The usual disclaimers - Jo Rowling's characters and world, my plot, just for fun. Also, I'd be remiss if I did not thank my friend Jill for her eagle eye on this and several other chapters, catching my typos. Thanks, Jill!

Never Done

Chapter 11

Harry stopped just outside the door Snape slammed in his face. He raised a hand to the dark surface, feeling the ward's welcome as a prickle across his palm, moved forward until he leaned on the door next to his hand. It was cool against the scar on his forehead, and he nearly kissed the door in gratitude. Instead, still leaning against it, he turned and slid down to the floor, adrenaline from his confrontation with Snape leaching from his system as his body reacted to the end of the crisis, leaving him shaken and drained. Elbows on his knees, throbbing head in his hands, he sat without thought for a while before his brain kicked into gear again.

He'd have to find a place to stay – Ravenclaw, he assumed. What were you expecting? That he'd let you kip on his sofa? He should ask McGonagall. Only… would she say that, since Snape was out of the infirmary, it was high time Harry left Hogwarts? He shifted uncomfortably at that. He had no desire to leave. Unbidden, he had an image of himself skulking around the castle at the age of thirty-five, slipping from shadow to shadow, unwilling to leave, unable to openly stay, haunting the place like some strangely corporeal ghost. He supposed he could take up residence in the Chamber of Secrets. The thought of haunting the school from Myrtle's bathroom, the cold, wet stink of the Chamber, with the basilisk's body decaying slowly over the years, caused him to shiver, and then he laughed in what he knew would become hysterical tears if he didn't control himself.

Or… he could go further down the Slytherin corridor to the Common Room and dorm… that was probably better. He wondered if the house elves would tell the Headmistress he was using those rooms… wondered if they'd bring him his things… because he could not go back into Snape's quarters to retrieve them himself – that much was clear. He wondered if Snape would banish or Incendio the lot, in his anger, and had a moment's pang for his schoolbag and the Marauder's Map tucked into its front pocket… and a stronger sadness at the thought that the book of pictures of his parents that Hagrid had given him his first year might be a casualty of Snape's ire. Unless he looked first. Then he'd probably keep all the pictures of Harry's mum, his beloved Lily, and Incendio every trace of James and Harry Potter.

He sighed. First, he had to get up off this floor. He got stiffly to his feet, wincing as he worked the chill and cramps out of his back and bottom, and looked right and left. Up? Or further down? Not wanting to see anyone just then, he chose right – further down – and set off, a hand trailing along the stone walls, catching the tingle of the castle's magic in his fingertips as he went.

He felt like this. Like he was connected to the castle's life blood, somehow. He'd first been aware of it as he fought Voldemort in the Great Hall – a presence at his back, surrounding him, something more added to his magic, a depth not available to him before. He thought it was the magic that had called him back, after he'd so nearly died… or had he actually died? He hadn't worked that out yet, too busy watching friends in the infirmary, to busy with funerals and answering the Ministry's summons, too busy worrying about Snape.

Well, there was nothing to worry about on that account. Snape was definitely back… definitely a survivor, definitely retained enough memory to recall that he hated Harry, definitely retained his magic. And he had no use for Harry, that was clear. Harry tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach at that.

A pulse of magic pulled him out of his musings as he passed through… a thick spot in the air in the corridor. Something flashed at the edges of his vision, and without thinking, he raised his hand and snatched it out of the air, his Seeker reflexes catching the glint of it in time. Without pausing, he continued, and looked down, only partly surprised to see the silver potions-preparation knife in his hand.

Traps and hexes, McGonagall had said. He stopped and looked back at the space he had just pushed through, and squinted as if he'd be able to see the thickened air, but he saw nothing. He considered the corridor around and ahead of him, looked at the knife once more, and turned back down the corridor, still tracing the walls with his hand.

Nothing else impeded his progress, though several times, he thought he saw the shimmer of some half-formed spell dissipate as he neared it. Finally, he reached the door to the Slytherin common room.

Password, he thought, and laid his hand against the door. "Half-Blood Prince," he murmured, and the castle adjusted and adapted around him, setting that as the password as it had Snape's quarters. Harry pressed his hand to the door in gratitude, and felt the castle respond.

He hadn't had time to think about this – about what it meant. He supposed it meant he was bound to the castle, somehow, now that he'd given his life to defend her and her people. Home, he thought, and the castle breathed around him.

The door to the Slytherin common room opened, and Harry stepped through cautiously. It was dark, and cold, and felt empty. He took out his wand, chiding himself for not having done so earlier, and muttered, "Lumos maxima!" raising his wand to look around. "Incendio," ne murmured, and torches set in sconces around the walls lit, dispelling the darkness, though not enough to be truly comforting. Harry considered a moment, then whispered, "Kreacher?"

There was a crack, and Kreacher appeared, squeaking in alarm when he saw where they were. "Master Harry Potter, sir!" he said, his eyes wide. "What are you doing in the House of Slytherin?"

"You must know this place, Kreacher. Regulus called you here, sometimes, didn't he?"

The elf nodded, his ears flapping, and wrung his hands.

"Kreacher…" Harry kept his voice low and reassuring. "It's alright. Nothing here can hurt you. No one is here but us." Actually, Harry was not completely sure of either of those statements, but that was exactly why he needed Kreacher.

"I'm going to be staying here a while, Kreacher, only… could you help me… just… check it out and make sure… ah… just make sure there aren't any rats or… you know… things… about? I don't fancy being gnawed on in my sleep."

Kreacher looked appalled. "Rats are not to gnaw on Harry Potter!" he said, his ears trembling in indignation.

"Er – right, then," Harry said. "So – would you mind helping me check?"

"Kreacher could fetch Mrs. Norris…"

"No! No – uh… I'm sure she's got enough to do, keeping track of the Maintenance workers for Filch. Uh… let's just the two of us… do you mind? I've had enough of cats for a lifetime."

"Of course, Master."

Harry winced. "Kreacher, I've asked you to call me Harry. Just Harry. Could you…"

"Of course, Master Harry," the elf said, and Harry sighed. "Alright, then." He rubbed his hands on his jeans. "So – rat hunting. Should we begin here, or go to the dorms?"

"Whatever you wish, Master Harry," Kreacher said. Harry was certain he was doing that deliberately – making Harry make the decisions, give the orders. He supposed the elf felt more comfortable with that than with making choices himself, but couldn't help wishing Hermione was here to help him phrase things right. "Ok. Let's start at the back and work our way forward."

"As you wish, Master."

Harry threw up his hands and gave up. He'd face Hermione's disgust later, but he simply did not have the energy for this right now. He walked to a desk against one wall, where he laid the silver knife he had snatched out of the air, and led the way to the furthest of the Slytherin dorm rooms. Unlike Gryffindor House, the Slytherins changed dorms each year. The first years were furthest from the common room; seventh years, closest. This assured that first years had the most supervision on their way to and from the common room and the door to the corridor, but Harry couldn't help thinking it would be rather intimidating to walk to the furthest reaches of the dungeon.

He expected it to get darker and dingier as he moved further in, braver now that he had Kreacher to cover his back, but he was surprised to find that the reverse was true – the rooms furthest from the common room were lighter, and he realized they were both nearer the surface of the cliff-side into which Hogwarts was built, and furthest toward the outside of the castle. The benefit was greater light and airier rooms. The drawback seemed to be that they were slightly more damp, but Kreacher waved his wand, already lighting a fire in the fireplace, and dispelling the musty, unused smell that had accumulated since the Slytherins had left for home. There were no mattresses – sensible, given the damp that would accumulate over the summer.

Harry and Kreacher investigated the quarters, found them inhabited only by a few spiders, and without any traps or hexes that either of them could tell. Leaving the fire to burn away the chill and damp, they proceeded to investigate each of the dorms, second through seventh. It wasn't until they reached the sixth year dorm that they found any jinxes, and those were minor – of the sort the outgoing sixth years might have left for the incoming group: itching powder, exploding snaps, and – giving Harry a moment of panic – Peruvian instant darkness powder, set in a small cauldron atop the door to one room so that it would fall onto the first person to enter. Kreacher dispelled the cloud of darkness almost before Harry's alarmed cry left his mouth.

"Nasty sixth years," the elf said, but Harry thought he caught a twinkle in the elf's eyes, making him wonder if Regulus Black had set the same trap when he'd gone to school here.

The seventh year dorm was surprisingly free of traps, hexes and jinxes, and Harry worked out that first through fourth years may have been too well-watched by their Housemates to misbehave, fifth years too focused on OWLs, and seventh years too focused on NEWTs and careers to bother, leaving the sixth years to misbehave on their own. No wonder Malfoy got away with so much, their sixth year – no one was watching! No one but me… and Snape.

Draco slept here, he thought, taking one last look at the seventh year dorm. Of course, so had Crabbe and Goyle… He stifled a shudder at that. But then again… so had Regulus. He glanced at Kreacher, conscious of the fake locket bouncing against his chest as they moved on to inspect the common room.

The common room was clear of hexes, but some complex spells held some things in place on shelves, and neither he nor Kreacher could see how to move them. They seemed harmless enough – a portrait of Salizar Slytherin, who watched but said nothing as they worked; a plate with two sculpted, entwined snakes that did not respond when Harry hissed at them in Parseltongue, despite their tails twitching; a small silver matchbox. Finally, Kreacher declared the rooms "rat-free", and offered to set the fire in the common room. Harry nodded distractedly.

"Kreacher… what about this?" he asked, approaching a chest set along one wall.

Kreacher eyed the chest and then Harry. "Master Harry will need his wand," he said in an odd voice.

"Why? What's in it?"

"Only Master Harry will know."

Well, that was confusing! "Something only I will know?" Boggart. It had to be a boggart, didn't it? He looked at Kreacher, who had backed away. "Are you frightened of boggarts, Kreacher? But you know they're not real, right?"

Kreacher just shook his head, his eyes fixed on the chest.

"Kreacher, do you want me to wait? I can take care of it later. You don't have to be here."

"Kreacher must be here to protect Master, even if it hurts Kreacher… even if he dies!"

Harry almost laughed. "Boggarts don't kill people! They only scare you half to – Oh." He eyed Kreacher, wondering what it was that would frighten the elf so. It didn't matter. He should order Kreacher to leave… he should. But the thought of sleeping in Slytherin quarters was unsettling enough on its own, without a boggart nearby. The thought nearly made him ill. He had to banish it, not just contain it.

"Get behind me, Kreacher," he ordered, gesturing abruptly when the elf hesitated to obey. Harry gestured again, and the elf moved to stand behind him, one hand raised toward either the chest or Harry himself. Harry took a deep breath and waved his wand. The lid to the trunk opened, and a black shape rose from within it, looking around. It ignored Harry, though, and focused on the elf peeking out from behind him, swooped down on poor Kreacher… and transformed.

Inferi… a lake in a dark cavern… a sickly-green glow coming from a basin… Kreacher, a locket clutched in his hand, watching his beloved Regulus dragged below the surface of the lake by the dead and undead that Voldemort had placed there to protect one seventh of his soul…

Harry watched in horrified fascination until a thin, shaking hand clutched at his belt and pulled at his sleeve. He looked down into Kreacher's stricken, terrified face, and whirled to face the boggart, throwing his arms wide in a protective gesture, as he'd seen Lupin do, his third year, during a Defense lesson on boggarts. The boggart tried to keep its focus on Kreacher, but Harry planted himself directly in front of its face - in front of Regulus' frightened, painful face… and looked into his… its… eyes, forcing it to change…

To a series of images that flickered almost too fast to follow – Dumbledore falling… Cedric falling… Voldemort falling… Dobby falling… Fred falling… and Snape falling, Snape laying, bloodied and torn, in the Shrieking Shack… but the knowledge of Snape's survival burst forth within him, and he raised his wand, shouting, "Riddikulus!" followed by, "Evanesco!" and the Snape-boggart first turned back to boggart, and then vanished in a burst of dust that, mote by more, twinkled out of existence.

Sounds of distress came from waist level, and Harry turned to find Kreacher sobbing, grasping at the towel he was dressed in, using it to wipe his nose and his eyes. Harry immediately dropped his wand, dropped to his knees, and drew Kreacher into an insistent hug. "You will allow me to hug you, Kreacher! I order you!" he said, as the elf stiffened. Kreacher collapsed in limp relief at that, clutching at Harry's robes and sobbing himself out of tears.

"It's alright, Kreacher. It's all right. I've got you. We both lived you know – all three of us – you and me and Snape… and we avenged them, didn't we? Have I told you how proud I am of you? I know Reg… Regulus would be proud of you, too." He held the elf away from him, then, and said, "Thank you for staying here with me for that. I think I can sleep here tonight, now. I want you to go have a cup of tea in the kitchen and change your towel. And then I want you to come back here and bring me a snack. Alright?"

The elf hiccupped and nodded, finally croaking out, "Of course, Master. Kreacher won't be but a few minutes."

"Take your time," Harry said, but he spoke to thin air, as Kreacher popped out with a resounding Crack! that was far too near Harry's ears for comfort. He shook his head and stuck fingers in his ears to clear the ringing, groaning a little at the pounding in his head, either from the effort of using magic, or from the displacement of air caused by the elf's disapparition. Maybe I can get Kreacher to bring me a head ache potion, he thought, but then realized he'd never seen an elf deliver potions to anyone – except gillyweed, of course. Dobby. His heart echoed with that loss. He sighed, got to his feet long enough to sink onto the sofa he and Ron had sat on, second year, trying to determine if Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin.

Merlin, life was strange! He wondered, fleetingly, what Dudley was doing this summer… what life would be like on Privet Drive… what it would have been like, if Hagrid hadn't shown up at midnight on his eleventh birthday, telling him he was a wizard. Just for a moment, he felt thoroughly disoriented. A wizard! Magic is real. He used magic… Dumbledore, Fred and George, McGonagall, Malfoy, Lupin, Dementors, Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, Stan Shunpike and the Night Bus, dragons, and goblins, and house elves, oh my! his mind sang, and he wondered, for a moment, if he'd fallen down a rabbit hole, and ended up here, in this alternate reality. Wouldn't it be just bloody awful to wake up in his cupboard to find it was all a dream?

And it hit him that, with all the loss and death and injury and pain and fear and horror, he loved this life – loved magic, loved being a wizard, loved every bit of it, loved Ron and Hermione and every single Weasley – even Percy… and Hagrid and the thestrals and McGonagall and … everyone… even Snape. And that realization filled him, chased away the shadows cast by the boggart, and left him… at peace, a smile playing about his lips, and his eyes shining with it, had anyone been there to see.

Kreacher interrupted his musings, popping back in with a tray of tea and something savory that turned out to be stew, which Harry devoured with relish.

"Kreacher, I need to get my things out of Snape's quarters, now that he's back. Do you think you could get them for me?"

Kreacher gave him a sly look that he missed. "Kreacher is not entering professors' quarters without being summoned by the professors," he said, and Harry sighed. He'd suspected as much.

"Could you let me know when he's gone, then – when he's not in his rooms? I don't want to disturb him." He hoped he could fetch his things before Snape lost patience and Incendio'ed them.

"Of course, Master Harry. Will there be anything else?"

"No. Thank you for the stew. It was delicious."

Kreacher bowed and popped out of the room.

Harry cast a Tempus. Four thirty. He had hours, yet, before supper, and no Snape to visit in the infirmary, no potions books to read… He couldn't just sit here, and he was too wound up to take a nap. His fingers itched for his journal, and again he had a moment's panic that Snape would read through the unfamiliar leather tome on his nightstand. Of course, he would! Though, Harry hadn't written anything there about his revelation about his feelings for the man. Thank Merlin! Only… did he still feel that way, or was it all fantasy, enabled by Snape's silence as he lay unconscious? Did those feelings apply to the waking, snarky, real Snape – the one who had thrown Harry out of his quarters?

He recalled the look on Snape's face – furious, frightened – and had the urge to put his arms around the thin shoulders in reassurance. "It's alright, Professor," he murmured. "It'll be alright. You'll see." He shook himself at that, and eyed Salizar Slytherin's portrait. Salizar was studying his fingernails in feigned indifference.

Right. No talking to myself, Harry thought, and, feeling again the lack of his journal, began sorting through things on desks and shelves. He found some parchment – damp, and some ink – dry, and waved a drying spell on the first and a slight Aguamenti minima on the second. While waiting for the dried ink to dissolve and become usable, he searched until he found a quill under a bed in the seventh year dorm, and trimmed and slit it with the knife he'd caught in the corridor. He took parchment, ink, and quill, and dragged a small table in front of the chair nearest the fire, absently chewed on the end of the quill as he thought. After a few moments, he began to write.

I'm not doing this, he wrote. I'm not waiting for you.

I'm not waiting for you to wake, to talk to me, to listen…

I'm not imagining my fingers in your hair, holding your hand, feeling for your pulse.

I'm not rehearsing apologies… not wondering whether your heart beats strongly enough for me to feel it, if my head were resting on your chest.

I'm not thinking of that at all.

I'm not aching for your forgiveness, reading your words in the margins of pages, wishing you'd let me know you.

I'm not living the years over again, living them differently, with respect and admiration and effort this time, wanting your respect… wanting to be a man in your eyes.

I'm not trying to better myself, knowing it's likely in vain, but trying anyway.

I'm not thinking of everything I want from you… want for you… want with you. I'm not thinking of that at all.

I'm not having guilty thoughts about your body – your legs, your calves, your chest, your bits… wondering what it would be like for you to touch me… to allow my touch. I'm not wanking off to the memory of you, then cursing myself afterwards. I'm not taking cold baths to keep myself from doing that. I'm not thinking of you that way at all.

I'm not sleeping in your bed, surrounded by the scents of potions and the feel of your magic, not falling asleep, falling into your memories, falling into my memories of you.

I'm not falling in love with you. How could I be?

I'm not.

I'm not.

I'm not.

He tried to keep the tears from falling onto the page as he wrote, but toward the end, he didn't even care. The ink smudged and blurred, but it didn't matter. It wasn't some Potions essay to turn in. No one would ever read it – not even him. It was just a way to get it out of his system, though his chest ached hollowly, once he was done. He sighed, wiped a hand across his eyes, and sat back, twirling the quill, heedless of the ink stains it left on his fingers. After a while, he left the quill on the table, capped the ink, picked up his wand and the knife, and left the common room to search the castle – for what, he did not know.