The school year continued with increasing mystery to solve. Exams, both Muggle and magical, filled Harry's mind, and he was also busy filling out an application to intern at the magical hospital for the summer. Andromeda, whom he had been in contact with through letters, told him that she had spoken to Ron's parents. They were horrified to learn that the rat they had kept for years was actually an animagus, and they were deeply concerned for their child's safety. Ron felt relieved that someone else had told his parents this part of the story, as he had already informed his brothers at Hogwarts. The twins had become even more protective of their younger brother. Ginny was disgusted and reportedly cried after hearing the news, while Percy, the previous owner of the rat, felt utterly repulsed and guilty for giving his little brother something that could have harmed him, even though he hadn't known the rat was an animagus.
Dumbledore's piercing gaze lingered on Harry, a strange mixture of curiosity and contempt flickering in his blue eyes. The silence in the room was palpable, the headmaster's presence commanding even the smallest shift in the air. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped in front of him, waiting—expecting, perhaps—some sort of response. But Harry gave him nothing.
One afternoon, Dumbledore summoned Harry to his office—a rare occurrence these days. The headmaster had grown distant, their interactions reduced to brief glances in the corridors or tense moments during meals in the Great Hall. The invitation, delivered by one of the castle's enchanted owls, felt both unexpected and heavy with intent.
Harry climbed the spiral staircase to the headmaster's office, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The familiar gargoyle guarding the entrance sprang aside at his approach, as if sensing the tension in the air. He pushed open the heavy oak door to find Dumbledore seated behind his grand desk, his fingers steepled and his piercing blue eyes fixed on the young Ravenclaw.
"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore greeted him, his tone as calm and calculated as ever. "Do come in. Please, have a seat."
Harry stepped into the room but didn't sit down immediately. Instead, he took a moment to glance around, noting the clutter of magical instruments and the ever-watchful portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. The silence was palpable, broken only by the faint whirring of one of Dumbledore's mysterious contraptions.
"What is it you wanted, Professor?" Harry asked, his voice steady, though his posture remained guarded.
Dumbledore studied him for a moment, the weight of his gaze as probing as Legilimency itself. "It has been some time since we last spoke privately," he began, his tone measured. "I thought it prudent to check on you—your studies, your well-being."
The young Ravenclaw had perfected the art of detachment. His expression was calm, almost cold, betraying no hint of the thoughts racing through his mind. He stood straight, his gaze meeting Dumbledore's without flinching, his green eyes distant yet defiant. It was clear to Harry that Dumbledore craved reactions, fed off them. The man thrived on the ability to manipulate emotions, to draw out responses that he could twist and use. He hated the unknown, and Harry had become a mystery he couldn't unravel.
Harry raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "My studies are fine, and I'm doing well enough. Is that all?"
A flicker of something crossed Dumbledore's face—was it irritation? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it passed quickly, replaced by his usual serene demeanor. "You've grown quite adept at shielding your thoughts, Harry. I must admit, it's... unexpected,I would have thought, given the circumstances, that you might have something to say."
Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. So predictable, he thought. "And why would I?" he replied evenly, his voice steady. "I find it's better to listen than to speak around those who prefer hearing their own voices."
A flicker of something darker crossed Dumbledore's face, but he quickly masked it. "A clever response," he said, his tone measured. "But surely you have questions, doubts, perhaps even fears?"
Harry shrugged, the motion casual but deliberate. "I've learned not to let my thoughts show too easily," he said. "It seems to bother some people." His gaze sharpened. "People who think they have the right to know everything about everyone."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "You've become quite the enigma, Harry. You've built alliances I did not foresee, questioned matters most would not dare to. I wonder—do you trust me at all?"
The question hung in the air like a storm cloud. Harry met Dumbledore's gaze head-on, his expression calm but unyielding. "Trust is earned, Professor," he said quietly. "And it can be lost."
Dumbledore's lips pressed into a thin line. For the first time, there was no twinkle in his eyes. "I see," he said softly. "It seems you've grown beyond my reach."
Harry didn't respond. He had nothing more to say.And hedidn't miss the way Dumbledore 's fingers tightened briefly around the arms of his chair. It was clear the headmaster wasn't used to being on the defensive—and Harry wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of anything else.
Especially since Dumbledore had used his powers on Harry as early as his first year—a fact that Harry had only come to fully understand recently.
In addition to this, Harry couldn't help but think back to what Pansy had told him during one of their many conversations. She had been furious on his behalf, her sharp intellect and penchant for law making her the perfect person to dissect the injustice.
"It's completely illegal, you know," she had said, her voice low but firm as they sat in the library. "The fact that Dumbledore even attempted Legilimency on you in your first year is outrageous. You were a child, Harry—barely aware of what magic could even do, let alone this kind of intrusion."
Harry had frowned at her words, the weight of them settling in his chest. "I didn't even know what Legilimency was back then. He could've done anything, and I wouldn't have known."
"That's the point," Pansy snapped, her dark eyes flashing with anger. "He knew you wouldn't understand. That's why he did it. It's forbidden for an adult to use that kind of magic on a minor without explicit consent, and even then, it would require parental or guardian oversight. And don't even get me started on the lack of transparency—he had no right."
Harry hadn't needed much convincing. The more he learned about magical laws through Pansy, the clearer it became how often they were bent—or outright broken—within the walls of Hogwarts. Pansy had made it her personal mission to educate him on every infraction she could find, and Harry had to admit she was relentless.
"Honestly," she had continued, her tone dripping with disdain, "Hogwarts might as well be a legal grey zone with the way it operates. Do you know how many laws this school violates on a daily basis? It's like they think they're above the rules just because it's Hogwarts."
Harry had smirked at that. "I take it you've got a running list."
"Of course I do," she had replied with a huff, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "And the first entry is Dumbledore's obsession with controlling everything and everyone—especially you. You deserve better than that, Harry."
Her words echoed in his mind now, as he stood before Dumbledore in his office. He met the old wizard's gaze, his expression unflinching. Pansy was right. Dumbledore had crossed too many lines, and Harry was done pretending otherwise.
Harry had felt a surge of both anger and vindication at her words. Illegal, he thought bitterly. And yet Dumbledore did it without hesitation. The headmaster hadn't cared about boundaries, about what was right or wrong, so long as it served his purpose.
Days had passed since that fateful day, and still, there was no word about Peter Pettigrew's trial. The silence weighed heavily on Harry, a constant reminder of the injustice that lingered in the air. Each time he glanced at the enchanted mirror Sirius had given him, he found himself hoping for a sliver of good news. Instead, Andromeda's voice greeted him with updates that only added to his frustration.
"Harry," her voice crackled through the mirror one evening, her expression grim. "Madam Bones told me the Ministry is deliberately delaying the trial. They're dragging their feet, pushing the dates further and further away."
Harry's brow furrowed. "Why? What could they possibly gain from stalling?"
Andromeda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Politics, of course. The investigation is complex—Peter's accusations point fingers at both Voldemort and Dumbledore. With Voldemort dead and most of his followers either imprisoned or killed, it's hard to pin down solid evidence. Even under Veritaserum, Peter's testimony isn't enough to wrap this up neatly."
Harry's grip on the mirror tightened, his jaw clenching. "So they're just going to let him sit there while they twiddle their thumbs? He admitted to killing those Muggles the night my parents died. How much more do they need?"
"It's not that simple, Harry," Andromeda said softly, her eyes full of sympathy. "Peter claims he was under orders, manipulated into doing Voldemort's bidding. And the accusations against Dumbledore only complicate things further. The man doesn't even bother to show up for questioning half the time, and when he does, he speaks in riddles or evades the topic entirely."
Harry's frustration boiled over, but it wasn't just about the delays. It was what Peter had said about Dumbledore—those vague accusations that seemed to lurk in the background like a storm cloud, casting doubt over everything Harry thought he knew. He already knew Voldemort was guilty; there was no mystery there. And Dumbledore?
He already knew Dumbledore was guilty; the signs had been there for years, and Harry had learned to see through the man's polished exterior. But what gnawed at him now was the how. What exactly had Dumbledore done to Peter? What manipulations had led a once-loyal friend of his parents to betray them so completely?
Peter's accusations weren't a surprise—Harry had long suspected that Dumbledore's hands were far from clean. Yet, the lack of specifics was maddening. He wanted to know the details, the steps Dumbledore had taken to twist Peter's mind, to use him as a pawn. What lies had he told? What strings had he pulled?
Was it coercion, or had Peter been another victim of Dumbledore's calculated charm, the way so many others had been? Harry's stomach churned at the thought of it. He'd seen how Dumbledore operated, always positioning himself as the benevolent mentor while pulling everyone into his web.
Peter's sincerity in claiming he never wanted to harm James or Lily only made Harry's anger burn hotter. If that's true, he thought bitterly, then Dumbledore must have played a role in pushing him to the edge. But what was it?
Harry's frustration deepened with every passing day. The truth was out there, but it remained just out of reach, leaving him to piece together fragments of accusations and half-truths. And each fragment only reinforced the sickening reality: Dumbledore wasn't the hero everyone believed him to be.
"What exactly is he accusing Dumbledore of?" Harry demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.
Andromeda hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That's the thing, Harry. Peter's claims are… fragmented. He says Dumbledore manipulated events, that he used people as pawns, but proving it is another matter. There's no concrete evidence, only his word. And given Peter's reputation, you can imagine how seriously that's being taken."
Harry's mind raced as he ended the call, Andromeda's words echoing in his ears. He hated not knowing, not having all the pieces. Peter was a coward, a traitor, a man who had betrayed his closest friends—but what if he was also a victim? What if he truly had been manipulated, just another casualty in a game of power?
But if that's true, Harry thought bitterly, then why did he do it?
Harry had tried to bury his anger, to stifle it, but it roared within him like a fire seeking fuel. As much as he wanted to focus on Peter's accusations and Dumbledore's manipulations, he knew it would only drain his strength. Asha, his snake companion, had often reminded him of this: "Anger over unfinished business only weakens you, Harry. Focus on what is within your reach, or use that energy to finish what remains undone."
Taking her advice to heart, Harry decided to redirect his focus. If Dumbledore's secrets weren't ready to reveal themselves, Harry would make progress elsewhere. Medicine, both magical and Muggle, became his new obsession.
Chhavi, his ever-dedicated house-elf, had taken to buying him stacks of books on the subject. She would beam with pride as she handed over tomes like "The Enigma of the Mind: A Magical Approach to Neurology" or Muggle works like "Principles of Neural Science" and "Principles of Neurology." The sheer depth of knowledge fascinated Harry, and he spent hours poring over the pages, taking detailed notes in his ever-growing journal.
His time as an intern at both a Muggle hospital and St. Mungo's had inspired him. It was during these experiences that he noticed a glaring gap in magical medicine: the complete lack of development in neurology. The magical world, for all its wonders, had almost no understanding of the brain, its intricacies, or how magic interacted with it.
"This is ridiculous," Harry had exclaimed one evening during a study session in the common room. He was surrounded by his closest friends: Theo, Draco, Hermione, and Pansy, who all looked up from their respective books.
"What is?" Hermione asked, intrigued as always by Harry's intellectual pursuits.
Harry slammed a hand on the open textbook in front of him, "Principles of Neurology." "Look at this!" he said, pointing to a diagram of the human brain. "Muggles have figured out how to map the entire brain, how to treat strokes, epilepsy, even mental illnesses. But here?" He grabbed a magical healing book and held it up. "We wave a wand, call it a headache curse, and move on. No one's asking why or how the brain interacts with magic!"
Theo leaned back in his chair, a slow smile curling on his lips. "Mmm. Passionate today, aren't we, Potter?" His tone was calm, but there was a glint in his eyes as he tilted his head to study Harry. "Maybe I should join one of your study sessions. Watch you scribble notes with that furrowed brow of yours. It's... inspiring."
Harry rolled his eyes, though his face warmed slightly. "I'm serious, Theo."
"I know you are," Theo replied smoothly, his voice dropping just enough to make Harry glance at him warily. "That's what makes it so fascinating to watch."
Draco snorted. "Leave him alone, Nott. He's trying to revolutionize magical medicine, not write a romance novel."
Theo only smirked, his gaze lingering on Harry for a moment before he turned back to his book.
Hermione, oblivious to the exchange, was the most encouraging. "I think you're onto something, Harry. Neurology has always been my favorite part of Muggle biology, and you're right—there's so much potential for overlap. I'll help you research."
Pansy rolled her eyes but gave Harry an approving smile. "Typical Potter, trying to save the world again. Just don't forget to sleep, alright?"
Astoria, who had been quietly observing from the corner, finally spoke. "It's a noble goal," she said, her voice even and cool. Her pale eyes met Harry's, sharp and assessing. "But don't let yourself get too idealistic. There's a reason the magical world hasn't pursued this. It's risky to mix Muggle science with magic."
Harry frowned. "So you're saying I shouldn't try?"
"I'm saying," she replied, her tone as cold as ever but not unkind, "be realistic. If you're going to do this, you need to prepare for pushback—from the Ministry, from the healers, from everyone who clings to tradition. You're not fighting a small battle here, Potter. You're taking on centuries of magical arrogance."
There was a beat of silence before Theo chuckled softly. "Leave it to Greengrass to turn every conversation into a calculated warning." He leaned closer to Harry, his voice dropping to a teasing murmur. "Don't let her scare you off, harry. I, for one, am looking forward to seeing what you can do. And if you need a test subject..." His smirk deepened.
Harry shook his head, biting back a laugh despite himself. "I'll keep that in mind."
In quieter moments, Harry worked on his project with Millicent and Daphne, who had surprisingly sharp minds for research. Daphne had a talent for finding obscure texts in the Hogwarts library, while Millicent had an unshakable determination when it came to problem-solving.
Meanwhile, Ron and Neville supported Harry in more practical ways. Ron often helped him test theories, while Neville used his knowledge of Herbology to suggest magical plants that might aid neurological healing.
Evenings often ended with Astoria offering her blunt yet insightful thoughts on Harry's plans, while Theo lingered just long enough to let the tension between them hang like unspoken words.
Harry's journal soon became filled with diagrams of the brain, notes on Muggle treatments, and sketches of how magic might be integrated into the process. He even began drafting spells and potions designed to stimulate neural activity or repair damaged brain cells.
One day, as Asha curled around his arm and hissed softly, "This is the way forward, Harry. Leave the past to unravel itself in time. Focus on what you can create." Harry allowed himself a rare flicker of peace. In those moments, he was more than a boy weighed down by war and secrets—he was a healer in the making, ready to change the world.
Lying there with Asha, Harry couldn't help but reflect on how right Astoria was. The magical world was indeed arrogant, but more than that, it was so far behind in its progress. He thought of Neville's parents, Alice and Frank. Alice was completely lost after the torture, her mind distant and unreachable. Frank, though physically well, had his mind trapped in a place where his body couldn't follow. Their bodies were intact, but their minds were gone, as if everything that made them who they were had been taken away.
This struck Harry deeply. If magic could heal so many things, why couldn't it help these people? And then there was Sirius. Diagnosed as bipolar, but with no solutions in sight, especially because Muggle medications didn't work for magical folk. Harry was sure of it now; this was where he wanted to specialize. Not just for Alice and Frank, but for people like Sirius too. There had to be a way to bridge that gap, to find a treatment that could help.
One evening, as the entire group of Harry sat in the library, revising for their upcoming exams, Draco leaned back in his chair with a casual air that seemed to carry an important piece of information.
"You know," Draco said, looking up from his textbook, "Snape actually has a degree in magical healing. Did you know that?"
Harry froze mid-sentence. He had never heard that before. "Wait, what?" Harry asked, his voice filled with disbelief. "Snape is a healer?"
Draco nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, he's not just a Potions Master. He actually studied healing magic, and from what I hear, he's pretty good at it. Of course, he keeps that part of himself well hidden. But I wouldn't be surprised if he could teach you a lot more than just Potions."
Harry sat back in his chair, trying to process the information. His mind raced as he recalled all the things he had learned about magical healing and Potions. If Snape was a healer, that meant he could teach Harry a lot about the combination of both fields. He knew that mastering Potions was a key element in the development of magical medicine, but to learn directly from Snape? That was both terrifying and exciting.
"You're serious?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now. "He's really a healer?"
Draco's smirk deepened. "I wouldn't lie about something like that, Potter. You should be grateful. Potions are essential, sure, but healing magic... that's a whole different level."
Harry nodded slowly, a sudden determination filling his chest. "I've always wanted to do something more... with medicine. If I could learn from Snape, I could combine it with the knowledge I've been gathering. Maybe I could be a better healer."
Ron, who had been skimming through a textbook about magical creatures, looked up. "You're not seriously thinking about asking Snape, are you?" He raised an eyebrow. "That man's got a temper, Harry."
"I know," Harry said, his tone reflective. "But lately, he's been... less hostile. Maybe he'd actually teach me."
Hermione, who had been focused on her own revision, turned to them. "It could be a great opportunity, Harry," she said thoughtfully. "If you can learn from him, you'd be ahead of most other healers. But you'd need to approach him carefully. I don't think just asking for a lesson would be enough."
"Right," Harry agreed, his mind already racing with possibilities. "But I'll have to take the chance. It could help me understand more than just Potions. I've always been interested in healing magic—Sirius, Neville's parents... they could use a healer like that."
Draco leaned in slightly, his voice quieter now. "Don't think Snape would help out of the kindness of his heart, Potter. But maybe... just maybe... you'll get something out of him." He paused for a moment, then added, "Just don't expect a warm welcome. You're still Potter, after all."
Harry chuckled dryly. "Yeah, well, if I can learn even a little from him, it'll be worth it."
The group fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment as they all returned to their books, but Harry's mind was far from the pages in front of him. He felt a strange sense of purpose welling up inside him. Maybe Snape could help him become more than just a student of Potions. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to combine magic and healing in ways that could change things for people he cared about.
________
Harry was already quite proficient in Runes and Charms, two disciplines that had the most relevance to medical magic. The two textbooks he had read had linked both fields to spells used in healing, and Harry had already started calculating new medical spells. Only Theo had seen his work, and Harry was certain that he could create spells that could heal, but it wasn't until he arrived at Hogwarts that the spells became more intricate—not just the desire to make something fight, but to create with purpose.
Runes and Arithmancy had taught him that his spells were not just instinctive, but could be broken down into formulas, phrases, and movements that could be repeated. It was like math, Harry realized, and with the right formula, he could make anything happen, again and again. The prospect of using that knowledge in the medical field filled him with excitement, but he knew he still had much to learn.
He could already make potions—he wasn't bad at it, in fact, he was better than most. But if he could improve in that area, the possibilities were endless. He could combine his knowledge of Potions, Runes, and Arithmancy to create new remedies, perhaps even something that could help with neurological conditions. Healing magic wasn't well-developed in the wizarding world, and Harry was determined to change that.
Though he wasn't sure if he could do it now, or if it was even possible, one thing was clear: he had to learn. He had to be better. He needed to improve in all the ways that mattered, and if that meant learning from Snape, despite everything that came with it, then so be it. Harry's mind raced as he thought about the potential for creating new forms of healing magic. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he also knew that he was willing to put in the work.
It was just a matter of time.
---------
Harry took a deep breath, gathering his things and preparing to leave the library. His friends were still buried in their books, focused on their upcoming exams, but Harry had made up his mind.
"I'm going to ask Snape to be my mentor," he said, surprising everyone in the group.
The room went silent, and Hermione blinked in disbelief. "What? Are you sure that's a good idea, Harry?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Snape's not exactly known for being... well, nice. What if he rejects you? How will you handle that?"
Harry paused, thinking for a moment. He had anticipated the question. "I've been around people who've taught me how to handle rejection," he said. "Théo, Pansy, Draco, Blaise, Astoria, Daphne, and Millicent—they've all shown me that it's about making a deal. You give something, you get something in return."
As Harry named each person, their reactions were immediate.
Théo smirked and raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Harry's got a point," he said with a hint of a grin. "You can't be afraid to negotiate, especially with someone like Snape."
Pansy gave a small, approving nod, her lips curling into a barely noticeable smile. "That's the right mindset. No one gets anything for free. Snape respects power, so you'll have to give him something he wants."
Draco, sitting across from him, gave a sharp, curious glance. "And what exactly are you going to offer him? Don't tell me you're going to charm your way into it," he said, eyes glinting with amusement.
Blaise shrugged, offering a smirk. "Could work, if you play it right. But Harry's no fool. He'll figure out the right deal."
Astoria, her expression cool as always, looked up from her book. "You've been around the right people, Harry. Snape respects those who don't just ask for favors but prove they're worth something."
Daphne, who had been quietly reading, spoke up with a soft but firm tone. "It's all about knowing what to offer, and Harry's always been good at figuring that out."
Millicent, her arms crossed and her eyes focused on Harry, added with a sly smile, "Just make sure your offer isn't something he'll use against you later."
Harry smiled slightly, feeling a surge of confidence from his friends' responses. "I'm not worried about rejection. I'll figure it out. And if he refuses, well... I'll have to come up with something else."
Hermione watched him with a skeptical look, but after a pause, she gave a reluctant nod. "Well, if you're sure about this… just don't get in too deep with Snape. He's not exactly a man you want to owe favors to."
"I'm prepared for that," Harry replied, more determined than ever. "If Snape says no, I'll figure something else out. But right now, I'm going to try. I'm going to make the deal."
With that, Harry gathered his things, and despite the uncertainty ahead, he felt ready for whatever Snape would throw at him.
As Harry walked through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his thoughts were focused on one thing: Snape. The offer he was about to make felt risky, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that it might be his only chance to gain the knowledge he desperately needed. It was the end of a Thursday afternoon, and the hallways were quieter than usual, students either studying or preparing for the next day's lessons. Harry knew Snape would likely still be in his office, especially since there was another class tomorrow.
Asha, his pet snake, was coiled comfortably beneath his robes, her presence a quiet comfort as she had grown accustomed to being near him at all times. Harry could feel her warmth against his skin as she gently shifted, somnolent but content. She wasn't the type to be overly energetic unless something was amiss, and right now, all seemed calm. Harry also felt the weight of Kavi, his basilisk, a little further away, residing in the more private areas of Hogwarts, but oddly enough, Kavi and Asha seemed to have formed a quiet truce. It was strange considering their stark differences in size and age, but the two creatures had formed a bond that Harry had never fully understood.
The basilisk, enormous and powerful, with its unsettling gaze, was a creature of magic and instinct. Asha, smaller and quicker, with a more cunning mind, had an almost nurturing side when it came to Kavi. Harry had always been cautious around them—especially with Kavi's deadly nature—but he couldn't help but marvel at how the two serpents got along so well despite their inherent differences.
"Ready, Asha?" Harry whispered, feeling her small, comforting weight beneath his cloak as he reached the door to Snape's office. She barely stirred, her eyes half-lidded but perceptive, as if knowing the importance of the meeting ahead. Kavi, in the back of his mind, seemed to be keeping a protective eye from afar, but Harry kept his focus on the task at hand.
He took a deep breath before knocking on Snape's office door. The faint sound of footsteps echoed from within, and Harry quickly straightened himself. His heart was pounding, but he was determined.
"Enter," came Snape's low, unmistakable voice.
Harry turned the handle and stepped into the dim, potions-scented room. Snape was sitting behind his desk, his sharp eyes already fixed on Harry as he entered.
"You have something to discuss, Potter?" Snape asked, his voice laced with indifference but with an underlying curiosity.
Harry hesitated for a moment, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. But then, remembering his resolve, he straightened and said, "Yes, Professor. I wanted to ask if you would be willing to be my mentor."
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained neutral. "A mentor?" he repeated, as though weighing Harry's words. "And why would I agree to that? You're hardly known for your respect in the classroom, Potter."
Harry wasn't thrown off by the comment. He had expected it. "I know you're an expert in both potions and healing magic, Professor," Harry said, pushing forward. "I've been studying the basics of magical medicine and... well, I'd like to learn more. I think it's important, especially with what's been happening with the war and people like Neville's parents. I want to make a difference, and you have the knowledge I need."
Snape's gaze flickered, and Harry felt a surge of nervousness. But he pushed forward, remembering what his friends had taught him about offering something in return.
"I'm not asking for charity," Harry continued, his voice steady. "I'm offering to work hard. I'll be a good student. I can assist with whatever you need in the lab, and I'll respect your methods. In exchange, I'd like you to teach me what you know about healing magic."
Snape was silent for a moment, his eyes studying Harry as if searching for any hint of insincerity. Asha shifted slightly under Harry's cloak, sensing the tension in the air, but Harry kept his focus on Snape, determined not to back down.
After what felt like an eternity, Snape spoke again, his tone sharp but thoughtful. "You think I will simply teach you because you ask? What do you think I stand to gain from mentoring someone like you?"
Harry took a deep breath, preparing his answer. "I know you value results, and I'll work hard to make sure I'm useful. If you teach me, I can help you with projects or anything that requires extra assistance. You've seen what I'm capable of, even if you don't like me, Professor."
Snape's eyes narrowed even further, but Harry could see the calculation in them. There was a pause, and then Snape leaned back in his chair.
"Very well, Potter," Snape said, his voice like steel. "I will consider your offer. But make no mistake—this will not be an easy task, and you will be held to the highest standards. Prove that you are worthy, and I may teach you."
Harry nodded, trying to suppress the wave of relief that was threatening to wash over him. "Thank you, Professor. I won't disappoint you."
With that, Harry turned to leave, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He knew it wasn't the end yet—he still had to prove himself—but it was a start. As he walked away from Snape's office, Asha slithered out from his robes, coiling around his wrist as if offering silent support. Harry smiled, grateful for the unexpected help and the small victories that were starting to accumulate.
Snape remained seated at his desk after the boy had left, his gaze fixed on the door that had just closed. He had kept his usual icy demeanor, projecting the impression that Potter had little to no chance of earning his mentorship. But the truth was far different. From the moment Potter mentioned the Longbottoms, Snape had already decided. He would teach the boy.
The mention of Alice and Frank Longbottom stirred something in him—an ache he buried deeply but could never quite extinguish. If he hadn't delivered the prophecy to the Dark Lord, perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange would never have tortured them to the brink of insanity. Their fate was a tragedy that weighed heavily on his long list of regrets. And though Snape had always told himself that penance was futile, he couldn't deny the faint hope that perhaps, in some small way, helping Potter might atone for a fraction of the harm he'd caused.
The boy had surprised him, though. There was something different about this Potter, a quiet determination that set him apart from the brash, impulsive child Snape had once despised. His mention of magical medicine, of creating something better for others, had been unexpected. And then, there was Potter's talent. While Snape would never admit it aloud, the boy had potential. His abilities in Potions were as undeniable as those of his mother.
Lily.
A sharp pang pierced Snape's chest at the memory of her. She had been brilliant, a prodigy in Potions, her skill rivaling his own even in their youth. They had challenged one another, pushed each other to new heights, and learned side by side. But where Snape had clung to the precision and logic of the craft, Lily had eventually turned her passion toward Runes. He could still remember the way her face lit up when she spoke of magical inscriptions and their intricate meanings.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to wonder—if Lily were still alive, what would she think of her son now? Would she see the same spark of brilliance in him that Snape had caught glimpses of? Would she be proud of the way he was trying to forge his own path?
Snape leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting to the rows of potion vials lining the shelves. He had spent his life mastering the art of Potions, perfecting every detail, every formula. And now, here was Potter, asking for his guidance. Snape couldn't help but feel the faint stirrings of an old, long-buried rivalry. If anyone could find a way to heal the Longbottoms, it would be Lily's son. And if Potter was to succeed, it would be under Snape's tutelage.
The irony wasn't lost on him. For years, he had loathed James Potter and everything the man represented. But Harry was different—more than his father's arrogance and bluster. Perhaps teaching him would not only be an opportunity to guide a new generation of healers but also a chance to honor Lily's memory in the way he hadn't been able to before.
Snape's lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smirk. The boy didn't know it yet, but he had already won Snape's support. Still, Snape had no intention of making it easy for him. If Harry Potter wanted to learn, he would have to prove himself worthy. And Snape would make sure of that.