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: Thanks everyone who's reading along, in particular those who've let me know they're enjoying the story. The incredible RaeWhit betaed this fic for me.
Part Four
-H-
Harry crept into the flat, not bothering to light the candles so as not to risk waking Snape. He withdrew the diadem from his cloak and held it in a patch of light.
The trip to Hogwarts had been more successful than he'd imagined; although there were no books in the library that could help him in his search for a way home, he had hit on the idea of trying the Room of Requirement. He had still failed to find any information on travelling forward in time, but his search had turned up another of Voldemort's Horcruxes. He'd have recognised Ravenclaw's diadem anywhere; there was a bust of her wearing it on the fourth floor at work. When he'd spotted it, there was no question in his mind that this was the something other Voldemort had put his soul into; the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the snake and this. He took it.
Working at the National Library of Magical Reference with a piece of Voldemort's soul stashed in his pocket had not been comfortable. Despite the quiet of the few nocturnal patrons, Harry had been unable to feel at peace. Only now, with the diadem resting on the table away from him, could Harry feel his heart rate return to normal, the itching in his palms subside, and the darkness cloaking his thoughts dissipate.
With the bedroom occupied, Harry had no access to his compartmental trunk. What was he to do with the Horcrux until Snape was up and out of his way?
There was nowhere secure enough in the rest of the flat. With nothing else for it, Harry wrapped the diadem in his Invisibility Cloak and slipped it underneath Snape's bookshelf. His hand retreated not a moment too soon, Snape striding from the bedroom door wrapped in a navy towelling robe.
"'Morning," Harry said brightly.
Snape said nothing, but Harry knew by now that Snape didn't speak in the morning until he'd had a shower and a cup of tea.
Grabbing a book off the bookshelf as a ready-made excuse for him squatting in the corner of the living room, Harry dropped himself heavily onto the sofa, listening to the sound of the heater squealing and the water pounding. His eyes drifted shut and he tried to determine whether the familiar sounds were soothing or bloody annoying. He opened the book and glanced down.
Harry woke up without ever having had the intention of going to sleep. Whatever he was using for a pillow was hard and scratchy. And whatever was under his feet was warm and massaging him.
That didn't seem right.
He cracked open his eyes and peered through the light to see that he was sharing the sofa with Snape, and had somehow managed to plonk his feet onto Snape's lap. Rather than push them off and lecture Harry into wakefulness by impressing upon him the importance of not trespassing into other people's personal space, Snape was absentmindedly stroking them with his left hand and managing a book with his right.
Pushing himself up, Harry found some of the pages of the book under his face sticking to him.
"Whu– ?"
"Ah," Snape said, marking his place and setting down his book. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
He ran a critical eye over Harry and smirked. "Barely. You look like the undead. And you will be, if that is one of my books you've been cuddling up to."
"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry," Harry said, trying to unbend the pages and smooth out the creases with fumbling fingers. "I didn't mean to fall asleep; I was just going to read for a bit before heading to bed. Give you a chance to finish up in our room. I'll buy you a new one. Was it very rare? I'm sorry."
"Relax, you idiot. I've done worse things to books than bend their pages. I won't evict you just yet."
Snape seemed to be enjoying himself, which was a little frightening. Deciding to beat a hasty retreat, Harry drew his feet away from Snape and planted them on the floor.
"I'd best go get myself sorted out," he said through a jaw-cracking yawn.
"I'll pretend I understood that," Snape said, burying his nose in his book. "There's a potion in the bathroom cabinet for irritated eyes."
Harry immediately stopped rubbing his eyes with his fist. "Uh, thanks," he mumbled.
When he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Harry could understand why Snape had commented. In addition to the creases left on his face by the hard cover of the book, having fallen asleep with his contacts in (again – he kept collapsing into bed without giving them a second thought), his eyes were now rimmed red and quite heavily swollen. He eased the contacts out and instantly regretted it, because now he would have no means of identifying which potion Snape had meant.
Harry squinted at the labels but with no luck; Snape's writing had actually grown larger since he was this age, and it hadn't exactly been huge when Harry read it on his essays. Giving up, he stripped off for his shower, grateful for once that Snape used a bar of soap to wash everything. At least there was nothing left up to interpretation there.
-S-
Wearing fresh clothes, fresh contacts, and with a fresh prosthetic carefully held in place over his scar with a Sticking Charm, Harry walked into the living room feeling like a better edition of himself.
"I'm off out," he announced. "Something I need to pick up in Muggle London."
He had two of Voldemort's Horcruxes now, stashed safely inside his compartmental trunk, and he wanted them destroyed. Those things gave him the creeps beyond anything he'd ever seen before. Every time he opened his trunk, his skin itched as though it wanted to crawl off his body.
Harry didn't know what Albus had done with the ring, but he hadn't come out of it unscathed. If there was a way to kill off pieces of the soul without harming the caster, Harry was sure he would find it at Grimmauld Place. Even the books in the Secret Section for Spells Most Sinister of the National Library were a drop in the ocean compared to the Dark tomes held in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. And this would give him a chance to stash away the fake locket so that in the future he would see it, and recognise the picture that he had already recognised. Or something.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Snape said, laying down his quill and looking at Harry with his direct and discerning gaze.
"Uh, sure. I mean, I don't mind. If you join me. What did you want to go for?"
Harry wondered what he was going for himself now. If Snape were to follow him into Grimmauld Place and see him researching spells to destroy the soul, Harry wasn't sure if he would curse him or grade his notes. Nor was he sure which prospect was the more terrifying.
"Your conversation. I'm sure I have never in my life met anyone as eloquent," Snape said, so deadpan that for an instant Harry just accepted the comment as fact.
"Oh, ha ha. Well, I'm just after some new clothes for under my work robes. It's roasting at the minute, and I swear wizards haven't heard of cotton; why would you want wool pants in summer?" It was actually a good use of the day. The trousers Madam Malkin had made for him weren't actually wool, but whatever they were made of had him sweating within an hour at the library. It was a good thing his job wasn't particularly active.
Snape indicated that Harry should precede him out of the front door. "Most of us have mastered Cooling Charms. What a shame there aren't any books on those in that library of yours."
Harry punched Snape in the arm. "Oh, shut it, you."
He froze. He'd been enjoying the banter so much that he'd forgotten for a moment to whom he was speaking. And whom he was punching.
Snape looked taken aback too, but at least he wasn't swelling up with rage, which was what Harry might have expected.
"So, was there anything in particular you were wanting while we were out, or are you just sick of the sight of the same four walls?" Harry said, relieved when Snape thawed.
"I mainly just wanted out, but I wouldn't say no to a few of the book shops."
"Muggle books?" Harry asked, and could have kicked himself. Now that was an incendiary question.
But Snape just shrugged, something he could pull off with an annoying air of elegance. Not that the Snape Harry knew would have ever shrugged, but even at this age he had a rare grace about him that Harry could only envy.
"Books and clothes it is. You can tell which one of us is the bimbo, eh?"
At Snape's look, which said everything it needed to within an instant, Harry burst out laughing.
"Hey, I'll have you know that I work in a library," Harry said importantly, slipping his arm through the crook of Snape's elbow to support himself in case he creased up laughing again.
They went to Gringotts first to change their money. Harry was surprised by the amount he got for his Galleons, but he supposed the exchange rate must have been different in the eighties.
His wallet was packed with notes, and Harry knew that he felt a little bit more excited than a grown man should on stepping into the world beyond Diagon's charmed bricks.
"Right, clothes first, do you reckon? Then we can take as long as we like over the books?"
"You have never struck me as the bookish type," Snape said as they delved into the bowels of London. "You seem too... excitable."
Harry grinned. "I never struck me as the bookish type, either. It's funny how much you can end up loving something if you have to deal with it twenty-four-seven. It's either that or go mad, I guess."
Snape seemed confused by his answer, brows drawn together in a frown. "I don't understand how you came to work at the Library in the first case. Surely if you were not fond of books, you could have sought alternative employment?"
"Oh, I already liked books by then. I'm here on a sort of research project, and I can't leave until I'm finished. I spent near enough every day in the library anyway. I'd sort of come to think of the place as a second home by the time Morgan offered me the job."
"Research?" Snape said. "Have you advanced far with it?"
They turned into a department store and Harry led them to an escalator.
"Not a whit," he said. "I'm still at exactly the point where I started."
"Would you like my help?"
Harry looked at Snape in surprise. While it was true that they were getting on far better than he could ever have imagined they would, it was still strange for Snape to treat him as a friend.
"Nah, I have to do it myself or it doesn't count," Harry said.
They wandered around the menswear department, Harry plucking trousers at random and stroking them. Occasionally he would find a pair he liked and hold them up for inspection.
With three new pairs of cotton trousers folded over his arm, he went over to pay. Snape was saying something to him, but his interest was caught by a familiar voice ahead of them in the queue.
"Hold on to those, boy. I'll not have Dudley missing out on anything on his birthday because a runt like you lost something."
"Yes, sir."
Snape had noticed that he wasn't holding Harry's attention.
"What is it, Thomas?" he asked quietly.
"Nothing," Harry said, snapping his eyes away from his younger self. Sweet Jesus, it had never occurred to him that this might happen. Was he even allowed to be in the same room as himself, or was that some sort of paradox or something? Would one of them disappear?
"Do you know them?" Snape asked.
Harry shook his head. "No, no. Just caught my notice, that's all."
Snape looked over, lips thinning.
"Do I have birthdays, too?" the younger Harry was asking.
Harry was glad that he was holding that ridiculous pile of clothes for Dudley. He would be mortified if Snape knew it was him asking such a stupid question.
"Don't be an idiot, boy. No one was happy when you were born; why would we celebrate it now?"
Snape winced. "That seems harsh."
"Yeah, he doesn't seem to like the kid much, huh? Do you want to go straight to a bookshop after this, or did you want a bite to eat?"
Snape didn't answer. He was still watching the younger Harry and his uncle, by now at the head of the queue.
"Were my mummy and daddy not happy when I was born?"
"Why would they be, straddled with a whining brat like you? First chance they got, they let themselves be killed just to be rid of you. Now shut up."
"But I thought mummies and daddies were meant to love –"
"I've warned you about asking questions. Shut up, now. You'll be having no dinner tonight, and if I hear another word it'll be breakfast too."
Young Harry fell silent.
"I wonder why he has custody," Snape said under his breath, so only Harry could hear.
Harry shrugged, entirely too uncomfortable with the exchange they'd just witnessed. "Maybe he's just been a pain today. You know what young kids are like when you drag them round shops."
Snape glared at Harry as though he'd just suggested that they fly broomsticks to the moon and bring back cheese.
"Don't be more stupid than you can help. That man hates that child."
Harry just shrugged again. He couldn't argue; it was truer than Snape could possibly know.
Harry paid for his trousers and they made their way silently out of the shop.
Standing in the door were young Harry and his uncle, the pair of them laden with bags.
"That's everything for today, boy," said Vernon, checking a list. "Come on, hurry up so we can get these home before Petunia brings Dudley back."
Young Harry nodded, sucking his lip to keep from answering. He shook his fringe out of his eyes and trudged after his uncle.
Snape stopped where he stood and stared after them, his eyes uncharacteristically wide.
"What is it?" Harry said impatiently.
Snape started back to himself. "I thought I recognised the boy, but I must have been mistaken. Just a trick of the shadows."
Harry didn't say anything. He wasn't sure what to say. For a second, the lightning bolt scar had been obvious on young Harry's forehead, and Snape had seen it. For once in his life, Harry was glad that Snape thought him pampered and spoilt, because it meant he would refuse to believe that he had just seen Harry Potter getting bullied by his own uncle. If Snape had believed it and pursued a conversation about it, Harry would have been at a complete loss. He knew they couldn't get involved without changing the future, which would have meant he hadn't come back, so they really couldn't get involved, but at the same time how could he put off someone who was concerned for a child's welfare? Especially a someone who'd had the upbringing Harry had seen in Snape's mind.
"He will be alright," Snape said, so quietly Harry knew he was trying to convince himself.
Harry laid a hand on Snape's shoulder. "Of course he will. Something like that won't go unnoticed by the Muggle authorities for long, I'm sure."
Harry was lying, and was glad that Snape didn't turn to look at him. Neither one of them mentioned it again as they drifted into a bookshop, but their earlier excitement at the trip had gone. When Snape suggested they go home after only two shops, Harry nodded, relieved.
He was suddenly exhausted, his purchases weighing him down as though they contained half the world, and there was nothing he wanted more than to go home.
It was a pity he had no idea how to get back there.
-H-
The manacles shrink to fit my wrists, chaining me to the chair. The metal links are heavy and cool, and I cannot shift without causing them to clank together like a mournful ghoul desperate for attention. I do not lift my head, letting the Minister's voice roll over me as he reads a long list of charges.
I try not to hear Albus's name amongst my many crimes.
"How does the defendant plead?"
I am not permitted to answer for myself. Given the farces that comprised the trials at the end of the last war (when, indeed, they bothered with trials at all), it has been insisted upon now that each person accused is given a solicitor.
"My client pleads not guilty."
That is not the answer I would have given. My solicitor has not listened to a damn word I've said. She nodded as I confessed guilt: guilty of being a Death Eater; guilty of terrorism; guilty of murdering Albus Dumbledore. She nodded and made notes and then she asked me if I miss Albus. I do, of course I do: I miss him like a part of myself. As though missing the old fool is enough to mitigate killing him, she consulted with God knows who and – on my behalf – is pleading not guilty.
"To all of the charges?" The Minister's tone is disbelieving.
I do not blame him. I cannot fathom what my solicitor is thinking.
"Given the extenuating factors caused by the war, the Ministry cannot justifiably hold him accountable for laws broken in the name of defeating He Who Must Not Be Named."
"For the court of law, all names must be given."
They are fighting the superstition now. Albus would be pleased.
"Very well. In the name of defeating... Vol- Voldemort. There is evidence to suggest that without my client's contributions, we would still be fighting now –"
I am no longer listening. I idly examine the manacles on my wrists. They are edged in rust and blood. There is an old horror story about a criminal who so mangled his wrists on these metal cuffs that he bled to death before he could be taken from the courtroom. It is undoubtedly nonsense.
Still, I wonder what will be the best means of killing myself when my cell becomes too much. I do not know how long I can tolerate the cold damp grey of Azkaban with nothing to stimulate me beyond the sea view I have been kindly granted.
The door to the courtroom bursts open, drawing my attention from its morbid preoccupation.
Standing there, dressed in what appears to be a pair of stripped pyjamas, is the Boy Who Lived.
"I'm sorry I'm late. My Healers were reluctant to let me leave," he says. He bites his lip, and his cheeks flush faintly; reluctant is likely quite the understatement of their sentiments on his leaving.
"Mister Potter," the Minister says kindly, "there is no need for you to risk your recovery to attend criminal proceedings."
"I am here as a witness for the defence," Potter says. He speaks as though he has no notion of the impact of his words.
Several reporters have dropped their quills in shock.
The Minister beckons Potter forward, and the boy allows the door to fall closed behind him. The slam as it bounces in its frame makes him jump.
"Mister Potter, it is not my intention to cast aspersions against your character, but given the nature of your stay in Saint Mungo's, I am not sure that your word will hold in a court of law."
Amazingly, this brings a smile to Potter's face, proving the Minister's suspicions about his mental health.
I did not know the war has driven Potter mad.
Potter reaches more deeply than seems likely into the pocket of his pyjama shirt. He withdraws a folded parchment. Wordlessly, he passes it to the Minister.
The Minister unfolds the note and reads it, his scowl so pronounced that his monocle threatens to slice his brow.
"You have been declared sane?" he questions and my breath catches in my throat.
Potter nods, still wearing that ridiculous beam.
"This is dated from earlier today." The Minister sounds distrustful, and not a man in this court could blame him.
Potter simply nods again.
"It has been my understanding that you have been incapacitated since the end of the war due to extreme distress."
"Yeah, I have. But I'm better now and I wanted to stop you from doing something stupid."
The Minister looks shocked to be addressed this way, and makes no indication that he will respond.
"He was a spy. Severus Snape, I mean. Whatever you think he's done, it was to help defeat Voldemort. The death of Albus Dumbledore was arranged by Albus himself; he told me to expect it. You can view my memories, if you like. Or I'll take Veritaserum. Albus was already dying and he wanted his death to achieve as much as it could, so he chose to have Se – Snape kill him, which meant the position of our spy within the Death Eaters' ranks was safe.
"And Sna– Professor Snape, that is, saved my life. More than once."
Potter, who delivered this speech with an unprecedented maturity, suddenly looks very young.
I do not know how to interpret this defence. His motivation for securing my freedom is clearly repayment of a debt rather than pure altruism, but if it is effective then I will be grateful nevertheless.
"You are willing to swear that Severus Snape acted only against Voldemort in the Second War? And you would be able to do so having taken Veritaserum?"
"Sure," Harry says. "Do you have any knocking about?"
A heavily moustached member of the Wizengamot leans forward. I am half-convinced that the motion was caused by the weight of his facial hair becoming too much for his broomstick of a neck to support.
"The chair recognises Minister Cottus."
"This is most irregular, for a witness to present himself this way. Your part in this trial should have been entered by the defence long in advance."
His moustache bristles with indignation, and Potter's eyes follow it suspiciously.
"It could hardly be entered in advance if I was locked up in a mental ward, could it? I couldn't have come to the trial any day before now. Do you have any truth potion for me to take or not?"
He sounds so entitled that for a moment, he is James Potter making demands and expecting them to be carried out at his merest whim.
But he is shivering in those pathetic pyjamas and he is white as a ghost and his bare feet shift against the cold stone floor and his green eyes are wide and pleading and he is not – he is not – James Potter.
The Minister holds out his hand, and someone behind him passes forward a clear phial. The Minister gives the bottle to the court hand, who almost trips over his feet to collect it.
"You know how to use this?" he asks the hand, who nods enthusiastically. "Very well. Two drops, I should think, given his weight."
"Have you taken this before, Mister Potter?"
"I have not," Potter says, smiling encouragingly at the hand.
"Have you any idea what to expect?"
Potter half nods. "I've seen it used, but that was a while ago now. I should be fine."
"Very well. Robin, administer the dose if you would."
Those seated in the public gallery shift forward, reporters with their quills poised, and even those sat on the benches crane their necks for a better view. I would be on the edge of my seat myself, if not for the chains.
"Can you give us your full name?"
"Harry James Potter."
"And why are you here, Harry James Potter?"
"To see Severus Snape go free."
"And what reason do you have to wish his freedom?"
"I know it to be the case that he has acted only to the benefit of the Light since the Second War began. He has spied on Voldemort, at great risk to himself, since I was fourteen and Voldemort was reborn."
"And how did you come to know this?"
"I was told by Albus Dumbledore the risks that Severus Snape has taken; I was shown Albus's memories of discussions with Severus Snape concerning his death; I have met with Snape to secure information I needed to fight Voldemort and his Death Eaters; Snape prolonged my life so that I would be able to kill Voldemort."
"Do you believe it possible that Severus Snape's true loyalties lay with Lord Voldemort?"
"No. He healed me so I was able to defeat Voldemort, and did not betray the extent of my injury to any of my enemies. And anyway, I know him well enough to know that he hated Voldemort and was willing to give his life to see Voldemort destroyed."
A witch leans forward, her papery skin almost audibly rustling as she speaks.
"You say that Severus Snape has prolonged your life, yet earlier you stated that he has saved it. Which is the case?"
"I... I don't know. Both. He's saved my life loads of times, but... Before I killed Voldemort, I was dying from a horrible curse, the same one as Albus. Professor Snape wasn't fast enough to save Albus – though he tried – but he was able to keep me alive. I'd be dead by now if not for him."
Potter hesitates.
"The curse was unique, and Snape had to invent a way to counter it. The injury no longer hurts as much as it once did – hardly at all, most days – and I can't feel myself weakening. It is possible that I'll live a long life, but it is also possible that the counter will fail and I'll find myself dying again."
The witch eyes Potter shrewdly. "Are you in any way hoping to secure Severus Snape's freedom so that he will be around to prolong your life further should the curse return?"
Potter looks surprised, and faintly offended, to be asked.
"No, of course not. Snape has done all he can. He doesn't owe me anything. I don't want him to go to Azkaban because he doesn't deserve it."
I can see nods in the public gallery. My heart falters.
"Have you anything further to add to your statement?" the Minister says.
Potter frowns, clearly deep in thought. "I think... I think I've said all I need to say. Snape was our spy," he ticks it off on one hand, "he killed Albus under Albus's own orders; the war would have been lost without him, and I'd be dead several times over.
"It would be very hard to forgive a Ministry that imprisoned a hero. As long as you know that, all I can ask for now is your decision."
His voice wavers, and his eyes do not quite meet the Minister's. I cannot feel any confidence that his defence of me will have won me my freedom, but I feel a surge of warmth towards him nonetheless for trying. Veritaserum or not, the boy is quite clearly still mad.
He catches my eye. I incline my head slightly in acknowledgement and he immediately looks away, the corners of his lips drawn down.
Hands are being lifted. More are in the air than not, but I did not hear the question. Are they voting to acquit or to condemn?
"Severus Snape, you have been cleared."
The manacles around my wrists spring open and the chains silently recoil.
I have been released.
-H-
Harry was surprised to see Severus striding towards him down the aisles of the Library's second floor.
Harry raised his eyebrows.
"I require a text that Hogwarts Library does not carry. Perhaps you could instruct me on its whereabouts?"
"Sure. Though I'm off duty, I hope you know."
"A plain clothes librarian," Severus said, smirking. "I can see that. I would think that you see enough of this place when you are being paid to lurk about its shelves."
"Me? Nah. Can't get enough of these dusty old books. No sneeze is better than a sneeze in a library, where about fifty people turn to glare at you for disturbing the peace."
"You are not popular among your patrons, then?"
"Goodness, no! I couldn't be less popular if I tried. Or perhaps I could. I'm not really a librarian by nature, you know."
"Oh, I know. Which brings me back to my enquiry. Do you always avoid being of any use in the search for books?"
"Only with people I really dislike. Sorry about that, Severus."
Harry grinned to soften his words, an expression that Severus returned only tentatively, and for less than a second before his face fell back into its customary frown.
"If I endeavoured to be more amiable, would you perhaps guide me to Eyer's Critique of Ethics and Magic?"
"More amiable. What would that involve, do you think?"
But Harry had already placed a hand at Severus's elbow, and was gently guiding him towards the stairs. Eyer's Critique was on the third floor.
"Oh, I suppose I could be persuaded to laugh at your appalling jokes, once in a while. And to withhold laughing at your appalling hair –"
"Once in a while," Harry finished, shaking said hair out of his eyes. He had ceased being surprised to catch a glimpse of blond every time his fringe fell forward. "Well, that's more than amiable enough for me. Did you want –?"
The stairs fell out from beneath them.
Splintered wood was flung upwards and Harry dropped down like a sack of stones.
He saw light only in flashes, and reached blindly for Severus. His arms wrapped around a familiar lean body, and he twisted midair so that Severus was over him.
There wasn't time to reach for his wand, to cast a spell, to stop the fall.
He landed with a thump and a crack, his back arched over a beam of wood. His arms loosened their hold of Severus.
A deep rumble alerted him to a second structural collapse. He tried to warn Severus, but his lungs hadn't the air to form the words. He felt a warm hand squeeze his.
Then the oppressive darkness pressed in on him. The thick air of sawdust choked him. The crashing of thunder shook him. The weight grew heavier than he could bear.
And the world ended.
-H-