Due to popular request I'm reposting the old version of this fic for your enjoyment. I'll start posting a new version/complete rewrite late 2022.

Chapter 14: A Tuesday of Truths

Severus stormed towards his rooms, literally fuming.

Vale's cauldron had exploded in the last minutes of class, which in sixth-year was a disaster. Two neighbouring students had not shielded in time, and the resulting chain reaction had filled the room with a hallucinogenic gas.

Five of his students were now spending the night in the infirmary for observation.

It wasn't Severus' fault—he couldn't protect the children from their own stupidity. Vale would never again forget to stir clockwise before adding clover. The others would never again forget their shields. But these things should have been learnt in first year, when the consequences were harmless.

It wasn't his fault, but he had been responsible all the same.

At least Bathsheba had remained unaffected, if not unruffled.

He just couldn't be everywhere at once—he shouldn't need to be, in an advanced class. He vowed to petition Albus again for permission to exclude students without Outstanding OWL marks into NEWT level Potions.

Somehow, he had forgotten about Potter in the mess.

All thoughts ground to a halt at the sight before him. The teen was right there, loitering in front of his rooms.

He scowled in greeting, regardless that his apprentice was there on his own orders. "Done letting yourself into my quarters, Potter?" he spat.

Potter just cocked his head. "Sir?"

Stifling a tired groan he led the way inside. Directing Potter to sit on the new couch, he leaned himself against the unlit fireplace opposite.

"So...hello," Potter smiled.

It was painfully awkward.

Severus wished the stones of Hogwarts would swallow him whole.

They were in his rooms. He was alone in his rooms with a student, one who had given him a blowjob not sixth months before.

A child and an adult alike. A paradoxical mess.

Severus did not like this feeling of uncertainty. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the constraining fabric—a comforting normalcy holding him tight. He turned a moment to spell the hearth alive.

When he turned back Potter was crouched, suddenly by his feet. Potter's nose crinkled endearingly—What?—oddly. Severus was too boggled to move, even as a small hand was reaching out to brush the hem of his robes. Their positions were far too reminiscent of that time, in that alleyway.

"On your knees already?" Severus finally quipped, assuming disdainful mocking sneer no. 2.

Potter started, rocking back and landing on his arse. He didn't seem perturbed at all, grinning cheerfully up at him. "You have a poppy-saproot mind-altering compound on your robes, did you know?"

Fuck. "Indeed." He began yanking them off, striding for his bedroom. Dunderheaded, foolish, blithering idiotic children.

When he returned Potter was sitting on his couch, the same couch Severus had acquired from the Hufflepuff dorms after that first chess game with the child. Suicide chess, Potter had called his tactics. Playing the same board by different rules—and if nobody knew what the rules were, who could really tell if he won or lost?

"Shall I wear my older face, then? There shouldn't be any side effects or interactions, unless there's nutmeg in your Veritaserum."

Good. They were both on the same page, then. Suddenly inordinately glad the elves cleaned his rooms Mondays, Severus nodded towards the bathroom door and went to prepare their tea. Three drops went into Potter's. Then they sat, two...adults, who had until yesterday been friends.

The face before him was so familiar, Mark's but for the shape of the lips and the colour of the hair. Better to think of him as Mark still, that was simpler, safer.

The differences loomed, a gaping maw between them.

Mark's eyes went glassy.

Why? Severus wanted to demand, Why did you lie to me?

"What is your name," he asked instead. "All your names that you have ever been called and identified with."

Potter's, Mark's voice was not quite monotone, his stare not vacant enough as he listed them. "Freak, Boy—" the auto-dictation quill in the corner quietly scratched down every title and moniker, including many that had obviously been given by past lovers. Severus felt out of place, overhearing an inside joke. Like he was violating the man's privacy.

Was there a greater violation than being forced to tell the absolute truth?

He focused on the identities to avoid thinking about the rest. Harry James Potter, Harrison John Black-Hotchner, Leonardo Flores Ortiz. The list went on.

It was too much. How could one person have so many facets? So many truths?

He started; the man had finally finished naming himself. Severus would untangle this later, right now he had questions to ask. "How are you resisting the Veritaserum—and why?"

"By telling a truth rather than the truth. Because I can and for practice, for the day when greater things depend on relative truths."

Was that all this was to Mark? A game, not even a minor concern? Was he not enough of a threat for Mark to take him seriously? "How old are you?"

"I don't know. I've lost count. Chronologically, forty-six. Harry James Potter is twelve-ish. I am him, but I am also more. I was thirty-six when I died, and it's been ten years since I came back."

Severus' understanding of the world was falling entirely apart. Mark shrugged.

His mind was thousands of swarming fireflies, none slowing enough for him to catch more than a glimpse. "Time travel," he heard himself say weakly. Of course. It only made sense….

Had Mark said something about dying?

"Yes. I died. But, Boy-Who-Lived and all that, it wasn't as permanent a state as I'd been led to believe."

Severus wished his mind would catch up and stop his mouth from saying things he wasn't ready to share. He wished he had something to do with his hands, besides fiddle with his mug.

Abruptly he stood, ostensibly to make more tea. Mark's head lolled to watch him, his eyes fighting to focus but only managing to roam over the walls.

"You have a lot of books, you know? More fiction than I'd expected. Shit—sorry. My words are leaking."

Severus felt a kind of vindictive joy. At least they were on a more equal footing, cradling steaming cuppas while their mouths moved without their consent. It was better to both be wrong-footed for once. Mark's 'I see you' from that night echoed eerily in his ears. How much had his future self divulged to Potter? Had they been friends? Lovers even?

No, he would have hated Potter in any other context. Never come close to him without the apprenticeship, never come close to discovering his rape—

"You lied to me!"

Surprisingly, Mark managed to combine vacancy and deadpan in a single look.

"About being raped. This whole time I was worried about people taking advantage of you, a child, and you were at the Admiral Duncan,having your sweet way with whomever struck your fancy!" He felt the anger building in his voice, observed it as if from a great distance as the fireflies continued their frantic stomach-ache.

He had considered committing murder for this child, and all this time—

"There is truth in lies, Master Snape," Mark said with weary monotony. "I was a child, the first time. It was not terrible, but it was not right, either. We both benefited, him from—you know. And for me, alternately loathed and ignored by the Dursleys, it was...good, to have someone who cared about me. Loved me.

It was sickening, to hear the understanding bleeding through the truth potion's trance, even while the voice became more animated as its effects wore off. To hurt a child was the greatest of crimes. To take their innocence—

Harry Potter had been born under prophecy.

Had he ever been innocent to begin with?

"I have blue hair," Mark said, face splitting into a wan smile when he managed the lie. "I'll take another cuppa, if you will? This was decades ago for me, but they're still not fond memories."

Severus' own childhood came up, unbidden. Swallowing, he stood. With his mind absent, his hands went through the familiar motions of preparing tea.

Soft footsteps followed him. "Master Snape, it's okay. Really." Warmth radiated off of Mark, tangible through both their robes. A hand encircled his own, grip broken briefly to wipe off clammy sweat.

He was led to his own couch, mug pressed into his hands, a conjured blanket draped over him as though he were the one who needed comforting. As if Severus had just unloaded his own ugly past, scraped his insides out from behind meticulous Occlumency walls.

"I'm sorry," Mark said.

"Me too."

They sat there, listening to the crackling flames and the castle's thrumming stones. Bathsheba came in then, chittering, and crawled onto Severus' lap. All of this was too much. Impossible truths cluttered his mind, too many threads to untangle at once.

She peered at Mark, hissing even as he felt her hissing fear through their bond. A single thought and a finger rubbed down her spine was enough to calm her.

If only this were so simple, Severus thought. To hiss at the incongruence of a man in a boy's body. A boy who had pretended to be his friend, or was it his friend who had pretended to be a boy? Did time-travel make the adult a child or the child an adult?

He comforted Bathsheba before her nerves overwhelmed her again, mentally setting the dilemma aside. He'd deal with this later, preferably with some good firewhiskey on hand.

Mark only laughed as he scooted back, pulling his legs up and twisting so they were facing once more.

The comfort of the solid table between them was gone now that they were both on the couch.

The comfort of space between them was gone too, for a moment, as Mark plucked the vial of Veritaserum from his pocket, and dosed his own tea. He wore an easy smile, the same carefree expression Severus had seen so many times on that face, a laugh shared between friends. Were they still friends? Was that why Mark's smile felt like it was crushing his chest, or was it residual pain from the nail that had gone through his lung?

More Veritaserum was not a good idea. No licenced potions master could condone this. "It will cause kidney damage. The limit is a three-drop dose in twenty-one hours."

"You still have questions," Mark said, nonchalant, and downed his cuppa. A bit dribbled down the corner of his mouth, which had Severus very much bothered. "Won't kill me anyway." The words tumbled out even as the man slipped back into the truth-compelling trance.

Severus gave in and wiped Mark's face for him, quickly spelling his hand clean again.

What was it, now, which he most needed to know the truth about? His buzzing mind brought the image up promptly: dark dustbins and the feeling of pulsing magic bursting from him. "Samhain night in the alleyway, what happened?"

"I was drunk and high, and provoked you. Understandably, you retaliated."

It was deeply disconcerting, hearing this same tone that had forgiven Mark's childhood rapists, now talking about himself. "Did I rape you, then?"

A truncated laugh. "I don't believe so. Inhibitions were lowered, and it was an indulgence. Though I would have preferred other circumstances with clearer consent, I don't regret it. I was, still am, attracted to you, and I would like to—"

Teeth clicked shut in a poor semblance of finality.

"Finish your explanation."

He watched Mark let himself sink deeper into the drug's haze, hiding himself in grey monotony. "I would like to try again while we are both sober. My main reason we not have sex was that you wouldn't know it was with a student—not to mention James Potter's son. As you had more presence of mind then, the responsibility of the act lies more on your shoulders...as well as the decision over any future acts."

Relief, and a kind of absolution.

And a deep flattery twinging in the depth of his stomach, that this man—for Mark was a man older than him—wanted Severus. Other parts of him were interested too, but he clamped down on those urges with staunch determination.

A student, his apprentice, a victim of past abuse—

A man, who had lived a full life already. "What did you do, after you...came back?" Severus' lips curled at the vagueness in the phrasing. Come back from the dead, as if! That wasn't how things worked. Every child knew, when death came for you, it was permanent.

"I woke up in my crib, his boots on the stairs. Lily there begging for my life. Green light, searing pain. I took his wand, yew-and-phoenix-feather, escaped the room before you arrived. Summoned what I could into the basket I knew I'd be put in. And when I was left on the Dursleys' doorstep, I donned my invisibility cloak, drank an ageing potion and left."

Severus knew there were details being left out, but if hardly mattered. He had been there to hold Lily, still warm. Potter had watched her die, then packed a basket?

"I rented a room in Knockturn, developed my ageing potion. Then I wandered the wizarding UK for a year before moving to Brazil. I got my warding mastery again, and put my plans in motion towards making a better future than the one I came from."

Plans? A future? Severus had not realised Mark—or Potter—had been working towards anything at all.

It was time to switch tacks, from the past to the...Would Mark's other past technically be the future?

Did the terminology of it matter?

"And your life from...before? Do you know how you came back? What made it possible?"

"I was married, we had two sons." Mark's face twitched, and for a moment a ghost of his sorrow bled through.

There was nothing to say to that, so Severus didn't even try. Some wounds, he knew, remained raw.

"Aaron, my husband, got sick. I tried to stop it, turned all my attention from warding to healing—muggle and magical both. Learnt a lot about potions. For a time he got better, and then it came back, the cancer. And then he was—gone."

Severus saw his mother, lying in a cold room, life barely clinging to her. He closed his eyes.

He was still waiting for when her loss would hurt less, as Slughorn had promised it would.

"I did some very stupid things." Mark continued, heedless. "Got myself sick, wasn't responding to retrovirals. So I made sure things were in order for our sons, and thought I was ready to see Aaron again. I took my last breath, closed my eyes—and Death was there."

"Death?" He could not keep the scoff from his tone.

"Yes, Death," Mark gave a weary sigh. "The one from the legend, with the Deathly Hallows."

It all seemed entirely unbelievable, yet the symptoms of the truth serum were still evident in Mark's stare and voice.

And Severus knew the story well, Beedle the Bard's tales having lived under his bed half his life. The well-thumbed copy had been Severus' proof that he was a wizard: something more than his brute of a muggle father, his mother pretending to be a squib.

"You think you mastered Death. Like in the story."

Mark tried to shrug, the Veritaserum making it one-sided. "In 1998 I mastered the Hallows, defeated the Dark Lord, and tried to move on with my life. In 2013 when I died, Death said he would bring me back, that I had to come to him as a friend."

Greeting Death as an old friend, departing this life as equals.

What a fantastic, impossible thing.

Of everything Harry Potter—Mark Evans—John Hotchner had said to him, this was the one he believed instantly, utterly. Irrevocably.

"You are the Master of Death?"

"Yes. They are my Hallows whether Albus Dumbledore holds the wand or not."

Severus had time for one more question, but he did not want to ask it. There was something between them—Mark had heavily implied it with his friendship and flirting. And yet, Severus had no interest in learning the absolute truth on the matter. Feelings were relative anyway, useless abstract things. Better not to quantify them unnecessarily.

Instead he sipped his cold tea and watched the Veritaserum wearing off. He saw it in the way Mark's shoulders straightened, his eyes focused, his easy smile returned.

"Is that all for tonight, then?" Mark asked, weariness bleeding out from the over-bright cheer in his voice.

He jerked a nod in return.

Mark's entire body slumped into the couch, hand raising to massage his temples. "Thank you. I'm spent."

Playing with truth, Occlumency, and old wounds would do that to a man. Severus summoned his medical kit, brusquely switching tack again before the thrumming tension between them knocked their tentative friendship apart. "I will tend to your eye now, if you drop the glamour."

Mark slid deeper into his seat even as the magic slipped off the bandage. "Thank you, Master Snape."

The warmth and fondness in those words was unmistakable.

This man had laughed with him over drinks. Danced for him. Sucked him off in an alleyway.

"Within my rooms, you may disregard my titles."

The implied continued invitations into his rooms went unacknowledged by them both, focusing instead on more practical things.

There was nothing he could do to save the eye, at most he could clean it and prevent future...oozing. "I can vanish the damaged parts, leave the linings for your prosthetist. I assume you are going to get a prosthetic?"

"Go on, then. And yes, I'll go the Mad-Eye route, AK-green perhaps? It'll have to wait until summer, but German enchanting is among the b—" His entire body flinched. "Oh Gods. That was my eye. I'm going to hurl."

Severus administered a stomach soother and leaned back, just in case. He watched Mark curl into a quivering ball on his couch. "Is there anything I can do?" He hadn't expected to feel so perturbed—this was Mark's own fault, a lesson learned through his own stupidity.

"Don't mind me," the man said with a wheezy laugh. "I just lost a sensory organ without anaesthesia. For the re-re-cord, that felt—" Mark paused to still chattering teeth, "—that felt like jagged glass scraping against raw skin." He took the offered vial of pain reliever and downed half before stopping to examine it. "Is this my recipe?"

Severus' face formed what he hoped was an apologetic half-smile as he tentatively patted Mark's shoulder. "Your brew, actually."

Mark grinned up at him. "You thought I was twelve, and still wanted to keep my potions for your personal use?"

It wasn't like he'd had a choice. Severus had limited time, and wasn't going to go brewing when there was a perfectly acceptable supply on hand. "You have been solely stocking the infirmary for a year now." He smirked, appreciating the irony even if Mark wouldn't. "Your chivalrous break-in for the sake of providing a Potions Master with his own brews was in vain."

The man groaned even as he slowly uncurled. "Only you could make such a high compliment simultaneously be a jab at my stupidity."

Severus' lips twitched, unapologetic. Holding Mark's chin, he tilted it to examine the gaping hole with his lit wand. Neither of them chose to comment on the fact Mark had just leaned into his touch, and that Severus had yet to let go.

It was as good as he could do, with his limited knowledge. "Keep it clean and covered, the Mediwizard, -witch or other-gendered Mediprofessional in Germany will know more. You can glamour it for now, but enchanted glass eyes cannot be disguised for long."

Mark turned more of his face into Severus' hand, each breath ghosting against his palm. "Thank you. I'd add 'Professor,' but you said not to."

Severus huffed. "In private, you may call me by my name."

Mark nodded, closed his eye and brushed his lips against Severus' hand in a facsimile of a kiss. "Thank you, Snape. You have been kind to me, and I hope to never give you cause to regret it." This was far heavier conversation than Severus was comfortable with, but Mark seemed to know this preferences well enough. "Will you call me Harry then? Or Mark when I'm aged? Whichever you're comfortable with."

Severus decided he needed to think about it, and said so. It was late. He should have long sent Mark-Potter to bed. "Will you de-age yourself to return to your dormitory?"

Mark winked at him—or perhaps he'd blinked? Severus couldn't tell the difference any more. "Of course. Anything could happen on the way over there. I age myself off Hogwarts grounds and de-age before returning."

Of its own volition, Severus' hand had started combing hair out of Mark's face. "How much older do you get every time you revert back from the potion?"

"Roughly a week. By graduation I hope to be around twenty-two, then I'll speed it up more to reach a respectable twenty-eight." And he made it seem so logical and obvious, to permanently age himself seven years. To a forty-six-year-old soul in a teenage body, perhaps it was.

"Would you prefer to sleep here, on my couch? We could have breakfast together."

Severus was not sure why he had offered. Perhaps some part of him did not yet want the other to go. It wasn't that Mark was good company, per se…

But right now in the quiet of night, Mark was just his. Truth hung over them like a shared umbrella charm. There was a feeling of togetherness in this, whatever this might be, and he was afraid once Mark left it would be gone.

They would once again be Apprentice Potter and Master Snape.

Their current embrace, however, could in no way be construed as professional distance. Mark had closed his eyes, rubbing against the couch like some overgrown feline. "I'm half asleep already. You would be doing me a favour. Is there something I can do for you in return?"

Had that been innuendo or had Severus heard innuendo because he wanted there to be—what was he thinking? Of course he didn't want his apprentice to have possibly been propositioning sexual favours. Mark probably hadn't been, though. He wouldn't-would he?

Shaking his head, Severus expanded the couch into a passable bed and summoned sheets. He brushed a quick kiss on Mark's cheek before he could talk himself out of it—into it?—and drew himself upright. "You will restock my own healing supplies."

Mark chuckled, his voice rough with sleep. "Several hours of brewing for some sleep, followed by breakfast. You strike a hard bargain, Snape, and give me no choice but to accept."

Severus smirked and let his fingers again run through Mark's loose hair one more time. It was so much softer than he would have thought, and far silkier than his own. He bade the man a quiet goodnight and retired to his own bed.

xoxox

"You may call me Severus in private," he heard his own voice say, and Mark pressed a soft kiss against his palm in response. His hand was in the other' man's hair, such wonderfully silky hair. It was hard to concentrate on much else—sinking, he was sinking down next to Mark's prone body. The man's lips were nibbling on his thumb. And now Mark's other hand was on Severus' leg, fingers barely brushing the inside of his thigh. Severus let his legs fall open, his head tilting back.

Mark's tongue teased the groove between his index and middle fingers, working is way up to the tips. He sucked them into his mouth, such a wonderful soft, wet mouth—

Severus awoke in need of either a wank or a cold shower.

The Potter sleeping in the room between him and his bathroom ruled out the latter option. Which left the wank, and if his thoughts strayed to the paradoxical man on his sofa, well, nobody was any the wiser.

He left his room feeling refreshed, ready to face the day.

"Mark," he greeted.

"Hello, Snape. Tea?" the man offered with an entirely too beamish smile.

It seemed Mark was a morning person, which Severus decidedly was not. Steaming mug and elf-delivered pastry in hand, Severus promptly started a fire and settled before its growing warmth.

This was the only time of the day he had to himself. A few minutes before the eternal hassle of grading, teaching, and children. The reason he was still sane—

Mark invaded the armchair across from him. "Snape..."

He glared back, but Mark was facing towards the flames.

"...You should add silencing wards to your rooms."

Shite. He felt mortification rising from his toes to his face.

"I set up temporary ones, but they'll fade within a day. I just thought you should know."

Severus' tea was cold, he felt flushed with embarrassment, and he didn't have thirty minutes until class. Why hadn't he sent Mark back to his own room last night?

Scowling, he abandoned his ruined morning ritual. By the time he was dressed and on the way to his classroom, Mark was gone.

He spent that first hour barely present, letting the NEWT students work while his mind gnawed on the truths that had been revealed last night. It was all a mess, strings of unfinished thoughts tangling, just to be picked up and dropped again. A tiring loop.

Had Fairwind just thrown cobra skin into Weasley's potion?

What was wrong with them? Did they not have two brain cells to rub together?

He vanished Weasley's potion and turned on Fairwind with his worst, most terrifying glare.

"Sir?" The girl squeaked.

The panic in her eyes was obvious. Turning, he could see a monster reflected back at him on Weasley's spectacles. The class collectively held their breath.

Severus deflated. "Just...go, Miss Fairwind. Mister Weasley, you as well."

He snatched the vial from her before she could label it, even as the Weasley prefect had finished packing, quiet as a mouse. Fairwind's potion was verging on powder blue, not perfect but close enough.

Was Potter rubbing off on him? Not quite sure himself why he was doing this, Severus thrust the vial into the Weasley's open hand. He listened to the silence curdling.

"Well, boy, label it!"

Did he have to spell everything out?

Weasley wrote his name and all but ran from the room, and for the last ten minutes he had the quietest Slyther-Gryff class of his life.

He spent those minutes carefully, deliberately taking the tangled knot of his thoughts about Mark-Potter and shoving them neatly into a drawer. He labeled it 'Later' in turquoise ink. (The quill he wrote it with looked suspiciously like Potter's.)

This being Hogwarts, word travelled fast; the second years shuffled in like quiet rabbits, trembling in impotent nervosity.

Good.

He stood by and let Potter teach the class, pretending to supervise while his mind swooped and ducked through the forest of his thoughts, each idea grasped only for a moment before soaring to the next.

The possibilities! To return from a future world! What new developments there must have been in those twenty years!

Potter had just started the children brewing—

Potter, age forty-six, from the future. And also Severus' twelve year old apprentice.

Which, come to think of it, was ridiculous. Here was a man older than himself, pretending to be a schoolchild. The most interesting thing he did was brew dittany salves for the infirmary.

Severus hardly noticed lunch, and let Potter teach his next class too, barely watching as the students learned about...swelling solutions, apparently. He wanted to ask his apprentice, What can you teach me? What new developments from the future could they make reality now? All that knowledge about healing potions, and Potter was living this self-imposed impotence.

The room emptied, and an elf delivered dinner to his desk. He sipped at his tea, wishing for answers. Or better yet, to talk through things so he could find the words for so many unfinished ideas—writing any of this down was not an option.

Two Slytherins walked in then. Second years. They had been making fun of Filius' goblin ancestry yesterday, and now he had to supervise their detention instead of—literally anything else he'd rather be doing right now.

Potter came in and greeted him with a smile before showing the second years to the cauldrons by the sink.

"Come here, Mister Potter," Severus commanded before his apprentice could begin setting up his usual brewing station.

They huddled behind the muffling spells around Severus' desk.

Tell me, what's it like? Is it better? Will the Dark rule Britain, or the Light? What will become of me? Do I ever stop teaching here, make a better life for myself?

"You have a great opportunity to change things for the better."

Bugger all. That hadn't been a question, and now Potter was just smiling, expectation in the line of his eyebrows.

Severus tried again, "I assume you have a plan. How can I help?"

And as he said it he realised it was true. There were so many useful things Potter could know, but he was one man in a world of billions. Potter couldn't possibly be doing everything himself.

Potter was grinning now, vibrating in his seat with unnecessary energy. "You're wonderful, Master Snape, did you know that?"

There was no way he was replying to that, one way or the other.

"Yes," Potter continued seamlessly, "I have a plan, and it's well on its way. Mostly internationally, where my guardian has lots of contacts."

It's not safe to talk here came through loud and clear. Severus conceded the point. "Seeing as you have passed the exam, grading NEWT level essays should not be an issue for you."

Potter shrugged. "Sure."

Stuck as they were with two unwitting chaperones, they resigned themselves to grading, occasionally reading particularly stupid excerpts to each other.

At one point Bathsheba flapped in and crawled onto Potter's lap for belly rubs, and Severus was not so petty as to be jealous. He could feel the massaging fingers through the link—it was a nice background sensation.

The second years fled after ninety minutes of scrubbing, quite possibly traumatised.

Potter confirmed it as they moved from the draughty classroom to his office. "I think you broke them, Master Snape. You're the vampire bat of the dungeons, every time you laugh a kitten dies." Severus' lips twitched a wry smile, as he stoked the fire and activated his privacy wards.

Potter tilted his head, scrutinising the wards. "Would you be averse to some additions, Master?"

Severus gestured him to go ahead, and returned to the mediocre essays. He knew from experience that integrating existing wards was time-intensive and magically-draining. Bored and because she could, Bathsheba clambered over to claw at his hair.

Half an hour later, Potter flopped back into his chair. Severus looked up and examined the wards. Safety from animagi, invisible people—even eavesdropping house elves. "You put Moody to shame."

Potter shrugged. "He has the right idea, but needs some good muggle logic to balance him out."

Finally, finally they were alone behind wards, and he had a change to ask all his questions. Potter was facing him, expectant.

In that instant Severus' Occlumency worked, his mind blanking beautifully. A lake mirroring the world, not a ripple in sight. All his words had died on the tip of his tongue, and now there was just a bitter taste left in his mouth.

Eleven years ago he had fallen on his knees before Albus. He'd sworn a vow to protect this boy, all that was left of Severus' only childhood friend.

But Harry Potter was a man already. Did any trace of Lily remain in him at all?

"How do you know the world you are creating is a better one?"

"Because you'll be living to see it."

There was only earnestness in those green eyes. It sent a foreign pang through him. "And besides living, how have you factored me into your plans?"

Was Potter the next Albus, ready to twist and manipulate in the name of a greater good?

"I'd like to continue being your apprentice and, if you'll take me, your friend." Potter closed his eyes and sighed heavily, speaking the next words at the insides of his eyelids. "I guess I see myself in you, in a way. I want to protect you."

Severus laughed sharply. The irony that was his life! "You might be the first." His organs seemed to twist uncomfortably as his heart swelled.

Suspicion swiftly rose to replace the warmth. What would the price for Potter's protection be?

"I don't think so," the teen continued calmly. "Albus wants you safe, if only to better use you. Minerva has a soft spot for you, and so does Poppy. Lucius, too, I suppose, though his motivations are more like the Headmaster's. Then there's Gramps, who sees himself as a kind of mother hen over all of us. And then there's Aberforth Dumbledore, who wants you safe from his own brother."

"How can you possibly know all this?" Though he knew about Albus and Lucius, Aberforth's motivations were news to him.

Potter shrugged, eyes taking on an aggravating twinkle. "I had a bit of a crush on you back in '98. Did a bit of digging and got you posthumously lauded a martyr and hero. People were naming their children 'Severus' in your honour."

He didn't know if he should be flattered or horrified.

"And how are you going to go about protecting me?" Had that come across as snide? But perhaps he'd meant to be a little snide. He was thirty-four, after all, and had long ago learnt to depend on himself.

"I don't know yet. Albus, Lucius and the Dark Lord have you in a three way tug-of-war and I hardly think you want another person involved. Though I'd like to take a good look at the Dark Mark if you'll let me. Once Albus and the Dark Lord get their good-and-evil—"

Sarcasm practically dripped from the term.

"—war going again, I was hoping to get you away from them both, and away from the teaching job everyone knows you hate. There's a world out there, full of opportunities for brilliant minds like yours."

Severus could instantly picture it, his dearest fantasy. A lab and nothing more...well, perhaps an apprentice. He did not dare to let his mind go there often, lest he lose his hold on reality. It would not do, to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

He found himself laughing for the second time that evening. Another person who had plans for him. "The Dark Lord is going to return, and you want me off pretending ambivalence, as if it's not my problem. As if I could just abandon the war that has been half of my life?"

"If you'd rather do something else, I don't mind at all. But you deserve better than to keep letting decade-old grief weigh you down, you know?"

And was that longing in Potter's voice? "You deserve a future."

It was late, and Severus was sick and tired of other people telling him things about himself. "Go to bed, Potter," he said, trying to make it sound kind.

"Yes, sir."

xoxox

Severus sat in front of the fire until his stomach rumbled, forcing him to head for the kitchens.

When he had sworn that vow to protect Lily's son, he'd never imagined this.

Perhaps, this was a good thing—the probability of his surviving the Dark Lord's return was looking much less bleak. It had always been a question of 'when' rather than 'if.' Otherwise, there would have been no need for the vow.

What to do now? The elves served him some stew and left him be, the background of their presence just the right amount of company for heavy thoughts.

There was Potter's lack of eye, but it seemed he already had plans for that.

The Dark Lord's pending resurrection, which they ought to be preventing.

The fact that Potter had killed a muggle on Saturday with a cursed knife, and half of Soho would now be on the lookout for anything suspicious—like two men without ID.

The third faction in the war Potter was planning: political plans for a 'better' future, whatever that might look like. Something different from the Light's 'Greater Good' and the Dark's 'A future for Magickind'. Though, Potter oddly did seem to know what he was doing.

Or, now that Potter had declared for him, did that make this his side of the war too?

What to do now?

Bed, first of all, Severus decided. These past days had been exhausting.