Chapter 8
"The Headmaster Makes Three"
For many years now Severus and Dumbledore had a simple system in place that protected them both from the more unseemly aspects of their jobs and their roles in the Order. Dumbledore didn’t ask, and Severus, quite frankly, didn’t tell. He had once thought that Dumbledore did it to protect Severus’ privacy, but the older he got and the more cynical he became, Severus came to wonder if Dumbledore didn’t ask because he didn’t want to know. Not that Severus could blame him, really. He wouldn’t want to think about himself having sex with Draco Malfoy either.
After a hard scrub under a luxurious spray until his skin burned splotchy and red, Severus dressed in his normal black attire. He wished to every deity watching him–and laughing–that he could have gotten an hour or two of rest before starting his day’s classes, but such were the sacrifices he’d made long ago.
However, he did pause long enough to take a Pepper Up potion to keep from getting sick, eat half a bar of almond chocolate, and drink two cups of tea before even considering seeing Albus. He had a short enough temper as it was–he didn’t need any help snapping at the old geezer over his lemon drops.
With those thoughts in his mind, he threw a handful of Floo powder into his fireplace. "Professor Dumbledore, a moment of your time."
It had been amusing to see the old man’s head pop out of the fireplace once upon a time, and Severus remembered the first time he’d seen it as a very young man, he’d laughed until he cried. Now he straightened his shoulders as the Headmaster looked him over, obviously searching for the aftereffects of crucio. "Hello, Severus. I didn’t expect you back for a few hours yet, and your morning classes are already covered, my boy."
"It won’t be necessary, Albus," Severus answered stiffly, "I’m quite well. Or as well as one can be under the circumstances. I believe, however, that my position in the Dark Lord’s circle may have been compromised–may I have counsel with you?"
"Please," Albus said, his eyebrows furrowed tightly together. "Harry and Minerva are already here."
"I will be with you shortly," Severus said, and closed the Floo as soon as Albus had disappeared from it.
Yes. Compromised. He liked the taste of the word in his mouth, because anything worse, like, Send for my death certificate sounded far too melodramatic. Voldemort knew, or at least suspected strongly, that his beloved Potions Master had never come back from the side of the light. Severus had felt it pricking at his consciousness all through the flight home, unsure of what was bothering him so deeply about this entire mess, until the answer had leapt out at him as he was stepping through the wards onto Hogwarts’ land.
Voldemort wanted Severus to know what he was doing.
Not only that, Severus was to let the Order know what Voldemort was doing because he needed something. News of Harry’s return had surely reached his ears and he was cooking something up in regards to Nicholas Flamel, the Sorcerer’s Stone, and Potter.
What it could be, Severus didn’t have the slightest idea. Nor did Severus claim to understand how it could possibly help Voldemort for Potter to know he was trying to make his own Sorcerer's Stone, but Severus was positive he was correct in his assessment. Voldemort telling Draco to come over him like a back-alley whore had been the first clue. ‘My renegade potions master’. Another clue. Voldemort knew he’d never ended his spying, which was also why he hadn’t participated in the sex, as he normally did.
Shacklebolt. Somehow, Voldemort had taken it from Shacklebolt. Fairly recently, then. In the two months Voldemort hadn’t called his brethren, he’d been holed up somewhere piecing together whatever it was Shacklebolt had told him–it only made sense.
The Alchemists had been on display for his benefit. He’d found it odd at the time that they’d been working in the Dark Lord’s grand hall, and that was the only logical explanation. Voldemort wanted to make dead sure Severus had been aware of what he was doing.
The Word Lines. Shacklebolt. Voldemort. Nicholas Flamel. The Alchemists. Potter. It was all connected somehow, but how? How had Severus walked away with his life, if not his scraps of dignity, if it didn’t directly correlate to Potter?
Wasn’t that the most frightening thing of all?
He threw a locking spell on his doors, made sure his wards were intact and that his robe was pressed and the patch at the hem was holding. Classes would be starting in an hour and a half, so there was no time to be dallying–he gathered the scrolls, eight in total, and threw another handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. "The Headmaster’s office."
Severus stumbled from the grate, dusting his robes off. The office was quiet at this hour, dawn having only just peeked out over the horizon to greet the day. Albus rose from behind his desk, still wearing his purple night cap and matching night robes, eyes widening slightly at the scrolls. "Good morning, Severus."
"It isn’t a good morning–in fact, it’s turning out to be a terrible morning and it won’t do to go about spreading lies," Severus drawled in return, dumping the scrolls onto Albus’s desk. "We have a problem."
"So you mentioned. Please, sit, Severus. Tea?"
He shook his head, looking up at a ruffled Minerva McGonagall, her hair a tussle. She was still putting it up with pins caught between her lips and muffled a, "Good morning."
Potter looked equally as rumpled but awake and aware, where he was slumped in the chair furthest from the Headmaster’s desk. The stark blackness of his hair deepened the bruises under his eyes, and the taut, tired pale skin pulled harshest at his mouth. His eyes were wary with pain, his scar inflamed and red, and Severus looked away from him and back to the Headmaster.
Dumbledore smiled, albeit less twinkly than normal. "We have had a new development overnight, Severus?"
He cleared his throat a bit, nodding as he leaned back in his seat, legs crossed and fingers steeped before him. "My cover has been compromised, I am almost certain."
"How?" Minerva asked, her hawk’s eyes taking him in and like Albus had done only a bit ago, inspected him for Crucio damage.
"I believe before he was murdered, Shacklebolt was coerced or poisoned into telling Voldemort quite a bit of information. The Dark Lord told me in not so many words it was he who had the man murdered, but not before Shacklebolt talked. The NoWord charms in his blood activated soon enough, but if Voldemort knew what it was he wanted to know before the charms took effect, he could have found out a hundred things with only a few words."
"And you're certain he knows you have been spying, Severus?"
Severus inclined his head at the Headmaster. "Positive, Albus. The way he spoke to me, and the manner in which he approached me regarding these scrolls, says as much." He carefully omitted the part about the sex. He didn’t have to look up at Albus to know the omitted information had been catalogued. "He wished for me to see the fine little army he’s created through his sheer force of coercion. I have found out why the Word Lines were being used. The Alchemists were using them."
Severus so did love striking them all speechless, and paused to enjoy the confused expressions, before he rolled the first scroll open and weighted it carefully on Albus' desk.
There was a sharply drawn breath from his left, a gasp from his right, and strangely enough, Dumbledore looked satisfied before his expression shuttered again.
Nicholas Flamel’s name was very clear at the top of the parchment.
"Flamel? What’s Voldemort doing with this stuff?" Harry asked, eyes suddenly wide behind his spectacles. "How did he get these scrolls in the first place?"
"The Ludicrous Patents Office keeps all the patents made in the Wizarding World as a matter of public record." Severus paused, crossing his legs and tapping his fingers against his lips. "The Dark Lord has his brain, and now he’s hired his brawn, after a fashion. It is possible that the Alchemists who were using the Word Lines to warn their colleagues." Severus frowned, deeply. "I saw Higgins, as well as Algie Longbottom and several of my former students. It appeared they were under the Imperius–there is little we can do for them at this juncture."
"No, we must bide our time and wait," Dumbledore agreed. "For the moment, however, not all is lost. We have time."
"Time? How can you say that?" Harry asked, leaning up and forward. "Professor, if Voldemort is creating the Elixir of Life, he..." The boy shuddered. "He’d be unstoppable."
Dumbledore’s lips turned up the smallest bit. "I worked with Nicholas on the Sorcerer’s Stone for many years. There is no way, regardless of the meticulous notes we took, that anyone could recreate the stone without certain spells, enchantments and equipment known only to Nicholas and myself."
"But Albus, if that’s so, then what on earth is Voldemort playing at?" Minerva asked, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed. "And why hasn’t that incompetent fool Bones said anything about this disappearance of an entire subculture of Wizard society?"
"I might have an answer to that," Severus said, elbow on the arm of the chair and fingertips tapping his lips as he thought. "An incomplete one, I fear, but an answer nonetheless. The Dark Lord wanted me to see what it was that he was doing. He orchestrated the entire event, everything from the gathering to–" The sex, afterward. "–the manner in which he spoke to me. The Alchemists were in his Grand Hall when I entered–why on Earth would he have thirty men and women working over cauldrons in a room with no ventilation, no sink space, and no drainage when he has a perfectly good potions laboratory? No. He wanted me to see what it was he was up to, and let me leave with my life to inform you." His eyes shifted to Harry’s. "He wants something, and I can’t help but feel it’s all happened rather recently. Shacklebolt was the key, and now he wants to open his treasure."
The four of them fell silent, and the sun broke over the mountains in the distance to spill golden light over the office. Fawkes preened in the early morning sun and Potter, aflame with the golden sun, sat there like a god, legs sprawled with a casual, confident grace.
He looked incredible.
"Until we have gathered enough intelligence, I would like to ask you all to keep a firm eye on the students," Albus said, and frowned at the scrolls. "Keep your ear to the pulse of student gossip, because it is very likely the children of the Death Eaters will be acting strangely today."
"Fantastic," Severus muttered, as he rose to his feet. "As if the brats don’t act strangely everyday. What with the stew of teenage hormones driving them on about their business, it’s not shocking. Just nauseating."
Minerva snorted and Severus graced her with a glare before sweeping out by way of the phoenix steps. Of course, as lady luck would have it–and she wasn’t being kind to him as of late–Potter chose to follow him. Escape. So close, yet so far away. "Professor."
Severus exhaled very loudly and turned. "Has our golden boy come to shed some light on the situation from the miraculous well of knowledge stored in his minuscule brain, or is he simply annoying a man who hasn’t slept in twenty four hours because he finds such sport amusing?"
The young man glared, his dark eyes flashing. "If you’re going to be such a git about it, never mind."
Severus was five seconds from grinding his teeth. "Please, spare me your theatrics right now–I am both exhausted and without patience." Harry was silent, his jaw working. It pleased him, and horrified him, but this entire problem with Potter was too close and yet too far away from Severus right now. He hadn’t slept in two days and his old, worn body was feeling it. He just couldn’t deal with the child right now. "Spit it out," he snapped.
"I would, if you’d give me five seconds to collect my thoughts," Potter growled back, but quieted for a moment when the Headmaster stepped down from the turning phoenix in that moment. "Professor Dumbledore."
"Ahh, I thought I heard you both down here," Albus said, smiling at the both of them like he hadn’t just heard what he had in the office.
"Came to make sure I hadn’t killed him yet?"
Though there was a note of amusement in Harry’s words, the tone lacked that very element. There was something lost, something almost violently angry, in the way it was said though spoken lightly. Severus wasn’t surprised by the show of emotion after their last verbal spar, not in any regard. "It would take more than a few angry words to kill me, Potter."
"Professor Potter," Dumbledore reminded, gently.
Severus knew it goaded on Harry’s nerves to be spoken to like a child, and after all the frustration, the fear, the rape, and his own inability in stopping any of it, Severus found that expelling the rotten emotions stewing in his gut something he needed desperately right now. Prodding the boiler that was Harry Potter was a dangerous game, but he was in the mood for a little Russian Roulette. "Professor Potter. And, please, do try and take a more mannerly approach to the way you speak to your Headmaster."
"Which way is that? Like the way I speak to you, Snape?"
"Professor Snape," Dumbledore said again, and heaved a quiet sigh.
"No, Pot–Professor Potter," Severus amended, after Dumbledore turned him a raised brow. "What you give me is nothing but a childish display of contempt. Dumbledore has done more for you than anyone else has–show some respect to the man who has saved your life more times than I care to imagine."
"I’ll show respect to whomever I please. I’m not a child anymore," Harry shot back, glaring darkly over the small space between them. "You’ve always hated me, and believe me, the feeling is more than mutual, but I’m not going to stand here and be talked down to like a first year."
"You cannot expect to have respect if you first don’t show it, you ungrateful whelp."
"Well, no stopping it now..." Dumbledore murmured, almost silently.
"I’m not ungrateful!"
"Oh, yes, yes, you are," Severus hissed. "How many times have people put their lives on the line for you, and have received nothing in return but a most disgusting show of contempt? How many times have we all, even myself as begrudgingly as I have, saved your neck, just so my selfless acts could be thrown in my face?
"You have needlessly put yourself on the line, every time the opportunity arose, in some martyring, self sacrificial attempt to make the Boy Who Lived all the more of a golden icon. You do not think about the people around you, you do not comprehend that it isn’t all. About. You," Severus snarled. Oh, he was on a roll, and he held his hand up for Harry to stay quiet as he finally got what had been weighing on his chest off.
"I do not hate you, I do nothing of the sort. I hate the way you were raised, I hate that you have lived your life half in abuse so severe that when you tasted freedom you swallowed it whole and never learned that to risk yourself is to risk others."
"You fucking–"
"I hate your parents for dying and not taking care of you properly. I hate your infernal Gryffindor father for thinking he could take on Voldemort, instead of taking you and your mother and running as fast and hard as he could, so that she might have lived to teach you properly. I hate that–"
"You–"
"--everyone thinks you were the savior of our world when all you were was a terrified, pitiful little boy who grew up too fast and who has yet to taste the world he assumes he completely understands. I hate your family, I hate your godfather, I hate your friends for ever encouraging you, you, nothing but a pup just out of nappies, and I most certainly hate that our paths ever crossed and I feel I have to bloody well protect you from yourself, you ignorant child."
There was a ringing silence in the hall.
And, Severus, proud it had finally come out, raised his chin and glared down from his aristocratic nose.
"Are you about done now?" Harry asked, eyebrow arched back. It was said in the same cheerful, light tone, but there was deadly murder behind the words. "Yes? Fantastic. Now that you’ve let me know just what you think of me, let me return the favor in kind. You’re a stuck up, sarcastic, patronizing git who spends all of his time hunched over his cauldrons, who has never seen the day as it’s supposed to be lived, and who hides behind his sneer and his cloak because he thinks that if no one gets close enough, he can’t be hurt. You think you know what it is to live, but all you know is a lie–all you know of people, of the human condition, is a lie."
"Potter–"
"Shut up," Harry hissed, and jabbed a finger at him. "You have no right to talk about my parents that way, and you have no right to speak to me like that either. You saved my life–so what? Do you think I have to be on bended knee, kissing your hand because you’ve yanked me out of harm’s way? I thank you, have thanked you in the past, but no one asked you to do it. No one asked you to put yourself in harm’s way. Who’s the martyr now?"
His eyes were coals, the green almost fully eclipsed by the black of his hate.
"Potter, I won’t stand for–"
"You betrayed me," Harry cut in, raising his voice over Severus’ easily. "You betrayed my trust. You used all the pain I had endured against me–you used my starvation for affection as a weapon. You, vaunted Slytherin Professor, Head of House, finally got your revenge.
"You played me like a fiddle, didn’t you? You made me love you, and then with heartless abandon, you killed me--Harry Potter died that day, Professor, and since then, I don’t know who’s been standing in his place. You were everything, and you took everything. My home, my friends, the little family–the little love–I’d known, and you raped it. You touched me like you loved me, you held me like you adored me, and you destroyed Harry Potter. I have no respect for you, Snape." His voice cracked on the last word.
Severus rose to his full height, straightening his shoulders to glare down at the little twerp, who had the gall to stand there and speak to him in such a manner. "That isn’t news. You have never shown an ounce of the respect you should have shown since the first night you came to Hogwart’s thirteen years ago, Mr Potter." Low honey, as deadly as he could make his voice. "You do not deserve respect. All you have ever did was get yourself into horrible scrapes that" scared me out of my bloody mind "have caused this school and those who attend it unnecessary pain and worry."
"Why do you keep saying that?!" His roar was half fury and half despair, his eyes burning and bright, and he looked ready to throw something, possibly himself, just to get the anger out. "I haven’t ever done anything that didn’t save peoples lives!"
"Oh, no?" Silky question. "And what would you call Cedric Diggory?"
In that instant Severus knew that he had gone too far. Harry’s eyes held remnants of fury, but now their was a horrible, stunned pain that nearly took Severus’ breath away. "Cedric Diggory’s death was not my fault."
"I’m sure it wasn’t." Why couldn’t he stop myself? Why couldn’t he just be quiet? "If you hadn’t needed, needed to win the Triwizard championship, if you had let yourself get lost in that maze, Diggory wouldn’t be lying in a shallow grave on the outskirts of London, all hope for him gone. If you hadn’t needed to succeed, you wouldn’t have set Voldemort free with your blood. Just as if you hadn’t needed to push the limits of your tyro contract, assuming your charm would pull you through, you would not be in this situation, now would you?" Severus sneered at the white skin and his own lie. "Your arrogance has cost you so deeply, so dearly, and yet to this day you still can not see it. And I’m sure, positively sure, that your arrogance will kill again until you learn to control it. Respect, Mr. Potter? You will have no respect from me until you learn to grow up."
There was a moment of silence. "Are you about done?"
"Potter–"
"Shut up," Harry said, very softly. "You speak of arrogance, Severus, but you do not see enough through your own to know what others have. You destroyed yourself in my eyes because I thought, all through schooling here, that I would be safe with you even if you hated me. I didn’t ever think you would use me to further your campaign against my father, who died when he was twenty years old. Twenty years old, Severus. He was four years my junior when he died, and yet, twenty years later, you still can’t fucking let it go. You used me for your ends, you finally saw the great Harry Potter fall. Was it fun, Severus?" Harry’s voice was little more then a whisper, as he stepped forward.
"It wasn’t fun," Severus snarled.
"Do you feel justified, now? Do you even care that you destroyed my life? Do you care that I was seventeen, that I had seen more death in my life than anyone has a right to?" He let his hand drop, and he gave a hollow laugh. "Of course you don’t. You’re standing here trying to tell me that the deaths that have occurred during this war are my fault, that because I exist people have died. You’re trying to tell me my arrogance is what’s hurt so many people. You don’t have to tell me that, Severus–I already know. People will always die because of me, that’s the whole fun of being me. People will die for the causes they support cursing my name or singing for it, and there isn’t a god damned thing I can do about it."
"But–"
"I told you to shut the fuck up," Harry snapped. "I have no arrogance. I have nothing. I’ve never had anything, and I thought maybe, once, you saw something inside of me that wasn’t nothing." His eyes were shining dangerously. "All I want from you, from all of you, is respect. You’ve treated me like a child, Severus, but you failed to realize that I’m no longer a child. You don’t see me as a man, Severus, you see me as that little boy. As little eleven year old Harry Potter. That little boy would have never gone to bed with you, or let you touch him, or for seven years, seven long and painful years, thought about...about how good it would feel to just see you again. That little boy died in his cupboard a long time ago, Professor, without you ever seeing how much I–"
His heart was beating fast...Severus could see it in the way his pulse knocked on his skin under his clenched jaw. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and his eyes, those lovely green eyes were liquid with agony. Severus lost himself in those eyes, and if there wasn’t so much pain and history between them, he would have reached across and claimed that mouth--that mouth that had saved him a hundred thousand times over--as his own. He took a step forward, nearly reaching out for him, wanting to reach out for him, begging just for a touch, one touch.
How much I love you.
For a nerve wracking second the electricity crackled between them and Severus found himself torn between emotion and mortification. A similar expression flickered across Harry’s handsome face.
He stood there silently and understood for the first time, like an epiphany, why Dumbledore had chosen him for this very assignment so many years ago.
"Well," Albus said.
There was nothing more unpleasant than the slap of reality landing back in his lap to defuse all arousal and leave only the horror behind. Severus took a step back, then another, and Harry did the same. He didn’t have to look at the Headmaster to know the man was smiling. "Headmaster. Please, forgi–"
"There is no need, Severus," he said quietly, and walked around them. "Both of you, please take the morning classes off."
"That won’t be necessary," Harry answered immediately, and passed the Headmaster and Severus with a pale face. "Not necessary at all. Good day." And then he was gone, in a flurry of footsteps and blue robes.
Albus, of course, couldn’t mind his own business and gently patted Severus on the shoulder. "Things are looking up!" he said cheerfully, and strolled off toward his breakfast.
- = - = -
For the next three weeks, Severus’ mind and concentration centered as much as possible on unraveling the mystery surrounding the scrolls of Nicholas Flamel, for several reasons. One, Voldemort had given Severus the scrolls personally–there was something regarding the potions side of the formula he was supposed to figure out. Two, because it kept him from being totally over run with brooding thoughts regarding his favorite topic of the moment: Potter.
He put up a front of concentration for the dunderheads he had to teach, and as his lesson plans had been finished at the beginning of the year, he had no problem at all assigning work and potions to the below-average masses. The stack of essays waiting to be graded increased exponentially, of course, but they could wait.
As could this horrifying Potter problem and all the tangle of emotions that went with it. Oh, and what a tangle it was. He hated the boy, loved him, despised him, adored him. It was a disgusting mass of pulsing need, and he couldn't decide whether to wring the little bastard’s neck, or kiss the hell out of him. The temptation to tell Potter what had been kept from him was too much, too thick, too close to the surface of his mind. He wanted nothing more than to take the idiot boy aside and explain everything to him, and either be condemned or exalted.
Severus pushed it back, away, not bothering to try and sort through the entanglement right now because he was much too tired, much too busy, and much too close to Death’s door to bother with it.
He wasn't hiding from the issue though. Definitely not.
Oh, but how he wanted. The memory of that supple body pressed tight to his, rocking against him in the pleasure it craved, found him like a guilty teenager, fingers clamped around his erection during his nightly shower and moving to the pace of his wild heartbeat. He’d stroke just the way he liked it, fast and hard with one steadying hand against the shower wall. The memories of Harry’s young body, young and excited, rubbing against him until wet heat spread between them and his lovely cries echoed in his ears was better than any sex with some nameless nobody could be.
Of course, that was about the time when he was rudely plunged into the memory of Draco fucking him into submission, of the young man rocking against him, seeking his pleasure. The feeling of come splattering over his back made whatever erection he’d feebly clung to sag.
He had sore testicles, these days.
The holidays approached quickly as he worked diligently, buried in his books, a hook nosed mole digging through piles of bound parchment. He contacted book suppliers when he couldn’t find what he needed in the library–and there wasn’t anything in the library on alchemy, something he would ask the Headmaster to rectify-- and borrowed books and spell copied pages, anything he could think of to be ready.
Ready for what, though?
That was the oddest thing about it. Flamel created the Sorcerer’s Stone over two hundred and thirty years ago for one purpose–the Elixir of Life–but never perfected it until Dumbledore was brought on the project and Flamel was almost at the end of his life. It was a legendary substance, and it was common knowledge that Flamel both wanted to create it simply for the scientific discovery, as well as its use in the medicinal field. Of course, then Flamel abused it and took the elixir himself, and his young apprentice, Dumbledore, never preached to him what he should have done instead. He was a good man, for being an interfering old meddler.
Regardless, Severus hunted for information. He had a bad habit in that once he had his classically-shaped nose to the scent of something intriguing, he often forgot to sleep, eat, or bathe. He barely concentrated in classes, though thankfully the little brats didn’t dare run wild while he was at his desk, pouring through journals and taking diligent notes.
The stone itself, once forged, wasn’t dangerous. It was what could be done with it--turning lead to gold and creating the Elixir of Life-- that were forces to be reckoned with. It was a dangerous weapon for the Dark Lord to be so interested in, and that’s why Severus found himself on Friday evening, firmly ensconced in his favorite chair in the Staff Lounge, with at least fifty books and a dozen or more scrolls stacked in piles around him. He had sheets of parchment in his lap, ink stained fingers, a cup of cool water beside him, and his hair pulled back from his face.
He was very vaguely aware of people coming and going and was sure Minerva had tried to talk to him at some point, but he was so deeply engrossed in what he was doing he totally missed whatever she had to say.
The House Elves brought him a sandwich and a Pepper Imp, both of which he swallowed in two bites without knowing what he was eating. The fires and torches were lit for the evening, and very vaguely, he heard the thundering roar of elephantine brats on the move. After ten minutes of ruckus the castle was blessedly quiet, the Staff Room empty.
Or was, anyhow, until Harry Potter snapped his fingers in front of his face. "–fessor? Professor."
Severus looked up with a start, a scowl sharpening his features and narrowing his eyes. "I was working."
"You’ve been working for several hours; it’s after midnight," Potter answered, without his usual rudeness. "Are you researching the Sorcerer’s Stone?"
"Someone has to." Severus sneered in return, an eyebrow arched up. "And since I have yet to see you burning the midnight oil, I suppose the arduous task falls into my more than capable hands."
There was a ringing silence, and Severus took a chance to scowl up at his colleague.
"I’ve got something you might like, then," Harry said, and for the first time, Severus noted the stack of papers in the boy’s hand. His scowl deepened, partly to hide his reaction, partly to glare the brat into submission. "I gathered all I could from the internet, from wizarding websites. You’d be surprised how much is catalogued on the subject."
"Inter..?" Oh, he growled and took the sheets of papers, pouring over them.
Potter was still there.
He looked up. "You’ve been useful. Now go away."
For a moment, the boys eyes brightened angrily before they sank down into the fathomless deep again, darker and deeper than they’d been. "I also came to apologize to you."
At that, Severus glanced up in surprise. "For?"
"The screaming match in front of Dumbledore was a very unprofessional thing to do, and though I meant every word I said, I should not have embarrassed you in front of our employer," Harry said, with a dark glare pinned to the end of the phrase.
"I can say, Mr. Potter, that I was quite truthful in what I said to you. You are an insignificant little child, and you were mentally repressed growing up with those pathetic excuses for family members, and you are blatantly foolhardy and ignorant of those around you."
"The same can be said for you, Professor," Harry answered, coolly, eyebrow raised. "Because you are, in fact, a patronizing, martyring, stuck up git with no life."
"Mr. Potter," Severus said, sneering, "suffice it to say, not everything is about your problems and your issues. There is more at work here than you could ever have imagined."
Harry nodded, though something was flickering behind his eyes–half anger, half something else. "Professor?"
"What?"
"Can I ask you something?"
Severus let out a long hiss of irritation. "That depends on how inane it is."
For a damning moment, Severus thought the boy was either going to burst into laughter or burst into tears, and was grateful when he did neither. "For my own peace of mind...I need to move on. Be honest with me."
"Mr. Potter, spit it out." The boy–...the man was fidgeting, nervous and tense, and the emotion was traveling through the air to affect Severus as well. He felt his muscles coil.
"Did you ever care for me?"
It was like a slap in the face.
Severus stared at this Boy Who Lived, at this person with a brilliant mind and a horrible personality and reflexes as quick as a bird’s. This boy who had become the Man Who Would Live, who had beaten everything at all costs, who was so infuriatingly Gryffindor. That man that had all of the combined luck of everyone he’d ever met.
"Mr. Potter, your impertinence is duly noted. That is not an appropriate question."
Harr–...Potter tipped his head, frowning. "Yes, it is. I know you wanted to kiss me, after we stopped screaming at one another the other day." Oh, that bit like a snake, and Severus flinched. "Did you ever care for me, Professor?"
Of course he had. Still did, with all that was capable in him. "You were a boy. It was nothing but an infatuation that I played against you for a joke, or have you forgotten already?"
He almost regretted the flash of pain that shot through Harry’s eyes, but applauded the proud lift of his chin. Good boy, Harry. "No, I haven’t forgotten," Harry said, firmly. His voice was strong. "Thank you for answering me. Good night, Professor."
The staff room door closed behind him and Severus sat, hunched in his chair, alone.
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember why pushing the infuriating brat away was such a great idea.
- = - = -
The school grounds were very cold and wet when Harry stepped out onto them, later that night. His cloak lay draped warmly around his shoulders, his broomstick tight in hand, and though he didn’t really know where he was going, he knew he needed to get out of the school for a while.
Everything reminded him of Snape.
That in itself pissed the hell out of him and set him to glaring again. The man was an absolutely infuriating individual, and Harry didn’t know why he dealt with him at all. Maybe to get something other than the snide remarks out of him..
Which just made Harry all the angrier.
The cold night air tasted like snow, and Harry knew for sure that there would be a thin layer of white over Hogwarts when the sun came up tomorrow morning. For now, his boots crunched the icy grass underneath, his broom dragging through it behind him. He couldn’t really enjoy the magical tension in the air before a good snow fall, because his own body was strung tight.
All he needed, all he wanted, was for one of them, any of them, to apologize to him. He didn’t want gold, he didn’t want riches, he didn’t want any of their damned excuses. He didn’t want justifications, he didn’t want lies.
He wanted someone to tell him they were sorry for what they did to him. Two small words which no one seemed willing to utter.
It wasn’t asking for much, now was it?
It was with those slightly less then stellar thoughts that Harry passed the Quidditch pitch, where he’d initially intended on stopping, the wind whisking his hair back from his brow. Severus had told him that Remus was buried out here, off the Quidditch pitch where the sun met the horizon every morning.
It didn’t take him long to find it, though it was partially hidden in an alcove of trees. Harry had never been in a cemetery before. When he was young, his aunt and uncle would take Dudley, kicking and screaming, to London, insipid posies in hand to lay before his grandmother’s grave. Harry never wanted to know which grandmother it was, but he had a feeling it was his Grandmother Evans.
The cemetery wasn’t as small as Harry had been led to believe, but it was still...quaint. Headmasters and Headmistresses of old were laid to rest here, shoulder to shoulder with teachers and other Hogwarts staff. He saw Quirrel’s gravestone, and Binns’ as well, but what caught his eye were the white roses lying atop a new grave, its marble stone still shiny and new.
He crouched before it, and read aloud: "Remus John Lupin, the kindest man who ever taught within these hallowed halls. May he forever rest with his well earned peace."
The cemetery wasn’t as depressing as Harry had thought....it was....peaceful. Comforting, after a fashion. Harry sat down in front of the stone. The grass was freezing through his robes, the wind was licking ice cold down his neck, but it didn’t bother him, not really. Right below him, Remus was finally resting in that well deserved peace. No longer the wolf, no longer the man–just at rest.
"Hi, Remus," he whispered. He felt like an idiot talking to a stone, but he wanted to, for nothing but his own sanity. "I’m sorry I haven’t come to bring you anything yet. It’s been really hard for me, being at Hogwarts again. To tell you the truth, I feel sometimes like you’re still with me, so it’s strange knowing...you know. That you’re here."
He stopped, looking over the gray stone. "I hope you don’t mind that I took over your rooms. I haven’t moved anything around, or anything, though I did move the classroom a bit, to add the habitats you always told me you wanted to put up. We’ve got a hinkypunk now and the children love him, even if he thinks they’re all nosy buggers."
When Harry laughed, it sounded more like a sob.
"The children are doing great. They were really sad to hear you’d died, but they’ve seemed to accept me, even if I’ll never be as good as you were. They’re really intelligent little bastards, aren’t they? They pay more attention than I ever did, that’s for sure." He ran his fingers over the top of the stone. "I wish to Merlin you were here, Remus. I wish you were here with me, to talk to me. I desperately need someone.
"I missed you a lot, even after...I left." He traced the letters carved into the stone. "I had to leave, Remus...they did something terrible to me, though I’m sure you found out about it later. I just...I couldn’t..." His bit on his lower lip. "I wish you were still alive and you could show me what it is to be a man, because right now...I don’t know what I am. I keep telling them that I’m an adult, that I’m grown, but every time I say it the words sound less and less real. I know if you were here you’d have just the right advice for me."
Fuck. He was choking up, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
"I miss you, Remus. You were the only one who ever really understood me, who knew just what to say. You’ve done so much for me, and how did I thank you? I disappeared." Harry dragged his fingers over the grooved letters of the stone, his chest tight, his eyes stinging. "You were such a gift in my life, you know. You were more my father than anyone else ever was–you loved me unconditionally just because I was lovable, even after so many people died because of me." His throat closed. "I understand, now. I understand what you said. I asked you if you missed Sirius all those years ago, and you told me, ‘all the days of my life’. Remus, how can someone hurt this much and still be alive? How can there be so much pain inside of me and I still breathe in and out?"
He set his forehead on the cold marble, the roses squashed a little between his legs and the headstone. The fire of his pain clenched clawed fingers around his heart. "I want them to see me for what I am; not a child but a grown man. The thing is, they keep trying to mold me into the Harry Potter they knew and I haven’t been him in so long that I can’t remember what he was like." The tears did come now, wretched and burning at the backs of his eyelids. "They want me to save the world again, Remus, and I don’t know how to tell them that I don’t remember how."
He traced the stone, gently, touching each letter of Remus’ name. Around him, tiny white flakes began to fall. "I don’t know what to do. I wish I had your wisdom, Remus. I wish I knew what to do, what I should do." His voice croaked out in the silence of the cemetery. "How do I ask these people to call my ‘man’, when all they’ve seen me as is ‘boy’?"
As he’d known, the stone had no answer other then to stand there, a pillar of quiet strength.
Harry gently kissed it, before he left.
OR
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