The Path Chosen

Late October, 1996.

“... core difference between Lazarus’ theory of interchangeable defensive…”

For all of Saturday and Sunday, one thought — and one thought only — had lain at the forefront of his mind. It was gnawing at him. When he was studying, eating, talking to his friends, and even when he’d been leading Quidditch practice the other day, — the thought was an ever-present, nail-biting dilemma that was always there.

“...ile many charms are deemed adequate for such situations, they are not necessarily the most convenient…”

Snape’s droning voice was playing somewhere in the background, fading in and out… Should he go to Snape to get his map back or not? 

Harry would go, but it would seem far too suspicious if he suddenly showed up asking something like if Snape had seen a piece of clean parchment he’d left behind the other night. Snape was far from dumb; he would immediately grow suspicious as to why Harry had said ‘parchment’ with him when he’d been out after curfew in the first place.

But what if something happened to the Marauders’ Map? What if Snape found it and used it as he would any other spare parchment? Harry would never forgive himself if anything ever happened to the Map. He needed it back.

But how would he get it back? He’d left it in Snape’s quarters. And even considering using his Cloak to sneak in there was laughable.

So what was he left to do?

Tap… Tap… Tap…

Holding his quill loosely between two fingers, he let the tip softly bounce against the desk, its ink dry.

“...crucial in nonverbal casting…”

He had to get the Map back — it was an invaluable artifact created by the Marauders. This was such an obvious thing that it was even needless to say.

But how would he do it? How would he get the map back? Harry was fairly certain he wasn’t getting invited there for a second visit any time soon.

“... requires exact wand movements… Classified as a curse…”

Harry was at sea as to what to do. His quill kept bouncing, the parchment in his vision blurry and unregistered with him.

“...May prove a challenge to some of you, specifically those who blatantly lack the ability topay attention for five minutes!”

Harry surfaced at a nudge from his right. He blinked and looked up to find Snape’s dark-clad figure towering over him, that classic sneer twisting his face.

“Hmm, yes, it would appear Mr. Potter has impeccably exemplified for us yet again. I suppose you expect your enemies to also wait for you to finish your daydreams before firing at you.”

A few Slytherins from across the room snickered. Harry didn’t pay them mind, though, nor to Snape’s jibes.

“Well, if they’re polite enough, sir...” he shrugged. Beside him, Ron had to clamp a hand over his mouth to smother a snort. Several people around them laughed, but Snape’s expression only hardened.

“Quiet,” drawled his voice softly. The class instantly fell silent. The man turned back to the boy. “Detention, Mr. Potter. Eight o’clock, my office. I am sure you will tell me all about your ingenious defensive strategies that us mere mortals cannot comprehend.”

He moved on along the aisle with a deft sweep of his cloak.

Meanwhile, Harry’s heart was beating at an inordinate pace. So it was settled. He’d just made his decision.

~***~

Later that same day, promptly, the Gryffindor was standing at Snape’s door. His knuckles rapped on the dark wood. Internally, he startled at his own action. But it was already done. There was no turning back. A deep drawl sounded, telling him to enter. So he did.

Snape’s back was turned to him. He appeared to be browsing his shelves for a book, tracing a long finger over the spines, though when he went to sit at his desk, he didn’t take anything with him. He didn’t immediately look at Harry. Instead, he reached into a drawer and pulled something out.

It was the Marauder’s Map. Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight.

“You’d left something in my quarters the other night… A rather interesting thing to carry around with you in the middle of the night, is it not?” asked the professor a little too innocently, holding it aloft. He was looking directly at Harry, who was still standing.

“Spare parchment, professor?” asked Harry. “There aren’t any rules against carrying spare parchment around with me, are there?”

“Certainly not. However, the circumstances are suspicious.” Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Was it not three years ago that you were strutting about the castle after curfew with ‘spare parchment’ as well? Lupin, if I recall correctly, claimed it was a Zonko’s product.”

The memory played out in Harry’s head. Yes, he remembered that scene quite well. He doubted he — either of them — would ever forget the Map’s message to Snape.

“Well, it’s mine, so I’d appreciate it if I could have it back,” Harry replied more firmly.

“And you will. But I would like to know what it really is.”

Silence. Dead silence as the two stared at one another.

“It’s just—”

“Drop the pretenses, Potter. I am no idiot. What is it?”

Another silent moment stretched between them. This one tenser. Eventually, Snape visibly relaxed and leaned forward on his elbows, interlocking his fingers in front of him on his desk. The map now lay beside him. 

“A trade, perhaps? You tell me what this is, and I will return it to you.”

“Sounds like an ultimatum to me. What if I don’t want to?”

For a moment, Harry could have sworn he saw some bit of emotion flashing in his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“I am not your enemy.”

And he really wasn’t, Harry knew this. Not anymore, at least. They were on one side, now in more ways than just on the Light side of this whole war. But was it worth telling Snape about the Map? What if he confiscated it? What would Harry be losing if he told him the truth?

It all came down to that one question: whether he could trust Snape or not.

But Snape had already done so much for him. And after the way he’d treated Harry the other night? That potion he’d given him? Couldn't Harry trust him?

Couldn’t he?

Trust… To trust Snape with this secret…

Well, it wasn’t as if there was any way out of this — without making a mess, anyway. Snape was far from an idiot, as he’d said; it was blatantly clear that he knew this wasn’t everyday spare parchment from Zonko’s.

“It’s… a map. Of Hogwarts.”

Both of Severus’ brows rose at this in intrigue. Hesitatingly, Harry leaned in to unfurl the roll so it lay flat before reaching for his wand, his heart pounding and screaming at him. Drawing a small, bracing breath, he said, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

And as promised, the castle’s entire plan blossomed before them both on the once-blank parchment. Both wizards were observing the many moving dots, labeled with their respective names. There were McGonagall and Flitwick in Dumbledore’s office, the Patil twins in the Hospital Wing, a small group of students traveling across a corridor…

Harry had never thought he’d see such awe and astonishment on Snape’s face.

“Where did you get this?”

Harry, still standing, was rubbing his arm with his hand. “Fred and George found it a few years ago. They gave it to me in Third-Year. Nicked it from Filch… But, uh, technically it belonged to…”

Snape glanced up when Harry hesitated, voice dying off mid-sentence.

“Yes?”

“It’s called the Marauders’ Map.”

Harry watched with trepidation as Snape blanched. He looked as if he’d just been submerged into a bucket of ice. His face first wore disbelief, which then morphed into a repugnant sneer. Meanwhile, Harry's heart was beating a mile an hour, wondering how big of a mistake he’d just made.

Would Snape tear the map? Would he keep it or return it to Harry? Or would he lash out?”

“So that is how…” came a soft, marveling mutter, as if he’d just finally solved a most obvious puzzle. Otherwise, there was a stretch of silence while the man continued to observe the magical object. “Sit,” he mumbled blankly. Harry automatically abided.

Eventually, a faint smirk appeared on his face. “So this has been your key to nighttime prowling… Yes, it makes sense for Lupin to have recognized it. I had always wondered about Potter’s and Black’s obsession with this parchment — they often seemed to guard it more than their lives—” He glanced up at Harry shrewdly. “A trait that’s been passed down to you.”

Harry’s mouth was still dry. “...Are you going to let me keep it?” he choked out.

“I am tempted not to. However,” Snape thoughtfully tapped it with the tip of his finger. “I would like you to have this with you at all times, likewise your wand and that infernal Invisibility Cloak — provided you won’t use it to further endanger yourself with this privilege.”

“I’m not gonna go around prosecuting First or Second-Years, if that’s what you’re implying,” Harry bristled, his tone rather accusing.

Snape’s eyes narrowed at him. “Perhaps you aren’t as below that as your father and his sidekicks were, but you certainly don’t appear below trespassing and theft, Potter.”

“I—” Harry reddened, now drenched in shame and anger. “I told you, I didn’t have a choice. Sir.”

“We are not going in circles over this topic again, Potter,” Snape said shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Bottom line: do not let me catch you with it without a plausible excuse, or I will confiscate more than the map.”

Harry gladly gathered up his Map and satchel and promptly rose for the door…

“Unless I am suffering from amnesia, which I do not believe I am, I do not think I have ever dismissed you. You are here for detention, are you not?”

“Ah… Right.”

Harry dropped his bag back down and retook his seat. He’d completely forgotten about that.

“What will I be doing, sir?” he asked.

“Lines.”

Snape brandished his wand, gave it a flourish, and out of thin air appeared some parchment and a self-inking quill. They floated over to rest on a spare little desk in the corner of the office. Harry silently accepted his fate and transferred himself there. The instructions, he noticed, were pre-written at the top of the paper.

Without another word exchanged, Harry began to write. But behind him, he could sense the man moving around, occasionally browsing his bookshelves or jotting something down.

An hour or so had passed when Harry finally finished writing the excruciating set of 200 lines. His eyes felt on fire from the sedative glow of the candlelight, and his wrist was sore. He deposited the paper onto Snape’s desk…

And his eyes paused. He was now beholding a sight of a bedlam that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Books, parchment, journals… Research. The title of a chapter in one of the opened books read ‘Soul-Eating’, another ‘Embedded Curses and Magics’.

The man’s greasy hair was slightly frazzled, and exhaustion shone clearly on his face. But not just physical exhaustion.

Harry awkwardly cleared his throat. “I’ve finished, sir.”

Snape didn’t glance up at him, only nodded as he continued to write. 

“Dismissed.”

But a sudden thought suddenly made him pause. A beat passed, and then a non-sequitur escaped his lips.

“Sir, you… That elixir you said you wanted to brew… You haven’t found anything yet — from those, uh, samples, I mean —, have you?”

It was curious. Harry watched the man’s head snap up at him as if there had just been a loud explosion. He suddenly looked a few years older.

“Perhaps… It is a lead, at any rate, but this is neither the time nor place…” He tapped the long feather of his quill against the parchment in thought. “I am assigning you another detention. Tomorrow. Same time and place as before. I shall need to take more samples, possibly even conduct more… extensive research.”

The muscles in Harry’s body felt to have gone rigid, and yet his heart, prematurely, soared with hope. About a dozen questions were suddenly swimming through his head, and he couldn’t seem to focus on a single one.

A lead… Had Snape really found something? Had he cracked the problem? What had those blood samples shown him?  

Harry realized he’d zoned out for a moment. Snape was observing him with a strange expression. With a jerky nod, he finally left.

~***~

The walled torches were a mere blur in his periphery as Harry ran down corridors, passed classrooms, and vaulted several stairs at once. His loud footsteps echoed loudly. An occasional student would glance at him curiously, but he daren’t slow down, ignoring the painful thumps of his satchel against his hip and the growing stitch in his side.

Late. Late. LATE. He was so late, and Snape would kill him.

It was one thing to be three or five minutes late — fifteen minutes was another.

At long last, he’d arrived at Snape’s classroom. He unceremoniously burst through the door and raced up the few steps to the man’s office, where the door stood ajar. But before he was able to crash through it, it was being swung fully open. Snape met him with a most annoyed look on his face.

“Sixteen minutes. Do you prefer the term fashionably or royally late?”

Harry leaned against the doorframe tiredly and breathlessly, seeking composure. “I’m— sorry. Was with— Professor Moody— Lost track…”

Snape appeared to bite his inner lip as his mouth thinned on one side. His displeasure was palpable… But eventually, he sighed and beckoned with his head to follow him out.

Neither spoke for the several long minutes it took them to reach the dungeons (Harry under his Cloak). The same procedure was followed as Snape saw them into his quarters. Only once the portrait swung shut behind them did Harry reappear again. And as before, the pair entered Snape’s laboratory.

“How is your magic faring?” Snape asked without preamble, stopping at a workbench and facing Harry. 

“Um… alright?”

He hummed. “A most articulate question.”

Harry sighed. He folded his arms over his chest, really starting to feel the dungeon’s chill creeping through his sweater now. “It’s… been worse. I struggled a bit in Moody’s lesson today. We were practicing nonverbal shields.”

“Did he inquire as to why?”

“I just told him I was tired, is all,” Harry shrugged… He suddenly went quiet. Only now had he noticed a very familiar-looking object that Snape had just put there in front of him. Alongside it stood a few clean vials and a clean flannel. Harry’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. The two wizards met each other’s eyes, and a tense second passed between them.

“...I require more samples.”

“Oh.”

Harry said nothing more to this and simply rolled up his right sleeve to lay his hand out on the table. He watched Snape draw his ebony wand and follow the familiar procedure as before, pressing the tip to his skin to make a small stream of blood travel up the wand and into the small vials. Harry opted to watch the process curiously.

Once that was set aside, Harry’s eyes fell back on the sleeved Blood Knife. They tracked it as Snape removed the leather casing to reveal the clear, ice-thin blade, illuminated orange by the torchlight. There was the sharp edge, jagged. Sharp. Uneven. Shattered… dangerous. One swing from a drunken daze was all it would take…

A sudden clank pulled him back out of his brief daze. Harry blinked to find Snape staring at him with an indecipherable expression.

“Out with it.”

“What?”

“Something is clearly bothering you. It is not the first time, nor is it the second.”

Harry shrugged as if to jerk away an irritable fly. “It’s nothing. Sir.”

Snape straightened up on his stool, still looking him squarely in the eyes with an utmost serious expression.

“Potter, you have faced a dragon, a Basilisk, Death Eaters, and the Dark Lord himself — I highly doubt you would be this troubled by a knife — under safe supervision — were it really ‘nothing’.”

The Gryffindor averted his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

“It is important. Do not discredit yourself by discrediting something that is visibly troubling you… Earlier in the summer, you had the same reaction to when that vase had shattered. Why?”

It genuinely took Harry a dumb moment to even remember the incident to which Snape was referring, when they’d been practicing his magic and Harry had caused Snape’s vase to shatter. So — Snape had noticed that.

Deep silence. Snape was visibly brooding, having halted in taking those samples.

“It’s dumb. Just something that happened a long time ago… Can we just get on with it already? Sir?” Harry asked almost pleadingly.

“You are aware that I will not hurt you, Harry?”

His head snapped up. Snape’s face bore utmost seriousness.

“Well— Yes. I know that.”

“Then why were you—”

“ —I don’t know!” Harry snapped suddenly, impatiently, fists clenched. “I’m fine. It just reminded me of something, but so what? I’m not going to cry about it, am I now?”

A beat passed, and Harry was increasingly becoming certain that he’d, yet again, ruined everything and that Snape would come back with the same snark and coldness… But to his surprise, the man didn’t. Only his gaze hardened, and he reached for Harry’s wrist without much warning. The sudden movement had Harry unforeseeably reeling back on his stool and nearly toppling backwards. He would have fallen, had it not been for Snape’s grip.

“Mmm, yes, the picture of perfect physique.”

Harry felt himself flushing fifty shades of red as he rightened himself on his stool, but this time silently and willingly offering the man his forearm.

The bloody hell is wrong with me…?

Neither of them spoke as Snape sanitized Harry’s forearm with his wand and then placed the clean flannel right under it. Meanwhile, Harry kept his head slightly averted, exploring the cabinets and shelves with his gaze… He felt the knife’s small incision. It didn’t hurt much, just a slight tingle, which then progressed into a mild burn as the blood was carefully being collected by the edge of the cool blade...

“It was a nightmare,” Harry suddenly blurted out. He didn’t know why, but it was out. The Slytherin paused for a moment. “But it’s… dumb.”

Snape resumed his work, but Harry sensed in his slower movements that he was carefully considering his next words.

“Nightmares are most often depictions of real events or fears. Hyperfixations.”

“I’m not afraid of my Unc—” Harry quickly shut his trap, realizing what he’d nearly said. But it didn’t seem to have escaped Snape; the man stilled statuesquely this time, looking up at Harry.

“Your uncle…”

The boy inwardly sighed, resigned. What was the point anymore?

“He, uh, was drunk this one time. He had a broken bottle, and he… wanted to attack me with it… The knife, it reminded me of it.”

An involuntary shudder rocked through him, and Harry reddened, if possible, even more as the words emerging from his mouth registered with his ears. Mortification and horror continued to build up in him. Why had he said that? No one was supposed to know. Ever. And yet, here he was, exposing his past to Snape. He refused to meet Snape’s eyes, willing for the man to just drop the topic altogether.

Apparently not.

“Was he often inebriated?”

His voice was taut, strained. He sounded as if a Gryffindor had just walked over his shoes, but Harry somehow realized that it wasn’t directed at him. Harry was now watching small droplets of dark-red dripping into the small bottle necks from the clear, jagged blade.

“...Sometimes,” he answered uncertainly. “Mostly when things would go bad at work. But that time was the worst of it. He— he just had a really bad day—”

“Do not defend him!” Snape growled.

“I’m not! People get drunk. It happens.”

“Not to the extent where one is inclined to physically harm a child. Specifically, one placed in their care,” hissed Snape sharply.

Harry drew a deep breath. “Just— Forget I said anything. Sir.”

Snape, to this, did not verbally reply. In Harry’s periphery, he merely tightened his pale lips and continued to transport the blood. His movements were still careful, but his face told a different story. There was this uncomfortable silence stretched as the minutes ticked by, but eventually the procedure was over, and Snape quickly handed Harry a Blood Replenisher. He made quick work of rubbing on the anti-scarring salve and collected the vials. Next, he stood and moved to the counters, back to the boy, and appeared to be collecting ingredients.

“Carlsberg, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

Snape lightly turned his head in Harry’s direction. “The beer, Potter. The one your uncle was drinking. I assume it was usual in the house?”

“I— I guess,” Harry stuttered, nonplussed. “How… did you know?”

Though the man’s face was partially shadowed, he thought he saw him smirk bitterly, an expression ridden with poorly concealed disgust. “I saw it in one of your memories…” His voice dropped to a low undertone. “Do not assume you are the only one with knowledge of drunkard bastards, Potter. Amusing, isn’t it, how they all drink the same poison they spew?”

Harry opened his mouth but quickly shut it. The last line sounded almost too specific… To whom was Snape referring? What did he mean by ‘knowledge of…’? But despite his mind teeming with curiosity, he wasn’t even sure what to ask, afraid he’d overstep some line. So, instead, a few seconds of silence ticked by, which were broken only by the soft clinking of glass.

“I need the calsburry roots finely chopped.”

And thankful for the reprieve, Harry hopped to it.

Snape stepped aside to reveal a small, wooden bowl of pale, weirdly-shaped roots, where beside it a knife was resting on a cutting board. Harry picked it up.

“And for Merlin’s sake, Potter, be careful with it. I’ve ample blood from you as it is.”

Harry wasn’t too sure why, but that quip amused him rather than irritated. He nodded and set to the task.

“What are you making, sir?” he asked after a moment.

“Six years, and you’ve yet to learn that potions are brewed,” drawled the professor dryly. He was currently using a pipette, measuring out drops of yellow liquid into a row of vials. Beside him, a cauldron was steaming. A charmed stirring-stick was waltzing circles in it. When he was done, setting everything down, he turned to address Harry in a serious tone. 

“I will attempt to brew an extraction elixir that, in theory, should target any foreign presence in your body. It requires a blood base — a crucial element that should prevent your immune system from reacting to the elixir; wherefore, I needed more blood from you.”

“So it’ll target the soul fragment? But…” Harry bit his lip, setting the knife aside. “I don’t get it. If the fragment isn’t a physical thing in me — if it’s like a soul piece —, how can a potion target it? I remember reading that potions often don’t work for anything that’s, uh… soul-related.”

“Beckerly’s Theory,” Snape nodded. “In essence, yes. However, everything depends on the potion itself. Elixirs, specifically, are the most potent, and blood bases only enhance their properties.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Do you really think it’ll work, sir?”

For a long moment, Snape stopped talking. His gaze, while directed at the countertop, was unseeing, as if deep rumination had stolen him. Harry didn’t dare to speak… Eventually, there was a slow, soft exhale, and Snape once again turned to the younger wizard. There was an emotion that Harry had seldom ever seen in his dark eyes: uncertainty.

“As I said before, I give you no guarantee. This may fail. I do not know. It may take months, if not years, to achieve something of this quandary.”

A wad of thick saliva got stuck in Harry’s throat. He swallowed. Hope… he could feel his hope diminishing, like a small candle flame dwindling in a draft. Months, if not years…

Maybe he really was destined to die, and trying to prevent it was pointless. Again those thoughts penetrated his mind: if Dumbledore, the brightest wizard of the century, hadn’t been able to come up with anything that could spare Harry’s life, what hope was there that Snape would?

Wouldn’t you be willing to die for the people you love, Harry? — whispered a soft voice in his head. It always did. Was always there, at the back of Harry’s consciousness.

Severus noticed the way the boy’s face had dropped at his words. Of course he did. Alas, what could he do about it? He’d told him the truth — no, he would not lie or sugarcoat. What good would it do? It was not something that the boy needed.

What would you know what he needs? Yes, you’re certainly fit to be in that position…

Guilt stabbed Severus’ conscience. Again. It felt like a gritty potion unwilling to go down his throat. But he resisted the sudden urge to close his eyes, just for a moment, regardless of how much he wanted to, and refocused his thoughts on the task at hand. 

This stretch of silence stretched for a long minute. Then another. The only sounds were the soft plunking of the knife against the wooden board, coinciding with the soft bubbling of the cauldrons in the background. Both wizards worked in silence, lost in thought.

“Is this alright, sir?” Potter spoke eventually. He was holding the bowl of, indeed, finely chopped roots.

“Adequate. You may add those into that copper cauldron there— slowly. Lest you want second-degree burns. Then stir.”

The boy rounded him while Severus was busy poring over the notes in his journal, but even still he couldn’t help inconspicuously monitoring Potter as he added the ingredient in.

Severus suddenly smirked lightly. “Horace Slughorn tells me you are a Potions prodigy. One may only wonder where you uncovered such prowess,” he drawled. Had he turned to look, he would have seen the Gryffindor going a bright scarlet.

“Oh. Did he?”

An amused hum. “It is often one of his favorite topics… amongst many others.”

“Let me guess,” Potter said dryly, still stirring the potion, “Whether I’m really the Chosen One…  When my autobiography is coming out… Oh, and when I’m free to attend his Slug Club dinner parties.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Oh, the price of fame. I may vomit.” 

The Gryffindor chortled. Snape’s tone held no bite to it. It was dry and sarcastic, and Harry even found a smile cracking on his face. The air around them became noticeably lighter.

“You’ve no idea, Professor. It’s exhausting.”

“Mmm, one can only begin to imagine… Stir ten times counterclockwise.”

Soft, purple steam began rising from the cauldron, smelling of old tires. Harry was still stirring when Snape moved in to tip a vial of translucent liquid into the potion. Harry watched it turn a darker shade.

“Ten,” he informed him. Snape nodded and plucked the stick out of his hand, setting it on the table. Then he adjusted the heat with the tip of his wand and finally turned to look at Harry. His dark eyes lingered on his forehead for a few seconds.

“The base for this elixir is essentially ready. It needs to chill. I will need to run a test with it on you to see how it reacts to your scar and my Dark Mark.”

“And… how is it supposed to react, sir?”

“According to my speculation, if it reacts passively, the blood base is impotent against the piece of the Dark Lord inside you. If it does elicit a reaction — I am assuming an aggravation of sorts —, then we may be on to a promising lead.”

Harry didn’t really like the sound of either of those possible outcomes. If the base proved potent, what would it do to him? An aggravation of sorts… Harry could only imagine what that meant.

“Sir? If I feel something, do you think HE will feel it too?” Harry asked slowly.

Snape gazed at him for a lengthy moment, thinking. “I do not know. I am not excluding such a possibility,” he answered slowly. “How are your nightmares?”

The abrupt change of topic caught Harry completely off guard. He pocketed his hands in his trousers and considered his answer for a moment. “Well… not terrible. I still have them, but it depends on what kind. Sometimes…” He sighed, looked up, and couldn’t help the note of accusation that had suddenly slipped into his tone. “It was better when I had Dreamless Sleep.”

“Yes. When you were well underway to working yourself into a coma, Potter, do not forget,” said the man, but then he briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. “That is beside the topic now. My point is that you will not be subjected to continuing to endure them. But since you claim that the Celarium Umbras potion is no longer potent for you, this complicates matters.”

“Couldn’t…” Harry hesitated. “Couldn’t you make the potion stronger? Adjust it somehow?”

“That is one of the options. However, you will inevitably develop the same kind of immunity to it sooner than later, so it would not bring you long-term results.”

This revelation made a pit drop in Harry’s gut, and his levels of hope plummeted. Fantastic. “Sir, you said options? As in plural?”

“The second one is more promising. Occlumency. Real Occlumency, Potter. It would train your mind, allowing you to adequately clear it and have better control over it and your thoughts.”

No… Those didn’t even sound like options — they sounded more like ‘pick the lesser of the two evils’. A potion wouldn’t work, and starting Occlumency lessons with Snape? Again? How was this not the definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place? 

Severus took notice of the way the boy’s muscles tensed at the dreaded word. He could see the conflict drenching his face in even deeper shadows. He had thought long and hard about what to do apropos of his nightmares, and giving him Occlumency lessons was the only plausible option he saw. And yes, he was willing to train, to guide him, regardless of what the past held.

He genuinely wished to help the boy.

Potter opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it, then closed it again, looking at sea.

“You need not decide now—”

“Yes, I do— I— I…” 

It was as if a weight had crashed down on him. Potter leaned forward on his palms, staring at his fingers with an almost manic look in his large eyes. His fingers curled in convulsively. The nails were now biting into the wood. He hung his head while his eyes remained closed as he was visibly trying to reel in his chest’s rapid rising and falling. For a long moment, neither said anything, and Severus stood there, silently watching his internal struggle.

The child was desperate. And Severus chose his next words scrupulously.

“No decision made out of desperation is ever a wise one.”

“I keep having them,” he whispered, voice strangled, tired. “Every night, Professor. I… I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

Severus sighed softly through his nose.

“A temporary solution would be for you to take calming draughts before bed, but it would not aid you long or well.”

“I— I’ll compensate for them—” Potter began, but Severus raised a halting hand.

“For the last time, you will not pay me a Knut, Potter. It is easily arranged, and even a third-year can brew it. But that is far from my point.” He sighed again. “The Calming Draught is merely the next best alternative for the Celebriujm potion. It is a mild potion; therefore, it will not bring you substantive results, thus why I suggest taking up Occlumency.”

Potter had straightened up by now and was rubbing his arm with his other hand, gazing down and weighing his words. “I… Don’t know…”

“As I said, you needn’t decide now. I will provide you with the Calming Draught regardless. So long as you do not overdose on it.”

Just to prove his integrity, Severus stood and reached into the cabinet above, rummaged in it for a moment, and lowered himself back onto his stool with three vials in his hands, each of a pale-lavender shade.

Then he mentally paused. Why did he suddenly feel he had to prove anything to Potter? The only ‘proving himself’ he ever did was before the Dark Lord, and even that was a mien. Dumbledore… That was an entirely different topic. 

So why Potter?

Lily’s son, whispered that familiar voice. But it was fainter than usual. More like an automatic answer.

But he was far from going to withdraw, so he proffered the vials to Potter, who took them somewhat tentatively, as if expecting some kind of trick. Severus wasn’t entirely sure what he felt in that moment. Maybe it was confusion, maybe it was even concern… No, neither. He really couldn't place his finger on it, this tightness in his chest.

The boy looked up at him gratefully then. “Thank you, sir. I’ll sleep on it — the Occlumency offer, I mean. But…” He bit his inner lip in thought. “What if I refuse…?”

“I am no magic genie or an all-knowing seer, you do realize that? Whether you take up on my offer is entirely up to you. It is not as if I am enraptured by the prospect of attempting to teach you the Mind Arts again.”

The man turned around to get a glimpse of the brewing base and apparently deemed it satisfactory, for he then consulted his many cupboards yet again and began pulling out an array of more vials — these ones, Harry recognized, were pain-relievers, blood-replenishers, and other colors and textures he remembered seeing or taking in the Infirmary. This turned his stomach over with unease.

Snape turned down the heat under the cauldron to a feeble flame and ladled out half into two empty vials. Harry silently took the proffered vial. He rotated it between his fingers for a moment, studying its deep wine color, before peering up at the professor again, who was also looking at it a bit uncertainly… or so Harry thought.

Harry did a meek salute gesture before downing the contents in one go. It tasted like rot and iron — it twisted his face. He felt his accelerated heart rate in his ears, waiting as tension hung in the air…

A minute. Then another.

Nothing.

He saw Snape’s lips thinning into a line.

“Perhaps…” The man approached him and poured a few drops of the potion onto his fingers, then began to raise his hand but stopped no later than when Harry had taken a timid step back. “Your scar. May I?”

Harry nodded and pinned up his bangs with one hand, eyes tracking Snape’s hand as it drew nearer. He felt the same lukewarm liquid being pressed to his forehead, where it was spread. Snape next drew his wand and held it at Harry’s scar. He began an incantation. His tone was low and deep, almost a mumble, but Harry didn't recognize the language; it certainly wasn’t Latin…

Snape, after several moments, drew back, bearing that same pinched expression of disappointment, and the pair exchanged a look.

“It would appear,” he said slowly, “this attempt has been a fail.”