Prometheus Bound

by Dius Corvus

Harry survives an unbearable summer and returns to Hogwarts to learn secrets about himself that he really could have done without. He’s lost his sight, all illusions about his parentage, and now will he lose himself? COMPLETE

7. Passage of Time

A/N: Special mention goes to Procyon, who read this in an internet cafe in China.

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Chapter 7: Passage of Time

Severus Snape was not a nice man. He played no tricks with himself; he made no excuses. He knew he was mean. Albus told him that he was too proud, and Minerva called him petty, but when it came to those damned Potters, he was sure his actions were eminently justifiable.

Until now. Because, unfortunately, Severus Snape also had a conscience.

"Why do you insist on treating him so badly?" Pomfrey demanded. "I don't understand you. What JAMES Potter did to you is definitely wrong, but this is HARRY Potter. Do I judge you by your father?"

He sneered at her and continued to stir his cauldron. Stupid woman, barging in while he was making a difficult potion. "Potter is an arrogant, reckless, self-centered adolescent. He needs someone to keep his status as Albus's Golden Boy and the Boy-Who-Lived from inflating his ego more than it already does."

Pomfrey looked ready to kill. "Arrogant? Inflating his ego? I've never heard anything further from the truth! Reckless I'll give you readily, and he seems self-centered because he hardly trusts to take his matters to others, but that's because he had nobody to trust! You saw what his relatives"—she spat out the word—"did to him."

He finished stirring and turned to level her with his coldest glare. "Nevertheless, the Dark Lord will not suddenly show mercy because his little obsession has just been raped."

The nurse took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. "I'd Banish you again if it weren't for the fear of You-Know-Who sending you back here a bleeding wreck. But you know as well as I do that you're only mad at the boy because he's proven you totally wrong, and you're too proud to accept it."

"Really?"

"Really," she snapped, eyes blazing. "The way you're behaving, the way you're belittling him and tormenting him and using him as an outlet for your anger, is NO BETTER than what you're convinced James Potter was like, and it's just as bad as what your father did."

With that, she turned around swiftly and marched off.

Severus Snape growled at the memory.

He had spent the next hour furiously making Calming Draughts and comparing himself to James Potter and then to his own father, convincing himself that no, he was certainly not like the two people he despised more than anything and anyone else on the earth (except perhaps for that blockheaded minister and that mangy cur, Black). He had never, say, humiliated the Potter brat in front of the entire class… or did anything physical, such as grab the brat or throw jars of cockroaches at him… of course not…

He had then switched tracks and spent another hour convincing himself that his actions towards that Potter brat were totally justified, that yes, Potter was spoil—er, perhaps not spoiled, but arrogant, certainly, and self-centered, and reckless, and foolish, and lazy, and cruel, and so on.

It had been one of the most frustrating afternoons of his entire life.

But the frustration ended with blessed ease when Albus Dumbledore summoned him to his office and told him with twinkling eyes that he was to teach the Potter brat the ways of the blind.

He had flown into a rage. This summer, for which he had packed with plans, was now down the drain, all because Dumbledore felt sorry for his Golden Boy. To top it off, Dumbledore had then proceeded to try to pry out why he had made a grab for the Order pendant he had seen in the brat's hand.

Unsurprisingly, he had had a very difficult time sleeping. The firewhisky he'd consumed had eased his insomnia but given him a bloody headache when he woke up the next morning.

To make matters even worse, he was summoned to another meeting before his cup of coffee (and hangover cure)—just to watch Nott get tortured some more because Avery had sighted Muggles that might have been bloody Potter's bloody relatives in bloody France; and after that, he had to suffer the Cruciatus for half a minute because he could worm no information out of Dumbledore regarding the Potter brat's blasted relatives. Albus didn't know, anyhow—the only person who might have had a slight clue was that werewolf, whom Albus had assigned to go search for the—Dursleys, was it? Bloody Muggles—bloody Potter.

And then he had to give the brat "lessons."

"…would it really be too much to apply yourself? Go ahead, Potter. It's fine with me if you deem yourself above making an attempt. After all, I didn't lose my precious godfather because I was simply too good to exert any effort…"

"Leave Sirius out of this!" the boy shouted, turning to face him blindly. He noticed the boy recoiling immediately afterwards, but he made no note of it: his mind was still clouded by anger and frustration, the headache from his hangover, the lack of coffee, and the Dark Lord's good morning gift of Crucio.

"Hit a nerve, haven't I, Potter?"

The boy flinched again. Jumpy little brat, he sneered in his mind.

"What do you want of me, Snape?" The boy's voice was shaking.

"Insolence, Potter!" Snape snarled triumphantly. "It's Professor Snape, boy, and you can be assured that your wretched House will lose points once the term—"

"What are you trying to do?" the boy shouted, then continued in a much smaller voice, "What do you want?"

"I'm trying to teach you mobility, Potter," Snape drawled. Stupid brat. "I thought that even you would be able to understand that—"

"So you're saying that running around the room doing nothing but insult me is going to help, is it?"

He growled. "I will not tolerate such insolence, Potter!"

Yet again the boy flinched, and this time it caught his attention too much to be shoved aside. He frowned and then realized what it meant. The abrupt flinching, the legs clamping together tightly, the fear that flickered on the face… The boy had been heavily abused.

The thought struck him like a hammer. He knew it all along, of course, and he'd even seen it, but only now did the full implications suddenly sink in, reaching his conscious mind through clouds of anger and frustration and denial. With the realization brought the sudden, dreaded emotion: guilt.

He shook sharply his head to clear his mind of the ridiculous idea of guilt. Where the dratted Potter boy was concerned, there was nothing for him to be guilty about! No, nothing at all.

"I am not trying to make things difficult! I'm trying to follow Professor Dumbledore's advice and set aside our differences and be productive—I'm not trying to antagonize you!"

"Touching sentiments, Potter," he sneered at the end of the boy's tirade. "Now—"

"I know you don't like this," Potter continued doggedly, "and I know you probably didn't have much of a choice—"

"Don't like?" He gave a bark of laughter at the gross understatement and noticed that Potter flinched yet again. "Don't like? Not much of a choice?" He laughed a second time. "I assure you, Potter—as much as you 'don't like' this, and as much as you feel you had no choice—"

"Actually, professor," Potter interrupted in a suddenly cool tone, "I did have a choice, a choice between a St. Mungo's specialist and you. And no, Professor Dumbledore didn't influence my decision at all. It was my own."

He chose me. The thought whirled in his head and instantly his mind clicked: a prank, a prank to ridicule him, like father like son… He felt anger flaring up again. "And so… you chose me. A worthy prank indeed, Potter, a worthy prank—"

"Prank? I—prank? This is no prank! This—"

Snape was startled by the desperation in the voice and even more startled by the laugh that followed. It sounded eerily familiar.

"God knows why I chose you of all people. Have you ever caught me playing a prank in all my years at Hogwarts? I've never played a prank before, and I'm not about to start playing one when I'm choosing whom to trust my future with! I'm—I'm blind. I wouldn't prank about this." He paused and looked suddenly very tired. "Nobody would prank about this…

Snape felt another pang of guilt, too strong to be ignored, but he said in a bored, unaffected tone, "Very entertaining, Potter… Now—"

"What do you want?"

There was an aching weariness in the boy's voice that rendered him speechless.

"What do you want from me? I'm sick and tired of fighting with you. If you want an apology, have it then, I apologize for—for whatever you think I should be apologizing for. Living, maybe, but I never had a choice there." The boy paused, and then continued, slowly, deliberately. "If you must know, I never told anyone what I saw in your Pensieve"—Snape felt a flare of old anger, but the boy went on quickly—"I know this is probably worth nothing to you, but I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invaded your privacy. And I'd never have laugh—I know, I know how it feels, how it feels to be—be bullied like that, and it should make you happy to know that I had a fallout with Sirius because of it."

Snape stared at the boy, not knowing what to say or do. Part of him still wanted to strangle the boy for having gone into his Pensieve, for being the son of that arrogant bastard, James Potter, but another part, the part that had compelled him to return to Dumbledore, felt shaken and…

The boy sighed. "Just… forget it then." He watched the boy's pale, still-mottled throat move in a swallowing motion. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anyhow."

The silence stretched on. The words echoed in his mind, and with a jolt, Snape realized that he was feeling guilty and ashamed and dismayed at what he'd said and done to this boy, this boy who had been beaten, hated, blinded, and raped. He swallowed, not knowing what to do with these strange feelings, and, acting automatically, he made the sharp tapping sound with his wand again. "You're right, Potter. It doesn't matter anyhow." A pause, and then he continued before guilt could attack and make him say something foolish. "Now get up and move towards the sound."

The boy got up like a sleepwalker, face expressionless and pale.

"Pay attention, Potter," Snape snapped, feeling uncomfortable at seeing how tired and defeated the boy looked. "This way."

He watched the boy move around like someone under the Imperius. The guilt that gnawed him did not lessen. "Feel with your feet and your hands, Potter!" he ordered, but curbed his voice at the end.

"Yes, sir." The boy took a few steps, then stopped, the face changing subtly to a slight frown of confusion. Strange, Snape reflected, that the face that only a few months ago clearly showed each and every emotion is suddenly so… un-Potter-ish.

"Well?" He demanded when Potter remained unmoving. Tap! "Most sounds will not be this obvious. You will have to learn to be subtle, Potter."

The boy nodded.

"For now, you will have to practice moving without murdering yourself, Potter. Though Madam Pomfrey has given you my potions that will prevent muscle damage and promote muscle development, you will have to exercise constantly."

Another nod.

Snape felt a flare of frustration. A mad, raging Potter he could handle with ease; a self-pitying, gloomy Potter was a piece of cake—but this? Silent, expressionless, forcing him to see things a different way, doing nothing to ease his guilt.

He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and summoned the Sounding Globe. "Hold you your hand, boy. This is a Sounding Globe. It will make intermittently make various sounds and move around the room at random. You will listen to the sounds and try to obtain it."

Potter nodded.

"Well? Stop standing there. Activate it with your wand."

"I don't have my wand," the boy replied, and Snape realized that it was perfectly emotionless, only slightly clipped and annoyed—just like his own. "It was… broken. And burned."

"I see." Snape comprehended this new information, which he already knew but, like his sentiments of guilt and shame and dismay, had just sunken in. He tapped the globe with his wand. "I've activated it for you. What are you waiting for, Potter?"

Over the next hour or so, he watched the boy hunch, stalk, stumble, and crawl after the sounding globe. He had felt, initially, an urge to skewer the boy with scathing insults, but the urge had quickly died. He had also expected the boy to complain or purse his lips and smolder with indignant anger or self-pity, but the boy just looked tired and determined.

Poppy Pomfrey's words came back to him, and he tried with all the expertise he had with Occlumency to clear his mind of those thoughts. They remained. What she said was right: he'd been doing nothing but torment and belittle a boy who had been neglected, starved, beaten, raped, hated, whose childhood had been worse—much worse—than his. Snape knew hate, he knew about being beaten, but starvation and utter neglect and rape—

He scowled angrily. This is the Potter brat, he snarled at himself, and the hatred that would always flare so satisfactorily remained dead and cold.

Finally, when Potter looked ready to collapse, he strode forth and plucked the globe from the boy's hands.

"I believe you have practiced enough for today, Potter. Despite what you may think, you certainly are not fully healed. See that you eat proper meals and sleep long hours."

"Yes, Professor."

He banished the Sounding Globe and paused. He felt a careening moment of hesitation, but it passed with another glance at the boy's pale face. "Oh, and Potter?"

Harry looked up. "Sir?"

He had to work hard to bring the words to his lips. "I accept your apology," he said at last. He watched the boy's face light up briefly before sinking into a scowl. Before he knew what he was doing, he was speaking again. "And I, in turn, would like to extend an apology of my own regarding our previous… misunderstandings."

He swallowed, and for the first time felt apprehension. I can't believe I just said that… he thought and felt strangely deflated when he noticed that Potter's jaw had dropped open, and those lifeless green eyes were staring at him quite blankly.

Then, the eyes and mouth closed, and a genuine smile flashed behind the mask. "Apology accepted, sir."

The brat seems far too pleased, Snape thought peevishly, though he didn't feel a bit peeved. In fact, if he were truthful with himself, he felt… He turned from that line of thought just in time. "I expect you to exert yourself fully in what I teach you," he snarled. He noticed that Potter didn't flinch at all. A strange feeling awoke inside of him. "Be assured that the apology is only to make our working interaction more bearable." He glanced around to make sure the nurse hadn't heard him and continued in a sharp voice. "I will return sometime later today."

With that, he turned and stalked out of the hall, feeling more light-hearted than he had felt in a very long time…

Snape shook his head sharply and glared at the potion he was currently making. The Potter brat was still that: the Potter brat, and Snape still had a bone to pick with James Potter's son.

He was sure he had seen Remus Lupin hand the boy an Order pendant—and not anybody's Order pendant, but his pendant—his old Order pendant. The one he had given her that horrible night seventeen years ago…

qpqpqp

Today isss the day, Nagini. This isss the hour.

Yesss, my Lord. I am ready.

Let usss begin then.

The boy, tied to the chair of stone, fidgeted nervously. The tall, pale man with burning red eyes smiled and moved to the boy. In one swift movement, their mouths met, and the boy made a high, keening sound that echoed and echoed in the room, and, after it died, left an acrid aftertaste of shock and pain and terror.

The boy's eyes blinked. Then red filtered into them, spreading like a bloody stain over the whites, the blue irises, the black pupils.

My Lord?

Yesss, my pet…

The tall man with red eyes slithered up from where he had collapsed. He laid his head lovingly in the boy's lap.

My Lord…

Take care of my shell, Nagini.

I will, my Lord…

Keep your mind open for me in case I must retreat.

I will, my Lord, my Massster…

The boy cast a glance at the form coiled in a corner of the room. The snake's eyes were dull and blank, though a dim fire of light burned deep inside.

The man ran a hand over the boy's chest.

Do not worry for me, Massster.

I know, Nagini. I have nothing to fear for you.

A door opened. A man with features identical to the man draped over the boy's lap walked in. The newcomer kneeled and the boy stood, putting on hand on the newcomer's forehead.

Ah, and what have we here?

One who will never betray you, Massster.

Yesss. They are foolss. They believe that he could not serve me without a ssoul. The boy's lips curved into a smile. Yet soulless he ssserves me best of all: he, my faithful doppelganger.

The boy's eyes lost their red hue and changed back into a dull blue. He moved with the newcomer to the doorway.

The time hasss come for me to leave, for my plansss to be put in action.

The man on the ground with half-lidded red eyes glided onto the stone chair in the middle of the room.

I await your return, my Lord, my Massster…

The door shut heavily.

qpqpqp

Remus Lupin hurried through the halls of Hogwarts. He had finally completed the mission Dumbledore had assigned him: to track down the Dursleys and to bring them to the Headquarters. Some of the things he'd found out had been—well—unexpected, and it had taken him longer than he'd expected. The term was due to begin today, in just a few hours, and he still wanted to see Harry, his best friend's son. He shook his head, remembering. Lily's son, but also Snape's son.

He hastened to the hospital wing, where he supposed the boy still was. The last time he'd seen Harry, he remembered the boy being no more than skin and bones. The spirit within the boy had not died—thank Merlin—but it had been battered and was no longer the same…

"Why, Remus, how nice to see you!" Madam Pomfrey bustled out of her office with a tray of potions in her arms.

He turned and gave the mediwitch a fleeting smile. "Hello Poppy. Where's Harry?"

"Harry?" Something in the mediwitch's eyes flickered. "You'd best wait for him in the boy's dormitory up in Gryffindor tower."

Remus nodded, rather pleased that the boy was out of the hospital wing.

"He'll be there if he's done with his lessons with Severus."

The werewolf's jaw dropped. "Lessons? With—oh. Merlin." What's Dumbledore thinking? Lessons? And Harry is so unwell!

"It's not that bad," the mediwitch chuckled, arranging the vials of potions into a cabinet. "Severus is teaching Harry the ways of the blind, and the boy is coping remarkably well." A thoughtful look passed over her face. "You know, Remus, the two of them are actually so similar… I'm surprised I haven't noticed before…"

The werewolf swallowed nervously. "Er—yes. I'll just be leaving now, then?"

The mediwitch smiled. "Off you go then…"

He hurried up to where the remembered the Gryffindor tower was. He hoped Harry was there, yet dreaded seeing the boy all the same. What was Dumbledore thinking? Putting Harry and Snape together—one of whom was still recovering from—from all that had happened, and one of whom was the Renowned Git—Merlin. He just hoped Harry was all right…

He stepped past the portrait of the Fat Lady (who was chatting animatedly with her friend Violet and swung herself open absentmindedly at the password, tea) and jogged up the stairs to the door of the seventh year boys. He hesitantly knocked it. "Harry?" He waited a moment before knocking again. "Harry, are you in there?"

A voice floated out. "Remus?"

"Harry! Can I come in?"

"Of course." The werewolf waited a few moments, and then the door slowly swung open.

Remus blinked: even with his heightened sense of sight, the dormitory room was nothing more than inky darkness with a vague shape here and there and a dim red expanse that must've been the thick curtains. But in front of him was Harry, clear in the low orange light from a torch in the corridor outside the shadowy room.

By Merlin, he's changed, the werewolf thought. The cheekbones were sharp and the jaw anything but boyish, but the thin lips held a more lively quality (form Lily, he thought), and the eyebrows, expressive and dark, were a mixture of both of them. And the nose, though not quite as large as Severus's, couldn't have come from anyone else. Without the brilliant green eyes, the face could belong to nobody but Severus's son.

The boy stepped back with an ease that startled the werewolf. "Come in," Harry said, turning to the side to let his visitor in.

The werewolf blinked once or twice and moved past the boy, making sure not to make any contact. The boy moved past him, carefully not touching, and disappeared into one of the shadows.

"Haven't been here in a long time," Remus murmured, though all he saw was darkness. He didn't even consider asking for light. It would be—cruel, and Harry, this Harry, was… different from what he had remembered, expected.

"Oh, I forgot," Harry muttered, as though having figured something out. "You'll want light, won't you?"

"Er—yes," the werewolf mumbled, rather relieved to not have to broach the subject. "Please."

The boy moved with silent grace to the curtains and drew them open slowly. He moves like his father, Remus thought as the boy put a hand to the window, pushing it open a crack. The sun was high overhead and a clean little breeze slipped into the dorm.

He's also neat, like his mother, the werewolf noted, looking around. The beds he remembered, all of them neat and untouched except for one (that looked barely touched). There was nothing on the floor. A black cane leaned against one of the beds. He didn't notice the little ball that hovered on the other side of Harry's bed. He's too neat, Remus thought. Perhaps it's because he has nothing at all to make a mess out of…

"So Harry," Remus said, seating himself on one of the beds. "How are you? Is everything going all right with Professor Snape?"

The boy's face remained impassive, if pleasant. "Perfectly fine, Remus."

qpqpqp

"Stupefy!"

Harry felt the spell leave his wand and heard, a moment later, the sound of the Sounding Globe thudding on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor seventh year boy's dormitory.

Harry grinned and bent down, plucking the globe off the ground and tapping it with his new wand—holly, eleven inches, another one of Fawkes's feathers.

The globe made a sulky kind of sound before slinking off. Harry chuckled and sank back in his chair.

Over the past week or so, he'd become rather… fond of the Sounding Globe. In fact, it reminded him of a milder version of Snape. His mind went back to the third "lesson" he'd had with the potions master, when he'd been first introduced to this new usage of the Sounding Globe as a stalker of types…

"I see that the muscle restorative potions has helped you recover some of that famed seeker grace," Snape sneered after Harry successfully managed to grab the Sounding Globe, which had been floating under one of the hospital cots.

Harry just held out the globe, waiting a bit apprehensively. He couldn't tell if Snape was in a bad mood and preparing to maim him with his words or was just being Snape, but when the globe was plucked out of his hands without another barb or insult, Harry breathed a small sigh of relief.

Between the first lesson with the unexpected apology and the second lesson, Harry had alternately floated in a daze of bewildered happiness and fretted in bouts of trepidation, wondering: what now? Their second meeting had been stiff, and Snape's snide, cutting remarks had remained unchanged, but Harry had the lurking feeling that the malice Snape projected was more for show or out of habit than in sincerity, but then that little feeling might simply have been his wishful thinking.

Snape had been right about the effectiveness of his potions. Of course, there were times that Harry felt as though he were nothing but a walking bag full of those simmering potions, but he was able to walk around and breathe in deeply without keeling over from exhaustion or dizziness. It surprised him pleasantly. His hearing, too, had improved, as had his sense of smell and touch.

Part of his success at hunting down the globe, Harry knew, lay not only in his improved physical condition, but in repeated practice. Snape had left him the Sounding Globe when he had left, and whenever Harry's mind slipped into the dangerous direction of brooding, he'd take out the globe, stumble over to Madam Pomfrey so that she could activate it, and spend the next hours either hunting for the elusive sphere or simply listening to the noises it made. It amused him that, in the end, the globe would always dwindle down to making the sounds of bubbling cauldrons and simmering draughts: a byproduct of staying too long with Snape, Harry supposed.

"Potter! Are you paying attention?"

Harry nodded, a bit guiltily, flinching only slightly.

"As I'm sure you're aware, Potter, you are currently the most wanted person in Britain," Snape lectured, "and by a force much more menacing than the Ministry." Harry listened to the sharp tap of Snape's shoes as he paced the infirmary floor. "There will be those who will try to exploit your current state and attack you on unawares. Tell me, Potter, without your sense of sight, how will you detect your enemies?"

Harry frowned and composed his answer in his head before replying. "Hearing, and maybe smell." He thought back to how he had felt magic—in the potions coursing through his veins, or the Patronus charm, when he had been summoning power from the core pulsing inside him. "And… perhaps I can sense their magic, sir?"

"So you are not completely useless," Snape muttered, and Harry had a brief moment of blank surprise and unwonted joy: coming from Snape, it was actually quite a compliment. "I will activate the Sounding Globe, and it will imitate an enemy. It will attack you intermittently when you are unaware. It will be your task to detect its presence and attack magically it despite being blind."

Harry nodded. One thing he was grateful for was Snape's blunt reference to his being blind. It had struck him at first with bitter hardness, but now it rolled over him as easily as commenting that he had black hair or that he was rather pale. He was glad of it, for the delicate euphemisms and careful lack of reference to his blindness would only have made him hate himself all the more.

"How am I to magically attack it, sir, if I don't have my wand…

He barely finished when he felt something prodding his hand. He flinched and shifted away, heart speeding up.

"Take it," Snape snapped, but lacked the sharp edge. "It will not bite you, Potter."

Harry obeyed, albeit reluctantly, and grasped the stick… He felt a rush of familiarity and he lifted the wand in the air disbelievingly. "Professor… Is it—I—"

"Professor Dumbledore saw to it to have your wand replaced as soon as possible," Snape drawled. "Apparently, he thought that you might need it."

Harry nodded. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling oddly warmed by the fact that Snape had given him his new wand.

"Don't thank me," Snape snorted. "Thank the headmaster."

Dumbledore. Harry felt the old pang of betrayal and anger, but it was faded, like the rumble of distant thunder. Straying into his mind this time was an image of the old man—weary and tired and… old. With a tear sliding down his long, crooked nose and into his snowy beard…

Just then, he heard something approach like the shuffling of gentle footsteps. He stiffened before he felt a zap tickling his neck—

He gasped and scrambled away, nearly tumbling over and sprawling onto the floor.

"That, Potter," Snape said archly, "was the Sounding Globe. I warned you that it would attack you, just like the enemies will."

Harry continued rubbing the spot on his neck. It didn't hurt, but the suddenness of the touch and the intimacy of the region… It brought back the hands all over again.

"I don't see how I can keep part of my mind concentrated on detecting it if I'm to do anything else, sir," Harry muttered warily, half his mind spent on listening, sensing…

"It is a skill you will have to learn, Potter!" Snape barked and Harry gritted his teeth so as not to cringe. "It is not that difficult. With so many attempts on your life, I'm surprised you haven't learned it already."

Harry ignored the vibe, concentrating on detecting the presence of the Sounding Globe.

"In the meantime," Snape continued, "I will distract you. In real situations, you will not have your entire mind devoted to avoiding someone trying to kill you. It will need to be an instinctive response, much like how you would respond if felt something gold and fluttering next to your face…

A Snitch, Harry thought, longing overwhelming his heart, and he could almost see it again—darting to and fro, whirring just behind his fingertips—

He jumped and gasped again as something ran across his face. He felt the zap, this time on his throat.

"Potter!"

Harry cringed. There was no shred of nicety in Snape's voice, and the touch of the Sounding Globe across his face, and feeling something touch his neck… It brought back the hands: in the cell, clamming and leaving trails of numbed flame; Vernon's, smearing roughly, pushing the filth into his skin, into him…

"Even blind—especially blind—this should not be too difficult!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry whispered with difficulty, trying to steady himself. He swallowed, and shakily extended his senses again, his mind coherent enough to be slightly surprised and greatly relieved that Snape didn't make another caustic comment. Another one and I'll probably become a shaking, sniveling wreck again… he thought, hating himself for it. I wonder—I wonder if it'll be like this with all the others—with Ron, and Hermione… He didn't know if he could bear it if everyone orbited him, circling timidly, leaving him to drown in the numbness…

A soft breathing sound behind him, and he reacted without thinking—he jerked, pulling his legs together and arms to his chest and one hand clenching his wand jabbing fiercely at the sound and hoarsely shouted the first spell that came to mind—"Expelliarmus!

A jolt of magic, and then a whirring sound. Did I get it? Harry wondered, tensed and wand at ready.

"Not a completely hopeless attempt, Potter," Snape sighed, voice surprisingly lacking any spite or venom. "Your aim, however, is pitiful."

Harry smiled to himself at the memory. To aim, he really only needed to remember not to panic and to listen to his instincts (which he felt were quite trustworthy despite Snape's sneers), so he had learned how to aim quite quickly. But not a minute after he'd managed his aim to Snape's satisfaction, the potions master had set the Globe off to attacking him at random intervals without respite while distracting him with comments that were impossible to ignore.

That lesson had been very difficult, and Snape had to bark at him continuously to keep his mind from gravitating to solely focusing on the globe. Between Snape's rising voice and the globe's sharp zaps, the hands began to creep into his mind, and in the end, he cringed even when Snape had told him in a remarkably soft voice that their lesson would be cut short. He had spent the rest of the day scrubbing himself raw in the healing spa.

But overall, Snape had been startlingly pleasant.

During each of the lessons—which went on for hours (did Snape really have nothing else to do? or was it just Dumbledore? Harry didn't think it likely that Snape would spend that much time with him on his own volition)—Snape had been surprisingly tolerant and, Harry admitted, long-suffering. He could often hear the impatience in the potions master's tone, and part of him never ceased to cringe, but the impatience rarely spilled into cruel snarls and jibes. At times, Harry almost found himself looking forward to the potion master's company. Though the Sounding Globe helped keep his mind off the past or the future, it wasn't precisely human company.

A year ago—a month ago—he would have said that Snape wasn't much of human company either, but it was different now. Perhaps it was because the potions master never allowed any awkward pauses to form when referring to Harry's blindness and fate as Voldemort's "most wanted;" perhaps it was because Snape could be—if you looked for it from the right perspective—dryly and wryly and darkly humorous; or perhaps it was because Harry knew Snape had faced darkness before, and suffered from it, and understood. Compassion without compassion, understanding with silence…

Or, perhaps, it was just the silent knowledge that Snape was his father. Family, a voice breathless with longing whispered inside him before he managed to shut it up. There was no point in hoping for hopeless things.

He heard a knock at the door.

"Harry?"

Harry frowned a moment as he attempted to recognize the voice. It wasn't Snape's, and it was a man's…

"Harry, are you in there?"

"Remus?"

"Harry! Can I come in?"

"Of course."

What's Remus doing here? Harry wondered, but only briefly as he groped and found the Sounding Globe and swiftly deactivated it. He can't have told, can he? he thought with a sudden burst of fear.

He opened the door. Remus was standing just in front of him, and Harry could feel the man, sense with vague familiarity the warmth and the faintly smell the somewhat wolfish scent. He stepped back. "Come in."

"Haven't been here in a long time," Remus murmured.

He seems to be moving very hesitantly, Harry thought before the answer came to him. "Oh, I forgot," he muttered. Stupid Potter. "You'll want light, won't you?"

"Er—yes. Please."

Harry moved to the curtains, feeling the warmth through the fabric. He drew them open, enjoying the sensation of sunlight falling over his face… He pushed open the window a crack and took in a deep breath of the fresh summer air that slipped in.

"So Harry," Remus said. Harry heard a rustling of cloth and then the sound of a mattress creaking slightly; the werewolf must've seated himself on a bed. "How are you? Is everything going all right with Professor Snape?"

Ah. So someone told him about that. "Perfectly fine, Remus." He thought back to those first few times he'd actually had a conversation with Snape that didn't consist entirely of barbs and half-hearted insults, and didn't involve him listening warily, ready to fling up his defenses.

"But, professor, doesn't the effect of the fluxweed negate the leech juice?"

"Not if you dilute the fluxweed in monkshood extract. Tell me, again, Potter, what properties does the monkshood have?"

"Monkshood… It's an external painkiller, and magically dulls the effects of curses and hexes—oh, so those virtues of the fluxweed become negated by the monkshood, leaving behind its ability to dull positive spells, such as Cheering Charms."

"Correct. Now explain how the effects of adding mandrakes."

"Mandrakes by nature revert transfiguration, but some forms of transfiguration are bound by dull, positive spells that hinder the mandrake's effectiveness. So the"—a sound somewhere far off, several beds down, like muffled footsteps—his wand darted out and—"Stupefy

Harry, his wand still leveled in the direction of the sound, heard the Sounding Globe bounce off the cot and onto the ground with grim satisfaction.

"Much better," Snape said, sounding aloof and unimpressed.

Harry suppressed a grin. It wouldn't do to let Snape see him smiling. "About the mandrake's reactions with the fluxweed, sir…

They had slipped into a routine of sorts. While Harry awaited the Sounding Globe's attacks, Snape would distract him with, of all things, discussions about the rudiments of potion making. (It had been a last-ditch attempt on Harry's part to find some common ground, and he was surprised it had worked.) Harry found that, combined with his newfound patience and Snape's constant and much-appreciated attempts to curb his temper and hostility, their talks did not to sink into insults and barbs. It was—a very new sensation, holding a decent conversation about potions, and a decent conversation about potions with Snape, of all people. True, their conversation wasn't exactly amiable—it was academic at best—but… It was not an unpleasant feeling. He savored it cautiously.

Before he could stop himself, he wondered, wistfully, if this was what it was like to converse with one's father…

"We do fine, Remus," Harry replied.

There was a moment of silence. "Really," said the werewolf in a disbelieving tone.

Harry smiled faintly. He ran his fingers over the wall until he reached a bedpost, and, gripping it, sank onto a bed. "You seem to have some doubts."

"Well, considering your—er—opinions about your Occlumency lessons last year…"

"Last year was last year," Harry cut in. Last year, he thought, was a haze. It seemed to be from another era, another age, and yet it was so absurdly close. Was it only just a few months ago? "We managed to absolve some of our differences this time. He… we apologized."

"He did?" Remus sounded incredulous.

Harry's lips quirked into a smile. "Yes. Remember I told you how I went into his Pensieve? I apologized for that, as well as for being disrespectful to him at times, and he apologized for being… well, just being…"

"Snape."

Harry chuckled. "You can say it that way."

"Well. I'm glad. It's just a bit… surreal…"

Harry let his lips curve in a faint smile. "Don't worry, we still have our arguments and quarrels…"

"Take it, Potter."

Harry felt something press into his hand. It was their sixth or seventh lesson, and after ruthlessly supervising Harry's practice with the Sounding Globe while discussing the finer aspects of potions (potions was actually pretty easy once he understood the basics of magical reactions), the potions master had unceremoniously stuck something into his hand.

Harry took it hesitantly, wondering what it was. It seemed to be a stick of sorts, though much larger than his wand, with a slightly knobby head that fit well into his grip if he held it pointing to the ground; it was not heavy, but it felt solid. And magical.

"What is it?"

"A cane, Potter," Snape replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"A—cane?" Oh. Well, of course—it was rather obvious, now that he thought of it.

Snape sighed. "Yes, Potter, a cane. You will be leaving the hospital wing today for your dormitory, where you will spend the rest of the summer."

"I—" Harry stopped and smiled, the muscles on his face stretching from the unfamiliarity of the expression. "Finally."

"Yes. Finally," Snape commented dryly. "Follow me, Potter. You still have to learn how to move around properly outside the confines of the hospital wing."

Harry followed.

A quarter an hour later, Snape was busy diffusing his impatience through heaving big sighs. Harry bore it as best he could.

…never lose your head, Potter, and I told you—feel with your feet and your cane and your arms!"

Harry clenched his jaw, berating himself for not being able to do something so simple. Though he managed easily to walk with the posture Snape had described, it was difficult to keep up with the pace Snape had set and not walk into a suit of armor, or freeze suddenly in the middle of the hall in blank confusion, or trip over his own feet. A part of him was peeved more at Snape than at himself, and last year, he knew he would be up in arms and sulking sullenly—last year, he wouldn't even be considering conversing with Snape, but now—it was all different. That part of him was small and insignificant. And Snape was his father.

"Here we are," Snape muttered, sounding as though he were eying something with distaste. Harry heard the Fat Lady gasp and whisper something to herself. "Tea," Snape snarled.

Harry carefully followed Snape in the common room and up the stairs. Navigating was much easier here, and the air felt cozier than out in the halls. He let a small smile form on his face.

"This way," the potions master growled, voice filled with faint disgust. He really doesn't like the Gryffindor tower, Harry thought with some amusement.

They found the seventh year dorms, which were guarded by a password during the summer (tea, yet again), and Harry settled in with a melancholy smile. Though it felt a bit liberating to be free of his oversized clothes and robes and books (if he looked at it from the correct perspective), they were also his memories, his past, down to the dingiest of socks, and the loss of those little things, so unappreciated, suddenly hurt just as much as the overwhelming prospect of never being able to see. He was alone with nothing more than his hospital robes, his wand, and his cane He moved his hand over the cane, down the side as Snape told him something about Dumbledore wanting him down for dinner, and felt an embossed 'S'…

"Professor?" Harry said hesitantly, when Snape had stopped talking. "Is this cane yours?"

A pause. "It was my cane. I am letting you take possession of it."

"Oh." Snape (my father, he thought) had given him something: him, Harry Potter, and something that wasn't potions related or spiteful or despicable. He suddenly felt almost afraid to touch it. " Thank you."

"Think nothing of it, Potter," Snape said curtly, dismissively. "It is merely a forgotten relic that has been in my family for far too long."

Frowning, Harry extended his senses, pouring them into the cane. There was something about it—a feeling of importance, of ancient magic…

A strange feeling stirred in his chest. He had been given something from the Snape family: a gift from father to son. Snape is my father, Harry thought again, and then the notion—which had been at first detestable, miserable, then merely overwhelming, and finally bearing the barest hints of delicate hope—suddenly became frightening. It was like a bubble he didn't dare breathe on for fear of popping.

He remembered his promise to Remus to tell. Not now, his mind shouted frantically, and the fear became realized: what if he hates me again? He hated me, and perhaps maybe he does not hate me so much anymore, but he surely would once I tell him. And what could he want from me—a freak, a disgusting, blinded useless thing that a mass murderer wants to kill?

"I couldn't accept it, sir, if it's a thing of value," Harry protested, forcing the words out from the knot in his throat. And it was a thing of value—what he felt told him as much.

"I have no time squabbling with you, Potter," Snape growled. "This may once have been something of value, once, but it hardly is now. Take it."

Tell him, a little voice hissed, but he took no heed of it.

"But if it's an heirloom to—to your family, I couldn't accept it—for your children, your fami—"

"TAKE IT, POTTER!"

Harry cringed, blood pounding in his ears as Snape stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut with a frightening bang! Harry's mind darted like a terrified rat, sobbing through the dull ache behind his eyes—what did he say? what had he said wrong? He struggled to keep the hands at bay—

And then he felt the globe too late, felt its presence, and suddenly felt its zap tickling him too close to his neck—

He gasped and fell to the bed, shivering, still wondering helplessly what had he done, what had he said, why?…

Harry's smile faded at the memory.

"Harry?"

Harry shook his head a bit. "Yeah?"

Remus's voice was hesitant. "You looked like you were thinking of something."

Harry swallowed and tilted his face away from the werewolf. "I was."

Snape was still Snape, and their… truce was shaky at best. But, to Harry's shock, Snape hadn't let it shatter. In fact, though Harry could never be sure, Snape seemed at times to express wordless apologies. Harry was equally sure that Snape would deny it if he was confronted with it. He stored these subtle acts in his head to analyze (in favor of brooding over his past and future). They made him wonder about the enigma that was Snape, about this man who was a mean, unfair git, who was brave and cunning and a masterful spy, who was his father…

He still remembered what happened after what he called the "cane" incident…

Much later, after sitting on the bed for what could have been minutes to hours to days, Harry shuddered and decided that he wanted food slightly more than he wanted another vigorous bath. He hesitated a moment before he picked up the cane and made his way outside the dormitory. He was still shaky, and almost fell down the stairs when his left leg— the shorter one—gave out under him.

As he made his way down the stairs, he turned his thoughts resolutely away from all things Snape. A bitter laugh bubbled up in him. Tell him? Tell him?

He paused outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, and then moved down a bit when she began whispering. ("Look at him, Violet! Who is he… "The poor dear, he's—he seems to be—" "You don't say!") Where to? The Great Hall for dinner? He tapped his way to one of the windows and stuck out a hand. It was cool outside, nearing evening. I must have spent more time in a daze than I thought, he mused.

Deciding to head to the Great Hall and catch dinner, he summoned every memory of Hogwarts that he had, hoping he wouldn't get lost or meet Peeves, or anyone else for that matter. The thought of actually meeting people again made him want to flee back to the Gryffindor tower, but—that was ridiculous. He told himself firmly, or as firmly as he could manage, that he'd have to face people someday, and today was just as good as any other. He was quite surprised at the ease with which he found his way down the stairs and through the corridors to the Great Hall. It was almost as though the castle was gently guiding him, though perhaps it was just his fanciful thinking.

He could hear chattering already as he descended the stairs leading to the Hall. Hagrid's guffaw he readily identified, as well as Albus Dumbledore's amused tones; as he lingered in the entrance, he caught McGonagall's clipped voice asking for Professor Sprout to pass the salt. He didn't hear Snape, but then again, he doubted Snape talked much at meals, if the potions professor was indeed there…

And then, all at once, they hushed. Harry winced, the tapping of his cane suddenly thunderous to his ears. They must've heard me, he thought, his back stiffening even more. He fixed a vaguely pleasant expression on his face before reaching the bottommost step.

He paused a moment, then said quietly, "Good evening, Professors."

The hesitant murmur of replies washed over him. All right, so perhaps coming down wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought tensely. Where to sit?

He wavered where he stood, leaning towards moving to sit at Hagrid's end, when suddenly he heard the sound of chairs scraping and people getting to their feet— Footsteps approached, the rustle of robes, voices telling the poor dear to sit here—

He stiffened and took a step back—

"Don't touch him," snapped a voice.

Snape.

Harry froze, listening to someone's huff. Dimly, he was aware of Madam Pomfrey's voice muttering about how Harry really should not be out of bed at all, but he ignored it as he hesitated in a moment of balance. Then, from where Snape was sitting, he heard the sound of a chair being slid out. There was an uncertain lull in the babble.

He brushed his fingers over the chairs until he found the empty one Snape had pulled out, and he felt his way down to the cushioned seat before slipping into it. He was still remembering Snape's sudden, harsh yell in the dormitory and the quivering numbness that followed as he murmured, "Thank you, Professor."

"Eat, Potter," he muttered coldly.

Harry turned to his food, hand wandering over his plate, to the knives and forks and spoons… Can't they just stop staring? he wondered irritably. The tension was so thick he could feel it closing in on him like the confines of a coffin. Hands flitted back and forth at the edges of his senses. His own hands clenched around the silver cutlery, and he found that he was unable to raise them.

"Minerva, may I inquire as to what on Potter's plate interests you so much that you insist upon staring at it the way a starving alley cat would eye a bowl of milk?" Snape queried icily.

There was a rather shocked silence as the sound of clattering silverware abruptly faded. Harry suppressed a smile. Some of the tension lessened. Almost instinctively, he shifted towards Snape's voice, and he raised his fork and tentatively prodded at whatever was on his plate.

The Transfiguration professor sniffed. "Really, Severus, must be you be so odiferous?"

Harry felt a flicker of warmth curling inside him as he carefully scooped a spoonful of what he found to be mashed potatoes into his mouth, making sure none fell over his robes (still hospital robes: Harry supposed that Dumbledore didn't take the liberty to buy him any new ones as nobody knew his size, not even he himself). The silence reigned again, broken only once by Dumbledore's cheerful comment on how delicious the pork was, but Harry ignored the edgy quiet. He spread out his senses, listening to the clink of silverware, hearing the sound of carefully muffled chewing. I wonder what Snape is doing, he thought. Probably glaring at anyone who dares look his way, or my way… The thought poised, delicate: his father, watching out for him… Stop it, Potter, he snapped, shaking his head minutely. Don't be more of a pathetic idiot than you already are. He remembered how Snape had abruptly shouted at him only a few hours ago, and he speared at something on his plate and lifted it to his mouth, but his appetite was suddenly gone.

"So, ah—Harry," Hagrid called, sounding rather nervous. Harry turned in the direction of the half-giant. "Ah—how're ye doin'? I mean—how—how're you—erm—getting along, being—being"—Hagrid sounded rather panicked now, and the clattering of silverware had utterly stilled—"ah—being—"

"Blind, you mean?" Snape suggested with the warmth of an icicle.

Harry couldn't help but smirk slightly, wincing only a little for Hagrid's plight. He heard someone choke while swallowing, obviously shocked at Snape's bold statement… And he became vaguely aware of something straying at the edge of his senses, a thing of familiar magic that made the sound of heavy breathing as it approached…

Hagrid sounded extremely flustered. "I—ah—wouldn't 'ave put it that way, but—er—"

"Stupefy!

Harry heard a shriek and the uniform clatter of silverware (though noticeably not Snape's), but he paid attention only to the sound of the Sounding Globe clattering down the steps. He listened to it roll across the Hall, and he reached out his cane into nothingness—then felt the ball smack into his cane and spiral away towards his legs.

A stunned silence followed.

"Your aim has improved, Potter," Snape commented coolly.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said with equal coolness, though inside he was smiling like a demon. The memory of what had happened in the seventh year boy's dormitory and the numbness that followed receded even more. And, though he quickly tried to do away with the thought, he fancied that perhaps Snape, his father, was also smiling in secret…

"I suppose the headmaster is quite pleased that the two of you have set aside your differences?"

"Actually, I haven't seen Professor Dumbledore at all lately," Harry replied, grateful that Remus had changed the subject. "I'd have thought he'd take this opportunity to see me a bit more and try to ask me about what had happened…"

An uncomfortable silence drifted down.

"Well—I'm glad that you and Severus have learned to not attempt to strangle each other, at least," Remus said as lightly as he could. "As long as you two don't blow up on each other like you did last year…"

I wouldn't count on that, Harry thought dryly, a bit annoyed that Remus was getting back to talking about Snape, as yet another incident came to his mind…

Harry wandered around the dungeons, wondering where Snape was. It was rather early in the morning, yes, but it wasn't terribly early, judging from the temperature of the air and the feel of the sun slanting on his face, and he was pretty sure Snape would be up and about by now. Harry had spent the previous night eating alone under Snape's watchful eye instead of suffering another long evening at dinner with the other teachers. Though it had been rather amusing at times, Harry admitted. He also admitted that he probably would not have survived it if Snape had not been there to cut down every clumsy attempt at sympathy. The thought of them all querying if he, the poor dear, were fine, if he needed rest—hearing all the hushed conversations that would not be quiet enough and the stony, awkward silences and the false attempts at levity (for who could be blithe when their precious Boy-Who-Lived is blind?)—the thought of them gripping his arm as they tried to guide him along as though he were some useless cripple—the thought of being touched—

He wouldn't have been able to stand it.

Now where is Snape? Harry wondered irritably, casting a wide-ranged stunner Snape had taught him last night at the Sounding Globe (which rolled halfway down the corridor before stopping and beginning to float again). He began to clamber out of the dungeons and up to the Great Hall when he heard staccato footsteps coming his way.

He needed to wait only a moment before the voice came as well. "Potter!"

Harry couldn't help but cringe slightly at the sharpness in the voice. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd heard it.

"Professor, I—"

"Get out Potter."

Harry's first instinct was to meekly obey, but he frowned. The potions master sounded rather breathless, as though he—

"Potter! Are you deaf as well as blind? Get out!"

Harry flinched. Something's up with him today, Harry thought shakily. But—despite the alarms that were screaming in his head—he didn't leave: there was something about Snape that he had to know—

"Potter, I have repeated myself twice and I will not repeat myself again," Snape hissed in a dangerously low tone. Harry swallowed, but cast his mind about—where had he heard this tenor, this tone—"Leave. Now."

The answer clicked just as Snape moved—"You're hurt!" Harry blurted out in realization, taking an involuntary step back. "Sir," he added much more quietly.

A definite pause. "It does not concern you," Snape snarled at last. "Go, Potter, while I can still restrain myself from—"

"Was it Voldemort, sir?" Harry asked quickly. Blood pounded in his veins. He hadn't felt anything at all—not even a twinge in his scar—and because of this inactivity, he'd become numbed. He'd almost, almost managed to forget, or at least learn not to think about it, but this sudden reminder sent chills of dread racing down his spine—

"DO NOT CALL HIM THAT!"

Harry backed away from Snape's furious, advancing voice so quickly that he stumbled and knocked his head on the wall. Stars burst across his vision, and in that terrible moment, he was in the cell again. The cold stone floor pressed against his shivering back, and a hand, clammy and cold and forceful and ruthless, grabbed him roughly—he uttered a high, keening sound, and the hand left…

The sounds oscillated into focus. Someone was calling him.

"Potter?" The voice sounded ragged, and it held something that he had never heard in that voice: worry. He realized a moment later, that it was Snape. "Potter!" A pause. "Po—Harry."

Harry froze, unable to believe it. Snape had called him by his first name. Never had this happened before, never, never… The thought brought waves of hot and cold swirling through him. He felt like a deer in the headlights of a rapidly approaching truck. His heart was pounding relentlessly, and he was a little breathless from disbelief, wonder, and fear.

He took a sharp breath when the silence stretched too long, and whispered, "Professor?"

A rustle of cloth. "Potter," Snape muttered coldly, from somewhere far above him.

Harry swallowed and got numbly to his hands and knees. He had dropped his cane somewhere and he began to grope around, for the first time since their first lesson feeling acutely humiliated and… useless. The ice in Snape's voice cut through him and had frozen that little something that had not yet dared to grow. Useless, stupid, idiot, he berated himself as he finally found his cane and climbed shakily, with agonizing slowness, to his feet. He felt a surge of anger. Idiot. Stupid, worthless freak.

He took another deep breath. "I am sorry, Professor," he said stonily. "I'll leave you alone now." He moved in the direction of the Great Hall. Silence followed him all the way.

"Harry? Harry? Has he blown up on you? He should know better, when—"

"I don't think we can't not blow up on each other," Harry interrupted. "Though it's… not the same. Different." Very different. He pushed away the thought and changed the subject. "The professor mentioned a way for me to continue my studies."

The werewolf didn't comment on this abrupt change of subject. "Oh?"

"Yes." The memories came streaming back. "The catch is I'd need a familiar to bond with. Then I can share its eyes to see…"

After he stumbled out of the dungeons, head throbbing and body shivering, Harry discovered another usage of the Sounding Globe. It could play music. The selection, though, was limited to a frenzied rendition of Bach's Toccata and Fugue. He let it play, the organ notes swirling around him. The melodies became solid in the darkness, and he felt them lithe and soaring, harsh and cold as he floated on his numbness.

He almost didn't hear the door open, but he did and his wand was out, pointing at the sound.

"Put your wand away, Potter," Snape commanded.

Harry stood still and unmoving for a moment before he obeyed.

Snape made a disapproving sound as he turned off the music streaming from the Globe. "And what if I were an imposter, Potter?"

Harry turned his head away. He felt anger, but the anger was at himself as much as it was at Snape. He was angry with Snape for snapping at him and attacking him as though he were a worthless punching bag, and he was angry at himself—and hated himself—for being weak. But as strong as his anger was, it was far less than last year, and the feeling of emptiness was just as strong. Just go away, he thought dully.

"I had nearly forgotten that this globe could play music," Snape said blandly.

Harry remained unmoving.

There was a long pause. "How is your head, Potter?" Snape demanded.

"You are welcomed to assess the damage," Harry said coldly. The damage you caused, he thought, and the words hung unspoken in the air. He clenched his fists in the sheets, readying himself for an onslaught of hateful, cutting words that were sure to come.

"I did not mean for you to be hurt," Snape said instead. He sounded stiff and uncomfortable, and the words came with awkward hesitation.

Harry unclenched his fists at the unexpected words. His anger at the potions master faded. He knew how difficult it must have been for Snape to attempt an apology. He bowed his head. The emptiness seeped through him where the anger had kept it at bay. "I should be the one to apologize," he said bleakly. He hated himself for being weak, and he was still frightened. "I'm—you were in a bad mood, sir, and anyone who had just faced V… the Dark Lord has that right, and I shouldn't have been so—" Weak. Stupid. Clumsy

"Potter…" Snape began irritably but trailed off uncertainly. Harry realized belatedly that this was first time he'd ever heard Snape sound so… speechless. "Don't be so self-centered as to take all the blame for yourself," the potions master snapped at last, though both of them knew that the words were just a thin veneer for things that couldn't be spoken.

"I wouldn't dare, sir," Harry replied anyway in a quiet voice. He found himself slipping into brooding. Self-centered? Blame? They were such a meaningless words. He didn't blame himself. He hated and was ashamed of himself. He couldn't even defend himself against his relatives—mere Muggles who used no magic or guns or knives. And the others—he didn't blame them either. He might have, in the beginning, but all the blame had been beaten out of him until it left only an aching emptiness that reeked faintly of betrayal. They couldn't have known, and they certainly would not have believed it, that he—who had become the emblem of Gryffindor strength—was actually so pathetic, so lonely…

Movement. "Drink this, Potter," Snape ordered, sounding much more like his usual self.

Harry raised his hand hesitantly and felt a vial pressed in his hand. "What is it?"

"Still afraid that I'll poison you?" Snape replied dryly.

Poison. I almost wish it were, he thought with a burst of savage anger. Then he would die and he would be able to forget this nightmare for real, and… That's just stupid, he told himself with a different kind of anger. Stupid and melodramatic and selfish. If he died, the prophecy would be fulfilled, and Voldemort would take over the world. He was just being stupid. Idiotic. Weak. Only the weak sought escape through death.

"Tell me something that only we would know," Harry ordered, surprised at how stern he sounded.

"You confused the magical properties of frog spleen with those of toad liver a few days ago," Snape said after a slight pause.

"Go on. Sir."

"You described a theoretical potion based on the properties of mandrake extract and bundimun, and though the premise was passable, your later assessment of the addition of newt eyes was nothing short of abysmal. Enough, Potter?"

Harry's heart lightened as he remembered the conversation that they had had. "Yes, sir. Thank you," he added as an afterthought.

"Drink it, Potter," Snape repeated, sounding impatient. "I didn't stand the Spanish inquisition for nothing."

Harry smiled slightly and obeyed, tossing the potion to the back of his throat so he would not have to taste it if it was disgusting (it wasn't, though there was a bitter tinge to it). He felt the potion slide down his throat and spread through his body like sunrise.

"What is it?"

"That is something you should know from your first year," Snape said with a faintly martyred air.

Harry blinked. "I…

"In that potion, I have captured the senses. It is the Claresco Elixir—a potion to enhance your senses of smell, hearing, and touch."

Captured the senses… "Oh." He let a smile spread across his face. "I remember now. Though it was buried a bit under your words about me being the 'newest celebrity.'"

He stopped, fearing that perhaps he had gone too far.

"Don't even try to deny it, Potter," Snape replied in a dry, faintly mocking tone instead of the poisonous hiss as Harry had feared. "Half the class was staring at you, not paying attention at all. The other half was pretending not to stare at you and failing miserably."

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. The moment the unfamiliar sound rolled out of his lips, the butterflies returned to his stomach, and he feared that Snape would leave, or snap, or cut him to pieces with his tongue.

But it didn't happen.

"Thank you, Professor, for the potion," he said after a pause. He could feel the potion's effects already: Snape's breathing was suddenly louder, he could hear the Sounding Globe making little squelching sounds from a corner in the ceiling, he could feel each thread in the sheets under his hand… "How long does it last?"

"Permanently. There is a potion with reverse effects: the Exsurdo Draught, though I hope not to be forced to brew it for you in the near future…

Harry shook his head. "No, I was merely wondering. Thank you very much. It's very effective."

"Of course," Snape said archly. Harry let a smile form on his face, though he was still a little nervous about doing so. The old Snape would have been flung into the darkest of moods upon seeing Harry smiling, and this man in front of him wasn't not the old Snape; they were still the same person, just changed, as he had changed. It was still strange and he still wondered at the fact that he was having a civil conversation with Snape—his father—and part of him warned him that he was looking for things that didn't exist, that he was worthless and his precious hopes were a fool's dreams, but he couldn't help but feel his heart lighten and the darkness recede.

"Now with that out of the way, we shall continue your lessons, Potter. I will be telling you today of a way in which you might be able to see—not with your own eyes, but with another's."

Harry froze as he considered Snape's words. "Another's eyes?"

"Yes, Potter. It is the Fidelis Animalis Ritual. It will allow you to see through the eyes of an animal familiar that you have bonded with."

"Bonded…

"A magical connection, Potter."

"Yes, sir, I know, but—"

Snape grumbled something about having to explain even the basics. "If you invest enough emotion in some sort of pet, Potter, and if that pet invests enough emotion in you, a bond will form. The Fidelis Animalis Ritual operates on the magic in the bond and allows you to see through your familiar's eyes—given that your familiar can see, of course."

Harry nodded in understanding.

Snape's next words sounded resigned. "I expect the headmaster will let you loose to Diagon Alley sometime after term begins so that you may pick for yourself some kind of animal, Potter…

"Hmmm. It certainly has many possibilities. I'd advise you to bond with an animal with good eyesight."

"Yes," Harry replied, "like octopuses."

"Really?"

Harry smirked. "Yeah. Professor Snape briefed me on some of the animals. Octopuses apparently have extremely good eyesight."

"Ah. Pity you're not a mermaid then."

Harry chuckled. A comfortable silence fell between them.

"Harry…" Remus sounded ominously tentative. "Have you… told?"

Harry shook his head, his bubble of contentment now popped. He was hoping the werewolf would somehow forget this topic, though he knew it was impossible. "No. Not yet. I will, Remus. I promised." And I will, he told himself firmly. Someday…

"Harry, the longer you wait, the worse it'll be when they find out."

He sighed. He knew it too, and yet… "It's just that…" He trailed off.

Harry heard the werewolf shift closer and involuntarily stiffened. Remus must've noticed, for he stilled. "I won't lie and say you haven't changed, Harry, but you're still Harry to me, and I'd never just cast you off. And your friends—they'll stay by you, now matter what: Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger… And it hardly matter what the rest of the world thinks, believe me, Harry—"

Harry shook his head. "It's not that," he muttered, wishing Remus would leave him in peace.

"Harry, I'm serious—"

"It's not them," Harry cut in. A silence followed.

"I'm sure… I'm sure Sirius wouldn't have though any less of you, Harry," Remus said softly.

Sirius. Harry felt himself ache. Would Sirius have accepted him? Harry remembered the confrontation at Grimmauld Place between Sirius and Snape and the hatred that had oozed out of both men… But he could also remember Sirius's love, and how the older man would have died readily for him… He'd have accepted me. He would, in fact, have hated Snape all the more for being my biological father, Harry realized, slowly, but… But that would have been the Harry of long ago, the Harry that had hated Snape and would have worked himself into a screaming rage at the potions master for daring to be his father. That Harry was dead. He remembered with painful clarity the tremulous hope he'd felt when Snape had made his apology, the awe that choked him when Snape had given him the cane, the numbness that had swamped him when Snape had shouted at him, the overwhelming solidarity when he had heard Snape's voice begging for forgiveness and release in his nightmares, the aching whenever he thought of that forbidden hope—of Snape—of, perhaps, family…

And Sirius would never have understood. He could hear, so clearly now, Sirius's voice yelling at Harry, demanding what was wrong with him—how could he stand that greasy git?—how could he want that—that bastard as a father? Sirius wouldn't have understood Harry's need. Sirius would have shrunken into himself, turning back into that ragged skeleton, eyes becoming lost and confused and dead, because Sirius would have felt that Harry had rejected him and chosen Snape instead when it was utterly different…

"He wouldn't have," Harry agreed softly. With the Harry Potter of old, he wouldn't have… But he kept his thoughts unsaid. Sirius was dead, and if nothing else, he was going to let his godfather's memory rest in peace.

"And it hardly matters what Professor Snape thinks," the werewolf continued. "He won't be able to do anything about it, and I daresay it'll upset him more than it'll upset you."

"Of course," he whispered miserably. The words cut him like a poisoned knife, killing the hope that had just begun to bloom.

Silence.

Don't think about it, Harry told himself, returning to the mantra he'd adopted ever since arriving at Hogwarts. "How was… your mission, Remus?"

"Oh." The werewolf sounded highly uncomfortable. "It was—I was sent to track down the Dursleys."

"…Oh." Harry licked his suddenly dry lips. "And did you find them?"

Before Remus could answer, Harry stiffened at the sound of incoming footsteps, and his wand was out when a voice muttered the password and pushed open the dormitory room.

"Ah—Severus," Remus said politely.

"Lupin," Snape sneered. "Potter, the headmaster desires to see you," the potions master barked. Harry nodded, recognizing the tone. It was the hostile kind Snape adopted by default.

"Yes, sir," he murmured, reaching out and finding his cane. He pushed himself to his feet. He heard a rustle of robes from Remus, and guessed that the werewolf was itching to help.

"The headmaster wants to see you too, Lupin," Snape barked before sweeping out in a snap of black robes.

Harry followed carefully, hearing Snape's nearly silent breaths as he waited for them at the bottom of the staircase. He felt Remus floating near him, and was half-heartedly inclined to tell the werewolf that he was being more of a nuisance than an aid.

"Stop hovering, Lupin," Snape said in a silky, derisive tone. "It doesn't become you." You can always count on Snape, Harry thought wryly, with a surge of timid… fondness, even as Remus's word echoed hauntingly in his ears.

.: 4 :.

They made their way to the headmaster's office, Harry listening more to Snape's sharp steps than the werewolf's muttered instructions. Their route felt alien, though he had known it better than the back of his hand. That, he reminded himself dryly, was when you weren't blind, Potter. He paused for a split second. Not Potter, he thought. Snape. And then, as he began moving again, he changed his mind once more. Not Snape, either, until—unless he… he accepts…

"Oolong tea," the potions master snapped, and Harry heard the heavy thud of stone as the gargoyle leapt out of the way.

As they waited on the revolving staircase, Harry felt the vague tentacles of dread—which he had managed to keep away on their way to the headmaster's office—beginning to wrap themselves around him. Dumbledore wanted to see him: that was never a good thing. They were probably going to ask him about the Dursleys, and—he really didn't want to even think about the Dursleys. They would have found out that Vernon was dead, and the remaining Dursleys would probably have blabbered about how Harry had summoned a snake and…

He really didn't want to talk about the Dursleys.

Snape knocked sharply on the door and Harry heard the slightest groan of the door opening.

"Ah, Severus, Remus, Harry…"

Harry walked, swinging his cane in front of him. While he was still wondering where to sit, he heard a rush of wings and felt something soft and gentle brush him. He tensed, and turned to stone when he felt something pulling through his hair…

But then he heard the song—the phoenix song. Fawkes… The song lapped over him like tranquil waves. He was reminded of the warmth of a blazing fireplace in the dead of winter. The warm winds from the beating of the wings and the trilling seemed to beckon him towards…

He tapped his way across the room and walked into a chair. "Thanks, Fawkes," Harry murmured as he seated himself. He felt talons gently grip his shoulder, and he forced himself not to tense up when he felt something warm and wet drip on his eyelids.

"What's…" He touched his eyes and opened them. Everything was still dark, and some of the wetness touched his eyes…

"Fawkes's tears," Dumbledore explained gently. "I'm afraid they cannot help your sight or the ability for you to produce your own tears, as even phoenix tears cannot bring the dead back to life."

Harry nodded, stroking Fawkes's head. The disappointment didn't hurt very much anyway, he told himself: he knew he wasn't going to see again, even if a persistent tendril of hope refused to die. The phoenix's warmth warded off most of the gloom that had threatened to creep into him. "I understand," he said evenly.

"Lemon drop, anyone?"

Remus politely declined. Harry and Snape remained silent.

Dumbledore sighed. "Ah well. It saddens me how little the world understands lemon drops… Anyway." His voice grew grim. "Harry, Remus completed his mission and successful found the Petunia and Dudley Dursley. From what we've gathered, Vernon Dursley is dead."

Harry nodded, still stroking Fawkes. He remained silent, and his hand trailed down Fawkes's lithe neck and brushed the phoenix's wings before when, with a soft cry, the bird took flight and was gone in a brush of feathers.

"Headmaster," Snape said smoothly, "I hardly see how my presence is required here—"

"Patience, my boy," Dumbledore admonished gently. He continued. "Petunia Dursley seemed… mentally unstable when we found her. From what she and Dudley Dursley said, it seemed that there was a snake involved."

Harry dropped his hand from where he had held it when Fawkes left. "Where did they say they disposed of the body?"

A silence. "Dudley Dursley said that they… that they chopped it off and dumped it into a creek, or a river," Remus said hesitantly, disbelievingly.

That woman who butchered the dead body of her husband, she is my mother's sister, Harry thought, and shivered.

"How did Vernon Dursley die?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry paused to consider how to answer it. He couldn't tell an outright lie without contradicting Petunia and Dudley's testimonies, which were most likely given under Veritaserum. Though he felt the weight of those light blue eyes, they no longer skewered him the way they did before. The impressions and memories of a stern and powerful Dumbledore were juxtaposed by the remembrance of the old man with a weary voice and tear trickling into his white beard. Harry felt a brief urge to stay silent and let the others in the room stew, but another part of him told him to confess, to tell Dumbledore—remember Sirius?—but he also remembered the snake and the words that he had managed to disremember for so long… Slytherin's heir…

"Harry?"

"He was bitten by a snake," Harry replied at last. "A very poisonous snake, apparently. I don't know much more besides that. I didn't summon the snake, or tell it to bite Vernon; it found me, and I know for certain it didn't come from Voldemort, or I'd be dead already."

The others digested the news in silence. Harry felt their stares.

"Are you saying, Potter, that a snake just somehow appeared in your room one afternoon?" Snape asked skeptically.

Harry's stomach began sinking as Snape's voice steadily gain disbelief and contempt. "That's basically what happened, sir," he said quietly.

Snape snorted.

"Severus…" Dumbledore said in a warning sort of tone. Mercifully, Snape stayed silent. "I'd like to ask you one more question, Harry. What was the wandless magic that you performed?"

Harry frowned, casting his mind back to that night… "I think… Alohomora. To unlock my," he gestured at his wrist, "manacles." He wished Fawkes were still beside him, to ward off the memories that were creeping back relentlessly.

"I see. Thank you, Harry… I have here—"

"Headmaster?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Where are the Dursleys now?"

"Safely tucked away in the headquarters," Dumbledore answered. Harry nodded. They were far away from him, far, far away…

Dumbledore sighed. "The reason that I called the three of you here today was for the reading of Sirius Black's last will and testament…"

Sirius's will? Harry drew in a sharp breath, hearing Remus doing the same. Damn Dumbledore for launching it so unexpectedly.

Harry heard a snap of robes. "In that case, then, I hardly see how my presence is required—"

"Oh, but it is, Severus," Dumbledore said gravely. "Sirius requested it, and as his last will and testament, I believe that you should honor it."

"I think not," Snape sneered with barely concealed fury. "I won't stand by and let that mangy mutt piece slander me—"

"Snape!" Remus snapped. "Don't you dare insult Sirius—"

"—while he's too dead for me to retaliate—"

"SEVERUS!"

Harry jumped at Dumbledore's tone. He heard the rustle of robes as Snape stiffly took his seat. Both Remus and Snape were breathing rather heavily, and Dumbledore sounded disturbed as well. Harry felt like a rock at the edge of a sea while a tempest brewed.

"Any questions, gentlemen?" Dumbledore queried. "Good." Harry heard a tapping sound and a muttered incantation before he felt a surge of magic in front of him.

"This, the following, is the last will and testament of Sirius Nigellus Black…" Harry froze at the sound of his godfather's voice (which sounded a bit uncomfortable and pronouncing such formality). When Dumbledore had mentioned the reading of the will, Harry hadn't expected Sirius to read it… The old wound of Sirius's death split open, and he clutched tightly at the cane in his hands. "…in the event of my death or permanent incapacitation, I hereby distribute my possessions as follows: to Albus Dumbledore, I give Number 12, Grimmauld Place for the purposes of the Order of the Phoenix; to the Weasley family, I give twenty-five percent of the gold in the Black family Gringott's vault; to Remus Lupin, I give another twenty-five percent of the gold in said vault, and you are going to accept it, Moony; to Hermione Granger, I give a thousand galleons and access to the Black family library at any time—and to my godson, Harry James Potter, I give everything else that had been mine, including the rest of the gold and stocks tied to the Black family, the estates, the magical artifacts, etc., etc. There's life ahead of you." Sirius's voice became gentler. "Harry—don't think too sadly of me."

Harry nodded and inclined his head, feeling a dull aching at the back of his eyes.

"And Snape." Sirius's tone changed rapidly, sounding contemptuous and angered. Harry could hear the rustle of robes coming from Snape; he was almost certain the potions master was glaring with smoldering hatred at whatever was speaking with Sirius's voice. It seemed terribly petty, Harry thought, arguing with a dead man's memory… "Albus has been trying to convince me to… settle our differences, or so he says." A snort. "As if. But if you're there to hear this, I'm sure you'll be pleased that I'm dead, though you might not be so pleased if you somehow hadn't managed to cause my death, one way or another." Sirius's voice sobered. "But enough of that. I ask you a favor on behalf on James." Harry heard Sirius take a deep breath. "Look after Harry. Remus will do that, and so will Albus, but you're the—the sneakiest git on record, and from what Harry's told me, you're the only one with a chance of keeping him safe. So I'm asking you to look after him."

Harry sat, thunderstruck at Sirius's last request. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation: his godfather tendering a request to Snape? But deeper down, he felt bitter, bitter anguish—Sirius loved him enough to lower himself and ask something of Snape, his mortal archenemy.

"I'm not asking you to do this for me or Dumbledore, but for James. Harry brought this up to Remus and I, and he's right—you're right—James and I were gits at Hogwarts, but that's the past, and he saved your life at the Whomping Willow—don't you forget. And before… before James went into hiding…" There was a pause. "Before he went into hiding, he told me what—what Caius Cinna did to you, and he told me"—Harry felt the tension straining in the air—"that he found you and took you out of there to Dumbledore, so it's a life debt that he holds you doubly to. Honor it through Harry. Don't get me wrong—I know you're still rotten to the core, but I know how these life debts work, and I know how your mind words, Snape, so don't you dare try anything." There was a momentary pause before Harry heard the voice change direction as Sirius addressed him. "Be safe, Harry, and be happy. That's all I ask of you. Good luck."

Silence descended.

For a moment, the only sound was of the gentle tinkling of the numerous contraptions in Dumbledore's office. Then, Harry heard someone stand up and stride to the door—Snape, he realized, recognizing the swift, harsh steps—open it and slam it shut behind him.

Dumbledore sighed.

"That could have gone a bit better," he murmured. "Remus, you may go now. Harry, I'd like to have another word with you."

Remus stood up as Harry's heart clenched with mild foreboding.

"Good-bye, Harry," the werewolf said. "I hope to see you in around a month's time: I've got places to go. Good-bye, Albus." Then he left.

"Professor?" Harry asked quietly. "Who was Caius Cinna?"

Dumbledore sighed. "There are many things, many secrets, that aren't mine to tell. I'm afraid that Professor Snape himself is the only person with the right to tell it."

Harry nodded. He understood what it meant to have certain rights over a secret. And he would respect that, as much as he wished to know the answers. The last part of Sirius's will made little sense to him, and he wanted to know its meaning very badly; he wanted to know why Snape had gotten so angry, because he couldn't—wouldn't believe—or maybe just desperately hoped—that Snape's anger hadn't come entirely from Sirius's request, hadn't come entirely from Snape's hatred of him, Harry…

"There were a few questions I should have asked Professor Snape before he left, but when he is like that, I'm afraid nobody can stop him. Harry… how do you feel about term starting?"

Starting today, in a few hours. He would have to face them—Ron, Hermione, the crowd of whispers and murmurs… He felt his stomach clench with dread. The few hours remaining seemed very short. "It's not a very bright prospect, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You'll do well. Professor Snape agrees. I talked with him, and he told me that he is certain you are prepared for Defense Against Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Charms." Harry blinked in mild surprise and hesitant pleasure. Snape hadn't belittled him and proclaimed an utter failure… But thinking back on the evolution of their "truce" the past week or so, he knew he shouldn't have been so startled; but he couldn't help it. "In Potions, Herbology, and Care for Magical Creatures, however, he mentioned that you might have a few difficulties."

Harry nodded. Half a week ago, Snape had informed Harry of his O.W.L. scores: nine in all, averaging around an E, with the highest score in Defense in the history of the O.W.L.s (even more than Riddle and Dumbledore, Harry had thought dazedly), a shocking O in potions, and a few shameful D's and T's in Divination and History of Magic. Not that he'd been very surprised by those.

"Will I still be having lessons with Professor Snape after term begins, sir?" Harry asked.

"Yes, though of a different nature. Instead of Herbology and Care for Magical Creatures, you will be working with Professor Snape and our newest Defense Against Dark Arts teacher on Dueling as well as with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape in Healing Magic—both very difficult courses, but very beneficial as well."

Harry nodded, summoning his feelings of determination. Dueling and Healing sounded much more useful in fighting Voldemort than Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures. The feelings of determination faded somewhat when he thought back to the Prophecy and how weak and unprepared and useless he really was… "If I may ask, sir, who's the Defense Against Dark Arts teacher?"

"That remains to be seen, Harry. Now, as for potions, Professor Snape agrees to have you in his class, learning the theory if not the practical until you can find a familiar and perform the Fidelis Animalis Ritual."

Harry nodded in agreement.

"Excellent. Now, just one more question: have you felt anything with your scar at all?"

"No, sir," Harry said honestly. It was true: he hadn't felt even the faintest twinges in his scar and hadn't had even the murkiest of visions. The peculiar absence of sensation gave him a queasy feeling. "It's as though Voldemort removed himself totally from me. I even…" he realized something: "don't feel the urges to—harm you, now that I'm near you." Though it might do with the fact that I'm blind…

Dumbledore sounded weary in his next words. "Thank you, Harry. We do not know why Voldemort is so quiet, though we have our suspicions… While I am glad that he has shut himself out from you, I still must ask you to practice Occlumency, and, if necessary, resume lessons with Professor Snape."

Harry nodded. He had practiced Occlumency over the past week, and it had actually been much easier. He had learned the art of numbing himself to the world around him, of setting his soul adrift… Or perhaps it was simply because there was no Voldemort trying to bulldoze into his mind.

"Now, Harry, if there's anything, anything at all that you'd like to tell me…"

The headmaster trailed off.

He's not stupid, and he's not blind, Harry thought. He's bound to have noticed the changes in my appearance. In fact, Harry was rather surprised that none of the other staff had commented upon it—though it was probably because they attributed it to what had happened to him, or were simply too timid or polite or uncomfortable to ask. He wondered, and not for the first time, why Snape hadn't commented, though he was rather sure that it was because Snape simply had not been looking for anything of the sort in his face.

For a moment, Harry just wanted to say a sullen, "No, sir," but he decided against it in a rush of determination. He wasn't going to sulk and hide; he was not going to be weak and pathetic and touchy when his knowledge might be important.

But he still wasn't going to tell Dumbledore—not yet. He wasn't prepared. Dimly, he wondered if he was ever going to be prepared for it.

"There is something, something important, but I can't tell you yet, headmaster," he said at last.

There was a pause. "Very well, Harry. I respect your decision, though I hope that, in due time, you will tell me…"

Harry nodded. "I will." I promised. He stood up. "If that's all, sir…?"

"I will see you at the Welcoming Feast, Harry."

Harry let a wan smile form on his face. He was glad that Dumbledore hadn't pressed him, and felt grateful for it. "And, Professor, if I cannot tell you…" If I die before I can… His mind went back to the statue outside the healing spa. He had returned there several times before moving out of the hospital wing and had learned, via careful tracing of the words carved at the base, the name of the statue in whose hand he'd hidden his mother's letter and Snape's Order pendant. "Then Rosemary Paean can give you the answers."

Before Dumbledore could say another word, he tapped his way to the door, opened the door, and began his way down the stairs.

qpqpqp

The blue eyes watched under heavy eyelids. The mind beneath smiled, though the stony lips remained unmoving.

"Calm down, Hermione. We'll be there soon, and we'll see him…"

"But Ron, he's blind, and from what your mum told us, the Dursleys went over the top being cruel!"

"But he's Harry! He can take anything."

"Do you really think so? Especially after Sirius?"

"Oh shut up, Ginny. D'you think I don't know how my best mate would feel like?"

"But Ginny has a point, Ron…"

"Neville! Don't say you don't believe Harry won't pull through this!"

Fools. All of them, fools.

They are the Potter brat's friends, are they not?

Yesss, Nagini, they are. They are so close…

They will die…

Yes—but not yet. Not when I have to claim what is mine. The Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore must not know.

He will not.

But after—when I gain more power than he could dare to dream… Dumbledore believes that the Potter boy will find strength in his love of these so-called friends of his. The redhead boy. He has thought scars, does he not? They are so easy to twist for anyone who sees them. And his sister… For all her bravado, she is weak. And the mudblood… Perhaps I will slit her throat and send Potter a picture of her after she is dead before I leave Hogwarts. Or perhaps I will send her to Donovan—he knows best of all how to treat filth like her. But I must wait, and bide my time. I will have what is mine—soon…