Disclaimer: I want Sev. I want him so badly. But he belongs to another. And Harry, who is like a son to me, has more than one other mother. *sighs* I suppose that in a way, he and Sev are related - half-sibs, at the least, being born in the brilliant, genius mind of J.K. Rowling, who holds rights to both of them in a way I never will. But THIS story ... The plot is mine. All mine. I do so hope Sev approves. 3
Imperios all of you into sending me feedback...
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE ROOM OF REQUIREMENT
Despite moving around his room silently, he turned to find the boy watching him.
"About time you woke up," he said mildly, taking in the boy's improved color.
"Where am I?"
"You're in my bed, Potter. And I assure you, the crick in my neck does not thank you for that," he said, without heat, without even his habitual drawl.
"Sorry, Prof…" the boy began, struggling out from under the blankets.
"Stay, Potter. I do not wish to have to pick you up off the floor again."
"Pick me… wh… what?" He sank back.
"Here, drink this." Snape handed the boy a glass. "Take it, Potter," he said impatiently when the boy looked suspiciously at the glass then warily up at Snape. Snape sighed. "It's pumpkin juice, Potter. And a mild restorative," he acknowledged. "I assure you, had I intended to poison you, I would have done so in your sleep."
Amusement and uncertainty fought each other on the boy's face. Amusement won. He took the glass and sipped, watching Snape over the rim. After he drained it, he put the glass back into Snape's outstretched hand. He looked down then, and realized he was not in his clothes but in the black pajamas Snape had worn in the infirmary. Snape snorted silently at the boy's alarm and the flush that reddened his neck and ears. He turned away to hide his amusement, placing the glass on a tray on the bedside table.
"How did I get here?"
Snape turned back. "You don't remember?"
The boy leaned back against the pillows, frowning. "I was visiting Fred and Lupin and Tonks," he said, "and I kept wondering about… and then I thought it might be there… in the shack… so I went to look and… I just didn't expect… I mean, I forgot… I just didn't think… you…" He looked up at Snape, his eyes wide, his breathing quick and shallow, his face paling against the pillow.
Snape moved swiftly to his side and sat on the bed, grasping the boy's thin shoulders.
"Potter – whatever you saw can't hurt you, do you hear me?" He shook the boy lightly. He was not going to go through this again! "You're here. You're safe. Everything is all right."
"It's just… I didn't know." Potter swallowed. "I mean, I saw them bring you back… you… you looked like you were… dead." The boy shuddered and his eyes threatened to turn blank.
"Stop this! Stop it, Potter. It's over. I'm not dead – I'm right here," he said firmly. The boy reached his hands up to Snape's arms, and then leaned forward until his forehead rested on Snape's chest, sagging into him for support.
Snape held his breath and sat stock still. Breathe. He's just a boy. He put one hand on the back of the boy's head, exhaled and shook his head. Then he drew back, held the boy away from him, and looked him steadily in the eyes, struck again by how like Lily's eyes they were, under James' untidy fringe. "You're all right, Potter," he said emphatically, "… and so am I. Now – eat your porridge," he ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the tray on the bedside table. "And – I will be wanting my pajamas back."
A half hour or so later, having assured himself that the boy was steady on his feet, he sent Potter up to his dorm to change, with orders to head immediately back down to the entrance hall. He wanted to get to the bottom of this, whatever the boy thought he was doing heading to the Shack – what the "it" was the boy had gone to find. But he wanted Potter coherent, in control of himself. If he had questioned the boy in his quarters, in a strange bed, in strange pajamas, the boy's disorientation would have continued. He had to snap the boy back to normal, and then hope he would talk.
He nodded approvingly when, some forty five minutes later – How long does it take to brush one's teeth and change? – Potter came clattering down the stairs at his usual semi-reckless pace.
"Here, Professor."
"So I see." He stifled an urge to reach out and straighten the collar of the boy's jacket. "Come," he said, turning to lead the way out of the castle.
"Where are we going?" the boy asked, double-stepping to match Snape's quick pace.
"Hogsmeade."
"What for?"
"Clothes, boy. You look like an…" He was going to say "orphan", but caught himself in time. "…like a bedraggled owl, or something Mrs. Norris dragged in."
"What?" Potter demanded, clearly offended. He looked down at his clothes, ready to defend his attire. Snape saw him take in his tattered sleeves, too-short, too-big pants, and worn trainers before he looked up. "Yeah, well… not too many opportunities to visit a tailor this past year," he settled for, somewhat defensively, as the two neared the gates.
"Indeed. It was not a criticism, Potter, merely an observation. Nevertheless, it must be remedied."
"I will if you will," Potter muttered. Cheeky boy.
Though… he has a point, Snape conceded silently, without slowing his pace. He waved his wand in a complicated series of moves and murmured some words in a sing-song voice, too low for the boy to hear. The gates opened, they slipped through to the road leading to the nearby town, and the gates swung shut behind them.
"One moment," Snape uttered quietly, putting a hand on Potter's arm to detain him. He turned back to the gates, gave another complicated wave, and muttered another spell, punctuated by short pauses, eyeing the air around and above the gates. Satisfied, he nodded and turned back to the road. "Come."
As they walked up the road, deliberately but not too swiftly, as the day was already turning warm, the boy gradually slowed to a halt. "Ah… Professor?"
"What is it?" Snape stopped and turned back.
"I don't have any money. I haven't had time to go to Gringotts, either." He stopped, reddening again.
Snape turned to continue toward town, gesturing the boy to catch up. "That, you can take care of later. Come."
"But…"
"Come." They walked in silence for a moment, the boy a reluctant step behind. "Gringotts," Snape said, "has no quarrel with you, Potter."
"But I…"
"Yes – I am well aware of your actions. However, even the goblins of Gringotts recognize that whatever you were doing had something to do with overthrowing the Dark Lord – if not exactly what that might have been." He looked sideways at the boy, who frowned as he paced by Snape's side.
"Do you know what I was doing, sir?" he finally asked in a low voice.
Snape hesitated. "I have… an idea, Potter." The boy waited. "I presume it had something to do with locating bits of Voldemort's peculiar… collection of treasures."
The boy's mouth twitched, and he nodded. Better.
"Do you remember Tom Riddle's diary, sir? And Dumbledore's ring?"
Snape nodded. "Yes." He eyed the boy curiously. "They are connected to what you were looking for?"
"Yeah. And… we had to find some other things as well."
Snape's step slowed as he thought. "That's why you needed Gryffindor's sword."
"Yeah. We had to kill – I mean, destroy…"
He broke off and they walked on in silence, Snape waiting to see if the boy would go on. When he did not, he asked, "Tell me… what were you looking for in Ravenclaw Tower?"
"The diadem," the boy said after a moment's pause. It was Snape's turn to stop, a puzzled frown on his face. Potter's mouth quirked up in a bit of a satisfied smirk.
"That diadem has been lost for well over seven hundred years, Potter," Snape said, genuinely perplexed.
The boy shrugged and his smile widened, though he looked away to hide it.
Snape regarded him silently a moment. "I take it you found what you were looking for?" he asked dryly. The boy looked up at him and grinned openly.
Snape pondered him a moment. "I see," he said, and stepped forward again. "Well done," he said quietly as Potter matched his step.
"I'm sorry, Professor," the boy said, his innocent voice contradicting his satisfied grin. "Could you repeat that? I didn't hear what you said."
Snape snorted.
The two wizards prowled the shops of Hogsmeade. It was, to say the least, an awkward experience. Each time they entered a shop, there would be a shocked silence, then a hubbub of voices as people in the store whispered or gasped or called to friends who were looking the other way. The shopkeepers refused to accept payment, pushing Snape's hand away when he insisted. "No, no, Professor, Mr. Potter, I couldn't." "It's a pleasure, Mr. Potter… an honor…" "Please, Professor, allow me this one pleasure…"
By the time they left the third shop, both had been pawed and patted far more than either of them cared to repeat. Snape's nerves were sorely tested. Potter looked absolutely grim, alternating between red-faced embarrassment and pale distress. Snape gripped Potter's upper arm and directed him between two shops, off the main road, up to the far end of the town. He led the boy through a gate into a stone courtyard where two goats were pulling at the grass growing between the bricks, then through a back door.
"Where are…" Potter began, then stopped suddenly. "Mr. Dumbledore!" he exclaimed in sudden recognition.
"Potter! Severus!" The barkeep threw down the rag with which he had been mopping the counter – much cleaner than its former grungy appearance. He hurried out from behind the bar, and crushed Potter to him in a hug. Holding the boy away from him, he studied him with twinkling blue eyes. "You could do with some fattening up, boy!" he said – accurately, Snape thought. Then the man turned to Snape. "Severus!" he said warmly, and gripped Snape's arm in greeting. "You could do with some fattening too! The both of you are a couple of scrawny goats!"
"Not here, Aberforth," Snape pleaded in a low voice. "Could we go upstairs? We've had enough attention…"
"Of course, of course. Go on up. I'll fetch some grub."
They headed up the stairs to the barkeep's private residence. Potter seemed to know his way. Ah, Snape thought in sudden comprehension. So that's how he came to be at Hogwarts. Aberforth must have helped the trio in somehow. They'd have been safe here. Aberforth was a member of the Order. He wondered if Potter had known that, or if their meeting had been a happy accident. That must be how the Order ended up at the school, as well…
The barkeep's white-haired head was visible coming up the stairs. Shortly, the three of them were sitting in front of the fireplace, unlit given the heat of the day, tucking into a surprisingly tasty lunch of cold ham and turkey sandwiches on dark rye bread, and ice-cold pumpkin juice. Snape rejected Aberforth's offer of firewhiskey and lifted an eyebrow at Potter until he, too declined. Neither of them was in any shape to imbibe spirits. Snape described their frustrations in procuring clothes and supplies, with the boy supplying details in an annoyed, disgusted voice. Aberforth chuckled, but added, "You can hardly blame 'em, Severus. They see you as bloody heroes, the both of you, bringing down that monster."
Snape shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Potter stared at the floor, putting down his half-eaten sandwich. He swallowed, pushed back the plate, and looked up at the two men, clearly looking for reassurance.
"How do we know?" he asked, voicing Snape's very thought.
"What do you mean, son?" Aberforth asked.
"How do we know he's gone? How do we know he can't come back? He did before. What if… what if there's something else, something we missed?"
Aberforth looked at the boy blankly for a moment. Then his face cleared.
"You don't know," he said. It wasn't a question.
Potter looked up, not quite hopefully. "What?" he asked, rather pleadingly, Snape thought.
"The Order," Aberforth said. "We took care of th' body, lad. That very night. McGonagall was in a right snit, having that vile thing in the school, and who could blame her? Kingsley, Arthur, Molly, Bill, McGonagall, Dung…"
Snape and Potter both reacted to that name with disparaging snorts. Aberforth shot them an admonishing look and went on to name some fifteen or sixteen others.
"Kingsley sent us all owls, those of us who weren't at the castle by then. 'Course, nearly all of us were. Anyway, he wanted as many witnesses as possible. Some folks were all for chopping Voldemort to bits, but Kingsley – he's a good man. He wouldn't have any of it. Said he wanted to be sure the man would damned well burn – here as well as in hell."
Snape couldn't help but nod his head at that, though the boy put down the glass of pumpkin juice he'd picked up, looking sick.
"Plus, he said he refused to allow anything so barbaric. Something we would regret, he said, stooping so low. Not sure I agree with him on that," Aberforth growled, "but he had a point. So after all of us confirmed the body actually was that vile piece of goat dung, we lit a fire – and burned it. And for good measure, we burned that Bellatrix Lestrange nutbag and that arse of a werewolf Fenrir Greyback, too."
Snape himself turned pale at that, but he nodded again. Something in his chest unwound, and he felt himself let go of a fear he had almost forgotten in his concern for Potter since yesterday. Potter, too, looked relieved, though not completely. He looked up at Snape, communicating something that Snape did not, just yet, want to discuss. He shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes at Aberforth. Wait. The boy nodded, but held his gaze. Snape nodded in return. Aberforth did not notice – or if he did, he held his own counsel.
Snape changed the topic, asking about members of the Order and doings at the Ministry. The trio ate at a deliberate, but not swift, pace. Finally they slowed, and Snape and the boy both began shifting in their seats, restless to get back to the castle. Aberforth took note.
"Now – let's get you two back home!" he said, slapping hands down on his knees and looking toward a portrait of a sweet-faced girl over the mantle.
"Mr. Dumbledore," Potter began, stretching out his hand in alarm. "You can't – the room... fiendfyre…" He stuttered to a halt as he saw the man's smile and shake of the head.
"That room's beyond clever, boy. Not even fiendfyre can mess with that kind of magic. I'd ha' known if it had done. Come on."
Mystified, Snape followed them to the mantle. The portrait of the girl swung open to reveal the entrance to a passageway. Potter seemed unsurprised at this, so obviously he had seen the passage before. Aberforth pushed an unsteady, three-legged stool over to the fireplace and helped Potter up, holding onto his legs to keep him steady until he pulled himself through the hole. "Up with yeh, Severus," he said, and gave Snape a leg up.
Snape paused to turn back, looking questioningly at the barkeep, but he simply waved them on, reassuringly. Snape nodded. "Thank you, Aberforth."
"Don't mention it. Now take care of yourselves – the both of you." Turning to Potter, he said, "I've saved your neck more than once, boy – don't lose it on me, will you? And take care of this one, eh?" He nodded toward Snape, who growled.
"I will, sir," Potter said, throwing an amused look at Snape. "It's good to see you again, sir." Aberforth grunted and swung the portrait closed.
They walked through the seemingly-endless tunnel, wall sconces lighting their way ahead, and winking out behind them. The passageway was broad enough for the two of them to walk abreast. "I take it you know where we're going?" Snape asked, dryly.
Potter hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, sir. At least I think I do." When he failed to add more, Snape raised his eyebrows. He could not be sure in this light, but he thought the boy reddened. This will be interesting. He nodded and continued walking, pacing the boy through the rough-hewn tunnel, grateful that this one allowed them to walk, rather than crawl the distance from Hogsmeade back to the school.
Some time later, they climbed a set of stairs, pushed open a door, and entered… Snape's quarters. At least in part. Ah. Snape wondered which of them had requested that, without specifying aloud.
"The Room of Requirement," Potter said. Snape folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the doorway, crossed one thin ankle against the other, and glared at the boy, one eyebrow raised in pointed demand for an explanation. Potter grinned sheepishly. "I… take it you know about it, Professor?"
"Yes," Snape said, narrowing his eyes at the boy. "I found it my first year – escaping your father and his friends, I might add," he said dryly. "I might ask just how you – Ah! The map."
Potter looked confused. "The… the map, Professor?"
"There was a rather interesting map in your bed, Potter," he said. Noting the boy's suddenly anxious face, he drawled out, "It's still there, Potter. I am no thief."
The boy looked uncertain whether to be relieved or guilty. Snape let him puzzle it out. "You… you're not going to confiscate it?"
"On what grounds, Potter? Or have you forgotten that you are no longer my student?"
For some reason, that did not seem to reassure the boy, though he nodded. He hesitated. "The… the Room of Requirement doesn't show up on the map, Professor," he admitted.
"Then how did you…?"
"Dobby – fifth year. We needed a place to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts, because Professor Umbridge…"
Snape cut him off, waving a hand. "I quite understand," he said, distaste for the woman evident in his voice. He thought a moment. "Neville Longbottom," he said.
Potter hesitated then nodded.
"He used the Room this past year once the Carrows…"
"Yeah." Potter rubbed the back of his neck. "At least, that's what he told us."
"I see." Snape looked around, noting the differences from his actual quarters. The boy's request, then. He pushed off the doorjamb and wandered around the room, making note that Potter had felt he required – or the Room had supplied – much of Snape's library and many of his potion-making supplies. At last, he turned to Potter and gestured to the sofa.
"Have a seat, Potter."
"Sir?"
"Sit down. We need to talk. This is as good a place as any – better, in fact."
Potter looked at him uncomfortably. "Uh… what did you want to talk about, Professor?"
"Sit, Potter, or do I have to leg-lock you to make you obey?"
He saw the look of rebellion on Potter's face, and wondered if the boy was going to throw You are no longer my student back in his face, but the boy moved to the sofa and sat, the habit of obedience too strong, perhaps. Snape lit the fireplace with a wave of his wand and took the chair to Potter's left. He sat back, elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his fingers against his lips, and crossed his ankles, stretching out his long, thin legs in front of him. The boy grew restless, and looked around the room to avoid Snape's penetrating gaze. Finally, Snape lifted his chin, dragging the points of his index fingers down past his lips.
"What were you looking for?"
Potter looked at him warily. "What do you mean?"
"In the Shack. What were you doing there?"
The boy's eyes tracked back and forth between Snape's eyes as if he couldn't decide where to look. He swallowed. Snape waited him out, the tips of his fingers back on his lips. He counted to twenty three before the boy spoke.
"I was looking for a wand," the boy whispered, fear making his voice rough.
Snape frowned and lowered his hands. "A wand?" he asked, puzzled. "What wand?"
"Voldemort's wand," the boy said, still whispering, and leaned forward, clasping and unclasping his hands between his knees.
Snape shook his head. "I thought you won Voldemort's wand – before you killed him."
"I didn't kill him, sir."
Carefully… carefully… Snape told himself, his heart pounding.
We won, Severus.
What does that mean?
"I was under the impression…" he began.
"Voldemort killed himself… sort of…" the boy finished awkwardly.
And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential.
He narrowed his eyes at the boy in honest confusion. "Explain."
Potter heaved a heavy sigh and scrubbed at his face. Snape wondered if he was going to have to dose the boy with a calming draught before this was over. A glass of juice appeared on the table to the boy's left – and another closer to Snape's elbow on the same table, he noted with some irritation. Now the damned Room was dosing him! Nevertheless, he gestured to the boy to pick up his drink. Potter waited until Snape had taken a long sip of his own glass – pumpkin juice – just pumpkin juice, he noted – before he gulped down a mouthful of his own.
"The… the wand that Voldemort had that night was… It used to be Dumbledore's wand," the boy began, the glass of juice trembling lightly in his hands.
That tickled something uncomfortable and foreboding in Snape's memory, but he could not remember what, just then. He nodded.
Potter looked up at him. "Voldemort thought he was the master of the wand because he had killed you, and he thought you killed Dumbledore."
Snape swirled the juice in his glass, hesitating. "I did."
"Yes, but you didn't beat him. He wanted you to kill him."
Snape hesitated again. "I assume you saw this in… the Pensieve." Just what all did I… what did he see?
Potter nodded. Snape set his glass back on the table. He scratched an ear, sighed, tented his fingers at his chin again, and nodded back. "All right. Go on."
"But Voldemort was wrong about something else, too. When you killed Dumbledore, he was unarmed."
What? Snape frowned with the effort to remember. He could picture it… could see the old man fighting to stay upright, suddenly, inexplicably, much, much more ill than he had been earlier in the day. He was surrounded by Death Eaters and Fenrir Greyback, Draco Malfoy pointing, then shakily lowering, his wand. Hadn't Dumbledore been holding a wand? He frowned trying to remember. Surely he must have been. What on earth would have possessed him…? Draco.
"Potter, are you telling me that Draco Malfoy disarmed Dumbledore?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yeah. He did. I saw it. Dumbledore was weak… very weak. When you… when Professor Dumbledore died, he was unarmed. So you never won Dumbledore's wand, did you? Draco did."
Snape rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead, shaking his head as if that would bring order to the jumble of thoughts and images.
"But then…"
"I beat Malfoy in a fight at Malfoy Manor," Potter said. "When we were captured by Snatchers. Dobby came and rescued us. Aberforth sent him." He leaned forward again, looking down at his hands. The story was pouring out of him now, as if it had been bottled up – which it must have been, Snape recognized. There hadn't been anyone for the boy to talk to at the school – not about this.
"Wormtail… he came down and he tried to strangle me, but…"
What?
"… Ron and I got away. But Pettigrew, he strangled himself with the hand that Voldemort gave him in the graveyard, when he killed Cedric."
Snape fought to keep his face neutral, composed, so that the boy would tell his story without getting upset. Not that Potter was looking at him now. The boy had retreated into his memories.
"And Hermione was screaming because Bellatrix was using the Cruciatus curse on her…"
Merlin, Circe and all the gods! Snape gripped his hands, tented together under his lips, so tightly that his knuckles were white. His stomach tightened in remembered anger and outright panic at discovering the Carrows were using the Cruciatus curse on students, and teaching it to those students willing to use it against their peers. One more thing he had been powerless to stop; just one more way he had failed to keep them safe.
"… and Ron couldn't stand it, so he jumped out and hit her – Bellatrix, I mean – with a spell from Pettigrew's wand. But she had Hermione… she was holding a knife to her throat…"
Snape recalled the thin red line trailing down the girl's neck to her collarbone as she leaned over him. Bloody hell…
"… so we had to drop our wands, and she ordered Draco to take them, but he didn't want to – not really… and when Dobby made the chandelier fall, they were distracted, so I jumped over a chair and wrestled three wands away from Draco. We Apparated away but Dobby… Bellatrix threw her knife and… and Dobby…" The boy drew a ragged breath. "… and one of the wands was Draco's, so… so… so when I got them away from him, I won his wand." He shook his head, as if still disbelieving of their escape.
Snape sat in stunned silence, his mind filled with the images of torture and death that Potter's story had evoked. He shook his head. How in Merlin's name had they gotten away? Dolohov's tale had said nothing of this – only that the trio had been captured along with three others, but had somehow escaped, taking Ollivander with them.
Potter's voice broke the silence.
"It was Draco's wand I used against Riddle in the battle."
"What? Why?"
"Be… because my wand was broken… by Nagini…"
"In the forest?" Had Hagrid's memories included that, or skipped it? Or had Snape forgotten in his confusion?
Potter looked at him strangely.
"No. In Godric's Hollow. I thought Bathilda Bagshot had something for me… the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. I thought Dumbledore might have left it there for me. We couldn't think of where else it might be. And Ron – he'd left, but…"
An image of Ron Weasley throwing himself into a frozen pool, dragging Potter up out of the water, came to Snape. He shook his head, confused, and forced himself back to Potter's story.
"… Hermione and I went to Godric's Hollow to find out…"
The boy stopped again, not pale or showing any signs of distress – other than the utter insanity of what he was describing. He simply came to a halt.
"My parents' graves are there. Did you know?" Potter said slowly after a moment.
He was not looking at anything. Snape froze and closed his eyes. He opened his eyes and searched Potter's face, looking for… What? He did not know. Grief? Anger? Blame? But the boy was lost in his memory. Snape swallowed and nodded. Potter did not seem to notice – or care.
"And our house was there, too," the boy said, wonderment filling his voice. "… and there was a sign, and people had written things on it. I thought it was brilliant. And Hermione and I… we visited my mum and dad's grave…"
He took a breath and his voice changed, his breathing sped up.
"And then Bathilda was there, and we followed her to her house, but she was the snake and…"
What? Snape heart pounded so loudly in his ears he wasn't sure he was hearing correctly. He shook his head. What?
"… and if it hadn't been for Hermione, we wouldn't have gotten away. But my wand broke. The snake… it was shooting around everywhere, and it must have hit my wand and… Hermione said she thought she broke it when she did the Confringo spell, but I think it was Nagini, when it was fighting me or something. So… it was a good thing I grabbed Draco's wand, 'cuz otherwise I wouldn't have had one to fight Riddle with…" His voice faded away.
Snape managed to slow down his own breathing enough to calm his thoughts, struggling to catch up to Potter's pressured telling. Potter sat in silent recollection, staring into the fire. He clasped his hands between his knees once more. He must have put his glass down at some point. Snape sought to make sense of it all. One thing. Just focus on one thing. He drew a breath. The wand. Potter won Draco's wand. Draco had already won Dumbledore's wand. So Potter…
"So you were the true partner of the wand – the wand Voldemort thought he had stolen from Dumbledore and then thought he would win from me by killing me."
Potter nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah."
"So when Voldemort tried to kill you in the Great Hall…"
Potter snorted, then laughed. It was a strangely reassuring sound.
"I used the Expelliarmus." He shook his head at that, a rueful smile on his face. "Remus would have killed me right there, I bet. But Voldemort lost the wand just as he shouted "Avada Kedavra", and the wand was flying through the air… and I caught it… and the spell rebounded and hit him instead. So… so in a way, he committed suicide."
Snape leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and shook his head. He looked up, and sat a moment contemplating Potter in amazement. "How, in the name of Merlin and all that's holy, did you ever figure that out?"
Potter grinned and a bit of mischievousness appeared in his eyes. "Good, aren't I?"
Snape narrowed his eyes. "None of your cheek, Potter. I'm still better trained than you!"
"Yeah, but you don't have the…" Potter broke off, his face suddenly deathly pale, turning horrified eyes on Snape's.
And suddenly, just like that, Snape remembered.
"The Elder Wand, Severus… the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore… The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner… The Elder Wand…"
He turned in shocked realization toward Potter, who, in turn, stared at Snape, utterly frozen, a look of absolute terror on his face.
Oh, Merlin! That was Chapter 11 of 30. Don't stop now!
