A/N: Apologies for the month-long wait between chapters! Real life has a tendency to make writing difficult. Thank you for the very kind reviews! I've very much enjoyed reading them. To those who are curious, it may be slow going, but I do intend to write a third year once this fic is finished!

Also, to Melissa, who pointed out a couple of chapters ago that I do love cliffhangers- I promise it's not intentional!

Mostly not intentional.

Mostly.

Chapter Eighteen: Broken Limbs and Memories

"You don't remember anything?" Ginny Weasley's voice was small, but she forced herself to continue, nodding at Harry's scar. "Nothing at all?"

"Not really." Harry's Transfiguration homework was finished, but he hadn't yet joined the Slytherin-Gryffindor Snakes and Ladders tournament taking place across the common room. "I was one. Do you remember anything from when you were one?"

Ginny offered him a sheepish smile, then shook her head. "I suppose not. Charlie thinks he can, but Mum says he's just remembering stories he's been told."

"I think I might remember some light," Harry admitted. "Green light. It's more of a memory of a memory at this point, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I think I remember laughter. But I don't know if that's something I invented or if it really happened."

Ginny studied him solemnly, then nodded.

Harry was surprised at how little he minded sharing this with her. He usually hated the whispers around the school, and he'd hated how Colin Creevey cornered him for a signed autograph at the start of the school year. But Ginny's questions didn't seem motivated by gossip or salaciousness; she didn't gape open-mouthed at his scar like so many others. She looked at it, certainly, but there was a genuine something to her curiosity he wasn't afforded by the rest of the student body. She asked about his past without judgment, and, like with the rest of his housemates, Harry was honest if a bit reserved.

As though reading Harry's mind, she said, "I hope you don't mind my asking. I don't mean to be rude."

"It's all right," Harry said. While quiet, Ginny had spent enough time in the Slytherin common room as of late (and Harry in hers) for him to understand she wasn't like the students who loudly whispered theories that cut short the moment he grew close. She was shy, and if asking him questions helped her out of her shell, Harry didn't mind obliging. Snape spent enough time forcing the older years to spend time with the firsties that by now it was practically second nature.

"I don't think you Petrified my brother," she reassured him. "Even if you can speak to snakes."

"Well, that's good, because I didn't." They sat in silence a few moments longer, then Harry asked, "Would you like to join the Snakes and Ladders competition?"

Ginny hesitated, then nodded, and they stood up together.

"I saw you talking to Ginny last night," Hermione said as she and Harry made their way down the dungeon steps to double Potions. "She's talking more these days, isn't she?"

Harry nodded. "I haven't paid much attention to her before now, but she's all right. I think the Slytherin first years like her."

"My first year was difficult too," Hermione admitted. "I think it's difficult for everyone, isn't it?"

Harry thought this over. His first year had been difficult. He'd spent his first few months locking horns with Draco Malfoy, to the extent that it was something of an achievement neither had been killed, permanently disfigured, or expelled. Even once they'd settled into an uneasy truce (and, later, an equally uneasy friendship), there'd always been something to fret over, even if one took the events involving the Philosopher's Stone out of the equation.

Still, he didn't think of that first year poorly. In fact, it had been the most brilliant year of his life. Leaving the Dursleys, discovering magic, bonding with his housemates- what more could anyone ask for?

Of course, Harry vaguely understood, it was different for Ginny. Instead of the Dursleys, she had a family she was fond of. Parents she likely missed greatly. She already knew about magic, so Hogwarts wasn't the mind-blowing surprise it had been for Harry. And her first year also happened to coincide with a number of anonymous attacks- including that of her own brother.

"I suppose so," he finally said.

"Made it!" Ron charged up to them, Potions book tucked under his arm, Neville right behind him.

"What took you so long?" Hermione shot them both a disapproving look. "Professor Snape will take points if you're late, and we're already behind."

"We're not late, though, are we?" Ron asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Hi, Harry," Neville said, offering Harry a small smile. "All right?"

"All right." Harry paused, then said, "Busy. Marcus Flint is driving us mad with Quidditch practice."

The second Slytherin Quidditch match of the year had been postponed several times due to the attacks, but it finally seemed to be set in stone for the last week of April. Ravenclaw had soundly trounced Hufflepuff in their match shortly before Christmas, placing the current team ranking at Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff, respectively.

"Gryffindor is bound to beat Hufflepuff," Ron said, referring to the match that would occur one week after the Slytherin-Ravenclaw one. "If you beat Ravenclaw by a wide enough margin, and we do the same with Hufflepuff, the Quidditch Cup might come down to our two houses."

The three boys studied each other very gravely as Hermione rolled her eyes and mumbled something about Quidditch rivalries. Finally, Harry said, "I suppose Slytherin and Gryffindor being against each other isn't entirely new."

Ron stared at him, then finally smiled reluctantly. "I suppose not."

"Will you move?" Hermione cut in, her tone insistent. "We're going to be late."

Marcus Flint sat at a table near the front of the Potions classroom, finishing the last of his homework, the only student present. Severus sat at his own desk, scanning through Flint's returned homework and exams from the past week, paying special attention to the written feedback.

"You've improved immensely," he said at last. "Your grasp of Transfiguration theory is shakier than I'd like, but this is far better than what you brought me at the start of these sessions. At this rate, if you continue to work at it, you're bound to net at least a couple of N.E.W.T.s, if not a few. I don't say this often, but well done."

Flint didn't reply, nor did he look up. He merely nodded as he dipped his quill into a pot of ink and continued to write.

"Flint." Severus's tone held a bit of steel. "I said well done."

A pause, then Flint looked up and reluctantly said, "Thank you, sir."

Severus nodded, then glanced back down at the parchment before him. "I know it's taken quite a bit of effort to improve your marks, time that might have been spent-"

He paused. He'd been on the verge of saying with friends, but Marcus Flint didn't have friends, and Severus wasn't about to rub that in, remembering his own later years at Hogwarts.

"-Spent pursuing more entertaining ventures," he concluded. "Such as Quidditch."

"You said if I didn't improve my marks, I'd be booted off the team, sir. I didn't have much of a choice."

"Of course you had a choice. You always have a choice." A bit heavy handed, but one had to be when it came to Marcus Flint. "You simply made the most logical one."

"I suppose, sir." Flint's tone was guarded; he could be thick, but not so thick he didn't see where this conversation was headed. Severus didn't guide all of their remedial sessions in this direction, but he did often enough that the boy knew what was coming.

Severus treaded lightly at first. "You've enjoyed being Quidditch captain, haven't you, Flint?"

"I suppose, sir," Flint said again, still stiff. "I'm good at telling people what to do. And we have a good roster. I think we have a real chance at the Quidditch Cup."

"You're also rather adept at the strategy of the game." Severus managed a twitch of his lips that might pass for a smile. "It's a barbaric, dangerous game, but even I see the planning and logic that goes into a winning strategy."

"Might as well be good at something, sir," Flint mumbled, glancing up for only the briefest of moments before returning to his assignment, which Severus could see he'd finished and was now reading over.

"Does that bother you?"

"Bother me?"

Severus nodded, then pushed on as gently as he could, given the subject matter. "Does it bother you that academics don't come as easily to you as it might others?"

Flint shrugged, and for once, Severus didn't correct him. "Can't change fate, can I, sir?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that I'll scrape by if I try hard enough, but I'm not brainy, not like that idiot Higgs." Flint paused, then forced himself to say, "Sorry, sir."

"No you're not," Severus said, but his tone wasn't one of scolding. He leaned back in his chair. "Don't give an apology for saying something you stand behind."

Flint stared at him, then, testing the waters, said, "That's nonsense."

Severus chuckled, both at the boy's impertinence, and then at his wide-eyed reaction to Severus's immediate response. "What makes you say that?"

"Why shouldn't I say I'm sorry if you thrash us whenever we say something you don't like?" Flint protested. "Or- or you shove us in the corner of the common room like bloody five-year-olds! I'm just saving my own skin!"

"That's not entirely true," Severus said, resisting the urge to remind him to refer to him as sir. It was such a rare occurrence that he managed to force Marcus Flint out of his surly shell that Severus wasn't about to waste the opportunity, not when the end of term was so rapidly approaching. "I punish my students when it's warranted- when they bully others, or put themselves or others in danger. I expect a high level of respect toward myself and others. But that's just it, Flint, I will never fault you for thinking a classmate is an idiot. I only request you offer that classmate some modicum of respect."

Flint exhaled, but he didn't say anything.

"What are your plans after this year?" Severus asked, changing the topic.

"I don't know," Flint said after a moment. "My father might be able to get me a job at the Ministry. Not certain where, but it'll be something."

"I've heard," Severus said. "He's having a difficult time, I've heard."

Flint looked at him sharply. "How do you- how would you know that?"

Severus didn't tell him the truth, that he'd been told by Lucius Malfoy as they discussed the Flints the month before. Bartholomew Flint was a decidedly unpopular figure among both the former Death Eaters and the rest of the world outside their ranks. He was a hardliner, one who devoted nearly all his conversations with those he trusted to rhapsodies on how much better the world would be once the Dark Lord returned. He lived permanently in the past, and was the first to chide others for not being adequately loyal to their temporarily deposed leader.

Of course, Bartholomew Flint hadn't been so loyal that he hadn't claimed to be under the Imperius Curse, avoiding being bundled off to Azkaban with the rest of the Dark Lord's most fierce supporters. This in itself was his undoing. He was too devout for those outside Azkaban, and not devout enough for those within its walls.

Bartholomew Flint had a moderate position at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Transportation, one that supported a relatively comfortable lifestyle not just for him, but for his increasingly quiet wife and his son. He had no generational wealth, but he did well enough and had a modest estate. It was an unspoken fact at the Ministry, however, that there would be no further promotions; given his history and his practically insulting bare-bones façade excusing his time as a former Death Eater, Bartholomew had risen as far as he would within the Ministry's ranks.

It was no wonder he was struggling to find a place for his son.

It happened so suddenly that Harry only comprehended it several moments later. They'd been on their way to lunch, Draco several paces ahead. He reached the top of the marble staircase- then, while Harry's head was turned, there was a shout, and Draco was suddenly in a heap at the bottom of the stairs

Draco, who'd never been one to take an injury gracefully, howled as though he'd been attacked by a pack of particularly rabid wolves. "My leg! I've broken my leg!"

"No, you haven't," Harry reassured him the moment he reached the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by the students who'd been behind them. Upon taking a look at the state of Draco's lower half, he hesitated, then said, "Actually, scratch that, you might have."

"Wicked," Vincent said, leaning down to get a closer look. "Greg, look at this!"

"Get away! You'll make it worse!" Draco shouted, waving an arm at the two boys. "It hurts!"

"We're not even touching it!"

A crowd was forming; the students and staff already inside the Great Hall had been summoned by Draco's shouting.

"Stand aside, stand aside!" came the last voice Harry or Draco wished to hear. Gilderoy Lockhart pushed his way through the throngs of people and knelt beside Draco. "Has the poor lad taken a tumble?"

Fear at how Lockhart might solve the situation was one of the few things to make Draco stop howling, and he reared back as best he could, given the circumstances, with a desperate, "I'm all right- I'll be fine-"

"Nonsense! If you'll just allow me to..." Lockhart jabbed his wand at Draco's leg, setting off another, genuine shout of pain.

"Get away from me!"

"Stand back!" Professor Snape's tone was so authoritative that even Lockhart reflexively jumped aside. He squeezed his way through the crowd and knelt down. Gesturing at Draco's leg, which was pointed at a funny angle, he stated the obvious. "Broken leg?"

Draco nodded, tears streaming down his face. Harry could tell that as much as he was milking the drama for all it was worth, he was also in actual pain.

"You'll be all right. Poppy!" Severus called out, but the nurse was already there, tutting and lighting the tip of her wand to get a closer look at the damage.

"Always running up and down the stairs- think they're invincible-"

"I wasn't running!" Draco protested. "I didn't trip! Someone made me fall!"

Madam Pomfrey shushed him, continuing to survey his leg. "It's a bad break, but it's only in one location and certainly mendable. He'll be on his feet in no time."

Draco hardly seemed to hear her. He turned to Professor Snape. "You have to believe me! It's like the knife- it wasn't me!"

The knife? Harry's mind went blank, then he remembered the incident hardly a month ago in Potions class, when Draco's silver knife had gone flying into the air and nearly impaled his own hand. Everyone, including Professor Snape, had attributed it to Draco mucking about, but Draco hadn't shut up about it for weeks. He'd only just let it go, and now here he was shouting about it for the entire school to hear.

"What are you doing?" Harry murmured quietly.

"You know what I'm talking about! Someone has it out for me!" Draco turned back to Snape. "Someone did something to me, sir- you have to believe me."

Snape studied the boy intensely, then finally broke eye contact before turning to Dumbledore, who stood nearby with McGonagall at his side.

"Headmaster?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded, expression unchanging. "You have my permission."

Snape turned to the student body, face grim, and barked, "Wands out!"

Harry stuck his hand into his cloak pocket, perplexed, as Madam Pomfrey conjured a stretcher and levitated Draco onto it. As she transported him up the same set of stairs he'd just tumbled down, Snape pressed the tip of his wand to that of the nearest student- in this case, Lucian Bole.

"Prior Incantato," Snape said, and they watched as a hazy quill appeared and zoomed toward Lucian.

"Summoning Charm," Snape murmured, half to himself, then said, "Deletrius!"

The memory of the spell vanished, and Snape turned to the next person. "Wand out!"

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Harry confirmed to the indignant convalescent. "Well, no, there were a few Unlocking Charms- a Confundus Charm- two Leg-Lockers-"

"A few good hexes, too," Blaise said. "A bunch of the standard Tickling and Stinging ones, but there was a Pus Squirting hex thrown in there that I'd love to learn."

"Did you see the Toenail Growing one?" Harry asked him. "Who do you think will teach us that? I didn't even know that existed." He paused, then turned to Draco. "Fair warning, you're not very popular right now. Nearly a third of the school has detention."

"You're especially not popular with all the Slytherins Snape ordered to queue up outside his study after dinner," Blaise said with a snicker. "Tough going. I'd watch your back for the next few weeks."

Draco hardly seemed to hear this, instead focusing on the part where none of the spells related to his broken leg. "You're certain? They didn't catch anyone?"

"Not for the reason you want," Harry confirmed. "Seamus Finnegan had a spell that sort of looked like it might be related-"

"Slippery handling jinx," Blaise explained.

"-but it turns out it was from this morning, when Flitwick taught it in Charms. Besides, he was in the Great Hall when you fell. It couldn't have been him."

Draco went very quiet. Finally, he leaned back into his pillows and said, "Well, thanks for the chocolate, at least."

"Some of it was already yours, to be honest. We just nicked it from your trunk."

"Better than Tracey and Millicent's gift. They brought flowers." Draco wrinkled his nose and gestured at the small, hand-picked bouquet on his bedside table. "Why would I want flowers? Girls are so weird." Before Harry or Blaise could reply, Draco deflated slightly. "Before you say it, I know it looks like I'm making something out of nothing."

"A bit," Blaise said, blunt but ultimately sympathetic.

"But you don't understand what it was like. I was at the top of the stairs, and then..." He trailed off.

"It was as though you'd been pushed," Harry finished for him. "Pushed hard, even though no one was behind you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it."

"So you did see!"

Harry shook his head. "No. But don't you remember what happened when we sneaked out to duel last November?"

Of course Draco remembered. He stiffened, as did Blaise, as they thought back to that terrible night during their, and to the cloaked figure that had attacked Harry.

"But that was Quirrell," Blaise said softly. "Wasn't it?"

Harry nodded slowly. "And Quirrell's dead."

"You do believe me," Draco said, locking eyes with both boys in turn. "Don't you?"

Harry was surprised to discover that he thought he might. Until now, he hadn't truly believed that there was anything sinister behind the business with the knife, and the stairs had seemed like an accident, but he remembered how frightening and bewildering his own experience had been- and he remembered Draco's hand darting out to pull him back.

"Yes," he finally said, and a moment later Blaise nodded.

"Rather an eventful day," Dumbledore whispered to Severus at the head table that evening.

Severus glowered at him, then at a specific assortment of miscreants at his own table, ones who had the good grace to lower their gazes.

"Do you believe the boy, Severus?"

He nodded. "I probed his mind. He at least believes he was attacked, and I saw nothing to indicate otherwise. I just don't know who it was."

"Perhaps the attacker cast another spell to cover their tracks," Dumbledore suggested. "It would have easily gone unnoticed in the commotion."

"Indeed," Severus murmured, reaching for his goblet.

"Hardly the first time something like this has happened," Dumbledore reassured him. "It's a terrible pity, but one of the realities of lumping so many children together for extended lengths of time. I'm certain Poppy will have him mended in no time."

In fact, the boy's leg had been healed almost immediately, but Poppy, worrier that she was, had insisted he stay overnight, just to make sure the spell held.

"Given the more severe attacks that have occurred, I imagine we can write this one off as a lark spun out of control," Dumbledore went on. "I'll keep my eyes and ears open. You've nothing to worry about, Severus."

Of course, Severus still did worry, something he knew the headmaster understood perfectly well.

Harry and Blaise made their way out of the Hospital Wing, the Chocolate Frogs they'd brought on Draco's bedside table. There was a line of Slytherins outside, along with a few Gryffindors, including Ron, Hermione, Neville, Lavender, and even Ginny Weasley.

"Are we allowed in now?" Vincent asked, motioning at himself and Greg.

"Five minutes, and that's all," Madam Pomfrey said sharply from her desk near the open door. "He needs rest."

The boys hurried in, their arms filled with Sugar Quills and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and Harry and Blaise headed back to the dungeons. They took the long way to the dorms, passing Snape's study so they could get a good look at the sorry sods waiting outside.

"How has it been so far?" Harry asked, sidling up to Millicent and Tracey, who were partway through the line.

Before either could answer, the door opened and Reggie Derrick emerged, expression neutral. Snape wasn't far behind, whirling both his head and torso around the doorjamb into the corridor as he motioned the next delinquent inside with a single, threatening crook of his finger.

Once the door was safely shut, Reggie shrugged and said, "Two feet. 'I will not cast Tickling Charms in the corridors.'"

"That's not bad," Millicent said. "Not bad at all."

"Better than Theo," Tracey agreed as Reggie made his way back to the common room. "He wouldn't say, but it was obvious it wasn't lines."

"Poor fool," Millicent said with a grin.

"He was only caught having an Unlocking Charm, right?" Harry asked. "That's not so terrible, is it?"

The girls giggled, and Millicent explained, "He panicked and told the truth once Snape had him cornered in his office. He was trying to get a Fanged Frisbee back from Filch."

"Idiot!" Blaise laughed. "After Snape caught him doing that once already? Besides, Filch's office can't be unlocked with Alohomora, especially after someone only just forced their way in."

"That's what we told him." Tracey grinned, then went quiet, clearly pondering her own fate. "Confundus Charms aren't the worst spells you could be caught casting, are they?" When Millicent didn't respond, she said, "I think I'd rather take the walloping than the lines. At least it's over faster."

"I'd like to see you say again that when we're both arse up over Snape's desk," Millicent advised her.

"Fair point." Tracey sighed. "The moment Draco's well, I'm going to throttle him."

"I'll help," Millicent said.

"You can't be too angry with him," Harry pointed out. "You brought him flowers, after all."

The two girls smiled very sweetly, and Millicent leaned over to whisper, "You can find the most incredible types of flowers near the greenhouses. Did you know there's a magical flower that covers you in full-body hives if you're near it for too long? Only takes a few hours... or a night in the Hospital Wing."

Things had finally begun to settle down by the time the following week rolled around. The last of the Itching Powder had finally been scoured from Malfoy's bed (and his clothing, and his shoes), and most of the student body seeming at last to let bygones be bygones, though the situation still weighed heavily on Severus's mind.

Marcus Flint arrived to his remedial session with his books under his arm, as he always did, but this time Severus motioned for him to put them away. "Those won't be needed."

Flint lowered them onto the nearest desk, expression suspicious. "Is this going to be one of those 'Here's why you shouldn't follow the Dark Lord' sessions, sir?"

"Come here, and mind your tone."

Flint obeyed, his eyes widening as he approached the desk and spotted the Pensieve. "What's this for, sir?"

"It occurred to me," Severus said, "That you speak a great deal about the Dark Lord without having seen him in action. No fault of your own, of course. You didn't choose to be born when you were."

Flint continued to stare at him.

"I can talk to you at great length about what life was like in those days," Snape went on. "But seeing and hearing are two very separate things. Would you like to see, Marcus?"

A long, terrible silence hovered between them.

"This is a trap," Flint finally said. "You can't stand the Dark Lord. There's a trick involved. For all I know these are altered memories. You're trying to misguide me."

Snape chuckled, a low, barely audible sound. "Now, you know better than that. Just two weeks ago I read over your assignment on both Memory Charms and memory storage for Professor Flitwick. Altered memories bear undeniable markings."

"Why, then?" Flint asked. "Why show me? What good will it do? I've chosen the Dark Lord. My mind is made up."

"I know you have. And I accept that," Severus said solemnly. "I truly have, Marcus. I also know you will be leaving Hogwarts in less than two months time. I've done my best to prepare you for the world. I can't stop you from making this choice. It would be remiss, however, not to show you what you'd be signing up for."

"I know it's a difficult path," Flint said shortly. "I know it's not always going to be pleasant. I don't care."

Severus leaned closer, his voice both low and enticing. "That being said, don't you want to see the Dark Lord? Properly see him for yourself, instead of just hearing stories? I've seen him. Your father's seen him. Don't you want that gift?"

Flint stared at him with what appeared to be anger, but something else mixed in- longing, Severus understood after a moment. He gazed back down at the Pensieve. Through the swirling mists inside, a room of cloaked and masked figures could be seen. In the midst of them, one unmasked man strode back and forth, the other figures perfectly still.

"Is that him?" Flint stared at the memory of the Dark Lord. He looked up at Severus, and finally added, "Sir?"

Severus nodded. "I'll go with you, if you'd like."

Flint didn't reply, instead staring at the contents of the Pensieve a moment longer. Then he lowered his head, Severus following a few seconds later.

"Hello, Ginny," Harry said, smiling at the first-year as she passed him in the Slytherin common room. She shot him a terrified look and scurried toward the group of Slytherin first years.

Harry's smile faded into a frown. Ginny seemed to have two moods- one in which she sought Harry out and asked about both him and Slytherin as a whole, and one in which all her bravery seemed to vanish and she kept to herself as much as possible.

"She's mental," Ron had suggested when he brought it up. "I wouldn't think too much on it. Girls are weird like that, aren't they?"

Harry figured Ron knew best, given he was Ginny's brother, but it still bothered him as he turned back to his game of draughts with Draco, the latter of whom was playing poorly as he kept furtively glancing about for any incoming spells or spitballs.

Chanting together their fealty to the Dark Lord- voices thick with emotion, masks hiding the tears rolling down some of their faces-

Severus had forgotten just how wonderful the brotherhood of Death Eaters had felt in those early days. Especially for a young man with a childhood as lonely as his own. They were a family united by a common cause. Ever since he'd lost his friendship with Lily, Severus had no one, and now he suddenly had more friends than he could have ever imagined.

They'd been through quite a few of these memories by now, of the good days, and Marcus Flint watched with clear longing. On more than one occasion he'd glanced furtively at Severus from the corner of his eyes, his expression plainly questioning why he was showing him these memories.

Because, Severus thought, If this is the path you choose to follow, you deserve to see all of it. The good and the bad.

Severus refrained from showing him any truly personal memories, instead sticking to ones where everyone was masked and celebrating the Dark Lord's might collectively. He was taking a great risk showing the boy the things he was; no need to increase that risk any further than strictly necessary.

"This is what you're trying to steer me from?" Flint asked at last, not breaking his gaze with the Dark Lord for a moment. "Why?"

Severus didn't respond. He knew what was coming, and he very nearly put a hand on Flint's shoulder to prepare him. He stopped himself, however, instead standing back and watching.