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Chapter Text

Harry frowned around the garden, wondering where he should start. “Stop dawdling, boy!” his uncle ordered from the back door, and he hastily stooped and began pulling out weeds from the nearest flowerbed. Vernon grunted and turned away, but Harry didn’t relax, knowing that Aunt Petunia was probably peering out the kitchen window watching for any misdemeanours. He’d grown quite fond of being fed during his time at Hogwarts, and had no intention of missing another meal.

His hands slipped easily into the rhythm of the accustomed chore, gently easing the frail weeds out of the soft earth. A worm came up, entangled in grass roots and squirming wildly as it was exposed to the dry heat of the day. “Sorry,” he murmured, carefully pulling it free and putting it back in the dirt. It hastily disappeared back into the soil, and he envied it that easy ability to return to where it belonged. He had nowhere he belonged.

He moved on to the herb garden, freeing the rosemary and chives from the weeds that were crowding around them and suffocating them. Feeling an odd empathy with the plants, he worked determinedly to free them, breathing in the soft smell of fresh soil. But with nothing to focus on, his mind was able to wander, as it often did, to Sirius. He missed his godfather horribly and knew that much of the blame for the loss lay on his own shoulders, for he’d been such an idiot the entire year. Yet at the same time there was a guilty relief that he wouldn’t have to look at Sirius again, wouldn’t have to remember the memory from Snape’s pensieve every time he saw Sirius’ face. His father, his godfather - two of the people he respected most in the entire world - had been bullies, had been the kind of people Harry had spent his childhood hiding from. It hurt worse for knowing that had he gone to school with Sirius and his father it would have been him being bullied and humiliated, for he had always been a target. No wonder Snape hated him.

But still he missed Sirius. Sirius had been his only chance at a normal childhood, a childhood with a loving adult figure and all those little things that most kids didn’t even realise they had. All those little things that Harry wanted more than anything. Sirius had been everything.

But as strong as his grief for Sirius was, he was dealing with it. Harry had always dealt with everything: ten years with the Dursley’s, nearly being killed by Voldemort in first year, nearly being killed by a basilisk in second year, nearly being Kissed by a Dementor in third year, Cedric’s death and Voldemort’s resurrection in fourth year... His life basically consisted of a series of terrible and horrible events threaded together by periods of isolation in which he was left to deal with the fallout alone. He had learned long ago how to deal with it. He dealt with it.

He grieved, he suffered through nightmares - and then he buried the grief down deep, out of sight and out of reach. The nightmares would never leave, circling his sleeping mind like jackals, but the grief, that he could get rid of. He had no choice. The only way to go was forward, the only thing he could do was go on. He was the designated saviour, the hero, the one who had to be strong and save them all. He had never had a choice. Just forward, forward, always forward, to save people who were willing to believe the worst of him, a society that depended on him to save them even as they derided him.

No, he told himself, pulling savagely at a weed whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn’t trying to save the idiots and fools who believed the last thing they’d been told, he was trying to save the people who had never done anything wrong but were being targeted by Voldemort. People like Hermione, whose blood shouldn’t matter. The Muggles who didn’t even know that they were under attack. The people who needed him, according to some lousy prophecy, the people who had no hope but him. It was insane; how could he, who had spent ten years in a cupboard, be a hero? He couldn’t even save himself. He couldn’t even save Sirius. How could he save a world? But, somehow, he had to.

He managed to get dinner, to his relief. And then later he lay fully dressed on his bed, not trying to sleep, just staring up at the ceiling, wrapped in his darkling thoughts.

That was the day he first realised the truth. There was no bright flash of light, no particular happening to make him realise it, just a sudden understanding of what he should have known all along. Betrayal pounded through him, aching hurt, thick anger. He laughed. Uncle Vernon stuck his head in the door and snapped at him, then slammed the door shut and locked it. Harry just laughed harder.

He’d been such a fool! Snape had been right all these years, he really was an idiot, a moron, a dunderhead, a bludger-for-brains. He’d thought he’d been fairly clever and definitely lucky, but he saw it all now, he’d been used all along, he was just a chess piece. He’d thought maybe He cared about him (finally, someone who cared about him), but no, he was just a fairly important pawn, hardly any different to any other pawn, with no control and no freedom.

But he saw it now, he saw it so clearly. All these years of “adventures” had been just a carefully crafted plot to make him into a hero, to turn him into His puppet, to get him to think how He wanted and do what He wanted. Trapped in a box that He had convinced him to make himself. To Him, Harry wasn’t a person, he was just a piece in an elaborate game that had been playing since before he was born.

Well, he wasn’t going to be a pawn any longer.

Harry thought a lot over the next few weeks. When the Dursleys locked him in his room, he thought. As he did boring and monotonous chores, he thought. And when he wrote letters to the Order he thought very carefully and made sure that he sounded as though nothing had changed. Because Harry had changed, very thoroughly. He had pulled himself apart, ruthlessly baring his soul in self-examination. He had studied his prejudices, his assumptions, his flaws, his weaknesses. He had pulled himself into a thousand shattered pieces, and then when he’d put himself back together he’d changed things. If he wasn’t going to be a puppet, there was a lot he had to change.

The Dursleys couldn’t touch him anymore. Their petty insults meant nothing to him, he could only feel amusement at their ignorant attitudes. They lived in their own little world and thought that it was the only one that mattered, even though they had surely been told of Voldemort’s return. They acted as though the man couldn’t touch them, as if Harry was the only problem in their boring, perfectionist lives. To his surprise, he actually felt sorry for Dudley, who was so pampered and spoilt and utterly unprepared for the real world, expecting everything to be handed to him. Dudley’s parents hadn’t been kind to Harry, but, in another way, they had also not been kind to their son. Harry, never pampered, always the underdog, knew how to survive.

It was strange, but in coming to understand himself so well, as few people ever do, he was able to understand other people much better as well. They weren’t nearly so complicated as he’d always thought, and while he half wished to never return to Hogwarts and Him, Harry couldn’t wait to return and see what new things he could understand about the people there.

When he had finished refashioning himself, he thought back over the past few years and wondered something: if a Patronus was such a difficult charm, how had he managed to cast it when only a third year? His classwork had never been much more than average - none of his other wandwork showed any particular promise. A want of application and motivation, certainly, but surely there was more to it than that?

So he went inside himself one evening, and studied his magic. To his only partial surprise, he found some kind of block, a shield on his magic that allowed only a certain amount of it to be accessed, that used his own magic to tie his core up on itself. It couldn’t be natural, not a snarled, ungainly piece of work like that. So certain was he that it wasn’t natural that he spent the night deep in his magic, untying it and unravelling it, pulling it slowly, carefully apart and into a coherent form. He had no idea what the result might be: for all he knew he would end up killing himself. But he didn’t care. It felt wrong, it felt like another part of the box He had used to cage him, and he wasn’t going to be caged any longer, he wasn’t going to be a pawn anymore.

It took him all night. When he pulled himself out of the trance, tired but triumphant, something waited for him, something he couldn’t see or hear, only feel, not on his skin, but with an odd sense he hadn’t known he had.

Hello, the something said into his mind, and it laughed with delight. I’m so glad, it said, so glad you can talk with me again.

And Harry knew who it was. It was magic.

September first. Harry grinned quietly to himself as he found an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express and stowed his trunk out of the way with a surreptitious touch of magic. Prefects Ron, Hermione, and Ginny couldn’t sit with him, but he was joined by Neville and Luna. Malfoy and his bodyguards stopped by for the traditional verbal duel, and though Harry was smirking inwardly at the idiocy of the insults, he pretended to be offended.

No one would know of his little change of heart, or the new skills he had gained through his friendship with magic. He had created a sort of Occlumency that he called naive-Harry. Naive-Harry was the person he had been before, who didn’t realise he was just a pawn, who hadn’t grown up yet. It was much better than the Occlumency Snape had failed to teach him, for what use was a shield that anyone could see was there? That just put up a big sign saying “secrets hidden within”. Naive-Harry had thoughts and feelings and memories, so that people would think they’d gotten into his mind. Naive-Harry would make people - make Him - think that they knew everything about Harry.

As he chatted with Neville about what the other boy had done over the holidays and listened to the magic’s comments in his mind, Harry smiled inwardly. He was going to enjoy this year.

After the Feast, Harry made his way to Dumbledore’s office as McGonagall had told him to. Though she’d told him the password he didn’t get a chance to use it, for the moment he reached the gargoyle guarding the entrance it sprang aside. The magic chuckled knowingly.

He went up the stairs and knocked on the door, a shy, timid knock. His face was a careful mask of nervousness, but inside his grin was getting bigger. He was going to enjoy messing with Dumbledore’s head this year.

Entering the door, he shuffled over to Dumbledore’s desk. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Ah, Harry, welcome back. Please, take a seat. Sherbert Lemon?”

Harry shook his head and sat, looking up at the Headmaster with feigned apprehension. Had he really been such a drip? Dumbledore smiled at him with a faint touch of uncertainty that Harry would never have detected last year, and he belatedly remembered the last time he’d been in this office. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly, hanging his head.

“For what, Harry?” He’d give the man this, he was very good at the concerned grandfather approach.

“For so getting angry.” He looked up, and felt the man pushing into his head with Legilimency.

Dumbledore’s smile held no uncertainty this time, only pleasure. Naive-Harry interpreted the pleasure as pride in him. Harry knew better; it was pleasure that he had his precious little pawn exactly where he wanted him. They talked briefly, inane little pleasantries that Harry took no pleasure in. But back in Gryffindor tower, in his bed in the silent dark, Harry laughed. Dumbledore believed him.

He fell asleep still chuckling.

And was woken what seemed like moments later at five in the morning by the magic, coy and excited. He laughed at its enthusiasm, but willingly got up and dressed silently, following it downstairs and into the still, empty common room. The fire had long gone out, but he summoned it back with a thought; it was easy to do magic now, with the magic clustering around him eagerly and the block gone from his core.

He sat, the fire the only light in the room, and waited for the magic to tell him what had it so excited that it couldn’t wait until a more reasonable hour. To his surprise, it was a new voice that spoke.

Harry was enjoying himself immensely this year. He was in charge of his own future for the first time, and he had two new friends. First the magic, and now Hogwarts, the very castle itself, sentient after a thousand years of magic. Its first words to him had been “You’ve finally learned to speak!” and now it was a constant companion. Nowhere in the castle was closed to him, and if he asked it would tell him what was occurring anywhere within its walls.

He slowly distanced himself from his human friends, but couldn’t be lonely, not with the magic and the castle around. He stayed friends with his old friends, of course, just pulled away so that he was less of a presence in their lives. They were too young, too fragile, and didn’t need to be a part of his war. They were precious to him in their innocence, and he didn’t want to taint them with what he was becoming. He had never really had a chance to be a child, but he would give them the chance for as long as he was able.

They didn’t notice him pulling away. Hermione and Ron had gotten together over the summer, something about a fight that ended with an unexpected kiss, and they were still in the rosy blushes of young love and not observant to notice anything subtle. The only possible threat to his withdrawal was Ginny, who had proven her perceptiveness last year, but he wasn’t naive-Harry now, he was quite capable of such deviousness that even she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t as if he was cutting himself off from them, he was just spending less time with them, keeping his thoughts more to himself. In fact, he was speaking to Neville more now, having realised that the boy had no close friends and so was often excluded. (There was so much he had never realised. He must have been blind.) They thought he was still grieving over Sirius, subdued, but basically okay. They tended to avoid mentioning his godfather, watching him with worried eyes when someone (usually Ron) slipped up.

It was so easy to understand them now, though. So easy to paint things in a light they appreciated and make them think everything was normal. No wonder Dumbledore managed to appear so omniscient; there was no need for any kind of magic, just sharp observation and a memory for details. Who needed Legilimency when people gave themselves up so easily?He just needed to look for the little things that most people missed.

He still talked Quidditch with Ron, tactics and teams and players, but only to keep up appearances (and so that Ron didn’t bore Hermione silly). Quidditch, the sport, didn’t matter anymore. Who cared which team managed to win a match when Voldemort was out there killing people? It just wasn’t important. Quidditch was still one of the best things in his life, though, not for the game, but for the excuse to fly. He had always loved to fly, but now, with the block gone from his magic, it was even more vital. In some ways, flying was everything.

When he wasn’t flying and had escaped from his friends, he spent a lot of time in the library, thumbing through the books and searching for some clue as to how he could defeat Voldemort. Every day that he failed was another day Voldemort was free to wreak havoc on a world that didn’t deserve it.

Today the library was almost empty; it was a Hogsmeade weekend, and he had claimed an overdue essay as an excuse to stay behind. That the essay had been completed a week ago didn’t bother him as he nosed through an ancient tome he was pretty sure hadn’t been touched in five hundred years; the layers of dust on it would probably be of interest to a geologist. As he squinted at the tiny print, he wondered idly when the Restricted Section had been put in, because if he showed this book to a teacher it would go there before he had time to protest. He put it to one side under an invisibility charm, and fetched some more books to look at.

Knowledge, he had found, could be addictive under the right circumstances. And knowing that an evil wizard was out for your blood, with your only possibilities to kill or be killed, certainly counted as the right circumstances. So did having a desire to slip out of His meddlesome fingers and live his own life.

Eventually he left the library, only checking out one book, one which he could use for his DADA assignment. He didn’t want anyone to have any record of exactly what he was reading. Flashing an open, guileless smile at Madam Pince (who me? the smile said innocently; when people saw openness they assumed you had nothing to hide), he stepped outside. Alone in the corridor, he shoved his wand up his sleeve and held out his hands. The books he wanted to look at appeared in his hands. Since he was alone, he indulged in a quiet, dangerous smile that would surprise anyone who thought they knew him.

Even if Pince discovered the books were missing, who would suspect him? He was just an average student (or at least maintaining the illusion of such). How could he possibly break the anti-theft spells that surrounded every book in the library in a musty haze of protective magics? An innocent smile curling his lips, he sauntered towards Gryffindor Tower, imagining the consternation. Of course, Snape would blame him on principle, but that would give him even more cover, as McGonagall and Dumbledore hastened to defend their poor little prodigy from the big bad Slytherin. Snickering at the thought, he absent-mindedly changed the covers of his purloined books to Quidditch books.

Getting people to underestimate him was a surprising amount of fun, now that he wasn’t bothered about silly things like pride. He probably studied harder than Hermione now, making sure he knew enough to keep his scores perfectly average and didn’t slip up. And he’d never thought he’d have reason to thank the Dursleys, but because of their less-than-stellar care not even Hogwarts food could make him anything but short and skinny. Once this had been a constant annoyance, but now he realised it had distinct advantages: it made him look young, even fragile. If a Death Eater was confronted with him and Ron, he’d automatically assume that Ron was the tougher candidate. He’d be completely wrong, but that was just fine with Harry.

He sat in the Common Room, waiting for his friends to return, and glanced through a book currently labelled A Seeker’s Guide to Quidditch. Its contents didn’t match the title: woodcuts of people part-way through animagi transformations couldn’t conceivably be related to Quidditch.

Harry’s favourite room in the castle was one that even Dumbledore didn’t know about, one the castle had shown to him; it was a part of the original building, wood and plaster instead of stone, with walls and ceilings that met at unusual angles, warped and twisted with age. The Founders had walked in this room once, and though he knew that they were just ordinary people (after all, he himself was famous, he knew that famous people were no different to any others) it was still a thrill to think that those four had once been in this same room where he now stood. The room itself was fairly simple, and he liked that; this wasn’t like Aunt Petunia’s magazine-perfect house nor was it the ornate elaborate decoration that the public areas of Hogwarts tended towards. He was becoming quite fond of simplicity. Fudge liked elaborate, and so did He. Harry wanted to be as little like them as possible.

The room was his hideaway, his place to learn and practice and play, far from prying eyes and questioning mouths and curiosity seekers. Dumbledore never suspected that Harry roamed the corridors at night, because the castle never told him. The man never dreamed that the castle might choose to lie to him. The all-seeing Headmaster had no idea how little he really saw, and sometimes Harry just had to laugh at it.

His room was fairly large, though the ceiling was lower than the average room in the castle, with room to run about and shelves for his books and tables to work at. It was here he learnt about pain, bouncing pain-causing spells off a tall mirror he had transfigured from one of the chairs, because he would not be vulnerable to pain again, would never again be stopped by mere pain. He even cast the Cruciatus on himself, but only much later. He hadn’t expected to be able to cast it, having failed on Lestrange, but she’d been wrong when she said it required the caster enjoy causing pain. Sometimes it just required need. To his surprise, some of the other spells caused more pain than Crucio, and he thought it wasn’t so much the pain level that caused it to be an Unforgivable, like everyone said, but the fact that it was unblockable and the way it seared nerves and tore at a person’s magic.

Harry learnt more in that room than he ever had in his classes, with the magic and the castle looking over his shoulders, and even set up a miniature potions lab in one corner. And when he was alone, or at night when he couldn’t sleep (and that happened often, because there were so many things for him to have nightmares about, both old and recent), he came to his room and he learnt.

He learnt how to become an animagus. It wasn’t hard, and he didn’t know why people talked about how difficult it was or why it required so much careful training. It was easy, with the magic pushing him on, eager for him to succeed, and the castle, who had seen so many animagi in the past thousand years, keeping him on the safe path. It was late one night when he made the first transformation, and he stared at himself in the mirror while the magic and the castle spoke over each other in jubilation.

He was a great snake, slender and wiry, head held up like a cobra so that he was as tall as when human, with large feathered wings. He was black, all over black with no markings at all. Even his scar was gone, and he was delighted by that little side effect. He flexed his wings, watching their easy movement in the mirror, and suddenly he laughed. No wonder he was so taken by flying!

He changed back into human and summoned his invisibility cloak to his hand, hurrying out the door. He ran through the sleeping castle, seeing no one, and hastened to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Stuffing his cloak in his pocket, he stood on the edge and glanced down at the ground far, far below without fear. He could feel the magic grinning at him, felt the excitement building up inside him. He jumped.

He fell, human, as though diving into a pool, and then he changed, with no doubt that his wings, never before used, would hold him. With a peal of snake laughter he spread his wings, felt them catch the air, and soared up into the sky. He played among the stars, cavorting blissfully in the air, able to forget just for this one moment all his duties and responsibilities and the pressures of his life. For a brief, carefree instant there was no Voldemort, no Death Eaters, no prophecy - and he was completely unaware of the professors far below him, searching frantically for the student who had jumped from the Astronomy Tower but disappeared before the safety spells could catch them. The air was his domain now, he was free.

Broomsticks would never be exhilarating again.

Chapter Text

It was a huge castle, but Minerva was finding it stifling. She wished she could leave, even if only for a weekend, and get far away. Get away from the students who smiled at her with innocent faces and didn’t realise that their lives were hanging by a thread, get away from Albus who was slipping further and further into shadows that she had no desire to enter. Kept inside by the blizzard lamenting its way around the castle walls, she strode into the depths of the castle, into the places students couldn’t go, into the corridors where no one but the house elves went, wanting to try to forget that there were other people. To forget that there was a war that she was no longer sure was worth fighting because neither side deserved to win. To forget that people were dying - again.

For a while she amused herself by looking into the rooms, many of which held strange old collections, swords or crockery or exotic feathers. She particularly liked the collection of lucky rabbit feet, Albus would have approved - and then the mood was broken, because she didn’t want to think about Albus. She moved on, and was walking down a doorless piece of corridor when there was a quiet click behind her. She spun, instantly alert and wand in hand, to see a door that had not been there before. It was a plain, unassuming door, open the slightest, most inviting crack. Curious, she stepped forward, cat-silent, and quietly put her head inside (her mother had always said her curiosity would get her killed). It was a large, low-ceilinged room, part of the original building, and had a home-like, lived-in feel, as though someone had loved this room very much and made it all he wanted. At the other end of the room a black-haired figure stood before a large mirror.

Potter? How had he gotten into this part of the castle?

Frowning, she watched unnoticed as the boy held out a hand toward the mirror and, his voice low and carrying, said, “Crucio.” She gasped softly, her limbs freezing in place in shock as the red spell bounced off the mirror and slammed into him. But he didn’t react! She had seen the strength of that spell, he should be falling to the ground in agony - but he just stood there with his hand outstretched while she watched, stunned, and then he said, “Finite incantatum.” As if he was taking off a jelly-legs curse, not one of the most feared curses in the history of magic!

He tilted his head to one side as if listening to someone she couldn’t see, then laughed. “Habit,” he told the unheard speaker. “All right, I’ll try it.”

In the blink of an eye he had become a beautiful winged snake. There was a flash of red again, another Cruciatus bouncing off the mirror into him. The snake shook its wings in reaction, but nothing more. It tilted its head, listening again, then the sleek head swung around to look at her. There was no malice in the black eyes, only curiosity. The snake slithered swiftly over to her and stood before her, lifting itself up a little higher so that it could look her in the eyes.

Abruptly Potter reappeared, laughing. “Hello, Professor,” he said, with that open guilelessness she knew Severus abhorred but she hoped he would never have to lose. He didn’t seem at all worried that he had just been caught with a presumably illegal animagus form and casting an Unforgivable curse. He looked up at her, green eyes cheerful. “I never thought I’d see anyone here.” His gaze darted to the side, and he rolled his eyes at someone invisible. He looked back to her. “I’m going to trust you,” he said simply. “The castle trusts you, or it wouldn’t have let you come here, at least not without warning me.”

Minerva felt as though she’d been cut adrift. There were just too many surprises here. “Warning you?” she asked in disbelief, knowing the castle only "spoke" to the Headmaster. “How did you get here? How are you an animagus? And why did you use--”

He sobered a little, though a smile still gently curved his lips. “You saw that?” She nodded. He shrugged, not really concerned. “I’ve... learnt how to work through pain. Did you know that the Cruciatus isn’t the most painful curse?” She just stared at him. He grinned at her. “Don’t worry, I’m not depressed or suicidal. I just don’t want to be unable to move the next time a Death Eater decides to Crucio me.”

That made sense, Minerva thought reluctantly. It was just hard to get past the image of a sixteen-year-old boy calmly casting the Cruciatus on himself. A child shouldn’t have to worry about what to do when in the presence of a Death Eater.

“I wouldn’t have chosen you,” he said contemplatively. “I would have thought you were too close to Him.” Who? “But I trust the castle to know what it’s doing.” He looked up at her with a bright, childish smile. “Shall I show you who I am?”

The guileless child dropped away as though he had removed a mask. His green eyes were suddenly impossible to read, the soft curves of his face seemed sharper and more angular, and he even seemed to grow taller. This was no child, this was an adult, a soldier, someone she hadn’t known existed. And he talked. He told her about being able to speak with magic, about being able to talk to the castle. He showed her his collection of stolen books, his ability to do wandless magic (even a Patronus and more difficult magics with no wand!). He told her about becoming an animagus, and confessed that it was he who had jumped from the Astronomy Tower.

“The magic chose the form for me when I first did magic,” he said, lean and hard-faced, sitting cross-legged on empty air. The casualness of a feat even Albus couldn’t achieve took her breath away. “My mother was eight months pregnant, and she slipped on the stairs. She didn’t realise that her unborn child levitated her down the stairs and kept her from harm. At that moment the magic knew I would fly.”

He could talk to magic! It was like learning that the sky had a voice. “It’s not quite human,” he confided, “so it can’t quite translate some things so I can understand them. It’s not allowed to interfere with us, because... well, I’m not too clear on that point, but basically because it’s magic, not human. So it’s allowed to be my friend, but it’s not allowed to do anything against Voldemort.” He smirked briefly. “Nothing direct, anyway.”

He gave her all his secrets except for himself, his eyes giving away nothing, his face neutral, his voice calm.

And then he looked at her, not judging, not demanding, just curious. “Will you tell Dumbledore?” Nothing about him told her whether he approved or disapproved of the idea.

“I should,” she said softly, still overawed by this stranger who wore a familiar face. “He needs to know.”

“But?” he pressed gently.

“But you don’t want him to know, or you would have told him.”

He smiled. “Do you trust him?”

“Of cour--” But she stopped. She didn’t, did she? That was why she had been walking the castle, longing to get away. “Once,” she said quietly, “I trusted him without reservation.”

“But not anymore.” It wasn’t a question. “What happened to him? He inspires loyalty, I’ve seen it. But I no longer understand why; he plays us as puppets, nothing more.”

She thought about it: that was the question that had been eluding her, the question she had been struggling to find so that she could answer it. “A brief history lesson, Mr Potter,” she said with dry humour. “Many years ago, Albus defeated Grindelwald, the greatest Dark Wizard in a very long time. This made him a hero and he deserved to be a hero, for he was strong and brave and ready to help. He was the one people asked for aid, the person who was expected to fix everything. And he did it, without asking anything in return. You’re right, he inspired loyalty, simply by being who he was. I was an auror, I loved my job. But he asked me to become a teacher, and even though I had no experience and no real affection for children, I came. You must understand, that was the kind of loyalty he inspired. People would have fought for the privilege to die for him.”

“I would have been one of them once,” Potter said softly.

“I have worked beside him for many years; we were best friends. In fact, I was in love with him.” She had never told anyone that before, but Potter didn’t judge or pity, just looked at her quietly. “How could I not be? He was without a doubt the greatest wizard, the greatest person I had even known. But... I think he has spent too long solving other people’s problems for them. He has forgotten how to sit back and let them handle their own lives. And then Tom Riddle returned in his new form, and by the time you defeated him Albus had changed. He has forgotten that he needs to protect the hearts as well as the bodies. He sent you to the Dursleys despite my protests, because that would keep you alive. He had forgotten that there is more to life than simply being alive. Sometimes,” she said sadly, “I think he has played too much chess. He has forgotten that we are people, not pieces, and we need more than just existence.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully. “He still inspires loyalty in those who don’t see so deep.”

“Yes. It could be dangerous.” She could never have dared to say those words to anyone else.

“I think...” He looked at her, considering, as if wondering whether she could be trusted with his true thoughts. His eyes were sharp, piercing, not muted by his glasses; it was a look that seemed to take in her very soul. Albus could look at a person like that, but Albus had never made her feel this naked and vulnerable, and at the same time so safe. “I wonder sometimes if maybe it isn’t only Riddle I’m supposed to defeat. But I can’t be the hero, I can’t save everyone. I’m not a hero. I’m just a boy who’s never really fitted in anywhere and has friends no one else has.” A breeze ruffled his hair despite the fact there was no breeze. “I don’t want to solve everybody’s problems, I think people should solve their own problems. Dudley would have been better off if he’d had to.” He gave her a stern look, full of things she couldn’t understand. “Don’t expect me to save the world. I’ll kill Riddle because no one else can, and then we’ll see. But I’m not a hero, and I won’t be Dumbledore’s puppet.”

She held his gaze and wondered what he wasn’t saying. “If I had wanted to tell Albus, would you have Obliviated me?”

He shook his head immediately. “I would have run. By the time you reached his office I would have been far away from here. Dumbledore would never have found me.”

“Why wouldn’t you just take my memories?”

“They’re not mine to take.” His eyes were old, his voice was quiet and firm. Strength in weakness: he was strong enough to face the consequences and allow her to betray him.

She stared at him, and if she hadn’t been so awed she would have laughed. He was only sixteen years old, yet she would fight for the privilege to die for him. “Will you let me help you?”

Had he always been like this? Had Potter always been this intelligent, this quick, this observant, this amazing? How had they missed that he had the potential to become this amazing adult?

He laughed as he dodged out of the way of Minerva’s spell and sent back one of his own that she barely blocked. Two things seemed to make him particularly happy: flying and doing magic. Then a wandless Body Bind caught her unawares and she could fight no more, flat on her back. Potter’s face appeared in her field of view, grinning broadly. Not at her, just for general happiness. The spell lifted, and he held out his hand to pull her to her feet. She took it, wondering if she wouldn’t pull him over, he was so small and skinny, but he pulled her up easily. That wiry strength that threaded through his mind apparently extended to his body as well.

“That,” he said with satisfaction, “was much better than fighting my mirror. Thank you.”

Their first duel, and she had lost to a sixteen-year-old. But his pleasure was contagious, and she allowed herself to smile back. “You’re welcome, Mr Potter.”

“So what do you think?” he asked, suddenly nervous. It sat oddly on his now grown-up face. “Would you teach me?”

“It will be my pleasure,” she said honestly. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you.” She was rewarded by his face lighting up. It reminded her of how Albus had once been, so grown-up and controlled but still a child at heart. She couldn’t prevent her lips curling in a light smirk. “And the first thing I will teach you is how to dance.”

“Dance?” She’d expected disgust - after all, he was still a teenage boy - but he just looked surprised and curious. “How will that help me fight Voldemort?”

Albus’ tedious repetition was paying off: she didn’t flinch. Potter gave her an approving look, and she felt almost ashamed at how much his approval warmed her even as her heart clenched at how this boy’s life revolved around protecting himself from a Dark Lord.

“You took that much better than I expected, Mr Potter,” she told him. “I still remember informing you about the Yule Ball in your fourth year--”

He laughed, not quite freely, not quite openly, but with genuine amusement. “I was very young, wasn’t I?”

She wanted to retort that he was still very young, but his eyes were shadowed even in his amusement, and she couldn’t say it because it wasn’t true. “We were all young once, Mr Potter,” she said, trying to regain some equilibrium. “When we were told in auror training that we would have to learn to dance, we all reacted with disbelief. You seem to be taking it very well.”

He looked at her, lips curved in an easy smile that was as much a mask as “naive Harry”. “I trust you, at least in this.” The qualification hurt, but she accepted it. It would take more than a few days to earn the trust of this young man. “I assuming that there’s a reason for dancing lessons?”

She nodded. “I’m not talking about a simple waltz, I’m talking about complicated dances that require a lot of swift and precise footwork.”

“Ah,” he said, green eyes glowing. “Practice at moving.”

“Exactly. Dancing with another person also means that you grow accustomed to how they move, and learn how to read each other. If you’re going to be fighting alongside one another that can have its uses.”

“No.” The flat pronouncement startled her. “You are not going to fight with me.” It was an order, and she rebelled.

“You can’t--”

“I will not let you get hurt. I appreciate the offer, really I do, but too many people have died already. This is my fight, and I won’t let anyone else die because of me.”

She wouldn’t have taken it from anyone else, but from him, strong and young and determined and sad, she accepted it.

So Potter learned to dance, swift dances with flickering footwork. And they duelled, they talked, debated, argued, laughed. And as Albus drew further and further away from her, she grew closer to the stranger who lurked behind the face of one of her students. Minerva usually took care not to get close to her students. Once she had had no qualms about it, but then Voldemort had come and they had all died, and she had drawn away to protect herself. Hermione Granger had managed to break through to some extent, because she had reminded Minerva of herself and pleased her with her enthusiasm. But Hermione was growing up now, growing away, and they no longer interacted more than a normal student and teacher. Harry, though, was succeeding where even Hermione had failed.

And every time he cast the Cruciatus on himself, she winced.

“Must you do that?” she asked for what was probably the six hundredth time, entering his room. He smiled at her with genuine warmth, despite the fact he hadn’t taken the curse off himself yet.

“I have to keep in practise,” he said as though it were self-evident. She folded her arms, and he laughed, taking it off with the accompaniment of an unnecessary handwave. That was one of the things that amazed her, how he had come through so much and not grown bitter, how he remained so cheerful.

“Practise something else, please.”

“Okay.” And she knew that he agreed because it was her asking, and it warmed her. “Anything new for me to learn?”

She rolled her eyes, scarcely able to believe that the young man before her was the same person as the average student who had sat in her classes last year. “You can’t have gotten that spell already,” she complained, already thinking what to show him next.

“But it’s not that hard.” He looked apologetic. “And I did spend half the night practising.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Oh, Harry. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, half hoping he didn’t.

He smiled at her as though he knew what she was thinking, and leaned casually against the wall, showing no sign of the pain she knew he was feeling. “What’s there to say? Voldemort did some horrible things, as he always does.” His voice didn’t falter. She didn’t ask for details, and he offered none. “He still doesn’t know that I can use the link, and I--” His face hardened. “I think I helped them, just a little.”

“How many?” A whisper, not really wanting to know but needing to.

“Three. A man and his son and daughter. He’s searching for something, though I don’t know what Muggles could possibly possess that he would be searching for.” Three more deaths, three more deaths that Harry had watched.

“Why do you do it, Harry? You can block the visions, you don’t have to watch them...” But her voice trailed off, because she knew the answer; she knew it had been a foolish thing to say, because he was Harry and maybe she didn’t know him (no one knew him), but she knew him enough.

He answered anyway; maybe, she thought, he needed to hear the words again. Or maybe she needed to hear them - he had an uncanny ability to know what people needed. “They are dying because I cannot save them. The least I can do is watch over them, hold their hands, ease their passing.” His eyes blazed suddenly. “I have to remember that I am fighting for people. I’m not fighting for a world, or for an ideal, but for people. I’m not going to turn into Him. I’m not going to forget that there are people dying.”

She wanted to reassure him, to tell him that he would never turn into Albus, but she had never imagined Albus would become what he had. “I wish I could help you,” she said softly.

He smiled at her, a real smile, tinged with pain and anger and fear. A real smile. “But don’t you know? You do.”

And in that moment, she loved him.

They continued on, in the eyes of others no more than a student and a teacher. No one else noticed that they disappeared at the same times, no one else knew that they were friends, that they swapped the roles of student and teacher at whim, that her best friend was now a boy with messy hair and his best friends were a force of nature, a castle, and a stern teacher. He was still close to his peers, to the friends who had stood by him all these years, but he couldn’t relate to them in the ways he needed to. He didn’t want to taint them, he told her, didn’t want to take their innocence. But since he couldn’t protect her as he could them (too tainted, too uninnocent herself), he allowed himself to befriend her. She was more grateful for that gift than any other she had ever received.

There was no interaction outside of Harry’s room. Harry wasn’t the only one who could wear a mask that covered completely - Albus, for all his Legilimency, hadn’t yet discovered her disillusionment - and so there were no secret looks, no covert messages, no private smiles, nothing that could provide a clue to anyone.

And while she grieved over the losses Voldemort was inflicting and the pain it caused a boy who never complained, she was glad to have this time with him, this time to learn about a remarkable person who had no idea how remarkable he was.

“You could ask Severus for help,” she suggested ruefully as they looked at the bubbling cauldron and wondered why the potion was light blue instead of navy.

“No,” Harry said, frowning at the mixture. “Not yet.” He picked up the book and looked over the instructions again. He was stretching Minerva’s potions skills; she’d done Potions up to seventh year, but it had never been her best subject and she’d used it as little as possible since.

“Why not?” she asked absently, reaching out and stirring the potion clockwise. It didn’t help.

“He’s too bound to Him,” Harry said, running his finger down the page. His frown deepened, but his eyes were hooded. “Since He saved him, Snape’s got a blind spot for Him. He’ll see past his gratitude eventually.” He closed the book with a snap. “I feel sorry for him.”

“Severus?” She’d never imagined hearing that from a student.

Harry met her eyes, though she could read nothing from him. It should have been disturbing to see such control on someone she knew to be sixteen, but he looked older without his “naive Harry” mask. “He’s stuck in the past, nursing old wounds, feeling guilty for old mistakes, trying to atone for old sins. He’s not really in the present at all.” He stared into the botched potion. “I wish I could help him.” Then with a wave of his hand the potion was gone. “Can we duel?”

And they did.

Minerva was amazed by this new Harry, not so much his new skills (which admittedly were amazing), but who he was. He’d confessed that Hermione had accused him of having a “saving-people thing”, but it was even more than that now. He was so desperate to help people, even the teacher who had done nothing but deride him since his first day at Hogwarts, simply because he could. Within him was a confidence in himself and his abilities that had never been there before, and yet at the same time he had no confidence - he couldn’t understand why people loved him. But they did. She watched him, and even though they didn’t know the real Harry, the people around him loved him; you couldn’t know him, even the masked him, and not feel the brilliant, kind strength that ran through him and love him for it. Through the stories he told her she knew that the magic and the castle loved him too. She loved him, not in love with him, or as a son, just loved him because he was Harry and she couldn’t not love him. He was so strong and fragile and alive and determined not to fail, for the sake of those who needed him.

He was a leader, like Albus. But where Albus cajoled and manipulated, Harry simply asked. And though he would willingly accept no for an answer and not ask again, Minerva didn’t think there were many who would say no. Not to this boy-who-was-not-a-boy, with his piercing eyes and infinite compassion, who gave everything and asked nothing in return.

She won this duel, though she didn’t know if she would be able to continue her sporadic wins much longer. While she was no slouch, he was born to duel. Panting and sweating, they collapsed into chairs at one of the tables. Minerva rested her head on her arms, while Harry, with that wonderful resilience of youth, was already regaining his stamina. She looked up at him as her breathing slowed, to see him watching her thoughtfully.

“Magdalen is in the hospital wing,” he said.

She closed her eyes, remembering the girl’s white face and laboured breathing and wishing she didn’t. “Yes.”

“They say it’s a flu.”

“Yes.”

“It was another attack, wasn’t it?”

She forced herself to open her eyes and meet his gaze. “Yes. Her life-force was drained too. No one’s died yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And I’m positive Albus knows who it is, but is holding back for some reason.”

“Wheels within wheels,” Harry said in disgust.

And meanwhile her students were hurting. She closed her eyes again and forced herself not to let her tears fall. Too far. Albus had gone too far.

“We’ll stop them,” Harry said quietly, laying a hand on her arm. “If only I could find them. They only attack in crowds, and the castle can’t see who it is and the magic isn’t allowed to help here any more than against Voldemort.”

She opened her eyes and sat up, knowing Harry blamed himself. Putting her hand on his, she forced all of the conviction she held for him into her voice. “You’ll stop them, Harry. None of this is your fault. You’ll stop them.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her. "I'm glad you're my friend."

Yes, she loved him.

She was walking down a corridor when the as yet unfound drainer attacked her. Her knees collapsed beneath her as the vicious, surreptitious spell slammed through her system, burning up her life-force and driving her towards death. Suddenly there were startled green eyes above her, and through the pain she applauded Harry on his mask, it really was quite good. And then his hand was in hers, helping her to her feet as the spell was ruthlessly exterminated and energy shoved into her. “Sorry, Professor!” he said hastily, but she could feel his fury. “I didn’t mean to trip you up!”

“Quite all right, Mr Potter,” she said, brushing off her robes. “Just watch where you’re going, please.”

“Yes, Professor!” he said earnestly, and hurried off with his friends.

She scolded Harry for the energy transfer - transferences of life-forces weren’t things to be taken lightly - but he only looked at her, lean and intent, and said quietly, “I know how to kill Voldemort.”

Chapter Text

Severus couldn’t concentrate on his book, the memory of his conversation with Albus earlier in the evening resonating in his head and drowning out the words. He was suffocating in knowing twinkles and kind words - suffocating because they weren’t real, they were just part of some hateful game, and he wanted them to be real, needed them to be real--

The flames in the fireplace leapt and spun, and he could almost imagine Albus’s face peering out at him from the streaks of red and orange. “I have confidence that you will do the right thing, Severus.” He scowled and snatched up the poker, prodding angrily at the fire as he tried to dismiss the phantom. Right for whom? he wanted to demand. Was it ‘right’ for him to throw his life away on someone else’s whim for a plan that held so little chance of success? Was he somehow wrong to want to live and not die a pointless, useless death?

Did Albus think he was blind to the manipulations that were being spun around him? He was a Slytherin! Slytherins had invented manipulation! He hadn’t minded when he was young and unsure and didn’t want to have to make any more decisions lest he make the wrong ones yet again, but he wasn’t that person anymore. He couldn’t blindly accept everything Albus told him as right, and he couldn’t continue to obey without any thought to the consequences. This wasn’t a game! It was his life, and other people’s lives, and it should be treated as such.

Slytherins tended to build their lives upon strict codes, where certain things were done and certain things were not done; for historic reasons these often weren’t codes that anyone else would approve of, but they were followed rigidly nonetheless. Albus had managed to instil his own ethics and morals into Severus instead, and as a good Slytherin he adhered to them firmly - but Albus did not. Albus was straying from what he had taught, and Severus couldn’t accept it. Gratitude could only go so far. Loyalty that was not returned could only last so long.

He buried his face in his hands, lost, staring blankly down through his fingers at his book. What could he do? Where could he go? He wanted someone to tell him what to do again, wanted someone to follow who he could believe in. He was a follower, he had always known that, but there was no one worth following. Why had Albus changed? What had happened to the man who had cared about him and listened to him and not minded that he wasn’t worth saving but saved him anyway?

Maybe he could run away to America and start over, hoping (vain hope) that Albus would keep the Dark Lord too busy to follow and kill him.

But before his thoughts could turn too bleakly suicidal, the fire flared green, and he jerked his head out of his hands as Minerva’s head appeared in the fireplace. “Severus! Are you alone?” Her voice was a secretive hiss.

Curious, he nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Her head disappeared for a moment, and then she stepped through, dragging someone after her.

“I told you he was alone, Minerva,” the young man said. Severus felt he should recognise him, but couldn’t. He didn’t know anyone other than Albus who wore that casual aura of power and warmth.

“I was just checking.”

The man rolled his eyes. “You’re as paranoid as Mad-Eye. I can know just about everything that happens in this castle if I want to. I even know that Abbott and Finch-Fletchley are currently snogging at the top of the Astronomy Tower.”

Minerva grimaced at that, but her lips quirked into a reluctant smile and she turned to Severus. “Severus, we need your help.”

He didn’t answer immediately, eyeing the man warily. Green eyes studied him in return, and the man nudged Minerva with his elbow. “I told you!”

She frowned at Severus, then sighed and smiled. Severus stared, having never seen her so relaxed around anyone. “You did,” she admitted. “There’s no need to brag. Oh, don’t scowl like that, Severus, we’re not laughing at you. Hurry up, Harry.”

He looked back at the man, who smiled sadly and... changed. Nothing about him changed, not his hair or his eyes or his face, it was just something in the way he held himself, the expression on his face. His aura folded back in on itself and disappeared and years seemed to drop from his face. Suddenly Potter stood before him, and Severus automatically assumed a look of disgust. “Superman and Clark Kent,” the boy said cryptically, and Minerva gave him a warning nudge.

“Severus,” she said, “we really do need your help.”

“You want me to help Potter,” he sneered. “Why don’t you ask the Headmaster, he would be happy to oblige your little whims, Potter.”

“No,” the boy said calmly. “He would be happy to make me dance to his tune.”

Taken aback to hear an echo of his thoughts from Potter, Severus looked at the boy through narrowed eyes, animosity taking a back seat to curiosity. “I thought--” He cut himself off.

Potter shifted position slightly, and the young man stood before him again, all heroic charisma and young vitality and old eyes, power and strength that Severus would never have believed the Potter brat could wield. He’d been in the boy’s mind, surely he would have known if Potter could become this? If Potter had been like this he might not have despised him. “You thought what you were meant to think. As did Dumbledore. But this is the last battle, Professor. I’m showing my hand, and it is not what Dumbledore wants it to be.”

A slight smirk made its way onto Severus’ face. “I never thought I would see the day. The Gryffindor Golden Boy breaks from Albus Dumbledore. Why?” he barked.

Potter looked at him, and Severus couldn’t restrain a wince as those sharp eyes looked through him, saw all his secrets... and didn’t judge him guilty. Accepted him and appreciated him and didn’t care about his mistakes. “I won’t be a puppet, Professor. Dumbledore has decided that the final battle will occur when he wills it.” The young man held up a quill. “My portkey. To take me to my fate.” He tossed it into the fire and Severus watched it shrivel and burn, unable to take his eyes from it. When he looked back, Potter had a sword in his hand. “My weapon. Crazy old coot.”

“That’s Gryffindor’s sword,” Severus said, startled.

“And apparently I’m supposed to kill Voldemort with it.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Severus sniped. “Hold him still while you run him through?”

“No. I want your permission to track you.”

“What!” To his eternal shame, he yelped. “That Dark Lord will--”

“Not notice. This is... not a spell.”

“Albus,” Minerva interjected, “didn’t notice when we tried it on him.”

He stared at her. “You came up with a tracking spell that Albus doesn’t notice.”

She shook her head. “No, Harry did.”

“Minerva,” Potter protested, “it--”

“Was yours, Harry.”

Severus had the feeling there were a lot of blanks to fill in. “Why would you come to me?”

Potter thrust the sword toward the ground with both hands, and it disappeared, without an incantation or any other outward sign of magic, before it could touch the floor. Despite himself, Severus was impressed. “Voldemort is going to summon the Death Eaters soon.” Potter looked at him with serene eyes. “I imagine Dumbledore is planning some dramatic, heroic entrance. But I’m not a hero, and I’d prefer to survive this encounter. So I would like to follow you to the meeting. After that I won’t ask anything from you, and I think you’d probably be better off if you apparate away the moment I show up.”

“Why are you asking? Why not just put the tracking spell on me?” There had to be something more going on, but Potter’s eyes were no longer open and readable. How long had he been able to do that?

“Because you’re right, there is a risk. I won’t risk your life without your permission, it’s not my place.”

“And if I choose to tell Albus that his precious hero is running amok?”

Potter smiled, bright and amused. “Then you aren’t the man I thought you were. He would never find me. Yes or no, Professor, that’s all I want of you. If you say no, then that’s it, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Forever?” he said snidely.

“I don’t think I can promise forever,” Potter said honestly, “though I can do my best. Look, Professor, I know you don’t like me, and I can accept that, but you want to defeat Voldemort too, don’t you?” Severus nodded. “Well, I know how to do it. And it doesn’t involve shoving a clueless kid into battle with a sword he doesn’t know how to use. I actually have a plan.”

“Which requires I risk my life in the hope you can pull it off.” Hadn’t he just been through this with Albus? “No, Potter. Get out of my room.”

Albus would have pushed and cajoled until he wore down Severus’ resistance; Minerva looked at him with disappointment. Potter merely nodded, not judging. “I understand. Thank you for listening, at least.” Without any further discussion, he stepped towards the door. That was it? No complaints, no perseverance, just simple acceptance?

“Potter, wait.” The man turned to look at him questioningly, and Severus looked to Minerva. “This plan, will it work?”

“It will.” And to his surprise, there was absolutely no doubt in her eyes. She read his confusion and smiled at him, and suddenly he understood. She had found a third side in this hopeless war, a side that was worth fighting for. He wondered how it was that such a thing could be found in Potter, yet couldn’t disbelieve it. The war was over, and his knees almost collapsed in relief. It was over.

Half reluctant and half eager, he nodded at Potter. If he was going to risk his life, it would be on his terms, because he decided to. “Do it, then.” With a flick of his hand Potter sent a tiny, silvery spell to Severus. It landed on his shoulder, hesitated there a moment, then melted into him like an errant flake of snow. ”But if the Dark Lord kills me for it I’m going to enjoy haunting you, Potter.”

Potter shook his head. “No one else is going to die. Not because of him.” The look in his eyes actually scared Severus. He was suddenly very glad he wasn’t Voldemort.

Potter told the truth: Voldemort didn’t detect the spell. But as the Death Eater meeting droned on, Severus wondered what the boy was playing at. And wondered at the feeling of betrayal he felt when nothing happened. The meeting finished and the Death Eaters drifted away, but Severus dawdled, wondering where Potter was, and so was one of only two Death Eaters left when a black shape dropped from the sky in a flurry of wingbeats.

He’d never seen such a creature, a snake the size of Nagini with black, feathered wings. The other Death Eater cast a curse at it, but the spell just rebounded and hit the man, sending him flying. He didn’t get up. Severus, skulking in the shadows, stayed put, wondering what the snake wanted. Voldemort faced it with genuine surprise and curiosity, Nagini coiled around his feet.

The snake hissed, and both Nagini and Voldemort flinched. The winged snake spoke again (Severus was sure it was Parseltongue) and Nagini reluctantly slithered away. To Severus’ surprise, Voldemort made no move to stop her. Instead he stared at the snake with something approaching fear.

And then the great winged snake disappeared, and in its place stood Potter. Voldemort’s surprise equalled Severus’, and for a moment all was still. The boy stood there, his guileless mask in place, the mask Severus would have sworn just yesterday was no mask.

“Dumbledore’s hero,” Voldemort sneered. “Complete with sword.” He seemed to have forgotten his fear.

“Godric Gryffindor’s sword,” Potter acknowledged. “Dumbledore wants me to think I’m Gryffindor’s Heir. But I’m no more Gryffindor’s Heir than you are Heir of Slytherin. Did you know that Salazar and Godric were best friends?”

What was he doing? Severus wondered, watching Voldemort’s irritation with the boy’s words. Was he just trying to get himself killed as painfully as possible? But one look at Potter, at the strain in his shoulders - and was that sweat on the back of his neck? - made him wonder what this plan was, the one Minerva was so sure would work.

“Insolent brat,” Voldemort hissed. “What are you going to do, stab me?”

Potter threw the sword to one side. “No, Tom.” Voldemort snarled in incoherent rage. “I’m going to kill you.” And there was sorrow in his voice, deep, deep sorrow.

He didn’t raise his arms, or shout a spell, or do anything remotely heroic. He just stood there, beginning to tremble, his aura flaring suddenly and out of control, while Voldemort’s eyes widened in horror.

“What are you doing, Potter? What are--” They collapsed together, the hero and the villain, two untidy heaps on the ground.

Severus moved forward cautiously, freezing when there was sudden movement, then hurrying to Potter’s side as the young man struggled weakly to his knees. Green eyes gazed peacefully at him. “Thought that was going to kill me,” Potter said in the tone of someone speaking of the weather, though exhaustion threaded his voice.

Severus stared at him, then at Voldemort, who was not only dead but destroyed, as though whatever it was that held people together had been taken away. This was one monster that would never again terrorise the world. He looked back to Potter, who gazed back with fatigue-blunted eyes.

“I took his magic,” Potter said simply, as if it were no bigger task than a Lumos spell. He reached out a hand that trembled ever so slightly with weariness. “Do you want your Mark? Can take it from you now, won’t be able to later. Only chance.”

Severus dropped down to one knee and offered his arm without hesitation. He wanted to be free. Potter clasped his hand around Severus’ forearm, covering the Dark Mark, and Severus felt something pulling, tugging, shifting, breaking--

Potter fell, but before Severus could shift forward to his side a cat sprang out of the dark. It became Minerva, kneeling by Potter, clutching the young man’s hand between hers. “Come on, Harry, don’t give up on me now.” Nothing changed, and she lifted her head, addressing someone Severus couldn’t see, pain in her voice. “Please, you want to save him as much as I do, do this for him. Let me help him.”

But Potter lay there, cold and white and drained and dead - and then he moaned softly and Minerva faltered in sudden fatigue and he pulled away. He smiled up at her, the smile of two old friends with no secrets between them. “You told me off for doing that.”

She sniffed. “Of course. Energy transfers are not to be taken lightly.” And then she smiled.

He laughed - an old friends thing again, Severus felt like an intruder - and the pair helped each other to their feet, both weak but neither dying. Severus stood with them, and for a moment they just stood there, the three of them still and quiet in the dark with Voldemort’s body crumbled at their feet, and Severus realised it was over. The war that had haunted his entire adult life was done, and he no longer had to spy, he no longer had to fear - it was over. A weight lifted from his chest, and he felt like laughing for the first time in a very long while. It was over. It was truly over. It was almost incomprehensible, and he could barely take it in. He’d never dared to imagine a life without Voldemort’s shadow and yet now it was here.

The war was over. Really, truly over. Minerva smiled at him with the same shattered relief that he felt, but Potter wasn’t looking at either of them, his eyes distant as if listening closely to someone.

“Come,” Potter said, and it was an order but Severus didn’t know how to obey it, and a feeling like none he had ever felt before wound up inside him, a yearning, a longing, a desire, a love... home home home home home...

They stood outside Hogwarts’ gates, looking up to the brightly-lit castle. Severus stared at Potter, knowing he hadn’t apparated, knowing it could only have been Potter...

Who stared at him with solemn green eyes and nodded, somehow reassuring, then looked at them both, Severus and Minerva, with old, old eyes. “He knows. Dumbledore knows I refused his portkey, he knows I left on my own. He and Fudge are trying to decide what should be done with me.” He laughed a little. “They would be enemies, you know. Fudge is too afraid of losing his position to Dumbledore, and Dumbledore despises Fudge for his petty-mindedness. They could barely work together to fight Voldemort, yet against me...” It never occurred to Severus to doubt Potter’s words, even as he didn’t understand how the man could know these things. “They both fear me, you see. Almost everyone will fear me, because I’m too strong. If they find out how strong I am, there will be nothing for me but fear, and Dumbledore and Fudge will fan the flames.”

“Harry...”

“I’m leaving,” Potter said flatly. “The castle is warning me and I’m taking the warning. I’ll say goodbye, though,” he added, suddenly mischievous. “I’d rather like to show Dumbledore how badly he miscalculated.” His gaze held Minerva’s. “I told you I wouldn’t be the hero. I’m not going to be Dumbledore, manipulating and manoeuvring and solving everyone’s problems for them. Voldemort is gone, and the Death Eaters are taken care of. I took the spell signature from your Dark Mark before I destroyed it, Professor, and I’ve bound them. They won’t harm anyone ever again. I think that’s enough problem-solving, don’t you?” Minerva nodded, and Potter’s gaze shifted to Severus. “You’ll have months, maybe even a year, left at Hogwarts. He suspects you’re worried about his methods, but he’s too sure of his own infallibility to worry much about it. You, Minerva, will have several years. Neither of you need to leave yet. But I’m selfish, so I’ll ask: Will you come with me? But you shouldn’t come. If I had the right, I’d order you not to.”

“I will follow you,” Minerva said without hesitation.

Severus stared at him, this boy whom he had thought he had known who had become a young man he knew nothing about. When did Potter become a person in his own right and not just somebody’s son? When did Potter become a better person than Albus? When had Potter become a leader, a leader such as Severus would choose to follow with all his heart because he was all that Voldemort was not and everything that Albus should have been--

And Severus stared at Potter and knew that there was only one answer he could give, one choice that was right, one thing he could say. “So will I.”

Hogwarts had apparently chosen a master: the front doors opened for Potter, the gargoyle guarding Albus’ office leapt aside with alacrity, and the door at the top of the stairs opened without being touched. Potter led the way in, but Severus still saw the surprise on Albus’ face, hastily covered with the usual geniality.

“And who might you be?” demanded Fudge from his chair before Albus’ desk, glaring at Potter. “How dare you burst in like that?”

The young man looked back at Minerva and Severus as they took up flanking positions behind him, highly amused and inviting them to share his joke. “I told you they had no idea.”

“Minerva?” Albus asked. “Severus? What is going on?”

“It was under his nose all along,” Potter continued conversationally. “He just never saw it.”

“I demand to--”

“Oh, shut up, Fudge.” Potter stepped forward, leaning on Albus’ desk and letting his aura have free rein. Fudge shifted away from him uncomfortably. “Don’t you remember me, Albus? The pawn, the hero, the weapon you thought you had completely under your control. So young, so brave, even after he lost his parents and then his friend and then his godfather.”

“Harry?”

Severus owed Potter just for that look of stunned incomprehension on Albus’ face.

“You will call me Mr Potter,” came the cold reply. “I am not your puppet any longer.”

“Har--”

“You may be interested to know that Voldemort is dead,” Potter said flatly. Fudge flinched. “You may not be pleased to know that I have not done it according to your plan.”

“The sword--”

Potter rolled his eyes and held out his hand. The sword appeared in his grasp. “Your precious sword, unstained by Voldemort’s blood. Did you really think it would work, Albus?” A flick of his wrist and the sword was back in its usual place beside the Sorting Hat. “I only came here to see that look of surprise on your face,” a smirk curled around Potter’s lips, “and to say goodbye. You’ve lost your pawn, Albus. I’d weep for you, but I’m not at all sorry.”

“But - but you can’t just leave,” Fudge flustered. “What will we tell people?”

“You were going to get rid of me anyway,” Potter said, with a merciless edge to his voice that made the man cower. “Tell them whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Now, Harry,” Albus said placatingly. “I’m sure--”

“Don’t you understand? You have no hold over me anymore. The boy who you could trick and manipulate is long dead, and I won’t listen to you. I’m leaving, and I take with me three of the most precious things in Hogwarts.”

Albus’ eyes flickered over to the sword and the Sorting Hat, and Potter laughed. “You’re too concerned with the material, Albus. You’ve forgotten that the most important things are not always those we can see or touch. I take with me Minerva and Severus, and I take the heart of the castle, its love. And I don’t know if you will ever understand just what it is you have lost.”

Turning away from the steely, uncompromising glint in Potter’s eyes, Albus appealed to his friends. “Minerva. Severus. Surely you’re not going to destroy your careers by going along with this foolishness.” Severus had never liked that tone of voice, the one that somehow made him feel so guilty and childish and stupid, but it wasn’t until today that he realised that he had done nothing to deserve that, that he wasn’t being foolish. That was just Albus’ opinion, and Albus’ opinion was no longer recognised currency. He smirked, feeling ridiculously free.

“You’ll never understand, Albus.” Minerva was smiling. “This isn’t a game or a lark, we won’t regret this in the morning or wish to come crawling back to you. This is about love - do you remember it? All three of us have loved you in our own ways, why else would we have done so much for you? I know you think you love us too, but your love is a stifling parody of the true thing. We need to breathe and we need to live. You would only let us survive. Goodbye, Albus.”

“Severus,” Albus turned to him, almost pleading. “Surely you’ll be sensible.”

“Yes,” Fudge sneered. “A Death Eater doesn’t have many options.”

He smiled. Rolling up his sleeve, he said, “Do you see this? No Mark. It’s gone, and I’m no longer bound to anyone.” Albus was stunned, but Severus ignored him and looked to Potter. “No longer bound, except for where I wish to be.” Potter smiled. “I have found a place, Albus, and I won’t let you deny me that.” A place where he was wanted, not for his Potions skills, or his position, but simply because someone had found something in him that they liked. He’d never had that before.

Albus sighed, and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I am sorry, all of you. Somehow I have failed you.”

“Yes,” Potter said with brutal honestly, “you have. I’m sorry too, because I cannot make you see how you have failed.”

“Dumbledore, you’re not just going to let them walk out of here!” Fudge stood, eyes wide and frantic. Potter looked at him with disdain and turned away. “Stop! I order you to stop!”

“Fudge.” Potter didn’t turn, but his voice was cold. “I killed Voldemort.” The Minister flinched. “Do you understand what that means? It means that you are no threat to me.”

“Dumbledore! I order you to stop them!”

“Cornelius,” Albus said wearily, “I have no grounds on which to do so.”

“He’s going to be the next Dark Lord! Why else would he have a Death Eater following him?”

Albus lifted his head, and Severus realised that Potter’s going Dark truly was what he feared. He could have laughed at the absurdity, but it froze his heart with worry. Potter, however, showed no sign of uncertainty when he turned around. “Fudge, you would go Dark long before I. Or Albus here would, since all that’s stopping him is his firm belief that he is on the Light side.”

Furious, Albus stood; Severus caught his glance to Minerva as if expecting her to defend him and his shock that she was nodding agreement. “How dare--”

With a wave of his hand, Potter froze both Dumbledore and Fudge in place. Only their eyes could move, rolling wildly about as they tried to understand what was going on. “This is pointless,” the young man said. “You will accuse and I will accuse, and no one will listen to anyone. You say you are not Dark, so I am willing to give you both the benefit of the doubt. I hardly believe you’ll give me the same courtesy, but I will state nevertheless, that I am not Dark, and I can see no future where I would go Dark.” He smiled, eyes sparkling, and Severus’ breath caught in his throat. “The world is too wonderful to destroy. I would rather finally take the chance to enjoy it.” He sketched a short bow. “Good day, gentlemen.” Looking at Severus and Minerva, he questioned them silently, once again giving them the option to stay. Severus’ answer filled his eyes.

Potter’s smile widened as he turned, but Fawkes interrupted the dramatic exit by landing on his arm and trilling pleadingly. Potter smiled sadly and whispered to the bird. When he had finished, Fawkes hung his head and trilled a quiet agreement.

“There is hope, Fawkes,” Potter said, scratching the bird’s chin. “There is always hope.”

The phoenix flew back to his perch and fixed Albus with a contemplative stare as Potter walked out the door.

Minerva and Severus followed, not knowing where they were going nor what the future might hold. All Severus knew was that the one constant in his future would be Potter, leader and holder of Severus’ loyalty.

He had found his place and he would not relinquish it.

Fin