A History of Magic
Disclaimer:The following is a work of fiction created by and for readers of the Harry Potter books for no profit. No copyright or trademark infringement was intended, and all of the characters, situations et c. belong to, though aren't limited to, JK Rowling.
A/N: Thank you everyone who's read and reviewed, and those of you who have favourited the story. This fic has been betaed by the amazing RaeWhit: thank you.
Warning: This chapter contains strong language.
Part Two
-H-
Harry found something. It was nothing that would return him to his place in the future, but it was something significant nevertheless. He carefully replaced the book, heart thudding in his chest. He strode unsteadily to Morgan's office and knocked on the door.
"Come in," Morgan's disembodied voice bade him.
Harry eased the door open and waited with barely contained impatience until he had Morgan's attention.
"Tom!" Morgan cried out in surprise. "What brings you here?"
Harry couldn't blame Morgan for his reaction, as Harry hadn't once sought him out in the entire year he had worked for him. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, but I'm not feeling well. Is it possible to cut my shift short today? I'm really not feeling great."
Morgan swept his gaze over Harry, eyes narrowed. "You haven't asked for time off yet, so I'd have to be something of an ogre to refuse," he said. "You understand that you would leave me understaffed?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said with a cringe. He opened his mouth to retract his request, but Morgan waved his unspoken words away with a hand.
"Tom, it's fine. Friday is not a peak day for our services, as you well know. And any customers who did drag themselves in at the start of the weekend would no doubt be frightened away at the sight of our pale, shaking librarian."
"Sir?" Harry prompted.
"Go, Tom, and get some rest. You've more than earned it."
Harry flashed him a tired smile. "Thank you."
As he left the building, his mind raced. If what he suspected was true – but first, he'd need to figure out a way to get in. If Grimmauld Place was as impregnable now as it was in his own time, he didn't stand a chance. He wondered how the Fidelius Charm worked, whether his being told over a decade in the future would prevent him from seeing the house now.
He wouldn't know until he tried.
He was so distracted by his thoughts, he didn't notice when the normal sounds of bustling crowds faded to jeers. He did notice when he was shoved to the side as someone pushed past him. Looking around, he saw that a circle had formed around some sort of spectacle. Frowning, he walked on, and was almost out of earshot when he heard a familiar name.
"Snape," spat a cold voice, and Harry turned to the sound. "I don't know how you dare show your face on streets meant for decent folk."
The owner of the voice, a tall man with broad shoulders, had his wand pointing threateningly at Snape. Snape's wand was clutched in the man's other fist.
Harry's eyes narrowed. The scene was terribly reminiscent of another circle in which Snape had once stood, unable to defend himself. He was fairly sure that this attack too must have been unwarranted for the man to have bested Snape. Harry felt the same burning shame he always associated with that memory of his father.
Snape, as unpleasant-looking as ever even without the permanent frown etched between his brows, stood with his hands fisted and mouth pulled into a sneer.
"I have as much a right to walk these streets as you do, Higson," Snape said dangerously, belying his vulnerability.
The tall man, Higson, barked out a laugh. He shot a Stinging Hex at Snape, the volume of his laughter increasing when Snape was forced to dodge rather than defend.
Harry felt the blood in his veins heating.
"You have a right to Azkaban, Snape, and nothing else. We've all seen that pathetic tattoo of his that you wear."
Snape's right hand automatically came up to clutch at where the Dark Mark would be, even as his expression twisted in denial. Before he could utter a syllable in his own defence, the flash of a spell struck him from behind and he grunted and stumbled forward a step.
"How does it feel, to be without your wand and surrounded by enemies? Maybe you're starting to regret what you've done to helpless Muggles and children, Death Eater."
Snape's face was white, his lips pressed in a thin line as though to hold back a retort. Doubtless he didn't want to antagonise his aggressors when he couldn't fight back.
Well, Harry was not thus constrained. He pushed his way forward until he could face the tall man, and spoke to him directly.
"I'm sorry, but are you privy to some special knowledge that Albus Dumbledore is not?" he said, his tone level and almost purely inquiring.
"Who are you?" Higson demanded.
"Someone who has not forgotten who it was that vouched for Snape during his trial. If you have access to information that Dumbledore doesn't, you should take it to the Wizengamot. If not, then I suggest you keep your unfounded accusations to yourself."
Higson raised his wand threateningly, but before he could fire off a spell, Harry caught his left hand with a Stinging Hex and Summoned Snape's wand.
Harry ducked, feeling the heat of a hex graze his shoulder. Heart hammering, having been in the company of nothing more violent that books for so long, his wand raced ahead of his mind.
He shot a fountain of water from his wand. While Higson was blinking droplets out of his eyes, Harry disarmed him.
Nobody protested when Harry handed Snape his wand back, though Higson did growl and there was a disbelieving mutter amongst the crowd.
Harry walked away without another word, very aware of the many eyes on him. He tossed the unfamiliar wand over his shoulder, hearing a harsh voice Summon it before it could hit the ground. He didn't stop walking, even when a hand caught his elbow.
"Hey!" a familiar voice called to him as he walked on. "Explain yourself!"
Harry glanced behind him, seeing Snape scowling less than two feet away, long legs having eaten up the distance between them. He sighed and stopped. If Snape was as tenacious now as he would be in the future, then Harry might as well answer his questions rather than allow him to dog his steps. It would only complicate matters, anyway, if he wanted to access Sirius's house and Snape were to follow him there.
"Let's go to the Leaky Cauldron," Harry suggested. "I could use a drink and a sit down."
He didn't wait for a response, which was just as well, because Snape didn't give one. He could feel Snape's presence at his side, a dark flash in the corner of his eye every few steps, but he didn't turn to look at him.
This would not be an easy conversation; that much Harry knew.
-H-
This is the second week of classes from which Potter has been absent. Not two days after his release from the Hospital Wing, he stopped coming, and he hasn't been back since. It has gone unremarked long enough, and I decide to wait in the staffroom until Minerva is free, and raise the issue with her.
As I wait, I pore over another Dark Arts book. I am barely seen without one these days in my fervour to keep my word to Albus. It is fortunate that I am the Defence teacher here, or my choice in literature would be even more questionable.
I have not come across any useful inferences before Minerva comes in. I mark my page carefully and call her name to draw her attention. She sits in the wing-backed chair facing mine and nods at me to continue.
"Potter has not attended classes recently. Are you aware of this?"
Minerva laughs and I find myself feeling somewhat bewildered.
"Am I aware? Yes, Severus. Did you not get the memo I sent round a fortnight ago?"
I scowl. Though I refuse to admit it, I tend to ignore staff memos. More often than not they are drivel. I should have checked the originator of the last one I blasted, but I was working on a potion and was impatient at being disturbed.
"I did not. Is he back with Poppy?" I am fairly certain that Potter's absence is caused by a relapse. He could not simply bounce back from a spell that wiped years of his life away.
Minerva shakes her head and purses her lips. "No, he is studying independently. He intends to sit his NEWTs with the seventh years, and somehow procured Albus's backing." The tone of her voice tells me that she does not approve. I am not surprised; had it been one of my Slytherins proposing such a ridiculously out of reach ambition, I would be appalled.
"Why on Earth would Albus agree to this? There is no way Potter will pass," I say, unable to control the scathing in my tone.
Thankfully, Minerva does not take offence. "I voiced the same objection myself, but apparently Harry has proven his ability satisfactorily to Albus." Her gaze leaves mine to examine the room before – assured that we are alone – she leans forward and continues. "I fear Albus is allowing Harry to leave school so that he can focus more on the war effort."
I snort. "Obviously. What concerns me is that the boy is clearly not ready."
"How could anyone be ready at his age?" Minerva asks sadly. "I don't understand how Albus can begin preparing him to fight now. Harry is only sixteen."
"Not that you'd notice," I comment. "His manner is as altered as his appearance; I suppose that's caught your attention?"
She nods. "I couldn't fail to when my lecture on fighting with his rival was reversed into him explaining to me how we could minimise the damage. Normally he wouldn't be able to stop himself from blaming young Mister Malfoy for his actions. Harry is not known for keeping his temper." She smiles fondly and I return a scowl. She does not see his wrath the way I do, as the tantrums of a boy accustomed to getting his own way. She sees them as harmless rather than a prelude to rash, dangerous and selfish actions.
"Perhaps," I wonder, "Draco's spell took more than just the semblance of youth."
-S-
I am back from another gathering at Malfoy Manor. My hands are clenched so tightly at my sides that I wonder whether I will be able to unfurl them. I tear my mask away and begin the march up to the castle. Little happened that Albus needs to be informed of urgently, and I contemplate allowing myself a chance to relax before making my report. The Headmaster could not begrudge me that.
There is a room on the seventh floor I have discovered that is ideal. I pace thrice by the familiar stretch of blank wall until a door appears. I wrench it open and stand shocked in the doorway. My sanctuary is sheltering two others tonight.
Albus is sprawled on the floor with Potter stood over him, hand outstretched to help him stand. Albus accepts with his good hand and an air of geniality. "Good shot, my boy," he says. "You may be ready sooner than I had hoped."
Potter snorts derisively. "Please. I'm not near close to being ready."
Albus chuckles good-naturedly. "You say with my wand in your hand."
Thrusting the wand back to Albus, Potter continues his protest. "Fluke. We need to go another round."
Albus is shaking his head before Potter gets the sentence out. "I am tired now, Harry. You have stretched me too far tonight. We will have to wait until my strength is recovered before we try again. I have an appointment I must be getting to, regardless."
It is now that I realise that they are unaware of my presence, and should I wish it to remain that way, it would be in my best interests to leave immediately. As I back slowly out of the door, I hear Albus chide Potter.
"You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Harry."
The door disappears before the end of Potter's outraged tirade. I hurry to Albus's office.
As I wait in my customary seat, a cup of tea warming my hands, my mind whirls with what I witnessed. There is much to think about, but before I have a chance to even absorb the scene fully, the sound of stone grinding announces Albus's return, and I push my thoughts to the back of my mind, buried far beneath my defences.
I nod tightly when Albus enters the room, allowing him to sit before launching into my report as though nothing has occurred between my leaving the Dark Lord's side and arriving in this office.
-S-
"If you would only tell me what you are planning, it may be in my power to help you," I insist, teeth gritted.
Draco scowls and still refuses to answer. I am forcibly reminded of a child repeatedly and energetically denying having eaten a chocolate cake despite the frosting coating its face. The boy knows that I am already aware of the nature of his mission, and yet he refuses to acknowledge this in favour of a stubborn façade of ignorance.
"Draco, your target will not be easy to isolate. It would behove you to accept the advice of someone who knows him well." I am ready to give up. I know that Draco will not be persuaded to share his latest plan with me, and his Occlumency shields are such that I have no chance of hunting the information out for myself without alerting him of my presence. Damn that mad aunt of his for preparing him to shield his mind only from those who do not wish to harm it. I could slice through these shields in an instant were it not the case that I prefer his mind intact.
Draco's arms are folded stubbornly over his chest. "You just want to steal my glory. It has to be me, you know that. If it's not, he'll... Mother and Father... It has to be me."
I wish I could counter what Draco is saying, but he is right. The Dark Lord has taken up residence at their home, and has all too open access to Draco's family. Should he fail, someone will be made an example of.
I am not convinced, however, that it would be Lucius or Narcissa. Not that there is any comfort for Draco in that.
-H-
The Leaky Cauldron was busy, but that suited Harry just fine. He didn't want to risk being overheard, or drawing any more attention to himself. It was bad enough that he had managed to earn Snape's focus, which was as scrutinising as ever; the man had not lifted his eyes from Harry's face in their entire walk here.
"What are you having?" Harry asked, gesturing to the bar. He could just about get served alcohol now, though not in many places. Tom had never hassled him for proof of age.
"I want answers," Snape said tersely. "Nothing more."
Harry shrugged. "'S'up to you. I'm having something, though. So if you want to get us a table, and I'll be over in a minute." He raised an arm to Tom to indicate he was waiting.
Snape sighed. "Get me a Firewhisky."
And with that demand, he was gone. Harry held back a smile at the behaviour; Snape acted as though he fully expected Harry to obey him, despite the manner in which they had met. Of course, Harry mused, it wasn't as though he was wrong there. Harry had every intention of getting Snape his drink.
It took a full minute of scanning the crowd to find Snape, plastered against the wall like a shadow, arms folded over his chest, and eyebrows raised condescendingly.
Harry made his way over, lifting the drinks up to avoid the jostling of the crowd. He smiled when he saw that Snape had managed to save him a stool (albeit one that looked slightly worse for wear when compared with the one Snape had procured for himself). He thrust the tumbler of Firewhisky into ungrateful hands and plonked himself down.
"Thanks!" Harry said with a smile. "Considering how packed it is, I was worried we'd have to share a seat."
Snape glared at him, downing his whisky without shifting his gaze, and Levitating the glass back over to the bar. "Who are you?" he demanded in a low hiss.
"No one you know," Harry replied airily, enjoying the sensation of not being required to answer to Snape.
Snape's lips tugged into a sneer. "Truly not?" He looked ready to spit nails. "And yet you know so much about me."
"Not that much," Harry said carefully. "Nothing that wasn't made public after your trial."
Shaking his head, Snape brought up a hand to lean white-knuckled against the wall and shifted closer. "But," he whispered dangerously, "you seem to have put your own spin onto matters."
Harry shrugged, affecting nonchalance; he didn't do it well. "I read between the lines a little. It takes a very stupid man to underestimate Albus Dumbledore. I flatter myself that I'm not quite that stupid."
Snape eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, and Harry chugged down his drink to give himself something to focus on apart from his own discomfort. When the glass was empty, he rested it on his lap, watching as his hands rolled it repeatedly back and forth.
The sound of Snape's voice brought his head up instantly. "Your faith is in Dumbledore?" he asked. He sounded uncharacteristically uncertain, his head bowed so that his hair hid his face.
Realisation slammed into Harry with all the gentleness of a freight train: Snape, this Snape, was barely older than he was, and had suffered. A lot of time separated Harry from the spiteful man who criticised and ridiculed him in the class that had once been his favourite. Enough time that Harry wanted to remove the uncertainty in Snape's manner that had been put there by a lifetime of exclusion and shunning. When he answered, it was with this in mind.
Harry would not absolve Snape of all sin. He doubted it would mean anything to Snape if he did. But he could offer Snape something other than forgiveness: acceptance. "You do not deserve the way that man was treating you. He... He had no right to victimise you when you had done nothing to him. I don't need to have faith in you to want to intervene. That said," Harry added, seeing the way Snape's face fell automatically into a disappointed frown, "I do have some measure of faith in you. I suppose I must, to assume you hadn't brought that on yourself."
Harry felt disproportionately pleased when Snape's expression cleared, his frown transforming from one of displeasure to one marking thought.
"You are a fool to have that measure of trust in a stranger," Snape said. "You know nothing about me, and yet you choose to imagine the best of me."
Harry shook his head, smiling. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Snape. I've no doubt you're a bastard. I just don't think you're a Death Eater. Takes a lot to accuse a man of that, if you ask me." Harry had been accused of a number of hideous unfounded crimes in his lifetime. It was just now occurring to him that the same might be true of Snape.
Harry felt he had said enough. He needed to leave so that he could investigate Grimmauld Place before it was dark. That old mausoleum was creepy enough in broad daylight. Even beams of sunlight falling through the dust-coated windows appeared sinister in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
He stood, placing his glass on the sideboard and offering Snape a grim smile.
"I have to go now. I was actually in a bit of a rush before bumping into you," Harry said.
"You were in a rush, and you still chose to stop." Snape was scowling, but it appeared to be born of confusion rather than anger, for once.
Harry couldn't blame him. He had trouble explaining it to himself; when had he stopped thinking of Snape as the enemy?
Snape was still waiting for an answer. "You chose to stop, and for what? To help a Death Eater."
There was something in the way Snape said Death Eater that gave Harry pause.
"Severus is now no more a Death Eater than I am."
Looking at this man – at this barely-more-than-a-boy – Harry could finally believe it.
"I stopped to help you," Harry said pointedly. "I had time for that."
Snape shook his head. "Why do I recognise you? I know I'd remember someone so irritating had I come across them before."
Harry's heart started thudding like an elephant falling down a flight of stairs. His disguise was Muggle; bleached hair, coloured contacts, and prosthetic skin over his scar. There was no way Snape could detect it with magic. But Snape hadn't been raised just by wizards, so it was possible he could see through what Harry was rapidly realising was a pathetically flimsy disguise.
"I've no idea why you recognise me," Harry answered, hoping the quiver in his voice wouldn't give him away. "I can honestly say that I don't get out much –"
"You work at the National Library of Magical Reference!" Severus said, his words accompanied by the enthusiastic whoosh! of realisation.
Harry nodded, the tension is his body leaving it so swiftly that he almost slumped to the floor. "Right. Well, it was nice seeing you –"
"I'm sure that you are lying, but nevertheless it was nice, as you say, for me to see you. I have no doubt that lacking your presence, my day would have been much worse. I will not forget what I owe you."
Harry knew better than to argue with Snape over debts. The man was the epitome of Slytherin, and the thought of someone having something over him was likely repellent. He wouldn't believe Harry if he said that he expected nothing in return.
"Fair enough. I'll see you around, then." And finally, finally, he managed to draw away, attempting to reach the door at a sedate pace while his mind was screaming for him to run from Snape's penetrating gaze. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion, though. Not now. Not when Harry had a Horcrux to destroy.
-S-
Harry had travelled back in time once before – and then only for three hours – but it had been impressed upon him quite stringently that he mustn't alter the future, no matter how much he might desire it. Even the slightest difference could have unforeseen results.
Breaking into Sirius's house to steal a potential Horcrux would alter the future, and Harry was pretty sure that it would make some sort of paradox. If he took the locket now, then it would not still be there in Grimmauld Place for Harry to see when decontaminating the house; if Harry had not seen the locket, he would not have recognised it when he saw it in Remnants of the Past; and had Harry not recognised the locket in Remnants of the Past, he would not be sitting here debating what to do about it.
Harry had already reached his conclusion, but it was not a good one, and he rather hoped something better might occur to him if he thought hard enough.
He would have to break into number twelve, Grimmauld Place and steal Slytherin's locket, then destroy the Horcrux it contained, and then break in again to return either the locket itself (if it survived undamaged – Harry remembered the Gaunt ring with its cracked stone) or an exact replica. Given that Mrs Black was not yet dead, and Kreacher was not yet mad enough to not notice anything not stamped with the Black crest, Harry would need to wait for them both to leave the house at the same time.
Right, thought Harry. This should be no problem at all.
-H-
I see the disturbance at the Gryffindor table before Minerva does. As much as I would like to investigate personally and have the chance to take points, I know that she will notice before I have the chance to deprive the miscreants of their chance at the House Cup. So instead, I resolve to inform Minerva, and allow her to proceed however she chooses, much as her choice will likely irk me.
"There is unrest amongst your sixth years," I say, turning to focus on Minerva. "I'm sure you'll be surprised to hear it, but it centres around Potter."
Minerva narrows her eyes at me before turning to look at her House table. The sigh that leaves her is heavy enough to sink ships. "That boy... When will he ever get through a week without getting into bother?" she says. The question isn't directed at me and, though I am sorely tempted to speak, I refrain from answering.
I watch as Minerva rises from her seat, her face sculpted into stern disappointment by the time she reaches Potter and his cohorts.
Weasley is angry. He is gesticulating wildly as he attempts to explain himself to Minerva, who is thin-lipped and deadly still.
Beside him, Potter does not lift his gaze, only shrugging when Weasley directs something to him. I can see that the man-child is discomfited by the situation he finds himself in, fists clenched and resting on the table, shoulders tensed. He looks ready for battle.
Minerva is talking to Potter now. She is unimpressed. Whatever Weasley told her, she does not approve.
Potter attempts to defend himself, his face reddening as he is interrupted again and again.
Minerva does not back down.
This is like watching statues face off, for all that they are both immovably convinced they are right.
Ah, but Minerva has the authority, and the inevitable conclusion can be seen now, as Potter nods stiffly, glaring. He says something more, something that raises Minerva's ire enough so that I can see an aborted gesture to cross her arms over her chest, and then he stands.
He does not storm from the room, as I might expect after losing a fight so spectacularly, nor does he run. He strides, as though he has simply remembered that he has somewhere more important to be.
As Minerva makes her way back to her seat, still fuming so visibly I wonder if she will be able to reheat her abandoned meal with the force of her anger alone, I narrow my gaze and peer around the Hall.
Surely someone else has noticed the unnatural stiffness of Potter's gait?
I catch Albus's eye, and he nods marginally.
Ah. He noticed. Of course he did.
-S-
The next time I see Minerva is at breakfast. She has had time enough now to cool off, and so I unleash my curiosity enough to probe.
"The issue with Potter, yesterday?" I say leadingly.
Her nostrils flare; she almost whinnies in irritation.
"Potter, for reasons I can't even begin to grasp, has decided that, with just one match left, he would like to desert the Quidditch team."
I am surprised. I know the boy was changed enough by Malfoy's spell that now he sees little beyond the war, but I never imagined him dropping himself from the Quidditch team. I control my expression, but cannot help but ask more.
"Did he give a reason?"
Minerva shakes her head. "He gave something that might be a reason if it made any sense. Apparently, he is too old to be playing Quidditch with the other students. He believes it would be unfair."
I snort, almost choking myself on a chunk of sausage.
"He really considers himself older than the other students?"
Minerva glares at me. "He is older than the other students, in body. That much is obvious. In mind... Well, in many ways Harry has always been older than the other students. There is no reason to take him off the team now. I told him that as long as he is enrolled at Hogwarts, he can play on the Quidditch team, and that if he is to leave this summer, I will not have him miss his last chance."
"You believe that he will leave this summer?" I say incredulously. He will be back in autumn, no doubt humiliated by the shame of demanding to sit his NEWTs and failing appallingly. Or, I suppose, he will be dead. That is always a possibility in his life.
Minerva makes a frustrated noise. "There is no way he will pass these exams. It is possible that he will not be coming back, regardless. I do not know Albus's plans for Potter. I'm not sure I'd want to if he offered. More importantly, Potter believes this to be his last term. He has been convinced to play one last match before he has to face the world at large. He is not happy about it."
"I don't doubt it," I say, and Minerva follows my gaze to Potter, who has just arrived looking sleep-ruffled. His entire face is pulled down into a frown that looks unnatural on someone so young.
But then, as Minerva observed, Potter is not so young. Certainly not anymore.
-S-
The stands are packed. The last match of the year tends to attract the attention of every student, without exception. I marvel at the fact that Potter apparently decided he didn't want to be the focus of such attention.
I am stood near the pitch, close enough for the practice lap of the Ravenclaw Seeker to toss my hair about my face. I can see Potter leaning against the door of the stands with his arms folded over his chest. His head is dropped back, eyes closed. He looks bored, one finger tapping impatiently where it rests on his arm.
Rolanda Hooch is on the pitch, and she beckons Potter and Bradley to her. Bradley lands and marches over, broom flung confidently over his shoulder. Potter listlessly makes his way across the pitch, broom held barely aloft. They shake hands.
The balls are released. With a sharp blow of her whistle, Hooch throws the Quaffle and the game begins.
Potter instantly plasters himself flat to his broom, and shoots through the air as though loosed from a cannon. He attains more height in a matter of seconds than the other players combined. The spectators barely have time to draw in a breath to gasp when he stops, fist held up in victory.
He has caught the Snitch. The game has been in play less than a minute, and it is already over. Some of the players are scarcely airborne.
As the others mill about aimlessly, still in shock over the short-lived nature of their final match, Potter dives. He falls to the earth with all the speed gravity can provide him, finally pulling out at the last second, literally feet from ending his life as a smear across the pitch. He hops from the broom ungracefully, giving the Snitch to a startled Rolanda.
Then he simply leaves, walking unevenly towards the changing room. I notice his hand drop to his thigh, clutching white-knuckled, as he disappears. Even injured, he has proven more successful than has been seen in recent Hogwarts history.
Perhaps he was right after all. Against him, the other players didn't stand a chance.
-H-
"Fuck. Wanking, shitting, buggering FUCK!"
The notice attached to Harry's door informed him that his landlord was taking an indefinite trip, and as such his lease was up. With all the extra hours he'd signed up for at work, Harry had no idea when in the next week he might look for somewhere new to live. Especially considering that normal avenues were closed to him, as they led to legitimate landlords who would require legitimate identification from him.
He didn't have time to deal with that now. He needed to stash his research, renew the Disillusionment Charm on the trunk where Slytherin's locket was hidden, shower, find and don a clean uniform, and then head back to the library to start a ten-hour shift.
Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed in navy robes and striding through the atrium of the library, damp hair temporarily under control. He signed himself in, only five minutes late, and immediately took up his station at the front desk.
He spent most of the day seeing to the upkeep of the library's eccentric shelving system, mentally taking note of any book that might prove useful in either of his current projects. It was near closing time before he was approached by a customer.
"Why is this building filled with naught but fools!" someone said pointedly.
Harry sighed and slid Ruinous Runes: How Misreading the Signs can Spell Disaster home before turning to face the elderly man with a smile pasted on.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked politely, making his way over.
The man scowled, giving his heavy brow the impression of having collapsed. "Yes, you can help me, you impertinent young man: I want to check out this book, but the damned spell isn't working."
Harry led the man over to the reception desk. "May I just take your wand for a moment, sir?"
The man grumbled, but did as he was asked. Not without shooting Harry a mutinous glare, though.
Harry calmly cast a charm at the wand's tip, bringing up patron details like a disturbed Penseive projects memories. "Ah, here's the problem, Mister Johnston," Harry said. "You have an outstanding fine, and until you have paid it you won't be able to borrow any more books."
"Rot and poppycock! I've never been a minute late for anything in my life," Mister Johnston said, outraged. "I'll be taking your name to the manager over this."
Undaunted by the threat, Harry threaded the wand through the scanner once more, only to be told the same information. "I'm sorry, Mister Johnston, but it is clear that you brought back a copy of The Seduction of Serenity Singletoad three days late. At eleven Knuts a day, that makes your fee one Sickle and three Knuts."
"I can do the maths, boy, I'm not senile. But you must be, to think I'd read a book like that." Mister Johnston was blushing a fierce red, a fact he apparently had decided not to acknowledge. "That there's the title of a women's book. I wouldn't be caught dead reading the work of Millicent Boon."
"And yet you know which books she's authored," Harry said wryly. "Either you did indeed read the delightful trappings of Miss Boon's latest, or someone else has stolen your wand in order to borrow a romance novel from the library. Whichever is the case, your account has been frozen until the fine is paid. If you wish, you may contact the Aurors and have them investigate the temporary usurpation of your wand; I daresay they could track down your thief and force them to pay the amount for you –"
"All right, you cheeky young thing, I'll pay your damned fine. But I'll hear no more about this, you understand." He fished deeply in his pockets, extracting a handful of coins, a great deal of fluff, and something sticky Harry would rather not contemplate.
Harry accepted the four coins proffered with a smile. "Certainly, Mister Johnston. Now, shall we get Romance on the Riverside checked out for you?"
With Mister Johnston on his way, cheeks flaming and book buried within the folds of his robes, Harry turned to the clock and let loose a great sigh.
"Excuse me? I require some assistance," Harry heard behind him.
"I'm actually off-duty now, but I'd be happy to – oh!"
"Thomas," said Snape. "My enquiry is actually unrelated to books."
"It is?" Harry said cautiously, wondering how Snape had discovered his assumed name. And then remembering the name embroidered on his lapel.
Snape nodded. "I am at risk of losing my apartment because I cannot secure a tenant willing to live there during the three quarters of the year when I board at work."
Harry frowned. "Why would you still need it?"
"It is advisable for me to have somewhere to spend my summers, and it is difficult for me to reacquire lodgings due to my... history." Snape's face was a stony mask, but Harry saw his left arm twitch.
"Right," Harry said uncertainly.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! I know that you are about to be made homeless, and as you are one of the few people willing to take Albus Dumbledore at his word, it occurred to me that you might be interested in renting my flat. We can make arrangements for next summer, but I will be out in two days when term starts."
Harry started. "How did you know about my lease?" he demanded, hand automatically going to his wand.
"Lethario's decision to move abroad was not as abrupt as he would like many to think. I am familiar with the circles he moves in, and there has been word for some months now that his debt would drive him out of the country. Of course, he has given you as short a notice as possible so as to secure the maximum amount of rent from you, thus I can only conclude that you found out some time yesterday."
"Today actually, but then I was out last night," Harry said. He took a few moments to process what he had heard. "So you want me to move into your place?"
"It seems convenient for both of us. Of course, I expect you'd like to view it before making any concrete decisions –"
"Nah," Harry interrupted. "I don't reckon I'll get a better offer in the next week. You're on."
He stretched his hand out; when Snape took it, Harry felt a jolt of surprise, even though Snape had no way of knowing whose son he was.
"Very well," Snape said briskly, releasing his firm grip. "Your shift is over, is it not?"
Harry nodded.
"Then would you care to join me for a drink while we determine the details?"
-H-
I fly up the spiral staircase to Albus's office, manoeuvring the turns with more grace than I could have managed on a broom. He needs to be warned: it will be tonight. Whatever damnable plan Draco has been hatching will hatch tonight.
When I burst through the door, panting, I see the room is empty. One of Albus's silver trinkets works maniacally. My heart leaps to my throat, thrumming apace with its panicked whistle and high pitched whirring.
Albus will die tonight; of this, I have no doubt. Draco will likely fail to kill him, but my hand will be forced. I can feel the Vow weighing on me like a shroud, thick and heavy with the scent of the grave. God help me, I will kill Albus tonight.
But first I must find him. At supper, I saw his eyes catch Potter's again, for a moment holding the gaze and nodding once. They are surely together.
I remember the room I go to after meetings, where the castle caters to my sour mood, and where I caught them duelling. It's the only lead I have, and with the conviction of desperation behind me, I am now certain I will find Albus there.
If Apparition were possible, I would be there now, but I lose minutes navigating stairwells, pelting down corridors. Doors crash open with a jerk of my wand before I can slam into them. I look mad, and for a wild moment I consider how much more terrified the first years would be of me if they were to see me now, tearing through the air, hands reaching, face twisted, my maligned mane swept back by the speed. The corridors are empty.
I reach the eighth floor and hear two familiar voices below me. I was right. Albus is here.
As is Draco. There is no chance now, no time when I could intervene. It is set in stone.
I will kill Albus tonight.
Albus speaks soothingly, which only riles Draco further. The last thing you want from your victim is understanding.
Potter is not here.
"... the Vanishing Cabinets. I fixed them up, put one in Hogwarts the Death Eaters will be able to step right through."
So that's his plan. I cannot help but be impressed; Draco is nothing if not creative, and this possibility did not even enter my thoughts. Would it have been worth the risk of infiltrating his mind?
"Ah, very clever, my boy. Very clever indeed. Had you intended to kill me before they arrived, or were you hoping to make a performance out of it?"
From anyone but Albus, that would sound sarcastic, harsh, incendiary. He sounds merely curious.
"Shut up! Shut up, I have your wand. I could kill you any time I want. Any time." Draco is panicking.
"I have no doubt that you could. In fact, you have been in such a position for several minutes now. You have yet to act. Draco, are you sure you want to tread this path?"
I won't intervene. Draco is wavering. If left to his own devices, perhaps he will lower his wand, walk away. And the Vow, that damnable Vow, can be ignored just a while longer. My hand needn't be forced tonight. Albus needn't die.
"You don't understand," Draco says. Coming from any other teenager, it would set my teeth on edge, but Draco has cause for feeling this way. "He'll kill my family. I have to do this. My mother... He has my mother, and he'll kill them if I don't succeed. I have to do this."
"But if your family were protected? It is within my power to protect you, Draco. You have a choice. It is our choices that determine who we truly are, Draco. Please, choose carefully."
Nothing. Draco doesn't speak. I can't hear robes shifting. I can't hear my own breathing. I am half certain that my pulse must have stopped because the silence is complete.
And then it is shattered.
A stream of heavy footsteps, a flood of loud voices. I descend the last flight of stairs and see black robes and white masks pouring out of the one door on this corridor. And that quickly, that simply, the matter has been determined.
I will kill Albus tonight.
"Fenrir, I cannot say I am pleased to see you at all. Quite the reverse, in fact." There is chiding in Albus's tone and Draco cringes. Even now, with his wand raised to him and the Killing Curse on his lips, he cannot stand to be chastised by the Headmaster.
"No? What a shame, Dumbledore, because I'm ecstatic to see you tonight. Well, Malfoy, what are you waiting for?" Fenrir says, filthy lips smacking as he talks. I cannot help but be horrified to find him in a school. What the hell was Draco thinking?
What the hell is Draco thinking? He hasn't made a move to respond to Fenrir or to cast the curse. He has been struck dumb, but if he does not act soon he will suffer for it.
I stride down the corridor, distracting the Death Eaters from the awkward moment stretching between Fenrir's question and Draco's answer. My wand is in my hand.
Albus looks at me. There is still a twinkle in those blue eyes when they meet mine. Even now, even facing this, his next grand adventure, he is pleased to see me. I don't want to do this.
"Please."
I will kill Albus tonight.
"Severus, please."
Now.
"Avada Kedavra."
I have wondered whether I would be able to mean it. Whether it is in me to lift my wand to Albus, cast the Killing Curse, and will him dead.
I mean it.
Green envelops him. He is rocked backwards by the blast, falling in an arch through the window. The glass shatters, but I do not hear it. I close my eyes against the spray of shards and it takes almost every inch of me to pry them open again.
Sound returns in a rush. Voices calling, jeering, cheering, feet hammering away now that there is no longer anything to see. I turn to follow them.
Potter stands in a corner, Invisibility Cloak pooled around his feet. His face is white. He stares at me, mouth open in a little 'O'. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He nods to me once, gathers up his cloak to stuff in his pocket, sucks in a deep breath and then hollers.
"Snape, you bastard! I knew it! I knew Dumbledore shouldn't trust you!"
I take Draco by the arm and run. The Death Eaters – the other Death Eaters – are pelting down the stairs now. We race after them. I turn abruptly, taking another path. Draco nearly falls.
Order members – the other Order members – have started to arrive. I can hear a battle raging, voices harshly calling out curses, the rush of spell light, the soft thump of bodies hitting the floor.
I cannot face the Order.
Potter does not pursue us. His voice joins the cacophony and I lose track of him.
My feet pound against stone, steady as my pulse. Draco's arm is solid and warm beneath my grasp. He is all but a dead weight I drag behind me, his legs working frantically to keep up. I do not slow down. We've reached the Entrance Hall; the main doors have been thrown open, wind curling in and teasing the tapestries. It is not yet fully dark, but shadows spill across the lawn, the grass transformed into blades of basalt.
The quickest path to a point from which we can Apparate is via Hagrid's hut. The thing is blazing, like a lighthouse guiding us safely home. I can feel the heat of the flames against my face when a shout makes me spin round.
Potter.
He is stood in the doorway, a silhouette almost invisible against the huge backdrop. The wind must have carried his voice this far.
He calls me coward.
I am so incensed I step towards him, but the pulse beneath my fingers reminds me of my responsibility to Draco (the damned albatross around my neck), and I turn my back. We stumble into the Forbidden Forest, the darkness heavy here under the canopy of lush leaves. Once I have measured the distance to be sufficient, I jerk Draco to me and with a crack, we disappear.
-H-