It had taken him four days of poring over the newspapers to decide that the Voldemort-era newspapers were practically useless when it came to identifying Death Eaters, since all the papers simply called them 'Death Eaters', or in some cases 'unidentified Death Eaters', which seemed to him to be just bad journalism, as if they were actually patting themselves on the backs at not being able to identify criminals.

So he went to the post-Voldemort-era newspapers. Right on the face page of the first one, published 1 November 1980, he saw, in big bold letters and taking up nearly a quarter of the page, "Voldemort vanquished!" Alliteration and all.

The rest of the page was basically a retelling of the entire Potter line, since nobody knew exactly how said Vanquishing took place, and were trying to make up for the lack of content by brushing up on ancient history.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. The wizarding community really loved titling.

The Potter timeline took up all of page 2, but there was nothing about Mrs. Potter, beyond her maiden name and how she was 'an exceptionally gifted Muggleborn witch'. There was another huge bit on page 3 about how Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband and Barty Crouch Jr tortured two Aurors to insanity, in front of their infant son.

So just when he'd been orphaned, another baby had lost his parents too, except in a completely different way. Neville Longbottom. Even their birthdays were close. Trying not to be too upset by that revelation, he turned to the next page.

"SIRIUS BLACK KILLS A WIZARD AND TWELVE MUGGLES!"

Bellatrix Lestrange was formerly Black. Were they siblings? He stared at the title. Shouldn't the twelve Muggles be mentioned first, before the one wizard? Frowning a little at this slight, he bent to read the rest of the page.

Snape was brewing yet another batch of Pepper-Up potion in preparation for the new school year, when there was a hammering of twin fists on his door. He put down the bottle in his hands and flicked his wand at the door.

Potter was standing at the door, waving a newspaper article, his face smudged with tear-marks. He didn't have long to wonder which particular article had upset him (there was an umpteen number to choose from in the years through which he was combing) because he shrieked, "Why didn't you tell me their best friend was a Death Eater!"

So, that one, then.

He marched through the door. "Sit," he said.

"I don't want to—" he yelled.

He bent down and hissed, "We will talk about this, Potter, but right now you will sit and listen."

After glaring a second more, he stomped over to the nearest chair and flung himself on it, crossing his legs and his arms and looking at him through teary eyes.

Snape went back in and placed a stasis charm on his brewing potion. Then, after he closed the door with another flick, he settled in the chair opposite.

"Yes, Sirius Black was a Death Eater. I did not tell you about it because it was not my place to—"

"You talked about a whole lot of other things though," he said, garbling up his syllables in his frenzy.

Snape glared at him. "Do not interrupt me." His jaws shut with an audible click. "The Headmaster didn't think it was necessary for you to know right now."

"You should have told me he was a Death Eater," he whispered. He was breathing erratically, his breath coming in short gasps.

"It was not my place to—"

"You should have told me!" It was not exactly a yell, but it was just shy of being one.

"Respect, Potter," he hissed, almost by instinct.

He burst into tears.

Snape waited in silence as he cried. He had had children cry in front of him before, but they were at least a few years older and most of them were Slytherins—the other House students would die of embarrassment if they cried in front of him. And they cried over lost marks or a sharp scolding or punishments.

The boy was hiding his face with his hands and crying, taking in huge gulps of air. After a minute, Snape re-entered his lab and came out with a vial of Calming Draught.

"Drink," he said, handing it to him.

"I just...wanna cry," he gasped out.

Snape hesitated. His arm fell by his side. After about another couple of minutes, the boy had calmed down. Snape handed him a tissue. As an afterthought, he handed him two more.

"So much for hating Lucius blooming Malfoy and his entire family," he said, his voice flat. His face crumpled, and Snape braced himself for another bout of tears, but then he brought himself under control.

"I deserved to know, though," he said quietly. "The Headmaster might want to keep me safe from such information, but I deserved to know. I was so proud of my parents, and then I find he betrayed them—"

Snape wanted to speak, to say something to placate the boy, but his mouth wouldn't open.

"Did he kill them? Was he there?" he said, enunciating 'he' with the same venom Snape would have.

Which he found mildly unsettling. He shook his head. "He was a spy." And the Dark Lord kept him so secret that even I didn't know about it.

"He was my godfather, it said in the news," Harry whispered. "I didn't even know I had a godfather. If Aunt Petunia knew she didn't say. And he was the one who killed them…"

Snape didn't have anything to say to that. Couldn't say anything to that, because hadn't he thought the same thing? He'd betrayed his closest friend too, just as Black had, but at least he had the pleasure — if one could possibly call it that — of knowing he didn't do it deliberately. Black had turned on his friends, and if Black had been loyal (when he wasn't), if he'd been brave (when he wasn't), Lily would be alive. Her death was the result of many people's actions — the Dark Lord's, his, Black's, Dumbledore's for not insisting on being the Secret Keeper himself— but it was Black's treachery that he had latched on to so he didn't have to drown in his own guilt, and it was so easy too, because he hates Black

Potter was crying but very softly now, and he could recognize the change in the two forms, he had undergone them himself. He could not bring himself to speak, because hating him had been so easy, he could see his father in his face and the way he walked and plopped on a chair and collapsed on the bed, just like his father, though Potter didn't have the easy, casual grace that Potter Senior had

But there was another voice, a long silent, thoroughly irritated voice yelling at him in his head to speak up, say something, that's my son, Sev!

He could use the Calming Draught himself, now, except that he didn't want Potter to see him taking it. It would be too weak.

"What happened to the Potters was the Dark Lord's fault," he said sternly. "I imagine there were a great many factors that led to—that—but it was the Dark Lord who killed them." Them being Mister Potter, whom he didn't care a whit about, and Missus Potter whom he would have given his right arm to save. "And that was not your fault, either. Do not carry misplaced guilt, Harry Potter."

The use of his full name had him lifting his head up from where it was buried in his hands, blinking up at him.

"And you can still hate Lucius Malfoy, though I would probably not go as far as hating his entire family."

"I'm sure I will, soon enough." He wiped his face with a corner of a tissue, one last time. "Is there anything else really bad in those newspapers? Tell me right now."

He hesitated for only a second. "Bellatrix—"

"Tortured the Longbottoms, Azkaban."

"Narcissa Malfoy is her sister."

He stared at him now, his hand dropping from where it was rearranging stray hairs on his forehead. "Is she crazy evil too?"

"She's not a Death Eater. But she is fully aware of her husband's activities."

"Fence-sitter?" he grinned faintly, though he was pale.

He shook his head. He Summoned a sleeping potion and handed it to the boy. "You should go to sleep."

He looked like he might argue that, but then his shoulders slumped and he silently obeyed. Snape watched him go slowly out of the hall, and he stood there silently for a while, trying to push back all the memories that had arisen from the conversation.

Back in his bed, Harry turned the vial in his hands as he thought. It was a long time before he finally uncorked the bottle and drank the potion and surrendered to the bliss of sleep.

It was only the next day when he read through the article again that he noticed something odd: Sirius Black had been sentenced to Azkaban for life without a trial—and he'd been the only one.

Hope could be a painful thing, sometimes.

Snape had been rather sure that the nightmare-alarm would go off, so it had barely begun blaring before he was out of his lab and headed to Potter's bedroom. Potter was lying stiff in bed, his covers thrown off, his face scrunched up. Snape strode over to the bed, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder—he'd long known that with Potter's kind of nightmares, speaking to him wouldn't wake him up—and shook him slightly.

His eyes flew wide. "Mom," he gasped, barely forming the words correctly in his distress.

Snape's hand stilled on his shoulder. "It's a dream, Potter," he said, as soothingly as he could, which wasn't very much.

"Oh!" was all he got in reply. Potter looked away and wiped at his face once.

"The cellar?"

Potter shook his head. "That-that night."

Snape felt an odd moment of empathy with the boy. He too had had nightmares. In his nightmares he would go to their house before Voldemort did, tried them away, all of them, to safety, because Lily would never have consented to going alone (you disgust me. You do not care about the husband and her boy?), but always, at the very last minute, just when Lily would shove the baby into his arms and fiercely say, "Take him first!" Voldemort would burst into the room and kill her—

"It's just so unfair!" Potter suddenly said.

Snape knew his usual retort to that. 'Ah, of course, you want pity, do you, such a sad story, Potter, your parents died, how dreadful for you' and he opened his mouth and, "Yes, it tends to be," came out.

Potter blinked at him with sleepy eyes. "Right?"

"Go back to sleep, Potter."

"I don't wanna. Can I have more Dreamless Sleep?"

Snape stood up. "No."

"Please."

Snape looked down at the boy. "I am not keeping it from you because I want to, Potter. It is unhealthy for you to take too much of that potion."

Potter sighed. "I really hate nightmares."

Snape could understand that, too. He sat back down. "I will wait here till you have fallen asleep."

"You really don't have t—" the rest of his statement was drowned out by a yawn. He closed his eyes and muttered, "Thanks." The s was stretched out and silenced gradually.

The day before the trial, Dumbledore came over with last minute advice for Harry, which basically mounted to:

"We can't be certain this will work, Harry. We can hope; but we must be prepared for the worst."

Well, of course he knew that. He'd been through the newspapers and Malfoy was one of the most powerful people in the wizarding world. He was probably the most important, next to the Minister himself.

Dumbledore had also brought over a set of robes, with the advice that wearing clothes of the wizarding community would have a positive effect on the Wizengamot members.

After Dumbledore had left, Snape sat him down.

"Veritaserum works best on the unsuspecting, the vulnerable, the inexperienced," he began, in the textbook-reciter voice. "You have a distinct advantage in that you are not the former. When they give you the potion and— it won't be a vial, either, it'll be a glass of water mixed with Veritaserum — take deep, calming breaths and empty your mind of all emotion."

To which he thought, and how exactly does someone do that, think of nothing, but then Snape went on, "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Do not speak out of turn. Be respectful. These are some of the most powerful people in the wizarding world, and they do not appreciate cheek."

"Will you be there?"

His nose scrunched up like he'd smelled something particularly offensive. "That might give people entirely the wrong idea. Dumbledore will be in attendance, however. But he will not be sitting with you."

As Dumbledore was the only other person he knew of in the wizarding world, this was rather a blow. Would he have to sit all alone? As if Snape could sense his thoughts, he went on, "He's asked for someone to be with you, though." He looked mildly annoyed again. Even though Harry had joked about him not liking anyone, he suspected that there was a great deal more truth to the statement than he'd originally thought.

Well, at least it wasn't personal. Snape hated everybody. Your only fault had to be that you breathed and existed and took up some area in the space-time continuum.

Right on the heels of this thought, Snape looked at Harry more closely and said, "Don't be afraid."

Harry smiled. "And how, um, how does the emptying mind thing work?"

Back to the annoyed face. "Try it now, Potter. Close your eyes. Discipline your mind—"

"Okay, but how?"

Snape huffed, and Harry very nearly opened his eyes. "Pick a memory, Potter. A strong one. And think on it, very carefully."

This stumped Harry, too. A strong memory. Snape got up and said, "I imagine you'll want to get to bed now."

Harry went to bed but he still couldn't settle on a single memory to focus on.

13th August.

He wondered how Lucius Malfoy might be feeling today. If Harry felt like puking, he'd probably have to carry a paper bag with him to the court. But then again, he was probably sure he would win.

Snape was preparing coffee in the hall. He held out a steaming cup to Harry and he sipped at it.

Mrs. Figg once gave him the most awful coffee in the world.

He really didn't want to think about Mrs. Figg now, though, so he tried to look at Snape and drive all thoughts of them out of his mind.

He was sitting calmly, as if this was just another normal day, and Harry was grateful for that, atleast. And he made a really decent coffee, too. There was a plate of pancakes in front of him and he ate in silence, concentrating on forcing the nauseous feeling down.

"Your chaperone will be here soon," Snape said. There was no newspaper anywhere in his vicinity, but he was drinking more coffee than usual.

"What's his name?"

"Arthur Weasley," he said offhandedly. "He has seven children, one of whom is your age. I suppose that is why Dumbledore thought he would be capable of standing in as your guardian for today." He looked at him with a cocked head. "I'd give you some calming potion, but that's not allowed when you're going to be given the Veritaserum."

"Great," he muttered. "Thanks for trying, anyway." He took a deep breath.

"Relax, Potter," Snape said. "What's the worst that can happen?"

I could puke in court, was the first thought that came to mind. Or faint. Or cry like a baby. "Lose," he said.

"I think you should prepare yourself for that almost eventuality," he said.

He was calm, as if he was talking about the possibility of a thunderstorm later in the day. "Yes, well," Harry said, struggling to keep his voice neutral, "it's not that easy."

"Lucius Malfoy has been responsible for many deaths under You-Know-Who."

"So what's one more, huh?"

He frowned. "So he deserves to pay for it. But life, as you mentioned earlier, tends to be rather unfair."

"Life has a lot of help from Death-Eaters," he said, a little too viciously. Snape paled a little bit. It dawned on Harry then that he thought he was talking about him.

"Some Death-Eaters, anyway," he added, in an attempt at making amends. A horrible attempt, really. Snape was looking at him like he'd never seen him before and he could feel his cheeks burning up although he didn't know what reason he had to feel embarrassed, and then, mercifully, the fireplace flared up and he looked around.

A red-haired man strode out of the fireplace. He had a wide, pleasant smile on his face as he greeted Snape (and was acknowledged by the jerkiest of nods), and then he smiled down at Harry and told him, no, please, keep sitting, finish your meal, it's all right, I'll wait, I'm Arthur, by the way, Arthur Weasley, and you are Harry, what a lovely name, how are you, how are you? You must be nervous

"Let the child breathe, Arthur," Snape said dryly.

He coughed. They looked about as different as any two humans could be— Mr. Weasley was all round while Snape was all angles and thin, and their hair colours clashed horribly. Mr. Weasley was grinning, albeit distractedly, while Snape's eyebrow was raised. His pale face looked even paler now compared to Mr. Weasley's complexion.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weasley," Harry said politely.

"Oh, call me Arthur!"

Harry looked at Snape, whose eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. Harry fought the absurd urge to laugh.

"Well, I see you're done, shall we go then?"

He nodded and got up. Mr. Weasley smiled a final time at Snape, who ignored him and looked straight at Harry and said, "Breathe."

He nodded again, feeling more comforted by that word than he had any logical right to be.