„By the way," Potter asked. „Do you have any use for basilisk parts?"
Snape, who had been staring at the slowly approaching silhouette of Hogwarts castle for the last minutes, faltered in mid step and turned to the left, where Potter was quietly walking besides him.
„You must be joking," He said. „Basilisk parts are worth a fortune. Or is this some less than subtle attempt at blackmail?"
„Why should I be blackmailing you?" Potter inquired with mild interest and Snape rolled his eyes in silent annoyance.
Because we are fast approaching the stronghold of all you left behind too gladly, he wanted to answer. Because we're about to meet the one man that produces anger in you these days, and because I know far too much about you by now? I've become a weakness to you, Potter. A liability.
But all he did was snort, half in disgust, half in amusement.
"Yes," He murmured. "Whyever should you."
Something in Potter's face softened as he turned towards Snape and calmly met his eyes.
"I have already said this," He answered quietly. "And I will repeat it until you believe me. I have absolute faith in you. I have trusted you not only with my life, but with the life and well being of my friends. You are the most honourable man I know, Professor, and you would rather die than betray that trust. I know it, and you know it, too."
For one moment, Snape stared silently at the young man by his side, his mind and heart in chaos, then he averted his face and quickened his steps.
That settled it. Potter was as mad as a house elf. With suicidal tendencies like these, Snape had better keep him away from sharp or pointy objects.
"You don't know what you're saying," He answered after a moment, painfully aware that this was nothing less than an adequate answer.
But he didn't know what else to say, and he had no idea how to react to the warm, knowing smile that illuminated his former pupil's face for a moment.
Snape was a Slytherin, stemming from a long line of Slytherins and socialising mostly with his like. Slytherins didn't trust anybody, never completely, and certainly never without some backup plan if the scarcely given trust was abused by others.
Voldemort had bound his own followers to himself with blood and pain, forcing them into submission until they had no way out. Dumbledore had expected total openness and the will to sacrifice his own life for "the cause" before he had taken Snape in and made him a member of the Order. Hell, even his own parents hadn't trusted him unconditionally, and he would have thought them stupid if it had been any other way.
That was why Snape had never received such an open declaration of faith. And that was why he found himself at a total loss how to deal with it.
Potter, on the other hand, seemed to handle the continuing silence easily.
They had nearly reached the gamekeeper's hut, occupied by a young wizard named Oaking these days, when Snape finally cleared his throat.
"Were you serious about the basilisk?"
Potter chuckled. "Of course," He answered pleasantly. "I had meant to ask you long before graduation, but I was a bit… overwhelmed by the course of events then. I wouldn't know how to use them, anyway, even if I should survive the next weeks. I can show you the entrance to the chamber on any map and magically record the parseltongue passwords for you." He hesitated for a moment. "It would be a fine gesture if you could leave a few ingredients for Ayda, though. Basilisk skin is rather hard to come by for a druid."
"For anyone," Snape corrected, glad to be on safe ground again. "Are you telling me that you can record parseltongue?"
"Sure," Potter answered. "I found a way five years ago when I…"
Potter stopped abruptly, and something in his body language seemed to change. Suddenly, he didn't look like the friendly, slightly embarrassed young man he had been these past days anymore, but like a warrior, a hunter, ready to move and strike at an instance.
Snape followed the direction of his eyes, searching for whatever had caused this change of behaviour, and saw Minerva walking towards them briskly. That probably explained it.
"Professor," Potter greeted her, inclining his head courteously, but Snape was far too used to his usual tone of voice by now to not notice the cold undercurrent.
Ludicrous as it was, Potter expressed not half the warmth towards his former Head of House than he usually did towards his snarky Potions Master.
"Mr Potter, Severus, "Minerva said warmly, then, with a slightly frowned forehead, examined Potter's grey skin colour and his too slim frame. Only now did Snape realized that the man had lost weight over the last days, more than it would normally have been possible.
"How do you feel, Mr Potter?"
"Wonderful," Answered the young man, giving her a wide grin that somehow seemed to suck all warmth out of the air, exposing way too many teeth. Somewhere below that smile, Snape realized, an angry snarl was hidden. And you don't want that to come out, Potter's posture stated quite clearly. You wouldn't like that at all.
Snape remembered the inhuman speed Potter had displayed in the vampire tavern, how he had told him calmly about killing Voldemort, and he was glad that this smile wasn't directed at him. Minerva, being suddenly assaulted by some prehistoric urge that had caused her foremothers to climb trees in fear, understood the message instinctively.
She cut the examination short abruptly, and extended an arm towards the school.
"If you would accompany me," She said. "The Headmaster is waiting for you."
"Just the headmaster?" Potter asked calmly and a muscle in Minerva's jaw twitched.
The smile had vanished from Potter's face, but the threat of the snarl was still there, in the straightness of his shoulders and the way his eyes were fixed on her and her alone.
"No, not just Albus," She answered quickly. "The others wanted to see you… talk to you as well."
Snape had to admit that he was impressed. Years of teaching and ruling the most unruly house of the school had made it nearly impossible to confuse, surprise or intimidate Minerva McGonagall. She had stared down the Weasley, Malfoys, Fudges and Blacks of three generations, and not even Snape could make her back off easily.
But it seemed that Potter had managed that unheard of deed without really trying. He smiled again, as if in answer to this special piece of information, and Snape could have sworn that Minerva paled under her solid summer tan.
"Then we shouldn't let them wait for us, should we, Professor?" Potter asked, half turning his head towards the Potions Master, and Snape had to suppress a smirk when he saw the pitying look in Minerva's eyes.
"Certainly not, Potter," He replied, in the same off-handed tone that nevertheless suggested some underlying threat, and Minerva's eyes widened for a heart beat. Then, she huffed, not knowing how to deal with all this subtle tension – she was a Gryffindor, after all – and beckoned them to follow her.
They walked the grounds silently, and when they entered through the main door into the Entrance Hall, nothing in Potter's stance and face suggested anything other than serenity. But Snape had spent enough time with this new Potter over the last week to feel tension radiate from his body, and to see the rigid line of his back. Compared to the relaxed state the young man was in normally, this was the essence of nervous energy.
Potter was readying himself for battle. And Snape wondered whether he should be pleased or horrified that only he, the most insensitive teacher of the bloody school, was able to detect it.
Talk about irony, He thought, and wondered whether he had better compose another mental letter. Unfortunately, everyone he could have addressed it to would be in the Headmaster's office. Well, they'll notice themselves when everything goes to ruin, then, He mused and followed Minerva up the stairs.
The gargoyle sprang obediently aside as Minerva murmured the password, and the winding staircase carried them upwards with a whisper of stone against stone.
The Headmaster's office had obviously acquired a new door during Snape's absence, made from dark, polished wood and glittering with protection spells. It reminded Snape of Shadow's door, and he smirked. Obviously, Albus hadn't liked the way Potter opened the last one. But from what he knew by now, Snape seriously doubted that there were any protection spells sufficient to kept Potter out – or in.
Minerva led them silently into the office, but the place behind the desk was empty, as were the chairs and sofas scattered across the room. It seemed that they hadn't reached their destination yet. Walking over to one of the bookcases, the Head of Gryffindor touched the intricate carving of a bird and yet again whispered something indistinguishable.
And the bookcase vanished.
At the sight of the tunnel that suddenly opened its grey mouth into the office as if it aad been there forever, Snape felt his heart sink. So this was Dumbledore's plan.
Since he had read the letter that had asked for this meeting, he had known that something would happen, that this would never be a simple discussion of Potter's physical and mental state.
The Headmaster was too eager to help (manipulate, a voice whispered Potter, to make him return to his friends and admirers (get him under his thumb again) to not try another one of his helplessly emotional approaches.
But this, Snape had to admit, really was a nasty twist.
He scanned Potter for any kind of reaction as he stepped into the tunnel, but the man's body was totally expressionless. Nothing in his face indicated that he had ever entered this tunnel before. Nothing in his eyes betrayed that the room to which it led, the Order's Headquarters after Black's death had lost them Grimmauld place, was the keeper of any memories worth keeping.
But Snape knew how many triumphs Potter had experienced here, how many displays of loyalty and friendship. How many scenes of despair.
And as he walked into the Chamber of the Phoenix, a room he hadn't entered for more than four years, and saw the face of Albus Dumbledore, easy to read in comparison to that of Potter, he knew that the Headmaster knew it, too.
That he was willing to use those memories of pain and sorrow, of happiness and hope to his own advantage, to blackmail Potter into his return to the wizarding world, not caring what it meant for the man.
Realizing this, Snape felt the tiny doubt he had harboured inside himself wither and die. He had still hoped for another explanation concerning Potter's memories, had still doubted that Albus Dumbledore could have lied to him and betrayed a student's trust.
Now he knew that it was true.
Suddenly, he felt the touch of a hand and turned his head sharply to the left.
Potter, of course. Potter, squeezing his shoulder for a moment before letting go, in his eyes understanding and sadness. Not directed towards this place or his own, miserable past, but towards Snape and the feeling of betrayal that constricted his throat. Damn the man, how did he know?
Snape scowled instead of an answer and turned away again. Really, he would never understand the brat.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Potter smile in his strange, slightly sad way, then incline his head toward the people awaiting them. At least Dumbledore had had the decency not to invite the Weasleys, but every teacher that had been an Order member was seated at their old places at the round table, with Madame Pomfrey as a bristling addition.
That had been another one of the Headmaster's sentimental ideas: a round table, to show the equality of all members and to remind them of another order, long gone, that had fought against the evil of their time.
"With you as our Merlin and Potter as our Arthur?" Snape had snorted as an answer back then, but after the time with Potter, the idea didn't seem so funny anymore.
After all, Merlin had been the mightiest counsellor of this round, and Arthur had listened to his every word and followed his every wish. And hadn't Merlin's ploys and plots been the creation of Mordred? Hadn't Arthur died defeating his own son that was conceived only with the help of Merlin?
"Headmaster," Potter now greeted the old man respectfully while Snape fixed his face into another scowl, his usual greeting to most of the people assembled here.
"An interesting choice for this meeting," Potter continued, dry amusement colouring his words, and glanced around the room. I know what you are trying to do, the polite smile on his face seemed to say, And it is rather pathetic, really.
"But quite fitting. I see you left my old place for me," And down he sat, one empty chair to his left, and two to his right.
The place of Remus Lupin, Potter's mentor and friend until Death, or rather its Eaters, had taken him, and the places of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, his best friends, his family.
Whatever point Dumbledore was trying to make here, Snape thought it rather sick. He searched Potters face again, finding nothing but acceptance and control. Snape remembered how Potter had reacted to the sight of his friends back in the pensieve and felt himself relax. The man had dealt with his sorrow. This would not bring advantage to Dumbledore.
As Snape too resumed his old place, tot he right of the Headmaster, he couldn't help noticing that with Potter sitting across from him, the table somehow appeared less round than before.
The polished wood seemed to stretch out towards the young man, to welcome him home and bend itself to his will. Although the curve of the table was as smooth and round as before, it was to Snape as if Potter sat at the front side, the position of honour and power. Quite easily filling it.
And from the look in all those eyes that were fixed on him, from the way the atmosphere changed, the magic seemed to swirl around him again as it had done that first evening in Dumbledore's office, Snape was quite sure that the other former members of the Order had noticed it, too.
Dumbledore had miscalculated badly, it seemed. It had probably been his intention to remind everyone in the room, especially Potter, of their former place, of the way they had belonged together, been forged together as parts of one single aim and depended on each and every part.
But the only thing he had achieved was to show everyone how much the tide had turned during the last years. Potter wasn't part of anything. He was a leader. And he wouldn't be led by anyone else.
Snape wondered where the arrogance Potter suddenly exuded had come from. It was expressed in the most subtle way Snape had ever seen – through the arch of Potter's neck, the way his open palms covered the edges of his chair, the way his eyes took in each and every one of them. Lucius Malfoy was an amateur against this.
Hadn't Snape seen Shadow do the real thing a few days ago, he would have been deeply intimidated. This way, he was rather amused by Potter's acting talents.
"Mr Potter," Albus began. If he was aware that his plans had failed even before he had opened the conversation, he didn't let on. But Snape saw Minerva's eyes flicker towards the Headmaster nervously. So there had been a plan, and it hadn't started with "Mr Potter".
"We are glad to see you so well tonight, although we know the illness must be bothering you greatly…"
Trying to get emotional, are we, Snape thought, marvelling at the sincere warmth that coloured the Headmaster's face and wondering if Dumbledore hadn't been a Slytherin after all.
"Oh, it's not that bad, Headmaster," Potter waved away the carefully constructed sentence that was doubtlessly meant to lead to a long, cosy talk about his feelings. He exposed his teeth in another one of his dangerous smiles and Snape braced himself for the counter attack. „After all, you taught me how to endure suffering very long ago."
Below the belt, Snape thought as he had during their first meeting in the Headmaster's office, but this time he had to raise a hand to hide an inappropriate grin of amusement. Now, Albus, will you take the bait?
It seemed that Potter was waiting for the same question to be answered, but Dumbledore remained silent while Minerva moved restlessly in her chair. One point to Potter.
"But if you are so worried about my health, it should relieve you to see that I can still walk, and talk, and think coherently, although Professor Snape would disagree with the last one."
Snape was glad that his hand still hid his mouth. To his left, he could hear Tonks chuckle in amusement, while Minerva's mouth thinned into a line of disapproval.
"And having thus proved that I am still alive," Potter continued, still perfectly serious. "I believe that all further questions concerning my health had better be answered by Professor Snape. I only wish to present some of my findings to you, and then I will leave you to your talk and concentrate on some research in the library."
Speechlessness. Again. Snape wondered if Potter was keeping a secret list. Times I have caused utter confusion, times I have driven my professor to madness, times I was nearly killed by monsters today…
But apart from his amusement, Snape had to admit that he was slightly confused Potter hadn't told him about any theories he had developed, and he felt a bit… left out. No, He thought. Irritated. Enraged. Unnerved. Proper words to describe your feelings towards Potter. You are not feeling left out.
"Findings?" Pomfrey asked after a moment. "Do you mean new facts regarding your illness, Mr Potter?"
"Indeed!" Potter smiled at her as if she had asked the cleverest question in the world. "I found an alternative therapy to the one Professor Snape and I work on this moment. It is surprisingly simple, once you start to think in that direction."
"I thought of all possible therapies, Potter," Snape said, now scowling for real. "There are no alternatives."
"Oh, but there is one," Potter disagreed in a friendly tone. "It's a bit mystic, I must admit, but once I finish my research, I should have proof for its validity."
From the look of his face, Dumbledore didn't like the development of the conversation at all. He had been left out nearly from the beginning, and now Snape and Pomfrey had taken over the talking. Time to take the reins again.
"And what is this alternative you are talking about, Mr Potter?" He asked, only to see Potter's smile widen once more and realized that he had talked himself into a trap.
"Why, to kill me, of course," Potter answered pleasantly.
Speechlessness. Again. Damn the brat.
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A/N: Computer problems. I couldn't post in the forum, and I couldn't update. Apologies from me and from my notebook. We had a long talk about this, and I think he will behave in the future.
Now, to the continuing Arthurian allusions in this chapter (Tell me if you're fed up with that, by the way!): I twisted the facts a bit. It is true that King Arthur and his knights from the table round had Merlin as one of their chief counsellors. He was a wizard, but also educated Merlin and – to my mind – was as crafty a politician as Albus Dumbledore. Concerning Mordred, he was only indirectly created through Merlin's fault, being the son of Arthur and Morgaine, who was the unknown sister of Arthur. But the whole thing was caused by Merlin when he gave Uther Pendragon, Arthur's father, the chance to sleep with Igraine, the mother of Arthur and Morgaine. Igraine was married to another man, and refusing to be unfaithful, and Merlin let Uther look like this man so that he could come to her in the night. Later, Mordred caused discord among the knights of Camelot and tried to take Arthur's wife away (talk about irony). Arthur finally died defeating him. Rather complicated, I know. To be researched in "The Death of Arthur" by Thomas Mallory (which is a tremendous read).
That said: Review! And thank you for doing so before!