The Thing About Trust
September, 1996.
The light of day was quickly fading with the sun pulling down dusk’s curtain over the sky, bathing it in lilac and periwinkle, which could be seen through the tall windows lining one side of the corridor. Silence lingered, for most students were curled up in their Common Room armchairs and enjoying their first Saturday of term. Not Harry, though. No, his footfalls against the ancient stone floor were the only sound to break this silence as he trudged his way to detention… internally swearing.
After five years of serving Snape’s detentions down in the dungeons, cutting up slugs or scrubbing cauldrons until he saw his own reflection in them, Harry had gotten so used to the route that his consciousness hadn’t even questioned his automated feet when he’d set out at promptly 19:55 to the dungeons. It had hit him only in the middle of his journey that Snape was no longer the Potions professor.
Harry’s colorful expletive had echoed loudly then.
Now, he was properly late and terribly out of breath, having had to run up at least five staircases, (missing out on two moving ones) to get to the second floor all the way down from the dungeons. This did not coincide well with the stupid butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
Breathless, when he finally skidded to a stop before the Defence Classroom there was an awful stitch in his side that felt like nails being screwed into him. To boot, Harry was sure his hip would be covered in bruises by morning from having had his satchel bouncing painfully against it in his run.
And he was loath to even think about how late he was.
But Harry didn’t dawdle much longer. With a painful grunt, he pushed the heavy oak door open and entered the classroom. The interior was painted blue from the evening outside; there was only a single sliver of warm light spilling through a small slit in the door leading to the office at the front of the room. Harry readjusted his satchel’s strap and willed his feet to make the trek up the small staircase. His knuckles hesitated before the door, but before he had much of a chance to make up his mind, it was suddenly swung open.
And there sat Snape behind what was now his desk, positively scowling at Harry with his hands crossed over his chest.
“Late, Potter.”
“I, uh, forgot you don’t teach Potions anymore, sir,” Harry explained, still a little breathless. “Got a bit lost there.”
Walking in, Harry quickly surveyed the office that he’d been in so many times now. The interior hadn’t changed much from how it had been before Umbridge’s reign in it, except now a bit more of the walls were covered in a few new bookcases, each looking quite full. The shutters were closed over all the windows. And the dark-wood desk was littered with an organized mess of stacks of parchment rolls, books, and a few quills.
Sitting behind said desk, Snape was looking at him, clearly scrutinizing his disheveled appearance — all the while Harry was still standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his school robes, only some jeans and his gray pullover. And no doubt that his hair was a crying mess; he could feel a bit of his bangs clinging to his forehead still.
Little did the boy realize that that was the least of which Severus’ focus was on.
Severus took notice of the boy’s face, still shallow and dark circles ever-present still under his eyes, though considerably smaller than he remembered them being… Then there was his near-emaciated figure. Although, again, the Weasley matriarch must have put in an effort, for the boy wasn’t as such a stick figure as he used to be.
And then there were those emerald-green eyes. Even still, guilt and regret pained him to meet them. Lily’s or Potter’s… Harry’s . They were still trapped behind those round spectacles, but at least the resemblance between this Potter and the late one was a lot less striking now then it had been a year or so ago.
Realizing a few awkward moments had passed, Severus gestured towards a high-backed chair in front of his desk. Potter, without protest, slipped his satchel off his shoulder, propping it up against the legs, and sat in it.
And suddenly, all words seemed to be eluding Severus, as unprecedented as it may have been.
Where to even begin?
Another moment passed as he considered his words, seeking his usual composure.
“It would appear,” said Severus in a dry tone, “that despite disembarking the train with a broken nose, you have arrived in one piece after all. A hopeful omen indeed.”
Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but he said nothing in reply. He could have blurted out ‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’, but then he really would be lying. So he opted for silence, staring at his lap.
Meanwhile, Snape was staring at Harry again. He could feel it. It unnerved him. Harry was growing uncomfortable, but right then the man took out his wand and summoned a small tea service, consisting of two porcelain cups and a teapot, which magically began serving them both tea.
“How are you?”
Harry was caught so off-guard by the question that he could have goggled at the man. ‘ How are you? ’?
“I’m… alright,” Harry answered tentatively. He grew even more confused at this eccentricism and suddenly couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Sir, I’m not really here for a detention, am I…?” he blurted out.
Snape looked at him bluntly. “No.” He pushed a cup of tea towards Harry. “Drink.”
Harry glanced down into the cup, steam wafting from it. A surge of nostalgia suddenly hit him — it was that same calming tea Snape would make him during his brief stay with him. He lifted it, blew on the surface, and took a timid sip. Silence reigned again.
“At least,” Snape began after a moment, “contrary to what every other soul in this castle is to know.”
A weak smile tugged at Harry’s lips at this, his chest feeling a little lighter. “Honestly, sir, I doubt anyone would believe if I told them I was having tea with you. I’d be sent straight to St. Mungo’s.”
To his surprise, a smirk ghosted the man’s lips. Yet just as quickly, it faded; he interlocked his fingers on his desk in front of him.
“Assigning you detention was the only means I saw of arranging for us to meet. Granted, it was no feat, though you should consider yourself fortunate that there are more pressing matters than doing lines for your display of blatant cheek… not to mention firing at a professor — which I have chosen to overlook,” the man drawled.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly want to get jinxed by you. Sir,” said Harry more defensively.
Snape’s lips thinned just a bit as he appraised Harry thoughtfully for a short moment. “I had predicted your reaction. It was a necessary move. You weren’t giving me many reasons to assign you detention, so I had to resort to more… provocative means.”
Harry’s eyes widened a bit. “So you wanted me to do that?”
A sly smirk played across Snaoe’s features. “ Perhaps . I assure you, I am not usually so easily knocked back by a Sixth-Year… Apropos of this, how is your magic?”
That earlier pebble returned to Harry’s stomach at the reminder of his predicament. In his lap, he fiddled with his fingers, avoiding the man’s gaze.
“It’s… better,” he said tentatively, growing more decisive towards the end. “I can cast spells more or less alright now. Dumbledore had Moody train me at the Burrow… sometimes my magic would act up; sometimes it wouldn’t, but I don’t think Dumbledore’s told anyone much about my ‘problem’, because Mad-Eye never brought it up, nor did the Weasleys. And I haven’t told anyone yet, either.”
Harry watched as Snape’s eyebrows contracted a bit, his lips thinning as he briefly glanced sideways, as if in deep thought. Were Harry to guess, he would say that this piece of news far from appealed to the man. It was no surprise, though; it was obvious to anyone who had ever seen the two wizards in the same room that Snape’s and Mad-Eye’s relationship was no better than Umbridge’s with decent morals.
“Let it remain this way. It is for the better,” replied Snape finally. “The less people know, the less exposed you are, so to speak.”
“I know that. But what if…” Harry’s voice dropped a bit. “What if it happens again? With my magic. What if it starts to get even worse? What would I tell—”
Snape held up a silencing hand, appearing calm. “That should not be an issue. I meant what I told you about supplying you with that potion I’d brewed for you — assuming you still require it and that it has proven substantive.”
Gratitude filled Harry, relief accompanying it. He missed peaceful rest. Rest. Such a privilege it seemed to him lately. He nodded his head appreciatively. “I’d like that, sir.”
The man nodded likewise. The air between them felt somehow lighter now, and Harry allowed his rigid poster to relax a little, reclining back in his chair. There was a relief of some of those earlier knots in his stomach. It felt as if part of a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest.
“Professor, why am I really here?” he asked in curiosity, playing with the ear of his cup.
Snape tapped his desk with his finger, again appearing to be weighing something or other.
“There are several matters I believe it prudent we discuss. Starting with, for instance—” Snape’s gaze locked on Harry, set and hard — “what was your head, along with Granger’s and Weasley’s, doing in Knockturn Alley?”
Harry promptly choked a bit on his tea, having chosen then to take another sip. He stared in bemusement at Snape across the desk, dumbfounded, with tea dripping down his chin.
“How— How did you—?”
“Suffice to say, I happened to be in the area and spotted you and your friends hurrying from Knockturn Alley. So, pray tell, Mr. Potter,” said Snape cooly, leaning menacingly across the desk on his palms, “ what had you forgotten there?”
“What had you forgotten there?” Harry fired back. His chest jolted with instant regret at what had just escaped his mouth, however. Snape’s eyes narrowed in clear warning.
“My patience isn’t limitless; answer the question, Potter.”
The chair he was sitting on was suddenly the most uncomfortable thing Harry had ever sat on in his life. His mind went into overdrive, weighing furiously whether he should tell Snape what he’d seen or not.
On one hand, this might be beneficial information to the Order.
On the other, there was a really big chance Snape would be even more pissed with him.
But the pros, he decided, outweighed the cons. He quickly decided on the former option. Malfoy was up to something, and Harry was willing to do whatever it took to stop him, that Death Eater.
“We followed Malfoy,” he blurted out. In his periphery, he noted Snape’s eyes narrowing, then growing wider. Regardless, Harry carried on. “We saw him and Mrs. Malfoy in Diagon Alley. They were looking all dodgy, so we decided to follow them. They went into Borgin and Burke’s. We saw through one of the windows other Death Eaters there, not just the Malfoys…”
“Do you realize,” Snape began in a low tone, ”just how exceedingly lucky you got? You could have been seen!”
“But we weren’t. We were careful. I — we had my Cloak,” Harry defended. In his periphery, he saw Snape pinch the bridge of his nose, giving his head a small shake.
“Of all the foolish, idiotic things— Potter, and precisely what happened on the train?”
“Uh—”
“ Harry. ”
His head involuntarily snapped up. Harry swallowed a thick wad of saliva, still feeling it in his throat. “I hid on one of the luggage racks, under my Cloak. When we arrived in Hogsmeade, Malfoy waited until the place was empty and, uh, stupefied me. Then he covered me with the cloak and left. Had it not been for Tonks...” Before Snape could butt in another reprimand, Harry took a bracing, mental breath at what he was about to confess next.
“I eavesdropped on Malfoy, Zabini, and Parkinson. Slipped into their compartment. Malfoy said he ‘won’t be seen wasting his time in Charms Class next year’.”
He wasn’t looking at Snape, only resolutely at his cup of the barely-touched tea. He was willing to admit that he was lacking the willpower to meet the other’s eyes.
“I suppose this is what led to your detour ? That bloody-nosed evening stroll of yours?”
Harry internally cringed. All he could do was shrug, though he also felt himself growing frustrated. Didn’t Snape care about what Malfoy was up to, or about what Harry had just told him? Who cared if his nose got broken by Malfoy’s boot? He was sitting there, waiting. He tried to straighten up his posture to look more confident, praying that Snape was considering Harry’s words pertaining to Malfoy…
He felt something in his stomach sink at the look on Snape’s face. It practically shone with disapproval, his lips tight.
“You foolish boy, did I not tell you not to involve yourself? Has it not occurred to you that now Mr. Malfoy knows you are suspecting him?”
To this, Harry said nothing. His gaze only hardened stubbornly. “Malfoy’s up to something. Something big. Admit it: you don’t know what he was doing in Borgin and Burkes.”
“That is no concern of yours. You ought to learn to curb that insufferable hero complex of yours.”
“I don't have a hero complex—”
“Silence!” the man hissed.
Dead silence fell over them. Harry stilled; everything seemed to have.
He hated this. Everything: how everything was getting out of control, how it felt like Harry was watching whatever truce or civility the two of them had established over that fortnight crumbling, chipping away bit by bit.
And of all things— It seemed surreal, laughable even, that just shy of a month ago, this hooked-nosed man had been offering Harry help and guidance, even comfort at times.
And he had no one to blame for himself. Maybe there really was something deeply wrong with him. An insufferable, arongat trait so off-turning that…
Deep sadness touched down on Harry. Just like water, all the fight seeped out of him. Feeling his cheeks burning, he stared at his lap, wishing to leave and yet wishing Snape would say something… anything .
Fortunately, Snape suddenly cleared his throat, allegedly to regain some composure. When he spoke again, his voice was significantly lower and somewhat affirming. “Professor Dumbledore and I are monitoring the situation closely. I do not wish for you to put yourself in unnecessary danger.” Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Snape deftly held up a halting hand. “On that note, this new information will be taken into account.”
Harry paused. There was something about Snape’s phrasing that had struck him.
“I do not wish for you to put yourself into unnecessary danger.”
…I do not wish…
Meanwhile, he nodded mechanically. If Snape would at least consider this information, it was better than nothing.
“Is that it, sir?” Harry asked hopefully.
Snape looked at him again, as if studying him. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately… Now, his posture seemed a bit tense.
“No,” he replied shortly. His head darted to his right, where nothing in particular lay, and Harry saw his lips tighten. “Pertaining to your… predicament… ” he slowly began.
“You haven’t found anything, have you?” Harry inferred.
Something deep flashed in the Slytherin’s dark eyes. It could have been remorse.
“Not as of yet, no.” Snapw sighed heavily, meanwhile the boy’s stomach plummeting with disappointment. “Your case is unprecedented, to say the least. It is not something to be found in books… For such a reason, I believe it prudent to attain a more… practical approach .I may need to conduct deeper research. Frankly, the only viable option is for me to occasionally assign you detention in order to do so, so as not to arouse suspicion.”
“Detention?” parroted Harry. “And what do you mean by ‘practical approach?” he asked suspiciously.
“It would appear that theory alone has not brought about, nor will, any substantive results. I have several potential ideas — for which I shall need to run tests—”
“So in other words, I’m going to be your lab-rat.”
Snape looked at him shrewdly. “I daresay not. Rats tend to be unreliable test subjects, moreover ,” he stressed on Harry opening his mouth, “I do not believe you have many other options.”
This far from satisfied Harry; he felt his jaw tightening, irritation sizzling in his chest. It was bad enough that everyone was constantly gawking at him and his scar in the corridors, and now he was going to be an experimental prototype, regardless of the reason.
And what if it all turned out to be a fruitless endeavor? Maybe he and Snape would just be wasting their time on something that wasn’t even possible… It felt pointless to Harry. If Dumbledore wasn’t able to find a solution — Dumbledore , as in the greatest Light wizard of the century — then what hope was there that Snape would?
A sudden feeling of defeat overcame Harry. It frustrated him to no end; he could practically feel his chest itching and burning with it as if it were some kind of nasty rash…
At precisely that moment, there struck a perfect coincidence. Harry had just so happened to catch sight of an old clock hanging on the wall behind Snape. It read ten till eight.
Harry had to — wanted to — leave.
“Uh, sir, I’ve gotta go. I have a meeting with Dum— Professor Dumbledore...”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Might I inquire as to why?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, but Harry eventually reached into his pocket for Dumbledore’s letter. Snape rose from his seat and took it, his eyes scanning over the short missive. A short moment later, he was handing the letter back to Harry, eyeing it somewhat cynically. Harry was just on the verge of leaving, but refrained at the look on Snape’s face. There seemed to be something the man wanted to say, though it remained impotent.
“Very well,” he nodded in the end. Harry nodded uncertainly and bent down for his satchel, then quickly turning to leave—
“Po— Harry, wait.”
The name caught him off guard. At the threshold and hand resting on the doorframe, the Gryffindor halted. He turned himself halfway to Snape, who was now standing behind his desk. For a beat, the man wore that same look as he’d had earlier, as if he couldn’t decide on the right words. He almost seemed reluctant to let him go. It reminded Harry of that look he’d worn when he’d been about to leave Spinner’s End.
His next words surprised him.
“...I need you to trust me.”
The words settled as heavily on Harry’s chest as sediment.
To trust…
Hadn’t Harry already told him that he’d try? Wasn’t that enough?
To trust…
The thing about trust was that it was a high-stakes investment. You could either gain, or you could lose everything and hit rock-bottom.
What guarantee did he have that Snape wouldn’t wash his hands of Harry at his own convenience? What if he just changed his mind? He couldn’t afford to just put his trust into the man who had been belittling and bullying him since his First Year merely for looking like his father.
Though a part of him, buried deep down and hidden away in the most wistful recesses of his mind, he wanted to.
To trust… To trust someone like Ron trusted his parents. To trust like he’d wanted to trust Sirius.
So there Harry stood, his vocal chords contracting the speech that was stuck in his throat. Because he didn’t know what words to choose that wouldn’t jostle this precarious stack of cards that was their tenuous relationship. He could not bring himself to repeat his promise of trying, nor could he bring himself to promise the man that he would.
With an air of awkwardness, Harry bobbed his head once and hurried down the stairs from the office. He let his feet carry him in determined, though half-conscious, strides to the next fresh hell that awaited him tonight.
~***~
“Acid Pops.”
As custom, the ugly gargoyle, with a low grumble, leapt aside, the wall behind it sliding apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase being revealed. Harry stepped onto the first stair and automatically rightened his satchel’s strap over his shoulder. After the conversation with Snape, he felt strange. Tired, mostly. But he refused to ponder on that right now.
Because as of now, he was wondering what Dumbledore could possibly be summoning him for. For some inexplicable reason, Harry had the premonition that it had something to do with Dumbledore being Harry’s legal guardian now…
That fact was still a hard pill for Harry to swallow.
And it felt… so messed up. It was but a formality. Not only that, but the fact alone that Dumbledore was, essentially, preparing Harry like some… animal for slaughter… It left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth; made his insides burn with an inexplicable emotion.
It hadn’t even occurred to Harry that he’d arrived at the door until several moments of him staring blankly at the brass knocker had passed.
The Gryffindor drew a deep breath. He took care to check that his face was as blank as he could get it to be before knocking thrice on the door. And at Dumbledore’s voice, he entered the circular office.
“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking in.
“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said Dumbledore, smiling. He was sitting behind his desk, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I hope you’ve had an enjoyable first week back at school?”
“Yes, thanks, sir,” replied Harry. He settled in his usual armchair opposite the headmaster.
Harry briefly glanced around the room with his eyes, a lump of guilt accompanied a tinge of shame on his cheeks. The delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore’s magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching Harry with bright interest… The last time he’d been here, he’d utterly trashed the whole place, destroying the now-fixed silver trinkets and artefacts sitting on the shelves or the desk.
That moment in time seemed so long ago, just not the feelings. No, to this day, Harry oftentimes still felt the grief he’d felt on that fateful day. It mostly resurged raw in his dreams and nightmares.
“You must have been busy, a detention under your belt already!” Dumbledore’s voice jostled Harry out of his thoughts.
“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern; he seemed to have decided to spare him.
“Ah. I understand it’s all the excitement of being back for another term. Forgive an old man’s curiosity, Harry… but dare I ask what happened?”
Harry could feel his cheeks coming on with a flush. So, apparently not completely spared.
“Well, we were practicing nonverbal disarming. When Sna— Professor Snape aimed his wand at me to demonstrate, I sort of… knocked him back.”
Dumbledore’s eyes grew large, twinkling. “Ah. I think the saying ‘the student has become the master’ is rather fitting here,” he said with an amused chuckle. Harry cracked a smile. But after a pause, the old wizard’s expression grew sterner.
“Yes, apropos of this, how have you been finding your first week back, Harry? I am, primely, referring to your magic’s performance. Alastor Moody has reported to me that you have made progress.”
Harry nodded to confirm this.
“Excellent. And — I trust — you found those lessons enjoyable?”
“Uh, yeah— yes. He’s a good teacher. It’s only too bad he couldn’t have actually taught Defense…”
“Unfortunately so,” agreed Dumbledore. “Which is precisely why I think it best for you to continue training with him. I realize you must have a busy schedule as it is, but I am certain you will manage to allocate one hour per week for lessons with Alastor Moody. Though he’s gone on a trip for me and won’t return until later this month… Alas, that is not all. I should also like for us to hold— for want of a better word — lessons of our own, Harry. Though not the kind you probably have in mind right now.”
Harry’s interest immediately piqued at this. “What will you be teaching me, sir?”
“I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information.”
A pause. Frustration churned in Harry’s stomach.
“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything.” It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added.
“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.”
“But you think you’re right?” inferred Harry.
“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly larger.”
“...Sir,” began Harry tentatively, fidgeting with a loose thread of his sleeve, “does what you’re going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me . . . survive?”
Dumbledore’s face donned a grimmer look. “It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy, and I certainly hope that it will help you to survive.”
The old man rose to his feet and proceeded to walk around the desk, past Harry. He was now bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened back up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim.
He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry, but then stopped. Harry could feel his electric-blue gaze studying him, like a laser scanner raking over him. Harry surreptitiously avoided his eyes.
“You look worried,” the man observed.
Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though highly instructive, had also been far less than pleasant. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished, something which continued to plague his mind still.
But to his surprise, and even slight annoyance, Dumbledore was smiling. “This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“For a trip down Bob Ogden’s memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance.
“Who was Bob Ogden?”
“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry . . .”
But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: his injured hand seemed stiff and painful.
“Shall — shall I, sir?”
“No matter, Harry —” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out.
“Sir — how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity.
“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. I am afraid you shall have to wait a while longer. After all, it is such a thrilling tale, one I do not wish to spoil for you before the time is ripe. And now, we have an appointment with Bob Ogden.”
Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered mesmerizingly, neither liquid nor gas.
“After you,” invited Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl.
Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance.