AN: Harry's second visit to Frank Longbottom sets in motion a whole train of consequences, which this chapter only begins to examine.
Chapter 5: A First-Class Slytherin
Harry had decided not to try to talk to Professor Snape after Potions class. The subject was too touchy to tackle between class periods. Wednesday night was the time. When it came down to it, Harry felt more nervous about stirring up Snape's past than about whatever test of endurance the Potions Master might be planning; in fact, almost more nervous than he had before his latest trip to the hospital. At least Neville would be there. "Don't beat around the bush," Neville advised quietly, "just go straight to the point. I know, I should talk."
"Thanks, Neville," said Harry tonelessly as they sat in the Gryffindor common room after Wednesday dinner, waiting until it was time for their tutorial. Ron, Hermione, and Neville were working on homework, but Harry was too distracted even to attempt his own assignments. He kept seeing Pettigrew turning into Wormtail in his mind's eye, being eaten by an owl or caught in a trap or crushed underfoot, over and over again. Harry fidgeted in his chair and cleaned his glasses for the fifteenth time.
Hermione gave him a concerned look over a closely-written roll of parchment. "You know, Harry, I'm a little worried about you. You look peaky to me."
"No, I'm fine," said Harry, trying to sound sincere.
"You've been under a lot of stress," Hemione went on, "and your appetite's not what it should be. Neville told us that your visit last Sunday went really well."
"It did," said Harry.
"Terrific, actually," said Neville.
"So I don't know why you're not happier about it."
"I'll let myself be happier about it after tonight," Harry said. "I just don't know what's going to happen."
"Pretend it's one of the tasks in the Triwizard Tournament," Ron suggested. "The one with the dragon. That was so awesome."
"Professor Snape is a lot like a dragon," Neville added.
"Maybe you should take your Firebolt with you," Ron said, only half joking.
Ron and Hermione were doing their best to support Harry without being inquisitive, and he was grateful. It was good to remember how much easier it had been to encounter the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament than to go through the weeks of dread beforehand. But suddenly he just couldn't stand the waiting anymore. "Let's go, Neville," he said, standing up, "before I lose my mind completely."
* * * * * * * *
In a few minutes Harry and Neville were sitting at the table in Secret Room Number Eight, waiting for Professor Snape to come in. Harry tried to tell himself there was nothing to worry about. Snape would be happy to hear the news. But Harry's stomach was sending him a different message.
When Professor Snape appeared he looked surprised to see them. "You're early, I see," he observed without approval. Harry was relieved that Snape had apparently brought no potions with him.
"Professor Snape, there's something I need to tell you," Harry plunged in before he could lose his nerve.
"Yes, Potter," Snape answered without looking at him, as he placed books and papers on the table.
"Sir—you know that Sirius Black is innocent of my parents' murder," Harry went on.
This time Snape did look at him, with puzzled irritation. "So I've been told. What of it, Potter?"
"When I went to see Frank Longbottom last weekend, he told me who had tortured him and his wife. And he said that he had also told you, many years ago."
Snape's face turned even sallower than usual and set like stone.
"You had better get to the point, Potter," he growled.
Harry gulped. "Yes, sir. Frank Longbottom said that it was Pettigrew who tortured them, but no one believed him because everyone knew Pettigrew had died a hero's death. But I told Frank that Pettigrew hadn't died a hero's death or any other kind, and that he was still alive."
"You told him that to make him feel better, no doubt."
"No, sir, it's true. Pettigrew is alive. I saw him first in the Shrieking Shack, and you were there too, but you were un-unconscious, sir," Harry continued, beginning to stutter.
"I trust you remember /why/ I was unconscious, Potter." Snape's voice was dangerously soft. "I had been wantonly attacked by three half-crazed students—"
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir," said Harry, wondering why under the sun he had brought up an episode which surely rankled in Snape's soul for numerous reasons. "But he was the one who betrayed my parents to Vol—You-Know-Who. And I wanted you to know that Pettigrew was alive, too, because that means that you did find out the truth from Frank Longbottom, no matter who thinks that you didn't. You had a mission, and you carried it out. You didn't fail, sir. You succeeded."
Snape's black eyes bored into Harry's. "And do you have proof of this, Potter?"
"Well, not—not that Pettigrew tortured the Longbottoms. But I intend to get it, sir."
"Without proof, you will get nowhere. And do you have /any idea/," Snape went on, gathering steam, "the slightest inkling, of the price I paid for that information, which was considered /completely worthless/?"
"Yes, sir, I do," said Harry, "and I think it's …" He trailed off, realizing that he had already said too much.
"You /do/?" Snape demanded. "You know? Let's hear it, then."
"I … you ..." stammered Harry, completely at a loss.
"And /who told you/?!"
"I … I can't say, sir!"
"I suppose you heard that I was at death's door," Snape said bitterly, "confined to my sickbed for months, weak and helpless, pitied and coddled, but not admired or respected, oh no. Poor old Severus tried, but didn't quite make the grade. Made a mess of things. Did more harm than good, but let's not be too hard on him, or he'll never get back on his feet. You heard about all that, didn't you? Don't try to deny it!"
Harry didn't try.
"But who told you, Potter? Who dared to make so free with my private affairs?"
"I can't say, sir," said Harry again.
"Can't say, is it, Potter?" shouted Snape, in a towering rage. "You /will/ answer me, you swaggering little pipsqueak, or you'll be very sorry, and I'll still get it out of you in the end!"
Harry said nothing.
"Who told you, Potter?" Snape's voice was quiet again, but it sent a shiver up Harry's spine. The professor had his wand out and seemed to be deciding what to do with it. "I could get a dose of Veritaserum, but perhaps the Tickling Charm would do the job just as well."
"Not allowed, sir," said Neville.
Snape turned slowly and fixed his gaze on Neville, as if he had forgotten that the other boy was there. "Not allowed, Longbottom? Even the Tickling Charm?"
"Not—not for purposes of coercion, sir," Neville replied in a whisper.
A thought struck Snape. "Did you find out about it and tell him, Longbottom?"
"No, sir," Neville squeaked, thoroughly unnerved.
"It had better not have been you," Snape said darkly. "Potter, who told you?"
Harry said, "Sir, /you may think you can browbeat me into submission, And force me to realize your fondest ambition/," and all the rest of it, noticing all the while how appropriate the words were to his situation.
"Very nicely spoken, Potter," simpered Snape, "but it won't do you any good. Who told you?"
A muffled voice from the back of the room said, "I told him, Uncle." Neville and Harry turned and looked at the closet door Harry had noticed at their first session. They heard the latch rattling, an exclamation of annoyance, and the word "/Alohomora!/" The door popped open and Ivy Parkinson emerged.
"Ivy!" blurted Snape in tones of shock. Harry had never heard him address a student by her first name before.
"It's about time you showed up, Ivy," said Harry, feeling distinctly relieved.
"You're wasted on Gryffindor House, Harry," said Ivy, brushing the dust off her robes and putting her wand away. "You'd have made a first-class Slytherin."
"So I've been told," said Harry. "Listen, Ivy, I'm sorry about this. You know I didn't mean—"
"I'm not blaming you, Harry," she returned, seating herself at the table as if she belonged there. "These things have a way of coming out when the time is right. You couldn't resist playing the hero, though, could you? Even after I told you not to."
"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," said Harry. "I'll try to do better next time."
"I had a feeling I might need to be here. It's a good thing I arrived when I did; you two were earlier than usual." Turning to Neville, she said, "I'm Ivy Parkinson from Slytherin, Neville."
"Nice to meet you, Ivy," Neville said automatically, then whispered, "Harry, did you know she was here?"
"No, but I should have. She gave me plenty of hints," Harry answered.
Professor Snape was trying to gather his scattered wits and regain control of the situation. "Miss Parkinson, may I ask the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded icily.
Ivy looked back at him without fear. "It won't do you any good to 'Miss Parkinson' me, Uncle Severus. I'm here as your niece, not as your student, to say that I'm the one who told Harry Potter about why you were ill."
"Octavius swore that he and Zinnia would never tell a soul," said Snape. "He should not have spoken of it even to you, Ivy."
"He didn't, Uncle. I listened behind doors and remembered. I was only five, but I understood more than anyone guessed, except you."
"I should have known you would make it your business to find out. But why, of all people, did you tell it to—to /Potter/?" The question was angry and incredulous.
"He asked, Uncle. In all this time, he was the only one who asked. And he had a good reason for asking."
She turned to Harry. "I think you'd better tell us a little about Pettigrew, how he betrayed your parents and made everyone believe he was dead."
Harry explained what he had overheard at the Three Broomsticks in his third year and learned later from Sirius Black. His three listeners all had a right to know; they had all suffered at least indirectly from Pettigrew's cruelty. There was no need, however, to tell them about the last encounter with Wormtail. He ended, "So Pettigrew made it look as if Sirius Black had turned my parents over to Voldemort—"
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," corrected Neville.
"—and killed all those Muggles. And for that he was given the Order of Merlin, First Class, after his supposed death."
"Oh, he was, was he?" Now it was Ivy's turn to get angry. "It makes me sick to think that that bloody stinking piece of filth was decorated for valour! I can think of better ways to decorate vermin like that, with their own disgusting—" she broke off, fuming. Harry was a little taken aback to notice how closely her thoughts about Wormtail matched his own. Ivy took a breath and said passionately, "Uncle Severus, that medal should have been yours. Pettigrew might as well have stolen it from you. You deserve it. You suffered for it. You earned it. The hero's death could easily have been yours, Uncle, and then I never would have known you."
At Ivy's words, Snape's face twisted. He abruptly turned his back on them all. Ivy choked on her tears.
"My, aren't we emotional today," said a conversational voice behind them. Harry, Ivy, and Neville looked round. No, it wasn't the closet this time.
"I'm very sorry to interrupt," the voice continued, sweetly and gently, "and I haven't said a word until now, have I?" The rocking chair in the painting behind them was no longer empty. A woman was seated in it, with the book on her bony knees and the spectacles perched on her nose. "I try to mind my own business, and keep something interesting to read with me," she explained, indicating her book, "but I'm supposed to keep an eye on what goes on here. Such goings-on I never saw," she added, shaking her head. "I was afraid I might get wet, being in the line of fire, as you might say.
"But when I see anybody crying in this room, I just have to speak up. It's the rule. Child, are you all right?"
Ivy realised, to her embarrassment, that the woman in the painting was speaking to her. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her robe and said coolly, "I'll survive, I think."
"I see that some of you are having a difficult time with your feelings," the woman said solicitously. "I think it would be an excellent idea for all of you to take turns sharing your feelings without being interrupted, and being heard respectfully by the group. Many people find it amazingly helpful." A lighted candle and a pile of handkerchieves appeared on the table. "Who would like to begin?"
A stunned silence greeted her suggestion.
"Sometimes it's hard to go first," the woman sympathized. "Perhaps I should choose somebody to start. Or would you like a silent meditation first?"
Harry pulled himself together and said, "Ma'am, I think we've already shared enough, er, feelings for today. Thanks very much for the suggestion, though."
She looked disappointed. "Does everybody agree with that?" Ivy and Neville nodded vigourously, and Professor Snape, turning back to face her, quelled her with a long look.
"Well, if you're sure," she said dubiously. The candle and hankies vanished. "But I must say I really would like to see anger expressed more responsibly in this room. There's a difference between sharing anger and inflicting it on others, you know." With that parting shot she went back to her book.
Another silence followed. Harry looked from Neville to Ivy, and suddenly all three of them starting giggling helplessly. Although Professor Snape did not join in the laughter, he did not try to stop it, either, but waited without comment, arms folded, until the mirth had run its course, which took a good five minutes. Then he informed them, with a significant look at Harry, "I believe we have covered enough for one session. You are all excused." The three students, or rather two students and one niece, got away without any homework assignments or injunctions to return the following week.
Out in the corridor, Harry told the other two, "We'll all meet at Hagrid's tomorrow afternoon. You too, Ivy, if you can make it. Ron and Hermione have been waiting to hear what's been happening."
"I'll come, but I'd like to know when those two are going to decide whether they like each other or not," Ivy said.
"So would I," Harry admitted.
* * * * * * * *
When he came to breakfast the next morning, Harry was no longer mentally holding his breath. The storm had broken and blown over, clearing the air. His stomach told him that he could really relax, at least for the time being. He found that he didn't resent Professor Snape for his loss of temper, insults and dire threats. Well, not much, anyway. At least the professor hadn't taken any points from Gryffindor, and it was amazing how much difference that made. Gory fantasies about Wormtail no longer obsessed Harry's thoughts, either. He could leave those to Ivy. He tucked into his kippers and bacon with a good appetite and a mind at ease, and noticed Hermione looking with approval at his loaded plate.
Neville had told Harry that Professor Dumbledore wanted to see him before his first class of the day. So Harry mounted the moving steps to the Headmaster's office and used the griffin-headed knocker. "Come in, Harry," said the familiar voice. Harry entered and took a seat opposite his grey-bearded host.
Dumbledore was smiling at him. "Neville brought me up to date last night," he said after their exchange of greetings, "and I'm extremely pleased. I must congratulate you on what you've already accomplished. Even if you achieve nothing else, you will have done a great deal both for Frank Longbottom and Professor Snape."
"Thank you, sir. But I plan to stick with it."
"I know you do, Harry, but I want you to stop worrying about failing. If this were a course at Hogwarts, you would already have earned a passing grade. Anything else you do is just so much extra. And by the way, Harry, I believe I'll be able to arrange advanced standing for you and Neville in Defense Against the Dark Arts for this in the future. I plan to speak to Professor Moody, but for now it's strictly extra-curricular."
"I quite understand," Harry agreed.
"I think you and everyone involved in this project should take a week off to rest and recover, Harry," Dumbledore counseled. "I'll speak to Professor Snape about postponing your next tutoring session until the following week. In the meantime, relax with your friends and celebrate a little." Fawkes the phoenix seemed to agree; sitting on Dumbledore's desk, he bobbed his head on its long scarlet neck.
"We're getting together at Hagrid's this afternoon. I almost wondered if I should ask Professor Snape to join us," said Harry, although he would have been appalled if Snape had actually accepted.
"It's a nice thought, Harry, but I'm sure you realise that Professor Snape is not yet ready to celebrate. His sense of the personal wrongs done to him runs too deep."
"Professor, is it possible that Professor Snape will ever get the credit he deserves? He might be a lot easier to live with if he did."
"I've held out that hope for many years, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "You knew, sir?"
"I had no proof, only suspicions. Not enough to take a stand against the accepted version of events. I have watched and waited for the evidence to accumulate in its own time."
"Why do I get the feeling that this all hangs on what I find out?" Harry objected.
"More things than you can imagine will be affected if the Longbottoms recover their sanity, Harry. Nothing will be the same. But there—I'm trying to lighten your burden, not make it weigh more heavily. Just do what you can and stop worrying about the outcome."
"Sir, I'd be happy to take a week off—but Frank Longbottom can't take a week off from the Curser. I can't just forget about him."
Dumbledore said, "Harry, I don't think you realize how much you helped him just by believing what he told you. Being disbelieved was probably nearly as hard for him as the original injury to his mind. The one thing he was sure of was called into question. Now he needs time to get used to the new state of affairs. There's nothing to be gained by rushing things. The same is true of Professor Snape. I'd like to give him some time."
"Fine by me. But—what about Neville's Mum? I have no idea what to do for her."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "I think, Harry," he said finally, "that what you've done may have already helped her too. And it might be someone else, after all, who finally gets through to her. Don't concern yourself too much about Aurelle Longbottom for the time being. Now you'd better get to class. Just be a student for a while."
********************
AN: People have asked if the lady in the painting is supposed to be "me" (I'm something of a sharing-group junkie), but she's not. I was skating on thin ice and needed a way to shift levels and poke fun at the emotional content of the scene. In that respect I feel I'm being true to the spirit of Rowling's work, although she would probably never introduce a character like that. At some point I realized, heck, I have to write this as me and stop pretending to be her. In chapter 6, "Across the Channel," you will find out why Hagrid adds marshmallows to the Jell-O for Care of Magical Creatures.
Chapter 5: A First-Class Slytherin
Harry had decided not to try to talk to Professor Snape after Potions class. The subject was too touchy to tackle between class periods. Wednesday night was the time. When it came down to it, Harry felt more nervous about stirring up Snape's past than about whatever test of endurance the Potions Master might be planning; in fact, almost more nervous than he had before his latest trip to the hospital. At least Neville would be there. "Don't beat around the bush," Neville advised quietly, "just go straight to the point. I know, I should talk."
"Thanks, Neville," said Harry tonelessly as they sat in the Gryffindor common room after Wednesday dinner, waiting until it was time for their tutorial. Ron, Hermione, and Neville were working on homework, but Harry was too distracted even to attempt his own assignments. He kept seeing Pettigrew turning into Wormtail in his mind's eye, being eaten by an owl or caught in a trap or crushed underfoot, over and over again. Harry fidgeted in his chair and cleaned his glasses for the fifteenth time.
Hermione gave him a concerned look over a closely-written roll of parchment. "You know, Harry, I'm a little worried about you. You look peaky to me."
"No, I'm fine," said Harry, trying to sound sincere.
"You've been under a lot of stress," Hemione went on, "and your appetite's not what it should be. Neville told us that your visit last Sunday went really well."
"It did," said Harry.
"Terrific, actually," said Neville.
"So I don't know why you're not happier about it."
"I'll let myself be happier about it after tonight," Harry said. "I just don't know what's going to happen."
"Pretend it's one of the tasks in the Triwizard Tournament," Ron suggested. "The one with the dragon. That was so awesome."
"Professor Snape is a lot like a dragon," Neville added.
"Maybe you should take your Firebolt with you," Ron said, only half joking.
Ron and Hermione were doing their best to support Harry without being inquisitive, and he was grateful. It was good to remember how much easier it had been to encounter the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament than to go through the weeks of dread beforehand. But suddenly he just couldn't stand the waiting anymore. "Let's go, Neville," he said, standing up, "before I lose my mind completely."
* * * * * * * *
In a few minutes Harry and Neville were sitting at the table in Secret Room Number Eight, waiting for Professor Snape to come in. Harry tried to tell himself there was nothing to worry about. Snape would be happy to hear the news. But Harry's stomach was sending him a different message.
When Professor Snape appeared he looked surprised to see them. "You're early, I see," he observed without approval. Harry was relieved that Snape had apparently brought no potions with him.
"Professor Snape, there's something I need to tell you," Harry plunged in before he could lose his nerve.
"Yes, Potter," Snape answered without looking at him, as he placed books and papers on the table.
"Sir—you know that Sirius Black is innocent of my parents' murder," Harry went on.
This time Snape did look at him, with puzzled irritation. "So I've been told. What of it, Potter?"
"When I went to see Frank Longbottom last weekend, he told me who had tortured him and his wife. And he said that he had also told you, many years ago."
Snape's face turned even sallower than usual and set like stone.
"You had better get to the point, Potter," he growled.
Harry gulped. "Yes, sir. Frank Longbottom said that it was Pettigrew who tortured them, but no one believed him because everyone knew Pettigrew had died a hero's death. But I told Frank that Pettigrew hadn't died a hero's death or any other kind, and that he was still alive."
"You told him that to make him feel better, no doubt."
"No, sir, it's true. Pettigrew is alive. I saw him first in the Shrieking Shack, and you were there too, but you were un-unconscious, sir," Harry continued, beginning to stutter.
"I trust you remember /why/ I was unconscious, Potter." Snape's voice was dangerously soft. "I had been wantonly attacked by three half-crazed students—"
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir," said Harry, wondering why under the sun he had brought up an episode which surely rankled in Snape's soul for numerous reasons. "But he was the one who betrayed my parents to Vol—You-Know-Who. And I wanted you to know that Pettigrew was alive, too, because that means that you did find out the truth from Frank Longbottom, no matter who thinks that you didn't. You had a mission, and you carried it out. You didn't fail, sir. You succeeded."
Snape's black eyes bored into Harry's. "And do you have proof of this, Potter?"
"Well, not—not that Pettigrew tortured the Longbottoms. But I intend to get it, sir."
"Without proof, you will get nowhere. And do you have /any idea/," Snape went on, gathering steam, "the slightest inkling, of the price I paid for that information, which was considered /completely worthless/?"
"Yes, sir, I do," said Harry, "and I think it's …" He trailed off, realizing that he had already said too much.
"You /do/?" Snape demanded. "You know? Let's hear it, then."
"I … you ..." stammered Harry, completely at a loss.
"And /who told you/?!"
"I … I can't say, sir!"
"I suppose you heard that I was at death's door," Snape said bitterly, "confined to my sickbed for months, weak and helpless, pitied and coddled, but not admired or respected, oh no. Poor old Severus tried, but didn't quite make the grade. Made a mess of things. Did more harm than good, but let's not be too hard on him, or he'll never get back on his feet. You heard about all that, didn't you? Don't try to deny it!"
Harry didn't try.
"But who told you, Potter? Who dared to make so free with my private affairs?"
"I can't say, sir," said Harry again.
"Can't say, is it, Potter?" shouted Snape, in a towering rage. "You /will/ answer me, you swaggering little pipsqueak, or you'll be very sorry, and I'll still get it out of you in the end!"
Harry said nothing.
"Who told you, Potter?" Snape's voice was quiet again, but it sent a shiver up Harry's spine. The professor had his wand out and seemed to be deciding what to do with it. "I could get a dose of Veritaserum, but perhaps the Tickling Charm would do the job just as well."
"Not allowed, sir," said Neville.
Snape turned slowly and fixed his gaze on Neville, as if he had forgotten that the other boy was there. "Not allowed, Longbottom? Even the Tickling Charm?"
"Not—not for purposes of coercion, sir," Neville replied in a whisper.
A thought struck Snape. "Did you find out about it and tell him, Longbottom?"
"No, sir," Neville squeaked, thoroughly unnerved.
"It had better not have been you," Snape said darkly. "Potter, who told you?"
Harry said, "Sir, /you may think you can browbeat me into submission, And force me to realize your fondest ambition/," and all the rest of it, noticing all the while how appropriate the words were to his situation.
"Very nicely spoken, Potter," simpered Snape, "but it won't do you any good. Who told you?"
A muffled voice from the back of the room said, "I told him, Uncle." Neville and Harry turned and looked at the closet door Harry had noticed at their first session. They heard the latch rattling, an exclamation of annoyance, and the word "/Alohomora!/" The door popped open and Ivy Parkinson emerged.
"Ivy!" blurted Snape in tones of shock. Harry had never heard him address a student by her first name before.
"It's about time you showed up, Ivy," said Harry, feeling distinctly relieved.
"You're wasted on Gryffindor House, Harry," said Ivy, brushing the dust off her robes and putting her wand away. "You'd have made a first-class Slytherin."
"So I've been told," said Harry. "Listen, Ivy, I'm sorry about this. You know I didn't mean—"
"I'm not blaming you, Harry," she returned, seating herself at the table as if she belonged there. "These things have a way of coming out when the time is right. You couldn't resist playing the hero, though, could you? Even after I told you not to."
"Sorry, I don't know what came over me," said Harry. "I'll try to do better next time."
"I had a feeling I might need to be here. It's a good thing I arrived when I did; you two were earlier than usual." Turning to Neville, she said, "I'm Ivy Parkinson from Slytherin, Neville."
"Nice to meet you, Ivy," Neville said automatically, then whispered, "Harry, did you know she was here?"
"No, but I should have. She gave me plenty of hints," Harry answered.
Professor Snape was trying to gather his scattered wits and regain control of the situation. "Miss Parkinson, may I ask the meaning of this intrusion?" he demanded icily.
Ivy looked back at him without fear. "It won't do you any good to 'Miss Parkinson' me, Uncle Severus. I'm here as your niece, not as your student, to say that I'm the one who told Harry Potter about why you were ill."
"Octavius swore that he and Zinnia would never tell a soul," said Snape. "He should not have spoken of it even to you, Ivy."
"He didn't, Uncle. I listened behind doors and remembered. I was only five, but I understood more than anyone guessed, except you."
"I should have known you would make it your business to find out. But why, of all people, did you tell it to—to /Potter/?" The question was angry and incredulous.
"He asked, Uncle. In all this time, he was the only one who asked. And he had a good reason for asking."
She turned to Harry. "I think you'd better tell us a little about Pettigrew, how he betrayed your parents and made everyone believe he was dead."
Harry explained what he had overheard at the Three Broomsticks in his third year and learned later from Sirius Black. His three listeners all had a right to know; they had all suffered at least indirectly from Pettigrew's cruelty. There was no need, however, to tell them about the last encounter with Wormtail. He ended, "So Pettigrew made it look as if Sirius Black had turned my parents over to Voldemort—"
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," corrected Neville.
"—and killed all those Muggles. And for that he was given the Order of Merlin, First Class, after his supposed death."
"Oh, he was, was he?" Now it was Ivy's turn to get angry. "It makes me sick to think that that bloody stinking piece of filth was decorated for valour! I can think of better ways to decorate vermin like that, with their own disgusting—" she broke off, fuming. Harry was a little taken aback to notice how closely her thoughts about Wormtail matched his own. Ivy took a breath and said passionately, "Uncle Severus, that medal should have been yours. Pettigrew might as well have stolen it from you. You deserve it. You suffered for it. You earned it. The hero's death could easily have been yours, Uncle, and then I never would have known you."
At Ivy's words, Snape's face twisted. He abruptly turned his back on them all. Ivy choked on her tears.
"My, aren't we emotional today," said a conversational voice behind them. Harry, Ivy, and Neville looked round. No, it wasn't the closet this time.
"I'm very sorry to interrupt," the voice continued, sweetly and gently, "and I haven't said a word until now, have I?" The rocking chair in the painting behind them was no longer empty. A woman was seated in it, with the book on her bony knees and the spectacles perched on her nose. "I try to mind my own business, and keep something interesting to read with me," she explained, indicating her book, "but I'm supposed to keep an eye on what goes on here. Such goings-on I never saw," she added, shaking her head. "I was afraid I might get wet, being in the line of fire, as you might say.
"But when I see anybody crying in this room, I just have to speak up. It's the rule. Child, are you all right?"
Ivy realised, to her embarrassment, that the woman in the painting was speaking to her. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her robe and said coolly, "I'll survive, I think."
"I see that some of you are having a difficult time with your feelings," the woman said solicitously. "I think it would be an excellent idea for all of you to take turns sharing your feelings without being interrupted, and being heard respectfully by the group. Many people find it amazingly helpful." A lighted candle and a pile of handkerchieves appeared on the table. "Who would like to begin?"
A stunned silence greeted her suggestion.
"Sometimes it's hard to go first," the woman sympathized. "Perhaps I should choose somebody to start. Or would you like a silent meditation first?"
Harry pulled himself together and said, "Ma'am, I think we've already shared enough, er, feelings for today. Thanks very much for the suggestion, though."
She looked disappointed. "Does everybody agree with that?" Ivy and Neville nodded vigourously, and Professor Snape, turning back to face her, quelled her with a long look.
"Well, if you're sure," she said dubiously. The candle and hankies vanished. "But I must say I really would like to see anger expressed more responsibly in this room. There's a difference between sharing anger and inflicting it on others, you know." With that parting shot she went back to her book.
Another silence followed. Harry looked from Neville to Ivy, and suddenly all three of them starting giggling helplessly. Although Professor Snape did not join in the laughter, he did not try to stop it, either, but waited without comment, arms folded, until the mirth had run its course, which took a good five minutes. Then he informed them, with a significant look at Harry, "I believe we have covered enough for one session. You are all excused." The three students, or rather two students and one niece, got away without any homework assignments or injunctions to return the following week.
Out in the corridor, Harry told the other two, "We'll all meet at Hagrid's tomorrow afternoon. You too, Ivy, if you can make it. Ron and Hermione have been waiting to hear what's been happening."
"I'll come, but I'd like to know when those two are going to decide whether they like each other or not," Ivy said.
"So would I," Harry admitted.
* * * * * * * *
When he came to breakfast the next morning, Harry was no longer mentally holding his breath. The storm had broken and blown over, clearing the air. His stomach told him that he could really relax, at least for the time being. He found that he didn't resent Professor Snape for his loss of temper, insults and dire threats. Well, not much, anyway. At least the professor hadn't taken any points from Gryffindor, and it was amazing how much difference that made. Gory fantasies about Wormtail no longer obsessed Harry's thoughts, either. He could leave those to Ivy. He tucked into his kippers and bacon with a good appetite and a mind at ease, and noticed Hermione looking with approval at his loaded plate.
Neville had told Harry that Professor Dumbledore wanted to see him before his first class of the day. So Harry mounted the moving steps to the Headmaster's office and used the griffin-headed knocker. "Come in, Harry," said the familiar voice. Harry entered and took a seat opposite his grey-bearded host.
Dumbledore was smiling at him. "Neville brought me up to date last night," he said after their exchange of greetings, "and I'm extremely pleased. I must congratulate you on what you've already accomplished. Even if you achieve nothing else, you will have done a great deal both for Frank Longbottom and Professor Snape."
"Thank you, sir. But I plan to stick with it."
"I know you do, Harry, but I want you to stop worrying about failing. If this were a course at Hogwarts, you would already have earned a passing grade. Anything else you do is just so much extra. And by the way, Harry, I believe I'll be able to arrange advanced standing for you and Neville in Defense Against the Dark Arts for this in the future. I plan to speak to Professor Moody, but for now it's strictly extra-curricular."
"I quite understand," Harry agreed.
"I think you and everyone involved in this project should take a week off to rest and recover, Harry," Dumbledore counseled. "I'll speak to Professor Snape about postponing your next tutoring session until the following week. In the meantime, relax with your friends and celebrate a little." Fawkes the phoenix seemed to agree; sitting on Dumbledore's desk, he bobbed his head on its long scarlet neck.
"We're getting together at Hagrid's this afternoon. I almost wondered if I should ask Professor Snape to join us," said Harry, although he would have been appalled if Snape had actually accepted.
"It's a nice thought, Harry, but I'm sure you realise that Professor Snape is not yet ready to celebrate. His sense of the personal wrongs done to him runs too deep."
"Professor, is it possible that Professor Snape will ever get the credit he deserves? He might be a lot easier to live with if he did."
"I've held out that hope for many years, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "You knew, sir?"
"I had no proof, only suspicions. Not enough to take a stand against the accepted version of events. I have watched and waited for the evidence to accumulate in its own time."
"Why do I get the feeling that this all hangs on what I find out?" Harry objected.
"More things than you can imagine will be affected if the Longbottoms recover their sanity, Harry. Nothing will be the same. But there—I'm trying to lighten your burden, not make it weigh more heavily. Just do what you can and stop worrying about the outcome."
"Sir, I'd be happy to take a week off—but Frank Longbottom can't take a week off from the Curser. I can't just forget about him."
Dumbledore said, "Harry, I don't think you realize how much you helped him just by believing what he told you. Being disbelieved was probably nearly as hard for him as the original injury to his mind. The one thing he was sure of was called into question. Now he needs time to get used to the new state of affairs. There's nothing to be gained by rushing things. The same is true of Professor Snape. I'd like to give him some time."
"Fine by me. But—what about Neville's Mum? I have no idea what to do for her."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "I think, Harry," he said finally, "that what you've done may have already helped her too. And it might be someone else, after all, who finally gets through to her. Don't concern yourself too much about Aurelle Longbottom for the time being. Now you'd better get to class. Just be a student for a while."
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AN: People have asked if the lady in the painting is supposed to be "me" (I'm something of a sharing-group junkie), but she's not. I was skating on thin ice and needed a way to shift levels and poke fun at the emotional content of the scene. In that respect I feel I'm being true to the spirit of Rowling's work, although she would probably never introduce a character like that. At some point I realized, heck, I have to write this as me and stop pretending to be her. In chapter 6, "Across the Channel," you will find out why Hagrid adds marshmallows to the Jell-O for Care of Magical Creatures.