A Different Kind of Training, Chapter 5

"Sir, I'm sorry," Harry burst out, looking at the apoplectic Potions Master, "but there's literally no time. Do you have a standard cleansing potion for dark artifacts?"

"...yes." Snape looked confused now, if just as angry. "Since when does that warrent banging on my door like a-"

"I need it, now!" Harry snapped, "there's no time! I have bloody twenty-four hours!"

"Language, Potter," Snape called, but he had obviously grasped that the potion was important, because he hurried back into his quarters and returned within moments with a bottle full of a dark brown, medicinal-smelling substance.

Harry practically snatched it out of his hand. "Right. Thank you."

"So now, perhaps you could explain?" Snape's voice was beginning to have a dangerous edge to it. "What exactly do you need it for?"

"Not here," Harry responded, taking a step forward. "Inside, or in your office. I don't want Dumbledore getting in the way."

One dark brow arched. "Professor Dumbledore," Snape corrected. A pause. "Fine. You may enter my quarters. If you ever tell anyone that I let you in, however-"

"Yes, yes, you'll make me into potions ingredients. Sorry sir, but we've got to hurry!"

Snape grudgingly stepped back to allow him to enter, before closing and locking the door behind them. "So now what is it," he said, when they were both seated on his couch in the main part of his quarters.

"Voldemort's dead."

"What?"

"He's dead. I killed him."

Snape sat back, looking faint. One hand began to absentmindedly stroke his left arm, and Harry could see it was already draining him, although it did not seem severe enough to cause that level of shock, which probably had more to do with the fact that a fifteen-year-old boy had just killed his old master and the bane of his existence. "I...how...?"

Harry took pity on him. "It's a long story that will have to wait until we deal with your mark, but the jist of it is that I banished his soul."

"You what?!" Snape looked like he was on the verge of drawing his wand on him.

"I know it was dark, but considering he'd been practicing soul magic there was nothing else I could really do," Harry told him, leaning back slightly from the volatile wizard. "But the reason I came here is because I have to remove your Dark Mark."

"How? Dumbledore said-"

Harry's vibrant green eyes narrowed. "Dumbledore said a lot of things. He's not always right."

"What do I have to do?" Snape asked abruptly, sounding resigned.

Harry wondered why. "All you need to do is let me apply the potion and say the incantation; I'm the one who has to cast it because it's in parseltongue," Harry said, slightly confused.

"No," said Snape heavily. "I mean, what price are you exacting? You know perfectly well how much I want this, and there's no reason for you to do it for me after the way I...have treated you. It would only be right if you wanted a favor in return."

Harry was horrified. "Professor, you're going to die if I don't remove your mark. It would be sick to pressure you for this!"

Snape stared at him. "Do you," he began, then swallowed, "do you really mean that?"

"Just hold out your arm!"

Snape slowly extended it, still staring at Harry as though he were some sort of feral animal that might or might not bite him at any given moment. Harry drew the cork out of the potion bottle with his teeth and let the dark brown fluid within dribble out onto his cupped hand. "Sorry Professor, but this is probably going to hurt," he added as he was waiting until he had enough potion collected in his hand to go on.

"That does not matter." Black eyes slipped shut, and Snape sat there soundlessly as though waiting for the ax to fall. And perhaps he was.

Harry then put the bottle down, as he had enough cleansing potion in his hand now, and drew back Snape's sleeve, revealing the dark mark pulsing an ugly dark red on Snape's pale arm. He slapped his potion-covered hand down on the mark, eliciting a hiss from the agonized Death Eater, and then gathered up his strength.

"Releassssse totally!" he hissed, and Snape gave a strangled moan and began thrashing, silent tears leaking from his eyes. And then he was still, totally senseless.

Harry simply stared down at the limp form in his lap, lost in thought. His stern, even vicious teacher looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen him, more vulnerable than he would have thought possible. It was harder, now, to hate him when he was lying insensate, completely at Harry's mercy. The thought I could do anything to him wormed its way into his brain, and he winced; what kind of person plotted revenge on someone who was totally at his mercy? To be honest, Harry would probably be the first to say that Professor Snape had been a right bastard to him, but just because they had a lot of bad blood did not mean that it would be right to take revenge. Unbidden, Harry began to toy with Snape's long black hair, surprised at the fact that it was not, actually greasy.

"Potter! What the hell are you doing?"

Harry blushed and hastily untangled his hand. "You're awake!"

"Obviously," was the professor's response. "May I ask why you felt the need to let me like I was a crup?"

Harry's face grew hotter still. "I was just thinking," he responded, barely able to keep the stutter out of his voice. Had he really been petting Snape?

A dark brow arched. "There was no need for you to stay, unless there is something you want from me?"

"You're suggesting that I should have just left you unconscious in your chambers with the door unlocked?"

"The door is automatically warded, idio-" Snape broke off. "I apologize. That last was probably uncalled for."

Harry hadn't even noticed. "It's fine, sir," he responded quietly. "Um, do you know how I would get a hold of Tarquin Rosier and Igor Karkaroff?"

Snape's eyes widened. "You intend to remove their marks?" he asked at length.

"Yeah. Probably Lucius too, for Draco. Is there anyone else you want to save?"

"Gemma Crabbe nee Prince," Snape said at last. "My cousin. Unless I'm mistaken, her brute of a husband forced her to take the mark."

"How can I reach them?"

"The floo aught to be best, first." Snape rose, wobbling on unsteady legs. "I'll floo them."

"Shouldn't you be sitting down?"

"They will be more likely to trust such news coming from me." Snape had, by this point, reached the fireplace, and was gripping the mantle with such force that his knuckles were whitening, looking for all the world as if he was going to collapse any minute.

"Professor, we can wait just a few more minutes-"

"No. You said we have twenty-four hours. In that case I can certainly stand long enough to save a few lives." Snape picked up an elegant silver floo powder pot by the poker stand by the fireplace, popped it open, and took out a pinch of the glittery substance, tossing it into the fire. "Safe House Number Seven."

In a few moments, the face of the older Death Eater appeared in the blazing green flames. "Severus? What is it- is it important? You know the floo is tracked."

"It is very much so. Igor, the Dark Lord is dead."

"Nevŭzmozhen!" the man shouted, momentarily lapsing into Bulgarian in his surprise. "Impossible," he breathed again, eyes wide.

"No, it is quite possible and happened this afternoon. Can you come through? I need to talk to you."

"We are talking, aren't we?" said Karkaroff suspiciously.

"What I want to tell you is not floo secure, and there's also someone else who would like to speak to you."

There was a pause, and then the Death Eater climbed through the floo and knelt, panting, on the ground for a long moment, on his hands and knees. His pale face was nearly grey; it seemed life in hiding had not been kind to the former headmaster. "What is it, Severus?"

"The Mark. It has to be removed."

"What do you mean?"

"It will suck out your life, Igor. You want to live?"

"Of course I do, but I fail to see how it is possible to remove it, or why you would care. And I've researched it for fifteen years."

"You're not a parselmouth."

Karkaroff stared. "Who is this parselmouth who thinks he can take it off?"

"That would be me," Harry, who had been listening to the whole thing, responded. "And I don't think I can remove it, I know I can!"

Karkaroff was obviously non-plussed by Harry's lack of a scar. At last he rasped "Potter?"

"Yes. Now, if you want your mark stripped, you'll have to let me do it."

Karkaroff sucked in a deep breath at Harry's impudence, but held out his arm.

"Ok. This will be painful, and it will take about three days for the mark to be removed entirely, but you should live." And Harry filled his hand with potion (despite a little wince at the irritation to his skin- this was a potion usually used with gloves) and slapped it onto the Dark Mark with a hiss of parseltongue.

Karkaroff screamed, arching and twisting as Harry tried to hold him down until the combination of potion and parselmagic could begin the process of removing the mark. And then he sank back, unconscious. Harry laid him on the sofa and wiped the excess potion off his hands. "What about Tarquin?"