FIC: "Occam's Razor"
Title: Occam's Razor
Author: joanwilder aka RaeWhit
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Harry/Severus
Rating: NC-17
Beta: jadzialove. Thanks for your sharp eyes and 'devil's advocate' par excellence skills.
Brit-pick: Thanks to my good friend, Sestra.
Word Count: 91,000
Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to J.K.Rowling and her book and film companies.
Summary: Two years after the end of the war, only desperation could make Harry seek out the help of a one-time enemy.
Warnings: Sex toys, rimming, bondage
Author's notes: Written for 2007 merry_smutmas for celandineb, wrapped up in a pouffy bow: bondage, voyeurism, masturbation, toys, delayed orgasm, rimming, dirty talk, frottage, desperate!sex, shower!sex, spanking (implied), UST and a plot, oh my!

A thank you to gmth, whose years of hard work (read: countless hours of matching up participants, cracking the deadline whip, arranging pinch-hitters, smoothing ruffled feathers, recipient of much-deserved praise—and, it must be noted, a few piles of virtual shit—formatting and posting, in addition to—god only knows how she does it—reading every single fic) have enriched us beyond measure. All 'O's, full marks, and an award for 'Special Services' to the fandom for you!







Occam's Razor

"All things being equal, the simplest solution tends to be the right one."
~~William of Ockham~~



Chapter One

The clock in the tower was striking midnight as shafts of summer moonlight filtered through the slit-like windows of the outer corridor of the castle.

Holding his light aloft, the caretaker moved almost silently through the narrow passageway, then stepped onto a staircase, waiting as it made its unpredictable swing. The students had left just today; he could almost believe that they were all still here, only asleep, but the utter silence belied this nonsensical quirk of his imagination. Even asleep, students in the castle imbued it with a vibrant sense of life that was now palpably absent.

Reaching his rooms, he pushed the door open, then directed his companion, "Mrs. Norris? In you go." After he felt the feathery brush of the feline against his legs, he held up the light for one last cursory look around, then Harry Potter extinguished his wand with a, "Nox."

oooOOOooo

It had only seemed natural that The Hero would spearhead the taskforce to repair and rebuild Hogwarts. After all, he'd been in a refractory period during the aftermath, needing time to adjust, time to realign his priorities, time to celebrate and be celebrated, and yes, time to mourn. He and a dedicated group of Ministry builders had put the castle to rights in a little over a year. But once the time came, Minerva McGonagall had not delayed the confrontation.

"So," she began, one morning last summer, when she and Harry were the only ones taking breakfast in the Great Hall, "now that the work here is almost done, what're your plans?" She peered at him from over the rim of her teacup.

"Plans?" Harry shrugged, then looked away as he buttered his toast. "Oh, I see. Well, at the moment, none." He studiously ignored her as he crammed his mouth full.

She reached over and pinched his arm. "Surely you must've thought of what you'd like to do? You have your NEWTs, you're young, I'll be happy to provide references, not that you'd need them."

Harry sat back in his chair, resigned, then finally looked up at her. Taking a deep breath, he threw himself into the fray. "I thought I'd stay on as caretaker." He held up his hand in response to the look of horror on her face. "You need one, I'm more than qualified, I know the castle inside and out. Besides, right now, I'm not particularly motivated to do anything else." He braced himself for the onslaught.

"Absolutely not! It's beneath you! As much as we need a caretaker, and I'll admit that you could more than adequately fill the position, it's out of the question! Argus Filch, may he rest in peace, would roll over in his grave—"

"Yeah, he would, wouldn't he?" Harry smiled at the thought, then sobered, ready to plead his case. "Listen. I'm asking you, please? I don’t know what I'd do if I had to leave now. It's not like it'd be difficult. Having magic, like Filch didn't, this'll be a snap. And it'll give me…more time. That's what I need…more time."

He shot her an imploring look, one he knew she wouldn't be able to resist. "I promise it won't be forever. Just, please, let me do it. For now." He sat forward. "C'mon, Minerva, there are still things that need sorted out, you know that. And I'd be grateful, really. I can't stand the thought of staying at Grimmauld all by myself." He picked up his tea, trying to affect an air of unconcern. "Unless you have someone else lined up."

This seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails. Sighing heavily, she capitulated. "The Board of Governors will have to approve," she said hesitantly, "and I don't see a problem there. But Harry, you've got to promise me that you'll consider your options and then move on." She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, and for some reason this made Harry think of Snape. How often had he seen him do that, right here at this very table?

Shooting her an easy smile, Harry tried to hide his immense relief. "All right, then. I promise."

Last summer, he'd settled into the caretaker's rooms, inheriting Mrs. Norris, who for the preceding year had become the school mascot. Even though Filch had far from endeared himself to the student body, the sad specter of his lonely feline wandering the corridors, mewing pitifully, had moved the school, en masse, to adopt her. Hand-fed from the House tables, petted and tickled in between classes, snuggled up in laps on the settees of the common rooms, the cat had become pampered, spoiled and noticeably plumper. But on the first night Harry'd occupied Filch's rooms, she'd shown up promptly, refusing to be turned away. From that moment onward, she resumed her role as caretaker sidekick, and before too long, Harry found that he was genuinely attached to the animal, which seemed to accept him unconditionally as her new master. She appeared to have forgotten all about Filch, whose body had been found in the wreckage the day after the battle for Hogwarts.

Harry's closest friends, however, had not accepted his new position so readily.

Ron: "You need help, Harry. What about wanting to be an Auror? Or playing Quidditch? You defeated Voldemort, in case you've forgotten. You could do anything you want! And what about Ginny, huh?" All of which earned Ron a roll of Harry's eyes.

Hermione: "Perhaps you need to talk to someone. It's not healthy, this lack of goals. You're a powerful wizard, Harry; you've so much to offer the wizarding world. They look up to you—what kind of example are you setting? And what about Ginny?" All of which earned Hermione a roll of Harry's eyes.

Ginny: "You're joking, aren't you? Harry? You know I love you, but… I thought you had ambition, to be someone. You defeated Voldemort, so to stay here and clean up after students? It's ridiculous! You can't seriously expect me to come back here, after all that's happened? What about me, Harry?" All of which earned Ginny a roll of Harry's eyes.

It was a complicated matter for Harry. He didn't know why he was content to stay; he didn't understand his lack of motivation; he only knew that the thought of striking out on his own, making choices, taking risks, almost paralyzed him and made him hyperventilate. It was true what Ginny had said: one would think that there'd be so many reasons for him to want to escape the castle at last, now that the work was done. So many had died here; around every corner, there was a memory. But not all of them were bad ones, he could tell them, but that seemed such an insensitive thing to say. Fred had died here, as well as Remus and Tonks. Not to mention Snape.

But what it really came down to was that Hogwarts had always felt like home, and in his heart of hearts, Harry had to admit that this was still true. For some reason, too, he had a certainty inside him, although he knew that it would sound irrational if he were to share it: the castle held him in a stranglehold that he had no idea how nor inclination to break.

Pure and simple, he was not yet free to move on.

And a year later, nothing had changed; in fact, he was less inclined than ever to leave. He wouldn't say that he was unhappy, though. He admitted, but only to himself, that he was lonely, that the nights were long, and that the company of Mrs. Norris left him unfulfilled and yearning for something. What that something was, though, he had no idea.

oooOOOooo

The next morning, Harry, armed with a mug of tea, hummed as he made his way to the headmaster's office. He still thought of it that way, partly because Minerva had resisted from the onset the expectation that she'd move her rooms there, and partly because of the many memories, most of them good ones, that Harry had for the chambers. They were curiously unchanged from when Dumbledore had inhabited them, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, that Snape seemed to have left little imprint on the rooms. The large oaken desk was there, in addition to the mysterious instruments that Harry'd decimated once, as well as the portraits of former headmasters, and wall-to-wall bookshelves.

Minerva used the rooms, from time to time, when parents visited, or when a high-ranking Ministry official came to call. The rest of the time she held court from her expanded rooms in Gryffindor tower. So for the most part, Harry was the only regular visitor. He liked the variety of reading material, the soundlessness of the interior, and often chatted with the portraits, especially Dumbledore's. The only trace that Snape had left, as far as Harry could tell, was an old wooden trunk that no one had been able to open.

Oh, yes, and there was the matter of the bat. Harry'd noticed it just weeks after the battle. It flitted above their heads, crisscrossing the high ceiling; it hung from portrait frames, and regularly disappeared through a small window, open at the top of the room.

"Hmm, that's Severus' familiar," Minerva told him when he'd finally asked.

Harry'd guffawed in disbelief. "Snape had a familiar? Since when?"

Stacking student files onto a levitating table, she glanced at him. "It's odd. It was with him when he returned as headmaster." She motioned the table toward the door. "After he died, it…hung around. Literally." She snorted. "Sort of fits, don't you think? It doesn't do any harm, so I've left it alone."

Eyeing the creature, Harry shook his head. "Yeah, it fits. A bat. Good grief. I wonder why he got one? You know, he'd never had one before."

Minerva stopped at the doorway and turned back, making a face. "I wouldn't know. Perhaps he was lonely? Argus had Mrs. Norris, after all."

With a laugh, Harry waved her away. "Not even close. A cat's one thing, but a bat… Lonely? Yeah, maybe he was."

It was around this same time that Snape's portrait had suddenly materialized on the wall. Minerva wasn't surprised, as she'd expected it to put in an appearance eventually. Strangely, though, there was no trace of Snape to be found in the picture. Harry'd examined it when it first showed up, tracing his finger over the rough swirls of the oil-painted surface, and had noticed that there seemed to be a filmy glaze over top, as if the occupant had thrown a fine sheet of butter muslin over the interior.

Harry watched it often, and there'd been times when he would've sworn that the surface of the portrait rippled, but by the time he'd got to his feet, there was never anything to be seen. Minerva herself was stumped; as far as she knew, Snape didn't have any other portraits in the castle or even elsewhere. But the two of them had to agree that what little they knew of Snape couldn't rule out the possibility of there being another portrait that hung somewhere outside of Hogwarts' halls.

It had been two years now, and Harry had to admit that he'd've liked for the surly Potions master to occasionally honor this portrait with a visit. Enough time had passed for Harry to know what he'd like to say to him. He wasn't altogether certain that Snape would even listen, but all that Harry knew was that he'd at least like to have the chance. As more and more time passed, though, it seemed unlikely that Snape would ever show.

That morning, Harry looked up from his book at the tapping on the glass. He set down his mug, then made his way to the window, where a large honey-colored owl was already grooming underneath its wing, talons locked upon the perch.

"Who're you, then?" he asked kindly as he removed the small package from the bird's leg, then held out his hand, palm upward to deliver the treat, and waited while the handsome owl gobbled it down. Ignoring Harry, it resumed its grooming ritual.

The package turned out to be just several heavy sheets of parchment, folded and fastened. When he opened it, something cold and heavy fell out to land with a thud on the carpet. Picking it up, Harry was puzzled to see that it was a very ornate, silver skeleton key. He frowned as he smoothed the inside parchment down to read the short inscription within.

Potter,

I came across this in a box of things that belonged to Snape. This was the only thing that seemed of any value. As you're there, I reckoned you might have whatever this belongs to. The rest of it was rubbish.

Draco Malfoy

The key was tarnished, so Harry muttered a cleansing charm, before turning it over in his hand and bringing it up to eye-level to examine the craftsmanship. The delicate silver was wrought in the shape of a snake, the loop of its coils fashioning the tiny handle. His eyes widened as he saw the "S.S" engraved at the junction of the loop and stem of the key, as he realized that he'd seen this very configuration before, on the trunk that still sat, pushed into a corner, in this very room. His heart began to pound as he headed for the Floo.

oooOOOooo

"Well, that's it," Harry said, disappointed, as he sat back on his heels, then looked up at Minerva. "It doesn't work."

Minerva straightened, then told him, "It may not work, but it clearly fits. There's something else keeping it locked. Knowing Severus, I'm not surprised. If he wanted to keep us out, I doubt we'll find a way in."

Harry thought for a moment. "Would you mind if I have Hermione take a look at it? She's quite good at puzzling things out."

Shrugging, the headmistress agreed. "Be my guest. Severus left no will that we've been able to find, so have a go at it. Filius checked it to make certain there weren't any anti-intrusion hexes. But still, be careful. You remember Severus' sense of humor?"

"Hmm, you mean the one he didn't have?" Harry muttered as he stood. "Well, let's see what she can work out, then."

oooOOOooo

Harry watched her, as she crinkled her forehead and pursed her lips. She stood in front of the trunk, concentrating, casting spell after spell, muttering incantations, punctuated by, "Well, no, that'd be too obvious," "So, not that," and finally, "Hmm, not surprised."

Smiling, Harry sat forward to the edge of his chair, thinking to himself that some things never changed, in this case the look on Hermione's face when she had a mission: brow furrowed, the tip of her tongue poised against her upper lip, the way she rocked back and forth on her feet when she was deep in thought. And—he knew from their colorful past—not to be disturbed until she had finished.

She lowered her wand, then rolled her shoulders before turning to him. "Well, that was anti-climactic," she informed him.

"What d'you mean?"

Sinking into the chair opposite him, she tucked her wand away. "I'm surprised Professor Flitwick didn't discover it right away."

Harry sighed. "What didn't he discover?"

She looked over her shoulder at the trunk. "It's simple. No hexes or curses, no complicated warding, no time-lock. Nothing difficult at all," she said with a smile as she turned back.

"Hermione, would you just tell me!"

She paused, and waited, rather smugly, while Harry rolled his eyes, then pronounced the verdict, "Password-protected."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "That's it? A password?"

"Harry," she chided, "you say, 'that's it' like it's a simple thing. You do realize it could be anything, even something random that would be pure chance to hit on?" When Harry's face fell, she nodded. "That's it."

Harry rubbed his chin as he thought. "So, I just have to say the password, and it'll open?"

"Or passwords. It could be one word, or two, or a phrase. Who knows? But you have to hit it exactly for it to open."

Harry's excitement over her discovery suddenly plummeted. "This could take…a while. You have any idea, this being Snape…? I don't suppose you could…."

She leant forward in her chair. "No, I couldn't, and besides, you have all summer here to work it out—a project for you. A goal. Remember what that is?"

Harry ignored the jibe. "I suppose I could start with…say, potions, huh? That'd make sense." The magnitude of the task at hand was becoming evident. "This could take years…."

"Just remember, no incantations, because what you're dealing with here isn’t a spell, and you don't want to end up casting one accidentally."

"Thanks, I'll try to remember that," Harry replied with a trace of sarcasm.

Hermione shot him a curious look. "Why all the interest in this now? Hasn't it been here since he died?"

Harry told her about Malfoy sending the key, and its failure to open the trunk, despite the fact that it clearly matched the lock. She seemed interested at first, but then Harry saw the shift in her expression, a look that he'd come to recognize, so he braced himself for what was to come. First, he made a valiant attempt to divert her.

"So, I wonder what Malfoy's up to these days," Harry finished.

Picking at a fingernail, Hermione commented, "Don't know." She looked up at Harry, then each of them broke into a grin, and said at the same time, "Don't care."

Harry threw back his head and laughed out loud, but when he caught her eye, he knew that the reprieve was over. He sobered, then decided, best to get it over with. "So, how's everyone? Ron's away again, I take it? And how're your parents?"

Lacing her fingers to clasp her knee, Hermione got directly to the heart of the matter. "Ron's fine; he's in Ireland; my parents were over last week for dinner, and they're good too." She barely stopped to take a breath. Harry was almost entranced by how predictable this had become. "So, Harry, everyone's still asking about you. What you're going to do next. In fact, I saw Ginny just yesterday; she asked me to say hullo—"

"Hermione," Harry growled, but she was as unstoppable as the Express.

"—and I was thinking that maybe the four of us could get together soon? I have this recipe for curry, and I know that you and Ginny always liked—"

"Hermione. No," Harry said slowly. "No," he reiterated emphatically when he heard the almost imperceptible waver in her voice. "No-oh." he drew the word out, as he made a chopping motion with his hand. Thus visually prompted, she finally stopped in mid-sentence, then let out a sound of frustration.

"I just want…" Her shoulders drooped. "…you to be happy, Harry. You've gone through so much, and I thought…" Her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at her lap.

Harry reached over and grabbed her hands and gave them a tug. "I'm not unhappy." He ducked his head to catch her eyes. She gave him a bleary, sardonic smile.

"You should know better than to play word games with me, Harry Potter," she chided him through her tears. "You didn't say you were happy—thought I'd not notice that?"

He squeezed her hands. "You have to stop worrying about me. I'm fine," he reassured her. "And I've told you before, Ginny and me, well…."

"Just lay off," Hermione completed the sentence for him.

oooOOOooo

Harry side-stepped along the bookshelves, running a finger along the books on potions. There were dozens: where would he even begin? His heart sank, as he realized that he'd been right when he'd thought it'd take him weeks…months, maybe longer. He sighed. If only Hermione had been willing to help; she was so much smarter than him when it came to things like this.

He could still see the look of gentle disapproval on her face. Well, get in line with the rest of the world, he thought. How many times had he seen her make that face? All those years when they'd been students, when he and Ron hadn't measured up. It reminded him of their sixth year, when she'd had her knickers in a twist over Snape's Potions book….

His hand froze on the shelf, and for a moment he didn't breathe. Snape's Potions book…. In a flash, Harry was in the fireplace, calling out, "Harry Potter's rooms!"

oooOOOooo

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the trunk, Harry had Snape's copy of Advanced Potion-Making in his lap. He hadn't looked at it since the end of sixth year, when he'd retrieved it, surreptitiously, from the place where everything is hidden. Somehow, he just knew that he'd find the password within the text. It made perfect sense; Snape had personalized this book, made countless notes in the margins, detailed and described original spells on the blank pages between chapters. But even so, it was still a formidable task—Snape could've chosen any number of words: potions, incantations (although Hermione didn't think that likely), ingredients, potions implements. It would mean starting at the very beginning and working his way through, painstaking page by painstaking page. If only he had a clue as to what the man might've chosen…but he didn't, so he opened the book to the very first page and began.

Acromantula venom, Amortentia, asphodel, bezoar…. He worked his way through the table of contents, then moved to the potions themselves.

Blood-Replenishing Potion, Billywig parts, Draught of Living Death, Hicupping Solution. He paused at each section, naming potions, then read through the list of ingredients for each one, darting his eyes to the trunk from time to time.

Widdershins, mortar and pestle, copper cauldron, extract, silver knife, cork-stoppered glass phial…. He squinted to make out the words that Snape had scribbled in the margins.

Potion names, potion purposes, potion effects, potions bottling, potions storage…. He moved slowly from one page to the other, until he winced at the crick in his neck.

He lay back on the floor for a moment and stared at the ceiling; he'd been at this for three hours, and he was only a third of the way through the book. What if Snape had strung words together, in a way that they would only make sense to him alone? How would he ever hit on the right combination or permutation? Harry groaned out loud, "Snape, do you see the irony in this? You're dead and gone for two years, and look at me-- up late at night with your sodding book!"

Well, there was his answer. No reason to continue on into the wee hours, when he had months to work this out at his leisure. He didn't even know what was in the bloody trunk, for that matter. For all he knew, it would turn out to be robes and cloaks (all black, of course), and perhaps some disgusting phials of potions ingredients. He closed the book, and had just set it atop the trunk, when a flicker of motion from the portrait above caught his attention. Resting back on his heels, Harry stared up at it, and for the briefest of moments, thought he spied the glittering of a pair of eyes peering down at him. Stumbling to his feet, he rested both hands on the wall on either side of it.

"Snape?" he called in a hoarse voice. The portrait looked as it always had, a murky black background, slightly clouded over. "Professor Snape?" he queried, now starting to feel foolish. Swearing under his breath, Harry turned his back on it and muttered a, "Nox," when he was halfway to the settee.

He often slept here, comforted by the sounds of the clocks and the familiarity of the room. As he settled himself on his back, he stared up at the moonlit ceiling. He was tired, emotionally wrung out from the events of the evening. As he often did nowadays, being a healthy young man of almost twenty, he resorted to the age-old adolescent remedy for sleep. Stretching out, he undid the flies to his trousers, then took himself in hand. Turning his head to the side as he began to stroke himself, his mind wandered over his plans for the next day: there were still repairs to be done in the dungeons, the last damage to be repaired in the castle. Then in the evening, he'd have a go at the trunk again. He yawned as he arched slightly off the settee, melting into the sensation of warmth growing in his groin. He pumped faster, his breathing coming quicker, as he neared getting off. He moaned out loud, his mind now empty, as he felt himself about to come… close, oh so close.

He was almost there, and about to plunge over the edge, when for a brief instant, he saw in his mind that flash of whimsical impression from the portrait, of black eyes piercing him before they disappeared. With the sight of it, he jerked upwards, coming over his fingers in a sudden spurt. Gasping, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, he wondered why in the world he'd seen the eyes just then.

"Damn Snape," he muttered. After murmuring a cleansing spell, he rolled over and, relaxed, drifted off to sleep.

oooOOOooo

"Why isn't Snape in his portrait?" Harry asked Dumbledore's likeness long ago.

"Who says he isn't?" was the infuriating reply.

"Thanks. That really helps," Harry retorted.

Dumbledore wagged a finger at him. "A portrait is the departed's domain. How he chooses to use it—to show himself or not—is up to him to decide. And remember, Harry, things are not always as they seem," the old man reminded him.

Harry'd spent the day working in the dungeons, then after a hurried supper in his rooms, he was once again sitting in front of the trunk, the textbook in his lap. He took up where he'd left off, reciting words from the pages as he slowly made his way through potion after potion, scrunching his eyes to read the almost illegible scribbling in the margin. It was slow tedious work, and after several hours, still with a third of the book to go, Harry leant back, resting his palms on the floor behind him. What would he do if he got to the end and still hadn't found it? No, he told himself, it's here, I know it is—I just have to find it. And if I don't, I'll start all over. He sat forward again and set back to work.

Two hours later, however, his certainty wavered. He'd reached the end of the volume, had read aloud each and every syllable in the book, including Snape's notes. The prospect of beginning again, combining words and phrases differently, made him suddenly weary. He shut the book and closed his eyes. Well, what had he expected? This was Snape: often difficult, usually oblique, most times unreadable, always unpredictable. Opening his eyes, he stared down at the back cover of the worn volume, then idly traced his fingers over the inscription on the back, as he murmured, "This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than the trunk before him seemed to shudder slightly. Harry sat up straight, his mouth hanging open as he flung the book to the side. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, then started again, slowly, "This…book…" Nothing. "…is…the…property…of…the…" Still nothing, but now Harry knew. "...Half-Blood Prince." It was unmistakable this time, as he was watching closely. The wooden chest definitely moved, although almost imperceptibly.

On his knees now, Harry shot off a volley of related words and phrases: half-blood, Prince family; my mother's name is Prince; Prince is a half-blood. Then, inexplicably, in one of those rare moments of a lifetime, when knowledge seems to come out of nowhere, bestowed or imparted, either by a higher power or perhaps just serendipity, Harry knew. He didn't care from where it'd come: he knew he was right.

His palms were sweaty, his heart hammered in his chest, and Harry paused, savoring the moment to come, then said softly but clearly, "Severus Snape is a Prince." He didn't know what to expect, but knowing Snape, he wouldn't have been surprised by fireworks, the shriek of a Banshee, or the even the appearance of a cloud of mist to accompany the occasion.

What happened, instead, was almost disappointingly unspectacular. There was the faint grinding as if a key were being turned in a rusty lock, then the lid of the trunk lifted an inch before it settled back down into place with a soft thump.

Slowly, almost reverently, Harry leant forward and lifted the lid upward; it creaked on its hinges and was heavier than he'd thought it'd be. Letting it rest against the wall, Harry took a deep breath and looked down into the trunk.

"Potter," said the man from the painting lying on the very top. It was large enough so that it just fit inside the trunk, its rectangular edges snug against the sides of the chest.

"Professor Snape," Harry breathed out, as he started to work his fingers into the small crevices between edges of the picture and the trunk. The man in the painting, seated behind a large desk covered with books and parchments, had already stood to his feet and fixed Harry with a scowl.

"I was on the verge of insanity, listening to you blither the entire bloody book!"

Freeing the painting finally, Harry propped it against the front of the trunk, then moved backwards to sit directly opposite it. "A little help wouldn't have hurt," he accused, frowning as he realized that the same filmy substance that seemed imbedded in Snape's empty portrait covered this one as well.

Leaning against the desk, Snape crossed his arms. "Oh, I considered that, but I wanted to make certain that you were properly motivated; besides, I knew you'd eventually get it."

Harry blinked. "You did? I mean, why me? It could've been anyone…."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do you really need me to lay it out for you, Potter? Who, at this point besides yourself, would have any interest in what I might've left behind?"

There was no point in denying it at all, so Harry didn't even protest. Snape was right. The Ministry had known the trunk was here, as had Minerva, but only a half-hearted effort had been made to open it. As for his own reasons, well, that obsession had begun the night he'd seen Snape's memories, the night he'd found out how wrong he'd been, the night he'd finally been able to dispatch Voldemort precisely because of the man before him. Or rather, a likeness…or a specter…not a ghost, certainly. What exactly would he call it? This wasn't Snape, in fact, he reminded himself.

"You put a painting of yourself in your trunk because…." Harry didn't finish.

"Because I didn't want to be doomed to spending all of my portrait-life in the company of…." Snape waved upward in the direction of the walls of the office.

Harry sat up straight, as he remembered what he'd seen last night. "But you do visit that portrait, don't you? I saw you! Last night, it was you, wasn't it?" he demanded.

Snape shrugged. "On a rare occasion I do shift to that location. Purely out of boredom. And to talk with Albus."

Harry turned and glared at the portrait of the old man, now conveniently empty. "All right. But if that's the case, why would you want me to open the trunk, then?" His eyes widened, just after the word 'trunk' had come out of his mouth. Rising to his knees, he carefully slid the painting to lean against the wall, then peered down into the trunk, ignoring Snape's, "What are you doing?"

There were only a few items, Harry saw, with disappointment. There was a silk Slytherin scarf, and as Harry lifted it out, a wand fell from between its folds. "Whose is this, then?" he asked, not really expecting Snape to answer. He fingered the length of it; it was shorter than his own, more slender, and had a small silver band around the grip of it. Setting it and the scarf aside, he reached in and withdrew a thick black book, tied with a piece of cord.

He used his thumb to fan across the edges of the pages, and decided that it must've been some sort of personal journal of Snape's, as he recognized the cramped distinctive scrawl. "Later, definitely later," he mumbled. "I've had enough reading for the night." He heard Snape snort from his picture, but ignored him to pull out the next item. This was also a book, and he recognized the title instantly: Secrets of the Darkest Art. "Why'm I not surprised?" He laid it atop the journal and bent into the trunk once again.

In a stained leather pouch, he found three potions phials, good-sized ones too. Each was at least the length of his finger, but slender enough that he could easily wrap his palm around it. The glass was opaque, though, so he couldn't see what they contained, but he'd learnt long ago not to unstopper a phial unless one had some idea of what was within. After carefully stowing them back in the pouch, he set it aside, then squinted his eyes at the bottom of the trunk. It was emp—no, there was something small, flat, and folded, lying there.

He lifted it out, then turned it over in his hand. It was a slim parchment, pleated to make an envelope, with nothing written on the exterior. As he broke the wax seal, Snape murmured, "Have a care." Harry furrowed his brow as he considered the contents without removing them. He shouldn't have been surprised, but nevertheless his breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of his mother's smiling face, and next to it, the portion of the letter that Snape had ripped away while in Sirius' bedchamber at Grimmauld Place.

"You kept it," he stated, looking up at Snape. But the man in the portrait kept his eyes downcast and offered no reply.

Harry's eyes swept the bottom of the now empty trunk. "That's it?" he asked, starting to feel the first traces of disbelief. He'd spent hours, talked himself hoarse, and for what? A few books and phials, an old wand, and this memento of his mother that he'd seen before.

Snape looked up. "That's it. You're disappointed, I see," he said sourly, as he shook his head.

"No! I just thought, y'know, because you'd locked it the way you did…that there'd be something…."

"Significant?" Snape prompted him with a familiar sneer.

"Well, yes, I guess so. After all, why would you leave these things for me?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "I didn't leave them for you. You just turned out to be the most likely one to find them." He stood and craned his neck to peer out of the edge of the picture. "You realize that when I placed them there, I'd no idea that I'd never see them again."

Harry followed Snape's eyes, and locked on to his other portrait. "Professor, why are your portraits different?" When the man raised an eyebrow, Harry elucidated, "Sort of blurry, like there's a coating of something over them?"

"Hmm, there is? I wouldn't know. Perhaps it’s from the residue of potions on my clothing," he said distractedly, still trying to glance about the room.

Harry digested this possibility, but didn't think it likely; for now, he let it go. "So, what's it like? Being dead? I mean, you're somewhere else too, aren't you? Isn't there an afterlife where you are?"

Snape turned back to him and fastened him with a dark look. "I wouldn't know, Potter, as I'm a portrait, not a soul."

His brain suddenly fatigued by his two late nights, Harry struggled to his feet. "Well, we can talk tomorrow. I'm knackered and it's time for bed." He stood before the picture, staring down at Snape, wondering what the protocol was here—was he expected to say goodnight, or just go? Snape solved his problem for him, stiffly drawing himself up to his full height, which given the size of the painting, was about ten inches tall.

"As I've already a portrait in this room, it would be appreciated if you'd place me in a different one."

Harry stared at him. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that." Lifting the painting, he shifted it awkwardly under his arm as he made for the door. "For now, it'll have to be my rooms, until I figure out where to put you. Unless you have a preference?"

"Fine. Your rooms. I'll think about it and let you know," Snape replied.

As Harry trudged through the corridors, unable to take the Floo with such a burden, he marveled at how…agreeable this Snape seemed to be, all things considered, then laughed softly to himself as he remembered that this was a painting, not the man himself. And that thought still made him shudder involuntarily. Snape in his rooms….

CHAPTER TWO