Chapter Seventy-Seven

"Wait – what?"

Harry looked at Malachi in astonishment, while Malachi tried – futilely – to pretend he didn't notice the girls that kept walking past where they were sat by the lake, their eyelids batting at him whenever he accidentally made eye contact.

"Malfoy saved Daphne on the train – why, how?"

"I dunno," Malachi shrugged, self-consciously drawing his knees up to his chest and focusing his eyes entirely upon the new article he was writing when one of the girls – a really pretty one – shot him a smile; "I just heard them talking about it."

"How would he even know –" Harry paused, before he declared, suddenly; "He's a Death Eater!"

Malachi shot him a look. But he could neither deny nor laugh it off, for he'd been worrying the same thing the past couple of days.

"Will you be quiet?"

"Well, if he's really a Death Eater, then he's picked his side, right?" Harry said, frowningly, though he did as Malachi asked and lowered his voice.

Malachi shrugged.

He'd heard more than Harry had about what had happened to his Aunt Cissy.

About how Voldemort had made her line up – with Draco and his Uncle Lucius and the crazy woman who was his other 'aunt', who had literally tortured him at Easter – and then killed his Aunt Cissy in front of his dad.

She was a Death Eater, then, if what had trickled down through the Slytherin Common Room gossip were true. Or she'd run with them, at least.

His dad had still cried for her. He'd seen him, that day, in the bathroom – before he'd noticed him and tried to hide it – before Malachi had been sent away with Harry and Mrs. Potter, for the night, before heading back to school.

His Aunt Cissy: his dad still saw her as family.

And she'd been Draco's mum. And he'd been there, too; had watched…

Malachi knew that pain.

"He's still my cousin," Malachi said, quietly, putting down the quill and glancing around them, only going on when he was sure no one could overhear; "And you know what the Ministry are doing to kids whose parents are found out to be Death Eaters. He'd get expelled and be stuck with them, all the time."

The thought made Malachi almost physically shiver.

Even just to be stuck with Draco's dad didn't sound particularly appealing.

His Uncle Lucius had been terrifying, even before he'd been sent to Azkaban.

"He's just told Voldemort who you are, Malachi! That you're Max. Voldemort kidnapped Daphne's sister just for being a little bit connected to the articles. That doesn't seem very cousin-like, to me."

"Well, allow me to be a little less cousin-like to him, in return then," Malachi pushed himself up, straighter; "Draco asked Daphne to be his date to the Halloween Dance."

Harry's eyebrows lowered, instantly – quickly becoming a dark scowl – making Malachi snicker.

"They're going to the dance together?"

He sounded more than a bit gutted which made Malachi scoff.

"Eh - do you even pay attention when she's talking to you?"

At Harry's continuing frown, Malachi took pity on him.

"She wants you. Idiot –" Malachi rolled his eyes, chuckling; "She told Draco she's going with you."

Harry's eyes lit up – like a true idiot, indeed; "She did? I haven't even asked her yet."

"Well, you better hurry up about it. Next thing you know, someone way cooler might ask her," Malachi shot him a smirk; "Like me."

Harry burst into laughter then, as Malachi shot an embarrassed look in the girls' direction, that were still hovering about.

"Well, you're gonna have to pick one," Harry told him, leaning back against the tree trunk beside him; "What about Ginny? She's your year and she's pretty."

"Weasley's not even there," Malachi said, risking a quick glance at the girls, committing them to memory in that second and swearing he'd never ask any of them; "And no, thanks. I'll leave the star-crossed Gryffindor/Slytherin love affair to you."

"Someone in your own House finally taken your fancy?"

"I was gonna just ask Luna."

"Really?"

Malachi shot him a look when Harry didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"Oh. Um…sorry," Harry quickly said; "I mean. I heard what people are saying but…well, you've never mentioned her."

"I don't really care about going with anyone. Just figured if I had a date, it'd keep them away," Malachi said, eyes going back at the lingering girls, before he asked, curiously; "What are people saying?"

"You know. That she fancies you. That you dancing with her must have been some sort of pity thing. That you can do better."

Malachi's eyebrows lowered, immediately offended on Luna's behalf.

"Wasn't so long ago they thought I was scum."

Harry shrugged; "You know what people are like. You're famous now."

Malachi shook his head, feeling extremely annoyed, for some reason, in light of what Harry had just told him.

"Well, if she even wants to go with me, I'm going with Luna. She's one of the only people in this place actually acting normal right now."

Harry got a little grin.

"If you say so," Harry glanced away, before adding; "How were you gonna ask her?"

Malachi snorted, getting a grin of his own, as he lifted his quill back up.

"Just say; 'Daphne, I fancy you'. She'll know what to do."

Harry reddened a bit, rolling his eyes – "she already knows I fancy her" – and got to his feet.

"I'm seeing her now. I'll catch you later," Harry told him.

Malachi gave a nod of goodbye and Harry headed off – for his date – and, within seconds of his departure, he heard someone else approach.

"Hi," the girl said – a fifth year, Malachi realized – as he reluctantly lifted his head; "I really like your articles."

Malachi hesitated, before forcing a smile.

Harry headed on up the Astronomy Tower – careful not to be spotted by anyone as he crept inside – and mulled on what he and Malachi had just been talking about.

Okay.

Okay.

Daphne was already telling people that they were going to the dance together. He wondered if that were something that should annoy him – that she had presumed – he'd heard people, especially girls, claiming such presumptions were in some way offensive but Harry didn't feel offended.

Not at all.

He was delighted.

So much so, that when he spotted Daphne standing in the middle of the top room, waiting for him – the training dummy and the cushions already set up – he just blurted it out, the moment he saw her, as she started to greet him:

"I got here early, I –"

"Do you wanna go to the dance with me?"

Daphne looked back at him, quickly. She hadn't even been looking at him, when he'd said it, her eyes on the defence stuff. But now, when she did, she had a look of surprise. At least at first, the first sparkles of amusement quickly becoming apparent as a smile played on her lips.

She raised her eyebrows, innocently.

"Huh?"

Harry cleared his throat – that annoying blush coming over him, again, but her flirty look was more than a little bit encouraging – and he headed up to her, saying more slowly, clearly, confidently when he was standing in front of her.

"Do you want to go to the dance with me?"

He said it, feeling incredibly brave – which was ridiculous, as he already knew that her answer was yes – and Daphne's eyes flicked between his.

"Yeah, I do," she got a smile, raising an eyebrow; "Funnily enough."

Harry's stomach still fluttered, even though he'd known, and he chuckled, smiling back at her.

Daphne bit her bottom lip, glancing to the side – back towards the defence items – and then she met his eyes, her own sparkling with evident delight that he'd – finally – asked her.

She cleared her throat, when their giddy looks and silence stretched, and gave a nod in the direction of the defence stuff she'd set up for them before he'd arrived.

"So…what new spells are you gonna show me today, Potter?"

Harry got another smile at the cheekiness in her eyes when she glanced back at him, feeling mischievous himself, then. Bolstered by her acceptance and her playfulness, his smile became a grin.

"Actually, I wanted to show you something a little different, this time."

Daphne's eyebrows lifted.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, still grinning, more so, even, when he caught on to her flirty little look; "Yeah but…you have to close your eyes."

Daphne eyed him, a smile playing on her lips.

Harry chuckled.

"Come on –" his own eyes were twinkling now, just as much as hers; "– what do you think I'm gonna do?"

Daphne smiled then, lifting her chin – at those same words spoken, some weeks before – and she nodded, her eyes drifting to his lips – knowingly – before doing as he asked and closing her eyes.

Harry drew in a breath, his own eyes upon her, where she stood before him. Eyes closed and trusting him. And, for a second, Harry just felt captivated.

She was so beautiful, even when she wasn't smiling.

Even when she was sad.

Even when she was mad.

Every emotion under the sun, Harry bet.

But especially now, when she just stood there, with her eyes closed, waiting for him. Knowing – knowing – what he was going to do and wanting him to.

Harry licked his bottom lip and stepped in closer.

So close that he could feel the little puffs of her breath against him.

And then he leaned in even closer, closing the distance, and pressed his lips to hers.

Hers were so soft, just like he thought they'd be, and they parted slightly beneath his when they moved – which made it feel even better than it already was – and then he felt her step in closer, so warm as she pressed the rest of herself against him, and he felt her hands curl around his hips, as she kissed him back.

She was better at it than he was – he realized right away – in fact, she was very good at kissing and Harry reached up, suddenly forgetting how or why he'd ever been shy, and took her face in his hands.

His eyes flickered open, sneaking a peek – just for a second – before he lost himself in her as their lips parted just a little bit more; losing himself in this strange, new feeling that washed over him with the feel of her. So many sensations he'd never imagined he could feel, all at once, of his heart beating just a little bit too fast, and his tummy fluttering away, and he was getting warmer, her lips still moving gently against his, stirring him all up and making his knees go weak, as his breathing started to quicken.

It was breathing that eventually made him draw back.

Even if – illogically – he'd be quite happy and willing to just continue to breathe Daphne Greengrass; her warmth and taste and scent still all around him when he met her eyes in a daze.

Daphne gave him a smile, looking just as dazed as he felt; "Huh."

He gave a little chuckle, while she giggled, and he touched his forehead to hers, still keeping her close.

And then, once he'd filled his lungs quite enough with air, he leaned back in, his lips finding hers again.

"Look, Mummy!"

Grace bounded up to her mum, where she was standing at the gate to the grounds of the Learning Centre, talking to one of her teachers.

She held up the basket of vegetables she'd picked, proudly; "We got to visit the farmstead, today, see! For harvest! We can eat these, Mummy!"

Her mum gave a smile, saying goodbye to Mrs. Gillan, and put a hand on Grace's shoulder, giving her a squeeze; "Those look lovely, Sweetheart. Will we make a soup?"

"We can make anything!" Grace declared, as her mum opened the gate, and they hurried out to leave; "There's so much food at the farmstead. And special plants and flowers, too! We were planting seeds today to grow some more in the greenhouses."

Her mum smiled, reaching to take the basket for her, when she noticed her struggling to walk with it; "Sounds like you're enjoying being back."

"We don't just do boring things like planting, though," Grace told her, taking her hand as they headed towards the Foundation gates; "They had a person come in today a Her…"

"Herbologist?"

"Yes! A Herbiologist –"

She noticed her mum's lips twitch but carried on.

"And she was talking about the best time to plant different seeds for the magical plants. The ones people use in potions," Grace said, excitedly adding; "Like Daddy!"

Her mum stopped walking then and Grace stopped, too, when she realized, looking over her shoulder at her mum. At her mum's confused look, Grace rolled her eyes, giving her a smile.

"Don't you remember, Mummy, how Daddy would make potions in the basement?"

Her mum looked around them, looking a bit worried – even a bit upset – and Grace immediately felt upset, too, that her mum might be.

Her mum knelt down in front of her, taking her hands; "Sweetheart, Mrs. Gillan was telling me you've been talking about your Daddy to some of the other children."

Grace nodded; "Yes. I was telling them how good he is at making potions! But people thought I was lying. They said Mr. Black would be even more famous, then."

"Mr. Black?"

"Lots of kids think I'm his. And some other people even think Uncle Remus is my daddy. Isn't that silly?"

Grace laughed.

Her mum didn't laugh, just smiled – sadly, still, even though Grace could see she was trying to pretend she was happy – and stroked her hair.

"Sweetheart. Your daddy…I want you to think about him, as often as you like, but…Grace, you can't talk about him. Not anymore. Not to anyone that isn't family, okay?"

Grace frowned.

"Why not?"

"Because…because your Daddy…it's a secret."

"Why is it a secret?"

Her mum immediately looked like she regretted using the word; "No. Not a secret – sorry, Sweetie – but, it's…it's private. Who your Daddy is. Do you remember anything else? Anything you haven't already told me?"

Grace shook her head, with a frown, trying to grasp for him – for a look at his face – but she couldn't find him in her head.

"He's good at potions and he's a Slytherin and he loves us very much."

Her mum got a smile, giving a nod; "Yes, he does."

Grace smiled, then, when she recognized her mum's was real this time, and then she stepped in, giving her a tight hug, arms wrapped around her neck.

"It's okay, Mummy," she whispered; "I know you miss him, too."

She felt her mum's arms tightening around her, a kiss pressed to her hair, and then she drew back, getting to her feet.

Her mum held out a hand and Grace took it, the two of them carrying on their way down to the gates, heading – just the two of them – back home.

Snape's legillimency lessons didn't seem all that exciting anymore.

It had been two weeks since that first one and, despite them doing this three times a week since, they were getting nowhere.

Harry had a couple more flutters, teasing a memory. Occasional glances at his mum, or at Mr. Black, or at Malachi, if he were lucky, but sometimes it was just extremely dull things like Snape's desk or the students from a point at the front of the Potions classroom.

Hard as he tried, he could never see any further than glimpses; the sight of each of them quickly stirring his own memories of them or boring him so much he'd lose his concentration, snuffing out what he was looking at.

And, of course, now that he and Daphne had started kissing – they were doing that way more than they were doing defensive spells, now, in the Astronomy Tower – and that was way better than looking at the unsubstantial flashes inside Snape's head.

"Somewhere else you would rather be, Harry?"

Harry started at the sound of Snape's voice, drawing him from his thoughts, and he realized he'd actually zoned out in the chair sitting opposite him in Snape's office.

Harry cleared his throat – was he in the middle of casting a spell? – and shook his head; "No, Sir."

Snape raised an eyebrow, doubtfully, but he didn't look annoyed with him.

Snape rarely looked annoyed with him now – there was always that lingering of something behind his looks, and a softness in his tone – whenever they had these sessions.

He was far more patient than Harry was, anyway, when it came to his lack of progress.

"I just…" Harry glanced away; "I just don't think I'm very good at this. I think you're wasting your time, actually. I know you're really busy –"

"I know very well what you have been up to, Mr. Potter, when you have not been occupied with these lessons, or you designated school duties," Snape told him, leaning back in his chair.

Harry could have sworn he looked amused.

Was he really talking about Daphne?

"These sessions – while by no means compulsory – are for your own good. And you are entirely correct in your assertions – I am extremely busy, in fact – but I am willing to prioritize these tutorials, so long as you are willing to show the same courtesy in turn."

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized, cowed by the fact Snape wasn't scolding him, the way he would in the past; "I am willing, Sir. Just rubbish, is all."

"You are finding memories and losing them," Snape said, getting straight to it; "But there has, undoubtedly, been an improvement. You are finding them with a swiftness that your earlier attempts lacked. The next time that you do – keep your own mind clear of expectations – and use them."

Harry frowned.

"Use…what? Your memories?"

"Yes. The flashes. They will unravel – the memories – if you allow yourself to linger in them, just looking, not thinking – I did say this ought to be your strong suit, Mr. Potter – and the layers will unfold and allow you in further. As soon as you start thinking, allowing your own thoughts and emotions to affect the enchantment, the memories will slip away."

Harry drew in a breath, nodding; "Okay. Okay, I'll try."

Snape nodded, not even bothering to straighten up where he sat, still leaning back and looking entirely comfortable; both in Harry's presence and with the fact that Harry was about to try and get into his head.

Maybe he just knew there was no way Harry was going to see anything worth seeing.

Harry gripped his wand and spoke the incantation – "Legillimens" – and the flutters, the flashes continued. His mum appeared this time and Harry tried to look at it – the memory – unfeelingly.

He heard something that time; "Severus."

It quickly slipped away, when he immediately thought of how awkward he'd felt the first time his mum had called him that in front of Harry.

"Again," Snape lifted his chin.

Harry tried again.

It was Mr. Black that time, laughing, and he lingered on that, and it changed – the first time it had done so – and became another one.

"Going mad, Sev?" Mr. Black was grinning at him, but Harry could only see him out the corner of his eye, as he moved around an office – Mr. Black's office – at the Foundation.

It morphed again.

Mr. Black wasn't looking at him, this time – avoiding his eyes, actually – as they stood in the same office.

And Snape was angry with him.

"He is your son, Regulus. That is something you cannot walk away from."

Harry thought of Malachi then – unable to help himself – and the memories slipped away: back into his own mind.

Harry gave his head a shake – feeling more than a little disorientated – and when he did, he noticed Snape was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been, before.

But, this time, he was looking at him with a look of evident satisfaction – pride, even – on his face.

"Very good, Harry."

Harry beamed at him and Snape's eyes averted, immediately, as soon as he did – his lips twitching in that almost-smile that Harry delighted in evoking – before he cleared his throat, meeting Harry's eyes again.

"I heard them, this time," Harry told him, still smiling; "You were really mad."

It amused Harry, getting even just that little glimpse. Getting into Snape's head – properly – and seeing and knowing that he got just as mad and annoyed at someone else, as he did Harry.

Even Mr. Black.

Harry chuckled, delighted, and realized that must have been what Malachi was talking about, when he told him stories about what the two of them used to be like, together, when Malachi was a kid.

Harry gripped his wand – feeling more confident and excited, now – and said, "Should I try again?"

Snape inclined his chin, still looking amused; "Bear in mind, it will not work if you are unable to get that excitement focused in a more productive manner, Mr. Potter."

Harry quickly focused his mind and tried again.

He didn't get anything other than a flutter the next time. Or the time after that.

But the third time – the third time – he found her.

Grace.

Harry was so stunned by the sight of his sister before him – the first time he'd seen her, since they'd started this – that it was only that, that stopped him from losing the memory right away.

She was a baby, maybe six months old, held in his – Snape's – arms, facing him, green eyes wide as she giggled in delight.

It morphed into another.

His little sister was older – maybe three, maybe four – and she was smiling, adoringly, at him – at Snape – from where she sat on her knees on the floor in front of the fireplace at home.

"Look, Daddy, we got these for you."

She held out her hand, giving a shake, and another hand, long thin fingers, reached out and took them – white pebbles with brown spots –their fingertips brushing as he did.

It morphed.

"Can you sing me a song?" Grace turned bright eyes upon him, hopefully.

"A story, perhaps."

"Don't you like to sing, Daddy? Mummy does."

"I would rather not."

Grace giggled and Snape's hands appeared in his line of vision once more, grasping her by the sides and lifting her up and over his shoulder, before they headed towards the stairs, Harry getting an upside down view of Snape's feet as they moved.

It morphed again.

"Mummy and me make cakes, you know, and Harry too!"

Grace was stirring a bowl of mixture, her green eyes and bright smile upon him.

"That certainly sounds like a pleasant way to spend the afternoons."

"Yup," Grace glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the kitchen door – checking for Mum – and waved a hand at him to come closer.

Snape leaned down, letting her whisper in his ear; "And Harry sneaks me tastes of the mixture when Mummy's not looking."

"Hm. I can certainly believe that, your brother is rather mischievous, himself."

"He's the best! And he loves me lots."

"I'm certain he does."

Grace grinned, impishly.

"And you do too, don't you, Daddy?"

"Indeed, I do."

"As much as pudding?"

Grace lifted the bowl up, eyebrows lifting in turn.

Snape leaned down then and pressed his lips to her cheek, making her giggle.

"More, even, than that."

Harry was suddenly thrown from the memory – from Snape's mind – with unexpected force; nothing at all like the way he had been the other times, when the memories had simply slipped away.

Harry gave himself a shake – beyond disoriented, having been entirely lost in Snape's mind, so focused upon the memory – that it felt odd to suddenly be back inside his own head, in Snape's office.

He glanced across at Snape.

Snape's eyes were on the floor.

It took a few moments for Harry to realise what had happened.

Snape had thrown up his occlumency barriers: forced Harry back out.

Harry eyed him, where he sat, uneasily, and wondered if he should apologise. But he was so unnerved himself – as Snape seemed to be – not just at seeing his sister with Snape but seeing them – him – like that.

Or, even, like this.

Harry could tell, looking at him where he sat, that Snape was trying to keep his emotions – emotions a few months ago Harry doubted the man were even capable of feeling – in check.

Snape met his eyes – quickly regain control – but when he did that warm gaze that Harry had become accustomed to these past few weeks was gone, replaced by that stoic look that was both familiar and entirely unwelcome in that moment – in any moment, actually, now – and Harry realized it was a mask, that he kept it all behind.

"Very good, Harry."

His voice wasn't cold though. It was still warm. And there was a little bit of a roughness to it, that told Harry that he was still uneasy, as Snape got to his feet, walking to his desk.

"I must apologise," Snape said, his back still to him as he did; "Over the years it has become habit to…" Snape drew in a breath and turned, facing him once more; "Your efforts were impressive, Harry. Let us leave it at that for the day."

Obviously concluding the lesson and wanting Harry to leave.

"I miss her, too," Harry said, getting to his feet, and going to him – grasping for that connection they'd almost had – and Snape looked hesitant, meeting his eyes.

Harry shook his head.

"I know it's not the same. I know…I know it's much, much harder for you. But…she loves you so much, she told me, this summer, and –"

"Harry."

"I just want you to know that she hasn't really forgotten you," Harry told him, wanting to comfort him, somehow – and he didn't even think that seemed so strange, anymore, that he did – and went on; "She still loves you. Even after the spell. She still knows you're special, Sir."

Snape swallowed, his eyes on Harry's out the corner of his, and then he drew in a breath, giving him a nod.

And the side of his lip turned a little, like those not-smiles he'd give Harry sometimes.

But this one wasn't in amusement.

This one was in affection.

Harry could see it – could read it in him – now.

Harry didn't think what he'd said was enough. Obviously, he'd known Grace adored her dad – Snape – she'd told him, so many times. She'd even told him about that memory, that very one he'd just seen, about how he'd loved her more than pudding. She'd said it so much, Harry couldn't help but think she'd just made it up herself.

But he'd known, of course, that Snape must love Grace, too.

His daughter.

But seeing them together and knowing that he'd walked away – no other choice.

Harry had never really got it. How hard that must have been for him, until he'd seen them, just now.

Harry wanted to say more, to do something else, to take the hurt away, but he didn't really know how to do that.

And when the silence lingered, Snape just inclined his chin, dismissing him once more.

And, Harry supposed, Snape probably didn't even really want Harry here for this. He probably wanted to be alone.

Harry drew in a breath, accepting the dismissal, and gave a smile, hoping making that would be enough.

"Goodnight then, Sir."

Snape looked warmed, then, the way Harry was becoming used to – the way he wanted it to stay – before he turned back to his desk.

Harry's eyes lingered on him, the whole way from the desk to the door, as he left the room.

Severus headed down the office corridors at the Foundation. His mind still dwelled upon his encounter with Harry the night before; both the memories – that he had struggled with – and Harry's warmth and kindness – that he also struggled with – when he had recognized how Severus was affected.

Severus rolled his eyes, as he reached the door to his office; this would not do.

The very magic itself – legillimency – required openness and vulnerability which, granted, where not exactly Severus' strong suits nor an area of great – if any – comfort. But Severus had, certainly, been through far worse than having to endure having to see his daughter's smile and adoration in his own head, knowing that it was being seen by another.

Throwing up his occlumency barriers – losing his own calm – would do nothing to help Harry, here.

Severus spoke the incantations to release the locking charms, before pushing open the door and heading into his office.

He hesitated in his steps, just over the threshold, when he noticed Regulus was inside, sitting in the guest chair opposite his desk, waiting for him.

Severus pushed the door shut behind him, as Regulus met his eyes and gave him a nod.

Not a smile.

Not a word.

And Severus knew, immediately; "Is something wrong?"

He made his way up to the desk – meaning to take his chair behind it – but he stopped when Regulus stood as he reached him.

"It's not going to work."

Severus shook his head.

Refused to believe it.

"How can you be certain? We have not even begun –"

"We can't – we can't begin anything," Regulus explained, before reaching for some parchments of scribbled notes that had been laid upon Severus' desk; "Their souls – what were the signs?" at Severus' frown, he went on; "The signs you noticed, with Harry."

"Parseltongue. The mind link –"

"He has possessed him, you said."

"Yes. Three times, thus far –"

"Two of which when the two of them were separated by vast distances," Regulus said, before he handed over the parchments he held; "I've been looking into the affects the binding of one soul to another has upon the afflicted –"

Severus unrolled it fully, to look at it, as Regulus went on.

" – it's not the case that the fragment of soul that Voldemort lost is just sitting there, inside of Harry, ready to be plucked out or destroyed. They bind. The souls."

Severus met Regulus' eyes slowly.

Regulus nodded.

"And the binding keeps happening – growing stronger – with every minute that they remain within the same vessel."

Severus lowered his eyes, as he attempted to digest the information.

His voice was a murmur when he eventually spoke.

"Neither can live while the other survives."

Regulus frowned.

"What?"

Severus swallowed, shaking his head; "The prophecy. That was the remainder of it. That one would have to die by the hands of the other; that neither could live while the other survives."

Regulus looked hesitant, as unsure of what to do with the information – and what Severus feared it actually meant – as Severus was.

Regulus shook his head, glancing away, returning to issue at hand; "It's been a year. The connection between them strengthens, rapidly, with every moment that Voldemort remains in corporeal form –"

"Perhaps it's not too late," Severus said, determinedly – grasping for any possibly straw he could – and he tossed the parchments Regulus had given him back onto the desk; "If time is so crucial, we need to get this thing out of him, now."

"No – Severus, we can't –"

"We can try."

"They are already sharing a consciousness, Severus," Regulus said to him, sounding both reasoned and desperate as he spoke the words; "Maybe if we'd noticed sooner –"

Severus turned away at that – his fury at Dumbledore and his secrecy rising up, coming upon him in a flash – and he barked out; "It is too late to dwell on the what ifs, Regulus! We need to act swiftly – immediately – if we are to –"

"Severus, they are binded. It's too late," Regulus attempted to reason with him; "If we try to pull this thing, now, with the connection between them as strong as it is, we could tear Harry's soul apart! He could end up completely unrecognizable to who he is now. And then he'd be bound, his torn apart soul clinging to goodness knows what; stuck, undead, when his time comes, in the wasteland between life and death."

"What choice do we have?" Severus snapped, fighting down his despair, grasping for rage, for fury, for determination – anything that wasn't giving up – and he shook his head; "You've just said this isn't going to stop. That the Dark Lord's soul will continue to bind, to eat away at him, until the link between them…what are you saying, Regulus? That soon, the two of them will be able to possess one another at will?"

"As he does with Nagini. Yes," Regulus nodded – his regret tangible as he spoke the words – and he shook his head; "Not soon, not necessarily. It's taken years for he and Nagini to develop their bond. And we can stave it off, possibly – slow it down – so long as they are both resisting one another. But eventually, the connection between them will become so strong, that they won't be able to control it. Dipping into one another consciousness at will, even falling into it against their will; privy to one another's emotions – experiencing them, even – as if they were their own. And yes…possessions. Voldemort will be able to possess Harry, as he managed to do during the times now when their connection is at its strongest, and use him to…"

Regulus tapered off.

"And if the Dark Lord were to be defeated? Would – would Harry…"

It was a foolish question and both of them knew it. Harry could not survive the Dark Lord being defeated – killed, once and for all – because the Dark Lord could not be so, so long as Harry lived.

The Dark Lord – the monster who wreaked his havoc, his war, upon their world – was bound to life by his son.

"We'll find another way."

Severus met Regulus' eyes, at this friend's attempt to convince him – reassure him – that this was not, in fact, his son's death sentence.

And Severus swallowed, as he attempted to get his head around this new, unwelcome truth. That, even while Harry lived, this connection would continue to grow between them – corrupting and binding him to the Dark Lord further – with each passing moment.

Severus sunk down into the chair that Regulus had stood from. Tried, hard as he could, to keep it together but he lasted only a moment before he pressed his hands to his face.

A harsh breath left him, as the extent of it all became clear.

Severus felt Regulus' hand on his shoulder. A tightening of his grip, meant for comfort.

Severus drew in a breath, attempting to reign in some semblance of control, and lowered his hands, meeting Regulus' look.

"We will find another way," Regulus repeated his statement.

There was a conviction in his words that Severus could almost – no, he must – believe it.

Severus shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, the two of them back to square one.

Square one where there was not even a sliver of hope in sight – only that dreadful, horrendous acceptance by Dumbledore, that the only possible way was for Harry to die – and Severus released another breath.

Severus' voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke.

"How am I supposed to tell her this?"

Regulus lowered his eyes.

And then, Regulus lifted his wand, and a box – one of the horcrux boxes of information, Severus realized – was 'accioed' and slid quickly across the threshold of their adjoining door, stopping with a slam against the side of Severus' desk.

Regulus walked around Severus where he sat, reaching down and hauling the box up onto his desk, and began to look through it.

Severus hesitated for only a moment, eyes upon Regulus, as he started again.

And then he drew in a breath and got to his feet – pushing on with it – and went to stand at Regulus' side.

Back to square one.