February 1994

The outside of the envelope had a warning written on it, underneath his name. "Do not open unless you are alone. You will only get one chance for answers, ever. Do not spurn this unique opportunity."

Harry worried about even touching it when he realised who it must be from, realising in a panic that he hadn't thought through what to do if he actually got a response, but the owl had dropped it in his hands and flown off out the dorm window into the darkening sky before he'd realised who it was from. He decided that if nothing had happened just from touching it, and it had made it through his owl ward in the first place, that it was probably safe to read it. He made very sure he was alone, hiding on his bed with the curtains drawn, without even Storm permitted to peek at the letter. He grumbled at being put back in the tank he was rapidly outgrowing, but was mollified by Harry's promise that he'd read him any good bits later.

Dear Boy Who Lived,

Firstly and most urgently, I urge you not read this letter out aloud, nor to attempt to copy it, or it will be instantly destroyed.

So, on to business. You are a bright boy, aren't you? I commend you on your discernment at uncovering my true identity at last. Never fear, I mean you no harm. I imagine you scoff at that thought, and little wonder. We have not always been friends, have we? Let me address your concerns, albeit out of order.

It was true. Quirrell was Lord Voldemort. Harry's head reeled.

Let us address firstly our recent interactions at Hogwarts. It is true that I was the culprit responsible for the jinx on your broom in first year.

It really was him! Why would he admit it?

But it was not an attempt to kill you. Had I wished to do so I am sure that you, being an intelligent lad, can think of several scenarios where I could have done so with more ease, and less chance of being interrupted. I knew that should you be thrown from your broom, especially after a period of it obviously malfunctioning, that several teachers stood ready to slow or cushion your fall.

He was making a good point. Harry didn't want him to make good points. He wanted him to rant, so he could hate him. He was a murderer!

There is an Ancient tradition, Harry, one scorned by many in this soft age, to test a child's magic. The child is thrown from a height to trigger the awakening of their magic in the face of peril. Of course, responsible parents stood ready to catch the child should the child be sadly deficient, without magic coursing through their blood ready to save them. It used to be many a young witch or wizard's first experience of Apparition, and for rare few, Flight.

Like what happened to Neville, maybe. Except it hadn't sounded like anyone was ready to catch him, since he had actually hit the ground. Harry remembered what Neville had told him about it – some Squibs used to die in such tests, and those who didn't often became "changelings" – dumped with a normal family like unwanted rubbish while a Muggle-born child was stolen in exchange.

I wanted to see what powers you hid. What might be awakened and blossom in the face of what must surely be perceived by you, in your inexperience with Quidditch safety measures, to be a life-threatening situation. I am confident you are astute enough to discern my curiosity as to why.

Yes, he always had been curious about how Harry had survived the Killing Curse. The curse he had cast! Harry wanted to pace. He wanted to… smash something. Or scream… yell at the sky. But if it walked away from this letter, he had a feeling it might burn to ashes. If he only got one chance for answers, he didn't want to miss it. And so Harry did what he almost always did, what he'd learnt at Privet Drive. He squashed his anger down and pretended everything was fine.

And so we turn, regrettably, to the subject of the war. It is a sad truth that in war, innocents die. On both sides. I had followers who lost children too. Parents. Friends.

Maybe, thought Harry. But I know I was specially targeted. My memories tell me so.

I regret the deaths of your family, and the attempt on your life.

Harry found suddenly he was crying. He didn't really know why, and wiped the tears away roughly.

I made several unwise decisions under the influence of many continuous months of casting control-focused and Dark battle spells. While they have no impact when cast occasionally, to regularly cast many emotion-based spells has an emotional impact on you in keeping with their nature. Too many Cheering Charms brings out one's jovial nature, for instance.

Being immersed in casting spells such as the Imperius on an almost daily basis, I wished to control. Too used to casting the Killing Curse, I wished to harm and kill. I am calmer now and able to reflect on my actions more intelligently, outside the pressures of continual spellcasting required of a lengthy rebellion. I do want you to know that even in the depths of my growing madness I still offered to spare your parents' lives, even despite their repeated defiance and spurning of my offers to join me. The lives of all wizards and witches are precious to me, and death was meted out always as a last resort, if one I resorted to more and more often as the rebellion dragged on, and I saw more of my followers fall to death, or be thrown in Azkaban for a sentence of lifelong torture.

There are two sides to every tale, Harry. And the winners write the history books. We fought for a better world. For the safety of our people, and a better life for other magical races who live in squalor and oppression. For the freedom to practice our religion and worship magic without shame or fear.

Harry tried to think about what he was saying objectively. It was hard. He'd tried to kill him. Thanks to the Boggart, he knew the sound of his mother's dying screams. But then again… thanks to the Boggart, he also knew that Qui… Lord Voldemort had offered to let her go. He'd only wanted to kill Harry. Why?

As to your difficult question as to what harm a baby could do… there was a prophecy about my defeat. I heard it before you were even born. Yet I didn't act until you were over a year old, when I was both sure you were the one it referred to, and the madness of wishing to control every aspect of the war swelled beyond my control. I do not believe that prophecy is relevant any longer. Firstly because I am more in control of myself, and secondly because I believe that it is clear you fulfilled it when you were a baby.

I am very sorry, Harry. I regret my attack on you, and I regret the loss of your parents. I regard you as a remarkable young man – intelligent, powerful, and with the potential to do great things for our world. I hope that you find it within yourself to forgive me, and that we can continue to correspond as friends, or at the very least, move forward as neutral acquaintances. For I have no desire to be your enemy.

Should you wish to reopen a cordial correspondence, kindly address your letters to "Slytherin" or "Lord Voldemort" in the future. Discretion of course shall be critical should you choose the latter form of address.

With sincere wishes for your future health and happiness,

Lord Voldemort

The letter crumbled to ashes in his hands as he read the last word. Harry's mind was in a loop. He signed it. Lord Voldemort sent his 'sincere wishes for my health and happiness', he thought over and over. It was true. His gamble had paid off, and now he knew the truth for sure. Quirrell had either been possessed, or impersonated by the Dark Lord, all along. Lord Voldemort wanted to be friends with him. His parents' killer. The man who'd told him he was bright, and worthwhile, and a great wizard, and that being able to speak with snakes was nothing to be ashamed of. Which made more sense when you remembered that Lord Voldemort was a Parselmouth too. This was the man who'd encouraged and supported him through his fight with Ron and listened to his complaints patiently, who explained spell theory to him, and who despite desperately wanting the Philosopher's Stone had talked and bargained with him in the hidden chamber instead of just attacking or killing him and running off with the Stone unopposed. Harry felt very confused about it all.

Harry wrote out what he could remember of the letter he'd just read before he forgot it, and then went through all Qui- Voldemort's old letters over and over.

Things leapt out at him that he'd never paid attention to before. Like a line about his mother referring to her "sad and unnecessary doom". So it wasn't the first time he'd expressed regret for killing Harry's parents, though he'd missed it before. Then there was his interest in hearing that Snape still followed the Old Ways, and that he'd thought he'd stopped that with the end of the war – it seemed that Voldemort too subscribed to the notion that Snape had been a spy who'd turned on him. His love of snakes, dislike of Dumbledore, disdain for Muggles, and his interest in discussing political theory – all those things took on extra weight now.

Harry tossed and turned all night, and went to classes in the morning with dark shadows under his eyes, but was still unsure of what to think despite his constant pondering. He hated Lord Voldemort, his parents' murderer. But… he liked Quirrell, his friend who believed in him. He couldn't reconcile the two in his mind.

-000-

Harry spilled a ladleful of potion on the floor in Potions class the next afternoon.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Potter! What were you thinking?!" hissed Professor Snape angrily, as his wand swished through the air to wordlessly banish the bubbling ooze before it damaged the floor.

"Nothing you need to know about," muttered Harry sulkily, meeting Snape's gaze with wide eyes. "At least it's not a detention."

"Do you want a detention scrubbing cauldrons with me on Saturday? Because that could be arranged if you wish to maintain your current attitude," Snape said with soft threat in his voice.

Harry shrugged, and continued his staring contest with Snape, trying to widen his eyes meaningfully. "No sir, I guess not. You know, it was just an accident," he grumped. "I'm just a bit tired."

Yes, I want a detention, yes, I want a detention, he thought determinedly. Detention please.

Professor Snape startled with a tiny motion of his head that Harry wouldn't have noticed except that he'd been watching closely for a reaction, and blinked. "Detention. Nine in the morning on Saturday. Don't be late, Potter."

Thank you, sir. "Sorry, sir," he said with a loud sigh. "I'll be there."

"Too bad, Harry," whispered Neville comfortingly. "You'll miss the Quidditch match. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw."

"Is it? Oh well." He had forgotten about it, and was a little disappointed he would miss it, but not that much. "I can't believe Dementor attacks haven't put people off the whole idea."

Neville shrugged. "People love Quidditch."

"Just keep your wand handy."

"I will," Neville said firmly. "Everyone from Potter Watch will. Just in case."

-000-

Harry tried to stay busy. He wanted to be too busy to think. It wasn't a great start to Imbolc. He even brought some books to the Gryffindor table at lunch time so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Not that it was a great strategy, with Hermione sitting next to him.

"What are you reading that has you so engrossed, Harry?" Hemione asked curiously, as Harry carefully flipped through the pages of a book at the dining table with his left hand, just using a fork to eat his dinner with the other hand.

"It's a book on Norse legends that Professor Babbling lent me from her own personal collection. Did you know that when the Aesir wanted to punish Loki, they turned his son Váli into a wolf, who then killed his brother Narfi? And then they used Narfi's entrails to bind Loki, and the bonds were turned to iron? Do you think that's alluding to the wizarding antipathy to iron, or is it just because iron was one of the strongest metals around in ancient times?"

"You're reading that for fun?" asked Neville, pushing his half-finished plate of food away, appetite lost.

"It's better than the story about the horse. Trust me, you don't want to know. Do you think Asgard's a real place? Or are they more like old stories of Scandinavian wizards? Well, Loki's obviously a wizard. It's hard to tell about most of the rest of them."

"Old exaggerated stories with very little basis in fact," insisted Hermione. "They're just myths."

"Probably based quite a lot on real history, I'd say," countered Neville.

They got into an argument about the wizarding world's tendency to cling to outdated myths and superstitions, before Hermione digressed into complaining about how Professor Trelawney had foreseen horrible omens of doom for Ron again.

Neville said hesitantly, "I think sometimes predictions can come true. My Gran did catch a cold after all, just like Trelawney foresaw."

Hermione scoffed at that conclusion. "But statistical chance and multiple interpretations mean that her prediction doesn't really count as significant. Hinting at ill health is a safe bet, given how often people get sick or injured."

"But she is a Seer," Neville insisted. "Look at how many things she's gotten right!"

Harry left them to their moderately good-natured argument and returned to his book. Trying to puzzle out Baldur's history and what his own mother might have had in mind with her ritual was better than thinking about Quirrell. Lord Voldemort. He still got the name wrong, and had to remind himself – he'd never truly met the real Quirrell at all.

-000-

Deprived of celebrating Imbolc on the last day of January by scheduling issues since a lot of year groups were staying indoors for fear of Dementors or discovery, the third years were assigned the first of February instead. It still counted, as according to the old reckoning of days, you started counting a day from sunset to sunset.

After classes ended on that Tuesday Harry, Neville, and Eloise Midgen strolled casually to the club room, theoretically there to help celebrate Crabbe's birthday. His birthday was actually the following day, but it was close enough, and the Gobstones Club had the room booked for the afternoon of second of February. While using his birthday as an excuse for a gathering would of necessity involve some birthday celebration of some kind, their actual goal was to quietly have an indoors celebration of Imbolc. Harry had foregone his usual demanding schedule of using the Time-Turner all afternoon and evening, taking a day off to keep things simple.

Cover stories had been carefully and covertly arranged – those who plausibly knew Crabbe were there for his birthday. Those who didn't were there for a Ravenclaw-led study group at a table tucked away in the corner. It was a good precaution, as early in the afternoon Professor McGonagall peeked in briefly to check on what was going on. Pansy had clearly worked out some kind of early warning system, as a short little first year boy scurried in to whisper to her and then left again, mere moments before the Professor arrived.

So when Professor McGonagall entered and looked around suspiciously, she saw Crabbe ripping the paper off presents with a crowd of friends around him. Meanwhile students in a group in the corner were ignoring the lot of them to work on the most recent Charms homework together, and bickering about whether Cheering Charms actually induced real happiness or not and what the long-term effects of casting lots of them might be. She swept out again without a word, and after the door closed behind her more than one student sighed with relief.

As Crabbe finished unwrapping his last few presents Draco and Pansy swept into position to set up a temporary altar on a table, and took turns lecturing about the correct way to set one up for your home, and ways to conceal it from casual observation. Harry's friendship with them didn't stop Pansy from telling him off when he started taking notes.

"You are not allowed write this down, Harry," she rebuked. "It's word of mouth only. The senior druids taught us, and we teach those of you who didn't have the opportunity to learn from… anyone at home. Just pay attention and try to memorise things as best you can."

He nodded and erased his notes magically before putting his parchment away. "Sorry." He appreciated her trying to dodge around saying, "Your parents are dead and you live with Muggles, so pay attention because this is all you get." He sighed unhappily as he realised that his best tutors in the Old Ways apart from her were the man who'd killed his parents, and a mosaic portrait of someone who'd died many centuries ago. Still, he was a very famous portrait. And he rarely fussed about Harry writing things down.

This year's celebration was heavy on theory. They talked briefly about the wheel of the year, and the important influence of the sun, moon, and stars on a wizard or witch's magic. But mostly they talked about water – the life blood of the earth.

"There's power in water that you collect from rainwater, springs, and wells – Muggle water might look clear, but is tainted by chemicals and iron, and thus is not safe to drink. Exposure to the Muggle world is in fact a slow-acting poison, that is reducing wizards' lifespans, along with losing purity of blood through inappropriate intermarriage of course," stated Draco, as if these were self-evident facts.

Harry raised his hand.

"Yes?"

"Has anyone carried out any longitudinal studies on the trend in decreasing lifespans, examining correlations and possible causative factors?"

Draco blinked. "I… regret to say I do not comprehend your meaning."

Harry rephrased his question in simpler terms with less scientific lingo, "What I mean is - who says that's true? Is there any proof of those claims?"

"It's what I have learned from my father, and I believe he may have researched the matter in more detail."

Harry nodded. He'd ask him sometime, then. Draco was just repeating what he'd heard.

Pansy took over next. "The Water-Making Spell, Aguamenti, is useful to learn once you're older. It produces a magically created jet of pure and potable water that is highly suitable for ritual offerings, cleansing rituals, and so on. It is most advantageous if you might be stranded in a Muggle area or a desert. You can find it in the Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six."

They concluded the more formal section of the afternoon with a blind taste test of various types of water in different coloured clay cups, being invited to judge which felt most refreshing or energizing. Harry knew something of the kind was coming, as Pansy had asked him to supply a jug of rainwater made by one of Storm's conjured clouds. They had a little chat about it after everyone had tried the water with thoughtful looks, swishing it around in their mouths like they were trying to judge the bouquet of a fine wine. Most people pronounced the purple and the green cups' water the best.

"Purple was mine," Storm hissed proudly from his spot draped across Harry's shoulders, after Harry told him in quiet sibilant hisses which one was the favourite of the majority.

"Conjured water was a close sssecond after your rain water – almost a tie, and well water came third. Rainwater and river water were about tied, and no-one really liked the Muggle bottled ssspring water. They didn't have tap water to try – they sssaid it would be injuriouss to our health. I never noticed it being a problem. Mind you, I never thought it was especially delectable either."

Millicent continued her successful wooing of his pet's affections by offering him a little live fish in a bowl of water to eat. "Sacrificial offerings to magical creatures associated with water are very appropriate for Imbolc," she explained, with a smug look at Daphne who looked grumpy like she wished she'd thought of that too.

"It's extremely kind of you," said Harry, touched.

After a brief hissed discussion with his very pleased and well-fed pet, he offered a translation for Millicent. "He'd like you to know that you're his favourite human after me, and that he will share his prey with you if you're hungry - he promises if he catches something that's too big for him to eat, like a duck, you can have it."

"Tell him he's a beautiful sweetheart," she cooed happily, and he translated that obediently. Girls.

"Tell her she may hold me," said Storm magnanimously. He had learnt to suffer being patted quite happily ever since Harry had explained it was a way for humans to show admiration, but still didn't usually like being held by anyone other than Harry.

At first she had a touch of nervousness that was quickly soothed by Harry's whispered promise that not only would Storm not bite, he was more likely to hit people with lightning if they threatened her. But after that reassurance Millicent delighted in her brief moments of attention from Harry (as they usually didn't even get to talk to each other these days except in these secluded group settings, thanks to her father's dictums), and the joy of parading around with a live rainbow snake draped around her neck and being admired by her peers.

While she was entertained with Storm, Harry had a quiet chat with Morag MacDougal from Ravenclaw.

"I looked into Lovegood's situation for you like you asked, Potter," she reported. "I couldn't determine if there's a Nargle problem or not – most people think they're extinct if they've even heard of them, and they were apparently always good at hiding, being such terrible thieves. But in any case, there's definitely a bullying problem – mostly girls in her year, but a few in older years too."

"Any particular reason they're picking on her?"

MacDougal shrugged. "Pick one. She's a very weird girl, by all accounts. She believes in creatures that don't exist now, or never did. She sleepwalks. She believes everything her father writes in The Quibbler, even the joke stuff. For instance, she thinks Sirius Black is actually living quietly in disguise as the singer Stubby Boardman. Oh, and she wanders off in the middle of a conversation with you if she gets bored or distracted. That alone has offended a lot of people."

Harry sighed. "Suggestions? To help her?"

"I don't know. It's probably not going to totally stop everything, but I've warned a couple of the most obvious culprits that if they don't tone it down and return her belongings I'll report them to Flitwick. If you can make it obvious that she's a client under your protection, it'd help a lot with some of the more traditional witches."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Here you go," he said, digging in his satchel and handing over a book to her. "My copy of Modern Magical World History for you to borrow for a fortnight, as agreed, along with my sincere thanks for your assistance."

"Thanks, Potter. I'll look after it."

They wrapped up the evening with some snacks, notably a platter of crackers with sheep's milk cheese – a traditional food for Imbolc, due to its association with lambing season. For Crabbe's birthday there was a selection of jam tarts, and a honey cake covered in candles. Crabbe blew all the candles out with one giant puff of breath, and stood stock still afterwards with his eyes closed, concentrating hard on his wish. Then when he opened his eyes everyone clapped and cheered for him. He looked really pleased by all the attention.

"I don't think I'll come again, Harry," Neville whispered apologetically over cake. "It's a bit too much for my nerves – the chance of being caught. And I don't believe I'm terribly partial to the philosophy of the Old Ways."

"They do get a bit blood purist snobby sometimes," Harry said regretfully. "Sorry about that."

"It's more than that, but it certainly doesn't help. You're not upset, I hope?" he said nervously.

"No, of course not! You don't have to come if you don't want to. We're still friends, right?" he said, with a little uncertainty of his own.

They both apologised to each other, and reassured each other there were no hurt feelings, until they both felt secure again in their friendship.

-000-

While most of the school was out watching Quidditch, Harry scrubbed cauldrons down in the Potions classroom, under Professor Snape's watchful and curious eye.

"So what did you wish to discuss with me, Potter? Or should I say… Antares Black?"

"Heard about that, did you?" Harry said with a grin.

"Eventually. I hear most things, sooner or later. Twenty points from Gryffindor for a tasteless choice of name."

Harry shrugged and grimaced. "I know, sorry sir. But it's my paternal grandmother's family, and I guess I must look like someone a couple of generations back because Professor Binns almost always calls me Black. They can't all be bad – one got to be Headmaster here."

"Ah, Phineas Nigellus Black. He was in Slytherin, you know. Rather unpopular during his tenure due to a spate of disputes with the Ministry that turned nasty for all concerned. But you didn't goad me into giving you a detention to ask questions about the Black family."

"No sir. I… wanted to ask you about my mother. Professor Lupin has shared some stories about my father – Neville came along too – but he couldn't say much about mum."

Harry drank in every word as his usually taciturn Professor obligingly settled down to tell him about first meeting his mother as a young girl, as she floated off a swing to land unharmed, and learnt from him that she was a witch. How they remained friends through most of Hogwarts, and worked together in Potions under Professor Slughorn, and were invited into his "Slug Club" of promising or well-connected students. How she loved Potions, Charms, and Ancient Runes, and enjoyed learning about some of the Old wizarding traditions and beliefs from Snape. He loved the tale about her being a prefect and comforting homesick first years the best, where she stayed up half the night to chat to one child and sing lullabies, and went bleary-eyed and yawning to classes the next day.

"I heard that they – my parents – didn't get on well until seventh year. Can you tell me something about why they didn't like each other before then?"

Snape steepled his fingers and looked thoughtfully at Harry. "I could give you an example. But you may take it amiss as a slur on your father."

"Would it be the truth? Or would you exaggerate?"

"The former. Though I must admit to a certain bias in favour of taking your mother's side in the altercation – I was her friend, but never his."

"Then I can take it. Tell me."

And so Professor Snape, with an odd slight smile, told Harry of how he and Lily had stumbled across Potter and Black bullying a young Slytherin wizard in the halls, and laughing about it.

"Bertram had apparently 'looked at them funny' and muttered something under his breath while passing in the halls, so they'd taken it upon themselves to insult and berate him. When poor little Bertram Aubrey swore at them and went to walk off, they cast a tripping jinx at him and laughed at him smacking his face on the stone floor so his nose bled. And that is when Lily and I showed up."

"Did you help?"

"Lily told them off, and I undid the jinx on Bertram, though he didn't thank me for it. Meanwhile, your father tried to explain to Lily how the boy had started it. Black, meanwhile, snickered that arrogant little sod had it coming, and the boy had a big head which needed deflating. When I glanced at Bertram as he went to scurry away, I saw that his head was literally swelling up. It grew to twice normal size due to an illegal hex. One of them must have cast it. I'm not sure which – but they both laughed about it."

"That's awful!" Harry said, very upset. "Was he alright?"

"He needed two weeks in the Hospital Wing, dosed up with potions while they hoped that his brain would recover without lasting injury. It did, in time, though he perhaps seemed more forgetful than he used to be, and suffered occasional dizzy spells. The Engorgio Skullus hex is illegal for a reason. Your father and his crony just thought it was a hilarious prank. They got only two sessions of detention with Filch."

"My father was a bully," Harry said sadly. "A Quidditch-cheating, student-hexing bully."

Snape was silent.

"Was he a drunkard, too?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Aunt Petunia always said he was. And an unemployed layabout."

Snape grudgingly said, "He drank in the last year or two of school, but no more than many students, and less than some. I did not like the man, but I wouldn't call him a drunkard. He didn't work, unless you count fighting in the war, but he had money. He had no need to struggle to earn his crust like some of us."

"Do you know why mum changed her mind about him and starting dating him later on?"

"I don't care to discuss the matter."

"I just want to know-"

"-I understand that you are curious. But I do not care to discuss the matter," Snape repeated, in a deep voice that warned Harry there would be consequences if he pressed the issue.

"…Okay. Um. Is there anything nice you can tell me about my father?" Harry asked plaintively. "Uh, did he really save your life from an attacking werewolf?"

"Who told you that?" Snape said, looking very startled.

"The Headmaster told me, a couple of years ago. Is it true?"

Snape scowled. "I cannot speak of it," he said meaningfully.

"Because… no. Seriously? Another Unbreakable Vow?" guessed Harry.

He nodded curtly.

"But why," mused Harry. "Can you hint about it without endangering yourself?"

"Let's change the subject," Snape said smoothly. "What grade are you planning on working for in Defence Against the Dark Arts, this year? I enjoyed the subject greatly when I was a student here, during your father's time here with all his friends."

Harry got the hint immediately, and gasped. "Professor Lupin was the one who attacked you!? That's horrible! And Dumbledore covered it up by making you vow to say nothing?"

Snape smiled, but said and did nothing else.

"My dad saved you from him, though," Harry sighed. "That's something, I suppose. I'm guessing from how you're still angry at him that he maybe didn't do it in the nicest way, or was mixed up in the attack in the first place.

"How can you work with him, sir? Professor Lupin?"

Snape sighed. "Staff hiring decisions are, regrettably, outside of my hands. And I must confess I derive a certain modicum of comfort from the knowledge that no-one has lasted in that position for more than a year. In the meantime, our relations are distant but superficially cordial, and I enjoy brewing a particular potion once a month."

Harry thought for a moment. "The Wolfsbane Potion?"

Professor Snape smiled again at him, and Harry grinned a small proud smile in return. He was a good guesser.

"Thank you, sir," he said gratefully. "Thank you for keeping us all safe while he's here."

His professor looked momentarily choked up with emotion, and briefly lost for words. "You are nothing like your father," he said eventually. "But your mother would be so proud of you."

Harry smiled, and drew in a long, slow shuddering breath as he tried not to cry. "I… that's nice. I hope she would be."

"She would." Harry rubbed his eyes dry while his professor politely pretended not to notice his escaping tears.

"I don't suppose there's anything good you can say about my dad?"

Snape looked very conflicted, but eventually dredged up something positive to say. "He was very skilled in Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Charms, and a good Quidditch player – a Chaser. He fought bravely in the war in defence of others, and never resorted to using the Unforgivable Curses, no matter the provocation. He usually followed Dumbledore's example and preferred not to kill his enemies, even though his allies such as Black could be quite ruthless and creative with their spells. And I believe of course that he died to protect your mother, and you. That on its own is very worthy of respect. You can be very proud of him for that, if nothing else."

That was nice to hear – he felt a lot better to hear his father fought honourably, and showed mercy when he could. Though it seemed Crabbe's brother wasn't so lucky – maybe that had been what changed his dad's mind about killing in battle?

Snape's comments about his dad were a good lead in for something he'd been wanting to casually raise in conversation when a suitable opportunity arose to make it seem natural.

"Yeah, he did die to protect us," he said, taking comfort from the thought that he'd once been that loved. "He died downstairs fighting Voldemort and holding him off while my mum ran upstairs to the nursery with me."

Snape blinked, then said, "You read that in a book, I suppose."

"Yes… no. I mean I read it, but I also remember it. I've been working with a Boggart in Potter Watch with the senior group, and for a while it turned into a Dementor. It let me relive my worst memories – I got to see my parents' final moments."

Snape spun around to face away from Harry for a moment, before turning back with a calm composed face.

"I wish I could do that," Harry said admiringly. "It's hard to look that calm when you're upset."

"Practice, and Occlumency," his professor said smoothly. "Though usually it's harder to catch me off guard. You surprised me."

"Can I ask you something?"

"I dread the question, but yes."

"It's not about you."

"That is a comfort. Go on."

Harry took a deep breath. "One of the last things that happens is the Dark Lord offering to spare my mum. He tells her to stand aside, calls her a silly girl. At first he just wanted to kill me, and she seemed to know it. Do you know why he would have done that? Focus on killing a baby instead of a witch who fought him?"

He wanted independent confirmation of what the Dark Lord had told him, and thought an ex-Death Eater was probably his best chance. He'd already tried asking Professor McGonagall, albeit with a more simple question about why the man had tried to kill a harmless baby, and she'd just told him You-Know-Who was "mad" and "evil", and not to think about it anymore. Snape hadn't told him a lot the last time they'd talked about it because of how his Vow tripped him up, but he thought it was worth trying again with a more roundabout question.

Snape looked as still as a statue, completely motionless. Harry glanced at his chest to make sure he was still actually breathing – it was very subtle but he was.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly.

"About what? The memory? Yes. I saw it three times. I wrote it down."

"May I see it?"

Harry hesitated, and avoided eye contact in case Professor Snape tried to cheat and peek at his memories. He'd written it up in his very private red journal in invisible ink, along with a lot of information about the Founders, and King Arthur, and snippets of information about the Old Ways that Merlin had taught him. "…No. It's in my diary. And it's private."

"I would greatly appreciate a copy of the transcript. It's important to me. I would count it as a repayment of the favour you owe me for lecturing at your club."

"…I suppose. If you answer my question."

"What question?" asked Snape distractedly, like his mind was elsewhere.

"About why the Dark Lord would offer to spare my mother, but try to kill me. As much as you can say, around the edges of your Vow."

Snape winced briefly before his face returned to passivity. "You don't know what you're asking. The answer to that question is probably the most deeply personal and traumatic memory of my life. Don't ask me that."

Harry wondered what Snape's role in the business had been. Had he recruited Black? Helped lead Voldemort to his parents' house? "Don't I deserve to know?"

"Get out."

"What?"

"I can't… I cannot answer you. Please. Just leave. Before I take a thousand points off Gryffindor." He pointed at the door.

Harry stared at him. The man's rigid control seemed close to cracking. Perhaps it was the Unbreakable Vow that his teacher was under, something to do with why the Dark Lord had tried to kill Harry – maybe a prophecy like he'd claimed in his letter. Maybe that was why – the Vow was tripping him up and he didn't want to risk death by talking any more. Of course, there could be another reason – his lost friendship with his deceased mother seemed a likely cause of upset too.

"Tell me one thing, if you can. Whatever it is you did that led to their deaths – because I think there must be something – are you sorry for it?"

"Yes," Snape hissed unhappily through clenched teeth. "I would willingly die if I could undo it – if it would bring her back."

Harry stared at him, the anguish on Snape's face warring with the overlaid façade of blank calmness, and silently left the room. He felt a bit like crying again too. After he'd closed the door behind him the lock clicked shut without any action on his part. He pressed his ear against the door, and could faintly hear the sounds of choked sobs coming from inside. It made him feel very guilty for raising the topic of his mother's death in the first place.

That hadn't gone well for either of them. And all he'd really learnt in confirmation about what Quirrell had told him was something he'd written about in a letter long ago – that Snape was indeed heavily burdened by guilt about his mother's death.

-000-

When talking to Snape didn't pan out as informatively as he'd hoped, Harry tried fishing for confirmatory information about why the Dark Lord had targeted him from Lucius Malfoy. Unfortunately, Lucius was obviously too wary to write anything useful in his response, merely making polite vague apologies about having been under the Imperius Curse and not informed about You-Know-Who's motivations, and referring him to some useless but popular books that Harry had already consulted.

He handed a bit of parchment with his mother's final words and argument with the Dark Lord to Snape (but nothing from earlier about the runes or the cut on his forehead), hidden inside a homework scroll, but he didn't say anything in reply about it to Harry directly. He did write a note on his returned homework, however, with a notably odd choice of punctuation for the first unusually short sentence.

"Thank you. For a very informative essay, with excellent information about the effects of using too much Puffskein fur in this solution when brewing in a pewter or copper cauldron. Outstanding."

Harry stewed for weeks over what response to send to Riddle's letter, if any. He asked Neville what he would do if he ever faced his parents' torturers – Neville said he'd fight them, even if he'd no doubt lose. Harry guessed that's why Neville was a Gryffindor. He didn't feel brave about starting up a new war with Lord Voldemort. Eventually after many false starts he decided to make his reply brief.

"Lord Voldemort,

I appreciate you responding to my letter. But I cannot forgive you for killing my parents or trying to kill me. I would prefer you not try to kill or attack me in the future, and I will extend the same courtesy of neutrality to you.

Do not write to me again.

The Last Potter"

He didn't leave it at that, though. He might have some lingering fondness for the man, weird though it felt now. But it wasn't going to stop him trying to bring him to justice.

He thought about talking to Dumbledore, but really, this wasn't a matter for a school Headmaster to deal with, no matter how famous he was in the wizarding world. If fame was all that mattered, Lockhart would be ruling the country!

Harry held a brief and secretive consultation with Hermione and Neville about the matter. He didn't explain why, still being very shy and ashamed at being taken in for so long, but he talked to them about his suspicions that Quirrell was possessed by Voldemort – Tom Marvolo Riddle - just like Lockhart had been. They didn't really understand his reasoning, since he was of course leaving out several key bits of evidence (though Neville knew a little more, like about the possessed diary being hidden rather than destroyed). But they supported him in his planned course of action – he was going to go straight to the top, and was planning to write to the Minister for Magic. He would know what to do! Aurors would be straight on it, no doubt, and his parents would be avenged. He decided when the Aurors showed up at Hogwarts to question him he would come clean about the diary to someone who seemed trustworthy, so they could deal with it discreetly and properly. He might be better at casting the Patronus Charm, but not enough to want to try and sneak past a whole swarm of Dementors, not to mention any other perils the Forbidden Forest held. Best on the whole to leave it to the professionals, he'd decided, especially given he still wasn't game to try casting Fiendfyre.

-000-

The Hogsmeade weekend just before Valentine's Day was a bit of a non-event for Harry. He wouldn't have even noticed it was on a special day except that a few people had asked him if he was taking anyone. They seemed pretty uniformly disappointed to hear that he was spending it with Professor McGonagall, being guarded from Sirius Black in an escorted outing around the Hogsmeade shops. He appreciated their sympathy. Harry mourned his lost opportunity to sneak away to Grantown-on-Spey, but understood the necessity of a guard, even though he didn't like it. He spotted a couple of senior Potter Watch members discreetly trailing after them too, though noted that Percy and his girlfriend were absent from the cluster of watchers.

He hoped his other friends were having more fun than he was. While he moped around buying a few things he tried to make the best of things by seizing the opportunity to ask his professor some questions he had about Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration and how it related to the classical four elements. He'd learn something useful, and hopefully she'd realise he was actually quite good at Transfiguration – he was aiming to go up to an Exceeds Expectations grade this year after all.

They ran across Professor Snape a couple of times while touring the village, which seemed to surprise Professor McGonagall. But his brief explanation of how he needed to stock up on Potions ingredients and some other necessities seemed to satisfy her curiosity, especially when they ran into him later in Dogweed and Deathcap, which was a combination apothecary and plant shop. (Harry had a few ingredients he'd wanted to grab from there too, not that he was doing as much private brewing these days as he'd used to.)

One thing Harry made sure to pick up at Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop were a small handful of glittery cards saying "You're a great friend!" and "We'll owl-ways be friends!" for all his female friends for Valentine's Day on Monday. He hadn't forgotten how some of them had gotten huffy last year that he hadn't gotten them anything when they'd sent him cards (even though it wasn't a real holiday), and wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

He sent them with a couple of school owls on Monday amidst a crowd of other boys in the Owlery on similar missions, and hoped Hermione, Pansy, Millicent, Daphne, and Tracey would like them… and not mind that some of them had identical cards. At least the writing inside was different. He also sent one to Lovegood, with a carefully phrased message inside saying that if she ever had any problems with her studies or anything else she was welcome to turn to him, as a friend, for help and assistance. (He checked the wording with Pansy, and she gave it her seal of approval.) And another went out to little Flavia Derrick, since Storm insisted she not be forgotten. He refused to send Millicent a live duck, however, no matter how much his snake argued it would make a great gift she would be sure to appreciate. A little more arguing also ruled out stunned and dead ducks, a sparrow (easier to swallow whole), a roast chicken, and live fish. Eventually Storm went into a sulk and successfully insisted Harry write an explanatory note on her card from him about Harry's refusal to get a tasty gift for her.

Hermione, who sat next to him and Neville every morning for breakfast, was the first to thank him, and they had a nice chat together about how his owl ward worked, and that he wouldn't be getting any mail of his own until after sunset.

"It makes things easier at home," he explained, before frowning as he distractedly worried about whether he'd even have a home with the Dursleys come summer break. "I hope I don't get too many cards this year. At least I don't need to panic about my mail until sunset."

"Good luck Harry," muttered Neville, who shared a look with Harry that said he remembered Harry's terror at getting an unwanted proposal of possible future engagement last year. Harry still didn't want to look Farley in the eye in the senior Potter Watch group. Thankfully she hadn't even tried to talk to him beyond basic greetings, much to his relief.

Luna Lovegood over at the Ravenclaw table squealed happily when she opened her letter, and put her elbow in her plate of scrambled eggs without noticing in all her excitement (though those sitting next to her snickered with amusement). Their laughter turned to envious gossipy murmurs when they saw her card, however.

His Slytherin friends were more restrained, thanking him quietly outside the Potions classroom later that day, and Millicent also stopped by the Gryffindor table at dinner to thank Storm for the thought and offered him a Flobberworm (which he ate happily).

Pansy gossiped in secretive whispers to Harry about Tracey's date when she got a chance. "Goldstein asked Tracey out on a picnic on Sunday – a date – and they were chaperoned by his friend Michael Corner, and Daphne. Daphne said Goldstein was a perfect gentleman and didn't even try to hold Tracey's hand. Tracey thinks Corner is sweet on Daphne, but I think Stephen Cornfoot would be a better match for her. What do you think?"

"Cornfoot's a smart guy – I remember him backing me up last year when Snape showed up at Imbolc. I don't know Corner that well. Does she really want to date someone? I don't know, whomever of the two she likes best, I guess," Harry said vaguely.

Pansy nodded sagely with a smile, like she was very satisfied with his answer. Harry congratulated himself on successfully navigating the social minefield of the day without incident.

That evening as the sun set with what seemed like unusual slowness, with Neville standing wait ready to provide emotional support to his friend, Harry waited with trepidation for the influx of Valentine's Day correspondence. Thankfully this year while the cards were greater in number, and had a few cards that he suspected might be girls actually wanting dates (no thank you!), there were no proposals of marriage of any kind, and he went to bed with a sigh of relief at having escaped unscathed.

-000-

"Have you heard back yet from the Minister?" asked Hermione on a Thursday morning a week later as they walked to Potions together.

Harry frowned as he replied, "No, nothing yet."

"I haven't seen anything in the Prophet," volunteered Neville.

"No doubt they're investigating, but keeping it quiet. He probably doesn't want to start a panic. He seemed very conscious of the media, when I met him."

"It's odd no-one's come by to talk to you about it. It didn't sound like you gave a lot of details in your letter," fretted Hermione. "Maybe there's too much speculation and not enough evidence."

"I told him Dumbledore and Professor Snape suspected a connection too – maybe he's just talking with them. Or maybe with Lockhart. I did mention the whole Tom Riddle connection with the diary and how he was really Lord Voldemort," Harry whispered quietly, "to explain why I thought possession was an option - I explained that Lockhart didn't want to say it was really the Dark Lord instead of just some random young Dark wizard because no-one would believe him and he didn't want to cause a panic. Maybe the Minister doesn't want to worry people either."

"I would wager he has got a whole team of Aurors working on it," Neville whispered excitedly.

"Maybe he doesn't believe me. Maybe he needs more proof," worried Harry. "Surely some Aurors will come to the school soon. They came fast enough when they thought he'd been in the castle. Black, that is. Not the Dark… You-Know-Who."

Potions was a breeze as usual, and Neville had been thrilled at the improvement in their grade for shared work that had begun in January when Harry had admitted he was now just going to do the best he could, and take whatever mark it was worth. Hermione meanwhile was acting smugly pleased every time Snape complimented Harry's work, satisfied that the improvement in their teacher's treatment of Harry (and incidentally of Neville) was all due to her intervention (though she'd still not said a word about it to either of them).

At lunch, Finnigan stopped by their spot at the table briefly to ask if they'd seen Weasley.

"Sorry, no. I haven't seen him," said Neville apologetically.

"It's not like him to miss lunch. I thought he might be out training, but Wood says Hufflepuff has the pitch for lunch today," explained Finnigan.

"Did you try the Hospital Wing?" suggested Harry.

Finnigan's face cleared of worry. "Yeah, that's probably it. I'll check there. He was muttering about some Slytherin prat earlier this morning, now I think about it. He's probably gotten himself hexed."

When the Gryffindors filed into the DADA classroom Finnigan reported that Ron hadn't been at the Hospital Wing either. But there was a stranger absence than Weasley wagging classes. Professor Lupin hadn't shown up to teach the class, and (more unusually) neither had a substitute teacher.

"Is it the time… you know?" asked Neville with a meaningful look to his friends.

"No," said Hermione with an authoritative shake of her head.

Harry flipped through his homework planner. "She's right, that's February twenty-sixth – Saturday. He's due to take off tomorrow, and the weekend."

"It's just one day early," mused Hermione. "Maybe it's a tough month for him for some reason?"

Some of the other students were starting to realise that no-one was showing up, and splitting up into groups to chat and play cards. Hermione frowned with disapproval. "This is a waste of valuable class time," she complained to them both. "Harry, you should lead the class. I for one would appreciate another lesson about the Patronus Charm."

"Oh yes, Harry! That would be great!" enthused Neville.

Harry eventually yielded to peer pressure when a couple of other students joined in to urge him to teach.

"Oh, all right," he said reluctantly. "But I want it understood that I am not acting as a Defence teacher, and am just leading an impromptu meeting of Potter Watch."

"Scared of the curse, Potter?" teased Dunbar, whom Harry mostly knew as the Gryffindor Quidditch team's Seeker, but didn't know really well.

"You bet!" he retorted shamelessly, to a chorus of laughter.

"Alright, so anyone who wants to work on the Patronus Charm, which is good for driving off Dementors, also known as Lemures, I'll be giving a talk about it and then we'll practice. And anyone who doesn't want to learn it, that's no skin off my nose. I'm not your teacher, and you won't lose any points. Just do something quietly at your desks instead – maybe catch up on some homework or read the textbook or something so you don't distract people who are working, okay?"

In the end everyone joined in, when it was clear the vast majority were going along with the plan for an impromptu class. There were only a few Gryffindors who hadn't joined his middle Potter Watch group already (Lavender Brown was distinctly uninterested for instance), and of those, Dunbar shook his hand at the end of the lesson and promised that she wanted to join to.

"I'm thinking of becoming an Auror when I graduate, and I didn't realise your group was covering new material," she said, impressed by his corporeal Hippocampus Patronus, and the swirls of mist some other regulars had managed to conjure, while she'd only managed faint wisps. "I'd like to come along in the future, if that's alright with you."

Harry shrugged. "The more the merrier."

"I wonder what happened to Professor Lupin," she said. "All lesson I kind of kept expecting Professor Snape to sweep in and tell us off for mucking about, and to open to page four hundred and twenty-one, or something."

"Me too."

After Defence they had Care of Magical Creatures as their last class of the day. On the way there, Neville got delayed briefly when he was called aside by a first year with a message.

"You two go ahead, I'll catch you up," he said, waving them onwards as he headed back inside the castle.

Hagrid's class was outdoors as usual, and Hermione bemoaned the lack of theoretical lessons, but Harry thought it was a nice change from all the others. Neville dashed into the class a little late (and out of breath) but didn't lose any points from Gryffindor, so that was alright.

Professor Hagrid taught cheerfully about gnomes, still full of joy from learning a week or so ago that Steelclaw was going to be moved to a reservation, and not put to death. He seemed to be acting nicer towards Draco during class, who acted smug about their Professor's more courteous attitude. Harry suspected his father had dropped the charges against the Hippogriff in return for some kind of consideration, though Draco wouldn't admit it or give details.

"Hey Potter," called Dean Thomas, as they headed back towards the castle. "Wait up!" He jogged to catch up, and Harry and Hermione waited patiently. Neville seemed impatient to get going, but trotted back to them when he saw they weren't moving.

"Potter, I was wondering if you'd found Ron?"

"Found him? I wasn't looking for him," Harry said with confusion. "He wasn't in class…"

"Well obviously he wasn't in class. But weren't you helping look for him? I was wondering if you spotted him when you were zipping about on your broom?"

"What? When?"

"On the way to Care. Did you see him? I know Finnigan was going to check the greenhouses. I hope he made it to Muggle Studies in time. Better yet, I hope he found Ron."

"I haven't been on my broom since the holidays," Harry said puzzledly. "I came straight to class. Are you sure it wasn't someone else you saw?"

Thomas shrugged uncertainly. "I thought it was you? Mind you, you've usually got a better seat on your broom. Whoever it was, they were sitting much too far forward. Must've just been someone else with black hair and glasses," he concluded with a bit of a frown. "Look, I'm going to go talk to a teacher. Missing a class or two is no big deal, I can see him trying that, though he usually likes DADA and Care. But it's weird for him to skip lunch too."

"I hope he's okay," worried Harry. "He'd better not have wandered into the Forbidden Forest or something. I think telling someone is a good idea."

Neville looked really anxious at the thought. "I agree," he said agitatedly, "it could be really urgent, or important. He might be hurt and need help."

Draco shrugged unconcernedly. "If he is stupid enough to go into a forest filled with Dementors he deserves whatever comes to him."

Crabbe and Greg snickered in unison at that. Pansy just smiled.

"Did you hex him?" Thomas asked Draco, suspicious accusation obvious in his voice.

"Not today, but if someone else did I would be happy to shout them a Butterbeer," Draco said, smiling wickedly.

Thomas glared at the Slytherins before dashing off in a determined sprint towards the castle, hanging tight onto his hat so it wouldn't blow off, while Harry and his other friends had made their way in a more leisurely and bickering fashion up to the castle (some with wands warily drawn, just in case).

By the time they reached it, Hogwarts was already going into lockdown. Shutters were slamming down on the windows, and suits of armour were looking around alertly. Professor Sprout stood ready at the main doors, and herded them all quickly inside.

"Off to your dorms, everyone. Quickly now!"

"What's going on, Professor?" Draco asked politely.

"Ronald Weasley has been kidnapped by Sirius Black!"

A/N: I know, I know – another cliffhanger! But on the plus side, there's a new chapter every Tuesday morning (Australian time) until the whole fic is uploaded – guaranteed. It's all finished and ready to go. :)

Licha and Guests – Thanks for your reviews!