Chapter 21

"You're wrong."

Snape stared back at him levelly, a brow arched in challenge.

"You are—you have to be! I can't… it can't be…."

"Just because it is unpalatable does not mean it is untrue." Snape crossed one long leg over his knee and leaned back a bit further in the fauteuil he'd chosen in the parlor. He seemed, Harry thought bitterly, rather unperturbed at the prospect that a piece of bloody mother-fucking Voldemort was lodged firmly in his ward's mind, and possibly semi-conscious of a conversation that might expose him as a spy and a traitor. "I do not put much stock in Albus' theory that the Dark Lord is able to so much as sense auras through you from a distance. The link is troublesome, but—"

"How can you know? And how can you be so—so devil-may-care about this? What if he'd seen—"

"Neither Albus nor I believe that such a tenuous link could allow the Dark Lord to utilize your senses or even access your thoughts. Albus only believes that it is possible that the Dark Lord might exploit the connection to influence your moods and, even less likely, to tap into your memories. As I said, I've observed you for several weeks now for any such source of malignant influence, and I have seen nothing more than unremarkable teenaged angst—"

"But what if you'd been wrong?" Harry cried. "What if he could see that you're working against him? What if—"

"Potter, do you believe the Headmaster and I to be simple?"

"No," he confessed, "but if he knows, if he—"

"He does not know."

"But you can't be sure—"

"I've met with him since. He allowed me to walk away. He gave no hint that he was perturbed. He did not know you were staying with me. Ergo, he does not know."

Those words sank into Harry like shards of ice. "You—you've seen him? Vold—"

"The Dark Lord," Snape cut in sharply. "And yes. I believe you are acquainted with my dealings with him." Snape indicated with his gaze his covered left forearm.

"What if he had known? What would he have done to you? How could you go just hoping that everything was fine—"

"Hoping is what I do every time I am summoned. And I have contingency plans, I assure you. There is no need for hysterics—"

"It's not hysterics! It's a very reasonable reaction to learning you could have died because of me—"

"Harry," Snape cut in sharply, the word ringing like the crack of steel on steel. "Calm yourself."

"I—"

"Calm." Snape repeated the word, pitching his voice low. "Take a few breaths and listen. First, had anything befallen me, it would not—could not possibly—have been your fault. You did not know of any risk, you did not choose to associate with me, and you damned well had no say in my return to his presence. Breathe, count to ten, and then tell me whether or not this is clear to you."

Harry very nearly shouted back that he didn't need to breathe. But even as he filled his lungs to scream at Snape, he could feel the blood pulsing in him, and recognize that the Potions Master might have a point here.

And regardless of whether Harry thought the man had a point or not, Snape would not take kindly to direct defiance.

So instead Harry did as he was asked, resenting every second of it. He knew Snape was right. He was… more emotional lately, more than he'd ever been. It felt like he might go off at the drop of a feather. And that feeling of volatility was not a good one. So he inhaled slowly through his nose, out through his mouth, felt his chest expand and fall. He counted as he did it, breathing deeply again.

Then he replied, "I don't like that being near me puts you in more danger."

"It does not, as I have endeavored to explain. But I can understand the sentiment." Snape tented his fingers and leaned slightly against them, his dark gaze still fixed on Harry. "I took a calculated risk based on my own conclusions. You had no part in that. Do not ascribe blame to yourself."

Harry closed his eyes and counted to five. A good trick, that. It once again kept him from yelling things that would get him into trouble. "I still don't like it. Why risk it at all?"

Snape sighed. "When the first reports of your dealings with the Muggle authorities reached the Headmaster—after a…cat was shaved, I believe?—we had a long conversation regarding the reason for this shift in behavior. I think you can well imagine my own stance."

Harry grimaced. "I was a reckless, lawless hoodlum with no respect for anything or anyone, is that about right?"

Snape snorted softly. "I threw in a few half-hearted speculations about your grief, and allowed that trauma might possibly be exacerbating your misbehavior. But you are essentially correct."

"But Dumbledore—Professor Dumbledore—thought it was Volde—er, old Tom leading me astray?"

"We'd ruled out possession on the basis that the link was too tenuous to allow for the kind of total takeover that Ginny Weasley was subject to. But Albus worried that some of the Dark Lord's blacker emotions and motivations were bleeding through and influencing you for the worse. We agreed to monitor the situation as needed. Naturally, when things escalated to commission of a felony, we mutually agreed that more drastic steps were necessary."

Harry shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, moving so that he was close to the edge of the cushion, head leaned against his clasped hands, elbows braced against his thighs, as he grappled with the possibility that he was subject to Voldemort's influence. Never mind that he hadn't committed that crime. There was still the anger that seemed to well up in him out of nowhere, the violence… the destruction he'd wrought in Snape's dining room came to mind.

"Your relatives were unfit to handle you, clearly."

Here Harry winced, then felt a rush of shame that such words could still affect him so much. Which was followed by a slight wash of relief that his face was obscured, so that Snape wouldn't see how susceptible he was.

Not obscured enough, apparently, as Snape added, "Or so it seemed." At least he did not soften his tone. Harry knew he could not stand pity or sympathy, not right now. "And I did press Albus for the right to implement what I believed would be proper discipline for your actions—with limits, of course. But the main reason for you to come here was so that I could observe you very closely for any signs of adverse influence."

"You being an expert in Vold—er, him, and I'm guessing some Dark Arts?" Harry ventured, lifting his gaze carefully to meet Snape's again.

Snape's nostrils flared slightly. "Amongst other things," he confirmed. "The Mind Arts, namely."

"And the reason Dumbledore couldn't check on me?" Harry pressed.

"Professor Dumbledore," Snape stressed, with a meaningful look to Harry, "is a powerful wizard. His magical signature, and aura, are distinct, and resonate quite clearly in witches and wizards on a subconscious level. And being that the bond between yourself and the Dark Lord is primarily magical and therefore sensitized to magical influence, and given that the Dark Lord is rather familiar with the headmaster's signature, we have theorized that this resonance will flag to the Dark Lord. It may make him more aware of this link, and its nature, than he currently is, as well as stir up his ire. He may very well try to lash out at the headmaster through you, and continue to do so even after you are out of the headmaster's presence. Hence why Albus has tried to keep his interactions with you to a bare minimum."

Harry swallowed hard, trying to loosen the sudden painful tightness in his throat. "Oh God."

Snape frowned—Harry didn't know if it was at his Mugglish oath, or because he didn't like Harry's reaction. "It is nothing so dire. It is a precaution only, one we are disposed to take."

"But… he hasn't been avoiding me because he's—you know, mad at me?" Harry blurted out. His stomach was still churning at all he'd learned, but mixed up in there somehow was a sense of relief.

Snape's frown grew more intense, his brow creasing intensely at the question. "What reason would the headmaster have to be mad at you?"

"Well, before, because—you know. He thought I was acting out. But the Tournament, too, because even after that he seemed… I don't know."

"Why would the headmaster be angry at you about the Tournament?"

Harry dropped his gaze to his knee to admire the yellow and burgundy pinstripes of his pajama pants. "You know. Cedric. And—and the graveyard. And Moody being Crouch. Or, I guess, Crouch being Moody—"

"Have you taken a Babbling Beverage, by chance?"

Harry felt the skin of his face searing with a sudden blush. "I made a mess of things. I… I told Cedric to take the cup. And I let Wormtail catch me, for the ritual that brought him back, you know, blood of an enemy…. And even before that, with Moody—or Crouch—I didn't realize something was off—"

"Perhaps I should simply ask if you have been brain-damaged," Snape inquired acidly. "How in Merlin's name is any of that your fault? And I want you to think, long and hard, before you answer, especially about conversations that we have already had. Because I think you know how little I like to repeat myself."

Lord, now his neck was burning too. Harry shut his eyes tightly. "That's not what I meant. I was just saying, you know, maybe—maybe Professor Dumbledore was thinking that way—"

"You were not," Snape stated plainly. "Do not lie to me again."

"Sorry," Harry stammered out.

"Now tell me what I would say to you about the nonsense you have just spewed."

"The same things you said last night," Harry mumbled.

"Which was?" Snape prompted impatiently.

Of course Snape would make him repeat everything.

"I couldn't have known about the cup," Harry whispered. And surprisingly, speaking those words made him feel just the smallest bit lighter.

"Correct. Keep going."

Harry drew a deep breath. "I did everything I could." A quick glance up, a small nod from Snape. "And… I don't know."

"It was not your responsibility to see to it that everyone was safe. It was ours."

Harry nodded minutely, trying to make himself feel those words, to make the absolution in them real.

"Say it."

"It was not my responsibility to keep everyone safe."

"Nor will it ever be," Snape added seriously. "And you need to keep telling yourself as much. Mentally, if not verbally, or you will continue to be mired in that pointless guilt. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." Snape seemed to relax, then, and leaned back into his chair once more. "Back to your original question. Albus was… distressed, I would say… that he would need to keep his distance from you. But he did not wish to alarm you by explaining himself, or telling you anything about this link to the Dark Lord. And if it heartens you at all, we had quite the row regarding your alleged burglary. He insisted, quite adamantly, that you would never commit such an act on your own, and that it must be proof that the Dark Lord was deeply entrenched already in your mind. I tried to tell him that he was blind to you, and that it was likely your heritage making itself fully known, and the headmaster was so appalled by my… hm, aspersions of your character that he invited me to leave his office."

Harry almost choked at that. His head whipped up of its own accord. "He kicked you out?"

Snape's lips twisted sourly. "Believe me, it was much worse than that. I would have preferred to have been ordered out in a fit of pique. No, Albus simply said that I had devolved into—now, what did he say? Rather juvenile theatrics, I believe. And then he suggested I act out my temper tantrum elsewhere."

Harry felt as though his eyes had nearly bugged out of their sockets. Not only at the news of the headmaster treating Snape like a badly-behaved student, but at the fact that Snape himself was sharing this with him. Voluntarily. He didn't know what to say.

"Well, I guess it seemed like I was a rotten little prat, though," he offered weakly. "And it's not like I haven't gotten into trouble—"

"Don't waste your magnanimity on me, Mr. Potter," Snape advised him dryly. "I can admit to pig-headedness, as your mother would have called it."

Harry nearly interrupted then to know just how Snape and his mother had known each other. But he had a feeling that Snape wouldn't divulge much still, that he would get the same brush-off he'd received the other times when he'd poked into Snape's personal history.

Snape continued, "I merely meant to illustrate how very much the headmaster thinks of you, to lay to rest any concerns you have on that front. He does not, I assure you, often permit himself to be so blunt with his staff."

Harry wanted to tell the man thanks, though he wasn't sure what for. There was no way to express it, really. But Snape had been like this with him a few times now. Candid. Open. Even about painful or embarrassing things.

It made the Veritaserum business rankle just a little bit less.

None of which helped with the horrible problem he was now facing down.

"What do we do about the link, though?" Harry demanded. "I mean… what if he does figure out more about it? What if he starts to use it against me? What if he can influence me through it, or even see through me, or possess me? What—"

"Slow down," Snape commanded. "What we do at this juncture is what we have already begun. Last night we began with the very basics of Occlumency. We will continue down that path. I will teach you to calm your mind, first, and then to master it, and then to shield it. It will be difficult, and likely unpleasant at times, but I should be able to instruct you sufficiently to protect yourself from the worst of the Dark Lord's influence, even if he should discover and begin actively using this link." Snape paused then and, after meeting Harry's panicked gaze steadily for a second or two, added, "You are not grappling with this alone."

Those words sank into Harry like warm water soaking into his bones. He remembered Snape's hand on his back the night before, the steadiness and patience and care, and his throat went tight again. "Thanks," he croaked.

Snape sent him a disapproving look that Harry took to mean that thanks were not welcome, not for this. And strangely, that made him all the more grateful.

XXXXX

Potions went well.

Harry never thought he would be writing those words—at least, not absent of any irony. But it had. Snape had insisted on a lesson that afternoon, and Harry had managed not to protest, though he secretly had begun mourning the death of the remarkable truce they'd achieved.

Gone well was not to say gone perfectly, of course, but it was a hell of a lot better than Harry had imagined. Harry had done his best, but inevitably he'd made missteps when preparing his potion. Some had been due to ignorance of the terminology, like the pistils. Harry was still unsure how he could be expected to know what a dewclaw was, or how he should separate it from the rest of the desiccated lynx paw (he tried not to shudder too much as Snape deftly demonstrated that technique, crunching the bones and twisting the dried sinew until it gave way).

Others, he could freely admit, were the kind of careless and avoidable mistakes that caused Snape to call his students dunderheads.

Thankfully, Snape was watchful when they were in his lab—though not exactly kind about correcting his student.

Potter, how many ounces of beetle eyes are called for? And how many do you have weighed out presently? And do you have the mental capacity to recognize that you have named two separate numbers?

Yes, Snape was as acidic and unforgiving as ever at those moments. What was different, though, was the way that, after those vitriolic words had left his mouth, he would seemingly step back for a moment, compose himself, and then offer the same criticism far more neutrally.

Too much rosewater, Potter. Consult the text and decant it again.

Admittedly, he did not like being "Potter" when Snape was irritated, but he supposed it could have been much worse. The man made an effort—both to restrain himself and to actually instruct Harry. And Harry could say he'd learned. He'd successfully brewed a Hair Removal Tonic. And he didn't feel like he needed to avoid Snape for a few days.

In fact, despite all the near-disasters Harry had caused in the lab, Snape remained amicable (or, amicable for Snape) during the hour set aside for Occlumency. They spent a good portion of the time talking—Harry describing to Snape what it was like for him when he was swept up by an emotion, and Snape in turn offering some feedback on maintaining control of the emotion, and detaching when practical. Then Snape had guided Harry through a kind of meditation, just as he had the previous night, before dismissing Harry to "relax a bit before dinner".

"Mind I said 'relax'," Snape had added as he pushed himself up from his armchair. "Cleaning and studying do not fall into that category."

The man seemed to mostly be teasing, but there was a hint of warning in those words too. And like before, Harry found himself both embarrassed and grateful that the professor was so concerned about him overexerting himself.

Harry decided to oblige him by writing to his friends. Though he found himself hesitating when he thought about the previous night's events, and Snape's sudden announcement that he would be seeing a Mind Healer. That, he thought, was too personal for a letter.

Instead, he settled for asking about Sirius and Remus. Snape hadn't said anything again to Harry about speaking to the two of him, which was fine, because Harry didn't understand why the man even cared in the first place. Snape didn't care for either Lupin or his godfather, so shouldn't he be pleased that Harry really wanted nothing to do with either of them?

Guilt was gnawing at him again, though. Harry knew he wasn't being entirely fair. He was still mad at Dumbledore, too, though less so than before. He knew that all three of them—Remus, Sirius, and Dumbledore—cared about him. Snape had said so, after all, and what reason would Snape have to lie to Harry about that?

So after detailing the surprisingly not disastrous potions lesson, he carefully wrote to Ron (because he didn't feel like getting a lecture from Hermione), How's Sirius holding up? And Remus? You think they're both still mad at me?

And then, because he knew he'd strike the line out, or rip the whole letter up, if he looked at it much longer, Harry rolled up the parchment (thank Merlin for Quick-Dry Ink) and tied it off so that it would be ready to send out with Hermione's after supper.

Though really, he thought, it was cowardly to go about this so indirectly. He should speak to both Remus and Sirius and explain, like Snape had suggested. He knew the man thought that the way he was handling this whole situation was ridiculous.

Maybe he would ask Snape about going back to Grimmauld Place sometime. Eventually.

XXXXX

Don't be such a coward.

Harry readjusted his grip on his wand. Snape had said he could. Had said that it wouldn't be an issue. Had even seemed irritated, even, when Harry had refused to do illegal magic. And he trusted Snape wouldn't set him up with the Ministry—that was just daft. Which meant only one thing.

"Lumos." The tip of Harry's wand glowed just slightly, casting a pleasant bluish-white light that was somehow more welcome than the dim electric bulbs of the overhead lighting in his room.

Harry waited, tense, for the flutter of owl wings, for the tap of a beak at the window—anything to herald the end of his career as a wizard. He held his breath.

A minute passed. Another breath, another minute, several more… nothing.

Harry exhaled heavily. And then he readjusted into a more comfortable position and resumed his perusal of the defense tome he'd borrowed from Snape's shelves, the one the man had suggested when Harry had asked what they would be studying in their lessons.

Nonverbal spells. Harry studied the illustration of two wizards circling each other for a moment before turning his attention to the introduction to the theory.

He was so engrossed in his reading that the rap on his door startled him so much that his wand, still lit, slipped from his hand and onto the bedroom floor. He cursed to himself and bent over to retrieve it, and called out, "Just a second!" to Snape.

"Are you decent?" the professor demanded through the door.

"Yes," Harry retorted. Did Snape think he slept in the nude or something? He managed to snag his wand and was just sitting back up when Snape entered.

"Ah," the man stated simply. "Playing with your actual wand, I see."

Harry hated that the blood rushed so readily to his face. "Would you stop that?" he demanded, flustered, before he could stop himself.

Snape just arched a brow at him, the quizzical expression just barely visible in the blue-white light of the Lumos. "Stop what?"

"Making references to… that!"

Snape just smirked. "No. You have a phone call downstairs, and your godfather has sent me a very civil and carefully-worded request to Floo call you."

Harry blanched. "He… he has?"

"Yes. But Mrs. Applewhite is waiting on the line."

"Oh." His mind felt as if it had been gummed up. He couldn't form thoughts, not about Sirius, not about what he would say to Mrs. Applewhite, not about what he could say to Snape to plausibly beg off everything. "I'll… when did you get the phone fixed?"

"Stalling, Mr. Potter?"

"No. I just… what should I say to her?" Harry shuffled out into the hall, past Snape, Noxing his wand as he did so.

"She just wants to know you're well, I imagine. I would recommend not mentioning anything to do with magic, of course—"

"As if I would!"

"Apart from that, just chat with the woman." Snape glanced over at Harry, no trace of teasing in his expression now. "You managed well enough before. Why are you so distressed now?"

Harry shrugged. "It was easier before… well, we didn't talk about personal things. Like… like how I was brought up, or what she thought of my aunt and uncle."

"I don't imagine she is about to pry into your worst memories, Harry. If you're uncomfortable, you can always make some excuse to hang up."

"Right." Harry shoved his hands in his pocket to keep from wringing them. "But… about Sirius. I don't know if… if…."

"I think you should speak to him. The same principle applies with Floo calls, you realize—you can end it at any time. And I would not even expect you to make an excuse for that—for your godfather."

"I just don't think I'm ready—"

"You've distorted your godfather's letter to you into something it is not. And though it pains me to say it, I suspect that Lupin, Black, and Mrs. Weasley's responses to your presumed criminal activities were shaped by the fear that the Dark Lord had some hold over you. I suspect it was more palatable for them to believe that you were susceptible to teenage rebellion and poor choices, rather than confront the possibility that you might be subject to something so horrible."

Harry couldn't respond for a moment. When he finally did find his voice, he barely managed to choke out, "They knew?"

"Albus informed the Order of the barest sketch of his suspicions—that your scar was troublesome and could be the source of your altered behavior." Snape folded his hands tightly behind his back and turned slightly, so that he was no longer facing Harry head-on. "He thought it was prudent for all of us to be aware, so that we could keep a closer eye on you."

"And he didn't think to tell me?" Harry demanded bitterly.

"He did not wish to spoil your summer with burdens he felt you did not need to bear. I disagreed. And as I've already said, I don't think there is even cause for worry, based on what I've seen."

Harry opened his mouth to tell Snape about the anger he sometimes felt… but then closed it again.

"And all of this can be discussed later, as Mrs. Applewhite has been waiting long enough."

Harry nodded and followed Snape down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he pointed toward the pea green receiver of a wall phone that looked as if it had been stolen right out of the seventies.

Drawing a bracing breath, Harry picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Harry!" Mrs. Applewhite cried on the other end. "So good to hear from you, dear. I've been trying to get through for days, but I suppose your father there dawdled about getting things set up on your end. But how are you, dear? Is he treating you well?"

Harry was glad that Snape had, after a meaningful look, drifted back into the sitting room to give Harry some privacy. "I'm well, yeah. And things have been… good. Actually, really good. He takes care of me, you know, and he's started giving me lessons. I… I think he really cares about me."

Why had he said that? He supposed it was true, but still, it wasn't something he needed to say aloud, was it?

"Of course he cares. Never said he didn't. Just said he was lousy at it. Good that he's giving you lessons, though. Seems book smart, your father, even if he's arse-backwards when it comes to parental responsibility. And you're such a smart boy yourself, Harry. What's he teaching you then? Maths? Latin? Can't see him giving a literature course…."

"Um, chemistry, actually. He has a degree. And… self-defense." Close enough. "And he's been teaching me some—well, it's like meditation."

"Hm." A little more skeptical this time. "He sit on the floor all cross-legged when he teaches you?"

Harry snorted. "No. Not quite like that." Lord help them—Snape the Yogi. "It's good. It's all about clearing your thoughts and quieting your mind and things."

"He ever set up an appointment for you then? With my daughter's friend?"

Harry froze, then stammered, "Sort of. I mean, no, not with her, but… but he found someone closer, I think. He's making me go tomorrow." Even thought I don't want to because it'll be a giant waste of time, Harry added silently.

"Good," Mrs. Applewhite stated emphatically. "It's good to talk it out with someone who knows what they're about."

"I don't think I need to, though," Harry protested before he could stop himself. "I just mean—I'm not going back to them, my father said. And I get that they were awful. So that's sorted."

"The brain doesn't work that way, dear," Mrs. Applewhite replied, and for once her voice wasn't crisp and energetic, but weighed down with sorrow. "Would be nice if it did. But healing takes time, and sometimes it gets worse before it gets better. And nothing ever got better by ignoring it."

Harry hated how similar that sounded to what Snape had told him—about letting things fester. Even more, he hated how much he was beginning to feel like there was a truth to that. "I'm going. I just don't know what to expect."

"Don't expect anything. Just try talking a bit, about whatever's on your mind. You're paying them to do the heavy work, remember."

Mrs. Applewhite steered the conversation toward her garden then, and the flowers that were blooming. Harry was happy to let her prattle on about inconsequential things—neighborhood gossip about the neighbor whose cat had been shaved buying an Egyptian hairless because she found out she was allergic to cat hair, the saga of her sister's latest attempts to keep a goat on her property, a summary of the letter she'd written to the local paper excoriating the local police for their incompetence. After another twenty or so minutes Mrs. Applewhite wrapped the conversation up, saying it was late enough in the evening and that she should be getting her old bones to bed. And she promised to call back within the week to check on Harry.

Harry hung the phone back up on the wall and made his way back into the sitting room, where Snape was lounging in his armchair with a tome splayed on his knee.

"If you say a word about the cost of a Mind Healer, Potter, I swear—"

"You listened?" Harry cried, though he wasn't all that shocked.

"No. But I can guess well enough that the subject came up, and I know that look on your face, believe me."

"But if it is really expensive—"

"That's none of your concern, and that's an end to the matter. Are you ready to call your godfather?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It's pretty late, you know. I could call tomorrow—"

"But you will call tonight." Snape moved to the mantle and pulled down a small covered bronze dish.

"You don't even like Sirius—"

"Yes, but unfortunately I like you. So I will just have to tolerate the mutt's presence in my fireplace, won't I?" Snape threw down some powder and shouted something.

Harry had no idea what, though. His ears were still ringing. First Snape was fond of him, now he liked Harry…. Harry couldn't swallow either of those realities. It was too much.

"Where's Harry, Sni—Snape?" Sirius' voice sounded a bit petulant to Harry.

Snape's answering tone was rather harsh for someone who had insisted on making this Floo call. "You might wish to show some respect, Black. I might yet change my mind about this."

To Harry's ears, it sounded like Sirius might have been grinding teeth together. "May I please speak to my godson?"

Harry expected Snape to sweep aside then and pull Harry over to the grate, but it seemed that Snape could not resist needling Sirius just one more time. "I take it your pleas to Albus fell on deaf ears, then?"

"Damn it, Snape, what the hell is… fine. Yes, fine, the headmaster wouldn't change his mind. He still thinks you should mind Harry, though I think the kid's suffered enough. Now let me talk to him."

"Let me talk to him…?" Snape prompted, sounding very much to Harry like his hated Potions Professor hovering over a trembling first year.

"Let me talk to him, pretty please."

"I could do without the sarcasm, Black, but I suppose I shouldn't hope for too much with you. Harry."

Harry shuffled forward, uncertain once more. Maybe Snape's distaste for him had been reignited by speaking to Sirius? Maybe some of that fondness had eroded again?

Snape regarded him evenly as he approached. "Call if you need anything," he said simply. "I'll be in the lab."

Harry nodded, dropping his eyes again. Much better looking at the floor than Snape's impassive face. "Thanks."

Snape seemed to hesitate for a moment, then reached a hand out and squeezed Harry's shoulder very briefly before sweeping out of the room.

That small bit of contact quelled the uneasiness in Harry's stomach, and bolstered him for the conversation to come. He knelt down in front of the hearth, on the very stones where, just weeks ago, he'd laid out his single set of clothes to dry in the dead of night. Sirius' head floated there, a ghostly greenish-white; his grim expression broke into a grin when Harry finally settled down.

"Harry," Sirius greeted him. There was a mix of emotions there—delight, relief, but also reservation, as if he were treading carefully. "How are you holding up, kiddo?"

"Fine. Actually…." Harry hated this, that Snape and Sirius were at odds. He could almost feel the diatribe building in his godfather about how awful Snape must be, and wouldn't Harry like to stay at Grimmauld Place? But he needed Sirius to understand how much had changed with Snape. Hell, he needed himself to understand how much things had changed, because it still felt surreal to him most days. "Actually, really great. S…." Harry swallowed over the name. Things had changed, he told himself, and he needed Sirius to understand, and this was one small thing he could do to make his godfather understand. "Severus is going to teach me some Defense."

"Severus?" Sirius echoed, like it was a foreign word he didn't understand.

As it was, Harry was resisting the urge to turn to look behind him, to see if Snape was storming up from the cellar to rebuke him. "He wants me to call him that. Thinks it's better for us, you know. To move past things."

Sirius's expression grew pained. "Harry, I know your friends said that you weren't under the influence of anything, but that man's intentions aren't good, I promise you. There are things about him that you don't know, things he's done—"

"I know he was a Death Eater," Harry snapped, though he tried not to think too deeply about that. "And that he's working for Dumbledore now. And that he's been taking good care of me and letting me stay here—"

"Harry," Sirius cut in, "next to your relatives, anyone would look good."

Harry flushed. "He told everyone about the Dursleys?" he hissed.

"You told me about the Dursleys," Sirius replied gently. "In your letters. Remember?"

Oh. "Right. But… I didn't say much… but never mind."

"Say much about what?" Sirius' voice turned sharper than Harry liked then. "I can gather well enough what they're like. I heard Lily and James talk about them enough. And what am I to think when you have to keep them in line by telling them I'll turn them into bats?" Sirius' expression grew darker. "Not to mention when they let their son frame you for a felony, and leave you in prison—"

"Sirius, it wasn't prison, it was a detention center—"

"I don't care if it was a bloody daycare center! They left you there even after they were told about how dangerous it was for you to be out and about—"

"They're Muggles, Sirius, they don't get Voldemort at all—"

"Oh, they bloody well do," Sirius snarled. "They get that Lily and James were murdered. That should be more than enough."

"They're kind of dumb," Harry offered.

Sirius' expression remained hard for a moment before dissolving into a small smirk. "They are. But that doesn't excuse what they did."

"I know." Harry fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for a few seconds before sucking in a breath and blurting, "How could you think I robbed Mrs. Applewhite?"

A glance up, and though Harry knew he couldn't possibly discern the nuances of his godfather's face through the Floo, he could have sworn the man was blushing. "Ah, that. Well… I'm not proud. And Moony either, you know, though he really was concerned that everything had been too much for you. We'd heard it from Dumbledore, you see, so we thought… well. And it seemed like something James and I would do for a lark. We've done worse, actually—and believe me, I'm not proud of that either. I want you to follow in your father's footsteps, Harry, but not like that, not the stupid things we did when the only thing that mattered to us was having a laugh."

"What did you do that was worse?" Harry asked softly.

Sirius wouldn't meet Harry's eyes then. "Plenty of things. Nothing you need to hear about. Prongs—your father—he was a good man. He loved your mother, and he loved you, and he spent the last bit of his life standing up for what he believed in, protecting people who needed protecting. We all do stupid things when we're young, things we aren't proud of—"

"Like following Voldemort?" Harry couldn't help but inquire.

Sirius winced, and Harry didn't know if it was because of the name or the truth, or both at once. "Maybe," he allowed grudgingly. "But that's a hell of a lot different than stupid childish pranks. If you followed You-Know-Who, you killed people, or at least got them killed."

Harry swallowed hard. "You… you think Snape…."

"I don't know," Sirius admitted. "But he's dark, Harry. He was always interested in the Dark Arts, even in school."

"I'm interested in the Dark Arts."

"Not like him. Not like the Malfoys. You're interested in them because you need to learn how to defend against them. Him…."

"He made me talk to you," Harry said suddenly.

"Made you?"

Harry shifted a bit, leaning his weight more over his knees. He should have just sat down, he knew. But he didn't like that. He wanted to feel like he could walk away at any time, especially now. "Yeah. I didn't want to… I've been pretty mad at you. And he made me sit down and read your letters the other day, and write a reply—"

"I never got a reply! That bastard—"

"Don't. Don't call him that. I didn't send it. I was so angry, and I wrote it all down… I had to write it a few times before it was civil, and then it was… I don't know. Kind of empty, stilted. He asked if I even wanted to send it, and I said no. He just… wanted me to deal with my feelings. And he said you were probably just worried about me, and didn't want to think it was Voldemort making me act out."

If Sirius had been blushing before, now Harry would have put Galleons on the man going pale. "What do you mean, Voldemort making you… what did he tell you?"

"About the scar, and the link. He thought I should know. He said he thinks I'm fine, but he's going to teach me some mind magic or something to help, just in case."

Sirius didn't answer right away. After a few silent moments filled only with the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantle, Sirius said, "Well, I agree that you should have been told. Has your scar been hurting at all?"

"No."

"Good." Sirius was quiet for a few more seconds, then, he echoed dumbly, "Snape made you call me?"

"Yes. He didn't give me a choice."

"Well." Sirius seemed at a loss. "You said… you said he's been good to you?"

"Sirius, he goes spare if I try to do anything around the house. At first when I got here, he had me doing projects and chores and all, which wasn't a big deal. So I had things I'd started, and then he found out about what really happened… anyway, after that I'd get bored, so I'd start working on things again, and he just… he goes livid. He's really mad that I did so much in Little Whinging. He won't even let me cook for myself." Harry swallowed. "I… I think he did something to the Dursleys. He went to visit them—I don't know, to figure things out about how they treated me—but I think he did something else too, though he won't tell me what."

Sirius actually smiled grimly at that, and for a moment Harry could once again see the wanted man that had been plastered across the Prophet his third year. "Well, can't say they don't deserve it. And I would wager Snape's crafty enough to work around the law and the Ministry. If I didn't have to lay low, I promise you they would have already heard from me." Sirius' smile faded. "I don't know. Dumbledore trusts him, I suppose. And… I admit, it seems he's been decent to you so far. Just… be careful, Harry, please. Don't put too much faith in him. Your mother made that mistake."

"What do you mean?" Harry demanded. "Snape knew my mother?"

"They were friends for a bit, until he turned on her. Called her—well, you know, that foul word for a Muggleborn. Showed his true colors. He's Slytherin, don't forget. They're all wily like that."

"Wormtail was pretty damned wily too," Harry muttered, though his heart wasn't in it. He was stuck mulling over what Sirius had said about Snape and his mother.

"Yes," Sirius agreed quietly. "Just be careful, like I said."

"I will."

Another pause, then Sirius asked, "Are you still mad at me, then?"

"Not really," Harry sighed. His legs were really starting to ache, so he dropped to the ground and stretched them out in front of him.

"Moony?"

"Kind of. But about different things. I just… need to talk to him."

Sirius nodded. "You're… you're really a good kid, Harry. It's hard to believe sometimes, you know, with everything you've been through. I guess a lot of us figured it would be natural for you to snap somehow. It's more surprising that you didn't."

Harry shrugged. "It's not that big of a deal—"

"It is. You're more mature than any of the Marauders ever were at your age. Moony and I, we keep expecting you to act like us—like a dumb kid. But you're not."

"I do plenty of dumb things—"

"Not like us, though. Not just for the hell of it. When you do things, there's a good reason behind it. You're trying to help someone, or save someone, even though it isn't your job."

Harry grinned to himself. "Is the universe going implode if you and Snape agree on something?"

Sirius snorted. "What do you mean?"

"He told me the exact same thing—about not having to save people and all."

"Hm. No, that just means that maybe Snape's head isn't as far up his arse as I always thought."

"He'd say the same about you, I bet."

"Ah, but he'd have to word it fancily to show off his vocabulary, you know. Let's see… 'It is quite possible that Black's cranium is not as firmly lodged in his rectum as I once postulated'. Or, 'New data indicates that Black's swollen noggin has not encroached quite as far into his anus as previously—"

"Stop!" Harry laughed.

"Too much? Ah, well, it's getting late anyway. Best wrap this up before you get in trouble for being up past bedtime."

"I go to bed whenever."

Sirius dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Don't say that—you'll summon the great bat himself to prove you wrong."

"You're going to have to stop insulting each other to me, you know."

"Oh, come now, 'bat' is hardly an insult. It's just a description."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Night, Sirius."

"Goodnight, Harry. See if you can get old Dracula to fly you over sometime again, all right?"

"If you start with the vampire insults, I'm not going to defend you when he starts making jibes about fleas," Harry threatened.

"Hey," Sirius cried in mock-offense. "Fleas are nothing to jest about, believe me—"

"Good night, Sirius."

Sirius just grinned back disarmingly before disappearing from the fireplace, leaving the grate dark and cold in his absence.

Harry pushed himself up off the ground, deciding it was time to retire. He'd say goodnight to… to Severus… first, though.

And then hopefully he could somehow meditate away the shadows he'd glimpsed more than once in his godfather's eyes.

A/N: Hope you all are well in the midst of this pandemic. As always, I am humbled by the support and love in your comments, especially when an ocassional troll intrudes. I continue to be an 'essential' employee in the middle of our shelter-in-place order, so I don't have the endless hours of writing time that I fantasize about, but I will chip away as I am able. I hope there's something in this update to satisfy you and stave off the boredom or the worry, at least for a bit.

I am horrible at replying to your kind and wonderful reviews, but please, especially now, if you'd like to reach out, please do so-either through messages here or email or whatever (please see my author page for an address). It's so important to stay connected, so if you're feeling lonely or down, please send a note my way and I will do my very best to get back to you in some way, shape, or form.

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay AWAY from other people, cover your mouth when you cough, wash your hands, etc. And please keep being amazing. We need you :) Cheers! ~Mel