When Potter, who had appeared early in the morning as usual, invited him to Godric's Hollow, to that very house... "Again—THERE? Voluntarily?!"—Snape felt physically ill. Harry, immediately noticing the sharp change in his teacher's mood (he had almost gotten used to calling the professor that, at least to himself), immediately deflated. And then he thought... But fortunately, he refrained from asking questions.
"Emotions aside... the boy is right," Severus thought. "If we want to find out what happened to the boy back then, we'll have to examine the place where it all occurred with utmost thoroughness. And I need to do it myself. Well, and with Filius, of course, when he returns."
"How about we try magic without a wand today? At least the simplest things?" Potter suggested a fresh idea. "Without Professor Flitwick, we probably shouldn't go to that house, right?"
Severus nodded with relief. Wandless magic? Anything but Godric's Hollow. Not now. Not today. But then Harry gasped and widened his eyes:
"I've never even been to my parents' grave! Not once! I... never even thought about it before, can you imagine?..."
"Apparently, it's fate," Severus thought and sighed heavily.
"It's there too, not far from the house. There... everything's close by. Would you like..." he looked attentively at Harry, "to make amends?"
The boy shrugged vaguely. He sensed that the teacher, to put it mildly, wasn't burning with desire to keep him company, but couldn't explain it, and asking... something held him back. So he answered what he truly believed.
"It's people who miss them. But graves... what do they care about me? I don't even remember my parents at all. Only my mum's photos that my aunt gave me—there's an album where they're still little. And the moving photographs that are in Hogwarts... I miss them... probably. But how can you miss someone you don't even know?"
Severus swallowed a lump that suddenly rose in his throat.
"Come on, Potter," and he headed toward the Pensieve.
He didn't choose anything deliberately. The disheveled girl, the cheerful student, the thoughtful one, the sly one, the businesslike one... Tired, relaxed, angry, bursting with laughter and boiling with rage... Severus transferred everything into the bowl, even their last conversation with the final falling-out, when she looked at him with pain and disappointment. He never believed in half-measures. Would Potter be disappointed in him, like his mother? So be it.
Harry emerged half an hour later with wet lashes, and a moment later Snape was squeezed so tightly that his ribs nearly cracked.
"Pot-ter," he squeezed out on his remaining air, "perhaps I might still be of use to you?..."
The grip loosened slightly, but the boy had no intention of letting go. Severus had no choice but to carefully place his hands on the boy's sharp shoulder blades. But soon he gently pulled away.
"Thank you, Professor!" Gratitude, sadness, and... understanding splashed in the green eyes. Harry had opened himself up so much that it was simply impossible for Snape not to feel the same thing he did. It seemed Potter also didn't believe in half-measures...
***
Snape's training in wandless magic had begun more than twenty years ago: he wasn't yet twelve when James Potter knocked his wand out of his hand for the first time... Since then, his ability to cast without it had only grown and was almost on par with what he could do while "armed." So in this regard, he quite deservedly considered himself an ace. Until he became familiar with Harry's techniques. Which turned out to be far less energy-intensive, as was soon discovered.
At first, he couldn't use them, but the boy managed to convince him that Severus simply needed to find the key to his own "childhood" magic. Essentially, it turned out that you just needed to know very precisely what you wanted. To imagine it clearly... "Your magic couldn't have gone anywhere, could it?" Harry would spread his palms and generously share his methods.
"Who knows whether it could or couldn't..." It wasn't very pleasant for Severus to recall his childhood magical outbursts: they came packaged with completely different memories, far from rosy ones. But if they had succeeded with the "egg" together with Flitwick, then there was a good chance the boy was right. Wait! He had memories of magic he'd shown Lily...
Things started moving... Eventually, they became so engrossed that they didn't notice Harry overdoing it slightly. Snape, to his shame, didn't even hear what spell the boy uttered, since he was completely occupied with visualizing his task. Harry suddenly grabbed his forehead, cried out desperately, and went limp already in the professor's arms.
***
Snape Apparated to St. Mungo's without thinking for a second. He swept through the floors at breakneck speed, carrying Potter, who was surprisingly light for his almost thirteen years. And just a few minutes later, Hippocrates Smethwyck himself stood by the boy—not just stood, but was working.
"Overexertion... Needs a restorative."
A vial clinked. Smethwyck clicked his tongue: he immediately assessed the quality of the potion, which came from the personal stock of Britain's best potioneer. A light pass—and Harry reflexively swallows the necessary portion.
"We just need to wait a bit... You could have handled this yourself, Master Snape."
"Look at his head."
"What?"
"The scar."
Smethwyck pulled back the boy's grown-out hair and gasped. The scar was literally torn open: the edges had separated and even turned outward slightly, but strangely enough, there was almost no blood.
"Completely uncharacteristic for head wounds," the Healer murmured. "Prepare an operating room immediately!"
Half an hour later, they determined that ordinary potions didn't work on the boy... Snape Apparated home: he had one new development... Harry remained with the Head Healer and his two assistants, who, incidentally, had already dealt with the inflammation that had begun to spread from the open wound across his entire forehead and scalp.
Another hour after the potioneer's return, they had to settle for simply stitching him up the Muggle way: none of the compounds worked. Snape personally numbed the forehead area, assisting Smethwyck.
"You could have made a good Healer," the latter noted, securing the thread, "but you're an even better potioneer. What do you think about a contract with St. Mungo's?"
"What do you think about a twenty-hour workday?"
"Well, that's definitely too much... A pity, of course, but I understand. Though if you decide to part ways with teaching, you're most welcome. The terms will pleasantly surprise you, Master Snape: believe me, we know how to value specialists of this caliber."
Smethwyck looked at the sleeping boy.
"Now he'll be transferred to a room near my office, and I'd like to ask you to take a look at something..."
***
"I'm telling you for sure, he has the Mark! A real Death Eater's Mark!"
"He's been a Hogwarts professor for years now, do you think Dumbledore?.. He couldn't not have known!"
"You think I specialize in removing Dark curses for nothing? Hurry, or he'll leave!"
"Stop!" Snape, who was heading to Potter's room, turned around, looking at two wands aimed directly at his forehead in the hands of two rather agitated young people who had assisted him and the Head Healer just ten minutes ago, arched an eyebrow, and dramatically crossed his arms.
"Well, now I've learned just how imperfect the new camouflage of the thrice-cursed Mark on my arm is. Strange that Smethwyck didn't say anything. Obliviate, perhaps?.. Still, they're decent Healers, maybe we can come to an agreement?"
An imperceptible movement of his fingers, and both attackers meekly follow him into the Head Healer's office.
***
Hippocrates Smethwyck hadn't been this entertained in a long time, watching his own assistants. Disheveled, frightened, but not giving up... Good lads. Especially Jackson, fancy that, he spotted it. How did he think to use his artifact? I should ask... Ah, if they manage to pressure Snape, and he in turn—lure the potioneer to work for him... He sighed. No harm in dreaming. Shouldn't he protect his assistants? Though... Observing was far more interesting.
"What? Swear that we didn't see you? That Mr. Potter just came on his own?..."
"Exactly."
"With all of this?" Jackson waved his hand, for some reason toward the window. "Who would believe it?"
"Will anyone ask? Does St. Mungo's answer to anyone? Interesting—to whom and since when..."
"But doctor-patient confidentiality already implies..." Jackson still hoped for something, at least that his opponent might not know certain nuances.
His partner clearly would have preferred to quietly dissolve into thin air. And Snape was good... Smethwyck focused his vision in a way known only to him and now admired the magnificent aura of the wizard, unpleasantly distorted only in the area of the left forearm, and almost secretly envied the Lord and Dumbledore. What a specimen they'd gotten! If only... Though he'd just have to keep his finger on the pulse: as soon as the potioneer was finally fed up with his masters, he'd be there.
St. Mungo's—centuries-sanctified neutral territory, and he was its guardian, owner, and most devoted servant. St. Mungo's doesn't reveal... And whether there's a Mark or not, everyone has their flaws... Incidentally, it would also be interesting to figure out: after all, they'd removed many things, though nothing quite like this. It would be excellent experience... Smethwyck barely restrained himself from casting predatory glances at the potioneer. He might misunderstand.
"I'm aware that doctor-patient confidentiality extends only to the patient," Snape's voice emanated arctic cold.
"What if I ask, as a patient?" Potter appeared on the threshold, finally having come to his senses.
Though the lad was grayish-pale, like the sky after a prolonged rain, and was holding onto the doorframe, he behaved almost defiantly... Well now... The potioneer immediately rushed to his charge, seating him in an armchair. When he turned to the Healers, the air rang, but the boy had already caught his breath and continued:
"Otherwise I won't agree to anything. Not to your treatment, not to anything, clear?" He turned to Snape. "Let's get out of here, Professor. Though if I don't make it, the esteemed Healers will be to blame..."
And he tried to stand. It didn't work out.
Was he playing or?.. But it was definitely time to intervene.
"I apologize for my colleagues' behavior, Mr. Snape, Mr. Potter. Of course, we'll all give you an oath."
"To both?" the nitpicky boy clarified.
Well now... weaker than a kitten, but already asserting his rights!
"It's enough for you," Snape placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.
The boy stubbornly shook his head. Smethwyck pierced his assistants with his signature look...
"I, Justin Jackson, swear..."
"I, Asclepius Taskill, swear..."
"Well, that's better..."
Satisfied and slightly relaxed, Harry Potter seemed like a completely sweet and harmless teenager. A child even. But what nerve! And that aura... It was something incredible.
"And you?" the boy smiled disarmingly, addressing Smethwyck.
"I'm prepared to take an Unbreakable Vow if you allow me to examine you."
Harry turned to Snape, and he slowly nodded, not taking his eyes off the Head Healer. Smethwyck felt a light, almost weightless touch in his head, and... didn't close himself off, giving the Legilimens to understand with a nod that he accepted and approved of his actions.
"And you prepare yourselves..."
"Boss, but..."
"We already gave an oath..."
"Don't want to participate in the examination?" their patron interrupted them.
"We do! Of course!" A small but maniacal flame ignited in the assistants' eyes.
Another signature look thrown by the chief at his subordinates, and Potter thought, well now, they both know how to do that. He should learn too! But how did this Jackson spot the Mark, and... he'd just ask! He's the patient, he's allowed.
When Smethwyck explained about the artifact, Snape tensed: how many more of these exist in Britain? But the Healer reassured him—the unique and one-of-a-kind specimen belonged to St. Mungo's and was usually used only for its direct purpose. Jackson tried to insert something in his defense, but his patron quickly shut it down. However, the young Healer continued to hiss something suspicious under his breath, so Harry couldn't stand it:
"Just tell him already, Professor!"
Snape sighed:
"Jackson, are you familiar with the word 'espionage'?"
Smethwyck smirked:
"And I was hoping my assistant would still have to work his brain a bit... For example, figure out what Dark Lord minion, disregarding everything, carries Harry Potter in his arms, sweeping away everything in his path, practically drags out the best Healer by the scruff of his neck and demands urgent action to save, ahem, the hero. Eh, Jackson? If you're not working with a patient, does that mean you don't have to think anymore?"
Poor Jackson, biting his lip, tried to squeeze out an apology. It was obvious he didn't really want to, but felt awkward, felt... "So that's how it is... It's not just with me, then. People hate being wrong," Harry thought. The potioneer, as if catching his thoughts, responded:
"Merlin's sake, Jackson, what's done is done. Let's get to work already."
***
They remained in the hospital until evening, and Smethwyck stayed with them almost constantly: fortunately, during all this time his intervention was hardly needed by anyone else. If the potioneer's identity and abilities interested him primarily as the head of St. Mungo's, this "state within a state," then as a Healer by calling, he simply wouldn't let Potter go for anything... And it was wonderful that these two ended up here now. He'd use his chance to the fullest. Here he could defend two, no, three Healer Masteries. And in alliance with the professor, try something...
He compared Harry's data with some tables, leafed through ancient folios and his own notes, gradually darkening. And when he began making extracts, summarizing the results, a surprised expression didn't leave his face for a long time.
When the examination results were ready, everyone was shocked and puzzled, even the one who had initiated the process.
First, Harry Potter turned out to be completely immune to potions. More precisely, to all potions prepared by traditional recipes and traditional technology. Smethwyck nearly jumped when he found out that Snape's painkiller actually worked—he simply believed what he was told when describing the treatment of burns supposedly received after Harry failed to handle the Lacarnum Inflamare spell.
But the potion's author himself had something to think about... Actually, he spent some time doing just that, with a completely absent look, alternately writing and crossing things out in a thick black notebook while they waited for the boy's blood composition data.
Second, in Harry's blood, information about which was brought by Mr. Jackson, still looking askance at Snape, there turned out to be an enormous amount of some strange antibodies, completely defying identification. Absolutely everyone present burned with the desire to learn their origin, even Snape finally emerged from his notes and called Potter to account. No, it was clear the boy couldn't know anything about the cells themselves, but he definitely had an idea of how this could have happened.
"We're listening attentively, Potter..."
He shouldn't have done that...
After the boy's story about the Chamber of Secrets, the basilisk, and the phoenix, everyone needed a calming draught. Except Potter, of course.
"I'll kill Dumbledore..." Long fingers clenched into fists so that the knuckles turned white.
"I'll kill..." echoed from across the room.
Snape and his recent opponent met eyes and nodded in unison.
"Are you going right now, or shall we have lunch first?" Smethwyck doused them with his irony, successfully replacing Aguamenti. "Because quite possibly, this will be your last meal..."
"And THIS one pretends to be the Great Light Wizard! #$%&..."
"Potter, cover your ears!"
Harry, with a pointedly absent look, eavesdropped on the colorful bends, trying to determine which of the three swearers was cooler, and to memorize something while he was at it. Definitely, the Head Healer and his Prof were currently sharing first place. However, they were quickly interrupted: the door slammed, the second assistant literally flew into the office with a face white as chalk and started right from the doorway, projecting the patient's aura before all present.
"Here are traces of an attached entity... See the black threads? And here's the remainder of the knot itself, already almost completely pulled into the patient's aura. By basic parameters, this is a Horcrux of a powerful Dark wizard!"
"...! ...! ...!!!"
"Potter! Muffliato!"
Harry's ears started buzzing, and he indignantly stared at his professor. When the most furious debates ended, Snape looked attentively at his charge and... laughed. And apparently told them what he'd been eavesdropping on, at least that's how Harry understood it. Because everyone looked at him LIKE THAT... He blushed and looked down. Just in case.
Snape quietly snorted to himself; he now knew what Harry Potter was really like...
"Well, now my conclusions..." the Head Healer pulled out several written pages, sighed, and added: "Severus... pour everyone some of your calming draught. Me too. Thank you."
"So, gentlemen..."
"Hey!!!" Potter interrupted him. "What about me? I want to hear!"
Snape made a neat movement with his wand, and Harry returned to the world of normal sounds, looking angrily at the professor.
"May I continue?" Smethwyck inquired. "I don't know whether this will please or distress you, but Mr. Potter's scar is not from an Avada, but from a magical ritual."
Jackson choked on the calming draught, and Snape patted him on the back.
"Avada, as everyone knows, doesn't leave scars. None, ever. And on the forehead we have the Sig rune... Created, possibly, with the best intentions."
"The classic meaning of this rune, from maximum to minimum: victory, success, luck. It should develop the bearer's higher consciousness. It can also indicate a person endowed with grace or under the protection of higher powers. Grants invulnerability."
"Dumbledore?.. What did he do to the child and why?.."
"I don't understand anything... Why then?.."
"Everything's backwards..."
Smethwyck measured the whisperers with a look that silenced them and continued:
"There's one 'but' in all this. Known to a very limited circle of runic mages and some Dark wizards. For the rune to work properly, it must draw strength and energy from the wizard himself. And while he's small... there's insufficient energy. And it causes practically the opposite effect."
"The Sig rune, negative aspect: defeat, loss... The only way to endure it is to do nothing, not undertake any endeavors, to hide, practically... to cocoon oneself. Possibly some serious illness or general sickliness and weakness. I assume all of Harry's strength, all his magic went toward preventing this. Yes, it also causes rejection, and sometimes aggression from others. And the bearer, when exhausted, can develop, how to put it more precisely... general stupefaction, perhaps..."
Harry began to shake, and Snape instinctively put his arm around his shoulders.
"What about now?"
"Wait. A rather complex and powerful block was also tied to the rune, but only traces remain of it... I can't decipher the original effect from them with all my experience. And I don't even know who to turn to with this question. There are two colleagues of mine in Norway, but... it's not certain they'll say more. You haven't approached anyone to remove the blocks, young man?"
Harry goggled: how could he have approached anyone, knowing absolutely nothing?
"Ah yes, of course, the basilisk and phoenix," Smethwyck caught himself. "An extreme measure, of course, but effective. Your rune no longer works. At all. The Horcrux remnants are safe: your body has practically dissolved and... absorbed them. My congratulations."
Snape quietly hissed something unprintable to himself. And unexpectedly turned to Harry, who was looking into the emptiness before him with a crooked smile.
"Potter... what exactly were you trying to do before ending up here?"
"Um..." He focused his gaze. "Remove the scar, Professor."
"%$#." Smethwyck covered his own mouth with his fist.
"Cover your ears, Potter... Cover them properly, or I'll deafen you again!.."
***
Halloween, twelve years ago
"What am I to do with you?" the old man whispered, bending over the crib with the child. "What part of Tom passed into you? What will it leave of you yourself? You're just a baby, you won't be able to resist the Dark Lord... And you might become him yourself. With such power... such an aura... you're dangerous. Very dangerous."
Alarm and pain flashed in the blue eyes.
"I can't! I can't raise my hand against a child!" He raised his gaze to the ceiling, as if someone there was arguing with him. "I feel it, I know, little Harry is still here. I... No, never! I'm not the lightest wizard, but I'm not a child-killer."
The wizard removed his glasses and wiped his tear-wet eyes.
"I haven't taken anyone's life at all yet... Yes, people have died because of me, but I haven't killed anyone. Not even Gellert. And that means I remain on the side of light!"
He straightened with a surprisingly quick movement for an old man, summoned several candles, and moved to the center of the room.
"I remember... I'm sure everything will turn out right!"
He began drawing something on the floor, sometimes pausing and closing his eyes, as if summoning the necessary memories.
"Like this," he examined his handiwork and seemed satisfied. "This will block the Horcrux, and this won't let it influence the child. The child's strength... he'll need it later... I'll help him, but he must trust me."
The old wizard with trembling hands finished the drawing on the floor and placed the one-year-old child on it. The wizard began whispering something strange, tracing complex figures over the child with his wand. Shadows thickened in the corners of the room... Outside the window, the sunset was dying.
The baby slept, put to sleep by a spell, and was supposed to sleep for a long time yet...