Echo, a harry potter fanfic

Echo

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my intentions, a few Ani DiFranco CDs and a whole heap of poetry books. All characters are property of J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, and probably TimeWarner –I have just kidnapped them for my own fiendish amusement. Rest assured they will all be returned, piece by piece, in the mail.

Dedication: This one's for my gorgeous beta & creative consultant Byronetics, and for J.K. for making OotP so full of brilliant subtextual slashy goodness.

Spoilers: PS/SS, CoS, PoA, GoF & OotP.

Summary: Sev/Harry. Pre-slash. In sixth year, Harry apologises to Sev for events in OotP.

Rating: PG-13. Please send all comments to ness_de_blah@hotmail.com. You will then be showered with gratitude.

First class of the year and already someone's managed to hurt themselves. Ordinarily I wouldn't be surprised - fear impels people to do strange things, and I pride myself on striking fear into the worthless miscreants who worm their way undeservingly into my NEWT class- but I'd expected more of the champion of the wizarding world. 'Pray tell, Potter,' I address the fidgeting student behind my desk, coating my dry tongue with fluid sarcasm. 'What was it that spurred you to new heights of incompetence today?' As pathetic as the boy usually is, he's never injured himself before.

'I-I was thinking sir…' he begins as my fingers find the burn salve. My lip curls at his verbal stumble, and I don't bother to hide it as I move to face him. Unfortunately, I am robbed of the opurtunity to exhibit my scorn. He's staring, not at me, but at the pensieve on the high shelf above my cabinet. My hand stiffens over the lid of the jar, remembering how it stiffened over soft black hair and yanked a head from my private thought basin. My eyes harden. 'Really?' I hiss accusingly, anger wiping the obvious response about keeping his thoughts on his work clear from my mind. 'No-one else's thoughts you could delve into to occupy your time?' His neck bends under the weight of his shame. Good. I give a harsh laugh, hoping the scorn grates against his precious remorse as much as it grates against my throat. 'Sorry, I forgot.' I sneer with disdain. 'You're as hopeless a Legilimens as you are a potions maker. Hold out your arms.' His neck is upright now, but his cheeks are flushed slightly, and he appears to have misplaced his spine. His eyes flicker to the door before his hands move to buckle his book bag. I have no time for his cowardice. I tell him so. 'Damn it, Potter, I've a class to prepare, I've no time for your selfish nonsense! I said hold out your arms!' His eyes meet mine reluctantly and he presents me with his arms, sleeves still rolled up from when he tended to his cauldron. A long, irregular burn covers most of his left forearm. The side of his right is covered only with small blotches and they fade away quickly as I dab at them with the salve. His eyelids veil his eyes for a long moment. Of course. Beloved golden boy Potter must steel himself against the touch of the gruesome Potions Master. I take another palm full of salve and grind it into the shiny red patch blemishing his skin on his other arm, salt to the open wound of his fractured pride. It's perhaps thirty seconds before the angry disfigurement has retreated, leaving soft skin in its place. I look back at his face. His eyes are open now, and regarding my hand covertly. The tilted angle of his head serves to shadow the circles above his cheeks. The mauve is an interesting contrast to his milky complexion, and the emerald green of his eyes. Brat. I open my mouth, intending to boot Potter from my office. He beats me to it. He exhales a breath and then begins to speak:

'Thanks, Professor.' –those brilliant green eyes jerk up to mine, filled with a sickening earnesty- 'Um… What I was thinking about, when I spilled the Wolfsbane Potion, I mean, was…' My eyes flash warningly. I don't bloody care about your thoughts, boy -get out of my office! 'I-I-I'm sorry. About my dad. Er… That is… When he was at school, sir. I'm sorry about his friends, as well. I'm sorry he gave you a hard time and I'm sorry Sirius-' tried to kill me? '-helped him, and encouraged him and I'm sorry Professor Lupin didn't do anything to stop them. And I'm sorry you hated them - still hate them maybe? But…well…' he bites his lip. I can't take this much longer. The Boy Who Lived To Be Victimised is pitying me for my petty hatred … 'Spit it out, Potter!' I bellow, frothing at the mouth, like a certain former rabid Gryffindor. His gaze touches my own once more; instead of intimidating him, my words seem to have sparked his determination. How touching.

'I'm sorry I didn't think you were justified.' What?! You're agreeing with me, Potter? I'm saved the trouble of responding when he continues, voice quavering under the weight of a quiet intensity. That intensity sends shivers down my spine. 'But I'm not my father, Snape. Sirius never understood that. I-I need you to help...' He throws me a frustrated look and shakes his head. He sighs. 'I want you to understand.'

He wants…! My hands ball into fists. I am going to get Potter out of my office and then I will break every jar in this room. I revise that thought. I am going to curse Potter into small pieces and then I will break every jar in this room. My eyes fall on a stack of parchment on my desk and I realise I have the Ravenclaw / Hufflepuff first years next. Fine. First I will compose a very, very nasty test and then I will break every jar in this room. And then I will go to Dumbledore and tell him I accidentally eviscerated goodness's token figurehead… A movement beneath one of my hands distracts me. I look down. Potter's formerly burned arm is caught in the indignant fist of my grasp. I am holding boy wonder's arm. I am holding boy wonder's pale, lean and muscled arm. I am holding, and proceeding to get aroused by the arm of Harry Potter. The thought sinks in. I start, fuelled by self-disgust, feeling every part of my body wither. My revulsion brings me back to earth. I resolve to deal with the problem of my twisted libido later. I have more urgent matters to attend to: Potter's watching me, eyes wide; lips parted slightly. Small breaths, in unformed words of shock escape valiantly from his mouth. I do not blink, but glare at him with fathomless eyes, willing him to shut his stupid face. His mouth glamps shut and he gnaws on his lip. I fight off a vision of his mouth, stretched and flushed around my… no. I will make sure the insipid boy never again dares to open his lips before me. He cowers briefly, then makes to leave, book bag swinging with his sudden movement. He freezes and turns back to me. His forehead is contorted in a stubborn frown. His eyes are blazing with a subdued determination, but there's an offer of something else there, too. Is that… friendship? Quietly, he repeats. 'I'm not my father.'

Rage bubbles inside me. He's stunned me with his audacity in as many times as minutes. I quench his infernal passion and persistence with an equal coolness and repugnance. 'And I, Potter, am not your confidant. Now get out.'

My footsteps bounce of the dungeon floor and echo around the stone corridor. A wave or nausea, like a snake, unfurls itself in my stomach and twitches around, threatening to rush up my oesophagus and crawl out my mouth. It'd started so simply. Though apprehensive about my first Potions NEWT class, (and wondering how the hell I'd ever made the standard) I'd entered the dungeon with a plan. Don't be provoked, stay calm, concentrate… My plan had been tested almost as soon as he had entered the classroom.

'Quiet!' Snape had hissed as he strode into the room, although every student had frozen, silent, upon hearing the doorknob turn. He'd strode straight to the front, and turned to address us, pausing to let his lip curl, to show us his eyes ripe with amusement. He then proceeded to call the roll in a voice richly laden with irony.

He regarded each of us coolly after our names were called, giving most of us a look that told us we shouldn't be here, and if we tried anything whatsoever we'd cease to be here very soon. When he came to the last name he flicked his wand and the roll had retreated, presumably, to his office. Hermione and I had exchanged confused glances. It felt profusely odd, somehow, that there were only two Slytherins in the entire class.

'Well, well, well…' He'd said mockingly, surveying the room with a smirk. 'Congratulations. You have all been accepted into my NEWT class.' He'd paused to glance at his students, Malfoy and Zabini. 'Some of you are here because you show true talent as Potion makers.' I'd looked at Hermione. Dean'd rolled his eyes. Maybe things weren't so strange after all. 'Some of you…' he'd continued, regarding Dean, Hermione and the Ravenclaws 'Are here because of a modicum of aptitude…' his eyes'd settled on the Hufflepuffs. 'And a whole lot of hard work. The rest of you…' he finished with a contemptuous glance in my direction, 'probably have no idea why you are here.' His smirk had become much, much more pronounced. I'd clutched the desk with knuckles so white I was half expecting to be struck blind. I took a deep breath, and told myself to calm down. 'I assure you,' Snape had continued. 'I don't know, either.' His grin had been mutinous. Malfoy hadn't bothered to stifle a snigger. I'd fought a flush rising to my face. Being struck deaf would've been more useful. The Professor straightened. 'No matter why you are here' he'd continued, suddenly business-like, 'your skills will be tested. I expect work of the highest standard in this class, and foolishness will not be tolerated. Your first task,' he'd flicked his wand at the blackboard, and instructions had appeared. 'Is a Wolfsbane Potion. As it needs to sit before you add the Valencia blossoms, it will be completed over two lessons. For your homework,' he'd paused, as if to challenge someone to complain. No one complied. 'I would like a five foot composition on the preparation and effects of The Wolfsbane, explaining the side effects should ingredients be tampered with, prepared incorrectly, or added at the wrong stage.' I shuddered at all the possibilities of everything that could go wrong. No wonder Lupin'd said it was difficult. 'Though this potion is quite difficult, it is needless to say I will not accept mistakes-' his eyes'd lingered on me, again. '- even from the exceedingly amateurish. Your information will be obtained from a minimum of four resources other than your Potions text. To encourage you to perform your best work…' Hermione looked affronted. He gave her an unpleasant smile. 'I will be testing your potions on the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.' Professor Lupin! Several people had gasped. Hermione had given me a stricken look. I'd chewed my lip. For the first time, I filled with relief, glad that Neville Longbottom wasn't in this class. Snape gave the class a warning look, mixed with the high amusement that'd been present all along. 'I'd advise you all to wear your gloves, as the potion needs to be brewed at a very high temperature, and certain ingredients are highly corrosive.' He'd paused to let this sink in. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Hermione's hand had shot up in the air. He'd rolled his eyes. 'Anyone wishing to complete the extended task may see me in their own time.' He waved his wand at the cabinet. 'All necessary ingredients are to be found in the cupboards. You may place your cauldrons on the shelves at the end of the lesson.' He glanced at Ernie Macmillan, consoling a white faced Hannah Abbott. 'All work is to be completely individual. For safety reasons, there is only to be one student per bench. You have an hour and a half. Your homework is due in on Wednesday. Begin.'

Giving the blackboard a thorough first reading, a lump had already formed in my throat, and my bottom lip had planted itself firmly between my teeth. Snape'd not been exaggerating when he'd said this would be difficult. Twelve ingredients, each needing to be prepared in a different way. I'd looked up the ones that were asterisked in my Potions text, and groaned. The floxroot had needed to sectioned five different ways before you could get to the seed, the unicorn hair had to be broiled in magical goat broth for exactly seven minutes while the dandelion hearts needed to be stewed in …boiling bubotuber pus before they were effective!

I'd some how accomplished it, though. Nearly at the end of the class, I was fairly sure I had a potion that subdue Proffessor Lupin without any horrifying consequences. Mind you, I say I had the potion for a reason. Adding the shredded aconite, my mind had started to wander. The simmering solution was clear and reflective, and I'd peered at the ghost of my face in the liquid. I hadn't been able to bring myself to look in a mirror since I found Sirius's before the summer, and I had been startled by the huge circles under my eyes. No wonder Hermione'd been so concerned, and Ron kept on saying I looked tired –no small surprise, being woken by nightmares each night…

Sometimes I'd dreamed of Voldemort raging. I'd seen Wormtail cowering on the floor of a darkened cellar somewhere, the cordial voice inquiring with a chilling calm 'What do you mean, nothing? You have no idea where my Death Eaters are? Not to worry, Lord Voldemort will make you remember…' Then the sudden screech of 'Crucio!' that'd have Peter rocking, somersaulting in pain, leaving me to wake with my head on fire… There was the night when Rookwood returned, prostrating himself before The Dark Lord, delivering the news that Bellatrix Lestrange had been kissed by Dementors and was lost to them, Voldemort breaking everything in the room, setting it on fire, and torturing Rookwood with curses far worse than he thought possible as his body was slowly devoured by the flames… feeling my scar burning through sleep, fighting to open my eyes only to find myself laughing madly, a surge of satisfying vengeance coursing through my veins… I'd had the feeling of being hurled back into my body when I woke with a jolt, scar aching. I didn't sleep for a week after that, nor did I have any more dreams of Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

The ones that followed were almost worse. Sirius, clumpling and falling behind the veiled room in The Department of Mysteries… Sirius, pressing his paws aganst the window of The Hogwarts Express… Sirius, climbing onto Buckbeak… "You truly are your father's son, Harry."… Sirius, in the clearing at Hogsmede, gnawing on a chicken bone… Sirius, beaming proudly as I recounted my victory in the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Then there was the one I'd been having lately… Sirius, in Snape's Pensieve looking on as a bloody gash appeared on James's face, a flash of light as Snape's hung upsidedown, me shaking my head and finding I'm hanging in mid air, looking down at Sirius, who's pointing a wand at me. Being thrown to the ground in a flash of red light and finding myself suddenly on my feet again, duelling with Sirius… a yell, "Come on, is that the best you can do?" before I hit him with a jet of red light, and he crumples and falls, shock and amusement writ large on his face… looking up at Bellatrix with horror, and looking down to find my own hands covered with blood…

I'd started practising Occlumency not long after that, hoping to block out the dreams. I was getting better, but I wouldn't improve markedly without more help. I'd needed to ask Professor Snape. The bell rang. I'd taken off my gloves and prepared to put my cauldron to the side, thinking about what I'd say. 'Professor, over the summer I was dreaming…' I'd almost hit myself over the head for the thought. A teenager talking to Snape about dreams? 'Uh Professor, I was wondering…' 'Wondering what?' He'd reply acidly. 'How to break into my Pensieve again?' He'd certainly not seemed anymore forgiving than he had been last year, but he was in a good mood, for Snape. Maybe I'd start with an apology 'I'm sorry, Professor, but…' Before I'd finished the thought I'd tripped over an uneven piece in the floor. Instinctively I'd shot up my arms to protect my face, forgetting my sleeves were above my elbows and my skin was unprotected. Hot fluid had seared at my left arm and splattered against my right, and the pain served as an adequate reminder. I'd clench my teeth and hissed, taking a step back. After a second, the pain'd subsided to a bearable amount and I'd noticed I'd not bumped into anyone. I opened my eyes and gradually brought my hands down to my sides. I'd looked around. The class had stood in a shocked semi-circle behind me. Hermione's face was white, and covered in finger marks from where she was clutching it with her hands. Malfoy was sneering. I'd averted my eyes back to the floor, where my cauldron lay on its side, and I'd followed the trail of steaming lavender potion seeping across the floor with my eyes, stopping short at a pair of large black feet and sweeping black robes. Snape. I'd turned my gaze upwards to fists balled with rage, a stiff torso, slender shoulders… A long, pale nose has crept into view, nostrils dilated to show the rims of velvety depths… I'd hesitantly looked Snape in the eye, which was hard and glinting with cold fury. 'Potter', he'd said, and I'd flinched from the deathly quiet tone of his voice. '50 points from Gryffindor for your pathetic lack of coordination. Clean this up, then come see me in my office for a burn salve, I've yet to send them to Madam Pomfrey. You can remake the Wolfsbane in your detention tomorrow evening.' My shoulders stiffen. Quidditch practice! Maybe Ron'd been smart when he said if being an Auror meant you'd have to take Potions, he'd rather be Umbridge's personal toilet cleaner. The class had still been watching, slack-jawed. 'Well,' he barked at them impatiently. 'The bell has gone. Leave!' He'd watched them scamper out of the classroom, then, satisfied I'd begun cleaning, he'd strode across the classroom to make his exit. He'd slammed the door behind him.

I nearly walk into the stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office before I notice it. I blink, and take a step back before trying to remember the password. What was it the last time I was in Dumbledore's office? I think back to the night in the Department of Mysteries (a pang of hurt goes through me) and realise I was flooed in from there. Shit. I chew my lip. The time before was…when Umbridge caught me with the DA! And the password was 'Fizzing Whisbee'… and it had been all last year, too… but wait, the year before it'd been 'Cockroach Cluster'. It would've changed since then. I run through a long list of wizarding sweets, imploring the gargoyle to open up. I vaguely wonder how those who don't know the password ever get to see Dumbledore. Finally, when I can't think of anything else, I sink down at the gargoyle's feet. I let my eyes flutter closed –God, I'm tired- but as soon as I begin to drift into sleep a fresh wave of humiliation hits me. "And I, Potter, am not your confidant. Now get out." My eyes open and I groan. I see Dumbledore smiling down at me beatifically and I groan again. He chuckles, and gives me a hand to help me up. I take it and blush. 'Sorry, sir…' I say, burying my face in my hand.

'Not a problem at all, Harry.' He replies 'Though I believe Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are looking for you. Lunch is half over.' I shake my head, trying to clear the sand that's suddenly replaced my brain. I look back at Dumbledore, whose eyes have stopped twinkling and are searching me. I wonder if he needs a wand to be privy to my thoughts. I'm reminded of why I'm here. 'Would you like to come upstairs, Harry?' he inquires gently. I nod.

'Yes, I wanted to ask you, sir...'

He lays a hand on my arm. 'They'll be plenty of time for requests in my office. And perhaps some tea… Yes, tea would be nice…' He smiles before turning to the gargoyle. 'Canary cream.' The gargoyle comes to life and moves aside. Then I smile, remembering Fred and George. Dumbledore doubtless heard of their departure last year. Maybe he though his own tribute was in order…He motions up the staircase. 'After you, my dear boy.'

I climb the stone stairs and my footsteps echo. The sound is not so ominous this time.

'Here you are, Severus…' The old man has invited me to tea. His eyes twinkle over a violet teapot, enchanted to show birds as they sing on branches of blossom trees and bees jumping contentedly from flower to flower. The complancent humming echoes his own sentiment. He hands me a steaming cup of Irish Breakfast and the corner of his mouth twitches. My lips stiffen. Surely even if Voldemort falls and my spying duties are made public, or if I'm ever awarded that Order of Merlin for the repeated salvaging of Potter's damnable life, I'll never be allowed to forget one drink too many at a ridiculous faculty Christmas party. Irish breakfast, indeed.

I place the cup and saucer on the desk and glower at it, wondering what Albus has in store for me. He's summoned me to this office to discuss my attempted murder, my appointment as double agent and Hogwarts Potions master, for the introduction of a Servant of the Dark Lord and a self-adoring git, to make nice with a paranoid Auror, a pacifistic coward with a bad case of pre-lunal tension, and a formerly unhinged and currently enterred Animagus. I've been stripped of my livelihood, my credibility and my self-respect –all I have left to offer up is my life. It seems this is just what Albus has in mind.

'This afternoon I had a chat with Mr. Potter…' he says with amicable calm after I decline a biscuit for the first time. He bites into a chocolate-chipped shortbread '….these are actually quite good. Are you sure I can't tempt you, Severus?' I curl my lip impatiently –if it were anyone but Albus Dumbledore I would snap, but I know it would be ineffectual. He sighs, and looks downcast, seeming to sense I'm in no mood for his pleasantries. 'Very well, then. I found Harry during the lunch hour. He appeared to have dozed off against the stone Gargoyle before my office. Naturally I was worried, so I invited him up to my office. He revealed something rather unsettling.' He places his cup on his saucer with a clink. "He revealed something rather unsettling…" I remember Potter's shocked look in my office… That clink announces my death sentence. 'Potter has been having trouble sleeping lately, as a result of some very disturbing dreams.' I blink involuntarily. 'He was wondering if he could resume formal Occlumency training.' My teeth clench. 'I, of course, have not the time. I told him I would speak to you.' My hand tightens against the chair. I have a vision of Potter cowering on the floor of the dungeon "Get out, get out, I never want to see you in this dungeon again!" . Dumbledore places his kindly hand on my own rigid one. 'He also told me' he placates slowly, 'why his training ceased in the first place.' His expression becomes stern momentarily, and then relaxes into one of tender beseechment. 'I know what he did is unacceptable, Severus, but I implore you to put aside your old grudges and reach out to a boy in need.' He misinterprets my snort of incredulity as one of consent. His eyes warm, though his mouth hardens slightly. 'I would ask you to think carefully before accepting this task, Severus. Before you let yourself into the boy's mind I would like you first to be clear of what you feel in your own heart.'