I brushed the walls with the tips of my fingers. Stones always soothed me. They were ancient. They were imperturbable. They were cold to my touch, and I tried to absorb their wintry stillness into my body.
I walked for a long while. The corridors echoed, deserted but for me. I sobered up with the exercise and the chill.
I began to feel rather stupid. And perhaps, just slightly ashamed. And, definitely, acutely embarrassed. What ever had possessed me…?
It was Potter, of course. The boy had an uncanny ability to push me to extremes. Control was my art-form, and had long pruned my life into strict forms. It was the only reason I had survived as a spy in the Dark Lord's camp for so long. There was no place for emotion. No place for impulse. Potter provoked me, always. In the past, this had even been an advantage. The Dark Lord was already becoming suspicious at the blankness of my thoughts when he read me. He did not like so little access to my inner workings. It had been possible to float my genuine hatred of Potter and all he stood for to the surface of my mind; this masked the complexity lurking beneath. It had encouraged the Dark Lord to trust me.
Trust.
I paced the corridors.
I recalled the boy's expression when I reached out to grab his arm. Defiance. Fear. I had a dreadful suspicion he had looked at his uncle in just that way: right before the Muggle smashed his fist into his face.
It wasn't as if I had actually hurt him, I told myself. He deserved some straight talking. He certainly didn't get it from Dumbledore, who pandered to his every whim. Or from his fan club in the Order of the Phoenix, which was…well, pretty much everybody except me really. Even Minerva McGonagall went all soppy over the boy given half an opportunity.
And, after all, the boy had been abominably rude. He was probably gloating his head off right at that moment, having succeeded in provoking his greasy old Potions Professor into reckless disclosures…Yes, I thought, doubtless he was enjoying a good laugh, possibly even writing a humorous note to his annoying little friends….Guess what I found out tonight….
I concentrated on the stones.
Finally, I decided I was calm enough to return. The boy should have long gone to bed. I could take refuge in my laboratory, and lose myself in some intricate experiment. My fury and misery seemed to have scalded the Firewhisky from my veins.
I was still some way from my chambers when I heard the explosion.
Harry wondered why he felt so appallingly awful. He hated Snape. He always had. And the feeling was quite clearly entirely mutual. So why did he feel so…bereft?
He moved restlessly around Snape's living room, his hand still curled around the Fireheart stone. Just what had got Snape so upset that day, anyway? What had been in that letter?
The door to Snape's study was unlocked. Snape had taken the letter into the study. Harry had seen him.
Well, Harry reasoned with himself. Things could hardly get worse. Snape could scarcely detest him any more than he already did. And maybe it was something important. Maybe it was something Dumbledore ought to know….In which case, the part of Harry's head which sounded a bit like Hermione pointed out, it is up to Snape to tell him.
Harry hesitated. His steps had taken him right to the study door. He hovered for a few undecided moments, then marched inside.
It was unlit, so Harry pulled out his wand. "Lumos," he murmured.
He wasn't going to pry, he told himself. He wasn't going to look in any of Snape's personal files. But perhaps…if that letter just happened to be lying around in plain view… he might take a peek.
There was a balled-up parchment on Snape's desk, as if someone had taken a letter and crumpled it in their fist.
Adrenalin flowing, Harry reached for the screwed-up paper. He recalled Snape's fury when Hermione had stolen some Boomslang from his personal stores in their second year; when Dobby had taken some Gillyweed in their fourth year. This was much, much worse than taking Potions ingredients. Harry's conscience prickled again. This was invasion of privacy… just as when he had sneaked a look into Snape's Pensieve…
He smoothed out the letter on the desk, and read it as swiftly as he could. The first thing he did was look at the signature. The letter was from Dumbledore.
My dear Severus,
I trust this finds you well. Please confirm receipt; if intercepted by any but you this will dissolve.
I have bad news, I fear. I wish I could return to tell you this in person, or even by Floo, but that is simply not possible from my current location.
The Aurors have captured and questioned an individual on the fringes of Death Eater circles. He gave us information. Voldemort has apparently decided your continuing existence is an affront he is no longer prepared to bear. I regret to tell you that he has placed a substantial price on your head and mobilized every dark or criminal creature he can lay hands on to this cause. I do not suppose it is necessary for me to enter into detail about what he wishes to do with you.
Severus, you do understand the implications of this, I hope? It is no longer just your former lord's followers whom you have to watch out for. Every member of the wizarding and Muggle underworlds will be after you as well. Nowhere is safe for you.
We also have evidence that he has found new ways to manipulate his Death Eaters through the Dark Mark. We do not know exactly how, but you are assuredly at greater risk than ever before. He will be able to find you in any location beyond Hogwarts itself. Those wards are too ancient for him to overcome. But that does not mean you are secure there, Severus. He will know you are at the school anyway, and as you will recall there have been intruders even at Hogwarts in the past.
I have raised the emergency wards. No-one can get in or out of the school except with my express permission. I'm afraid this includes you, Severus. And you do not have my permission to leave. I refuse to lose you after all this time.
I know this will annoy you. But I assure you it is all for the best.
I trust your guest is prospering and hear he has not been in full health. Please send him to Headquarters by the secure private Floo as soon as possible. In light of all this I fear he may be safer elsewhere.
Sincerely,
Albus.
Harry carefully returned the letter to where he had found it. His heart thudded. No wonder Snape had been agitated. Voldemort turning the full power of his attention to the task of finding Snape… able to get at him somehow through the Dark Mark…even, perhaps, at Hogwarts. Harry did experience a brief surge of vindictive pleasure. Snape had sneered at Sirius when he had been imprisoned in 12 Grimmauld Place; he had taunted him about how useless he was. And now here was Snape in pretty much the same position. Except even more vulnerable because of the mark on his arm…and the Dark Lord had plans for him….Harry shuddered.
Harry's emotions were still too raw and tumultuous for him to take refuge in slumber. He curled up on the couch, turning his Fireheart over and over in his hands. He replayed Snape's words to him, and his to Snape.
Eventually, his tired body dragged him down into sleep. His mind continued to seethe.
The nightmares were waiting. They clutched at him with greedy hands. Corpses paraded in front of him, accusing him with dead faces. Cedric. Sirius. His parents. Nameless victims. Your fault. Some hero. You didn't save us, did you? Voldemort was there, laughing as he tortured Harry's friends before his eyes. Then it was Snape, with Voldemort raising a bloodied knife.. Harry was paralysed, he was helpless, he couldn't do anything to stop what was going on.
Rage and grief ripped him apart. Violent emotion surged through his body.
Harry was still trapped inside his nightmare, so he did not realize. But the morass of feelings swirling through his unconscious mind found a focus; an outlet.
They exploded out through the Fireheart stone in a sheet of shimmering, transparent flames.
Harry's body burned in the magical blaze. Still he slept, imprisoned in the dark paths of his dreams. In his nightmare, he was burning, burning….he struggled to scream but could not.
The explosion lent wings to my feet.
Idiot boy. What was he doing now?
I raced back to my rooms, robes billowing, and thrust the door violently open.
My heart stopped.
He was sheathed in pale, ghostly flames. His face was contorted in uncountable agonies and his mouth stretched open as if with screams he was unable to release. His hand still clutched the Fireheart stone at his chest.
Idiot boy.
As a Potions Master, most of my robes were charmed against all sorts of magical flames and burns. Even the most expert potions-maker could make a mistake, after all. And Dumbledore would insist I reduce the safety of my classes by allowing dangerous incompetents like that Longbottom child into lessons…
I grabbed up some robes and hurtled across the room, enfolding Potter within the swathes of garment and muttering containment spells. I wrenched the Fireheart stone off his neck and cast it aside, grunting as the damn thing did its best to burn a hole through my hand.
The sheaf of flame around Potter subsided. I took in a shaky breath and assessed the damage. I sat on the couch, still holding him against my chest. His head fell upon my shoulder.
The were-fire must have scalded him all over. It left no marks, but his skin would be raw to the nerves. Didn't the boy know better than to sleep with a Fireheart stone around his neck, especially after drinking alcohol and in an emotional state? All the energies swirling in his brain had found a focus through the stone, and exploded out of it into that pale, shimmering inferno. If that was the visible expression of what had been going through his mind, I dreaded to think what his unconscious mind was experiencing…
I placed him in a healing trance, and transfigured his clothes and the enfolding robes into a voluminous burn poultice. It would take some hours, but this should both soothe his skin and repair the damage. I brushed my fingers against his cheek; he did not flinch, so perhaps his head had been spared the blaze. Good. Wrapping that in poultice might smother him, and tempting as that thought was….
Idiot boy.
I looked down at him. His face seemed to have relaxed since I had taken him in my arms. In sleep, his hands within the all-enfolding burn poultice had curled into the material at my chest. He was hanging onto the front of my robes as if for dear life.
I tried to rise, to carry him back to his bed. But he murmured as if in protest and his fingers clutched more tightly at my robes.
I sank back down. He looked as if was sleeping more restfully now. His mouth, no longer twisted open around screams he could not utter, was gently parted. He seemed fragile in my arms. And he was still far too thin: a waif.
I sighed, and held him to my chest. I held him in this way throughout the weary night. I did not wish to disturb him.
Cramps spasmed in the back of my neck, my arms.
Still I held him. I began to feel cold, and the burn on my own hand needed treatment. I remained, unmoving.
The fingers of a grey dawn finally poked their way through the small, high windows of my dungeon chambers. They brushed Potter's face with silver, as I sat and held him, and the long night began to give way to the morning.
I realized, with mild surprise, that I was no longer angry with him.
Today, I would need to send him away.