Harry Potter and the Keys of Light

Chapter Fourteen: “Occlumency with the Potions Master”

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Harry had any free time. Upon returning to the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione had set them to their homework. She had written up a study schedule for them, as she had in previous years, but this one was a little more rigorous, and it meant that Saturday mornings and afternoons were spent completing their schoolwork.

“It’ll keep you from getting behind,” Hermione had said, sitting down with them in front of the fireplace with a large stack of books. “Then, on Sundays, we can do whatever we want.” The last part had somewhat appeased Ron, who had been extremely put out at the idea of wasting his weekend on studying. The hardest part by far had been Harry’s essay for Dark Studies. It had taken him some time to figure out what he thought made Dark magic. He had looked through several of his Defense books, but couldn’t find any real definition. Then, he had remembered his conversation with Dumbledore last year, remembered that to cast a Dark spell, you had to enjoy causing pain; he ended up writing a good three inches more than had been required.

Once he had finished his work, Harry excused himself from the Common Room, and went down to the Room of Requirement. He hadn’t been to see the Professor all week, and he was somewhat anxious to get back to his lessons. When he arrived, however, the room was empty.

“Hello?” There was no answer. Harry had gotten used to Professor being there when he arrived…so where was he now? Suddenly, a faint blue light flashed and Harry was thrown to floor, an excruciating pain coursing through his body. He cried out and tried to reach for his wand, but the pain was too much. He couldn’t move…everything hurt, pain tearing through his skin, burrowing deeper, within him, slicing through every organ, every bone…

And it was gone.

“You have been slacking, Mister Potter. I asked you to see me three times per week, and this is first I have seen of you.” Gasping still, Harry lifted himself from the floor, glaring at the Professor.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. “Were you trying to kill me?”

“With the number of people already waiting to do that, Mister Potter, it would be pointless for me to say so.”

“But you aren’t denying it, are you?” His body ached, but he forced himself to advance on the Professor, slowly closing the distance between them. He realized then that he was almost as tall as the Professor. There were, in fact, several similarities—the same dark hair, the same small bump in the arch of the nose …

“Of course I am not trying to kill you, but others are.” The Professor’s expression had changed—it was not so aggressive, reminding Harry strongly of the look Professor Dumbledore wore now in his private moments—sad, tired, and desperate almost. “You have to take this seriously. If you don’t, you will be killed.”

“Will you at least tell me what it was you hit me with?” Harry said, sighing in frustration. His instinct told him to trust the man before him, but Hermione’s warnings were still there, lingering in the back of his mind. But his instincts had never been wrong before…

“That, Mister Potter, would have been the feeling of all of your organs being turned inside out.” Harry stared at him. “Not literally, of course—just the sensation.”

“Will you teach it to me?” Harry said, after thinking a moment.

“Not yet, Mister Potter.” The Professor was back to his usual air of indifference. “We will work with your Occlumency today, I think. Seeing as you were so little prepared for something so basic as to have your wand ready when walking into an empty room, I am certain you have not been practicing your mental control. We will begin, and no wand.”

Professor Lupin walked up and down the rows, handing back their essays. They had been handed in during Defense class on Monday, and were going over them in Dark Studies. Harry had been pleased to see an ‘O’ at the top of his paper.

“You’re essays were overall very good, but I think that only a few students actually captured what Dart Arts really are. The Dark Arts, you see, are not simply defined by what sort of magic is being used, or who on. Dark Magic is about intent—the wizard or witch performing the spell must be completely aware of what it is they are doing and desire the spell to cause harm to others.” Lupin gave Harry a slight smile as he walked by his desk—the Professor had been pacing slowly before them. “To use a very simple example, I am sure many of you girls are familiar with the Love Potion?” There was some embarrassed giggling at this.

“Of course Slytherins would use Love Potions,” Charlie whispered to Harry. However, Harry noticed that Susan was looking down at her notebook, her face flushed.

“Well, the basic Love Potion is used to make someone that is otherwise uninterested become so. What makes each potion different is the purpose of its brewer; the average young witch will only achieve success with the potion if the boy they are administering it on is already partial to them. For someone seeking control of another, however, the potion acts on the same principle as the Imperius curse, depriving the person it is given to of the will to change their mind. Same potion, different results, you see.” There was some nodding, and the scratching of quills.

“Now, I believe it was Mister Malfoy that asked whether or not we would learn any actual Dark Arts.” Malfoy looked around in self-importance. “And the answer is that you will be taught some spells that could possibly be classified as Dark. The reason for this is simply that you cannot fight what you cannot understand. But before all of that, there is some history we must get through first. If you will keep out your quills, we shall begin with the witches and wizards of the Classic Roman Age.”

Monday’s Potions lesson was the worst Harry could remember. So far, he had been doing well enough in the class, his summer study with Professor Lupin proving useful. This newfound understanding of potions had only irritated the Potions Master; as though Harry were tarnishing the cherished image Snape held of him as a spoiled brat by acting competent. The Potions master tried his hardest to find things to deduct points for, anything from the length of the flames under Harry’s cauldron or the way he was holding his knife while carving dandelion roots. They were finally making the Polyjuice Potion in class, and as it neared time for Harry to add the powdered bicorn horn, disaster struck.

From behind, Harry heard the slight whirring of something flying through the air. He turned sharply to avoid whatever it was and watched as something small and shiny fell into his cauldron. Instantly, blue smoke began issuing from the cauldron, making a fizzy sound like newly poured soda, and the smell of burnt hair was quickly becoming overwhelming. And despite all of the noise now spurting from his cauldron, Harry thought he heard, very faintly, a crack, like someone dropping an egg on the floor. He turned, but there was nothing behind him.

“Potter!” Snape came over to Harry and Hermione’s table in three quick strides. He took a brief moment to take in the cauldron before ordering everyone out of the room.

“What did you do?” Hermione asked him, a horrified expression on her face.

“Nothing,” Harry replied. “Someone threw something into my cauldron.”

“But who would—?”

“It came from behind me, Hermione. I’ll give you one guess.” They both look down to Draco Malfoy, who was standing coolly against the stone walls of the dungeon corridor. For a moment, Harry locked eyes with him; he could almost feel the hatred coming from Malfoy, burning into him with an incredible intensity…but he did not look away. Malfoy blinked and began examining his fingernails as though nothing had happened.

“I wonder what it was,” Hermione said, casting a glance at the door to the Potions room. “I mean, if that was what I think it was…”

“What was it?” Before she could answer, however, the door flew open and Snape glared coldly at them all.

“Class is dismissed for the day. Get your things and get out.” He was speaking in a low, harsh tone that Harry knew well—the Potions master was furious, and, more specifically, furious with Harry. The class hurried inside, but Snape caught Harry before he could enter the classroom.

“Not you, Potter,” Snape said, in that same dangerous voice. “You are going to remain behind and explain to me exactly why you were planning on murdering everyone in my classroom.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong—” Harry began.

“You were supposed to be brewing the Polyjuice Potion, Potter. The potion you actually made is known as Medea’s Curse. It’s fumes, as I am sure you will see, burn through all materials like an acid, while the potion itself, if ingested, destroys the victim’s nervous system until their mind shuts down.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt, Potter!” His patience was apparently run down, because he was shouting now, his calm, if cold, tone forgotten. Behind him, Harry could see the class, frozen at the door to the classroom, unsure of whether or not to venture into the hall. Snape seemed unaware of the audience behind them, however. “The potion you created cannot be made from accident, Potter. It requires a specific, and highly illegal, ingredient and I want to know how you got your hands on Black Hawthorne!”

“Maybe you should ask Malfoy,” Harry said coldly, his temper beginning to rise. “He is, after all, the one that threw it in my cauldron.”

“Malfoy,” Snape barked, rounding on the students behind them. The Slytherin separated himself from the rest and came forward, furious.

“Don’t tell me you believe that, Professor,” he said.

“Hands.”

“But Professor—”

“Hands, Mister Malfoy. Now.” Reluctantly, and with a hateful glance at Harry, Malfoy held out his hands for inspection. Snape muttered a spell and tapped his wand at Malfoy’s palm. The pale flesh glowed orange for moment before returning to normal.

“As you see, Mister Potter, it is impossible for Mister Malfoy to have put anything in your cauldron. Now, unless you have any better excuses, which I assure you I do not want to hear, I suggest you tell me where you got Black Hawthorne.” Snape was back to staring at Harry, eyes narrowed, Malfoy giving a pleased smirk.

“But I didn’t do it,” Harry protested, maintaining eye contact with Snape. The Potions Master was not going to intimidate him into looking away.

“Professor, why don’t you perform the Revealing Charm on Harry, like you did Malfoy,” Hermione said. She was now standing next to Harry, looking nervously between them. The last time she had seen the two of them stare each other down had been after Diagon Alley, and Harry had attacked Snape.

“No one asked you, Granger,” Malfoy spat.

“Hands, Mister Potter,” Snape said, disregarding that last comment. Harry held out his hands, and waited patiently as Snape performed the spell. Harry thought the man rapped his hands much more viciously than he had Malfoy’s, but he remained silent. Harry watched as his hands glowed orange, and waited for something to happen. Snape stared at Harry’s hands as well, his face screwed up in obvious frustration. “It seems, Mister Potter, that you are…innocent.” The last word was uttered in a disgustingly smooth tone. The Potions Master looked down his hooked nose at Harry and said, very quietly,

“I will figure out how you managed this, Potter.” Before Harry could reply, the professor turned marched down the hall to his office. The rest of the class, having finally found their legs, left the doorway and practically ran through the corridor to the stairs. Hermione waited as Harry went and retrieved his things. It seemed that Professor Snape had managed to control the potion before it damaged Harry’s bag, placed unfortunately right beneath the table. The tabletop itself was a disaster, however. The stone surface had melted down around the wreckage that was once Harry’s cauldron, which was now, it appeared, a fixed part of the table.

“Hermione, what is Black Hawthorne anyway?” Harry asked as they left the dungeons. “Some sort of plant, or something?”

“It’s actually a separate potion. When made properly, it cools at room temperature to become sort of like Muggle Play-Do.”

“So what was Snape doing to my hands exactly?”

“Black Hawthorne leaves a mark on the skin of the person that makes it, but it only lasts for fifteen minutes after the maker has touched it. The mark looks like the flower on hawthorn, and it stains the skin black-that’s where they get the name. The mark can be noticed with a simple Revealing Charm. My question is, if it wasn’t Malfoy, then who tossed it into your cauldron? They were obviously trying to cause you some terrific harm.”

“I’m not sure, Hermione.” Neither said anything for a moment. They walked past the portrait of fruit that led into the kitchens.

“Hermione, what would that stuff have done to me, if I didn’t swallow it, that is? Would my skin have burnt off or something?” Harry asked, recalling the ruined state of the table and cauldron back in the dungeon.

“The potion affects your mind,” Hermione said. She stopped and looked at him seriously. “Like Professor Snape said, the fumes act as an acid that can burn through most materials, like the stone tables, but not through human tissue. If you had inhaled any of the fumes, they would have sent you into a sort of coma, I think, but I’m not very sure beyond that. I can look it up, though.” She had continued walking. “I’ll just need permission to get to the Restricted Section.”

“The Restricted Section?”

“I read about Medea’s curse in Moste Potente Potions, back in the second year. It’s probably the only book in the school that has information on it.”

“It’s going to be a typical year for us, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so, Harry.” Hermione sighed. “Well, I’ve got some work to do for Charms. Where are you going?”

“With you I guess.”

So they spent the rest of their time before lunch in library working on an essay for Flitwick (“The Differences Between Switching Spells and Substitution Charms”). Really, though, it was Hermione worked on her essay while Harry sat across from her lost in his thoughts. Perhaps it was Malfoy that had set him up, but how? How would Malfoy even get ahold of the stuff? That was answerable, at least; Malfoy could probably get his hands on a lot of things that were illegal—all he had to do was ask his father…And yet, his hands had been as spotless as Harry’s.

Harry noticed that the sound of Hermione’s scratching quill had stopped. He looked up; Hermione held a hand to her head, leaning against the table.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve got a terrible headache, suddenly,” she said in a quiet voice. “It’s been happening all summer. Mum has always gotten terrible migraines and she thinks I’ve inherited it.”

“Do you need to go to Madame Pomfrey? I know she has something for migraines.” Hermione nodded and Harry helped her pack up her things. When he began putting his books away, however, she shook her head at him.

“It’s just a headache, Harry,” she said with a small smile. “I can make it to the nurse on my own. I’m not that pathetic.”

“Okay. It’s time for lunch in a few minutes, do want me to save you anything?”

“If you could.” Harry told her he would and watched Hermione as she left the library. Then, he gathered up his things and went to wait for Ron outside the Muggle Studies classroom; Ron had finally decided that he didn’t want to be an Auror (Harry was fairly sure that his OWL Potions grade had had something to do with that decision) so he had settled for working simply for the Magical Law department. Anyone applying for Ministry administrative positions, however, had been required to take at least one year of Muggle Studies, so Ron had been forced into the class. Mrs. Weasley had been very pleased that at least one of her younger sons wanted a normal job with the Ministry, though she no longer complained too much about Fred and George’s business as they were obviously happy and doing well.

When the bell finally rang, Harry filled in Ron on what had happened that morning while they made their way to the Great Hall.

“It was Malfoy. It had to be,” Ron said, after Harry had finished.

“But he didn’t have the mark, Ron.”

“So? I bet he found a way to hide it. Or maybe he levitated it so that he wasn’t even touching it really.” Harry gave his friend and incredulous look, but Ron persisted. “Who else would do it? I mean, come on, you’re in there with a bunch of Ravenclaws and Hermione.”

“And Blaise Zabini.”

“But she’s not a normal Slytherin, anyway, is she? I mean, she’s pureblood and all, but her family’s worse off than mine, and she supposedly has some cousin or something that married a Muggle that they didn’t disown, so none of the rest talk to her.” Harry took in this new piece of information with interest.

“Her family doesn’t mind Muggles?”

“That’s what I heard,” Ron said with a shrug. “Anyway, Harry, it’s got to be Malfoy. We just have to find a way to get him to admit it.” They entered the Great Hall and sat down at the Gryffindor table. “Hey, Harry—where’s ‘Mione?”

“She’s in the hospital wing. She—“

“What? What happened to her? I bet it was Malfoy, wasn’t it? Got her for proving you were innocent…I’ll kill him.” Harry had to move quickly to pull Ron back to his seat and not march across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table.

“She just had a headache, Ron. She’s fine.”

“Oh.” Ron went back to his food in silence.

“Harry,” Dean Thomas called from down the table.

“Yeah?”

“McGonagall’s lookin’ for you. She said stop by her office after lunch.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

“Wonder what that’s about?” Ron said.

“Probably what happened in Potions. Snape’ll be trying to get me expelled, I expect, so McGonagall will have to punish me somehow.” Harry sighed. “Better go up now and get it over with.”

“Want me to come?”

“If you want.” They gathered up their things and told Lavendar to save something for Hermione when she came down. When they arrived at McGonagall’s office, they found the door was locked. Harry knocked, and waited until the Transfiguration Professor opened her door.

“Ah, Mister Potter. Wait one moment, please.” She disappeared back into her office, and, to Harry’s surprise, Neville Longbottom emerged a few seconds later. Their fellow Gryffindor said hello to them, but Harry was quite sure he saw that Neville’s eyes were puffy and red.

“Er…Dean said you wanted to see me, Professor?” Professor McGonagall had been watching Neville as he walked down the corridor, a thoughtful expression on her face. At the sound of Harry’s voice, she came back to herself and said,

“Yes, Mister Potter. If you could wait out here, Mister Weasley, it won’t be a moment.” Ron shrugged at Harry, who then followed Professor McGonagall into her office. It hadn’t changed since Harry had been in it last year, right down to the tartan tin of tea biscuits.

“The Headmaster has asked me to inform you, Potter, that your Occlumency lessons are to continue beginning this week.”

“Why didn’t he tell me himself?” Harry asked. McGonagall gave him an incredulous look.

“The Headmaster has more important things to do than give you trifling notices. You, of all people, should understand how much is at stake. Dumbledore’s time is already stretched entirely too thin.” Harry nodded, guilt and anger mixing within him. Of course he knew that Dumbledore was busy! But why did it seem as though the Headmaster were avoiding him again? Surely he deserved some better explanation than the one he had been given…

“Sorry, Professor,” he mumbled.

“I should think so,” McGonagall replied, lips pursed. “In light of recent…events, shall we say, you shall attend lessons with Professor Snape Monday evenings, beginning tonight, under the guise that you are serving detention for nearly destroying his classroom.” Harry had been waiting for that to come up.

“I didn’t destroy his classroom, Professor. It was an accident. Someone threw something in my cauldron—”

“I don’t really care, Potter.” Professor McGonagall gave him a severe look, and then leaned close to him. “I believe you,” she whispered, “and the fact is, with so many students whose parents support You-Know-Who, these things may happen. You have to be very careful, Potter, and take care not to do anything foolish.” She looked around as though to make sure no one had overheard, before continuing in a normal voice,

“That is all Mister Potter. You will report this evening after dinner to the dungeons to serve your detention.” With the meeting over, Harry left.

“Well, I just hope that you take your studies seriously this time,” Hermione said later that night.

“I don’t know why they’re making you take it with Snape, though. I mean, he hates you.” Ron and Harry were playing chess, and, as usual, Ron was winning. He moved his knight, and Harry had to take a moment to rethink his strategy.

“He doesn’t hate Harry, Ron,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Does to.”

“Ron’s right, Hermione.” Harry interrupted. “He hates me. I just hope that I won’t have to do these lessons long.”

“Yeah, maybe if you make him mad enough, he’ll stop teaching you, like last year,” Ron said hopefully.

“Don’t say that!” Hermione looked horrified at the very thought. “It would be really dangerous for Harry if he doesn’t do his lessons.”

“I’m not that bad anymore,” Harry commented. “I don’t think I have much left to learn.” Hermione ‘hmphed’ in a way that said she thought Harry was being overly confident. “I learned loads with the Professor, I really did.” Hermione still didn’t look convinced. “I read those books you sent me, as well.” That got her attention.

“Did you? Well, I suppose you may have improved some…you haven’t had any dreams recently, have you.” Harry saw that Ron was sniggering quietly, lucky that his back was to Hermione. “What time do you have to leave?”

“Where’s Harry going?” Ginny and Neville had just sat down next to them by the hearth.

“Detention with Snape,” Ron said, without looking up from the board.

“Why?” Ginny asked. Hermione then proceeded to tell them about what had happened in Potions class that morning. “I wonder who threw that, that…what was it?”

“Black Hawthorne.”

“That Black Hawthorne into your cauldron? I mean, if it wasn’t Malfoy, who else would it be?” Ginny asked.

“It was Malfoy,” Ron muttered, but no one paid him any attention.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “But McGonagall practically told me to watch out for an attack from any of the Slytherins.”

Somewhere in the castle, the clock tolled eight o’clock.

“I’ve got to go. See ya,” Harry said. They waved good-bye to him, and he left the Common Room.

The walk to the dungeons seemed to take longer than usual. It was probably due to all the thinking Harry had to do…how good of an Occlumens was he really? Would he be able to stand up to the Potions Master? The Professor, after all, didn’t loath Harry; Snape, however, would be furious that Harry had, yet again, escaped punishment, and would try to take it out on him. Harry furiously tried to clear his thoughts, and tried to recall all the lessons he had had. He had to focus on one memory, long enough, at least, to get the attention of whoever was invading his mind. Then, he had to redirect them to his emotions…

“You’re late, Potter.” Harry had knocked on the Snape’s door not a minute after the clock stopped tolling, but decided that the professor was mad enough at him, and didn’t bring it up. The lack of argument made Snape look up from the papers on his desk, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I expect you to be prompt from now on. I am extremely busy, with having to baby-sit Dumbledore’s favorite boy.”

It took a lot of self-control for Harry to not respond to that; the Professor’s word about channeling his anger began to play in his mind, and he calmed some.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be cheeky with me,” Snape snapped. He drew his wand, and for a fleeting moment, Harry was afraid that he was going to be attacked; he felt extremely foolish indeed when he realized that the greasy haired professor was just warding the door.

“I don’t suppose, Potter, that you took the time to actually practice over the summer?”

“I did, actually,” Harry said. You were only there when I told Dumbledore that I had been, he thought. “I’m improving—”

“That is for me to decide, Potter, not you. Despite everyone’s belief that you are perfect,” Snape said, his mouth curling into a disdainful snarl, “I do not have that much confidence in you.”

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Harry said coldly, temper starting to get the better of him. The Potions Master looked murderous, but after a moment smiled instead.

“Very well, Potter. Legilimens!” Harry, unprepared, was hit with a wave of memories; he was swimming through the lake, Hinkypunks grabbing at his flippered feet…Hermione kicking the trapdoor of Trelawney’s tower room open and disappearing down the stairs…the glimpse of a black dog before he was knocked to the ground by the violently purple Knight Bus…the dog…Sirius…

Harry focused and suddenly found himself back in the Snape’s office. He was on his knees, doubled over. His hand almost went for his wand, when he changed his mind…he needed to prove what he could do. Holding the image of his godfather clear, Harry pulled the memory of last June from the swirling thoughts that filled his mind. He could feel Snape’s presence in his thoughts, and sensed the interest at the image of Sirius fighting…Harry took hold of the thought, locking the Potions Master’s mind in place…the memory grew darker, as though all the lights in the room had dimmed…darker…darker… suddenly, all was black. Harry rose from the floor; it was like watching a split screen—on one side, his Potions Master, on the other, the blackness he had created from his memories. Snape was panicking within his thoughts, having realized that he could not pull away from the memory. Looking up, Harry could see that the professor had his eyes shut in furious concentration, sweat rolling down his forehead. Just as the Professor had taught him, Harry concentrated on the blackness, allowing all the emotions he had been bottling up, his anger and sorrow, his fear, his frustration, his hatred, to replace the light that had left his memory. Snape cried out, and fell to the floor; Harry released the professor’s mind and moved toward his fallen teacher.

“Are you alright?” he asked tentatively. Snape was breathing somewhat erratically, and Harry was worried for a moment that he had hurt the older man. Suddenly, however, the Potions professor righted himself. He had a peculiar expression on his face, and it seemed to take a moment for him to find his voice.

“Where did you learn that, Potter?” Snape’s voice was quiet, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread.

“Learn what?” he replied, trying to keep a straight face.

“YOU KNOW WHAT! WHERE DID YOU LEARN THAT POTTER!” Snape bellowed. Some color had found its way to the Potions Master’s usually pallid face, and his beetle black eyes were flashing dangerously. Harry opened his mouth, but Snape didn’t give him a chance to speak. Instead, he whirled around, his black robes swishing, and marched to the fireplace. Pulling a handful of Floo Powder from a jar on the mantel, Snape threw the ash colored dust at the hearth. Green flames erupted from nowhere, and Snape then leaned forward and barked out,

“Albus!” The Headmaster’s face came into view; he was wearing an amused expression that became serious at the appearance of his professor.

“Severus, what on earth is wrong?”

“We need to talk, Albus,” Snape said. “Now.”

“Of course, Severus, of course,” Dumbledore replied. A moment later, he stepped through the fire. The Headmaster wore a puzzled expression on his face, and Harry realized that they must make an odd picture—him staring at the Headmaster, his mouth open in silent protest, Snape looking absolutely livid, glaring at Harry with a fierce intensity.

“Is there something wrong?” Dumbledore asked finally, looking back and forth from his Potions Master to Harry. “Harry?”

“We were just practicing Occlumency, sir,” Harry said quickly, before Snape had a chance to cut in. “I just did what I was supposed to.”

“Headmaster, this boy was using Dark Arts,” Snape said, using that quiet, dangerous tone he often used with Harry, spitting out the words ‘Dark Arts’ like some sort of swear word.

“I was not,” Harry interjected. “I don’t know any Dark Arts. I was just using Occlumency to get him out of my mind—”

“HE WAS USING DARK ARTS!”

“Severus, please—try to restrain yourself,” Dumbledore said. “What exactly did you do, Harry?” His cornflower blue eyes were not sparkling now, but looking at Harry with some severity.

“Well, Snape started going through my thoughts, and I sort of…separated myself from what was going on in my head so that I could watch him…” Harry knew that he sounded very odd trying to explain what had happened, but the Headmaster was nodding intently.

“Yes?”

“Then…erm…then, I sort of took hold of the thought that he was looking at and shut it off…and then…er…” It was sounding stranger and stranger, and as he went on, Harry felt he was going to be punished for sure. He might as well tell the truth then, he thought, and finished, “I pushed my emotions into that spot in my mind—the memory Snape was trapped in—and, and…that was it, I guess.”

The Headmaster nodded again, and looked the Professor Snape. “Severus? Is that what you experienced?”

“Yes,” Snape spat, eyeing Harry coldly. “The boy was manipulating Soul Magic, Albus, Soul Magic. No one has learned that art for years, except—”

“I am well aware of that, Severus.” Dumbledore said this with a kind of finality. “Harry, if you would take a walk with me, please.”

“Headmaster, I must protest!” Snape said. He walked towards Dumbledore and leaned in close, as though trying to keep Harry from overhearing. This was a vain attempt, however, as he was very near shrieking every syllable. “First he is a Parselmouth and now this? I’ve told you for years that he is no good, Albus! And now, now…” For a moment, Snape seemed unable to find words to describe his rage. This didn’t last long.

“This isn’t the first time the boy has used violence against me!” He cast an accusing glare at Harry. “In his third year, when he ran off after that convict—”

“You leave Sirius out of this!” Harry barked.

“Just this year, he used a Binding spell on me. The boy is irrational and uncontrollable, Albus! He is a danger to this school—”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly. “You know very well that this school is exactly where Harry belongs.”

“But, Headmaster—!”

“Harry, if you would be so kind as to wait for me outside?” The Headmaster led Harry out of the office, before disappearing behind the closed door. Harry could still hear the greasy git screaming within, threats of resignation, accusations of instability…Harry was surprised none of the Slytherins had come to investigate the noise emanating from their Head of House’s office. The Slytherin Common Room was just down the hall, after all…

What had he done wrong? He had only done what the Professor had told him, hadn’t he? The Professor…Hermione’s warning suddenly surfaced in his mind. Maybe she was right; why else would the Professor teach him Dark Arts unless he used them himself? But he just couldn’t believe it—his instinct told him to trust the dark haired man, and so he would. But why was he doing Dark Arts? None of it made any sense. And who had Snape been talking about? Who, besides Harry, had learned to do Soul Magic?

Suddenly, Snape’s office went suddenly quiet. Harry moved closer to the door to try and hear what was going on; he heard Snape’s muffled voice and Dumbledore say something in return, but he couldn’t determine the words. The door before him opened, and Dumbledore came out into the hall, looking somewhat cheerful.

“Shall we, Harry?” he asked, gesturing down the corridor. Harry looked back into the office and saw that Professor Snape was nowhere to be seen.