Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: In which Harry wonders why he never gets a break, Ron grows up and baby Teddy gets an earful

"I'm fine, Severus." Harry was standing on the bottom step of the staircase, stopped in his tracks by Severus' voice from the parlor. "I'm just going upstairs to lie down for a while."

"Would you mind coming in here for a moment?" Severus' voice was steady but rough. It started out hoarse in the mornings after a night of disuse, became clearer and stronger during the morning and early afternoon, but when he got up from his afternoon nap was rough and weak again. Harry closed his eyes tight for a moment and pressed his hands to his head, sweeping back the shaggy hair he hadn't yet had cut.

"Sure, Severus." He opened his eyes and reversed direction, taking the few steps necessary to put him within sight of Severus. He stopped in the doorway, right hand against the open archway. His eyes drifted down to Severus' feet. House slippers. He had learned to gauge—in that last week at Hogwarts and this first week here at Shell Cottage—how Severus was feeling from the footwear he chose each day. Boots for the best days, when Severus had the energy and the flexibility to bend down and lace them. He'd had boots on for the second time yesterday. Leather loafers when he was too tired to lace the boots but could still entertain the thought of going outside to sit in the sun, a book in his lap. House shoes for days like today, days when he barely made it downstairs and, once he did, spent most of his time on the sofa, making a trek to the kitchen or the loo every hour or two.

Severus looked up from the sofa at Harry. The low table in front of him was littered with parchments—documents from the Ministry, paperwork from Hogwarts, pieces of parchment filled with Severus' scratchy handwriting. A tea tray, pot still steaming, shared space with the other clutter on the table. He smiled at Harry and nodded at the plush armchair across from the sofa.

"Sit down, Harry." He put down the owl feather quill he was holding and settled back against the cushions behind him and watched as Harry walked reluctantly into the room and sat down. He regarded Harry with dark, worried eyes but managed a careful smile and kept his voice steady.

"Poppy will be here soon for my check-up. I've asked her to take a look at you, too."

Harry's protest was immediate. He got quickly to his feet.

"I said I was fine." He bit his bottom lip—one of his old nervous gestures with which Severus had become reacquainted the past few weeks. "We've only been here a week, Severus."

"And I've had a week to observe you," answered Severus. He gestured at the chair and waited patiently for Harry to sit again, watching him bristle then slowly relax. "You are unused to having anyone around to care for you…"

"That's not true! I had Ron and Hermione—we took care of each other." Harry stared at Severus with a look that was somewhere between defiant and panicked.

"I am not denying that, nor in any way trying to belittle what you were to each other—what you in fact still are to each other." Severus sighed and pushed himself forward on the sofa, then rose slowly to his feet. He had been sitting for quite some time and wavered a bit, trying to get his balance.

But Harry was beside him in half a second, steadying him with a hand on his arm and an arm around his shoulders.

Severus sighed and gave that curious half-smile he'd taken to using at times like this, when Harry's behavior seemed to both surprise and exasperate him. He had to admit that he was as unused to someone caring for him as Harry was. He let the boy ease him back down onto the sofa. Harry sat down too, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

"Allow me to speak without interruption. I will not rattle on too long," said Severus. He looked at Harry, who nodded, his eyes still closed.

"You are not fine. You have lost a significant amount of weight this past year, while at the same time growing several inches taller. You seem to be eating well now, but you are not gaining weight. Nor are you sleeping well. Poppy had already scheduled a visit to check on me, so we are not putting her out in any way. She can check you over—if for no other reason than to reassure me that there is nothing wrong with you that a summer of rest, fresh air and a shocking lack of stress cannot cure."

"It's just going to take more time," said Harry, turning his head on the cushions and opening his eyes to look at Severus. He looked weary, but somehow peaceful.

"It has been a month," said Severus. He raised a hand as Harry opened his mouth, anticipating his protest. "Yes, we've only been here at Shell Cottage for a week, but a full month has passed since the battle. While that is virtually no time in the grand scheme of things, I had hoped you would at least have gained back some weight…"

His voice trailed off. He was worried—extremely worried—certainly much more worried than he let on to Harry. Harry did eat. But he appeared to have no appetite: certainly no enjoyment of food. And while Severus had judged that Harry was eating enough calories to maintain his weight and put on at least a pound a week, he seemed to be lacking in energy. He spent a good deal of his time watching Severus, making him tea, sitting in the same room with him reading the seventh-year Transfiguration and Charms textbooks that Minerva had given him before they left Hogwarts. He slept fitfully at night and catnapped during the day. At night Severus, who slept in the upstairs bedroom beside Harry now and generally turned in an hour or two after Harry, heard him toss and turn on his bed, use the loo, sometimes go up and down the creaky stairs. Twice he had found him in the porch hammock when he woke in the morning and made his way downstairs to put on the teakettle.

"I'm trying, Severus," said Harry. "I feel like I'm eating a lot. More than you for sure." He sat up on the sofa and stared at Severus critically. "Have you been losing weight?"

Severus shook his head against Harry's sudden worry. "No, I haven't. Poppy's rather obsessive about tracking that. She can show you my chart when she gets here, Mother."

Harry cuffed Severus on the shoulder and settled back into the couch.

When Poppy Pomfrey Flooed into the parlor at Shell Cottage thirty minutes later, she found Harry napping upright on the sofa and Severus sitting beside him, reading a scroll with an official-looking seal on the outside. She dusted herself off and held up two thick folders.

"I brought along his file," she said quietly as she sat down across from the sofa. She placed her very large flat-bottomed medical bag on the floor and eyed Harry critically. "The last time I got his weight and height was at the end of last year, when he and Draco…"

Her voice tapered off and Severus nodded. "Did you do blood work then?" he asked.

"The basics," she said. "But I didn't check specific organ functionality.” She pulled her wand out of her robe pocket and used it to send the tea tray back to the kitchen and the scattered parchment, ink and quill to a neat pile on top of the bookshelf beside the fireplace. She put the files on the cleared table and slid one of them across to Severus. He placed the document he was reading to the side with a sigh and opened Harry's file.

"He was 5'7" and just over eleven stone." Severus scanned the top piece of parchment in Harry's file. "He's easily two or three inches taller now."

"And by the looks of him lost at least a stone in the process," said Poppy. She stood and knelt to Severus' side, reaching up to feel the lymph nodes on his neck. "Relax, Severus," she implored softly. "Let's get you out of the way and then we can focus on Harry." She glanced over at the sleeping young man again and continued in her low voice, "If it is what you suspect, he's going to need to spend a couple of days in St. Mungo's. How will he take that?"

"Not well," answered Severus, wincing as Poppy removed the bandage that still covered the deepest part of the snake bite. "I expect he'll refuse to go. He could be treated here, Poppy."

"He could," she agreed. "A stay in St. Mungo's is purely precautionary, in case there are side effects from the potion regimen." She sighed. "I agree that keeping him out of the spotlight he'd be under at St. Mungo's would be preferable."

She took a blood sample from Severus, ran the standard tests on it using a kit she set up on the table and pulled out the Muggle scale from under the sofa to weigh him.

"You're up half a pound," she said. "And your white count is down significantly. I'd say being here with Harry has definitely moved you further down the road of recovery. Have you felt more energetic this week?"

Severus shrugged. "I have good days and bad."

"Bad days following the good, I'd guess," said Poppy as she sat back on her heels and looked up at Severus critically. "You likely feel good, do too much, then pay for it the next day."

Severus smiled slightly. "We've already had visitors. I expect we'll have more in the coming weeks. Andromeda Tonks and the Lupin baby are scheduled to come next week—if Harry is feeling up to it, of course."

"I'm feeling up to it," said Harry. His voice had an unused, sleepy quality to it. He had not been awake long. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Hello, Madam Pomfrey. How's Severus doing?"

"Surprisingly well," she answered. "I think being here with you agrees with him." She pushed the scale to the left so that it rested on the floor just in front of Harry's feet and checked the calibration. "Why don't we start with your weight, Harry."

Harry frowned but stood up and stepped on the scale.

"Ten stone four pounds," she read. Severus mirrored Harry's frown as Poppy cross-referenced Harry's chart. "That's down nearly a stone, Harry, from just a little over a year ago." He stepped off the scale and shrugged. "Stay still a moment—let me get your height."

A magical tape measure appeared in her hands. She held it in front of Harry and it stiffened at the floor beside his feet and unrolled itself until it was level with the top of his head.

"Five foot nine and a half," she read as she stood up to get a better look at the top. She held out her hand and the tape measure rolled itself up and dropped neatly into her fingers. "You might grow another inch or so but my guess is you've nearly topped out."

She proceeded to ask him a variety of screening questions, most of them routine, some of them excruciatingly embarrassing. Finally, she reached into her bag for a syringe. Harry eyed it suspiciously but held out his arm when instructed and, after she procured a blood sample with very little fuss from him, sat back on the couch with his arm bent against the cotton ball she'd placed against it to stop the bleeding. He and Severus together watched her set up seven glass vials in a neat row on the table.

"One for each major system in the body," she explained. Harry glanced over at Severus. While biology was taught at Muggle schools, it was unfortunately not on the scholarly regimen for students like Harry who were not planning on entering the medical profession.

"Circulatory, digestive, reproductive, nervous," explained Severus. "Some further break some of these down, but for our purposes, seven will do."

Harry shrugged, not asking about the systems Severus hadn't mentioned, and watched as Poppy poured a bit of blood into each flask. Harry seemed curious, Severus nervous, as she studied the results, comparing the color of each vial to a chart. She picked up one of the vials and held it above her head, looking at it from the bottom and swishing it around in a slow circle, then checking the color against the chart once more.

"Definitely the digestive system," she said. She glanced up at Severus. "Everything else reads normal." She used her wand to banish the six normal vials.

"Do you have the testing set for organ-specific problems?" asked Severus, adjusting his position on the sofa so that he was turned slightly toward Harry.

Poppy was already setting up another set of flasks. "Other arm, Harry. We'll need another blood sample." Harry rolled his eyes but complied and watched as she appeared to repeat the test exactly as she had before, but with fewer vials this time.

"Pancreas," she said at last, nodding at Severus.

Severus took the chart from her hand and lifted the vial in question, staring at it and referring to the color on the card. "Poison," he sighed.

"Most likely. Disease is a possibility, but isn't likely given his age."

"Poison? What are you talking about?" asked Harry, looking from Severus to Poppy then back at Severus again.

Poppy turned to face Harry. "Your pancreas isn't providing the digestive enzymes you need. Food is passing through you largely without being digested." She glanced back at Severus. "Severus put the pieces together yesterday and diagnosed pancreatic damage as a result of poison…"

Severus put a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder. "This winter—at Christmastime—you were bitten by Nagini? I only recalled yesterday, when I was mulling over the possibilities for your weight loss and failure to regain the weight now that you are eating properly again."

Harry rubbed his arm, turned it over and looked at the scar from Nagini's attack at Godric's Hollow. His eyes widened.

"But Hermione healed it. It didn't bother me after the first day—she said it wasn't very deep."

Severus nearly yanked the arm toward him to examine it. Poppy leaned in as well to see the small scar left by a single puncture wound.

Harry was staring at Poppy, suddenly understanding the embarrassing questions he'd been asked.

"Is there a cure?" he asked, tensing up significantly.

"There is a treatment, yes. We can add the enzymes you need via potions each time you have a meal. As for a cure, we need to understand the extent of the damage. We'll test for the poison and then begin to reverse the damage to your pancreas with the appropriate potions."

"I will brew the digestive potion," said Severus. "I will need some supplies from Hogwarts, of course…"

"No." Poppy's voice was firm. "I'll order what he needs from St. Mungo's. They will have the enzymes in stock. And the organ regenerative potion is time-consuming and tedious, as you well know. We should put Harry in St. Mungo's for the treatment." She glanced up and smiled as Harry began to protest exactly as she thought he would.

"No. I'm not going to St. Mungo's. I'm staying here. They can send whatever potion I need but I'm not leaving Shell Cottage." Severus eyed him speculatively. Instead of sounding like a petulant child, Harry very much sounded like a determined adult, his mind made up.

"I will brew the organ restorative potion," said Severus firmly, nodding at Harry to show his acceptance of Harry's decision. "And administer it here."

Poppy shook her head. "St. Mungo's will have the base that needs to be adapted for the organ in question. I'm sorry, Severus, but you don't yet have the stamina. I will ask Horace to do it."

"Slughorn! He's…"

"A very competent Potions master," stated Poppy firmly. "I believe it was he who taught you?" She looked at him challengingly.

Severus raised an eyebrow. He settled back into the sofa. "You would make a very good headmistress, Poppy," he said, suppressing a smile.

As Poppy cast a preservation charm on the remaining blood from the second sample and on the two test vials that had shown positive results, Harry once again closed his eyes.

"I never get a break, do I?" he asked, sighing resignedly.

Severus shook his head, understanding Harry's feelings on the matter, but Poppy scoffed as she healed the two small wounds on his arms from where she had taken the blood samples.

"You're both here, and against all odds, you're both alive. I'd consider that a break, Mr. Potter."

"As would I," agreed Severus, slipping his arm around Harry's shoulders and drawing him up against his side in an awkward one-armed hug. Harry gave in and relaxed against him.

"I'll put the order in with St. Mungo's right away," said Poppy, standing up and starting to gather her supplies together.

"Poppy, use my name on the order," said Severus. He glanced over at Harry. "I'd prefer that Harry's medical issues remain within these walls."

"You want people to think you were poisoned?" protested Harry.

Severus leveled an even stare at him. "I was poisoned, Harry. I've already been treated to prevent organ damage such as you sustained. It could easily be a recurrence."

Harry balked. How could he have forgotten that?

Hermione and Ron sat comfortably on the plush chairs in the cottage parlor, facing Harry as he lay stretched out on his side on the sofa.

"You never get a break, mate," said Ron as he eyed the chessboard on the table between them.

"I'm really sorry, Harry," said Hermione—again. She put a finger in the seventh year Arithmancy text she was reading and closed the book around her finger to mark her page.

Harry shook his head at her. "Not your fault. We've been through this three times already today, Hermione."

"But I should have known! I suppose I was just so glad we got out of that place alive that I didn't consider that her bite might be venomous…"

Ron shuddered. He'd been shuddering a lot lately. As guilty as they knew he felt for leaving them before Christmas, they knew that he didn't regret in the least not being in Bathilda Bagshot's house in Godric's Hollow on Christmas Eve.

"Hermione, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look pale and weak, Harry."

"This is my last day of potions," responded Harry. "Severus said I'd feel a lot worse before I began to feel better. Teddy and Andromeda are coming next week and he thinks I'll be fine by then."

"That's rather soon," said Hermione. "Are you sure you're strong enough to hold a baby?"

Both Harry and Ron, whose limited experience with babies easily surpassed Hermione's, shook their heads. Harry even managed a tired grin.

"Have you decided about Hogwarts yet?" he asked Hermione, deliberately changing the subject. He continued to study the chessboard, trying to decipher what Ron's strategy was this time. He's already lost one game to his friend that afternoon.

Hermione exchanged a look with Ron. He frowned.

"I'm going to go back part-time," she said. Ron looked back at the board and resolutely did not look at Hermione. "I'll sit N.E.W.T.s with you, but I'm just going to attend the classes I'll need to pass them. Kingsley has work for me at the Ministry on Saturdays."

"She's not going to board at Hogwarts," said Ron. Harry glanced at him, understanding Ron's frustration. They'd all lived together for so long. Even being apart these past few weeks had felt oddly disconcerting, no matter how good it was to be back with their respective families. Plus, Ron and Hermione had the added closeness now of officially—finally—being a couple.

"My parents need me at home," said Hermione. It was obvious that she and Ron had had this argument before. She directed her attention to Harry instead. "They've got to rebuild their practice from the ground up," she said with a deep sigh. "Helping them is the least I can do. I'm not sure that they're quite ready to forgive me…"

"Don't second guess yourself, Hermione," said Harry. He tried to sit up on the couch but clutched his stomach at the movement and settled back down.

"Professor Snape said to stay on your side," admonished Hermione gently. She reached over and arranged the pillows under his head to give him more support.

"I suppose I could stay home to help my family, too," mused Ron. He didn't sound as though he was challenging Hermione anymore. Instead, he sounded almost thoughtful.

Harry looked up at Ron. His best friend had his hand on a knight and his eyes were contemplative as he studied the board. "Mate, your mum and dad both want you back at Hogwarts. They've got Percy at home now, and Charlie's on leave from the preserve until October. And Bill and Fleur have moved so much closer. And what with the baby coming…"

"I know all that!" snapped Ron. He moved his knight rather aggressively. "And me and Ginny will be there until the end of August. I know!" He covered his face with his hands in such a helpless gesture that Harry instinctively sat up, wincing as he did so at the pain in his abdomen. As Hermione slid out of her chair to kneel down next to him, Ron heard Harry's grunt of pain and looked up. "Would you lie back down, Harry? You're going to undo all the good those potions are doing!"

Harry fell back down onto his side as Hermione began to laugh. Ron joined in a moment later and even Harry had to grin.

"You sounded just like Hermione," said Harry after Hermione had stopped laughing and the pain in his gut had settled to a dull throb.

Ron gave him a small grin in return, the amused look contrasting oddly with his pained and frustrated expression from moments before.

"I know. Sorry." He looked truly apologetic as he pulled Hermione up to sit crammed in next to him in the wide chair. She arranged her legs to drape over his. Ron positioned his arm behind her and Harry observed them quietly from the sofa. After seeing them dance around their attraction for each other since fourth year, seeing them draped over each other like this was both refreshing and oddly disconcerting.

"I invited George to come visit," said Harry after a moment. He looked through the chess set on the table before him, roughly at eye level, meeting Ron's eyes.

"He's reopening the store, you know," said Ron after a long pause in which he seemed to study the board for his next move.

"I know," said Harry. "Your dad told us when he came by a couple days ago with our meds from St. Mungo's." Harry didn't need to tell Ron that Arthur had offered to pick them up, since he was going by to get Molly's sleeping potion. "But he doesn't plan to have it open until August. I thought he might like a few days here…"

"This place is so different in the summertime," said Ron approvingly, undoubtedly remembering the biting winter winds and chilly spring evenings. He paused, considering his next statement, and finally shrugged his shoulders and forged ahead. "I'm thinking of partnering with George, after I leave Hogwarts."

"It might help you to go to Uni then, to study business management or marketing," suggested Hermione casually while Harry stared in surprise at his best friend.

"Wow. That's…that's great, Ron," said Harry. He gave him the best smile he could muster considering the pain in his gut and the realization that this meant they wouldn't be going through the Aurors’ program together.

"Lee's agreed to help him out this year," said Ron by way of further explanation. "But he wants to be a professional commentator—for Quidditch, or on the WWN. He's going to wait to start his voice training classes until I'm done at Hogwarts."

"I think you'd be great as part of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes," said Harry, mustering up encouraging words for his friend from some deep, hidden reserve he didn't know he had. Hermione's grateful smile let him know that he'd said exactly the right thing.

They sat there quietly for a few more moments. Harry closed his eyes, breathing through the dull ache where the potion was apparently working to repair his pancreas so that he could digest his food without the help of the disgusting potion. The quiet tick tock of the new clock on the mantel, a gift from Minerva, was like a metronome, keeping their thoughts on the same pace. This clock had two hands—the Harry hand from Severus' old clock and a new one for Severus.

"It's been a month since he died," said Ron sadly. "I'd only just seen him again that day, you know, after nearly a whole year."

Harry looked at his friend through the chessmen again, soulful eyes showing his understanding, his regret, his own pain. Hermione snuggled closer. Neither of them said anything. There were no adequate words, no platitudes, no benign assurances worth voicing. Fred was simply…gone.

"I'm glad I had that day, anyway," said Ron, a smile, both sad and wistful, on his face. "At least I got to see him that one last time." Harry returned his sad smile, swallowing that lump in his throat that rose up whenever he thought of Fred, or Remus, or Tonks, while Hermione rested her head against Ron's shoulder and laced her fingers through his.

Severus, standing at the bottom of the stairs, leather shoes on his feet, thought that Ron Weasley had done a lot of growing up this past year.

Severus considered purchasing a guest book so that the visitors to Shell Cottage could sign in and out. He didn't for one moment begrudge Harry the visitors, and by and large they were pleasant to him, as well, and respectful of his recovery, never overstaying their welcome. Harry and his friends hadn't done much more these first two weeks than talk quietly and walk on the beach. It was still too cool to swim but Severus expected that would turn around in a week or so and they'd be in the ocean, swimming and splashing and laughing. He realized he was actually looking forward to that. Harry had spent nearly three days on the sofa suffering through the organ restorative potion three times a day. He was barely able to keep any food down during that time and only now, with Andromeda and the baby set to arrive at any moment, was he looking and feeling more like himself again.

Harry was almost pacing. Kreacher, who split his time between Hogwarts and Shell Cottage now, had put together a very nice tea tray, and Harry had wrapped two baby gifts for Teddy. He'd had Hermione purchase one for him in London, and she'd seen something else she knew Harry would like and had bought that, as well.

Andromeda had arrived right on time, squalling baby in tow.

"He doesn't seem to like Apparition much," she'd explained. Severus took the accessory bag from her and peered down at the baby. He didn't look like he quite knew what to say about him so he said, "Quite the little man, isn't he?"

But Andromeda, looking just as tired as she had the last time Harry had seen her, smiled at Harry. He no longer was reminded of her late sister Bellatrix when he saw her heavily lidded eyes. "Would you mind changing him, Harry?" She placed the crying baby in Harry's arms and Severus draped the stuffed necessities bag over his shoulder. Harry stood in the parlor staring at the crying baby held awkwardly in his arms, mouth slightly agape, looking nothing if not shell-shocked, until Severus spoke.

"Use the spare bedroom upstairs, Harry. Just lay him on the bed. He'll probably stop crying once he's settled and has a clean nappy."

"But I don't know how to change a nappy," admitted Harry, looking at Andromeda guiltily, as if, perhaps, Remus and Tonks should have chosen someone as godfather who had more experience with nappy changing.

"Nonsense. You'll figure it out. Everyone has to do it for the first time sometime."

Harry glanced over at Severus, who looked vaguely alarmed, and grinned.

Andromeda reached out and brushed Harry's arm, as if to give him confidence. "Look at the one you take off to see how it's positioned and fastened. The clean nappies and wipes are in the bag. The closures are on the front of the nappy, toward the sides."

"Wipes?" Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Go, Harry," said Severus with a smirk. He invited Andromeda to sit and she did so gratefully. The two adults may have seemed to pay no attention to Harry as he carefully carried his crying godson upstairs, but they exchanged a significant look as he disappeared from their sight.

The baby kept squalling, even when Harry laid him in the middle of the bed and unwrapped him from his soft white blanket. As Harry regarded him, the tiniest of beings, miniscule on the big four-poster bed, Teddy sniffed a few times, taking in his new surroundings, then wrinkled up his face again as Harry hovered above him.

"You look just like your daddy," said Harry as he studied the baby's face, then tilted his head and frowned at the footed blue thing the baby wore. It snapped up the middle then down one leg and covered the baby's feet, legs, torso and arms. A dragon's body wrapped around the entire piece, with its head on Teddy's little belly. It was a very friendly-looking dragon indeed, with a happy gleam in its eyes and a bowtie around its neck. It looked nothing at all like the dragons Harry had encountered in his life. Harry shrugged and unsnapped the buttons from top to bottom and freed the baby's legs, exposing the nappy. He located the closures on the nappy, pulled them apart then carefully turned the nappy down. A quick glance inside left him unaccountably relieved that the thing was only wet, not dirty. He pulled it out from under the baby, dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, then rummaged in the bag for a clean nappy and the wipes. He wiped the baby, cringing a bit and hoping that baby bits didn't hurt as much as adult bits when they were pushed around, then opened the new nappy and examined it, eventually figuring out which way it went. He began talking to the now quiet baby as he worked.

"I bet your daddy used to do this for you, when you were tiny." He looked at Teddy's big brown eyes to find the infant staring at him, quiet now, one tiny finger hooked into his mouth. "Not that you're not tiny now—because you are. I only meant that he didn't get to have you for very long, did he? I bet you're doing all kinds of things now that he never got to see you do." The baby responded to that by kicking his legs up and flailing his arms a bit. "Listen, I don't really know anything about babies. I've only ever held you, and that was just a couple times—like during your mummy and dad's funeral—and you were sleeping those other times so you didn't even know it was me holding you. But I'm glad I got to hold you then. It reminded me that they'd never be gone, not really, not while you're here." Harry swallowed. "We're a special club, you know. The Sons of the Marauders. Just you and me, kid."

The nappy was on now, a bit lopsided perhaps, but serviceable, and Harry struggled to get Teddy's legs back inside the outfit. He held one tiny foot, intent on forcing it somehow back inside the leg of the outfit, but paused mid-step, staring at the small foot with its miniature toes. He ran his finger along the bottom from heel to toes and the baby's foot arched. "Ticklish, are you? I bet your mum tickled you like that, didn't she?" He sighed. "I know about as much about mums as you do. You're not going to remember yours and I don't remember mine. But don't worry. I'll be here to tell you stories about your mum and dad. No one told me stories about mine until I was eleven years old. But you won't have to wait until you go to Hogwarts. I'll tell you stories every time I see you—about how your da taught me the Patronus charm, and gave me chocolate on the Hogwarts Express, and how your mum saved me once on that same train, and how she used to entertain us at Grimmauld Place changing her nose. How she was always tripping over things, too, and how much she loved your daddy, how she loved him even when he thought he wasn't right for her, wasn't good enough." He paused, took a deep breath. "How your da saved my life, how he held me back when I wanted to go through the veil after Sir…"

He faltered, then sat down on the bed and resumed dressing the baby, finally succeeding in snapping him up from toes to neck again. The baby seemed to be watching him still, and he held out one of his fingers toward him until Teddy grasped it in a small fist and squealed, pulling the finger immediately up to his mouth.

Harry smiled. He reached down and picked up the baby, holding him awkwardly under his arms at first but then resting him against his shoulder, hand across his back, patting him softly.

"I'm going to have a couple kids someday, Teddy," he said as he stood and walked softly around the room, stopping in front of a high mirror hung over the chest of drawers. "Maybe a little boy like you, and maybe a little girl, too." He turned so that he could see the baby's face in the mirror and Teddy exclaimed, an excited syllable that sounded like "Ga!" His little hand flailed again, reaching toward the baby in the mirror.

"But I'm going to make sure it's safe, first, Teddy. I'm going to be an Auror, just like your mum was. She didn't want to leave you here without her and without your dad but you've got your gran, don't you? And you've got me." He swayed a bit, bounced the baby on his shoulder, growing accustomed to the solid, warm weight of the small body. He knew he was babbling, working through his inner dilemma as he voiced his feelings to no one but this little baby boy. "But sometimes, sometimes I guess you just have to go on with your life and hope for the best. That's what my mum and dad did, didn't they? They gave me a chance, even though the world wasn't safe. And they may not be here, but I am. And if they hadn't given me that chance, if they'd been afraid to have a baby back then, I wouldn't be here for you now."

Teddy was staring at Harry's reflection in the mirror, his brown eyes wide and bright. His hair, which Harry suspected was really the same sandy brown as his father's, and which had been a pale turquoise when he'd arrived at Shell Cottage with his grandmother, started changing color, from roots to tips, as though the baby was thinking out the color. As Harry stared into the mirror, Teddy's little mop of hair became emerald green, perfectly matching the color of Harry's eyes.

"Ga!" he exclaimed, turning his face away from the mirror then and grabbing for his godfather's glasses, behind which, inexplicably, two tears glistened at the corners of Harry Potter's eyes.

Two hours later, Andromeda Tonks stood up. She looked more relaxed, more at ease, than she had when she arrived at Shell Cottage with her grandson. Severus had the baby now, holding him on his lap facing outward, and Harry was kneeling on the floor in front of the baby, playing peek-a-boo with his new toys—a turquoise-haired plushie doll and a small, soft plushie wolf.

The baby's hair was still green.

"I'm sorry about that," said Harry as he took the baby from Severus, confidently this time, and brushed the green locks down on the small head. He gave Teddy a parting kiss on the forehead, then handed him back to his grandmother. He tucked the new toys in the baby bag and handed that over, too.

When they were gone, with promises from Harry to visit them in London and promises from Andromeda to come back to Shell Cottage soon, Harry sank down on the couch beside Severus.

"I'm going to have a whole bunch of kids one day," he said. "So you'd better get used to changing nappies."

"That reminds me—when is Miss Weasley coming for a visit?"

Harry cuffed Severus and turned an intriguing shade of pink at the same time. Severus smiled. He'd consent any day to changing nappies if it put that kind of smile on Harry's face—that looking forward to the future kind of smile that came from restored health, loyal friends, green-haired godsons and a certain red-headed girl.

"I'm naming one of them after you, Dad," said Harry, laying his own hand on top of Severus' as they sat together on the couch.

And family.

Severus squeezed Harry's hand. He knew he didn't deserve this—this peace, this happiness, this taste of a normal life.

But Harry did.

Harry did.

(Chapter 2 )

Chapter 2:

When Ron and Hermione visited, they sat together with Harry, and sometimes with Harry and Severus, chatting in the old front parlor, sitting on the porch while one of them swung in the hammock, walking along the shore, wading in the shallows, picking up shells and rocks. Sometimes Harry and Ron played chess while Hermione found yet another fascinating volume from the bookshelves full of tomes that had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore. With Harry, Ron and Hermione, togetherness was about being together, not about doing things together. It was quiet and comfortable and, in Severus' opinion, healthy. It promoted recovery.

The first time they took their shoes off and waded in the ocean, Severus was sitting in a lounge chair on the porch, lap and legs covered with one of the large towels they used on the beach. He'd been reviewing qualifications and credentials for the applicants for the three positions open at Hogwarts—Defense Against the Dark Arts, Muggle Studies and Potions. The Board of Governors had accepted Horace Slughorn's resignation but, miraculously, every other professor and staff member had signed new contracts. Well, everyone who had lived, anyway, and the Carrows were not among those. He looked outside every now and again, watching Harry and his friends, keeping an eye out just in case. He knew it wasn't rational, knew that these three had been independent for a year now, and had faced dangers far worse than a rising tide. But when he saw them sitting in the sand removing their shoes, he set aside the stack of parchment in its crisp green file folder, folded the over-sized towel and stood up and leaned against the window.

Ron, it seemed, was the instigator. He was wearing blue jeans and had them rolled up past his knobby knees. He stood a few feet out in the water, facing the shore, laughing and beckoning to Hermione. Harry was already standing in the water, but just in it, facing the horizon. Severus watched until Hermione braved the cold and of course, of course, Ron tried to chase her and ended up on his bum, sitting in the ocean. And Harry was laughing, laughing so much he was holding his side.

And when he straightened up he must have caught sight of Severus standing there watching him because he stilled and then, seemingly oblivious of the splashing chaos around him, lifted a hand, smiled and waved.

Severus returned the smile, and the wave, then turned from the window. He wondered if all parents felt like this, like voyeurs, when they watched their children at play.

When Ginny Weasley visited, the atmosphere in the cottage was entirely different.

Ginny and Severus had a history that was unlike the one he shared with Ron and Hermione. And Ginny was a different creature than either of them. When Ginny visited, there were two people lying side by side in the hammock, and there wasn't as much talking, or as much laughter. The visits were not uncomfortable, though it was clear that Ginny Weasley had a lot of healing to do, but her scars were different than Harry's, and different than Ron and Hermione's, too. While Harry and Ron and Hermione seemed to flourish by carrying on with all the normal parts of life they had missed this past year—by eating a quiet lunch together, wading in the ocean, chatting in the parlor, playing chess, even studying for the coming year—Ginny's healing came from touching. She would lean into Harry on the sofa, or she would sit on the sofa and he would sit on the floor between her knees. Her hand would idly comb through his hair as she sat and read, trying to catch up on what she had missed of her sixth year before the seventh began. Harry would always greet her with a kiss, not seeming to care that most of the time Severus was in the same room, and he would cup her head in his hands and look at her before he'd fold her into his arms in a hug. He seemed to understand what she needed, and she, Severus could tell, was something that Harry needed, too.

Not that Harry didn't touch Ron and Hermione, and Merlin knew Ron and Hermione did plenty of touching on their own. They hugged each other when they arrived and when they left. Ron and Harry even hugged. Hermione, in fact, had taken to bending down to greet Severus—he was nearly always sitting in the easy chair in the parlor or on one of the lounges on the porch—and pressing a light kiss to his cheek. He wasn't sure how the tradition had started, or why he hadn't stopped it before it became a tradition, but he accepted it now and always nodded in return. "Good day to you too, Miss Granger." He was the headmaster, after all. Some level of formality was still required.

Ginny didn't kiss Severus on the cheek the first time she arrived at Shell Cottage to visit Harry. Nor did she hug him, nor shake his hand, nor get near enough to him to touch him. She wasn't quite seventeen yet, so George Apparated with her. Strangely, while Harry kissed her, then hugged her tightly, he hugged George even longer and harder. As George shook in Harry's arms, Harry's hand rubbing his back in small circles, Ginny looked across the room at Severus.

She didn't smile. She looked weary, stretched thin, older than she was. But then, it had only been a month since she'd lost her brother, and she'd been residing at the Burrow in a home engulfed in grief. Severus nodded to her in greeting and she gave him an appraising look, glanced around the parlor, through the landing into the kitchen, back at him. And nodded in return. He wondered who she saw when she looked at him, through him, like that.

She had accepted what he had had to do and had believed in him when the situation was much worse than it was now. When the Carrows had terrorized the school. When the Ministry seemed to have abandoned the children of Hogwarts. When the children had fled into the walls. But while Severus and Ginny had had an unspoken agreement, a quiet trust, they now had to fall into a different relationship, and it would prove to be awkward: Severus as parent, protecting Harry; Ginny trying to reconcile the professor, the headmaster, with this adult in Harry's life, this caregiver, this father.

Severus and Harry had prepared a picnic lunch the morning of Ginny and George's first visit, but in the end Harry couldn't convince Severus to come down to the beach to share it with them. Severus sent them out of the cottage with the lunch, a six-pack of butterbeer and the big beach blanket, then stood at the porch window watching them make their way down to the ocean. He was a bit worried by the level of emotion the boys had already shown. Severus sighed. He was ready for a nap. He turned and looked warily at the hammock, then walked over to it and tentatively sat on its edge. An instant later he had tipped backward and was struggling in the clutches of the monster. Struggling, however, got him nowhere, so after a futile attempt to scoot up so that his feet and head were approximately at the same level, he gave up, relaxed, closed his eyes and within five minutes was enjoying one of the best midmorning naps he'd ever had.

By unspoken agreement, they didn't talk about the Battle of Hogwarts. They talked about Molly, though, and how she was faring coping with Fred's death. About Percy—back home and working at the Ministry, but now in a position in his father's department instead of with the Minister.

"He's still a right git," said George as he picked up a white stone and tossed it side-arm out into the water.

"He's not trying to be a git," said Ginny. "It's just how he is. At least he's home." She smiled tightly and Harry wondered what she was thinking.

"He's damn lucky everyone is so depressed," said George. "He's been gone all this time and then he comes home and slides right in…like there was an empty slot just waiting….just waiting for him."

"It's not like that," Ginny reassured him . "He would have come home…even if Fred hadn't died. He didn't want him gone."

"Well, Mum likes him there, anyway," replied George, picking up a shell now and tossing it out in the water.

"Mum likes us all there," said Ginny with a sigh. "I'm surprised she hasn't shown up here to make sure we haven't drowned."

Harry laughed. "Come on," he said. "She wouldn't do that!"

Ginny rolled her eyes while George snorted.

"No? She tracked me down in Diagon Alley last week because I wasn't home by ten and she was worried about me. I was in a pub, Harry! A not-very-nice pub, either. She barged right in the door and came at me, claiming the family clock said I was in mortal peril. The nice young lady sharing my bar stool ran away in terror. Mum's adjusted the sensitivity sensors on that damn clock. She needs to just ditch that thing. I can't stand looking at it anymore…" His voice trailed off and he kicked the sand with his bare foot.

"Fred's hand has been stuck on 'traveling' for weeks," said Ginny, glancing at Harry with a worried expression.

"Oh," breathed out Harry. He looked sideways at George, who was staring out to sea now, a far-off look on his face. "I'd forgotten about the clock." He swallowed and shut his eyes against the tears that welled up behind them—again.

"It's OK," said Ginny with a small smile and a shrug. "It's just that we all thought it wouldn't take him so long to get there…wherever that is…"

Harry remembered again—how could he not?—the brief trip he had made after he sacrificed himself. King's Cross Station. Arrivals and departures. He imagined Fred there now, sitting on the bench alone, or perhaps with some of the other dead, waiting for the next train, or perhaps haunting the platform—unwilling, yet, to move on. Did 'traveling' mean that Fred would be a ghost?

He hoped not. He hoped that Fred would move on—to that place his mum and dad had come from, and Sirius, and Remus. And Dumbledore. The afterlife was too great and his mind too small to understand it, but he knew they had seemed content, and well, and at peace. He could not help but remember how he had felt in that great bright place. Free of pain. Completely calm despite not knowing where he was, what was happening, whether he was alive—or dead.

"I think it must take some souls longer than others," said Harry at last, reminding himself to stay positive, to not discuss the battle, the deaths, and especially that unfathomable time he had spent with Albus Dumbledore on Platform 9 ¾. "What's new in Diagon Alley?"

George shrugged. "I hear more stores are beginning to open back up," he said. "Lee says one of the Fortescue girls is back from France and cleaning the place up. And Ollivander is planning on reopening, too."

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ginny. "You've not been back, then?" he asked quietly.

George shrugged again. "Angelina is helping Lee. I've given her our…" he shook his head as if trying to clear it. "…my flat over the shop for the time being. I figure I'd better stay at the Burrow with…" he trailed off and resumed looking at the ocean, hugging his knees.

"With your mum?" asked Harry quietly. "I imagine she does need you there."

"Yeah," said George, but Harry knew that wasn't what was keeping him at the Burrow. He'd been to Fred's funeral, had seen him buried in the little family plot, understood what George hadn't said.

"Fred loved it here," said George suddenly. "We came out here a few times when Bill and Fleur were living here, you know." A raw, guttural sound escaped him. Harry thought he meant it to be a laugh, but it came out a half sob. "He charmed the hammock to sink lower and lower the longer you lay in it. Bill kept waking up on the floor and couldn't figure out what was wrong with the bally thing. You'd think he could have fixed it—curse breaker, and all. He never did work it out."

Harry smiled. "It's fine now. It must have worn off…"

He realized why it had worn off as he spoke. George sighed.

"Fred had charmed the toilet seat at home to make a fart noise whenever you opened or closed it," said Ginny. The taboo on talking about Fred appeared to have been lifted. "I miss it," she added, her voice beginning to break.

"And the shower losing pressure as soon as you're ready to wash the shampoo out of your hair," added George.

"That was Fred?" asked Harry. "I always wondered what that was all about..." He looked skyward and said, "Fred, wherever you are, thanks for all the times the toilet squirted water back up at me when I flushed it."

"Uh—that wasn't Fred," said George, a smile reminiscent of the old George a distant light in his eyes.

"You!" exclaimed Harry. "That's disgusting, you know!" He pushed George's shoulder and George pushed him back. Harry retaliated by tousling George's hair, then George shoved a handful of sand down Harry's shirt. What started as a friendly, teasing scuffle quickly evolved into something altogether different, however, with both friends suddenly rolling on the beach, pummeling each other, George quickly getting the upper hand with his larger frame and deeper anger. Ginny scrambled out of the way, shouting at them, her wand quickly drawn, trying to get clear aim to break them up, but Harry grunted out, "No! Get Severus!" as he struggled to break free of George's hold, bucking up and kicking out as Ginny ran toward the cottage.

This is for George, he thought with the small part of his mind that could still think rationally, or that thought it could. He needs this. He needs to get it out. The anger. The hurt. But he could not help but struggle and fight back during those interminable minutes, landing an occasional blow, actually managing to roll himself on top once and hold George's arms down, but only for an instant before George broke his hold with a sudden surge of energy and rolled on top of him again.

"Enough, boys." Severus' voice was loud and commanding but not angry.

Harry stopped struggling and George froze.

Seconds later, Severus, wearing his house shoes, had pulled George off of Harry and was forcing a Calming Draught down his throat.

Harry rolled over onto his side and cradled his head.

He hurt everywhere.

His glasses were gone. He remembered hearing them break. One eye was closed, his nose was bleeding profusely. His shoulder hurt whenever he moved. There was blood in his mouth. He spat it out.

"Merlin, Harry." Severus' voice was low, disbelieving.

"I'll go for help, Headmaster." Ginny. Her voice was hoarse. Harry imagined she had been screaming. It seemed odd to hear her call Severus 'Headmaster.'

"Thank you, but no. Not now. Sit with your brother. Keep him calm. Talk to him. Do not let him go anywhere."

His voice sounded again near Harry's ear.

"Move your hands, Harry. I need to see your face."

Harry sobbed. The beach had disappeared. The ocean. The cottage. His friends. Suddenly he was on the floor of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom again, fighting with Draco. Disappointing Severus. In this state, his turbulent mind could only connect Severus' disappointment with his fighting, forgetting that it really revolved around his pursuit of Draco and not trusting that Severus would handle the situation.

"I'm sorry…"

"Harry. It's alright. I'm not angry. Move your hands."

He obeyed reluctantly, moving his hands and allowing Severus to roll him gently onto his back. He winced. Severus pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "Merlin, you're a mess. Definitely lost this one, didn't you?" Severus' voice, with the distinct breathy quality he'd had since Nagini nearly killed him, was nonetheless soft and soothing to Harry's ears. He felt the gentle tingle of a healing spell. Magic. A tear dropped down his cheek. Severus wiped it away with his thumb.

"Broken nose." Severus sighed and Harry moaned. Another spell, a spike of pain.

"Augh." He grabbed his face.

"Put your hands down, Harry. This is going to get worse before it gets better. It looks like your shoulder is dislocated." Severus continued to work, talking softly. "I hope you both got this all out of your systems. You might not survive another altercation like this. If any more of your friends need a human punching bag to work out their anger and grief, don't volunteer."

Harry winced again as Severus pushed up his t-shirt and pressed against his abdomen with the heel of his hand.

Harry hissed at the pressure. "You're not mad?" he managed to breathe out.

Severus seemed to ignore his question. "You're going to have a rough couple of days. I should probably have Poppy out to run some scans." He pulled Harry's shirt down. "I'm going to go check on Mr. Weasley. Do not get up yet."

Harry closed his blurry eyes, vaguely wondering again about his glasses. A moment later, Ginny knelt down next to him, smoothing back his hair. "You're a mess, Harry," she said, her voice a good deal lighter than it had been ten minutes ago.

"How is he?" asked Harry, eyes still closed.

"George?" She laughed in apparent disbelief. "Better, I'd say. Better than you, for sure. What was that all about anyway? I thought he was going to kill you…" Her voice trailed off.

"Don't really know. Just seemed like he needed to beat someone up. And I was there. Felt good to hit him back."

Ginny settled on the sand beside him and squeezed his hand gently. "I know what you mean. I wouldn't mind hitting something myself."

/

"Harry?"

Harry groaned and buried his head in the pillow on the sofa where he'd been since Severus had helped him inside several hours ago. Severus had given him a pain potion but he still felt sore and achy. Despite his attempt to cover his ears and appear to be unconscious, he heard Severus settle into one of the chairs.

"Are you ready to talk about it yet?"

Harry mumbled something into the pillow.

"Was that a yes or a no?"

Harry turned his head to face Severus, staring at him with one eye open and the other a mere slit. "Do we have to?"

"Eventually, yes. And now is as good a time as any. You are awake, I am awake. You've just allowed someone to beat you up with their fists when a third person was standing there with a wand. You sent her to find me instead of letting her use that wand to break up your fight. Explain."

Harry rolled his head back into the pillow.

"Harry."

He turned his head again to face Severus. "We were talking about Fred," he said with a sigh.

"Of course you were. How did that conversation engender a pub brawl?"

Harry shrugged—a difficult gesture considering he was lying down. "He admitted he'd hexed the toilet at the Burrow to spit water up when you flush it. I’d thought it was Fred. I gave him one of those friendly little punches in the shoulder. He shoved me back and the next thing I knew we were fighting. Only it wasn't friendly anymore—he was mad. I don't know—it was like he needed someone to punch."

"And you let him punch you."

"Well, I couldn't really stop him. He's stronger than me."

"Miss Weasley could have stopped him. She could have stopped you both." Severus was leaning forward, hands steepled. Voice calm. Too calm. Why was he taking this so well?

"I don't get why you're not mad," said Harry, exasperated. "We beat each other up. You had to have Poppy come out and she lectured you on overexerting yourself and made you go to bed." He moved his shoulder experimentally. Still sore.

"Why didn't you let Miss Weasley stop him?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"And you didn't answer mine."

"Fine. I wanted him to punch me. I did punch back, you know. It wasn't like I just lay there on the ground and let him pummel me."

Severus stared at Harry a long moment. Harry stared right back. Severus gave in first.

"Why did you want him to punch you, Harry?"

Harry wished he could adequately vocalize what he intrinsically knew, what he felt. Then Severus would stop talking, and go lie down, and he could close his eyes again and sleep. "It felt right," he said at last, staring at Severus with his good eye as he spoke. "He was angry. He needed to get it out. It felt like the right time."

"He wasn't angry at you, Harry."

Harry shrugged and closed his eyes. He wasn't completely sure that was true.

He heard furniture scooting. Severus had pushed the sofa table to the side and had pulled his own chair closer to the sofa. His hand came down to rest on Harry's head and he pushed the long, scraggly hair back away from his face, a gesture of comfort, a gesture of love.

"George is not angry at you, Harry. And you are in no way responsible for his brother's death. Deep down you already know this. I agree with you on many points—George was angry and he needed an outlet. I expect he's feeling better now." His hand continued to card through Harry's hair. He sighed. "I'm going to have Poppy send over a stronger bruise paste. Your eye is a mess."

They were both silent for several moments. Finally, Harry spoke, his voice low, broken. "I know it's not my fault. My brain knows it. But I can't help but feel responsible. At least in part." He let out a painful laugh. "So I guess you could say I did my part today. With George anyway."

"Grief is a process, Harry." Harry heard the rustle of Severus' robes as he fumbled in his pocket, heard him unscrew a lid. As cool fingers touched his face, smoothing on a soothing cream under his eyes, on his bruised cheek, around his mouth, he listened to Severus' calm, measured voice. "And anger is a part of that process. I've been a bit worried about you, actually. I expected this to happen before now. So there's the answer to your question. I'm not angry because I'm actually relieved."

Another bark of pained laughter from Harry. "Relieved? You're relieved George beat the crap out of me?"

A long silence as Severus continued to rub on the salve. "You know that's not what I meant. Be fair, Harry. I'm relieved that you're beginning to show some emotion other than gratitude and relief."

"But I am grateful…and relieved." Harry reached up and grabbed Severus' wrist, stopping the soothing, circular motion.

"I know you are. I am not challenging that or trying to belittle those feelings. Harry—look at me."

Harry opened his eyes slowly and stared, once again, at Severus' tired face. He blinked his eyes.

"We're going to have to go get you new glasses soon," said Severus with a sigh.

"I don't think that's why you asked me to open my eyes," said Harry.

"No. It's not. As grateful and relieved as you are that we both survived and are here together today, the reality is that you have lost friends. And you deserve to grieve them. You don't have to be upbeat and happy all the time for me. Harry—I'm here for you just as you are here for me. I do not expect you to be my rock, and I am sure your friends do not expect that, either. Trust me in this, Harry. When have you gone wrong trusting me before?"

Harry blinked his eyes again and looked at Severus' pale, tired face.

"Alright, Severus," he said. He turned on his side and bunched his pillow up under his head. "I'm really tired. Do you mind if I take another nap?"

"No. Go on. You've had a hard day. We'll talk later." He stood and moments later Harry heard him slowly climbing the stairs up to the bedrooms. Good. He needed the rest. Harry turned on his side. Fifteen minutes later, he was still facing the back of the sofa, eyes closed, wide awake. Thinking that no matter what he said, Severus still looked like he needed a rock. Thinking that he did need to deal with all those feelings welling up inside him but that, more important , he still had to be strong for Severus.

Harry had woken up that morning with his face still swollen and bruised, but looking infinitely better than he had the day before. Severus had checked him over, making him raise his arm and rotate his shoulder. He seemed to be pleased that Harry could raise his arm without screaming.

Harry was quiet all morning, sitting with Severus at the table on the porch with a pile of textbooks in front of him while Severus reviewed staff contracts. Kreacher arrived at noon with lunch from Hogwarts. They ate lunch quietly on the porch, corned beef sandwiches, apple and walnut salad, crisps. After lunch, while Severus reviewed the incoming student list that Minerva had owled that morning, Harry lay quietly in the hammock, staring out toward the ocean.

Severus let him be.

Late in the afternoon, Harry went down to the water with beach chair, towel and seventh year N.E.W.T Potions textbook in hand. Severus looked up from his work from time to time to find Harry in the same position, head bent, book open, wind blowing his hair around his face. At five o'clock, Severus went into the kitchen to start dinner. Thirty minutes later, he came back to the porch to check on Harry.

Harry was no longer in the chair. He was standing near the water, a long stick in this hand, writing in the sand. Severus had stopped in the middle of the room but walked now to the window, watching Harry. The boy was making long and broad slashes in the sand, left to right, letters as tall as he was, right at the very edge of the water.

Severus squinted to read them.

Opened his eyes wide in understanding.

Watched as the waves slowly washed the letters away. Watched Harry stand back, straight and tall, until the sand was once again perfectly smooth.

Then pick up the stick and start over again.

Fred.

Remus.

Tonks.

Dobby.

Dumbledore.

Sirius.

Mum.

James.

Severus swallowed a lump in his throat so big it pressed on his heart and settled like a weight in his gut. Harry was mourning his losses. Acknowledging his grief and letting the waves wash those losses gently away.

James. Not Dad.

Severus placed his hand on the window, leaned his forehead against the cool pane of glass and watched Harry hurl the stick far out into the ocean, then sink down onto the sand, bury his face in his hands and weep.

Staying there on the porch and letting Harry cry out his grief alone on the beach was one of the hardest things Severus Snape had ever done.

(Chapter 3)

Chapter 3

Harry looked up from the cozy armchair in the parlor, where he'd been sitting most of the morning reading the stack of Daily Prophets Ron had left there the day before. They were all back issues, some of them months old, saved by Molly Weasley because of one article or another.

"This one claims that Voldemort was the rightful heir to the British throne," said Harry. "Did he abandon Malfoy Manor for Buckingham Palace or did I miss something?"

Minerva McGonagall, seated on an armchair across from Severus, shook her head.

"I do not know why you allow him to read that rubbish, Severus," she said, loud enough for Harry to hear her, too.

"Hey! It's entertaining," protested Harry. "Listen to this one…'Undesirable Number One Spotted Mugging Elderly Lady in Cornwall.' Funny, I don't remember that. I mugged a few elderly ladies in Bath…"

"You've obviously blocked it out," muttered Severus sarcastically.

"It's stopped raining," announced Harry a few moments later. He had stood up and walked over to the front window to look out. "I'm going out to walk on the beach for a while."

"Really, Severus," began Minerva when the porch door banged shut a few moments later. "He's bound to find something in those papers that sets him back again. He is finally looking less like a scarecrow and more like a boy trying to catch up after a rapid growth spurt."

"I cannot and will not shield him from the reality of what went on this past year," said Severus. He was scrutinizing a series of diagrams on the table in front of the sofa. "Really, Minerva. Where are we going to put everyone? We have eighteen of last year's seventh years returning, along with the ten seventh-year Muggle-borns who were banned from Hogwarts altogether. Twenty-eight students beyond our normal load."

Minerva sighed and turned a piece of parchment around so she could decipher it more easily. "We also have most of the children from the other years returning—including the Muggle-borns and many of those whose families fled the country when the Ministry fell."

"With the number of first years so high this year, by my calculations we'll need to house thirty-three more students than we did two years ago, and approximately one hundred and twenty more than last year."

"Well, then thank goodness the castle is magical. The house dormitories can be expanded to accommodate the students, Severus." Minerva put down the diagram of Gryffindor Tower she had been holding and picked up her steaming teacup.

Severus stacked up the remaining parchment on the table and reached for his own cup. He held it in his hands, warming his fingers. His hands were nearly always cold these days, though Poppy assured him his circulation was improving and the nerve damage he's suffered was reversing itself slowly. He was quiet for a long moment, obviously lost in thought.

"What is it Severus?" asked Minerva at last. "You see this as more than just a problem of logistics, don't you?"

"I do," he answered. "I have been considering something rather…radical."

"Oh?" Minerva raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for Severus to continue.

"I have considered an eighth year dormitory," he said. He took a slow drink from his teacup and looked over it at Minerva, waiting for her reaction.

"All the eighth years, from all the houses, in one dormitory." She seemed to mull over the idea. "Beside the issue of putting Harry and Draco Malfoy in the same living quarters, I have a few other concerns. How would house points be awarded?"

"I suppose to the house to which they were first sorted," answered Severus with a small shrug.

"Quidditch?"

"They would play with their original house teams, if they still wished to play and were chosen for their house team." He smiled over at Minerva. "You would think of that, wouldn't you?"

"As long as we can find space for them, I don't see why we shouldn't try it out, Severus. I am curious, however, about your motivations. Does it have anything to do with Harry?"

"It has everything to do with Harry," admitted Severus. "Though I would not be proposing the plan if I did not think it would be good for the rest of the students as well."

"Go on, Severus. I'm listening." Minerva leaned back and peered intently at her friend.

"First and foremost, our seventh years need a chance to be seventh years. Mixing the eighth years in with them will dilute their position, their ability to find closure this year and return to normalcy. The Head Boy and Head Girl will be chosen from the seventh years and they will be the oldest students in each of the house dorms."

"That seems reasonable," said Minerva with a small nod. "Go on."

Severus fidgeted with the cup in his hands, turning it around and around and finally stating rather loudly, loudly enough to make Minerva startle. "They have all had such a year, Minerva. From the Gryffindors to the Slytherins." He lowered his voice. "They have lost family members, friends, even some of their own. They have had to grow up quickly—too quickly. By separating the eighth years, we will acknowledge that they are in a class apart and recognize that they have already paid their dues, so to speak. That they are adults, returning to Hogwarts to study for and sit their N.E.W.T.s so they can further their careers or education."

"It will be difficult for Harry, after this last year," added Minerva, sagely. "Everything will feel anticlimactic to him."

"I worry that he will feel that he does not belong at Hogwarts," sighed Severus. "And I do feel that he should move on, but he still insists on entering the Aurors’ program, and he will need his N.E.W.T.s to do so."

"You are opposed to his joining the Aurors, Severus?" Minerva's level gaze was focused on Severus as she took another sip of her tea.

"It is a dangerous profession," stated Severus simply.

"Says the man who spied on the Dark Lord for years," said Minerva, looking downward at her teacup.

"Harry's life is just beginning," stated Severus firmly. "And unlike myself at that age, he has already paid his dues. He owes the Wizarding world nothing. He owes no one anything, in fact."

Minerva smiled her enigmatic smile. "Well, perhaps you can dissuade him, Severus." Her look made it clear that she did not actually think he could. "And your idea has a great deal of merit. Since most of the returning eighth years will be attending only the classes for which they intend to sit a N.E.W.T., they will have more time to study and prepare for the exams. A shared space—a common room per se—will be more quiet without the other years present. More conducive to study opportunities. Do you have a location in mind, Severus?"

"I was considering the old faculty family wing."

Minerva considered. "Well, it has been quite a while since it was needed. It will need some renovation, of course."

"Of course. But you agree it will give our eighth years a different atmosphere? More of an introduction to life after Hogwarts?"

"Well, Severus, it won't exactly pass for a flat in London…"

Severus smirked. "I admit that extra supervision may be needed to keep our students focused on their studies."

"And who will provide that supervision, Severus? You?"

He grimaced. "Yes. The headmaster will be the de facto Head of House for the eighth year students."

"Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself…?"

She broke off mid-thought when the porch door banged open, then slammed shut. They heard Harry make his way through the porch and kitchen—seemingly at a run—and then pound up the stairs. By the time his bedroom door slammed shut, Severus was struggling to his feet.

"Severus?" Minerva quickly stood and gave him a steadying arm.

'That has never happened before. Something has upset him. Will you excuse me a minute, Minerva? Perhaps you could review the final three candidates for the Potions position?" He nodded at a separate stack of parchment on the table.

"Of course, Severus. Go on."

She sat down on the sofa in the spot he had vacated and drew the indicated parchments toward her while Severus made his way to the stairway, but her eyes were on him, not on the applications before her.

"Harry?"

He had knocked on the door, and repeated the knock when Harry didn't respond. Finally he simply opened the door and called the boy's name.

Harry was lying face up in the middle of the bed, left arm over the upper part of his face, glasses clasped in his right hand, breathing rapidly. Severus walked quietly over to the bed and stood at its side.

"Harry?"

"Go away."

"You don't want me to go away," said Severus. "You wouldn't have slammed the door and stomped up the stairs if you didn't want me here." He watched as a tear trickled down Harry's cheek from his eye. Looking at Harry now, stretched out on the bed, he was acutely aware of how much the boy had grown, how much time had passed since those summer weeks two years ago when he'd come here with Harry, to Shell Cottage, at Albus' request.

"Really, I'm just being stupid. It's no big deal. I just need some time," said Harry. He wiped his cheek with his arm, not quite removing it from his eyes.

"What happened out there?" asked Severus, not relenting. "What has made you so upset?" He could tell Harry was trying to calm himself down, taking deep breaths and releasing them slowly. He waited.

"I…I was walking back to the cottage—up the path from the beach," he said at last, his voice tight. "I nearly stepped on a grass snake—it was warming itself in the sun on the path."

Severus frowned. He knew Harry's emotions were frayed and close to the surface, but to let a near miss with a snake shake him up this badly…

Harry laughed, a harsh sound, more self-deprecatory than amused. "I apologized to it. I tried to, anyway. Severus, I couldn't. I couldn't speak to it. I couldn't understand it." His voice nearly cracked and he pressed his arm down over his eyes more forcefully.

Oh. Severus swallowed. Of course. He should have guessed it. Guessed that the Horcrux was responsible for Harry's ability to speak Parseltongue.

"Harry…" he began, voice reassuring.

"I get it, alright? I was only a Parselmouth because he was one and it was all connected to that stupid Horcrux. I get it!" Harry wiped at his face with his forearm again, smearing tears into his cheeks.

Severus stood next to the bed, a jumble of thoughts in his mind, unable to voice any of them. What could he say? Why are you so upset? Speaking parseltongue is considered akin to a dark art.

"I don't know why I'm so upset."

His voice was so raw, so defeated. Severus sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. As his weight settled on the mattress, Harry finally moved his arm and looked at Severus.

"You've lost a part of yourself—it is natural to mourn it."

"But it wasn't a part of me. I thought it was—but it wasn't. It was him. Voldemort." Harry turned over on his side, facing the window, away from Severus, and added, in a small voice, "I can't let myself do this. I can't mourn him. It's wrong."

Severus reached out and rubbed Harry's back, the only thing he could think to do to offer comfort. He had no words for Harry. What would he say? That it was alright to mourn the loss of a fragment of a soul you didn't know you were carrying with you? The fragment and whatever else it carried with it? That in this summer of mourning, of learning to accept your losses and move on with your life, it was only natural to miss what you had once had, even if you had only had it because of that parasitic soul fragment clinging to you like a lifeline?

"You can go out and get drunk now, you know," said Harry as Severus continued to rub gentle circles on his back. "I can't feel you, either."

"That's hardly a reason for me to go out and get drunk," said Severus. His hand continued its circular motion on Harry's back. "It's been a month now, Harry. You've only now just realized that?"

"Stupid, isn't it? All those days you were in the hospital wing?"

"You had other things on your mind at the time," Severus responded.

Harry sighed and his shoulders fell marginally. "I guess I knew. I just didn't let myself think about it."

"I think, after a time, you will be happy to not have this connection, Harry. It may take some time for your emotions to even out…"

"Right." He wiped away another tear and they stayed their together for five minutes more. Harry's breathing evened out and Severus thought he might be sleeping, but was surprised when he spoke up.

"I don't know what's mine and what's not anymore," he said.

And Severus understood.

"What are you afraid you've lost?" he asked. He stood and walked around the bed, to the other side, forcing the boy to look at him.

"What about the other things I'm good at? My Patronus? My Animagus form?" He inhaled. "Flying?"

"I wouldn't worry about your Patronus," said Severus with a smile. "Patronuses are only produced by positive emotions and the Dark…Voldemort…didn't have a single one of those."

Harry shrugged, the barest hint of a smile on his tear-stained face.

"As for your Animagus form and flying—well, those were natural talents of your father. I doubt they'll be adversely influenced by the destruction of the Horcrux."

"You're my father." Harry's eyes were closed, the hardly-there smile still present.

Severus ruffled his hair. "Be that as it may, you must still acknowledge the gifts you received from your biological father—and be grateful for them."

"I'm grateful for them," answered Harry. "And I'm grateful for him, too."

Severus stood. "Why don't you try to sleep a while before lunch? I'll finish up with Minerva, then perhaps we can go to the beach together this afternoon."

"Alright."

Severus was at the door before Harry spoke again.

"I'm glad you were here when it mattered, since James couldn't be."

Severus paused. "Thank you, Harry," he said. "But never forget this—he was there when it mattered, for as long as he could be."

"Yeah," said Harry. "But it just wasn't long enough."

Minerva stayed for lunch and lifted Harry's spirits quite a bit with her tales of the repair work ongoing at Hogwarts.

"There is a Ministry official charged with overseeing the details of the project, a Mr. Angus Cowpoke…"

Harry nearly spat out his milk when he heard the name. "You can't be serious? Angus Cowpoke?"

Minerva nodded. Her eyes were bright but she swallowed her smile.

"Peeves, unfortunately, has taken a great liking—or perhaps a dislike, it's hard to tell with Peeves—for Angus. He accompanies him everywhere and has created some very interesting rhymes to point out Cowpoke's rather…hmm…effeminate qualities."

"Come now, Minerva, you can't leave it at that," said Severus. He put down the sandwich he was eating and looked at Minerva.

"Yeah, come on Minerva. Give us a sample." Harry had awoken in much better spirits and was on his second sandwich already.

"Well, I might recall one or two of them. Let's see… "Angus Cowpoke raves and rants, wearing ladies' underpants."

Harry laughed and spat out sandwich fragments. Severus used his napkin to wipe his sleeve off with exaggerated movements.

"Surely he can do better than that?"

Minerva grinned and looked sideways at Harry. "Well, I suppose there are one or two more that I could repeat." She paused, thought a bit, then smiled. "Hogwarts Castle falling down, Angus Cowpoke comes to town, Fixing stones, removing curses, Hiding lipstick in his purses."

"That's rather lame," said Severus, smiling nonetheless.

"Hey, it's Peeves," said Harry. "Is this bloke a real nutter or what?"

"Oh, Angus is fine. He's really quite capable," answered Minerva. "He just—well—he's not fond of getting dirty. He's always cleaning his fingernails and using spot-removing charms on his robes. Which are the most interesting shade of periwinkle blue…"

"Are they going to have all the repairs done on time?" asked Harry. He had helped himself to more grapes and was frowning as he spat out a seed.

"There will be some cosmetic reconstruction after classes resume," said Minerva. "Mainly to the exterior of the castle, where battlements and some of the decorative gargoyles were damaged."

"They are concentrating on the classroom and common areas first," stated Severus. "Both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Towers were heavily damaged, as was the Great Hall."

Harry paused, a grape midway to his mouth. "I'm not sure I can eat in there again," he said, frowning. "I suppose there isn't some other place…?"

"For that many people? I'm afraid not," answered Severus, who understood all too well Harry's feelings on the matter. "However, we are doing what we can to remodel the hall. A new marble floor is being laid, in a different pattern, and the tables may be rearranged. We understand that for many the place has many…negative…memories now."

Harry dropped the grape back on his plate. Up to this point, the feeling he'd had when he'd finally killed Voldemort—when Ron and Hermione had been the first to run to him and they had nearly collapsed in a group hug right there beside Voldemort's body—that feeling, that memory had overpowered the others. The bodies, laid out together, side by side, on the floor, on the tables. The Weasleys gathered around Fred's body, Molly keening. Remus and Tonks, side by side, nearly holding hands. Lavender Brown, ravaged by the werewolf Greyback.

"I wish they hadn't used the Great Hall for the morgue," he said finally.

Severus and Minerva exchanged a glance. Obviously, they were of the same opinion on the matter.

"You'll hardly recognize the place, Harry," Minerva assured him. She scooted a plate over toward him. "Here, have a cauldron cake."

"Where is your broom, Harry?" asked Severus several hours later. He had walked down to the beach with Harry an hour before, Harry holding his arm to help steady him while at the same time toting two beach chairs and a blanket in his other hand.

"At the Burrow ," Harry answered. He was lying on his stomach on the blanket, reading a book on runes that he'd pulled from the shelf before they came outside. "My trunk's there, too." He sighed. "I missed my broom last year—meant to take it with me, but we had to leave in a hurry."

"Why don't you ask one of the Weasleys to bring your trunk and broom back here next time they visit? Or you could go there to pick them up."

By the look on Harry's face, Severus knew that Harry would prefer not to visit the Burrow anytime soon.

"Alright. I understand why you do not want to visit the Burrow quite yet. But you cannot avoid it forever. You need to get out. You will need to do school shopping this summer, and you need new clothing, as well. Your jeans are far too short."

Harry looked up. "Don't you think I should wait until I gain some more weight?"

Severus shook his head. "Fine. I'll tolerate your short trousers for a few more weeks." He considered, studying Harry as he thought. "I have noticed that, with the exception of the funerals you attended, you have not left me since I awoke in the hospital wing. I wonder—are you reluctant to leave me or reluctant to make an appearance in the Wizarding world?"

Harry closed his book and sat up on the towel, squinting against the sun.

"Both?" he answered, a question implied in his voice.

"While I appreciate the honesty," replied Severus, "I have already told you on more than one occasion that I am fine; I am getting stronger daily and am under the care of a professional healer." He looked out to sea, watching a pair of seagulls skim the water. "It is only early June. Had you been in school this year—well, you'd still be in school. We will revisit this in July. Understood?"

He could not help but be warmed by the grateful smile on Harry's face.

Several days later, Harry spent the better part of the afternoon swimming in the ocean with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, then topped off the evening with a fire on the beach. It had been a particularly good day. The sun had warmed the sand and the shallow water and the four friends spent hours outdoors, with frequent forays into the kitchen for snacks. Severus looked at Ron critically several times, wondering where all the food went on his still lanky frame.

Ron and Hermione Flooed out first at nine thirty, leaving Harry and Ginny to say their goodbyes and Ginny to follow. Severus could not help but check on them when nearly ten minutes had passed and Harry had not come back to the porch. He interrupted the long and quite intense goodbye between them by walking into the parlor and practically barking, "Harry!" The two pulled apart quickly and guiltily as he stood glaring at them.

"You are going to see each other again in two days’ time; you do not need to treat her as if you are going off to sea for three months. Miss Weasley, your mother will likely not want to see that." He pointed to a ring-shaped bruise at the base of her neck.

"Sorry," muttered Harry, turning an intriguing shade of crimson.

Severus pulled Harry backward by the collar of his t-shirt and humiliated him even further by taking out his wand and healing the hickey on Ginny's neck.

"I could have done that," Harry hissed.

"You did do that," answered Severus.

"Night Harry, thanks Headmaster," mumbled Ginny as she hastily tossed a handful of Floo powder in the fireplace and disappeared.

"I'm almost eighteen!" exclaimed Harry when she was gone. "You don't need to monitor everything I do. Nothing would have happened!"

"Miss Weasley is only sixteen," answered Severus evenly. "And I am not monitoring your every move and you know it. Be smart, Harry. You can have some degree of intimacy without leaving visual evidence of your ardor."

"I think I deserve some ardor after the year I've had, don't you?" snapped Harry.

Severus leveled a gaze at him that clearly showed that he didn't, indeed, think so.

"Fine. I'm going upstairs to take a cold shower."

"Good—get used to them!" called Severus after him, listening to Harry pound up the stairs with a good deal more noise than was strictly necessary.

Harry did not come back downstairs and, an hour later, when Severus was tired of waiting for him to calm down, he went upstairs to check on him and found him in bed, sound asleep, hair damp, threat of a cold shower apparently realized. Severus shook his head and went back downstairs to clean up the paperwork he had left scattered on the sofa table and was surprised when Arthur Weasley's head appeared in the Floo, asking if he might visit for a while.

Arthur came through a short while later and sat on one of the armchairs across from the sofa, accepting a generous portion of firewhisky from Severus.

"How is Harry doing, Severus?" asked Arthur. The usual jovial easygoing man had been replaced with a look-alike impostor, thought Severus, a serious man whose movements were tense and whose eyes lacked their usual warmth. He held the glass of firewhisky in both hands, taking a long drink from it and then studying it as he waited for Severus to answer.

Severus answered carefully. "Better, I think. But I am afraid we have a long way to go before he can claim to be over this." He studied his own glass, then grimaced. "He did defy me today, and I take that as a good sign."

Arthur smiled, the gesture bringing a shade of his old self to his face. "He has been keeping close to you, I take it? We haven't seen him at the Burrow since Fred's funeral."

Severus frowned. "He has. He does not spend every moment with me, but even when his friends are here and he is outside with them, he checks on me frequently." He took a swallow of firewhisky. "I have decided to give him a few more weeks, Arthur. I have encouraged him to visit the Burrow, but he is not yet ready to do so. If he is not inclined to visit on his own by the time July rolls around, I will accompany him and we will both make a visit."

"You'd be welcome, Severus." Arthur considered a moment, then spoke again. "Ginny is quite fond of him."

"And he of her," said Severus. "I have spoken to him and do not leave them alone inside for long, Arthur. I have asked them not to close the door when they are in his room. Are you concerned about them?"

Arthur shrugged. "They grew up behind our backs, Severus. I look at her and wonder where my little girl went. It's like she's sixteen going on twenty-five. I very much doubt either one of us could convince either of them to not do something they wanted to do."

"I broke them up earlier this evening," said Severus. "They were only kissing, but it seemed to have gotten a bit more amorous than it should have. Harry huffed out of here and went upstairs to take a shower."

"That was his act of defiance?" grinned Arthur.

"It was," said Severus, grinning back, appreciating this small camaraderie with Arthur . "I have to admit I was relieved to find him acting more like a boy of his age and less like my caregiver."

"Well, I admit I came here tonight to speak to you about Harry. I was concerned that he wasn't coming to visit and wanted to make sure you understood that he—and you—are always welcome at our home."

"I appreciate that, Arthur," answered Severus. "I admit I am often at a loss when it comes to parenting."

Arthur chuckled. "Molly and I were barely twenty when we became parents, Severus. You're going to have to learn exactly like we did: by the seat of your pants. You'll make mistakes—we all do. But your heart is in the right place and you only want what is best for Harry."

Severus smiled his understanding and they sipped their firewhisky in companionable silence for a few more minutes. "How is Molly doing, Arthur?"

"Still not sleeping on her own. I'm a bit worried that the potion she's taking may become addictive. Since I'm here anyway, perhaps you could give me a recommendation."

"Is she still on that sleep aid from St. Mungo's?"

Arthur nodded. "A full dose every evening at bedtime. With it, she usually gets six or seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. Without it—she roams the house all night, cleaning, organizing, looking at old photo albums, crying over baby clothes in the attic."

"I would try reducing the dosage gradually—perhaps three quarters of a dose first, and if that is successful, down to one-half dose the following week. If you are not successful with that approach, let me know and I'll brew something else for her—something that will relax her enough so that she falls asleep but that is not addictive." He looked across at Arthur, assessing him. The man looked ten years older than he had the year before when he routinely saw him at Order meetings. "What about you, Arthur? Are you sleeping?"

Arthur drained his glass of firewhisky and Severus poured him another. "I'm sleeping. Not well, and not peacefully, but I do get enough sleep to function." He laughed, a short, abrupt sound. "Intellectually, I knew this might happen. That we might lose one of our own children, or that either myself or Molly might lose our lives in the war. But knowing it might happen and actually experiencing it are two matters altogether different. And that it was one of the twins..." He sighed. "Not that I value them or love them any more than the others, mind you," he explained. "But George…poor George. And when I come home from work and sit at the table and he's there with the others, waiting to eat, it always happens, you know. I look closely at him to see which twin it is, you see. And it's always George now. Always George."

"To Fred and George," said Severus solemnly, reaching out with his own glass toward Arthur. They clinked glasses and toasted the twins. "Arthur, I never told you this—and I regret not having done so while they were both alive—but those boys were brilliant thinkers. Unorthodox, yes, but brilliant in application. The troublemakers often are, you know. They make trouble because they're bored with the classroom proceedings."

"Troublemakers?" Arthur laughed, a glint returning to his weary eyes. "My boys?"

"We simply stopped calling you in," said Severus. "We learned early on it had virtually no effect on the twins' behavior, so it was better to simply give them detentions and get some needed work done around the castle."

Arthur smiled fondly. "You know," he said, taking yet another long swallow of the liquor, voice more serious now, "it's Ron I'm worried about most."

Severus looked over at Arthur, considering this unexpected statement. "Ronald? Why is that, Arthur?"

"He's offering to change his career path for George, isn't he? He's going to give up trying for the Aurors and go into business with George—in Fred's place." Arthur held out a now empty glass to Severus, who gave a mental shrug, picked up the bottle from the side table, and filled it up again.

"You'd prefer him to go into the Auror Corps? I'd say that working with his brother is certainly a safer path in life." He tried to stay neutral, to keep his voice even, to not show his own hand, his fears for his own son's safety.

"Which is why Molly is so thrilled with the decision. She wept, Severus! Hugged Ron to pieces, nearly smothered the poor boy, in fact. I think that had he asked us to reverse our decision about this next year at Hogwarts at that moment, she would have given in."

"Have you spoken to him about this?" asked Severus.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm going to. I want him to be sure."

"His class schedule at Hogwarts will look very different if he plans to enter the Auror Corps," said Severus. "He'll need N.E.W.T.s in Potions, DADA, Charms, Transfiguration…"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, considering. He drained his third glass of firewhisky and looked up at Severus, a plea in his eyes.

"Perhaps you could speak with him, Severus. As his headmaster."

Severus lifted the bottle again. He'd take Arthur home, send Molly a Patronus—he'd worry about that later. He was convinced at this moment that Arthur had not been allowed, or indeed, had not allowed himself, an evening away from the Burrow to air his troubles.

"I'll speak to him. Next time he visits."

"As headmaster?" Arthur took a long, grateful drink of the liquor.

"As headmaster, yes. And as Harry's father, if you don't mind. This decision affects my son as well. I must admit that the thought of Harry spending his life in that line of work, courting danger daily, does not sit well with me."

"But you wouldn't keep him from it? Forbid him to go that direction?"

Severus sighed and looked across at Arthur. The father of seven children, reduced to six now, looked back at him with a calm sort of wisdom in his eye. Severus could not help but ask.

"How did you do it? Raise seven children from infancy and make it through the teenage years? I have one child, only one, and he is flummoxing me at every turn."

Arthur laughed. Severus wondered how long it had been since the man had truly laughed like that, deep, rich, from the belly, from the heart.

"We have children as babies when they are tiny and helpless so that we can love them unconditionally and will remember that love and how tiny and helpless they were when they are teenagers." He toasted Severus again and Severus obligingly lifted his own glass. "But what you have done, Severus, is in many ways much greater. You have taken in a teenager—indeed, one for whom you had little previous love or tolerance…"

"Little?" interrupted Severus. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Arthur laughed again. "Severus, you have taken in Harry Potter and have so totally lost your heart in this that you are doomed, utterly doomed. Get used to it. Your life will never be the same, you will never again sleep as well as you once did." His voice had a noticeable slur now and he lifted his glass.

"To Harry Potter," said Arthur. "To the Boy Who Lived, who saved us all, to your adopted son. To Harry."

"To Harry," repeated Severus. He tipped back his glass and took another long swallow of the alcohol. The liquid burned going down and contributed to the warm feeling growing in his stomach.

When Arthur stood to leave twenty minutes later, he was swaying noticeably on his feet. Severus helped him with the Floo powder and followed him to the Burrow to explain his condition to Molly. Molly was waiting up for Arthur and insisted that Severus stay for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. He couldn't refuse—she was teary and overwrought, and when Arthur told her what Severus had said about the twins, she threw her hands around Severus' neck and hugged him.

He Flooed back home thirty minutes later and sat back on the sofa, thinking through all that he and Arthur had discussed. The alcohol he had imbibed made him sleepy and he nodded off, curling up like a teenager on the sofa, wrapped in one of the ubiquitous crocheted afghans that seemed to multiply like rabbits around the cottage.

The next morning, when he woke up in his bed upstairs, he had only a vague memory of walking up the stairs, leaning heavily on Harry. Of Harry pulling back his quilt, bending down to remove his shoes, pulling the covers up over him, turning off the light.

But the note he found on the bedside table brought the events of last night clearly to mind. "Dad—I helped you to bed at two a.m. You smell like firewhisky and Mrs. Weasley and you called me Arthur. I'm looking forward to hearing all about your evening in the morning. Regards, Harry."

(Chapter 4)

A/N: More humor in this chapter than tears. Hope you enjoy!

________________________________________

Chapter 4

Harry was sitting at the table on the porch eating a plate of eggs and sausages when Severus finally came downstairs the next morning. Harry heard him fumbling around in the kitchen making tea, and he was indeed carrying steaming mug when he appeared in the doorway.

"That smells good," he said, nodding to Harry's plate as he placed his mug on the table and pulled out the chair across from Harry's.

"I'll trade you some for a few stories," said Harry, making a show of shoving an overloaded forkful of eggs in his mouth.

"Will you?" asked Severus. He reached across the table and pulled Harry's plate over toward him.

"Hey!" protested Harry.

"You offered to trade for some stories. What do you want to know?"

"I offered to trade you some," clarified Harry, grabbing a sausage off his purloined plate while he still could and shaking his head in mock exasperation. "So, did you go to the Burrow last night or did Mrs. Weasley come here?" His voice was casual, almost too casual, and he took a bite of sausage just to have something to do with his hands other than point a sausage at Severus.

"Mr. Weasley came here and I saw him safely home some time later," answered Severus, helping himself to some of Harry's eggs.

"What did he want?" asked Harry. He swallowed at the look Severus gave him. "Oh—I'm sorry. He is your friend and all; I suppose you don't have to tell me."

"He's not exactly my friend, though we are making inroads," corrected Severus. "And he came over to talk; we have common interests, as you well know."

"Were you drinking?" Harry took a drink of orange juice—at least Severus hadn't taken his glass of juice.

"Do you disapprove?" asked Severus. "I do believe I recently heard you give me your blessings to go out and get drunk."

"Did you?" asked Harry.

"Did I what?" He may not have been being deliberately obtuse but Harry blew out a frustrated breath.

"Did you go out and get drunk with Mr. Weasley?" Harry spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

Severus shook his head. "We were in the cottage the entire time, so no, I did not go out and get drunk with Arthur. We did drink—your note mentioned firewhisky, did it not?"

"Did you get drunk?"

Severus supposed it was a fair question but he didn't quite understand Harry's interest or his apparent disapproval.

"I would not have called myself drunk last night, though I definitely was affected by the alcohol. And no, I did not operate heavy machinery, drive a motor vehicle or attempt to fly. Is the inquisition over now? My eggs are getting cold."

"You mean my eggs are getting cold," grumbled Harry. He pushed his chair back, stood up and went into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with another plate, this one heaped high with eggs and toast. "I made enough for you the first time," he said.

Severus watched as Harry layered two fried eggs on his toast and ate them sandwich style.

"You said you had questions—as in more than one. Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"When I turn eighteen, will you take me out to celebrate?"

Severus bit back the "I'm sure your friends would enjoy getting pissed with their headmaster" retort that very much wanted to issue forth from his sarcastic mouth.

"If you'd like. It certainly will be a cause for celebration. However, I thought you might like a party here with all of your friends."

"I would like that," answered Harry softly. He stared across at Severus, who eventually sighed.

"What is it, Harry? You may think that I can read your mind but I cannot."

"How long were you gone last night?"

Severus put down his fork and refilled his tea cup. He took his time answering, aware that Harry was staring at him, tense, waiting for an answer.

"Oh, I don't know," he answered, doing his best to sound casual. "Thirty minutes? Forty-five?"

"Nearly an hour then," said Harry. He fiddled with his juice cup, turning it back and forth on the table. "What if something had happened, Severus? What if you'd Splinched yourself?"

"Harry—I've been Apparating for more than twenty years. I hardly think I'm likely to Splinch myself."

"But you're not recovered yet. You're still weak; anything could happen."

"I know my limits, Harry. You're going to have to trust me on this."

Harry nodded, still fiddling with his now empty glass.

"If it will make you feel better, I won't leave the house again without at least leaving you a note." He saw the look of relief on Harry's face and wondered why the boy hadn't just asked him for this small courtesy.

"You should wake me up to tell me—if you have time," suggested Harry. "Or leave the note on top of my glasses on my bed table. I'd always find it there."

Severus nodded. "Alright. I can do that." He spread jam on a piece of cold toast. "Molly Weasley forced coffee and cake on me, and when I mentioned what brilliant minds I thought the twins had when they were at Hogwarts, she threw her arms around me and hugged me."

Harry looked up, surprised, his disquiet seemingly forgotten.

"You really thought the twins were brilliant?"

The look on Severus' face as he answered was perfectly serious. "I did."

"So did I," said Harry, sighing. "So did everyone."

/

Severus had arranged with Molly and Arthur for Ron to come to the cottage to spend a few days with Harry. He planned on taking that opportunity to speak to both the boys about their future plans and deliver a bit of advice while he was at it.

Harry and Severus were finishing lunch on the porch and, as they had expected Ron to Apparate or arrive by Floo, they were startled to hear the sound of a car engine revving out front.

"Stay here—I'll go see what's going on," said Severus, pushing back his chair and standing up just as the front door banged open.

"Harry! Bill's got the MG again and he let me drive the last leg of the trip!" Ron came barreling into the room to find Harry already on his feet.

"Great! Do you think he'll let me take her out, too?"

"I'd suggest you study for your operator's license if you're serious about motor vehicles. Both of you." Severus nodded at Ron. "Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley."

Bill had followed his brother into the cottage and stood in the doorway to the porch, looking around with interest.

"Didn't take you two too long to de-feminize this place," he said with a grin.

"Hey, Bill," said Harry. He'd seen Bill only once after the final battle—and that time was at Fred's funeral. Even after spending a month of the previous summer here at Shell Cottage with Bill, he still wasn't accustomed to the scars that marred the man's face. They'd faded over the past year but were still noticeable, and to Harry were a vivid reminder of the night Albus Dumbledore had died.

"Harry took the curtains down," said Severus, nodding at the windows that surrounded three sides of the porch.

Harry pretended to shudder. "They reminded me too much of the Divination classroom," he said and Ron gave a sympathetic shudder of his own. "It was like looking at the ocean with a layer of gauze over your eyes."

Bill laughed. "I'm not in a hurry," he said, looking significantly at Severus. "Do you want to go out for a drive, Harry? Ron's had the wheel already."

"It's no Ford Anglia," said Ron, eyes almost dreamy. "Of course, it doesn't fly, either."

"Thank Merlin," said Severus, shaking his head.

"I remember," said Harry. He glanced over at Severus, realizing that he'd be leaving his best friend alone in the house with the dreaded Potions master and headmaster.

"I promise I won't eat him," said Severus with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He had taken his seat again and picked up his half-eaten sandwich. "Sit, Mr. Weasley. Join me for some lunch. Have you already eaten?"

"Mum forced a couple sandwiches on me before I left but I can eat again," he said, sliding easily into Harry's chair and reaching for a sandwich.

The storm door banged behind Harry and Bill and the car engine started up soon after. Severus finished his sandwich and sat watching Ron work his way through a pile of crisps, a bunch of grapes and two sandwiches. The boy drank two glasses of milk with the apple spice cake Severus offered and finally leaned back in his chair. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable so Severus took pity and launched right in.

"Harry tells me you no longer wish to enter the Auror Academy—that you plan on going into business with your brother."

Ron opened his mouth in surprise and closed it again. He quickly seemed to get over his shock that Severus was speaking directly to him, however.

"It's not that I don't want to be an Auror," he answered. "It's just that this other opportunity is more important, is all."

"Oh? And why is that?" Severus settled back in his chair and folded his arms comfortably on his chest.

"Because it's family," answered Ron, as if that simple explanation was all that was needed. "George needs me."

Severus stared across the table at Ron another long moment.

"And what if I were to tell you that Harry needed you in the Auror Academy?"

"Well, then I'd have to say you don't know Harry very well."

Severus blinked. Then blinked again. He took a moment to reheat his tea with a warming charm.

"Point taken," he conceded. "But what if Harry wants you at his side? As an Auror?"

"I guess he'd have to want me more than George needs me," answered Ron with a shrug. "He's like family, too. I'd have to let them battle it out."

Severus raised an eyebrow, reminding Ron that those two had indeed already "battled it out." He decided to change tactics.

"What about you, Mr. Weasley? Given the choice of a career chasing dark wizards and one devising pranks and jokes and selling them to future generations of Hogwarts students so they can plague me and the other professors—which would you choose if George and Harry were completely neutral?"

Ron shrugged, his eyes now on the ocean outside the window. "When I was really little, I wanted to be the driver of the Knight Bus. Then I wanted to play professional Quidditch. When I was ten or eleven I wanted to work with Dad at the Ministry. I didn't even know what he did—not really. And since fourth year I've wanted to be an Auror, with Harry." He refocused on Severus. "This past year I never even thought about a future. And these past few weeks, I've only ever thought of being George's partner. There's not too much fame and glory in that job, is there?" he asked with a shrug.

"You will need your Potions N.E.W.T.," said Severus, seemingly pulling that one out of the air. Ron's mouth dropped open.

"My Potions N.E.W.T. to run a joke shop?"

"Your Potions N.E.W.T. to develop skills you'll need to research and create new products."

"But George is the..." His voice trailed off as he saw the look being leveled at him from across the table.

"Transfiguration is a must as well, and of course Charms. I'd suggest Arithmancy as a future study—though you may learn enough in a year to at least complete an OWL in it. Professor Vector has added some basic mathematics and accounting to the course over the past few terms." Severus was very much enjoying the look that had taken over Ron's face. "You can drop Astronomy, though you would need it as an Auror, and there's no use in completing your N.E.W.T. in Defense now…."

"But I love Defense! It's my favorite—"

"You will need the time for Arithmancy. Now, do you see a need to continue with Herbology? I think, perhaps, that given the experimental nature of your proposed business and the quality and quantity of potential plant-based ingredients, you should continue the study and pursue that N.E.W.T.."

"Well, I…I thought that maybe I…" His voice faltered again and he stared helplessly at Severus. He looked gobsmacked. Severus suppressed a smile. He thought he understood perfectly what was going through Mr. Ron Weasley's mind.

"You thought you would be going back to Hogwarts for an easy final year, to pacify your parents. You would leave Hogwarts and set up shop with your brother, relying on your innate skills, not having achieved mastery in any of them. After all, what is really needed for a career as a shopkeeper, inventor, entrepreneur, retail manager, purchaser and strategist but an O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, hmm?"

The beginnings of a smile wormed their way across Ron's face. "Damn, you're good," he said.

"Language, Mr. Weasley," responded Severus, shaking his head and thinking to himself that they were going to have more trouble with these eighth years than he had anticipated. "Wait here a moment."

He rose to his feet carefully—balance after changes of position was still somewhat of a challenge for him at this stage of his recovery—and made his way into the parlor, where his Hogwarts documents were currently piled up on the sofa table beneath a polished stone Harry had brought in from the shore the day before. He found a seventh-year course guide and returned to the table, placing the document in front of Ron along with quill and ink and retaking his seat.

"Those are the areas of study offered to N.E.W.T. level students. To earn a N.E.W.T., you of course need to have earned an O.W.L. in the same subject." He nodded at the ink bottle. "Write "O.W.L." beside each area in which you've earned an O.W.L."

Ron picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink. "Are you doing this as headmaster or as Harry's guardian?" he asked before he set the quill to the parchment.

"The headmaster is paying special attention to your particular case because of who you are to Harry," answered Severus easily. "Harry cares about you and I care about Harry. Go on, now."

Thirty minutes later, at almost the exact moment that the sound of the car engine approaching was heard again, Ron picked up a completed course schedule for his eighth year at Hogwarts.

"I'm going to miss Defense," he said with a sigh as he studied the list. "And Arithmancy? With the fifth years? Hermione is going to have a field day with this one!"

"Basic accounting is taught in fifth year," said Severus. "Our modern Arithmancy isn't all about runes and predictions any more."

Ron sighed again, shaking his head as he regarded his schedule. "How did Harry take it when you did this with him?"

"I haven't done this with Harry yet, Mr. Weasley. I wanted to practice with you first. Thank you for being my guinea pig."

The front door opened, announcing the arrival of Harry and Bill.

"That was brilliant!" exclaimed Harry to Ron as he sat on the chair at the end of the table and looked curiously at the parchment, quill and ink in front of his best friend.

Ron's eyes lit up. "I wish we could take it out together." He glanced hopefully at his brother.

"Not a chance, Ron. One of you has to be licensed first. Are either of you interested in getting your learner's permit?"

Ron's face broke out in a smile. He'd learned to drive years ago, but only on the property at Ottery St. Catchpole and only in the old Ford Anglia. "Cool," he said. "What do we have to do?"

Harry, however, did something totally unexpected.

He looked over at Severus, so obviously seeking Severus' approval that Severus was momentarily dumbfounded.

Something had changed in Harry. Something fundamental, something big. That look meant they had achieved something more than trust, which had been difficult enough for Severus to earn.

He nodded, the barest hint of approval and was rewarded with a thankful smile. Then Harry turned to Ron and furrowed his brow.

"What IS all this stuff anyway?"

Ron sighed.

Ron had brought back Harry's trunk and broom and the boys went down to the beach to ride brooms a few minutes later. Bill went out with them to check the wards but came back in after a short time, climbing up the outside porch stairs to find Severus standing against the window, watching the boys on their brooms.

Bill didn't say anything at first, turning instead to look out the window beside Severus. Suddenly, he laughed.

"Harry claims he's rusty. Says he hadn't been on a broom for a year." He shook his head, a wide smile on his face as Harry skimmed low over the water, arms spread out in a 'Look at me! No hands!' posture. "This is what he calls rusty?"

"He doesn't seem to have lost this particular skill," commented Severus, wincing as Ron toppled off his broom onto the sand while trying to grab something—perhaps a stone—while flying low over the beach.

"He'll need this one if he's going to try for the Aurors," said Bill. "Speed and agility. With wand in hand, pointing backwards." He watched as Ron remounted his broom and began tossing a fist-sized stone back and forth with Harry as they flew. "You've not tried to talk him out of it, I take it?"

Severus shook his head. "Nor will I. I will help him determine, however, if that is the course he wants to take in life. He has many choices; he may not be aware of them all."

"No, I imagine he's had dark wizards on his mind for a long time now," said Bill dryly.

"In more ways than one," quipped Severus. "I want him to heal this summer, but I'm afraid the summer won't be time enough. Some of his wounds run very deep, and some things will never be unlearned." He glanced over at Bill. "And some of those things—his wariness, for example—will benefit him greatly should he go ahead with his plan to become an Auror."

"Kingsley was over at the Burrow the other night. He says they've lost more than a third of their Aurors, all told."

"All told?"

"Dead. Injured too badly to continue. A number of early retirements and a few that simply quit. And of course there were more than he'd like to admit who were working for the other side."

"Hmm." Severus' eyes rose and his head tilted back as he watched Harry soar over the cottage roof, followed closely by Ron. "It is a dangerous profession. There is no way around it."

"I think…" began Bill. He paused over his choice of words. "I think he would reconsider his choice—if you asked him to. If you gave him other viable options."

"I plan to present him other viable options," answered Severus. "But I will not—I cannot—ask him to give up his life's dream. No matter the danger." He turned away from the window and settled into one of the comfortable lounge chairs that faced the ocean. "Up until this point, Harry's entire life has been laid out for him. He has had no real choices. Even when he was forced to choose, the choices given him were so diametrically opposite that he really had no choice at all. Hunt Horcruxes or run away? Give himself up or let the Dark Lord's reign of terror continue?"

"Go back to Hogwarts for an eighth year or face his father's fury?" Bill had turned to face Severus, leaning casually against the window.

Severus smiled and shook his head. "I'm still unused to hearing that term."

"Get used to it. I'll be taking on that title soon enough. You'll have to give me pointers."

Severus laughed. He laughed now more frequently than he used to, but the sound was still an odd one coming from him and it took Bill a moment to determine that Severus was, indeed, amused .

"I'm afraid our experiences will not have much overlap. I've never raised an infant and I fear the experience I do have with teenagers is colored by my years as a professor."

Bill looked at Severus almost fondly.

"And by your long association with one Harry Potter," he said. "Raising an infant should be a breeze compared to that."

Severus wondered then, watching Harry fly back from the front yard and soar over the ocean, what Harry would have been like as an infant. He imagined the same messy hair, a plushie Snitch grasped in a chubby hand, the thumb of the other hand firmly in his mouth. A baby swaddled in a blanket, its fat cheek resting against his mother's shoulder as she sang a quiet lullaby. Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, Lavender's green…

"Someday Harry's going to give you grandchildren, Severus." Bill's voice interrupted his reverie. "You'll learn all about infants then."

"Let's get him out of Hogwarts first, shall we?" said Severus. Not that he was opposed to the idea of grandchildren. It would just take some getting used to.

Severus had gone up to bed already and Harry and Ron sat side by side on the porch, their lounge chairs pulled next to each other with a low table between them holding their bag of crisps and butterbeers. Ron held the Deluminator and kept snuffing out all of the oil lamps on the porch only to light them again, balls of flame careening back toward the walls at dazzling speeds.

"Do you still have your gift from Dumbledore?" asked Ron.

Harry nodded. "Upstairs in my bag from Hagrid. I expect I'll always keep it."

Ron sighed. "Hermione's got her book from him in her bedroom in a special box. She's rather fond of it."

"I bet she is," laughed Harry. "She's fond of all of her books."

"Well, this one in particular," said Ron. "Like I said, special box and all."

"Hogwarts: A History probably wouldn't fit in the box," said Harry. "Hey, how do you know about this box anyway? Have you been to Hermione's bedroom?" He looked over at Ron curiously in time to see his face color with a blush.

"Well, yeah—we are together now, you know," answered Ron. He flicked the Deluminator, pointing it at the oil lamp on the breakfast table. The lamp flamed up and shadows danced around the room.

"Together?" asked Harry, carefully. "Like, how together? Have you…?"

"No! Not really. I mean no, we haven't. Not yet."

"Not really?" repeated Harry, both amused and suddenly very interested in where this conversation was going. If only it wasn't Hermione they were talking about.

"Well, we've done some stuff but not it," clarified Ron. "Listen, I know you're my best mate and all but this is kind of awkward. Hermione's your friend, too…."

"Tell me about it," muttered Harry, thinking of having this same conversation about Ginny and suddenly wanting very much to change the topic.

"Wait a minute." Ron put down his bottle of butterbeer and glared over at Harry. "You and my sister haven't gotten up to anything, have you?"

"No! Of course not," Harry choked out.

"What do you mean 'of course not?' Isn't she good enough for you?"

That odd twist left Harry confused. "What are you on about, Ron? First you as good as threaten me, thinking I might be up to something with your sister, then you accuse me of thinking she's not good enough for me because we haven't done it yet."

"You haven't?"

"I just told you we haven't, you prat! It's just me and Severus here—how do you suppose we'd manage that?"

Ron processed that a moment. "What I think I'm hearing you say is that you only haven't done it because you haven't had the chance but that you'd do it in a second if you were alone." He glared sideways at Harry and Harry, frustrated as he was at Ron's circular logic, wanted to laugh.

"I didn't say that at all. I said that even IF we wanted to do it, we wouldn't really have a chance around here, would we? It's not like I get to sneak up to Ginny's bedroom like you do with Hermione. Kind of convenient that her parents are out working every day and she has the afternoons off, isn't it?"

Ron's offensive posture dropped away. He sighed dreamily. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

Harry was suddenly reminded of Ron after he'd eaten the spiked Chocolate Cauldrons and had developed a sudden infatuation with Romilda Vane.

Harry echoed his sigh, but his was one of frustration rather than contentment.

"I was kissing Ginny goodbye the other night after you and Hermione had already Flooed out and Severus came in and literally yanked us apart. He had me by the collar!"

Ron let out a loud guffaw. "You must have been practically devouring her face for him to do that. Where did you have your hands?" Then he suddenly seemed to recall who Harry had been kissing. "Wait a minute. Where DID you have your hands?"

"Where did you have yours when you and Hermione were doing whatever 'not really doing it' means?"

"You better not have had them there!" hissed Ron. He and Harry stared at each other a long minute and then both erupted in laughter.

"Just do me a favor and NEVER tell me what you're getting up to with my sister, OK?" asked Ron when they'd calmed down enough to talk again.

"Listen, Ron, we're best mates. Best mates talk about what they get up to. Maybe we should make up some code names for our girlfriends. We can just call them 'Lavender' and 'Cho.' Then you can give me the play-by-play, since you're obviously a lot closer to scoring than I am."

"Would you stop talking about scoring with my sister?" moaned Ron.

"I'm not! You're supposed to be talking about scoring with 'Lavender.'" Harry laughed at the pained look on Ron's face. He mumbled, "Won-Won," under his breath and Ron hit him with a pillow.

"OK, how's this?" Ron took another handful of crisps and popped one into his mouth, chewing loudly. He swallowed. "OK, Harry, last night Lavender let me take her t-shirt off. Then she let me take her bra off. Then she let me touch her breasts. Sweet Merlin, they were gorgeous. All firm and perky but soft and so smooth. I could have packed up my bags and moved into those breasts—that's how much it was like coming home…."

"Stop! You're talking about Hermione's breasts!" Harry looked vaguely ill.

"No, I'm not. I'm talking about 'Lavender's' breasts. You told me to call her Lavender so we could share this stuff like best mates do."

"I was wrong. Never mention it again."

They sat there for a long while, talking quietly, drinking butterbeer and, when the crisps were gone, eating the biscuits Mrs. Weasley had sent with Ron.

"I can't believe so much time has gone by," said Harry at last. "It's the middle of June already. We'll be back at Hogwarts in two months."

"Yeah, and I'll be eyeballs deep in N.E.W.T. classes, thanks to our favorite headmaster."

Harry chuckled. He'd spent a good thirty minutes looking at Ron's class schedule and dreading his own session with Severus which Severus had agreed to put off until Ron's visit was over. "Can you imagine Hermione's reaction when she finds out you're going to be taking Arithmancy?"

Ron smiled. He pointed the Deluminator to the wall sconce again and put out one of the lamps. "You remember how I used the Deluminator to find you last Christmas? After I left?"

How could he not? "Of course I do," Harry answered quietly, looking at the grey steel device in Ron's hands. He wanted to hug that Deluminator for bringing Ron back to them. He wanted to reach into the grave and thank Dumbledore for having the foresight and wisdom to leave such an important gift to his best friend.

"Well, it still works like that, you know. I guess…I guess it tries to take you to where your heart is, or where it wants to be. Last winter—I wanted to be back with you both so much it was all I could think of. It would tease me with your voices. But now—now it teases me with hers. If I use it during the day, I can sometimes hear her talking with her parents in their office if she's there with them. Or in the evening, I hear them laughing in front of the television."

Harry smiled at Ron. "Looks like Dumbledore gave you something you'll always treasure, then," he said.

Ron shrugged and put the device back into his pocket. "Yeah. I keep it with my wand. Guess it ranks right up there with that, eh?"

After a long quiet moment, Harry's voice broke the silence.

"So, did Hermione really let you...?"

He felt he definitely deserved the punch on his shoulder.

(Chapter 5)

Chapter 5

"They want you to do what?" Minerva grabbed the parchment with the Ministry seal right out of Severus' hands and began to scan it. Nearly a week had passed since Ron and Bill's visit. Term started in ten weeks and she and Severus were now meeting twice a week to iron out the details of a new year at a boarding school for hundreds of magical students.

"A deposition?" She raised worried eyes and met Severus’. "I understand why this is needed, Severus. But so soon?"

"They've given me nearly two months already," said Severus. "It is not an unreasonable request, and certainly not unexpected. Especially considering what they are up against."

"What? Rebuilding an entire government when nearly half of its former officials are now imprisoned in Azkaban? Trying to locate the Muggle-born witches and wizards who fled the country and assure them it is safe to return? Determining how to compensate the hundreds who were imprisoned for the impossible act of stealing magic from legitimate magical beings? Arranging for trauma counseling for all of Hogwarts' professors and students?

"I think they are most concerned now with sorting out the accused," said Severus dryly. "And they believe that I may be of help." He indicated the parchment in Minerva's hand. "Thus, the summons."

"You will need to distract Harry—perhaps send him to the Burrow for the day," suggested Minerva as she helped herself to tea, adding a touch of milk and frowning as she stirred it in.

"I am not sure that is possible," said Severus. "We have already discussed his reluctance both to leave me and to foray out into the Wizarding world. I have agreed to leave him be until July."

"He cannot go with you," said Minerva in a voice that brooked no argument. "Harry has made only a half dozen appearances since the final battle—each and every one of them at the funeral of a loved one. More than a month has passed since the Creevey boy's funeral, and he's gone from Hogwarts to this cottage in that time. I know he reads the Prophet, Severus, but does he have any idea what it will be like out there? The number of people who have him to personally thank for their lives and liberty?

"We cannot hide here forever, Minerva. His failure to appear in public will make the aura of mystery around him even greater. He must face this sometime, but he truly doesn't know what it is he will face." He sighed as he sat down on his usual place in the center of the sofa. "I will have to tell him about this, Minerva, and I very much doubt he will let me go to the Ministry without him. As much as he wants to avoid that place, he will not trust them with me."

"I'm not sure even I trust them with you," said Minerva quietly. "I think it prudent that I accompany you, as well. I don't want anyone to get any hare-brained ideas and elevate you to some ridiculous Ministry post when Hogwarts has such need of you."

"I will be fine. This is a deposition, not a trial."

"Speaking of trials, have you heard anything yet of Draco Malfoy?"

Severus' mouth tightened into a line. "He is at the manor with his mother. Both are being used as collateral, so to speak, against Lucius. He will be permanently interned without trial if they leave the country or break the terms of their provisional freedom." He shook his head. "The greatest challenge Draco faces is the charge from Katie Bell's family. I cannot fault them for wanting recompense. The emotional turmoil and the financial expense of having her in St. Mungo's for all those months has nearly broken the family and she has never quite come back to how she was before the cursing.”

"Severus, did Draco Malfoy take the Dark Mark?" Minerva had taken her habitual seat across from Severus and was eying a second Ministry letter sitting on the table between them.

"He did," answered Severus with a sigh. "Interestingly, and quite surprisingly, however, the Ministry has decreed that the presence of the Dark Mark alone is not grounds for trial or internment. They are, however, working diligently to find evidence of specific crimes attributed to those who carried the brand."

"Carried it?" asked Minerva.

In answer to her question, Severus loosened the buttons on the cuff of his shirt sleeve on his left arm and slowly rolled it back, exposing his forearm. He slowly rotated his arm, showing the area from wrist to elbow where for so many years he had carried Voldemort's mark.

Minerva leaned in, then stared up at Severus.

"It's barely visible, Severus! Did you do something?"

He laughed. "Me? Hardly. Harry did something. This happened the last time—when the Dark Lord disappeared for all those years after trying to kill Harry. But always then it was a shadow just barely visible. Now…it is already nearly gone, and will soon be so permanently, I expect. The magic that bound it is gone and cannot retain even a tenuous hold on the mark."

Minerva reached out a thin hand and ran her fingers slowly over the skin of his arm. "What a gift, Severus. A chance for the young ones to start over."

"And some of the older ones, as well," added Severus, "though many will not have the chance. Their crimes are documented and they will be tried. Those who survived, in any case."

"There have been suicides in Azkaban, I understand," said Minerva. Severus did not comment and she nodded to the second letter resting on the table.

"A summons for Harry as well?" she ventured.

"Not exactly," said Severus. He looked out of the room toward the hallway and the bottom of the stairs.

"He's still in bed?" asked Minerva, checking the clock on the wall, which currently read eight thirty.

Severus nodded. "He's often up by now, but sometimes sleeps past nine." He glanced at the letter that had captured Minerva's attention. "The Ministry is requesting a series of memories from Harry, to be viewed by the Wizengamot, documented in narrative format for archival purposes, then returned to him. They will store with the documentation the memory of one of the panel reviewing the actual memory." Try as he did to keep his voice neutral, as if simply relating to Minerva that he hoped it wouldn't rain that day, there was a certain tightness, apprehension, in his voice that Minerva did not miss.

"I do not think the request itself is unusual," she replied carefully. "But the devil is in the details, Severus. Have they listed the specific memories they would like to view and record?"

Now he didn't bother to maintain his neutral tone. "Not exactly," he said, grimacing. "Although they have alluded to 'pivotal events leading up to and including the Battle of Hogwarts.'"

Minerva reached across the table again, grasping his hand. "You have been fully exonerated, Severus. Do you suspect they are looking for anything besides records for the official archives?"

"I think they are a curious bunch of old coots and biddies who are looking for more titillation than the Prophet can give them. I think there were enough eyewitnesses to Voldemort's demise that a memory from Harry is just icing on the proverbial cake. I think…"

"Severus—" interrupted Minerva with a smile. "Severus, Harry has not seen this letter yet?"

Severus shook his head. "It came this morning with my own." He tapped it with a formal-looking white quill that had been resting atop an inkwell. "It is at times like this, Minerva, that I most wish Albus were here. He'd have this sorted out quickly. His mind was so sharp, so calculating…"

"Which is something about the man that you most certainly did not appreciate while he was alive," said Minerva with an indulgent smile. "And while I am decidedly not Albus Dumbledore, I do suggest you discuss the matter with Harry and make a counteroffer of sorts. Ask for a specific list of memories they would like to examine. Or offer a list of your own making of memories he is willing to share. You must appear to be willing to cooperate, and turn the situation to your own advantage."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a brilliant strategist, Minerva?" Severus said with a grateful smile.

"I'm more accustomed to hearing phrases such as 'blasted feline' and 'meddling old cat.'"

"Your reputation precedes you."

"I realize that. Now let's get through some of this paperwork so you have the afternoon free to spend with Harry. I expect this will not sit well with the boy."

Severus could only nod his agreement.

"I don't think you should go. You can send them an owl—tell them you're having a bad day."

Severus turned to face Harry, who was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. It was just past eight in the morning on Thursday but Harry was wide awake and already dressed in formal trousers and one of Severus' dark blue dress shirts.

"I appreciate your concern," said Severus. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, counting backwards from ten to keep himself from snapping at Harry. Three days since the Ministry owls had come, three days since he'd first sat down with Harry to discuss the impending visit to the Ministry. Three days of increasingly desperate reasons that Severus should not—could not—show up for his scheduled deposition. Three nights of fitful sleep—for both of them. Thank Merlin Harry's own appointment was two weeks away still.

"Harry, I am leaving in less than an hour for the Ministry. You do not have to accompany me—indeed, you know I would prefer that you remain here. Your friends have said they would come stay with you if you do not wish to be alone."

Harry stared at Severus. "It's not about being alone and you know it."

"Then I suggest you finish getting dressed, get your robes on and meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes."

Harry didn't move. Severus sat down on the bed, bent to pull on his socks. When he looked up, Harry was still there in the doorway, distressed but obviously attempting to compose himself.

"You're going."

Severus stood. "Twelve minutes."

Harry turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall.

"I will remind you now that I do not want you in the room with me while I am being interviewed," said Severus softly as he and Harry stepped out of the Floo into the vestibule of the Ministry of Magic.

"Interviewed. Right." Harry's voice was skeptical.

They both stared out at the people crowding the Ministry atrium.

For the moment, no one was paying them the least bit of attention. They had arrived at fifteen minutes 'til nine in the morning, at precisely the same time that an entire shift of Ministry employees was making its way through the atrium toward the lifts. Severus directed Harry toward the small kiosk at the end of the cavernous room where visitors checked in to receive their badges. The kiosk was obviously a temporary arrangement, hastily set up after Voldemort fell and the Ministry was retaken. Harry hadn't given much thought to what had gone on at the Ministry after Voldemort died. He had a general sense that things had been chaotic, that there had been fighting here as well, and the 'work in progress' state of the atrium seemed to confirm that. The most notable difference from the last time he had been here—in early September when he, Ron and Hermione had infiltrated the building using Polyjuice Potion—was the absence of the "Magic is Might" monument that had replaced the Statue of Magical Brethren.

Their anonymity, however, did not last long. They were recognized before they made it to the kiosk.

In the past, when he was recognized in Diagon Alley or the Leaky Cauldron or even in Hogsmeade, people would whisper and point, nod to him, and an occasional witch or wizard would greet him by name and shake his hand. His fame in those days was as the Boy Who Lived, the only person in history to have survived the Killing Curse and in doing so, dispatched the Dark Lord for thirteen years.

To say that his fame had grown since then was an understatement indeed.

Now he was the Boy Who Lived Twice, or the Boy Who Lived Again, the Chosen One, the Savior of the Wizarding World. The seventeen-year-old wizard who, with a simple Expelliarmus after nearly a year of finding and destroying Horcruxes, sent Lord Voldemort permanently to his grave.

Perhaps it had not been the best idea in the world to arrive at the Ministry of Magic at this time of the morning, when hundreds of Ministry employees were arriving to work.

Or on a day when depositions and arraignments were scheduled from a variety of individuals—noted and notorious—including the former High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, Dolores Umbridge herself.

Severus' decision to not notify the Ministry that Harry would be accompanying him today suddenly seemed like a terrible oversight.

Nearly every individual hurrying across or waiting in the Ministry atrium that day felt indebted in some way to Harry Potter for what he had done for each of them personally, as well as for the magical world as a whole.

The Aurors positioned around the atrium recognized the potential threat as whispers, then calls, then shouts of "He's here!" and "It's Harry Potter!" rose throughout the vast chamber. As Harry tried to move in front of Severus at the same time that Severus tried to position Harry between himself and the kiosk, four of the red-robed Aurors managed to reach them.

Severus could see Harry's panic.

He was in near panic mode himself. He'd expected that he and Harry would draw attention, but the sheer number of individuals present, the surge of people moving toward them and the sudden appearance of the Aurors was much more than he had expected. With his focus on Harry and his unaccustomed physical weakness he felt decidedly threatened. He had drawn his wand reflexively, as had Harry, but did not even think of using it as the Aurors turned their backs to them, facing the crowd. Severus managed to grab hold of Harry's elbow and pulled him against himself as the Aurors pressed back against the crowd, shouting orders.

But all hell broke loose a minute later, when a shout of "Grab her!" rose up from near the lift banks. Shouts, screams, spells firing over heads as the guards who had been transporting Dolores Umbridge to her arraignment tore through the hall in her pursuit.

Severus heard one of the Aurors protecting them from the throng exclaim, "It's Umbridge!"

Harry heard, too. He attempted to jerk away but Severus wrapped a second arm around him and pressed back against the kiosk.

Unfortunately, the fray seemed to be headed toward them. The kiosk was at the far end of the atrium, the end closest to the lifts, and the crowds were heavy but not as dense past it.

A spell, an obvious scuffle, a shout, clearly heard above the other noise: "She's got a wand!"

Another shout: "Where's Potter?"

The Potter in question was currently struggling in Severus' arms, trying to free himself.

The Aurors surrounding them pressed them back further as a maniacal scream rent the air followed by a high-pitched "Alohomora."

Then another scream, this one starting loud and dwindling, the end of the dying scream covered by the uproar of the crowd, which changed course and turned nearly en masse away from their advance on Harry and Severus and toward the source of the scream.

"That was her. That was Umbridge! I remember that scream—from the Forbidden Forest, when the centaurs carried her off!" Harry strained to see around the Aurors and Severus pulled him back again.

"Let the Aurors take care of it, Harry. Don't call any more attention to yourself."

Reinforcements had clearly arrived and, after a frantic five minutes or so, one of the Aurors guarding them turned around.

"They're clearing the atrium," she said, addressing Severus. "Looks like our escapee has taken care of herself."

"That was Umbridge, wasn't it? What happened?" Harry asked anxiously.

The Auror glanced over her shoulder. Harry could see a throng of red robes now near the lift on the far left. Other Ministry officials had appeared as well and were directing people to the remaining lifts, the emergency staircases and out of the atrium through the Floos. Harry thought he saw Kingsley Shacklebolt by the lifts, talking with the Aurors.

"Fell down the lift shaft," said the Auror, turning back to face Harry and Severus. "Minister himself is over there now. We'll wait until the crowd clears before taking you up, Headmaster."

"Why was she here today?" asked Severus sharply. "I was told she was in prison."

"You didn't tell me she was in pris…." Harry cut himself off as he saw Severus' 'we'll talk about this later' look.

"She was being brought in for her arraignment today," answered the Auror. "There are arraignments and depositions scheduled all week. We've had high profile cases stacked back to back."

"And how did she end up on the bottom of a lift shaft?" Severus asked, acting as if he was the Auror in charge rather than the very capable-looking woman facing them.

The Auror cracked a smile. "Inopportune timing on her Alohomora spell. She forced open the lift doors before the lift arrived and…." She shrugged, leaving them to fill in the blank.

Severus glanced at Harry. The boy didn't look distraught over the death. Perhaps that was a good sign, considering how much he had suffered at her hands. He did look uncomfortable, however, and vaguely ill, as if the unexpected crowds and the unwelcome attention had left him with an upset stomach.

"Mr. Potter could use some tea and, frankly, so could I," he said, turning back to the Auror. "I have a deposition scheduled in fifteen minutes."

"Severus. Harry." The Auror stepped back as the Minister of Magic approached, tailed by two additional Aurors.

"Kingsley!" Harry greeted him at the same time that Severus reached out his hand.

"Minister Shacklebolt."

Kingsley shook Severus' hand, then clasped Harry around the shoulders.

"No one alerted us that you'd be accompanying Severus today, Harry. We would have taken precautions—slipped you in through one of the private entrances."

Severus shook his head. "I would have preferred that he stay at the cottage. He insisted on coming. I believe he feels I'm not yet recovered enough for an inquisition."

"Inquisition?" Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

"His words. I've explained depositions but he remains…mistrustful."

"You don't have to talk about me like I'm not here," put in Harry.

"Please, feel free to jump in at any time," quipped Severus.

"What happened to Umbridge?" asked Harry. "How did she escape? Is she really dead?"

Kingsley looked grave. "She's dead. They've just retrieved her body, in fact. She escaped while she was being transported to her arraignment. The commotion in the atrium provided a distraction and she grabbed a bystander's wand. We have been a bit concerned about her mental state lately, and something like this should have been anticipated and prevented."

"I hated her," said Harry. "I'm glad she's dead." He had a sudden memory of Mad-Eye Moody's magical eye mounted on her office door. Rest in Peace, Mad-Eye.

Severus' hand, which had been resting on Harry's shoulder, tightened. He exchanged a quick look with Kingsley.

"I realize the time is short, but that bit of tea would be welcome," Severus said.

"Of course. The depositions are being held on the level below mine. Why don't we stop by my office for a cuppa and Harry can stay with me during your appointment?"

"Right. Appointment," grumbled Harry, now eying even Kingsley suspiciously.

"Harry, I realize you have no reason to trust the Ministry in general, but could you at least trust me personally? Severus is performing an invaluable service and he will be treated with all respect due him."

Harry nodded as they were escorted by the Auror guard toward the lift farthest from the scene of the tragic end of Dolores Umbridge. "But he's not well yet, not entirely," he informed Kingsley as the lift doors opened and they stepped inside.

"None of us are, Harry. None of us are," answered Kingsley as the doors closed.

Kingsley's office was surprisingly modest. It was roomy and had a nice seating area where all three sat down for a cup of tea while the three Aurors who had accompanied them waited in the hallway. But the office seemed to have older furnishings and looked as if it had been put together rather hastily.

"This was an administrative office," Kingsley informed them as they sat drinking their tea. "The office used by Thicknesse is unusable." He glanced meaningfully at Severus. "It's quite tainted by Dark Magic, actually. We've had specialists in but, frankly, they're needed more urgently elsewhere, so I lowered it on the priority list and moved in here."

Severus finished his tea rather quickly, bypassed the biscuits entirely, and stood.

"I'd best get this over with. I expect it will take some time, Harry. Please be patient and wait here for me. Kingsley, perhaps you can find something to keep Harry busy?"

Harry stilled as Severus walked toward the door, staring after him until the door closed behind him. He put his cup down on the table, the half-eaten biscuit on the saucer forgotten.

"Severus explained depositions to you, Harry," stated Kingsley. "You understand the process is to collect testimony of a witness, don't you?"

Harry looked over at the Minister, then down at his half-empty mug. "Yes. I understand that. But he doesn't need…he doesn't need to…to…remember all of it. I told you already: he isn't completely well yet."

"But you understand, don't you, that Severus Snape's testimony is perhaps the most valuable of all? He witnessed many of the crimes our prisoners committed. He can provide eyewitness testimony, even corroborate some of the evidence given by cooperating Death Eaters."

Harry pushed his saucer away, frustrated. "But Kingsley," he said, voice low and tense. "He committed crimes, too. He had to."

Kingsley reached across the table and placed a hand on Harry's wrist. "Harry, Severus is not on trial. He's been granted immunity from prosecution; you know that. The only stipulation is that he cooperate at the deposition. Isn't it best just to get this over with?"

Harry let out a sound that was half snort, half resigned sigh.

"That's what he said." Harry looked across at Kingsley. "He's been busy taking care of me." He smiled at Kingsley. "Well, he thinks he has, anyway. And getting ready for next term. He's had plenty to think about, to keep his mind busy. I'm not ready…" He stopped, took a deep breath. "I don't think he's ready—not yet—to deal with those memories, with what he had to do." He looked up at Kingsley again. "He didn't have a choice."

"Harry, you forget I was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. I know what Albus asked Severus to do. I know some of what his other master made him do, too. I listened to Severus' reports at more meetings than I care to remember, Harry." Kingsley leaned back in his chair and studied the young man sitting before him. "I imagine you've seen and done some things, too, that you'll need to deal with, as you say. Harry, we have some very good mind healers here at the Ministry…."

Harry frowned. "Mind healers?"

"In the Muggle world they're called psychologists. Sometimes just therapists. They help people deal with trauma, work through grief."

Harry clenched his hands into tight fists.

"Harry. Listen to me. I am not suggesting this for my own ends, or for any purpose that benefits the Ministry of Magic. We already have a team of professionals working with the Hogwarts staff and a separate team, one that specializes in the needs of children and teenagers, will be working with Madam Pomfrey beginning in September when classes start. I am not singling you out—just offering a jump start, so to speak."

Harry understood, at some level, what Kingsley was offering. His mind registered that these healers would be at Hogwarts in the fall, and if that was so, that Severus as headmaster must know about it and must have given his approval. Was he planning on telling him?

"I think I'll wait," he said to Kingsley, forcing a smile. "I'll talk to Severus first."

Kingsley wiped a large hand over the top of his head. "The Board of Governors is requiring that all returning Hogwarts faculty speak to the counselors on a regular basis. The events of the past year were so traumatic…."

"The past year?" interrupted Harry, scoffing. "I'd say we had a bit or more of trauma every year." He stood and walked over to the lone window in the room and stood looking out over London. Odd that, since the building was totally underground. He turned to face the Minister. "Sorry—that was rude. That's all water under the bridge, anyway, isn't it? The important thing is that Voldemort's gone and the Ministry is putting things back together." He smiled. "Listen, I'll be fine. I've got loads of free time this summer, and nothing better to do than lie on the beach and collect seashells. Take care of stuff here. You don't need to be worrying about me or about Hogwarts. We're young. We'll recover. It will all be fine."

Kingsley stood and went over to his desk on the other side of the room. The desk was an old wooden monster, with drawers and cubbyholes and a space for an old-fashioned inkwell, just like any of those the Wizarding world still used. He rooted around the parchment stacked haphazardly on the desk and finally pulled out a single piece of parchment and dropped it on the desk in front of Harry.

"The names of the students who won't be coming back to Hogwarts," he said. "More than twenty of them dead. Another eight so traumatized they're still in St. Mungo's." He looked on as Harry paled, then glanced up at Kingsley.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because not a single one of those children still hospitalized saw anything worse than you did, Harry."

Harry glanced back down at the paper, his stomach churning.

"Did Severus ask you to talk with me?" he said at last.

Kingsley shook his head. "No, Harry. I didn't know you were coming today, remember? But I asked him a few days ago if I could come speak with you, just as I am speaking personally with quite a few of your classmates. Severus just asked that I wait until after the deposition. He wanted you both to get over that hurdle first."

"I'm not quite over it, actually," said Harry, glancing at the door.

"I realize that, Harry. I brought this up to you only when I saw your concern for Severus, your worry that he should not have to remember these…atrocities…yet. It struck me that he, as a Hogwarts employee, will be getting professional help and I wanted to make the offer to you as well. You could see the same healer; we have several who work with adults and children."

"I'm not a child."

Harry stared at Kingsley, arms folded defensively in front of him, chin slightly raised.

No, thought Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking at the young man who reminded him much more of Severus Snape lately than of James Potter, you're not a child any longer, Harry Potter.

"Will you be requiring the students to talk to these…mind healers?" asked Harry, toying with the list in his hands.

"No. Only their parents or guardians can set that requirement. We will simply make the best trauma counselors available for those who choose to see them. Though there will be occasional large group sessions which all students will be required to attend."

"Can't we just put this all behind us and get on with life?" Harry asked. He sounded resigned.

"That's our intent, Harry. It will just take some time." He stood then and beckoned to Harry.

"Severus tells me you are still considering entering the Auror Corps. Come. Let's visit the training rooms. The recruits are dueling today."

Severus was not back until nearly one o'clock in the afternoon.

Fortunately, Harry had spent a content two hours in the training rooms watching the Auror recruits duel. Kingsley stayed with him, watching the duels and commenting on them, making the recruits nervous and on edge. At noon they returned to Kingsley's office, where Harry refused lunch and proceeded to pace for nearly an hour until the office door opened and Severus stepped inside, escorted by two Aurors.

He was pale and drawn. He sank gratefully into a chair Kingsley pulled out for him.

Harry moved quickly over to him. "Let's go home, Severus. You need to lie down."

Severus raised his hand. "In a moment, Harry. You are right—I am in need of a good lie down. How did you spend your morning?"

Harry sat down next to him and poured him a cup of tea from the service that had appeared on the table. He looked at Severus, still obviously worried. "Kingsley took me down to watch the Auror recruits duel."

Severus frowned and glanced over at Kingsley.

"I stayed with him, Severus. And no, I did not allow him to participate in the dueling."

"And he told me about the mind healers—at Hogwarts," said Harry, wishing to get that tidbit out on the table when both Severus and Kingsley were still in the room.

"Did he, now?" said Severus. "I was planning to tell you about that after we got through today."

"You're seeing someone?" asked Harry. "He said the staff was required to. He thinks I should see someone, too."

Kingsley had no doubt now where Harry's loyalties were.

"I'm not seeing anyone yet," answered Severus. "I am scheduled to meet with a healer at Hogwarts next month."

"Well, do you think I need to see someone?"

Severus stared at Harry a long moment. "I don't know, Harry. I thought you should get back into the business of being a teenager this summer, spend time with your friends, relax. I didn't plan on asking you to make a decision about counseling until the end of summer."

"But you're going to do it—right?"

"Yes. I am required to." Harry did not miss his slight frown as he said it.

"Would you do it if they weren't making you?"

"Harry, perhaps we should continue this conversation at home. Minister, thank you for spending time with Harry this morning."

He stood up slowly and Harry was up and at his side immediately. Kingsley watched them go without comment but inside he wondered how much reach Albus Dumbledore had from beyond the grave. The relationship between Severus Snape and Harry Potter was very much like something only Dumbledore could have dreamed up and orchestrated.

Harry settled Severus on the sofa and brought him a glass of water. Severus was lying back with this eyes closed by the time Harry returned from the kitchen, but he opened his eyes and reached for the glass when he heard Harry enter. Harry sat on the opposite end of the couch and pulled his legs up, assuming the position he so often took when he was upset or contemplative.

Severus had closed his eyes after drinking the water, and Harry sat there on the sofa and stared at him, stared at the pale face, the prominent nose he had ridiculed when he was younger, the tightly knit eyebrows, the dark hair drawn back with a band at the nape of his neck.

"Do you want to sleep?" he asked after a bit of time had passed. Severus' eyes were closed, but he was obviously not sleeping.

"They asked me about Charity Burbage," said Severus, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling

"Professor Burbage?" asked Harry, off-balance at the sudden topic. "Didn't she teach Muggle Studies?"

"Yes, she does. She did. She was captured and brought to…Voldemort…last summer."

Harry stared at Severus even as the other man closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"Did he…? Did he kill her?" asked Harry quietly.

Severus nodded, eyes still closed. "He had her suspended over the banquet table. He killed her in front of all of the Death Eaters—fed her to Nagini."

Harry paled, blanched. Watched Severus' face contort.

"You were there?" he asked, compelled by some inner force to ask even though he did not really want to know.

Severus nodded without a verbal response.

"That must have been awful," said Harry very quietly, eyes still glued to Severus' broken face. "Were you friends?"

Severus shook his head. "We were colleagues. Not friends."

"Oh."

This was just the type of thing, thought Harry, that one should keep inside. Not share. Pack up into a little compartment, nail the lid shut, store in the back of a mental closet. Charity Burbage had been dead for a year. So had Mad-Eye Moody. So had Albus Dumbledore.

"She saw me there, just before he killed her."

Shit. He didn't want to hear this. But he stared at Severus, transfixed.

"She called out to me. By name. She said 'Severus…please….please.' As she was trapped there, suspended, spinning in the air…."

Harry had no words. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, tears for the helpless Muggle Studies professor, tears for Severus. He wasn't sure who he would have chosen to be if given the choice—Charity Burbage, condemned to death, or Severus Snape, condemned to watch her die.

Or himself. Sitting here on the couch with the one he now called father, watching his beloved face as tears streamed from his eyes, rolled down his cheeks.

"She was crying," Severus said through his own tears. "And I did nothing."

And because you did nothing, you lived another day, thought Harry. Because you did nothing you were headmaster of Hogwarts last year, and you did everything in your power to take care of my friends. To get things ready for me.

"She would forgive you," said Harry at last, in a voice hardly more than a whisper. "If she knew why you couldn't help her."

Severus opened his eyes and looked at his son, so wise for his years. Saw that Harry was crying too.

"But I have not yet forgiven myself," said Severus.

Harry remembered Cedric. And Sirius. And he thought he understood.

(Chapter 6)

A/N: My apologies for not getting a chapter out last weekend. My mother, who has suffered long from vascular dementia, died on December 1st. I took a short but necessary break from writing but felt up to it again this weekend. I'm not sure about this chapter-shorter than the others and not as meaty, but I've brought Neville to Shell Cottage and touched on Teddy again. Hope you enjoy .

________________________________________

Chapter 6

"Severus?"

Severus looked up from his papers—these days, he was often bent over piles of parchment and Ministry letters. It was Sunday evening, only three days after his deposition at the Ministry of Magic. Harry held up a piece of parchment.

"Neville wrote me last week. I wrote back and asked him out here to visit. I thought we could spend the day at the beach."

"You told me that last week, Harry," said Severus. He rolled up his right shirtsleeve, folding the cuff carefully. "Have you heard back from him?"

Harry waved the letter again. "Yeah, I have. He seems to have some concerns about visiting." He hesitated. "Well, about you in particular. Said there was some bad blood between you two this past year, actually."

"That's one way to put it," mumbled Severus.

"I was there at the end, you know," said Harry. "When he tried to hex you, before you…left."

"I was not kind to him," said Severus. "Not even covertly, as I was to Miss Weasley. I have been meaning to speak to you about this, Harry. Perhaps now is a good time."

Harry walked into the room from the doorway and sat down in what he now called "Minerva's chair."

"Ginny's filled me in a bit," he said. Severus looked at him as he spoke, waiting. "She said you gave Neville over to the Carrows once, for hexing practice." There was a slight challenge in Harry's eyes, almost as if he were asking Severus to deny this obvious truth. Ginny Weasley was a trusted source.

"I did," admitted Severus. He did not volunteer any more information.

"You did," repeated Harry. He glanced back down at the letter in his hand then looked up again at Severus. "I'm sure…you must have had a reason."

"I did," answered Severus, still not looking away. "But that does not excuse my actions."

Harry's face fell. "We've been over this already," he said. "I get it. It's just like with Professor Burbage. These things you did—that you're not proud of—a lot of times they saved a lot of people in the long run. You have to let go of some of this."

Severus' face lifted slightly, a small smile replacing the tight-lipped stare. "Perhaps you should be the counselor," he suggested.

Harry scowled and Severus smiled more broadly.

"I don't need counseling."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "I have never said that you do. In fact, I have not even suggested that you seek out one of the Ministry-provided mind healers when we return to Hogwarts. I may suggest that at summer's end if I feel you need it, but even at that point, Harry, it is ultimately your decision."

Harry let the subject drop, as he had several times in the past few days. "So are you going to clue me in as to why you picked on Neville all year?"

"Why don't you tell me what you think?" asked Severus. He picked up a rag and cleaned the tip of his quill as he watched Harry.

"I hate these games," said Harry crossly. "Just tell me."

"It isn't a game," responded Severus. "It's a call for you to put yourself in my place. I don't claim to have made all the right decisions, Harry. But I did as you asked. As Albus asked. I tried to protect your friends and all the children at Hogwarts." He looked at Harry, thinking that his heart, worn so openly on his sleeve, should be visible there. "Neville Longbottom protected more children at Hogwarts, more of your friends, than I ever could have. But to do so, he had to be their hero. And to be their hero, he had to be my enemy."

Harry stared at Severus, obviously turning the words over in his head.

"It could have been someone else. Why Neville?" he asked.

"He was there at the right time," answered Severus honestly. He sighed. "Harry, I cannot even begin to try to explain the travesty that was last year. We all walked on eggshells all the time. It was a delicate balancing game. The Carrows were the Dark Lord's watch—"

"Voldemort. Say Voldemort," interrupted Harry.

"The Carrows were Voldemort's watchdogs," continued Severus. "My loyalties simply could not be questioned. Neville was a Gryffindor. A known friend of Harry Potter. That he happened to be there when the opportunity arose to further prove my allegiance was nothing but coincidence."

Harry looked down at the letter in his hands.

"He wants to come see me," he said softly. "But he was hoping to come when you weren't here."

Severus now realized he should have addressed this issue earlier. He'd forgotten all about young Neville Longbottom these last few weeks. He had heard the tales of the final battle and the part Neville played.

"Would you like me to leave? I could spend a few hours at Hogwarts with Minerva and the other professors."

"No," answered Harry, a bit too quickly. "Just…would you be kind of…scarce?" Severus saw what that request was costing Harry and sighed.

"I can be as scarce as you'd like me to be, Harry," he answered. "And I will be cordial to Mr. Longbottom. Should I attempt to speak with him alone? Apologize for my behavior?"

Harry looked quickly down at the letter again. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Not this first time, anyway."

Severus sighed. "Fine. I do think, however, that Mr. Longbottom should see me, and should see me interact with you in a normal way."

"Alright," agreed Harry. "Maybe you could come downstairs and ask me something. Something normal. Like what I want for dinner or if I've done my summer homework yet."

"Why would I ask you if you've done your summer work yet in the middle of your friend's visit? Especially when you don't even have summer work?" teased Severus.

"You know what I mean," answered Harry. He smiled at Severus.

"Fine. I will be upstairs napping when Mr. Longbottom arrives. I will come down at some point to fix myself a snack and will inquire as to your dinner preferences."

"Or you could ask what I want for dinner," said Harry with a smirk.

"Since you have such a shocking lack of summer work, I just might assign supplementary reading from a thesaurus," threatened Severus. "You seem to need it."

"I don't need one; I have you," countered Harry.

"Cheeky," muttered Severus. Harry stood up. "When is Mr. Longbottom coming?" asked Severus as Harry made to leave.

"Day after tomorrow," answered Harry. He frowned. "I should have asked first. Sorry. Is that day alright?"

"It is fine," said Severus. "You do not need my permission to have friends over, Harry. Simply advise me of your plans and I'll be sure Minerva and I are not in the middle of your party."

"Hermione's coming over this afternoon," said Harry from the doorway.

Severus turned to look at him. "That is fine. A bit more advance notice would be appreciated in the future."

"Sure, Dad."

Severus heard Harry's footsteps on the stairs and he shook his head slowly, smiling. Harry didn't call him Dad often. He seemed to have a weekly quota of "Dads" in his mind and he used them seemingly randomly, always surprising him when he did. Always bringing that smile to his face.

That he had chosen to use it now, after that uncomfortable discussion regarding Neville Longbottom, meant quite a bit to Severus.

Hermione arrived just after lunch. Severus opened the door when she knocked, noting as he did that both the temperature and humidity had soared since he had gone outside earlier that morning.

"Hello, Headmaster," she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, her customary greeting.

"Miss Granger," he acknowledged. "Harry is on the porch reading. Perhaps you can convince him to go for a swim. He's been brooding a bit since our adventure at the Ministry.

"He wrote to me about that," she said. "And of course it was all over the evening Prophet that night." She eyed Severus speculatively. "How did he react when she died?"

"He was…not upset," Severus replied, thinking back to the chaos that had surrounded the last minutes of Dolores Umbridge's abbreviated life.

"Hermione!" Harry appeared from the kitchen and came over to hug his friend.

"What is Mr. Weasley up to today?" asked Severus as he returned to his usual seat on the sofa.

"The whole family is leaving for Romania this evening," answered Harry with a sigh. "Charlie's invited them down for a week to see the dragon preserve."

"We were invited, too," said Hermione. "But I couldn't take that much time off work."

"Your parents would have let you, Hermione," began Harry.

"Of course they would have. But they'd be lost without me. They're doing their best to keep up and I've got an advert out for some office help, but they lost their hygienist so they've got to do all the cleanings themselves now, until we can find someone." She smiled. "No matter. I'll get to go some day."

Severus didn't ask Harry why he hadn't gone along. He wished Harry would feel comfortable enough to leave for a week, even for a day or two, but it wasn't time to push it yet.

"Charlie's got a boyfriend now," said Harry, blurting out the information with no preamble.

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Well, that is news, isn't it?"

"Why? Don't you approve?" Harry challenged.

"How could I approve or disapprove?" answered Severus, being careful to appear casual. "I've never met the boyfriend, have I?"

"You probably have. He's someone Charlie knew from Hogwarts."

"In which case I would have taught him. His name?"

Harry shrugged. "Can't remember." He studied Severus a moment. "So it doesn't matter to you—that Charlie's gay?"

Severus shrugged. "Not at all. Charlie Weasley's an adult. He can date whomever he pleases. I don't know Charlie well, Harry. Is he happy?"

"Ron says he is," answered Hermione. "He said his mum is already knitting a Weasley jumper for him."

Severus nodded. "One can never have too many Weasley jumpers," he noted dryly.

Harry smiled. He and Hermione went upstairs to change for the beach and Severus felt very much as though he had passed an important test.

An hour later, Harry and Hermione were sitting together on towels laid out over the beach blanket. Both were wet, and Hermione's long hair was drying on her back, curling up in little ringlets as it dried. She reached over and tugged on a lock of Harry's hair, down to his shoulder blades now.

"You need a haircut," she said. "How long has it been?"

Harry smoothed down his hair with a hand. "I've not had a proper haircut since last summer," he answered. "Bill took me to the barber before the wedding."

"You could leave it long," mused Hermione.

"I like it like this. At least for now. I might get it cut later on but I'd like to grow it long enough to tie it back."

"Like Bill's?" asked Hermione. "Are you going to get your ear pierced, too?"

Harry tossed a shell at her and she laughed. "Severus would have a fit," he said. He laughed then. "I think I'll ask him, just to see what he says. I'll probably get some lecture about how I already have enough holes in my head."

"Severus doesn't lecture you," admonished Hermione quietly. She might call Severus 'Headmaster' to his face, but with Harry, he was always Severus.

"No, he doesn't. Not often. Only when he's scared," said Harry. "I'm expecting one soon, though. I can tell he's not all for me going into the Auror Academy."

"It's dangerous work," said Hermione, not quite in her lecture mode. "He probably figures you've already done enough for the Wizarding world." She reached out and touched Harry's knee. "He doesn't want to lose you, Harry."

And there was that tug again, that annoying little tug at his heart that Harry was slowly getting accustomed to. The reality that someone cared about him. Would miss him if he were gone.

"Do you want to hear about Umbridge?"

"You're changing the subject, Harry. But yes, I do." Hermione picked up an extra towel and towel-dried her hair. "Go on, then. What happened?"

"She fell down a lift shaft, the stupid bint," said Harry. "Just like the Prophet reported."

"So tell me something I don't know already."

"She screamed all the way down. It didn't take too long—I think she only fell a couple floors. You could hear it over all the people in the atrium. Sounded exactly like her scream when the centaurs took her away in the Forbidden Forest. That's how I knew it was her."

"That must have been horrible, Harry." Hermione drew her knees up and shuddered.

Harry shook his head. "No, not really. The whole thing was already horrible—all those people pressing in on us, the Aurors suddenly appearing and pushing us back against the check-in kiosk. That was horrible. I didn't trust them at first. And then when Umbridge got loose, Severus practically sat on me." He turned toward Hermione. "I didn't even know she was in jail, Hermione. I mean, I'm glad she was. That's where she belonged, after what we saw at the Ministry last year." He stopped and sighed. "But now she's dead."

Hermione picked up a stick and started doodling in the sand in front of her. "How do you feel about that?"

Harry laughed harshly. "How do I feel about that? You sound like one of those mind healers Kingsley was telling me about." He picked up a small stone and hurled it out in the ocean. "I feel…nothing. I'm not happy she's dead. But I'm not sad, either. It's like her death is this insignificant little event in this big ocean of chaos. It just is."

"She caused a lot of pain," said Hermione softly. "What she was doing to those poor Muggle-borns..."

"She wasn't even human in my eyes," said Harry. "Dying like that—in such a Muggle way—it's exactly what she deserved. Magic didn't save her. Her own stupidity did her in. She's not worth thinking about any more."

Harry suddenly noticed what Hermione had drawn in the sand: a fairly good rendering of a fat toad. She was currently adding a ridiculously large bow on its head. He smiled thoughtfully and watched her draw for a moment.

"Are you glad Bellatrix Lestrange is dead?" he asked carefully.

Hermione suddenly went still.

"Odd that nearly every time I've used Polyjuice I've had a horrific experience," she said after a moment. Harry watched her use the stick to smooth the sand where the Umbridge toad had been. "First it was the cat. Then the woman at the Ministry that had to sit there next to Umbridge during those interrogations."

"Then Godric's Hollow," Harry added softly.

She nodded. Swallowed. "Then Bellatrix herself." She was drawing a woman's head now, with wild hair and large eyes. "Yes, I'm glad she's dead. She deserves to be dead after…after all that she did." She drew a large X over Bellatrix's sandy head. "Do you think it's wrong to be glad someone is dead?"

"I'm glad Voldemort is dead," said Harry. "Honestly, all those deaths of other evil people pale in comparison."

"I'm glad Voldemort is dead, too," sighed Hermione. "But I wish it wasn't you that had to kill him."

Harry looked over at Hermione and smiled sadly. "Me too," he said. And he picked up another stone and threw it out to sea.

When Neville Longbottom arrived at Shell Cottage at ten thirty in the morning on Tuesday, Harry wasn't there.

That wasn't how the morning had been planned. But Andromeda Tonks had fire-called at eight thirty asking if Harry could come over for an hour or so to mind Teddy while she slept to try to rid herself of a painful migraine.

Severus could see Harry mentally weigh his options. He loved his little godson and wanted to help out Andromeda, but was equally reluctant to leave Severus.

"Go," said Severus. "You'll be home by the time your friend gets here. I've got some migraine relief potion upstairs. You can take it to Andromeda with my regards." He figuratively crossed his fingers. Leaving him, even for a short time, would be an important step for Harry.

In the end, Harry agreed to go. He pocketed the potion from Severus and Flooed to the Tonks residence while Severus cleaned up the breakfast dishes.

Neville was scheduled to arrive at eleven, and Severus had just checked the time at ten thirty when someone knocked on the door.

Of course it was Longbottom. He stood on the front porch, long and lanky, hair recently cut, taller than Severus now.

"Mr. Longbottom, come in," said Severus in greeting, stepping back away from the door and closing it behind the young man who took two steps in and looked around for Harry.

"Harry was expecting you at eleven," began Severus, trying very hard to keep his voice neutral and pleasant."

"Oh. I told him between ten and eleven." Neville looked around the cottage, or what he could see of it from his current position near the door. "Is he still in bed?"

Severus shook his head and came to a quick decision. "Come in, have a seat." He motioned to Minerva's chair opposite the couch and walked over to retake his own place on the sofa. "Harry Flooed out for a short time to help out Andromeda Tonks with Teddy. He will be back here before eleven o'clock."

"Oh." 'Oh' must be the boy's favorite word, thought Severus. Neville took the seat Severus had indicated and sat down, almost cautiously. His movements were slow and measured, but he was not afraid, not as far as Severus could tell. Wary, yes. But not afraid.

In for a penny. Severus pulled at the collar of his shirt. "I would first like to thank you for permanently dispatching that snake."

Neville stared at the headmaster's scarred neck. "You're welcome," he said quietly. "But I didn't exactly do it for you."

"I know that," answered Severus. "Still, I wish to thank you. And I wish to apologize for my actions…and lack of actions…last year at Hogwarts."

Neville had been studying the papers strewn about the table. New parchments and scrolls arrived from the Ministry and from Minerva at Hogwarts nearly every day. But what had caught his eye was a list of the students who had died. The Ministry had ordered a memorial and Minerva had provided the list to Severus. He raised his eyes and met the headmaster's.

"Apologize." He spoke the word slowly, more of a statement than a question. "Maybe you can start with an explanation and let me decide if I'd like an apology."

Severus stared at the boy. Silly to call him a boy, really. He was Harry's age, after all. He hid his shock at the words that Longbottom had spoken. Challenging words. Adult words. He nodded.

"If that is what you wish." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I knew that you were leading a group of students in resistance to my authority at Hogwarts. I approved of this group. And I felt, wrongly or not, that you would be more successful in your resistance if you had a clear enemy to fight."

"You," said Neville, looking up from the list of dead students, slightly pale. Lavender's name was at the top of the list.

"Me," said Severus.

"But Ginny…."

"Miss Weasley and I had an understanding," said Severus. "It is difficult to explain. She and I shared certain information. I prevented certain Death Eaters from having access to her, from grilling her on Harry's location."

Severus could not read the look in Neville's eyes. It looked like hurt, betrayal, but there was a certain strength and emotion there as well.

"It was important that you truly believed me to be the enemy," continued Severus, rubbing his eyes. He was not having a good day. He had awoken early with a budding headache and his throat was sore and scratchy. "Generals cannot rally their troops without a clearly defined enemy. And they are more successful if their enemy is close at hand. If it is a personal fight."

"You gave me to the Carrows," said Neville suddenly. "They used me for target practice." There was a touch of venom in his eyes now. Severus' headache sharpened.

"It is the act that I most regret having to take," answered Severus. "Yet it is the very act which solidified my loyalty in their eyes."

"Was it worth it?" asked Neville.

Severus looked at him appraisingly.

"You tell me. Was it?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, man to man. Neville was no longer a bumbling boy, prone to accidents, seemingly misplaced in the house of the lions. He looked out past Severus, through the wide front window, to the gardens already brimming with flowers. His voice, when he answered, was a bit shaky. As if a bit of that bumbling boy had come back, if only for a moment.

"It was worth it,” he said quietly.

The Floo chose just that moment to roar into life and Harry stepped out, dizzy and disoriented, coughing. His white t-shirt was covered with soot.

"Harry!" Neville stood and Harry's eyes darted over to Severus before glancing back at his friend. His face lit up with a wide smile.

"Neville!" He walked over to his friend and enveloped him in a hug. "You're taller than Ron now," he said, grinning like a loon. "You been here long?" Again, that nervous glance at Severus.

"Nah," said Neville with a smile. "Just got here."

Severus looked down at the table and smiled.

"He's great," said Harry a little while later. He and Neville were standing in the waves, water up to their thighs. "He's a Metamorphmagus just like his mum was. He can't do much yet—he's only a few months old—but he changed his hair to black today, just like mine. He was staring at me while I read to him in the rocking chair and suddenly I had this black-haired baby in my lap. I almost dropped him."

Neville laughed. "I've not been around many babies," he said. "Who does he look like—I mean, when he isn't changing his appearance?"

Harry smiled. There was a photograph on the mantel at Andromeda's house, an unmoving Muggle photo of Remus and Tonks on the day they eloped. He and Teddy had stared at it a long time today, and Harry clearly recalled Tonks' mousy brown hair, nearly a perfect match in color to Remus’, her button nose, high cheekbones, gleaming brown eyes. And Remus. Remus looking better than Harry ever remembered him looking. Looking proud, happy, in love.

"He looks more like Remus, I think," answered Harry. He turned away from Neville, hiding the sudden tears that brimmed in his eyes at the thought of Remus and Tonks. He gave a shout then, and dove into the water, letting the salty ocean water mingle with his tears, erasing them, hiding them.

"Remus was a great teacher," said Neville a while later when they were sitting on the sand on wet beach towels. "Do you remember the lesson with the boggart?"

Harry laughed. "Severus in your grandmother's hat and handbag? How could I ever forget that?"

Neville grinned. "I learned more defense that year than all the other years put together," he said.

"He was a great teacher," said Harry with a sigh. "I miss him."

"Teddy is like us, you know," said Neville after a comfortable silence. He looked over at Harry.

"You mean an orphan?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, being raised by a relative, parents dead or as good as."

Harry sighed. "At least he has somebody. At least we all have somebody."

They sat there together, gazing out at the sea, two almost-orphans contemplating their existence. For Neville Longbottom wasn't really an orphan; his parents were alive, after all, and he had his gran. He'd always had his gran.

And Harry Potter wasn't an orphan any longer. Not since two summers ago, when he'd come to this very place to learn Occlumency with Professor Snape. Not since Professor Snape had become Severus.

Not since Severus had become Dad.

As for Teddy, he figured he'd just have to love him three times as much. He smiled, thinking of the warm, heavy weight of the child in his arms, of the clean baby scent of his hair, the way his bright eyes followed him, the way he tried to put his finger in Harry's mouth when Harry was talking. Loving Teddy Lupin three times as much would not be hard at all.

(Chapter 7)

A/N: Thanks to all who expressed their condolences at my mother's passing. Your kind words mean a lot to me. We're soldiering on here, watching the holidays creep up. Writing has been challenging and I know the style of this chapter is different than the previous, and hope the content makes up for it. We'll be delving more into Severus' healing in coming chapters, and you should get a glimpse of where this is going in this chapter. -SS

Chapter 7

"Is it time yet?"

Severus turned his head toward the bathroom door.

"What time is it?" he asked, leaning in to examine his neck in the mirror. His beard still grew in the furrows of skin between the raised scars that marked his neck and extended to the edge of his jaw.

"Nine thirty," answered Harry. "Are we Flooing or Apparating?"

"I thought we'd Apparate to the gates. It's a nice day and the walk up will do us both good."

"It's a long walk," said Harry, hesitating. "And all uphill."

Severus pointed his wand at the scars on his neck and removed the hair there with a quick shaving charm. He ran his fingers over the area to be sure the charm had removed all the hair, then turned to look at Harry. "Are you afraid you won't be able to make it?"

He was pleased to see the smirk on Harry's face. Ever since he'd told Harry he would be visiting Hogwarts today, and had invited Harry to come along with him, Harry had been off. It was obvious that Harry wanted to go with him, and that his desire to go was not based solely on his need to keep a vigilant eye on Severus. But the desire was tinged by something else: a reluctance, perhaps, to visit the place where so many had died, where he had seen and experienced such horrific things. The place where both he and Severus had come so close to death.

Severus had come to Shell Cottage this summer knowing that both he and Harry had a hard road ahead. He had few expectations of how things would progress. His gut told him that what was needed was time, and normalcy, predictable sameness, long days of sunlight and long nights of sleep. He didn't fool himself that this would, in the end, be enough. Harry would eventually have to leave his side for longer than a few hours. He'd have to go back to the Burrow, to Diagon Alley and to Hogwarts. He'd spent nearly a year on the run, making his own decisions, eking out an existence from a canvas tent with friends no older than himself. Severus could at least give him this summer, this summer of the same, predictable bed every night, of three good meals a day, of enemies kept at bay. A summer when he'd have to decide on a course of studies at Hogwarts for his last year, a difficult decision indeed, but not so difficult as 'Hallows or Horcruxes.'

Severus walked out of the bathroom and back into his bedroom, Harry following him. He pulled out a set of black robes from the wardrobe and shrugged into them, leaving them open over his lightweight trousers and button-down shirt.

"Am I alright like this?" asked Harry, indicating his jeans and t-shirt.

Severus stared at Harry a moment. "You are not the headmaster. Muggle clothing is acceptable in the summer. However, you are going to need clothes that fit you better soon."

"These fit," said Harry. "I like them. You got them for me last summer…."

"No, I got them for you two summers ago, Harry," said Severus, staring at Harry now, finding it hard to believe that the jeans and shirt Harry was wearing were the same ones they had bought together in London in that summer between Harry's fifth and sixth years.

Harry shrugged. "I like them," he muttered. "Can we get going?"

Severus nodded, but held up his hand as Harry moved as if to Apparate.

"What now?" he asked, halting his turn and looking a bit disgruntled.

"There is a lot of activity at the castle, both inside and out. The repair work is being overseen by the Ministry of Magic. I have alerted them—this time—that you and I will be at the castle today."

"Will the Aurors be there?" asked Harry.

"I imagine so," said Severus. "Things will be back to normal once term starts," he assured him.

"You promise?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.

Severus looked at Harry. "No, I can't promise that. But I can promise that I'll do everything I can to make life at Hogwarts as normal as possible."

"Thanks." Harry sounded sincere. He gave Severus a faltering smile. "Can I go now?"

"Go on. I'm right behind you."

Harry turned on the spot and, with a surprisingly quiet crack, was gone. Severus looked at the spot where a moment ago Harry had stood, then followed him to Hogwarts.

Harry was holding on to the bars of the gates, staring between them up at the castle, when Severus popped in next to him.

Ahead of them, the grounds stretched upward past the Quidditch pitch, past Hagrid's hut and the Whomping Willow, up to the sprawling castle itself.

"I didn't know it was so bad," said Harry somberly as Severus stepped up next to him. He spoke as if he were at a funeral, Severus thought.

He didn't answer immediately. Harry had been at the castle for three weeks following the battle. Severus had been in the hospital wing for the majority of that time, but Harry had been free to roam about, to personally witness much of the destruction. Free or not, he had spent most of his time with Severus. Severus wondered if Harry had gone outside at all.

"The work has been concentrated on the castle," Severus finally said. "We will likely have to do without the Quidditch stands this season."

"Oh." Harry gazed up toward the pitch. The goal hoops were still present but the stands were roundly demolished. He wondered if the giants had had a go with them. He turned to Severus then, a question on his lips. "Will the eighth years be allowed to play?"

"Some will," said Severus with a smile.

"Some?" He followed Severus through as Severus spoke the temporary password and the gates opened for him.

"The official rule is that a student can play for no more than six years. As students are not allowed to play their first year—" here he looked significantly at Harry who rolled his eyes—"this rule allows a student to play all the years in which he or she is eligible."

"So I can't play, then." Harry shrugged, feigning indifference, and continued walking. He glanced over toward the shambles of a Quidditch pitch and sighed.

"Harry, how many years did you play?"

Harry looked at Severus and frowned. "Well, technically I was banned fifth year, but I played a bit before the ban." He looked suddenly hopeful. "Are you going to not count that year?"

"It doesn't matter. You didn't play your fourth year. No one did. Which makes all returning eighth years eligible to play Quidditch."

Harry punched Severus' shoulder playfully and shook his head. He looked relieved. "You could have just said 'yes,' you know," he said.

They walked side by side toward the castle, Harry's eyes focused resolutely straight ahead, not straying to the edges of the Forbidden Forest to their left. "Where's Hagrid?" asked Harry as they approached the half-giant's hut. He let his eyes stray over to the familiar structure and study it. The door was closed, the garden plot was unplowed and unplanted, and Fang was nowhere in sight.

"Hagrid's brother would like a more permanent home. Hagrid is off interviewing clans of giants, looking for the best fit for Grawp."

"Interviewing?" Harry shook his head. "That won't go well."

"No, it won't, will it? I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of Grawp around Hogwarts this year."

"And hopefully more of Hagrid, too," said Harry. Severus could hear the worry in his voice. He squeezed his shoulder.

"Hagrid will be fine, Harry. He's shown us time and again that he can take care of himself."

Harry thought of the time they had found Hagrid holding a bloody steak to his face after an early encounter with his brother. He shook his head. "Who's taking care of Fang?" he asked, looking around the grounds near the hut.

Severus' hesitation told Harry all he needed to know.

"No." He looked up at Severus, his face crestfallen. "Not Fang, too. Hagrid must be a mess, Severus! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Hagrid is handling it well, Harry. He has thrown himself into the repairs here at Hogwarts and into finding a way to improve his brother's situation. His size and strength make him quite valuable to the outside masonry teams. He asked that I not tell you; he was concerned for you. He meant to tell you himself when he saw you again." He spoke softly, watching Harry closely.

"Poor Fang," whispered Harry. He was obviously sad but not distraught at the unexpected news.

"Come, Harry," said Severus, taking Harry gently by the arm. "Fang had a good life—he was an old dog. He will certainly be missed, but Hagrid is already talking about getting a new puppy."

Harry's face brightened a bit. "Good. Hagrid needs a dog. I can't imagine him without one."

"I did tell him he is limited to one head on said puppy, however," said Severus, shaking his own head.

"Spoilsport," muttered Harry.

When they reached the Whomping Willow, Harry stared at it sadly. "Is it…?" he asked, looking at what seemed like only half of a tree. Broken limbs were scattered on the ground beneath it and many of the remaining branches seemed both leafless and lifeless.

"Professor Sprout believes the tree will recover," Severus stated, pausing as he turned to study the tree in question. He had, of course, been apprised frequently of the state of affairs at Hogwarts, but this was the first time that he, too, had walked the grounds since the Battle. "However, she says its personality seems to have changed and the tree may not return to its former behavior."

"You mean it doesn't beat the bloody hell out of anyone who gets too close to it anymore?"

Severus turned his head sideways and gave Harry the look, the look that said "Language!" without his having to utter a word. Harry grinned and looked nonchalantly to the side.

"The tree indeed seems to have lost its aggressive tendencies," Severus confirmed. "In fact, I have been told that it seems almost fearful of humans now. Well, if not fearful, then at least wary." He bent and picked up a rock from the ground, quickly transfigured it into a bird, and with a spell sent it flying toward the tree. Harry nearly flinched—he'd seen what that tree did to birds that wandered too close. But as the bird flew in a unsteady path toward the tree, the branches seemed to bend away from it. When it finally lit on a thin limb, the small branches and leaves around it trembled.

"Wow," said Harry, still staring at the bird. He looked over at Severus, visibly upset. "Maybe it's just temporary. Maybe it just needs time to recover."

"The enchantments on that tree were placed there by Albus himself," said Severus in reply. "They have not been renewed and were bound to fail eventually, as they were never strengthened by another wizard who is still living. But to have the behavior of the tree actually change like this is unexpected." He continued walking then, and Harry moved along with him, leaving the tree behind. "That the tree may no longer attack you upsets you for some reason?"

Harry glanced back at the tree as he walked beside Severus. "I don't know. It's the Whomping Willow. It's always been the Whomping Willow."

"Perhaps its job is done now, Harry. Maybe it's time for it to simply be…a tree."

"A Weeping Willow," said Harry softly.

"Pomona is calling it the 'Whispering Willow,’" said Severus.

Harry considered the name for a moment. "I like that," said Harry with a small smile. "I suppose we've had enough whomping and weeping already."

By the time they rounded the bend as they climbed the steep lawn up to the great castle stairs, they could already see the workers on the grounds around the castle. While Muggles would have approached the repairs with stonemasons and scaffolding, wizards apparently went about major structural repairs quite differently. Debris still littered the ground around the castle, but Harry thought it looked more organized than it had on those first days following the Battle .

"Despite the extent of the destruction, there was very little damage that threatened the structural integrity of the castle. The few load-bearing walls that sustained major damage were repaired first. All the workers outside are repairing the cosmetic damage. The balustrades were roundly destroyed, the cornices damaged, the finials, molding, pinnacles and turrets mostly demolished, the..."

"Severus—I have no idea what you're talking about." Harry was watching two work-wizards on brooms use a sand-blasting spell to even out a repair job twenty feet up on an outer wall. He turned toward Severus now and gave him a sad smile. "Though I did get the gist of it—destroyed, damaged, demolished." He looked away.

"The ornamentation on the castle," explained Severus in a low voice. "I can give you a better lesson from the headmaster's walk. Surprisingly, the walk wasn't damaged during the Battle."

"What are they doing?" Harry pointed to a group of four people standing next to the castle some distance past the men on the brooms.

"That's the sounding team," answered Severus. The workers, two men and two women, each stood with his or her left hand pressed against the castle wall while casting spells at the wall with a wand in the other hand. "They're testing the integrity of the repairs," he explained. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder, then. "Come on. Let's go inside. I have quite a bit to get done today and Minerva is waiting to see you."

Harry followed Severus up the stairs and through the castle doors into the entrance hall . The great doors were open already and two red-robed Aurors stood sentinel just within, one on each side of the doorway. Harry stopped in the center of the room and turned around, gazing at the House hourglasses, the marble stairway, the great windows. He inhaled deeply, imagining that he could see the Goblet of Fire in the middle of the room, blue and white flames flickering from it, Dumbledore's age line drawn all around on the floor. The Weasley twins, Fred and George, sprouting beards. Laughing. He smiled, realizing as he did so that it was the first time he had actually smiled at a memory of the twins since Fred died. Smiled instead of cried.

"It looks…it looks normal again," he said, looking over at Severus in surprise. "I thought it would be in ruins still." He smiled, noticing that the Aurors were watching him curiously. Looking at the room now, it was almost possible to forget how he’d had to pick his way through dust and debris when he had gone out to turn himself over to Voldemort that night in early May, not quite two months ago. If he could just stay here, frozen in place, frozen in time, he could almost…almost…forget.

But Severus was shaking his head. "I wish the whole castle was this far along, Harry. This was one of the first areas completed. Other areas are much further behind. Some of the castle is still closed to visitors, including the tower dorms." He swept his own gaze around the room, letting it rest a moment on the Hogwarts banner hanging behind the House hourglasses. "Come," he said rather gently. "I have been told that the repairs to my office have been completed."

They climbed the great staircase together, Harry a few steps behind Severus, hand on the railing, looking out and down the entire time that he climbed, eyes focused on the closed doors of the Great Hall. Doors he hoped remained closed as long as they were here today. And possibly forever. And for once, he was especially glad that the Forbidden Forest was…forbidden.

They stopped at the gargoyle, even though it was standing placidly next to the stairway instead of in front of it. Harry stared at it, remembering how defeated, demolished it had been when he'd come here to view Severus' memories, and again when Severus was out of the hospital wing that week before they left for Shell Cottage. He swallowed a growing lump in his throat, one that had something to do with knowing that Severus had almost died, and something to do with how wonderful magic was. A Muggle castle could not have been brought back to life like this. A Muggle headmaster would have died from wounds so horrific.

A Muggle headmaster would never have encountered Nagini.

"Do you still use sweets for passwords?" asked Harry as they stepped onto the moving stairway.

Severus shook his head and smiled, recalling the passwords that had protected his doorway the previous year. Imagine. "No, I don't."

Severus took a moment to check the owl post that had been deposited on his desk, then they both walked up to his personal quarters and from there up to the headmaster's hidden walkway. They'd stood here together before, that day they had left Hogwarts for Shell Cottage, when Severus had finally been cleared by Madam Pomfrey to travel. Had surveyed the grounds of Hogwarts, still bathed in death but sparkling, alive in the late May sunshine. It seemed like a lifetime ago to Harry, even though barely a month had passed since that day. Looking at Severus now, standing beside him, long-fingered hands gripping the railing lightly, not trembling, no longer as pale as death, Harry was suddenly choked with emotion in a way he had not been for some time. It wasn't grief that overwhelmed him now, nor sadness, but joy colored heavily with relief. To have made it so far.

"Did you ever read The Hobbit?" he asked Severus now, the question seemingly coming from out of the blue.

Severus was looking out over the lake. The wind was blowing his hair back from his face and Harry thought he looked more relaxed than he had seen him since that summer after fifth year, in those final days at Shell Cottage, swimming under the awakening stars.

"The Hobbit?" Severus smiled.

"By Tolkien," provided Harry, puzzling at Severus' expression. "I read it at the beginning of the summer after fifth year. Hermione sent it to me."

"I've read it," said Severus. "Several times, in fact." He looked back out toward the lake and recited softly:

"‘Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.’"

He stilled, that enigmatic smile just under the surface again. "Why did you ask about The Hobbit?"

"It's also called There and Back Again," said Harry. He was standing just next to Severus now, standing with his hands on the railing, looking out now past Hagrid's quiet hut, out over the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps he was comparing his journey to Bilbo's: a trek through a forest, an encounter with a dragon, a magical item that made him invisible, an escape from a stronghold, an epic battle to end it all. He didn't seem inclined to say anything else and Severus appeared to consider his statement a moment, digesting it.

"And you are thinking that you, too, are back again," Severus stated at length. "That your perilous journey had ended exactly where it started—at home."

"That's what I used to think," said Harry, his voice catching in his throat. A gust of wind blew against him and he held out his arms a moment, swallowing up the feeling of being so high off the ground with the wind in his face. It was almost like flying. "That Hogwarts was my home. When other kids were dreading the ending of term break, I was counting down the days until I could go back to Hogwarts. Nothing made me feel better than being back here again, with my friends, with magic. Somewhere where I was wanted, where I was needed." His voice trailed off. It seemed to Severus then that he did not know how to continue that thought.

"But now it is different," he stated after a quiet moment, giving Harry a path to follow.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I mean, I still love it here. It felt like I was coming back to see an old friend—someone who was sick, maybe, who needed help. I missed Hogwarts. It will always have a special place in my heart, and I hate to see her like this, so…so wounded." He placed his hand on top of Severus' on the railing and squeezed it, let it go. "But it's not home anymore. Home is where you are. Wherever you are. Wherever we are."

"I return the sentiment," said Severus, rather softly. "My idea of home has also been transformed."

"What was home for you—before?" asked Harry, daring to ask. He wanted to know yet he didn't want to know, all in the same moment.

"I have… a little house. I grew up there, in a rather poor Muggle neighborhood. I kept the house even after my parents died—and they died within a year of each other, soon after I left Hogwarts. The house is ugly and outdated, the neighborhood aging and failing." He sighed, standing near the top of the world on this glorious summer day, sunbathing his not-quite-so-sallow skin. "But it was home. It has been home, despite its flaws, despite its ugliness, for most of the years of my life."

Harry could hear the bittersweet tones in Severus' voice. He wondered about that, how someone could love such a miserable place. Perhaps you did if it was all that you knew. He thought for a moment of his cupboard, how it was his despite how much he hated it, despised it. It was certainly the only refuge he ever had in his growing up years, at least until he came to Hogwarts.

"Are you going to keep it?" asked Harry.

"No. I need to go there and pack up what I want to keep. I have not felt…ready to do so."

"Will everything fit in Shell Cottage?" asked Harry. "If it won't, we can store it at Grimmauld Place."

Severus smiled at the "we."

"It will fit. I won't take much, Harry."

"I can help you, you know," said Harry. "I'd like to see it—in any case."

Severus turned sharply at that. "You want to see Spinner's End?"

"If that's what you call it—yeah. I want to see it. Can I?"

Severus laughed, the sound harsh, reminiscent of the man he had been, the man he had been before Harry Potter, his son, had sent the Dark Lord permanently into the ninth circle of hell. Before he stood facing him, challenging him, telling him, telling the world, that Severus Snape was Dumbledore's man, not Voldemort's, through and through. Before the double life ended.

He sometimes forgot that he was no longer on the tightrope he'd been walking for sixteen years.

With Harry to care for, Harry to ground him, he had a purpose. He was grounded in an everyday reality. They had another year—one more year until Harry launched himself into an adult world, an adult career. Until Harry didn't need him anymore.

"Severus?"

Severus looked over at Harry, catching his worried look.

"It isn't much to look at, Harry. It's rather depressing, in fact. I have not…bothered with it. With making it welcoming."

"I don't mind. I'd still like to see where you lived."

Severus looked at him, considering. "If you'd like, then. We can plan a trip next week. Pack a few boxes. We'll pick a rainy day when we're already depressed."

"It can't be that bad," said Harry lightly. It can't be as bad as that cupboard under the stairs. It can't be as bad as the Dursleys’.

"It is," said Severus. But it was home.

/

They met Minerva in Severus' office for lunch. Poppy joined them as well, insisting that Severus stop by the infirmary after lunch for a quick check-up, exclaiming over his color and his obvious weight gain. Minerva—who was living at the castle over the summer, filling the role Severus might have filled had he been uninjured and unencumbered—fretted over the speed of the repairs, especially to the first floor classrooms, and brought up the surprising number of house-elf pregnancies.

Severus' eyebrows shot up and Harry tried to stifle a grin.

"House-elves get pregnant?" he asked.

"Of course they get pregnant," said Poppy, shaking her head in mock exasperation. "Did you think they laid eggs to reproduce?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess I just never thought about it. I don't suppose I've ever seen a pregnant house-elf before."

"House-elves live very long lives," said Poppy. "They do not reproduce frequently. Yet at least a dozen are pregnant now—it's simply unheard of."

"They've lost a number of their own," said Severus, thoughtfully.

"Eight, to be exact," said Poppy.

"What? House-elves died in the battle?" asked Harry. He looked mildly ill. "I didn't realize…."

"Harry, you had other things on your mind—frankly, more important things. There were losses on all sides. Centaurs, giants, house-elves, even merfolk." Severus pushed a plate of sandwiches toward Harry. "I do not mean to diminish the house-elves' contribution. They fought valiantly for the home they loved."

"For Hogwarts," sighed Harry. "I shouldn't forget them so easily. I really should thank them, you know. For fighting with us."

"We'll go down to the kitchens after lunch, then," said Minerva. "That will give Severus some time with Poppy. We can then take the little tour I have for you and go over your schedule for next term."

When lunch was over, Minerva and Severus spent a few minutes discussing the incoming class of first years and the required home visits to the Muggle families, as well as their decision this year to visit the families of wizard-born children as well.

"Home visits?" asked Harry. "I didn't have a home visit. Is that something new?"

Minerva sighed. "We assumed you didn't need one, Harry. We will not make that mistake with any of our children again."

The best part of his day at Hogwarts—better than walking the headmaster's walk with Severus or visiting the owlery and seeing two of Hedwig and Mac's babies or running into Peeves and having the poltergeist fawn over him instead of pelting him with water balloons—was seeing the eighth year dorms.

Minerva opened the door to the third floor corridor, the forbidden corridor that had once housed Fluffy, the three-headed dog, and strode down the hallway. Harry followed curiously. He didn't remember ever having being here, aside from that illicit foray into Fluffy's chambers during their first year.

"This section of the castle was once reserved for staff members who had families who lived with them during the year. It hasn't been needed for some time, so we've decided to convert it into living space for our eighth year students." She spoke as she walked, slowing until Harry had caught up with her, and opened a door on the south wall, beckoning him inside. He was still trying to grasp the concept of an eighth year dorm and not eighth year floors in the traditional house dorms, when he ground to a halt just inside the door.

He was in a large common area, airy and light, with tall floor-to-ceiling windows along either side of a great fireplace. The room was furnished with furniture that was outdated yet comfortable and elegant. There was an upright piano against a wall, a space with thick area rugs and a mountain of pillows, and enough sofas and loveseats for any number of students. And there were desks—the kind found in the library. Large wooden desks, with room to spread out and thick reference books already piled on each of them.

"Madam Pince was not altogether on board with the idea of lending some reference books to this room for the duration of the year," Minerva said with a smile as she ran her hand over one of the tomes lovingly. "But Severus has convinced her that the books will be regarded as dear elderly grandmothers and treated with care and respect."

"Right," said Harry, thinking of the abuse Hermione's books had taken in that year on the run, tumbling about in her little beaded handbag. "Grandmothers. I'll pass that on." He turned around again. This is…this is fantastic, Minerva. I wondered where we'd be staying. I don't think I'll miss Gryffindor tower a bit."

"You'll have to find a way to stay fit other than climbing to the seventh floor several times a day," she said, raising her eyebrow as a house-elf, holding a dust rag, popped into the room, saw them, squealed, and popped away again. She shook her head and opened a door on one of the walls. "You'll have your own kitchen, too, though you will be required to eat your dinners with the rest of the school in the Great Hall. The larders will be kept filled for you, but you'll have to do your own cooking; we won't be providing personal cooks."

Harry followed her out of the kitchen and into another hallway.

"The boys will use this side," she said, "And we've managed to squeeze in enough rooms for all of you."

Harry ducked into a room she indicated, stopping dead in his tracks to gaze at the ornate four-poster, the dresser, desk, wardrobe and wingback chair with ottoman. He turned and looked back at Minerva, the expression on his face one of delight and disbelief.

"We felt you all deserved something special," Minerva said quietly as Harry turned in place, taking it all in. "After the year you all had." She caught her breath as Harry came toward her and enveloped her in a hug, kissing her cheek. He had tears in his eyes.

"My, my," she said, shaking her head. "And you haven't even seen the en suite."

Harry got through his scheduling meeting with Minerva without pulling out all of his hair. She was determined to set a demanding schedule for him—no, an impossible schedule. Besides Potions, Defense, Charms, Transfiguration, Astronomy and Herbology, he had an "Assistantship" in Defense.

"Just two classes a week, Harry. Severus suggested it; he felt you might be bored with the subject otherwise, but you must complete a N.E.W.T. in it if you wish to enter the Auror Academy next August."

He nodded, staring at the finished schedule on the table in front of him.

"So this is what I missed last year," he said with a sigh.

"No, Harry. You missed quite a bit more than this," she said with a gentle smile. "But I still wouldn't trade our year here at Hogwarts for yours."

He spent two hours in the library helping Madam Pince dust books in the Restricted Section while Severus and Minerva met with the restoration team, the chief reason Severus had had to visit Hogwarts today. Their meeting happened to be in the library, so Harry lingered about until Madam Pince saw her chance and drafted him. Each book had to be removed carefully, cleaned with a special magical feather duster, then re-shelved. Harry tried very hard to remember some of the interesting restricted titles. He laughed at Ye Olde Darke Magic Primer, a book with colorful pictures obviously meant for young children. Embalming Practices of Modern Western Cultures piqued his interest, but when he tried to open the book, it squealed, "Not dead yet!" and refused to open.

When Severus came out of his meeting at four o'clock, he and Harry made their way slowly to the front of the castle. Severus stopped to talk to the Aurors on duty while Harry walked outside, resolutely ignoring the closed door to the Great Hall. He sat on the top stair, gazing out toward the gates, glancing at Hagrid's hut as a shadow seemed to move beside the hut. He stared at the unplanted garden patch and a moment later saw another flicker of movement. He stood up.

"Harry, come in here. I'd like to show you the renovations in the Great Hall before we leave."

But Harry was halfway down the stairs, eyes still on the garden patch. Severus hurried outside and called to him from the top of the stairs.

"Harry! Where are you going?"

Harry turned and looked up at Severus. "I think it's a Patronus—down near Hagrid's hut!" He turned and pointed, catching another glimpse of the flitting shape as he did so. Without another thought, he took off at a run down the stairs.

Severus quickly assessed the situation. He did see something by the hut, a white shape, and he walked down the stairs at a more reasonable pace, following Harry down the pathway toward the hut. Harry had gained a substantial distance on him but was slowing down now, stopping, staring. Crouching down, holding out his hand. What was that thing?

But then the shape, discernible now as a large dog, was galloping toward Harry, through Harry, and Harry, instead of cringing at the most unpleasant feeling, was laughing. Severus forced himself to move, not quite believing what he was seeing.

It wasn't a Patronus. It was a ghost. A ghost of a dog, of a particular dog, a boarhound in fact: a boarhound named Fang.

A ghost of an animal.

Animals didn't become ghosts. They moved on, if indeed they had souls.

"Severus!" Harry turned and called out to him. "You didn't tell me—did you know?"

Severus shook his head. "No. No one mentioned it. I think…I rather think he has just appeared. Perhaps he was in the Forest…."

"You were looking for Hagrid, weren't you, old boy?" said Harry, addressing the dog, which had flopped down on its side—as much as a ghost could flop, in any case—and was scratching its ears. "You didn't want to leave him yet, did you?" He reached out his hand as if to pet the old dog, caught himself, let his hand drop. His face took on a curious look, disappointed, forlorn, puzzled. The dog, sensing his disquiet, barked. The barks sounded hollow, distant.

Harry and the ghost dog stared at each other for several moments. Fang's tail thumped noiselessly against the ground. He whined, an unspoken request.

"Can I run with him, Dad?"

Severus tore his eyes away from the impossible scene of the ghost dog scratching itself.

"Run?"

"As Lightfoot. I won't go far. And I'll have Fang with me."

Severus stared at Harry, then looked back at the dog. The dog, sensing that something was happening, gave another hollow bark.

Why not?

"Not far, and not long. I'll wait here."

And Harry was gone, and Lightfoot was there. She play-charged at Fang and the ghost ambled to its feet, barking with apparent joy.

And Lightfoot was off, kicking her back legs in the air as Fang tore off in pursuit, leaving Severus standing there by himself in front of Hagrid's hut, contemplating the impossibility of a ghost dog haunting Hogwarts, and the almost gift of one battle loss returned.

It might cause all manner of problems later on, but for now, for the moment, Harry was happy.

And Severus walked over to Hagrid's hut and sat down on a heavily reinforced Hagrid-sized bench near the garden.

Harry wanted to go to Spinner's End.

And Severus had told him he would take him.

What had he been thinking? What nostalgia for home had overcome him? He couldn't take Harry to that hovel, to that broken-down house of ancient appliances, musty books and threadbare furniture.

It was one thing for him to know Harry's past, his secrets, his childhood of anonymity inside a cupboard in a sterile house in a suburban neighborhood.

It was quite another for Harry to examine Severus' past. To be moved to pity. Severus' jaw tightened. He didn't even want to go there himself, to that parody of a home with no picket fence, no dog with wagging tail, no one to cuddle with on the sofa after dinner.

The doe and the ghost dog ran in front of him, Harry blazing a happy trail around the hut with Fang on his heels.

Another parody. A cosmically unsettling portrait of a boy...and his dog.

(Chapter 8)

Chapter 8

June was gone and July was a young upstart when Severus finally took Harry to Spinner's End.

He'd mentally committed to go there on a day when the weather was not conducive for walking along the beach or swimming in the ocean. Fortunately, the weather had complied—he certainly wanted to put off the trip as long as possible—and had provided brilliant blue skies, warmer than normal temperatures and even a balmy breeze for a full week following their visit to Hogwarts.

On Monday, when Minerva and Severus had taken a lunch break after working all morning on book orders, Harry actually convinced Minerva to come down to the beach. She, in turn, convinced Severus.

Severus sat there now, perched on one of the low beach chairs Harry and Ginny had lugged down and set up there for them. The area of flat, cleared sand was small, really only a pocket big enough for a fire pit and a few chairs and beach towels. One had to navigate over and around rocks to get to it, but the rocks actually provided some shelter and gave the beach area the feeling of a small, private cove.

Minerva sat now beside Severus, barefoot, legs stretched out in front of her, robes hiked up to her knees. Her sensible shoes were lined up next to her chair, stockings folded inside of them. Beside her, Severus was also barefoot and had rolled up the legs of his trousers to the tops of his calves, nearly to his knees. Minerva had transfigured a handkerchief Severus produced from his trouser pocket into a large, colorful beach umbrella, surveyed it critically and with two waves of her wand had added white fringe all around and an interesting wind vane at its peak. The umbrella shaded their heads and upper bodies now while the sun warmed their legs and feet and the wind vane spun around restlessly, creating an eerie whistle when the wind hit it just so.

There was a small table between them, granite-topped, transfigured from one of the flat gray rocks that lined the edge of the fire pit. Once they'd settled themselves on the chairs, Severus had summoned the pitcher of lemonade and the empty glasses he'd left on the porch table. Minerva had, in turn, transformed two pieces of long, reedy grass into two miniature paper umbrellas, one red, one green, and had speared them into the lemon wedges Severus fished from the pitcher and pinched onto the rims of their glasses.

"Does she come by often?" asked Minerva, and Severus knew she was referring to Ginny Weasley, who was out in the surf with Harry now.

"This is her first visit since the Weasleys returned from Romania," answered Severus. "But yes, before they left, she was here two or three times a week."

"Harry seems happy," she said, approving. "He was better last week, at Hogwarts. Less tense, less serious."

Severus watched Harry and Ginny as they played in the surf. Ginny seemed to be scooping up handfuls of stones and shells, examining them, then picking out keepers, which Harry dropped into the pocket of his swimming shorts.

"He is eating well now, and is more even-tempered. His nightmares continue, but seem less frequent. He has finally learned to wake me if he cannot meditate and fall asleep again in a semi-occluded state." He watched Harry bend to scoop up a handful of stones of his own. "He is still far more compliant with my wishes than a child his age should be, though he occasionally does challenge me on one thing."

Minerva glanced sideways at Severus. "Go on, then, Severus. Don't leave me hanging."

"Minerva, I would never have taken you for one who would paint her toenails." He was staring at her feet, with their ten ruby red nails.

"Admit it, Severus. You didn't even know I had toes, did you?" She wiggled said toes and stretched them, looking at them with approval. "Now go on—tell me how Harry challenges you."

Severus tore his gaze away from Minerva's feet and gestured out toward the water.

"He is deliberately noncompliant when it comes to Miss Weasley," he noted. "I was a boy his age once," he continued, glancing at Minerva, "and a Head of House for some time. I understand that there are hormones at play, but he skirts too close to the edge with her. I found them stretched out together on the sofa last time she was here, and pressed up against the house below the porch windows, where they could not be readily seen by me. And who knows what they get up to out there, when the water hides..."

Minerva looked out at the two Gryffindors playing like children in the waves. "What is your chief worry, Severus? That he is too young? Too immature to have a relationship so physical? That they will not take precautions and she will become pregnant?"

"Yes."

"Is that all?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Is that not enough?" he answered.

"Of course. But you have just described the worries of every parent of every teenager. Please understand me: that the worries are shared by others does not make your concerns invalid. But I suspect you have other concerns you are not voicing."

"There is the matter of the Weasleys," Severus admitted softly after a long pause. Minerva had sipped her lemonade and twirled her red paper umbrella while he contemplated.

"Ah," she conceded. "There is that." She thought a moment more. "While I can think of a number of potential complications, I assume you worry most about his friendship with Ronald?"

"It has sustained him for years," answered Severus with a slight nod. "The boy—Ronald—followed Harry into hell and back again. He is a true friend, of the highest mettle. But he is not family—and to the Weasleys, family will always come first, will it not? If these two part company and leave bad blood between them, how will Mr. Weasley choose between family and friend?"

"If this thing between Miss Weasley and Harry does not work out, you fear it will challenge the friendship between Harry and Ronald. Understandable. But what of the relationship between Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger? Does that one not threaten to pull apart these three friends?"

"It does," said Severus. "Or better put, it could. Harry could easily feel like a third wheel." He sighed. "Which is why this thing with Miss Weasley is so convenient. It pairs them all up so nicely." Though he stressed the last word, Minerva did not think he thought it all that nice.

"You worry too much, Severus. Look at them." She nodded out toward the blue ocean. Ginny was standing in the water, waist deep, but all that could be seen of Harry were his legs and feet. He was apparently practicing underwater handstands. "He's having fun. I doubt he had an ounce of fun this last year—not until he came here with you, anyway. He knows how you feel about getting too carried away physically. And who is to say that he even wants to..."

"He wants to," interrupted Severus decisively. "All boys want to."

"You must trust him…."

"Trust an almost eighteen-year-old boy with an almost seventeen-year-old girl? Wearing swimwear? That kind of swimwear?" He gestured out toward the water. Harry was apparently kneeling now, only his head and the top of his shoulders out of the water, putting him at eye level with the swimwear in question.

"She's wearing a one-piece, Severus! With shorts on top of it."

"You call those shorts?" groused Severus. "They barely cover her hips."

Minerva shook her head fondly. "Severus, you have had the talk with him, haven't you?"

"Of course. More than once. As embarrassing and uncomfortable as I could make it."

"Perhaps you need to have a different kind of talk, then. A talk about priorities. About…friendship. And families." She reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "As I already said, you worry too much. You have been hoping he will begin to feel comfortable leaving you to do normal activities once again—visiting friends at their homes, shopping in Diagon Alley. Perhaps, Severus, if you make it difficult enough here for them to find time alone, he will go somewhere else with her to have some privacy."

"You're not helping, Minerva," said Severus, though he had to admit that her idea had merit.

They relaxed back into their chairs, enjoying the ocean breeze as it washed over them, content, for a time, to leave preparations for the next school year inside on the living room sofa table. Severus could not help but glance down from time to time at Minerva's bare feet with their painted toenails. Every now and then she would dig her toes into the damp sand, pushing it up like a child discovering the joy of digging at the beach for the first time. He looked out toward Harry. They had gone further out, into slightly deeper water and were bobbing with the incoming surf, standing up so that only their heads and shoulders were out of the water. Experimentally, he dug one big toe into the sand then flicked it upward. The satisfyingly compact sand flew out in front of him. He dug in the other toe.

When Harry and Ginny came in out of the water thirty minutes later, both Minerva and Severus were sitting sedately in their chairs, sipping lemonade placidly, discussing the new Potions professor, a transfer from Beauxbatons, Madame Claudel.

"You made a good choice, Severus," Minerva was saying. "She is completely no nonsense, yet she is interesting and a proven educator. The children will respect her."

"More important, they will learn from her. And they will find that Potions is not a popularity contest," he added, glad that Horace Slughorn had retired.

"What? Will we have to take the Slug Club off our official list of extracurricular organizations?" joked Minerva.

"We have a new Potions professor?" asked Ginny. She had been towel-drying her hair but looked over at them with interest.

"Madame Claudel. She comes to us from Beauxbatons," replied Minerva. "Did you meet her last week when you were at Hogwarts, Harry?"

But Harry didn't appear to have heard her. He was, instead, staring down at Severus and Minerva's legs. Both Minerva’s and Severus' feet were buried, each having worked their feet into the cool sand. When Minerva noticed Harry staring, she pushed up her toes so that her painted toenails stuck out of the sand but her feet stayed buried. Harry smiled.

"Sit down, you two," said Minerva. "Severus and I would like to have a word with you."

"We would?" said Severus.

"Yes, we would," said Minerva, quite decisively.

"With both of them?" protested Severus.

"Of course with both of them, Severus," she replied. "This is about both of them."

Harry looked vaguely ill. He glanced over at Ginny. Ginny's face was somewhere between oddly curious and wanting to bury herself in the sand. He sank down onto the towel next to Ginny and reached out for her hand. She squeezed it but let go of it quickly, almost as if it burned her, when she noticed Severus eying them.

"Children, relax," said Minerva. She wriggled her toes and pulled her feet out of the sand. Harry stared in fascination at her bare feet. "Severus just wants to talk to you a bit about your…future."

"And you're going to listen?" asked Harry, glancing at Severus' face and thinking that this conversation could not have been his idea.

"Of course," answered Minerva. "I'm your guardian…well, unofficially I suppose, now that you're of age. Think of me as your kindly old aunt, instead."

"My old aunt isn't actually kindly," commented Ginny rather dryly.

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Muriel?" she guessed.

Ginny nodded and Harry, remembering Aunt Muriel from Bill's wedding, grimaced.

"You are too young to have sex," said Severus suddenly.

"I don't think I'd talk about that in front of my kindly old aunt," said Ginny while Minerva shot Severus the death glare. Ginny was grinning now, apparently successful at tamping down the initial fear.

"Severus! That was not the intent of this conversation!" She turned toward the teenagers. "I apologize on his behalf. He seems to have a one-track mind."

"For sex?" said Harry. He clapped his hand over his mouth as soon as the words were out. Had he really said that?

Severus groaned. Could this conversation possibly get any worse?

"As humiliating as that conversation was, it actually made sense," said Harry some time later. He and Ginny were lying next to each other in the hammock, alone in the cottage. Severus and Minerva had Flooed back to Hogwarts for thirty minutes—only thirty minutes, as Harry had been told quite clearly. The hammock swung gently and they snuggled together, side to side. Harry had his arm wrapped around Ginny, and her head rested comfortably on his shoulder.

Ginny laughed softly as she snuggled down closer to Harry on the hammock. "It was almost worth the embarrassment to see Severus' face. He looked like he'd taken one of the twins' Puking Pastilles and was trying to fight the effects."

The swayed slowly back and forth a few times. Harry reached over for one of Ginny's hands and held it, squeezing it softly, running his thumb over her palm.

"Well—what about what they said? What would happen if we had a bad break-up? Would I still be able to visit the Burrow?"

"You don't visit the Burrow now, Harry," Ginny pointed out softly.

"You know what I mean," said Harry.

"I…I really don't know," she answered. "If it were mutual—if we both wanted to end it—I think it would be fine. But if I ended it and you were still pining over me—"

"I don't pine," said Harry, tightening his grip on her.

"Right. No pining. If you still wanted me, but I had moved on—"

"You'd move on?" He tickled her waist and she squirmed.

"You know what I mean. Alright—have it the other way. If you had moved on but I was still pining over you, it would be uncomfortable. You'd be there, maybe with your new girlfriend—"

"Or boyfriend. Maybe I moved on because I realized I was gay."

"You'd better be gay if you move on from me," she said, squeezing his hand. "I don't think I could bear seeing you with another woman."

"And then there's Ron," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, I don't want to see you with him, either," she said.

"Thank you for that image," he said, wiping at his eyes.

"Oh, you mean your friendship with him," she said, smirking.

"Of course." He turned and looked into her eyes. People were always remarking about his eyes, how green they were, how unusual. How like his mother's. But in his mind, nothing could compare to liquid brown eyes, eyes like Ginny's. He let go of her hand and moved it to her head, stroking her hair and then gathering it up in his fingers. It was a matter of moving his head only an inch or two, barely leaning in, and he was kissing her, moving his lips over hers, opening them just enough to taste her. She moaned into his mouth then, pushing herself up against him harder, making the hammock sway even more and the porch beams creak. He broke the kiss, pressing his lips to her neck just below her ear.

"You're already a part of our family, Harry," Ginny said as she lay her head on his rapidly beating heart and traced her fingers down his face. "I can't take that away from you. Nothing can. If we don't make it, I'll still be your sister."

"You've never been my sister, Gin," he said with a laugh. She giggled.

"Yeah, this would be really weird if I were."

He laughed then, too, and they lay there together until the hammock was nearly motionless.

"I think Mum expects us to get married," said Ginny with a sigh.

"When?" asked Harry, seemingly in a panic.

Ginny tickled his side. "I mean eventually, you idiot," she said. "Settle down, get respectable careers…."

"So professional Quidditch is out?"

"For me, yes. I'll need to settle down and have the babies. James Arthur and Lily Molly."

"James Arthur works," he teased. "But Lily Molly? Too many 'lys.'"

"Fine. Lily Luna then. Luna's one of my favorite people, after all."

"You're not going to leave me for her, are you?" He hugged her more tightly, kissed her forehead above her eye.

"You really are an idiot," she said, but he could tell she was teasing, that he was, at least, a lovable idiot.

"Only two?" he said after a quiet moment when the only sound they could hear was the muffled crashing of the waves on the shore.

"Only two what?" she asked sleepily.

"Only two children," he said quietly.

"Oh. Hmm."

"Hmm?"

"I suppose we can have more. Are you thinking of seven?"

"Seven? Are you kidding?" Visions of redheaded twin boys with identical maniacal countenances flashed through his mind.

"Three, then," she said.

"And a crup?" he asked.

"You're pushing your luck, Potter," answered Ginny.

Harry smiled and closed his eyes. They had all the time in the world. He could talk her into the dog when the time was right.

July 3rd was a Friday. A rainy Friday. Harry stood on the porch at nine in the morning, eating a banana and staring out at the sea. He'd heard Severus in the shower when he woke up and had come downstairs to use the loo. But after he’d made tea and oatmeal, Severus still hadn't appeared. He was about to go upstairs and check on him when he heard movement on the staircase.

"It's raining," he called out. "And the tea tray's in here."

Severus came through the kitchen onto the porch. He was wearing a pair of black jeans, worn and faded with age, and a long-sleeved denim shirt.

"Why are you dressed like that?" asked Harry. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion and Severus gave an inward sigh. Harry still had not resolved his trust issues.

"I promised you a trip to my childhood home," he reminded Harry. "On a rainy day."

"Really? We're going today?"

"We're not going with you wearing that," said Severus, nodding at Harry's too-tight t-shirt, green plaid sleep pants and bare feet.

"I'm not dressed yet. Should I wear old clothes, too?"

"As if you have a choice," said Severus, rolling his eyes.

"They're not old," protested Harry. "They're just…snug."

"They're practically indecent," said Severus. "I can practically read the tag on your pants, they're so tight."

"Not wearing any," said Harry lightly.

Severus shook his head. "At least you're eating. Tomorrow we will go to London and replace your wardrobe."

Harry stuffed the remainder of the banana in his mouth and ran upstairs to dress while Severus sat down and prepared his tea. He spent a good amount of time staring out the window into the rain, his thoughts as grey as the day. He dropped in at Spinner's End once a month to check on the place, pay the utility bills and knock down a few cobwebs. He'd lived there last summer, mercifully alone, since the Dark Lord had taken up residence with Lucius and Narcissa at Malfoy Manor. Voldemort had kept Pettigrew close, using him as jailer, guarding the dungeons in case the wand maker tried to escape. Not having that rat in his home made it feel cleaner somehow, despite the mold and mildew, the oppressive shadows, the dust and grime of a lifetime and a half.

His parents had owned that house when he was born. He'd spent his childhood there, the early days when his mother was his teacher and he wandered the neighborhood with his friend Lily Evans, the later days when he was off at Hogwarts and home only for summers and holidays. His parents had died while living in that home—his father dead of a heart attack the summer after he left Hogwarts, his mother two years later, in a Muggle car accident after taking out his father's old Ford Cortina, driving it 'just down the road.' He never knew what she really intended to do on that short drive, for she'd been hit by another car a hundred kilometers from home.

He had memories of life at Spinner's End. But there had been little happiness there, and his thoughts now held no nostalgia. Still, he had called it home. Had called it home until quite recently, in fact.

What would Harry think of that hovel of a house, dirty and worn inside and out, buried in a neighborhood that had once kindly been called "working class" but now was nothing but derelict?

"Are you ready?"

Harry stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt. He had a nylon jacket over his arm.

Severus stood up.

"I am." He carried the tea tray into the kitchen and cleaned up then moved into the living room where they had room to stand side by side. But before he Apparated, he turned toward Harry.

"It is not much," he said, an apology in his voice that Harry did not miss.

"I know," replied Harry, voice deliberately light. "But you've kept it all these years. That must mean something."

Severus considered that a moment. His mother had died when he was twenty years old. He'd been at Hogwarts for most of Harry's life. There was no reason, no real reason, he'd had to keep the place. He could have rented a flat in the city, or a cottage in Hogsmeade, or even stayed at Hogwarts during school breaks. He had a home there. Private quarters, all his own. More commodious than the house at Spinner's End, certainly in a better neighborhood, with meals included.

Despite the lack of reason, he still owned the house.

"You're right, Harry. It does mean something."

"Then don't apologize for it," he said. "It was where you lived when you met my mum, right?"

Severus swallowed an unfamiliar lump in his throat. He nodded. "It was. Now let's go while the day is still dreary." He held out his arm and Harry took hold of it. With a subtle crack, no louder than usual even though Harry was along for the ride, Severus disappeared from Shell Cottage.

They reappeared in a narrow alley between two large, soot-stained brick buildings.

Harry hadn't asked what town Spinner's End was in and had no idea how far they'd traveled. But the sun was shining here and there were no puddles on the road to indicate that it had rained any time recently. The air had a stale smell to it and the street, once they'd taken a few steps out of the alley to stand on the pavement, seemed both sad and lonely.

There were cars parked about, and some moving down the road, as well. As they walked together down the pavement, Harry looked around from right to left. At least half of the shops were boarded up and there seemed to be a larger than usual number of taverns and pubs.

"Why are we walking?" asked Harry as he hurried to keep pace with Severus. "Not that I mind," he added quickly.

"I'd like to show you something on the way to the house," answered Severus. He glanced down at Harry and slowed his pace a bit. Two months now since he'd been bitten by the snake and he was having more good days than bad. He knew he should slow down anyway, conserve his energy, but he wanted so much to have this day over that he could not help but hurry through every piece of it.

"Alright," said Harry, following him as he turned a corner and moved away from the shops. A few more blocks and it was obvious they were in a residential area, though it seemed unnaturally quiet. Here and there an elderly man or woman was about, sitting on folding chairs on small front porches, toiling in small garden plots and flower beds, leaning against a fence smoking a cigarette, silently watching them go by. A small black dog with curly hair ran at them from within a garden fence, yipping and barking until its owner called out to it in a high-pitched and weak voice. "Nipsy! Naughty boy! Come back here!"

Severus turned right at the corner two houses past Nipsy's yard and walked halfway down the block, stopping in front of a small brick home with a steep-pitched roof. The house, like many around it, appeared to be vacant. The small front garden was overgrown with what Aunt Petunia would have considered weeds. Harry thought the wild flowers and grasses lovely, though. A hedge still grew on one side of the garden, effectively separating the house from the nearly identical one that stood beside it. Three crumbling brick steps led up to a tiny front porch whose wrought-iron railings hung off to the side, connected by hope alone.

"The house where your mother lived," said Severus softly, turning to Harry to judge his reaction.

"My mum grew up here?" he asked, as if disbelieving.

"She did. This neighborhood was once alive with children and families. It has become quite derelict over the last dozen years." He pointed to a large tree in the back, so tall it could be seen over the roof. "Your mother and your aunt played in the back garden, between the house and the alley. There was a swing in that tree, and bicycles in the shed." He smiled a far-away smile. "They loved to jump rope. They always made me turn the end."

"My mum lived here," said Harry softly, picturing the boy in the memories, the boy with the old-fashioned clothing, standing across from Aunt Petunia turning the end of a jump rope. He stared at the small house, no bigger, really, than the house he hadn't yet seen at Spinner's End, and grown even more depressing and derelict than Severus' home, but Severus knew he wasn't seeing the broken windows, crumbling brick and overgrown garden. He must be seeing exactly what Severus himself was seeing. A tidy home, with a porch kept scrubbed and swept by Lily's mother. A little red-headed girl sitting on the porch, reading a book. She was always reading in those days, always had her nose in one of those fresh-smelling tomes from the local library.

"It's called The Secret Garden, Sev," she said. "There was a cholera outbreak, you see, in India, and Mary's parents died. But they didn't love her, not really. They hardly knew her, in fact. And she went to live in Yorkshire with her uncle and discovered a wonderful garden, and she brought it back to life. It was magic, Sev. She and Colin and Dickon found the magic in the earth…."

She'd given him a copy of that book once, and he had it still, but he'd never read it. He couldn't bear to.

"What did my grandfather do?" asked Harry. He didn't look at Severus; he was still gazing at the house, still taking it all in with eyes wide and sad.

"He was a barber," answered Severus. He smiled, a touch of nostalgia overcoming him, the emotion almost unrecognizable in its foreignness. "He always wanted to cut off my hair. He didn't understand about wizards…."

"He probably thought you were a hooligan," said Harry. "That's what Uncle Vernon always said, anyway. 'Long-haired hooligans.'"

He thought I was too poor and couldn't afford haircuts, thought Severus sadly. But he didn't say that to Harry.

"Come, we'd best get on our way. It's not much further," he said, giving the little house where he had spent so many happy childhood hours a final glance, then moving on down the street, Harry following him without protest. As they walked, the homes grew closer together and though the neighborhood where they stopped seemed even shabbier than the one they'd just left, it didn't have the vacant air of the place where Lily Evans had lived.

They stopped outside the last house in the row on Spinner's End. Harry seemed almost startled to have reached it at last and regarded it silently with Severus.

"Home," said Severus, giving the house the kind of scrutinizing look he hadn't given it in ten years or more. The shrubs under the windows against the house were woody and overgrown, half obscuring the windows. The windows were dirty, the roof crumbling, the guttering loose. Garbage and newspapers had blown into the yard, and beer bottles were dumped in a corner of the garden where the hedge made a hard right turn and disappeared into the rear lot. He glanced at Harry.

Harry gave a brave sort of smile. Severus wondered what exactly he had expected.

"Well, it's not much, but it's a hell of a lot better than Number Four Privet Drive," he said, following Severus up the walk to the front door.

"Why is that?" asked Severus as he glanced around then pulled out his wand to unward the door and cast an "Alohomora."

"No Dursleys," said Harry with a smile.

Severus paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Well, there is that," he replied. He pushed open the door, wand still in his hand, and went inside, holding the door open until Harry had followed him in. He flipped on the wall switch next to the door, illuminating a single, weak ceiling light in the hallway, and closed the door behind Harry.

(Chapter 9)

A/N: Elements in this chapter refer to the book Severus remembers Lily reading in Chapter 8, The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. One of my childhood favorites, this book appears in more than one of my stories. You can read this book free online, or look up a plot summary of it if you're interested and haven't read it. The 1990s movie took a lot of liberties with the plot, though the Hallmark (?) and BBC versions follow it more closely.

Chapter 9

"Electricity," murmured Harry. During this last year, he'd stayed at Shell Cottage, Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, Hogwarts. And when not at one of those places, he'd spent most of his time camping in a Wizarding tent. He gazed at the light bulb in the ceiling in semi-wonder.

"My father was a Muggle," said Severus offhandedly. He glanced around the tiny foyer and apparently found it all in order. "I found it…convenient...to keep it, no matter that oil lamps shed a much warmer light."

There were only two things in the foyer of any note at all. The first was a mirror, hung on the wall to the right. It was round and frameless, spotted with age, and of the right size and placement for a woman to check her hair or her hat before venturing out into the street. The wallpaper that the mirror hung on was as old as the mirror, if not older: wide green stripes with narrow gold piping. Harry stared at it, reminded of the old brass candlesticks at Grimmauld Place stained green with corrosion. It wasn't a Slytherin green, nor was it a Gryffindor gold, and for some reason that comforted him.

The other item of note was the coat tree.

It was made of wood, either a wood so dark as to be almost black, or a lighter wood stained dark with age and grime. It would have been almost unremarkable, blending in with the darkness and grime of the house around it, had it not been for the robes that hung on it.

Women's robes. Dark green, with a frill at the bottom and small pink flowers embroidered around the collar. Dusty. So dusty that the color was muted and the robe appeared streaked around the draped folds.

If Severus noticed Harry staring at the robes, he didn't comment.

"Come," he said instead. He turned and walked forward into a dim room, nearly dark despite the sunshine outdoors. Harry had the immediate impression, when he entered the room, of being slowly suffocated. The air was still and smelled musty and old. Ahead of him, Severus, who apparently was able to see in the dark, or, more likely, knew the layout of the room like the back of his own hand, turned on a standard lamp. The lamp glowed dully, its shade covered in thick dust, as the chain Severus had pulled to turn it on swung against the metal pole with a hollow clang. Harry's eyes moved to the most impressive feature of the room, a wall made entirely of books, while Severus walked to a window, pulled apart the curtains and cracked open the window, tugging on it to loosen it instead of using an easy "Alohomora." Light speared into the room, cutting through the dancing dust motes. Harry blinked, finding the light almost intrusive in this sepulchral tomb of a room.

The wall of books turned out to be a wall of bookshelves so laden with books that it was difficult to even see the wood of the shelves beneath and around the many tomes. An old leather chair sat in a corner, with a worn leather ottoman before it and a side table between the chair and the shelves. The standard lamp Severus has just turned on stood at the other side of the chair. A fireplace took up the entire wall between the two windows and a small sofa, plush, old-fashioned and worn, not even big enough for Harry to stretch out on, was grouped with the chair, lamp and table. A doorway on the other side of the sofa led into another room—the kitchen, by the looks of it. There was one more doorway on the wall behind him, next to the small entryway. It led to a narrow corridor which ended in a closed door.

Severus had disappeared quietly into the kitchen and Harry heard the clanging of old pipes, then water spurting in staccato bursts from the kitchen sink as Severus ran the water and cleared the pipes of air. He heard the sound of breaking glass just ahead of a muttered curse and a terse "Reparo."

"Severus? You alright in there?"

Harry moved to the kitchen doorway, feeling like an uncomfortable visitor still, and flicked on the switch next to the door. Nothing happened.

"Bulb's burned out," commented Severus as he pulled up the old blinds over the sink, sending another shaft of sunlight into the room. His voice sounded both resigned and tired. Perhaps the bulbs burned out often here and he was simply tired of replacing them.

The kitchen at the Dursleys’ had been modern and sterile. The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was archaic and dark. The Weasleys’ kitchen was spacious and open and alive with laughter. The kitchen at Hogwarts was immense and magical, dancing with house-elves, spotless and cheerful.

But this kitchen was unlike any of those. This kitchen was old and worn and tired. The sink was framed on either side by a short worktop and narrow, dark cupboards. An old range, only half the size of Aunt Petunia's massive modern wonder, stood beside the short worktop to the left of the sink. An ancient fridge stood apart from the other furnishings, beside a second window. A tiny table was pushed against the wall beside the doorway leading to the sitting room and was surrounded by three metal chairs covered in brown vinyl.

The entire room looked sad. It was as dusty as the rest of the house, but otherwise neat and cleared of clutter and dishes and any sign of life or inhabitation. The linoleum on the floor was yellowed with age and worn through in the high traffic areas, leaving pathways from door to refrigerator and refrigerator to sink.

"Where did you sleep?" asked Harry. It was an odd question, considering he hadn't yet commented at all on the house or its contents since they came in through the front door.

"Upstairs," said Severus with the barest touch of a smile. "My father slept down here, in the front bedroom." He placed the repaired teacup he was holding on the rickety table beside a set of aluminum salt and pepper shakers and walked back out into the sitting room. He pointed toward the doorway across from the fireplace. "My father's bedroom. There's a small loo just off the hallway there. Flush it a time or two before you use it, if you need to go. That will clear the air out of the pipes and you won't get an unplanned shower."

He did not invite Harry to explore the bedroom and Harry couldn't help but note that he hadn't yet mentioned where his mother slept. He determined from what Severus wasn't saying that they had not slept in the same room.

"How do you get upstairs?" asked Harry, looking around the small room for another door. In answer, Severus walked over to the wall of books and reached into a spot where a book appeared to be missing and pulled a hidden handle. The bookshelf slowly swung forward, revealing a staircase.

"There wasn't enough wall space for the books," he explained with another almost smile. He turned to Harry then. "Well, have you seen enough?"

Harry was staring fixedly at what he could see of the dark, narrow staircase beyond the hidden door. He swallowed.

"Harry?"

Harry took half a step backward and steadied himself. He smiled apologetically at Severus.

"Sorry. Just reminded me of something there for a minute."

Severus had moved away from the bookshelves and glanced back at the staircase now, puzzled. Perhaps the stairs reminded Harry of some experience this past year, on the Horcrux hunt. Or perhaps of one of the staircases to the upper floors of Grimmauld Place. He looked at Harry's pale face as the boy struggled to regain control of himself.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked, voice low and calm.

"Not really," answered Harry, looking away from Severus quickly. "And no, I haven't seen enough. Can I see your room? Didn't you want me to help you box up some things?"

"I had meant to start with some books," said Severus.

Harry glanced at the dusty volumes.

"Why don't we send Kreacher over here to dust them off first?" he suggested, taking a tentative step or two closer to the open doorway leading to the stairs.

"That is a good idea," replied Severus, surveying the hundreds of tomes. "It will certainly save our lungs from inhaling more of the filth of this town." He strode toward the stairs and ducked under the low doorway, then reached inside and flipped a switch on a wall that Harry couldn't see. The dark stairs lit up with a faint, shadowy glow and Harry could now see that the steps were covered in a threadbare blue carpet. Severus disappeared up the stairs, footsteps echoing in the sitting room below, and Harry hurried to follow.

The stairs were squeaky, steep and narrow. Harry noticed how his foot seemed to fit in a groove in the middle of each tread where the carpet, and the wood below it, had been worn down into a slight depression. Had Severus been a different kind of person, had Harry been able to imagine him as a boisterous, playful child, he might have imagined that the stairs were worn down from a small boy sliding down them on his bottom.

But Severus would not have been that kind of boy.

Nor had Harry been.

The staircase, which seemed to climb along the far side of the house, ended at a little landing. A doorway to the left led to a short passage with four doors, all of them closed. Severus had his wand out and illuminated now and walked ahead to the end of the corridor, pushing open the door there to reveal a tiny bath with a black and white tile floor and an old white porcelain basin. The mirror over the basin reflected the wand light back at Harry and he blinked in surprise.

Severus gestured to the single door on the right side. "My mother's room," he said. Harry thought his voice both sad and respectful. He wondered what was behind the door—had Severus left it exactly as Eileen Prince had left it? Were her clothes still in there? Her brush and comb on the dresser? Her shoes lined up at the end of the bed?

But Severus made no move to show Harry his mother's room and Harry dutifully turned toward the left side of the passage. Severus stood before the first door and waved his wand in a complicated arc, uttering a spell under his breath that Harry could not quite catch. The doorknob, an old-fashioned glass handle, glowed briefly and Severus reached down and pushed open the door.

Harry couldn't have said exactly what he expected to find in Severus Snape's bedroom in this, his childhood home. He imagined Severus had used this room most of his life, that it was in fact the room in the memory he had seen during those first Occlumency lessons during his fifth year. The room where a young Severus lay on the bed, lazily zapping flies. But that had been years ago, when his parents were still living, when he was still a student at Hogwarts. Surely the room would have been cleaned out since then, filled with the trappings of an adult, no longer a child's haven—no longer a young boy's prison.

That the room was a cluttered mess surprised Harry.

It was far cleaner than the downstairs rooms, if "cleaner" meant less dust and grime. But the clutter you might see in a normal house—not the Dursleys’, of course, as that house was as far from normal as any—seemed to be absent from the kitchen and living areas and confined to this one room.

"Do as I say, not as I do," muttered Severus as his eyes swept the room with Harry's. He moved over to the low dresser with a plain rectangular mirror attached to its back and picked up a school scarf in Slytherin colors, fingered it a moment, then hung it over the mirror and turned back to face Harry. "That means you are never to let your own room decay into the mess that you see here." He arched an eyebrow. Harry looked around again, certain he didn't own enough stuff to make that even a remote danger.

The bed was the antithesis of a Hogwarts four-poster. It was frameless and low, sunken in the middle, a plain double bed short enough that Harry imagined Severus had to sleep on it diagonally to keep his feet from dangling off the end. It was covered in a dingy white spread, the kind Mrs. Figg had in her guest bedroom, with little white puffs making patterns in the middle and long string-like fringe around the edges. At Mrs. Figg's, the fringe just grazed the floor. Here, it rested almost completely on the dark hardwood, looking more like a raveled edge than elegant fringe.

Harry was still staring at the bed when Severus handed him a large cardboard box—he'd enlarged a small box he'd found on the dresser—and pointed to a narrow bookshelf with three shelves against the wall at the foot of the bed.

"Start there, I suppose. I try to keep this room at least relatively dust free, so the books should not make you cough up a lung." He glanced over at the shelf, then sat down on the bed and pulled open the top dresser drawer. Harry could see that, instead of the anticipated socks and underwear, the drawer was full of a riot of small items—like the junk drawer in the Weasleys’ kitchen that held all manner of things like string and glue and tape and Muggle postage stamps and quills and….

He stared at the box in his hand, looked again at the more enticing drawer, and moved over to the bookshelf, sinking to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of it with the box beside him.

He looked at the shelf and suddenly realized that, instead of books on the Dark Arts and Potions, he was face to face with Severus' childhood.

He quickly glanced back over his shoulder. Severus was still sitting on the bed, poking around in the junk drawer, his back to Harry. Harry could tell by his posture, his attitude, that Severus was not exactly enjoying his visit to Spinner's End.

Harry understood. It was like his cupboard, he supposed, a quick sinking of his stomach making him recall how that first look into the dark staircase had reminded him of the view into his cupboard from the passage. As much as that cupboard represented all that was wrong with his childhood—and with the Dursleys, he quickly reminded himself—it was, in effect, his.

It had been home, for whatever that was worth.

He reached up and removed a book from the top shelf. A battered dictionary, the kind with the gold leaf on the edges, most of it worn away now. He placed the book in the box and removed another dictionary—Latin—and placed it on top of the first. French, German, Italian, Spanish. Surely Severus didn't speak….? Harry filed that question away, unconsciously respecting the quiet of the room, and continued to remove books and place them in the large box.

The top shelf contained all reference books, including a tome on trees, shrubs and flowers of the United Kingdom and another on the reptiles, birds and mammals native to Great Britain. A child's guide to Potions, bound in dark brown leather with gilded gold letters, was the only magical volume on the shelf. Harry packed them all into the box carefully, thinking, as he did, that he hadn't even had a dictionary of his own at the Dursleys’, then started on the bottom shelf, leaving the intriguing middle shelf for last. That shelf had what appeared to be novels and storybooks with brighter-colored spines and pictures on the covers.

The bottom shelf held mainly Hogwarts textbooks. Harry pulled out The Standard Book of Spells—Grade 4 and smiled. The Wizarding world certainly didn't update its textbooks as often as the Muggle world did. This one looked exactly like his own, down to the pigtailed young witch in old-fashioned robes on the front cover. Severus hadn't kept all of his textbooks, though he did have a fair number of Potions books and apparently all of his Defense Against the Dark Arts texts. Noticeably missing were the seven Gilderoy Lockhart books required during Harry's second year and the entirely worthless Defensive Magical Theory that the late Dolores Umbridge had used. Harry looked at Severus' fifth year Potions text, dog-eared and worn, rather than placing it in the box. He put it in his lap instead, and opened it to the cover page.

As he expected, Severus had written in this book, as well. There it was: "Property of the Half-Blood Prince'' written across the bottom of the page in the fine handwriting he now recognized. He looked over his shoulder at Severus. He was sitting on the bed still, an old shoebox in his lap, quietly sorting through its contents. Harry turned back to the book and paged through it quickly. Severus had not written in Intermediate Potions as heavily as he had in the book Harry used in his sixth year, though he did find the expected alterations to ingredients and notes in the margins. On the inside of the back cover was a crude but amusing drawing of a cockroach. The roach, a particularly fat roach, was holding a piece of glazed pineapple in his little roach hand. The drawing was captioned "The Bug Club."

It suddenly struck Harry that he and Severus had had the same Potions professor, at least for a time; that Severus had been a sixteen-year-old boy once, too; that he had doodled in his book and made fun of the Slug Club.

Harry closed the book, placed it carefully in the box and looked up at the last shelf.

A row of seven or eight books of the same size and shape caught his attention first. He pulled one out at random. Hard-Headed Hector and the Pygmy Post Owl. Harry blinked. He'd never heard of Hard-headed Hector. He pulled another book out and looked at the front cover. On this one, Hard-headed Hector was on a broom chasing a two-tailed dog. Hard-Headed Hector and the Magical Crup. He opened the book and could tell from the illustrations and the size of the typeface that it was the kind of book a ten- or twelve-year-old might read. The books were well cared for, yet Harry could tell they'd been read many times. He paged to the back of the third one he took out, Hard-Headed Hector and the Grumpy Garden Gnome, and ran his finger over the name written carefully along the bottom of the inside back cover. The words were printed in neat block letters, by a hand that could not have belonged to a child older than eight years old. Severus T. Snape.

Severus had written his name in these books. He'd read these books, perhaps in this very room, read them over and over again, and when he was too old to read them, had kept them anyway. Was he thinking, back then, that he'd someday pass them along to a son?

Suddenly, Harry wanted very much to read these books.

He pulled another off the shelf, smiling at the title: Hard-Headed Hector and the Nibbling Niffler. He stacked it in the box on top of the others and asked, rather innocently, "Severus, what's your middle name?"

"Tobias," answered Severus idly. "It was my father's name. And I have already told you that—in a letter, I believe."

Harry filed the information away and smiled as he stacked the rest of the "Hard-Headed Hector" series in the box and pulled down a child's biography of Arsenius Jigger. He recognized the name of the author of some of his Potions textbooks. Several more biographies, a copy of Tolkien's The Hobbit, a very worn copy of a book he'd never heard of, Stranger in a Strange Land. He added a multi-volume leather-bound set of the short stories of Arthur Conan Doyle and the box was nearly full.

But there was room for one more book. The last book sat on the edge of the shelf, pressed against the side, and when he tried to remove it the paper jacket was stuck to the wood. He wiggled it carefully and the paper unstuck.

He could tell right away that it was a book unlike the others. Muggle, but there had been other Muggle books in with the magical ones. No, what made this book stand out was that it was a girl's book, the jacket light green, the font fancy, a picture of a little blonde girl in a severe coat and a plain hat on the cover. The book was titled The Secret Garden. Harry had never heard of it.

He stared at the cover for a long moment then carefully opened the book to the first page, his eyes drawn to the inscription there.

June 30, 1978

Dear Sev:

"Where there is love, there is magic."

You know what this book means to me. I think you'll find yourself in here, though perhaps not where you'd expect.

Fondly,

Lily

Harry stared at the inscription, feeling like a voyeur, but soaking up the feeling, the feeling of seeing his mum's handwriting, of hearing her voice in his head, of knowing that she'd held this book, had touched this book. That this book was one she'd read, loved herself, treasured.

A feeling of overwhelming sadness, a melancholy so deep he didn't know how to push it away, overcame him then and he read the inscription again, and again. He wanted to know what the book meant to his mum. He wanted, so much, so hard, so deeply, to have a gift like this from his mum, a memento to treasure, even if he couldn't have her voice.

Except he had had her voice. On that final walk through the smoldering grounds of Hogwarts, through the Forbidden Forest, the Snitch clutched desperately in his hands. The walk to the end, to the close.

To the beginning.

But it wasn't enough!

He choked back a sob he would not, could not, let out.

He read the inscription again.

She had called Severus "Sev."

"Where there is love, there is magic."

Who had said that? Was it part of this book?

The date. Their last day ever at Hogwarts. He knew they had fallen into separate spheres by then, she with James, Severus with the Death Eater Crowd. Yet she had given him this. And he had kept it.

He paged through the book, too quickly, but was rewarded with more handwriting at the end, on the blank page between the end of the book and the back cover.

Sev:

I hope by now you see that you're all the children in this book. You're Mary, the unloved, forgotten child. You're Colin, long-suffering, afraid of life, neglected by his father. You're Dickon, who knows the earth and the plants and creatures who live in and on it. Just as they brought the garden to life, you made magic real for me, Sev, long before I knew it was real. Come what may, I'll always remember that. The gift you gave me. The light you brought to this child's eyes.

Lily

Harry stood and took two shaky steps toward Severus.

"Severus…Dad..." He had the book in his hand and, as Severus turned, pivoting on the old bedspread, he held it out toward him.

"Give me that."

Harry stopped, stunned. He took a step backward and clutched the book against his stomach.

"But…I wanted to read it."

Severus stood, face stoic, and held out his hand for the book, then paused, staring at his own outstretched hand, then at Harry. He took in the flush on the boy's face, the moisture on his cheeks, the way he was shielding the book with his body, then dropped his hand and sank back down on the bed. He held his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. His hair fell around his face, shielding his eyes.

"Dad?" Harry's voice was soft, small, tentative, but it seemed to echo in the quiet little room, bouncing off the mirror, dancing around stacks of papers, ducking into the corner behind the old racing broom, the worn ice skates, the empty aquarium.

A ragged sob, trembling shoulders.

Harry froze, a step away from the bed, a step away from his father. He stared at Severus in confusion, trying to comprehend exactly what was happening. Another ragged sob and the bent head was shaking now.

"Dad? Are you alright?" Harry's own voice was shaky and unsure as he carefully placed the book on top of the still-cluttered dresser and stood in front of Severus, in front of his father, squatting down in the too-small space between the man and the dresser, reaching up to take hold of one of the long-fingered hands pressed against Severus' head. Squeezing it. "Severus? It's alright. I put the book down. On the dresser. You can have it."

And Severus looked up at Harry then, tears streaking his face, eyes sad and distant, then reached out with one arm and pulled Harry to him, wrapping both arms then around the child, the boy, the young man, the Chosen One, defeater of Voldemort, motherless orphan, Harry.

Harry remained stiff and frozen for a stunned moment.

And then he broke.

Because it wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that Severus knew his mother, and he didn't. Wasn't fair that Severus had that book, that piece of her. That she had read that book and found Severus in it, and not Harry. That she had played with him in the woods, and swung with him on the swing set, and made a flower come alive for him. That he had turned the end of the skipping rope, and knocked on her door. Hullo, Mrs. Evans. Is Lily home?

That Severus had loved his mother, while he had nothing to love.

"I want the book," he sobbed when he could finally lift his voice through the anger and swelling sadness. "I want something of my mum's."

Silly child…you have her eyes.

A long hand smoothed back his hair. He could feel the dampness of Severus' cheek, the bristle on his jaw. He clutched his hands into the fabric of the shirt. He ached. He wanted. He needed. The book. The memories. The love. He wanted to smell her, to hug her, to hear her voice reading the words aloud to him, telling him that he was like Dickon. Admiring his love of living things. That he was like Colin. Long-suffering. That he was Mary, the neglected, forgotten child. Except he didn't want that. He didn't want to be neglected, forgotten.

"I want something of my mum's," he repeated, voice trembling, tears slipping down his face and wetting Severus' cheeks now.

"The book is yours," whispered Severus, voice raspy, his hand still smoothing down Harry's hair rhythmically. Harry took in a shuddering breath and hugged Severus tight.

"Thank you. Thank you, Dad." He sighed out the words into Severus' shoulder. "Thank you."

Another long silence, not awkward, not uncomfortable.

"Did you find yourself in the book, Dad?" asked Harry minutes later, face still pressed in Severus' shoulder, hands still fisted in his shirt.

A long pause. The words, when they came, were stark and empty. Like Harry's moments ago, they filled the small room, sinking into the worn white bedspread, sailing on tiny currents above the bare wooden floorboards, somersaulting into the open dresser drawer filled with Gobstones and chess pieces and Chocolate Frog cards yellowed with age.

"I never read it. I couldn't bear to."

(Chapter 10)

Chapter 10

He couldn't sleep.

It had been difficult, nearly impossible in fact, to fall asleep in the first place. Harry had been exhausted when they returned from Spinner's End and had gone directly up to bed when they'd Apparated back to Shell Cottage after dinner at a pub in Manchester. Severus had Flooed back first with the boxes they'd packed, making four trips carrying two boxes at a time, while Harry settled into the comfortable chair in the sitting room and paged through the book Severus had given him. Lily's book. The Secret Garden. Dinner was good and hearty. The exhaustion of the day, both physical and emotional, should have ensured that he slept long and soundly.

But at one o'clock in the morning, Severus was awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to capture the remnants of the dreams that flitted around in his head. His arms and legs ached from moving so many boxes of books, and there was a heaviness in his heart that he couldn't quite banish, the weight of the past, the baggage of a lifetime.

He sat up on the edge of his bed after a time, convinced that he might breathe easier sitting upright, that the uncomfortable weight of his thoughts and memories would be somehow easier to bear were he not lying in bed, flat on his back. The moon was full, or nearly so, and his hands, resting motionless on his knees, seemed to glow in the soft light spilling in through the window. He sat quietly, breathing rhythmically, back straight, head bowed, looking at his hands on his knees, at his long fingers with their short fingernails, at his thin wrists, at the veins barely seen below the skin. Months, more than a year now, removed from daily potions yet the evidence remained that he was a Potions master, a collector of ingredients. That his hands cut flora and fauna of all varieties, that his fingers gathered chopped and minced and ground and pulverized bits of matter, mixed them with water and bile and blood and acid and tears, strained them, ladled them, bottled them. Though faded now, the stains of his chosen career adorned his fingers along with patches of shiny, smooth skin, burning memories of spills too late to avert.

He turned his hands over, still resting them on his knees, still gazing down at them as if studying someone else's hands, someone else's life.

The calluses were more evident now, on his fingers, from quills and stirring rods and on the tip of this thumb where his wand always rested. More faded stains, ink both black and red.

His mind wandered.

He had created thousands of potions with these hands, picked flowers for Lily, hugged his mother, punched his father. He had marked countless essays, picked up stones along the lake, skipped them over the water. He'd written hundreds of parchment feet of essays, kneaded bread dough in his mother's kitchen at Spinner's End, perched on a stool at the counter, turning and folding and working in more flour while his mum touched his nose with a floury finger, leaving a perfect dot on its prominent tip.

He'd used those hands to grasp the headmaster's robes, pleading with him for mercy, begging him to help Lily, to protect her.

He'd gone through much of his life with a wand in these hands.

He'd used it to murder Albus.

He'd scooped up bruise salve with these fingers, rubbed it on Harry's skin. Carded them through Harry's hair, dug in the sand with them in search of shellfish, licked that ridiculous butter cream frosting off of them, traced patterns on frosty window panes.

He'd held those hands in front of his face in fear as his father approached him, covered his face with them so his mother could not see his shame.

They were strong and dexterous and agile.

They were stained and destructive and guilty.

Guilty.

The weight of guilt could be oppressive.

He stood then, stepped into his slippers, picked up his robe from the hook on the wall and put it on as he walked quietly down the stairs.

He walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea, waited for it to boil, standing there in front of the range looking at the kettle, patient, studiously not thinking, centering himself in the moment, in the act of watching, in the patient posture of waiting.

He settled into one of the lounge chairs a few minutes later, cup of tea warming his hands on this mild, moonlit night. The moon was behind him as he gazed out toward the sea and, though he couldn't see it, it lit up the water, bathing it in its cool, pale glow.

Try as he might to keep himself in the here and the now, to look only toward the future—the upcoming term at Hogwarts, Harry's birthday at the end of the month—nights like these took over his resolve and led him backward, slow-arcing in reverse order through the years: that last year at Hogwarts as headmaster, the Harry years before that, the years since Lily died, the years since taking the Mark, his own Hogwarts years. Decisions made that branded him as a lover of the Dark Arts, as a Death Eater, as a traitor.

If only he had stood by Lily. If only he hadn't used that word. Mudblood. If only he had gone to Dumbledore before taking the Mark. If only he had not gone to the Dark Lord after hearing the Prophecy. If only. If only.

He was thirty-eight years old and, if luck and fortune fell into place and he didn't meet with an unfortunate accident leading to an untimely end, he might reasonably expect to live another seventy-five years.

How many years would be necessary to erase his sins? To remove the stains on his soul?

Twenty for Albus Dumbledore.

Twelve for the sins of omission. For watching while Charity Burbage pleaded for his help. Severus, please! We're friends… While the Carrows terrorized the school. While they tortured Neville Longbottom.

Seven for taking the Dark Mark, revealing the Prophecy, torturing Muggles, using Veritaserum on prisoners, lying to himself, always lying to himself.

Five for the years he had tormented Harry. Another for the year he had pretended to.

Five for uttering that cursed word….Mudblood.

Then—then could he forgive himself? Really forgive himself?

He was surprised, incredulous really, at the ease with which some were able to forgive.

Like Harry. Harry who seemed to look right through those blots on his soul, those stains on his conscience, and see not a teacher, not a tormenter, not a Death Eater, but a father.

Severus looked out to sea again, transfixed by the image of the moon both over the water and on it, rippling on the gentle night waves.

Lily had chosen James Potter. James had fathered Harry. James had died protecting him.

And later, Harry had chosen Severus.

He didn't deserve this. This taste of normalcy. This infusion of love in a life that love had never before graced for so long. He hadn't lived a good enough life, hadn't atoned for his sins, hadn't worked off his contempt of his actions. Hadn't been punished enough. Hadn't punished himself enough.

But still, there was Harry.

And most days, he could focus on Harry, and what Harry needed. Harry needed security, normalcy, a place to come home to, someone to guide him. He needed someone for whom he was the primary focus. A parent. A family of one. How odd that he found security here with Severus, a normal life with the least normal of all the teachers at Hogwarts, the least normal of all the adults in his life.

He stood then, compelled by what he did not know—the barely cool, fragrant air, the moonlight on the water, the sound of the waves against the shore—and walked out the door and down the stairs, turning to leave his slippers on the steps. Barefoot, he let the moonlight guide him down the smooth, well-worn path, picking his way through and among the rocks and grass, to the sand, to the water's edge.

He waded out into the water a few feet, looking down as it lapped around his ankles, happy that he could not see his face reflected in the water. His too-large nose. The prominent scars on his neck. The scowl that had settled on his face even before he was at Hogwarts. That look is going to freeze on your face one day, Severus! The fine dark hair, once lank and oily from hanging over steaming cauldrons, now clean, but still fine, not befitting a man of his stature, nor of his age. Baby fine, his mother had said in her sad, quiet voice, taking comb to his hair all those years ago, in the atrium of the Great Hall, just before his last end-of-term feast at Hogwarts .

He waded out further, the sandy sea floor firm and smooth beneath his feet. He stopped when the hem of his bathrobe touched the water, siphoning water up the fabric above his knees. He shrugged the robe off and it floated atop the water behind him, rocked gently by the waves. He had been sleeping in nothing but boxers and an old v-necked undershirt, and he moved further out now until the water lapped at the bottom of his pants, wicking up the fabric and chilling him.

He was a sinner in need of cleansing. Not Jesus Christ in the River Jordan but Saul on the road to Damascus. Unclean, unclean. A leper ostracized from polite society. An unwanted girl child in one-child China. A stray dog, underfed and mangy. He was oppressor and oppressed. Tormentor and victim.

Up to his waist now, he let himself fall forward.

Dying and reborn.

He was buoyant in the water, floating without effort as he turned on his back and gazed up at the moon.

Weightless.

Look forward, Severus, he told himself. The past is dead and gone.

Murmured susurrations reached him through the water. Forgiven forgiven forgiven, they said.

Not yet not yet not yet, he answered.

A month ago, maybe two, he would have said never.

In his nightmare, he hadn't listened. Hadn't done what Dumbledore wanted him to do. Hadn't destroyed all the Horcruxes. Hadn't believed the memories Severus had left him. Hadn't gone to his death willingly.

In his nightmare, he was a coward, hiding, quaking, shaking, cowering. Wrapped up in his Invisibility Cloak, skirting the edge of the forest, running while others fought and died.

In his nightmare, Severus lay on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, voiceless, breathless, bloodless. Unblinking, unseeing black eyes stared at the ceiling. The great snake, like a Dementor, feasted on his soul.

In his nightmare, Ron left and never came back.

In his nightmare, Hermione went with him.

In his nightmare, little Teddy Lupin, tips of his baby hair tinged turquoise, lay squalling on the floor between his dead mother and his dead father, a blasphemy of a family, a twisted portrait of togetherness.

In his nightmare, he kept the Elder Wand, used it to bring back Fred and Remus and Tonks. Revived Lavender, Colin and Moody. Woke up Dumbledore. Roused Cedric from his long sleep. Pulled Sirius back from beyond the veil. Went to Godric's Hollow, to the cemetery there, and pulled his parents from their restful sleep.

And they followed him, his small army of Inferi, so grateful were they for the life he had returned to them, so beholden to him. Surrounded him by day and by night so that he could not sleep and at night, lying awake and tense, he'd feel the mist of their ghostly breath and the touch of his mother's skeletal finger as she ran it down his cheek in that age-old gesture of love.

In his nightmare, the tent had a cupboard and the doorway to the loo had a veil.

In his nightmare, he was alone.

He awoke, heart racing, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling above him.

His bedroom was dark but the window in front of him was a picture postcard of the moon dancing on the water.

The soft light pulled him gently from his nightmare and he lay there, breathing.

Alone.

The house was quiet. Severus, he thought, was sleeping.

Just the knowledge that Severus was there, unseen, unheard, but there, comforted him, the feeling wrapping around his heart like a blanket, quieting its wild beating.

He could not sleep. Not yet. The nightmares were still there, just beyond the edge of consciousness. He had to stave them off with wakefulness, with other thoughts and distractions.

He reached for his glasses, put them on. Reached for his wand and lit it with a quiet Lumos.

Reached for the book on his bedside table.

For the twentieth time, he opened it to the inscription his mother had written to Severus.

Dear Sev:

"Where there is love, there is magic."

You know what this book means to me. I think you'll find yourself in here, though perhaps not where you'd expect.

Yours,

Lily

And then he turned to the back of the book and read the second one.

Sev:

I hope by now you see that you're all the children in this book. You're Mary, the unloved, forgotten child. You're Colin, long-suffering, afraid of life, neglected by his father. You're Dickon, who knows the earth and the plants and creatures who live in and on it. Just as they brought the garden to life, you made magic real for me, Sev, long before I knew it was real. Come what may, I'll always remember that.

Lily

Harry wanted to know those children—this unloved Mary, the neglected Colin, and Dickon, who loved the plants and the animals. He thought it must be a book for young girls, but he couldn't imagine not reading it, not now, not now that it was his. His mother had loved this book and the children in it had reminded her of Severus.

It was the first night that Harry Potter would read The Secret Garden when he awoke from a nightmare.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen."

Severus was bone weary when he walked up from the sea to the cottage. He picked up his slippers from the porch stairs and carried them with him onto the porch. He draped his sodden robe on the back of a lounge chair, stepped into his slippers and carried his teacup into the kitchen.

The old clock on the wall beside the range read two o'clock.

He could sleep now.

He rinsed out the cup and filled it with water from the tap, drank it down, refilled it and drank that, too. He placed the cup in the drainer.

He took the stairs slowly, quietly, not wanting to wake Harry.

There was a ribbon of light wavering from under Harry's door.

Severus stood in front of the door. No, it wouldn't do to go in there now dressed in damp t-shirt and boxers. He padded softly to his room instead, pulled off the boxers and pulled on a pair of cotton sleep pants. He changed into a dry t-shirt and used a drying charm on his hair.

The light was still on under Harry's door. He knocked softly.

"Come on in," called out Harry in a quiet voice.

Severus opened the door.

"Having trouble sleeping?" he asked.

Harry was sitting up against the headboard, knees pulled up to his chest in his favorite position. The book was resting on his knees and he held his wand above it, the tip lit with a soft, full light.

"I started reading the book," explained Harry, not really answering the question. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock," answered Severus. He hadn't moved out of the doorway. "You haven't been up all night, Harry."

Harry looked down at the book and then closed it, setting it carefully on his bedside table.

"No," he admitted. "I had a nightmare. How did you know? Did I make noise again?"

This time, Severus ignored the question. He walked over to the bed and sat down on it.

"Budge over."

Harry, surprised, obediently scooted over to make room for Severus, who leaned back against the headboard.

"Are they getting any better?" asked Severus.

"The nightmares?" Harry shrugged. "No, not better, I guess. Different though. More…personal."

He didn't offer more information.

"I think we are unaccustomed to pub food, perhaps," Severus suggested. "We are both awake far too early—or far too late, as the case may be."

"Yeah," agreed Harry, glad for excuse.

They sat there together in silence for a few minutes more.

"Was my mum a good skip-roper?" asked Harry.

Severus smiled.

"You might not believe this, but it was your Aunt Petunia who could skip circles around any other child in the neighborhood," answered Severus. "Your mother was rather…uncoordinated."

"No!" Harry looked appropriately shocked. He grinned at Severus. "Really?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Oh, she was more than adequate, but she hated that Petunia was so much better, so she practiced and practiced. She'd tie one end of the rope to a tree, or a door handle, and have me turn the other so she could practice without Petunia knowing."

"How very Slytherin of her," said Harry, smiling slightly.

"She used to wear her hair in plaits," said Severus. "One on each side, with green ribbons on the ends. They bounced up and down when she skipped."

"What about you?" asked Harry suddenly, turning his head toward Severus.

"No, I never plaited my hair," replied Severus, forcing back a smile.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," said Harry. "I mean skip-roping. I can't imagine you just turned the end all the time. Did you skip?"

"Boys did not skip rope," answered Severus rather definitively.

There was a brief pause.

"Even for my mum?"

Another pause.

"Maybe once or twice."

"I knew it."

"Your mother could be…persuasive."

Harry closed his eyes and Severus picked up the book from the side table.

"What page are you on?"

"Forty-five."

The pages rustled and Severus cleared his throat then began reading in a pleasant low voice.

"A man was drivin' across the moor peddlin'," Martha explained. "An' he stopped his cart at our door. He had pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth Ellen called out, 'Mother, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an' blue handles.' An' mother she calls out quite sudden, 'Here, stop, mister! How much are they?' An' he says 'Tuppence', an' mother she began fumblin' in her pocket an' she says to me, 'Martha, tha's brought me thy wages like a good lass, an' I've got four places to put every penny, but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an' here it is."

She brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly. It was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but Mary Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before. She gazed at it with a mystified expression.

"What is it for?" she asked curiously.

"For!" cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean that they've not got skippin'-ropes in India, for all they've got elephants and tigers and camels! No wonder most of 'em's black. This is what it's for; just watch me."

And she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses. But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosity in Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred.

"I could skip longer than that," she said when she stopped. "I've skipped as much as five hundred when I was twelve, but I wasn't as fat then as I am now, an' I was in practice."

Mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.

"It looks nice," she said. "Your mother is a kind woman. Do you think I could ever skip like that?"

"You just try it," urged Martha, handing her the skipping-rope. "You can't skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you'll mount up. That's what mother said. She says, 'Nothin' will do her more good than skippin' rope. It's th' sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her play out in th' fresh air skippin' an' it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give her some strength in 'em.'"

He faltered then, and closed the book.

He had loved skipping rope.

He'd done it more than once or twice, of course, had done it countless times when they were small, chanting the silly rhymes with Lily….Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack all dressed in black black black with silver buttons buttons buttons all down her back back back… turning the rope while she skipped, skipping while she turned.

Is that what Lily had remembered when she read this book? How skipping rope had, so long ago, brought color to Severus' pale face and strength to his skinny arms?

"I think I can sleep now," said Harry as he nestled down onto his pillow and pulled the quilt up over him.

Severus closed the book, placed it on the bed table, and stood up at the side of the bed.

"Goodnight then, Harry. No need to get up early tomorrow; sleep in as long as you'd like."

"Thanks," said Harry, snuggling down even more into the covers.

Severus was almost to the door when Harry's voice rose up softly again.

"Severus?"

"Yes?"

"In my nightmare, I bring them all back. I use the Elder Wand. I didn't think of that, you know. Of trying to use the wand on Remus, or on Fred…." Harry's voice wavered, stopped.

And Severus paused as well, thinking, considering.

"If the Elder Wand could revive the dead, Harry, don't you think Albus would have used it?"

"I've thought about that," answered Harry. "I thought about my mum and dad. And Cedric. Could he have is different to would he have, you know."

Severus stared into the room for a moment so long he thought Harry might have fallen asleep.

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" asked Harry, interrupting the silence.

"Indeed it does," answered Severus.

And he went back to his room, to his bed, rested his head on the down-filled pillow, pulled the quilt over him, up to his neck. Sighed.

Sleep was long in coming.