A/N This is a fairly short interlude rather than an actual chapter. Thanks
to everyone who's reviewed so far. Please review this part too!
Interlude 1
Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his tangled mass of rebellious dark hair. Snape watched him with one thin eyebrow raised, doubtless contemplating the similarity of that gesture to one made so often by James Potter - for different reasons - in his youth.
"It's getting late, Potter," Snape remarked. "And I've run out of whisky."
"You promised me the whole story," Harry reminded him. "It's only one thirty. The celebrations are going to go on for ages anyway, you know that. You also know that I'm not leaving your office until I'm certain everyone has gone to bed; there are a lot of people out there I don't want to run in to."
Snape tsked. "After all they've done for you, Potter."
"They don't really want to see me. They can't. Every time I come across one of the old crowd they're uncomfortable, don't know what to say to me."
"Whose fault is that, boy?"
"I'm aware of it," Harry snapped. "Anyway, the point is, we've still got a few hours to kill. I can come back tomorrow or whenever you want. But I want to hear it, I want to know everything about you. Of course, if you want to go to bed I can always bunk in your quarters."
"That's quite enough, Potter. I can barely stand your invasion of my personal space during my waking hours; do you really think I could bear to *sleep* in the same room as you?"
"Talk, then," replied Harry, grimly. "And don't give me that about running out of whisky."
Snape snorted, got up, and collected a second bottle from his cupboard. This one, however, was labelled: single malt Scotch, made by a firm Harry had not heard of.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Potter? Hoping to see me break down and cry, I suppose."
"I've seen you cry plenty of times," said Harry, coldly. "It doesn't interest me any more. All those Occlumency lessons from the sixth year onwards.when I finally started to get the hang of it, I saw a lot of flashes of your memories."
"Then why bother with my narrative at all?" sneered Snape, but he took a long sip of whisky and topped up his glass. "You never mentioned what you saw during the lessons, Potter."
"The first time - or second, since I suppose the first time was in fifth year - it was just a face; your mum, I think, looking tired, with a bruise on her cheek."
Snape said nothing, staring bleakly into his empty glass.
"There was lots of other stuff. Just to list the times when you cried, since you ask: first day at Hogwarts, after a Quidditch accident - I think you were in third year."
"If you must know, Potter, that was no mere accident. Your beloved godfather, may he rest in peace and hopefully forever, jinxed my broom just before I tried out for a Chaser's position on the Slytherin team. I never played Quidditch again."
"Whatever. Anyway, this has nothing to do with what I came for. You promised me."
"I'm well aware of it, Potter. But if you wish me to continue with this, *you* should be aware that I am not giving you this very private information out of the goodness of my heart. I will expect something in return."
"Such as what?"
"Patience, Potter. That comes later. Do you want to hear the rest or not?"
Harry took a sip of whisky.
"As you said, it's late. I want to hear this, but I want to take it in properly. We could continue tomorrow, and this time," he gave a faint smile, "I'll bring my own booze."
"Not a bad idea. But what about the old comrades you're trying to avoid?"
"I wasn't planning on leaving just yet. There's some stuff I want to ask you."
"Wonderful," Snape muttered, pouring himself yet another drink, "question time. Well, go on, Potter. I suppose it was inevitable that you wouldn't understand half of what I explained to you."
Harry eyed his old teacher thoughtfully, trying to decide how best to broach the issue he wanted clarifying. Snape seemed unconcerned by Harry's silent scrutiny; the older man stared blankly into his drink, black eyes unfathomable.
"It's about Lucius Malfoy," said Harry eventually, "and how you were bonded to him."
"Is it that complicated?"
"I want to know the details. What kept you bound to Malfoy? Was it just the prospect of being cut off from doing magic, or was there something else?"
There was a pause. Snape glared into his whisky for a few moments, then gave a deep sigh that turned into a yawn.
"There were other factors," he murmured, wearily. "The ceremony itself created a powerful connection which to some extent allowed Malfoy to -" he paused, a look of disgust crossing his thin face, "control my mind."
"Like the Imperius curse?" Harry was astonished. How could Dumbledore have trusted a man who could potentially be controlled by Lucius Malfoy?
"You may think of it that way for simplicity, Potter. But you should realise that Lucius did not - could not - use me in such a fashion. I was bound to him as his subordinate, but, even from the beginning, when he was two years older than me, I was the more powerful wizard. He could not control me, but via our connection, I was eventually able to exert some influence over him. You are aware of my skill - my late skill - in Occlumency, Potter. This allowed me to block Malfoy completely from my mind, prevent him gaining access to my thoughts and feelings."
"I see," Harry answered, neutrally. He had heard the slight catch in Snape's voice as he referred to his 'late' ability as an Occlumens. But Harry could not feel any pity for Snape - for a long time, he had been unable to feel sorry for anyone but himself.
"And did you?" Harry prompted, when Snape fell silent. The ex-professor jumped slightly, as though coming out of a reverie.
"To a degree. The bond between us made it more difficult; otherwise I could have penetrated his mind with relative ease, as I did those of several other Death-Eaters in my role as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. Malfoy was cunning, but he did not have as much intelligence or mental strength as he would have had everyone believe. I quickly outstripped him during my Dark Arts lessons with his father Vibius."
"Bet he didn't like that," Harry remarked dryly.
"On the contrary, Lucius was satisfied to have a potential lieutenant capable of defending him. His other friends - Crabbe, Goyle, and so on - had barely two brain cells to rub together, and little in the way of power. They were brawn without intellect, like their sons. As long as Malfoy considered himself in charge of the situation - as long as he was the leader - he was happy. Lucius' was a simple personality to understand; he wanted power, he wanted secure authority, he wanted loyal helpers for this ambition. That was all he was interested in; he chose to support the Dark Lord."
"Voldemort," said Harry. Snape scowled, but echoed coldly,
".chose to support *Voldemort* because he was sure Voldemort would win in the end. Dark wizards have access to powers other wizards will not touch, through nobility, moral superiority, or plain fear. Obviously Voldemort's policies were also rather more to Lucius' tastes than the Ministry's or Dumbledore's, but he was willing to hedge his bets. Lucius tried to influence the Ministry, as you know, Potter, and did a most effective job of it. He was trying to make sure that whoever won, he would be in a good position."
"I'd figured that out for myself, thanks," said Harry dryly. Snape scowled at him.
"Your sarcasm wounds me," he growled. "That's enough for tonight, Potter. I'm going to bed; I suggest you go home and do the same. I daresay our mutual friends in the Hall will be too drunk by now to notice your departure."
Harry left Snape's office a few minutes later, slipped past the noise and light of the Great Hall, and went into the grounds, intending to disapparate just outside the boundary. As he paused by the lake, wondering whether the Giant Squid still lurked in its depths, memories came to his mind, unbidden. Crossing the lake with Hagrid when he first arrived at the school, convinced that from now on his life could only get better. The Durmstrang ship emerging from the water - the Triwizard tournament, the death of Cedric Diggory. Victor Krum. Harry's promise to himself at the start of his sixth year that after Voldemort was dead, after it was all over, he would turn his attention fully to Quidditch, maybe play for England some day. Viktor Krum's death and Hermione's grief - though never involved in the way Ron had once feared, they had been good friends, especially after Krum moved to England, years ago. He had assisted in teaching Quidditch at Hogwarts after Voldemort's fall; a Quidditch accident had killed him, three years later. Harry had not attended the funeral, but he had sent Hermione an owl giving some rubbish excuse. She had let it pass, but Harry knew it had damaged their friendship even further. Hermione had been the last to give up on him, and when she finally had, losing her had not really hurt him; that, Harry realised dimly, had been the worst thing of all. It was ironic, he mused; all that time studying Occlumency with Snape, struggling to control his emotions, and now, standing by the lake, remembering the best and worst events of his life, he felt nothing at all.
Interlude 1
Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his tangled mass of rebellious dark hair. Snape watched him with one thin eyebrow raised, doubtless contemplating the similarity of that gesture to one made so often by James Potter - for different reasons - in his youth.
"It's getting late, Potter," Snape remarked. "And I've run out of whisky."
"You promised me the whole story," Harry reminded him. "It's only one thirty. The celebrations are going to go on for ages anyway, you know that. You also know that I'm not leaving your office until I'm certain everyone has gone to bed; there are a lot of people out there I don't want to run in to."
Snape tsked. "After all they've done for you, Potter."
"They don't really want to see me. They can't. Every time I come across one of the old crowd they're uncomfortable, don't know what to say to me."
"Whose fault is that, boy?"
"I'm aware of it," Harry snapped. "Anyway, the point is, we've still got a few hours to kill. I can come back tomorrow or whenever you want. But I want to hear it, I want to know everything about you. Of course, if you want to go to bed I can always bunk in your quarters."
"That's quite enough, Potter. I can barely stand your invasion of my personal space during my waking hours; do you really think I could bear to *sleep* in the same room as you?"
"Talk, then," replied Harry, grimly. "And don't give me that about running out of whisky."
Snape snorted, got up, and collected a second bottle from his cupboard. This one, however, was labelled: single malt Scotch, made by a firm Harry had not heard of.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Potter? Hoping to see me break down and cry, I suppose."
"I've seen you cry plenty of times," said Harry, coldly. "It doesn't interest me any more. All those Occlumency lessons from the sixth year onwards.when I finally started to get the hang of it, I saw a lot of flashes of your memories."
"Then why bother with my narrative at all?" sneered Snape, but he took a long sip of whisky and topped up his glass. "You never mentioned what you saw during the lessons, Potter."
"The first time - or second, since I suppose the first time was in fifth year - it was just a face; your mum, I think, looking tired, with a bruise on her cheek."
Snape said nothing, staring bleakly into his empty glass.
"There was lots of other stuff. Just to list the times when you cried, since you ask: first day at Hogwarts, after a Quidditch accident - I think you were in third year."
"If you must know, Potter, that was no mere accident. Your beloved godfather, may he rest in peace and hopefully forever, jinxed my broom just before I tried out for a Chaser's position on the Slytherin team. I never played Quidditch again."
"Whatever. Anyway, this has nothing to do with what I came for. You promised me."
"I'm well aware of it, Potter. But if you wish me to continue with this, *you* should be aware that I am not giving you this very private information out of the goodness of my heart. I will expect something in return."
"Such as what?"
"Patience, Potter. That comes later. Do you want to hear the rest or not?"
Harry took a sip of whisky.
"As you said, it's late. I want to hear this, but I want to take it in properly. We could continue tomorrow, and this time," he gave a faint smile, "I'll bring my own booze."
"Not a bad idea. But what about the old comrades you're trying to avoid?"
"I wasn't planning on leaving just yet. There's some stuff I want to ask you."
"Wonderful," Snape muttered, pouring himself yet another drink, "question time. Well, go on, Potter. I suppose it was inevitable that you wouldn't understand half of what I explained to you."
Harry eyed his old teacher thoughtfully, trying to decide how best to broach the issue he wanted clarifying. Snape seemed unconcerned by Harry's silent scrutiny; the older man stared blankly into his drink, black eyes unfathomable.
"It's about Lucius Malfoy," said Harry eventually, "and how you were bonded to him."
"Is it that complicated?"
"I want to know the details. What kept you bound to Malfoy? Was it just the prospect of being cut off from doing magic, or was there something else?"
There was a pause. Snape glared into his whisky for a few moments, then gave a deep sigh that turned into a yawn.
"There were other factors," he murmured, wearily. "The ceremony itself created a powerful connection which to some extent allowed Malfoy to -" he paused, a look of disgust crossing his thin face, "control my mind."
"Like the Imperius curse?" Harry was astonished. How could Dumbledore have trusted a man who could potentially be controlled by Lucius Malfoy?
"You may think of it that way for simplicity, Potter. But you should realise that Lucius did not - could not - use me in such a fashion. I was bound to him as his subordinate, but, even from the beginning, when he was two years older than me, I was the more powerful wizard. He could not control me, but via our connection, I was eventually able to exert some influence over him. You are aware of my skill - my late skill - in Occlumency, Potter. This allowed me to block Malfoy completely from my mind, prevent him gaining access to my thoughts and feelings."
"I see," Harry answered, neutrally. He had heard the slight catch in Snape's voice as he referred to his 'late' ability as an Occlumens. But Harry could not feel any pity for Snape - for a long time, he had been unable to feel sorry for anyone but himself.
"And did you?" Harry prompted, when Snape fell silent. The ex-professor jumped slightly, as though coming out of a reverie.
"To a degree. The bond between us made it more difficult; otherwise I could have penetrated his mind with relative ease, as I did those of several other Death-Eaters in my role as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. Malfoy was cunning, but he did not have as much intelligence or mental strength as he would have had everyone believe. I quickly outstripped him during my Dark Arts lessons with his father Vibius."
"Bet he didn't like that," Harry remarked dryly.
"On the contrary, Lucius was satisfied to have a potential lieutenant capable of defending him. His other friends - Crabbe, Goyle, and so on - had barely two brain cells to rub together, and little in the way of power. They were brawn without intellect, like their sons. As long as Malfoy considered himself in charge of the situation - as long as he was the leader - he was happy. Lucius' was a simple personality to understand; he wanted power, he wanted secure authority, he wanted loyal helpers for this ambition. That was all he was interested in; he chose to support the Dark Lord."
"Voldemort," said Harry. Snape scowled, but echoed coldly,
".chose to support *Voldemort* because he was sure Voldemort would win in the end. Dark wizards have access to powers other wizards will not touch, through nobility, moral superiority, or plain fear. Obviously Voldemort's policies were also rather more to Lucius' tastes than the Ministry's or Dumbledore's, but he was willing to hedge his bets. Lucius tried to influence the Ministry, as you know, Potter, and did a most effective job of it. He was trying to make sure that whoever won, he would be in a good position."
"I'd figured that out for myself, thanks," said Harry dryly. Snape scowled at him.
"Your sarcasm wounds me," he growled. "That's enough for tonight, Potter. I'm going to bed; I suggest you go home and do the same. I daresay our mutual friends in the Hall will be too drunk by now to notice your departure."
Harry left Snape's office a few minutes later, slipped past the noise and light of the Great Hall, and went into the grounds, intending to disapparate just outside the boundary. As he paused by the lake, wondering whether the Giant Squid still lurked in its depths, memories came to his mind, unbidden. Crossing the lake with Hagrid when he first arrived at the school, convinced that from now on his life could only get better. The Durmstrang ship emerging from the water - the Triwizard tournament, the death of Cedric Diggory. Victor Krum. Harry's promise to himself at the start of his sixth year that after Voldemort was dead, after it was all over, he would turn his attention fully to Quidditch, maybe play for England some day. Viktor Krum's death and Hermione's grief - though never involved in the way Ron had once feared, they had been good friends, especially after Krum moved to England, years ago. He had assisted in teaching Quidditch at Hogwarts after Voldemort's fall; a Quidditch accident had killed him, three years later. Harry had not attended the funeral, but he had sent Hermione an owl giving some rubbish excuse. She had let it pass, but Harry knew it had damaged their friendship even further. Hermione had been the last to give up on him, and when she finally had, losing her had not really hurt him; that, Harry realised dimly, had been the worst thing of all. It was ironic, he mused; all that time studying Occlumency with Snape, struggling to control his emotions, and now, standing by the lake, remembering the best and worst events of his life, he felt nothing at all.