Oh dear, it's a miserable August for our heroes...lots of gloom, but at least no doom....for now. evil grin.

August in London was hot, dusty and dull.

Harry was dejected. Ron and Hermione gave up trying to cheer him up in the end. They did not know what was wrong with him, and he couldn't or wouldn't tell them.

Eventually, he had changed sleeping quarters and moved into one of the small attic rooms, by himself. He told Ron it was because it was unfair to keep him awake so often. He was going through a bad patch as far as the nightmares went. Everybody tried to help him with this, but no-one could soothe him once he was caught in the grip of his nocturnal terrors. At long last, he would jerk awake of his own accord, sweating and yelling, and then lie awake for the rest of the night. He did not dare to fall back to sleep. The dead were waiting for him.

And his scar was hurting again.

At least he was not having visions. Dumbledore had, early last year, made an effort to teach him Occlumency, but with no more success than Snape had enjoyed. Harry just could not get the hang of it. Fortunately, over the previous months, Voldemort seemed to have abandoned the pursuit of Harry through his dreams. Dumbledore said it was because the link was less valuable to Voldemort now Harry understood it, and because there was always the risk Harry would learn how to manipulate the connection in reverse. So Voldemort had closed it off as far as he could.

But now the link seemed to be strengthening again. Harry rubbed angrily at the scar on his forehead. He dreaded finding Voldemort in his head once more. It made him feel.. polluted.

"Is everything all right, Harry?" Hermione asked, noticing.

"Yeah." Harry was short with her.

"Is your scar hurting again?" No answer. Hermione paused. "I think you should tell Dumbledore."

"He couldn't do anything."

"I still think you should tell Dumbledore," Hermione insisted. She looked worried. "Harry, I wish you'd tell us what the matter is…"

Harry said nothing. He knew he was being moody, surly and unreasonable. He knew his friends wanted to help him, and he just kept on pushing them away. But he couldn't seem to work through the heavy greyness enfolding him. It didn't help that he was practically confined to 12, Grimmauld Place. Occasionally, with much fuss, an escort was arranged so he could visit Diagon Alley. But the Order was much too busy to spend their summer babysitting him on shopping trips.

Hermione sighed. "Lupin said we could go to Diagon Alley this afternoon."

Harry shrugged indifferently. Won't that be fun, he thought to himself.

Later, having tea in the kitchen, owl post brought a letter. Harry's eyes lit momentarily with anticipation. Perhaps there was news of some kind…But the owl swooped over his head and landed in front of Ron. She stuck out her leg with an imperative hoot.

"It's for me!" Ron said in surprise, taking in the familiar Hogwarts crest on the envelope. He opened the letter and read it incredulously. He looked up, his eyes shining.

"What is it, Ron?" Hermione asked eagerly. "It must be good news.."

"Yeah," Ron said. "Yeah! I've been made Quidditch Captain."

He beamed around the kitchen.

"Ron!" Hermione squeaked. She did not entirely see the fuss about Quidditch. But she understood how important this was to Ron. "That's fantastic!"

Quidditch Captain? Ron, Quidditch Captain? Harry felt a vague sense of surprise, and scraped about to muster some enthusiasm.

"That's really great, Ron." Harry knew his voice sounded dull. He tried harder. "Excellent. Well done."

Ron's smile was fading rather. "I'm – I'm sorry, Harry," he stuttered. "I mean, you're a much better Quidditch player than I am, I know that…Maybe it's a mistake…"

Harry shrugged. "Being captain isn't about how well you play. You're good at strategy, Ron. That's why they've picked you, I bet."

He sounded uninterested. He realized Hermione and Ron would think it was because he was jealous. He knew he should mind about this.

But somehow, it was all irrelevant anyway. Who cared who captained Quidditch? It was just a game. House points, and prefect badges, and Quidditch … what did they matter?

Voldemort was rising. And Harry was paralysed by the knowledge that he, Harry, should be doing something about it. Only he didn't know what.

I scowled at the cauldron in front of me.

My temper had grown so irritable, the only house-elf who could enter the same room as me without having a nervous breakdown on the spot was the one with all the woolly socks and hats. Dobby, I gathered he was called. He seemed to have appointed himself my personal servant.

"Professor Snape sir saved Harry Potter," he had told me in awe, when once I grew sufficiently curious to ask him why. "Professor Snape sir looked after Harry Potter when he was ill. Dobby wants Professor Snape to be comfortable."

I snorted. Potter again. Did even my personal comfort now depend on that boy?

But I took the ingredients Dobby had brought for me without thanks, and waved a dismissive hand. He effaced himself with speed and removed himself from my presence. Doubtless his co-workers would fall on his neck in celebration when he turned up back at the kitchens with his hide still attached to his scrawny body.

This was no use. I wanted to go to Hogsmeade. I wanted to buy some Potions ingredients for myself.

I wanted to step foot outside the castle doors. Such a simple wish, one would think.

Dumbledore had analysed my account of what happened the night I had so nearly died. He concluded my fatal error had been leaving the castle itself; the protections on the building were in fact able to block Voldemort's attempts to enspell me through that damned Mark on my arm. Thus, the Mark had only burned to begin with. It was when I went for a walk outside in the grounds that the full blast of the Siren spell had hit me.

So Dumbledore had decreed that even the Hogwarts grounds were too dangerous for me unless under his personal escort. Like a maximum security prisoner, I thought sourly. Now the Dementors were no longer at Azkaban, I imagined conditions there could hardly be much worse.

I threw some shrivelfigs at the cauldron. It roiled and burped. I moved sharply backwards, my wandering attention hastily returning to matters at hand.

Then the cauldron exploded. Truly, I thought with disgust, I had just committed an error worthy of Neville Longbottom. I stood in the middle of my potions laboratory, dripping with smoky blue sludge.

Damn it.

I tore off my ruined outer robes, and stomped out of my workroom. This was intolerable.

As I strode through the castle, I could see the painted figures in the portraits running for cover. Even the Bloody Baron took one look at me, and discovered he had urgent business elsewhere.

Less easily intimidated was Minerva McGonagall, who had been trying to track me down to hold a conversation with me ever since she returned from vacation.

"Severus!"

I grunted what could, to the optimist, have been interpreted as a greeting, and made to continue on my way. She held her ground however, fixing me with her stern gaze.

"Severus! Stop swooping about and stand still long enough to talk to me!"

Reluctantly, I halted. I folded my arms across my chest and peered down at her frigidly.

"That's better," she said. "Now, Severus, I am seriously worried about you. You don't seem yourself at all."

Yes, I do, I thought. Bad-tempered, surly, and intolerant of my fellow specimens of humanity. No change there.

"Please, Severus," she said in softer tones. "I do wish you would talk to us …"

Like I ever had. I said nothing, just continued to scowl at her. She sighed. "I can see I'm not going to get anywhere with this. Do bear in mind, Severus, that I am here should you wish to talk, or even just get away from those dungeons of yours for a cup of tea and some company…"

I grunted again, slightly touched by her concern despite myself. She smiled. "If you were wanting to see the Headmaster, Severus, I do believe he is in his office at present."

I did want to see the Headmaster. There had to be some other way of dealing with my current little problem than more or less locking me in.

He seemed to be expecting me. Sometimes I thought the very walls of the castle whispered in his ears.

"Albus!" I said intemperately as I stalked into his office. "I cannot bear this any longer! Take those damned wards off the castle doors and let me out!"

"Severus. Do come in. Have a cup of tea, perhaps?"

What would I want with a cup of tea except to dash it in his face, along with a nice charm to ensure it was decently boiling?

"I am so glad you came to see me," he said warmly. "I have been wanting to talk to you about Harry."

Potter? I did not want to talk about Potter. I wanted to talk about me. But, as was the story of my life, such was not to be. Why talk about Snape when there is a Potter to discuss?

"I'm worried about him," Dumbledore confided in me.

I effected lack of interest. Actually, I had to admit I was slightly anxious myself. It was inexplicable, but sometimes I was prey to a strange feeling that all was not well with Potter.

But he was safe in London, I knew, surrounded by his adoring entourage. There couldn't really be much wrong with him.

"I thought he would be all right once he got to London," Dumbledore continued. "I was expecting him to be unhappy with his relatives…"

I frowned slightly. "Why?"

Dumbledore looked shocked that I should ask. "What do you mean, Severus? You saw the way they treated him.."

"Indeed," I said grimly, a familiar curdling in my guts. "But nobody knew about that. Did they?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Well. I knew they did not accord him the best of treatment, certainly…"

I examined the expression on Dumbledore's face. Not a twinkle or sherbet lemon in sight. He looked…shamed.

I processed this information and reached certain conclusions. Such was my shock, I found myself gaping like a landed fish.

"You knew," I stated flatly. "You knew how those Muggles were treating him."

Dumbledore, most rarely for him, did not meet my accusing gaze. He looked old, and sad, and – stricken with guilt. "It was for his own good, Severus."

My unspoken accusations remained between us, a palpable force. Dumbledore's silence stretched on.

"Did you know the condition in which I would find him?" I inquired in carefully calm tones. Someone seemed to have cast a sticking charm on my teeth. They were clamped together.

"Of course not." He sounded shocked. "I knew he would be having a poor time of it. Of course I didn't know the situation had deteriorated so badly, or that he was actually in danger! But, Severus, he had to stay there...Lily's protection was finally sealed into his skin when he turned of age while in the keeping of his relatives.."

Blood magic paid no heed to the artificial marking of days by human contrivance. It pulsed to the rhythm of the universe itself. By this counting, Potter had reached seventeen some days before the conventional paper calendar would have it.

I did not speak. I was not letting Dumbledore off the hook so easily. My mind beheld Potter again: bloodied, shaking , crawling clumsily out of that cupboard to sprawl at my feet.

"It was for his own good," Dumbledore repeated. He still would not meet my eyes.

Love. It was an enigma to me. Dumbledore loved Potter, I did not doubt it. Yet he had left him to the care of his relatives for all those years, knowing how they treated him. I was, yes, I was outraged.

I could not help snorting to myself. Was it not I who, so recently, had tried to teach Potter a lesson about the importance of sacrifice in pursuit of your goals? And yet somehow I did not care to think of Potter himself as the sacrifice: the pawn to be groomed for slaughter, then thrust forward to be obliterated for the redemption of the wizarding world.

Worse, that Dumbledore's would be the loving hand directing Potter's moves on the board of war.

Oh, perhaps I was being unfair....

But upon reflection, I realized I should not have been taken aback. For what else had Dumbledore done to me? Every time I returned from my Death Eater meetings, he had nursed me. He had dosed me with potions to heal my body from the after-effects of the cruciatus curse. He had healed my mind with words of affirmation, affection.

Love.

And then he had sent me on my way to court death and worse yet again, the next time I was granted an opportunity to spy on the Dark Lord. It was necessary. I understood. I embraced the chance to atone for my mistakes through the sufferings etched again and again on my skin.

I had not been an orphaned child consigned to his care. I surprised myself with insight.

"That's why you indulge Potter so much, isn't it?" I commented. "That's why you let him get away with so much. You are trying to make up to him what you do to him the rest of the year when he is not at Hogwarts…"

Dumbledore bowed his head in assent. An unwelcome thought occurred to me.

"Does he know?" I demanded. "Is Potter aware you know what kind of guardianship you entrusted him to?"

Dumbledore nodded, heavily. "Yes," he admitted. "It is one of the reasons he has been so withdrawn from me this last year. I told him, when I told him – almost everything. After the battle in the Department of Mysteries."

For the second time, I found myself gaping. It is not an expression I am fond of. It looks moronic. I do not think it suits me.

"How could you be so stupid?" I grated out, horrified by the implications.

The boy. Shedding hot tears down my neck. Whining on and on about how his relatives had always hated him, how Sirius was dead…knowing that Dumbledore, the only other real guardian figure in his life, had deliberately allowed him to be abused from the age of one.

The equation made sense in theory, oh yes. The future of the wizarding world. One skinny boy, to be trained up as a weapon. Who would be more powerful if left to his relatives' care until he was seventeen, when the blood magic matured.

Explain that to a small boy locked in a dark cupboard without food. Explain that to a hurting and confused teenager starved for a sense of solidity, of foundations, in his life.

"So you care then, Severus?" Dumbledore asked. The twinkle was returning.

"Of course not," I snapped. "Well – to an extent. Naturally. I do not want him to fall apart."

Dumbledore held my gaze with a peculiar earnestness. "He is doing so."

"What?"

"Falling apart. His nightmares are getting worse, he barely speaks, he does not seem to care what is going on about him…"

This all seemed like perfectly healthy reactions to living with the Weasleys, as far as I was concerned.

"So? He will be back at Hogwarts shortly. I expect that will return him to normal. Or at least," I amended, "as normal as he ever gets."

Dumbledore regarded me for a long moment. I felt distinctly uneasy. In such a manner had he always looked at me when sending me out on especially dangerous and unpleasant missions.

"I think you can help," Dumbledore told me.

I arched a disbelieving eyebrow. "Help? Potter?"

"He saved your life," Dumbledore reminded me. As if I needed reminding.

"What of it? I have saved his life more often than he has saved mine!" There. See how Potter reduced me to his own childish level.

"You gave him your Fireheart stone."

"I am aware. I was there." What was the old sod driving at?

"My impression is," Dumbledore continued, as if I had not spoken, "that Harry has begun to relate to you."

Did he really think so?

Not that I cared in the least, I hastened to assure myself. The boy intruded far too much into my life and thoughts as it was.

"To my sorrow, it is unlikely that Harry will turn to me any longer. And he simply does not see enough of Remus for him to be central in his life; besides, I think the association with Sirius is too strong…."

I had a dreadful sense of foreboding about where this conversation was heading.

"..Harry needs a.."

Oh don't say it,.I thought desperately. Please. Not that. Don't say it-

"..father-figure, an older man to guide him into maturity…"

"I am not at all paternal." I barked the words out, sitting ramrod straight in horror.

Dumbledore ignored me. "…someone who can act as a bit of a role- model.."

"Role-model? You didn't tell me you wanted the boy to become a Death Eater when he leaves school!"

"…Someone he looks up to."

I drummed my long fingers on the arm of my chair. Bitterness suffused me.

I supposed, yet again, my personal preferences would not enter into the picture.

"You can begin," Dumbledore carried on, thoughtfully, "by trying once more to teach him Occlumency. It might work better now there is a bond of trust between you."

He was joking. Surely.

No. He wasn't.

I dropped my head into my hands with a low groan of despair.

I knew atonement for sins was not supposed to be easy. But did it have to be so damned hard?

Thanks loads to reviewers! I am turning into a review junkie…

So: appreciation to all.

Shezan: sacrifice, hmm. I have about three possible endings….

Mon-Chi-Chi: I'm so flattered! I'm sure that can't be right though.

Charlie-potter1: As ever. TY.

BeldaranCara: glad you liked it! Mm, there is a bit more angst to come yet……Are you an Eddings fan by chance?

BlackEyedGirl: don't worry, the story won't ever be stopped for too long..I like it too much!

Read300300: thanks!

Mara727: yep, Harry is on the brink of… well you'll see!

Silverthreads: thanks…yes, Snape is having a bit of a Potter crisis really!

KT: thanks for reviewing!

Monica85: Yeah, for an emotional boy, Harry only ever seems to shout about his feelings to his friends, not talk about them!

PureBlack: TY!

Crookshanks87: Worried about my (oops JKR's) poor Severus? Hmm, wait until chapter…

Padawan JanAQ, and Shadowed Hand: Ah yes, the bond…more will be revealed…

Athenakitty: Poor Snape. He'd rather not do anything with the new information! But he may not have a choice…

Alleya: Thanks, as ever, for your terrific reviews.

Rosegirl: Next update won't be too long I hope.. I just enjoy writing this story so much!

RI: Thanks for reminder. Done. Hope you still like the story.

Hope I remembered everybody, if not, I will most definitely have smiled lots when your review bounced into my intray.