Chapter Six of 'Inter Vivos'- Anger

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Six—Anger

Draco trotted down the corridor towards the library, frowning at his Charms textbook. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to figure out the connection between Soothing and Tickling Charms for the summer essay that Professor Flitwick had assigned him to write. Draco suspected he needed a book that he’d ignored the first time around because the title wasn’t promising.

He had just started to open the door when he heard a voice that made him freeze.

“I am displeased.”

It was his father. Draco had never heard him sound so angry. Even when Lucius was disgusted with something Draco had done, he almost never raised his voice; instead, it got colder and colder, and his face became more and more blank.

Who displeased him? Me, or Mother, or someone he works with? Either way, Draco thought it was better to scout out the territory before going into the library. He put his eye to the keyhole.

His father stood staring down at one of the house-elves, who was already wringing his hands and whimpering. Draco thought this one’s name was Dobby. Of course, all the elves were interchangeable anyway, so he’d never paid much attention to them.

“How could you betray our family like this?” continued Lucius, and his voice had cooled a little but still sounded far too loud and passionate. Draco frowned. He’s better at hiding his emotions than that. “How could you help Harry Potter, of all people?”

Draco caught his breath. Someone’s house-elf can help someone else? How did that even happen?

But he had to focus on the conversation again as Dobby wailed, “Dobby is-is sorry, M-Master Malfoy! D-dobby is a bad elf! But Harry Potter is a good wizard—“

Lucius took a step away from Dobby, as if the elf’s words might contaminate him, and murmured a spell too soft for Draco to hear.

Long parallel wounds began to appear on Dobby’s body, as though some invisible cat were standing next to him and raking its claws down his face and chest. Dobby screamed horribly, but didn’t run away.

“Do clean up,” Lucius said, spinning away. Draco saw a satisfied expression on his face first. “I don’t want you spilling blood all over the floor.” And he sat down at his desk and started reading, whilst Dobby, screaming all the time, started to clean up the blood. It was no good, Draco saw, because he was spilling more even as he cleaned, and that made him bite his own hands and tug on his ears to punish himself for disobeying his master’s orders.

Draco backed away from the door and walked back to his room much faster than he’d come to the library. He had to think, and his head was spinning and buzzing so hard that he thought maybe his father would hear it if he stayed.

He’d never seen his father use such a violent spell before, but obviously he knew it. That argued he had used it in the past.

And he had used it on someone who had helped Potter.

Draco shivered and rubbed his arms.

And then a new thought jumped up in his mind and spoke as impudently as Dobby had when he talked back to his master.

He doesn’t really control his emotions or maintain a cool front. He just waits until he can dump them on someone who can’t fight back. I wonder how many times he’s gone and punished a house-elf when he was angry at me?

He gets angry like anyone else, and he disapproves of me when I get angry, but he doesn’t maintain the ideal himself.

He lied.

Draco went back to his bedroom and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, for long hours, until his mother came and asked if he were sick.

*

Harry stumbled off the Hogwarts Express. He knew his face was green and that many people were looking at him sidelong, knowing he had screamed when the Dementors approached the train. He was just glad he had recovered from his faint before someone—like Professor Lupin, who seemed nice but was still an adult Harry didn’t know—could carry him to the infirmary.

Why do all the adults I know either think I’m never sick or injured, or always want me to spend time in the infirmary? he thought, rubbing at his face and trying to get the image of his dying mother and the sound of her screams out of his mind.

“Mate? You all right?”

Ron hovered beside him. Harry gave him a smile he knew was wavery. Hermione came up behind him and touched his arm, her face bright with concern.

“The Dementors affect people like that sometimes, you know,” she whispered. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

Harry nodded, so she wouldn’t think he was ignoring her, but didn’t say anything. He knew it made him weak, it made him a baby, just like crying from an injury did. And he had to find some way to overcome it. There had to be some way to fight Dementors. He’d find it. Maybe Professor Lupin would know a way.

In the meantime, he had a lot to think about as Ron and Hermione hauled him aboard one of the carriages that moved by itself and they trundled towards Hogwarts.

His summer had been horrible, just like always. The Dursleys didn’t give him much food, and there was always a new list of chores just as he finished the old one, which meant no time to really rest. Aunt Petunia tended to shout him out of bed at the crack of dawn and insist that he do the weeding and the watering in the garden. Harry had thought at first she was trying to give him a chance to do the outside chores before it got too hot, but then he heard her telling Uncle Vernon that she’d read it was good to water one’s garden in the morning.

Of course, he thought, rolling his head until his forehead rested against the window, so he could watch Hogwarts grow bigger and bigger. I don’t know why I keep expecting them to have some sort of consideration for me.

And then he had blown up Aunt Marge, and then he had heard about Sirius Black and how he was after him. And the Dementors were hanging around the Express, and the castle, too; Harry could feel the chill crawling up his spine. He didn’t know what they were doing there, exactly, but he bet it had something to do with him. Horrible things revolving around the school did, generally.

He remembered something then, and snorted to himself, closing his eyes; they still had a little bit of time to go before they’d arrive at Hogwarts’s gates.

At least I should have more than enough excuse to avoid pressure from Snape and Malfoy. Who’s going to want to hang around someone condemned to be hunted by a criminal and who faints when he sees Dementors and screams for his Mum?

Ron and Hermione’s voices came to him, already arguing about how much study was necessary before their classes began, and Harry smiled without opening his eyes.

Besides my best friends, I mean.

But the part of the school year where Snape had come into the Chamber after him and Malfoy had insisted on being Harry’s friend already seemed like a dream. It had almost immediately after he got back to the Dursleys’ house. Hard work and lots of hunger and little sleep—he’d had nightmares about the basilisk and Tom Riddle, too, just to add the perfect topping to the summer—were the reality.

Besides, he didn’t think that they really had a reason to meet together anymore, since he had decided not to use the potion against Seamus.

*

This is not acceptable.

Severus Snape was the one who controlled circumstances within his own life. If he had to make a choice that went against his inclinations, he made it in a way that left him with the maximum of freedom. He had spied for Dumbledore against the Dark Lord, but he had not given his unconditional loyalty to the ideals that Dumbledore “embodied,” in the way that James Potter and his friends had.

Severus could feel his lip curl and his eyes fill with disgust. Of course, that didn’t matter at the moment, since he was circulating through a Potions classroom filled with Gryffindors and Longbottom had just melted another cauldron, but it still paid to know what his face was doing.

James Potter and his friends were one of the few circumstances in his life that Severus had not been able to control or surmount, and now one of them had come back to teach at Hogwarts. As if that were not enough, Dumbledore had charged Severus with making the Wolfsbane Potion for the flea-bitten cur, and made him promise not to hint that Lupin was a werewolf.

When Severus had protested, Dumbledore had looked at him over his spectacles and spoken the quiet, devastating words that Severus had no counter for. “And I had thought you wished to make up for Lily’s death, Severus. This is a little thing I ask you to do, truly.”

So Severus would have been predisposed to be in a bad mood this year without any additional encouragement, the only spark of cheer remaining to him the fact that no Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor seemed to last more than a year. At the very least, he should not have to endure Lupin’s good-natured cowardice later than June.

But then, this had happened.

He stepped up beside Potter and looked into his cauldron, letting the expression of disdain on his face speak for him. Yes, Potter’s potion was a little better than it would have been last year, but still not good enough to justify any praise.

Potter didn’t look up. Oh, his brow creased and his eyes flashed, showing that he had not gone back to the lifeless apathy of the last autumn. But he continued chopping ingredients and consulting the recipe with his four-eyed squint, as if Severus were of no consequence.

He had not come to Severus with one question this term. He had not attempted to ask what Severus might have learned about Finnigan’s family and connections over the summer (though, as a matter of fact, he had learned nothing; all his investigations reached a certain point and dissolved into air. Of course, that made him only more certain that there was something to discover, after all). When Severus had assigned Potter detention for failing to complete any step of a potion properly, he had cleaned the cauldrons and departed without speaking a word.

The boy seemed to think that Severus would forget everything he had learned about Potter in the past year, and meanwhile he could forget that Severus had come into the Chamber to rescue him and had—learned what he had learned about Potter’s morals and his House allegiances.

It was insulting.

It was not acceptable.

It displeased him.

But Severus was intelligent enough to realize that few baits to lure the boy back would work. They were no longer working on a potion. He did not have enough concrete information about Finnigan and where he might have learned the Dark spell that burned the boy’s possessions to construct a good lie, and Potter would manage to see to the bottom of a weak one in the end. Severus’s goal was to pull the boy closer and to see exactly how much of a Slytherin he was. He had decided over the summer that Potter was interesting enough to warrant that much.

Potter did not get to decide that their association was at an end.

Now he had only to decide what would work—

And then the current of his earlier thoughts swirled through his brain as he watched one of the children working with the aconite this potion needed, and he felt the corners of his lips pull up into a thin smile.

Longbottom melted his second cauldron of the day, out of sheer nervousness. Severus made a mental note to smile more often.

*

Draco glared at the back of Potter’s head as he walked with his little friends, laughing and chattering, on the way to Care of Magical Creatures.

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

But Potter was avoiding him. He’d muttered hullo to Draco when they crossed paths a few times, and he hadn’t taunted him, and he’d dragged the Weasel away when the red-head had started to make a remark about Draco’s father. (Draco had almost felt like saying that he had more reason to think badly of Lucius than Weasel did).

But he hadn’t come up to include him in any adventures. He hadn’t talked to Draco like a normal person. He hadn’t asked him how his summer was.

It was like he was trying to pretend that their friendship didn’t happen. Or maybe he was thinking that, with a convict after him and Dementors all around the school, it was too “dangerous” for Draco to associate with him.

Or maybe he just hates Slytherins, again. Because he’s avoiding Professor Snape, too.

Draco had watched Professor Snape watching Potter, though, and he didn’t think the professor would simply accept the dismissal. Nor did Draco intend to. He was going to have real friendship or real rivalry, not this—this half-thing that hovered between them both.

The Great Giant Git was going on about hippogriffs. Draco saw no need to pay attention. Yeah, hippogriffs were big and potentially destructive, but they couldn’t make his face get all flushed and his mind get all blurred with anger the way the boy standing a few paces away from him and studiously ignoring him could.

And then Potter stepped forwards and bowed to a hippogriff, and the hippogriff bowed back and knelt down and let him climb on its back.

As he circled over them, dipping towards the lake and then soaring back towards the clouds again, Draco heard Potter laugh.

It increased his anxiety and his anger, and then he realized he was actually clenching his fists in jealousy. Jealousy. Of a damn hippogriff, that it could make Potter laugh and Draco couldn’t.

He hastily unclenched his fists and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Only Vince and Greg had, and they were looking at him eagerly to see who they should hit. Draco shook his head, and they relaxed with disappointed expressions.

The hippogriff circled back to earth, and the Great Giant Git instructed them to come forwards and try greeting the creatures. He was as horrible a teacher as Draco had always suspected. Of course, it didn’t help that he had that accent that made him sound like someone from the lower classes.

And then Draco thought of a grand, wonderful idea. Maybe Potter was avoiding Draco because he had no reason to notice him. Draco had stopped fighting with him, so Potter didn’t have that reason to think about him. And they weren’t meeting in Snape’s detentions any more so that he could tutor Potter in Potions.

So he had to do something Potter couldn’t ignore. He had to beat him at something.

No matter what the Great Giant Git said, hippogriffs weren’t that smart. They couldn’t possibly recognize an insult if they heard it. Draco would coolly insult the hippogriff Potter had ridden, then hop on its back and sail away—and he’d do that more smoothly, too. Then Potter would have no choice but to recognize that Draco could do something better than he could, and get away with it.

So he bowed to the hippogriff, and straightened with a bored expression. Sure enough, the hippogriff bowed back even so.

See? They don’t care what people think of them.

Draco reached out to caress its beak, addressing his remarks apparently to Vince and Greg but keeping his eye on Potter. “They’re not all that handsome at all, just great ugly brutes—“

The hippogriff twisted its head and clamped its beak on Draco’s arm.

Draco screamed. The pain was worse than anything he’d felt before, even the time he’d fallen off his practice broom and fractured his elbow. He tugged, but the hippogriff held on, working its beak in a sawing motion, trying to separate his flesh from the bone. And then one of those great taloned feet rose up, trying to open his belly.


*

Harry reacted without thinking. There was someone in danger right in front of him. He couldn’t not save them.

Or, at least, that was what he told Ron and Hermione later, when they asked why he’d done it.

He just knew at the time that he saw Buckbeak about to hurt Malfoy, or hurt him worse, and he couldn’t let that happen. Because Malfoy was someone he knew.

He cast the spell that Hermione had cast that first year, when they’d all thought Snape was trying to hex him on his broom during the Quidditch match. This time, the fire came up right under Buckbeak’s left hind foot.

The hippogriff let go of Malfoy at once and spun around, stamping his hoof and squealing. Harry felt a pang of guilt as he watched Buckbeak sputter and dance. He was apparently too scared to spread his wings and take off. Sorry. I’m sorry. But I couldn’t let you hurt him worse.

The other students scattered. Hagrid came up, bellowing. Harry was confident he’d be able to handle Buckbeak and stop him from hurting anyone else or himself.

And then he spun around and ran to where Malfoy sat on the ground, his arm deeply scratched and bleeding, tears pouring down his face.

Emotions jumped up and down inside Harry, clamoring for their turn. Irritation—it was Malfoy’s fault for ignoring Hagrid and provoking Buckbeak. Guilt—Harry probably could have done something if he’d acted faster. Sympathy—he’d had a scratch like that this summer when the pruning shears slipped, and of course the Dursleys had refused to do anything but toss towels at him until he bound it up. Concern—Malfoy probably needed to go to the infirmary, but he probably also needed to be healed before then, and there was no professor around but Hagrid.

But maybe Harry could do something to help. He pointed his wand at Malfoy’s arm and muttered the charm that Flitwick had taught them to seal envelopes and scrolls. “Consigno.”

Skin closed messily over Malfoy’s scratch, and the blood stopped pouring. Harry nodded. It still looked messy, but at least Malfoy wouldn’t bleed to death before they got him to the hospital wing.

“Harry!” Hermione was beside him, her eyes wide and worried. “It’s dangerous to try a spell like that to heal a wound.”

“What are you doing, mate?” Ron was behind him, his voice wary. He remembered their temporary truce with Malfoy last year, Harry knew, but Harry hadn’t said anything about it continuing this year—mostly because he’d been trying to convince himself he couldn’t possibly be friends with a Slytherin, it was too dangerous and too hard.

Malfoy looked directly at Harry, his face twisted up with rage and pain, and said, “I did that for you.”

“What?” Harry said blankly. He heard his friends muttering behind him, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of what Malfoy had said or the fact that Harry was speaking to him before them.

“I thought I’d show you I could ride a hippogriff better,” said Malfoy. “And look where it got me.” He lifted his sealed arm pathetically.

Irritation won the contest among Harry’s emotions. “You should have listened to Hagrid,” he snapped. “He told us not to insult the hippogriffs if we were trying to ride them. Why did you?”

“Because I wanted you to pay attention to me.”

Malfoy had a horrible expression on his face as he spoke. And Harry knew it was horrible because he recognized it. He had seen it when he lingered on the playground at his primary school, not daring to approach the other children because Dudley would only beat him up if he did, and looked into rain puddles, trying to pretend he was thinking about big and important things. That expression was on his face.

Malfoy wanted a friend.

And for some reason, he had decided that friend had to be Harry.

But Harry had no time to respond, because by that time Hagrid had got Buckbeak under control and was coming to scoop Malfoy up in his arms and carry him to the infirmary. So Harry couldn’t answer him.

But he had a lot to think about.

That was still a stupid thing to do.

But if he wants to be my friend that badly…

For some reason, where he only should have been irritated that Malfoy had tried to gain his friendship that way, he felt a squiggle of warmth.

He hadn’t had anyone actually compete to be his friend before. He had met Ron and Hermione both mostly by chance, and then got to know them best because they defeated a troll together. He’d really thought that was the only way to make friends, because they were the only friends he had and he hadn’t got many others in the last two years here.

But maybe there’s another way, he thought, and turned to answer Ron and Hermione’s questions.

*

Severus was not master of his own life; the Mark on his arm and the vows that tied him to Dumbledore reminded him of that every day. But he was a master of doing what he could to make his own life easier, and that included choosing his moments for action carefully.

He had waited several weeks after Draco’s injury. Draco had remained in the infirmary a few days longer than necessary, and to Severus’s certain knowledge, Potter had tried to see him at least twice, only to be rebuffed. And since then, Draco had gone about the school, ignoring Potter ostentatiously and retelling the story of how he had almost died several times.

Potter had started to receive lessons from Lupin in casting the Patronus Charm. Lupin wasn’t subtle enough to keep his gloating about the talents of “James’s son’ out of conversations with other professors.

He had continued to avoid Severus, which had proven conclusively that he no longer associated Draco with Severus in his mind, and whilst he might be anxious to win the friendship of the one, he didn’t think he had to work at earning the regard of the other.

Severus would make sure that such matters were resolved to his own benefit.

And so he assigned the boy a detention that day in class, though, in truth, his potion looked no worse than Vincent Crabbe’s. Potter jerked and gave him a hateful glance, then appeared to remember that he was ignoring Severus and dropped his eyes.

Severus did not actually care. He would have the boy to himself for a few hours that night. He thought Draco unlikely to interfere this time, since he appeared to enjoy inducing guilt in Potter at the moment more than he did watching him.

And Severus would lay his bait well.

*

Harry stepped into Snape’s office and paused. This time, there was no stack of cauldrons waiting for him. He grimaced. That meant he was probably pulling out frog livers or something.

Snape was sitting behind his desk, writing something on an essay, but he only scrawled a few more words with a flourish before he stood up to confront Harry. Harry braced himself, determined to say nothing. His potion today hadn’t even been bad, which only proved that Snape was really as mean as Harry had always thought he was and would give detentions for nothing.

He’s probably angry because I didn’t want to let him use the potion on Seamus, Harry decided. He waited for insults.

Instead, Snape scrutinized him with a narrow smile and narrower eyes that Harry didn’t like at all. Then he said, casually, “I had thought we had somewhat of an understanding last year, Mr. Potter, after I had risked my life pursuing you into the Chamber. Where has that understanding gone?”

Harry scowled. He hated it when people confronted him directly about these things. It was hard to lie to Ron and Hermione about the reasons he felt responsible for Malfoy being injured, and it was hard to tell Snape the reasons behind his decisions, because no matter how he explained it, they wouldn’t understand him.

The Dursleys never understand me, he thought sullenly, and neither does McGonagall.

“I have a convict after me this year,” he said. He hesitated, but there was nothing for it, so he finished, “And you heard the way I reacted to the Dementors on the train.”

“I understand you fainted, yes,” said Snape, with a calmness that made Harry stare at him suspiciously. “Which is why you are receiving extra lessons from Professor Lupin. I do not understand what this has to do with your avoiding me.”

“I fainted,” Harry said flatly, and waited for him to get it.

Snape arched an eyebrow and said nothing.

“You’re always expecting me to be strong,” Harry said. “You make fun of me when I react to you in class. You were going to make fun of me for fainting, and you’d probably say it was my fault for having Sirius Black after me, too. So I wanted to stay away from you.”

There. That explanation is so simple that even Snape must understand it.

*

Severus had found the key to another piece of the child’s twisted psyche, one he had seen hinted at in the Chamber but not heard stated outright.

He resists tears when he can. He resents the implication that he is weak in any way. He did not even want to have Poppy check him for basilisk venom.

Severus concealed a sigh. He had hoped that he might have the understanding with Potter that he had with some of his Slytherins: he would not openly give them advice or help in class, where other students would notice and wonder about their deficiencies, but they would come to him outside class, and he would give them extra tutoring. He had done more than that, on occasion, when a student spoke to him about use of Dark Arts or illegal potions.

Of course, with none of those students had he used so contemptuous a mask as he did with Potter. He supposed the boy would have coped with indifference better than insults.

On the other hand, Severus had no choice but to keep on as he had been. If—when—the Dark Lord returned, he had to be ready to resume his place as a spy so that he might keep his vows to Dumbledore to make up for telling the Dark Lord the prophecy. So he would have to make Potter trust him in spite of that.

Perhaps I will have to be a little—warmer—with him in detentions like this.

Severus grimaced, and decided to try and see what knowledge would work first.

“I do not blame you for fainting, or for having a convict after you,” he told the boy quietly, and began his gambit. “Considering that I knew Sirius Black when he was a young man, and his relation to your parents, I cannot very well blame you.”

Potter took a step forwards, a flame so bright burning in his eyes that Severus was a bit surprised he had not been blinded by it. “His relation to my parents?” he demanded. “I heard—I mean, I’ve heard parts of stories, but no one will tell me the truth.” And already he was retreating, his face becoming suspicious again, as if he had realized that he couldn’t count on his nasty Potions Professor to tell him the truth, either.

“Sirius Black was your father’s dearest friend,” Severus said. “They were in Gryffindor House together when they were young, and constantly played pranks together.”

The flame returned to Potter’s eyes. “I didn’t know that,” he said, and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were hugging the knowledge close.

Another flash of insight startled and unsettled Severus. He has perhaps even more reason to value the truth than usual. After the way the Finnigan brat burned his possessions, he would hold more fiercely to those things that cannot be physically destroyed.

“And,” Severus continued, knowing that no one else was likely to give Potter the full details of the story, “Professor Lupin was also their friend.”

Potter twitched. Then he frowned and said, “But he’s never mentioned that to me.”

“He wouldn’t, would he?” Severus couldn’t tell Potter that Lupin was a werewolf without breaking his word to Dumbledore, but he had prepared for this, and there were other words he could use. “He had some interest in distancing himself from the memories, I believe, after Black betrayed your parents.”

It was interesting, to watch Potter’s face go gray, though Severus didn’t care much for the way he swayed and reached out as if he wanted to clutch something. Merlin keep him from having to deal with any fainting children.

“Sirius Black…betrayed my parents,” Potter whispered.

“Yes.” Severus wondered now if he should have chosen gentler words, but Potter was continually bragging that he was strong. Let us see how he bears this. “He was their Secret-Keeper—the one responsible for making sure that Voldemort did not discover the house where your parents were hiding. But he betrayed them. And he killed Peter Pettigrew, who was your father’s third friend in their schooldays, and a dozen Muggles at the same time.”

“I heard about that,” said Potter quietly. He wrapped his arms around himself again, but this time, Severus thought the meaning of the gesture was distinctly different. “But no one told me who the wizard was.” He stared hard suddenly at Severus. “I heard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talking about it. Would they have known who Pettigrew was? And that Sirius Black was close to my parents in school?”

“The last,” Severus said smoothly, “I have no idea about. Arthur and Molly had left Hogwarts before your parents arrived. But I think they would have some idea who Pettigrew was, yes. They fought beside your parents, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew in the war.” And that was as much as he could tell Potter without revealing that the Order of the Phoenix existed.

“Why didn’t they tell me?” Potter’s eyes were dull now.

“Arthur and Molly did not tell their own children about certain basic realities of life when they were your age, either.” Severus shrugged. “I think they believe children should be protected from those realities.”

“And why did you tell me?” Abruptly, Potter was staring at him.

It was the one question Severus had hoped he wouldn’t ask, but he had prepared to deal with this, too. “Because Sirius Black is after you in particular,” he said. “And you have grown up without this story, I believe?” Potter gave a jerky nod. “I thought it was time you knew more about what the man you have battled so blithely twice is capable of,” Severus added. “Black became a Death Eater—one of the Dark Lord’s followers—and no one knew. The Dark Lord is convincing. And, of course, you should know that Black is eager to kill you because of a personal grudge, not only because you brought down his Lord.” And mine, as some would say.

“Personal grudge?” Potter repeated blankly.

How can the boy be intelligent enough to ask some uncomfortable questions and yet ignorant enough not to pick up on the most obvious implications of my own speech? “Because he tried to get you killed when he betrayed your parents,” Severus explained patiently, “and yet he didn’t manage.”

“Oh.” Potter swallowed noisily. Then he said, “You could be lying.”

“There is an easy enough way to confirm that,” Severus said softly, and thus showed the bait at the heart of his trap. “Go to Professor Lupin. If he tells you otherwise, then you’ll know not to trust me.”

Potter stared at him, then turned and marched out of the office without asking if he could leave, or if his detention was over.

Severus did not care. He had done several things with this night’s work, and so was pleased for the first time since Potter had returned in September.

He had given Potter a possible reason to distrust Lupin, and he would just as soon that Potter did not become too fond of the werewolf.

He had given Potter facts he should have had long ago. He did seem to function better with more directly given information, as he had proved in Potions. If it encouraged him to keep his foolish life safer from Sirius Black, then the revelations were all to the good.

And he had encouraged Potter to trust him, to think of him as the one adult who actually did believe he was mature enough to hear the truth, and that would bear interesting, amusing fruits of its own.

Now he had only to wait.

*

Harry ran through the corridors with his heart blurring in his ears. He had enjoyed his lessons with Professor Lupin in the Patronus Charm, though there hadn’t been very many of them; Professor Lupin had said he would have more time to teach Harry after Christmas. And he liked the way Lupin taught, and the way he tried to give them practical lessons as well as theoretical ones, which Harry actually understood, not like the ones in Potions.

But Professor Lupin hadn’t so much as let on once that he’d known Harry’s parents, or Sirius Black.

Why does everyone who could tell me about them have to keep so quiet? Harry wondered, as he slid to a stop in front of the door to Lupin’s office, which still had a line of light under it, and hammered on the wood. Why did it have to be Snape who told me about them?

Lupin opened the door, smiling, but his face became concerned at once when he saw Harry. “Harry, what’s the matter?”

“Professor,” Harry blurted, his heartbeat so loud that he almost didn’t know if he’d be able to hear the answer, “did you know my parents? And Sirius Black? Were you my father’s friend?”

Lupin gasped in a sharp breath. For a moment, he looked over Harry’s shoulder as if he expected to see Black lurking in the corridor. Then he bent down and whispered, “Harry, I need to know who told you that.”

“Professor Snape.” Harry said it defiantly. Let it not be true, let it not be true.

Lupin stood up straight, looking relieved for some reason. “Harry, you have to realize that Professor Snape didn’t get along with your father, and he has some biases concerning him,” he began.

“He didn’t talk much about him,” Harry said. “Just you, and Sirius Black. Please, I have to know—did you know him?”

Lupin sighed a sigh that seemed to come from his toes. “Yes, Harry. I did. I miss them all—Peter, and James, and Lily, and Sirius from before he became a traitor. But you have to understand—“

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I did not think you were yet ready to hear that,” said Lupin gently. “And I was right. You see that Professor Snape’s information has made you terribly upset—“

“I’m tired of people not telling me things,” Harry said, so loudly that Professor Lupin looked a little startled. “Why—“ He choked. “If you were my parents’ friend, why didn’t you adopt me after Black betrayed them? Why did I have to end up with the Dursleys?”

Lupin sighed again. “That concerns something I can’t tell you, Harry. But, as Dumbledore explained it to me, your parents’ will mandated it. Lily’s sister was the only one able to take care of you, after—“ He shut up.

“Who did they want to take care of me?” Harry whispered. “I have to know. Please. I have to know.”

“Sirius was your godfather,” Lupin said unwillingly. “But obviously, he was—unavailable—“

“Bloody mad, is what you mean,” Harry interrupted furiously, “and a traitor besides.”

“Harry—“

“I don’t—just don’t talk to me right now, all right?” Harry backed a step away. He didn’t want to talk to or look at Professor Lupin right now. He liked the man, he wanted to continue the lessons in the Patronus Charm, but he would have to get used to the fact that Lupin had lied to him first.

Lupin reached out a hand, his eyes weary and kind. But his words weren’t. “Harry, there were good reasons for keeping this from you. Please believe me.”

But Harry didn’t have to, and he spun away and ran wildly towards Gryffindor Tower, so that he could find Ron and play wizarding chess or Exploding Snap with him, or even listen to one of Ron and Hermione’s endless arguments about her cat, Crookshanks, tormenting his rat, Scabbers.

Lupin lied. Everybody lies.

Except Snape.

Snape didn’t lie.

*

“Severus.”

Well, and that is a difference, Severus thought, turning to face Lupin. Usually, the wolf never bothered to greet him with anything less than a perfectly pleasant front, as if he truly believed that he and Severus could become friends after the torment and bullying of their schooldays. But now Lupin looked like the predator he was, his eyes burning and his fingers curling around his teacup like claws.

“Lupin,” Severus said, and inclined his head. “It is not like you to choose to sit beside me.” Due to Severus’s own request, he and Lupin were usually separated by several places at the High Table. Now the wolf sat down in the chair beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world and leaned in, never once considering how strange this would look to any outside observers. Severus checked a sigh, knowing he would have to answer some questions from his elder Slytherins tonight.

“You told Harry secrets that weren’t yours to share,” Lupin began forcefully.

“And when were you going to share them?” Severus flicked his glance to the Gryffindor table. Potter was eating with grim determination, his eyes fixed ahead of him as if Black were present and he could set fire to him with his glare. Draco was picking at the bandage on his arm and at his food, now and then shooting furtive looks at Potter. It was the first morning since his injury that Potter hadn’t given him at least one hopeless look. Perhaps his curiosity would be enough to drive him to reconcile with Potter, Severus thought. He was growing tired of Draco’s whinging about the subject whenever he came to Severus for extra Potions lessons.

“When he was an adult,” said Lupin. “And of age to understand.”

Severus laughed; Minerva turned her head, but luckily she was having an animated discussion about Quidditch with Rolanda and didn’t try to listen long. “You would wait until he was seventeen, Lupin? With Black stalking him this year?”

Lupin sat back in his chair and gave him a look of pure disgust. “You have no idea how to treat children, Severus. Harry is a child, and should be allowed to be one.”

“He has not one but two psychopaths stalking him now,” said Severus, forcing away the smile that wanted to form. “He needs information to deal with them. Training. At the very least, I think he should be allowed to know why his life is in danger.”

“Albus agreed with me—“

“Albus has a strange blindness regarding the boy,” Severus said, this time flicking his eyes towards the Headmaster. As usual, Albus was talking with the great oaf Hagrid about something utterly inconsequential, but Severus knew he would probably listen in to any conversation involving his name. Severus did not care. He was prepared to defend his conduct in the name of getting over his grudge against the Potter brat. Albus could not but approve of that. “He, too, wants to pretend that Potter is an ordinary child. He is not. He killed a basilisk last year, Lupin. He faced the Dark Lord the year before that. You will not make him into an ordinary child through trying.”

“But we could at least give him a childhood.” Lupin shook his head chidingly at Severus. “Harry came to me last night, deeply upset. You could have found a way to break the news to him more gently.”

“So could you have,” Severus said. “Why didn’t you?”

“You know why.” One of Lupin’s hands closed on the table.

“Your little secret has nothing to do with why you did not want to tell him of Sirius Black,” said Severus. “You merely did not wish to rake up your own pain. Your loyalty to the dead and the mad outweighs your loyalty to the living. Truly commendable, Lupin.”

The wolf rose and stalked away. Severus looked back at the Gryffindor table to meet Potter’s sulky, judgmental eyes.

Severus raised an eyebrow, and Potter frowned before turning away.

Let him think about it, Severus thought, spreading marmalade on his toast. He may well need a few days to get over his resentment at the “ungentle” way I broke the news to him.

But he will have received confirmation that I am the only adult in this school he can trust to answer his questions.

And this victory over Potter’s mistrust was, at the same time, a victory over Lupin and Dumbledore.

Severus knew that was the reason for the feeling of warm pleasure that spread through his chest when he thought about Potter coming to him with more questions.

Chapter 7.