Snape sat down on the carpet, his legs cut from under him. In the background, he could hear Harry calling his name and then shaking his shoulder. It took an enormous effort to recollect himself and get back to his feet.
He reassured the brat as much as he could – merely a side effect of the deep legimentilisation, nothing to worry about – then thrust the pensieve ball at him and threw him out. That should keep the boy busy for a few hours, he wouldn't be able to think of anything else with such a prize in his hands.
He looked around for his cloak. He had to get out of there, he couldn't breathe. He swept upstairs and through the main doors: he had tried to do his best but this was too much! Too far! He had hated Black for most of his life, the mere idea that Black was not the cur he had always thought him - at least no wholly - was completely disorienting. He had found it in himself to overlook the sins of Potter and Lupin, but Black! He shook his head violently, he was only human and he couldn't bear to think of what he had just seen. The Hufflepuff quidditch team scattered as he almost ran down the path to the nearest apparition point. He had to get away!
And go where? The thought was another blow. Back to Spinners' End? And do what? Drown in his own thoughts? Brew Merlin's Mirror again? And what would it tell him if he did? He ground to a halt, panting and realised he had nowhere to go. He had sold the house weeks ago and, even if he had not, his problem would not suddenly vanish. The decisions he had to make would still be there, wherever he made them.
"Severus!" He turned and saw the Headmaster and Harry hurrying down the path towards him. "Are you quite well?" They caught up to him, the boy panting, the Headmaster annoyingly composed as they drew up to him. "Harry thought you might be ill."
"I….," he could not speak. It started to rain heavily and he watched as the Headmaster conjured a hooded cloak for Harry and then a huge umbrella.
"Come inside, my boy," his voice was warm and gentle. "Whatever it is, we can sort it out inside."
The urge to run had drained away, leaving only a vast tiredness. Snape had a sudden longing for someone - anyone - to take the decision from him, to let him be the kind of child he had never had the chance to be. He let the Headmaster take his arm and lead him back towards the castle.
As they all trudged up the stairs to the Headmaster's office, Snape was conscious of Albus' hand on his arm. "This is a good man," he thought. Not a perfect man, by any stretch of the most elastic imagination, but still …. a man who tried, balancing half a hundred competing interests but still trying to do his best for his school and for magical Britain.
What was that catchphrase of his? "What is right not what is easy." Snape remembered his written conscience, still stuck on the door between his rooms and the laboratory. He had seen the truth and he could not unsee it. If being a good man meant anything, it meant this.
So, once they were seated, their hands wrapped around warm mugs, he told the truth.
Albus went white. "Dear heavens! Ten years in Azkaban," he whispered. "Severus, are you sure?
"I'm sure. If you have your pensieve, I can show you." They hauled it out of the cupboard and together, all three of them watched the scene again and then again. Albus' horror oddly comforting. Even good men make mistakes.
Explaining to Harry what had happened produced an outburst of almost adult anger. "He didn't get a trial? That's horrible! We've got to get him out!"
Snape watched as the Headmaster raised his head wearily, the vigorous man who had run to him outside at least temporarily eclipsed.
"I mean, we've got proof here, haven't we, sir?" said Harry.
"I believe so," replied the Headmaster. "Although it might be as well to make sure Harry here has no more memories which might assist. Would you both mind?"
"Now?" Snape was exhausted, the adrenaline dump had drained away leaving him fighting to stay awake.
"Ten years in Azkaban, Severus. Ten years!"
"What's Azkaban?" asked Harry, still indignant.
"Britain's magical prison."
"Hell on Earth."
The two answers came together, undercutting any reservations either of them might have had. Harry lay down once more and Snape dived in. Since he now knew his destination, it took mere seconds to arrive and he had to watch once more as Lily cast fidelius on a traitor.
They all relaxed. "I'll put the kettle on," said Lily as Potter bounced the once more grizzling baby Harry in his arms.
"What's up with Prongslet?" Snape had forgotten that Black sounded like that - the lazy, aristocratic drawl setting his teeth on edge.
"Poor little mite's teething," said Potter. "He can have another dose of dentease in half an hour."
"Want me to take him?"
"Would you mind? My arms are getting tired. He's getting to be a big lad. Aren't you, Daddy's best boy?" The child changed arms quite happily, patting Black on the face and crooning "Paff, Paff" between sobs.
"Hello, little Prongs." Black swayed backwards and forwards, humming softly. "Are those nasty hurty teeth giving you gyp?"
Baby Harry took his thumb from his mouth. "'ess," he said mournfully.
"Aren't you going to say hello to Uncle Petey?"
Baby Harry turned to Pettigrew. "'urmy, 'urmy," he said. "Do 'urmy!" To Snape's utter astonishment, Pettigrew grinned and then shrank and morphed until a plump, brown rat stood on the hearthrug.
This time it was Harry who recoiled from the pensieve. "That's Scabbers!" he yelled.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
About the only good thing about the following week's commotion was that Snape was not obliged or expected to contribute to it. Dumbledore summoned Moody and together they made an unnecessarily impressive descent on the Gryffindor dormitories. They left half an hour later, bearing a rat in a cage and leaving Minerva to pick up the pieces and try to impose some order on the resulting chaos. She tried to discuss it with him later (poor Remus actually vomited in my office) but he cut her off with a rather perfunctory insult and hid himself in his laboratory until Monday. Any attempt to raise the matter during classes the following week demonstrated that he might have reformed his manner, but he had lost none of his command of invective.
And then things changed, permanently.
Filius Flitwick came down to his chambers on the Friday afternoon after classes. He had with him a small, dumpy witch it took several seconds for Snape to recognise as Madam McIlroy, Harry's music teacher.
They all sat down in his anteroom over tea and biscuits and Madam McIlroy fixed him with a steely glare. "Are ye musical at all, Mr Snape?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
She hummed a few bars of a recognisable tune. "Can you tell what that was?"
He shrugged. "Magic save our native land or God save the Queen to muggles. What's this about?" Filius looked excited and the McIlroy woman was bouncing in her seat.
She glanced over at Flitwick and said, "Well, that makes it easier to explain anyway, I was afeared you might be tone deaf, so many magicals are. So, are you at all familiar with the term 'perfect pitch'?"
"No."
"Well, Harry has it. The ability to hear, know and reproduce any note at will and without an instrument," she replied
"And that is significant because….?"
She and Filius exchanged looks again. "I blame that idiot Cuthbert Binns for this," she said before turning back to Snape. "Harry has a perfect ear for music and the ability to produce and reproduce it at will. What's more, quite apart from that, he has a feeling for it, it speaks to him. He's already making up little tunes on his flute. Of course, a lot will depend on what happens when his voice breaks, he wouldn't be the first magical lad to lose a fine voice for a dismal croak but…."
Snape lost his not very securely held temper. "Will one of you kindly tell me what on earth you two are blathering about."
"Harry has all the qualities necessary to become an enchanter," said Flitwick, unaffected by his host's bad manners.
Snape sat back in his chair. Whatever he had expected it wasn't this! "But ... there hasn't been a true enchanter in Britain since….."
"Amelia the Adamant held the line at Waterloo," finished Madame McIlory and sighed. "So many of our people have forgotten the root of the word 'enchanter' is the verb to sing."
Filius chimed in. "Of course, some skilled magicals can perform the lesser enchantments, the ones that only require the caster to hold a tune or perform mechanically on an instrument. But a true enchanter, a magical who can create and hold magic musically, is beyond rare and valuable beyond measure."
They sat in silence, contemplating what this might mean. A British enchanter, someone who could call up the great magics, the creative magics that formed and shaped the world. Dumbledore was powerful, Voldemort was powerful and ruthless but neither was an enchanter.
"What needs to be done now?" he asked eventually.
Madam McIlroy shook her head.. "For the moment, very little. As I say, his voice may break askew and this might all come to nothing. But if it doesn't… There are three kinds of students I see, Mr Snape. The ones dragged there by their parents, the ones who want to make music but don't want to put in the effort and time and then there's the third type. The ones who are desperate to learn, who gulp down everything I can teach them and thirst for more. Harry's one of those. He wants to make music, he longs to make music. We don't need to do much because he will do it all. If we let him, he'd do nothing else."
"He said nothing of this to me," said Snape suspiciously.
"Why would he?" asked Flitwick. "You reacted very badly when he last sang for you and he knows you're not musical."
"Aye," said Madam McIlroy. "And he evades the question if you ask him about his home. You must have noticed how secretive he is, most bairns can't wait to talk about their families. Something isn't right there. Mebbe he's got into the habit of thinking that anything that's his will be taken away if he shows how much he loves it."
"So why are you telling me now?"
"Because we can lay groundworks." Filius leaning forward in his chair, eager for this to happen. "You need to watch his diet. Neither of his parents were this small at his age, most of his class tower over him. I've watched him at meals, he's got no idea what he ought to be eating. The food at Hogwarts is very good but there are choices to be made and he's not making good ones. He needs more milk and more vegetables and fruit. I try to tell my classes – the stronger the body, the stronger the magic, but they've all got ancient uncles who live on tobacco and cake and live to be 110 or something."
"But most of all, we need to find him a grounder." Madame McIlroy chiming into the conversation.
"A what?"
"A grounder, someone who can provide the basic tune while Harry provides the descant, the harmony, the ornamentation. The foundation is laid by the grounder, the enchanter builds on it to create something much, much greater than the sum of the parts. A composer needs an orchestra to create and to be heard. A sole enchanter is a powerful but an enchanter and his grounder can work miracles," Filius replied. "And I've been thinking, young Mr Weasley has an ear for music, and he's eager for some way to distinguish himself among his brothers. They're friends already, they can train together." He shrugged. "And if it all comes to nothing, we have still two young musicians who can delight us for years to come."
They sat in silence for a while as Snape mulled all this over. If this were true, then Voldemort had better watch his back, there was a new player in the game. An enchanter, by Merlin Ambrosius, a genuine enchanter.
"This stays between we three," he said firmly. "We say nothing to anyone, not even Dumbledore. Harry doesn't need an even bigger target on his back. I'll approach the Weasleys, the family is notoriously averse to anything which smacks of charity – I'll say there's some money left over from the Basilisk venom to pay for the music lessons – to lessen the trauma on the boy, or something. Madam McIlroy, will you look out for an instrument we can reasonably pass off as secondhand – another flute, or something different?"
"A flute will do very well for now. Once they both have a little training, we can look into diversifying."
"We specifically say nothing to Harry, at least not until his voice breaks and we may have several years before that happens. He is, as you say, rather small for his age,"
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
"Filius, you continue to encourage them both through the choir – and isn't there a Gryffindor wind band of some description? See if you can help them out with that. You are correct, the boy has had no support of any description from his family. We need to sustain him but we must not overwhelm him. Let him have as much of a childhood as he wants." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We are laying a lot on his shoulders here. The least we can do is load him up a little at a time."
The two musicians nodded. Madam McIlroy offered to swear the oath of secrecy, but Snape refused. They were notoriously trick to word, the last thing they needed was the only teacher of music they had to be felled by an accidental indiscretion. Besides, the woman had offered, something she'd never have done if she intended to blab. She also refused, point blank, to accept payment for teaching the two boys. "My ancestor Rory McIlroy was Amelia's grounder, I'll not be taking money for bringing another enchanter into the world." She smiled wryly. "I'll just over-charge a few of my less commited students to make up for it."
They agreed to meet at during the last month of the Summer Term. Something would have to be done about Harry's home life. If there truly were blood-based wards protecting him, they were not to be lightly set-aside. Flitwick agreed to visit Privet Drive, he had an invisibility cloak he'd bought in Budapest before the war which still held its enchantments. He'd inspect the house and the wards and see if he could calculate the minimum time Harry would need to remain there. If the worse came to the worst, there was always the threat of retribution if his relatives did not allow him to live in peace. Alternatively, something might be done with a magical tent in the garden.
They left shortly afterwards and Snape was left sitting with the dirty teacups, wondering if what he was feeling was hope.
