New Chapter | Harry Potter | A Perfect Circle
[I'm honestly not sure when I'll finish this series, but in the meantime, I have this unposted chapter just hanging about on my hard drive. Sorry for not posting sooner. Same as earlier chapters, noncon warnings abound, bastard!Dumbledore, etc.]
***
A Perfect Circle
Chapter VII: Halo Slipping Down
***
and not to pull your halo down
around your neck and
tug you to the ground
but I'm more than just a little curious
how you're planning to go about making your amends
“The Noose”
-a perfect circle
His heart beat clearly in his breast. A steady rhythm, loud as underwater over his light and rapid breaths. Black crowded the edges of his peripheral vision, and tiny bright lights burst and faded slowly before him.
He needed to calm down.
Harry was in his bedroom. More to the point, Harry was in his bed. And when had the boy become ‘Harry’ in his mind, anyway?
“Oh, Merlin,” he groaned softly, threading his fingers through the fall of hair at his temples. His grip tightened painfully against the flashes of whip-marked skin behind his eyes. He was hard.
What was happening to him?
It hadn’t been like this before.
Or anyway, not exactly. He keened low in his throat, a whine of frustrated want. It was building. Not just in his cock but in his breast, lofting below his heart until he couldn’t breathe for want.
Pain pulsed through his skull, and with it another wave of black. He swayed a bit where he stood, staggered back to lean against the desk Harry had so recently decorated, flung out one hand to steady himself. It carried away unnoticed several glossy black strands of hair. His other thumb was pressed against his temple, massaging a light circle against the throbbing vein and taut tendons. He rubbed until it hurt, but the shifting, swooping feeling of change remained.
He was not truly well-suited to change. His true genius as a spy came from his ability to adhere to routine, however he felt. But none of this experience could ease a shift in perception. He couldn’t be feeling this. Lusting after a student? Lusting more particularly after his pain . . . His cock leapt at the thought, and he immediately banished the image of Harry’s whip-marked skin with a swift tightening of his fingers.
The pain in his scalp was sharp, localized, and suddenly he could breathe past the swelling emotion in his breast. His other hand came up to absently massage the flesh over his heart, which was stumbling under the strain. He ignored it, lowered his fingers from his temple and opened his eyes to stare blankly toward the open door of his bedroom. His thinking pose.
The situation definitely required a new plan.
He hadn’t really thought beyond asking the boy, not much beyond getting him here. Highly unusual, not like him at all. But then, it was a fairly unusual situation, made all the more precarious by Albus’s curious refusal to listen.
And the thought of the Headmaster started a new niggle edging the outer surface of his cerebral cortex, as though he’d forgotten a potion left on boil. He ignored the feeling.
Harry was waiting a very few feet away, and no burst of brilliance had leapt to the fore of his mind. He grimaced, and pushed himself upright to pace. Movement helped blood flow to the brain, or eliminated distractions, or ...
He stopped abruptly, the force of the movement swirling his robes about him like settling wings. He was staring at his palm, the hand that had supported him against the edge of the desk; it was scored with a red crease like a whip-weal.
Desire furled up his spine. He closed his eyes, closed his hand, stood very still with straining erection and head flung back, gasping shallow breaths with the creased flesh cradled carefully against his hip. Loosely clenched by trembling fingers. Sweat started across his shoulders and down his flanks, hot beneath his robes, and he felt the itch of the winter-weight wool, the shifting texture with his every breath, his hair straggling against his neck and threatening to stick. Everything was magnified.
“Severus,” a voice purred. “A moment of your time?”
Snape froze. He slowly lowered his head, turned to face the owner of that velvet voice with a reluctance that looked almost stately. Every whirling, desperate thought had halted, and he faced the elder Malfoy with every mask securely in place, locked tight. He allowed a small sneer.
“Lucius, what a pleasant surprise,” he growled, folding his hands in his sleeves to glare at the patrician head in his fireplace, but mostly to keep the wealed flesh secret, and therefore safe.
“Is it?” Lucius sneered in return. “I really would have expected a better reception for our little check-in, Severus,” he said reproachfully, one brow arched with his habitual aristocratic grace.
“Is it,” Snape echoed, his voice deliberately absent as though he had merely lost track of time. He smoothed down his robes as he stepped forward, and sat in the padded armchair before the fire. Lucius’ eyes followed him unnervingly, but Snape had had a lifetime of practice at ignoring the Malfoy Stare.
“How goes the great work?” Lucius asked as Snape settled himself, the words purling out arch and sarcastic. The familiarity was almost comforting.
“Well enough,” Snape said; his voice was complacent, though panic hid beneath. He could only assume that Malfoy was referring to Harry.
“Excellent,” Lucius said, in that way of his that implied his utter disbelief. “Perhaps I might view the boy, just long enough to form a status report for our Master,” Lucius amended quickly, still somehow radiating menace amid the wreathing flames. Snape felt himself growing sicker with each word. “I know how possessive you usually get with your pets,” he continued suggestively.
Snape was going to be ill. Violently ill. Did that, how did, how many times had this happened, how many times had he done this for Malfoy to know a usually?
And of course, none of this showed. Just the mask.
“I supposed a peek wouldn’t hurt.” At least he’d guessed the purpose of the visit correctly. That was almost encouraging.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Lucius purred.
“Of course,” Snape returned flatly, levering himself to his feet, wondering what other recourse he could possibly have taken. “I was a bit in the middle of something,” he called over his shoulder.
“Not a problem,” Lucius said absently. “I do love watching you work.”
“Not tonight, my friend,” Severus murmured, confident that he was out of hearing range as he approached his bedroom door. His mind was racing again, quite recovered from its astonishment. What could Malfoy want? What would he expect? Was this even the right ‘boy’ and dear Lord! What *had* he been doing these past weeks?
A quiet moan from his bed drew his attention, once again stalling his preoccupied thoughts; he’d paused in the door, and Harry had not yet noticed his presence. The boy was spread-eagled, fists clenched around the yew bedposts, toes stretched toward the foot posts, cock straining almost to the flat belly. He was crying slow, silent tears. Misery made beautiful. Snape swallowed.
“Potter,” he growled.
He’d thought the boy tense, but at the sound of his voice Harry snapped rigid, eyes flashing open, vivid tear-lush green, to fix on the vaulted dungeon ceiling; he seemed near hyperventilation again, and his teeth cut white into his lower lip. Snape sighed.
“Get over here, boy,” he snarled, improvising for all he was worth as less than nebulous plans tattered and fell. Harry stiffened further, if that was possible, and Snape continued, “We have company.”
Harry shot him a panicked look, then scrambled off the bed onto awkward, sleeping limps; at Snape’s black glare, he scurried across the flagstones to the Potions Master’s side, eyes held carefully down. Snape stopped him at the door with a hand planted firmly in tangled black hair, trying to ignore the pang at Harry’s immediate, seemingly involuntary flinch. He leaned down, too far, the boy was so fucking *young*, and growled, “Behave in there, Potter.”
“Yes, Master,” the boy whispered.
Snape let his hand fall, let Harry follow him in to face Lucius a step aside and three behind like any Spaniel. ’Master.’ What had he done to the boy? Oh Merlin. What had he done?
***
Harry stumbled to his knees before the fireplace with the imprint of Snape’s hand still warm in his hair. He was shamefully hard, and dimly aware of the elder Malfoy’s head in the fire as if through a fog. It was all a fog. ‘Behave.’ What did that mean? What was he supposed to do? What did Malfoy expect? His breathing was too fast. The fire was warm on his chilled skin, but he stayed carefully where Snape had shoved him. He felt sick. Malfoy was here from Voldemort, he just knew it. He was going to be sick.
Harry hunched there miserably, his knees beginning to hurt, too scared to even flinch as Snape settled into an armchair and began to stroke his hair as though Harry were a dog. He wanted to shy away from the long-fingered hand. Everything in him cried out to shy away.
Harry just shivered.
***
Snape carded his fingered absently through ebon hair, most if his attention focused on Malfoy’s words. Harry was shivering, and Snape had a feeling it wasn’t the temperature upsetting the boy, but Lucius was saying, “I do believe he’s ready for a less . . . formal introduction,” his voice smoother than honeyed venom.
“His training is, as yet, somewhat incomplete,” Snape said, every evidence of regret in his tones. Lucius’ brow quirked, and Snape continued, “I only have his fear, Lucius. You know as well as I that fear cannot substitute for control.” He hoped.
Lucius tilted his chin, pulled the corner of his mouth into a sneer, and said, “I am disappointed in how very *long* this is taking.” Snape’s heart froze, and his fingers clenched in Harry’s hair painfully enough to make the boy wince. “But I can see why you’d want to take your time with this one,” Lucius continued, and Snape allowed himself to breathe.
“Yes,” he said blandly, unable to think of a better response. “As you say.”
“So when can our Master expect a demonstration, Severus?”
A snake. The man was a snake.
“Perhaps Halloween,” he said smoothly, drawing the date out of the confused roil of his recollection.
“So soon,” Lucius sneered. “I’m delighted, Severus, that’s only a few weeks.” And a light of avarice had kindled in his silver eyes.
“So it is,” Snape murmured. His stomach cramped in on itself in a quiet spasm, and Harry was apparently paying enough attention to cringe away from the fire. Snape’s fingers tightened in black hair, holding Harry in place. Snape understood the reaction; he’d quite lost track of the date. “I suppose I will see you then,” Snape ventured. Lucius allowed himself a broader smirk, the closest he usually came to a smile.
“Oh, no, Severus,” he crooned. “I wouldn’t dream of missing our little meetings.”
“No, of course,” Snape returned numbly.
“Next week, then,” Lucius said, and disappeared from the fire. His words were a bit more ominous than they’d needed to be, but at least now Snape had a timeframe. The thought was almost comforting.
***
Malfoy vanished, and Harry almost allowed himself a sigh of relief. Terrified as he was of Snape, he felt that somehow he’d more to fear from a vindictive Lucius Malfoy; Harry honestly didn’t think he’d been forgiven for releasing Dobby all those years ago. The elder Malfoy didn’t seem the forgiving type.
Snape’s fingers had stilled in his hair again, warm against his scalp, and he felt a shiver move through his body, slowly, across his skin. That hand shouldn’t feel comforting. It didn’t deserve even warm.
But Malfoy had looked . . .
He shivered again. The movement caused Snape to look down at him, black eyes very clear as if he’d woken up, and Harry bit his lip. He should’ve stayed still, fucking still, was that so hard?
But Snape didn’t yell, or hit him, or hold him down and force him to feel. His cock had retreated before Malfoy’s hungry stare, and he was glad of the reprieve. Snape’s eyes raked across him; the Potions Master seemed almost weary, and Harry suppressed everything, even his breaths, for fear of drawing any more of Snape’s attention than the lingering stare. This was almost nice, crouching within the fire’s circle of warmth, Snape a quiet, less menacing presence beside him. Harry almost relaxed.
“Get to my bed, boy,” Snape growled, and Harry started; the hand slid, a quiescent weight from his hair, and he scooted back a panicked few paces. Snape was glowering at him, and all his calm vanished. “And get under the covers,” Snape continued. Harry paused in his scramble, aware that he must be staring at Snape incredulously but unable to stop himself. Snape snorted, and turned away. “I’ll be awhile,” he said in low tones, as though speaking to the fire.
Harry nodded. Only a temporary reprieve, then. He could live with that. Anxiety fleeted through his gut, but Snape looked almost peaceful, staring pensively into the fire with his hands clasped beneath his chin and his eyes shadowed by tangled hair. Harry could almost think that they looked something alike then, both too thin, too pale, tangled black hair and just his mother’s eyes between them. Silly thought. And he drifted away, silent as a thistle, again afraid of drawing Snape’s attention.
This wasn’t so bad, he decided, crawling slowly beneath blankets he’d only seen from one side, though the waiting burned beneath his heart as nausea. He hated waiting. It was the not knowing *when*, he thought, as he wriggled out a comfortable nook in one of the pillows and fell into an exhausted sleep.
***
This was difficult.
This would be very tricky, Snape determined, as he watched a log shed glowing embers where Lucius had so recently rested his head. He would have to fool one of the most experienced and most senior of the Death Eaters, he would have to fool Harry as the boy would be of no help in any sort of deception, and he might possibly have to fool Dumbledore.
And he still felt as though there were something he’d forgotten.
He stared broodingly into the fire. He was aware that he was brooding, but as he thought best in just such a frame of mind he didn’t let it worry him. Harry was in his bed. Still. Again. Almost like he’d never left, like Lucius had never appeared to reintroduce reality into the situation.
And how ludicrous was it to even think of Lucius and reality in such close proximity?
There was too much. Too much to be done, and after only two days of being present in his own body he was already weary of the whole great mess. Unbearably weary.
He ached with it.
Still, his lust whispered, there *are* benefits.
Snape surged up out of the too-comfortable chair, moving away from the fire, the heat and warmth and *comfort*. It was all sucking him in. Seducing him. He didn’t want this. Needed the cold, the pain. He stumbled, caught himself against the doorway. His bedroom. Shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t even think it, warm skin, soft flesh. So easy to kiss and mark and tear. Oh Merlin. Bite your lip, force it down, copper in your throat and how sweet if it was his, too late to run now, he’s there, he’s there, he’s there!
Harry was asleep. Snape came back from his panic standing beside his bed, one hand gripping the nearest post as though it would save him. Harry was curled into a fetal position, face buried in the pillow Snape usually didn’t use. The boy had wrapped himself, mummy-like, in the covers, in a transparent attempt to hide his nudity. Snape almost couldn’t do it, couldn’t watch him sleeping, eyes squeezed shut against the gentle rise and fall of the thin chest, thatch of black hair and one razor-sharp cheekbone.
He shouldn’t be here. Neither of them should be. The boy shouldn’t be in his bed, and he shouldn’t be standing over him, watching him sleep. Shouldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . .couldn’t . . . His hand closed into a sharp fist, pulse of lust. Because that was it, wasn’t it. That was just it. The very thing.
Because he *could*.
He *had*.
And he probably would again if he didn’t do something about it. Something . . . he pushed away from the bed, pacing the length of the room and back while chewing thoughtfully on a nail. He needed to consider this logically, he really did, and that was bloody difficult with the boy curled up in his sheets. Alright then, he decided.
“Potter,” he growled, moving to loom over the boy, not quite daring*trusting* enough to touch him. Green eyes snapped open instantly, and Snape almost smiled. “Get back to your dorm, boy, I’ve no further use for you tonight.” And turned resolutely away from the instant flash of suspicion, then relief. The boy scrambled out of his bed, eager to be away, and Snape held himself still, still, against the hurt rejection that demanded revenge. He sniffed. It was a petty instinct, one easily quashed as Harry struggled into his discarded clothing and bolted out through the main door.
Didn’t matter, he told his heart. We deserve this. And anyway, he pondered as he moved steadily toward his workroom, we have work to do. Work to do, potions to brew, and he really did need to approach this methodically.
First, he decided as he closed and sealed the reinforced double doors, first, to resurrect his memories.
***
Harry staggered out into the dungeon corridor, still buttoning his shirt beneath his robes, feeling a curiously resentful gratitude. And relief, above all. He would have danced down the dark halls if he hadn’t been so sore. Free! For a night, anyway, and there was still the mystery of Snape’s behavior to coil waiting below his spine. Lucius’ unexpected visit, and the almost bewildered light in Snape’s eyes as he’d ordered Harry to, in essence, make himself comfortable.
Unexpected, surely, but a welcome break from routine. Unless, Harry stopped, feet and fingers stilling midstride, unless this was part of a ploy to break him further. Lucius *was* returning at Halloween, that was only a few weeks away, really, what new horrors would Snape invent for his “training”?
He was standing in the hall, trembling, when a younger Malfoy found him.
“Hey, Potter,” the other boy said quietly, looking around as though for spies. “What are you still doing down here?”
Harry looked up, hand still frozen at his breast, aware that he was shaking but unable to stop. “Nothing,” he said, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering. “Going back to my room.”
Both boys paused for a moment. He didn’t move. Malfoy raised one brow, a gesture that reminded Harry so strongly of Snape that he flinched. Malfoy frowned, and stepped back, as though to give him room.
“I could walk you,” he offered, voice overly casual. “The dungeons can be tricky to navigate sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, still not meeting his enemy’s eyes. Enemy. The idea seemed laughable, now.
Draco took the single whisper as assent, and moved to stand beside Harry. When Draco took a step forward, Harry did as well, then stopped.
“Oh, come *on*, Potter,” Draco snarled. Surely you can do better than that!”
“You . . .” Harry whispered, fixing him with a broken-glass stare. “Your father . . .”
The halting words stopped Draco’s scathing words; the other boy stood for a moment, very still, silver eyes wide and lost.
Then he nodded, seeming to arrive at a decision, and slipped back into the mask.
“I can’t help you with this,” he said plainly, without his usual aristocratic adornment. “I’m sorry.” And turned away.
Harry stared at his back for a long breath, then smiled through the shivering.
“You were going to show me the way out of here, remember?” he said, voice as full of bravado as he could manage. Draco’s head tilted to the side a bit, and he shrugged.
“Yeah, this way,” he said calmly, the words almost indifferent. But his voice was warmer than anything Harry could remember, and he managed a real smile.
“After you, Malfoy,” Harry grinned desperately, as though nothing had changed, nothing had changed, except, “Well, come on, then,” Draco huffed, and Harry stepped forward to follow, catching the curled edge of a grin as Malfoy turned away.
Something *had* changed.
Someone knew. Somehow, Draco *knew*.
And somehow, Harry found he didn’t mind.
***
He wasn’t quite so calm about it once he’d reached his room.
There hadn’t been time to think on the eternal stairs, in the darkened halls, just Malfoy’s farewell smirk and one ear cocked for Filch at all times. Though his usual post-Snape distraction kept him from being truly alert, his attention more on the slow rise of anxiety and the lingering ache that had not been renewed. That, crucially, had not been renewed. The difference was puzzling, a change in routine, if an irregular set of meetings over a two-week span could be called routine. But this was change, and therefore worrying, something to puzzle over on the long trek up to the tower. Really it was a miracle he wasn’t caught. But then, he was never caught. Or, only ever caught by Snape.
And for a number of reasons Harry didn’t really care to think about Snape had stopped patrolling the school at night.
For whatever reason, Harry reached Gryffindor tower safely, and roused himself from an indeterminate mist enough to creep to his bed without waking anyone. Ron didn’t count, as he’d waited up for his friend, a spectral figure behind closed bed curtains in the dimly lit room.
Harry eyed him warily as he undressed and climbed into bed, unable to see through the curtains if Ron were watching him or if he was truly awake at all. Even so, the quiet voice nearly sent him crashing from mattress to floor in startled fright.
“Where were you, Harry?” Ron asked very seriously, voice still and grave in the dark; he seemed not to notice Harry’s flinch, and near-accident, though perhaps he missed the flurry of movement through thick curtains. Harry didn’t answer immediately, waiting for his breathing to calm, and could almost feel Ron’s impatience spark and grow.
“At detention,” he murmured after a time, even knowing that the half-lie wouldn’t be believed.
“Again,” Ron said flatly. Seamus stirred, and Harry froze. Ron cocked his head into a listening posture, just a shadow in a strange pose in the wizarding lights. After a few minutes, when everything was still again, Ron slid easily from his bed and padded silently to Harry’s, ducking through the curtains and joining his friend without bothering to ask. Harry slid very abruptly nearer the headboard, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his folded knees and Ron settled himself cross-legged on top of the Hogwarts emblem sewn into the quilt. He didn’t seem to notice Harry’s fear, or was ignoring it. His eyes were large and dark and concerned more than angry. Harry swallowed.
“Where were you?” Ron asked again.
“It was detention,” Harry whispered, not quite looking at his best friend. Ron scoffed quietly, scooting closer to Harry’s curled up form.
“You haven’t done anything, Hermione says that teachers can’t give you detention for no reason at all.” Ron stopped, frustrated, finally noticing Harry’s posture against the headboard. He reached out a hand as if to offer comfort, let it drop. “What’s wrong?” he pleaded.
“Nothing. It’s detention,” Harry insisted, eyes fixed on Ron’s hand. Just his hand, smaller, darker-gold from the sun. But too close. “Have to say detention,” he whispered distractedly. “Dumbledore--” The Headmaster’s name recalled him to the dorm, his bed, and Ron’s eager eyes.
“Dumbledore!” Ron exclaimed, voice almost too loud and breaking with his relief. Both boys winced, and waited to make sure none of the others would wake. “So it’s for the Order, then?” he continued, almost whispering.
Harry shut his eyes, nodded. Let Ron assume what he would, now.
“So, like secret training,” Ron said, all enthusiasm and blinding ambition. “No wonder you’ve been so tired,” he muttered, trying a solicitous punch. Harry flinched back out of range, and Ron nodded slowly. “Your reflexes are wicked-good, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Harry whispered, not thinking about how they’d been honed.
“So everything’s okay, then,” Ron said, a little too brightly. “You’re just . . . Getting ready. For You Know Who.”
“Getting ready,” Harry repeated, tasting the unfortunate choice of words. “Exactly.”
“Guess there’s no need to talk to Dumbledore, then,” Ron muttered, almost to himself, turning toward his own bed as Harry’s panicked eyes raised from the coverlet.
“No!” he hissed, lunging forward and catching Ron’s arm with desperate fingers. “You *can’t* talk to Dumbledore, he, he told me not to tell anyone,” Harry stammered, thinking quickly, peering into Ron’s startled blue eyes for some sign of understanding. “He trusted me with this,” he continued, hating himself for the lie even as Ron’s eyes cleared, and he nodded.
“Of course, Harry,” Ron said easily, gently. “I’ll explain to Hermione.” He smiled, and Harry felt something within him relax. His fingers fell from Ron’s arm, and Ron patted his shoulder. He seemed encouraged when Harry didn’t flinch away. “We’d just feel better if you weren’t working so hard,” Ron said, blue eyes filled with Weasley sincerity.
“Yeah, me too,” Harry agreed, drawing slowly back against the headboard as though it were a choice.
“We’re here, if you want to talk,” Ron whispered, already half off the bed. It was late. Or very early. Harry nodded, tried a smile, and Ron was gone, specter in the low light, back to his own bed.
Harry stayed curled against the headboard for a time, watching the regular flicker of wizarding lights against his curtains and wondering if lying to Ron would protect him. Neville began to snore. A thestral flew past the tower, screeling into the night. And after the anxiety had faded with the pain, Harry slept.
***
It was too late.
Or, it would be too late.
The memories upon resurrection weren’t exactly clear.
Snape staggered through the corridors up the final stair to Dumbledore’s office, potions gurgling in his throat, head swimming with hunger and exhaustion and a myriad of fairly nasty side-effects. He didn’t have time for this. Or he did. None of it was certain, but Albus could *die* . . .
The gargoyles stood idle, the door open as though Snape were expected. Or as though there were nothing in the tower to guard. The sight sent a dart of fear through Snape’s already bewildered mind, propelled his weakened legs into a stumbling run up the spiral stairs, hands slick on the rail. It was like a nightmare, everything moving slower than he thought possible, Dumbledore supremely unconcerned and seated at his desk as though nothing were wrong.
“Headmaster,” Snape breathed, supporting himself with a hand on the back of the chair before Dumbledore’s desk as the old wizard smiled benignly and steepled his fingers beneath glinting eyes.
“What seems to be the trouble this time, my dear boy?” Dumbledore asked, voice calm, all of him very still in the circle of sunlight shafted through the high tower windows. “This is becoming a habit, Severus.”
For a moment Snape could only stare at his mentor, memories of his own mistakes and sins bleeding through the dimly-lit present. Dumbledore writhing in pain before him, Harry writhing in pain beneath him, and still Dumbledore acted as though nothing were wrong. “Albus,” Snape breathed, stepping closer, watching desperately for a flinch, for a sign. “Something is wrong, something is very wrong, you *must* know what I’ve done . . .”
“You remember?” Dumbledore asked. And with those words, something changed. Something in his eyes or his posture sharpened, and Snape felt the first threatened foreboding. “A potion, I assume.” Dumbledore smiled then, and said, “Sit, my dear child, sit. There are things I need to discuss with you.”
“What are you saying?” Snape asked warily, lowering himself on shaking legs into the chair. A nightmare.
“I didn’t entirely intend to keep it from you for this long, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, his voice breathy, almost quiet above the frightened flutter of Snape’s heart. “But you had to realize the truth for yourself first.”
“What truth?” Snape asked thickly, dread filling his throat. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in the early light, as though nothing were different, as though nothing had changed.
“The truth about Voldemort’s little scheme, of course.”
Snape didn’t breathe, acid rising in his throat. Of course.
Of course.
“I must say you’ve done an excellent job on phase one,” Dumbledore continued, voice dim as an ancient tide. “Harry is more than ready for phase two-”
“Phase two?” Snape questioned faintly.
“In which you bind his loyalties,” Dumbledore said carelessly, as though in reminder.
“And how am I to do that, Headmaster?” Snape murmured, following the progress of Dumbledore’s long, elegant fingers about the rim of a tea cup.
“Pleasure.” The word was too final in the still air. “Voldemort would have you bind the boy to *his* cause, of course, but we must ensure that his primary loyalty is to you, and therefore to the Order.”
“I don’t understand,” Snape said unsteadily. “Wasn’t Harry’s loyalty with the Order already?”
“It wouldn’t have been.” And then Dumbledore seemed regretful. Only then. “If I had allowed Voldemort’s plan to continue unaltered, then he would have gained Harry’s blind obedience, and reclaimed you.”
“Why not just stop it, then?”
“Why, think of the opportunity!” Dumbledore said, almost merry in the clear white light. “You and Harry will be able to enter his very sanctum, and by then Harry will have every reason to kill him, yes?”
“I would have extended that reason to myself, as well,” Snape muttered, trapped in blue eyes.
“Ah. That’s why phase two.” And Dumbledore smiled, as though this explained everything, everything.
“What exactly do you expect me to do?” Snape demanded. “The boy fears me, he hates me, he *should* hate me and I’m to ensure his loyalty?”
“I’ve every confidence in you, my boy,” Dumbledore said breezily. “Make him need you. Make him *want* you, more importantly, and never let on that Voldemort’s plan didn’t work.”
“I don’t follow.”
“That’s really the beauty of it,” Dumbledore explained with the quiet pride of a new parent. “It’s so unexpected. No, you must win your way free of the Dark Lord’s influence, of course, and attempt to save Harry. The attempt will fail, and there might have to be some pain on your part to make it believable, but Harry will be convinced that you’ve been under Voldemort’s control.” Dumbledore paused ruminatively. “Convincing him that he needs to save you will depend upon the next few weeks, of course.”
“Of course,” Snape echoed dully.
“I’ll help with this, never fear. Once he sees the effort you will expend to free me from Voldemort’s grasp . . .”
“I will?” Snape asked, feeling a bit dazed.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of most of it, you’ll just need to react convincingly,” Dumbledore said, smiling into a sip of spell-freshened tea.
“As always,” Snape said, none of his bitterness even felt near the surface. He was Slytherin’s consummate actor, after all.
“Yes, as always,” Dumbledore returned, smiling at him with something like fondness, a horrible, creeping fondness that shuddered over Snape’s skin.
“Of course, the idea of your relationship--”
“Relationship?”
“As punishment,” Dumbledore continued, ignoring the interruption. “Cannot be allowed to fester in the boy’s mind. Find another excuse to see him, not detention.”
“Then what?”
“Tutor him. Teach him something, perhaps Occlumency. He could benefit from a little mental privacy.”
“From Voldemort, of course,” Snape murmured.
“Of course.” And Dumbledore smiled. “We can’t tell the other students, necessarily. His marks in Potions are low enough to warrant private instruction,” he said pointedly.
Snape’s glare didn’t waver. “Why Occlumency? Why do you think he’ll need such a skill?”
“Call it a hunch. Biscuit?” Snape shook his head. “Besides, Severus, what better opportunity to bond with Harry? To turn the punishment into a reward?”
“What better indeed,” Snape said thickly. The light had shifted imperceptibly down with the rising sun, obscuring Dumbledore’s eyes behind sun-blinded glasses. “And you plan to ensure his loyalty to you?”
“Already taken care of, my boy.” And perhaps Snape’s imagination caused this smile to seem thinner, predatory. “We’ve already seen what he will do for me. Once you sacrifice yourself to free me from Voldemort’s influence, his devotion will be assured.”
“Sacrifice?” Snape repeated. He had a very bad feeling about this plan.
“You are more than talented enough to make it seem so, I trust,” Dumbledore said easily, waving aside Snape’s concern. “The lessons in Occlumency will also prevent Voldemort’s discovery of our design, yes?”
“True.” It wasn’t right that a plan should be so seamless, so perfect. A weight seemed to lift from his heart, and he hated himself for it. The sun slid up in the sky, its light down, Dumbledore’s blue eyes smiling at him through slanted rays. “It could work,” he acknowledged slowly.
“It will work,” Dumbledore affirmed, with the supreme confidence of a wizard who’d already replaced one dark lord this century. Snape nodded, shivered. “Now, before you go, are you quite sure you won’t have a lemon drop?”
***
A/N Thanks to Scribblemoose for all her work as beta and first-reader. Title taken from “The Noose” by a perfect circle.