Chapter 3

What he didn't know

"Harry..",- Hermione Granger didn't have the chance to say the next words, but the anxiety in her voice spoke for itself.

"Mione, wadduncha leevem alonefehrunse?",- Ron Weasley backfired as instantly as he could, trying to articulate words through the indecent amounts of toast with marmalade he previously piled into his mouth.

Hermione scowled at his manners and was about to throw a scathing reply, more like a burning arrow into an enemy fortress than anything, judging by her face, when an uncharacteristic sound coming from Harry's place by the table made her forget all the sarcasm and anger. Ron even stopped trying to chew his toast and swallowed loudly, staring at his friend in disbelief.

Harry, who had been continuously jumping at their throats for no apparent reason for the past months, and had kept yelling or hissing (or both at once) at them about their constant bickering or resorted to other 'Harry' means of punishing them for that, now was actually working hard not to let another snort escape his lips.

Ron's jaw hung wide open, and Hermione silently thanked the heavens for the fact that he previously swallowed everything he had been chewing. Still, both friends exchanged puzzled looks and simultaneously turned to Harry, mutely asking for some explanation. Hermione went as far as to raise an eyebrow enquiringly, something she hadn't done for quite a long time during this school year.

Harry, though, kept silent; he just looked at them both, half-amused, and half-annoyed. More amused, though, he thought sincerely. Whatever he said to Ron and Hermione, he thought their little arguments very entertaining. But only the little arguments, not the blazing rows they always threatened to turn into. He wouldn't forget in a hurry the one those two had after the Yule Ball during their Fourth year. And, in that particular case, he sided with Hermione rather than with Ron, though he wouldn't admit it to him for all the treasures in the world.

The pause got a little too long, and Harry finally spoke up: "There's no need to start a fight over me and my Occlumency today, Ron. And, Hermione, the answer to your question is – yes, I'm honestly trying to do something, but Snape, me and concentration don't seem to be able to hold in the same room for long – you know what he's like. Do you really have to ask it all the time?"

Hermione shook her head, sighed and was about to apologize for nagging when Harry almost imperceptibly shook his head, giving her the same look she saw him exchange with Ron after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, a year ago. It spoke plainly: "Don't. It's okay, I understand". And Hermione, who was good at taking hints (well, better than Ron, anyway, she thought), silently gave him a bit of a smile. Ron, who was rather busy ladling more marmalade on still more toast, shoot them a suspicious look. Hermione didn't know why (or rather pretended she didn't), but she suddenly felt great satisfaction. Harry's voice, quiet and rather thoughtful, brought her to reality.

"There's one odd thing, though...",- he said. Two heads snapping up and two pairs of eyes looking intently at him, prompted Harry to continue.

"Well, we all know, Snape hates me." Two nods. "We know he hated my dad at school, we even know that dad saved his life once, which made Snape hate him even more." Two more nods.

"Yeah, must have been a sore blow to old Snape, that one!" Ron piped in delightedly, having chewed through another stack of toast with marmalade. Harry grinned at him. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, well,"- Harry went on,-"we know all that, but still I don't get the point of him hating me. I'm not exactly my father, am I?" Two headshakes. Harry sighed. "Sometimes I feel like I'm in a torture chamber down there, and the executioner is testing new methods on me. Why won't he just ignore me or something?" Harry let out a long sigh of frustration, ruffling his already messy hair with both hands.

Hermione exchanged another quick glance with Ron and they turned to face Harry, both their expressions commiserating. The three looked at each other for a second, then Harry waved his arms in a dismissive gesture and stood up: "Oh, forget it. I'm in a weird mood today."

"That we noticed all right",- Ron muttered to Hermione in a low voice as they scrambled up to follow Harry to Charms.

In a dormitory up the Gryffindor Tower a door opened and closed, though nobody was seen entering. Sounds of slow, deep breathing were coming from three four-poster beds.

In a flutter of air, something silvery fell to the floor and a boy sank onto his bed, staring into nowhere.

"Care for a chat, James?",- the voice was low and a bit hoarse.

James Potter didn't so much as turn his head.

"Oh, I see. You're in no fit state to entertain right now. Shame, really, because a talk can ease your conscience"

Finally, Remus got a response out of him: "Leave it, Moony. Not now"

"Suit yourself",-Remus Lupin shrugged, his expression mild, but his eyes, concerned, flicked towards James' form now and again, glinting eerily in the dark.

James didn't pay attention to that. His head was full fit to burst with other things and they all needed intense thinking-over.

Among the general confusion in his brain there was one clearly defined thought, or, rather a feeling. The sickening feeling of guilt, which was gnawing at him from the inside. It settled in his chest and spread through his whole being like some virus. Maybe he was imagining things, but it even made breathing hard for him. Flashes of the conversation which took place five minutes ago and nearly ended in a fight kept popping up in his mind and each one sent shockwaves in his brain, making him cringe.

In an attempt to escape them, James kicked off his shoes, got out of his robes, tossing them on the floor in a tangled heap, and changed into pyjamas, forgetting to remove the annoying but necessary glasses. Then he climbed onto his four-poster and drew the crimson hangings closed. Unsurprisingly, neither of those evolutions helped.

James didn't let himself sink into the warmth of his bed - instead, he pulled himself in a sitting position, drew his knees under his chin and clasped his hands around them. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a quiet sigh.

Then, finally, he stopped resisting his memory and let the flow of painful recollections rush over him.

Get out, Potter. I don't want to see you, nor have anything in common with you. Get the hell out of here before I blow that overstuffed head of yours clean off

Those were the last words Severus addressed to him. It was painful to hear them again and again, and the quiet venomous hiss in which they had been uttered made the pain sharper.

However, it was nothing compared to the change in Severus himself that went right before James' eyes: in less than a minute, he seemed to age several years. His shoulders slumped, he hung his head for a moment, and when he looked up, James gasped involuntarily. Severus' face was white as chalk, all the lines and features somehow even more pronounced than before, a crease appeared between his eyebrows, but it was not the thing that made James gasp. The black eyes looking at him now were void, hollow, there was no sign of the warm glow that settled there a year ago, only for him to see.

James stared in the space unblinkingly, regardless of his eyes watering and stinging.

He did not want this to happen, even when he realized that he would have to tell Severus everything. He wanted to break the news gently, but he did not have the gift of diplomacy Remus seemed to possess in unimaginable quantities. Of course, he never had illusions as to what Severus' reaction would be, but he somehow didn't imagine it would cause quite such an impact.

Yet again, Severus' face appeared before his eyes, and James let out a long shuddering breath, screwing up his eyes against the lump growing steadily in his throat, his hands clenched into fists.

"Why did things turn out the way they did?"- he wondered furiously, opening his eyes.

"Because you are a champion in messing things up, James Potter" – Severus' voice whispered venomously inside his head.

"Because you follow your desires, accomplish what you are up to and have a pathological disgust at lying" said a quiet voice at the back of his head. Curiously, it sounded remarkably like Remus.

And, as it often was the case with Remus' words, they happened to be accurate.

Yes, James did follow his desires, it was something his father taught him long ago. As for determination – this was part of his being.

James was eight at the time, and desperately wanted a broomstick. Ever since he saw his first game of Quidditch, he longed to fly like those bright-robed witches and wizards, high up over the ground, doing all the amazing and dangerous moves they pulled off so easily.

He was a late child, an only child, his mother loved him dearly and was afraid for his every step, sometimes even making him feel ashamed. His father never showed such fussiness and tried to restrain his wife, for fear to spoil the child, but James knew that he, too, cared for him very much.

And, although on other occasions Mr. Potter succeeded in persuading Mrs. Potter that the danger was scarce and James will be safe, this time she was adamant. James raged about in his room many times, yet he still tried his best to submit. However, he started collecting money in secret and doing exercises too, in a wild hope that his dream might come true sometime.

His father guessed as much and one morning, when the argument was quite forgotten, walked in his room to find his son panting and puffing on the floor. James feared that he might get punished, however, Mr. Potter didn't seem angry. He didn't say anything either, just ruffled his hair and smiled, with an odd spark in his eyes.

Later that day, when James went down to dinner, there was a surprise waiting for him – a brand new top-of-the-range broomstick. His mother handed it to him, her eyes overbright, and hugged him tightly. Then, his father said, taking him by the shoulders: "James, whatever happens in your life, remember this – always follow your heart. Even though we wizards have a long life, it is still one only. You may not always do the right thing in the end, but you will not have to regret something you have never done."

Strangely, this memory soothed his inner turmoil – his tense muscles relaxed, and, unwrapping himself from the hunched sitting position, he stretched on his back, hands under his head. Slowly, but steadily, sleep was gaining on him, anxious thoughts about Severus ebbing away till tomorrow morning, letting more pleasant ones about the pretty Evans girl in. Finally, after several more minutes' balancing on the edge of dream and wakefulness, James fell in a deep slumber.