"You should have sent word to a teacher--"
"I asked the Bloody Baron to go warn her, and he wouldn't! He said he had to keep an eye on me." Harry drew a deep breath and looked down again. His confession came out in a whisper. "So I figured he could keep an eye on me while I went to find Hermione."
Snape was silent so long this time that Harry almost thought he had not heard what Harry had said. When he finally looked up again, it was to find Snape staring at him, looking not angry per se, but very disappointed. His heart clenched. Angry he could deal with, he was well used to making people angry. But he did not want to disappoint his Head of House.
"Sir?"
Snape slowly shook his head. "I cannot believe, after all we have done to try and keep you safe this year, that you would put the Baron in such a position. That you would so endanger other members of your House, as well, with no regard for their safety or well being."
Feeling his face grow hot, Harry dropped his head again. Shame washed over him in a heavy wave. He hadn't been thinking of it that way, only that he had to rescue Hermione. Save her, like his own mother had saved his life, ten years before. But Teddy and Millie could have gotten killed, because of him and his stupid heroics. Maybe Millie was right. Maybe he was too much of a Gryffindork.
"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered.
"I should hope so," Snape said, his voice still soft and disappointed sounding. Harry flinched. "But sorry is just not enough."
"No, sir," Harry agreed. He steeled himself and looked up at the professor, needing to face his punishment head on.
Snape stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. One long finger traced his lower lip as he stared, and Harry was sure he was going to get detention for the rest of his life. But then the professor sighed. "You will write another essay, this one on the topic of why you deem your life so worthless you would throw it away without thinking about the consequences."
"I'm not worthless!"
A spark of something ignited in the professor's eyes. "No. You are not. Which is why we shall explore why you seem to not care if you live or die."
Confused, Harry could do nothing but glare at the man, but Snape seemed not to care, or notice. "How long?" he asked at last.
"At least three feet. Due Monday evening."
Bastard. That would take him the whole weekend to write. And he didn't even know what to say.
"Tomorrow," Snape said, in a more normal tone of voice, "you and I will take a little trip." He rose from his desk and turned away, fiddling with a jar of something on one of the shelves of potion ingredients.
Harry squinted at him. "What? Where?"
"There is a place I believe you need to see. Be here, in my office, at 8 am sharp. Dress warmly." A moment's pause, then, "You are dismissed."
Startled at the abruptness, as well as the command to be ready to go on a trip the next day, Harry jerked up out of his chair and was half way to the door before he even realized what he was doing. Snape seemed to be paying no attention to him now, and Harry was grateful. He didn't know how he was going to make up for his latest mess, but he figured the essay would be a start. He just wished he had some idea of what to write. He wasn't worthless. And he wasn't trying to throw his life away on stupid things. Was he?
As he went down the corridor toward the common room, where he would meet his friends before dinner, the Bloody Baron floated up next to him.
"I did not tell him, young Harry Potter," the ghost said at his elbow.
Harry nodded. "I know. He just seems to know things."
"He is very concerned about you. He would be very upset were anything to befall you an he could prevent it."
Great, guilt and shame. "I know," Harry said miserably. "Do you know where he's taking me tomorrow?"
"I do not." The Baron floated along in silence until they were just outside the portrait to the common room. "I would suggest you tell him the rest of what happened, Harry Potter."
"Before he finds out on his own, you mean."
The Baron regarded him, head titled a little to the side. "Not at all. I believe he thinks he has the whole of the story now and will not search for more details. But it is my opinion that he needs to know the kinds of magic of which you are now capable."
"That spell? But I don't even know where I learned it."
"Because you did not learn it, not in the normal sense of the word." The Baron paused, and looked away as if uncomfortable. "The spell is one we used when we fought together."
Harry gaped at him. "I didn't . . . I don't . . . How?"
"That is a very good question, and one I hope you will ask your Professor Severus Snape."
With a sigh of resignation, Harry nodded. "All right. Tomorrow though, okay? I don't think . . ." He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Snape's office. "I don't think he wants to see me just now."
"Tomorrow will do, Harry Potter." The Bloody Baron gave him the smallest of smiles and a slight bow. "I shall see you anon."
Harry nodded in return and went into his common room. He did not look forward to telling Teddy and Millie how he had ground their plan into dust. Nor was he looking forward to writing an essay on why he thought his life was worthless. Stupid, sodding bastard.
The next morning was Saturday. The Bloody Baron accompanied Harry to Snape's office, and left him there. Though he often wanted the Baron to leave him alone, mostly because he felt like he had so little time to himself, Harry almost wished the ghost would stay with him this time. But he wasn't afraid. Of course not. Not of Snape.
Of course not.
Still, it took him a minute to gather his courage to knock on the office door. He hadn't had such a hard time of it since one of his early detentions. At the barked, "Enter!" Harry eased the door open and slid inside.
The Professor, wearing a black, heavy looking cloak and dark gloves, looked him up and down. Harry glanced down at his own attire. He'd worn wool trousers and his new winter cloak and boots, as well as gloves, his green and silver Slytherin scarf, and a knit hat that covered his ears, as well as his scar. "Acceptable," Snape said. "Do you have your wand?"
"Yes, sir," Harry said, and pulled it out of the inner pocket of his cloak.
"Good. Keep it ready." Snape held out a small, half-crushed matchbox.
Harry stared. "What's that, sir?"
Snape shook the box impatiently, as if he wanted Harry to take it. "Portkey."
"Er . . . what's a portkey?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, then his mouth twisted with a sigh. "I forget sometimes," he said in an undertone, "that--"
"I was raised by Muggles." Harry scowled. "I get that a lot."
Snape lifted one eyebrow. "I imagine you would, in Slytherin." He twisted his hand sharply to indicate the matchbox, and when he spoke again it was in his lecturing voice. "A portkey is a Wizarding method of travel, moving people and sometimes objects quickly from one place to another, without the danger of splinching or the need for a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. They are thus heavily regulated by the ministry." Harry didn't bother asking what a Floo was, figuring he'd find out eventually. "It can be a bit disorienting for novices, but I will be with you, so you should not have any trouble at the other end."
"Er, thank you, sir." He wondered if this portkey was regulation, but decided not to ask. If it was, he would look like a fool who thought his teacher would do something illegal, and if it wasn't, he'd be in on the illegal something. The situation was a no win, for him, unless he kept his gob shut.
"Now, take hold of the box, Potter, and don't let go."
"Yes, sir." Harry reached for the matchbox, curling thumb and index finger around his end. He looked up into the fathomless eyes of his professor, who had drawn his wand and had his own fingers wrapped tight on the other end of the box.