Striking Thirteen

Chapter Five

Yes, he'd been happy, generally speaking. He'd been sad, frightened, or angry more times than he cared to count, but for the most part, he'd been happy. The evening experiments with Severus had given way to long, late-night chats, which had in turn given way to long, slow kisses. All of the events in his life for ten years had their ups and downs. The teaching and the potions and the holidays. His friends' weddings, the births of their children. Sunsets. Quidditch. So yes, he'd been happy. But it had all come to an end too soon, he'd woken up too soon. And now he had to find some way to remake it all.

At least he knew the most important step, other than winning Severus' heart all over again. Or for real this time, rather. "Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" asked Dumbledore with a raised eyebrow.

"I know how we defeated Voldemort."

Dumbledore regarded him steadily, no twinkle in sight. "I'm listening."

"Well, sir, the thing is, we got rid of him, but you… you died." Harry spoke this last barely above a whisper.

"We all must, Harry. And I've long known that that's the way I would go. You're not the only one with a prophecy."

"What was yours?"

Dumbledore spoke softly. "The knight will return as the king, and together with the marked one they will vanquish their most wayward son, but only the knight will survive, to return as the king evermore."

Harry furrowed his brow. "Me being the marked one and the wayward son being Voldemort, I suppose, but what's all this knight and king business?"

"It's not essential that you know at this point, Harry. But I promise I'll tell you when the time comes."

"You didn't in the dream. You didn't even tell me about the prophecy."

"I don't suppose there was time."

No, there hadn't been. But how did Dumbledore know that? It was speculation, perhaps. Harry fixed the old man with a squint.

"How did we kill him, precisely?" Dumbledore asked, changing the subject.

"Bit by bit, with a potion that latched onto his essence and bonded to it. I took the life from his body with a simple poison extraction charm. The essence, though, had to have somewhere to go. You…you volunteered to take it into yourself and be killed."

"A formidable plan. Is the potion already in existence?"

'No, Sev-- Professor Snape and I spent months developing it. If I could have access to our notes from the dream somehow, I'm sure we could duplicate it."

"I'll make arrangements for an empty pensieve to be sent here this afternoon," Dumbledore said without hesitation.

"Will that work?"

"The reason the Rêve de Vie charm--or curse, perhaps--often causes madness is that when it is lifted, the dreamer remembers his dream not as a dream, but as real memories."

Were his memories real, or weren't they? He wondered if he might be susceptible to this madness after all. "So I'd be able to get at them like any other memory?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Once the memories have been extracted, you can return to them and examine your notes. It will likely be a taxing process, both physically and mentally."

"I have to do it, though. I can't know about that potion and not at least try to make it."

"I feel confident you will succeed, my boy."

He knew he could succeed in making the potion, but there was also the matter of Severus, in which he was much less certain of his chances of success. It was fortunate that the potion had to be a two-person job, since there would be no apprenticeship this time around. Perhaps proximity would work in his favour again this time. He hoped it would. He didn't think that a life without Severus was one he much wanted to live.

Chapter Six

There was a memorial service for Neville the next day. Dumbledore made an emergency return from his mystery location, looking none too pleased with the state of affairs. The service was short. No one had overmuch to say about Neville. He had never done anything too remarkable, not in their eyes, for what could be remarkable about unflagging loyalty and tolerance? They could say nothing of his Gryffindor bravery, because suicide was cowardly. The comments were kept to things like "good student" and "loss to the school," even though Harry could tell that not everyone even believed those statements. Neville's gran was the only one who gave him more than the most perfunctory of remembrances, and her voice trembled so much that hardly anyone could understand her. Harry felt worse for her than he did for Neville. She'd lost all her family now. He knew how she must feel-- but really, no, he didn't. He'd never known his parents. They only existed as ideas to him. Neville's gran had lost real people whom she'd known and loved and devoted her life to, which had to be worse than not having had them there in the first place.

After the speeches, there was a feast in remembrance, but the atmosphere was subdued, and a funerary pall hung over the richly laden tables. Talking was done in hushed tones, and was all speculation about why he'd done it. Even the Slytherins had the good grace not to cast aspersions on the late Gryffindor, at least for the duration of the meal. Harry had a feeling that would change once they were safe within the confines of their common room. He could almost hear them now. A nutter just like his parents. Harry knew Slytherin derision well. It was predictable, which was the only reason it didn't hurt him anymore. Surprised he even managed to kill himself without blowing something up. Whatever they'd be saying, it was nothing they hadn't said before. It was what the Gryffindors might have to say once the shock had worn off that worried him. He knew how cruel his housemates could be. And he knew he'd feel the need to defend Neville to them. But he had no idea of how he'd do it, because if he was honest with himself about it, Neville's actions had been indefensibly idiotic.

Harry shut himself behind his bed curtains before anyone could ask him any more questions. He'd been one of the last to see Neville alive, and everyone wanted to know what he'd said and done. Harry wanted to keep that locked away as his own secret, as Neville's secret, because he felt Neville would have wanted it that way. Neville wouldn't have wanted everyone to know that Snape had finally broken him. Harry's anger at the Potions Master was returning full-force now, but he bit it back. It wouldn't do any good. It would only give Snape unnecessary leverage, which was something he had in abundance already. Harry knew that the only way to deal with Snape was to respond to his cold ruthlessness with an even colder attitude. He'd have to cultivate one damned quickly if he wanted to survive his apprenticeship.

The next morning brought his appointed meeting with Snape. He wondered what to wear-- robes, or his ordinary weekend Muggle attire? Snape had not said one way or the other. Harry finally decided that it meant it didn't matter what he wore and settled on jeans and a jumper-- not one of Mrs. Weasley's, though, as he wished to avoid snarky commentary in any way possible. A lost cause, he was certain, but he wanted to make the effort.

He was one of only four people in the Great Hall when he choked down some toast and tea. He realised blandly that it was a Hogsmeade weekend, but found he didn't care that he was missing the outing. He rather doubted at first that too many people would be going, but then wondered if it might come as a welcome distraction for many of the students. He was feeling rather suffocated himself under the grim aura hanging over the castle. Snape certainly wouldn't be wallowing, though, and Harry found that a strangely comforting thought. No matter what happened, Snape was a constant. And Harry could not but take comfort in the few constants he had left.

He was already weary of thought when he knocked at Snape's office door. "Enter," came Snape's voice from within.

Harry walked through the door and was shocked to the gills to see Snape in a white oxford shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and a pair of black trousers. His hair was pulled back and he was inspecting the contents of a cauldron. Damn, who knew he had an arse under that bat outfit? Did I just think that? No, of course I didn't.

"Potter, close your mouth and come over here, we've precious little time," Snape said, not sparing him a glance.

Harry clapped his mouth shut and came to stand next to Snape, still having to exert a great deal of effort not to stare. Really, the amount of buttons the man had undone on his shirt was almost indecent.

"Potter, tell me what this is."

Harry snapped out of his thoughts, and peered into the cauldron, sniffing it. "It smells like a garden-variety healing potion, but it's the wrong colour," he said after a moment.

"And what colour should it be?"

"Well, I suppose it's the right shade of green, but it ought to have… I don't know, more of a shimmer to it."

"Which means?" Snape turned his gaze away from the cauldron and looked up, directly into Harry's eyes.

Harry didn't blink as he responded, "Which means the Unicorn horn was left out." But his heartbeat quickened a few paces.

"You might have said so in the first place." Snape sneered at him.

Harry blushed slightly and inwardly cursed himself for it. Of course, merely arriving at the right answer wouldn't be enough, would it? If he hadn't understood before that Snape would demand perfection, he certainly couldn't doubt it now. It worried him. He'd improved vastly in Potions over the past two years, but perfection wasn't something he'd even dared to aspire to. He'd have to now, clearly, if he wanted to avoid Snape's trademark glare-- any more than was necessary, at any rate, as avoiding The Glare altogether was impossible. Snape wanted him better-than-perfect, and Harry knew it.

Snape dissipated the cauldron's contents with a flick of his wrist. "We're going to brew Lupin's Wolfsbane potion today, Potter. Rather, you're going to." Snape pushed a piece of parchment toward him. "Here are the ingredients and the proportions. You're to combine them properly to produce the desired effect based on your inferred knowledge of each ingredient."

Harry tried not to gape. This potion had taken Snape ages to develop, he knew. And here he had to essentially create it from little more than a laundry list of ingredients and numbers. But he knew better than to try to argue. He set to work, knowing that Snape would brook no objection. He only hoped the castle would survive his efforts.

Several hours and countless explosions later, Harry at last came up with something that he thought might not kill Remus. It looked and smelled like the stuff he'd seen Remus drink, and it didn't appear to be about to explode, for which he congratulated himself heartily.

"Professor," he called wearily to Snape, who had been alternately marking papers and reading the entire time, "I think I've got it."

"I rather doubt that, Potter," Snape said, coming over to inspect the potion.

But Harry had, more or less, succeeded. It was harsher than what Snape ordinarily brewed, but the Potions Master allowed that it was usable. "Congratulations, Potter, on a decent job," Snape said, but his tone lacked his usual venom. Harry knew that he must take this as a glowing accolade.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, trying not to beam idiotically at his professor.

Snape gave a derisive little snort. "Now, Potter, if you will please dispense with the unholy mess you've made in my laboratory."

No, it would have been too easy, too un-Snape-ish, to have just left it at the compliment. Harry sighed and set to work cleaning the remnants of the explosions off the floors and walls. It was an unholy mess, he had to allow. And Snape hadn't taken any points from him, which was a vast improvement over what happened every time Harry made a mistake in his Potions class. He could live with this. And he was most certainly not thinking about Snape's collarbone.