Chapter 4
Interestingly, Harry felt quite refreshed when he awoke the next day. Snape was still sleeping quietly, and Harry, with the silent grace of an assassin, put on his clothes and washed and crept out of the dungeons.
He spared a glance outside, and paused to take in the mist that tumbled out of the Forbidden Forest and floated over the lake to the castle walls. No dreams, he thought, though perhaps that was because his sleep after waking up the first time hadn't been very deep. It was shallow and drifty and exhausting, like the healing sleep he'd undergone when he'd first awakened twenty-three years in the past.
He moved to the end of the Slytherin table, where he had eaten last night as well, and began to butter his toast. Professor Camentum, the Slytherin head of house, crept by like a giant spider and handed him his schedule.
Harry eyed it critically. There wasn't much here that he didn't know better than the back of his hand. After spending two and a half years in the Founder's Nest, learning from the Masters (memories the Founders had collected of every kind of magic, and even some Muggle things—Gryffindor had gathered memories of Muggle fighting), there wasn't much that he couldn't do or improvise.
Not that I plan to spend much time here learning anyhow, Harry thought determinedly. He would break out of Dumbledore's tracking spell (which buzzed about him like a net of hornets, once he'd tuned himself to it), open the nest, and return.
He stood up and was making his way towards one of the exits of the Great Hall when he heard a loud bark of laughter. He stopped just before walking smack into James Potter, who came tumbling into the Great Hall, doubled over with mirth. Beside him stumbled Sirius Black, and behind him trailed in Remus Lupin, who (Harry noticed with a slackened jaw) looked ages younger. The three of them had evidently found something incredibly amusing the morning, and were all saying something, but Harry didn't catch a single word. He couldn't help but stare and feel his heart slowly twist itself into a painful knot. They're all so terribly young, Harry thought; young, and naïve…
He moved to hurry past—
"Hey, James," Sirius hollered. "Look, a snake!"
He stuck out a foot, and Harry stepped over it in a smooth, automatic motion, but his mind reeled, startled by the careless hostility that was directed at him, the hostility that was exuded so arrogantly, with such casual naïveté, from such familiar faces…
They're not really your father or godfather yet, he reminded himself a few steps later, feet carrying him away from the halfhearted taunts, past sleepy students and suits of armor. To them, you're just another Slytherin. He took a deep breath. They haven't seen or endured half of what you have. They're still only children, and to them, you're just another Slytherin. You know all this. Don't fool yourself. Don't play tricks with yourself.
He stood still for a moment, sighed, and continued his way to the library.
Harry observed his Transfiguration class and felt like a boulder in the middle of a river. Everyone else was so young, so innocent. The girls were invariably giggling over something or rolling their eyes or smiling; the boys were guffawing or smirking or being contentedly quiet (except for Snape, who was sour and sulky); some of the faces were a bit worn, a bit grim, but only a bit, and (aside from Snape) they all managed to produce a genuine smile every so often.
Harry became very conscious of the fact that he rarely smiled, and when he did, it was usually grim. He felt old. Not that you didn't feel that way before, he reminded himself, but back then, there had been Albus, and you didn't have to pretend to be one of these students. He sighed and told himself not to think of Albus, or of how surrealistic his situation was, or how childishly James Potter and Sirius Black were behaving.
"Evans!" James Potter shouted and beckoned the redhead over to the throne-liked chair he'd conjured from thin air. "Get off, Sirius," he hissed when his friend threw himself into the chair and flashed the room with a dazzling smile. A gaggle of girls in the back sighed.
Lily Evans stood up hesitantly, and at one of her girl friend's giggly prods, marched with lips pressed thinly together to where James Potter was grinning. She sat, and James conjured a glittering crown from thin air. Someone gasped and cooed. Lily blushed. The Slytherins growled mutinously or sneered.
"For you, my Queen," James said, bowing deeply and setting the crown on Lily's head.
"Evans! Potter!" McGonagall barked when she swept back into her classroom from after having gone into her office for a few moments.
She doesn't look as stern as she might, Harry thought, noting that her stern glare belied an indulgent twinkle in her eyes. Lily immediately began to apologize, reminding Harry with a pang of Hermione when they'd all been younger and more innocent; James just grinned cheekily.
Harry felt his lips twitch at the Marauders' antics, but beneath the not-quite-a-smile, he felt the pang of sadness grow. James and Sirius and Lily's careless happiness was going to end in, what, less than four years? Barely thirty-six months. And they didn't know it, and wouldn't know it until it was far too late to amend things, to unsay things, to say things that shouldn't have been left unsaid.
All because of one rat, Harry thought, feeling a stab of cold hatred, which he hastily suppressed. It wasn't only his parents' death that fueled the fire of his revulsion: during the second war, Pettigrew had been instrumental in so much of Voldemort's successes, and when the cowardly rat had finally been caught, he'd pleaded and begged and cowered and wailed…
It was strange, how Pettigrew was the only person for whom Harry felt such hate. When one is hurt and broken enough, one forgets how to hate. But all he'd experienced had only fanned the flames of his hatred for Pettigrew. Perhaps it was because Harry knew that no matter how many promises the rat made or vows he swore, he had and would have nothing but his own pathetic life in his mind; that the memory of friendship and love meant nothing to him, that he would kiss the hem of whomever had a wand at his neck. Perhaps, also, it was the wild, broken emptiness Harry could see in Pettigrew's eyes; an emptiness that was like an abyss that opened into nothing—not even darkness…
Harry quickly looked away before he could try looking for that emptiness.
Transfiguration ended soon, with McGonagall holding Harry over a bit to test his knowledge of the subject. He thought he pulled off his façade as an inconspicuously above-average-but-not-excellent student rather well. The syllabus that McGonagall had passed out in the beginning of the class was quite useful in that regard.
He left the Transfiguration classroom unhurriedly; there was a short gap in his schedule before lunch. He made his way down the corridor and stopped at what he saw. Severus Snape stood in the shadows, quietly muttering curses as he held a hand over his face. Both his eyes were closed.
Harry took a hesitant step down the corridor, trying to be as soundless as possible, but then Snape opened his eyes. He stiffened, and Harry stopped.
"Um… Hi," Harry said as amiably as he could. "Something the matter?"
Snape glared, eyes narrowing. He drew himself to his full height. "What do you wan', Frost?" he spat.
Harry arched an eyebrow. The other boy's nose sounded distinctively muffled. "If Black and Potter broke your nose, you should be in the infirmary."
The other boy glanced up sharply. "How d'you know about dem?"
Harry shrugged, though he mentally slapped himself. He wasn't supposed to know about the Marauders-Snape feud yet. "If glares could kill, they'd be dead ten times over, and you'd be too." He paused. Then, "Come on. I'll take you to the hospital w—"
"NO!" Snape shouted before quickly recovering his dignity. "I'm fine as I am," he said coldly, his sleeve still covering half his nose. "I'll get dere myself."
"I have seen broken noses before, you know. There's no need to hide…"
"My nose is none of your concern," Snape grinded out, glaring the best he could with half his face covered. Harry, who had braved and bested the future Snape's refined and perfected death glares, only felt a twitching of the muscles around his lips in response.
"My concern or not, you should be on your way to the infirmary if it's broken."
"I've tol' you already! I'm fine!" Snape staggered a few steps. Harry frowned. He's probably got more injuries elsewhere, he thought, noticing the other boy's limp. "Find somewhere else to stick your unwanted attentions, Frost! My nose is perfectly fine."
Still as snarky as ever, Harry thought, a grin dancing at the edge of his lips. "I won't laugh, I promise…"
"There's no'ing to see," Snape snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He took a few steps down the corridor before he suddenly stumbled. Snape reached out instinctively to break his fall, but Harry's hands darted out and then Snape was in his arms.
Harry stared. Snape's sleeve had fallen away, and Harry could see that the other boy's nose hadn't been broken; it had been transfigured into a flamingo's beak. Then he noticed the Snape's eyes darkening, the startled expression of gratitude swiftly replaced by a look to rival a thundercloud, and—
"Wait, I—" Harry reached out instinctively and grabbed a handful of Snape's robes. No wonder Snape hid his nose, Harry thought, quelling the almost alien urge to laugh; him and his prickly pride. The other boy struggled fiercely and jabbed his elbows backwards—
"Stop moving," Harry snapped in a tone he used to calm roomfuls of aurors and panicked Ministry officials. "You'll only hurt yourself more."
Snape stopped struggling after another moment, and glowered. His cheeks, Harry noticed, were flushed an ugly brick red. He blinked and let go of the other wizard's robes, the realization that he'd just caught Severus Snape in his arms clicking in its entirety for the first time in his mind. Snape, meanwhile, had drawn himself to his full height, which was a good few inches over Harry. "Go," Snape hissed venomously, pointing hand still covering his nose. "And leave me alone, Frost!"
"Don't be so touchy," Harry replied evenly, hand snaking out and grabbing a handful of Snape's robes again as Snape moved to flee. Fortunately Snape didn't struggle very much this time. "I'm sorry I stared, truly I am, but I'm not laughing or ridiculing you at all, am I?" Snape stubbornly looked away. "Look," Harry said placatingly, "why don't I change your nose back for you?"
Harry could easily see the sneer on Snape's face even though half of it was covered. "Don't think I'm stupid. Potter didn't use a hex, or jinx, or curse—he did human transfiguration, which is incredibly complex. Only Potter and Black"—the names were spat out—"can manage that in our year. I saw your effort in class today. You're simply not good enough."
"Better than you, at least," Harry replied, unperturbed and feeling rather amused. "Really. At least let me try. The worst that could happen is that you end up with an elephant's trunk or something, and then we can have Madam Pomfrey fix you up."
"The worst that can happen is that you can vanish my head!" Snape barked, trying to pull away. "And how do you know Madam Pomfrey?"
Harry shrugged, though he cursed himself for the slip. Why did he always have to encounter suspicious people? And why did he have to make these little slip-ups all the time? "I met her. Come on," he said, drawing out his wand (Snape stared at it with trepidation), "just trust me on this, okay?" He let himself grin, hoping it was reassuring, and realizing that this was the first time in several days that he had smiled. He pried Snape's hands off, not noticing how Snape had frozen stiff at his smile, and tapped his wand on Snape's nose. It shrank and turned back to normal. When that was finished, Harry found himself meeting black eyes that churned with suspicion.
"You're better at transfiguration than you let on, aren't you?" Snape demanded flatly. It wasn't a question: it was an accusation.
Harry shrugged his shoulders, though he was mentally bashing his head. Spending too little time with other humans made him forget things, and there hadn't been a Master on… er… social stealth, or whatever it could be called.
"You're still injured," Harry pointed out. He frowned. "Did Black and Potter really hurt you that much?"
"It's none of your business!" Snape snarled and stormed away and tripped. Harry grabbed him again before he could fall.
"You're going to see Madam Pomfrey," he said firmly.
Snape gave him a murderous glare. A blood vessel in his left temple pulsed. Harry felt a smile tickling the edge of his lips again and proceeded to steer the other Slytherin towards the hospital wing. He had the presence of mind to ask Snape for directions (to which he got terse, through-gritted-teeth answers of "left," and "right," and "idiot"), and after Harry purposefully made a few wrong turns, they arrived at the infirmary. As soon as they arrived, the nurse shooed Harry out, and Harry left reluctantly, wondering why Snape was limping.
He was distracted by lunch, however, and, having arrived a little late, finished a little late as well. He had stood up and was on his way to the next class, Defense, when he saw Snape stomping into the Great Hall. His limp, Harry noted, was gone.
"You've got no time left for lunch," Harry said, waylaying Snape, who had glanced at the time and was prepared to sweep out the hall. "Let's go now, or we'll be late."
He offered a bread roll to Snape. Snape stared at it as if Harry had handed him a goblet of poison.
"What?" Harry asked, puzzled.
Snape's eyes narrowed, and he took the bread roll, sniffed it, examined it a bit more, and sank his teeth into it cautiously.
"I'm not going to poison you," Harry said, bemused and amused. Snape snorted and stormed without glancing back once towards the defense classroom. Harry followed.
The rounded a corner into a deserted corridor (we are late, Harry thought, no wonder nobody's around) when Snape stopped and whipped out his wand. Harry had his wand ready a split second later, but he stayed his hand, waiting to see what Snape was planning.
"What are you up to, Frost?" he hissed fiercely. "Spit it out. What do you want from me? Why did you help me, and why are you following me?" His eyes narrowed. "Did Lestrange or Malfoy tell you"—he broke off and continued in a different vein—"They sent you, didn't they? Or was it Potter and Black?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Firstly, I have no idea what you are talking about. I'm following you right now because I haven't the faintest idea where the Defense classroom is, and when I found you in that corridor with a flamingo's beak for a nose and other injuries to boot, I did what any human should have done—I took you to get yourself fixed. I've hardly even met Potter or Black or Malfoy or Lestrange, and I am not the kind of person swayed by money. And the moment I let Malfoy bribe me is the moment I castrate myself." He met Snape's glare squarely, face impassive and eyes smoldering.
For a moment the two of them stood still as stone, Snape's wand at Harry's throat. Then Snape withdrew his wand and stuck it back into his sleeve. "Don't think me a fool, Frost," Snape said curtly before making his way towards the potions classroom.
"Of course not. And what was it that Malfoy and Lestrange were supposedly to have told me about?"
"That," Snape snarled, as he stormed down the corridor to the Defense classroom, "is none of your business." He pulled open the door viciously and stomped inside.
Touchy, Harry thought, following him and muttering apologies to Professor Matellan, the Defense professor. I can't believe he's actually mellowed in his age, Harry mused, noting that Snape chose a seat as far away from him as possible without straying into Gryffindor territory. Really, one would think that at the age of seventeen, he'd be a bit more—reasonable. But I suppose that's simply his personality. Harry shook his head and tried to ignore all things Snape related, but it was surprisingly difficult, and he realized that he caught little of Matellan's speech after its conclusion an hour into the period. Though it was probably due to the professor's grating, metallic voice, and the utter lack of content in the speech.
"All right, everybody!" Matellan trilled, standing up from where she had been sitting. Harry subdued the instinct to close his eyes at the jarring colors of her dress. Unlike Albus's horrific color schemes, however, Matellan's choices of colors seemed somehow sinister. "Wands out! We're going to review what you've learned last year! Pair up with a partner!"
Harry watched the other students turn to their neighbors: James Potter prodded Sirius Black with his finger and grinned; Lucius Malfoy eyed the black-haired prefect, Terrance Lestrange, and smirked, and received a cool nod in return.
"Whoever doesn't have a partner, stand up!" Matellan called over the rising babble, pacing back and forth at the front of the class.
Harry stood. He looked around and saw that Snape, a scowl planted firmly on his face and a few spots of ugly brick red on his cheeks, was also standing.
"Excellent!" Matellan breezed, sweeping towards them. "The two of you can partner up!"
Just peachy, Harry thought as he moved to the corner where Snape had stubbornly seated himself.
"Everybody ready now?" Matellan called. "Excellent! Everyone stand up and move from your desks"—the class obeyed; Matellan flicked her wand, and the desks scurried to the walls—"Now, begin with shielding spells! Proceed!"
Snape's wand was moving even before Matellan had finished speaking.
"Petrificus Totalus!" he snapped, jabbing his wand, and Harry evaded the spell in a swift sidestep. He heard a squeal loud thump behind him. ("Snape!" someone screeched.)
Snape narrowed his eyes. "Stupefy!"
Harry sidestepped again, secretly impressed by the raw power he felt in the spell that hurtled past him—
"Expungo!"
Harry dodged.
"Fundo! Attonbitus! Frost, stop avoiding my spells and shield them!"
Harry blinked as another student thumped onto the floor behind him. "Oh… right." He shrugged apologetically and summoned a sheepish smile (courtesy his versatile "Gryffindor" masks). "I forgot." And he had forgotten: forgotten that for this class he was supposed to waste his energy casting shielding spells instead of dodging his opponent's spells, as he should with such sloppy spell-casting, though apparently Snape was rather skillful compared to the others. He reminded himself that these were only children, and he had to remain inconspicuous…
Snape snorted and flicked his wand again. "Congelo!" he shouted.
Harry waved his wand and remembered at the last moment to utter the incantation, feeling very foolish as he did so, for he hadn't needed to yell out an incantation in many years: "Protego!"
A blue dome snapped into existence, and Snape's beam of magic dissipated. Snape stared for only moment before jabbing his wand again, and Harry winced inwardly: his instincts were going to be hard to overcome (not as though he wanted to lose those instincts: they'd been critical to his survival).
"Ocurro!"
Harry was in mid-flick when he saw a flutter of malicious magic speeding through the air at Snape— Harry darted away and jabbed his wand fiercely at the approaching spell, and with an almost audible sigh, the flow of hostile magic disappeared.
Snape whirled around.
James Potter and Sirius Black's shocked looks were quickly replaced by blank, innocent expressions as they turned and proceeded to fire harmless curses at each other.
Harry watched Snape's face scowled and eyes darken.
"Don't!" Harry snapped, using his sooth-panicked-aurors-voice as Snape aimed his wand at the Marauders. Snape stopped, as though someone had poured ice water over him, and turned to glare at Harry. "Don't," Harry said again, firmly. "Don't respond to them. It's what they want. And they'll be expecting you to attack, and they'll counterattack, and it'll be two against one, and you'll be worse off."
Snape didn't lessen his glare. "Yes," he spat bitterly. "Two against one."
Harry didn't have a chance to reply because one of the Slytherin girls flew past him and crashed into the wall. When he moved to help her up, she snapped at him and told him in no uncertain terms that if he, a dirty mudblood, were to touch her, she'd hex him until even his dirty mudblood descendents would be wincing from the pain. From the other end of the room, Malfoy sniggered.
The rest of the lesson passed quickly, with Professor Matellan liberally awarding points to both Gryffindors and Slytherins. At the end of the class, when the students were filing away, Harry heard the professor call shrilly, "Mr. Frost, please stay a moment!"
Very aware of the ominous feeling at the pit of his stomach, Harry walked up to the front of the class, where the Professor sat marking papers in a strangely florid handwriting.
"I have been observing your skills, Mr. Frost, and I daresay, I am impressed." She stretched the last word out as she finished writing something with an oversized eagle feather quill. Harry couldn't help but notice that her voice had a harsh, metallic ring.
"I've visited the Merriman School of Magic before, you know, and I'm surprised that you've so surpassed their—pardon me—somewhat lacking curriculum."
Harry shrugged. "I didn't limit myself to what the school taught, ma'am."
Professor Matellan smiled beatifically. "Would you please show me the strongest defense spells you've learned?"
"Of course." Harry stood up, mind rifling through the spells he learned. He was strangely reluctant to cast the Patronus charm in front of Matellan, and the spells above that in level would arouse too much suspicion. He pointed his wand at a nearby desk. "Patrocinium!" He let flow a moderate stream of magic and watched it wrap itself around the desk in a shimmering silver bubble.
"Bravo!" Matellan trilled ecstatically, and Harry suppressed a wince. "Strong, very strong!"
Harry smiled complacently and undid the shield.
"I'm sure we'll have a fine time this year, won't we?" she asked, beaming happily.
Harry wasn't too sure he liked the smile, but he kept his face fixed into a vaguely pleasant expression.
"Go on, now," she shooed, and Harry smiled again before turning around, letting his face drop into a frown, and walking to the exit. He felt her gaze on him the entire way. I'll have to be cautious around this one, he thought as he opened the door and slipped out—
Just in time to duck as a jet of purple shot past his head.
"Gotcha, Snivellus!" Sirius Black shouted.
Snape slammed into the wall and shackles appeared, snapping around his ankles, wrists, and neck, pinning him to the wall. His wand clattered to the ground.
"What do you think we should do, Prongs?" Sirius sneered, nudging his friend in the ribs. James Potter looked around quickly. "Oh come off it, James. Moony took your girl to the library, and Wormtail's on the lookout." He grinned. "So what should we do with this slimy git? Show his underpants to the school again? Or what?"
Harry flicked his wand, and Snape slid to the ground. "Nothing," Harry said in a flat voice. He walked to the center of the corridor, standing between Snape and his attackers. He crossed his arms over his chest and impassively watched his father and godfather-to-be exchange looks.
"Look at this, James," Sirius Black drawled. "Another dirty little Slytherin."
"I'm warning you, Black," Harry said levelly, his face a smooth mask.
"Or else what?" Sirius sneered. "You'll join Snivellus there and rub your snot all over your rags?"
Harry ignored him and turned to James Potter. "You'd better control your friend, Potter, or Evans might hear of this."
James Potter turned pale.
"She won't believe you!" Sirius snarled. "She won't believe a Slytherin snake like you! James," he poked his friend in the ribs, "you're Head Boy, do something!"
"There is nothing he can do," Harry said coolly. "And are you willing to bet on that, Black? Don't forget, I'm a Muggleborn just like Lily"—James Potter's face whitened and darkened simultaneously—"and that'll forge a strong connection between us. There's also the fact that she's objective and won't disbelieve me simply based on House prejudices."
"How do you know about Lily?" Potter demanded.
"How could I not, what with the way you—dote on her?" Harry countered, though he inwardly smacked himself. Just a few more weeks, and then he wouldn't have to pretend not to know anything. "And she's hardly keeping her heritage a secret."
Black stepped up menacingly, his wand pointed at Harry. "Stay away from her, you filthy little Death-Eater in training!"
Harry narrowed his eyes, but Potter was pulling away his friend, muttering in his ear. For a moment Harry understood the pleasure Snape had gained from infuriating Sirius Black: the apoplectic face, the quivering shoulders…
"If you try anything—" Black shouted as Potter pulled him down the corridor and out of sight and hearing.
Harry sighed, face grim once more. Though he had long lost his glorious illusions about the Marauders, seeing his father and godfather-to-be act this way brought a deadened feeling to his already heavy heart. How could his mother have married such a—such a git? Harry knew he was not his father, but just knowing that his father was more like Draco Malfoy than anyone else Harry had ever had the displeasure of knowing brought a taste to his mouth that strangely reminded him of dirty socks.
He shook his head and turned around to face Snape, who was clutching his right arm. A bruise was forming on his face. Harry eyed him severely. "You attacked them first, didn't you?"
Snape glared. "Of course I did," he growled. Before Harry could continue, Snape sneered, "Tell me the truth, Frost. Don't think you can deceive me. What do you want from helping me?"
"What if I told you that I wanted you to stop being such a paranoid bastard?" Harry retorted coldly, before he could stop himself. He added, when Snape opened his mouth to respond, "But having Severus Snape at my disposal is too great an opportunity to pass up. To satisfy your suspicions, let's just say I'm saving this debt for a rainy day, all right?"
Snape upped the level of his glare.
Harry sighed and tried to reclaim his calm, which wasn't often lost. It was strange how Snape could soothe him and rile him up like nothing else could. "I don't think Pomfrey would be too pleased with having to see you twice a day. Unless…" He paused. "Don't tell me that in the past six years, you didn't go to her with your injuries?" Though that rather reminds me of me, Harry thought.
"Mind your own business, Frost!" Snape snarled, pushing himself off the wall and moving to escape.
"You are my business now," Harry retorted, grabbing a handful of the other Slytherin's robes, "and stop moving! Let me heal you—I can perform basic healing spells." He moved forward and pointed his wand at Snape's face. "Hold still, will you?"
Snape promptly jerked his head aside, his greasy hair brushing the tip of Harry's wand and blocking his face from view. Harry sighed irritably.
"How did you know that Lily Evans was a mudblood?" Snape demanded.
"Don't call her that," Harry snapped, flicking his wand to get rid of the interfering locks of hair. "In case you've forgotten, I too am a 'mudblood.'" He quickly healed Snape's face before the other wizard could move. "Finally," Harry muttered and waved his wand. Snape's right sleeve rolled up to his shoulder, exposing sallow skin, mottled with yellowing bruises.
He grabbed Snape's hand, examining the bruises. "You— But Pomfrey—" Harry blinked and Snape flushed that ugly brick red again and yanked down his sleeve. "Unless…" Bruises, he knew, could easily be healed if brought to attention within an hour of formation, but if the wounds were older than a day— Realization clicked. He remembered, from so long ago, the images he had seen in Occlumency lessons with Snape: the boy cowering in a corner as the father screamed at the mother…
"MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, FROST!" Snape shouted, his eyes flashing furiously as he whirled around and ran down the corridor, stumbling for a moment at the corner before disappearing.
The silence echoed. Harry stared at where Snape had disappeared before sighing, wiping his face of Snape's spittle, bending down, and picking up the other Slytherin's wand. He must have been really flustered if he left even without his wand, Harry thought, feeling empty. I just hope he doesn't meet the Marauders…
Footsteps.
"Difficult boy, isn't he?"
Harry stiffened, connecting the voice to the black haired prefect who had challenged him on his first night here. "Lestrange." He turned, face impassive.
Terrance Lestrange was leaning against the wall, looking strangely smug. "You know, despite being a mudblood, you are quite powerful, and you are a true Slytherin, though Merlin knows why you're associating with that disgrace."
Harry narrowed his eyes, though he filed the information away for later: Snape? A disgrace? Besides the usual social difficulties, how so? "Your point?"
"Our Lord has ways of… purifying tainted blood. You could be great under his guidance." Lestrange took a step closer, his voice dropping. "Greater than you already are. Powerful in more ways than one…"
Ah, so now he's trying to recruit me, seeing that he can't defeat me, Harry thought darkly. Try your best, Lestrange. He kept his face composed, knowing that he couldn't afford to bring too much attention by flat-out refusing, no matter how badly he wanted to. He smiled coldly, rigidly. "I have a rather pressing essay to write for Transfiguration. Good day." He turned and walked down the corridor.
"Don't think you can avoid it, Frost," Lestrange called. "You will serve Him. One day, you will."
Harry's fists clenched. Don't bet on it, Lestrange.
"Here's your wand, Snape," Harry said as he seated himself for dinner in his usual seat, next to Snape.
Snape snatched back his wand without another word and eyed it suspiciously.
"No, I didn't jinx, hex, curse, or otherwise damage, change, or modify it in any form," Harry drawled as he reached for a bread roll.
Snape glared in response. "And why should I believe you?"
Harry shrugged and stuffed a buttered roll into his mouth.
After Defense, Harry had spent his time in the library, quickly completing his homework by using a little wandless magic. Then he'd pretended to be engrossed in a Quidditch magazine while he fiddled with the tracking spell Dumbledore had cast. It was actually more complicated than he had expected: while he was strong enough to completely dissolve the spell, Dumbledore would note its absence and get only more suspicious.
It didn't help that he had been distracted by stray thoughts of Snape.
Dinner passed without any conversation between him and Snape. Not that he'd been expecting any anyhow. They went to their dorm without exchanging a single word and got ready for bed in silence. In fact, the only person who spoke at all was Malfoy, who kept blabbering on to Lestrange about an uncovered scandal in some pureblood family's pedigree.
Harry sighed with relief as he firmly closed the door to his room, cutting off Malfoy's monologue as he groomed himself in the bathroom.
"Doesn't he ever get sick of hearing himself talk?" Harry muttered to nobody as he chucked off his shirt and trousers and padded to his bed. He hadn't bought any pajamas: he hadn't worn any ever since he had awakened in the Founder's Nest, and it had become a habit.
Snape emerged from behind his bed in a flimsy gray nightgown that might have once been black and froze.
"What?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes and sliding under his covers.
Snape only sneered and muttered something about barbarians. Harry sighed and remembered to hold his wand in his hand as he waved at the fireplace. The fire dimmed to smoldering embers.
In the darkness, Harry closed his eyes and discretely twirled a finger in Snape's direction, weaving a sleeping charm.
Now, I'll have to wait, Harry thought, until two in the morning, I suppose. Two and a half more hours. Nobody will be up that late; it's the first day of classes, and nobody has too much homework to do.
He sighed and continued analyzing Dumbledore's tracking spell. It was completely new to him, for though he had learned a few tracking spells in the Nest, he had never encountered this one. It was, he knew, specific enough for the headmaster to know that he was in the dungeons, or in the Gryffindor tower, or in the library, but not specific enough to pinpoint where, exactly.
It would be easier if I reconstruct the magical equation, Harry thought, but decided to leave it until tomorrow.
He turned to his side and whispered, "Tempus." Green numbers floated in the palm of his hand: 1:38. Late enough, Harry thought, slipping soundlessly out of bed and quietly opening the door. He slipped into the corridor and crept into the common room.
Harry realized that it was cold, but he didn't feel it. The reddish light from the dying embers merged with the deep green of the tapestries and sprawling chairs into an inky darkness. Shadows splayed across the walls and stretched out like denizens of a different realm. Here in the cold and green and blood red darkness, Harry felt a sudden shift, as though he were a stranger walking in a strange world.
He moved to the fireplace and stroked the mantelpiece with his wand.
"Yield to me," he hissed in parseltongue.
The dark silver of the mantelpiece slid away, and Harry reached in a careful hand. He found it and gently took it out: the living dagger, Slytherin's key. Its handle was silver and green and in the form of a hissing snake, with two great emeralds where the eyes would be. The blade was thin and keen as lightning.
He lifted it in the air and touched the blade, and felt a sudden, thrilling rush. He flicked it as easily as breathing, and watched it catch the dim red light of the dying fire. It felt remarkably like flying: completely free and natural and correct, and he waved it in a savage arc before plunging it deep into the stone above the fireplace.
The castle groaned in agony and the light shivered, seeming to flitter with shadows.
Harry drew out the dagger with a broken gasp and dropped it onto the hearthrug as though it burned, and he was acutely aware that he was barefoot, naked except for his pants, shivering in the cold of the Slytherin common rooms.
This didn't happen before, he thought, heart pounding a hole in his chest. The first and only other time he'd retrieved Slytherin's key had been in his sixth year, when he was a still young and headstrong; it hadn't been in the dead of the night, that first time, and the door to the common room had been open enough to let in some pale daylight. He had swung the dagger about clumsily, sheepishly under Ron and Hermione's amused gazes. He hadn't felt a rush of power, of ruthless strength; he hadn't waved it as naturally as he would wave his wand; and he hadn't plunged it into the castle walls while cresting that plateau of power.
He swallowed hard and picked up the dagger again, unable to ignore how he didn't even feel an inkling of awkwardness.
It must be because—because I've changed, he told himself. And because… He tried rapidly—desperately— to rationalize, but he couldn't think very well—he was sleepy, and his emotions and thoughts were a muddle as his heart continued its relentless thumping. He decided flatly to go to sleep instead and ponder it all the next morning. Don't think of it, he told himself as firmly as he could. His heartbeats were deafening and his hands were shaky. It won't do you any good.
He crept back into his room and transfigured the dagger into a fake wand. He stowed it quietly into his trunk. Snape's breathing was still quiet and even. Sighing softly and wearily, Harry crawled under his covers, trying to keep his mind blank and not to think at all about—about everything…
But even with a focus bred from years of Occlumency, he couldn't help but remember… The thrill as he gripped the dagger, the beautiful way it flashed in the blood-red light, the rush as he plunged the dagger to the hilt into the castle…
He squeezed his eye shut and grabbed handfuls of the coverlet, grinding his teeth together and forcing his mind blank. He felt sick. Nauseated. Suddenly he was dreading sleeping. He didn't want to know what hate-filled dreams he'd be having.
You can't not sleep, he growled to himself, shutting his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath and let his fatigue dull the emptiness he felt from Albus's unfriendly eyes and from being flung without knowing how or why into a time, all alone, with only fragmented clues from his past to guide him; with even breaths, he let his exhaustion somewhat ease the remembrance of the deep, tainted (and now, nauseating) satisfaction as he thrust the dagger into the stone…