FIC: "Occam's Razor", Chapter Three


Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Harry lifted his head and sniffed the wonderful aroma of baking bread. He was perched on a stool at a table in the kitchens, reviewing with the chief house-elf the foodstuffs to be ordered for the upcoming term. At his elbow were an ice-cold butterbeer and a platter of assorted delicacies. The elves, who at one time had been suspicious of Harry, largely due to Hermione and her S.P.E.W endeavor, had become outright fond of him when they'd learnt of how Harry had honored one of their own, by personally digging a grave, then placing a stone marker inscribed with Dobby's name, not to mention that many of them had witnessed his defeat of Voldemort in the Great Hall.

He was almost finished with his work, and was reaching for his butterbeer, when the door to the kitchens was thrown open with a shout of, "Surprise!"

There stood Ron, Hermione and Ginny, grinning at him from the doorway.

"Hey!" he greeted them as he stood, reaching out to shake Ron's hand, then endured a crushing hug from Hermione, and a more timid one from Ginny.

"It's Saturday, and Ron's home for the weekend, so we thought we'd pop up and spend the day with you," Hermione explained enthusiastically.

"Great…that's great," Harry replied. "Let me just…." He shuffled his parchments together, then thanked the elves for their hospitality. "So, it's almost time for lunch," he told them as they left the kitchens. "Hagrid'll be happy to see you."

As he expected, the seating was maneuvered so that he was sitting next to Ginny.

"So," she began, "only you and Hagrid are here?"

"Filius is in and out, but Sibyll's here as well."

Ginny snorted. "Oh, Harry. What do you do in the evenings? Read tea leaves and play Exploding Snap?"

Harry smiled. "Well, you're half right. Sometimes Hagrid and I play. You know Sibyll—last time I saw her was at the Leaving Feast."

Ginny looked around the Great Hall. "It seems so empty," she said, then asked predictably, "Aren't you lonely?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. He knew he could be truthful without being entirely honest. "No, not really. I have some things that I'm working on, I read, I'm up early, so it's early to bed." Well, that was only half-true, but he wasn't about to reveal what kept him up late some nights. "How about you?" Harry prodded, deciding that the best defense would be a proactive offense. "I'm surprised you could get away."

Ginny reached over to cover his hand with hers. Harry stared in fascination as she laced her fingers through his. He hesitated for a moment, then gave them a gentle squeeze. It felt good…to touch someone, but….

"When Hermione called, I cleared my schedule. Got someone to cover my shift. I wanted to come. I wanted to see you. It seems like ages…."

"April." Harry supplied the exact month for her.

Her smile faded. "Two months, Harry. Two months. Remember, after the war, how happy we were? Nothing could keep us apart?"

Harry gently disengaged his hand, still wondering about what he'd felt when she touched him. "Yeah, well, that was then, Gin. Things have changed," he said without looking at her.

"Harry," Hagrid called as he leant back in his chair. "Hermione here'd like to see wha' yeh been doin' to the greenhouses."

Pushing away his plate, Harry shot Hagrid a grateful glance. "Everyone done? We're off, then."

They spent the afternoon wandering the grounds, viewing the greenhouses, even stopping to skip stones on the lake. After several meaningful glares, Hermione got the message and stopped trying to distance herself and Ron so that Harry and Ginny would be alone.

Hermione sat in the stands and watched as the others soared above the Quidditch pitch. It was sure to be the best part of his day, Harry thought, exhilarated as they took turns with the Quaffle, trying to sneak past the other two defenders. For an hour, Harry forgot about everything: he forgot about who he was; he forgot about his past and his future; he forgot about Ginny and Snape. When he flew, Harry just was: energy personified, joy distilled, streaking through the sky at breakneck speed, reveling in the sensation of the wind in his hair and the weightlessness of his body astride his broom.

As they headed, breathless, for the lockers, Harry grinned at Ginny. "You're still amazing."

She flushed at his words. "You're not too bad yourself."

For a moment, the tension of the past year was forgotten, and they walked the rest of the way, arm in arm.

After an early dinner, though, Harry ran out of diversionary tactics.

"Nah, I'll pass on the staff lounge. How about your rooms?" Ron suggested. "I've brought a bottle of Ogden's so we can have a nip before we have to head back."

As they took the stairs, Harry wondered if he should warn them. His mind raced as they drew nearer and nearer, then, suddenly, he was out of time; they were at the door.

After he let them in, he blew out a breath of relief. He'd been afraid he'd left the chess board on the floor in front of the painting. But there it was, pushed under the side-table, and even better, Snape was absent from the painting propped up against the wall.

There was Ogden's Old all around, and they were comfortably sitting when Ginny was the first to notice. "That's an odd place for a painting," she observed, then leant forward to take a closer look. "What is it anyway?"

Harry tried to affect nonchalance. "Oh, that. I found it…a few weeks ago, and haven't got round to finding a place for it."

Ron had sat forward too, wrinkling his forehead. "It's a bit boring, isn't it? Just some book shelves and a desk."

Hermione slid out of her chair and knelt on one knee in front of it, lifting a finger to dab at the surface, in an effort to see if the slight film on it could be wiped away.

Ginny and Ron weren't the problem, Harry knew, but Hermione…. He waited while she scrutinized the painting, then inwardly sighed in resignation when she swiveled to him, a suspicious look in her eye. Harry judged by the expression on her face that he might as well give up and have it over with.

"Harry, where is he?" she asked him intently.

Before Harry could reply, Ron had looked up. "Where's who?" he asked, glancing from his wife to Harry.

Hermione answered, "The person whose painting this is. It's obvious—the chair to the desk is overturned, and there's an open book with the page bent down. Harry?" she demanded.

"In his other portrait, wouldn't you think?" Then Harry turned to Ron and answered his question. "It's Snape."

Hermione sat back on her heels, an 'I knew it' look on her face, Ron gaped, while Ginny let out a gasp of surprise.

"You figured out the password, didn't you?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, and when I opened the trunk, this was on top."

"Wait. What password?" Ginny asked at the same time that Ron piped in, "What trunk?"

Harry briefly explained about the trunk and how he'd come to open it, along with an abbreviated itemization of what lay within it.

"Well, bugger me," Ron muttered, "after all this time, he just decides to show up."

"So, what did he have to say? You've talked to him, of course?" Ginny asked.

When Harry'd answered with only vague details, he was relieved to see their interest in the topic wane. Well, at least Ron and Ginny's. Hermione still had that look in her eye.

They didn't stay long, and as Harry said goodnight to his friends, he wasn't surprised to see that there must've been some sort of prearranged agreement that Ginny would linger and be the last to leave. It was inevitable, so he gave up trying to avoid what most likely had to be said. At the door, Hermione had a few words of advice, once Ron was out in the corridor.

"Just remember. He's only a portrait."

"Yeah, I know."

She looked at him uncertainly, then threw an arm around his neck and whispered in his ear, "Remember what Dumbledore told you? About the Mirror of Erised?" Pulling away, he saw the genuine concern in her eyes.

Harry smiled. "Don’t worry, I remember."

She patted his cheek, then hurried to catch up with Ron, already at the staircase.

Harry turned toward Ginny, still perched on the edge of an armchair. "It was a nice day," she commented, twisting a lock of hair with her fingers, a gesture that signaled to Harry that she was nervous.

"Yes, it was. Thanks for coming up," he said as he leant against the wall, the door still open.

She stood and walked to stand in front of him. "Harry, I know what you said back in April…."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he reminded her, "And December, and before that, August."

She opened her mouth, then shut it abruptly, her eyes soft and pleading. "All right, that's true, but…."

"Has anything changed, then?" he asked. "With what you want? With what you want from me?"

"All I want is for you to be reasonable! You can't hide here forever. Oh, Harry, sitting in the kitchens, chatting with house-elves…is that what you want?"

Harry furrowed his brow. "I'm not hiding. But I'm not ready to leave yet. And if you can't understand that, then I don't have anything else to say," he finished wearily. "We've been over this god only knows how many times."

Ginny looked deflated, the hope gone from her eyes, as she said flatly, "I had to try one last time. I can't wait forever."

Harry reached out and stroked her cheek. "I never asked you to. I told you a year ago what I could give you, and that wasn't enough, so you do what you have to do."

Ginny trapped his hand in hers, gripped it fiercely for a moment, then let it drop to his side. She stood on tiptoes to brush his cheek with her lips, then turned to go. "Your choice, Harry."

Harry shook his head. "Yours too, Gin."

Harry watched until she reached the staircase, then stepped back inside to close the door. Resting his forehead against the wood of it, he thought, Well, it could've been worse. Not as bad as the last time, when there'd been tears and raised voices and things said that had shocked both of them. He felt strangely relieved, as he realized that this had probably been a permanent parting of the ways. He was only mildly surprised by his own lack of emotion. He would always care for her, but time and distance, along with whatever the hell was wrong with him in the first place, had blunted any sense of loss he might've experienced now.

The sound of a drawer being shut, and the thump of a book on the desk made Harry push off the door and turn toward the sound. He'd just pulled an armchair up close to the painting when Snape looked up, then back down at his book.

"Did you hear any of that?" Harry asked.

Snape licked the tip of a finger to turn a page, then glanced up again. "I saw no one, but I overheard you showing Miss Weasley the door…literally and figuratively, I believe."

"Hmmm," was all Harry had to say, then when the silence stretched out…. "Thanks for leaving. It gave me a chance to…break it to them. That you're…sort of here." He eyed the empty glass on the table beside him, then Summoned the half-empty bottle with a wave.

"It's none of my affair, Potter, but I never pegged you as a recluse. And I understood, from other sources, that you and Miss Weasley were—in the words of your generation—an item."

Emptying the glass in one swallow, Harry tucked it between his thighs. "An item…a potential one, maybe." He shook his head. "We never spent much time together, to be honest." He stared morosely at Snape.

"This is your chance to tell me to sod off. Otherwise I'm afraid my boredom and curiosity will induce me to ask personal questions."

Harry reached for the bottle, then poured, the glass still between his legs. "Fire away."

"I noticed near the end of your sixth year that the two of you were….acting strangely."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, that's when it really started. A bit slow coming out of the gate, her being Ron's sister, and me not wanting her in harm's way."

"Ah. I see."

The full glass of Firewhisky was rearranged without Harry spilling a drop. "Then that whole next year, I only saw her once. But I thought about her…quite a bit."

"You thought about her."

"Yeah, and…well, fantasized too." He stared at Snape over the top of his glass. "You know."

Snape nodded, then said without a trace of derision, "I do know."

Harry finished the second glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "She was the first girl I ever wanted…that way. And she felt the same about me. After all the funerals, I stayed at the Burrow for a month, and that's when we started…." He faltered, wondering how to say it. Snape didn't help him out at all, but sat, completely immobile, for once a paragon of patience.

"We made love." Harry finally chose the words, then almost as an afterthought added, "Had sex. Not an easy thing to work out at the Burrow." His eyes darkened. "'Course, Molly was distracted then."

"Sounds like it started well."

Harry blew out a breath. "It started out fantastic, but…." He shook his head, then slid down to sit on the floor, his hands clasped around his knees. Resting his chin atop them, he took up where he'd left off. "Sex was never the problem, neither was not spending enough time together. And I thought I loved her…and for a while, everything was the way I'd thought it would be." Harry knew he must be slightly drunk, because he felt his throat constrict with maudlin emotion.

"What happened, Potter?" The voice was firm but soft.

Harry hadn't had an answer when it'd first happened; he hadn't had one for Ginny in the months that followed; he certainly didn't have one now just because Snape had decided to ask. "I don't know. We saw each other off and on that first year. They let her sit her NEWTs in the middle of her first year at St. Mungo's—they did that for quite a few of the students, who for one reason or another…well, you can guess. Coming back here would've been hard, especially for Ginny, what with Fred."

"But you were here, in charge of the rebuilding," Snape commented. "I would've thought that might've been a comfort to her, despite the unpleasant memories." Snape wondered out loud, "That she chose not to strikes me as unnatural, if, as you say, the two of you had an understanding."

"Well, the whole Healer thing came about because of Fred, I think. Wanting to do something for people who're sick or hurt. She really got into it. Took up all of her time. We still managed to see each other most weekends, usually in London. Then, when the rebuilding was almost done, that's when it started to fall apart."

"When you first discovered you felt a compulsion to stay?"

Harry lifted his head from his knees in surprise. "It's not so much a compulsion to stay as it is no desire to go anywhere else. I've tried, really. I have. And I couldn't for the life of me hit on one single thing that I wanted to do enough, to get me to pack up my life here and set out to start something new. And over time, that unwillingness to leave has got even worse. When I think about it…it almost makes me physically sick sometimes."

"Sounds like a compulsion to me," Snape said, almost gently.

Harry gave him a withering look. "Whatever it is…. I spent a month trying to puzzle it out, then I finally decided to just tell Ginny that I was staying…for a while. And she could've come here." He shook his head. "But that didn't go over very well."

"I imagine not," Snape commented.

Harry bit his lower lip, considering whether or not to reveal what had actually dampened his longing for Ginny. Then he saw, in a flash, the memory of a small, scrawny Severus Snape, and remembered that he'd long ago come to the conclusion that they were alike in ways Harry would've never imagined. "You know what she said? When I told her I wanted to stay…take some time…that I just didn't feel right about moving on yet? When she heard I was filling Filch's spot, she was furious. 'Are you mad? Where's your ambition? All the things you talked about wanting to do? You could be Minister one day if you'd put your mind to it. Don't you want to be someone, Harry?'" He buried his face in his knees, thinking to himself that he really shouldn't have had that last glass of Ogden's.

"She's a fool."

Tilting his head up, Harry looked at him. "Well, she's hot-headed, stubborn, impatient…and immature sometimes, but she's not a fool," he weakly protested.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Call her what you will. But the fact of the matter, hard as it may be to accept, is that if she truly loved you, she'd understand and wait for you, however long it took. Instead, she's self-centeredly issued an ultimatum, and is thus altogether unworthy of you."

Harry smiled. "I agree with all of that except the 'unworthy' part."

"Then you're a self-deprecating fool as well."

"Thanks." Now Harry grinned.

"I'm serious, Potter. Better to find this out now rather than later."

"Actually, as far as Ginny's concerned, I think I've moved on." When Snape looked disbelieving, Harry added, "I wasn't too thrilled when they showed up today, most of all because of her. And at lunch, she tried to hold my hand…and I felt…nothing. There was a time when her doing that seemed to connect straight to my…." Oh, what the hell. "…cock."

"Please, don't hesitate to speak your mind," Snape said with a slight smile.

Harry laughed out loud, and he realized that it was the first time that day that he had. It felt good. How odd, that it was Snape who'd inspired it….

"I do miss sex, though." He shot a glance at Snape. "In the interests of speaking my mind, it's a wonderful thing…sex."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "From what I've heard at night, you have a rather healthy relationship with your right hand."

Harry couldn't help it. His mouth dropped open in shock, even as he felt the blush beginning in his cheeks. "What?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?" Snape asked him, amused.

"Aren't I what?" Harry was still flummoxed.

"Right-handed?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, so I am." He gave up then and laughed at himself. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know you could hear me."

Snape waved away his apology. "You're a normal young man with a sexual appetite. Most men, at some point in their lives, must resort to…taking themselves in hand," Snape murmured.

Harry stared at the man. Was it just his imagination, or was that a flush creeping up above the top of his collar?

"So…." Harry began tentatively, "Professor, have you ever…I mean, I know from your memories that you…but did you ever…oh hell, forget it," he finished, flustered.

Snape's eyes flashed. "You know from my memories that I carried a torch for your mother. A conversation for another time. What I believe you wanted to ask was whether or not I'd ever had a sexual encounter. 'Had sex' is how you put it?"

Harry nodded, too relieved to risk using his voice.

"Yes. Once upon a time, I had a lover. Only one, mind you. So I'm well acquainted with the drama of passion. Not of the romantic variety, you understand, but the thrills and throes of the male libido, yes. You have my utmost sympathy in that regard."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," Harry murmured, a smile still lingering.

"Why not?" Snape demanded. "Because you believed that absurd 'vampire in the dungeons' legend?"

Harry nearly choked, well aware by now that Snape actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

"No, no, although there was a time, back in third year when I seriously considered it." He stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling pleasantly squiffy and content. "No, what I meant is—and I've been thinking about this all week—you're so different from the other portraits."

"Oh?"

Harry toed the frame of the portrait, causing Snape to startle. "Sorry. You see, I've talked to most of them, and they all can carry on a conversation." He groped for the words. "But they seem, I don't know, like they're not all there. Even Dumbledore. Sure, they laugh, they get angry, they know things. But there's something flat about them. I think it's because they're split between their portraits and somewhere else."

Snape's face had returned to its usual pasty pale, but his eyes…his eyes seemed to glitter, even through that evasive white, wispy whatever it was that clouded the painting. Harry realized with a jolt that it wasn't nearly as noticeable when Snape was in the portraits. He was wondering why, when he was prompted by Snape's, "Go on."

"But you," Harry began, "you don't feel that way at all. There's a depth to everything about you—the sound of your voice, the way you look, and move, but most of all—and please, remember I'm slightly intoxicated, so humor me here—day by day, it feels like I'm getting to know you. Even after all the times I've talked to Dumbledore?" Harry shook his head. "I don't ever forget I'm talking to a portrait. With you," he lowered his voice, then confessed, "I rarely remember that I am."

Snape stood and re-shelved his book, then leant against the edge of his frame. "I suppose, in part, that might be due to the nature of the things that we've had to share."

Harry didn't think so, but instead he asked, "Professor, you still don't have any…recollection of what's going on with you now…I mean, wherever you've ended up…your soul?"

Snape straightened. "I told you before, Potter, I'm a portrait. As for what my 'soul', as you put it, is up to, I'm neither informed nor interested. It's not like I have a bloody book on the afterlife to reference." There was a familiar sharp edge of impatience in his voice.

"All right. Just thought I'd ask. Reckoned now that you've been out in the open, maybe you'd be more aware of it…or something." Harry watched Snape closely.

Snape made a harrumphing noise as he sat back against the edge of the desk. "Nothing changes for me. Nothing except what I might glimpse outside the edge of this frame. Or hear," he added pointedly, then rapped the frame with his knuckles to drive home his point.

oooOOOooo

That night, when Harry'd finished undressing, he thought briefly about closing his door. Then he remembered Snape's last words, and the haunted look on his face as he'd said them, and decided to leave it open.

oooOOOooo

Harry eased the door open, then quietly slipped inside. He relaxed when he saw that Snape's portrait, as he'd hoped, was empty. But the frame looked…odd. Crossing the office to take a closer look, he stopped suddenly in front of it.

Hanging from the upper edge of the frame was the bat—Snape's familiar. Harry craned his neck forward to see it more closely. Its wings were tightly wrapped around the creature as it slept, its head tucked out of sight. Harry'd never seen one from such a short distance before: he admired the tiny veins and bones that crisscrossed the paper-thin wings. He put out a cautious finger, just on the verge of stroking it, when a voice from behind him made him startle in surprise.

"Not a wise idea, Harry. It's sleeping, and you're bound to frighten it. Although, even awake, I don't think it would endure anyone's caress but Severus'."

Harry stopped to stand in front of the old man's portrait. "Sir, I've been talking to Professor Snape. Did you know about that?" he asked.

Parting his beard with his fingers, Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, yes, Severus told me. And about high time the two of you did." He paused, then peered over Harry's shoulder at Snape's empty portrait. The blue eyes drifted back to Harry's. "So, the two of you have sorted things out?"

"Yes, we have, but…there was something I wanted to ask you…about him."

Dumbledore squinted at him from over the top of his glasses. "Why not go directly to the source? Ask Severus."

Harry'd known that this was where they'd end up. "Well, you see, I have, and he doesn't have the answer, so I thought you might know, sir."

The headmaster seemed to relax, and graced Harry with a blinding smile. "In that case, ask away. Perhaps I can atone for all the answers I declined to give in the past."

So far, so good, Harry thought. "Remember you told me about how pleased you were with the 'grand adventure'? Where you are now? I know you see my parents, and Remus and Sirius."

"Ah yes, I have a standing order to send you their love each time I see you."

Harry smiled. "Tell them I love them too. It's nice to know that you see them." He silently thanked the old man for the perfect set-up. "By the way, sir, do you ever see Professor Snape there? Just wondering."

Dumbledore clucked his tongue. "What was it that you asked Severus? For which he didn't have an answer?"

Harry realized that even as a portrait, Dumbledore was nobody's fool, especially his. "I asked him about his afterlife," he ventured.

"And?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"He says he doesn't have the faintest idea. No knowledge or awareness of it at all." Harry paused, then added, "Is that unusual?"

The headmaster didn't answer for a moment, deep in thought. "I'm not certain. I've not come across him as of yet, but it's a vast dimension, Harry, which does not abide by earthly standards of time and space. But still…. Are you certain he's not withholding something he perhaps wishes to remain private?"

Harry shook his head gravely. "Not about this, sir. I'm sure of it. I actually think he's a little cross that he doesn't know."

"Very peculiar indeed. But as you know, m'boy, I do not posses all the answers, nor do I even profess to know half the questions." He chuckled. "Is there anything else, Harry?" he asked gently.

Harry debated, then decided, why not? "There's one more thing. Why does Professor Snape seem…almost real in his portrait, compared to you, sir? No offense intended."

At Harry's words, something dark seemed to flit across the headmaster's face, and for a moment Harry thought he had taken offense.

"Real? In what way?" he asked softly, critically eyeing Harry.

Harry gave the same brief synopsis he'd given Snape, then was perplexed when the old man began to shake his head.

"Perhaps…perhaps…it is because you spend so much time with him. Be cautious, Harry. Too much time spent with a portrait means too little time spent elsewhere. Understood?"

Harry had no choice but to agree. "Point taken, sir." But he didn't fail to notice that the headmaster seemed distracted and disturbed as he turned to go.

oooOOOooo

It was dusk, Harry's favorite time of day. On this particular evening, he'd walked out to the Quidditch pitch to sit in the stands to watch the sunset. From the looks of the sky in front of him, it promised to be a glorious one.

It'd been several days since his talk with Dumbledore, and ever since, his mind had been in a turmoil. As he watched the moon rise above the horizon, he thought about Snape.

Earlier in the day, just before supper, he'd sat in the library, staring down at the journal and the several pages of notes he'd made, things he'd come across in the potions texts, as well as a cross-referenced list of the dates, places and people Snape had, for some yet unknown reason, found important enough to put quill to parchment.

He didn't know what to do next, was his problem. He'd wracked his brain, writing down random possibilities and connections, no matter how unlikely or ridiculous. But he'd finally closed the journal, rolled up his parchments, and admitted: he was at an impasse.

The sun was now a perfect, blazing semi-circle in front of him, the surrounding sky streaked with crimson and purple.

Besides the puzzle of the journal, there was the enigma of the man himself. Despite their past history: even though Harry'd suspected that what Snape had actually done to redeem himself would not make him likeable; even though Harry'd expected to make his peace with the man, as much as it was possible to do such a thing with a portrait; even though he'd imagined that that would be the end of it…. Well, here he was, and he knew it was far from ended.

After weeks of talking to Snape, Harry considered what they had in common: the escape from miserable childhoods to Hogwarts; Dumbledore as mentor; dedication to a personal mission; and finally, they'd both 'died' at the hand of Voldemort. No small wonder that they'd talked for weeks, and still had not talked themselves out.

And although Harry still had many questions yet to be asked, he didn't think the answers would change what he knew: he liked Snape. Well, at least this version of him. It hadn't been lost on Harry that, several nights ago when he'd somewhat fearfully described his frustrating personal inertia, Snape had been the only one who hadn't urged him to 'move on'.

There wasn't one particular thing that decided him, in the end; it was the sum total of all of them: the journal and Snape's staunch refusal to explain any of it; the afterlife of which Snape had no awareness; the strange 'reality' of the man's portrait; the headmaster's reaction when Harry'd mentioned it; the potions phials in the trunk, which Snape had on yet another occasion instructed Harry 'not to meddle with'.

Taken all together, Harry had an overwhelming sense that something was 'off'. He supposed it was foolish, given that the subject in this case was definitely dead, and the person Harry was worrying over had only a portrait presence.

But he'd gone on gut feeling before, and it'd occurred to him, in a flash of clarity, that this conundrum with Snape might turn out to be part and parcel of why Harry had to stay at Hogwarts. There was something left undone, and Harry knew, in the same way he'd known not to race Voldemort to Hogwarts, that he was the one meant to do it.

He needed help, though. He'd come to that conclusion as he'd sat in the library, flummoxed by the complicated potions in the journal. He'd no idea whom he might ask for help; but as he watched the last of the flaming sphere sink below the line of trees, the sky at that in between state, a pearlescent mingling of sunlight and moonlight, the answer was just suddenly there.

His mind whispered, "Draco."

oooOOOooo

Harry squinted at the parchment, comparing the street number with the one on the door in front of him. Yes, this was it, there was the number, '43 Townsend,' on the plaque just under the words, 'Highfield Club.' The shop front windows on either side of the door were hung with dark blue curtains, with only a faint glimmer of light filtering through from behind them.

Folding the parchment and shoving it into his pocket, Harry hesitated at the door: should he knock? He had no idea what lay beyond, so instead opted to give the door handle a try.

He found himself in what appeared to be a combination eating establishment and bar. As he lingered in the foyer, a tall balding man stepped out from behind a small podium.

"Just yourself, sir?" the man asked.

Harry's eyes flickered over the half-filled room. There were tables in the center with mostly couples, a handsome mahogany bar that spanned the wall to the right, a row of booths on the opposite wall, and in the far corner of the room, a small staging area, where a band was providing a muted musical backdrop. After scanning the crowd, Harry turned back to the man.

"I'm meeting someone, but I don't see him," Harry said

"A table, then?"

Harry looked at the occupied tables and booths, and for the first time noticed that all the patrons were men. Men, who, it appeared, were intimately acquainted with each other.

"No, thanks. I'll just sit at the bar."

The man seemed surprised, hesitated, then gestured toward the bar.

"When the rest of your party arrives, let me know if you'd like a table."

Harry nodded, then wove his way in between the tables. By the time he reached the bar and situated himself on a stool near one end, he'd guessed that this was a gay establishment

The barman had given him a long, appraising look, waiting until Harry sat, then took his drink order. Harry had an uncertain moment when it came time to pay, having Galleons in one pocket and five pound notes in the other. He decided on the latter, which the barman took without comment. Damn Draco, Harry thought, as he turned on his stool so he could watch the entrance and the rest of the room.

It was already past eight, so Draco was late. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Making him wait fit somehow—it'd seemed bizarre that Draco had agreed to meet him at all. The response to Harry's tersely worded owl had contained only a date and time, along with the address of the place where he now sat.

As he waited, Harry wondered why Draco had chosen it. It seemed upscale enough, tastefully decorated, the tables hung with cloths, the low light achieved with fixtures recessed into the walls. The members of the band—a drummer, sax player, bass guitarist, and pianist—were well-dressed. Harry listened for a while, deciding after a few songs that it was blues or jazz. No vocalist, though.

He was on his second drink and still alone, when he figured out why the doorman had offered him a table. He'd just turned down his third offer of a drink from lone men who'd taken the seat next to him. When Harry'd refused, they wandered off; the last one had muttered, "Why're you sitting at the bar, then?"

C'mon, Malfoy, he thought to himself as he watched the rebuffed man relocate to the other end of the bar. If Draco'd set him up, Harry swore that he'd…he'd what?

He leant back against the bar, deciding that nine o'clock would be his limit. So he settled in to listen to the band and watch the other diners. Some had angled their chairs to face the band, some were eating and talking quietly, but Harry caught the other things too. There was touching—hands held across tables, hands that stroked faces, even hands beneath the tables, Harry could tell, although the cloths hid what they did.

In the booths on the opposite wall, the occupants didn't seem to be interested in food or the band at all. Harry's eyes wandered down the row of them, and saw arms wrapped around each other, long drawn-out kisses, roaming hands, and restless adjustments. Like the bar where Harry was sitting, the row of booths appeared to have its own set of rules. It was the last booth in the corner that snagged and fixed Harry's attention. He felt the heat rise in his face, but couldn't look away. His heart began to pound in his ears and he had to remind himself to breathe.

Oblivious to the room, the couple writhed against each other, their hands everywhere…dragging through hair…clenching, grasping, smoothing, all through clothing, sometimes frantic, sometimes slowly. Harry watched, mesmerized; there was no tablecloth to hide what happened next.

Trousers were undone, then one of the men slid to the floor beneath the table, his back to Harry, whose view of what happened next was blocked by the man's head, but the man sitting in the booth became suddenly slack-jawed, his arms thrown out sideways to clutch at the upholstery. As the head in his lap began to move, Harry had to stop his own hand from touching himself. He was achingly hard, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to undo the flies of his trousers and slip his hand inside, to time his stokes to the bobbing of the man's head, now moving faster….

"That could be us, mate," a gruff voice said at his ear.

Cheeks on fire, Harry took a deep breath and swiveled around in his chair. God, what had he been thinking? In the mirror behind the bar, Harry saw the reflection of the man seated beside him, his head close to Harry's.

"No, I don't think so," Harry said as he signaled the barman. He was suddenly aware that the music had stopped and, he decided, it was definitely time to go.

He was startled when the man's fingers closed over his thigh. "Aww, you don't mean that. Look at you. All flushed and sweaty…and ready. I know you're ready." The hand moved up Harry's thigh and brushed against the tip of his cock through his trousers. Harry couldn't control the twitch, and was mortified when the man laughed. Definitely time to go, he thought, disgusted with himself.

Harry caught the hand and pushed it away, turning slightly toward the man. "One more time. Sod. Off," he said, his voice low and threatening. He has to be drunk or stupid or both, Harry thought, as he watched in the mirror. The man had moved his stool closer, and was just about to slide an arm across Harry's shoulders, when a face suddenly appeared between the two of them.

"Leave him alone, Clay," Draco said. Harry didn't turn, but stared at the mirror.

"Get lost, Malfoy," the man blustered. "I saw him first." But he withdrew his arm, looking uncertain.

"Sorry. He belongs to me," Draco said, and Harry felt the warm weight on his shoulder as he watched Draco rest his hand there.

"That so?" Clay slurred, pulling back to look at Harry.

"Yeah, that's right," Harry confirmed bemusedly, still watching Draco. "I'm with him."

The man looked from one to the other, then muttered a curse before he slunk away. Harry was eyeing the glass in his hand as he felt Draco let go of his shoulder. When he looked up to the mirror again, Draco was staring at him.

"You're late," Harry said without turning, then nodded, "Thanks for that."

Draco shrugged. "He's a miserable fuck. You deserve better."

Harry choked on his drink, then quickly recovered. "I belong to you, huh?" he asked sarcastically.

A slow smile spread across Draco's face. "You said it, Potter."

Harry felt the heat in his face again as Draco laughed and threw some notes on the bar. Harry watched, bewildered, as the barman handed Draco a bottle.

"Come on," Draco directed with a jerk of his head. "Let's get out of here."

oooOOOooo

Instead of heading for the door, Draco motioned toward the end of the bar. Harry followed, through the kitchens, up two flights of stairs, then down a narrow hallway to the door at the end. Draco muttered a barely audible, "Alohomora," then stood to the side for Harry to enter.

It was a one room flat with two slanted walls, and a dormer with a large window at the far end. Harry stood in the middle of the room, shocked by the squalor of the living space. Draco had set the bottle on the counter of the tiny kitchenette, unknotting his tie as he watched Harry's face.

"You live here?" Harry finally asked, after he'd looked it all over.

Draco looked around the flat, as if seeing it through Harry's eyes. The bed was unmade, there were books and magazines scattered on the floor, the curtain rod was askew, and the bare hardwood floor was marred, but clean.

"Yeah, most of the time." Draco turned to the bottle on the counter, asking over his shoulder, "You still drinking?"

"Absolutely," Harry said, then waited as Draco poured out two inches, neat, for each of them

Handing both glasses to Harry, Draco dragged the only chair in the room to face the bed. Lifting a cloak from the back of it, he threw it to the end of the bed, then took a glass from Harry. Motioning to the chair, Draco sat on the edge of the bed. He answered the question before Harry had the chance to ask.

"I stay here when we're playing. The rest of the time, I'm at the Manor," he gestured vaguely, "or elsewhere."

Harry frowned. "When you're playing?"

Draco looked surprised, then a look of slight disbelief settled on his face. "When I'm playing, Potter. In the band?" When Harry looked confused, Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "The entertainment downstairs. As in music?" He seemed slightly exasperated, but also amused.

"That band?" Harry shook his head. "I didn't even see you," he confessed. "I was too busy watching the door…and…." He forced his voice to remain neutral. "It'd have been nice if you'd warned me."

"Warned you of what?" Draco asked. "Not to sit at the bar?"

"No…yes. Well, I didn't realize until I started to look around…." Once again, Harry felt the damnable flush begin in his face.

"See anything you liked?" Draco asked softly.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, then noticed the most remarkable thing: Draco didn't appear the least bit malicious, and although he could read amusement in the man's face, there was also just simple curiosity. Harry felt challenged to explore this new Draco.

"One or two blokes caught my eye," Harry said casually, watching for Draco's reaction.

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Really?" he asked, mildly incredulous.

Harry tossed back his drink, feeling in control for the first time that evening. "Couldn't make up my mind," he said, deadpan. "The fellow blowing his mate under the table, or the piano player." Draco's mouth dropped open, while Harry congratulated himself for being half-truthful: the man under the table had certainly held his attention.

But the look in Draco's eyes made Harry think over what he'd just said. To his credit, Draco sat and waited for him, a delighted smirk on his face.

Couldn't make up my mind…fellow blowing his mate…piano player…. Oh, shite.

Harry cocked his head to the side, then stated the obvious. "You're the piano player."

"Right in one," Draco confirmed as he Summoned the bottle.

Harry put his head in his hands and waited until Draco had stopped laughing.

"I didn't see you," Harry said as he looked up.

"Yeah, I figured that out."

Sitting back in his chair, Harry narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know you played."

Draco pushed himself back on the bed and stretched his legs out. "My mother taught me. Never thought I'd be making a living out of it, though."

"She taught you to…what was that? Jazz?"

Draco snorted. "It's jazz, but she didn't teach me that. I play by ear, so it wasn't hard to catch on. The money's good, and with the pick-ups, I do rather well."

"Pick-ups?" Harry asked.

Draco suddenly sobered. "Yes, pick-ups. I play two sets a night, then I sit at the bar, like you were."

"Pick-ups," Harry repeated, then his eyes went wide as he got it. "Sex for money?" he asked, scandalized.

Draco scowled. "Yes, sex for money. Don’t look so shocked. I happen to like sex, and it pays well."

"Why would you…." But the question died in Harry's throat. He'd been about to ask why Draco would need the money, but then he knew. The Malfoy fortune was gone; the Prophet had reported the whole sorry mess during Lucius Malfoy's trial. Funny, he hadn't really thought of it at the time, how the father's conviction and confiscation of assets would affect the other Malfoys. The intensity of Draco's voice startled him.

"Don't you dare pity me. I'm managing quite well on my own."

They sat and studied each other, an uncomfortable silence between them.

Harry finally confessed, "You're not what I expected."

With that admission, Harry witnessed the return of the Draco he'd always known: haughtiness crept into his expression, the chin lifted, and the proud gray eyes became flinty and hard. Harry suddenly wished they could return to the humor of a minute ago.

"What did you expect?" Draco chided.

Harry gestured with his glass. "I take it back. Sorry. For a minute there, you were somebody different. My mistake. No matter, this wasn’t a social call anyway."

Failing to hide the fact that he was intrigued, Draco crossed his legs. "So I gathered from your owl. By the way, Potter, I've been hearing things about you…. How's Ginny?" he asked smugly.

"Fine. How's your mother?" Harry shot back.

Draco looked taken aback. "Touché," he muttered.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look. How about we do it this way? I'm the caretaker at Hogwarts, and you're the piano player at the Highfield. Forget about all the other stuff for now? I'm here because I need your help."

Still not seeming convinced, Draco asked, "My help? What about your friends? Granger?"

Harry shook his head. "Not for this." He hesitated, then said, "It's about Snape."

Draco looked confused. "Severus? How can you need help with him? He's—"

"Dead," Harry finished for him. "I know it sounds stupid, but hear me out, won't you?"

It took almost an hour for Harry to tell it all, from opening the trunk with the key Draco'd sent, to the discussions he and Snape'd had, how the man seemed to crave sunlight and refused to spend time in the headmaster's office. He described Snape's reaction to the news that Remus was dead, as well as detailing how odd his portraits were, how he sensed that there was something 'off'' about them. Draco showed outright disbelief that Snape had a familiar, then frowned when Harry told him of the disturbing conversations about the afterlife. Harry noticed that Draco listened carefully when he told him of the journal and what was in it and in the trunk.

"Maybe it's just my overactive imagination, but I don't think so, I really don't. Something's not right." Harry paused, ready to reveal the reason that he'd come to him. "It all started with the key you had—maybe coincidence, but at this point, I'm not so sure. He planned a lot of things out, and it seems odd that he'd leave such a thing for you to find." He lowered his voice, causing Draco to sit forward on the bed. "You were with him for a year, Draco." Harry timed the use of Draco's first name, and he noticed the man look up at him suddenly. "If anyone knows anything about his frame of mind during that time, you'd have as good a shot as any."

Draco emptied the bottle, then set it on the floor. Harry was feeling slightly dizzy, and he had to admire Draco's stamina, as he'd drunk most of it.

"So, what d'you want me to do?" Draco asked him, leaning back on the pillow and shutting his eyes.

"Look at the journal. You were always good at Potions, and me, well, I just scraped by. Maybe you can make sense of some of the other entries too. And maybe Snape will tell you things he won't tell me—you're both Slytherins."

For a moment, Harry was afraid that Draco'd fallen asleep. But as the pause lengthened, Draco opened his eyes and came up on his elbows. "Snape…my father didn't believe it, but my mother and I…well, we realized he was protecting us…as much as he could." He fell back on the pillows and stared at the slanted ceiling. "All right. I'll give it a try. But I won't be able to come until the weekend. We have a break." He paused and turned his head. "Will it be a problem with McGonagall?"

"No, not at all."

Draco yawned and brought an arm up to rest across his forehead. "Good."

"Draco?"

"Hmmm?"

Harry could tell that he didn't have long to make his point. "Thanks for doing this. I don't know why it's become so…important."

Harry heard the amusement in the man's voice, but without any trace of malice. "It's Snape. He's got under your skin."

Harry shivered. "Wonderful imagery. Thanks. I'll have nightmares now."

There was a very drowsy snort and a yawn from Draco.

Harry struggled to his feet, then stood uncertainly by the bed. "I'll be going, then. You'll owl me when you're coming? I'll need to be at the gates."

There was an incoherent mumble in reply, as Draco turned to his side.

Undecided whether to say anything more, Harry hesitated, as he looked down at his former enemy. What he'd said had been true, that this Draco had been unexpected. The Draco'd he'd known before would've never fallen off to sleep with a former adversary in the room. That Draco had always been firmly in control, deeply suspicious, ever scheming, and annoyingly pretentious.

He thought of the last time he'd seen him, that night in the Great Hall after the battle. Huddled together with his parents, this Draco had been born into a world where he was just another casualty, a testament to how quickly the fortunes of life can change. And he'd escaped, but not unscathed, one parent imprisoned, the other one shattered. The child born in the lap of luxury was now a piano player, who appeared to be living hand-to-mouth, trading his body to eke out a meager existence.

Despite their history, it made Harry sad. He stared down at the man, now curled on his side, a shock of blond hair falling into his face. He was unnaturally pale, the sharp angles of his features painfully more prominent, and Harry was suddenly mesmerized, fascinated by the taut curve of his neck, and the long roped vein that throbbed slowly, blue and perfect. He looked so fragile, so vulnerable…the only sign of life that slow pulsation that testified to a beating heart, and the slow rise and fall of his chest, as he breathed, shallow, in sleep.

Harry had an unsettling and irrational desire to touch him…to stretch his hand out, and trace the blue cord with just the tip of his finger…to feel the warmth and bruit and thrill of the vessel, as if that would somehow connect him to the soul and life of this person. He experienced a moment of existential wonder—that life was so self-perpetuating, that it thrummed on, that it bared itself so often and innocently to disaster, but still managed to stream along, to continue undeterred, to find a way, despite all the odds stacked against it.

He caught himself just in time, his hand poised just inches away, and pulled it back as if he'd been burned. But for some strange reason that he was at a loss to fathom, Harry felt completely undone, as vulnerable and exposed as the sleeping form on the bed.

He turned on the spot and Disapparated, wanting only to find his way back to the castle and safety and sleep…

Just at the door to his rooms, he realized…and Snape.

oooOOOooo

The next morning, Harry overslept and had to take breakfast in his rooms. He sat in front of the painting with his toast and tea, resigned to the fact that he'd best tell Snape where he'd been the night before, as Draco would be putting in an appearance at the weekend.

"Late night?" Snape asked him.

Pushing his plate aside, Harry said, "Late for me, I guess. I went into London." When Snape didn't prompt him, Harry elaborated. "To see Draco Malfoy."

Snape didn't even try to hide his surprise. "Draco?" he asked with a calculating look. "Not someone I'd think you'd seek out."

Reaching down for his shoes, Harry said without looking at him, "Well, I've been thinking about him ever since he sent the key. It's been over two years, and I was curious, so…."

Snape had stood and rounded to the front of the desk to lean back against it. "Don't make me drag it out of you, word by word. How is he?" Snape growled.

Harry related the events of the evening, editing out some of the experiences in the bar, as well as slightly altering the reason why Draco would be showing up to visit.

Snape interrupted once or twice to ask a question, and seemed as amazed as Harry over Draco's musical profession, then sniggered out loud at how Draco had rescued Harry from 'Clay'.

"Did you know Draco was gay?" Harry asked.

Snape rolled his eyes. "It was hardly a secret. He didn't flaunt it, however. His father knew and was none too pleased."

Harry mulled over this for a moment. "I felt sorry for him. He's never had to fend for himself, and now…."

"He had any number of opportunities to not follow in Lucius' footsteps," Snape disagreed. "Although that would've required a strength of character that he sadly lacked at the time."

"Well, he's different now…mostly," Harry stated.

"So it seems," Snape said in a low voice.

It was time. "He's coming up this weekend…." At the look on Snape's face, Harry added quickly, "He's not been here since that night; he'd liked to see the rebuilding, and, if you're willing, talk to you as well, sir."

For the moment, Snape seemed to ignore what Harry'd just told him. "Tell me, this Highfield Club, despite your need to be rescued, what did you think of it?"

Harry sat back in his chair and noted, with dismay, the gleam of mischief in Snape's eyes. "You don't miss much, do you?" Harry asked warily.

"Rarely. It's one of my strengths, reading between the lines."

"All right. You tell me, then."

"And if I'm wrong?" Snape asked archly.

Harry thought. "You have to listen to the game-by-game highlights from Quidditch Quarterly."

"Perfect," was Snape's instant reply. "And if I'm correct?"

"Up to you," Harry said, as it was only fair.

Snape made a soft tsking noise. "You will answer ten questions of my choice. Truthfully."

"That's it?" Harry asked with a grin. When Snape nodded, Harry suddenly had the sinking feeling that he'd missed something altogether. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn't retreat now. "Fine. Give it your best shot, then."

For at least a minute, Snape didn't speak. He stood and walked to the end of the painting, then leant against the edge of it, dissecting Harry with his eyes, from head to toe. And even though Harry knew Snape wasn't real, he had to fight the urge to fidget under the man's scrutiny.

When Snape began, his voice was soft. "At first, you wondered why Draco had chosen such a place. You thought, perhaps, that he'd done it on purpose, to make you uncomfortable?"

Harry thought this an obvious assumption. "So far, so good. Go on."

"The first few men who tried to buy you a drink were just irritations. You were more concerned with the fact that Draco was late."

Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Trying to sound nonchalant, he said, "Go on."

Snape propelled himself away from the edge of the painting, and returned to the desk, pulled the chair out from behind it, then dragged it to the front and sat, facing Harry.

"You nursed your drink and listened to the music, a spectator watching the other patrons. You weren't bothered at all by the outward displays of affections—the arm around a shoulder, the touch of a hand…even, the occasional kiss. Watching it…you felt warm…."

Harry's heart began to beat a little faster. He should've known. He hadn't said a word. Had he been so transparent? Evidently, yes.

Snape leant forward in his chair, his eyes deep and shining, his voice low, rich and disturbingly confident. "Then you saw…something. Oh, in a place like the Highfield, it's bound to happen. Something protracted and exquisitely explicit…something that made that comfortable suffusion of warmth explode…into a heat and frenzy of desire so intense you almost forgot yourself." His voiced dropped to almost a whisper. "You were agonizingly aroused, Potter, and for a moment all you could think of was how desperately you wanted release."

Contrary to Harry's predilection to blush, he felt the color drain from his face. Snape's eyes had caught Harry's and refused to let them go. Harry opened his mouth to speak; he wanted to explain; he wanted to tell Snape how natural it had seemed; he wanted to tell him that, despite his being right, Harry wasn't ashamed; he wanted to confess that he'd known this about himself for a while, and that it was a relief to hear someone else validate it.

Instead, he whispered, "Yes. To all of it."

Snape sat back in his chair, then smiled. It was a smile of anticipation, Harry realized. Oh, shite.

"Question number one," Snape struck at once. "Before I ask it, I must say that it's to your credit that I entertain no doubts as to the truthfulness of your answer."

Harry was having some second thoughts, though. But he also had no doubts—he'd agreed to the terms of the wager, and hell would freeze over before he'd renege on a promise to Snape. "Go on," he said, for what felt like the umpteenth time in this conversation.

Snape was deadly serious now, his voice flat as he asked, almost as if he didn't relish the answer, "Before the end of the evening, no matter who or how or what the provocation, did you experience an attraction to Mister Malfoy?"

Before Harry even had the chance to see the loophole, Snape zipped it shut tightly with his addendum. "A sexual attraction?"

Harry could feel it, the instantaneous flush beginning at the base of his throat, rapidly rising to warm his cheeks. Once again, he wanted to explain; he wanted to tell Snape of that singular moment, that epiphany he'd experienced as he'd stood over the sleeping man.

"Yeah, you know I did," Harry admitted, and despite his embarrassment, he was still not ashamed.

oooOOOooo

Harry worked through the day, cycling from mortified, to bemused, to resigned, over what he'd let Snape see of himself. By the time evening came, though, he'd settled into a more philosophical frame of mind: by his own admission, Snape was rather good at reading people, and besides, Harry couldn't believe that the man intended to use any of what he'd learnt to taunt or humiliate him. Strange that he'd deduced this about Snape, though, who had delighted in humiliating him in the past. But Harry knew, thankfully, that they were well beyond that childishness now.

"Professor, I wondered…." Harry began, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the painting. "About the bat. Minerva says it's your familiar."

"Ah yes. Bat," Snape echoed fondly. "I acquired Bat shortly after my…retirement from Hogwarts."

"Bat? That's its name?" Harry asked, biting back a smirk.

Snape gave him a blank look. "Yes. A perfectly adequate name."

"Well," Harry hesitated, "it's an odd choice, you have to admit. The name and the animal both. So, why a bat?"

The black eyes glittered, and Harry detected the slight twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth. "Most vampires have bats as familiars, I was under the impression," he stated dryly.

Harry was incredulous…and appreciative. "Did you…just make a joke?" he asked with admiration.

Snape was stone-faced. "You decide."

Harry snorted. "Bravo, Professor! Still, why a bat?"

Snape shrugged. "They're beautiful creatures, a marvel of natural acoustics, are they not? Blood-suckers, you know. A useful talent when its owner is a potions master. They're admirably mobile and, like owls, can locate their masters on command. And very loyal as well. Once a familiar, they'll bond to no other master in their lifetime."

Harry was intrigued. "It has a personality?"

"Of course, it does. I grew quite attached to it…it knowing my darkest secrets," Snape said softly. "I regret that it's been abandoned."

"Hmm," Harry said, "but it still sticks around, hangs on your portrait. Maybe it doesn't know you're gone for good. Seems to be getting on all right."

"It was my only friend during my abbreviated year as headmaster."

Tough break, that, Harry mused, remembering that during the same period, he and his friends had at least had each other. As if he'd heard Harry's thoughts, Snape called him on it.

"I was surprised that Arthur and Molly allowed your friends to set out with you."

Harry realized then, how much Snape still didn't know. "Well, they didn’t actually give us their approval. We were planning…when the Ministry fell, so we sort of took off, half-cocked. Thank god, Hermione was prepared," he muttered.

Harry told Snape of how the three of them had struggled: never enough to eat; never spending the night in the same place more than once. He detailed his friends' growing frustration that he didn't 'have more of a plan'; he outlined his own niggling doubts about Dumbledore, as more and more conflicting information about his life was revealed.

When he told of their narrow escape from Godric's Hollow, Snape's face seemed noticeably paler, even though Harry had previously given him the 'short version' weeks ago.

"Your own abilities aside, I believe you may owe Granger a Life Debt for that one."

After Harry'd told the tale of finding Gryffindor's sword, Snape admitted, "I did stay hidden until I was certain that you'd retrieved it. I was puzzled about your flailing about in the pool." He shook his head at Harry, his face grim. "Another Life Debt owed to your friends."

"I think I managed to repay all of those, given what I did," he murmured, and Snape didn't disagree.

They talked into the night, Harry fleshing out the rest of the story, of which Snape already knew large portions. At the end, Harry summed up the overwhelming emotion of that whole miserable year.

"I don't know what I'd've done without my friends. But even so…." He bit his lower lip, his eyes unfocused as he reminisced. He finally looked up at Snape.

"I was so lonely. I felt completely abandoned, mostly by Dumbledore for not telling me the things we had to work so hard to puzzle out. And on top of that, to realize that no one understood what I was trying to do—instead, I was 'Undesirable Number One'. The lowest point had to be when I was standing there looking at my parents' graves, wishing I could see him one last time, wishing I could remember the sound of her voice…." Harry fell silent, and was suddenly awash once again in the depth and intensity of the isolation he'd felt that Christmas Eve.

"No one could ever imagine how awful that year was…how all those things together nearly took the heart out of me," he finished quietly, looking down at his hands.

No one. No one could ever imagine…not even my friends. It was my task…my fate. Maligned…misjudged…unappreciated…no one could understand.

Except… Realization slowly dawned. Except the man sitting here with him now. Harry looked up and saw the mirror of his own misery in Snape's face.

"Except you," Harry said softly. "You…and I…miles apart, but…not so far apart, when you get down to it." He hesitated, until Snape looked up at him. "Well, I had my friends, at least, but you…."

Snape's lips twisted into the sad semblance of a smile. "I had Bat, and of course, the memory of your mother."

CHAPTER FOUR