Perceiving Harry

"Everybody's talkin' at me,

I don't hear a word they're saying,

only the echoes of my mind.

People stop and stare,

I can't see their faces,

only the shadows of their eyes..." ~ Everybody's Talking, Fred Neil

Storms have a way of brewing when Harry Potter is around. The kind of storm that creeps up on you and start small: a mild tremble, a dizzying wake. Slowly the storm builds itself - obscurity falls, turmoil crashes, an onslaught of emotion cascades through the system like a whirlwind, nearly blinding in its intensity. Even the mere mention of the boy has the power to evoke this kind of reaction within me; forever binding me to memories I'd just as soon forget.

It was easy to maintain an unequivocal condescension for the child; easier still to paint him with the same brush that I had painted his father. He was larger than life, above the rules the rest of we mere mortals have to follow, disdainfully self-righteous, and (most maddening of all) in possession of tremendously gifted, innate skill...the kind of skill the rest of us actually have to work to obtain.

While James Potter had been the bane of my adolescence, his son was the bane of my adult life... it seemed as if I was destined to be forever confronted with a Potter: stuck in the shadows of one - the memories of the torment I suffered at his hands ceaselessly continuing after his death, while having to perpetually baby-sit the other.

All of this decidedly escapes Albus Dumbledore; a man I respect, yet a man determined to keep a blind eye to the depth of my agitation with Potter, any Potter.

"When the new term begins, I would like you to resume your Occlumency lessons with our young Harry," he announces not two minutes after I had entered his office. I will say this for the infamous headmaster of Hogwarts; he truly has more gall than any one person I know, up to and including Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter. In fact, I think the term 'brass balls' is certainly applicable.

I have to struggle to keep the scowl off of my face. I won't allow that boy to be a weakness. I wont allow myself to mirror just how intensely I would rather do just about anything else than spend more time alone with him, training him... like sky diving off of a cliff without the benefit of a broom, for example.

I don't allow myself to speak at first, taking one deep breath, then another - a sense of dread permeating my indignant anger. I cannot do this, not again. It had been enough of a turbulent experience to go through the first time.

"I think that is a tremendously bad idea," I reply through gritted teeth, 'and that's putting it mildly' I add silently in my head, desperately willing the headmaster to understand. "We were getting nowhere with our lessons prior to my halting them. Potter continually displayed utter disregard for the subject and for my position as his instructor. They were an utter waste of time on both of our parts, as recent events at the Ministry of Magic can clearly attest."

The mention of the events leading up to the death of Sirius Black cause a deeply sad expression to flitter across Dumbledore's face, not that I can fault him for it, I too, can't look back on the incident in question without feeling slightly queasy.

I never liked Sirius Black, in fact, I had sufficient enough reason to hate him, but I didn't wish that particular fate on him. In fact, I wouldn't wish that fate on anybody, save Lord Voldemort. It was tragic and unfortunate. And a part of me couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt over the incident in question. Had I not stopped the Occlumency lessons with Potter... had I not goaded Black about his exile... had I put forth more of a protest when the escaped convict insisted on accompanying the team to go 'save his godson'... a thousand different 'what ifs' to join the millions of others that have run so rampart throughout my life.

However, the guilt was not a strong enough motivation into potentially opening me up for the further ridicule of a Potter through Occlumency; it was bad enough that 'young Harry' had seen certain memories of mine that I'd rather he hadn't. No force on this earth...

"Severus, I am asking you to do this as a favor for me, for Harry and for yourself," the headmaster interjected, startling me with the intense firmness and the utter lack of patience evident in his tone. The fact that the ever level-headed, all-stoic Dumbledore was getting cross stunned me into silence; an amazing feet considering that I genuinely had no feasible explanation for how my teaching Potter Occlumency could possibly be a favor to my own person, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have hesitated in voicing that to the headmaster.

"I'm asking you to trust me on this, Severus. Both you and Harry bear too many scars, scars that I wouldn't be able to heal should I be the one to continue Harry's lessons. I'm hoping that the two of you might, in the very least, come to an understanding."

It was on the tip of my tongue to retort, "Don't hold your breath", but I wisely kept silent. I had no desire to see Dumbledore truly angry, it was odd enough to see him merely agitated.

"Impossible," I said instead, still intent to get my meaning across, just with a touch less defiance.

"No, not impossible... Likely. Particularly if you allow it to happen," he continued, his gaze focusing on mine resolutely.

Dumbledore had a knack for near hypnotic stares, the kind that, no matter how old you are, or how much you've lived through, can make you feel like a squirming child. I've tried to mirror that look many times in my potions class, but I hated to have it used against me. I'm an adult and a teacher, dammit; I didn't need this excess grief. Nor did I have the desire or need to understand Potter.

"You and Harry are on the same side. Ultimately you are going to have to work together," the headmaster pointed out, his gaze becoming reflective. "In addition you are his professor, and as such, a professional. It is high time you put aside your differences, if not for anyone else than for yourselves and for the cause. I will talk to Harry about this myself, I will illustrate to him the same concerns I'm voicing to you. But ultimately Harry does need to learn to block Voldemort from controlling his mind or we may all be doomed. And you, Severus, you need to learn to put the past to rest if you are going to be a further asset to this war. The two of you can accomplish these goals together. I must emphasize that I do not make this request lightly."

At that I can do little more than sigh, knowing I'm trapped. Knowing, through past experiences, that nothing will change the headmaster's mind, yet also knowing, as I have with so many others of Dumbledore's 'requests' that I didn't have to like it.

"Alright, I'll do it, but don't expect miracles."

*****

Harry Potter storms into my office for his first lesson of the year like the midwinter chill on the cusp of a strong wind: his shoulders set, his green eyes flashing, his face holding an expression so intense that it causes me pause... Hatred. A clear, burning, deep, and poignant hatred, focused fixedly on me.

Never before had I seen the boy so attentive on disdain, and considering our past, one had to wonder...

I've seen him indignant. I've seen him upset. Hell, I've even seen him angry - intentionally provoked him into being so, but never had I seen him so undeniably driven to one all powerful emotion. I didn't think him capable of it.

Clearly I was wrong.

Apparently an entire summer of reflection was not enough to alleviate this boy's conviction that I had purposely orchestrated Black's death. If I wasn't so convinced that I did, in fact, have a part to play, I would call him on it. As it is I have to repress a shudder; barely sixteen years old and Harry Potter has already learned that there are different levels of abhorrence. Too much like me at his age.

'There is darkness in us all, tell me you haven't discovered it in yourself, Harry...'

My goal had never been, and never would be, to get this boy to like me. In fact, I had worked to ensure just the opposite. But the prey-turned-hunter glaze that darkened his former childhood innocence was enough to garnish a pang. To my recollection, James Potter had never, on his worst days, managed an expression like that towards anybody.

"Professor Snape," he greets coolly, with a condescending emphasis on 'professor', as if he finds me unworthy to hold such a title.

At his tone my own anger started to rise. I would not tolerate such blatant disrespect from a student, particularly this student.

"Mr. Potter, you'd best watch your tone. It's enough that I, once again, have to be subjected to your brash incompetence, don't make this experience even less enjoyable than it already is," I announced with as much mockery as I could muster.

'I have a few years on you, kid; you seriously don't want to play this game with me.'

"Whatever," he responds with a typical teenage snort, entirely unmoved by my spiel. His utter indifference causes another pause. He hadn't so much as flinched at my tone... something else that was new.

When had Potter learned apathy? When had Potter learned to disregard attacks on his person like water beading off of the skin?

A closer inspection of the boys face reveals dark circles under his eyes, and a thin tautness to his frame that would indicate the gradual loss of significant weight. I briefly wonder if his relatives, the ones that laughed at him as he ran from the terror of a bulldog, did this to the boy... or if I did? Or perhaps it was the grief over Black... maybe all of the above. Which event hardened this child? Did we all contribute?

For the first time I can remember I contemplated my own part in Harry's decline. I had seen some of his childhood memories during our Occlumency lessons last year. I knew he, like me, had a less than stellar childhood. At the time I had marveled that someone could grow up in a humbling environment such as that and still turn out so remarkably involved with his own self-importance. But I was beginning to wonder if there was another aspect to Harry that I hadn't considered... That perhaps I didn't have a complete portrait. Then again, he did have a habit of breaking rules, and he also had a habit of getting away with it, just like that arrogant father of his.

"It never ceases to amaze me how very much like your father you are," I mused out loud, watching him closely for a reaction.

"I wouldn't know," he said softly, purposely unmoved. "I've never met him."

The temperature in the office drops a few degrees as Potter regards me fully, only giving me the barest of seconds to formulate a reply before he continues. "I told Dumbledore that I'd rather not have anything to do with you, ever again, and this just reaffirms it. I never got to know my father. The brief glimpse of him I had in your pensieve was the closest I've ever gotten. But you know what? It seems to me that YOU'RE the one who's like him. Or, at least, you're the one closest to how my father acted in your memory."

The rage that bubbles through my system at the mention of not only my pensieve, but also the comparison between me and the teenager who had made my life a waking hell, is incomparable. Red lights swim before my eyes, and my body starts to shake with the powerful onslaught of anger. I can't remember ever being so irate, I can't remember ever being this close to actually wanting to physically attack a student. As it is I barely refrain from that impulse.

"How dare you?!" I hear myself scream, "How dare you?!"

"How dare I?" he asked, screaming right back at me, finally giving into the turmoil brewing beneath that troubled exterior. "I'll tell you how I dare! My father picked on you without being provoked, just as you've always picked on me. *I* never did anything to you. I was eleven years old when we first met, you were and are the teacher, how could I? You hated me on sight; you never even gave me a chance. My very first class with you, you just assumed I loved my celebrity, well guess what? I HATE it! I would give anything to be normal, to not be in the papers, to not have people stare at my scar. Nobody except Sirius, Ron, Hermione, the rest of the Weasley's and a very few others even bothered to look past it. And I grew up with relatives who hate the wizarding world just as much as Voldemort hates muggles. I didn't even know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts letter. I came here not knowing I was famous, not even knowing how my parents really died. You want to humble me? You want to knock me down off of my 'famous' peg? Well stand in line! Maybe you'll meet the Dursley's while waiting, you'd get along famously. Or perhaps you'll run into Voldemort there. You know, that raging psychotic who considered a fucking one-year-old child and the prophecy of a supposed 'clairvoyant' a few apples short of a barrel, a threat to him? You delude yourself into thinking you're keeping me in-line by your treatment of me, that you're preventing me from becoming the school bully like my father? The truth of the matter is you're punishing me for my name. You want to kick me down, well I'm already kicked, Snape. I became kicked watching Cedric be murdered, I became kicked watching Sirius, the person who meant more to me than anyone else in the world, die. But go ahead and take your best shot if that would truly make you feel better about yourself."

At the end of his narration Potter turns on his heels and runs, but not before I catch a glimpse of tears forming in his eyes. So the boy isn't lost yet... not entirely. That realization does little to ease the despair that permeates my anger.

Did this child, the son of a man I had hated a large portion of my life, have a point? Was there some truth to his words? Had I truly become what I hated? Was I really that blind to a dark portion of my own personality?

A saying from some distant part of my memory was flashing through my mind; perhaps Dumbledore had first told it to me, perhaps I had read it somewhere... 'There are two sides to every coin'. I had never really explored what that meant in depth, but I am now. We tend to categorize things by our own experiences, perhaps never taking the time to explore all aspects of something before attempting to place it. Sometimes that system works, and other times... other times Harry Potter breezes into your life and causes you to question it.

*****

By the time I had received my Hogwarts letter at the tender age of eleven, I had hated my parents. But it wasn't the clear-cut level of absolute loathing that I later learned; it was the hurt and angry defense mechanism of an unwanted, unloved child who was searching for acceptance.

From the moment the Hogwarts owl dropped the letter in my hand I was determined to make a name for myself. My plan was simple: I would go to school and excel at everything. I would finally earn the recognition of my parents and peers, and I would do all of this not only to spite them, but also to prove them indefinitely wrong. I would show them that I wasn't the worthless wizard they had often claimed that I was in between their own fights with each other, and I would accomplish all of this because I craved recognition as a puppy craves affection.

Instead Hogwarts became another, different, choice piece of hell.

I never achieved any of my goals, but another student in my year by the name of James Potter did, and without lifting a finger.

He was smart, I'll give him that. Brilliant actually - skilled in the classroom, skilled at sports. He was the best flyer in our year - the best everything in our year, only to be occasionally topped by his best friend, Sirius Black. James was also the anti-thesis of all that I had become: the perfect Gryffindor, the perfect student... the perfect son. I was one of the very few to bare the brunt of his imperfection.

His charisma had been undeniable, as was his self-absorption. He was the single, tremendously spoiled child of an adoring, well-to-do family who supported him damn near religiously. He had the admiration of the entire student body, teachers included, and this he garnished with flagrant gusto. He had everything I wanted, and he would make this fact known with his blatantly obvious torment of me. I was the yin to his yang and he hated me for that fact as much as I hated him for it.

He was the star; I was his hex sparring partner.

I used to dream of people looking towards me as they looked towards James Potter, always to no avail. The only respect I managed to find was under a dark and deadly band of wizards known to all as the Death Eaters, meant to serve the rising power of Lord Voldemort - an organization so perverse that even I, having grown up the way I had, was often immensely disquieted by it. So much so that I eventually reached out to the only adult to have ever shown me compassion, my former Hogwarts headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Years passed, life moved on, war escalated, and a new generation of Potter achieved the adoration of not only Hogwarts, but also the entire wizarding population as a whole.

Harry Potter, just barely one year of age, had accomplished something no other wizard had... he had survived the killing curse. And he had done so because his mother had loved him so irrefutably much, that she had sacrificed her own life for his. The sad part to that scenario was that I couldn't even conceive of that kind of love - that all-encompassing, unconditional love of a parent toward their child.

Ten years later the near mirror image of James Potter breezed into the Hogwarts main hall with a telltale-lightening bolt scar on his forehead.

That school year I watched Potter Jr. closely... I saw how he broke rules. I watched as he was granted a spot on his house Quidditch team despite being a year too young per school regulations - the spot being virtually handed to him on a silver platter. I keenly observed how his curiosity had nearly gotten him killed on several occasions, and I scrutinized as he triumphed through it all, actually being rewarded for his kamikaze behavior by the end of the second term that year.

It had seemed to me as if James Potter had returned to Hogwarts in more way than one.

But could it be possible that my observations were merely surface impressions? Had I made a predetermination to only see what I thought I would see?

Harry Potter held the answers to those questions.

*****

The rest of the week I avoided eye contact with Potter... not that it was that hard, he avoided looking at me with equal fervency. Due to the ever-so-gentle, translation: downright insistent, nudging of both Dumbledore and McGonagall, coupled with the fact that, by some miracle the boy had actually managed to pull off a decent O.W.L. in potions, I had accepted Potter into my N.E.W.T. class. A fact that had never been quite as acutely annoying as it was now. He came to class, took his notes, did the work, and left with nary a glance, and in return I somehow managed to refrain from 'pulling a James', as he so delicately implied, on him all week.

The silent treatment was child's play, and I was long sense past that stage of my development, yet that was exactly what Potter and I were doing. I felt angry and frustrated for it, but I knew that another confrontation with Potter was definitely something to save for a moment when we could have it out alone.

When the time came around again for our second lesson, I halfway wondered if he would bother to show up. But show up he did, his expression missing its former disdain, only to be replaced with a dark, foreboding kind of moodiness... I would put money on the fact that he had gone to complain to Dumbledore about this arrangement only to have the headmaster send him right back to me. Had I thought it would accomplish anything, I might have tried the same thing myself.

I didn't know quite what to say to him, and that fact disturbed me more than anything. I had never been at a loss for words in front of a student before, but then, I've never faced the utter audacity of one trying to put me in the wrong about something so extremely significant. Couple that with my own doubts as to whether there were any truths to Potter's accusations, and I was distinctly unsure of how to approach this situation.

Amazingly enough, it was Potter who provided the out.

"So, about Occlumency, Professor?" he blatantly hinted: 'let's drop it, neither of us really want to deal with this, discretion always has and always will be the better part of valor.' The brief tinge of gratitude I felt towards him in that moment did not go unnoticed by me.

'You may be a brat, Potter, but you certainly have your moments.'

"Right, have you been practicing over the summer?" I asked brusquely, teacher mode was a persona I could don with my eyes closed.

"I did," he answered, his tone taking on a telltale singsong note as something akin to a challenge lit within his eyes.

Ah, so a new game was on. I fought back a smile, somewhat pleased with this turn of events. Practice, did he?

'Another vague attempt to put me in my place, Potter? Or perhaps, like I did with my parents so long ago, you're trying to prove *me* wrong for all the times that I told you that you were worthless. Very well then... prove it.'

Before I could put my own challenge to words, I felt Potter enter my thoughts, and as a result I found myself recalling a precise incident when my parents had in fact, commented on my worthlessness... Potter had caught me unprepared. For a brief second, very brief, I was somewhat proud of him.

It was small work to clear my mind, and I didn't allow myself time to ponder the fact that Potter had just witnessed yet another one of my weak moments. I couldn't let that blasted memory hamper my judgment, to dwell on it would give Potter ample more time to attack... a lesson I had tried to drill into him last year.

When I tried to retaliate I found Potter's mind entirely closed to me... so the boy was capable after all. I couldn't help but think that it was too bad it took the death of someone he loved to provide such focus. But then again, there is something to be said for learning from one's mistakes.

"Impressive, Potter," I proclaim with a smirk, determined to show him that his access in my mind hadn't bothered me. "There might just be hope for you after all."

"Gee, thanks," he replied with a snort, although he was eyeing me strangely.

"What?" I snap, easily exasperated... old habits are hard to break.

"Nothing, it's just your parents remind me a lot of the Dursley's," he said quietly, his countenance becoming reflective. For a moment I have to fight the urge to lose my temper, how dare he trivialize my pain by comparing it with his own? But then curiosity intercedes. I know the child had it bad, but he couldn't have had it THAT bad.

"Really?" I questioned, feeling my eyebrow go up. "Show me."

And a new, perceptively disturbing challenge was afoot, but then again, Mr. Potter and I are both perceptively disturbed.

The echoes of a baritone voice interrupted my thoughts and I suddenly found myself encased in Harry Potter's mind...

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish.... Swore we'd stamp it out of him. Wizard indeed."

"You knew? You knew I'm a wizard?"

"Knew? Knew?! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was... I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak... and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal..."

So Potter wasn't exaggerating when he said he came into the wizarding world without any previous knowledge of his culture. It was all I could do not to shudder. The child had a point; his relations had similar, distinctly sadistic views on rearing young and an even more deluded and skewed take on parental support and encouragement. My parents had said and done many things, some of them pretty horrific, but they had never tried to rob me of my identity.

It was almost difficult to wrap my mind around this new information regarding Potter's childhood. This boy, our world's hero, had grown up in such a manner, and yet he had still went on to face Voldemort on more than one occasion, tackle a troll, kill a basilisk, free a notorious albeit innocent criminal, navigate a tri-wizard tournament, and perform surprisingly well on his O.W.L. exams. I had to admit that to accomplish all of that without foreknowledge of the wizarding world while coming from an abusive home took a respectable amount of spirit and perseverance. Potter was remarkably well adjusted considering all of the aspects of his past. That wasn't to say, however, that he didn't have his hindrances: Lily Evans Potter's temper, James Potter's sense of invincibility and Lord Voldemort's blatant ambition, all wrapped up in this teenage package... a dangerous combination; dangerous combination indeed.

Another thought permeated my conscious... James Potter must be turning over in his grave that his son was raised in that particular manner by those muggles. There was a time when I would have been amused at the profound irony in that, but now I just felt slightly sick. My conflicting feelings for Harry aside, it was the principal of the matter. 'Stomping out the wizard'... I have never heard of such nonsense, it's like asking a mammal not to breathe. It is an affront to our society that those muggles even attempted it.

A raised eyebrow from Potter jolts me out of my reflection, reminding me of our 'game'. I allow myself a sneer, Potter's memory was bad, but I can still top it. This child should have learned long ago that I give as well, if not better, than I get.

Pausing briefly for dramatic effect, I allow him access to another moment of time spent with my 'dearly' departed. This one involving wands, hexes, and curses... all before I was old enough to defend myself against them. The slightly green look of Potter's face indicates that he read me loud and clear.

For the brief stretch of time that Potter needs to collect himself, I allow myself a smirk, but it was a false sense of security. It isn't long before I'm immersed in the Gryffindor's mind once more: starving in a dank bedroom full of broken possessions, looking out a window with rod iron bars, all the while trying to repress a serious need to use certain facilities...

Those blasted muggles kept him in the equivalent of a cage?! My respect for what's left of his mental stability grows.

Determined to take less time than Potter in between assaults, I quickly brace myself for another oh-so-pleasant trip down memory lane, this one combining the aforementioned hexes my parents were practically famous for with the consistent, yet over so humbling, mantra of worthlessness.

Potter allows himself to observe it quietly, blinks a few times afterwards, and then shakes his head slowly when done, his expression a cross between sympathetic, and uneasy. He looks at me closely, green eyes wide, and I can't help but snap...

"What, Potter?"

I'm halfway expecting him to voice some kind of compassionate dribble. I don't want his pity.

"Professor Snape... this has to be the weirdest pissing contest I've ever been a part of," he announces instead.

His words hang in the air for a moment, and try as I might I can't control the laughter that bubbles up inside of me as I contemplate the terminology he used to describe what we were doing.

By Merlin, the kid had a point... it was a pissing contest. An unhinged, twisted, and thoroughly demented pissing contest. Only we two, being who we both are, could possibly find a way to duel it out in such a manner.

I call our lesson to a halt with a shake of my head and a flash of my opened palm... it's impossible to maintain the semblance of instructor/pupil relations while chuckling like a madman, particularly since the beloved Mr. Potter has joined me in my laughter.

'I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you. We truly are two fucked up individuals.'

It wasn't until the boy had left, and I turned over the events of the lesson in my mind while contemplating my hurt sides that I realized that it had been too long since I'd last laughed like that.

*****

The more time I spent with Potter, the more questions he engendered. He was a paradox, this Gryffindor child; a contradiction of mood swings, nobility, talent, and tremendous self-doubt; a discovery that was as shocking as it was frustrating.

He was smarter than I ever gave him credit for, yet, maddeningly enough, he doesn't use this to its full potential. He could conceivably accomplish a lot more than he does, but his increasingly stubborn self-reliance seemed to be at constant battle with his better judgment. It was frustrating as a teacher to have a pupil so reckless in regards to his own life, and so underscoredly talented, yet so drastically intent on not utilizing total common sense, that it was enough that I didn't reach out at any given time, grasp him by the shoulders and shake really, really hard.

At the very least he was handling the Occlumency lessons significantly better than he had the previous year, and had now reached the point where he could repel access into his mind without blinking an eye.. Except when he got highly excited about something; which was the state I found him in the minute he walked into my classroom a few minutes prior.

"Potter, will you stop squirming around like an impatient child. Need I remind you that you are sixteen, not six?" I snapped, noticing his mind wondering preoccupation, and his flushed cheeks.... This past weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend, something significant must have happened to him.

"Professor Snape, would it be possible to schedule this lesson for another time? I don't think it's a good idea to do this today. I'm not really up for it," Potter asked beseechingly, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of Occlumency at this particular point in time, much to my growing curiosity.

"Well, at least we agree on something," I snort, my interest piqued. Since our 'duel' I, and admittedly Potter, had put forth every effort to be at least congenial with one another... well, at least as much as I could be considering how thoroughly capable Potter is of being infuriating. It's been awhile since I've seen him so fidgety without me having been the cause of it. What happened to this boy this past weekend that is occupying his thoughts to the point of distraction?

"You need to learn to be able to utilize your Occlumency skills on all occasions, not just when it suits you to do so," I respond with a gentle purr, profoundly interested in the cause of Potter's state.

I knew whatever it was couldn't be terrible, or he would be upset, instead his mood is more preoccupied than anything else. A gleam in his eyes, and that telltale flush, indicates that whatever has happened was not altogether unpleasant, just something he'd rather not share... Too bad.

I'm an evil, evil man.

"Our lesson will go on as planned," I continue, trying to hide a smile. This opportunity for embarrassment on Potter's part is just too delicious to pass up and the best part was he couldn't fault me for this, he *should* be able to defend himself on all occasions, Voldemort is not going to wait until Potter is in the mood to use Occlumency to plan one of his attacks.

Getting into Potter's mind on this particular occasion is as easy as I thought it would be. Really, have I taught the boy nothing? There isn't anything in existence worth contemplating to the point of this level of distraction... oh.

The sound of moans accompanies the sight of two sweaty bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. Potter is there before me, his sun kissed arms locked tightly around a man I recognize as a former pupil, Oliver Wood. With wild abandoned this little sixteen year old boy, barely old enough to discover the testosterone rushing madly through his veins, is rocking madly against his former Quidditch captain, his naked skin flushed and glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his green eyes closed tightly, as his hands ball into fists against the other boy's back.

For his part Wood is looking down at Potter with an acute mixture of affection and lust, his body swaying with Potters and his fingers move this way and that, touching every part of the boy, claiming him as his own.

This plan had backfired on me tremendously, whether or not Potter is embarrassed, I most certainly am.

I withdrawal from his mind quickly, thoroughly at a loss for words. Apparently our innocent little boy is neither innocent, nor a child, and I'm certainly not equipped to deal with this.

The scene had been intensely erotic, as disturbing as that was to my psyche, and I felt my own body burn in a way that is entirely inappropriate. But worse than that was the uncertainty I felt towards how to go about approaching this situation. Potter had tried to warn me, and now I find myself in the uncomfortable situation of being an adult, and one of his teachers, who had just found out that his student has a sex life. Having seen bits of Potter's past I seriously doubt that his uncle has ever talked with him regarding certain issues, and the boy's deceased godfather had probably never had the time to get to it, which places me in a very tight spot indeed.

Potter's face is burning bright red, and he is looking down at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. But with a flash of that famous Gryffindor bravery he is infamous for, he does speak.

"That was my first time... it happened during the weekend. When Oliver joined the Order this past summer we spent a lot of time together at the Grimmauld Place. He was always trying to get me to talk, he'd take me flying to cheer me up, and we've been writing a lot of letters back and forth since the term started. When he wrote to say he'd meet me in Hogsmeade, I sort of decided to take it to the next level..."

A thousand different emotions are rushing through me as I listen to this boy speak, some of the recognizable, some of them not. The protectiveness I feel for him at this moment is definitely new. Is he even wise enough to be engaging in these kinds of acts, does he understand the full responsibilities of it? It shouldn't be me here, hearing this confession; a teacher who has, on occasion, made his life a living hell, but for better or for worse, it is, and I have to muddle through.

"So, it wasn't his idea then?" I ask, relieved that it wasn't something the teenager was pressured into by his older boyfriend.

"No, it was entirely my idea," Harry choked out, turning redder still and still refusing to meet my gaze. "Oliver kept telling me that I had to be sure, that I had to really know what I wanted. But I wanted to do it, I was sure about it, and I told him so. I have no time for whimpering girls who cry after they kiss you. I could die tomorrow having never experienced being with someone... and I didn't want that. I've always sort of had a crush on Oliver, and I like him an awful lot, more than anyone else, and I just wanted... I wanted to take that memory with me should I have to face Voldemort sooner than later."

For the first time that I could remember, I took a step back and realized what living under the constant threat of the Dark Lord had done to this boy. Forced to grow up too fast, forced to tightly grab a hold of what happiness he could find when he could find it, forced to live every moment like it could be his last, incase it may very well be.

As an instructor responsible for his student's well fare, I should lecture Potter on the importance of safe sex. I should ask him all of the significant questions like: 'are you sure you're ready to continue in a sexual relationship?' and 'does your partner truly respect you?' but instead I just nod and remember what it was like to be sixteen, with the growing threat of Voldemort looming, and decisions laid out before me like an albatross around my neck.

His childhood, and mine, was neither normal nor standard, if there truly is such a thing. I certainly made a mess of mine, and there are days when I wish that I could go back and seize the moment, like Harry had... I wish that I had spent more time building happy memories than bad. I wouldn't begrudge the boy this, and, as a favor to him, from one lost soul to another, I will drop the subject entirely. It's the least I can do.

"Think what you will about the future, Potter, and the Dark Lord's chances of succeeding, but I do not believe you will die at a young age. In fact, I'm thoroughly convinced you won't die at all. You seem to be rather incapable of it," I say to lighten the mood, monitoring the boy's reaction carefully.

He looks up at me, stunned speechless for scarcely a moment, before a slow, sly grin passes across his face, all signs of embarrassment receding.

"My god, was that a - a joke, Professor Snape?" Potter asks cheekily, over dramatizing a stunned expression. "The most serious professor to have ever graced Hogwarts' halls has a sense of humor - who knew?! This momentous occasion is sure to be documented as a footnote in a future edition of 'Hogwarts, A History', but don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your reputation is safe... for now."

Wiseass... he reminds me of me.

*****

For all his faults, Harry Potter has a spark of life in him that's simply astounding, particular considering all the trauma he has lived through during his rather short existence. When he smiles, it's significant. For if anyone had reason enough to remain grim, it would be him, and yet, he manages to do it despite of it all. Sometimes a simple twist of his lips, just to show he's amused, other times a kilowatt, lightning bolt of a grin that indicates that he is up to something, or, on occasion, just a soft and gentle curve of the mouth - the kind he reserves for talk of Weasley, or Granger, or Oliver Wood.

He's wearing that smile now, and I can't help but scowl at him because of it.

Smiles are as contagious as any virus and right now I'm certainly not in the mood to smile back at him. The threat of Voldemort continues to loom, closer than ever before, and surely that precludes any such novelties such as smiling? I don't know what I'm going to do with this child.

"What, may I ask, has you so annoyingly giddy?" I inquire from my desk, straightening a stack of papers I had just finished grading before beginning the day's lesson with Potter.

"I've decided that I am in love," Potter announces matter-of-factly, that exasperating grin still locked firmly in place.

It doesn't surprise me that Potter chose to share this information with me; we had lost any prior evasiveness with each other three months into the school term. It's hard to keep entirely guarded against over-sharing when you're constantly in and out of the mind of another individual. So, to save us both the embarrassment of trying, Potter and I had developed an arrangement of complete honesty that I rather enjoyed. It was nice getting straight answers out of someone. Too many people filter in and out of half-truths on too many occasions... to the point where they come to believe those truths as reality. At least Potter and I are spared that while in the company of each other.

What did surprise me, however, was his exact phrasing.

"How does one 'decide'that they are in love?" I question, almost entirely sure that I'm going to regret asking but unable to stop myself. Curiosity really is a fool's trait.

"Because life is about decisions, Dumbledore taught me that. Whether or not you allow yourself to love someone, through everything, is entirely up to you," Potter answered, in a stunning moment of profound insight.

I stared at the boy a moment with what I feared to be a dumbfounded expression... certainly he had a point, one that deserved some thought. It was easy to decide to block others from getting too close, I, myself, was a master of it. But the action of doing so, conscious or not, was a decision made by one's own self. Certainly the reverse effect could also be true. Love, despite every poets lament that it was instantaneous and had the power to overcome all forms of trepidation, was a sacred and precious gift that was bestowed, not blatantly stolen without one's prior knowledge or will.

It amazed me that Potter, being as young as he is, got that, but then a sad sort of maturity had been forced on this child in a quantity that exceeded most adults. I could understand that because I recognized it. And I could recognize what I know. I just wish that at sixteen, hell, even at this stage in my late thirties, I had the courage to stand up and announce... 'I have decided that I am in love. I have not tucked my heart away forever. It is accessible. And I'll be damned if I let a few idiotic people who wouldn't know how to care for a child if it came in a manual, or a few school age bullies, hold me back from experiencing love in this life.'

Harry Potter could really be quite startling at times.

"And what brought on this declaration of philosophical certainty," I inquire, all traces of sarcasm absent from my voice.

"Well," he said, his grin growing sheepish, "Oliver and I got into a fight the other day, and while Oliver was standing there in the middle of the Three Broomsticks being short with me, my mind started to wander... it dawned on me that he's kind of cute when he's upset. I like the way he is so protective of me. I enjoy being with him, even when he's in a snit, and I realized that I had fallen in love with him," Potter finished matter-of-factly, staring down at his hands with minor embarrassment.

Yes, 'startling' was a good word to use in reference to Harry Potter. 'Insane' is another.

"Let me get this straight, you got into an argument with your boyfriend and it was at that point that you decided you were in love?" I ask incredulously, rubbing the bridge of my nose while wondering if I should talk to Albus about maybe hiring a school counselor. Clearly some students need it more than others.

"Yes," he replies, his cheeks becoming red.

"What on earth did you argue about?" I blurt out before thinking, all the while questioning if I would ever understand this child.

"I told him that I almost wish Voldemort would go ahead and come after me so that this waiting and suspense would all be over with... Oliver didn't like that idea too much. Said that I have a death wish, and that he'd tie me to a chair to keep me safe if that's what was needed; as if that would prevent Voldemort from getting me," the boy replied with a snort, although the fact that he was scuffing the floor with his shoes proved that he was nervous discussing this topic with me.

The mood within the room changed drastically and I could almost physically feel a couple of the hairs on my head turn gray. It was on the tip of my tongue to get 'short' with the boy myself. To rant and rave about tempting fate and bringing inevitable turmoil because of an improper mindset. But another part of me stood before him with a broken heart.

Somewhere through these past months I had learned a valuable lesson, several in fact. I had learned that I am still capable of laughter, despite all evidence to the contrary. I have learned that that some moments have to be grasped and taken without trepidation, curving one's own happiness. I have learned that it is possible to truly live despite past grievances and flash a smile and experience love. I have learned that Harry Potter is not an extension of James Potter, but is a man in his own right, and a rather good one at that, despite his funny quirks, psychotic bravery, and sudden flashes of temperament.

I have learned that although I am the teacher, it is Harry who has schooled me.

The upcoming threat of Voldemort is not something to dread with the impassiveness of a man stuck in a life of misery, but with the fear of a man who has just been shown how to truly grasp a hold of life and hang on tightly for the ride.

With a few quick strides I cross the room and place my hands on the boy's shoulders... it is my turn to give back what he has given me.

"Listen to me, Potter, and listen carefully. The Dark Lord will come, make no mistake about that. He wants power and you stand in the way of that power. However, when that time comes, I want you to promise me something..."

I take a deep breath before continuing, meeting the boy's eyes and refusing to let that hold go.

"I want you to promise me that you'll look at him and you'll think of what Oliver Wood looks like in a snit. I want you to stare at Voldemort and contemplate all of the future occasions you'll have to engage in mutual calisthenics with a partner of your choice after you survive your encounter with him. I want you to consider how many more 'pissing contests', of any variety, you have yet to engage in. I need you to take into account all of the rules you have left to break with Weasley and Granger devotedly at your side. And I want you to recall all of that and live... For yourself, mostly. But also for Black, who valued your life over his own. And for me and your other professors who have spent these past six years cultivating you. For our world, who hasn't miss placed their faith by placing it in you, and for your parents, who died in their prime and never got the chance to see the promising young man that you have become."

The determined look that hardened Harry's face indicated he comprehended all that I was trying to say, both what I had voiced, and what I hadn't. I did not convey any of this lightly; it isn't in me to do so. He is strong, he will succeed. We had come to an understanding, he and I.

*****

Harry Potter was missing and Hermione Granger sat weeping quietly in a corner.

Harry Potter was missing and Ron Weasley scrunched his face up tightly as a means to prevent himself from crying along side her, his eyes mirroring the agony he felt like a lighthouse beaconing lost ships at sea.

Harry Potter was missing and Oliver Wood stood pacing agitatedly, finally coming to a stop in the middle of the room to announce...

"I'm going to go look for him," his tone laden with anguish.

"It won't do either you or him any good, we don't know where he was taken," Mad Eye Moody responded, crinkles of worry lining his normally expressionless face.

Wood's shoulders sagged in defeat... "I wish I could do something, I feel so helpless."

Harry Potter was missing and Arthur Weasley stood clutching his sobbing wife to his chest, his own eyes tearing to the point where they glowed like crystallized water, both Weasley's struck paralyzed with fear for the child they loved as their own.

Harry Potter was missing and Remus Lupin sat with his head buried in his hands, his entire body shaking as he murmured... "I'm sorry James, Lily. I would give my own life to protect him in a heartbeat, just as you did. Just as Sirius did."

Harry Potter was missing and Dumbledore's expression seemed to have aged a hundred more years, his cheek marred with the track of a single tear, while a faint whisper caused his long white beard to gently sway.

"Come back to me, Harry. Fulfill the prophecy and come home to Hogwarts. I love you."

Harry Potter was missing and Minerva McGonagall sat fiddling with her hands, her normally stern countenance dissolved with agony over the disappearance of one of her own - one of her precious lion cubs.

Harry Potter was missing and I wish with everything in me that I was there with him, fighting along side of him, giving him support as he faced his demon.

But despite the sorrow I feel over the fact that he is alone in his struggles, I have faith that he will return to us... because I know him. Harry Potter could accomplish anything he set his mind to, he is that capable.

Sometimes we have to sit back and watch our children soar to great heights on their own. We had taught him well, but it was his own determination that had brought him this far.

Another quick glance around the room, each occupant in various stages of anxiety, and I can't help but be warmed. This sole little boy has touched the lives of all of these people; had stirred all of this devotion, all of this love. Perhaps that is Harry's greatest gift, despite his many talents - the ability to inspire. To pull on the heart and touch the soul, and to remind us all that a little love and attention can mold a young hero.

Ronald Weasley is eyeing me from across the room, his struggle to remain levelheaded lost as silent tears pour down his pale face like cascades of little waterfalls.

"Professor Snape?" he calls softly, taking a deep breath as I nod my head for him to continue.

"We, most of the Gryffindor house actually, used to hate you. We would leave your classes complaining about how mean you were. But a few months ago Harry started to defend you. He wouldn't let us say a bad thing about you. He told us that we shouldn't judge you because we didn't really know you, and that you had a side to you that was good and decent, but you didn't like to show it because it might be regarded as a weakness. And well, I just wanted you to know that, in case..." his voice trailed off as he choked back a sob.

It was all *I* could do not to cry.

*****

Another year came and went and a new class is graduating from Hogwarts, ready to face the world. I can't help but look at this particular class with mild awe. They have shown remarkable perseverance and adaptation, well beyond their years. They have survived dark, perilous times and have bravely risen to every challenge placed before them.

They are a class in which my colleagues and I can truly be proud.

When I had first started teaching it was with the helpless reluctance of one who had exhausted most other opportunities in life, but now... now I realize the importance of my position.

What steps could have prevented the fall of Tom Riddle? Could a well-placed teacher have reached out to him, squelching Voldemort before he emerged? Is it our genetics that predetermine who we are, or is it our environment? Or perhaps both? Can we all rise above our pasts, like Harry Potter, and make it through life on sheer nerve?

As a professor I can only hypothesize the answers to these questions, but one boy has taught me that it's more than worth it to step in and do what we can to assist young minds. All they really need is a dose of life, and a little encouragement.

Harry Potter seeks me out after the ceremony, healthy and happy, Oliver Wood firmly at his side, as if he's afraid that Harry will disappear from beside him if he were to look away. The smile on Harry's face is one of those kilowatt smiles, full of life, full of mischief.

"Professor Snape? I wanted to say thank you for everything. I owe you a lot." Potter announces, his grin turning sheepish as his now smooth forehead reflects the light of the sun. The scar of his past has disappeared along with Voldemort, and so has the fear that this child has lived under. I could rest easy in the knowledge that Harry Potter was now free to accomplish a multitude of great things... I would expect no less of him.

"There is no need to thank me, Harry. I was happy to help you in any way that I could," I reply honestly, because I was.

I hold out my hand for Harry to shake and he takes one look at it and then bypasses it and wraps his arms around me in a hug. I cling to him tightly, an unfamiliar sensation working its way through my system. There is so much warmth, so much understanding, I feel both renewed and frightened by it. But I continue to hold on tight, basking in his scent, his heat... willingly taking the comfort he provides.

Finally he pulls back, directly meeting my eyes. "You're a good teacher, Professor Snape."

"And you're a good man, Harry Potter," I respond, my voice gruff with emotion that I'm still weary of displaying... old habits die hard, but I'm working on it.

He flashes me another grin and turns to the sound of Ron Weasley calling his name, waving him over to the location where all the Weasley's stand. With a final nod in my direction he is gone, and I turn my attention to the boyfriend who stands watching his lover leave, just prior to following him, his gaze full of idolatry.

"I realize," I say to Wood, attempting to get his attention, "that you are another Gryffindor and such concepts may be above you, but please do keep an eye on him for me. Don't let him do anything foolishly brave without giving it proper thought before hand. Rein him in as much as he'll allow you to do so. I know how stubborn he can be about such things."

Wood smiles at me, his eyes twinkling, indicating that he got my meaning. "I'll do what I can."

As he leaves to follow the path of his lover I flash my own grin, my eyes landing once more on Harry... There are some of us who go through life as if it is a burden, and there are others of us who simply chose to live.

"I'm going where the sun keeps shining

Through the pouring rain

Going where the weather suits my clothes

Banking off the North East wind

Sailing on summer breeze

And skipping over the ocean like a stone." ~ Everybody's Talking, Fred Neil

The End!