Until the End

* * *

Despite the bright cheerfulness outside of the window, Friday morning proved to be as dull as the rest of the week. Harry woke up tired and with a splitting headache because he's been trying to get back to the normal state much faster than planned, hence, every day since Monday, he's been overwhelming himself with the castle's magic, not so gradually increasing the pace. Because Harry couldn't allow himself to get caught off guard ever again. Harry lay in bed, staring ahead and trying to calm down his raging head and now also stomach. The more time passed the more sick he seemed to feel. The day promised to be very hard… Harry even had half a mind of telling Weasley that he wasn't feeling well and not getting up 'till it all went away. But then he remembered that in this case he would likely be sent to the hospital wing, and Harry had no intention of going there. He visited a school nurse once a few years back, which turned out to be a complete waste of time. So, even if the wizarding society had better doctors, Harry didn't want to check it out on himself. After a quick Tempus, Harry decided to go take a shower while his dorm mates were still asleep and then lay down with a textbook for about half an hour before everyone would start waking up. Today was his first potions class, a class Harry had looked forward to since he returned from the Diagon Alley, and even more now. He was interested in taking a closer look at the mysterious professor the whole school was so terrified of. There must be more to him if Dumbledore chose him as a spy, so Harry couldn't wait for the lesson to start. And, who knows, maybe this class wouldn't be as boring as the others. Two minutes later Harry got up with a soft groan and then stopped, scolding himself for being such a baby. There were times when he used to work feeling much much worse. Less than a week here — and look at him now! "Don't be such a whiny little girl, Potter!" — he told himself and went to the bathroom. Weasley woke up almost an hour later, lazily stretching in bed and yawning so widely, Harry wondered how his jaw didn’t break. The boy seemed happy that it was Friday already, so Harry didn't even have to drag him out of bed, merely to point out that breakfast was about to start. How could anyone love food that much was beyond understanding. But then again, Ronald Weasley wasn't the smartest of men. When the two of them finally left the tower, Harry was in no mood to wander around the corridors, so he decided to put an end to all this nonsense and led his friend straight to the Great Hall. “What have we got today?” he asked Ron when they sat down and started to pile food on their plates. “Double Potions with the Slytherins,” replied Weasley, thankfully, before he shoved a full spoon of porridge into his mouth. “Snape’s Head of Slytherin House. They say he always favours them — we’ll be able to see if it’s true.” “Wish McGonagall favoured us,” said Harry for the sake of conversation. Ron opened his mouth again, but at that point, the post arrived and the redhead immediately diverted his attention there. Harry followed his gaze to the ceiling. He hadn’t got any mail so far, for obvious reasons, (not that he expected or wanted to) but his bird flew by some mornings anyway. Harry suspected that Hedwig liked him for some reason. Probably because he always gave her a treat or two. Today, though, she dropped a small note with familiar scribbles on his plate.

Dear Harry, I know you get Friday afternoons off

so would you like to come and have a cup of tea

with me around three? I want to hear all about your

first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.

Hagrid

Harry stared at the note for a short while, regretting that he did not get rid of the giant when he had a chance. Or at the very least that he didn't act more like himself around him that day. The man wouldn't bother him now if he knew that Harry Potter was not a freaking friendly, enthusiastic, squealing, brainless small kid who needed someone to look after him or talk to him. Sighing inwardly, Harry borrowed Ron's quill and wrote an answer at the back of Hagrid's note, agreeing to come to the man after classes. He gave the parchment back to Hedwig and the bird took off. The whole 'The Boy-Who-Lived' thing started to really get to his nerves. Everyone around Harry annoyed him to no end, and pretending to be one of them… It was becoming harder and harder with every passing hour. And then there was Dumbledore's expectant gaze that Harry felt on himself at each meal and in the corridors. The old man obviously waited for Harry to make a decision and come to him. But Harry wasn't ready for another chat with the headmaster, not in this state. So he ignored it as best as he could. Potions classroom was a new location, so the two boys wisely cut the breakfast short and took off to the dungeons. Twenty minutes, one dead-end, a portrait, and a ghost later, they finally strolled into the right room. Ron's incessant chatting instantly died. The classroom was cold, colder than the dungeons’ halls, and looked downright creepy with its dimmed light and countless shelves that covered every empty space on the walls filled with some sort of dead… things in glass jars. As the students one by one entered the room and found their seats, the professor stood in the shadows behind his desk with his hands clasped behind his back and watched intently. Harry could instantly tell who noticed him — they immediately fell still and silent. Only when there was absolutely no sound in the classroom, did Snape move. He slowly slid forward into the light and glanced around with a measuring glare one more time. "When I say your name, you will raise a hand,” — he said in a quiet silky voice. — “Brown, Lavender.” The girl in question shakily held her hand up. "Bulstrode, Millicent." The Slytherin's hand boldly shot up in the air, and she smirked. Little shit. Harry should have been there on the green side of the classroom, instead of here, on the stupid red one. The roll-call went smoothly until Snape laid eyes on Harry's name on the list. “Ah, yes… Harry Potter. Our. New. Celebrity," drawled the professor, emphasising every word, his eyes glinting maliciously. Harry didn't like that glint. Somewhere to his left Malfoy and his stupid goons snickered. Harry suddenly found himself wishing to be able to rip the fucking ferret's tongue, preferably with his bare hands. To distract himself from those fools, Harry focused on Snape. The man obviously took his reputation very seriously. Tall, thin — dangerously thin, — and dark. Exceedingly dark to be even real. With his curtain of long black hair, eyes-tunnels, too-long sleeves, too-high collar of his tight robes, and airy cloak Snape looked like a demon of the night. Like a part of a children's tale where everyone and everything was exaggerated for the sake of clarity. Harry instantly wondered what the real man was like. He didn't dare try to legilimize the professor, but he didn't really need to. Because in his experience, darkness never meant evil — it meant secrets. Harry learned that a very long time ago. And Snape had a habit of sometimes hiding behind his hair as if shielding himself from the world. That black 'suit of armour' and the whole demeanour of his was meant to do the same, Harry supposed. And instantly wondered how many people in this castle — besides himself and the headmaster (because there was no chance that the old man didn’t know that) — noticed it too. Zabini, Blaise raised his hand at long last, and Snape rolled up the list, wandlessly and nonverbally banishing it somewhere, and then focused his intense gaze on the students. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…" he half-whispered in his deep voice, "If you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." If the whole school really believed that Severus Snape loved anything more than potions, they indeed were a big bunch of dunderheads. Because nobody talks like this about something they don't like. No one dared to breathe, it seemed. Harry sat stunned, regretting his decision about houses for a thousandth time this week. And then not so much. "Potter!" snapped Snape and bore his heavy gaze right into Harry's eyes. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" "Seriously?" Harry quickly searched his brain for an answer but didn't find anything besides the fact that Asphodel was a plant, which was considered a flower of the dead in Greek mythology, and that wormwood had many uses even outside of potion-making. "Wait… Right. Draught of the living death," remembered Harry suddenly. It was mentioned in his copy of 'One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi'. But it probably wasn't a good idea to show off his knowledge. It would raise questions from his housemates. So Harry glanced at absolutely dumbfounded Ron, and then back at his professor. "I don't know, sir," he replied simply, keeping his voice neutral. Hermione Granger whimpered behind him, and Harry imagined her hopeful face and raised hand, but instantly cancelled the image. It would only piss him off faster. "Tut, tut — fame clearly isn’t everything," sneered Snape, obviously satisfied with Harry's answer. "Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" "In a goat's stomach," replied Harry in his mind. It started to get annoying. "I don't know, sir," said Harry aloud, trying not to notice the ferret and his gang's silent laughter, otherwise Snape's collection of all things creepy on the walls would have an addition — parts of human organisms. After an explosion. "Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, Potter?" smirked Snape. Harry locked gazes with the man, checking his shields just in case. And as it turned out, he was right to do so. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” A moment after the question left the professor's lips, Harry felt a very subtle intrusion in his mind. It did not last longer than several seconds, during which Snape quickly scanned the top layer of his memories. "You’re a son of a bitch. Who turned my mind into a fucking park for everybody to stroll?!" Harry sat still, doing all he could to contain his fury. Apparently, it slipped through the cracks anyway because Snape did not look pleased anymore, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care at that point. It was far more important not to kill anyone (dealing with consequences wasn't worth the momentarily satisfaction really) than to appear frightened. "I don't know. But I think Hermione does, though, so why don't you try her?" snapped Harry. Somebody laughed. Morons. The professor's face froze in an ugly sneer, and that malicious glint that Harry saw earlier returned. The man really truly hated him. Not just the Boy-Who-Lived thing, he hated Harry Potter. It was personal and obviously very deep. Harry saw that look on the whale's fat face hundreds of times throughout his life. "Just what the fuck, man?! What the hell is all this about?" "Sit down!" barked Snape at Granger, because the foolish girl was all but jumping with her hand raised. Couldn't she see how bloody irritating that was? "For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?" All students except Harry immediately snapped out of their haze and started to scribe the notes on parchment. "And a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter," announced Snape and turned away from Harry, indicating that the conversation was over. "Potion — from Latin 'potio', which means 'beverage' — is a magical mixture commonly brewed in a cauldron and used to create a number of magical effects on the drinker," lectured Snape, slowly strolling between rows of workbenches. "Potions range in effects, nature, and brewing difficulty. This year you will make several simplest concoctions, endeavouring to hone your skills of preparation of different ingredients and learning a few basic brewing techniques. "We will start with one of the most simple potions — a Cure for boils. Open your books on page twenty-five. Those of you who had the presence of mind to come prepared," sneered the professor, all but pointing fingers at Harry, "would already be familiar with the theory, the practical specifics, and, of course, with the recipe itself. Split up into pairs and set up the work station…" Snape continued to talk, but Harry only half-listened and moved on autopilot. He didn’t know what to think anymore. Harry shared the professor's dislike for The-Boy-Who-Lived, for all that completely undeserved fame and fanfares, empty public love. None of those people knew him even a bit, but it didn't seem to matter, since all of them already assumed Harry to be a certain person that thinks and acts in a certain way. As it turned out, Severus Snape wasn't an exception to this rule at all. Yes, unlike others, the man had no warm feelings for Harry whatsoever, but the reason was still exactly the same. Harry sighed and turned his attention to the task at hand. A Cure for boils was easier than a chicken soup. At least in Harry's opinion. There were only five ingredients which didn't require much preparation, and the brewing process was fairly simple: boil water, add an ingredient, stir in whichever way you want for as long as it takes for the ingredient to dissolve, wait until the water boils again, and repeat the whole process. The only semblance of difficulty was in measuring the right amount of each ingredient and with preparing the horned slugs. But Ron was struggling even with that. And not only Ron, half of the class constantly made the stupidest mistakes possible, their hisses and groans of frustration filled the room as soon as the practical part started, and, regretfully, Harry had no choice but to join in the chorus. Snape swept around between the workbenches, watching and criticising students in no kind words. When the man stopped yet again over the next table, scolding Brown for another foolish thing she made and didn’t stop even when the girl was obviously on the verge of tears, Harry finally understood why the whole school was so terrified of the professor. He had no mercy indeed. But Harry also understood Snape’s anger with the dumb students… He would’ve been angry as well. Very angry. The only person in the room who seemed to be doing at least better than most was fucking Malfoy. And the boy was definitely very proud of that fact. Especially when Snape repeatedly pointed that out to the class, which annoyed not only Harry but others as well. "What does it say next?" whispered Weasley, bending over the textbook. "Snake fangs," replied Harry. "They're almost ready." Harry was the one to prepare the ingredients, they decided at the beginning, and Ron would do the actual brewing. It was their only chance to get a passing grade. Besides, this way Harry could take his time studying the magic swirling inside the cauldron. It was a fascinating process. Harry got so caught up in it, he nearly missed the accident with Neville and Seamus' potion which happened right next to him. God only knows how, but the dunderheads managed to melt the bloody cauldron… Probably made something very stupid. "Idiot boy! — barked Snape, turning to Longbottom when the acid green smoke filled the room, accompanied by a loud hissing. The potion — or what was left of it — was spreading fast around the floor, making the dunderheads hop up on their stools. Seamus jumped aside as far as he could, knocking off furniture in the process. No wonder, since the angry liquid apparently burned holes in Neville's clothes, shoes, and even skin… The boy looked awful and moaned in pain as the large boils immediately started to cover his arms, neck, partly his face — everywhere the potion had reached when it burst. "Ironic, really," Harry smirked inwardly. Snape furiously flicked his wand, vanishing the green goo before somebody else got hurt. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?" continued the professor, advancing poor Neville who didn't seem to hear him. Then the man turned to Seamus and quickly swept his gaze over the boy, noting how he cradled his right hand. "Take him up to the hospital wing!" spat Snape to Finnegan as a result, turning again to look for other potential victims. Unfortunately, the nearest student was Harry. "You — Potter — why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor." Harry was sick of it. If the man wanted a war, he would get it. He opened his mouth to tell Snape quite a few of his thoughts, but the idiot Weasley kicked him under their table. "Don’t push it," he whispered urgently, "I’ve heard Snape can turn very nasty." Of course, he could. But so could Harry. Harry stared Snape right in the eyes, not even trying to hide his anger, but said nothing. The professor sneered at him, assuming that he won, and retreated to the front of the classroom. "Get down, everyone!" he snapped at the gobsmacked students who still stood on their stools. "Back to work. If your potion isn't finished in fifteen minutes, you will get zero for today's class." Harry did not move, still watching the professor intently, but was demonstratively ignored. Weasley kicked him again and nodded toward their furiously boiling potion. Harry sighed and got back to crushing and grinding snake fangs. He will think this over later.

* * *

As the two of them strolled from the giant’s hut toward the Great Hall to dinner that same evening, Harry couldn't stop thinking about Hagrid's words and behaviour. The man was worse than an open book. Add to it Harry's ability to read minds, and there were no secrets left whatsoever. And now Harry knew two things: first, according to Hagrid's memories, Snape hated him because of his semblance to James Potter with whom they had a full-blown war back in their school days, and probably because his mother, who used to be good friends with the future professor, at some point turned on him and then, to top it off, married Potter. Petty and dumb reason to hate a person who did not even know Lily or James, but it is what it is, Harry supposed. And the second thing that Harry learned, was that Dumbledore was telling the truth about the fucking war. Because, apparently, Lord Voldemort was trying to come back from the dead, using the Philosopher's stone, which Hagrid took from the vault in Gringotts in July and stashed it in the bloody school, leaving 'Fluffy' on guard. And for the love of God Harry couldn't decide what to do with it now. "...thinking about?" Harry jerked out of his musings. "Sorry. What?" "I said what are you thinking about?" repeated Weasley, shaking his head. They were entering the castle's gates. "Nothing really. It's just… Odd, don't you think? That robbery. We really could've been right there, can you imagine?" asked Harry with feigned enthusiasm. "Yeah, that would've been cool," agreed the redhead. "You couldn't do anything, of course, but still. It's cool." The Great Hall was already busy with students and teachers alike, keeping the incessant noise on a high level. Harry looked at the head table, his eyes immediately snapping to the figure in the centre. Their gazes locked for a long moment, but this time Dumbledore didn't try to legilimize him, thankfully. The two of them just looked at each other calmly. "Hey, mate," called Ron again. "Sit down already. Are you with us?" Harry turned his attention to the laughing Gryffindors and sat down, forcing a smile. Neville was back from the hospital wing, good as new, so the conversation around the table was about this morning's potions class. Again. Harry slowly ate his food, nodding in the right places, while Ron re-told the story. "Tough luck, Harry," said Longbottom when Weasley finished and squeezed his shoulder (Harry did all he could to not flinch at that. He really hated to be touched). "I couldn't even concentrate when Snape was near. He's terrifying." Harry didn't consider Snape as such, but poor Neville had no need to know that. "It'll be okay, don't worry. Teachers in my previous school didn't like me either, so I'm kinda used to it already. I'll just try to ignore him." Weasley snorted. "Did you see your face in class today, mate? I thought you were going to strangle him with your bare hands!" he laughed. "It did cross my mind for a second," lied Harry, also smiling. The conversation instantly shifted to listing all possible means of killing a teacher, and Harry stopped listening completely when the twins enthusiastically joined in. It got him thinking again. What should he do now? He glanced briefly to Dumbledore's right where the professor in question sat, scowling at his plate. And just why things for once couldn't be nice and easy? Was it really that much to ask? Harry knew that come next potions class, he wouldn't be able to hold himself in check for long. At least not without a Goddamn good reason. And he really didn't want the man to be subjected to another Potter's bullying, especially knowing himself. Harry pitied the fool who would ever piss him off to earn that. So he needed more information before making any decision. That made him think about the Headmaster. He definitely had that information, but asking him was out of the question. On the other hand, if the old man really wanted Harry at his side, he just might divulge something. Especially if he suspected that his dear precious spy was in danger. And the little fact that it was not really the case Albus Dumbledore had no business knowing. Harry turned his head towards the staff table, noting to himself that the Headmaster already left, and then looked at laughing Ron. "Listen, I need to go. My head's going to explode… I'll go visit Hedwig — have some fresh air and some quiet, okay?" Weasley just nodded, unable to stop giggling at some no doubt stupid joke, so Harry stood up from the table, took his backpack, and quickly left the Great Hall. Putting his hands inside the pockets of his robes, Harry lazily strolled the corridors, not paying much attention to where exactly he was going. He was lost in thoughts, trying to decide how to better lead the upcoming conversation, but it was a hard thing to do at the moment. Harry wasn’t lying to Weasley, his head really was pounding, now worse than in the morning. He wouldn’t be against some Headache Relief right now. To go to Dumbledore and demand to find him a small quiet place to set a little potions lab (among other things, of course) was becoming more and more tempting. Because Harry wasn't going to lift a damn finger for the old bastard without some sort of gain for himself in exchange, thank you very much. Harry looked around, attempting to locate where the hell he was. The corridor was brightly lit by torches on one of the walls. Through the line of narrow windows on the other side, Harry could see the darkened grounds, Hagrid’s hut, and the edge of the Forbidden forest. The light breeze wavered the fire in the torches, making the shadows dance rhythmically on the walls and the floor. It was soothing. Hypnotic. Harry found a small alcove a little bit further in the corridor and sat down on an empty low stone pedestal on which at some point must’ve stood a statue, slid back until he could lean on the wall behind, and looked out of the window on the dark starry sky. Did Dumbledore know he was here? Probably. How else would he be able to constantly be on Harry’s way in the halls all the time? The old man was likely to have access to the castle’s magic as well, it only made sense. But didn’t bode well with Harry. The situation was far more dire and complicated than he ever imagined. Harry felt trapped. Again. Which made ever-present nausea and headache even worse. Harry banged his head on the wall with a deep sigh. He was suddenly bone-tired. All those years of constantly pushing himself through every hurdle, through pain, exhaustion, hunger, hatred, fighting his addiction… And for what? To achieve greater results than yesterday? To learn this and learn that? To become stronger, smarter, tougher? What the fuck did he even need all that for? Maybe he should just leave. But Harry couldn’t move a muscle. He sat there, looking at the bright spots on the black sheet of a sky, abandoned by all thoughts. He didn’t know how much time had passed as he simply stared out there, but by the moment a thunder ripped through the silence of the evening, jerking Harry awake, his stomach had quieted down and the headache subsided to a dull throb. It started to rain. Harry conjured his equivalent of the Tempus and sighed again. It was already nearly eight. He stood up begrudgingly and stretched, popping the vertebrae back in place. On a whim (and because he really didn’t have any energy to run away right now) Harry decided to give the wizarding world another chance and made his way back to where he saw one of the portraits to ask for directions to Dumbledore’s office. He needed to make a decision about Snape, and he needed to make it soon. About fifteen minutes later, Harry strode past the Sweet Gargoyle and went up the moving staircase. With one last calming breath, he straightened his Occlumency shields and knocked on the door. "Enter," sounded from the other side, and Harry pushed the door open, walked in, and came to a halt behind a chair across from the old man’s desk, placing his palms on its cushioned back. Dumbledore seemed slightly surprised for a moment, but recovered quickly. "Well, now, aren't we looking innocent…" "Oh, Mr. Potter. How can I help you?" asked the headmaster, smiling warmly. "Lemon drop?" "Come on, man, you can't actually be so nauseatingly nice. It's creepy." "No, thank you, professor. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Yes, of course. What did you wish to talk about?" Harry bore an unwavering gaze to the headmaster, preparing to catch even the slightest reaction. "Professor Snape," he replied evenly. "Hmm," Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I must say, my boy, you surprised me again. Has something happened that picked your interest?" Harry ignored the annoying patronising ‘my boy’ for a moment for the sake of speeding up this conversation. He had no wish of being in this room for longer than necessary. "You see, sir, today was my first potions class. And professor Snape acted rather oddly during the whole period. I am absolutely sure that we never met before I got here, but the professor seemed to be, well, not exactly hateful towards me but certainly far from indifferent. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't convinced that it has something to do with my family's past. There's no other explanation." Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably but tried to cover it, motioning toward the chair behind which Harry stood. "Well, Harry, why don't you sit down first?" "Why don't you just answer…" He sat anyway. "I have to admit, Mr. Potter, that I didn't expect you to ask this, though I should have, probably. You are, by all means, one of the most observant young men I have ever had the pleasure to be acquainted with. Which is why I won't lie to you. But I also can't answer. You see, some time ago I made a promise not to discuss the present matter with anyone, so, unless you have professor Snape's permission, I shall remain silent." Harry eyed the Headmaster carefully and shut down another attempt to penetrate his mind. "You old coot. Get over yourself. Let's see, how would you like that yourself…" Harry probed, not too subtly, the edge of Dumbledore's mind and smirked at the flicker of surprise in the man's eyes, followed quickly by immediately raised shields. "There. Didn't like it, did you?" They fell silent for a few moments. "Professor Snape is a complicated person, Harry," said Dumbledore and then paused rather dramatically, rearranging his features to look gravely serious (which was kind of hilarious if you ask Harry. He definitely needed more sleep, possibly somewhere far away from the castle. The further the better). "He is that double spy I told you about the other day. His position is tricky, difficult, and dangerous. The war…" "Why are you always talking about the war? It's not what I'm asking." "…completely. I trust him with my life." Harry feigned a surprised look at the revelation. There was no sense in pretending that he wasn’t monitored by Dumbledore just as closely as he himself monitored the old man. The spy-games aside, though, it wasn’t what Harry came here for. He pressed his topic: "So, you care about him?" Dumbledore didn’t even blink before he answered: "Yes. I do. Deeply. As I care for everybody else. As I care for you, my boy." "Doubt it somehow…" There might be a chance that the headmaster really cared for Snape — they worked together for years, after all — but for Harry… It was incredibly hard to believe, considering the circumstances. "Professor —" "Oh, please, Harry, call me Albus." Harry quirked an eyebrow. Ridiculous. One would think that the situation was truly desperate to call for such desperate measures… "Um, fine, Albus. Was it Professor Snape, to whom you've made that promise?" "Yes, it was," nodded Dumbledore. "So what would you suggest I do? Ignore it?" Dumbledore sighed and clasped his hands on the table, leaning forward. "It is for you to decide, Harry, not for me. But I would really appreciate it if you tried to help Severus to keep his cover. As he himself would, no doubt." "Very subtle. Very subtle, indeed." Just look at that. Calling Snape by his first name, bringing in the sense of familiarity, indicating Harry’s special position in all this… Dumbledore needed Harry, big time, and wasn’t shy of using all available means and tools, it seemed. Not that Harry will buy this crap. One thing was clear though: he’ll have to bite his tongue during potions, at least for the time being. It wasn’t wise to antagonise the old coot without figuring out the extent of his powers and influence first. Especially knowing how obsessed with the war Dumbledore was. "Thank you, Headmaster," Harry nodded and rose from the chair, hoping to escape the inevitable. “Wait, my boy —” “Don’t call me that!” snapped Harry, turning around sharply. Albus’ eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything. Harry smirked a little. The old man wanted to even the ground with him — the wish had been granted. If he had something against it now, well… He should’ve been careful in his desires because sometimes dreams can come true. And bite you in the arse. “I have a few questions of my own if you don’t mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore finally, forcing him to sit down again. The two of them looked at each other for a long heavy moment. “Have you come to a decision concerning our previous conversation?” asked Albus at last. “I have. In fact, I announced it to you during our previous conversation right after you asked me if I remember correctly,” replied Harry evenly. “I will not take an active part in your war.” “Harry, the prophecy —” “…can go screw itself. I don’t care about prophecies. I don't care about Dark Lords. I don’t care about how many people will die. You know why? Because death is inevitable. Everybody dies.” “Do you think this is a joke, young man?” said Dumbledore, rising to his feet. His eyes stopped twinkling and the room filled with crackling power, replacing the oxygen, making it hard to breathe. Harry’s headache returned in full force and his ears started ringing from the sheer tension. Which made him exceptionally mad. He stood up also. “Does it look like I do?” hissed Harry. “This is of utmost importance, Harry,” insisted the headmaster. “You must cease all your childish petulance at once and try to see reason.” Harry’s eyes turned very cold and the room froze. Dumbledore somewhat lost his formidable stance, but still looked very much the greatest wizard of our century, the one who instilled fear in Voldemort himself. Not that Harry cared about all that. He had quite a few tricks of his own up his sleeve. Harry’s face twisted with fury at the accusation, but the next moment he got himself back under control, donning a neutral expression. “Do not try me, old man,” he said quietly. “I might look small but I assure you, if you make me truly mad, you won’t like the consequences. I have absolutely nothing to lose.” The room went deadly silent after that, all the noisy trinkets stopped moving. Lights flickered and with a sudden swirl of wind, went out, drowning the office in the darkness. Albus blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, everything was normal, except for one small thing. He was alone.

* * *

Harry paced angrily in the corridor where he sat earlier. “The audacity of that man! Childish petulance… I’ll show him childish petulance! He’d wish he’d never been born. Fucking old goat.” Harry stopped abruptly and took a deep steadying breath. It would not do to lose control of himself like this. It was dangerous, stupid, and yes, childish. He sighed. That stunt with disappearance truly was childish… And a big mistake. Because now Dumbledore was aware if not of the nature of Harry’s ‘powers’, but at least of the amount of it. Even the headmaster couldn’t apparite inside Hogwarts grounds. Harry’s ability to do so was speaking for itself rather loudly. Not that he was planning to show off in the first place… Harry just tried to rein himself back under control before he did something painful and permanent to the blithering fool, like crippled him. Or killed even. There were two bright spots in all this: firstly, Albus Dumbledore would have to be more careful around Harry now if he knew what’s good for him, of course. And secondly, Harry was finally able to fully relax and stop occluding all the time. Turning on the spot, Harry hurried towards the Gryffindor tower. The more time he spent in Hogwarts and the more he adjusted to its magic, the more he realised that the castle was sentient. And now, after the unexpected apparition, when Harry was forced to interact with it, to dive into the magic of this place headfirst, breaking all barricades, he could feel the castle. All of it. The barely noticeable hum of its magic. Subtle knowledge (somewhere way on the background of Harry’s mind) of current whereabouts of all its inhabitants, of every spell cast, of every disturbance of wards outside — around the grounds — and inside — on forbidden areas of the castle, on personal quarters of the staff, on classrooms, storage rooms, etc. Harry knew everything. He sensed everything. And it felt amazing. The only question was, whether or not Dumbledore could sense the same, and if so, what exactly could he do with it. Allowing himself to be guided by the castle, Harry quickly and quietly strolled the corridors until he reached the entrance to the Gryffindor tower. It was five to nine — nearly curfew. The Fat lady quirked an eyebrow at him, and Harry gladly returned the gesture. And since there was nobody around, he didn’t bother with passwords either. The portrait swung open, revealing the regular hustle and bustle of dozens of students. Some were laughing loudly, some played, some talked near the fire, some read or wrote silently, trying to ignore the noise. Harry stood near the portrait hole, looking at his housemates and wishing to have a nice quiet room or, better, private quarters of his own. Teachers were not the only ones who needed rest after a long and tiring day. Bastards. “Harry! Where have you been?” exclaimed Ron over the voices, jumping from the couch and rushing toward his friend. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Harry smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I got lost a bit. Took the wrong turn, and then stupid stairs just wouldn’t stop moving the opposite way, you know how it is…” he lied. Weasley looked thoughtful for a moment, and Harry was afraid that he’d catch him on his lies, but then Ron relaxed and tugged his friend to one of the couches. “So how’s your head?” asked Weasley when they sat down. “Better,” Harry waved off, not wishing to talk about it. “What’ve you been doing this whole time?” After half an hour of small talk, Harry left Ron in the common room playing Exploding snap with Thomas and headed to his dorm. The room was blissfully dark and empty. Harry quickly brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas, and snuck into bed. He was exhausted and fell asleep in no time, contemplating ways of hiding his presence in the castle from the ever-watchful vigilant eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

* * *