Chapter 44

MISTAKES

At Sirius's question, Snape fell deathly still, but Harry saw the telltale vein in his forehead twitch.

His godfather's face took on the look of the Angel of Judgment. "You said, Not me, then. Fine. But don't use Black. Even Pettigrew would be better than Black."

For a moment, Snape gaped. Then his sallow face blanched white. "I didn't mean . . . . How could James have thought . . . ." His breaths came quick and shallow, as if he were gathering energy for a denial. "That's . . . that's ridiculous."

Sirius shrugged. "I thought so, too. But James considered your idea brilliant. Little Peter Pettigrew. Who would guess he'd been entrusted? Who else was too devoted to betray his friends?"

"If James had . . . discussed it with me. But he was too . . . too arrogant."

"Discussed it? Taken a vote, perhaps?" Sirius snorted. "What kind of secret would it have been then? I had to be told so I could pass on my responsibilities. But of course, James told no one else—not Remus, not even Albus."

Snape staggered to the sofa. He sank down heavily, as if his knees could no longer support him.

Beside him, Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder. "You couldn't have known. Nobody blames you."

Sirius stared at the floor. "I'd always blamed myself. I should have realized the idea was treacherous." He fixed his dark eyes coldly on his long-time adversary. "But I blamed you more."

Harry saw a spasm contort Snape's face. For the first time, he truly understood his uncle—all his hostility toward his father, his godfather, himself—now that he was turning it inward. Dumbledore had said Severus Snape had made Lily Evans his rock. Harry could see he'd made her his life.

He bit his lip as his godfather strode forward, stopping an intimidating half-foot from his uncle. "When Peter betrayed James and Lily, I was sure that was why you'd suggested him. Two years ago, when you were so quick to deny all the witnesses who said Peter was alive—were so eager to have the Dementors silence me—I was sure your motive was to let him escape to cover your own treachery."

Snape passed a shaky hand across his forehead. "I—I'd believed you guilty. I craved vengeance. Nothing but watching a Dementor drain your soul would have satisfied me. It took Albus an entire night to persuade me I'd been cursing the wrong man."

Slowly, Sirius released his breath. "When you got knocked out in the Shrieking Shack and I levitated you, well—I'm afraid I rather made a point of bumping your head on the way out. Not until Remus convinced me you were indeed Lily's brother did I admit you'd made a tragic but honest mistake."

Snape's forehead furrowed with self-recrimination. Harry saw his pale lips form the word, Mistake.

Remus leaned forward in his chair. "Everything happened as the prophecy foretold. There was nothing you could you do."

"Except," Snape whispered, "be the instrument that ensured it would come true."

Dumbledore made a rumbling noise. "You have always placed too much faith in the illusion of control. Trying to avert what is truly destined is to be a butterfly battering against Gibraltar."

Harry saw a tremor pass over Snape's face. His uncle pressed his fingers hard against his forehead, then struggled to his feet—face to face with his godfather.

Sirius cleared his throat. "What's past is past. No use dwelling on it. Let's shake, at least. You've done wonders for me tonight. I'm grateful." Without waiting for a response, he thrust out his hand.

Snape swayed as though standing were an effort. Slowly, as if steadying himself, he closed his fingers around Sirius's.

When Dumbledore looked from one man to the other, his tension seemed to ease. "Neither of you is responsible for the Potters' deaths. Always remember: the vengeance we seek is against Voldemort."

After a faint nod, Snape pulled away from Sirius. "Nevertheless, I must be going."

Sirius rolled his eyes, glanced at Remus, then put on an affable smile. In a teasing voice, he tried, "I bet it's that cute little American—the one who, uh, likes puppies."

With a determined grin, Remus added, "Ariel's a darling. Who'd have thought Severus could make such a catch?"

"A love potion—that's my theory." Sirius gave a forced wink.

Harry prayed that his uncle would at least smile. Instead, Snape's left cheek twitched. Clearly, he was still too disheartened for such lighthearted banter. With a brusque nod at Dumbledore and a glance for everyone else, he strode into the fireplace, sprinkling floo powder almost as an afterthought. Harry stared until he'd disappeared in the smoke.

Could it be true? he wondered. One rash, impulsive comment had killed his parents? His godfather's hand on his shoulder broke through his speculations.

"I hope you don't mind," Sirius said, "but I'm pouring myself another drink. It's still Christmas, after all. I want to get blotto."

At dawn, Harry swam out of disturbing dreams to find a non-descript face hovering above him. Blinking his eyes into focus, he recognized his transfigured godfather and groggily propped himself up on his elbows.

"I have to go," Sirius whispered. "I wanted to say good-bye, first."

Harry sat bolt upright. "You can't. You still need your—"

"New identity?" Sirius smiled. "Remus and Dumbledore took care of it while we slept. I'm Jack Secundus Thomas. My wallet is full of papers and bits of plastic that prove it."

Harry swallowed and tried again. "You've only been here two nights. Now that you have a new name, you can move freely around Hogwarts—even Hogsmeade. Let's visit the Three Broomsticks. Don't you want to see Rosmerta?"

Sirius chuckled. "That is tempting."

Encouraged, Harry pushed on. "New Year's. At least stay till then."

"Can't." At his godson's frown, Sirius added, "Albus has given me a mission."

Harry's mouth opened. "A mission? Already? Is it dangerous?"

"Not more so than running from Dementors. With this bald head and chubby body, I could thumb my big bulbous nose at them and still not be sussed out."

His eyelids drooping, Harry flopped back on his bed. "Well, send me an owl. As soon as you can." He watched Sirius cast a spell to hoist his luggage. When he'd shown up, he'd had only a small backpack. Now he needed a carpetbag and a leather trunk to hold the gifts he'd received for Christmas. It was lucky the new wardrobe Harry had given him from Madame Malkin's could adjust to any body shape.

Before his godfather made it to the door, Harry drifted back into restless sleep. His last conscious thought was, Sweet Dreams Pillow? Sirius should get his money back.

At ten, Harry left Remus in the dorm room snoring. His night of hacking into Muggle computer records to create Jack Secundus Thomas had exhausted him. After attending the griffin and checking on the hydra (which sang Malfoy's praises in four-part harmony), Harry entered the Great Hall for Boxing Day Brunch. He scanned the students and staff scattered about the High Table, searching for someone to take his mind off last night.

Nobody.

With a sigh, Harry sat down by a pair of seventh-year students from another house. They were too involved in arguing the merits of Ministry versus private industry jobs to notice him.

At least, the meal looks good, he said to himself.

Unlike the rest of England's servants, Hogwarts's elves hadn't taken the traditional day-after-Christmas holiday. Instead, they'd prepared a feast—fried eggs, poached salmon, scalloped potatoes, grilled pumpkin, cranberry crepes with orange syrup, apple Danish, tangerine ambrosia, homemade yogurt, and Earl Grey tea. Only Winky and Dobby were enjoying a break. They perched at the far end of the table, gazing at each other with saucer-sized eyes while syrup dribbled down their chins.

At the table's other end, Ariel Daine was not having such a pleasant time with Severus Snape. All whispers and gentle touches, she seemed to be cajoling him to confess the reason for his depression. He appeared insensible to her efforts. Harry had barely downed half an egg when his uncle pushed away the plate his companion had piled with Boxing Day goodies. Without looking at her, Snape murmured something and stood. Harry watched him trudge down the length of the Great Hall and out the double doors. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the troubled man, but what could he do? As usual, Snape had established his own isolation.

A forkful of fish halfway to his mouth, Harry peeked past the side of his glasses at Professor Daine. She had already crumpled her napkin on top of her plate.

Harry shook his head and gazed up at the enchanted ceiling. Unlike his mood, the sky revealed was clear and bright. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to escape—to fly away from the tragedies of the past and the uncertainties of the future. Coming to a decision, he planted his spoon in his mound of potatoes, gulped down the last of his tea, grabbed a pastry, and left.

The "Confessing Conifer" tomorrow...