The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Part III - Chapter Twenty-Seven
As soon as Transfiguration let out, instead of going directly to lunch as usual, there was a rush as students ran for the library. I went along with Oliver Wood and Matilda Bones, not really sure why everyone was in such a rush to get there, but curious all the same. No one had a chance to discuss our defense lesson as Professor McGonagall had lectured sternly on the importance of seventh year lessons, Newts and the need for hard work, and had refused to answer any questions about anything at all.
Several other students had beaten us to the library. Ignoring Madam Prince’s glares, they were huddled over a fat leather volume and were exclaiming incredulously.
"It's really him!"
"No way! Look, it says he's dead."
"No it doesn't. Look at this!"
I craned my neck to see what the others were looking at. It was a fat red leather book, one of the Great Wizards series. The inside cover was titled, "The Boy Who Lived: The Life and Times of Harry Potter."
I gawked at the words and at the picture, which was unquestionably Dad. "Let me see!" I demanded.
"Get out of it, Potter," someone said. Then they all stopped and stared at me.
"You're not related to him, really," Paul Parkinson said.
"I'm not related to whom?" I asked, though I knew just the same.
"Him," Parkinson said, pointing at the picture of Dad. "The Boy Who Lived. You know. The, erm, Professor. If it is him."
"He's my Dad," I said coolly. I felt nothing of the sort though. I stared again at the book and the picture. There was a birth date, with Dad's birthday, July 31 on it and next to it, a death date, and then a correction and a question mark. I reached out and turned the pages and nobody tried to stop me. Whether they were too astonished at the thought that Harry Potter was really my Dad, or whether they were simply taken aback at the realization that he was their Professor, I didn't know. I skimmed a few pages and then turned to the back, moved by some instinct unrecognized. What I saw there was so shocking and so astonishing that I could barely remember that I should have known all of this.
There were pictures of Dad fighting with a sword, pictures of him crossing swords with another - He Who Must Not Be Named. I looked at those in horror. The one known to many as the Dark Lord was terrible to look on. His face was white as a skull and his eyes were inhuman - red, with slits for pupils, like a cat or a snake. There was another photo of You Know Who's sword flying into the air and another of him drawing his wand, and another, which captured a flash of light. That one was only a blur of green and though there was no clear image, you felt you had to turn your eyes away from it. The last showed an empty space where He Who Must Not Be Named had been and Dad flat on the ground, his eyes open and staring.
On the page after, there was a clear picture of him lying on a pallet, as if he were truly dead, with the great sword clasped in his hands, like an effigy of a knight, and beside the pallet, which floated in mid-air, were Professor Dumbledore and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione.
"It can't be him," Parkinson said again. "See. You can tell from the picture he was dead. The Dark Lord killed him and the Curse rebounded killing the Dark Lord, too."
I turned the page, and there was more. Stories of the return of the Boy Who Lived. A vampire cured and others, all sounding too fantastic to be believed. But none could be more fantastic to me than the first, that Harry James Potter, my very own Dad, was the greatest hero and greatest wizard of our time, the one who defeated the Dark Lord.
And all I could think of was, why didn't they tell me?
The moment I sat down for lunch, James and Lily came charging over and James tugged at me to join them in a corner away from everyone.
"Is it true?" he demanded. "Dad's the Defense teacher?" Before I could answer, even as I started to nod, he rushed on, "And did you know? Do you know what everyone's saying about him?"
"No," I said quietly, "I didn't know. Did you?"
He shook his head and would have rushed on, but I cut him off. "He said it was unexpected, him being the teacher, I mean."
"But what about the rest?" Lily asked. "Is it true?"
"He's The Boy Who Lived," I said softly. Why I felt I had to be so quiet about it, I don't know. Perhaps I felt people would think it odd that we didn't know.
"Why didn't he ever say anything?" James asked. "How come Mum never talked about it?"
"I dunno," I answered. In a peculiar way, I felt almost betrayed. I could not understand why we had never been told this most important fact about our own Dad. We knew somehow, vaguely, that he was supposed to be famous, but not anything like this.
"Maybe," Lily said tentatively, "Maybe he doesn't like to talk about it. Maybe he just thinks it's all in the past and doesn't think about it."
"And maybe," I said, "we don't know half what we should about our Dad. Maybe what he does for the Ministry isn't a lot of deskbound parchment pushing after all."
"Well, you always wished Dad was as brave and adventurous as Uncle Ron," Lily said with some asperity.
"But this is more than that," I answered. "This is just...huge."
"Was he good?" James asked. "Teaching?"
"Yeah," I said even more quietly. "He was brilliant." A sudden grin surprised me. "You should have seen him. He knocked Malfoy flat on his behind."
Their eyes widened together and their expressions of astonishment and glee were so alike that you could clearly see, despite their differences in gender and coloring, their twinness.
"Do you three always stand in corners conspiring?"
We all jumped. It was Dad. He was grinning at us as though he had some secret tucked up his sleeve. We all grinned back shiftily, not wanting him to know we had been talking about him that very moment.
Lily seized the moment and said cheekily, "We were trying to figure out why you didn't tell us you were teaching."
The grin faded and he looked terribly weary again. "I didn't know," he replied. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to last night."
Another voice cut in, "Just last night?"
***
Four heads turned to stare at him. Potter's green eyes, those unusual, remarkable eyes, in which so much could be read, changed and became unreadable in an instant. Beside him, the younger children stood, variations on a theme. The boy, - James, naturally - was Harry all over, only with the Weasley coloring. The girl was even more his double. And then there was the other. Most would easily be persuaded that Sirius was Potter's son, too. He was tall and slim and had black hair and was already nearly of a size with his putative father. Snape knew better, of course. What most struck Snape at that moment, however, was not Harry's resemblance to his own children, but the extraordinary youthfulness of his appearance. He looked, in fact, no older than Sirius, no older than he had at seventeen. He looked, still, like a boy; so young and so unlined was his countenance. Unless one looked closely at his eyes. Those were old as though he had lived a thousand years and more and had seen too much. Well, they had been old, sometimes even when he had been a boy, before his time, Snape thought.
He was surprised, though, when Potter said, "I was looking for you, Professor. Do you have a minute to talk?"
"My office?" Snape said. It was less a question than a directive and he was pleased when Potter shrugged and followed him back down to the dungeon and back to his home turf. He immediately settled himself behind his desk and was inexorably reminded, as he thought Potter must be, of the private lessons he had given the boy.
He was rudely surprised then, when Potter's first question reminded him, informed him, that this was no longer a boy at all, but an adult with an agenda.
"When was the last time you saw Mundungus Fletcher?" Harry asked. The green eyes were cool, intent, and no thought could be read behind them.
"Not in years," Snape answered. His curiosity was roused. He wondered why Potter did not discuss this with Dumbledore. But then Dumbledore had not been talking to anyone this morning. He had arrived downstairs with Potter in tow, announced Harry's placement as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher as a result of Fletcher's inability to do the job after all, and had nothing further to say despite Snape's concern that Potter would be teaching three of his own children. Well, it had been time to start class, he supposed and it could hardly be good for discipline if teachers began classes late on the very first day.
"And when was that?" Harry asked.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Probably not since the Order was last active. Six or seven years, I should think. Why does it matter, anyway? He's gone and got drunk or finally got himself arrested and couldn't come to do the first honest job he's ever had. And Dumbledore had to ask you since you're the only man in existence brave enough to take the job now." He made sure his tone was sufficiently ironic at that last.
"So you don't know yet," Potter said. Once he would have taken the bait and said something cheeky in return. Now, his green eyes measured Snape in way Snape had never endured before. He was uncomfortably reminded of Dumbledore. Worse, he was uncomfortably reminded of the Dark Lord, so penetrating and knowing was that gaze. He could feel himself bristle in annoyance as the Boy turned on him the very trick Snape had taught him.
"I don't know what?" Snape inquired coolly, striving to make his tone indifferent. Still, the answer surprised him and left him uneasy.
"He's dead, Dung is," Harry answered. The mask slipped for an instant, and again, the green eyes were tired and full of sorrow as though he saw unimaginable horrors.
"We all die sometime," Snape, answered.
"We don't all get tortured and murdered," Harry responded.
"Dumbledore said nothing!" Snape exclaimed. The information was hard to take in. The bubble of quiet and near serenity in which he had lived was burst in an instant. "It's your fault," Snape accused, "isn't it?" He knew it was unfair, unreasonable.
"Very likely," Harry answered.
Snape stared at him in surprise. "Have they escaped then?" he asked. It was, he thought, the inescapable conclusion. The Death Eaters had escaped and begun to wreak their vengeance on them all.
"Not the Death Eaters," Potter answered. "Eric Hayden has, but I should think he'll make the Death Eaters' escape a priority. They were his strongest weapons before. I expect he'll look to them again for his attack on the wizard world."
"Hayden?" Snape said.
"The head of the Anglo Aryan Alliance," Harry reminded him. "A son of one of Grindelwald's disciples. It was his property the Death Eaters used when they tried to bring back Voldemort the last time."
"Don't say that name!" The words escaped from him without volition. Even now, they sent shivers up his spine as the mention of murder and Hayden could not.
"He's dead," Potter said quietly, gently. "He can never come back again now. I promise you that."
Snape breathed in and asked, "And why should I be concerned with Fletcher's death? Other than the fact that I have to endure you as a fellow...teacher for the next year?" The faint jibe was weak, he knew, and Potter ignored that provocation as well.
"Because he was killed at Number 11 Grimmauld Place," Harry answered. "He was killed, no doubt, and left there as a warning to me and to all of us in the Order who thwarted Hayden's plans. Be careful, Professor," he added, "You'll be top on the Death Eaters' list after me. You were, after all, the one who left them. They all know that after the Battle for Hogwarts."
"Dumbledore must be mad bringing you here to teach," Snape said. "You're a lightning rod for trouble. If they do escape, they'll be here and killing students to reach you."
"It wasn't his idea," Harry replied. "Nor mine," he continued, when Snape allowed his disbelief to show.
"It was my boss' idea," Harry said. His tone held the same annoyance and loathing that had once permeated the young boy's tone every time he spoke to Snape; a tone that was noticeably absent now.
"Your boss," Snape said.
"At the Muggle Ministry," Potter said. "There's a new one. He has no idea what I am, fortunately. Unfortunately, he's a total git and has no idea what he's about at all. It's bound to be a disaster."
Snape took a moment to digest the information that Potter was still working for the secret Muggle Ministry. He knew that Granger and Weasley now worked directly in the Ministry of Magic and that Ginny Weasley stayed home to tend to her children. He had assumed, stupidly, that Potter had ceased working for the Muggles as well.
"What is it," he asked, "that your supervisor thinks you can do here at Hogwarts?"
Potter's tone was wry. "Investigate Dung's, death of course. He figures if Dung was connected to the Alliance, someone where he worked, another teacher or student might know of it."
"He never actually worked here," Snape objected.
"No," Potter answered. "Professor Dumbledore didn't explain that to him. It was a bit tricky, seeing as Professor Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley showed up at the scene almost as soon as we did. He had to skate around the truth so as not to let Locherman know about wizards, and all. And Locherman thinks he has a perfect way of getting rid of me for the moment," he added with a grimace. "Shove me off into what he thinks is a false lead to play undercover teacher whilst the others do the real investigating."
Snape found a grin twitching the corner of his mouth. If there was one thing Potter hated, he thought, it was being kept out of the action.
"It's not funny," Potter said fiercely. "Hayden's as bad as Voldemort was, only he hasn't the same talent for wizardry, so he doesn't scruple to use Muggles and Muggle weaponry to gain his objectives. He doesn't mind blowing up thousands of people at once to get what he wants."
"Thousands?" Snape echoed.
Potter nodded emphatically. He paused a moment and asked carefully, "Do you have any contact with any of the former Death Eaters?"
"Why would I?" Snape asked. It was quite galling to think that Potter still didn't entirely trust him.
"Draco Malfoy's son is in your class," Potter said. "And his grandfather, Lucius, is the boy's guardian."
"Lucius is in Azkaban," Snape said coolly. "And Narcissus lives with the Parkinson’s. I deal with them, if necessary, not Lucius."
He decided it was time to take control of the conversation and remind Potter who was the elder and who was deserving of respect.
"Since you are here," he said smoothly, "I want to talk to you in your capacity as a guardian."
That caught Harry by surprise, but Snape kept his satisfaction to himself. The issue was serious and needed airing, since Dumbledore refused to do anything to disturb Potter's wishes. Oddly, Potter's had missed what he was intending and asked with something like trepidation, "What's James been up to now? It's only the first day?"
"I said guardian, not parent," Snape replied, and saw the change he had hoped for. "Sirius Albus Neville, son of the Dark Lord."
Immediately, Potter turned cold, defensive. "What about him?"
"Have you told him who he is?" Snape asked. Potter stilled suddenly and Snape was reminded of a cornered animal. He was reminded that the man before him was even more powerful than the Dark Lord had been. He was reminded that the man before him had defeated the Dark Lord and survived the Killing Curse, not once, but thrice.
"No," Potter said softly, "and you will not either." His tone was quiet but vehement and Snape suffered a moment of actual fear at the look in the green eyes. "You know Sirius well enough to understand what kind of a person he is. He is good and kind and full of imagination and he likes poetry and..." Potter paused again and rubbed his eyes then as though he were a very tired child, or a very weary old man, and the threat dissolved into worry. "If he knew who his real father was," Potter said, "it would destroy him."
"I think you underestimate him," Snape answered. "He is all those things you say and more. He is brilliant. Probably the most brilliant student I've ever taught and his ambitions lie outside the wizard world, did you know that?"
Another score, Snape thought, as the green eyes snapped back to his. "How do you know that?"
Snape shrugged. "I'm Head of House. We had the usual Career Day consultation. He wants," Snape added, "to be a musician or an astronomer, and not necessarily in the wizard world. He thinks the division of the wizard and Muggle worlds was an error. He wants to join wizard knowledge of the stars with Muggle science. He says both have stymied themselves by severing off an essential part of their knowledge of the world."
"Oh," Potter said. He tipped his head in a curious bird-like way, or in the way that a cat might as it is tracking some tiny prey only it can see. "He may be right," Potter answered. "But I still don't see that that makes it necessary for him to know who his father might have been."
"What do you mean, might have been?" Snape asked.
Potter shrugged, reminding him all too much of the annoying boy who had so often defied Snape. "There were two boys," he said. "One was Narcissa Malfoy's son and one was Narcissa Malfoy's grandson. How do we know for sure which one was which?"
"You can be sure," Snape answered, "that Lucius Malfoy took the one he knew was his grandson and not the one that might have been the Dark Lord's basterd."
"How can we be sure?" Potter asked. "And in any case, what difference does it make? Only a few people even know there was a possibility that Narcissa's child might have been Voldemort's and not her husband's. I don't see why Sirius should be made to bear the burden of knowing what might not even be true. He will be horrified. It will change his image of himself. He will feel contaminated."
“Contaminated?” Snape asked. “That seems a peculiar way of putting it. He would be shocked, certainly. Angry, undoubtedly with you, for concealing things from him. What gives you idea that he will feel “contaminated?”
A faint line formed between Potter’s brows. To Snape, it only emphasized the peculiar lack of other lines and aging on his unnaturally young countenance.
“I suppose,” Potter answered slowly, as though he already regretted the discussion, “because that’s how I felt when I understood that Voldemort could access my mind.” His face closed up completely then, so completely that Snape could not read a single thing from it. He considered his next response carefully and when he spoke, he picked his words with extreme care.
“You should be careful not to assume that Sirius will react as you would,” Snape replied. “You should remember how angry you were at being kept in the dark. And you should consider whether the truth, in the end, will serve you better, especially if it comes from you, and not from someone else bent on doing him harm. Or you.”
He let that hang and waited for Potter to acknowledge his point. He had never liked Potter, yet he had always known that he was far cleverer than his schoolwork showed. The young face remained stubbornly closed, however, and Potter insisted, “There is no good reason to tell him and only harm can come of it.” He was so calm and so certain that Snape felt a chill about his heart as he wondered just how much Harry knew that he chose not to reveal, or whether he knew nothing but the foolish and instinctive certainty of a parent that his child must be sheltered.
***
As the days passed, I grew used to the idea that Dad was our Defense teacher simply because he was there and teaching. Each lesson was a revelation: we learned how to make a shield, how to reduce a solid object to dust, and how to make a Patronus to defend against Dementors. This was Defense as we had never learned it, real spells to defend against real attacks, and spells for counter-attacks. Even Malfoy quit grumbling, although he watched Dad with an intense loathing that made my flesh creep. If he caught me watching him, the glare intensified and I felt like shouting that Malfoy ought to be excluded from these lessons so that he could not turn his new knowledge on others to do harm.
Though James and Lily and I had talked about it on numerous occasions, not one of us felt brave enough to raise the subject of Dad's famous past with him. It wasn't easy to get him alone either as any time we stayed after class, there were always other students lingering too, and at night, Dad often skipped eating in the Great Hall. Most annoying of all, a sort of unofficial fan club sprang up, consisting mostly of girls, who seemed to alternate between dwelling on Dad's incredible magical achievements and imagining how wonderful it would be if he would notice them and fall in love with them. James and I found this general adoration quite horrifying and disgusting. It's just too weird when your friends have mad crushes on your Dad. Lily, on the other hand, seemed to think it was funny. "You have to admit," she said, "for a Dad, he's really young and cute."
When James and I made noises of disgust, she glared at us and said icily, "And don't go thinking I've got some Muggle complex either. I'm just making an objective observation."
"The only complex you have is about Sirius," James answered, which made both Lily and me glare that time.
"I can't help it," he said. "Go ahead and glare. It's true, she can't stand it when you date anyone decent."
"He never dates anyone decent," she grumbled.
"Matilda Bones is decent," James said. Infuriatingly, he had that air of innocence that always covered over his most wicked jokes.
"What makes you think I'm dating Matilda Bones?" I asked as casually as I could. In truth, I was really annoyed.
"You hang out with her all the time," Lily grumbled.
"Yeah," I answered. "Cause I'm Head boy and she's Head girl."
"You're going to Hogsmeade with her tomorrow," James pointed out.
"How d' you know that?" I asked. Trust James to ferret out anything you wanted kept quiet. He has a nose for secrets that is unsurpassed by anyone I know. His hazel eyes gleamed and the expression on his face was exactly the same as the one on Crookshanks when he's caught a mouse or a gnome.
Grinning with satisfaction, he said, "Matilda confided in Vicky and Vicky told Lily, and she complained about it to Me."
"You shouldn't have said anything," Lily said severely to James. "It was supposed to be in confidence."
"I didn't tell anyone else," James said indignantly. "Saying something to Sirius isn't saying anything because it's him that's going." he glanced at me for confirmation and I shrugged. "So what if I'm going with her?"
"You really like her?" James asked.
"I like her," I answered.
"Lucky you," he said just a bit enviously. "She's got brains and looks."
"Not like half the girls you date, James," Lily cut in. Grudgingly, she added, "I guess she's pretty smart. And doesn't Dad know her family somehow? I think he's mentioned the Bones’ before."
"If it was up to you," James said, "neither Sirius or I would ever date. You're worse than Mum sometimes."
Lily stuck up her chin and said stubbornly, "You should date someone good, not just someone who's pretty."
James opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off. "And don't say there's anything to complain about Lionel, either."
"Lionel?" I interrupted her. "You're dating Lionel?"
"You can't complain about him," she answered. "He's a prefect and a quidditch captain and you like him. He's a friend of yours."
"He won't be my friend if he doesn't treat you right," I snapped back.
I have to admit that on the next day, which was our first Hogsmeade day and Halloween, it felt pretty good to be walking to Hogsmeade with Matilda. A number of the other boys cast envious glances at me even though I hadn't even taken her hand yet.
It was a fine fall day and the sunlight gleamed in her champagne colored hair. Her blue eyes were friendly and curious, and I enjoyed the sharpness of her wit. And she did not bring up my Dad even once, as all the other girls were certain to do within the first two minutes of conversation.
"Where would you like to go?" I asked Matilda. This was a kind of test, which she passed with flying colors.
"Not Madam Puddifoot's," she answered with a shudder. "I loathe those stupid fat cupids and all those disgusting ornaments."
Relieved that my opinion of her sense was validated, I said tentatively, "The Three Broomsticks, then?"
She nodded and we wandered through the town in no particular hurry to arrive at the inn. I took her hand and led her around the back way, which took us into a sheltered area close to the Forest and empty of people. She didn't cringe at the proximity to the Forest or look uncomfortable at being alone. Instead, she waited calmly and her blue eyes were unsurprised when I placed a hand on her shoulder and bent to kiss her lightly on the lips.
"You're quick, aren't you?" she commented.
I shrugged a little and examined her for signs of offense or irritation, but there were none. "I thought it would be best to get it over with early. If I kiss you now, then we can quit worrying about whether I will or you will and get on with enjoying the day."
She laughed then, a very nice laugh, and said, "You like Muggle movies then. I've seen that same one."
"Have you?" I asked.
"My Mum's a Muggle, you know," she said. She seemed to be daring me to comment on that and waiting to see whether I would find an excuse not to go on dating her.
"My Dad's grandparents were Muggles," I said comfortably, "and Bryony, you know, is my cousin, and her Mum and Dad are all Muggle. There's times I think it was a terrible mistake for wizards to go secret."
Her eye widened and then narrowed thoughtfully. "You're a radical," she said admiringly. "That's amazing considering you're a Slytherin."
"Well, being a Slytherin doesn't mean you automatically have to be stupid and bigoted," I said defensively.
"I never once thought you might be stupid," she answered. "And I like it that you have friends outside your House."
I decided I liked Matilda Bones more than a little. I kissed her again and was pleased when she kissed me back. It was nice, I thought, to be with a girl who was clever and straightforward as well as beautiful.
A chill wind swept by, hinting of winter to come and I took her arm thinking that a warm butterbeer would go down nicely. Before we could step out of the sheltering overhang of the trees, however, another figure stepped behind the inn into the empty lane and I had just time to realize from the black untidy head of hair that stirred in the wind that it was Dad when he disappeared quite suddenly and altogether silently.
Matilda's mouth opened in a silent oh. "That was..."
"My Dad, yeah," I finished.
"How did he do that?" she asked. "Did he just go invisible?"
"Erm, no." I answered. "He disapperated."
"Without a sound?" she asked in amazement.
I myself was quite used to Dad making no noise when he apparated or disapperated. "He never does," I replied.
Now she did ask about Dad, but still not the usual kinds of questions the other girls did. "Where do you suppose he went?" she asked curiously.
"I dunno," I answered. "Home, maybe. I'm not sure he really likes being here away from Mum for so long."
Her blue eyes were speculative, and curious as Bryony's cats. "My Mum and Dad are like that, too," she said. "But he looked a bit preoccupied, didn't he?"
She did not say, maybe he's gone off to fight a dark wizard or kill a vampire as one of the other girls would have, but I suspected she might be thinking it. The truth was, in some small part of my mind, I was wondering that myself. I pushed those thoughts aside and scolded myself for letting my imagination get away with me. The days of the dark wizards were past and Dad had no need to go about saving people anymore. Another tiny part of me wished they would come back, just so I could be there and see him and be a part of it. That thought was squashed even more firmly and once we got inside the inn and took a sip of butterbeer, I turned the conversation to more mundane things like quidditch and Newts.
