Chapter 7: Searching
Harry tipped back on the rear legs of his library chair and glanced around. Row after row of books stood perfectly aligned and still. It was so quiet that the air seemed to vibrate with the sound of Harry's breathing.
His palms squeaked obnoxiously against the tabletop as he lowered his chair again; the back of his neck tingled, as though someone was watching him from behind…as though Madame Pince would sneak up behind him at any second, shushing him with her raisin lips. She wouldn't, of course. The librarian was on holiday, like everyone else.
But for the first time in his Hogwarts career, Harry would have preferred her presence among the army of books, stiff-backed and sober as the Queen's guards. He could almost hear Hermione's admonishing whisper… For goodness' sake, Harry, read! It's a library, after all.
Harry smiled to himself. He missed his friends already.
Ignoring the books, Harry pressed his fingertips against the glossy finish, studying the swirly pattern of his prints as he balanced his chin on the table's edge.
When he was younger, maybe eight or nine, he used to pretend that he was a detective, sneaking about the house in order to gather evidence to catch the criminals—Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon in his case—just like Inspector Morse on the telly. He wasn't supposed to watch that show, even though he and Dudley did sometimes when Aunt Petunia was outside gossiping with the neighbors, at least until his cousin got bored and began grousing out the window for another snack.
Once, Aunt Petunia had caught him using a bit of flour to find prints on the coffee table and made Harry polish the entire piece of furniture, with complimentary smacked fingers, using the foul lemon oil that made his nostrils crinkle.
Staring at the smudges, Harry polished away his fingerprints with the hem of his shirt, still thinking. Detective was a stupid game, really. A baby game.
Discovering the truth about the Sorcerer's Stone hadn't been a game—at least not in the end—it had all happened mostly by chance, with massive help from Hermione, of course. And finding the Chamber of Secrets last December hadn't exactly been fun. Sure, he had wanted to help, but if Snape wouldn't have been there with him—
Blowing his breath out, Harry eased his chair back and stood, trudging over to the nearest window. Boredom only made him think about things he didn't want to. Leaning his forearms against the cold marble windowsill, Harry sniffed, almost amusedly, as he gazed out among the grounds. Boredom at the Dursleys was the reason he had invented the game of Detective in the first place…
Coming up on his toes, Harry balanced his weight against his elbows and squinted against the sun that had just peeked out from behind a passing cloud. He could see the top of Hagrid's hut in the distance and a portion of the forbidden forest from where he stood.
Harry cupped his hand over his brow to shield his eyes, hoping he might spot the top of Hagrid's wiry head among the pumpkin patch. But at almost the same instant, something moving near the edge of the forest caught Harry's eye.
A grayish-white cloud slid over the sun, dragging its shadow along the grass.
The animal trotted a few steps and then stopped, as if suddenly hearing a noise, sitting back on its haunches.
Harry tunneled both hands over his eyes now to get a better look at the small black mass.
A wolf?
The animal bent sideways a bit and used its paw to scratch behind an ear.
Harry's breath steamed on the glass. That wasn't a wolf…it was a dog. A very thin one at that.
The sound of a throat clearing jerked Harry out of his thoughts; his shoulders hunching up in surprise. He spun around, blinking.
"A glorious view—the best in the castle, I believe."
Harry tugged awkwardly on the hem of his shirt as he took a step back away from the window, very aware of his thumping heart. "Hello, Professor."
A soft smile, followed by a greeting nod. "Good morning, Harry." Professor Dumbledore removed his hands from the deep pockets of his emerald robes and clasped them behind his back, striding forward quite casually. "Has Hagrid been tending to the pumpkins this early in the day?"
"I'm not sure," Harry said, watching as Dumbledore tilted his head to glance out the window. "I couldn't see him."
"A bit early in the year for pumpkin cream trifle, but I do so look forward to Hagrid's updates on the progress of our pumpkin patch." He gave Harry a sideways wink from behind his sloped spectacles.
Harry smiled, snuffing out a small laugh through his nose, mostly because he couldn't think of anything to say.
"I take it you slept soundly?"
Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."
"You look well-rested, I must say." Another crinkly-eyed grin.
Feeling his cheeks prick with warmth, Harry dropped his eyes slightly. Dumbledore hadn't said a word that would cause him embarrassment, but that stiff feeling of unsaid something swirled over both of their heads. Harry knew better.
"Might we sit for a moment?"
Harry shrugged, scratching at his jaw line, even though he didn't have an itch. "Sure."
Two chairs automatically scooted themselves away from the nearest library table as the headmaster walked towards them. Harry trailed behind but seated himself first at Dumbledore's gestured request. Settling himself into the chair cattycornered from Harry's, Dumbledore folded his hands against the tabletop.
A wave of realization sloshed over Harry's entire body just then, reddening his neck and ears, causing him to lower his gaze, away from the gentle blue of Dumbledore's eyes.
Yes, he certainly had known better.
"I assume Professor Snape has informed you of my visit to Surrey."
Harry concentrated on wrapping up his forefinger in the edge of his t-shirt like a scroll. He nodded without looking up.
A short silence passed between them; Harry didn't want to think about the Dursleys anymore, especially Marge. He knew he should ask about at least one of them, since Harry was almost positive that Uncle Vernon had seen him use the portkey, but the questions remained anchored in his stomach like hard lumps. He knew, however, that ignoring the subject all together would get him nowhere.
"Thanks for my getting my stuff," Harry muttered; glancing up over the rims of his glasses, he forced a thin, quick smile, then gazed back down at the finger he'd successfully tangled into fabric. "The Dursleys don't fancy magic all that much…"
The understatement of the century.
Harry swallowed, still focused on his fidgeting. He didn't know what made him say that…as though the situation deserved an apology.
"Professor Snape tells me you've settled into the Slytherin dormitory," Dumbledore interjected among the quiet.
Lifting his eyes, Harry studied the headmaster's face—wrinkled and temperate as always. Devoid of inquisition.
Harry pushed against his seat with the heels of his hands, un-slouching himself, grateful that Dumbledore seemed to have read his mind. "It's a lot like the one in Gryffindor tower…except for the colors."
Creases fanned at the corners of Dumbledore's eyes as he considered Harry warmly for a moment, the way a granddad looks at his grandson, listening; smiling all the time. But then, the headmaster sobered his expression. "You appear to be quite happy here."
The statement took Harry by surprise—contrasting as it was to the fading smile behind the large beard. He flushed again, shrugging. "I'd rather be here than anywhere else…"
A sudden fog passed over the sky blue of the headmaster's eyes. His mouth pursed together, if for only a second, and then the slow, familiar smile returned to the aged lips. "And I'm happy to have you," Dumbledore said. He raised his brows. "Professor Snape has shown me the work you completed with him during the spring—rather impressive."
Harry pushed his glasses up with a fingertip, frowning a bit at the sudden topic change. "With the storage room?" he asked, wondering if Dumbledore was referring to the sporadic relabeling and organizing of potions he had done for Snape during the months of January through March.
"No," Dumbledore said gently, rearranging his clasped hands against the table. "I'm referring to your study in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Oh…that."
"Indeed," Dumbledore replied, nodding once. "You completed a most inspiring essay on the difference between instinctual and strategic Defense…an O.W.L.-year concept."
Now Harry's forehead itched; he scratched awkwardly as he mumbled his thanks. "I don't write as well as Hermione, though."
Dumbledore smiled—a sympathetic response. "Miss Granger excels in certain areas…and you in others."
It wasn't true. Hermione was tops at everything. But Harry didn't feel like proving Dumbledore wrong.
"You and Professor Snape are getting along, I take it?"
Harry peeked up at him. "Snape?"
"Professor Snape, yes."
"Yeah," Harry agreed with a one-shouldered shrug. "He's all right. I mean…" The itch worked its way around to the nape of Harry's neck now. "He teaches me Defense, and I help him with things."
"Ah," Dumbledore commented. "You have reached an understanding, it seems."
A short pause. Harry hadn't thought about it much. "Yeah…in some things, I guess."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "You would like to continue learning Defense with Professor Snape, then?"
Harry tried not to appear as lost as he felt. "Why? Has he said anything about it?" Maybe the new professor didn't want Harry to have two teachers… Was that why Snape didn't seem to like him?
"Oh, no," Dumbledore said casually, "he hasn't." His lips tilted again. "Forgive my curiosity—the tendency of an old man."
Harry pressed his lips together, squashing his own half-hearted grin.
The headmaster studied Harry's face for a moment longer, as if he were going to ask another question. But then he simply said, "Very well, then. I shall leave you to your reading."
"Erm…"
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore remarked as he stood, glancing around the empty room. "The disadvantage of having such an extensive library…too many to choose from." He spared Harry a wink among his gazing about. "May I suggest one?"
Harry nodded, watching as Dumbledore glided over to a nearby shelf with ease and summoned a thick book with a bright red cover. It landed with a soft thud on Harry's table.
"Living History has always been a favorite text of mine," the professor commented as he strode back toward the table. "I regret that that Professor Binns' history class failed to have the same effect." He glanced down his nose mischievously at Harry. "If I'm not mistaken, you should find some interesting information on medieval wizardry around page forty-three—for your history essay, correct?"
"Yes, sir, I've yet to write it." Still amused by Dumbledore's rather polite jab at the History of Magic professor, Harry bit his lip to keep from grinning as he flipped to the right page.
The wispy ink illustration of an old witch in ancient-looking robes immediately popped off the page a few centimeters and began speaking to Harry, almost like a Muggle book-on-tape, summarizing the content of the chapter in an eerie voice.
Harry glanced up at Dumbledore when the illustration settled after finishing its preface. "Thanks, Professor, this'll help loads…"
A thoughtful haze seemed to cloud Dumbledore's face once more, but finally, he dipped his chin in a nod and smiled back at Harry. "You are more than welcome, child."
***********
With his book clamped against the inside of his forearm, Harry ran through the main floor corridor and down a flight of steps, leaping over the last few and landing so hard on the soles of his trainers that his feet stung.
The ten o'clock chimes had only stopped gonging a few seconds ago. Or was it a few minutes?
Bolting down the dungeon corridor, Harry rounded the corner and slowed, his chest heaving with hot gusts of air that dried out his throat and made him long for water. Legs buzzing from the exertion, Harry pushed open the door to Snape's quarters with both palms.
Empty.
Just as Harry had expected…
He smoothed the sweat off of his forehead as he moved toward his desk, combing his fingers through his fringe. His hair was sticking up in the front now, as well as the back, but Harry didn't care. Plucking the quill from his desktop, he poked the tip into the waiting pool of ink that Snape must have left for him. He gazed at the parchment, hesitating a second longer before he touched the quill to the only box with his name in it. The ink glimmered a soft red this time.
10:08 a.m.
Harry stared at the numbers, his hand slowly falling to his thigh, the quill still pinched between his fingers.
He was late.
Over five minutes' worth of sprinting down six flights of stairs and more bloody corridors than Harry could count on both hands led him to nowhere but this ugly record book with its glaring accuracies.
His breathing had slowed, but each intake still burned Harry's lungs and made his hot cheeks pound with a pulse.
His first hour of Snape-approved freedom and Harry was eight minutes late.
Tossing his Living History book on the seat of his desk chair, Harry blew out a long breath through his nostrils and plopped back on the sofa, his arms drooping against the cushions.
This schedule was rubbish.
Harry sulked for a moment, wondering whether he should make up an excuse for his tardiness or simply sign the book and scamper off to his next destination in hopes that Snape wasn't one to check it over each night.
Bloody likely.
Scraping designs into the rug with the ball of his trainer, Harry had nearly readied his self-convicting gumption when he caught sight of Snape's wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet folded on top of the coffee table.
But it wasn't just the paper that caught Harry's attention—he had read the Daily Prophet on a weekly basis last year. Rather, it was the half-exposed gray and black photograph underneath the headline.
From where Harry sat slumped on the sofa, he could just make out a pair of eyes, round and shifting—almost wild—and a forehead surrounded by twisted clumps of dark hair...
Picking up the paper, Harry unfolded it and stared down at the sallow, thin face of the man in the photograph. His eyes held Harry's own like magnets.
Harry's gaze traveled up the paper to the headline stamped across the top of the front page: 'Sirius Black Escapes from Azkaban'.
He didn't look quite like a barmy serial killer, like some of the ones Harry had seen on the telly; this man's eyes seemed frantic—almost frightened. But then again, Harry supposed not all criminals had to look the same.
Interested, Harry read the first paragraph of the article and then stopped, flicking his eyes over toward the door; he wondered if he should just spend his next hour in Snape's quarters, reading all about this bloke who had escaped from the wizarding prison not more than a week ago. He could explain it all to Snape later.
Maybe.
Harry glanced down at the article again, then over toward the schedule book. He knew better in this circumstance as well.
With Snape, no amount of explaining would excuse his tardiness—not even on a normal day.
Folding the newspaper into eighths, Harry stood up from the sofa and shoved the thick wad into his back pocket for later.
-----
Harry cracked his knuckles before knocking on Snape's classroom door.
There was the sound of a stool scraping against the stone floor, and then, "Enter."
Having closed the door quietly behind him, Harry stood across from Snape, who was sitting on a stool at one of the student lab tables, hunched over a bubbling cauldron, his hair hanging in his face. He waved his hand through the curling steam and then he looked up.
Harry stared at him for a few seconds.
Snape's brows shot up in preoccupied acknowledgement. "What is it?"
"Oh…" Harry shook his head, as if clearing out the cobwebs, and shifted his weight to the other foot. "Erm…"
The professor's thin brow rose even higher.
"What are you brewing?" Harry asked, climbing up onto a stool and stretching his neck out for a look.
"Get back." Snape held up his hand as he reached across the table for a tiny vial of oily red potion. "The steam is potent…and very hot."
"Can't be that bad," Harry noted. "You've just had your face right in it…"
Snape ignored him, carefully tipping three drops of crimson solution into the cauldron instead.
A mushroom cloud of blue steam puffed into the air.
"You never told me what you were making," Harry said, after the burbling of the cauldron diminished, simmering once again.
"And you," Snape countered, poking a long stirrer into the potion, "never answered my question." He glanced up at Harry as he stirred.
"I had to ask you something…"
"Mm."
"Well…not ask, so much as—"
Snape cut him off, sliding something one-handed around his cauldron and across the table.
Harry stared down at the schedule book that lay open in front of him, identical to his own book that was still on his desk in Snape's quarters. The times were printed just as clearly. "You knew I was late?"
Snape was looking away again. Bowing his head, he frowned at a beaker, filled one-third of the way with a yellowish liquid, measuring with his eyes.
"Professor…"
"I heard you, Potter."
Harry hooked his feet around the rungs of his stool, chewing on the corner of his lower lip. He folded his hands in his lap and flicked his thumbnails together as he watched Snape hold the glass container close to the candlelight.
"Then how come you're not shouting?"
Snape paused, his lids sinking closed as he released a slow breath through his nose. "Have you any idea how few seconds it takes for liquidized valerian root to congeal when heated if not given the utmost vigilance?"
"Not really," Harry answered truthfully. "Should I?" He leaned forward on his stool a bit and fiddled with the silver-plated stirrer that was now drying on a cotton cloth that Snape had laid down.
"I would expect nothing less, Mr. Potter," Snape muttered, carefully pouring the pollen-colored concoction into a simmering cauldron; strands of black hair, curled at the edges, fell over Snape's left eye. Readjusting the cauldron over the flames, he casually pushed the stray hair out of his face, holding it for a second. He cast Harry an off-handed glimpse.
His dark eyes flashed.
In an instant, the damp cloth was yanked out from under Harry's nose, the stirrer clinking against the table before landing in the open binding of a tattered potions text.
Wide-eyed, Harry sat stiffly, both hands behind his back; he blinked at Snape behind his glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose.
His professor glowered. "What have I told you about handling unwashed utensils that have been laid out!"
The potion burbled unhappily; Snape ignored it.
Harry licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Sorry."
Snape continued to glare but lowered his voice considerably. "I put the stirrer on a cloth for a reason, Potter."
"I know," Harry said, willing his cheeks to stop burning. "I forgot. I'm sorry."
Snape sighed again, as if regaining his composure. "You'll remember for next time," he said softly. "Show me your hands."
"They're all right…"
"Palms up." The command was crisp but quiet.
Tilting his head in silent protest, Harry pulled his hands out from behind his back and held them out for Snape to examine. Harry's eyes zeroed in on the blue and orange flames licking the sides of the cauldron.
Harry's nose wrinkled. "It smells like burnt plastic."
Straightening up with a snap, Snape swore under his breath as he peered into the cauldron.
Harry sat on his hands, unsure whether to feel guilty or laugh…
Snape botching a potion? The idea was almost too much.
"You didn't ruin it, did you?" Harry leaned over on his elbows, his rear end suspended off the chair as he balanced his weight on his forearms to get a better look.
A brisk flick of black hair was Snape's only response.
Harry settled back down on his stool, pulling a contrite face. "I can go into the storeroom and get you some more ingredients if you want."
"No, Mr. Potter," Snape said through a sigh, "you cannot." He whipped his wand toward the cauldron, banishing the gloppy contents.
Harry bent the corner of the page in front of him, pretending as though such news was expected. "I was only thinking…"
"You wouldn't find what you need in the storage room; this was my last vial of liquid valerian root," Snape said. His voice had lost its edge, so Harry peeked up at him. "I'll have to go to the greenhouse this afternoon."
"Can I go with you?"
"No." The cauldron skidded noisily against the counter as Snape pushed it out of his way to wipe down the space underneath. "You have work to do…"
"I have nothing to do," Harry insisted, feeling rather sour all of the sudden. He looked away from Snape's pointed gaze. "The library's boring."
"I assume you didn't find it boring twenty minutes ago when you were supposed to have been recording your return…"
Harry cracked the knuckles of his other hand.
"Were you wandering elsewhere, Potter?"
Snapping his head up, Harry wrinkled his forehead. "No, I've been in the library all this time, like I said I would be."
"Mm?"
"Why would I wander?"
"Potter."
Harry averted his eyes from the stony glare. He knew the rhetorical question had been a bit much, especially after his tardiness. "Professor Dumbledore found me," Harry tried again, more politely, before Snape could get another word in. "He gave me a book for my History essay."
"And which book would that be?" Snape inquired absently, busying himself again, corking vials and cleaning drips on the table.
"Living History," Harry said. He picked up a tiny stopper that had rolled near the potions text. "Here—you've missed this one."
Snape took it from him without glancing up, murmuring his appreciation.
"I read something else too…"
"Mm."
It was more than obvious that Snape was bored off his nut. Harry would be waved away soon, as he usually was when the conversation took a rather mundane turn, but he gave it a go anyway.
"Yeah," Harry continued. "Do you know where Azkaban is?"
Snape's eyes twitched to attention. Harry watched them carefully.
"I do," Snape said slowly.
"Is it in Scotland?"
Snape gave a measured blink. "No. An island."
"Where?"
Dark brows descended over the black eyes like storm clouds. "Why?"
Harry dug his forefinger into his back jeans pocket to retrieve the wad of newspaper and then stopped. Snape might not have been finished reading it. Perhaps he wouldn't like it if he knew it had been nicked from the office…
He never minded Harry perusing it there, however.
"Sirius Black came from Azkaban, didn't he?" Harry probed, squinting behind his glasses in slightly feigned ignorance.
"He did," Snape drawled, eyeing Harry suspiciously. "Did you take my newspaper?"
"Erm…"
"Give it to me," Snape said with a snap of his fingers.
"I haven't finished reading it yet…"
"You've folded it up into your pocket, like you have done with the every weekend's newspaper since the New Year."
"Ron sometimes throws his away before I can read it," Harry explained, reaching behind him to retrieve it from his trousers anyway. "I haven't ripped it…"
"You have creased it."
"Not very much…"
"Ask, Potter."
"I will next time…"
Snape reserved him one more glare before flattening the folds and shaking out the front page of the Daily Prophet.
"He doesn't look like much of a nutter," Harry said. 'Only a bit filthy...and thin."
"He's a convicted murderer, Potter…"
Harry heard Snape swallow, even among the rustling of the paper.
"Who did he kill?"
Snape stared at him; the paper drooped over like a wilting daisy. Wordlessly, he handed Harry the article. "Read it quickly and run along," Snape muttered tersely. "You could have had your essay finished by now…"
"Hardly," Harry sniffed to himself, holding the paper up to read. Picking up where he left off, Harry read all about Sirius Black, who had single-handedly murdered twelve Muggles with one curse. He had escaped Azkaban after twelve years of being locked up.
"On the North Sea…' Harry mumbled, the brief note in the article answering his earlier question. He looked up from his reading. "Do you think he swam all that way?"
Snape gaped at him. Then he rolled his eyes.
"What?"
"Finish reading; I've work to do…"
"How do you kill twelve people with one curse?" Harry wondered, eyeing Snape as he transferred a pile of graded essays from a nearby table to his desk several feet away, dropping them with a splat. When he got no response, he asked, "Do you think he's come to England or Scotland?"
Snape turned abruptly. "Have you finished?"
"Yes…"
"Then off with you."
"If I find Hagrid, may I go to the greenhouse—"
"No!"
Harry jumped at the sharp rebuke. He and Snape stared at each other for a long moment. And then, quietly, Harry slipped off of his stool.
"Wait, Potter." Snape rubbed his hand down his face. "Sit down."
Standing with his palm pressed against the seat, Harry fixed his eyes on the stirrer that still lay in the binding of Snape's potions book. "I can go…"
"You will sit," Snape said quietly, nodding toward the stool.
Sighing, Harry obliged.
"Sirius Black escaping Azkaban is not a game, Harry," Snape began, very seriously.
"I never said it was…"
"You spoke about his whereabouts as if you were discussing the weather," the professor continued. "Precisely what I feared would happen…"
"How am I supposed to talk about him?" Harry demanded, though he kept his voice as calm as he could. Snape's face remained still and solemn, so Harry continued. "I mean…it's not like anyone told me to look out for him; Muggles who've killed people escape prison all the time, and we never see them—"
"Enough."
Harry felt his chest deflate. He went back to focusing on the stirrer.
"Listen carefully, Potter," Snape said. "Just like the rest of the wizarding world, you are to consider every action with caution first and be on your guard until Professor Dumbledore tells us otherwise."
Lifting his eyes over the rims of his glasses, Harry studied his professor. "Is that why I'm following a schedule?"
"Why you will continue to follow your schedule?" Snape corrected, raising an eyebrow.
"But why didn't you just tell me about all of this in the first place?"
"Because his escape has only been publically confirmed for a mere twenty-four hours…not even the headmaster was certain…" Snape glanced away as he said this.
"So we have to stay holed up here in the castle all summer?" Harry gave Snape an incredulous look.
"I didn't say that, Potter." The man's voice held a tired edge. "I said you are to be on your guard."
"The grounds are guarded, aren't they?"
Snape just looked at him.
Harry chewed on his lip, and then peered at Snape, all-but pleading. "I swear I'll wait for Hagrid to pick me up at the castle and take me to the greenhouse. I promise."
"Mr. Potter…"
"I'll even wear the…" Harry gazed down at his chest. "Erm…"
"Professor McGonagall returned it this morning; it's in a desk drawer in my office."
"Right," Harry piped up, as if he'd known all along. "I'll go put it on right now."
"Just a minute."
Harry stilled on his stool, waiting. "Yeah?"
In a flash, Snape had rounded the lab table. He pressed two fingers under Harry's chin, lifting it. "You are to wait until I make contact with Hagrid and he confirms."
"I will—"
"Furthermore," Snape pressed on, "you are to visit nowhere but the greenhouse, and you will return in time for the noon meal."
"What about the lav?"
"I mean it, Potter."
"Yes, sir, I know…"
Snape held Harry's gaze for another instant. "You will spend the afternoon working on your essay."
"Sure," Harry said with a shrug as Snape released his chin. The thought of squandering a bit of time with Hagrid made him feel rather invincible at the moment.
"You'll find what you're looking for in the bottom drawer of my desk—look nowhere else," Snape instructed. "I'm right behind you."
Harry grinned as he slid off of his stool and strode over to the door, bumping it open with his shoulder. "There's a dog outside…did you know?"
"Mm."
TBC…
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who stuck around and caught up with this chapter, even though it's been awhile ;-) Too bad I can't write fan fiction for a living... And thanks for beta'ing, Tab!!
