A/n: Don't tell me Harry's out of character. I don't agree. Harry is seventeen in this universe, he's had things happen to him, and he's come into his powers and into himself. And furthermore, he is furious with Snape. Also, it is my opinion that, in order to grow up after having a very tragic childhood, one must have a few instances of acting very, very childishly. I will not be convinced otherwise. So… Harry starts really growing up.

I don't know much about Headmaster portraits. I made it all up. Makes sense to me. A little convenient, but hey.

A little note of no consequence: I like writing McGonagall. Don't know why. I just… love her.

For those of you who recognize the chapter title as an Elvis Costello song, good on you. The rest of you… don't feel bad. I don't listen to him either. Friggin' great songwriter, though.

Hmm. Review please!

Chapter 2: Boy With a Problem

It had not been easy to make Harry Potter see what was clear to the rest of the Order. The flighty would-be-savior of the wizarding world had begun his summer with grandiose plans for vengeance and heroism. Plans that were quickly squashed upon the activation of Albus Dumbledore's portrait.

"He was a Hogwart's Headmaster, Potter," Headmistress McGonagall had said with a measure of amusement. "Did you expect him not to have an active memorial portrait?"

Harry still wasn't sure how the portraits worked. Most wizarding portraits that he had seen were infused with the personalities of those they portrayed, but the memorial portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses were somehow different. While other portraits could generally manage light conversation, the paintings in the headmistress' office seemed more like actual people, capable of complex thought, memory, debate. Dumbledore's portrait, once active, certainly seemed to be the same Dumbledore Harry had always known, minus the annoying offers of Lemon Drops (which Harry had begun to suspect were not quite as innocent as they had seemed). The trouble was that this Dumbledore calmly contradicted things that Harry knew to be fact. So it could not be Dumbledore.

"I keep telling you, Headmistress," Harry kept insisting, "Snape must have sabotaged the portrait before killing Professor Dumbledore. I saw him cast the killing curse with my own eyes. He murdered Dumbledore!"

"The circumstances surrounding Professor Dumbledore's death are very complicated, Potter," McGonagall would telling him calmly. "Trust in the Order. Know that we have all the facts, and that Severus Snape did not murder Professor Dumbledore in cold blood."

"I saw him!" Harry would inevitably shout. "I was there, the order should trust me for a change!"

McGonagall never lost her cool throughout Harry's shouting, and in his calmer moments he wondered if she had inherited more from Dumbledore than his office and title.

It was after nearly a week of screaming matches and constant Order supervision (how would he ever escape capture by the Death Eaters if he couldn't even escape from his own side?) that Harry was finally sat down before Dumbledore's portrait and ordered to listen.

"Hello Harry." Harry stared unforgivingly at the portrait, on guard for tricks laid within by Snape. "Don't think about that," the portrait said calmly. Harry scowled.

"I wasn't aware that paintings could use Legilemensy," he said bitterly. He never had perfected Occlumency. Not that anyone could blame him now for how the lessons had gone, knowing the truth about Snape.

"I wasn't," the Dumbledore in the painting replied. "Harry, if you think that, after six years of watching you very closely, I don't know how to read your face when I am looking straight at it..."

And just like that, Harry met the blue eyes in the portrait and something fell into place. He felt his own eyes tearing up then, realizing that, although nothing in this world would ever bring Albus Dumbledore back to life, this portrait was genuinely endowed with the feelings, talents and personality of his mentor. "Sir—" Harry choked on a sudden sob.

"It is Albus, Harry," the former headmaster said kindly. "And there is no need for tears. As you can see, all is well."

For a moment, Harry could not say anything. "Did it hurt?" was what he finally asked.

"Not a bit," Dumbledore replied, smiling serenely. "It came later than I would have preferred, but it's all done now."

Harry was thrown off by this. "Don't you mean 'sooner'?" He asked.

"No, my dear boy." Dumbledore sighed lightly. "I suppose I had better explain. You see, I am afraid I misled you a final time before my death. I was certain before we even set out that night to find the locket that I would not be long for this world. The curse that infected me when I destroyed Gaunt's ring had steadily been taking over since the summertime. My death could either be slow and agonizing, or quick and painless. I am afraid, my dear Harry, that I chose to leave you earlier, in favor of the latter option. A coward's way out, I suppose, but I managed to do some good going out." The headmaster paused, resettling himself in the ornate chair he'd been painted in. "Harry, you must not blame Severus for my death. I would have died, whether he had done what he did on the tower or not."

"But he didn't know that!" Harry exclaimed. "He's a death Eater, and a spy! He-"

"He knew," Dumbledore said calmly, "The whole story. I confided in him, after he told me about an unavoidable vow he had sworn that involved my betrayal and execution. He was more than willing to break that vow to keep me safe, at the greatest personal expense. I saved him the trouble. Do not blame Severus, Harry. You will need each other's help in ending this war."

"I will never work with him," Harry said stubbornly, resistant to what the portrait was telling him. "I can't. And he'll never work with me."

"Then you will both die, and the wizarding world will fall to Voldemort."

Harry glowered at a spot on the wall below the portrait. It all made sense, infuriating amounts of sense. Harry wanted to go back to blaming Snape for everything, to calling him an evil murdering bastard. But logically, he knew that he couldn't. Hermione would see things the Headmaster's way for certain, and even Ron would understand what the portrait was saying. He was cornered, and, worse than that, he was wrong. Harry felt like a stubborn child who had thrown a pointless, week-long tantrum, and he hated it.

"Don't feel badly, Harry," the portrait said with a smile. "I, for one, cannot blame you for your fierce loyalty to me, although I am not sure that I have always been worthy of it. I am sure the others will see it that way as well."

Harry nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He certainly hoped so.

ooOOOoo

By Christmastime, all had resumed to a relatively normal pace, although many things had changed. Hogwarts had indeed reopened that fall, and Harry, Ron and Hermione returned for their final year. Classes resumed, with most of the teachers remaining the same. Snape was blessedly absent, although this was of very little relief to Harry, who knew exactly where the man was and why he was absent.

In a fitting twist of irony, it had been decided that the safest place to house Snape until his name could be cleared with the side of the light was at Order Headquarters. Harry had laughed bitterly at the fact that two years before, the greasy git had flaunted his freedom in front of Sirius, and now he was forced to remain inside the very same house in which his ill-fated godfather had been trapped. Unfortunately, Snape's location meant that Harry had been forced to see the man over the final month of the summer, and would undoubtedly see him over the Christmas break as well, an event that he was not looking forward to in any way.

It was with a heavy disposition that Harry traveled to the old home of his Godfather at the end of December. The entire Weasley clan, minus Percy, would be present, as well as Remus and Tonks. The Delacours would be there as well—Gabrielle, Fleur's parents, and an older brother none of them had met. But out of all the pleasant people Harry expected to be spending time with this holiday, he could not stop thinking that Snape would be there. Snape, who had always hated Harry. Snape, the unyielding Slytherin Death Eater. Snape, who despite Dumbledore's insistence, Harry still thought of as a murderer and a spy.

As it turned out, it was three days before Harry saw hide or hair of Snape. The greasy git had managed to stay within his chambers while the other occupants of the house were stirring, doing god knows what. Harry, for one, was thankful that the Potions Master had the decency not to disturb their familial celebrations.

His luck ran out on Christmas eve, after Ron and Hermione retired to their rooms. The twins were off in some unexplored corner of the house, and everyone else was either asleep or locked away in their rooms waiting excitedly for the morning. Harry, who found he didn't have even the slightest interest in going to bed, sat in the library, reading. He looked up suddenly when Snape entered the room, and was taken entirely by surprise. The Potions Master looked withered, dried up, exhausted. Harry had assumed that he spent his days locked in his rooms, sleeping the daylight hours away, like a vampire. Evidently, he had assumed wrong. The man looked as though he hadn't slept in days. His usually dark eyes were now even further sunken into his head, and his face was thin and drawn. His hair was longer and greasier than ever. He looks as though he's dying, Harry thought to himself. It was the first time in his memory that he had been able to observe the Potions Master without the older man realizing that he was doing so.

It didn't last very long. It was as if Snape could feel Harry's eyes; he turned his head so suddenly that Harry almost jumped in his chair. Their eyes met instantly, black and green locking in an impossible union. They stayed like that for god knows how long, neither one willing to be the first to break away.

"Professor," Harry finally acknowledged. Snape made a tired gesture with his long fingers.

"I am no longer your Professor, Potter, a fact which I'm sure has been greatly celebrated in the halls of Hogwarts this term." They were no longer staring at each other. Snape moved to the other side of the room. "Do not address me as such."

"Fine, Snape," Harry said, unable to wring the venom from his voice. The older man scowled.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Potter, visions of sugar plums and all that?"

"My dreams haven't featured anything even approaching a sugar plum for a very long time now, Snape," Harry said. And then, more quietly, "A fact which might have been changed if you'd managed to teach me Occlumency properly."

Snape raised a lethal eyebrow. "You lost my help in stopping the Dark Lord from invading your mind when you invaded my privacy, Potter."

Harry laughed bitterly. "Excuse me for thinking that destroying the Dark Lord's plots is a bit more important than a twenty-year grudge against my father."

Snape rounded on him quickly. "It is not for you to decide what is important and what is not, Potter!"

"My father is dead, Snape. The Dark Lord is not. Out of the two, which one would you say is a bigger threat to you?" Harry felt a thrill of victory at being able to match Snape's arguments. He had done a great deal of growing since they had last spoken (or shouted), and was determined not to let Snape make him feel like his intellectual inferior ever again. Snape was grasping a book, his knuckles white with rage.

"Get out, Potter, I am warning you…"

"Or you'll… what, exactly? Kill me like you killed Dumbledore? I'd like to see you explain that one to the Order." Harry jumped out of his chair as the book Snape was holding flew into the headrest. Snape had his wand out, and was breathing raggedly. Harry held his won wand loosely at his side. "You wouldn't dare," Harry said slowly. "You send up one spark against me and the whole Order will be here so fast that you won't even see the green before it hits you. We both know it, so stop trying to scare me and put your wand away, before I use mine to do it for you." Harry felt exhilarated, liberated. He was finally able to say the things he'd always wanted to say to the other man, and he wasn't about to waste a single breath. "I'm not afraid of you, Severus Snape."

Apparently, Harry warning about harming him hit home, but it didn't stop Snape from yelling at him. "GET AWAY FROM ME, POTTER!" The man shrieked, his eyes dangerously wide. Harry could hear wild footsteps descending the stairs, voices in the upstairs hallway. Mrs. Black's portrait awoke and added to the screaming.

"Actually, Snape,' Harry said, his voice still level, "This is my Godfather's house. I fail to see how you can tell me where to go in a house that is certainly more mine than it is yours. So, why don't you go away?" He smirked slightly. "Oh, I'd forgotten… you can't, can you? Doesn't feel quite so great from the other side, does it, Snape? I bet you regret mocking Sirius now, don't you?" By now, Remus, Tonks and a handful of Weasleys had appeared in the doorway. "Merry sodding Christmas, Snape," Harry said acidly before storming from the room, through the waiting crowd and up the stair to the room he was sharing with Ron. Ron spent the entire night going over how brilliant Harry had been when attacking Snape, while Harry lay quietly, nodding indulgently while his friend rambled on.

He didn't start to feel guilty until Christmas dinner, when he still hadn't heard a single sound from Snape's chambers. He pushed the guilt down with an extra helping of stuffing.