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This is not fun.

Chapter Eleven: Madam Shiverwood

"But we have to go with you." Draco said that as if he were talking to someone legless, who had proposed standing up and walking before his artificial legs arrived.

"No, you don't have to." Harry smiled over Draco's shoulder at Narcissa, who was waiting patiently for him on the other side of the library, and shut the book called Dark Blades: Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Knives and Feared Would Cut You. "I'm going with your mum to the Ministry, and I'm grateful that she decided to take me, but I have to go into the interrogation—"

"Questioning, Harry," said Narcissa.

Harry shrugged. So far as he was concerned, it was an interrogation. "With Madam Shiverwood alone," he told Draco. "Someone else there with me might either constrain what I'm going to say or make me tell more than I'm comfortable with." He was quoting the letter the Ministry had sent him about his appointment with Madam Shiverwood yesterday, but the words sounded more natural when he said them, he thought. They should. He'd practiced them several times before he got up this morning, knowing Draco would object to their parting.

Draco folded his arms and tapped his foot. Harry waited patiently. He was confident he could talk Draco out of coming into the interrogation room with him. Narcissa was on his side, and that was always a good thing where handling her son was concerned.

Draco chose to object to something else, though. "I wish I could be there so that I know you're saying as much as you should, Harry," he said.

"Huh?" Not my most eloquent moment, Harry thought an instant later, but Draco seemed to ignore it entirely as he clasped Harry's wrists and looked into his eyes. Argutus, coiled happily about Harry's lower left arm, hissed as Draco squeezed him and slithered up towards his shoulder.

"Are you actually going to tell her about the abuse, Harry?" Draco asked. "Or only what you think she should know?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. Is he going to suspect me just like Snape does? "I'll answer all the questions she asks me with the truth," he said shortly. "I won't lie. I made a promise to myself about that during my time in Godric's Hollow."

"But if what she doesn't touch on one aspect of the abuse?" Draco asked.

"Then she doesn't."

"Harry—"

Harry shook his head, and drew his wrists gently but irresistibly out of Draco's grip. "I really do appreciate that you're concerned," he said, aware that his voice didn't sound like it. "But since this is a personal decision that I'm making, I wish you wouldn't push it. There's one point when you wouldn't have pushed it," he couldn't help adding.

"Expect to be pushed more from now on," Draco murmured.

Harry stared at him. Draco didn't try to look to the side, and Harry caught a glimpse, for the first time, of just how much he'd changed in the past two months.

Damn. And double damn. He does think I won't collapse at any moment now. So he's going to shove. Get more of what he wants, and what he thinks would be good for me instead of just what I tell him I want.

"Harry?"

Harry shook his head and turned away from Draco, though he could feel his eyes on his back like a brand. "Coming, Mrs. Malfoy—"

"Narcissa."

Harry smiled at her, and did his best to ignore the odd feeling of excitement that had overtaken him. When he met Madam Shiverwood, he would have to be as collected as possible. "Narcissa, then. I'm ready."

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Please come in."

Harry entered the office of the Head of Magical Family and Child Services, staring around. He hadn't had much chance to notice the décor here when he and Snape came to meet James for the custody hearing. Then, he'd been mostly occupied with watching what Snape's insanity potion did. Now, almost a year later, he could see the picture of a child on each wall, and the deliberately calm and soothing atmosphere of the office, and suspect that Madam Hellebore Shiverwood took her job very earnestly indeed.

And I don't need to worry about that because I have nothing to worry about, he told himself firmly again. I'm going to tell the truth. All of it. I wouldn't ever try to prevent my parents from being imprisoned or punished. I will try to show why I don't think they deserve execution. That's all.

And that was precisely why both Draco and Snape seemed to be angry at him.

Harry shook his shoulders and focused on Madam Shiverwood, who'd come from behind her desk with her hand held out to him. Harry shook it, concentrating on her face. Her eyes were direct, and full of sympathy.

There was another light in them too, though, one that made Harry tilt his head to the side. She's impatient with this? Does she think it's as useless as I do, since my testimony at the trial should really work to establish my parents' guilt or innocence?

Thoughtfully, Harry took the chair in front of Madam Shiverwood's desk, wondering how he could use this.

"Now, Mr. Potter," said the witch, as she sat. "You know that the purpose of this session is to draw some basic facts about your abuse from you, and try to offer you some comfort with them."

She examined him like an insect. Harry knew why, having read about this point of the interrogation in the books on child abuse in the Malfoy library. She would be watching to see if he flinched at the word "abuse," or averted his eyes, or made any of the more subtle signs of discomfort.

Harry supposed he might have made one that he didn't know about, but all those he did recognize, he had been ready to control, and he did. He simply nodded, his eyes wide and guileless. She had to see how fine he was with this, that his focus wasn't on angrily resisting her questions and denying the abuse had ever happened. He was doing exactly what he thought was right, exactly what he had thought a few weeks ago most people would be happy with him for doing.

And yet, no one seems to be happy with me.

Harry snorted to himself as Madam Shiverwood scribbled something down. That's because my behavior wasn't what they really wanted. Snape wants me to think the exact same way about this that he does. I don't know what Draco wants, but maybe it's the same thing.

Well, they can't have that. My thoughts are my own. It happened to me, as they keep reminding me, and that means that I'm allowed to have my own opinion of it.

Madam Shiverwood looked up at last and gave him a smile Harry couldn't help thinking of as insincere. "Let's start with your mother, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded.

"How long has her abuse of you continued?"

"From the time I was a year and a half old, until the year that my brother and I went to Hogwarts," said Harry promptly. "That was 1991," he added, when the witch muttered and dug through some of the notes on her desk. "Since then, there have been scattered incidents, but I only saw her over the summer and briefly for some holidays. She had no time to build up a sustained cycle of abuse." See? I'm using the word. I'm adult. I can face this.

Madam Shiverwood clucked her tongue as she wrote that down. "And what would you say the most damaging part of her abuse was?"

Harry smiled in spite of himself, acknowledging a question he hadn't been prepared for. "Training to be a sacrifice," he said. "She said I was to die for my brother if necessary, to give him all the credit for achievements like winning Quidditch games even when I won them, to use my magic to protect and defend him and put him forward. When I managed to break out of that mindset with my brother, I found myself doing the same thing with other people."

"The most damaging part was not the phoenix web, then?" Madam Shiverwood scowled at her notes. "Your guardian seemed to think it was."

Harry frowned. "The phoenix web bound my magic, and tied my loyalty to my brother," he said. "But the sacrificial training was deliberate. The phoenix web had many consequences which my mother and Dumbledore no more expected than you expect someone to break a leg when you push him down a hill."

She glanced quickly up at him. "But the fact remains that they pushed you down the hill in the first place," she said, voice soft.

"Yes. Well." Harry shrugged and struggled to regain control of himself. Snape wasn't even here. Harry had no reason to get angry at this stage of the game. "They did. But you asked me what I thought was most damaging, and not my guardian. And the sacrificial training was my answer."

"How would you describe the other abuses you suffered?" Madam Shiverwood sat back and watched him, eyes sharp, but face gentle.

Not playing fair, Harry wanted to whine. This was another question he hadn't expected. Questions about dates and specific incidents, yes, but not forcing him to fall back on wide consideration of his abuse.

But you can do this, because you're strong.

Harry ignored the way his nose stung when he breathed through it, and walked forward. "Hard," he said. "In my mother's eyes, necessary, but now I realize that most of them were not so—"

"Only most of them?" Madam Shiverwood was on that like a mongoose on a cobra. "Why not all of them?"

Harry hunched his back. Argutus hissed sleepily at him from his shoulder. "You smell as if you are in pain," he said. "And you should not have come here alone, I think. When my kind are as young in the general span of our years as you are in yours, then we are always with our mother and our siblings. You need your sibling, since your mother is evil."

Harry found the soft words soothing. "It's a human thing," he said, and saw Madam Shiverwood's eyes widen at his Parseltongue. "Sorry," he added to her, and turned to focus on Argutus. "Not something I can help right now, that my sibling's separated from me."

"Humans are clever sometimes, but marvelously stupid others," Argutus murmured, and, to Harry's relief, went back to sleep.

"Is that something you do often?" Madam Shiverwood was rattled and trying not to show it, but her voice gave her away. "Speak to snakes?"

"When there's a snake to be spoken to." Harry owed her the truth on that, too.

Madam Shiverwood shook her head once or twice, and managed to gain control of herself, apparently. Then she returned to the question that Harry had hoped she would forget. "Why do you see only most of the abuses as unnecessary?"

"A slip of the tongue." Harry shifted uneasily. "Of course all of them were things that she should not have done to me."

"Forgive me, Harry," the witch said, her voice now completely soft. "But in this kind of environment, such slips of the tongue are significant. Please tell me what you meant. Let me reverse the question, " she added, before he could say anything. "What parts of your abuse would you describe as necessary?"

Harry lifted his head. He thought he might know for a moment how the stag felt, followed by hounds.

But then he reminded himself that he had other concerns than how pressed and harassed he felt by Madam Shiverwood's questions. Lives rode on what he was doing. He forced his breathing back under control and smiled at her. Madam Shiverwood blinked.

Harry summoned the truth, fashioned it into words, and made them flow from his lips. "I suppose I think that some of the discipline was necessary," he admitted. "Training me to resist torture, for example. If she hadn't done that, I wouldn't have survived my experience with Voldemort this summer. I would certainly have snapped, or perhaps simply died from the shock."

Madam Shiverwood flinched at the sound of the Dark Lord's name, but said, "Just because it had good consequences doesn't make it good. You know that, Harry, don't you?"

"I do now, madam." Harry thought of Godric's Hollow, of how he'd used that insight to build up part of the skeleton of his mind.

"But you continue to think this part of the abuse was good? Was necessary?"

"I'm grateful that it happened," said Harry. He could watch her face twist in pity, he told himself. It was not as hard as losing his hand, or kissing Draco in front of other people. "Not the same thing, perhaps. I know what would have happened to me if it wasn't there. And I do prefer being abused to snapping permanently under Voldemort's torture. With my magic, I would have done more damage to many more people."

"Harry." Madam Shiverwood's voice was soft. She leaned across the desk to clasp his hand. "Please, listen to me. I want you to listen to me."

Harry nodded. He'd expected this part, too.

"Your mother had no right to do what she did to you," Madam Shiverwood whispered. "Even now, you're using and building on the premises that she taught you to obey. It would have been understandable if you had snapped. You shouldn't have had to cast pain curses on yourself just to insure you didn't. And you are still thinking more about the damage others would have suffered than the damage you did."

"For the first," Harry said, floating a little iceberg of calmness on top of the sea of pain, and making sure only the calmness got access to his lips, "I do find it hard to regret. Perhaps that's wrong, but it's what I feel."

"Nothing you feel is wrong, Harry," Madam Shiverwood whispered.

But you think it is. Harry recognized the look in her eyes. She wanted to cure him of those kinds of thoughts, just as Snape did, just as Draco did. Harry preferred to keep the sanctity of his own mind intact. He'd had enough of other people meddling in it.

"As for the second," Harry continued, "that's part of my training that I never want to give up. I do care for others, Madam Shiverwood, yes. I know now that that does no good if I'm so weak or hurt that I can't actually accomplish anything for them. I deprived myself of sleep to tutor others, and in the end that was useless, because I collapsed at the first pressure and missed their tutoring sessions." Wincingly, he touched the memory of Hawthorn forcing him into a breakdown last year, and then putting him to bed. It still made him want to hide when he thought about it. He'd been stupid, and more, he'd acted like a child, and so been treated like one. "So I want to go on caring for others. I promise that I no longer believe, as my mother tried to train me to believe, that every little whim and pleasure of my brother, or anyone else, is more important than my own health."

"And what about your own whims and pleasures?"

"Beg pardon?" Harry felt a bit dizzied. Madam Shiverwood wasn't conducting this interrogation exactly like the sample ones in the Malfoy books, which wasn't fair.

"How do you feel your own whims and pleasures compare to others'?" Madam Shiverwood simply watched him, never taking her hand from his. Now her fingers were stroking the back of it. Harry wriggled uncomfortably.

"I can tell you," he said. "But you're not going to like the truth."

"Nevertheless, I wish to know it."

Harry nodded. "The greatest pleasure I get is helping others," he said. "That's still true. It will always be true, I think. And if the things I want are only whims, then there's really no sense in indulging them. But I am trying to get better. Really. I know now that there's no harm to my wanting something, that it's not selfish just because I'm the one doing the wanting. It's putting it into action that gives me hives."

Madam Shiverwood smiled at him. "That was a very honest answer, Harry," she said. "I admit, when you came here, I felt—oddly disposed towards you. I thought, for some reason, that you would refuse to give me any information at all. But that's disappeared from my mind like a fog in the morning. You're being honest, and I appreciate it. It's often very difficult for abused children to admit they've been abused at all."

Harry nodded. He still objected to the "children" part of that description, but she had no need to know that.

"So we've taken the first step," Madam Shiverwood continued comfortingly. "Now. I'd like you to do something for me between now and the time when I next see you again."

Harry blinked. "We're done? That's it?" He had thought she would require more evidence from him on how much abuse his mother had inflicted.

"For now, we're done," said Madam Shiverwood with a nod, sitting back. Harry was relieved when she let his hand go. "The purpose of this session was to begin healing you, Harry. Sometimes a Healer is actually the best person for that, but mental and emotional abuse to the extent that you suffered are—well, different. They're rarer than outright physical or sexual abuse in the wizarding community, and almost always accompany them, rather than stand alone."

"My parents never touched me like that," said Harry savagely.

"It's all right," Madam Shiverwood murmured. "I know they didn't. But it does mean that I'm going to be helping you heal most of the time, Harry, rather than a Healer."

Harry frowned at her. Somehow, he hadn't expected this, though he thought he was prepared for everything. To give testimony on the abuse, yes. But why did she want to change the way he thought?

Because she thinks this kind of thinking is wrong. They all think that, he realized in resignation. Well, he would just have to keep showing them how much he had healed, how it no longer hurt him to tell the truth, until they believed it.

"I want you to try indulging at least a few whims and pleasures," said Madam Shiverwood. "No more than one a day. But do that, Harry. Think of something you want, something ordinary and small, and fetch it. Or encounter a physically pleasant situation and try to enjoy it for its own sake, rather than as a pleasure for someone else or something to be endured."

Harry concealed a groan. Therapy. Great. But he nodded obediently.

Madam Shiverwood smiled at him. "Thank you, Harry," she said. "I've rarely seen such courage and such honesty. I look forward to speaking with you again."

Harry hesitated as he stood, then decided he might as well ask. He wasn't sure when he would meet with Madam Shiverwood again, and he couldn't guess the answer from how this meeting had gone. "Madam?"

She glanced up at him from marking a piece of paper that looked like a list.

"Do you think that my parents and Dumbledore will be executed?"

Madam Shiverwood clucked her tongue. "Who told you that, child?"

"I learned that execution is a common punishment for child abuse," said Harry impatiently. He was not a child, and it was unfortunate that he was giving her that impression, because it wasn't how he really felt. He would have to work on that. "What do you think, madam?"

Madam Shiverwood sighed. "Your father was a good man, once," she murmured. "A famous Auror. I had a bit of a crush on him myself. And your mother defied the Dark Lord at his side. And of course everyone knows Albus Dumbledore's legend. I know it's hard to credit that they could fall this far. But at this point, Mr. Potter? I really don't know what the Wizengamot might do to them."

With that, Harry had to be content, and he slipped out of the room to find Narcissa.

She wasn't alone when Harry did find her. Harry paused and tried to recognize the woman who talked to her, matching her up with several potential pictures in his mind. He couldn't make her fit any of them, though.

She had long golden hair, with a ripple of deeper gold in the middle, as though someone had held her head in a vat of molten metal. Her eyes were large, and so blue that Harry could see them from several feet away. She wore a gown rather than a robe, fringed with white lace. At her side stood a lean hound made of jewels, shifting and scratching itself with a tingle of magic and a jingle of sapphires.

Harry moved forward slowly, vaguely alarmed when it became clear that the witch was questioning Narcissa on his living with them, and Narcissa was explaining more about the specifics of the child abuse case—not much, just what had been in the newspapers already, but Harry had no idea why she was telling even that much.

The stranger noticed him first, and turned towards him with a fierce smile. Harry blinked. He had thought there was a fang in her mouth for a moment, as he would have expected to see in Elfrida's, but wasn't that impossible? A puellaris witch would not have approached a stranger the way this woman must have approached Narcissa, and she would have a husband somewhere close to her.

"Harry Potter," said a voice that had obviously been trained to piercing softness, like Elfrida's. Harry's puzzlement grew as she clasped his hand. "My name is Laura Gloryflower."

Harry had heard of the Gloryflowers, a Light pureblood family who often made magical animals out of materials like metal or jewels. They were responsible for the original creation of the voting owls that helped in the elections for Minister. That explained the hound, at least. It didn't explain Laura's unusual boldness.

Narcissa seemed to notice his floundering, and came to the rescue. "Harry, Mrs. Gloryflower was trained as a puellaris witch, but her husband died in the Dark Lord's War," she said. "She had to take over the family."

Harry blinked, and tried to imagine what a witch who was forced to confront the world after hiding from it all her life might do. She might crumple. On the other hand, if she adapted and confronted it head on…

He swallowed at the thought of the ferocity that could entail.

"Why did you want to meet me, Mrs. Gloryflower?" he asked, hoping it was not for the reason that had just darted into his mind.

"Because you are a child, and you have suffered," said Laura, dashing his hopes. "So I came to offer my help. I had no way to meet you, until I realized that of course you must come to the Ministry at some point and speak with Madam Shiverwood, as all abused children do. So I came here, and asked until I found someone willing to tell me the date and time."

Harry bristled in spite of himself. "I thought they weren't supposed to give that kind of information out."

"Oh, they're not," said Laura. "But being pinned to the wall with a lioness breathing in one's face tends to intimidate most people." This time, her head flickered with the shadow of a cat's head, and she looked immensely satisfied with herself.

I don't think I like her, Harry thought. "Mrs. Gloryflower, I do appreciate your good intentions, but—"

"I also came to propose a formal alliance with you," Laura continued. "My family was allied to Albus Dumbledore, but he is a disgusting wizard whom I want nothing to do with again." She said "disgusting" in the tone that other witches might have used for much stronger adjectives. "Therefore, we would like to follow you."

Harry set his feet as best he could. He didn't want her help if it was only based on his being an abused child. "Are you sure that this won't split your family, Mrs. Gloryflower? The only other Light pureblood family with ties to Dumbledore that I'm aware of, the Starrises, are sharply divided on the issue of allying with me." "Sharply divided" was a bit of an understatement, from what Tybalt had told Harry about his uncle Augustus.

"Oh, no," said Laura, sounding quite sure. "They do what I tell them to."

I bet they do, Harry thought uneasily.

"I suppose I don't understand what basis you have for thinking I'd be any better," he said bluntly. "So, yes, your training might tell you to protect me, but there are plenty of other abused children you could protect. And I have more Dark allies than Light ones right now. You must know that. So why do you think you should fit in?"

"Harry," Narcissa chided him.

"Sometimes, you are rude," said Argutus. "I can tell that you're being rude from the way you smell."

"Because I want to," said Laura. "Part of it is to do with family honor. We followed Dumbledore for so long that I can't help feeling we're tainted by the association with him. Part of it is wanting to be a part of the wizarding world's future. My family has never led, as such, but we've always been there—sometimes as lieutenants, sometimes as supporters, but there. We recognize change and we accept its inevitability. I'm also capable of studying evidence, and I don't think I'm stupid. You may have stronger Dark than Light associations, but that doesn't make you either. You haven't Declared for Dark. That, to me, says that you will welcome Light allies, and won't use them for puppets." Laura cocked her head, and Harry had the feeling she had flattened her ears and lashed her tail, too, never mind that she currently didn't have ears or a tail. "So. Here I am."

Harry blinked again. Not even Ignifer had been this direct.

Well, it might have something to do with her being Light, and not invested in twisting every tiny meaning out of every word she can, he thought at last. Laura went on looking at him expectantly, and Harry nodded. "If you think that you can accept the terms of formal alliance—"

"Oh, a formal family alliance? No," said Laura, decisively. "I don't want to swear never to hurt a member of your family. I don't think it's a good idea. If one of them fights you, the Gloryflowers have to be able to protect you. And if one of my family did turn against you, though they'd be idiots to do it, I would want you to be able to hurt them back. So. A different kind of alliance. I was thinking an Unbreakable Vow. Shall we have your adopted mother serve as a Bonder?"

"I don't like Unbreakable Vows," said Harry, determined to have some control over the developing alliance.

Laura nodded cheerfully. "Then I'll write you at some point in the future, and arrange things to both our satisfaction." She smiled at Narcissa. "Mrs. Malfoy has been kind enough to invite me to the Manor with the rest of your allies, pending your approval of our joining you, and at that point, we'll ally in front of everyone. I think everything should be done as much in the open as possible. I'm not good at deception or subterfuge. Gloryflowers leave that up to other people. I'll see you then, with your approval, Mr. Potter?" She paused.

Harry studied her face. He would be a fool to reject what seemed to be a sincere alliance merely because he didn't like the family matriarch thinking of him as a child. Unwillingly, he nodded.

"Good." Laura stooped and kissed him on the cheek before he could protest, pausing and smiling when she saw Argutus. "An Omen snake," she said. "Now I think this alliance even more favorable than I did before."

She swept away, the jeweled hound padding at her side. Harry stared after her.

"Talking to her makes me tired," Narcissa admitted after a moment of silence. "Laura Gloryflower is—a force."

"I don't see how a puellaris witch can do that," said Harry, and knew he sounded plaintive.

"She thinks of the whole world as her children." Narcissa shrugged. "But if one child wrongs another, she takes the part of the wronged child." She caught a glimpse of his expression, and smiled at him. "Don't worry, Harry. It is not unique to you."

Harry didn't respond. He had caught a glimpse of someone coming up the hall behind Narcissa, and it seemed as though every muscle in his body had stiffened. He could feel his face tensing up, his mouth working into a snarl.

Snape halted a few feet down the corridor and watched in silence.

Harry moved his jaw enough to knock loose a few words, at last. "What are you doing here?"

"As your guardian," said Snape, his voice quiet, "they told me when Madam Shiverwood would interview you." He studied Harry, and Harry could almost feel the words that he longed to speak, bubbling between them. But those would only be more of the words that had existed in the letters, and thus useless to say.

Harry struggled against the growing pressure of his rage, Argutus hissing in displeasure as the air around him chilled. He shouldn't hate what Snape had done this much. If he could forgive his parents, why not Snape? He should just reconcile with him, distantly and coldly, and go on his way. He could hold his tongue in more trying circumstances. He had no reason to speak now.

But two things made what Snape had done unforgivable to Harry: he had hurt other people, and, specifically, had filed charges that endangered other people's lives. Harry could understand Dumbledore and his parents being brought to trial on non-fatal charges. That they might be executed was unthinkable.

And, as much as he hated to admit it, the second reason was rooted in his own love for Snape. He could forgive his parents and Dumbledore because they didn't matter that much to him. But for someone he so valued to do this, to threaten other people with death in a situation other than battle, and refuse to understand why Harry might want to let them live…

Harry only realized he had lost the fight against his emotions a moment after he began to speak.

"Why do you keep thinking I'm going to change my mind? I'm not. Yes, they might go to prison, but they can't die. And I didn't even know that they might until I started investigating the trial procedures. You must have known from the beginning. Yet you condemned them anyway, with charges that you knew would lead to their deaths and their long slow suffering in public beforehand. Why?"

Snape's face, which had been haggard and pale, tightened. "Because they must be stopped," he said. "Not merely given a slap on the wrist. And a slap on the wrist is all you would have given them, Harry."

"Not true." The words felt dragged up from the depths of his throat. "I could have stopped them."

"Not this way. Not permanently." Snape took a step forward, cocking his head. "And that's the difference between us, Harry. You try to give an equal measure of protection to both victims and offenders, and when their crimes are against you, you would forgive them completely. I will not see that happen. I will insure that you have as much justice as anyone else would."

Harry shook his head and turned away. He had regained control of himself. He should not have started speaking in the first place, he thought. He knew what Snape believed. There were no surprises to be had here.

"I'd like to go back to the Manor now, Mrs. Malfoy," he said.

Narcissa hesitated for a long moment, but then seemed to come to a decision. "Severus," she said, with a little bow of her head, and then escorted Harry down the hall, a hand on his shoulder.

Harry bowed his head and tried to tell himself that he didn't feel anything at all.

"You smell of pain," said Argutus. "Do you do that often? And do you smell as often of determination to endure the pain?"

Snape leaned on the wall, his eyes tracking Harry's movements. He had not realized what a shock it would be to him, to see Harry walking about without the glamour of his left hand, and, seemingly, a few inches taller than he had been when he left Hogwarts. Harry's eyes were clear and determined, and even his voice, choked with rage, had been stronger than Snape expected it to be.

His words should have struck home. They should have hurt.

They did not. Not particularly.

His last letter had made Snape come as close as he could to thinking that what he had done was wrong. It rang with steely conviction that Harry would triumph, and made him seem driven entirely by principles, as if he had let all emotion about the case drop by the wayside.

Seeing Harry in person told a different story. He had needed his parents and Dumbledore brought to justice, whether or not he would acknowledge it. Snape had observed him in silence for a few moments before he approached, and seen how easy it was for Laura Gloryflower to overwhelm him. He had been dazed from his interview with Madam Shiverwood. He was well on the road to healing, it seemed, but not there yet.

No matter what he thinks.

And he had let himself slip into an argument with Snape instead of ignoring him completely. That alone said that Snape was important enough to him that he couldn't debate rationally.

I still matter to him. This is not entirely a debate of principles.

Snape folded the hope up, put it in his pocket, and returned to Hogwarts a good deal more cheerful than he had felt for the last month.