Thank you Casscade and Eider Down for betaing.

xoxox

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

It was early December, bringing with it biting wind, frosted dew on the lawns, and the usual rush of energy surrounding a Hogsmeade visit.

Dumbledore had spent a lifetime shouldering the burdens of the wizarding world. Occasionally, when thoughts weighed on his mind and choices lay heavy on his heart, Albus, Percival, Wulfric, and Brian helped spread the load. That might make him a wee bit mad, but at least he was in good company.

Wulfric had driven his youth, chasing knowledge in the misguided belief that it was the same as wisdom. Optimism and an abiding need to believe the best of people defined Brian, ever ready to give second chances. Percival was the Machiavellian one, able to weigh pawns against bishops across cracked tiles of black and white. And then there was Albus, the name his mother had used when she called him to dinner.

Albus had been the brother precious Ariana had smiled at.

Standing outside Dogweed and Deathcap, all parts of him were occupied bemoaning the thinness of his robes. Are you or are you not a wizard, Wulfric chastised, renewing his warming charm.

He should have been more prepared for this, but Harry James Potter, currently attending the apothecary, had never left for Hogsmeade before.

The boy was twelve, he shouldn't be leaving the grounds at all.

Arguably, apprentices could visit Hogsmeade unaccompanied. When writing the rules, nobody had considered that a child of twelve might sit a NEWT and be taken on as an assistant teacher.

Which brought them to his current worry, that Harry James Potter was not a child.

Percival spent a lot of time worrying about young Harry, almost as much as Albus fretted. The child of destiny had been placed with Petunia in the knowledge that the stern woman would raise him hard-working and humble. Perhaps he'd have arrived not quite as well-fed and with a certain wariness of authority figures. But he would have been alive and full of wonder for the magical world, a blank slate ready for Brian to shape into the saviour they needed.

But alas, it was not so, Albus lamented as Wulfric cast another warming charm, this time at his frosty feet. It was the lack of woollen socks, he knew. Perhaps this Christmas someone would finally gift him a pair.

They had spent years searching fruitlessly for the boy-saviour. And last July when the school's quill and owl had failed to locate Harry, Albus had feared the worst.

They had despaired. All of Percival's plans, up in smoke, leaving him fruitlessly searching for a 'Plan B'. Brian's dreams for a better future, for a greater good where everyone was safe, were lost.

But Wulfric had simply turned to The Book, where every child who might one day attend appeared upon their first act of accidental magic, and had pointed out that the name was still there. And so, they had turned their mind to the many ways magic could be fooled, and the many ways in which the unfindable could be found.

Wulfric had researched, Percival had planned, and Brian had believed. Albus had tried to hope for a better future, one where muggle and magical were not afraid of each other. A world where Ariana would never have become the sledgehammer which had shattered his family apart.

Harry James exited the shop then, bearing a neat newspaper-and-string parcel.

Taking care despite his layered invisibility charms, Dumbledore trailed him on the long trudge back to the castle, all five of them.

Three souls in two bodies marching back to the one place they ever truly called home.

.

Albus worried his lip as he walked, caught himself, and popped a gummy worm. Lips puckering at the sour coating, his mind set to worrying instead. If only the wizarding population weren't so frustratingly daft he wouldn't have to fret so much about guiding them down the right paths. Now the main subject of his worries was Harry Potter.

Harry James Potter. He was of two minds about it.

The previous year he had watched and waited; Wulfric had not taken long to come to the conclusion that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

First he had believed the boy to be an imposter, for his letter had not reached him, and who was to say it was truly Harry Potter at all? He had not had a train ticket, instead appearing on the platform as the train screeched into Hogsmeade station. Nobody could quite remember how, unfortunately, and Hagrid's giant blood made his memories unviewable.

He had made such an impression on his teachers; clever: polite, aloof. This was a concern, as everything worried him, and so Percival had set in motion a retrospectively poor plan for confirming the boy's identity as a Potter, if not Harry Potter. Admittedly it had not been his best plot, but that hardly excused the shoddy execution.

There were no other Potters on the official trees, he had checked, which meant that in body this was Harry.

'Most probably Harry,' Wulfric interjected. 'You have not eliminated all else...'

But for all intents and purposes he had no choice but to accept this boy was Harry Potter, despite his not acting as a boy should act. Which brought him back to his original hypothesis, Albus' worst fear when he had first laid eyes on the scar in the shape of Sowilo on the infant's forehead eleven years ago.

A scar that if Wulfric's extensive analysis was right, contained a portion of Lord Voldemort's soul.

What if it wasn't Harry James, the genius child? So similar in appearance, charm and brilliance to another youngster nigh half a decade ago, what if Tom Marvolo had not only taken up residence but foisted control? For all of Brian's hope and optimism, Albus was a worrier and if Harry wasn't acting a child, then perhaps he wasn't a child.

Severus had been covering for Harry, either because he had come to respect his childhood bully's son, or because he had aligned with his old master, walking amongst them in a child's skin. Occam's razor in this case pointed to the latter; nobody could carry a grudge quite like Severus.

In a way he envied the Slytherin, the misled black sheep reformed to the Light by the greatest of all Magicks, the power of love. He knew the young man regularly left for his dalliances in muggle London, and by the Gods Brian wished he could go too, find someone to hold him at night, to inspire him and reassure him.

Was he doing the right thing?

Grindelwald would have known all the right words to say. That was what had made him so very dangerous.

Albus sighed, love was such a great and terrible thing. When the next great adventure came to take him, then he wanted to greet Death knowing he had atoned, suffered, sacrificed for the betterment of the world

For the chance to hold Ariana in his arms and beg her forgiveness.

He sucked on another worm, the sweets habit having replaced his teeth grinding decades ago. Had it been decades already? How time raced by! How it crawled! Every day pulled long by habit and worry. He shook his head at the paradox. The world seemed to be moving fast, too fast, yet he floated through time like it were toffee. Or was it taffy? He'd love a bit of taffy.

There was the stone, an excellent fake produced by Nicolas personally, which had gone missing despite his stroke of genius with the mirror.

The matter with the troll, gruesomely killed in a way far beyond third year troublemaker twins.

Harry's suspicious visits to the tragic Miss Warren's toilet numerous times in the last year.

And most damning of all, his unnatural maturity.

'When you eliminate the impossible then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.' And the unfortunate truth was that there was a Dark Lord stalking his halls in Harry's body.

So far his actions appeared innocent, even his Hogsmeade visit now had revealed nothing besides a penchant for drinking his butterbeer cold. (Who did that? It was meant to be drunk warm in winter, it was one of the few things he and Aberforth could agree on.)

He had failed the boy who had been Tom Riddle spectacularly, it would kill him to fail Harry Potter now.

If he's even still alive, Albus contributed pessimistically. For all we know there's nothing left but a husk.

He shoved another gummy worm into his mouth with the hope of shutting himself up.

It didn't help.

He continued to trail Harry-Tom into the castle and down into the dungeons.

Three souls, six names, many minds.

.

Harry James rapped sharply on Severus' office door before letting himself in and coming to a halt, staring wide-eyed at his master.

Still coated by warming charms and invisibility magic, Albus slipped in behind him.

Severus raised a questioning brow. "The door, Mister Potter," he reminded almost gently; Albus was very familiar with the man's portfolio of sneers.

Harry deposited his parcel in a corner and calmly went to close the door. "Have you been here all day? In the school?"

"I do not see why I should justify myself—" Severus' sneer grew into a scowl.

"Sir!" The urgency in Harry's voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, I have been in my rooms since breakfast." Severus' voice softened again.

Suddenly several charms were shot at Albus within the space of two seconds. All of them made contact, engrossed as he had been in the drama. Thoroughly caught, disarmed and suddenly visible, Dumbledore looked down the two wands pointed at his nose. Slowly, he lowered his gummy worm.

"Shit," Harry cursed, having caught the Elder Wand and bag of worms with dexterity that credited his father's Quidditch skills. He holstered his own wand and offered Albus' possessions back in a low, formal bow.

Ignoring the humiliation, Albus re-sheathed his wand and bit down on the worm. He offered the bag to Severus who shook his head. His loss. They observed the bowing child in echoing silence.

Harry did not fidget, and they were growing none-the-wiser from the situation. Albus conjured himself a regal red-and-gold armchair. "Sit down, Harry." He made himself sound weary, it wasn't even an act at this point.

All three of them regarded each other. Percival missed his solid desk between them; ideally this meeting would take place in his office full of distractions and the aftertaste of intimidating power.

Not right after he'd been caught slinking behind a child.

"Twenty points from Slytherin for attacking the Headmaster," Severus opened the conversation by returning to him his foolishly lost authority. The man was a paradox of diplomacy.

"Yes, sir. I am really very, truly sorry sirs." Harry broke eye contact as soon as it was no longer necessary for a sincere apology.

"Explain, please, my boy. I am sure this is all just a grave misunderstanding," Brian took the lead.

"I felt someone following me around Hogsmeade. I thought it was Master Snape, checking I wasn't up to mischief. When I realised it hadn't been you, sir," at this he looked to Severus, "I panicked. When I realised I had disarmed you, Headmaster, I freaked out even more. I hope I didn't do any lasting damage?"

"Only to an old man's pride Mister Potter," Albus said with honest amusement. He sucked the coating off another gummy worm as Percival thought. "I was worried about the dangers of such a young boy going to Hogsmeade by himself." He watched carefully as Harry and Severus grimaced at 'boy'. It confirmed his suspicions, that something was wrong here, that they were conspiring against him.

"Mister Potter can take care of himself," Severus said, surprising even himself. Potter thanked him with a damning smile.

But was now the time to reveal his hand? He had to do something, he couldn't keep letting Tom Riddle run around his school, having his teachers eating from the palm of his hand, gathering his next round of followers from the student populous. He fingered his wand in his pocket; it was a gamble, but if not now then when?

"Severus, do you remember the promise you made me, when Lord Voldemort died?" Because he needed the man's allegiance, his loyalty, or at the very least his non-interference now.

Both of them looked up, startled. Did Tom-Harry know? Impossible, Severus would never have shared something so personal.

With them both distracted he drew his wand, the Elder Wand, and cast.

Legilimens.

He was plunged immediately into darkness tinged by confusion. There was nothing else, no memories, no shields, only disorienting blackness.

And as if from a great distance, quiet voices.

Merlin's balls, he's gone insane!

Mister Potter, what are you doing?

What am I doing? He's the one who just dove into my mind!

The Headmaster is breathing, normal pulse but he is not responding.

Well of course not, his consciousness is in my mindscape.

Then let him out of your mindscape, Mister Potter. I have been there, it is organised enough.

I let you, he forced himself in. There's a difference.

Frustration began to tinge the blackness. And suddenly, as if a million Lumos were cast at once, he found himself surrounded by stars.

Wulfric cast his eyes about, trying to plot ground himself in some notion of place. Even to him, born and raised in a world of magic, the experience was enchanting. He recognised the constellations, of course, but there was no Earth to return to.

There was nothing they could do, the defence was as perfect as it was beautiful. Time stretched like a strand of chewing gum, and the helplessness of his situation had Percival gnashing his teeth.

Dumbledore was completely at Harry's mercy, and nothing bad had happened yet. No matter how disorienting, this more than anything spoke against this being Tom Riddle.

Some surface Legilimency before Voldemort's fall had revealed a blossoming wall of dark thorns that hedged in a mind as brilliant as it was confined. Tom could not have conceived such endless freedom.

Albus and Brian's fears settled. It was evident Harry's innate genius was not influenced by his dark passenger. Though it had spawned another set of questions he could tell he wouldn't be getting many answers to.

The voices were growing louder now as he concentrated on them.

Are you sure this is him, Master? Not some imposter?

Yes, Mister Potter. The Headmaster mentioned something nobody else could know.

Why did he do something so stupid, then? He's known of my Occlumency since last year's opening feast. He thought I wasn't me back then, do you think this is related?

I do not deign to understand the workings of the Headmaster's mind. If I could, I would be able to beat him at chess. Severus' voice again.

I need a minute of quiet to find him and bring him back out. Hang on.

Wulfric looked around, drinking in the sight before he was booted out. It was marvellous, Aurora would be giddy. Who was he kidding, he was giddy. This was the most awesome Occlumency defence he had ever experienced.

Then he realised he had a body, a likeness of himself but slightly older, and that there was a projection of Harry in front of him, green eyes, long hair with quill in it, androgynous but mid-puberty, looking older than twelve but not yet adult.

"Headmaster! Here you are. Is there anything in particular you wanted to see or shall I help you out?"

He felt his own body deflate, de-age, settle into what it should look and feel like just as Harry's did the same before him, rapidly shrinking back to twelve.

"I was worried Tom Riddle had taken over your mind," Albus replied honestly. He had made a mistake, that much was clear. The truth, however, was clear as mud. "Not even you think of yourself as being twelve."

Their surroundings blurred and brightened impossibly.

Then he was standing in front of a house in Godric's Hollow, a very familiar house. Pettigrew apparated in with Lord Voldemort, and the wards broke like so many shattering dreams.

His projected body's pockets contained very realistic peppermints. They watched James fall without even having drawn his wand, watched Lily beg for her son's life and fall to a flash of green light.

"Magical memory is an odd thing, isn't it," Harry spoke, having paused the events playing out before them. "Third person, omnipresent. This is a combination of his," he gestured the monster whose wand was still raised from having killed his mother, "and my own memories of that night. Take Harry and run! my father calls, and what does mum do? Goes upstairs, puts me in my crib. It has all the makings of a trap, but whose trap is it really, and for whom?"

Time resumed. Lily Potter, stricken, dead. Her son stood in his crib, facing his death with wide eyes and a small frown.

The third Avada Kedavra was cast, and despite knowing Harry had survived it was nonetheless terrifying to watch green death rush to meet him.

The Dark Lord Voldemort collapsed, a dark miasma swirling around him. A strand of mist circled Harry twice, passed through him before returning to the mass that was speeding out the window, heading south.

"I always wondered what that was," Harry said quietly as they watched his younger self escape his crib and clutch at his mother's skirts, "and why twice? Arithmantically insignificant, that."

The scene went black and then they were in a very normal, thank-you-very-much, neighbourhood in Surrey. A half-giant with a motorcycle flew off, a younger Albus and Minerva disapparated, and a baby with a scar on its forehead sat up in its basket on the doorstep.

"Leaving a baby on a doorstep in November, not your smartest move, Headmaster. Illegal, too, in both worlds. As is holding my Gringotts key as my magical guardian while failing to involve yourself in my life."

Little Harry stumbled out of his basket, upending it over himself. A cat yowled distantly, trees rustled in the biting wind. It did not drown out the quiet sound of gut-wrenching sobbing coming from under the basket.

The peppermint soured in Albus' mouth.

"I am sharing this not because I want to threaten you but because I want you to understand you wronged me, Headmaster. My guardian was adamant I attend Hogwarts as my parents did, instead of sending me overseas. This is the only reason I am here. If you continue to harass, follow, and attack me, it will be my pleasure to leave. Perhaps Master Snape could even find employment elsewhere so that I may continue as his apprentice. Brilliant man, that. Don't you agree, Headmaster?"

The threat came through loud and clear, accompanied by an obvious truth. This was Harry Potter, not Tom Riddle. Riddle would never have shared something so personal, would not have pushed those same points while ignoring other poignant ones.

Harry might act older than his age, and something dodgy was still going on, but possession wasn't it. Because Albus had known Tom Riddle, known him well.

To Walfric, the patient guide to generations of magical minds, Tom Riddle had been his greatest failure and deepest shame. Voldemort, a Dark Lord worse than even Grindelwald, had taken shape under his nose. He would never forgive himself for being so blind to a child whose brilliance had been matched only by his brokenness, and whose rage had ravaged their world.

Grindelwald had been predictable; he'd had a plan, a manifesto, a mission statement. Voldemort's aims had never been clear, a different charismatic speech tailored to every audience with the only true aim held in his name, to flee death. How Brian had failed him!

Yes Percival had intended to use Harry, not as a pawn but as a knight to bring new light to this shadow-war. How blind had he been to those cherished plans crumbling to dust.

They were confronted with the truth.

Harry Potter had arrived his own person, a person moulded by his own experiences, first memories, his own abandonment on a doorstop.

His knight had been shaped by other hands. The boy with his mother's death in his eyes was hardened already, into what he did not yet know.

No wonder he was different. Who could possibly be normal after that?

It seemed he would never stop failing the children in his care.

He turned to apologise, a woefully inadequate expression of his regret. But he was alone.

He blinked and realised he was staring at the white arched ceiling of the hospital wing, his bed curtained off.

"What is it, Poppy?" Minerva sounded harried, "who's hurt? I swear if those Weasleys exploded another bathroom stall, I shall—"

"My apologies Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall. I didn't mean to disturb your date." That was Harry, voice calm and measured, sounding not at all like he had just discussed his childhood trauma with Albus.

Someone coughed, almost a laugh. That must be Severus, only he could express so much sarcasm in one syllable.

The curtain around his bed was pulled back to reveal his staff staring at him in consternation with Harry nowhere to be seen.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sighed, already knowing this headache would likely last until Harry graduated.

"Lemon drop?" he offered. It was all he could think to say.

Noses crinkled in distaste. "No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly. Evidently this was not the moment for lemon drops.

xoxox

Severus sliced through the twine with relish and, because he needed to break the awkward silence between him and his apprentice, he was babbling. "Good, Archie packed Chrysanthemum bulbs, half of these you can deliver to Greenhouse five later."

"Yes sir. Are we going to pretend none of this happened? Really?"

That had been Severus' conniving plan, yes. And he wasn't going to let Potter disrupt his cool. "Oh, Mandrake root, I do not recall having ordered that."

"Archie threw it in for free, sir. Someone ordered and paid but failed to pick it up, and he didn't want it to spoil."

Hmm. Yes, it was already growing soft. What a rare, expensive ingredient. Relatively useless, too, except for a few medical potions. He summoned a book from his shelf and rifled through the index.

Mandrake restorative draught: cures humans of paralysis caused by dark creatures and some curses (see Appendix 274).

Invigorating draught: negates the exhaustion following the full moon (werewolf specific).

Tea: similar to ginger, when seeped for eight minutes it alleviated symptoms of lockjaw (see page 651 of Ha-Hh, Herbal infusions)

Well, that was a rather narrow spectrum of uses. "Do you perchance know of anyone suffering from lockjaw, Mister Potter?"

"No, Master Snape. Do you?" Eyes danced mirthfully while their faces remained otherwise blank. He loved that Potter understood his humour; this apprenticeship would be such a chore otherwise.

"In that case you will devote the next three sessions to learning how to brew these two potions, using the mandrake before it wastes." He could find buyers in apothecaries or St Mungo's directly, it would be no trouble. And it was a good opportunity for Potter to practice working with finicky brews made of expensive ingredients without the actual cost of said ingredients.

Also, should a Basilisk suddenly appear during unexpected repairs to the plumbing, they would have restorative draught on hand for those who did not make direct eye contact. It was almost convenient, if not for the fact basilisks were extinct.

Except, wait, they weren't.

"Where did you get the Basilisk parts you gifted me last Yule?"

Potter had already been taking notes as he poured over the dusty 'Encyclopedia Ingredientarum, Unabridged, Ly-Mi'.

"There might be a gigantic Basilisk somewhere. We had a chat and made a deal."

"Really? How interesting." How had it only occurred to him to ask this now? "How old is this Basilisk?"

"Salazar Slytherin named her Little One, so I'm guestimating a thousand years. A lot of that time was spent in a hibernation state, though."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. Expect the unexpected, it was his latest Potter-mantra. "Does it pose a danger to anyone?"

"That's a very undefined group, Master Snape. Basilisks are dangerous creatures, but this one hasn't killed anyone since 1943."

Why was he making this so difficult? "Look at me, Mister Potter."

Their eyes met, green laughing gently as the child gave a cheeky smile. His own black softened slightly, there was no malice coming from Potter. Only teasing, which would be disturbing if he hadn't compartmentalised the informal camaraderie into a well-ignored corner of his Occlumency.

"Unless someone is a Parselmouth, monumentally stupid and simultaneously an exceptional wards master, we will all remain safe from the basilisk. Does that sufficiently answer your question, sir?"

Severus nodded back, satisfied. He did not want to understand Potter too well. He feared the day that happened would be the same day he lost his mind.

So he shuffled the papers on his desk and tried to ignore the impossible child shuffling his own papers on the smaller desk in the corner, the one Severus had put there just for him.

And at the top of his papers, a note jotted to himself made his good mood vaporise like the fumes off of Wolfsbane, a note that made him Furious with a capital F. Because last week after the fifth delay he had finally found out what the problem with young Mister Goyle was.

Some muggle Intelligence Quotient tests (all the rage right now among muggle psychologists, he'd been assured) had been arranged. Miss Bellatrix and Mister Gregory Goyle had been forcefully summoned to his office. All parties had arrived on time, and Mister Goyle had sat down with the tests while Severus had talked to his sister behind a silencing ward.

It had only gone downhill from there.

xoxox

"You mean to tell me Miss Goyle, that your brother has been taking calming draughts from age six? Daily?" The 'you are completely moronic' was not only implied but written so starkly across his face that Bellatrix was cowering against the wall, having already run out of steps to take back.

"Sir—" She squeaked, panic in her eyes as they sought out exits.

Severus deflated, his rage folding itself neatly as a fitted sheet in his laundry cupboard. Yes, he had his own supply of sheets, and yes, his assigned elf could fold fitted sheets like only house elves could.

Mentally closing the cupboard door, he took a deep breath and gestured Miss Goyle to sit oppositat

She sat not as a pureblood princess but as a carthorse, strength and stubbornness equal parts of her lineage.

This was not her fault, Severus reminded himself. She'd barely been ten at the time. He was saving the righteous anger he held on his student's behalf for the true criminals, the parents poisoning their own child. "Tell me how it came to this."

Miss Goyle tossed her head. "I'm the oldest of four, an' my parents had me helpin' out from very early on."

She had been a mature child, Severus read between the lines, and had partially raised her siblings.

"We played a lot outside, sir. Mucked around in the stables. Ran across the farm. Pa built us a treehouse near the chicken coop and I'd watch 'em little 'uns play.

"And one day when Greggy was six he was up there with the others while I was feedin' the chooks, and Greggy loved holding the li'le ones, whenever he could he'd be huggin' 'em and holdin' 'em and 'specially 'Tricia, she was a wee thing of two, loved him for it."

Severus could already see what was coming, like two trains hurtling towards each other on the same track.

He called an elf for tea and checked that Mister Goyle was still working. The boy had ink on the corner of his mouth from where he'd been eating his quill, and was currently avidly studying the ridges in the desk with a dumb sincerity. Severus let him be.

"It happened so fast, sir!" Miss Goyle was crying, clutching her tea. Severus hated nothing so much as the helplessness of a crying child, even more so when it was a girl.

"One moment he was holding Patricia and ever'thin' wa' fine, and then he, he—" she took a shuddering breath before continuing in a whisper. "He looked up to watch the pidg'ns flock past, they're not quiet birds, see, and he was always so easy to distra't, and he looked up and then he let go and Patty was falling and she shrieked so loud the whole way down."

"She bounced, only two years old an' she had so much magic to bounce. She be the best of us all, I knew it ev' then. Marry a clever man and manage a fancy house with on'y two children, pretty pureblood ones who always have clean clothes on and a husself to do the laundry."

Severus tried very hard to soften his face in sympathy as he let her waft around the subject like so many tendrils of mist leading children off the path.

"Pa came running, and Mam, and Greggy was bawlin' and Patty had bounced all the way o'er to the path and had grit in her knees and I's still stuck in the coop with the stupid chooks.

"An' that day Pa decided if Greggy was always so excited and distracted and had too much energy over everything then he should get a bit of calmin' draught, just a drop mind, in his pum'kin juice at mealtimes. So tha's what we did, and kept doing e'ry day since.

"He calmed down jus' a bit at firs', and it was all right, Profess'r sir. But then he got strange over time, he'd just stare off for hours at nothin', an' he's slow to learn new things. It took 'im a year longer than Titus to learn to butter his own toast."

Severus indulged in burying his face in his hands, not even bothering to turn away from his student. Goyle had spent half of his life being constantly drugged, and Severus had only figured it out now. He shuddered to think what might have happened had Potter not made him aware of Crabbe's dyslexia, giving Severus the idea other students of his might have learning difficulties too.

He uncovered his eyes, facing things head on. "Thank you, Miss Goyle, for sharing this with me," he told her, making his voice as soothing as he could. "You should know that none of this was your fault." He saw the protest building in her and tamped it down determinedly. "You were a mere child. You have come clean now, and we can help Mister Goyle get better."

With a stab of his wand through the silencing ward he ended that train of conversation and called Goyle over. His sister spelled the inkstains off him seemingly without even registering and pulled out a chair for the boy.

A diagnostic and conversation with the Goyle heir had revealed nothing whatsoever, and a visit to his parents had shown their only crime to be ignorance: just desperate, stupid parents wanting the best for their children. He couldn't even curse them, they were that honestly confused why their actions of drugging their own growing child had been a bad idea.

The result for now was that Goyle's calming draught dose was being gradually lowered so he'd be 'clean' by mid February, and they'd learn who the real Gregory was under all that calming draught then. Gods willingly there wouldn't be permanent, irreparable damage to the child's brain from the mess of magic and chemistry that had been coursing through him half his life.

Severus was anxious, worried, terrified for the boy. One of his Snakes, and Slytherins take care of their own.

xoxox

A timid knock on the door pulled him back to the present moment. Potter had already made his way over, head cocked for permission to open it.

Severus nodded his assent, whereupon Goyle came in and Potter moved to let himself out.

"Stay, Mister Potter," he barely called out in time. A diagnostic spell later Goyle had been dismissed again and Potter was sitting on his desk, legs swinging. Severus could feel the eyes boring into him, analysing, assessing. That wonderfully Slytherin mind contemplating all eventualities and choosing a path.

"You wanted me to watch that. Are you doing it daily?"

Severus let Potter finish thinking things through himself, it could only help his apprentice grow. He pretended to grade a paper meanwhile.

"Either you want me to know so that you don't need to send me out every time," Potter began carefully, "or, you want me to treat this as an intellectual problem and see what I can come up with."

They were both clever enough for the unspoken dialogue between them to carry all the meaning, evident only in the smugness of Potter's voice. I was right about Crabbe and Goyle not being stupid, and you think I might be able to help him where you cannot.

Potter's feet stilled, as he dropped his childishness to stand by Severus' as his apprentice. "Alright. What's the verdict? I'll give it my best, ask around a bit."

"Calming draught administered in small doses permanently from age six because he was easily distracted as a child. He will be fully weaned by February; there is no precedent."

Potter whistled long and loud. It conveyed the desperation and weariness that echoed in Severus' quite accurately. "Wow, some people are stupid. So, hyperactive unfocused child receives a depressant, is that a magical thing? The muggles would have prescribed a stimulant. Six years of depressant on a growing brain, that's some serious sh— some seriously shoddy parenting."

Severus smirked, he had grown to enjoy these moments between them where Potter dropped his childish mask and spoke as the extremely clever, knowledgeable albeit small person he was. He let the informality simmer in the air between them, deluding himself with the feeling they might some day be good friends. He would share a Butterbeer or a bourbon, and a laugh with the lad.

In the churchyard in Godric's Hollow, James Potter was rolling in his grave.

Potter wasn't done thinking aloud. "I know some muggle doctors, though I'm not sure the amphetamine Greg probably needs is on the market yet. If we can't get him a legal prescription over the NHS there's always the school alchemy fund. If we dust off the old equipment and cast some nice wards to protect from explosions we can make it ourselves. It's been a while but I was a fair hand at chemistry back when."

Potter blew a strand of hair from his face and pulled four notebooks from one pocket.

Severus suppressed his incredulity and envy at the space-expansion charms on something as flighty as a child's robes. Also, what had Potter just said? "You want to make methamphetamine here, in the castle? And you think this will help Goyle?"

Are you mad?

"Not Meth," Potter said with utter scorn. "But Amph? Yeah, sure."

He was mad. Also, he was twelve, had he started learning chemistry in the cradle?

Severus was no longer so certain that asking Potter had been the right idea, although his suggestion was certainly unique. If only he could remember the name of that muggle-wizard doctor, the one who had helped Pomona's Miss Bankhill earlier in the year. But for the life of him the name kept dancing on the tip of his tongue, teasing him. He scowled to himself. Was this the first sign he was getting old? If so, he wanted a refund. Life was awful enough without premature dementia.

He gave up. It wasn't like Potter could make things worse. He began actually grading the essay, a disaster from Flitwick's apprentice Gavins. The girl was going to fail half her NEWTs if she kept going at this rate.

Gods, he missed his friends down at the Admiral Duncan, maybe Mark would know what to do for Goyle? Patience, he reminded himself. Let raw wounds scab over first. He had time.

xoxox