Harry Potter had always, somewhere deep inside him, known it was a lie. Everyone looked at him like he was supposed to be a hero, just because of some stupid scar. He had never believed it, not really. But, and it's a very big but, he had thought he could pretend. Pretend to be the hero, just because other people really, really seemed to need one. Harry never needed a hero, and he wasn't quite sure what he'd do with one if Superman showed up, to be perfectly honest. Drop Draco Malfoy on his head? That seemed a bit ... undignified, not to mention rather dastardly. But, he thought, sitting alone in Dumbledore's office, it had seemed perfectly harmless to try. And he had managed to get rid of Voldemort [Don't say his name, Snape snapped in his memory] first year... After that, well, it had seemed perfectly... natural. And that was a bit of a problem, wasn't it? Because being a hero wasn't exactly a natural thing. If it was, all the Hufflepuffs would be doing it.
Sirius was dead, and for absolutely no reason. Harry Potter glumly thought. It's my fault. Me and my stupid heroism. I'm not a bloody hero!
And it was true. Harry remembered picking up that glass orb in the Hall of Prophecies. The one whose podium was inscribed H.P.? and Lord V. The orb had remained silent, troublingly so. Then chaos had erupted all around him, the Order and the Death Eaters fighting and killing, and he had dropped the ball, shattering it into a million pieces. What sort of a hero does that, I wonder? Harry asked himself scathingly. He hadn't time to answer the question, before the door slammed open, rattling every single object in Dumbledore's office.
Snape stalked in, seething and visibly restraining himself from throttling either the poor fool in front of him (Harry), or the poor fool behind him (Albus Dumbledore). As Dumbledore strolled in, his feet seemed leaden, his normally jovial face solemn.
Snape whirled in his accustomed shadowy corner (the man plainly liked shadows), and Dumbledore sat down, tenting his fingers gravely. "You heard the prophecy, my boy?"
Befuddled, Harry Potter blinked, and then blinked again, Dumbledore didn't know?
"No sir," he responded, finally. "The orb broke when I dropped it."
Dumbledore was a Gryffindor well used to tangling with the likes of Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape. He betrayed his shock only in a slight widening of his eyes.
Snape's drawling voice dripped venom that etched the floor where it pooled. "A pity that. We could have used the orb to see if the prophecy was about Neville Longbottom, hmmm?" Harry was horrified to see that Snape wasn't even bothering to be upset with him, his ire focused into a laserbeam towards the genial old wizard.
"You've been most vocal about how Harry Potter couldn't possibly be the person in the prophecy, Severus. I ought to have listened closer. You were right, and I was wrong." Dumbledore sighed, the very breath seeming to leave him.
Snape whirled towards Potter, and, looming over him, he smiled a sweet smile that reeked of the poisonous beauty of nightshade. "It's alright, Potter, you can cease perpetually training yourself fruitlessly to fight a Dark Lord, it's not your job." Potter hadn't even realized he had been waiting for the stiletto until the blade struck. "Oh, wait, you haven't been training at all, have you? Just acting like a useless gadabout, off on adventures rather than learning a single thing."
Infuriated, Harry Potter sat up straight, ready to give Snape a piece of his mind. He wasn't Crabbe or Goyle. Sure, he wasn't the most studious person ever, or even the most talented or hard-working soul... but still!
Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, and Snape snarled softly, "Just remember, Potter, it's not all about you."
Pretending to not notice the comment (because surely Albus Dumbledore wasn't deaf...), the old man said, "I will have to give this matter more thought. I will talk to the both of you later..."
Harry Potter spoke up, his voice firm and angry both at once, "Sir, what is the prophecy?"
"What have we said about poking our noses into business that doesn't concern you?" Snape asked mildly, his reproof marked anyhow.
"Be still, Severus." Dumbledore said reproachfully, "He deserves to hear that which I allowed, foolishly, to guide his life."
Dumbledore spoke:
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...
"Now, leave us, Harry. I must speak to Severus on some other topics..." And Harry Potter stood and left, his thoughts swirling around the idea that Albus Dumbledore could be wrong.
Harry Potter was not going to be depressed. Really, he wasn't. It was awful hard though, stuck here in Grimmauld Place - crawling with Order Members, and not a one of them with a clue about what's to be done.
Remus was falling apart, half from grief, half from the thought that his other best friend (James) had died for a wild goose chase. Every time he looked at Harry, Potter realized exactly how differently Remus looked at him. Still with love, and overtones of fondness, but no longer that barely concealed pride. Lupin had said Harry was good at DADA, Harry Potter thought crossly. Had Remus lied?
McGonagall was better at poker faces, but, every once in a while, he'd find her up near the gables, a thin window open, her face sticking out into the rain. He never pried, but he was sure that she'd been crying. The windows were never opened when it wasn't raining. Prof McGonagall helped to organize things, and was sent out on missions to "organize" things (Harry privately thought that if she was sorting papers, she might as well stay home... and then he wondered what other things she might be organizing).
Moody seemed like a coiled spring, muttering under his breath when no one was listening, "Never trust a prophecy" - and he showed a disturbing tendency to hex Tonks when she fell over something, which was a lot more common these days.
The Ravenclaw contingent (including Hermione) had retreated into the library (some were at Hogwarts, Harry realized, but books were their safe haven, and they had all retired from the field). At least they weren't running from hm this time.
The Hufflepuffs just looked grim, their faces creased - as if they were set to die, and just hadn't realized it yet. Occasionally one would fall to pieces, and Harry would find some chocolate in a mug the next morning, half drunk and half wept in.
With so many frayed emotions, so many broken hopes, it was no small wonder that Grimmauld Place had begun to seem worse than his cousin's. His aunt and uncle were predictable, after all, and their hate was so old that it felt well-worn and comfortable. Not these broken glass shards, squeaking against each other, of people he knew and admired.
Through it all, there was one person who never quavered and never smiled. Severus Snape. Interested, almost despite himself, Harry Potter studied the man. Snape may very well have liked the color black, but his world seemed steeped in gray. Potter saw how Snape quelled rooms with a few soft-spoken words, the mere hint of his silken drawl quelling fights - most often by setting both parties directly at Snape's throat. Harry Potter saw Snape return from one of his frequent trips "out", looking as sallow as a lich, and about as hale and hearty - which was to say, not at all. In fact, as Harry kept watching, he confirmed that Snape always returned looking like that. Then again, Harry thought, meetings with Voldemort couldn't be fun. Not even for Severus Snape.
A month after school had ended, June dawned with scalding rays of sunlight, pouring into rooms that barely understood the concept of daylight. An Order Meeting! You couldn't keep the Weasleys out of the meetings, Harry Potter's mind insisted - filled with the cheerful naivety that children often have. And, as is often the case, Fred and George had a wonderful invention - extendible ears. Up in a small bedroom, Harry Potter listened to the cheerful plans. "And then we'll know just what's going on!" And the entire room was filled with laughing Weasley children, and for the first time in a long time, Harry smiled.
Dumbledore and the rest of the school staff were already in the Grand Hall, waiting for the full meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. Fred and George had sent one of their magically enhanced wind up spiders (which always made Ron scream, so the other twin held Ron's lips shut) to run out the pink-earlobe-colored line on the extensible ears.
People seemed to file in from multiple directions, Fred explained, as he listened, saying "they're just exchanging greetings." All the children were curled up in the library near the front door, the line of the ear stretching from there to the Grand Hall.
The front door opened, and Severus Snape strode in, his haggard demeanor evident with every supremely confident step. Everyone in the room held their breath, not wanting to be discovered - and foolishly forgetting the extensible ear. As Snape strode by, unpausing, George whispered in a voice that even Fred could barely hear, "Maybe he didn't see it?"
Snape walked to the door of the Great Hall, stooped over - the children down the hall were no longer breathing - and picked up the Extensible Ear. Then, as if he hadn't just done the most unSnapish thing possible - barring him smiling, of course, he squared his shoulders, opened the door to the Grand Hall, and strode in.
Fred suddenly whispered, slightly louder than before. "I'm getting better reception now..." His eyes were big as saucers.
Harry Potter closed his eyes, picturing the Great Hall, as Fred told them all what he was hearing. But, mostly, he was picturing one Severus Snape, looming in a corner, with a pink string coming out of his pocket. A pink string that Art and his wife Molly Weasley surely knew what it was about.
Harry could easily imagine Dumbledore's eyes twinkling- though he wasn't sure they were. He was sure that Art and Molly would be joining forces, paired together in such a way that they could royally tell off Snape.
In the newly found silence of the room - Snape, as usual, was the last to arrive - Remus Lupin asked tentatively, "Err... Severus, is there something stuck to your robe?"
"I would think you, of all people, would not twit me about sartorial choice." Snape's voice slid out in a purr, the serpentine danger of his glare apparent even in his tone.
Harry could see Remus looking down, momentarily abashed at his own poor attire, and then more embarrassed at having possibly thought that he could head this off.
"Shall we get this meeting started?" Dumbledore smiled, saying "So glad you could join us, Severus. I have a few matters that will require your particular insight."
Harry Potter imagined Snape's... not smile, but a lifting of the eyebrows, a lightening of his expression, that rather than giving gladness, merely sent the impression of alertness. (Around Harry, the look generally implied some sort of malevolent glee, here he suspected it was raw curiosity).
Ginny asked, "You don't think... Snape meant to... bring it in, do you?" her voice self-editing the incrimination...
"Merlin no!" Ron responded, and George cracked a grin. Potter knew otherwise, though, "that canny bastard!" he whispered too low to be heard by anyone else. He was neatly sidestepping the entire argument about bringing us in, counting on his own intimidating presence to stop the whinging.
Sounds of a struggle were heard, unidentifiable until Fred heard Molly's chuffy tone. "Well, I Never!" A snort from Molly's nose, and then "My own husband!" Perhaps I spoke too soon, Potter thought, bemusedly. Only Molly would take it so hard, anyhow.
"Art, Molly" Severus Snape's voice slid like a razor on a man's jugular, and they froze - seemingly understanding, suddenly, that a meeting was no time for overt, physical reactions. "You have said, time and again, that the Order of the Phoenix ought not to admit those under their majority. Accordingly, I do not suggest that. What I will suggest, for the time being, is that the children require training, if they're to be properly productive when they do join the Order." Potter could just see Snape's steepled, sallow hands, and his half-shadowed face, looming out from the dark corner.
"Why Severus! What a wonderful idea!" Dumbledore cried cheerily, his mood entirely inappropriate for a room that contained Severus Snape, let alone two Weasleys just turned off fisticuffs.
"I think this will go better if we assign mentors, rather than trying to train everyone in the same mold. I'm certain you can all see that the ... talents ... of the Weasley twins are far different from the ... intelligence ... of Miss Granger." Potter heard the soft smile in Snape's voice, the smile that was really seen as a smirk, "I have some training techniques that I've been meaning to experiment with, and I can't really push a group nearly as effectively as I can accelerate a single soul." Heaven help the person who Snape winds up training! There were murmurs of assent all round, muted by the natural caution of Gryffindors to a Slytherin suggesting... well, anything. Merlin knows, I'd have been suspicious if Malfoy suggested we wear white socks instead of black. And that's perfectly harmless!
"Who do you have in mind?" Dumbledore asked curiously, his tone considerably more somber and befitting a grand wizard.
"Remus-" Snape continued on, not pausing for comment, "Take the twins. If you can't have them shipshape within a month, I'll show you some pranks you won't soon forget." Potter knew Snape's smile had turned into an evil, malevolent grin. Snape knows how to prank? Snape thinks he can prank those three? And ... get away with it? These were odd thoughts for Potter to have, and they didn't terribly seem to fit the man. Still, one could say one thing about such comments - they were a hell of a motivator.
"We accept your bet." Lupin said smoothly, his generally weak voice sounding certain for once. Fred whispered, "I'm almost tempted to throw it just to see what pranks Snape would do."
"Moody, take Granger. If she's half the brain she is in class, you'll have her up to your standards before the start of school." Snape fired off, ignoring the old Auror when he exclaimed, "Nobody's up to my standards!"
Around the room they went, distributing people - Art, rather predictably, got Ron. Molly got Percy - more, Potter suspected, because she had a hope of bringing him home, rather than she'd be the most effective teacher for him.
Everyone, even Neville Longbottom, had been apportioned (Mrs. Figg had taken Neville, which seemed charmingly appropriate. They were both more, and less, than they seemed)... except Harry Potter.
So, it came as absolutely no surprise to Harry, when Snape finally said, "And I'll take Harry Potter." Snape's voice was iron, but without a trace of scorn, mockery or indecision. Harry Potter was not surprised - when you stared into the abyss, sometimes the abyss stares back at you.
The Great Hall erupted in an uproar, the sounds of entirely too many voices trying to be heard. In such a milieu, the quiet people were more worth paying attention to - Moody, looking skeptical, as always... and Lupin, whose affable manner held a rarely seen shrewdness, as if he could take Severus Snape's measure merely by sight alone (or perhaps it was smell, the DADA professor was more than usually skilled in that department).
All this Harry envisioned, his mind sketching the room and its occupants based on Fred's words and also on what he didn't say. McGonagall was tutting, and Molly was shrieking at Severus, threatening him - of all things! Art was trying to hold his wife back, his voice washed out in all the turmoil. Flitwick was asking Severus what he was thinking, and Sprout was challenging Snape on why they should possibly let him have Harry Potter.
Gradually, the noise died, and Severus Snape let the words continue, not listening to a single word of any of it, really. It was all predictable, after all.
In a tone of quiet satisfaction (belied, no doubt, by the open mockery on Snape's mug), Severus said plainly (if a Slytherin could ever speak so), "He's ready to learn," lacing his fingers together, his hands in front of his chest.
Molly opened her mouth to say something, "Wh-"
Snape smoothly cut her off, "Naturally, I'd be willing to submit to daily checkins, to reassure you that there is neither a dead teacher nor a dead student."
Dumbledore gave a wry chuckle (was he the only one who appreciated Snape's humor?), and said, "Oh, that will hardly be necessary. Perhaps a weekly visit shall suffice."
"Visit?" Lupin asked, his mild tone concealing his sharp eyes.
"Each of you have your own means of training. I'll not constrain you to the space available within the Black residence." Snape said, "I intend to be here as little as possible, myself. It's stifling." Harry Potter knew what Snape meant - in a way, this place with all it's feelings and people was worse than his old cupboard.
To everyone's surprise (except Harry's), the extensible ear went silent. The Order had moved onto other business, and it was no longer appropriate to listen.
As the Weasleys found things to chatter about, they were all universally agreed that Potter had pulled the worst mentor of the lot. Thoughtfully, Harry Potter kept his silence, letting them think as they would. It was unexpected, surely, and Harry Potter found himself scouring his mind for interpretations, explanations. Was it simply to get him out of here, give the rest of them some time to sink into something other than The Hero Is Gone, The War is Ended? Did he want to bring Harry Potter back, not as a hero, but just an ordinary kid? Could anyone else see him like that? And Harry Potter did a doubletake. Snape had always treated him like a kid, like a child who was just that... he had never, ever given even a trace of the subservience that Lupin had granted him, the respect that McGonagall gave him, even the wary liking that Moody - who never liked a single soul - had given him. Odd that, Harry Potter thought, scrawling it in his messy handwriting inside his mind.
The next day dawned cruelly, the sun stabbing into Harry Potter's pillow at the grim Black residence. Harry Potter, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. Snape had woken him with a hard shake, in the twilight that comes before even the false dawn. Harry had woken with a yawn, and Snape responded, as if to an unasked question, "This is worse for me than it is for you." Harry found the truth in the statement - Snape was a night owl in truth, and being up before 5am was indeed a cruelty. "Five minutes. Be dressed and packed." Snape left the room, and Harry Potter took a moment to contemplate, before shrugging and tossing in the bare essentials. Soap, toothbrush, three changes of clothes (enough to wash, should need arise).
Harry Potter emerged from his room, drawing on his remembered stealth at his uncle's, to send him down the stairs smoothly and without a creak. At the bottom, Snape was an angular sprawl in a sitting chair - the entire position indescribably awkward, probably to keep Snape awake. "Do you have your wand, Potter?"
"Yes, sir." Harry Potter responded, his head clearing from sleep into speech.
"You may put it back in your room if you like. The ministry tracks underage wands much more than they track underage wizards."
With a crisp nod, Harry Potter headed upstairs, dropping his wand in a special concealed place behind the bed. Old habits die hard, don't they? he thought in amusement.
"Reporting for duty, sir." Harry Potter said as he arrived in front of Snape's form. He found it some small comfort that Snape was tired as well.
"Your wand, Potter," Snape said smoothly, proffering the small stick of wood to Harry.
"Thank you sir." Harry Potter said, with a watchful eye.
"Best be going, before the rest wake. Questions waste time. Hold on tight." Snape said, as he suddenly straightened, standing, and wrapping Harry Potter inside his robes. Harry Potter blinked as his eyes felt the onrushing darkness - trying to get his sight back as best he was able. That lasted only a moment, before the apparition made thinking - or seeing - impossible. On the other side, Harry Potter found himself ... somehow still standing. He was looking at a bright wood, and they were standing in a field.
"How... sir?" Harry Potter asked, wondering if he really could trust Snape to understand him...
"It helps if you don't look." Snape responded, and Harry Potter nodded, thinking, "I suppose so..."
"Potter, what's the third arithmantic sum of sums?" Snape snapped.
"I don't know, sir." Harry Potter snapped crisply back, his shoulders thrown back in a more military posture.
"Give me ten laps round the wood. You'll think better when your heart's pumping." Snape snapped.
"Where are we?" Snape snapped, as Harry Potter came to a rather sweaty conclusion of the ten laps.
"England, I think, rural - probably wizarding. No cars, no roads." Harry Potter responded, gaspingly. It had been something to contemplate as he ran the wood, and he had come up with some observations.
"Pertinent. What are the eleven uses of dragon's blood?" Snape asked, his voice cracking like a flag on a windy day.
"Eleven uses for dragon's blood?" Harry Potter asked dumbly, and began to list what he had learned... the ten uses, that is.
"And the eleventh?" Snape asked.
"I don't know, sir."
"A hundred pushups, and then answer." Snape said, watching as Potter continued to sweat, his robes clinging to him.
"I still don't know, sir." Harry responded at last.
"Keeping a dragon alive." Snape said, his feet guiding him in a tight circle around Harry Potter, before he asked, "Why are you still wearing robes?"
Harry Potter flushed, and forced himself to answer honestly, "Habit. Sheer force of habit, and stupidity, sir."
Snape purred, "Very good. You had reason to suspect that this was a wizarding place, but not enough justification to leave your robes on. Furthermore, accomplishing the tasks before you will be significantly less difficult if you're wearing appropriate attire." Harry Potter began to pull off his robes, as Snape continued, "Have a care with the wand, you're not used to it, and it won't handle as well as the one you're used to. Create the attire you wish to use." Snape said, as he carefully observed his student.
Snape demonstrated one spell for Harry Potter, all the while Harry lifted the weight of a solid iron bar. "This will be the spell you will learn today. Learn it perfectly. Every step you take, every muscle you move - focus on the spell, on the intention, on the word, on the gesture. Learn it until you own it. By the end of the day, I expect you to be able to cast it."
The training continued all day, without stopping to eat. "If you're moving enough, just graze - your body needs fuel always, rest less often." Snape had said, tossing Potter some waybread, light as any made by Tolkien's elves. Potter ate it without seeming to taste it, his adolescent body burning with the athletic energy he'd both poured into it, and siphoned from it.
Focus. Harry Potter hadn't realized how much his studies had lacked it - even when he was learning the Patronus, until he tried this exercise. This Training. He forced himself to pull the spell apart, working his way gesture to gesture, syllable to syllable, etching it as well as he could in his mind.
By the end of the day, Harry Potter was bone-weary, each and every muscle he owned (or so he thought), screaming in pain. "Are you injured?" Snape asked, his soft voice yet crisp in the humid summer air.
Harry Potter stretched, and looked up at Snape, who loomed over him. "I don't think so, sir. Just very, very sore."
Snape nodded, "Good, no whinging. Let's see that spell then."
Harry Potter summoned what energy he had left, and spelled... only to have nothing at all happen.
"You'll have to do better than that, Potter. Get some rest - make a bivy if you like." Snape curled up into a black ball of wool, backed by a tree. Harry Potter had lost all will to move, at last, and he fell asleep dreaming of the spell, each moment sculpted in his mind.
In the middle of the night, Severus Snape unfurled himself, finding a bush to water, and then striding back, pausing only a moment to inspect Potter's spellwork. Not that Potter had managed to learn a new wand overnight, no. This was far more elemental magic than that - a field Severus Snape was adept at reading. Still as a stalking cat, Severus read the wariness, the cocked ear to danger... and the implicit trust. Severus allowed himself to briefly consider pinching Potter's ear awake, and yet Potter did not stir. This was not the sort of magic to depend on alertness - it was magical alertness, personified. Severus Snape knew his own was far more wary, far more sensitive to gentle turns of thought - his drunken father had needed only a single breath to change from doting to drunken devil. Typical of a Gryffindor, Snape thought, Harry Potter's awareness is blunt. Still, Severus Snape wagered, it had a wariness that Granger's friendly face would never have. At least he hoped, in a dark corner of his mind where he let himself hope things that will not be. War was on the horizon, and war etched more than man's souls.
Potter awoke with a groan, his stretching making all of his joints pop. "Still want to be a hero, Potter?" Snape's silken voice rasped out.
"What's the point? I'm not the boy in the prophecy, am i?" Harry looked at Snape with a defiant gleam in his eye. "Sir." he added belatedly.
Snape let it pass, "Ask that young ginger girl - the one completely besotted with you - what's the point, hmmm...?"
Harry paused, considering, "You're right, sir." and with a twist of his lips, "Fame isn't everything."
Snape said dryly, "You've chosen the way of the hero, lad. May you live to regret it."
Not saying a word, Potter looked at Snape's ugly mug, silently, waiting for him to continue.
"Being a hero comes with costs, expectations. Were it my decision, I'd ban you from even considering command."
"What if I don't want to be a hero, sir?" Potter said.
"Doesn't matter. Either you play to the expectations, or you let people down. And cede authority while doing so, I might add."
"Stuck both ways, aren't I, sir?"
"Indeed. The definition of a hero is valiant to the point of sheer stupidity. Few heroes survive, James Potter included." Snape's voice turned to acid by the end, but that just left Harry reflecting on how civil he had been.
Snape's smile was cruel, "So, we shall start your lessons on heroing, now, that you may live to rue your younger stupidity." Snape conjured a heavy sack. "Here, this is your golem - your fake human, that you'll be dragging across the battlefield. Under fire, of course." Snape's smile was cruel.
Harry Potter knew he was in trouble from the first moment he had heard the word hero come out of Snape's mouth, the dread blossoming in his conversation. Oh, but he had never expected this! Not in a million billion years! Half blind from smoke, and with a useless leg and a half-functional arm (dislocated), Harry Potter dragged the bag across the field, knowing that he wasn't fast enough to dodge the hexes Snape was throwing at him.
At the end of the field, his destination reached, Harry Potter looked at Snape and asked one question, "Why?" At Snape's arched eyebrow, Harry added, "sir."
"The goal of this exercise is hardly for me to win simply because I'm better than you. Pain tolerance. You must learn to work through the pain, push it to the back of your mind and make yourself go despite the bones rubbing themselves together, despite the bloom of blood in your gut or thigh."
"Thank you sir." Harry Potter's posture was crisp and correct.
At the end of the day, Harry Potter couldn't correctly produce either of the spells, although Snape said, "You're adjusting to the wand. Another day or two."
Ruddy bastard, Harry Potter thought. Treating me like I should be able to do a spell in a day, and then not really meaning it.
On Friday Afternoon, Dumbledore arrived, and wouldn't you know it, the first thing Snape said was, "This will be fairly boring, I'm afraid, Albus. Torture's on Tuesdays and Thursdays." And Snape smirked - something Harry was sure Dumbledore would interpret as "of course, i'm not torturing the poor lad." Dumbledore had rather a history of thinking the best of people, after all. At least Harry's arms had stopped shaking - about an hour ago, which Snape probably had timed to the minute (so that Dumbledore wouldn't see actual evidence of torture).
Yesterday had started early - which was to say, Snape had actually let him sleep in until false dawn. Upon waking and seeing the horizon, Harry's stomach turned. Any particular kindness from Snape was an illusion - and this one in particular boded ill. In three minutes, Harry was standing, teeth brushed, and looking remotely presentable (for a man with a single set of clothing, who had turned it white with sweat yesterday*).
"Have you ever endured the Crucio?" Snape asked, in a deceptively mild voice. Snape was many things, but mild was never one of them.
"Yes, Sir." Harry Potter said firmly, his eyes widening slightly at the question.
"Today, I will provide an opportunity for you to learn how to endure it effectively. It is your choice, I will not force this on any man." Snape's hair flowed over half his face, neatly obscuring any expression - did he plan it that way, or was it just long habit?
"What will this entail, sir?" Harry Potter asked, suppressing a wry smile about Harry Potter of all people learning patience, "And why would I wish to learn this?" There, the question he had wanted to ask, but asked second, so as not to sound quite so petulant. Or stupid. Harry rather thought Snape disliked stupidity more than petulance, if Draco Malfoy was any indication.
Snape nodded, his black eyes revealing nothing, as his eyes raked Harry from toe to head. "You'll have the sack again. Move it 100 yards, under the Crucio. Even Death Eaters tend to assume that using the Crucio is enough to render one helpless. I have learned, through long experience, never to be helpless if I can help it."
Harry Potter looked at Snape, remembering that James Potter was a good deal of the reason for Snape's reluctance to be helpless. Not that Harry was any more likely to bend over and take it, as it were. "Sir, all those times when I saw you twitching under the Dark Lord's Crucio - you were just pretending?" A distracting question, the answer already known, but it gave Harry a bit of breathing room to consider what the hell he thought he was doing.
"Indeed. An advantage is hardly hidden if everyone knows about it."
"I'll learn. Let's get started, sir."
If Harry had thought Tuesday was bad, this was ... loads worse. Of course, Tuesday hadn't been temporary. That was one benefit of the Crucio - afterwards, his muscles still functioned, his bones were still whole. Under the crucio, it was a struggle not to soil oneself, let alone stand (or, in Harry's case, crawl). Again and again, Harry Potter tried, sometimes doing a bit better, sometimes, a bit worse. His world had shrunk, until pain was everywhere,and nowhere, red ghostly blurs dancing in front of his eyes. "Sir! Sir!" Harry asked, his voice clear and firm - he needed a break, but wasn't going to get one if he seemed weak. Heroes aren't weak Harry could hear Snape saying, followed up with, Your choice, now live up to it.
"Yes, Potter." Snape rapped out, seeming cross without the substance behind the semblance.
"How did you learn this, sir? Who taught you?"
"A mirror spell, and the determination to pull it off." Snape said coldly, his usual purr absent entirely from his voice. Harry Potter was momentarily speechless - that could have killed him, driven him insane. If only he knew how to cancel the spell, and he was suffering from it... Harry saw for a brief moment the desperation on a younger Snape's face (was it a memory, surfacing? Harry didn't know...).
"Crucio" - and the world dissolved in pain again.
Harry Potter waved goodbye to Dumbledore, as he set about running around the wood - entirely unordered to. It seemed Dumbledore and Snape had business, and Harry didn't need the temptation to eavesdrop. He focused on the spell of the day, thinking that at least yesterday he had manage to send a hex, even if it wasn't quite the desired one - turning Snape's face into some sort of scaled monstrosity had not made the man any easier to deal with.
The second week started before the crack of dawn, a time that Harry Potter hated just as much as Severus Snape did... or nearly, at least. Snape seemed to have abysmal depths to his hatred.
"Get ready to run, Potter" Snape said, and as Potter began to disrobe, Snape did likewise. At Potter's questioning look, Snape quirked the corner of his mouth, "Running helps you think, and it happens that I have thinking to do as well."
By the end of the day, Potter thought that it was worse when Snape ran alongside him. For one thing, Snape never faltered, never tripped, and always had enough breath to call him out if he did anything sloppy or stupid. Running behind Snape was even worse, for fear that if he lost sight of the man, he'd never see him again. "Spells, all of them." Snape rapped out, his voice as crisp as a snapping ruler. Despite the fact that he was bone tired, Potter started to cast, trying to ignore the fact that some spells seemed to come to him better than others. He had to learn. Harry knew better than to protest at how tired he was. He had tried that the third day, and had gotten only, "If you can't fight after a short hike, you don't deserve to be in the field." Short hike, of course, being thirty miles.**
The week got better, at least from the perspective of Harry filling out - Snape was still the invulnerable, invincible, indomitable machine... and Potter was still tripping over his own two feet. It was infuriating.
Dumbledore showed up at the end of the week, and Harry was trying to figure out why he was feeling a bit more cautious around the man. Snape broke off from their run to talk with Dumbledore, and - to an unheard question, responded, "I can't play the immovable mountain forever, can I? The unstoppable boulder is more fearsome, anyway."
The next day, Snape simply looked at Potter and said, "Amuse yourself. I will be back tommorrow." Potter stood, still exhausted from yesterday - but too paranoid to not start stretching - one never knew when Snape would return, and "amuse yourself" did not mean "sleep till noon."
Third week dawned darkly, the sky consumed in clouds that reeked of gloom - the threat of rain everpresent; the air stank of plants opening for their morning drink. Potter was up early, bending and stretching - hard-earned lessons for the keen of eye (he had caught Snape stretching before a run, and decided that it was better to Not waste his time.).
Snape seemed to stand up like an umbrella unfolding - one moment coiled in a ball under his cloak, the next - on his feet. Potter straightened into a rough semblance of parade rest, and watched his teacher carefully. "I think it's about time we dispensed with the preliminaries, don't you, Potter?"
Potter eyed Snape warily - the bastard had a way with words, making even the simplest of request sound dire and dangerous... - and this was far from just a simple request. Luckily, Snape didn't seem to mind Potter considering his words for a moment. "I do not know, sir. You're the teacher, I'll follow your lead." To tell the truth, after weeks of grueling physical activity, Harry was rather looking forward to anything else.
"James Potter was a fool from the moment I met him, to the moment I last laid eyes on him - and I hardly think he changed in the few weeks before he died. He was a brave fool, surely. See that you don't follow in his footsteps, or they'll be calling you martyr, not hero." Snape's voice was bloody hypnotic, Harry thought, listening to it like a cat on the prowl, brushing against him, and then slashing with sharp claws. His voice had turned cruel at the word martyr, and it was positively scathing at the word hero. Harry found his fists, for the first time in ages, curling into balls. Not because of the assessment, but because he was sick and tired of hearing about his father. Harry got it - his father had been a right nasty piece of work towards Snape, who undoubtedly had been just as unpleasant as he was now back then. A subtle thought threaded through his anger, If he truly thought you were arrogant, he wouldn't be warning you at all.
Snape's voice turned firm, almost hinting at demanding, "Your mother, on the other hand... She was a talented witch, deft with a wand. Not even the Dark Lord would dare to say that she wasn't competent. I'll certainly not be the first." Potter's hands had gone flat against his sides, the shock neatly squelching the anger. Nobody ever talks about my mother... Potter thought.
Snape's next words broke Harry's train of thought, "If you have half her talent - and Lupin says you're decent enough - you might make it through a battle or two." Right, back to business then. Harry thought contemplatively.
"Tell me the difference between a battle and a duel, Potter."
"Yes, sir. A duel is an organized sport between two wizards, a competition if you will. A battle is a disorganized mess best dealt with by killing as many opponents as you can."
"Well done. How many ways can you kill a person, Potter?"
Harry began to list spell after spell, at last running dry, his answers coming in drips and drabs. Snape whipped out his wand, casting the tickling curse at Harry, whose serious face broke out in the first smile he'd had in weeks (other than the fake ones for Dumbledore - not that this one wasn't faked as well). As Potter struggled to stay upright, Snape leaped into action, punching him in the gut, and then on the shoulder, and then aiming one for the groin - that Potter managed to whirl slightly away from (the blow landing on his leg). Snape stepped back abruptly, and Potter swayed on his feet at the loss of the hail of blows (it had been helping keep him upright). "Have I made my point?"
"Yes sir." Harry said, relaxing into parade rest stance, which he shortly discovered made it very difficult to get to your wand.
"No mercy, Potter" Snape said, with a grin three shades too menacing to be properly gleeful.
"Same to you sir." Potter sent back, his grin quite a bit more genuine, as hexes filled the air.
It was two days later, and Potter was puffing up a hill when Snape sent him a gift-wrapped hex, which he, of course, dodged. Straight into a tree. .Ow. No use thinking that he'd show some compassion, it's Snape, for goodness sakes! Snape had continued running, and Potter doggedly got to his feet, knowing there'd be hell to pay if he didn't catch up before the lap was over.
Coming down the hill on the other side, Potter was blindsided by an acidic hex, bubbles springing up over his left arm, as he fell, his mouth open in a silent scream. Muttering to himself, he cast the mending charm, and was gratified to see most of the physical damage fading. The pain, however, had left afterimages in his vision, and he really didn't want to be running with white ghosts dancing in front of his eyes - he was liable to hurt something, and that would impede his actual training. Potter's eyes widened, as he pulled a desperate ploy out of nowhere. "Snape, sir, what are you hiding? What do you know, that everyone else doesn't?"
As hoped, Snape strode out from behind the tree he had been using to screen his presence. He looked furious, but as that was nearly normal, Potter didn't pay it much heed. "Have you never heard the saying, Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead ? If I wanted to tell you, I would. It's no use asking me to change my mind." By this point, Potter had gotten to his sore feet. Swaying, he shook his head to at least clear his vision. It helped... a little. He didn't say a word as Snape continued in his easy lope, though Harry was certainly quite jealous of the older man's long stride. Why did I have to be so short?
Snape's nostrils flared with displeasure, as he looked down at Potter. "Cast the spell I taught you this morning." Snape said. Potter made to get wearily to his feet, when Snape drawled, "You can cast as well on the ground as standing, I trust." Potter looked at him carefully, mistrustful of this unexpected kindness, "Yes sir." Wearily, he performed the spell - a chained matrix between an absorbent shield, and a silent alarm spell. Snape nodded curtly as Potter performed the spell properly the first time. It was the closest thing to approval the mordant man seemed willing to give.
"Sit up, Potter." Snape said, and launched into a lecture. "It has long troubled me that the Patronus spell is taught in the Defense against the Dark Arts curriculum. Teaching it there encourages lazy thinking, and leaves the exploration of the spell to only the most inquisitive of pupils. Tell me how you think the spell works, Potter."
Harry Potter had learned a thing or two about dealing with Snape. Unlike Moody, he was patient - up to a very brief point, so Potter spent a moment gathering his thoughts. "It's a spell more done by the mind than by magick, sir. It binds your happiest memory into a form where it can protect you from the influence of Dementors."
"You prove my point so aptly, Potter." Snape said, his mouth slightly softening from its usual hard line. "A patronus has many uses, from casting light (a remarkably inefficient use), to providing an unhittable distraction, to sending messages to your allies or enemies." Harry Potter looked at Snape, glad for once that this wasn't technical enough that he wanted parchment for notes.
"Any happy, joyous, gleeful memory will do. Taught in Defense against the Dark Arts, people are encouraged to turn to their happiest memory, which is well and good when you are defending against Dementors. But it's hardly the only way to use the spell." Snape purred, "Allow me to demonstrate."
Snape's dark wand moved in the intricate pattern for the Patronus spell, and before them stood a silvery doe. "My happiest memory comes from when I was nine. Simple, childlike joy tends to be most people's happiest memory." Shrewdly, Snape studied Potter a moment, before continuing, "You may find your happiest memory when you first discovered magic was real, or when you first saw Hogwarts for the first time." Harry knew it was neither of those, tainted by fear or preoccupied with other things. No, for him it would be his first flying lesson, diving for Neville's rememberall - outrage and indignation tossed aside by the sheer joy of flight, with just a dash of righteousness.
"Serenity will serve as well, in a pinch." Snape said, as he summoned a different patronus - a wispy bat.
"Triumph - pure triumph, untainted by malicious intent," Snape said, as he summoned a white tiger, the black stripes making it half-invisible.
"Protectiveness, unselfish and true." Snape said, summoning a mongoose. He laid down a hand, and the mongoose curled up his arm. "The spectral animals move as real animals would - have you noticed?" Snape's voice was unaccustomedly soft, almost as if he didn't want to scare the patronus. "This one, for example, can dig - the bat can, of course, fly adeptly."
"You will need to learn to cast quite a few patronii, Potter. Take some time tonight and tomorrow, and we shall see what you've accomplished. Make sure you know your memory thoroughly, don't muddle it with two or three."
"Yes sir."
Snape cast again, his patronus a dog - wait, Harry squinted - was that a Grim? He looked askance at Snape, who smirked, "And that's one that you're too young for yet." With a wave of his wand, Snape set off at a steady lope - and Harry followed a moment later.
What could he possibly mean? It took him three strides before it hit him - sex. But, um, why would Snape say that he was too young for sex? Harry took another twenty strides while pondering that one. Oh, he doesn't want to... "Yes sir, definitely too young for that." Potter said crisply, and Snape sent him a sly glance.
Snape responded in that purr of his, "A good thing too, I don't think I could possibly explain the questions a Gryffindor might dream up."
The thought of Snape sitting him down for a talk on the birds and the bees was equally appalling to Harry. Quietly, playfully, Harry Potter said, "I think I'd have trouble understanding the subtlety of a Slytherin anyway, sir." To this, Snape snorted.
"As your father is unlikely," Here Snape's mouth quirked, "to be of much assistance, you might try asking Mr. Weasley. He's certainly given the talk to enough Gryffindors, I doubt you could ask anything that would surprise him."
"I might take that advice, sir." Harry Potter said, thinking that locker room chats were good enough about a lot of things, but perhaps an adult perspective might provide a different view on things. If nothing else, it couldn't hurt.
Harry Potter was out of breath, which was bad.
Harry Potter was sinking into quicksand, which was worse.
Harry Potter saw Severus Snape dangling from a tree above him, and he knew true terror.
Adrenalin, when one has cause to need it, is quite good at ridding oneself of pain, and giving yourself a second wind. Which, all in all, was a very good thing for one trainee Harry Potter, as he rolled and doggiepaddled, and otherwise desperately tried to get himself clear of his mentor's wand, all the while Snape made various leaves and sticks around Potter explode. Harry knew this was Snape's way of making this particular torture session... memorable, that if Snape had wanted to, he'd have left Harry Potter for dead, sinking slowly beneath the quicksand. Or if Snape merely wanted to muss his black robes with the brown slithering sands. Snape, even with sweat dripping off his brow, managed to not be a drop more pinked than his normal sallow complexion - and his keen eyes saw everything.
Jogging (he hadn't gotten the hang of Snape's lope) in his sodden robes, Harry wished he had gotten half the cleaning charms that the witches seemed to know automatically. Pity you were trying to not die, hmph! His mind rejoined. Harry was working on targeting, while keeping his shield spell up - while running, of course. Harry Potter would have been tempted to ask, What is the point of all this?, if he wasn't sure that would have Snape chopping him to bits to use for potions ingredients. Patience, if not honey, might bear some fruit... Moments later, all thoughts of Patience had flown out of his mind, just as his breath had flown his body. Owww... that blow to the solar plexus hurt. Just five minutes... Potter thought desperately, and, as is usually the case, managed to pull a moderately daring (if not especially responsible) scheme out of his arse.
"Sir, did you really promise the Weasley twins that if they didn't learn enough, you'd visit such dastardly pranks on their heads that they'd nevermore rise from shame?"
"Close enough, Potter." Snape said, eyeing Harry Potter with a keenness that assured Harry that he wasn't getting away with anything that Snape didn't want him to get away with. "Time was, I was quite good at pranks. A matter of survival, you understand, with the Marauders about - gave them a bit of a reason to be cautious, it did." Harry Potter listened quietly, wondering if he had managed to pick up any of Snape's listening intensity. "You don't believe me, do you, Potter?" Snape said, his voice cooling slightly.
"Sirius... Lupin never mentioned a thing about it, sir." Harry Potter said softly, careful to not sound defiant - the care making his voice sound more hesitant than anything.
"They wouldn't, not on their life." Severus Snape said, a strong sense of satisfaction purring through his low voice. "Blinky! The Royal file if you please." A moment later, there was a Tyrian Purple folder in his hand, and he flipped it, opening it so that all the photographs were facing down. "Pick a picture, any picture."
"You took photographs, sir?" Harry said, looking at Severus Snape warily. He selected a photograph that showed Potter and Sirius with pacifiers in their mouths, trying to hide what looked like enormous boners (probably magically enhanced, Potter thought to himself) inside the diapers they were currently wearing.
"The Marauders were always showing off to each other, Potter. They never had the need. But, as you might imagine, my friends tended to be a trifle more serious. So I took photographs to remember the sense of victory. Besides, who really wanted to be lectured on just retribution?" Snape's voice didn't change in the slightest, and yet by intonation and speed alone, he achieved a completely different feel to his voice. "Severus, you can't keep going after them! You're just encouraging them to come up with more vile pranks! They're in my house for god's sake, I know them well enough to know that!" Harry Potter fought down a smirk at the tone, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head at the idea of Snape, of all people, having a friend in Gryffindor. At least it wasn't Pettigrew, Harry was sure. Who was he? Potter thought, and then shook his head. Ask later.
"On your feet, Potter," Snape snapped and Harry sprung to his feet, "Breaktime's over, now let's make sure you earn it." And three spells shot out at Potter from three different directions - he nearly turned himself into a pretzel while dodging, only to be hit from one directly above him. It burned a bit, but not too much. "Faster," Snape cried, and the hunt was on.