Chapter Text

“Luncheon?” asked Snape after Harry waved his wand to open the door. The man hadn’t even knocked; Harry had heard his soft footfall coming up the staircase. “Dobby has prepared a bizarre assortment of canapés along with both lamb soup and bouillabaisse.”

“Canapés?"

"Small appetizers."

Harry nodded as he tapped his wand to his spell lexicon to ward it closed.

“Any progress?”

“I couldn’t really concentrate.”

“Ah.”

A hot flush came up under his collar, so suddenly that Harry tugged on it a little. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean it was your fault.”

“But you can’t help but wonder what transpired between Narcissa and myself.”

“No, your ward made it pretty clear you wanted to keep things to yourself--”

A gentle finger was suddenly beneath his chin, lifting his face up a fraction of an inch. “It is still quite natural for you to wonder.”

“Uh, well, I’m not asking--”

“Breathe, you idiot child.”

That broke the tension. Harry laughed, just a little.

“I merely sought to put her mind at ease,” said Severus. “She knows enough about my past to be wary, and it hasn’t helped that she understands the implications of my being able to counter the Withering Witch.”

Harry swiftly Occluded away the headache that threatened to bloom.

“So it is perhaps understandable that she worries I may mistreat her, I suppose.”

"She does seem . . . timid, around you."

"Hopefully she will be less so after our talk."

Maybe she was. It was hard to tell; when Harry and Snape seated themselves in the dining room, Narcissa abruptly stopped talking with Draco and sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap. But when the canapés started floating in on small plates, she began making small talk, mostly about the icing flowers decorating the little cakes.

"These are more along the lines of petit fours," she murmured at one point. "So beautiful and delicate. You are very talented indeed, Dobby."

"Dobby is thanking Mistress Malfoy!"

She cast a sidelong glance toward Snape, even as she seemed to lean slightly away from him. "Not Malfoy."

"Dobby is thanking Mistress," said Dobby, nodding in a way that made him resemble a wise old man.

Narcissa nodded too, her motion somehow regal, and resumed speaking in a low voice to her son.

When the meal was over, Harry realised that the woman hadn't said a single word to Snape. Or to him, for that matter. He could sort of understand that last bit, considering he hadn't been very nice to her earlier that day. But he really didn't understand why she was so skittish around Snape. The man had saved her, after all, and he hadn't done a single thing to threaten her since.

And how could his past as a Death Eater be the problem? She'd been married to one for decades!

Harry sighed then, his body clenching as he concentrated and managed to force away the headache trying to stomp his brain into mush.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Problem?"

"Just the usual," muttered Harry, feeling sort of sick with dread. What if Marsha couldn't help him with this? "Excuse me, please. I think I'll go back upstairs for a bit."

He wasn't sure how it was possible, but it seemed like he could feel Narcissa gazing steadily at his back as he walked away.

---------------------------------------------------

Harry spent the rest of the day holed up in his room, safely ensconced behind privacy spells, working with the Parseltongue lexicon. This time, he couldn't claim that he wasn't concentrating -- it was all he was doing, in fact.

But he might as well not have bothered. As long as he had a ribbon sweet to chew, his Parseltongue spells worked fine. He kept setting a timer, and just like clockwork, his Parseltongue magic stopped working completely after nine minutes and forty seconds. He thought about chewing and swallowing two sweets at once to see if he could double that time frame, but decided it would be a stupid stunt that could land him in the hospital wing. And pointless, too, since he knew by then that taking one sweet after another was a perfectly safe approach.

He actually got a huge amount of practice in, even mastering some spells that previously, he'd only read about in the journal. Though in a way, that mastery didn't mean much, since he mainly just needed to focus on what a Latin incantation actually meant to him, or really, just concentrate on what he was trying to accomplish with the magic.

When practicing with the lexicon palled, he started trying out some incantations that weren't based at all on earlier spells he'd learned. What if he just wanted something to happen, and there wasn't an existing spell to get the job done? That he knew of, at any rate?

Harry's new approach turned out to be a hit-and-miss affair. He managed to make his wand pour out mustard, but that was basically just a variant of Aguamenti or perhaps of Mrs. Weasley's splendid cheese sauce spell. More interesting was the way he got rid of the stain left on the throw rug he'd been sitting on during his practice session. His Parseltongue version of Evanesco removed the glop but not the stain, so he thought for a bit and told the rug to grow like grass. Then it was just a simple matter of figuring out a lawnmowing spell to cut the rug back down to normal length. The result was something of a mess, even after he'd banished the lopped-off strands, and with them, every trace of stain. But still, it was magic that he'd figured out on his own, without relying on Parseltongue versions of existing spells.

The leather-bound books from the cellar caught his eye once he'd given up on getting the rug surface to be more-or-less level again. Huh. If he could make strands of yarn grow like grass, he could probably order the journals to open.

Popping another ribbon candy into his mouth, Harry set to work.

"Open," "Unlock," and "Surrender to me" got him nowhere at all. He tried ordering the pages not to stick together, and even pretended that the journal in his hand was a banana that he could somehow manage to peel with magic, figuring that if the cover fell off that would at least be a start. But the books might as well be blocks of wood, they were so unresponsive.

Not even taking a page from Snape's bag of tricks with "Reveal your secrets" made any difference.

Sighing, Harry shoved the books to the bottom edge of his bed and snatched up Teddy to hug.

That was how Severus found him a few minutes later.

"I assume the hiss was meant to convey that I might come in," the man said as he stepped into the room.

Harry nodded and pointed with his wand at the ghostly numbers floating in the air, which showed he'd be able to speak English again in eight more seconds.

"So I take it that you are no closer than before to managing on your own?"

Harry shook his head and waited a few more seconds until the timer hit zero. "No luck, yeah. Um, I started working on some new spells, though."

"Would that explain the rug?" Snape quirked a small smile. "Well, I imagine your lexicon will always be a work in progress. You might make a habit, you know, of determining the Parseltongue equivalent whenever you learn a new Latin incantation."

"What, just in case I lose my regular magic again?" asked Harry, one eyebrow raised.

"No, so that you can shift into highly powered wanded spells any time you need them. If you are still determined to be an Auror, the talent will no doubt prove invaluable."

Something in the man's tone gave Harry pause. "If?"

Snape crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Since, rather."

"You sound . . . odd. What's the matter?"

The edge of the bed sank down as Snape lowered himself to sit just three feet from Harry. He stared at the wall, though, avoiding his son's gaze. "You would know this if your memories had returned in full, but I have never been ecstatic at the thought of you becoming an Auror, Harry."

"Too dangerous?"

"That is one concern," said Snape slowly. "Your magic is formidable indeed, but even the strongest wizard can be taken off guard."

"I'll have Draco with me."

"That only doubles my nightmares."

"One concern, you said. What else, then? Do you . . . do you think I won't be happy in that line of work, is that it?"

Snape shifted to look at him, then, his dark eyes haunted. "I am quite certain it will suit you immeasurably, which is why I never raised a serious objection to it, loathsome though I find the prospect."

"Now it's actually loathsome?" Harry moved forward so he could rest a hand on the robe covering his father's knee. "I don't understand, Severus."

"The problem is mine--"

"And you're my father, so I want to know," said Harry, his tone insistent. "What problem are we talking about?"

"You'll get a headache if I go into much detail."

Oh. "That problem," said Harry, sighing. The headache was blooming already, even without the details. He took care of it, but kept his hand where it was. "I think I get it. Back in your younger days, you met some Aurors who were . . . bad."

"Bad?" Severus snorted. "I've known several who were little better than thugs. And don't tell me that this was years ago and things have changed. Draco can tell you differently. He had a rough time with some of them just last year, when he came to Hogwarts to return your wand."

Harry nodded, even though it felt like something inside him was breaking into pieces. "All right, so you're worried I might go bad--"

"No!" The man abruptly clutched his hand, lacing their fingers together. "No, no, no. Never think that, Harry. You have a well of goodness inside you that is deep and lasting. It's why you could forgive Draco for five years of bullying and abuse, why you were able to come to terms with even worse from me . . . your mother had it too, you know. She knew how to love."

Snape gripped his hand a little more tightly. "Harry, you are so good inside that the mere idea you might go bad caused you to take a needle to yourself. I would say that there is zero chance you will actually go bad. But I do not like to think of you having to deal with the terrible types that are sometimes drawn to the DMLE. Witches and wizards who seek power over others for the sake of it."

Harry's chest felt tight, then. Not like something was breaking apart at all, but like it was strong and solid and swelling with happiness and maybe pride. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn't seem to stop the words. "You . . . you like me! I mean, you sound like you . . . respect me?"

"Certainly I like and respect you," sniffed Snape, raising his chin a little. "Or have you forgotten all the times I've said as much?"

Harry grinned. "You kept saying that you loved me, Severus. You never said the other bits."

He got an incredulous glance for his troubles. "You idiot child. Did you think I loved you for no reason at all?"

"Well, I just thought it was because I was your adopted son."

The man's gaze seemed to blaze through him. "I wanted you for my son in the first place because I had grown to like and respect and love you!"

Harry nodded, still grinning. He couldn't seem to stop. "Did you say so? I mean, back then when you were adopting me?"

"Not . . . not in so many words."

"That's all right. I know it can be hard to say . . . stuff. Like, um, I like and respect you, too. And I'm really glad now that you're my father." Harry tried to say the rest, but his throat started to close over. But maybe that was all right. He thought Severus probably knew that he loved him. Still, Harry tried again to say it. All that emerged was, "Can you let go of my hand? It's starting to ache."

He flexed his fingers several times, then started rubbing them with his other hand. Something about the pain felt strangely familiar, though he was sure Snape hadn't gripped him too hard like that before. Then, just as he was wondering where he'd had this hands-aching feeling before, it suddenly came to him that he should clear something up.

"Um, my Parseltongue spell journal? I think you misunderstood me, before. I wasn't trying to change more Latin incantations into Parseltongue versions. I was trying to see if I could invent completely new spells."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "And so?"

"I made the rug grow. Like grass. And then I sort of . . . mowed it? Do spells like that already exist?"

"Not to my knowledge. Harry . . . I do hope you were experimenting only with wandless magic."

"Yes. Wandless."

Snape blew out a breath. "That, at least, is a relief. I would still prefer it, however, if you had someone with you when pursuing untested magic. Even the wandless variety. Myself, or Draco, or even Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger. Just in case something goes wrong."

Harry furrowed his brow. "We've discussed this before, I think. Did you set me an essay on the topic?"

"Yes. I was more concerned then about untested wanded magic, but if you're going to delve into truly unknown realms of sorcery, even wandless spells could pose a danger."

"I'll make sure someone's with me," agreed Harry. "Unless there's an emergency and I can't wait."

"I'm not asking you to change your entire personality," drawled Snape.

"Of course not," bantered Harry. "You like me!"

"And since you like me," countered Snape with a slight smile, "do try to avoid giving me unnecessary heart attacks. Be sure there is no alternative before you dive alone into untested magic."

"Speaking of which, then . . ." Harry reached down to the foot of the bed and handed his father the stack of books he'd shoved there. "I think they're journals, maybe belonging to Sirius. But they're locked somehow and I can't break through their protections. Are they sealed with Dark Arts?"

Snape spent a moment examining the books, casting a series of increasingly complex spells against them. "I don't sense anything particularly dark about the books or their protections. It seems more as though they are simply secured with a personal password."

That sounded all right. "Then we just need to threaten them, like you did with the Fat Lady? What would a book be afraid of? Not turpentine, I don't think--"

He stopped talking when he noticed his father holding up one hand. "Portraits carry a person's life essence and are therefore sentient. The same cannot be said for these journals."

"Crap. It's not possible to scare them open, I think you mean."

"It is possible, however, to trick them open. It merely requires knowing the correct password."

"Good thing my regular magic's back then," Harry tried to joke. "Well, assuming these did belong to Sirius, how about, 'Padfoot?' Um, 'motorbike?' Hmm. How about, 'Bellatrix is a bitch?' No . . . um . . ."

"Say the password in a commanding tone, not as a question," advised Snape. “And tap your wand to the cover of the book on the last syllable.”

Harry tried, but it didn't make any difference.

Snape patted his hand. "Password protections can be among the most frustrating of security measures. But if you make a list of things associated with Black, and work from there, you may stumble across the correct word or phrase."

Harry frowned. "You knew him for a long time. Longer than me, really, even if you didn't like him . . . Can you help me think of things to try?"

"Certainly." Snape neatly stacked the books on the bureau, and gestured for Harry to get up. "Why don't we work on the list over pizza? It's time we left."

Harry popped Teddy alongside the stack of journals. "I hope you know I'm not actually eager for pizza again so soon."

"We can go where we please. But stick to the cover story within earshot of Draco's mother. We don't want her asking questions about why you and I go out in the evenings."

"Maybe we should just Apparate from here instead of leaving through the door, then," suggested Harry. "Less to explain is always better, yeah? Have you already told Draco that we're off?"

At Snape's nod, Harry jumped up. "Good, then we can avoid Narcissa completely, and when Draco and she eat dinner, he can be the one to mention my burning need for pizza. So, what are you waiting for? Shift your clothes into something Mugglish."

After Snape had, he gave Harry a close look. "Do you recall the alley beside the pizzeria? I will go first and you can follow. From there we'll look about for some other type of restaurant."

Harry grinned. He liked that Snape had remembered he wanted to Apparate himself. It was a small thing, but somehow, it meant a lot that the man had remembered. Before he could decide if he wanted to say so, though, his father had vanished.

Still grinning, Harry concentrated hard, then did the same.

---------------------------------------------------

"Maybe next time we should stick to pizza," Harry grumbled a couple of hours later as he and Severus were sitting in Marsha's waiting room. "I mean, I thought I wanted to try something new, but that sauerbraten was just nasty."

"At least it was prepared from beef. In some places on the continent the chefs use horse meat."

Harry made a face. "Did you have to tell me that?"

"Apparently."

"Ha. Very funny." Harry swallowed then, thinking of his upcoming session. "Um, this might take a while. She said she's bringing in a documentary or something for me to watch. It might be long. Are you . . . are you going to pop out again like you did last night?"

"No, but if something should arise I trust you still have your charmed Sickle?"

Harry fished in his jeans pocket and showed Severus the top edge of it.

A slight creaking noise had him glancing up at Marsha Goode, who stood framed in the doorway to her office, the light streaming from behind her making her look slightly spooky. Harry shook his head a little and told himself not to be nervous.

But what if he couldn't get this problem solved? He didn't know how he could bear it, going through the rest of his life with a father he couldn't think too deeply about, even though he liked and respected and loved him. What was he going to do?

"Breathe, you idiot child," murmured Snape in a low voice as he stood up from his chair.

Not low enough, as it turned out.

"That's no way to speak to your son," said Marsha sternly. "Really, Professor Snape, I know you had almost no training at all for working with adolescents, but I would think it obvious that calling your own son names is hardly advisable."

Well, at least she'd broken the tension inside Harry's head. He chuckled as he rose to his feet. "No, that's kind of like a code we have," he explained. "He means he loves me."

Snape coloured, a wash of red flowing upwards to stain his usually sallow cheeks. Though he did say, "That is quite correct."

"Hmph." Marsha sounded like she still didn't approve. "Well, Professor, I would urge you to take care. If Harry comes to not prefer such a mode of address, you should desist at once."

"Severus does not care to show emotion," Harry suddenly blurted.

Snape shot him an incredulous look. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry blinked. "Wait, that's not what I meant. You show me plenty of emotion these days. Well you should, you don't hate me at all-- Wait, that came out wrong too." He cleared his throat. "I think somebody else said that to me once. The first bit."

Snape rolled his eyes. "It quite sounds like the headmaster. He does so love to meddle."

"A new memory, Harry?"

Harry shrugged, the motion somewhat strained. "I guess so."

Marsha paused for a moment. "And the second part, about your father not hating you at all, was that a memory too?"

Harry didn't know. He was starting to shrug again when Snape spoke into the void. "It was. I said that to him."

Marsha stared a little. "You told Harry that you didn't hate him. That's rather an oblique way of putting it, don't you think?"

"Somewhat along the same lines as 'idiot child,'" agreed Snape in a mild tone. "But these days I do also tell him in direct terms that I love him, so I would say we have an understanding."

Harry opened his mouth to say, I love you, too. But nothing came out. Maybe because Marsha was standing there, watching them. Maybe because he couldn’t remember ever saying that before, except to Luna, and this wasn't the same at all. He'd never, ever straight-up said it to an adult.

Maybe he couldn't.

"Come in then, Harry," Marsha was saying, drawing him out of his thoughts. "We have a good bit to discuss."

Harry gave Severus a feeble wave before trudging into Marsha’s office. He wondered if that was enough. Could the man tell what he was trying to say?

Probably not.

---------------------------------------------------

"So I'm not completely sure how much of this you'll be able to follow," said Marsha as she fished through a large handbag hanging on a hat stand by the office door.

"Just because I stopped going to Muggle school years ago doesn't make me stupid," objected Harry. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Boring, most likely. But fine.

"That's not what I meant." Marsha turned around, a videotape clutched in one hand, and gave him a strained smile. "It's just that you might never have heard of Star Trek. You mentioned once that you weren't allowed to watch much telly?"

She wasn't going to show him a dull-as-ditchwater documentary? Harry had been willing to sit through it -- anything to help him with his headache problem -- but wow, was this a relief. "Oh yeah, Star Trek," he exclaimed, nodding. "Yeah, I know a bit. Captain Kirk, right? And an alien named . . . uh, Spork? On board a starship."

"Spock," she said, her eyes gleaming with mirth. "Yes, I can see you're familiar. But this is an episode from a later series in a similar vein. Star Trek, The Next Generation?"

Harry shook his head. "Sorry, never heard of it."

"Hmm. Well, the story is still very instructive. It won't matter a great deal if all the characters are new to you. The only one who matters much in this episode's plot is the ship's captain. Jean-Luc Picard. He's a man with a great deal of confidence and determination, as you'll see. Oh, and you should probably know that the character named Q is a trickster in human guise with . . . well, wizard-like powers is probably the best way to put it."

"Q?"

"Odd name, yes. I don't really want to tell you much else about the plot. I'd rather you discover it as you watch it unfold."

Harry nodded. "But what am I watching for?"

"Just absorb the events. Let yourself get lost in them, if that's possible. We'll talk everything over afterwards. All right?"

Harry lifted his shoulders, supposing she knew best.

"Excellent." Marsha popped the tape into the VCR and dimmed the lights, then sat down in a chair a few feet from where he was perched on the edge of the sofa. "This episode is called ‘Tapestry.’ A very apt title, as you'll see."

Harry nodded. Tapestry. So it was going to be about family trees. Family relationships. Something like that. That impression was bolstered almost right away. The starship captain lay near death, then seemed to be transported to the afterlife to talk to this Q. But soon enough the captain's father showed up in the afterlife and started yelling at him.

"So it's about fathers who are disappointed in their sons?" Wait . . . what did that have to do with him? He didn't think Snape felt that way. Or at least, not most of the time.

"No, not at all. Now hush, Harry. Try not to second-guess why we're watching. For now, just watch and enjoy. Think of this as movie night at school."

"We don't have those at Hogwarts,” said Harry dryly. “But all right, I'll try."

He managed not to speak again during the episode, though at several points that was difficult. There were some aliens called Naussicans, but it was hard to take them seriously as a space-faring race because they were so brutal and stupid they'd have definitely all killed each other long before their civilization could have developed advanced technology. Besides, the make-up the actors wore was laughable. There was also a romance sequence he didn't really think worked.

Probably a good thing, he thought glumly. A believable romance would just have made him think of Luna. Or really, think of her even more than he already did.

At least the main thread of the plot was intriguing enough. The captain appeared to have died, but he was allowed to go back to a time in his youth when he thought he'd made a mistake. He acted differently during this re-do, but instead of improving his life, the change made it worse. In the end he was allowed to go back to his youth again to undo the re-do and set his life back on its original trajectory.

"That's a lot to think about," said Harry when the end credits started to appear on screen.

Marsha clicked a button on the remote to shut off the screen. "I take it you see the parallels to your own difficulties."

"Yeah." Harry cleared his throat. "It's about . . . regret, I suppose. The captain really regretted getting into that fight when he was young. But it helped forge him into the kind of person he ended up becoming, so when he went back in time and avoided the fight, he became a different sort of person. One without all the drive and determination that had made him . . . well, him."

"And the image of the tapestry that was being discussed at the end?"

"Like they said, a person's life is like a tapestry, woven out of a lot of different strands of thread. If you pull one of those threads out, you won't just have the same tapestry but missing one strand. You'll unravel the tapestry instead, and the person's life won't turn out the same."

"Yes, exactly. But can you put that in your own words, instead of theirs?"

Harry tried. "Um . . . a person's life is made up of a lot of events that are . . . interconnected. You can't just erase one and have the rest of the life stay the same. It's like . . . a row of dominoes knocking each other over. If you take one out early in the sequence, the rest on that same path won’t fall, and the person's life will follow a different path."

Nodding, Marsha sat back in her chair, hands folded in front of her. "I suspect you've been thinking of your father's life rather as though it were a light switch instead of a tapestry, Harry. He was a Death Eater, yes. But then he allied himself to Albus Dumbledore, instead. Like flipping a switch."

Harry hesitantly nodded.

"But that's not how life works," she said, voice soft and gentle. "The person he is today is the result of his experiences. All his experiences. Even the negative ones."

"Negative," scoffed Harry. The edge of headache that had crept in just a moment earlier grew teeth and started to chew on him, just behind the eyes. He knew he could force it down with Occlumency, but he didn't want to expend his mental energy on that. Not just now. This conversation was too important. Fishing in a jacket pocket, he pulled out his vial of Lillehammer and quaffed it.

Then he tried to concentrate on what she'd said. "Negative? That's what you're going to call it? It was completely stupid, him deciding to follow Voldemort!"

"But young people often undertake life-changing decisions that are very stupid indeed," murmured Marsha. "The captain's decision in the show, to fight with a Naussican twice his size, that was certainly brainless."

"Yeah," rasped Harry. He hated the most brainless decision he’d ever made. Even if he understood now that Bellatrix had been the one to kill Sirius, he still hated that he’d ever gone to the Ministry that night. It had been stupid. And life-changing? Oh, yes.

"But without that decision, stupid and destructive as it was, he became a different person.”

Swallowing, Harry tried to get his thoughts back on track. They weren’t really here to go over his own stupid mistakes. This was about Snape.

“So let's examine the tapestry of your father's life,” she quietly continued. “It was terrible that he ever joined the Death Eaters, of course it was. And I don’t want you to misunderstand this exercise. I’m not trying to suggest that it wasn’t stupid, that it wasn’t a mistake. What it also is, though, is a part of your father’s life experience. A part of his tapestry. If we pull that one thread out from the whole, what else follows?"

"He . . ." Harry stopped to think, then started over. "I guess my father, James I mean, would still have hated him. And vice-versa. That all started a long time before Severus was old enough to join Voldemort."

"Professor Snape hates your father?"

Harry lifted his shoulders. "Not so much now, I don't think. But before he adopted me? Hate's a pretty mild word for it, really. It was more like, um . . . vitriol, I guess."

Her voice was hesitant when she spoke next. And for good reason. "I see. So if Professor Snape had never become a Death Eater, would your parents still have died?"

"Yes," sighed Harry, reaching up to rub his head. That was just habit, of course. He couldn't feel it any longer, not even with his hands. He abruptly dropped them to his knees. "Voldemort had other spies following Dumbledore about. One of them would have overheard the prophecy and reported it back to him. Hell, even with him thinking Snape was on his side, Voldemort still had another spy overhear the prophecy. I guess the only difference would have been that Peter Pettigrew would have been in rat form instead of chameleon."

She probably couldn't have followed all that, but she didn't ask any questions.

"If he'd never become a Death Eater, though . . ." Harry tried to tug that thread away from the tapestry of Snape's life and imagine how things would have turned out differently. "I don't think he'd have become a teacher, really. I mean, he only did that because he wanted to stop being a Death Eater, and he went to Dumbledore for help, and got roped into spying on Voldemort instead of really serving him. And Voldemort wanted him to spy on Dumbledore, so he needed to be at the school. So . . .” Harry blinked. “I’d have come to Hogwarts and there would have been someone else teaching Potions. I don’t think I’d ever have met Severus if he hadn’t become a teacher.”

“If he hadn’t become a teacher?” she asked gently, stressing the last word.

“I wouldn’t have met Severus if he hadn’t become a Death Eater,” sighed Harry. “So that’s it, then? If I like having him for a father, I have to accept his past because without it, I wouldn’t have him at all. Otherwise I’m just a total hypocrite?”

It seemed kind of like a cheap trick to Harry. Not like a real solution.

“That’s not quite what I mean,” said Marsha, fingers steepled in a way that reminded Harry of Snape. “First off, I’m not suggesting that you should ‘accept’ his past, not if what you mean is that you would condone it. It’s more a case of acknowledging that it happened, and that it helped to forge him into the kind of man he is today.”

That made sense, so Harry gave a cautious nod.

“Secondly, the point of this exercise isn’t to develop an alternate life sequence for Severus Snape. I’m not interested in how his Death Eater experiences shaped his career choices. Neither was the Star Trek episode, if you recall. Even when he’d undone his youthful mistake, Picard still became a Star Fleet officer. Serving on the same ship, no less.”

“Right . . .”

“The point is to examine how pulling one thread from your father’s tapestry would have changed him as a person,” Marsha went on. “His internal journey, if you will. Harry . . . he is the person you see today because he experienced life in a certain way. Because of his choices. If he’d made a better choice, would he in the here and now be a better person?”

That was a much harder question. “He hated James Potter,” Harry said slowly. “And then later, he was in the Order and had to work with him. This was after he’d turned spy, obviously. Severus said . . . my dad had grown up. And he stopped hating him. Then later--” Harry drew in a sharp breath, because even remembering Snape’s anguish during the conversation was twisting his stomach, somehow. “Later he said the only way he could cope with having played a role in his death was to hate him again, because to have killed a good man was so unbearable.”

“And what does that tell you?”

Harry turned his face away. “Without having been a . . . a Death Eater, he wouldn’t have been in the Order, either. So he wouldn’t have learned that my dad had grown up. He’d have kept on hating him.”

A memory suddenly blossomed from somewhere deep in his mind, spilling out his lips before he even had a chance to think about what he was saying. “Once upon a time he was an angry young man--” Harry grimaced. “He’d have stayed that way, I guess. Angry. Well, I mean, he was angry all the time my first few years at Hogwarts. But he explained that. After my parents died he could only bear what he’d done if he hated them again. But after he . . . he started to care about me, he couldn’t look at me and see so much James and still hate him, so he . . . came out of it again.”

Harry swallowed.

Marsha said nothing.

“It was being a Death Eater that led to him eventually renouncing his hatred,” Harry said slowly. “I mean, he did . . . uh, regress, I guess. For years. But he’d probably never have renounced it at all without having turned to Voldemort only to find out there was no solution there. It was only that experience that convinced him to work for the Order instead. To work for good, which is what he did all those years he was spying. Without that, he’d have . . . just stayed angry and hateful.”

Harry drew in a deep breath, his thoughts coming faster as new connections occurred to him. “I mean, he’d never have sided with Dumbledore if not for needing protection when he wanted to leave Voldemort. The headmaster . . . uh, when Severus was at school, my godfather arranged to have him attacked by a werewolf. Severus was very nearly killed. And Dumbledore . . . he just treated it like a boys-will-be-boys moment, when it was actually attempted murder. So if not for something truly devastating, Severus would never have turned to Dumbledore for help.”

“It sounds like turning his back on the Death Eaters was the trigger for several kinds of positive personal growth,” murmured Marsha. “He grew up himself. He learned to work with people who had bullied and even betrayed him. He eventually learned even to trust them, perhaps.”

“Sort of,” mumbled Harry. “I think he trusts Dumbledore in some ways, at least. They seem to have . . . I don’t know. A difficult relationship, sometimes. But there’s no question that Dumbledore trusts him. He was a spy right up until Samhain and--”

Harry suddenly sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and almost feverish.

“What is it?” asked Marsha sharply. “You’ve gone white. Harry?”

“Samhain,” he repeated, feeling all at once like he was going to be sick, right there in front of her. “Oh, God. Samhain!”

Marsha quietly rose from her chair and moved to sit alongside him, but Harry barely even noticed that until one of her hands reached out and covered both of his as he clenched them together. “Shh,” she said, lightly stroking until his finger muscles relaxed a little.

“No, it’s--” Harry sighed, a barrage of memories sweeping through his mind. Old ones, this time. Years old. Snape had called him things over the years. Selfish. Spoiled. Ungrateful. Stupid. So many insults. They hadn’t wounded him much at the time, because he’d known that Snape was just an awful, bitter git who hated Gryffindors and lived to torment them.

Except, he’d been right. Harry had been selfish and ungrateful and a lot of the other nasty things he’d been called. Worse, he’d been an idiot. And not in a good way, either. Not an idiot child. Just a complete idiot.

What the hell was wrong with him? Resenting the fact that Snape had once been a Death Eater! That was so stupid that there wasn’t even a word for it.

Harry gulped, swallowing back something foul, but at least he managed not to actually sick up. “I . . . I’m . . . look, if he hadn’t been a Death Eater, he’d be a different person. A worse person. I get that. And he wouldn’t have adopted me, he wouldn’t even have known me, most likely. But that’s not the most important thing.”

He expected her to ask “What is?” but she just remained silent, still offering him warmth and support by her nearness and the hand that still hadn’t let go of his.

Harry couldn’t seem to stop swallowing. “I . . . I was kidnapped and brought to Voldemort last year,” he said, forgetting that she probably knew that already. “For a dark revel. Severus was there as a Death Eater. Well, not really as one. He was there pretending, I mean. And I don’t exactly remember, only bits and pieces, but I’ve been told the whole story -- I was tortured horribly, and Severus had to watch and wait for a chance to get me out of there. Which finally happened, and he took me to safety, which completely blew his cover.”

Harry moved his hands to clutch at hers, both of them, and shook them slightly, his green eyes searching her face to be sure she understood. “So that’s it, don’t you see?”

She nodded slowly. “If he’d never been a Death Eater, he wouldn’t have been at that meeting, able to rescue you.”

“No!” Harry’s hair flew wildly as he shook his head, trying to start over. “Well, yes, that’s true, but it’s not just that he was there. It was that he knew what to do, exactly what to do! He . . . he cared about me already by then, you see. Anybody else who cared about me, they wouldn’t have been able to hold me down to be tortured! Anybody else would have broken from the sheer horror and tried to save me too soon -- and if Snape had done that, Voldemort would have killed me for certain. I only got out because my--”

Crap. He wasn’t supposed to tell her about his dark powers. But maybe he didn’t need to. This was about what he understood, not about making sure that she did.

“Never mind. I just know that if Snape had tried to save me from the torture, Voldemort would have realised how stupid he was being to toy with me when it might mean I could get away. He’d have cast the killing curse to end things once and for all.”

Some of what he’d said must have gone over her head, because it seemed like she’d only really heard one thing. “Professor Snape held you down to be tortured?” she asked, frost coating every word.

“He had to!” shouted Harry, jumping up to pace back and forth across in front of the sofa. “He was watching and waiting for his chance! He had to stay close to me so he could Portkey me out the instant the wards fell! But that’s not even the point!”

She didn’t look like she agreed, but he had to give her credit for not sidetracking him again. “Then what was?”

Harry stopped stomping across the carpet and tried to put in into words that would make sense, instead of this long rambling story that didn’t really matter. He felt like just saying it coherently, instead of the jumbled way it existed in his head, would help him understand it better himself. Because mostly it was a whirling lash of feelings, but if he could explain . . .

“He knew how to stand the sight of torture because he’d been an actual Death Eater,” he finally managed. “And he knew how to wait, and watch, and bide his time, because he’d spent years spying on the Death Eaters. He wasn’t able to Portkey me out in the end just because he was conveniently there that night, due to his spying. He was able to get me to safety because he’d learned how to control himself when somebody was being tortured right in front of him. And it was only being a Death Eater, a real Death Eater, in the first place that had taught him that!”

The whirling emotions inside him coalesced into something solid that seemed to lodge itself in the space beneath his heart. He felt like he understood now, even though he couldn’t remember. He didn’t think he’d understood things so well before the amnesia. He couldn’t have -- hadn’t Snape said that looking back, he could tell that Harry had always been uncomfortable with being adopted by a man who’d once pledged allegiance to Voldemort?

Now, he could only think that he was damned lucky Snape had joined Voldemort. It was a strange feeling to have, because it wasn’t like Harry thought it had been a good decision. He still knew that his father had made a mistake, a terrible mistake. But just like in the Star Trek episode, it was a mistake that had forged him into the kind of person he eventually became.

The kind that could hold down a boy he loved, doing nothing to help as he was tormented for hour after hour.

When Harry thought about it, he couldn’t even imagine the kind of strength that must have taken. The inner resources, the resolve. He felt kind of faint just contemplating it, and he knew then that his words to Severus earlier had been so much milksop. He respected Severus, did he?

Harry didn’t think “respect” was the right word at all. He didn’t know one that was. He just knew that he’d been horribly spoiled and ungrateful and selfish and stupid to have ever ever tried to pretend to himself that his father hadn’t been a Death Eater.

He glanced over at Marsha then, unsure how long he’d been standing there, lost in thought, only to see her eyes narrowed like she was still furious with Snape.

Crap bloody crap.

“Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” he tried to reassure her. “I mean, he did stop holding me down partway through the bit where my eyes were being stabbed over and over--”

That didn’t help. She made a slight gasping noise, her throat bobbing as she tried to get herself under control. “I’m just not used to hearing so much about torture,” she finally murmured.

Harry wondered then how much she understood about Voldemort, squib or not. He knew she read the Daily Prophet, but . . . actually, that might be part of the problem, considering how they liked to focus on gossip and ignore the real problems facing the wizarding world.

He chewed his lower lip a bit. “Well . . . maybe it would help if I told you I know for sure that Severus never tortured anyone. He made up some story to placate Voldemort, something about how he had to hold back or it would affect his brewing, and so he just . . . watched.”

“That hardly qualifies him for sainthood--”

“But that’s the point,” said Harry earnestly. “He’s not perfect. And it’s him not being perfect that made him into the person I needed at Samhain.”

At that, she gave him a barest hint of a smile. “My opinion doesn’t truly matter. Our purpose tonight was for you to be at ease with his past, Harry.”

“Am I, though?” asked Harry. “After that potion, I couldn’t get a headache now no matter what happened. But . . . you think I’m cured?”

“I very much doubt it.”

Harry flinched.

“It’s the light switch analogy again,” she sighed. “You probably can’t just flip a switch in here with me and instantly shed every trace of negativity you’ve associated with your father’s past, even if you understand that those strands are a key part of the tapestry of his life.”

“Then what was the bloody, fucking point?” screamed Harry.

The door to the waiting room suddenly blasted off its hinges, hurtling inward and to one side as Snape stepped through, wand at the ready, his black eyes beady and fierce as he scanned the room, his gaze furiously assessing every wall and surface, every corner, every square yard of ceiling--

“Professor Snape, really!” said Marsha as Harry stretched out a hand to pull her up from where she’d tumbled off the sofa in her shock.

“We’re fine,” said Harry, surprised at how gravelly his voice sounded. But he was shocked too.

Snape gave the room one last long stare and then tucked his wand away in a trouser pocket. “I do apologise. I heard Harry scream and . . .” Clearing his throat as though suddenly self-conscious, he snatched his wand back out. “Reparo. Again, my apologies.”

Then he turned to Harry, one eyebrow slightly elevated. “Are you through?”

Harry glanced at his therapist. “Um . . . I think no?”

“Very well. I shall resume my place in your waiting parlour.”

He shut the door behind him so very softly that it was almost comical, after that dramatic entrance.

“So,” said Marsha as she dusted her hands along her sides. “Where were we? I believe you were expressing frustration that I hadn’t provided you with a guaranteed instant cure to ward off headaches.”

“Sorry I screamed at you, though,” mumbled Harry.

She waved that off. “I’ve heard far worse. Although, I will say I’ve never seen a client’s parent react with such . . . Well. He certainly does seem able to protect you.”

Harry just smiled.

“So, the point,” she resumed, voice brisk as she took up her place in her usual chair and waved him over to the couch once more. “I think you have the tools now to start to train your own mind to think in different patterns. Eventually the pattern should become ingrained, at which point you won’t need to worry about the headaches.”

Harry furrowed his forehead. “Tools?”

“Yes. Your intellectual understanding of the tapestry analogy. You appreciate now how your father’s past has made him the man he is. The man you love, I believe you told me yesterday?”

“Yes. Definitely.” Funny how he could say it to her. He still didn’t think he could say it to Severus.

“So those are your tools. But the headaches may still come. When they do, use your tools, Harry. Tell yourself, out loud if you can, that his Death Eater past is part of what has made him into the father that you now have and appreciate. Tell him the same thing. It’s not enough to have an intellectual understanding of the issue. You need to integrate that understanding into your emotions, your reactions, to your father. Really, you need to stop thinking of him as a light switch with two positions: Death Eater and now-he’s-all-right.”

“He’s a tapestry. He’s all of it,” said Harry, nodding.

“Yes. And the more you can tell yourself that, the more you can force yourself to believe it--”

“I do believe it!”

“In your head,” she said softly, shaking her own. “When you believe it fully with your heart, I think the headaches will cease.”

“All right.” Harry rose to his feet. “I think we still have a few days left in our holiday, but it’s all right if I don’t come again tomorrow?”

She shrugged. “Your father can get in touch with me if needed, but for now, I would think you should just try to use your tools. Come back if you have any difficulty.”

“I will.” Harry smiled. “Thank you. I think . . . well, I think I can probably manage, now.”

“Excellent news.” Marsha smiled. “But don’t forget I’m here if you need me.”

Harry nodded and shook her hand, then let himself into the waiting room, shutting it behind him.

Snape jerked his body to stand, his eyes wary and watchful. “Why did you scream?”

“Uh, doesn’t matter,” said Harry, starting to swallow convulsively again. “Nothing really was wrong. Sorry I alarmed you.”

Snape inclined his head. “Shall we go, then?”

“In a minute.” Harry looked his father up and down, up and down, trying to force his thinking into new patterns, trying to see the man as a single being with past and present all wrapped up inside him. He had a feeling he’d rarely done this before, or maybe never. Ever since the man had been his father, Harry thought he’d probably looked at him and seen Snape-now, and deep inside he’d thought of Snape-then as something completely different. Like a light that had been switched off and didn’t exist at all any longer.

But that was stupid, of course. Even Sirius had tried to tell him that people were more complicated than that. The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us.

He was tired of being stupid. It was time, he thought, to start trying to use his new tools.

“Thank you for saving me on Samhain,” Harry finally said, holding up a hand to stop the man from replying, probably with some variant of don’t-thank-me. “I’m so, so grateful you were there, Severus. And grateful you knew exactly what to do, exactly how to be to get me all the way through that. It’s . . . I . . . I’m . . . um . . .” Sucking in a deep breath, he started over. “I guess it turned out to be a good thing that you were once a Death Eater.”

And then, while Snape stood there with his mouth slowly dropping open, Harry lost his nerve.

“See you back at the house,” he gasped, and Apparated away.