Seven Drops and Asphodel Blooms
Summary: When Harry blows up his aunt during the summer, Dumbledore is much quicker to react. Snape finds him far before the Minister does, but his plan of dropping him off with a lecture and half a dozen additional summer assignments doesn't work out.
In which Harry spends the summer at Spinner's End.
Chapter 11
Harry got into the habit of visiting Snape in between classes. He could have probably gone to Professor McGonagall and gotten answers from her, now that his initial irritation of being kept in the dark had faded, but the thought only occurred to him after he'd already sought out Snape yet again after his next Potions class.
"So the dementors affect me more because I have worse experiences than everybody else?"
The memories of his parents were barely that – if it weren't for Dumbledore's magical mirror and the photo album he'd gotten from Hagrid in his first year, Harry wouldn't even know what they looked like. How could something he could only remember happening in dreams have such an effect on him?
"Your experiences are part of the reason." Snape made an impatient gesture with his hand. "Your low exposure to them is another."
"So I just let them knock me unconscious another few times and I'll be just fine."
Snape didn't seem to find this funny.
Harry pushed away his finished pile of chopped juniper roots, caught Snape's expression and rolled his eyes, pulling them back in to cut them more neatly. He didn't technically have a detention to serve, but Snape had reasoned that as long as he was here, he might as well make himself useful.
"Professor Lupin scared one of them off on the train," Harry said, his hand slowing as he thought back to a warmth so strong it could chase away the dementors' bone-chilling cold.
A shadow fell over Snape's face as he adjusted the flame underneath his cauldron. "One dementor is warded off easily. A larger group as during the game is quite different."
"It's still better than nothing." Harry sat up straight. He gave up the pretense of being immersed in his juniper roots. "If you know how to do it, can you teach me?"
"It's not a spell traditionally taught to third-year students."
"It's also not traditional to keep dementors close to the castle." Harry scooted to the front of his chair. "I need to be able to defend myself. What if I'm on my own the next time?"
Something flickered over Snape's face, though he bowed his head over a bowl of salamander blood before Harry could place it.
"You would not need to worry about such things, had you half an ounce of self-preservation in that brain of yours," Snape said testily. He added three drops from the bowl and the potion changed color to a piercing orange-yellow.
"There might not be anybody to catch me the next time," Harry pressed on. He remembered what Snape had said in the hospital wing. "What's the use of protecting me from Black when the dementors are gonna do me in anyway?"
Snape abandoned his work to pinch the bridge of his nose. Looking like he was bracing himself to commit the biggest mistake of his career, he bit out, "To even just consider it, I would tolerate nothing short of utmost dedication."
Harry broke out into a grin. "You won't regret–"
"Should I agree," Snape interrupted, "you would have to work hard, or you would need to look for another teacher."
"Deal." Harry didn't care if it would be difficult. He'd do anything to spare himself listening to his mother's dying words.
There was no way he could hide his lessons from his friends for long, so Harry explained his plans to them that very same day. Hermione was excited at the prospect of learning such an advanced spell, but Ron was less than keen.
"Why didn't you ask someone else?" he asked. "Why not Lupin? He's the one supposed to teach us Defense, anyway."
Harry just shrugged. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, and it seemed silly to ask him, now that he had finally convinced Snape.
The first trip to the wizard village Hogsmeade of the year was met by excitement from most and sullen indifference from Harry. Ron suggested he go to McGonagall to ask for permission ("It's not your fault your relatives are actual trolls."), but Harry didn't see the point, seeing as he'd already done so during her visit at Spinner's End.
He didn't end up needing to, as Fred and George let him in on their biggest secret. Ron was thrilled, if outraged that his brothers had given Harry the map, but not him.
Hermione was not. She urged him to tell McGonagall, but dropped the issue once Ron reminded her that Harry'd had fairly little reason to enjoy himself over the school year thus far.
The downside of having friends as close as Ron and Hermione was that if they fought, a decent part of the school immediately noticed.
Seamus was almost as mad about Hermione costing him his new Firebolt – an anonymous Christmas present – as Ron, while Dean told them frankly that they were making a lot of noise over nothing. Hagrid chased them down for an afternoon tea only to tell them they were being too harsh, "'specially over somethin' so silly."
Even Snape noticed that something was amiss, though all he did was quirk a mildly bemused, though largely indifferent eyebrow at the sight of their now split working station in Potions.
Harry was already getting tired of everybody getting involved when Lupin asked him for a word during the Christmas holidays. A large terrarium was set up in his office, containing what must have been the subject of their first lesson after the holidays.
"I don't want to talk about Hermione," Harry said before Lupin could so much as open his mouth. Realizing how rude that sounded, he added, "No offense, Professor. But it's kind of personal."
Lupin's eyebrows climbed high. "That's not what I meant to talk about at all."
"Oh." Embarrassment crept up into Harry's cheeks.
Though he looked curious, Lupin stayed true to his word. He drew his wand to coerce the inhabitant of the terrarium – a three headed snake called a runespoor – into a bag in order to do some work on its cage.
"I heard that Severus is planning to help you with your dementor problem."
"Why do you ask?" Harry kept his eyes on the runespoor, pretending to be fascinated by the spectacle of one head trying to crawl into the bag, one viciously fighting to stay out and the third not particularly caring either way.
"No particular reason," Lupin said. "To be frank, Harry, I didn't think you and Severus would get along very well."
"We didn't," Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Not for my first two years. How did you know?"
Lupin's eyes stayed firmly aimed at the now squirming bag at his feet. "Severus and I... We started our first year at Hogwarts at the same time." He hesitated. "As did your father."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. "You knew my father?"
"We were good friends," Lupin said carefully. "Everybody knew that Severus and he... didn't exactly get along."
Harry remembered Snape telling him about Black. Everything he'd said hadn't sounded like he'd learned it from a newspaper. "Did you know Black, too?"
Lupin abruptly jerked his head. "Yes. I knew Black." He picked up the bag with the runespoor and added, "I'm glad that Severus doesn't hold the animosity between him and your father against you."
"I guess." He reluctantly swallowed his curiosity. "Was that all? Sir?"
"Actually," Lupin said, "since you've already mentioned Miss Granger. I don't think I'm wrong in assuming that your, ah... disagreement is related to the magnificent Firebolt currently on display in Professor McGonagall's office?"
Harry fought off a sullen frown. "So?"
Lupin's lips twitched. "Your father could also be a bit silly about Quidditch," he said gently.
Only the fond tone of his voice stopped Harry from feeling indignant.
"I'm not trying to tell you what to do. Merlin knows that never got me anywhere with your dad." Lupin gave a low laugh. "But if the stories I've heard are true, it wouldn't be the first time someone has tried to harm you during a match. Would it?"
Harry realized that he couldn't even tell which incident Lupin was talking about. A teacher trying to kill him by making his broom go wild? A crazy bludger breaking his arm? Plunging down in a 100 feet free-fall?
"Do me a favor and think about it." Lupin looked like he wanted to say more, but stopped himself.
Harry gave him a terse nod before exiting the classroom.
In a way, he'd known from the start that Hermione only wanted him to be safe. He supposed that after everything they'd been through, it would be kind of silly to end their friendship over something like a new broomstick.
On the evening of his first lesson with Snape, Harry climbed down to the dungeons with anticipation thrumming in his chest. It had taken until after Christmas, but Snape had finally told him it was time. Harry couldn't wait to get started.
"What does a Patronus look like?" The incantation sounded simple enough, though Harry knew better than to hope that saying the words alone would do the trick.
"It varies. No person truly knows the form their Patronus will take until they've successfully conjured it."
Snape didn't give him much time to think of a happy memory. According to him, it needed to be strong enough to channel his Patronus, but Harry couldn't think of one that seemed like it would be enough.
Snape was already reaching for the handle when Harry was still frantically wracking his brain.
A spark of a memory came to mind just before Snape opened the door. A flash of green light. His mother's scream.
The half-hearted memory of his first stay at the Burrow slipped away and left him to plunge into darkness.
"Potter."
Harry jerked upwards. He was slumped on the chilly stone floor and his shoulder hurt – he must have fallen on it when he'd passed out.
"Sorry," he muttered, his face heating up. He stumbled to his feet without looking at Snape. "Sorry. I can go again."
He hadn't focused on his memory hard enough. He needed something stronger. Something that wouldn't fade as soon as his mother's voice rang in his ears.
Harry kept trying, but no matter which memory he chose, it dimmed and dwindled almost as soon as the closet door flew open and the office grew even colder.
"You aren't concentrating," Snape accused him after his fourth failed attempt.
Harry hurriedly climbed to his feet yet again. He'd have bruises all over tomorrow. "I get distracted," he muttered.
"By what?" Snape's eyes glistened irritably. "I cannot teach anyone an advanced spell such as this if they do not give it their all."
"I'm trying! I just–"
"Just what?"
"I keep thinking that this is the only time I'll ever get to hear my mom's voice," Harry snapped.
Snape's face – already pale on his best days – turned a washed out, gray color. "We will continue another time," he said, turning his back.
Harry didn't have the energy to protest. What little defiance he'd had left had evaporated in his outburst. He just wanted to crawl into bed and think of nothing.
"It would have been foolish to expect progress right away," Snape said, his voice so quiet that Harry had trouble understanding him. "The Patronus charm is immensely difficult to master. Many grown wizards cannot produce one."
Harry couldn't tell whether Snape was trying to make him feel better, or stifling his own disappointment.
Harry almost didn't show up for his second lesson. Ron and Hermione's attempts to cheer him up did little to raise his low spirits: Hermione was busier than ever and seemed distracted, while Ron kept suggesting he should have Lupin teach him instead.
Harry didn't want to ask Lupin. Sure, out of the two, Lupin was easily the better teacher. But asking to quit after the first lesson felt cowardly – and if there was something Harry didn't want, it was Snape thinking he was giving up after a single attempt.
Besides, it wasn't Snape's fault that Harry couldn't get the hang out of the Patronus charm. He didn't make Harry relive the memory of his parents' death every time a dementor was nearby.
The next time Harry entered the dungeons for a lesson, Snape had made an addition to his office.
"What is that?" Harry slowed his steps, eyeing the large stone basin placed on Snape's desk. Something inside of it glimmered like liquid starlight. He'd never seen anything like it.
"The headmaster has allowed me to borrow it." Snape didn't look him in the eyes. "I have considered how to resolve your trouble in facing the dementor."
"And this is going to help?" Harry tried to sound politely interested instead of skeptical.
"In particular, I've thought about what you've said." Snape paused. "About Lily."
The name sounded foreign to his ears, even after all this time. When most people talked about his parents, they called them his father and mother. Not James. Not Lily.
Harry tried to listen to Snape's explanation of how the basin – the pensieve – worked, but it was difficult when after only a few sentences his ears began to ring. Snape couldn't mean what Harry thought he did. Of all people, Snape didn't care about him this much.
"As you have been denied forming memories of her..." Snape hesitated. He raised his eyes and met Harry's with great effort. "I would offer to show you some of mine."
Harry opened his mouth. No sound came out. He swallowed, flicked his tongue over his lips. "You're going to show me memories of my mom?"
"That's what I've said." The impatience in Snape's voice sounded milder than usual. Harry almost believed he was just putting it in out of habit.
Harry's heart raced like he'd just run a mile. When he thought of his mother, he saw the image he'd first seen on the other side of a mirror. When he thought of her voice, he heard the last words she'd ever spoken. Her cries. Her screams.
He wanted to be able to think of other things.
"What do I need to do?" Harry cleared his throat. His voice sounded like he'd swallowed a quaffle.
"Do as I do," Snape instructed him quietly.
Harry followed Snape's lead. He bowed into the pensieve and fell, far down until his feet touched the sun-flooded grass of a small clearing. A lazy creek trickled past them, and beyond the trees they could catch glimpses of a town.
The sky and the edges of the forest looked washed-out as if time had dimmed their colors. The center of the clearing, however, was so vivid and life-like that Harry felt like he'd just stepped into it.
"It's easy," said a voice.
Harry turned as though in a dream.
"Just watch." The boy who'd spoken wasn't looking at the closed flower bud cupped in his hands. Instead, he was looking at...
He was looking at...
"Wow," breathed a girl with bright, orange-red hair. She was so focused on the flower that she didn't take notice of the boy watching her.
She didn't notice his grown self doing the same, either. Nor her son watching her discover her magic from over two decades in the future.
"How are you doing that?" she asked.
"I told you. It's magic," said young Snape. "You'll be able to do much more than this once you've been to Hogwarts."
Harry blinked rapidly. Lily had only eyes for the flower opening and closing in young Snape's hands, but Harry had only eyes for his mother. He realized that what everybody had been telling him for years was true. Her eyes looked exactly like his.
"Show me how," Lily asked, her voice fading and gone before Harry knew what was happening.
Bookshelves sprouted from the ground in the place of trees, and the rustle of parchment replaced the low humming of insects.
Lily looked different. A little older than before, wearing her Hogwarts uniform instead of a skirt and jacket. While she displayed her red Gryffindor crest proudly, young Snape wore only his uniform with no splash of green.
"Check my essay," Lily demanded, scribbling a sentence before shoving her parchment over to Snape. An ink stain was smeared over her nose and cheek, and her hair was a half-braided mess of red strands.
Snape barely glanced at her parchment before saying, "That's twice the length Slughorn asked for."
"Only like a quarter of it is about the attributes of unicorn mane." Lily admitted. "I branched out."
Snape's lips twitched. "You'll derail the lesson again."
"It's not my fault I'm his favorite."
Snape pulled her essay closer and they lapsed into silence.
The bookshelves collapsed into each other. The warmth of the library drained away and left behind the cold dungeon walls, Snape's office desk taking the place of the table Lily and Snape's younger self had been using.
The silence the two had left behind stretched out and stopped feeling soothing.
Harry turned his head, trying to inconspicuously dry his eyes. If Snape noticed, he at least didn't draw attention to it.
The silence was starting to become stifling.
"We can postpone the lesson," said Snape.
"No. No, I–" Harry scrubbed his face, no longer caring about being stealthy. "I want to try."
Lily's ink-smeared face wasn't enough for him to produce a corporeal Patronus, either. He did manage a shimmering vapor that warded off the despair and held the boggart in place for long enough so that Snape could force it back into its closet.
Harry's chest flooded with triumph. He'd heard no screams, this time. Only the echo of Lily's voice as it had sounded in the library all those years ago.
January flew by, and the castle was smothered underneath a duvet of snow.
Harry's Patronus lessons continued, he won a match against Ravenclaw on his no-longer-confiscated Firebolt, and Ron and Hermione stopped talking after their argument about Scabbers and Crookshanks reached its boiling point.
"You could have kept him locked in the dorms when Ron asked you to."
"You know what, Harry? Just forget it. First the Firebolt, now this... I can't do anything right anymore, can I?"
Hermione stormed off, furious tears in her eyes.
Harry wished she'd just kept track of her stupid cat, so they could still all hang out like they used to.
"It's not like she told Crookshanks to eat Scabbers."
"Figured you'd take her side. Why don't you take her along to your lessons so you can both play friendly with the old bat?"
Ron stormed off, fuming.
Harry wished spending time with his friends would go back to being easy.
Ron and Hermione started avoiding him as well as each other. Ron spent most of his time with his siblings or their Gryffindor classmates, while Hermione was either in the library or nowhere to be found.
Harry's lessons with Snape were far from fun, but he started looking forward to them for the sole reason of having an excuse to stay away from the common room for a while.
There was also the hope of spotting the pensieve on top of Snape's desk. He hadn't brought it out again after the first time, but Harry still felt anticipation every time he climbed down the dungeon stairs.
The next memory he got to see was Lily being awarded Head Girl.
The one after that, Lily and Snape working on the same potion during class.
Lily with dirt in her hair and sweat on her face, repotting plants in one of the greenhouses.
Lily doing homework. Lily casting a spell. Lily passing by in the halls, Lily and Snape walking by the lake, Lily from afar, always Lily.
Harry couldn't ever grow tired of seeing her. And yet...
"Sir." Harry had needed weeks to muster up the courage, and still he found himself faltering. "Can I ask a question?"
"Proceed." Snape seemed in as good a mood as he was able to be. They hadn't come any closer to seeing Harry's corporal Patronus, but he managed to ward off the boggart-turned-dementor for longer and longer each time.
"I know you didn't get along," he said quietly, "with my dad, I mean."
Immediately, Snape's entire body stilled.
Harry pressed on, figuring he wouldn't get another chance. "But, sir... I never got to meet him, either."
Not for the first time, Harry wondered what could have possibly happened between his father and Snape to have sparked hatred that lasted until long after his father's death.
Snape didn't answer his request then. Nor during the next lesson.
The one after it, the pensieve was back on Snape's desk, and Harry got to appreciate the lengths Snape must have gone to to find a memory in which he and James sat together in the library with only the occasional terse comment to break the silence. Were it not for Lily sitting between them, they'd likely be going for each other's throat.
Harry drank in every second. He idly wondered why not all three of them could have been friends, instead of Lily forming the link between two bitter rivals.
A/N:
Snape, raiding his liquor cabinet before searching for a memory where James and he aren't being complete gits towards another: I better not be sober for this
And then it took him 3 weeks to remember a passive-aggressive library session until he could call it a day.
Many thanks to To Mockingbird, Igornerd, JustAnotherOutcast and flyingcat!
~Gwen