Granger.
She turned up on Saturday morning. I had forgotten we had an appointment. This was probably the natural consequence of trying my best to obliterate her and Potter from every last recess of my mind. Unfortunately I happened to be in my office catching up on some paperwork, so I was there when she appeared. As hiding under the desk would have been undignified, I had little choice but to admit to my presence.
She was nervous, which was irritating. (Of course, had she not been nervous, it would have been even more annoying.) But despite the remarkable improvement in her appearance over the years, she still reminded me of a chipmunk when she was agitated. I am not, in general, a fan of small furry animals – except cats, whom I admire for their supreme conviction that the universe does, in fact, revolve around them. Odd, I reflected, that I found this trait endearing in felines but utterly infuriating in Potters.
I raised an eyebrow at the girl.
"What is it, Miss Granger?"
I rather pointedly continued to sort through the papers on my desk. I would be surprised if she received any sense that she was actually welcome.
"We have an appointment this morning, Professor Snape," she said, very quietly.
"It is cancelled," I informed her. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."
"I wanted to bring you my most recent notes. I've found an interesting lead."
I refused to look up at her, but her voice was full of dogged courage. I flicked through my papers rather more quickly.
"We have nothing to discuss, Miss Granger," I said, even more sharply. "I believe I told you to leave."
"There's a reference to a variant tradition about Halbert and Taveon in the records of the Dubonnin people. I'm still trying to track it down. They were wiped out, you know, but some of their oral histories have been preserved."
"I am not interested, Miss Granger."
There was a long pause, during which I ignored her, and examined my papers. I could hear her shuffling. I began to assess which of my potions bottles were in easy reach, and could with only small inconvenience to myself be thrown at her bushy head.
"It was an accident, you know," she finally blurted out, all in a rush. "It really was a mistake. He feels so bad about it…"
Anger flooded my throat with bile.
"Goodbye, Miss Granger!"
"So, that's it then?" she continued rapidly, her breath shallow. "You don't care anymore if he dies?"
"Finally, Miss Granger," I commented sarcastically. "Seven years at Hogwarts, and at last you show some signs of real intelligence."
I stared at the papers. They seemed less in focus than they should have been.
In my dreams, he always died. He lay on some desolate heath, spreadeagled like a child playing snow angels. The grass was thin and wiry, bone and sinew of the leached grey earth. His eyes were always open. He had lost his glasses, and the vacant green gaze accused the skies.
Blood spread around him like wings, torn and broken. In my dreams, he did not look peaceful.
He just looked dead.
I closed my eyes. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."
I did not look up. After a few moments, I heard the office door bang shut with rather more force than strictly necessary.
I had a lot of paperwork to get on with this morning, not to mention a potion to brew. I had neither time nor inclination to examine the notes she had flung on my desk before departing. Even washing my hair, I told myself determinedly, was higher on my list of priorities than that.
For Harry, the week dragged past.
Snape wasn't talking to him.
He had attempted to accost him in the corridors, he had lain in wait outside his office, and he had tried knocking on the door of Snape's own chambers. In no case did Snape grant him more than the barest acknowledgement: such as Aunt Petunia bestowed on the neighbours down the street whom she considered too socially inferior even to patronise.
In Potions, Snape treated Harry as though he were invisible. Harry had even resorted to accidentally-on-purpose knocking over his bottle of Beatlejuice.
"Are you trying to get a detention?" Hermione, next to him, had hissed in horror.
The answer, of course, was yes. Harry stayed behind, expectantly, at the end of class. But all this earned him was:
"Mr Potter will report to Mr Filch for detention on Wednesday at eight. Dismissed."
Snape had not even looked at him.
Harry stormed out of the classroom. The man was so stubborn. He wouldn't listen. He wouldn't even try to see if Harry had a valid explanation. Harry wanted to hex something: badly.
So, it seemed providential when he bumped into Malfoy, who was returning to the Potions classroom because he had mislaid his favourite quill.
It took only the slightest sneer on Malfoy's part for Harry to join battle.
Malfoy and Potter.
My lips thinned. I could hear them shouting at each other as I strode along the corridor.
"I warned you, Potter: you helped put my dad in Azkaban, and I'm not going to forget it! You just watch out!" Malfoy spat.
"Me? Maybe you'd better look out, Malfoy. Or maybe you'll be joining your dad in Azkaban."
"You don't know what you're talking about, Potter. My dad'll be out of there soon anyway. He has a lot of influence with the Ministry. That's what happens when you belong to a proper wizarding family. People respect you."
I drew to a halt, robes swinging. It is so much easier to effect a dramatic entrance in wizarding robes, rather than the excessively close-fitting garments of Muggles.
The two combatants suddenly became aware of my presence, and whirled to face me. Malfoy's sharp features turned wary. Potter was flushed and angry. I smirked at the two of them, and took a lazy step forward.
"Family respect?" I intervened silkily. "Well, Potter wouldn't know about that. Would you, Potter? Potter grew up in a broom-cupboard, Mr Malfoy. His relatives were so ashamed of him they couldn't bear to let him out."
Malfoy hooted with derisive laughter. This was turning out even better than he had hoped.
"You're kidding, Professor! Potter gets locked in a cupboard when he goes home?"
"Yes," I continued, glancing at my victim. "Except when he is undertaking their household chores, of course. Or when they are beating him."
"They make him work like a house elf? And they beat him?"
"Wouldn't you?"
Malfoy collapsed into hysterical giggles. I could just see Potter out of the corner of my eye. He was stricken. He looked white.
"Oy, Potter," Malfoy said gleefully. "Do they whip you? Does it leave marks? Can I see?"
I withdrew quietly up the corridor and continued to observe the two of them from the shadows. Potter finally spoke. His voice was shaking.
"Shut it, Malfoy. Just shut it. I mean it." He was pointing his wand at Malfoy with a trembling hand. His breath was heavy and fast.
"No way, Potter. I'm off back to the Common Room. I can't wait to tell everybody about this. The precious saviour of the wizarding world who can't even stand up to his Muggle relatives! It's priceless!"
Inadvertantly, I caught Potter's gaze. Betrayal, those eyes said. Humiliation. How could you?
Underneath my veneer of cold triumph, something twisted.
Malfoy ran past me, still crowing. Potter dashed at his eyes with an angry hand.
I sighed.
It occurred to me that Malfoy would, indeed, lose no time in telling the rest of the world the latest juicy gossip about the Boy Who Lived. That Skeeter woman would turn up. The Daily Prophet would run features. Dumbledore would be disappointed. The boy would probably receive sympathy parcels from half the Witching world.
As Malfoy dashed up the corridor, I came to a sudden decision. I pointed my wand at his back.
"Obliviate!" I murmured. During my less than illustrious career outside of Hogwarts, the ability to modify memories had been invaluable. I was highly trained in obliviation, as well as most of the other darker arts. The perfect Death Eater. The perfect spy.
The perfect traitor.
Malfoy stopped laughing, and shook his head, bemused. He clearly couldn't remember what he had been doing all alone on the way back from the Potions classroom. He glanced around in a puzzled way and then headed off in the direction of the Slytherin Common Room.
Potter's mouth had dropped open slightly.
I ignored him. A slight flush had risen to my cheeks. I span on my heel and stalked away.
Harry stared after Snape. What had that all been about? Snape had stopped Malfoy from remembering…a faint hope glimmered within him for a moment. Then, he recalled the utter disdain with which Snape had looked at him, and was cast once more back into gloom.
The fact that this was a free afternoon, and that the Gryffindor team was scheduled for a double-length practice session, did not cheer him up.
Ron still wasn't talking to him. He did not remember the scene in the Common Room the previous Friday evening. But he had certainly recalled their quarrel earlier that same day. And since then, Harry had not felt like making any particular effort to repair the rift, despite Hermione's best efforts to mediate between the two of them.
Catching the tension between Ron and Harry, most of the team were cool towards him. They sided with their Quidditch captain.
Harry attended listlessly to Ron's training plan for the day. At least flying might take his mind off things, he thought. Then he remembered playing Sudden Death with Snape, and sank back into misery.
"Harry," Ginny said to him as Ron went to fetch the Quidditch balls. "What's wrong?"
Harry shrugged a shoulder, and kicked at a stone.
"I know you've argued with Ron," she continued, "but it's more than that, isn't it?"
Harry looked down at her. Her red hair was tied back from her face and he could see how serious and concerned she was.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Thanks, Ginny, but… I don't want to talk about it, OK?"
"Fine," she said. "But, if you do…"
"Thanks." He felt real gratitude. "Oh! Ginny… I forgot to ask.. have you been invited to the seventh year party next week? I don't mean as a date or anything, just…"
"I'm so flattered," Ginny said tartly, but with a sparkle of humour in her eyes. "I've already been asked, thanks. So's Luna, she's going with Neville."
"Oh, OK…" Harry felt a bit foolish now.
The team were kicking off. Harry joined them, and soared into the air. Below, Ron released the Bludgers.
Somehow Harry didn't think it was an accident when he threw one, hard, straight in his direction.
Harry dodged it, and began to fly in swooping circles around the team as they practised. He could see no sign of the Snitch. Ginny drove the Quaffle home, hard; Ron tried to Keep it but failed. Harry smiled, rather vindictively. Ron had never quite got over Ginny scoring against him in Quidditch practice.
Harry was engaged in another circling swoop, when his scar burst into painful life. He gasped, and wobbled on his broom, losing altitude. He clenched his teeth. He knew he really ought to tell Dumbledore about this…Voldemort must be up to something…it had been getting worse for days….
"Harry?" yelled Ginny, who was closest, zooming alongside.
"It's nothing," Harry muttered, one hand pressed to his forehead and his jaw set. "I'm fine."
Ron had flown over as well. His long face, initially anxious, hardened into censure when he saw that Harry was all right.
"Oh, scar's hurting now, is it?" he said roughly. "Well, if you're not fit to play, Harry, you'd better just go, all right?"
"I am fit to play," Harry insisted, although his scar was now throbbing intensely. Occlumency, he thought. Let it go…. Let the pain go…
"Huh. I mean it, Harry. I don't want you on the team if you're going to fall off your broom every time we go out on the pitch."
Ron glared at Harry and flew back to the rings. The rest of the team looked curiously at Harry for a few moments, until the next practice formation was underway.
Harry sighed. This day looked set to be just as entertaining as the one previously.
As he threw himself into a spectacular dive, he made a resolution.
He was going to talk to Snape later that day. Somehow. If he had to sit outside his chambers all evening and use a voice-amplifying charm in order to do it.
Potter.
I tensed, cursing to myself. I had unthinkingly barked out a command to enter when the knock sounded on my office door. I was immersed in the papers on my desk, but even without looking up I knew it was him.
I did not acknowledge him. Now was about the time he normally went away, having hovered in front of me and attempted to elicit some sign that I was even aware of his presence.
This time, he did not.
"Professor," he said to me intensely. "Please let me explain."
I ran through the various hexes and charms with which I could have prevented him from doing so. They ranged from a simple silencing spell to total petrification. On the whole, I thought tiredly, it might be easier just to get this over with. Some say Gryffindors are steadfast in adversity. I say Gryffindors are more stubborn than a witch's pig.
He launched into some tangled narrative involving, obscurely, Quidditch. I did not listen very closely.
"Professor!" he said, finally. "I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me…"
Forgive me. Unbidden, a memory streamed to the surface of my mind. I must have been very young.
"I'm sorry, father," I was whispering. "I'm sorry, please, forgive me.."
That was before the beating, naturally. I really must have been very young, because I learned soon enough that forgiveness should be neither sought, nor granted. Forgiveness was for the weak.
Or the foolish: like Dumbledore.
I had, however, asked Dumbledore to forgive me, I remembered: just the once. It was the time I first crawled (almost literally) back from the darkness, and laid my impurity at his feet. "Oh, Severus," he had said to me, "my forgiveness will not help you. You need to learn to forgive yourself."
But there could be no forgiveness for what I had done, of course. Only payment. Only atonement.
I was so very tired. In my dream, the one where Potter died and died and died, I sank to my knees by his corpse and watched the Dark Mark fade from my arm. In my dream, I cried out; I wanted it back, for then Voldemort would not be dead, which meant Potter would not be dead, and I would not be kneeling in his blood that spread like wings with the dust of every fallen star there ever was clogging my lungs.
Forgive me, he was saying. I am sorry.
"Fine," I said wearily at last, not raising my head. I was so very, very tired. "You're sorry. Now get out of my office, Potter."
"But…" He sounded bewildered.
"Potter, I swear I will throw this jar of cockroaches at your head if you do not leave. Now."
He left.
Alone, I pulled my sleeve up my left forearm and stared for a long moment at the burning Mark.
It was just as Mad-Eye Moody had said. There are some spots that never do come off.
Angel 1291 – Thanks so much, glad you are enjoying it.
mon - Thanks lots! Well, Harry hasn't given up yet…
Sakia Ishida – thanks! Updating as fast as I can..this story is from very distracting from stuff I ought to be doing. Like work.
tomfeltatonofme – yep, Harry still has some work to do..
Vyxagallanxchi – poor Severus, indeed..too many emotions for him, I fear…he doesn't know how to handle them all at once!! I will try to convince my characters, lol, though they do seem to have quite definite ideas about where they want to go…and lots more Snape/Harry interaction coming up….
Ophite68 – hello, thank you very much, glad you like it!
ahappyjtm – hmm, I like the sound of fumigated Gryffindors. And virtual cheesecake? Even better!
Widow Black – thanks a lot for taking the trouble to review, it makes loads of difference to an author to feel appreciated!!!
we3 - /me checks the medicine cabinet. I already have asthma inhalers. I'll add aspirin.
Jasmine - thank you!! This story will be ostensibly friendship/mentor, although it could also be read as pre-slash. Harry will have to find other ways to warm his professor's heart…
MYSTICAL PANTHER – thanks a lot! Yes, poor Harry and Sev…sigh..
Alynna Lis Eachann – thank you! I'm glad you think it worked out well……..not irreparably was the aim! My initial version I think would have utterly ruined any possibility of Snape ever speaking to Harry again…..
lucidity – ah, poor Sev! He's all depressed now.
cdkobasiuk – thanks! It will take something drastic to work this one out I think…charl1e – well….not fixed yet.. but Harry (being stubborn as a witch's pig) hasn't given up yet, either…
Read300300 – lol, I'm glad I improved your day. And thanks very much for the Order of Merlin, First Class! Wow!
Persephone Lupin – You are most definitely too kind. But I'm certainly up for a bit of Sevy cuddling, only like you say I think we'll have to sedate him first. Maybe if he tried it, he might find he quite likes it…….
Lilith11 – Thanks so much for starting the translation, I'm really flattered. Yes, you're right, it never actually occurred to him not to trust Harry on that one. He knows Harry isn't malicious. And as for Voldemort, ah hah…next chapter…!
Someone - lol, yes I'm glad for Snape's sake that he doesn't care about Harry. Life would be so difficult for him otherwise!
Padawan Jan-AQ – no, Snape isn't feeling very forgiving…poor honey….
Lil Ole Me 97 – how could I resist the puppy eyes? Herewith the update…and thanks for the compliments!
Adenara Yatman – thank you very much - /me sweeps a bow, less impressively than Sevy's would be in his wizarding robes.
Madam Whitbrook – glad you like my Severus! I'm rather fond of him myself….
snarkyroxy – thanks very much, and yes, another update! Poor Snape, he doesn't know how to handle this at all….
Silverthreads – thanks very much…agony all round…
Lady Lynn – lol, thanks a lot!
XiaoGui – thanks very much indeed for your long and gratifying review!!! Yes, I do see Filch as Gollum-y, I was thinking of that when I wrote him…more angsty tidbits on the way…