Title: Strength to Choose

Author: Medawyn

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Snape/Harry

Disclaimer: The (recognizable) characters and situations in this story are owned by J.K. Rowling. This story is intended entirely for the entertainment of those who love them, and no money is being made.

Feedback: Um, yes please? medawyn@gmail.com

Beta: Thanks to Rakina for the beta and much needed Brit-pick. Thanks to Naatz for the amazing notes, for making me a better writer, and for her tireless patience with all my wibbling.

Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm

Challenge: Wave XI, the History Challenge

Unknown time, Unknown place

The pain in his left side was the first indicator Harry Potter had that he was awake and alive. With no memory of what caused the pain, Harry strained his ears to hear the familiar sounds of St. Mungo's hallways. The only thing he heard was the rushing of water over stones. This was so unexpected that Harry fought to open his eyes much sooner than he would normally be inclined to do. Blinking with relief he caught a glimpse of blue sky. He pondered the fact that the pain, while originating from his side, was definitely radiating throughout his whole body. He shut his eyes against the pain.

The sound of footsteps approaching through dry grass forced Harry's eyes to open again, and he blinked in the light of the setting sun. A little girl with dirty blonde hair stooped over him, and the two stared at each other in surprise.

“Robards is gonna kill me,” Harry thought inanely, as the child's face faded out in the encroaching blackness. In a still-unknown environment Harry succumbed to pain and the blessed release of unconsciousness.

Samhuinn, October 83 A.D.

After two days of skulking in the woods, Calgacus was getting impatient. It was nearing sundown on Samhuinn, and his men were restless. Facing something just short of a crushing defeat, the long nights of stealthy raids on the Roman encampment could not continue. His mind wandered back to the recent battle.

Agricola, leader of the Roman armies, was a vicious fighter. Calgacus had heard stories about some of his other victories against tribes from the south; this was a man trained in Roman warfare but familiar with the tactics of the Celtic peoples. A dangerous combination. Calgacus shuddered when he thought how his army – which had outnumbered the Romans by far – had been decimated by the tight formations and the intimate battle swords. Moments of hope had been few and far between in the bloody struggle for Mons Graupius.

Calgacus tried not to think what it meant for the Caldonian federation that the hilltop fort was now lost to the dark-haired, well-armoured Romans. Agricola, he knew, would not be content with this single victory. For whatever the reason, the Roman army had been marching north with relentless energy for at least nine moons, and Calgacus was certain that their goal – whatever it was – had not yet been achieved.

He turned to the man standing silently at his right.

“Dabhaidh, are you and your novitiates ready?”

Dabhaidh, wearing the unmistakable garb of a Druid, inclined his head slightly.

“We do not have time to waste, Dabhaidh. The men grow tired and the fighting is becoming futile.”

“Patience, my rix . The bound souls cannot be commanded by the will of men. We are prepared for the ceremony and we will petition the souls trapped in the underworld. The gods of this land stand beside us.”

Calgacus turned to look fully at the man standing next to him. “You are sure that you can summon the forces necessary to drive the Romans out of Scotii land?”

“I believe the gods will hear our request favourably.”

It was useless, Calgacus knew, to demand a more forthright answer from the Druid. The rites and rituals of the Druids were a secret locked even by death, and Dabhaidh's answers were always more vague than necessary.

“Very well then. I am releasing the men to participate in the Samhuinn rituals. We will leave the area around the sacred groves clear for your use. Those who enter the area will face the punishment of death.” Calgacus signalled to a messenger waiting at the foot of a nearby tree. A few brief commands later, he was off to spread the word of the festival among the men of the Caledonian confederacy.

Nightfall was swiftly approaching, and Calgacus could not prevent himself from ensuring that the invocation planned by the Druids was still on task. Bringing a sheep shank and loaf of bread as an excuse, Calgacus settled himself at Dabhaidh's fire. The other Druid novitiates flitted around him, some coming to warm themselves at the fire, others making unseen preparations.

“My lord, you are excessively concerned. Have we not worked together successfully in the past? Do you doubt that I read the will of the gods?” Dabhaidh knelt carefully next to the commander of the Caledonian army.

“It isn't doubt, Dabhaidh. I have heard the reports of what the Roman soldiers have done to tribes in the south. These invaders seek to destroy our very way of life. I will not say so to anyone else, but to you I must confess that their armies are stronger than our own. They are more practiced, used to fighting together. We cannot withstand them forever.”

“I have told you that the gods smile upon us. The Roman gods have no power in this land. We will prevail.”

“But no one has done what you ask the gods tonight. You are calling on the world of the dead itself to avenge us.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The two men sat in silence, watching the flickering firelight grow brighter as the world around them dimmed. Dabhaidh and his men would leave just before the moon reached its zenith. There was time to fear the fate of the Caledonian people if Dabhaidh's attempt did not drive out the Romans.

Calgacus was stiff with cold when Dabhaidh turned to him. “I must prepare to lead the novitiates to the grove. You should celebrate with your men.”

As powerful as Calgacus was, he recognised the dismissal in Dabhaidh's tone. He knew it would be futile to argue with the Druid. Calgacus left the fire as Dabhaidh ordered his eleven novitiates to prepare themselves.

Dabhaidh was anointing his men with oil when a figure streaked out of the trees, grey hair tangling in the low leaves.

“You are mad.” The woman stood in front of him, eyes blazing in the darkness. “Stop this at once! You have no idea what it is you are doing, what you are bringing upon our heads.”

“Devorah,” sneered Dabhaidh. “I might have known that you would know of this. The renowned vidlua come to spread her visions?”

“Dabhaidh put aside your pride. You are calling on forces you cannot control. For the love of the gods, stop this foolishness,” Devorah pleaded.

Dabhaidh ignored the shiver of fear caused by Devorah's presence and words. “Stand aside, woman. There is no one in childbirth here. Your skills are useless.” Commanding the attention of his novitiates, he led them away from the fire and into the woods.

The twelve men walked in silence until they came to a clearing. A stone altar had been prepared in the centre of the rowan trees. The sacred grove was quiet, a pool of moonlight the only illumination. The men formed a ring, Dabhaidh positioning himself at the southern end. He began the incantation, listening to the voices that picked up his plea and echoed it.

They called on the gods of the dead and the souls trapped in the underworld, unable to move into new bodies. Their prayers grew more frantic as each man prepared the sacrifice he had brought. One after another, the novitiates entered the circle, slicing the belly of the sheep, allowing its entrails to spill onto the altar.

The message of the entrails was the same for each sheep; eleven times Dabhaidh read the triumph of the Celtic people over the Roman invaders. The smell of warm blood filled the air, redolent with frenzied prayers and masculine voices.

Horrified, Devorah watched from the shadows as Dabhaidh stepped into the centre, preparing the final sacrifice. With a final blood-curdling scream, he slashed the belly of the sheep, knife glinting silver in the moonlight.

There was no time to see what happened next. Before the last of the lifeblood seeped out of the sheep, a cloud rose from the altar, twisting into a column high above the grove. With lightning speed it circled the grove, veiling the men from view.

For a moment Devorah could hear laughter, followed by sobs and shrieks of pain. It was an endless age before the cloud moved, spiralling upwards. On the ground it left eleven men, twisted grotesquely, faces masked in death. Only Dabhaidh remained, kneeling next to the altar, face blank.

Devorah walked into the circle, slapping the Druid solidly across the face. “You have done this. You have unleashed the power of forgotten souls upon our land. I will pray to the goddess that it takes your soul next.”

Dabhaidh didn't even look up, the red streaks from Devorah's palm blooming across his cheeks. “The anatia maruosi , the soul eater. I have doomed the land of the Scotii .”

Devorah had no answer.

March, 84 A.D.

The smell of wood-smoke and animal skins roused Harry from his deep slumber. His body was weak with remembered pain, although now there was only a twinge beneath his ribs on his left side. He shifted uncomfortably on the firm mattress below him as he tried to place the unusual smells.

Vague memories of hazy awakenings flitted through his brain. He had impressions of dim light, cool cloths, and the strong smell of healing herbs. None of these things made a terrible amount of sense to Harry as he reached back in his memory to hear the sounds of a blasting curse and a Conseco Intrinsecus in an unknown voice. That would certainly explain the pains in his side.

Memories of a raid on the Carrow manor flitted through Harry's mind. It had not, apparently, gone that well. His last solid memory was flying into a tapestry-hung wall, most likely as a direct consequence of the blasting curse thrown by the unknown attacker. Still, none of this explained the smell of animal skins, which was not something that Harry associated with anything remotely familiar in his life.

Deciding that the time had come to assess his surroundings, Harry forced his eyes open. In the dim light, all that Harry could see was a rough wall in front of him. Turning his head, the elderly woman leaning over an open fire - Indoors? thought Harry - did nothing to solve the mystery. Apparently attracted by his slight movement, the woman stepped over to Harry's bed. Before he thought to reach for his wand - Wand? thought Harry, in a slight panic - the woman put her hand on his forehead, covering his scar.

“You are not a Roman,” she stated. At this startling comment, Harry could only stare. Her blue eyes twinkled in an eerily familiar manner. “I am Devorah. Sleep. You are wounded, but you are safe."

******

A dark figure stepped through the doorway as the afternoon light faded to shadows. Harry was completely unable to keep the shock and bewilderment off his face.

“Mr. Potter, it seems, as usual, that my lessons have been ignored.” Snape's voice was rich with remembered insults.

“Professor…. wha… I mean…” Harry trailed off. The sight of Snape – Severus Snape, Potions master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, long-time spy for the Light, former Death Eater, and Harry's most hated professor – rendered him speechless.

“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” sneered Snape. Underneath the sneer, however, Harry could detect a fine layer of concern or perhaps a hint of… panic?

“Professor, where are we?'

Handing the young man a wooden cup, Snape responded, “At present we are in the home of Devorah, whom I believe you have already met.” Although Harry's glare was effectually swallowed by his grimace at the taste of the potion, Snape relented. “You and I have much to discuss. As I have been… here… for quite some time I will endeavour to impart what I know. However, what we are going to do now is quite another matter.”

“Where is here?” Harry ignored the rest of Snape's confusing statements for the moment.

Snape glanced around the room before seating himself at the end of Harry's bed. “As far as I can tell, we are still in Scotland, not too far from where Hogwarts lies. The pertinent question is not so much where we are, however, as when. Although it is not an exact science, I have determined with some degree of accuracy that it is March of the year 84 A.D. You, it seems, are destined to annoy me throughout all of recorded history.”

Harry's only response was a blinking, open-mouthed gape.

“Although your coming was not unexpected, I can't confess that it was completely welcome. While I am unable to escape you, you appear to be unable to escape living under the shadow of prophecy no matter what time you find yourself in.” Snape's expression darkened slightly as he finished.

Harry was unable to formulate a reply; Snape's words made little sense. He was relieved when Snape stood up.

“Judging by your lack of response I am going to assume that the valerian is already at work in your system. I will return this evening.” Snape chuckled slightly as he moved to depart.

Harry merely nodded, thoughts spinning wildly in his brain. Snape… 84 A.D…. Dumbledore… Voldemort… Snape chuckling? Harry gladly relinquished all semblance of thought to a potion-induced sleep.

******

The setting sun glowed red through the chinks of the wooden wall, and Harry was finishing a bowl of stew when Snape reappeared. He paused by the fire for a moment to accept a steaming cup from Devorah. After a hushed conversation the woman turned to go out the door, pausing only to gesture to a pile sitting in the corner farthest from Harry's pallet.

Assessing Harry with his endless black glaze, Snape drew up a rough stool and seated himself near Harry's head. “So, Mr. Potter, are you perhaps more fit for conversation?”

Harry pushed himself up to a fully seated position, bracing himself against the wall. Another man might consider the fact that finding oneself more than 1900 years in the past would be nearly certain to render one somewhat out of one's depth, but not Snape. Snape was as ruthless in his expectations of others as he was of himself.

Reaching inside for the 20 year old, second-year Auror trainee, Harry began, “Professor Snape, as far as I can remember, yesterday I was launching a raid on the Carrow manor. Today I'm here. You must forgive me if I still feel like I'm missing a few parts of this explanation.”

Snape's face was thoughtful. “The Carrow manor? That's where I was having wine before I…arrived here. It was just after…” Snape trailed off, clearly pondering the situation. “I should tell you that you have been here for about four days. I'm not sure what happened before you arrived, but you were found on the site of a skirmish with the Roman soldiers. You have been mostly unconscious until this morning.”

“That explains the hazy feeling. The last thing I remember was being hit by a Conseco Intrinsecus and then being flung into a wall by a blasting curse. I guess I hit a little harder than I thought.”

“Hmmm… the extensive curse damage and the sudden change in temporal continuum do explain your difficulty adjusting to the here and now.” Snape paused, “I presume you are feeling completely yourself now?”

Harry had a distinct feeling that there was something more behind the question, but he really had no thoughts to spare to ponder the matter at present. “Yes, thank you.”

“I suppose I should tell you about where you are and what we are doing this evening.”

Harry's brow lifted at the “we.”

“You were found in a field just outside this village, loosely associated with the Dabriadgh tribe. I'm sure your history is as deplorable as your other academic achievements.” Snape paused momentarily and then resumed when no comment was forthcoming.

“The original peoples in Scotland – variously called the Picts, the Celts, and the Caledonians – have been living here for approximately the past 5,000 years. Domitian is the emperor in Rome now, and Roman expansion is well underway. Whilst Roman soldiers have been in the British Isles for approximately the past 40 years, it was not until this autumn that they made a concerted effort to possess these northern parts of Scotland. There was a decisive battle here just five months ago; perhaps you are familiar with the battle of Mons Graupius?”

Harry shook his head and then added, “No I don't think so.”

Severus sighed, clearly struggling with comments on Harry's lack of knowledge. He continued, “I don't have time to give you a history lesson. The Caledonian federation is a group of more than a dozen Scottish tribes, and they have banded together under the leadership of Calgacus to fight against the Romans. It has been a particularly difficult task because Agricola, the general of the Roman army, has been fighting in Briton for most of his military career. He knows the tactics of the Caledonian people better than most other foreign leaders would. Suffice to say that we are here on the cusp of a war; these people are fighting for their freedom and independence, something that is a long-standing feature of Scottish history.”

Harry nodded, his brain filling in the small pieces of information he retained from years of Muggle and Wizarding education.

“Tonight there is a feast,” Snape continued. “They are celebrating both a successful raid and your arrival.” Here Snape fixed Harry with an inscrutable look. “Devorah has left some clothes for you and we shall be expected to join them by the bonfire shortly.”

Harry looked up, startled to be released from his bed so soon. He felt as if the past four days had stretched into an endless routine of fuzzy consciousness and aches and pains. “Ummmm… sir? How is it that you know so much about what is going on?”

Snape handed him a stack of homespun clothes dyed cheerful green and yellow. It was at this moment that Harry realized that Snape, a shockingly familiar face in an utterly bizarre situation, was dressed in Gryffindor red. The colour was definitely an improvement for the sallow man. “I have been a member of the community long enough for them to trust me.”

After this puzzling statement, Snape turned towards the doorway to give Harry privacy to dress. In a matter of minutes Harry discovered a bucket of water set up for him to wash his face and hands. He joined Snape in the doorway, looking out over the dusky evening. The door faced the woods, and the sounds of revelry drifted up from behind the small house.

“I placed a translation charm on you when you arrived, and it should still be effective. If you have any previous experience with this particular charm, you will remember that it is easily confused in crowds. One-on-one conversation, however, should be easily accomplished. I must warn you not to talk overmuch to me. The translation charm does nothing to alleviate the fact that we are speaking modern English to the ears of these people; it would not do to flaunt the fact that we share a common language.”

Snape led Harry around the hut, and Harry's empty stomach was assaulted by the smell of roasting pork. The general tumble of children and young men unnerved him slightly, but he made his way close to the fire following Snape. Used to years of scrutiny by the Wizarding world at large, Harry failed to notice that an unusual number of eyes followed his path.

******

Harry's eyes were drooping, his stomach uncomfortably full. All night there had been at least one person hovering near his shoulder, filling a plate with food and a cup with watered wine. The conversation had been little more than exchanges of pleasantries, though not for lack of trying on Harry's part. Now, it seemed, the community was settling in for some entertainment.

To Harry's left a large man marked with battle scars was roaring with laughter. As far as Harry could discern, this man seemed to be the leader of the scattered bunch assembled. Snape had indicated in a briefly snatched conversation that the majority of the warriors were readying themselves for the continuing conflict with the Romans.

One by one men came before the fire, capturing the attention of all with wild gestures and even wilder stories. Harry only caught snatches of the tales, the translation charm losing power amidst the hushed conversations of the pairs of young lovers dotting the ground.

Harry blinked as the firelight illuminated a familiar visage. Snape's features were exaggerated by the shadows that fell from his prominent nose and cheekbones, but his presence was undeniable. Harry barely had time to muse about this strange turn in his life when Snape's voice lifted above the noise.

Snape, it appeared, was a storyteller. The tale, timeless and tragic, was about two luckless lovers. Harry could not hear it all, but the familiarity of all great literature – Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Catherine and Heathcliff, Orpheus and Eurydice – called to him. Snape's voice rose and fell, wrapping itself in the night.

Harry could not tear his eyes from the image of his once-hated professor standing in front of this group of people in a time so different from that to which he was accustomed, capturing their attention in the telling of a story lived a thousand times. The voice settled over Harry, carrying a remembered passion – potions, training, the funeral of Albus Dumbledore – so often this voice had marked moments in Harry's own life.

The cold ground underneath him forgotten, Harry drifted off to sleep. In his dreams there was a familiar voice and an arm holding him close, a black shape in the flickering firelight.

******

Oimelc, February 1, 84 A.D.

The fire cast flickering shadows across the ring of trees. The moon, half-full, was slowly rising over the peaks of the evergreens. With tunics as pale as the moonlight, three women drifted out of the shadows and into the circle. The fourth, waiting silently in the moonlight, raised her hand at the others' approach.

The air was heavy with magic. The slight movement of the rowan trees was the only sign that nature was watching.

A voice, ethereal in the rolling fog, spoke:

Insinde se:

bnanom bricton

eianom anuana sananderna,

brictom vidluias vidlu – tigontias so.

(Behold:

The magic of women,

Their special underworld names,

The prophecy of the seer who weaves this magic.)

With bowed heads the women chanted together, their voices melding over the crackles of the fire. Again and again they called the ancient goddess from the depths of the Earth, imploring her to answer their call, to right the wrong so hideously wrought on the eve of Samhuinn.

A slight air of desperation tinged the circle as the chanting continued. The midnight hour was fast approaching and the goddess had not yet answered. The women were not distracted, the ends of their long hair twisting in the wind as they faithfully continued the ritual. Their hands raised toward the moon, the chanting never paused.

The faint noise of rustling undergrowth drew the women's arms down by their sides. Just as the old day passed into the new, a man, naked except for a length of cloth fastened roughly around his waist, stumbled blindly into the midst of the circle.

The women circled around him, their voices lifting in frenzy as their hands reached out to grab the man. Around and around they whirled, the man no more than a blur of white and blonde and red in the midst of the women and the fire and the trees. Round and round and round and round and …

One by one the women fell to the ground, overcome by the fury of the ritual. The echo of their voices floated out on the fog swirling through the trees. The ground, sprayed with blood and ashes, grew colder as the night waned.

The first rays of dawn woke the woman who had been waiting for the others in the grove. She blinked her blue eyes against the brightness. At her feet lay the sign they had been praying for, the answer to counter the horror unleashed by thoughtless men.

A lightning bolt, carved deep into the rock beneath the ashes of the fire, gleamed through the emerald leaves of a fallen branch. She wondered at the brilliance of the unburned leaves. The goddess had spoken.

******

“Professor.” The early morning chill wrapped around Harry's bare arms.

Snape turned his head a fraction, acknowledging his former student's presence with that brief gesture.

“Last night… you were speaking in front of these people like you've done it scores of times. They cheered you like they expected the performance. I don't understand how you… blend here so well. It's… confusing.”

“Potter, you are the one who has only recently arrived. I have been here the whole time.”

Harry's face crumpled into an eloquent mask of confusion. “Whole time?”

“Yes, the whole time I've been absent. Surely your keen powers of observation did not fail to note that my delightful presence has been missing from your ranks for quite some time.”

“You gave a report to the Order just over a month ago. Bill was starting to panic slightly because you usually contact him more often. I assumed you were still out on assignment.”

If he had been less confused, Harry would have treasured the look of shock and dismay gracing the Potions master's face. “But… Pot… that's impossible.”

Harry could not repress a smirk at Snape's stuttering. No amount of confusion could mask the memory of the able-tongued Severus Snape unable to complete a sentence.

“I have been here – in this time – for three years, at least. I have lived in this place, with this tribe, nearly that entire time.”

“But that's impossible.”

“I believe I've already noted that.”

“If you've been here that long, why didn't you try to get back? Are we stuck here? Oh God, I have to get back.”

Before Harry's panic could escalate he felt a warm hand on his arm. “It seems we have some time, if not quite a bit to think about it, if, as you say, I have only been missing for such a short time.”

“But why have you stayed here? Can't we get back?”

A shadow of some darker emotion passed through Snape's eyes. “I tried to get back. I was unable to find a way. I suppose I began to consider my time here as an opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?”

Snape's right hand moved unconsciously to his left arm. “Forgiveness.”

Redemption?

Harry paused for a moment before setting his hand lightly on Snape's shoulder. The two men stood silently for a few moments before Harry turned and walked back to the circle of houses.

******

Three years in first-century Scotland had changed Snape. There were the necessary details of functioning in a world far different from its modern counterpart, but the Wizarding world had never relied on new-fangled technology in the same way the Muggle world did. Wands took care of a great many problems, and although Snape kept his wand with him at all times, he found he quite liked the simple mundanity of everyday tasks done by hand.

Snape was greeted originally by mistrust, but it was almost a relief. For nearly two decades people had mistrusted him because of the tattoo he had chosen to brand himself with as a foolish young man. The mistrust of the Dabriadgh tribe stemmed only from the fact that he was a stranger and bore the dark hair more common among the Romans than the Caledonians. This kind of mistrust was relatively easily overcome compared to that which he faced daily in his own time. Quiet consistency in his daily life, helping those in need with no expectations of reciprocation, and a mesmerizing speaking voice had won over the people among whom he had chosen to settle.

At first he was frantic. With the death of Albus Dumbledore, the war efforts continued in a much more haphazard way. His information and role as a spy had become more crucial if not more distasteful. Snape was tied by the skull-and-serpent on his arm to the side of the Light, sworn to a life-long labour for redemption.

Snape found himself easing into a new life as time passed. He thought that, perhaps, the Fates were finally smiling on him. Surely, if he were truly needed in his old life a way to return would present itself. Instead he busied himself harvesting plants and preparing healing salves and semi-magical brews for the locals. Life was quiet, life was peaceful. Perhaps Snape had earned a peaceful existence and self-forgiveness.

Six weeks ago when Devorah stumbled from the woods, dark circles underneath her eyes, smiling beatifically, Snape had felt his world turn upside down. She – the woman with whom he had swapped stories of herbal lore and learned the ways of the Druids and Bards – was bearing a stone, its surface etched deeply with a lightning bolt. There was one coming, she declared, who wielded lightning and would at last rid the land of the anatia maruosi .

Again and again Severus tried to imagine a great god coming with lightning to avenge the tribe against the anatia maruosi , to erase the stupidity of the men who believed the answers to all things rested in their hands. Yet every time his mind attempted to conjure this image, all he saw reflected was a boy – young man? – with tired emerald eyes and a face expressing intense concentration and reckless bravery. Snape, it seemed, was destined to be tormented at all times and in all places by one Harry Potter.

Attempting to ignore the evidence in front of him, Snape went about his daily routines. He prepared healing balms, stirred soothing liquids, surreptitiously used wanded magic in a time when none existed, and did not consider the chaos that might soon enter his world.

And now it was here. He wasn't sure what to think or feel or do. Snape did not enjoy the feeling. He was not a person who was easily unsettled; he always had a plan, a goal in mind, a firm grip on his self-control. But here in this place, this time, he had none of his usual armour. He was not a Death Eater of nebulous alliance. He was not the feared Potions master. He was not a Slytherin. He was not a servant to two masters. He was himself – Severus Snape, released from all previous ties, ties that had bound and defined him for nearly a lifetime.

But Harry Potter brought with him tangible reminders of Snape's past. Harry himself retained all those things that defined him. He was the nemesis of Voldemort, a hero-in-training, a Gryffindor full of reckless, thoughtless bravery. Harry brought with him a lean physique, moulded by three years of intensive training, a face losing the softer edges of adolescence. Harry brought with him confusion. Harry brought with him promise. Promise of safety in the here and now and promise of safety in his – their – future world.

******

Once it became apparent that Harry's health was no longer in any danger, Devorah began giving him a number of chores to fill his days. Harry liked his hostess, who used few words, but was gentle and kind. She had an aura of age and wisdom about her and radiated a zest for life that Harry had encountered in few others.

Hauling water and weeding the gardens were easy tasks, and chopping wood took only a few tries before mastery. Sheep, however, were another matter entirely. Devorah watched with raised eyebrows as Harry unsuccessfully tried to corral her small herd into their pen for the evening. Chasing sheep into the village, the sun had disappeared before Harry finished the task. Devorah grinned lightly at him as he came in, and handed him a bowl of thick stew. Harry was not asked to corral the sheep again.

Weaving was another task at which Harry proved mostly incompetent. Harry's attempts to coordinate his hands and mimic Devorah's smooth movements left the older woman bent double with laughter. When she relieved him of the task Harry suspected that she had only suggested the chore for her own amusement.

Visiting ill villagers, carrying bundles, and other sundry tasks around Devorah's house and garden made the days pass quickly. Sometimes they worked quietly, and sometimes Devorah told him about the people who lived in the village.

Harry learned that the large man whom he had seen his first night among the villagers was Gabhran, the war leader of the Dabriadgh. He was often away, lending his support to the Caledonian confederacy opposing the Romans. Many of the able men of the tribe were with him, leaving just a few men in each village scattered throughout the hills.

He met Beathag, Devorah's daughter, and her newborn daughter Ceitidh. She had other children as well, but as they always seemed to be tumbling about one another, Harry despaired of keeping them straight. Gowan the smith was obviously an important personage, for Devorah often pointed out travellers from other villages making their way to his ramshackle smithy.

Snape, it transpired, was called by the name of Oidhche here, which, as near as Harry could determine, meant “night.”

As long as he ignored the ache under his heart for his friends and those waging war for the Order, Harry was content in the day-to-day activities of this life, collapsing quickly into sleep each night from the unaccustomed physical activity.

******

Snape appeared nearly a week after Harry had last seen him. Harry's mind automatically replayed their last encounter, the early morning light softening the Potion master's features. Devorah greeted the man, and Harry could see that the two were comfortable companions.

After a conversation with Devorah, Snape made his way toward Harry. “Potter.”

Harry looked up.

“It occurred to me this morning that your presence here could be of some use. Gowan has been suffering from severe arthritis pains, and I have been endeavouring to treat him. There is a potion that is more efficacious than I have been able to give him thus far, but it is a charmed potion, more easily accomplished by two wizards. Bring your wand and come with me.”

“I don't have my wand.” Harry was startled to see that this was new information to Snape. He assumed the man would have discovered as much when Harry was unconscious.

“You have no wand.” The statement was toneless as Snape attempted to disguise his disbelief at the young man's stupidity.

“I did mention a blasting curse.”

“There are spells to secure a wand during battle.”

“It was a raid, not battle.”

“Still.”

“Leave my performance assessment for Robards, provided I don't miss my two-year review,” snapped Harry, ill at ease with the scathing censure in Snape's voice.

“You are certain it is gone? You have checked everywhere?”

“Snape,” Harry ground out from between his teeth, “I lost my wand, not my mind. Yes, I checked everywhere. I'm no more thrilled about the prospect of being in a foreign place with no wand than you seem to be.”

Snape looked at him disbelievingly for another minute before whirling around and storming back to the village. Harry didn't see the unmistakable fear in his eyes.

Harry sighed. As much as Snape seemed to have changed, his impatience with his former pupil appeared to have undergone little alteration.

******

Harry was concentrating on the swing-and-thud of the axe when a swell of noise reached his ears. Just before he could become curious, Devorah appeared at his elbow. If Harry hadn't known better he would have suspected his hostess of silent Apparition.

“They have come. We must go. Now.”

Harry turned to ask who “they” were, but one glance at Devorah's usually twinkling blue eyes, now widened in panic, convinced him to follow unresistingly.

With astonishing speed, Devorah dragged Harry into the widening throng of people pouring from the village. They were all headed to the hill rising out of the forest not far from the edge of the village.

The noise of reluctant sheep and panicked voices overwhelmed any questions Harry might have had. He had never been to the top of the hill.

As Devorah pulled a fatigued Harry past the tree line, Harry gasped and nearly fell to his knees. There was a powerful surge of magic that pulled on Harry's own. He took a breath of relief as the surge passed. Devorah looked at Harry wonderingly for a brief second before issuing the terse command, “Stay.”

The panic was palpable as people swirled around Harry. Devorah melted into the crowd, and Harry immediately disobeyed orders. A young boy of about seven or eight was trying to herd a bunch of reluctant sheep higher up the hill. In the short time he had been in residence among these people Harry had had very limited luck with sheep, but there was no harm in trying.

There was a blur of lifting bundles and obstinate sheep, when suddenly a shriek sounded amongst the general commotion. Rushing toward the sound, Harry found his arm grabbed by a haggard Snape.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

Snape pointed without words.

A dense, grey cloud emerged from the woods. Formless at first, shapes like heads and cloaks appeared periodically from the mass. Gasps and murmurs of horror could not drown out the sounds of a mother's weeping.

A child of no more than three was crouched at the base of a tree, poking a stick at the ground, utterly oblivious to the fear in the air. Horrified, Harry watched as the grey cloud engulfed the little girl.

“It is an anatia maruosi , a soul-eater.” Snape's voice was thick with repressed fear and grief. “They are similar to Dementors.”

“What the hell are you doing here, then? Save her. Dammit!” Harry instinctively reached for his wand, cursing as his hand came up empty. With half a second's thought he reached around Snape, snatching the other man's wand from the pocket on the inside of his tunic.

Bellowing “Expecto Patronum” Harry ran toward the grey mass, his silver stag erupting from the foreign wand in his hand. The stag charged forward, slowing as it crossed the tree line where Harry had felt the surge of magic. Wand at the ready, Harry watched as the stag lowered his antlers, rushing the dense cloud.

The silver stag sparkled for a moment before the cloud roiled around it, enclosing the patronus inside its dark depths. Harry waited for it to emerge before shouting out the incantation again. He fell to his knees, drained by the power he'd used casting the spell back-to-back.

The second stag was swallowed by the anatia maruosi as it came roiling towards Harry. Fatigue making him clumsy, Harry tried to scramble to his feet, moving backwards. His knee caught on a rock, bruising his leg and Harry stared in disbelief. The cloud came toward the tree line, and it immediately flattened. Moving furiously upward, the cloud looked like it was following the edge of an invisible dome. Harry watched as it stretched overhead, dimming the sunlight for an inestimable time.

The crowd was now silent. Harry felt a hand under his elbow and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. Devorah stood, hand stilled on his arm, as she stared at him. Harry felt a pain in his chest at the blatant awe apparent on her face.

Before she could say anything to him, Harry was roughly grabbed by the shoulders and steered away from the gaping crowd.

“Potter, you idiot!” Snape growled, digging his fingers into Harry's shoulder.

“I had to do something. I couldn't just stand there and watch that…. thing kill that child.”

“And so you recklessly storm off into an unknown danger and expose your wanded magic to an unsuspecting people. Do you even know what they want from you?”

Harry wrenched his shoulder from Snape's grasp and whirled to face his former professor. “What do you mean, what they want from me?”

Harry had never seen Snape look as though he regretted his words before. Snape paused, clearly seeking the right words. Harry refused to relent, levelling a glare at the man from whom he had learned it.

“I… ah…”

When nothing more was forthcoming, Harry tried the direct route. “What was that thing?”

At the appearance of a seemingly inane question, Snape regained some of his composure. “I told you Potter, an anatia maruosi ,” he drawled, a slight sneer audible in his voice.

Harry waited, his impatience clear.

Snape sighed. “I'm not entirely sure. There aren't any texts I can consult, and clearly no one has been able to get close enough to study the anatia maruosi . All I can tell you is what I have observed.”

Harry gestured for Snape to continue. Looking around at the relative solitude, Snape leaned against a convenient rock. It startled Harry to see the man in such a casual pose.

“Last autumn – around Samhuinn – the Romans launched a particularly aggressive campaign against the northern tribes. Most of Britain had already been subdued by the Roman Empire. Defeat seemed imminent and, in a rare spirit of cooperation, several of the tribes gathered together to face the invaders. Perhaps you have heard of the Battle of Mons Graupius?”

Harry shook his head. “I don't think Binns covered any Muggle battles.”

“Hmmmmmm. Suffice to say the Romans advanced on our hilltop fort at Mons Graupius, after having secured the autumn harvest behind their lines. The people here have banded with the Caledonians, under the leadership of Calgacus, who comes from a tribe northwest of here. The Romans took the day, but Calgacus managed to steer all the remaining Celts into the relative safety of the woods, pitching raids and skirmishes under the cover of darkness and nature. When Calgacus realized the futility of his position, a Druid named Dabhaidh advised him to turn to Earth Magic. Devorah and I were tending to a patient one evening when she suddenly raced out of the village into the woods. Three days later she returned in an almost unresponsive state.

“It took her daughter nearly a week to revive her. It was at least that long before I discovered what had happened. A reckless confidence in directing elemental magical forces combined with one of the most powerful magical solstices in the year. In their arrogance, Dabhaidh and his acolytes unleashed a force to decimate the Roman army.

“Unfortunately they unleashed the anatia maruosi , a force uncontrollable by man.”

“How do you know they are like Dementors?” Harry inquired.

“I have examined the bodies.” Harry was beginning to recognize that impatience in Snape's tone often indicated his discomfort with his words or a situation. “You did not see it today, because the child was so young, but the anatia maruosi can surround a victim for hours at a time. I have theorized that it is actually feeding off the victim's emotions, all their emotions. As the cloud surrounds the victim, you can actually see it growing larger and darkening.”

“Dementors don't surround their victims,” Harry pointed out.

“The similarities exist in the sustenance of the creature.” Snape drawled, his professorial voice coming to the fore. “Unlike Dementors, who thrive off negative emotions, the anatia maruosi seem to have no preference. They absorb all a person's emotions. A Dementor's Kiss leaves its victims an empty shell; the anatia maruosi have no kiss as their final weapon. Their feeding requires all emotions, so when they are sated there is nothing left.”

Harry shuddered at the memory of the Dementors swarming around him near the lake during his third year. He had seen several Dementor executions during Auror training, but always in a controlled situation with a barrier between himself and the creature.

“I still don't understand what this has to do with me.”

“I'm not sure if you know that Devorah is a Druidess. She is a vidlua , a Seer, and much revered in some circles. When it became clear that the anatia maruosi were rampaging uncontrollably through the land, Devorah convened her coven. They appealed to the goddesses on Oimelc, the festival of Brighde. I am quite certain you do not want to know about the ritual.

“They received a sign, announcing a redeemer coming to avenge the damage wrought by Dabhaidh and his foolish followers. The sign was a lightning bolt. Your coming was foretold. You, Potter, are come to be the saviour of their world.” Snape's tone was sarcastic.

It only took a single look at Harry's face for Snape to understand how badly he had misjudged that last line. The young man's face was pale, fury and panic showing in the tight lines around his mouth. Without a word, Harry spun on his heels and ran, heading toward the woods, heedless of danger.

******

Harry tore through the underbrush, panic and rage swelling his throat. Each breath hurt as it gasped through his lungs. Still he did not stop.

No matter how quickly he ran, he could not outrun his thoughts. Foretold… your coming was foretold… foretold… foretold… The word echoed inside his head.

His chest bursting, Harry finally collapsed. “No!” he gasped, his ragged breathing choked by pure anger.

Harry had no idea how long he lay there. Distantly he felt his muscles grow stiff and his body grow cold as the sweat dried. Still he lay, head in his hands, thoughts inescapable.

Life had been so busy the past four years that he had not had time to think of Voldemort and the prophecy. Oh, yes, every moment of every day – every decision about career, friends, training, lovers, education, and even recreation – had been driven by the war and the expectations of the prophecy. But he hadn't had to think about the prophecy itself.

Or rather, he had forced himself not to think about the prophecy. The horrible, frightening, life-changing prophecy that declared 'neither can live while the other survives'. The prophecy that meant he had no choice, no option, no freedom. The prophecy that lay like a chain around his shoulders, unmentioned, unseen, but weighing down upon every thought and action.

The panic swirled higher in Harry's chest. Now he was trapped in the past, 1900 years before Voldemort unleashed his fury on the Wizarding world. 1900 years before Harry was born, before Harry was expected to save that world. The weight of his responsibilities grew even heavier as he was forced to think about what would happen if he was unable to return, if he was forever stranded in ancient Scotland with a bizarrely complacent Snape.

And here… here was yet another prophecy. It seemed, as Snape had once observed, that he was doomed to be dogged by fate in any time or place he might venture. The unfairness of it all caused a sob to escape Harry's throat, though whether it was born of self-pity or frustration he was too tired to tell.

And he was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of playing the hero. Tired, most of all, of the expectations.

His thoughts spiralled slower and slower as he succumbed to the cold in his muscles and the cold of the forest ground beneath his body. Just as he was prepared to relinquish anguished thought for restless dreams, Harry felt a hand at the base of his neck.

The urge to panic was submerged in fatigue and recognition of the familiarity of that hand. Snape. How was Snape's hand familiar to Harry? Blinking, Harry lifted his head to see his former professor crouching just above him, something akin to concern in his eyes.

Slowly Harry sat up. Wordlessly Snape extended a wooden pot containing a greasy white substance smelling of witch hazel and peppermint. Harry simply looked at Snape, his eyes blank.

Snape dipped his long fingers into the lotion and began smoothing it down Harry's arms and between his fingers. When he'd finished the hands, Snape massaged the healing ointment into Harry's calves, wincing when he spotted the cuts decorating the younger man's feet and legs. Harry was surprised to note that he had somehow ripped off the toenail of his left big toe. Now that he observed it, the wound began to sting.

When Severus was finished he turned so that he and Harry were both sitting against the trunk of the large rowan tree behind them. He waited. Only rustling leaves and stray birdsong broke the silence. Harry felt himself begin to calm.

“You chose this.”

Snape turned his head to look at Harry.

“You chose this,” Harry repeated. “It doesn't matter that you regret it, that you were young and foolish. You chose this war. I…”

Snape waited for Harry to continue.

“I don't think I can do this. I am not strong enough to defeat Voldemort. I cannot be wise in war. Every decision we make, every life that is lost, I feel it. I cannot stay here; I do not belong here. I cannot stay and come to know the people here. I cannot lose any more of myself.”

Snape seemed to understand.

“You can. To each is given only what he can handle. Not what he deserves, but what he is able to do. You do not deserve this, Harry – many do not deserve their fates – but you can do it.”

Harry was silent. Finally he said, “I don't want it.”

“I know.”

“I don't like it.”

“I know.”

The two men sat as the shadows grew longer, the heat from the touching of their thighs the only distraction.

******

After a sleepless night, Harry was glad for the mindless physicality of hauling water and stacking firewood. He was unsurprised when Snape appeared early the next morning.

“Come with me.” Snape, it appeared, was incapable of requests.

Harry nodded mutely and followed Snape into the forest. The early morning sun dappled the path, but the way was dim. They walked in silence; the only sounds those of birdsong over the rushing water.

Walking a few steps behind Snape, Harry was mildly amused to see that he walked as if he was still swirling his voluminous robes. His stride contrasted wildly with the basket slung over his arm. With difficulty, Harry repressed a giggle as the image of Little Red Riding Hood popped unbidden into his brain.

“We are replenishing my supplies.” Snape spoke suddenly in a tone that suggested he was aware of Harry's private amusement. “Would it be too much to assume you know what stinging nettle and comfrey look like?”

“I know the nettle. I've fallen into it enough times practicing behind Hogwarts' greenhouses.”

“Comfrey, or knitbone, has clusters of dull purple flowers and grows about knee-high. I shall want the roots for my brews as well, so be sure to collect the whole plant. I'm sure you can guess the challenges in harvesting stinging nettle, but it is essential that the leaves be unbruised for maximum potency. Please do be careful.”

Snape's tone made Harry uncertain whether he was being cautioned to take care for himself or the plant. Harry stared at the professor a moment more, pondering Snape's recent, subdued behaviour. The older man turned from Harry's gaze, leaving the path to reach a bush in the nearby clearing.

Harry applied himself to his task, mind caught up in the whirl of recent events. Since his utterly bizarre appearance in first-century Scotland, Snape had been, on the whole, less vitriolic than expected. He was weirdly comfortable among these people, and for the first time Harry wondered how the weight of his teenage choices marked him in his own and others' minds. Harry's own lightning-bolt scar caused enough attention, and Harry had had no choice in the matter.

Just the day before, Harry had told Snape that his choice to take the Mark and participate in the war made them different. But now he was uncertain about that. Snape had made a choice, but had he already atoned for it? Had his decades of service as a spy and his constant living with the stigma of the Dark Mark already paid for his actions as Voldemort's minion?

Harry had no answer to these questions, but the sight of his once-feared Potions master relaxed and respected in this community made Harry long to be able to give Snape something similar in their own time. Inured though he was to the sight of suffering and sacrifice, if there was a way he could relieve either, Harry still couldn't stifle his impulse to do so.

Before a sarcastic remark from Snape could remind him of his task, Harry turned his attention back to the plants growing wildly between the trees. The peace in the woods soaked into his bones as he concentrated on locating and collecting the plants that went into the healing draughts Snape now brewed.

When the sun was high overhead, Snape signalled that it was time to return. Harry felt a small glow of pleasure in his chest when Snape accepted his findings with no derogatory comments and placed them in the basket beside his own.

The two men were silent as they made their way back to the village.

******

As Harry entered the house, he encountered Devorah, standing before him, the same awed expression on her face that he had seen earlier.

“Arailt, it is your coming that we have been waiting for. I give thanks to the goddess for your presence here.” Devorah bowed her head and offered him the bundle in her arms.

Taking it from her, Harry felt the weight of the elaborate golden torc laid on top of the white tunic.

“Please, wear these marks of honour. Your coming is as the cooling breeze after summer's heat or the joy of harvest fully laid by.” Devorah touched her hand to her forehead and then her lips, and bent her head once more. She slipped out of the doorway, giving him privacy to change.

With a pang, Harry examined the clothes and the torc. His morning with Snape had left him with a peaceful feeling, and he scrabbled to hold on to that feeling in the face of Devorah's reverence. He already missed the twinkling woman with curt orders who had nursed him and set him to work about her tiny home.

With a sigh, Harry dropped to the pallet on which he had been sleeping. Head in his hands, he pondered the moment of choice. He could put on these clothes and become the hero Devorah and the others obviously thought he was, or he could sit here, perhaps fade into the woods. Somehow , Harry thought, there never is a choice .

The rough homespun tunic hung to his thighs, the off-white colour standing out in the dim light of the hut. The torc was gold, elaborately wrought with two serpents wound about each other. The irony was not lost on Harry as he settled its weight around his neck.

Devorah reappeared, her eyes lighting on him with approval.

“You did not finish stacking the firewood this morning. We will need it if we hope to finish work and eat this evening.” The reverence had left Devorah's voice, lingering only in the corners of her expression.

Perhaps , Harry mused as he moved toward the woodpile, perhaps I can do this after all. It isn't like I haven't had the practice .

Harry shut down any thoughts of Voldemort, unable to entertain memories of the Dark Lord haunting the world he was now shut off from. He lifted the chopped wood and readied himself for an afternoon of work.

******

A pattern had been set that day. Each morning Snape appeared sometime before Harry had completed his labour, beckoning Harry into the woods. A plant or bark or moss was specified for collection, and few words passed between the two as they worked in the dappled sunlight. Harry felt a quiet peace he had never known in the company of another.

It was a surprise, therefore, when, eight mornings after the first, Snape did not appear. All through his mindless tasks Harry waited to see a head of dark hair coming from the direction of the village, but there was none. Finally Devorah appeared to notice his distraction and dismissed him with a nod.

“He lives on the other side of the village,” she said, “next to the path that curves to the stream.”

Harry did not pretend to misunderstand her. He took off in the direction indicated with a grateful smile.

As Harry approached the small dwelling, the smell of burning firewood mingled with the scent of willow bark stewing.

“You didn't come.” The question was obvious in Harry's voice as he caught sight of Snape stirring a large pot over an outdoor fire.

“My stores are fully stocked. Today I had greater need to brew.” Snape never faltered for a moment in his work.

Harry continued to watch him, unsure what to say or do.

“If you want to make yourself useful, I will need the nettle soon. You could prepare the stem.”

Harry nodded, grateful not to be dismissed, and moved toward the rock Snape had indicated with a brief wave. A knife and a pile of dried nettle were nearby, and Harry set to work with an efficiency garnered after several years of scathing commentary endured in Potions class. He did not stop to think that that same man was now accepting his assistance with little sarcasm and even fewer directions.

While Harry busied himself, he missed Snape's satisfied glance in his direction.

******

“Professor…”

Snape looked over at Harry, who was cleaning various roots in a tub of water. “Perhaps it is time you dispensed with the formality since I am no longer your professor. Indeed, I am no longer an instructor at all.”

“Of course…. Snape.” The older man rolled his eyes at Harry's pause and use of his surname.

“When I tried to drive back the…. Soul-eater?”

“ Anatia maruosi . ”

“Yeah, that. You berated me for revealing my wanded magic. Don't these people know we are wizards?”

“That is a complicated question. If Devorah will not miss you, let's sit for lunch and I will try to explain. Goodness only knows you have many gaps in your education.”

Harry ignored the familiar insult and the urge to comment that Snape himself had been an integral part of said education. Instead he followed Snape into his house, and sliced a thick loaf of bread while Snape reheated something over the fire.

Settling down with a plate of food, Snape nodded for Harry to join him.

Snape considered the young man sitting beside him. “There are no wizards as such here.”

Harry gaped at Snape. “But….” He knew his magical theory was shaky at best, but he distinctly recalled several lectures about magic being as old as the Earth, and wizards and Muggles existing as long as the human race.

“Yes, you will note that I said ‘as such.' The Druids here are magical, but they are not trained as wizards like we are. You have not had an opportunity to observe any Druidic ceremonies yet, but they access their magic without wands. In fact, there is no wanded magic in northern Europe at this date. There are no wands.”

“That's impossible. Ollivander has been making wands since 382 B.C.”

“It seems you do pay attention on occasion, Potter. Impressive. Ollivander's family did indeed begin crafting wands in 382, but remember that I said 'northern' Europe. Ollivander's family originates from Greece, near the Mediterranean. Most wizard historians surmise that wanded magic began both near the Mediterranean and in Japan.”

“But I still don't see why they don't have wands here. Wandless magic consumes so much power.”

“You are thinking of magic in more modern terms. We wield magic with great intentionality. We have incantations that were created to achieve a specific, limited result. We use wands to focus magic toward this desired result. That is why wandless magic is reputed to take great power; one has to not only have the raw power but also the concentration to focus that power.”

Harry nodded his head in understanding; all Aurors knew of the uses and limitations of wandless magic.

Snape continued, “The Druids, while magical like we are, do not use magic to the same ends. Because wandless magic is so difficult, they do not rely on magic for daily tasks as we are accustomed to doing. In fact the time period we are in predates many of the advances made to incantational magic.”

“How do they use their magic then?” Harry asked, intrigued by the notion of magic's evolution.

“Druids call on Earth Magic, which is much closer to the surface in this time. This is not practical for the everyday things we do. Earth Magic is invoked only when necessary. It is always used at the traditional ceremonies, and at times for protection and soothsaying. It was a form of Earth Magic that Devorah and her coven called upon to receive an answer about how to stop the anatia maruosi . Much like it was Earth Magic that called forth that particular force to begin with.”

“Do Druids do any kind of magic that I would recognize?” Harry inquired.

Snape was thoughtful for a moment. “They practice a branch of potions not unlike what you learned in my classes. I suppose one could imitate simple spells like Incendio , but a twenty-minute ritual for a bolt of lightning could be construed as a misuse of such power.”

“How did wizards even come to create wands, then, if they don't see a need for them here?”

“Think about where I told you historians believe the crafting of wands began.”

Snape watched as thoughts chased themselves across Harry's expressive face. He could see the moment the young man put together all the ideas.

“The Mediterranean! Water Magic must be more powerful there.”

“Indeed. Earth Magic is extremely strong in Britain and parts of Germany, but Water Magic is the stronger power in most southern coastal areas. You are clearly familiar with the capricious nature ascribed to Water Magic.”

Harry nodded idly, his thoughts still reviewing the conversation.

“I suppose that ancient Greek wizards were unable to channel the power of Water Magic in the same way that Druids here can access Earth Magic.” Harry paused. “Do you think I could access the Earth Magic here?”

Snape was startled. “I haven't tried, but I had the foresight to secure my wand even in unthreatening situations.” He blithely ignored the glare Harry sent in his direction. “Devorah might have some insight into that question. It will be difficult to ascertain anything for certain, for Druidic teachings are completely oral. They seldom share any of their traditions with those outside of the aspirants.”

Collecting the plates, Harry stood and walked to the tub he had been using to wash the roots. Without further conversation, he returned to work.

Once again, Snape was left staring at the boy, wondering what he was thinking in the silence. Snape knew that the time to share his own discovery about Harry's power was approaching, and he welcomed the silence in the mean time.

******

The sun had passed its zenith when Snape finally conceded defeat and set off to look for Harry. Although they had seen each other daily, the two had talked little since their conversation about wanded magic and not at all about the prophecy he had revealed nearly a fortnight before.

When he reached Devorah's hut, the old woman indicated that Harry had followed the path into the forest. Snape followed the young man's footsteps, thinking about the one he was seeking.

He was not entirely sure why he had sought the young man out after that day on the Hogge's hilltop. The fear that Harry had charged off into the woods while the anatia maruosi were still a threat had definitely reawakened some of the protective urges of his days as Harry's teacher. There was also that moment of looking into Harry's stricken face that had motivated Snape all the more.

Harry had seemed so broken in the woods, overcome by the expectations of two wildly different times. He had seemed less overwhelmed in Snape's presence, and so Snape continued to provide that. He excused himself; Harry would be no good to anyone in a state of panic. In the intervening two weeks, however, Harry had seemed to reach some peace about the matter of the second prophecy, although they didn't speak about it. There was no reason to believe that the young man was in distress right now.

Snape's musings were interrupted as he came upon a clearing in the woods. Snape paused at the edge of the clearing looking at Harry. The young man was sitting completely still, legs folded up underneath him, dark head bowed.

Annoyingly limber , mused Snape. Before he could formulate an appropriately sarcastic greeting, Harry's head rose and verdant green eyes pierced him.

“Se… Snape,” Harry's voice lacked the tension evident from the previous few days. “Have you felt the power here? It's… I can feel it rolling off the trees, the ground, even the rocks. I've never felt anything like it.”

Snape seated himself a short distance from Harry, allowing his body to relax into the faint waves of magic he sensed. “The Earth Magic is particularly strong in this circle. And perhaps you are more sensitive to it than some.” Snape refrained from mentioning the deep well of untouched magic he had felt when healing Harry.

“Why haven't I felt it before?” Harry persisted. “I've been in woods, even magical clearings. Not even in the Forbidden Forest was there a place like this.”

“I shall practice great restraint and not mention that, as the Forbidden Forest is forbidden, you should not have had any experiences there to begin with.”

“You know I trained there – with permission – seventh year. Git.”

Snape's eyebrow lifted at the familiarity the insult implied. “There are several possibilities, all of which may have some truth. When you previously spent time in such places, you may not have been at ease and able to focus on the pull of the magical energy. Tracking an enemy through the woods is hardly the same as meditating in a clearing.”

“True,” Harry agreed.

“Also, as a student, you had not yet developed your full magical potential.” Snape continued. “Awareness of Elemental Magics requires a sophistication and sensitivity unrelated to the strength of one's magical reserve, but instead the amount of time spent using it. There are some things, Mr. Potter, one cannot rush.”

Harry nodded contemplatively. “Is that it, then? I'm simply growing up?” Harry snickered at his own attempt at humour.

“And holding still as well. Will wonders never cease?”

“That still doesn't seem to explain the sheer magnitude of the magical flow here. I'm sure that I would have felt something before.”

Snape considered the young man in front of him. “I believe…” he began slowly, doubting the wisdom of engaging in a conversation on magical theory with a less-than-promising former student. “In many ways it appears that magic has evolved with wizards, or perhaps it is just our ability to wield it. You recall that in our discussion of wanded magic I mentioned that wizards in northern Europe have not yet learned to harness magic in the same way we will in the future?”

Harry gestured for Snape to continue.

“As your experience with the patronus showed, and my own, more discrete experiments, wanded magic is still possible here, but it is not practiced yet. I believe that as wizards became more reliant upon wanded magic, Earth Magic began to… fade, for lack of a better word.”

“You mean disappear?” Harry looked appalled at the notion that magic could be fading.

“Not exactly. It seems to reside closer to the surface of the earth in this time than in ours. I suppose it would be more accurate to say that Earth Magic retreated farther below the surface, rather than faded.”

“That makes sense,” Harry said. “Being in this place makes me feel as though it would be possible for me to tap into the Earth Magic, without the rituals and calling on the gods, that is.”

“You have not talked to Devorah yet,” Snape inferred.

Harry grimaced. “It isn't so much that I haven't talked to her as that she hasn't answered. We've made oblique reference to my display of wanded magic –” here Harry held up his hand to forestall comments on his foolishness – “but you are correct that Druids are wary of sharing their traditions with others. I'd go as far as to say she is incapable of telling me what she knows. The conversation is often redirected in the most bizarre ways.”

Snape was thoughtful. “Similar to a Confundus charm, perhaps? I know that there is an oath taken by first year novitiates. Perhaps it compels silence as well as binds them to their tradition.”

Harry shrugged. “Whatever the reason, it does not help me figure out what to do without a wand.”

“Perhaps we shall both have to contemplate the solution.” Snape's voice was conciliatory in a way that Harry had never heard before. He shot the older man a glance.

“Are you saying that you want to help?”

Snape's shrug was one-shouldered. “I live here. As much as I hoped that I could escape the confines of helping in the war against Voldemort, it seems I have once again landed on the side of Harry Potter, fulfiller of prophecies. Denial seems futile.” Despite the sarcasm in Snape's tone as he repeated Harry's full name, Harry heard a genuine desire to solve the puzzle plaguing the Dabriadgh people.

“Thank you.”

Snape nodded in reply and both men stood as one.

The sun was low on the horizon as they emerged from the woods, both lost in their own thoughts.

******

The following afternoon, when Harry returned from another utterly futile attempt to herd sheep, he found Snape and Devorah deep in conversation over a steaming pot. Snape leaned closer as Devorah pointed out something of interest on the stem held between them. Harry hung back a moment, appreciating the expression on Snape's face as he played the role of the student.

Although he approached quietly, Harry was unsurprised when both Devorah and Snape lifted their heads to look him.

“Ah, Arailt, how were the sheep today?”

Harry grinned. “Impossible, as usual.”

“And the village?”

Harry's expression faltered at Devorah's question. “Busy – as usual.” Harry tried to keep his tone light, but ever since his confrontation with the anatia maruosi the Dabriadghi had treated him with a disturbing reverence. Every time he ventured into the village unescorted he found himself with a band of followers like an early-day pied piper.

“They are hopeful, Arailt, merely hopeful.”

Harry nodded, unwilling to contemplate what it meant to yet again represent the hope of a nation.

“Mr. Potter,” interrupted Snape, his voice surprisingly gentle. “I was hoping to have a word with you.”

“Of course. Give me a few minutes.”

Snape redirected Devorah's attention to the now-boiling pot while Harry went inside to clean up. Cool water on his face refreshed him. Harry paused for a moment, looking at the ripples in the bucket, mind inexorably drawn back to the problem of anatia maruosi . Each day the question of what to do loomed larger, and the answers seemed farther away.

When Harry found his way back outside, Snape was waiting patiently, ramrod-straight in the clearing in front of the door. Harry could not repress a grin at the sight of the rigid Potions master, and he stepped silently to his side.

“This is a conversation that will take some time. Would you accompany me back to my house?”

At Harry's acquiescence, Snape handed him a tightly-wrapped bundle smelling strongly of herbs.

Snape was quiet while Harry helped him stock the herbs Devorah had sent along. As he moved the containers around on their shelf, Harry realized Snape was stalling.

“You wanted to speak to me about something?” Harry remembered the lingering feeling of hope from their conversation the previous day. He was not ready to give that up.

“Potter, when you were discovered here Devorah called me to help heal you. She had no idea that I knew you; she still doesn't know about our past.”

Harry waited; certain that Snape did not ask him here to speak about the need to conceal their modern identity from Devorah and the other villagers. Harry had been in residence over a month, so the warning would have been a bit late.

“You were badly injured. I had no choice but to resort to the few healing spells I know. Unfortunately I did not know how you received your injuries, so the process was not as efficient as it could have been.”

Harry did not know whether the man expected his thanks for the healing or was attempting an apology for some mistake Harry had not yet discovered. Silence, he decided, was the soul of discretion at the moment.

After a pause, Snape continued, “There is a spell. It is a borderline Dark spell, Epanamanteia , which scans the body for any magical or physical maladies. It is seldom used because if cast incorrectly it can magnify the injury three times instead of alerting one to its presence.”

Harry's eyes widened at this revelation.

“You were clearly fading; I had no choice and no other resources.”

“Professor, it's okay. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine now.”

Snape gestured impatiently. “I can see that, Potter. You would have died that day if I had made a mistake. And don't call me 'Professor'. You are not listening to me. Epanamanteia reveals magical maladies as well as physical injuries.”

“There's something wrong with my magic?” Harry's apprehension was nearly tangible.

“No, not strictly speaking. I did, however, discover something most unexpected. Most unusual indeed. One wonders why it has gone undetected all these years between your extensive visits to the infirmary and your Auror training. I can't imagine that Dumbledore didn't suspect something, although maybe he did not consider…”

“Snape! Stop! Tell me what you found. You're worrying me.”

“It seems that there is a block of some sort on your magic. You have a pool of accessible magic that has clearly been used for a number of years, but there is also a portion of magic in your body that has never been employed.”

“What do you mean, a block? How does someone block their magic?”

“There are potions that can block magic, and a few spells, although they are deeply illegal. Severe injury or a traumatic experience can also create a temporary block on a wizard's magic. Do any of those seem plausible to you?”

Harry just stared at Snape. “If I learned anything in your classes it was not to drink an unknown potion, and I doubt that I have been spelled without my knowledge. But injuries or traumas? I am not sure where to start.”

Snape cursed inwardly. It had been a rather foolish question to ask the young man. He had been so amazed when he discovered a depth of unused magic in his patient, but his thoughts had all centred on how such a thing had remained undetected rather than on how it had been created.

“I have been thinking about this for several days. I believe that if we can unblock your magic, we might be able to generate enough power to contend with the anatia maruosi . ”

“How do we unblock it? What happens then?”

“I have to admit that I am uncertain what exactly will occur when we unblock the magic, but there is a way to successfully free it for your use. Since a potion or spell is unlikely – they are easily detected – the block is probably due to an injury or trauma. I can read, for lack of a better word, the type of block. Once we understand what kind of block it is, we can begin to repair the damage.”

“Well, then, read the block. Let's work out what we are dealing with.” Snape snorted at Harry's Gryffindor approach – jump in without looking and solve the problem as quickly as possible.

“It's not quite that simple, Potter. To read the block I have to be in your mind, in a similar way to Legilimency.”

“You want to practice mind magic on me?” Harry's tone expressed his disbelief at the statement and his memories of fifth-year Occlumency lessons.

“It is the only way I know.” Snape did not meet Harry's eyes.

“I have to think about this. I just… I can't answer you right now.”

Snape nodded. “You should consider this carefully. If we manage to successfully unblock your magic, I have no idea what you will experience. You have spent nearly ten years training your magic; it is quite uncommon for wizards to change their power level after puberty.”

As he turned to go, Harry looked back over his shoulder. “Snape, thank you for healing me. I know that my presence here has…. disrupted the life you found.”

With that Harry was gone. Snape glanced around the four walls and wondered when they had begun to look less than adequate to him.

******

The sun had just finished rising when Harry appeared in Snape's doorway. There was no preamble.

“We have to do this. If there is anything I can do to help these people, I have to do it. If there is anything I can do to defeat Voldemort, I have to do it. I can't see any other choice.”

Snape appeared unsurprised both at Harry's presence and his announcement. The relief he felt at Harry's words did not show. “Would you like to start immediately?”

Harry nodded, obviously gathering all his courage about him.

“We should go into the woods. The clearing where you felt the Earth Magic – did that feel peaceful to you?”

“It did,” Harry confirmed.

The two headed wordlessly into the forest.

The clearing thrummed with power as Snape and Harry entered it. By unspoken agreement they settled in a patch of sunlight. They shared a brief smirk as the creaks in Snape's knees echoed those in Harry's.

“This can be a very… intimate experience,” said Snape. “More so, I imagine, due to our previous association.” There was a slight note of apology in his voice which Harry would have missed had he not been listening so intently.

“We did some work with mind magics in training last autumn,” Harry said. “While we did not practice any extensive shielding, I've had enough experience to detect the presence of a Legilimens.”

Snape's eyes showed his surprise. “I did not know Aurors had such training.”

“Been using your skills on Ministry officials, hmmmmm?” Harry chuckled.

“I have been a spy and suspected Death Eater for over twenty years,” said Snape stiffly.

“Severus,” the man looked up sharply at his first name, “I know . You have done your job admirably, especially considering the difficult choices you had to make. And yes, Aurors have experience with a variety of mind magics, although not all reach sufficient levels of practice to feel a gifted Legilimens.

Snape relaxed slightly at the implied compliment. “What we will be doing today is commonly known as Incedamency, or mind-walking.”

“Incedamency? I've never heard of it.”

“That isn't surprising. It is usually only practiced between two accomplished Legilimens. It requires a great deal of mental control and trust.” Snape's unasked question hung in the air between them.

“What do I need to do?” Harry asked finally.

“It is easier if we maintain contact throughout,” Snape began. He indicated his crossed legs. “If you put your hands on my knees, we can keep the link.”

Harry did as Snape asked, sitting cross-legged, knees and hands touching the older man.

“I'm not entirely sure what to prepare you for. I am going to enter your mind, but I have no idea what I will find. My earlier practices with Incedamency were for a different purpose entirely and always with a trained Legilimens.”

“Will it not work because I didn't master Legilimency?”

“No, for once that is an asset. A Legilimens would be able to direct my search, and would in fact do so instinctively. Because neither of us know the origins of the block on your magic, it is better that you are not inclined to guide my paths.”

Harry settled back, hands pressing a little more firmly against Snape's bony knees. “All right, you can begin.”

“Pot… Harry, remember this is just an exploration. I will do my best not to cause you any pain, but I cannot be sure what memories and emotions will surface. I am not going to try to repair any damage. We will talk about it together before we take that step.”

A nod showed Harry's understanding. “Close your eyes, then, and relax. Focus your thoughts on the feeling of the Earth Magic. Try to keep your mind still even when you sense my presence.”

Snape's hands settled on top of Harry's as the older man closed his eyes. Focusing on the feel of Earth Magic surrounding him, Harry tried not to flinch as the cool brush of another's thoughts entered his own.

Immediately a jumble of thoughts and emotions assaulted Snape. Startlingly, the strongest presence was Harry's awareness of the Earth Magic surrounding the men, a sense much stronger than Severus' own. Snape recognised the moment when Harry felt his intrusion and he attempted to make his own thoughts as soothing as possible. Gathering himself, he projected his thoughts as the smallest pinpoint, preparing to manoeuvre wherever he needed to go.

The experience of being in another's mind was never entirely pleasant. There was a sense of intimacy and invasion no matter how welcoming the other person attempted to be. In Harry's mind, Snape felt as if he was dashing through a minefield. He flashed past memories he still recognized from their Occlumency training years ago. The spectre of his former self loomed large for a moment, hair exceedingly lank, and nose exaggerated almost beyond recognition. There was no purpose in examining the Hogwarts memories they shared, Snape knew, because they would be neither flattering nor restful for either man.

While the Epanamanteia spell did not give any diagnostic information, Snape's limited ability indicated that the block he was seeking for was old. While no doubt Harry had experienced traumatic events in Hogwarts, the block predated these. Snape moved toward Harry's memories of his life with his Muggle relatives.

There was startling resistance to his presence as he advanced towards Harry's childhood. The part of Snape that was not actively concentrating on containing his presence in the young man's mind marvelled at Harry's natural strength for mind magic. Snape had certainly not seen evidence of this when the boy was his student, but perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had not been looking. Shrinking his projected thoughts even further, Snape pressed on relentlessly, recognizing that Harry's reluctance to allow him access to the memories was a sign that he was on the right track.

A feeling of loneliness and confusion overwhelmed him. Like flickering images on a train window, Snape saw a large fat man, identified briefly by his rational mind as Vernon Dursley; a thin, horsy woman who could only be Petunia Dursley, and a blond lump that was, presumably, their offspring. There was no indication of a severe trauma, although there was certainly something akin to neglect in this particular corridor of thought.

Snape slowed his progress, wondering if this was the time to examine memories in more depth. Before he could select a particular door of thought to open, Snape felt a pulse of energy, darker and more sinister than anything previously encountered in this mind. He allowed himself to be drawn towards it.

A flash of memory, a blinding green light, sprung up around him, and Snape recognized the unforgettable presence of Voldemort. He felt Harry's mind shudder, as if attempting to shake him out. Snape pushed forward a moment before being violently flung from Harry's mind.

When he returned to his own mind, tired and shaking, the first thing he felt was the warmth of Harry's hand underneath his own. He opened his eyes, slowly taking in the tearstained face of the young man in front of him.

“Harry?” he questioned softly.

“I could feel you. I could feel him, the night he killed my parents. Voldemort is in my mind.” The horror was clear on Harry's face. He impatiently wiped the tears from his cheeks before tangling his hands in his hair and tugging.

“Harry, stop. You can't pull him out. Stop!” Snape reached out and grasped the young man's hands, slowly bringing them down to the space between them. Harry's panic and disgust was palpable.

When Harry's shudders had stopped, Snape offered him the goatskin of cool water he had brought. After they had both taken a few sips, Snape turned his gaze back to his former student.

“Let me tell you what I found, Harry.”

“I know what you found! Voldemort. In my head. I'm infected by the evil bastard. Oh, my God, what does this mean?”

Snape hoped he could get Harry to listen long enough to prevent any damage. “You couldn't see what I was seeing; you only felt the images I disturbed. Their strength was magnified by the nature of the Incedamency. For another mind to view the images, they have to be projected at several times their natural strength. A Pensieve can allow another party to view memories just as the individual experienced them, but mind magic magnifies the memories to prevent editorialising by the sharing mind. You do NOT have Voldemort in your mind, at least not now, not permanently.”

“Then what was that? I recognize the feel of his magic.” Harry tried not to whimper.

“Yes, you did. That, I believe, was the block. It originates from Voldemort's magic, which was why we both felt his presence. I discovered the block after I travelled through your childhood memories.”

“Yes, I felt that part. I… tried not to resist.”

Snape decided the discussion about why Harry felt the need to resist the viewing of those particular memories was definitely not pertinent, although it merited exploration at another time. “Your earliest memory is of green light.”

“Avada Kedavra….” Harry's voice trailed off.

Snape's indrawn breath was audible. “The Avada Kedavra that separated Voldemort from his body and gave you your scar… that is the origin of the block on your magic.”

“You mean I have had this magic my whole life and never known it? Why didn't anyone examine it when I was an infant? I don't understand.” Harry was overwhelmed and confused.

“You must understand, Mr. Potter, that the world was in great chaos in the hours following Voldemort's disappearance. I'm sure that you were examined, although no one would know to look for this exactly. It is rare for a wizard's magic to manifest in an infant, so it is not frequently examined. Please don't forget that most mediwizards are not accustomed to treating those affected by this particular Unforgivable.”

Harry was still too distressed to appreciate Snape's humour. “You called me Harry before.”

Snape was startled. “Forgive me. The experience of being in someone's mind generates a lingering feeling of intimacy.”

“No, I liked it. I never hear my name here; it makes me feel very alone.”

“Very well, Pot… Harry. You may call me Severus.” Snape tried to inject a bit of cordiality into his voice but suspected that he was unsuccessful. “Harry, when you have recovered a bit, you will see that this is good news. We know where the block comes from. We will be able to investigate this and perhaps remove the block. This is magic that you have had from birth; it is a part of you that has been locked away for more than two decades.”

“You are sure that it is not a piece of Voldemort?” Harry clearly had not recovered from the shock of feeling Voldemort's cold presence pervade his mind.

“The experience of Incedamency is very invasive for the passive recipient. Let's leave this for another day. Rest assured that while the block was created from Voldemort's magic, it is not Voldemort's presence in your mind. Think. We are in a time nearly two millennia before Voldemort's birth. He is not here.”

Snape intended to show Harry the tattoo on his arm – which had been blessedly inactive since his arrival in the year 80 – when he realized that he was still gripping Harry's hands. With a bit of a shock he dropped Harry's hands and stood up, belatedly offering the other man assistance to rise also.

He guided Harry back onto the path. “Come back to my house. You can help me prepare a restoring draught for Ceitidh. Keeping your hands busy will allow your mind to settle.”

Beyond the necessary questions, Harry was quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, and Snape began to hope that the path they had embarked upon in the clearing was a wise one. There was no other choice, however, that he could see. The anatia maruosi continued to beset the Dabriadgh and the Romans alike, and he was beginning to fear that they were threatening the very history of the island into which he had been born.

******

Two days later found the men in the clearing at sunset. The vibrant red sun sent purple shadows across the grass, and there was no warmth in the earth. A determined Harry was folded up, back to a rock, and Severus regarded him with hooded lids.

“Tonight will be slightly different. Now that I know where the block exists, I am going to probe its edges. The initial experience will not be as personally invasive as seeking out the block was; I have no need to sort through your memories.” Severus hoped his relief was not obvious; Harry's mind was chaotic and much darker than one should expect in a 20-year-old. He knew that he himself featured in some of the darker moments and was not ready to see that reflected in his own memories.

“What will we do after we have assessed the block?” Severus noted that Harry's use of the word “we” was unconscious.

“I cannot say with any precision. The nature of the block is still largely unknown, as is the extent of it. We have no idea what lies behind it, other than a quantity of your magic.”

“Do you think it is… dangerous?” Harry's fear was obvious.

Who has done this to the boy, made him fear his own self, his own abilities? What does he believe about himself to create such doubt? wondered Severus.

Aloud he merely said, “It is your own magic; there will be no danger except perhaps to yourself. And even then I would not worry. You have shown a remarkable aptitude for self-preservation in the past.”

Harry's expression shuttered. Fewmets! thought Severus, that was evidently the wrong thing to bring attention to .

“Harry, relax. Let's begin before we lose the light entirely.” With his hands carefully on Harry's knees, he guided the other man to line their bodies up, creating direct eye contact. “Focus on the Earth Magic again. Keep your thoughts as far away from me as possible. You will feel me in your mind again, but do your utmost to relax. Last time I entered this part of your mind, I could feel the tension.”

Harry closed his eyes, relaxing his hands under Severus' grip. Severus took this as a sign that Harry was prepared for the journey.

Entering Harry's mind was easier than before. Severus felt a flash of recognition and perhaps of welcome from the other's thoughts, and his presence seemed less foreign. He took a moment to gather himself and focus his mental energies into an efficient pinpoint before moving rapidly in the direction he had found the block previously.

As if it sensed an invader with malicious intent, the block pulsed with power. It emanated the same dark, slimy feel of Voldemort's magic, and Severus' pinpoint of energy slipped around the edges. He dove in again and again, seeking weaknesses or the boundaries of the block but was repelled each time.

The struggle between Severus' relentless attacks and Harry's need to expel the foreign presence from his mind tired them both. Severus' awareness of the cold ground beneath him grew as he found himself driven once again back into his own mind. Harry's eyes were wide with despair when he looked up.

“It is very strong, isn't it?” asked Harry.

“Strong, perhaps, is the wrong word. The block is very thorough; I found no edges or gaps. But that does not equal strength. It is very difficult to stay in your mind when I am near the block.”

“I'm not trying to fight you.”

“I know. The block is behind your earliest memories. The farther back in your mind I travel, the more challenging it is to maintain focus of my own identity. It is the same for any Incedamens; the farther from conscious thought one travels the more difficult it is to sustain a connection.”

Harry was relieved that for once something was not resting on his failure. Still the lack of results was frustrating.

“What will we do if we can't break the block?”

“We've just begun,” said Severus, sounding determined, “I have thrown out dozens of versions of a potion before I've achieved results. This was only our first attempt.”

“Do you think Dumbledore knew about my magic?”

Severus was surprised at the abrupt change in subject. “I have no idea. I was always appalled by what that man knew, but what he didn't know often seemed more damaging.”

“I have to work so hard some days not to hate him now that he is gone. There was so much he kept hidden – so much that we needed to know. It is hard to see the good, the ends achieved, when I am constantly facing the consequences of knowledge that went unshared.”

Severus nodded, remembering his own battles with feelings of betrayal nursed in his chambers after Death Eater meetings. “Some day this war will be over, and perhaps then we will have some answers.”

“Perhaps.” Harry paused, not wanting to point out that Severus referred to the war with Voldemort in the present tense for the first time in a very long while. “It is getting cold, and Devorah will be waiting for me.”

Despite the lack of success, the evening did not feel like a complete failure to either man.

******

“You should only pick the leaves that are still curled,” Devorah instructed. “How is it that one with so much power does not know such a thing?”

Harry chuckled. “I don't remember this being part of my training.” He continued rooting through the bushes looking for the tender herb Devorah needed.

“You have had a very strange training, Arailt.”

“Indeed.” Harry's eyes shadowed briefly at the memory of contests with Voldemort throughout his various years at school.

They had been working relentlessly for close to an hour, when Harry paused to stretch the kinks out of his back and lounge against a rock. He observed Devorah working, intrigued to note that she often sought the plants with closed eyes.

“Are you smelling the plants?” Harry himself couldn't detect any obvious odours, but Snape – no, Severus now – had always derided his nose in Potions class.

“Don't you know the magical signature of the fern? I would have shown you before. It is a pale yellow-green, quite distinctive at this time of year.”

“I have no idea what you are taking about.” Harry shook his head to indicate confusion.

“When you see the magic. The fern gives off a very clear magical signature.”

“I don't see magic.” Harry thought it wise not to mention the sickly green light of the Avada Kedavra or residue from other wanded spells; this was clearly not what Devorah was referring to.

Devorah was aghast. Harry tried to appear unconcerned even though he had no idea what she was seeing.

“But how do you choose places for your rituals? How do you weave magic? How do you control the flow of your power?” sputtered Devorah.

Having done none of those things, Harry scrambled for a reply. “I wield my power differently than you. Rest assured I am a master of my craft.” Harry wished Severus were around to witness the sage tone in which he issued this lie. No one was impressed with a good lie like Severus Snape.

Devorah looked unconvinced.

“Perhaps it is a skill you could teach me,” Harry continued in a conciliatory tone. He knew that he was pushing the boundaries of whatever charm or vow maintained her silence.

Devorah was too wily to fall for the flattery in Harry's request to be taught. “It is a skill our youngest acolytes know. Many learn even before they come to us as aspirants. Perhaps you are too old to learn.” Harry understood her gibe to be a response to his guileless attempts at flattery and said nothing.

“Can you feel the power but not see it?” Devorah inquired.

“I can feel the great power in places like the clearing by the stream.”

“Ah, the glen. But you are not trying to feel the magic of the Earth. It is not bound by powerful circles.” Devorah took his hands and placed them on the trunk of a nearby oak.

Harry stood, hands on the rough bark, feeling foolish.

Devorah must have read the expression on his face because she said, “Arailt, you are thinking too much of yourself. You must turn your thoughts away from your own inner voice, listen to the wisdom of the oak.”

If this didn't feel like my only opportunity to learn about forgotten magic … Harry thought before forcing his mind to be quiet. It seemed as if he was doing a lot of that recently.

Suddenly, after what felt like an eternity of silence, the bark thrummed under his hands. Waves of power pulsed through Harry's arms until he reeled away from the tree.

Harry's eyes flew open as he landed on his backside, the earth chilled in the early spring morning. The waves of magic grew wilder, spinning around and through him, causing his whole world to tilt crazily. Each pulse had a different flavour, deep and ancient, fresh and green, near and far, clean and slimy. Just before dizziness threatened to force his breakfast to make a reappearance, the pulses receded. Harry could feel the magic buzzing in the back of his head, but it no longer consumed him.

Harry focused on Devorah crouching next to him. Although she was chuckling, he could observe a shadow of concern in her eyes.

“You have never truly been open to the magic, have you? I never would have thought it possible.”

“What was that?” Harry gasped.

“That was the magic. Anyone with the magic inside them can connect with the magic in the Earth. It is what makes us able to call on the gods and to receive their gifts and messages.”

Harry wanted to tell Devorah how much more magic could do, but even in his current state of awe he recognized the recklessness of that idea.

“We should return, Arailt. You must be tired. Most people with the magic learn to listen to the earth much younger; it can be overwhelming. Your own magic must be very different.”

“I'm not tired,” Harry protested. “That was amazing, invigorating. But you spoke of seeing magic. I didn't see anything; I just felt.”

“Try closing your eyes.” Devorah steadied herself with a hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry closed his eyes, but saw nothing. A glimpse at the older woman showed her eyes closed, an expression of concentration on her face. Harry had an idea, and he hoped his Auror lessons were sufficient to allow it.

Lurching slightly to the side, Harry forced Devorah's eyes open as she reacted out of concern for the young man. Locking eyes, Harry delved into her mind. He winced at the thought of doing this to an unsuspecting person, but something nagging in the back of his brain told him that this concept of seeing magic was essential.

Harry saw his own face in Devorah's mind, accompanied by a sense of maternal care, curiosity, and badly suppressed hope. Behind this image, he saw waves of colour, deep blues and greens sprinkled with lighter yellows and oranges. These waves of colour resembled the pulses of magic he had felt earlier, and Harry ducked out of Devorah's mind.

Closing his own eyes, he refused to dwell on the guilt that a brief glimpse of her unsuspecting face heightened. Understanding better what he was looking for, Harry focused his senses on tracing the waves of the power he had felt earlier.

One hand was resting against the bare earth underneath him, and Harry turned his attention toward it. The pulse of magic from the ground was slow and ancient, a steady heartbeat of a lumbering beast. A moment more and a dim sense of brown flooded Harry's mind. This was it!

The pulse of Earth Magic remained steady, and the colour of each wave grew stronger in Harry's inner vision, a deep muddy brown resonant with all images of the earth and its phases of seasons.

In awe, Harry allowed Devorah to tug him to his feet. He could sense the older woman's concern vying with her amusement as Harry stumbled along the path, frequently closing his eyes to observe the magic around him. There was a confusion of greens, sharp and bright, and Harry could see that this skill would take some time to harness. The mingled colours each spoke of a unique plant, but Harry was unable to untangle them. He longed to immerse himself in practice.

“Arailt.” Devorah's voice woke him from his contemplation of the riot of colours dancing through his head. “Use care. Seeing magic is very powerful, but use it with caution. You can read another person as long as they possess the magic inside, as well as all of the Earth's creations. There is much to be learned by seeing magic, but it can overwhelm you if you do not take the time to look with your own eyes as well.”

Harry appreciated the warning delivered. Ashamed of his earlier Legilimency, Harry refrained from reading Devorah, turning his attention instead to the lone sheep wandering across the path. The woolly colours and roly-poly sense of power suited the animal.

Noticing where his attention had landed, Devorah gave him a shove. “The sheep are waiting. I need to take care of the fern heads we gathered. Go. Be useful.”

Tangling with sheep took all of Harry's concentration, but he still could not shake the elation of his new discovery. As soon as he finished the task assigned by Devorah, he turned his feet towards Severus' house, taking the path along the edge of the woods.

Severus was not in sight as Harry neared his house, but he didn't hesitate to burst through his door. “I think I have an idea!”

Severus looked up startled. “Harry… what?” He seemed to regain some of his equilibrium. “It is customary to knock and wait for an invitation before entering someone's abode.”

Harry ignored the older man's sarcasm, recognizing it as simply a mode of communication. “I talked to Devorah today. She taught me the most amazing thing. Did you know that the Druids here can ‘see' magic? It's everywhere, and you can feel it, and there are colours….”

Severus crossed the room, uncertain whether he was planning to slap the young man or grip his arm in concern. Neither course of action proved necessary, as Severus' proximity slowed Harry's babble.

“Sorry,” Harry grinned ruefully, “it has been a bit of an overwhelming morning. The power of the Earth Magic I felt before, it's everywhere. If you concentrate, you can feel the core of magic in all things, although I haven't tried people yet. Devorah seemed to indicate that Muggles have no colours, but rocks do, and I don't know if rocks are magical.” Harry abruptly realized he was babbling again. “Maybe I should sit down.”

Under Severus' inscrutable gaze Harry settled himself on the rough-hewn stool near the shelves holding the makeshift Potions lab. After a pause, Severus settled himself on the bench on the opposite wall.

“You indicated somewhere amidst that flood of nonsense that you have an idea. Do you feel able to actually articulate the idea and give some semblance of meaning to the earlier ramblings?” Severus' words were sharp but his tone was not. Harry wondered for a moment when Snape's – no, Severus' – tone had suddenly become at odds with his vitriol.

After composing his thoughts, Harry described his experience in the woods, doing his best to explain what he understood of Devorah's philosophy of magic. Severus' eyebrows rose at the mention of feeling the magic in all things, and he looked positively astonished when Harry described the experience of “seeing” magic.

“There are some texts from the time of Merlin that describe a phenomenon similar to that which you say you are experiencing. They are very vague, and historians and theorists have always hesitated to ascribe any real meaning to them. It seems this teaching of “seeing” magic has been lost to history for quite some time.”

“I think we can use this to break the block,” Harry continued excitedly. “If I can see what kind of magic made the block, maybe I can see a way to break or counteract it.”

“How do you propose to see magic inside yourself? Have you attempted to do so yet?”

Severus' practical observations couldn't deter Harry's moment of elation. “Not yet, but I think we can do it. Can Incedamency work both ways? I've been very passive so far. Maybe if I linked my mind with yours, to see what you see?”

“I'm not certain we want to try that.” Severus held up his hand to forestall any forthcoming comments. “You remember that you feel the experiences that I'm viewing, almost as an aftershock, if you will. I fear that if you were travelling with me and feeling the experiences simultaneously the echo between the two views would be damaging. But we can explore this idea a bit.”

Harry was eager to begin right away, but Severus was in the midst of a brewing project that needed more immediate attention. He tolerated Harry's nervous energy with what Harry later realised was an extreme amount of patience for the other man before banishing him to hauling water.

The sun was well past the midpoint of the sky when Severus located Harry, sitting near the edge of the woods, eyes closed. The young man did not sense his approach, and Severus realized that he was immersed in a world seen only in his mind's eye. He tried not to startle Harry but could not help the fact that his former student was paying so little attention to his surroundings. Severus cleared his throat, and Harry whirled around.

“Perhaps it would be wiser to limit your practice until you are able to maintain greater awareness of the physical world,” Severus said, with no apology. “Have you been able to sense your own magic yet?”

Harry shook his head. “No, but I haven't actually tried reading a person yet. I'm still not able to interpret all the colours and waves I'm seeing, so perhaps I am seeing my own magic and not realising it.”

Words about Harry's lack of observation and recklessness were on the tip of Severus' tongue, but he reeled them in, recognising that they would not be constructive in this situation.

“You won't leave me alone until we investigate this, will you?” asked Severus, resigned at the thought of Gryffindor tenacity.

“Probably not,” grinned Harry. “I don't think we have to go into the forest. I think I can work here now that I know what I'm supposed to do.”

“At the very least, let's find somewhere marginally comfortable. There are rocks all over the ground here.” Severus led the way back into his house, and, after an awkward moment's pause, indicated that they both sit on the pallet in the corner.

Settling comfortably into the now familiar, cross-legged, knee-to-knee position, Harry immediately placed his hands on Severus' legs and closed his eyes. Severus was taken aback for a moment at the ready trust evinced in Harry's actions. He gathered himself and prepared to enter Harry's mind for the third time.

The moment Severus engaged the Incedamency he could sense something was different. It was a challenge to block out Harry's riotous thoughts about his earlier experiences; each one was clamouring for attention. While his curiosity was keen, Severus was also loath to indulge it when so many unknown dangers could potentially damage his mind or Harry's. Instead he moved toward the back of Harry's mind where he knew the block to be.

The way should have been familiar from his previous journeys, but immediately Severus sensed a discord. Harry's magic had always been a tangible presence in the past, like it had with the few other wizards Severus had practiced this skill with, but now the magic had changed. It felt stronger, less controlled, even foreign. Severus' way was slow, the unknown change making him wary.

When he finally arrived at the block, Severus saw the cause of the alteration. A deep crack marred the surface of the block, and magic leaked through the crevice. It was not wide enough to let more than a trickle out, but Harry's magic, trapped since infancy, was finally escaping. Severus' astonishment was profound. He was unable to contain his surprise completely; Harry's mind bucked when it sensed his shock. Severus lost his focus in Harry's mind and quickly slipped out.

Harry gaped at him, green eyes wide and unblinking. “What was that?” he asked.

“The block is cracking,” Severus replied, unsure how to articulate more.

“I thought you said that you couldn't find a way to penetrate it,” said Harry, confused.

“I didn't. I couldn't. Last time I entered your mind, I changed nothing. I am not entirely certain what created the fissure.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “Do you think that being aware of the block caused me to work on it, find weaknesses in it?”

“I find that doubtful. It usually takes a great deal of self-awareness and organization to affect changes in one's own mind. These things are achieved through training the mind, not haphazard hoping.” Severus paused. “I am wondering if your recent experience with Earth Magic is a factor.”

“I did nearly pass out in the forest today. The experience was so intense. Devorah didn't say anything about it, although she looked concerned.”

Harry could tell Severus was deep in thought as he rose and paced about the single room. “I wonder…. such a thing should not be possible… but if it was enough to drive him from his body… surely it was unintentional, perhaps even unnoticed…” Harry could only hear bits and pieces of Severus' murmuring but hoped the man would share any conclusions at which he arrived.

Patience not being Harry's strong suit, the younger man began to search Severus' house for ingredients to brew an herbal tea. He was wisely wary of the potions ingredients in unlabelled containers, but found what he was looking for after a moment. As he busied himself, Severus continued to pace and mumble.

“Potter. What if the Dark Lord gave his magic to you?”

Harry looked up from his task, Severus' words startling him. “It's Harry. And I thought you said that it wasn't Voldemort in my head.”

"I apologize. I didn't say that in the manner I intended to.” Harry tried hard not to gape at the sound of his rigid former professor apologising in so casual a manner. “When I was in your mind, I observed that the… feel, if you would, of your magic has changed. Magic itself isn't good or evil, but you have seen enough in the past few days to understand that different magics have different feels. A wizard's magic is the same throughout his life, but somehow yours has changed.”

Harry began to look slightly alarmed, and Severus hurried to complete his thought.

“When the Dark Lord failed to kill you with the Avada Kedavra, he was driven out of his body. I am wondering if some of his power was transferred to you.”

“Didn't Dumbledore ever speak to you about this?” Harry interrupted. “He believed that to be the case. We had the first conversation about it during my second year, when we discovered I was a Parselmouth. Dumbledore believed that Voldemort passed that talent on to me. There were several other times before his death that we had conversations along similar veins, particularly when I found an aspect of magic that seemed easier than others.”

“Dumbledore was maddeningly selective about the information he chose to share,” Severus reminded Harry. “And no, we never discussed it, but I think that I can agree with him. Have you ever become an animagus?”

Confused by the question, Harry shook his head.

“Some talents appear to be more hereditary than others,” Severus explained. “The talent to become an animagus is one of them. Not that it guarantees that all one's offspring will inherit your magical talents, but wizards have traced particular aptitudes for some magics with great reliability over the years. While you have your own strengths, you seem to have inherited few from your parents. Lily's ability in charms, for example, or the ability to become an animagus.”

Harry's eyes grew wider at Severus' implication.

“What if the magic you currently use, or at least some portion of it, is not your own birth magic, but that transferred to you from Voldemort? That would explain the well of magic behind the block; Voldemort's magic created a block to isolate or protect itself.”

“How… is that actually possible? Am I really using Voldemort's magic?”

Severus turned to see Harry's eyes glittering with fear. He stepped over to the younger man and gripped his upper arms.

“Harry, it is not magic itself that is evil or dark, it is the wizard who wields it. A spell is classified as Dark because of the intentions behind it. Inherent magic, the magic inside a wizard, simply exists. It is corrupted into dark magic after being forced through the wand and incanted with dark intentions.”

“I tried to use an Unforgivable when I was still in school. If I have Voldemort's magic, why can't I use the Unforgivables?” Harry attempted to calm the panic welling within.

“Unforgivables, Harry, are part of a class of spells. You have long demonstrated an affinity for this type of spells, ones based in emotion. The Expecto Patronum is one of these spells, drawing on an entirely different set of emotions. Didn't they teach you this in Auror training? You are incapable of using the Unforgivables not because you lack the ability or the magic to perform the spells, but because you lack the emotion necessary to give them power.”

Harry relaxed somewhat under Severus' words and allowed himself to be led to the bench against the wall. Severus poured them both a cup of the tea Harry had been brewing and sat next to him.

The hot tea burned Harry's mouth, but he persevered. “Why do you think the block cracked, then, if I didn't do it?”

“You said that Devorah implied the magic resonates with an individual's own magic, allowing them to sense or see the power. Earth Magic is very elemental, and not something that all modern wizards are able to feel. Perhaps the Earth Magic resonated not with the magic bequeathed to you by Voldemort but your own natural magic.”

Harry was thoughtful. “Do you think that's why the experience was so dramatic today? More than just feeling the power of Earth Magic for the first time, it was my own magic breaking through the bond that was so overwhelming?”

“I think that is a distinct possibility.”

“I still don't like the idea that I have Voldemort's magic,” Harry shuddered. “It feels… dirty.”

“Your magic is your own, Harry. Everything you have learned and accomplished does not change just because you seem to have inherited part of your magical power from Voldemort.”

“I still don't understand how this is possible. Can one wizard share magic with another? What about Squibs or Muggles? Can we share magic with them too?”

“I have no answers to those questions because there are no answers. As far as I knew there was no way for one wizard to give part of his magical ability to another. But until you were born there was no wizard to survive an Avada Kedavra. As much as it galls me to say it, sometimes the impossible happens, and it usually seems to happen to you.”

Harry was too overwhelmed to grin at Severus' rare foray into humour. He contemplated the mug in front of him, swirling the tepid liquid around.

“I'm still not very comfortable with the idea. It has been a long day.”

“I know. Perhaps you should retire early this evening, allow yourself time to process what you have seen and learned.”

Harry yawned. “Tomorrow can I read you? I still want to try reading my block, see if we can learn anything else.”

Severus paused before acquiescing. He had no idea what the young man was capable of reading, but Harry had unflinchingly offered his mind to Severus' perusal. “Yes, you may. Come early so that I can brew in the afternoon.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and left, the setting sun highlighting his shadow in pink pools of light on the floor.

******

Early the next morning, Harry arrived at Severus' door, hair still slicked to his scalp with water from his bath. He paused to watch Severus a moment, admiring the graceful way the older man balanced two buckets of water without sloshing either. Harry's feet were always wet when he hauled water for Devorah, and she always fussed at him and made him dry them by the fire.

Severus seemed to sense his presence a moment later, head lifting, dark eyes flashing over him. Harry supposed he was looking for signs of the toll yesterday's events had taken. Harry's dreams had been disturbed early in the night, but when the moon was high in the sky he had fallen into a more restful sleep.

He wouldn't say that he was completely comfortable with the notion that some of Voldemort's magic had been transferred to him, but he had spent the time before dawn reviewing his own magical acts. Some of his natural talents made more sense in that light, and while Harry didn't want to own any of his success to an evil wizard, if those talents could work to destroy Voldemort then Harry supposed he should be grateful. He still wanted to try one thing, however.

“I know this is very personal, but… may I use your wand?” Harry asked when Severus had finished his visual assessment.

Without hesitation, Severus reached into his sleeve and pulled it out, handing it to Harry handle first. A quick Wingardium Leviosa had Harry grinning, remembering his first Charms lesson with Flitwick. Running through a few more basic spells, Harry handed the wand back.

“It feels different than it does when I usually cast, but I don't know if it is because my magic is changing or because that is not my wand.”

Severus nodded. “I suspect it is a combination of the two.”

Harry was silent as Severus refilled the large pot on the fire outside his door. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in it, since Severus tended to brew his smellier and more toxic concoctions outside. Harry might have passed his Potions NEWT, but he didn't like the subject any more than he had as a hapless student.

“I know you are more comfortable in the clearing,” said Severus when he was finished, “but I was hoping we could work here today.”

Severus' desire to stay in familiar surroundings was unvoiced, but Harry understood it anyway. He nodded.

“I think it might actually be more difficult to do in the clearing. The Earth Magic there is so strong, I'm not sure I could isolate any magic. I practiced last night and yesterday, and I am improving my focus, but only when the distractions are limited.”

Leading the way inside, Severus gestured to the pallet where they had sat the day before. “After you are finished, I thought I might take another opportunity to examine the block, see if we can get any new information.”

They settled facing one another, and Harry closed his eyes. There were faint pulses of magic throughout the small room, but most of them had the same feeling. Turning his minds eye to the man in front of him, Harry couldn't help but snicker. Severus' magic was strong; Harry could feel its steady pulse and recognized its traces from other places in the house. The colour of Severus' magic was purple – a vivid violet.

“Something amusing, Mr. Potter?” Severus' voice broke Harry's concentration.

“No, just observing. Please let me finish.” Harry closed his eyes again, refocusing on the purple waves he had seen before. The colour wasn't static, intensifying and dimming, perhaps in relation to Severus' breathing or moods. There were areas where the appearance of the magic was stronger, around Severus' head, for example, and his stomach.

Harry continued to survey him, when suddenly he gasped. Clinging to Severus' left arm was a dense, grey cloud of magic. It felt slimy to Harry. The Dark Mark, Harry realised, while inactive as a portal to Voldemort, was still imbued with Dark Magic in this time. Harry opened his eyes, loath to tell Severus his discovery.

His surprise had not gone unnoticed, however, and Harry found himself staring into two dark eyes. “Tell me what you saw.” It was not a request.

“Your magic is strong. Did you know that magic seems to concentrate in certain areas of your body? It appeared more intense, darker in colour and more vibrant, around your head and hands, for example. I haven't observed anyone else to know what this means, but I find it very interesting.”

Harry's nonchalant tone did not fool Severus and he did not take his eyes off the young man for a moment. Harry sighed.

“The Dark Mark. It still contains Dark Magic. I could see it mingling with your own on your arm. It was sitting just like a cloud in the midst of your own magic.”

Severus closed his eyes against the pain of that statement. He knew in his heart that there was no returning from the choice he had made as a teenager, a choice that led to a path of destruction and depravity. Still, he had escaped that choice in his time with the Dabriadghi people, and it hurt to know that some part of if still dogged him.

“It isn't your magic, Severus. It isn't contaminating your magic, either. It's just there.”

“It is contaminating me. It has done so for the better part of two decades. I am merely disappointed that I permitted myself to believe otherwise for even a brief period of time.”

Harry wanted to argue with him, argue that he was not contaminated and had not been for a very long time, but could not. Severus Snape had not been a kind man when Harry was in school, and here, while he had been gentler, he was not entirely changed. He was still sarcastic and quick to retort, still critical. Severus had seemed more at ease, however, and more willing to help. The two memories clashed in Harry's brain, keeping him quiet. Severus stood.

“I'm going to check the salve I started before you arrived. Afterwards, let us see what we can learn about your block.”

Harry allowed the man his privacy, sitting in the dim single room of his house, thinking about the myriad of things that had happened in the month since his arrival in the past. The panic about his own time was still there, constantly hovering over his shoulder, just as it had for the past nine years of his life. The worry of this time was here too, the threat of the anatia maruosi consuming people's souls. And there was Severus, one of the last people on earth Harry would choose to be trapped in the past with, but who was being strangely helpful and amenable to listening. He felt as though a lifetime had passed and wondered tiredly what more there was to discover.

When Severus returned, he found that Harry had not moved from his place on the pallet. Wordlessly Severus sat, facing him, offering his hands to begin the Incedamency connection. Harry responded, placing his own hands on Severus' knees and allowing his eyes to drift shut, mind clearing.

This time Severus was prepared for what he was facing. He shielded himself, guarding his mind from the onslaught of Harry's changing magic, and wove through Harry's memories until he arrived at the block. The fissure in the dark wall had not grown much larger, but Severus was prepared to examine it now.

It was almost soothing, this visit, as if Harry's mind finally recognised him and greeted him as a long-time friend. There was a new level of trust, of comfort, and Severus wondered briefly if it reflected Harry's opinions about himself or Harry's feelings about his magic. Either way it made it easier for Severus to remain where he was and study Harry's mind.

The extent of the block had not changed. Its edges were smooth and seamlessly pressed into the far edges of Harry's mind, effectively trapping the magic behind it. Severus moved closer to the crack, and he could actually see the magic streaming forth. Severus had never seen magic before, and wondered if it was Harry's new ability translating itself or the nature of Harry's magic itself that let him see it now. The light blue magic was still leaking slowly into Harry's mind, not quickly enough to cause a major disruption, but in sufficient quantities to make itself known. Severus probed the crevice, but he could not make his mental projection small enough to enter. He reached out to the edges of the crack in an exploratory fashion, hoping to get some sense of the magnitude of what was behind the block.

Startled, Severus drew back. He had, without a doubt, felt Lily Potter in Harry's mind. Long ago, in his sixth year of school, Severus had been assigned a Charms project with the then Lily Evans. He had been torn between horror at publicly working with a Mudblood and triumph because, not only was he guaranteed good marks, but he had a new way of tormenting James Potter. Whatever the reason, Severus had not stopped himself from practicing Legilimency with Lily. He was attempting to hone his newly-acquired skills, and the witch was none the wiser. Ashamed of his actions now, the feel of Lily's magic was as unmistakable now as it was more than two decades ago.

He sensed that his time in Harry's mind was growing short. It was fatiguing for them both to maintain such rigid controls for extended periods of time, and even more so because Harry was not trained. He forced himself back to the crack, probing it in all the limited ways he could imagine with the power allowed him in Harry's mind. Lily Potter had sacrificed herself for Harry, and it was Lily's magic protecting him now. Severus retreated to his own mind before Harry could throw him out.

Gasping, Severus shook his head to clear his thoughts. His discovery explained a few things, although there were many answers still missing.

“What did you find?” asked Harry.

Unable to b