Severus didn't bother dusting the soot from his robes as he emerged from Albus's fireplace. Instead, he strode up to the desk and planted his hands on the surface, leaving streaks of ash, and demanded, "Did you receive my letter?"

"How very nice to see you, Severus," Albus said serenely, leaning back in his chair as though waiting patiently for him to sit down and have a cuppa. "I trust you've been well?"

"You can trust I'm impatient to know whether you've received my letter," he said.

"I have," Albus said, "and I do believe there is much to discuss."

"And did you read it?" He pushed away from the desk and began pacing, grinding his shoes into the ancient axminster like it had offended him. "Don't offer me false platitudes or tell me everything will be taken care of. Did you read it?"

Dumbledore watched him patiently, expression calm and posture relaxed. "I can assure you I have. Dobby," he said suddenly, and a House-Elf cracked into existence. Severus only just managed not to startle. "Please bring a breakfast arrangement for Professor Snape. Something light and easy for digestion, yes, thank you. Severus—sit."

He sat, arms crossed over his chest and legs stretched out in front of him so that if Albus were to move his feet, he would be forced to work round an obstacle. When the elf returned with a tray laden with porridge, toast, and an assortment of freshly cut fruits, he eyed it with disgust before grudgingly taking a slice of toast and nibbling at the crust. "You cannot distract me forever, Albus," he said, tearing the toast into pieces before stuffing it all into his mouth at once.

"I would imagine not. I am not trying to distract you, my boy, but rather supply fortification. You have been looking rather poorly." From around the desk, the elf began stoking the fire and dusting the knick knacks in the room. Sighing deeply, Albus said softly, "That will be all. Thank you, Dobby. You are dismissed."

The elf disappeared with another crack. Before Albus could speak, Severus said swiftly, "You told me the blood wards had begun to fail."

"Yes. Severus—"

"Is it because the boy doesn't think of the house as his home?" he demanded, leaning forward in his chair and reaching for another slice of toast. He wolfed it down and reached for a third.

The Headmaster didn't respond for a time. When he did, his voice was solemn. "You must know, first and foremost," he said, "that I was not aware of the extent of Harry's abuse."

Severus dragged the bowl of porridge over and fixed his attention on it, giving the Headmaster whatever time he may need to compose himself. "You knew?" he prompted between bites, after the silence had gone on too long. "All this time?"

"I knew he was unhappy there. Arabella Figg has told me about the chores he does around the house. I was also aware that Vernon and Petunia Dursley did not take kindly to magic. I had not, however, expected them to take things further." Dumbledore sighed again. "Your letter came as a surprise to me. I can assure you, Severus: I was not aware."

A tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying drained away. Severus ate the last of his porridge and swallowed down a belch and its accompanying surge of acid reflux. Giving himself a moment, he turned back to the toast and polished off the last of the stack. He hadn't known he was hungry until the food had been laid out before him. "Will he remain there?"

"I will see to other arrangements. However, if I cannot find suitable shelter…"

"You can't possibly mean to send him back," Severus said lowly, looking up to meet Albus's eyes. "Headmaster, the boy cannot remain in that house. I won't allow it."

Dumbledore looked very old and very tired. "I may have no other options, Severus. But, if I may be so bold, I would like to hear your ideas. I am all ears, my boy. I know you have Harry's best interests at heart. In the meantime, provide me with whatever details you may have on his upbringing. We have much to talk about."

The next hour was spent batting ideas back and forth and writing down potential shelters for Potter. It was only after Severus checked the time and remembered he'd told the boy he would be back shortly that he stood up to leave. Albus stood with him and grasped his hands briefly.

"I enjoy our visits," he said, "and it releases a great burden on my shoulders to know you're looking after Harry. There is no one I would trust more in this endeavor. Thank you, my boy. I will see you soon."

He left Hogwarts in reluctantly good spirits, throwing a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and saying, "Spinner's End," before stepping through and closing his eyes against the sickening whirl of sitting rooms round the county. The Floo spat him back out without preamble, spewing ash out across the floor. He Vanished it with a wordless gesture, shaking out his robes and ruffling his hair. Then, taking a second to compose himself, he strode into the kitchen—and stopped dead at the sight that met him there.

Potter had heeded his instructions. He had not left. But Severus—Severus had left something: the Pensieve, filled to the brim with every last detail of his past, every detail of his parents and his best friend, and details of the Dark Lord. Details of Albus's long-reaching plans.

And Potter had dove straight in to view them.

What have I done? were the only cohesive words in his mind, rattling round his brain. He inhaled sharply and gripped the doorframe, pressing splinters into his palm. What have I done?

In an instant, the emptiness in his head was overtaken by a surge of rage. Fury ricocheted through his organs, swelling up in his body and oozing from his pores until he shook from the force of it. Biting down on every gasp of breath cutting at his lungs, he took a step, and then another, and another—until, half-blind, he reached for the boy and gripped him hard by the arm.

Daring a glimpse at the Pensieve, he looked away immediately, bile rising in his throat. As if it had drifted up from the memory itself, the words "I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her" shot through him. He gagged and used his free hand to gather his robes tightly round him, pressing down against the layers and buttons to reassure himself they were still there. Then, turning back to the boy, he dragged him from the memory.

Potter's glazed expression took a few seconds to clear, but Severus was already speaking. "Having fun?" he managed to choke out. The boy's eyes widened, jaw dropping from his blanching face.

"Professor," he mouthed, but whatever voice he might have had died on the way out.

"So," Severus said, tightening his grip on Potter's arm, hard enough that his joints creaked. "So…been enjoying yourself, Potter?"

"N-no…" Tugging at his arm, the boy shook his head frantically and made an aborted step backward.

He could feel his chest heaving, breath too quick and shallow, but it was from a long way off; Severus could no more stop himself from speaking than he could calm the roaring in his ears, or the frantic pounding in his lungs heart hands— "Amusing man, your father, wasn't he?" he bit out, jostling the boy so hard his head jolted back and his glasses slipped loose. "Amusing."

"I—didn't—"

Unable to bear the warmth in his hands, the heat of another body, he threw Potter aside with all the strength left in him. The boy fell hard against the table, knocking his shoulder on the corner before scrambling back against the linoleum.

"You will not tell anybody what you saw!" he bellowed, clenching his fists until he drew blood. "Nobody!"

"No—no, of course I w—"

"Get out!" he cried, seizing the first object he could find and hurling it in the boy's direction. "Out! Get out! I don't want to see you in this house ever again!"

The boy rolled to his knees and made for the door. Severus threw another jar at him; it burst against the wall, splattering green sludge, and was immediately followed by a bottle, and then the cauldron itself, which shot backwards from the doorframe and caught him with a glancing blow across the forehead. Staggering backward, he reached for his wand and slashed at the cauldron on the floor with Septumsempra on his lips, lashing again and again at the linoleum until it resembled ribbons more than it did a floor. He threw down his wand. Screaming hard enough to gag himself, he gripped one of the chairs and hurled it to the floor, splintering one of the legs and sending bits of wood flying. He bent double and coughed until he felt he'd lose a lung. Blood ran into his eye, blinding him, but he ignored it in favor of turning round and vomiting into the sink.

His hands shook where he gripped the counter. Spitting stomach acid and half-digested food down the drain, Severus racked and wheezed, breath rattling in his chest. He slammed a fist down against the side of the sink, using the pain to ground himself back to reality, and then slammed it down twice more, until something cracked and he came rushing back to himself. He gripped at his hair with fingers that could no longer unbend and coughed out a sob.

What have I done? he thought, screwing his eyes shut. His knees wobbled. The boy—

Had left. Door slammed shut, empty house, silent. Him, alone.

The boy—

Shoving away from the sink and picking his wand off the floor, he ran out of the kitchen and to the door, fumbling with the knob until it finally opened, nearly up-ending him into the street. Severus only just remembered to close it behind him before he set off in a sprint, begging his legs to hold him up just a while longer.

"Expecto Patronum!" he gasped, drawing old memories close and foregoing the Statute of Secrecy entirely as he hurtled round a corner and skidded to a stop at the torn section of fencing by the river. Lily's doe erupted from his wand and stood close by his side, a lifejacket in a stormy sea. Severus clung to it desperately. "Deliver a message," he ordered, swallowing back as much emotion as he could to force his voice into some semblance of normality. "The meeting is cancelled. Do not come. You will be turned away. The boy"—His voice faltered for the briefest moment before he steeled it back into a careful monotone—"is safe.

He ducked through the fence without waiting for it to fade away and stumbled down the riverbank. Shoe slipping on a patch of moss, he fell before he could catch himself; his momentum carried him into the yellow water. Spitting curses, Severus forced himself to his feet and renewed his race to the playground, where he hoped the boy would be headed. When he attempted to locate him by way of the tracking spell, it led him back to Spinner's End; and in a sudden moment of clarity, Severus remembered seeing the boy's shoes sitting by the door.

"If there's ever a need to move quickly through Cokeworth," he'd told the boy only eight days ago, though it felt like an eternity, "follow the riverbank."

The boy had taken his advice; there were fresh footprints, made by bare feet, in the mud.

"Potter!" he dared to shout. "Potter!"

The trees were silent. Where did he go? The trees? Playground? Did he leave? Knightbus?

If Potter had left…if he had lost him…if he'd…And what if he landed in the arms of a Death Eater? It would be—his fault. His fault.

Severus dragged to a stop against a tree, trying to catch his breath. His head was still bleeding, mingling with the salt stinging his eyes, and he wiped at it angrily. "Homenum revelio," he whispered, pulling out his wand, but nothing happened. The boy was already gone.

He would try the playground. Then, if that failed to turn up results, he would try the library, or another shop in town. And if that failed…

Albus would never forgive him. Even if he managed to find Potter, he'd done the boy physical damage; there was no excuse for it, especially not one Albus would accept. And when he told Lupin what he'd done, whatever they'd built would be gone. It would be over. There would be no forgiveness found in what he'd done.

"Damn it," he bit out, putting his head in his hands and trying to tune out an insistent chime tinkling in his ears. "Damn it."

The chime sounded again, pulling him back out of his self-pity. Severus looked up from his bloodied hands and sighed deeply. Potter had made it to the playground at last.

He walked the rest of the way, ducking beneath branches and tearing his robes on thorn bushes. And when he emerged from the trees, the boy was there, settled at the bottom of the rusted slide. Severus went to him slowly. It was only when he was less than a meter away that Potter looked up, staring at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

Neither of them spoke, though Severus knew he must have been a sight, all torn robes, wet shoes, and a bloody face. The boy was no better: his hair was plastered to his face with sweat and his feet were filthy.

Potter didn't move, even when Severus settled himself in the yellowed grass beside him, but he shifted his weight away and exhaled loudly.

The sky hadn't yet darkened. There was still time for local families to plan a trip to the playground. And if one of those families happened across them, he would need to take drastic measures to ensure they would remain unseen—or forgotten. He would need to work quickly to get the boy back to Spinner's End.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I should not have…It was wrong. And I'm sorry."

"I'm sick of people keeping secrets from me," Potter said, glaring at the trees in front of them. "I'm sick of being kept in the dark, when even Ron and Hermione won't tell me what's going on. I hate being stuck at the Dursleys while everyone else is fighting V—him. I'm sick of being angry all the time, Snape. It never ends. And you still won't tell me anything. You want me to tell you everything—everything about my uncle, about my aunt—but you won't tell me about my mum."

Pulling his legs closer to his chest, he chewed the inside of his cheek and avoided the boy's gaze.

"Why'd you call her that?"

He stared at the line of trees, at the bushes and the sky, and kept his mouth shut.

Severus heard the boy move next to him. Their knees brushed; he didn't quite manage not to wrench his leg away. "Tell me." When he failed to respond, Potter said angrily, "Tell me, or I'll never come back to the house again. Not ever."

Worrying though the implication that he'd ever return to Spinner's End after this month was, Severus elected to ignore it in favor of clenching his hands together. A splinter of pain twisted down into his wrist, radiating from his broken fingers, but Severus ignored that, too.

"Tell me," Potter repeated. "Tell me something. Please."

"You are behaving like a child," Severus said, voice low and waspish.

"Yeah?" Potter raised his eyebrows. "That's funny. So are you. Tell me."

He had never cared for Harry Potter, but he had been the one to set the death of his parents in stone. It was his fault the boy was an orphan, and it was his fault that the only one able to watch what Lily's love had brought grow up, was him. He owed him for the uprooting of his life, and all that had happened since. Severus owed this boy everything.

And he had a debt to pay.

Severus swallowed hard, gathered up the very last of his courage, and talked. "She smiled," he said, almost too quietly to be heard, "and I knew it was over."

"She…" This time, when their knees brushed, Severus pulled away entirely. "You mean…"

"Your mother."

In the years after, he'd thought he'd been mistaken—that he'd lashed out senselessly, called his friend a slur, and destroyed the only friendship he'd ever had because of a delusion. It had only been after he'd used Albus's Pensieve that he'd learned the truth, but it had been hollow. He hadn't destroyed their friendship. It had already been over.

Calling her a Mudblood had just been the proof she'd needed—proof that he'd changed, that he'd become someone dark and foreign and wrong.

"Did you say sorry?" Potter asked. Severus dared a glance at him, but he was looking down at his feet, using his toes to push dirt round.

"I stood outside her common room for hours to apologize." He paused to wet his lips. "I'd have slept there if she hadn't come out, though it made no difference either way."

"Even though my dad and Sirius were in there?" the boy asked, looking up. "If they'd seen you were out there…wouldn't they have…"

Severus turned his face away. "I didn't care."

Frowning, Harry ran a hand through his hair and went back to staring at the dirt. "Did you ever see her again? After Hogwarts?"

"Once. The day before she took you under the Fidelius." He'd had to know. Had to know she was still alive, even without the protection, and that she hadn't disappeared without a trace. She'd looked frightened, but she'd been alive.

The fear he'd seen in her eyes haunted his dreams.

"Did she—?"

"She didn't see me." He was going to break the rest of his fingers if he didn't stop twisting them. "And that was for the best."

"You never said…goodbye, then."

He couldn't find the energy to speak, all of a sudden.

"Why would my mum have married him if she'd hated him?" Potter asked. "She loathed him. Loathed him. And he was…he was awful. You were right. He and Sirius were just…awful. Why would she marry him if he was so terrible?"

Severus sighed but didn't respond.

"D'you…d'you think he…No. No, never mind," the boy said firmly. "He wouldn't have…"

"Lily was no more Imperius'd then than you are now." Of all the things James Potter had done, feeding Lily a love potion or taking her by way of imperio was not one of them—of that, Severus was certain.

"Then why?" Potter whispered. "How could she marry him? And how could she have smiled when you were friends?"

"We weren't. Not anymore."

"I'm sorry, Professor."

"Don't. It's nothing to do with you."

"No, I mean…I'm sorry," the boy said, hugging himself. "I shouldn't have gone inside the Pensieve. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. I thought I'd see something about the war, not…"

"I should not have left it there. I knew better than to leave you with it." He scratched at the drying blood on his face and chewed his thumbnail, craving a cigarette.

"Why did you leave?" the boy asked, pushing his legs out and leaning back against the curve of the slide. "I know Dumbledore was there, but—"

"I told him," Severus said, and Potter shot back upright.

"What?"

"I told him everything."

"You—you told him—"

"I am duty-bound as a professor to tell the Headmaster when a student needs removed from their current residence." Often, during the few examples where he'd intervened, Dumbledore would leave him to his own devices unless there was a need for legal advice or someone with higher power in a political setting. Severus could count on one hand the number of times he'd asked the Headmaster for help with a student; and though Albus had never been anything less than gracious and accommodating, he still loathed to request his aid in anything.

"I don't need removed," Potter said angrily, "and I don't need you telling people about the Dursleys. What, have you also sent a letter to Draco Malfoy, telling him I hate small spaces?"

"Don't be absurd," he snapped back. "Would you prefer I keep it to myself and allow you to rot away in Surrey? Did you not just tell me, boy, that you were tired of being kept in the dark during the summer holidays?"

"Don't call me boy," Potter ground out, getting to his feet. "My name is Harry. And for your information, Snape, I'd prefer you to not spread my business around for everyone to hear about. First Sirius and Professor Lupin, and now Dumbledore? Who's next? Am I going to read about it in the Prophet tomorrow? Why do you even care, anyway? You've never given a damn about me. The blood wards—"

"Are failing, Potter, because apparently you consider your aunt and uncle as family as much as they do you—that is to say, not at all."

"The blood wards are failing?" Potter's voice dropped into something quieter; he sat back down on the slide and wound his arms round his knees. "What's going to happen if they fail? I'll still go back next year, won't I? D'you think they'll hold out until then? Are the Dursleys safe?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek and weighed his responses. "That remains to be seen," he said eventually. If he had his way about it, the boy would never return. The Dark Lord, and to an extent Albus, were his only obstacles.

"I thought you didn't want to be involved," the b—Potter said. "That's what you told Mr. Weasley."

"I don't want any part in this, no." He grabbed a handful of grass with his unbroken hand and crumpled it in his fist, letting it stain his palm green and flutter back to the ground.

"What changed?"

He ripped up another handful of grass and didn't respond.

"Your parents…"

"No," he said sharply, staring out towards the swings.

Potter showed no sign of having heard of him, pressing on obliviously. "Were they like the Dursleys?"

"Enlighten me on how this has anything to do with your impending home removal," Severus hissed. He pulled up more dirt than grass in his next handful; it stuck deep under his fingernails, darkening them until his hand looked more earth than skin and bone.

Potter glowered at him. "I just want to know why you're so interested, all of a sudden, after you told everyone you weren't. Mr. Weasley made it sound like you knew—"

"We are done here," he snarled, standing and walking away. "We're going back to the house. Move along, Potter. We're finished."

"You never tell me anything!" Potter shouted after him. "What, do you not want to admit we're alike? Do you hate me that much?"

"What my parents did to me does not matter." He was breathing hard, unable to turn round to face the boy. "It has never mattered, and it never will matter. We are not alike, Potter, and you are deluding yourself if you think we are."

"If your parents treated you like the Dursleys treat me, then we are alike! Hogwarts is our home. Not back there. Right? Why wouldn't that make us the same?"

"Because I deserved it!" The moment the words came out, Severus wished he could take them back. There was a ringing silence unlike any he'd heard before; the birds seemed to stop singing, the wind ceased to blow, and even the distant roll of thunder died away. Or perhaps they were drowned out by the rushing in his ears, and the pounding of his heart beating a tattoo against his sternum. Severus closed his eyes and contemplated Obliviating the boy.

"I don't think you deserved it," Potter said quietly from behind him.

"You don't know what sort of person I am," he managed to say, though the words were almost too quiet to be heard. "You don't know what sort of person I once was. You dislike me now? You think I'm cruel? That I'm mean and bitter? You have no idea who I've been or what I've done. I was—I am—a Death Eater."

A shock of lightning flared in the distance, but Severus hardly noticed. The boy was silent.

"How old were you?" Harry asked. "I mean…if you remember."

He shook his head without saying anything. It began to rain.

"So you were a kid. Right? I don't think you were an awful person if you were just a kid. My mum liked you, didn't see? And she wasn't an awful person. Just because you've done…things…now—it doesn't mean you deserved it back then. That wouldn't make any sense."

"It's time to go back," Severus said, glancing up at the sky. Though it wasn't even evening yet, it looked closer to night than it did day. "I have an antiseptic for your feet and a salve for bruises at the house."

Standing up, Potter approached him cautiously and stopped a good meter away. "I thought you said I couldn't come back to the house."

"I have not spent the past four years trying, in vain, to heard you back to safety just to leave you to the wilderness and allow you to join the neighborhood gang," he muttered, debating whether it was too damp now for a cigarette. He was going to need one when they returned. Or two. Or ten. "Though I have a feeling you'd prefer it."

"How many points are you going to deck because of this?" Harry asked. When Severus glanced at him, it was to find him grinning ruefully. "A hundred?"

A fucking thousand would be more fitting.

"Do not tempt me. Minerva would have my arse if I put Gryffindor into the negatives before term could even begin." They made their way out of the playground and back into the underbrush. The boy snuck looks his way every so often, frowning and looking self-pitying. Severus hated him. "Is there a problem?" he said as they walked along the bank of the river.

"No," the boy said quickly, and then immediately added, "Well, yes."

"And?"

"Sir?"

"What is it?"

"Right. I just don't think anyone deserves to be…" Rubbing the back of his neck, Potter shrugged and lowered his gaze. "I dunno. Hit, I s'pose, but you didn't say anything about…But you didn't deserve it. It wasn't your fault."

Severus felt suddenly, irrationally angry, but he managed to repress it before he could make a scene. "Potter," he said sharply, stopping in his tracks. Harry slowed next to him. "You will not speak of this again. Never. Not about the Pensieve, and not about—whatever else I told you. You will not breathe a word of this to anyone."

Through the rain and faint light, he watched the boy's expression twist before settling into something oddly indiscernible. "I won't, Professor."

"Promise me," he ordered, staring him down.

"I promise. I won't tell anyone."

And that was that.

—

When they returned to the house, it was to find it bright and alive.

The neighbors made no attempt to shield their curiosity. Blinds and curtains were pulled aside, doors and windows had been cracked open to better hear the commotion coming from inside the house, and a few did a double-take as they went by. Severus resigned himself to Obliviating them all later. For now, he had more important things to worry about.

Lupin had not heeded his warning; and in hindsight, Severus suspected the Patronus had only made things worse. In any case, he now had a group of busybodies to answer to.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, storming into the house and cutting them all off mid-sentence. He slammed the door shut and cast a hasty Muffliato. "Lupin, you abysmal fool, I told you to stay away. That was not an invitation for a mob of dunderheads to storm my house."

"Harry!" Black jumped over the back of the sofa to meet them, gathering the boy up in a hug.

Potter wriggled his arms out of Black's grip and wound them round the mutt's shoulders, burying his face in the man's hair. "Sirius?" His voice was muffled. "What are you doing here? What's going on?"

"What are we doing here? Where were you?"

"Godric and Jesus, what's happened to you two?" Lupin stared wide-eyed at him, pulling his attention away from Black's frantic questions of "are you all right?" and "are you injured?" and back to the wolf. "Are you concussed? Who attacked you? Why didn't you send for any of us?"

Not for the first time, Severus contemplated lying. It would be simple—pathetically so, in fact. With the state he was in, there would be no doubt someone had attacked; and though Albus would likely suspect a falsehood when given the news, Severus knew the boy would play along and help fill any holes in the story, if only to slither his way out of taking responsibility for his own wrongdoings.

He'd only just thought up a realistic tale when Potter opened his mouth and fucking ruined everything.

"Attacked? We weren't attacked," he said, bewildered, before stiffening underneath the drape of Black's arm and throwing a frown Severus's way. "Er—" he stuttered, and Severus could only imagine what sort of expression was on his face, judging by the way Potter paled. "Er—I mean—"

Damn you, he thought, and knew the message went through when Potter looked away entirely.

"What the devil is going on here?" Weasley muttered, looking between them like they were strangers. "I left work early to respond to a distress signal, Remus, and Fudge will not look kindly on that. If this is all a misunderstanding—"

"I apologize, Arthur," Lupin said, sounding like he meant it truly meant it. "I'm no longer sure myself if there was any reason to come at all. But you can't deny something has gone wrong."

So many things had gone wrong during the boy's stint at Spinner's End that such a statement was almost humorous, but Severus wasn't in a joking sort of mood. "As Potter said, there was no attack. The boy has come to no grievous harm. In other words, werewolf, you can take your parade out of my house now and heed my message next time instead of blundering in like an idiot."

"What about your injuries?" Weasley pressed, gesturing to him. "Harry may not be hurt, but you certainly are. Where have have they come from?"

Severus regarded him coolly and said, in a voice as dismissive as humanly possible, "Unrelated."

"Unre—Remus, this is utter shit," Black burst out. "Harry, tell me what's going on, right now. I want answers."

They all started in on the boy, who looked as though he wished he'd remained at the playground, after all. Taking his chance, Severus edged his way round the group and turned to head into the decimated kitchen, only to be met with a chilling sight: Albus Dumbledore stood in the doorway, framed by the light streaming in from the window, and on his face was a look of abject disappointment. "Albus," he said quickly, and then stopped, unsure whether to continue. The Headmaster's eyes were like ice. Slowly, he swept out an arm to reveal the ruins of the kitchen. Mortification swelled in Severus, followed by a surge of self-loathing. He pulled his sticky, matted hair forward to hide his face and cut the line of contact.

"You disgust me," an old memory whispered, drifting up from his subconscious like a ghost that had never been put to rest.

"I must confess," Albus said, as the room fell silent behind them, "that I, too, am rather interested in the details of today's events, Severus."

—

Harry had no idea what was going on.

Dumbledore had taken Snape upstairs to speak privately, leaving him alone with the others, who hadn't hesitated to turn on him and begin interrogating.

Why are they here? he wondered, fumbling his way through vague responses and shoddy assurances, unsure of how much to give away. Would Snape want them to cover up all that had happened? Would Dumbledore be angry with Snape for throwing him out? Would Dumbledore be angry with him? He hadn't seemed to mind when Harry went into the Pensieve last year, but now Dumbledore wouldn't even look him in the eye or answer him directly. There was no telling how he'd react to what he might consider a breach in security.

Wringing the hem of his shirt in his hands, Harry craned his neck around Sirius's arm—more like a ball and chain now that they'd begun their questioning—to sneak a peek at the kitchen. (It had not looked like that before he'd run out.) He stared at the gashes in the linoleum, gulped, and said, "I went into his Pensieve without asking."

Mr. Weasley trailed off mid-question, leaving his mouth parted and eyes wide. "His—?"

"Harry," Lupin breathed, shaking his head. He covered his face with one scarred hand and pointed at the kitchen with the other. In a muffled voice, he said, "And that would explain the kitchen."

"What did you see in the Pensieve?" Sirius asked casually, sweeping his long, dark hair out of his eyes. Harry glanced at him in bewilderment and was more than a little alarmed at the oddly hard look on Sirius's face.

"Sirius—"

"No, Moony, let him talk. What did you see, Harry?"

"Well," he said hesitantly, looking between the three of them, "I saw—you, actually. You and Lupin. And…my dad."

Professor Lupin had gone very still, but Sirius didn't skip a beat before asking, "You saw James?"

Harry didn't allow himself to become too embarrassed. He plunged into the story of what he'd seen in the Pensieve, stealing glances at the bookshelf in front of the staircase; Snape could be back at any moment, and he knew he wouldn't like him telling the others what he'd done. Especially after he'd promised he wouldn't—but it didn't count if he told Lupin and Sirius, would it? They'd been there, after all. They already knew it all.

When he finished, nobody spoke for a moment. Then, quietly, Lupin said, "I wouldn't like you to judge your father on what you saw there, Harry. He was only fifteen—"

"I'm fifteen!" Harry said heatedly.

"Look, Harry," Sirius said placatingly, "James and Snape hated each other from the moment they set eyes on each other. It was just one of those things, you can understand that, can't you? I think James was everything Snape wanted to be—he was popular, he was good at Quidditch, good at pretty much everything."

And he had my mum, Harry thought, frowning at his muddy feet. Snape's best friend.

"And Snape was just this little oddball who was up to his eyes in the Dark Arts and James—whatever else he may have appeared to you, Harry—always hated the Dark Arts."

"Yeah," he said, shrugging half-heartedly, "but he just attacked Snape for no good reason, just because—well, just because you said you were bored."

"I'm not proud of it," Sirius said quickly.

"I would very well hope not, Sirius," Mr. Weasley cut in. Harry looked over to where he'd sat down on the sofa. "I know my boys get into trouble I could only dream of, but none of my children have ever attacked another student unprovoked. Not out of maliciousness."

Harry very carefully arranged his expression into one of agreement, just in case Mr. Weasley remembered the incident with Dudley again.

"Arthur, we were fifteen," Sirius sighed. "We were arrogant little berks."

"He kept messing up his hair," Harry said under his breath.

Both Sirius and Lupin laughed. "I'd forgotten he used to do that."

"When we return to headquarters, I'd like to have a word," Mr. Weasley said. "In the meantime…Harry, what you did was wrong. Very wrong. You had no right to view Severus's memories, whether he left you alone with them or not. If I had caught Ron invading someone's privacy so thoroughly…"

"I know it was wrong," he said miserably, scraping mud off his toes. "I thought I'd see something about Voldemort. I just want answers. I didn't think I'd see something like—like that, and by the time I was there I'd seen my dad, so I couldn't just leave…I wish I'd stopped looking. I know it was wrong."

"Dumbledore has his reasons for not telling you about the war." Mr. Weasley got to his feet and moved close, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "You will get the answers you're looking for. I promise you. But you need to learn how to be patient, Harry. Running headlong into danger isn't something you can do anymore. It's worked for you in the past, but you need to rely on others."

"I have Ron and Hermione—"

"Ron and Hermione are children," Arthur said forcefully. "You are a child. You are in no way equipped to handle You-Know-Who alone, no matter what anyone would have you believe. A single boy of fifteen cannot go up against an army by himself. You are not invincible. You don't have to carry these burdens alone. The adults in your life need to take responsibility and shoulder that burden with you. You've been left alone with it for far too long and that needs to change, now."

Harry swallowed hard around a lump in his throat, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "But one of you could—get hurt. Mr. Weasley—"

"We joined the Order knowing we might die, Harry. We've accepted the consequences. Any one of us would be willing to give our lives to the cause," Lupin said.

"And we'll take out as many Death Eaters as we can as it happens," Sirius added, bringing him in for another hug. "You're not alone. This fight isn't just yours anymore."

Harry took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. A tear managed to break free; he wiped it away with his sleeve and tried to muffle a sniffle against his arm.

"Come here," Mr. Weasley said, voice as gentle as his eyes, and Harry went to him willingly, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. "We're here for you. Whenever you need help, we'll be there. I promise."

"Just let go now. It's all right," Lupin murmured. "Let go."

And Harry had to.