The Potions Master

Chapter 9: PICTURES

Lunch had already been cleared from the Great Hall, but the house elves piled a tray full of Yule Ball leftovers for Harry. He ate them by himself at the Gryffindor table, thinking how lonely the next two weeks would be. Dumbledore had been wrong if he’d thought Harry needed to stay at Hogwarts for his safety. It was the headmaster who required protection. Snape won’t try anything when he knows I can place him with Dumbledore, Harry told himself reassuringly. Still, he rushed through his food in the hopes that the headmaster would rejoin him outside on the dragon.

No such luck. As the winter sun dipped behind the towering pines of the Enchanted Forest and Harry polished the last smudge from the statue’s left big toe, he began to worry in earnest. Why had he let Snape drag Dumbledore away? Why hadn’t he blurted out the incriminating statements he’d heard?

By the time Harry arrived at Filch’s office to return his bucket and scrub brush, his stomach felt twisted in a knot. At first, his repeated knocks went unanswered. Just when he’d decided to dump the cleaning equipment in the corridor so he could go hunt for Dumbledore, the caretaker inched his door open. Harry recalled that in the morning, Filch had thrust the pail through just such a crack. Now he yanked it back the same way.

“Don’t want boys tracking their filth on my floor,” he grumbled.

“Who could blame you?” Harry replied sweetly. After the caretaker slammed his door shut, he muttered, “And say hello to your cockroaches for me.”

At supper, Professor McGonagall answered Harry’s anxious question with, “Albus is dining in his office. I just sent Poppy Pomfrey’s owl there. Her third! He hasn’t had so much attention since his wife passed on.” At Harry’s surprised stare, she lifted her angular jaw. “Why so stunned? Did you think professors weren’t human?” With that, she pointed her wand and guided a spray of hot chamomile tea into her cup.

Remembering how Madame Pomfrey had fussed over Dumbledore after the griffin attack, Harry grinned. When he surveyed the small group of pupils and staff strewn about the Great Hall and saw that Snape wasn’t among them either, his grin faded.

Two hours later, after a search of as much of the castle as he could access, Harry plodded up the steps to his dorm. Although some Gryffindors had stayed, his roommates Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus had all left to spend the holidays with family. No impromptu pillow fights to cheer him up tonight, he thought resignedly. But when he opened the door, his face relaxed into a smile. Bête Noire, surely the largest black cat he’d ever seen, was perched atop his wardrobe. In his mouth, he carried a small, silver package.

“Good evening,” Harry greeted him, having learned in Magical Companions that one should talk to a familiar as an equal. “I’m sorry I forgot to bring you something to eat, but if you’d like, I could nip down to the kitchen for some tidbits.”

Bête Noire seemed to shrug. Then he leapt down to the rug and strutted over to brush against Harry’s legs. After a good back-of-the-ear tickling, he dropped Millicent’s early Christmas present at Harry’s feet.

“Want me to open it now?”

The black cat sat at attention as if waiting for him to do just that.

Harry squatted on the rug, picked up the package, and weighed it in his hand. The object was round and had a solid feel to it. Mindful of Millicent’s remark that the wrapping gave instructions, he opened it by carefully peeling back the tape.

“A crystal ball,” he said aloud after he’d pulled aside the silvery paper.

“A Djinn ball,” corrected a squeaky voice out of nowhere.

Startled, Harry dropped everything.

“Be careful,” the squeaky voice responded. “Djinn balls can crack.”

Harry shot a glance at Bête Noire. “Was that . . . you?”

The cat began licking his back foot.

“Or—” Harry peered down at the floor “—was it the paper?”

“Of course, it was the paper,” the squeaky voice snarled. “Cats can’t talk. And if you’ll please pick up the Djinn ball, I’m prepared to present lesson one.”

Gingerly, Harry retrieved the ball—which did look rather like crystal. But unlike the one he’d used in Trelawney’s class, this was as small as a croquet ball.

“Ahem. Lesson One: Television of Familiar Locations within a Half-mile Radius. Vision, to see. Tele, distant. Not to be confused with Muggle television broadcasts of rugby matches, humorous ditties, automobile chases, or Thackery. Hold the Djinn ball to the bridge of your nose, stare into its depths, and envision the area outside your door.”

The martinet voice brooked no shirking. Harry did as commanded and was surprised to see inside the Djinn ball the staircase outside his dormitory door, dimly lit by the flickering common room fire.

“Very good,” the wrapping paper said. “Now proceed forward.”

Harry did, feeling odd having his viewpoint descend while he stayed still. When the common room opened before him, he saw Alicia sprawled on a couch, engrossed in a paperback with a brawny, bare-chested Viking on the cover. Hearing a popping noise in the corner, he turned to see a seventh-year boy teaching a first-year boy the intricacies of Exploding Snap.

“No need to jerk about,” the squeaky voice scolded. “Navigate with your mind.”

Soon, Harry was racing along all the Hogwarts corridors he’d covered just a short while before. With the wrapping paper’s coaching, he learned to think himself past closed doors, then past walls. He sneaked up on Professor McGonagall talking to Professor Dane in a corner of the staff room. Neither gave any sign of noticing.

“I’d never thought to see that lock opened. I’d assumed the key was mangled and the bolt rusted tight. But now that you’ve managed it, I ask you to be careful. What is inside is a lot more fragile than one would expect. If you break it, it were better you’d not unlocked it at all.”

Professor Dane laced her fingers, obviously taking the older woman’s words to heart. “Break it. That’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.”

Quickly, Harry scanned the rest of the lounge. Not finding Snape, he left the ladies to their talk of enchanted treasure boxes and resumed probing the castle. Dumbledore’s office. He’d been there before. According to what the wrapping paper had taught him, he should find it easy to project his senses back again through the Djinn ball. But when he reached the gargoyle, Harry found he could go no further. He could see the headmaster’s quarters in his mind, but that was all it was—a mental image, a memory.

“What did you expect?” the squeaky voice piped up. “Even a Djinn ball can’t counter really potent magic.”

For an hour, Harry explored—looking high, looking low, backtracking, and revisiting. When he caught Myrtle moaning in her corner toilet, he felt a twinge of guilt. In the stairwell outside Snape’s empty office, Nick’s Almost Axed Acrobats were flipping and whirling. Harry smiled to see Dobby and Winky sharing an apple beside the kitchen hearth, though he was surprised when both darted him quick glances. Nobody else detected his presence—not Madame Pince hauling decrepit volumes off the library shelves for their yearly dusting, nor Wilhelm Avery directing a first-year Slytherin to move his chess pieces as he played Felix Moon, nor Draco Malfoy fretting over a letter to his mother. Because he’d once been in the Slytherin dungeon, Harry returned there easily. Since he’d never seen Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, he didn’t know how to enter.

By the time he lowered the Djinn ball to go to bed, Harry felt cross-eyed. He removed his glasses, rubbed his nose, and rose stiffly to his feet. Dumbledore’s office. That’s where the pair had to be. He just hoped the headmaster was all right. For a moment, he thought of writing Cho—trying to patch up their awkward farewell. Tonight, like last night, he couldn’t.

#

“Nay, Harry. Yeh’re picturin’ it all wrong,” Hagrid said, twitching his nose as if something tickled it. “Severus would never do anythin’ to harm Albus. He looks up to him, depen’s on him. Why, yeh saw how choked up Sev’rus got when he presen’ed the Father Chris’mas crown.”

“Choked up?” Sunday morning, after neither Snape nor Dumbledore showed up at breakfast, Harry had hurried to Hagrid’s hut. Now that he’d unloaded his misgivings into the most sympathetic adult ears he could find, the contrariness of his friend’s interpretation perplexed him.

“Sure, now. Sev’rus was so moved, he c’barely speak.”

Moved? Couldn’t his friend see that Snape’s awkwardness had been evidence of a guilty conscience?

Hagrid pinched his nose hard. “An’ wha’ yeh didn’ see was how fran’ic he got when Albus an’ you got shocked. While yeh was out cold, he was kickin’ hi’self fer bein’ no expert on magical plants an’ praisin’ Neville ‘cause he was.”

Vaguely, Harry remembered hearing, Well-done, Neville. You’ve done your parents proud. Could that voice have been Snape’s? “No. Surely, he was putting on an act—trying to cool suspicion. I told you what I heard—”

Abruptly, Hagrid swung his head aside and buried his face in his tea towel. The sneeze he exploded rocked the cups and saucers. “Wha’ in the—Harry! Have yeh been pettin’ a c-c-c-c-at?”

Hastily, Harry rose from the table and backed across the cabin. “Yes. I’m keeping Bête Noire company while Millicent’s away.”

“Oh, n-n-n-n-no.” Hagrid gave himself up to a series of sneezes, each worse than the one before.

Harry stared at the black hairs clinging to his robes where Bête Noire had nestled on his lap. “I’m so sorry. Next time I visit, I’ll change first.”

Hagrid waved weakly, still coughing and snorting and trying to catch his breath. Chagrined, Harry left, closing the door behind him.

#

Absent-mindedly grooming, feeding, and watering his house’s griffin, Harry chided himself for not starting the discussion with Regis. Hagrid had repeatedly said that the fault for sending him lay with the Enchanted Preserve gamekeeper, but if he considered Willimar Avery’s Halloween letter and Snape’s agreeing with his old friend’s comment about the beast not being as fierce as they’d hoped, surely he’d recognize who had really misdirected his order. When Harry left to check on the hydra, he heard Waldo irritably pecking the gate behind him.

Trudging toward the Slytherin pen, Harry realized he was retracing the ground he’d raced over the day Regis had almost killed Professor Dumbledore. That memory sparked a host of others—flashes of danger, snatches of conversation, stabs of emotion. Suddenly, he clenched his fists in the air. “Yes!”

Raising his robes high above the muddy earth, Harry ran toward the hydra, counting on Millicent’s claim about the fourth head’s unusual ability. “Hey, fellows,” he called out as he swung open the gate. “Remember me?”

All four heads turned toward him, tossing out four different versions of Season’s Greetings—three in Parseltongue, one in English. The magical serpent slithered happily toward him, then nuzzled him in a manner not unlike Bête Noire’s.

“Milly told us you’d visit,” Demosthenes hissed.

“Set my mind at ease,” Erichthonius added. “Can’t depend on those other two.”

Ted tilted his head. “Don’t be so hard—at least, not on Draco. That chap was a lot more attentive this morning than I’d ever thought he’d be.”

Draco was exactly the subject Harry was eager to discuss. “Quatre, you understand humans. The day you popped out, did you catch Snape haranguing Malfoy?”

Quatre snickered breathily. “Indeed, yes! Did the professor ever give that lad what for! Dressing him down one side and chewing him up the other.”

Great! “And what was he giving him what for about? Wasn’t Snape telling Malfoy not to mention the griffin to the Ministry because it might get him investigated?”

Quatre shook himself all over. “Not a bit of it. The professor told Draco to own up to his sniveling behavior without flinging blame on those who’d acted better than himself.”

Uncertain he’d heard properly, Harry straightened his glasses. “Better? Who?”

“Milly, of course, and Cho, and Hagrid, and—” Quatre thrust his face an amiable hand’s span from Harry’s “—you.”

Bewildered, Harry dropped back a step. “No. You must be wrong. Not in a million years would Snape have said that.”

“Oh, yes, he did. He told Draco he’d never be his own man until he accepted some responsibility. It took a month for the message to sink in, but this morning Draco did everything Millicent showed him—even gave us an oiling.”

The four-headed beast zigzagged proudly, showing off the gleam on its green-and-silver scales.

Harry was not convinced, but there was no arguing with a hydra. Even the three heads that hadn’t understood the dialogue between Snape and Malfoy asserted their opinions. After twenty minutes of back-and-forth, requests for clarification, and insistence that Quatre’s English must be faulty, Harry took his leave, back to the castle.

Casting about for an explanation, he recalled the lecture he’d overheard Lucius Malfoy giving Draco in Knockturn Alley three years before. Malfoy had rebuked his son for not being as apt a pupil as Hermione—but that hadn’t stopped the old Death Eater from scheming to drive all non-purebloods from Hogwarts. Snape’s reprimand to Draco must have been along the same lines: Don’t let the other houses show Slytherin up.

#

Tramping up the wide granite steps, Harry nearly bumped into Professor Flitwick peeking over an armful of books. Though the Charms master stood two steps above him, Harry’s head was higher.

“Been to Hagrid’s?” Flitwick’s voice was as light and merry as a budgie’s. “Hope the old boy was studying.”

“Well, he took a break when I visited, but yes, he’d been quizzing himself.”

“His fourth-level equivalency exams are coming next week. I expect him to do well, but it never pays to sit back.”

Harry reached out to straighten a volume called Charms Around the World to prevent it from sliding off Flitwick’s stack. “I’m sure he’ll keep at it. He’s told me how grateful he is for this opportunity.”

The Charms master beamed. “Severus’s idea. The rest of us thought it splendid when he broached it, but nobody dreamed the Ministry would agree. Hagrid was the loudest naysayer of all. But Severus insisted. Said the injustice had gone on long enough, that the authorities could be made to see reason.”

Harry stared down at the little Charms master. “Snape—Professor Snape was the one who proposed Hagrid finally earn his diploma?”

“Proposed it?” Flitwick tittered. “He composed it! Detail by detail, he reported what he’d learned about Hagrid working the jelly legs hex and talking Regis into standing down. When we all signed the petition, the Ministry just had to accept.”

Harry clapped a hand over his open mouth. That noon when the Magical Companions class had stood dripping in the entry, he’d assumed Snape’s I’ve sent my letter to the Ministry meant he’d complained about Hagrid’s unauthorized use of magic. “You mean Professor Snape praised Hagrid for using his wand?”

“Extolled him! Hagrid has always gotten away with limited use around Hogwarts—engorging pumpkins, piloting feedbags, and the like. With irrefutable logic, Severus argued that anyone able to help save Albus using a broken wand on half an education ought to have the chance to obtain a new wand and complete the other half.”

Long after Professor Flitwick chirruped his good-byes and trotted on to Hagrid’s hut, Harry was still cupping his jaw, trying to work through this incongruous new picture.

#

By the time Harry wandered into the Great Hall for lunch, he still hadn’t come up with what nefarious motive Snape could have for helping Hagrid. Instead, his friend’s words echoed in his mind: I grew t’respect him—an’ him me.

But that didn’t explain Mad Regis.

Glancing around, Harry saw that so far, only a few students had shown up. Ariel Dane had enlisted all six of them to help pull the scattered place settings from the four rival houses into one, big, happy family at the high table. Before she could whisk him into her sociable designs, Harry about-faced into the entryway—straight into a grimacing Professor McGonagall.

“By the looks of her,” she muttered, “Severus is about to come out of hiding.”

At her words, Harry felt like some dam broke loose, and all his anxieties came flooding out. “What about Professor Dumbledore? Do you have any idea where he is?”

McGonagall shot Harry a baffled glance. “Up in his office, of course.”

“With Snape—Professor Snape?”

“Certainly. What of it?”

Harry sucked his breath in sharply. “Is that safe? I know you suspected Professor Snape at the Halloween party. Then Regis nearly killed Professor Dumbledore. What about the Yule Ball? Professor Snape handled the cap. Couldn’t he have—”

Without hesitation, McGonagall grasped Harry’s shoulders and gave him a good shake. “Get hold of yourself. I suspect Severus? At Halloween? Of what?”

Harry stared into his housemistress’s dour gray eyes, desperate for an ally. “You did suspect him. I know you did. You said, He’s up to something.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows shot high. “I was talking about that shenanigan he pulled with Slytherin’s House Spirit Week mascot. What did you think I’d meant?”

“But his letter from Avery, Sr.—”

“Was permission to bring a hydra to Hogwarts. It’s native to the Greek isles, and a Ministry permit is required to import one into Britain.”

“But Avery—”

“Works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Yes, but he’s also back with the Death Eaters. And he used to be Professor Snape’s best friend. And—”

“Severus loathes him.” Professor McGonagall gazed askance at Harry as if waiting for him to interrupt again. When he didn’t, she continued. “Where you heard they’d once been best friends, I can’t fathom—but gossip will circulate. What you evidently don’t know is that when he was at school, Severus’s family had . . . a spot of money trouble. Being the kind of self-aggrandizing, self-serving scoundrel he is, Avery cut Severus off . . . .”

Harry tried to look as if this information was news to him. Distracted, he peered back through the doors at Professor Dane gamboling about the Great Hall, flourishing her wand. Her cheerfulness just made him more impatient to convince his housemistress of Snape’s guilt. Then McGonagall added a detail that snapped Harry back to attention.

“When the Dark Lord made Severus his favorite Potions master, Avery pretended they’d had a misunderstanding. When matters went the other way, he tried to persuade Severus he’d been under an imperious curse. Severus let him believe he’d succeeded. But do you think he ever forgave Avery for dropping him when they were schoolmates?” McGonagall’s strict mouth curved fondly. “Nobody can hold a grudge like Severus.”

Frowning into her matter-of-fact gray eyes, Harry had to admit the story rang true. “You’re sure Avery’s letter was about the hydra?”

“Undoubtedly. Severus asked the favor because cultivating that old tie is to our advantage. If, in the process, he could show up the rest of us—get Slytherin a mythological wonder that outdid our ordinary beasts—well, that was icing on his cake.”

“But Avery apologized that the beast wasn’t as fierce as they’d hoped, and Snape said his efforts were still appreciated. Couldn’t they have been talking about . . . .” When McGonagall eyed him quizzically, Harry let his voice trail off.

“Now where could you have heard that?” She shrugged. “Again, they plainly meant the hydra. Miss Bulstrode has shown me the beast. An endearing creature. Every time she gets it to bare its fangs, the next minute those four heads snuggle up for her approval.”

Harry exhaled slowly. Not quite as fierce as they’d hoped. Chastened, he stared at his own feet. “So . . . Professor Snape had nothing to do with the griffin?”

“Obviously. You saw how put out he was when it arrived.” McGonagall chuckled in remembrance. “Hagrid contacted the Enchanted Preserve on my behalf. So unless you’re suggesting he or I—”

“No, of course, not.” Looking up, Harry saw Ariel Dane glowing at them from the doorway. Under her breath, she was humming Ode to Joy. Ten minutes later, she was sighing, not humming, as she poked her fork at her turkey potpie.

A spoonful of mashed yams halfway to her mouth, McGonagall glanced at her fellow teacher. With an exasperated click of her tongue, she lowered her spoon. “Chin up. They can’t stay there forever. Soon, they’ll either succeed or give in.”

His housemistress spoke softly, but since only a sullenly close-mouthed Slytherin and a bashfully quiet Hufflepuff separated them, Harry heard her clearly. He watched Dane force a smile to her lips, then turn her mild hazel eyes on the silent third-year boys.

“Petrarch, Nibs—did you know you were the only two kids last semester who really understood bugbears?”

Hastily, Harry focused his attention on his creamed peas. If he didn’t appear occupied, she’d coax him into the hesitant conversation starting up between the two classmates. When he was sure Dane wouldn’t notice, he stole a glance at Madame Pomfrey’s latest owl preening herself beside the headmaster’s empty plate.

Then a chorus of greetings from the rest of the group switched Harry’s attention to the doorway. Dumbledore ambled in, a sheepish smile on his face. The habitual serenity in the blue eyes made Harry relax for the first time in a day. Snape tramped after the headmaster, scowling. When his gaze met Ariel Dane’s, his gloominess cleared a little. He shrugged and shook his head.

Nearing the table, Dumbledore told McGonagall, “An impasse, but never mind. Tonight, the expert is coming. He’ll figure out what we’re doing wrong.”

At that assurance, Snape growled, “Muggle artifacts,” then slumped down beside Dane. In a moment, the two were so engrossed with each other that they might as well not have been present at all.

As Dumbledore passed, he bent close to Harry. “About that talk. I’m sorry I delayed it. But sometimes stories improve when you have time to reconsider them. After I sup, I’m taking a nice, long nap. But come by my office at ten for a late night snack. I’ll leave word with the gargoyle. A surprise is coming I think you’ll enjoy.”

#

As Dumbledore hustled about, readying a tray of pumpkin juice and biscuits, Harry stared at the buzzing, zapping, sparking apparatus set up on the table across the room: a computer system. The torn cardboard and Styrofoam packing discarded in the corner told him he’d discovered what had been in the mysterious boxes he’d hauled up the Friday before. A tangle of eerily glowing wires connected the processing tower, monitor, keyboard, and printer to an electric generator that alternately whirred and died. Streams of yellow light shot between the units using no wires at all. Despite all the magic Snape and Dumbledore had spent ten hours applying to the system, the screen remained black—except for a spectral gray shape that occasionally flitted across, reminding Harry of the term ghost in the machine.

With a sigh, the headmaster settled into an overstuffed chair and waited for the tray to alight on the stand beside him. In one arm, he cradled a thick photograph album. He handed it to Harry, then bent to pour two mugs of hot pumpkin juice, adding dollops of whipped cream and sprinkles of nutmeg.

Harry wasn’t quite so eager to talk as he’d been the day before. Grateful for a diversion, he opened the album.

“Friends and family,” the headmaster explained. “It took some time to gather them all, but it was worth the while.”

As Harry turned the pages, Dumbledore identified each photo, starting with sepia-toned portraits of his parents that didn’t move and proceeding to laughing, winking siblings and cousins, many of whom shared the same deep auburn hair. When Harry came to a round-faced witch with light brown curls and a twinkle in her eyes, Dumbledore murmured, “That was Coriander—my wife.”

Next to her, Harry saw a young lady with familiar blue eyes. “Your daughter?”

“Very discerning of you, yes.”

“She has your face,” Harry explained.

“Though not my proboscis, I hope.” Dumbledore leaned back, his large, bumpy nose sticking out in profile. “Along with Corrie, Rosette was my life’s great happiness—and its sadness, too. They have both passed on.”

Harry studied her kind face a moment, thinking this was a woman he wished he had known. Further on, the album revealed the Hogwarts staff at various ages. Students were also represented—playing Quidditch, displaying awards, or just waving from the gardens. Flipping a page, he was surprised to see a schoolboy picture of Sirius and Snape—though the tautness of their smiles showed they weren’t happy about the pairing.

Pointing at the chess trophy hanging midair between them, Dumbledore said, “An unbelievable match. Twenty-two games. Fifty-six hours. We had to call it a draw.”

Holding back a grin, Harry continued through more shots than he’d imagined the album could hold until he came across a series he recognized. “My parents’ wedding.”

“Yes. Lily and James were very special to me.”

“And that’s why you keep a special eye on their son.” When the headmaster nodded, Harry’s worries came out in a rush. “That’s why you made me stay instead of visiting the Weasleys. You thought I was in danger. But you’re wrong. The statue and the griffin—their attacks were aimed at you. The shock laurel proved that.”

A slow smile appeared between Dumbledore’s snowy white mustache and long, snowy beard. “You are always in danger, Harry. That is the sad truth so long as Voldemort lives. But that is not the reason I kept you here. You have two surprises coming, one quite soon. As for my being in danger—that is also always true. But yes, this autumn the threat has been more keenly targeted. Rest assured: all three events are being investigated.”

Harry let his head flop back against his chair, realizing just how exhausted his day and a half of agitation had made him. “I’ve been investigating, too.”

“And the only truth you’ve uncovered for sure is that the culprit is not Severus Snape.”

Dumbledore’s quiet words so startled Harry that he flipped the picture album off his lap. Calmly, the headmaster pointed at it and floated it to his desk. Harry bit his lip, waiting for the flush to leave his cheeks.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve misjudged our Potions master—nor, I warrant, your last.”

Harry recalled the reason he’d given Hermione so many weeks before: Because Snape keeps on doing suspicious things. He blew out his breath. “I guess it’s the fact that Professor Snape used to be a Death Eater. I can’t get that out of my mind. You told me once that you trusted him anyway—but you couldn’t tell me the reason.” He glanced sidelong at the headmaster. If the answer had anything to do with his mother, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“The reason?” Dumbledore smiled. “In truth, there are several. But let’s consider his having been a Death Eater. Actually, that is a large part of why I trust him.”

A rumble rose from the computer, as if seconding Harry’s skepticism.

Dumbledore glanced sternly at the CPU, then turned toward Harry. “When Voldemort fell, except for a few fanatics, every Death Eater claimed to have acted under an imperious curse. Severus was the only one scrupulous enough to admit to having once believed. Yet he was the only one who turned against Voldemort at the height of his power. To have risked that from the inner circle took noble convictions.”

“But many people never believed in Voldemort. You didn’t.”

“No, not me—but many did. Some of the best and the brightest were fooled by him. My own daughter, for one.”

Remembering the gentle-faced Rosette, Harry winced. “She wasn’t—”

“With the Death Eaters? Oh, gracious, no. That was long before. Voldemort wasn’t even Voldemort, then.”

“Even so, how could . . . .” Harry removed his glasses and clenched them. “I saw Voldemort with what is left of his Death Eaters. He was vengeful, cruel, explosive—just plain scary. I can’t see how anyone ever could have followed him. What could anyone, even those villains I saw with him, ever have hoped to gain from that madman?”

Instead of answering, Dumbledore picked up his pumpkin juice. Dutifully, Harry reached for his. He took a long draught, studying the headmaster through the rising steam. At last, Dumbledore said, “He has had many faces.”

Harry put aside his mug, intent on listening.

“For a time Voldemort was a viable force in wizard affairs. He never involved himself directly in Ministry matters, but his followers made it clear that their ideas originated with him. And early on, many of those ideas were irreproachable. First, it was preservation of endangered magical creatures. Several breeds of British dragon were headed for extinction. Even I couldn’t fault his arguments for their protection.”

Harry nodded. His mother and Hagrid had also believed in that cause.

“Then came Muggles. Since time immemorial, encounters between the magical and the non-magical have created problems, sometimes disasters. Voldemort made a widely supported case for tightening the rules that govern our interactions. I argued that his views were too restrictive, but I could hardly call their supporters evil.

“Bit by bit, his message grew more insidious.” Light from the malfunctioning computer flickered over Dumbledore’s face. “Millennia ago, certain areas of magic became taboo. Their temptation had proved too dangerous. Voldemort said it wasn’t necessarily so. Wielding this power, he said, far-seeing magicians of good will could solve the crises of the Muggle-run world. He termed it control over chaos. This time, I called his philosophy as I saw it—a will to dominate and repress. Some began to agree.”

“The old crowd.” Dumbledore had used that term the year before. Harry had been glad to find Remus Lupin numbered among them. He’d been astounded to hear the name Arabella Figg—the old lady who had bored him with cat photos when he was a boy. His father and mother had been in that group—he just knew it. And Sirius, too.

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “But not Severus. Not at first.”

“Why?”

Dumbledore inspected Harry over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. “Due to various circumstances, Severus graduated Hogwarts with an overpowering need to prove himself. Because of hostility he’d engendered during his schooldays, his application to the Ministry to become an auror was rejected. Everywhere he sought a position, rumors about the breadth and depth of his studies, the extent of his skills and expertise, preceded him. And they closed doors. Nobody wanted to hire someone so likely to know more than they did.”

Harry cocked his head. “So, you’re saying being a good student doesn’t pay?”

“I hope I’m not.” Dumbledore shrugged. “I tried to interest Severus in replacing the retiring Potions master, but he considered staying at Hogwarts a surrender. For a year, he did odd jobs. Then Lucius Malfoy hired him. He encouraged Severus’s fascination for just those forbidden realms of magic that so interested Voldemort. He filled Severus’s head with visions of that rascal’s lofty goals. Control over chaos. That is an illusion Severus had always—perhaps always will—desire. When at last the Dark Lord called him to service, Severus was eager to show his worth.”

Afraid to fidget, Harry folded his hands around his glasses. The headmaster was sketching in more gaps in the enigma called Severus Snape than a session of somnoleveritaphantasmagoria powder. He wanted no distraction to break the thread.

“Some attracted Voldemort’s attention by their lust for power. Others by their willingness to be led. With Severus, it was his mind. Because of his flair for arcane languages and cryptic runes, he was set the task of delving into ancient texts and experimenting with what he found. Voldemort was so pleased with Severus’s endeavors that he offered him the chance to rise higher. That was the Dark Lord’s mistake.”

Again, Dumbledore paused to sip his drink. Harry could see conflict creasing his forehead. Was it worse to betray Snape’s past or leave him unexplained? After a painfully long minute, the headmaster sighed. “Voldemort invited him to become a Death Eater. Severus believed his most noble aspirations were about to come true. He entered the ceremony willingly, eager to receive the mark that would identify him as one of the chosen few. He had no foreknowledge of what obtaining it would involve.”

The darkening look on Dumbledore’s face made Harry’s tongue go dry. He had the urge to jump up to get another mug of pumpkin juice. To perhaps not return. To perhaps not hear the rest of the story the headmaster was steeling himself to continue.

“Let me just say, the ritual involved a young Muggle girl and all three of the unforgivable curses. Severus was horrified. But he kept his silence. He played along. He received the brand.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “A young girl? They compelled her to come, then tortured and killed her? And Professor Snape did nothing to stop them?”

Dumbledore gave Harry a measuring look. “You think that cowardice. But Severus is nothing if not logical. It is not in his makeup to attempt the impossible.”

“But the girl . . . .”

“Severus couldn’t have saved her. Yet he blamed himself anyway. He had nowhere to turn. His mother was useless. His school friends were themselves Death Eaters. The person he most trusted, he was ashamed to face. So finally, he unburdened himself to me. A Gryffindor would have tried to save her, he said. I answered, Then I’m grateful it was a Slytherin that was there.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore.

“Oh, yes. Brave Gryffindor would have tried and most certainly been killed. Cunning Slytherin bided his time and gave us the most valuable agent we’ve ever had.”

Harry pressed his head back against his chair. He remembered Ariel Dane’s horror at seeing the Dark Mark on Snape’s arm and her apologies the morning after. Professor Dumbledore must have painted this same picture for her. Despite himself, he was feeling similar stirrings of sympathy for the old Slytherin.

Dumbledore entwined his fingers in his beard. “Severus perpetrated deceptions on the Dark Lord more crafty and more perilous than you can imagine. Even now, it frightens me to think of them.” Abruptly he stopped, listening. Then he raised a hand as if to signal time out. “But those tales will have to wait. Your surprise is about to enter.”

Harry gaped. “You can’t stop now. Don’t leave me dangling. Go on. Please.”

Before he could get out another stuttering word, the door swept open and the subject of Dumbledore’s story entered, gazing suspiciously from one to the other of them.

“Severus!” the headmaster said heartily. “Did you bring him?”

In answer, the Potions master stepped aside and another man strolled forward.

“Remus!” Harry exclaimed, then sprang out of his chair to race across the floor.

His parents’ old friend wrapped him in a warm hug. Then he held Harry at arm’s length. “You’ve grown!”

“And you’ve been making money,” Harry responded happily.

Laughing, Remus released Harry, then self-consciously ran his fingers down his expensive-looking, burgundy, cashmere traveling cloak. Harry noticed that his brown hair was stylishly cut so that the gray made him look distinguished rather than old. His face glowed with good health, though his eyes seemed a little tired. Harry recalled that a few days ago, the moon had been a sliver, so at least two weeks had passed since his friend’s last struggle against becoming a werewolf.

Snape flicked his black eyes disapprovingly from the man to the teen.

Reading the glance, Remus smiled. “You forget, I’m not his professor anymore.”

“A misunderstanding,” Snape mumbled, then strode across the room.

Harry suppressed a grin, certain that was the closest to an apology Snape would ever give for losing Remus his Defense Against the Dark Arts position two years before. With a wink at Harry and a greeting to Dumbledore, his friend sauntered over to join Snape before the blinking, growling, vibrating collection of Muggle artifacts.

“Oh, my,” Remus observed, “you have been busy.”

Impatiently, Snape waved his hand. “Lupin, be my guest.” Then he retreated a pace, folded his arms, and glowered.

As majestically as a stage magician, Remus swept off his cloak, revealing wide khaki pants sporting an array of ingenious pockets. At his belt hung a tooled leather case displaying small gauge screwdrivers, needle-nosed pliers, and his wizard’s wand. Jauntily, he aimed his cloak at a distant coat rack. It caught perfectly. “All right, now. Let’s see what can be done.”

#

Monday evening, Harry couldn’t believe how perfectly the computer was running—though he wasn’t sure what was powering it. The dead generator sat abandoned in the corner. And from somewhere, he got a whiff of cooked cabbage.

Dumbledore pounded the keyboard, lobbing rocks at a Cyclops bellowing on the screen. Watching Dudley battle monsters back at the Dursleys, Harry had yearned for a chance at the controls. Now, he feinted right and left with the headmaster’s surrogate Hercules until the Cyclops smashed the tiny warrior into digital dust. The scene disintegrated, replaced by a merciless, I thought you’d be a hero, but you’re just a zero.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I can’t get past level three.”

Harry grinned, hoping that the headmaster’s invitation had meant he’d get a turn on the computer—just as soon as Remus finished tinkering with it. Right now, his friend was corkscrewed behind the central processing unit. Ariel Dane crouched nearby, watching with admiration. A yard away, glaring down his prominent nose, stood Snape.

“We’re ready to plug in the modem,” Remus said. “Let’s widen the portal.”

Harry squatted to peer under the table—in time to see a hole expanding in the wall. On the other side smiled a wizened old lady clasping a disgruntled Persian cat.

“Mrs. Figg,” he breathed. He noticed that the computer’s power cord was already threaded through the hole and plugged into an outlet in his old babysitter’s living room. Now he knew the origin of both the computer’s electricity and the cabbage smell.

“Spatial displacement,” Professor Dane murmured. “How clever.”

Noticing Harry, Mrs. Figg grabbed her cat’s paw and waved it. “Hello! Tickles the Fourth says hello, too!”

“How are you?” Harry called out loudly enough for a somewhat deaf lady to hear.

“I’m ninety-two,” Mrs. Figg responded as Remus dropped a wire with a telephone jack through the hole. When she set her cat down, it scampered away. With aching slowness, she bent over for the modem jack, then hobbled with it to her wall.

“Not the power outlet, sweetheart,” Remus shouted. “The socket under the telephone stand. That’s right, dear.”

A yowl answered by an explosion of snarls distracted Mrs. Figg. Still holding the wire, she started to rise. Then she remembered, popped in the jack, and doddered away.

Remus poked his head through the hole, then twisted back around. “We’ll have to thank her some other time. She’s settling a domestic dispute.” Pointing his wand, he shrank the wall opening to a size just large enough to accommodate the two cords.

“You’ve worked a miracle,” Professor Dane said as Remus crawled out and stood up to brush dust balls off his loose-fit jeans. “Wherever did you learn to do all this?”

“Minerva McGonagall created the portal. I’m a bit rusty on spatial displacement. And the computer, well, I was off work last year, so I had time for some tech courses.”

As Remus took Dumbledore’s place at the keyboard, Harry saw Professor Dane starting to frown. “I heard how you lost your job. Disgraceful. Prejudice against a medical condition, plain and simple. You should have lodged a grievance.”

Remus smiled faintly. “If I’d wanted to go that route, Albus would have backed me completely. But once the story of my medical condition was out, there was no calling it back. And you can’t tell nervous parents they’re just being prejudiced.”

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape grimace. “A misunderstanding.”

Righteous indignation flamed in Professor Dane’s hazel eyes. “You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve heard the dreaded, But Professor Lupin said. The way the kids remember you says what a great teacher you were. That some anonymous gossip would maliciously bandy about your lycanthropism to lose you your job makes me mad.”

Snape winced like he’d been struck. His lips moved slightly but without a reply.

Dumbledore coughed as though trying to come up with a diplomatic explanation.

Remus swiveled in his chair. “There was no malice. The person who let my secret slip did so because he believed I was a confederate of a man he mistook for a murderer. He thought us both in league with Voldemort. He honestly felt that if I stayed, I might kill one of the students. Harry, actually. The entire affair was—” he shot Snape a lopsided smile “—a misunderstanding.”

“Of the most abysmally miscalculated sort.” Snape passed a hand over his forehead. “Lupin’s replacement was a murderer in league with Voldemort. He was instrumental in the death of one student and nearly in Harry’s.”

“Not everything can be foretold,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Harry stared at Snape, the events of the Shrieking Shack flying through his mind. Again and again, the professor had insisted that he was saving everyone’s neck, that Sirius had spent the year trying to kill him, and that the werewolf had been helping him. Harry had assumed Snape had revealed Remus’s secret out of pique at losing the Order of Merlin. Had he really been trying to protect Lily’s son?

“We all know,” Remus added reasonably, “that if Barty Crouch hadn’t come to Hogwarts as Mad-Eye Moody, he would have come as someone else.”

Dane nodded. “Evil thwarted from one direction will try another.”

“Well said,” Remus agreed. “But luckily, happiness thwarted will also find a different path. For me, things have turned out better than I ever would have hoped. After years of bumming around, I’ve found my niche. I’m sharing a flat in the West End, living comfortably. And I doubt there’s any regret about my replacement this year.” Pivoting back to the computer, he began lightly playing on the keys.

With a strained smile, Snape plodded across the room to where elves had left wine and glasses. He poured a portion and drank it. Spent, he sank into a corner chair.

Harry looked away, recalling the answer Hermione had been unable to provide to her Advanced Potions examination question about Veritaserum: The truth of any information revealed is only partial. Different viewpoints are necessary to truly understand it. In the last two days, he had seen Snape from more angles than he could have imagined. Now he was experiencing a fellow feeling for the irascible man he’d never dreamed possible. He could even picture how Ariel Dane could have taken enough pity on him to dance as she did at the Yule ball—but only because she was especially kind-hearted.

Remus paused a moment, then tapped the Enter key. Strange noises came out of the computer. “That’s the electronic handshake. . . any moment now . . . here we go . . . .”

Everyone crowded around the computer—everyone except Snape. When Harry glanced behind him, he saw the Potions master rooted in his corner, somberly tipping back a second goblet of wine.

“Here’s one of my favorites,” Remus said, as an engraving of an old-time navigator appeared on the screen. “Her Majesty’s Nautical Almanac Office—the exact dates and times for moon phase and moon rise.”

After oo’s and ahh’s, Ariel asked, “Could you find Tonawanda National Wildlife Refuge? It’s a swamp in Alabama. I’m a bit homesick.”

The wildlife refuge led to rare birds, to the Phoenix, to Hopi Kachina dolls. Harry sidetracked everyone into the Wudang Mountains. Dumbledore located an on-line store offering 692 styles of socks. Harry had almost forgotten the Potions master until he heard a portentous whisper: “This will kill that.”

Startled, Harry and the others whipped around.

Stretching out his hand like a prophet of doom, Snape pointed at the computer. “This will kill—” he raised his long black wand ominously above his head and released one purple spark “—that.”

Remus arched an eyebrow. “You’re being a touch melodramatic, aren’t you?”

Snape thrust out his pointed chin. “Who will go sleepless pondering obscure scrolls when typing a search term can bring up an Ask the Experts answer? Who will toil over innumerable, painstaking, hand-inked drafts when word processing is easier? Who will set out to absorb all knowledge when a computer can memorize it more quickly?”

Albus stroked his long, white beard. “Magic can take many forms. Sometimes, we of the Craft tend to be stick-in-the-muds. Rigidity will make us obsolete.”

“The opposite,” Snape muttered, “is chaos.”

“Oh, Severus.” Dane bit her lower lip, then flashed him a cajoling glance. “Notre Dame has survived the printing press.”

Snape’s head lolled back as he laughed. “Muggle trivia! All right, then. Bring on this neoteric magic.” Unsteadily, he rose to his feet and picked his way across the carpet with the delicacy of a really drunken man. “Have at it! A duel to the death!”

As Harry stepped aside for the Potions master, he heard the office door creak. Madame Pomfrey bustled in, her arms full of packages.

“Hello, Albus! Everybody! I cut my trip short. I couldn’t stay away a minute longer. Minerva told me you were all up here. I have gifts for everyone.” When she handed Dumbledore a parcel shaped like a figure eight, he kissed her cheek. Her face was still pink when she ended her rounds by handing Harry a daintily wrapped box.

From my mother! This was one gift that couldn’t wait for Christmas. Hugging it, Harry dashed over to the deep chair Snape had vacated.

Looking too flustered to face the headmaster, Madame Pomfrey followed. She hovered alongside as he ripped away the angel-patterned paper.

Inside, Harry found a spiral-bound sketchbook. He ran his hand over the washed silk cover, savoring his anticipation. “Did she like to draw? I didn’t know.”

The first few pages featured thumbnail sketches—flowers, rabbit ears, teapots, doe eyes, butterfly wings. Even more delightful, Harry discovered that when he touched the delicately pencilled drawings, they sprang to sprightly, whimsical life. Exploring further, he found studies of faces—including one that looked suspiciously like a younger, less prissy Aunt Petunia almost daring to smile. When he came to a self-portrait of his mother, he was thrilled to hear a sweet, soft voice in his mind: James, have a great summer! See you next year— Love, Lily.

“This is wonderful,” Harry breathed. “Thank you.”

Madame Pomfrey blushed even harder.

The following page made Harry gasp. The Marauders! James, his black hair as shaggy as his son’s, stood in the center, fingering his wand. On one side, Remus leaned companionably against him and waved. On the other, Sirius flashed a bad boy leer over a pair of dark glasses. Little Peter huddled at their feet, content to be a part of the gang.

Harry was about to summon Remus, when the next picture made him pause. The oddness of the angle—someone’s back—puzzled him. The long dark hair didn’t reveal whether the subject was a boy or a girl. As Harry touched a sweeping line and heard a lilting, “The wyvern scales will keep, dear. I have an inspiration. Lie down,” he smiled. But when he caught a familiar, silky soft murmur, “I’ll get grass stains on my jacket,” he jerked his hand away as if he’d been burned.

“Is that your father?” Madame Pomfrey asked kindly. “You can’t see his face.”

“Yes,” Harry answered hastily. “My father.”

On the far side of the room, the middle-aged Snape sat stonily at the computer as Remus initiated him into the mysteries of the Worldwide Web, unaware of his teen-aged self sharing a different kind of mystery with Lily Evans.

“I’m feeling a bit knackered,” Harry told Madame Pomfrey, trying to sound more easy-going than he felt. “Could you tell everyone good night for me?”

“Certainly, child. Get to bed. A boy your age needs lots of rest.”

#

Harry trotted down the dark, echoing corridors to Gryffindor Tower, clutching his mother’s sketchbook, anxious for a moment alone. Minutes later, he burst breathless into his dorm, jumped fully dressed into bed, pulled the curtains shut, and buried himself under his covers. Shakily, he lit his wand and flipped to the fateful page. This time, he forced himself to hold his finger to the sketch while he stared at the animated lines.

“The wyvern scales will keep, dear,” Lily Evans said. “I have an inspiration. Lie down.”

“I’ll get grass stains on my jacket,” Severus Snape complained. “I can’t afford another until I’m on my own and working. Can’t we do this standing? Standing is good.”

Lily’s light, high laughter rang out in her son’s mind like mockingbird song. Her graceful hands entered the sketch, urging Snape to lie down until his head rested at the bottom of the frame and his knees jutted up at the top. “Relax,” she soothed. “You’re the most unyielding chap I’ve ever known.”

“For you, I’ll lie down,” Snape replied, smoothing back his long, black hair. “There’s no one I can relax with except you.”

An unseen gust blew a single, line-drawn maple leaf across the page. The vignette was over, and Snape remained still, captured for all time, lounging for Lily.

Harry shut his eyes tight. This was a picture of Snape he wished he’d never seen.