Summer of Enchantment

by Warviben

Summary: Harry is not dealing well with Sirius' death. Professor McGonagall is concerned enough about his mental health to approach the Headmaster. A surprising solution is proposed.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or the basic premise of this story. I am making no money from this endeavor.

Warnings: This story contains detailed heterosexual liaisons. If that disturbs you, please stop reading now.

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9 Remembrance

Two weeks later, Harry awoke on his birthday happier than he'd ever been on a previous birthday. His eleventh birthday had been great, the day he'd found out he was a wizard, but today he was sixteen, about to leave childhood behind, perched on the edge of manhood. He lay in bed for a time after waking, mulling over his life, thinking about all that he had to be grateful for on this day.

He was alive. There had been moments in his not-too-distant past when his ability to continue to make that statement had been in doubt.

He wasn't with the Dursleys – it was always a blessing whenever he could say that.

His lessons with Snape were actually going quite well. The two continued to butt heads regularly, but they were getting a lot accomplished. Harry's apparition lessons had begun, and he'd finally been able to disapparate himself from one spot in the basement to another, and then from inside the basement to outside the house. Though he still preferred broomsticks, he could see where the ability to disapparate might come in handy.

Since the imaginarius had been modified to work with Harry's overactive imagination, Harry had actually come to enjoy his sessions beneath it. It was very much like being inside one of the video games that Sera was always telling him about, and they were actually a fun way to practice thinking on his feet, learning to decide quickly whether a new situation presented a threat, and reacting quickly and appropriately if it did.

The potions work was still boring, but Snape seemed happy with the progress being made, and at least he got to spend more time with Sera while working on potions.

And then there was Sera. He didn't know what he would have done this summer without her. If he'd had to endure Snape's presence only for weeks on end, he wasn't sure they would both have survived (and he had no real illusions about who wouldn't have made it through). Without even knowing she was doing it, she'd helped him so much in the first few days he'd known her to work through some of the issues that had burdened him for so long.

Yes, Sera had been a Godsend, and he wondered for a moment about what was going to happen to her when this summer ended only a month from now. He felt a pang in his heart at the separation he feared was coming, but he pushed those thoughts away to be dealt with another time. Today was a happy day.

Stretching fully from corner to opposite corner in the double bed, Harry decided to get up and find her. Starting the day with her smile was a ritual he'd quickly gotten used to.

But he couldn't find her anywhere, and he was finally reduced to making his own breakfast, after which he went down to start his lessons, half hoping that maybe Snape knew it was his birthday and would give him the day off. "Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly when he arrived in the basement classroom.

Snape grunted in response, but didn't look up from what he was doing. Harry heard Sera's footsteps overhead, and he couldn't help the smile that lit up his face. He turned away so that Snape wouldn't see if he looked up.

Snape had two cauldrons already bubbling away. He'd obviously been busy for a while. "Sit," he instructed, and Harry did so.

Sera came tripping (almost literally) down the stairs. "Good morning!" she sang. "Happy Birthday, Harry!"

"Thank you," he said, returning her smile. "Where have you been?"

"Out," was all she said. "What are we working on today?"

"This," Snape said, giving one of the cauldrons a final stir, "is a voice potion. We're not testing it, though, as it's been in use for centuries."

"What does it do?" Sera asked.

"When you drink it, it will allow you to alter your voice to imitate whomever you picture in your mind," Snape explained.

"Cool!" Sera said.

"Potter," Snape said, filling a cup from the cauldron and handing it to Harry.

Harry wondered why they were doing this if the potion had been around for ages, but he figured his wasn't to wonder why. His was to drink and (hopefully) not die. He drank the contents of the cup.

"Now picture someone in your mind," Snape instructed.

Harry closed his eyes and pictured Dumbledore, then opened his mouth (and eyes) to speak. "I am Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in all the world." Harry smiled in amazement. If he hadn't said it himself, he would have sworn the headmaster was in the room with them. "Wicked!" he said, still in the older man's voice.

"Do someone else!" Sera urged.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making. However, for those select few . . . who possess the predisposition . . . I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death." Of course, the voice emanating from Harry's mouth now was that of Snape. "And you thought," Harry stopped, pictured his own face in his mind, and continued in his own voice, "And you thought I never paid attention in your class."

A corner of Snape's mouth curved up, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He filled another cup and handed it to his niece. "Serafina?"

Sera's eyes widened. "You're going to let me?! Really?!"

Snape pulled it back. "Well, if you'd rather not . . ."

"No! No, I do! Giveitome!" she said excitedly.

He did, and Sera drank it down quickly, before he could change his mind. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "Serafina Mallory, you will be the death of me," she cackled in an old woman's voice.

"Your grandmother?" Harry guessed.

Sera nodded and giggled. "This is so cool!"

She, too, now pictured Snape and began to sing. "She's a very kinky girl, the kind you don't take home to mother. That girl is pretty wild now. She's a super freak, super freak, she's super freaky yow!"

Sera was dancing around as she sang, looking somewhat like a giant chicken, and Harry couldn't help it – the laughter burst from his mouth before he could stop it. He looked sideways at Snape, to gauge his reaction. Snape's mouth was twitching, but from repressed laughter or about-to-be-spoken rebuke Harry couldn't tell.

"Enough, silly girl," Snape finally said. "Don't make me regret this."

"Sorry," Sera said, trying to appear contrite though her eyes shown with the spirit she just couldn't suppress. She giggled when her voice continued to sound like Snape's. "Oh my God!" she said. "Can I sing like this?"

"Obviously," Snape said drily.

"I'm gonna be Whitney!" she announced excitedly.

"I don't know who or what this 'Whitney' is, but please take it upstairs," Snape suggested.

Sera did, skipping and singing into her room. They heard the door shut, but they could still hear her singing at the top of her lungs.

Harry was glad when she'd gone. A conversation where both voices were Snape's was highly disconcerting, but he smiled affectionately. "She's slightly mental, that one."

"Runs in the family," Snape noted, and Harry's mouth fell open. Snape had made a joke! A near-smile and a joke, all in the same day. Harry steadied himself on the table, sure he'd felt the earth tip slightly off its axis.

"Drink this," Snape said, handing him another cup.

Harry drank it, then asked, "What was that, Professor?"

"An antidote for the first potion," Snape explained. He filled yet another cup and held it out to Harry, but he didn't let go when Harry tried to take it, and their eyes met over the cup. "This," said Snape, "is a memory potion. It allows one to access memories which, for whatever reason, one might not be able to on their own."

Harry was puzzled. "Like if you had amnesia, sir?"

Snape nodded. "Perhaps. Or if you were subconsciously blocking a traumatic memory, or if . . . you were too young when the memories were formed to recall them later in life."

"Like when you were a baby?" Harry whispered, and Snape saw the understanding dawn in Harry's eyes.

Snape nodded and released the cup to him. "Take it upstairs. Into your room." Snape knew this was likely to be an emotional journey, and he suspected that privacy would be called for.

Harry now understood why Snape had allowed Sera to drink the voice potion, violating the number one rule he had set down when Sera started assisting him with his work. Snape had let Sera drink the potion to otherwise occupy her so Harry would be alone for his trip down memory lane. He'd probably fed it first to Harry only to make sure he'd brewed it properly and it wasn't going to kill anyone.

The kindness of this act was so unlike the Snape he knew that Harry stared at him for a moment, wondering if there was more here than met the eye, if this was some sort of trick. His mistrust for Snape was deeply imbedded and wouldn't allow him to believe that there wasn't some ulterior motive here.

Snape stared back, looking past the mistrust, knowing that he'd earned it. "Once you drink it," he said, "you'll have an hour, maybe two. Just focus on what you want to recall, and the memories will come. Go," he said when Harry didn't move. "When you're finished, come back down. There's one more thing I want you to do today."

Harry's feet moved as though on their own. He stopped on the stairs and looked back down at Snape, finally realizing just what a gift Snape was giving him. There was so much he wanted to say, but he seemed incapable of forming words. Snape nodded his understanding and turned away.

Harry went into his room and shut the door. Sera was singing loudly in a man's voice now, something about being born in the USA, but Harry barely noticed. He sat on the bed and stared into the cup, still not completely sure it wasn't something dangerous. Snape hadn't tried to kill him yet, Harry reasoned with himself, why do it now, on his birthday?

Harry shrugged and tipped the cup up, drinking the contents completely, making sure he had every drop. He set the cup down and lay on the bed, closing his eyes.

And he let the memories come. His birth, and the joy and awe on his parents' faces as they looked down at him and held him in their arms, kissing him and nuzzling his neck, inhaling his sweet baby aroma. His mother singing lullabies to him as she rocked and fed him at her breast, stroking his cheek with one finger held tightly by a tiny baby fist. Through his baby eyes, Harry looked up wonderingly at his mother, drinking in every feature of her beautiful face, praying that when the potion wore off that the memories wouldn't fade with it.

He grew up with his parents – their joy when he rolled over for the first time; their delight when he sat up unassisted; their faces beaming at him when he pulled himself to his feet and began to cruise around, holding onto furniture, chasing a calico cat, whose tail always seemed to be just out of reach; his father's pride at his son riding a toy broomstick that rose only inches from the floor so that the baby's chubby toes skimmed the floor as he hovered, laughing.

He saw the numerous friends who visited their happy home and held him and played with him, and he recognized many of them – Sirius, Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, and even Dumbledore a couple of times. In the final month, the visitors all but stopped, leaving just Harry with his mum and dad, still happy, but with an underlying tension.

Harry knew how this ended, and he hoped that if the potion hadn't worn off that he could stop this movie running through his head. He tried to slow down the progression of the memories, just in case he couldn't stop it, but they seemed to have a pace of their own.

Harry opened his eyes, trying to stop the memory he knew was coming next, but it continued. He was in his cot, standing and holding onto the side, his little legs bouncing with joy as his mother entered his room. She'd just put him down for bed and left him, but she'd come back almost immediately. He'd heard a shout from his father and a noise downstairs, and he wasn't sure what that was about, but it didn't really matter, because Mummy was back, and he just loved his mummy, hence the happy bouncing. He held his arms out to her, inviting her to pick him up once again.

But something was wrong – even one-year old Harry could sense it, and he stopped smiling. He watched his mother as she quickly placed a chair in front of the door and threw some boxes on top of it. The older Harry, watching from a distant time and place, could see from the look on her face that she knew it wasn't enough, that it was pointless to try to hold whatever was coming back with inconsequential furniture and empty boxes, and her shoulders slumped.

Now she picked him up and hugged him fiercely. The door to his room opened, noisier than normal because of the hasty obstructions thrown against it. Someone entered his room, and baby Harry knew instinctively that it wasn't Daddy. Mummy put him back down into his cot quickly, almost dropping him, and turned her back on him, her arms spread wide, as though shielding him from someone or something. Scared now, Harry stretched his arms out to her. "Mumma," he said. "Up."

"Not Harry!" his mother said, imploring whoever it was. "Not Harry! Please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl," said the strange man, his voice high and cold. "Stand aside now."

"Not Harry! Please no! Take me! Kill me instead," his mother tried again, but it was apparent that her pleas were having no effect on whoever was there to hurt them.

"This is my last warning," the man said.

"Not Harry," she moaned as the stranger raised his arm. "Please, have mercy . . . have mercy." She was crying hard now, likely realizing that there was nothing she could do, no way to prevent him from killing her and then her precious baby boy. James already lay dead downstairs, she was sure of that. Soon, it would be over for all of them. "Not Harry! Not Harry! Please! I'll do anything!"

Then there was a burst of green light so bright it hurt Harry's eyes, and his mother screamed and fell to the floor. Harry could now see the man who had changed his world from one of love and comfort to one of fear and loneliness.

The strange man approached Harry's cot and pointed a wand directly at the baby's face. Harry began to cry now, because he was afraid, and his Mummy was lying on the floor, and his Daddy wasn't coming, and there was a strange man in his room, a man who made him feel terror like he'd never known was possible in his brief, protected life. In his room so many miles and years away, the sixteen year-old Harry cried as well, without making a sound.

The scary man smiled an evil smile and raised his wand and said the two words that would mark Harry and change his life forever. Baby Harry screamed as the force of the spell and the bright green light knocked him backward into the cot, searing a pain into his forehead.

Though some force of the spell hit Harry hard enough to knock him down and carve a lightning bolt into his skin, most of it was repelled by an unseen shield and flung back at its caster, blowing a hole into the roof of the house when it did. Baby Harry didn't know what had happened to Riddle when the spell rebounded on him, because he'd been crying too hard and was too scared to look. When he next looked through the bars of his cot, many minutes later, he was alone.

He didn't know how long he sat there, waiting for he knew not what, because a baby's sense of time is out of proportion to a more cognitive being's. He could see his mother on the floor, and although he called to her from time to time, she wouldn't come to him. He thought perhaps Daddy might come, but he never saw his father again. He sat for a time staring at the stars twinkling brightly in the night sky, as though unaware that an unspeakable tragedy had occurred below them.

At last, someone did come, someone very large who was a stranger to baby Harry, but whom the older Harry was very familiar with. Though the giant man was frightening because of his size and all of that facial hair, Harry whimpered a little but went willingly enough when Hagrid picked him up because he was scared and hungry and he simply needed someone. The big man was surprisingly gentle, cradling the baby carefully in his arms, turning the boy's head away from his mother's body (apparently not realizing that Harry had been looking at her since she'd fallen there), and murmuring softly to him that he was all right now.

"Mumma," Harry said, stretching one chubby arm out to her, one last time, hoping that maybe this time she'd get up and come to him. She did not, and they left the room.

After vague memories of being bundled tightly and traveling at great speeds with a great deal of noise, Harry was now looking up at his aunt and uncle. They looked back at him as though he were a rare species of very unpleasant bug. Harry tried talking to them in the baby babble that his parents had so loved and encouraged, but these odd, mean people only sneered at him and turned away to read a letter, holding it as though it were contaminated.

Harry had seen enough. He had plenty of bad memories of his time with the Dursleys. He didn't need to add any to that particular store. "Please," he moaned. "Please make it stop." And whether because he'd ask it to or because the potion finally and coincidentally wore off, it mercifully did.

Harry removed his glasses and rolled over so that his face was buried in his pillow and cried like he might never stop. His mother, murdered before his eyes. Voldemort's attempt to kill him. Before today, he'd had only flashes of green light and the memory of a scream, enough to provide food for his fertile imagination. Now he could see all of the details in their most minute form.

Now that he had the gift of knowing, he wondered whether it really was a gift. Lost in the fresh pain and grief was the fact that the remaining memories he'd been given were wonderful, soul-sustaining things he'd be able to take out and treasure whenever he needed them. That realization would come later. Now he just hurt too much, and the hurt was so large he didn't know how his body could contain it. The agony threatened to engulf him and burn him up.

In the end, Harry doused it with his tears. Finally spent, he lay staring at the ceiling, breathing in large, cleansing breaths. He knew he should get up. He knew he was supposed to go back downstairs, but he couldn't face anyone, not yet.

After a few more minutes, after he felt some semblance of self-control return, he sat up, rubbing his reddened eyes. He knew he looked as though he'd been crying, and he peeked into the hallway to be sure it was empty before venturing into the bathroom.

Harry splashed cold water onto his face and studied his reflection in the mirror. This morning had changed him. The many happy memories were warring with the one bad. Despite their insignificant number, the bad seemed to have more weight than all the good combined, and they were pulling him down, insistently and inexorably.

There was a tap on the door, and Sera said, "Harry, you missed lunch."

He cleared his throat. "I'm not hungry."

"Are you okay?" She could tell something was wrong from the sound of his voice.

"Fine," he said, as convincingly as possible. "Just not hungry."

"If you change your mind, there's sandwiches in the fridge."

"Thanks." He waited until he was sure she was gone, ran a hand through his already-tousled hair, and went back down to face Snape.

Harry couldn't look at Snape, unsure how to feel about him at this moment. On the one hand, Snape had provided him with a bank of memories of his parents that he never would have had but for Snape's memory potion. For that he was thankful. On the other hand, he'd given him new fodder for his nightmares. For that he was afraid. So he said nothing, not sure that even if he had the words he'd be able to get them out without crying again.

But Snape saw. He saw the reddened, glazed eyes, and he heard the thick breath that spoke of torrential tears, and he knew. He'd tried, he'd really tried, to give Harry only enough potion to get him through the pleasant part of his first year and not enough to take him through his parents' deaths and the attempt on his own life. But now he knew he'd failed. And he felt terrible, though Potter would probably not believe that.

Fortunately, he'd planned for this contingency. He cleared his throat. "There will be no further lessons today. There's one thing more I want you to do. Outside." He gestured to the basement door which led into the backyard.

Numb, Harry followed him out. Snape stopped beside a broomstick.

"Is it . . . Can I really . . .?" Harry asked, not daring to hope.

"Yes, it's been enchanted," Snape told him. "You've got one hour. Stay over the property boundaries, and you won't be seen." Snape had spent some time this morning casting protective spells around the property so no one, from the air or the ground, would see a teenaged boy hot-rodding around on a broomstick in the sky. "It's not a Firebolt, I know, but . . ."

"It's perfect," Harry assured him, and it was. "Up!" he ordered, and the broom leapt into his hand, as anxious as he to take to the sky.

Without a word, Harry jumped on, kicked off, and left the ground. He circled the house three times before launching himself through the trees.

Sera had come out to stand beside Snape in time to see Harry's last revolution around the house and his flight into the woods. She watched him go, amazed.

"Do you fly, too?" she asked her uncle.

"Infrequently. Not really since I was a boy," Snape said, watching the spot where Harry had disappeared. "And never like him."

"He's good?" she asked. She had nothing to judge by.

"Exceptional. The most natural I've ever seen. Intuitive, as though he and the broomstick were one."

Harry soared and banked and climbed and dove, enjoying the familiar feeling of freedom he got when flying. He zipped crazily through the trees, never worried he'd crash. The way he felt right now, physical pain would be almost a blessed relief. Besides, he was the wind, and the wind never crashed. After a time, he climbed higher than he'd ever flown and circled lazily, looking below him for the house, but he couldn't see it for the trees.

As he hovered in the soothing warmth of the sun, Harry tried to purge his mind and his soul of everything. Without a sound around him, not even the twittering of birds, it was easy to imagine that he was an empty vessel – soulless, boneless, weightless. When he felt himself devoid of any emotion and thought, he allowed himself to partition the memories he'd just experienced, sorting through the happy ones as though they were playing cards. The realization that he could take them out, touch them, relive them, that they were permanent, struck him, and he felt a sense of peace fill him to the very ends of his fingers, his toes, even his unruly hair.

The bad memories were still there, like a small lead ball in the pit of his stomach. Harry felt that weight shift inside him, then depart his body. That weight, which a short time ago had threatened to overwhelm him, was leaving him now, floating higher and higher, away from him and toward the sun, as though borne on an escaped helium balloon. Harry could picture that in his mind, and he watched the balloon (it was red) drift toward the sun, closer and closer, until it must surely have burst in the immense heat. He convinced himself that, very faintly, he could hear the pop.

And it was then he realized exactly what Snape had done. Not only had his nemesis given him back the only wonderful, loving memories that existed from his childhood, he'd given Harry access to a broomstick, the only means Harry could have found that would have allowed him to dispel any bad memories that might have tagged along with the good.

Why had Snape done this? Snape, who had treated him so coldly and even downright meanly since the very moment they'd met. What would have possessed him to give the son of a man he'd thoroughly detested for such a long time, even after his death, such a precious gift? He wished it wasn't the case, but with Snape, motivation was called into question with everything, even something this pleasant, especially something this pleasant. Was there an ulterior motive? Was there some sinister purpose here that Harry couldn't grasp?

Harry searched for meaning, for something that made sense, but the only thing he came up with was that he now had a large stock of happy memories with which to produce a patronus, should he have the need. But Harry had proven himself capable of producing a patronus even without his childhood memories, so he doubted that was it. And although Snape of course did not know it, the memories that Harry had made with Snape's niece had made him capable, he was convinced, of producing a whole herd of patronuses (patroni?) at once.

Should he ask Snape, or should he simply be grateful for Snape's largesse, whatever the reason? The gift was worth more than the motive, he finally decided, and he would simply accept it and be grateful. And if there was a price to pay, some day, he would accept that as well, and he would still be grateful.

Harry pointed his broomstick down and began to descend at a sharp angle. There was something he needed to do, before he thought too much about it, before he could change his mind or lose his nerve. He made a beeline for the house, gliding smoothly to a stop beside Snape, who had remained rooted to the spot. Sera had gotten bored and gone inside a while ago. Harry dismounted.

"You're back early," Snape informed him. "You have ten minutes remaining."

Unprepared for it, Harry's hug nearly knocked Snape over. He fought the slight loss of balance and his natural aversion to physical contact and put an arm around Harry's shoulder and patted him briskly.

For a brief moment, Snape allowed himself to think that, if only things had turned out differently, this could be his and Lily's son. Oh, he wouldn't look like that cursed Potter, of course, but he'd be bright and kind and loyal and talented, just like this boy was. But life had taken a different turn, and this boy was the offspring of a man who had never wasted an opportunity to torment him, who had taken from him the only thing that Snape had ever loved, and who had given his only son too many physical characteristics for Snape not to see the father every time he looked at the son.

Harry held on tightly for a moment, then let go and stepped back. "Thank you," he said simply.

"Don't mention it," Snape said, trying to regain his usual crustiness. "I mean that, Potter. Don't mention it."

Harry nodded his understanding. This was over, and they would never speak of it again. But he was glad he'd showed Snape just how much his present had meant. Ending an awkward moment of silence, Harry ducked inside, and Snape followed moments later.

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Sera had outdone herself with Harry's birthday supper, and as a special treat, she'd made him a treacle tart instead of a birthday cake. It wasn't as good as those he'd had at Hogwart's, but he wouldn't have hurt her feelings for anything in the world, and he told her it was better than anything he'd ever tasted, and he thanked her profusely.

"Now it's time for my present!" Sera announced as soon as the dishes had been cleared away. "Wait here." She hurried down the hall, and returned moments later with a shoebox which she set in front of Harry.

He smiled at her. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Just open it!" she said, bouncing excitedly. "Hurry!"

"All right," he said, and he removed the top from the box and peered inside. A small orange tabby kitten had been sleeping in the box until light poured in. Now it opened it's green eyes and yawned up at Harry.

Harry looked at Sera, his own eyes wide. She'd known how much the experience with the kitten/monster had bothered him. They'd talked about it more than once. He felt as though the kitten was a metaphor for all of the good in the world (like Cedric and Sirius) who had been destroyed in the fight against evil. And he had been the one to destroy it (as, he felt, he had done with both Cedric and Sirius). So this helpless, achingly cute little kitten represented the horrendous things that Harry was capable of bringing down on those around him.

And she was offering it up to him, a sacrificial lamb of sorts, trusting him to care for it and keep it safe.

Sera's smile had begun to falter when Harry didn't speak or make a move to take the kitten out of the box. Maybe she'd made a mistake. "I can take it back if you don't like it."

Snape sat motionless, only his eyes moving to follow this exchange that had so much undercurrent that even he couldn't pretend it wasn't there. He felt uneasy, but then told himself it was only natural that the two youngsters would become friends, given the circumstances.

Sera's words seemed to rouse Harry. "No. No! Are you kidding? I love it!" he assured her, and he reached into the box with one hand and removed the kitten. It came without protest. He studied it for a moment, as if half fearing that it would begin to transform in front of their eyes into something nightmarish.

"You can have it at school, right?" Sera asked, still anxious. "You told me your friend has a cat."

"Yes, we can have cats at school," Harry assured her.

Snape thought about correcting him. The school rules clearly stated that students could have an owl OR a rat OR a cat. OR, not AND. But he suspected that Dumbledore would make exception for Harry. It certainly wouldn't be the first time the Headmaster looked the other way while his favorite student skirted the rules.

Harry set the kitten on the table and rubbed its ears, making it purr loudly and butt its head against his hand for more. "It's lovely," he said, and he meant it. "Thank you."

"She," Sera corrected. "It's a girl."

The kitten yawned and began to wander around the table, sniffing at spare crumbs, sneezing when it inhaled one into its nose. Sera rolled a ball across the table, and the kitten pounced on it, somersaulting to the edge until it tumbled into Snape's lap. He picked the kitten up by the scruff of the neck and lifted it until it was level with his face. The kitten hung there placidly, studying Snape in return.

Finally, Snape set the kitten back on the table with a small snort, maybe of amusement, maybe of disdain. He rose and said, "Thank you, Serafina. That was a fine meal, as usual," and he left them.

"What are you going to call her?" Sera asked, placing the kitten on the floor and sending her after the ball again.

"I dunno," Harry said, watching her. "She's got nerves of steel, though. Did you see her stare your uncle down? We'll wait a while. The right name will come."

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It had been a wonderful, though emotionally tumultuous day, and Harry didn't want it to end. He had never had a better birthday, of that he was sure. He tried to sleep, but he lay in bed a long time thinking about the day and about his life, and finally, he got out of bed, grabbed the scrapbook that Hagrid had given him, and went out onto the sofa. He reclined there and began flipping through the photos, supplementing the images there with the memories he now possessed. His new kitten had followed him out and now lay curled up asleep in a patch of moonlight.

He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until the nightmare began. The tiny part of him that clung to consciousness tried to fight it off, not wanting to end such a perfect day on such a bad note, but he was powerless to stop it. The memory of his mother's death, heightened now by exquisite detail, began to play before his eyes, each frame now moving in slow motion. He moaned and thrashed on the sofa, willing his baby self to do something to save her this time.

Before the dream could progress to its terrible conclusion, Harry felt the images being smoothed away, and he awoke with a start, his breathing shallow and rapid. He'd fallen asleep with his glasses on, and although there was no light source in the room (he didn't remember having turned off the lamp), he could see by the light of the moon streaming through the window Sera kneeling beside him, her hand on his face, soothing, quieting.

"You were having a nightmare," she whispered.

He licked his dry lips. "Mmm," he agreed. "Not any more."

Sera leaned in to kiss him, and every nerve in his body woke up and responded immediately. He liked kissing her, a lot, and he was disappointed when she pulled away. His disappointment turned to alarm when she pulled her nightshirt over her head, revealing that she wore nothing beneath.

"Sera, no!" he whispered. "If your uncle should come up here . . ."

"Shhh," she said, placing a finger on his lips. "He won't if we're quiet."

Harry could see her firm young breasts, seemingly glowing in the moonlight, and he wanted so badly to touch her. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," he said, his voice hoarse with the wanting.

Sera kissed him again, erasing all thoughts but one from his mind. He pulled her down on top of him, and she stretched out along his length. He hurriedly threw the quilt over them, then allowed his hands to roam about at will.

"Oh God, Harry!" she gasped in his ear. She could feel his yearning for her, and she couldn't wait any longer. "Now, please!" she urged him.

In one smooth motion, Harry rolled them both so that he was on top of her and reached down to free himself from his pajamas, all logic and reason gone in the face of this primal need. When he found her with one sure movement, he knew he was home. Moments later, both of them sweating and panting, he lost himself inside the solid heat of her core. The lamp by his head flickered on, then off, on, then off, and he bit down, hard, on Sera's shoulder to keep from crying out. He felt Sera's fingernails dig into his back in return. Finally spent, he collapsed all of his weight on top of her.

"Bloody hell!" he said into her ear, his mind incapable of forming a more coherent sentence.

"Blimey," she agreed. They lay there for a while, catching their breath. "Happy Birthday, Harry," Sera finally said, kissing him on the mouth again.

Amazingly, Harry felt himself beginning to respond to her again. "I think maybe you've created a monster," he whispered. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if this hunger would be with him constantly now. Might be a little difficult to explain to Snape, should the monster rear its troublesome head at an inopportune time.

"My monster likes your monster," she assured him, her breath hot and moist in his ear. "Maybe your monster can come out and play with my monster again some time. But right now, you're squashing me."

"Oh, sorry," Harry said, and he lifted himself up so she could scoot out from under him. She lay half beside him, half on top of him, in the crook of his arm, her chin on his shoulder, looking at him, and she felt so right there.

"I love you, Harry Potter," she said solemnly.

Her declaration startled him, and he wasn't sure what to do with it. "You're only saying that so I'll sleep with you again," he joked to give himself time.

"Don't do that," she said, and he was instantly sorry at the tears that jumped to her eyes. "It's not a joke. Not to me."

"I'm sorry. I know it's not a joke." He kissed both her eyes, chasing the tears away. "I love you, too, Serafina Mallory. Have for a while. Maybe forever. I guess I thought you knew. I thought girls were supposed to be so intuitive?"

She smiled at him and lay her head on his shoulder. He knew he should protest, that they should both go to bed before they got caught. But she felt so good next to him, and he was, finally, so tired. He wondered vaguely if anyone besides his parents had ever told him that they loved him, and he thought not. He knew that Ron and Hermione loved him, and Hagrid and Dumbledore, but none of them had ever actually said the words. He knew the nightmare wouldn't come back now, not with her here.

Now this birthday was perfect, and he slowly drifted off to sleep with her in his arms.