In the Slytherin Common Room the next evening, Harry sat at the table with his study group mates as they worked on a project for Transfiguration. They were supposed to be turning a thistle into a whistle, and since they had to make sure the whistle worked, it was immediately apparent if the transfiguration had been complete or not. Fortunately, Harry recalled, from one of the books he and Teddy had perused, a counter for stinging curses which came in handy against nettles. Everyone was using the spell liberally on lips, tongues and fingers.
Rather than work on the project, however, Harry was scribbling madly on a long sheet of parchment, trying to finish the essay due the following day. He had only about a foot and a half so far, meaning he was only half way done. It was miserable work, but he was not fool enough not to finish.
Realizing suddenly that the group around him was quiet, he looked up. Millie gave him a pointed stare. "It's your turn, Harry."
"Oh. Sorry." He lifted his wand, focused on the reedy plant into front of him and waved his wand just so . . . "Factus Barba!" Now a thin tin whistle lay on the table. He gingerly picked it up - no stinging yet - and held to his lips - still no stinging - and blew. No stinging, but no sound, either.
Or so he thought.
From the nearest dormitory came the cacophony of several owls hooting at once, and a Third Year girl's shout of, "What the hell?!"
"Nice going there, Potter," Zabini said with a smirk. "You made a bird call."
"Better than you did," Millie countered, sneering. "Or was that incantation you yammered on about supposed to shred the thistle?"
"Shut it, Bulstrode."
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You did good, Harry," she said.
"Thanks." Harry grinned. "Your turn."
"Here goes nothing," she said with a sigh. When she got no better results than the last time she tried, even when Harry gave her a pointer on the wand motion, she sat back with a huff and watched as Draco took his turn. Then she leaned over to Harry and said quietly, "What are you working on?"
He jerked the scroll out of her view and put his hand over it for good measure. "Nothing."
"Oh, right. Sorry. I didn't realize you thought I was stupid."
"I don't!" He bit his lip and flicked a quick glance at Zabini. He didn't want to lie to his friend, but he didn't want to tell her about his essay for Snape, either. It was really embarrassing. "But it's, erm . . . it's personal."
"Uh huh." She scrunched her nose up and scowled at him. "Anything to do with you ruining the cover story we had planned for the Professor?"
"Umm, yeah." He sighed. "Kind of. I have to do this for punishment, anyway. It's got to be done by tomorrow night, and I'm barely half way there."
She jutted her chin out. "If you'd stuck to the plan-"
"I couldn't lie to him, all right?" Nor could he explain how much he hated that he had disappointed Snape, or how much it meant to him that Snape took him to see his parents' graves. It was all too bloody personal. Harry forced his hands to unclench and took a slow breath. "I . . . I just couldn't."
"Well fine," she said with a huff of annoyance. "Next time, just say so, and I won't waste my time coming up with a brilliant plan to save your hide."
"Your plan was brill, Millie. Honest." He chewed on his thumbnail nervously, just thinking about that confrontation with Snape. "I dunno why I couldn't play along."
"Your head got knocked about by the troll, I guess."
Harry glanced at her sideways, not sure if she was having him on. He caught the sparkle of humor in her eyes, though, and allowed himself a small smile in return. "No doubt." He sighed. "The Bloody Baron said I should tell the Professor about the spell I used, too."
He had her full attention now. "Harry . . . are you sure about that?"
"Yeah. I mean, he said so, right after I told Snape what really happened."
"But . . ." She glanced at Draco and Zabini, but neither seemed to be listening in; in fact, Draco was currently trying to convince Zabini that there was no "R" in Factus, to no avail. She turned back to Harry, eyes narrowed. "But you know you're the only one he talks to, right? The only one who can even hear him?"
Harry frowned. "Um, no? I mean, you were there when he warned us about the dangerous thing in the halls the other night. And when I told him Hermione was in the girls' lav."
Millicent looked uncomfortable but she held his gaze. "Well, Teddy and I saw him float in and come over to you. And we heard you telling him about that Gryffindor girl, but we couldn't hear him."
Harry's mouth dropped open. He felt it fall. How was it he hadn't realized this? The Baron spoke to Professor Snape, he knew; he'd heard enough of their conversations. But had he truly never heard the Baron speak to another student? Thinking back over the last two months, he realized Millie was right. Weird.
"Weird," he said.
"Yeah."
"I didn't know."
"I guessed that."
Sighing loudly, Harry dropped his face into his hands. He was such a freak.
Harry stayed up late that night, using a bit of wand light under the covers to continue to work on his essay. The lines on the parchment were a bit crooked, but at least he didn't spill any ink on his bed sheets. On Monday, he worked on the essay some more during lunch and through his free period afterwards, and finally finished just before dinner. It had been a monster to write. Just thinking about the topic, for one thing, was enough to make his chest feel all tight. And coming up with examples of how and when he had been rather free with his own safety or even his life, was more eye-opening than he would have guessed.
Like the time he was seven, or maybe eight, and just had to rescue a neighbor's kitten who was stranded high in a tree. Dudley and his friends were throwing stones at the poor thing, and instead of waiting for the neighbor to get his ladder or call the fire department or whatever, Harry had climbed the tree to protect it. He spent an hour dodging stones and chasing the kitten through the small and occasionally fragile branches, until both he and kitten came crashing down as was inevitable, really, given his luck.
The kitten landed on its feet and bounded away. Harry, however, had sprained his ankle and left shoulder, and then had been punished with no food for the entire time he was unable to perform his regular chores at the Dursleys. But he could have been hurt far worse than that. He'd actually been quite lucky not to break his neck.
Harry hadn't honestly considered all the times he'd just rushed into a situation without thinking and tried to save someone, or some thing, or even his own hide, and ended up getting hurt or almost killed. Or worse, getting someone else hurt.
He supposed that was the point of the exercise.
Still, he wished he could curl up into a tiny little ball of dust and float away on the wind, rather than face down his professor with this essay. On the way to Snape's office on Monday evening, he dragged his feet under the watchful eye of the Bloody Baron, not wanting to ever get there if he could help it. The only reason he could think of, for not just making a run for it, was that he would get to see pictures of his Mum for the first time.
The Baron floated silently beside him for most of the trip, but eventually, Harry could not take the quiet anymore and said, "Why don't you talk to anyone else?"
The ghost turned his head slowly and regarded him with fathomless, dark-as-midnight eyes. "I do speak to others."
"Well, Professor Snape, yeah. I've heard you talk to him. But don't you talk to any other students?"
"I do not find myself needing to communicate with them, Harry Potter."
"But you need to communicate with me?"
"Of course." The Baron's ghostly eyebrows rose. "We have fought together, Harry Potter, you and I. We have shared blood. There are few Wizard bonds as strong. Even had I not sworn to protect you, how could I not seek you out and speak with you?"
Harry's gaze was drawn to the Baron's chest wound that perpetually leaked silvery blood, and without thinking, his hand rose to touch his own chest, where his own wound had been. It was gone now, but for a pale scar marring his skin. "Will we always have a bond like this?"
Harry could have cursed his voice for sounding so small and hopeful, but he really wanted - needed - to know that he would share a connection with this ancient being for a long time, if not forever. The Baron was his closest confidant; not even Teddy or Millicent knew a quarter of his secrets, compared to the Bloody Baron. And he wanted someone to want to be with him . . . just for him.
"We will, Harry Potter. Till the end times."
Unable to keep the grin off his face, despite the grim way the Baron made his pronouncement, Harry hid his face instead. He'd never had a friend forever before. Hell, at two months, Teddy and Millicent were current record holders for the longest time he'd ever had a friend at all.
At last they reached Snape's office. The Bloody Baron waited while Harry knocked and was bade to enter. Giving the ghost a wry, grateful smile over his shoulder, Harry did as he was told.
Professor Snape sat behind his desk, scribbling notes on essays in that dreaded red ink he always used. Harry figured he must have stock in the ink company, since no one got an essay back from Snape that wasn't coated with the stuff.
Without looking up, Snape pointed at the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk, and Harry moved quickly to sit in it. He held his parchment loosely rolled in one hand, so as not to scrunch it and make it unreadable - as Professor Flitwick said was sometimes the case with his essays. He kept his gaze on his hands, not wanting to draw the professor's attention before it was necessary.
To distract himself from the inevitable discussion of his essay, Harry thought about the pictures the Professor had promised to show him. Were they all from Hogwarts, he wondered? Or were some from even earlier years, before his Mum got her first Hogwarts letter, when she had been friends with a young Severus Snape, as hard as that was to imagine? Would there be ones of Aunt Petunia then, too? If so, he could skip over those readily enough. He wondered if there were photos of his parents after they left school? What if there were ones of himself as a baby or of their wedding or . . .
"Potter."
Harry stood quickly and snapped his attention up to his Professor's face. "Yes, sir?"
"Kindly hand over your essay. Did you bring any revision work with you, for your other classes?"
"Er . . ." After passing the parchment to Snape, Harry bit his lip and looked down. He hadn't thought about studying here tonight, but only about his essay and getting to see the pictures. But he should have remembered that Snape said he would have to read the essay before letting Harry have his reward. "No, sir," he said softly, feeling a bit of a dolt.
"I see." The professor hesitated for a moment then said, "You may do some work preparing ingredients for me then, while I look over your work."
"Yes, sir." Harry's stomach sank; what horrors would there be to deal with tonight? "What would you like me to do?"
"There are some chipped dragon scales that need to be separated into sixty even portions, each having three or more colors represented. The sixty receptacles are on the worktable, along with a titanium bowl of scales." Mouth pursed, he tapped the rolled up essay on his desk top. "Questions?"
"No, sir!" Harry fairly flew into the classroom. Separating dragon scales! Compared to some of the jobs he'd done - cutting up Flobberworms and Bobotubers came to mind immediately - this was a cake walk. Indeed, the job wasn't hard or messy at all. He had to wear dragonhide gloves, as the scales could be very sharp and cut through a finger before you realized it, but the professor had a pair that sized magically to fit any hand, and so were not too loose on him, despite his small hands.
The dragon scale chips ranged in size from smaller than Harry's least fingernail to almost as large as his palm. The containers to hold them, however, were large enough to accommodate both extremes in size, and everything in between. The scales themselves were beautiful, shimmering even in the meager light of the dungeons in an array of colors broader - and shinier - than any rainbow. Every time Harry held one of the scales up to inspect it, sparkles of bright light arched off the dungeon walls and cascaded down the sides, like a multi-faceted waterfall.
Altogether, this was a job Harry wouldn't mind doing again.
He lost himself in the colors and light. When a silky voice sounded from behind him, saying, "Are you finished yet?" he startled rather severely.
Harry dropped the scale he was currently separating from its fellows, and cringed as it hit the worktable with an audible clang. "Sorry, sir," he said quickly, turning round to see his professor, hunching his shoulders automatically. "Sorry for being clumsy."
Silence greeted his words, and he chanced a look up at Snape's face. He could not read the expression he saw there, so he bit his lip and said hesitantly, "I'm almost done, sir, honest."
"Good. Finish up then, and return to my office. You and I have some issues to discuss." Snape turned and stalked back into the other room.
For the second time that evening, Harry felt his stomach drop like a stone. His essay must be utter crap, he decided. And Snape wasn't going to let him see those pictures of his Mum. Harry's eyes stung suddenly, and his throat closed up. He bit the inside of his cheek to stave off any tears. He was not going to cry over pictures! He hadn't seen them before, so not having them now was no big deal. Right?
Right.
The shine had quite gone off the dragon scales as Harry finished sorting them, knowing he was going to be lectured or worse in a few minutes. Snape'd probably assign him detention now, since the essay wouldn't count as punishment, if it was as bad as he thought.
With a soft sigh, Harry returned the gloves to their storage place, and put the labeled containers of dragon scales in the inventory closet. Then he wiped down the table and trudged into Snape's office as if he was going to the gallows.
"Sit," Snape said, pointing at the chair Harry had occupied earlier in the evening. Once Harry had, the professor regarded him solemnly for several long moments before speaking again. "You seem to have a real . . . saving people thing, Pot-Harry."
Harry looked up in surprise at Snape, for using his given name. What was that about? "Sir?"
"It's a terribly Gryffindor tendency, to charge in without considering the consequences of your actions, with no regard for your own safety. But you, Harry, are no Gryffindor."
Harry swallowed. "No, sir?"
"No. Only a Slytherin could have survived ten years of living with those Muggles without killing them, whilst managing to keep his sanity intact."
Harry's eyes widened. Surely he didn't mean . . . "Sir?"
"You misunderstand me," Snape said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, without being menacing. "I do not mean to imply that you should have sent them to their graves, only that . . ." He sighed and then glared at Harry. "Why must this be so difficult?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Oh, I didn't mean you, boy." Snape rose, while Harry scrunched back in his chair, farther away. But the professor merely turned his back on Harry and adjusted a few glass containers on the shelves behind his desk. He continued doing so for several minutes, and it crossed Harry's mind that this might be a way that Snape covered his own nervousness. He dismissed the idea almost at once. Surely Professor Snape was never nervous.
Finally, Snape glanced over his shoulder, almost as if to see if Harry was still there. When he saw Harry was, he sighed again, and sat back down at his desk. He folded his hands on top of his desk and peered at Harry through his curtain of hair. "Did your uncle ever hit you, Harry?"
"What? No!"
"Did your aunt?"
"No!" Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "Why're you asking me stuff like that?"
"Do not be so quick to answer," Snape said, still using the quiet tone he seemed to have adopted for this talk. "You had numerous injuries when you first came to school, do you not remember? Contusions in various stages of healing, broken bones that had not been set correctly, and internal damage to some of your organs. Never mind the malnutrition, we'll get to that." When Harry opened his mouth to angrily retort that the Dursleys had done nothing, absolutely nothing, Snape held up his hand to silence him. "From your essay, it is quite clear they were emotionally abusive and criminally negligent at the very least, with regards to your safety and well being. . . . I need to know if your aunt and uncle were physically abusive as well."
Panicking slightly, Harry leapt out of his seat. His breaths came harder as he tried to decide if he should make a run for it. This was crazy! He hadn't said anything like that in his essay! Sure, his aunt and uncle had told him he should never have been born, and that he was worthless, but that didn't mean he actually was or anything. To his shame, his voice cracked as he yelled, "Why do want to know stuff like that? Why can't you just leave me alone!?"
Professor Snape merely lifted an eyebrow at his outburst, and then, to Harry's surprise, answered him fully. "I want to know, Harry, so I can best decide if you need to be removed, permanently, from their care. And I cannot leave you alone, ethically, not when I am in a position to aid you."
Harry shook his head and backed toward the door. That wasn't true; it wasn't. No one could "aid" him. No one ever had before. And if they said they were, it was only because they had some trick up their sleeves, and he would get into even more trouble than if they'd just let him be! He knew how the world worked. Snape was like everyone else, just trying to trick him, just like always.
"I don't believe you," Harry told him, and in a flash, he had the door open, and was running down the corridor and far, far away.