Walk the Shadows

'Which one will you use instead?'

With a snort, and a lip twitch, Snape said, 'I imagine the replacement will be spectacularly appropriate, whatever I decide.'

'Yeah . . . or you could, I don't know, just call me 'Harry.''

Snape shook his head. 'Too mundane.'

'Right. Is this another way you have of foiling my expectations?'

'Indeed.' Snape drank the last swallow of the white wine he had been served, in contrast to Harry's pumpkin juice, and gave him an almost patient look. 'Your summer work?'

'Oh. Right.' Harry went to fetch it all, wishing he'd been neater with his essays, especially the one for Potions. He handed them to Snape and stepped away, as if the whole thing might go up in flames.

'Thank you, Harry,' Snape said, and Harry goggled at him. A 'thank you' and his first name? In the same sentence? They must be having a snowball fight in the seventh layer of hell about now.

'You . . . you're welcome.'

Snape topped off the weirdness with an actual smile, and Harry was sure he was about to participate – unwillingly, unwittingly, and all other kinds of -ingly's – in the very final, end of the world, apocalypse.

Instead, he took a new book from Snape's shelves – he'd already reread the copy of the one Sirius had given him for Christmas, and taken notes from it on some decent counter curses for the dueling thing – and settled down to read in front of the fire. It was nice, like this. Almost . . . actually, kind of a lot like a real home.

---

Putting aside Harry's summer work, Severus watched him reading on the settee for a moment before rising and retrieving something from his study. He was surprised by how quickly the boy had acquiesced to having his old, dour professor go over his work, and was grateful they hadn't needed to argue about it. There had been more than enough raised voices the last couple days as it was . . . thankfully fewer now that he'd started giving Harry the chance to hex him as much as he wanted for two hours a day. . . . if he could get past the shields and blocks, obviously.

Yesterday, when Harry was sweaty and out of breath and very nearly smiling after their workout, Severus realized they should have started dueling weeks ago. Of course, Harry had just gotten his new wand, but still . . . It was just disconcerting, really, how much calmer he seemed this evening.

How much calmer they both were.

Severus had to admit, he had not been particularly easy to get along with the last few days, but he'd had good reason, dammit! His mentor and near-father-like figure had been almost killed by the boy he had just signed papers for, to make his ward. He'd been righteously angry! And frightened utterly witless. For both of them. For all Albus seemed to be doing well now, Severus had not been sure he would even recover at all. And Harry . . .

Merlin, the boy's nightmares and flash backs, his self-blame and sobbing apologies . . . Severus had been beside himself with worry, and then abashed at exactly how worried he had been. This boy was his ward, now, certainly . . . but he had felt actual pain in his heart these last few days, quietening the boy's terrors, calming him and talking him through the latest crisis. It had been so long since he felt such an ache, for anyone. And then, when he thought the worst was over, there had been Harry's description of what actually happened between the two Wizards, drawn out at last, like poison from a wound.

In the end, Severus just didn't have it in him to blame the boy for what had happened. Albus was a meddler, and he did push too hard, and Harry was not