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Harry,

I'm back in the country. I read the papers-You're a Triwizard Champion? We need to talk, kiddo. Can you be in the Gryffindor common room, alone, at one a.m. this coming Sunday?

Send your reply with a school owl. Hedwig's too noticeable.

Padfoot

Harry smoothed the crumpled parchment over his knee and read it yet again. "/Merde/, Padfoot," he muttered. He'd sent off his reply in the affirmative hours ago. Now he had all week to worry about his impulsive godfather.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked, dropping into the chair next to his. They were in the furthest corner of the common room, next to the fireplace.

He passed the parchment to her wordlessly and rubbed his forehead in exasperation.

"Oh my," Hermione said. She reread it, eyes widening. "Oh, dear /Lord/. Is he suicidal?"

"That was my reaction," Harry said humorlessly. "The dark side of Gryffindor," he mocked. "We rush in where angels fear to tread."

Hermione laughed despite herself, and leaned over to squeeze his hand comfortingly. "He worries, you know," she said. "He's trying to be a godfather when he can't look after you."

Harry nodded. "I know. It's utter shite it happened this way, and I wish he'd take as much care with his safety as he does with mine."

"He'll be careful, I'm sure," she said soothingly. "They never caught him all of last year, after all."

"That's true." Harry felt a bit better at her words.

"Why don't you go get some sleep, Harry?" she suggested. "It's getting late. You want to be able to enjoy the weekend, don't you?"

"Good idea." Harry stood and stretched, smiling down at his frizzy-haired friend. "I'll see you in the morning, all right?"

She smiled back and flapped a hand at him. "Go on, then. Good night."

"Night, Hermione."

He strode up the stairs to the boys' dormitories, feeling the heat of Ron's jealous glare on his back.

**

"I don't suppose you know what the first task is," Harry said, dropping onto the ottoman. He looked Voldemort over closely-the scaly black-red skin seemed smoother tonight. "You're looking better, I must say."

"I feel sore," Voldemort muttered. "Inside, in my chest...it's a bit sore." He glared at Harry and added, "How would I know what your first task is? I'm a Dark Lord, not a Ministry official."

Harry grinned. "It was worth a try," he told the Dark Lord.

"Look elsewhere for answers, Potter," Voldemort said. "Now then. What brings you here tonight, besides your ridiculous hobby of pestering me while I can't curse you?"

"What, don't enjoy my company anymore?" Harry snickered.

"Better you than Wormtail, I suppose," the Dark Lord grumped. "At least you're able to talk without stammering."

"An excellent recommendation," Harry said loftily. "I shall put it on my résumé: The Dark Lord Voldemort considers me a decent conversationalist."

Voldemort eyed him scornfully. "What's with you, Potter? You're acting like an overeager thespian tonight."

"'M worried," Harry admitted. "About my godfather."

"The fellow my servant set up?" Voldemort asked. "Why? Wormtail said he wasn't in the country."

Harry grimaced. "About that...thanks ever so much for entering me in the Tournament. He came back to make sure I'm safe."

"I see," Voldemort said thoughtfully. "And are your worries about me, or about the Ministry?"

"The Ministry, obviously." Harry snorted. "You're stuck here, Wormtail's too cowardly to go do anything to Sirius, and your servant at Hogwarts is likely too busy to bother with my godfather."

"You're far too secure in your comfort," Voldemort said sourly.

"Right," Harry shot back. "I'm so secure and comfortable that I talk to you at night, my best friend doesn't talk to me anymore, and bloody Professor Snape is making Potions hell again."

"Your best friend is a Weasley," the Dark Lord said in dismissal. "You're much better off being friends with Lucius' son, or the Nott boy. They're fine families."

"I am friends with them, thanks," he retorted.

"And I'm sure you're improving every day," Voldemort sniped. "Now, why is my little traitor being so cruel to the poor hero?" he mocked. "I thought Dumbledore had him squarely under his thumb."

Harry ignored the jab. "I've no clue," he sighed. "He just has it in for me."

"You know, Potter," Voldemort observed, "You look remarkably like your late father."

"So I've heard," Harry said. He scowled at the Dark Lord. "What does that have to do with anything? Besides remind me that you killed them."

"Yes, well." Voldemort rolled his red eyes. "Besides reminding you that I killed them, it reminds my little traitor of a certain school bully he hated with a passion."

"When I heard he and his friends pranked people I thought it sounded dodgy," Harry muttered.

"Congratulations, Potter, you're my little traitor's chance to get even."

"Why do you keep calling Snape that-'my little traitor'?" Harry asked.

"Snape was my spy," Voldemort said angrily, "My eyes and ears at Hogwarts. So he said. When I was cast from my body that Halloween thirteen years ago, I had to wait ages until I gained a body through Quirrell. When I read the old Prophets reporting the trials of my Death Eaters...." He scowled. "He didn't give up people-he did worse. He gave information. He protected the Stone three years ago, as well."

"So, he's not a Death Eater, he's just a cruel bastard?" Harry summed up.

The Dark Lord cackled. "Exactly, Potter."

"I need to think about this," Harry said. He grinned. "Going to tell me who your servant in Hogwarts is now?"

"Get out, boy," Voldemort snapped. He looked maliciously amused. "You'll find out."

"Until next time, then."

**

Harry jogged down the stairs, mug in one hand and book bag in the other, swearing. "I hate oversleeping," he grumbled.

"Five points from Gryffindor for running, Potter," Snape said as Harry brushed past him to his House table. "And another five for sloppy dress."

Fleur looked up from her little espresso cup at Harry, who fell, slightly breathless, into the seat across from her. "What an 'orrid person!" she said indignantly. "'Ee is /une sombre brute/."

"No argument here," Harry laughed. "I have it on good authority that he's a miserable bastard."

Draco, understanding the joke, raised his eyebrows at him. "What in Merlin's name do you two talk about, Potter?" he asked.

"All sorts of things," Harry said. He grinned. "I've been told that I'll improve greatly if I cultivate friendships with you and Ted," he added. Draco spat his mouthful of coffee onto his plate, shocked.

"Wow. That's just...wow."

"That was my reaction."

"Vat voss that Professor yelling at you for, Harry?" Viktor asked, sitting down next to Ginny.

"Running," Harry said with a shrug. "And looking messy, too, apparently."

Ginny frowned. "Can you even take points off for that?"

"Doubt it." Harry sipped his cappuccino and smiled. "Don't care, really. Everything he takes off, Hermione and I make up in spades."

"Don't let the ublyudok bother you, Harry," Viktor advised.

Harry nodded. "I don't, usually."

" 'Ooble-yoo-doke'?" Ginny repeated, scrunching her eyes at the unfamiliar sounds. "What's that mean, Viktor?"

"It is not a word I vould say so you could understand it," Viktor said. He grinned and took a gulp of his black, oil-slick coffee.

"Same as /salaud/, Gin," Draco told her.

"Like that helps," she retorted.

"You 'Ogwarts students 'ad better eat quickly," Fleur admonished. "You will be late for your morning classes."

Harry took a large bite of croissant. "I have Binns first. I'm fairly safe."

"Lucky bastard," Draco said. "I've McGonagall first thing."

Ginny winced. "You have my sympathies. She's not a morning person."

"Is that what it is?" Draco asked. "I thought she just didn't like Slytherins."

Harry and Ginny shook their heads. "She doesn't like anyone before ten thirty," Harry said. He drained his mug and stood. "See you in Potions after lunch?"

"I'll be there," Draco replied, saluting him with his pastry.

"/Á bientôt/!" Fleur called after him cheerfully.

He waved at his friends distractedly and left the Hall. Hermione fell into step next to him outside the doors.

"Sleep well?" she asked earnestly. She shifted her armful of books awkwardly, tucking a roll of parchment under her chin.

"Let me." Harry slid two of the thicker texts from her grip. "Merlin, Hermione, are you trying to kill yourself?" he joked.

She sniffed disdainfully. "Honestly, Harry," she tutted. "You're a complete Philistine sometimes."

"But of course," he said, grinning. "That's why I'm third in our year, right behind you and Terry Boot." He shook his head. "Anyway, yes, I did sleep well. It was very enlightening."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you enjoyed your late night talks with You-Know-with Voldemort," she muttered.

"He's very fun to bother," Harry admitted. "I personally think it's helping him."

Hermione shouldered open the door to Binns' class. "Seats in the back?" she suggested.

Harry looked around. Ron was sitting with Seamus and Dean, very determinedly not looking at him and Hermione. He shrugged.

"Why not?"

They slid into two free desks against the back wall and busied themselves with getting their parchment and supplies out.

"What on earth is /that/?" Hermione hissed, looking at Harry's bright green quill in appalled disgust.

"Rita Skeeter's quick-quotes quill," Harry said smugly. "This thing takes notes so flowery, Hemmingway is probably rolling over in his grave."

She ducked her head to hide her laughter. "Harry Potter," she said severely, "You are incorrigible."

"Oh, very much so," he agreed. As Binns floated through the wall in the front of the class, he set the tip of the quill to his roll of parchment and leaned back in his seat, smirking at Hermione.

"You, you," Hermione sputtered. "/Vi smeshni/!" she finally spat out in Russian.

Harry grinned. Quiet Viktor was spending a lot of time with his bookish friend hiding from fans in the library. Apparently they'd been teaching each other their languages to pass time.

"Shh!" Harry told her. "Binns is lecturing now!" He laughed quietly at the half-amused, half-annoyed look on her face.

As Binns began his droning lecture, he looked around the room. Ron was watching the two of them with a wistful expression. He glared and turned around the minute he noticed Harry looking back.

With a sigh, Harry looked down at his parchment.

"The ferocious warrior Glognut the Intrepid led the desperate, bloody charge against the powerful Wizarding Ministry in the year twelve-hundred forty-seven. His fierce second in command was his wife, Longtoes, who gave Glognut many sons to send into battle. Longtoes shed bitter tears as her husband was felled by a well-aimed curse..."

Harry choked, barely holding in his laughter. Oh, well. If History of Magic couldn't be educational, at least it could be entertaining.

**

"Potter, I could care less if your fan club thinks you're omnipotent," Snape sneered. "In this class, you will pay attention and not talk to your admirers." He loomed over Harry and Hermione, upper lip curled in clear derision. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

Harry nodded tightly, clenching his jaw against the angry responses bubbling up inside him. Guess asking Hermione to pass me the damselfly wings is out of the question, he thought bitterly. I can last the next ten minutes, I suppose.

Snape glared at him a few moments more before sweeping up to the front of the class.

Hermione bit her lip in frustration. Her eyes met Harry's in a silent question-/"What ingredient did you need?"/. He pointed.

As he tapped the vial of shimmering wings into the steaming indigo brew, Draco's handwriting slowly appeared on his parchment listing the ingredients.

What's got the Professor in such a bad mood?

Harry chanced a quick glance to the front of the class and scribbled back: I remind him of my dad. Long story.

Draco's answer appeared immediately. That's rather ridiculous. You're not your father.

Tell Snape that for me, would y-

"Detention, Potter," Snape's voice said maliciously from behind his shoulder. "You already had your warning for the day. Stay after class."

Harry looked up, about to protest that he'd miss dinner, then thought better. He slipped the parchment into his text surreptitiously. "Yes, Professor," he sighed, ignoring the bell signaling the end of class.

Hermione corked their two samples of potion and gave Harry a sympathetic look as she left. He cleared their station methodically, everyone filing out around him.

Draco clapped him on the shoulder in commiseration. "Talk to you tonight?" he whispered.

Harry nodded absently.

"You are so like your father," Snape spat at him. Harry's hands trembled on the scoop he was using to put the remaining ingredients back in the jars. I am not, he thought mutinously.

"Arrogant, willfully disobedient, a showoff," Snape continued. Harry stared blankly at the shelves in front of him. /I don't have to listen to this/.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Potter?" Snape asked, sneering.

Harry turned. "Yes," he answered. His voice shook with suppressed fury. "I'm not my father."

"YOU'RE EXACTLY LIKE HIM!" Snape shouted. "Strutting around like you own the school! You're too cocky for your own good, Potter!"

"MY NAME ISN'T JAMES POTTER!" Harry yelled back. With two furious steps, he reached the red-faced professor. He yanked his portkey necklace off his neck and, shoving the blue glass bauble between their hands, hissed, "/Mon Coeur/."

**

They staggered apart in the middle of a wide, headstone-studded lawn. Harry turned to scan the grave markers around them.

Snape stiffened. "What. Did. You. Do!" he hissed. Spittle flew from his mouth in anger. "Where did you take us? YOU LITTLE FOOL!" he roared.

"SHUT UP!" Harry screamed at him. He gestured violently to the large headstone in front of them. "LOOK!"

Snape stared at the words etched deep in the face of the headstone. The rage slowly drained from his face, though the lines of his body remained tensed.

"Look," Harry repeated, lowering his voice. The intensity of the moment gone, he could feel himself choking up with tears. "James and Lily Potter," he read aloud. He swallowed loudly. "Nineteen-fifty-nine to nineteen-eighty-one. Beloved husband and wife, loyal friends, devoted parents." He swiped at his eyes angrily under his glasses.

Snape couldn't seem to tear his gaze from the headstone.

"They're dead, Professor," Harry said. Tears clogged his voice. "My dad is dead." He laughed bitterly. "There's your ultimate revenge on your schoolboy bully, sir. Stop taking it out on his son."

Snape clenched his jaw. An inarticulate groan escaped his throat, and he whirled around to stare unseeingly across the cemetery.

Harry dropped to his knees and stroked the graven words. "Mum, Dad," he whispered. "Aunt Petunia takes good care of me now, Mum. I don't have to wear Dudley's things anymore. I have a bedroom." He let out a teary chuckle. "I wouldn't fit in the cupboard, anymore, anyway." He touched his forehead to the cold marble and cried quietly.

A minute or an eternity later, Snape cleared his throat behind him. Harry unfolded his stiff legs from beneath his body and stood. He scrubbed his face hard with the sleeve of his coat before turning to face his professor.

"He's in a grave, Professor," he said wearily. "Let my dad stay dead, will you?"

Snape looked at him for a long moment, eyes glittering with some strange emotion. "There's a pub down the road," was all he said, voice quiet.

"Sir?"

"It's gone past dinnertime at the school," Snape said. His voice was regaining its impatient tone. "It's no good portkeying on an empty stomach." He started walking toward the low gate surrounding the cemetery. "Coming, Potter?"

Harry felt too drained to argue with his volatile professor, and followed in his wake out the gate and down the gravel road to the cheery lights of Godric's Hollow.

The waitress at the Wizarding pub kept shooting Harry puzzled glances as she took their orders of fish-and-chips and butterbeer. Harry nervously flattened his fringe over his scar and stared down at the tabletop.

Snape shook salt liberally over his chips and looked at Harry. "You are remarkably like your-"

Harry growled. "Don't."

"Mother," he said. He shook his head. "I should have seen that for myself."

"I am my own person, Professor," Harry said. Exhaustion was seeping into his bones. He took a bite of a vinegar-soaked chip and met Snape's eyes. "My aunt couldn't stand me for the longest time because I reminded her of my mum." He looked away. "I don't understand it. Why should I be responsible for my parents?"

Snape's answer came slowly, his voice low and quiet. "You shouldn't. I-perhaps I was purposely blind to that fact."

The silence surrounding their table had an odd emptiness to it, interrupted only by the sound of fork on plate.

"Potter," Snape said eventually, "You were doing well earlier this year. Can I expect that level of work from now on?"

Harry dragged himself out of his thoughts. "Huh? Oh." He shrugged. "I don't know. It depends on if I'm allowed to work, sir."

Snape nodded jerkily. "You are just another student, as far as my class is concerned," he told him.

Harry snorted softly. "Sounds fine." He jumped slightly as something in his trouser pocket began thrumming rapidly against his leg. "Oh, great," he griped, pulling his mobile from his pocket.

"Potter?" Draco's voice came through the speaker clearly. Snape leaned forward, intrigued. "Where are you? Cedric, Viktor and I went looking for you after dinner, but we couldn't find you."

Harry glanced quickly at Snape. "I'm in Godric's Hollow," he said, a tiny smile touching his lips. "I had something to do."

"Fleur and Viktor were furious when Hermione told them about Potions class," Draco said.

Harry looked at Snape again. His professor was very intently studying the label on his butterbeer bottle. "Er, about that-"

Draco interrupted blithely. "Viktor says I should tell you, 'vuh-madge'-" a scuffling sound emerged from the mobile, and Viktor's gruff tones took over.

"Harry? Please ignore Draco's bad Russian."

Harry chuckled. "What is it, really?"

"He voss meant to tell you, ' vmaj za menya scotine.'"

Snape let out a short, incredulous laugh. Harry coughed. "Viktor?"

"/Da/?"

"Professor Snape's right here." He paused. "Apparently, he understands Russian."

"Oh vell." Viktor sounded amused. "Not a problem for me, little brother. He is your professor, not mine."

Harry put his head down on the table in exasperation. "Thanks," he said dryly. "Tell Draco I'll see you all tomorrow, all right?"

"Goodnight, little brother!" Viktor said. "Haff fun vith your angry professor." He hung up before Harry could reply.

He looked up at Snape hesitantly, wincing in expectation of the verbal lashing he was expecting. The brooding man merely nodded at his plate. "Finished?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. We'll go back to Hogwarts, then."

Harry followed him out past the curious eyes of the waitress, averting his face again. Snape peered at him in the rapidly fading light outside the pub. "You have a portkey back, Potter? Or is that too much to hope for?"

Harry held out the purple portkey in the center of his palm, and Snape placed two yellowed fingertips on it. "/Moya dusha/." With a sudden jerk forward, they were thrown into McGonagall's desk in the office adjacent to the Transfigurations classroom.

Snape straightened and smoothed the front of his robes. Harry stepped back from him uncertainly.

"Er," he said, and stopped. What was there to say?

Snape walked from the office, Harry a few steps behind. The man stopped abruptly, and Harry almost crashed into him.

"Potter," he said. His eyes glittered with the same unidentifiable emotion he'd seen in the cemetery. "I should-" He broke off.

"Sir?"

Snape shook his head slowly. His face tightened, and for an instant he looked older than his thirty-odd years. "Nothing," he said. "Your detention is over, Potter. Get to your common room." He stalked off, tension radiating from every angle of his body.

Harry lingered in the doorway for a minute longer, before shaking himself and heading up to Gryffindor Tower. He had a lot to think about.

**


une sombre brute: an overbearing bully

ublyudok: bastard

Vi smeshni: You're ridiculous!

vmaj za menya scotine: Hit the brute for me