"Remus?" he asked out loud, thinking that sure, it was possible. Remus had come through the Floo to give Snape some hair, hadn't he? Maybe he'd stuck around a bit. Maybe Snape was still down in the dungeons fetching the Polyjuice potion . . .
"No," Snape quickly returned. "He's already departed."
Harry blinked, disappointed on more than one front. "Oh. He couldn't even stay until I got back up here?"
"Apparently not," was Snape's snide remark.
"Why?" Harry heard himself asking. He hadn't meant to say it, really. It made him sound too . . . wistful. And he wasn't wistful, not really. He didn't waste his time wishing for things he couldn't have, like a real home and a family who gave a damn about him, or a forehead that didn't announce his destiny to any wizard who cared to look . . . He tried not to think of such things, full stop.
At least Snape hadn't noticed that plaintive tone. "Look at the moon, Potter, and think," the Potions Master sneered, but to Harry's ears it was Remus belittling him. He swallowed, and told himself again. Not Remus, definitely not Remus. Even when Remus had to rebuke you about sneaking out to Hogsmeade, he did it gently, without insults.
Or maybe Snape had heard more than Harry would have wished, because he was suddenly snapping, "Oh, here!" and thrusting a small roll of parchment at Harry. "I dare say I won't have to force you to read this one."
Harry ignored him to tug off the tattered ribbon and unroll the note.
Dear Harry,
Albus hasn't told me much of the situation you're facing, but I do agree with him that if you need protection, Severus is the best choice. I also understand why it would be better for him to not quite be himself, so to speak. In a few minutes I'll floo through to do whatever I can to help. Albus has already told me that you're up in your rooms packing. Probably that's just as well, Harry. I don't see enough of you, but I'd frankly prefer you not see me like this. If you'll recall, I used to take three days off teaching before each full moon. Even with Severus' potion--and yes, he is still graciously providing it for me--the coming transformation leaves me weak, and shaky, and ill.
Keep me apprised of anything more I can do to help you, Harry.
Yours,
R.L.
Drawing a deep breath, Harry moved to tuck the note away in the front pocket of his snug black jeans, only to have Snape snatch it from his fingers and toss it into the fire with a growled, "I don't trust the werewolf's discretion!"
"It didn't say anything!" Harry protested, thinking that gracious was an overstatement and a half. Snape was never generous, except maybe with Slytherins, so if he was still making the Wolfsbane potion for Remus, it had to be from some other motive.
"Then you won't miss it much, will you?"
Dumbledore eased into his peacemaker role, then. "All set, Harry?" he asked, gesturing toward the school bag Harry carried. He'd repacked it with all his textbooks, not just Potions, and had made Hermione promise to take extra thorough notes in all the classes they shared. What was he worried about, though? Hermione's notes had been extra-thorough since first year, and he wouldn't be gone that long, would he? Trouble was, he really didn't know how long the Dursleys would want him around.
Of course, Harry didn't much care what the Dursleys wanted, though he supposed it was only right that he did see Aunt Petunia before it was too late. It was the decent thing to do, he knew, and whatever he'd suffered in her house, she had in fact protected him when he'd most needed it. She'd taken him in as a baby, offering him refuge from the Death Eaters determined to put an end to the Boy Who Lived. And yes, she'd done it unwillingly, ungraciously, hell, resentfully . . . but she had done it. Harry knew that he was supposed to appreciate that, somewhere deep down. He had to, right?
The truth was, though, that any gratitude he might possibly feel was buried beneath a whole mountain of ill-will.
So yeah, it didn't matter to him what the Dursleys wanted. If he had his way, he'd just pop over to the hospital for a quick hallo, and rush right back to Hogwarts. Just enough so that if his conscience bothered him in years to come, he'd be able to tell himself that no, of course he hadn't ignored a deathbed summons.
Since when did Harry get his way, though? He was the Boy Who Lived.
He was the Boy Who'd Better Keep On Living, the Boy Who Was Going to Grow Up to Kill Voldemort. The Boy Who Needed His Mother's Sacrifice To Keep Protecting Him Until He Was Old Enough To Do His Duty.
Harry was good and sick of thinking of himself that way, and being reminded of it every time he so much as sneezed.
The entire wizarding world was relying on him to solve their problem, though not all of them knew it. They all had an inkling, though. He hadn't needed a prophecy to confirm his fate, had he? It had been emblazoned across his forehead since he was a year old, and even if people could have managed to forget that, Voldemort's coming for him again and again and again certainly tended to make people believe that he was the only one who could vanquish the evil git. Why else would Voldemort be so intent on killing him off?
So until he had the age and experience to protect himself, he needed all the warding he could get. Even if it came from a lumbering, cruel, gluttonous boy like Dudley Dursley.
"Of course I'm ready," he finally answered the headmaster.
"Excellent. Now Severus, I know this may be difficult, but you must endeavour to stay wholly in character at all times . . . except perhaps when you and Harry are alone and thoroughly warded."
"I think if I can manage to fool the Dark Lord himself as to my loyalties, a topic in which he is intensely interested, I can pretend to be Potter's friend, thank you," Snape returned. Harry had the feeling he was trying to use that icy tone he favoured, but Remus' voice just couldn't carry it off. It came off like a touch of self-pity, actually.
Talk of staying in character, however, brought another issue to Harry's mind. "Remus doesn't call me Potter," he felt obliged to point out. "You'd better call me Harry, or it'll look strange to anyone who's ever seen me with Remus. And you never know who might be watching, do you?"
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Snape challenged, but Harry wasn't through.
"Remus isn't a professor here, any longer," he went on, thinking he might as well give it a shot. "So no fair taking points off Gryffindor, no matter what may happen. Remember, you aren't acting as head of Slytherin house. In fact," here Harry had to choke back a slight laugh, "in this guise, you're a Gryffindor, yourself!"
Snape ground his teeth together and didn't bother to reply.
Throwing a pinch of powder into the flames, Dumbledore called, "Arabella, we're ready now." Then he gestured for Snape to floo first. Before Harry stepped into the cavernous fireplace, Dumbledore cautioned, "Do come back safely, both of you."
"Arabella Figg's house!" Harry shouted, and went up in a tower of flames.
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Mrs Figg helped brush him off, her hands a bit too motherly for Harry to endure. Why did everybody insist on treating him like he was still eleven years old? "It's all right!" he finally protested, giving her a slight push away. "You'd think I'd never flooed before!"
"Wizards' robes repel the ash a bit better than what you've got on," she insisted in her high voice as her hands tried to still fuss. "For pity's sake, why did you both come through without wearing any?"
Harry glanced down at his maroon dress shirt. "You know what they're like. Remus here isn't going to let on that he's a wizard, either."