Harry James Potter, scion of the House of the Lion, newest member of the Order of the Phoenix and Assistant Professor at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, leaned back and thumped his head against the stone window frame of the observatory in the Astronomy Tower. He sighed morosely, staring longingly down at the late spring day glittering softly beneath him, enticing him with the clear expanse of deep blue sky and blossom-scented, sun-warmed breezes. Even the weather was conspiring against him, he thought sourly—trying to lure him from the suddenly stale, confining castle to the slowly spreading twilight outside, where he could ride the warm winds in his animagus form, skim above the mirror surface of the Hogwarts lake as hues of fire suffused the sky, lounge like a king's pampered prize in the last pools of sunlight...make a target of himself even Trelawney looking through one of her fake crystal balls would have no trouble seeing....
Harry thumped his head against the stone again and groaned. He was going to have to sneak down to the kitchens after dinner like the guilty troublemaker Snape always thought of him just so he wouldn't have to go to bed on an empty stomach. Damn Albus and his too-reasonable requests.
His very undignified exit that morning had at least saved him a promise to the Headmaster, but he knew that the sly old wizard wouldn't give up that easily on something he wanted. Nevertheless, he would have to corner Harry a second time, and Harry had no intention of allowing that to happen. He would have sought refuge elsewhere: visit Remus at number twelve Grimmauld Place, go on a scouting trip for Ron, take a long walk through the enchanted forest of the free-elves, where no one not trained in the elves' mind-magic would be able to find his way through labyrinths of trees and not-trees—there were a hundred places he would have preferred to visit this afternoon instead of staying in the castle where who knew how many suits of armor and portraits of fat ladies, grinning pot-bellied knights, and suspiciously snoring mad wizard inventors spied for Albus. Unfortunately, today of all days he was stuck as a house-elf drunk on butterbeer in Hogwarts, thanks to a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix scheduled for that night in Albus' study.
Harry narrowed his eyes against a last blaze of sunlight shooting through the tower windows. At least he could be reasonably certain that Albus would give up on him if he couldn't be found before the meeting. He was counting quite heavily on the fact that it would be infinitely easier for the old wizard to convince someone else to go in his place—McGonagall or Hooch, for instance, than come all the way up to the booby-trapped Astronomy Tower just to ask him to act as chaperone on a field trip. In just under two hours he would be safe for another year.
He had all of three minutes to savor that thought.
"Potter."
Harry whirled to face the owner of that all-too-familiar resonant voice, wand jumping into his hand, but he wasn't quite quick enough.
"Expelliarmus!"
Albus, the old coot, had sent Snape after him!
He raised his empty hands in a gesture of patently insincere good-will, slowly backing towards the window and cursing himself silently for not remembering that he had shown Snape how trigger-alerts worked. Why did Albus have to send Snape? They had worked together too much in the last eight months for Harry to elude the man without one or both of them hexed on their backsides in the infirmary. He hated staying there, and Snape detested it just as much. He would never be forgiven if he did manage it, and Snape knew the Unforgivable Curses...
Snape, damn him to indigestion and heartburn on two bloody cans of Albus' bloody lemondrops, slowly smirked. "Any other fancy tricks you'd like to try, Potter?"
He eyed the bare room frantically. Not so much as a stray piece of firewood to knock that self-satisfied sneer off the man's face. His nonverbal spells were certainly not as good as Snape's, and Snape was between him and the door...
Harry's backside hit the wall next to the observatory window. He froze, thinking furiously. If he made it to the ground, he could take refuge with the Weasley twins and risk testing whatever new invention they were sure to spring on him. If Snape decided to hit him with something really nasty, though, it was a long way down.... But Snape probably wouldn't do anything too permanent, since he wouldn't want to have a crippled partner on whatever mission the Order might have planned for them tonight. He eyed the wands in Snape's hands, gauging his chances. Oh, sod it—he wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing!
He twisted, dodging the spell that Snape tossed at the spot he had just vacated, and threw himself out the window.
He closed his eyes against the rush of the rising wind and spread his arms as he reached for the core of magic within him. It flowed outward, enveloping him, transforming arms to magnificent ivory wings that with one powerful stroke lifted his suddenly sleek body sharply upward, taking him soaring—
"Petrificus totalus; accio bird!"
—petrified into Snape's waiting hands.
Bird? Bird?!
Snape smiled maliciously down at him. "So, let's take a trip to see the Headmaster, shall we? I do believe he has some business to discuss with you."
One of these days he was going to nip Snape right on his beaky nose.
Snape tucked away both wands and descended the stairs, passed the now-useless alert spells, carefully carrying him upside down to avoid injuring his wings. It was an absurdly comfortable position, and Snape's hands were warm and unexpectedly gentle, but he was well aware that he looked ridiculously like an expired goose ready for the plucking.
They passed Neville on the way down, and he turned to stare at them with eyes as round as goblin coins. Harry groaned inwardly. The story would no doubt be all over the school even before dinner. Neville wouldn't intentionally harm a soul, but he had certainly inherited his grandmother's penchant for gossip, and Merlin help him if Luna caught wind of this! If this story appeared in the Quibbler's next issue, he was going to send Luna an exploding Howler to transfigure all their printing presses to oversized stuffed likenesses of Cornelius Fudge. Complete with lime-green bowler hat.
"Good afternoon, Professor Snape," Neville squeaked as he passed them. Snape simply glared, which was enough to make Neville pick up his steps to get out of the Potions master's sight.
Ah yes, another oiled log added to the bonfire of the legendary Potter-Snape feud....
"You've put me through quite a bit of trouble today with this little tantrum of yours, Potter," Snape's ill-tempered growl interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
And this is my fault how? Just because you didn't want to go on a trip to bloody Merlin's Tower with the Seventh-Years either....
"Although," Snape mused, in a softer—and somehow more menacing—voice, "this little errand needn't be a total waste of my time—say if I should take you down to the Great Hall and put you up as a display, perhaps...a warning to all those students who are trying to follow in the illustrious Harry Potter's footsteps."
You...you wouldn't!
The glint in Snape's eyes was even more unnerving than watching trolls devour their fallen comrades in battle. At least they didn't smirk in that amused, condescending way that told him Snape knew exactly what was going through his head. Harry desperately pledged a hundred galleons, his best bottle of picklepeach wine, and three sticks of incense to whichever god would shake that particular thought out of Snape's head. The Potions master abruptly changed direction, heading for the Great Hall instead of Albus' office. Harry silently added his remaining firewhiskey and a goat to the offer. Unfortunately, no imp showed up to perform a memory charm on Snape.
You sadistic prick!
Harry squirmed against the tight bounds of the spell, but Snape had cast it too strongly and smoothly for his mind to find purchase. He gave up after several long moments of beating his head against the bindings, and attempted instead to shatter the shell of the Petrificus with a burst of expanding pressure. But too much of his magic was already woven into his animagus form, and the spell that had worked when he was in his natural form dissipated as soon as it touched his bonds. He groaned as the ceiling of the Great Hall came into view; judging by the absence of chatter it was still mostly empty, but not for long.
Just kill me already and be done with it. At least I'll be comfortably dead when the gawkers come swooping like a gaggle of vultures.
That image...an idea abruptly occurred to Harry, and he stopped struggling uselessly against Snape's spell.
His study of pure mind-magics had allowed Harry to protect himself against the influence of Voldemort through their link and consciously forge the shields that finally freed him from the sporadic pain that had inundated him with increasing regularity as Voldemort grew in strength. Two years with the free-elves was certainly not enough to attain mastery in any of the fields of mind-magic, but he had worked extensively in the art of illusion— in ways to trick the mind into seeing what was not there, and he knew that the most powerful and subtle illusions cast on another person worked best with physical contact.
If he couldn't free himself, he could at least manage a little revenge.
First, Harry formed the image he wanted from one unforgettable afternoon from Third Year carefully in his mind. He chuckled with delicious maliciousness as he pictured with precise detail the illusion he wanted spreading over Snape like a second cloak, feather-light and fitting so closely with the outer edge of Snape's own shields that he would never detect it until it was too late. He chanted silently, winding out the magic strand by strand to avoid alerting the Potions master. He finished by tying the illusion with a neat little remote activation trigger.
He could quite proudly say that it was definitely one of the most inspired pieces of magic he had ever performed. Almost satisfying enough to make up for being the unwilling chief entertainment of the evening.
The dour Potions master had an impeccable sense for dramatic timing, Harry had to admit; he just wished he'd been able to appreciate it at a proper, respectful distance instead of experiencing it first-hand.
During one of those infrequent lulls in conversation in the middle of dinner, when the only noises in the hall consisted of enthusiastic chewing and other sounds of thorough appreciation of a delicious meal, Snape stood suddenly and posed for a moment to get the attention of those who otherwise occupied. Snape's smooth voice sliced like a diffindo spell cutting silk through the low murmuring background noise. "Some poultry, perhaps, Headmaster?" the Potions master asked slyly. Harry was then presented on a dinner plate to Albus as if he were some bleached, stuffed pheasant a bloody-minded house-elf had dipped in a bloody blanching potion before splaying on a bloody platter.
Harry stared up at the rotating ceiling, silently adding his entire collection of Quidditch Quarterly magazines, half a plate of Hagrid's leftover treacle fudge, and a miniature shrine to his previous offer in exchange for immediate removal to a remote mountaintop. The gods, for reasons mysterious, didn't deign to reply.
During the pandemonium that ensued, Albus smiled calmly down at Harry as if he were handed his assistant professors for dinner every night and said with teeth-shattering cheer, "Ah Harry, there you are! I'm so glad you could join us, as I have a matter of moderate importance to discuss with you."
Released from Snape's spell, Harry sat down in his chair at the staff table with as much dignity as he could muster, studiously ignoring the coughing fit that seemed to have taken over most of the other teachers. "Apparently Professor Snape thought the matter quite urgent," he replied blandly, and deliberately helped himself to a drumstick.
If the gods weren't going to cooperate with a miraculous escape, he would at least have his revenge. It was really a shame that he wouldn't be able to appreciate the results of his work, but perhaps it was wise to leave the castle for a few days. After all, wasn't there some Muggle fatalist always muttering about not overindulging in too much of a good thing?
[[center:***]]
Three days, forty-seven stunning spells, twenty-four obliviates, two Gryffindors, two Slytherins and a Ravenclaw hexed with transfiguration spells into various members of the baboon family, and one narrow escape from the starry-eyed Seer-turned-Guardian of Merlin's Tower later, he was finally able to piece together the results of his spell.
It was, by all accounts, quite a spectacular success.
Forty-two potions boiled over, exploded, or were otherwise ruined in a single morning by gaping students, narrowly surpassing the record that had been set some sixty-odd years earlier, when a latter-day Sixth Year Gryffindor and Slytherin class had simultaneously decided to turn each other's Pepper-Up potions into Troll's Morning Breath potions (said to be a perfume irresistible to trolls but lethal to everyone else). Thirty-nine cauldrons had melted in that fiasco, nineteen students who hadn't been quick enough to escape had fallen unconscious to the floor, and the dungeons had been uninhabitable for a week.
Snape, who while under the illusion could not see it himself, was utterly furious and no little bewildered. It was probably the first time in Hogwarts history that the Head of Slytherin House took away an equal number of points from both the Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses.
The other teachers, as wary of the sharp side of Snape's tongue as their students and no more eager to be the bearer of bad news, wisely chose to do their own gawking from a distance. Only McGonagall, to her credit as the Head of the House famous for its courage, attempted to corner Snape as they passed in the halls. Snape, who had spent the morning cleaning up cauldron after cauldron and sending students off to the infirmary, was in no mood to listen. McGonagall, noting the eager, intent faces of the students that passed them in the halls, decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor and retreated.
The normally silent Bloody Baron had an apoplectic fit that would probably have given him a stroke if he hadn't been a ghost already, and trailed Snape down the dungeons with a screaming tirade regarding proper dress code. Unfortunately, since the gaunt specter's sense of fashion was a few centuries old and not very lucid in any case, a very irritated Potions master hit him with a silencing hex and sealed him into a picture frame with Hectar Quirke, former Potions master and mad inventor extraordinaire. Quirke opened one eye mid-snore, chuckled, and went back to sleep.
It was with a considerable amount of anticipation that both students and faculty arrived for lunch in the Great Hall. Not a seat was empty, and there were even scattered sightings of George and Fred Weasley hiding out in the crowds, come to enjoy the show.
Everyone held their breaths as the Headmaster took his customary seat at the staff table. There was a small commotion as Neville, who had been working in the hothouse with Professor Sprout that morning, walked in late, took one look at Snape at the front of the Hall, and fainted dead away.
Albus, ignoring the group of people who had rushed to Neville's aid at the door, quietly took a sip of pumpkin juice before turning to his Potions master and inquiring politely, "A change of fashion for the spring, Severus? Perhaps you could give me some references for that intriguing head ornament? Aegypius tracheliotus, I believe? Quite dashing. Quite dashing."
Madame Hooch abruptly snorted out the mouthful of pumpkin juice she'd just drunk through her nose, precipitating a series of similar incidents up and down the Great Hall. She fled the table. Her hearty peals of laughter, however, could be heard all the way back in the Great Hall.
Tiny Professor Flitwick had to be rescued from below the table where he'd fallen, rushed to the infirmary, and dosed with a Calming Potion before he asphyxiated from hilarity.
Snape stormed out of the Great Hall, the thundercloud on his face dark enough to snuff out all the candles in Hogwarts, off to find a mirror that he had not hexed into silence. A recovered Neville nervously reported that they could hear the shout of "Potter!" all the way to Gryffindor tower.
Gryffindor House points dove into negative territory for a while when the great hour-glass which contained Gryffindor's points cracked, leaking rubies like a trickle of fine sparkling plum-fairy brandy—which Peeves, cackling with delight, somehow convinced a few ghosts to help him steal. Of course, since Harry was no longer a student, Snape was eventually forced to repair the hour-glass and give back the ninety-nine thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine points he'd taken. Filch was left with the task of retrieving the horde of rubies from Peeves.
Predictably, Snape refused to speak to him for weeks after the incident. But there were no window-shattering confrontations, no hex-fests in the hallways, simply...nothing. Snape ignored him as effectively as if he walked cloaked in an illusion of silence and invisibility. It was strangely, completely unnerving, and Harry finally figured out why, seated one afternoon a few days after his return in the exact spot he had chosen at the beginning of this mess, staring out blindly at a soft, warm rain that turned the Forbidden Forest into a mist-filled labyrinth.
In all the years that he and Snape had known each other, they had never, for better or worse, been able to ignore each other. There had always been that sense of connection, of an inevitable bond between them, contrary and confrontational as it had been, whether because of an uneasy past or a shared destiny. Now that bond was severed as if it had never existed, as if Snape no longer cared about its existence. Harry shook his head abruptly. Where once that thought might have filled him with bitter satisfaction, it now brought only a hollow sense of emptiness.
Harry jumped to his feet. If he wanted to ever work with the irascible, unforgiving, brilliant git again, he would need to be the one to offer amends, for he knew as surely as he knew the swish and snap of his wand that Snape would never offer the first overture. He made briskly for the door, intending to head straight down to the dungeons to apologize—and immediately tripped over Dobby, who had appeared with a 'pop' directly in his path.
"Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is sorry! Please forgive Dobby! Dobby didn't mean—" the little house-elf babbled.
Harry gingerly picked himself off the floor, then laid a gentle hand on the house-elf's head to stop the torrent of words. "It's okay, Dobby. It's my fault for not watching where I was going. Is anything the matter?"
Dobby's round eyes grew wider and wider until Harry took his hand away. It seemed to never fail to amaze the house-elf that someone would touch him with affection rather than anger. He gulped. "The Headmaster requests an interview with Harry Potter," he managed in an almost normal voice.
Harry winced inwardly, but smiled at Dobby. "Thanks, Dobby," he said. "I'll be right there."
As Dobby disappeared with another 'pop', Harry inwardly steeled himself. Albus was never that formal unless the subject was of discussion was likely to be unusually serious or unpleasant—or both. He had a feeling that he was not going to enjoy this "interview."
[[center:***]]
He arrived in Albus' office no more than ten minutes later, and accepted the Headmaster's habitual offer of tea and scones, if for no other reason than to keep his hands occupied. He listened to Albus' recounting of gossip—news—in and around Hogwarts until the words lost their meaning and flew soundlessly into the dark morass of his dread. He cleared his throat and deliberately placed his empty teacup and saucer onto the table between them.
Albus' deep blue eyes met his own expectant gaze, and as always in these moments Harry caught his breath at the depth and command of power that lay revealed beneath the perpetual twinkle. He said cautiously, "Sir, was there something you wanted to discuss with me?"
Albus laid down his cup, then leaned back and laced long, age-spotted fingers over his chest. He said gravely, "Harry, Professor Snape has requested that someone other than himself be assigned to work with you for all future missions for the Order. I have granted his request for the time being."
An odd moment of silence enfolded Harry as the chill of unreality plummeted into his stomach. "He-he—you did? But—" he stammered, entirely without conscious thought.
Albus held up a hand. "Harry, as I have said, I deemed it best that you work apart from one another for the time being. This does not mean, of course, that you cannot change your minds for the future. But that is up to you—and Professor Snape—to decide."
Harry rearranged his expression to one of calm. "I understand," he said softly, inwardly cringing at the sharp bite of guilt evoked by the disappointment that somehow weighed each of Albus' words, though the wizard's mild voice held no trace of reproach. Harry stood. "Thank you for the tea, Headmaster," he said politely.
[[center:***]]
He ventured down into the dungeons that evening. He had not seen Snape at all that day; the Potions master had not come down to the Great Hall for lunch—another meal that he had missed, Harry noted uneasily.
Snape's quarters were located in a little-used corridor branching from the main path to the Potions classroom. He knew that much, but it wasn't enough to help him. He managed to take several wrong turns in the dark, featureless hallways before retracing his steps back to the beginning, frustrated and more than a little angry at himself. He leaned back against a cold dungeon wall and crossed his arms, frowning in thought. How did one find a powerful wizard who did not wish to be found, and who had probably cast all sorts of wards against that possibility? He didn't want to risk confronting Snape in his classroom and making a scene in front of his students; neither did he want to creep through the hallways behind Snape as if he had some sort of nefarious plot in mind.
In any case, he needed help. Fortunately, he thought he knew where to find it.
[[center:***]]
The kitchens were bustling as usual with carefully-orchestrated chaos. Harry tiptoed inside and carefully closed the door behind him. All movement stopped for a moment at the click of the door, and Harry suddenly found himself the vortex of a whirlwind of clamoring, excited house-elves. "Is Dobby here?" he asked the whirling dervish rather desperately.
To his relief, a familiar piping voice called out, "Here, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is here!"
The other house-elves parted to let Dobby through, then crowded around Harry once more, plying him with platters of pastries and pumpkin juice. Harry good-naturedly allowed himself to be pushed into a chair at the kitchen table with a plate of tiny chocolate cakes in one hand and a tall glass of pumpkin juice in the other.
"Dobby," he said once the other house-elves had placed their offerings in front of him and returned to their various tasks, "I need you to help me."
"Harry Potter has only to ask!" Dobby fairly quivered with eagerness.
Harry smiled. "Thanks, Dobby. I need help finding Professor Snape's rooms. Do you know where they are?"
Dobby nodded excitedly, his large ears flapping. "Dobby will take Harry Potter! Dobby knows the way!"
"Great!" Harry stood.
Dobby crossed his arms and looked up sternly at Harry. "But not until he finishes his cakes! And eats something from each plate! Harry Potter would not want to make the house-elves sad."
Harry sat down meekly. "Yes, Dobby," he sighed.
He dug into the mountain of 'appetizers' the house-elves had piled on the table, grateful that he no longer had to test each dish for odd ingredients with unpleasant results. If nothing else, he should thank Draco for taking Kreacher off his hands, he decided. Receiving a box full of maggots each Christmas was nothing compared to the myriad of ways a house-elf up to no good could ruin everything from your socks to your appetite.
It was almost half an hour later when Dobby finally agreed that Harry had eaten enough to satisfy the house-elves. Harry pushed away from the table with a groan and followed Dobby out of the kitchen. They descended together into the familiar gloom of the dungeons, twisting and turning through the dim, portraitless dungeon halls, into half-hidden, shadow-ridden corridors that Harry must have missed half-a-dozen times on his own. Finally, they stopped in front of a plain oak door in an unlit doorway not far from the Potions classroom. Dobby looked up uncertainly at Harry.
Harry took a deep breath. "Thanks, Dobby," he said, trying to smile reassuringly. "I think I'll be able to find my way back on my own."
Dobby disappeared with a faint 'pop'. Harry stood staring at Dobby's empty spot for a moment, suddenly wishing that he could as conveniently vanish elsewhere. But if he ever wanted to work with Snape again... Silly, irrational, unfair, stubborn git of a Potions master.
Harry inhaled deeply and held it, and determinedly reached for the knocker, carved in the shape of a snake chewing its own tail. But even before he could touch it the snake uncoiled and struck out at him, hissing. Harry jerked back, two small spots of blood welling from the back of his hand.
Harry glared at the snake, hand cradled to his chest. "I only wanted to knock!" he hissed in Parseltongue.
The snake replied in Snape's voice, "Go away!"
"I will not!" Harry retorted. "Open up! I want to talk with you!" The snake only hissed at him again.
Harry gritted his teeth. "Dammit, Snape!" His drew his wand and hurled an amplified firecracker spell against the door. The sudden blast of sound threw him back against the far wall, where he crouched with hands pressed tightly against his ears, stunned. The ringing in his head had not quite subsided when the door opened with such suddenness that he stared without comprehension at the tall figure standing in the doorway. Strong hands caught him, then dragged him upright and shoved him hard against another stone wall.
"Do you never think before you act, Potter!" Snape shouted at him, face white and rigid with anger.
"I...only wanted to talk to you," Harry replied weakly, blinking rapidly as Snape's face blurred into a white mass with two burning, pupilless eyes. "I didn't mean—"
"I have nothing to say to you, Potter!" Snape snarled. "Now get out!"
He grabbed Harry by the front of his robes and tossed him back out into the hallway. Harry turned in time to have the door slammed shut in his face.
"Right. That went well," he commented vaguely to the Slytherin prefect who had come pounding up the corridor, wand in hand.
That night, he skipped dinner to accept an invitation from Ron for a few drinks in the Leaky Cauldron.