A­/N: As usually – please enjoy and review.

Brynn

x

Oath-breakers

x

Lupin waits until Sunday to storm Hogwarts, raging about Potter's participation in Whipsnade. He yells himself hoarse at the unresponsive boy, accusing him, in a roundabout way, of almost exactly the same thing as Delacour did.

I watch from distance, unwilling to come closer because of my hangover and Lupin's volume, but still close enough to understand the words and watch Potter's expression become more and more closed off with each voiced reproach. He does not say a word, but I see the last bridges over the rift between the two of them fall apart.

How can Lupin ever call me cruel, or even just insensitive, when he does something like this? Not even his concern about the boy can excuse it… I want to scratch his eyes out and feed him his own kidneys much more than I ever wanted to hurt William, despite the fact that I wish to avoid Potter's presence as much as it is possible.

When Lupin grabs Potter's arm and drags him up the corridor, I curse myself for not listening to the last part of his rant and resolve to follow, if only to ensure that Potter will be in the shape to attend my class tomorrow. I do not understand why the boy does not protest. He could easily get rid of Lupin – I am certain of it – but something makes him endure the whole process without even speaking up. He does not defend himself.

When Lupin steers him through the door to the hospital wing I write it off as the werewolf being hysterical and, suppressing my morbid curiosity, return to my solitude.

x

"Professor, may I speak to you for a moment?" Granger asks at the end of the class. I am in a foul mood, caused by the lack of a Potter in the room, but I stop the insult on the tip of my tongue when I take in the girl's expression.

"Do make it short, Miss Granger," I say instead, though anyone with a hint of self-preservation would make a conversation with me – especially me in this mood – as short as possible.

"Sir, Harry didn't return to the dormitory yesterday. We were wondering if you knew where he is… or if something happened to him…"

I slam a stack of essays on my desk and Granger jumps. I will not do more in front of a student than that… I will control myself… I look at her, scowling. She seems scared, but that is to be expected.

I curse my damned lack of morbid curiosity. I should have known that Lupin would leave Potter in a dangerous mental state… I only hope it is a mistake I can yet undo.

"I was not aware of that. Go to your next lesson, Miss Granger, and I will investigate. Do not stick your know-it-all nose into it, is that clear?"

She nods, but I know better than to believe her. She will find a way to cause trouble, unless I manage to prevent it… but that will have to wait until the end of the next class, which consists of third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and in my current mood spells homicide…

My first steps after I banish the thirteen-year-old bumblers out of my dungeon lead to the hospital wing. I hope Pomfrey can give me some lead – at least tell me what has transpired between Potter and the blasted werewolf so that I have any idea whether Potter is likely to come back carrying a hessian sack dripping blood or if I have to look for his corpse in some secluded spot.

Pomfrey is out – likely in Headquarters, tending to Hestia Jones and Elphias Doge, who sustained injuries too serious to be cured within minutes. That there is nobody available in the case of emergency is a gross oversight, but that blame cannot be fairly placed with the medi-witch. After Delacour departed for France (where she hopefully will not be returning from), the Headmaster should have ascertained that there was at least an Apprentice nurse here, if he wanted to continue sending Pomfrey on errands without the school.

I am about to turn on the spot and go ask the ghosts, when I hear mumbling. I approach the single occupied bed on the opposite end of the wing and the words become gradually clearer… though they make no more sense.

"The Dark Lord approaches… thrice defied him… the seventh month dies… Mark him as his equal… he will have power… must die… neither can live… dies…"

The words are hauntingly familiar.

I pull the cover aside. My hands grip the frame of the bed spasmodically, because there is Potter, lying on the bed, clad in hospital pyjamas. He turns his head to look at me with wide, green, haunted eyes.

"Snape?" he gasps incredulously. His hands jerk, but he does not move far. I realise that his wrists, and probably also his ankles, are bound to the same frame as I am holding onto.

"What the fuck…" I cannot comprehend what I am seeing. This is Potter, for goodness sake… what could he have done that they bound him to a bed? Does Lupin condone this? Does Pomfrey?

"O blinding light…" he closes those wide eyes, hiding dilated pupils from view. "Oh Ra…"

"Potter!"

He jerks, tugging at the straps in vain. The beds to the left of his cover themselves with flowers. Orchids. Their colouring is definitely not natural but I am, fortunately, not exposed to them for a long time, because they immediately wither and turn to dust. Half of the hospital wing is covered with a thin layer of dark grey powder.

"Drugged…" he presses out. "Floatin'… Tests."

I take a risk and cast a Sobering Spell on him. It is especially taxing on the liver, but he should survive it.

He calms down instantly, taking deeper breaths. When his eyes open again, there is a lot more of his iris visible, but the spell obviously did not get rid completely of the effects of whatever he has been drugged with.

"You won't believe how glad I'm to see you…" he says in a muffled voice and lets his head rest on his pillow. "I'm so high on the an'sthetic that I feel like I'm flyin' even with these on…" he glares at the leather straps that bind him. I reach into my inner pocket for a scalpel, but as soon as I move toward the bindings he shakes his head.

"Don't." I glare at him. Why the Hell does he not want me to free him? "They think I need to go through all their little tests… if I 'scaped now, they would just catch me again. I'd rather it be over in one go."

I sit on the side of his bed, reluctantly put the scalpel back into its charmed holder within my pocket and, without conscious command of the action, touch the side of his face. He is covered in cold sweat. I hate Lupin so much right now… at least as much as I did after he almost killed me in our fifth year at Hogwarts. I hate him like I used to hate Black.

"What did he say to you?"

How could he have tried to excuse this? I have thought Potter ridiculous when he suggested that anyone in Hogwarts would treat him like this, and here the universe is, laughing into my face. I have for a long time detested this child, but even I have never acted like a Death Eater toward him…

Potter grimaces at what he sees wherever his mind has temporarily gone.

"He spouted a lot of meanin'less drivel and then threw my words from when I was thirteen back at me."

"Which words?"

It does occur to me that I am shamelessly taking advantage of his state, but it does not stop me. Apparently, as irrational as his sole existence makes me, I have not yet grown either weak or soft.

"That my father would not want me to become a murderer." He smirks bitterly. I would very much like to know in which situation he has told that to Lupin. It sounds much too philosophical to come from a thirteen-year-old child (which I am painfully aware of, since I have very recently yelled at a room full of them), but at the same time it stinks of naivety own to children.

"Your father is dead," I remark, quite needlessly. After yesterday, I do not think Potter is at all bothered about the dead having a good opinion of him.

"That's one thing… 'nother is that he'd probably like me to stay alive…" It is a pragmatic approach and, indeed, much likely to keep him alive than the one Lupin is attempting to force upon him. "'n…"

I look at him, realising that he has thought about adding something, but either changed his mind or it has wondered off again. He might not even remember this conversation tomorrow.

"And?"

He closes his eyes yet again and I have to lean closer to understand his mumbling.

"An' I fancy m'self a killer, not a murd'rer, but I s'ppose for some'n that diff'rence'd be technical." He yawns and bends his knees and much as his binds allow him to. "Stay for a while? If you're real, I mean…"

I nod. I do not have anything better to do anyway, although I might land myself in trouble if Pomfrey emerges, because I doubt I would be able to refrain from calling her up on this travesty.

"Drugs're pretty confusin'…" Potter mutters on. "Wanna me stay put… 't feels like I'm dead an' there's no one there an' I think that maybe I am… Keep lookin' for Bill, y'know…" The Sobering Spell must be wearing off. I wonder what he has been fed – if it were my potions, they must have been mixed together. I do not recall ever brewing something that would have effects like these, especially not for a school nurse to use on the students.

"William is dead," I remind him. It is comprehensible that he would forget – he has not yet had time to come to terms with the man's death-

"That's why I look for him!" Potter explains. "Wouldn't make sense 'spectin' some'dy 'live when I'm dead, would it? You aren't dead, are you? I'd hate if you died…"

That feeling is more than mutual, no matter how angry at him I am.

"Try and sleep, Potter."

"You a ghost?" he asks in a childlike voice. I hate it. I hate seeing him like this, but I know better than to disrespect his decision… I will be checking on him regularly, though. They will not do anything worse to him that they have already done…

"No," I reply belatedly. "I am not. Do I look transparent?"

He laughs. It is a totally absurd sight.

"Sort of. An' very colourful… well, for you…"

"Sleep," I tell him. He does so, and I longingly think of the other half of the last bottle of Alsikescotch… but I need to remain sober tonight.

x

Pomfrey is obviously aware of my frequent visits of the hospital wing but does not say anything. She pretends not to notice me after a while, past assuring herself that I do not harm Potter. The conclusion I draw from that – for I do not talk to her in the fear that I could not keep myself from harming her – is that she in fact disapproves of what is being done to the boy, but someone with higher authority has overruled her.

Since Monday, Dumbledore has joined Lupin on the list of people to execute some subtle but vicious revenge on once the Dark Lord has been dealt with (in the case I shall survive that long). I am quite successful in not announcing the intention to the whole world by scowling at him more than usual or doing something equally stupid and obvious.

On Thursday Potter is back in class and, by the way he is acting, blissfully unaware of our several conversations in the hospital wing. I am afraid that someone else had abused the opportunity and managed to implant some suggestion about obeying somebody or avoiding something into his brain while he was less than cognizant or, in the worst case, managed to brainwash him.

It appears, though, that either the Order does not condone that, or they did not have enough time for it in between my checking on him.

He is currently failing rather dismally at producing the last stage of Flemming Fever Draught, which is quite understandable, because his tuition in the last five weeks was sparse and even then chaotic.

I sneer at the concoction in his cauldron.

"Your technique leaves a lot to be desired, Mr Potter."

He looks up for about two seconds and again turns away, to tend to the mess, as if there was any chance to salvage it. It is first then that I notice how badly his hands are shaking – no wonder that he cannot produce anything resembling the set potion. I should have thought of it – after three days spent heavily drugged, there would be some repercussions…

I would have expected Pomfrey to either give him something to temper the effects, or keep him under her supervision. I suspect a political power-play, but I am too disconnected from the leadership of the Order and the management of the school to understand the particulars.

"Are we talking about desires now, Professor?" he asks, pretending nonchalance, but the hoarseness of his voice betrays him.

"Ten points," I respond shortly and continue the inspection of the potions. Granger's is, predictably, perfect.

"To or from?"

Everyone else in the room breaths in rapidly; Granger moans.

I take two more steps forward, which take me to Turpin's cauldron, while I decide on how to respond to that bout of insolence. It might be his way of dealing with what has been done to him, or even keeping himself straight, because I do not doubt that he would very much like to curl up on his bed (I judge by my experience with hangovers), but I will not stand for him disrespecting me in front of other students.

"Another ten points."

"Are you this passionate only about teaching, or are you like this in various fields?"

Granger moans louder in the fallen silence. Potter is begging for trouble. I grip the handle of my wand to have something to concentrate on, which is not harming the little ingrate.

"Detention," I tell him evenly. I do not want to spend more time around him than necessary, though… "With McAllister."

When there is no reaction, I look up to make sure that he has heard me… and meet a pair of expressive eyes conveying betrayal and a twisted, ugly mockery of a smile. It… hurts…

The bell announces the end of the class and in the following flurry of movement he escapes before I can say another word.

x

I consider the half a bottle of Alsikescotch left, but then decide that Potter is not as ungrateful as that. I truly believe that he would not have acted so wilfully and disrespectfully, had he remembered our conversations from when he was drugged… strangely enough, it makes it somewhat easier to deal with. At least that is what I decide on Friday evening, after Potter misses the Dark Arts lesson…

Even after more than a month without a single session, I am still thinking of them, still awaiting Potter's knock on my office door around the originally scheduled times. I am still disappointed, although not surprised, when it does not sound.

x

"Potter, stay after class," I say on Monday. There will only be a few minutes for us to speak before the third-years come in, but hopefully that will be enough to clear the confusion. He must learn that I had nothing to do with what has been done to him… that, in fact, I do not even know what has happened.

I have not spoken to the Headmaster in… a record-breaking period of time, and I do not have any hope to find out from him, anyway. I doubt Potter himself knows, which leaves Lupin and Pomfrey, one of which does not speak to me at all and the other has sworn an oath to not disclose confidential information about her patients. It works out very well for everyone except Potter… and, by extension, me.

"Take a seat," I tell him when Granger closes the door, doing so quietly as to not make me irritated, in case I should decide to take it out on Potter. I have no such intention…

…but it appears that neither has Potter. He takes out his wand as soon as there is a solid layer of wood separating us from the rest of the world and aims it straight between my eyes. I suppress a shudder. The first thought to cross my mind is that he has finally succumbed to the insanity, but his eyes are too clear, too present. He perceives me as a threat…

"I did not-"

"I'm not interested," he says abruptly. "Don't come close to me, don't speak to me and leave me alone!"

"I-"

"I trusted you!" he snarls. "I didn't want to believe it! Just stay away from me!"

He uses his magic to open the door, not willing to turn his back to me for even a second.

I am too stunned to even try to stop him.

x

I floo to Grimmauld Place as soon as the classes are over for the day with the intention to corner Nymphadora. As luck has it, she is in the kitchen, peeling three potatoes at once. Any other day I would ponder whether the matter I wish to speak about is worth risking my life in such a dangerous environment, but now it is not an issue.

She drops all three knives when I startle her. When she realises who I am she almost smiles, but the motion is aborted when she catches a glimpse of my expression.

"What's happened?" she asks.

"That is exactly what I would like to know," I snarl at her. I do not think it is her fault in the least, but I demand that she finds the answers for me if she does not have them. "What did the werewolf do to Potter?"

"To Harry?" she asks, genuinely confused. "What would Remus… I don't know what you're on about…"

"Then find out! The boy is convinced that I have drugged him and kept him a semi-conscious gibberish mass for half a week!"

Nymphadora opens and closes her mouth several times and then shakes her head.

"B-but… what does Remus have to do with-"

"I saw him forcibly drag the boy to the hospital wing after Weasley's funeral. He did not resurface until Thursday."

"Remus wouldn't do anything to hurt Harry," the woman claims steadfastly.

"Then give me another explanation!"

"Stop taking it out on me! Maybe it really was you! Maybe you're just trying to assign guilt now!"

"I would not hurt Potter! For Merlin's sake, I have risked my life for the boy-"

"Well, so has Remus!" she yells back at me, red in the face. I am suddenly very aware of the three levitated knives. "Remus would never hurt him!"

"Someone did! Ask the werewolf!"

Silence descends as we face off in the middle of the kitchen. The door opens and Molly Weasley steps in, looking as angry as either of us.

"Will you keep it quiet?! I've got two patients upstairs. And, Severus, Remus would never do anything to hurt Harry."

I shake my head. They are all so blind, so naïve, so bloody idealistic! Potter was dying in front of their eyes and they did nothing about it! They pretended that everything was fine… I was there! I deserve Potter's trust! I deserve his… his… him.

I turn to Nymphadora for one last desperate attempt to make her see reason. I do not hope for much, though. It is her lover, after all, and I am only a hateful teacher who sometimes saves the Saviour of the whole fucking ungrateful world.

"Ask him. Ask him what happened to Potter-"

She resolutely declines, jaw set, eyes glittering with anger.

I thought so.

x

"Potter is not attending my classes," I inform the staff on the next Friday. I hate doing it, but I must. I need to speak to the boy.

"Mine neither," says McGonagall.

"Nor mine," informs Pomona.

"Filius?" Dumbledore asks.

The diminutive man shakes his head.

"He delivered all his work for me on time," Viridian says, examining the surprised faces around the table. The conclusion is obvious: Potter does not deem anything but Defence Against the Dark Arts worth wasting his precious time on. I do notice, however, that Viridian is the only of Potter's teachers who is not also a member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Is that why he is so angry with me? Guilt by association?

"You do not manage your students too well, Minerva, do you?" I say bitingly. I am tempted to rescind my membership of the Order on the spot, but am too afraid that it would mean my eviction from the castle. Not that there is much to stay for…

"Be so kind and keep your mouth shut," she replies and turns to the Headmaster. "Why was I not informed of this earlier?"

Because she did not ask, that is why.

The Headmaster twinkles at her over the rim of his glasses, interlacing his fingers in the customary grandfatherly fashion, cheek bulging under the mass of white hair with what is most likely a blasted lemon drop.

"Harry needs time to himself, my dear. He has experienced a very tragic event and I believe it best that we give him some time to recuperate."

That lie is so striking that it seems unbelievable that nobody calls him on it. Potter was… maybe not perfectly alright, but certainly not drowning in depression after William died.

"This is very unusual, Albus," Minerva claims, showing a smidgen of responsibility which is way too late and way too small to change anything significant. "Even the Weasley children attend classes…"

"Minerva," Dumbledore speaks with a hint of exasperation which I am accustomed to hearing from him, but most of the people in the room are not, "I know more about the problems Harry is currently dealing with-" I would say. "-and I am unsurprised that he needs some time to himself. Leave him be until Christmas…"

There is a series of hesitant acquiesces around the table, but I cannot add mine. Will Potter even be there by Christmas? Who knows what his mental state is like right now if he does not speak to anybody? I shall have to ask the Bloody Baron to continue keeping watch on him… perhaps Potter would be willing to talk to ghosts… Sir Nicholas, maybe? Supposedly he talked to him after that Godfather of his died…

I lean to the side and under my breath ask Viridian: "How does he act?"

The man waits for the conversation to start again and under the cover of arguing voices replies simply: "Resigned."

I hate the answer, but it is better than not knowing at all.

x

It is astonishing that there is a way for a student in Hogwarts to completely avoid the entire staff (and get away with it). There is some speculation about a house elf bringing him food straight to the Gryffindor dormitory, but that does not explain how he gets to Viridian's office and back without being spotted by any of the lurking teachers waiting to ambush him in the corridors. I suspect it has to do with an Invisibility Cloak, but even that should not be enough.

Dumbledore learns of 'Potter spotting' quickly and gives the whole school a stern talking-to, repeating the same spiel he delivered in the staff meeting, only this time augmented with veiled promise of dire consequences should someone go against his wishes. After that the only teacher apart from Viridian who sees the boy until Christmas is Minerva, who persuades Brown and Patil to start a vicious argument in the middle of his class and demolish enough school property for their Head of House to be called to deal with the situation, and stays long enough after the lesson is supposed to end to catch a glimpse of him.

Needless to say, she does not share her impressions with me.

The term ends with Potter being present for one of his five exams (which he passes with an Outstanding, but which is far from a satisfactory result). At this rate he will not be admitted to N.E.W.T.s. The bigger trouble is, however, that he does not care about not being admitted to them. I go as far during one weekend, when I have corrected all essays and long hours are filled with nothing but short aborted attempts at reading and pointless contemplation, as to send him a letter. The owl brings it back unopened.

The Weasleys go home for the holiday – or, more likely, to the Headquarters – while Granger and Draco stay in the castle. They spend time together, taking long walks outside and scouring the library for a text that Granger has not read yet. Potter is not seen with them once.

Not for the first time in moths I ask myself what is it that I am remaining here for. I have expected to be excluded from the Order for my uselessness shortly after I was revealed to be a spy, with death coming not much later. Being assigned to 'baby-sit' Potter, as he used to call it, I have gained a quarter of a year… it is not much, but the period feels somehow more significant than the whole decade before it… the feeling is gone now, though.

I think… it might be time.