SUNDAY, 30 AUGUST
Harry perched himself on a lab bench in his old potions classroom, feet swinging lazily over the edge as he watched his father argue heatedly with a young-looking man who had cheerfully introduced himself to Harry mere minutes earlier as Archibald Wright.
"I have these stores organized in a reasonable and logical manner, I will not have you coming in here on a whim and making a disaster of it every time you—"
"I hardly see what difference it makes, so long as everything is labeled clearly and kept tidy! None of them are even cross-reactive—"
"The banshee's saliva is very much reactive with the dried balsamina, violently so, or perhaps you have forgotten such trivial details in a decade of endless repetition?"
Harry leaned back, bracing himself on the heels of his hands, ignored for the moment by the both of them. He pulled out his somewhat diminished pack of sugar quills from Neville and removed one to chew on while enjoying the free entertainment. His father's glance darted his way for only a fraction of a second and the quill shot out of his mouth at a subtle twitch of the man's wand at his side, the offending item landing deftly in the bin near the door. Wright continued his useless argument, not even noticing the movement.
"As long as the lids are on I don't see how—"
"The lids are not always on, Archie. The first and second years especially are notorious for sloppy clean-up and even older students cannot always be bothered to fasten them down properly when they are too keen to get into a bit of mischief in the corridors before the next period starts. I have had to re-seal and clean more leaking cross-threaded jar lids, crooked corks and loose stoppers between classes than I can remember over the years and basic safety rules such as not storing materials together which may combust when combined cannot be neglected unless you want to explain to the headmistress why hundreds of galleons' worth of ingredients have suddenly gone up in smoke!"
With Archibald Wright suitably cowed for the moment, the man briefly turned his ire on Harry without even pausing for breath.
"And you have not been gone for so long as to forget such a fundamental rule as the ban on consumption of food in this classroom!"
Harry blushed and slid off the bench to stand properly. His father swept past his humiliated colleague, black billowing robes whipping at the man's shins like an insult, and retrieved a list of new and returning students from the desk.
"Come along, Harry, we have things to discuss."
Harry dutifully followed him out of the room and down the hall to a previously disused office that Snape had taken up residence in a few days before. He sat down behind the desk, dropping the list into a drawer and clearly expecting Harry to seat himself without prompting. He held out a hand toward Harry expectantly.
"Well, hand it over!"
Harry pulled out the roll of parchment that the Ministry had sent over along with his acceptance letter into the Auror training program and gave it without comment.
Snape unrolled it and scanned over the Ministry's assessment of his son's education and listing of what they deemed inadequate.
"Do you know who they intend to tutor you in these subjects?"
"They haven't told me yet, just that it would take up most of my evenings for the next six months, and afterward I should not expect a free Saturday before summer. Robards told me that we'll still be expected to attend all the same practical sessions as the traditionally qualified trainees from the beginning, which will take up four and a half days most weeks. Fridays will be half days for the sessions, mostly, if the draft timetable they gave me doesn't get changed. Apparently they are going about things a bit differently this year than they have in the past, since they are so short-handed."
"Hm. I will contact Robards and see if he will give me a copy of their planned curriculum and allow me to conduct your potions instruction myself. I do not trust them to find someone competent."
Harry was slightly taken aback. The man might be his father, but had certainly never cared for having him in the classroom at all.
"Are you really sure you want to spend that much time—"
"I will not have your life jeopardized by something poorly brewed. Even if you end up not brewing your own potions, you at least need to be able to recognize something that has been improperly made or adulterated, which is not always as simple as it sounds. They can provide me a list of what they intend for you to learn and you can floo over in the evenings or on weekends as your schedule allows."
Harry was close enough to him to feel the odd ambivalence in him. Worry mingled with something akin to frustration or annoyance. Possibly with Wright, but Harry did not think so. It felt like something directed inward rather than outward, like he wanted to say something but could not. Or would not.
Harry filed the observations away, trying to stay focused on the conversation at hand.
"What about Ron and Neville—"
"Longbottom and Weasley are not my concern. If you wish to pass on your knowledge to them after the fact, that is your own affair."
Snape picked the parchment up again, re-reading something.
"They do not apparently think you have missed anything important from the final year of Defense, but I disagree. We can address that as well. Professor McGonagall might be willing to lend a bit of her time to bringing you up to speed on Transfiguration, although she is still teaching in addition to her duties as Headmistress and it may not be feasible. We'll see who the Ministry brings in and deal with it at the time. Now for Charms—"
Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. Snape leaned forward slightly and sneered across at him, his annoyance unequivocally aimed outward this time, directly at Harry.
"You have chosen a very difficult and dangerous career for yourself, Harry. Did you really expect that your days of studying were past? This is not the time to start slacking off! Your very survival could come down to what you know. Do not think that just because the Dark Lord and a few Death Eaters have met their fates that the world is suddenly safe; the same arrogance, greed and prejudice that spawned them will bring more out of the woodwork soon or later and you must be prepared to meet them!"
His voice was angry and strident, full of long-suffering exasperation, but Harry felt a latent tinge of genuine fear threading between them, one with a potential for eventually evolving into actual panic. Thoughts of Mrs Weasley suddenly came to mind and the utter incongruity of it left him feeling a bit dizzy.
The man was worried about him , and in a very present way that had little or nothing to do with ancient regrets or debts. The Ministry could find tutors for their Auror trainees easily enough, after all, but here was something Snape could control , knowing full well that in a couple of years, Harry would be on his own and very much outside of his aegis.
Harry almost felt sorry for him, but mostly felt sort of warm inside.
Snape finished his lecture and sat back in his seat, looking at Harry oddly now. Perhaps Harry's own incongruous emotions had confused him. Harry started to stand up to leave.
"One moment before you go. I will return shortly."
Harry sat back down as Snape stood up and left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with an old book tucked under one arm. He sat down again and pushed the book across the desk toward Harry as though he were reticent to handle it more than necessary.
"I've put this off, but I suppose you have a right to know what's been done to you. Your old friend Smethwyck is a liar."
Harry pulled the book closer and opened the cracked leather cover, glancing at hand-written index with a nasty sense of déjà vu.
"Page two hundred and seventeen, if you will. I think you will recognize the description, even if you were not awake during the performance."
He did as he was told.
"'A Communion of Souls,' huh. Sounds a bit overly dramatic for a bit of magic mixing... er... oh."
"'Oh' indeed. Care to share any other brilliant commentary?"
Harry ignored the snark and continued his study of the passage. The handwriting wasn't the easiest to read, and whoever had written it sounded rather pretentious, or maybe it had just been a really bored monk or priest. He picked up the book, tilting it to the side and drawing it closer, trying to make out the minute marks on the diagram.
"Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, really, but it sounds like it, er... sort of re-tuned our souls or something? Weird. Never knew souls were like pianos." Harry laughed quietly at the image. "I wonder what they sound like?"
Snape seemed horrified at his levity.
"A dangerous and exceedingly invasive spell was performed upon you under false pretenses, and all you can do is joke about it?"
Harry thought about it for a moment. "Well, it worked, didn't it? You're well again."
Snape pinched at the bridge of his nose.
"Smethwyck described it as 'donating a bit of your innate magic,' I believe were his words. In what way does that even remotely resemble what you just read?"
Harry shrugged, closing the book and pushing it back across the desk. "It doesn't, I suppose, except that one footnote. Funny sort of spell though, if that's not what it was actually meant to do. I'm not sure what practical purpose it could even have otherwise."
Snape rested his elbows on his desk, bringing his fingertips together in front of him. "There was a sort of... movement... a kind of spiritualism, I suppose you might call it, that was popular among witches and wizards during the time period this book was written. Quite a lot of very powerful but fairly pointless spells of this type were created or re-popularized at the time. This is one of the less harmful iterations, to be quite honest. There was a lot of dabbling in outright necromancy going on at the time, as well; fools trying to summon demons and spirits and commune with the dead, among other things."
"Doesn't surprise me, I guess. People get up to all sorts of odd things for no good reason."
Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, his own anxiety feeding off of Snape's. The whole thing was just bizarre, really. Snape pulled the book back across the desk and into his lap, staring down at it. His hair fell forward, covering much of his face. Harry took a deep breath, feeling him building up to something, perhaps.
"Harry, I am... truly sorry, for this."
Harry waited for him to say something else, to explain what he meant, but nothing was forthcoming.
"Sorry for what? You didn't cast the spell, or even agree to it. As I recall, you weren't even fully conscious at the time."
Snape shook his head, lank black hair swinging side to side, but he did not look up again.
"This connection between us. I'm not ignorant of what you experienced with Voldemort and this—"
Harry cut him off immediately, not wanting to remain silent while the man took on yet more guilt, this time entirely without warrant.
"No, this is absolutely nothing like Voldemort and that horcrux. Don't even say that. How can you even think that? It's not like that at all."
Harry found himself rubbing at his scar for the first time in months, as though he could wipe it away. He flushed with anger, not at Snape, but at Voldemort for everything he'd ever done to this man, and to himself and everyone else. How could Snape think they were the same, even a bit?
Harry knew arguing was useless. Once Snape got an idea like this into his head, so utterly sure of the soundness of his logic, it was nearly impossible to pull him off of it without practically shoving him down nose-first into the truth. Well, if that's what it takes...
Harry got up, dragging the spindly high-backed chair behind him and dropping it down next to his father's, and sat so close that their arms were touching. He leaned over, letting his head drop to the man's shoulder. Snape flinched beside him, confused at his behavior, but Harry did not back down.
"Well, what do you feel, then? Do you still think I'm completely miserable?"
Snape seemed frozen where he was, stiffening but unable to move away. Harry was afraid he might begin shedding tears again, but it was no matter either way. Harry simply leaned more of his weight onto him, letting the man's anxiety pass over him like water.
"I'm not afraid of you, haven't been in a long time. You don't wake me up in the middle of the night with visions of horrific murders or split my head open with fits of rage. You are not hurting me. Please believe me. Please."
Minutes passed in silence before Snape finally spoke, barely audible.
"This is not a burden you should have to bear."
That's what he was tearing himself up about? Harry would have laughed, if he knew it wouldn't wound him.
"I've had far heavier. Really, this is nothing. This... this is light as a phoenix feather." He did laugh that time. Snape lifted his head by a mere fraction, glancing at him out of a corner of an eye through a curtain of black hair before turning away again.
Harry felt something unwind beside him, just ever so slightly. Well, it was a start, perhaps. He stood up finally, dragging the chair back to its place on the other side of the desk and sitting again. Snape remained where he was, almost but not quite looking at Harry.
Harry took a moment and glanced around the room, the unpacked boxes and stacks of books and thick layer of dust over the empty shelves. He hated the thought of that young teacher taking over the old Potions master's office, somehow. Not that he'd miss all the weird dead things floating in jars, which might well be in some of the boxes here and returning to view soon, but Wright just seemed so utterly out of place.
"I'll find out tomorrow during orientation about these remedial courses they're giving us. From what Savage said before, the first week is mostly just them getting us used to the Ministry and the program itself, more than anything, the hard stuff comes later. I'll send Fawkes over with the details once I have them."
Snape shifted in his seat, finally looking at him almost normally again, although he could feel that the man was still a bit rattled. Harry decided to be graceful about it and not mention it.
"Fawkes? Not Albus Dumbledore's—"
Harry smiled, shaking his head.
"No, just a common barn owl, but I couldn't think of anything better to name her. Seems a lot of things are starting over fresh now, though."
Snape didn't respond for several moments, but gave him a snide look, all of a sudden.
"When exactly are you planning on getting a haircut, by the way? I think your hair is longer than mine, now."
Well, now the shoe was on the other foot. He'd noticed the man had a habit of shifting the topic onto the someone else's problem, usually with a thick layer of sarcasm, when something started to bother him. It was sort of obnoxious, really.
"Dunno. I suppose I ought to."
"I'm sure you can spare the loose change. Or if you don't particularly care how it turns out, Molly Weasley has probably been cutting her sons' hair for years. I can't imagine you wanting to turn up at the Ministry tomorrow looking like a wastrel. It's a bit.. uneven."
Now Harry was the one squirming where he sat. He shrugged and tried to act nonchalant but knew that Snape could feel him just as easily as he'd felt out Snape before. It was hard to drop certain habits, even now that they both knew immediately when it was an affectation.
"You're one to talk."
There went that cocked eyebrow again. "I'm not trying to make an impression on anyone."
"Neither am I, really. At least not with hair, I'm not Gilderoy Lockhart. 'Course neither is he anymore, exactly... Anyway, I just never had to cut it before, it always stayed the same length no matter what. My aunt used to get angry at how messy it was and take me somewhere cheap to get it cut. A few times she just held me down and hacked it all off out of spite or something." He tried not to cringe, but failed, shuddering at the sudden feeling of a weight bearing down on him, the memory of his aunt straddling him on the floor of the kitchen wielding a pair of scissors like a weapon.
What a stupid thing to get upset over, after everything. He shrugged off the feeling, or tried to. "It was always the same again by the time I woke up the next morning, whatever she did. I guess that charm kept it looking like James's hair, or maybe I did. Or both. I don't really know."
Snape was still sneering, but he wasn't sneering at him anymore at least.
"That woman's disposition certainly did not improve with age."
"Not in the least," Harry agreed, somewhat able to put his feelings about her aside now that he knew he'd probably never have to speak to her again (although he did still want to catch up with Dudley again at some point). "But I don't mind it, really. They don't actually disallow long hair, although I'll have to keep it tied back during practical exercises, I think. Bit of a pain to wash out every day but it's not like it'll kill me."
Snape recognized the mild jab, but let it pass, for some reason. He was going a bit soft, maybe. What an odd idea.
"Your aunt... well. I knew her when we were children. She was always jealous of your mother, terribly so. Went rather 'sour grapes' on the subject of magic all the way around."
Harry nodded, a little surprised at the casual conversation. What a difference a few months had made. It was... unbelievable really. Maybe the connection between them wasn't completely useless after all, as hurting Harry would mean hurting himself, in a way.
Harry rubbed at his neck, his loose, long hair feeling soft over his knuckles. He really didn't have any particular desire to cut it, and not just because the idea rattled him. He still didn't think Ginny's old suggestion of a beard was too good of one, though. If nothing else, it was too itchy an idea. Maybe when he was as old as Dumbledore had been.
One thought occurred to him, suddenly, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't asked it before as it seemed obvious. Might as well make use of his generous mood while it lasts.
"I don't suppose you have any sort of family left?"
"Beside yourself?"
"Beside me, yeah."
"Not really."
"Not... 'really.' But... well I guess you wouldn't tell me anyway if your parents—
Harry could feel Snape's reticence and looked away, giving him a bit of space. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to ask.
"My father died the summer after I finished my seventh year. Drank himself to death. And I am only telling you this because such habits can sometimes run in families and you ought to be aware of a potential problem."
Harry nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. He felt he'd learned his lesson about strong drink back at the Three Broomsticks that night anyway.
"I suppose you'll ask about my mother next but I cannot honestly tell you. She left when I was sixteen and I have not seen her since. I believe she went to Germany, where some distant cousins lived, and she had started talking about them shortly before she went away. She may or may not still be there."
"You don't want to find her?"
"No. I would not suggest that you seek her, either. If she lives, she knows exactly where I am; if she wanted to contact me she could do so without undue effort. Furthermore, her cousins are descended from a long line of blood purists and would not welcome either of us."
"Oh." Harry fidgeted in his seat, unsure what to say to that.
"Minerva is probably expecting you to stay for dinner, but it is up to you. If you would rather return to the Burrow and spend your last free evening with your friends, she will understand."
Harry nodded, grateful for the unspoken offer to excuse him. He and Ron would be getting up with Ron's father to head to the Ministry in the morning and Ginny would be on the Hogwarts Express come Tuesday, as would Hermione. Hermione had already returned to her parents house to spend a few days with them before the first of September.
Snape stood to leave for the Great Hall while Harry retrieved the sheets of parchment now scattered across the desk he'd brought from the Ministry before using the floo to return to the Burrow.
He had picked up the tin of floo powder, but stopped, setting it back on the mantle on a whim. Before he lost his nerve, Harry dashed after his father, catching him up in an unexpected hug in the middle of the corridor, squeezing him tightly for a moment and leaving him standing in a daze.
It was only after Harry had stepped into the green flames that he realized his father had actually hugged him back, despite his impression of a goldfish afterward.