come. "For the record, I didn't fucking trip you," he said angrily as he closed the door with a sharp snap, "if that's what you're getting at, Snape."
To Harry's immense relief, Snape didn't even blink. "That would be clear to anyone with a pair of eyes and a working brain. Sit, Potter."
For a moment he struggled with himself, veering between sitting down and storming right back out, before finally he dropped into the chair in front of Snape's desk with a sigh. "What d'you mean?" he asked in a low voice when Snape didn't speak again. He was scribbling furiously. "By…that was clear?"
"Of course you didn't trip me." Scrawling a note in the margins of the essay—not Harry's, but Ron's—he set his quill down and muttered, "Would you have preferred a night with Umbridge?"
"I—you talked to her?" he asked, wringing the strap of his bag between his fingers and reaching up to scratch at the place where it had been digging into his shoulder. The second letter had come as a surprise, arriving late in the afternoon to find him pacing the common room and dreading the night ahead, and had come from Umbridge herself. His detentions were to be moved back by a single day and no more. "I'd wondered…Erm. What did she say? What did you tell her?"
"Nothing unexpected." Then, to Harry's horror, he adopted a higher pitch and began to imitate her. It was not a bad imitation, and that only made it worse. "'Potter knows, deep down, he needs punished. He's a nasty little boy who lies for attention.'"
"That's a load of shit," Harry said, trying to shake the sound of Snape's Umbridge voice from his head. "That's shit, and you know it."
"Obviously," Snape said. He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair.
"How'd you convince her to give the night to you?" he asked. What strings had Snape had to pull?
"First come, first serve," he said shortly. He was chewing a thumbnail and eyeing one of the jars off to Harry's right, which contained something so slimy and jointless, he could no more guess at what it was than he could its purpose, original or otherwise. "I was not able to secure the rest of your week, however, so you'll still have to attend the rest of your detentions with her. Not even I could dissuade her from that."
"Er…right. Thanks? What did you want to talk to me about, then, if this isn't a real detention?" he asked, setting his bag on the floor at last. He wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Not after Snape had invited him in and allowed him back into his life. Even if it was only for one night, just two hours.
"Me? You're the one who has been giving me doleful eyes from across the room, Potter, since your arrival here." Snape looked oddly at ease, but the twitching of his fingers made Harry think that he might have been just as nervous as he was. It was an odd thought—Snape nervous. "That's a question for yourself. Not for me."
"I haven't…" Harry trailed off when he realized that yes, he very well might have been. "Well—maybe I have. I was just…wondering, I suppose, if maybe you'd changed your mind about…things being different now."
Snape didn't speak for a time. When Harry had only just begun to think he might not answer at all, he said, "I cannot expose myself as a spy."
"Right," Harry said bracingly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. "Right. I know that."
There was another pause, longer than the first. The silence was so thick it quite nearly hummed from the intensity of it, and Harry felt as though the walls were shrinking slowly to encase him in stone. The lamps flickered green against the shadows Snape left on the shelves behind him, lining him in an eerie glow. Harry gulped.
"But…" he began, trying to muster up some semblance of hope, even though his stomach felt like it was falling into a pit as black and cold as Snape's shadow.
"But I…" Snape stopped, frowned so faintly it was almost imperceptible, and said, "But perhaps if we're…subtle."
Harry couldn't stop himself from smiling. His hands were gripping the edges of his chair so tightly he could feel himself getting splinters.
"Letters are out of the question," Snape said. The words were quiet enough that Harry thought they might have been meant only for himself. "Too many eyes, too many uncontrolled variables. An enchanted parchment could…Floo is under watch…"
It was all very exciting, in an odd sort of way, to be part of something so secret. Snape didn't seem to share in the excitement. There was a feverish haze to him that Harry recognized from his days at Spinner's End; when Snape got that look to him, an emotional eruption usually wasn't far off.
"Er—" Harry tried a smile when Snape's attention jumped back to him. "I have my cloak, you know. Well…of course you know. And my dad's map."
"Yes," Snape said slowly, eyes hardening. He struck a very impressive figure where he was; he'd angled his chair to the side and propped a leg on one knee, and had bitten his nail down to the quick. His expression was cold and Harry had the sudden thought that this was what he'd expected to find upon arriving at Hogwarts five years ago. Dark, powerful mages dressed in black, ready to fight at a moment's notice. "Yes, your father's map."
"Sorry about that," Harry hastened to say. He began bouncing one leg and tried to look as cool and collected as the wizard in front of him. Instead of feeling impressive, however, he only felt sweaty. "About that night, you know…"
"What does it do?"
"What?"
"The map. What is its purpose? From what I remember, it was rather devoted in insulting those who attempted to use it, and I was never given the chance to truly see it."
Harry hesitated. Then he reached into his bag and withdrew the Marauder's Map, laying it flat on the desk between them. He tapped it with his wand and said, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
As the map's true form crept across the parchment like blood oozing from thin cuts, Snape sat upright and leaned forward, hissing between his teeth. He didn't speak until the map had finished its transformation. However, Harry could see his eyes following every move on the page in front of them, drinking it in like a rare source of water found in a blazing desert. He'd drawn so close his nose was close to touching the map. And then, at last, he spoke.
"I," Snape said with a note of finality, "am fucking going to kill Remus Lupin."
—
When the letter came, Severus was in the bath.
He'd spent the better part of their first day back preparing for his lessons. He'd dusted the cupboards, rearranged his potions ingredients, and cleared his throat enough times that he'd damn near made himself hoarse instead of intimidating. It was only when his classroom was put back to the way he preferred it kept that he felt prepared for classes.
The first years were easy enough. Though not a tall man, he loomed over the children, and had always found scaring them an easy task. It didn't take much time before they were cowed by his presence. That was good. That gave him back the sense of control he'd craved all summer long.
Then came the fifth years, sending that control down the drain.
He hadn't meant to snap at Potter. By now, he could take it for the gift it had been in order to bring them together long enough to discuss future plans, but until the boy's detention, Severus had been…ashamed. The night had done them both good. Harry had left with a spring in his step that hadn't been there since the day he'd gone into the Pensieve.
Though it was a Saturday, Severus had been attending to a never-ending list of Head of House duties: attempting (and failing) to comfort the homesick first years, subtly threatening his more unruly Slytherins so that they might behave themselves, and setting study circles so that the students might actually fill the empty space between their ears this year instead of eating their weight in Hogsmeade fudge and playing with fake wands—or themselves. It was late in the day when he had a chance to retire to his rooms, close his office hours, and hate himself in peace.
He took dinner alone. After the events of the day before, Severus couldn't quite bring himself to eat with the rest of the school; Potter would be there. Potter, with Lily's eyes, and the same expression his long-dead friend had worn whenever he said or did something hurtful.
It was going to be a long year.
It was well over an hour after curfew had ticked by when Severus found the will to haul himself off his sofa and into the adjoining bathroom to have a wash. He'd gotten so far as to run the bath, undress, and submerge himself fully in the water when there came a great clatter from the sitting room, and he emerged with a gasp to fumbled for the wand he'd left on the toilet seat. Water streamed down his face and his hair ran into his eyes like lines of ink on paper as he sat upright and crouched in the water.
"Albus?" he called after a time, reaching for his towel with his free hand. "Is that you?"
There was no response, but there didn't need to be, because in the next moment an owl came swooping through the doorway to deposit a scroll of parchment onto the floor. Severus stared at it. The sound of his panting was very loud in the silence.
The owl didn't move from its perch atop his door. Waiting, then, on a reply. Severus leaned forward to dry his hands on his towel and reached for the letter. It unraveled easily at his touch and sat, like a slug, on the floor. It was written in Lupin's curving handwriting.
I want to apologize, it read.
Severus didn't waste any time. He summoned a quill and scrawled, Bugger off, before thrusting it towards the owl and watching it fly away, letter in his beak.
The room was quiet once more, punctuated only by the steady plop of the leaky tap, and the movement of the water as Severus cast a heating charm and lay back again to submerge his head anew. When his lungs began to burn, he pulled himself out of his heat-induced trance and sat up to soak.
He'd begun to relax again, shoulders eased back against the side of the tub and one hand drifting lazily downward, when there came a second clatter from the room beyond.
Motherfucking—
Severus glared hatefully at the new owl that had come soaring in. But when it dropped a scroll—the same scroll—he paused and peered at the blasted thing through the steam. It was the same owl.
"How did—?" he began, before trailing off with a shake of his head. He wiped his hands dry again and reached for the letter.
Can we talk?
He picked up the quill again. No, he wrote, and then crossed that out. Then he wrote it again before tearing away the bottom half of the note entirely. Above the shorn edges of the parchment, he scribbled a quick, When? and sent it on its way.
Not ten minutes had passed when the owl returned for a third time bearing a letter that only said, Now.
Severus rushed to wash, scouring himself until his very pores throbbed. He scrubbed his hair at a rapid pace that left him feeling just as oily as he had before, and then hauled himself out of the still-warm water to stumble to the sink and brush his teeth until his gums wept crimson. He was wavering between dressing and clipping his nails when a new letter arrived bearing only three words: I'm at Hogsmeade.
In under five minutes, he was out the door and rushing to the edge of the forest, where he Disapparated with a crack.
