A/N: You may recall from much earlier in this story that Severus erased the Sectumsempra spell from Harry's 6th year Potions textbook. Obviously, Harry can't use a spell he didn't learn. This chapter covers the events in the "Sectumsempra" chapter of HBP and has been written to follow the Moment of Impact/Regards Harry story arc. As always, thanks for reading and thanks to those who take the time to review.

Chapter 35

May 1 – May 7

-Harry-

"You're killing me, Harry!" panted Ron as they slowed to a walk. Both were bent slightly at the waist, hands on their hips, breathing hard.

Harry managed a grin. "Not me doing it," he said between breaths. "Thought you volunteered…"

Ron managed a snort. The two had come out for a pre-breakfast run, making it outside before the sun had crested the horizon. They'd run the carriage road again, down to the gates then around the Quidditch pitch several times. Now, as they walked back to the castle, Ron groaned.

"I'm not even hungry now. The thought of breakfast makes me sick."

Harry was several steps ahead of Ron. He stopped, turned around and stared at his friend. "You look like Ron Weasley," he said slowly.

"Git," muttered Ron, shaking his head and grinning weakly. His eyes narrowed and he appeared to be looking over Harry's shoulder. "What's he doing here?" he asked.

Harry turned around quickly. Albus Dumbledore himself was walking slowly down the path toward them. He was some distance away still, and didn't appear to be hurrying at all. Harry shrugged.

"Maybe he's going to Hogsmeade," said Ron. He grinned. "A bit early to have a drink at the Hog's Head…"

"He might just be visiting Hagrid," suggested Harry as they continued to walk up the path toward the castle. But he suspected that the Headmaster was off on one of his trips, and now that he knew what those trips were about his stomach twitched uncomfortably.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley," said the Headmaster in greeting as they approached him. "Out for a bit of exercise this morning?" He stopped walking as if inviting further conversation.

"Yeah," answered Ron, looking sideways at Harry. Harry seemed to be studying Dumbledore's robes and didn't volunteer anything so Ron continued awkwardly. "We've decided to get in better shape…" he trailed off, once again looking at Harry.

"Ahh," said Dumbledore. He nodded and spoke directly to Ron when he answered. "Well, I certainly agree that taking care of the body is as important as nurturing the mind." He indicated the castle behind him with a tilt of his head in its direction. "I sincerely hope that Hogwarts has done her duty these past six years, Mr. Weasley, and given you a more-than-adequate foundation?" He phrased the statement as a question. Harry's eyes moved from Ron to Dumbledore and back to Ron.

"Yes sir," answered Ron, shifting uncomfortably. He continued, rather formally, Harry thought. "More than adequate. Hogwarts is fantastic. It's given me an excellent magical education."

"And given you friends as well," added the Headmaster, smiling at Ron and nodding his head. Harry noticed that Ron's head began to nod along with Dumbledore's.

"Yes sir, friends too," Ron agreed. He looked over at Harry a moment and squared his shoulders, standing straighter. "I'd do anything for my friends, sir. Anything at all."

Dumbledore regarded Ron thoughtfully a long moment, then smiled enigmatically.

"And they anything for you," he added quietly, catching and holding each of their gazes for a moment. "Stick together, boys. Whether you're running toward something or away from it, stick together." He nodded amicably and continued down the path toward the gate leaving Harry and Ron staring after him. Harry had not uttered a word during the entire conversation. When he disappeared down the hill, Ron looked at Harry.

"What does he mean?" he asked, his voice surprisingly even. "What was he trying to tell us?"

"I think he's saying that Hogwarts has already given us all she can, Ron," answered Harry, looking up at the castle looming before them. Ron considered this a long moment, understanding the seriousness of it, then lightened the mood with a Weasley grin.

"Nah, I'm feeling better now. I think she can give us one more breakfast at least. Race you to the Great Hall."

He turned and began to jog up the hill, Harry on his heels.

/

1 May, 1997

Thursday

Dear Severus:

Ron and I ran again this morning. I didn't get your letter until after that, of course, after you tossed it on my desk, said "Acceptable" in that sarcastic tone you use with me when there are others around and then accused Hermione of doing my work for me. She was really upset, and I don't like my friends to be upset on my account. I think she was more angry that you would consider her work only "acceptable," than that you accused her of cheating. Anyway, I never really thought about running as a way to help out your mind as well as your body, but I can see your point. It seems like it's a great way to clear your mind, anyway, since there's no way you can be preoccupied with up-to-no-good Slytherins when your lungs are burning and your shins feel like they're about to splinter.

We ran into Professor Dumbledore when we were walking back up the hill after our run. At first I thought he was going down to see Hagrid but then it occurred to me that he's leaving the castle again. Now that I know what he's up to, it's worse than when I didn't. It put me on edge even more. He was standing on the path not too far away from the castle, waiting for us. It was kind of an odd meeting, and I know it bothered Ron a bit. He's different with Dumbledore than I am, maybe more respectful. I don't really mean that, because I'm not disrespectful or anything, but I guess I know the Headmaster better than Ron does. I mean, I've spent more time with him and he's trusted more information to me (but not enough). So anyway, Dumbledore was just standing there on the side of the footpath, waiting for us. He greeted us both but Ron was the first one that answered him, so he ended up asking Ron some questions—like had Hogwarts given him a good foundation? And had it given him friends? Then he told us to stick together no matter if we were running away from something or toward something.

And that's what I've been thinking about on and off all day. He was talking to Ron, Severus, but he was speaking to me. He might as well have said "Six years is all you get, Harry. You've made good friends here and they'll do anything for you. I'm going to ask you to do something nearly impossible, but you've got your friends to help you out."

But I wonder about that last part. He told us to stick together if we're running away from something or toward it. I know he means something by it, because it's Dumbledore, and that's how he is. I can think of lots of ways to interpret it, though.

This is giving me a headache again.

Oh yeah, I want to duel with you in class all right. Thanks for the warning, though. I'll go ahead and write my last will and testament now. I can see the headline of the Prophet after that. "Professor Kills Student in Classroom Duel; Slytherins Rejoice" or "The Boy Who Lived Dead at 16; Snape Held Blameless."

Listen, it's not that I'm not honored. I know you must think I'm good enough to try, but it wouldn't do for you to be bested by me, would it? All those Slytherins reporting back to Mommy and Daddy that Professor Snape let Potter pulverize him or worse yet, didn't kill the annoying brat while he had the chance?

How about letting me duel Malfoy instead?

I've been thinking more about what you said about portkeys and apparition. What's the furthest you've ever apparated? What do you think would be a safe distance for me? What's the limiting factor—is it the total distance or is it not having a good enough idea of where you're going and where—exactly—you'll end up? How can portkeys be regulated by the Ministry if anyone can make one with a spell? Can they trace who makes them and where those people go?

And speaking of trace—you asked in a letter a little while ago if I'd ever heard of the trace. I hadn't, but Ron and practically everyone else in the dorm had. No, strike that. EVERYONE else in the dorm had. I'm not exactly sure how this happens all the time—everyone knows all this "common knowledge" stuff and they know I grew up with Muggles but no one bothers to explain it. Shouldn't there be some sort of orientation class when you get to Hogwarts? You know—it can have topics like "What happens when you come of age?" and "Magical Means of Transportation (or "What the hell was that purple bus?) " and "Do traditional wizards wear anything under their robes?"

So…the trace. It's a sort of a charm that lets the Ministry know if an under-aged wizard performs magic. Or if magic is performed around an under-aged wizard (Opinions in Gryffindor House differed on this.) And it breaks—or lifts—automatically when a witch or wizard turns 17.

So the question I have is—what am I going to do this summer until I'm 17?

Regards,

Harry

/

Severus couldn't be serious about dueling in class, could he?

Harry looked down at his hands. He'd been writing rather furiously—sometimes he sat and thought about the letter he was writing quite a bit and went at it slowly but other times, like today, the thoughts turned into words quickly and his hand sailed across the parchment. He wished it would do that when it came to writing essays. In any case, his hands were pretty filthy. He did a quick scourgify to get rid of the worst of it and hoped that the rest would fade away when he washed his hair in the morning and got his hands full of the sudsy shampoo.

He put his hand up to his hair and pushed the fringe out of his eyes again. He was going to have to make a decision soon—either grow it out all the way so he could band it into a tail or get it cut again so it stopped hanging down into his eyes. He was relatively sure that Mrs. Weasley would insist that he cut it anyway before Bill's wedding this summer. It didn't really matter to him so he may as well make her happy. Ginny cut Ron's hair during the school year—maybe she'd do his too.

"How about giving me a haircut, Ginny?" he said as he stacked up his books and stashed his supplies in his bag. Ginny and Hermione were sitting across from him; Hermione still had books and parchment spread out but Ginny had packed up her things.

The two girls looked at each other. Hermione giggled. Giggled. Hermione giggled. Harry was instantly suspicious. Hermione Granger did not giggle.

"What? What's funny?" he asked.

"We've just been talking about your hair is all," answered Hermione. "About how shaggy it's getting. We like it."

There would have been a time, Harry knew, when Ginny would have blushed at that comment, and perhaps run upstairs to her dorm room, too embarrassed to continue talking. That Ginny had grown up, though, and had already been through a couple of boyfriends.

"But I'll trim it, if you'd like," offered Ginny. "Just let me run up and get…"

"No, that's OK," said Harry. He combed a hand through his hair then shook his head. "I guess I like it just fine how it is."

-Severus-

As a child, Severus had explained everything Lily Potter needed to know about the Wizarding World. Lily had gone on to marry James Potter, a pureblood from an old family. They'd produced a son. Who would ever have considered that that son would reach the age of 16 and not know what the trace was?

The boy had a point about an orientation class, though. It was a rarity to get a Muggle-born student in Slytherin House, and when it did happen Severus made damn sure that the student was given a crash course in Wizarding life. The problem with Harry, he thought, was that he was such an icon of the magical world. It simply had not occurred to anyone that the boy was no better off than a Muggle when it came to how the Wizarding World worked. For a moment, a very brief moment, Severus considered a curriculum change to incorporate orientation into the Hogwarts start-of-year agenda.

Stupid, he thought. As if they'll be a need once Albus is gone…

/

4 May, 1997

Sunday

Dear Harry:

The Headmaster rarely says anything that doesn't carry with it deeper meaning. By now you are surely aware of that so your musings on the conversation you had with him earlier this week are certainly appropriate. He has much on his mind of late and worry for you and your future contributes to this rather heavy load. While I was not personally privy to this conversation and can only guess his meaning, I will say that it is not insignificant that he spoke to Mr. Weasley directly instead of to you.

To have a chance at interpreting his message, I suggest that you write down what you remember him saying, as you did in your letter to me. Next, for example, write down different things you might run toward and things you might run from. I, for example, might run from Professor Trelawney, a ravaging bear, a potion about to explode (a student's potion, of course—my own would never explode unless it was meant to). I might run toward a friend in danger or in need, or a lake were I on fire. Literally or figuratively. I do believe, knowing Albus as well as I do, that he meant his words in a figurative sense. Perhaps running toward something signifies a hunt or a quest; running away may signify avoiding danger. All this being said, the crux of his statement may instead lie in the word "together." Think about that if you can get your eyes and your mind off Miss Weasley for a few moments (yes, the same young lady who apparently has a sweet tooth, especially when it comes to buttercream frosting).

As much as I'd love to let you and Mr. Malfoy at each other for ten minutes to work off some of that aggression, dueling each other in my class is not an option. You will continue to exercise constraint around him, Harry and leave his extracurricular activities for me and his other professors to address. Perhaps I was a bit rash to suggest that we formally duel, for just the reasons you cite. However, I still believe that an appropriate match can be orchestrated. I will restrict myself to spells taught through the sixth year curriculum, and you, of course, will use nonverbal shields to defend. Not a true duel, of course, but an exercise in which you can demonstrate restraint and defense and leave the classroom gloating while I glower.

While I will answer your questions on apparition and on magical transportation in general, I remain suspicious of your motivations in asking the questions. While you have demonstrated to me your understanding and grasp of the techniques behind apparition, you do not yet have a license to apparate nor an appreciation of your limitations. One does not move directly from short-distance precision apparition to international travel.

I have, on more than one occasion, apparated from London to France to procure certain ingredients that are more difficult to come by in the United Kingdom. From France I have traveled by that means to Belgium, and once into Russia. Recall that the further you travel, the less chance of successful "reattachment" should splinching occur. I once lost the nail from my big toe on an otherwise successful apparition from London to Hogsmeade. I didn't go back for it—it was the one with the fungus and I hardly missed it.

Portkeys, like apparition, can be traced because they essentially create "holes" in real space, as I have already explained. Physics is, of course, involved; not the physics that Muggles understand but the physics of magic. Few witches and wizards truly understand magical physics, or even attempt to study it, but spellcrafters must at least grasp the concept, as well as Potions Masters. There is an entire Ministry department devoted to tracking and regulating magical transportation. You will fly under the radar if you apparate instead of using portkeys.

Your more difficult and relevant question is your last.

Considering the trace, what will you do this summer before you turn 17?

You will wait, Harry. You must wait.

Regards,

Severus

/

A knock sounded on his office door. He glanced at the clock. Already 9 p.m. A quick glance at Harry's clock assured him that the boy was where he should be. Severus opened his office door to greet Isabelle Stone, one of the fifth year Slytherin prefects.

"I'm very sorry to bother you, sir…" she began.

"I was about to make my rounds anyway," said Severus. "Is there a problem?"

"Only that Malfoy's been at it again," she said. "The first and second years are in a bit of a state. Several are asking to owl their parents. I thought that you…" Her voice dropped off and she looked at him hopefully.

"Is Draco still in the common room?" he asked as grabbed his wand off the desk.

"No. He stormed back out after he knocked over the kids' study table again," she answered. "Sir, what's going on with him? Is it trouble at home? No one from his year is talking…"

Severus closed the door to his office behind them.

"Yes. Something like that," he answered, heading down the hall toward the common room. Something like the Dark Lord holding court in the formal dining hall.

"Aren't you going after Malfoy?" asked the girl, running to keep up with her Head of House's brisk pace.

"I'll see to the younger ones first," he answered. And talk to Malfoy's friends he added mentally. This was not the first time Draco had let his frustration get out of hand. Refusing to confide in Severus, perhaps not even confiding in the beefy bodyguard accomplices he kept with him almost around the clock, he disappeared for hours at a time and returned frustrated or depressed. With the right combination of factors—noisy common room, high frustration, someone looking directly at him instead of keeping their gaze to the floor—Draco had, on several occasions since Christmas break, gone on a mini rampage. He upended tables, scattered parchment and books, herded younger students to their dorm rooms for the night as early as seven o'clock and, on one memorable occasion a month ago cast a Silencio at the room in general so strong it had taken Severus himself several minutes to undo it.

He never did go find Draco that evening. After thirty minutes spent sitting on the floor helping his first and second years locate scattered pieces of homework assignments and repair them and another twenty grilling the sixth-year girls in his office, he called it a night. It was far too late in the game to worry about Draco Malfoy being out after curfew.

-Harry-

It wasn't fair! Harry pounded his pillow—his pillow in the hospital wing—and winced. He'd managed to break several bones in his hand when he'd punched Malfoy. The git. The insufferable git! He deserved everything he'd gotten, his broken nose and fat lip and all. And who'd gotten punished? Malfoy? For trying to use the Cruciatus on Harry? No. Because he hadn't finished the spell, had he? So there was no proof, was there? Why hadn't Severus believed him?

The evening had started out so well. He'd been on his way down to dinner and yes, he had checked the map to see where Malfoy was and had been surprised to actually find him in a bathroom…with Moaning Myrtle! Who could resist that one? But when Harry had shown up, Draco had been crying! Actually crying! And he'd been angry that Harry had seen him, and embarrassed, and had tried to curse him and it had gotten crazy in there. Neither one of them seemed to be able to hit the other and things were exploding and there was water everywhere and Moaning Myrtle was screaming…

But when Malfoy had started to incant the Cruciatus, Harry didn't have anything, anything in his arsenal that bad, that powerful. He could have just tried to disarm him. In a way, that's what he had ended up doing. Running at him, surprising Draco so much midcurse that he hadn't finished the spell. Raising his arm, punching him in the face. Wands forgotten, the two had rolled around on the floor pummeling each other, gasping with the pain and choking on the water which was shooting out of a blasted toilet, spilling everywhere.

Until Severus had appeared. Petrified them both. Left Harry lying in the water, face up by chance alone. Cancelled the curse on Draco and stood him up. Gotten his side of the story while Harry lay there, cold, water in his ears, immobile.

Minerva had appeared before Severus was finished with Draco. At Severus' nod, she cancelled the Petrificus on Harry, cold fury in her eyes. Practically yanked him to his feet. He grabbed a sink to steady himself.

"Owww!" He grabbed his wrist, tried to make a fist. Bit his lip. He couldn't move his fingers.

Minerva ignored his obvious pain and pulled him out into the hall. In halting gasps, he told her what had happened. His side of the story. As he talked she reached into her pocket and handed him a handkerchief to help staunch the blood that had begun pouring from his nose when he stood up. His eye felt like crap. His glasses were gone and his right eye was staring to close up on him.

Minerva stared down at him, her face unreadable, as Severus led Draco away to the infirmary. "You will stay here and wait for me," he said to Harry in a far-too-cold and quiet voice as he passed.

"Severus, he needs medical attention," said Minerva, her voice rather steely. "His hand appears to be broken…"

Severus' eyes quickly moved to Harry's hand but if he saw anything there he didn't like he didn't acknowledge it. "Then keep him here for ten minutes," said Severus. "Let me get Mr. Malfoy settled in one of the quarantine rooms first." He sneered, literally sneered, as they passed. Malfoy looked at the floor. Harry watched them until they disappeared around a corner. His hand was throbbing.

"He started it," he hissed. "I came in and found him crying. He said that he's going to kill him if he doesn't do it. He's up to something…."

"Enough," said Minerva. And she meant it. She looked at Harry and shook her head, the anger dissipating from her eyes. She shook her head. "Severus warned you about this, Harry. More than once. And you went looking for Mr. Malfoy, didn't you?"

Harry opened his mouth to deny it but closed his mouth almost as soon as he opened it. She was right. It didn't matter who had started it. He'd gone in there deliberately, knowing Malfoy was in there. A sick feeling washed over him. He'd screwed up badly this time and Severus…Severus didn't look like he had a gram of patience left to deal with it.

"I cannot believe I am doing this, Harry. But you are grounded, literally. You are banned from Quidditch. And you will serve detention on Saturday as well…during the match. I will leave it to Severus to issue his own punishment as well and decide on that detention."

From the look on Harry's face, she may as well have said "We are sending you to Azkaban."

/

7 May, 1997

Wednesday

Dear Severus:

I know this letter won't really matter but for what it's worth I'm sorry. Going in there looking for Malfoy was wrong. It was wrong because you told me to leave him be—to leave it be—and I didn't. He started the fight—I already told you that even though I don't think you believe me. And he was going to use an unforgiveable on me—you might not believe that either. And that makes me so damn mad I can't even express it really. But I didn't have to go in there. If I had just gone on past that bathroom and into the Great Hall for dinner I'd be playing Quidditch on Saturday and I wouldn't have this broken hand and swollen face and detention with Filch and study sessions alone with Minerva. My Quidditch team wouldn't be looking at me like they are, like I did this all on purpose just to screw up our chances at winning the Cup.

I hate Malfoy. I can't deny that. But more than that I hate what I did because of how it made you look at me. I could see it in your eyes, Severus. You were furious with me. It wasn't all pretend. It wasn't only because you had to favor Malfoy because you're his Head of House and all. You were worried about HIM. I could tell. I didn't see you in your eyes, Severus. I only saw Professor Snape.

I understand your punishment. Everyone else thinks it's cruel, even Minerva does. I can tell that Madam Pomfrey is terribly upset too. She's itching to use potions on me, and her wand. I don't know how she talked you into giving me that tiny dose of Skele-gro. But I get it. I got these injuries fighting like a Muggle and they're going to heal without magic too.

My eye is still pretty much closed shut and I'm writing with my left hand. It's taking me forever. Madam Pomfrey brought me a mirror this morning and I look like crap. She told me that I'll be in the hospital wing until at least Friday. She said my hand will take a couple weeks to heal with the quarter-dose of Skele-gro. And Minerva came in to tell me that you'd be coming in tonight after curfew to talk to me. I asked her if she'd take this letter to you and she said she would. She even smiled—almost. It was one of her serious smiles, the kind that says "You've really screwed up but I'm still rather fond of you."

I'm worried, though, that I won't get one of those smiles from you. I'll make it up to you, I promise, Severus. I don't know how but I will. Just give me another chance to show you that I can be the kind of person you want me to be.

Regards,

Harry

/

It would have to do. His hand was so cramped he couldn't write another word, and the words he had managed with his left hand were oddly tilted and difficult to read, even though he'd tried to use a simple block script.

Harry rolled up the scroll one-handed and collapsed back onto the hospital cot. His hand throbbed painfully in its stiff wrapping which was more like a Muggle cast than a protective wrap, really. His nose and cheek were grotesquely swollen. He had scratch marks from Malfoy's fingernails all over his shoulders and neck. He felt about as good as he looked.

Those hippogriffs were fighting in his gut again. At this moment, on this day, he wasn't thinking about horcruxes and the hopeless quest before him. He wasn't concerned that Albus Dumbledore's life was coming to an end; he hadn't thought of the Headmaster at all since he'd sat on this bed yesterday evening and listened to Severus dole out his punishment to a flabbergasted Madam Promfrey. He wasn't worried about the Quidditch game, or about how he'd let everyone in Gryffindor House down. No, today Harry Potter felt like a guilty son who'd disappointed his father and he had absolutely no idea what to do with that feeling.