Fic: "Containment" (part 1) (Snape/Harry, NC17)
Title: Containment
Author: Flora
For: _inzilbeth_ for the hpvalensmut exchange 2006
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: NC17, eventually
Warnings: Snape is an adult; Harry is 17.
Words: ~16,100
A/N: The request was: Happy ending -- I do not mind angst but leading to a happy conclusion would be preferable. I love characters as close to canon as possible, First-time, rimming, felching, kissing (lots), collars, lots of detailed hot plotty, smutty, smut, smut! . I managed about two of these things (there not so much with the rimming, felching, or collars, anyway), but I think I did come up with some plot, so there's that. Hope it'll do. Thanks to my lovely speedy beta.
~~*~~
It has been a long road, and Potter is tired. I have seen, from afar--no, he hasn't seen me, but I have been entirely aware of his progress by virtue of the moods of those in the know, of which I am not always one--that he has destroyed all but the last Horcrux.
After the affair with the ring, it became clear the status of each remaining item must be checked, and Voldemort sent lieutenants after each of them, unknowing I am certain, to check that they were whole. All but one, actually, but I shall come back to that.
They were, then, but for the missing one, of which I already knew, but one way or another, he continued to check, and one by one, they've been destroyed. Including the locket.
The last one, though, remains, and herein lies the problem. The artifact in question, while closely guarded, is Muggle and …delicate.
In it's own way, it's a brilliant choice, though Merlin alone knows how he managed to gain access to it in the first place. There's been no need to check on it; its destruction would have been …newsworthy, and he seems to have reason to believe the dismantling that was newsworthy last winter didn't include this particular item. I have no reason to doubt his sources.
In every way besides that, though, it's utterly insane. Apparently he placed certain sorts of protections to prevent Muggles from using the damned thing in anything short of the direst circumstance, so perhaps he thought that was enough.
Or, perhaps he was mad; he certainly is now.
In any case, I've learned what and where it is, and there is no reason to remain in place with him, now. He suspects me and it coming to the day he will act against me without especial proof. I can do more good there than here.
Though Potter may not think so.
I hope I can make him see things as they truly stand. It won't be easy, and that won't be the worst of it; when he understands the issue, he'll have a decision to make which may …damage him.
And I don't think there is anything I could do to ease it, even were I the sort of man inclined to try.
~~*~~
"Potter."
He spins, wand in his hand and mouth open because he will not learn to cast a spell wordlessly. Probably because I told him, once upon a time, to learn. It is unthinkable that he cannot master the skill, so it must be that. He fails to see, and I cannot believe Mister Weasley hasn't explained to him, that he gives the advantage by casting aloud, gives me the fraction of a second during which I hear the word forming to create and implement my defense and counterattack. And it isn't as though I'm not approximately familiar with the patterns he follows. I know where he is going before he does.
And no, despite the opinion clearly written on his face, I am not "cheating."
Therefore, within something under twenty seconds, I've got his wand secured away from him, and his arms bound to his sides.
He could, of course, still slice me to ribbons as he did Draco; however, I doubt he possesses the will to do it again on purpose, and besides, if he won't cast silently with his wand, I doubt he will do so without.
I have plenty in this world to fear, but Potter is not one such thing.
"What do you want," he spits.
I can't help it; I roll my eyes and press my lips tight before I answer. "What I want isn't especially relevant, Potter. I am here to offer information. And assistance."
"Why?"
I wait for the rest of the question; surely the simple interrogative will be followed by "the fuck would you do that" or "should I believe a bloody thing you say". However, he clips himself silent after just the one word, and I'm taken aback when I realize I'm pausing for absent words, and for too long. He grows even more suspicious.
This shouldn’t be possible.
I open my mouth, then stop to consider, just for a moment. I was prepared to shout, to overpower his voice. I was not prepared to explain rationally.
Perhaps Granger has made a difference in the boy after all.
"Because, having done all I can do there, I concluded it was in everyone's best interests for me to return to assisting you."
"When did you ever assist me?"
"From the time you were eleven until we last saw one another a bit over a year ago," I say, able to refrain from adding, you utter imbecile but not able to restrain the tone that says it anyway.
"Right."
"Potter. As much as you dislike me, I believe you are aware there were many times when I worked to your assistance and advantage."
"Hermione says so, but she hasn't convinced me."
"She is, however, correct. You might wish to consider there is hardly any love lost between Miss Granger and myself, either."
"Fuck you."
"Ah. And now we degenerate into the cursing. Are you quite finished, or will you be wishing to cast aspersions upon my parentage?"
"Bas--Fuck you." He grimaces as he realizes I've just called his next move.
That was too easy.
"If anything, that would be you; as I recall, your parents were wed in January of 1980."
"They were not!"
"Once again, you make assertions about the parents you do not recall. A tiresome habit, really."
"Ba--F--Sod off."
"Is that all?"
"No. Murderer!"
"Please. I am certain you have found evidence by now that indicates the truth about that night. You'd have been after me if you hadn't."
He mutters something sullen, and I am gratified to learn that in fact, Albus did look after me. I hadn't been as sure as I just made out to be.
But I had hoped.
Obviously.
"Look. You surely know what I have been, to this cause, and what I can do. You know from the sodding book you wouldn't give back, if nothing else."
He glares, but says nothing.
Which is a relief; I've been waiting for several minutes now for the explosion of teen-aged rage with which he carried himself for the last two years of our interaction, but I've concluded now that isn't going to come.
"And as I previously indicated, I come bearing information you need."
"Such as?"
He doesn't want to ask, clearly, but he also has learned at least a modicum of caution; he won't dismiss me out of hand.
I unbind him, though I retain his wand. "The nature and location of the final Horcrux."
His eyes light up, though the rest of his face remains set and stubborn. "How would I know if you were telling the truth?"
Oh, please. "Perhaps you are familiar with the concept of Legilimency? Or--I've no doubt your Miss Granger can brew a passable Veritaserum by now."
"You'll trick me.
"I won't."
"That helps."
"Perhaps you ought to ask your friends to help you determine--"
"They're busy."
"Ah. Young love."
"Not like--Hermione got hurt, on the last--I don't want to talk about it."
Oh. He is more alone than I had realized, then. I consider quickly, then hand him his wand and cast a thorough shielding charm around us, weaving a tight bubble because while I am going to have to let him into my head, I'd as soon not allow Voldemort in too, in case he should be looking.
He is still glaring, but he hasn't launched any sort of offensive strike yet, so I suppose that is something upon which to build.
I finish the shield and then let go every shred of the guard on my own mind. "Go on."
His gaze doesn't change.
"Potter. Just do it. Look around. I'd rather you refrained from revisiting scenes over which we've already had words, but I won't stop you."
He lifts a brow, then takes off his glasses and pulls up his wand. "Legilimens!"
Fortunately, he's gotten better at this since I last worked with him. Of course, the opposite tendency is unlikely at best, but really, somehow he has mastered a sort of subtlety that is of the variety that will allow him to view not only events, but emotions and intentions. This is unexpected, but I find I am glad for it.
I feel him looking through my memory and all at once it occurs to me--and really, I know better than not to control what I will consider during this process, but I'm more overwrought by the events of the past year than even I, apparently, knew--that he can also see what I think he'll have to do.
He grabs the thought and follows it, and of course I could stop him before he gets there, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Wouldn't you know, the brat grins at me, physically, obviously understanding that I hate letting him go after this unprepared.
I've only seen him without the glasses in two modes: sleeping, and angry. I'm startled to observe that grinning and glassesless, he has a particular vulnerability that allows me to very much see his mother where always before I've seen James Potter in him.
Interesting.
He draws in a sudden breath, and I realize that thankfully, he hasn't followed that last, but has gone on to the Horcrux. His eyes have gone wide and it is clear he's also seen the problem.
I reassert control of our interaction, carefully. It won't do to have the boy gibbering on his knees before we even get a chance to discuss the matter.
And oh God it occurs to me there are excellent reasons to have him on his knees.
I am again thankful, this time that he is no longer in contact with my train of thought. I put the thought far away from him, and from myself; it has no place here.
"Potter."
He looks up, evidently startled by my voice, then puts his glasses back on. "What the fuck am I going to do about that?"
"I assume you saw some possibilities. There are likely more; I am sure I did not envision every permutation of possible future in the instant I learned of the object." I keep talking as long as I think he's likely to let me, giving him time to stop his heart racing, giving myself time to look at him with the glasses and put an end to what I thought I saw when they were off, giving both of us time to come to terms with the apparent truth that I am, in fact, the sort of man who wishes to try to mitigate the damage. "Furthermore, I am only marginally familiar with how one works. It is likely Miss Granger--when she recovers--will have additional information."
"If she recovers soon, anyway," he mutters as I pause for breath.
Bugger.
"Is her injury grave?"
He frowns. "Not sure what's wrong with her."
"She's at St. Mungo's?"
"Yeah. I was giving Ron until today to get his arse back here," he begins, and I see that discussing this is less upsetting than the other, which is surely quite wrong, but it will do. He goes on, "but then, it looks like really he may be able to do me the most good by staying far away. In …I don't know. South America or something."
I nod. There isn't a good way to point out that really, it's been likely all along that his seconds could die at this game.
"Well. Perhaps… I could come to wherever you've secreted yourselves away, or, if that is intolerable, I've a number of …well. Actually, not a number. Two, of which I feel confident, secure locations to which you might come with me.
He shakes his head. "I need to go explain to Ron, then see--well. I have things to do."
He doesn't add, and like it or not, you're a wanted criminal that no one likes and virtually anyone would sell out for two knuts and a flagon of niffler piss, but then, it isn't as though I'm not well aware of my social standing. "I see," I say. "However, I believe you will need my assistance, one way or another, in dealing with this."
He reluctantly nods. "I suppose …we should meet again?"
"It seems a more reliable option than going our separate ways and hoping for the best, yes."
"Tomorrow? No. No, Wednesday."
I nod, and he turns to go.
For heaven's sake.
"Potter."
"What?" He looks over his shoulder.
"Wednesday is a rather broad parameter, given neither meeting time nor location."
"Oh. Uh. After lunch, I think. Two o'clock? And where do you think?"
"I'd rather not say aloud." I point my wand at him and put the location into his head, which makes him glare again, but it's a great deal more secure than simply speaking out for anyone who might be trying to overhear.
I take down the shield I put up around us, and leave the same way I came, walking out of the area then Apparating to a Floo. I try to avoid journeys of only two or three legs now; if someone wishes to follow me, I wish it to be time consuming enough that by the time I get where I'm going I'm likely to have a bit of a head start and a chance to prepare.
~~*~~
By the time Wednesday's meeting time arrives, it has been some forty-six hours since we were last together. I am early and have been waiting some ten minutes when he appears in the door, squinting into the dim interior of this little pub.
Old habits die hard; I appreciate the advantage of my already-adjusted eyes. It allows me a moment to look up and down him, and I again put away the image of him without the glasses, the image I've found irritatingly present in my mind during these two days.
He walks quickly to the table, sits down. "Well?"
"Hello to you, too." It isn't as though I spend a great deal of time contemplating the social niceties, but we aren't greatly in a hurry at the moment, and it makes sense to be at least cordial, as I suspect we'll be spending a bit of time together.
"'Lo." He orders a pint, and while I'd prefer his mind weren't dulled, I suppose one pint can't make a noteworthy difference.
It's also worth noting that, now that I see him from two feet away, he looks like he's been hand-wrung and left twisted in a corner to dry.
I signal for a pint of my own.
"Should we talk somewhere else?"
I shake my head; it would look like a rather different sort of rendezvous than it is if we met up for mere seconds and then left together. He nods, and we wait for our ale, as he apparently isn't entirely prepared to discuss the subject at hand.
"Hermione's not better," he says at length, taking his glasses off again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They don't know why not, and Ron… I told him to stay there while I did some, preliminary work was what I told him."
"In other words, you didn't tell him."
"No. I. It seems like this time it's mine to do, not like he's going to know anything about the subject, and besides, he should be there with her, although…"
I wait a moment for him to pick back up, but he does not, even after the girl brings our ale and heads once again away from the table. "Although what," I finally prompt.
"Although maybe I should see if there's somewhere outside of London…"
I don't point out he'd have to do that for everyone--he would, where I would suffer no such moral quandary--and it's not feasible even on a Wizarding scale, let alone the human scale he'd no doubt intend, and he doesn't pursue the subject. I conclude he simply needed to have said it, and nod.
Finally, he picks up his stein and sips, then sets it down and slides his glasses back onto his nose to look at me. "You know he was the one that got hurt, and she took him back up, first year. She got me through your test and then went with him. There's a sort of balance in the two of them, isn't there?"
I'm not clear on the purpose of this side journey down memory lane, but I hold my silence. It isn't as though the Horcrux is going anywhere, and while it would be best to deal with it before it becomes clear to Voldemort that I am actively working against him, time is not so short that I cannot indulge him at least this much.
Finally, he drinks down the last of his ale, puts up a serviceable Inaudibility charm, and looks me in the eye. "Have you thought of a way not to set off a fucking international disaster?"
I have not, and I don't think he expects anything else, so I shake my head.
He shrugs. "Me, either." He sounds defeated, and that won't do; we need him optimistic, and while I've no intent to turn him into a smaller, younger, prettier Albus, this depressed and hopeless mood won't do.
"Perhaps something will come to you."
"Hasn't yet. And believe me, I've been thinking about it. Have you?"
I lift one brow, a look that has proven quite effective with students.
"Right," he says. "And see, we've got nothing. We'll have to destroy it, and take out God only knows what, given where the damned thing is--"
"It's unfortunate it isn't located somewhere more …what is it?" He's just flinched, eyes narrowing at me.
"I have an idea."
I'm initially startled, but then, it occurs to me that the fact he has an idea doesn’t necessarily mean he has a good idea. I lift a brow. "Go on."
"It requires you. I'm better than I was, but I can't do what it would take, because it's going to mean a lot of getting information and memory charms." He grimaces as he says that last, and I can't say I blame him; as much general dread as the Unforgivable Curses engender, I've always found the notion of having my memory rearranged and stripped away at least as horrifying.
But he still hasn't said what he intends to do. I wait.
"I was thinking, if we could move it… I mean, if there were an "accident" while it was in transit, mightn't that be more likely to be seen as truly an accident?"
"Perhaps." I consider what I have learned about the topic in the past several days. "You might be more likely to know that than I."
"Right. I. We'd probably have to do some reading--"
"I've been doing. It seems the topic of circumstances under which there would not be a crisis is not much one upon which the news sources have focused." I manage to leave off speaking without remarking upon the astonishing development that is Harry Potter suggesting research.
"Where did you look?"
"The newspapers. The television box, although locating specific information in that has proved somewhat frustrating."
Harry frowns. "Maybe we should visit the library."
I cannot let it go unremarked twice. "Be still my heart. Do you not believe inquiries might raise alarms?"
He visibly opts not to rise to the bait, which I find a hopeful sign. "Yeah, but let's go back to the memory charms…"
"You wish to alter the memories of librarians?"
"No worse than--" He cuts off, apparently not sure what to make of my expression, and it occurs to me that in fact, I do believe it is worse to alter the memory of someone whose vocation--and possibly avocation--is to locate and order information, than to do the same to people who make a living as cogs in the machine of war, Muggle or Wizarding.
He doesn't pick back up, and I find myself reluctantly nodding. It has to be done.
We don't discuss the matter further, but rather, stand and leave together, stepping out into what has become a brisk afternoon, chilly and clear despite thin bright sun. With only a shared glance, with which we confirm we both know where we are going--which I believe surprises each of us, as regards the other--we turn in the direction of the local branch of the public library.
I hate that it is going to be my damned job to manage the erasure, but then, this does at least mean it will be done with care and precision. I won't remove anything I don't have to, and won't leave the victim fretful over missing time.
I hope.
~~*~~
It takes us the rest of the afternoon to come to understand the cataloging system (or rather, lack thereof) and organization of information on the "internet." The librarian seems unruffled to learn we don't know anything about it, so it is evidently relatively new technology, and she spends some time teaching us to use something called Alta Vista, limiting and broadening the scope of our searches.
She also teaches us how to perform searches by subject in the "on line catalog," and explains how to locate individual books. That part is straightforward enough, and takes only a few minutes to understand; it's the rest that is overwhelming.
To minimize the amount I must alter in our librarian's mind, we don't actually ask for what we really want to know. Instead, we learn using other topics, though this nearly falls apart when I forget it would seem odd, to a Muggle, to be concerned about how to distinguish a werewolf from a natural lupine creature. She laughs, and Potter gives me a look from behind her shoulder, and I blink and laugh with her; she apparently is convinced I am joking and pushes her hand against my shoulder in an overly familiar and friendly manner.
I manage not to shudder at the contact, which is just a well; upon consideration, I fear she'd have taken it as a frisson of suppressed desire or something equally distasteful, and then I'd really have had to set to work on her mind before she invited me for whatever Muggle women are likely to begin with. She goes back to explaining about limits, and I conclude I'm best off to leave this part to Harry as I go off to page through comfortable print indices gathering dust in the corner to the left.
I endeavor not to express my glee when I am first to locate a usable piece of information despite my use of methods apparently now deemed somewhat archaic. I write out my finding with a pen borrowed from the reference desk, an irritating thing that leaves blotches every few inches where the ball apparently is somehow imperfectly fit into the plastic tube.
He's only a few minutes later signaling that he's found something as well.
He is a great deal more obvious than I.
By the time we leave, we've located several books we think will help us understand what we will need to do, and have "printed out"--and what an odd thing that is, a whirring box which performs duplicating charms at a rate of six pages per minute--roughly two hundred pages of assorted details., besides the notes I have made by hand.
I do regret that there is no real choice but to simply shrink the books and take them with us. Somehow the doorway is aware we are taking them, which is startling, but she says she can see we don't have anything, so she thinks the machines around the door must be faulty. She lets us go on through.
We let her think what she thinks, and I only have to make minute adjustments in her memory to account for ways in which we are oddly unMuggle, and then again without discussion turn left outside to go back the way we've come. I tell him it makes the most sense for him to come back with me, and he agrees. He follows me easily, and offers no objection to my control of the Apparation, and then we are in my chilly flat shivering as we wait for the fire to warm the air.
I find it odd, how we're getting on; it isn't precisely typical for the pair of us to find ourselves wordlessly in agreement ever, and here we have been so all day.
He mentions, after several minutes here, that Ron will expect him by in the morning, and I nod. There's nothing unexpected there, and nothing to say to it. Supper is a heated loaf of bread with melted cheese and sausage stuffed inside; we wash it down with cheap wine and metallic-tasting water as we read before the fire, our toes warming adjacently on the single foot-stood arranged where we both can use it.
When we are both all but dozing over our texts, he yawns. "I can take the couch."
As if there is another option. I have a single rather unfortunately-sagging cot at this flat, this little couch, a table and one chair, and little else. "I imagine that will be more comfortable than the floor," I return. I can provide blankets, so I do, good ones, not shoddy transfigurations. "Good night," I say, surprising myself a bit.
It has been a great while since I have had occasion to wish anyone a good night.
I am not certain why I am pleased to learn he is now a quiet sleeper. I recall that once upon a time, he and his friends were often up and prowling, that Albus once told me he suffered nightmares, that his scar often woke him. I see none of that as he merely breathes, even and soft, the blankets curled into his fists under his chin. He seems to not even struggle to fall asleep, a fact I observe and then envy as it is not an ease I share. Still, the sense of gratification I experience isn't related to that, so much, as to the image that keeps returning to me. Vulnerable and trusting, and believing in, not me, certainly, but goodness in the abstract and its potential presence in my soul.
Some time long after midnight, I finally sleep, and when I wake, for the first time in months, it is to light outside my little window, to a feeling of having slept well. I'm uncertain what to think, but I'd rather have something than nothing. I am still exhausted, but that is constant, and I don't expect it to change until everything is over, for good or ill. I rise and set about poaching eggs.
Potter looks worse than I do, but he eats like the teenage boy he is: quickly and until there is not a crumb left. I finish my toast and sip my tea as he puts on his jacket and runs his hand through his entirely hopeless hair.
He stops at the door. "Be back around, I dunno, noon, I'd say. Maybe one."
I nod and commence paging through our notes and printed copies, which are entirely disorganized. "I shall have this collated by the time you return, then. You know where you are?"
"Can I get back in?"
I pause. He can't, actually. "I shall have to meet you away and bring you back in."
"Could just tell me where we are!"
I shake my head. It's absurd given I slept perfectly well in his presence, and I realize it even as I say no, but somehow I cannot take that step. I am too long practiced in concealing and keeping my counsel my own.
He rolls his eyes, but it is with a grin, and heaven help me if Harry bloody Potter doesn't appear to understand me.
We arrange to meet, and I commence organizing.
~~*~~
I've got it all arranged into cross-referenced sections by the time I must retrieve him. I've used duplicating charms to add sections from one to another, going both ways, and I think it is clear our best choice is going to involve creating circumstances under which the Horcrux must be moved by train or boat. Boat is more complicated, I believe, but also would leave less to do afterward. Neither option necessarily eliminates the problem of the international incident, but it's something.
And besides that, it gives him hope he won't have to set off another war to end this one.
He's somber when I bring him back into this flat--and later, we'll move from here; I've not got this far by staying in one place overlong--and I can see his visit with his friends was not an opportunity for good cheer. "Is she worsening, then?"
He nods, then shakes his head. "Not really. Just not improving, and Ron's about to go spare. I told him I'd got an unexpected lead that was going to be easier to chase down alone, but I think that just made him feel even more helpless. But I thought probably I shouldn't bring him back here, so--"
"You thought correctly."
"'M not a complete idiot," he grouses, and I shrug. I've no intention of apologizing for being firm about operational security.
He sits down hard and eats lunch mechanically, and I don't point out how likely it is everything is going to get a great deal worse before it gets better.
"I've not had to do without them before, you know?"
I blink. It would appear he is going to tell me about his troubles, and before I collect myself adequately to stop him, he's going on.
"I mean, at the Dursleys, the time with the Dementor, there was that, but as far as dealing with Voldemort, you know, they've been there all the time. First year, to get to the stone. Second year, Hermione was Petrified, but I had Ron, and third year, Ron was …well. You remember. Padfoot had bit him. But Hermione was with me to--" He breaks off and looks up. "Uh. You know about what happened there, right?"
I do, of course, in general. I'm not entirely clear on the details, but I don't need to know them now and I certainly don't wish to extend story time. "More or less," I agree.
"Right. And then, well. I don't guess they were really with me in the graveyard, but… they'd been right there getting me there. They were with me in the Department of Mysteries, and then, all this last year."
I've finally got my wits about me and put a stop to this. "Have you quite finished cataloging the adventures of Potter, Weasley, and Granger?"
"Bastard. I'm only saying, it's hard for me to work out--"
"Yes. I'm aware you aren't the brains of the operation."
He glares, and I feel we are, for the first time in three days, on familiar footing. "Yes, that's your job, but so far, I've been the one having ideas, so clearly that's not working out so well."
To my irritation, he has a bit of a point there. I cast about for ideas but find that, actually, I have nothing, so I suggest we go back to reading. Surely something else will strike us.
~~*~~
By the fourth night, we have combed through everything we have, printed and hand-written, and I've duplicated relevant portions of the books so we can return them. We've gone to a different library each day, and our collection has grown to some forty books to go along with the hundreds of printed pages. I stack the books, arranged by library, next to the door of my alternate flat, and consider where we should go tomorrow--we've been here as long as I dare stay in one place. "Potter?"
"Wouldn't kill you to call me by name," he says. His eyes are tired again--well, still, actually, and he takes off his glasses to rub at them before he sets about making up the bed. "What?"
I take up the glasses from where he's left them on the rickety crate that serves as an end table, holding them in my hand as he tucks in a coarse but adequate sheet. "I was given to understand you were terribly near-sighted."
"Am. That can't be what you were going to ask."
"No. I was going to ask where you thought we should go, tomorrow, after the library. But, if you are so near-sighted, why take off your glasses before you're ready to sleep?"
"I can find us someplace. No, before you panic--"
"I do not panic."
He smirks, and I know I've just been successfully baited, and that he in fact intended to tease. This kindles a warm glow in my belly, and it takes me a moment to return to the topic at hand.
"Anyway." Right. He was about to explain. "I've got rather good at finding us all places to stay. Us all being my friends and me. As for the glasses, I could make a bed without actually having my eyes open, I think. I have plenty of experience at household tasks, you know? I was the only one in the Dursley household who was a freak, after all, so my Aunt was free with her training in such tasks. You know, for my eventual life of freakish crime."
I recall his years with the Dursleys, and while I'm not at all shocked that his surrogate parents gave him work to do and treated him shoddily, I am annoyed about it.
Clearly this war has taken a toll on my sanity.
"Why did you take them off to--"
"To get inside your head? Because it's easier to focus there when I actually can't focus here," he says, gesturing toward his eyes. He shrugs, and I'm startled to realize this makes both physical and magical sense. I find myself wanting to clap the heel of my hand to my forehead for never having thought of it.
"Your idea?" I ask finally.
"Accident, really, but Hermione said it made sense," he says, turning to sit down and take off his shoes.
I don't know what else to say; we have more questions to answer in tomorrow's trip to the library, and nothing in particular to discuss now. "Do you want the first shower?" I finally ask.
He shrugs. "Up to you. Maybe you should go first tonight. You seem pretty tired."
If I look more tired than he does, it's surprising he's aware I'm not dead; I don't know why we both continue to get more and more exhausted, since we are sleeping relatively long and well. "No, I'll wait." I go and sit on the side of my cot and begin unlacing my boots while he goes into the little bath and turns on the water.
The next thing I know, he's back and shaking my shoulder, and two thoughts scramble into my head together. First, I've fallen asleep sitting there. Second, he's touching me, without my invitation or any warning, and I am not hexing him. I'm slipping.
I blink rapidly and resist shaking my head. "What did you--oh." He's got a towel around his shoulders and is wearing only pajama bottoms and his glasses.
"Your turn."
"I gathered." I stand and make my way to the bath, leaving him to settle onto the couch. His hair is still wet, but I suppose it doesn't matter that he sleeps on it like that; either way, it will be unruly and wild in the morning.
Not that this is relevant to anything.
The hot water feels good running down my skin, but I fear if I stay in here too long, I will fall asleep standing this time, so I wash quickly and dry with the rough towel, pulling my nightwear over my head and drying my hair with a straightforward charm so that I may not fear rising in the morning with a lock dried straight up off my scalp. It may be that my hair is greasy, but at least it's respectably un-absurd.
He is already asleep when I return and lie down, and I do not remember my head hitting the pillow.
In the morning, he shakes me awake, and it is clear we have slept into mid-morning, and he is concerned.
"Are you …all right?" He wants to ask something else, wants to ask if I'm dying, and if so, whether it's contagious, I imagine, but he sticks to just all right, and even if I know what he means, I don't answer what he doesn't ask. I tell him I shall be fine, and swing my feet quickly over the edge of the bed, standing too fast but refusing to allow my knees to buckle because I am going to prove I am fine.
I pretend I have him fooled, and he doesn't say anything aloud, so we see about a bit of brunch and discuss what we've left to do, after we take everything back to the library and have one more look at the areas where we've found the most useful materials.
~~*~~
It turns out the branches of the London libraries do not open on Sunday, nor on Monday. The central branch does, but it's well into the heart of London from here, and neither of us has the energy readily to spare, so we instead retire to a small eatery that appears to specialize in grease and potatoes. Even he gives the food a dubious look, when it arrives, but we tuck into it anyway, eating in silence for a time.
Finally, he asks. "Why are we so bloody tired? We're sleeping, and even if we're not exactly having a lie-in every morning, we're not lying about awake all night, so what's happening? Is it your flat?"
I've considered that it could be, somehow, but the sensation of being drained does not fade when we step outside, so it isn't that. "I don't know," I finally admit. "Are you less tired when you aren't with me?"
If it is me, then he'll have to do this alone, and I'm not sure that's going to work very well. Perhaps we could work out a timetable in writing, or I could make a list and he could--"Pardon?" He's been speaking while I've drifted off into potential approaches to remote communication.
"No, it's the same either way. Actually, I started getting tired the day after we met up, last week."
"Well. Perhaps it is me, but it's already in motion."
"I don't think so." He can't give a reason, but he seems convinced, and for reasons I don't understand, I am inclined to trust his instinct.
Well. Besides the reason that he's got along this far almost entirely on instinct, as it certainly hasn't been education or skill.
And he's speaking again, and I've missed it.
"--so I wonder if he's using that. Those. Whatever."
I frown. "What?"
"Well. He's not listening in on us. Or at least, not on me. I know what that feels like, and that's not it. But the connections me to him, and him to you--" he nods at my left elbow and I resist the impulse to slide my arm backward on the table and down onto my lap.
"And you think he's…"
He looks at me oddly; obviously he has just explained this, but he quickly decides to do it again. "I think he's using that to drain us. Slowly, you know, so like, I suppose if I were bleeding constantly, but from a very small wound, I might grow tired over the course of days or weeks, right?"
He has a point.
In fact, he almost certainly is correct. I know Voldemort can't find him by way of the connection marked by his scar, but he's said things many times that indicated he could to at least some extent feel him, and I can easily imagine that my clear defection--I didn't leave a note signed nyah nyah, I quit, but I am certain my means of departure made it apparent I was turning my cloak--in conjunction with the loss of the last Horcrux but this one, may have pushed him to try something desperate. Which is working. I open my mouth to say something, and lose all capacity to say anything but, "Well. Fuck."
"Yeah. It means we don't have any--"
"Time. We can't wait for a way to move the damned thing, unless you've got one now, and we can't wait for Miss Granger…"
He nods. "I don't. We'll have to destroy it where it sets, and hope for the best."
"I don't suppose you've had any ideas on how to destroy it."
He looks at me.
For a long time. I'm thinking I've said something stupid, but then he shakes his head. "I hope we can find out how to explode it from the people guarding it."
"And then go find him?"
"You think he can keep doing this to us?"
"Ah. Right. And it seems likely, if you succeed in this--"
"We."
"Even so. If we succeed in this, that he shall go to ground, and then, well. Either his slow drain will kill you, and I imagine that is one way to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, or you'll have to find him, which will be …a challenge. It isn't as though he hasn't hidden away for a long while, once before, and especially if he's worked out a way to get rid of you, it would just be a waiting game, for him."
"Fuck. I hate my life."
I am, oddly, relieved to hear him say something so self-centered and juvenile. It allows me to place myself again in the role of stern teacher, and it is easier for me to deal with our association that way. I take a moment to enjoy the irony of my selfish gladness for his selfish childishness before responding. "Potter. Your life is what it is, and sniveling about it won't… oh, what."
"Sorry." He drops the side of his mouth that has quirked up into almost a grin, and I frown, replaying my words to see what is funny.
Oh.
"I cannot believe you would laugh about--"
"I said, sorry. And actually, wasn't laughing about the name, was just amused you'd use the word, given the name. Thinking I must really have annoyed you, to bring it."
To my intense irritation, he once again has a point, and also, he's removed me from the teacher role, making us virtually equals again. "Fine. In any case, grumbling about it won't serve any purpose."
"I know. Still, it seems to make it more bearable to say how fucked it is out loud now and again."
"Oh, please. It isn't as though you have the market cornered on fucked."
"Well. Try it."
"Try what?"
"Saying how much you hate your life."
I sigh, but since we do have other things to discuss today, I acquiesce. "Fine. My life is less fun than a barrel of monkeys."
He snorts. "I think you can do better than that. I mean, your life is less fun than being digested over the course of a thousand years by the great Saarlac, too, so really, a barrel of monkeys doesn't begin."
I am distracted. "A great what?"
"Sorry. Old Muggle movie I saw once, before Hogwarts and all. Anyway. Try again."
"Fine. My life, which began with a great deal of rage, followed by poverty, disdain, poor choices, lack of respect, unconscionable acts, long mostly-fruitless efforts at redemption, and murder, among other things, has been phenomenally and utterly fucked."
"Feel better?" He seems a bit struck by my litany, but not silenced.
I can't possibly admit I actually do feel better, fractionally, but I do. "Not in any manner worth noting."
He looks at me and shakes his head. "How is it I ever couldn't see what you meant when you said-- You're a liar, Snape. It helped, just for a minute, and you know it."
"Fine. What has any of this to do with how you're going to resolve the problem?"
"How we are going to, and I've no idea. Too bad setting off the damned bomb won't off him, too."
"Unless." I stop. Huh. "Unless you kill two Horcruxes with one stone."
Go on to Part Two
Author: Flora
For: _inzilbeth_ for the hpvalensmut exchange 2006
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: NC17, eventually
Warnings: Snape is an adult; Harry is 17.
Words: ~16,100
A/N: The request was: Happy ending -- I do not mind angst but leading to a happy conclusion would be preferable. I love characters as close to canon as possible, First-time, rimming, felching, kissing (lots), collars, lots of detailed hot plotty, smutty, smut, smut! . I managed about two of these things (there not so much with the rimming, felching, or collars, anyway), but I think I did come up with some plot, so there's that. Hope it'll do. Thanks to my lovely speedy beta.
~~*~~
It has been a long road, and Potter is tired. I have seen, from afar--no, he hasn't seen me, but I have been entirely aware of his progress by virtue of the moods of those in the know, of which I am not always one--that he has destroyed all but the last Horcrux.
After the affair with the ring, it became clear the status of each remaining item must be checked, and Voldemort sent lieutenants after each of them, unknowing I am certain, to check that they were whole. All but one, actually, but I shall come back to that.
They were, then, but for the missing one, of which I already knew, but one way or another, he continued to check, and one by one, they've been destroyed. Including the locket.
The last one, though, remains, and herein lies the problem. The artifact in question, while closely guarded, is Muggle and …delicate.
In it's own way, it's a brilliant choice, though Merlin alone knows how he managed to gain access to it in the first place. There's been no need to check on it; its destruction would have been …newsworthy, and he seems to have reason to believe the dismantling that was newsworthy last winter didn't include this particular item. I have no reason to doubt his sources.
In every way besides that, though, it's utterly insane. Apparently he placed certain sorts of protections to prevent Muggles from using the damned thing in anything short of the direst circumstance, so perhaps he thought that was enough.
Or, perhaps he was mad; he certainly is now.
In any case, I've learned what and where it is, and there is no reason to remain in place with him, now. He suspects me and it coming to the day he will act against me without especial proof. I can do more good there than here.
Though Potter may not think so.
I hope I can make him see things as they truly stand. It won't be easy, and that won't be the worst of it; when he understands the issue, he'll have a decision to make which may …damage him.
And I don't think there is anything I could do to ease it, even were I the sort of man inclined to try.
~~*~~
"Potter."
He spins, wand in his hand and mouth open because he will not learn to cast a spell wordlessly. Probably because I told him, once upon a time, to learn. It is unthinkable that he cannot master the skill, so it must be that. He fails to see, and I cannot believe Mister Weasley hasn't explained to him, that he gives the advantage by casting aloud, gives me the fraction of a second during which I hear the word forming to create and implement my defense and counterattack. And it isn't as though I'm not approximately familiar with the patterns he follows. I know where he is going before he does.
And no, despite the opinion clearly written on his face, I am not "cheating."
Therefore, within something under twenty seconds, I've got his wand secured away from him, and his arms bound to his sides.
He could, of course, still slice me to ribbons as he did Draco; however, I doubt he possesses the will to do it again on purpose, and besides, if he won't cast silently with his wand, I doubt he will do so without.
I have plenty in this world to fear, but Potter is not one such thing.
"What do you want," he spits.
I can't help it; I roll my eyes and press my lips tight before I answer. "What I want isn't especially relevant, Potter. I am here to offer information. And assistance."
"Why?"
I wait for the rest of the question; surely the simple interrogative will be followed by "the fuck would you do that" or "should I believe a bloody thing you say". However, he clips himself silent after just the one word, and I'm taken aback when I realize I'm pausing for absent words, and for too long. He grows even more suspicious.
This shouldn’t be possible.
I open my mouth, then stop to consider, just for a moment. I was prepared to shout, to overpower his voice. I was not prepared to explain rationally.
Perhaps Granger has made a difference in the boy after all.
"Because, having done all I can do there, I concluded it was in everyone's best interests for me to return to assisting you."
"When did you ever assist me?"
"From the time you were eleven until we last saw one another a bit over a year ago," I say, able to refrain from adding, you utter imbecile but not able to restrain the tone that says it anyway.
"Right."
"Potter. As much as you dislike me, I believe you are aware there were many times when I worked to your assistance and advantage."
"Hermione says so, but she hasn't convinced me."
"She is, however, correct. You might wish to consider there is hardly any love lost between Miss Granger and myself, either."
"Fuck you."
"Ah. And now we degenerate into the cursing. Are you quite finished, or will you be wishing to cast aspersions upon my parentage?"
"Bas--Fuck you." He grimaces as he realizes I've just called his next move.
That was too easy.
"If anything, that would be you; as I recall, your parents were wed in January of 1980."
"They were not!"
"Once again, you make assertions about the parents you do not recall. A tiresome habit, really."
"Ba--F--Sod off."
"Is that all?"
"No. Murderer!"
"Please. I am certain you have found evidence by now that indicates the truth about that night. You'd have been after me if you hadn't."
He mutters something sullen, and I am gratified to learn that in fact, Albus did look after me. I hadn't been as sure as I just made out to be.
But I had hoped.
Obviously.
"Look. You surely know what I have been, to this cause, and what I can do. You know from the sodding book you wouldn't give back, if nothing else."
He glares, but says nothing.
Which is a relief; I've been waiting for several minutes now for the explosion of teen-aged rage with which he carried himself for the last two years of our interaction, but I've concluded now that isn't going to come.
"And as I previously indicated, I come bearing information you need."
"Such as?"
He doesn't want to ask, clearly, but he also has learned at least a modicum of caution; he won't dismiss me out of hand.
I unbind him, though I retain his wand. "The nature and location of the final Horcrux."
His eyes light up, though the rest of his face remains set and stubborn. "How would I know if you were telling the truth?"
Oh, please. "Perhaps you are familiar with the concept of Legilimency? Or--I've no doubt your Miss Granger can brew a passable Veritaserum by now."
"You'll trick me.
"I won't."
"That helps."
"Perhaps you ought to ask your friends to help you determine--"
"They're busy."
"Ah. Young love."
"Not like--Hermione got hurt, on the last--I don't want to talk about it."
Oh. He is more alone than I had realized, then. I consider quickly, then hand him his wand and cast a thorough shielding charm around us, weaving a tight bubble because while I am going to have to let him into my head, I'd as soon not allow Voldemort in too, in case he should be looking.
He is still glaring, but he hasn't launched any sort of offensive strike yet, so I suppose that is something upon which to build.
I finish the shield and then let go every shred of the guard on my own mind. "Go on."
His gaze doesn't change.
"Potter. Just do it. Look around. I'd rather you refrained from revisiting scenes over which we've already had words, but I won't stop you."
He lifts a brow, then takes off his glasses and pulls up his wand. "Legilimens!"
Fortunately, he's gotten better at this since I last worked with him. Of course, the opposite tendency is unlikely at best, but really, somehow he has mastered a sort of subtlety that is of the variety that will allow him to view not only events, but emotions and intentions. This is unexpected, but I find I am glad for it.
I feel him looking through my memory and all at once it occurs to me--and really, I know better than not to control what I will consider during this process, but I'm more overwrought by the events of the past year than even I, apparently, knew--that he can also see what I think he'll have to do.
He grabs the thought and follows it, and of course I could stop him before he gets there, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Wouldn't you know, the brat grins at me, physically, obviously understanding that I hate letting him go after this unprepared.
I've only seen him without the glasses in two modes: sleeping, and angry. I'm startled to observe that grinning and glassesless, he has a particular vulnerability that allows me to very much see his mother where always before I've seen James Potter in him.
Interesting.
He draws in a sudden breath, and I realize that thankfully, he hasn't followed that last, but has gone on to the Horcrux. His eyes have gone wide and it is clear he's also seen the problem.
I reassert control of our interaction, carefully. It won't do to have the boy gibbering on his knees before we even get a chance to discuss the matter.
And oh God it occurs to me there are excellent reasons to have him on his knees.
I am again thankful, this time that he is no longer in contact with my train of thought. I put the thought far away from him, and from myself; it has no place here.
"Potter."
He looks up, evidently startled by my voice, then puts his glasses back on. "What the fuck am I going to do about that?"
"I assume you saw some possibilities. There are likely more; I am sure I did not envision every permutation of possible future in the instant I learned of the object." I keep talking as long as I think he's likely to let me, giving him time to stop his heart racing, giving myself time to look at him with the glasses and put an end to what I thought I saw when they were off, giving both of us time to come to terms with the apparent truth that I am, in fact, the sort of man who wishes to try to mitigate the damage. "Furthermore, I am only marginally familiar with how one works. It is likely Miss Granger--when she recovers--will have additional information."
"If she recovers soon, anyway," he mutters as I pause for breath.
Bugger.
"Is her injury grave?"
He frowns. "Not sure what's wrong with her."
"She's at St. Mungo's?"
"Yeah. I was giving Ron until today to get his arse back here," he begins, and I see that discussing this is less upsetting than the other, which is surely quite wrong, but it will do. He goes on, "but then, it looks like really he may be able to do me the most good by staying far away. In …I don't know. South America or something."
I nod. There isn't a good way to point out that really, it's been likely all along that his seconds could die at this game.
"Well. Perhaps… I could come to wherever you've secreted yourselves away, or, if that is intolerable, I've a number of …well. Actually, not a number. Two, of which I feel confident, secure locations to which you might come with me.
He shakes his head. "I need to go explain to Ron, then see--well. I have things to do."
He doesn't add, and like it or not, you're a wanted criminal that no one likes and virtually anyone would sell out for two knuts and a flagon of niffler piss, but then, it isn't as though I'm not well aware of my social standing. "I see," I say. "However, I believe you will need my assistance, one way or another, in dealing with this."
He reluctantly nods. "I suppose …we should meet again?"
"It seems a more reliable option than going our separate ways and hoping for the best, yes."
"Tomorrow? No. No, Wednesday."
I nod, and he turns to go.
For heaven's sake.
"Potter."
"What?" He looks over his shoulder.
"Wednesday is a rather broad parameter, given neither meeting time nor location."
"Oh. Uh. After lunch, I think. Two o'clock? And where do you think?"
"I'd rather not say aloud." I point my wand at him and put the location into his head, which makes him glare again, but it's a great deal more secure than simply speaking out for anyone who might be trying to overhear.
I take down the shield I put up around us, and leave the same way I came, walking out of the area then Apparating to a Floo. I try to avoid journeys of only two or three legs now; if someone wishes to follow me, I wish it to be time consuming enough that by the time I get where I'm going I'm likely to have a bit of a head start and a chance to prepare.
~~*~~
By the time Wednesday's meeting time arrives, it has been some forty-six hours since we were last together. I am early and have been waiting some ten minutes when he appears in the door, squinting into the dim interior of this little pub.
Old habits die hard; I appreciate the advantage of my already-adjusted eyes. It allows me a moment to look up and down him, and I again put away the image of him without the glasses, the image I've found irritatingly present in my mind during these two days.
He walks quickly to the table, sits down. "Well?"
"Hello to you, too." It isn't as though I spend a great deal of time contemplating the social niceties, but we aren't greatly in a hurry at the moment, and it makes sense to be at least cordial, as I suspect we'll be spending a bit of time together.
"'Lo." He orders a pint, and while I'd prefer his mind weren't dulled, I suppose one pint can't make a noteworthy difference.
It's also worth noting that, now that I see him from two feet away, he looks like he's been hand-wrung and left twisted in a corner to dry.
I signal for a pint of my own.
"Should we talk somewhere else?"
I shake my head; it would look like a rather different sort of rendezvous than it is if we met up for mere seconds and then left together. He nods, and we wait for our ale, as he apparently isn't entirely prepared to discuss the subject at hand.
"Hermione's not better," he says at length, taking his glasses off again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They don't know why not, and Ron… I told him to stay there while I did some, preliminary work was what I told him."
"In other words, you didn't tell him."
"No. I. It seems like this time it's mine to do, not like he's going to know anything about the subject, and besides, he should be there with her, although…"
I wait a moment for him to pick back up, but he does not, even after the girl brings our ale and heads once again away from the table. "Although what," I finally prompt.
"Although maybe I should see if there's somewhere outside of London…"
I don't point out he'd have to do that for everyone--he would, where I would suffer no such moral quandary--and it's not feasible even on a Wizarding scale, let alone the human scale he'd no doubt intend, and he doesn't pursue the subject. I conclude he simply needed to have said it, and nod.
Finally, he picks up his stein and sips, then sets it down and slides his glasses back onto his nose to look at me. "You know he was the one that got hurt, and she took him back up, first year. She got me through your test and then went with him. There's a sort of balance in the two of them, isn't there?"
I'm not clear on the purpose of this side journey down memory lane, but I hold my silence. It isn't as though the Horcrux is going anywhere, and while it would be best to deal with it before it becomes clear to Voldemort that I am actively working against him, time is not so short that I cannot indulge him at least this much.
Finally, he drinks down the last of his ale, puts up a serviceable Inaudibility charm, and looks me in the eye. "Have you thought of a way not to set off a fucking international disaster?"
I have not, and I don't think he expects anything else, so I shake my head.
He shrugs. "Me, either." He sounds defeated, and that won't do; we need him optimistic, and while I've no intent to turn him into a smaller, younger, prettier Albus, this depressed and hopeless mood won't do.
"Perhaps something will come to you."
"Hasn't yet. And believe me, I've been thinking about it. Have you?"
I lift one brow, a look that has proven quite effective with students.
"Right," he says. "And see, we've got nothing. We'll have to destroy it, and take out God only knows what, given where the damned thing is--"
"It's unfortunate it isn't located somewhere more …what is it?" He's just flinched, eyes narrowing at me.
"I have an idea."
I'm initially startled, but then, it occurs to me that the fact he has an idea doesn’t necessarily mean he has a good idea. I lift a brow. "Go on."
"It requires you. I'm better than I was, but I can't do what it would take, because it's going to mean a lot of getting information and memory charms." He grimaces as he says that last, and I can't say I blame him; as much general dread as the Unforgivable Curses engender, I've always found the notion of having my memory rearranged and stripped away at least as horrifying.
But he still hasn't said what he intends to do. I wait.
"I was thinking, if we could move it… I mean, if there were an "accident" while it was in transit, mightn't that be more likely to be seen as truly an accident?"
"Perhaps." I consider what I have learned about the topic in the past several days. "You might be more likely to know that than I."
"Right. I. We'd probably have to do some reading--"
"I've been doing. It seems the topic of circumstances under which there would not be a crisis is not much one upon which the news sources have focused." I manage to leave off speaking without remarking upon the astonishing development that is Harry Potter suggesting research.
"Where did you look?"
"The newspapers. The television box, although locating specific information in that has proved somewhat frustrating."
Harry frowns. "Maybe we should visit the library."
I cannot let it go unremarked twice. "Be still my heart. Do you not believe inquiries might raise alarms?"
He visibly opts not to rise to the bait, which I find a hopeful sign. "Yeah, but let's go back to the memory charms…"
"You wish to alter the memories of librarians?"
"No worse than--" He cuts off, apparently not sure what to make of my expression, and it occurs to me that in fact, I do believe it is worse to alter the memory of someone whose vocation--and possibly avocation--is to locate and order information, than to do the same to people who make a living as cogs in the machine of war, Muggle or Wizarding.
He doesn't pick back up, and I find myself reluctantly nodding. It has to be done.
We don't discuss the matter further, but rather, stand and leave together, stepping out into what has become a brisk afternoon, chilly and clear despite thin bright sun. With only a shared glance, with which we confirm we both know where we are going--which I believe surprises each of us, as regards the other--we turn in the direction of the local branch of the public library.
I hate that it is going to be my damned job to manage the erasure, but then, this does at least mean it will be done with care and precision. I won't remove anything I don't have to, and won't leave the victim fretful over missing time.
I hope.
~~*~~
It takes us the rest of the afternoon to come to understand the cataloging system (or rather, lack thereof) and organization of information on the "internet." The librarian seems unruffled to learn we don't know anything about it, so it is evidently relatively new technology, and she spends some time teaching us to use something called Alta Vista, limiting and broadening the scope of our searches.
She also teaches us how to perform searches by subject in the "on line catalog," and explains how to locate individual books. That part is straightforward enough, and takes only a few minutes to understand; it's the rest that is overwhelming.
To minimize the amount I must alter in our librarian's mind, we don't actually ask for what we really want to know. Instead, we learn using other topics, though this nearly falls apart when I forget it would seem odd, to a Muggle, to be concerned about how to distinguish a werewolf from a natural lupine creature. She laughs, and Potter gives me a look from behind her shoulder, and I blink and laugh with her; she apparently is convinced I am joking and pushes her hand against my shoulder in an overly familiar and friendly manner.
I manage not to shudder at the contact, which is just a well; upon consideration, I fear she'd have taken it as a frisson of suppressed desire or something equally distasteful, and then I'd really have had to set to work on her mind before she invited me for whatever Muggle women are likely to begin with. She goes back to explaining about limits, and I conclude I'm best off to leave this part to Harry as I go off to page through comfortable print indices gathering dust in the corner to the left.
I endeavor not to express my glee when I am first to locate a usable piece of information despite my use of methods apparently now deemed somewhat archaic. I write out my finding with a pen borrowed from the reference desk, an irritating thing that leaves blotches every few inches where the ball apparently is somehow imperfectly fit into the plastic tube.
He's only a few minutes later signaling that he's found something as well.
He is a great deal more obvious than I.
By the time we leave, we've located several books we think will help us understand what we will need to do, and have "printed out"--and what an odd thing that is, a whirring box which performs duplicating charms at a rate of six pages per minute--roughly two hundred pages of assorted details., besides the notes I have made by hand.
I do regret that there is no real choice but to simply shrink the books and take them with us. Somehow the doorway is aware we are taking them, which is startling, but she says she can see we don't have anything, so she thinks the machines around the door must be faulty. She lets us go on through.
We let her think what she thinks, and I only have to make minute adjustments in her memory to account for ways in which we are oddly unMuggle, and then again without discussion turn left outside to go back the way we've come. I tell him it makes the most sense for him to come back with me, and he agrees. He follows me easily, and offers no objection to my control of the Apparation, and then we are in my chilly flat shivering as we wait for the fire to warm the air.
I find it odd, how we're getting on; it isn't precisely typical for the pair of us to find ourselves wordlessly in agreement ever, and here we have been so all day.
He mentions, after several minutes here, that Ron will expect him by in the morning, and I nod. There's nothing unexpected there, and nothing to say to it. Supper is a heated loaf of bread with melted cheese and sausage stuffed inside; we wash it down with cheap wine and metallic-tasting water as we read before the fire, our toes warming adjacently on the single foot-stood arranged where we both can use it.
When we are both all but dozing over our texts, he yawns. "I can take the couch."
As if there is another option. I have a single rather unfortunately-sagging cot at this flat, this little couch, a table and one chair, and little else. "I imagine that will be more comfortable than the floor," I return. I can provide blankets, so I do, good ones, not shoddy transfigurations. "Good night," I say, surprising myself a bit.
It has been a great while since I have had occasion to wish anyone a good night.
I am not certain why I am pleased to learn he is now a quiet sleeper. I recall that once upon a time, he and his friends were often up and prowling, that Albus once told me he suffered nightmares, that his scar often woke him. I see none of that as he merely breathes, even and soft, the blankets curled into his fists under his chin. He seems to not even struggle to fall asleep, a fact I observe and then envy as it is not an ease I share. Still, the sense of gratification I experience isn't related to that, so much, as to the image that keeps returning to me. Vulnerable and trusting, and believing in, not me, certainly, but goodness in the abstract and its potential presence in my soul.
Some time long after midnight, I finally sleep, and when I wake, for the first time in months, it is to light outside my little window, to a feeling of having slept well. I'm uncertain what to think, but I'd rather have something than nothing. I am still exhausted, but that is constant, and I don't expect it to change until everything is over, for good or ill. I rise and set about poaching eggs.
Potter looks worse than I do, but he eats like the teenage boy he is: quickly and until there is not a crumb left. I finish my toast and sip my tea as he puts on his jacket and runs his hand through his entirely hopeless hair.
He stops at the door. "Be back around, I dunno, noon, I'd say. Maybe one."
I nod and commence paging through our notes and printed copies, which are entirely disorganized. "I shall have this collated by the time you return, then. You know where you are?"
"Can I get back in?"
I pause. He can't, actually. "I shall have to meet you away and bring you back in."
"Could just tell me where we are!"
I shake my head. It's absurd given I slept perfectly well in his presence, and I realize it even as I say no, but somehow I cannot take that step. I am too long practiced in concealing and keeping my counsel my own.
He rolls his eyes, but it is with a grin, and heaven help me if Harry bloody Potter doesn't appear to understand me.
We arrange to meet, and I commence organizing.
~~*~~
I've got it all arranged into cross-referenced sections by the time I must retrieve him. I've used duplicating charms to add sections from one to another, going both ways, and I think it is clear our best choice is going to involve creating circumstances under which the Horcrux must be moved by train or boat. Boat is more complicated, I believe, but also would leave less to do afterward. Neither option necessarily eliminates the problem of the international incident, but it's something.
And besides that, it gives him hope he won't have to set off another war to end this one.
He's somber when I bring him back into this flat--and later, we'll move from here; I've not got this far by staying in one place overlong--and I can see his visit with his friends was not an opportunity for good cheer. "Is she worsening, then?"
He nods, then shakes his head. "Not really. Just not improving, and Ron's about to go spare. I told him I'd got an unexpected lead that was going to be easier to chase down alone, but I think that just made him feel even more helpless. But I thought probably I shouldn't bring him back here, so--"
"You thought correctly."
"'M not a complete idiot," he grouses, and I shrug. I've no intention of apologizing for being firm about operational security.
He sits down hard and eats lunch mechanically, and I don't point out how likely it is everything is going to get a great deal worse before it gets better.
"I've not had to do without them before, you know?"
I blink. It would appear he is going to tell me about his troubles, and before I collect myself adequately to stop him, he's going on.
"I mean, at the Dursleys, the time with the Dementor, there was that, but as far as dealing with Voldemort, you know, they've been there all the time. First year, to get to the stone. Second year, Hermione was Petrified, but I had Ron, and third year, Ron was …well. You remember. Padfoot had bit him. But Hermione was with me to--" He breaks off and looks up. "Uh. You know about what happened there, right?"
I do, of course, in general. I'm not entirely clear on the details, but I don't need to know them now and I certainly don't wish to extend story time. "More or less," I agree.
"Right. And then, well. I don't guess they were really with me in the graveyard, but… they'd been right there getting me there. They were with me in the Department of Mysteries, and then, all this last year."
I've finally got my wits about me and put a stop to this. "Have you quite finished cataloging the adventures of Potter, Weasley, and Granger?"
"Bastard. I'm only saying, it's hard for me to work out--"
"Yes. I'm aware you aren't the brains of the operation."
He glares, and I feel we are, for the first time in three days, on familiar footing. "Yes, that's your job, but so far, I've been the one having ideas, so clearly that's not working out so well."
To my irritation, he has a bit of a point there. I cast about for ideas but find that, actually, I have nothing, so I suggest we go back to reading. Surely something else will strike us.
~~*~~
By the fourth night, we have combed through everything we have, printed and hand-written, and I've duplicated relevant portions of the books so we can return them. We've gone to a different library each day, and our collection has grown to some forty books to go along with the hundreds of printed pages. I stack the books, arranged by library, next to the door of my alternate flat, and consider where we should go tomorrow--we've been here as long as I dare stay in one place. "Potter?"
"Wouldn't kill you to call me by name," he says. His eyes are tired again--well, still, actually, and he takes off his glasses to rub at them before he sets about making up the bed. "What?"
I take up the glasses from where he's left them on the rickety crate that serves as an end table, holding them in my hand as he tucks in a coarse but adequate sheet. "I was given to understand you were terribly near-sighted."
"Am. That can't be what you were going to ask."
"No. I was going to ask where you thought we should go, tomorrow, after the library. But, if you are so near-sighted, why take off your glasses before you're ready to sleep?"
"I can find us someplace. No, before you panic--"
"I do not panic."
He smirks, and I know I've just been successfully baited, and that he in fact intended to tease. This kindles a warm glow in my belly, and it takes me a moment to return to the topic at hand.
"Anyway." Right. He was about to explain. "I've got rather good at finding us all places to stay. Us all being my friends and me. As for the glasses, I could make a bed without actually having my eyes open, I think. I have plenty of experience at household tasks, you know? I was the only one in the Dursley household who was a freak, after all, so my Aunt was free with her training in such tasks. You know, for my eventual life of freakish crime."
I recall his years with the Dursleys, and while I'm not at all shocked that his surrogate parents gave him work to do and treated him shoddily, I am annoyed about it.
Clearly this war has taken a toll on my sanity.
"Why did you take them off to--"
"To get inside your head? Because it's easier to focus there when I actually can't focus here," he says, gesturing toward his eyes. He shrugs, and I'm startled to realize this makes both physical and magical sense. I find myself wanting to clap the heel of my hand to my forehead for never having thought of it.
"Your idea?" I ask finally.
"Accident, really, but Hermione said it made sense," he says, turning to sit down and take off his shoes.
I don't know what else to say; we have more questions to answer in tomorrow's trip to the library, and nothing in particular to discuss now. "Do you want the first shower?" I finally ask.
He shrugs. "Up to you. Maybe you should go first tonight. You seem pretty tired."
If I look more tired than he does, it's surprising he's aware I'm not dead; I don't know why we both continue to get more and more exhausted, since we are sleeping relatively long and well. "No, I'll wait." I go and sit on the side of my cot and begin unlacing my boots while he goes into the little bath and turns on the water.
The next thing I know, he's back and shaking my shoulder, and two thoughts scramble into my head together. First, I've fallen asleep sitting there. Second, he's touching me, without my invitation or any warning, and I am not hexing him. I'm slipping.
I blink rapidly and resist shaking my head. "What did you--oh." He's got a towel around his shoulders and is wearing only pajama bottoms and his glasses.
"Your turn."
"I gathered." I stand and make my way to the bath, leaving him to settle onto the couch. His hair is still wet, but I suppose it doesn't matter that he sleeps on it like that; either way, it will be unruly and wild in the morning.
Not that this is relevant to anything.
The hot water feels good running down my skin, but I fear if I stay in here too long, I will fall asleep standing this time, so I wash quickly and dry with the rough towel, pulling my nightwear over my head and drying my hair with a straightforward charm so that I may not fear rising in the morning with a lock dried straight up off my scalp. It may be that my hair is greasy, but at least it's respectably un-absurd.
He is already asleep when I return and lie down, and I do not remember my head hitting the pillow.
In the morning, he shakes me awake, and it is clear we have slept into mid-morning, and he is concerned.
"Are you …all right?" He wants to ask something else, wants to ask if I'm dying, and if so, whether it's contagious, I imagine, but he sticks to just all right, and even if I know what he means, I don't answer what he doesn't ask. I tell him I shall be fine, and swing my feet quickly over the edge of the bed, standing too fast but refusing to allow my knees to buckle because I am going to prove I am fine.
I pretend I have him fooled, and he doesn't say anything aloud, so we see about a bit of brunch and discuss what we've left to do, after we take everything back to the library and have one more look at the areas where we've found the most useful materials.
~~*~~
It turns out the branches of the London libraries do not open on Sunday, nor on Monday. The central branch does, but it's well into the heart of London from here, and neither of us has the energy readily to spare, so we instead retire to a small eatery that appears to specialize in grease and potatoes. Even he gives the food a dubious look, when it arrives, but we tuck into it anyway, eating in silence for a time.
Finally, he asks. "Why are we so bloody tired? We're sleeping, and even if we're not exactly having a lie-in every morning, we're not lying about awake all night, so what's happening? Is it your flat?"
I've considered that it could be, somehow, but the sensation of being drained does not fade when we step outside, so it isn't that. "I don't know," I finally admit. "Are you less tired when you aren't with me?"
If it is me, then he'll have to do this alone, and I'm not sure that's going to work very well. Perhaps we could work out a timetable in writing, or I could make a list and he could--"Pardon?" He's been speaking while I've drifted off into potential approaches to remote communication.
"No, it's the same either way. Actually, I started getting tired the day after we met up, last week."
"Well. Perhaps it is me, but it's already in motion."
"I don't think so." He can't give a reason, but he seems convinced, and for reasons I don't understand, I am inclined to trust his instinct.
Well. Besides the reason that he's got along this far almost entirely on instinct, as it certainly hasn't been education or skill.
And he's speaking again, and I've missed it.
"--so I wonder if he's using that. Those. Whatever."
I frown. "What?"
"Well. He's not listening in on us. Or at least, not on me. I know what that feels like, and that's not it. But the connections me to him, and him to you--" he nods at my left elbow and I resist the impulse to slide my arm backward on the table and down onto my lap.
"And you think he's…"
He looks at me oddly; obviously he has just explained this, but he quickly decides to do it again. "I think he's using that to drain us. Slowly, you know, so like, I suppose if I were bleeding constantly, but from a very small wound, I might grow tired over the course of days or weeks, right?"
He has a point.
In fact, he almost certainly is correct. I know Voldemort can't find him by way of the connection marked by his scar, but he's said things many times that indicated he could to at least some extent feel him, and I can easily imagine that my clear defection--I didn't leave a note signed nyah nyah, I quit, but I am certain my means of departure made it apparent I was turning my cloak--in conjunction with the loss of the last Horcrux but this one, may have pushed him to try something desperate. Which is working. I open my mouth to say something, and lose all capacity to say anything but, "Well. Fuck."
"Yeah. It means we don't have any--"
"Time. We can't wait for a way to move the damned thing, unless you've got one now, and we can't wait for Miss Granger…"
He nods. "I don't. We'll have to destroy it where it sets, and hope for the best."
"I don't suppose you've had any ideas on how to destroy it."
He looks at me.
For a long time. I'm thinking I've said something stupid, but then he shakes his head. "I hope we can find out how to explode it from the people guarding it."
"And then go find him?"
"You think he can keep doing this to us?"
"Ah. Right. And it seems likely, if you succeed in this--"
"We."
"Even so. If we succeed in this, that he shall go to ground, and then, well. Either his slow drain will kill you, and I imagine that is one way to fulfill the terms of the prophecy, or you'll have to find him, which will be …a challenge. It isn't as though he hasn't hidden away for a long while, once before, and especially if he's worked out a way to get rid of you, it would just be a waiting game, for him."
"Fuck. I hate my life."
I am, oddly, relieved to hear him say something so self-centered and juvenile. It allows me to place myself again in the role of stern teacher, and it is easier for me to deal with our association that way. I take a moment to enjoy the irony of my selfish gladness for his selfish childishness before responding. "Potter. Your life is what it is, and sniveling about it won't… oh, what."
"Sorry." He drops the side of his mouth that has quirked up into almost a grin, and I frown, replaying my words to see what is funny.
Oh.
"I cannot believe you would laugh about--"
"I said, sorry. And actually, wasn't laughing about the name, was just amused you'd use the word, given the name. Thinking I must really have annoyed you, to bring it."
To my intense irritation, he once again has a point, and also, he's removed me from the teacher role, making us virtually equals again. "Fine. In any case, grumbling about it won't serve any purpose."
"I know. Still, it seems to make it more bearable to say how fucked it is out loud now and again."
"Oh, please. It isn't as though you have the market cornered on fucked."
"Well. Try it."
"Try what?"
"Saying how much you hate your life."
I sigh, but since we do have other things to discuss today, I acquiesce. "Fine. My life is less fun than a barrel of monkeys."
He snorts. "I think you can do better than that. I mean, your life is less fun than being digested over the course of a thousand years by the great Saarlac, too, so really, a barrel of monkeys doesn't begin."
I am distracted. "A great what?"
"Sorry. Old Muggle movie I saw once, before Hogwarts and all. Anyway. Try again."
"Fine. My life, which began with a great deal of rage, followed by poverty, disdain, poor choices, lack of respect, unconscionable acts, long mostly-fruitless efforts at redemption, and murder, among other things, has been phenomenally and utterly fucked."
"Feel better?" He seems a bit struck by my litany, but not silenced.
I can't possibly admit I actually do feel better, fractionally, but I do. "Not in any manner worth noting."
He looks at me and shakes his head. "How is it I ever couldn't see what you meant when you said-- You're a liar, Snape. It helped, just for a minute, and you know it."
"Fine. What has any of this to do with how you're going to resolve the problem?"
"How we are going to, and I've no idea. Too bad setting off the damned bomb won't off him, too."
"Unless." I stop. Huh. "Unless you kill two Horcruxes with one stone."
Go on to Part Two