He held out a wrist surrounded by a golden coil. "Would you?"
Perhaps sensing that the two of them needed a break from the previous topic--though that one was far from settled, as the resolve in Snape's eyes attested--the Potions Master tapped the tiny metallic head with his wand, then traced his wand tip over Sals' entire length. "Vivicalus anovare," he whispered, moving quickly to catch the snake as she fell in an untidy heap to his palm. He transferred the little reptile into Harry's hands, then moved back marginally to give the boy some room.
Harry lifted Sals to his face and peered intently into her sleepy eyes. He thought she looked fine, though she definitely needed to warm up. Tucking her into a shirt pocket, he patted her a few times through the fabric. "You should have asked before you did a thing like that to her," Harry rebuked his father.
Snape dark eyes stared down at him. For a moment Harry thought he'd gone too far. But then Snape nodded slightly and drawled, "Indeed."
"What does that mean?" Harry asked, exasperated.
Another slight hesitation, then: "I suppose it would indicate that though apologies do not fly so readily to my lips as they would to a Gryffindor's, I do acknowledge that you are right."
That was so much coming from the likes of Snape that Harry's jaw almost dropped. Snape, saying he was sorry? Well, he'd done it concerning Samhain, but this was another case entirely. Harry found he didn't want to rub it in, and heard himself murmuring, "Well, Sals seems all right, so no harm done."
Snape accepted that with a slight nod.
"So... " Harry tried another tentative glance at the man's eyes. "Are we... all right? You were pretty mad."
"At the prospect of watching my son become the next Dark Lord?" Snape leaned in close again and spoke with deadly determination. "You have no idea just how mad I can become."
"The next Dark Lord?" Harry gasped. "That's bloody ridiculous!"
"It's bloody likely if you start holding vengeance so dear, you idiot child!" Snape sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Harry, listen. Were you any other student, I'd believe such bloodlust likely to produce a rather warped adult. But you are not any other student. You will have powers the Dark Lord knows not. If you don't wish to become him, you'd better also have a good deal of wisdom and restraint!"
He'd started off calmly, but by the end, was yelling once again.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it."
"Do you?"
"Yes!"
Snape gave him a look as though to say that they would see about that. Which was fine with Harry. He was tired of talking about it. He did detest Lucius Malfoy and he did want revenge, but he didn't want to end up a twisted, bitter, hate-filled arsehole like Voldemort, so where did that leave him? Feeling suddenly boneless, Harry flopped onto his back and sighed. Maybe he wasn't so tired of talking about it, after all, since he groaned, "You know, I am just sixteen here, so it's not like I have it all figured out. I don't think I'd know what to do if were were just talking about girls and dating or something, so I sure as shite don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do about having been stabbed to within an inch of my life by a raging maniac working for another raging maniac who's wanted me dead since I was only one year old!"
Turning on the bed, Snape looked down at Harry. "I know what you should do. Listen to your father."
Propping himself back up on one elbow, Harry dryly questioned, "Don't go thirsting for vengeance?... No offense, Professor, but what were you doing when you announced to all of Slytherin that poor Remus was a werewolf? And what about last year, they way you constantly taunted and belittled Sirius?"
"I was thirsting for vengeance," Snape admitted, raising an eyebrow. "How do you think I know how destructive it can be? Hogwarts lost the best Defense instructor it has had in years. My actions opened the door for Crouch to walk through, the next year, and Umbridge after him. And as for Black..." The man sighed. "He died in part because of my taunts."
Harry was silent for a long moment. "He'd have come to my rescue regardless," he finally admitted. "I even told Ron it's not your fault. Anyway, about this listen-to-your-father business. It might help if you told me what you think I should do, instead of just what not to do."
"For the moment," Snape mildly replied, "I think you should go find Draco."
"To apologize again?" Harry grimaced. "He's probably too mad to listen. I would be, if some person I hadn't even been friends with for long suddenly said, Sorry, but I am definitely going to roast your father alive. I mean, it's not much of a sorry, is it?"
"Are you going to do as your father advises, or not?"
"Yes, Father," Harry said, testing out the word. He wasn't sure it fit. Snape certainly looked uncomfortable hearing it. Then again, that might be because Harry'd said it in a rather sarcastic way. "Sorry," he quickly murmured. "I'll just go, um, look for Draco. He went outside, huh? Um, how far is the property unplottable? I'd hate to wander out of bounds by accident again."
"Don't go past any low stone walls," Snape advised. Then, apparently misunderstanding Harry's apology, he added in a low, strained voice, "You may certainly call me 'Father' if you wish."
"Uh, great," Harry said without much enthusiasm. He felt really bad that he'd even stepped into such a quagmire. "I'll, uh, think about it."
Snape inclined his head, his eyes shadowed when Harry glanced at him. The boy left quickly, before he could utter something else that would be phenomenally awkward.
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Draco wasn't in the house, but he didn't seem to be in the lush green fields outside either. At least, not until Harry thought to look up.
The Slytherin boy sat astride his broom, looping in slow circles through the sky. When he spotted Harry down below, he executed a few neat turns and twists, then skidded to a halt just a few feet from the ground and hopped off. The broom followed him as he walked toward the Gryffindor.
"All better?" he asked, his voice somehow tense and brisk all at once.
Harry nodded. "Listen... I, um, really think we should talk."
Draco bent down, snapped off a blade of grass, and transfigured it into a snowy white handkerchief complete with a DM monogram stitched in fancy silver thread. As he set to wiping his sweating brow with it, he advised Harry, "You should go in. You aren't dressed for the weather."
Only then did it occur to Harry that it was wicked cold outside. He didn't know how he could have not noticed that, unless it was because he just had too much on his mind to pay attention to extraneous details. "No, I need to talk to you," Harry insisted, though now of course he was shivering.
Draco scowled, and fished his wand out of the winter Quidditch robe he was wearing. "Oh, very well. Accio Harry's jumper!"
A thick wool one came flying forth from inside, hurtling itself through the meadow to reach them. It was one Mrs. Weasley had knitted, the motif a rather enormous cursive H. It wasn't the sort of thing Harry would have chosen for himself, but given the number of presents he'd ever received, he'd really appreciated the thought.
Still did, even if Draco was looking down his nose at it like he'd rather freeze solid than wear such a thing. Well, maybe he just didn't like the Gryffindor colors, Harry told himself. He hurriedly whipped it on, but ended up still stamping his feet from the cold.
"So, if we need to talk," Draco heavily sighed, "I suppose Severus must have told you." Reaching behind him, Draco grabbed his broom, stood it on its bristles, and leaned his weight on it. The posture itself told Harry how disturbed the other boy must be feeling; nobody who cared about Quidditch treated a high-quality racing broom that way.