Chapter Text
Severus awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and an empty bed. Potter was gone, and so was his cloak.
“Are you alright?” he said to his bracelet, but there was no response. Perhaps the boy had fallen back asleep. He’d have to send up a restorative. Surely Potter would want one when he woke. He hadn’t handled his alcohol all that well, which Severus probably would have anticipated if he’d thought it through a little more. Or at all.
He fixed himself tea and sipped it slowly, and then tried one more time.
“Potter?”
Nothing. Yes, he must be sleeping.
Good.
Severus spent the morning putting together some new memories for the Dark Lord. Now that Potter had tipped his hand, he needed to do it, and it was as good a time as any. Sitting quietly at the table, wand in hand, he closed his eyes. He deepened and slowed his breathing. His heart rate fell. Then, calm and focused, he turned his awareness inward and began shuffling through his own mind, categorizing, moving images around, and pulling out those he intended to modify. He began to trim them down, to mix them, and then to stitch them together into new combinations. That was where his true talent lay, after all. Not in the hiding, but in the lying.
He took the memory of Harry getting knocked flat as he tried and failed to repel Severus’ curses, and duplicated it, made him fall five times, ten times. He erased all of his successes. He focused on Potter’s face, looking up at him from the floor, full of uncertainty, and added to it the abject fear he’d worn on the ground in Severus’ bedroom. He took his words and twisted them. He changed, ‘I don’t think this will work,' and, ‘with Malfoy it was so easy,’ into, ‘I can’t do this. With Malfoy it was just a fluke.’ He added in, ‘I don’t know how I did it,’ and, ‘my nose was bleeding, after.’
He thought for a while. Voldemort had told him to destabilize Potter, if he could. Would it be smarter to cut everything else out, or to show him just a little? Potter in his bed, maybe. Or Potter asking, ‘are you going to hurt me?’
The fingernail marks on his back, maybe.
What would it do to him, Severus wondered, if the Deatheaters knew? If they thought Severus was fucking him. Had raped him, maybe. If he allowed Voldemort to see him on his back, begging. What would it do to him?
He cut all of it out. Something else. Make him seem weak, but not like that.
‘I’m supposed to be the chosen one. But I’m just me.’ That was perfect. He embellished it. ‘I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.’ No, Potter would never say that. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to fight him.’ Better. He left in the alcohol. The Dark Lord would probably like the idea that Severus was liquoring him up, to weasel into his confidences. What then? The meltdown. ‘I didn’t mean to say all that.’ And the tears.
He added in a few memories of Potter looking terrible, and sleep deprived. There were many to choose from. The boy sitting at the Gryffindor table, his face colorless, surrounded by his friends and looking absolutely alone. The shadows under his eyes. There. Unstable Potter, for the Dark Lord’s viewing pleasure.
No need for any of them to see his skin, or his smile, or how he looked just when he’d woken up, and no need for any of them to ever know what he was capable of. Not until it was too late.
Severus took a shower, and shaved, and then sent a note to Dumbledore requesting a meeting. He did not receive a response, but it was probably for the best. If Severus could meet with him soon, he might lose his temper.
Malfoy, then. That was who he had to see. The newest recruit, single-handedly trying to behead the entire order.
Little bastard.
***
Harry managed to sneak back into his four-poster underneath his invisibility cloak before the sun came up. He was pretty sure he'd gotten away with it, too, until the other boys began shifting around some time around seven, and Ron yanked back his hangings.
“Harry, Merlin,” he gasped. “You went to Snape’s detention and you never came back!” Seamus and Dean’s faces appeared behind him, and then Neville’s too, and Harry stared back at the four of them, paralyzed. “What in bloody hell happened?”
“I - uh,” Harry stammered. “Uh-” He had a splitting headache and his mouth felt like it was lined in cotton. Not a good morning to be interrogated.
“Are you ok?” Ron’s eyes were searching his face. “Mate, you scared us.”
“I just - I fell asleep,” Harry offered.
“In detention?”
“Yeah, I-” His bracelet warmed. He ignored it. “I have - uh, special training. It makes me really tired. Sometimes I can’t make it back.” Dean and Seamus looked at each other. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
Ron looked back at the other boys. “Can you go downstairs, please,” he said. “I want to talk to Harry alone.”
“Mate, we’re all friends, aren’t we?” Seamus protested.
“Yeah,” Neville piped up. “We were all worried!”
“Go. Downstairs,” Ron repeated, sounding a little like his mother.
“Fine,” Dean said, and grabbed Seamus’ arm. “C’mon let’s go.”
Neville watched them leave, and hesitated. “Is... everything ok?” he asked, turning back to Harry and giving him a small, cautious smile.
“Yeah,” Harry answered him. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine, Neville. You can go.”
Ron just stood there, looking at him, until the dormitory was empty. Then he said, “I’m your best mate, Harry. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s really complicated,” Harry answered, and rubbed his eyes. He felt absolutely skinless. Raw, naked, and so, so tired. “And it’s really early. Can’t we talk about this later?” Ron sat on the edge of his bed and crossed his arms.
“You won’t talk about it later. Where have you been sleeping?”
“Dumbledore made me a room in the dungeons. I stayed there for the end of the summer, after I got hurt. So Snape could watch me.”
“So Snape could watch you.”
“Yeah,” Harry answered. “In case I got sick again.”
“And what about at Headquarters? Before you got hurt? You never told me what happened that night. When you weren’t in your bed I-” He stopped, and picked at his nails. “I mean. I panicked. And I never got to talk to you after. Not really.” He took a breath, as if steeling himself. “Lupin said he found you in Snape’s bed.”
Oh, god, I can’t do this.
“I was,” Harry answered. “But not like-” Not like what? Whatever Ron was afraid of, the reality was surely far worse than he could possibly imagine. But Ron didn't break the silence, or offer him an out. Ron just looked at him, and waited. “He just - he helps me to sleep. I have nightmares, you know that. You’ve heard me.”
“Right before they took you to the Hospital Wing, I helped him get your things. He was covered in blood. And he was really upset. You’re telling me he’s just been giving you potions to help you sleep? And that’s all?” Harry’s bracelet warmed again under his sleeve, and he fought back the urge to look at it.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Harry, c’mon.”
“What? What do you want me to say?”
Ron just looked at him for a long moment. “I’m worried about you,” he finally said.
“What a surprise,” Harry answered. “Everyone is worried about me.”
“Well, yeah. You’re the Chosen One.” Ron gave him a small smile. Harry didn’t return it. “Hermione is worried too.”
“Like I said. Everyone.”
“Yeah.” That time, the silence between them was long, and Ron rubbed at the back of his neck. “If you needed help, you’d tell us, right?” he finally asked, and Harry tried to muster a smile for him, but he was afraid it came out more like a grimace of pain.
“Yeah,” he said, and looked at the bedspread. “Just like at the Ministry, eh? You’re my best friend.” Another long pause.
“What do you want me to tell the others?”
Harry looked back up at him, startled. What was he offering? To lie? “Tell them-” That was more than he could have hoped for. “Tell them Dumbledore is training me down there. Special stuff. Advanced. That it’s secret. And that - it isn’t Snape. Will you tell them that?”
“Yeah,” Ron answered, and ran his hand through his hair. “Sure. I’ll tell them you’re in the dungeons because it’s safer down there. Away from the other students. And... that they shouldn’t talk about it. Or try to ask you.”
It was more than Harry could have hoped for, for Ron to be willing to lie for him. For Ron to know that Harry wasn’t telling him the truth, and to still - to still want to help.
“I thought - you’d hate me,” Harry said in a rush, and embraced him, and after a beat of hesitation, Ron’s arms came up around him, too, if a little awkwardly.
“Hey, Harry, never.”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. It felt like he’d cried more this year than the rest of his life combined, and he didn’t want to do it anymore.
“Thank you,” he said.
***
Draco declined to come to Severus’ office, which was not a good sign. And Severus had rather expected Draco to come to him first, either about what Potter had done, or about the death sentence the Dark Lord had bestowed upon him, but he had done neither. And now he was refusing an invitation to confide in his head of house, and a senior Deatheater to boot? Not good.
What could he be thinking, trying to execute his orders by himself? What could he possibly be planning? Severus would have to give the boy detention. And, failing that, he would have to corner him. Or scare it out of him.
Alone in his office, Severus tapped his foot, and then touched his wand to his wrist. “Potter,” he said. Surely Harry was awake by then, it was nearly noon. And Harry was awake. Or, at least, had just been woken.
[Sir] appeared, glistening on the silver surface.
“How are you feeling?”
[I have a headache]
“I’m sure. Shall I send you a restorative?”
[If you want] And then: [I’ve never had a hangover before]
Severus ignored that. “Where are you now?”
[I’m about to go down to lunch]
“I’ll have it sent to your room.”
[Thank you] Then: [Sorry. About last night] A pause, which Severus did not interrupt. [I didn’t mean] A much longer pause. Too long.
Severus took pity on him. “To knock my glass off the sofa?" he offered. "I know. I tidied up after you.”
[Thanks] appeared by itself after a few moments. Then: [Maybe something lighter next time. So I don’t make a mess]
“You’re like a tornado.”
Severus looked out the window. His new office as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher looked out over the grounds, straight out at the Quidditch pitch. He could see a team practicing out there right at that moment. Ravenclaw, maybe. Certainly it wasn’t Gryffindor, with Potter talking to him, and it wasn’t on the Slytherin schedule. He might be able to see bits of Potter flying from there, if he wanted. He should ask when the practices were.
He didn’t ask.
Stupid idea.
Embarrassing.
***
As the occupants of the castle settled into the routine of the school year, Severus began to get used to having the New Potter as a pupil. Every single Defense class was still torture, of course, as Harry excelled, and excelled, and excelled, but he could get through it. He told himself that his fit of emotion had been a moment of madness. He’d been touched by Potter confiding in him, that was all. He’d been drinking. It didn’t mean anything.
In their private lessons, the boy had moved on from shield charms to conjuring, and had gradually learned to produce various objects out of thin air with no wand, and no ill effects.
The first time he tried, Severus directed him to produce a wooden ball, and he'd done it beautifully. “Excellent,” Severus said, and Potter smiled at him, and then collapsed straight to the floor with no warning. Severus hadn’t been fast enough to catch him.
The second time, Harry produced a wooden ball and had not collapsed. The third time, he created a little stone snake, which Severus had not asked for.
“Look,” he said. “It matches your sconces.”
He was so fucking charming. It was awful.
Severus kept the snake.
As Harry was getting quite a lot of his attention privately, Severus tried very hard not to give Harry any attention during class, but it was frankly impossible. He was far and away the best in the year. He was fast, and inventive, and powerful, and Severus had to talk himself out of cornering him after every single period. He was used to Potter being lazy, inattentive, and prone to stupid mistakes. But that was just potions. There, in DADA, he was in his element, and the other students looked to him for help and inspiration. The other students looked at him. A lot. Stared at him, really. He was radiant. He was like a shining star.
Severus did his best to be dismissive, to nitpick, to tear Potter’s magic down, but often all he could manage was a curt nod. Potter always reacted to that as the highest praise, which, he supposed, it was. And later, when they were alone, he could say what he meant.
“You’ve surpassed the material, Potter.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there’s nothing to teach you at all in the curriculum for 6th year.”
“Oh. I - thanks.”
“It’s not a compliment, it’s just a fact.”
“I rescind my thanks, then.” He grinned. “What will you teach me instead?” More conjuring, charms, and jinxes. No wand, no words, and no fainting. Well, a little fainting, at first. No bleeding, though.
***
Harry found that each time he moved on to a new type of wandless magic, it exhausted him all over again. That, plus Quidditch, plus the intense sixth year course load, left him with very little energy to bother Snape with at the end of the day. Not in person, at least. Plus, he was a little bit embarrassed about his outburst in Snape’s rooms the last time.
Well, maybe he was very embarrassed. Even humiliated.
He could still talk to him at night, though, through the bracelets, which made him feel a little less alone. Closed up in his hangings, he didn’t have to look at Snape’s face, either, and if he wanted to stop talking, he could just stop, and read his book instead. His copy of Advanced Potions Making continued to enthrall him, and he continued to find more little bits of magic and hilarity inside of it, even though he’d already read it through twice. It was almost like it was his friend, keeping him company while he couldn’t sleep, and while he couldn't - or wouldn't - ask to go to the dungeons.
After a while, Harry discovered that he didn’t actually need to speak out loud to make the bracelets work. He didn’t need his wand either, as it turned out. All he had to do was touch the silver with his finger and think the words very clearly, and Snape would respond as if he’d spoken. And that was way better, because it meant he didn’t have to worry about the other boys hearing him. And Snape almost always answered, even though he wasn’t always nice about it.
Are you sleeping? Harry might think, and the response would appear on his arm.
[No] or [not anymore] or [it’s the middle of the night, Potter]
Sometimes Snape would send him up a single-dose bottle of Dreamless Sleep, and sometimes he would just talk for a while, until Harry drifted off.
Then, slowly, as the days slipped past, and it became clear that Severus was not treating him any differently after what he’d said, Harry began to lose his embarrassment. He started to talk more freely through the bracelets, and still Snape gave him no pity. Snape did not try to console him, or make him feel better, and Snape did not try to make him discuss it. He was just the same. It was almost as if, when he’d offered to forget what Harry'd said, he had actually forgotten it. And so, gradually, the urge to provoke returned. Harry began to want to get a rise out of Snape. To annoy him, and to make him angry, if he could. Just like in Number Twelve. And after all that had happened between them, that urge was very strong.
Usually it didn’t work. If Severus suspected him, he would refuse to answer. My bruises are gone was ignored. Remember when you almost hit me was ignored. Your class is too easy was ignored. And so was I had a dream about you, even though it was true. Harry was having a lot of dreams.
At first, he dreamt in nothing but vague blurs of color and sensation. Hands, fragrant water, body weight, and the slide of skin on skin. Over time, though, as Snape continued to talk to him at night, his dreams began to sharpen to a point. He dreamt of sheets under his hands. He dreamt of pressing his face into the hard wooden surface of a table. He dreamt of being thrown to the ground. Of being held against the wall. He dreamt about Snape’s body, which he had never seen, and his long-fingered hands, which he saw every day. He dreamt of hair pulling, biting, scratching, and a bruising grip. He dreamt of Snape’s mouth, and his eyes, and his fiery temper.
It was better than the nightmares, he had to admit. Even though he woke up almost every morning in a state of advanced and painful frustration, it was better.
Snape never responded to I had a dream about you.
Then, one night, about a month after he’d last slept in the dungeons, Harry had a dream that Snape came into his dormitory, and stripped him naked, and held his hands to the bed, and fucked him, right there in Gryffindor tower. It was so vivid that he’d woken up with a start just in time to come in his pants, and had needed to press his face hard into the pillow to stay quiet. And afterwards, he lay there, panting and shaking - his body tingling with the sense memory of a touch that he had never felt - and he decided right then that he couldn’t take any more. He would have to make Snape listen.
I’m dreaming about you. It’s driving me mad. I can’t stand it.
Snape was going to listen.
***
He decided to wait until dinner to try. If he waited until dinner, Snape couldn’t hide - not while he was up there sitting at the high table - and he couldn’t just not respond and pretend he hadn’t seen. Harry would be able to see if he was looking at his bracelet or not, and he’d be able to see his expression, too.
Harry settled himself at the Gryffindor table so that he could easily see Snape’s chair at the left hand of the Headmaster, and though Snape didn’t look at him, he wasn't concerned. Snape never really looked at him during meals. At least... not when Harry could see him doing it.
He waited until the whole hall was eating busily before touching one finger to his cuff under the table.
I had a dream about you last night, he thought, and then looked up at the staff table and waited. After a moment, Snape put his hands in his lap and looked down at them. Harry saw his brow furrow, and then he looked back up, and his black eyes sought Harry out in the crowd. They moved curiously over his face. Snape didn’t know he could use the bracelets without speaking, of course. And certainly Snape couldn’t answer him in the same way. Or at all, just then.
Harry held his gaze and gave him a small smile. Severus glared back at him as if to say: Don’t you dare.
But Harry did dare.
He pressed his finger back to the silver.
I dreamt that you came into my room.
Severus looked back into his lap and his eyes widened minutely.
You fucked me right in my four-poster.
His lips parted.
When I woke up I’d made a mess of myself.
Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Snape blush before, but he was blushing right then. He didn’t look back up, but stayed staring resolutely into his lap as if trying to hide his face with his hair.
I was afraid I’d made a noise. Harry continued. Or said your name. It was so good I couldn’t believe I’d been quiet, but no one noticed.
Snape stood up so fast that he almost startled McGonagall out of her chair. He said something to her and gathered his robes around himself, and swept right out of the hall. Harry just pulled down his sleeve and finished his dinner. Let Snape pretend he didn’t know what Harry was going through, now, if he really wanted to.
After dinner, Harry did homework with Ron and Hermione for a while, and then went to bed. He brushed his teeth, and changed into his pajamas, and still Snape did not send anything to him. But then Harry drew back his hangings, and almost burst out laughing.
In the center of his bed sat an entire case of single-dose bottles of Dreamless Sleep. There must have been thirty or forty of them, all corked and labeled neatly in Severus’ fine handwriting. Harry touched his wrist.
Very funny.
There was no response. He took out one of the little bottles and stowed the rest under his bed, and then closed himself in the hangings. He turned the bottle over and over in his hands, waiting, but when nothing was forthcoming, he touched the cuff one more time.
Anything to say to me before I enter the abyss? he thought.
Again, nothing. But then, finally, warmth.
[You’re a menace]
***
So, Potter could use the cuffs without speaking and without using his wand, and that is what he did with them.
Severus poured himself a generous glass of wine and drained it. I’d made a mess of myself, indeed. He hurled the empty goblet into the fire, and then immediately regretted it. Leaving the shards in the hearth, he got up for a replacement.
He’d been so proud of his self-control. He’d been getting through all of his classes alright, and even the private lessons. He hadn’t laid a finger on the boy for weeks. Potter was doing well. He was doing his homework. He was eating, and playing Quidditch. He seemed to be sleeping. He was sleeping. And dreaming. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, hard.
Blasted bracelets.
Sliding his hand into his pocket, he fondled the little serpent Potter had conjured for him, imagining what sort of noises Potter might have made in his sleep. And then he very firmly stopped imagining that.
He resolved not to change his behavior at all. It didn’t matter that Potter was a wild ball of adolescent hormones. Severus was a grown man, and he didn’t have to play games if he didn’t want to. And he didn’t want to play games.
He didn’t.
And for a few days, there were no games.
***
[Slughorn. Saturday]
It was the end of DADA, and Severus looked down, read those two words, and looked back up again. The other students were all scratching busily at their parchment, but Harry was gazing right back at him. Severus raised an eyebrow, and Harry pointed his wand at the collection of white chalk at the front of the room.
It exploded.
Apparently he wanted detention.
“POTTER!” Severus barked, white dust settling over the entire class like volcanic ash. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”
“Whoops,” Harry answered, “Sorry, sir. I slipped.”
“Detention,” he hissed, brushing clouds of powder off of himself and onto the floor. “Saturday. Eight o'clock. My office.”
The class thought it was funny. Little cretins.
Then, later, when he was alone, Severus made a very grave mistake, though he didn’t know it at the time. He touched his wand to the surface of his bracelet and said, “bring something to read for your detention.” Harmless. Responsible, even.
And Severus had been so close to convincing himself that he felt nothing.
What a fucking mistake.
***
Saturday, Potter appeared in his office at eight exactly, punctual as you please.
“Hi,” he said.
“Potter,” Severus replied.
“I brought my book,” Harry said.
“Good. Read, then. I have papers to grade.”
“How's mine?”
Severus didn’t answer that, because the answer was, ‘perfect,’ and he couldn’t very well say that, could he?
Harry settled into a chair, and Severus sat back at his desk, and tried very hard to focus on his work. He really did have papers to grade, but he could see Potter out of the corner of his eye, staring intently at his book, turning it this way and that, squinting, and furrowing his brow. And after a while, Harry picked it up to turn it over, and Severus saw that it was a copy of Advanced Potions Making. The sixth year potions text.
“Have you developed an interest in Potions after all?” he asked. It was almost ten, and the boy hadn’t tried to get his attention once.
“What?” Harry looked at him over the edge of the book.
“Based on your academic record, I wouldn’t have thought you capable of being so engrossed in your Potions homework. If it is homework.” Harry closed it and smoothed the cover down.
“It isn’t,” he said. “It isn’t a regular book at all. Professor Slughorn gave it to me on my first day because I didn’t have any supplies. It’s used, I guess, and whoever had it before wrote loads in the margins. It’s pretty interesting.”
Severus felt a prickle of unease.
“Where did he find it?” he asked.
“Just in a cupboard.”
“What sorts of things are written in the margins?”
“All kinds of stuff. TONS of corrections, notes, spells, some funny insults and stuff like that. I don’t think the Prince thought much of the authors.”
The Prince.
“May I see it?” Severus asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Sure,” Harry said. “I was going to show it to you, actually. In case you know whose it was. It’s been driving me mad.” He got up, walked to Severus’ desk, and held it out. Severus took it from him, opened it to a random page, and looked down at his own slanted handwriting, crowded into the margins. “I’ve been reading it at night, when I can’t sleep. And when I can’t come to see you. It helps, sometimes, to make it through till morning. Keeps me from getting too bored, you know.”
Potter had been reading the mad musings of his teenage self, at night, alone in his bed, when Severus didn’t allow him to come to the dungeons? No. Surely not. It was impossible.
“Potter,” he began, and stopped. He looked up at the boy, who was still looking at the book. “My mother-” He stopped again, and covered his mouth. How to say it? “My mother was a witch. She married a muggle.” Finally, Harry’s eyes flicked up. “Her name was Eileen Prince.”
The look on his face was so confused it was almost fear.
“You-” he began. “I thought you were pure-blood.”
“No,” Severus replied. “Half-blood.”
“But-” He snatched the book back and turned it to its publication page. He pointed to the date. “It’s almost fifty years old!” Severus took his hand and pulled it away from the paper.
“I was poor,” he said.
“You’re kidding me. You have to be.”
“I’m not,” Severus said.
“Surely everything can’t be about you,” Harry said, sounding almost desperate. “Come on. You can’t be serious. He can’t be you.”
“Muffliato,” Severus said. “Langlock. Levicorpus.”
“Sectumsempra,” Harry whispered.
“For enemies.”
Harry’s eyes searched his face, and he moved around the desk to stand in front of him. He looked down at his textbook in Severus’ hands, and then at the papers he’d been grading. His pointed, elegant script, first in black, and then in red. Harry flipped to a marked page and pointed down at it.
“I’ve been reading this at night to distract myself from you,” he said. “And it’s your handwriting.”
“Yes, it’s mine. This isn’t the original binding, though.”
“No, I-” He almost laughed. “I didn’t want to give it back when I bought a new copy so I - switched the covers. So I could keep it.” He was staring down at the pages, like he was hoping they would speak. “I thought-” He stopped, and touched the paper with his fingertips. “I thought he was a genius. Famous, maybe.”
“No,” Severus answered. “Just a boy.”
“Hermione said - that this was dark magic. Were you already a Deatheater when you did this?” He’d almost been a Deatheater, then, but not quite.
“Just a boy,” Severus repeated.
“It’s you,” Harry whispered.
“Yes.”
Harry looked up at him, and the expression on his face took Severus’ breath away. It felt like something was breaking inside him, being looked at like that.
“You.”
Severus kissed him, then, absolutely unable to stop himself. He locked and warded the door. He drew the shades. He unhooked Harry's robes and dropped them on the floor. He swept everything off of his desk, and pushed him down onto it. He undid Harry’s trousers, and pulled them down just enough to get his mouth on him. Harry grabbed his hair, tight, with both hands. He hooked his legs over his shoulders. He made sounds that Severus had never heard before.
He lasted a bit longer than the first time.
It was better than the first time.
Bring something to read?
God.
Were there no right choices?
It wasn’t until later, while Severus was cleaning up his books and papers, and his shattered inkwell, that it occurred to him that that might be how Potter was impressing Horace. By using his old book. A Potions prodigy, conjured out of thin air.
It was almost funny.
***
Harry staggered back to his dormitory in a daze after that encounter, not even aware of where his feet were taking him until he was confronted with the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“Oh,” he said. “Uh, waffle - waffle - something.”
“No good, dear,” the Fat Lady answered him. Shit. What time was it? He pressed his fingers into his temples like he could drill the answer out of his skull. Password. Password. What is the password. It was no good. His head was empty.
Just then, a pair of girls appeared down the corridor. They stopped short at the sight of him, and while one of them giggled nervously, the other walked right up to him.
“You’re Harry Potter,” she said.
“Uh, yeah,” Harry answered.
“I’m Romilda. Romilda Vane.” She offered her hand, and Harry shook it while the other girl tittered uncomfortably behind her. “Forgotten the password, have you?”
“I - yeah.”
“Wiffle-waffle,” Romilda said to the Fat Lady, who swung open to admit them. As the girls went through ahead of him, Romilda looked back over her shoulder at him in a saucy sort of way. Harry stared after her, alarmed.
What kind of look was that?