Dulce Et Decorum Est

Chapter One: Of Convergence and Wands

Draco Malfoy was a fine-boned boy, with pale skin and hair. The blue blood in his veins was blue enough to perhaps be the result of inbreeding somewhere in his lineage.

He had been born ten years prior from the union of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black, one much celebrated for how beneficial it was for both their bloodlines. Narcissa, at the time of their marriage, was well aware that the two noble houses had been planning the union since her first birthday. It had been a touchy matter, however, as Lucius had already become a fine looking young boy and the perfect heir, while Narcissa, who was a good five years younger, might have grown up to be an unacceptable cow. She didn't. As her birthdays passed, it became more and more apparent that she was to be by far the most attractive of the Black girls. (Andromeda had far too many curves - the sort of girl who ate all the tea cakes. While Bellatrix wasn't a poor sight to look at, black hair and wicked eyes and pale skin, she liked her blood red rather than blue. She'd have snapped Lucius' neck, and so she was out of the question.) The Malfoys were pleased with the match; Narcissa, proud. It seemed fitting to her to have one child, she decided upon their wedding night, and when she gave birth to a baby boy to carry on the Malfoy name she had the means to stick to her decision.

Draco, as Lucius named him, had Narcissa's bone structure and Lucius's eyes. Because he was a child born of Malfoy and Black blood he was raised with an overwhelming sense of entitlement. At the age of ten, he knew he was nobility. He carried himself well, with a tilt of his chin and a straightness of shoulders informed by aristocracy. He assumed by default, when his letter from Hogwarts arrived, that he would excel at the classes at which his father wished him to excel. That he wouldn't wasn't an option. Lineage, Lucius had once told his son, means everything. Because he was young, Draco did not think to wonder if he would disappoint.

It did not mean he hadn't thought of his father's words as something other than reassurance. That phrase was not without some measure of warning.

Lucius had once been one of Voldemort's most loyal followers. Lucius' Dark Mark, a bruise-black shape on his pale flesh, was too sinister to be a shadow. It was common knowledge even outside of the Malfoy mansion that he had been a Death Eater, and that he had escaped lifetime imprisonment because of old blood and older money. The memories of Lucius' past became Draco's bedtime stories, the fantasies he fell asleep to dream of. That era was gone, Lucius always reminded him, with a faint curl of his lip and flare of his nostrils. Voldemort would never have allowed such incompetents and Mudblood sympathizers in the Ministry. The finality of Voldemort's defeat was absolute. The clutch of a phantom fairytale, the ideal of Voldemort's cause and power remained only in the haunting of Draco's dreams.

It was the one grave disappointment in Draco's life as it had been up to the age of ten that neither money nor lineage could appease. The injustice of Neville Longbottom's very existence in Draco's world was staggering. The name Longbottom was never uttered in the Malfoy household, though Draco thought of the Boy Who Lived often. They were not kind thoughts. Voldemort should never have been defeated, but that he had been killed by a boy a mere month older than Draco was ludicrous. This most necessary means to make his father truly proud of him had been destroyed before he'd known he needed it. Lucius Malfoy was a proud man, proud of himself and of his home and of all the trappings he had earned by birthright. Before Draco could understand what it was he was wishing for, he wished for the adventures, the convictions, the times needed to have such pride as his father had.

The day the invitation to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry came, Narcissa and Lucius were at tea elsewhere - far away elsewhere, not to mention - and Draco was in the garden. An owl landed in his lap to deposit the letter, blinked fathomless gold eyes up at him, then flew off. Draco knew what the letter was immediately by the seal upon it. His chest constricted with excitement around his heart.

The Malfoys had been attending Hogwarts since its first year, still under the joint Headmastership of it's founders: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff. Draco's ancestors had followed Salazar, the house of Slytherin and the house of Malfoy closely related through marriage. The Slytherin bloodline had ended with Salazar - he never married - but traces of his blood yet flowed within the Malfoy veins. Near the top of Draco's family tree were men and women who had known Salazar, and had known him well. They had been alive when Godric and Salazar had fought, forming the great schism between the houses.

Every Malfoy at Hogwarts since had been a Slytherin, by blood and by nature.

Voldemort himself had been considered Salazar's heir, a man in whose veins flowed more of Salazar's blood and vision than any others' after Salazar's death. It was the calling of Slytherins, of the Malfoys, to have followed Voldemort. They believed, as Draco had been taught to believe - despite its irrelevance after Voldemort's death - that Voldemort's goal was to finish what Salazar had begun centuries ago. What Salazar had never accomplished had formed the path to Voldemort's grave.

With roses around him, dark blooms and hidden thorns, Draco held the invitation tighter in his young hand. He was going to Hogwarts, the full realization settling in at last; he was going to be what his father had been, and his father before him, and his, a line of inheritance traced back farther than accounts had thought to tell.

The slightest sound from a rose bush broke Draco's stillness, and his smile. He pocketed the letter to another rustling of leaves. Rose petals trembled. Dropping down on his knees, curiosity getting the better of his finer breeding, he crawled through the bushes, following the source of the sounds. Once, he thought he might be catching up - he saw the tail of a mouse or a rat in amongst the thorns in from of him - but something snagged in his hair and by the time he'd gotten free there was only the rustling of leaves to chase. As his hands got dirty, his knees bruised and his hair tangled, both a thrill of excitement and a heaviness of self-chastisement gripped him. There was no need to be ruining his clothes over a phantom noise from the underbrush, but at the same time, it was as much of an adventure as he'd ever wanted to indulge in. Draco knew this was not the sort of activity in which a boy of his background should be engaging himself.

But there was the scrawny rodent tail, pink and wormlike, not more than a foot before him now. It must have been a rat, he decided; with all the noise it had to have been bigger than a mouse. Much bigger. Breath coming ragged in his throat, Draco shot one hand forward, clutching at the rat's tail.

Nothing but air.

A thorn snagged on his sleeve, which ripped as he jerked himself free. He grasped for the rat's tail again, and again came up with nothing but a handful of air. The third time encouraged him, fingertips brushing fur. Heartened, the fourth time rewarded him with a fistful of tail and a sudden outburst of squealing. Falling backwards but refusing to let go, Draco came eye to beady, intelligent and thoroughly panicked eye. As Draco caught his breath the rat - for it was a rat - harangued him nonstop with protests.

Then, it bit him.

Too shocked to let go, Draco's hand jerked back, stiffening. At that moment, chasing a fat rat through the Malfoy rose garden seemed the stupidest idea Draco had ever had. The rat didn't even look dangerous or interesting, just frightened, like someone's confused pet.

"You little," Draco snapped in outrage, flinging the creature from him without thinking. The nearest rose bush caught it for a moment - suspended in time, Draco later remembered it, him nursing his hand and the rat's squeaking silenced as one thorn pierced its tail, another, a front paw. Then, the rat fell, shrill sounds made shriller with pain. Before Draco could think of a reason to start the chase once more, the rat was gone into a world of dirt, leaves and shadow.

Later, when Narcissa and Lucius returned, they were too busy with the letter from Hogwarts to notice the bandage on Draco's right forefinger. The clothes Draco had disposed of, not so stupid as to hide them under his bed; rather, he had buried them deep in the moist soil of the rose garden, knowing that no one would miss them.

*

They celebrated late into the night, remembering their school days. It seemed so strange to reminisce, feeling as young as they still did. Remus could see in Sirius' eyes that bright flash of boyhood excitement, mirrored in James' expression. They were all of them young, four young men and one young woman, but not so young as once they had been. Sirius, for all that he carried himself no differently than he had ten years prior - eighteen then, and not twenty-eight - had been through enough that adulthood, in that moment, should not have felt so foreign. Flanked by his childhood friends, however, youth past loomed over his shoulder, whispering forgotten oaths into the shell of his ear.

Moments like these - lulls in the conversation, pauses in the laughter - and Remus himself paused, to look at Sirius, at the half-furrow in his brow. Of all of them, Sirius had been the first to join the order. Whether it was to punish his mother or simply Sirius' regular brand of impassioned recklessness remained unknown, but as such Sirius had been friends for longer than the others with many of the members. Sirius' nature was to be loyal, and he had taken each death and each disappearance as a punch to the gut. Now, those years were long since put behind them. Sirius' laughter was ever sincere. Sometimes, though, that furrow in his brow meant some loneliness that only Remus caught and, given Remus' own nature, Remus realized only he could adequately fathom. For all that James was Sirius' best friend - Remus never deluded himself and presumed otherwise - James was happily married, had a child and the only truly adult life of them all because of it. Parenthood had sobered James, had settled him. He was still a wild man with wild eyes, still laughed the same laugh he had when he was ten, but he knew now how to change a diaper, how to cook dinner, how to clean a house when Lily so deemed he should. His days of breathless adventure had ended when Voldemort was killed. His days of dreaming breathlessly of adventure had ended the day he joined the order and saw the inevitabilities of adventure. There had been more to lose for James than for Sirius, or Remus, or Peter, for James had a wife and a baby boy, a family to protect. He had matured instantly, something which Remus had never thought possible until the moment it happened.

It left Peter behind to adjust the nature of his hero-worship, which he managed almost as instantly. Sirius, deny it though he would a thousand and one times, resented Lily for how she had changed James. Remus could understand that resentment, though he did not feel it himself. After all, it was a necessary change in James' life, and one that only Lily could have affected. James had loved her, for a while both reckless and careless, until she had showed him there was no room in her life for such juvenile behavior. James had changed for her. It displeased Sirius.

That was the reason, Remus had long since decided, for the faint furrow in Sirius' brow, in these moments of silence which emphasized all maturation.

Peter was not with them that night, though James had been in contact with him and he'd congratulated the entire family five times over. Sirius presumed over coffee that Peter had gone on a date, and James had cracked some joke that was at the core disbelieving of Peter's basic ability to talk to women, much less pursue one romantically. Lily had smacked him. Remus had laughed. It had been, in some ways, just like old times, except they were older, old enough to make the connection between past and present. Old enough also to think about the future.

Remus promised James to look after Harry during the school year, and to keep them all informed of Harry's progress. He had a hunch, himself, that Harry would do fantastically at Defence Against the Dark Arts, and he needn't worry about telling James anything unpleasant as to Harry's promise in a class Remus himself taught.

"I want to hear he's doing brilliantly," James said, once Harry had gone to bed.

"I'm sure you will," Remus assured him. "He's a bright boy." Sometimes when they spoke of Harry he found it far too easy to know what to say, while at other times, it was nearly impossible.

The silence they settled into now was comfortable, friendly. Remus liked it. His cup of tea was warm in his hands. The letter still rested, open, on the table before them all. Lily looked tired, though still proud. After a few minutes she let her head move to rest against James' shoulder, eyes half-shut. Perhaps, Remus thought with a slight quirk of his lips, they were half-open. James and Sirius kept up the occasional conversation, slipping their ways in between long silences. Outside, the moon was waning. Remus had eaten little that day, would eat less the next, though Lily's chocolate mousse had been incredible.

At last, taking some unspoken cue from James' eyes, Sirius stood.

"C'mon, Moony," Sirius said, with the same crooked grin he wore always when using that nickname these days - it was so reminiscent of a boy Remus wondered sometimes if he'd ever actually been. "You're staying chez Black tonight." Whether it was to keep Remus from being lonely without a family of his own, or Sirius, or both, it didn't matter. If it was indeed a statement posed by selfishness then Remus was more than willing to indulge, as they both benefited from it.

"Am I? What's on the menu?" Remus stood, smiling at Lily.

"Nothing; you've already been fed," Sirius pointed out incredulously. "Come on," he repeated, "past this lot's bedtime, you know."

"And good riddance," James called after them as Sirius locked Remus and himself out. The night was warm, the air sweet and humid. Clouds had drawn together, obscuring the sickle moon above. Remus spent only half a moment looking at the stars before he refocused his gaze on his feet.

"So," Sirius said into the stillness," go on. Say it."

"Say what?"

"What we're both thinking." Sirius shoved his hands in his pockets. It was a well-practiced look of laziness.

"And that is?" Remus, on the other hand, never looked lazy. Tired, sometimes. Too thin since his first year at Hogwarts, which was by now a good many years ago. A bit like a middle-aged professor, but again, it was hard to imagine Remus not looking like a middle-aged professor. There wasn't much room for laziness in the way Remus looked, though one day there might be room for spectacles.

"Well if we're both thinking it, I shouldn't have to tell you."

"Perhaps we aren't both thinking it, then." There was the faint warmth and color of a smile in Remus's voice. Sirius laughed for a moment with it.

"About Harry. Going to Hogwarts."

"Yes?"

"And about how only yesterday," Sirius paused. He seemed disgusted with himself for using that turn of phrase."

"We were tiptoeing around the house to keep from disturbing him during his naps? Because if we did, he was bound to throw up on one of us again." The disgusted look passed. Remus felt momentarily triumphant.

"No, actually. How we were getting our letters to Hogwarts. James and I got them at the same time, you know. We were playing Quidditch. Mum," a pause, the customary pause, "let me play with him, then. The Potters, you know. Rich family. Very well regarded. Been around for ages. Sort of people she liked above all others, after all. James wasn't a filthy Gryffindor influence, in the beginning." Remus smiled ruefully. Sirius still sounded like a boy when he spoke of the late Mrs. Black.

Only once had Remus met Sirius' mother, and that was by accident. It had been James and Peter and himself, sneaking into Sirius' room one summer night, and getting Sirius into months of trouble for it. Luckily for Mrs. Black, she was missing out on no great affection from Remus because of her apparent and vocal hatred for him. Every insult and weapon of disgusted anger she threw at Remus was returned - always silently - in spades. She had not been a pleasant woman. Remus had grown to hate her.

"It was a long time ago," was all Remus said, by way of agreement.

"Before we knew about Voldemort," Sirius said, bravely in the darkening night. There was nothing left to fear, and names had never frightened Sirius. Probably, he had come to scorn them, rather than fear them. Remus didn't blame him.

"Yes."

"Do you remember that time I stuck Snape to his chair in Divination?" This time, Remus did not share in Sirius's laughter.

"Unfortunately."

"Come off it, Moony, that's the same look you gave me then." Sirius shouldered Remus, playful. "It was funny."

"Not as funny as it was awful." Remus did not shoulder Sirius back, but did hold his ground, no movement into Sirius or away from him.

"But it was funny. Even you were laughing."

"Only because I was awful, too." Remus shook his head. The clouds parted over the moon for a moment, long enough to filter moonlight onto the road before them. One stretch of pale light sprawled over Sirius' front doorstep. By the time Sirius had tugged out his keys, there was only murky darkness once more. "It wasn't that long ago, Sirius." Sirius unlocked the door, scuffing his feet on the welcome mat. "It only feels as if it was because so much has happened."

"Of course." Sirius grinned like a champion. "Let's make some cocoa. For old times. What d'you say?"

Remus lifted a brow.

"Sirius."

"What?"

"We made cocoa just yesterday." Remus followed Sirius inside the house, where for a few lightless moments the darkness was complete.

"Well, for yesterday, then." The lights flickered on. Sirius was grinning still.

"For yesterday, then," Remus acquiesced. After all, it was a good idea, and far be it for Remus Lupin to deny a cup of cocoa for any reason.

Elsewhere, tucked comfortably in his bed, Harry Potter was the only ten year old sleeping soundly upon receiving his invitation. No excitement manifested itself in his dreams, which were without color, as if filtered through a film of impartiality.

*

It smelled of old flowers in the Longbottom kitchen. Neville's grandmother always liked to have flowers around, fresh flowers, but for expense's sake she bought them only once a week, on Mondays. It being Sunday, the current bouquet was wilting, a few of the lilies having already gone brown at the edges. It was doing nothing for Neville's appetite, though he was making valiant progress on his pound cake nonetheless. Every once in a while he would look up at the sagging lilies before him with resentment, before going back to his cake.

That morning he had for once and for all repelled the monsters he suspected occasionally vacationed beneath his bed. He had even employed a few of his grandmother's favorite candles to keep the dusty space well-lit and therefore uninhabitable. It had been hard work. Though it was sure to ruin his appetite for dinner - his grandmother would kill him if she saw him - he had decided he deserved a reward for all his incredible perseverance and bravery.

He was slicing himself a second helping when the owl soared in through the open window, and dropped a letter onto his plate.

"From Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Neville read aloud, the owl circling once before it flew out the way it had flown in. "Gran's not going to like that it has crumbs on it, not at all." Heaving a great sigh, Neville took the letter off the plate, giving its place to the second slice of pound cake. "Best eat this now," Neville murmured, "else there won't be another chance."

He was on his third bite when his grandmother burst in.

"Has it come?" Her eyes alighted on the letter, which was flecked with sealing wax and pound cake. "It has come!" she exclaimed as Neville tried to swallow three times too much cake as he could manage in one mouthful. "When did it come? Why didn't you get me? Is that the pound cake you're eating, at this time of day? Were you celebrating?" Neville didn't do much celebrating. He nodded anyway. "It's all right, love, don't choke - I believe I'll have a slice myself, to celebrate with you, come to think of it." She sat down heavily in a chair across from Neville, accepting the slice he offered her with a beatific, beaming expression. "Of course, I wasn't worried that it wouldn't come." She smelled of old flowers. Neville suspected it was her perfume. He tried to concentrate on his cake, thinking perhaps he might have a third slice after his second. "Aren't you going to open it? You haven't opened it."

"Cake," Neville attempted to explain, mouth full.

"But don't you know what this is? It's far more important than cake!" Mrs. Longbottom looked scandalized, though she did manage to take a dainty bite of cake.

"It's good cake," Neville said.

"It is," his grandmother agreed distractedly. "But that's hardly an excuse!"

"D'you want to open it?"

"Do I?" Wrong thing to say, Neville realized. Too late. "Why, Neville, it's yours! You should want to open it!" Blank silence. Neville took the pause to wonder if they were from two different planets, as well as to take another bite of cake. "Well, in any case," Mrs. Longbottom said at last, "you should open it. It's an honor - a privilege!"

It's a bit scary, actually, Neville thought.

"It's exciting," Neville said. "Can I finish my cake, though?" Mrs. Longbottom had no words, so Neville ate his cake.

"Neville?"

"Mm?" Why she insisted on speaking to him when his mouth was full, Neville might never know. It was almost as if she did it on purpose, so that she might scold him for speaking while eating. He half expected her to tell him to swallow first please, dear.

She didn't.

"Do you smell something burning?"

A good many things passed through Neville's mind. The most prevalent was to feed himself to the monsters he'd not yet purged from his closet.

"Candles," Neville managed. "Bed."

Luckily, as it turned out, they only needed to replace Neville's crispy bedsheets. That did not stop Mrs. Longbottom from recalling the incident as often as possible, referring to it as 'The day my grandson tried to burn the house down.'

*

The Pensieve was a blessing in pragmatism. Or, that was what Severus Snape told himself, when he used it. Dreams, the ultimate deceivers, were stronger sometimes than any man wished them to be. The Pensieve was there to be used at key times of emotion or memory, so a man could sleep without torment through the night.

Severus did not mind, particularly, his position in life. He was Potions Master at Hogwarts, an excellent Potions Master, considering the students he had to work with. Though he taught cretins, fools and ingrates there was always at least one student who seemed to understand the delicacy and the importance of the art Severus had always excelled at. It did not make him suffer the others without comment, and it did not persuade him to forgive their ineptitude, and it did not give him hope, but it at least gave him something to do. The reassurance he was not banging his head against the wall at all times was something he could work with.

The position gave him unlimited supplies he would not have been able to get elsewhere, with no questions asked. It gave him a chamber of the right temperature and atmosphere to conduct experiments, both commissioned and personal. Apart from classes, it gave him the time to do as he wished at his own leisure; grading atrocious papers was quick and teaching his wholly unpromising students was hardly time consuming, either. He could not, he supposed, ask for a more fulfilling job, one that did not involve runny-nosed, self-centered, self-important and self-serving progeny. It was lucky he had such resources available to him, such pay as he received, and such a beneficial atmosphere.

He had wanted to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, but as it so turned out in yet another grand but expected moment of life spitting in Severus' face, Remus Lupin had been given that position, and had held it steady now for seven years. Severus' greatest triumph, not to mention, was the refining of the wolfsbane potion for said Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, which made his lies at Hogwarts all the easier to perpetrate. It did not please Severus. It did not come close to pleasing Severus. It had been unpleasant enough seeing Remus, day in and day out, when they were students together, and Severus bound to Dumbledore by oath not to breathe a word of Remus' supposed predicament. It was all the more unpleasant to have grown up, grown, presumably, past all childhood rivalries, and yet be as helpless as he ever was against imagined boggarts of the past.

While Remus had assured Severus there had been no plot to kill him - that it was Sirius' rash and reckless stupidity was not so implausible a scenario that Severus could not be convinced of what had actually gone on that night, before he had found himself at the Whomping Willow - a boyhood of bad feelings remained, lodged in the hollows of Severus's chest. In any case, he'd made the wolfsbane potion taste foul. Petty revenge, he knew, but it was something. Remus of course drank it anyway, and said thank you every time. Amusing enough, and so like him.

The advent of every new school year brought promises of new and repulsive students, unskilled and unprepared. Severus always knew by the end of the first day who was promising and who was hopeless; the latter, naturally, being the vast majority of the first years.

The advent of every new school year brought memories of ones long gone but never forgotten. Hence, the necessity of the Pensieve, and this silent moment of gratefulness for it. Albus, despite Severus' convictions as towards his more demented tendencies, had always been helpful to all he cared for. Severus had been and continued to be no exception to this rule. The Pensieve had been one of Albus' most blessed gifts.

Inside was the murky material of memories, a silver opacity smooth but visibly layered. The trouble with Pensieves was that they could hold no more than one man's memories, so tainted by personality and convictions as memories were. They had nothing to do with the truth; just events, eventual facts, and the poison of prejudice.

Severus removed his wand from the folds of his robes, one hand still resting on the edge of the Pensieve. He touched the tip to the surface, felt the familiar shock, and watched as the color began to change. It formed a transparency like melting glass, upon which the past spread from the center in widening circles. Rippling outwards, it spread, until it was all-encompassing.

Memories were no easier to relive than they were to live the first time around. If anything, the Pensieve was not escapism. It simply made these moments predictable. That way, a man could prepare himself, and never fall prey to the clutch of remembrance.

Despite the instinct to pull himself free, Severus let memories clog his nose and mouth, crawl over his eyes and seep through his skin. Darkness came, a chill that spread from his brain and down his neck through his clenching veins. His heart, for a brief flicker, froze.

Then -

The library was quiet. Dark. It was late, the large windows open to a bruised sky and faint moonlight. The floorboards creaked, as always, reminiscent of phantom feet in the nighttime. It was hardly a friendly atmosphere, though it was a familiar one. Severus leaned against a bookshelf, and watched himself write - a Potions essay, he thought, or perhaps one for Defence Against the Dark Arts. He wasn't sure. He couldn't place the moment, outside of himself this way. The disorientation continued until he heard the sound of a quill scratching on old parchment from somewhere else in the library.

Lupin, Severus realized, as his younger self looked up. The next table over, if he recalled correctly, just behind the shelf of books he was leaning on.

He waited.

At last, the sound got to the dark-haired boy before him; the younger Severus slammed his quill down, only to start at the noise it made, an echo resounding through the high-ceilinged room. A moment of silence passed - Severus remembered this moment of awkwardness between himself and any number of imagined friends and enemies clear as if he were experiencing it for the first time.

"Who's there?"

Lupin, Severus confirmed. The soft voice, ingratiatingly polite, with the faint hum of mischief when his friends were about. It fooled no one, Severus spent a good deal of time reminding himself. Just because the boy was too polite in trying to play the pacifist didn't mean he'd succeeded. It was a comfort to know just how abominably he'd made a mess of things.

"Severus." His childhood voice sounded brittle to his own ears. He'd known it was Lupin, had assumed so. They were both the sort who stayed up later than they should have, perfecting their assignments. Obsessive-compulsive, Severus recognized, but they'd been good students, excellent ones through sheer determination.

"Oh." Lupin's voice sounded relieved. "It's Remus."

"I know."

"Working on the Potions essay?" It was clear the boy was struggling still to be polite. To this day, Severus could not fathom what kindness it was that Remus hoped to illicit. He was smug in the knowledge that Remus had of course failed, though curiosity remained. He could see it on his own features, younger, more apparent, in the shadows cast by candlelight before him. He wanted to know why Remus was asking.

It was fourth year, Severus recalled, before a lot of things had happened to change Severus' curiosity into revulsion.

Fool, Severus thought.

"I've almost finished." The pride in his voice was evident, and well-founded.

"I can't figure it out," Remus replied, slow with the admittance. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Perhaps the idea of his worthless friends discovering he'd let on to a weakness - though it was common knowledge Remus wasn't nearly as good in Potions as he was in his other classes - was what gave him pause. "I've been at it all night," he added. Severus could hear him shifting in his chair, setting his quill down, closing a book.

"If you're asking for help," Severus began.

"If I were asking for help, I'd ask for it." The silence that followed was not long-lived. "I know you understood the in-class assignment. I didn't. If you wouldn't mind telling me what the results were supposed to be, I think I might manage from there."

"So you are asking for help."

Remus's tousled head peered out from around the other side of the bookshelf. He held his books under one arm, ran his fingers through his hair with his free hand, and managed to look both peaked and hopeful at the same time. An illusion of the night threaded silver through the burnished copper of his hair. Even when he was so young, there was always a grayness about him that Severus noticed, and, up until sixth year, did not understand.

"I think so," Remus answered. He ducked his head. Mussed hair fell forward over his eyes, hiding them in ethereal shadow.

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" Severus watched the play of all too readable triumph on his own face, amused and annoyed by it.

"Yes, I think I need your help, and yes, I'd like it if you'll give it. But if you aren't going to, then please tell me, so that I can stop wasting my time and get some rest tonight, at least." Remus looked up again. He wasn't so much of a coward, when he was alone. He didn't have any egos to flatter with his silent compliance. Severus watched his own attitude change, watched himself lean back slightly in his chair, a long awaited relaxation.

"Sit down," he heard himself say.

They worked together for a long while. Remus was a smart boy, quick to learn, with good intuition, even if he wasn't comfortable with the precision needed for the study of potions. Severus explained the reaction and the outcome, listened to Remus hypothesize the reasons and the applicability, helped him to think both more formulaically and more instinctively. There was no room for grudges as Severus taught, only gladness for the willing student Remus made and the ability to show off his own knowledge.

"There," Remus said, setting down his quill at last. "Any more and it'll seem as if I copied someone else's paper." He laughed. Considering it was for once not laughter directed at Severus, it sounded pleasant enough. "Thank you," Remus added, "or else I would've been--"

"Hallo, what's this, then?" Severus was surprised to see both himself and Remus stiffen at the sound of James Potter's voice.

"It's Snivellus, is what it is." Sirius was behind his chair, hands coming down firmly on his shoulders. How Severus hadn't heard the two boys coming up behind him was now a mystery to him. "Good evening, Snivellus. A bit late for extra-curricular activities, don't you think?" James pressed his hip up against the table, a human barrier between Severus and Remus. Before Remus's face disappeared, it had a look of pinched distress both weary and old. "And," Sirius was adding, "I'd say this part of the library is off-limits. For you, I mean."

Behind the bookshelf, Severus turned away. He heard, rather than saw, Sirius kick the chair out from under him. He heard, rather than saw, the sound he made as he hit the ground. He remembered, rather than felt, the crunch of the wood beneath his back as it connected with stone.

"C'mon, Remus," James said, into the murky haze of Severus' dazed thoughts. "I guess this means we're all going to do spectacularly on our Potions essay."

"You, maybe," Remus snapped, standing abruptly. "I'm going to bed."

"Oi - oi, Remus!" Sirius' footsteps followed Remus' out of the library. James wasn't far behind.

Severus remained where was for a long time, watching himself, equally immobile as his childhood image. It was always hard to take these memories back into his chest, onto his shoulders. They had only been children then, but afflicted: Remus with his crippling desire to please, Severus with the presence of Sirius and James, and Sirius and James with an inflated sense of self-worth. It excused none of their behavior. Hate surged like bile in Severus' stomach. He wrestled with it as the memory drew away from him, like the sea from the shore at ebb tide. It was almost over; the closing moment came as he struggled, dizzy, to stand again--

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Severus."

And the world of his youth pitched and swirled, seasick, as he dragged himself up, and out.

"Albus." Severus turned quickly, placing his back to the Pensieve. "You have a habit of arriving at the most inopportune of times."

"It is my nature to feel the presence of foolish children," Albus replied vaguely.

"Ah. Of course." There was no room in Severus' expression for anything other than aggravation. Albus' never-ending supply of twinkle-in-my-eye good humor did nothing to cheer Severus' mood on the best of days. His hands, graceful and slim, pushed unkempt, limp hair from his narrowed eyes. "Why are you really here, Albus?"

"Because of foolish children," Albus admitted. He seated himself without asking if it was all right to seat himself, and watched Severus regain his composure. It would do, Albus thought idly, for Severus to wash his hair once every full moon. Perhaps that was the price you paid for genius in a particular field, or perhaps it was simply the price you paid for being an irreconcilable misanthrope. Perhaps - more likely - it was a combination of both.

Albus smiled.

"You must be looking forward to the start of a new term," he said, pressing his fingertips together.

"As always," Severus replied, voice dry. "I'm simply bursting with anticipation."

"I can tell." Albus nodded towards the Pensieve. Severus frowned. "Perhaps you've forgotten, though - Neville Longbottom begins his first year in four days."

"Ah." Severus' lip curled. "The Boy Who Lived."

"Indeed. Along with James and Lily Potter's son, you know - Harry." Albus' eyes, piercing when the need arose, watched Severus scowl.

"I know." Why Albus chose to bring up such common knowledge with Severus, and now, of all times, was a mystery. One of the many mysteries, Severus noted, both personal and general alike that Albus left up to his staff to solve on their own. "Is there some reason you find this information to be pertinent?"

"No reason at all; in fact, I was going to ask you a few questions about the curriculum this year, though it seems I arrived at - how did you put it? - the most inopportune of moments."

"Albus," Severus warned.

"And there was a certain matter about Neville, come to think of it," Albus went on, scratching the side of his chin. Sometimes, Severus told himself all he owed to Albus' intervention did not matter one jot, as it would have been so satisfying to wring the man's neck. Not that Severus was an ingrate. He simply didn't like to play a good many of Albus' games, as Albus nearly always won. "I thought that perhaps," Albus continued, "I could count on you to make sure the boy is treated in the classroom as an equal by all, to all?"

"You mean you wish for me to put a stop to all favoritism." Severus smiled thinly.

"And to all discrimination," Albus added, his usual cheerful self. "Is that within your capabilities, Severus? It seems you were expecting me to ask a different sort of favor from you." With his lips pursed in a tight line, Severus nodded. "Excellent. Keep an eye on him. I feel he will need more eyes than his own looking after his well being. He is no more than a child, Severus," Albus added.

"I will not coddle him," Severus replied. Ice splintered in his voice. As Albus stood he imagined he could see the dark cloud of Severus' foul mood hanging around his shoulders, as well as feel it.

"I'm not asking you to babysit anyone," Albus said. "I am asking you to teach and to consider the students you are teaching and to put to use your great wealth of social knowledge." Was that laughter in Albus' eyes? "Good day, Severus."

Albus left Severus leaning against the Pensieve, tangled memories roiling beneath the calm exterior.

*

The sun was bright, the day beautiful. Diagon Alley was teaming with families and delighted shopkeepers. Young boys and girls, from Muggleborn to Pureblood, were equally excited. They moved from owleries to sweetshops, from bookshops to Ollivander's wand shop, wide-eyed and breathless. Laden with the purchases and groaning over the costs, their parents hurried behind them, trying to keep up.

Harry, who had gotten ice cream just moments ago with Peter, seemed less excited than his parents and Sirius. It was not particularly exciting, he had long since decided, to buy a cauldron and an assortment of heavy but unappealing books. He liked his owl - he'd named the snow-and-gray creature Anais, which was the only name noble enough for her golden eyes - but did not overly like his owl. He liked his ice cream better, the fudge cooling but no less delightful. The only thing left to look forward to was Ollivander's, though Sirius and his father were too excited about that as well. More excited, certainly, than Harry was.

They rested for a while in front of Flourish and Blotts, mostly as Remus wanted to duck inside and look at the new releases. Sirius followed him in when he saw a sign in the window Harry didn't take much notice of. Something about a book signing by a man named Lock-something, which Sirius apparently found terribly amusing.

"Can you believe that?" Sirius said, before following Remus inside. "They're letting that idiot write books?"

"They're all about himself, you know," Lily said after him, which caused everyone but Harry to laugh. Harry ignored them, instead directing his attention to feeding his ice cream to Anais. He crouched down on the cobblestones comfortably, holding the ice cream up to the domed bars of Anais' cage. Anais blinked sleepily toward him, unimpressed. "Owls don't like ice cream, Harry," Lily informed him distractedly. Peter kneeled down beside him, though, watching his progress and cooing to Anais to coax her closer.

"So," Peter said, in between coo's, "what sort of wand do you think you'll have?"

"One like dad's, I suppose," Harry replied. Talons clacking against metal, Anais sidled closer, still blinking. A few drops of melting ice cream dripped onto the ground.

"I always wanted a phoenix feather core," Peter mused, "for my wand. Never got one, though." Anais peered at Harry, who had turned already to look at Peter.

"Really?" Peter nodded. "I'd like that," Harry agreed slowly. "Phoenix feather." Taking a big bite out of his own ice cream, Peter smiled and winked, then stood as Sirius came out of the shop again.

"You wouldn't believe him," Sirius was saying, incredulous. "And all these crazy women fainting on one another every time he looked their way! I swear, he's put some sort of shining spell on his teeth; I nearly went blind just watching him smile."

"I can't believe it," James said. He, Peter and Lily peered in the window, all of them curious, now. Harry took this opportunity to finish up his ice cream while moving to look in the shop window next door. "He's finally gone out of his mind!"

"And so's the rest of the world, from what I can see." Sirius shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the doorframe, whistling in disbelief. "National bestseller - Gilderoy Lockhart! Can't even spell his own name, you might remember." They all laughed again. Harry ran his fingers through his wild hair, moving on to the next shop and surveying the wares less than he did the people within. A plump woman with bright red hair, arms akimbo, was haggling with a slim woman, no doubt over the price of a set of robes on a mannequin between them. Harry noted a patch on the elbow of the redhead woman's sleeve, grew bored with watching her indignant hand play, and moved on.

The next shop caught his eye with a dazzling array of Quidditch supplies, the brand new Nimbus sleek and slim in the very center of the window display. Harry admired it for a while, wondering how smooth it would be to ride such a beauty. He was already excellent at Quidditch, as James had taught him everything he knew, but the brooms they practiced on back at home were a year or perhaps two out of date. It would be fantastic to go to school with the latest model of Nimbus, Harry thought idly, still tracing the line of the broom with his eyes. It certainly looked like the best Nimbus yet - just like the sign beneath it proclaimed. On the sign was a picture of Bartholomew Fenwick, Puddlemere United's star chaser, swooping and speeding through the sky on his very own Nimbus. Noticing he was being watched, he lifted both hands off the broom - which flew on no less steadily - to give Harry the thumbs up.

Harry leaned lightly against the glass, peering now past the display and into the shop. It was bright and cheery, run by a stocky man in blue robes who was grinning from ear to ear. He must like his job, Harry thought. Or maybe he just liked the customers he was waiting on at the moment: a tall blond man and a blond boy whom Harry assumed to be his son. The shopkeeper was showing them one of the new Nimbus models. It had been polished so that it gleamed. The blond boy looked it over, eager to get his hands on it, then turned to his father and nodded. Whatever the father said in reply made the wide grin on the shopkeeper's face stretch yet wider. He called a scrawny young man in the same style of blue robes over, and together they began to pack the broom away. The blond boy smirked in apparent satisfaction, turning from the transaction to peer at a glass dome, inside which five golden snitches whizzed and whirled. It caused the momentary illusion of five beams of sunlight, trapped within the dome and fluttering for their freedom.

I have to have that broom, Harry thought, then told himself, I will have that broom.

It was then that the blond boy moved his gaze to the window and to Harry, and then also that James appeared behind his son to put a hand on his shoulder and follow his gaze.

Harry's eyes met the boy's for not more than the wingbeat of a snitch. When he turned to the father a fraction of a moment later, he broke the gaze himself.

"That's the best one yet," James murmured appreciatively. He gestured toward the Nimbus in its display case.

"I want one," Harry said.

"So do I," James breathed. For a moment, he looked very young. Quickly, he snapped himself out of it. "We'll have to work on your mother, though. You know how she can be." Mostly, Lily only put her foot down when what Harry wanted had to do with Quidditch. Harry thought that maybe, this instinct of his mother's had nothing to do with him at all. "I'll work on her in Ollivander's, how does that sound?" Harry smiled. He checked the broom behind him again, and saw that the boy in the shop was no longer looking at him, but was once again watching the five snitches, dancing like sunlit prisms.

"Sounds fine," Harry said, following his father back to the others, who were still grouped together outside of Flourish and Blotts.

"He signed my books for me," Remus murmured, in the middle of telling them all what seemed to be a hilarious story. "Even though they weren't his! I suppose he assumed that's why I was there, to buy old Gilderoy's stunning second release. Do you know how awful these books are? Utterly ridiculous." Remus smiled absently at Harry and James as the two returned. "And you'll never guess what he wrote - it's spectacularly awful, even for him. 'To an old friend,' it says, 'and may your luck and your talents one day be half as good as mine.' Can you imagine?"

"What else did you expect? He has a head like a Puffskein!" Sirius laughed. "Let's get out of here, before he sees the rest of us."

They made their unhurried way to Mr. Ollivander's wand shop, where they waited behind a girl with frizzy hair and unfortunate teeth. She went through five different wands before she came to the sixth, and right, one for her. Her father and mother, both with perfect smiles, were obviously both Muggles by the way they dressed, and seemed relieved to be leaving at last the cramped and musty shop with all its oddities.

"Congratulations," Lily said to the girl on the family's way out.

"Thank you," the girl said, also relieved, by the looks of things. She smiled, but it was a smile that was well aware of its unfortunate teeth, and came across as a combination of prim and timid. Harry thought she looked decidedly unappealing and was glad when his mother didn't chastise him for not doing the same as she had and congratulating her.

Mr. Ollivander recognized Sirius first, and then the others. James was nearly bursting with pride when he introduced Harry as his son.

"Hello, Harry," Ollivander said. He had a way of looking at you less than he looked into your eyes, his own keen and shrewd. Harry refused to flinch, but rather stared back up at the old man, not so much defiant as he was unperturbed.

"Hallo," Harry said. Then, because his mum was right behind him, he added, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ollivander."

"Harry Potter, Harry Potter," Ollivander repeated to himself. He ignored Harry's words, memorizing his face in conjunction with his name instead. "I never forget a face, you know. I always remember the lad and the lass, and I always remember their wands." Taking his glasses off, Ollivander closed his eyes and cleaned the lenses with the hem of his sleeve. "Ah, yes; now I remember," he said, talking to himself, mired in memory. He returned his glasses to their perch on his nose, then turned to survey the wand boxes behind him. "You have a familiar face - phoenix feather, I think. But the question is ... Aha."

The first box Ollivander handed Harry had a ten inch ebony wand with a phoenix feather core. Harry picked it up, studied it, and gave it a try without being encouraged to. A glass lamp on Ollivander's desk shattered.

"Ow," Remus said, somewhere behind Harry.

"Thought not," Ollivander murmured. He scratched his chin. He tapped the bridge of his nose. e cleaned his glasses. He returned the wand to its box and the box to its place on the shelves. Just when Harry was wondering if Mr. Ollivander hadn't perhaps forgotten all about him, he pulled another box down from the shelf, and placed it on the desk between them. "Try that one," Ollivander said.

Harry did.

After the colorless sparks faded, Ollivander looked smug. "Thirteen inches," he stated, "yew and phoenix feather." For a moment, his eyes narrowed. "That phoenix," he continued, and then his eyes darkened, too, black with a fathomless shadow. "A generous phoenix," was all he said. "One who made two wands."

Holding Sirius' handkerchief to his cheek - a shard of glass from the exploding lamp had cut him there - Remus was the only one who thought to question Ollivander further. James and Lily were otherwise occupied with examining the wand, remarking as to its weight and its length. Sirius, too, was looking impressed, taking the wand from James to have a look at it, himself. Only Remus and Peter were the ones who drew closer to Mr. Ollivander, and therefore heard all he had to say. "The phoenix whose feather is in Harry's wand," Remus asked casually, "what was the other wand it gave a feather to, d'you know?" Ollivander's keen eyes searched Remus' face, then registered the flickering of a somber smile.

"Does it matter if the man is dead and the wand is broken?" Ollivander was not the sort of man who often answered questions with questions. Remus' brow knit together, an almost-frown on his lips. He looked at Harry, who was small and unassuming in the face of the fuss being made around him and about him.

"It does," Remus replied.

"Yes," Ollivander agreed. "It does indeed. I thought, I must admit, that I would be giving this wand to another boy today, not James' son." Remus pressed the handkerchief harder against his stinging cheekbone. Once outside, he would heal the cut with a simple charm, and not even the traces of a scar would remain.

"Who?" Though he felt forward, asking so many questions, the answers of which were no doubt not his place to know, Remus knew the importance of the answer. Behind him, Peter, too, was watching Ollivander, like a nighttime shadow stretching out just around the corner. Ollivander wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"It was a long time ago, but I never forget a wand or a face," he assured Remus, who nodded. "He was so young then, his eyes without their great anger. I knew which wand it was to be right away; I always do, you know, but it's better not to let on. No one likes to feel as if they haven't a choice at all, as if there's only one possibility for the future, one road for them they've no choice but to take." Ollivander's eyes did not sparkle as they often did. Remus felt the fingers of a chill inch down his spine. "But there are no choices, with wands, no options, no other perfect match. It is not when you come to your wand, but rather that it is your wand which you must come to."

"The boy," Remus whispered. James and Lily were putting the wand away, getting ready to pay for it. "Who was the boy?"

"Tom Riddle," Ollivander answered simply. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, who later came to call himself Lord Voldemort." Remus was too busy with the sudden clutch of doubt around his chest and stomach to notice Peter, who was still right behind him, listening to all Ollivander said.

The day was still bright and beautiful when they left the shop, Harry in front and Remus bringing up the rear. Ollivander's voice followed him out of the shop.

"I thought perhaps I might be giving it to Neville Longbottom," Remus' ears and Remus' ears alone heard him say, "the Boy Who Lived."