* * * Winter Wonderland * * *
It was a petty and childish response that made him venture out into the snow with neither cloak nor hat but it made him feel just the tiniest bit better. Dumbledore probably knew that, too. Snape sighed again and started climbing the spiraling tower steps. The snow was fluffy and thick, falling quickly. It had already filled in Potter's footprints, although the faint outlines were still visible.
He had to stop once before he made it to the top of the tower. The last trace of Perpessio-induced exhaustion, he assumed. Or maybe it was Potter-induced. After all, he hadn't slept especially well last night. One last twist of the stairs and he gained the open-air observation gallery just below the top of the tower. Harry Potter was standing at the end of the parapet, in the lee of the tower, watching the snow fall onto the forest far below.
Although he had to have heard Snape's footsteps creaking in the fresh snow, the younger man made no sign. Potter, Snape noted, had worn a cloak. After a long pause during which Snape watched the occasional errant snowflake spin into Potter's hair and cling, he gathered himself and said,
"If you're thinking of jumping, at least wait until the hangover passes. You'll enjoy the trip more."
Potter turned and glared at him and Snape almost smiled. The boy had received enough sycophantic sympathy in his life. Then all desire to smirk faded when Snape saw Potter's face. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He hadn't shaved and his beard was a dark smudge across his jaw and high up his cheeks. Even in the directionless light of a snowy day, his face seemed shadowed and ill. In fact, he looked disturbingly as he had the first hour of his return to Hogwarts as a dying man.
"I take it you've seen Fudge's plunge into creative writing?"
The reddened eyes narrowed and Potter nodded. "But why did he do it?"
"Come, come, Potter. Surely you understand elementary tactics after your years as an Auror?"
Potter shrugged one shoulder and turned back to watch the snow fall on the forest. "I don't recall that lying was in the handbook."
"It's the most basic of tactics."
"Why use tactics against me at all?" And Potter's voice was that of a grieved child. "I work for him. At least, I used to."
Snape crossed his arms. It was colder out here than he had thought. "Use your brains, boy! You're Famous Harry Potter! You're more than capable at your job and every time you wave your wand, it's on the front pages. You could be Minister in a heartbeat, if you wanted. Fudge's heartbeat, to be precise. And he knows it."
"Don't call me 'boy'," Potter said sullenly.
Snape ground his teeth. "Stop acting like a child, then. What are you going to do about Fudge? He may or may not be mounting a campaign against you. One that is potentially quite dangerous for the Order and all who oppose Voldemort."
Harry Potter turned and then smiled, a nasty, slick smile that Snape had never before seen on any Potter. "If Fudge wants a war, I'll give him one. Blind bastard!"
"I hardly think he's worth that kind of effort. And, much as I hate to say it, we need the figurehead of a Minister of Magic, if only to ..."
"...to get my cadets killed?"
Snape continued, ignoring the interruption. "If only to give us a source of funding when we need it. To rally the public and to protect them."
"But even if he's not a Death Eater, he consistently underestimates the risk Voldemort poses. He has for years! We'd be better off if he were dead and someone competent took over the Ministry!"
This wasn't sounding good at all. Potter was flushed, his eyes fever bright and sharp.
"Someone like you, Mr. Potter?" Snape drawled in his most dangerous tone. Slytherin ambition mixed with Gryffindor's reckless courage could precipitate the wizarding world into a three-way war such as it had never seen. And Harry Potter, win or lose, would pay the cost.
"God, no! I don't want to be Minister. But I wouldn't mind killing Fudge for you." That too-bright, too-sharp smile again. Merlin's Wand, but Potter meant it. Snape could see the hatred roiling in the younger man's eyes.
"You don't want to kill Fudge for me, Potter. You want to kill him for yourself."
Potter's eyes seemed to harden like glass. He nodded jerkily. "He has to pay. They were my friends and he sent them to die. He probably had me poisoned, anyway. Why shouldn't I kill him?"
Wrong. It was so wrong, to see that expression in the wrong face. He had seen anger, resentment, fear, longing, conceit...but never the acid green of implacable hatred. Never in Harry Potter's face.
A sharp stab of pain went up his left arm. Not his heart, but the Dark Mark, leaping like a hound to the call of power. It frightened him badly, and Severus Snape did not deal with fear well.
His hands fisted in the front of Potter's robes and he slammed him back against the wall. Potter's head thumped loudly against the stone, but Snape was too furious to care. He leaned in close, until his face was inches away from the dazed man's, and he hissed,
"I did NOT spend three days desperately searching for an antidote to an incurable poison just for you to poison yourself with hatred! DO you understand, Harry?!"
Green eyes blinked muzzily and hands came up to scrabble at Snape's where they held him pinned to the cold stone. Potter's head rolled back and forth, whether in denial or confusion, Snape didn't know. He shook him hard. "Stupid boy! Do you not see? If you go on like this, a day, a month, a year ... you will become him."
"Who?" Potter rasped.
"Voldemort, you idiot! How do you think he became what he is? Remember his diary? He was a man, once. A man with feelings, just like you." Snape's arm was throbbing, quick stabs that fed his fury. "Hatred. Rage. Hunger. And power. A lot of power. Just. Like. You."
Comprehension flooded into Potter's dazed eyes, following by a wash of horror. He went pale, then clutched at his gut and folded forward slowly. Snape caught him in his arms and let Potter's head come to rest on his chest. The younger man was shaking and panting for breath and Snape had to hold him up.
His own rage drained away as he saw Potter finally get it, finally understand the danger he was in, the danger he was. Relieved, and not a little tired, Snape allowed his own arms to rest on Potter's back. The younger man made a small choked noise and pressed more tightly against him. Without thought, Snape began running his hands over the trembling muscles. He might have been appalled if he had heard himself making those small soothing noises or noticed how one of his hands had come up to stroke Potter's dark hair. Fortunately, he did not.
But he was distracted by a smear of blood on his fingers. Snape let his hand explore Potter's scalp and found the wound, blood seeping from it. He could feel the man in his arms flinch as he probed the damage. Snape sighed, realizing that he had inflicted it when he had slammed Potter back into the wall.
Temper, temper, Severus. Harry Potter could upset the most well-regulated mind, Snape reflected as he reached into his sleeve for a handkerchief. He pressed it against Potter's scalp and watched as the snowy linen turned crimson. Potter's panting breath had created a hot, damp spot on Snape's chest though no tears soaked into the fabric. No, Harry Potter wasn't one to cry easily. But he was shaking like a puppy in a storm and Snape was having a harder time keeping them both on their feet.
"Let's go inside where it's warm. Madam Pomfrey can take a look at your head."
"And you can tell me what an idiot I'm being?" Harry's voice was muffled against his robes.
"Among other things, Mr. Potter."
And Snape led him away, not especially conscious of his arm around Potter's shoulders, guiding him and clasping him close. Nor did he particularly notice that Harry Potter's face was still tucked against his shoulder, like a child needing comfort. If he noted anything at all as they tramped down the tower stairs, it was merely that he was cold, had snow on his hair, blood on his fingers, his left arm ached and Harry was a warm, solid presence against his right side.
It was a petty and childish response that made him venture out into the snow with neither cloak nor hat but it made him feel just the tiniest bit better. Dumbledore probably knew that, too. Snape sighed again and started climbing the spiraling tower steps. The snow was fluffy and thick, falling quickly. It had already filled in Potter's footprints, although the faint outlines were still visible.
He had to stop once before he made it to the top of the tower. The last trace of Perpessio-induced exhaustion, he assumed. Or maybe it was Potter-induced. After all, he hadn't slept especially well last night. One last twist of the stairs and he gained the open-air observation gallery just below the top of the tower. Harry Potter was standing at the end of the parapet, in the lee of the tower, watching the snow fall onto the forest far below.
Although he had to have heard Snape's footsteps creaking in the fresh snow, the younger man made no sign. Potter, Snape noted, had worn a cloak. After a long pause during which Snape watched the occasional errant snowflake spin into Potter's hair and cling, he gathered himself and said,
"If you're thinking of jumping, at least wait until the hangover passes. You'll enjoy the trip more."
Potter turned and glared at him and Snape almost smiled. The boy had received enough sycophantic sympathy in his life. Then all desire to smirk faded when Snape saw Potter's face. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He hadn't shaved and his beard was a dark smudge across his jaw and high up his cheeks. Even in the directionless light of a snowy day, his face seemed shadowed and ill. In fact, he looked disturbingly as he had the first hour of his return to Hogwarts as a dying man.
"I take it you've seen Fudge's plunge into creative writing?"
The reddened eyes narrowed and Potter nodded. "But why did he do it?"
"Come, come, Potter. Surely you understand elementary tactics after your years as an Auror?"
Potter shrugged one shoulder and turned back to watch the snow fall on the forest. "I don't recall that lying was in the handbook."
"It's the most basic of tactics."
"Why use tactics against me at all?" And Potter's voice was that of a grieved child. "I work for him. At least, I used to."
Snape crossed his arms. It was colder out here than he had thought. "Use your brains, boy! You're Famous Harry Potter! You're more than capable at your job and every time you wave your wand, it's on the front pages. You could be Minister in a heartbeat, if you wanted. Fudge's heartbeat, to be precise. And he knows it."
"Don't call me 'boy'," Potter said sullenly.
Snape ground his teeth. "Stop acting like a child, then. What are you going to do about Fudge? He may or may not be mounting a campaign against you. One that is potentially quite dangerous for the Order and all who oppose Voldemort."
Harry Potter turned and then smiled, a nasty, slick smile that Snape had never before seen on any Potter. "If Fudge wants a war, I'll give him one. Blind bastard!"
"I hardly think he's worth that kind of effort. And, much as I hate to say it, we need the figurehead of a Minister of Magic, if only to ..."
"...to get my cadets killed?"
Snape continued, ignoring the interruption. "If only to give us a source of funding when we need it. To rally the public and to protect them."
"But even if he's not a Death Eater, he consistently underestimates the risk Voldemort poses. He has for years! We'd be better off if he were dead and someone competent took over the Ministry!"
This wasn't sounding good at all. Potter was flushed, his eyes fever bright and sharp.
"Someone like you, Mr. Potter?" Snape drawled in his most dangerous tone. Slytherin ambition mixed with Gryffindor's reckless courage could precipitate the wizarding world into a three-way war such as it had never seen. And Harry Potter, win or lose, would pay the cost.
"God, no! I don't want to be Minister. But I wouldn't mind killing Fudge for you." That too-bright, too-sharp smile again. Merlin's Wand, but Potter meant it. Snape could see the hatred roiling in the younger man's eyes.
"You don't want to kill Fudge for me, Potter. You want to kill him for yourself."
Potter's eyes seemed to harden like glass. He nodded jerkily. "He has to pay. They were my friends and he sent them to die. He probably had me poisoned, anyway. Why shouldn't I kill him?"
Wrong. It was so wrong, to see that expression in the wrong face. He had seen anger, resentment, fear, longing, conceit...but never the acid green of implacable hatred. Never in Harry Potter's face.
A sharp stab of pain went up his left arm. Not his heart, but the Dark Mark, leaping like a hound to the call of power. It frightened him badly, and Severus Snape did not deal with fear well.
His hands fisted in the front of Potter's robes and he slammed him back against the wall. Potter's head thumped loudly against the stone, but Snape was too furious to care. He leaned in close, until his face was inches away from the dazed man's, and he hissed,
"I did NOT spend three days desperately searching for an antidote to an incurable poison just for you to poison yourself with hatred! DO you understand, Harry?!"
Green eyes blinked muzzily and hands came up to scrabble at Snape's where they held him pinned to the cold stone. Potter's head rolled back and forth, whether in denial or confusion, Snape didn't know. He shook him hard. "Stupid boy! Do you not see? If you go on like this, a day, a month, a year ... you will become him."
"Who?" Potter rasped.
"Voldemort, you idiot! How do you think he became what he is? Remember his diary? He was a man, once. A man with feelings, just like you." Snape's arm was throbbing, quick stabs that fed his fury. "Hatred. Rage. Hunger. And power. A lot of power. Just. Like. You."
Comprehension flooded into Potter's dazed eyes, following by a wash of horror. He went pale, then clutched at his gut and folded forward slowly. Snape caught him in his arms and let Potter's head come to rest on his chest. The younger man was shaking and panting for breath and Snape had to hold him up.
His own rage drained away as he saw Potter finally get it, finally understand the danger he was in, the danger he was. Relieved, and not a little tired, Snape allowed his own arms to rest on Potter's back. The younger man made a small choked noise and pressed more tightly against him. Without thought, Snape began running his hands over the trembling muscles. He might have been appalled if he had heard himself making those small soothing noises or noticed how one of his hands had come up to stroke Potter's dark hair. Fortunately, he did not.
But he was distracted by a smear of blood on his fingers. Snape let his hand explore Potter's scalp and found the wound, blood seeping from it. He could feel the man in his arms flinch as he probed the damage. Snape sighed, realizing that he had inflicted it when he had slammed Potter back into the wall.
Temper, temper, Severus. Harry Potter could upset the most well-regulated mind, Snape reflected as he reached into his sleeve for a handkerchief. He pressed it against Potter's scalp and watched as the snowy linen turned crimson. Potter's panting breath had created a hot, damp spot on Snape's chest though no tears soaked into the fabric. No, Harry Potter wasn't one to cry easily. But he was shaking like a puppy in a storm and Snape was having a harder time keeping them both on their feet.
"Let's go inside where it's warm. Madam Pomfrey can take a look at your head."
"And you can tell me what an idiot I'm being?" Harry's voice was muffled against his robes.
"Among other things, Mr. Potter."
And Snape led him away, not especially conscious of his arm around Potter's shoulders, guiding him and clasping him close. Nor did he particularly notice that Harry Potter's face was still tucked against his shoulder, like a child needing comfort. If he noted anything at all as they tramped down the tower stairs, it was merely that he was cold, had snow on his hair, blood on his fingers, his left arm ached and Harry was a warm, solid presence against his right side.