A/N:
Usual disclaimer still applies. Answers for my reviewers have been
removed for now, as is the policy 'round here. I'll see what I can do
about putting a link to some kind of livejournal account so I can still
respond, though...
In this chapter, Harry formulates his plan to prove the strange, unbelievable truth to himself, once and for all, with disastrous consequences…
Chapter 6: Desperate Deeds
Harry woke abruptly to the sounds of sleepy bustle, which penetrated through the open curtains around his bed. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he dragged himself out of the bed as best as he could, ignoring the rubbery feeling in his arms and legs. Coming upon Ron, he was extremely distressed to find that he could now see eye to eye with him – and Ron had gotten pretty tall over the summer, too…
Harry slipped agilely into the showers, feeling rather hopeless and worn out. As the hot water beat down on him – making him turn automatically to make sure it doused his hair properly – he thought hard about the letter from last night.
Harry began to soap himself down rather angrily. The worst thing about the whole situation now, was that there wasn't really any doubt left – whichever way he looked at it, he was somehow the son of Professor Snape, however skewed James' perception of events could be. Harry carefully washed his hair – miserably thinking it was certainly not going to go away, like he'd once hoped.
What I really need to do now, he thought, is prove the letter right – or wrong. As he got out of the shower, he started to go over the hazy plan in his head.
First order of the day – find the glamour James used. Second order of the day – find the potion that James used. Third order –
No, that was all wrong. Harry dressed quickly and quietly, nodding absently to Ron's cheerful chatter about Quidditch – they had their second and third practices coming up soon, and after that, in a week and a half's time, their first match – against Ravenclaw. Harry really didn't know how he was going to get through all that without solving this whole mess first – he could barely get his head around packing his schoolbag right now, let alone co-captaining the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
It was a sign of Harry's disturbed state that the thought of being Co-Captain of the Quidditch team – with Ron – did not perk him up in the least.
First thing to do – make the Scrire Paternam potion, or find a spell that does the same thing, Harry told himself, moving woodenly down towards the Great Hall. Second thing – show the letter, if it is proved right, to Snape and Dumbledore. He sat down next to Ginny without thinking, and forced himself to continue not to think about – what he'd said last night –
Dean glared at him from beside a sleepy, tired-looking Ginny. Harry only just noticed, his eyes absently moving between Snape and Dumbledore on the staff table.
Third thing to do – find the glamour and the potion that will get me looking back like – my fat- James. Harry tried hard to keep himself from scowling. Really, he could have done perfectly without this sort of problem being added to his already heavy burden of the prophecy –
The prophecy! Harry realised, like he'd done (and forgotten about) at least three times this term. He still hadn't told Ron and Hermione – or even, perhaps, Ginny, or Neville, or Luna…Harry sighed, setting down his fork, feeling overwhelmed. He left the table as quickly as he could – paid for his quick exit by having to endure an overly enthusiastic morning greeting from Romulus Veron – and headed for the secret room he'd found last night. He had some serious planning to do…
"Yes!" Harry pumped his larger fists in the air, almost losing his page in the huge book before him. He swiped long fingers through his sweaty fringe and across his forehead, feeling justifiably pleased with himself.
Looks like someone, or something is finally on my side, he thought fiercely, magically copying out the ten pages of instructions for paternity spells and potions he'd found just after midnight. He checked the time on the clock he'd awkwardly transfigured from a piece of the crumbling headboard of the bed in the secret room, which was looking rather less musty after a series of vigorous cleaning and dusting spells. Harry had torn down the already shaky, broken headboard the night before, frustrated with sitting on the bed, and had carefully searched his transfiguration books for easy ways to conjure chairs and desks. He'd found several, and had found that he could easily make the requisite chair and desk he desired if he just concentrated hard enough.
A low fire was crackling in the dusty grate across from the bed – the wood conjured from the remnants of the headboard – and several library books lay strewn around the room, most of them on Harry's handsome wooden desk. Harry began to reread the copied pieces of parchment he now held, and satisfied himself, once again, that someone was indeed looking out for him.
It had been three or four days since the arrival of the letter, which currently lay open beside Harry's quills and nearly empty bottle of ink, looking rather worse for the wear. In his paranoia, he'd made three more copies, sending one off to Gringotts (after soaking it and Hedwig in protective spells), and keeping the other two hidden in the secret compartments in the bedstead, of which there seemed to be many. The original he always kept on him, and the first copy he kept sealed in his trunk. Harry had employed the last few days as well as he could, pretending everything was alright and going about his normal schedule during the day, and feverishly searching for the spells and potions he needed by night.
Harry rose, stretching and yawning, eyeing the nearby bed forlornly. He'd hardly had more than three or four hours of sleep every night, and it was beginning to show – he always slept during the breaks in his timetable, and struggled to stay awake in Potions and Herbology, which were always boring or easy, though Potions was becoming rapidly less so. Due to his feverish search, Harry found he that knew a lot more about the subject than before, and was even more able to spot his mistakes with the relatively simple potions they encountered during the Advanced class, compared to the mind-bogglingly complicated potions Harry had needed to trawl through.
Professor Snape had also ceased to frighten him as much – after all, it was hard to be frightened of the man you were becoming more and more like every day, and who was almost certainly your father. Snape became increasingly irritated with his placid behaviour in Potions, and now watched him like a hawk, an expression of bewildered anger and resentment almost always on his face. Occlumency, and now, Legilimency, was more of the same, with Snape goading him almost every minute of the time, slipping in snide remarks about his 'father' and Sirius, the former subject making him hard pressed to keep down a smirk, and the latter arousing the heavy ache within him that had increasingly lain dormant.
Harry shook his head, letting his hair fly into his face. Sometimes his grief still ached, but it was now pushed, necessarily, to the background, lost amidst his studying and searching and playacting for his increasingly more relieved friends. Once in a while, though, he'd sit down and let it wash over him, leaving stronger determination in its wake. Harry smiled softly, yawning and packing away his tools for what could be the last time. It was the thought of Sirius that kept him going sometimes, and he was beginning, finally, to be grateful for the short time he'd had someone like that – always on his side, and always behind him…
Before the thought could float around to the nebulous concept of having a father, Harry had cut it off – there would be no pinning of his heart on high hopes like that, until the letter was proved to be solid fact, and given to Dumbledore. And Snape. And then, perhaps, he could let himself hope – just a little, if Snape wasn't too –
Right – upstairs now – Harry cut himself off again, slipping out the door and warding it, like he'd taken to doing, as it was the weakest spot in the wards of the entire room. Slipping carefully and quietly up to his dormitory, he tucked the essential, copied pages under his pillow, warding them before they left his hands, as he'd begun to do, unconsciously, to almost everything he wrote. Stripping rapidly, he fell, unclothed, into bed. There was no time for finding…pyjamas…he drifted off into the waiting ocean in his mind, and promptly fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep, knowing that he'd really begun to solve one, or even two, of his major problems.
Three evenings later, Harry went down for his Occlumency lesson, despite the fact that the Halloween feast was only just winding down in the Great Hall, eliciting sympathetic looks from his friends, which he only ignored. The next day – a Saturday – he had a meeting with Albus Dumbledore, in the morning, ostensibly to give him news on Voldemort's inner workings and the real goings on of the war, as the Daily Prophet only reported the barest details of attacks, and admonished the people of wizarding Britain to arm themselves, skirting the question of what was really happening out there.
Anyway, Harry thought wearily, I'll finally be able to tell him everything I've found…and ask him to help me prove it. For, Harry had taken one look at the Scrire Paternam potion's ingredient list and slew of complex instructions and known immediately that he'd need help to either make it or buy it – it said, unhelpfully, in the book, that it was sold in good apothecaries nationwide. Of course, ordering that by owl or buying it in person was completely out of the question – far too suspicious. So he'd need someone else to make or buy it for him, and Dumbledore could definitely help with that. Harry sighed in relief – it was good to know the problem would soon rest, at least partially, on someone else's shoulders –
"Pay attention, Potter! LEGILIMENS!" Harry started in shock – goodness, he'd not been –
The ocean tried to swirl together over his thoughts, but not before Snape's searching mind viewed the fragment of that thought. Harry jerked, cancelling the spell, trying to slow his heart rate down. He didn't see anything – he'd be frothing by now – calm, deep breaths –
"Potter," came the low, silky menacing tone Snape liked to use especially on him. Harry stilled himself, willing himself not to give away the fact that he'd –
"I saw that, Potter," Snape stepped menacingly forward, glaring down – actually, not so far down – at him. "Do you think this is this some kind of joke, Potter?"
"No, sir," Harry's heart began to thud alarmingly. No –
"What on earth could you need the Scrire Paternam potion for, Potter?" Snape's eyes narrowed threateningly at him, but Harry could see the underlying racing of thought behind that patented glare…Harry hung his head, hoping against all hope that he'd not have to tell him… "Answer me!"
Harry gulped, his hand moving toward the robe pocket where the letter resided, then, when he realised what he was doing, quickly away, but not before the sharp black eyes had seen the movement. "I'm – I'm doing research, sir," Harry came up with. It was true enough –
"Empty your pockets. Now!" Harry shook his head defiantly, backing away, continuing in a lighter tone, hoping to reach the door in time. Snape didn't know what he was hiding, yet – and Dumbledore might not want him to know, anyway –
"It's only research, honestly," he heard himself saying earnestly, "It's late now – I'd better go – " He suddenly dashed towards the door, leaving his bag behind. He'd be telling Dumbledore tomorrow anyway – and his bag was a small loss, it had no –
"POTTER!" Snape's dark form appeared in front of him, his steel grip descending on Harry's left arm. Harry twisted violently, a surge of magic suddenly travelling between him and Snape. "LEGILIMENS!"
A flood of memories seemed to suddenly break loose, swamping the both of them –
…red hair strewn everywhere…
…eyes adjusting dimly to read the messy script on a shrinking piece of parchment…
…a sneer twisting his reflection until he looked like…
…two sweating bodies intertwining, moving again and again…
…red hair poking out of the hood of her cloak, as she left you forever…
…bleary eyes staring hopelessly at the new changes…
…bitter eyes watching a swaggering James showing off his son…
…laughing, intelligent green eyes, shining for him…
…curling up in a ball, clutching the hated letter to himself in a dark, dusty bedroom…
…a rush of fierce joy and determination filling him as he copied the pages of a dusty tome…
"FINITE!" Harry roared, head hurting with the assault. The surge of magic diminished abruptly, leaving the two men panting with exertion, not quite meeting each other's eyes –
"Potter," came the hoarse voice of his Potions Professor. "Give me that letter – now." Harry, still shaking, head still whirling with the onslaught of memories that were not his, reached inside his robes, extracting the original letter slowly. "Now, Potter!"
"Ward the room," Harry replied, stead in determination. At the increasing anger in the black eyes, he shouted. "Do it now! Or I'll burn it…"
"Foolish boy," the irate, wild-looking professor began, but Harry cut him off shortly.
"Do you think I don't have copies?" Snape gave him a look. "Fine – believe what you want. I've got nothing to lose by burning this," Harry waved the letter, "and you know it." A muscle began to tick in Severus' cheek, but he raised his wand, intoning complex words to reactivate the heavier wards on the classroom. As soon as he was done, Harry dropped the letter, rising shakily to his feet – he'd no idea how he'd ended up on the –
"Where do you think you're going, Potter?" Snape spat up at him, eyes still focused on the now even shabbier envelope. "Sit down immediately – "
"Make me." Harry spat back, jerking his bag onto his shoulder. "I read it fine on my own – "
"Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect to a professor," Snape snapped, rising shakily from the floor as well, holding the letter away from him, as if it was something that could explode. "Now sit down." Harry remained mutinously on his feet. "Or remain standing, foolish boy – and you should know better than to think my wards would let you through doors if I wanted you to remain here." Harry dumped his bag unceremoniously on the floor, slumping into a chair as the shaken, still slightly wild-looking professor gingerly opened the letter. Harry stared at his hands while Snape read the letter, feeling completely exhausted.
A small sound made him glance at professor Snape, and wish he hadn't. The man's face had gone a pasty white, save for two violent spots of colour on his cheeks, and he was gripping the large roll of parchment so tightly that he caused it to crumple. Further evidence of Snape's fury could be seen in the glowing, smoking edges of the parchment, as well as in the ominously rattling objects nearby. The burning edges of the letter galvanised Harry into action.
"Hey! Give that here, you'll burn it – " Snape's furious eyes widened as Harry rose and headed to the professor's desk, stretching his hand out for the letter.
"Such concern for this useless drivel, Potter – what about your vaunted copies?" Snape's tone was vicious. Harry reddened as well, but replied defiantly.
"It's the only letter I have from my father, Professor, give it here – "
"Your father?" Snape hissed, leaning forward in his chair. "James Potter was not, and will never be your father, Potter!"
"And where does that leave you?" Demanded Harry, leaning in as well. His face darkened further as he watched Snape splutter in impotent fury. "Right, then – Accio letter – Accio envelope – "
"How dare you?" Snape shouted, rising in his seat. "Repudiate me for that – that – "
"Arrogant scum?" Harry shouted back. "Go on – say it!" He swept angrily back in the direction of his bag, stuffing the letter and its contents roughly in his robes. "I don't CARE! He LOVED me all the same – "
"AS HE LOVED YOUR MOTHER?" Snape roared back, the classroom becoming charged with their collective fury. Harry spun round, eyes blazing.
"And what about YOU? SLEEPING WITH A MARRIED WOMAN - !"
"I GAVE LILY WHAT JAMES COULD NOT – "
"You used her," Harry spat out, shaking. "You didn't love her – just like you'll never love me." Snape spluttered, but Harry cut him off, clutching his schoolbag to his chest shakily. "You're already about to renounce me, aren't you? Aren't you? Don't lie – it's on the tip of your tongue – you fucking hypocrite, punishing me for nothing – " The chairs and desks began to rattle. " – I don't care, anyway. It would never've worked – you'd just use me too – for revenge – against a dead man who doesn't, and will never care!" Harry's voice lowered. "You're pathetic – "
"Don't you dare!" Snape began to gulp and hiss, starting to lose control. "Get out – you worthless boy – not fit to be called my son – pathetic, snivelling thing, aren't you, ranting about love – talking like you know anything about something you've never had in your pathetic, snivelling little life – "
"Fuck you," Harry said, shakily, backing away. "I don't – I don't need this…" He burst out of the classroom then, ignoring the sting of the wards, and the roar that followed him out.
"GET OUT – YOU'LL NEVER BE MY SON - !"
Thirty minutes later, a shaking, shivering Harry Potter snuck into his secret room, not knowing if he could bear to return to Gryffindor tower as shaken as he was. He curled up on the still slightly musty bed, fully clothed, willing his weary, breaking heart and mind to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, an equally shaking, shivering Severus Snape lowered himself into his comfortable bed in his quarters, the soft mattress feeling like stones beneath his quivering body, as he willed himself to sleep, and try to forget the acidic words that had flowed between him…and his son.
"Harry?" He jumped at the soft voice behind him, spinning round. It was Ginny, eyes wide with alarm, looking like she'd just come in from a brisk walk. Harry looked round, a little wildly – Dean was nowhere to be found. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair – carelessly, now, since he had the glamour –
Anger flared violently in him, nearly stripping him of his voice. He'd just come back from an extremely violent session in the Room of Requirement, which he'd desperately needed after the horrible meeting with Dumbledore. Harry blinked, calling up his ocean, trying to momentarily push back the memory of that meeting, so he could actually talk. For a minute, all he could see was that old man, laughing…
"Hey, Ginny," Harry said, desperately drowning the awful, twisting memory in more water. She looked hard at him, eyes squinting.
"Are you all right?" she asked softly, peering at his subtly changed face. There was something different about him, really – as if the angles of his face had just changed – but no, that was ludicrous, this was the same Harry that had emerged that morning, wild from some awful Occlumency lesson with Snape, stumbling incoherently towards the shower, ignoring Hermione's narrowed looks. Harry gulped, blinking hard.
"Yeah," the answer came out weaker than he'd intended, but right now, it was all he could do to keep himself from snapping and starting to pummel the walls with his fists. Perhaps, Harry thought wildly, if I keep talking, I'll calm down.
He did, conversing almost cheerfully with a bewildered Ginny all the way up to Gryffindor Tower, where, unknown to him, Ron and Hermione laid in wait. Ginny talked back easily, not chancing too many questions – she'd been enlisted to find him and bring him back to the common room, along with Neville and a dreamy Luna, who had obviously been unsuccessful. So, all that occurred to Harry, as they climbed into the common room through the portrait door was that it was odd, seeing Luna in there –
"Harry," Hermione called grimly, stalking over to him.
"We've been looking for you for ages, Harry – where've you been?" added a rather huffy Neville, who had just climbed in before then.
"With Dumbledore – and in the Room," Harry said diffidently, starting to edge towards the stairs for the boys' dormitories. He was suddenly feeling strongly like the last thing he wanted to do was talk – about some trivial quidditch match detail, or homework or something – when his life lay in great glass shards around him, knifing him with every step –
"Really?" Ron said, coming up as well. "Neville just got back from there – he said you weren't there – "
"I walked around for a bit, then," Harry snapped back, wondering irritably why on earth Ron was blocking his path to the stairs. "I just went for a walk after letting off some steam, honestly – "
"Where were you last night?" Hermione demanded, her voice raising dangerously. "You didn't even come to bed – "
"Out," Harry snarled back, trying unsuccessfully shove past a determined Ron. "Let me by, Ron – "
"You stay where you are, Harry James Potter!" Hermione began, shrilly. It was entirely the wrong thing to say, Harry still raw from the second shouting match between him and Snape, this time having taken place within Dumbledore's round, welcoming office. He spun on her, furious.
"I'll go where I bloody well want to, Hermione – now get out of the way – " Ron shoved him back, looking just as angry now.
"Don't talk to her like that, Harry – she's just trying to help – "
"You can help," Harry began, his voice low with frightening rage, "by shutting the BLOODY HELL UP!"
The entire common room went silent to watch the brewing storm between the famed Gryffindor Golden Trio, the members of which were now all glaring round at each other.
"All I want to do is help, Harry," Hermione was shrilling back. "You never tell us anything – you're always tired, always sleepy – we all want to know what's going on – "
"And I'm telling you, Hermione, that it's not your fucking business!" screamed Harry, waves of anger and frustration rolling off him. Hermione went red with anger.
"It IS my business, Harry!" she screamed back, her hair crackling with anger. "You're my business just as much as Ron – "
"Oh, save it!" Harry snapped, shoving past a shocked Ron. "I'll never be as important to you as your precious Ronnie!" He began to laugh hoarsely at the twin looks of horror that appeared on the faces of his closest friends. "You thought I wouldn't notice?" His fists curled even tighter, as he leaned into Hermione, starting to spit out his words like they tasted vile on his tongue. "You thought poor, grieving, pathetic little Harry was just too stupid to notice, didn't you – didn't you!" His voice went deathly still. "Well, sorry – I noticed. And I wonder why the hell you still have the guts to tell me I'm your business…You decided your relationship with Ron wasn't my business – I think it's only fair I decide my little secret isn't yours." Harry turned, storming past his gaping best mate, and ran jerkily up the stairs to the boys' dormitories, leaving shocked silence in his wake.
And Hermione, stinging with anger, shame and betrayal, began to cry.
Harry burrowed deeper into the covers on his bed, trying to tell himself that what he'd just done was for the best. He tossed and turned, his robes swirling and tangling round him under the sheets, as he thought miserably of what life would now be like, without Hermione. Thinking irrationally, he believed every word of his awful, hate-filled speech, but, thinking rationally, he knew that a lot of the estrangement between them could be called his fault.
Harry wiped his brow, wearily, wondering for the hundredth time why his false father – he couldn't bear to think of James as anything else any longer, no matter what he said to Snape – had been so stupid. Harry tossed again, his mind whirling, finally allowing himself to remember the meeting with Dumbledore again.
He'd stumbled into the round office at seven in the morning, glad that he could finally tell someone else, only to meet a cheerily smiling Dumbledore, and, standing before him, a similarly shaking, bleary-eyed Professor Snape. The ensuing argument had been brutal and painfully loud, rattling the repaired silvery instruments perched here and there despite the anxious mediation of Dumbledore.
However, once the two angry, dark men had been sullenly seated, Dumbledore's cheer returned in full force. His expression only drooped a few centimetres while he read the crumpled, charred missive of the irresponsible James Potter, filling Harry with incredulous indignation. At least, he'd though angrily then, his father had blown a fuse – storming about the potions classroom and screaming at Harry in confusion – shown some proper astonishment, for Merlin's sake. Dumbledore merely refolded the letter slowly, thoughtfully, agreeing with Harry's tentative plan, and commissioning the Scrire Paternam potion from a seething Snape, just in case – as he'd cheerily said. Then he'd stood a disbelieving Harry up on his feet and carefully reinforced the glamour, leaving him even shakier and angrier than before. The old Headmaster had smiled at the both of them fondly, and told them to leave, and to try and get to know each other better.
Harry had wanted to smash every single one of those spindly instruments again, at that cheery, empty speech, and had only just managed to jerkily betake himself to the Room of Requirement, where he blasted holes in the walls and floors and through random blocks of granite the Room had obligingly provided, screaming the entire time.
It was all just so unfair, being re-glamoured and essentially sent away, to 'go and sin no more'. No real reaction to James' arrogance and stupidity, or to the awful confused story of Lily and Severus. Harry turned over, angry once more. He'd made his way to his secret room and cleaned it maniacally, falling into the well-made, freshly-smelling sheets and sobbing in frustration, thinking over and over again, did he think I couldn't handle the truth? Does he think I'm too young to understand? Did he not feel upset in the tiniest bit – for me?
He'd risen blindly once more, deciding to set out for Gryffindor Tower instead, where his duelling book was, so he could take it to the library and study something, anything to take his mind off this awful state of affairs. Or take his Firebolt out for a swift, dangerous fly to ease the weight of his thoughts –
Harry jumped up now, remembering. He'd just go out for a short flight – he slumped back into his bed, suddenly morose on remembering – no one was now allowed outside alone, least of all him…
Harry got out of his bed anyway, and pulled out his duelling book, which was now nearly full. Better this than nothing…
A/N: (snickers) Sorry, I'm really enjoying being mean to poor old Harry right now – he just seems to have everything happen to him, doesn't he? At least, when I'm mean to him I make sure he can stand up to his circumstances somewhat, unlike many Abused!Harry or Generally-Suffering!Harry fics, where his eyes just shine/glow with determination/nobility/hurt/innocence, and he doesn't do jack st to help his situation but lies down and takes the beating/wrongful imprisonment (which reminds me – I'd like to try my hand at one of those…). No, readers – my Harry is strong, and if I arrange for him to die a horrible death, he'll go, albeit kicking, screaming and cursing. Spectacularly.
