Chapter 5
He sat under the tree, reading while eating an apple. The cement of the orphanage was hard and rough and blistering hot after being under the blazing sun the entire day. He moved to brush off an ant that was trying to climb into the cracked plastic cup next to him, but he changed his mind and let it continue its way, teetering over the rim and wandering into the liquid. He leaned over and blew, and the liquid engulfed the ant. After a moment, it stopped struggling.
"You!" The voice rang through the empty courtyard. Most of the others were already inside, enjoying dinner. He looked up to see a tall, bony girl with mousy hair leading a small girl with a bundle in his arms. "Freak!"
He sneered, closed his book, and put it facedown onto the ground; it wouldn't do to let the useless Muggles see that he was reading about advanced Transfiguration. "What is it, Stanton?"
"What did you do to Amy's cat?" the bony girl demanded.
"Oh dear," he drawled with an air of saccharine concern. "Is something wrong with it?"
"Shut up!" the bony girl shouted, pointing an accusing finger at gun. "Don't even try denying it. We saw you feed him something, and now he's sick. What did you do to him, you freak?"
He stretched and flicked the apple core into a shrub. "Why should I answer you? After all, I'm only a freak." He smirked at the pinched look on the bony girl's face. "And I don't see what you're so worried about. All that's happening is that the poison I fed it is finally acting."
The little girl gave a strangled sob. He smiled at her, and she backed away in fright. His smile only widened.
"I'm telling Madam Nephridia!" the bony girl declared shrilly, spots of pink appearing on her cheeks. "She'll get you thrown into a jail for this!"
He cocked his head, looking up innocently. "But then I won't be able to give your dear sister's cat the antidote."
The little girl looked up, eyes sparkling with hope. He grinned at her again, and she backed away in fear. He smirked, reveling in her fright.
"There's an antidote?" the bony girl asked suspiciously.
"Of course there is," he sneered. "Unfortunately, the antidote requires ingredients I'm quite sure I won't be able to find here, and takes a month to make, by which time I'm afraid your little pet won't be around." He smirked. "What a pity. However"—he continued with an air of mock thoughtfulness when the bony girl looked ready to kill—"I did make six antidote pills before I got back from school."
The bony girl's lips curled at the mention of school, but she curbed her comments. "Really. Then give me the antidote. Now."
"Gladly," he drawled, pointing at the cracked plastic cup. "See those floating things? Those are the antidotes." He picked up the cup. "Go on. Take it!" He smiled again and thrust it into the bony girl's hands. She took it hesitantly, eyes still rife with suspicion.
"Are you telling the truth, freak?" the bony girl demanded.
"You don't believe me?" he asked in mock indignation. "I never lie!" And I did swear that you'd suffer, he thought, the embers of hatred in his heart leaping into poisonous flames. The bony girl cast a final, suspicious glance, but plucked a pill from the cup.
"There's an ant in here," the little girl exclaimed, peering into the cup. "And it's dead."
"Mm, yes," he said conversationally. "That's because it's not water that I soaked the pills in. It's arsenic."
The bony girl stopped dead. He went on airily, pretending not to notice. "I'm afraid I must've forgotten to mention it. Those are the antidotes, but if you were to feed your cat one of them, I'm afraid your pet will have even less time to live than if you left it alone."
The bony girl was trembling. "You goddamned freak," she hissed.
He narrowed his eyes. "Count the pills in the cup," he ordered. The bony girl, eyes still brimming with suspicion, obeyed. "How many are there?"
"Five," the little girl piped up.
"Yes, very good. Five. I made six." He felt a deep, tainted satisfaction as hope blossomed once again on their horse-like faces. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small misshapen thing. "This is half of the last pill. Feed it to your stupid pet. It'll be able to live for three more months. I'll give you the other half at the end of the holidays, but you never know." He smirked. "I might 'accidentally' lose it."
The bony girl stared. "You freak, you—you bastard…
His grew cold at that particular insult. The flames of loathing roared: he barred his teeth, and the little girl scurried back with a small cry. He stood up slowly, and the bony girl took an involuntary step back. Her long neck worked as she swallowed nervously. He smiled then, a true smile, as he coldly regarded these filthy, disgusting Muggles. Even if they ripped their hearts out and laid them at his feet while begging for mercy, he'd take pleasure in grinding his heel in them and watching the blood squirt over the cement, running in dark rivulets into the dirty cracks…
Harry was wrenched out of sleep, jerked out of his nightmares by something shaking him, and he bolted upright and flung his hand in a wide arc and hoarsely cast a wandless Stupefy—
His head hit something very hard.
He clutched his forehead, stars spinning across his vision as he blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was lying back down, after being… bounced back from his collision, and he… He blinked again, taking in his surroundings. The darkness of the canopy. The red tint of the flagstone ceilings. The cold of the dungeons. The memory of what had happened before he had sunken into dreams. The dream itself.
He shivered and closed his eyes tightly, feeling weak and shaky, and not just from having smashed his head into something. The dream had felt so real, like a memory he had once lived… Propping himself onto his elbows, he sat up slowly and wondered what he'd smashed his head into. "Lumos," he whispered, and the room gradually brightened. Blinking owlishly, he saw that Snape's bed was empty and the curtains parted. He looked down (the stars in his vision were finally dissipating) and saw the other Slytherin sprawled on the ground, face up and unconscious.
Oops, Harry thought weakly. Judging from the impressive swelling of Snape's nose, he must've knocked his head into Snape's nose when Snape had tried to awaken him…
He frowned. How had Snape awakened? The sleeping charm he cast should have been more effective, unless… Harry's frown cleared. Of course. The nightmare. That explained everything: he must've been quite… vocal through the night, and if he'd been louder than a groggy mumble, the sleeping charm would have been broken…
He lay back down onto his bed, feeling too exhausted to move. For a long moment, he let the exhaustion caress the edges of his consciousness, but tired as he was, sleep evaded him. He opened his eyes and glared at the darkened canopy. You won't win, Voldemort! he snarled. Whatever you're playing at, you will not win. And perhaps, he thought, this is why I felt the way I did when I took Slytherin's key. Some trick of Voldemort's.
He sighed and stared bleakly at the darkened canopy. The pain of his forehead distracted him somewhat from the horrible complexity of the problem before him. He was certain Voldemort had something to do with everything, but how exactly he didn't know. It was probable that Voldemort had cast a final spell on him to send him back in time and cause certain side effects, but what precisely, and why, and how? There were so many mysteries, so many unanswered questions. The dreams and that thrill of power, for example—why did they not feel as though they'd come from a foreign spell or vision? Why did they feel as though they had come from deep inside himself?
He curled up onto his side and took a shuddering breath. He wouldn't think of it all right now. It was too confusing and he knew altogether too little. Tomorrow, he'd work on breaking Dumbledore's tracking spell, and then he'd open the Nest, and then… he'd go on from there…
I'd better do something about Snape, he thought belatedly, having almost forgotten that his roommate was lying unconscious on the floor next to his bed. He sighed and opened his eyes again. Rubbing his forehead, he slipped groggily out of bed and knelt down next to Snape and, pointing his wand at the other Slytherin, muttered, "Ennervate."
Snape opened his eyes blearily, focused on Harry, and then scowled. Harry managed a crooked grin. "Um. Sorry." He leaned back as Snape sat up and tenderly prodded his nose. "Don't," Harry said quickly. Snape's scowl darkened. "You'll make it worse if you touch it. Let me heal it for you."
Snape sneered. When he spoke, his voice was very muffled. "Bruises are one thing, but for me to believe you capable of healing a broken nose—one, I might add, that you broke…"
"I'm sorry," Harry said sincerely, and had the good grace to blush, if only a little. In the darkness, he didn't think Snape saw. "But you—but I'm rather paranoid. And you woke me a bit abruptly. Again, I apologize."
Snape's glare didn't lessen. Harry sighed and kneaded the scar on his left shoulder, which always throbbed whenever he was especially tired. "Come on. I learned medimagic at my old school. Really, I'm not bad at it. It's quite a useful skill, you know…"
"Then shut up and do it!" Snape snapped angrily. He clambered to his feet, ignoring Harry's proffered hand, and seated himself on his own bed.
"I'm about to," Harry said calmly, moving from next to his bed to Snape's, "but the healing process is much easier both magic-wise and practically if the patient is willing to be healed…"
"Excuses, excuses," Snape sneered in a muffled, singsong voice.
"I didn't know you were that keen on seeing Pomfrey this early in the morning," Harry retorted, a bit sharply.
Snape clamped his mouth shut. "I want a straight answer from you," he grated through clenched teeth, eyes burning intensely as they met Harry's, "what do you want from 'helping' me, Frost?"
Harry glared back. "I wonder," he responded coldly, "if it has it ever occurred to you, Snape, that I might not have any ulterior motives?"
Snape sneered in response. "Do not presume to think," he said in his frostiest voice, "that you can fool me."
Harry sighed and looked away, massaging the bridge of his nose. I don't suppose I could have expected much else form him, he thought. Bloody suspicious bastard. "I am merely trying to heal you because I just broke your nose with my thick skull," he said flatly, not looking at Snape. "Is that really so hard to accept? Actually, forget I asked that." He shook his head to clear some of his sleepiness. "Right, whatever. Just—please cooperate. Let me get some more light…"
Harry flicked his wand at the fireplace, and the flames grew, but Snape's face was still cast mostly in shadow. He's not helping the situation, Harry thought crossly, noting how Snape slouched in the darkness.
"Is there a torch here?" he said, mostly to himself. He looked up and pulled out one of its socket from the wall between him and Snape's beds. "Don't do that," he said sharply as Snape's fingers crept up to prod his nose.
Snape looked up irritably, and their eyes met.
With a start, Harry realized suddenly how close they were. He felt— He looked away and saw Snape do the same. He suddenly felt less sleepy.
The handle of the torch was made of some kind of dark wood, and the end was shaped like a metal cup, coated with some type of potion or oil. Harry remembered to point at the thing with his wand, and muttered, "Incen—"
"Use Candeo," Snape interrupted. Harry paused and looked at him, wand still pointed at the torch. "It burns more smoothly," Snape explained stiffly, his voice completely devoid of malice for the first time. His eyes didn't meet Harry's. "Same wand movement as Incendio."
"Oh," said Harry, momentarily nonplussed. "All right." Harry pointed his wand at the torch. "Candeo." It warmed and began burning a pleasant whitish flame. "There we go," Harry said, feeling rather surprisingly cheerful. He sank into the mattress next to Snape and pointed his wand at the other Slytherin's nose. "You can close your eyes if you want," Harry remarked lightly when he noticed Snape stiffening.
The other Slytherin only glared in response, and Harry, to his surprise, felt a grin tickling the edge of his lips.
"Relax," Harry said, as soothingly as he could, and tapped his wand on Snape's nose. "Sano." The swelling ceased, and the nose returned, albeit jerkily, to its normal state. Snape felt his nose gingerly before wrinkling it and sniffing the air experimentally.
Harry chuckled, and he took a moment to marvel at the strange sensation, all shadows of sleep lost. He stretched and yawned anyway, and Snape gave him a disgusted glare, but there Harry found no animosity in it.
"Go back to your bed, Frost," Snape commanded, "and try not to wake me again."
Harry sobered immediately. "Was I… very loud?" Did I say anything in my sleep?
Snape frowned. "Not especially. But I felt… something coming from you."Harry blinked. "Oh." That's rather vague. Snape is usually never vague. He frowned, wondering if this strange something had to with V—don't think of it now, he told himself. A little voice answered: then when are you ever going to think of it? He closed his eyes and said, a bit tersely, "I can put up silencing spells, if you want."
Snape shrugged irritably and crawled under his covers. "I told you. You weren't especially loud. Something else coming from you woke me up."
Harry nodded once, slowly. "All right." Then, after brief silence, broken only by the flickering of flames in the fireplace, he said, "Thank you. For waking me." A short pause. Snape turned over and grunted in response.
Harry sighed and smiled wanly in the direction of the other Slytherin. He doused the torch and whispered, "Tempus." It was six in the morning. I suppose I can function on four hours of sleep, he thought. Anyhow, I doubt I'd get anymore sleep today even if I tried. He dressed quietly and left the room. Snape said nothing.
Harry came upon a solution to Dumbledore's tracking spell halfway through his third sausage. Being the first one down for breakfast had its advantages: he had the entire, echoing Hall to himself, a sleepy gray from the morning light, and there was nothing to disturb his ponderings.
He knew he couldn't simply dissolve the spell, though he was capable of it: Albus would notice its absence, and everything would spiral down the drain. Nor could he temporarily disable it; yet again, Albus might notice. However, he could probably transfer the spell to something else, an anchor that would stay in his dorm while he prowled the castle at night for the other Founders' Keys…
At that moment, he wished, more than ever, that he had access to the Nest. He had never shifted spells and didn't even know if it was possible.
I suppose there's no hurt in trying, he thought. After finishing breakfast, he trekked out to the lake (the library wasn't opened yet) and cast a weak tracking spell on a stone. Then he tried to shift the spell from the stone to a tree, and utterly failed.
Huh, he thought as the tracking spell rapidly disintegrated in midair. I suppose it'll get easier with practice. Or maybe my technique is all wrong. He recast the spell, and, gritting his teeth, lifted it from the stone… and watched it unravel itself and disappear in little tangles of magic.
An hour later, he was frustrated and tired. Even when he put the stone right next to the tree, he couldn't transfer the spell. When he lifted the spell from the stone and tried to connect it to the tree, the spell invariably dissipated; when he lifted the spell from the tree in an attempt to move to the stone, the spell fell apart even more quickly. Bloody magic, he thought, glaring at the stone in his hand, and sighed.
With a quick, forceful toss, he skipped the stone over the lake, watching it jump over the glass-smooth surface and disappear halfway across the misted surface. His eyelids drooped, and he imagined himself gliding through the mist, leaving behind all his troubles at the shore…
There might be something in the library that can help, he thought idly, turning around and heading back for the castle. He hesitated a moment and then changed his route, choosing to enter via a side entrance instead of the main entrance, through which he had exited. He didn't feel like facing people and having them wreck this rare moment of calm.
Pushing open the small, wooden door, he ducked inside and wandered down the corridor. In the six months after his two and a half year imprisonment in the Nest, he never went anywhere nor saw anybody without donning his shining "Gryffindor" mask. It slipped onto his face with oiled ease and made him feel sick. Of course, he hardly needed it when he was alone, but when he was alone, he felt, more acutely than ever, the fact that he was just that: alone. It often led to brooding, which only made him feel worse.
At least Albus could see through that horrible mask, even if I never truly dropped it around him, Harry thought. He paused as a sudden thought struck him: or Snape. He saw through it, I'm sure. Even then. And now… He continued his way to the Great Hall and remembered Snape with a flamingo's beak, Snape on the floor with his nose the size of a kiwi, and was startled to feel his lips moving into a grin…
"…to the whole school again, Snivellus?"
He stopped short. So much for not losing my rare moment of calm, he thought grimly, and turned the corner with a deadened feeling on his heart.
Sirius Black and James Potter were standing there, wands out and smirks on their faces. Severus Snape was barring his teeth on the opposite side of the corridor like a cornered animal, and his cheeks were flushed an ugly brick red. His outer robes, Harry noticed, were in shreds on the floor, and he was only wearing a thin, too-small gray shirt, and frayed gray trousers, making him look like a stork.
"I knew you were poor, but really, couldn't your mother have gotten you anything better?" Black taunted. He was nursing a red welt on his right forearm, but looked otherwise unharmed.
Harry watched Snape stiffen, and flashes of memories darted through his head: of Snape, a frightened little boy, cowering as his father towered in rage and shouted, and a woman, his mother, wept impotently—
Snape's eyes blazed murderously, and his wand was trembling—
"EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry shouted. Three wands sailed through the air and into his waiting hand.
"Frost!" Black barked after a stunned silence. "Give back our wands!"
Harry ignored him and turned to James Potter, who looked ready to hex him to pieces. "Potter," he said coolly, "I might be mistaken, but are you not the Head Boy?"
Harry was immensely relieved when James Potter immediately lost his enraged looked and began to squirm guiltily. So at least he's reformed somewhat, he thought dryly.
"Yes, James is Head Boy," Sirius Black smirked, looking smug, "and he can assign you detention and take off points from your filthy house. Now give—"
"Of course," Harry interrupted and couldn't resist twirling the wand he knew was Sirius's. "But I was not aware that using magic in corridor to attack other students was part of a Head Boy's duties."
Black was momentarily flummoxed. "Just—you attacked us," he said triumphantly. "And Snivellus just attacked me. Look," he thrust up his right arm, showing the red welt that ran from his wrist up to his elbow.
"Sirius, he's got a point," James Potter said slowly. "I… give back our wands, and we won't mention that you attacked us in the corridor."
"James, you can't be serious! He's a—he's a Death-Eater in training! And what Snivellus did—"
"I know," Potter snapped, "but he's got a point—"
"Indeed I do," Harry said coldly. He tossed the Marauders' wands back to their owners. "I may get detention and many points deducted, but you may lose your Head Boy status, and I'm quite sure Evans would disapprove."
Potter immediately began sputtering. "You—you leave Lily out of this!"
"Lily, is it?" Harry smirked. Black, face twisted with rage, had raised his wand and was ready to bring it down, but Potter snaked out a hand and stopped his friend.
"Let's go," he growled, and pulled Black with him out of the corridor, shooting Harry one last glare. They disappeared around the corner, and silence fell, broken only by the distant lull of voices.
Harry sighed and turned, his mind a mess. He was interfering, as he told himself—as the laws of time dictated—that he wouldn't. Part of him shouted that it was stupid and reckless and rash to get in the way of what had already happened, of the inevitable. But some stubborn part of him refused to listen, and anyway, whatever he did would already have been in effect. He knew he hadn't forced Snape and his father (to be) to become friends; his past would have reflected that. He hadn't; he hadn't done anything "wrong"—in fact, everything he did now could only be "right"—because it had already happened. And, he thought, reveling in the irritation and exasperation and however distant hurt he felt, there's no way I'm sitting back and letting them make asses of themselves. The arguments firmly fixed in his mind, he pushed away the storm of doubt and looked at Snape.
The other Slytherin was standing with his back against the corridor wall, and when he noticed Harry's gaze, looked down at the ground. The memory of earlier that morning floated through Harry's mind, of having healed his nose as he sat sullenly in his flimsy nightgown, of chuckling as Snape gingerly sniffed the air.
"Your robe…" Harry said hesitantly. Snape continued staring at the ground, his thin arms ramrod straight at his sides. He pressed himself against the wall, and light from a window fell across him, and Harry could see clearer than ever the faded yellow bruises on his bony arms.
"I am sorry they did this to you," Harry said.
Snape looked at him with angry eyes. "Sorry?" he spat. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You don't control their actions."
"I don't pity you," Harry replied quietly, and Snape fixed him with a fierce, disbelieving look. Harry gazed back steadily, and then the tension in Snape's shoulders lessened abruptly, and he looked back down at the floor.
Harry had the strangest urge to reach out and touch the other Slytherin's shoulder, or his sallow cheek, but the impulse came and went so quickly that all he remembered of it was a slight moment of bewilderment. He wrinkled his nose at the pile of rags on the ground. "I don't know of any spell that can fix that, but you can borrow one of my robes."
"I don't want your charity," Snape growled through gritted teeth, looking up again with glinting eyes.
"I charge interest," Harry replied blandly. Snape looked momentarily taken aback. "A vial of dreamless sleep potion for every week you use my robe."
"Don't taunt me, Frost," Snape snapped furiously, hurt flashing briefly in his eyes.
"Taunt? But I'm sure y—"
"There's no such thing as a dreamless sleep potion, and you know that, Frost!" Snape spat. "Dreams are necessary for magical equilibrium; enforced dreamless sleep can drive someone insane, or kill them."
Harry blinked. "Oh. I… didn't know that, actually. Really, I am not that… up-to-date with potions. I thought—never mind." How was I to know that the potion for dreamless sleep was such a recent invention? Snape was staring at the ground again. "I wasn't taunting you. I—sorry." Harry let his voice trail off in the air. Snape glanced up, and Harry was relieved to see that he wasn't using his death glare (again). "I'll think of something," he said at last, "to charge as interest. Um. Can you walk? Did they hurt you anywhere?"
"No," Snape muttered. His lips curled. "They just wanted to… unclothe me."
"And I suppose you didn't provoke them in any way?"
Snape opened his mouth angrily again, and Harry said quickly, "Forget I said that." For now. "Can you walk?"
"Of course I can walk!" Snape snapped indignantly.
"Good." Harry took out his wand and pointed it at Snape. "Obscuro. So that people won't comment." Snape's now translucent mouth snapped shut. Harry smirked. "Let's go, then. I've got Charms in ten minute, and I intend to be on time."
Snape glowered but didn't argue as he followed Harry into the dungeons.
"Ah, almost late!" Professor Flitwick chirped as Harry hurried inside.
"Sorry," Harry muttered, ducking his head and looking around for a place to sit. There was only one other Slytherin here, the girl who had threatened to hex him to pieces if he sat next to her. He turned to the Gryffindor side of the room and noticed to his relief that Black or Potter weren't there. He hesitated: when had Sirius become Black? Shaking his head quickly, he headed for the empty seat near the front, and noticed that he would be sitting next to Lily Evans.
For a moment, he froze, unable to do anything except for stare at his mother-to-be, but catching himself, he quickly looked back up at the front of the classroom and slipped into the seat. Relax, Potter, he told himself. A small part of him noticed it a bit strange to call himself Potter when James Potter had become Potter. Perhaps it would be better to stick to Frost, even with his… er… "inner voices"…
Flitwick took roll call and rambled on about the N.E.W.T. level curriculum. Harry idly wondered if the teachers were aware of how similar and boring their first lessons were. His m—Lily Evans, he noticed, was paying rapt attention.
Harry was snapped out of his ennui when Flitwick toppled off his pile of books and squeaked that the class would begin the Patronus Charm.
Relax, Harry told himself. Potter isn't here, and neither is Black or Lupin or Pettigrew. Nobody here besides Lily Evans might recognize Prongs… If it still is Prongs. He had a sudden, desperate urge to cast the Patronus, just to reassure himself that it was still Prongs. What if it isn't? But no—it simply can't have changed. Can it?
"Who here has heard of this charm?" Flitwick called.
Lily Evans raised her hand. Harry wasn't very surprised when she gave a completely thorough explanation.
"Excellent!" Flitwick beamed. "Now, who might be able to cast this?" His eyes twinkled and unexpectedly turned on Harry. "How about you, Mr. Frost? Professor Matellan told me that you were quite excellent in Defense Against Dark Arts. Let's see how you'll fare with Charms, eh…?"
For a moment, Harry just blinked like a deer caught in wandlight. Then he hesitantly took out his wand. He remembered his earlier reluctance around Matellan, but this wasn't Matellan, and the urge to see if—to see that his Patronus was still Prongs was as insistent as ever. He ducked his head and pretended to be embarrassed. "I… er… I'm not very good—"
"Give it a try," Flitwick encouraged in a kindly voice.
Harry nodded nervously. He held his wand up and cast his mind about… A happy memory. This was going to be harder than he thought. His mind flitted years back, to his first years at Hogwarts. He remembered, without any specific memory, being with Ron and Hermione, the sense of unity and joy and belonging and simplicity and love, and—oh, it hurt, to think of Ron, of Hermione, of their lost and shattered childhood. How they had changed, how they'd all changed; and Ron (his heart clenched), Ron—
"Expecto Patronum," he whispered before the happiness could be eclipsed by anguish and melancholy, and noticed that his voice was slightly hoarse.
A silver mist poured from his wand and coalesced into a brilliant stag. He heard gasps from about the room and Flitwick's ecstatic commentary, but he didn't pay attention to any of it. Prongs trotted on a cloud of mist to the other end of the room and back, and bowed his head, nuzzling Harry's face. Harry closed his eyes: Prongs it was still, Prongs, his father, not the immature bighead of this time, but his father…
The stag dissolved, and Harry felt strangely bereft. He sat back down to a smattering of applause.
"That was really amazing," someone whispered, and Harry turned. It was Lily. He managed a crooked smile and tried his best to look abashed.
"Thanks," he whispered back.
Harry rather appreciated Flitwick's long lecture on the perfection of Harry's spell. It gave him time to collect himself, but by the end of it, Harry didn't need the wandless spells to make his ears look red. After the "lecture," Flitwick beamingly delegated Harry to aid the students as they attempted to cast the Patronus.
"You shouldn't focus on the spell itself," Harry said, noticing how Lily Evans was trembling with effort. Her face was as red as any Weasley's hair and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but only a wisp of silver drifted out from the tip of her wand. "You have to focus entirely on the happy memory and let it envelope you. Sort of like a warm blanket."
She opened her eyes and eyed Harry speculatively for a moment before nodding and casting him a quick smile. "Expecto Patronum!" she declared. The mist was more certain this time, flowing out and gathering lazily at their feet.
"Better," Harry remarked. "It gets easier with practice. Just remember to concentrate on the memory and not on the spell."
She nodded and smiled at him, widely this time. "Thanks. You're the new student, Jonathan Frost, aren't you?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
"Hi. I'm Lily Evans, Gryffindor." She extended her hand and Harry took it.
"Jonathan Frost, Slytherin. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He smiled, and found that the smile wasn't as forced as it might have been.
"I've heard about you from James Potter." She smiled when Harry gave her a mildly alarmed look. "Don't worry, I don't believe everything he says. He's terribly prejudiced against Slytherins for some reason." She seemed rather displeased as she said the last sentence.
Harry nodded and settled with, "I see."
The class ended soon after that. Harry found Lily's company enjoyable, and he managed to ignore the part of him that was in a state of shock at fact that he was conversing with his mother, who had died for him when he was one…
"Don't forget," Flitwick chirped as the chattering students filed out of the classroom, "to find partners for the term project!"
Term project? Harry thought, and then noticed someone tapping his shoulder.
"Jonathan?" Lily shifted the books in her arms. "I was just wondering—would you like to work with me on the term project?"
Harry blinked. He noticed over Lily's shoulder Black and Potter working their way towards them through the flood of students, looking murderous. "Sure, I'd love to," he said, and grinned.
Lily smiled. "Great! Um… do you have any ideas? I was thinking of the charms based on loving sacrifice, specifically the Sacrificum Ara spells from Mes—sorry, I'm rambling," she smiled sheepishly, "do you have any ideas?"
"Um. Not really." Harry wracked his brains: that spell Lily had mentioned was familiar… "I'm fine with anything, really. But—" He stopped, remembering. Sacrificum Ara. He had read of it in the Nest: it was the spell of sacrifice and protection, the type of charm his mother—Lily, this girl in front of him—had done to save his life. So it started here, he thought, and a tingle ran down his spine. His voice was surprisingly hoarse when he spoke. "Spells of sacrifice and protection. It sounds… fascinating."
Lily looked surprised. Harry pretended not to notice Potter and Black as they shoved aside a Hufflepuff fifth year and approached. "You know of the Sacrificum Ara? That's really wonderful, I've only read of it in Unqualë Greene's Treatise of Ancient Charms, and even then it wasn't—"
"EVANS!"
Lily turned around in surprise. "James!" Harry watched as James Potter grabbed Lily's arm and roughly pulled her away—"JAMES! What are you doing?"
Black stepped in, casting a threatening glance at Harry and saying urgently, "Lily, you shouldn't associate with people like him—"
"There's nothing wrong with me associating with Jonathan." She pulled her arm out of Potter's grasp and turned to Harry. She gave him a strained, apologetic smile. "Sorry." Then she whirled around and narrowed her eyes. "James Potter! What's the meaning of this? You are Head Boy! You should not condone such stupid prejudices, even if it is your best friend making them!" She glared at Black.
"Um… I'll go now, shall I?" Harry said. The three Gryffindors turned to look at him as though they'd forgotten he was there (which they probably did, he thought). Black growled. Harry gave Lily a weak smile. Hopefully Potter and Black—well, Potter, at least, will get that in his head, and Lily won't marry a moron, and I won't have a git as a father, and Snape won't have killed them by the end of the school year. He fled down the corridors to the dungeons and potions and Snape.
"No, Frost," Snape snapped, as loudly as he dared. "Don't scatter the diricawl feathers as though you were feeding hens! The whole point is to make them float over the surface."
"Is this better?"
"You—half a second too late."
Harry had partnered with Snape instead of Snape working alone, as he usually did (there had been an odd number of students in that particular Slytherin-Hufflepuff class). Snape hadn't seemed too pleased with the new arrangement; but honestly, Harry thought, I'm not that bad. Potions was never my strong suit, but I'm at least as good as Hermione was!
"No—yes, now you stir, slowly, Frost," Snape hissed, staring intensely as Harry carefully stirred their Sound-Capturing Concoction. Snape scooped up a handful of minced (they're powdered, Harry thought crossly; he'd been the one who had to do the chopping) cypress roots and held it at ready. "Yes, like that… and stop… right… now!" Harry stopped. Snape immediately began to sprinkle the roots, and Harry watched, fascinated. The Snape he knew was intense, but didn't burn, and didn't have obsidian eyes that gleamed and glinted like that… But on second thought, he decided that he could see glimpses of this open intensity, this coiled energy, in the future Snape, but it had been dulled and made bitter. I wonder what happened, Harry thought, heart unexpectedly clenching, for Snape to lose whatever innocence he had left.
Snape leaned back and sighed, a long, sensual drawl.
"Done?" Harry asked, hiding a smirk.
"Yes," Snape said dreamily, eyes half lidded and lips settled in a faint smile. This is the first time I've seen him smile like that, Harry thought, and then paused with the vial halfway to the cauldron. This is the first time I've ever seen Snape smile. Smirk, sneer, yes, but not… this. This open, vulnerable smile or contentment. Harry tore his eyes away and bottled the potion.
Snape was still glowing (Harry never thought he'd see Snape glow) well after Professor Camentum had drifted by and complimented their potion.
"I should've strained the kneazle fur in the bubotuber more thoroughly," Snape mused. "And you could've sliced the hyssop into more even pieces."
"They were perfect!" Harry exclaimed, exasperated. Snape glared. "Oh all right," Harry conceded, feeling his lips twitching into a grin. "They weren't. But they were close."
They sat in silence until the end of class, with Snape (re)reading his potions text, and Harry observing the other students. Indeed, Harry thought, at least in the potions classroom, little had changed in twenty years.
As the class ended and the students began to scramble out, Professor Camentum croaked, "Don't forget, class, to find partners for your term project!"
Another term project? Harry wondered, and glanced at Snape. Snape met his eyes for a moment before looking away, too quickly.
Harry smiled inwardly. "Snape," he asked with mock-gravity while gathering his books in his arms, "would you like to honor me with your partnership for the term project?"
Snape drew himself to his full height and nodded stiffly. "I suppose I am amendable to that proposition."
Harry grinned. I haven't grinned like this in a very long time, he thought absentmindedly as they left the potions classroom. As the Slytherins separated from the Hufflepuffs, they found Sirius Black loitering suspiciously in one of the corridors. Harry prodded Snape and led them through a different route to the Slytherin common rooms.
"I expect Potter and Black will attempt to murder me sometime in the next week," Harry said seriously when Snape sent him a mildly irritated look. "But I'm hoping to last this week at least."
"Really," Snape said, sounding interested. They reached the common room, Snape said the password, and they stepped inside together. "What did you do?"
"I sent Lily Evans on them," Harry said, shrugging. "The last time I saw them, she was biting off Potter's head, and was ready to do the same to Black."
"I see," Snape said, after a moment. His face was shadowed. "How did you manage that?"
"She asked me to be her partner for the charms term project." Harry cast Snape a shrewd look. "Between her and me, I doubt Black and Potter will give you too much trouble."
Snape sneered as he jerked open the door to their room. "I don't need your help, Frost." He flung aside the curtains to his bed and sat stiffly on the green covers, the curtains slowly drifting back over his face.
"Indeed, you hardly seem to need my help in getting in trouble with them," Harry said coolly, dropping his books onto his trunk. "I've been here three days and found you in trouble with them two times." He sat down on his bed.
There was a sullen silence in the room. Harry wished it would go away. "I wouldn't want to one day find you bruised beyond repair," Harry said, as lightly as he could. Snape was still hiding behind his curtains. "Try not to respond to immaturity with… well, immaturity."
More silence. Harry sighed, massaged the bridge of his nose, and left the room.
He was in the corridor when he became aware of someone standing next to him. "Lestrange."
"That was quite a show with Potter and Evans," the black-haired prefect said. Harry kept still, staring straight ahead. He could see a shadow of the aristocratic face in the corner of his eye.
"Indeed," Harry murmured. Lestrange, standing next to him, felt like a snake, a very dangerous snake, wrapped in shadow. "I'm glad you enjoyed."
"Mm. You, for one, and unlike the rest, are a true Slytherin."
Harry laughed humorlessly at this. I wonder what he'd think if he knew I was Sorted in Gryffindor the first time around. But people change. I changed. "Really. How so?"
Lestrange snorted. "I don't even have to speak of Malfoy, nor think of Crabbe. Though I do have hopes for Lucius. He's got cunning and ambition, but no ruthlessness." Harry saw the prefect look at him strangely for a moment. "And Snape. Ambition, cunning, and ruthlessness, yes, but…" The lips curled. "He lets his emotions clouds his wits. And his ambition is based solely on his weaknesses, his inadequacies."
Harry felt a jab of annoyance at Lestrange's analysis, but realized, a moment later, that much of it was true. Snape was ambitious and could be cunning and ruthless, but in a flash of clarity, Harry saw how Snape was just as emotionally driven as any Gryffindor—even more so, perhaps. The fires of Snape's being weren't gold and gloriously red: they were darker and hotter than any Gryffindor's and the colors of blood and broken, convulsing shadows.
"Indeed," Harry murmured.
"But you can be cunning, and ruthless." Lestrange stepped closer, and Harry stepped away. "Would you not let the Dark Lord bring out the best of you, then?"
"I don't understand you," Harry said brusquely and turned around and left, glad that Lestrange didn't follow. He was reluctant to outright refuse Lestrange, who was clearly the spearhead of Voldemort's sway in Hogwarts, but he would never accept the offer. He knew, all too well, how cunning Voldemort could be, and how tight the webs he wove were: Snape was testament to that. Harry shivered.
He continued his trek out of the Slytherin common rooms and up through the levels of the castle. You're in Hogwarts, Potter, he scolded himself. You learned from the Masters in the Nest; you have nothing to fear from Lestrange. Hell, you may very well be stronger than the Voldemort of this time! He paused and considered the notion. Him? Stronger than Voldemort? The thought felt utterly alien. He remembered with a bittersweet tang when his first instinct when he thought of the Dark Lord wasn't of fear or wariness but of headlong rashness. That was before he knew how cruel Voldemort could be, before he knew what pain really was, before he knew how inadequate he really was, before that had happened at the end of his sixth year, before Ron had… before all that had happened.
Frost, not Potter, he told himself a moment later as he headed for the libraries. Stay in character, even inside your head. He was wondering where he would be able to find information pertaining to transferring spells when he heard loud, familiar voices echoing in the halls.
"…disgust me! After all that, I can't believe—"
"But James is right, Evans," Black interrupted tightly. Harry crept around a corner, making sure to stay in shadows and to wandlessly cast a mild notice-me-not charm. "I'd trust those Slytherins about as far as I could throw them."
Lily Evans, green eyes snapping and red hair rather disheveled, stamped her foot in exasperation. "There's no proof that he's a Death-Eater in training or anything less than a respectable human being!"
Potter and Black sighed in exasperation. Standing by, Remus Lupin sighed as well, though more out of resignation than exasperation, and Peter Pettigrew was twitching agitatedly.
"He threatened us, Lily," Potter explained, as though to a very young, very stupid child.
"And how, exactly, did he threaten you?" Lily demanded.
Potter looked taken aback. "Well—er—"
Lily's eyes flashed. "I can't believe you, James Potter! And I thought you'd changed, I thought you'd dropped all those stupid prejudices last year, but it was all an act. You lied to me. I—I refuse to speak to someone as unreasonable as you." She turned around.
"Lily!" Potter lurched forward. "Wait—"
"Don't talk to me until you've thought everything over!" Lily snapped, her green eyes ablaze. She met Potter's brown ones squarely, and Harry noticed both their hands curl into fists. And then she turned around again and stormed away. Potter's shoulder slumped visibly.
Harry slipped away a moment later, as Black swore up and down to squash all the Slytherins and Pettigrew and Lupin uselessly tried to console James Potter. He will learn, eventually, Harry thought, continuing on his way to the library. He felt a splinter of doubt, as though he'd overstepped his bounds, even though he knew, coldly and logically, that he had no bounds: whatever he did was fated to be, had already happened. It made no sense, even though it did, and didn't quite assuage that feeling of uncertainty.
He considered what might have happened if he had not appeared. Perhaps Potter would eventually overcome his prejudices by himself, but with Voldemort's darkening shadow, that chance was dimming. Perhaps the two would wed, and perhaps they would not; but if they did indeed wed, and Potter kept his harsh biases… Harry remembered the photos of his beaming parents, and tried to see if there was any mar in their joy, any flaw their in happiness. Perhaps it was I who brought them finally together, Harry thought at last, hesitantly; for I doubt Lily Evans would be content with a man who was a bigot.
It was a very surreal thought, but nevertheless, a feeling he hadn't felt for months, that glowed without being feverish or restless, bloomed in his heart.
"Take him and go!"
He felt the wards melt under his touch as he walked through the doorway. The black-haired man shot a curse at him, which he blocked easily. He caught sight of someone darting up the stairs, and he immediately moved to follow.
A jet of red light shot towards him; he sliced his wand through the air and the red light shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
"Don't even think of it," the black-haired man shouted, running to the bottom of the stairs, crouched in a defensive position. He was panting and wary, like a cornered animal.
His patience was thin tonight. He narrowed his eyes at the man guarding the stairs. "Move aside, Potter," he hissed, waving his wand.
"NO!" the black-haired man shouted, but he was being wrenched from his position. "Run, Lily! Take him an g—"
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green, and the corpse fell to the ground.
He continued up the stairs and heard a woman's voice, and a baby's wail. His lips curved into a smile as he flung aside the flimsy protective wards and traps the mudblood had laid.
"No!" the woman shouted, clutching a bundle to her chest.
He flicked his wand, and the windows glowed with unnatural red light. There was no escape.
The woman flicked her wand and shouted a curse. He dodged it easily before stretching out his hand, watching with satisfaction as her wand flew into his.
The foolish woman's eyes widened.
"Give him to me."
She shook her head and curled her body around the bundle. "No… Anything but Harry…"
"Stand aside, foolish girl."
"No! Please!" Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him, something the others rarely did. "Take me, take me instead…
He raised his wand and pointed it at her. Pity that she would have to die: if she weren't a mudblood, he might have been interested in her. She was no weakling. But she'd hardly live up to Bellatrix.
"Please… Have mercy…"
"Avada Kedavra."
Her green eyes went blank and she slumped to the floor, the bundle still locked in her arms. He flicked his wand, and the baby, tightly wrapped in pale blue blankets covered with golden snitches, floated into the crib.
He smiled. At last. That was almost too easy. Disgusting creature, this baby was: he was wailing and slobbering all over. He entertained the thought of killing it with his bare hands, of strangling it and watching its face turn blue, but decided against it. It as better to be quick, in case Dumbledore had some other trick up his sleeve…
He pointed his wand again at the baby's forehead and the words came easily. "Avada Kedavra."
There was a flash of green, but it didn't fade. Instead, he heard a strange rushing sound, and he had a moment of confusion before the green light exploded before his eyes and he screamed in hate and anger, but by then he had no throat to scream with anymore. There was a horrific wrenching—the pain exploded through his very being—
It felt like being pulled out of an icy lake, shivering and drenched in cold, but this cold burned like fire, and he tipped over when he felt something or someone touched him, and he was barely aware of sliding off and falling onto something hard and bare that dug into his knees and elbows and helped drive some of the phantoms of sleep from his mind.
He was trembling, and he focused on the cracks on the ground. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to things like the flagstones and tints of red from the fireplace and a white-glowing torch (no green, he thought, no green); and he got off his knees and elbows and slumped against… something.
He was still quivering. His eyes took in his bed, with their parted green curtains and tangled sheets…
He swallowed harshly and realized that he was leaning against someone, rather than something. He turned, still too shaky to stiffen, and saw Snape staring back, eyes telling an odd mixture of emotions. If Harry had been more coherent, he would've seen a storm of fear and bewilderment and concern.
Harry took a shuddering breath, eyes falling to where his naked shoulder was leaning against Snape's chest. "I'm… s-sorry," he mumbled, and decided to shut up; he sounded like a stupid six-year-old with nightmares. He closed his eyes, and felt a hand rubbing his bare back, hesitantly and lightly, so lightly it was almost…
He sighed and let the hand ease away the trembling and the shakiness. "I'm sorry," he muttered once more. The hand paused.
"For what?" Snape said, just as quietly, and Harry could feel the vibrations of the other wizard's voice in the thin chest.
"Waking you, and being such a… such a miserable wretch…" Harry said, looking up again and meeting Snape's eyes. They were guarded again, and hidden by the shadows and the curtain of hair. Harry looked down and sighed. The hand had stopped.
"Perhaps you should move in with Crabbe," Harry said, surprised by how bleak he sounded.
"Why would I do that?" Snape asked, and his voice sounded cold.
Harry shivered, and cursed himself a moment later for doing so. "At least you'd get a good night's sleep."
"I'm much rather not room with a Neanderthal, thank you very much," Snape replied coolly, and Harry felt the fingers brush his back. "And I wouldn't want to subject you to ape, unless you find my company so repulsive."
"No," Harry said immediately. He leaned back, and the contact between them was lost. "Of course not."
The silence stretched a few moments, and Harry let his mind sink into a slump of ennui as he watched the embers of the fireplace. He was aware of Snape, kneeling next to him and watching him with eyes he couldn't see.
The floor was getting painful. Harry shifted, and tried to get to his feet, and found it surprisingly difficult. An arm came, long and slender and motley even in the dim light: Snape's; and Harry took it and sank onto his bed, feeling the curtains drift over his bare back. He shivered again.
Snape sat down next to him. Harry could see the other wizard's eyes a bit more clearly, and saw the gaze run over his chest and pause at his collarbone. Harry rubbed at the scar there absentmindedly, and Snape averted his gaze.
"I have… nightmares," Harry said, breaking the silence. There was a pause. "They are… of a peculiar sort. Not pleasant at all, I assure you. I apologize for waking you and ending such—such a wreck." He sighed. "Judging from… from what I know, I doubt you will have much respite in the following nights."
Snape curled his lips, eyes going cold again. "If you desire to move out, then go ahead," he snapped.
"It's not like that," Harry said wearily. "It's nothing—nothing against you, or anything, it's..." Snape's eyes softened a bit. "You'll hardly get a good night's sleep, and when tests begin, and when the N.E.W.T.s come around…"
"How much I intend to sleep is none of your business," Snape said curtly. "What time is it?"
Harry blinked a moment and then reached behind Snape for his pillow, and shifted it aside to grasp his wand. "Tempus," he muttered. "It's about five thirty."
"When did we sleep?"
"Half past ten, about."
"About seven hours of sleep. I can manage," Snape said with an air of finality, and Harry felt a smile creep through the layers of his weariness onto his lips.
"Very well," Harry said. "I shall help you indulge in your urge for insomnia." He paused, and his smile faded away. "Was I very loud?"
Snape gave him an odd look. "When I woke, you were absolutely silent, except for your tossing and turning, but when I tried waking you, you… screamed."
"Oh," said Harry, blinking. He didn't remember screaming.
"Not loudly," Snape added.
"That's… good to know," Harry said, and looked down to where he was fingering his covers. "I suppose I'll put a silencing charm, so as not to wake the others."
"The walls are thick and made of stone, Frost," Snape said, eyes still fixed on him.
Harry shrugged. It wasn't so much as to keep Lestrange and Malfoy from hearing—Snape was right, the walls were thick and made of stone, but to keep Snape from hearing what he might blurt out. Merlin knows what might happen if he heard me shout 'Avada Kedavra,' he thought dryly, and for a moment considered the ramifications. They were momentarily funny before memory of the all-too-familiar green light engulfed him again.
"Frost," Snape said, sounding surprisingly hesitantly. Harry looked up. "I… if it is amendable with you, perhaps we might try to create the dreamless sleep potion for the term project."
Harry blinked in surprise. "But you said…"
"I know what I said," Snape snapped. "If you think nothing of the idea, then you think of—"
"No, I'm find with it." He felt his spirits rise and a smile came with surprising ease to his lips. "If you're willing, then I'm all for it."
"The dreamless sleep potion is something many masters have attempted, and none successfully," Snape reminded sharply. "Experimentation of possible formulas ended in the 1800's when the deaths of trial subjects increased."
Harry shrugged. "My life is my own to throw away, just as your hours of sleep are yours."
Snape snorted. "Frost, you are an idiot."
"Right, and you are a genius?"
Snape gave him a mildly offended glare. "Of course."
Harry chuckled, the unfamiliar sensation sending thrills up and down his spine. He didn't wonder at the fact that Severus Snape was capable of humor, and wondered if he should have wondered; and he wondered what had made the man become the grim and bitter shadow of the future. He crawled under his covers as Snape moved to his own bed. "Try getting some sleep before classes, Snape," Harry said. "As much as you may think otherwise, insomnia is not good for you."
"Shut up, Frost, and go to sleep."
Harry smiled a little, and listened to Snape settling in under his covers and coverlets and eventually lapse into silence. He closed his eyes, listening to Snape's breathing even, and then opened his eyes again.
He stared up at the darkened canopy, and felt the warmth of Snape's presence seep away as he remembered. At least now I know who I am in those dreams, Harry thought. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. No wonder the hatred felt so familiar.
He shivered, and for the first time in many, many months, he felt fear: not vague dread and wariness that came with the acceptance of hopelessness, but real fear. Panic, gnawing like red-eyed beasts; a tightly reigned terror that thrashed like mad warhorses.
What are you playing at, Voldemort? Harry thought. He didn't close his eyes. It would be too easy to imagine a tall, crimson-eyed presence standing at the foot of his bed, the lipless mouth stretched in a ghastly grin, the power of its darkness grasping him like the clammy hands of a dementor. What are you playing at, Voldemort? What spell did you cast? Why was I sent, and only you had the power to manage it, twenty-three years back in time? Why is it that these—dreams feel nothing like regular nightmares or even visions, but like my own memories? Why?
There were too many missing pieces from this puzzle. Or perhaps he was looking at it from the wrong perspective. But those thoughts swirled away in the presence of fear—fear, which rose like a choking cloud of smoke and mocked him as it stung his eyes and nose and mouth.