Lab Rat
Late-September, 1996.
The middle of September blew into late September with furious winds blasting in from the north, rustling the yellowing leaves on the trees. The school year was in full swing, and stacks of homework were only piling up, especially for the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh-Years. On top of all the homework and studying, there was also Quidditch practice, run by the newly appointed Gryffindor Captain — Harry himself.
The tryouts for the team had already taken place some weeks ago, and although Harry still thought that it could have gone smoother, he was still happy with his team.
The morning of the tryouts, half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who had been nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms to seventh years who had towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. Amongst the latter had also been a large, wiry-haired boy Harry had recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express — Cormac McLaggen, the team’s Keeper, who, as it had turned out, had been expecting preferential treatment from Harry because they were both part of the Slug Club.
After about two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell (having returned to the team after an excellent trial); a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot.
Harry had shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and had had to endure a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.
“That’s my final decision and if you don’t get out of the way for the Keepers I’ll hex you,” he’d bellowed.
Looking back at his choices in hindsight, Harry was pleased, though neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George. Still, Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Harry’s head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well.
Next had been the Keeker tryouts, which Harry had saved for last. To his delight (and a girl’s named Lavender Brown), Ron had saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row… McLaggen hadn’t taken the news well that he was no longer Seeker.
“His sister didn’t really try,” McLaggen had said menacingly, a vein pulsing in his temple like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle Vernon’s. “She gave him an easy save.”
“Rubbish,” Harry had remarked coldly. “That was the one he nearly missed.”
McLaggen had taken a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time. “Give me another go.”
“No. You’ve had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron’s Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way.
Since then, Harry had been holding Quidditch practice a few times each week, really depending on the team’s class schedule and workload. Things were sailing smoothly now.
But then, another dilemma had arisen:
Since neither Harry, Ron, nor Hermione were taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, this had visibly upset Hagrid, who seemed to have been avoiding the trio lately, sometimes even ignoring them when greeted.
“We’ve got to go and explain,” Hermione had said, looking up at Hagrid’s huge empty chair at the staff table one Saturday at breakfast.
“We’ve got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” Ron had exclaimed. “And we’re supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?”
“We didn’t hate it!”
“Speak for yourself, I haven’t forgotten the skrewts,” Ron had muttered darkly. “And I’m telling you now, we’ve had a narrow escape. You didn’t hear him going on about his gormless brother — we’d have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we’d stayed.”
“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” Hermione had said, looking upset.
“We’ll go down after Quidditch,” Harry had assured her.
And so it had been settled.
Later that same day, the three of them had trudged down the grounds to Hagrid’s hut. They’d knocked, but to no avail, even though it had been evident that Hagrid had been in there. Harry had resorted to rather drastic measures and had threatened to blast open the door.
Spoiler, that hadn’t happened. But Hagrid had finally opened the door for them. There had been a lengthy conversation, but at least one that had resulted in reconciliation between the four.
Back in the present day, where everyone was sitting in the Great Hall at breakfast, Ginny suddenly slid into a seat beside Harry, plopping down her bag beside her. She’d brought what turned out to be the morning’s Daily Prophet with her.
“Have you guys seen the Prophet?” she asked without preamble. Harry groaned in his throat.
“Anything new?” he asked.
“A few things, actually. Dad’s in here. — he’s all right!” she added quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. “It just says he’s been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eater’s residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.’”
“Yeah, mine!” exclaimed Harry. “I told him at King’s Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it’s not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him —”
“But how can he have done, Harry?” interrupted Hermione with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren’t we?”
“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn’t!”
“Oh no, of course you weren’t, I forgot you were late. . . . Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can’t have brought in anything dangerous!”
Momentarily stymied, Harry reached for his goblet and broodingly drank.
“Also,” said Ginny again, “did you hear? Mad-Eye’s coming to Hogwarts.”
Harry’s draught of pumpkin juice went down the wrong pipe. He promptly choked on it and broke into a coughing fit, cold liquid dripping down his chin. Someone was patting him on the back — he was acutely aware it wasn’t Hermione or Ron.
Having calmed, he mentally reeled back in shock. Moody’s coming here was supposed to have been a secret. How on earth had Ginny ‘heard’ about it? Harry had told Ron and Hermione not to tell anyone…
“What d’you mean?” asked Harry. He was trying to appear casually dubious.
“I overheard McGonagall and Snape talking about it on my way down here. Snape didn’t sound happy at all. Should have seen the look on his face.” The girl glanced around them and leaned in closer to the group. “They were talking about something that happened this summer. Something about a meeting. Sounded like Snape and Mad-Eye had had a row.”
Harry’s mind immediately flashed back to the two weeks he’d spent at Snape’s. He couldn’t help but wonder if this ‘meeting’ had happened then.
“Yeah, well,” commented Ron, “you can’t exactly put a hippogriff and a dragon into a cage and expect them to have tea, can you?”
“Wonder what Mad-Eye’s doing here… unless he’s going to give you more lessons, Harry?” asked Ginny, turning to the bespectacled boy.
Well, cat’s out of the bag now, he thought. But really, what would it hurt to tell Ginny?
“Uh, yeah. I actually have a lesson with him this evening… Just don’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, no. Well, there go my plans,” Ginny said, smiling dryly.
“Well, who knows?” interrupted Ron in much the same tone. “Since you and Dean seem to be so close these days—”
Harry watched Ginny’s cheeks flush and eyes narrow at her brother. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. And I wouldn’t go tattling such important things to him — or anyone, you prat.”
Ron’s face turned the shade of his hair. “Oi—!”
“Oh, break it up, you two!” chided Hermione. Harry took this as his opportunity to make a quick escape. He gathered up his satchel, gulped down the rest of his juice, and rose from his seat.
“I think I’m gonna get to class early—”
“Let’s walk together? I actually wanted to ask you something,” Ginny interrupted; she’d also stood, tossing her bag over her shoulder.
“Er, sure. No problem…” Harry gave Ron a small shrug and waved to him and Hermione as he followed the redhead out through the doors of the Great Hll. The loud chatter and tinkling of cutlery quickly faded; the pair was now making their way down an empty corridor.
“Have you received anything from Slughorn?” Ginny asked after a few moments.
“Slughorn? Uh, no. Wait… Oh, no, don’t tell me—”
In his periphery, she looked vaguely annoyed. “Well, he’s invited me to another dinner. Apparently, he was very impressed with my flying… Careful, you’re next.”
“Brilliant,” Harry grumbled. He knew that Slughorn was bound to invite him — his ‘crown jewel’. “He hasn’t told me anything yet, actually. But I have double-Potions later today. I doubt he’ll miss the opportu—”
His voice broke off at the sound of raised voices. He and Ginny exchanged a glance and sped up. At the end of the long corridor was a group of Second and Third-Years, cornered up against the wall. There was a Slytherin and two Hufflepuffs, judging by their badges and ties. Towering over them were two Slytherins, several years older than their prey. Harry recognized them as Fifth-Years.
“ —d traitor. What are you even doing in Slytherin? Defending such filth.”
“The only filth here is your ugly mouth, Colles. Leave them alone—” cried the smaller Slytherin.
The older Slytherin bared his teeth. And to Harry’s horror, he drew his wand in a sharp movement.
“Ugly, huh? I’ll show you—”
“Expelliarmus!”
The wand sailed right out of the boy’s hand. It clanked loudly against the stone, rolling away. All heads were trained on Harry and Ginny now.
“Well, isn’t this something? Boy-Who-Lived’s come to save the day, ey?”
“Leave those students alone, Colle,” said Ginny. “They didn’t do anything to you. Or was McGonagall’s detention last week not enough to solve your little attitude problem?”
“Careful, Weasley . Aren’t you and your family already at the top of You-Know-Who’s filth hit-list?”
Wild, hot rage surged in Harry’s chest. In that moment, he wasn’t thinking straight. He was already training his wand at the slug—
Until it was his own wand flying out of his grasp.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
Snape was striding towards the spectacle now, wearing a shrewd look on his shallow face that made him look curious, annoyed, and amused all at the same time. Harry’s stomach did an uncomfortable somersault.
“Potter attacked me,” spoke Colle at the first opportunity. He was pointing at his wand on the floor.
“He disarmed you ,” corrected Ginny. “He wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been about to do something worse to those students.”
To Harry’s bemusement, Colle’s features relaxed. He gave an innocent shrug. “What students? I was just on my way to Potions Class.”
Harry realized then that the three students were nowhere to be seen. He assumed they must have scampered off when they’d had the chance. When he turned back to face Snape, the man’s dark eyes were scrutinizing the scene. They travelled between Colle, his wand, the spot where the students had been, and finally came to rest on Harry.
“Let us see… Five points from Gryffindor and a detention for Mr. Potter,” he said icily, “for instigating unprovoked attacks on students.”
The blood drained from Harry’s insides.
“But—”
But he stopped short when he felt Ginny tapping his heel with her foot. Instead, he heroically swallowed down his protests, which were left to simmer in his navel, pleading to burst out but rendered impotent.
“Yes?” the man drawled smoothly. “Something you wish to add?”
Harry clenched his fists tightly at his sides, feeling them trembling. “No. Sir.”
“Then I expect you at seven promptly in my office tomorrow.” Snape turned to Colle with a curt glance. “As you were, Mr. Colle.”
“Yes, Professor Snape.”
The boy bent down to pick up his wand and left, but not without brushing Harry with his shoulder as he passed, an unmistakable triumphant smirk on his smug face. Snape didn’t offer Harry or Ginny another glance. He pivoted on his heel after the retreating student, his cloak billowing in his wake.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Ginny after a moment. “You know how it is with Snape and his Slytherins.”
“Snape would have found an excuse to give me detention anyway,” said Harry. He went over to pick up his wand, turning it over to check for any damage. A bit more quietly, he added, “Besides, he insulted you… and your family.”
“Half the Slytherin House is like that, and Colle’s a right prat. But I don’t let it get to me too much.” She frowned as they continued walking down the corridor, which was quickly filling with students. “It’s sad that there’s so much prosecution going on because of blood status. It’s actually what the Sorting Hat warned us about during its song. It’s too bad you missed it…”
They had just reached an intersection, where students were quickly starting to fill the space as each tried to navigate their way to class. Ginny suddenly stopped in her tracks; she craned her head over the crowd and waved at someone that Harry couldn’t see.
“There’s Hannah Abbott. She’s a Hufflepuff Prefect. I’m gonna ask her to keep an eye out on Colle and talk to those two Hufflepuffs and Slytherin since Snape and his Prefects are pretty useless here. See you around, Harry.”
Harry watched her blend into the mass of students.
~***~
The rest of the day passed as normally as it could have, without any further mishaps. The morning’s events had been stuck in Harry’s head for the better part of the morning, but they had, fortunately, since faded to the back of his mind.
Dinner had just ended, and all the students were filing out of the Great Hall to either find good library seats or head back to their dormitories. The same couldn’t be said for Harry, however. He was now waving to Ron and Hermione, his satchel swung over his shoulder, and setting out for the seventh floor.
He’d received a note from Dumbledore earlier that Moody could finally take up his lessons with Harry as early as Monday. This was quite a relief because Harry’s Monday evenings were hitherto free.
Dumbledore’s note had also included instructions on what to think about to gain entry to the Room of Requirement, where the lessons were to be held. Initially, Harry had been quite surprised at this, but he’d come to argue that the decision did make sense. Though it was rather ironic that it was where he’d held those DA lessons last year.
Harry finally stopped in front of an empty wall, his back facing the tapestry of Barnabas the Barby trying to teach trolls ballet. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and concentrate on what the note had told him to. And lo and behold, having passed the tapestry three times, in the ‘empty’ wall now stood a door. Harry readjusted the hold on his satchel and entered.
Inside he found an empty, classroom-sized room. There wasn’t much to look at, other than that there was a small sitting area on the far end, in some corners were a few dummies, and the floor was wooden instead of stone. Harry’s eyes quickly fell on Mad-Eye’s unmistakable form, rising out of an armchair and limping his way towards him.
“Ah. Potter. Good to see you,” he greeted in his gruff voice, proffering his hand to Harry, who shook it.
“Good to see you, too, sir,” Harry smiled.
“Enjoying your classes? I know Snape’s Defense professor now — Want’cha to keep an eye on him. Barmy idea of Dumbledore’s, barmy !” The ex-Auror shook his head vigorously and took out a flask, unstoppered it, and took a swig.
The sight dropped an unsettling pit in Harry’s stomach, a feeling of déjà vu, but the man must have caught the look on his face, for he quickly said, “Not to worry — it ain’t Polyjuice. Romanian Firewhiskey. Aged for over 700 years under a sleeping dragon’s belly. Got some as a souvenir on my recent trip… Want some, son? Though I ought to warn you, it’s got a kick.”
The Auror didn’t even bother waiting for Harry’s answer; he snuck the flask right under Harry’s nose. The scent of strong alcohol immediately pierced through Harry’s senses. He tried his best not to gag.
Yep, definitely not Polyjuice Potion. But nor was it pumpkin juice.
“You — Dumbledore said that you were on a mission… You went to Romania?”
The man re-stoppered the flask and tucked it away into his thick trench coat. “Aye. Had to help out Lupin with those werewolves — he got into a bit o’ trouble…”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
Moody batted his hand. “Nothin’ you should worry about. He’s alright. But we’ve lost the werewolves to Voldemort’s side. I knew it all along, the ruddy dogs… Anyway, that’s Order business. We’re here so that you kill that monster and end all this rubbish once and for all. C’mon — wand out! Starting position!” he barked.
Harry tossed his satchel aside and drew his wand, tucked away securely in the wrist holster Snape had given him. He and Mad-Eye were several paces apart now.
Just like this summer, a duel commenced between the two wizards. No warning, no preamble. Moody fired off the first attack — a red jet of light. Harry sidestepped it and cried an Expelliarmus. Moody blocked it, of course, but at least the spell was successful on Harry’s part. Harry followed up with an Alarte Ascendare (which Moody had shown him a month ago). It collided with Moody’s own spell, who quickly sent another nonverbal spell at him. Harry blocked it, though somewhat clumsily…
Seven minutes in, Harry could feel his body running on adrenaline, his clothes grossly damp. But he’d since started to notice that his attacks were growing weaker and more sluggish, his wand more often noncompliant with his command.
The duel commenced with a force knocking Harry backwards square in the stomach. He unceremoniously collapsed, his wand audibly rolling away. There he sat, panting.
“Not too shabby, Potter.”
Moody limped towards him and offered a hand, which Harry took, and then proceeded to conjure a goblet of water for him. Harry savored the cold relief soothing his throat.
“Thanks… Sir, I wanted to ask… Have you ever heard of a spell called ‘Levicorpus’? It’s supposed to be nonverbal.”
He watched Moody’s face contort in a thoughtful grimace, his magical eye whirling in its socket.
“Can’t say I have. I’m assuming you couldn’t find the answer in a book?”
Here, Harry hesitated. “Uh… Just heard it. Thought you’d know, sir,” he shrugged.
“Sounds pretty self-explanatory — to ‘levitate’ a ‘corpse’. But listen, kid, it don’ sound like a friendly spell to me. Nonverbal spells have usually been designed to catch enemies off-guard. I wouldn’t go trying it out, if I were you. Must be dark stuff… Then again…” the ex-Auror mussed with a bit of a mischievous smirk on his features, “I say the more you know, the better. It might require a special wand movement, but you go and give it a try anyway.”
Not really believing his luck, Harry stepped forward somewhat hesitatingly and trained his wand at a dummy. He concentrated on it and thought the incantation with all his might… But nothing happened. This silence stretched for a good minute.
“I suck at nonverbal spells.”
“Or the spell’s a fluke. Either way, don’t go trying it out on your own. And always watch your back. I don’t trust those Slytherins — bet you anything that spell came from them. Constant vigilance, Potter… Right then, let’s have another go.”
The next half hour passed in much the same manner. By the time it was over, Harry felt positively drained of any energy he’d initially had. Mad-Eye didn't keep him much longer and called it a day.
~***~
The following day dragged on quite agonizingly for Harry. He’d acquired a few bruises from Mad-Eye’s lesson yesterday, which had also left him with sore muscles in the morning. Regardless, he pressed on through the day, even through Quidditch practice, and eventually he found himself standing, yet again, in front of Snape’s office door.
Harry’s journey from Gryffindor Tower to here had felt far too short. His mind had been consumed with something in the meantime. A question. A request. One that he was at a crossroads about.
The Nightmares — they had only gotten worse, and he was still out of that pseudo-Dreamless Sleep Snape had brewed him. This was a problem.
But could he ask Snape for more? Even though the man had explicitly told Harry he would brew him more, should he need it… it somehow felt fake. Too good to be true. And their relationship had been nothing but rough ends as of late — or, at least that's how it felt to him.
But he really needed that potion…
Harry finally, somehow, forced himself to surface back to the present and rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. Almost immediately, it flew open. On entering, Harry found Snape sitting at his desk, a most condescending look on his features.
“Cutting it close, Potter. Or could you not find your way again? After six years of education here, I find it most concerning,” he said with a voice colder than the air. Something in Harry’s chest twinged, then jolted at the sound of the door banging shut behind him.
Then, to his further confusion, Snape’s face seemed to lose some of its hardness no sooner than it happened. His eyes relaxed a bit as he indicated for Harry to sit in the wooden chair in front of his desk. Harry sat, the entire time observing Snape as though he were a time bomb. Interestingly enough, the man also appeared to be observing Harry with a strange, thoughtful expression.
“...So is it going to be lines or scrubbing something, Professor , or are you going to offer me more tea?”
It was hard to keep a note of sarcasm out of his tone. Just like a few weeks ago, Snape eyed him evenly. Harry was still internally fuming about the way Snape had handled that incident earlier this morning.
“Neither,” was Snape’s blunt reply. Harry couldn’t help but notice his tense posture and the accentuated tired lines that the torchlight carved on his face. The man rose out of his chair and beckoned Harry to follow him back out into the corridor. The two wizards strode down at a businesslike pace. With each step, Harry was becoming acutely aware that they were descending to the dungeons and eventually heading in the Slytherin Dorm’s direction. Consequently, with each step, Harry’s heart rate began speeding up a bit, a million scenarios rushing about in his head…
At last, Snape came to a halt in front of a big painting of Salazar Slytherin. The oil paint looked dry and brittle on the canvas — it gave it the appearance of something Harry would find in an attic. He watched as Snape raised his hand, palm out, and ghosted it over the surface in a complex pattern. A bit of time passed. To Harry’s surprise, it swung aside to reveal a wooden door, which also opened. Snape glanced to the left and right of the corridor with narrow eyes and entered. Harry quickly followed.
Where he found himself was a comfortably sized sitting room with a lit fireplace and a small seating area in front of it, very similar to how it was in Snape’s home in Spinner’s End. There was the same unhealthy amount of bookcases lining the walls, and a small kitchenette alcove could be seen on the other end of the room. Other than that, Harry saw only three other doors (excluding the entrance).
This was where Snape lived?
“Potter!”
The voice called from an open room. Harry entered it to find a decent-sized lab that looked just like any other, with a workbench stretching through the middle and counters and cabinets lining the walls, stacked with flasks, jars, vials, pots, and anything else one would expect there to be. A herbal scent was wafting through here. It smelled of lavender and something more foreign. In the background, a few cauldrons were simmering softly.
A stool slid out from under the workbench of its own accord. Harry took it as his invite to sit. He did so, only tentatively. Meanwhile, Snape’s back was turned to him, the man rummaging through the cabinets and gathering supplies, which were hovering to set themselves down upon the wooden surface in front of Harry. The boy felt himself tensing with every second that passed. He eyed the pipettes, vials, some kind of test tubes, and what looked like a knife in a protective sleeve.
“Humor me, Potter, what do you know about Elixirs?”
Harry’s head snapped up in Snape’s direction, but the man was still busy at the counters. Elixirs…?
“Well… They’re the hardest magical substance to make,” he answered slowly.
“To ‘brew’,” Snape corrected. “But in essence, yes.” A pause. “Is that where your knowledge reaches its peak?”
Harry rubbed the back of his head in thought, trying to envision his Potion OWL notes. He even remembered the page’s number; only the writing was all blurry.
“Elixirs give the drinker long-term effects, unlike potions or draughts… Professor, is this relevant to… something…?” he finally asked. Snape turned around to look at him.
“It is.”
The Slytherin leaned back against the counter on his palms. In the torchlight, he looked even more tired, like a man who hadn’t slept in days. He was looking at Harry thoughtfully, considering something, as he usually did. This did not alleviate Harry’s feeling of apprehension.
“Apart from those main qualities you’ve just named, elixirs are also considered to be the most potent and powerful type of magical substance. Take into example, as I am sure you may recall—” he twitched a dry eyebrow at Harry, “ —the Elixir of Life, extracted from the Sorcerer’s Stone. Elixirs also have the ability to acutely target specific things. Throughout History, they were mainly brewed for ritualistic purposes and processions, often to extract supposedly irrevocable curses.”
A beat of silence followed this informative spiel. Harry connected the dots, eyes shifting from the supplies to Snape, whose gaze had never left Harry this entire time.
“You want to extract Volde— the soul fragment with an elixir?” he said.
Snape nodded slightly. “It would require me altering a curse-extraction elixir. I will make no promises of guarantee, know this. However, some variation of it may work. As for the main reason for your presence here, I will need to take samples of your blood.”
Harry’s eyes darted to the sleeved knife of their own volition, and something of a lump appeared in his throat.
“My blood,” he parroted blankly.
“For tests, yes. Alongside information. I will not be able to brew anything without conducting substantial research or having a deep enough knowledge of the subject in question. So, yes.”
Snape slid out a stool and sat onto it beside Harry, facing him. Without preamble, he reached over and grasped Harry’s wrist and pulled it so that it lay palm up on the surface and rolled up the sleeve. There they both saw the long, faded scar left by the ritual of Voldemort’s resurrection that night in the graveyard, and just below that the scar left by the Basilisk’s fang. Harry was well used to the sight, but Snape, apparently, wasn’t. His face closed off at the sight, eyes seeming to darken in deep disapproval.
But he offered no comment. It took him a moment to probe out a vein, and next he drew his wand. He pressed its ebony tip firmly to his skin and murmured a string of Latin. Harry watched in curious wonder as a dark-red liquid began traveling up the wand in a lazy spiral, whereupon reaching its end, the blood was flowing into a test tube.
The whole procedure lasted no more than ten seconds. The wand was removed, and Harry internally breathed a small sigh of relief.
It was short-lived, however, for, to his horror, Snape next reached for the knife. He took off its protective sleeve to reveal a sharp blade of probably the thinnest sheet of glass Harry had ever seen. Its edge was slightly jagged, and the leather hilt was decorated in a similar design with small, encrusted red and black gemstones. Even to the naked eye, there was something just so sinister and beautifully captivating about it. And given the way Snape was holding it — as if it were made of spider silk —, made Harry want to back away from it.
“This is a Blood Knife,” Snape explained, his voice deep and resonating. “Its main purpose is to extract blood with a recorded history of its change throughout one’s entire life.”
“You mean you could have a sample of my blood as it was even five years ago?” asked harry.
“Even fifteen years ago, before the Dark Lord’s fragment had embedded itself into you, yes. Although doubtful that your blood will be an indicator of anything, as it is a soul fragment, not a physical one, it may — for lack of better words — open some doors.”
Snape reached over to grab Harry’s arm again, which the boy hadn’t even noticed he’d put back into his lap. When the man’s hand grasped his wrist again to tug it closer, Harry tensed and nearly drew it away from him in hesitation, but quickly caught himself and forced it to relax.
The blade — it shone bright orange in the firelight…
…The small man approached with an almost mad gleam in his watery eyes, raising his crooked knife and ruthlessly slashing Harry’s arm open with it. It flashed before him. For a moment, he felt no pain, but then his entire arm was burning as if someone were pressing hot rods against it…
…The bottle. His eyes were glued with terror to its shattered, jagged edges that looked sharp enough to sever steel, the obese man staggering over…
“ —tter. Harry .”
Harry blinked himself back into the present. Snape was gazing at him intently with an emotion Harry had seen only a few times before. He noticed that he wasn’t holding the knife anymore.
“Are you quite alright?”
“Sorry, sir,” Harry blushed, “It’s just been a long day.”
Snape’s lips thinned at him a bit, but thankfully he said nothing more on the matter. With an inquiring eyebrow, he looked at Harry’s hand. “May I?”
The request surprised the Gryffindor. Without a word, Harry laid his arm in front of him. Snape first slid a clean tea towel under it and then reached for his wand again. He was slowly ghosting it over the vein area, which Harry assumed was for sterilizing purposes. Next he grabbed the knife again. His movements in everything were slow, precise, clinical.
No, Snape was no Gilderoy Lockhart.
The blade was placed at a precise angle so that the steel was barely touching the skin. Harry tensed, not knowing what to expect. Then with an abrupt movement, the blade drew a straight slash along his arm. As in the graveyard, there first was no pain; there was even no color of blood until a few moments had passed, and the line was quickly becoming more and more visible as it turned red, bringing with it a burning sensation.
Snape was acting quickly. He began squeezing Harry’s arm to gather the blood-red with the edge of the blade, which he then let drip into a nearby test tube. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but with every squeeze a jolt would quiver through his body. Harry just pressed his lips firmly against it. But in the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw an apologetic gleam in Snape’s eyes.
The procedure took much longer than Harry had anticipated. It had surely been well over five minutes. Most of his arm was stained red, as was the once-clean towel under it. Meanwhile, the test tube was nearly filled to the brim now. Snape, at long last, set the knife down and reached for his wand to clean away all the blood. He then drew its tip over the cut so that it began weaving itself close, and once that was done, the Slytherin reached over his shoulder for a small jar. Harry discovered it was a salve that looked vaguely familiar, like the one Snape had tried to remove the Blood-Quill’s scar with in the summer. He scooped up a healthy amount and began carefully smearing it over the wound.
“That should prevent any scarring. I am quite certain you’ve enough already,” he spoke at last, capping the jar. “Drink this. Quickly.”
Harry took the proffered vial of Blood-Replenisher. He swallowed the thing in a few draughts, tasting iron, and felt himself losing some of the fatigue he hadn’t even realized he’d felt.
Meanwhile, Snape was already at the counters with his back turned to the boy as before. Faint chinks of glass sounded. Unknowing what he should do in the meantime, Harry continued to sit at the stool, waiting for… something. He tried craning his head to see what Snape was up to but couldn’t see much, and when he tried to get a look at what he had brewing in those cauldrons of his, he saw nothing of particular interest.
But then Harry’s eyes fell on a small, slightly messy pile of books and parchment. There lay an open journal, alas too far from him for Harry to make out anything.
“Potter.”
“Sir?”
“I need as much information as possible pertaining to your connection with the Dark Lord. Particularly what you feel or experience when your mind slips into his own.”
Harry frowned and examined the bench’s wood pattern. Recalling all of his past experiences with Voldemort was probably the last thing that would help him with his nightmares. A moment drew as he thought for a minute.
“Well, when I first started seeing into his mind — or rather Nagini’s —, it always felt like a very realistic dream. I could feel what he or the snake was. It really felt like I was them…”
Back still turned, Snape nodded his head. Now the chopping of a knife against a board could be heard. “And would you say you share more of a connection with the snake or the Dark Lord?”
“...What do you mean? Sir.”
“I shall reiterate: do you see clearer through the Snake’s eyes or the Dark Lords? With whom would you say you feel more connected? Whose emotions, thoughts, or through whose form does the experience feel more life-like?”
An involuntary shudder passed through Harry. He’d never really considered this question before. The automatic answer that had initially sprung to mind was ‘Voldemort’, but then hesitation caught him.
“... I think… both? It’s hard to say. There’s not much of a difference, really. When I see — saw — through the Snake’s eyes that one time, I felt and thought everything it did. Same with You-Know-Who,” Harry answered slowly, rubbing a hand along his arm. “Why do you ask? Sir,” he added.
Snape was still preoccupied over at the counters, but for a moment, Harry caught a glimpse of the side of his face; he could have sworn there was a disturbed look in his eyes, the man’s expression thoughtful. “It is curious that you were able to see through the snake in the first place.”
“Dumbledore said it was because V— You-Know-Who was possessing Nagini,” interrupted Harry.
“Yes, but even so, there seems to be a connection,” Snape went on. “Even in the Dark Arts, animal or creature possession is extremely rare. Even with my limited knowledge, it is granted that there is an inordinate connection between the Dark Lord and that wretched snake — a connection, I believe, of souls.”
“A connection like… like the soul fragment inside me?” asked the boy quietly.
“Precisely.”
“But the Snake wasn’t there when Voldemort went to— to murder my parents, was it? So a fragment of HIS soul couldn’t have…”
“Precisely again, Potter. The Dark Lord didn’t have a snake in possession when he disappeared for thirteen years.”
Harry huffed. “Well, then it doesn’t make any sense, does it? How could a piece of HIS soul have gotten inside the snake?”
“A question we would both like the answer to, I am afraid,” Snape said with a low sigh, his voice bearing what sounded like regret and weariness. The Professor set something down and leaned heavily forward on his palms on the counter, his greasy locks curtaining his face. The silence stretched for a moment, then two. Harry took to fidgeting with his hands. Both seemed to be lost in deep rumination.
“...When I see through his eyes, it feels… I… I feel such deep hatred and— and I genuinely want to hurt. When I saw him, uh, torturing you, it just made me so happy . But it was like I still had my own thoughts, but I was also trapped in his mind. It’s… hard to explain. It’s… not a nice feeling.”
There was a low, soft sigh. “No, it is not. The Dark Lord’s mind is unlike any other. He is corrupted by dark magic; it is not even entirely human.” Snape finally turned around to look at Harry. He was observing him intently, but his face was unreadable. Harry avoided meeting his eyes, instead opting for studying the spine of a random book.
“So in those instances you were aware of your own person?”
“Well, more or less. I think it depended on how weak or strong my mental shields were at the time,” Harry half-guessed. “It hasn’t happened in a while, though. But I always feel like it will… that I… Sir, what if I’m—?”
Harry opened his mouth, but suddenly stopped himself. It was a stupid thing that he’d just been about to say. He wasn’t even sure what had made him loosen his tongue so much to begin with.
“Go on, Potter,” Snape prompted. “Despite my abilities, I will not be endeavoring to read your mind for your lack of verbal expression.”
This did not prompt Harry in any way.
Snape observed him intently for another moment; Harry could feel his dark gaze on himself while he gazed down at his hands. Then the man took a few steps to sit himself before the boy. This time, his voice was several notches softer. “‘What if you are what , Potter?”
Harry didn’t say anything. He’d simply realized in that moment that, of all people, Snape had had a lot of experience with Voldemort’s mind too, so to speak. He had to use Legilimency to ward and conceal specific memories while Voldemort rummaged through his mind for information and potential deceit.
“How do you do it, sir? Block him out, I mean, when he looks into your mind,” Harry asked quietly.
There was a soft sigh.
“I believe you already know the answer to that. Granted, it is no walk in the park.”
“Sir—” Harry blurted out. “What if this connection I have with him is making me… What if it’s affecting me somehow? In a really bad way? I’m just… I always feel that, since I have a part of him inside me, I might hurt someone. What if it’s making me…?” he whispered.
He did not draw his gaze upward. He remembered telling Sirius the same concern, but with the time having passed since then and with everything he’d discovered recently… These droplets of doubt couldn’t help seeping through into his mind.
There was a soft scoff. “I highly doubt seeing into the Dark Lord’s mind predetermines your fate as the next mass murderer.”
“But if there’s literally a part of him inside me—?”
Snape held up a halting hand. They locked eyes, the man’s gaze careful. “Potter. I am no therapist, nor am I Merlin himself. That said, I hope you understand I am... not the right person for you to consult about this, Potter.”
There was an awkward silence. It felt as if a heavy stone had been dropped into Harry’s stomach.
“I wasn’t… I just thought… You aren’t…”
“As it so happens, I do understand. However, that does not make me any more suitable to take up the role of a confidant for you. I suggest consulting one of your friends, or perhaps the werewolf. I am far from a fitting candidate.”
Harry’s insides felt as though they were lined with lead at those words. It was a punch to his gut, so unforeseen, yet there, and for the life of him, he could give no explanation as to why. Betrayal.
What had he been expecting?
He doesn’t need to deal with your whining or your problems. Why would he? Think he needs any of this? Think he cares?
“...‘Care’ is not a term I can throw around on a whim, Potter… I care that you live; I care that you survive the war; I care that you do not lose your magic; and I care that you are not used and sacrificed like a chess piece in this damned war, like I have been….”
Snape had never mentioned he cared to any greater extent than that.
He’ll just wash his hands of you when he has had enough of you and your problems.
Trust… There went all that trust. And Harry’s pseudo Dreamless Sleep potion.
“Yes, sir.” In a spontaneous decision, he decided to change the subject. “Sir, how much do you know about You-Know-Who’s past?”
Snape tilted his head just slightly. “As much as he has divulged to any of his Death Eaters. Why?”
“Well, Dumbledore’s shown me these memories he’d gotten from some Ministry bloke — Od… Ogden? He’d gone to see the Gaunts — the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin and you-Know-Who’s grandfather, uncle, and mother.”
Harry took rewarded pleasure in seeing Snape’s eyes widening.
“His mother was Merope Gaunt. She fell in love with a muggle — Tom Riddle —, but she wasn’t allowed to see him because of her father’s pureblood mania. But when her brother and father got arrested, she ran away and fed Tom love potion. She stopped when she got pregnant, hoping Tom wouldn’t leave her and her baby, but he did.”
Snape appeared truly dumbfounded at that moment. He couldn’t seem to decide on what to say… “Was this when the Headmaster requested you meet with him a fortnight ago?” he asked.
“Yeah— Yes. He said that knowing You-Know-Who’s backstory will help me win against him. That it has everything to do with the prophecy.”
The Potions Master flourished his wand and silently summoned a journal closer to him. There he hastened to jot down something in a messy scrawl.
“He is correct in that regard, yes,” Snape commented.
“You think it could help us— you brew that elixir or something?”
“It may. There is no such thing as excess knowledge,” said the man rather cryptically. He then rested the journal on the workbench again. “I appreciate you bringing this information to light. It is paramount that you should find out as much as possible.”
Harry nodded. “I know. Dumbledore said they’re going to be ‘lessons’ of some sort.”
Snape nodded in acknowledgment and rose. There seemed nothing else for him to say on the topic.
“I believe it is time for you to go. It will be curfew soon. As such,” he added dryly, “you should not expect a note from me if you are caught.”
“Right…”
Time had completely escaped Harry’s notice. If he’d been down here for over an hour, he had no doubt his friends were already thinking what might have become of him. The thought, admittedly, rather amused him. Nevertheless, Harry also rose and swung his satchel over his shoulder and followed Snape out of the lab and through his quarters.
They paused before the front door. Snape proffered something to him, a flask of a familiar dark-blue shade potion.
“Assuming that you are in need of it?”
Harry took it carefully by the neck and stared at the improved Dreamless Sleep potion, his salvation, then back up at Snape.
“I— Thank you, sir,” he breathed with gratitude, not really sure what else to say.
“I am a man of my word, Mr. Potter. Should you have further need for it, I will be amenable to supplying it for you only on the condition that you do not overdose on it. A maximum of two mouthfuls per night… It is called Celarium Umbras.”
Harry committed the name to memory.
Snape opened the door for Harry. Immediately, the dungeon corridor’s chill seeped through Harry’s pullover and trousers.
“Oh, and, Potter,” Snape said, making Harry stop and turn his head. The words that then poured out of Snape’s mouth were ones Harry had never thought he’d hear unless he were high.
“Ten points to Gryffindor for discouraging peer violence.”
Harry opened his mouth, dumbfounded, then closed it again. He feared saying anything would ruin everything. But then… perhaps nothing needed to be said in this case. Snape had merely found an excuse to give Harry detention to meet with him, and that scene with the Slytherin in the corridor had merely presented itself to him at an opportune time.
So, had Snape just compensated for his unfair approach this morning?
Somehow, the chill of the dungeons wasn’t as cold as it had just been. Harry offered him a tentative smile. “Goodnight, sir.”
The door closed.