Harry was beginning to regret his acquiescence to this. It had seemed like less of an affair when Snape had brought it up initially. No, he hadn't liked it then, and had always had reservations, but he never imagined this dread in the pit of his stomach when he'd agreed to do this without a fuss.

That was before the check-in process. The clerk at the desk in the Mind Healing ward had assured them that this was just for first-time patients. But the wait then had been unbearable. Harry had filled out assessment after assessment about things like his mood, his self-worth, anxiety, history of mind-altering potion, magic, and substance use, an explanation of the protective wards governing the discussion of anything revealed during appointments… he thought it would never end. This all while Snape filled out his own stack of paperwork for God knew what.

But after a small eternity it did end, and the witch at the front desk returned to collect them and usher them into a comfortably furnished office with a single long sofa along the back wall.

Harry found himself jiggling a knee nervously as they waited. A glance over at Snape told him the man was faring much better than he was—he lounged back against the settee, legs stretched out in front of him, one arm extended over the back of the settee. Snape stared at the ceiling, face pinched in a dour, unamused expression, as the two of them waited for the Mind Healer to arrive.

"Maybe they forgot," Harry began, only to be cut off immediately by Snape.

"We are staying for the full hour regardless of what excuses you try to make."

Harry exhaled, returning his gaze to his bouncing knee. "I'm just saying, I don't think this is actually necessary—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Was I not clear earlier? I do not care what you think."

Snape had definitely turned testier since their arrival at St. Mungo's. Harry couldn't fathom why, since this whole farce had been the potion master's idea to begin with.

Harry laced his hands together tightly. "This is stupid."

Snape scoffed. "You haven't even begun. How could you possibly know?"

"You don't even want to be here—"

The door to the office swung inward and a round, middle-aged witch with dark hair and a small mole above her lip swept in, a bright smile on her face. "Mr. Snape? Mr. Potter?"

Snape stood as she extended a hand and shook it cordially. Belatedly, Harry realized what was going on and pushed himself to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in front of him as he stretched to take the Mind Healer's hand as well.

"Healer Angela," Snape greeted her formally, his tone placid. "Thank you for taking us."

Angela smiled again. Harry decided she was probably vapid and full of the kind of nonsense Trelawney would spew, minus the astrological references. "My pleasure. Please, sit—and I do hope you can excuse me for my tardiness. I was reviewing the initial paperwork you filled out, Mr. Snape, and it was quite lengthy—"

"Professor," Snape corrected her, an irritated edge reemerging in his tone. "And it was lengthy because of the numerous significant events in Mr. Potter's life that you need to be aware of."

Harry couldn't stop himself—the outrage swept over him like a breaking wave. He whipped to face Snape and demanded, "What in the hell did you write? You think I can't tell her things myself—"

"I think," Snape retorted, his black eyes flashing as he met Harry's gaze, "that your inability to discuss anything of importance is the whole reason we are here."

"I have," Harry snapped right back. "I just want to do it on my own time. I don't see why you thought this was a good idea—"

"We've discussed this. You agreed."

"You asked if I was going to come nicely or kicking and screaming. That's not much of a discussion—"

"Mr. Potter," the Healer cut in, her voice firm. "Professor Snape. Do you think this conversation is helpful?"

Harry felt the Healer's gaze on him now, along with Snape's. "No," he muttered, subsiding back onto the settee. "But—"

"Professor Snape?" the Healer continued briskly.

Snape's head swiveled back the Healer, his gaze accusatory. "You propose I ignore his defiance?"

Harry winced and unlaced his fingers so he could wrap his arms over his stomach. Wonderful. This whole stupid, pointless visit was going to agitate Snape and drive a wedge between them.

The Healer cocked her head slightly, her expression impassive. "Elaborate on what you mean by 'defiance', if you would."

To Harry's utter shock, Snape's cheeks colored and the man averted his gaze to the side. "I do not… it was a poor choice of word."

The Healer settled into the overstuffed armchair angled toward the settee rather than behind her desk. "Perhaps you could choose a better one, then," she suggested mildly.

Snape huffed, his eyes flashing back up. "This session is for Mr. Potter, not myself—"

"And it would benefit Mr. Potter, I believe, to hear from you precisely why you are frustrated." The Healer turned to Harry. "Or perhaps he could simply explain himself what he believes you mean."

A glance at Snape told him that the man had no intention of speaking, so Harry closed his eyes. "I'm embarrassing him with my outbursts." Harry swallowed, and then offered meekly to his guardian, "Sorry. I know I agreed, but I just… I really think this is a waste of time. And I hate being here." And then, realizing how that sounded, he opened his eyes and added to the Mind Healer, "No offense."

"You are not embarrassing me." It sounded as though Snape might be grinding his teeth. "And I do wish you would stop concerning yourself with that. What bothers me is your defensiveness, as if anything I might have relayed to the Healer is any cause for shame to you. And worse, as though I would do any such thing if I did not believe there was a dire need for it."

Ah. Snape was angry about a lack of trust. That made sense.

"Professor, from what I have reviewed, you allege that Mr. Potter has had a less than ideal home life. That his Muggle relatives have kept their distance from him due to their magic phobia, is that correct?"

"Mr. Potter is right here," Harry muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back into the settee. "And yes, that is correct."

Harry waited for a rebuke from Snape for his behavior. He knew he was being petulant. He just didn't care much.

Now the Healer colored. "I… apologize. I was also led to believe that you were in deep denial of this. In fact, I'd planned to spend a great deal of our time today reframing your thoughts and working toward acknowledgment. But that is not the case?"

"I know they were bad. I just disagree with S…." God, why did this have to be so hard? It was just a name. A name he desperately wanted to be able to say, especially to make up for his implication just moments ago that he didn't trust Snape. "I disagree with… with Severus…." Harry paused, waiting for—well, he wasn't sure what. Lightning to rain down from the ceiling? The man he'd named to announce detention? The earth to swallow him whole? But nothing came, so he resumed talking, and talked quickly, as if the more words he said, the further that little misstep would fade into the background. "I disagree about how important it is now. I mean, I have bigger things to worry about. I don't have nightmares about my relatives."

"You hesitate over what to call him," the Healer pointed out neutrally.

"He's my professor," Harry excused himself weakly. "But my guardian now, too." A peek at Snape revealed nothing but an unreadable expression.

"I know you are grappling with a lot at the moment, Mr. Potter. An upheaval in your home life, re-forging a relationship with a man who has treated you very poorly in the recent past, processing trauma and death, not to mention the constant specter of a dark and terrible wizard who has taken so much from you."

Harry resisted the urge to demand from the woman whether she believed him or not when he said that Voldemort was back. It was hardly important for these little sessions, after all.

"But I cannot believe that compartmentalization of all these struggles is healthy, or even an effective way of managing your healing. All of these aspects of your life intertwine—and so yes, I will be referring to your time with your relatives and encouraging gentle exploration of the ways that has shaped you and your beliefs."

Harry drew a deep breath and struggled to resign himself to this.

"But," the Healer continued, "I will not see you if you are not completely willing to be here. I know that Professor Snape means well by bringing you here, but there is nothing to be gained if you feel cornered into this. There is nothing to be gained by taking even more control from you."

Snape seemed to take offense at this. He stood very suddenly, lips so tight they were nearly invisible. "Just because the boy cannot see the benefit in this now—"

The Healer turned her steady gaze to Snape. "Professor, please believe me when I say that I have been doing this for many years. I have seen more than my fair share of adolescents dragged here by well-meaning parents hoping to force them into taking the medicine needed for their ills. But this is not a Fever Reducer that you need to trick your ward into swallowing. This is a process, one requiring the establishment of mutual trust, one that relies on the patient feeling empowered and safe. None of which can be created under duress."

"I would hardly call it duress," Snape growled, tightening his robes around himself. "It's not as if I've threatened him—"

"Consciously, no. But you will withhold your approval if Mr. Potter chooses to walk out without speaking another word to me."

"I hardly think my approval is so meaningful to Harry—"

"No?" the Healer retorted, before deliberately shifting her—and Snape's—attention to Harry. "Would it upset you, Harry, to know that Professor Snape was not pleased with you?"

Harry hung his head. He wanted to lie. He wanted to deny that he was so pathetic. But even the possibility of upsetting Snape by refusing to do therapy twisted his gut in a knot. And if the Healer did not spot it, Snape would certainly sniff out any lie Harry tried to spin.

"Yeah, but just because…."

"I wouldn't punish you," Snape cut in stiffly.

"I know." Harry hugged his midsection again, wishing he could just fade away. "I don't care about that, even. I just… I don't want you to think I'm selfish or spoiled or arrogant again. And sometimes I act that way without thinking—"

"Harry," Snape murmured softly, his tone suddenly heavy and sad.

Harry jerked his head up, startled by the change.

Carefully, slowly, as if trying not to startle him, Snape extended a hand to rest on Harry's shoulder. "You act like a boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I told you, I see you now—not the caricature of your father I'd drawn for myself. And I have told you before that you will not be perfect. That we will clash on many occasions because of disagreements just like this. But do not ever—ever—believe that I think less of you for it."

"It's hard not to believe," Harry said faintly, his eyes on the black-clad arm that was anchoring them together.

"I know." Snape let his eyes fall shut, and then inhaled and exhaled heavily. "Much as I hate it, this is your decision. If you do not wish to continue, I will take you home."

Home. The word still gave Harry a little thrill every time Snape said it. "You wouldn't be mad?"

"I would worry for you. And with me… I believe you know how that tends to manifest."

Worry. Right. That was why Snape had been so short with him at times, especially recently. It was still so hard to believe that it wasn't because Snape hated him.

"But I would do my best to monitor myself and to keep my moods in check." Snape squeezed Harry's shoulder lightly. "I will support you regardless of what you decide to do. I know I tend to be a bit more… heavy-handed… when it comes to certain things. But I am trying to learn."

Harry nodded shakily. "Me too. To trust you. To trust that you know what you're doing." Harry focused on the warm hand on his shoulder. "I'll try it. This—therapy. But… but if it's not for me…."

"I will not force you to come." One final squeeze before Snape dropped his hand completely.

"It is courageous of you to do this, Mr. Potter," the Healer told him.

Harry tried to muster the energy for a smile for her. "Thanks. I know it shouldn't be such a big deal—"

"But it is," she replied solemnly. "You're agreeing to make yourself vulnerable to an essential stranger. That is not easy for anyone, especially someone who has been hurt or ridiculed before."

Harry didn't know what else to say, so he shrugged.

"I'd like to use the remainder of our session to explore a few things together, Mr. Potter, if that is all right. I think that it will be helpful to continue to have the first half of your sessions with Professor Snape present, and to use the second half to do some work one on one. Are you amenable to that?"

"Sure."

Snape took his cue to leave. "I will be just out in the lobby when you finish," he told Harry.

Harry nodded again, though he couldn't help but watch as Snape retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

At last Harry turned his attention back to the Healer. "So," he said.

She smiled kindly at him. "So. Mr. Potter."

"You can call me Harry."

"Harry. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Pensieve?"

Harry felt his spine go rigid. "Professor Dumbledore has one."

The Healer nodded. "Yes, the Headmaster of Hogwarts has always had access to one. They are exceedingly rare and powerful—not exactly your standard pewter cauldron. You know what they do?"

"They hold memories."

"Yes. More importantly, they allow another to move within those memories. Yes, you're nodding—you've experienced this? Well, my profession makes use of the Pensieve as well. It is a powerful tool for us to revisit difficult memories and view them as observers. Now, this is our first session, and I would not expect you to be willing to dive into this process—but I would like to offer the choice. If you are willing, we could explore one memory of yours, any of your choosing, just as a means of trying this tool."

Harry found he couldn't answer right away. So many thoughts were crowding in his head at once. Did he want to try the Pensieve? What even was the point? And could he even get a memory out of his head?

"You can say no, Harry," the Healer reassured him. "There are many other ways for us to begin. And this is daunting, I know. But allowing me to see what weighs most on your mind, allowing us to discuss it as we walk through it… that can be a great aid."

He wanted to try. Despite Snape's reassurance that he wouldn't be upset, Harry knew that the man would be far more pleased if Harry could honestly tell him he'd made an effort. And stupid as it was, he wanted Snape to be pleased with him. Proud, even. He wanted to be less defiant, especially now that it was so clear that Snape really meant him well, and was intelligent enough to see to needs that Harry hadn't even been able to name.

"Okay." Harry swallowed thickly. "But—you said any memory, right? I can pick any memory at all?"

"Any," the Healer reassured him. "As I said, this now is just an introduction to the use of the Pensieve." She moved to retrieve the recognizable stone basin from beneath her desk. This one, Harry saw, was different from Dumbledore's. A glimpse beneath the shimmery liquid showed that the entirety seemed to be inlaid with mother-of-pearl, though like Dumbledore's a series of runes were etched around the rim. The Healer hefted it onto the desk with a soft grunt. "I will help you to extract it, and I will replace it when we are finished. If I may?"

The Healer withdrew her wand—medium-length, simple rather than elaborately carved, and of a far lighter color than Harry's or Snape's. She caught Harry eyeing it and flashed him a smile. "Pear, nine and a quarter inches, unicorn tail hair. Still as springy as the day I purchased it from Ollivander. Good for memory magic—that he did not tell me, but I've found it so over the years. Come, Harry, I promise it will be all right."

Stiffly, Harry pushed himself up and approached. Snape trusted her. Trusted this. It would be fine.

The Healer touched her wand to his temple and whispered an incantation that Harry could not make out. Harry felt rather than saw the silver tendrils that extended then into his mind.

"Any memory, Harry. Any moment that comes to mind."

Harry drew a calming breath, as Snape had taught him—but the memory of Snape's instructions that night sent him hurtling into the quagmire of feelings toward his professor, and the word defiance ringing out, and then the way the man had snarled at him earlier in the summer. Your caretakers may be thick, but I certainly am not. I doubt you've missed a meal in your life. I do not know who you think to fool with this act….

And then, before he could help it, he felt the edges of a memory from the previous year being tugged from his mind. He tried to stop it, tried to somehow claw at the fabric of the recollection, but everything was abstract and muddled and murky, like a dream, and a woman's voice was whispering to him.

Let it go, Harry. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it go.

And then it slipped away and he found himself blinking his eyes, trying to readjust to the afternoon light of the office. He rubbed his eyes and managed to clear his vision just in time to see the Healer depositing a curling silver thread into the Pensieve.

"Sit, Harry," she advised, and, sheathing her wand, moved to guide him by the elbow back to the sofa.

Harry did, and watched from the corner of his eye as she retrieved a quill from her desk, deftly transfigured it into a drinking glass, and filled it with a murmured aguamenti.

"I take it you found yourself in an unexpected place," she commented after a few moments, when Harry had managed to take a few sips of water.

"I don't know why I thought of it. It wasn't even a big deal at the time. I didn't do it. I didn't care."

"You resisted quite a bit when I went to pull the memory from you."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled.

"Please don't apologize. It's normal to protect our thoughts. You are hardly the first, and you won't be the last." To his surprise, the Healer sat where Snape had before, right next to him. "Forgive my forwardness, but you seem distressed. Guilt-ridden, even."

Harry slammed his head back against the cushioned edge of the settee. "I don't know why my mind went… there. Snape—er, Severus—has been really good to me lately, and…." He slammed his head again. "It makes no sense. He apologized. He said he was wrong."

"You were thinking of your changing relationship with the professor, then. And it sounds as if your mind seized on a memory of a time when Professor Snape was less than kind to you. It's perfectly normal, Harry. Expected even. Your mind right now is trying to reconcile your past and your present. When we begin to forge a new way of relating to someone, the entire way we have seen them up until that point does not simply vanish because we wish it so. Our minds work to protect us, and yours, I would theorize, is striving desperately to warn you of danger—even though the danger it perceives is obsolete now."

Harry chewed a lip, fighting to keep a hold of his tongue.

But the Healer seemed to have an uncanny knack for perceiving what Harry didn't want to say. "You're not so certain this danger has passed. You worry that these misgivings you have are true."

Harry shrugged. "I don't think Snape will turn on me or anything—he seems pretty sincere now. But…."

"Perhaps we could view your memory, Harry? Together?"

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't want to. It seemed pretty ungrateful, even, showing her this ugly shadow of the past. But there was also a part of him that wanted the Healer to see, wanted her to tell him her thoughts on the whole thing. Because he was sick of fighting this inner war, sick of second-guessing himself. Sick of feeling impotent rage for a vindictive, cruel bastard who, for all intents and purposes, no longer existed.

"Okay." And he followed her over to the desk, to the swirling Pensieve, and together they plunged in.

XXXXX

The Potions Classroom melded into view. Snape was up at the board, swathed in his voluminous black teaching robes, back tuyjuicerned as he wrote out the day's ingredients on the board. Memory-Harry sat, head bowed together with Ron and Hermione. Hermione was flipping through a magazine—Witch Weekly, Harry recalled, cringing—under the desk while Ron and Harry waited, completely ignoring Snape.

The Healer stood beside him, her expression unreadable as she surveyed the scene before her. "This was last year, Harry?" she inquired, just as Hermione finally looked up from the magazine to a comment from Ron.

"Yeah. Middle of the Triwizard Tournament." The three of them certainly looked like a gaggle of delinquents, crowded at the back, ignoring the professor in front of them.

Hermione threw the magazine onto a chair beside her just as Snape whipped around and snarled at them to get started on their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

"Tell me a bit about this time. I imagine you were under a fair amount of stress, not only from the tasks and the strain of being a second competitor from Hogwarts. I remember the press that year…."

A glance over at the woman told Harry that her keen eyes had caught on the copy of Witch Weekly.

"It was… hard. My friend Ron—the redhead up there—he kind of abandoned me at the start of the year. Thought I'd put my name in the Goblet. And then Hermione got caught up in this thing with Viktor Krum—you know, the Seeker. And Ron was jealous, and there was this tension between them—and that's not to mention me trying to figure out how to face down a dragon, and breathe underwater, and all this other stuff, and be a student. And the Headmaster wasn't really helpful at all, and…." Harry swallowed painfully, surprised at how pinched his throat had become. "It was pretty overwhelming."

"I am going to assume this was one of the more… colorful interactions… the Professor referred to in his paperwork?" the Healer inquired delicately, her eyes sweeping once again over the classroom.

"H-he mentioned our—erm, past interactions?"

"Extensively. Namely, he is concerned that the assumptions he made about you, and that his treatment of you, will form an insurmountable barrier to repairing your relationship fully."

Harry couldn't seem to get a reply out of his suddenly dry throat. So he just watched the three of them—himself, Ron, and Hermione—with their heads together, chatting now more than working on their potions—and the black form of Snape stalking nearer to them, unnoticed.

"Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger, I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Harry flinched as his past self and Ron and Hermione jumped. He remembered his resentment of the Professor that day—but watching it now? They were talking in class, clearly disrespecting Snape. Was it really such a wonder that he'd called them out on it?

And then Harry watched in horror as the man's eyes fell to the copy of Witch Weekly, and his stomach churned at seeing the sadistic look of glee come over Snape's face. "Ah… reading magazines under the table as well? A further ten points from Gryffindor… oh but of course… Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings…."

Harry looked away before he had to see the man's sickening smirk once more.

"What are you feeling right now, Harry?" the Healer inquired over the jeers and laughter of the Slytherins (and some of the Gryffindors, Harry now noticed) in the classroom.

"I was furious," Harry croaked.

"Then, yes, I can imagine. But now, in this present moment, as you view this again? What are you feeling?"

"Shame," Harry answered, before he could stop himself. "I feel… sick. And angry. But—but confused, too."

"Why shame?" the Healer prompted as Snape began to read the whole ghastly article aloud. Harry was beyond grateful that she seemed to have no interest in hearing the drivel Skeeter had written.

"Because… because he thinks I'm some preening, primping little starlet in love with his own press, and he just loves that they've turned on me now and started to make a mockery of me. But I'm not! I've always hated everyone knowing who I am. I mean, sure, I enjoyed the positive attention at first, because God knows it was the only I'd ever really gotten in my whole life. So sue me! But I got over it quickly. It's not like I was Malfoy, strutting around Hogwarts like I owned it, telling everyone how it was in their best interests to associate with me."

"He thinks that of you, Harry, or thought that?"

Harry slumped down in one of the empty chairs in the back of the classroom, still averting his eyes from Snape's dramatized reading. "Thought, I guess."

"But you're uncertain."

Harry nodded miserably. "He really hated me just last year. Just this summer, if I'm being honest. And…."

The Healer sat down next to him. "And?" she prompted gently.

"Part of me wants to hate him right back for that. For this." He gestured up to the front of the room. "And another part of me… well, it wonders if he's right."

"You think that Professor Snape might have had a valid rationale for despising you."

Harry nodded, waiting for the inevitable, "but of course he didn't, you're a lovely boy, etc".

But the reassurances didn't come. "What makes you think that?" the Healer asked instead, just as Snape seemed to be finishing up his reading.

"Aren't you supposed to tell me that I'm wrong or something?" Harry couldn't help but ask. Ron and Hermione were being banished to various corners of the classroom, which meant… yes, there he went, sent up to sit right in front of Snape's desk.

"No. That's not how this works. I'm not here to offer platitudes. Truth be told, what I think—personally—of any of this is entirely irrelevant. I am here to help you to explore what you think. So tell me, what makes you believes that Professor Snape might have been right to treat you as he did?"

Harry didn't answer. Instead, he pushed himself up from the lab bench and made his way up to the front of the classroom, where he could still remember the hissed conversation between himself and Snape. He could feel the Healer trailing behind him.

"All this press attention seems to have inflated your already overlarge head, Potter," Snape was telling him as memory-Harry crushed his scarabs with just a little too much vigor. "You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire Wizarding world is impressed with you, but I don't care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers the rules to be beneath him."

Harry kept his eyes trained on his memory-self's hands, which trembled slightly as they dumped the crushed beetles into the cauldron. He remembered that feeling of impotent rage, the same he'd felt so many times when the Dursleys had berated him, when Marge had insulted his parents and all but implied he should have been drowned at birth.

But now, stepping back out of the emotions there, he felt again that same shame. Because he had broken the rules. And Snape—Snape wasn't unreasonable when it came to rules, as it turned out. The opposite, in fact. And now, standing here, watching himself take this dressing-down again, he could see Snape's side of it too, vindictive though the man had been. Harry had been caught out of bounds too many times to count—for good reasons, he'd believed at the time, but out of bounds nonetheless. He'd put his life in danger time and time again, and one year had put Snape toe-to-toe with a fully grown werewolf in the process.

Harry's memory-self proceeded to chop the ginger root before him as Snape continued his monologue.

"So I give you fair warning, Potter, pint-sized celebrity or not—if I catch you breaking into my office one more time—"

"I haven't been anywhere near your office!" memory-Harry broke in, glaring defiantly up at Snape.

"Don't lie to me. Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them."

The pair of them locked eyes for a moment, both of them glaring ferociously, as if this little staring contest might have some significant meaning.

"I don't know what you're talking about," memory-Harry declared coolly after a few moments.

Snape leaned in closer, lips curling up to reveal his crooked teeth as he hissed, "You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into! I know it, Potter! Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!"

Harry watched, once again awash in a mix of feelings—triumph? guilt? discomfort?—as his memory-self, unfazed, turned back to his ginger roots and replied, "Right. I'll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there."

Snape's hand disappeared into his robes, and now Harry saw himself flinch back from what he had expected at the time to be a particularly nasty curse. Instead, the Potion Master's hand reemerged with a now-familiar crystal vial. "Do you know what this is, Potter?"

"No," his memory-self answered.

Too well, Harry thought, as he felt himself tugged toward that other bitter memory, the one where all of his worst fears about that tiny clear bottle had come true.

"It is Veritaserum—a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear. Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips—"a little shake of the bottle here—"right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter… then we'll find out whether you've been in my office or not."

"How did you feel, Harry, when your professor threatened you with that—the use of an illegal truth serum?" The Mind Healer sounded slightly less neutral this time when she posed her question. Harry thought he caught a hint of disgust buried under her otherwise even tone.

"Terrified. I was protecting a lot of secrets. Not all of them my own, either."

"You feared the Professor would really do as he said."

"Well, yeah! Snape…." Here, Harry paused, the words tangling within himself. This Snape—the vicious, heartless bastard before him? He would have done it in a heartbeat if he could've gotten away with it. He would have loved nothing more than to humiliate Harry further, as if reading that article aloud wasn't enough.

But the Snape who'd taken him in? The one who'd seen to his needs, who'd arranged for Harry to make up with his godfather, a man he personally despised? The Snape who'd sat up with Harry and comforted him during a nightmare and never, not once, used the memory of that weakness to shame Harry? The man who'd been so appalled at learning that Harry had believed he would burn Harry's only pictures of his dead parents? The man who'd gone to great lengths to ensure that Harry would never have to worry again about losing that most precious of his belongings?

Had this been another empty threat, then, fueled by bitter anger and misunderstanding? Worse, a grain of truth? Because Hermione had stolen Boomslang skin, hadn't she, with the help of Ron and Harry….

"Then, I thought he would dose me," Harry amended.

A knock at the back of the classroom interrupted Harry.

"Enter," memory-Snape commanded, straightening up and away from Harry, and Karkaroff entered—and there the memory bled away just as Harry felt himself reemerging from the Pensieve.

Harry blinked furiously as the Healer's office came back into view.

"Hold still, Harry," the Healer commanded.

Harry watched from the corner of his eye as the witch drew the silver strands of his memory out of the Pensieve and began approaching him, her wand held aloft in front of her.

"May I restore your memory?" she asked.

Harry nodded, and she touched her wand to his temple, where he felt those same silver strands reabsorb into him, drawn as if by magnetism. A few images of the scene flashed before his eyes, a few sounds and sensory details—and then it seemed it settled back into its proper place.

"Quite the scene you chose," the Healer remarked.

"Yeah," Harry agreed faintly, collapsing back onto the settee.

"Quite the illustration of the unresolved nature of your bond with Professor Snape."

Harry nodded.

"Not to mention your own insecurities—"

"What?"

"About worthiness, especially in his eyes. And that is not even mentioning trust issues—I am surprised, quite frankly, that you did not linger more on the visitor at the end there. Karkaroff, am I correct? The former Death Eater they found dead not long ago?"

Panic started to take root in Harry's chest. "How do you know that—"

"Professor Snape mentioned it in his—really, it's more of a dossier. He felt it prudent to be forthright about his connections to the Death Eaters, and his current role as a spy—"

"Oh God. Why would he say that? I mean, sorry, no offense, but it's kind of—well, dangerous, that you know that, and I can't imagine what the hell he was thinking—"

"Harry. Harry. It's quite all right."

Harry froze as the Healer sat next to him, laying a quelling hand on his forearm.

"There are powerful wards on this place—Hippocratic Wards, named after an ancient wizard. You've heard of him?"

Harry nodded dumbly. "Didn't know he was a wizard."

"That doesn't surprise me," the Healer told him gently, "given your upbringing. Well, Hippocrates founded the principles later used to create the wards. In fact, they are a predecessor of the Fidelius spell. All Healers here take an Oath—a magical Oath—that keys them into the wards here, binding us to be unable to speak of, or even clearly remember, what we have discussed here with patients off the premises of St. Mungo's and outside of their direct presence. They also help with reinforcing our memories of who you are and the details of your case when you are here… but that is beside the point. What I mean to say, Harry, is that it is perfectly safe for even your most dangerous secrets to be spoken of here."

Harry wanted to believe her, but it was hard to simply take her at her word.

"Professor Snape—does he strike you as the kind of man given to taking unnecessary risks?"

"No," Harry answered, and he felt a little better as he did. Snape would never risk everything for a little therapy session. If he thought the wards were sufficient here… well, they must be. Though he didn't like to put his faith in wards, especially with his family history.

"I understand it might make you uncomfortable to rely on ancient, intangible magic," the Healer sympathized, withdrawing her hand at last. "But perhaps you could discuss it with Professor Snape. I'm certain he can put you at ease far better than I could. And hopefully by our next session, you will feel more confident in the magic in place here. If, that is, you are willing to come back?"

Pretty slick way to end a session, Harry thought—but with a touch of admiration. The Healer was strangely familiar already, as if he'd known her for a lot longer than an hour. And even though she'd left him mired in more questions than answers, Harry felt better, somehow, being able to name the conflicting emotions he felt, and to understand where they came from.

Though he bet Snape would be peeved that they hadn't once discussed the Dursleys.

He had a feeling they would, though. Eventually. And though he wasn't enthusiastic about that, it didn't seem as ludicrous as it once had. He would give it a try, at least.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Good. Come, let's find Professor Snape and confirm your next appointment…."

Snape was out in the reception area, the book he'd brought from the house splayed open on one of his knees. He glanced up at their approach, an eyebrow raised. "Finished, then?"

"For today," the Healer affirmed. "I believe we're scheduled a week out, but I thought it might not hurt to take advantage of the summer and settle a few more appointments as well."

Snape stood. "Agreed. There were a few things I'd hoped to discuss with you as well."

"Step back in the office, then…."

"I'll return shortly, Harry," Snape promised with hardly a second glance spared for him.

"Shortly" turned out to mean "half an hour", Harry found. At first he tried to amuse himself by reading some of the magazines left out on the coffee table. Unfortunately, the only thing he found that was even a decent read was an outdated issue of something called The Quibbler—which was a bit bizarre, but entertaining, and much less drivel-filled than the copy of Witch Weekly or the Daily Prophet. A number of the pages had, alas, been torn out, so Harry was unable to finish the article on the rare and elusive Frumious Bandersnatch.

And after that Harry's overwrought mind began to take him in all sorts of unpleasant directions. Namely, what were they discussing? Was the Healer giving Snape a play-by-play of everything he'd said? Was Snape giving his version of events, detailing how awful Harry had been up until that year and justifying his accusations and threats?

By the time Snape finally emerged, Harry was pacing back and forth restlessly, hands locked tightly behind his back, his stomach compressed into a tight, uncomfortable mass. The Professor was still in deep discussion, it seemed, with the Healer, his brow furrowed just slightly—but he returned his attention to Harry after just a few steps, and his expression smoothed.

"Are you ready to go?"

Harry tried to discern whether the man was angry at him or not. There was nothing in those words, not a wrinkle on his face now. And that meant nothing. So maybe he was irate that Harry had shared such an awful memory and made him look bad, but needed to wait until they were back at the house to do so.

"Is everything all right?" Snape added, and now concern broke through as he strode forward, his inspection far more intense. "You look paler. Are you feeling ill?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Harry and I explored some intense topics," the Healer offered.

Snape seemed genuinely surprised by this. So maybe he hadn't demanded a recap. "Ah. That is… good, I suppose. Do you need a moment, Harry?"

"No. Sorry. Um, thank you, Healer Angela."

"You're very welcome, Harry," she replied warmly.

And with that they headed back to the public Floo.

XXXXX

The afternoon passed quietly. Harry worked on summer assignments, and Snape kept to himself in the lab, promising that they would resume lessons the following day.

Harry desperately wanted to ask Snape what he'd talked to the Healer about, but his courage seemed to fail him. The doubts and specter of guild raised during his appointment continued to haunt him well into the evening, causing him to feel just as ill-at-ease as he'd been during his first days in Snape's home.

His jumpiness was so bad that he actually leapt guiltily to his feet when Snape emerged in the sitting room from the cellar.

Snape raised a quizzical brow at him. "Guilty conscience?"

"No, sir," Harry stammered, and then winced at how that sounded. "I was just thinking of… I, um…."

Snape appraised him with his immutable black gaze for a moment before angling himself away from Harry toward the kitchen, lifting the weight of his scrutiny from Harry's shoulders. "Would you mind helping set the table?"

Harry thrust his textbook down and was about to hurry into the kitchen to comply before he managed to quell the impulse. Not at the Dursleys. And in slowing down that little bit, he was able to truly puzzle over this new development. "Of course, but… um… not to sound ungrateful—"

"You sound moronic, actually, when you 'um' your way through a conversation," Snape interrupted, his tone a strange mixture of teasing and lecturing. "But do continue."

Harry flushed at the comment. "I thought that you didn't want me doing chores. Not that I won't, of course. I'd be happy to. I could make dinner, too—I used to do it all the time—"

"Merciful Merlin, what has gotten into you? Did you find the liquor cabinet this afternoon? I let the wards expire because I thought, surely the boy does not have a death wish, he'll know to keep well away…."

"I just want to help!" Harry snapped. "And suddenly you're letting me, and I just wanted to know why, since you about blew a gasket just the other day when I wanted to dust."

For a fleeting moment Harry could have sworn he saw guilt flash in Snape's eyes. "You are welcome to assist with dinner. Assist," Snape reiterated carefully. "And I have changed my stance because I was informed that I was… misguided in my child-rearing philosophies."

"In your what?" Harry choked.

"You object to the term?"

Harry sputtered uselessly.

"What should I call you instead?" Snape inquired innocently. "Whelp? Potter-spawn? And yes, I am rearing you for the time being, because lord knows what would become of you if you were left to your own devices."

For the first time, Harry wondered if Snape genuinely was this unflappable, or if this banter was his way of covering up his own insecurities. If so, the mechanism was flawless. "Fine, what changed?"

"It was brought to my attention that excluding you from unpleasant household tasks might foster the impression that you are a guest here."

"But I am, aren't I? I—"

"You are my ward. Meaning you are an equal member of the household, and therefore can be saddled with such mundane chores as setting the table. So get to it. And then you can come dice vegetables for me."

Harry snorted. "I must have been a very important member of the Dursley household," he muttered as he followed Snape into the kitchen to retrieve the dinnerware.

He was not prepared for Snape to pause and simply stare at him. And not with irritation, or admonition, or even expectation, either. There was just… attention, all trace of mocking gone. "Oh?" he inquired simply.

"Never mind," Harry mumbled.

And Snape gave him a curt nod that said they would drop the matter, no questions asked.

XXXXX

Harry set the table, and spent a pleasant hour or so helping Snape to prepare stir-fry for the evening meal. There wasn't much conversation beyond what was needed to coordinate their efforts, but that was bliss for Harry. For once his efforts and presence were appreciated. Like in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, the atmosphere between himself and Snape seemed to have evolved beyond a comfortable détente into something more, something approaching—dare he say warmth?

It seemed that, as long as they weren't conversing, Harry and Snape got along famously.

That period of relative ease could not last indefinitely, however much Harry wished it would.

The peace broke shortly after the two of them had settled at the table with their plates. Snape seemed to be a master of reinstating tension, so naturally it was his unwarranted question that shattered the easy mood of the evening.

"You were rather keyed up earlier," he observed tactlessly. "Nervous, I would say. Am I right in guessing that it has to do with something that came up during your appointment?" He speared a sautéed carrot and popped it into his mouth as casually as if he'd simply announced that the weather called for rain the next day.

Harry said nothing, foolishly believing that Snape would drop it.

"And I didn't detect any brandy on your breath—"

"I didn't get into your liquor! I don't even know where you keep it!"

"And if you're smart," Snape informed him, gesticulating with his fork, "you'll keep it that way. Still, the mystery remains as to what has turned your babbling even more brainless than usual."

Harry waited—for the speculations, which he could ignore, or the outright questions, which he could bat away. But Snape let the statement hang there as he worked his way through his meal bite by bite.

And damn it if Snape didn't somehow know how to maneuver him. "She asked to view a memory, and the one I chose was awful, and it's just got me on edge, okay?" Harry blurted out.

To which Snape said… nothing.

Good, Harry thought, and planned to let the conversation drop there.

Except he couldn't. The unspoken answer to Snape's question, Snape's refusal to simply declare the matter closed, or move on to some other topic—it itched. Unbearably. Harry opened his mouth a few times to change the topic himself, but found it was impossible.

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. "I showed her that day in your class—when you read that awful article about how Hermione was my girlfriend, and how she was too ugly or something to get with Krum on her own, so she had to be using a love potion, and then you pulled me aside and accused me of stealing and threatened me with Veritaserum, which was really fucking unprofessional, if you ask me."

"Agreed." Snape laid his fork down, his expression suddenly grave. "Harry—"

"I watched it back, okay? So you don't have to tell me… we were being rude little prats in your class, and no, it wasn't right of you to read that damned article, but we weren't exactly innocent or anything. And even when you threatened me… I get that you were just really angry, and that it was a huge coincidence that I was out of bed at that time—and I was breaking the rules, like you said. And I know you wouldn't have really used truth serum on me."

"No. But I never should have—"

"I know," Harry cut him off as he felt that same sense of panic rising in him again. "I don't need you to apologize. I mean, I was still angry about it, but not… it's just a bad memory now."

"It would be reasonable for you to be angry with me," Snape offered cautiously. "Healthy, I might even say. But you have not been. You've been nervous instead."

Harry shoved his plate away, all traces of appetite gone. "It's just…." What? Why did he need to say this now? Why did he feel the need to bring up bad memories and past wrongs? Snape wasn't riding him, wasn't demanding that he explain himself. "We did steal from you. Second year. Boomslang skin. Ron and I set off that firework while Hermione grabbed the skin from your storeroom. And then Dobby stole the Gillyweed—"

"You what," Snape hissed in a deadly cold voice, even as his whole body seemed to swell with wrath. "I knew it. You little cretins—do you have any idea of how dangerous that little stunt was? Of what you risked, had an improper brew contaminated anyone? Have you the faintest clue of what the introduction of an incendiary device into a draught of unknown quality brewed by some addle-headed pre-pubescent blockhead might have caused? And what in Merlin's name did you and your insufferable friends need with Boomslang skin?"

Harry shrank back. "We—for the Polyjuice—"

"Polyjuice!" Snape spat out. His white-knuckled grip on his fork was enough to bend the utensil, which he discarded with a clatter off to the side of his plate. Harry could barely stand to meet the man's blazing eyes, even if he could no longer feel any of the muscles in his body. "You attempted Polyjuice? In your second year? Have you any idea of how illegal, not to mention incredibly foolish…." For once, Snape seemed to be at a loss for words—that, or he was grinding his teeth so hard that he could no longer rant. "Merlin, I thought you stupid, Potter, but this—this is beyond the pale. This far surpasses any suspicion I might have had of your reckless disregard for the rules. And this I say after you stole and attempted to pilot an illegal modified Muggle vehicle to the school, only to crash it into Hogwarts property—"

"I know," Harry broke in, voice hoarse with pleading. This was not what he wanted. He'd wanted to prove to Snape somehow that he understood how idiotic he'd been. He'd wanted to beg for absolution, so the knowledge of his recklessness wouldn't hang over him like a dark cloud that Snape might peer into one day and recall why he despised Harry Bloody Potter. But it seemed like he would never get a chance to apologize—or that an apology wouldn't make much difference after all.

"You know," Snape parroted back, tone edged with sardonic mocking.

"You were right when you accused me of stealing. And th-thinking myself above the rules." Damn it, where were these tears coming from? "I just meant to say that I'm sorry, and… and that I'll try to be better."

The silence between them grew palpably more uncomfortable in the seconds that followed, and after struggling valiantly to batter his emotions back down, Harry whispered, "May I be excused, sir?" And stood, because he was certain that Snape was just about sick of him by then.

"No," Snape fired back immediately. "Sit back down."

Harry did and waited again. Snape seemed to be breathing deeply, his eyes trained on the ceiling behind Harry. Harry kept his gaze on his laced knuckles in front of him.

"Why did you feel the need to brew a Polyjuice Potion?" Snape's words were terse, but far less hostile than previously.

"We thought Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin. And we needed a way to—to check. So Ron and I impersonated Crabbe and Goyle—"

"An offense worthy of two years in Azkaban, but do continue."

Harry could feel the blood draining from his face. "We didn't know—"

"Continue, Potter."

"Hermione…."

Snape's lip curled in a particularly disdainful sneer, even though he continued to examine whatever it was that had had caught his attention on the kitchen ceiling. "Let me venture a guess. The illustrious Miss Granger had not botched an attempt to become an Animagus, as we previously assumed, but instead mistook cat hair for the requisite human specimen. Is that about right?"

"Yes, sir," Harry affirmed faintly.

"And so you nobly enacted your harebrained charade, risking life and limb"—Snape's eyes slid back to Harry, as if he knew Harry had been about to open his mouth to object—"oh, yes, Potter, I could tell you tales of Polyjuice gone wrong to curdle your stomach. The strict control of potions is not merely a useless Ministry pastime, I assure you. Had your Miss Granger been any less competent, you might have found your bones rearranged, fused, vanished—and not necessarily in a way that would accommodate all of your organs. Or better, you might have been left in the transient state, little better than primordial ooze—which is not much of a downgrade for you intellectually, I understand—"

"We had to know!" Harry shouted. "People were being petrified, and there were messages in blood, and no one seemed to be doing a damned thing—"

"So of course it fell to you to chase down a bloody basilisk!" Snape seethed. "Rather than leave it to responsible adults, you allowed your incredible hubris to guide you to confront an ancient beast and the Dark Lord's wraith without once consulting any of the full-grown witches and wizards—"

"When we told McGonagall about the Stone, she told us it was none of our business! She told us it was fine, when Quirrell was going after the Stone that night—"

Snape stood up suddenly and leaned over the table so that his face loomed just inches from Harry's. "Tell me what would have happened," he demanded in a deadly-soft voice, "had you remained in your bed that night. Tell me how Quirrell would have gotten the Stone."

"He made it past all the traps! He made it to the mirror—"

"Where only one with no intention of using the Stone could retrieve it. What then, Potter?"

Harry opened his mouth, only to snap it shut immediately.

"I know it is hard to believe, given the accolades the Headmaster heaped on you and your friends for your cleverness and bravery and resourcefulness, but your presence enabled the Dark Lord to get that much closer to immortality. Believe me when I say congratulating you was far from my mind when the Headmaster recounted to me how he had scraped your lifeless body from the floor of that chamber."

Harry could not help but shudder as those words sank in. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself as the truth of the matter set in. "Oh God."

"Indeed. Time after time your disregard for any semblance of boundaries has put your life—and the lives of others—at risk. Time after time, Potter."

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated listlessly. He'd been sorry before—mostly because he'd given Snape reason to dislike him in the past. But this, this was so much worse. Yes, he'd felt guilty about the theft, and even some of the risks he'd taken, but at least before he'd thought they'd been for a good cause. But now, learning that as far back as his first year he'd been screwing things up…. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. I was so stupid."

The self-loathing he felt then was overwhelming. What he'd felt before seeing how he'd interacted with Snape was nothing in comparison to the weight that bore down on him now. Potions interactions… how had that never crossed his mind? After four years of class, how had he not even thought of it in retrospect? What if Hermione's accident had been worse? What if they'd maimed her, or killed her? Yes, Hermione was clever, cleverest witch in their year by far, but that didn't mean she was immune to mistakes.

And all the other students that had been in that classroom. Yes, they'd needed antidotes for the Swelling Solution—but what if it had been worse, like Snape had said? What if someone had really messed up their potion and turned it into poison, or something corrosive, or worse?

"Which you said at the outset of this conversation."

Harry's head snapped up at his Professor's softly, abruptly strained words. "Sir?"

"The preface to this conversation was your apology," Snape clarified, settling heavily back into his chair. He rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, his brow furrowing as he did so. "Meaning you realize the errors made, and my ranting was wholly unnecessary. Which begs the question: why bring the topic up?" When Harry didn't speak, Snape prompted, "I take it something this afternoon inspired this confession?"

Harry hugged himself tighter as shifted his gaze back to his lap. "That day in class… you accused me of stealing. And I hadn't then. But we'd taken the Boomslang and Bicorn horn before. And it never bothered me before, you not knowing about that. But now…." Harry managed to pull in a shuddery breath. "I… I just needed you to know…."

"That in the past you've made idiotic decisions driven the martyr complex instilled in you by our esteemed headmaster? Yes, I am aware." Harry pressed back away from Snape when he stood and rounded the table, not sure what to expect. The man sounded more controlled, but still…. "Harry."

Reluctantly, Harry lifted his eyes to find Snape's expression troubled rather than irked. "Sir?"

"What brought this on?"

When Harry shrugged, Snape crouched down, steadying himself against the table, and reached out to catch Harry's chin.

Holding his head in place for scrutiny, Snape pressed, "Why did you feel compelled to confess to me about past wrongs that likely never would have come to light?"

"I don't know," Harry pleaded. "It just seemed… important." To his horror, he could feel tears prickling in his eyes. He furiously blinked them away as he tried to clamp down on the confusing tide of emotion that was rising within him. "You were right about me when you called me a… a nasty little boy who thinks the rules are beneath him—"

Snape's grip tightened suddenly, and painfully. "I was not."

"But—"

"No," Snape cut him off swiftly and harshly. "And you well know it. You have just finished explaining to me that your actions were motivated by your need to take care of existential threats to yourself and your friends. And while your hero complex is not an excuse for your reckless behavior, it is leagues away from breaking the rules simply for the pleasure of it. I want no confusion on that point."

"I have, though," Harry cried. "Third year, I went into Hogsmeade, and I lied about it when you caught me—"

Snape's grip did not lessen. "My, my, the cardinal sin of wanting to join your friends on a school-sanctioned trip. What should we do with you? The Dementor's Kiss, you think?"

"We thought a murderer was on the loose—"

"Yes, it was foolish! Yes, had I known at the time I would have assigned a month's worth of detentions and complained to the Headmaster! But that was two years ago, Harry, and you speak of it now as if… well, I cannot quite describe it. As a guilt-stricken murderer presenting evidence against himself. And though I am… less than pleased… to hear about your numbskull endeavors your second year—mostly because of the hours I wasted arguing my apparently valid case to Albus to no avail—this changes very little. You, however, seem convinced otherwise."

"You know the truth about me now," Harry whispered, trying to pull away from Snape's grip. Snape let him, shifting back a bit as if to give Harry more space. "You know you were right—"

"I know I was wrong in far more significant ways. Admittedly, it is… good… that you are able to clear the air about these things, so to speak. Better, I should think, to bring them to light than simply bury them. But it does not seem to have been a cathartic experience. Rather, you seem more distraught now."

Harry chanced a glance up at Snape. There was no trace of the rage from earlier, strangely. His focus seemed to be consumed by Harry—a less than comfortable feeling. "Don't you… aren't you mad?"

Snape frowned in consternation before pushing himself back to his feet and peering down at Harry. "Annoyed, yes. Mad… it was three years ago. And I understand far better now why you felt driven to do it. I would wager I can even empathize with your flight from London." Snape braced a hand flat against the table, his index finger beginning to tap out a light tattoo against the surface. "You're worried about my regard?" he inquired, testing the words out.

"Not… it's just, it makes sense that now that you know…."

"Merlin, you are worried, aren't you? Harry, I don't think less of you. If anything, you've impressed me with this—though I worry this is less courage and more self-punishment."

"What?"

"You subconsciously believe you don't deserve support, ergo you engage in what you believe to be self-sabotage by confessing to past sins. Though Merlin knows I'm unqualified to attempt to make sense of your psychological state." Snape sighed and shifted again to fold his arms over his chest.

"It never even bothered me before. That's why… I just, I heard you say it in my memory, and before I'd just—I don't know. Dismiss it. I didn't care. And I hate that I didn't care."

"Just as previously I would not have thought twice about how I spoke to you in my class. Whereas now…." Snape's gaze drifted away again as he angled himself toward the kitchen door. "I wonder how I can ever expect you to overlook my behavior."

"I told you I forgive you," Harry insisted. There was a stark note in Snape's tone that Harry couldn't quite place but didn't at all care for. "I meant it. What you've done since means way more."

Snape scoffed derisively, his suddenly sharp gaze swinging back to needle Harry. "You can forgive me, an adult—a professional, no less, charged with your wellbeing—but you cannot forgive yourself, a misguided child doing his best to protect the only semblance of family he ever knew?"

Harry shrugged at the table and the cold remains of his dinner. "I'm angrier at myself."

"I know the struggle too well." Snape drew a deep, audible breath. "Come here."

Harry obeyed, trying hard not to tremble. He felt so fragile, and he did not like the thought of getting close to Snape just now, even if the man was no longer yelling and spitting insults.

To Harry's shock, Snape seized him roughly as soon as Harry got within range and pulled him in close. For several long seconds Harry stood there, stiff against Snape's side, trying to figure out what Snape was about to do—until he realized that it was a one-armed embrace, and that the strong arm banded around his back felt a hell of a lot like forgiveness. And then, very carefully, Harry laid his forehead against Snape's shoulder and struggled once again to get a hold of his emotions.

"You will read a full chapter on the reversal of Polyjuice-related mishaps between tonight and tomorrow evening," Snape told him in a low, nearly-gentle voice. "And you will count yourself lucky I am not assigning an essay on the topic."

Harry could not have described just then how perfectly those words relieved the weight that had settled in his stomach since that afternoon. He did not believe a simple reassurance from Snape would have had the same effect. "Okay," he agreed meekly.

"And you will bring this up with Healer Angela in your next session. Yes?"

"Yeah."

Snape's arm contracted tightly for a moment, and then he was drawing back, his eyes critical once more. "Our dinner has gone cold."

"Oh." Harry turned back to the table, beyond grateful for the concrete distraction. "Here, I can reheat it in the pan—"

"Potter, are you a wizard or not?"

In spite of himself, Harry found himself grinning at Snape's exasperated query. "We didn't get to do Defense today, you know," he pointed out. He winced internally at the small quaver that remained in his voice.

Snape didn't remark on it though. "Pity. You'll simply have to wait another two days, won't you?"

"What? No, you said we'd switch off. We did Potions the other day, so now it's Defense."

"Whatever gave you the impression that a Slytherin would keep his word?" Snape inquired smoothly, settling back into his seat.

"Whatever gave you the impression that a Gryffindor won't complain until he gets what he thinks is fair?" Harry countered, and felt a small spark of warmth when Snape's lips curved up in the smallest of amused smirks.

"A point. I suppose the only sensible thing to do is to capitulate in order to spare myself." Snape drew his wand and waved it over their plates. "Defense, then, on the condition that you complete your reading."

"Sure," Harry agreed readily. How long could a single chapter be?

One hundred and three pages, as it turned out.

"It's practically a book!" he complained later, after Snape had dumped the tome before him on the cleared dinner table.

"It is a book, Potter—as indicated by the cover bounding a number of pages filled with what the more intelligent amongst us call words."

"No, I mean the chapter—it's really long—"

"It's Polyjuice. It's a complicated, volatile, highly subjective brew that requires precision with little room for error. I am, in fact, in possession of a tome of over five hundred pages dedicated to Polyjuice-related correction alone—perhaps you would prefer to read that?"

"No," Harry replied swiftly, "this is fine."

Gruesomely fascinating would have been a better description. The text was tiny and densely-packed, but accompanied by vivid illustrations of various accidents related to missed steps, omitted or substituted ingredients, and other errors in preparation. Harry found himself unable to look away, even as his gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought of any of these things happening to himself or his friends. He leafed through a few more pages as Snape watched him.

"Okay, this is horrible… but why don't you make us read something like this? You know, like a precautionary tale?"

Snape's lip curled in a faint sneer. "The Headmaster believes it would be traumatizing and propagate 'a fear-driven learning environment'."

"No offense, but you already do a pretty good job of creating a, uh, 'fear-driven learning environment'. And maybe we need to be traumatized."

Snape snorted. "Well, you, at least, will be. Pay careful attention, because I will be quizzing you later to confirm your reading comprehension." He flicked a wand back toward the tea set that had sat out on the counter for several weeks now, causing steam to pour out the kettle's spout. Another flick had the tray levitating in the air. "Come. You'd might as well be comfortable and plied with tea and biscuits while you serve your token punishment."

Harry cast a sly glance at the Professor. "Should you be telling me it's a token punishment? And if it is, couldn't I just look at the pictures?"

"Not on your life." Snape took him by the shoulder and gave him a little nudge out of his dining chair. "And watch yourself. I can still assign an essay."

"Yes, Professor."

"Two essays, even," Snape mused threateningly.

"I mean yes, Severus."

Harry's heart leapt a bit when Snape's hand tightened on his shoulder in response to that, and lingered for just a moment before dropping away as Snape led the way into the sitting room.

A/N: Here's hoping that you're all doing well amidst the craziness of this pandemic! I am currently home recovering from surgery, so no promises about updates, but I will be doing my best to press along as I am able. As always, thank you all for your kind reviews and words of encouragement. Emotional chapters like this one always make me nervous (so many ways to go wrong!) but I hope I've done it justice without going overboard.

Also, direct quotes are taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling and are bolded to distinguish them.

Cheers! ~Mel