Never Done

Chapter 12

Potter – blasted Potter – left. Or, more accurately, Snape forced him from his quarters, a blast of anger bursting from him in chaotic, uncontrolled magic. Where's my wand, damn it? He wanted to blast the boy's denims to bits, banish every trace of the boy from his quarters. He felt… so… violated. How dare the boy invade his rooms? How dare he? Arrogant, conceited, bastard – just like his father! Everything belonged to him as a matter of bloody right! He had no right to be here! He had no right!

Snape forced himself to stand still, to control his breathing, to unclench his fists. He focused on breathing, telling himself to stand down! It frightened him, this lack of control. He shouldn't have to invoke calm. Calm was his normal demeanor. Where was his control? He focused on slowing down his heart, telling it that there was no threat worth its racing. He focused on loosening tightened muscles, at which point, the need for something to sit upon became urgent, lest he fall down. He moved shakily to the sofa, nearly collapsing onto it, thoroughly drained.

It took a long time before he recovered enough to stir from his initial position, though he had not fallen asleep, merely sat as if boneless, head thrown against the back of the sofa, looking at nothing. Finally, his energy began to return, though he certainly felt the worse for wear. His eyes finally focused on bookshelves that flanked the fireplace, and he absently noted the pattern with which they were filled – a full shelf here and there, gaps between sets of books in other places, completely empty shelves, especially near the top, dominating. He turned his head to look around. His study was in shambles, books, papers, clothing, even pillows torn and scattered around the room. Apparently his blast hadn't been strong enough to displace heavier things.

He sighed, stood, and went to pull his wand from the pocket of his robe, only to realize No robe. No wand. He groaned in frustration – both at his lack of a wand and at the evidence of his… Tantrum. Face it, Severus. That's what it was.

Frontal lobe damage.

Frontal lobe damage be damned! You will contain yourself!

How he longed for a talk with Dumbledore! He doubted talking with Minerva would help him put things in perspective as well as talking with Albus would have. He couldn't bloody well march up to Minerva's office and demand his wand back so he could set his rooms to rights. Anger shifted to embarrassment and shame. Oh, lord – what if she comes down to check on me? If he had a wand – even Potter's wand – he could cast a single, simple spell to set things right. He doubted he could carry it off wandlessly, between the exhaustion from his rage and the fact he was still recovering. He raised a hand and murmured, "Evanesco!" aiming it toward a pile of torn papers. Nothing. "Reparo!" Nothing, save a slight movement. He sighed. Well, that was to be expected. Before he could get trapped in self-recrimination, he set about cleaning up the mess as best he could without magic.

Some time later, tired and more than a little disgusted with himself, he called for a house elf to bring him afternoon tea. There was a crack of apparition…

"Kreacher! What - ?"

The elf gave a jerky bow. "Master Snape called for a house elf, sir."

"Why aren't you at Grimmauld Place?"

"Master Harry Potter is here, sir. Master Harry needs Kreacher, so Kreacher comes to help."

"When…?"

"Kreacher comes the day of the big wizard battle. Kreacher fights the bad wizards!" The elf drew himself up, a glint of pride in his eyes.

Snape stared at him. "You… Why?"

"Master Harry fights for all magical beasts and beings. Kreacher and the elves of Hogwarts help."

Snape gaped at the elf, caught himself at it, and struggled to find something to say. It was nearly unprecedented for any other being or beast to voluntarily get mixed up in conflicts between wizards, no matter how large or pervasive. The house elves had never, in all of wizarding history, taken part in any conflict. Never. "I… I hope all is well…"

Kreacher's face softened a bit. "Pickins is no longer serving Hogwarts. Pickins has gone to his reward."

"… My condolences to… to all of you."

"Pickins is buried with the heroes of Hogwarts. Master Harry insisted," Kreacher said.

There it was again – Potter, blasted Potter, involved in, intruding on, everything… as if he had the right.

Well, maybe he does, some part of him admitted, in this, at least. He tried to tell that part of him to shut up, but it chided him back, noting, It was the right thing to do.

Still not his prerogative.

The other side of him maintained a pointed, eloquent silence.

"Kreacher… tea?"

"Yes, Master Snape." The elf bowed and disappeared with a crack, returning shortly with a tray laden with tea, milk, honey, and finger sandwiches, and pattered about, fussing over laying the table formally, until Snape ordered him out. Snape missed the sly, calculating look the elf cast him before he popped back to the kitchen.

He ate, then returned to his bedroom for a desperately-needed nap – only to be confronted with Potter's denims again. He hesitated, picked them up by two fingers as if they were one of Hagrid's disgusting experiments in breeding, and dropped them to the floor, then lay down and ordered himself to sleep. The denims bothered him. Still. Unbidden images of Potter shinnying out of his denims, pulling off a shirt, leaving him only in his smalls came to him, interspersed with the recollection of Potter wanking in near silence, in the infirmary. He groaned and turned over to lie on his stomach, then flipped back when he realized he was rutting against the mattress.

Clear your mind! he ordered himself. Control your emotions!

Merlin!

That brought him to Occlumency lessons with Potter… glaring into the boy's face, dragging him bodily up off the floor, grabbing him by the neck of his robes and yanking him close enough to Legilimize him… close enough to…

No!

He forced himself to recite potion recipes by heart until he fell asleep.

…oooOOOooo…

"Potter! How are you? How is Severus?"

Harry stopped short of the main entrance. "Oh – I'm… I'm feeling better, Headmistress."

"How is Severus?"

"Uh…"

"Is he resting?" The question was accompanied by a soft, skeptical snort.

"It… I don't know exactly. I… I needed to go for a walk." He gestured toward the door. "I thought I'd go see Hagrid." He had no intention of seeing Hagrid – he just needed to get out of the castle, clear his mind, get some perspective.

"He's not wandering the castle, is he?"

"Last I saw, he was in his quarters, Professor. And he didn't look ready to go anywhere." That much, at least, was true.

"Humph." McGonagall frowned at him suspiciously. "Fine, Potter. Do try to stay out of trouble, won't you? And don't go too far. And no magic!" she reminded him.

He nodded in agreement, and pulled open the door, blinking in the sudden sunlight that made him wince in momentary pain. He paused just outside the doors to give his eyes time to adjust, then took off down the broad stairs to the grounds, heading toward the Black Lake and Dumbledore's tomb.

He'd come here the day after the battle, to restore Dumbledore's tomb from the damage it took at Voldemort's hand, and to return the Elder Wand. He felt the need for Dumbledore's counsel now, missed him keenly, wondered what he'd say if Harry got up the nerve to confess his confusing feelings toward Snape.

He imagined Dumbledore's eyes would twinkle, but that he'd caution Harry against getting too close to the prickly potions master… not to expect too much from the man, if he tried. "Professor Snape is a difficult man at the best of times," he suspected Dumbledore would say.

So am I.

"He does not trust easily, Harry. He does not give himself easily."

I know that.

"Treat him carefully. I don't want either of you to be hurt."

I'll be careful.

"I'm trusting you, Harry."

He wondered if Snape trusted him. He snorted. Obviously not. Was that what he wanted? Trust?

At least that.

H reached the lake and planted himself on the ground, sitting with his back against the cool marble of Dumbledore's tomb, facing the lake. The sun was warm, but it never did get hot, this far north, and this high up.

How do you gain someone's trust? How do you gain Snape's trust?

By being reliable… by being consistent… by being honest…

It was odd. Of all the people he'd ever known, there were few who had been honest with him. Remus, maybe, though even Remus had wanted to keep things from him, thinking that would protect Harry somehow. And as much as he had trusted Dumbledore, the man had not exactly been open and honest with him… had kept things from him, not only to supposedly spare him, but also to be strategic in the fight against Voldemort. He supposed he couldn't blame the man, but it was hard to be completely all right with having been manipulated – even if he did survive the experience.

He remembered Snape's reaction when Dumbledore finally told him that Harry would have to die. I thought we were protecting him… Snape had looked horrified, sounded horrified. And though, when Dumbledore asked, Snape had as good as denied coming to care for Harry, casting his Patronus and allowing Dumbledore to think it was Lily he was thinking of, that didn't entirely explain the look on Snape's face, or his horror and anger.

Did he care about me? The longing for that made Harry's chest hurt. What do I want from him?

He wondered why he felt these… things … for Snape, wondered why he was having a hard time pinning down what it meant.

He picked at the grass as he sat and thought, running his hands across the tops of the blades, allowing them to tickle his palm, running his fingers through them as he'd run his fingers through Snape's hair while he'd been comatose. Snape would be furious if he knew, he thought with a wry smile.

He'd never done such a thing before. The closest he'd come was scratching behind Padfoot's ears. And Sirius was… something between an uncle and a brother, he thought, his feelings for his godfather not quite those toward Ron… not quite as respectful as, say, his respect for Lupin. He imagined that, had his parents lived, had he grown up knowing all of them, Lupin would have been the wise uncle he'd have confided in, and Sirius the person he'd go to for mischief and fun. As it was, the closest he had had to a father was probably Arthur Weasley, who treated him almost like his own sons. And Dumbledore… Dumbledore would have been a grandfather, he supposed.

But Snape… where did he fit in the family structure Harry was creating in his mind? He imagined Snape would always have been that dark, compelling other – different enough to always capture his attention, mysterious, magnetic.

Harry grunted. If he'd grown up with his parents and Snape had been around – as unlikely as that seemed, given the enmity between him and James – he'd still find himself seeking Snape out… trailing after him… annoying him, no doubt… wanting… something. And being tossed out on his ear, no doubt, just like now.

Was there any way to earn Snape's respect? His trust? His – Harry took a deep breath – his friendship?

His mother had done it.

He reviewed the memories Snape had given him, turned them over in his mind as if examining them in Dumbledore's Pensieve, searching for patterns and insight. She had been kind… and non-judgmental… But in the end, she had not forgiven Snape one slip, one harsh word, had not seen past the word to consider circumstances, had not seen Snape in the context of their entire history together, or in the context in which he'd uttered the unforgiven word, had rejected him. She was rejecting Snape for his companions, too, Harry knew – for his increasing involvement with the people who would go on to become Death Eaters… but she'd had more influence than she had known, could have turned him to another path, if her friendship had remained true. When she rejected him, she took away the only thing of true value that he had, and left him seeking friendship elsewhere… no matter that it was false.

Harry had the advantage of seeing more than she had – seeing the man Snape became – a person of incredible courage and integrity, who devoted his entire adult life to others, not just as a teacher, but as a warrior, alone, accepting his solitude and the misunderstanding of others in order to protect the very persons who judged him unworthy. It brought tears to Harry's eyes, just thinking about it – how he'd misjudged Snape, thought him untrustworthy, called him "coward". Nothing could be further from the truth. He had lived a life of courage every minute of Harry's existence, and before… had protected the child he should have hated, should have rejected… who hated and rejected him. The injustice of it made Harry's chest ache.

"I'm so sorry, Professor," he whispered. "I can never, never make it up to you."

He felt so hopeless and helpless in the face of their former antipathy that he almost gave up. Almost decided he should just leave… leave the man alone… stay out of his way… get out of his life and let him find peace… Almost. But the drive to somehow make it up to the man, and the irresistible need for… something… kept him rooted to the spot, to Hogwarts, to wherever Snape was. He could practically feel his heart tugged in the man's direction, and he knew he could not do it – could not leave without trying to… to give something back. Not that he had anything worthwhile to give…

He didn't know how long he sat there, alternating between hope and despair, but eventually, the sun's descent made itself known in the chill air. It was time he got back to the castle, and supper. He hoped Snape could make it to the Great Hall all right on his own. He rose, shook out his stiffness, and turned to go find out.

…oooOOOooo…

Twenty-plus years of living with the rhythm of Hogwarts' daily schedule brought Snape awake shortly before suppertime, satisfied and reassured by the resumption of that automaticity. Without much thought, he went to his bathroom to wash up, the soaps, lotions, and potions with which he had always stocked his personal grooming space so familiar as to be beneath notice. Still on automatic, his mind already listing things to discuss with McGonagall, he went to his wardrobe to fetch a robe, forgetting that he had earlier decided his clothes wouldn't be there.

His robes were, in fact, there, on the left side of the wardrobe. On the right hung shorter robes, black trimmed with Gryffindor red. Looking down, he saw unfamiliar clothing folded neatly on the shelf below the robes, and a small pair of boots beneath those, on the floor of the wardrobe. He gripped one of his own robes with a shaking hand. I don't have time for this! he thought with a growl. Forcing it from his mind, he turned his back on the wardrobe and threw his robe over his shoulders, buttoned his waistcoat, and yanked on his sleeves. His eyes roamed restlessly over his room, noting things subtly out of place, but approximately as he would have arranged them himself. A leather-bound book sat on the nightstand next to his bed – no doubt something Potter had contaminated his quarters with. What on earth could the boy have been reading? A quick Tempus indicated he had best hurry if he did not wish to make an entrance at supper. He glared at the book. Later, he promised it threateningly.

Later, he would demand an accounting from Potter – and from McGonagall. What had the woman been thinking, allowing the boy into his quarters? Did she know he had been rifling through Snape's belongings? Surely not! A student would never be allowed such… intimacy.

Not a student, some part of him noted.

Shut up! he replied.

…oooOOOooo…

Snape walked through the tunnel under the Black Lake, long legs eating up the distance, reveling in the fact that he was blessedly alone, at last, without minders or nursemaids hovering over him. That he was still here at all was something he had not yet had time to contemplate, but this was easy – pacing familiar corridors, heading to the Great Hall… The path there was replete with reminders of the battle. Dust hung suspended in the air, and sounds of stone grinding on stone echoed, bouncing from wall to arched ceiling high overhead, back to wall, in a confusing cacophony that made it hard to think, let alone make sense of the din. He refused to look at the floor, refused to notice stains and shadows. He glanced to his left as the approached the Great Hall, and stopped, stunned by the appearance of stone staircases hanging drunkenly in places, and grinding in uncertain movement in others. Good god, how damaged had the castle been, that, months after the battle, this was still her condition? Mind cataloging damage and repair progress, things to be checked on – Were the basic wards up? – he quickened his pace, paused to consider using the faculty entrance to the Great Hall, and dismissed that, given the faculty was apparently using House tables rather than the head table.

As he neared the Great Hall, one of the doors at the front entrance opened, and Potter slipped through. Head down, the boy did not notice him. They reached the Great Hall at the same time, and he watched as the boy's eyes tracked their way from his shoes to his chest, then met his eyes. Potter paled, then flushed.

"Good evening, Professor," he said. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something else, but ducked his head away, and turned to push open the doors to the Great Hall. Snape glared at the back of his head as he followed the boy into the Hall.

It was disorienting to find the hall filling with adults, rather than eleven to eighteen year old students, no high-pitched squeals among the babble, no complaints of unfair treatment, no hexes and jinxes and bullying to watch out for, no need to monitor, really, except that would require Snape to alter a lifetime of suspicion and vigilance. He searched the growing crowd around the Gryffindor table for signs of trouble, not letting down his guard, irritated when he realized he was watching Potter's back protectively, lest someone make a move to harm the boy.

There have been threats… the boy had said.

Before he got to the Ravenclaw table, where Sprout and McGonagall already sat in conversation, someone cast a transfiguration spell on the bench again, dividing it in two, with an armed chair between the two halves, obviously meant for him. He stifled a surge of annoyance, acknowledging that clambering over a bench to seat himself for dinner would probably tax his balance and muscle strength. He wasn't quite ready for that, yet. He nodded greeting at Minerva and Pomona, and watched as Potter hesitated, then took the bench to his right, edging only slightly further away than he had sat at the noonday meal. He grimaced, then pulled the chair out and sat himself.

Thankfully, Potter kept to himself over dinner. If he needed something, he asked one of the other professors to pass it. He did not intrude on Snape's space, and spoke only when spoken to.

"I noticed the castle is still in a state of disrepair," Snape said to McGonagall. "You will let me know what I can do to help?"

"If you and Potter can see to the hexes and traps in the dungeons, Severus, that will be a big help. We don't seem to be able to get any further than your quarters – and even that, we needed Potter's help to accomplish. He seems to be able to sense where these things are, and how to dismantle them safely."

Snape glanced sideways at the boy, who kept his head down, but had a thoughtful look on his face. Snape forbore from making the cutting remark that flew to his lips – something about Potter having hitherto unknown talents, or any talents whatsoever. "Whatever you need, Professor," was the boy's only response.

Snape wasn't sure what the point of having them both manage the task, with only one wand between them, but supposed that if Potter could sniff out the traps, he, Snape, could commandeer the boy's wand to dispel the hex or jinx. He nodded at Minerva in acquiescence.

"Kingsley would like to meet with you, now that you're up and about," she said. "He'll be here for breakfast tomorrow. I'll see you both in my quarters after that." He nodded again.

Supper continued with general discussion of the castle's repairs, primarily related to readiness for the upcoming term, which would clearly have to be delayed. As he got up to leave, Pomfrey called for his attention. "I'll see both of you forthwith," she said, nodding to include Potter.

Potter hesitated a moment, then nodded and rose as well. Snape spared him a look, then turned and led the way out of the hall. When he would have turned to take the most direct route to the infirmary, Potter grabbed his elbow.

"Not that way. The staircases that way are too dangerous after dark, and that side of the hall is too broken up to risk it. We need to go this way," and led Snape to the right, rather than to the left. Snape would have been irritated by the circuitous path the boy led him on, were it not for the precariously balanced stones and occasional missing flagstones they skirted around. In addition to the wall sconces, Potter kept his wand lit and pointed at the floor, and paused every so often to listen for shifting stone. Snape assumed the accident that had fractured his skull was making him overly cautious, but he could hardly blame him for that. He followed in Potter's wake, annoyed at being dependent on the boy picking their path, watching Potter step lightly and carefully through the castle.

Poppy examined Potter first, narrowing her eyes as she waved her wand over his head. "You've hit your head on something again, Potter, what happened?"

The boy looked confused, then shot a guilty look at Snape, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, impatient to return to his quarters. "Uh… I… I think I just bumped into something – wasn't watching where I was going."

Poppy snorted skeptically, and gave him a lecture on taking care of his "thick skull", while tutting over what Snape was sure was the slight jostling the boy must have taken when he pushed the boy out of his room. Potter winced as she felt the back of his skull, but said nothing, keeping his eyes down. She handed him a vial of pain killer, anyway. "You'll likely have a head ache tonight. No magic for another day or two, yet, Mr. Potter. Do not make me set an inhibiting spell on you."

"No. I won't. I promise."

She "humphed" and turned to Snape. Potter hung about uncertainly, despite Snape's glare. Poppy seemed pleased with what her diagnostic spells showed her. "You've rested. That's good. Keep it up and you'll be right as rain in no time, Severus. Keep your use of magic to a minimum for a while. Using too much could set you back." The boy shot him a glare back, at that.

"No need to worry on my account, Poppy. I'm perfectly capable…"

She interrupted him with a sniff. "You'll be perfectly capable when I say you are, Severus Snape, and not a minute before!" Her stern words were belied by her gentle pat on his arm. She dismissed them, handing Snape a vial of Calming Potion, cautioning him about it use, to his evident irritation. Harry understood that, and even thought Snape was only just as irritated as he'd have normally been, no more than his usual, acerbic self. She reminded them to return nightly until told otherwise, and Snape turned to leave the infirmary, his robes billowing about him satisfactorily.

Potter double-stepped to catch up to Snape, and turned to the left at the bottom of the staircase, rather than to the right.

"Where do you think you're going?" Snape asked.

"Library," he replied, without meeting Snape's eyes.

"Don't lie to me, Potter!"

"I'm not!" His head shot up and he met the Potion Master's dark gaze for a moment before tearing his eyes away, still frozen in place, out of habit, as if Snape had the right to detain him.

He's hiding something, Snape thought, but he did not have the energy – or perhaps the will, right now – to confront him. He glared at the boy, whirled, and took the stairs down another flight, to the tunnel that led to Slytherin territory.

Harry continued on to the library. It was only partly pretext – he did not want to walk down to the dungeons with Snape and risk that the man would forbid him to use the Slytherin dorms, but he also wanted something to read, if only to keep his mind occupied.

The library was deserted, Madam Pince being away this week to visit relatives, before returning to the task of cleaning and repairing the library, with its vast collection. She'd nearly had a nervous breakdown, confronting the task, and McGonagall had sent her away, assuring her that the elves and Maintenance Department workers would do nothing to harm the precious books, nor attempt to repair damaged volumes.

The library doors opened at his touch, a tingle of magic flowing from his fingers to the doors and back. He shook his head at the evidence that the battle had flowed even here, but there were signs of progress, as well, the tables and chairs and study nooks nearly all restored. He avoided one stack of bookshelves, swaying precariously as if in a breeze, and headed down the left-hand aisle, toward the Forbidden Section. He slipped under the rope that cordoned it off from the main collection. Pausing just a moment, in case some general alarm would be set off, he moved purposely to a section he had glimpsed in earlier, illicit forays, made under his invisibility cloak.

He snorted and a small smile appeared on his face for a moment. Hermione would think I've gone batty, he thought. Probably check me for fever. His fingers traced over the volumes, leaving a trail of evidence that wiped dust from titles: Hogwarts: A History, Focus on the Founders: A History of Hogwarts' Houses, Education in Wizarding Britain, Methods of Magical Pedagogy, Legal Matters in Wizarding History, Leaning on Ley Lines… He paused at that one, and pulled it partly out of alignment with the others. He'd come back to it. But that was not the tome he sought… if he was remembering rightly…

Here it is! Invoking the Stone: Magic and the Sentience of Inanimate Things.

He stuck the potions knife through his belt, careful to angle it so as not to stick himself, stuck his wand up his sleeve, and pulled out the heavy tome, careful of its tooled-leather binding. What had captured his attention the first time through, he thought, was the imprint of the silhouette of Hogwarts Castle as seen from the Black Lake, from the direction the first years approached it in the boats, led by Hagrid. It was a unique perspective, seen only that once, typically – Hogwarts silhouetted against the night sky, seen from the middle of the lake. He would never forget it.

Holding the book firmly in one hand, in case it was animated, he opened the front cover. Magic flowed from the frontispiece to his fingers and back. He paused, smirking and shaking his head, then turned to the index, and ran a finger down the listings: Sentience Defined, Magical Constructions, Sympathetic Magic, The Unique Case of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, A Cautionary Tale, Invoking the Stone…

This could be it... the explanation he was seeking... the reason the castle felt different to him now, why it responded to him. He needed to figure it out, find out if it was dangerous, though... it didn't feel dangerous...

He was only halfway down the listing when a hand reached around his chest, grabbed him by the front of his robe, and yanked, dragging him, yelping in protest and shock, up the aisle and out of the library. He reflexively clutched the ancient tome in one hand, trying to maintain his hold on it as he struggled, his other hand clawing at one hand that held him captive, gasping for breath as it twisted his robe tighter about his neck.