Liquid bubbled and cooled at the Potion Master's desk, one fewer flask than the number on his roster, the various shades of turquoise a cursory indication of the marks each would deserve.

His back turned as the students exited, Severus registered one voice. "You two go ahead: I'll meet you for supper."

It was the last class of the day, a bottle of scotch beckoning from his quarters with Potter standing in the way of it. Severus did not conceal his irritation as he pivoted to face his last pupil, robes billowing in his wake.

"The lesson was clear and the instructions straightforward: Strengthening Solutions, regardless of opinions held by…certain Ministry experts…are significantly simpler than the Drought of Peace. What exceptionally obvious truth shall I be forced to reveal to you in greater detail, Mr. Potter, before you finish my assignment? Surely Ms. Granger can spoon feed you anything more you need to know?"

"It's not about the potion, Professor."

"Then it is not my concern." He turned away towards a shelf of jars, reaching to check the amount of Griffin claw remaining.

"Just a moment, Professor. Please."

Severus put down the jar. James would not have addressed him with this level of deference and urgency. He had not expected this boy to ever do so. Lily's son sought his eyes and then immediately looked away, his gaze fixed on the portion of the classroom floor against which he had been grinding, unconsciously, the worn sole of one black trainer.

"A moment. No more. Unburden yourself, quickly."

"It's…my shoulders twitch sometimes. Spasms. Convulsions."

Potter's voice dropped further.

"Like when he–when Voldemort–tortured me. But just in the shoulders now. It doesn't happen often. It doesn't hurt, exactly. Not for long. But I don't know when it's coming and I don't know if it'll stop."

He continued, again looking up and then away. "I'm sorry, sir. It's just, my options are…limited. And I thought, given your, um, position at this time"–the boy had at least the decency to flush as he gestured towards Severus' covered left forearm–"you might know more than others. About this." The boy smiled darkly. "I reckon Madam Pomfrey would be at a loss here."

"Your godfather could help you," said Severus, contempt for Black plain in his voice.

He had to lean towards the answer in order to hear all of it. "Sirius…doesn't know. Won't know. I'm not going to tell him."

"The Headmaster."

"He won't look at me."

It was almost like a source of the pain they were discussing, to see the green-eyed boy standing guardedly in front of him and to realize how many adults had failed Lily's child. Himself first and most of all. Irrationally, fully aware that the boy had no power to access them, Severus locked his memories behind Occlumency shields.

He curled his lip as he addressed the boy again. "This should have been dealt with that night, Mr. Potter."

"I almost got killed twice. May have been a bit preoccupied." The boy's insolence had never failed to drive Severus mad, audibly or otherwise, but this time he saw, within it, something a little more complex. Gallows humor, a Muggle uncle had called it once, making an off-color joke about drinking on the day his father died.

He watched the boy struggle to voice his fear, the simple, desperate question mouthed silently and then spit out in one breath. "Is it too late?"

Severus paused and considered his answer carefully. "The mechanisms of the Cruciatus are not completely understood. It seems likely, because no scar is left behind and the primary permanent impact is typically insanity, that the curse actually roots not in the body, but in the mind. I cannot fully explain why it would be localized in your shoulders right now, Potter. But if this understanding of things is correct…there's nothing in my stores or Madam Pomfrey's that can help you with this."

"In the mind." Potter spoke impassively as he echoed the words.

"Most likely."

"You've told me enough about where my mind goes wrong." The boy began moving towards the door, and Severus saw that his lowered eyes shone with undropped tears. Another failure. Mine, again.

"Potter."

"What? What can you say to me, now?" The boy continued, a challenge remaining in his deliberately softened tone. "Professor?"

That I was wrong. That I've been lying. That I'm trying to protect you by forcing you, specifically, to learn this goddamn potion despite the Hogwarts High Inquisitor breathing down my neck. That your exasperating child's mind has held things that would drive adults past madness, and it is to your credit that this is all it does right now.

"There's nothing I can say. And…for that I am sorry. You're an obstinate child in a war you never chose to fight." What, he wondered, had the Headmaster told him? How many things was it best not to know?

"I chose. I'm choosing." Fisting his right hand and tucking it beneath his robes, the boy turned and spoke again as he reached the classroom threshold.

"Dumbledore said you chose, too."