FIC: "Occam's Razor", Chapter Two


Chapter Two

The next morning, Minerva reminded Harry that she was about to leave on holiday. He hesitated, then decided he'd best tell her before she left.

"Severus Snape is a Prince?" she repeated, pursing her lips before she let out a snort. "Not something I would've guessed. Well done, Harry." She beamed at him, and then tilted her head to the side. "And…inside the trunk?"

Harry was honest, except for one glaring omission. "Some books, potions phials, a few papers. That sort of stuff. Nothing that makes any sense to lock up, at least to me."

"Well, Severus was a puzzle," she agreed, then her face softened. "As for being a prince, there's no doubt about it." After extracting a promise that he'd Floo her from time to time whilst she was away, she patted Harry's arm and took her leave.

Late in the day, Harry had finally tracked down and forcibly relocated two suits of renegade armor. He'd amused Hagrid with his tale of it at supper, then had firmly begged off Hagrid's offer of an evening of Exploding Snap.

"I'm a bit tired," Harry told him.

Hagrid squinted at him. "Yeh don't look tha' tired to me."

"All right." Harry grinned up at him. "I'm a bit tired, and I 'm working on something."

The big man cuffed him on the shoulder. "Well, I understand how tha' is—yeh shoulda jus' said tha'," Hagrid chided him. "Yeh know where I am in the evenins', then."

"Thanks, Hagrid. I promise, I'll be down in a few days."

Making an educated guess, Harry set off for his own rooms. Although his evenings were usually spent in the headmaster's office, tonight he wanted to talk to Snape. And he suspected that of the two choices, his rooms would be the more likely.

It had been awkward that morning, as he moved through his sitting room, wondering if he should say, "Good morning," or "See you later." But a furtive glance at the painting had shown the dark-haired man with his head resting on his arms as he softly snored.

Harry had smiled, and been relieved—he hadn't been ready, as of then. But now, having had all day to ponder…all day to summon up his courage…all day to dredge up what he'd wanted for so long to say…now he was prepared. He had to remind himself (more than once) that this was a painting of the man, not Snape himself. Even so, there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was familiar, one that evoked memories of waiting for Potions to begin, especially of those frequent occasions when he'd been unprepared for class.

As Harry quietly closed the door behind him, he heard the rustle of a page turning. He was heading for the sideboard for a drink when the voice startled him.

"You needn't tiptoe on my account."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as Harry turned, a glass of wine in his hand. "I thought I was being considerate." He lowered himself into an armchair facing the painting still propped up against the wall opposite.

"I'm not a roommate, Potter. I'm a mixture of paint on a canvas."

Harry did smile now. "Oh, I'd say you're much more than that."

Snape propped his feet up on his desk and leant back as he straightened his cuffs. "Tell me, then."

Harry thought for a moment. "You've no soul, so you say, but you clearly have a mind…Snape's mind. You talk like him, pick the same words he'd use. You sound exactly like him. You look like him, have the same mannerisms and facial expressions." He leant forward, elbows on his knees. "And maybe I shouldn't tell you this—a testament to the fact that I know you're not Snape, per se—but you still intimidate the bloody hell out of me." He returned Snape's self-satisfied smirk. "And that's a bit of a tall order for a blob of paint on a canvas, isn't it?"

"Admirable assessment," Snape commented dryly, then sat silent, watching Harry.

Harry didn't know where to begin, so he decided to start with the most difficult.

"I've been thinking about you all day." He waited for the snide remark that was certain to come, but when it failed to materialize, he continued more confidently, "I have some things I've wanted to tell you, if you'll listen, that is."

"My schedule is free. Go on."

"Well, I…I…first I wanted to thank you. There are so many things—"

"You're welcome."

Harry gaped at him, then slowly shut his mouth. "You don’t want to hear the list?"

"No. I imagine I know everything on it. What else?"

Harry swallowed hard. "And I wanted to apologize…sir."

"Hmmm, go on."

"What? So now you want the list?" Harry asked sarcastically.

"Oh, by all means, yes. I can't be entirely certain of all the countless ways you might've offended me, so enlighten me, if you will." The black eyes glittered, and Harry thought he caught a glint of malice…or mischief…he couldn't be certain which it was.

"We may be here a while…" Harry confessed, drawing out the final word.

Snape seemed to consider this, then waved a hand. "All right, just the major infractions, then."

Harry played with the glass in his hands. The major infractions…he'd had a list, but since Snape had put it the way he had, Harry was suddenly uncertain. How far back should he go…and how specific should he be? He didn't want to miss anything important, but he didn't want to appear overly scrupulous either.

Aware that some moments had passed, Harry stole a glance at the painting, expecting that Snape would tersely prompt him to get on with it.

Instead, Harry encountered something entirely unexpected, at least so far as his prior experiences with Snape: the man had laced his hands behind his head and was studying Harry, his face oddly neutral, his eyes devoid of even a trace of impatience.

Harry began with an explanation. "By the end of first year, I thought you hated me. Then during fifth year, I worked out the reason why, or so I thought. But by the end of that year, when Sirius died," he paused, his jaw tightening, "I hated you too." Snape dropped his hands into his lap, but said nothing, still listening.

"My whole sixth year, I was certain I was right about you. But every single time I asked the headmaster why he trusted you, he wouldn't tell me." Harry looked away as he softly continued, "I was devastated when you killed him, but I was glad it was you." Harry found Snape's eyes again. "Because it meant that I'd been right all along. Ron, Hermione, Arthur, Remus—they all had to admit I'd been right. The hardest part for me, besides losing him, was that it meant Dumbledore had really been wrong."

"Knocked right off his pedestal," Snape quietly affirmed.

"Yeah, I wanted to be right, but not that way. Then that year on the run—all the things we heard you were doing here…sometimes I thought about how it would feel…catching up with you…killing you."

Snape nodded, but Harry wasn't really paying him any attention. He was anxious to get it out and be done with it.

"In the Shack that night, when you gave up your memories like that, even before I got to the Pensieve, I knew," he finished, his voice barely audible, almost as if he were thinking out loud to an empty room.

For a moment, Harry felt paralyzed by the sheer remembrance of that epiphany.

"What did you know?" Snape's voice startled him.

"That I'd been wrong about you. I didn't know how…or why…what would explain it…but I knew."

For the first time, Snape looked away, his hand toying with the edge of a parchment.

"Your memories…. I don't know what to say, sir. What you did…all those years…and I missed it completely, misjudged you by a long shot. I'm so sorry, Professor."

Snape's hand stilled, but he didn't look up.

"I'm sorry I called you a coward. I'm sorry I thought I had you all figured out the way I did. I'm sorry I believed for the worst in you, because in the end, if it hadn't been for you…." Harry shook his head. "I don't know how it would've all turned out."

Snape slid his feet from atop the desk, and swiveled in his chair to face Harry, his dark eyes solemn, yet still expectant.

Harry set his glass on the side-table and sat up straight. "Professor Snape, please accept my sincerest apology."

Something seemed to settle in Snape's face as he took his measure of Harry; his eyes and voice steady, he simply said, "Apology accepted."

The sound of those two little words faded to a silence between them: not the quiet of a space where the dearth of words provokes one to speak to fill it; not the lull in a conversation where one mentally casts about for what to say next; not the drawn out hyphen where there is a subtle glance to the side, a self-conscious, restless shifting of limbs, or a clearing of the throat.

And as the moment stretched out, Harry felt his heartbeat slow; the hitch in his chest that had been there since the night Snape died released with a figurative snap, and Harry took a long, quavering breath, his lungs expanding in full excursion as they filled to max capacity.

Harry felt free: free of guilt, free of regret, free of the simmering need and obsession to make things right. Because now they were.

Snape's ability to sit mutely through Harry's blissful contemplation had its limits, though. "Potter, I believe you owe me something."

"Hmm…." Wait…wait. Don't get too comfy in that sea of forgiveness….. "Owe you something?" Harry had to make an effort to keep the wariness out of his voice.

Pulling his chair to the edge of the painting, Snape reached out and caressed the inside of the frame, dragging his fingers along the gilded carving. "Yes. Tell me what happened that night. All of it." He eyes had lost their luster. "I've only been given the leanest of details by Albus."

Harry was confused. "Why? I told him everything. He knows it all."

"I didn't say he didn't," Snape said shortly. "I simply said that he hasn't told me much of it."

Still perplexed, Harry mused, "But why wouldn't he tell you?"

Snape plastered a longsuffering grimace on his face. "He thought it best I hear it from you. In his words, 'It will help to resolve your issues.' Some of which I believe we just did, but he must believe there are others."

Harry offered a feeble protest. "Issues? How can we have issues? You're dead.”

Snape knitted his eyebrows together and pointed out, "But you're not."

"Oh…I see." Harry flushed slightly as he thought about what his issues might be. "You mean…my mother."

Snape waved a hand. "That can keep for another time, although I'm sure that is one of them. I believe he meant my scarpering on the night in question, leaving you in the lurch." He studied Harry. "An eyewitness account is always more accurate."

"I didn't think you ran away, at least by the end of it," Harry informed him. When Snape didn't speak, Harry said, "All right, then. I guess I should start with how we got into Hogwarts…."

"Aberforth. Yes, I knew about that little arrangement."

"Of course, you must've," Harry agreed slowly.

"So, you came through the tunnels from the Hog's Head. And then?"

Harry stood and gestured with his empty glass. "Mind if I…?" When Snape dismissed him with an uplifted finger, Harry stepped to the sideboard, then returned and retook his seat.

For the next hour, Harry talked while Snape avidly listened, interrupting often to ask a question or seek further explanation, sometimes to express disgust and, at one point, undisguised delight.

"I'd have dearly loved to see Sibyll do it," he murmured.

Harry watched Snape's face as he recounted his story, and realized, not too far into it, that the professor hadn't been exaggerating: Dumbledore had told him next to nothing. He could tell by Snape's reactions that he was hearing it for the very first time. Harry did find it odd that Snape didn't question him at all about the diadem—he only shook his head at Draco's narrow escape, then his lips compressed to a thin line when he heard that Crabbe had died in the fire.

After his account of the macabre scene in the Shrieking Shack, Harry stopped and looked away. It only seemed right that there should be a moment of silence, a brief pause for reflection and remembrance.

Snape was the first to speak. "I don't remember the pain—only the thought that all was lost—that I'd failed. I was dying, without having told you what I'd been entrusted to tell." His voice lowered with the admission. "I misjudged the circumstances—and you—and ran out of time." His voice was uncharacteristically hoarse as he finished, and Harry understood why: it was the first time he'd ever heard the man admit to failure.

Harry wouldn't disagree; in fact, when he'd thought it all over in the first days after the battle, he'd come to the very same conclusion. If he'd not been in the right place at the right time…. But as it had turned out….

"Even so, you did manage to tell me…." Harry held out what solace he could.

Snape's eyes, which had been miserable and far away for a moment, found Harry's.

"Why did you…stay?" he asked softly, then added, "Why did you show yourself to me at all? I've wondered…." There was another change in the timbre of Snape's voice, also one that Harry'd never heard before: it sounded like desperation, with a faint hint of fear, and a whisper of wonderment.

How many times had Harry wondered over what he'd done that night? He struggled to put what he'd puzzled out into words. Clasping his hands behind his neck, he sat back. "The whole year, I'd had to face things about Dumbledore, bit by bit: mistakes he'd made when he was young, how flawed he was…how human. How wrong he'd been to trust you.

"As much as I hated you…when I saw what happened, how horrible it was, I couldn't stop myself." He shuddered as he remembered. "I think I wanted Dumbledore to have one last chance…I wanted to see…even hoped…when I stood there over you…that something would happen—I didn't know what—to show me that he'd been right all along…that he hadn't miscalculated…about everything. And you…" Harry's voice was so low that Snape sat forward in his chair, "you were his last chance to prove me wrong. And you did."

Neither of them spoke, until Snape gave him a curt nod. "Fortunate for both of us, then."

"Luck," Harry ventured unconvincingly.

Snape shook his head. "One way of looking at it. But I don't think so. It's a tribute—to Albus' confidence that you'd set aside your prejudices and trust him. Even at the last hour, you were still looking for some way to do that, albeit unconsciously."

Harry made short work of the rest of the story. He told of his lonesome journey into the forest, intentionally not embellishing the tale with the inner turmoil and anguish he'd suffered. For now, he left out any mention of the Resurrection Stone and its effects, and abridged his conversation with Dumbledore at King's Cross to the essentials only.

Snape didn't interrupt at all, perhaps sensing Harry's redundant agony in reliving the events as he related them. Harry was gratified by the spark of satisfaction in Snape's eyes when he heard of how Nagini had met her end.

By the time he'd finished, Harry had slid to the floor to sit with his back against the armchair. He was exhausted; he'd never talked it out this way before, from start to finish. He knew he'd skipped over many things, missed many details that he'd have occasion to tell at another time. He closed his eyes and rolled his head on his shoulders, working out the stiffness and tension that'd built over the past hour.

"Well done, Potter." Harry opened his eyes at the tone of approval, then felt the warmth spread through his chest, prompted by what he saw in the set of eyes in the painting: respect.

Harry was momentarily bemused; it was a novel experience, this short affirmation from a source that had heretofore been so dismissive and disapproving, even hostile.

"Thank you, sir. You know it wasn't just me, though. So many people…so many things had to come together so I could do it." He knew by the expression on Snape's face that he understood.

"True. But in the end, you proved yourself the penultimate member of your House. Fifty points to Gryffindor," Snape said soberly.

Harry laughed out loud. "Only fifty? I'd've thought it worth at least a hundred!" he exclaimed.

Snape almost smiled at him, a slight curving of his lips that sent a sudden and exquisite streak of pleasure straight to Harry's heart. "Indeed," was all that Snape said, obviously amused by Harry's response.

But Snape's eyes lost their glimmer as he became solemn once again. "How many dead?" he asked quietly.

Harry felt the warmth and good cheer leach out of him. "Fifty-eight, by the time all the dust settled and the castle was searched."

Snape wanted names, of course, so Harry listed as many as he could from memory: students, parents, Death Eaters, Aurors and Order members. "Remus and Tonks," he finished flatly.

The mirth of a moment ago, the sober calm during which he'd just memorialized the dead—all of it evaporated abruptly with Harry's last words. Harry took in the flash of shock and chagrin in Snape's eyes, the muscles of his face contorting as he seemed to grope for words, his chair tumbling backward as he stumbled to stand in his painting.

Snape the ever-impassive, ususally immovable, rarely shockable…. Harry gaped at the man as he watched him struggle to regain his composure. Snape rested his hand on the desk to steady himself, then he leveled an almost thunderous expression on his living conversant, his eyes cold as ice and his voice a deadly calm.

"Lupin is dead?"

Harry started to speak but then stopped. Snape looked downright distressed. "Yes, he is."

Snape stared at him, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Then, before Harry could say anything more, Snape turned and stepped over the chair in his path, and exited out of the side of the painting, without so much as a by-your-leave or a backwards glance.

Stunned, Harry sat, mouth hanging open. Of all the things he'd said that night, this was the last thing that he'd've ever guessed would upset the man. He ruminated over what it could mean, and wondered, too, if he should sit and wait for Snape to return. And if he did, should he fish for an explanation? Of all the Marauders, Snape had seemed to tolerate Remus more than the others. But still, Harry knew that there'd been little love lost between the two men. At least, that's what he'd always believed. Yet, there had been so much about Snape that Harry hadn't known; was this perhaps yet another instance of still waters running deep? Had Harry missed yet another important piece of the puzzle that was Snape?

After half an hour, Harry came to a decision. "Kreacher?" he called softly, keeping his eyes on the painting in case Snape returned. He didn't want to be caught at what he was about to do.

With a 'pop', the house-elf appeared. Harry could tell by the blinking of his large, bulbous eyes that the old elf had been asleep. "Master Harry Potter is calling Kreacher?" he asked, his ears flapping almost to his toes as he bent in a low, sweeping bow.

Giving the painting one last furtive glance, Harry instructed, "Kreacher, I want you to go to the headmaster's office and see if Professor Snape's in his portrait there. And if he's talking to anyone."

Kreacher's eyes widened. "Master Harry Potter wants Kreacher to spy?" The elf rubbed his hands together. "Kreacher is very, very good at spying."

Hearing it put that way, Harry hastened to correct the elf of his not entirely inaccurate description. "No, I don't want you to stay and listen to what they're talking about. Just if they are. Can you do that? Is there some reason you can use for being there so late at night, just in case?"

Nodding, Kreacher assured him, "Kreacher can bank the fire."

Harry frowned. "No, that won't do. It's June, and no one's there to need a fire anyway." He thought, then strode to his desk. Picking up several books that he'd borrowed from the headmaster's office, he bent down to hand them to the creature. "I want you to put these back on the shelf. That should do it."

Kreacher didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. With another 'pop' he was gone. Harry waited impatiently, tapping a rhythm on the desktop. He was certain that Snape must be giving Dumbledore a dressing-down for not apprising him of the fact that Remus was dead. He would've liked to hear that conversation, but as Kreacher had mentioned, Harry couldn't justify 'spying' to satisfy his own curiosity. If Snape wanted Harry to know, then he'd tell him. Or…Harry could summon enough nerve to just come out and ask him, the thought of which made him shrink deeper in his chair…but not as deep as he once might've. The Snape he knew now…after seeing his memories, and talking with him over the past two days, was decidedly less threatening

He was startled by Kreacher's return, still with the books in hand. After bowing again, Kreacher delivered the message. "Yes, Master Harry Potter. He is there in his portrait, talking with Albus Dumbledore's portrait. Although they is talking very loudly."

So, Harry'd been right. Even in death, Snape wasn't able to countenance being left in the dark about something he apparently believed he should've been told.

Kreacher wasn't finished. "And Master Snape says to tell Master Harry Potter that, yes, he is in his portrait, and yes, he is talking to Master Dumbledore, and that no, it's none of Harry Potter's affair."

"Well, there's that question answered," Harry muttered to himself, then when he saw the hesitation in the house-elf's eyes, Harry smiled and said, "Thanks, Kreacher. It's all right about the books. They were only a decoy anyway. You can go back to bed."

oooOOOooo

Never a morning person, Harry rummaged in his wardrobe with his eyes half shut, then trudged into the sitting room in just his boxers. Dropping his clean clothes to the floor before he fell into the chair, he stretched out his legs, slouched for a moment, yawned loudly, then leisurely scratched himself through his boxers. Eyes still shut, he reached and fumbled for his glasses on the side-table. When the world came into focus, so did Snape, watching intently as Harry leant down for his socks.

Harry froze for a moment, then thought, He's not real, Harry. Pulling on his socks, he said amiably, "Good morning, sir." Standing, he self-consciously pulled on his jeans, then reached for his shirt. Tucking it in, he mentally berated himself for having forgotten that he wasn't alone. Good grief, I am alone.

He'd sat down again to lace up his trainers, when Snape finally answered.

"Is it?" he asked dryly.

Harry had to rewind the last few moments to understand. "Oh." Crossing the room, he looked out the window. "Yes, it is. Not a cloud in the sky."

Snape looked down as he fingered the edge of his book. "If you don't mind, I request that you…relocate me. Not that your little morning ritual was unappreciated," he paused meaningfully, and seemed slightly surprised when Harry only smiled without a trace of embarrassment, "but I'd prefer somewhere lighter and airier."

Harry felt a flash of disappointment, as he realized that he'd been looking forward to spending more evenings with Snape. He supposed it was because he still needed to talk about everything that had happened, while everyone else that he knew had closed that book and moved on to the rest of their lives. He and Snape, though, he suspected, were still hung up in that final chapter.

"Sure. Let's see. You have your pick of anywhere in the castle, really. It's only me and Hagrid and Sibyll right now, although I can't imagine you wanting—"

Snape interrupted, "Definitely out of the question. If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to stay here. I meant that I'd like to be stood somewhere else, though; perhaps if you propped me on the desk near the window, every once in a while?"

A wave of relief washed over Harry. He would have his nights with the man after all. He carefully and respectfully resituated the painting on the desk, slightly angled against the wall. After eyeing the arrangement critically, he transfigured the legs of the desk to stand a little higher, so that the painting itself was half-bathed in sunlight.

Snape stepped to the edge of the painting, pressing to peer out of the window. He closed his eyes, and the expression on his face was as near to ecstatic as Harry imagined he'd ever see on Snape, and filled with such an open longing, that Harry experienced a sudden and unexpected ache in his heart. He remembered how it'd felt, when he'd believed he was taking his last walk through the castle, hearing the hum of voices from the Great Hall, feeling the rush of crisp night air on his cheeks, seeing the moon shrouded by clouds, all for the very last time. He recalled the regret that had cut like a knife—that he'd taken such precious things for granted, and was suddenly out of time, never to experience them again.

As he pensively studied Snape's face, how the obvious pleasure of such a simple thing as sunlight could transform his features, he wondered if Snape ever entertained similar regrets. Another thing for them to talk about, perhaps….

As Harry was turning to go, intending to slip away and leave Snape to his moment, the man spoke.

"By the way, Potter, in the future, you can assume that if I am not in this painting, then I am in the only other. On most occasions, to seek out Albus. You needn't send your house-elf to track me down."

Picking up the books Kreacher'd failed to deliver, Harry disagreed. "Not to track you down, sir. I assumed you were there. Just checking to make sure you were all right." He didn't know why, but he lowered his voice. "You were a bit upset, and I wasn't sure why, so…."

Snape had opened his eyes and then turned, his back to the window; the light streaming from behind, Harry couldn't see his face clearly.

"Potter, you do remember that I'm dead? Deceased, done in, a painted rendering without a soul? Nothing can happen or be done to me, short of dousing me with solvent and setting me afire. I do believe you need to get out more. Perhaps an evening, now and then, in Hogsmeade?"

Harry snickered out loud. "Worried about me, sir?"

There was a pause, then the faceless figure gestured. "Go on. Out with you. You'll miss your breakfast."

At the door, Harry hesitated, then turned back. "Sir, I know you aren't…yourself. But I wish I'd had a chance to really know you when you were." There was no reply, so Harry let himself out, humming softly as he headed for the staircase.

oooOOOooo

Harry'd planned his summer well in advance. There were caretaking activities that were best carried out when the castle wasn't bustling with students. He serviced the mammoth clock in the Entrance Hall, polished armor, repaired mysterious damage to the House hourglasses. The Quidditch pitch and lockers needed tending, as well as structural improvements to several of the greenhouses.

In addition to all of these—and he often marveled over how Filch had managed as a Squib—Minerva had decided that Harry was more than qualified to assist her with some of her managerial duties: ordering classroom supplies, collating student schedules, and a task that Harry particularly relished—the preparation of the Hogwarts letters, soon to be sent out to returning students, the eagerly waiting eleven-year-olds of the wizarding world, and Muggle-borns.

His evenings, though, were reserved for the Slytherin currently sharing his living quarters. Well, most evenings. Snape sometimes did not want companionship, and dismissed Harry with a curt nod or a wave of his hand. Harry suspected that Snape did this for what he presumed was Harry's own good.

For those occasions, Harry was actually grateful. He'd secretly smuggled the journal and Dark Arts book from Snape's trunk in the office to the Restricted Section of the library.

The journal was clearly partitioned into sections, marked by blank pages in between. The first appeared to contain several complex potions, unnamed, many of the ingredients exotic ones that Harry didn't recognize at all.

Following were pages of names, places, and dates. Some were underlined, many were crossed out. Two of the names Harry knew straight off: Pettigrew and Lupin. Gringotts was mentioned, along with 'St James, lot 6418,' as well as the initials 'TDA' and what seemed to be a series of page numbers, with the words in the margin, 'Read carefully!' There were references to 'Bat'—Harry wondered if this was Snape's familiar—beside the words 'cauldron' and what looked to be a short list of apothecaries.

But by far the most interesting section of the journal was the list of dates at the back of the book. The words written under each date made Harry's skin prickle: Tottenham Court Road, Ministry, Phineas Nigellus per Albus, Godric's Hollow, Forest of Dean, Lovegood, Malfoy Manor, and lastly, Gringotts and Hosgmeade.

Harry instantly knew that Snape had chronicled his whereabouts, as if he'd been tracking him on his journey back to Hogwarts.

This particular evening, though, Snape had been in a rather expansive mood, and had suggested a game of chess, to which Harry had warily agreed, as he anticipated the outcome.

"Checkmate," Snape pointed out a half-hour later as he moved his bishop.

"No!" Harry's eyes rapidly scanned the board, considering each of his pieces. He sighed heavily for Snape's benefit, and hid the impulse to smile at the glint of satisfaction in Snape's eyes.

"That was quick," Harry mumbled as he reset the pieces. "Id've had a better chance at Exploding Snap."

"I'm not much for games of chance," Snape told him. "As for chess, it's only fair that I confess to having had an excellent teacher." When Harry cocked his head to the side, Snape confirmed, "Albus."

Harry laughed as he sat back. "Oh yeah, the master of strategy."

"Indeed," Snape muttered. Something in his tone prompted Harry's question.

"He played people rather well, didn't he? Sometimes that's how it felt."

"He had his reasons," Snape said cautiously. "Not that knowing that ever helped."

Summoning the carafe, Harry refilled his glass. "Some things would've been so much easier if he had just come out and, I don't know, given me a clue. That whole last year…."

Snape lifted and eyebrow. "On the hunt for Horcruxes?"

Harry's mouth dropped open. "What? You knew? But I thought…your memories…the night you brought the sword, you didn't know!"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Not for certain. But I'd suspected for a long while, even before he pulled that foolish stunt with the ring."

Perplexed, Harry feebly protested, "But I didn't think anyone but Dumbledore knew about them."

"You forget, there was a reason I sought the Dark Arts position." He fixed Harry with a purposeful look. "I know the Dark Arts, Potter. And remember that the Dark Lord's return smacked of dabbling in dark magic to attain immortality."

"Why didn't you tell Dumbledore that you knew?"

"Because it wouldn't have made any difference. He'd have refused to deny or confirm my speculations." Snape considered Harry thoughtfully for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say what was on the tip of his tongue. "I found proof of it right under his nose. On a shelf in his own library."

Harry caught on immediately. "Secrets of the Darkest Art."

Snape inclined his head.

"The same book that's in your trunk. But it's not the same book. We had that copy," Harry informed him.

"We?"

"Ron, Hermione and me. She Summoned it at the end of sixth year before we left."

"Ah. I wondered on my return where it'd gone. Not a very good text to misplace."

Harry was curious. "Where did you get your copy? I got the impression they were…out of print."

Snape hesitated. "Malfoy Manor," he said, then added neutrally, "I lifted it from Lucius' private library."

"Oh," Harry mused, "not surprising he had it."

They talked at length and in great detail about the Horcruxes then, Harry describing them all and where they'd found them, sketching out for Snape how each one had been destroyed. "So, you sort of knew what we needed the sword for, then."

"I made an educated guess. That night, however, I couldn't resist giving Albus one last chance to tell me." He shrugged. "As I said, he had a very good reason for declining."

Harry suddenly remembered that he'd been sidetracked by the Horcrux story. "When I said it would've been easier if he'd told me some things, I wasn't just talking about the Horcruxes. Although," he muttered, "that would've been a big help." He sat, remembering how frustrated he'd been, when it'd been so clear that the old man could've been more forthcoming and spared them what had seemed to be needless grief.

Snape waited until Harry looked up, then prompted him, "Not just Horcruxes?"

Shaking his head, Harry made a face. "Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

"Deathly Hallows? No. Tell me," Snape instructed, seemingly intrigued.

With a roll of his eyes, Harry asked, "You have a couple of hours to spare?"

Snape gave him a sardonic twist of his lips. "Potter, I have eternity."

oooOOOooo

When Harry finished, they sat together in silence, Snape with his head in his hands. Harry watched him worriedly, until he looked up.

"You did well to replace the wand in the tomb. Not many men would have the strength of character to relinquish such a treasure. Albus judged you rightly, so it seems."

Harry felt a familiar streak of pleasure. "Well, I kept the cloak."

"Yes, that infernal cloak. But it was your father's, so it's only right that you would want to keep it." He paused, seeming to reflect, then added, "As in other instances, the Dark Lord easily discounted things he was too arrogant to understand."

Harry pondered his words, then queried, "What other things? He did sort out the whole blood protection thing."

Snape waved his hand dismissively. "No, I was referring to Mr. Longbottom."

"Neville?" Harry asked, surprised. "You mean because of the prophecy?"

Snape looked pained for a moment, then shook his head. "No, not that. The Dark Lord failed to take into account what those who strove for power in the past learnt from hard experience." He stopped, then when Harry raised both hands in a palms-up gesture, Snape sighed.

"He forgot that the children of his enemies might well rise up to take their place. Emperors and kings and queens of old executed entire families, including infants, to forestall that very possibility. They understood that orphaned children might one day seek to avenge their parents' wrongful deaths, or in this case, mistreatment, which Mr. Longbottom did most admirably."

Harry smiled. "He did, didn't he?"

"He did indeed. And he holds a place of particular honor in my heart," Snape said as he fingered his neck.

"I didn't think you liked Neville," Harry teased.

Snape gave him a blank look. "'Like' has nothing to do with it at all. I did not like Mr. Longbottom in my classroom, and I know I need not elaborate." His face softened. "But in the end—no, even before the end, during his entire seventh year—he did his parents proud, and then some," he firmly stated.

"Hard for you to say that, wasn't it?" Harry asked quietly.

Snape's eyes slid up to meet Harry's. "Not at all. It's a late lesson, Mr. Potter, but I've learnt to give credit where credit is due. Yourself included."

oooOOOooo

As Harry headed for bed that night, he stopped to stand in front of the painting. He felt emboldened by Snape's startling willingness to be honest and, for Snape, uncharacteristically open.

"Professor…I've been reading your journal." Harry was curious to see Snape's reaction, even though he already knew that he'd continue on his current course, regardless of what the man had to say.

"No doubt you'll do as you please, but it's a waste of your time. Given what's transpired, its contents are irrelevant."

Harry stood with his hands in his pockets. "I don't suppose you'd care to explain some of it to me…answer some questions?"

Snape pursed his lips, then graced Harry with a rare smile. "You supposed correctly. You'd be better off getting out in the evenings, perhaps a game of Exploding Snap with Hagrid?"

Harry smiled in reply. "How do you know I play Exploding Snap with Hagrid?"

"You do like to win occasionally, I assume?" he asked with a meaningful look at the chess board.

"Yeah, you're right, I do," Harry agreed with a laugh. Shaking his head, Harry was at the door to the bedchamber when Snape, of course, had the final word.

"Have a care with the journal, Potter. There are books in the Restricted Section that like to eat other books."

It's true, Harry thought as he climbed into bed. Even in a painting, he has eyes in the back of his head.

oooOOOooo

In the week that followed, Harry became increasingly disturbed as he worked over Snape's journal. First off, the potions weren't just dark magic; they were dark, dark magic. Many of the ingredients were not even to be found in any of the potions anthologies, and he'd only discovered them after digging through some fairly frightening books that literally creaked when he opened them, and most of the information contained therein had been in a language that Harry could only guess at: Latin. He'd opined, not for the first time, that he couldn't ask Hermione to help him.

He snorted out loud at the very thought. He could just hear what she'd say: Do you have Professor Snape's permission to do this? You don't?! Harry, this is very dark magic. There's a reason why this is all in the Restricted Section! What's the point, Harry? Even Professor Snape said it's irrelevant, and for once, I'll have to agree with him. Don't you have better things to do? Shouldn't you be thinking about your future, instead of wasting your time on something that's over and done with?

So, he labored on, all on his own. He'd given up on the potions after two days of fruitless searching, although he did consider the possibility that the phials in the trunk might actually contain them. But then, there were three of them and only two potions, so he decided the phials must be filled with something else.

He puzzled over the names listed in the second section. Several of them were Death Eaters—no surprise there. Pettigrew…well, Harry imagined that Snape had probably had frequent contact with the pathetic berk.

But it was Remus' name that really brought him up short, especially as he found the name associated with several dates during the year when Snape had been headmaster, which made no sense at all. Remus would've had nothing to do with Snape at that point. Harry agonized over what this could possibly mean. Had Remus known of Snape's convoluted loyalties? Was this one more trusted person who'd kept Harry in the dark about things that mattered?

He guessed that 'St. James' was either a church or a hospital, but had no idea which, or how to even begin to find out. The 'Bat', 'Gringotts', and several other isolated entries, didn't make sense either. At least not yet.

He'd hit on the possibility that the sequence under 'TDA' referred to the Horcrux book, which seemed more than likely, given that Snape had freely admitted that he'd done some research of his own.

And the list of dates and places that he assumed referred to himself seemed reasonable enough. After all, Snape had to have been looking for an opportunity to intercept him…given that weighty piece of information that he'd been entrusted to deliver to Harry.

There was a niggling question in the back of Harry's mind, as he mulled over the journal. Why? Why these two potions, why these particular people, why these dates and notations? All in all, the journal was only a quarter full. Why had it been important enough to Snape to put these all together in a journal, wrap it tight with a cord, then place it in a trunk that only the most motivated would even begin to have a chance to open?

There was a mystery here, Harry knew, one that he desperately wanted to unravel and understand, mostly driven by the unlikely and burgeoning relationship that he was in the process of forging with a soulless portrait that, strangely, seemed to have a considerable amount of soul, Snape's declaration to the contrary.

CHAPTER THREE