A/N: Many apologies for the unbelievably long delay – if you want explanations, please go to my livejournal (Homepage-link on my profile page). I solemnly swear that updates will come much quicker after this one. However, my other fanfic is nearly finished now and will thus have priority till the last chapter's up. After that, I promise I will concentrate as much as I can on this one!

Thank you all for your reviews and thoughts and for not giving up on me. I know this chapter is of a rather transitory nature and might disappoint after the long wait. But there are necessary developments in it, and I promise the next chapter will begin with a bang!

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A Spoonful of Sugar

Walking the corridors of Hogwarts had become an extremely stressful experience as of late. Not because of the many centaurs, druids, or – at night time – vampires that might possibly be waiting behind every corner, and not because of the teachers who, although they had officially forgiven his betrayal, were treating him with even more mistrust than usual.

No, it was because never in all his time at Hogwarts had there been so many people who seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

It was scary, really.

There were Ayda, Chairon and the centaur that had led them to the secret garden, and of course the vampires he had met during that first surreal night in the tavern. He had expected them to recognize and greet him, perhaps smile (although he hadn't quite learned to deal with that part from the vampires, yet). But there were other people, people he had never seen in his life, stepping up to him and thanking him for what he had done.

Thanking him because he was taking care of 'their Harry'. So that was what a life as spy for the light and exceptionally brilliant Potions Master led to? Being recognized because he played the nurse for Potter?

And most disgusting about it all, as he had yet to admit to himself, was the fact that he felt a twinge of guilty delight every time he heard himself praised in this way. He had even stooped low enough to make sure one of the druids told him so in front of the staff, especially Minerva.

Her expression of outright bafflement had been beautiful to see. It had even been worth the hug said druid, a woman that reminded him of Molly Weasley without the hysterics, had subjected him to. Barely.

But now, Snape only wanted to get away from all these voices, from the hands trying to touch him and the gratefulness he didn't deserve. His face hurt, and only when he raised his hands to it did he realize that his jaws were strongly clenched together.

To his own shock, he found that he didn't want a quiet corner with an armchair and a fireplace or a large bottle of whisky. He wanted Ayda.

And this confirms it. I am lost forever to the ranks of Cynical Intellectuals for World Peace. I should resign membership and join the Merry Group of Soppy Idiots instead.

But intellectual disgust or not, his treacherous feet moved him steadily through Hogwarts, in search for a woman he'd never thought he would search for.

He found her in the Headmaster's office. Of course.

It wasn't surprising that she was nosing her way through the Headmaster's belongings – she had never shown any regard for such concepts as politeness, privacy or ownership -, but what shocked even him a little was the shamelessness of it.

Probably a reaction to having spied for so many years, he mused, but the picture of the old woman, sitting comfortably in the Headmaster's chair, boots propped on his desk, rifling through what Snape knew where his diaries, a broad grin on her face, made him feel rather itchy.

Fortunately, years of spying had also taught him the necessity of ignoring such feelings when more important things called.

"Potter is driving me mad," He announced without greeting, knowing that Ayda paid as little attention to courtesy as he did, and fell into a chair opposite to hers.

"That's hardly news, is it," She commented absently while perusing something that looked suspiciously like a love letter. "What this old man spend his time with on the other hand, now that makes for fascinating reading. If I published this, I would never have to worry about money again – QUIET, YOU PIECE OF MOULD, OR I'LL USE YOU AS KINDLING!"

The last, Snape was glad to notice, was directed at one of the portraits, who regarded the new mistress of the office with a slightly shell-shocked expression. One had retreated to the very edge of his painting. Snape could have sworn he heard it whimper.

Snape considered protesting against this invasion of Albus Dumbledore's private thoughts, then gave up thinking about it. The objection had to appear rather bigoted, coming from the man who had had Hogwarts invaded.

"No," He returned to the original topic instead. "I must say that he has reached an entirely new level tonight."

Shrewd eyes rose from the old leather tome and fixed him like a needle a butterfly.

"Which memory?" She asked curtly.

"Lupin," He answered just as curtly, knowing that long explanations were wasted on Ayda, anyway. Her attention span was too short.

"Ah. So you finally caught up with your own role in this little tragicomedy," Ayda commented mildly. "Saw something you didn't like?"

Suddenly, Snape wondered why he had come. He had followed the age old wish of being with another human being, a wish he had believed extinct in himself long ago. Now, he was angry with himself. Knowing that Ayda knew didn't make him feel better. It made everything worse.

"Let us head down to dinner," He grumbled, stood, and caught an answering glimmer in Ayda's eyes. Not the warm, friendly twinkle Dumbledore would give anyone and everyone. Ayda's eyes were dark, wry, and without a hint of pity.

Since when do I want pity? Especially from an old woman whose sheer presence could sour milk? Snape raged against himself while they rode down the winding staircase.

But he couldn't forget memory-Potter's tear streaked face as a younger Severus Snape tore into him, and he shuddered.

"He told me about you, do you know that?" Ayda asked in a light conversational tone. "In fact, it was one of the first personal talks we had, back when he was still a whining, suicidal teenager."

"Did he," Snape growled, making sure that his words could in no way be misconstrued as a question. He did not want to talk to her. He wanted to go to his rooms and sulk. Only that Potter was there, waiting for him with that bloody understanding plastered all over his face.

Damn it.

"Yes," Ayda answered, ignoring his needs as usual. "After I dragged him out of one of his moods. By both ears."

Snape had no problem at all to picture that event. It made the dark cloud over his head lift a little.

"He stood in front of me, all indignant, "Ayda grinned. "And told me that I was 'just like Professor Snape'." The squeaky imitation of an adolescent voice made Snape's lips twitch.

Ayda paused, waiting for the smirk on Snape's lips to broaden.

"Of course," She then continued just as lightly. "It took me years to understand that it was meant as a compliment."

Gone was the smirk. And the lightening of his mood. Damn the woman.

"He told me you had known his parents, and that you had taught him much of what he knew," She grinned. "Especially how to fight dirty."

"Did he also tell you that I hated his guts and went out of my way to make his life miserable?" Snape demanded harshly.

"Yes. As worthy an educational basis as I have ever known."

Snape could have sworn he heard the fine, singing noise of one nerve after the other pulling tight.

"I do not want your judgment," He ground out, only to nearly run into the woman as she stopped and turned towards him.

"Oh, but you do," She disagreed, grinning. "You want to be judged and found unworthy. You want to be considered evil. It's what you are used to, what you can deal with. The fact that someone could decide to forgive you however scares you out of your pants."

Her eyes gave him a slow, measured sweep. Her grin widened.

"Ever wondered how you got that messed up?" She asked, turned around and resumed her walk to the Great Hall.

Snape wanted to shout. He wanted to storm after her, grab her and slam her against the next wall. He wanted to revisit his extensive knowledge of pain curses, or perhaps reach for one of the vials hidden in his robes.

Instead, he did the unthinkable. He stood in the middle of the corridor, mouth slightly open, jaw hanging most uncomplimentary. Speechless. Then he closed his mouth, took a deep, slightly wheezing breath, and followed her down the stairs.

"I hate you," He remarked curtly when he caught up with her.

"Always glad to serve," She replied just as curtly.

Snape entered the Great Hall wondering why the hell he felt better because of the stupid, uncaring, irritating remark of an old madwoman.

That was when Albus Dumbledore stepped in his way. Great. At least the day couldn't get any worse.

"Headmaster," He greeted him curtly, trying to find a way out of this conversation and seeing none. He met his former mentor's eyes and had to fight the impulse of turning away. Damn, he hated feeling guilty, and the old man was so good at making him. Especially when the echo of Potter's voice still ghosted through his mind.

That was the first time in my life I thought about killing myself.

"Severus, I must say that I am quite disappointed with you," Dumbledore began, but the effect of gentle admonishment was ruined by the two figures by his side, Chairon, who towered over him in silent dignity, and Shadow, who seemed to have folded darkness around him like a cloak and was watching everyone in the hall, including Dumbledore, with the eyes of a hunter. Now, who's next on the menu? His eyes seemed to ask them all, and only Snape had a free-out-of-fangs tattoo to keep him safe.

"While I admit that I may not have valued your work with Harry in the way I should have, I am deeply shocked that…"

"You be quiet you barmy old man, or next time Tonks will fall from the platform and expose knobbly knees and underwear for all the wizarding world to see," Ayda commented in a friendly tone. She was standing at Snape's side in an altogether possessive way that Snape wasn't quite sure about.

Chairon whipped his head to the side, ostensibly in one of those centaur-gestures half of the teachers had begun to mimic subconsciously, but from his vantage point Snape could see the smile that had begun to form on the warrior's face.

"Mercury shines bright. Appearances can be trickery," He offered blandly, and now Snape had to avert his face to hide his snort. Was it a sign of approaching madness that he had begun to understand centaur humour?

"Headmaster," Snape began, weighing between the Gryffindor impulse to tell Dumbledore exactly what he thought of his manipulations and his inner Slytherin that promoted caution… Wait. Since when did he have… He had no Gryffindor impulses! There was no such thing as a Gryffindor bone in his body!

The Slytherin approach, then.

"Let me explain…" He began.

"Oh no, you won't," Ayda interrupted him with her usual lack of tact and timing. "You will sit down and have a real meal for once. I know Harry – he can make the best of us despair even on a full stomach. Without sleep and rest, who knows what you will turn into! Perhaps he'd even make you smile, and I doubt many in this castle would survive that!"

With a sinking heart, Snape saw that most staff members were watching them with open mouth and that Shadow had turned his face away, tactfully hiding something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

And there was no one he could complain to. After all, he was the one who had let her inside.

"Here, horseman," She continued, planting herself in front of Chairon and looking up at him in clear command. "Take the poor Potions Master and shove some dinner into him, will you? I'll take over with Headmaster knobbly-knees."

Chairon snorted. Snape wasn't sure whether it was a sound of amusement or irritation, but the centaur did turn around with another word and led Snape over to one of the smaller tables scattered throughout the Great Hall. They made for greater privacy than the usual long tables with benches used during school year, and allowed the staff that had to remain over summer the illusion of a very large, very unfashionable restaurant they were choosing to dine at freely.

Now, it allowed Snape the questionable pleasure of picking through his lunch with Chairon standing by his side, watching him eat critically.

So this was what his life had come to. Being driven mad by Potter, manhandled by an old druid, guilt-ridden by Dumbledore and now babysat by a centaur. Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated self-pity.

It helped. But unfortunately, it didn't change the fact that Potter was waiting for him in his chambers, expecting him to continue the treatment as soon as possible. Nor did it make Chairon go away. Or stop Ayda from treating him like a slightly demented teenager.

"What is it with that woman?" Snape grumbled. "Why is she getting away with treating everyone like that? Even Shadow tolerates her, and he has thrown everybody's darling Potter against a wall."

"How could you blame a mountain for its size, or a thorn for its prickliness?" Chairon answered in a tone of dignified wisdom.

"Yes. She's prickly alright," Snape agreed darkly. "Not to mention the size of her ego."

Chairon snorted again. Great. Now he wasn't only beginning to understand centaurs, he was amusing them, too. That didn't bode well for his mental state.

Ever wondered how you got that messed up?

God, sometimes he just hated his life. He felt gloominess descend again. So much about the comfort of social interaction. He had always known that was a lie cooked up by Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Other people didn't make you happy, they tread on you when you were down.

Not Potter, a voice in his mind whispered, and he seriously began to wonder if there was any hope of accidentally poisoning himself with his own lunch. Probably not. He just wasn't that lucky.

"Saturn's shadows darken your face, Healer," The centaur remarked quietly, and it took Snape a moment to realize that he was talking to him. Not to mention the longer moment it took him to understand what Chairon was on about. Centaurs.

"More like Potter's shadow," He answered dryly. Why was everyone trying to talk about his feelings these days? He had spent years developing a persona that would discourage exactly this kind of question.

Then again, Chairon seemed to be in easy contact not only with Shadow, prince of all vampires, but with Ayda, too, and if a man couldn't be put off by her attitude, there was nothing Snape could even hope to achieve.

"Harry Potter is a fierce warrior," Chairon commented quietly, and Snape wondered in irritation what that had to do with anything. "Slow to anger, but once spurned to action, his deeds were terrible to behold. He is capable of a cold cruelty that no centaur could ever know."

He paused, staring into a past only he could see. Perhaps he was back at Kinnairds Head, remembering the massacre of the Death Eaters.

"But even fiercer than his anger is his forgiveness. It can overwhelm one's heart."

Snape turned his eyes to his plate. Forgiveness. Was that what unsettled him so? It sounded suspiciously close to what Ayda had told him, and he was tempted to dismiss it out of principle.

But it also sounded close to what he had felt back in Potter's quarters, after the memory had spat him out into a changed world.

And wasn't that what had irritated him the most from their first day together, the first memory they had seen? That Potter could mourn so easily, could let past wrongs slide away without looking back at them? That, the moment he discerned his giants to be windmills, he turned away from them and on to worthier aims.

Not a good thought, that, for it turned Snape into Don Quixote.

But wasn't he just that? All his life, Snape realized as he stared at his lunch with the strangely reassuring presence of Chairon by his side, all his life he had fought, hanging onto what he perceived as his right with teeth and claw.

There had never been anything easy for him, never anything smooth, but that had been alright, because he didn't expect life to be smooth, damn it! Life was an endless struggle, uphill, with people left and right waiting to kick him the moment he went down.

Yes well, we can't all have it easy, a voice in his mind snarled, and it was the voice of the old Snape, the one who had torn into Potter and found vindictive pleasure in torturing Sirius Black.

But Potter didn't have it easy, he thought, memories of cupboards and fat uncles, of flames and snakes and dementors flashing through his mind. If most lives are uphill, his is the Mount Everest. And still…

Still he had let go. Had a knack for accepting people and making new friends, for finding pleasure in the small things that were given to him. Still he had forgiven Snape.

Good gods, I'm not starting to buy into his saintness, am I? A part of Snape thought with a growing desperation, but another part of him, a larger part, finally knew what to do.

Perhaps it was time to accept a few things of his own.

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"I will do it," Snape announced sharply several hours later.

"Do what?" Potter inquired calmly, glancing up from the book in his lap and looking at Snape as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them.

Snape took a deep breath.

"When the time comes, and the soul curse should be the only alternative left, I will do it."

And Potter smiled, his eyes lightening to the colour of mossy dew.

"Thank you," He accepted quietly.

And somehow, nothing else needed to be said.

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A/N: I'm really not satisfied with this chapter (which is part of the reason why it took me so long to update), but I figured that it needed to be done to move us forward. Please tell me if I should go over it once more and change things, or if it is acceptable!