A/N: Add a pinch of angst and the plot thickens. Severus learns a secret.
Chapter 5: Revelations
"Potter, wake up."
He blinks his eyes open and yawns. "What time is it?" He feels around for his glasses. I hand them to him.
"Noon," I say and swallow back the bile that stings my throat. I can't recall the last time I slept later than seven o'clock. My body could not possibly have chosen a more inconvenient time to break its routine. I wait for awareness to creep over his face. It does, at last, and he darts out of bed, nearly knocking me over.
"Oh shit," he says and then remembers where he is. "Sorry. I...Quidditch practice. Angelina."
*Quidditch.* Before I remind him that it's a Hogsmeade weekend, I have to restrain myself from hexing him for daring to think about a stupid game despite the fact that I'm going to lose my job.
"Wait. There is no Quidditch today." He sighs heavily and falls back onto my bed. My bed. My room. My job.
I suppress a sudden impulsion toward violence and mutter, "Come along, Potter. We must go speak with the Headmaster." My throat is dry and my head feels only tenuously attached to my body. I remind myself that I don't need this job and would most likely be happier without it. I tell myself that I am a fully trained wizard and am probably capable of staying alive without Dumbledore's protection. I try to assuage the nameless feral beast clawing its way around my insides by reminding it that what I've done was kind and thoughtful. I helped a desperate boy.
That last part didn't help. I think I might vomit now.
"Why do we have to see Dumbledore?" He looks frightened and I'm pretty sure it's not out of concern for my well-being.
"Because your absence will have been noticed. I suspect a search party is already underway." *And perhaps if the story comes from you, I might merely be fired and not sent to prison on charges of statutory rape.*
He stares at me intently for a moment and I see his mouth drop. "Professor, are you...I mean, can you get in trouble for me...um..."
"No, it's perfectly normal for Hogwarts' faculty to entertain underage students in their private chambers overnight. Perhaps you've noticed the stream of first year boys coming out of McGonagall's chambers every morning." I pause to savour the angry blush in his cheeks before I turn around. I start off toward the door, desperately trying to figure out what I'm going to tell Dumbledore.
*"Albus, the boy has deluded himself into thinking that I am a friendly ear and it's entirely your fault for forcing us to work together, thereby stripping me of my power to intimidate him. He has dared to become sentimental in my presence on two different occasions and I demand that he be punished."*
Somehow I don't think that will work. I silently pray that I will manage to come up with one good reason that I allowed the boy to sleep in my chambers before I reach the headmaster's office. It's a long walk. I may get lucky. Ignoring a smug voice in my head singing, *I told you so,* I open the door.
And nearly die of a heart attack. Damn my luck.
"Good afternoon, Severus. Or should I say good morning?"
I can feel the guilt and panic contort my features and I instinctually begin composing my will. Instantly, I feel my face fall to its normal sober expression. I try not to sigh with relief.
"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore brushes past me and I turn to see that Potter hasn't fared nearly as well as I have. Were I Dumbledore, I would lock myself up without a trial just from looking at the boy's face. I watch him struggle for words and I curse him silently. I realise with a vague sense of bitterness that he learned nothing over the summer. It makes not a whit of difference if the boy can keep a straight face before me, when he fails the moment a calm façade becomes necessary.
"Professor Dumbledore, it was my fault. Professor Snape found me in the halls last night and he brought me here to punish me."
*I, Severus Snape, being of sound mind...*
"He told me I could stay here, if I tried to sleep. Well, I didn't think I'd actually fall asleep..."
*I, SEVERUS SNAPE, BEING OF SOUND...*
"But I did. Sorry. We shouldn't have slept so long. Not that we...together, you know, um..."
Fuck it. Kill me now.
I decide to keep my eyes closed in preparation for the Dementor's kiss. I'd rather not see it coming. Overall, I've led a full life. I put forth my best efforts to shape young minds—as demoralizing as that experience has been. I was feared and respected by thousands of brainless twits, some of whom have gone off to become mindless drones in powerful positions. I made mistakes, but I've redeemed myself through self-sacrifice and years of torment for the Good of Society. I begin looking forward to the long rest that I assume will come once my soul has been unceremoniously sucked from my body. I convince myself that living without a soul can't be much more painful than living with one.
I hear Dumbledore clear his throat. And then I hear him laugh. Loudly. My eyes snap open. I see Potter with his face buried in his hands, Dumbledore at his side, hiccupping for air. I am astonished, and admittedly fearful. The man is much too old to laugh like that. Potter raises his blushing face and furrows his brow in concern.
"Forgive me," the Headmaster says, at last. He sighs and his face falls back into that horridly mild expression. "Harry, rest assured, neither you nor Professor Snape is in trouble." Relief washes over the boy's face. I feel a twinge of suspicion jolt through my stomach. "I told Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger that you took ill last night and were sleeping in the hospital wing. I think it wise if we kept to that story."
Potter nods stupidly. Dumbledore looks pleased with himself. He usually does.
"I had suspected I'd find the two of you together when Severus didn't appear at breakfast. My suspicions were confirmed by a certain map I confiscated last year from Mr. Crouch. I was relieved to see the two of you sleeping soundly. I daresay neither of you have slept so well all term." The boy turns his eyes toward me and I foolishly try to read Dumbledore's mind. He's up to something. I can tell by his tone and that blasted glint in his eye. I suddenly wonder what sort of pawn I've unwittingly become. I bite down on my anger.
"Harry, you should run along to your dormitory now. If you wish, Professor McGonagall will escort you to Hogsmeade to join your friends."
Potter smiles and thanks the headmaster. The smile grows awkward when he turns to me. He blushes. "Thanks, Professor." He lowers his eyes and walks hurriedly toward the door. He doesn't look back. I watch the door shut behind him and then I turn to the old man.
"I'm sorry, Albus. I shouldn't have let him stay. It won't happen again."
"Nonsense, Severus. I am pleased that he has you to turn to."
*Bugger.* "I'm not qualified to be the boy's counsellor, Albus. And after his performance over the last term, I have serious doubts about continuing to encourage his behaviour by offering him special treatment. If you insist that the boy continue training, I would suggest that we do it during regular school hours. I'm his professor, not his friend. The boy has difficulty remembering that." My words are futile, of course. The man never listens to anything I say. In the end, I will do as he wishes because he is Albus Dumbledore, the most revered man in the wizarding world. And I am Severus Snape, his lackey. I am struck, not for the first time, by the irony. I traded one oppressive regime for another. A slave in both heaven and hell.
He doesn't speak for a long time. I hate his contemplative silences. He lets me stew while he carefully composes his rejection to my plea. * Just tell me to sod off, and get it over with.*
"Severus, I wonder if you'll come to my office this afternoon for tea."
I visibly cringe and he pretends not to notice. If I open my mouth, I'm sure to end up in Azkaban for a very long time. I clutch my hands tightly behind my back to keep them from reaching for my wand. I'm careful not to make eye contact lest I accidentally blast the man into a thousand twinkling pieces.
"Around four will be just fine, Severus." He smiles and wishes me good day.
~o~o~
I exit the passageway from Dumbledore's office and I lean against a wall to steady myself. I have been asked to tea on numerous occasions. Over the years, I've grown accustomed to leaving the man's office feeling nauseous and enraged. I am not, however, used to feeling like the world has just gone spiralling into chaos. I suppose I should appreciate the novelty.
*"I think it is time you know the truth about Harry."*
I might have laughed at the statement were it not for the grave look in Dumbledore's eyes. *The Truth About Harry.* It occurs to me that it could be the title of some obscure muggle musical. I envision a chorus of Gryffindors singing the opening number, "The Boy Who Lived." A line of Weasleys dressed in sparkling, gold hot-pants go can-canning across my imagination. I shudder and quickly stop that train of thought before Voldemort enters stage left and starts his solo, "This Potter Must Die."
*Hosanna! Superstar!*
Oh gods. I've gone mad.
I take a bracing breath and start off toward the dungeons. I can hear the students filling up the Entrance Hall as they return from their Hogsmeade Visit. I put on my most forbidding expression and walk determinedly. Normally it pleases me a great deal to watch the brats cowering before me, jumping out of my path, flattening themselves against walls to avoid me; but now I scarcely note it. I spy a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye and I quicken my pace. Where Weasley is, Potter can't be far off. And I'm not entirely sure how I would fare with a confrontation just now.
I reach my chambers in record time and go directly to my bedroom where I plan to spend the rest of the night staring absently at the ceiling. As I'm about to lie down, I notice the boy's cloak in a ball next to my pillow. It occurs to me that he'll be back for it and I try to fight a rising sense of foreboding. I curse myself for being fearful of the brat. I once managed to fool one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time. I can certainly handle a teenage boy with a straight face.
*"What I am about to tell you, Severus, the boy cannot know."* As if that needed to be said. I would sooner slit my throat than be the one to tell him. It would be a much more pleasant experience, I think. While admittedly I enjoy provoking the boy, I try to avoid any emotion that goes deeper than adolescent rage—which reminds me about the reason that bloody cloak is in my bed. My sudden urge to be horizontal is replaced by a sudden urge to get good and pissed.
I sit on the sofa in my bedchamber with a bottle of brandy and a book. I don't actually plan to read the book, but it will serve nicely as a place to focus my eyes while I replay my latest life-altering conversation with Dumbledore. The brandy will eventually allow me to laugh bitterly at the inherent hopelessness of the situation: if Potter dies, Voldemort finally attains true immortality; if Voldemort dies, Potter dies anyway. Ha!
Not enough brandy. It's not funny, yet.
*"I intend to protect the boy for as long as I live, Severus. When the time comes, Harry will have a very difficult choice to make. I would like you to be there for him when he makes that choice."*
Long ago, I gave up asking the question, "Why me?" I successfully kept from asking it in Dumbledore's office. But now, it comes back to haunt me. And I would very much like a bloody answer. Fine line, he said. Fine line, indeed.
I'd like to give him a fine line down the centre of that aged skull of his. I should have known when he nominated me for this task that it wasn't for my extensive knowledge of the dark arts. It occurs to me now that the actual training was never anything more than "let's try to keep Potter busy so he doesn't run off and get himself killed, thereby creating a permanent problem of a temporary Dark Lord."
I pour a second glass of brandy and drink it down, immediately refilling it. Halfway through the third glass I am struck by a sudden thought: in order to save the life of Potter, the wizarding world must keep Voldemort safe from the boy. Making Harry Potter his own worst enemy.
I laugh bitterly and set down my glass.
At least that hasn't changed.
~o~o~
I don't know how long I've been sitting here when the knock comes. Long enough to have studied my conversation with Dumbledore at least ten thousand times; turning it over and over and inside out, searching for the silver lining. I haven't found it, but I'm sure I'll try again later—optimist that I've suddenly become. The knocking grows insistent and I walk to the door. I don't wonder who it is.
He greets me with a nervous, "Hullo." I step aside to let him pass. Closing the door, I remind myself that I'm expected to act as though nothing has changed. I'm supposed to carry on as before, despite the added weight to my conscience. I take a deep breath and turn toward him.
"Another nightmare, Mr. Potter?" My voice is laden with bitterness, but that's normal.
He shakes his head. "I just wanted to thank you again for letting me stay last night. I didn't see you at the Feast. You weren't sleeping, were you?"
I choose to respond with a noncommittal grunt, hoping to stall this exchange while I figure out exactly what I must say to him. Had I not received the shock of my existence this afternoon, thereby destroying every last bit of loathing I'd held for the boy, I would be expected to scold him now. I should say something about his continued disregard for the rules. I should tell him that he is not to make a habit of coming to my chambers at night.
I should continue get hopelessly pissed and try to forget that the boy ever existed.
"Professor, are you all right?" He looks up at me with a puzzled expression and I perform a mental check on my features. I will myself to appear vaguely disgusted and am well aware that it's a poor display. I attribute my lack of control to the brandy.
"You should be in bed."
The little bugger grins up at me and I'm taken aback. "I knew you'd say that. I asked Professor Dumbledore for permission to visit you. So, I'm not breaking any rules. I've even got a pass." He proudly presents the parchment as proof and then adds, "That is, if you say it's all right." I stare forebodingly at the piece of paper. The old man has gone too far this time. I've agreed to keep his little secret. I will continue the charade of training the boy in order to keep him alive until such a time that his death becomes necessary. However, I will not have my private life imposed upon because Dumbledore is winging enough to believe that my company is good for the boy.
This is lunacy. I tear my eyes away from the parchment and glare at him. I see uncertainty settle around his features. I open my mouth to tell him that it most certainly is not all right. I mean to tell him to piss off and leave me to my quiet isolation.
"Potter," I begin and then stop when I see his uncertainty develop into fear. My voice catches. I curse the boy for being so damn delicate and I curse myself for caring. I sigh resignedly. "Oh, very well. Sit." He summons my desk chair and I go back into my chambers to fetch the brandy. If I'm to be unprofessional, I may as well go all out. I give the boy a glass and ignore the gobsmacked expression on his face.
I raise my glass in fond remembrance of the man I once was.
End of Part One
***
*Part Two* http://www.fanfiction.ws/read.php?storyid=746854
A/N: I would like to take this time to thank all of you who have followed this story. I'm overwhelmed by the response it's gotten. Your comments have silenced the nagging voice in my head that tries to convince me I suck as a writer. I've become something of a review addict, so please don't stop. There will be three parts to this. The next part will be a bit, um...warmer than this was; hence the rating will go up. Woohoo!
"Hosannah! Superstar!" of course, comes from "Jesus Christ, Superstar," which began playing in my head while I was writing this chapter. I'm not sure if that should alarm me or not.
I am indebted to Minx for her very existence. This story, and every story that pours forth from my hp-obsessed brain is dedicated to her and her brilliance.
Chapter 5: Revelations
"Potter, wake up."
He blinks his eyes open and yawns. "What time is it?" He feels around for his glasses. I hand them to him.
"Noon," I say and swallow back the bile that stings my throat. I can't recall the last time I slept later than seven o'clock. My body could not possibly have chosen a more inconvenient time to break its routine. I wait for awareness to creep over his face. It does, at last, and he darts out of bed, nearly knocking me over.
"Oh shit," he says and then remembers where he is. "Sorry. I...Quidditch practice. Angelina."
*Quidditch.* Before I remind him that it's a Hogsmeade weekend, I have to restrain myself from hexing him for daring to think about a stupid game despite the fact that I'm going to lose my job.
"Wait. There is no Quidditch today." He sighs heavily and falls back onto my bed. My bed. My room. My job.
I suppress a sudden impulsion toward violence and mutter, "Come along, Potter. We must go speak with the Headmaster." My throat is dry and my head feels only tenuously attached to my body. I remind myself that I don't need this job and would most likely be happier without it. I tell myself that I am a fully trained wizard and am probably capable of staying alive without Dumbledore's protection. I try to assuage the nameless feral beast clawing its way around my insides by reminding it that what I've done was kind and thoughtful. I helped a desperate boy.
That last part didn't help. I think I might vomit now.
"Why do we have to see Dumbledore?" He looks frightened and I'm pretty sure it's not out of concern for my well-being.
"Because your absence will have been noticed. I suspect a search party is already underway." *And perhaps if the story comes from you, I might merely be fired and not sent to prison on charges of statutory rape.*
He stares at me intently for a moment and I see his mouth drop. "Professor, are you...I mean, can you get in trouble for me...um..."
"No, it's perfectly normal for Hogwarts' faculty to entertain underage students in their private chambers overnight. Perhaps you've noticed the stream of first year boys coming out of McGonagall's chambers every morning." I pause to savour the angry blush in his cheeks before I turn around. I start off toward the door, desperately trying to figure out what I'm going to tell Dumbledore.
*"Albus, the boy has deluded himself into thinking that I am a friendly ear and it's entirely your fault for forcing us to work together, thereby stripping me of my power to intimidate him. He has dared to become sentimental in my presence on two different occasions and I demand that he be punished."*
Somehow I don't think that will work. I silently pray that I will manage to come up with one good reason that I allowed the boy to sleep in my chambers before I reach the headmaster's office. It's a long walk. I may get lucky. Ignoring a smug voice in my head singing, *I told you so,* I open the door.
And nearly die of a heart attack. Damn my luck.
"Good afternoon, Severus. Or should I say good morning?"
I can feel the guilt and panic contort my features and I instinctually begin composing my will. Instantly, I feel my face fall to its normal sober expression. I try not to sigh with relief.
"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore brushes past me and I turn to see that Potter hasn't fared nearly as well as I have. Were I Dumbledore, I would lock myself up without a trial just from looking at the boy's face. I watch him struggle for words and I curse him silently. I realise with a vague sense of bitterness that he learned nothing over the summer. It makes not a whit of difference if the boy can keep a straight face before me, when he fails the moment a calm façade becomes necessary.
"Professor Dumbledore, it was my fault. Professor Snape found me in the halls last night and he brought me here to punish me."
*I, Severus Snape, being of sound mind...*
"He told me I could stay here, if I tried to sleep. Well, I didn't think I'd actually fall asleep..."
*I, SEVERUS SNAPE, BEING OF SOUND...*
"But I did. Sorry. We shouldn't have slept so long. Not that we...together, you know, um..."
Fuck it. Kill me now.
I decide to keep my eyes closed in preparation for the Dementor's kiss. I'd rather not see it coming. Overall, I've led a full life. I put forth my best efforts to shape young minds—as demoralizing as that experience has been. I was feared and respected by thousands of brainless twits, some of whom have gone off to become mindless drones in powerful positions. I made mistakes, but I've redeemed myself through self-sacrifice and years of torment for the Good of Society. I begin looking forward to the long rest that I assume will come once my soul has been unceremoniously sucked from my body. I convince myself that living without a soul can't be much more painful than living with one.
I hear Dumbledore clear his throat. And then I hear him laugh. Loudly. My eyes snap open. I see Potter with his face buried in his hands, Dumbledore at his side, hiccupping for air. I am astonished, and admittedly fearful. The man is much too old to laugh like that. Potter raises his blushing face and furrows his brow in concern.
"Forgive me," the Headmaster says, at last. He sighs and his face falls back into that horridly mild expression. "Harry, rest assured, neither you nor Professor Snape is in trouble." Relief washes over the boy's face. I feel a twinge of suspicion jolt through my stomach. "I told Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger that you took ill last night and were sleeping in the hospital wing. I think it wise if we kept to that story."
Potter nods stupidly. Dumbledore looks pleased with himself. He usually does.
"I had suspected I'd find the two of you together when Severus didn't appear at breakfast. My suspicions were confirmed by a certain map I confiscated last year from Mr. Crouch. I was relieved to see the two of you sleeping soundly. I daresay neither of you have slept so well all term." The boy turns his eyes toward me and I foolishly try to read Dumbledore's mind. He's up to something. I can tell by his tone and that blasted glint in his eye. I suddenly wonder what sort of pawn I've unwittingly become. I bite down on my anger.
"Harry, you should run along to your dormitory now. If you wish, Professor McGonagall will escort you to Hogsmeade to join your friends."
Potter smiles and thanks the headmaster. The smile grows awkward when he turns to me. He blushes. "Thanks, Professor." He lowers his eyes and walks hurriedly toward the door. He doesn't look back. I watch the door shut behind him and then I turn to the old man.
"I'm sorry, Albus. I shouldn't have let him stay. It won't happen again."
"Nonsense, Severus. I am pleased that he has you to turn to."
*Bugger.* "I'm not qualified to be the boy's counsellor, Albus. And after his performance over the last term, I have serious doubts about continuing to encourage his behaviour by offering him special treatment. If you insist that the boy continue training, I would suggest that we do it during regular school hours. I'm his professor, not his friend. The boy has difficulty remembering that." My words are futile, of course. The man never listens to anything I say. In the end, I will do as he wishes because he is Albus Dumbledore, the most revered man in the wizarding world. And I am Severus Snape, his lackey. I am struck, not for the first time, by the irony. I traded one oppressive regime for another. A slave in both heaven and hell.
He doesn't speak for a long time. I hate his contemplative silences. He lets me stew while he carefully composes his rejection to my plea. * Just tell me to sod off, and get it over with.*
"Severus, I wonder if you'll come to my office this afternoon for tea."
I visibly cringe and he pretends not to notice. If I open my mouth, I'm sure to end up in Azkaban for a very long time. I clutch my hands tightly behind my back to keep them from reaching for my wand. I'm careful not to make eye contact lest I accidentally blast the man into a thousand twinkling pieces.
"Around four will be just fine, Severus." He smiles and wishes me good day.
~o~o~
I exit the passageway from Dumbledore's office and I lean against a wall to steady myself. I have been asked to tea on numerous occasions. Over the years, I've grown accustomed to leaving the man's office feeling nauseous and enraged. I am not, however, used to feeling like the world has just gone spiralling into chaos. I suppose I should appreciate the novelty.
*"I think it is time you know the truth about Harry."*
I might have laughed at the statement were it not for the grave look in Dumbledore's eyes. *The Truth About Harry.* It occurs to me that it could be the title of some obscure muggle musical. I envision a chorus of Gryffindors singing the opening number, "The Boy Who Lived." A line of Weasleys dressed in sparkling, gold hot-pants go can-canning across my imagination. I shudder and quickly stop that train of thought before Voldemort enters stage left and starts his solo, "This Potter Must Die."
*Hosanna! Superstar!*
Oh gods. I've gone mad.
I take a bracing breath and start off toward the dungeons. I can hear the students filling up the Entrance Hall as they return from their Hogsmeade Visit. I put on my most forbidding expression and walk determinedly. Normally it pleases me a great deal to watch the brats cowering before me, jumping out of my path, flattening themselves against walls to avoid me; but now I scarcely note it. I spy a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye and I quicken my pace. Where Weasley is, Potter can't be far off. And I'm not entirely sure how I would fare with a confrontation just now.
I reach my chambers in record time and go directly to my bedroom where I plan to spend the rest of the night staring absently at the ceiling. As I'm about to lie down, I notice the boy's cloak in a ball next to my pillow. It occurs to me that he'll be back for it and I try to fight a rising sense of foreboding. I curse myself for being fearful of the brat. I once managed to fool one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time. I can certainly handle a teenage boy with a straight face.
*"What I am about to tell you, Severus, the boy cannot know."* As if that needed to be said. I would sooner slit my throat than be the one to tell him. It would be a much more pleasant experience, I think. While admittedly I enjoy provoking the boy, I try to avoid any emotion that goes deeper than adolescent rage—which reminds me about the reason that bloody cloak is in my bed. My sudden urge to be horizontal is replaced by a sudden urge to get good and pissed.
I sit on the sofa in my bedchamber with a bottle of brandy and a book. I don't actually plan to read the book, but it will serve nicely as a place to focus my eyes while I replay my latest life-altering conversation with Dumbledore. The brandy will eventually allow me to laugh bitterly at the inherent hopelessness of the situation: if Potter dies, Voldemort finally attains true immortality; if Voldemort dies, Potter dies anyway. Ha!
Not enough brandy. It's not funny, yet.
*"I intend to protect the boy for as long as I live, Severus. When the time comes, Harry will have a very difficult choice to make. I would like you to be there for him when he makes that choice."*
Long ago, I gave up asking the question, "Why me?" I successfully kept from asking it in Dumbledore's office. But now, it comes back to haunt me. And I would very much like a bloody answer. Fine line, he said. Fine line, indeed.
I'd like to give him a fine line down the centre of that aged skull of his. I should have known when he nominated me for this task that it wasn't for my extensive knowledge of the dark arts. It occurs to me now that the actual training was never anything more than "let's try to keep Potter busy so he doesn't run off and get himself killed, thereby creating a permanent problem of a temporary Dark Lord."
I pour a second glass of brandy and drink it down, immediately refilling it. Halfway through the third glass I am struck by a sudden thought: in order to save the life of Potter, the wizarding world must keep Voldemort safe from the boy. Making Harry Potter his own worst enemy.
I laugh bitterly and set down my glass.
At least that hasn't changed.
~o~o~
I don't know how long I've been sitting here when the knock comes. Long enough to have studied my conversation with Dumbledore at least ten thousand times; turning it over and over and inside out, searching for the silver lining. I haven't found it, but I'm sure I'll try again later—optimist that I've suddenly become. The knocking grows insistent and I walk to the door. I don't wonder who it is.
He greets me with a nervous, "Hullo." I step aside to let him pass. Closing the door, I remind myself that I'm expected to act as though nothing has changed. I'm supposed to carry on as before, despite the added weight to my conscience. I take a deep breath and turn toward him.
"Another nightmare, Mr. Potter?" My voice is laden with bitterness, but that's normal.
He shakes his head. "I just wanted to thank you again for letting me stay last night. I didn't see you at the Feast. You weren't sleeping, were you?"
I choose to respond with a noncommittal grunt, hoping to stall this exchange while I figure out exactly what I must say to him. Had I not received the shock of my existence this afternoon, thereby destroying every last bit of loathing I'd held for the boy, I would be expected to scold him now. I should say something about his continued disregard for the rules. I should tell him that he is not to make a habit of coming to my chambers at night.
I should continue get hopelessly pissed and try to forget that the boy ever existed.
"Professor, are you all right?" He looks up at me with a puzzled expression and I perform a mental check on my features. I will myself to appear vaguely disgusted and am well aware that it's a poor display. I attribute my lack of control to the brandy.
"You should be in bed."
The little bugger grins up at me and I'm taken aback. "I knew you'd say that. I asked Professor Dumbledore for permission to visit you. So, I'm not breaking any rules. I've even got a pass." He proudly presents the parchment as proof and then adds, "That is, if you say it's all right." I stare forebodingly at the piece of paper. The old man has gone too far this time. I've agreed to keep his little secret. I will continue the charade of training the boy in order to keep him alive until such a time that his death becomes necessary. However, I will not have my private life imposed upon because Dumbledore is winging enough to believe that my company is good for the boy.
This is lunacy. I tear my eyes away from the parchment and glare at him. I see uncertainty settle around his features. I open my mouth to tell him that it most certainly is not all right. I mean to tell him to piss off and leave me to my quiet isolation.
"Potter," I begin and then stop when I see his uncertainty develop into fear. My voice catches. I curse the boy for being so damn delicate and I curse myself for caring. I sigh resignedly. "Oh, very well. Sit." He summons my desk chair and I go back into my chambers to fetch the brandy. If I'm to be unprofessional, I may as well go all out. I give the boy a glass and ignore the gobsmacked expression on his face.
I raise my glass in fond remembrance of the man I once was.
End of Part One
***
*Part Two* http://www.fanfiction.ws/read.php?storyid=746854
A/N: I would like to take this time to thank all of you who have followed this story. I'm overwhelmed by the response it's gotten. Your comments have silenced the nagging voice in my head that tries to convince me I suck as a writer. I've become something of a review addict, so please don't stop. There will be three parts to this. The next part will be a bit, um...warmer than this was; hence the rating will go up. Woohoo!
"Hosannah! Superstar!" of course, comes from "Jesus Christ, Superstar," which began playing in my head while I was writing this chapter. I'm not sure if that should alarm me or not.
I am indebted to Minx for her very existence. This story, and every story that pours forth from my hp-obsessed brain is dedicated to her and her brilliance.