Thank you for all the reviews. I am hoping most people will be patient and willing to come along with me for the long haul, as my most recent outline for this book has forty-five chapters (fifty-one counting the interludes). I swear I need them, or I think I do. The full chapter title list is on my LiveJournal, in case anyone wants to read it there.

Anyway, on to chapter six. A very quiet chapter, but several important things happen in it.

Chapter Six: A Day and a Night

"But you weren't there."

Harry checked a sigh as he and Draco slid into their desks in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, followed by the rest of the third-year Slytherins and a good number of third-year Ravenclaws. The Ravenclaws tended to glare threateningly at Harry, no doubt thinking about the time last year when they believed him to be an evil Dark Lord. Harry ignored them for the most part. Draco was far more annoying.

"Yes, and I told you why," he said, hearing the edge to his own voice. "I had to get out of there. I would have killed someone otherwise."

One of the Ravenclaws gasped. Harry would have glared at her, but Draco leaned around and did it for him. The girl squeaked and concentrated on her book instead.

"You could have come to the Manor," said Draco fiercely, lowering his voice. "That's one of the reasons I gave you that Portkey."

"Yes, and appeared alone in the house with your parents," said Harry. "That would have gone over wonderfully well."

"Mother would have Apparated you to Hogwarts," said Draco, who seemed determined to find an answer for every argument Harry could possibly offer, as long as it meant not having to admit that Harry had a legitimate reason for not riding the Express. "She would have firecalled me when I arrived and told me where you were. I wouldn't have to spend seven hours fretting and wondering and waiting."

"Well, you did," said Harry, pulling his inkwell from his bag, "and then you saw me at the Slytherin table. That is the end of the story, Draco."

Draco shook his head. "Someday, Harry," he said loftily, "you're going to have to learn that other people have a right to be interested in your movements."

Harry opened his mouth to argue back, and then Remus swept into the room. He was moving well for a werewolf who'd been subjected to the full moon yesterday, Harry thought—which meant his face was pale, but not the color of parchment, and his hands trembled when he laid the book he carried down on his desk, but not noticeably. He turned about and smiled at the students.

"Third-year Slytherin and Ravenclaw," he said. "I've been looking forward to this class. My name is Remus Lupin. You may call me Professor Lupin." He paused as one of the Ravenclaws' hands went up. "Yes—your name?"

"Elise Swanswallow," said the girl, and leaned forward intently. "I've heard Connor Potter talk about you. Aren't you his godfather?"

Remus smiled pleasantly. "Yes, I am."

"But isn't that going to cause a conflict of interest?" Elise tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. Harry decided that he didn't like her, and this time it wasn't the web's fault, for making him dislike everyone who spoke ill of his brother. Her eyes were too wide and innocent, and she looked as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "After all, you'll be tempted to give him better marks just because he's your godson."

The smile slid away from Remus's face. "Miss Swanswallow," he said, "I would ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt until such time as that actually happens."

As always with Remus's mild rebukes, Harry thought, it took a moment for the sting to set in. Elise flushed then, and lowered her eyes to the desktop. "Sorry, Professor," she said meekly.

"Quite all right," said Remus heartily, as he picked up the list of students. "I'm used to being questioned. Now, let me make sure that everyone's here who should be. Millicent Bulstrode?"

As they strolled through the list of names, Draco muttered to Harry, "Should he be teaching when he looks like that?"

"It's just full moon," Harry muttered back. "He'll be fine. And most people don't know anything about his condition, so I'll thank you not to discuss it." Draco pulled back with a flinch, and Harry sighed to himself. He'd probably been more annoyed than he should be, because Draco would not stop picking at him. He was fine. Why should it matter?

"…Turtledove," Remus finished, and nodded as the last Ravenclaw girl murmured in response. "Good." He laid the parchment down on his desk and leaned forward. "I understand that your last Defense Against the Dark Arts professor did not spend much time on the distinction between Light and Dark magic."

"He did his best," said Pansy, a little stiffly. Harry rolled his eyes. He was coming to accept that Pansy was a great deal more sensible than he had thought she was, but she still had a crush on Lockhart that meant she tried to defend him at every opportunity. She had actually been disappointed when she found out the golden git wasn't coming back to Hogwarts.

"I'm sure he did," said Remus, with a smile that soothed Pansy immediately. Harry hid a smile of his own. Remus tended to be soothing. Just being in his presence made Harry let go of a lot of the tension he'd developed during the summer. "But since I can't find anything in his notes that indicates he explained things like this to you, I'll explain anyway."

He waved his wand, and a gasp rose from the class as motes of light spun out from it and into two distinct shapes. Harry leaned back in his chair. Remus had always been good at illusions, and it was fun to watch him dazzle the rest of the class.

"Here," Remus said, pointing to the illusion on the left, of a girl with nondescript brown hair and eyes, "is someone we'll say is under a Light spell." He nodded to the figure on the right, the same girl. "And this is the same person under a Dark spell."

He waved his wand again. The girl on the left continued smiling, but the one on the right grimaced horribly, as though she were fighting something. Harry swallowed and had to look away. Sometimes Remus was too good at illusion magic.

"That is the primary difference between Dark and Light magic," said Remus softly. "Not that one is pleasant and the other unpleasant. Most medical magic is pretty unpleasant." He was making a horrible face, Harry saw when he looked back. A majority of the students giggled—even Pansy, who looked surprised at herself. "Not even that one affects the body and the other the mind. There are plenty of spells classed as Light and spells classed as Dark that do both. If we eliminated all the spells that did anyone harm, then we'd have to quit teaching most of Charms and at least half of Transfigurations. And of course we'd have to eliminate all the poisonous plants from Herbology, and the poisonous Potions ingredients.

"No, the main difference between Light and Dark magic is the difference between compulsion and choice."

Harry froze. He'd never heard it explained like that before.

"Light magic is either done with the subject's consent," Remus continued blithely, sending his illusions back into spinning motes of light, "or it does not need consent—when you Transfigure a table into a chair, for instance—or it is done for the cause of letting someone continue to give consent, as when you try to preserve someone else's life. Even there, intent matters, the choice of the original caster. A Light spell could become Dark if someone performed it against his or her will. Likewise, a Light spell performed to maintain life when the person who cast it only wanted his target to stay alive so he could suffer torture would be Dark." Remus ran his eyes across the class. "Remember that, all of you. Light magic takes account of your will, but also of other people's wills."

Harry blinked, and blinked again. He'd never encountered a theory so unified and yet so simple. Most of his reading on the subject was on Ministry laws that forbade the use of certain spells, and why. Most of the books had argued strenuously that the restrictions should be loosened. Harry, thinking of ways in which he could use the spells to defend Connor, had agreed.

But what if someone else didn't agree to them? What if he cast a spell and it was not what someone else wanted, but that person wasn't Connor?

Rationally, Harry knew he'd learned nothing dazzlingly new, but it had still hit him hard. He barely listened as Remus went into the next part of the lecture.

"Dark spells, on the other hand, thrive on compulsion," Remus went on, his voice growing grim. "Dark creatures are those who usually subdue the victim's will so he can't escape. That's why Dementors are considered Dark creatures and dragons are not. Dragons are dangerous, but they can't hold you in place, suck our your memories, and corrupt your mind the way that Dementors can."

Draco put up a hand. Remus nodded to him. Draco put his hand down and gave an innocent smile. "Are werewolves Dark creatures, too?" he asked.

Remus jerked, but it was a movement so tiny that Harry didn't think anyone would see it who wasn't looking for it. Draco smirked, then yelped as Pansy abruptly pinched the back of his neck.

"Shut up," Pansy whispered. Her voice was so deadly that Draco paled. Harry turned to listen to Remus's answer. Remus's eyes were narrowed speculatively at Pansy, but he smiled quickly.

"Yes, werewolves are Dark creatures," he said lightly. "But it's not because they kill people. Dragons can do that, too, after all. It's because the bite is a curse, a sickness that's spread without consent, and the werewolf himself usually loses his or her mind to the ravening beast on the nights of the full moon."

The Ravenclaws were scribbling away, Harry saw, and even some of the Slytherin quills were moving. He supposed he should do the same thing, though he was so far into shock that he was having trouble thinking.

So Dumbledore was right, he thought, as he finally began to take notes on the special varieties of Dark magic. The phoenix web is technically Light magic, since it was given with my consent. But something like the Imperius Curse is still Dark magic, perhaps the purest form of Dark magic, since it subdues its victim's will.

And that means that the Memory Charm is Dark magic, too, or should be. And since I know what Dumbledore was trying to hide by casting Obliviate on Remus, and I don't agree with it any more…

I have to free him.

Harry looked up as Remus cast another illusion, this one a ramified tree explaining the varieties of Light and Dark magic. His face was content, and he seemed more energized than Harry had ever seen him this close to the full moon.

I'll have to tread carefully. Snape said a carelessly snapped Memory Charm could cost the victim his sanity. But I'll do it. I have to. I owe it to him. He would have fought for me, and he had his will taken over without his consent.

Bastard, Harry finished, and wondered if he meant Dumbledore or himself.

Harry paused as he entered McGonagall's classroom, and frowned. Connor sat near the front, talking with Ron and Hermione. But Slytherins never had Transfiguration class with Gryffindors.

Draco pressed in behind him, looked over his shoulder, and said, "What?"

Harry shook his head and went slowly to the side of the room where they usually sat, still looking at Connor over his shoulder. His twin had noticed him now, and was blinking much as he was. Harry studied his face, but saw no sign that he'd known about this.

Pansy started complaining the moment she saw the Gryffindors. Parvati Patil fired insults back, and things would have descended to hexes very soon if McGonagall hadn't swept in just then and eyed them all sternly.

Hermione's hand was immediately in the air. "Professor McGonagall," she said. "Why do we have class with the Slytherins?"

"I wanted it that way, so I rearranged the timetable, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, looking the picture of offended pride. If Harry hadn't seen that she could smile yesterday, he would never have believed it. "Besides, one might as well say the Slytherins have class with you."

Hermione dropped her hand and gaped at her teacher. Harry calmly took out his book. He thought he saw what was going through McGonagall's mind now. She wasn't going to strive to separate Slytherins and Gryffindors any more, assuming she ever had (and since she taught no mixed Slytherin-Gryffindor classes except for the sixth and seventh years, he thought she had). Besides, changing things at all would send a message to Dumbledore.

Harry found he rather admired her.

"Today," McGonagall announced, adjusting her hat on her head as she spun across the front of the room, "we will begin a lecture on Animagi. I want you to know the theory behind it, though of course no one will attempt a practical demonstration." Icicles were in her voice. "I will also want you to write essays in pairs, and one group of three, so that you may pool your knowledge. I will assign the pairs and the topics. Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger. Blaise Zabini, Parvati Patil. Harry Potter, Connor Potter."

Harry nodded as he gathered up his books and went to Connor's side of the room. He was sure that Draco would sit where he was and make Hermione come to him. That meant he could at least be away from Draco's whining that they weren't paired together.

"Harry." Connor's voice was welcoming, if cool. He pulled his bag off the nearest chair so Harry could sit down. "Do you know why she has us working together?"

"To make a point," said Harry, and elaborated when he saw his brother's blank look. "For inter-House unity, I think."

"Oh." Connor looked thoughtful. As they waited for McGonagall to assign them a topic, he whispered, "Did I tell you that found a teacher for my compulsion gift?"

Harry hid a sigh. He had hoped the compulsion gift really would disappear over the summer, that it had come from the presence of Tom Riddle in Connor's head and wasn't his at all. It made him slightly ill to think about his twin possessing such magic. But he made his voice enthusiastic. "That's wonderful, Connor. Who is it? The Headmaster?"

Connor shook his head. "Sirius."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Yes," Connor went on, oblivious to Harry's wide-eyed shock. "He—" They had to wait while McGonagall came to them and assigned them their topic: why Animagi had to register with the Ministry. Connor wrote it down painstakingly, with a dedication that Harry didn't remember him showing last year. When he was finished, he continued as if they hadn't been interrupted. "He has the gift himself. He doesn't use it carelessly, of course," he added quickly. "But his parents trained him in it, and I don't think you could ask for stricter teachers than the Blacks as far as Dark magic goes. I mean, look at Bellatrix Lestrange, and Narcissa Malfoy. They're great Dark witches."

Harry swallowed. I think that's why Sirius was able to slip my Fugitivus Animus. His mind is trained, like Snape's. "Narcissa Malfoy never used any Dark spells that I saw."

Connor cocked his head. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, Harry. I just keep forgetting that you stayed with the Malfoys. It's strange, you know?" He shook his head. "Now that I've been reading history, I can see how far back the devotion of the Potters to the Light goes, and how far the devotion of the Malfoys to the Dark. Just because Mrs. Malfoy didn't practice Dark spells in front of you doesn't mean she doesn't."

"I know," said Harry, because he did, and friendship with Draco didn't mean his parents didn't use Dark magic. He felt the first premonition of what might come, like a fishhook in his heart. He was loyal to Connor, he knew that. He wanted to protect him. He had to protect him.

And he was loyal to Draco, too. He didn't want to say that his parents used Dark magic (despite the fact that he knew Lucius Malfoy had done so). He didn't want to prepare to fight him or his family one day (despite the fact that he would have to do so, unless the Malfoys unexpectedly declared for the Light). He didn't want to think of giving up their friendship or his Portkey.

I never thought I would be the one being pulled, Harry thought. I always thought it would be Draco, because I would go with Connor without trouble.

And now?

Now…he didn't know.

Harry swallowed. Freedom was terrifying, then, as well as thrilling. Again, it felt like something he should have known, but something he was learning for the first time nonetheless.

What am I, if not a person who would uncritically choose my brother over everyone else?

He hesitated, then found an answer he could live with. Someone who would try to reconcile both sides for as long as he could.

"Harry?" Connor peered at him. "I think you drifted off."

Harry shook his head and sat up again. "Sorry."

Connor nodded. "That's all right. I just wanted to tell you that I'm going to be training with Sirius this year, and continuing my studies of history." He clenched his jaw, and gave a grim smile. His hazel eyes blazed. "Tom Riddle was good for me, you know? In an odd way. He let me see that you've been right, that I can't just run around playing all the time when I should be preparing for the war, that I have responsibilities if I'm the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry nodded. He said nothing more. Saying that he, himself, was suddenly uncertain of his own responsibilities would have sounded as though he were whining for pity, however true it was.

Snape nodded at the knock on the door of his office. One thing that hadn't changed in Harry, and which he hoped never would, was the boy's punctuality, whether he was coming to detention or to a private lesson as this one was.

At least, Snape assumed it was a private lesson. Harry had simply found him that morning and asked to come visit him that evening. Pleased that their argument after Minerva left them yesterday hadn't driven the boy into a sulk, Snape had granted his permission.

Harry came in now looking half-haunted, rubbing his arm and biting his lip. Snape narrowed his eyes. "Has someone hexed you?" he asked.

Harry blinked, and Snape realized how far away he must have been. "No, sir," he said. "I had an argument with Draco." He shifted his sleeve up his shoulder, but not before Snape caught a glimpse of a bruise in the shape of a hand.

"And what did you and Mr. Malfoy argue about, Harry?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and evaluating the boy. Harry didn't flush and stammer the way he might have when confronted with an uncomfortable truth last year; nor did he lie his way out of it, his eyes on the wall behind Snape's desk so the professor couldn't use Legilimency on him. He just looked perplexed.

"I don't know, sir," he admitted. "I knew that he didn't like my being absent from the train yesterday, and he didn't like it when Professor McGonagall paired him up with Hermione in Transfiguration—"

"I had not thought Miss Granger was in that class." Snape quashed his irritation at Minerva's apparent do-gooding. He had known when he tried to bring her in on the boy's side that she would go her own way, and do things in a Gryffindorish fashion however much he might try to persuade her otherwise.

"Well, she didn't used to be," Harry admitted. "But the professor moved the timetables around so that we're having class with the Gryffindors now."

Snape nodded, slowly. He supposed Minerva had her reasons for that, and he would find them out if he ever grew irritated enough with her to ask. "Very well. How does that lead to an argument of the kind that you appear to have had with Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know, sir," he repeated. "I teased Draco about the train, said that I felt like a pet he was trying to haul around on a leash so that it didn't get too far away from him. Then he flew into a rage and accused me of wanting to get away. We, ah, we started arguing about Connor, and about my coming to Malfoy Manor, and all sorts of things that I didn't know bothered him. Then I said I was coming to a meeting with you, and he grabbed my shoulder and tried to hold me there." Harry paused, and his eyes darted off to the right.

"Out with it, Harry," said Snape, making sure to keep his voice mild and not accusing. He had to encourage the boy to confide in and trust him, if he wanted to have a chance at being Harry's mentor, and perhaps an actual guide and teacher in more subjects than Potions.

Harry shook his head. "My magic flared, because I was angry by then. I didn't think he had any right to keep me there. And Draco immediately let me go and apologized, and said that I should come along before I was late and made you furious at me." Harry stared hard at Snape. "Do you know of any reason that would have caused him to do that, sir?"

Snape sighed. He could think of one, but hearing it would cause Harry much grief. Yet better, he supposed, to cause some little grief than to lie to the boy, as everyone around him had done for much too long. "I think he was afraid, Harry. He has seen what your magic can do."

Harry bit his lip. "Yes. I was afraid it was that, sir." He clenched his hands, and Snape felt the magic lift around him, a buzzing pressure that leaned against his Malfoy-inspired shields but did not pierce them. "There are times I do want to put my magic away," Harry said passionately, "just so that it won't frighten anyone anymore."

Snape stood. This had been the core of their argument yesterday. He had said that Harry should concentrate on taming his magic more than anything else. The more he insisted on that, the more Harry insisted on staying loyal to his brother and defending him. It was time to take a different tack, then. Snape had suspected it would be. Indirect tactics worked best with Harry.

"Do you think Dumbledore was right?" he asked.

Harry frowned. "Of course not. I told you that I didn't intend to put the phoenix web back the way it had been."

Snape concealed his wrath—Harry had explained in more detail about the phoenix web yesterday, too, and it had set Snape thinking of spells he hadn't used in years—and sneered. "And yet, the phoenix web was meant to bind your magic. If you are thinking of tucking your magic away simply because it might cause consternation and fear in those weaker than you are, you are conceding to Dumbledore, saying that he was right to enslave you in the first place."

Harry stiffened, and his magic lashed around him. "I am not."

"Yes, you are," said Snape, and paused until he felt Harry's power and temper both build. Then he added, delicately, "Unless you are saying that Dumbledore and your mother put you under the web out of some other emotion? Kindness, perhaps? Worry for your delicate constitution?"

Harry looked away. Snape waited. He had led the boy back to this point before, and he would lead him back as often as was necessary. Harry might not want to talk about the memories aloud, but he couldn't stop thinking about them, anyway, at least not when someone else forced him to confront them.

"They wanted to keep everyone safe," Harry murmured. "And that's what I want, too."

Snape cocked his head. "And, of course, binding your magic has worked so well in the past to do that," he said. "It must be someone else's magic that grew its own will and personality and did its best to destroy Hogwarts. Do forgive me. Shall I ask Mr. Malfoy how well he remembers that night, perhaps? Or your brother?"

Harry turned around and snarled at him. Snape could feel the magic grow claws and teeth against his shields.

He kept the sneer in place. If this was what Harry needed, then he would do his best to be that kind of person. Someone to rage against, someone he might come close to hurting but would not actually hurt in the way that he might his parents or Dumbledore, someone he appeared to trust despite having many small wounds inflicted against that trust.

And all the while that he might threaten to tear open Snape's mind with his power, he was not caging it, not letting it rot or rot him, not doing the same thing to himself that his parents and Dumbledore had wanted to do.

Snape fully intended to see Harry mix his magic with his own being, not cage it and not restrain it. He also fully intended to live to see the day when that union would be complete.

And then, he thought, his eyes lingering on the lightning bolt scar just barely visible above Harry's agitated green stare, then you will be more than a force to be reckoned with. You will be a force to make peace with, a force to change things with, a force to unite those who have gone shattered and fragmented too long.

Snape had been reading, when he could, about what a vates was over the summer. It had been…enlightening.

"That's the thing, though," Harry said abruptly, in an unhappy tone, and Snape realized he had managed to calm himself while Snape was lost in daydreams. "I want to protect and defend and heal and create, the way you said I should. But the magic only wants to destroy. I don't understand."

Snape shrugged. "I do. You are growing more successful at harnessing your power. You have not harnessed your rage."

Harry laughed. It was not a sound that Snape wanted to hear ever again. "Sometimes I wonder whether it matters," he said. "Our parents left me alone this summer. Sirius is being stupid, but I can deal with him. My brother has finally learned what responsibility means. I want to free Remus from the Obliviate, but once I do that, do I really have to face them? Couldn't I just sort of…stay away from them?"

"You already know the answer to that, Mr. Potter," said Snape, using the boy's last name to get his attention. "You cannot. You must face them, at one point or another, or your rage will not be quiet. And they will never leave you in peace. I saw the way the Headmaster watched you at every meal in the Great Hall today. He will renew that web if he can."

Harry bowed his head.

"And even if you could stay away from them, if they would leave you alone," Snape added quietly, "what do you think the werewolf will do when he gains his memories back? What do you think Minerva will do now that she is convinced those who should have loved you betrayed and harmed you—"

Harry looked up swiftly. "They still love me."

Snape paused, then decided to let that one lie. It might be true, for all he knew, though he could not call the elder Potters' behavior loving. "You have never seen her in battle, Harry," he said. "I have. She is terrifying. There are the Malfoys. There is, perhaps, your godfather, and your brother." He let himself sneer in doubt. If Black and Potter have not yet awakened to every terrifying consequence, they are not going to.

"And there is me," he went on, when he found that Harry's eyes were wide and fixed on him, drinking in what he said. "I had to stop myself from brewing—certain potions a dozen times this summer. Potions I have perfected, potions that would inflict extremely painful death."

He had actually been unable to stop himself from making one particular potion, but he had put it on the very back shelf of a locked cabinet and promised himself he would never use it. Probably.

Very likely, at least.

"Would you stop us from doing what we wish in your name?" Snape asked.

"I'd stop you if you were trying to kill someone else," Harry said, and his eyes were wide and clear, his voice as firm, as it had been yesterday when Minerva questioned him on possibly taking revenge.

Snape nodded. "But you cannot stop us from feeling outrage and grief and hatred."

Harry gnawed his lip.

"Why is this so hard for you to understand?" Snape persisted. Perhaps this particular direct tactic will work.

"Because I—it's me," said Harry. He gave an angry shrug when Snape simply looked at him. "I don't know. Don't ask me to explain it," he said, and his magic stalked around the room like a prowling beast, rocking the vials on their shelves. "But I would understand perfectly if my parents had been abusing Connor and someone found out about it, or if Lucius was casting Dark curses at Draco all the time and I found out about it. Then the outrage and grief and hatred, sure. But I keep trying to put those emotions in the same place with what happened to me and—it doesn't work." He shook his head.

Snape tamed what he wanted to say. His thoughts went to the potion on the back shelf of the locked cabinet instead.

Harry took several deep breaths, then looked directly at him. "Actually, sir, I came to ask if I could get your help brewing the Wolfsbane Potion."

Snape considered pressing the issue, but let it go in the end. Harry was not yet ready. "Afraid that I won't brew it right for your precious Lupin?" he mocked. Harry's eyes flashed, and Snape smirked. Good. Get him angry. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Potter, but I value my reputation as a Potions Master more than I value the thought of getting revenge on that wretched beast."

A vial on the nearest shelf shattered, and Snape regretted going so far—though more for the abashed look on Harry's face as he surveyed what his magic had done than because of the lost potion. It was a Boil Cure potion, easily replaced.

"No, it's not that, sir," Harry said, now looking anywhere but at him. "I promised…well, you see, someone I know is a werewolf, and I promised to brew the Potion for her."

Snape stared at him. Just when he imagined that he understood Harry, the boy came out with a surprise like this. "Who?"

Harry hesitated, then sighed. "Hawthorn Parkinson."

The Red Death. Snape concealed a wince. For all that he had been stronger than the witch when they both served as Death Eaters, he had been wary of her nasty talent for curses involving the blood. "And how exactly did you meet Hawthorn Parkinson?" he asked.

"A meeting in Diagon Alley," said Harry. "I think Millicent arranged it. Maybe. I don't know. It was strange. But I promised Mrs. Parkinson I would try to help her. She got bitten by Fenrir Greyback for refusing to help in some insane plan he has to raise the Dark Lord."

Snape nodded at once. He could see why this would be important, though he suspected he was not seeing it as important for the same reasons Harry was. The boy needed as much training and protection as possible before the Dark Lord returned. Someone who might actively oppose that was to be encouraged. And if Harry could win her gratitude…

Well, there are many less valuable things to have than the good opinion of the Red Death.

"Fetch me unicorn hair and fairy wings from my stores," he said, nodding towards the appropriate cabinets.

Harry moved at once to get them, seeming glad the conversation was over. For that matter, Snape shared the sentiment.

Every time I think we are making progress, he thought, as he eyed Harry's back in resignation, I am reminded how much further we have to walk.