A/N: Once again, many thanks to Procyon Black for the beta, the names, and the translations.
Chapter 11
A nebulous being for which he'd forgotten the term—or perhaps never known it. Someone to sit next to on a summer day. Someone to touch in the firelight. A lover, a friend?
His mind reeled from sleepiness as he sat up, all the while contemplating what scraps he had of his dream. It was pleasant, he remembered. The blankets fell away and he shivered. Cold air hit him like a shock of icy water, and the darkness was deeper than he could remember it ever being.
He had to go piss.
Harry hissed when his bare feet touched the ground. Why, he thought, is it so freaking cold? He held his hands before his face and squinted as the dim orb swelled out of nothingness. As he glanced at the fireplace, he realized that it was empty. Lifeless. The house-elves had forgotten to tend it.
Wafting the ball of light before him, he crept, trembling, outside the room. It's so much warmer here, he thought, feeling the warmth curl about him like wisps of smoke. How could the house-elves forget? They never forgot.
Unless they hadn't forgot. He concentrated on aiming at the toilet bowl as he quelled memories of red-tinted darkness and a cringing form whimpering Master…
He flushed. Even the loo was warmer than his room. There was at least an hour before he'd have to wake up properly, and sleep was a precious commodity. He stole back into his room—
Severus! Memories from last night rushed over him and he hurried to Severus's bed, the orb of light bobbing ahead of him. How could he have forgotten? They had transfigured an extra quilt from the cushion on the chair, but the quilt hadn't been very thick, and transfigured things had a troubling tendency to be unreliable.
Severus was curled up in a small ball, his long limbs wrapped around his pillow. Lying like this, he looked much smaller, much more child-like. He was shivering slightly, and his lean muscles were tensed from the cold. A bit of mist formed in front of his face with every exhalation.
Harry strode across the space between their beds and snatched his quilt. He flung it over the sleeping form and watched as Severus shifted slightly and frowned a bit deeper. Is he warm? Harry was about to transfigure another quilt from a parchment when he remembered the fireplace—he could light it and warm the room just as well that way. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier?
He knelt before the fireplace, grateful for the hearthrug. God, it was cold! There was nothing in the grate besides ashes, but it didn't matter—a magical fire would suffice.
"Burn," he whispered, and watched the fire appear out of nothingness, a cheerful ball of red-orange flame. This will do, he thought and moved back to look at Severus. He's stopped shivering now. He looks… peaceful. Harry watched and wondered if Severus was used to sleeping in the cold, was used to sleeping in a vast and empty room as comfortless and cruel as a cupboard or an orphanage.
No more, Harry thought with fierce determination. He very gently ran a hand on Severus's cheek before picking up a sheet of parchment from his table and transfiguring it into a quilt for himself. He burrowed under it and turned his head so that he could watch Severus sleep.
Severus.
The room was warming up already, and the deep red light from the fire softened the edges that were harsh and cold under the pale light of lumos. Harry smiled. He couldn't help it. It was ridiculous, but the world was such a wonderful place. Today, he was going to have breakfast (with Severus), and then he'd have Charms (without Severus, but he could think about Severus), and then there'd be lunch (with Severus), and then Defense (with Severus again), and then he'd have that chunk of free time—with Severus.
Severus.
It was hours later when his mind had drifted into a half-drowsy state of soporific daydreams that Severus stirred.
Harry kept still as he lay in the darkness. He could see a shadow of Severus's face in the light from the fireplace—the hooked nose, the glint of half-lidded eyes. From outside, he could hear muffled footsteps.
Severus turned his face and then their eyes met. Harry blinked and suddenly felt a splinter of fear: what if Severus withdrew into his shell again? What if Severus decided to pretend that the night before hadn't happened at all?
Severus blinked sleepily. "G'morning," he muttered.
"Good morning," Harry replied.
Severus frowned and shifted. Then he sat up. "Did you pile these quilts onto me?" he asked.
"Yeah," Harry replied, sitting up as well.
"No wonder I feel hotter than a manticore's belly," Severus mumbled as he shifted out of his bed. Harry watched as the other Slytherin padded, without glancing back, out of the room, and shut the door behind him.
He'd going to the loo, Harry thought. A drift of cold air from outside settled across his skin. It doesn't mean he's decided to ignore me again. The door opened and Severus entered, blinking blearily as though he had just yawned.
"Good morning," he said again. "So why did you decide to stifle me with quilts?"
Harry shifted so that his feet were on the floor. The ground was curiously warm. "It was cold at night," Harry explained, watching Severus's face. He could see little in the shadows of the room. "I woke up and found you shivering. So I got you an extra blanket."
"It was cold last night?" Severus said, the edges of lips curling down in a frown.
"Yes. The house-elves had forgotten to light the fireplace. I lit it myself."
"That's…" Severus sat down and looked at the fireplace, then his bed. "I would never have thought that the house-elves would neglect to light the fire." He paused and grabbed a handful of the quilt, looking at it closely. "This quilt is yours," he said.
Harry nodded. "Yes," he said with some apprehension. There were more footsteps from outside. Breakfast had begun some time ago; they would have to leave soon. "I transfigured mine from a parchment."
Wordlessly Severus pulled the quilt on his bed into a ball and walked the distance between their beds.
"It's not…"—Harry began as Severus solemnly handed him the quilt—"charity."
"I know," Severus said. Harry peered up anxiously. There was something in that voice, in that face, that he couldn't place. Severus stayed where he was, clad only in his nightgown and standing before him. "I know it's not charity," he said softly.
Harry reached out a hand just as Severus did—and they clasped hands: a brief touch of the slender fingers in roughened palms that made Harry's heart skip a beat. Then he stood and Severus moved away; Harry felt his hand tingling. "Breakfast will be over soon," he said. "We have to hurry."
"You're a bad influence," Severus said from the other side of the room, changing out of his nightgown. Harry sneaked a glimpse and quickly looked away. "I used to never eat breakfast."
"Then I am your worst nightmare," Harry proclaimed, pulling on his Hogwarts robes.
"I'm truly terrified," Severus said dryly. "By the way, keep your socks on your side of the room, Frost."
Harry continued, unperturbed. "And I shall corrupt you into becoming a cheerful morning person—"
Severus suddenly threw a balled-up sock at him, and Harry ducked behind his bed with a laugh.
"A disgustingly cheerful person who rises incredibly early and greets everyone with a jolly 'hello.'" Harry climbed onto his bed and bounced on it while Severus folded his arms and sneered. "That was very immature of you, by the way," Harry said, arching an eyebrow. "Almost—dare I say it?—Gryffindorish?"
Severus drew himself up to his full height and glared down imposingly. Harry smiled and picked up the sock Severus had thrown, and pulled into his left foot. "I resent that most unwarranted insult," Severus said coldly. "And your socks don't match."
"It'll start a new trend, I'm sure," said Harry. "Do you want one of my socks? They're very"—he reached into his trunk and found a snitch-dotted sock he'd bought in Diagon Alley with Dumbledore's money—"vibrant."
"How rather hideous," Severus sneered.
Harry looked up happily, smiling, and they were silent for a quiet moment. Then Severus looked down—his eyes shuttered, his face inscrutable—and left the room. Harry finished pulling up his other sock and quickly followed, wondering what that last look had meant—indeed, what the entire morning had meant, for there had to have been something in it all. He remembered that moment when they had touched, and his heart fluttered again.
They entered the Great Hall some minutes later and took their usual seats. Harry glanced at the Gryffindor table and found the Marauders conspicuously missing—all except for Black, who rose from his seat and began making his way towards them.
Harry pretended not to notice the Gryffindor as he and Severus buttered their toasts. Severus, too, ignored Black, his face betraying nothing even when Snape planted himself defiantly in front of the Slytherin table.
"Frost," Black greeted. Harry looked up with an uninterested look on his face. "And Snape."
"Black," said Severus in a supremely disdainful voice after a moment's pause. He examined the sausage at the end of his fork before taking a bite. "Well, where are your friends? Have they left you at last?"
"Watch your tongue, Black," Harry warned quickly as Black bristled like a cornered dog and took a step forward.
"Don't think you frighten me," he snarled as he advanced. "And don't think you'll prevent me from keeping my mouth shut about that dirty little—"
Black gave a sudden yelp as he slipped and crashed to the floor. Students all around glanced at the fallen Gryffindor and giggled; a few Slytherins laughed outright. Harry glanced at Severus and their eyes met—and then their amusement doubled, tripled; and Harry suddenly found himself laughing. It was silly, inexplicable, laughing over nothing at all, but it felt wonderful, as though his soul had been released from a cage; and Severus—Severus was smiling, smiling so widely it made him seem so young, and everything was wonderful.
"Don't even try insulting Severus," Harry said after he managed to curb his mirth. The Gryffindor clambered to his feet, smoothed his hair, and glared sulkily at everyone in sight. "You've been cursed. The terms of the duel hold."
"Shut up, you snake," Black spat. He turned to Severus. "If Snivellus here is so pathetic he can't fend f—"
There was a sharp thud!, and Black winced and swore as he rubbed the back of his head.
"S-sorry!" a Hufflepuff first year squeaked, scurrying out of his seat and bending over to pick a saltshaker from the floor. "It must've slipped from my hand… I'm always clumsy like this, I—"
"Don't blame the wrong person, Black," Harry interrupted. Black swung his attention away from the Hufflepuff, and Harry smiled—tauntingly. If he had been alone, he wouldn't have—but Severus was sitting next to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth, and Severus was smiling with a spark of amusement in his eyes.
"Snape," Black growled, leaning menacingly on the table. He was breathing hard, his hair as messy as Potter's and his eyes a little wild. "You are the world's slimiest, greasiest, disgust—most disgusting little f—"
"Sirius?"
Black whirled around. Standing there was Lily Potter and another girl, tall and good-looking with short brown hair. Harry gave Lily a quick smile, surprised that he hadn't noticed her approach. He glanced at Severus, but Severus seemed suddenly absorbed in eating his toast.
"Amanda," said Black, startled. "Why're you here?"
Amanda looked the Gryffindor over critically. "Well, I got the—er—letter you sent me a few days back. I'm—flattered, really, and the roses were lovely. But I'm involved with Frank Longbottom right now—"
"What?" Black exploded. "Longbottom? That clumsy, stupid, pathetic little lowlife?"
"Lowlife? You're the only lowlife here!" Amanda replied hotly. "You disgust me. And I heard you were beaten by the Slytherins last night." She smiled maliciously and turned to Severus. "Good job, Snape."
Severus shrugged. "It was Frost," he said neutrally.
Harry smiled languidly, still pondering Severus's suddenly aloofness. Was it the sudden appearance of these newcomers? "Piece of cake, really," he said, picking up his glass of orange juice. "Too bad Black won't be able to tell you about it."
Amanda seemed about to say something, but Black pushed through and shoved his wand at Harry's face.
"What have you to say now?" Black snarled, his wand quivering between Harry's eyes. Harry ignored it, serenely drinking his orange juice.
"I'd take that wand back if I were you," Severus hissed in a chilling tone. Harry glanced over and saw that Severus had his wand in his hand, ready and aimed with the poise of a coiled snake. He's defending me, Harry thought, feeling as he'd never felt before as he saw the determination and fear in those black eyes.
"Shut it, Snivellus," Black barked, wand still pointed at Harry's face. "Nobody asked y—"
"SIRIUS BLACK!"
McGonagall's voice echoed down the length of the Great Hall as she bore down upon them, her lips pressed ominously thin.
"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "Threatening a fellow student, and in the Great Hall, during breakfast! Well, Mr. Black? I'm waiting for an explanation."
Black opened and closed his mouth like a fish on land.
"Thirty points from Gryffindor and detention for a week with Mr. Filch," McGonagall said shortly. "I want no more disturbances like this, Mr. Black. Nor from any of the rest of you." She leveled her stare at the students, pausing a bit as she glared at Severus, before she swept off.
"Well done, Black," Amanda remarked dryly. "I'll be going now. I'll see you in Ancient Runes, Lily. Bye." She left without waiting for a reply.
"You heard what McGonagall said," Harry said, taking another sip as though nothing at all happened. He was aware of Black twitching like a zombie struck by lightning. "You're dismissed," he continued airily when Black didn't move.
Black hissed something under his breath, too quiet for Harry to hear. "You'll get yours, Frost," he snarled. "And you too, Sni—" He stopped, like a slavering hound being jerked on a leash. "Snape," he finished.
"Good dogs follow instructions," said Harry, taking satisfaction in the way Black's face transformed with fear and suspicion. "Go on."
Black gave one last, frightened snarl before he stormed off, bumping into quite a few people as he exited the Great Hall.
"Why do you call him a dog?" Lily asked.
"Because he acts like one," Harry lied easily. He found himself wondering why Lily hadn't followed Amanda or Black. Under the Gryffindor's scrutiny, Severus didn't even once glance at Harry, didn't even seem to acknowledge Harry's existence. It was just how Severus was like, Harry realized—Severus was a private person, as tense and solitary as the taunt string of a violin; but Harry wished they were back in their own room, alone and sequestered from the world.
"Yeah, well, I agree," said Lily. "I tried to get him to allow us to go to the Black family library to find information, but he refused."
"The Black family library?" Harry echoed. He remembered that decaying place of musty curtains and decapitated house-elves and wondered if Lily were insane to think she—a Muggle-born—could waltz into the library, even with the prodigal son's permission.
"It's got the most expansive collection of literature on the not-so-Light arts," Lily said. She looked around, seemingly intrigued by the way the plates began to vanish. "I talked to Flitwick this morning, and he said we had permission to go to the Bibliotheca Caeca in Muggle London."
Harry blinked. "The what?" He glanced at Severus, but Severus was quietly eating some toast.
"It was founded by a disciple of Nicholas Flamel, I think," Lily explained. "It's supposed to have one of the world's biggest collections on ancient rituals. We ought to go take a look."
"It's in Muggle London?" Harry said, frowning, as his plate and unfinished sausage disappeared. Why hadn't he heard of it before?
Lily nodded. "It's weird, but Sirius said that's how the old Black place is—hidden in plain sight. I was thinking of going later today—if that's all right with you."
He quashed his first impulse to say no. He didn't want to go anywhere. All he wanted to do was to spend time with Severus, and he didn't think Severus was going to be pleased if Harry spent too much time with Lily Evans. But he knew he needed to help Lily in order to cement the future, and there would be plenty of time tomorrow—Potions and Transfigurations and Defense.
"All right," Harry said amiably.
"Great," Lily smiled. "We have Charms next, don't we?"
Harry suppressed a spike of irritation. Why couldn't she just leave them be? With her here, Severus was as forthright as a clam, as aloof as a snowy peak. He wanted to be with him alone—if only for a little while.
Severus stood.
"You're going?" Harry said, if only to hear Severus reply.
Severus nodded and gave Lily a cool, unreadable look. Then he turned with a swish of frayed robes and walked swiftly out of the Great Hall.
"He's rather taciturn today," said Lily.
Harry had to press down on his annoyance before replying. "Yeah, he is," he replied. He stood and gathered his things in his arms without looking once in Lily's direction. "Let's go then."
"You're taking a camera with you?" Harry said, looking at the black contraption hanging from around Lily's neck. It looked terribly outdated, but Harry reminded himself that this was the seventies.
"Yeah," said Lily. She fingered her camera. "Petunia loves Trafalgar Square, with all those pigeons flying up at dusk. Mum and Dad took her there over the summer, but I was at a program for young Muggleborn witches, so I couldn't go. Have you been to Trafalgar Square?"
Harry shook his head. They were walking down to Hogsmeade, their faces reddening from the brisk wind. Harry wondered if they might get something to drink before flooing to Diagon Alley and finding the Bibliotheca Caeca.
"It's quite lovely," she said conversationally. Hogsmeade was nearing; Harry could see the clutter of buildings and the rising smoke. Very little has changed, he thought warmly. But as he gazed fondly, an image flashed before his mind: of Hogsmeade, charred and gutted, a skeleton of what it had been. He felt the warmth leave his heart.
"Where do you live anyway?"
Harry glanced up. He couldn't say Little Whinging in Surrey—that was where the Evans lived, after all, but he hadn't lived anywhere else either. "In Barnton." He had been once or twice, actually, to oversee a few auror operations.
"Barnton?" said Lily. "Where is that?"
"Somewhere near Liverpool," Harry said simply. He strode forth and reached out to the handle of the Three Broomsticks, pulling the door and holding it open.
Lily smiled. "Thanks," she said daintily and stepped in. The air was much warmer, and there was an air of contentment. A few witches chatted and giggled at one end of the otherwise empty bar, and an ugly gnome sat moodily in front of a tankard in a shady corner of the room.
"Why, hello!" said Madam Rosmerta. She tossed her hair back and moved to the fireplace with an energy that twenty years and two wars had worn away. Harry took a closer look at the room: there were few things that had changed from his memories, but it was the… feeling he had. There was an air of merriment in this room, a far cry from the gloom and shabbiness and desperate cheer he remembered.
"You are Lily Evans, and you Jonathan Frost?" she asked.
Harry nodded. "Yes," said Lily.
"Albus told me about you two and the project you were working on," she said, winking.
"He did?" Lily said falteringly.
"Of course!" Rosmerta said. She passed the can of floo powder to them. He noticed Lily taking the can hesitantly before scooping out a rather sizable handful of powder. Perhaps floo powder becomes perfected in the future, he thought, following suit.
"The Leaky Cauldron," Lily shouted, tossing in the powder. The fire flickered green, and she stepped in.
Harry moved up to the fireplace.
"Remember to stay focused," Madam Rosmerta called just as Harry tossed in his floo powder. I hope she isn't implying what I think she is, Harry thought, nearly inhaling a cloud of ashes as the endless hearths spiraled by.
"I don't think Dumbledore told her what we're really researching," Lily said as Harry stumbled out of the floo. "I mean… We're researching ancient rituals that tie together sacrifice and emotions. I just can't imagine Madam Rosmerta smiling at that."
"Neither can I," said Harry, brushing soot from his robes. He still didn't understand how some people could saunter out of the fireplace as though it were an open doorway.
"I wonder what Dumbledore told her," Lily said as they wandered out of the Leaky Cauldron.
"Something harmless, I expect," Harry said amiably. He watched the frown on Lily's face clear before she shrugged slightly, as though resigning herself to the paradox of the venerable headmaster's behavior. You owe me one, Albus, Harry thought. I might just have saved you a pawn. The ramifications swirled about him for a moment—this pawn, his mother, Lily Evans, soon to sacrifice her life for her son, who was selling her out to the cunning liar who blinded the world with his twinkling eyes.
The thoughts slid away, more easily than they had before, and he followed Lily out the exit of Diagon Alley.
"The library's right over there," said Lily, looking over her shoulder to talk to Harry. "We're on Charing Cross R—ow!"
"S'ry," a Muggle muttered as he shoved past.
"Anyway, we're on Charing Cross Road, and down there is a bunch of bookshops," said Lily. "The library's hidden between two of them."
"Clever of them," said Harry, but he was distracted. A Muggle, dressed in the shabbiest of clothes and wearing a straggly beard, was staring at Lily unswervingly. Filthy old Muggle, Harry thought, moving so that he stood in the Muggle's line of sight.
Lily glanced at him curiously before she pointed to a door that stood in a bush. "There it is."
Harry stared at it. It was simply that: a door sprouting in the middle of a bush that grew between two Muggle bookstores. Carved on the door was a message, nearly indecipherable: "Praedamno spem, quisque haec iniit."
"'Abandon all ignorance, all ye who enter here?'" Harry translated. "Very interesting."
"Yeah," Lily said enthusiastically, wading into the bushes and grabbing the handle. A few Muggles gave them strange looks. "C'mon," she said.
Harry followed suit, all the while wondering why he hadn't heard of the library before. Chances were that it had been destroyed. He wondered if the books had been saved or if the entire thing had been annihilated. He wondered, too, which attack—from the first war—would destroy it.
"Wow…" Lily breathed, looking around with awe on her face. "This is… this is…"
Harry glanced about, taking in the inside of the library. It was quite small and gave the impression of being in an underground cavern. The walls and ceilings were carved directly from the stone, and one passage led away from the right while another disappeared to the left. A massive desk loomed in front of them, but nobody seemed to be there.
Lily's voice had fallen to a hair of a whisper. "This—this is…"
"Nice," Harry said. "Do we need a pass or a—thing of some kind to go in further?" He probed for some sort of hostile magic or defense perimeter, and found none. Perhaps this is why the whole thing got destroyed. He shook his head. Whoever founded this library was an idiot to trust in its immortality.
"Not so loud!" Lily hissed. "No, we don't need anything like that because the philanthropist Ginevra Chaucer didn't want any restrictions who could the library. Um." She nudged him towards the passageway to the left. In a hushed voice, she said, "D'you suppose we go that way?"
"Why not?" Harry said, shrugging. He walked towards it, and Lily followed a few steps behind.
"Is there a cataloguing system of some sort?" Harry asked. "I can't imagine Ginevra Chaucer intended us to sift through each and every book to—"
Lily gasped suddenly, cutting Harry off. "Oh…" She moved towards the center of the room. Harry followed, mystified. She bent in front of a small black cauldron. "It's the cauldron of Cailleach!"
"Lily," he said in a low, flat tone, the one he used to chill belligerent aurors and warn stubborn prisoners before interrogation.
"All right," Lily whispered. She edged away reluctantly, her gaze still fluttering on the cauldron and the plaque in front of it. "What were you saying?"
"How are we going to find the books we want?" Harry repeated. "And after we find some books on ancient rituals, I want to see if there's material on what Severus and I are working on."
"Oh, sure," said Lily. "There's a spell that's planted in the library. All you have to do is think really hard of what you want, and you'll feel a tug towards wherever the book is."
"Really?" Harry said, impressed. "That's quite an… original spell."
"Yes, it is," Lily said excitedly. "It's terribly complicated to cast, too. Oh, let's try it!" She shut her eyes and frowned in concentration. Moments passed, and Harry watched as her frown deepened. She's so like Hermione, Harry thought, a bit sadly. Lily turned towards a shelf far in the back of the room, and, with her eyes still closed, began drifting away.
Harry cleared his mind and closed his own eyes. He wondered for a moment what to think of. Druidic sacrifices? Ancient rituals? Rituals. He saw the dusty tumbles of the Nest, hiding the secrets of Voldemort's power—his power—and the dried corpse that was slumped among the scrolls…
He felt a tug to his mind. He frowned, and followed it, keeping his hands in front of him as he walked like a blind man.
When he felt the wood of the bookshelf against his palm, he opened his eyes and saw, in front of him, between massive gold-etched and cloth-bound tomes, a book with a single pentagonal rose on its spine.
Harry took it down. The front and back covers were blank, and when he opened the book, he saw only empty pages. He closed it again and fingered the pentagonal rose on the spine.
He remembered the white-bone pentagonal rose of the skeleton's necklace, dim and pale in the Nest…
He felt footsteps behind him. "D'you find anything interesting?" Lily whispered, peering at the book in his hand.
"Somewhat," Harry said, as neutrally as he could. He flipped the book about innocently in his hand. "This might help Severus on the project."
"Oh," said Lily, and there was a note in her voice that caught Harry's attention. He understood instantly, and he wondered what he might say: that he had been thinking of his and Severus's project all morning, that he was sorry he didn't find something that would help her, that she had no need to be resentful? Or that she was nothing compared to Severus?
"What about you?" Harry said, putting the book at his side, somewhat out of sight.
Lily hefted up a giant volume. "Here," she said, wiping off a layer of dust. "It seems very promising. I think I actually read about it in one of the books from the Hogwarts library."
"That's great," Harry said, attempting a smile. "Let me try again. Maybe I'll find something more helpful a second time around."
Lily's face brightened. "Good idea."
Harry closed his eyes and cleared his mind once more. Rituals, he thought. Rituals of sacrifice. He saw blackened bodies, faces frozen in horror, blood across frost in the unforgiving night. Rituals using emotions of love and—positive things, Harry modified.
There was a moment of nothingness, and then he felt a tug. He followed it, moving with both hands in front of him. The tug came from quite far away, and he realized that he was moving out from the passage and towards the entrance of the library, and then down the stone-carven hall to the other wing.
He stopped at last in front of a bookcase, Lily only a few steps behind. Harry opened his eyes and reached forth to pull a withered scroll from the shelf.
"What is that?" Lily whispered.
Harry jammed the scroll back, wondering why he the tug had led him there, even when he'd specified positive emotions. He knew exactly what the scroll was: a piece of Dark literature, widely circulated among the Death Eaters because of its instructions of how to use the corpses of enemies for… a variety of purposes.
"Nothing useful," Harry said and moved away. He willed Lily to follow him, and, to his relief, she did. He cursed himself for having stuck the scroll back in so suddenly—it was a suspicious move, and he could see the doubt flickering in Lily's eyes.
"Why don't you try again?" Harry suggested.
"All right," said Lily. She shut her eyes and held herself still for a moment. Her frown deepened, and then she opened her eyes, shaking her head. "I think this is it," she said, indicating the tome in her hands. "I didn't feel anything else." She hesitated. "Are you sure that scroll you pulled out was useless?"
"Yes, I'm positive," Harry said, making sure not to put too much emphasis into his voice. "I read about it somewhere," he added. "It was a misguided attempt to catalogue rituals of sacrifice, and many witches and wizards who used it went insane."
"Oh," said Lily in a subdued voice. Harry looked at her face carefully, hoping that she was convinced, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light. "I suppose not, then. Let's check these books out."
They made their way to the massive desk. On closer inspection, Harry realized that it had been cleaved right out of the trunk of an enormous tree. Around the sides were delicate carvings of… He peered closer, unable to make out the frenzy of pictures.
"I suppose we just write down our name and the title," said Lily, indicating a giant, ink-spotted ledger and a worn-looking quill. She peered at the ledger and dipped the quill in ink.
"There," she said, handing Harry the quill. At the end of a long list of names and titles she had written 'Lily Evans – A Treatise on Ritualistic Sacrifices Stemmed from the Emotions of Light.' The last two words had got crammed to fit in the allotted space.
Well, my title is nice and short, Harry thought. He wrote, 'Jonathan Frost,' and drew a small sketch of a pentagonal rose in the space for the title.
"There," Harry said and put down the quill. But the quill stuck to his hand, wrapping around like a vine.
"Your name!" Lily whispered.
Harry looked down. The words he'd written in a careful, precise script had turned from black to glistening red.
Lily looked up, her eyes glimmering with uncertainty. "There's supposed to be… some sort of truth charm on the quill," she said. "I—did you put your full name in?"
"Oh, that must be it," Harry said calmly, though inwardly he was cursing himself to pieces. How could he have been such an idiot? The truth charm was glaringly obvious—why hadn't he felt it before?
Stop thinking about that, damn it, and do disaster control! he thought furiously. He held his hand out as though ready to hold a quill, and the feather slipped back into place. He crossed out the name he'd written down. He paused, wrenched in a moment of indecision as he cast his mind for something to do—
He dipped the quill in ink and began writing. 'Jonathan…' He bent his mind towards the quill, feeling the truth charm. It was useless: the charm was strong and ancient, fed by powerful magic and protected by the years. A middle name, quick! He wrote down the first thing he had in mind. 'Lynn…' He thrust his mind at the quill again, this time carrying behind it all the force he could muster—and felt the quill shiver in his hand. 'Frost…' No, he couldn't attack it like some head-butting Gryffindor.
"There," he said, and shifted his mind. This time, his will carried with it the dark cloak of a Confundus Charm. He flung it over the magic of the quill and felt the truth charm writhe under the dark nettings. Let it work, he thought, and set the down quill.
Nothing happened.
"Your middle name is Lynn?" Lily said.
"Yeah," said Harry. It is now, at any rate. "Shall we go?"
"Yes, let's," said Lily, and she moved first to the doorway.
Harry followed quietly. Lily didn't seem suspicious. He had been considering a memory charm, but she seemed to be accepting everything in stride. That's a relief, he thought. Thank goodness she's such a trusting Gryffindor…
"Why don't you shrink your book and put it in your pocket?" Lily asked, pointing to the untitled book Harry had in his hands.
"Good idea," Harry said. "Not here, though. There're Muggles about." He looked around and fixed his gaze on the same Muggle that had stared insolently at Lily on their way in. Still hasn't left, has he? Harry thought. The Muggle shifted his sullen gaze from Lily to him. Perhaps he needs a warning.
"Let's go," Harry said. "To Trafalgar Square?"
"Yes," Lily said, turning to go. In that instant, Harry forced his will through his eyes and into the mind of the Muggle—
The Muggle cringed, clamping his hands of his eyes with a soft, hoarse cry.
"I think it's that way," Lily said, moving down the street and looking at the shops curiously.
"I suppose," Harry said, following her.
Trafalgar Square opened before them. Harry looked up, impressed. A single pillar rose grandly from a base of bronze lions. On either side were two fountains, the water tumbling out over a brimming basin.
"Isn't it lovely?" Lily asked.
"There're so many birds," Harry observed aloud. Indeed, the ground seemed carpeted with pigeons, wandering boldly amongst the humans.
"We can feed them, if you like," Lily said. "But…" She picked up her camera and peered through it at the pillar in the center. She clicked, and the camera made a whirring noise. "Petunia will love this!"
"I'm sure," Harry said hollowly. He wondered what became of these photos Lily would send her sister. Thrown away? Burnt? Hidden somewhere, out of sight, out of mind?
"Let's climb the lion," Lily said, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling him towards the bronze statues.
"Why are there so many pigeons?" Harry commented as Lily plowed through the sea of birds. "I feel like I'm being mobbed." It was rather unnerving to have the birds crowd around his feet.
"Don't be silly," Lily admonished. She stopped and took up her camera again.
"Why are you photographing the pigeons?" Harry asked, mystified.
"Petunia likes them," Lily said simply as the camera's shutter clicked and something within it whirred.
It's pointless, he thought. They'll all be destroyed or disposed of anyway. He thought back to his dear Aunt Petunia. Surprisingly, she and her family had escaped Voldemort's wrath—at least, to his knowledge. In the last months of the war, the dying had escalated until life and death had been reduced to mere numbers creeping over a piece of parchment.
"C'mon," said Lily. "Help me up the lion. And take my camera." She handed him the camera and began to clamber onto the base of the statue.
"Here," said Harry, putting the camera around his neck as he laced his fingers together. "Step up this way."
"Thanks," said Lily, giving him a quick smile as she stepped in his hand and hoisted herself up. She edged to the space between the lion's front paws and curled into a ball under its long mane. "How's this?"
"It's fine," said Harry. He lifted the camera to his face and then held it at a distance, squinting at the tiny parts. "Can this zoom?"
"What?"
"Never mind," Harry said, stepping back and bringing the camera back to his face. "Keep smiling!" He clicked the button and he felt the camera whir under his fingers.
"Your turn!" Lily said excitedly, sliding off the statue's base and landing lightly on the ground. "Go on, get on. I want to take a photo of you riding the lion."
Harry shrugged. "Sure," he said, handing her the camera. He put his hands on the stone base and easily hoisted himself up. "On the lion?" he called.
"On its head," Lily said.
Fine with me, Harry thought, clambering onto the lion's back and onto its head. He looked down, legs dangling over the lion's face. "Is this good?"
"It's brilliant," Lily shouted, moving back with the camera up to her face. "Smile!"
Smile? Harry followed the order hesitantly. He hadn't needed to smile for a photo in the longest time. He had been required to look solemn, confident, calm, stern—but never cheerful. Better not to smile than to look constipated, he thought, and let his face relax, imagining that he was high above the world.
With Severus.
All of a sudden, longing washed over him with a bittersweet pain that took his breath away. He wished Severus were here with him—that they were both atop the lion, Severus in sitting beside him, initially sullen, but then relaxed as they watched the sun go down over the flocks of pigeons and glimmering water of the fountain.
"That was brilliant!" Lily shouted, lowering the camera from her face.
Harry smiled wanly and swiftly clambered down the statue.
"You're like a cat," she commented. "I don't know how you do that. Hey, look at that man over there! Isn't he interesting?" She lifted the camera to her face and snapped a photo.
Harry glanced over and saw a man practically hidden by pigeons. "Muggles," he muttered, shaking his head.
"What?" Lily snapped, jerking the camera away from her face. "Don't say it like that!"
Harry blinked. "What—Muggles? How'd I say it?"
"As though you were rather disgusted but them all." She looked at him searchingly. "You're… not like that. You're also a Muggle-born."
"I'm not," Harry said automatically, though a fear gripped his heart. "I'm not like that at all." Am I? He looked back to the Muggle and was conscious of the tinge of disgust—but that was because of the pigeons, he told himself. I'm not like Voldemort. He looked away and saw a couple sitting quietly at the fountain. He searched himself for any feeling of disgust and found only… "It's only the pigeons," he said aloud.
"Really? So are you scared of birds?" Lily asked. "Avephobia?"
He looked at her seriously before realizing she was teasing. He smiled, a bit weakly. "No, just insane pigeons that want to eat you alive. And it's Ornithophobia, not Avephobia."
Lily laughed, but it was a short, rather strained laugh, and they both knew it. "I'm sorry to have accused you," she said. "I know you're not like that."
"Yeah," Harry said, looking back and suddenly remembering the Muggle whose eyes he'd sent a jolt of pain through. He felt his heart sink as he floundered for an explanation. "I'm not."
"Well, I guess I've just broken the moment," she said, sighing. "You looked really happy and sad all at once up there on the lion."
Harry looked at her, startled. "I did?" Then he remembered what he had felt, and felt a hint of warmth on his face.
Lily nodded. "Seems like you're enjoying yourself, your first time at the Square." She hesitated before plunging ahead. "You know, I use this as my Patronus memory—when Petunia and I came here as little girls and Father hoisted us up onto the lions." She stopped again, her eyes seeking out the great, bronze statue. Harry followed her gaze. "That's what I want to do," she said, her voice full of determination.
"What, climb the lion again?" Harry said, watching as a girl with flaming hair clambered onto the lion's back. A man below stepped back and lifted a camera to his face.
"No," Lily said, shaking her head. "The spell, the rituals and things. It seems to me that things are—unbalanced. It seemed that there are so many spells powered by hatred and cruelty and anger and—and all the dark things of the world, but that there are so few spells that joy and love and… simple happiness can bring. It doesn't seem right, somehow."
"Life isn't fair," Harry said quietly. "There isn't an Expecto Patronum for every Avada Kedavra."
"I know," Lily said. She turned and looked at him fiercely. "But the question is: are you going to do anything about it? Or are you just going to sit there and whine like some rotten old cynic?"
Immediately after she spoke, her face fell apologetically. "Sorry," she muttered. "There I go, accusing you again. I didn't mean to be so…"
"Truthful?" Harry suggested, grinning wryly.
"No! No, of course not. I'm just…" She looked out over the Square, at the birds that lifted up like a beaded curtain, at the men and women and children that wandered over the cobbled stones. "Hey, I want to do that," she said, eyes fixed on a girl posing in front of the fountain.
Harry reached down and took the camera from her hands. She looked up, startled, before smiling widely. "Go on," he said, watching with a mixture of pity and regret as the Gryffindor walked briskly to the fountain and poised happily.
The rest of their stay passed quickly, with Lily snapping pictures at a furious pace or asking Harry to photograph her as she posed and smiled. She stopped only when her entire roll had been used, and even then she lingered fondly in front of the fountain.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she sighed gustily. "I'll get you the photos soon. I'll drop them at Hogsmeade to be developed when we get back."
"They're the magical sort?" Harry said, though he couldn't say he was surprised that they were.
"Yeah," Lily replied, dipping a finger in the water and lazily tracing patterns. "D'you think I can make a wish with a Knut?"
"I think we should go now," Harry said. "I'm hungry. And I'm afraid Madam Rosmerta will think that we're not focusing on what we should be."
Lily looked up blankly. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Harry said quickly, leading the way back to Diagon Alley with the nameless book in one hand and Lily's camera in another. "Let's go."
He turned away from the mirror's glow, though from what he glimpsed, it showed only luminous mist.
He was in the Nest once more, among the piles of scrolls and parchment. He did not know exactly why he was here, why he was avoiding sleep, why he was standing utterly still and watching the shadows of dust on the distant walls.
And yet again, perhaps he did know.
He waved his hand, and the scrolls whispered as they moved away from the corpse. A little circle formed as the rolls of parchment clustered on ancient tables and the tables slid across the floor against the walls.
He bent down and touched the pentagonal rose necklace. He avoided looking at the shriveled lips on yellowing teeth, or the empty sockets where eyes had been; he felt the length of string of the necklace and found that there was no knot. It was complete, unbroken. After a moment's hesitation, he delicately pulled the necklace over the hardened flesh and tangled hair, and pulled it up from around the shrunken neck.
He pocketed the necklace and looked at the corpse.
Ten minutes later, Harry was shivering in the night air as he stole into the Forbidden Forest, levitating the corpse behind him. He hoped that Severus was staying put tonight; if Dumbledore got suspicious and decided to investigate, Harry would have a very difficult time explaining where the corpse came from.
He came at last to a clearing in the woods. This would have to do. He let the corpse drop unceremoniously in the grass and then pointed his wand at it. "Incendio!" he said softly, instinctively lowering his voice in the quiet of the forest.
The corpse reluctantly caught fire. It sizzled and cracked, and even jerked a little, as though it had come a little back alive, and Harry wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of burning hair and flesh. He knew that smell all too well.
"Requiescat in pace," Harry murmured and watched the fire burn until little more than ashes were left.
It was cold. He rubbed his arms and made his way back to the castle, feeling exhausted and groggy, and still too restless to lie down and sleep.
Was he really like Voldemort?
He wrapped his arms around himself and looked down at his feet, hearing the forest quiet itself suspiciously as he passed.
He remembered how he'd sent a bolt of pain through the Muggle's eyes, how that word—Muggle—had slipped too easily from his lips. But… He looked up blearily. It didn't necessarily mean anything. That first Muggle had been eyeing Lily the wrong way, and the other one truly was gross. If it had been a witch or a wizard, he'd have felt the same disgust… wouldn't he?
He shook his head. He felt confused, lost, too tired to think, and what part of his mind that could think was occupied by Severus.
Severus. He went over the name in his mind, again and again, feeling more and more tingly and more and more confused. He remembered having been just as confused only days ago—but it had been a different kind of confused. Then, he hadn't known what he felt for Severus. Now…
Now he didn't know either. He just knew that—he just knew that—hell, he just knew that he wanted to be next to Severus, to sleep in the same bed and wake up feeling Severus against his face, his chest, his body…
Lust? Love? He didn't know. He didn't care. Severus was all that mattered. And if it was love or lust he felt, or—or even some perverted potion-master fetish, he didn't care. Severus was all that mattered.
But Severus was keeping his distance.
Harry sighed and quickened his pace across the Hogwarts grounds. That man confused him. One moment, they would touch hands and it seemed that a secret rose had bloomed between them; but in another, Severus would look away with the impenetrable coolness of a stranger.
Harry hurried down the corridor of the boy's dormitories. He opened the seventh years' door and then, with utter care, pushed open the door into his and Severus's room.
Severus was still asleep.
Harry shut the door and leaned back against it, just looking at Severus. Perhaps he was too tired to move. Perhaps some part of him whispered in his heart to gaze as much as he could, as long as he might, for moments like this were rare.
He shook his head. It was late. He needed sleep. He made his way to his bed and undressed, slipping soundlessly under the covers. The fire he had lit (apparently, the house-elves had forgotten again) murmured in its grating, and the crack of the flames reminded him only gently of the corpse turning to ashes. As his eyes closed in sleep, he fingered the pentagonal rose carved from bone, and thought he heard someone sigh.
A/N2: Yeah, I know it took forever for me to update, but I really was immensely busy.I'd like to thank everyone who was kind enough to review - there really is nothing like coming home exhausted and finding a glowing review in one's inbox. Thanks!