Title: Down the Rabbit Hole
Author: RaeWhit
Team: Dragon
Genre(s): Postwar, Angst
Prompt(s): Separation Anxiety
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 48,000+
Summary: For Harry and Snape, the war might be over, but the battle isn't.
A/N: Thanks to all of Team Dragon, for the camaraderie and teamwork par excellence. I'm so proud of all of you for pulling together, week after week, so that every one of us could do our best . A special smooch to the Snarry mods who continue to make the Games possible, year after year. To jadzialove, my humble and heartfelt appreciation for all your diligence and support; I treasure you as a beta, writer, and friend. Thanks, too, klynie1, for your assistance and support.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I simply must get through!"
"Sorry, you're much too big. Simply impassible."
"You mean impossible?"
"No, impassible. Nothing's impossible."

Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

It was Harry's favorite time of day.

The last class over, he strode down the corridor, smiling and nodding absently as students greeted him, his robes open, his tie unknotted and askew. He walked purposefully, hoping he hadn't missed it....

He rounded the corner, then let out a breath of relief as he barreled on, not breaking stride. It was almost a ritual now, managing his schedule so he got here in time to see it.

The afternoon sun of early May was hitting the high prismed windows just so, fragmenting shards of colored light across the painted tableau that stretched the length of the corridor wall, floor to ceiling. He reached out and trailed the tip of a finger along it as he walked. He never really looked at the mural anymore. The Battle for Hogwarts was an event so etched in his memory that he didn't need a visual reminder of who had fought, who had died, who had won, and who had lost.

He could almost feel the heat radiating from the painted stones, and this in itself was enough, this communion that lasted only seconds in his day of hours. Remember, was the message of the mural, and however briefly, Harry's unspoken answer never varied: I do.

But by the time he reached the end of the corridor to make the turn down to the dungeons, all thought of what had occurred more than three years ago was justly and firmly filed away. He was a man who'd learnt from experience that life was precious and deserved to be lived in the present.

Which, given his current situation, was sometimes a challenging notion.

He slowed as he made his final turn into a corridor in the nethermost region of the dungeons. Severus, he thought to himself, then stopped at the door. As he always did, he placed his hands on either side of it, leant his forehead against the cool, dark wood, and breathed what he supposed was a prayer, although he couldn't imagine that anyone heard him. Let him have had a good day...

He paused, his hand on the latch, transfixed by the suspense of it. Lately, he'd had this anxious moment almost every single day. With a deep breath, he opened the door and quickly stepped inside. His nostrils were immediately accosted by the bitter aroma of aconite, the pleasant waft of ginger in the air, and that cloying humidity that was proof positive that a potion was brewing. And on top of it all, he could hear Severus singing.

Harry smiled...

...and smiled some more.

Throughout dinner, Severus talked almost non-stop, provoking Harry to dryly remind the man to eat before his food became cold. Severus shot him the appropriately offended remarks, "Are you my keeper?" and "I've been feeding myself for years now," making Harry smile even wider.

By the time they'd finished dessert, Severus had a knowing look in his eye, and said as he set his serviette aside, "It was a good day, yes. So you can cease the Cheshire cat imitation."

Harry stood and stretched. "You've read 'Alice in Wonderland'?" he asked, amused.

"Sometimes I think I am in Wonderland," Severus murmured, watching warily as Harry approached, then sighed good-naturedly when Harry motioned for him to push his chair back.

Pulling him up by his hands, Harry gestured with his head towards the sitting room and its fire. "And who would you be, if I'm the Cheshire?" Harry asked him once they were seated, side-by-side.

Severus didn't even stop to consider. "Oh, I'm most definitely the rabbit. Down the hole, ever late for a very important date," he said, giving Harry a challenging smile. "You would be Alice, though, chasing after the silly rabbit."

"Silly but always logical," Harry pointed out, patting Severus' knee playfully, then sidling closer when Severus caught his hand and placed a kiss on the palm of it.

Harry's heart lurched at the almost contented look in Severus' eyes. "I'm glad you had a good day. Let's celebrate," he said in a low voice, before leaning over to kiss Severus lightly on the lips.

"What did you have in mind?" The husky, sensuous timbre of Severus' voice made Harry's insides do strange and wonderful things.

Harry laid his head on Severus' shoulder, and said at his ear, "Oh, I don't know, something completely outrageous and different—get naked, go to bed, you can make me your sex-slave."

There was a soft rumbling laugh, and the touch of warm, strong hands that made Harry happy, like they always did, but the words...the words made him shiver. "You're already my sex-slave."

There was no natural light in the dungeons, something that Harry had insisted on remedying with a charmed window here and there. Severus had resisted at first, but then had suddenly just given in one day. In the end, Harry found he'd been more distressed by Severus' weary, "Go ahead, do what you will," than by the fact that the man never saw the sun or the sky.

And although Harry sometimes felt like he was walking a tightrope—trying to help Severus maintain a semblance of self-control, trying not to act like the man's keeper, but then having to firmly insist that Severus get out of bed on the bad days, that he eat, that he stick to a schedule—the thing of which he was most afraid was that one day Severus would just up and disappear, that Harry would come down after classes to find the door ajar, Severus' cup of tea still steeping on the table, his book set to the side, as if he'd just stepped out for a moment, but Harry would know, in that instant, that he was gone for good.

An irrational fear, he lectured himself, but sometimes it overtook him with such a heart-crushing inevitability that he wheezed, trying to catch his breath, struggling to contain his terror, as he groped in the darkness for the warm, flesh-and-blood person who slept beside him.

Tonight was one such night. Severus stirred slightly when Harry pressed against him, then mumbled as Harry wrapped his arms around him from behind. His heart still racing, Harry burrowed his face in the dark hair that smelt of potions and wood smoke, certain that the pounding of his heart would give him away.

"Harry..."

"Hmmm?"

"Whatever it is, worrying will not help."

"Right," Harry yawned, but was awake enough to appreciate the irony of Severus telling him not to worry. "Go back to sleep."

Severus muttered something incoherent and most likely insulting, but the net effect was comforting enough for Harry to drift off again, still holding on tightly.

This day, they argued over breakfast. Or rather, they went through the motions of arguing.

Harry found the brochures lying strategically across his plate, the bright colors of the sea and sun flashing up at him—to allure, to tempt, to tease him into giving in. They'd had this same argument for weeks now; nevertheless, Harry wasn't any more inclined to agree than he had been. He could tell by the look on Severus' face that perhaps he was wearying of the game and about to concede the point, then it occurred to him that, like the windows, Severus giving in might not be a good thing.

After he sat, Harry carefully put the brochures to the side, not even sparing Severus a glance as he said quietly and firmly, "No, I won't go."

"You should," Severus shot back quickly, and Harry had to look up, slightly surprised by the irritation in his voice.

"I'll go when you can go," Harry said soberly, "and please, could we not discuss this again? You can't make me go. I don't want to go, and admit it, if the tables were turned, you'd feel the same way." He cocked an eyebrow at Severus. "Isn't that right?"

Severus stared at him for a moment, then shrugged as he flicked his hand to Summon the teapot. "I don't dabble in hypotheticals, so I really couldn't say," he replied casually.

Harry waited until Severus had raised the cup to his lips, then offered, "Oh, right, I wouldn't want you to commit yourself. All I'm saying is, seeing what happened last year...." His voice died in his throat at the look on Severus' face, an expression of gathering thunder. "Never mind," he finished flatly. "But it's settled, I'm not going, it's not a sacrifice on my part, however much you want to insist that it is, and I'm looking forward to spending the extra time with you, whether you're happy about it or not, so shut it."

There was a war of emotions on Severus' face as he considered Harry, his breakfast forgotten for the moment. He seemed on the verge of opening his mouth several times, then seemed to think better of it. When he finally did speak, his tone was neutral, but his face, for as much as Harry knew the man was attempting to appear impassive, betrayed the slightest bit of relief as he said, "Do what you will." He shot Harry a furtive look before returning to his meal, and Harry, who knew Severus so well, appreciated that the glance had been calculated so that Harry would see the barest glimmer of gratitude in his eyes.

"I'll suit myself, then," Harry said matter-of-factly, earning him a grunt of agreement from the other end of the table.

* * *

There was a ritual to Severus' mornings. In stark contrast to Harry's immediate jump out of bed the moment he was awake, Severus liked to lie still and allow his brain to adjust to the prospect of another day; not that he had a death wish, but sometimes, just before he fell off to sleep at night, he'd idly entertain the faint hope that he'd sleep on forever, then upon awakening, felt a vague disappointment that he hadn't.

So, on this particular morning, he rolled onto his side and listened to the sound of Harry in the shower, allowing himself a sleepy smile as he heard the clunk of something being dropped and Harry's subsequent string of invective.

He finally sat on the edge of the bed, then managed to present himself just in time to admire Harry's physique as he stepped out of the shower. There was a wordless exchange that always took place when they met each other's eyes for the first time in the morning: the question, will this be a good day or a bad day, and then the answer, which was as changeable and varied as one would expect from a man who hadn't been outside his rooms in...well, Severus didn't like to think about how long it'd been.

Today the answer fell somewhere in the middle. Severus could already tell that this wouldn't be one of his best days, evidenced by the fact that he could feel that small, almost unnoticeable lump in his throat when he swallowed. But not an altogether bad day, because even before he sat down to breakfast, his mind was already making out a schedule for the rest of the day, which meant that he most definitely wouldn't be retreating back to bed the moment Harry Flooed out to his own rooms.

Breakfast had its own spot of difficulty, as Harry, in an almost frightening display that bespoke volumes of how the power dynamic between them had shifted, told him firmly that he was not taking a holiday on his own, subject closed, no further discussion would be tolerated. And although Severus outwardly bristled, he felt a sharp twang of relief, and if he had to be honest, hated himself just a bit that he had no desire to hide that fact from Harry. But considering what else the man had seen in the past two years...it was foolish to even care.

Severus sat at the table with his cup of tea, long after Harry had Flooed out for his first class. He thought of which potion he would brew and in what quantity, his mind settling into the groove of years of similar such after-breakfast planning.

The ingrained habit of it was so familiar that he could almost imagine...if he let his mind go...that he'd stand and straighten his cuffs and collar, gather up his parchments, head for the door and once through it, stride down the corridor to the dungeon classroom.

He'd sweep into the room in a flourish of robes, his presence silencing the chatter in a matter of moments.... He could almost imagine it...but alas, the slight increase in his heart rate that just the imagining of it produced was enough to pull him back to the bitter reality—

And just that brief, fantastical moment was enough to make him dizzy and breathless.

In the beginning, when Harry'd first discovered what ailed Severus, he'd been relentless in his quest to find a cure for the malady. Severus, having had more time to resign himself, had been cooperative but wary, then for almost a year, had allowed himself to be caught up in Harry's theories and schemes and remedies.

They'd read books, sent letters of inquiry to experts, tried their best to focus their efforts to force a solution. Severus spent months brewing potions and philters fine-tuned to his symptoms. But after a year, it seemed as if they were moving in circles.

Harry'd read every book he could find on agoraphobia—many of them Muggle books procured for him by Granger-Weasley. Books on how to treat it—cognitive therapy, herbal and dietary supplements, meditation techniques for anxiety. Then, armed with his arsenal of knowledge, he spoon fed it to a usually skeptical Severus, who did have to admit, however begrudgingly, that some of it, particularly the meditation, was helpful when symptoms were at their worst.

They sat one evening, facing each other, cross-legged on the floor, deep-breathing in time with each other. They were coming to the end of a time of meditation on an especially trying day. Harry's voice made Severus open his eyes.

"Even without what happened to you, you were at risk for this, you know."

Severus took his last cleansing breath, ignoring Harry while he slowly exhaled. "At risk? How?" He frowned.

"Agoraphobics tend to have a certain temperament; they're...introverts, which you are," he added, a note of challenge in his voice.

"Firstly, I'm not truly agoraphobic," Severus told him pointedly, "and secondly, the fact that I shun groups of people does not mean that I'm introverted...just private."

"Snobbish." Harry smiled.

Waving a hand dismissively, Severus countered, "Reserved. I don't think keeping to myself has ever been stress-inducing."

Harry shrugged. "You've had other stresses—life events, they're called, that made you prone to develop it."

"I did not develop it," Severus said, exasperated.

"End result is the same, regardless. Look at your life, how stressful it was."

Severus pressed his lips together, then gritted out, "The Shrieking Shack wasn't a stress! It was a life-altering event! One that I had no choice—"

"As I said," Harry interrupted, "the end result—the stress of it, no matter whose choice it was, predisposed you to an anxiety disorder."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Anxiety disorder is one thing, agoraphobia is quite another."

"Semantics," Harry disagreed. "Symptoms are symptoms. Treat them, and you'll feel better."

"Feel better, perhaps, but the root of the problem?" Severus scoffed as he shook his head. "We're not a whit closer to my being able to walk through that door than when we started, and you know it.'

Harry looked chagrined. "But we've made progress, haven't we? Remember how you were when I first..." He looked away, and Severus felt a fleeting twinge of guilt. "When I first moved in, god, Severus! Look how far you've come!"

Staring at him for a moment before replying, Severus was suddenly weary. "I am better, of course, just not...better off," he muttered.

When Harry'd first become aware of Severus 'problem' almost two years ago, it hadn't taken Severus long to realize that Harry had no idea, nor any appreciation, of how severe his symptoms actually were. If he had, he wouldn't have persistently solicited a 'demonstration' of said symptomatology. Of course, Harry'd been younger then, surer of himself and his abilities, and downright fierce in his desire to help Severus, coupled with a poorly disguised disbelief that things could be even half as bad as Severus described them.

It had occurred on a Saturday evening after they'd drunk an entire bottle of firewhisky between the two of them. Halfway through, Severus, discerner of subtleties, or in this case the lack thereof, knew exactly what Harry was up to.

Severus didn't say a word until the bottle was empty. Sitting there, staring at each other, he could see the wheels turning inside Harry's head, as the man tried to figure out how to maneuver them into some circumstance for leaving the dungeon rooms. Severus decided wearily to save them both the trouble and have done with it.

Harry's eyes widened when Severus stood and motioned toward the door.

"Shall we take a stroll, then?" Severus asked as he pulled Harry along by the arm.

"Are you sure? I mean, I know what you've said, and you've been drinking—"

"Harry," Severus growled, "spare me the insincerity. We both know what your intentions are, and I for one would like to do it now so you can see for yourself. Permit me to make a believer out of you."

At the door, Harry's face fell, flushing at Severus' words. "I do believe you. I just thought if you were more relaxed, and hadn't had time to get yourself worked up, then maybe..."

"Open it," Severus dictated stonily.

After searching Severus' face, Harry complied and opened the door, then stepped out into the corridor. He turned and reached out his hand. "Come on, then. Take my hand—we'll go slowly. One step at a time...." He smiled encouragingly.

Severus smiled at him sardonically, stretched his hand out across the threshold to take hold of Harry's, then, after a glance at his feet, he looked into Harry's eyes as he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

He felt the firm, sure grip as the fingers encased his own, pulling him forward. Severus exhaled deeply, his attention still focused on Harry's eyes.

Perhaps it will be different this time. After all, I've only ever tried it on my own.

For a moment, all was well, as he prepared to take another step. But then he tried to breathe again. Something must've shown in his expression, for he saw the barest hint of uncertainty flicker across Harry's face.

Severus struggled to take in a breath, even as he felt Harry continue to lead him forward. His mouth was suddenly dry, as his chest heaved with another effort to pull in air. Harry was repeating, "Breathe, Severus. Take a breath. Come on, you can do it," all the while exerting a gentle pressure to move Severus further down the corridor.

Without warning, Severus felt the dampness on his forehead, then the trickling down his cheeks and neck, soaking into his shirt. Suddenly the vertigo struck, forcing him to stagger backward into the wall. The corridor spun out of control, Severus' knees felt like they would no longer hold him, and his vision tunneled to two bright pinpoints of light, as a roaring crescendo of thunder swelled and beat a tattoo against his eardrums.

He gagged as the bile rose in his throat, overwhelming nausea threatening the loss of what was in his stomach. His chest was caught in a vise, pain streaking up into his jaw and down his arm, and still...still he could not take a breath. He was awash in dread, the emotion of doom so intense that he lost the will to remain upright.

His last recollection was of sliding down the wall, vaguely aware of hands clutching at him as he fell, and of a dull ringing in his ears and numbness in his lips. He was cold and wet, too, he idly realized, as he felt the fabric of his shirt clinging to him...and then at last, he welcomed that blissful sensation of relief that always came just before the world went completely black.

Harry was apologetic, and mortified, of course, seemingly convinced, no longer inclined to push on with 'Project Let's Try the Floo.'

"I'm sorry," was all that Harry said, once Severus was awake on the settee, his clothes dried and a Calming Draught in his stomach.

"It's good that you've seen it," Severus said simply.

Shaking his head, Harry replied, "I should've taken your word for it. You're right, it's bad. Really bad. Worse than anything I could've imagined."

"You see why I do not attempt it...often," Severus agreed.

Harry nodded, chewing at his thumbnail as he thoughtfully studied Severus. For some reason that he was at a loss to explain, Severus became uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and broke the silence first. "Who would've ever thought...that I could be so weak? Divine justice," he snorted mirthlessly. "All the fear I've had to overcome in my life, from all those things outside of me and now...this thing has me at its mercy."

Harry straightened resolutely, then took both of Severus' hands, as if he were about to make a solemn proclamation. "We'll work this out—it's not just you by yourself anymore. We'll do it, I promise."

And although Severus didn't think that likely, somehow, for the first time since that fateful night when he'd survived Nagini, he was no longer afraid that he'd spend the rest of his days, isolated and forgotten.

Harry'd been right, twelve months ago. Severus had made progress during that first year they'd spent together, so far as his everyday symptoms were concerned. And now, another year later, his bouts of anxiety, although still frequent and unpredictable at times, were manageable, thanks to a combination of therapies that he owed largely to Harry's research and sometimes irritating persistence.

But still...still, part of the cursed cycle, Severus had learnt, was that he had to try again from time to time. He wasn't certain exactly why he felt compelled to do this to himself, when nothing had essentially changed. He supposed that he was well within his right to expect all of it to just resolve itself out of the blue, and disappear as mysteriously as it had appeared. He wasn't counting on it...but he had to try, because he was Severus Snape, by god, war hero, spy for the light, and it was in his nature to do what was difficult, what seemed nigh on impossible.

That evening, at the end of May, they were halfway through dinner when Severus decided to confess and get it over with. It was a testament to their relationship that keeping something from Harry made Severus' food tasteless and the lump in his throat seem larger.

Leaning back in his chair, Severus sat and watched Harry eat, until either the intensity of his stare or his inactivity caused Harry to look up and tilt his head to the side in question. Severus didn't give him a chance to speak.

"I got tired of waiting, so I opened the door today," he said calmly.

Harry set his spoon down. "And?"

"That's as far as I got." He tried to sound unconcerned, as if this were something he'd expected and there was no disappointment at all. The truth of the matter was, he didn't trust himself to say anything further. Pushing his plate away, Severus picked up his wine goblet, nodded curtly to Harry, then headed for the sitting room and the fire.

Although there was disappointment, this part of it was so scripted and familiar that Severus drew a certain comfort from it—staring moodily into the fire, Harry sitting on the floor, leaning against his legs. It had the feel of a road well-traveled, with a sure beginning, a satisfying middle, an end that made it worth the journey. Severus snorted softly to himself, Well, not quite, making Harry turn to face him, resting his forearms on Severus' knees as he considered him with a mildly reproving glint in his eyes.

"I thought we said we'd talk about this, you know, that you wouldn't try this on your own again," Harry said quietly.

"I didn't plan it," Severus couldn't help but mildly snap at him.

Harry pinched him soundly on the thigh. "What happened?"

Purposefully prying Harry's fingers from his trousers, Severus told him shortly, "What always happens." He didn't explain any further, just made a gesture of despair, a flick of his wrist as he made a shooing motion.

Harry didn't speak for a moment, but caught Severus' hand and pinned it to his thigh, where he then laced their fingers together. When Harry squeezed tightly, Severus looked down at him. "One step outside, and it just...." He shook his head, then smiled grimly when Harry rested his cheek against his knee. "That's as far as I got. I don't know what else to do." He stared off into the fire, but lifted his free hand to stroke Harry's head.

They sat that way for some time, neither of them speaking until Harry got to his knees and then stood. Holding out his hand, he waited patiently while Severus set his goblet aside with a sigh to take Harry's hand.

"I know one thing," Harry told him as he led him away.

Severus knew that Harry didn't know what to say to him on nights like these, when the truth of the matter had been forcefully driven home once again, making it feel like it was the very first time, on that very first day when he'd suddenly discovered that he was unable to walk through the door, a prisoner sentenced to battle his demons and anxiety and hopelessness, with no end in sight.

Harry might not have known what to say, but he knew what to do.

He led Severus by the hand, like a child, into the room where the two of them had slept for the past two years. By unspoken agreement, they seldom discussed anything of substance, once the door was shut. Here they were simply Harry and Severus, who drove away their shared distress by filling their minds with the preoccupation of pleasure; here was the last bastion where Severus found himself completely in control, and it was here that Harry'd learnt that to submit was to be free.

Despite the familiarity of it, Severus was still filled with amazement to find himself standing in the middle of the room as Harry undressed him. He threw back his head and allowed the caress of fingers that started at his lips, drew down the line of bubble-like scars on his neck, made him shiver as they trailed from his sides to his hips, then traced along the back of his thighs as he felt Harry kneel in front of him.

He finally moved, unable not to, when two hands on his arse pulled him forward, a face buried in the hair at his groin, hot breath that made him bring his own hands up to fix his fingers in the head of hair, as he gave in and was the first to make a guttural and inarticulate sound from the back of his throat.

Sex between the two of them didn't change the facts of Severus' dilemma, but it served as a timely reminder that there was emotion and sensation that wasn't somehow wretchedly tethered to the more pitiful facts of his daily existence.

In the morning, Severus realized how few words had been exchanged between them. Last night, Harry had asked him, "What's your pleasure?" Severus hadn't replied with words, only a look that Harry read instantly.

The next spoken words came as Harry leant down to kiss Severus before he left for the day.

"Anything you need?" he asked, brushing the hair from Severus' face

Severus pushed himself up on his elbows. "Tell Minerva we're just about out of the Glenlivet," he said drowsily.

Harry smiled. "God forbid."

* * *

It wasn't often that Harry took lunch in the Great Hall; today was one of those days, as he'd found Severus at work in his lab, and had been dismissed with a distracted wave of the man's hand as he bent over a cauldron, along with a "Too busy—out." Harry'd smiled as he softly shut the door, but not before he'd countered with, "Stop for tea, then."

At the doors to the Hall, Harry paused, considered the half-empty High Table and the near din-level noise, then turned on his heel and made for the kitchens. It was a beautiful day, and the thought of nicking something portable and spending his lunch hour outdoors seemed like a fine idea.

Ten minutes later, Harry was armed with a box-lunch of cold chicken, fruit, and chocolate biscuits; he made his way through the gardens to the very edge where he knew there was a secluded nook between two rose arbors. Sequestered in the small space was a stone bench, shaded by rose vines that had yet to flower. He'd found the spot as a student, then remembered it when he'd returned to teach.

Glancing around the garden, he stepped between the trellises, then was brought up short by the sight of someone else occupying his obviously not-so-secret space.

Before he had a chance to retreat, the blond looked up at him. "Harry," he said amiably, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, then grinned when he saw the box Harry'd brought. "You too, eh?"

"Hullo, Ellis," Harry said. "Yeah, too nice to stay in." He took a step forward when Ellis motioned to the bench. "Thanks. Sure you don't mind?"

"Hey, this is great for a change. I'm usually stuck between Sybill and Pomona," he said sourly, making Harry laugh. "I'm not sure why that happens."

Harry opened his box and unfolded his packet of chicken, and said as he rooted in the bottom for his napkin, "Timing's everything." Taking a bite, he sat for a moment. Chewing thoughtfully, he swallowed once, then pointed with his drumstick, "Try getting there a bit earlier, and sit at the end."

Ellis shrugged. "Having my classes in the dungeons makes me late." He tossed a chicken bone over his shoulder, then flashed a smile at Harry. "Haven't seen much of you lately. Your NEWT-levels keeping you busy?"

Glad that his mouth was full, Harry took his time to construct the lie so that it wasn't completely a lie, which somehow made him feel better. "That, and some other responsibilities...." He left it at that, staring down at his chicken bone, then smiled as he flipped it in the same direction as Ellis'.

Ellis took a bite of his apple, studying Harry until his mouth was half-empty. "Responsibilities...I see." He seemed to hesitate, then added, "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Go ahead," Harry told him warily.

"You and Snape. You didn't have much to do with each other during the war, did you?"

Harry shook his head. "No, we weren't on the best of terms, that's true." He glanced sideways at the man. "Why?"

"I was wondering if you knew...where some of the NEWT-level reference texts had got to? The syllabus lists ten copies were purchased the year he was headmaster. I could use them, especially next year."

"I've no idea," Harry said, frowning. "I'll see what I can find out," he offered reluctantly. Reminding Severus that someone else was teaching his beloved subject was never one of his favorite conversations. "Minerva would be the one to ask," he advised him.

Now Ellis looked uncomfortable. "Well, I don't know. She hasn't said anything yet..." He didn't finish, seeming slightly embarrassed. Harry shot him a quizzical look as he polished his apple on his trouser leg, then realization struck.

"Oh, I see. She's not said anything yet, then?" When Ellis shook his head, Harry continued more sympathetically, "So, you're keen to stay on for a second year?"

"Can't you tell?" Ellis laughed. "She made it clear that it might not be a permanent post." He turned his chocolate biscuit from side to side, then threw it back in the box. "So, I'm not certain what's the proper way to do this. Do I ask, or do I wait until end of term and see what she says?" He smiled as Harry used the tip of his shoe to nudge his apple core underneath the trellis. "I'd really like to come back, but I want to make plans if I'm not, you know?" He set his box on the ground in between his feet, then rested his elbows on his legs, staring distractedly straight ahead.

Of course, Harry knew what the man meant. Ellis wanted to be prepared. It was only reasonable, something that anyone who had an eye to his future would want to know.

Harry took advantage of Ellis' daydreaming to study him. He was several years older than Harry, slightly shorter and thinner, with a shock of curly blond hair that made him the most popular Potions master in decades, per Minerva. He'd been schooled at Beauxbatons, so had little appreciation for the contrast between himself and the two previous professors.

Suddenly, Harry felt almost overcome with what he knew was irrational distaste for the man—this man who'd never done anything but be cordial to him, who could've been someone Harry would've enjoyed spending an evening with, so alike in age and temperament they were.

Even so, Harry couldn't help but remember who should be in those dungeons, come next September. He recalled that Ellis stood each day in the place where someone else should've been standing, and now...Ellis was actually thinking that this might be his future...when it was a future that rightfully belonged to someone else...someone who was only on a sabbatical of sorts, wasn't he, someone who would someday soon take up his robes and his books and tread the hallway to find his domain intact, as it should be.

"Ellis...you know the two professors before you? Well, neither of them left officially. If either wanted to return, then, well..." Harry couldn't in all good conscience say it.

Picking his box up from the ground, Ellis stood to his feet. "Yeah, I know. But I don't think Snape's in any shape to put in a reappearance, and Slughorn, well, I heard he wasn't very happy here—said four years was enough, he did."

"Yeah, but he said that after the first two years, and ended up starting back again when I did. He's unpredictable. You might not know until the last minute."

Ellis shot him a crooked smile, as he jerked his head in the direction of the exit between the arbors. "We'll see, I guess. Can't force it, much as I'd like to." He squinted in the direction of the castle. "Walk up to the staff meeting together?"

Harry looked at his watch with a start, tossing his biscuit to join the rest of their debris. "Shite. We're going to be late. And you know...." He grinned slyly at Ellis as they shoved through the rose bushes. "...being late means a seat next to you-know-who."

The meeting was already in progress by the time they arrived. Minerva gave them a reproachful look, which had Harry reminding himself that he wasn't a third-year, despite the way both of them hung their heads as they took two seats in the second row of chairs, Harry good-naturedly nudging Ellis to the innermost one next to Sybill.

The small room was stuffy, the atmosphere relaxed, and Harry soon found himself fighting off a post-lunch stupor. He tilted his head to the side and concentrated on Minerva's face, as if listening and lip-reading at the same time might help him to keep his eyes open. When this didn't seem to be do the trick, he shook his head slightly and rubbed his eyes, not missing the knowing look in Minerva's as she moved to the next item on the agenda without stopping to take a breath.

Harry casually let his eyes roam over the rest of the faculty, then had to fight back the smile when he saw he wasn't the only one having difficulty. Pomona had her chin propped up in her hands, staring straight ahead, while Rolanda's head was jerking forward at regular intervals, and Binns, slumped against the wall in the corner, was snoring softly. Only Madam Pince seemed alert and interested.

Minerva, well aware that she was losing her audience, picked up speed, leaping from testing schedules, to ordering supplies for the next term, to the recent spate of petty thefts of cutlery from the Great Hall. For a moment, Harry lost track of her words entirely...

He often wondered what staff meetings had been like when Dumbledore had held them; he tried to imagine what Severus' reaction to the irritating everyday details would've been... He thought he knew the man well enough to make an educated guess, and it made him smile inside. But then...

For not the first time, Harry had a moment of almost overwhelming outrage. After all Severus had suffered, all he'd done without any promise of validation or reward, wasn't he entitled to be sitting here? To finally lead a quiet life, free of allegiances, except to whomever he willingly chose? Perhaps he'd decide not to teach at all, but at the very least shouldn't he have the choice? Instead, there was someone else in his place...in his classroom...while Severus, miraculous though it was that he'd survived at all, was a prisoner in his own rooms.

Harry cast a sideways look at Ellis, and the sight of his expectant face as he listened to the headmistress made Harry's outrage fade to a vague sense of wrongness and loss. It wasn't the man's fault, but Ellis' admission that he wanted to stay infused Harry with a new urgency. He and Severus had to make some headway. They had to.

The sound of chairs scraping and the murmur of voices pulled Harry sharply back to the present. The meeting was breaking up, and most were making a beeline for the door. Harry was just beginning to plot how he could stay behind, and let Ellis slip in front of him, when Minerva solved it for him.

"Harry? Could you stay a moment?" Minerva asked as she gathered her notes together, looking at him questioningly.

"Absolutely," Harry replied, stepping through the rows of chairs, adding over his shoulder as he went, "Nice talking with you, Ellis."

Minerva raised an eyebrow at Harry and nodded to the retreating man, but said nothing until the door was closed.

Harry looked at her contritely. "Sorry about being late."

The headmistress waved a hand. "You had a reason, I'm certain," she said. When Harry didn't offer one, she added, "You and Ellis off somewhere together would be a welcome one."

Leaning against the front row of seats, Harry crossed his arms and sighed. "It would, eh?"

Sniffing as she pulled a book from her bag, Minerva held it out to him. "None of my affair, is it?" Not waiting for an answer, she continued, "He's your own age—no one else here is. I think it'd be good for both of you." She prodded him with the book until he took it. "Look at what your life has become," she said more gently. "'Phobia and Anxiety Workbook: A Cognitive Perspective'?"

Taking the book, Harry skimmed over the cover notes, then replied, "Thanks for picking it up. I don't know why Obscurus wouldn't just send it," he complained.

"A Muggle order—they wanted paid first—you can reimburse me when you have it."

"Thanks," Harry murmured, shoving the book deep into his bag, then looked up at the headmistress uncertainly. "Really, I'm fine. It's just...been a difficult winter."

The Scotswoman's eyes softened. "Aye, I know. But term's just about done, and you're taking a holiday, aren't you? I'm afraid I'll have to insist, this year," she said firmly.

"You and someone else I know," he muttered, but had to smile at the look of determination on her face. "I'll consider it, I promise." He picked up his bag and straightened, about to turn to make his way out of the row, when he remembered.

"Any chance you're going into Hogsmeade this weekend?"

"I always go, you know that. Something you need?"

"Well, more Glenlivet, so I was wondering if you could pick me up a few...bottles?" he asked, a bit fearfully. He knew he and Severus were probably consuming more than their fair share of the fine Highland scotch.

"Tsk tsk, out already, are we?" Minerva asked sarcastically, sticking her tongue in her cheek, arms akimbo.

"Yes, we're out again, Mum."

"Harry," she sighed. "Of course I'll get it, only because I know you're not drinking alone," she finished, scrutinizing him sadly.

Relieved, Harry leant over impulsively and kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Minerva, you're a pet. I'll have the money to you on Friday."

Failing to suppress a smile, Minerva gave him a stern look, then nodded toward the door. "Don't you have a class soon?" As Harry started for the door, she called after him, "And I expect to hear of holiday plans by the time OWLs are over."

"I remind you of a serial killer?" Severus repeated with a note of amusement in his voice.

Harry shifted to face him fully. "First, that isn't what I said, and second, I'm surprised you even know what one is." He reached out and lifted a stray hair from Severus' jumper, earning himself an irritated moue.

"England's history is littered with serial killers; they were particularly fond of dispatching their victims with poisons. Something any potions maker worth his salt would know. And what did you say, then, if I misheard you?" Severus demanded with his usual benign impatience.

"I said I was thinking of you and it made me think of a serial killer," Harry said a bit pedantically.

Severus gave him a blank look, then sneered, a sight which made Harry's heart glad. "You were thinking of me, which made you think of a serial killer. How is that not reminding you of a serial killer?"

Harry saw the difficulty, so made another attempt. "My fault. Let's see.... There's something about your situation that made me think of serial killers in general," he finished almost triumphantly.

"Oh, I feel so much better now," Severus mocked him, earning himself a smile from Harry. "Perhaps if you'd explain why such an epiphany occurred...."

Harry studied him for a long moment, then mentally slapped himself for starting them down this road. "You know what, it's not important, and now that I think of it? You're right, it doesn't make sense at all."

Severus moved so quickly that Harry had no time to react. His chin was grasped by a large rough hand that pulled and jerked him suddenly forward. Face to face, Harry realized that the man might be a bit down on his luck, but he still was and ever would remain the master of intimidation.

"Harry," he growled, "You're trying to handle me, something I'd've thought you'd learnt long ago is inadvisable." The black eyes were close enough to Harry's that their lashes were almost touching. "So, explain, if you will?"

Sighing as he leant his forehead forward, Harry took a moment before he pulled away, Snape willingly releasing him. "All right. But just so you know, it was one of those weird things I should've kept to myself," he protested, rubbing at his chin.

"So, next time, keep it to yourself. Come now, in what way do I remind you of a..." Severus stopped at the look on Harry's face. Rolling his eyes, he amended, "Why did thinking of my circumstances make you think of a serial killer? Honestly," he ended under his breath.

Harry bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "Do you know what it means when it comes to serial killers and organization and disorganization?"

"No, not a clue."

Warming to his subject, Harry pressed on. "Most times they're one or the other—the theory is that organized serial killers are more educated and intelligent, so they tend to plan things out, make fewer mistakes, are harder to catch. Disorganized ones are just the opposite—not as educated, don't plan, do things on the spur of the moment, are caught more easily because they make mistakes. Are you with me?"

Severus was looking at him incredulously. "I actually wish I weren't, but do go on. This is fascinating."

Harry laughed. "You asked, remember. Anyway, there's another reason that organization and disorganization factor in. When an organized killer begins to break his patterns, change his methods, start to leave clues, then they say he's becoming disorganized. When that happens, one of the first signs is that he kills more often, might even change the type of victim he usually picks," Harry paused.

His eyes narrowed, Severus lifted his chin as he stared down at him. "Hmmm, I take it you believe I'm becoming more disorganized?"

Wrinkling his brows together, Harry replied, "It's not so much disorganized as it is a change in pattern." He huffed in exasperation, scratched thoughtfully at his forehead, then looked at Severus again. "You want to know how I see it?"

Nodding soberly, Severus replied without sarcasm, "Of course I do. I value your insights," he said neutrally. "Within reason."

Smiling slightly, Harry decided to ignore how he might capitalize on that admission, and moved on. "Your first year of this doesn't count—I wasn't here to see it, so I don't know what you were like, except for what you've told me. But these past two years, I've seen a pattern to how you deal with this." He suddenly felt slightly anxious and wondered why, but then he knew—it was the change in pattern, not Severus' reaction that worried him.

"You go for weeks, even months, seeming almost content, working on things that keep you busy, maybe even make you feel, I don't know, worthwhile; then you go through these shorter periods where you're almost crazy—manic would be a good word—you know what I mean? All you want to do is work, or read, or talk non-stop, with barely any sleep, and if you do, you have nightmares. After that, we always end up in the same place, don't we? With you giving it a try again—throwing open the door and marching out. And every time—"

"You can stop there," Severus interrupted him, stretching out a hand to squeeze Harry's upper arm, his eyes forbidding. "I know very well where it ends," he said flatly.

Harry shook his head. "My point in all this is what I've noticed over the past six months..." Without looking away, he reached up and covered the hand on his arm with his own. "The cycle's getting shorter—less time of doing well, more runs of not being able to eat or sleep.... And you...you just up and decide to try on your own—no waiting for me anymore. Actually, you're scaring me a bit."

They stared at each other for a moment, and something wordlessly passed between them. Harry knew it was time to shut this topic of conversation down, but he had one last word he couldn't help but inject. "Something has to give, is all I'm saying."

Severus reached out and pulled Harry to him, so that they were half-sprawled on the settee. Harry lay with his cheek pressed against the man's chest, feeling the reassuring steady heartbeat through the scratchy wool of his jumper.

"Do you find me...dangerous?" Severus asked him. "Like your serial killer?"

Harry pinched hard through the jumper, making Severus startle. "You mean, as in 'Am I afraid of you?'" Not waiting for a reply, Harry snorted, "I'm not afraid of you—look at what I let you do to me in there," he scoffed as he nodded toward the bedchamber. "But you could be dangerous, I suppose. You're still Snape, you know."

He was rewarded by the sensation of a low rumble of laughter against his ear. Harry smiled.

"So, that's what keeps you coming back. The promise...the expectation...the thrill that I might possibly be dangerous?" Severus asked as he massaged the back of Harry's head.

"No, that would be the sex," Harry corrected him matter-of-factly.

"Hmmm, well as long as it's not pity," Severus murmured.

Harry completed this oft-exchanged couplet with, "Never."

He was drowsy, lulled by the lateness of the hour, the Glenlivet, and the comforting hand at his neck. He remembered the first time Severus had asked him....

"You're not staying here out of pity, are you?" Severus asked him from across the table.

"Never," Harry said emphatically.

"Then why?" Severus asked, seeming perplexed, his brows knit together.

"Out of concern," Harry clarified.

Severus didn't speak for a moment, then looked up cautiously. "I do not regret your presence here."

Harry squared his shoulders. "I should hope not."

"And I hope you do not feel compelled in any way to provide companionship."

There was no doubt at all in Harry's voice. "No compulsion at all."

Just before he fell asleep, Harry wondered when exactly it had happened. So many months ago, when he'd first moved into the dungeons, it'd been out of concern for the man's sanity. And now, he knew that his presence here was as essential to Severus as the air that he breathed.

Harry felt no compulsion or obligation, though. Love had crept in unawares and taken care of that problem.

Although Harry had his own rooms, he rarely spent any time there. His students knew that he could be found in his office for an hour before dinner, or otherwise by appointment. So, it turned out to be just serendipity that he'd been there at all when she Fire-called.

"Why not?" she asked. "You've not been here since Boxing Day, and only for the day at that. You're not staying there all summer like you did last year," Hermione said firmly, "because I've already talked to Minerva and she won't stand for it, and neither will I."

"Oh ho!" Harry snorted. "The two of you planning out my hols, are you?" He let out a laugh, then finished with a sigh as he leant back against his desk, his hands deep in his pockets. "I don’t know what I'll be doing yet." He stared at her thoughtfully. "I suppose I could get down there for a day or so." He held up his hand, which unsurprisingly failed to deter her.

"Absolutely not. You have two months, and at minimum, you're coming for a fortnight," she told him, then added, "Please, Harry."

"Hermione..." he began, his face softening at the concern in her eyes, "I don't think I can. I know you don't understand, but I really can't be away for that long."

"Harry," she hesitated, "it's just not good for you! I really do understand what you're up against, but you need to get away once in a while—spend some leisure time with people your own age," she pleaded.

He shrugged. "Why? I've told you before—I'm happy with the way things are; why's it so hard for you to believe that?"

She looked uncertain, then took a deep breath and replied, "I saw Berean Brace this week."

"Who's he?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Healer—he's the one who lent me the books you wanted—he asked if they'd helped at all?" she finished pointedly.

"They did help," Harry told her. "Not a cure, but definitely better," he added, hoping she'd miss his lack of enthusiasm.

He needn't have worried, for she already had something else on the tip of her tongue. "He told me to remind you that neither of those are disorders that lay people should diagnose and treat—professional help is best," she told him sagely.

"You told him it was me?" Harry asked incredulously

"No, of course not," she reassured him. "He just assumed it was."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "All right, then." He smiled as he stepped toward the Floo, and leant down so they were eye-level. "Look, things are definitely better. Once exams are over, I'll give you a call. Set something up, maybe."

Hermione let out a huff of air, as she threw up her hands. "All right. But don't think I'll forget—Minerva and I've decided that one way or another, you're having a holiday!" She blew him a kiss.

"I'll think about it," he called as the flames dissolved around her.

He slumped moodily into the chair by the unlit hearth, wondering to himself why she couldn't just let things go and take no for an answer. Because she's your friend, came the immediate reply.

It was true that he and Severus didn't have any social life per se. They didn't go out, of course, and as for having company come in... Severus had never had any real friends. And even if Severus and Harry had asked (which they hadn't), Harry's friends would've felt awkward and downright uncomfortable around a man whom they remembered as a persecutor, both as teacher and adversary.

Harry did harbor secret hope, though, that one day when Severus was restored to full health, they'd enjoy the company of the rest of the staff, Harry's friends, and the Wizarding world at large, whom Harry was sure would welcome this second hero with open arms.

One of the most reliable barometers of Severus' mental state, Harry had found, was how well the man was sleeping, or more to the point, how little he was. Of all the many texts they'd consulted, the general consensus seemed to be that the foundation of any successful course of treatment rested on a triad of diet, exercise and sleep.

Diet was easily dealt with, the only necessary modification having been the reduction of tea, a common triggering item. Exercise had taken a bit more ingenuity, but now they had a Muggle rowing machine, as well as free weights, along with a written-out schedule they both followed, not to mention the gratuitous benefits of frequent and enthusiastic sex.

In spite of their very best efforts to court fatigue, Severus increasingly found sleep elusive. So, added to that usual triad was the murkier world of herbs and 'alternative' medical therapies—adjusted magically, of course, which meant potions.

Used sparingly and only intermittently at first, they were now a part of Severus' daily regimen: Calming and Sleeping Draughts, as well as Pepperup Potion on occasion, and Well-Ease and Wit-Sharpening Solution, and a few other substances that Severus requested but refused to talk about. Oddly enough, it was Severus, not Harry, who was most concerned with the reality of addiction.

"You should take it," Harry urged, wrapping his arms around Severus' waist from behind, planting his chin on his shoulder so that they stared at each other's reflection in the mirror.

Severus looked down at the potion phial in his hand, then set it to the side of the basin. Capturing Harry's hands, he unwound them as he turned to face him. "I already did once, just before bed," he said. "Another dose now will leave me hung-over." He loosely draped his arms atop Harry's shoulders, then leant in so their foreheads were pressed together. "I'm so tired," he sighed.

Harry marveled, not for the first time, that of the two of them, he had more than an average chance of speaking the voice of reason lately. "Take another dose. So you have a bit of a lie-in—what's the harm? When you consider what you'll be like if you don't," he murmured as he pulled away and ducked his head to catch Severus' eyes.

"I suppose you're right," Severus said as he turned back to the basin. Without looking at Harry in the mirror, he picked up the phial and downed it in a single motion.

Back in bed, they lay on their sides, facing each other, waiting for the potion to take effect.

"We do what we need to do—day by day—to get you through this," Harry said softly.

Staring at him, Severus grimaced. "So we've agreed. But still...I'm concerned. I'm taking far too much of everything—almost double..." He shook his head. "After all the lectures I've given in the past, on the dangers of excess...the perils of withdrawal." He shuddered, making Harry move closer.

"Severus, look at me," Harry said firmly, causing the man to open his eyes. "Just this one thing, then you're going to sleep. All right?"

"All right, keep it short, I'm about to nod off," Severus told him, his lips twitching slightly.

"At this point, you can either be addicted—which we'll deal with when we have to, or you can be insane—which you will be if you're so anxious that you can't work or sleep. Since I'm the one who'll suffer the most," he smiled as Severus snorted, "I'm voting for addicted. Now," he commanded, "go to sleep. I'll stop back at nine and wake you."

Severus' eyes closed and stayed that way as Harry watched him for a moment, then just as he was ready to roll to his side, Severus spoke.

"Isn't it ironic—practically held captive in my own rooms, lured into sexual service, force-fed addictive potions—all by the most unlikely thorn in my side...you." His voice slurred on the last word, his breath seemed to hitch in a pause, then became slow and even.

Harry fought the sudden swell of emotion—affection, despair, determination and protectiveness.

He'd faced Voldemort and won, bloody hell! Severus had managed to survive him as well.

Harry was damned if he'd concede victory to an enemy that was largely nameless and faceless. Hell would freeze over first, he swore for not the first time.

* * *

It might've been a nameless and faceless foe, but it was nevertheless one that Severus had to face every morning, from that very first moment when awareness stole over his consciousness like the chill of a Dementor.

Choose ye this day....

Every morning he faced the same two choices: would he get out of bed, and if he did, what sort of day would he make?

On those occasions when he decided that he'd rather not and say that he had—even managing to get so far as to burrow into the blankets with his pillow over his head—he was seldom permitted to remain that way. No, it was a testament to how powerful one Harry Potter had become in the dungeon domains, that he was able to talk Severus out of his cocoon, often step-by-literal-step, until he found himself standing in the loo, then sitting at the table, tea cup in his hand, slightly bewildered that his plan to finally throw in the towel had once again been thwarted.

Thwarted by a green-eyed and beseeching look...

Coaxed by an insistent yet empathetic—never pitying—voice of reason...

Prodded gently by familiar hands, poked in places that would yield maximum response....

Reasoned with...entreated...guided...affirmed...praised for his effort.

Of course, he was grateful, once he'd had his breakfast, and was engaged in his day. It would occur to him, well after the fact, sometimes making him pause at the thought, that he wouldn't have lasted much longer without Harry. Fate had seen fit to throw the man into his life at the most opportune moment.

Severus knew, too, that although Harry could come and go where Severus could not, Harry had demons of his own, ones that made him a loner, ones that kept him coming to the dungeons for what he needed, ones that no one but Severus seemed to have the power to exorcise or quiet.

Of course, this see-saw of neediness was no doubt unevenly weighted, but Severus took comfort in the fact that it wasn't just his predicament alone that fueled their relationship.

On one particular morning, Severus had been thusly jettisoned from his bed, and stood in front of the mirror, fingering the set of scars on the side of his neck. They were white, almost pearlescent, slightly raised, smooth and hard beneath his fingertips. As he did each and every time he thought of it, he remembered how incredibly fortunate he'd been to survive at all.

But for his own foresight concerning Nagini, he'd've surely been dead. It had taken him a long while to recover, but even then, counting how he'd cheated Death once again, he'd known that perhaps the largest hurdle of his life lay on the horizon.

This hurdle, this monumental, gargantuan behemoth...

This enigmatic, indecipherable, perplexing paradox...

This fact of his existence, which kept him imprisoned yet still strangely free, had just about done him in...when Harry'd presented himself on Severus' threshold.

Sometimes when Severus reminisced over how it'd happened, he flushed at how desperate he'd been, how quickly they'd moved along.

It was pathetically true that by the time Harry'd come to stay for good, Severus had been quietly resigned. He smiled appreciatively as he remembered something a wise Muggle had once said: What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.

How awkward they'd been, the two of them: starting with quiet visits and stilted conversation in an evening; then sharing a casual dinner where they'd been more relaxed; Harry dropping in for lunch unannounced, but shortly thereafter, expected; spending entire evenings together, from Harry's last class until time to retire.

And all the while, Severus had watched Harry's indecision grow, his reluctance to leave increasing, until the night when he just simply hadn't. He could still remember that very first time, when relief had felt so like pleasure...

Harry Flooed in at dinnertime, stepping from the fireplace with a large bag that Severus had never seen before. He looked slightly embarrassed as Severus pointed to the ugly black tubular thing with a strap on either end.

"What's this?" Severus asked him.

Throwing the bag to the side, Harry pushed his hands into his pockets, his cheeks slightly pink as he looked to Severus on the settee. "Well, if you don't mind...I thought that since I've been staying so late...well, it makes sense to me to just...stay here," he finished softly, seemingly horrified by his own words, given the startled expression on his face, as if he could scarcely believe he'd said them.

"Stay here?" Severus repeated, not certain he'd heard him correctly.

Nodding, Harry replied, "I'm spending all my free time here anyway...."

"You can Floo to your rooms," Severus protested, "and sleep much better in your own bed. Here you'd have to sleep on the settee," he concluded uncertainly, as his mind began to catch up, as he realized the implications of the request....

"I know, but then I'd be there...and you'd be here," Harry said slowly.

Severus knew he had to make at least a token gesture of resistance. "That's why they're your rooms and these are mine."

Harry stared at him for a moment, his cheeks flushing to crimson. Despite the stakes, Severus found himself momentarily distracted—no, entranced, as he wondered why. But as Harry moved to pick up his bag and stepped to the Floo, Severus knew that the time for dissembling was past. Harry couldn't know, but he'd called Severus' bluff and won.

"No. Stay," he said, the words feeling strange in his mouth as he stood to his feet.

Turning back, Harry still held the bag. "Listen, I thought we might, oh, I don't know...help one another out."

Severus knew this was Harry stretching the truth to help Severus save his pride. Although there would come a time when he'd call Harry on it, that night he'd only nodded, and said again, "Stay."

From the very first time he'd let Harry into his rooms, Severus had known new hope. Oh, he'd tried not to—he was too practical to have reacted any other way. In the two years since then, there'd been disappointments aplenty, but Severus credited Harry and his damnable optimism for his refusal to despair. Harry met the challenge head-on, day by day, in battles comprised of only a look, to ones filled with words of heated discussion. Harry didn't always win the battle, but to date, he'd won the war. Any despair that Severus had ever entertained was swiftly dealt with.

Early on, Harry had called Severus to task for having mixed up his days and nights, and not having any particular schedule. He'd awakened Severus by sitting on the edge of the bed and talking, refusing to leave, tugging gently on Severus' hair each time his eyes closed in an attempt to drift off again. Irritated, Severus had brushed his hand away.

"You're being childish," Severus mumbled, trying to roll away from him.

Harry prevented him, though, catching Severus shoulder as he tried to turn and pushing him firmly down again. "I'm being childish? Really?"

When Severus only glared at him, Harry shrugged, but didn't release him. "Let me see...I got up at seven, had breakfast in the Great Hall, taught two double Charms, and now am missing my lunch because a valued colleague refuses to be reasonable and get out of bed at noon. Childish, huh?" he asked again.

Severus sighed and pushed his hair from his face. "This is different and you know it. No one gives a rat's arse whether I'm up at seven or noon, or never, for that matter." Harry's steady gaze, sober and relentless, made Severus flush. "You don't count, precisely."

"And why is that?" Harry demanded.

Flustered, Severus lifted Harry's hand from his shoulder and pushed himself up against the headboard. "Because you know my circumstances," he said dryly, "and I defy you to give me one good reason why it should matter." He flinched involuntarily as Harry leant in closer, but didn't touch him this time.

"Oh, I don't know... How about the fact that I believe one day you're going to have your life back? You're going to get up one morning, and that will be the day you walk out of here. I wonder, though, if you'll miss your chance...because you slept the day away, or because you were too weak to try when it counted...too depressed to give a damn anymore?" His features hardened.

"That's why you should get up...why you should do everything you can to take care of yourself, because I know that day's coming." He leant in a little further and kissed Severus gently, then pulled away. "When it does, I think you'll care quite a bit. Don't lose sight of the finish line, Severus. I certainly haven't."

Severus had to look away. "And if there isn't one? A finish line?" A hand on his chin guided his face so that he had to look at Harry.

"There is one. I can't say how I know, but I do. You'll have to trust me," Harry said solemnly. He seemed on the verge of saying something, hesitated, then at the look of question on Severus' face, added, "This isn't the first time I've felt so sure about something I can't explain; it's happened a time or two before."

Severus, who had lived a life of trusting no one, found that for some inexplicable reason, he believed Harry. Not just a certitude that the man meant well, but that his words were prophetic, and that one day, whether sooner or later, he'd throw the door open and stride out to meet the world again. Harry's point, of course, was that Severus should do it with his shoulders thrown back, with the blush of health on his cheeks, sound in mind and spirit. Inspired, and humbled, as he always was by Harry's belief in him, Severus motioned him away with his hand.

"I'm up. Don't you have something you should be doing?" Severus asked as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Harry smiled. "Yeah, I do. You want lunch?"

Once hope had put in an appearance, Severus discovered that it wasn't long before other familiar pleasures, preoccupations and urges reared their ugly heads, clamoring for their rightful place. It'd taken desire quite a bit longer to appear, but not, Severus had realized with chagrin, as long as it probably should have: four months, to be exact.

He knew he'd remember that singular moment for the rest of his life, not that he'd ever confess this to Harry. The occasion and what sparked it had proven that Severus was well on the way to being himself once again. He'd later despised himself, but not seriously, for having fallen prey to that age-old fomenter of passion and one-night stands—jealousy.

"What of your friends?" Severus had eventually thought to ask him on that evening, two months into Harry's second year of teaching, but only four months into their shared quarters.

Harry looked puzzled. "My friends?"

"Yes, your friends, you had them at school, I recall. Surely you have some now?" Severus asked, setting his book aside, watching Harry's face.

"Well, yeah, I told you about Ron and Hermione." He squinted at Severus as he set his glass down. "You mean here? Now?"

"Yes, now. I'm only asking because I'm concerned. You're very young—you should get out...see your friends," Severus said somewhat stiffly.

"Why?" Harry asked, seeming slightly scandalized. "Are you giving me social advice?" he asked, then when Severus only tapped his finger thoughtfully against the arm of the chair and waited, Harry sat back with a grin. "You mean a friend," he stressed with amusement.

Severus shrugged. "I suppose so. A companion."

Harry looked at him pointedly. "I have one," he answered.

Waving a hand, Severus dismissed the idea. "Not myself. Someone your own age. Someone with similar interests, someone who interacts with the same world as you, someone--"

"Nelson," Harry interrupted.

Closing his mouth suddenly, Severus sat still for a moment, wondering why he was surprised. "Nelson?" he asked, incredulous. "The Muggle Studies teacher?"

"He's the one," Harry told him, rather nonchalantly, Severus thought. "We've been friends from the beginning—we both started last year," he added casually as he leant forward in his chair, watching Severus closely.

Severus glanced to the side as he flicked a microscopic speck of something from his sleeve. "That's good, then." He looked up at Harry. "I'm only asking...because of late, you're spending far too much time here."

"I am?" Harry asked blankly. "I mean, I know I'm here...part of staying here means I'll be here...most of the time. But I didn't realize...I mean, I thought you...didn't mind..." He didn't finish, but looked strangely at Severus.

"I do not mind at all. I'm only thinking of your well-being," Severus was quick to say, suddenly confused. Why had he even opened the subject, when it was difficult to ignore that he anticipated Harry's presence each and every day? And even more disturbing, why had the mention of the Muggle Studies teacher irritated Severus and made his heart pound?

Harry had been watching while Severus thought. "It's only natural, for a young man my age..."

Severus stared at him.

"...to have needs." Harry tilted his head to the side as he crossed his ankle on his knee. "Sexual ones," he clarified, straight-faced.

Impressed that Harry didn't seem in the least bit embarrassed, Severus decided to try to provoke him. "Precisely. And since it's Nelson, I take it you prefer men?" he asked archly, flipping his hand to Summon the treasured bottle of Glenlivet that Harry'd brought him just a week ago.

Harry didn't even blush. "Yeah, I do. Prefer men, that is," he smiled, then shook his head when Severus pointed to the pouring bottle. "As do you," Harry reminded him.

Severus had divulged this bit of information in one of their many 'confessional' conversations—nights of dialogue where they'd cleared the air, swept the past aside, and had painfully undertaken a mutual discovery of one another's psyches.

"So I do," Severus agreed softly. "You're well-suited to one another, then?" He took too large of a gulp of the scotch and had to hold back the gasp at the burn in his throat. Eyes watering, Severus mumbled, "Well, I'm glad one of us is...satisfied."

Looking suspiciously like he was trying not to smile, Harry answered, "Severus? Nelson and I... He's who Hermione thinks I'm seeing. That's why I spend some time with him," he finished, seemingly contrite.

"Why?" Severus repeated, perplexed.

"So she'll lay off doing exactly what you're doing. Trying to match me up with someone."

Severus snorted. "I was not trying to match you up with someone."

"Good," Harry shot back, "because I'm a big boy."

Unable to help himself, Severus sneered, "So you are."

"Glad you see it that way," Harry said as he put both feet on the floor and leant forward, his elbows on his knees, "You know, I've recently spent a great deal of time with someone who interests me...so far as satisfaction is concerned."

Bloody. Fucking. Hell. Severus choked on the last of the scotch. "You have, have you?"

Harry didn't smile. "I have. Only...I'm wondering, you see, if the interest is mutual...or if he just might be desperate."

Severus looked wistfully at his empty glass, then sighed as he sat back, his hands on his knees. Studying the man across from him, he marveled that Harry had neither blushed, nor developed a nervous tic in his face, nor stuttered even once. Severus, however, had to admit that he was tempted to exhibit all three. Mustering the best of his sang-froid, he murmured, "I'd say it's a combination of both."

Although it didn't seem strange at the time, Severus would later think that it was—that after such implicit admissions on both their parts, it had taken nearly a month.

It wasn't because Severus was anxious or Harry awkward. It wasn't because either of them had scruples or fears or insecurities.

No, it was because they were both waiting for something...something that neither could name but would know the moment it appeared or happened...or the planets aligned themselves, Severus had at one point thought wryly to himself.

When it finally did happen, Harry was matter-of-fact, and Severus unsurprised. It was a miracle that it'd turned out as well as it had.

They'd spent the evening talking about a book that Harry'd brought for Severus earlier that week. When the discussion came to a close, Harry reached out to take the book, so that their fingers touched, just the tips of them...and they both stopped and didn't move, their hands frozen, both gripping the book, as if it were a lifeline between them. More telling was that neither of them had startled or pulled away.

Severus felt the tips of his fingers tingling—odd, that, as they'd touched casually before—though never intentionally, of course. He stared at them for a moment, then slowly looked up to find Harry staring back at him, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide with something akin to wonder.

Attempting to swallow, Severus found that his mouth had gone dry. Neither of them spoke, yet still the book remained where it was, as if there were an unspoken agreement to leave it there, so that there'd be no need to pull away...

The tingling became heat, and Severus knew that he was about to flush, when Harry was the first to move. Covering Severus' hand with his own for a brief moment, he then removed it, taking the book from Severus' grasp.

The heat drained from his fingers, but the tingling remained. Severus gently clenched and unclenched his hand several times, then straightened the cuff of his sleeve as he sat back, watching Harry's face.

When Harry finally looked up and smiled enigmatically, Severus felt a streak of arousal as their eyes met. Harry nodded his head, as if he somehow knew what Severus had felt...and was confirming that he'd felt it as well.

They spent the rest of the evening uneventfully, but when it was time for bed, there was no pretence.

Instead of staying to transfigure the settee into a bed, Harry took Severus' outstretched hand without comment and followed him down the narrow hallway. Stopping in the doorway of the bedchamber, Severus finally spoke.

"I've been thinking about this..."

"Severus, no more thinking, just doing," Harry said and then kissed him.

Severus sat at the table, mulling to himself that he just might be losing his sense of smell. There were roses in a vase just a foot away, but try as he might, all he could detect was a faint odor of dittany, and the slightly pleasant scent of whatever it was that Harry brought for him to wash his hair.

"Severus?" He heard the puzzled voice behind him. Not turning, he stirred his tea.

"Good morning," Severus said amiably, watching out of the corner of his eye as Harry took his seat.

Narrowing his eyes as he Summoned the pot, Harry commented, "You're up—showered, shaved, and already done eating."

"Hmm, yes, all of those," Severus agreed as he pushed his parchment to the side, then looked up inquisitively.

Harry smiled as he snagged two slices of toast from the platter. Dipping his spoon into the marmalade, he sighed. "How long have you been up?"

"Long enough to shower, shave and finish breakfast," Severus shot back, then pursed his lips. "Since five," he added blandly, then rolled his eyes when Harry shook his head, a disgusted look on his face.

"You regularly lied to Voldemort?" Harry asked pointedly as he spread the marmalade, using a finger to catch a dollop about to drip to the table.

Severus watched, slightly contemptuous, as Harry made a show of sucking his finger clean. "You're pitiful," he admonished lightly.

Harry ignored him to continue, "I'm only asking because you're pants at it." He raised an eyebrow. "Lying to me. Care to try again?"

Shrugging, Severus stacked his saucer and cup on his plate. "Just after four."

Frowning as he shook his head, Harry said, "We were still awake at one." He didn't hide his concern. "Three hours..."

"I'm fine," Severus said shortly. "A bit disorganized, but otherwise perfectly fine," he taunted. "Not feeling the least bit dangerous."

"Ha. Ha," Harry said. "Very funny. You're going to be obnoxious with that, aren't you?"

"We'll do our best." Severus stood and pushed his chair in, then picked up the parchment, using it to gesture at Harry. "I've come across the name of a book that I think we should try to find." He stopped at the end of the table and held it out to Harry.

Wiping his hands, Harry took it and read the title aloud. "Rites and Counter-curses: the Complete Transcribed Addenda of Jacob the Elder's Tabulae Defixiones." He looked up at Severus. "Would there be a copy in the library, or Minerva's office?"

"Definitely not at Hogwarts," Severus confirmed. "As it's very dark magic, Albus wouldn't have kept a copy here. I've no idea what might've become of his other books—I doubt very much that he would've had this one, in any case. It's obscure and specifically focused." He studied Harry for a moment, then reached for the parchment. "If you don't feel comfortable, it's perfectly all right..."

Harry pulled the parchment out of reach. "You really think this might have something in it?"

Severus pulled out the chair adjacent to Harry's and sat again. Choosing his words carefully, he began, "Sometimes I'm afraid that you lose sight of what's at the heart of the matter."

"No, that's not true," Harry protested. "I realize it's a magical problem."

"Which will require a magical solution," Severus stated. "All these fixes for anxiety and agoraphobia are only palliative, you realize that?" He reached across and took Harry's half-empty cup, then helped himself to the rest of it. "We've exhausted the considerable resources at our disposal, and come up empty-handed—and that's saying quite a bit, given our combined skills, and my knowledge of the Dark Arts."

"If it is Dark Arts," Harry murmured, toying with his spoon. "We don't know that. And given our combined skills, I still don't think it likely. We've tried every known revelatory spell, potion, you name it, and nothing." He shot Severus a challenging look. "You really believe this—that there's a magical bullet that will put you to rights?"

"I don't know if it will be that simple," Severus admitted as he looked down at his hands. "But I do believe that the origin of my symptoms must be magical—so to ignore that and focus only on how I feel would be disastrous—the postponement of a cure, treating symptoms that are getting worse and more frequent?" He shook his head, then looked up at Harry. "It's a stab in the dark, but it's all that I have right now. I must consider this possibility. If I don't, and it turns out to be dark, it could end badly for both of us," he concluded quietly.

Harry slid the parchment back to the space in between them. "Where would I find this? It's not something I can buy, I know, and Hermione won't have access to something this dark. I can try the last broker I used, but frankly, he was a bit loony."

Severus pushed the parchment to the side and placed his hand over Harry's. "It can't be bought at all. I think we'll have to call in a favor," he said cryptically.

Turning his hand so that he held Severus', Harry smiled wryly. "That sounds ominous."

Severus said simply, "A Death Eater's private collection." He wouldn't release Harry's hand when he tried to pull away. They stared at each other for a long moment, then before Harry could ask, Severus gave him the one-word answer.

"Malfoy."

He was impressed when Harry's face remained expressionless. Harry took in an audible breath, then stated, "Draco."

Nodding, Severus replied, "Yes. And of course, I'd advise that you think of a plausible reason for why you want it."

"Of course," Harry answered. "Don’t worry, I'll think of something. But be prepared, he may not give it to me, even if he has it. No love lost there," he finished dryly.

"No, certainly not, but he owes you. And that will tip the balance."

"Well, I won't bring that up," Harry said softly, looking away.

"You won't need to," Severus replied. "But I do suggest that you give an unsolicited reassurance that you have no intention of entrapping him for having such a thing. Once you do, he'll surrender it if he has it."

"Great. The first time I talk to him in years, and it's to ask him to do something illegal. Just perfect," Harry muttered.

Despite his irritable response at breakfast, Severus knew he wasn't 'fine.' He worked through the morning, brewing and reading during the idle moments, all the while feeling the anxiety ratchet up, degree by degree, so that by lunchtime, it was all he could do to sit in his chair, rigid, the book in his lap, waiting...waiting.

Most of the time, he didn't need a reason to be anxious, but today, the thought of the conversation they'd had the night before, after sex, no less, resurfaced again and again, until just the thought of it had him almost paralyzed...

"What will happen if we succeed?" Severus asked Harry.

Harry didn't hesitate, but made a face as he replied, "You mean when we succeed."

"Yes," Severus sighed, "of course, that's what I meant."

Now Harry did take a moment to think. "I imagine you'll come and go as you please. You can stay and teach, or leave, if you like, peruse the new books in the shops, take a holiday—"

"Harry."

Harry stopped, wrinkling his brow as he studied Severus' face. "Ah. You mean...where will I be in all of that?"

"Yes," Severus said, trying to keep his voice disinterested, and failing that, casual at least.

After a moment of thought, Harry said slowly, "Severus...everything will be so different for you then. So, I'll understand if you don't want...I mean, if you want me to..."

Severus' eyes widened. "Don't you dare say it," he said in a low voice.

Harry stared at him for a moment, then let out a shaky laugh. "All right. That's settled, then."

Thus reassured, Severus was able to fall off to sleep.

At the sound of the Floo, Severus felt a wave of warmth wash over him, then a flush in his face, as his body broke out in a sweat and his hands trembled slightly as he set the book on the settee and stood.

Harry tilted his head to the side. "What's wrong?" he asked, taking a step forward.

Severus jerked his head toward the table. "Nothing. I...I'm preoccupied, is all."

Harry ignored the attempt to divert him with lunch, and presumed to reach out with both arms and pull Severus in, without so much as a 'May I?'

Giving in, mostly because he so pathetically needed to, Severus circled Harry's waist with his arms, then rested his face in the crook of Harry's neck. So fragile, his world, so disgustingly needy; he'd been on the brink of bursting into a thousand tiny pieces, and all it'd taken to bring him back to himself had been...this. An embrace, the smell of new-mown grass in hair, a damp breath at his ear... He took a step back and nodded.

"How are the OWLs proceeding?"

"Not a hitch, except for a Hufflepuff being late—seems she managed to lock herself in her wardrobe," Harry grinned. "You'll still help me with the marking?"

"I'm your captive victim, so it seems," Severus said dryly.

"Fantastic," Harry said as they sat down to lunch. "We can mark tonight and tomorrow night. Finish them up on the weekend. I'm off to Hogsmeade in the afternoon—I'm cooking you dinner tomorrow. Think about what you'd like to have."

Severus shot him a baleful look. "Escargots and shallots."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Figures. You did hear me say 'Hogsmeade,' didn't you?"

"Oh, in that case, just snails and onions," Severus said with a small smile.

The evening passed uneventfully as they marked OWLs, Severus feeling comforted by the scratch of quill on parchment, secure in knowing the right answers about something for once. The two of them shared some snide comments that led to Harry holding his sides, shaking with laughter as Severus entertained him with a detailed commentary on foibles of past students and staff.

The levity evaporated, though, when Harry reminded Severus of their conversation that morning.

"I've owled Malfoy about seeing him on Saturday—he's owled back," Harry said. "Around nine at his London flat."

Severus nodded thoughtfully. "I’m surprised he replied so quickly. You're going?"

Harry nodded. "I'll leave early and be back early. That way we'll have the evening."

Picking and choosing his words carefully, Severus suggested, "While you're in the vicinity, why don’t you stop in and see your friends? Even stay for the night. It's been almost six months since you've seen them."

Harry looked doubtful. '"I don’t know. I don't really like to be away at night."

"This will be a trial run for your summer holiday—see if you can do without me overnight," Severus said, straight-faced.

Not taking the bait, Harry smiled. "Not sure I could do it. I'm so used to you sleeping on both sides of the bed."

The next day was worse than the preceding one, Severus concluded grimly, as he sat and distractedly twirled his spoon while his soup got cold. He'd slept even less than the night before, and his dreams had been dark and downright bizarre, causing him to startle awake in a sweat more than once.

He'd kept moodily silent during lunch, answering Harry in monosyllables, until the man had given up and let him be. Just before he Flooed out for class, Harry squeezed Severus' shoulder and reminded him he was making dinner. He then foolishly offered Severus a word of advice.

"Look, it's a bad day, I can tell...so maybe if you try meditating—you know, that last book we read, by what's his name? The cognitive therapy stuff?" Harry asked gently.

Severus let his spoon clatter in the bowl, then swiveled in his chair to pin Harry with a thunderous look. "His name is Anders, thank you for reminding me. Now, go. To. Class."

In a rare display of immaturity, Harry stuck out his tongue, then stepped into the fireplace, timing the downward pitch of the powder to ensure he had the last word. "Meditate! Harry Potter's rooms!"

Severus stared at the spot where Harry'd been, then smiled outright as he turned back to Summon the teapot, suddenly feeling slightly more optimistic. "Nag," he muttered.

By three, the brief flare of optimism a memory, Severus had no choice but to obey Harry. Well, to take Harry's suggestion to heart, he preferred to think.

Distracted, he'd ruined a potion, and botched his notes when he'd overturned his inkpot. In frustration, he fled his lab, changed from his work robes, then defiantly poured himself a fingerbreadth of scotch, before settling in his favorite armchair.

He creased open the text that Harry'd suggested, then let out a weary sigh as he found his place.

"Hmmm," he murmured aloud, "what is my negative triangle?" He closed his eyes and thought, I will never leave this room...I'm doomed...Harry will abandon me.

Naming it definitely wasn't the problem, he thought bitterly. Knowing it wasn't the bloody problem either. In fact, he thought as he cast a bleary eye over the stack of books on the table beside him, knowing what to call it, how to name his fears, Anders' bloody fucking triangle, only seemed to compound his anxiety and frustration on days like today.

He stared at the book in his hands, then looked to the stack again. "Holistic Approach to Anxiety, Psychophysiology of Agoraphobic Reaction Disorder, Peace Through Meditation and Massage, Demolishing the Dragons Within, Taking Control: Disarming Your Anxiety Triggers. God save me," he muttered as he traced his finger along their spines. He'd read all of them, and while a few of them had proven useful, here he was, two years later, with little to show for his and Harry's efforts.

In an unpremeditated moment of fury, he knocked the stack of books from the table with a sweep of his hand. Throwing his glass to the side, he stood and kicked violently at the scattered volumes on the floor, aiming for the fireplace, whipping up the dusty ashes as several of them landed in the grate proper, while a few others ended up dispersed elsewhere about the room. Breathing heavily, Severus leant against the mantel, staring morosely at the chalk-like dust on his shoes.

For once, this wasn't just nameless anxiety. He knew the root of it—it wasn't that Harry would be going to London the next day. This fear that coiled tightly in his chest was his almost certainty that the day was coming very soon when Harry would leave and never return. He'd entertained the likelihood from the very first day that Harry'd darkened his doors to stay for good. And now...now it was no longer a fear, but a monster that lurked close by, standing in the shadows, biding its inevitable time, waiting to strike when Severus was most vulnerable.

Severus wasn't afraid of being left alone overnight. And despite that third leg of his 'negative triangle', he had no real fears that Harry would intentionally abandon him. No, what terrified him most was that something might happen to Harry. And as ludicrous a thought as it was, given their respective positions, Severus would be powerless to help him, were he ever in trouble.

Although he'd already taken a double dose that day, not to mention a splash of scotch, Severus downed an additional dram of Calming Draught, then lay on his side on the settee, waiting while the relief and warmth gradually seeped into him, relaxing his limbs and evening out his breaths.

How ironic, he thought on the verge of sleep, all those years of begrudgingly protecting him, and now...now that I'd do it gladly, I can't. Ah well, something else to learn to let go of....

Severus was pleasantly intoxicated. Between the two of them, they'd put away an entire liter of passable table wine with Harry's coq au vin, and were now well into a bottle of even better vintage. Harry had no 'wine sense,' of course, and had purchased from the list of 'acceptables' that Severus had provided.

There was a fire in the hearth, and they sat facing each other in opposite armchairs, their socks off and their feet propped in each other's lap.

"There's dessert," Harry told Severus, nodding toward the table.

Severus shook his head. "Thank you, no. I'm about to burst at the seams." He studied Harry for a moment. "I was touched—that you cooked for me," he said softly.

Harry looked startled, then flushed. "Oh. I thought maybe you were tired of kitchen food. And I like the whole process, cooking, doing it from start to finish." He paused as he tipped his goblet to drain it. Shooting Severus a curious look as he Summoned the bottle, he asked, "Can you cook?"

Snorting, Severus answered, "I'm a potions master. Of course I can cook."

"So, it's something you like to do."

"I didn't say that. After spending all day bending over cauldrons and sniffing fumes, cooking is the last thing I'd want to do," Severus corrected him.

"Oh, makes sense." Harry seemed to repress a smile. "Any home-cooked food will have to come from me, then. I only teach all day, which doesn't count."

Severus nudged Harry with his foot. "Your choice—cooking was your idea, if you'll recall."

Harry smiled widely. "So it was. Worth it, though. You were touched," he teased, returning the nudge, then jumped suddenly when Severus caught his toes and twisted them none too gently.

Severus smiled into his glass, then released the toes but kept hold of Harry's foot. They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, Severus basking in the absence of even the tiniest bit of apprehensiveness, lulled to an almost sense of well-being by the contents of his stomach and the lighthearted moment.

"I was thinking..." Harry began, making Severus give the predictable roll of his eyes.

"Every time you begin a sentence that way, I experience an almost uncontrollable urge," Severus replied.

"Ha ha, urge to what?" Harry smiled.

"It varies: sometimes to flee, other times to merely tune you out," Severus quipped lightly, then winced when Harry returned the favor of squeezing his foot.

"You won't run, I'm fairly sure," Harry said slowly, "and this concerns you, so tuning me out's not a good tactic."

"What, then?" Severus asked distractedly, as he slipped his index finger between two of Harry's toes, making him try to withdraw his foot, but without success.

"I'm still leaving early in the morning, but I've talked to Hermione. She and Ron'll meet me just for lunch, then I'm coming back. I think that'll work out best."

Severus sat up straighter, and released Harry's foot as he frowned. "She didn't press you to stay the night?" he asked directly, and was rewarded by the telltale flash of chagrin in the eyes of the Boy Who Could Not Lie To Save His Soul.

"Well, she did ask, but they've got plans for Sunday later in the day, and really, Severus, I'd like to be back by late Saturday afternoon. I've things to do," he protested.

"What do you have to do?" Severus asked in a low voice, not even trying to hide his scorn.

Harry shrugged. "There're OWLs and NEWTs to mark—we put a dent in them last night, but there's still the better part of them to do."

"Pshaw," Severus said dismissively. "Minerva is helping with your NEWTs, and I with your OWLs, and you have a week, for pity's sake. You're staying the night."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"No."

"Harry," Severus summoned his ability to menace, "when I throw you out in the morning, consider yourself persona non grata until supper on Sunday."

Harry pulled his feet from Severus' chair, then sat forward as he frowned. "I'll be worried sick."

"All the more reason for you to go," Severus said, sneering slightly.

"That doesn't make sense at all."

Placing his own feet on the floor then, Severus leant forward too. "These are my rooms. I may have a problem leaving them, but I'm perfectly capable of putting you out."

"Severus," Harry half-pleaded, stretching out a hand. "Listen to me..."

Ignoring Harry's hand, Severus continued, "I've spent years in these dungeons without someone checking in on me several times a day, just so you know."

"I don't doubt it," Harry said soberly.

"I'll be fine, just go, you irritating child."

Out of his seat and onto his knees, Harry took hold of the armrests of Severus' chair, then leant up to suddenly kiss him. Severus froze in surprise, then lifted both hands to cup Harry's face, savoring the warm and wet taste of fruity wine, and for a moment he felt as if the ether of the alcohol were making them melt into each other, as his head spun and his breath became short. He finally had to pull away for air.

"What was that for?" Severus asked, stroking Harry's cheek with his thumb.

"I dunno, you inspired me," Harry said huskily, grabbing hold of Severus' hand.

They stayed that way, in front of the fire, Harry sitting at Severus' feet as the two of them talked on into the evening.

Severus hadn't made many memories in his life that he could call pleasant, but he thought to himself that this would be one of them. There was nothing in particular that would make it stand out....

No, it was the sum total of a number of ordinary details, all jumbled exquisitely together at once: the rare and total lack of tension, the feel and warmth of Harry resting against his leg, the play of light and heat from the fire on his face, the slight humming in his ears from the wine, and the way Harry's voice sounded through it, the sense that nothing pressed, nothing was imminent, nothing required their attention. There was a contentment that came from knowing they could sit there as long as they liked, then take each other off to bed, where there would be satisfaction, where they could take more time, where they could stay up until dawn, stay the day away, stay there for forever....

If only...Severus thought, but not regretfully. He felt too content to feel sadness, for once.

Harry prattled on, his chin now on Severus' knee, talking about something of which Severus had long ago lost the thread. He watched Harry's animated face, the sparkle in his eyes as he looked up. He's so young, Severus thought to himself.

He tried to remember when in his life he'd ever talked about anything with such enthusiasm and abandon, and had to grimly admit: never. He'd never in his life been as young at heart as Harry was. He didn't hold out much hope that he'd ever possess even a small measure of the optimism that seemed part and parcel of Harry Potter. For now, he supposed that Harry believed enough for the both of them

As he listened to Harry's voice, he thought idly to himself again, so young.

He was almost feeling stuporous as he struggled to latch on to Harry's words, even as he caressed the top of his head, nodding a 'hmmm'' in all the right places, he hoped.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, along with the wine; perhaps he'd finally managed to poison his mind with mind-altering sedatives; perhaps it was the combination of all three of these....

Suddenly, to Severus' horror, the hair on the head that he was gently stroking became threaded with gray; the green eyes dimmed, flecked with spots of red and gold, while Harry's voice became lower and gravelly, the skin of his face lined and care-worn. Severus' hand stilled, as he sat bolt upright in his chair, displacing Harry's chin from his knee.

"Severus?" he heard, as if from far away. Severus struggled to right his senses, using a hand to rub at his eyes.

"Severus?" he heard again, this time more clearly. Looking down, he saw Harry staring up at him in concern and, Severus was relieved to see, looking his usual youthful self.

"Where did you go?" Harry teased gently, sliding his arms along Severus' thighs as he leant in and looked up at him.

"Woolgathering," was all that Severus could manage, thinking to himself that it was all so very, very clear. He smiled as he nodded and hoped that he looked convincing. When Harry began to talk again, Severus mind began to spin.

Both of us need to escape these dungeons. It's one thing for me to languish here, but Harry...Harry could have a life; he has friends, he should be out and about, celebrating the freedom he won for all of us. To keep him here, even if he believes it's by his own choice, is wrong... I don't know how, or what, but something must happen soon, because I won't be responsible for having him fritter his life away, closeted up with a man twice his age, whose future at best is unknowable....

The weight of all of it came crashing down, and for a moment, Severus was inundated with a clarity of mind he'd not possessed in years. It was very possible that what he had—what the two of them had—was about to end. Whichever end occurred—one where they triumphed or (which seemed more likely) one where they failed—he was overwhelmed by the knowledge of how very precious the present was.

Harry was eyeing him warily again, so Severus forced himself to smile, tugging gently on a lock of his hair, then tried desperately to swallow against the lump in his throat. Not a new sensation, to be sure, but this time it was larger than ever before, and there was a feeling like a fist working itself open and closed in the pit of his stomach, and his eyes...his eyes began to sting, and then blur, until suddenly Severus realized that he was on the verge of doing something he'd only done once in his life, and that time it'd struck fiercely, without notice, and been over in a matter of a moments...years ago, deep in the Forbidden Forest.

"Severus?" This time there was something almost like fear in Harry's voice. When Severus refocused his eyes, it was just in time to see Harry's hand reaching for his face.

Overcome by the emotion of the moment, and irritated at himself, Severus almost brushed his hand away, but then changed his mind, and caught it with his own. "I've had too much to drink," he said hoarsely.

Tilting his head to the side, Harry considered Severus for a moment, then his eyes widened slightly. Severus prepared himself for the question to come, but then saw what seemed to be understanding fill the clear green eyes. Standing to his feet, Harry held out a hand.

"Come to bed," Harry said softly, making Severus' heart lurch. Three little words...

Three little words that had never ceased to amaze him, and had become the only words with the power to redeem his days... But tonight, Severus knew he had to resist; he didn't want to sleep just yet. He wanted...he wanted....

"A shower first," Severus directed as he took hold of Harry's hand, unable to miss the flash of surprise and pleasure in his face. "Don't get too used to it," he murmured as he pulled Harry along the corridor.

There was some awkwardness as they undressed in the small room, this not being part of their usual routine, as Severus was not a morning person, and abhorred company during the one ritual that made him fit for human companionship, and not before.

They stood together under the hot spray of the shower jets, squeezed into the stall with just enough space between them for their hands. They laughed softly as they soaped each other's fronts, then groaned in unison as arousal spiked and made them frantic. There wasn't room enough for anything but a mutual frottage, which was enough to make Harry come. Severus, although he felt weak-kneed himself, was able to hold Harry up during the critical time when he sagged against him, his soapy hands latched around Severus' neck, his face buried in the crook of it as he spurted enthusiastically between the two of them.

Severus held him while he regained the strength in his legs, inhaling deeply, taking in the heady scent of semen in the steam-filled enclosure. When Harry put his hand between them to take hold of Severus' cock, Severus batted it away.

"I'll wait until we're horizontal, or some such facsimile, if you don't mind," Severus said as he used his hands at Harry's waist to turn him around so that he faced the taps. "Hold on," he directed, then started to vigorously soap Harry from head to toe. Once he was done, he pressed against him briefly, then leant backward against the opposite wall and pulled Harry by the shoulders so that he stood directly beneath the nozzle.

The water rinsed the soap away, and Severus watched, fascinated, as the rivulets of white sluiced over the shiny skin—he used his hands to help it along in spots, like Harry's hair, but for the most part, he relaxed against the wall and watched as the soap circled the drain before being sucked through it in a vortex of froth and water.

He wondered if at some point in his life, there'd be more of him in that drain than there was anywhere else. After all, he'd been making 'regular deposits' for decades now. Hair, skin cells, sweat, blood, semen, and some other less savory bodily fluids that he probably wouldn't confess to anyone, even Harry....

Wouldn't it be wonderful, in fact, if he could shed this albatross around his neck just as easily? Lather it up, scrub with gusto, then stand under the showerhead and watch as it vainly tried to avoid the inevitable drain.

He felt so damned sick of it all, and most of all of being afraid of fear itself—how it struck without notice and incapacitated him. There'd been a time when nothing...well, practically nothing had frightened him. But now, anxiety was a daily companion, fear a frequent visitor...who'd both overstayed their welcome.

If only...

Pulled back to himself by the tap being shut, Severus looked up to find Harry studying him, chewing worriedly at his bottom lip. There was a question in his eyes as he leant to the side to reach for the towels on the hook.

Turning back, Harry held one out to him and smiled. "Here."

As he took the towel, searching Harry's face, Severus was suddenly determined. "No more 'if onlys,'" he muttered, pushing Harry roughly from the shower.

"No more what?" Harry asked as he dried himself, watching with amusement as Severus hurriedly did the same.

"I said, no more..." Severus shook his head, throwing his towel to the floor, then snagged Harry's to do the same. Backing Harry against the basin, he tilted up his chin, and murmured, "I am sure; I am decided, and in this moment I fear nothing. I'm confident enough to take what I want, so prepare yourself."

Harry turned his head to the side, so that he mumbled the words at Severus' ear, "God, what book were you reading today?"

Forcing Harry's face back so that he spoke the words against his lips, Severus disabused him of that notion. "Severus Snape: Not Dead Yet," he muttered, making Harry snigger.

Stooping slightly, he caught a surprised Harry up in his arms, staggering as he walked, lumbering into the corridor walls as he navigated them the short way to their bedchamber. Harry snorted into Severus' shoulder, then let out a yelp of laughter when he was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the bed. His eyes grew wide when Severus wasted no time at all, unstoppering the phial on the nightstand, then expertly and deftly oiling his completely erect cock, all the while skewering the waiting Harry with a meaningful and slightly predatory look.

Severus was beyond delaying gratification in the name of foreplay—he hadn't been lying when he'd said that he'd take what he wanted, especially tonight; Harry'd stoked his fires all evening, his head on his knee, then brought him to a full smolder in the shower. It was such a rarity nowadays, feeling in control, that moments like these were to be seized and savored, in this case, literally.

It was quick and brusque and almost mechanical, although that wasn't precisely Severus' experience of it. He dragged Harry to his knees in the middle of the bed, then with no preparation, buried himself in one smooth arch of his hips, his fingernails digging into the flesh of Harry's shoulders.

Harry cried out, and pushed backward, the motion of it filling Severus with a rare pulse of power. He was jubilant as he pounded as hard as he could, letting his mind go, as he repeated his mantra, "Severus Snape, not dead yet." Over and over he mouthed the words, as over and over he thrust harder and deeper.

One short ride later, he came with a grunt, then collapsed the two of them with the dead weight of his body, Severus gasping at the nape of Harry's neck.

When they both lay on their backs, finally under the coverlet, Severus was sweaty and trembling, staring up at the flickering candlelight on the ceiling, the room still spinning slightly.

"Severus?"

"Hmmm?"

"I...I have an idea, something I've been thinking about. We might want to consider an expert—"

"No."

"No? You haven't even heard—"

"No, not tonight. Just..." Severus turned and pulled him close, burying his face in Harry's still-damp hair. "Not tonight." He could feel Harry's chest expand as he was about to protest, then heard the sigh at his ear.

"Okay, not tonight."

There was a blissful silence that Severus knew wouldn't last. When it was broken, he rolled his eyes in the dark.

"Severus?"

"Harry," he growled in warning.

"No, not that. I just wanted to clear something up," Harry said as he brought his face closer to Severus'.

"And what would that be?" Severus yawned, then startled slightly when Harry pinched him on the arse.

"I'm serious; this is important," Harry said intently.

"Why is it you want to talk on the one night I think I can sleep?" Severus murmured.

"Karma," Harry said, then pinched him again. "Being worried about you isn't the only reason I don't want to stay in London."

Severus was marginally more awake at this revelation. "Oh?"

"Please listen, and don't make light of this, all right?"

"Harry..."

Not seeming to be able to wait any longer, Harry interrupted, "I won't do well either, being away from you. On my own. I'll be out of sorts, and forget sleeping. I'm...attached to you and used to you and I don't just spend all my time here because I think you need me, like it's a duty or something. I know you think that's why, but it's not been that for a long while." He paused, then when Severus didn't speak, he asked anxiously, "Severus?"

Harry had to wait, because for a moment Severus was mildly stunned. When he finally found his voice, he answered softly, "All the more reason that you should go, then. Subject closed, Mister Potter, and I'll take points if you say one more word," he threatened, then winced and let out a snort of disgust when Harry pinched him soundly on the arse again, but didn't speak.

After what Severus could only imagine had been minutes, but was more likely several hours, given the taste in his mouth, he was wide awake, mostly because of Harry's last and disturbingly candid words of the night.

If the sentiment had been meant to allay Severus' concerns about Harry's refusal to spend the night away, the man had sorely miscalculated. If anything, it refueled his determination that Harry should be banned from his rooms until Sunday.

Severus cared more than he would ever admit, not just about Harry's isolation, but for the man himself. He'd had little experience in such matters, but over the past several months had become more grimly determined than ever that a solution had to found, and soon, for both their sakes. Mostly because he cared....

Despite his self-loathing on occasion for his helplessness, something had happened, there in the shower that night, which infused Severus with a new resolve to force the issue decisively. Even though it might've been best to wait and see what Harry managed to procure from Draco Malfoy, Severus knew that he had to act while Harry was away. His inertia was greatest when Harry was close by, and it wasn't often that Harry was away at all, so he planned to make the most of the opportunity.

The more he lay and thought about it, the firmer his conviction; it didn't make perfect sense, he knew, but one thing he did know: the time had come to take control, if he ever hoped to do it. He had to step up and take a stand, attempt to direct the sails of fate once and for all. It was probably a foolish effort, when he'd failed so many times before, but as he'd told Harry earlier, he was Severus Snape, and he wasn't dead yet.

In the end, who would know? He himself would, and that mattered a great deal to Severus' sense of honor. And Harry would know too. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, Harry would at least know that Severus had been strong.

Living in the clutches of fear, a prisoner of phobias and things that went bump in the night—he refused to do it any longer. He'd make a grand and final attempt to break free—and break free he would, or die in the attempt, perhaps.

Better for that to be his end than what Severus feared in the still, dark hours of his nights: a descent into madness, reflected back to him by pitying green eyes.

Severus would die first.

Taking a deep breath, he rolled to his side and closed his eyes. And for the first time since the end of the war, he felt peace.

In the morning, breakfast was its usual monosyllabic affair, punctuated here and there by page-turning and the clatter of cups and plates.

When Harry appeared with his overnight bag, Severus did stop and lay the paper aside.

"Tomorrow evening, then. I'll wait dinner."

Harry stood at his side and looked down at him, his expression sober. For a moment he had nothing to say, then reached out with his free hand and brushed the back of his hand across Severus' cheek. "Anything I can bring back for you?"

Severus thought for a moment, then shrugged. "If you remember, some fine quill nubs and a bottle of black."

Harry leant down and kissed him on the cheek, then turned toward the fireplace. "Nubs and a bottle of black," he said just before he threw down the powder to head for his rooms.

After the whoosh of the Floo, Severus quietly added, "And yourself as well."

Severus had a remarkable day. In fact, given the past three years of...whatever one would call this private hell...

And the wartime years before them...

In addition to the uneasy years of détente between the first fall of Voldemort and his second coming...

Not to mention the years just after Severus had been Marked, when he'd truly been his servant...

And not to be left out, his painful student years at Hogwarts...

Severus could truthfully say that this might've been the best day of his life thus far.

He decided halfway through the morning that there was a great deal to be said for finally making a decision, even if it were a bad one. He was anxiety-free, clear-headed, sober-minded, in control of his emotions, moderately energetic, and most important, had a plan for what he hoped to accomplish that day, and a certainty that he would do it.

Deep down inside, though, he had to concede that this was not merely 'mind over matter,' or he wouldn't have sent Harry off after a Dark Arts book. But even this unsolved dilemma did not change his newfound resolve.

He spent the day as if it were his last.

He brewed all morning, ordering his shelves of potions and supplies as he waited for a concoction to simmer, tidied up his desk, stacked his parchments to one side, books to the other, set the inkpot to the upper right of the blotter, his quill angled across it.

After a light lunch that he savored with a small glass of wine, he took up a book—this time a Muggle work of fiction of which he was particularly fond, and read for several hours, until the pages became blurred and he had to stifle a yawn.

Removing his boots and outer robes, he laid himself out on the settee, propped his head up with a pillow and dozed off into an entirely unpremeditated, un-medicated sleep. When he awoke at precisely at five, he returned to his lab to decant the potion, now sufficiently settled and cooled. Cauldron cleaned and surfaces shined, he hesitated by the door, then sighed as he made his way to his desk.

Taking his seat, he positioned a clean parchment, unstoppered the pot, then leant in to write a few lines, pausing to reread it before signing his name with a flourish. He left it, unfolded, where it lay, then walked to the door and without a backward glance, muttered, "Nox."

He took the corridor to his bedchamber, then stood at the door of his wardrobe and considered his options. Oh, what the hell, he thought, as he pulled out his black velvet dress robes and threw them to the bed, then headed for the shower.

After a vigorous washing, during which he sang several verses of a drinking song he'd not thought of for years, he returned to his room to dress, donning the best of everything that he had, stopping in front of the mirror to groom his hair and straighten his collar. The dress robes he carried with him to the sitting room.

He managed to lose himself, perusing his bookshelves, interested for the first time in a long while in titles and tomes that were especial favorites. He pulled one out and leant against the wall and read the first chapter, before re-shelving it and moving to the sideboard, where he poured himself a modest glass of Glenlivet.

He turned to the room, and scanned it with his eyes; so many years of his life spent here—he thought of some of the most significant people in his life, and remembered where they'd last sat, what they'd last said, which brought him round to Harry, of course. Lifting his glass, Severus toasted him silently.

The clock was striking seven, and Severus knew that it was time. Setting his glass aside, he stood and reached for his dress robes. His fingers were steady as he did the buttons, then smoothed the sumptuous material with his hands. As he turned toward the door, he felt one flash of uncertainty, as he caught sight of Harry's tie draped over the back of an armchair, but it was a fleeting distraction, and he moved on, his step sure, his heartbeat slow and certain, his breath measured and easy.

His hand on the latch, he smiled at the thought of the look on Minerva's face when he'd sweep through her door, unannounced.

Shoulders back, head held high, he opened the door and stepped out.

Severus had had a remarkable day.

Such an auspicious beginning, but now...how disappointing...

Why was there no overwhelming anxiety, he wondered to himself, as he faltered in the hallway, then leant heavily against the wall. No panic, either, just a bone-chilling certainty that he'd gambled with his life, and had evidently wagered poorly.

Strange, he thought, as he slid down the wall when his knees gave out, it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared it would be. He stared straight ahead, dumbly aware that his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he...that he...wait...

Wait.

It seemed as though it wasn't his heart, but words he was hearing, words as if they were being shouted from underneath water.

He struggled to focus his eyes, and was horrified to see Harry's face swim into view. He wanted to speak, to tell him...to tell him...what? He wasn't even certain that Harry was there. Just as it had been in the Shrieking Shack, he hazily wondered if he'd imagined the face because it was the one he'd needed to see.

How disappointing...the words drifted through his mind again.

His last awareness was of his paralyzed body being dragged along the corridor, his last sight...that of Harry's hands and shirt, covered in blood.

* * *

Harry sat in his rooms, his chin resting in his palms, elbows on his knees, as he stared at the Pensieve on the low table in front of him.

He'd been back for hours, his meeting with Draco Malfoy having consumed little more than an uncomfortable half hour. Afterward, he'd wandered into Muggle London and visited some shops, bought himself a new pair of trainers, and a six-pack of woolen socks for Severus.

As noon approached, he had just enough time to hightail it to Scribbulus for Severus' writing supplies, and on the way to the pub, made a mad dash into the sweetshop for some chocolate, as he knew he was going to eventually need a peace offering.

He was genuinely happy to see Ron and Hermione wave from a table at the rear of the pub, and after a flurry of hugging and backslapping, Harry was seated across from the two of them. In wasn't long before it seemed as if they'd never been apart, as they leant in and laughed and whispered and traded gossip from their respective parts of the Wizarding world.

Time flew, their meal was concluded, and they dallied over tea and dessert. Harry knew it was coming, so he decided to steer the conversation in that direction and get it over with.

"So glad you two were free—seems like ages since I've been down," Harry said quietly.

"It has been ages, Harry," Hermione accused gently. "December, it was. And it's not as if you actually have to take the train."

"You know, it's my NEWTs class," Harry told her, which was partially true. "Besides everything I have to do for the lower forms, I actually have to study myself to prepare for that one."

"Oh, really? You're studying?" Hermione lifted an eyebrow

"Well, Minerva took them the first two years. So, yeah, I have to work at it." He made a face at Ron. "Evenings spent marking, then there's patrolling, and three evenings a week helping the Gryffindor team. So that leaves weekends, and I never seem caught up until Sunday bedtime. Barely any free time," he grumbled.

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance.

"Harry," Ron began hesitantly, "we've talked about all of this before. I really do understand...why you're so stuck there, I do, Harry. But," he pushed his hair out of his face, "you have to try and take charge—especially now." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Holed up in those rooms, hardly ever go out—it's not right." He lowered his voice. "It's not what anyone wants for you."

Covering Ron's hand, Hermione leant forward. "He's right, Harry." Her eyes hardened. "Not anyone who cares about you."

Harry had to clench his jaw to bite back the retort. He looked from one to the other, then shrugged. "I was hoping we'd not go through this again. Look. It's been great seeing both of you. I've missed you, really. But my life...what I'm doing..." He shook his head. "Please, give me some credit here. I'm content, I really am, so leave it alone," he said firmly, with a desperation that seemed to make Hermione sit up straighter and stare at him. She tilted her head to the side, and Harry thought to himself for not the first time that he was lucky to have such a friend, one who wasn't afraid to challenge what she thought was a bad choice.

"We're going on holiday with Mum and Dad in July. Could you come and stay for a while in August?" she asked simply, her eyes entreating.

Harry smiled wanly, then reached over and tousled her hair, making her pull back as she laughed. "I'll try," he promised truthfully.

So, instead of returning at suppertime on Sunday, Harry was back in the Entrance Hall by four on Saturday. He skipped dinner, having no appetite, but took a leisurely stroll along the far side of the lake. When the idea suddenly occurred to him, he walked back rapidly; in fact, he had to stop himself from running.

He'd been wracking his brain for days, thinking over those first few weeks almost exactly two years ago, when he'd discovered Severus' dilemma. The two of them had, since then, talked about 'fate' and how it had intervened to make their worlds collide. But as he remembered the events at the end of his first year of teaching, a new possibility suddenly occurred to him.

Minerva had seemed surprised, but had no reservations about Harry borrowing Albus' Pensieve, nor did she try to pry from him why he wanted it, for which Harry was grateful. He'd Flooed down to his rooms, his arms carefully cradling the stone basin, then had immediately set to work.

After extruding the memory and placing it in the Pensieve, Harry took the plunge.

When he returned, the clock showed only a lapse of a minute, but Harry was a changed man. He'd suspected, no, he'd hoped that he'd see something, but he'd not been precisely certain what it would be.

What he'd observed had shaken and shocked him, so that now, sitting across from the Pensieve, he was literally trembling.

So simple, so easy, so stupid, he thought as he shook his head. He still didn't have an answer for why or how, but a who had been presented. Harry smiled wryly as he stood and headed for the sideboard, where he poured himself a firewhisky. It'd been right there, in front of their faces all this time. Well, in the back of Harry's mind, rather.

He thought of Severus, and wondered how his day had gone, and for at least the tenth time since he'd returned, had to quash a sudden and irrational desire to Floo directly in to see him.

Severus wasn't expecting him until the next evening, and Harry suspected that this was one time he should honor his wishes, stay away, afford him this bit of privacy.

But...there's a development...something I'm dying to tell him¸ he thought as he threw himself back onto the settee and stared morosely at the mantel clock, just about to strike seven.

Well, the memory had been there for two whole years; it could certainly keep for another twenty-four hours, and he'd avoid the wrath.... Harry smiled as thought of how he no longer feared Severus' wrath. Not that he'd intentionally provoke him, but fear...no, not for a long while.

He stretched out his legs as the clock began to chime the hour. Closing his eyes, he mentally counted along with it.

One...two...three...four....

Five...six...seven....

All was quiet, except for the ticking that Harry'd always found rather comforting. He opened his eyes, then reached forward to set his glass on the small table.

Eight.

Harry looked up, puzzled, and verified, that yes, it was only seven. He checked his watch, which corroborated the hour. Stymied, he stood and made his way to the clock.

He had opened the glass faceplate and jiggled the hands a bit, making certain they were movable, when he felt his heart begin to pound and a fine sheen of perspiration break out over his forehead. Lifting a hand, he swiped at his face.

Disoriented, his mind began to race, as he struggled for a moment to keep his feet when the wave of nausea hit him. Bending to put his hands on his knees, he took huge gulps of air, until the symptoms seemed to pass.

Shaking his head, he was about to head for the loo, when a sudden and urgent sense of doom filled him, spreading from his heart to his head in the space of seconds.

Severus.

He was already on the stairs to the dungeons when he wondered why he hadn't Flooed. It was a passing thought and much too late, so he barreled on, running along the corridors, thankful that they were deserted, slowing only to maneuver the corners.

As he made the last turn, he didn't even have time to think Severus, because Harry could see him now, about halfway down the corridor, where he sat in a heap against the wall.

"Severus!" Harry cried out as he ran, sliding the last ten feet, so that he was on his knees and reaching out by the time Severus was within grabbing distance.

Blood.

There was so much blood that Harry's own ran cold. Could he have survived, losing so much blood? Even as he thought this, Severus' eyelids fluttered, and the man focused his attention on Harry, then opened his mouth, but couldn't seem to make a sound.

Harry was paralyzed with fear, as he did a rapid assessment. Severus' face was a pasty shade of gray that Harry associated with dead things, his lips blue, the wounds in his neck pumping blood out in spurts at an alarming rate. He couldn't last much longer like this....

Galvanized to action, Harry tried to staunch the flow with his hands, then realized how ridiculous that was. He wiped his hands quickly on his shirt, then stood to his feet, all the while aware of Severus' eyes fixed on his face. Grabbing the man beneath his arms, Harry began to drag him down the corridor toward the open door, only then realizing how much farther Severus had traveled this time; he slipped twice on the blood-covered floor as he pulled the dead weight along.

Harry released Severus and stood, swearing as he did. He whipped out his wand, and levitated the man swiftly along the corridor, not bothering with his neck; he thought he knew what would happen next, then let out a sigh of relief once they'd crossed the threshold of Severus' rooms.

As he'd hoped, the moment they were over the threshold, the bleeding stopped. Harry had seen it only twice before, but it remained a striking phenomena. The angry gaping wounds to Severus' neck closed instantly, even as the blood that covered both their clothes and smeared their skin faded into nothingness.

The blood might've been gone, but Harry knew from prior terrifying experience that the damage done to Severus had been real. He lowered the limp body to the settee, then Summoned a heavy coverlet, which he wrapped snugly around the man so that only his head remained uncovered.

Severus had started to moan and shiver, and was sweating profusely. Harry shook his head grimly as he set off for Severus' lab, where he collected several phials from the emergency shelf.

Sitting on the edge of the settee, Harry commanded, "Severus, open." When the only response he received was another groan and tightly clenched lips, Harry leant over, and resolutely pinched Severus' nose, until the man was forced to open his mouth. One by one, Harry poured in the potions, stroking Severus' throat to encourage him to swallow. He wasn't exactly conscious, so Harry took care to make certain Severus didn't choke, lifting his head slightly as he dosed him: Blood-Replenishers, Volume-Expanders, Cardio-Stimulators, then finally, a mild Calming Draught.

When he was finished, Harry set the empty phials aside, and looked down at the slumbering man. His color was still death-like, but his skin was warm, and he only occasionally shivered.

He was so close....

Harry's knees were suddenly weak, and his mouth filled with saliva; the air was oppressively saturated with the cloying, coppery smell of blood, even though there wasn't a trace of it on either of them. He only just made it to the loo in time, where he was repeatedly sick until his stomach was empty, but sore from clenching.

He walked unsteadily back to the settee, lifted the edge of the coverlet, and insinuated himself in beside Severus. Wrapping his arms around him, Harry lay and listened to the reassuring sound of Severus' easy respiration.

He'd been so close, he thought to himself again, and only the malfunctioning of a clock had saved him this time. Harry suffered from no delusions of what would've occurred, had he stayed in his rooms, even worse, had he stayed in London.

Shivering, but not with cold, Harry burrowed his face into the crook of Severus' neck and was grateful.

Hours later, Harry's gratitude had given way to a simmering exasperation that bordered on anger, but not quite; no, his anger was tempered by knowledge of Severus' growing desperation, and the fact that he still looked as if he'd topple over, were he to stand.

There'd been a few mumbled words when they awakened, Harry inquiring how Severus felt, then he'd left him to sleep while he cobbled together a tray of soup and bread, and after some thought, a small glass of wine.

Severus was now propped up at one end of the settee, the tray on his knees as he picked at his food. He'd shot Harry a dark look when he'd been ordered to sit up and eat, but other than that, they'd remained silent.

Harry wasn't altogether certain who had committed the greater offense: himself for returning early, after having given the impression that he wouldn't; or Severus, for expressly violating their agreement that any excursion to the 'outside' would be a joint venture. Harry decided to leave the ball in Severus' court.

Keeping the wine glass, Severus motioned to the tray. "I can't. At least not now."

Harry took it wordlessly, setting it on the small table, then pushed the coverlet aside so that he could sit angled at Severus' knees. Folding his hands in his lap, he met Severus' eyes, and wouldn't look away.

They were silent for a moment longer, until Severus commented, "You didn't stay."

Harry smiled sardonically. "No, I couldn't. My choice, Severus."

Severus studied him curiously. "How did you know?"

Shrugging, Harry admitted, "That you'd try? I didn't. No, I was going to stay in my rooms until tomorrow evening, then...I had a..." Harry stopped and frowned. "I'm not certain what it was. A premonition, maybe? All of the sudden, I just knew."

His eyes widening, Severus stared at Harry for a moment, then said softly, "If you hadn't come..." His voice faded, then he murmured, as if to himself, "So simple, it would've been...."

Harry decided instantaneously to both show and voice his outrage. "You lost a great deal of blood, you know," he said disgustedly. "And thanks. For thinking about me. How it would've been to come back and find you..." He glared until Severus looked down at his hands.

"I'm not sorry," he said as he looked up at Harry. "Well, I'm sorry about you, but..." He blew out a breath, then shakily held out his glass to Harry.

Taking the glass, Harry asked, "So why? What made it so bloody important for you to try with me gone?"

Severus shivered and pulled the coverlet up to his shoulders, which had Harry jumping up to tuck them in around him.

"I can't do this any longer," Severus stated flatly, his eyes dull.

"I know," Harry replied, reaching out to touch his face.

"That's the first reason. The second, well, it was more of an experiment on my part." When Harry looked at him questioningly, Severus asked him, "You noticed how far I got?"

Harry narrowed his eyes as he thought, then his mouth fell open. "You were past the ten foot mark—past the point of no-return," he stated, awestruck. This was a new milestone—the point of no return being the point beyond which Severus could not make it back to his rooms, were he to experience difficulty and turn back. "How is that the second reason?" he asked, perplexed.

"It struck me," Severus said tentatively, "that perhaps if it were a magical paradox, there might be a way to break it. Perhaps it was testing me. How far would I be willing to go to escape it? In other words, if I were willing to risk it all—go past the point of no return—then perhaps whatever it was that was set in motion to strike me down at lesser distances, would paradoxically allow me to escape at greater ones."

Thinking for a moment before he spoke, Harry said slowly, "So, it wouldn't let you go unless you were willing to risk death?"

"My thinking, yes," Snape said distractedly.

"Still, you shouldn't have done it without me here."

Severus scowled at him. "Any point of no return would cease to be one if there were a rescuer standing close by."

"Oh. Oh yeah, I see your point," Harry admitted, admiring Severus' strategy.

The scowl became a twisted smile. "A moot one, it would seem."

The man's obvious attempt to lighten the conversation made Harry's heart hurt. Severus had started his day with a hope, and now it was dashed. Any remaining desire to haggle over the foolishness of what he'd done was gone in an instant. He realized, too, that in very short order, Severus would no doubt take him to task for his having returned to Hogwarts early.

"Severus, I was thinking of something today. I wish I could say it's why I came home early, but that'd be a lie," he confessed as he stood. "Before I tell you, though, you're having some tea. You didn't eat, and no more wine for you. You need fluids," he said firmly.

As he set about Summoning tea and cups, Severus asked him. "You met with Draco?"

Harry'd almost forgotten. It hardly seemed possible that their meeting had been just that morning. "Yeah, nine sharp. I was right, though. He's still living mostly at Malfoy Manor with his mother." He carefully handed Severus a steaming cup. "He said all the Dark Arts books were removed by the Ministry after the war."

After taking a cautious sip, Severus snorted, "If I know Draco, any book he might've wanted to keep was long gone before the Ministry even set foot there."

Shaking his head, Harry said, "I don't know. He seems...different. Less arrogant. In fact, I could tell the minute I told him what I wanted, he wasn't going to help. But—and this is strange—he seemed disappointed. Like he wanted to help, but just couldn't." He tilted his head to the side. "I didn't do what you said—remind him that he owed me. I don't know if it would've made any difference. He was truly afraid, I think, that I was trying to trick him." He shook his head sadly. "It's a shame I couldn't tell him it was for you."

"As if that would've decided him in your favor," Severus disagreed. "It was a shot in the dark, in any case, I suppose." He tried to set his cup aside, but pulled it back when Harry eyed him meaningfully. "Nag."

Harry smiled, wandlessly directing the pot to serve them refills. "I was thinking, and wondering about something; that's what I wanted to talk to you about. You remember how we went over everything, trying to figure out why I was able to find you when I did? The first time?"

"Two years ago," Severus agreed. "Well, the present circumstances bear out what must've happened then, as you still have to think of me to find these rooms at all."

"True," Harry said thoughtfully. "But I'd thought of you before, so why then, Severus? What was different, what happened that day, so when I thought of you, the door to your rooms popped up? There must've been something that changed, I think." He stroked his chin. "I'm not certain why or how, but I think I know someone we can ask. And this someone might've very well had something to do with my finding you."

Severus set his cup abruptly in the saucer. "Ask? Are you mental? You know very well we can't ask anyone."

"I know. But this person's different." When Severus looked at him incredulously, Harry said simply, "Binns. He's not a person. It just might work, and I'll tell you why."

"Oh, I'm all ears. Go on."

"You remember, I found you the day after the Leaving Feast," Harry started.

"I know."

"Well, the night of the Feast, we had the end-of-year staff party. My very first one," Harry said.

"I know," Severus said a bit impatiently. "We've gone over this how many times? You talked to everyone, with the exception of Vector and Trelawney. None of your conversations were remarkable... You consumed no strange potions or poisons, and didn't accept any questionable gifts."

"Which brings me to the one other person who was there that I failed to mention," Harry supplied for him.

Severus strummed his lower lip with his thumb. "Binns. Oh really, Harry." He snorted.

"Severus," Harry cautioned, "hear me out." There must've been something in the tone of his voice that convinced Severus that he should.

"Go on," he said, sitting up straighter.

"I was a bit squiffy, you remember I told you?"

"I'd've dearly loved to have been there," Severus said dryly.

Harry put his tongue in his cheek, waited a moment while Severus smiled, then continued, "So, what I thought of today was...what if there's something I don't remember, you know, because I'd been drinking?"

Severus frowned. "You said you were squiffy, not pissed."

Harry rubbed his chin on his shoulder, flushing slightly. "I might've understated a bit," he said sheepishly, then rallied. "Still," he said defensively, "I figured I might be grasping at straws, but in the interest of not missing anything important, I came back from London early and..." He shot Severus an apprehensive look. "Got Albus' Pensieve from Minerva and used it in my rooms," he finished quickly.

Sitting completely immobile, Severus scrutinized him, then said softly, "You didn't think that perhaps it might've been best had I seen that as well?"

Holding his palms upward, Harry conceded, "Probably should've. But I'd just returned empty-handed from London, so I wanted to do it myself, in case it was disappointing."

"Ah. I see," Severus replied, tapping a finger on the side of his teacup. He stared intently at Harry, then sighed heavily. "And? Anything?"

Harry startled. "And—it might not mean anything—but...then it might..."

"Harry," Severus growled, setting the cup aside and leaning forward.

"I talked to Binns that night," Harry told him quickly, feeling his heart start to beat faster.

"You talked to Binns?" Severus asked, flummoxed. "And you had no recall of that, prior to the Pensieve?" he asked rhetorically, then added, "You completely forgot?"

"It was just Binns!" Harry defended himself. "He's not the most stimulating person to talk to. I sat in his classes for six years—I can't remember shite!"

Severus smiled. "There is that." He prompted Harry indulgently, "So, with the aid of the Pensieve, what did the two of you talk about?"

Harry wet his lips, and took a breath—he knew the impact that the words would carry. "I told him what a great year I'd had—my first year of teaching, and he told me about his." He waved his hand. "Long and boring, but then I told him my only regret about the year was that you hadn't been there." Harry looked away, then added quietly, "He's actually a very good listener."

"Harry..."

"So I told him how I wished I could've had a chance to make things right with you..." He swallowed. "More than anything. And that I'd dreamt of you. And that your class was the only one I hated more than his. And I got a bit emotional."

Severus' eyes were glittering. "Your only regret was me?"

Harry graced him with a look of disdain. "You know it was."

Nodding solemnly, Severus asked, "Emotional how?"

Placing his palm against his forehead, Harry rolled his eyes. "There might've been tears," he said hoarsely.

Squinting at Harry, Severus seemed to be weighing his response, then said, "So, you mentioned me to Binns and you...cried."

Exasperated, Harry protested, "Severus, I did more than mention you; I obsessed over you for at least ten minutes!" He shot Severus a withering look. "And yes, I cried."

Seeming to repress a smile, Severus asked, "What did he say?"

Harry leant forward. "All right, I know you're going to torture me with all of this at some point, but here's the important part, I think. He heard what I had to say about you, and instead of, you know, taking into account that I was pissed, he talked about you."

"Me? Binns talked about me?" Severus asked, intrigued.

"He said you were a complicated matter, and that he'd always known that you were an honorable man. But he...it wasn't what he said; it was..." Harry shook his head, his eyes far away. "It was the way he looked..." he hesitated.

"The way Binns looked?"

"Yeah. He looked, well, uncomfortable, and more alive than I've ever seen him. And remember I'm talking about Binns here."

"The Pensieve would've filtered out your drunken perceptions..." Severus mused aloud.

"Believe me, I may not remember the conversation, but in the Pensieve, it was clear as crystal."

For a moment, neither of them spoke, each caught up in their own private consideration of the implications, until Harry finally spoke.

"I'd like your permission," Harry started, then paused. When he did, he noticed an odd expression on Severus' face, as if he were struggling to hide his reaction.

"Why would you ask...permission for what?" Severus asked neutrally.

"I think I should talk to Binns. Tell him everything. Bring him in on this. You know how he is—I don't think he'd breathe a word of it. Besides, I've got this feeling..."

Severus gave him a knowing look. "You think he knows and is just like you—unable to tell anyone?" When Harry nodded, Severus asked, "So, why the optimism? What makes you think you'll be able to mention me, when you've not been able to tell anyone else before?"

Harry smiled as he reached over and squeezed Severus' knee. "Well, like I said, I have this feeling, and I'm hoping the same rules don't apply to him."

Nodding, Severus completed Harry's thought. "Because he's dead."

There was a shared shower again that night, but this time Severus allowed himself to be led, and stood meekly beneath the stream of hot water, as Harry soaped them both, a no nonsense affair that took only minutes. Not long after, Severus was dried and dressed, tucked in the large bed while Harry went off in search of potions.

After dosing Severus with a second round of the same ones he'd had a few hours ago, Harry slid in beside him, then rolled them both so they lay facing the wall. Harry draped an arm over top of Severus and pulled him close, pressing in against him from behind.

It was only then that Harry was struck full force with how badly the evening might've turned out. Trying not to, but failing miserably, the picture played out in his mind—Severus lying in the corridor, his skin a chalky, waxy white, exsanguinated. Or even worse, his familiar nightmare of finding the room empty, signs of it having been abandoned only moments before.

"Harry," Severus murmured as he shifted slightly in the bed. "Ease up a bit—I can scarcely breathe."

"Oh, sorry," Harry mumbled, relaxing his arms, realizing that he'd been holding onto Severus with a death-grip.

Harry held on, long after Severus had fallen asleep, then gave up and furtively crept from the bed, gently easing the door shut, before making his way to the sitting room.

Half-sprawled on the settee, he moodily considered the events of the evening, and his own stupidity in not having used the Pensieve before.

He couldn't say why, but he sensed with a certainty that Binns knew. He didn't have anything of substance on which to base this conclusion, but he'd had this sort of intuition on rare occasions before, and hadn't been wrong. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the day he'd made the startling discovery, the one that'd put him in these rooms for the very first time.

The day after his first end-of-year staff party, Harry was on his way to the headmistress' office, hung over from the gathering the night before. His aching head made him wish he had a Hangover Potion, which in turn made him think of Snape. As his brain muddled along this foggy circuit—Hangover Potion, Snape, Hangover Potion, Snape—his feet led him astray, until he finally looked up, confused, as he found himself deep in the dungeons, at the head of a corridor he'd never before explored.

It was dimly lit by a wall sconce in the middle, just opposite the only doorway in the corridor. Curious, Harry cautiously made his way toward the door, noticing as he went that the air was cooler and damper here than in the rest of the dungeons.

Stopping in front of it, he was mildly surprised to see a faint shaft of light spreading from underneath it, and he thought he could hear the rise and fall of what seemed to be a male voice on the other side of the dark wooden door.

Inexplicably, Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He would later wonder why, but there wasn't even the slightest hesitation as he lifted his hand and knocked once on the splintered surface.

Abruptly, the sound within ceased. Harry's hand remained poised just an inch from the door as he waited. After a moment, he knocked again, this time harder, as he beat out a cadence of three sharp raps. When he saw a flicker in the light seeping out from underneath the door, he took a step backward.

The door was flung open, swinging inward, and for an instant, Harry couldn't see, the brighter light from the interior momentarily blinding him. Once he was able to focus, he felt a flash of confused distress, hoping desperately that this was part of his hangover, that the figure in front of him was a figment of his imagination. But then it spoke.

"Potter?" asked the voice, unfamiliarly hoarse, but unmistakably familiar.

Harry took another step backward, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he tried to get a word out.

It was clearly Snape, or something posturing as Snape. Not the man he remembered, but a thinner, sharper, crazed version of the one he'd last seen just a little over a year ago. His hair was threaded with gray, his eyes wild and sunken, the cheekbones pointed and accentuated by the man's emaciated state. He too seemed at a loss for words, other than the one he'd managed to utter.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry dropped his hands, and had no time to act, as Snape moved with a speed that could've only been fueled by desperation. He was grabbed almost viciously by a forearm, and yanked forward across the threshold. Fighting for his balance, alarmed that he'd been taken unawares, Harry had his wand out and thrust into the flesh of the man's neck before he could close the door.

Snape froze and loosened his grip on Harry's arm, but did not let go. "I'm unarmed. I merely wanted to insure that you did not flee," Snape told him, his voice quiet and calm, in direct opposition to the terror on his face.

Harry narrowed his eyes, pulling his wand slightly away, but left it aimed where it was as he cautiously looked over the man's shoulder into the room. Not finding a threat there, he lowered his wand to chest level, then gestured with it for Snape to take another step backward. He was perplexed by the flood of seeming relief in the man's eyes.

"If you're Snape, no one's seen you in over a year. Where've you been?" Harry asked, standing his ground.

Snape's shoulders slumped as he brought a hand up to his forehead. "It's over, then?" he asked, his voice strained.

Harry tilted his head to the side. "Is what over?"

Snape looked up. "The war. The Dark Lord."

"Over a year ago, yes," he answered, frowning. He stood, watching, as Snape turned and went to the small table and took a seat, where he leant forward and placed his head in his hands.

"You killed him, then?" Snape asked without looking up.

His wand still outstretched, Harry decided that things had gone far enough without a validation of identity. "Tell me something that only Snape would know," Harry directed.

Snape glanced up, a look of surprise on his face, which settled into a grim satisfaction. He pursed his lips as he thought. "The one abiding disagreement of my last year of teaching was that I did not want to do Albus Dumbledore's bidding." He paused, then said softly, "He wanted me to kill an old friend. He had to beg me to do it, in the end."

Their eyes connected with his last words, and for a moment neither of them spoke. As he lowered his wand, Harry repeated, "Where've you been?"

Snape did something shocking then, something that filled Harry with foreboding. He smiled, albeit humorlessly, then said, "I've been here. In my rooms."

Of course, Snape being Snape, he'd demanded a proof that Harry was actually Harry. This accomplished, there had then ensued hours of conversation, interrupted by an evening meal that just appeared at the table as they were talking.

"Seeing you in the Shrieking Shack is my last memory before awakening in my rooms," Snape admitted.

Both of them took their turn, offering explanations and questions, shot rapid-fire at each other.

"What do you mean, you can't leave?"

There was a tacit and unspoken agreement that they would not touch upon the memories that Harry had seen, although Harry made certain that Snape knew how valuable they'd been. An abridged version of the battle for Hogwarts was related, interspersed with Snape's tale of how he'd been imprisoned in the rooms, how his wounds reopened when he tried to leave; he assumed there were house-elves, as his needs were met although he never saw who or how.

Harry'd wanted to go immediately to alert Minerva, but Snape had become so panic- stricken that he'd leave, never to reappear, that Harry relented and agreed to wait a while longer. He was beginning to understand the man's anxiety...trapped in a room, unable to leave, no other human contact. What must Snape have started to believe about his future?

"I suppose it's some sort of curse, that you can't leave," Harry said, trying to decide how to approach the subject of his own leaving.

"No doubt," Snape agreed, "but I'm certain Minerva will know what to do. If she doesn't, she'll enlist the aid of the Ministry."

Harry stood and motioned toward the door. "I should get to that, then."

"Wait. Perhaps, if you...just stay. When you're missed, they come looking for you."

Harry felt a flash of sympathy. "I'm not so sure about that. It took me a year to happen on you—you know your rooms aren't where they're supposed to be? I'm not altogether certain how I found you." He frowned. "Except that I was thinking about you." His eyes widened. "Sort of like the Room of Requirement."

Snape toyed with his wine glass. "What if you can't get back? What if you forget you've even been here?" he asked bitterly.

"Listen," Harry said, "don't you think it's significant that I found you at all? I'll go to Minerva, and come back straight away. We'll put our heads together." He motioned toward the door. "I promise I'll be back, sir. Trust me," Harry said soberly. He could tell by the look in Snape's eyes that it wasn't a matter of trust, but of fear.

Walking with Harry to the door, Snape opened it. "I'll leave it open...and wait." Harry nodded, stepped out into the hallway and headed in the direction from which he'd come, stopping at the very end of the corridor to look back and make certain he could still see the door, which stood ajar.

Of course, it was a futile effort. He discovered he could neither speak nor write of whom he'd discovered in the dungeons; he'd tried to take Minerva by the hand to lead her there, but had then lost all sense of direction, and had only succeeded in making her sufficiently concerned for his mental health, that she had insisted he spend the rest of the day resting in his rooms.

He'd had one moment of panic when, thinking of Snape, it seemed to take forever for him to end up in the corridor with the open door in the middle of it.

Harry watched the hope fade from Snape's eyes as he explained their dilemma.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, wondering to himself what on earth he was going to do next. Snape's answer decided him.

"For what? You did what you could, although if you could try and alert the Ministry? Perhaps by owl?" he suggested, but Harry could tell that Snape wasn't hopeful.

Harry headed for the sideboard and poured them both a firewhisky, handed one to Snape, then sat in the armchair across from him.

"Classes are over?" Snape asked distractedly.

"Yeah, Leaving Feast was yesterday."

"You'll be going, then," Snape stated, his tone of detachment making Harry look up sharply.

Harry shrugged. "Not now, I'm not. I was thinking of you, I ended up finding you only god knows how or why, so I'm not abandoning you," he said firmly.

Snape's eyes slid up to meet his. "You should go," he said flatly.

"You know what? Now that I think of it, I'm spending the night, here on your settee," he told Snape.

A muscle in Snape's cheek twitched. "Whatever for?"

Harry stared at him. "Because you need me to. Wouldn't you do the same for me?"

When Snape didn't answer, staring into his glass, Harry prompted, "Sir?"

"If you were in need of me, I would."

"Well, then. There you have it," Harry said, satisfied.

"I don't need you to stay," Snape told him.

Harry frowned. "Since I'm the only one who knows you're here, sir—I don't think you should lie to me."

Snape's eyes dilated slightly, then he swallowed visibly. "Then...stay."

As the weeks and months passed, Harry was gratified to see that Snape seemed less and less afraid that he'd fail to reappear. Strange, but at the same time, Harry's own fear was building, that he'd one day return to find Snape gone. He good-naturedly wondered if he'd caught 'something' from the man.

But they had good reason to be fearful, he figured. Despite the many and varied ways that Harry'd tried to seek help, the result was always the same: he spoke gibberish, wrote nonsense, became befuddled or confused. After that one disastrous exhibition, where Harry'd seen firsthand what occurred when Snape tried to venture out, he'd taken the man's word that stepping into the fireplace produced the same results.

Thus began Harry Potter's lone and lonely quest to find a solution, and the unraveling of Severus Snape, formerly feared master of the dungeons, now a man beset by anxiety and neuroses.

Harry yawned and stretched out. After two years of no real progress, he felt they were on the brink of something critical. He only hoped it would prove to be a positive something.

"What're you doing out here?" Harry heard the voice, as if in his sleep. He slowly opened his eyes to find Severus looming over him.

Harry exhaled heavily as he sat up. "You slept?"

Severus nodded. "Like a rock. So..." He pointed to the settee.

"I was preoccupied. Thinking about Binns," he yawned, then patted the settee for Severus to sit beside him.

"Harry," Severus said, then paused. "Don't expect too much. This is Binns—it might all be just coincidence."

Shaking his head, Harry said emphatically. "This is something—I can feel it. I've had this feeling only twice before in my life, and I was right. Besides," he smiled slyly, "I was fairly good at Divination."

"Angels and ministers of grace, defend us," Severus murmured as he twiddled his thumbs.

Harry laughed out loud.

"You're joking?" Harry asked Severus skeptically.

"All right, I'm joking. Go to his office, since you've made up your mind."

"How can it be that I've taught for three years and I don't know this?" Harry wondered out loud, then shrugged. "So, third floor, north tower, two corridors past Sinistra's rooms, a right turn, then at the bottom of the stairway, to the left of the Nundu sculpture. All right, got it."

"He may be dead, but he's no more likely to live in his office than the rest of us." Severus headed for his lab, then just before he slammed the door, he tossed over his shoulder, "Try to stay awake."

It was late afternoon as Harry made his way to Binns' rooms. Severus and he'd got a late start to the day, having returned to bed after breakfast, then once they'd awakened, they'd taken their leisurely time to discipline each other for the wrongs of the day before. By the time they'd showered again and dressed, had lunch and read the Sunday Prophet, it had been nearly three.

Severus' directions had been spot on. Harry found Binns' door recessed in a nook beneath the stairway. He knocked twice, then felt a flash of chagrin as he wondered if Binns would be able to open it, remembering the professor's odd habit of just drifting through.

"Enter," he heard a thin, reedy voice call out.

Harry lifted the latch, which creaked ominously, then pushed the door open. It groaned as it swung on its hinges, as if it were gasping out for oil. Stepping into the room, Harry stood on the threshold, squinting toward the only light in the small sitting room—a fire in the hearth, where the pearly white figure of Binns sat nearby, perched rigidly in an armchair, a book lying open on the table beside him.

"Professor Potter," he wheezed, seeming slightly displeased.

"Professor Binns," Harry greeted him, suddenly terror-stricken. It occurred to him that the next words out of his mouth would be the most important ones he'd spoken in years.... He stared wildly at Binns as he screwed up his courage.

"Sir, I'm here to tell you that Professor Snape is alive," he said breathily, Severus' title and surname feeling strange on his tongue.

In spite of himself, Harry was literally stunned speechless. After countless attempts, after two years of agonizing befuddlement each time he'd tried, the two words had slipped out so effortlessly, that for a moment Harry doubted he'd even said them.

"Professor Snape," he tentatively said again.

"Professor Snape," he said in wonderment.

"Professor Snape!" he almost cried out, stepping forward and gripping the arms of Binns' chair, his eyes wild and wide.

Binns didn't even flinch; he sat, immobile, his grey-whitish eyes rolling slightly downward as he took in Harry's hands on his chair. Harry followed the motion, and self-consciously straightened and stepped backward. His pulse raced, and he felt the flush in his cheeks as Binns scrutinized him unhurriedly.

The ghostly man crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, then did something that Harry'd never ever seen him do before: there was a slight upturn of his lips that just might've been a smile. Harry wasn't sure, but Binns' words confirmed it.

"That must've felt good," Binns said, still studying Harry curiously.

Harry felt a thunk in his chest as his heart beat oddly. Wetting his lips, he said quietly but intensely, "You know. You know. I thought you did."

Binns sat impassively. "It took you long enough."

Harry felt as if his legs were about to give out. He motioned to the other armchair, then sat when Binns gestured impatiently for him to take it. There were so many questions, so many things that Harry was desperate to know... "How long have you known?" he asked, his voice hushed, his hands working nervously in his lap.

"Since the night of the battle, when Severus' Portkey was misdirected," he said almost mechanically.

His mind racing, Harry asked, "How did you know about the Portkey?"

"How I know is not the issue right now," was all that Binns offered.

About to object, Harry reconsidered and asked, "Do you know why? Why he ended up where he did? Why he's stuck there, why he bleeds, how he can break whatever this is?" After waiting for years with only questions, Harry was eager for answers.

Binns seemed to be deciding which one to answer, and took so long that Harry was just on the verge of asking again, when the man spoke. "One thing at a time. It was an organic Portkey?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry breathed out, relieved. "Set to activate if he were unconscious for longer than two minutes. It had to be organic, you see, because anything on his person—"

"—might've been confiscated. Yes, I'd sorted that much out."

"So, what went wrong?" Harry asked.

Frowning, Binns shook his head as he replied, "With the Portkey itself? Nothing. Its field of triangulation was disrupted. There was a major disturbance in the castle wards at the precise moment the Portkey activated. Walls and stairways in the dungeons became structurally damaged, so he was diverted elsewhere." His voice became raspy near the end of his sentence. Putting a hand to his throat, he made a wheezing sound as he attempted to clear it. His large, bulbous eyes watered slightly, oozing a thin trickle of milky fluid that he mopped up with the corner of a handkerchief.

Harry could only stare. "Sir. That only explains why he didn't end up where he should've." He tilted his head to the side, waiting expectantly.

Shooting Harry a bleary look, Binns continued, "The alteration of the Portkey's destination was intentional. Severus was deposited in his rooms, displaced as they were by the battle. He has been kept there as punishment."

It took the last sentence a moment to register. "Pardon me? Punishment? By whom?

Binns' face remained stone-like. "By the castle, of course."

Incredulous, Harry's mouth gaped, then he repeated, "The castle."

"Certainly. What did you think was keeping him in his rooms?"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry said sarcastically, still struggling with disbelief, "a Dark Arts spell, anxiety and despair—all those were fairly high on our list."

"Severus would've been able to detect a curse of that magnitude," Binns seemed to scold.

"No Dark Arts, then," Harry murmured, wishing that he could somehow inspire the professor to speak faster.

Ignoring Harry's last words, Binns was intent on telling the story his way. "The castle sensed the movement of the Portkey across the wards. Had it not intervened and diverted him, Severus would've been killed by falling stone. It moved him and his rooms to a new location." He stared over the top of his spectacles at Harry. "And then turned the proverbial key in the lock when it made that location unplottable, along with the magic that reopens his wounds if he attempts to leave."

"But why? I don't understand! Punished, you said. Punished for what?!" Harry almost shouted in exasperation.

Binns looked at him, unperturbed. "Severus' actions came home to roost." He stopped and raised an eyebrow, frustrating Harry into lashing out again.

"Professor Binns! Please. Can you just assume that I don't have a clue what you're talking about, and lay it out for me, short and simple? Well, don't leave anything out," he amended.

"Very well," Binns sniffed, then coughed a few, ear-piercingly shrill wheezes into his handkerchief. Harry had to fight to keep his seat as the man took the time to fold the kerchief into fours, before he sat back again and fixed Harry with his watery countenance.

"Severus was headmaster, you recall. It was under his watch that the Carrows operated unrestrained in the castle. Dark Arts, dark magic, torture in the dungeons, and Severus seemed to let it all go on with his blessing. That was the first offence."

"But he only did—" Harry tried to interrupt.

Binns held up a hand. "You asked why. Do you want to hear or not?" When Harry bit his lip and nodded, Binns continued, "There were also modifications made to the castle during that year—some knocking out of walls, destruction of a centuries-old fresco, several renovations to remove tunnels and passageways that had been placed there by the Founders themselves—a travesty in anyone's book." He shook his head sadly.

"Of course, the final straw was the Battle for Hogwarts. Severus was the headmaster, and as such, it was his duty to protect the castle and its occupants, no matter the danger. Instead, he seemed to take the coward's way out, and fled, abandoning it at the worst possible moment, leaving a handful of fully-trained wizards and the students on their own. The battle itself was a grievous wound to the structure of the castle, not to mention the weakening and damage to wards and enchantments that had been in place for hundreds of years. Not all visible to the naked eye, but grievous still," he stated with surprising conviction, for a man who seldom seemed to have any at all.

Harry found himself speechless again. When he finally spoke, he wasn’t entirely certain what to even ask next. "I'm sorry. I...this is...." He leant forward and rested his forehead against the heels of his hands.

"The injured and offended party, Professor Potter, is the castle itself," Binns said almost pedantically, making Harry look up in surprise.

"The castle? The castle?" he repeated. "You talk about it as if it were alive."

"Oh, it is," Binns told him matter-of-factly. "A sentient being. Not surprising of a magical edifice that is over a millennium old, constructed by four of the most powerful and ingenious wizards and witches in all of history, then inhabited by their descendants."

"It's alive," Harry repeated, as if doing so would make it more believable.

"Yes, although acorporeal, it has intelligence and consciousness, and even what resembles human emotion and sentiment. Hence its drive to protect itself when attacked to the extent that it was."

Harry was shaking his head slowly, trying to digest it all. "The night of the battle...his wounds...how..."

"He was cared for by house-elves. Any headmaster, no matter his transgressions, would've been treated thusly."

Harry was contemplative. "We guessed that they come in, though we've never seen them. Our meals too, we supposed."

Binns shrugged, then shifted uncomfortably in his chair, making Harry wonder if a ghost could actually be physically uncomfortable.

"If a house-elf does not wish to be seen, then it will not, which is the castle's express desire, in this case."

"I can't believe this. The—" Harry bit back the word 'bloody,' "—castle." He looked suspiciously at Binns. "You knew, then, from the very beginning that he was there...trapped, with no way to get out," he accused.

"I did," Binns replied, unruffled.

"Why didn't you do something? I know you don't usually get involved, but still...."

"I am bound by the same restriction as you are—an elemental form of the Fidelius—unable to divulge the secret. I looked in on him from time to time, that first year, then after your...arrival, there was no need."

Harry suddenly felt drained, overwhelmed, and outmatched. "Why did it take a year for me to find him?"

Binns stared at him, and for the first time in the entire conversation, Harry believed he detected the barest glimmer of emotion. "The castle was not aware of your...regard for him." He stopped, and seemed to be waiting for Harry to catch up. "It wasn't aware...." Binns' mouth hung slightly open as he paused mid-sentence.

Harry wanted to jump up and shake the man---the thought of which made him smile grimly. "Sir. This is a bit much. Can you just tell me?" Harry stopped suddenly, as he remembered that he already had this piece of the puzzle. "Oh, right. The staff meeting. We talked about Severus."

Nodding, Binns told him, "Your distress was obvious. When I informed the castle, it allowed you to find him."

"Like the Room of Requirement?"

"Precisely."

Harry's mind rewound the conversation. "Wait, you informed the castle? Why you? And how does that work?"

If it were possible, Binns actually looked weary. "The castle and I share a certain...synergy. Because of what I am...and certainly where I am...I am aware of it, and it of me."

Becoming weary as well, his brain overloaded by the sheer audacity of the situation, Harry asked, "Why would the castle care what I felt about him at all?"

Shocking Harry one last time, Binns smiled. "You are its champion, Professor. At least one of them."

"So, when you inform the castle, how does that work—how do you communicate—"

"Not now. "I have OWLs and NEWTs to mark, and supper is about to be served in the Great Hall for you."

When Binns stood, Harry stood with him. He felt the panic rising, as he realized that although he had information, he was no closer to a solution. "But Professor, what can we do?"

"Do?" Binns asked as he half-turned.

"Yes, do! Damn it! To get him out of there!" Harry gestured with his hands, frustration ready to boil over at last. "Don't you understand? He almost died down there last night."

Looking slightly affronted, Binns said, "Then I suggest that you advise him to temper his impulses, because he will die if he persists in trying to escape from his rooms."

Harry's shoulders slumped. "So, that's it...not that I'd expect you to care."

Binns gazed at him sadly. "Had I not cared, I would've done nothing."

Nodding slowly, Harry relented. "Fair enough. But...I'm going to need your help, sir. May I come back again? After I've talked to Severus?"

"He will no doubt have questions," Binns sighed, it seemed almost regretfully. "Good night, Professor Potter."

Harry wasn't certain what Severus' reaction would be, but he certainly hadn't expected such a display of emotion.

After allowing Harry to relate most of the story without comment, it was after the description of Severus' wrongdoings that the man exploded.

Slamming his fist on the table, making their glasses jump and Harry startle, Severus spoke in a low intense voice that Harry'd learnt as a first-year signaled barely suppressed rage. "Story of my entire fucking life," he spat out bitterly. "I've offended a bloody castle, have lost three sodding years of my life, and for what?" he demanded, the flush rising in his usually pale face.

"Severus, maybe it's just a matter of setting it straight," Harry tried. "It...the castle...didn't know," he finished lamely.

Shooting him a dark look, Severus took several deep breaths, then sat back in his chair. Summoning the Glenlivet, he refilled their glasses, seeming to take the time to calm himself; when he spoke, though, the intensity of his tone belied the strain. "How ridiculous is that, so far as excuses go? I'm imprisoned because I failed to keep the castle apprised of my true loyalties. Who would've thought?"

Harry tried again. "Well, then we just have to set the record straight."

This earned Harry a dour look. "And we do that how?"

Harry thought for a moment. "I don't actually know. Binns will, though."

Severus tilted his glass from side to side, studying the amber liquid, then glanced up at Harry. "Is it wrong, regarding any of its grievances?"

"I'm not sure I understand," Harry said after a moment.

"The things it found fault with—did I not allow the Carrows to do what they did? Did I not authorize modifications to the castle? Did I not fail to stand and protect it in its hour of greatest need?" He smiled humorlessly. "Even if we did know how to communicate with it, what could I say? Is it capable of understanding that the needs of the many outweighed its needs? I doubt it. It's an elemental consciousness, with no appreciation for subtle nuances."

"I think it's strange that it didn't know or suspect—your true character," Harry murmured as he thought.

"Hmmm, I'm not. Granted, we do not know the extent of its intelligence. I was aware that it was animate—Albus told me that long ago—but not that it was actually sentient." He stared into his glass, then downed the last of it. "You recall that Voldemort thought me loyal; what chance would a being with a heart of stone have of thinking otherwise?"

"Listen, we can research this," Harry said urgently. "This is Hogwarts—there has to be tons of stuff on this in the Ministry archives, or even here. Books on animate warding—Hogwarts isn't the only place, if I recall. We'll find a way. Now that we know..."

Severus seemed as if he hadn't heard, replying, "What if what it wants is simply its pound of flesh? Payment, or an apology," he muttered as he rubbed at his temples.

"Well, there's nothing to make right anymore—the castle's been repaired. So that leaves...."

"Just as Binns said. Punishment," Severus stated bitterly.

Harry felt a flash of fear. "But you have been! Three years' worth!" he protested.

Holding out his hands palms upward, Severus smiled wryly. "Which to a thousand year old castle would be a pittance."

"Oh god," Harry breathed.

"And I don't believe an apology on my part will do a thing." Severus seemed to scrutinize Harry's distress and come to a decision. "Still, I'm relieved." He nodded when Harry looked doubtful. "At least we know what it is—and just knowing that I can stop trying to fix myself...a freedom of sorts. All that anxiety, and for what? All along, none of it was something I could change."

"That's true," Harry agreed reluctantly.

"One thing is for certain—we know now who the enemy is, in a manner of speaking. We can take our time with the next steps, whatever those prove to be."

They sat silently for a moment, until Harry looked up and said, "I was thinking; besides talking to Binns again, I'm going to see Albus. I know I can't tell him about you, but I'll wager he could tell me some things about the castle."

Severus nodded. "He'd be the one." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Until you described it just now—what it was like to be able to tell Binns, I hadn't thought of what an ordeal it must've been—not being able to tell a soul. I was so preoccupied at the time..."

Harry waved a hand. "For the first month, I thought I'd explode. But you get used to it. Telling Binns, though. This probably won't make sense, but for the very first time...it felt like it was all real." He gestured around the room, then to Severus. "You. This."

"It makes perfect sense," Severus replied solemnly.

"We'll break this," Harry reassured him as he got up and went to stand beside him.

Pushing out his chair, Severus smiled as Harry sat sideways on his lap. "I don't know about breaking it. In that sense, I don't think there is a way to win. But perhaps there is something we'll discover, come across." He frowned as Harry shifted in his lap to remove a piece of parchment from his pocket.

Unfolding it, Harry held it out to him. Severus' face became sober as he recognized the note he'd hastily scribbled the night before.

Harry,

This was my choice. I have no regrets. Do not sully my memory with grief and regrets of your own.

~~Severus.

Severus took the parchment and placed it on the table. "I meant it—I have no regrets."

Harry twisted so he was straddling Severus' lap. "Don't you ever do such a thing again," he murmured against Severus' lips. "Do you understand? Do it again, you will have regrets. I don't care if you're dead, I'll fucking hunt you down," he threatened, then slipped his tongue in between Severus' lips, tasting the tang of the scotch as he pressed their mouths together, gasping slightly when Severus rocked his hips upward.

Of course, Severus had the last word, as he usually did. "I'll just have to make it up to you," he mumbled into Harry's neck.

Over the week that followed, Harry took advantage of the end of term to Floo to the Ministry to use the wizarding archives there. He managed to talk with a witch who was the resident expert on wards of all types, including animate ones. By Friday, he'd amassed a stack of books from various sources; Severus was systematically attacking them, one by one, interspersed with periods of brewing.

On Saturday, after the students had boarded the Express, and Minerva had left for parts unknown, Harry headed for the headmistress' office and Dumbledore's portrait. He wondered as he walked if he'd find the wizened old wizard there—more often than not, he was off on his 'grand adventure,' Harry liked to think. To be honest, even when he was in residence, talking with him was an exercise in riddles and roundabout reasoning.

Harry was pleased to find the old man there, and evidently wide awake. And even though he knew it was useless, he tried once again to tell him about Severus, and unsurprisingly, failed. Dumbledore looked at him strangely for a moment.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm fine, sir. Just a bit knackered by the end of term. OWLs and NEWTs, you know," he muttered with a slight smile. The unexpected question had reminded him that this was still Dumbledore, who didn't miss much, dead or alive.

"So, how can I help you? As of late, that's the only reason you seek me out," he chided gently.

Harry looked sheepish. "I want to know about Hogwarts," he explained, "specifically, the castle structure itself. I'm curious about it being sentient."

The headmaster seemed surprised. "Who told you?"

"Binns."

"Ah," was all he said, as he stared down his nose at Harry, but offered nothing further.

Great, Harry thought to himself, he's going to make me dig for each and every little fact. "Sir, I can't tell you why I want to know. All I can say is, I'm unable to tell you why," Harry finished cryptically.

Dumbledore waved a hand. "No matter, I'm sure you have your reasons, although I do find it intriguing that you've come to me if you've already spoken to Cuthbert."

Harry was puzzled. "Why?"

"Because his life's story is interwoven with the castle. He would know at least as much as I, most likely even more."

"Well, that makes sense. I suppose you could say that of all of Hogwarts' ghosts."

Shaking his head, the headmaster told him, "Cuthbert's circumstances are different. You do realize that almost all of our ghosts died elsewhere—then found their way here for one reason or another. But Cuthbert, I'm sure you've heard the story, he merely died of old age while teaching, and got up one morning and just carried on."

"Yeah, didn't realize he was dead until a student mentioned it," Harry agreed.

"So it goes," Dumbledore murmured as he stroked his beard. "What isn't well known, and this is between you and me, my boy, is that Professor Binns was very afraid of death and didn't want to die. Having lived here for so many years, and having delved deeply into Hogwarts' history, he was aware that the castle wasn't just an ordinary structure. He came to sense that it possessed a life force—aware and even intelligent." The old man looked from side-to-side, seeming to verify that his portrait peers were not eavesdropping, then lowered his voice.

"He struck a deal with it—he yielded up his magic—the castle absorbed it at the moment of his death, and in exchange, he was granted an indefinite and spectral existence, as well as gaining a very unique and mysterious friend—the castle itself."

"So, the castle killed him?" Harry frowned.

"No, no, of course it didn't. It simply changed what happened at the moment of death itself. His magic is now woven into the intrinsic and animate wards that have been part of the castle since the Founders' days. In a sense, all who have contributed over the years make up its soul, whether by an arrangement such as Cuthbert's, or as a headmaster or headmistress."

"That's what I wanted to ask about," Harry broke in. "How is it intelligent? I mean, does it think, like we do? How does it see? Does it have intention, or feelings?"

Dumbledore thought for a moment. "Think of it as a being equipped with the coarsest of emotion, and intellect that could best be qualified as instinctual. Almost like a child. It recognizes threats, senses well-being, can follow simple commands, enter into basic agreements for its own good, as it did with Professor Binns. And, of course, perform powerful, elemental magic."

Harry smiled. "So...it wouldn't play chess with me."

The blue eyes sparkled. "If it did, you'd be certain to win."

"All right. So, if it felt threatened, then it might do something...to protect itself."

"Oh yes, certainly. That's something the very Founders wove into its sentient core."

Nodding, Harry said, "That makes sense." He paused, then asked, "What if it made...a mistake? A misjudgment. Could you reason with it?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "As I said, it would only react to a perceived and almost certainly real threat. No mistakes."

"What if the thing it perceived as a wrongdoing really wasn’t?" Harry persisted.

"There is more than a subtle difference between a threat and a wrongdoing—but I think I understand..." He peered inquisitively at Harry, then sighed. "It would be so much easier if you could speak freely, but I'm certain you would if you could. So, I think the best I can say is that a misperception, or mistake, as you called it, would eventually be corrected." When Harry looked perplexed, he continued, "The castle has a stasis mode, in which it prefers to exist; if it ever needs to step outside of it, when the circumstances that required it to shift are dealt with, it will then revert to its prior mood, so to speak."

Harry felt his heart sink. "So...how long would that take, do you think? For it to feel safe enough to...let things go back to this...stasis mode?"

The headmaster shrugged. "That would depend on the severity of the circumstances."

Knowing he was skating close to the edge of the allowable, Harry wasn't certain the words would come out, and was slightly surprised when they did. "So...if it dealt with the threat, would it be able to be...vengeful? Beyond anything that still actually threatened it?"

Dumbledore looked shocked for a moment, then his face darkened. "I do not know. I must say I've never seen anything like that in my lifetime, but then the castle had never been exposed to such evil as it was in yours. It is true...that the castle has the potential, however sedately and slowly, to evolve."

"Binns told me that he informed the castle of something," Harry said. "How would he do that?"

The blue eyes squinted down at Harry, the lines at their edges deeply furrowed. "Since they're related through his magic, I imagine that a certain...passive communication must take place. However, that would be a question for Professor Binns."

Harry was absentmindedly absorbing this, when the next words out of the headmaster's mouth brought him abruptly back to himself.

"Professor Snape...do you know that he was one of Cuthbert's favorite students? Well, of the ones that I observed."

Trying to keep his voice even, Harry answered, "No, I didn't know that. I wonder why."

Dumbledore smiled. "Severus was an excellent student, and, as I recall, one of the very few who took an interest in Cuthbert's personal history, not that there was much to know. And as a colleague, Severus was always deferential, where others simply ignored the man—he was dead, after all." For a moment, the old man seemed to forget that Harry was there, as he mused, half-aloud, "I wonder if anyone ever thought to ask Cuthbert—what happened to Severus' body?"

Holding his breath, Harry looked slightly to the side, hoping the moment would pass, then let slip an inaudible sigh when Dumbledore moved on.

"Is there anything else, m'boy? I suggest you speak to Cuthbert—don't be afraid of his bark—he actually likes to talk, once he's been wound up a bit. Give him a try," he finished, as he turned to go with a wink and a wave. Harry caught his final words, "When you figure it out, I'd be curious to know what you're up to."

That night, after a long discussion of what Harry'd learnt from the headmaster, Severus retired early, still worn-out enough that Harry'd dosed him again with a Blood-Replenisher and a Sleeping Draught.

Harry found he couldn't sleep, and once Severus was softly snoring, he slipped from the bed, then tiptoed from the room with his jeans and shirt in hand.

Out in the sitting room, he laced up his trainers, then without really thinking about it, he let himself out and headed for the stairs.

For the next hour, he wandered the castle aimlessly, its corridors eerily silent now that the students had left. Harry was able to see well enough: moonlight streaked in through the slit-like windows of the outer walls, while torchlight flickered and reflected off the polished surfaces of stone and armor.

He had no route, no direction nor destination; he only knew he had to walk, to reach out and touch the walls, now and then, to drag his fingers along the banisters of the staircases, to inhale the unique perfume of the tapestries, to hear the strike of the clock in the distance; he walked a huge circle, encompassing every direction—north to south, then east to west—venturing upward, up onto the towers and their parapets, then, finally, spiraling downward, down into the deepest parts of the castle.

As he navigated, he wondered...where would a castle keep its soul?

Where would it concentrate its...consciousness?

Where would it fix the center of its intelligence?

Was there a place, if Harry were to find it and lay it bare, where the heart of its resentment and rage still simmered?

Or was it a spiritual being, all of these things contained neither by place nor expressed by physical form?

Questions were all he had, he thought wryly to himself as he took the stairs to the dungeons where he'd started, but then he hesitated, and instead, stepped into the corridor a floor above, where Severus' rooms had once been located.

Well, technically, Severus' rooms still were located there, where they'd always been. Harry'd been here once before; during his first year of teaching, the year before he'd found Severus, he'd spent an evening here, just sitting alone in the dark, trying to reconcile the two Snapes he'd had in his head: the one he'd known as a teacher, and the one he'd last glimpsed in a Pensieve. He hadn't thought to wonder then why the rooms had been devoid of belongings and furniture; he'd assumed that the professor had moved them all to the headmaster's rooms, for that final year.

In actuality, Severus had kept his rooms in the dungeons, and had only used the headmaster's office during the day. Harry knew that the real rooms of Severus Snape lay, unplottable, just a floor below him; while these...these were just a place-holder, the evidence of a destination gone wrong, the grave marker of someone who'd been judged by stone and granite and found wanting.

Harry shuddered, and felt a wild fear that these empty rooms, in a sordid twist of fate, would refuse to allow him to leave. How ironic, if the castle were to take offense that he, Harry Potter, was ready to stand up and state the case for the defendant, the accused, who'd been judged, sentenced and imprisoned without a hearing.

He could see where an interior wall had been repaired, evidence of the damage of which Binns had spoken, the hewn stone a slightly different shade of charcoal. The floor also appeared to have been replaced. Harry's heart skipped a beat as he thought of Binns' words, that had the castle not acted, Severus would've been dead, and right before him was the undeniable evidence. For a fleeting moment, despite how horrible it all was, Harry felt a flash of gratitude.

"Thanks for what you did," he murmured, feeling slightly foolish as he reached out and literally caressed the fitted stones. "Now, if I could just tell you..." He stopped suddenly, then leant his forehead against the stone. "You're wrong about him. I don't know if you can understand that, but you are. I know how it seemed when all this happened, but you were wrong...respectfully." Harry was beyond caring how foolish he felt. There was still the most important part of his message to deliver.

"Let him go," he said as he pushed away from the wall. Glancing once around the rooms, he walked to the door then paused to turn again. He said it again, louder and with a slight trace of anger, "Let him go."

* * *

When they'd first learnt the reason from Binns, Severus had spent days floating on a cloud of optimism. No obscure, irreversible Dark Arts spell to counter, no intricately constructed personal psychoses to attempt to untangle—merely the ill will of a castle imbued with a magic of its own—how difficult could it be? he'd thought at first.

The books on meditation and cognitive therapy were relegated to a pile in the corner, while the two of them dug in and read books on wards and Hogwarts lore from cover to cover, taking notes, not speaking for hours as they blazed a trail through every volume Harry could find.

"Binns isn't much help," Harry complained one night.

Severus scoffed, "I'm not surprised. Remember, he's not entirely there."

"Well, Sir Nicolas isn't all there either, and he'd try to help," Harry argued.

Studying him for a moment, Severus pointed out, "You realize, Binns' relationship with the castle is different than his, and the other ghosts as well?"

"Yeah, because of that little bargain," Harry recalled, looking thoughtful.

"So, to them, the castle is just a place to haunt. But for Binns—he's actually a part of it, and it of him."

Harry stared at him for a moment. "Your point?"

Severus smiled grimly. "Haven't you wondered why Binns didn't show himself to me that first year? I did. And I've come to the conclusion that he couldn’t, in a sense. Because the punishment was to afflict me with isolation and uncertainty. And Binns, knowing this, couldn’t blatantly undermine the castle's wishes."

"But he wanted to," Harry said. "He told me, and I quote, 'It's one thing to linger here as a ghost; it's quite another to be imprisoned in a dungeon alone and allowed to slowly go mad.' See, Severus, he wanted to help, but he couldn't."

Nodding, Severus replied, "Not until he was able to pull your wishes into the mix."

"Yeah, I guess so," Harry agreed. "Thank god I got drunk, eh?"

"Indeed," Severus remarked.

"And I wonder why he couldn't make the castle understand, you know, afterwards. That things weren't how they seemed, so far as you were concerned."

Severus grimaced. "That doesn't bode well. It's either because it was incapable of understanding, or even worse, unwilling to consider that it had misjudged."

After weeks of poring over dozens of volumes on animate wards, and quite a few on Hogwarts itself, along with Harry's frequent councils with Binns, Severus knew he had to face the truth that was staring them both in the face: there was no clear solution, and even worse, there wasn't even a tangible enemy for them to call out.

"Revenge is a dish best served cold, so it's said, cold and hard as unforgiving stone," Harry lamented on one particular evening.

"So it would seem," Severus murmured, as he sat back in his chair and surveyed the stacks of books they'd gone through. Strangely, though, he was no longer anxious; he felt resigned, but not overwhelmed. Harry would no doubt deem this attitude fatalistic, but he'd disagree.

He realized the next morning that he wanted to brew, that he wanted to read some Muggle fiction, that he was tired of chasing after a resolution that more than likely wasn't even there.

So he began to order his days anew, returning to his potions research, brewing experimentally, reading the unabridged works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, taking a nap when he felt like it, and enjoying the company and agile body of his young lover. For the first time in the whole bloody affair, Severus felt a certain measure of acceptance. He would continue to search for a solution, but his every waking thought was no longer consumed by it.

Harry, on the other hand, seemed to become more restless, even agitated, in sharp contrast to Severus. He continued to dig through book after book, finding a new idea here and there, rifling through their notes, extracting a page, then muttering to himself as he spread out the parchment. He invariably ended at a new dead end, and then would sit moodily at the table with his head in his hands.

For the most part, Severus let him go, but found himself becoming increasingly irritated with Harry's frustration, especially when it boiled over into personal accusations.

"Severus, stop that."

"Why?" Severus asked, as he continued to work his fingers at the nape of Harry's neck.

A sigh of frustration. "I'm reading."

"Then stop."

"Severus!"

"If you can't concentrate, then stop."

"I could concentrate if you'd stop."

"Come on, I'll give you a massage."

Harry glared at him. "Don't you want to get out of here? Am I the only one who thinks it's important to find out all we can? Cause it feels like you're willing to let me do all the work."

At the look on Severus' face, Harry relented. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I know that's not true."

"No, it isn't." Severus took the book from Harry's hand. "All work and no play makes Harry a dull boy. Let it go for a while," he urged as he began to unbutton Harry's shirt.

Harry looked reluctantly at the book, then smiled when Severus leant in to hold him by the shoulders, forcing Harry's head to the side so he could suck at the skin of his neck, one of Harry's 'secret' spots.

For the moment, the book was entirely forgotten.

One evening in late July, alarmed by the spectacle of Harry pulling at the roots of his hair, Severus laid his book aside, got up from his chair, then went to stand beside him. Reaching down, he picked up the parchment that Harry'd just thrown aside. Briefly scanning it, Severus said, "Ah, yes. We discussed this before. Not a realistic option."

Harry looked up at him blearily, then snatched the parchment from him and carefully laid it atop one of the stacks in front of him. "I know. Thanks for taking the time to come over here and point that out to me," he said sarcastically.

Severus stiffened. "You should set this aside. You've been working non-stop for days."

"Yeah, well, someone's got to do something," Harry said in a low voice, shooting Severus an accusing glare.

Severus stared down at him for a moment. "For now, there's nothing we can do," he replied stonily.

"You can't mean that," Harry said. "This is just like when I found you—you wouldn't have done anything, had I not—"

"This is nothing like the beginning," Severus hissed. "For the first time in years, my mind is clear. So you're going to shut your mouth and let me lay it out for you. Understood?" he asked imperiously as he took the chair opposite.

Harry's eyes grew wide and wary. "Oh sure, go ahead. I can't remember the last time you had something to say about this."

Exercising what he thought to be considerable restraint, Severus said, "I was letting you do what you thought you must. But now, I see this has only made things worse." He paused, clasped his hands in front of him, then leant forward to command Harry's attention with his eyes.

"You've been teaching for three years. Two of them, you've spent with me—all in all, twenty-one fairly miserable years of your young life—and what do you have to show for it?" He held up his hand. "I'm not referring to your public life and considerable accomplishments. You're being cheated, Potter, that's why you're impatient, why you're so unhappy with me right now, because deep down inside, you've had enough."

He sat back in his chair, and studied the sullen look on Harry's face, then decided to once again give Harry his chance. No matter if Severus had to drive him away with words that were hurtful and perhaps not true; in the end, it would be best for both of them, and Severus had to admit that the one thing that bothered him most when he considered the possibility of the rest of his life in these rooms, was the specter of Harry growing old there beside him.

"You see your friends, people your own age...living...and all you want to do is solve this problem of mine, fix me, so you can move on. It's your most striking character flaw—you've no idea of when to say, 'Enough. I've done all that I can do,'" he finished in a low voice.

Drumming his fingers distractedly on the table top, Severus glanced around the room, and then back to Harry. "I'm tired, Harry. I've spent the last three years...on the edge of my chair." He allowed the anguish to glitter in his eyes. "Now that I know why I'm here, I've made a sort of peace with it, at least for the time being."

During his discourse, Harry's face had transformed from pink, to beet red, to an unhealthy white, where two spots of color remained in the center of his cheeks. His eyes, at first shocked with disbelief, now only showed reproof. "How can you just give up?" he asked, distressed.

"I didn't say that. I'm...gathering my strength, regrouping, in fact. I've chosen not to become a blithering, anxiety-ridden idiot over this. And you're making that choice difficult." He stood to his feet and stared down at Harry impassively. "So, if you want to spew rage and discontent, I'll remind you that you've a set of rooms of your own," Severus finished icily, forcing himself to not look back as he made for his armchair.

He sat just in time to see Harry storm for the Floo, and without a backward glance, he was gone, leaving the sound of his destination echoing in the room.

"There's a start," Severus said dryly, "Harry Potter's rooms." He returned to The Valley of Fear, but after a few moments of pretending to concentrate, he gave up with a sigh, set the tome aside, then nodded off, wondering to himself how he would ever begin to keep his days and nights straight, if Harry took his life elsewhere.

Severus awoke to the sound of the whooshing of the Floo, and was still trying to focus his eyes when Harry knelt in front of him, his hands on Severus' knees.

"Nice try," Harry said somewhat scornfully. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Sighing, Severus shook his head. "It was worth a try." He smiled as he flicked Harry on the cheek.

"But since you brought it up, I decided it's time to set a few things straight," Harry said firmly as he sat back on his heels.

"I know, you're attached to me," Severus said wearily.

"True, I am. But it's not what you said, that I just need to solve 'you' so I can move on. That was just...not fair at all." Severus tried to interrupt, but Harry was having none of it. "Shut it and listen," he threatened, then went on. "I have to solve it because it's you. It's you that's stuck, you that gets it into your head to give up, you that's making me frantic. Because I..." he faltered, then sat still for a moment, just looking up at Severus. "I love you. So I can't sit by and not do anything. Sure, it'd be great to crack this thing; we could both just fly off into the sunset, but if we can't, and we end up...I don't know...stuck here, well, I'm in. Because...I love you." He looked down self-consciously at his hands, then back up again. "Don't you know that?"

Severus nodded solemnly. "I do."

And in that flash of a moment, Severus realized that he'd known this for a long while. He searched for something to say, something that would help Harry, something that might be the least bit reassuring, but in the end, Severus remembered what it was that'd always helped him on those days where he'd felt so out of control and powerless, when he'd felt so weak and insecure.

Holding out his hands, he pulled Harry toward him. "I know it's an unusual request, given our...preferences," he murmured after a leisurely kiss. "But I think that tonight...this would make you feel better about things. There's something...right there at the end of sex...something after I've taken you...something that makes me feel as if I could conquer the world."

Harry pulled back, the question in his eyes.

"Fuck me, Harry."

Harry did exactly that.

Severus would eventually second guess his decision to withdraw himself from the most addictive of his potions; omitting the Calming Draughts during the day caused him only some transient discomfort over the course of a week. The lack of Sleeping Draught, however, left him irritable and jittery for weeks, not to mention insomniac. The side effects continued, even though he was decreasing the dose as gradually as he could.

Lying awake at night, though, he was acutely aware that, if possible, Harry was getting even less sleep than he. Severus tossed and turned, punched his pillow, made trips to the sideboard for a finger of scotch, took warm baths, read boring poetry, all in the pursuit of the elusive sleep. Some nights he grumbled at Harry's absence for hours on end, certain that he would've been able to sleep, if only Harry were there, warm and tucked in beside him.

On an evening in early August, Severus waited, sitting on the settee in the darkened sitting room. When Harry Flooed in, he stopped in his tracks. "Lumos," he called up the lights, then startled when he saw Severus where he sat.

"What are you doing sitting in the dark?" Harry asked.

"Where have you been? Do you realize you've been gone since midnight? It's been eighteen bloody hours—I was..." Severus refused to say it.

Sinking down beside him on the settee, Harry laid his head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I was up all night, then stopped by my rooms and nodded off. I can't believe I slept that long," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, Severus. I really am. I'd've been worried as well."

Severus harrumphed, then shifted so that his arm was around Harry's shoulders. "Where do you walk at night?"

"Oh...down here, the dungeons. The towers, and the classrooms. Sometimes I sit in the Great Hall." He paused, rubbing his hand over Severus' knee. "Everywhere. I go everywhere."

"I can understand your talking to it, but I don't understand the walking. It's wearing you out—you've lost weight, do you know?" Severus chided him.

"Well, I don't want to miss someplace important. If it's so aware, then it should know what I'm saying. Or at least know that I'm trying. Why else would I be doing what I'm doing?" he asked rhetorically.

As he'd done for the past week, Severus took an exhausted Harry off to bed, in a reversal of roles where it was Severus who'd become the caretaker and comforter. He was not altogether certain that he preferred it that way.

Severus soon had occasion to ruminate over the effects of lack of sleep on the human psyche. He and Harry were engaged in a disoriented two-step of insomnia, as Severus struggled with withdrawal, while Harry's obsession with communicating with the castle left him wide-awake and wandering.

As he lay in bed one night, alone while Harry labored over books at the table, Severus humorlessly recalled their conversation of months ago, of feeling like Alice and the rabbit.

Poor Alice, he thought to himself.

She went down the hole after the rabbit, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. Oh to be sure, there were times when she looked around herself and wondered if she should be concerned, but like Harry, she just kept telling herself that the answer was surely just ahead.

Unlike Harry, though, Alice had never professed to love the rabbit. Although he'd suspected as much, Severus wished that the words had remained unspoken, hung now as they were like a weight around his heart. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, to be sure, but an ever-pressing presence, a subtle reminder that he was, in a sense, responsible for the well-being of someone besides himself.

Not an uncomfortable sensation at all, he thought as he yawned and rolled over, thinking with the last of his consciousness that perhaps Alice had sub-consciously loved the rabbit, which would've explained her lemming-like behavior....

When he startled awake, Severus wasn't sure how long he'd slept, but he could tell by the bed that Harry'd not come in yet.

Pulling on his dressing gown, Severus took the corridor to the sitting room, where he poured himself a Glenlivet, all the while listening to the almost continuous muttering at the table. He turned and walked to stand at Harry's elbow, then watched in amazement, as Harry scribbled furiously on a parchment.

"It's not a matter of time. That won't be a problem, 'cause how long could we need?" Harry asked as he pointed his quill at Severus, then before he could answer, pulled a book from the pile and began to frantically flip through the pages.

"How long could we need?" Severus asked doubtfully, not certain that Harry would even hear him in his mania.

Harry flung the book aside, ferreted for another, then crowed, "Here it is!" triumphantly. He proceeded to run his finger down the center of the page as he frowned. "Or maybe it isn't."

"Here what is?" Severus asked, more than slightly alarmed, as he slipped into the chair adjacent to Harry's.

"The sequence," Harry muttered as he paged through another book. Severus was just on the verge of speaking up, when Harry almost shouted, "Finally! This is it! Do you know what this means?" he asked suddenly, looking happily at Severus.

"No, I don't. So, tell me," Severus said, his forehead in his hand, his head turned to the side as he tiredly watched Harry.

"It's all here," Harry said enthusiastically, his face flushed. "I've been thinking about this for days, and tonight, I found the key to the whole thing—the key to dropping the wards is in the order—which ones you do first, and so on. Of course," he said, his face darkening, "that doesn't necessarily address how to put them back up."

Severus had a very bad feeling, and voiced it. "Drop which wards?"

For the first time, it seemed to register with Harry that Severus was there. "Uh, listen, Severus, I know what you're going to say, but it's really the only way. I can't find where it's ever been done, but dropping the castle wards, only for a very short time, would be our chance to get you out. They're only wards, after all, and so in theory—"

"Drop the castle wards?" Severus had to work to get the words out. He took a deep breath, then stood to his feet, and leant his hands atop the table. "Are you out of your bloody mind?" Even though Harry winced, Severus raged on. "Hogwarts' wards cannot be dropped, ever. Do you understand what you're suggesting?" he asked incredulously. "They're the culmination of centuries of construction—individuals who bequeathed warding spells upon their deaths, layer upon layer of both animate and inanimate grids, not to mention the ritualized warding added by every headmaster and headmistress that Hogwarts has ever known, myself included." He glared at Harry.

"We're talking about seconds here," Harry tried to protest.

"You recall what we read? About Burdock Muldoon? Fifteenth century?"

Harry paled suddenly. "Yeah, but he was planning on doing some—"

"It doesn’t matter what he was planning! The point is the wards can never be brought down! Never! And if you tried, the results would be disastrous!"

"Not if I had help," Harry mumbled defiantly, turning the parchment as he pushed it in front of Severus. "If you'd look, you'll see that theoretically it could be done. A bit of coordination would be required."

Severus stared down at the parchment for a moment, suddenly deflated as he realized the amount of work that Harry'd put into this destined-for-doom project, a harebrained scheme that could easily kill both of them. He sank back into his chair, then reached out and took Harry's shaking hands in his own.

"Tell me, how would you have someone help you? It would take at least a dozen to even begin to attempt this."

Harry looked suddenly crestfallen. "I hadn't thought that far ahead yet. I was concentrating," he paused as he bit his lip, then pulled his hands away and buried his face in them, so that his next words were muddled," on whether it would work at all."

"Well, you can't ask anyone, can you? What reason could you give for doing it? Even if the so-called Fidelius didn't prevent you, whomever you asked would think you mad."

Rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, Harry then slowly lowered them. "I've never asked the Ministry for anything," he said flatly.

"Harry," Severus tried to warn him off.

"Not a thing. I could've, you know," Harry pointed out, his green eyes slightly wild, sending a chill of fear through Severus. "Look what I did—I could've run away—I could've said, 'No, do it yourself.' You know how that would've turned out, and so did I, so I stayed, and did what was right." His eyes clouded over. "I should be able to ask, and they should do it, no questions. They owe me that much, and once it's over, once you're free, they'll understand." He lifted his chin defiantly. "I could tell them that I want to be Keeper of the Wards. It's my right, since I killed Voldemort."

Sighing, Severus answered, "You know that's a figurative title—there hasn’t been a single Keeper since Muldoon, and you and I both understand why. Harry," he tried to take Harry's hand again, but was rebuffed, so he pursed his lips and braced himself for the worst, "they'll never agree to it without a reason. And even if you gave them one, it's still preposterous."

Harry pushed back his chair, then stood. The hurt clear in his eyes, he nodded to Severus before he turned for the Floo. "What I want should be reason enough."

Severus didn't turn, and heard the muttered destination a moment later. He sat at the table and stared at the mound of books and parchments, Harry's writing apparent on many of them. Hours, no, days of work, frittering away Harry's energy on an idea that Severus should've cared enough to at least take an interest...and in this case, supply the brake for Harry's out-of-this-world delusion.

It was miserable enough when just one of them teetered on the brink of instability, Severus thought to himself. And now, Harry had finally succumbed to the pressure of finding solutions where Severus suspected there were none, and had gone off, tilting at windmills.

Although he'd deny that he was in despair, Severus suddenly felt as if he were very close to the edge of it. Trudging to his lab, he took not one, but two doses of Sleeping Draught. He remembered a time when sleep had truly been his only respite, and now, he desperately wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and wait for blissful oblivion.

Lying alone in their bed, Severus felt the familiar tendrils of the draught as it soothed his jangled nerves. He wondered idly what Harry said when he talked to the castle, then decided, what could it hurt? Not feeling the least bit foolish, he spoke without hesitation.

"Guilty as charged. But him—he's not done a thing. Come to think of it, you are in his debt. So fix whatever this is, if you please. Good night."

* * *

Harry should've known in mid-July, during one of his visits to Binns, that the path he was on was a perilous one. He'd not been able to see it at the time; at that point, he'd been too invested in his theory to hear the note of caution.

"I've always loved Hogwarts," Harry told Binns expansively. "And it makes sense to me, that it's alive. A great deal of sense."

"It does?" Binns asked, expressionless.

"Yeah, I like to think that when no one's here, it still has itself. Nice thought, that."

Leveling a look at him, Binns queried, "Even though it holds your lover captive?"

"Yeah, even though." Harry cocked his head to the side, then asked, "How did you know...about us?"

"The castle knows, therefore so do I."

Harry eyed him knowingly. "Oh...I see."

Binns seemed affronted. "I've not entered his rooms since you came."

Harry thought for a moment. "So, that means...you did before I came? He said you never—"

"Only twice, just after his...accident, when he was still very ill. To make certain he was recovering..." Binns sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Do you remember him as a student, sir?" Harry asked, curious.

A look of pure chagrin flooded Binns' face. "I've taught History of Magic for decades upon decades," he murmured, absent-mindedly twirling a straggly lock of hair with a slender fingertip. "But yes, I remember him."

"What was he like?"

Binns smiled, a rare sight. "He reminded me of myself. Quiet. Secretive. Bullied by others. And yet...sensitive. Oh yes, and very intelligent. So far as my subject matter, he was best in his year."

None of this was surprising to Harry. "And as a teacher?" he prodded further.

Sniffing, Binns stated, "I never observed him in the classroom."

"No, I meant as a colleague," Harry clarified.

Binns thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Without reproach. He..." Binns paused as he chose his words, "...treated me as if I were there."

Harry didn't need to ask—he understood completely.

It was Harry's turn to be surprised, when Binns asked a question. "He is sharing your research, this obsession with castle lore?"

"Well, he's not obsessing, no, but he helps," Harry confessed.

Seeming puzzled, Binns wagged a finger at him. "Remember what I told you. If you are to succeed, the answer will not lie in tricking or finding a weakness in the castle. I cannot believe Severus would pursue such nonsense."

"No tricking," Harry reassured him. "Just learning all we can; knowledge is power, Severus says."

Pursing his lips, Binns didn't appear convinced. "Sometimes it begets folly."

Harry knew that research wasn't the only thing with which he'd become obsessed. He'd taken to wandering the castle in the wee hours. He always started the night in bed beside Severus, but almost invariably, within an hour or two he was up, driven by something inside himself. He felt as if he were on a mission to map the castle with his feet, murmuring as he went, talking to it as if it were an old friend, telling it about his day, or about his life, his hopes and dreams, about his lover and his anguish.

His footsteps were soft and caressing, his hands gentle and expressive, as he walked, trailing a hand along the stone as he went. Sometimes he stopped and pressed himself against a wall, not speaking, as he closed his eyes and concentrated, communing.

Other times, he'd throw himself face-first to the floor, spread-eagled, arms out like a supplicant imploring for mercy, promising to pay whatever penance was due.

Of course, he was aware that Severus wasn't happy that he was gone so often, as he was always awake when Harry returned; sometimes he wouldn't even be in bed, but off brewing, or reading...or brooding.

Harry'd been so self-absorbed that he was stunned when he finally figured it out: Severus was in drug withdrawal. He'd been slightly miffed, as he worked at the table alone, but as he studied Severus while he read, he saw all the signs: jittery hands, a twitching in his face, his knee bouncing restlessly as he jiggled his foot. Unbidden, the other evidence came to mind—Severus' lack of appetite, and increasing insomnia.

When Harry confronted him, Severus didn't even try to lie. In fact, he startled Harry by taking the offensive.

"For someone who's so concerned that I don't do anything to help, you've now decided that what I've chosen to do, I shouldn't," Severus snapped at him.

"How is this helping? I don't see why you're doing it now! You're irritable as hell—biting my head off—and you're barely sleeping at all," Harry said exasperatedly.

"Neither are you," Severus shot back.

"At least I'm doing something productive!"

"Really? Roaming a deserted castle, talking to walls and empty rooms? Dancing with the armor, are we?" At the look on Harry's face, Severus' expression softened. He looked away and seemed to stare at a crack in the mantel. "I...misspoke. I'm not myself...I know you're doing this for me," he finished softly.

"For me too. There's no me without you," Harry said, deciding not to mince words.

Severus looked up at him sharply. "Truly pathetic."

"Truly," Harry agreed soberly, then looked back to his parchment. Severus' voice made him look up again.

"Just so you know, I anticipate being a free man again someday soon—it won't do to present myself to the world as a drug-addicted wreck, when I finally am."

Harry decided to give in and cheered with a smile, "Hear, hear!"

Harry hadn't shut his eyes the entire night, which was not unusual these days. He had, however, after his perambulation of the castle, returned to his own stale rooms, where he'd sat on the settee and stared off into space. He hadn't bothered with showering or breakfast, but had felt a twinge of guilt as he thought of Severus, whom he was convinced must be so disgusted with him that he should stay away for a while.

They'd argued about his plan to bring down the wards, and Harry'd left, but now...now he was going to make it right...in a roundabout way.

When the tower clock struck nine, Harry was out of his seat like a shot, striding along the corridors, then pummeling his fist forcefully on Binns' door. He sometimes suspected that the man didn't answer when he was actually there; Harry intended to stay and pound away until he was let in.

When Binns finally opened the door, Harry pushed his way in. "Good morning, sir." He turned and waited impatiently while his host closed the door, then shuffled back to his chair, shooting Harry a reproachful look.

"I've hit on an idea," Harry said, his voice intense. When Binns only stared at him, he went on. "I think we should drop the wards."

"No," was the instantaneous response, Binns sitting up straight, craning his neck forward.

"I know it's been tried once before, but this time—"

"No!" Binns said, a bit louder, looking alarmed.

"—it could work. Not the intrinsic ones, just the wizard-made ones. I'll go to the Ministry." Harry stopped to take a breath.

"And tell them what? What possible reason could you give for wanting to do it?" Binns asked, flummoxed.

"They'll do it because I ask them to."

"They won't," Binns disagreed, shaking his head.

"Yes, they will," Harry said emphatically.

"THEY WON'T! ARE YOU DEAF, BOY? I don't care if you're Merlin himself, they won't! Even if you were able to tell them why, that it's Severus' life hanging in the balance, not in a dragon's age would they even consider dropping the wards!"

For the first time, Harry felt his confidence falter. "I could try on my own," he said stubbornly.

Binns laughed out loud, a frightening sound. "You are powerful, but you would fail. The wards are woven of complex and ancient enchantments, strengthened by the magic of witches and wizards long dead. It would be presumptuous of even the great Harry Potter to disturb the symbiosis of ages."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it. He slumped into the armchair opposite Binns and sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

"What did Severus have to say about this?" Binns asked neutrally, his anger and derision gone.

Shaking his head, Harry said, "Besides bring up Burdock Muldoon? Same as you...only he didn't scream at me."

"Astounding restraint."

Feeling suddenly stupid and anxious to flee, Harry stared at his palms, tracing his lifeline with a finger.

"This may be hard to accept at your age, but you must consider the facts and be grateful," Binns said, almost solicitously.

"The facts," Harry repeated as he looked up, deciding to ignore the 'grateful' part.

"Severus is provided for—he has food, clothing and shelter. Companionship, even."

"He's not free, sir, and he should be!" Harry objected fiercely. "He's done nothing to deserve this."

"No, but for now, perhaps what you need to do is to step back...and wait."

"Wait?" Harry asked, scandalized.

"Yes, I know, it's difficult, but—"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I think he's waited far too long," Harry ended bitterly.

Harry could barely contain his fury as he walked. He'd intended to meander down to the lake, maybe skip some stones, but had ended up doing something he'd never done: walk the outer circumference of the castle.

He traipsed along with his head down, staying as close as he could to the walls, grinding his teeth, hands rolled into fists so tight he could feel his fingernails dig into his palms.

In places, because of the rocky and uneven terrain, he had to detour away from the structure, so that by the time he'd made the whole circle around, he was tired and sweaty and dejected, more than any day he could recall since the end of the war.

Returning to his rooms, he stood in the shower and let the water cascade over him. He pondered his actions of the past several weeks, and wondered how he could face Severus, when he'd taken them so far afield.

Severus...

He became slightly panicked when he realized how long he'd left the man alone.

Out of the shower, he dried himself then moved quickly to dress, wincing when he heard the mantel clock strike eleven.

Severus...what time did I leave him last night? It wasn't quite midnight...god! It's been almost twelve hours!

He nervously did up his shirt buttons, then sat to pull on his shoes. Too long, he's been alone too long! What if he....

Tossing his shoes to the side, Harry raced to the Floo, then whirled through the vortex, a short trip that seemed to take forever. Stumbling out into Severus' rooms, he stopped, his hand reaching out to hold onto the mantel. The room was still, the clock the only sound. Harry could barely breathe as he took in his surroundings.

Severus was nowhere in sight...but...

There was a cup of tea, steaming on the small table in the sitting room, and a book set to the side...

Harry streaked for the door, not caring that he jostled the table and spilt the tea. He was almost there, his feet skidding on the polished floor...

"Harry."

At the sound of the voice, Harry turned.

There was Severus, clad only in his boxers, one side of his face clean-shaven, the other white with soap lather. His hand still held the straight razor, and his face... At first it showed mild surprise, but as the silence between them lengthened, he seemed to suddenly understand what Harry must've feared, and his face then became darker, and infinitely sadder.

Harry felt suddenly weak-kneed, with a lump in his throat that he was mortified would turn into a sob, overwhelmed as he was by the possibility that had briefly but wrongly paralyzed him.

Severus stared at him, lifted an eyebrow, then when Harry didn’t speak, he shrugged as he began to turn away.

Later that night, Harry would lie awake and stop to consider what happened next. What had turned his terror, then abrupt relief, into an uncontrollable rage that he hadn't stopped to question or control? He'd come to the conclusion that it'd been the crowning of a fury that he'd felt for weeks; everything had angered him: the castle, Severus, Binns, the wards, and then the final straw—that because of his own immaturity, Severus had stepped out again.... Only to find that he was alive and well, and was actually engaged in something as mundane as shaving...while Harry had thought....

In several long strides, Harry crossed the room, the sound of his footsteps making Severus turn back to face him, just in time for Harry to grab him harshly by the shoulders and shake him. Severus threw up his hands, the razor clattering to the floor, as Harry two-stepped them both until Severus was backed against the settee.

"I thought you were dead," Harry muttered.

Severus stared at him, then reached behind to brace himself against the settee. "You were mistaken," he said calmly.

It was Severus' unflappable sang-froid that did it; Harry assumed that the faint ping he imagined he heard in that moment was the final thread of his self-control as it snapped.

He reached out and fastened a hand on either side of Severus' head, fixing him in place as he plunged. Their mouths bumped against each other, slippery and strange-tasting, as their tongues twisted and licked the bitter tang of the lather. Severus kept his hands against the settee, leaning backward, as Harry leant forward to use his mouth as a weapon, seizing and biting and sucking.

There was no resistance when Harry pulled away just enough to spin Severus in place, pushing him almost brutally against the settee, one hand jerking his boxers down, while the other reached around to his face to scoop up the rest of the lather.

Palming it over his cock, Harry forced Severus' shoulders forward, as he kicked his feet apart. Using a hand to find his place, Harry rammed the head of his cock in between the slightly hairy cheeks, then gave a sudden thrust that almost toppled them both over the settee.

"God, Harry..."

...who didn’t answer, but pulled back, sliding an arm around Severus' chest, then bit down on the round of the shoulder at the same time as he pistoned forward. Severus hissed, but didn't complain, reaching around with his arms to fasten his hands behind Harry's thighs, then gave an almost superhuman pull, cinching them so tightly together that Harry barely had room to maneuver.

Harry concentrated on bending his knees and straightening them, each movement giving him leverage to penetrate and pound, until he flattened his face against the sweaty flat of Severus' back. With all of his strength, he held on, his nails digging jagged bruises at Severus' collarbones, as he came in long, jerky pulses that took him from the soles of his feet to the tips of his toes with every single one.

He was still holding on when he felt Severus push away from the settee. In a daze, Harry supposed he should've been horrified that he hadn't satisfied his partner—he always took care to do it, but for some unfathomable reason he just held on like a baby with its arms around its mother's neck, vaguely aware of the rhythmic motion and grunting as Severus finished himself off.

There was a blur of movement, in slow motion, as Severus turned and wrapped Harry in his arms. Harry thought for a moment that maybe, just maybe, what Binns suggested wouldn't be so bad—that they could live on as they were...and wait—but then he looked up and met Severus' eyes.

So piercing...so warm...so knowing. Harry felt shattered as he realized that his innermost thoughts had been exposed. He tried to sink to the floor, but Severus pulled him along to the shower.

When Severus was toweling him off, Harry asked him, "What's wrong with me?"

"You're grieving," Severus said matter-of-factly.

"Grieving."

"Yes, you've lost something precious. First you denied it, then you were angry. You tried to figure a way out so that it would work. But it wouldn't—your Ministry to the rescue of the wards scheme."

"Ohhhhh," Harry breathed. He watched as Severus threw the towel into the corner, then turned so they were facing each other. "What's next, then? What're we going to do?" he asked, struggling hard not to sound as desperate as he felt.

Severus smiled slowly. "Go to bed, of course."

"It's only noon," Harry said, tempted to smile back, but not quite.

"When has that ever stopped us?" Severus asked dryly, taking Harry by the hand

It felt good to let himself be led, Harry discovered, after so many weeks of feeling like he had to conquer the world for the two of them. He felt exhaustion eating away at his resolve to keep his eyes open and talk for a while, so he didn't waste time once they were wrapped in the coverlet, chest to back.

"Severus...I’m sorry," Harry murmured, then smiled as a hand drifted up to tweak his nipple.

"Don't be. You were distraught. Neither of us is a prize when we're angry."

"No, not about that. Well, yes, that too."

"What then?" Severus sighed at his ear.

"That I couldn't figure a way out."

"Shhhh. I don't recall anyone setting that task for you."

"I had to try, Severus. I had to."

"I know."

There was a pause so long that Harry was certain Severus was asleep, but he knew he'd not be able to sleep until he asked.

"What'll we do now?"

Severus didn't hesitate. "It'll come to us."

Two weeks before the start of term, Harry forced himself to face the truth—he was depressed. Depressed by everything. Certainly by the thought that another year was about to begin, and here they still were. Depressed by the thought that his days were about to be filled with teaching and marking and students clamoring for his time. Depressed that there would be even less time to spend with Severus and the puzzle of getting him out.

Severus had given in and restarted his potions again, although Harry wasn't entirely certain why. Since then, the man has somehow seemed strange to Harry—not anxious, thank god, but too complacent for Severus Snape, and disturbingly agreeable, albeit a trifle flat. He napped every afternoon while Harry continued to read and brood in the sitting room. They'd fallen into a routine of eating dinner, reading for a while, then Severus would be in bed by nine, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

They hadn't had sex since that day when Harry'd gone off half-cocked. They tried, though, and Severus had been accommodating enough, but when it became obvious that their hearts weren't in it, they just stopped, neither of them able to meet the other's eyes as they shifted their bodies in the bed.

It suddenly came to Harry one evening, just after Severus had bid him goodnight.

After weeks of being out of step with one another, they were finally synchronized toe-to-toe—both of them depressed.

Days later, a slight spanner was thrown into the works when Minerva reappeared. Harry was in his room, starting to sort through his class notes for the coming year, when there was a knock at his door.

"When did you get back?" he asked as he cleared parchments from a chair so she could sit.

"Two days ago. Why haven't you been in the Great Hall for meals?" she asked pointedly.

"I just got back myself, late last night. Didn't get up until almost noon," he told her, taking the chair opposite. He found it much easier to lie to her now, for some strange reason. He was about to consider this intriguing development, when she spoke again.

"Might I ask where you've been? Hagrid says he's not seen you in weeks. And Hermione tells me you begged off your visit."

"Well, it's sort of personal. I was...staying with a friend." He congratulated himself for this non-lie, then pictured himself and Severus in flagrante delicto, managing to produce a genuine flushing of his skin.

"Ah. I see." She blushed slightly herself, and then looked away for a moment, then back again. "Are you well? You've got circles under your eyes...and have you lost weight?"

"Oh...well...my friend and I...not enough sleep, I guess."

Minerva looked slightly alarmed as she waved her hand. "None of my affair." She stood and straightened her robes. "Don't be a stranger, though. I'll expect you every evening at least for supper."

Harry stood. "Actually...tonight, yes. But then I'll be off again." He didn't offer any further explanation, having learnt some time ago that the more complex the lie, the easier it was to be trapped in it.

Looking pleased, Minerva patted him on the arm. "Excellent. I'll be leaving again soon as well. Are you off to London?"

"More than likely." Harry felt a twinge of guilt again; he really didn’t like to lie to her.

Then inexplicably, he was almost overwhelmed with a sudden and irrational urge to bray like a donkey at the thought. His entire life of the past two years had been a lie. He'd covered his tracks, faked friendships and liaisons, fabricated hobbies and illnesses, even sunk to an overly friendly relationship with the Muggle Studies teacher as a foil. He'd lied to every single person in his life, constructing a decidedly false persona for himself, one that was reclusive and anxious and introspective. There hadn't been one person who'd thought to question...but then, that'd been his intention all along. If it hadn't been so critical that he be successful, he might've been tempted to be sad at how easy it'd been.

No one knew; no one suspected a thing. He was Harry Potter, somewhat introverted, rumored to be afflicted by anxiety and mild agoraphobia; some believed he was writing a book about his life; others thought his confrontation with evil had made him odd and eccentric. Not that he'd told that many outright lies, but Harry was wise enough to know that at least in his case, false perception was a crucial necessity.

Had he used smoke and mirrors, the outcome couldn't have been more perfect.

As the week passed, and the two of them, by mutual unspoken agreement, no longer discussed 'the issue,' Harry found that he was actually looking forward to the start of term—anything to break the monotony of their depressing days, where they both seemed to be increasingly exhausted. Hard to imagine, Harry thought to himself, that only two months ago they'd been so full of hope after he'd seen Binns that first time, so certain that come September, Severus would be taking his rightful place at the High Table.

Harry realized he was afraid—afraid of what this exhaustion might mean. Like Severus, for the first time in his life, he'd made an uneasy peace with an adversary that he could not conquer, let alone see. He cynically wondered about the possibility that one day he'd get up, sit on the edge of the bed, then decide that he, too, was a prisoner with little reason to get dressed and take part in that other life anymore, where no one really knew who he was, what was important to him, or whom he loved.

He sat, frozen for a moment, as he contemplated that alternate reality—where he'd just disappear from the Wizarding world. He wondered what would happen...but then he shook his head, and stood to get dressed, ignoring the gooseflesh on his arms.

They were both out of sorts; there were awkward moments and pauses between the two of them for the first time since Harry'd moved in. Perhaps this was why Harry found the lighthearted conversation that evening so poignant. They'd been reading, when Severus set his book aside, and mentioned that he'd finally run out of two potions ingredients that he'd be hard-pressed to replace: phoenix ash and dragon tears.

"Fawkes was a gold mine," Severus lamented.

"Yeah, he was," Harry agreed with a smile. "I'll wager Charlie could replace the dragon tears, though."

"Don't wager too much. Can you even imagine how they're procured? In any case, how could you possibly explain the need for it?"

"Hmmm, I don't suppose he'd believe it if I told him I was holding Severus Snape hostage in the castle and forcing him to brew potions for profit?" Harry teased.

"So close to the truth, I doubt you'd get a word out," Severus murmured.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, as Harry mulled over the predicament. His mind drifted as he thought about the two fantastical beasts; he wasn't aware that he was smiling until Severus spoke.

"Oh, come on. Spill it out. There aren't that many things that make you smile these days. Do share, as I'm sure it's at my expense."

Harry shook his head. "No, no, not at all. I was just wondering..." He narrowed his eyes at Severus. "It's stupid, but you asked, so don't make fun."

"Oh, for god's sake, Harry. When was the last time I belittled you?" Snape snorted.

Rubbing his lower lip with his thumb, Harry thought. "Tuesday. When I asked you if pixie eggs were edible."

Severus harrumphed. "Well, really. Such a ludicrous question." He pursed his lips. "All right, I promise. Give it up."

Harry didn't look convinced, but conceded, "I was wondering...if you had your pick, which would you want to be: dragon or phoenix?"

Severus' smirk suddenly disappeared. "It's a perfectly legitimate consideration. One that will take some thought."

Harry smiled. "All right. I've already made up my mind, but I can wait." He picked up his book and resumed reading, but had only managed a paragraph when Severus cleared his throat.

"I've decided. Shall I go first?"

Nodding, Harry put down his book. "I'm all ears."

"Well, then, I'd choose to be a phoenix; it rather fits, don't you think? Living the same life over and over, never seeming to make any progress. But," he paused as his eyes grew wistful, "I'm drawn by its greatest potential—to start anew each time with all your mistakes wiped away," he finished softly, then cut his eyes to Harry.

"Good thinking," Harry said softly. "And you'd be a healer."

"With a better than average singing voice," Severus smiled, then nodded at Harry. "All right, and you?"

"I'd like to fly, and both can do that, but all things considered, I'd have to say a dragon—a conqueror—so invincible that my mistakes wouldn't matter." He laughed as Severus rolled his eyes, then sobered to add, "And something like a castle would never, ever stand in my way. I'd make it toe the line with my mighty roar and fiery breath." He nodded as he thought. "Have you out of here in no time."

"My champion," Severus said solemnly, studying him with an intensity that made Harry look away and laugh again.

"Yeah, well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," he joked.

"Champion, nonetheless," Severus said as he took up his book again.

"You're sleeping too much," Harry needled him.

"I'm fine," Severus replied, his irritation obvious.

"You're scaring me," Harry told him, running his hand underneath the coverlet to squeeze his shoulder.

Severus pushed his hand away, then came up on an elbow. "What do you want from me? If I don't take the potions, you're unhappy because I don't sleep enough. When I do take them, then I sleep too much."

Harry had nothing to say. He knew what this was...what was wrong with both of them. It was the lack of a definable goal; hell, it was the possibility that there would never ever be one again.

Relenting, Severus reached out and took his hand. "You once asked me what I did that first year before you came."

Harry looked up expectantly, but the look on Severus' face made him sense it was something he'd rather not hear.

"This is what I did," Severus said simply.

Harry nodded, not speaking; he'd been right: he'd've rather not known.

A week before term was to start, Harry was still wandering the castle, mostly after midnight, but for the very first time, he did it methodically, not for a moment believing that what he was doing would make a whit of difference.

He mourned this lack of purpose as he walked; all the weeks of research—for nothing. All the nocturnal wanderings, hoping to sway the heart of a being he couldn’t see, all of it had been foolishness, as he had not one shred of evidence that he'd ever been heard at all. He'd only been wasting his time, all these many nights...walking and pacing, pressing and touching, whispering and pleading.

All of a sudden, he felt the weight of those misspent nights, as he literally came to a stop in the middle of a corridor. He stood in silence, dumbly watching the flicker of torchlight on the walls, listening to the slow and steady thudding of his heart.

He pivoted, as if in a dream, then traced his steps back to the dungeon, the effort of placing one foot in front of the other seeming to require extraordinary strength. He was achingly tired; no, he was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was to strip off his clothes, get into bed, and stay there as long as he could.

With each step, his legs grew heavier, his mind duller, his heart pushing him onward toward the only thing that he felt safe in wanting: Severus, warm beside him.

He was comforted by the familiar scent and temperature of the dungeons, of the sound of Severus snuffling in his sleep. Harry undressed quietly, then slipped stealthily beneath the coverlet. Severus turned in the bed, so that Harry could just make out the silhouette of his shoulder, the line of his arm, the dip of the sheet at his waist.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, as he considered the dichotomy that was his life.

He had a past, albeit a short one, where he'd served wizardom, where he had friends and acquaintances, where he was a productive member of society, where he could explore the world outside the walls of Hogwarts, where he could grow, but where, if he were honest, his heart would never be, because his treasure lay elsewhere.

He had a present, within the confines of these unplottable walls, where he awoke each morning, and where he lay down his head at the end of the day, where he could be himself with no fear of judgment, where the only expectation was that he be there to share a glance, a smile, a touch, a life, where he was a sexual being, where he loved, and knew affection, if not love, in return.

He wondered what he would do, what his future would hold, if he had to choose one or the other, or even worse, if one were taken away against his will. Swallowing hard, he struggled to contain the well of emotion, and succeeded, he thought, except for the wetness on his face.

Reaching out, he smoothed his hand along the swell of Severus' cheek, then was startled when Severus caught his hand to stop it. Pulling Harry to him in the bed, he angled his head and kissed him.

Severus froze.

Bringing his hand up to Harry's face, he traced the tears there with his fingertips, from eyelid to chin, over and over. Then Severus whispered against Harry's lips, "I love you."

Harry didn't trust his voice then, so he pulled back just enough to catch Severus' hand by the wrist. Squeezing it tightly, he waited until he was certain his voice wouldn't waver. "Never thought I'd hear you say it," he murmured.

Severus didn't speak for a moment, then withdrew his hand to slide his fingers into the hair at Harry's temple. "Hear me say what?"

The next morning, breakfast was a rather bleak affair, both of them subdued more than usual.

"What're your plans?" Harry asked as he distractedly stirred his tea.

Severus looked up, seeming confused.

"For today," Harry clarified.

"Oh." Severus looked at the lab door, then shook his head. "No reason to brew. I suppose I'll read. I'm not sure what, though." He sat and stared off into space, his hand stilled on the table.

Neither of them had much to eat, nor anything further to say.

After an equally depressing lunch, Severus politely excused himself, then retired to the bed for a nap.

Harry had lesson-planning to do, but lacked concentration, not able to hold a thought long enough to look from book to parchment, losing it somewhere in the microsecond in between. He pushed back his chair, and stood with his hands in his pockets, then walked to the door of the bedchamber.

For several moments, he leant against the doorjamb, watching Severus sleep. He noticed, not for the first time, how thin he'd become, and how, even in sleep, his cheeks were sunken and dark circles arced below his eyes, his hair limp and lusterless. The thin slender hands moved restlessly atop the coverlet; even in sleep, Severus seemed unable to settle.

Reaching in, Harry pulled the door shut, then turned on heel and headed for Binns' rooms.

"I know you said all we can do is wait, but I'm telling you, sir, he's not going to last much longer. I don't know if it's the potions; god knows he has reason to be depressed—he sleeps all the time, and barely eats." Harry intentionally omitted that most of this could've been said of himself as well.

"I'm desperate, Professor. I don't know what to do. I have to do something. God," he paused as he rubbed his knuckles against his temples, "you want to know how far gone he is? Just last night—" Harry stopped just in time, swallowed, then went on, substituting, "he told me I'm his champion. Severus Snape said that to Harry Potter. The world's gone amuck."

Binns didn't speak for a moment, then seemed to muse out loud, "It's odd that he'd say that, given the situation."

"Odd isn't the word," Harry snorted, then seemed to realize what Binns had just said. "What d'you mean, it's odd?"

"He said you were his champion. Do you recall that I told you the castle considered you as such?" He nodded as Harry sat up straighter. "So it's indeed odd that two...personages in dire opposition to each other both share a common champion, isn't it?" He sat forward abruptly. "Contrary to what I've told you—that your only choice is to wait—perhaps you have something with which to bargain, given that you have something that the castle values?"

Harry's eyes slid up to meet Binns'. "Myself," he said slowly.

Binns nodded gravely.

"But how?" Harry asked, his mind already racing.

His voice low and intense, Binns told him, "With something it understands...a threat."

They played a game of chess that evening, Severus clobbering Harry in a record thirty-four minutes, with the loss of all of Harry's pieces but three, causing Severus to curl his upper lip slightly as he put the chessmen away.

Harry stood and looked around the room, mentally reviewing what he planned to do. He knew it was risky; he wasn't even certain that in all these months, the castle had even been aware of his own dilemma. But watching Severus, Harry knew that the die had been cast—Harry had no choice; as the champion, he had to fight for the life of the one he loved.

In that very same moment, he was struck by a wave of fear so intense that it almost took him to his knees. It was so heartbreakingly clear and terrible: what would happen to Severus if he, Harry, were unable to return.

"Harry?" Severus called him, a look of concern on his face.

Harry couldn't look at him, as he jerked his head toward the door. "So...there's something I have to do." It was useless, he found, and reluctantly met Severus' eyes.

Severus stood slowly, then took a long look at Harry's face, seeming to scrutinize so intently that for a moment, Harry was tempted to Occlude. "Well, I'll be waiting." He reached out suddenly, and with a strong hand, pulled Harry to him by the nape of his neck, crushing their mouths together, causing an explosion of heat that spoke what neither of them could say with words.

Their faces still pressed together, Harry mumbled, "Promise me, no matter what, you'll stay inside."

Severus let his hands fall to his sides, then looked at him piercingly as he replied, "Would you agree that there are some things worse than death?"

"Yes," Harry had to say.

"Then you'll understand why that's a promise I cannot make."

In the end, Harry had to admit that Binns had proved more helpful that day than he had in all the weeks when Harry'd sat for hours, trolling for bits and pieces of information that might unlock the puzzle of the castle and how to sway it.

In Harry's esteem, Binns had gone from zero to infinity in the space of a moment, not only telling Harry when and where, but almost how, when he'd provided him with a name.

Harry returned briefly to his rooms, scribbled a note, smiling wryly as he did, knowing that whoever might have occasion to read it would find it of little use, as he couldn't exactly explain what he was about to attempt, or for whom.

He was on the verge of leaving, when it occurred to him; striding to his wardrobe, he pulled out his dress robes and hastily donned them, smiling faintly as he thought of how Severus had so optimistically done the same, when he too had been about to strike out into the unknown.

Of course, Harry didn't really fear for his life, although he supposed that something freakish could happen—worst case scenario—that he'd end up walled off in an oubliette that even Binns couldn't find. No, his fear was that he'd fail, and by extension, fail Severus as well.

The irony wasn't lost on him, either, that once again he was facing a more than life-sized adversary in the Great Hall—the place where he'd first been introduced to Hogwarts, where he'd made so many pleasant memories, and where, only three years ago, he'd faced another former student and Dark Lord in the duel of a lifetime.

Harry knew that he was alone in the castle, except for Sybill in her Tower and the house-elves in their quarters. The tower clock just beginning to strike ten as he stepped off the staircase and strode fearlessly through the Entrance Hall for the doors. Throwing them open, he slid into the room, letting the doors close behind him.

The Hall wore its starlit summer night ceiling, moonlight pouring in from the eight large, vaulted windows on either side of the hall. The only other light in the room came from the flickering torches that dotted the walls under each of the house banners.

The High Table stood at the far end of the center aisle, and above it, suspended at the top of the stone wall where it met the bottom of the arched ceiling, was the Hogwarts crest. Harry fixed his eyes on it as he started down the walkway, slowly removing his wand from his robes, keeping it down and pointed slightly to the side.

He couldn't see the crest clearly, but knew that it was much larger than it seemed. A composite of the four house emblems, it sported their respective creatures, tied together by the ornate 'H' at the center, the motto, 'Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus', furled at the bottom. All those years of thinking the Founders had a sense of humor, when all along, it'd been a nod to the castle itself.... Never tickle a sleeping dragon indeed!

Harry came to a halt where the student tables ended, about twenty feet from the High Table. Turning slowly in a circle, he verified that there wasn't a soul in sight, then stopped and planted his feet firmly, as he lifted his wand and pointed it at the crest. He closed his eyes for a moment, as he mentally practiced the words that Binns had taught him that afternoon, just after he'd told Harry that he should present himself in the Great Hall at ten.

Opening his eyes, he raised his wand high over head, then swung his arm down with a practiced flick, stopping it with a snap to point at the crest.

"Caer chyda calon!" Harry cried out at the exact moment that a streak of white light issued from his wand, surprising even himself. He held his position, watching in amazement as the crest shuddered, then creaked, then dropped like a stone to the floor of the Hall below, where it stood on end for a moment, then crashed forward with a mighty crash, cleaving the High Table in two. Twin billows of dust rolled up from either side of the debris.

Hmmm, well, who could've known? Harry thought to himself as he slowly began to lower his wand, then stopped, his attention drawn to the top of the wall where the crest had hung a moment ago.

It started with a faint outline of whitish-gold, then deepened to a fiery orange as it spread, as if a finger were drawing the details of the missing crest into the stone. There was Gryffindor's lion, then Hufflepuff's badger, a looping motion to form the 'H', then Ravenclaw's eagle and Slytherin's snake, all of it then enclosed in the shield-like outline of the crest itself. Harry could make out the motto as it slowly appeared, scripted letters that twisted and writhed as if they were alive.

Alive. Well, they were...weren't they?

What should he do now? he wondered, as he watched the crest with fascination. Should he talk? Or since he was definitely dealing with an elder, should he defer and wait until spoken to? He hadn't thought to ask Binns, and the man hadn't offered how he should proceed once...whatever happened had happened. He was fairly certain that what he'd just witnessed was the beginning of what he'd sought all summer long: a chance to make his case.

As he continued to stare at the crest, there was a gust of air that swept through the Hall, hard enough to ruffle the hem of Harry's robes, and as he glanced around him, he noticed that the wall torches had gone out. A sharp sizzling sound riveted his attention back to the front of the Hall.

His mouth dropped open in spite of himself, as the liquid fire of the crest seemed to drip down the wall, first in small rivulets, then in large globs that landed behind the wreckage of the High Table. Harry craned his neck to see, but the low light and the table prevented him. The lines of the crest became faded and fainter, as the magic fire continued to drop through the air in long, iridescent strands; yet strangely, there was only the slightest bit of light emanating from the spot where it fell.

When the light where the crest had been suddenly was snuffed out, Harry blinked at the darkness, struggling to see after the intensity of the muted fireworks. He could perceive a dull glow from where the fire had fallen, and was contemplating a step forward, when the light lifted from the ground, an oddly shaped mass that quivered and shimmered as it hovered for a moment, then slowly began to move forward.

Harry's wand was out again, at his side, as he resisted the urge to take a step backward, watching as the shadow lifted to clear the broken table, its shape now taking on a more defined form as it moved closer to where Harry stood. The mass seemed to splinter at its sides, then at its bottom, eerily floating nearer, until it stopped just six feet away.

There was a whispering, sighing sound as the shape continued to shift. Harry could now see that it was forming itself into the facsimile of a body, clearly taller than any human would ever be, but with arms and legs, stiff and misshapen, then a head that shocked Harry by forming hair, at the same time that the torches flared to life again, affording Harry a better view of what was slouching toward Hogwarts to be born.

With a jolt, Harry recognized what was standing before him, and couldn't help the gasp of alarm and surprise, as the figure opened its eyes...but instead of eyes, there were twin swaths of light that cut through the darkness, two slit-like shafts that the creature thankfully kept directed at a point above Harry's head.

How can this be? This doesn't make sense...all this time, and I didn't suspect a thing.

"You," Harry said hoarsely, forgetting his resolution to let...it, he supposed, speak first. "Why didn't you tell me? It was you all along," he rasped, clutching his wand so tightly that his fingers tingled.

Binns...or what Harry assumed to be Binns, shook his head slowly. "I am not Cuthbert Binns," it said, its voice a low-pitched sound, threaded through with what seemed to be melodious harmonics, making Harry think that its speech could almost be called singing. Or perhaps chanting would be a better word. Harry didn't speak, deciding that now would be a good time to hold his tongue.

It seemed to briefly consider him, its gaze almost blinding Harry in the process, then settled its eyes slightly to the left. It took a breath, sounding for all the world like the wheeze of a pump organ. "I am the castle."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Where's Binns, then? You possess him?"

Shaking its head, the manifestation stated, "No, Binns is a temporary vessel. He is unaware. We have not needed a body...in an age."

"So...you use Binns, who doesn't actually have a body, when you need a body," Harry stated, mostly for himself, trying to wrap his mind around the conundrum.

Not-Binns made a grimace with his face, making Harry wonder if it were an attempt at a smile. "There are few words I could use to help you understand. Binns gives me a voice, an ability to interact with finite magic, such as you possess. I give Binns what he sought." No further explanation was offered.

Harry was losing his fear of his circumstances, although he still kept his wand drawn. "Sounds like you got the better end of that bargain," he said slowly.

"Before Binns, there was another. There is always one," it said.

Staring at it, Harry decided there was no time like the present. He'd waited...years for this, and he couldn't wait any longer. "All well and good for you, I suppose. I didn't come here to chat, though."

It—Harry decided to think of it as the castle—didn't speak, so he took this as a sign that he should continue. He'd thought long and hard about what he'd say, if he ever had the chance; he'd mulled it over for months, daydreamed and had nightmares about this very moment, in fact. He'd decided from the outset to be frank and reasonable, respectful yet firm. If he himself was, as Binns had intimated, both Severus and the castle's champion, then he could expect that the castle would treat him with respect as well, and at least hear him out, if not oblige him.

"You know who I am?" he started simply.

"You are Harry Potter, son of James. You vanquished the dark wizard who threatened the castle."

Harry nodded. "Yes, that's right. Three years ago."

"To the castle, a year is as a day, and a day is as a year."

Just great. Fucking riddles. "Er, okay, I can understand that, because you're over a thousand years old," Harry said agreeably. "We see time differently."

"True."

Harry groped for words now. "You know... I love..." He couldn't bring himself to say 'you', so he settled on, "...the castle. From the first time I saw it, I've felt that way. I'd do anything to protect it...and I understand why you yourself might have to go to extremes to do that as well."

"I acknowledge my debt to you; twice you have saved the castle from possible ruin."

"Twice?" Harry asked.

"You bested what lived in the Chamber of Secrets when you were but a boy. Its presence was a threat to the castle."

"Ah." Well, this could only play in his favor. "Yeah, that's right. I had help, though."

The castle was silent, its ray-like eyes trained intensely to Harry's right now.

Harry decided it was time to be direct. "Three years ago, you diverted Severus Snape's Portkey, and imprisoned him in an unplottable space. I'm here on his behalf, to ask you to let him go. I've talked with Binns about this, and he's explained why you've done this, but respectfully, and with my heartfelt hope that you'll let me explain, you've made a mistake."

The castle remained silent, then shifted its eyes. "Severus Snape failed in his sworn duty to the castle, on more than one occasion. I am not easily moved to anger; he allowed others subordinate to him to cause irreparable damage, both to the castle and the students it harbored. In the hour of its greatest need, this headmaster proved derelict in his duty, leaving you and others even frailer than yourself to do what he should've done."

Harry knew it would be difficult to make the castle understand. "I can see why you'd think that, but things weren't as they seemed. You see, he was only doing that so he could help me in the end. He was a spy, and he had to act in ways...that might've looked bad, in order to keep on spying and helping me."

The castle shook its head. "He failed; the castle was damaged, students and others were killed; the castle seldom judges a man, but when he has failed in his sworn duty, then the castle must protect itself. The castle must take steps to secure its best interests."

"How're you doing that now?" Harry pressed. "All threat is passed. The castle's been repaired. Isn't that right?"

"True. But the man has shown himself to be untrustworthy. He cannot be allowed to harm the castle again, or its occupants, especially as little time has passed."

Harry shifted from one foot to the other, thinking to himself that this was getting him nowhere. Binns had been right; the castle had a limited capability to understand anything other than simple thoughts and simple behavior. Which was why it was so frustrating that it'd stepped out of bounds and meddled in something so much more complicated. It was a long shot, but he had to try and reason with it.

"You have to understand. Things aren't always black and white, stone and wood. Sometimes it's more complicated—things aren't always what they seem. You say I'm a champion of the castle?" Harry asked.

"True."

"And you say that you always have to do what's in the best interests of the castle, right?"

"I cannot do otherwise."

"Well, what about me, then? On that night, the battle for Hogwarts, what if I'd only thought of myself and what was best for me? Do you think I wanted to do what I did? Did you know that I thought I was going to have to die?" He paused, puzzled when he detected a flicker in the gaze of the eyes.

"What if I'd just walked away and chosen not to risk my life? What if I'd chosen to do only what was in my best interests? Where would you be now? Where would everyone be?" He raised his voice slightly. "I chose to do what I did because choices can be complicated. If you say that I'm your champion, then you have to trust me when I tell you that Severus Snape is not evil—he had to appear that way so that he could work against evil. If you don't understand, then at least consider that I've always been trustworthy, and believe what I say."

For the first time since they'd begun to converse, the shape of the figure shifted restlessly. "A man is judged by his actions."

Harry ground his teeth in exasperation. "Yes, that's true! All of them, though! You don't know all of what he did, only what occurred in the castle, so..." He took a step closer.

"Please, please, you've got to listen to me! You've made a mistake that's killing him, and if it kills him, I don't know what I'll do! You have to let him go—if you're a being who values justice and right and wrong, then in the name of all of those things, you have to let him go! " Harry shouted, nearly beside himself as the dam of frustration finally burst and spilled out on the one being who was responsible for it all.

The shape drew slightly back, seeming to be intimidated by Harry's fervor. "Time is the true judge of intentions."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Harry cried out as he advanced another step. "Why can't you just admit that it's too hard for you to understand? You know my heart—you know I wouldn't mislead you, so do the right thing, for god's sake! Let him go! I've spent the last two months, trying to talk to you, hoping you'd read my sincerity somehow—I'm asking you, please, please, let him go." Harry paused to take in a great gulp of air, then played his trump card. "You owe me—you know you do. So I'm collecting now, and it's not like I'm asking you to build a wing in my name, I'm only asking you to do what's right. So do it!"

He'd taken several steps closer as he ranted, and with each one, the ephemeral figure retreated in stride. With the last of his speech, it drew itself up to an alarming height, then boomed out its reply. "No man has ever told the castle when to breathe in, when to breathe out, what is a threat, and what is not. Those are inalienable rights of the castle alone—its magic is elemental and old, unchangeable; it does not bend to that of a man who is but a brief shadow in its corridors."

"You'd be rubble if it weren't for me, you stubborn—"

Harry jumped back in surprise, as the representation of Binns swelled to enormous size, then burst into a ball of flame that streaked towards the front of the hall, striking the spot where the crest had hung, blazing briefly for a moment, in the familiar pattern of earlier, then was suddenly extinguished.

His wand clattered to the floor as Harry cried out in shock. "No! No, come back! No, no, no!" he cried as he fell to his knees, then leant forward, resting his elbows on the ground. "Oh god, what will I do? What will I do?" he repeated, over and over, as he rocked with his face against the cold stone.

It was over, he thought numbly. After years of self-imposed isolation, for Severus' sake, after months of seeking an elusive jailor, after weeks of depression that he'd recently come to realize would be the undoing of the one he loved, and probably himself, he'd come to the Great Hall tonight, full of a last hope that he'd finally be heard, certain that because of who he was and what he'd done, justice would prevail.

He'd suffered all of this, only to be trivialized and dismissed by a castle with the intelligence and comprehension of a five-year-old. It was clearly within its power to act, but it wouldn't, Harry could see it now. No, it had no prior experience with exceptions or doling out justice where the matter of innocence or guilt wasn't as clear as the nose on a face. Harry bitterly wondered how many other poor souls had been 'punished' for their seeming dereliction of duty, and had wasted away, alone and eventually mad.

Harry was shaking. Whether from the rush of adrenaline, or the misery, or the indignation, he wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because he'd come so close, only to be thwarted. Perhaps it was because he alone appreciated the great injustice being done. Perhaps it was because he now had to face the prospect of returning to the dungeons and telling Severus...

No. He couldn't do it...

There was no bloody way in hell that he'd ever tell Severus.

No, he'd rather....

His mind froze as he suddenly remembered what Binns had told him...as the ghost's last words echoed in his memory...

A threat.

As he sat up and rested back on his heels, he felt himself become completely calm. He knew that what he was about to say he fully intended to carry out, Severus and the castle be damned. He was tired of feeling impotent; he, of the three of them, had his wits about him, and could choose justice and mercy and make his own fate, unlike Severus, who'd been judged wrongly, or the naïve castle, which blindly followed a self-serving version of justice.

Wiping at his eyes, Harry stood to his feet, then stabbed around with his foot until it connected with his wand. "Accio wand," he muttered, then placed himself in the exact same spot he'd been in before. He might not change anything, but he was about to have the final word.

"Caer chyda calon!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. He watched, grimly satisfied, as the crest changed from white to fiery red. It burned as it had the last time, but this time, there was no dripping to form a figure, which was all well and good with Harry.

"Listen to me!" he cried out, his arms up, his wand still pointed toward the crest. "I can't make you do what's right, but I'll be damned if you're going to sit back and be comfortable with what you've done. So, here is what I, Harry Potter, Hogwarts' champion and savior, propose to do, from this point onward, the moment I leave this Hall.

"Any and all punishment handed down to Severus Snape is now mine as well. As he is imprisoned in his rooms, so I will be. As he is destined to never speak to another living soul, so am I. As he is doomed to go mad with wanting to walk free, wanting to see the sky, wanting to feel the sun on his face, whatever he is sentenced to suffer, then I will suffer it too."

Harry dropped his hands, but not his voice. "At least we'll have each other. Just remember, you refused to listen to reason, and it's you who has sentenced your champion to a life of solitude and grief—one I don't deserve, but one that I choose, because you've left me with nothing else. This is how you reward your champion," he spat out disgustedly.

Harry stood, and listened to the last of his words echo in the empty Hall. He felt completely drained, and afraid that he was going to be sick. He staggered slightly on his feet, managed to pocket his wand and was about to turn away, when he noticed that the burning crest was now throwing off sparks, pinwheeling offshoots of color—blue and red, as they arced out over the hall. There was suddenly noise as well, a high-whistling sound that increased in intensity until Harry had to cover his ears. From out of nowhere there was a wind that whipped Harry's hair into his face, then so strong that he almost couldn't keep his feet.

Suddenly, as quickly as it'd started, the wind was gone, leaving a pressure in Harry's ears so intense that he almost cried out in pain. Just at the moment when he thought they'd burst, the high-vaulted windows of the Hall began to shatter: starting from the front, they broke by twos, thousands of shards of glass splintering inward, raining down on the tables and floors, creating a tinkling cacophony, punctuated by a sharp retort each time a new set shattered. Harry fell to the floor and covered his head with his arms, listening as the world seemed to break around him, feeling stray bits of glass bite into the skin of his hands and the back of his neck.

He cautiously craned his neck enough so he could see the crest, just in time to watch a streak of blue light shoot out from its center, angled to strike the floor just in front of Harry. He felt a shudder deep beneath him, and a heat against his knees, then unbelievably, he felt the stone of the floor rumble as it was rent in two by a laser-like flash. Harry himself was tipped up on end as the ground heaved, tossing him like a rag doll nearly twenty feet toward the doors. He landed in a heap, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the fall, but his head struck stone as well.

Harry lay for a moment, stunned, wondering what had just happened, and whether the castle had just tried to kill him.

Funny, he thought, as he drifted into unconsciousness, this'll be a far sight better way to end than to rot away in the dungeons.

When Harry awakened, his first thought was that he'd played one hell of a Quidditch match—every muscle protested when he tried to move, and it was only when he sat up and realized where he was that he remembered. His hand to the back of his head, he slowly took stock of the Hall.

The sun wasn't up yet, but would be shortly. The pre-dawn light filtered in through the demolished windows, making the damage done by Harry and the castle incarnate clearly visible.

There was broken glass everywhere, and the debris from the High Table and the shield lay in a mound at the front of the Hall. At the top of the front wall where the crest had burned, there was nary a mark.

Once on his feet, Harry gingerly moved each of his arms and legs, then touched the back of his head where a lump had come up. He seemed none the worse for wear, except for the soreness and a slight headache. There was a rip at the shoulder of his burgundy robes, but otherwise, he was just a bit rumpled. Before turning to walk the aisle, Harry noticed the crack in the stone floor, running from beneath the rubble at the front to the doors at the back of the Hall.

Severus! The thought finally and abruptly occurred to him.

Glass crunching underfoot, Harry took off at a jog, let himself into the Entrance Hall, then headed off as fast as his legs would carry him for the descending staircase.

He'd done it again, he thought as he raced downward, streaking through the corridors to the next set of stairs. He'd left Severus alone for hours...and in the interim, he believed that anything could've happened, given the drama in the Great Hall. He knew he hadn't endeared himself to the castle...if the destruction left in its wake was any indication. His worry peaked as he finally broke into a run....

Just how malevolent could the castle become, provoked and enraged? After wreaking havoc in the Great Hall, might it have gone in search of the man at the center of the controversy? Severus, locked up in his rooms, unable to defend himself, ignorant of why he would've suddenly been targeted, with no option to flee?

Out of breath, his head starting to pound harder with the exertion, frenzied at the thought of what he might find, Harry at last made the final turn into the corridor with the single door.

Even before he was there, he could tell that something was wrong. His heart in his throat, he slowed to stop just feet away, when he saw that the door was ajar. He stood and looked both ways down the hallway, but as usual, there was nothing.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out and pushed the half-open door inward, still keeping himself in the corridor.

He peered in, and called tentatively, "Severus?"

When there was no answer, he stepped across the threshold, then stopped again.

The sitting room looked undisturbed. "Severus," he called, taking the hallway quickly to check the loo and the bedchamber, circling back to the lab and then the dining area.

Nothing. Not a thing out of the ordinary, except that Severus was gone.

He returned to the sitting room, frowning, then froze in place when he saw it, his heart beginning to pound, as his eyes filled with tears.

There on the small table in front of the settee stood a cup of tea, and set to the side, Severus' book. It looked as if he'd just stepped out for a moment...

Crossing the distance, Harry leant down and stuck his finger into the tea.

Cold.

He kicked with a sudden fury, jiggling the table so forcefully that tea sloshed into the saucer, and the book fell to the floor. Harry stood immobile, breathing heavily, his shoulders slumped.

He'd seen this scenario too many times not to know what had happened.

He was too late.

As if in a dream, he returned to the corridor outside the rooms, bending to examine the floor for blood, but found none. He shook his head slowly, then turned toward the door again. Letting out a yelp of surprise, he physically jumped back a step.

"God! You scared the shite out of me!" He glowered at Binns. "I really don’t want to talk to you right now." Honestly, he didn't care if he never talked to the man again.

Binns stared sadly into the interior of Severus' rooms, then back to Harry, scrutinizing him for a moment, then asked curiously, "What are you doing here?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "You know what happened last night?"

Radiating defensiveness, Binns replied, "I was not there, if that's what you're implying. But I am aware of it now."

Sneering, Harry said, "Oh, I'll wager you are, since you have that little body-sharing thing going on."

Binns looked at Harry strangely. "I've no idea what you mean. I just saw the damage myself." He studied Harry shrewdly. "But as for whom you seek now...he is not here."

"I know," Harry said flatly, dropping his eyes.

"You think you do, but you don't," Binns said, slightly impatient. "He's back where he started," he finished enigmatically, beginning to drift down the corridor, still facing Harry.

Harry felt the color drain out of his face. "Back where he started?"

Binns nodded, then didn't smile, but graced Harry with what could only be construed as an approving look. "At the beginning. Look for him." He was starting to turn, when Harry cried out.

"The Shrieking Shack?"

Binns waved dismissively, his reedy voice almost plaintive, as he called, "You must come again and see me some time." With an uplifted hand, he floated through the wall at the end of the corridor.

Harry took off, shedding his heavy robes as he went, taking the stairs three at a time, tearing through the corridors, running along the painted mural just as the sun broke the horizon and flooded the hallway with light.

The Entrance Hall was empty; through the doors he went, down the steps, along the path to the right of the castle, running full out, pumping his arms as he took the slope to the middle of the grounds.

He was facing the rising sun as he loped downward towards the Willow, squinting to see as he slowed, suddenly aware that the branches of the tree were eerily motionless. Walking carefully, glancing from side to side, Harry rounded the tree, to the side where the knot used to paralyze its whomping limbs could be found.

Sitting with his back against the trunk, a tree branch in his hand, was Severus, his eyes shut, his face tilted upward, illuminated by the sun as it broke through the forest.

Harry stopped, his breath caught in his chest, unable to speak. Then, with a strangled cry, he fell to his knees in front of him, reaching out just as Severus' eyes opened wide.

Neither of them spoke, as they clung to each other as if for dear life, an awkward embrace that had Harry kneeling in between Severus' legs, his head tucked to the side of Severus' neck, as they just held on. Harry thought, if he had his way, he might never let go again.

They ended up with Harry sitting between Severus' legs, resting back against his chest. As they watched the rest of the sunrise, Severus poked once at the knot with his branch to quell the stirring of the stymied Willow.

"I was having tea last night after you left...and the door just opened. So, I gave it a try," had been Severus' explanation, once he'd heard Harry's tale.

They sat for a long while, sometimes talking, but most of the time in silence, until Harry swiveled and got to his knees again to face Severus.

"Ready to go?"

Severus turned and looked up at the castle, hesitated, then smiled wryly. "I don't think I can ever go in again."

Leaning forward, Harry kissed him slowly, then pulled back. "I know. So we won't."

Letting out a breath, Severus let his eyes drift in the direction of Hogsmeade. Without a trace of anxiety, he asked Harry quietly, "What will we do?"

Smiling, Harry looked in the same direction, then back to Severus. "It'll come to us."

THE END

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