Hauntingly by ObsidianPen

Series: Haunted and Hunted [2]

Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Humor, Emotional Manipulation,
Emotional Roller Coaster, Gen, Harrymort - Freeform, M/M, Obsession,
Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trauma, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Draco Malfoy,
Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Ron
Weasley, Severus Snape, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Voldemort
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:51:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 438,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Summary:

Alive. Hidden. Concealed in the metaphorical closet, and the ominous,

creaking footsteps outside belong to a monster... He's sniffing the air in
anticipation. He's craving more than the scent. Intoxicated by his own
bloodlust, and a single, fleeting moment of weakness is all he needs. "...I
will have you..."

Eventual HP/LV/TR. Sequel to 'Mine'.

 1. Prologue: The Magnificent Mind of Severus Snape
Author's Note:

This is the crazy long, monstrosity of a sequel to 'Mine'. There is angst.

There is humor. There is a shit ton of drama and suspense. There is
smut, but not a lot. Some (most? all?) of it is dub-con in nature. HP/TM,
HP/LV. Some hints of HP/DM and others, but NO HP/SS. You might
cry. You will probably hate me.

Okay...I think that's all I have for you in terms of warnings. Enjoy...?

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I profit from this.

Shocking, I know.
(aesthetic by this-bright-eyed-soul)
Severus was freezing to death.

Possibly, literally.

No. Not possibly. Absolutely literally.

He had as many layers accumulated on his sinewy body as he could manage

while still maintaining the ability to walk. Stacks of thick wool and fleece
upon his back, scarves (which covered his entire face, save for his eyes) and
hats and several pairs of socks underneath his heavy, leather boots (but only
one pair of dense gloves, as his nimble fingers were still required, his wand
held steadfastly in his hand)… countless layers. So many that he felt as
though he was closer to being an animate, disgruntled pile of live clothing
than a powerful, capable wizard.

Which was all well and good. Snape had been forced to resorting to piling on
copious amounts of loose-fitting garments in order to keep warm. He could
not use magic… He did not dare… At least, not yet. Not until absolutely
necessary. His own aura, even, was suppressed to a most minimal level. He
would not risk triggering any kind of alarm, he would avoid that for as long
as physically possible… Snape bemoaned the inability to instantly conjure up
a steady stream of hot air or bluebell flames around his body to keep him
warm. But all magic leaves traces, all spells give off a certain amount of
energy—and Severus was certain that the Dark Lord would have
enchantments in place to detect even the most minimal spell cast anywhere in
the vicinity of his…his… In the hiding place. Even knowing that his former
master was going to be asleep for at least another hour (though on any normal
man the potion would last much longer…but the Dark Lord was no normal
man), Snape would put off casting spells until he had to.

Alas, the layers. They were highly inconvenient. In fact, it had taken him
nearly twenty minutes to get properly dressed before his excursion.

This was his second time in Antarctica.

The first time… Ah, well. It had been a…short trip. Severus had apparated in
what he thought was appropriately warm attire. After all, he was only going
to be there for a moment. It was a preliminary journey, just to look, just to
investigate briefly and see if his suspicions held any weight…

What a rude awakening that had been.

There is no proper way to describe the cold that is Antarctica in July.

There is no proper way to describe what -75 degrees Celsius feels like, other
than to say that it feels very much like -103 degrees Fahrenheit.

It is cold.

It is very, very cold.

Imagine the coldest you have ever felt in your entire existence. Now imagine
that exact moment, and multiply it by precisely one hundred times. Now
imagine that exact moment, except that now you are naked and your lungs
are filled with solid ice. In addition to this, imagine that you have lost the
ability to breathe.

Because that is how Severus Snape would describe that cold, and even that
does not begin to do it justice. The cold was all consuming, paralyzing and
horrific. He lasted approximately thirteen seconds before he apparated away,
shaking violently, simultaneously frigid and feverish.

Fortunately (or, truly, not fortunately at all, because it had very little to do
with luck and everything to do with his own foresight and superior intellect),
Severus had several batches of pepper-up potion awaiting him, as well as a
roaring fire blazing merrily in the fireplace of his quarters. Never had there
been a more welcome sight than those dancing flames in his entire life.

The pepper-up potion was gone within minutes. All of it. It was the school's
entire stock.

His ears were billowing clouds of steam for nearly an entire day afterwards.
He'd had to tell the Dark Lord himself that it was because he was suffering
from a cold and took, unwisely, too much of his own potion. He'd even gone
into details about how very much he detested head colds. It had been most
embarrassing. But, for whatever reason, the Dark Lord had found the
continual jets of steam more amusing than annoying, and he'd believed him.

Severus truly was an excellent Occlumens. And, contrary to popular belief,

the Dark Lord actually does have a sense of humor, even if he chooses to
only express such sentiments with his closest followers. A very morbid, dry,
and, admittedly, rather witty sense of humor. He had taken in the sight of
Snape's steaming ears and actually laughed.

"I think you are lying to me, Severus," he'd chastised (and Snape nearly
suffered a stream of mild heart attacks, though his face did not show it), but
his thin lips had curled into a sinister grin, his scarlet eyes gleaming. "I
believe your tale about having a cold is a clever ruse, and the truth is that you
are hot and bothered by my very presence."

Snape had exhaled. And then he'd been dismissed. Apparently, the steam was
distracting.

Yes, it had been a very short trip indeed, the first time he'd come to
Antarctica. But it had been enough. Even within such a small time frame,
Snape had been able to deduce that it must be where The Undesirable was
being kept.

The Undesirable. Snape scowled to himself as he trudged along the icy

terrain under his many, suffocating layers. He had gotten very used to
referring to the boy that way, and, he had to admit, the Taboo had a rather
powerful impact on the wizarding world.

Fear of the name certainly does increase fear of the individual. Hardly anyone
dared discuss the boy, but even when they did use the 'correct' term, it was
always whispered, hushed. Harry Potter was no longer thought of as 'The
Chosen One'… He was thought of now more as a ghost; his name, a curse…

And what a complicated bit of magic, that Taboo! When it had first been
instilled, people could utter his first name alone—simply 'Harry' was
impossible to put a rudimentary blanket hex on, it was far too common,
snatchers would be chasing their tails all day long—but the Dark Lord, in all
his ire, found even that unacceptable. It had taken some time to iron out the
spell work, but in the end it was he, Severus Snape, who had managed it.

Originally it was a task set to Yaxley and Dolohov. But the blundering dolts
were…well, blundering dolts. They had been floundering, and so, the
moment that Severus was moderately healed and able to leave St. Mungo's,
he had been asked to assist. The fools had been taking the Taboo hex far too
literally. They were focusing on the actual words for tracking purposes as
opposed to the intended, translatable thoughts. Language was simply a tool to
express ideas, he'd explained to his supposed colleagues as if they were two
of his less capable first year students. It was necessary, therefore, to connect
the spoken words ('Harry', 'Harry Potter', or 'Harry James Potter') with the
intended, intangible thought of that specific individual. It had been grueling,
such complex and sophisticated mental magic. Dolohov and Yaxley would
never have been able to manage it. But Severus was, if he did say so himself,
rather smart, and the Mind Arts were his specialty (as was brewing Potions.
And the Dark Arts. And Defensive Spells. And cooking, though he tended to
keep this to himself… He had a lot of specialties).

'Harry', and even 'Harry Potter' could now be spoken while referencing
another person, but when it was The Undesirable in your thoughtful
intentions when you spoke the words, the Taboo was triggered.

Very intricate magic, indeed. And thus far it was quite effective. Though
Snape hardly doubted that any witch or wizard in all of Britain would ever
name their child 'Harry' again.

Severus outdid himself on a regular basis. Really. The Dark Lord had been
most pleased when he had accomplished this task of the Taboo within two
days, when both Dolohov and Yaxley combined had been failing for over a
week. He was invaluable to his former master, even still.

That was very likely to come to an end today.

Antarctica.
It had not been easy, solving the riddle of where Harry Potter was being held.
For so long, he had, like many others, dreaded the worst. He had feared that
the boy was dead and gone. But that did not prevent him and the Headmaster
from searching, even despite the fact that Dumbledore was sporting a rather
nasty curse upon his left hand (reckless, idiotic, foolish old man)… Albus
had been quite certain in his belief that Harry was alive, so hopeful, and so
he, Severus, had been hopeful, too.

It wasn't until his encounter with a certain Divination Professor that he finally
found out why Dumbledore was so certain that Harry Potter was alive. The
moment Sibyl had come back to herself, Snape had dropped her to the floor
of the darkened hallway like a ton of bricks (it was one of his less chivalrous
moments, he would later admit), marching right back up to the Headmaster's
office, his breathing labored as though he'd just run a marathon.

He'd extracted the memory. Motioned for Albus to watch it in its entirety in
the pensieve. The Headmaster, looking rather taken aback bu Snape's rapid
return and distressed demeanor, had complied without question.

…human… horcrux…

Once he'd fully, physically returned back to his office, Snape had expected
him to look as panicked as he'd felt. But this…was not the case.

Dumbledore had actually sighed.

The Headmaster had slowly removed his glasses and rubbed his temples,
suddenly looking very much the part of sad, withering old man. He did not
looked shocked. He did not look disgusted or aghast. Once he'd placed his
spectacles back on his crooked nose, he'd looked back up at Severus with no
characteristic twinkle in those piercing, blue eyes.

He'd known.

What followed was perhaps the most uncomfortable conversation that he and
the Headmaster had ever had. Which was really saying something, as he and
Albus Dumbledore had shared a number of terribly disquieting exchanges. It
had led to an even more painful discussion the very next morning, consisting
of some of his least favorite students, about what lay ahead…

"It is up to you, now… Find Harry James Potter, at all costs…"

The Headmaster's voice haunted him on a daily basis. It was, perhaps, the last
time he had heard someone say the boy's full name out loud. Until the Dark
Lord had ordered the Taboo on it, at least.

Regardless.

A world of white. Asleep, safe and sound… A world of white… The Dark
Lord holds him… A world of white… A world of white…

It was very little to go off of.

So over the course of the next month and a half, Severus had dedicated
himself to finding out exactly where this mysterious location may be.

It was, naturally, exceptionally confusing and difficult. Especially

considering that only days later Hogwarts was infiltrated (Draco, idiotic boy,
refusing his help and not informing him of when, precisely, this attack was
going to happen), Death Eaters were roaming the castle, and Albus
Dumbledore, by his very unwilling hand, was dead.

The astronomy tower. The Headmaster returned from wherever it was he'd
gone (infuriatingly having taken those insipid students with him, no less, but
having insisted that Severus stay behind to guard the school), Draco had
disarmed him, and Snape had, as expected, as anticipated, finished the job…

It was most dramatic. The torrid memory still woke him from his troubled
sleep regularly.

Then, as if that traumatic experience hadn't been enough…the meeting

happened.

That cursed, foul snake.

It had gone insane! Severus had not—would never, ever do—anything to
provoke such a creature, and yet it had lunged at him as though possessed. If
he had not managed to move in that moment, if it would have pierced his
throat, as it had seemed so violently intent on doing… He shuddered,
repressing that particular memory. It would not do to dwell on it, though his
aching shoulder throbbed at the mere thought. It would never be the same
again, he was certain of that.

For nearly a week, he'd been unconscious in St. Mungo's. Luckily, however,
he was able to leave only a few days after that… They had, ostensibly,
already created an anti-venom for this particular poison just a year earlier.
Apparently a man named Arthur Weasley came into contact with the same
kind of venom, a medi-witch had muttered thoughtfully, her brows
furrowed… Such a strange, rare poison… Snape had murmured something
very non-committal in response… Mmm, yes, very odd, indeed…

And so, for the most part, he was recovered. The Healers had wanted him to
stay longer to recuperate, to monitor him; but Snape did not have time to
linger on hospital beds and do crosswords while the Boy Who Lived was
missing in some elusive 'world of white'. Grudgingly, the Healers had
discharged him, and at once he was put to the task of perfecting the Taboo…
The Dark Lord had sounded so very tired when he'd made the request, so
very distraught, so stressed…

A Sleeping Draught, my Lord, I would advise… I, your humble servant,

would be happy to make for you any potion at all, should you request it…

He, Severus, had been praised, been called his most loyal, his most capable…
The Dark Lord had even repeated his statement of Lucius's incompetency,
made a reference to, perhaps, setting the task to Snape, should Lucius
become…unable…

Oh, I shall begin at once, Severus had thought vindictively behind

impenetrable mental barriers.

A Sleeping Draught was provided.

The hunt began.

Snape dug through his many memories of the Dark Lord in a near frenzy
during those few scattered, precious hours in which he knew the Dark Lord to
be asleep. A world of white… Presumably, that more than likely referred to a
mental state…but there had to be something, anything that could give him
some kind of clue, some direction in which to focus… A world of white…

He'd relived memory after memory in which the Dark Lord would
monologue theatrically (it was an interesting habit that his former master had.
He loved to talk about his own prowess, especially to a fearful, subservient,
and, in a sense, captive audience), searching for anything at all that could
assist him in his task… A world of white… Asleep, safe and sound… A
world of white… A world of white…

And one day, he finally found something.

It was a memory from years and years ago, when Severus himself had only
just recently taken on the Dark Mark. He remembered this particular meeting
quite well. The brand was still fresh, the pain still lingering…and he had been
so young, so eager to prove himself. The Dark Lord's words had mesmerized
him at this point, he was absolutely enthralled by the captivating entity that
was the Lord Voldemort…how sickeningly nostalgic, he'd thought bitterly as
he'd watched his former Lord pacing before his Death Eaters, vehemently
giving an inspiring, passionate speech, his black cloak swishing about him in
a most impressive and imposing way (Severus had decided to master that
particular motion at once, he would use it on students all the time)…

"…I, who have explored the densest, wildest jungles and most barren,
desolate deserts, I, who have ventured for prolonged, unheard of periods of
time to the very top and to the very bottom of this planet, to those landscapes
of crashing, arctic waves and blinding white, of howling winds and endless
ice, and have discovered and manipulated the unique magical energies there
—"

Blinding white. Howling winds and endless ice. The top and bottom of the
world.
Could Trelawney's prophetic message of 'world of white'… Could it actually
have been literal?

It was a bit far-fetched, but it was something.

The north pole, the 'top of the world', seemed unlikely. It was, after all, in the
middle of the Arctic Ocean, and while there were decently sized masses of
floating ice there, Severus did not think that it qualified as a 'world of white'.
Besides, he thought shrewdly, the 'bottom on the world' seemed a better fit
for the poetic tastes of his former master. It made sense. Harry Potter, the
Chosen One… Where better for his prison then the very end of the Earth? He
quite literally could not go any lower than that. Unless, of course, he was
below sea level… Under the water, perhaps in the ocean, submerged to
impossible depths—

Snape shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the overwhelming cold of the
terrain. He did not want to think about that. Yet, on some level, he had
managed to impress himself. Should he ever need to desperately hide a
human hostage from the rest of the world for an indefinite period of time, he
would put them in an enchanted, oxygen-replenishing prison in the vast
depths of the ocean.

But that would be a 'world of black', not a 'world of white', and besides, he
already knew that Harry Potter was here. Or, at least, he thought. He hoped.

Severus continued to trudge along towards where he could feel the

undeniable traces of magic. Minimal, hardly tangible at all, but resolutely
present. An ordinary wizard would be completely unable to even feel it, but
Snape was no ordinary wizard. He knew dark magic, he knew the signs, and,
most importantly, he knew the Dark Lord.

Lord Voldemort had a certain style to his magic. Snape recognized it like a
signature.

He paused. He scanned the seemingly empty landscape intently, gripping his

wand a bit tighter in his frigid palm. Blessedly, thankfully, the winds were
minimal this day. But their distant howling filled his ears, a continuous,
nearly vocal sound…

He was close.

Snape hesitantly lifted his leg to take another cautious, tentative step—

The ground exploded at his feet.

He barely dodged them in time—colossal shards of pointed ice erupted form

the ground, pointed tips which attempted to slice him in half as they flew
violently upwards—they broke free from the white earth at a rapid pace, one
after another after another, and Snape dove forward, certain, now, that he was
heading in the right direction—he was on the run, clumsily sprinting as best
he could, yet with each step he took, another deathly-sharp ice fragment
sprung forth from the ground at his feet, like infinite, endless land mines, and
he knew he could avoid it no longer—he needed to use magic, it was the only
way—

'Pacem Omnino!' Snape thought vehemently as he ran, brandishing his wand

like a baton above his head. It was the most powerful anti-hex he knew of—

The explosions stopped.

Snape continued to run for a few short moments in case it was a trick, but the
ground had ceased attempting to skewer him. He looked behind him, panting.
It was almost comical, the way that the little mountains of ice remained there,
a perfect indication of the path he had run on. He'd apparently been sprinting
in a bit of a zig-zag.

Well, he thought sourly as his breathing slowed, there was no point in being
subtle, now. If Lord Voldemort had been awake, he surely would have felt
that.

He needed to hurry.

Snape turned his attention at once toward that dim, magnetic pull. Wards. An
infinite array of them, masterfully interwoven so as to create one, nearly
impenetrable barrier.

Nearly.

Severus set to work at once. Dismantling wards had been another one of his
many specialties, a technique which he had honed during his years of service
to the Dark Lord. As a matter of fact, it had been he, Lord Voldemort
himself, who had taught the young, eager Half-Blood Prince how to do it.
The Dark Lord was an excellent teacher, and Severus an excellent pupil.

Snape was, perhaps, the only wizard left alive who could penetrate and
shatter these wards as quickly as he did. It was very possible that no one else
would have even been capable at all, actually. The Dark Lord had an
intricate, clever way of spell-casting that was very unique, very misleading…
But Snape knew it, had studied it, had admired it… Even now, as he deftly
and swiftly manipulated the interlocked frequencies of the wards, which fit
into each other like an abstract, mis-matched puzzle, he appreciated just how
ingenious it was, how cunningly deceptive… If some auror were to go about
attempting to dismantle this barrier in the typical manner of breaking wards,
they would immediately trigger a curse… Snape could feel it, the powerful
hex that was waiting there, but he could not decipher what, precisely, it was
without setting it off… Lethal, certainly; horrific and dramatic, probably…
He did not intend to find out…

He felt a slight burning sensation in his forearm. That was…foreboding.

Finally, he had it. The wards fell gently apart, like unraveling fabric, and then
were gone. Snape congratulated himself. He deserved far more praise in his
life than he received, really.

Here. He had to be here.

"Aparecium." Severus cast a wide-reaching revealing charm, hoping that he

was merely disillusioned…and, ah, yes, he had been, Snape felt the
connection with something— something had been affected by his spell…but
nothing appeared…
Frowning, wand still held high in anticipation, Severus began walking, wary
—

"Fuck!"

Severus was generally not one for cursing. He found the practice rather
distasteful, truly, an abysmal, dirty habit. Unsophisticated. But the pain which
shot up his leg was just cause for such a profane exclamation, because even
with his many (one would think 'cushioning') layers, whatever dark magic
had speared his shin was rather unexpectedly painful—Snape instantly feared
the worst, some terrible hex he had not foreseen, and he envisioned his leg
becoming black and deadened and withered like the Headmaster's hand—

But then he saw it.

The cloak.

He could only see it now because he had disturbed it, making its silvery
edges partially visible when it moved. Potter's Invisibility cloak. And it was
resting on something, some surface that was just a few feet from the
ground…and he had run into it, that was all—the throbbing pain in his shin
was not the work of dark magic, it was the merely the repercussion of having
collided with something solid (which, now that the terror had ebbed away
slightly, he realized was not so debilitating and agonizing—though it did still
hurt).

With a slightly trembling hand, he reached out, pulling the cloak towards him
—his heart was hammering like wild, frenzied—he held his breath—

It was, perhaps, the most awkward moment in Snape's life.

In hindsight, he would not be sure why he had been so shocked.

Harry James Potter.

Severus had found him, all right.

Well, really, what had he expected to find? The boy sleeping comfortably on
his bed from the Gryffindor common room? Lying curled up in a sleeping
bag on the icy ground, perhaps?

He had, evidently, not expected to find Harry Potter lying in what appeared to
be a transparent, glass coffin, hovering just below his waist. His body
covered in countless, nearly invisible, glistening threads that connected with
the clear walls…Like filaments made of diamonds, reflecting the light in a
rather bizarre yet oddly beautiful way…

Completely naked.

And awake.

Awake.

'…Safe and sound… He sleeps…'

Hadn't that been what the foul woman had said? Wasn't he supposed to be
asleep? He clearly wasn't. His eyes were open, wide and staring right at him,
though as he stared back into them he noticed that they were…unfocused…

Lily's eyes...

The glasses were gone. The startling eyes were unobscured, and the familiar
green irises struck him like lightning. His heart gave a horrible, wrenching
throb. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat.

Harry slowly blinked. It was only then that Severus realized that his gaze was
absolutely vacant. Hollow. When he shifted slightly to one side, those
deadened eyes did not follow him. They continued to stare into empty space,
as though fixated on something far in the distance which only he could see.
Snape felt as though the very air had been stolen from his lungs.

How long had he been awake?

The mark on his arm gave a sudden, painful throb.

"Shit." Two swear words in such quick succession, this truly was a
monumental day. Severus shoved the invisibility cloak into an interior pocket
in one of his many layers. The adrenaline continued to rush through his entire
body. If the pain on his forearm was any indication, the Dark Lord was on to
him. Perhaps he had felt the wards being dismantled, even while asleep…

Would he deduce with certainty that it was, he, Severus, who had done the
dismantling?

Snape dearly hoped not.

But he pushed the thought of that very unwelcome, very likely outcome
aside, focusing instead on the broken boy before him and his terrible
containment. He ran his fingers along the surface. It was surprisingly warm.
Based on the many enchantments that he could feel embedded within the
vessel, it was clear that this—this box—was never meant to be opened. It was
intended to be permanent enclosure.

Severus wet his lips. This was going to be…this was going to be difficult.

He conjured up several balls of bluebell flames to surround him. There was

no point in being miserably cold while he worked, at least, not anymore. He
then placed both of his hands on the top of the coffin, his wand still
intertwined between his fingers, closed his eyes, and began to pull at the
enchantments, prying them apart…

The mark on his arm was burning lightly, a continuous, though still slight,
pain…

After a few tortuously long minutes, he had removed all of protective spells
which prevented the case from being unbreakable. There were other curses
present there, too, but nothing damning…

His arm gave a particularly painful throb, and Snape grit his teeth. There was
no time to go about this gently. He looked down at the vacant gaze of Harry
Potter, feeling almost guilty for what he was about to do. He pulled the
topmost layer of his monumental ensemble off of his back.
The container was obviously filled with warm, comfortable air. But even with
the bluebell flames dancing around them, which made the immediate area at
least somewhat tolerable, nothing, nothing would be able to prepare the boy
for this cold.

Another painful rush from his mark. Snape quit deliberating. He raised his
wand, pointing it directly at the coffin—

"Frangere."

The effect was immediate.

Harry was instantly snapped out of whatever trance-like state he had been in.
He inhaled a sharp, audibly painful breath, he body instantly convulsing,
going into shock—

Snape descended on him at once, wrapping his naked body in the heavy black
cloak. The boy trembled violently as the dazzling, magical threads that had
been attached to him vanished. His whole body was shaking, and, as Snape
gathered him up, he clung to his chest fiercely, desperately, as though his
very life depended on it.

Which it did, of course.

Severus wasted no time.

He held the quaking boy in his arms like a (very distraught, very unhappy)
bride, and took to the air. The bluebell flames followed suit, encircling them
like a glowing, fiery guard.

Flying. Another skill taught to him by the Dark Lord himself. An ability
which he really underutilized, he realized suddenly.

Once he was a sufficient distance up in the sky, high above the white, barren
landscape, Snape pointed his wand towards the ground. Directly at the newly
shattered, glass coffin.
The jet of flames which erupted was spectacular.

It was small, at first. But fiendfyre takes very little time to get out of hand,
especially with sufficient fuel—which Severus provided in earnest, as he
conjured up various, random objects (mostly furniture—his creativity was
lacking at the moment), and sent them crashing down into the abyss. Fiery
beasts began to take form, snatching viciously at the fodder he provided
them… Flames became serpents and dragons and all sorts of other
monstrosities, and an untamable sea of flames was rapidly consuming a vast
stretch of land. The heat rose up to meet them, and though the air around
them was now rather warm, Harry continued to shake in his grasp…

Snape gave the tumultuous flames one last scrutinizing examination. He

congratulated himself again. Honestly, from a strictly professional and
critical standpoint, this was a deeply impressive firestorm he had created.
And it was still growing.

Feeling satisfied with his handiwork, Severus gripped the traumatized boy
more tightly to his chest, and disapparated.
 2. White, White World
White.

It went on, and on, and on.

Not quite day, not quite night. The sun seemed to stay eternally in the same
spot, hovering motionlessly above the horizon line. But there were no colors
in the sky, no stars that he could see.

Just white.

...He didn't know how long he screamed.

It would come in waves, the terror. Intense rushes of adrenaline in which he

would scream and scream, the same word, the name, his name, over and over
and over again, his voice never growing tired, until, finally, inevitably, he
would mentally exhaust himself… there would be a few moments of
numbness, and then, with a crushing force, the panic would return, just a
terrible as before, and he would scream again…

It was impossible to tell how long this went on. The sun was a useless
indicator, and his life was one long, eternal day of white.

He scratched at the sides and the lid of his prison, and nothing happened.

He screamed at the top of his lungs, and no one heard him.

It was a vicious cycle of hysteria and numbness, hysteria and numbness,

hysteria and numbness…

Until one day, the numbness remained.

Harry lay motionless. It didn't matter. Even if he did not move at all, his body
never grew sore anywhere, his corporal form never knew discomfort. He was
certain it was the doing of these strange, glittering threads that clung to him
like ethereal cobwebs. Some kind of impossible enchantment, keeping him
perfectly healthy.

Physically.

He knew he was losing his mind.

"You're probably right about that."

It was a friendly voice, a gruff voice. But Harry was too numb to feel
anything more than mildly surprised. He slowly rolled his head to the side to
see him, because he knew who, knew that voice from anywhere—

"Vol—"

He clicked his mouth shut. No. Not him.

He just couldn't say anything else.

Sirius looked down at him understandably.

Before him stood the impossible figure of his Godfather. He looked just as
Harry remembered him. Tall, a bit disheveled with long, unruly hair. He was
smiling, but it was a very taut, forlorn kind of grin.

"I know. You don't need to say anything."

'You're not real,' Harry thought. And, just as he figured he would, Sirius
nodded. Because he could hear his thoughts, because he was his thoughts.

"Depends on your definition of real, I'd say," Sirius responded in a

ridiculously casual tone. He looked up and down at the glass coffin, evidently
able to see both it and the boy within despite the fact that his invisibility
cloak was on it. On some level, Harry did feel slightly embarrassed,
considering that he was both naked and trapped.

"This is…quite a situation you've found yourself in, Harry," Sirius muttered
gravely.
'Tell me about it.'

His Godfather actually cracked a smile, and Harry thought that maybe he did,
too.

Sirius let out a long, low breath before sinking to the ground, sitting beside
him on the ice. Harry was grateful for that; he didn't much like the feeling of
someone looming over him while he laid helpless on his back, naked and
unable to move more than an inch in any given direction. The casket was
hovering only a foot or so above the ground. Sirius sat near his feet, his back
leaning against the left side of the casket. He sighed.

"Could be worse," he said, scratching his head absent-mindedly. He stared

out into the vast whiteness in front of him.

'Could it?' Harry inquired, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Er… no, maybe not."

Harry did smile, then.

He really was going crazy.

'Is that why I'm imagining you?' he mused. 'Some futile attempt to hold on to
my sanity?'

Sirius shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Your guess is as good as mine."

'Wow. And I thought that you would be trying to make me feel optimistic or
something.'

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. "Sorry. I guess I'm too honest for my own
good. I always thought you deserved to hear the truth, even when it wasn't an
easy thing to hear."

Harry thought about that for a moment. He knew it was true; Sirius was one
of the only people who had wanted to tell him everything from the beginning.
But not even his Godfather had known he was a…
"A horcrux, yeah." Sirius sounded almost angry. "No, I didn't know. No one
but Dumbledore knew."

'Well… What would you have done, if you would've known?'

"I… I don't know. But if I had known, at least I could have been using my
time in that god forsaken house to try and figure something out. I could have
researched it, at least, done…something… I would have done something." He
glanced briefly up at Harry's face.

"I would have done anything to save you."

'…I know.'

Harry felt the smallest ripple of yearning then. What he would give to have it
be real, to have his Godfather really be alive and here…to be out of this
prison….

Sirius looked back out towards the world of white. For a long time, they just
sat there, only the sound of the ever present, ringing wind to fill the void. The
sun didn't move. Time passed in an imperceptible way.

At some point, he wasn't even sure when or how, Harry realized that Sirius
was gone.

He felt numb.

White and white and white and white and white

Sometimes, he thought he saw him.

Sometimes, he thought he felt him.

The tiniest prickling in his scar, and almost indiscernible twinge of…
annoyance? Anger? Emotions that definitely weren't his.

Harry no longer had any emotions.

But no matter how many times he'd tried to reach out to the Dark Lord in his
thoughts, he got no response. Without a doubt, He Who Must Not Be Named
was using Occlumency against him, and he was unreachable.

But there were times when he could swear he was actually there. Watching.
A dark, still figure in the distance, marring the pristine white landscape like a
blot of ink. His long cloak billowing in the wind, black robes and white skin
and red, red, eyes—

But then Harry would blink, and he would be gone.

Either way, he felt numb.

There he was again.

Harry stared vacantly, his body as static and lifeless as a corpse. He couldn't
remember the last time he'd moved. He didn't bother. Why bother?

Why bother?

He blinked. The figure was still there. He stumbled in the distance, looking
wildly about him. Panicky.

Odd. Normally the Dark Lord in his visions was so composed, motionless
and eerily graceful, despite his stillness. Haunting his psyche like a
statuesque, omnipotent god in this perpetual whiteness.

He disappeared.

Harry felt nothing.

Again.

Again, he was here…but… bulky, now. And…trudging. Towards him. Not

graceful. Not ethereal and godlike.

Odd. How odd.

He paused. Just a giant mass of awkward, black clothing. Even his face was
covered. It had never occurred to Harry how very cold it must be out there.
He watched him march along for a while, until he suddenly stopped…

He took another step forward, very, very slowly—

What happened next was so sudden that Harry was almost startled. Colossal
shards of ice had begun erupting violently from the ground, attacking him…
That was interesting. He was sprinting, now. The pointed shards—which
were really more like miniature, lethal mountains—were shooting out at him,
and as he barely managed to dodge each one, a new one erupted, like land
mines. Huh, that was interesting.

He finally waved a wand above his head as he ran, and a vibrant, yellow light
emanated from the tip. Harry thought wildly of sunflowers and blonde hair
and bright dresses—

The ground stopped exploding at his feet, but the wizard kept running for a
few moments anyway. Heh. That was funny. That also probably wasn't
Voldemort.

Harry thought his imagination was very strange.

The man—could it be a woman?—slouched forward for a moment, clearly

relieved that he did not just become impaled by giant shards of ice. He
walked on.

Towards Harry…

He stopped again. Now what was he doing…? Just standing there… Harry
observed him impassively in his peripheral vision…

The sky was shimmering in a weird way… Hm…

He was moving again… He was getting very close to him… The mysterious
figure cast a wide spell in his direction, but it didn't seem to do anything…
He kept walking, cautiously… He was coming right at him…right at him…

"Fuck!"

That voice.

Had his psyche conjured up the ghost of Severus Snape to his barren
landscape, this time?

And he'd just run right into his coffin. Heh. That was funny, too. His scar was
prickling slightly.

With a trembling, gloved hand, the man reached forward…

…and then he just stood there.

Staring at him.

Hm. Yeah, that was Snape. Harry would recognize those black, bottomless
eyes anywhere. But it wasn't really Snape, it couldn't be. He'd killed that man
himself. Well. Sort of. Why his subconscious felt the need to envision
Severus Snape right now…

"Shit."

A cursing Severus Snape, no less. Heh.

He conjured up a dozen or so little bluebell flames. They formed a circle

around them, blazing merrily and bright.

Red eyes. Yellow spells. Blue flames. These were the only colors that made
up Harry's world, and none of them were real.
Snape had his hands on the casket, his eyes closed… Harry was just blinking
lazily, hoping that he would disappear already, and Sirius would maybe come
back, instead…

And then his scar began to burn. It was no longer just a light prickling, it was
decidedly painful, now. He had not felt that in a very, very long time…

Was this maybe…was this real?

No… f that was really Snape… If he was really alive…

The burning in his scar continued to intensify. It was forcing him into a state
of lucidity which he had not felt in ages… His finger twitched, and it felt
foreign to him…

If this was real…

'…I wonder if he'll kill me,' Harry thought as he looked vacantly at the
Potions Master. His dark eyes were still closed, deep in thought…

'No.'

Harry actually felt a tremor of…something at the unexpected sound. The

Dark Lord's voice, so long absent, once more in his head. His heart lurched in
his chest as thought it had just come back to life in a violent way.

'Your life is too precious.'

'Touching,' Harry thought without missing a beat. He watched Snape intently

now, wondering what he was doing… 'I suspect he will. He knows what I
am.'

His scar gave a particularly painful throb.

Snape pulled one of the black cloaks off of his back… He raised his wand,
glancing up at Harry, something resembling pity in those dark eyes…

"Frangere."
It was like being dropped into an ocean of ice water.

The cold hit him grotesquely hard. Every single cell in Harry's body was
instantly screaming in shock and pain at the sudden impact of it—he was
grasping for breath, his throat burning as the frigid air invaded his lungs—

Snape wrapped him up at once. Harry felt like his mind had just shattered
along with his crystal prison, so sharply struck with reality he was, and the
burning sensation in his scar was escalating even still—he was shaking,
shaking—

Snape was pulling him to his chest and there were blue flames surrounding
them and this couldn't be real after all because now Snape was gathering him
up and holding him and what was this craziness because he could swear that
they were flying—

Harry closed his eyes tightly and buried his face into his supposed savior's
chest—it was altogether too overwhelming, this must be insanity—

Heat came billowing from below, but he didn't dare look to see what was
happening. He could hear screeches, roars, almost, and the intense crackling
of tumultuous flames—heat was rising up to meet them in droves—

'No—' Voldemort's piercing voice in his head again—

It sounded desperate. He had never heard the Dark Lord sound desperate.

'You won't make it in time,' Harry thought, and he didn't know what made
him respond that way, but there was something intensely satisfying, even in
that wild moment, about hearing weakness in the Dark Lord's voice and
exploiting it. He felt the waves of anxiety and desperation and knew that they
were for him, and it had an oddly sobering effect on his addled mind. 'You've
lost me, Tom…' he added with an icy detachment. It almost felt…powerful.

Fear. It was definitely fear, now. Harry basked in it. Snape pulled him tighter
to his chest.
'Goodbye, Tom.'

If there was anything in the world that could have made Harry feel more
upset and uncomfortable in that moment, it was the sensation of apparation.

Though he didn't know that's what it was when it was happening. He only
knew—or thought he knew—if this was, in fact, real—that he was wrapped
in a heavy cloak, shivering terribly, being held in Snape's arms like a-like a-a
child, and then, together, they were compressed into something about the size
and width of envelope, and then that was crumpled up and shoved very
forcefully through a tight, rubber tube.

Already having difficulty breathing, this sensation made the task absolutely
impossible. Harry felt bile rising up in the back of his throat, and he was sure
that he was going to be violently sick very, very soon.

They hit the ground. Air of a tolerable temperature rushed into his lungs in a
most welcome manner. Harry kept his eyes tightly closed, still unsure as to
whether or not he could accept this as reality, but he was vaguely aware that
they were moving—a door opened, and then closed behind them—

He did wretch slightly, but he did not throw up. Later he would realize that
this was surely only due to the fact that he had not technically eaten in a very
long time.

"Professor?"

A familiar voice—but it couldn't be…

"Professor, is that y-holy shit."

Harry didn't look. This couldn't be real. He was dreaming again, this wasn't
real, and his scar was on fire—

"H-holy shit!" The same voice repeated, completely aghast.

"Move."
Shuffling, someone moving, and he was being carried away—he still did not
look—footsteps, more of them, who—

"Is he back?"

Another familiar voice, but Harry could not even bring himself to consider
this one—

"Is that-it's-oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! It's him! Ron, It's you-know

who!"

"What!?" A very horrified yelp from somewhere further away—but it

couldn't actually be—

"Not that you-know-who! Our you-know-who!"

Loud, hurried footsteps coming towards him, like someone running—more

like falling—down the stairs—

"What!?" Much less horrified this time, but equally loud—

"Move," Snape seethed again, his voice murderously cold.

"Oh-my god-yes, sorry, yes, move, Ronald-"

And then Harry's forehead exploded in pain.

Snape began screaming at the exact same moment. The world was coming
apart, and Severus fell to knees, one of his arms instantly losing his grip on
Harry, and he hit the ground, hard. his horrible, agonized cries were right in
his ears and Harry couldn't take it, it was awful, he couldn't take the sound or
the pain—he scrambled away chaotically, screaming—

"Severus…" he hissed in a high, cold tenor, summoning his Potions Master in

the most agonizingly painful way. With a mere thought, the Dark Mark on
Snape's forearm would be like a white-hot iron burning into his skin…but he
did not answer his call… He must leave at once…
Something was snapping around him—his own, uncontrollable magic, no
longer repressed by his containment, wild and untamed—furniture went
flying, a chair shattered into pieces as it hit the wall—

His head felt like it might simply explode at any moment—there was an
inferno in his mind—

Fire, fire everywhere… In the form of insatiable monsters, chimeras and

dragons made entirely of flames tore across the vast, white wasteland…They
consumed nothing but snow and ice, yet continued to flourish on the
impossible sustenance… The encasement which held his horcrux—his
precious soul—was directly in the center of that lake of fire, this hell on
earth… All of his wards were broken, all of the barriers and obstacles he had
created were triggered and gone, dismantled and wrecked… Impossible…

People were shouting, moving, but Harry's vision was completely blurred by
the fire which was not here—he was curled up on the floor, desperately
trying to make the devastating pain stop—someone tried to approach him, but
another insuppressible surge of his frenzied magic sent them stumbling away
—

"Bind him!"

It was Snape's voice which cut across the chaos, though it sounded shaken.
He had stopped shouting incoherently in pain, apparently, and the screams
that filled the room now were only his own.

"I-Incarcerous!" a much meeker, higher pitched voice shouted. Harry felt

something like rope curling around his wrists and legs, tying them together—

Then Snape was on him. He kneeled beside him on the floor, and Harry could
see his face, now. He must have shed a few of his many cloaks, for his sallow
features were completely exposed, and he looked very ashen. He pulled
Harry's head towards him so that it was resting on his knees, and Harry saw
his face upside down, looming over him, his long hair like black, lank
curtains framing his pale features. His dark gaze was completely steady as it
bored down onto him, and he placed both of his hands on Harry's head, one
on each temple, holding it still—Harry couldn't stop shouting, couldn't stop
screaming in pain—his eyes were watering, everything was skewed by the
firestorm in his mind—

Snape was muttering… Something was happening, but he didn't understand

what… The pain in his forehead, that searing, terrible pain, was ebbing
away… Was Snape doing that? How was he doing that…?

It felt like something alien was being forced upon his very thoughts… Snape
kept muttering incoherently, like he was speaking in tongues, staring into
Harry's squinted eyes, and when he next managed to fully look into Snape's
gaze Harry found that he couldn't look away again, even when he tried to…
He couldn't even blink…

Snape was doing something to Harry's mind, and maybe that should have
terrified him, but all he knew was that it was making the pain go away,
driving away the images of fiery serpents and that horrible, burning sensation
in his scar…and as it went on, there was something weirdly hypnotic about
what was happening… It was a bit like going into a trance, as he stared up at
the chanting Snape… Harry felt his straining, tense muscles relax… The
crackling magic around him calmed…

And then it vanished completely. The burning agony in his scar was all but
forgotten; the lake of fire, gone.

Snape ceased his enchantment and moved his hands away from his head.
Harry sighed as his eyes fluttered shut, basking in the cool, muted feeling that
was simply not-pain.

"P-professor?" a voice squeaked from above him.

Harry had forgotten there were other people in the room. He had forgotten
just about everything except that horrid pain in his scar.

But he was beginning to believe that this was real.

"Out. All of you," Snape said in a deathly quiet voice.

"No! We want to talk to-"

"Out!" Snape roared.

Harry lazily opened his eyes again. The world seemed exceptionally colorful,
like he was looking at everything in high definition. Standing a few feet away
from him, looking frazzled and emotional, and staring at Snape, but
otherwise exactly the same, were—but no—

It was too much. This… No, it couldn't be real. He could not possibly be so
lucky. He was still in that crystal coffin, his snow covered, personal hell, and
any minute now he would blink and the world would be white again, He
closed his eyes, unwilling to ever open them again, in case it was all a
hallucination—

"If you value your friend's well-being at all, you will listen to me now and
get. OUT!"

"Okay," That was Hermione's voice. "Okay, yes-we're going-yes, we are,

Ronald-"

Harry felt the footsteps as they left—first one pair; then, grudgingly,
practically stomping, another—

The door shut. The older wizard pointed his wand at it, muttering something,
probably locking it and making it so they could not come back in
unannounced, or hear what they said…

He was alone with Snape.

Harry still refused to open his eyes.

After a moment he was being pulled, slowly, into a seated position, the cloak
wrapped more securely around his body. The blood rushed to his head
regardless of the gradual motion, and there was a slight buzzing sound in his
ears. His head felt…different…
Snape's voice was very low when he spoke. Almost…gentle? "I need you to
listen to me very, very carefully. I know you are feeling incredibly
overwhelmed right now, but this is of critical importance. I have placed
Occlumency barriers in your mind. They are necessary. They will stop The
Dark Lord from being able to see into your thoughts, to even sense your
presence. You should be able to feel them. They are not…comfortable, I'm
sure. But you must not push at them, no matter what, do you understand me?
I have gone to very great lengths to make it seem as if you and I both
perished. Those Occlumency barriers are vital to making it seem that way.
Nod if you understand me."

Harry's mind was buzzing louder than ever. He couldn't…barriers…

Occlumency barriers…how could he...was that even...

"Open your eyes."

He didn't want to, what if he wasn't there, what if everything was white and
white and white—

"This is not a dream. This is not a vision. This is reality, this is really
happening, and I am on your side."

That caused Harry's eye to fly open. On your side. Snape—Snape had killed
Dumbledore—he had murdered the Headmaster and Harry had tried to—

"I am on your side. I was always on the Order's side. I will explain everything
to you later, when you are ready to hear it, but for now you must trust that I
am telling you the truth… I did just save you, after all."

It was so disarming, to hear Snape talk to him in such a…kind way. That,
almost more than anything else, made Harry think he must be imagining this
entire affair.

His mouth felt dry, like his tongue was coated in something peculiarly fuzzy.
Harry pulled the cloak more tightly around his body. When had he started
shaking again?
"Right now, the most important thing is that you understand what I am telling
you about the Occlumency barriers. You must not break them. You must not
pass through them. Do not disturb them in any way at all. Do you understand
this?"

Harry swallowed, and it seemed to take a great amount of effort. He could

feel them… It was a very odd sensation, like some minor, irritating twinge
accompanying his every thought, some kind of scratchy shell… The very first
instinct he had was to pry them off. They were uncomfortable. But he resisted
the urge, nodding instead.

And then, the most bizarre and off-putting thing in all the world happened.

Snape almost smiled at him.

Harry physically cringed, and the almost-smile vanished at once. "Good," he

said flatly. He waved his wand over Harry in an almost annoyed way, and the
rope-like bindings around his wrists and legs vanished. Snape then got up and
crossed to the other side of the room, pulling off a few more layers of
clothing. With a few lazy flicks of his wand, he repaired the recently
shattered furniture. Harry took in his surroundings properly for the first time.

His jaw dropped. Here. He never… He'd never wanted to come back here.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. And right now, they were in the drawing
room.

Snape was back at his side in a moment, a cup filled with liquid in his hands.
"A Calming Draught," he explained. Harry just stared down at it. His
stomach squirmed uncomfortably; he didn't know if he could drink anything.

"It isn't very much, but I believe it will make everything else go much
smoother if you manage to drink this," Snape prompted.

Harry reached to take the cup, but when Snape saw his trembling hands he
shook his head. "You'll spill it everywhere. Here. Just drink," he said, and
lifted the cup to his lips. Trying his best to focus on the monumental task at
hand—swallow, don't throw up, swallow—he managed to take a few sips. It
tasted of chamomile and something else he couldn't quite place.

"Good," Snape repeated. The effect of the potion was immediate. His shaking
ceased, and he did, in fact, feel much calmer.

Once he had finally finished the whole thing, Snape took the empty cup and
set it somewhere behind him.

"Do you think you can stand?" he asked quietly. Harry wasn't sure. He
supposed getting off of the floor might be a good idea. He nodded, and didn't
fight it when Snape put his arms on his shoulders and helped him to his feet.
The blood rushed dangerously fast to his head again, another wave of
dizziness in which he sort of stumbled to one side—but Snape held him
steady, and, thanks to the potion, he was feeling rather calm and unbothered
by the whole ordeal.

Snape practically carried him to the couch. Harry was suddenly glad that he
had kicked everyone else out of the room.

Once he was seated, the older wizard went and grabbed another chair. He
placed it in front of the sofa so that when he sat, he was directly across from
Harry, face to face.

"There are some…things that I need to know. It will be unpleasant, but you
have my word that this is the one and only time that this will ever happen. It
is the easiest and most efficient way. The only way. Do not fight me. Do you
understand?"

Harry supposed that probably should have been foreboding, maybe even
made him nervous, but the potion was making him feel deceptively tranquil.
The wizard across from him seemed to have deduced at once that Harry
wasn't up for actually talking, at any rate, so that was nice. He nodded again.

And then Snape was breaking into his memories.

...Harry is at Number 4, Privet Drive… He is reading a letter from

Dumbledore…but not from Dumbledore… but no, it was, and he had just
assumed…

He is on the Knight Bus… Stan Shunpike, he killed Ernie… And he raises his
wand towards him, but doesn't attack…and then there are arms wrapping
around him, possessive, joyous, hungry—

Mine—

…He is dreaming… Isn't he? Harry had never seen this memory before, he
had been unconscious… The Dark Lord is cradling him in his arms like a
lover might, and they are there, in that world of white… A large, strange,
shimmering bubble is around them, obviously keeping out the cold…
Voldemort is laying him gently in that shining encasement, his crystal
coffin…

Precious soul…

His fingers graze Harry's face, his forehead, so tenderly… Such gentle
caresses from a murderer's fingers…

Precious soul…

And then, looking as though it takes a substantial amount of effort, he steps

away, sealing the container… He holds his wand aloft, moving it in intricate
motions as he begins casting spells, and soon Harry is covered in glistening,
magical threads… Wards are built, barriers put in place…

His invisibility cloak…

The scene shifts again…

Harry is asleep… Just lying there, perfectly still, like some modern day, male
version of Snow White… Harry wondered how they were able to see him at
all, considering the cloak was over him… Maybe because it was his mind?
And Harry was able to see himself? He wasn't sure… The memory is so still,
it could almost be a photograph… he looks so serene, so peaceful…
And then he is screaming.

He is clawing at his coffin hysterically—awake, awake and terrified and he

couldn't move and he was screaming and screaming and screaming and
screaming—

'Voldemort!'

Harry wasn't sure what happened, but suddenly he was convulsing, tremors
wracking trough his entire body. Snape had extracted himself from his
memories and was in front of him, holding him, back in the drawing room.
Harry's magic was spastically crackling around him again, and the other
wizard was suppressing it with his own, he could tell—yet it was pushing
against him, out of his control—

"It's over, it's over," Snape was repeating, and Harry was sure that, if it hadn't
been for the calming draught, he would be a broken, sobbing pile on the
floor. "It is done…I...had to know the whole truth of what happened. I had to
know. It's over now. You will never have to relive that again." Snape held his
shoulders tightly, waiting for the violent shaking to stop.

Harry cried anyway.

 3. House of Ghosts
It was a slow progression.

Rapid, uncontrollable sobs, which incrementally lessened in their severity to

a steady stream of tears and cries, until, at last, Harry could breathe normally
once more.

At some point, he wasn't sure exactly when, Harry had ended up leaning
forward with his head on Snape's shoulder, his former professor still seated in
a chair across from him. In the beginning, he had held Harry's shoulders
firmly with each of his hands, steadying his shaking body and repressing his
chaotic magic with some force that felt rather like an heavy blanket on his
mind. Eventually, though, as Harry slowly managed to calm himself, the
pressure on his shoulders—as well as the magical oppression—lifted. Snape
now sat motionless, as did Harry, his head still on the other's shoulder with
his eyes closed.

Breathe. Just breathe.

For a long time the two remained that way. Harry kept his eyes closed and
focused solely on his breath.

He wondered if Snape thought he had fallen asleep. The very idea of slumber
threatened to make him revert right back into a panic attack; Harry did not
think he would ever sleep properly again.

Slowly, almost methodically, he lifted his head from the older man's
shoulder. He had no idea what to expect from Severus Snape after such a
pitiful display of emotion. On some, deep, practically sub-conscious level,
Harry knew he would one day look back on this moment with mortification.
He tentatively opened eyes, expecting to see a sallow-looking Snape glaring
back at him, as was usually the case—or, at the very least, an expressionless
one.

He was, therefore, shocked to see a sleeping Potions Master before him.

…Snape had fallen asleep…?

Harry was perplexed. Did…did he maybe just have his eyes closed? He
waved a hand nervously in front of the other wizard's ashen, still face.

No reaction. Nothing.

Harry's heart leapt in his throat, instantly thinking the worst—Oh God, had he
died?—but no, his chest was slowly moving, he was breathing… He wasn't
dead, but…asleep seemed too inadequate a word. Passed out, more like.

Harry simply stared at him for a while, not sure if he should find this
concerning or amusing or offensive or what. But, well…maybe it wasn't so
strange that he would pass out… Maybe whatever he had done to get Harry
out of his confinement had exhausted him… He thought of yellow spells and
bluebell flames and roaring Fiendfyre—and flying, had they really flown?
And Occlumency barriers…

Probably.

The Occlumency barriers… Harry could feel them now as he sat there, still
focusing on breathing properly. How had he done that? Harry wouldn't have
thought such a thing even possible… They were irritating. Did that mean
Snape was in his mind, then? Could he hear his every thought? Harry
cringed. He desperately hoped not.

The last thing he needed was more people in his head.

Harry pulled the cloak Snape had given him more tightly around his body.
Fortunately, it had buttons all down the front, so even though he had no
clothes on underneath, he was still fully covered. It was baggy, but stayed on
well enough once he secured all the fastenings. And it was very thick. He was
thankful for that; even though it was a comfortable temperature in the room,
he felt the horrific cold from before lingering on his skin like a ghost.

As slowly and silently as he could, Harry stood. Snape remained as still as an

unpleasant-looking stone statue. He had fallen asleep sitting up, his neck at a
slightly awkward angle. Harry almost thought to move him, for surely that
would be very uncomfortable when he woke up—but he quickly dismissed
the idea. He didn't really want to face a conscious Snape at the moment, and
was actually quite grateful for the escape route.

He quietly crept towards the door, wondering, hoping that it had only been
locked from the outside. To his relief, it opened when he turned the handle.
He passed through and gently shut it behind him.

The familiar hallway was dark. Yet despite the bleakness, he was able to see
moderately well... exceptionally well, actually. His hands flew to his face in
awe. No glasses. Astounding… Shaking his head, he decidedly shoved that
revelation aside for a now.

To his left, he noticed that there were new curtains around the portrait of
Sirius's mother. He frowned, contemplative… Now that he thought about it, it
was a miracle that they hadn't set the woman off when he'd come in with
Snape. It had been quite a commotion. Were these new curtains enchanted,
were they the reason she hadn't joined in the cacophony of shouting and
chaos before? Or had she, and Harry just hadn't noticed? Not wanting to risk
setting her off regardless, Harry quietly edged towards the right, towards the
kitchen…

He stood outside the door with his hand resting on the knob. Waiting,
listening. He could hear murmuring voices from the other side…

A large portion of him was still certain that this must be a dream.

"…don't know why we shouldn't tell him everything—"

Ron.

"You know precisely why, besides, we don't know what state he's in… Who
knows what being asleep that long does to someone…"

Hermione.
"He's been in there a long time. Can we blast down the door yet? I don't trust
Snape—"

"What else must he do to convince you he is on our side, Ronald?" She was
seething; Harry could practically see her hair frizzing in irritation. "He has
risked everything—everything—to save him—"

"I know, I know, that's not it—I know he's on our side, yeah, but—he's still
Snape, and he's always hated him…" Ron's voice trailed off morosely.

"I'm sure he's being nothing but kind, and as soon as he is done making
certain that he is in good health, will come and get us so that we can see
him…if…if he even wants to see anyone right now…" She sounded anxious,
distressed. "It's…very likely he may not want to see anyone for days,
everyone reacts differently to traumatic experiences…"

"But he's just been asleep, yeah? Shouldn't remember much, then, right? In
theory…?"

Hermione must have nodded, or otherwise responded, because she said

nothing to that.

They sat in silence, then. Harry's tongue still felt heavy and dry in his mouth.

A dream. This is probably a dream, so there is nothing to fear. Nothing to

lose.

Approaching the situation in this way made it surprisingly easy. Taking a

deep breath, Harry slowly turned the knob and opened the door.

It was a frozen moment. The kind which truly lasts only a second but which
seems to contain an eternity. Hermione and Ron stared at him, wide-eyed and
expressionless, while Harry, in turn, looked back and forth between the two
of them. He swallowed so thickly it must have been audible.

Hermione stood, looking very conflicted. She took a tentative step towards
him, but Harry didn't miss that both she and Ron had their hands hovering
over their pockets, clearly ready to reach for their wands if necessary. Had his
magic really been that catastrophic earlier, to strike fear and apprehension
into his best friends like this?

But when they saw the way his eyes flickered to the hands, both of them
looked guilty.

Then, throwing all caution to the wind, Hermione rushed forward and
embraced him.

"Oh!" she gasped as she wrapped her arms around him in an almost rib-
cracking way. Harry was so taken aback that he almost fell backwards, but
there was no way that he was going to escape the vice-like grip of Hermione
Granger.

But then the initial shock wore off, and Harry, half wanting to laugh and half
wanting to cry, hugged her back. His face was lost in her bushy hair, and he
breathed in the familiar scent that was Hermione. He had never noticed that
before, the way she smelled… When he reciprocated the embrace, she
somehow managed to squeeze him even tighter.

"Oh, how we've missed—how we've worried—" Hermione was muttering

into his chest—and Harry only just then realized how much taller he was than
her, now…

Then he felt another pair of arms wrap around both of them, someone even
taller still. Ron. The weight of their warm bodies enveloped around him was
suffocating in the best way possible.

The Golden Trio, reunited.

If this was a dream, Harry thought, he would be happy to never wake up.

Finally, after a very long time, Ron was the first to step away. Hermione
followed suit, though she still kept both of her hands on Harry's arms. Her
giant, brown eyes were glittering with tears. Harry realized that his
newfound, spectacular vision was now rather blurry, too. With all of the
sobbing he had just done in the other room, he wouldn't have thought it
possible to cry even more. He hastily blinked the tears away.

Ron was looking up at the ceiling. The way he was rubbing his face with the
back of his hands made Harry suspicious that he had been shedding a few
tears of his own. Sure enough, when he looked back down at Harry, his blue
eyes were watery and shining. But Ron smiled when they made eye contact.

Harry had to actually look up to accomplish that task. He opened his mouth
to comment on Ron's ridiculous height, but found that his voice was
unwilling to cooperate.

"You know," Ron said in a raspy, croaking voice, "the way I see it… I mean,
when I wake up from a normal nap, I'm a nasty piece of work—you've seen
it, I'm insufferable—and that's when I'm woken up by my own mum. So,
considering how long you were out, and the fact that you woke up to the
wonderfully delightful sight of Snape… Well, I reckon your reaction earlier
was rather mild."

Ron was grinning nervously. Hermione let out a breathy laugh. When Harry
smiled, too, the tension drained from the room.

"And," Ron went on, sounding much more like his old, confident self, "on
any given morning, I am also usually incapable of proper speech for several
hours after I wake up, so, again, considering the time frame, I'd say it'd be
normal if you didn't form words for days. Or weeks. Or…whatever."

Harry actually laughed, then. Hermione beamed at him.

"Of course, you don't need to say anything, nothing at all—I'm sure even
standing feels exceptionally strange—here, here—"

She hurriedly pulled out a chair, motioning for him to sit at the table. He
nodded at her, taking the seat before him and surprising himself at how easily
he managed it.

They didn't know. They didn't know what he'd been through. That he had
been…awake…

Pretending…sounded nice.

Some people may call that repression, he thought. Harry was okay with that.
Besides. This was a dream.

Maybe.

Ron and Hermione sat on either side of him, still grinning from ear to ear.
Hermione seemed unwilling to take one hand off of his shoulder, as though if
she stopped having some form of physical contact with him he may disappear
again. Ron, however, gave him more personal space. Harry wasn't sure what
he preferred. The physical contact was both overstimulating and comforting;
the distance was both a relief and a void.

"We've been so worried," Hermione started at once. "Everyone was, of

course. The whole Order was searching for you like mad, we had no idea
what happened—"

"Hermione…" Ron said warningly. She fell silent at once.

But Harry shook his head, looking pleadingly at her to keep talking.
Hermione glanced from Ron to Harry, obviously torn.

"I… I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm so—" She looked like she was about to start
sobbing in earnest. Harry put his hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

He took a deep breath.

"…I'm…I'm okay."

His voice sounded so…different. He wasn't sure if it was just because he

hadn't spoken in so long, or if time alone had changed it so significantly.
Perhaps some of both. It sounded deep and raspy, low and rough. "I'm here
now."

Hermione just gaped at him for a moment before assaulting him with another
aggressive hug. Ron groaned from his other side.

"Let him breathe, Hermione, you're going to crush him…"

She let him go at once, but Harry was smiling. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she repeated,
rapidly wiping tears from her cheeks. "What a blubbering mess I am! I just—
we didn't expect you—Snape just showed up with you, we had no idea he
would do that today—he hasn't told us much—"

At Harry's quizzical look, Ron jumped in. "Yeah, mate. Snape's been looking
for you, but he refused to tell us much of anything. Just said he had it taken
care of, not to bother him, because of course we wanted to help… Said we
were just distracting him… Slimy git."

Harry couldn't help but share his coy grin.

They fell into silence for a moment. Harry's mind was practically vibrating;
this all felt so…real.

But then the spell of quietness was broken. The door on the other side of the
room opened, and in walked none other than Draco Malfoy.

Another frozen moment suspended in tension.

Draco stared at the three of them, jaw hanging open and looking highly
uncomfortable. "I—"

"Piss off, Malfoy," Ron said, getting to his feet. But Harry's thoughts had
instantly gone elsewhere at the sight of the familiar boy. Draco Malfoy. If
this was real—if everything had really happened, then he had seen him—
twice, at Hogwarts, and at that meeting—

If this was real—

In a movement that was so fast none of them saw it coming, Harry dove at
the unsuspecting blonde, fiercely grabbing at his jeans—he needed to see, he
needed to know—
"I—hey—HEY—WHAT!" Malfoy tried to escape towards the open
doorway, but Harry had managed to shove him against a wall in the kitchen.
He was attacking his pants with a crazed intensity, ripping them off—Malfoy
let out a strangled, high pitched yelp—

"WHAT ARE YOU—" Draco attempted to shove him off, but Harry's
chaotic magic, barely contained and just simmering beneath the surface,
boiled over again, crackling around him and pinning Malfoy's arms against
the wall—Harry was violently ripping his pants off with no indiscretion
whatsoever—"DON'T JUST STAND THERE!" Malfoy roared at the other
occupants in the room, for Hermione and Ron had been stricken immobile
with shock. Both of them watched in mute fascination at the impossible scene
unfolding before them—Harry Potter shamelessly tearing the pants off of a
rather non-consensual and distressed Draco Malfoy…

But just as Hermione had snapped out of it and raised her wand, Harry was
scrambling away as though he'd been shocked. He fell to the ground,
suddenly shaking again—he was staring at Draco Malfoy's exposed thigh as
though he found it horrifying—

A thigh with a nasty, blackened scar. Harry's hand was in his hair, his eyes
wide with disbelief.

The magic around him fizzled and died, and Malfoy was able to move his
arms once more. Draco's entire body was bright red as he hurriedly pulled up
his boxers and jeans, his pointed face contorted in fury.

The other door from which Harry had entered burst open, and Snape
appeared with his wand held high. "What is going on in here?" he fumed,
scanning the room. Harry, on the ground and looking dazed, shaking slightly;
Malfoy, vividly crimson and adjusting his pants, and Ron and Hermione,
both standing and looking completely dumbstruck.

"H-he just—"

"He attacked me!" Draco snapped, incensed. "He's mad—he just—he—" But
his face turned an even brighter hue as he spoke, and he seemed unable to
voice exactly what it was Harry had just done.

"He…took his pants off," Ron said in a voice that was a bizarre mixture of
something like disgust and awe.

Snape looked from Ron to Harry to Malfoy, who just opened and closed his
mouth uselessly, red as a tomato.

"…This is real."

Everyone looked down at Harry, who had stopped shaking and spoken like he
was in some kind of trance. Hermione kneeled down beside him, tentatively
placing her hand on his shoulder.

"Of course it is," she confirmed in a soothing voice. "This is real. We are
real."

"Even Malfoy, unfortunately," Ron added, and the shock of such a strange
phenomenon was wearing off for him rather quickly. He was now actively
trying to suppress laughter. "Though you didn't need to see his junk to
confirm that, did you? I know I sure didn't…"

Hermione's lip twitched. Malfoy glared venomously down at Harry, who still
looked somewhat starry-eyed, but he didn't seem capable of asking why he'd
done it.

"This is real," Harry repeated, looking at each of them in turn. His gaze
eventually rested on Draco's mutinous one. "You're alive. How are you
alive?"

Draco flinched. "I could ask you the very same question," he spat.

Harry smiled. But the moment of revelation—of joyous, pure belief—was

overshadowed nearly at once. He sat up, and Hermione instantly helped him
into a chair at the table. Everyone stood around him, looking down at him
with concern (or, in Malfoy's case, fury).
"Everyone, get out—" Snape began, but Harry cut him off.

"No," he said shortly. Snape had conflict written all over his pale face, and
Harry took advantage of his indecision and kept talking. His voice sounded
so steady that he fooled even himself. "I'm fine. I want to… I want to talk. I
want to know…" He looked from Snape, to Ron, and then Hermione. His
heart was loud in his ears as he wet his dry lips, the question he dreaded to
ask, yet needed the answer to…

"…How long?" he said quietly.

He was still looking at Hermione when he spoke. Out of the corner of his eye,
he could see the telling body language of every occupant in the room. Ron,
looking down at his feet, Draco, running a hand through his now disheveled
hair, shifting uncomfortably, and even Snape, in his motionlessness, seemed
to visibly tense… Hermione, however, smiled timidly and sat down next to
him.

"Well…" she murmured, and Harry found the small smile on her lips
foreboding rather than comforting. She held both of his hands tightly in her
own. "To put in in perspective for you, tomorrow is…tomorrow is your
birthday."

Harry blinked. His birthday…? But that couldn't be right, he had been about
to turn sixteen in a few weeks, last he remembered… If everything he saw
was true, it had to have been longer than that…

At the confused look on his face, Hermione opened her mouth to elaborate.
But by the time she said it, the truth had caught up to him, anyway.

"You'll come of age tomorrow. You'll be…seventeen." She squeezed his

hands more tightly. Harry felt his hollow stomach drop.

An entire year.

Harry just stared, slack-jawed. Snape had silently walked around to the other
side of the table, sitting across from them.
"I was asleep for an entire year," Harry said in a deadpan voice and Hermione
slowly nodded. He thought for a moment before saying, "…I don't remember
anything."

He looked up briefly into the dark eyes of the older wizard across from him.
Snape stared at him questionably, evidently still conflicted.

This is how I would like to deal with this.

Only Snape knew that he had been awake. That he remembered very, very
much. But he didn't want his friends to know, didn't want them to look at him
like…that… He couldn't, he wouldn't. He thought all of these things very
fiercely as he looked at his former professor. Snape's eyes narrowed, but he
said nothing.

"You don't remember…anything?" Ron said as he, too, sat down. He and
Hermione were now on either side of him again. He sounded hopeful.

"Nothing," Harry affirmed, looking away from Snape to face his friend. "One
minute, I was on the Knight Bus, the next…I was being…ah, woken up."
How unexpectedly easy, to talk about this.

To pretend.

Repression. Repression was good.

"The Knight Bus?" Hermione said, sounded scandalized. "But—why in the

world were you on the Knight Bus?"

Now Harry was the one turning red. But he didn't even get the chance to
attempt to explain his own stupidity, because Snape immediately snatched
that opportunity from the air like a hawk.

"Because this foolish boy thought that The Dark Lord had set a trap for him
in the form of a letter from the former Headmaster, and thought it prudent to
take matters into his own hands and leave his household. The one and only
rule he was told not to break by any means, and yet he did. Spectacularly so."
Harry glared. Whatever moment had transpired between the two of them
before, it seemed very little had changed in Snape's overall feelings towards
him.

The monumental dislike was mutual.

Hermione continued to look appalled, but seemed unable to reprimand Harry,

given the current circumstances.

"All right, before this conversation goes on any further, we have to address
something first," Ron nearly shouted, glaring at Snape. Then he turned to
look at Harry, his expression softening. "You need a new name, mate."

Of course he did. The Taboo. He knew all about it, but he let Ron explain it,
anyway.

"There was a Taboo put on your name a while ago, for some reason… You-
know-who couldn't stand people talking about you, I guess. It was all over
The Daily Prophet and in the news, it was a real pain. So we need to call you
something else. We can't even use your first name without triggering it."

"There's also a Taboo on The Dark Lord's name, so don't say that, either!"
Hermione added hurriedly. Harry raised an eyebrow at her distress. "It was
put into effect shortly after the one on yours, but it wasn't publicized. They
did it to catch rebels. It makes sense, you know? Only people in the
resistance who were a threat dared to use it. They nearly caught Kinglsey that
way. I know you were one of the only people who did say it, but—well, just
don't."

Harry nodded in agreement, but still looked confused. "What happens if you
do say either of our names?"

"It causes a kind of magical disturbance in the atmosphere, alerting the

Snatchers that someone has said it. Snatchers are ministry employees,
dispatched to arrest criminals… Sort of like bounty hunters, they get paid to
turn people in…"
"But… wait," Harry said, mind reeling. "First of all—we're in Grimmauld
Place—is it still protected by the Fidelius Charm? Now that…" His sentence
died midway.

"Yes," Snape intervened. "Dumbledore made me the proper Secret Keeper

before he died." He sounded unaffected by that statement. Harry looked him
straight in the eye, unblinkingly.

"You killed him."

Snape's gaze didn't falter, either.

"Yes."

A pause.

"Why?" Harry spat the words at him like an accusation rather than a question.

"Because he was already dying. He'd come into contact with an extremely
powerful curse. It was killing him slowly. I ended his life on his own orders,
so that Draco would not have to."

Malfoy, who had been standing largely unnoticed in the corner of the room,
looked up. Harry stared at him, memories of Myrtle's bathroom flooding his
mind…

'…Let's just say that this task I've been given is pretty fucking difficult to pull
off when he's not here...'

So that was what the Dark Lord had asked of him…

"He wanted you to kill Dumbledore," Harry confirmed, still looking at him.
Malfoy nodded so briefly it was almost imperceptible.

Harry turned his attention back to Snape. "So you did it. And you're the
Secret Keeper here… So what would happen if someone in here said my
name? Or the Dark Lord's? Would the Fidelius Charm hold? Are the Taboos
that powerful?"
"The Taboo hex is an exceptionally intricate and sophisticated curse.
However, the Fidelius charm is also rather powerful… It is impossible to say.
If I had to make an educated guess, I would say that, yes, the Taboo would
disrupt the Fidelius charm, even if only for a moment. But even a second
would make us vulnerable. The only way to truly find out would be to test it,
but I believe I would be correct in assuming that none of us would like to
take that very foolish risk," Snape drawled.

"How do you know if it would break the Fidelius charm?" Ron scoffed,
folding his arms across his chest.

"I just said that I do not know with certainty, Weasley… Though I would
know more about it than anyone else, seeing as how it was I who created
them," Snape snapped, his crooked teeth clenched.

"You created them!?"

"Yes, Weasley, that is what I said. Your vast intelligence continues to

astound me on a daily basis."

Ron glared but didn't respond. There was a moment of silence.

"So… What are we going to call him?"

It was Draco who had spoken. He still stood near the doorway, apparently
reluctant to be too close to Harry in case he decided to attack his clothing
again.

Ron looked contemplative. "We could call you by your middle name," he
said thoughtfully. "The Taboo doesn't have any connection with that by
itself…"

Snape's face contorted as though he'd suddenly smelled some horribly foul
odor at the suggestion. The mere idea of calling Harry by his father's name,
James, was clearly abhorrent to him.
"No," Hermione interjected, noticing the horrible expression, "no, it's still a
part of his actual name, I don't think it's the best idea. I was thinking… Well,
how about Evans?"

The sour look on Snape's face vanished so quickly it was as if someone had
slapped it right off of him.

"You know… Your mother's surname?" Hermione continued tentatively. "I

thought it might be a nice way to honor her, you know…"

Harry only had to take in Snape's thunderstruck expression to make up his

mind. For whatever reason, the idea of calling him by his mother's maiden
name troubled the Potions Master immensely…and that was enough of a
reason for Harry. "Yes," he agreed, nodding. "I… I would like that. Thanks,
Hermione."

She smiled. Ron murmured something in agreement, and Draco, still standing
at a safe distance, shrugged before saying, "Whatever."

Snape said nothing.

"All right then, Evans it is," Ron said jubilantly. Snape flinched, but still
made no comment.

Harry grinned, glancing up at Draco for a moment before looking back to

Ron. "So how did Malfoy get here?" he asked, as if Draco weren't standing
just a few feet away.

Ron's expression darkened. "Snape brought him to us—OW!"

A stinging hex caused him to stop short and clamp a hand to his shoulder.
Snape had his wand pointed lazily at him; evidently snapped out of his odd
reverie. "What was that for!?" Ron barked.

"That's still Professor Snape to you, Weasley," Snape jeered, and Harry was
amazed that he could so instantly recall the same casual sneer from their
school days.
"You're joking—"

"I brought Draco here several weeks ago, yes," Snape talked over Ron as if
he hadn't spoken at all, addressing Harry directly. Ron glowered but didn't
interrupt. "His death was faked. As far as the rest of the Wizarding World
knows, Draco Malfoy is dead."

Draco looked down, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. Harry felt
his eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Why?" he said, baffled.

"Because Draco's life was in imminent danger," Snape responded, still

managing to keep his characteristic drawl artfully in place. "Months ago,
Draco was officially branded as a Death Eater at only sixteen years old."
Harry noticed that Draco now impulsively rubbed his left forearm with his
right hand. "The Dark Lord did this only to punish Lucius... He gave Draco
the monumental task of figuring out how to infiltrate Hogwarts with his
Death Eaters, as well as killing Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore, of course,
knew this, and this task was then subsequently requested of me. By both
parties." He sounded bitter at the last words. Harry frowned in concentration.

"Did he manage it? Getting Death Eaters in, I mean?"

Draco finally seemed unable to remain in the corner as though he were an

inanimate object any longer. "Yes, I did," he snapped, stepping forward and
taking the only remaining chair at the table. He glared as he sat.

"How'd you do it?" Harry inquired, honestly curious. Draco opened his
mouth to answer, but Snape waved his hand dismissively as if to brush the
response aside.

"It hardly matters how. He managed to do it. Death Eaters roamed the castle,
and, consequently, a battle broke out. It ended in the death of Albus
Dumbledore and in my ability to pose as a Death Eater while still reporting to
the Order coming to an abrupt end."
"But…you're here now," Harry said, confused.

"We're the only ones that know," Hermione interjected. She still held one of
Harry's hands tightly in her own. "No one else in the Order knows that
Professor Snape is on our side—no one. Lupin, Kingsley, Ron's family—they
all think that he's a full blown Death Eater. They also think that Malfoy is
dead, and that we're… Well, they think that we're…working on something,"
she ended in a high pitched, soft voice that was nearly inaudible. She and
Ron exchanged wary glances.

Harry tried to wrap his head around everything that was being thrown at him.
"Why?" he gasped. "Why keep that a secret? Shouldn't they know?"

"No. It is essential that no one—no one know that any of us are here. The less
people that know of our existence, the better. You must accept this." Snape's
words were clipped, leaving no room for disagreement.

"But—can't other Order members still get in here?"

"Technically. But they have been purposefully led to believe that the property
belongs now to Bellatrix Lestrange. The truth, however, is quite different.
Grimmauld Place actually belongs to you."

Harry gaped, stunned. "…What?"

"Yes. Sirius Black left it to you in his will. I am the Secret Keeper, but you
are the proper owner. The Order, however, has been led to believe that there
was a curse placed on the establishment which would only allow the property
to be passed down to a Pureblood witch of wizard. They think it belongs now
to Bellatrix. They will not attempt to enter the property."

Harry stared in disbelief. He wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that he
now owned Sirius's old house, which he'd hated so much… He shoved the
thought aside.

"Okay…" Harry said slowly. "Okay. I can understand why maybe no one
should know about me…and you, now, I guess… But—why is Malfoy so
important? Why was his life in such 'imminent danger'?"

"Because I," Draco said, voice dripping with a false, sarcastic bravado, "am
the Master of the Elder Wand." He scoffed at the end, and Harry got the
impression that this was simultaneously very impressive and very
unwelcome.

"The what?"

But Snape waved his hand distractedly again. "A discussion for a later time.
It is unimportant now. What matters is that, eventually, the Dark Lord was
going to kill Draco… He just didn't know it yet. And so his death was faked.
We were fortunate—r unfortunate, depending on how you view the situation
—to have an opportunity to do this just a few weeks ago. The Dark Lord's pet
snake had an unexpectedly violent outburst one day, and ended up attacking
both of us."

Draco glowered. "Insane animal..." he muttered bitterly. Harry looked away,

saying nothing.

"Quite. The serpent bit both of us, and we ended up in St. Mungo's… I nearly
died myself (Harry's stomach gave an uneasy lurch at these words). While I
was unconscious, Narcissa managed to make it look as though Draco had a
negative reaction to the anti-venom. It was a complicated heist, involving
another dying patient, several illegally imperiused employees, and a
substantial amount of Polyjuice Potion, but Narcissa Malfoy is an intelligent
woman, and she managed to accomplish the feat seamlessly. When I awoke,
she informed me of the ploy. I brought Draco here at once."

Harry gaped, admittedly impressed. "So, is Narcissa working as a double

agent for us now?" he gawked, unable to believe it.

The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, becoming dark and depressed.
"What?" he asked, looking at Malfoy, who barely met his eyes before staring
fixedly at the table.

"No," Snape answered. "I modified her memory, at her request, as well as
Lucius's. As far as Draco's parents know, their son truly died that day… It
was the only way."

A long, uncomfortable moment of silence.

"…But…why?"

"The Dark Lord can sense deception a mile away, Narcissa knew this—"

"Except for when it involves you, apparently," Harry couldn't help but snap.
Snape merely glared at him before continuing, as though he'd said nothing at
all.

"…She knew this, and so she asked me to modify her memory. His death had
to be convincing, as did the behavior and actions of her and Lucius. When
this is all over, I will restore their memories."

"But… Why not just hide all of them?" Harry asked quickly, looking between
Draco and Snape.

"Because the more people we bring in to this, the more dangerous it becomes
for everyone involved," Snape said quietly. He stared at Harry pointedly.

The horrible feeling in the room was suffocating. Harry never thought he
would feel anything resembling pity for Draco Malfoy. The icy blonde
looked more defeated than he had ever seen him—except, perhaps, when he
had watched him crying in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, if such visions
counted. Harry cleared his throat, deciding to shift the focus away from
Malfoy and voice a different thought instead. "You said…you'd gone to great
lengths to make it seem as if we both died," Harry murmured.

Snape nodded. "Yes," he confirmed. "I had hoped that, maybe, I would be
able to retrieve you and then return to my station before my absence had been
detected. That I could continue to work undercover… However, I do not
believe this to be the case. The Dark Lord knows that it was I who freed you,
I am certain."
"How do you know?" Ron asked, arms still folded tightly across his chest.

Snape's face instinctively morphed into a scowl at Ron's mere presence, it

seemed. "Sir?" Ron added on, half-sarcastically.

But Harry knew. The raw hatred that Voldemort had felt was a vivid, recent
memory in his mind, the hissing of his name still practically clinging to his
tongue…

'…Severus…'

Harry repressed a shudder.

Snape purposefully rolled up the sleeve of his robe which covered his left
arm. The Dark Mark there was an incredibly vivid, dark black, standing out
against his pale skin with a powerful aura. Draco physically recoiled when he
looked at it, his face clearly sympathetic.

"Had I not cast a numbing spell on my arm from my elbow down, I would
currently be in agonizing pain," he said unemotionally. Draco hissed,
clutching his own arm as if it had begun to burn by proxy.

"So you can't feel your entire forearm? At all?" Ron asked skeptically. Snape
looked like he wanted to hit him.

"Yes, Weasley, as you have so brilliantly deduced, that is precisely what a

numbing spell does. It was about the only thing I could do to stop it, short of
cutting my arm off," he said bluntly.

"He can't…he can't track you with that or anything, can he?" Ron said,
voicing the question the very same moment Harry had thought of it.

"It doesn't work that way."

They all turned to look in surprise at Hermione. She blushed.

"Well, it doesn't, right? I mean, Igor Karkaroff had a Dark Mark, but he
managed to stay on the run for months. If you-know-who had been able to
track him, he wouldn't have lasted very long at all, would he? He was just
stupid, he didn't fake his death convincingly, like Professor Snape has…and
the Marks only work one way. You-know-who made them very specific to
his cause. The only way any of his followers can affect him is to intentionally
summon, and even that was purposefully made to be difficult to do, right? So
that he could only be bothered when it was something critically important—
the Dark Lord is the one who wants to do all the commanding, after all, I'm
sure he hates being beckoned like a lesser… So, he can send all the painful
waves he wants to any of his Death Eaters for as long as he thinks to do it,
but the connection is so closed, so specific, that he probably can't be certain if
it's truly affecting them unless he's in front of them…right?"

Everyone stared at her in shocked silence. She looked up expectantly at

Snape, who said nothing.

"…Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger," Ron finally said, in what was a
surprisingly good impression of the Potions Master. Harry let out such an
abrupt bark of laughter he nearly choked. Even Draco couldn't suppress
cracking a smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she, too, was smirking despite herself. "Well,
isn't that right, Professor?" she inquired hopefully.

Snape looked loathe to acknowledge Hermione's intellect even now. "Yes,"

he finally admitted. "That is correct. He has no way of tracking either Draco
or I through the mark."

"That seems odd…" Harry said thoughtfully. "Seems like the kind of thing he
would do, doesn't it? To brand his followers with a mark that, if they ever
betrayed him, he could just kill them with a thought. Or at least track them."

"A precaution that I am certain he will implement on his new Death Eaters
from this day forward," Snape said curtly. Draco let out an audible puff of air
in relief, as if he had just dodged a killing curse right then and there in the
kitchen. "But the Dark Lord was not always so…"

"…So absolutely insane?" Ron chimed in helpfully. Snape's hand twitched

towards his wand; Harry wondered how long it would be until his friend was
hit another stinging hex. He grinned.

"He was not always so ruthless or off-balance, no," he concluded. "However.

The mark on my arm does provide one positive service; it will act as a sort of
guide. Should it stop burning for a prolonged period of time, then we can be
fairly certain that the Dark Lord has fully accepted that we are dead." He
looked fully at Harry now.

"I do not believe he will completely accept that we are gone for a long time.
It would be very unwise for either of us to leave the premises. We must be
extremely cautious in every way."

Harry was suddenly hyper-aware of the itchy confines of the Occlumency

barriers in his mind. "How…how did you do that? How is it even possible to
make Occlumency barriers in someone else's head?"

"It was unheard of, until I figured out how to accomplish such a monumental
feat…" Snape actually closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head up and
folding his hands placidly on the table in front of him. Harry thought he
looked rather like he was listening to applause from an imaginary audience
which only he could hear.

Harry frowned. The barriers were very uncomfortable. "Er… right. Brilliant,"
he said bitterly.

Snape's eyes flew open, snapped out of his daydream at once. "It is brilliant,"
he seethed. "My brilliance is your salvation. You should be kissing the very
ground I walk on for my sheer, all-encompassing brilliance."

Harry flinched at that, because, despite his great dislike for Snape, he knew it
was true.

"Don't be fooled, Evans, it wasn't all brilliance," Ron said defensively, and
Snape's fiery expression faltered oddly at the word 'Evans', again. "It took
him a lot of time to figure out how to do it. There was plenty of trial-and-
error involved."
Another stinging hex. Ron swore loudly.

"How did you figure it out?" Harry asked, trying not to laugh. He really did
appreciate Ron's protective retorts on his behalf.

"He's been practicing on us, of course," Ron muttered, still rubbing his arm
when he was hit with the hex. At once, Ron, Hermione, and Draco shifted
uncomfortably. It could not have been clearer that no one enjoyed the
experience of Snape poking around in their minds experimentally.

"Indeed. And it's all to our advantage that such a thing has never been done
before," Snape continued in his usual drawl. "The Dark Lord knows that you
are an abysmal Occlumens. So, when he reaches out through your connection
in an attempt to see if you are alive, he will not suspect for a moment that you
have managed to shield yourself from him. It will be further evidence that
you have perished."

Harry nodded, mind buzzing. And itching. Uncomfortably.

"Can you… I don't know, make them less…irritating?" he muttered,

scratching his head as if that might make the mental prickliness go away. Ron
and Hermione—and even Draco, he was stunned to see—looked at him
sympathetically.

But Snape looked annoyed. "It is a very complex, unnatural magic that I am
performing, boy. It is a continuous drain on my own energy. They will be
uncomfortable, because they are foreign to your mind, technically
incompatible with your thoughts. Forced, imposed. Until you learn how to
create your own barriers of equal strength, they will remain. All our lives
depend on it. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed nervously. "I... Yes. I understand." He cleared his throat,

and when Snape raised an eyebrow at him, quickly added a, "sir."

Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Good," he finally muttered. "I believe that is more than enough conversation
for one day."

Snape stood, fixing Harry with a strange look that made him feel very
awkward—like he was some sick relative that he'd never liked, but was now
being forced to take care of, anyway.

Well…not too far off.

"You two," Snape said once he'd gotten to his feet, looking pointedly at Ron
and Hermione. "Come with me."

Ron immediately looked angry, clearly about to argue—but before he could

say anything, another stinging hex hit him in same spot on his arm. "Now,"
Snape growled. Then, without waiting for a response from either of them, he
strode briskly from the room, black cloak billowing dramatically behind him
as if there had been a gust of wind.

"Screw him," Ron muttered once he was out of earshot.

"We should go," Hermione said quietly. "He probably wants to hear about—
you know—" She looked quickly at Harry, squeezing his hand again. "I'm so
sorry, Evans, there's so much more to talk about still, but—"

"It's fine," Harry said quickly. His head was positively swimming with
information. Some time to sit and digest it all sounded appealing. "Just…
don't keep Snape waiting. I think he's determined to hex Ron's arm off."

Hermione gave a tiny laugh. Ron attempted to smile, too, but apparently there
was too much truth in that statement, for it looked more like a sour grimace.

"Yes, all right. We'll be back soon." With one last reassuring squeeze of his
hand, Hermione stood and went towards the door. Ron followed suit,
shooting Malfoy a glare as he went.

Then Draco and Harry were left alone. The blonde looked worriedly around
the room for a moment as if he wasn't quite sure how this had happened.
"I'm not going to freak out again," Harry said. Malfoy looked unconvinced.
He stood.

"Right. Well, I don't really feel like taking my chances, Evans," he scoffed,
and headed towards the door.

Harry felt like the thoughts in his head were angry, buzzing insects. They
whizzed around his mind chaotically, bumping into each other and stinging
the sides of his skull, made all the more uncomfortable by the strange
sensation of Occlumency barriers which were not his own. He scratched
uselessly at his scalp.

Draco had just turned the doorknob to exit into the dark hall when Harry
spoke again, unable to help himself.

"Everyone thinks that we're dead," he said flatly, as if to recap the entire
conversation. "You. Me. Snape. Apart from Ron and Hermione, the whole
world thinks that we've died. And now…we have to…to stay here."

Draco looked back at him over his shoulder. His expression wasn't exactly
malicious, but it wasn't kind, either. Perhaps he was trying to give him that
characteristic sneer that Harry was so accustomed to from their school days,
but it fell flat. It was hollow, now. His gray eyes looked cold, haunted.

"Welcome to the House of Ghosts," he drawled, but again, the sarcastic

bravado was only half present. Then, without a backwards glance towards
Harry, he entered into the darkened hall and disappeared, letting the door
close behind him.
 4. Thoughts and Fears
Harry simply sat in the kitchen for a few minutes, alone with his thoughts
(which were now strangely uncomfortable, given the new Occlumency
barriers).

He was out. He was really, really out.

He couldn't believe it.

He…could believe it.

Harry ran his palms along the surface of the wooden table. He reveled in how
rough it felt, so hard and solid beneath his fingers. It was the simplest thing,
yet in that moment it was the most wonderful sensation.

Then he was hit with a sudden stroke of inspiration that was so great it
bordered on genius. Grinning, he stood.

A shower sounded like the best idea in all the world.

Without overthinking it, he left the kitchen and ascended the staircase—
quietly, of course— and made his way to the bathroom. It was the same one
that he, Ron, and the twins had shared so long ago, when the entire Order was
using Grimmauld Place as Headquarters… except that it didn't seem very
long ago at all, to him… Shoving aside all thoughts that didn't have anything
to do with a nice, hot shower, Harry closed the bathroom door and took off
his borrowed robe.

He gasped when he saw his own full, naked reflection for the first time. For a
wild moment, he actually thought it was someone else in the mirror. He even
twirled around, stupidly looking behind him for the unknown intruder.

Harry ran a hand down his chest in astonishment. And he'd thought his
inexplicable, perfect vision was immaculate. But his body…
There was simply no other word for it.

He was hot.

…Really hot.

Harry had never been anything other than malnourished at the worst of times
and just slightly too thin at the best of times. Not even the delicious and
copious amounts of food at Hogwarts or the Burrow had ever helped him to
put on any real weight, and Quidditch did little to help him gain any muscle,
either. Not that it had ever bothered him. Being lithe was the ideal build for a
Seeker, anyway.

He certainly didn't look thin and malnourished now.

Bloody hell, he thought, as he poked experimentally at a pectoral muscle that

he absolutely did not have before. He flexed his biceps, slowly opening and
closing his fists in awe. It was almost unreal, how…how good he looked. He
had…abs. Definitive ones. The kind that you'd see on a male model or
something.

Harry let a long, low breath as ran a hand through his hair—suddenly
noticing that even his hair was nicer, far softer than he'd ever remembered it
being. He tried for a few moments to flatten the unruly parts into something a
bit more presentable. The moment he moved his hand away, the reluctant
locks sprung right back up. Nope. Still stubbornly, perpetually messy. Shiny,
though, he thought wryly.

He laughed at himself in the mirror, but the smile died from his lips rather
quickly as the following thought hit him like a punch to the gut.

His body… Why was his body so…perfect?

Harry tried not to linger on what he assumed the answer to be. He…didn't
want to think about that. Instead, he turned away from his reflection and from
his reeling thoughts and got in the shower. The bathroom with soon filled
with inviting, warm steam.
Stepping into the stream of running water felt even better than he'd imagined
it would. Harry was content to just stand there, letting it run over his exposed
skin, which still felt tainted by the lingering, icy chill of that frigid air… It
chased the awful memory away, warming his cold bones…

It was almost enough to make him forget about the strange sensation of the
barriers in his mind…

The moment he thought of them again, he once more became hyper-aware of

their presence. Strange, sort of itchy, odd constrictions on his mind… The
more he mentally lingered on them, the more wary he was of their presence,
and the worse they felt, and the more he just wanted to grab and peel and rip
them off—

Best not focus on them, then, he thought quickly. He tried to concentrate

instead on other pressing matters.

A year. He'd missed an entire year of his life.

And what a year it had been, apparently.

Snape killed Dumbledore. 'Course, he already knew that—but knowing now

that he had done it on Dumbledore's own orders… He'd been cursed, he'd
said… Cursed by what?

Harry started to make a mental list of questions he would have for later.
Number one— Why and how had Dumbledore been dying?

Okay, so, Dumbledore was dead, but Snape was…good… Obviously he

really was good, Harry knew that he must be, or he wouldn't have saved him,
but… The better question was… Why? Snape hated the lot of them, always
had…

Had he finally given Ron and Hermione whatever solid proof that he had
given Dumbledore, to convince him he was on the Order's side?

Question two, then— Why are you not a Death Eater, Professor Snape? Sir?
Not that I am complaining, I just find it very odd, as you hate all of us, so,
you know, it would be nice to know why you are, in fact, on our side. Thank
you.

Right… The Potions Master himself. His hero.

Wonderful.

And Draco Malfoy's hero, too, he realized suddenly. The Master of the Elder
wand… What in the world was that? And why would it make the Dark Lord
want to kill him?

Question three—Malfoy, what is the Elder Wand, how are you the Master of
it, and why would that put you at the top of the Dark Lord's 'to kill' list?

Harry thought back to the memory of when he'd been in Myrtle's bathroom,
watching Draco cry his eyes out to a ghost. He could only imagine what he
would do if Draco found out that he, Harry Potter himself, had seen the
whole emotional outburst…

Or, for that matter, that it had been him in the snake…

And if Snape found out—

Harry felt his blood run cold, despite the scalding water in the shower. He
said a silent prayer that Severus Snape would never, ever discover that he had
tried very hard to murder both he and Draco Malfoy in the form of an
impossibly large, powerful python.

Not that he had known any better! He'd just heard that they'd worked together
to kill Albus Dumbledore! Of course he would try and kill them, honestly!
Right? What did he know? Besides, that had given them the excuse they
needed to 'kill' Draco Malfoy, hadn't it?

So, really, he had done them a favor.

Somehow, Harry imagined that this reasoning would do little to quell the rage
that Snape would be sure to unleash on him if he found out.

Better just…never let them know. Harry wondered if Snape's Occlumency

barriers also kept Snape himself out of mind (and was terrified at the prospect
that they might more easily let him in).

Question four, then—Professor Snape, do your crazy, experimental mind

walls make it harder for you to read my thoughts, or easier? No specific
reason, none at all. Just curious. Nothing to hide here. Just been sleeping for a
year… Or most of it… You know…

But wait—Harry physically jumped at another startling realization, nearly

slipping in the shower—he'd already screwed up.

He had been the first to tell Snape that he knew Dumbledore had died. Snape
hadn't caught it, but—how would he explain how he'd known that? Why
hadn't that greasy bastard asked him that question at once?

The answer came just as swiftly as the horrible revelation did, and Harry let
out a sigh of relief. Of course, because Snape had passed out, and Harry had
been in the kitchen with Ron and Hermione… He probably just assumed that
his friends had told him…

Inversely, his friends had most likely assumed that Snape had told him some
things when he'd been in the drawing room alone with him…

Nobody knew that nobody had told Harry anything, and that all of his real
information had, in fact, come from strange, inexplicable out-of-body
experiences. Which had been caused by people saying his name, which was
why there was a Taboo on it, now—but Harry alone knew that was the real
reasoning. And he had seen Draco crying, had seen Trelawney in her tower,
whispering and staring into a crystal ball, seeing nothing…

Which brought him to a set of final, rather monumental questions.

Had Snape known it was him inside the batty, old woman? Harry frowned,
trying to remember exactly what he'd said…It had been rather fragmented…
He lives… World of white… Asleep, safe and sound, the Dark Lord has
him… Harry Potter, human horcrux… Yes, that had pretty much been the
gist of it…

Well. There was no reason for Snape to think it had been Harry speaking
through her… In fact, considering he'd said that Harry Potter was asleep, he
probably did not think it was him. He more than likely just thought it was
Trelawney saying something…divine-y…

But Harry knew that Snape knew what he was.

So why hadn't Snape tried to kill him? Why was he going to such great
lengths to protect him? Weren't Slytherins supposed to be all into self-
preservation?

Furthermore, did Snape know that he, Harry, knew what he was? Did he
know that Harry was also personally aware that he was a horcrux of Lord
Voldemort?

Questions five, six, seven and eight…

Harry began to feel overwhelmed. He was just going to have to play his cards
very close to his chest, pretend he didn't really know much of anything and
act like he never saw any of the things he witnessed during his tumultuous
out-of-body experiences…and just figure things out slowly over time, asking
questions only when it made sense to ask them…

He thought back to when he'd been waiting outside of the kitchen,

eavesdropping on Ron and Hermione. Ron had been wondering aloud why
they couldn't tell him everything… and Hermione, she'd yelled at him…
What did they know? Did they also know that Harry was a horcrux? Did they
think that Harry was unaware, too? Were Ron, Hermione, and Snape all
working together now, sharing information and decidedly keeping Harry in
the dark? Oh, and there was Draco Malfoy, too—where and how did he fit in
to all of this?

Harry had an ominous feeling that no one in this household would ever quite
have the full picture, because everybody was keeping secrets from somebody
else.

"…Evans? You all right?"

It was Hermione. Harry started at the sound of her voice as she knocked
timidly on the door.

"Ah, yeah," Harry answered. Evans. That was going to take some getting
used to.

"I'll bring you a clean towel, okay?"

Oh. Harry had not even thought about that. "Uh, okay, that would be great.
Thanks!" he called. How long had he been in the shower? Probably a long
time. Most reluctantly, he turned the water off. He may have just stayed in
there all day is she hadn't brought him back to reality.

Reality…right.

He heard the door open and close a moment later. "I'm setting it right here on
the sink. Oh, you'll need a change of clothes, too—I'll go find you some,
sorry, Evans—"

And before Harry could say anything, she left again. He waited until the door
closed to step out of the shower.

The mirror was completely fogged over, the warm air thick and heavy with
moisture. Harry grabbed the towel and dried off cumbersomely, still
unaccustomed to his new musculature… if felt…weird, but in a good, kind of
powerful way. He wrapped the towel around his waist, tying it so that it
would stay secured on his hips.

He waited. And waited.

Had she forgotten? Harry frowned, slightly annoyed. Hopefully not; she'd
taken the other robe that he'd been wearing before with her. He eventually
decided to brave going out into the hall and up to the old room he used to
share with Ron. What were the odds he'd run into Snape between here and
there? At least he had a towel—then again, Snape had already seen—

Harry nearly wretched as he repressed that particularly vivid, rather recent

memory.

Just as he turned a corner, he collided with a frazzled looking Hermione, who

had, naturally, chosen that moment to finally return.

"Oh!" She gasped in surprise as they bumped into each other. "Sorry, I—"

Hermione froze mid-sentence as she stepped away. Her mouth formed into a
perfect little 'o' as she quite blatantly stared at Harry's half-exposed body,
clearly just as shocked at his appearance as he had been.

Harry, embarrassed, froze as well.

He cleared his throat. Hermione jumped at the sound, and her face instantly
turned pink.

"Uh, Hermione…?" he said, reaching for the clothes as he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh my god," she said dumbly, returning her eyes to his face at once. "Sorry
—I, um, h-here you go." She shoved the bundle of clothes into his waiting
hands.

"Thanks…" Harry said a bit uneasily. And because the moment wasn't
already awkward enough, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs
announced the arrival of a third party. Harry's head snapped to the side, his
eyes widening at the unwelcome appearance of Ron.

"Are you two—whoa," he said, also freezing when he saw Harry. His eyes
darted back and forth between the two of them—Hermione's pink face,
Harry's wet hair and immaculately chiseled chest, and the way they were just
standing there, awkwardly—
"Uh…" Harry started, taking a step back towards the bathroom in retreat.

Hermione had started unintentionally gawking again, despite her best efforts.
"S-sorry, Evans—it's just—I mean—you look like you've just walked out of a
Calvin Klein ad!" she gushed, unable to help herself.

Harry laughed uncomfortably, but Ron looked confused.

"A-a what?" he interjected loudly. His face was turning red, but Harry could
tell it was for an altogether different reason.

"Nothing—it's a stupid—it's a muggle thing," Harry muttered quickly. He

gave Hermione a fleeting but pointed look. She coughed, turning away. "I'm
gonna get dressed now… Thanks for the clothes." He turned and went back
into the bathroom, eager to escape.

"Who's Calvin Klein?" he heard Ron asking in a heated voice. Harry tried his
best not to laugh out loud.

"No one, nothing—we'll be downstairs in the kitchen, okay, Evans?"

Hermione called.

"Okay!" he answered, but already he could hear them walking away, Ron
muttering something unintelligible in an annoyed tone. Still grinning, Harry
got dressed. He wondered whose clothes these were. They fit all right—in
fact, they may have been a bit too big for him, before—but the shirt was
slightly too tight over his broadened chest, the pants a tad too short.

Maybe he should just ask for the large, overbearing robe back. Even if it was
Snape's.

Sighing, and trying very hard to ignore the uncomfortable itchiness in his
mind, Harry went downstairs to join his friends.

It was just the two of them again, thankfully. They were sitting across from
each other at the table, steaming mugs in front of them.

Hermione jumped up at once. "Here, Evans, I'll pour you some tea, too…"

"Thanks." Harry nodded, suddenly realizing that he was very thirsty. He sat
down next to Ron, who still looked slightly disgruntled—Harry could have
sworn he'd seen his eyes dart over Harry's chest and shoulders as if they
personally offended him—but a moment later he was smiling.

"Evans… That will take some getting used to," he said brightly, voicing
Harry's earlier thoughts.

"Yeah, I know," Harry agreed. "So, uh… what did Snape want?"

Ron's smile faltered at the question. He glanced up at Hermione as though

waiting for instructions.

She set Harry's tea down in front of him before she returned to her seat.
"Well," she started tentatively, "it's… complicated."

She paused. Harry waited.

"First of all, Evans, you have to realize that we…we cannot tell you
everything. At least, not right now. Not until we are all certain that you-
know-who believes that, without a doubt, you are dead, and you are able to
construct your own impenetrable Occlumency barriers. Until then, we can't
tell you certain things, we just can't, because if you-know-who used your
connection to find out what we've been up to, it would be disastrous.
Catastrophically so. I'm not talking about just our lives, either, I'm talking
about the entire war; it would make it so that we would never, ever win. Can
you understand that?"

Her last words were so tense with worry, her eyes so filled with regret and
concern, that Harry almost felt guilty. Of course he understood why he
shouldn't know everything—he had a piece of Voldemort's lovely soul in his
poor head—but he wasn't entirely sure that Hermione knew that… No, he felt
guilty because he could see in her face that she expected him to rant and rave
and shout at them like he had over a year ago, in the summer before their fifth
year.

He took a slow sip from his tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. "Of
course I understand," he said calmly. Hermione visibly relaxed at his words,
her tense shoulders slouching.

"Oh, good. It's not that we don't want to tell you, it has nothing to do with—"

"Hermione. I get it," Harry interrupted. "You don't have to apologize for
being logical. Just…tell me what you think is safe, and no more. I can wait to
hear the details later."

"Well, we can't tell you what Snape wanted, but…" Ron began, but he gave
up rather quickly, looking back to Hermione again to explain.

"A lot happened this year, Evans," Hermione said briskly. Harry could tell at
once that she had been thinking this particular conversation through in detail,
as her words sounded a bit rehearsed. "After you went missing, it was the
Order's priority to find you, of course. Headquarters was still at Grimmauld
Place, but it was only used as the occasional meeting space, from what I
understand. We spent the summer at the Burrow—and, oh, by the way, Bill
and Fleur are engaged. She was there with us the whole time." Her last words
were undeniably frosty.

Harry's eyebrows raised at that. "What? Really?" He gave Ron a shrewd look,
remembering all too well the fiasco before the Yule Ball…

"Yeah," Ron said, his ears turning red. "…Yeah."

Hermione paused for a moment, focused on Ron as if she were just waiting
for him to say the wrong thing.

"When do they get married?" Harry asked. Hermione turned her attention
back to him.

"Uh… Day after tomorrow, actually. August first. They're getting married at
the Burrow…"

"Oh. Wow. That was fast. Um… Are you two going to go?"

"Yes," Ron answered, sounding worn. "Yes, so help me God, we have to go.
My Mum already wants to kill me, I've been leaving so frequently without
her permission... She knows that Hermione and I are working on some secret
orders from Dumbledore, but refuses to accept that we should be doing it
alone. Every time I sneak away, I think she's going to just murder me when I
get back. She keeps threatening to chain me to my bedpost…"

Harry wanted to ask what the 'secret orders' were, but already knew they
wouldn't be able to tell him. "So you haven't been staying with them,
Hermione?"

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, I would have, but—you see, it's

already so crowded there, and—well, I've been busy with this research I need
to do, and it would be impossible in the Burrow right now—"

"It's an absolute madhouse, Evans," Ron said with a heavy voice. "Planning a
wedding is insanity. Mum's a train wreck, Dad's working crazy hours at the
Ministry—though I think he does that partially on purpose, to avoid being at
home for as long as possible—Ginny keeps trying to kill the bride—she hates
phlegm—I mean, Fleur—and Fred and George keep encouraging it, giving
her free joke shop supplies—their shop is doing incredibly well, by the way
—and Percy…"

He finally lost momentum, his voice trailing off feebly.

"He's…still not around?" Harry asked. Ron shook his head solemnly.

"…So I've been staying in a loft in Diagon Alley," Hermione concluded. "But
I've been invited to the wedding, so I'll go, too… I wish you could come with
us…"

Harry pondered this for a moment. He'd never been to a wedding before, let
alone a wizarding one. He could only imagine that it would be fun, but of
course he couldn't go…

"Everyone really misses you, mate," Ron said somberly. "It's going to be
really hard, going to the wedding and pretending like we don't know you're
okay… But we can't tell anyone, Snape's made us swear up and down a
thousand times. I'm surprised he hasn't made us make an Unbreakable Vow.
It's like he thinks you-know-who is going to personally use Legilimency on
my entire family…"

He tried to smile as if this was a joke, but there was too much truth in it for
Harry to find it funny in the slightest. He looked down at his tea, feeling
miserable and guilty. Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder gently.

"Wait," he said suddenly, looking up at her. "Didn't…didn't you say that

everyone thinks you're missing? Hermione, how can you be renting a loft if
you're 'missing'?"

"Oh, I've created a false persona," she said smartly. "'Abigail West'. I use a
glamour in public—"

"A what?"

"A glamour, it's a complex spell to disguise your appearance. Much easier
and safer than Polyjuice Potion, I just have to cast it whenever I'm out.
Anyway, that's what I've been doing while I've been, ah, researching the past
couple of weeks… I might be a target, otherwise… Not to mention being a
known muggle-born has serious consequences, even now…"

"Does it? Why? What's happening to muggle-borns?"

Hermione's face turned stony. "Well…nothing, yet. But the war is not going
well, Evans. There's a very high likelihood that the Death Eaters will
infiltrate the Ministry soon, if they haven't already… It's difficult to say. They
could have half of the officials under the Imperius curse at this very moment,
just waiting for the right time to strike, to completely turn the tides…" She
paused, looking more anxious than Harry had ever seen her. "Anyway, once
the wedding is over, Ron and I will probably come here. We have a mission
that is of vital importance, and the only ones who know about it are us and
Snape. And, soon, you, of course." She rushed to add the last part, as if
worried Harry might change his mind and start raving after all.

"But… What about your family…?"

Hermione's face fell, but her gaze was unwavering. "My parents… I modified
their memories. I gave them new names. They went to Australia… They'll be
safe there. They… don't currently know they have a daughter."

Just like the Malfoys. Harry chest tightened in response. Just how many
families would this war tear apart?

"Oh, it's okay," she went on quickly. "I can restore their memories when this
is all over, they'll have had no idea." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Harry sighed. Before he could say anything else, there was a loud, ominous
thud from somewhere up above them. They all looked up.

"What was that?" he asked. "It sounded like someone just dropped a bowling
ball…"

"Oh, that'll be Kreacher…" Hermione's answered, voice filled with pity.

Ron, however, was clearly annoyed. "Yeah," he muttered as he took in

Harry's surprised expression. "He's around. We couldn't exactly get rid of
him, he knows too much… So we keep him locked upstairs in the attic."

Harry clenched his fists. Kreacher. That stupid house elf had lied to him, it
was partially his fault that his Godfather was gone—

"He's yours now, you know," Ron went on. "Since you inherited the property,
he's officially your house elf. He won't take orders from any of us, as he
technically doesn't have to. Hence us locking him upstairs." He didn't seem
too fussed about it, but Hermione looked concerned.

"It's really unfortunate, but we can't have him getting out..." She gave Harry a
somewhat hopeful glance. Ron shook his head as if in warning, like he was
willing her not to voice her next request—

"Maybe, Evans… Maybe, since you're his new master, you could—"

"He can rot up there for all I care," Harry snapped. Hermione opened her
mouth to respond, obviously about to plead with him, but Ron interrupted.

"I have an idea," he said. "Let's talk about something else besides nasty, old,
house elves. Anything else. Anything at all. Like, oh, maybe—"

"How did Dumbledore get cursed?"

Ron instantly became slack-jawed at that interjection. Once again, it was

Hermione who spoke up.

"We… That's one of the things we can't tell you, Evans. Not yet."

Harry sighed, a bit exasperated. "Can you… I dunno, sort of give me the gist
of what it is he wanted you to do?" he asked pleadingly. "No details or
anything, but just the general idea? So I'm not totally confused?"

Hermione glanced at Ron, who just shrugged unhelpfully. Her voice was
slow and measured when she looked back to Harry. "Just…know that we
have been working on Dumbledore's orders since before he died, and that it is
very, very important that no one else knows about it. We're basically
searching for some important items that we need to find. It's vital that we
locate them in order to defeat you-know-who."

Harry frowned. "Important items… like weapons?" he asked. When

Hermione glowered, he put up his hands defensively. "All right, all right,
sorry! Don't tell me. You shouldn't tell me." His mind felt uncomfortably
itchy again. He scowled, feeling gloomy and terrible.

"You…really shouldn't tell me."

They fell into an awkward silence, until Harry was hit with a sudden wave of
exhaustion. He stifled a yawn.

"Are you tired?" Hermione asked in a motherly sort of tone. "You can rest in
the guest room if you'd like, it's clean."

"No," Harry said at once. He was tired, but the very last thing he wanted to
do was sleep. Hermione looked a bit taken aback. He put a hand up guiltily;
he hadn't meant to snap at her.

"No, I don't want—no thanks," he said in a gentler voice. Hermione's

expression softened.

"Let's do something else," Ron said unexpectedly. He stood and crossed the
room, motioning for them to follow.

"I've got an idea. It'll be fun."

And hour and a half later, and Harry had not won a single game of wizarding
chess. Ron claimed his king for the third time.

"Checkmate," he said, grinning widely as Harry's white king angrily threw its
crown at the feet of a black knight. Ron's pieces began dancing victoriously,
causing Harry's queen to burst into silent tears. "Ah, I really missed beating
you, Evans," Ron sighed blissfully as he watched the spectacle.

Harry laughed, getting up and switching places so that Hermione could take
his spot. "Here, have another go, Hermione," he said as he plopped back
down on the cushy sofa.

"Yes, come to the slaughter." Ron grinned playfully as he reset the board.
The black pieces hurriedly got back into place, looking excited. The white
pieces, however, dragged their feet as they retook their positions. Harry
couldn't blame them. They had now lost seven times in a row.

"Oh, all right. But then we should make dinner." She brushed her thick hair
aside. "Unless you're hungry now?"
"I'm always hungry now," Ron said.

"I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Evans."

"What, you wouldn't make me something to eat, too?"

"I'm not hungry," Harry muttered. Hermione nodded as she ushered an

unhappy pawn out onto the board.

"Maybe you will be in a bit," she responded quietly.

"Yeah, watching Hermione get crushed should work up an appetite. You

there, pawn, move up two spaces." A black pawn directly across from
Hermione's boldly strode forward, waving mockingly at the opposing white
piece. Hermione's pawn ostentatiously ignored it.

Harry leaned back on the couch as he watched, suppressing another yawn. He

was really beginning to feel exhausted, now, but he still did not want to sleep
at all…

"So what does Malfoy usually do around here?" he asked. Ron didn't look up
when he answered, his gaze fixated on the rook Hermione had just moved.

"Usually just keeps out of the way," he said as he moved another pawn. "He's
been staying in Regulus's old room. I think he just hangs out in there. At
least, that's what he does when he knows we're around."

Hermione sighed, looking conflicted. It was clear she wasn't sure if she felt
bad for Malfoy or not. She moved another pawn.

Harry failed to stifle the next yawn that hit him. He stretched before leaning
forward, determined not to fall asleep.

"What about Snape, where is he? What's he up to? He said he can't leave,
either…"

"I think he's asleep, actually," Hermione replied. She scowled as one of Ron's
pieces clobbered her poor, white pawn. "He said not to disturb him; that he
would be in the master suite… He definitely looked exhausted."

"Mmm," Harry murmured noncommittedly. That hardly surprised him. Snape

had passed out while he was crying, after all…

He watched passively as Ron went on to claim more and more of Hermione's

doomed pieces… It seemed that his freckled friend never bored of winning so
effortlessly, and neither did his faithful chess set. He grinned, simply glad to
be doing something so normal… The pawns were pretty funny, actually…
The little figures reminded him a bit of the plastic toy soldiers he used to play
with as a kid… When he was small and had been forced to stay in that dismal
cupboard, those tiny figurines had been the closest things to friends that he'd
ever had… He remembered so clearly, the way that he would set them up,
ready to battle each other… He could see them now, even…

Before he knew it he was back there, holed up in his small cupboard. The toy
soldiers were on the shelf, ready for his attention. Harry grabbed a few at
random and began placing them in a battle formation… One was missing an
arm, but that was okay—he at least had a gun… But, Harry decided, he
would probably need back up… He placed a few more figurines behind
him…

He was just about to start when the dangling light above him flickered and
went out, enveloping him in darkness.

Annoyed, Harry looked up at the dead bulb. He got to his feet and found that
he was unable to fully stand. He really had gotten a lot taller… Crouching
uncomfortably, he took a step towards the door—

That's when he noticed them.

The walls, all four walls of the closeted space… They were shimmering
slightly, sort of… going in and out of focus… Odd, really odd… Harry
reached forward and lightly touched the surface of the door—

Immediately he retracted. The Occlumency barriers. In his dreams—for he

was fully aware that he was dreaming, now, he must have unintentionally
dozed off—they appeared, quite literally, as walls in his mind. And the
moment he had touched the one before him the uncomfortable, agitating
itchiness had increased a thousand-fold. Harry cringed, backing away slowly
and trying very hard to resist the urge to just tear them down at once… The
horrible sensation receded…

Feeling very trapped indeed, Harry sat back down on the tiny cot in his
cupboard in the dark.

Well, this is just great, he thought dryly. Right back in his old solitary
confinement. He wondered vaguely if the Occlumency barriers were more or
less necessary while he was asleep…

And then he thought he heard something…

A creaking sound… Like footsteps… Slow, methodical footsteps… Someone

was outside, headed towards him… Harry felt adrenaline explode in his
veins, but he forced himself to take a deep, calming breath…

A dream. This was just a dream.

They were getting closer… But there was no one really there, this is just a
dream, he repeated over and over to himself—it couldn't be…him, it couldn't
—

Right outside the door, the footsteps stopped. Harry hardly dared to breathe.
He pulled his knees to his chest, silent in the darkness, and—

What was that?

Harry stared at the door, half in terror and half in…something…else… There
was a strange sound coming from beyond the barriers…familiar, sort of…like
a ringing…no…a hissing…and…not entirely unpleasant, either… Harry
continued to stare from where he heard it coming from, almost in wonder…
It was getting louder… He could feel it in his very soul, and…it was quite
lovely, really…captivating, and…he wanted…he wanted…
He jumped in shock. The horrible, itchy sensation of the barriers snapped him
back into a lucid state of mine at once. Flustered, he looked back—when—
how…? He…he had gotten up and walked to the door, had put his hand
against it again—was about to just walk out there, and he hadn't even realized
it—he had been in some kind of trance… That hissing sound from beyond, it
had beckoned him towards it like a sick, serpentine, siren song—

Horrified, Harry stepped away from the door, shoving his fist in his mouth as
he did so that he wouldn't scream. Because he knew, now, without a doubt,
what—who—was out there, just waiting, reaching, calling for him—luring
him—

But he doesn't know I'm here, not for certain, Harry thought wildly,
reminding himself. I can hear him, but as long as I stay behind these walls, he
can't hear me—

But the hissing wasn't stopping. He put his hands over his ears, trying
desperately to block it out…and then he heard it, in the midst of that
terrifying, enthralling sound, like some twisted, hypnotic music, words that
sent shivers up and down his spine—

"…Harry Potter…"

That voice…cold and smooth, like silk sliding against his skin, tortuously
slow...

"…I will have you…"

 5. Lonely Together
"Evans…? Evans!"

Harry awoke to the rather forceful physical ministrations of Hermione. She

had both of her hands on Harry's shoulders, effectively shaking him out of the
terrifying nightmare. His eyes flew open, Hermione's worried, pale face was
just inches from his own. She was kneeling next to him on the couch, looking
incredibly concerned.

"Huh-I-what-?" Harry spluttered, looking about the room—which was not a

cupboard under the stairs, which was not currently being stalked by a
frightening mass-murderer, metaphorically or otherwise, at least, he didn't
think.

Hermione released her hold on his shoulders, but her worried expression
remained the same. "You fell asleep and… It looked like you were having a
bit of a panic attack. So I woke you up."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, slowly exhaling. His heart felt
like it was trying very hard to beat its way straight through his ribcage. The
hypnotic, captivating hissing sound was still stuck in his head, echoing like a
musical note that refused to completely fade.

"I… Thanks," he muttered, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. When
he opened his eyes to look at Hermione again, it was to see that her distressed
demeanor had not changed at all.

"What were you having a bad dream? What about?"

She turned to fix Ron with such a reprimanding glare at his callousness that it
would have put Mrs. Weasley to shame.

"What?" he balked, but after a few seconds under Hermione's glower he

literally, physically withered. "Oh—er—I mean—nevermind—so, how about
dinner?"
Somehow, Hermione managed to look even more venomous. Ron stood,
looking panicked.

"Which I will make. Right now. I will go and d-do that." He hurriedly left the
room, but even from a distance Harry could see his ears turning red. If he
weren't still so distraught over his more than mildly upsetting nightmare, he
was sure he would have found the whole interaction funny.

"Honestly… Tactless…" Hermione seethed. But when she turned back to

look at Harry, her features were concerned and motherly again. "Are you all
right?" she asked.

Harry wet his lips nervously. He only knew two things right then—he was
most certainly not all right, and he in no way, shape, or form wanted to talk
about what he had just dreamt.

"Yeah," he said, and it could not have been more unconvincing if he'd tried to
sound like a guilty liar.

But she smiled tentatively all the same. It was a pitying look.

Harry hated it.

"He's such an idiot," she muttered as she glanced towards the door, but he
couldn't help but notice that there was a certain…fondness to the words.

Harry grinned. "Are you a basilisk?" he asked casually.

That wiped the pitying expression right off of her face.

"What?"

Hermione looked infinitely more concerned now, perhaps because she was
instead worried about Harry's mental welfare. Which Harry was also worried
about, now that he thought on it.

"Because that look you gave him just now… I think you nearly killed him.
You definitely petrified him, at least for a moment."
She paused for a second, looking a bit baffled, before breaking out into a
genuine grin. She laughed in relief.

"Perhaps he should invest in a hand mirror. He'll have to get used to carrying
it with him so he can use it every time he rounds a corner, but I'm sure he
would do it if it meant avoiding that look full in the face again."

"Oh, ha, ha—"

"He might also want to acquire some phoenix tears to carry on his person at
all times, in case you ever bite him—"

"Oh, stop—" She was laughing, but her cheeks had turned the slightest shade
of pink.

"Probably wouldn't do him much good, though, because I imagine if you bit
him, you'd probably just do the proper thing and eat him, too—"

She shoved him playfully on the shoulder this time, her blush deepening.
Harry was enjoying himself maybe a bit too much. "Not that I blame you! I
mean, a girl's got to eat! Might as well devour yourself a nice Weasley boy—
take a page out of Fleur's book, eh—"

Hermione's eye twitched at the mention of the beautiful French woman.

"What?" Harry said, effectively derailed from his onslaught. "Is she really
that awful to be around, or something?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Her eyes narrowed distastefully. "Or something," she affirmed. Bitterly.

"Is that why Ginny keeps trying to do her in?" Harry imagined for a moment
the youngest Weasley sneakily dropping dungbombs on an unsuspecting
Fleur Delacour. The thought made him grin. "Or is it just because she's part
veela?"

"I just don't really like her, is all," Hermione said, clearly trying to sound
diplomatic. "She's incredibly arrogant, thinks she is so much better than the
rest of us, and it just…gets old."

Harry was pretty sure the words 'and she turns every single male in her
presence into a blubbering, pathetic mess, most pointedly and frequently
Ronald' were in her mind, but would never be spoken aloud. He shrugged.

"I thought she was all right during the Triwizard tournament," he said
nonchalantly. Hermione made no further comment.

"So…are you two…" Harry's gaze flickered back and forth between the door
where Ron had just exited and to Hermione's still slightly flushed face.

"Um." She twirled a strand of bushy hair around her finger in a very girly,
un-Hermione-ish way. Even though Harry didn't actually voice the question,
the implication was obvious. "…Er… The short answer is no," she finally
settled for. But she didn't meet Harry's eyes when she said it.

"Fair enough," Harry said, deciding in that moment to drop it.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Hermione and Ron. On one hand, he
always knew that there was some kind of tension there, between the two of
them, and he wanted nothing but for his friends to be happy…but on the other
hand, he couldn't help but think that the two would not be great for each other
in a relationship. They bickered more than anything, what with their clashing
personalities, and Harry would hate for them to date, piss each other off, and
break up—effectively also breaking up the happy trio.

But, Harry mused, he had missed an entire year of…well, life. Maybe things
were drastically different now, what the hell did he know? And…trio? They'd
just spent so long without him. Did they even feel like such a friendly
threesome existed anymore?

…Probably not.

Harry suddenly felt very, very alone.

Hermione must have noticed the abrupt change in his demeanor, because that
horrible, pitying expression was back on her face. "Are...are you hungry?
Ron did say he was making something…"

He honestly thought about it. The idea of ingesting solid food sounded
monumentally difficult. "I don't think I am, really," he admitted.

"Well, you'll have to eat eventually… Though I'm sure it will be strange, you
haven't technically eaten in a year!" Harry couldn't tell if she was more
anxious or fascinated by this notion. He was suddenly hit with the
understanding that, Hermione, studious and thirsty for knowledge as she was,
probably had a hard time not firing thousands of questions at him about his
magically-induced coma. For academic purposes.

"Technically," Harry agreed. He flexed his arm experimentally, still

unaccustomed to his newly toned muscles… Muscles which were sure to
atrophy rather quickly, should he have a hard time regaining an appetite.

His traitorous mind brought up images from the nightmare—dark cupboards

and creaking footsteps and enthralling hissing sounds—

Harry's stomach contorted uncomfortably, making him feel rather queasy.

No, he did not think he would have much of an appetite ever again.

Ron burst back into the room then, looking a bit apprehensive—apparently he
was still uncertain if Hermione was going to yell at him or not—but as he
took in their more relaxed dispositions, he grinned.

"Who wants pot roast?" he said cheerfully.

Harry barely suppressed a groan.

As it transpired, Ron was not a very good cook—at least, not according to
Hermione. Harry couldn't really be a fair judge, as he only managed to take
one bite before realizing that eating solid food was going to take some
working up to. He settled for tea with milk instead, but even that, he found,
he needed to drink slowly.
"You should have made soup, or something," Hermione chastised, even
though Harry had voiced many times over that he really didn't want anything.
"Or bone broth, that's always a good thing to eat when you're sick—not that
you're sick, Evans—as a matter of fact, you look healthier than I've ever seen
you! But anyway, bone broth would have been better."

"Well, I don't even know what that is," Ron quickly interjected, "And the
kitchen isn't exactly fully stocked, so—"

"What are you talking about? I just brought in a ton of groceries the other day
—"

"You can cook next time, then—"

"You offered. I won't make the mistake of letting you, next time—"

Harry just let the sounds of their bickering wash over him, slowly and
methodically taking small sips of his tea. At first, he found the familiarity of
it all amusing, but after a while it began to get on his nerves. Just like old
times…

"Did you tell your Mum that you were going to be gone for so long, Ron?" he
interrupted suddenly. Ron stopped mid-retort to look at him. "You and
Hermione have been here all day—if there's a wedding to get ready for at the
Burrow, won't she be…"

"Oh, yeah," Ron half groaned, half muttered. "She's going to be royally
pissed, absolutely. I've just been trying not to think about it." He grinned like
he thought this was funny and not at all a big deal, but Harry could see the
underlying, genuine panic in his eyes.

"You should go back," Harry said. "Both of you, you don't need to just stay
here all day. It's getting late, anyway, they're probably already getting
worried…"

Ron looked incredibly torn.

"…He is right, you know," Hermione agreed, albeit forlornly. "If you don't
go back soon, your parents are sure to start panicking…"

She turned to look back at Harry reassuringly. "I could stay here, though,"
she added, as she gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

Harry didn't miss the way Ron's eye twitched involuntarily at the action.

"Ah… that's okay, Hermione," he mumbled, and she almost looked hurt by
his words. He quickly went on. "I mean, I think I would like some alone time
to… You know, process everything… If that's all right. Besides…" He
glanced at Ron, smirking slightly. "You can't let him face the wrath of Molly
Weasley alone. She might murder him on sight if it's just him—if you're with
him, she'll at least have to act somewhat civil and spare his life."

Ron's eyes widened at the truth of that statement. He looked at Hermione

pleadingly.

"That's a…a really good point," he said profoundly.

Hermione frowned, her lips pursed. "Oh, don't be such a coward," she
muttered, but she stared at Harry seriously. "If you want some space, then…
sure, that's fine…"

Harry nodded. Ron actually exhaled in relief.

"Go on, then," Harry said, for Hermione had started to gather up their plates
and tidy up. "I can do that, really—"

"Oh, no, you didn't even eat anything! Besides, it will be much quicker if I do
it."

And before Harry could argue further, she had brandished her wand smartly
over the table and across the room, where dishes began washing themselves
quite efficiently. Harry stared, slack jawed.

Right. Hermione and Ron were of age, the trace was no longer on them. They
were both already seventeen…which also answered the question of how Ron
had managed to make pot roast so quickly, he realized. Harry wondered
vaguely if it would have mattered either way, performing underage magic in
an establishment protected by the Fidelius charm…

And then he remembered that there was really no point in him thinking about
any of that anyway, because he no longer had a wand at all.

"You're better at that than my Mum is. You're like a house elf," Ron said
appreciatively, as he watched the dishes stack themselves into neat piles in
the cupboard.

Harry actually flinched at Ron's words; 'tactless' didn't even begin to cover it.
And then, as if to add to the moment, there was another loud, heavy thud
from up above, reminding them all forcefully of the imprisoned elf in the
attic. They all glanced upwards. One of the glasses that Hermione was
suspending in midair fell and shattered, covering the floor in tiny, pointed
shards.

She looked very much on the verge of shouting—Ron did that pathetic,
withering thing again—but, to the surprise and relief of both of them, seemed
to think better of it. Instead, she hurriedly ushered the rest of the dishes away
and pocketed her wand.

"Clean that up. I need to speak with Professor Snape before we go," She
snapped, and then she strode from the room.

"…Smooth," Harry said quietly once she was gone. Ron groaned. He
muttered a quick 'Reparo' before picking up the no longer broken glass.

"I know, I know. I'm an idiot." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
"Did…did you mean it? Do you really want some space? Because if you
would rather Hermione stay here, so you're not alone with—"

"It's fine. Yes, I meant it," Harry said firmly. "Get out of here. Go see your
family, show them you're still alive."
He'd meant it to be a joke. Ron did try and smile, but his face paled
significantly.

A few silent, tense moments later, and Hermione rejoined them. If anything,
her frosty exterior was worse. She barely glanced at Ron before continuing to
walk to the front door. "Well, come along then."

Ron followed like a scared—yet undeniably obedient—dog.

Yet then she turned and gave Harry a giant, unexpected hug. "Oh, Evans…"
she said before stepping away and giving him a big kiss on the cheek. "We'll
be back tomorrow, of course. Even if we can only get away for a little bit. I'll
make sure to bring you some more clothes and such…"

"Are you sure?" Harry said skeptically. "The day before the wedding,
shouldn't you stick around the Burrow so you can help out…?"

Hermione and Ron both fixed him with quizzical expressions. "Don't be silly,
of course we'll be back. It's your birthday!"

"Oh. Right," Harry murmured, dumbfounded. Tomorrow he would be of age,

too…

Hermione gave him another quick hug. When she had pulled away, Ron
clapped him on the shoulder in a brotherly way. "Malfoy shouldn't be a
bother, he generally just keeps to himself, but… Well, don't let Snape get you
down."

Harry smirked. "Yeah. I'll try not to. Don't let your Mum chain you to your
bedpost."

Ron gave an identical smirk. "I'll try not to."

Hermione's frostiness seemed to melt away at the friendly exchange between

the two. She smiled before holding out a hand expectantly to Ron.

"Right, then—shall we?"

And so Harry watched as his two best friends stepped out onto the doorstep.
It was just then that he was struck with a sudden concern—how exactly were
they going to be leaving? Did they have a secret portkey, or—

But his question was answered at once, as Hermione and Ron gripped each
other tightly, and with a loud, resonating crack, vanished on the spot.

Ah. They could apparate, now…of course they could…

Somehow, this odd bit of information made Harry feel even more lost and
alone. He slowly sauntered over to the couch in the living room, rubbing his
forehead and trying not to think about the itchy barriers in his mind as he
wondered about what else he had missed.

It wasn't long before his depressing, mental turmoil was interrupted.

Either Snape had entered the room more quietly and eerily than a ghost, or
Harry really hadn't been paying attention—because one moment, it was just
an empty doorway, and the next, The Potions Master was inexplicably
hovering there, looking more ominous and bat-like than ever.

He didn't let the surprise show on his face, though.

Harry had been laying on his back on the couch, staring vacantly at the
ceiling as he contemplated life and all of its complicating factors. "Morning,"
he said idly as his eyes met Snape's, despite the fact that it was eleven at
night. "Sir," he added quickly.

Snape glowered, but surprised Harry as he stalked across the room to sit
across from him. Harry raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"It has been brought to my attention that you may be experiencing…vivid

nightmares."

Harry sat up. Hermione. That's what she'd had to talk to Snape about before
she left? She'd…she'd ratted him out!
"No," he denied at once. His mind itched.

"Don't lie," Snape demanded. "I expected as much, actually. Tell me, When
you were… asleep, before… As in, before you were brought here… Was the
Dark Lord ever able to communicate with you?"

Harry's entire mouth went dry.

"C-communicate with me?" he stuttered, and, damn it all, he could feel his
face growing warm—he cleared his throat, trying not to sound so flustered
and stupid—

"Yes. This is important. If he can reach you in your dreams, than that is
where you will be most vulnerable, and he will try and find you that way. So
answer the question."

Harry couldn't. He just…couldn't.

"I-I don't know. I don't remember anything from…when I was asleep,

before." He was looking down, refusing, perhaps a bit too obviously, to make
eye contact.

A number of unasked questions hung in the air. Both parties remained silent
for a long time.

"I see," Snape finally said.

The next words came tumbling out of Harry's mouth before he could stop
himself, like drunken soldiers on a suicide mission. "Can you hear everything
I'm thinking?" he spluttered, looking up.

Harry might as well have asked, 'Do you think I'm pretty, Professor Snape?',
so condescending and repulsive was the expression on the older wizard's
face.

"…Sir?"

Snape's scowl deepened.

"They are barriers. Walls. Just because I am currently upholding them does
not mean that they allow me access to what I know is the vast, empty,
unfortunate mental landscape of your mind. To put that into words that you
can actually digest, the answer is no. No, your mind is completely closed off
from any and all outside sources. Including myself."

Harry visibly relaxed. Snape didn't need to ask why, the dangerous look on
his face asked it for him.

"Just wondering," Harry said quickly, sounding altogether too nervous.

Snape seemed to contemplate something for a moment. Then, in a measured

voice, he said, "I do hope you recognize the importance of telling me the
truth, boy. But know that just because I may not be able to use Legilimency
to delve into your mind—at least, not for the time being—I am excellent at
sniffing out deception. And right now, you reek."

"But I just showered." Harry couldn't stop himself. Snape's hand twitched
towards his pocket where he undoubtedly kept his wand.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. It was odd how he could be so nervous around this
man, yet still not refrain from saying stupid, reckless things. "I meant, 'I just
showered, sir.'"

"Do not make me hex you," Snape seethed, and this time he did pull his wand
out. Harry couldn't help but feel annoyed at the hostility.

"Why did you do it, then?" Harry almost shouted, his eyes fixed on Snape's
unblinkingly. "Why did you bother to save me? You hate me. You've always
hated me. Why throw away your precious life as the Dark Lord's favorite
Death Eater for me?"

Snape stood. At first, his expression was so enraged at Harry's forwardness,

so mutinous, that, if Harry had not already been up close and personal with
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself—er, in his dreams, anyway—it would
have been rather daunting.
But not two seconds later, and it was gone. Snape's murderous scowl
vanished, quickly deteriorating into his usual, pompous sneer.

"I simply saw the error of my ways. I have always been on the Order's side.
You know this is true, so get it through your giant, over-blown head and
accept it. Never ask me again."

The last words were spoken with such a finality that Harry just nodded. But it
left him burning with the questions he really wanted to ask… Instead he,
said-

"…How did you find me?"

Snape actually shrugged. "I have my ways," he drawled in a manner that

made it clear he thought he was superior to nearly all people in every
conceivable way.

Oh, like Divination teachers finding you and giving you vague, cryptic
messages in the dead of night, sir?

And the question Harry really wanted to ask, but could not, for it would give
everything away—

Why didn't you kill me?

Why aren't you killing me now?

Why? Why? Why?

"Okay," he muttered tersely.

Snape simply glared at him suspiciously for a moment, as if waiting for

another obnoxious question or angry retort. When none came, he returned to
a seated position. Then, quite suddenly, he turned his head to the side, and
Harry flinched at the unexpected shout of,

"Draco! Get down here!"

…Why?

The sound of footsteps descending the stairs announced the inevitable arrival
of Draco Malfoy. He stepped tentatively into the room, looking skeptically
between Harry and Snape.

"…Yes?" he finally said, wary. Snape motioned towards a spot on the couch
next to Harry, across from him.

"Sit."

Draco looked like there were few things he would rather do less than sit next
to the boy who had aggressively de-pantsed him earlier. But apparently old
habits ran deep, and he only hesitated for a moment to obey his former
professor.

He did, however, sit as far away as physically possible from Harry as he

could on the sofa.

"Good," Snape said curtly once they were all seated. Harry folded his arms
across his chest, waiting.

The older wizard looked at Draco, resting his hands in his lap in an almost
business-like manner (with his wand still woven between his fingers as a
silent threat). "Draco, you and…" he briefly paused, looking like he was
about to be sick for a moment before continuing, "…Evans, here, are going to
be sharing a room. You are being set to the task of keeping an eye on him."

Draco looked like Snape had just slapped him in the face and told him he had
bad hair.

"…What?" he and Harry shouted simultaneously. Snape ignored Harry

completely, continuing to speak to Draco as though he wasn't even present.

"Yes. You are going to be keeping an eye on him, especially while he's
sleeping."
Draco's face paled. "You—you want me to watch him while he sleeps?"

Harry shared his horrified sentiments precisely.

"Not necessarily. Just sleeping in the same room should suffice; I know you
are a terribly light sleeper (Harry did actually pause in his horror-stricken
state for a moment to wonder how Snape knew this). If he shows any signs of
distress while he sleeps, simply wake him up."

Draco looked like he would rather fight a dragon. As a matter of fact, Harry
would prefer that, too.

"You can't be serious," Harry said, for Draco now seemed at a loss for words
completely.

Snape finally turned his attention back to Harry. "I am very serious. Until we
are certain that both of us are, without a doubt, thought to be dead, we must
take every precaution necessary to make sure you don't give us away. If he
can reach you in your dreams, he will undoubtedly try." He ran a pale finger
along his jawline, looking deeply contemplative as his dark eyes bored down
into Harry's. It didn't matter that he knew he couldn't use Legilimency at the
moment, Harry immediately looked away.

"That is what happened, isn't it?" Snape said softly, and, for some reason,
Harry very much wished that Draco wasn't in the room. This felt incredibly
personal, and maybe a bit…taboo?

"He tried to reach you in your dreams. Outside of the barriers, but you could
feel him searching for you, couldn't you?"

The silence was suffocating. Harry felt like Snape had just punched him in
the stomach with those words…but he didn't dare lie.

"…Yes. Er. Well. I could…hear him," he said quietly, and it felt like sharing
the most private, intimate information in the world. Draco shifted
uncomfortably.
"What?"

Harry glanced up to Snape, who looked deeply concerned. "You could hear
him?" Harry nodded, and Snape's brows became substantially more furrowed.

"That should be…impossible," he murmured. There was a long moment

where no one said anything, but Harry could practically hear the older man's
mind racing. Then—

"In what manner was he speaking to you?" he asked slowly.

"…Was it…parseltongue?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

He hadn't actually thought about it before—but he supposed that made

perfect sense. Because it wasn't Harry he was beckoning to, really, was it? It
was the horcrux, that snake-like entity that was so intricately intertwined with
his very being… Voldemort's soul, his soul…

Not that he was about to say any of this out loud. This felt more awkward and
uncomfortable than talking to Professor Snape about…about sex, or
feelings…

Harry had a startling revelation, then, as he realized…perhaps…perhaps not

all of those things were exactly unrelated.

Harry felt his face growing warm against his will. He looked away again.

"I-I'm not sure," he stuttered, though he was sure. "I could never really
differentiate between the two… It just—it sounds like English to me…"

Harry knew that Snape knew that wasn't a lie, but Harry was certain that he
was still very suspicious. The older wizard closed his eyes and pinched the
bridge of his nose, looking overtly distressed. He took a long, deep breath
before saying, "Do not ruin what remains of my existence by informing me
that you spoke back."
"No," Harry replied quickly. "No, of course not."

Snape's concerned expression softened to its usual glower. He nodded.

"Good."

Harry, however, did not feel relieved at all. "But—he can't—he doesn't know,
right? So long as I remain within the barriers, he can't actually sense that I'm
alive…r-right?"

Snape paused for a moment before responding. Then, in a level voice he said,
"…No. He cannot. But I am obviously correct in assuming that he is going to
continue to reach for you, anyway. He is unstable, irrational, and, most
dangerously of all, desperate. When the Dark Lord wants something, he will
go to unheard of lengths to obtain it. These tendencies become exponentially
worse when he is told that what he desires is impossible."

Snape pulled up the sleeve on his left arm. The Dark Mark was still a deep,
inky black against his skin. Malfoy recoiled again.

"However. While he may not be able to sense you, it doesn't mean that he
will have ruled out the possibility that you are somehow being hidden from
him yet. I fear that level of acceptance will not come for quite a while. In the
meantime, you must prove to be more intelligent than you have in the past.
Whatever he says to you in your dreams, do not respond. You are, quite
literally, playing dead. He is the most cunning wizard in all of existence, he
will say or do anything to lure you out of hiding if he actually thinks you may
still be alive. Don't give him any reason to truly believe that is a logical
possibility. Just stay within the Occlumency barriers. Don't disturb them,
don't go through them, and, for god's sake, don't say his name."

Harry just nodded. What could he say? The very last thing he wanted to
admit was that, not only had he heard Voldemort talking, but he had done this
weird, hypnotic hissing thing, and it was like a bizarre siren song, and, god
damn it, why was his face burning up, and why did they need to be having
this conversation with Malfoy in the room?

"Why… Why is he so desperate to get him, Professor?"

Draco's timid voice shattered the awkward silence. "I mean… if he had him
before, why didn't he just kill him? Why keep him locked away at all? If he
wanted to kill him so badly… Why didn't he just do it?"

Well, that answered Harry's question about how much Draco Malfoy knew.
Apparently not very much. Which, Harry remembered, he was supposed to
be acting as though he didn't know much, either.

He decided not to act offended by how casually Malfoy had inquired about
his death. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said in what he thought was an
admirably good imitation of a defeated, confused young wizard.

It seemed to appease Snape, at any rate. "The Dark Lord is more than slightly
deranged. I stopped questioning many of his more radical decisions a long
time ago."

And that seemed to appease Malfoy. Harry played along; he even shuddered
like it was an involuntary action. Or maybe that had been genuine. He wasn't
really sure.

Snape stood. "You two will stay in the guest room. There are two beds in
there already."

That snapped Draco back to reality at once. He looked incredulous again. "I
don't want to babysit him!" he shouted. Harry cringed; he really did sound
like a pompous, spoiled princess.

"Oh, I apologize—did you have a plethora of pre-existing appointments? A

full, chaotic schedule with many looming deadlines? Are you so busy that
you cannot aid in our survival?" Draco's jaw dropped at being snapped at so
venomously by his favorite professor. Harry couldn't help but be amused—
and a bit confused, actually. Was their cozy student-teacher relationship
completely destroyed, now? "No? That's what I thought," Snape finished in
his characteristic sneer.

He was quiet for a moment, fixing them each in turn with a scowl.
"I am not asking you to be friends, I am not even asking you to be kind to
each other—I would probably have better odds with asking the Dark Lord for
a full pardon and a pay raise. But I am asking—no, demanding—that you be
civil towards one another. This is only a temporary arrangement, so you will
only have to deal with each other for a—God willing—relatively short
amount of time. Don't make it any more painful than it has to be. When this is
over, we can all pretend like this never happened. I'll even personally modify
your memories for you, if you'd like. Now. I will be in the master suite. If I
am disturbed for anything less than an absolute emergency, know that I am
not above using Unforgivable Curses."

He continued to look back and forth between the two of them, his thin lips
curling up at the corners. Apparently he was unable to not find at least a bit of
joy in their obvious uneasiness. "Do you both understand?"

A brief pause.

"Yes, sir," they said in a dull, lackluster chorus.

Snape looked as close to happy as Snape ever did. "Excellent," he said,

pocketing his wand as he stood. He gave Harry one last, vindictive smirk.

"I'll leave you to it, then. Happy bonding."

He then left, his cloak swirling behind him in a most impressive manner,
leaving two stunned and miserable teenagers in his wake.

Harry glared.

Draco glared.

…Silence.

Long, uninterrupted, and uncomfortable. With the exception of the soft

ticking of the clock on the wall, it was eerily quiet and dark.

But that ticking. Harry thought the sound was mocking him. Tick, tick, tick—
this is your life, wasting away. Here, in this room, in this house, with Draco
Malfoy.

Tick, tick, tick…

…This cold war had been going on for at least twenty minutes.

The guest bedroom had two twin sized beds in it, just as Snape had said.
They were on opposite sides of the room, which was not exactly very large.
On one sat Harry James Potter, currently known simply as Evans, and on the
other, Draco Malfoy. It was nearly midnight, but neither looked like they
were about to go to sleep anytime soon. Instead, they were openly glowering
at one another.

No words. Just unspoken, mutual hatred.

As Harry did not yet have pajamas, he remained in the clothes that Hermione
had brought him earlier. They weren't particularly comfortable. Draco,
however, must have brought his clothing with him, because he was dressed in
very cushy looking sweatpants and a t-shirt. Harry envied him, but there was
nothing in the world that would make him ask his old nemesis if he could
borrow some pajamas…

"…Why'd you try and rip my pants off?"

After such a long, tense stretch of silence, it was Draco who finally spoke
first. It was a very hostile question.

Harry's stony expression did not waver. He supposed that he should have
come up with a good explanation for that action by now, but he hadn't. The
silence filled the room again, only now Draco was looking at him with an air
of inimical, yet genuine, curiosity. When Harry simply didn't answer, he
asked, leeringly,

"Are you gay…Evans?"

Harry was sure the shock at that question registered on his face. Had Draco
Malfoy really just questioned him about his sexuality? And, even more
bizarre—was he really that incapable of instantly firing back a witty, angry
retort?

Draco's already sneering expression became gleefully malicious at Harry's

reaction. "You are, aren't you? Is that—"

"Even if I were gay, Malfoy, the very last person on Earth I would be
interested in would be you," Harry spat, finally regaining his composure.

Draco's gray eyes narrowed. "Then why did you attack me like that?"

"Why'd you let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and try and murder
Dumbledore?"

Draco's brows raised at that. Apparently, Harry's ungraceful tactic of such an

obvious change in conversation was actually going to work. "I was ordered
to," he seethed. "And I wasn't about to disobey an order from the Dark Lord
himself. You…you have no idea how terrifying he is when he demands
something of you."

Harry actually had a very good idea about how terrifying the Dark Lord could
be while demanding various…things, but he said nothing.

"There's no excuse for committing murder," Harry responded coldly. Draco

resumed his glaring.

"Well, I didn't. And he was already dying, anyway." There was almost no
remorse in his voice at all.

Silence again. Harry's mind itched uncomfortably.

"Great," he muttered, plopping onto his back so that he could stare up at the
ceiling. "Just great. Living with Snape and rooming with Draco Malfoy…"

"I'm not exactly happy about it, either, Evans," Draco said from the other side
of the room. Harry could hear him shifting, presumably also laying down.
"Babysitting you isn't what I signed up for."

Harry paused for a second. "…How did Snape know you were a super light
sleeper…?" he couldn't help but ask. Harry turned on his side to face him.

Draco, however, made a sort of grunting noise, and resolutely remained with
his back to him. Harry waited. Just as he was sure that Draco wasn't going to
answer, he said,

"…I used to complain about Crabbe and Goyle all the time. We shared a
dorm, and they both snored. I asked Professor Snape to teach me how to do a
silencing charm in our first year so that I could finally get some sleep."

It was a short story, and Harry supposed he should have found it kind of
funny, but he didn't. Not at all. Draco's voice was so forlorn, so depressed…
because he was talking about his friends, and it was obvious by his broken
tone that he truly missed them.

Harry had never actually thought that someone like Draco Malfoy would be
capable of genuine friendship.

"Oh." Surprisingly, he felt a bit guilty that he couldn't think of anything better
to say.

Draco did turn then. His steely eyes shone like two gleaming pieces of silver
in the near darkness. "So if you show any—what did he say?—signs of
distress, I'll hear it, and I'll wake you up." He said it in a tone that made Harry
certain that, should Malfoy have to awaken him from a disturbing nightmare,
he would not do so in a pleasant manner.

Harry snorted. "Lucky me," he said sarcastically. Then, a bit more nervously,
"…do you have your wand?"

Draco sounded even more depressed, now. He couldn't even manage to have
an edge of haughtiness when he spoke. "…No. I… It was buried with my
fake body."
"What?" Harry said, sitting up. "But—why?"

Draco didn't move. "Authenticity," he seethed, though Harry could tell the
rage was, for once, not directed at him. "All noble wizarding families are
buried with their wands… Mine was in St. Mungo's when I supposedly died,
and my mother didn't want to risk making a fake and swapping it out to get it
for me… It's kind of funny, in a twisted way. If there was one thing that
would convince the Dark Lord that I was really dead, it was my wand being
buried. It was like my actual body—a complete, transfigured fake—was
inconsequential to that. I was as meaningful as my source of magic, and that
was it."

Harry nodded, recognizing the truth in that.

"Well…at least you could potentially get your wand back someday," he said
bitterly. He fell on to his back again, sighing.

Draco didn't ask, but it was obvious he wanted to.

"Yeah. He has it," Harry answered darkly. "Probably…fed it to his snake, or

something."

Malfoy made a low, dismal humming sound in agreement.

Tick, tick, tick…

"Could be worse," Malfoy offered up morosely. "…We could be dead. You

know, for real."

Harry actually laughed at that. Mostly because he wasn't sure if that would be
worse for him. It certainly wouldn't be worse for the wizarding world in
general.

"Yeah," he agreed, regardless. "Yeah. We're alive. Miserably, miserably

alive."

The clock on the wall chimed midnight.

"Happy birthday," Malfoy mumbled emotionlessly as he rolled to his other
side, his back to Harry once more.

Harry suppressed another hollow laugh.

He stared up at the ceiling, thoughts racing, uncomfortably so with the

burden of the foreign barriers. He was just about to say something about how
he didn't think he would sleep at all, after his previous nightmare, that easy
slumber would be impossible… But then his eyelids suddenly felt very, very
heavy… He fought it for a moment, was about to sit up again, even, but it
then he heard it…

Pulling him into dreams, that entrancing, hissing sound…

 6. Outstanding
Harry tried to ignore it.

"…Ssssssssssssssss…"

He was back in the dark, dismal cupboard. What cruel and unusual
punishment was this, he thought sourly, to be here again? Was he doomed to
forever repeat this horrid nightmare? To return every night to Number Four,
Privet Drive—literally stuck in the closet?

A bitter joke commenting on the horrible predicament that was his life.

"…Harry Potter…"

Yes, definitely parseltongue. The more he focused on it, the more obvious
that was. He could hear it, an eliding, exotic hiss…

"…Harry Potter…"

Though he tried with all his might to not focus on it, he found that
impossible. It was…it was velvety smooth, and the sound of his name… It
was so…sensual and literally taboo and—

Stop it.

"…Come to me…"

I will not, he thought stubbornly.

The monotonous hissing continued. Hypnotic and alluring, with enticing

words occasionally slipping in and out of focus within the single, lovely
note…and those words, they were such silky sounds, sliding up and down his
spine like a snake, cool and smooth, making his whole body shiver—

Footsteps, again. Slow, eerily prowling outside of the door, outside of the
barriers… They paused for a second… Harry wet his lips, trying to calm his
rapidly palpating heart. Don't panic, he thought, he doesn't know you're
here… Don't panic… Don't—

Harry abruptly and involuntarily let out a noise that was something between a
gasp, a moan, and a scream—a sort of strangled sound as he felt it, the walls
being touched—not by him; he, Harry, remained on his tiny cot, a safe
distance away—but he had touched them from the outside, and it was like the
mental equivalent of someone trailing a single finger along the bottom of a
bare foot, or over a naked, exposed stomach—it was torturous, a horrible itch
that he could not, would not scratch… Feather light fingertips continued to
dance across the barriers, grazing the walls almost curiously, and Harry had
to bite his knuckles to stop from screaming out—he tasted blood in his mouth
—oh god, stop it, stop it, stop it—

And then, thankfully, blessedly, they retracted. Harry sighed. He didn't—

couldn't possibly know what that had done to him… For surely, if he had, he
wouldn't have stopped, and, eventually, Harry probably would have done
something disastrous—

"…I know you live…"

No you don't.

"…Come to me…"

I will not.

It was growing louder and stronger and it was intoxicating and—no, stop it,
stop…

"…Come to me…"

…I will…not do that…

"…Harry Potter…"

…Mmmmmm… His name, spoken like that…it was…so…

"…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…"

…So…

"…Harry Potter…"

...So…mmmmmm…

"….Ssssssssssprecioussoulsssssssssssss…"

…Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-

"Mph—what the hell! Ack—stop—stop! HEY!"

Harry threw his arms up, desperately trying to fend of the vicious attack—
another blow hit him on the top of the head, and then another—

"Pft—enough—enough already!"

Draco Malfoy towered over him, pillow in hand. He was just about to thrust
it down at his face again when Harry sat up and pushed him away.

"I'm up, I'm up!"

Draco reluctantly stepped back, but he still held the pillow threateningly over
his head, prepared to strike again.

Even in the semi-dark room, the distraught expression on Malfoy's pointed

face was painfully clear.

"What the hell was that noise you were making?"

Harry's was very glad it was dark, then. His could just feel his entire body
turning red.

"What…what are you talking about?" he muttered, dreading the answer.

Draco lowered the pillow slowly to his side, but did not release it from his
grasp. "You were making some weird, humming sound, or something.
Practically moaning."

Harry's stomach dropped.

"I-I was?" he stuttered, feigning shock.

"Yeah," Draco answered, looking and sounding somehow both vindictive and
disturbed. "It was fucking weird."

Harry felt like his very blood was on fire, he was blushing so fiercely. He hid
his burning face in his hands. Had the temperature in the room just risen no
less than, oh, maybe one thousand degrees?

"…What was he saying?"

Malfoy's voice became much quieter and more respectful, suddenly. Harry
suspected that he was unable to so much as reference the Dark Lord without
being deferential.

"Nothing," Harry replied, maybe a bit too quickly.

"Liar."

"I'm not—it doesn't—STOP THAT!"

For Draco had just ransacked him with the pillow again, and it was
surprisingly painful, considering it was, in fact, a pillow. Harry latched onto
it, and soon they were both yanking at it, a vicious tug of war—

"Give it back—"

"No—"

"Let go—"

"You let go—"

Harry did. Malfoy, who had been standing and pulling very hard, went flying
backwards, falling ungracefully onto his bed as he was thrown off balance.
Harry smirked.

"You ass," Draco spat, fuming. "Fine, don't tell me. See if I wake you up,
next time."

"Sure you will," Harry spat back. "Unless you want you-know-who figuring
out I'm alive. That you're alive."

Draco just glared at him for a long moment, looking mutinously conflicted.
Then, finally, he laid back down, rolling over to one side so that his back was
to Harry once more. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like,
'no one fucking tells me anything' before pulling his blankets up over his
head, huffing.

Harry fell back onto his bed, too, suppressing a groan. His horrible thoughts
whirled around in his head, indescribably itchy and irritating. He scratched
his head uselessly, willing it to stop being so bothersome—to no avail.

Scowling, he glanced up at the clock. It was nearly six in the morning. Well,
he had managed to sleep for a straight six hours… How strange, he thought,
that dream had only seemed to last a moment… Or had it? Everything felt
foreign and different under the influence of that alluring, velvety sound, that
hypnotic hiss—

Stop it, stop it, stop it! Harry berated himself as he dragged his hands down
the sides of his face. How was that possible? That beckoning, that creepy,
spine-chilling summoning—what was that? Some kind of lure to the horcrux,
he supposed, some kind of magical call… Voldemort's soul, reaching out to
its other half…bidding it to come home…

"…Come to me…"

He shivered.

Harry figured that Snape was right, though… That beckoning, it was a
continuous, repetitive hissing…but he was fairly sure that Voldemort wasn't
actually certain that Harry could hear him. It was a desperate summon, a
refusal to accept that he had really, truly died, yes—but, Harry thought, if the
Dark Lord really thought he was alive, that he was listening to every single
word he said… He would probably be saying…other things.

No. Lord Voldemort was…in denial.

Harry almost cracked a smile. What were the stages of grief, again? Denial,
anger, bargaining…depression? And then acceptance? Ha, Harry thought
dryly—Voldemort was definitely in denial and he was definitely angry…
Somehow, though, he couldn't imagine the Dark Lord pretending to bargain
with anybody, ever… And…depression? Also unlikely.

So the stages of grief for a psychotic, mass-murdering megalomaniac: denial

and anger, simultaneously, for a prolonged period of time…and hopefully,
someday, acceptance…

But the way it had felt, when he had run his hands across the Occlumency
walls… Voldemort surely had no idea what he had done, in that moment—
that he had just touched upon the barriers that concealed his quarry… Harry's
back arched involuntarily at the mere thought of it. That—if he ever figured
that out…and Snape, had Snape felt it, too? Could the Potions Master tell
when the barriers were being probed at, or was it only he, Harry, who
experienced that insatiable, unquenchable, itchy sensation?

He sat up, scratching his head again.

"I think I need to talk to Snape," he muttered.

He'd said it more to himself than anything, but Malfoy responded, anyway.

"Is it an absolute emergency?" he drawled. He remained motionless on his

bed, still facing the wall.

Harry pondered that. "…Maybe?" he said weakly. Draco scoffed.

"Have fun waking him up, then. Hope you managed to retain your dodging
skills."

"He was…he was just joking about using Unforgivables, right…?" Harry
asked dubiously.

Draco snorted. "You don't know Snape like I do."

Harry was about to argue against that; surely he, Harry, had been on the
receiving end of Snape's wrath far more often than Malfoy… but, he realized
suddenly—Draco had experienced the Severus Snape that was masquerading
as a Death Eater, working alongside Lord Voldemort himself, doing God
knows what for the past year…

Maybe he had a point.

He fell back onto the bed again. Feeling defeated, and knowing that there was
no way he was going to get another wink of sleep at all, Harry stared
morosely up at the ceiling, trying to quiet his torrid, uncomfortable thoughts.

Several hours later, and Snape still had not awoken.

Harry had lain in bed in a sort of terrible stupor, thinking—or, more

accurately, trying not to think—when, after a very long time, the strangest
thing happened. The oddest sensation—and perhaps the reason it was so odd
was because it had felt so foreign to him, that at first, when it struck him, he
thought there was something horribly, horribly wrong with his body.

To say he had suddenly become hungry would be an understatement of epic

proportions.

He was ravenous.

And so he found himself now, rummaging messily through the kitchen

cupboards, fully prepared to eat anything and everything in sight.

"…What are you doing?"

Draco shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.
Unlike Harry, the blonde had managed to fall back asleep after their little…
skirmish (Harry refused to think 'pillow fight'). But he must have been woken
up now by the sounds of Harry's noisy, somewhat hectic rustling. Malfoy
took in the sight of him, kneeling on top of the counter so that he could see
the top shelf of the pantry, searching for something that was edible which
didn't first need to be cooked.

"Looking for food," Harry replied shortly. He had to agree with Ron's
complaints from the previous day—there was a decent amount of groceries
here, true; but it was mostly various things in cans and jars, pasta, and some
vegetables—and Harry was desperately hungry enough that the bag of baby
carrots he'd found was about to be the first to go, though he was hoping for
something a bit more substantial.

"Isn't there any bread, or something…?" he mumbled as he continued to

rummage through the pantry.

"There was. I ate the last of it yesterday."

Harry's eye twitched." Of course you did," he muttered scathingly. His

stomach shared his sentiments—at that precise moment, it made a long,
horrible groaning sound.

"It was the best bread I've ever had in my life," Draco leered, clearly amused.
"Amazing, so soft and delici-ow!"

Harry had promptly thrown a can of soup at him. It hit the blonde in the
shoulder, hard, and fell to the ground with a resounding bang.

"You should work on your dodging skills," Harry spat as he scrambled down
from the counter—for Draco had immediately bent over to retrieve the can,
surely about to return fire.

"That hurt, you moron—"

But Harry was ready for it when it came soaring at him a moment later. He
caught it with a deftness that surprised even him, considering that Draco had
thrown it much faster and harder than he had. Harry smirked as he held it
casually in one hand. "What, you don't like—" He paused to read the label,
"…Clam chowder? Actually, that does sound kind of awful for breakfast—
but I'd eat just about anything at the moment—"

He set the can back on the shelf and, feeling resigned, snatched up the
carrots. Maybe after he devoured all of them he would garner up the patience
to actually cook something. He sat down at the table and starting eating them
with gusto, warily watching Draco out of the corner of his eye in case he tried
to throw something else at him.

Fortunately, the sour blonde chose not to. Instead, he made a huffy sort of
noise and starting filling up a kettle with water, presumably so he could make
himself tea. Harry thought it was a bit surreal, seeing somebody like Draco
Malfoy performing a mundane a task as boiling water. He doubted very much
that Malfoy had ever had to make his own tea before in his life…and as he
watched, he could tell he was right. There was something awkward about
how Draco moved, the way he sort of struggled to get the stove top to light,
that made it clear this was somewhat new and strange to him.

He leaned against the counter while he waited for the water, a mug with a tea
bag in it next to him. Of course he wouldn't offer to make him one, too, Harry
thought. Typical.

Not that he much cared. Harry was too busy consuming more carrots than he
had in his entire life at that moment—which was really saying something, as
carrots had been a main part of his diet when he was forced to endure the
same food regimen as Dudley when he'd been trying to lose weight.

Neither of them spoke for a long time, but Harry could feel Draco's narrowed
eyes fixed on him, examining him…

"What happened to your…" Harry looked up when he paused, and Draco's

suspicious gaze snapped to his in an instant—but Harry was certain that, not
a moment before, he'd been looking at his body.
"…Glasses?" Malfoy finally settled for, looking apprehensive.

Harry shrugged. "Just wearing contacts," he muttered as he swallowed a

mouthful of food.

"Wearing…you're wearing what?" Draco asked dumbly.

"Er—laser eye surgery."

"Laser…what?"

Harry almost groaned. Any muggle references he made be completely wasted

on the pompous, pure-blooded wizard before him.

"I just—I dunno, magic."

Draco blinked. "Well, right, of course, but—"

"I don't know!" Harry seethed, suddenly very annoyed. Draco jumped at the
sudden outburst. "I don't know, I was just asleep, and to my surprise, I wake
up to find I have inexplicable, impossible, amazing…" He purposefully
paused for a moment, smirking, to let the insinuation stand that Harry had
noticed Draco's scrutinizing stare—

"…vision."

The kettle starting whistling at that exact moment, saving Draco from
needing to formulate a smart comeback. Harry turned his attention back to his
unsatisfying carrots, feeling oddly victorious.

It was then that they heard the sound of rustling and footsteps from the front
room. Harry got to his feet, but before he could walk out into the hall, two
figures hurriedly joined them in the kitchen. One was the familiar face of
Ron, looking a bit tousled and windswept but otherwise cheery, and the other
was someone who Harry did not recognize at all—a blonde girl, with ivory
skin and piercing gray eyes. Yet she smiled warmly when she looked up at
Harry as though she knew him quite well.
"Who—?" he started, but just as he had begun to voice the thought, he'd
figured it out. Her grin widened as she watched the realization dawn on his
face.

"Hermione?" he gasped. She nodded.

"Abigail West, pleased to make your acquaintance," she said demurely,

extending her hand in a very proper, ladylike way. "We were out and about
this morning, so I cast my glamour…" she was dressed rather smartly, too,
Harry noticed…

"Whoa," he muttered appreciatively as she spun around.

"What do you think? Is it convincing? Am I completely unrecognizable?"

Harry looked at her face, carefully examining her, now… And as he

scrutinized her appearance more closely, he could see the ghost of
Hermione's facial structure underneath the marginally paler skin… But the
eyes were drastically different, cold and gray, really the exact opposite of
Hermione's natural, warm, brown ones… And the hair, the hair! Sleek and
smooth as it had been when she'd done it up for the Yule Ball, only now it
was platinum blonde, nearly white…like…like—

"You look like…a Malfoy," he said in a tone of voice that would be used to
say, 'You look like a slug.'

But this only made her smile brighter. "Funny you should say that. Abigail
West is, technically, related to the Malfoy family. Somewhat distantly of
course… I couldn't go around pretending to be a Pure Blood, or a Half Blood,
even, it'd be too obvious, but Abigail West does have familial ties to the
Malfoys, and the Rowles, and, even more distantly, the Weasley family…
The paperwork all checks out, if anyone bothers to look in to it. The forged
documentation, that is." Her eyes glittered mischievously.

Harry laughed. "Of course it does," he said, nothing short of impressed.

Hermione truly missed nothing.
"Yes, we're all just a big, happy family," Draco said in his most sinister,
condescending drawl yet. The sarcasm in his words was so thick Harry could
practically taste it.

"You don't look half bad as a girl, Malfoy," Harry mused, smirking at him as
he gestured towards Hermione.

Hermione didn't miss a beat, speaking before Malfoy could snap something
first. "I even based the proportions of my nose on Draco's specifically. It's
nearly exactly the same, only mine is smaller and more feminine, of course."

"You—what?" Draco stopped mid-retort, obviously caught off guard by this

bit of information. "You…you did not."

"I did. I also matched your hair color precisely."

Ron twirled a stand of her long, platinum locks around one of his fingers.
"You have such lovely blonde hair, Malfoy."

Draco looked like he might be sick.

Then, without another word, he left, taking his tea with him. Harry, Ron, and
Hermione shared triumphant grins.

"I prefer my natural appearance, though…" Hermione said idly, after he'd
gone. She brandished her wand over her body, and, seconds later she was a
bushy-haired, brown-eyed girl again.

Harry's stomach made another loud, groaning sound. Hermione and Ron both
looked down at his midsection in surprise, their eyebrows raised.

"Er—sorry," he mumbled. "I—"

"You have an appetite again, then?" Hermione interrupted brightly.

Strangely, she looked excited when Harry nodded. "Oh, good—then I'm glad
we got this!"

She reached into her inner robe pocket and pulled out a small, beaded bag.
She opened it and reached down—impossibly far down, Harry noted; the bag
was quite small, but Hermione had her whole arm down into it, up to her
elbow—and then there was a resounding, thundering sound, like a great pile
of something had just toppled over—

"Damn—the books, I keep doing that—where is it, I swore I set it just on top
—ah, here!"

And then she pulled out a medium-sized, white box. It was rather strange to
watch as Hermione extracted a parcel that was seemingly much larger than
the bag which had been containing it.

"Enlarging enchantment," Ron explained. "A really good one, too. She keeps
all sorts of crazy things in there."

"I like to be prepared," Hermione said. Then she pulled the lid off of the
white box, revealing a lovely, round, white frosted birthday cake.

"Happy birthday, Evans!" she chirped.

Harry just stared for a moment, jaw hanging open stupidly. Never had there
been a more beautiful sight in all his life than this, right here, right now.
Harry had half a mind to get down on one knee and ask Hermione to marry
him right then and there. He probably would have, too, if he wasn't fairly
certain that Ron would not find it very funny.

"Hermione, I love you," he spluttered out instead. Well, that wasn't much
better, he thought, but she and Ron both just laughed. The three sat down at
the kitchen table, and Harry immediately began eating birthday cake at an
unprecedented rate.

"Uh… Do you want some?" he offered after what must have been a least five
minutes of solid cake-consumption. Hermione was beaming in a fond,
motherly way, and Ron had been watching with an expression that was
somewhere between shocked and impressed.

"No, that's all you, mate," he said jubilantly, his freckled face breaking out
into another grin. "You might want to slow down, though, you don't want to
throw up…"

Hermione's face instantly became concerned. "Oh—that's a good point.

Evans, you should be careful—"

Harry was torn between wanting to smack Ron in the face (for every instinct
he had was screaming 'More food! More food!') and wanting to thank him,
because, really, he didn't like the idea of getting sick.

Begrudgingly, Harry nodded. "Yeah... Good point," he admitted. He set his

fork down and pushed what was left of the beautiful cake away, albeit a bit
forlornly.

He sighed. "I'm surprised Snape isn't awake, yet…" he muttered. It was

nearly noon.

"Well, upholding Occlumency barriers like that, consistently… It's a huge

drain on your energy." Hermione said knowingly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "How do you know? Have you done it, too?"

She blushed slightly.

"Yeah," Ron answered instead. "Snape…practiced with her the most…

Because Hermione, as always, was excellent at it, as she is everything, and he
seemed keen to get her to the point where she could construct barriers, too.
Though he never once admitted that she was an incredibly talented witch."

"Oh yeah?" Harry inquired, not sure if he should feel sorry that she'd had to
endure more of Snape's mental abuse, or impressed that she was able to so
adeptly learn Occlumency from Snape—when he had so spectacularly,
ostentatiously failed.

Hermione's blush deepened.

"Yes, I… I can make Occlumency walls in other people's minds, too...

Though I'm nowhere near as good at it as Professor Snape is, of course…and
yes, it is very taxing. I'm sure few other witches or wizards would even be
able to do it, what he's doing for you, Evans. He really is an extraordinarily
talented wizard."

Ron and Harry both made retching sounds. Hermione shook her bushy hair,
sighing.

"We got you something else," she said, decisively changing the topic. She
reached into her beaded bag again, and, much more quickly this time, pulled
out another, much smaller box. She handed it to Harry.

"Happy seventeenth!"

He tentatively pulled the lid off. Inside was a watch—the most beautiful,
intricate watch that Harry had ever seen. It was a gleaming, polished silver,
with a large face that displayed not only numbers, but planets and stars and
other symbols which he did not recognize… He pulled it out of the box with
something akin to reverence, dumbstruck.

"It's tradition, in wizarding societies, to give people a watch when they come
of age," Ron said.

Harry just continued to examine it wordlessly. It looked like real silver, and
the stars… They were—they couldn't be diamonds—

"Do you like it?" Hermione asked nervously.

"It's gorgeous," Harry said at once, and Hermione looked relieved. "But—are
those real diamonds? This must have cost a fortune…"

"They are, but don't even worry about it," Ron said casually, to Harry's great
surprise.

"But-how-you didn't have to—"

"Don't worry about it," Ron repeated, a bit more sternly this time—but he
was grinning.

"I can't take—I don't—"

"Really, Evans, it was nothing! Really," Hermione interrupted. "We're just

glad you like it. I thought you might prefer the gold one, but Ron said the
silver was more masculine, so—"

"This is perfect. Thank you. Both of you," Harry said. "You really didn't have
to."

"Well, you weren't around for your last birthday, nor Christmas, so consider
this a make-up for all presents missed," Ron said cheerfully.

Harry just nodded. He looked down at the beautiful—though complicated,

and a bit confusing—watch, before putting it on. It did look rather impressive
and smart, he had to admit… A traditional gift given to wizards when they
come of age… He felt his heart swell with emotion.

Emotion that he wasn't really sure he wanted to confront.

"Um…" Ron checked his own watch, then, looking nervous. He gave
Hermione a slightly panicked glance.

"You should get back," Harry immediately said. "Before your Mum murders
her other six children in a blind rampage because of your absence."

"Nah, she'd never kill Ginny," Ron joked, trying to sound casual. "But…"

"Get out of here," Harry said, standing. "You shouldn't have even stayed this
long."

They both looked incredibly guilty. "This wedding cannot be over soon
enough," Ron muttered darkly as he stood. Harry and Hermione followed
suit.

"Yes, once the ceremony is over, we'll have time to focus on our real
mission…" She sounded both relieved and wary, if such a thing was possible.
"So go get it over with, then." Harry tried to not sound as miserable as he felt.
What he wouldn't give to be going with them…

Hermione had that pitying look back on her face again. He immediately
looked away.

Harry accompanied them to the front door, where they would be able to
safely apparate. They had just hugged, promising a swift return as soon as
they were able, when Hermione jumped as though she'd just been shocked.

"Oh!" she said suddenly. "Oh, I almost forgot—I have something else for
you, Evans, I've been saving it—hold on—"

She rummaged through her deceptive beaded bag for a few moments, biting
her lower lip in concentration as she searched—but then her eyes lit up in
triumph, and she extracted a single, rather official looking letter.

"…You can't be serious," Ron said in a deadpan voice of disbelief.

"What?" Hermione balked. "Iwould want to know—"

"You are the only person on Earth who would actually care about—"

"Well it's not up to you or I to care, is it? Here, this is for you." Hermione
thrust the envelope into Harry's hands before giving him another swift kiss on
the cheek. "We've got to go, but we'll be back as soon as we possibly can,
okay?"

Harry just nodded, giving them one last wave as they stepped out onto the
doorstep, and then disappeared.

He stared down at the letter curiously. It was addressed in green ink to Harry
Potter…written in that recognizable, thin script…

Harry's heart turned to ice in his chest. The last time he had seen that
handwriting, he had been alone in his room, at number 4, Privet Drive…and
he had thought it was a trap; had assumed, like an idiot, that it was Lord
Voldemort who had written it, not Dumbledore…

With numb fingers, Harry opened the mysterious letter, wondering what it
could possibly be…

He stared at the document within, his eyes wide in astonishment as he

registered what it was he was looking at.

Harry James Potter

Ordinary Wizarding Level Results

Astronomy: A

Care of Magical Creatures: E

Charms: E

Defense Against the Dark Arts: O

Divination: P

Herbology: E

History of Magic: D

Potions: E

Transfiguration: E

His O.W.L. results.

Harry had completely forgotten that they had even happened. His eyes
scanned the paper for a long while, never leaving the parchment as he slowly
and methodically made his way to the couch and fell into it, feeling as though
he'd been stupefied.
He'd gotten an 'E' in Potions, he was mildly surprised to see…

And an Outstanding… He'd gotten an 'O' in Defense…

A strange smile found its way onto Harry's lips. An 'O'. His smile widened,
and then he let out a small chuckle, and soon, soon he was just laughing—full
blown, nearly maniacal laughter, and once it had begun he couldn't seem to
stop. He was clutching at his sides, so uncontrollable it was, and the letter
wound up on the floor, face down and several feet away.

Yeah, he had received an 'Outstanding' in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

And a fat lot of good it had done him.

 7. The Monster in the Attic

No, he could not be gone, he could not be gone, he was alive, somehow, alive,
and he would find him, yes, he would find him because he was alive and he
could not be gone and he was not gone and he was not gone and he was not
gone and this, this feeling, it was unbearable, and how could it be that fate,
which had always favored him, oh, how it now twisted its expired, lost fidelity
into one of vile, warped aversion, because once, it had been all he had
desired, his ceaseless fixation, to see the boy die, to be his death, and now,
now that same end was crushing him, consuming him, a horrendously cruel
joke, and from it was born a perverse, manic smile, forming on his lips of its
own accord, and if this was grief, this was pain, this was loss, why, why, why,
why was he laughing?

"Why are you laughing?"

Draco hovered warily in the doorway. He had his arms folded across his
chest with a book in one hand, suspiciously observing Harry in a haughty
manner as he lay on the couch, still clutching at his sides in his slowly
diminishing laughter. The blonde looked oddly out of focus, and it took
Harry a moment to realize that it was because he had, apparently, been
laughing so hard that he had begun to cry. Malfoy tried to look cynical, but
his apprehension was poorly veiled.

Maybe he was losing his mind a bit, Harry thought.

"Oh… just a joke," he finally managed to say, forcing himself to calm down.
"A really, really funny joke…"

Draco scanned the room questionably.

"But…you're in here by yourself," he said blankly.

Harry sat up, wiping the tears away from his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed,
nodding. "Yeah, you wouldn't get the punchline."

Draco just stared with narrowed eyes, motionless in the entryway.

"…What, do you want something?" Harry asked, the ghost of a smile still on
his lips.

Draco didn't blink. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you, remember?"

he sneered. "I thought your stupid little friends were still here, because I
heard laughter, but obviously I was wrong. Are you losing your mind
completely?"

So it was the general consensus, then. Harry shrugged. "Quite possibly."

Draco scoffed.

"Great." He walked into the room, sitting opposite of Harry in an armchair.

He opened his book and started reading, muttering to himself when he spoke.
"Just great."

"Where'd you get the book?"

Draco spared him a brief glance. "The library," he muttered.

"There's a library here?"

The blonde sighed, snapping the book shut and looking irritated. "Didn't you
used to live here?"

"Well, yeah, technically," Harry said. "But we were cleaning the place up the
whole time, fighting doxies and trying to make the main rooms habitable… I
don't remember there being in a library, though, and I'm pretty sure that
Hermione would have noticed that…"

"Well, there is," Draco replied shortly. Then, to Harry's great annoyance, he
resumed reading.

"What, you're not going to show me?"

Draco didn't look up. "Nope."

Harry scowled.

"Fine." He got to his feet, snatching his O.W.L. results up off of the floor and
shoving the folded parchment into his jeans pocket before turning to leave.
"Bye."

"What—hey, where are you going?" Harry heard the book snapping shut
again behind him.

"I'm going to go look for the library, of course. Feel free to stay and here and
not keep an eye on me, though. I won't tell Snape."

"I'm not—no, I'm not stupid enough to—get back here!"

"Make me."

Harry could hear footsteps behind him as he wandered through the drawing
room, down the darkened hall where the curtained portrait of Sirius's mother
hung, shielded from sight.

He was standing right in front of it when he felt Draco grab his forearm. "I'm
not going to follow you around all day being an idiot!"

Harry shushed him vehemently, pointing at the currently not screeching

portrait that was within such dangerously close proximity. Draco looked un-
phased. "What? That old thing?" he said distractedly. "She only wakes up
now if you physically pull the curtains open."

Harry's eyes widened as he examined the new, heavy drapes that covered the
painting. "Oh. Well, that's good. Why didn't Snape do that years ago?" He
stared at the dark fabric, remembering all too well the horrid, ear-splitting
screams of 'Mudbloods! Filth! Traitors in my home!'

"Snape didn't do it," Draco explained in a slightly sour tone. "It was Granger.
I guess, after a while, she really didn't appreciate how Mrs. Black talked—or
screamed, rather—about her…" He shrugged nonchalantly. "She liked me
enough, though," he added, smirking.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Congratulations. An insane, painted portrait of a dead

woman approves of your presence in her house." He paused for a second.
"Oh, wait. My house," he corrected, sneering.

He then turned to continue down the hall, but Draco tightened his grip on his
forearm. "I'm not—"

Harry ripped his arm out of his grasp with a surprising strength. They both
looked a bit startled by how easily he'd done it—but their mirrored
expressions of shock went in opposite directions nearly at once. Harry looked
victorious, even a bit dangerous, while Draco's face fell into something akin
to…poorly concealed worry.

"Show me, then," Harry offered once more. "If you don't want to anger the
big, scary Snape. Or waste your precious day following me around
aimlessly."

Draco's eyes, which had been lingering on Harry's much more muscular
forearm, snapped up at once, glaring. "Fine," he muttered. "But I'm not—"

Whatever it was that Draco Malfoy was not going to do, Harry never found
out. Because at that moment, they heard the front door being flung open from
down the hall, and the sound of rustling, stumbling footsteps. The two shared
a momentary, startled glance before they both sprinted back to see—

"Ron?" Harry said, coming to halt in the front hall. For his ginger friend had
returned, having only been gone for a relatively short amount of time…and
he did not look good. His robes were disheveled, his hair was mussed, his
skin deathly pale—

He locked eyes with Harry, horror written all over his ashen face. "It was
awful," he wheezed as he slammed the door shut behind him. "I barely made
it out in time."
"What happened?" Harry and Draco asked it at the same time, and Draco
went even further,

"Was there an attack?"

Ron took an awkward step forward, his body language rather like that of a
particularly slow, clumsy zombie. "Worse," he said gravely. "There was…an
explosion."

Harry felt the dread wash over him in a colossal, frigid wave.

"What?" Draco gasped, and, for the first time, Harry thought he looked and
sounded like he might actually care about something other than himself. "An
explosion? Was it Dark Magic, was it the—"

"No," Ron said, cutting him off. "It was…it was an explosion…of estrogen."

Harry and Draco exchanged dumbfounded glances. Ron made his way to the
couch and sat down, looking like he was still suffering the acute aftermath of
severe shock.

"What are you going on about, Ron?" Harry asked, sitting next to him. But
the feeling of dreadful fear had ebbed away. If something truly awful had
happened, Ron would have said so by now… Actually, Harry recalled one
other time that his friend had this very same demeanor… When he'd asked
Fleur to go with him to the Yule Ball…

Draco didn't join them on the couch, but he did remain in the room standing,
and, to Harry's surprise, Ron didn't object or tell him to get lost—in fact, he
seemed glad to have an audience with whom to share this burden.

"I was just there, in the kitchen," he began in a dark, ominous tone, as if this
were the beginning to a ghost story, "and everything was going well enough
—we were all just chatting, having tea, you know…and, well, Fleur's family
came in this morning, and she has a sister—you remember Gabrielle?"

Harry nodded. Ron swallowed before continuing.

"Well, she and Fleur were talking, while my Mum was showing their parents
to their room, getting them settled…and you know me, I like how they
talk…" Draco snorted, and Harry cracked a smile, too—"So, Gabrielle—or
Gabby, as she likes to be called—well, she's just all sorts of smitten with you,
Evans."

Harry laughed. "Oh, yeah?" he said, jokingly.

"Oh, yeah," Ron answered, very seriously. "Yeah, and she knows today is
your birthday, too… She and Fleur started talking about it, and Gabby was
just going on and on about how sad she was that she wasn't going to see 'her
'ero'' again…and Fleur was trying to comfort her, saying how much she
missed you, too—'Oui, mon chérie, I understand, I meess 'im az well—"

Harry thought Ron's impersonation of a French woman could use some work,
but he decided against commenting on that. "And then—" His voice suddenly
became even lower and darker—

"Ginny happened."

"What?" For the second time, both he and Draco spoke simultaneously.

"Yeah… She stands up, tossing her hair back and kicking her chair out from
behind her, and I don't know if you've ever seen Ginny mad before, but it's
worse than my mum—anyway, she stares right at them, glaring like a demon
—and she's hated phlegm—er, Fleur—for a while now, mind you, so this has
all been a long time coming—and starts shouting at them, telling them they
have no right talking about you or how much they miss you, that they didn't
even know you, and she actually told Fleur to, and I quote, 'shut her god
damned mouth.'"

Malfoy looked mildly impressed, perhaps despite himself. Harry had a

feeling the story was about to get much worse.

"But it was Gabby who shouted back, and, good God, she told Ginny she was
a just jealous because 'ze boy 'oo lived waz my 'ero, not yours', and Ginny,
oh, Ginny looked so mad I don't think she could even form words at that
point—and Fleur jumped on it—'Oui, 'e waz like a brother to me, and a
savior to my Gabrielle. We miss 'im az much az you.', and then—"

Another dramatic, tense pause. "Hermione happened. Yeah, it was…

something else," he said, noting Harry's appreciatively astounded look. "I
hope I never see Hermione that angry again in my entire life. She was livid.
'We've known him for years, we fought alongside him at the Ministry, we
have been a family to him from the moment we met him, and for you to talk
so casually about how much you miss him-,like you even knew him—like
he's already gone—'"

Ron took a deep breath before plowing on, "And then Fleur again—'Only
because he 'ad ze misfortune of being born in zis Britain! To 'ave gone to zat
school! With those incompetent teachers and zis inadequate Order!', and then
—"

Another moment of theatrical silence, "…my mum happened." Ron looked

like he was reliving a terrible, bloody battle. "She came downstairs when she
heard the commotion… It got really out of hand, then—I can't even repeat
what she said—but then Ginny shouted something else, and Fleur and Gabby
started screeching things at her in French that were obviously none too polite,
and then wands were being drawn—and I swear on Merlin's grave, I thought
Fleur was really going to turn into a bird-monster and start flinging fireballs
—which, you know, I've never asked Bill if she can do that, I didn't think she
could, but it sure as hell looked like it was going to happen—and then—and
then—"

He looked back and forth between Harry and Draco, his eyes wide with
disbelief and distress—

"—then they all start crying."

"…What?" Harry balked.

"Yeah, all at once, they start crying—bawling, really, sobbing, and they sort
of fell into this giant embrace, like the saddest, most miserable group hug
ever, and—well, for once, I don't think my mum will be mad when I go back,
because we all bolted. Me, my dad, Bill, Fred, George, and Charlie—we all
got the hell out of there, immediately. It was every man for himself. I've no
idea where they all went."

He stared vacantly up into empty space, like a haunted, troubled war veteran.
"I wonder if they made it out alive…" he said hollowly.

Harry couldn't suppress his grin any longer. He also couldn't help but feel a
tad bit guilty; it was, after all, he they had been arguing over… Which,
incidentally, was kind of…impressive. A group of witches sort of fighting
over him…huh. Perhaps he should be flattered.

Ron shook his head as though he were trying to physically shake away the
memory. "Anyway…" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a shrunken,
familiar trunk and miniscule broom. "I managed to grab these before my
retreat…"

"My trunk!" Harry exclaimed, looking at the tiny luggage in his palm. He had
forgotten that Hermione had promised to bring him clothes… "And my
Firebolt!" His grin widened exponentially at the sight of his beloved broom.
"Wow—thanks!"

"Yeah, we had them with us earlier, but Hermione forgot to actually give
them to you. Typical, huh? That she would remember to give you your
O.W.L.'s but not something as essential as underwear? And your broom,
though I doubt you'll get to do much flying for a while… But I thought you'd
want it, obviously. I'll enlarge them for you, but we should do it in whatever
room you're staying in, so we don't have to move the trunk when it's heavy."

"Right. Yeah, the guest room…" He and Ron both stood, with Harry leading
the way. Draco had a fleeting expression where, for just a moment, he looked
oddly conflicted—but he ended up taking Harry's now vacant spot on the
couch. Without a word, he opened his book and began reading again. The
other two didn't bother to say anything to him as they left.

"You can put them there…" Harry said once they'd entered the room,
pointing to an empty spot near the foot of his bed. Ron quickly set the tiny
trunk down with the broom on top, but when he stood upright again he stared,
momentarily frozen as his eyes darted between Harry's bed and the one on the
other side of the room, looking concerned—

"Why…are both of these beds unmade?" he asked apprehensively.

Harry scratched the back of his head. "Because Malfoy and I are both slobs, I
guess," he answered darkly.

Ron looked stricken.

"No."

"Yeah."

"…Why?"

Harry glowered. "Snape's orders."

"…Why?" Ron repeated, in the exact same inflection.

Harry paused for a moment, feeling rather uncomfortable talking about this—
even if it was Ron. "…To… so that if I have…to wake me up, if I need to be
woken up."

Understanding washed over Ron's face, though his pitying expression was
nowhere near as bad as Hermione's. "Oh," he said. And then,

"…Blimey. Well, I am really glad that I brought you an additional birthday

present, then." He pulled out another miniature object from his inner robe
pocket. It was a tiny bottle. Harry looked at it, confused.

"Engorgio!" Ron pointed his wand first at the broom and the trunk, which
promptly became life-sized again, and then repeated the spell, directing it at
the object in his hand. It rapidly grew to become a large, glass bottle filled
with a deep, amber liquid.

"Firewhiskey," he said proudly. "I swiped it from the stock of alcohol we

have for the wedding tomorrow. I figured, if it were me, and I were living
with Snape and Malfoy, I could use a drink every now and then." He thrust
the bottle into Harry's hands, who accepted it, still looking a bit confused.

"Firewhiskey?" he repeated as he examined the golden substance.

Ron grinned. "Your new best friend. Just—whatever you do, don't tell anyone
I gave it to you. Hermione would lecture me senseless, Malfoy would just
steal it and drink it all himself, and—well, Snape would murder me, I'm
sure." His face paled slightly at the last words.

"Seriously, don't let Snape find that."

Harry just nodded, trying not to laugh. "Thanks. I won't…" He gently moved
his Firebolt aside, leaning it against the wall before opening his trunk and
hiding the bottle at the very bottom, underneath all of his old clothes. He
wondered idly if they would still fit, even…Firewhiskey. Harry somehow
doubted that he would ever touch the stuff. Surely drinking was a terrible
idea, given his current situation, but the sentiment was nice. He closed the
trunk, thoughts still whirling as he looked back up at Ron.

Uncomfortable, irritating thoughts. He scratched the back of his head absent-

mindedly again. Ron looked sympathetic.

"Don't worry, the only reason those barriers feel so weird is because they're
Snape's, not yours. Your own Occlumency shields won't be like that at all.
You barely notice them when they're your own."

Harry's eyebrows raised. "How do you know? Can you…?"

"Yeah. Er, my own. I can practice Occlumency decently well, shielding my

own thoughts… Snape demanded that Hermione and I learn how, considering
everything that Dumbledore told us—which we'll tell you, too, once it's safe
—but only Hermione can manage what Snape's doing to you, right now."

He knew that he shouldn't have been, but Harry felt strangely disheartened by
this bit of information. Ron could practice Occlumency too, then? Hermione
he could understand, but—how was it that Ron had managed to learn
something that he, Harry, had been so terrible at?

"Like all things in my life, I only managed to learn the basics because of
Hermione," Ron answered, as if Harry had asked that question out loud.
Harry grinned sheepishly.

"Snape… It's not like he would use an Unforgivable or something on you, if

he found out you snuck me in booze…right?" he asked in a would-be joking
manner, suddenly remembering Draco's words from last night.

But to his dismay, Ron's expression darkened. "I dunno… He might."

"Oh, come off it," Harry said, maybe sounding a bit desperate.

"Snape… I've seen Snape do some serious stuff, mate. He's not… He doesn't
mess around."

"Like what?"

Ron sighed as he plopped down on Harry's bed. He looked wistfully at the

trunk where Harry had just stashed the whiskey as though he was considering
asking to have a swig of it—but then he started to explain. Harry sat next to
him.

"There was an incident. A while back, after Dumbledore died… Well, you
know how Snape said that the Order was led to believe that this house went
to Bellatrix Lestrange, yeah? Well, everyone took that to heart, but Snape put
a detection charm on it just in case. It's a really complicated spell, actually. Its
seriously powerful magic, a type of ward. Basically, it recognizes me,
Hermione, Snape, Malfoy, and now you, because you entered with Snape.
But if someone else tries to enter the property, we're is alerted at once. Of
course, we never dreamed that any of the Order members would be stupid
enough to try coming back here, being told that Death Eaters could get in
here now, but one person thought that the risk of sneaking in here may be
worth it."
Harry gaped. "Who…? And…why? Why would anyone want to get into this
awful house?"

"Mundungus," Ron answered. "Yeah. Honestly? I think he was coming here

to try and steal your stuff, mate. But he never really got a proper chance to
explain himself. You see, he tried to get in while Snape, Hermione and I were
here, and—"

He shuddered. Harry waited with bated breath. "Well, Snape let him in, and
he…was seriously going to kill him."

"To kill him?" Harry gasped.

"Yes. Because he saw Snape, knew that he was still alive, and, mind you, he,
like everyone else in the Order, thought Snape was a Death Eater, as this was
after the Battle at Hogwarts—so Snape was going to kill him. Simple as that.
Said he had to, Mundungus was a liability, now. He'd even started saying the
killing curse, and he really would have done it if Hermione hadn't stopped
him."

"What…what happened, then?"

"She convinced him that he could live, that we could modify his memory and
implant an idea in his head, make him suddenly want nothing more out of life
than to leave the country, go live in Sub-Saharan Africa and dedicate his life
to saving rhinos and elephants or something, so that no one would ever find
him to be able to undo the memory charm—not that anyone would go
looking for Mundungus, anyway—"

"…And that worked?"

Ron cracked a smile. "Hermione can be very convincing when she wants to
be. I was pretty shocked that Snape conceded, actually, it really looked like
Mundungus was a goner. But yeah. He did it."

Harry grinned, too. "So… Good 'ol Dung is in Africa now? Saving wildlife?"
He failed to suppress a chuckle at the thought.
Ron laughed, too. "Yeah. Pretty great visual, huh? Dung on safari? God's
speed to him."

They sat in silence for a moment, each envisioning the humorous idea of
Mundungus Fletcher preserving wildlife and saving various animals. Then
Harry was struck with a sudden thought.

"Ron—do you have—is Hedwig okay?" How could he have forgotten his
faithful, snowy owl until just now? "I sent her to the Burrow, before I—
before—did she…?"

Harry's words came to a stuttering halt. The smile fell from Ron's face. "Oh. I
mean—no, she's fine, she's fine!" he explained quickly, for Harry's face had
looked suddenly fearful when Ron's grin vanished. "Yes, she came to the
burrow. She… Well, Ginny has essentially adopted her. Even took her to
Hogwarts with us…"

Harry smiled at that thought as the relief swept over him. At least Hedwig
had been able to go back to Hogwarts… But why did that statement make
Ron look so…depressed?

"…She won't say that, though. Ginny is…very adamant that she is just
watching her until you get back. I don't think she… I dunno if Ginny will
ever…"

He looked at Harry with a very torn, miserable expression, like he was on the
verge of saying something rather profound and meaningful…but then decided
against it.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he pulled Harry into a giant, overbearing embrace.

"God, I missed you," he mumbled, throwing Harry quite off balance by this
unusual display of emotion. "Hogwarts without you…it was…it was the
worst year, ever. I just—I can't wait to be able to tell everyone you're okay."
He then pulled away, still grasping Harry's shoulders tightly as he held him at
arm's length.

"We're going to win this war, Evans," he said in a thick voice. And the look
on his face—it was one Harry had never seen there before. Fiercely
determined, a sort of vicious courage in his eyes. Where was this confident
resolution in their fifth year? Harry would have paid a hundred galleons for
Gryffindor's Keeper to be half this ferocious.

Obviously, the past year had wrought some very significant changes in
Ronald Weasley.

"We're going to win this war, and life is going to be good again-and-and-"

The passion was really simmering in his eyes, now. Literally glittering, and—
oh God, Harry thought, was Ron about to cry?

"Oh God," he said, voicing Harry's thoughts precisely. He started to wave his
hands, fanning his face like a prom queen who'd just been crowned and
handed a bouquet of roses. Tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes,
quite against his will. "Oh God—it's the estrogen, it's gotten to me, too—"

Harry laughed uncomfortably as Ron stood, wiping his face with his sleeves.
"This wedding. This war. I can hardly tell the difference between them
anymore, I swear." He dragged his hands down his face, exasperated.

"I-I'm sorry. I really should be getting back," he mumbled before clearing his
throat, and it suddenly seemed as though he was unable to look at Harry.

Harry stood, too. "Um. Yeah. Okay," he said, unsure of how to proceed.

He followed a few paces behind him as he went to the front door. Ron
hesitated in the entryway, turning and looking at Harry just briefly.

"Good luck," Harry said in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. Ron
tried to smile but failed monumentally; it looked more like he was about to
start crying again.

"Thanks," he croaked. "I'll…we'll be back when we can." And then he left,

stepping out onto the doorstep and disappearing with a loud crack. Harry
stood there, slowly closing the door behind him and wondering what in the
world had just happened.

He was quickly knocked out of his stupor, though, when he heard something
from down the hall. Someone moving around, from deeper within the
house…

"Is Snape up, then?" He aimed his question at Draco, who was still reading
his book, casually reclined on the couch. He appeared to have observed the
interaction between Harry and Ron with palpable disinterest. "I still need to
talk to him."

Malfoy didn't look up. "He's probably in the kitchen," he answered flatly as
he turned another page.

Harry marched off in that direction, the barriers in his mind feeling instantly
more irritating as he recalled his dream—the nightmare—the way it had felt
when his hands had run across them—

Harry opened the door to the kitchen, which had been, closed, oddly
enough…and he was stunned into silence at the sight that greeted him.

Snape was…cooking.

…And how he cooked.

Multiple burners were on, sautéing what looked like mushrooms and onions;
there were at least three different wooden cutting boards upon which various
vegetables were being sliced by knives which cut on their own accord, almost
surgically precise in their exactness; spices hovered about, flying back and
forth from the pantry to add themselves to what appeared to be a giant,
simmering pot of…something. Something that smelled delicious, Harry noted
at once, and his dormant hunger instantly reared its ugly head like a rabid
monster—a very, very famished one.

And in the middle of it all was Snape, orchestrating the entire affair with his
wand like some kind of a magical conductor. He had his back to him as he
worked, and really, Harry thought wildly, Snape put Mrs. Weasley's cooking
skills to shame.

For a moment, Harry just ogled quietly, before he finally forced the words
out—

"Um, Professor?" he started hesitantly, announcing his presence. "Can I…

have a word?" He felt rather nervous at interrupting. The Potions Master
looked quite focused and preoccupied.

"There are few rules that I will implement whilst we are living together…"
Snape said with his back still to him—but he then turned to face him, and
Harry wondered if there was ever a moment in this man's entire existence
where his long robes didn't billow impressively around him when he moved.
"One of them is that when I am in the kitchen, you are not."

At that moment, he pointed his wand at the knives which were cutting up
peppers and celery, and they began moving twice as quickly, their steely
surfaces flashing with the rapid chopping motion.

"O-okay," Harry stuttered, eyes fixed warily on the sinister-looking blades.

He backed out of the room at once, his feet absent-mindedly taking him back
to front room.

Draco briefly glanced up, smirking at Harry's demeanor. "Did he threaten you
with a cutting knife?" he inquired. Harry noticed the hopeful tone in his
voice.

"No… Well, not really."

Draco looked disappointed.

Harry scratched the back of his head again, thoughtful. "What a strange
day..." he muttered.

Draco snorted. "Yeah. Must be bizarre, knowing you've got Veela women
and witches galore fighting and crying over you…" His expression turned
playful as he smirked.
"Too bad for them that you don't swing that way."

Harry's eye twitched involuntarily. "Malfoy, if you don's shut your goddamn
mouth, I swear, I'll—"

"You'll what? Throw a soup can at me?" Draco sneered.

Harry flexed his arm threateningly, balling his hand into a fist. "Or I'll punch
you in the face so hard your jaw won't work anymore."

Draco's haughty grin faltered. His gaze wandered down Harry's arm, and he
snapped the book shut, looking as though he'd finally reached his limit.
"Okay, why do you look like that?" he spat, motioning towards him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Harry said coolly, feigning
ignorance.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. You were—you used to be
scrawny, before, you were all thin and wiry and-and short—with your stupid
glasses—"

"Why, Draco," Harry gasped, putting a hand to his chest as though he was
deeply flattered. Malfoy flinched at the way Harry called him by his first
name, using a tone of voice that was just dripping with sarcasm. "Are you
admitting that you were paying that much attention to my body, before?"

Draco's jaw dropped, his face turning a brilliant red. He looked furious, but
seemed momentarily speechless at that unexpected accusation. "I think you're
the one who swings the other way, Malfoy. Actually, now I think on it, that
makes complete sense. The way you so desperately wanted to be my friend
from day one, the way you always picked fights with me—every year, like
clockwork, creeping into our train compartment—I bet you were just crossing
your fingers, hoping to catch me while I was changing into my school robes
—"

"Shut up!" Draco finally spat, finding his voice. "Shut up! I am not-I just-you
know perfectly well what I was getting at."
Harry's grin just widened at his lame response. Draco got to his feet, tossing
his book down on the sofa.

"I'll have you know I basically had a girlfriend before this shit storm
happened, ruining my life," he fumed.

"Who, Parkinson?" Harry guessed. He laughed out loud when Draco nodded.
"Ha! I think you just helped my case, not yours—Parkinson pretty much
looks like a man—also a bit like a pug—besides, who basically has a
girlfriend, what does that even mean?"

Draco had just opened his mouth to retort, his face reddening now to
unprecedented levels, causing him to look rather like he was suffering from a
severe sunburn—when a cool, condescending drawl interrupted him.

"I believe my instructions were for you to be civil to one another."

Snape had, somehow, mysteriously and soundlessly, entered the room. Harry
was seriously starting to think he was actually a closet vampire.

"He started it," they said simultaneously, pointing at each other as if they
were twelve year old children rather than seventeen year old adults.

Snape's thin lips curled up into a sinister, yet amused, smile. Harry was fully
prepared for his old professor to immediately favor Draco, to tell Harry off
for being an impudent, reckless moron… and so he was very surprised when
this did not happen. Instead, Snape sort of made a non-committal shrugging
motion before turning and heading back to the kitchen. Over his shoulder,
from down the hall, he called,

"Lunch is ready."

Harry rubbed at his ears worriedly. Surely, he had misheard him. "What did
he just say?" he said, his head swiveling in Draco's direction.

But Malfoy had already gotten up and started to head down the hall. "Lunch,"
he muttered, and Harry had never heard such a simple and mundane word
spoken with so much malice before.

Snape—Severus Snape—the Severus Snape…had made him lunch?

Harry followed slowly and apprehensively, like he expected a trap door to

open under his feet and swallow him whole, confirming that this was, in fact,
a trap. When that failed to happen, he edged into the kitchen…cautiously.
And there was Snape, sitting at the table with a half-eaten bowl of some kind
of stew in front of him, along with an issue of The Daily Prophet which he
held propped up in one hand, reading. Draco was helping himself to some
food as well, and Harry just stood there, openly staring at both of them,
wondering if maybe he was still asleep after all.

Snape looked away from the paper for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping
over Harry. "Eat," he said curtly, before returning his attention back to the
Prophet.

Harry didn't move. "You've…made food. For…us. For me. To eat," he said
dumbly. Draco sniggered.

"That is generally what you do with food." He sat down at a chair next to
Snape and started eating. Harry still didn't move.

"If I did not prepare a decent meal at least occasionally for Draco here, I
believe he would eventually expire from a vitamin deficiency. And it would
really undo a substantial amount of my hard work if I allowed him to die
from a mere lack of essential nutrients (Draco looked slightly indignant at
that statement, but chose not to comment). The same goes for you. While it
was undoubtedly a kind gesture, you cannot live off of…birthday cake."

Harry noticed that the cake from earlier was, in fact, gone. "Where did it go?"
he asked, more curious than upset.

"Away," Snape said simply. When Harry still failed to make any indication
that he was going to actually move, he added, quite sternly, "Eat. Normally,
there would be bread, too, but Draco unwittingly finished off the last of it
before I could perform a simple duplicating charm."
Draco glowered again, but still said nothing.

With slow, deliberate movements, Harry finally obeyed, and served himself a
small bowl of stew. He sat at the seat across from Draco and to Snape's right,
and he couldn't even properly explain how uncomfortable it felt.

He took a tentative sip of the soup, figuring it must be okay if both Draco and
Snape himself were eating it. His eyes widened in disbelief when he
swallowed.

"Oh, my god," he said disconcertingly as he lowered his spoon. Both Draco

and Snape looked up at him quizzically.

"Sorry," Harry said, sounding flustered. "It's just-it's-this is really good."

Draco rolled his eyes, but Snape actually looked a bit offended at his sincere
shock. "I can brew a Draught of Living Death with my eyes closed. You
think a mere beef bourguignon stew is beneath me?"

Harry tried not to laugh. "No, I just-well-never mind."

There was a long moment of silence, and when Snape spoke next, Harry was
certain it was going to be some kind of insult or condescending remark—but,
once again, he was wrong. He lowered the paper and set it flat on the table.

"You said you wanted to have a word?"

His former professor sounded oddly nonchalant. Harry looked up. "Er…
yeah." His gaze involuntarily went to Malfoy, wary…

Snape understood at once. "Draco," he said tersely. He motioned lazily

towards the door. "Leave us."

His spoon clattered loudly against the table as he dropped it. Malfoy looked
back and forth between Harry and Snape, mutinous rage etched all of his
pointed features. "What!?" he barked, his face turning red again. "Seriously?
With him, too!? I—"
"Out." The word was spoken softly, but there was a threatening, icy
undertone that left no room for argument. Harry suppressed a shudder. He
was suddenly reminded of a certain someone… Someone whose words were
like shards of glass, cold and sharp—someone who was prowling on the
outskirts of his mind, waiting, searching, beckoning—

Malfoy stood, nearly knocking his chair over as he did. He marched out of
the room like a child throwing a temper tantrum, leaving his food behind and
muttering something along the lines of 'fucking ridiculous' in a low voice.

Once he had gone, Snape folded his hands in front of him, suddenly business-
like.

"You wanted to have a word?" he repeated, refusing to acknowledge Malfoy's

crass behavior.

Harry swallowed thickly. Why did he feel so embarrassed about this?

"Er…yes. Um. Well, can you-do you feel-what I mean to say is… If these
wards in my mind, if they're touched or disturbed or whatever… Do you feel
it?"

Snape's eyes widened slightly, but his perfectly composed expression

remained otherwise unchanged. "…No. I do not feel them at all, as they are in
your mind… Though I would know at once if they were broken, obviously.
For one, I would no longer suffer the repercussions of having my own energy
being drained, and for another…well. Why do you ask? Surely you have not
been foolish enough to disturb them?" He frowned for a second, and Harry
could swear that he felt the irritating feeling clinging to his every thoughts
increase. "…I can sense that they are all perfectly intact…"

"No, ah—" Harry scratched at his head uselessly. "No, I didn't do anything, I
just-when I was dreaming, when I could…hear him, last night…" Why, why
was his face burning up again? This shouldn't be so difficult to talk about!

…But it was. Snape waited patiently.

"…He touched them. From the outside. It felt…" Harry shuddered. Snape's
face remained unmoved. "You said you couldn't feel anything? So you didn't
feel it?"

"I did not."

Harry grimaced. "Well, I could, and it was awful. I'm sure he doesn't know
that I'm alive now, though, that's for sure, because otherwise he wouldn't
have stopped doing it. It was just for a second, like he was just running his
hands across them, more curious than anything—but if he'd known… if he
finds out…" He paused for a moment, looking worried.

Snape put a hand under his chin, appearing merely contemplative, but Harry
could tell—in the depths of those dark eyes, it was there—fear.

"I believe…" he began in a slow, measured voice. "…that the connection

between you and the Dark Lord is…extremely complicated, and not purely…
mental. Or even purely magical, truly. There is something deeper, much more
potent, which is binding you to him."

Oh, like a fragment of his soul attached to mine, professor? Being bonded by
souls? Like… Harry suddenly felt a great rush of nausea, for he nearly just
mentally used the word soulmates to refer to the relationship between Lord
Voldemort and himself, and wasn't that just the most perverse, appalling
concept in the entire world?

Snape, of course, misinterpreted the way Harry's face had suddenly turned a
delicate shade of green. "That is not to say that it is impossible to block off. I
only think that it is something I am incapable of doing for you. This bond, if
my assumptions are correct—and they generally are—is a very…shall we
say, intimate one. The only one who would be able to practice Occlumency
successfully against it, then, is you."

Harry nodded weakly. "So…you're going to start teaching me Occlumency

again?" He detested the very idea of it, but he would far prefer to relive
Occlumency lessons with Snape than continue on with these itchy, unnatural
barriers in his head forever.
But Snape shook his head. "Not yet. Practicing true Legilimency and
Occlumency with you would mean removing those mental walls, and we
can't risk that at the moment. In a few weeks, perhaps." Harry's heart
plummeted. Weeks? "However, in the meantime, I believe you can, perhaps,
learn to block out the parsletongue."

A flicker of hope. "Really?" he breathed.

"Yes… From what I can deduce, the bond between the two of you is
completely separate from the mind—which is why I cannot fully disrupt it.
You, however, as the one is…affected by this particular…intrusion, should
be capable. From now on, every night before you go to sleep, practice
emptying your mind again. Clearing your thoughts. It should, conceivably,
lesson his influence and quiet his voice."

Harry nodded weakly. "Okay," he said, a bit disappointed. It didn't sound like
much.

Snape continued to look at him thoughtfully.

"…Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"

He said it casually enough, but Harry could tell there was a deep, hidden
implication in that question. Like he knew—and maybe he did—that there
was a large part of the interactions between he and the Dark Lord that Harry
was leaving out.

"No," Harry said instead, not meeting his gaze. "No, that was it…sir."

Snape didn't say anything, yet Harry could feel that scrutinizing gaze
lingering on him while he resolutely did not make eye contact, suddenly
focusing on the food in front of him with overtly keen interest…and, after a
few, uncomfortably long moments, he propped the Prophet back up again,
disappearing behind it like some kind of paper curtain.

Harry ate the rest of his food slowly, trying his best not to let the word
'soulmate' enter his psyche again. He preoccupied himself by reading the
article on the back of the newspaper which was facing him, the opposite side
of which Snape was reading—an article about Gringotts, and how security
measures were going to be changing and increasing in the coming year…
Harry sipped his soup quietly, watching the moving image of a stout,
contemptuous-looking goblin as he sat behind his desk at the wizarding
bank…

After what must have been nearly ten minutes, there was a loud banging on
the door.

"Am I allowed to come in, yet?" Draco sneered, clearly still in a tizzy at
being kicked out.

Snape lowered the paper again, rubbing his temples and looking worn. But
when he spoke, his voice was crisp and curt as usual.

"Yes. Please do."

Snape stood as Draco entered. Before Malfoy could ask or say anything, the
older wizard spoke, looking back and forth between the two of them. "As I so
graciously prepared food for you, I shall leave you two to clean up." He
gestured towards the dishes that were scattered about the kitchen—of which
there were a lot, really. Harry just nodded, but Draco instantly looked
mutinous again.

"What?" he barked resentfully. "Clean dishes, like muggles? Why don't you
just do it?" Harry almost couldn't believe how rude he was being—even if it
was Malfoy.

But Snape looked unabashed. He retracted his wand, and, for a crazy moment
Harry thought he was actually going to listen to Draco and start casting
cleaning spells—but instead, he pointed it at the issue of the Daily Prophet,
summoning it across the room into his open palm.

"Because I don't want to,"he said simply, smirking. "Some muggle chores
will be good for you… Perhaps Evans will help teach you about a little
something known as ethics."
He glanced briefly at Harry when he said this, who nodded again as he, too,
stood. How strange, Harry thought, to feel like he was on the same side as
Snape…

Malfoy watched the interaction with a murderous expression on his face.

Snape's smirk widened.

"I shall leave you to it, then," he drawled before turning to leave the kitchen.

"Wait—uh, Professor?"

Snape paused, turning around at the sound of Harry's voice. He raised one
eyebrow curiously. Harry took a deep breath before saying it, feeling quite
uncomfortable as he did.

"…Thank you."

Snape…looked equally uncomfortable.

"Er…you know…for the food," he added, even though it was obvious that his
statement of gratitude was far more profound than that.

The Potions Master's features contorted into a conflicted sort of grimace,

hesitating, like he wasn't quite sure how to handle genuine, polite
graciousness coming from his least favorite ex-student. He eventually settled
for a curt nod, saying nothing, before sweeping out of the room.

Malfoy kicked a chair after he left, fussy and irate. "Bastard," he muttered.
Harry tried not to laugh, gathering up dishes from around the room and
setting them all on the counter next to the sink.

"Just shut up and grab a towel."

The two teenage nemeses worked in tense silence.

Well, near silence. Malfoy couldn't seem to help but mutter bitter comments
under his breath occasionally as he clumsily dried the dishes that Harry
cleaned. It had been become evident at once that Draco had never so much as
touched a dirty dish, let alone cleaned one, and he somehow managed to be
bad even at wiping them dry—he nearly dropped the frying pan, twice—and
didn't seem to grasp the concept of putting things away neatly in the slightest.
Harry, however, had ample practice with such mundane tasks. He had, after
all, essentially been a servant for the Dursley's his entire childhood, so he
found Draco's incompetence somewhat humorous.

But whenever he spat out murmured things such as 'would've taken him two
seconds', and 'cleaning like squibs', and 'if I had my wand', Harry just rolled
his eyes, ignoring him. He refused to say or do anything to encourage his
pompous little outbursts.

Harry had just finished cleaning the very last bowl when a loud thud sounded
from above, shocking them both. Draco did drop the pot he was drying, then.
It clattered loudly as it hit the hard, ceramic tiles.

"Wish we had a real house elf," he growled as he picked it up. He didn't

bother to clean it again, despite the fact that he had dropped it on the floor,
and instead set it on the counter. "A proper one, not that filthy thing…"

Harry snorted. "I'm surprised Kreacher didn't like you," he commented

darkly. He remembered how that horrible elf had left the house, reporting to
Bellatrix Lestrange… He felt a ripple of anger course through him.

"Oh, it tried," Draco sneered. "Practically threw itself at my feet when I got
here—but I wouldn't let that disgusting creature near me."

How ironic, Harry thought, as he dried his hands. He looked pensively up at

the ceiling. The one person that Kreacher would have potentially listened to
in this house was the one who would undoubtedly treat him the worst… Ron
may not have been kind to Kreacher, but he would never be cruel, and
Hermione… well, Hermione would treat him like an equal. But that foul elf
would never even consider approaching her, simply because she was muggle-
born…

Blood status. Its pointless, infuriating hierarchy was the cause of the vast
majority of the turmoil in his life.

"What do you think he's doing up there, to make such a loud noise?" Harry
asked, gaze still focused upwards.

"Who cares?"

"I'm actually kind of curious. Maybe I'll go up there and find out…"

Draco's face paled slightly. "I'm not going up there," he said, and Harry
couldn't help but notice that he sounded almost nervous.

"What—are you scared of Kreacher?"

Draco glared. "No. But that thing is nasty, and I'm sure its little home up
there is even fouler."

Harry grinned, recognizing the opportunity and seizing it. Anything to get
away from Malfoy for a while. "Well, I'm going to go find out," he said,
clapping his hands together jubilantly. "Guess you have no choice but to
come with me, since you're supposed to be keeping an eye on me, and all…"

"No way." Draco was genuinely nervous, now. "I'm not going in that creepy
attic, and neither are you."

"Try and stop me."

Draco's brows furrowed, looking thoroughly conflicted as he once more took

in Harry's clearly superior strength. When Harry made to leave the room, he
seemed to reach a conclusion.

"God, fine! Just—don't let Snape find out you went up there or-or that I didn't
stay with you," he fumed.

"And…and don't be up there long."

Harry turned to give Draco a wide, dazzling smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."
He then turned and left the kitchen, leaving Malfoy to wallow in his own
devices.

Victory.

Harry made his way up the stairs, moving as quietly as he could on the
creaky floorboards. Presumably, Snape was in his room, for Harry saw no
signs of him as he edged cautiously around the house. He wondered if he had
gone back to sleep again. He smirked at the thought. For some reason, the
idea of a chronically sleepy Snape was very funny to him. Even if was sort of
his fault that he was constantly fatigued.

And so he crept quietly to the attic, recognizing that waking a Potions Master
may be worse than waking a dragon—though really, if he had been asleep,
Draco probably woke him up when he dropped that pot… It was actually
kind of amazing, Harry thought, how bad the pompous blonde was at such a
simple task.

Harry stopped suddenly on the topmost floor, right before the entrance to the
attic. There, on the door in front of him, was a plate with a name written on it
that froze Harry's heart in his chest mid-beat.

Sirius.

…Sirius's bedroom.

Next to it was his brother's, Regulus's… But Harry's eyes remained fixed on
the name of his Godfather. He had never been in Sirius's room… For a brief
moment, his hand hovered over the doorknob, about to go in…but he couldn't
do it. Waves of sorrow and regret began to wash over him in droves, and he
couldn't do it, he couldn't handle it, seeing where his Godfather had stayed
while he was here, miserable both in his youth and in the last years of his
life… He may have passed away over a year ago, but the loss of the closest
thing he had left to a family member still felt horrendously fresh to Harry; a
deep, terrible wound that had not properly begun to heal yet.

Someday, he would go in. But not now. Not yet.

He stepped away, turning his attention instead to the dingy, rooftop door
down the hall which led to Kreacher's current imprisonment.

The attic door had a handle on the outside and a sliding lock, and was just a
bit too high for Harry to easily reach, even with his newfound height. He
jumped once, twice—on his third try he managed to swipe efficiently at the
metal knob, successfully unlocking it—and on the fourth jump he grasped the
handle, pulling the door open as he hit the ground. A small ladder slid out
towards him.

It was ominously quiet. Harry had half expected the crazed elf to come
hurtling down the ladder the moment he opened the door, but nothing
happened.

And…it was dark up there…and rather foreboding-looking. Harry suddenly

appreciated why Malfoy was so reluctant to come anywhere near it.

But Harry wasn't a cowardly Slytherin with a healthy dose of self-

preservation (or perhaps, at this point, just common sense); he was a reckless,
bold, curious Gryffindor.

And so up the ladder he went.

It was disgusting.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was a sick combination of rotting
food of some kind, like cheese gone bad, dirty laundry, and dust, all mixed
together and made worse by the prolonged containment in this stagnant air.
Harry coughed as he looked around, eyes narrowed as he peered in the
darkness.

It wasn't a very big room, but there was a lot of junk in it. Piles of clothes and
rags, various boxes and chests and all sorts of odd items that made no sense
being up here. Clearly, Kreacher had been hoarding again, before he was
locked up.
"…Kreacher?" Harry called tentatively, eyes darting around the room.

There was a shuffling behind him. Harry whipped around, instinctively

reaching for his wand before remembering that he did not have one.

And there he was. The wrinkly elf was tucked away in a corner, hiding under
a disgusting old towel. His giant eyes were shining as they reflected what
little light there was coming from the open door in the floor. He ogled at
Harry as the cloth slid off of his bald head, revealing his long, batty ears and
withered frame.

He looked…terrified. His body was trembling slightly, clearly stunned.

Harry felt an unexpected wave of pity. Kreacher had probably run to the
corner and hidden when the door opened, fearful of whoever it was that was
coming up here—had Malfoy or Snape done something cruel to him?—and
he had been stuck in here for God only knew how long… Weeks? Months?
Trapped in a small, terrible confinement…

Harry could relate to that.

"The…the boy-who-lived…but Kreacher thought he was dead, Kreacher

thought he was gone…"

The empathy swelled in Harry's heart as the old elf took a hesitant step
forward, muttering.

"But he is here, in mistress's house, here with the mudblood and the filth and
how mistress would cry if she knew, knew that half-bloods and traitors
desecrated her halls…"

Empathy which was quickly gone, the inflation of pity popping like an
overblown balloon in his chest. Harry scowled.

"Kreacher," he said, his tone irate. "What…what are you doing up here, that
makes such a loud noise?"
"And now he is talking to Kreacher, and Kreacher does not want to talk to
him, to speak with the half-blood, the—"

"Answer the question," Harry interrupted. Kreacher's eye twitched.

"Kreacher is sometimes trying to get out, to go downstairs, to save mistress's

precious things, to go to mistress and speak to her and obey her and
Kreacher, oh how Kreacher misses his mistress—"

"How are you trying to get out that makes that thunking sound?" Harry asked,
one eyebrow raised. "Show me."

Kreacher looked mutinous, his face contorting in rage, but seeing as Harry
was his new master, he could not disobey. He stalked across the room and
climbed up onto what looked like an old wardrobe. For a moment, he just
stood on top of it, glowering down at Harry—

And then he dove. Harry jumped in fright as the fragile looking creature
propelled himself downwards, colliding headfirst into the wooden floor as
though he wished to launch himself straight through like a cannonball. But,
of course, he wasn't a cannon ball, he was a light, insubstantial house elf, and
when his head hit the floor the only effect it had was to create a loud,
reverberating thud.

"Good God," Harry gasped as he stepped away. Kreacher to his feet,

wobbling like…well, like he had just hit his head very hard. "Kreacher! What
the hell!? You've been trying to just-to just dive through the floor!? Don't do
that anymore!" he shouted, his heart still racing in his chest.

Kreacher stumbled to one side, staggering like he was drunk. But that didn't
stop him from glaring at Harry, or from muttering insults.

"Now he-he dares to tell Kreacher to stop, to not go see his mistress…" His
wide eyes rolled around in his head, settling on the space in the floor where
the open door was. He started stumbling towards it, wheezing—

"I command you not to leave this room," Harry said quickly, and Kreacher
froze in place.

"How he-and now-filthy scum-blood traitors and mudbloods in my mistress's

house, oh, how she would cry, how disappointed she would be in her
Kreacher—"

"Kreacher, shut up."

The elf's mouth snapped shut. He glowered at Harry furiously before darting
haphazardly into a corner, hiding under another deteriorating old towel.

So that's what he's been doing up here, then, Harry thought. Literally
throwing himself against the walls… Harry looked around the room curiously
as he pondered.

He had really hoarded quite a bit of stuff before being trapped in here. Lots of
his mistress's old clothes and shoes, and on a small, wooden table there
seemed to be a collection of what could only have been Mrs. Black's dear,
personal items… There was a gilded hand mirror, which must have been
beautiful when it was polished and new but was now dirty, a few jewelry
boxes—Harry recognized one as the box that they had found two summers
ago, which played music and made them all feel sleepy… He made sure not
to touch it—an assortment of jewelry, including many glittering rings,
bracelets, and long, elegant necklaces…and a locket, in the middle of them
all, like Kreacher had decided it was special and deserved to be in the center
by itself… Harry recognized it, too… He picked it up and tried to open it.
Maybe now that he was a bit stronger he would be able to pry it apart… No,
he still couldn't manage it…

Something hard collided with Harry's leg. He nearly fell over, clutching the
side of the table for support as he looked down, startled—Kreacher had run
straight into him, head-butting him in the shin—

"OW!" Harry yelled, kicking the furious elf aside. "Get off! And stop using
your head as a weapon already!"

Kreacher obeyed, technically—he instantly started scratching at Harry's legs

instead, reaching up with thin, weak limbs as he desperately tried to snatch
the locket out of Harry's hands—

But his attempts were pathetic at best. "Stop that," Harry said, and Kreacher
ceased his flailing. He continued to stare at the necklace with wide eyes, such
an intense longing in them that Harry thought they may just pop right out of
his head.

Harry looked back at it, examining this seemingly very special piece of
jewelry… It must have been worth a lot of money, that much was obvious. It
was large and heavy, made of shining, luscious silver… It was quite nice,
actually; not at all gaudy or girly like most lockets that Harry had seen… As
a matter of fact, it looked more masculine than anything else, like it had been
designed for a wizard, not a witch… Really, the more he looked at it, the
more he liked it, and the silver matched his new watch precisely, and, well,
maybe he was rationalizing poorly for suddenly wanting to take a locket he
couldn't even open, but it wasn't every day that you came of age, right?

Apparently this conclusion showed on his face, for Kreacher made a horrible,
strangled noise that erupted from the bottom of his throat.

"NO! That locket—it is Kreacher's, it was belonging to Master Reg—"

"I thought I told you to shut up," Harry snarled, and Kreacher immediately
stopped talking—and then ran headfirst into the wall, banging his head
against it in self-punishment.

"Don't-stop that!" Harry shouted, exasperated. Kreacher did, turning to look

back at Harry with that ugly glower again. Harry's finger tightened around the
locket in annoyance, and as he looked down at the back of his hand, he was
struck with a sudden idea…

"You know what you need, Kreacher?" Harry said thoughtfully as he looked
about the room. He found an old piece of parchment and, after a few
moments of rummaging, a rather fancy looking old quill and some ink.

"You need a task. Something to keep you busy so you don't try and fling
yourself through solid walls… Here." He set the paper and the quill on the
ground, motioning towards them.

"You're going to do lines for me, Kreacher," Harry said as ugly, terrible
memories came rushing back to him, making him spiteful and malevolent. "I
order you to write the words, 'I must not tell lies'… Write it… I dunno, a
thousand times."

Kreacher's angry expression twisted even more as he begrudgingly made his

way over to the parchment. When he picked up the quill, it was clear that he
wanted nothing more than to stab Harry in the leg with it—but slowly,
heatedly, he began to write.

Harry turned his attention back to the locket. Was it stupid, to want to take
this old thing?

It was Kreacher's expression that did it. He continued to write, unhurriedly,

but his giant eyes were fixed on Harry, so livid and distressed at the thought
of Harry taking it that, as far as Harry was concerned, it settled the matter. He
put the chain around his neck, smirking as he watched Kreacher's eyes bulge
alarmingly in their sockets.

"Happy birthday to me," he said, shoving the locket under his shirt and out of
sight. Even if it was masculine looking, he didn't feel like letting Malfoy see
that he had decided to wear a necklace.

Feeling as though he'd spent quite enough time in a disgusting, smelly attic,
Harry made his way to the door. He was just about to descend the ladder
when he suddenly remembered his promise.

"Oh—Kreacher, I command you not to tell anyone that I've been up here," he
said. He then pulled the locket out from under his shirt, examining it for
another moment, before adding,

"…or that I took this."

Kreacher's eye was twitching so badly Harry thought he might be having

some kind of episode. Yet his hand continued to write, unable to disobey an
order, even now. Harry smirked as he took in his enraged expression. He
descended the ladder, and then, at the very last moment, with only his head
popping up into the room, said,

"Better make it two thousand."

He then closed the attic door, locking it behind him.

 8. Dead and in the Dark
"So where is this supposed library?"

Harry found Draco in the front room reading the same book from before.
Malfoy looked up at the sound of his voice, closing it softly and looking
resigned.

"This way." Harry was pleasantly surprised when he didn't argue or make any
other kind of snide remark. He simply walked down the hall, motioning for
Harry to follow him…and so he did. They made their way past the kitchen,
through the drawing room, down another hall (Harry had never truly
appreciated just how big this house was, before) and soon came to a tall,
impressive looking mahogany door—a door that Harry was quite certain had
not existed when they had lived there last summer.

"It was protected by some pretty serious concealment charms… I'm just
going to assume by the look on your face that they found it after you lived
here," Malfoy explained before Harry could even open his mouth to ask. He
gripped the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside. Harry was
amazed at the sight that met him.

"Snape thinks that Orion Black may have hidden this room even from his
own family. There were quite a few old texts in here on dark magic… Stuff
that would put the books that are in the restricted section of Hogwarts' library
to shame."

To call this room a library seemed a bit wrong, Harry thought; it was much,
much more than that. There were many tall, towering shelves filled with
books, yes, that was true—but there was also a few chintz armchairs, a large,
ornate desk, an elegant couch, and what looked like several tables, chests,
and benches against the wall that were currently covered in old sheets. The
room had an air about it that made it clear it had not been used in a very long
time, the sort of neglected feel that the rest of the house had when they'd first
arrived—though, as far as Harry could see, there were no doxy infestations or
concealed boggarts anywhere.
"Wow," he said as he ran his hands idly along the spines of some of the
books. Then he was hit with a sudden, brilliant thought.

Maybe…maybe he could find some information on horcruxes…

"Books on dark magic, you said?" Harry's tone was light and conversational,
just innocently interested.

"Yeah," Draco suddenly looked annoyed. "There were, anyway."

Harry's bubble of hopeful inquisition popped. "What d'ya mean?"

"Granger took them all. Hoarded them all to herself, book worm that she is.
Said they may come in handy for her super-secret research…" He scoffed,
and it could not have been more obvious that Draco was exceptionally sour at
not being let in on whatever this mission was.

Well, Harry thought bitterly, at least he wasn't alone at being left in the dark
this time around… Then again, while misery does enjoy company, he wasn't
sure the company of Draco Malfoy was much consolation.

"Damn," he muttered. Malfoy peered at him questionably.

"Why? Were you wanting to research the Dark Arts, Golden Boy?" he
drawled, simultaneously sarcastic and suspicious.

Harry shrugged as he began to browse the many texts. "Maybe."

"Why?"

"So I can learn how to become the new Dark Lord and usurp you-know-
who's throne, kill all of the muggle-borns, and rule over the entire wizarding
world," Harry replied in a very straight-forward, even tone. He did such a
good job as sounding casual and at keeping a straight face that when he
looked back up at Malfoy, it was to be met with the sight of an exceptionally
pale, slack-jawed blonde boy.

But he couldn't suppress it for long. After a moment of appreciating how

deeply that had affected his Slytherin counter-part, Harry grinned, and then
burst out into laughter.

"Kidding!" he said breathlessly, and Malfoy, though he tried to appear

haughty and annoyed, cracked a smile, too. "Did I honestlyhave you going?
That easily?"

Malfoy was trying desperately to wipe the smile from his face. "No," he said,
but his expression indicated otherwise. "But—I mean—of course not."

"I'm sort of the opposite of a Dark Lord. Or so I've been told, anyway."

"That's not what they were saying in our second year." Draco countered,
smirking.

"True," Harry replied, returning his attention to the books on the shelves.
"But I'm not trying to be a Dark Lord, and I'm no evil, sardonic Slytherin…"

"I take offense to that."

Harry picked up a book with mild interest, something about charms... "Good.
You should take offense to that, you evil, sardonic, Slytherin," he muttered as
he flipped it open.

"Better than being a stupid, reckless Gryffindor," Draco shot back. "At least
we have sense. There's a reason you landed yourself in so many stupid,
insane predicaments, you know. You don't think before you act."

Harry's entire body tensed at the implication in those words. He fixed the
pompous blonde with malicious glare.

"I'm about to not think before I act by punching you in the face. We'll see
how much sense you have left, then."

Draco took a step back but didn't back down completely. "Did I touch a
nerve, Evans?" he said softly. "Feeling a bit of regret for that Gryffindor
bravery of yours? The kind of recklessness that made you think it was a good
idea to get on the Knight Bus, perhaps?"

Harry snapped the book shut, shoving it back onto the shelf from where he'd
gotten it.

"You have no idea what happened," Harry said scathingly, clenching his fists.
But it seemed that Draco was curious enough to continue to push the matter,
despite the threat.

"You're right," he admitted, gray eyes warily flickering down to Harry's

tensed forearm. "I don't. I don't know what happened. So why don't you
enlighten me."

Harry seemed to consider him for a moment, his head cocked slightly to one
side…but then he turned away, looking back again towards the books. "I'd
rather not."

"Oh, come on!" Malfoy was actually pouting. If Harry hadn't found it so
annoying, it would have been very funny.

"Do you always whine this much? You're worse than my cousin. Actually, I
bet you and Dudley would have gotten along famously… If he weren't a
muggle, anyway…"

Malfoy could not have possibly looked more offended. "I beg your pardon?"
he said shrilly, and he sounded so entitled and indignant that Harry nearly
thought he was being sarcastic.

"I said you're more spoiled and annoying than my fat, immature, muggle
cousin," Harry said, just basking in the way Draco's face contorted in
affronted fury.

"And he was stupid, too."

"Guess it runs in your family, then," Draco fired back, hands on his hips.

Harry threw a book at him, as annoyed at himself for being unable to think of
a good response to that as he was at the blonde before him. To his
disappointment, Malfoy was prepared for flying objects this time around, and
caught it nimbly with one hand. He grinned victoriously.

"You're insufferable," Harry murmured as he turned away.

Malfoy laughed triumphantly, but didn't further prod him.

Damn him, Harry thought resentfully. He distracted himself by exploring the

large area that was really more of giant study than a library. He turned his
attention to the opposite side of the room, wanting to get as far a physically
possible from the leering smirk of Draco Malfoy. Harry was already keeping
a tally in his head of their verbal battles. Thus far, he and that Slytherin prat
were at tied, one to one.

But I will win the war, he thought as he pulled a sheet off of what was
revealed to be an old, wooden chest. It reminded him of the one which had
sat in Moody's office in their fourth year. Well…the fake Moody, at any rate.
He tried for a few moments to open it, but it was locked, and he saw no key
in sight. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for one.

He then moved on to unveil what he thought would be simply a tall table with
boxes on it, but he was wrong. There were boxes on it, yes—a few
haphazardly piled cardboard packages containing he didn't even care what—
for the moment he realized what it was he had unearthed, he began pulling
them off, quickly, setting them rapidly onto the floor at his feet—

He smiled. He smiled so wide that it hurt his face, laughing at what he had
found, here, of all places.

"What?" came Draco's sneering voice. He peered around the corner of a

bookshelf, the smug smirk still lingering on his face from his earlier victory.
But Harry was too happy to be bothered by it. He was grinning like a child on
Christmas morning when he looked back at Draco, his voice almost giddy.

"A piano," he said, gesturing towards the giant, glossy black instrument
beside him, which was in astonishingly good condition. Draco cocked an
eyebrow in confusion, as if to say, 'So?', but Harry just smiled brighter, his
brilliant eyes shining.

"We could have music."

As it transpired… Harry was not good at the piano.

Despite his dreams, in which he had been so skilled that he could play
complex, haunting melodies while simultaneously taunting a lethally
dangerous, skulking Dark Lord… Well, this, as it turned out, was simply not
reality.

Though that hadn't stopped him from trying.

He'd found some sheet music—stacks of it were inside one of the boxes
which he'd removed from the top of the piano—but they did him essentially
no good at all. He couldn't read sheet music, and he had no idea what the
black dots with sticks coming out of them meant nor what the numbers at the
beginning of each row of lines were trying to tell him. He wanted to know,
though, was desperate enough even to ask Malfoy if he knew, but the
arrogant prat knew as much about musical theory as he did about muggle
celebrity gossip or cleaning dishes. Harry was on his own.

And he was bad.

Terrible, really.

And it was so frustrating! He could hear it in his head, the enthralling melody
was right there, in the periphery of his mind—but his fingers fumbled
ineloquently at the keys, trying and failing miserably to replicate anything
near what he had created in his dreams. His thoughts itched, highly
uncomfortable and he tried to recall that music.

"Ugh, stop that," Malfoy eventually snapped, losing all patience with Harry's
sorry excuse for music as he sat in one of the study's chintz armchairs. He
closed the book he was reading. "You've never even touched a piano before,
have you?"

"That's arguable," Harry said, frowning as he continued to concentrate on the

melody in his head and match it.

Malfoy didn't bother trying to decipher what that comment meant. "Well
you're terrible, and it's annoying. Stop it."

"If it's bothering you, go away. No one is making you sit there and suffer
through this." He continued to play.

"I would if Snape hadn't told me—"

"To keep an eye on me, yes, yes, I'm aware of what Snape said. Didn't stop
you from staying behind when I went up to the attic, though."

Draco glowered but didn't say anything. He turned his attention back to his
book, his brows furrowed in annoyance as he muttered what was quickly
becoming his new favorite phrase, 'If I had my wand…'

Harry smirked as he continued to struggle, feeling smug that Draco had

resigned to stay put and suffer through his dismal musical efforts. Two to
one, he thought wryly.

But even with the added incentive of knowingly annoying Malfoy, his fiery
determination eventually burnt out. After nearly an hour of horrible attempts
at playing something that resembled his dream song, Harry gave up, choosing
instead to find something to read…and as he was browsing the selection of
books which Hermione had chosen not to take with her, Harry began to
become truly, painfully aware of his situation.

This was going to be his life. For an undeterminable amount of time, this was
what he was going to deal with every, single day. Itchy, uncomfortably
thoughts, stuck in this house, with little to distract him from the terrifying
knowledge that a manic, obsessive monster was lurking around the outskirts
of his mind…and, on top of that, he had only a sleepy Snape and an
infuriating Draco Malfoy to keep him company.
It had barely even been a full day, and he was already exceptionally bored
and depressed.

He sighed as he turned a corner, nearly jumping out of his skin when he

almost collided with the sleepy Snape himself.

"Fuck!"

Harry couldn't stop himself from shouting out loud. Snape's dark brows
raised, looking more surprised at his outburst than annoyed. Harry's hand
flew to his chest, his heart racing.

"H-how do you do that?" he stuttered, taking a step back. Draco was

sniggering from his spot on the couch.

Snape didn't bother with answering the question, or making any indication
whatsoever that Harry had just sworn in his face. "Come with me. Both of
you," he drawled instead, turning and walking away. He held an arm out as
he went, motioning for them to follow, and the way it made his cloak billow
made Harry think wildly of someone strutting on a catwalk. Really, how did
he get his robes to flutter around him like that? Was he consistently,
wandlessly conjuring up a puff of wind every time he turned a corner?

"I have something to show you."

A few moments later and Harry, Draco, and their ex-professor (who still
demanded to be called 'sir', regardless of the fact that neither of them were his
students any longer) were gathered in the front room. Once there, Snape
pulled out of his robe pocket what appeared to be a shiny, silver necklace.

But not just any necklace. It was a locket.

"This," the older wizard began, holding the glittering piece of jewelry out in
front of him, "is a portkey. It will remain in here, in this room, up here on the
mantle. It is for emergency purposes only."
He placed it on a hook high up on the wall, above the mantle as he'd
indicated.

Harry stared at it in genuine surprise. Another locket. In fact, it looked a great

deal like the one he had just found a few hours ago, only it was smaller, and
clearly not as nice… Rather like the cheap, trinket-y version of the one which
now rested against his sternum, hidden underneath his shirt. He absent-
mindedly ran a hand across his chest to feel it there under the fabric. It felt
oddly warm against his skin.

"This is a very complicated, intricate portkey," Snape went on, gesturing up

towards the locket above him. "It is triggered not by a specific moment in
time, but by a key phrase. In order for it to be activated, one must be making
physical contact with it and say the words, 'Chosen One'.

Harry blinked in bemusement, while Draco, contrastingly, scoffed. "'Chosen

One?'" he drawled, looking irate. He peered at Harry with a somewhat
condescending gaze. "I haven't heard anyone refer to you by that title in a
long time… Why that phrase?"

Snape's eyes narrowed distastefully when he answered. "I don't know, Miss
Granger was the one to set it up," he spat, and it was clear that this fact
annoyed him greatly and on many different levels. "But it hardly matters. It is
functional, and it will work if it should be necessary for you two to make a
quick escape from this place, should I be…indisposed."

Harry's blood ran cold at the thought of what kind of situation could possibly
occur to leave Snape 'indisposed', but he chose not to linger on it. "Where…
where does it go, Professor?" he asked instead, trying to sound casual about
the whole ordeal.

Snape's thin lips pulled up on one side in the tiniest smirk. "An undisclosed
but safe location."

"Why can't we know where?" Draco barked at once. Harry was glad he'd
asked; he was trying his best to not be rude and push his luck with Snape, but
he was deeply curious.
But the older man didn't answer the question, anyway. "All you need to know
is that it will take you somewhere safe. God willing, you will never have to
find out. It is only to be used in the case of an extreme, dire emergency.
Unregistered portkeys are exceptionally difficult to activate, especially ones
as intricate and secretive as this. This is the only one we have, so don't even
consider wasting it because of some reckless, bold, heroic mood swing." His
dark eyes flashed to Harry's, and Harry couldn't help but be a bit offended.
Did he really think that he would waste something like this so recklessly?

He tried not to laugh out loud at the thought. Really, he'd never once given
Snape the impression he was reckless. Honestly, he couldn't think of a single
time. Not once. A crooked smirk at his own inside joke must have shown on
his face, though, because Snape's eyes narrowed so much they became thin,
threatening black slits. It wiped the tiny grin from his face at once.

"Is this clear?"

Harry nodded. Snape looked then to Malfoy, whose face was quickly turning
red.

"Really? We can't even know where the portkey would take us? Really!?"
Snape's expression remained unchanged. Malfoy looked like he wanted to
punch the wall.

"Is this clear?" Snape repeated, his voice dangerously low now. After a few
moments in which Draco looked on the verge of throwing a fit, he finally
nodded—though he was huffy and mutinous about it.

"Good," Snape said in a much lighter tone. "That was all. It is getting late.
Should you feel the need to eat dinner, I shall leave you to fend for
yourselves. You—" he pointed at Harry accusingly, causing him to jump
slightly, "—remember to empty your thoughts before falling asleep. Practice
clearing your mind. If you manage to become efficient at this simple,
relatively easy task, it will make Occlumency lessons much easier when we
begin. You—" he pointed at Draco now, who did not jump but continued to
look moody, "—try not to make this task difficult for him by bickering. I
know it will be monumentally challenging for both of you, but one can hardly
be at peace and empty their thoughts with ruffled feathers. In other words,"
he looked back and forth between both of them—

"Be civil."

Malfoy glowered, the putrid expression on his face more incensed than Harry
had ever seen it—but they both nodded, regardless.

"Lovely," Snape said. "Should you need me, you know where I'll be."

The Potions Master then swept from the room in his usual style, that long,
black cloak fluttering and flickering behind him as though it had a mind of its
own. Really, just how the blazes did he manage that?

"Sweet dreams, children," he called loftily over his shoulder in a voice just
dripping in sarcasm. And then he disappeared in the darkness of the hallway.

Harry wasn't sure if he was more annoyed or amused. A bit of both, he

supposed.

Malfoy, however, did not look amused in the slightest. "Ridiculous," he

muttered scathingly, glaring up at the mundane-looking portkey. The locket
glittered innocently at them as though it were winking. "Outrageous, isn't it?
That we can't even know where our emergency escape will actually take us?"

Harry looked up at it too, ponderingly. "Maybe he just doesn't want us to get

any ideas…"

He thought of the possibility of if he knew with certainty that it would take

him to the Burrow…and as soon as he thought of it, he became aware that
this was, in all actuality, very likely. He was filled with such longing that it
truly, physically hurt. What he wouldn't give to be there, where his surrogate
family was, preparing for a wedding, dealing with explosions of estrogen and
women crying over him and drinking—what was it?—firewhiskey…

Harry put a hand to his chest at the miserable conclusion that the Burrow
was, perhaps, literally within his reach, but that he could not go. He ran his
fingers over the chain of his newly acquired necklace, sighing.

"It's just so stupid," Malfoy spat furiously. "No one tells me a goddamn thing
around here! And why not? It's not like I'm about to run off and tell anyone, I
can't even leave the house! I'm supposed to be dead! Seriously!"

Harry could not blame him for his outburst. He remembered all too well his
own temper-tantrums from last year, in this very house, for very similar
reasons. But he wasn't about to try and comfort Draco Malfoy. The agitated
blonde huffed in the silence, glaring up at the sparkling portkey as though it,
an inanimate object, had a mind of its own and was personally keeping its
secrets from him itself, a riddle locked up in an intimate, silver enclosure. His
words were barely discernable when he spoke, muttered between tightly
clenched teeth.

"Dead and in the dark."

That night, as Harry lay down to sleep, he tried to do as Snape instructed him
and clear his mind.

Malfoy was already out, by the looks of it—or was at least pretending to be,
which suited Harry just fine. He, however, lay completely awake on his
somewhat small but cozy bed, happily dressed in his old, comfortable
clothes. He had quickly come to the conclusion that all of his shirts, which
had been a big before, really, fit reasonably well now, but that his pants—
every single pair—were now several inches too short. He really had
experienced quite a growth spurt over the past year. He wondered vaguely if
he could get Hermione or Ron to bring him some jeans that fit, later.

So he was currently pants-less, but, luckily, he had several pairs of baggy,

comfortable shorts, and really, what else did he need right now? It wasn't like
he had anyone to impress with good fashion sense here, and besides, it wasn't
like he was going to leave the house.

…Ever.
Harry suppressed a sigh, trying and failing again and again to clear his
thoughts. He was giving it his best efforts, really, but it was difficult to do
when his mind kept wandering, burning with curiosity about a number of
different things. He twirled the heavy locket in his hands, the chain
interwoven between his fingers as he examined the shining, reflective surface
of it, wondering idly how the preparations for the wedding were going, where
that portkey went and if it was, in fact, the Burrow, and, deepest of all, what
these mysterious, elusive things—weapons?—were that Ron and Hermione
would begin searching for when the ceremony was finally over.

This parsletongue really was hypnotic.

Harry was right back in the cupboard again, enclosed in his dreary prison. It
was infuriating, really, that he should be trapped here. He used to have power
in his dreams. He used to have freedom—or the illusion of it, at least. But
now the invasive Occlumency barriers prevented him from even that luxury.
Harry was trapped in reality, trapped in his own mind, and, now, trapped in
this horrid, recurring nightmare.

He had nothing. Lord Voldemort had successfully taken everything from

him…and he didn't even think he was alive.

Harry sat on his cot with his head between his knees, trying desperately to
ignore the sultry sound of his voice. To not find it alluring or lovely or
seductive—

"…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…"

Or to want to go to it and just drown in it…

"….Harry Potter…"

Or to find it so…

"…Come to me…"

…so…
"….Precious soul…"

Harry shook his head, snapping himself out of that trance-like state. It was
horrible, feeling so inexplicably drawn to the lure of his former captor. And
—far worse than that—feeling so…

Ugh. He couldn't even think it without being disgusted with himself.

It wasn't fair! These weren't his burning, coiled up emotions, they were his,
and they were all because of this damn horcrux that was, supposedly, a part
of him.

He's a monster, Harry thought sternly to himself. He's a goddamn monster.

He's done nothing but horrific, terrible things to me.

What he did was cruel.

What he did was unforgiveable.

Time has made him unstable.

He's a fucking psychopath.

He does not deserve you.

He deserves to burn in hell.

I am nothing like him.

Yeah, I'm nothing like him!

Oh God, I'm talking to myself, Harry thought morosely. He sighed as he sat

up, staring vacantly at the shelves next to him which held a number of broken
toy soldiers, copious amounts of dust, and a network of intricate, delicate
spider's webs.

Talking to himself while being stuck in the closet.

Wasn't life a dream?

He grit his teeth, attempting once more to focus with all of his might on
emptying his mind.

Clear your thoughts…

Clear your thoughts…

Clear your thoughts…

Clear your thoughts…

He repeated this mantra to himself over and over, and, while the sultry sound
never completely abated, it did diminish to the point that it was bearable. Just
one long, soft, continuous hissing note. A sickeningly seductive song to haunt
the background of his nightmares.

And so he persevered through the night, pretending to be dead in the darkness

of his dreams.

Harry was sure of very little in his life at the moment, but there was one fact
that he knew with absolute, complete certainty: If it were possible, he would
reside under the warm, flowing water of a hot shower the entire time he was
at Grimmauld Place.

Really, he'd never appreciated before just how wonderful bathing felt. The
moist, humid air and the scorching liquid was pure bliss on his skin. He ran
his hand through his hair, down his shoulders and along his sides. He was
rapidly becoming used to his new and improved body. Appreciating it, in
fact.

Though he did try not to linger too much as to why it was he looked and felt
like this…but he knew why, knew in a way that no one else did… Except,
perhaps, Snape, he realized with a gut-wrenching jolt that made his slightly
nauseous.
He looked like this because The Dark Lord had considered him a thing, a
thing which belonged to him…and Lord Voldemort expected and demanded
nothing less than perfection when it came to his belongings, his followers,
his…

…possessions.

And I protect my possessions well.

Harry shuddered, willing away the memory of Voldemort's icy declaration in

his dreamscape of endless white.

Well, regardless of the disturbing reasoning why, Harry was the way he was.
His hands trailed across his abs, up his chest, to—

The locket.

His fingers closed around the strange, metal charm as he pulled it away from
him, up in front of his face so that he could examine it away from the stream
of the hot water. It was strange. He'd taken it off for a moment before initially
getting into the shower, but then the oddest thing had happened. It was like a
bizarre inkling, a tugging sensation that pulled at him after he'd set it down on
the side of the sink. He'd felt oddly…naked without it on. Well, he already
was naked, obviously, as he'd just been about to rinse off, but this was
different. Like the softest, coolest draft had swept up his spine. Like
something was amiss when he no longer had the chain around his neck.

Experimentally, he'd put it back on…and the slight feeling of trepidation had
vanished.

Probably charmed, or something, Harry mused as he looked at it now,

studying his own reflected green irises in the silver surface. Some kind of
protective enchantment, maybe, to prevent its owners from losing it or
misplacing it… Harry remembered the music box which had caused them all
to feel sleepy… Something like that…

Well, he thought airily, surely it was not such a big deal if he kept it on.
Maybe he was being completely daft, but really, if wearing a silly locket
made him feel even slightly better, given his horrible circumstances, well,
honestly, what was the harm in that?

It was just a necklace.

Shrugging to himself, he let the heavy pendant slip from his hands. It thudded
against his chest, once more under the flow of the warm water.

Eventually, he decided that he should probably get out of the shower. He'd
been in here a long time and while he was sure Snape had his own in the
master suite, he wasn't so sure that there was another one which Draco could
use. He smirked, imagining Malfoy waiting outside the bathroom door,
tapping his foot impatiently. The thought made him laugh.

So he begrudgingly turned the water off, reaching for a towel and drying
himself off. He looked at himself in the mirror before getting dressed, wiping
off a section of the thick coat of condensation that had formed because of his
exuberantly long shower. He was no longer shocked by his body, but did still
feel slightly awkward about it.

His possession. Harry scowled, his green eyes burning with anger.

"I am no one's possession," he muttered to himself.

'I am nothing like him,' his reflection answered back, equally incensed.

Odd, Harry thought, as he examined his own fiery expression. He shook his
head, reaching for his clothes so that he could get dressed. He'd never really
understood magical mirrors and their generally unasked-for comments.

Of course he was nothing like Lord Voldemort.

Malfoy was not waiting outside the bathroom door impatiently, much as the
image had amused Harry in his imagination.

He was, in fact, in the kitchen. His hair, which was nearly always perfectly
smooth and slicked back, was tousled from sleep, and he was still in his
baggy sweatpants and a comfortable looking, long-sleeved shirt. Harry
thought he looked much better like this—casual, not dressed up or preened in
a way that was meant to impress and intimidate every single person he came
into contact with. The disheveled blonde yawned as he filled the kettle with
water, about to make tea, and good God, Harry thought suddenly—Draco
Malfoy really was just a normal person after all.

But the moment his steely gaze flickered up to meet Harry's, that haughty
demeanor was back in a flash. His eyes narrowed, his spine straightened into
a much better, proper posture—he even ran a hand over his hair, probably
absent-mindedly trying to make it sleek and pristine again—and Harry had to
try not to laugh.

"Good morning," Harry said lightly, grinning.

"Mph." Malfoy made a short, derisive noise in response. Harry got the
impression that he, like Ron, did not really do well with verbal
communication when he first woke up.

He watched as Draco pulled down a single mug and a tea bag. "You know,
common curtesy says you're supposed to offer tea to your guests, especially if
you're making some, anyway."

Draco glared.

"Common curtesy says you're not supposed to spend forever in the shower,
either, but that didn't stop you." His words were spoken a bit less eloquently,
without their usual snappishness, and Harry's beliefs were confirmed—
Malfoy did not yet have his wits about him. He smirked.

"I didn't know you were waiting," he said, shrugging as he reached into the
cupboard to grab a cup for himself. "You could've knocked."

"…Mph." Malfoy settled for making another unintelligible noise.

Harry did laugh, this time. "Incredible," he said, leaning against the counter
as they waited for the water to boil. Draco raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

"You, and your inability to speak properly at the moment. You remind me of
Ron."

Malfoy's eyes twitched. "Don't compare me to Weasel."

"Weasel!" Harry said, grinning wider. "Do you have a nickname for
everyone, Malfoy? What's mine?" He was probably having too much fun
poking at the drowsy Draco, but he couldn't help himself.

"Shut up, asshole," he mumbled irately.

"Is that my nickname, or are you just being friendly?"

"I'm going to pour this boiling water over your fat head."

"Threatening my well-being? I wouldn't if I were you, it might ruffle my

feathers, I'd have to tell Snape—"

"That's Professor Snape, to you."

They both jumped at the sudden appearance of the Potions Master. If the
ominous, tall wizard kept this up for the entirety of their shared living
experience, Harry thought, he may just die from a heart attack at some point.

Probably wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen to him, either.

"Good morning," Snape said, clearly noting—and enjoying—the fact that he

had startled the daylights out of both of them.

The kettle started whistling. Harry immediately poured a cup and, after a
moment of awkward trepidation, offered it to the older man.

"Tea…?"

Snape stared at the mug being handed to him by Harry Potter as though he
thought it might come to life and bite his hand off.
Harry faltered, and was just about to take it back and—what, apologize?—
when Snape surprised him by taking it. He didn't say thank you, but he sort of
nodded in curt, uncomfortable way. Harry turned away at once as though he
were retreating from a battle, busying himself with getting another cup to
make himself a drink. Malfoy sat at the table, looking altogether too tired to
give a damn about much of anything.

Harry still had his back turned when Snape spoke next.

"…Did you practice Occlumency last night, as I instructed you?"

Harry froze with his hands around the handle of another cup he'd been
reaching for. Malfoy perked up at once.

"Uh…" Harry still didn't turn around, not wanting to directly face either of
them. "Yeah," he replied as he poured the hot water into his cup.

A stretch of silence. Harry stared down into the contents of his mug as the tea
steeped, as if it was the most mesmerizing, interesting thing in the entire
world, to watch the water slowly darken.

"…And?" Snape prodded. Harry bit his lower lip, still resolutely with his
back turned, and damn it, damn it all, he hated having these conversations,
hated the way that even thinking about his terrifying dreams twisted his
stomach into not-entirely-but-yes-entirely horrible knots.

"Was it successful? Did the parsletongue diminish?"

Harry noted Malfoy shifting again, but this time he'd lowered his head, just
drinking his tea quietly—like he was hoping to go unnoticed at the table so as
not to be kicked out again. Harry scowled.

"Yep," he said shortly and curtly. "Sure did. Didn't hear a thing." Harry took
a sip of his tea, which was still scalding hot, and nearly burnt his tongue in
the process. He turned around finally to face Snape, but did not look up.

Yet he could just feel those sinister eyes boring down on him. Harry
twitched, resisting the involuntary urge to scratch at his head.

"…Really."

Snape said it more as an accusation than a question. Harry just nodded,

unconvincingly, desperately wanting this conversation to end. He briefly
glanced up. "Um, Professor?" he started, and Snape's suspicious expression
did not change even slightly.

"What's…what's the elder wand? And why does it matter?"

It was one of the many questions that had actually prevented him from being
able to empty his mind last night. The unknown reasoning for why Draco
Malfoy had to 'die'…

Snape's head cocked slightly to one side, and Harry was certain that he knew
he was just trying to change the subject, to stop talking about parsletongue
dreams…but, to Harry's happy surprise, he decided to indulge him.

"The Elder Wand," he began in a tone of voice that reminded Harry so much
of the way he used to lecture in class that he felt a rush of nostalgia (he never
would have thought he'd feel nostalgic about Potions class, ever), "is an
extremely powerful wand, the most powerful in the world, supposedly. Most
believe it only exists as a legend, a myth—an interesting, tall tale of
bloodshed and nothing more. I did not believe it was real myself until very
recently. But it is, and its history can actually be traced for a substantial
period of history, up through the Middle Ages, in fact… Do you know much
about wandlore?" Snape asked the question in a condescending tone of voice,
as if he knew very well that Harry didn't know anything about wandlore at
all, but just wanted to hear him admit it.

"No, sir," Harry murmured. Snape continued.

"Wands and their magical properties tend to be drawn to certain personalities.

You can tell a great deal about a wizard by their wand…and so these wands
develop loyalties. And, like all entities with the ability to willingly give
devotion, they can be swayed. Won. Their allegiances swapped."
Harry swallowed, wondering is Snape realized that he had pretty much just
described himself.

"But most wands must be won fairly," he continued. "It isn't generally easy to
gain the allegiance of a wand from a previous master. Simply disarming an
opponent or beating them in a duel won't necessarily win you its devotion.
The exception, however, is the Elder Wand."

Draco shifted again, this time obviously uncomfortably. "What do you

mean?" Harry asked.

"The Elder Wand, otherwise known as the Deathstick by many, has a

notorious history of having been won many, many times. Past wizards who
won it tended to be…stupid," he said bluntly. "They boasted about their
wielding of such a powerful, magical artifact, and, consequently, would
attract attention of the worst variety. Others who wanted the legendary wand
would, inevitably, kill them and take it."

"Kill them?" Harry gawked.

"Yes," Snape said, nodding. "Though killing is not necessary…the Elder

Wand is, in fact, very easily swayed. It recognizes power and only power—it
has no true loyalties, no honest devotion."

Harry swallowed thickly again, wondering if this time Snape realized he had
pretty much just described the Dark Lord. "So how did Malfoy become the
Master of it? How'd you even find out where it was?"

"Dumbledore had it." Harry turned, surprised that Draco had interrupted. "I
was—the Dark Lord ordered me to kill Dumbledore, a-and I—" he seemed to
lose his nerve, then, stuttering to a halt.

"And he did not," Snape finished for him. "He did, however, disarm him.
And that action alone is enough for the Elder Wand to swap allegiances. The
Headmaster was weak at the time, dying. And so the moment Draco disarmed
him, he unwittingly became the Master of the Elder Wand…despite the fact
that he has never so much as touched it."
Draco looked incredibly miserable at that statement.

"So…you're the Master of the Elder Wand…did you-know-who know that?"

"He didn't at first, but he is sure to, eventually, figure it out…" Snape sighed,
looking rather worn and conflicted. "The only reason I knew about the wand
at all was because the Headmaster told me. Before he died, he'd informed me
that, someday, the Dark Lord would more than likely become very interested
in this legendary weapon, and that when he did, he would, eventually trace it
to his wand…"

He paused, setting his half-drunk tea down on the counter.

"So what happened…?" Harry asked apprehensively.

"He did become interested in the wand, for a time," Snape said, sounding
bitter. "Apparently, he had been researching the artifact even since your
wands connected in the graveyard when he first regained a corporal form. But
his fascination with it waned, significantly, when you supposedly went
missing."

Snape looked angry. Harry didn't say anything, just waited patiently for him
to go on. "…Of course, in hindsight, I should have been suspicious. I should
have been a bit more concerned. But I, like the rest of the wizarding world,
believed that no one knew where you were…" He looked down towards the
floor for a moment, and, Harry felt a wave of shock—had he just looked—
apologetic?

But the fleeting expression was gone when he looked back up, replaced again
with bitter contempt. "And then, for a very long time, he became strangely…
absent. He was no longer interested in the Elder Wand, less involved with his
political propaganda than he had ever been before… He was, for the first
time, rather willing to delegate most matters onto others… He was gone
often, and even when he was present at meetings or other events, he
seemed…distracted. It was all most odd. I had assumed he was looking for
you, but now that I know that was not the case, it is still somewhat of a
mystery… Where he was going, what he was doing…"
Harry coughed suddenly, nearly choking to death on his tea. For he had just
had several rapid, lightning fast images flash through his mind—Voldemort,
standing in Madam Puddifoot's coffee shop while he watched Harry kiss a
blushing Cho Chang, Voldemort, looking young and suave and handsome at
the Yule Ball, stalking him as he made his way to the Room of Requirement,
Voldemort, listening to him play the piano with a hungry, murderous, nearly
mad glint in those red, red eyes—

'You're obsessed with me, Tom—'

Harry could feel both Snape's and Malfoy's intense gazes fixed on him as he
tried to clear his throat, spluttering. His face was on fire.

"You don't say," he muttered feebly in a voice that was about three octaves
too high.

Snape had just opened his mouth to ask—or, more likely, demand—what it
was Harry knew, when a beautiful distraction appeared.

A vibrantly bright, shining creature came gamboling in through the door to

the kitchen, and Harry smiled widely, recognizing it at once. It was
Hermione's patronus, a happy, delightful otter. It swirled around in the open
air as though it were swimming; its sleek body contorting gracefully as it
made its way towards them. Harry grinned more broadly.

But one look at Snape's face crushed that feeling of positivity at once. For the
Potions Master's features had turned ashen upon the arrival of the glowing
creature, and Harry had never seen this man look so fearful in his entire life.
Harry jumped at the unexpected sound of Hermione's voice, which filled the
room as though she was standing right next to them. Her tone was spoken in
a business-like fashion, the way in which Hermione usually recited words
she'd memorized from textbooks—but there was an undeniable edge of panic
present, too. Like someone in a state of severe shock.

"The Ministry has fallen. The Burrow was attacked by Death Eaters. Will
report back as soon as possible."
And then, with one last playful, gamboling swirl, which was so at odds with
the sinister message it had just relayed, the Patronus vanished, leaving the
room irrationally dim and bleak at its sudden absence. The three supposedly-
dead men all exchanged looks of unconcealed fear after it had gone, struck
silent at the implication of that brief message and the vagueness of it.

Completely in the dark.

 9. Riddle, Riddle, Riddle
The day passed in taut, tense silence.

After the patronus vanished, Snape had dismissed himself at once, retreating
to his room to do whatever it was that Snape did in his copious amounts of
solitude. Harry and Draco were left alone.

They didn't speak to each other. They didn't need to. Harry, who had never
known that patronuses could even be used for sending messages like that, had
come to the conclusion quietly and on his own.

For the first time, the teenage nemeses remained in the same room together
without feeling the necessity to verbally abuse each other. They were both
frightened, anxious. Lost in their own torrid thoughts and worries which
remained unspoken. And despite—or perhaps it was because of—those
overwhelming, horrible feelings, they were thankful to simply not be alone.

Harry tried once more to play the piano in an attempt to distract himself, but
all he managed to achieve for his slightly frantic efforts was an increase in
that awful, irritating sensation of the already uncomfortable thoughts in his
mind. Frustrated, he gave up after only a few minutes, and instead attempted
to read like Malfoy was. But he found that task impossible, too. He opened
up a book, and, even though he scanned the text in the appropriate
orientation, he did not take in a single word of it. His gaze ghosted over the
letters sequentially in a vacant, empty way. There were worlds to get lost in,
there, in those pages, but he remained firmly within the confines of his own,
troubled mind.

They didn't eat. They didn't do anything, other than pretend. Harry could not
even entertain the idea of practicing Occlumency now; the very notion of
clearing his thoughts was incomprehensible, much as he wished it could be
so.

He wished he could escape from his terrifying speculations. He wished he

could just let his worries and fears slip through his fingers like water, and be
left cool and calm and empty and numb.

He had been numb. More than once.

A hollow, empty shell.

After Sirius died.

After being trapped in that confinement for—

For—

How long?

How long had he been awake? How many days? Weeks? How long? How
long? He glanced up at the grandiose clock on the wall of the front room
where he and Draco currently resided, stared at it, green eyes fixated on the
second hand as it ticked, ticked, ticked, every second taking them closer to
midnight, and how long? How long would he wait? How long had he already
waited? How long in that world of just white, nothing but blank, vivid
brightness, going on forever, endless, all consuming and how long had he
remained awake and alive in that glass casket with nothing but his own
screams in his ears of that name and how long, how long, how long? His
heart was palpating erratically in his chest, the second hand was moving so,
so slow and how long how long how long and now he was gasping for breath
and his throat was constricting and his heart was thundering wildly and
quickly and spastic and he put a hand to his chest to feel it there like a
hammer against his ribs, it beat against the thick fabric of his sweater, against
the warm metal of the locket, against his trembling fingers and how long,
how long in that world of white, aware and awake and alive with just white
and white and white and—

Breathe.

Harry wasn't sure what happened—he only knew that one moment, he had
been sitting idly on the couch, looking up at the clock, and now, now, he was
quivering and gasping for breath, doubled over with his head between his
knees, and… Draco was standing over him, looking panicked, worried, and it
was such a strange expression to see there on the pale blonde's face—so odd,
so out of place—

And just as Malfoy opened his mouth to say something, a cracking sound
startled them both. Their heads snapped to the side in unison as the front door
swung open.

Ron and Hermione came bustling in. They were both wearing dress robes that
were tousled and disheveled, and while they looked breathless and ashen,
they appeared otherwise unharmed.

Harry was on his feet at once, his heart still beating rapidly. He crossed the
room in two long, quick strides, pulling both of them into a giant embrace
which they returned at once. The sight of his friend's arrival had whisked him
away from the precipice of a full-blown panic attack, had saved him like a
patronus appearing at the very last moment before his soul was swallowed by
a dementor's kiss—

"I was—we've been—" Harry mumbled into Hermione's shoulder, his

thoughts and words a jumbled, chaotic mess. She patted his shoulder
soothingly as he stepped away. "I-is everyone okay? Did anyone…?"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Ron interjected at once.

"No," he said quickly. "No, no one's died…" Yet the way his voice trailed off
was extremely ominous.

"What happened?"

They all turned to see Snape, who must have just appeared at the sound of
their arrival. He stood next to Malfoy, who, Harry now noticed, looked
incredibly uncomfortable and awkward. For a moment he didn't understand
why, but then it hit him—he, Ron, and Hermione had been having a sort of
moment, a friendly exchange met with a rush a relief that he, Draco Malfoy,
was quite ostentatiously not a part of. Harry felt slightly… Well…
He pitied him, that he did not have friends like Ron and Hermione.

"Death Eaters," Hermione said, and it was that semi-rehearsed tone of voice
again. "We only made it out at all because we received a warning from
Kinglsey. It was just moments before the wards broke, but if we hadn't had
those precious few seconds…"

She visibly shuddered. Ron reached down to grab her hand, squeezing it
reassuringly—and, Harry noticed—he did not let go.

"No one died," Ron reiterated. "But…but there were injuries…" Harry's
heart, which had been so frantically beating just a moment before, froze in his
chest.

"George was hit with a pretty nasty curse," Hermione said quietly. "His leg—
something awful, they're not sure what it was yet, some seriously dark magic
—he's okay, but…but we d-don't yet know…"

Ron's face paled significantly.

"And Ginny," Hermione went on. "She was hexed quite badly, too, but
nothing that should be lasting…"

"But she'll be okay?" Harry asked in a raspy voice. "Everyone…everyone is

alive, and they should be okay…?"

Ron nodded, and the relief that swept over Harry was so strong that he felt
light-headed. The intangible, forceful weight of oppression and fear which
had hung so heavy in the air moments before vanished, dissipated and was
gone.

Harry could breathe again.

Ron looked on the verge of saying something when, quite suddenly, Snape
motioned towards him and Hermione in a snappish gesture. "You two, with
me," he said briskly as he turned to leave the room. He clearly expected them
to follow at once, for he did not wait even for a moment. Ron instantly
frowned, looking very unwilling to leave the room—or Harry—alone with
Malfoy again so quickly, but Hermione prodded him.

"We should—he'll want to—" She glanced at Harry apologetically. "I'm

sorry, we won't be long, just—"

But Harry just forced a taut grin, still feeling slightly dizzy from the
confirmation that everyone was alive. "Go on," he said. "Before he comes
back and decides to hit you with another stinging hex or something for
making him wait two seconds."

Ron smirked solemnly, but nodded. "That prat… Okay, we'll be fast—I hope
—"

Hermione squeezed his shoulder one last time before turning to follow the
impatient Potions Master. Her hand slipped from Ron's grasp as she briskly
walked down the hall, and, even though she was dressed in clingy, disheveled
dress robes and heels, her gate reminded Harry of someone on their way to a
business meeting, or some kind of formal, educational lecture. Ron, however,
went slowly and sluggishly, like each step was causing him pain…as if he
were being forced to attend that same lecture, Harry thought shrewdly.

He and Draco were once more left alone in the front room. Neither of them
were included in these meetings, forbidden from knowing what it was
precisely they were discussing in relation to this 'mission'…and there was,
undeniably, a sort of unspoken kinship there.

Not that either of them was about to admit that.

Draco straightened his posture and fussed with his hair again at the look on
Harry's face. Had it been pitying? Had he, Harry, just looked at Malfoy with
the same expression that Hermione so often fixed on him? He felt another
twinge of guilt as the blonde cleared his throat, desperately trying to regain
his typical, haughty disposition.

Harry shook his head, his eyes scanning the room, looking for something to
say or do—some kind of distraction—
His gaze landed on the table near the couch. He motioned at it with one hand
while the other scratched at the back of his head, awkwardly.

"…Chess?" he offered up.

He half-expected Malfoy to just scoff at him, to pick up his book and

disappear behind the binding again—but he didn't. His grey eyes lingered on
the pieces of Ron's set, flickering back and forth between it and Harry a bit
skeptically, but then he shrugged lazily as if to say 'sure, why not?'. He sat
down silently on one side, claiming the black pieces without asking what
Harry preferred as he set up the board.

Harry sat across from him. The white pieces recognized him, and while he
had led them to brutal defeats many, many times, they did not look quite so
disheartened at the moment. Perhaps because they did not recognize Draco
Malfoy, and so maybe, they mused, maybe they stood a chance against this
unknown entity.

The black pieces seemed wary, too. Their little marble faces peered up at the
blonde suspiciously, so used to their undefeated, redheaded master and
clearly quite skeptical at being under the rule of someone new and potentially
untalented.

But Draco didn't pay their disrespectful behavior any mind. He leaned back
into the cushions of the sofa, crossing his arms as he watched Harry finish
prodding his pawns into formation on the front line.

"As always," He drawled, his steely gaze regaining some of that coy
mischievousness that Harry was so accustomed to,

"…white moves first."

Harry ushered the first piece out into the field.

Neither of them mentioned his near panic attack.

As it turned out, Harry was much more evenly matched at chess with the
Slytherin than he was with Ron, and it made for a much more interesting,
intense game.

They were neck in neck in terms of pieces, a nearly equal number resided on
the outskirts of the board. The chipped, beaten, and dismissed soldiers
watched from the sidelines like miniature spectators, making lewd gestures at
each other and waving their arms in excitement—or annoyance—as Draco
and Harry moved the still active pieces around the board.

They were both leaning forward now, completely absorbed in the game.
Their gazes would spend as much time scrutinizing each other as they would
examining their pieces, trying to decipher what it was their opponent, their
enemy, was thinking of doing next.

Malfoy had surprised Harry more than once. He'd assumed that the icy
blonde would play in a more defensive way, but the Slytherin was quite
assertive and bold when it came to claiming pieces. He rarely passed up an
opportunity to capture one, which had resulted in Harry unwittingly losing
his first rook, but which he had used to his advantage, later. He'd set up an
intricate trap with several of his pawns and a bishop which had enabled him
to lay claim to two of Draco's knights, one right after the other.

The game had shifted, then. Before Harry's tricky and successful move, they
had been playing somewhat lazily—it was just something to do while they
waited for Ron, Hermione, and Snape to re-emerge.

After that, it had become a war. A battle of wits and intellect and it seemed
that the fate of the universe rested on the outcome of this game of chess.

It was Harry's move. His hand hovered over a pawn with trepidation—his last
one—as he glanced up at Draco's face. It was completely still, expressionless,
but his gray eyes were smoldering. As he moved his hand over his knight,
instead, the blonde's lip twitched, an ill-concealed smirk, like he was saying:

I dare you.

Harry hesitated, then moved the pawn.

Draco countered by moving his last rook, claiming Harry's only remaining
knight.

The dismissed white pieces stomped their feet angrily, shooting Draco rude,
rather disrespectful gestures that they must have learned from Ron at some
point.

The Slytherin looked gleefully triumphant, clearly victory was within his
grasp—and it was at that moment that Ron and Hermione entered the room
again. Neither player looked up. They continued to stare at each other, Draco
looking smug and superior while Harry resolutely kept his face blank.
Hermione drew a breath in as if to say something and interrupt, but Ron put a
hand up to silence her at once.

Never before had Ron seen his chess set in a state like this. It was always so
one-sided when he played, such a blood-bath. But now, for the first time, his
pieces were so neck and neck, so closely matched that they looked on the
verge of storming across the board and murdering each other—the actual
game of chess be damned.

Ron sunk into a seated position next to Malfoy, his eyes shining in
excitement. Harry could practically hear his whirling thoughts, though he
kept his mouth shut as he stared hungrily at the board's current layout.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she sat down, too, saying nothing.

Harry swiftly returned his attention to the game. His King was in danger, that
was true, though it was not yet in check…and Draco must have anticipated
only one move for Harry now, only one possible outcome as he had fixated
so intently on trapping him, his attention drawn to Harry's King, which he'd
purposefully left isolated on one side of the board, looking vulnerable and
weak without a wall of pawns in front of it…

But he'd missed completely what he was plotting elsewhere. Harry moved not
his King, to get it a step away from what looked like imminent danger, but a
pawn, one of only two he had left, which had been waiting on the other side
of the board and which had remained stationary for a long time—Malfoy
must have forgotten about it—but now, now that Draco had moved his rook
in order to capture Harry's knight, he moved it to the other end, finally able to
safely place it on the complete opposite side of the board and promote it
without being immediately captured by that pesky rook—

"A Queen," he said softly, and the pawn bowed itself from the board. It
practically ran to the happy jubilation of its fallen white comrades, and
Harry's Queen, which Malfoy had taken earlier (brutally so), stood tall and
majestic. The other white pieces all kneeled before her as she preened,
strutting like a Goddess as she reclaimed her position on the board, back in
the game, back from the dead.

Draco stared.

Ron grinned widely.

"Check."

The game was over, even if Malfoy was unwilling to admit it quite yet. But
there was nothing he could do. With Harry's Queen back in play, he was
outmatched. Three moves later and the vengeful white woman towered above
his Black King, haughty and superior and waiting for surrender.

"Mate," Harry muttered.

For a flicker of a moment, he thought that Draco was about to flip the board
upside down, to send the pieces flying across the room in a tantrum—

But he surprised all of them by smiling.

"Damn," he said instead, oddly casual as he accepted defeat far more

gracefully than Harry would have expected. His King, the Black King, who
was so accustomed to winning, who had never once lost, looked up at Ron as
though he were waiting for his redheaded master to swoop in and save him
and his diminished army.

Ron chuckled at his tiny, animate chess piece. "Sorry, mate," he said fondly.
"But all's fair in love and war…and you lost this round."

The Black King turned its attention back to the White Queen, who, in great
contrast, had never won a single match as far as Harry knew. She pointed
down towards the ground, her head held high and her chin jutted out
defiantly. In an almost trance-like state, the Black King fell to his knees,
placing his crown at her feet.

The white pieces began dancing in raucous celebration. The black ones all
started making the same rude gestures at Draco that the white ones had,
earlier.

"You have the most animated chess set I've ever seen, Weasley," Malfoy
muttered, watching as a few of the pawns began to swing at each other—the
blatant beginnings of an all-out brawl brewing.

"Oi- stop that!" Ron commanded, and the pieces sulkily lowered their tiny,
clenched fists. But Ron was smiling at them affectionately. "Yeah, I know…
what can I say, they take after me—bless them—"

Hermione rolled her eyes again, murmuring something under her breath that
sounded suspiciously like 'boys'. She undid the clasps around her ankles,
pulling off her tall heels and setting them on the floor at her side.

"Where is he?" she muttered irritably, her eyes darting towards the door. "He
said he would be right with us…"

"Dunno. Fancy another round, Evans? I think my set wants revenge. Shove
over, Malfoy." Ron was looking greedily down at his black pieces, who were
all nodding vehemently at his words.

"Oh, no, I know what he's up to—I'm going to go get him." Hermione stood,
marching barefoot from the room with a fiery determination about her. Ron's
expression wavered.

Harry watched her go, confused. "What's gotten into her?" he asked. Draco
looking equally curious.
"Uh… Well…" Ron faltered uneasily. Harry got the impression again that he
was never really certain of what he was or was not allowed to say, and so he
generally just chose not to speak at all.

"I think you're about to find out."

Hermione returned a few moments later, proceeded by a very sour, sallow

looking Snape. Harry's eyes widened in shock. Had Hermione Granger really
just marched the Potions Master into the room like—like a stubborn child
who had misbehaved?

Surely not, but the way that Hermione raised an eyebrow at him and tapped
her foot impatiently seemed to indicate otherwise. Amazingly, at this action,
Snape actually began speaking—though his expression did become
significantly more bitter.

He looked at Harry with dark, gloomy eyes. The three boys on the sofa
returned his gaze warily, waiting.

"Before he died," the older wizard began disdainfully, "…the Headmaster

instructed me to give you something…Evans." His annoyed expression did
that weird, conflicted thing again when he said the last bit, and Harry felt
inexplicably nervous.

Whatever he was about to say or do, it was painfully obvious that it had been
a serious point of contention between Snape, Hermione and Ron.

"Uh…yeah?" Harry said anxiously. Hermione continued to fix the older man
with that accusatory glower.

But Snape didn't look at her again. Instead, he reached into his inner robe
pocket, and revealed to them the strangest, most bizarre thing. Harry gawked
at it.

"Is that…is that a snitch?"

It was. A tiny, glittering globe of gold was in his hand, its wings contracted
tightly to its sides.

"Yes," Snape answered, and every single thing about his body language made
it very clear that he had not wanted to tell Harry about it, nor did he want to
give it to him now. "This is the Snitch that you caught in your very first
match as Seeker for Gryffindor." He glared at the glittering orb as it he
thought it the most offensive object in all of existence.

"Why would the Headmaster want you to have such a thing?"

Snape's voice was barely a whisper when he said it, dangerously low and
accusatory.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I… I've no idea," he responded honestly.

And then he understood. Snape had obviously had this thing for a long time,
and it bothered him immensely that he did not understand it. Clearly,
Dumbledore had not told him why Harry should have this Snitch, and he was
loathe to hand it over to him without fully understanding the exact reasoning
first.

"Well?" Hermione prodded again, her tone sharp. She and Snape exchanged
irate glares, but, Harry was simply amazed—she did not back down at all—in
fact, she jutted her chin out defiantly, much like his White Queen had
moments ago—

"You said you'd give it to him now, sir."

Harry's lip twitched. Leave it to Hermione to still comply with respectful

formalities, no matter the circumstances.

Snape looked like he very badly wanted to strike her.

"You see, Evans," she said, her features softening significantly when she
looked at him, "snitches have something called flesh memory. They
remember the first person to touch them, in case of a dispute in a match…"
Harry couldn't help but appreciate that Hermione knew something that he
didn't about Quidditch, of all things.

"…So this one will remember you."

His head tilted slightly to one side, bemused. "Oh, yeah?"

"It should. So… let's see if it does."

There was a fraction of a moment where Snape looked like he was going to
change his mind, to shove it back in his pocket and leave… But instead, most
reluctantly, he extended his arm in Harry's direction.

Harry wasn't sure why he felt so nervous about this interaction. Was
something significant going to happen when he touched it? Was that a bad
thing, or a good thing? Should he be worried? But he didn't see any other
option, at the moment…

He stood, and the room seemed to come to a tense stand still as he held out
his open palm. He could practically feel the vibrations of Hermione's mind
racing across from him in anticipation.

Snape dropped it into his hand.

Everyone held their breath.

…Nothing happened.

It was very anti-climactic. Harry examined the golden ball, its wings
fluttering out docilely at its sides as if in greeting. He grinned, tossing it
slightly in the air, almost laughing as it became suspended there, flying. He
noticed Draco out of the corner of his eye, the blonde's hand twitching
involuntarily at the presence of an active snitch, and perhaps old habits really
did run deep, because Harry instantly snatched it back out of the air, unable
to stop himself from capturing it while in such close proximity of the ex-
Slytherin Seeker—smiling even broader, he released it again, and this time it
tried to zoom away—but again he caught it, and it was rather fun, really,
letting the snitch only get a few inches away before deftly catching it again…
Draco was on his feet, now, watching the glittering, golden orb with a hungry
gleam in his eyes, rather like a cat watching a dangling piece of string—
Harry released it and caught it again, and again, and again, his smirk growing
ever wider—

But then he noticed the look on Snape's face and felt his heart skip a beat. For
whatever reason, the sight of Harry playing with the Snitch like that had
made the older wizard look absolutely murderous. Snape glowered so lethally
that Harry seriously thought an Unforgivable was about to come his way,
after all—

He stopped at once, holding the struggling snitch firmly in his grasp the next
time he caught it. Draco looking disappointed; his body was poised as if he
had just been on the verge of trying to intercept and steal it for himself.

"S-sorr-" Harry was just about to apologize, for what, he didn't even know,
but it was obvious that Snape was immensely furious—

And then he remembered, with a sickening jolt, the memory—Snape's

memory—and how very like his father he must have looked, just then—

"Why would the Headmaster want to give you a snitch, boy?" Snape spat, a
vein protruding so prominently on his neck that it looked likely to burst.
Harry felt his face drain of color. So he was back to being 'boy', again, then.

"I-I don't know!" he repeated. And he really, really didn't.

A long, tense moment in which Harry barely dared to breathe for fear that
Snape might rip his head off.

Hermione sighed, breaking the spell of hostility with such a casual, forlorn
sound. "Well, that's a pity," she murmured. "I thought for sure something
would happen when you touched it, Evans, I was certain that the flesh
memory would activate something, tell us something…"

"Maybe there really was no real reason for it," Ron offered up, shrugging.
"Maybe Dumbledore really did just leave it for him for nostalgia…"
But as Ron spoke, Harry was looking at the golden sphere curiously… The
first snitch he'd ever caught…flesh memory…maybe, maybe…perhaps the
reason it hadn't reacted was because…well…

His eyes flickered up to the furious looking Snape again. He was about to say
it, to voice his musings aloud, when—

No.

No, he thought bitterly, meeting that angry glower, suddenly feeling annoyed
by it rather than intimidated.

This secret is mine.

Hermione sighed again. "Maybe… Well, that's one less riddle to worry about
at the moment, at any rate…" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a
small scrap of paper. Her eyes scanned it quickly before she nodded. "Right.
Evans," she said curtly. "I… We need you to do something for us."

Harry took a step towards her, looking at the paper curiously—but Hermione
instantly retracted, holding the parchment tightly to her chest so that he
couldn't read it. "Sorry," she said tensely. "But—this is one of those
things…"

Harry held his hands up defensively, the struggling snitch still in one fist.
"Sheesh—okay, sorry—what is it, then?"

She hesitated for a second, her gaze flickering upwards. "We… Well, we
need you to order Kreacher to talk to us."

Harry's stomach dropped. Kreacher. He had completely forgotten about the

old elf, who he had ordered to do lines. He felt an intense rush of guilt, and,
admittedly, extreme worry—Hermione would kill him if she found out—

"Kreacher?" he squeaked.

But Hermione didn't seem to notice his apprehension. "Yes," she responded,
looking resolute. "I need you to command him to talk to us, to answer all of
our questions, and…" She looked very guilty, suddenly,

"…And I need you to command him not to tell anyone what we've discussed
after we're done. To not tell you what we've talked about."

"What?" Harry balked. Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly, but her

expression remained stiff and unwavering.

"Yes. I'm sorry, but, again…it's just—"

"One of those things you can't tell me about until it's safe," Harry finished for
her, muttering. She nodded.

"I take it you can't even tell me what it's about?" he asked, though he already
knew the answer by the look on her face.

She shook her head. "I really can't. I'm sorry," she said, and she did sound
genuinely unhappy about it.

Harry sighed, defeated. "Okay," he said, shoving the snitch in his pocket.
"Fine. I'll go… I'll go tell him now."

He took off for the attic, hoping that they would not immediately follow him,
but Hermione was on his heels at once. Apparently, she did not completely
believe him enough to follow her instructions precisely. Harry frowned at her
over his shoulder.

"You really don't trust me, do you?" he muttered as they began ascending the
staircase. He could hear more footsteps behind them, presumably Ron and
Snape—would Draco try and follow, too?—but Hermione didn't look
abashed at all.

"I'm sorry, of course I trust you, it's just—this is very, very important."

"What could Kreacher possibly know that would help you?" Harry mumbled,
but Hermione, of course, didn't answer; she merely narrowed her eyes at him.
"Fine, fine," he said, exasperated. They arrived at the top most level of the
house, directly underneath the entrance to the attic. Harry cleared his throat,
and a moment later Ron and Snape (still looking exceptionally malevolent)
were behind him as well, waiting.

"Um, Kreacher?" Harry called up, his mind racing. "I—uh—I order you to
stop whatever, um, crazy thing you're doing, and sit in the middle of the room
and stay there. Some of my…friends…" He glanced warily at Snape, and it
was even weirder than his previous out-of-body experiences to be grouping
the Potions Master together with Ron and Hermione, for any reason—"…are
going to come up there, and they're going to ask you some questions… I
order you to answer them all." He paused, and Hermione's pointed glare had
the astonishing ability to make him feel quite insignificant—he could
suddenly appreciate how she had gotten Snape to listen to her, and was she
certain she wasn't part basilisk, after all?

"…And I order you not to repeat anything that you talk to them about."
Another angry flash in Hermione's narrowed, brown eyes—"…even to me,"
he added bitterly.

The fiery expression on Hermione's face melted away at once, as though it

had never been there at all. "Thank you," she said softly. She then stepped
aside, and the motion made it obvious that she expected him to go back
downstairs.

"We'll come down when we're done," she said, to further reiterate this fact.
Harry scoffed. The only reason he didn't say or do anything to argue was
because he would have reminded himself too much of Malfoy. That, and he
knew it was pointless, anyway.

"Fine," he said shortly instead. He headed downstairs without looking at any

of them, the sound of a spell being cast and the attic door swinging open
behind him.

What information could they possibly try and glean from Kreacher? Harry bit
his lower lip, wondering…but he could think of nothing, nothing that a batty,
old house elf could possibly know... Unless, perhaps, he had learned
something when he'd been reporting to Bellatrix Lestrange… Maybe, maybe
he had gathered some useful, critical information when he'd served her, that
foul woman, that bitch who—

Harry was so lost in his suddenly furious train of thought that he walked
straight into Malfoy, who was standing directly in the doorway of the front
room. Harry scowled, snapping at him at once—

"Hey, watch—"

"Your mouth."

"—it! Er, what?"

Harry was completely caught off guard—both by Malfoy's words and his
leery, pretentious body language. It was like he had been just waiting in that
entryway for Harry to reappear, poised and ready like the snake that he was.

"You caught that snitch with your mouth, not your hands," he said, smirking.

Damn, Harry thought bitterly—he'd thought he would be able to keep this

knowledge to himself, but of course Malfoy would remember that Harry had
(arguably) accidently won his first match by almost swallowing the snitch—
the angry, jealous blonde had later made fun of him for nearly choking on it
—

Harry ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to decide what to say next.

Malfoy's metallic gaze was practically iridescent with eagerness.

"So put it in your mouth already, Evans."

Harry warily considered him.

"We're not telling Snape."

Draco's eyes flashed gleefully.

"Agreed."

Having come to a speedy understanding, they quickly went to their shared

room, shutting the door behind them. Harry pulled the snitch out of his
pocket as Draco stared in anticipation, the excitement etched on his pale face
—because, for once, it was the two of them on the verge of discovering
something, leaving the others in the dark—

Harry put the snitch to his lips, his breath warm against the smooth, golden
surface—

They both stared at it with widened, eyes, completely still—

'I open at the close.'

Thin, elegant script, and Harry recognized it at once as Dumbledore's. It

disappeared nearly the moment he'd read it.

The two glanced up at each other, looking elatedly justified that they had
been right, that there was a hidden message—

"I open at the close," they said at the same time in matching tones of
astonishment.

"What's it mean?" Draco asked breathlessly.

A pause.

"…I…" Harry started, his mind reeling—Draco watched him, looking so very
expectant—

"…I've no clue."

…Silence.

"What?" Malfoy snapped, suddenly extremely annoyed. "What do you mean,

you've no clue? It's a message Dumbledore left for you!"
But Harry just blinked, putting the snitch to his lips again so he could re-read
the message. Yet seeing that script again did nothing to illuminate him.

"I've no clue," he repeated blankly. "None at all."

Malfoy, who had seemed so happy a moment before, now looked

monumentally sour.

"…I open at the close… I open at the close… I open at the close…"

No matter how he said it, no matter what tone of inflection he used, Harry
could not force this statement to make any sense.

Unless…but no…

"The close of what?" Draco murmured, sounding aggravated as Harry let the
snitch slip from his grasp. It fluttered about the room innocently—calmly
now, as it was not currently being snatched at.

"I…dunno," Harry said in a low tenor…but he had a sick, twisted feeling in

the pit of his stomach that made him feel like somewhere, deep, deep down…

He might just know after all.

They sat in silence, both watching the snitch fly around while they thought
independently, musing over what it could possibly mean… It was sort of
hypnotic, the way the little ball fluttered in lazy circles…

"We're not telling any of them," Harry eventually said, resolutely breaking
the silence. Draco looked surprised at his declaration—he'd obviously
assumed that the valiant Gryffindor would want to at least tell the other
members of the 'Golden Trio', Ron and Hermione, of this discovery—but he
looked genuinely pleased at the prospect that this was a secret that only the
two of them were privy to.

"Evans?"

Hermione's voice snapped them out of their reverie. Harry grabbed the snitch
deftly from the air, putting it in his pocket again. He went out to meet them
with Malfoy trailing behind.

She looked a bit startled when she saw Harry coming out of a bedroom,
having apparently been in there alone with Malfoy—but she didn't comment
on it.

"How'd it go?" Harry inquired lightly, wondering if she would even deign
this particular question with a response.

She looked crestfallen. "Not well," she admitted solemnly. "He didn't seem to
know anything…"

"That elf is completely mental," Ron said in a much more aggressive voice.
"Mental. He's lost his mind completely."

Hermione glowered but didn't argue the point.

Snape never rejoined them at all.

And while he knew it was childish, knew that he should want nothing but
success for his friends and their mission—his mission?—Harry couldn't
really feel bad that they didn't get out whatever useful information they were
hoping to get from Kreacher.

Misery truly does enjoy company, after all.

"Sorry to hear that," Harry said, trying to sound as forlorn as he knew he

should. Ron just shrugged.

"Back to the drawing board for us, then. But…we should go, we said we'd be
back soon to see if-if-George, and Ginny…"

Harry nodded understandably; if he were Ron, he wouldn't have even been

away from them this long.

"But we'll check back here as soon as we can, of course," Hermione added
quickly.
"Right," Harry nodded. "Right. I just—I hope—"

He trailed off dismally, unsure of how to translate his thoughts into words.

He didn't need to. They understood.

"Oh—before we go, I almost forgot—but I didn't want to give it to you in

front of Snape, in case he thought we told someone—" Ron suddenly reached
into his inner coat pocket, pulling something out that shocked Harry even
more than the sight of the golden snitch.

It was a sunflower.

A bit smashed up from being in his robes all day, and missing quite a few
petals, but there it was—a vivid, vibrantly bright, yellow sunflower. Harry
stared at it in astonishment.

"Luna." He breathed the name instantaneously, like he was murmuring a

prayer.

Ron's eyebrows shot up so high on his head they disappeared completely

under his crimson bangs.

"How'd you know?" he asked, totally perplexed. "It was the weirdest thing!
Luna Lovegood, she was at the wedding, and, before the attack—she's fine,
she's fine!—but she gave this to me, and I swear to God, we haven't told
anyone about you, no one, but Luna—it's like she just knew—"

He looked at the sunflower dubiously. "She was wearing this in her hair, and
she just—she waltzes up to me during the reception, and says, 'this is for you-
know-who.'" Ron handed it over to him, and Harry held it in his hands as
reverently as if it was made of glass.

"But…how did you know it was from her? And why would she want to give
you a sunflower…?"

Ron and Hermione were both openly gaping at him, and Malfoy, too, looked
honestly intrigued.

But Harry hardly noticed their confused expressions, nor did he care in the
slightest. He held the sunflower lovingly to his body, cradled it gently on his
chest, against the relief of the hidden locket under his shirt—and he thought
he might cry, so sudden and powerful was the wave of emotion that rolled
over him—

And maybe that was obvious to all three of his spectators, too. He didn't say
anything in response to their questions, nothing at all—Harry just walked
away, taking the flower with him as he fought back the unwanted tears that
began to well in his eyes, going to the guest room and shutting the door
behind him.

No one followed him.

He held the golden sunflower close to his heart as he laid down, letting the
tears fall silently onto the pillow under his head, and tomorrow, he thought,
tomorrow he would try his hand at the piano again.

'…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'

God, it was truly horrendous.

'…Harry…'

...or so he told himself.

'…Potter…'

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thought morbidly, stop, ah, just stop—fuck—

'…Ssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'

Was it just him, or did it seem…louder? More intense, more desperate—

'…Come to me…'
…More…

'…Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'

Aaaaah, fuck—

Clear your mind.

Right. That was what he was supposed to be doing. Clearing his mind… But
it was just so lovely sounding… So…

Clear your mind.

…So…

Clear you mind.

Yes. Clearing my mind.

'…Ssssssssssssssssss…'

Clearing…my mind…

…It is seductive, isn't it?

Yes, it is.

You…like it.

I desperately wish I did not.

It is dangerous.

I am horribly aware of that.

You should clear your mind.

I should stop having conversations with myself.

Harry sighed, curling up into the fetal position on his insignificant cot. Why
did he continue to speak to himself like this? Wasn't talking to yourself the
number one sign of insanity?

It makes perfect sense, actually. Given your circumstances.

He bit his lip on annoyance. 'What makes perfect sense?' Harry thought
irately, though to whom the question was being directed, he wasn't even sure.

That you would invent someone to talk to.

Harry laughed, bitterly. 'Is that what I've done?' He sat up, examining the
familiar, dusty shelves at his side and feeling skeptical. 'Have I invented an
imaginary friend?'

The hissing continued, melodic and beautiful and—

Like you've never done it before.

Harry thought about that. He recalled—painfully—his time in his crystal

prison, his solitary confinement…Sirius…and him, but not really him, with
his black robes and white skin and red, red eyes—

'Maybe once or twice,' he agreed, begrudgingly.

It's a relatively normal coping mechanism.

It sounded quite clinical, very matter of fact, this…entity.

'Is it, now…' Harry began toying absent-mindedly with one of the broken,
plastic soldiers. 'How nice. I've always wondered what it would be like to be
normal. I'm so glad.'

But you're not normal. You're better.

Harry scoffed. 'Yeah,' he mused, trading the first broken soldier he'd selected
for one with both of its legs intact. 'Yeah, I'm better, all right. I'm 'the Chosen
One'.'
So you are.

'And who are you, then?'

There was a long pause.

I'm your subconscious. So I suppose I am a part of you.

'Ah. Well. That clears that up,' Harry thought sarcastically, twirling the
figurine between his fingers in a bored sort of way.

It should.

'Well, what should I call you, then? Subconscious me?'

Another long pause, in which Harry's focus began to shift, drifting instead to
that sultry sound, that delicious, beautiful, luscious—

'…Ssssssssssssssssssprecioussoulssssssssss…'

What do you want to call me?

'Hm? Oh, I dunno…' Harry shook his head, and, admittedly, he did find it
easier to ignore the lure of the parseltongue when he was talking to his new
'imaginary friend'. Maybe it was a decently good coping mechanism he'd
invented, after all. 'I have an owl named Hedwig… Er, I used to, anyway…'

I am not an owl.

For the first time, the voice sounded irate—offended, even. Harry smirked.
'Wow. Leave it me to subconsciously create the world's most sensitive
imaginary friend ever. Okay. So you're not an owl. What the hell are you,
then?'

…Merely an extension of yourself. Your true self.

Harry frowned. His eyes settled now on one of the delicate spider webs up on
the wall, suspended in the shadowy corner of the cupboard. 'My true self,
huh…?'

Your real self. A part of yourself, perhaps, that you have ignored for a long
time.

Harry tried not to laugh. 'Tricky little riddle, aren't you?' he mused,
suppressing the desire to laugh again…at, what—himself?

The voice laughed instead.

I am if that's what you say I am.

Harry watched the web with keen interest now, as a spider glided across it,
adding more of its glistening thread to its beautiful, intricate web… 'Wow.
You are a riddle. I've met sphinx's who are easier to figure out than you, you
know.'

Have you?

'Yeah. The answer to that riddle was 'spider.' Is that what you are?' The eight-
legged creature continued to spin round and round, moving with purpose as
its spindly legs danced across its web.

'Are you a spider, too?'

Is that what you think I am?

'Are you going to answer every question I have with some kind of vague,
infuriating response that is more often than not just another question?'

…Probably.

It sounded…smug. Harry did laugh, this time.

So what will you call me?

Well, really, it was the only thing that made sense, morbid and ironic as it
was.
'Riddle.'

He continued to watch the spider with mesmerized eyes, and was happy to
note that the hissing sound had decreased significantly.

Of course he would invent an imaginary friend named Riddle to help him

deal with his nightmarish perils. Wasn't that just so goddamn typical of him?

Riddle. How appropriate.

It sounded…well, it still sounded smug. Also typical.

But he didn't mind, because talking to this made up…thing—it kept the
seductive lure at bay. And really, that could only be a good thing. A very,
very good thing.

It wasn't proper Occlumency, of that he was certain. But it was something.

So, Harry…

The voice seemed to have similar revelations about distracting him from the
magnetic pull of the monstrous parseltongue—which it should, Harry mused,
seeing as it was…himself…?

But it was strange, regardless, hearing his name spoken so nonchalantly,

when no one in the real world dared to speak it at all.

Tell me about this sphinx you encountered.

'The sphinx?' Harry inquired thoughtfully.

Yes. Tell me about it.

It sounded so…friendly. So very kind.

Harry smiled.

Tell me everything.
 10. Promises

This time, it would be different.

This time, he would never let him out of his sight.

This time…this time… He would not confine him. He would let him be aware
and awake and…

And though he detested the very idea of it, even though it caused bile to rise
in his throat, tasting like acidic salt on his tongue… He would allow it,
permit that others may know that he lives… He would even, perhaps, spare
his friends, those who had so foolishly dared to oppose him… If such a thing
would bring him back, if such a thing would…make him happy…

The blood traitors… He would allow them to recant, to surrender, and he

would spare them…

Even the mudblood…

He would spare them, all of them…

All except—

"…Severus Snape."

Harry let the name slowly roll off of his tongue, carefully annunciating each
syllable. He held his hot cup of tea gingerly with both hands, waiting for the
liquid to cool to a tolerable temperature. Draco glanced at him from across
the kitchen table, confused.

"It's a really strange name," Harry stated, as if Draco had just argued
otherwise.

"…Right? Severus Snape."

Malfoy looked…more confused.

But Harry had been thinking a lot about names, that morning.

The thoughts had begun in his dreams, where he sat in his dreary, solitary
confinement, trying to ignore that tempting lure, and really, rambling on and
on about his past and whatever other random thoughts popped into his head
had been extraordinarily helpful.

His subconscious—or…whatever—was really just more of an occasional

prompt every so often, and Harry just talked and talked and talked, and he
hardly noticed the parseltongue at all, then.

Until he'd brought up the topic of names.

It was an unforgiveable sin, when he took your name, his imaginary friend,
his 'Riddle', had said. Names have power… People grow into their names, are
molded by them… You had a good name, Harry James Potter.

One day, you will have it back.

And so Harry had been thinking about that. Names, and the people he knew,
and the more he thought about it, the more he realized quite consciously that
it was very true—people really did grow in to their names.

"I mean," Harry continued as he looked up, "who looks at a baby and says,
'Ah, yes, this one's definitely a Severus.' No wonder he is exactly the way he
is. He looks and acts precisely like someone named Severus Snape should."

Admittedly, he was still feeling a tad bitter towards the Potions Master at the
moment. The older wizard had just—he had looked so monstrously angry
when Harry had taken the snitch, when he'd tossed it around for maybe five
seconds…and it was all because of his father.

Just because Harry reminded him of a man he once hated. And while Harry
could not blame Snape for hating James Potter—he understood teen rivalry
quite well, thank you very much, the proof was currently sitting across from
him in the form of a pompous, entitled snob—but that was hardly his fault,
and really, wasn't the time for such petty matters past, at this point?

Yet apparently this was not the case. It was a shame, really. Harry had
thought he was making such progress with his ex-professor. They were
almost at a sort of weird, neutral truce, even—but that one interaction with
the snitch seemed to have caused their relationship to regress monumentally,
right back to what it had been in his fifth year.

And so maybe he was being a bit…immature, by not telling Snape about the
message that he had found on the surface of the Golden Snitch…

'I open at the close'.

…But, well, if Dumbledore had wanted Snape to know, wouldn't he have told
him? It seemed to Harry that this was a message meant only for him…

He tried to envision that particular interaction between the former

Headmaster and the Potions Master. He could just imagine Albus
Dumbledore having called Snape into his office one day, his blue eyes
twinkling like Christmas lights—

'Severus, listen. I would like you to give this snitch here to Mr. Potter. You
know, when you finally manage to find him. Yes, I'm sure you will, I somehow
always know how everything will play out, even though I, personally, am
currently incapable of locating him. So give him this for me, won't you? It's
from his first Quidditch match. For nostalgic purposes. Yes, really. Yes,
really. No, there is no hidden, secretive reasoning behind it. Yes, really. Yes,
really… Oh, also—when you kill me, will you please make sure it's very
dramatic? I would like to go out…in style.'

…So as far as Harry was concerned, he didn't need to tell anyone else. Maybe
he wasn't even supposed to.

He looked up at Draco, who was now smirking at Harry's previous comment

about Severus Snape.
Well. It wasn't like Malfoyhad any idea what the message on the Snitch
meant.

"I guess," Draco agreed ponderingly.

"Names are weird like that, aren't they?" Harry breathed over his tea for a
second, cooling it. "Like… Ronald Weasley. Well, of course he would be a
redheaded, freckly, gangly person with a sarcastic and funny personality,
wouldn't he?"

Draco inclined his head slightly, nodding.

"And Hermione Granger—"

"—sounds just like a know-it-all bookworm with bushy hair."

Harry scrunched his nose a bit at the insult towards his friend, but he didn't
disagree (he was maybe feeling slightly bitter towards her at the moment, too,
even if he knew it was childish and unjustified).

"And Draco Malfoy..." Harry started, and Draco looked up at him

expectantly, waiting to hear the analyzation of his own name. Harry paused,
thinking. "…Sounds like someone who thinks very highly of himself. Like
someone with a lot of money and status who is oh so very important.
Someone who is probably prone to using the words 'My father…'"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but he didn't argue with Harry's
admittedly valid statement.

"Well, your name sounds like someone who is very, very boring," he drawled
before taking a sip of his own tea.

But Harry just nodded, because honestly, he agreed completely.

Harry James Potter did not sound extraordinary at all. It was a very plain,
very common name. Normal. There was nothing special about it, and Harry
was completely certain that he would have been a very average, normal
person, if it hadn't been for—

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

And really, he thought, recalling the memory of the sixteen year old Slytherin
Heir from the diary—isn't that exactly what one would expect a Tom
Marvolo Riddle to look like? Someone suave and handsome, deceptive and
cunning… Someone with perfect, porcelain skin and aristocratic features,
with shining black hair and shining black eyes… A boy with a quick wit and
a silver tongue… A seemingly harmless name that was just interesting
enough to allude to the dangerous threat which simmered beneath the
surface…

…That name fit him like a glove, then.

But not now.

The most powerful, lethal wizard in all of existence could never bear that
name. The man with white skin and black robes and red, red eyes—no, he
could never be known as something so deceptively innocent-sounding… And
so he had crafted a new name, a new title, and he had grown into it. He had
become everything he'd sought to be, and that name had been a conduit…

Yet Harry had titles, too.

Harry James Potter was normal, but that was not who they were toasting on
the day that the Dark Lord fell.

'The Boy Who Lived!'

…A title which had expired. No one believed he was alive anymore…

And, of course, now there was the other designation he'd been given:

'The Chosen One.'

…A title which he'd had for maybe a few weeks, perhaps, before he went
missing. A title that was quickly erased after he'd been kidnapped, when he'd
disappeared from the Wizarding World and taken all hope with him…

A title which he had virtually no chance of ever growing into at this point,
surely.

So he had become Evans.

Did that name suit who he was, now?

"You're right," Harry said, surprising Draco with his lack of retaliation. "It is
a boring name. God, I wish I could say I had a normal, boring life to go with
it."

Malfoy snorted.

'But you're not normal. You're better.'

No, he wasn't. He was average in almost every sense of the word. And that
really didn't bother him.

His name which had been his Father's name… Harry wondered—would
saying James Potter out loud trigger the Taboo? Maybe not, as it was,
technically, a different person—but it was better not to risk it, anyway.

"Albus Dumbledore," he said instead, smiling. "You know, if you would have
asked me, 'What do you think someone named Albus Dumbledore looks
like?' I would have absolutely pictured a tall, old man with a long, white
beard and glasses, wearing crazy robes and a pointed hat. Like a stock photo
of a wizard."

Draco laughed. "Yeah. How about…Remus Lupin?" he said, joining in and

playing along. Harry fondly recalled the disheveled appearance of their old
Defense Professor. "It's like his parents were just beggingfor him to get bitten
by a werewolf."

"Huh… Yeah, I guess you're right," Harry chuckled, although the humor was
a bit morbid. "And Sirius Black, of course he would be a—"
But the rest of his words died in his throat, his smile vanishing at once.
Because, for just a moment, he had envisioned Remus and Sirius,
remembered the moment when he had seen them united in the Shrieking
Shack and they had embraced like brothers… He had recalled it so clearly,
had heard Sirius's bark of laughter and seen his wolfish grin and for a fleeting
second he had—he had actually forgotten—

And wasn't that strange? That he had been able to so casually discuss the
fallen Headmaster without this sense of devastation—with the boy who had
been instructed to kill him, no less—but that when he unwittingly brought up
memories of his Godfather, it was like someone had jabbed something toxic
and sharp into an open wound that he'd forgotten he'd even had.

But that was how it was.

Harry got up and left. Malfoy didn't say anything when he went.

Sirius Black.

Harry's eyes fluttered over the name on the door as he stood outside of his
Godfather's old bedroom.

He went in.

It was…wonderful.

A bit dusty, with various papers and scraps of parchment scattered on the
floor—clearly this room had not been used in a long time—but it was warm
and welcoming, regardless. There was a large bed with a carved, wooden
headboard, a tall wardrobe with a mirror, and the walls—the walls were
covered in delightful things that made Harry grin despite himself.

They were so filled with pictures that the wallpaper was hardly visible.
Banners bearing the roaring lion of Gryffindor were strewn about, bright
crimson and gold saturating the space—andlots of posters—motionless,
muggle pictures of motorcycles and bikini-clad girls and, he chuckled when
he saw—a rockabilly, pin-up girl calendar—

Harry never knew he could feel so sad and so amused at the very same time.
But one thing was for certain—he no longer felt numb.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in all of its glorious, bold defiance in
the face of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. He almost tripped
over a cardboard box that was poking out from under the bed as he went to sit
down.

He pulled it out, curious…and a bit excited. Whatever his Godfather had

hidden under his bed when he was a teenager, Harry thought, it was sure to
be good.

He was not disappointed.

He laughed out loud as he uncovered nearly an entire carton of muggle

cigarettes, and—his smile widened—a few old lighters, and—he laughed
even louder—underneath that, several muggle magazines with scantily clad
girls on them. Harry instantly flipped one open.

Whoa, he thought as he dropped it, his face turning red. Sure, he'd figured it
would be dirty, but—wow, he hadn't expected it to be quite so—that explicit.

Blushing, he closed it and put it back in the box, turning his attention to the
cigarettes instead. He wondered if maybe there was something wrong with
him, that he felt bashful rather than delighted at that...

Harry had never smoked before. He extracted a single cigarette from one of
the already open boxes, examining it idly between two fingers. He'd seen
enough from television shows when he was younger to know how to light
one, not that it was a terribly difficult concept to grasp. He played with one of
the lighters, and though it took him four tries, he finally managed to produce
a tiny flame. He sucked in sharply on the other end as he lit it, taking in a
deep drag through the filter—

—and immediately began coughing. Dear God, he thought incredulously as

he spluttered. It burned in his throat, filled his lungs uncomfortably—he
wheezed out puffs of smoky gray plumes—

But then he started laughing. He peered down at the cigarette in his hand
curiously. Why did muggles do this, again? Yet then he stood, and he felt a
sudden rush as he did, feeling slightly…buzzy.

Ah, right. That was why. He took another drag (though not as deeply), and
this time he managed not to cough. He blew out a puff of smoke and grinned,
the buzzy feeling increasing.

He imagined his Aunt Petunia's face if he had dared to smoke a cigarette in

her house. Grinning wolfishly, he took another drag. Where should he ash
this thing? Harry looked back in the box for an ashtray of some kind, but
couldn't find anything. He started to look around the room for one, scanning
the floor—

Then he saw something that caught his eye. Something moving… A

photograph, a magical one…

Harry dropped the cigarette. He stomped it out immediately, having nearly lit
one of the scrap pieces of parchment on fire—and wouldn't that have just
been wonderful? Needing to explain to Snape that he had caused a house fire
because he'd been smoking cigarettes while snooping around in his
Godfather's old bedroom?—but his attention quickly returned to the photo
he'd just found.

It was ripped in half. A moving image of…of his father, it had to be, and he
was laughing, and…darting in and out of the frame, in the corner… A child,
an infant, zooming around…on a broom…?

Could it be…?

And there, underneath the photo, was a letter… Harry snatched it up, his eyes
greedily reading the words, rapidly scanning the handwritten text—

Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favourite by
far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked
so pleased with himself, I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it
only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he
smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints
there). Of course, James thought it was funny, says he's going to be a great
Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make
sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going.

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always
been sweet to us, and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't
come, but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know
it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he
tries not to show it but I can tell - also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility
Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him
up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but
that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I
heard.

Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most
amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I
don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that
Dumbledore -

…But then it cut off, having reached the end of parchment.

Harry did look, but he couldn't find a continuation of the note anywhere.
After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he concluded that the second page
was simply missing, gone, lost to time…and fell numbly into a seated
position on the bed.

He read the letter over, and over, and over. This, this was his Mother's
handwriting… This, here, in his hands, was the closest he had ever really,
truly been to her…proof that Lily Evans had once been warm and alive, had
touched this parchment herself… Harry ran his hands over the surface of the
paper as if he could somehow reach her through it…
It was a long time before he was able to actually think about what it was the
words meant.

Sirius… He had given Harry a toy broomstick when he'd turned one, and
there he was, in the photo… He and his father, James… Harry wondered
what happened to the other half of the image…

He'd nearly killed the cat, it said… They'd had a cat… The concept seemed
so strange to him…

And… Bathilda, who was Bathilda? The name seemed familiar… And
Dumbledore had been holding his father's Invisibility Cloak…

The Invisibility Cloak.

Harry had forgotten about it, until now. How it had been draped over his
crystal imprisonment, how it had fluttered just so slightly in the breeze, how
the cold realization had spread over him in a frigid wave of dread when he'd
seen it, how—

Snape had it.

Snape had taken it, he had shoved it in the pocket of his robe, and he had it
somewhere.

Harry…considered this.

He could just hear the Potions Master now, if he, Harry, dared to have the
audacity to ask for it back, could just seethe coy smirk on his face as he
responded in that condescending, clinical drawl:

'Consider it payment for all of my troubles, boy.'

…Or something along those lines. And really, what could Harry say to argue
against that?

He would…he would have to find a way to get it back. Even if that meant
stealing it back, he thought bitterly. It was his.
But he shoved those particular thoughts aside as he reread the letter once
more…

Wormy…

She had referred to Peter Pettigrew as Wormy. As if they were old friends—
because they had been, they had trusted him with their lives…and he…he had
seemed down—

A fiery ember of rage was born in his chest, igniting into flames that licked at
the insides of his rib cage. Harry looked up from the letter with narrow, hate-
filled eyes—Wormy—

And, as though the very thought had conjured the image, he saw him.

Harry was on his feet in an instant, shoving the letter and the torn photograph
into his pocket. There, wedged into the corner of a mirror above the
wardrobe, was another moving image.

It was the Marauders.

All four of them. Wormtail, the short, beady-eyed youth, though he looked
very different with a full head of hair and a fat, round face, his father, looking
so very much like him it was like seeing a much happier version of himself,
Remus Lupin, also looking much cheerier than Harry had ever seen him in
reality, so young and vibrant and full of life…so grateful to have found such
a wonderful and accepting group of friends…

And then…

Sirius Black. He really was incredibly handsome, with his dark hair and pale
skin, and there was something about that haughty demeanor, the
mischievousness that glittered in those gray eyes that made Harry's chest
constrict painfully.

The four Marauders, together and smiling, forever frozen in this moment
where they were untainted by the impeding war which had loomed over
them, soon to tear them apart…

But Remus… Lupin still lived. Harry wondered vaguely how he was doing,
how he was carrying on, now…

And Pettigrew. That vile, disgusting rodent, that sorry excuse for a man. He,
too, survived, was living amongst the Death Eaters, a rotten, revolting traitor
—

How horrendously unfair, that Peter Pettigrew should live, while his father—
when Sirius—

Hatred was boiling in his heart, searing in his veins like scorching, molten
lava—Harry was on fire with his rage, he could see it smoldering in the
depths of his own eyes as he looked up at his reflection, and it was like
looking at another person, there, in the silvery surface of the mirror.

"He'll pay," Harry muttered to himself in a voice that sounded like someone
else's.

"…Retribution…" his reflection said back, softly.

There was a moment where the entire world consisted of nothing but hate.
Where his blackened heart knew nothing but the all-consuming,
overwhelming need for vengeance.

…But then Harry looked back to the photograph, to the smiling face of his
Godfather, and the spell was broken. He sank back onto the bed again,
slowly, and the rage filtered out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. In its
place came a cold feeling of sorrow. Of pain.

Of loss.

He had never properly grieved for the death of his Godfather.

He had never gotten the chance.

'…I would have done anything to save you…'

Harry held the photo to his chest and cried.

The music was getting better.

He did not try to replicate his dream song, this time. It was too complex, too
overwhelmingly daunting.

Someday, he would play like that.

Someday, he would hear that song again.

Yet for now he would settle for a simple, rudimentary melody. Single notes
on top of single notes that may not have been exceptional or impressive or
anything other than ordinary, but that was okay.

Someday, those same notes would compound and blend and bleed together
into the torrential song from his dream world of white.

But not today.

The crumpled sunflower sat on top of the slick, black surface of the piano
like a guiding light, and it didn't matter than it was damaged or missing petals
or that it was already beginning to wither; the sight of it filled him with
something that was almost like hope.

He played, and fumbled, and furrowed his brows, and tried again.

Draco Malfoy was a silent observer, reading while he passively took in the
musical frustrations of Harry James Potter, those notes that made up the
strangled sound of his loss, of his pain…

Of his soul.

He wasn't the only one listening.

"We're going abroad."

Later that day, Ron and Hermione had returned to Grimmauld Place. Or, if
one wanted to be more accurate, Ron and Abigail West had returned. His
female friend was wearing her glamour, appearing to be blonde and pale with
those icy, gray-blue eyes that so closely resembled Malfoy's.

Draco seemed so disturbed by this form that he could not even be in the same
room as her, even if it meant potentially missing out on information. He was
somewhere else in the house, probably back in the library, while Harry, Ron,
and Hermione gathered in the living room.

Snape was somewhere else, too. Harry hadn't seen him all day. The first thing
his friends had done when they'd arrived was gone to speak with him, but
they had only been with him for a moment, and the Potions Master had not
come out of his seclusion to join them afterwards.

"Abroad?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. It's…just a thought, a hunch, really, we could be

completely wrong, but… Well, one of the things we're searching for may be
in another country, far away from here, and…"

She trailed off dismally, and Harry just waited, confused as to what she was
really trying to say…

"What she's getting at is that we'll probably be gone for…a while," Ron
finished, and he looked incredibly, terribly guilty.

Then it hit him.

They were leaving him…alone…for a long stretch of time…with Snape and

Malfoy.

"…Oh."

…What else could he to say?

"Um. But, here, I brought some stuff—" And then Hermione was reaching
into her beaded bag, pulling out copious amounts of food, of all things. "I
noticed last time that we were here that you ran out of bread, and so while I
was out I grabbed some other things I thought you might like…"

She set the groceries down on the table. Bread and fruit and all sorts of other
random food that, if Harry had not truly believed that they were going to be
gone for a long time a moment ago, he certainly did now.

"Also, I was wondering—how do your clothes fit?"

"Uh-what?" Harry asked, looking down at the sweatshirt and shorts he was
currently wearing.

"You grew about four inches since last year, you can't possibly be able to
wear the same pants that you wore when you were fifteen. Am I right?" Harry
couldn't help but smile at her widened eyes—even with the glamour, that was
undeniably the intellectual stare of Hermione Granger…and she was always
right.

"Yeah," he responded. "They're all too short…but it's not a big deal…"

But she pulled out her wand, shaking her other hand dismissively. "I can take
care of it, if you don't mind losing a pair…" Ron and Harry looked at each
other questionably, and Hermione rolled her eyes at their lack of immediate
understanding.

For a moment, it felt just like old times. She stood and waited for them to
follow her to the guest room.

"I'll show you."

And so, just minutes later, Hermione had successfully deconstructed and
utilized the fabric from one old pair of jeans and added it so skillfully to the
rest that you could not even tell they had been several inches shorter before.
She even redid the stitching on some that were a bit more worn, and,
probably just because she was on a roll and wanted to show off, made the
denim fabric a richer shade of navy blue—all while reciting in a droning,
monotonous voice all of the textbook details of Magical Theory, and how it
was impossible to produce something from nothing, but that one could
duplicate and manipulate currently present, tangible materials and so on and
so forth…

"So, really, as far as food goes, just don't finish the last of anything. Professor
Snape is more than capable of duplicating whatever it is you want," she
finished curtly as she handed Harry the last pair of pants she'd tailored.

She was looking at him with a sort of concerned, maternal expression, and,
somehow, Harry thought, it was worse even than when she was pitying him.

"Right," he muttered, clearly agitated. She smiled anyway.

Ron, however, had a much more appropriate disposition. "I wish we didn't
have to go…" he murmured as they went back out towards the front room.

"That makes two of us." Harry sighed. Already, he was lamenting the fact
that he would not see Ron or Hermione in…

"Any idea how long you'll be?"

They shared a quick, apprehensive look. "Er…not really."

"Maybe…maybe a few weeks," Hermione admitted, and though her voice

became notably higher pitched, her expression did not waver.

Harry's heart plummeted like a stone in a pool of cold water.

"…A few weeks…?"

"Maybe. Hopefully not, but, we don't know…"

Neither of them could make eye contact with him any longer, he noticed.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, stricken at the realization. As if to spite
him, the barriers in his mind became notably more irritating.
"A few weeks… Alone, in this house, with…with Malfoy…and Snape…"

Naturally, that was the moment when the Potions Master made known his
silent re-appearance. He had, apparently, observed the interaction with
distaste from the other side of the room, an unobtrusive spectator in the
doorway.

"What, would you prefer to go back to your previous living arrangement?"

…It was so casual, the way he said it.

Just a typical, condescending drawl, the exact kind of off-handed remark that
was to be wholly expected from his ex-Professor.

But then, why did it suddenly taste like salt in his mouth?

Why did the room abruptly become so bright?

Why…

Harry's ears were ringing.

A drawn out, high-pitched tone that bordered on shrill and he knew it, knew
this sound, and it was a musical note and it was the wind and it was his voice
—

He tried to draw in a breath, but the air refused to flow into his body—it was
as if someone had reached into his chest with their bare hands and taken hold,
clenched their fingers tightly around his lungs and clamped down, hard—
everything was growing brighter and it tasted like brine on his tongue and he
couldn't see, he couldn't stand, he couldn't—

Breathe.

He was trying to scream, but he couldn't, he had no voice, he couldn't—

Breathe.

There were splotches of black in his vision now, like bleeding blots of ink,
and someone was shouting, angrily, so angrily—Ron's voice, he was yelling
at someone, and it was such a furious sound, but it was drowning in that
escalating, ringing note, and—

"He's not breathing!"

How was it that Hermione could be so close, so physically near to him, and
yet sound like she was miles and miles away?

There were hands on his shoulders and the brightness was blinding—

Magic, uncontainable, was crackling around him, filling the air with veins of
lightning like some kind of beautiful, illuminated spider's web—Hermione
was flung from him and something was breaking, crashing—falling—

He closed his eyes, but he saw a sea of endless white.

He screamed, but his lips could only mouth the silent name, because someone
had taken his voice.

He tried to breathe, but he could not, and the next thing he knew the world of
white had turned black.

You are…hurt.

The cupboard was darker than usual.

Harry lay motionless on his side under a thin, deteriorating sheet.

He barely heard the hissing sound over the lingering ringing in his ears.

He didn't say anything. He was too shaken.

Ron and Hermione…were leaving.

Snape…

You don't need them.

Harry still said nothing.

Don't you see? That's why you invented me.

He felt arms wrapping around him; the undeniable, physical sensation of

someone holding him from behind in the darkness, under the blanket… But
when he turned and looked over his shoulder, he saw nothing but blackness.

Imaginary…but it felt…nice, being held.

You don't need them.

Even if it was just...even if it wasn't...

I'll never abandon you. I'll never hurt you, Harry.

The arms tightened around him, and they felt warm and soft and real.

I promise.

Harry closed his eyes in the darkness, and when he put his arm to his chest,
he swore he could really, truly feel someone there with him.

You will heal, and you will rise again, and you will have retribution. You
don't need any of them.

Not Ronald Weasley.

Not Hermione Granger.

A pause, and with its next words it sounded more life-like than ever.

Not—
 —Severus Snape.

Lord Voldemort had once believed that there was nothing worse than death.

Nothing.

Now, he knew better.

Now, he understood the words of Albus Dumbledore.

'…There are other ways of destroying a man, Tom…merely taking your life
would not satisfy me, I admit… Indeed, your failure to understand that there
are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness…'

Now, Lord Voldemort knew.

He would take away his freedom. He would strip him of his skin, of his eyes,
of his hands and feet. He would rip out his tongue and steal his voice. He
would dive into his nightmares and project them in his mind.

He would reach into his own memories of that fateful, Halloween night. He
would pull out the screams of Lily Evans, bottle them like perfume and pour
them into his ears.

He would tell him that her hair had smelled like roses. That her eyes, those
green, green eyes, had shone like glistening emeralds when they had watered
in fear.

He would tell him that her tears had tasted like rain.

He would tell him she had been…so beautiful.

Severus Snape would never be granted death.

No.

He would live, and live…and live.

 11. The Holly in the Snow
Why was he here?

Harry's body felt...heavy.

Like someone had doubled the force of the gravity in the room. His muscles
felt like they had been replaced by wrought iron, and when he tensed his
shoulders they felt stiff.

He slowly opened his eyes to a semi-dark room.

His room. Well…their room, he supposed. He was laying on his bed on his
side, the hood of his sweat shirt crumpled uncomfortably underneath his
neck. He felt the thick chain of the locket biting into the skin there, and it
took a great amount of effort just to shift slightly.

"You're awake."

Harry would have jumped if his body had been up to it. He hadn't noticed
Draco Malfoy yet, who was sitting on the edge of his own bed, reading. He
was always doing that, wasn't he? Reading silently somewhere in the vicinity.

Then again, it's not like there was much else to do here.

Malfoy closed the book and set it down next to him, an undecipherable, blank
look on his face.

Harry blinked, exerting a substantial amount of energy into pushing himself

up into a seated position. He felt like he had just completed a marathon, his
body was so achingly sore. He opened his mouth, about to ask what
happened…

…But no sound came out.

Draco's face remained impassive at Harry's puzzled expression. "Snape took

your voice away. I imagine he still has you silenced," he explained
emotionlessly.

Harry frowned, rubbing the back of his neck as he sat up fully. He shot
Malfoy a look that asked the question without words.

Draco leaned forward, and—did his lips just twitch? Like…like he was about
to laugh?

"Well," he began, and his voice was already regaining a bit of that lovely,
familiar sneering quality, "you had a bit of an episode, Evans. A panic attack.
A breakdown, or something, I dunno. I'm not sure what set you off, exactly—
I missed most of it as I was in the library—but I heard the table explode all
the way from the other side of the house."

Harry's eyes widened as he recalled it. Bits and pieces of the memory, that
feeling of something like electricity rolling over his skin in waves…

"So I ran over to see what was happening, of course, and—" Now it was
obvious that Malfoy was trying very hard not to laugh— "and—I mean, I
know this is all very serious or whatever, but-but you were already passed out
by the time I got there, and—"

He paused for a second, clearly trying to control himself. "D'you know how
when there's a really bad storm, and after lightning has struck, there's this sort
of humming sound? And you can feel it, that static in the air? Almost taste it,
even?"

Harry nodded, feeling wary. He could hear that reverberating ringing even
now… A monotonous, high-pitched note in his mind… And there was the
slightest, lingering flavor of salt on his tongue, acidic and numbing…

But Draco smiled.

"Well—like I said, I missed exactly what it was that made it happen—but

you must have conjured up some sort of miniature thunder storm, because it
was that kind of atmosphere in the room, only about a hundred times worse,
and you must've literally shocked the glamour right off of Granger, because
she looked like her usual self—except-except—"

He was straight up laughing now. Harry wondered if that was all it was—did
he really find it so funny that Hermione had been forced back into her normal
appearance, no longer looking like a member of the Malfoy family?

"Except-it was-their hair—" He laughed again, speaking more joyously than

Harry had ever heard him. "All three of them—I mean, you too, I suppose,
but your hair is already always such a wreck—but Weasley—and Granger,
my God—I didn't know it could get any bigger and bushier, but I was wrong,
very wrong—"

He had to stop again, he was laughing so hard, before he finally choked out,
"and Snape—"

Draco completely lost it, then. He was trapped in a monumental fit of hilarity
as he recalled the, apparently, static-stricken Potions Master. After a few
moments of torrential laughs, he finally looked back up at Harry with tears
glittering in his eyes. "I wish-I wish I could show you. There's gotta be a
Pensive here, somewhere. It was incredible. Imagine Snape with a fucked-up
afro, but so much better, so, so much better—"

Harry…tried to imagine this situation from Malfoy's perspective. Just

minding your own business, alone in a nice, quiet library, reading
peacefully…and then hearing some kind of sudden explosion, and screaming,
and it probably scared him half to death, thinking there was an attack or
something…and to burst into the front room and see… What? Some
dismantled furniture, a passed-out Harry Potter, and…

Ron, Hermione, and Snape, looking exceptionally pale and disturbed, with…
very static-y, frizzy tresses?

Severus Snape, with anything other than greasy, lank curtains for hair around
his sallow face was… It was almost impossible to visualize.

But Draco was still sniggering. "It was glorious. I know I shouldn't have, but,
I mean, like I said, I missed the serious bit-so-so of course I started laughing,
right then and there—I mean, once it was clear that no one was dead or
whatever—" His expression suddenly became a bit defensive, as if Harry had
just been about to scold him (which was silly, because Harry couldn't say
anything at the moment),"and you would have too, if you'd seen it! But, you
know, just out of spite, he cursed me anyway. Snape zapped me with a
stinging hex, three times in a row, but it was so worth it—"

He sighed deeply, the smile on his face now benignly fond and reminiscent.
Harry just shook his head, and though he was still disoriented and generally
just felt…well, awful, he grinned, too.

After a few moments Malfoy's gleeful disposition began to wane,

transitioning into something a bit more stoic. "Ah… Well… You've been out
for about..." He glanced up at the wall clock briefly. "Three hours, now."

Harry looked down at the silver watch on his wrist, and was surprised to see
that the little planets and stars were now glowing vividly bright—tiny,
luminescent dots of light on the clock's face. Like they had absorbed some of
his electrical magic and were now radiating because of it. It was almost five
in the afternoon.

"I'm…supposed to go get Snape… He wanted me to tell him, when you woke

up."

Harry swallowed, noting how raw his throat felt at such a simple action. He
wondered if he would have been able to speak, then, even if he'd had his
voice.

"I can…not go get him. For a little while."

Harry stared. Was Malfoy… Was he trying to be…nice? To him? Did…he

feel bad for him after having had an all-out panic attack?

Or was he just bitter towards Snape at the moment, too?

Maybe…both.
Harry didn't know what to say in response. Which didn't really matter, of
course, because he couldn't talk. He looked down at his lap, and that ringing
sound was slowly, finally beginning to diminish…

Malfoy cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly, like he was fishing for
something to say. "Um… Weasley and Granger… They left."

Harry looked up at that. A familiar sensation of being tossed in cold water

washed over him.

"About an hour after you were stable. Snape had to knock you out,
apparently, or you may have destroyed the whole damn house." Draco
actually looked a bit amazed, here. Harry got the impression that this level of
wandless magic—however unintentional—was deeply impressive.

But what he'd just said…

Hermione and Ron… They'd left… He'd had some kind of break down,
and…

And they left you anyway.

"They argued about it." Harry's was surprised to see that Malfoy looked
slightly…sympathetic. "They didn't want to leave, especially not Weasley…
They would have waited until you woke up, I think, but Snape pretty much
made them go…"

He looked a bit sour, then. "Whatever it is they're doing, whatever it is they're

hunting for, apparently it's such an important task that if they don't do it,
we're all screwed. I mean, you know, the entire world, not just us." He waved
a hand lazily back and forth between them, and Harry couldn't help but smirk
at Draco's complete and total lack of optimism.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence…which Harry could do nothing

about, though he did try to speak once.

"Oh. Right," Malfoy said sheepishly, clearly trying not to smirk at Harry's
inability to talk. "I guess I'll have to go get Snape, if you want your voice
back."

Harry just shrugged and nodded dismally.

"Er… Okay, then." He got up and left, leaving the door open behind him.
Harry stared down at his hands numbly, his uncomfortable thoughts currently
at a bit of a standstill…

Hermione and Ron were gone. It was just he, Malfoy and Snape, now…
and…Snape... What had he said, again, to make Harry snap like that?

He couldn't remember, exactly, could not think of precisely what words he'd
used… Maybe his mind had blocked it out… Everything had happened so
quickly, was such a chaotic blur… He could only recall fractured moments,
flickering images of lightning, and white, and muffled voices, and that high
pitched, shrill ringing—

Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself not to linger on it and focus instead
on what was in front of him. He noticed that Malfoy had left the book he'd
been reading behind… Curious, Harry stared at the cover, though there was
no title written on it… What was it that Draco Malfoy was reading so much
about, these days? He was about to reach out and grab it, to find out—

But then Snape was in the doorway, and, for once, he actually made noise
when he appeared. Harry remained seated on his bed, unmoving, and
completely unsure of what to expect.

He closed the door behind him, and Malfoy remained notably absent. Harry
swallowed nervously.

Was he about to get yelled at? To be reprimanded for his chaotic outburst?
Probably—but he hadn't meant to, he wasn't even sure how it had happened
—

Yet Snape said nothing as he crossed the room, glancing down at Draco's
messy, unmade bed distastefully before sitting on the edge of it. His hair was
lank and greasy as it usually was, and Harry would be lying if he said he
wasn't just a bit disappointed.

He didn't…look angry. Snape sat, his spine straight and his pale face twisted
uncomfortably, almost as if he was in pain. Harry would have asked, but…

There was a long, drawn out moment in which both parties remained silent.
The only sound that could be heard was that clock on the wall, with its soft
tick, tick, tick…

The older man took a deep breath in through his nose. It was quite evident
that he was preparing to voice something extremely difficult, and when he
opened his mouth to speak, his jaw looked like it did not want to cooperate…

"I…"

And then he paused, completely losing his nerve. His face contorted even
more. Harry thought he looked very much like was about to be sick, actually.
His dark eyes flickered back and forth between the floor and Harry's chest,
like he was trying very hard to look him in the eyes, but some invisible force
was preventing him from managing such a monumental task.

Harry waited.

Snape took another breath, about to give whatever it was he was trying to say
it another go—

"…I…am sorry."

…What?

Snape might as well have just told Harry he thought he was very pretty, so
astounded and dumb-struck did he feel.

Had Snape—Severus Snape—the Severus Snape—

…just apologized to him?

He…did still look like he was going to be sick about it, though.

"What I said was inappropriate, spoken without consideration, and…it will

not happen again."

Baffled, Harry just continued to stare at the awkward, pallid face of his ex-
professor, who was still resolutely not looking back at him. He thought to say
that he wasn't mad, that he wasn't upset, really—that, if anything, he felt
guilty that he had lost control and could have—how had Malfoy so
eloquently put it?—destroyed the whole damn house…

But he couldn't say any of those things, at the moment. He couldn't say
anything at all.

So instead, he just… He just nodded, very, very slowly.

Snape seemed to note the gesture, despite the fact that his dark gaze was
fixated decisively on the floor at Harry's feet. He nodded as well—though it
was a much curter, crisper gesture—before he was on his feet and on his way.

Harry was still in a state of disbelief when the Potions Master paused,
hovering in the entryway. Still without looking at him, still unable to make
eye contact, he flicked his wand in Harry's direction, muttering something
under his breath.

He was gone before it had even fully taken effect, before the spell completely
lifted and Harry had regained the use of his vocal chords, and he wondered…
Why had Snape done it like that? Why had he waited until he was already on
his way out the door to return his voice? It was like he hadn't wanted Harry to
even have the option of saying anything to him, to be able to explain or ask
questions or…

Well, it was like Snape hadn't wanted to hear he was forgiven.

Did he deserve this?

All awkward, tense situations aside, the 'House of Ghosts', as Malfoy had so
aptly once titled it, was, generally speaking…not a very exciting place to live.

Snape was back in his state of isolation, holed in his room sleeping, or…
something else that he was unwilling to disclose to Harry and Draco. His
presence in the house was apparent, however, in the form of the occasional
sounds of movement from the kitchen (during which time they would stay
far, far away, as neither of them felt much like being threatened with sharp
objects), which resulted in some of the most delicious food that Harry had
ever tasted in his entire life. Yet Snape remained ostentatiously absent
afterwards. For days, in fact, Harry did not actually see the Potions Master in
the flesh at all. The older wizard seemingly only ever left his room during
those short, sporadic periods of time when he cooked, and the only reason
Harry and Draco knew it was safe to go in at all afterwards was because the
door would suddenly be open. But there was never a Severus Snape present.

The first day that Harry had woken up after his 'episode', the Potions Master
had made what was probably the best steak that had ever been crafted in the
entirety of the history of the world. It was almost sinful, how good it was, and
the potatoes he'd made to go with it—Harry hadn't even known potatoes
could taste like that. Draco, despite his generally proper dining etiquette,
looked as if he had been tempted to lick the plate clean afterwards.

"You should lose your shit more often," he'd said after they'd eaten in a tone
that was not joking in the slightest, pointing a fork in Harry's direction.

But other than that one relatively thoughtless remark, Draco kept his verbal
distance, clearly on tenterhooks around the recently nearly-explosive Harry
Potter. He was almost being considerate, even…an ephemeral behavioral
state that was to last no more than twenty-four hours, as it turned out.

But in that first day, Malfoy remained relatively quiet, passing the time
reading whatever it was he was so interested in nowadays.
And Harry played the piano.

The world was white and vast and empty.

The day may have passed in general silence, but Harry's night was filled with
conversation.

That first night, they talked about the future.

Have you given much thought to what you want to do with your life? After
you're free?

His friend wasn't holding him, this time. It was just he, Harry, physically
alone in the cupboard with a bodiless voice which emanated from the
shadows. The closet was so dark these days he could hardly see his hands in
front of his face. And the hissing sound… That lovely lure of parseltongue…
Well, it was there, it was always there, but Harry was fairly certain it was
getting…softer, quieter. Weaker. Maybe it was because he was losing hope.
Maybe…

Maybe the Dark Lord was finally beginning to truly believe that Harry Potter
was gone.

He frowned as he considered the question.

Harry…hadn't given that any thought.

'After the war…?' He tried to imagine life without the omnipresent threat of
Lord Voldemort in his life, and found that it was exceptionally difficult.

He had never known such a utopian existence. His world had always
revolved, in some form or another, around that dark entity, that eternal,
looming threat… Before his birth, even. The subject of a prophecy, a child
born as the seventh months dies…
What would his life be like, if Lord Voldemort was not in it?

'I… I dunno,' he answered honestly. 'I used to think I would want to be an

auror, but… I'm not sure, anymore.'

An auror?

'Yeah. I mean, I never really considered anything else, honestly… But it

wouldn't have happened, anyway. Even if I had been able to go back to
Hogwarts last year… I only got an 'E' in my Potions O.W.L., I wouldn't have
been able to sign up to even try to get a N.E.W.T. in it, so I wouldn't have
received all of the pre-requisites…shame. Not the whole not-being-able-to-
be-an-auror thing, but the fact that I missed that year at Hogwarts. It would
have been the first year I wasn't in a class of Snape's.'

He sighed wistfully at the full comprehension of such a loss. 'I may have even
been Quidditch Captain. God, I can't even imagine. No Umbridge. No Snape.
Just…endless amounts of Quidditch.'

And studying for your other subjects, surely.

Harry snorted, the voice reminding him of Hermione in that moment.

'Occasionally, sure.'

He began toying with one of the toy soldiers again. It was amazing how many
of them were broken; how, in his childhood, his Aunt and Uncle had not even
felt him worthy of a set of tiny, plastic figurines which were all intact.

'Maybe that's what I would have done,' he finally answered. 'Maybe I would
have tried to go on and play Quidditch professionally. I might have been able
to pull it off, too. I was pretty good. Viktor Krum himself told me I was a
great flyer… God, I miss it.'

Quidditch?

'Yeah. There's something about soaring through the air that just… Well,
makes you feel invincible, really. It's like you just leave all your troubles and
woes on the ground when you take off, and then it's just you and the sky…
And, in my case, a shiny, dastardly little golden ball.' He set the soldier down,
now actively looking for one that wasn't broken. It didn't look like he had
any.

Would you continue to play Seeker? If you played again?

'I suspect I would. Chasing might be fun, and it would be nice to be more a
part of the game… Focusing solely on the one task of catching that thing
means I miss out on the bulk of the action when I play, but… I was a good
Seeker. There wasn't a Snitch that could outwit me.'

His smug grin faltered for a moment.

'I open at the close.'

'Well…maybe one.'

You only lost one match?

Harry blinked, slightly thrown off, because that hadn't been what he was
thinking about at all. '…Yes, actually. Only one. And it was really unfair,
honestly—I swear I'm not just being a sore loser about it—but there was this
giant storm, and dementors, they come onto the field in the middle of the
game! Lots of them! And-er-they sort of affect me pretty terribly, those
fucking things—'

Do they?

Harry shuddered. 'Yeah. I almost died that day. I fell about a thousand feet
from the ground, and if it hadn't been for Dumbledore slowing the fall…
Well. Anyway, I didn't die, but we did lose the match.' He finished the
statement in a bitter tone that made it seem like it was an equally terrible
outcome.

You lost the match… But did your House win the cup, at the end of the year?
He grinned, reminiscing. 'Yeah. Yeah, we did.'

Ultimate victory is all that matters.

Harry nodded, still looking for just a single unbroken soldier amongst the
dozens that he had… Ah! There! He held one in his hands, a little warrior-
man with two legs, two arms, and no chipped or flaking paint. This one even
had a gun. Harry grinned—he was perfect.

And you will be triumphant, in the end, Harry Potter.

…Empty.

The piano song was slowly, painfully, incrementally…improving.

Harry was at it again. There was nothing else to do, really, besides read or
explore the house… Which Harry thought he would do again, at some point.
Sirius's room probably had a lot of other interesting stuff in it and someday,
he vowed, would go back in and look. But not now. It was still…

It was still too painful.

He'd been playing all morning, and it did pass the time quickly. It was taxing,
and difficult, and he could do it all day, honestly, if he didn't eventually get a
bit restless from remaining seated for so long.

He was just on the precipice of a pivotal moment—there, that little sequence

he'd just done, that sounded exactly like a bit recalled—when—

Draco let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Harry fumbled, having effectively been distracted. He frowned, trying to get

his fingering back. A moment later and he thought he'd found it again, was
about to finally have something—
Another sigh, only louder this time.

Harry's eye twitched. He had been so close, it was literally at his fingertips,
that little passage, that light, playful part that he once played in his dreams,
and he was going to have it, he was going to really play it, damn it, to make it
real—there—

Malfoy's sigh was so pronounced this time that it was vocal. Harry slammed
his fingers down on the keys, making a jarring, discordant sound that was
nothing at all like his illusive dream song.

"What?" he snapped, looking up. Draco was sitting on the couch, his book
abandoned on the cushion at his side. His arms were crossed and he was
looking at Harry with an accusatory stare.

"I'm bored," he declared.

Harry rolled his eyes before looking back down at the piano keys. "That's
rough," he muttered before he started playing again.

But then Draco was on his feet, standing on the other side of the piano so that
he could watch Harry struggle.

"Why are you so interested in playing that thing, anyway?"

"Because," Harry answered without really answering. He didn't look up, just
continued to focus on the keys.

"But why?"

Harry ignored him, though it was impossible to concentrate properly with

him looming over him like that. Draco put his hands on the top of the piano
and leaned closer.

"Why—?"

"Oh-My-God-You-Are-Such-A-Brat!" Harry shouted, slamming down on the

keys forcibly with each word. Malfoy smirked, looking so smug at having got
a reaction from him, like he knew he ultimately would.

"Here." Harry stood, snatching up some spare parchment from the table
behind him. "Go—go find some crayons and color me a picture, or
something."

Draco took the parchment and looked up at Harry, one eyebrow quirked.
"Some what?"

"Crayons, you know…" But the expression on Malfoy's face made it clear
that he did not know. "They're—they're coloring sticks—no? Must be a
muggle thing, then."

Malfoy dropped the paper, looking between it and Harry as though they had
conspired together to insult him. Harry just shrugged, sitting back down at
the piano bench.

"Why are you so obsessed with playing that thing?" Draco tried again.

"Because it's something to do." And while it wasn't a complete answer, it was
an honest one.

Draco made another huffy noise, and Harry recognized that if he, Draco
Malfoy, was not preoccupied, that he, Harry, would continue to suffer the
consequences.

He glanced down at the trunk that he'd uncovered days ago. He was curious
as to what could be in it…

"What d'you think Orion Black would keep in there?" Harry asked, pointing
towards it.

Draco turned his attention to the old, wooden chest, walking towards it and
prodding it with his toe. "Dunno…" he said thoughtfully. "Probably
something good, though…"

Well, obviously by good he'd meant bad and undoubtedly dark, and that was
why he was smirking like that. His eyes were sparkling with curiosity as he
looked back up at Harry. "You haven't found a key for it?"

"No," Harry responded, though he had been meaning to search for one. But if
he could get Malfoy to do it for him, and keep him busy, well, he'd just kill
two birds with one stone, then, wouldn't he?

"I bet it's somewhere here in the library, though," he suggested lightly.

Malfoy nodded, already scanning the shelves and furniture in the room as if
the key might just jump out from between a few books and land right in his
hand. "Yeah… Maybe…" He looked down at the desk, then, and began
digging through the drawers.

"Just call me Tom Sawyer," Harry murmured to himself, happy to be able to

turn his attention back to his daunting musical task.

"Call you what? Tom?" Draco asked, and Harry saw him looking up at him
from the desk, his expression quizzical. "What, you don't like Evans,
anymore?"

He looked even more confused by the way Harry's face had just instantly
paled. "No. Don't—Evans is good. I was just making some stupid reference."

"A muggle reference?" Draco's eyes narrowed. "I hate that, when you make
those stupid muggle references, and I have no idea what you're talking about
—"

"And I hate it when you whine and pout like a pretentious, spoiled child, and
yet…" Harry threw his arms out widely on either side of him, glaring,

"…Here we are."

He dropped his arms to his side. Draco glowered.

"God, I hate it here." He kicked the wooden chest, hard—and immediately

must have regretted it, because he took in a sharp breath as he bounced away
on the other foot, clearly in pain.

Harry laughed. Loudly.

"Shut up," Malfoy spat, limping over towards the piano again and muttering
curse words under his breath.

But Harry was already placing his fingers on the keys again, beginning to
play. "Oh, why don't you go have a good cry about it. Myrtle's probably
waiting for you."

He had just started to get back into it, feeling the music beginning to flow—

"What did you say?"

Draco's voice was drastically different, hostile and shrill. Harry glanced up at
him in confusion, why did he suddenly look so stricken, and—

Oh.

Oh.

…Uh oh.

"…Um—"

"How did you know about that?" Draco was standing firmly on both feet
now, radiating some bizarre, yet palpable mixture of rage, confusion, and…
embarrassment?

"Know about w-what?"

Oh God, Harry thought, he was in trouble now. He wondered just how many
times he was going to do this, to accidentally blurt out some stupid, stupid
remark. He hadn't even thought about that comment, it had just slipped out…

"Myrtle," Draco snapped. "How did you know about…about…" Harry could
just see the gears turning in his head as he recalled that memory—of being in
the bathroom, and how, one time, Moaning Myrtle had screamed bloody
murder, and said she'd seen a ghost…

"You…" he started, the comprehension visibly dawning on his face. But he

looked very conflicted, too, like he was on the fence as to whether he should
even put such a wild, insane thought into words—Harry hoped desperately
that he wouldn't—

"You were there."

But he did.

"I was where? What are you talking about?" Harry's voice didn't sound even
slightly convincing as he tried to feign ignorance, but, well, he had to try,
didn't he?

"You were there, in the bathroom. When I—and the mirror cracked—and
Myrtle said she saw you—"

Harry felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "You sound like a crazy
person, Malfoy," he said, putting all the disdain he possibly could into each
word. "I have no idea what the hell you're going on about. How in God's
name could I have been in Hogwarts? What, you think that you-know-who
was—was letting me out occasionally to go on bathroom breaks?"

Draco looked like he was feeling far too many emotions at once, and his face
couldn't decide which one it wanted to properly express. "But—why—how
—"

He swallowed thickly, deliberating for a moment—

"Why did you say that?"

Harry racked his brains, trying desperately to come up with something.

"Uh… I dunno, just sort of came out. Myrtle's always crying, isn't she, and if
you were having such a bad, horrible time of it at your awful year at
Hogwarts when you were trying to kill Dumbledore… Well, she's great
company, if you're miserable." He hadn't intended to work himself up into a
temper, but now…

Draco finally settled on one feeling, then, too.

Anger.

"You have no idea what my year was like," he fumed, his pale face quickly
turning red. "You have no idea what I had to do, what I had to deal with—
none at all—you're lucky, you were just, just sound asleep somewhere—you
have no idea—"

"Is that what you think?"

Harry's voice was so cold, so mirthless, that it silenced Draco at once, despite
the fact that it was barely above a whisper. The fiery anger that had just
begun building in his chest just a moment before vanished, and in its place
was an icy hatred that was far more dangerous.

Harry stood.

Draco physically recoiled.

"Is that what you think?" he repeated, in that same, dark tone. Malfoy's face
was swiftly paling again. "You think that I was just sleeping comfortably
somewhere, do you? Just enjoying a nice, long nap?" Harry laughed, and it
was most chilling, joyless sound that had ever left his mouth. But the fake
smile was gone in an instant, because Draco looked terrified, now—he had
taken a step backwards, his eyes darting momentarily towards the door, as if
he was thinking of making a run for it—and that just incensed Harry even
further, that he should be so callous, so thoughtless as to throw out that
remark, and then show such weakness afterwards—it made him so angry,
how pitiful he looked—

Retribution.

"Let me tell you something, Draco." Harry advanced, and Malfoy took
another hasty step back. "Whatever shit you had to go through last year,
whatever horrible, unfair circumstances you had to deal with—it was
nothing, nothing compared to what happened to me… Just think for a
moment."

Draco's back was flat against the wall, now, and Harry stood so close to him
that he was hardly an inch from his face, and he must have really been scary
as hell in that moment because Draco just froze, petrified, looking at Harry
with gray eyes that were wide in fear-

"If you were a Dark Lord with incredible power, if you were a master
Occlumens and Legilimens, if you had been trying to kill one particular
person for years but had failed, many times—if that same person had
thwarted your plans over and over and over again—if you finally had that
object of your heated, manic obsession in your grasp, and you were him,
sadistic, evil, twisted, insane…" Harry trailed off, looking back and forth
between each of Malfoy's fearful eyes, knowing that right now, Draco Malfoy
was rapidly imagining a stream of countless, horrifying possibilities about
what the Dark Lord might have done to him, all the while knowing, knowing
that whatever the ignorant blonde was thinking up, whatever he pulled from
the depths of his own nightmares, that he wouldn't even be close. The endless
implications hung in the air, unspoken…

He smirked. Draco flinched as if Harry had just hit him.

"So, no, Malfoy…" Harry leaned in so that his mouth was in his ear, and
Harry could practically hear Draco's heart thundering in his chest like it, too,
was desperate to escape—

"…You have no idea."

And then he stepped away, crossing the room and taking a seat back at the
piano. His voice was back to its usual casualness when he spoke next, as
though that intense interaction hadn't happened at all.

"That being said, do you mind not bothering me for a while? I'm trying to
practice."
Malfoy didn't speak another word all day.

…So why could he still not leave?

That night, they talked about the past.

'I never knew I was a wizard, growing up.' Harry pulled the thin, raggedy
blanket around him. 'I didn't know anything at all about the magical world. I
was just a tiny, scrawny thing. A punching bag for my fat, bullying cousin.'

A spider landed on his shoulder. He didn't brush it off, just let it walk along,
slowly making its way down his arm on its long, spindly legs. He never really
minded them, the spiders.

'I didn't even have friends.'

How did you find out about the magical world, then?

Harry grinned as he continued to watch his eight-legged companion on his

sleeve. 'Hagrid,' he answered. 'A giant man. Literally. I wonder how he's
doing… He had a thing for spiders, too…'

A thing?

'Yeah… He sort of raised this terrifyingly dangerous spider-monster while he

was student, a baby acromantula… It got him expelled, but not for the right
reasons…'

What do you mean?

'Well,' Harry started, 'It's sort of a long story. The Chamber of Secrets was
opened, while he was in school, and he got blamed for it, but…' Harry
furrowed his brows, concentrating deeply. 'Well, really, now that I'm thinking
about it, it's kind of crazy, how that all went down. I mean, what happened
was… Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle happened. He's the Heir of Slytherin, and he
opened up the Chamber of Secrets… And the monster was a basilisk, not a
spider, and he set it out to kill the muggle-borns… But when a student was
finally killed, and they threatened to close down the school, well…"

Harry paused.

What happened, then?

'He blamed the whole thing on Hagrid. Made it look like the monster that had
killed her was his pet acromantula, so that everyone would think the whole
ordeal was over, and the school could remain open…but—'

The cupboard-spider had paused, was motionless now on his forearm. 'But
what doesn't make any sense, really, is…how that worked. They girl was
petrified to death—I mean, if an acromantula had done it, even a baby one, it
would have just eaten her, wouldn't it? Or at least tried.' Harry shuddered. 'It
definitely would have tried. I know from personal experience.'

Do you?

'Yeah. Not the happiest moment in my life. Anyway—I don't understand how
that worked. Why did everyone just accept that story so easily?'

I don't know. It sounds like Tom Riddle was an exceptionally good liar.

Harry scoffed. He envisioned the sixteen year old boy from the diary, the
memory which the young Slytherin Heir had showed him… Tom Marvolo
Riddle, so smooth and suave and handsome, cornering Hagrid and making
even the half-giant himself doubt his pet, think that it may have been Aragog
who had done it…

'Yeah. Yeah, he definitely was…is.'

He couldn't help but focus for a moment on the parseltongue lure… How it
was such a blatant deception, such a ruse, such a…such a…

Such a…beautiful sound…

That's dangerous.

'Hm?' Harry had unwittingly shifted, was even about to get to his feet.

'Fuck.' He slumped back down onto the cot, clenching his fists—and was
surprised to see that the little spider had managed to remain clinging to his
sleeve. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck.'

It is rather alluring, isn't it? Parseltongue.

Harry groaned. 'I really wish it wasn't. Why is that, though?' The spider had
begun moving again, was on its way towards his hand. 'Why does it sound…
why do I find it so…'

He was blushing. Apparently he couldn't even have this conversation with

himself without feeling embarrassed.

…Attractive?

'Ugh… yes," he admitted out loud, finally, bemoaning the truth of it. 'God
help me. I do. It's horrible, isn't it? That I find it so goddamn attractive.'

So do I.

'Well, yeah. Of course you do, my strange little sub-conscious riddle.'

The voice laughed. Was it just him, or was it getting more animated, as time
went on?

'What… How were you here, before?' Harry asked as he lifted his hand, the
spider slowly crawling around his wrist.

What do you mean?

'You…you were here, before. Like, physically. You were…sort of holding

me.' This was such a strange conversation to be having, Harry couldn't even
really comprehend it.
'How was that possible? And…why?'

I suppose I was just there because you needed me, then.

'…Oh.' Harry was oddly…disappointed.

There was a stretch of silence. The parseltongue was floating back to the
forefront of his mind, again, against his will, and—

And then he felt them, again. Arms wrapping around him from behind,
concealed in darkness…but they felt warm and nice and real, so real. They
pulled him gently backwards so that Harry's back was resting against what
felt very much like someone's chest, and it felt so ridiculously good, the
simple action of being held. He reached his arms up to feel them. He noticed
that the spider was gone.

"Just like you need me now."

Sometimes, he thought he saw him.

Sometimes, he thought he felt him.

The tiniest prickling at the back of his mind, an almost indiscernible twinge
of…annoyance? Anger? Emotions that certainly were not his. But no matter
how he reached for them, it was like grasping at empty air. There was no
response to his continuous beckoning. No reply to his despairing lure.

He was calling for a phantom.

Draco was still keeping a respectful distance from Harry the next day, though
he did continue to follow Snape's orders and be near Harry at all times, to
keep an eye on him…

Listening in the background while Harry tried to play the piano—and,

truthfully, his panicked efforts were sort of starting to pay off. It almost
sounded like a song, sometimes.
'I am going to get this,' he thought determinedly as his fingers danced across
the keys. There was nothing he wanted more, it was his heart's truest desire—
he closed his eyes for a moment, and he saw the piano in his dream world and
he heard the song and it was there—

I have seen your fears…your dreams…your heart…

It was there, he could hear it now; it was in his head and in his heart and in
his soul—his fingers were moving so rapidly now they were a blur across the
keys, black and white and perfect—

…and they are mine—

And he played as though he was possessed—

Mine—

"What the hell?"

…What?

Malfoy was on his feet, standing over Harry and looking completely stunned.
His jaw was hanging open as he gawked soundlessly.

"What?" Harry asked. Draco shook his head, slowly, like he was in a state of
total disbelief.

"I thought… You said you'd never played the piano before, I thought."

Harry frowned, and noticed that he felt a bit…off. "I… I haven't," he said
blankly.

"But…you were just…that…it was…good." It looked like it was a very

difficult task for Malfoy, to be able to say anything to Harry that resembled a
compliment.

Harry stared down at his fingers, the barriers in his mind feeling substantially
more uncomfortable, all of a sudden…
"…Did…was it…?" he murmured softly.

Draco was staring at him with a very confused and wary expression.

Harry scratched his head pointlessly.

"…I think…I think I need to go lie down."

He was reaching for a ghost.

He was…

"What do you look like?"

The tiny, dark enclosure was a much more comfortable place to be when he
wasn't alone. Having the physical sensation of someone, a living, breathing
person behind him, holding him… Well, he hadn't realized how much he'd
needed it until he had it. Someone that would just embrace him and make him
feel safe.

Maybe that was silly. Maybe it was pathetic, stupid. But that was the truth,
and so his subconscious had made it up for him.

And while he was being held in the arms of his imaginary friend, his
'riddle'…the parseltongue was decisively easier to ignore.

"Well… Seeing as I am a part of you, I would assume that I look like you."

"Hm." Harry turned, looking over his shoulder in the dark, but he couldn't see
anything but blackness, there. Like his mind was blotting it out, the space
where a face should be…

"Why can't I see you?" he asked, peering over his other shoulder instead. He
bit his lower lip in annoyance.
"I am your sub-conscious," it answered in a bit of a drawl. "So if you can't
see me, that's your own doing." Harry scowled, his little riddle really was
getting more and more…something, lately.

"Maybe you're not ready to see me," it concluded in a sly tone of voice.

Harry rolled his eyes—a gesture that was completely useless in the dark,
especially when the person—thing?—it was being aimed towards didn't seem
to have a face.

"There is a theory," the riddle went on, it's voice now light and innocently
pensive, "a psychological theory, that if an individual were to be confronted
with oneself physically for a prolonged period of time, ultimately, one of two
scenes would unfold."

Harry felt one of the arms around him move, and then a finger was running
gently up and down his arm. It was…oddly soothing.

"Oh, yeah?" Harry asked. When the riddle didn't respond, he prodded, "…and
what are those two scenarios?"

"Fight or fuck."

Harry laughed at the casual way it was said. "Very funny," he muttered. And
after another long pause…

"…Oh, wait. You were being serious?"

"I was."

"Uh…wow, really?" Harry laughed again, though it was a bit nervous, now.
"Those are my only options? Couldn't we…couldn't we just play chess, or
something?"

It laughed, this time. "…I am rather good at chess," it conceded.

"So you're good at chess, you're smart, you're…nice… Have I just molded
together a bunch of characteristics from my best friends, and invented you as
a replacement because they left?"

"No." The voice was soft and polite, but Harry could sense the tiniest twinge
of malevolence there. "I am not like them."

"You kind of are," Harry answered.

"I am not."

"Are."

"Stop it."

Harry was grinning, and wasn't it odd, that he could be having such fun
bantering with himself…?

"Yes, you are, you are, you are. I've made the subconscious love-child of
Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, a half-blood best friend. I've created
a monster—"

The voice made some sort of snarling noise—admittedly nothing like any
sound Hermione or Ron had ever made, it was more along the lines of a
Crookshanks sort of growl—before it started talking again.

"Do not—"

But then Harry sat bolt upright, his entire body tense—because in that brief
moment of quietness, the short span of time in which neither of them were
speaking just now, he'd noticed—

"Oh my God—Riddle—listen!" They both fell silent, and Harry held his
breath in anticipation…but he hadn't imagined it, it was true. He smiled so
broadly that his face hurt.

"The parseltongue! It's…It's…"

 …gone.

Harry James Potter was gone.

For days, now, Voldemort had cast himself into seclusion to this landscape of
white and nothing but white. This terrain, this unforgiving climate which
consumed everything that dwelled within its borders… Just as it had
extinguished the fiendfyre, had swallowed it whole and left nothing behind as
though it had never been…

As though he had never been…

…was this how a Dark Lord grieved?

He reached into his robes, and extracted his wand…his wand. He had been
carrying it on his person ever since…

Holly. Eleven inches. Relatively supple. Phoenix feather core.

The same phoenix.

His old wand's other half.

He held it in his deformed hands, his mutilated fingers… the biting cold of
this place had turned them black, darkened them, tainted them with death
that could not touch him…

He dropped the holly wand to the ground, and the whiteness immediately
claimed it for its own. In moments it was gone, buried, vanished…

As though it had never been…

But he had a new wand, now… A better one, a stronger one…

He looked back down to his empty, denigrated hands… He had…destroyed

his body, being here, in this place…

Yet he endured.
Against the very laws of nature, he remained standing. Even with a body that
by all rights should have perished long ago, he persisted, persevered, lived…

Because Lord Voldemort was eternal.

He would craft a new body. Not like he was before; he would not resurface
from this devastation as the wizard who had been resurrected in a graveyard,
born of his father's bone and his servant's limb and—

No.

He would create a new form. A better form, a stronger form. The world
would see his face and look into his eyes and they would see the hatred there
and they would drown in it. He would wrap his hardened fingers around
Britain and claim it. He would cleanse it of the mudbloods and the traitors
and the opposition. He would purify it of the muggles and the filth. The
streets of London would bleed crimson…and it would be beautiful.

He would heal.

He would rise again.

There would be retribution.

 12. Pyres

Three days.

For three days he wandered in this world of white, where the wind forever
sings the song of his precious soul's death. For three days, he had been gone
from his followers—without a word, without notice, without instruction…

Would they think him fallen, again?

Would they think him truly dead, this time?

He snapped his wand into pieces.

The old wand, the yew wand. The wand deprived of its other half. He
extracted the feather from its core and dropped the broken fragments of wood
to the ice and snow. The feather from a phoenix...that phoenix. That same
phoenix.

It took him to it.

The creature was…glorious.

The crimson bird took in the sight of his blackened, frostbitten body and
cried. He heard its musical lament and saw the sorrow in the depth of its
obsidian eyes for the loss of its master, a loss that it would carry for the rest
of its immortal life, and for the first time the Dark Lord understood empathy.

He would grant it mercy.

They say it is a great sin, to slay a unicorn.

 They say it is an atrocity, to kill something so pure, so innocent… That to
drink its blood will save you from the brink of death, but that the moment the
liquid touches your lips, you will live a half-life…a cursed life…

They say nothing of what it means to kill a phoenix.

To take the life of the eternal. No one has ever accomplished such an
impossible feat, would even think to try. But the ability of Lord Voldemort
knows no bounds, bows to no laws, conforms to no boundaries…

He drank its tears and drained it of its blood.

He consumed its heart.

…Such power.

Such ancient, pure magic. It ignited in him.

It was the healing fire.

It brought his frozen limbs back to life in a burning, scorching pyre.

It was…glorious.

…Would his followers—his faithful Death Eaters, those who had confessed
their undying loyalty unto him time and time again—would they recognize
him, now, in this new body? In this resurrected form?

He came forth from the ashes. He extracted the Elder Wand and held it
reverently in his hands; hands that felt infinitely stronger than they ever had
in his previous life. His eyes, his red, red eyes, were smoldering like embers,
alight with that immortal fire, that eternal flame.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.

When Harry awoke, it was with a smile on his face.

He practically jumped out of bed, laughing, startling awake an instantly

crabby Draco Malfoy. The blonde shot up, too, looking shocked and
confused and fearful—

"Mee-ahh!" he screeched as he looked wildly up at Harry, which was a noise

that he could only assume was supposed to mean 'What?', or 'What
happened?', or, perhaps, 'Who died?'

"It's gone," Harry said breathlessly, placing both his hands on Draco's
shoulder in his overzealous excitement.

"Gone!"

Draco gawked at him, and the sight of him in combination with his recent,
happy discovery made Harry laugh even harder. Malfoy's hair was
completely disheveled, his eyes just slightly out of focus, like he was still half
asleep, and there were defined creases on the side of his face where he'd been
buried into a pillow moments before.

"Gone!" Harry repeated, shaking his shoulders violently. But before Malfoy
could try to formulate a proper response to that (or even attempt to push him
off), Harry was running for the door, sprinting. What time was it? He
checked his watch—seven in the morning—that was late enough, wasn't it?
He was practically leaping down the hall as he headed towards the master
suite, and it was the closest that he'd ever been to behaving like a small child
on Christmas morning should act.

"Professor!" he called, unable to help himself. He felt more elated than he

had ever felt since he'd arrived at this house. He turned a corner, taking in
another deep breath to call again—

"Pro—"

And then nearly collided with the man himself. Severus Snape was already
awake, but Harry was too excited to be startled by his usual silent, jarring
appearance-

"It's gone," he said again, still grinning widely. "The parseltongue, it's gone."
His eyes flickered down to Snape's arm, unsure if he should ask—

But he didn't have to. Snape, to his surprise, pulled the sleeve of his robe up
to reveal what was only a faint, pale outline of the Dark Mark. Harry's smile
somehow broadened even more at the sight, at the confirmation that it
represented, and when he looked back up at Snape's face it was to see that
almost-smile there again.

"Yes. I know."

And if they were any other two individuals in the entire world, this would
have been the moment where they hugged, embracing each other as two
brethren who had now weathered the worst of a deadly, violent storm—

But this was Harry Potter and Severus Snape, and a line had to be drawn
somewhere. They both came to this semi-conclusion at the same time, it
seemed, and became extremely uncomfortable…especially as they
simultaneously recalled their last encounter…which had been days ago.
Harry cleared his throat, wondering what he should say, now, as they stood
there uneasily in the hallway…

"Hooray." Draco's voice, deep and cracking with drowsiness, disrupted the
silence. They both turned to see him shuffling towards them. Malfoy bumped
into Harry's shoulder as he passed, making his way slowly and ungracefully
towards the kitchen. His next words were spoken under influence of a long,
drawn out yawn as he stretched his arms over his head.

"Yooou're dead."

His voice straightened out and his arms dropped.

"Again."

And without a backwards glance towards either of them, he shoved the

kitchen door open with a thud…and when Harry glimpsed back up at Snape's
face, he thought he caught the tail-end flicker of a real smile.

"So… Does this mean we'll start Occlumency lessons, then, Professor?"

The three supposedly deceased wizards were gathered in the kitchen. Draco,
amazingly, had actually made tea for all of them, without even being told to
—a true testament to his adjustment to this living arrangement. Or to the fact
that he was still moderately terrified of Harry and not in the mood to be hit
with another stinging hex by Snape, and thus willing to be polite so that he
might be in their good graces.

"No," Snape answered at once. Harry's face fell. "…Not yet," he finished, his
tone a bit less harsh.

Harry scratched at his head, grimacing at the aggravating feeling in his

thoughts. "But…why not?"

Snape took a long sip of tea before responding, looking deeply

contemplative. Harry and Draco waited before he finally spoke in a
measured, nearly academic tone.

"It is my belief that, while this is most assuredly a sign that he is giving up
hope, we are not quite…out of the woods yet." He took another sip, and
Harry was practically vibrating in his seat with impatience. Snape slowly set
his cup down on the table.

"What d'you mean?" he finally spluttered out, unable to just wait quietly for
him to continue.

"…Sir?"

Snape looked up at him with an impassive, blank expression.

"Think…of a cat," he eventually said.

Harry blinked, and, glancing across the table, saw that Draco shared his
puzzled sentiments. "A…a cat?"

"Yes. A cat who has been pursuing a mouse. And, as mice tend to do when
they are being hunted, it has scurried into a hole in the wall, where it hides,
safe and sound… So long as it remains in its haven."

Harry swallowed but nodded, not particularly liking where this analogy was
going. "And so the cat stalks outside of the entrance, prowling back and forth,
biding its time… But cats are excellent hunters, intelligent, and, eventually, it
realizes—'the mouse will never expose itself if it knows I am here.' And so
the cat slinks away, makes a great show of its supposed withdrawal…"

He trailed off here, pausing to take another sip of his tea…

"And then…?" Harry eventually prompted, though he already knew how this
story would end.

"You know precisely how this tale unfolds," Snape said aptly. "The mouse
eventually resurfaces. The cat, having been waiting silently, just out of sight
near the entrance, attacks and catches its prey."

Draco cocked an eyebrow humorlessly at Harry. "I think you're the mouse,"
he added, quite unnecessarily. Harry glowered at him.

"We all are," Snape muttered, making Draco direct his attention back to him.

"Well, what does that mean for us, then?" Harry asked.

Snape deliberated for a moment, and the long pauses between responses was
really starting to become irritating. "…It means that I believe this may be a…
temporary reprieve. He is smart. He is cunning. If there is any shred of hope
in him left at all, even the tiniest bit, he will proceed to lull you into a false
sense of security, and then strike again. He will attempt to catch you off
guard, to trick you with his lure when you aren't prepared for it." His eyes
narrowed slightly in Harry's direction, a bit accusatory in their nature.

"So be prepared for it."

Harry drank some of his own tea, trying not to groan. His brows were
furrowed thoughtfully as he lowered his mug. "How…how can you sound so
sure, that that's what he'll do?"

Snape shrugged. "It's what I would do," he responded…a bit too casually,
Harry thought. "But he may not. It is difficult to divine how the Dark Lord
will deal with loss. He never has before."

This time, it was Draco who frowned incredulously. "You…you make it

sound like…" His gaze flickered to Harry for a moment, before returning to
Snape, "…like he…misses him, or something."

"Do I?" Snape responded in a completely deadpan, emotionless tone. His face
was a stone mask, totally undecipherable.

"What a strange and unheard of concept, Draco."

Neither Malfoy nor Harry knew how to interpret or respond to that (though
Harry had to resist the overwhelming urge to simply slide off of his chair and
hide under the kitchen table, away from Draco's curious stare, never to be
seen or heard from again). They fell into silence, and, eventually, Snape
stood.

"I have business to attend to," he announced curtly. "Do not disturb me unless
there is an emergency."

And then he swept from the room, leaving the two teenagers to speculate
wildly about what 'business' Snape could possibly be attending to within the
confines of his bedroom at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But then Harry suddenly realized something.

He waited until Snape had gotten a decent head start, so that he could jump
up and desert Draco in the kitchen, alone. He caught him just as he had
entered the drawing room.

"Wait! Professor?"
Snape paused, turning around on the spot to face him in an oddly graceful,
fluid motion. He didn't say anything, just raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"How—" Harry felt his face beginning to burn again, and he had to wet his
suddenly dry lips before he could get the words out— "How- you said- his
lure…" He cleared his throat, hating that his face was growing even hotter,
willing it to stop—

"…I only said I could hear him, is all."

Snape almost imperceptibly tilted his head at him, his dark gaze fluttering for
a moment down to the center of Harry's chest before returning to his face,
which may or may not have been on fire at this point. "How did I know that
he was beckoning to you with some sort of indescribable summons?
Something…alluring, and which you clearly find embarrassing to admit?"
Harry's throat felt like it had just swollen shut in shame. Snape smirked. "I
hardly need legilimency to interpret your abysmally obvious body language."

How deeply Harry regretted coming after him to ask. But he'd been worried
—terrified, really—of the possibility that Snape had been lying to him, that
he really was able to hear his thoughts, after all, and that he'd heard the
conversations he'd been having with…himself? In the dead of night, and he'd
had to know—

Obviously, his fears were for naught, and this was not the case.

Snape fixed him with a dark, scrutinizing stare. But he looked…conflicted.

Like he was very firmly on the fence about whether or not he wanted to prod
Harry further about this, to demand that he tell him in explicit detail what the
parseltongue was actually like, what was actually happening…and simply not
wanting to know. At all.

Harry did what was probably the most spineless thing in response to that
unbearably accurate accusation before Snape could make up his mind.

He just turned and walked away. Quickly.

Retreat, full-blown retreat, without even an attempt at a retort or a single
word of defiant denial, and Harry liked to think that Godric Gryffindor
himself probably would have done the same thing in that situation.

Snape didn't pursue him. To say that he was relieved would be a monstrously
vast understatement.

Harry decided to take a break from the piano.

After the last time he had played it…well. He couldn't explain what
happened, actually. The only reason he knew anything strange had occurred
at all was because of Malfoy, and…he said he'd played…he'd said it was…
good…

Harry couldn't remember.

So, he thought that maybe he was just overdoing it with the piano playing,
and that a bit of an intermission would be a good idea.

…Which left him with precious few options for things to do.

He and Draco had already exhausted the topic of conversation of 'what

'business' do you think Snape is attending to?', because neither of them had
the foggiest idea. Malfoy seemed resigned to believe that he was lying; that
he was really just sleeping all day because he was so magically drained, but
wanted to sound like he was doing important, crucial things, nonetheless.

Harry remembered vividly how Snape had taunted Sirius for being locked up,
here, in this very house, for that very reason. He felt a tangle of emotion
threaten to unravel in his chest at the thought, and for perhaps the first time
ever, he was inclined to agree with Draco Malfoy.

And so they read.

And read.
And….read.

And this time it was Harry who was sighing theatrically into the silence of
the large, impressive room which was the library.

"…What're you reading about?" he finally asked. Draco looked up, and Harry
was sure that, were he not still suffering the aftershock of having so recently
been verbally abused straight into the wall, he may not have answered.

As it was…he shut the book.

"Wandless magic."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. Why hadn't he thought of that? He'd been reading
about the history of the first Wizarding War all day (which, while
Grindelwald's reign of terror was somewhat, morbidly fascinating, it was
doing little to boost his morale).

"Yeah?" he asked. "Have you managed to learn anything, can you—"

Draco made a snorting noise that answered his questions before they were
even asked. "No. It's ridiculously hard. I haven't managed a single bloody
thing."

…But Harry had. He'd managed to make a tiny storm in the front room,
unintentional as it was. "Can I read that, when you're done?"

Draco groaned in a defeated sort of way. "You can have it now, if you want,"
he said as he tossed it in Harry's direction. "I don't think it'll do any good,
anyway. It's all complicated theory and it's been utterly useless. To me, at
least."

Harry caught the book and began flipping through it once it was in his hands.
It did look daunting, the kind of theoretical, academic text that Hermione
probably had wet dreams about. He set it down next to him, not really in the
mood to try and read something which would require a dictionary every few
passages to properly understand.
"Ugh… This place is horribly boring, isn't it?"

Draco nodded—but then, quite suddenly, he sat up straight, and there was a
spark in his eye that caught Harry's attention at once.

...Apprehensively so.

Malfoy's leering demeanor was back in full force. His steely gaze was
glittering mischievously, and it was aimed right at Harry.

"Where's that snitch?"

They stood across from each other with unwavering, hostile stares. They
were both tired and sweaty, their breathing labored with exertion. The box on
the ground between them was shifting as its imprisoned victim fought
desperately for freedom, flinging itself against the walls of its confinement—
but they paid it no mind.

…For the moment.

"Five seconds, this time."

Harry nodded.

Draco stepped forward and lifted the box.

The snitch was off in a flash of gold. It zoomed away in a chaotic zig-zag,
over the shelves and to the west side of the library—

"One…"

Their eyes followed it as it shot to the other side of the room—

"Two…"

And back again—

"Three…"

Up, down, beside that giant chest—

"Four…"

Harry's entire body was coiled and tense—

"Five!"

They bolted at the exact same moment. The snitch sensed the onslaught of its
predators at once—it shot upwards, feigning left before turning right at a
dangerously high velocity. It was getting better at tricking them, and Draco
snarled as his fingers closed around empty air rather than the prize—

Harry smirked, lunging forward—but it had fooled him, too; he'd been so
focused on catching it as it escaped from Malfoy's grasp that he'd missed the
tossed aside, cardboard box completely—he stumbled to one side, cursing as
the snitch darted away. It flew under a table, and—

He and Malfoy both dove in the same instant, but all was lost. Harry had
physical advantages in many respects, but he was still unused to his broader
shoulders, his stronger build, while Draco, on the other hand, was as narrow
and slim as he'd always been, and he slipped under the table with a finesse
that Harry couldn't keep up with.

"Fuck!" he shouted at the same time that Draco yelled,

"Yes!"

Harry scrambled to his feet, slamming his hands down angrily on the table
which Malfoy currently laid under, flat on his back with the struggling snitch
in his hand. He was laughing victoriously through his strenuous breathing.

"Ten million points to Slytherin!" he boomed joyously as he got to his feet,

pumping his fist holding the forlorn snitch up in the air. It fluttered its wings
sullenly, acting utterly defeated—which it should have, seeing as it had now
been caught no less than thirteen times in the past forty-five minutes alone.
"And the crowd goes wild, as Draco Malfoy once more defeats the Boy-Who-
Lived, the Gryffindor Golden child—"

"Shut up!" Harry spat, swiping at him—who was absolutely expecting it, and
danced out of the way at once.

"And what's this? He misses—again—he's really lost his touch, ladies and—
ah!"

This time, Harry caught him by the shoulder. With one forceful push, Malfoy
was shoved against a bookshelf, causing several large, heavy tomes to fall to
the ground at his feet.

But before Malfoy could even begin to be scared for his life again, Harry had
turned away, gone to retrieve the box. "We're going again," he muttered
scathingly.

Malfoy smirked. "I don't want to."

Harry's eye twitched violently. He'd known that's what he would say, because
for once, for the first time ever in their entire, rivalrous relationship—

"I won."

The current score was six to seven…and Malfoy was in the lead.

"We're going…" Harry picked up the box and held it aloft, glaring, "…
again."

Draco shook his head, still grinning.

"Nope."

"Yes."

"No, thanks. I'll just take my metaphorical trophy and be done."

"Coward."

"A triumphant one."

…Silence, in which Harry had to resist the very powerful urge to cross the
room and punch him in the gut.

"One more go, and…if you win, I'll…" He racked his brains, trying to think
of something with which he could barter that Malfoy would be interested
in… The Slytherin waited, looking expectant…

"…I'll share the Firewhisky I have stashed away with you."

Draco's leering expression dissipated at once, and he looked like Harry had
just told him that, yes, there was a God, after all.

"You have booze?" he all but sighed. Harry sniggered.

"I do."

"But—how? Where?" It was less of a question and more of a demand.

"Ron brought it to me a while ago. And I hid it somewhere so that even

Snape won't be able to find it (Harry made a mental to immediately relocate
the bottle from the bottom of his trunk to a better hiding spot the next time
Malfoy was in the shower).

Draco's nostrils flared like he thought he really was a dragon, attempting and
failing to breathe out flames. "Weasley," he fumed. "I asked him weeks ago
to sneak in some alcohol! I offered to pay him loads more than it was worth
—"

Harry laughed far louder than was necessary. "You what?" he shouted. "You
tried to bribe Ron in to doing a favor for you?" He laughed again, and Draco
looked fiercely sour. "I'm sorry, I don't care how broke he is or how much
money you've got, there aren't enough galleons in the world to make that
happen."
"Well, my options for bribery were pretty fucking limited," Malfoy spat.
"And I wasn't about to ask the m—" He stopped, faltering for just a fraction
of a second—but a fraction of a second was all it took. They both registered
what it was he had almost said.

Harry's smile vanished. Draco left his statement unfinished.

"I'll share, if you win," Harry reiterated in a much colder voice.

Draco looked down at the snitch, which had long since stopped making any
attempts at escape. "And…if you win?"

Harry bit his lower lip and he contemplated that. Draco looked…worried.

"I don't want anything from you," he finally said, to Malfoy's visible surprise.
"Just knowing that I beat you is enough for me. So really, you have nothing
to lose."

"…We'd only be tied, if you won this round," Draco pointed out.

Harry's eye twitched again. It was becoming a fairly regular tick, given the
company. "Right," he agreed, irritated. "Right, guess we'll have to go twice,
then."

"Unless I win."

Harry exhaled audibly.

"…Unless you win," he agreed with ire in his voice.

It was settled. The snitch was once more placed under the box.

"Ten seconds, this time."

Draco tossed the small, golden globe under the box, and Harry was ready,
slamming it down over it at once. It immediately began zipping around,
smacking into the cardboard walls—they waited for a few moments, letting it
build up steam—
Then Harry lifted the box, and they took their pre-determined positions
across from one another.

"Ten…nine…"

The snitch zipped up and down, frantic—

"Eight… seven…"

It banged into the wooden chest—it was really panicky, this time—

"Six…five…"

It headed east, towards the far end of the room—

"Four… three…"

It was beating against the door, like it just knew that freedom from the library
was on the other side—

"Two…"

Harry and Draco's focus betrayed them as they heard it—with a rapid fire rap
rap rap, the snitch had caused the slightly unhinged door to open wider—a
crack became visible and it got out—

Malfoy took off at that moment, a second too early.

Down the hall soared the snitch, flying at breakneck speed now that it was
finally out of the confines of the study. It zoomed around a corner, past the
curtained portrait of Sirius's mother—

"You cheat!" Harry roared at Draco's back, murder in his voice.

Well, if Malfoy was going to play dirty, Harry thought, he would, too.

He lunged just as Draco was reaching for the snitch, about to claim it—he
propelled himself forward like a slingshot, so that he collided into his
backside, causing them both to stagger as the snitch got away.

"Ack! You—" Draco spat and as he haphazardly tried to remain on his feet.
He clung instinctively to the heavy drapes at his side, but Harry's momentum
was too great, and they fell forward in a chaotic, jumbled heap, Malfoy
dragging the curtain open along with him as they went—they slammed
violently to the floor—

There was a very still, tense pause in which it was deathly silent. Harry and
Draco gaped up at the face of Lady Black with wide, horror-filled eyes, and
the portrait was momentarily so stunned at her sudden reawakening, her
unexpected revealing into the hall of her great house, that she just stared
down at Draco and Harry with a similarly bewildered look in her gaunt face-

Harry reached very, very gradually for the curtain, as if, just maybe, she
didn't actually see them, and that he could close it without any repercussions
if he just…moved…slowly…enough….

She blinked. He braced himself.

"Filth!" she screeched, and the fabric ripped out of his hand, her wrath in full
force. "Half-bloods in my home! Desecrating my halls!"

"Malfoy—help me, you prat!" Harry shouted over the screaming, as he had
jumped to his feet, attempting to close the heavy drapes. It was not easy.
Lady Black exerted all of her cursed force into keeping them open, so that
she could inform the entire wizarding world just how she felt about Harry
Potter being in her home—

"Vile, disgusting abominations! Horrid scum of the Earth!"

Malfoy finally sprung up, grabbing the other curtain. Then, with a great
amount of effort, together, they managed to enclose her behind the heavy
fabric once more, and the screaming stopped.

They stood there for a moment in the ringing silence, their chests rising and
falling rapidly with their labored, breathing, staring at one another…
And then they were off.

At the exact same time, they dashed after the still-active snitch, all thoughts
of the screeching portrait of a mad woman immediately forgotten.

They found it in the drawing room. It was zipping about wildly in the air,
rapid circles around the glittering portkey on the mantle—they both jumped,
but this time it was Harry who had the advantage, as he was now the taller of
the two of them. His fingers closed around the fluttering orb while at the
same moment Malfoy's hand closed around his own clenched fist. It had been
very, very close.

"YES!" Harry roared, ripping his hand away from Draco's angry grasp
followed by a "Ha!", right in his furious, pointed face.

"Ten million and one points to Gryffindor!"

Draco looked like he might spit at his feet.

"You're still not winning. We're just tied, now," he reminded him, seething as
he stalked angrily for a few paces.

"…Let's go again."

"Oh, what's this?" Harry gasped in sarcastic, faux-surprise. "Suddenly so

interested in further rounds, now that you know there's Firewhisky within
reach, eh?" Harry let the snitch escape for a moment just so he could catch it
again—it was still struggling frantically. Apparently, getting out of the
library had ignited it with a new sense of vigor.

Malfoy neither confirmed nor denied that statement. "So are we going again,
or what?"

"Oh, I dunno…" Harry let the snitch get away, snatching it again a second
later.

"Yes."
"Maaaybe…"

"Just a moment ago, that was all you wanted to do!"

"Was it? I'm not so certain, anymore…"

"Tck," Malfoy spat resentfully. "You're like a woman."

Harry nearly lost the snitch at that comment.

"What?"

"So indecisive, so all over the place with your crazy mood swings—so
feminine—is that why you wear a necklace?" he drawled, his eyes flickering
to Harry's chest.

Harry's free hand instantly fluttered to the locket, which had, in fact, come
out from under his shirt when they'd tumbled to the floor. He hurriedly
tucked it away again, out of sight.

"I'm feminine?" he shouted, feeling oddly defensive of the silver charm

around his neck and wanting desperately to divert Malfoy's attention away
from it. "You're one to talk! For as much as you yell at me for taking long
showers, you spend about three times as long in the bathroom doing your hair
—"

Draco's face began to redden. "I do not—"

"Yes you do." Harry cut him off with a vindictive snarl. "I know you do,
because you don't have a wand to do it all proper and fast anymore. Really,
Malfoy, why do you bother? Who are you trying to impress—me, or Snape?"

"Definitely not Professor Snape."

…It was Snape.

He did not look pleased.

Harry and Draco both jumped at his sudden presence. Harry immediately hid
the struggling snitch behind his back.

"What in Merlin's name were you two doing?" the older man asked in a soft,
lethal hiss. Not only did Snape not look pleased, he looked…dreadful. There
were dark, heavy bags under his eyes, and he was paler than usual, like he
hadn't slept in days—which was odd, wasn't it? He'd looked fine just this
morning—

"Nothing," they both answered, much too quickly.

Snape glared. He looked first at Harry, then at Draco…then slowly back to

Harry again…

"It sounded like a stampede of hippogriffs sprinting down the hall, and you
woke the bloody portrait." At those words, Harry felt an unexpected surge of
the itchiness in his mind, and his grasp on the snitch loosened just slightly—

It was out of his hands in an instant, but Harry's reflexes were equally fast.
The moment it slipped away, he snatched it back again, the movement
snappish and quick. It was rather like a toad flicking out its tongue to catch a
fly; a cracked whip, out and back in a fraction of a second—

Harry swiftly put his arm behind his back again, as if maybe he had been so
fast that Snape might've missed the whole thing.

…He hadn't.

The Potions Master looked murderous. Harry let out a tiny, nervous laugh.

"Give me…"

Snape extended his arm slowly, his palm facing upwards—

"…The snitch."
"But—"

He pulled his wand out with his other hand.

"Now."

Harry looked to Malfoy pleadingly for a moment, as if for some kind of

support—and if that wasn't strange enough in and of itself, he actually got it.

"But Professor, it's his!" Draco whined. And while Harry knew that it was for
his own self-serving purposes that he didn't want their ex-professor to
confiscate the snitch, it was still quite bizarre.

"Now," Snape repeated, and, this time, his tone was so cold that Harry
thought he might have actually broken out into goosebumps. He and Draco
shared a miserable expression before Harry, as slowly as he dared, held the
snitch out in front of him.

For a moment, he thought he might purposefully loosen his grip just a

moment too soon—let the struggling little ball 'accidentally' slip from his
grasp and go soaring away again, and wouldn't that be brilliant? To watch
Snape try and catch a snitch? But then he glanced up at his ex-professor's
ashen face, saw those purple and blue bags under his eyes which gave one the
impression that he was completely drained, and tired, and stressed—and
Harry knew it was all because of him… all for him, really, though that
concept was still baffling—and he couldn't do it.

Snape closed his fingers around the fidgety ball, and without another word,
left the room.

His robes didn't even billow. Harry felt a powerful wave of guilt.

"Welp," Malfoy muttered gloomily after he'd gone, flinging himself down on
the couch.

"That killed an hour."

"So…are you going to leave me, now?"

The rest of the day had passed uneventfully, and when Harry and Draco went
to sleep that night, it was in a mutually shared, silent atmosphere.

The cupboard, too, was quiet. With the parseltongue gone, the tiny enclosure
was eerily still.

"Do you…want me to leave?" The arms around him loosened slightly. He

sounded…dejected. Sad, even.

"No!" Harry answered at once, pulling the arms tighter around him again.
"No, I just—I wasn't sure if you would disappear, now that the parseltongue
is gone. I thought that maybe I only conjured you up to deal with that, or
something, and that…that you'd…"

"I won't leave you," he replied, and Harry felt an absurdly powerful wave of
relief. "I'll stay with you as long as you want me to."

Harry grinned.

"Good…because Snape seems to think that it may come back, anyway."

Harry nearly shuddered in his embrace. "That…that this may be a ruse, that
it's a trap…"

"Hm." Riddle seemed to mull that over for a second. "Yes. I could see that."

A long, drawn out pause. Harry was unaccustomed to the silence. It made
him anxious.

"I like you, Harry," Riddle said, as though he sensed his wariness. "I like
hearing what you have to say. Listening to your thoughts, your dreams, your
hopes. You have a beautiful mind."

That was…an odd thing for his sub-conscious to say, he thought. And…and
why did he feel so bashful, at those words? "Aren't you…a part of that?"

It laughed—a soft, quiet sound that was much gentler than it'd been before.
"Yes. I suppose I am."

Harry looked over his shoulder again. He still couldn't see him. It was…
annoying.

"Have you ever been in love, before?"

Well, that question certainly caught him off guard. "Er…what? In love?"

"Yes."

"Uh…no," Harry said slowly. "And I don't exactly ever see that happening
for me, either."

"Why not?"

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, let's see," He muttered. "Well, I am
currently trapped in a house with only two other individuals, for I don't even
know how long—probably forever, with my luck—nearly the entire world
thinks I'm dead, and, oh yeah, I'm being hunted by the most powerful, deadly,
and insane dark wizard in existence." Harry sighed as he finished.

"Doesn't sound like romance will fit in to my life much anywhere, don't you
think?"

"You never know," the voice disagreed lightly. "But for conversation's sake
—let's say the war ends, and you emerge victorious. And you have a chance
at a normal life. A safe life. The life you've always been denied." A pause.

"…What kind of person would you envision yourself with?"

Harry but his lip ponderingly. He thought of the one and only person he'd felt
some kind of attraction to, before…before everything. Cho Chang, and her
pretty face and sleek, shining black hair… He had thought she was good-
looking, had felt embarrassed and flustered around her…

But once he'd gotten to know her a little bit… Well, maybe it was unfair, how
their semi-relationship had unfolded. Cedric dying, and then he, Harry, really
just not being able to handle other people's emotions—he could hardly deal
with his own—and while he thought her quite nice to look at, had enjoyed
kissing her (in his dream world, as least, when she hadn't been crying for
once) there was something that just wasn't there.

There was no explosive fire, no sensation like he'd been struck by lightning
or was burning up from the inside out—and there was definitely not that kind
of sensual, appealing draw to her that he had felt when he'd heard—

Harry shook his head, wanted to smack himself in the face. "I don't think
there's anyone for me," he concluded sullenly.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because there just isn't."

"You know you don't need to be secretive to me," he said a bit chidingly.
"You would only be lying to yourself, and that's really not healthy."

"Hm." Harry frowned, considering that statement.

"I…I don't know. I thought I knew what I liked, before my life became the
horrible mess that it is, now. I thought I liked dark-haired, Ravenclaw girls.
Girl, rather. And I did, I guess. But..."

"…But?"

"But…I didn't know…" Harry struggled to figure out how to put these
thoughts into words. It wasn't easy.

Riddle waited.

"…I didn't know…just… I really wish I had never been able to understand—
never even heard—parseltongue. It just does something to me that…er…"

"That turns you on?" he finished bluntly.

Harry groaned. "It does," he lamented. "I'm sure there's a lot more to it than
that, which I do not want to think about, but there it is. And it's like nothing
else, none of the other things that I used to find... Well, they just don't do it
for me anymore." He laughed humorlessly.

"Kind of eradicates the dating pool to a sole total of one person, unless there
are some other heirs of Slytherin running around in secret. And, somehow, I
just don't see a relationship blossoming between me and my horrifying ex-
captor who I am currently in hiding from, who would sooner lock me in a
box than anything else, as well as kill all of my friends and countless
innocents, who killed my parents—who I hate—hate, hate, hate—hate!—and
—"

He paused for a second, thinking- "…And…isn't he like, seventy years old,

or something?"

…As if that was really a point of contention compared to everything else he'd
just listed.

"Seventy one, actually," Riddle said, chuckling. "Yes, I think someone

younger—and a bit less lethal—would be a better fit for you, Harry."

Harry laughed, too. "Oh, just a bit less lethal?"

"Just a bit."

"Ha. Yeah. Well. I'm pretty sure I'm committing myself to a life of
abstinence, then. But if you happen to find some younger, less insane
parselmouth out there who doesn't want to damn me to a life of horrible
containment, you just let me know."

Another bout of soft, endearing laughter.

"Oh, I will."

The next day was relatively uneventful.

Snape, perhaps because he was still angry about the whole snitch fiasco, or
perhaps because he was exhausted, did not make an appearance.

Malfoy, he couldn't help but note, did not, for the first time, bother to make
his hair slick and perfect. A new behavioral action which had nearly cost him
dearly. Harry had just moved the Firewhisky from his trunk to the interior of
the body of the piano, tucked in the corner of the massive, hollow instrument
where it would not disturb the chords, when Malfoy had unexpectedly
resurfaced from the bathroom much quicker than usual with damp,
disheveled, blonde locks (Harry, however, chose to still indulge in
unnecessarily long showers. He had already accepted that this was now a new
habit which he had formed for life).

The only interesting thing that happened was that Draco had found himself a
new hobby.

Writing.

Harry didn't notice when he'd started; he was just about to attempt playing the
piano again, to give it another go, when he had looked up, and there was
Malfoy, scribbling away in a book…

Curious, Harry stealthily sat up straighter, craning his neck higher to see if he
could make out what it was he was writing about (and reminding himself
very much of Aunt Petunia as he did)—but Draco's steely gaze noticed the
gradual movement, and he snapped the journal shut at once.

And then Harry's heart skipped a beat.

That journal.

That diary.

It looked exactly—it was the exact same kind of diary that he had once
written in himself. That Ginny Weasley had written in. That he had stabbed a
basilisk fang in to, that had once belonged to—

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

But Draco didn't seem to notice his stunned expression; only that he had been
trying to read over his shoulder.

"Don't," he warned simply as he stood, heading over to the desk on the other
side of the room and away from prying eyes.

"Where-where'd you get that?" Harry gawked after him.

"I found it in Regulus Black's bedroom when I was staying in there. Before I
was forced to room with you," he said dismissively. "Guess he never used it,
though. He only got so far as to write his name on the front page."

Draco sat at the desk with his back to him, and continued to write.

Harry just stared, silently. And it was the strangest thing, because he
suddenly felt a nearly overwhelming sense of loss—of terrible sadness, of
grief—

But…why? That wasn't so odd, was it? That diary, that sort of book, it was
just a standard, typical journal for students, wasn't it? Lots of people probably
had that very same one…

So why did he feel so thunderstruck about this? He watched the back of

Malfoy's blonde head, could see the corner of the little black book as he
wrote…

'The things we lose have a way of coming back to us, in the end…'

Why would Luna Lovegood's voice come to him now, over this, at the
thought of—

'…If not always in the way we expect.'

Harry looked back down to the piano keys at his fingertips. He suddenly felt
wrong, so very wrong; his stomach was twisted into tightly coiled knots, and
as he wet his lips he felt bile rising in the back of his throat, acidic and
nauseating. He thought he might really be sick.
Shaking his head, he stood. His hands were trembling.

He decided not to play.

Desperate for a distraction from this strange jumble of emotions in his heart,
Harry eventually resumed scouring his discarded book from yesterday about
the first Wizarding War…where, after a few hours of tireless, forced reading,
he found himself wondering whether there was ever any real victor, in a war,
if there was ever any true justification for the actions of either side…and
what the words 'For The Greater Good' really meant.

That night, in the quiet confines of his dreams, Snape's premonition was to
come to fruition.

"You've stopped playing."

Riddle's voice sounded darker. It was lower, colder. Like something…was

wrong.

"Sorry?" Harry asked. "What… what are you talking about?"

"…The piano," he clarified.

A pause.

"…You've stopped playing."

Harry was silent for a moment. It felt like he was being accused of a very
serious, detrimental crime.

"I… yeah. Because, well… I played the other day, and… Well, I think maybe
I was overdoing it… Malfoy said it was good but… I don't remember."

The arms around him tensed, much tighter than usual.

"I did that for you."

"…What?" Why did he feel so…so nervous, now? Almost—

"I found the song. Here, in your dreams. I heard it; I saw you play, I felt it in
your heart…how badly you wanted to make it real… I just connected the
dots. It's all here, you know. Every note, every stanza. But it was out of your
reach; that dream song. So I brought it forth for you. I was your conduit."

Harry was utterly speechless. The silence was smothering.

"…I thought you would like it. I thought it would make you happy."

Was he…offended?

…Hurt?

"…I…how…"

Still, he had no words. He didn't understand, Harry only knew that, for the
first time in the presence of his imagined entity that he felt…scared.

"I've been looking through your memories, Harry. Your soul is…so
beautiful." He pulled him closer, and Harry was beginning to feel ensnared,
trapped. "It's like your every thought is gilded. They blend together so
perfectly, so intricately… It's almost like they were meant to be that way.
Interwoven like that. One."

"…What are you talking about?" Harry's voice was barely a whisper.

"His soul. Your soul," he sighed, and Harry felt his blood run cold. "It's not
some superimposed fragment; it's a part of you. It's an extension of you."

At that, Harry found his voice. It came out raspy and strangled.

"That's not-not what he told me," he choked out as he remembered that first
conversation he'd had with Lord Voldemort, in that dream world where he'd
been unable to even move. "H-he said that I was- I was an extension of him
—"
"He would say it like that, wouldn't he?" Riddle sounded almost amused.
"But he was wrong. Or being willfully ignorant. It is an extension of you,
Harry… You have a whole soul, a pure soul, and that fragment… It latched
on to you, made a home in your heart and became a part of you… It was only
a fraction of what you are, of what it once was. Lord Voldemort does not
have an entire soul."

A beat of silence.

"…You do."

He sounded…oddly bitter.

"What…what does that mean?"

"It means everything."

Harry thought to struggle, to pull away, but found that his shell-shocked body
would not cooperate. He was frozen in this conversation, paralyzed by it, and,
as he glanced about the small, dark cupboard, its walls shimmering with the
Occlumency barriers, he realized there was nowhere he could go to get away,
anyway. Even if he'd tried.

He was trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped.

"So I've been exploring your dreams, diving into your memories…your
hopes, your fears, your desires… Trying to piece together the mystery of it
all. What I could not understand was… How did he not know? How did he
not know what you were at once? In the graveyard, when he regained a
corporal form… He took your blood, he looked into your eyes, he touched
your face, and still, he did not feel it, did not realize… And so I asked myself:
how is it that I could see it so clearly, and he could not?"

Harry remained still, petrified, holding his breath—Riddle began to trail a

hand up and down his arm again, but it did not feel comforting or soothing in
the slightest—
"…And so I answer myself: because of what he has become. Time has
warped him, mutilated him; turned him into a perversion of what he used to
be. He has steeped himself so fully into the Dark Arts that he has no sanity
left, no lucid, rational thought…because why else would he-why would he
perform such monstrous-after he knew what you were, knew you were one of
—" A brief moment of hesitation in which his hand paused, and it was the
only time, ever, that Harry had heard him sound choked up before, consumed
by emotion… But when he spoke next, a few seconds later, it was right back
to its usual, velvety tenor.

"…He has lost himself. And so he would did not think to see his own soul in
you, could not even entertain the idea that something so pure, so whole, could
be a reflection of himself… Not until he possessed your body by force, did he
see it…"

He continued to trail a finger along his side…up and down…up and down…

Harry swallowed, and his throat was inflamed, tight and uncomfortable—

"Wh-what…. What are you…?" he breathed.

…Did he really want to know?

Riddle's arms froze. He waited a long moment, as though he was planning his
next words very carefully.

"…I am a part of you, but…I am more than that… I am just like you. I was
lost in a sea of darkness, until you came along. You brought my world to
life… "

"What—"

And then it happened.

It came from the other side of the barriers like a blaring siren.

'Answer me.'
It was the same parseltongue beckoning—but this time it was not silky and
smooth, it was not a gentle coaxing, that tempting lure—this time it was a
command, absolutely demanding that he answer, and it caught him so off
guard, had struck something so deeply within him that the response was in
his throat completely of its own accord—saying what, he had no idea, it was
just there, on his tongue, a primal, wordless reaction—

But then a hand was over his mouth, stifling the unwitting outcry. "No,"
Riddle was saying into his ear, and he sounded nothing like he ever had
before—

He sounded desperate. He sounded…afraid.

"Stay with me."

'…Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss…'

Harry came back to himself, unsure of how that had nearly just happened. He
focused on the arms around him, tried to concentrate on anything other than
that lure, but it was forcing itself to be heard—

'…Harry Potter…'

"No. Don't listen. Stay with me, stay with me…"

He clung to the English words, though it took so much effort, so much—

And then his back was arching in horrible distress—for Lord Voldemort,
hissing, snarling, lurking outside of the barriers—he had begun to claw at the
walls, unknowingly digging his nails into the Occlumency shields from the
outside; but he couldn't break them, didn't even know what they were…but
Harry felt everything, and it was unbearable. It was worse than pain, far
worse, and if it hadn't been for the arms encircling him and holding his
thrashing body in place he knew, without a doubt, that he would have
shredded the walls down himself, would have done anything, anything to
make it stop—he was clenching his teeth, biting forcefully into the fingers
over his mouth—
"Stay with me," Riddle repeated, over and over again, like a chorus, like a
mantra.

"Stay with me."

…It seemed to go on forever.

But eventually…silence.

A heavy blanket of stillness. Harry's heart was thumping in his chest like a
jackhammer. Riddle held him, and he did not dare to move, was fearful to
even breathe too deeply…

The air remained stagnant…

Was he…was he…

'…Gone.'

They both stiffened at the unexpected sound. For it was unmistakably his
voice… Parseltongue, from the other side of the cupboard door… But he'd
removed his hands from the barrier, was no longer beckoning with that
overwhelming, indescribable lure…

Now, it was just him.

Speaking to a ghost.

'You are gone.'

It sounded so hollow. So utterly hopeless.

Harry would have never thought Lord Voldemort capable of such a tone.

But he and Riddle remained stock still, their hearts in their throats as he kept
his hand firmly clasped around Harry's mouth…

They waited…
Minutes passed, long and heavy, each second containing an eternity of fear…

When he spoke next, it was, once again, vastly different. Not demanding or
beckoning. Not hollow or hopeless. Harry couldn't describe what it was
exactly; it was something wholly new to him, some emotion which he did not
have a name for—but it made him think of burning embers and red, red eyes
—

'I will light a pyre in your name.'

…And then he was gone.

It was intangible, the shift in the atmosphere. Nothing had changed, and yet
everything had changed. Like a subtle breeze over his skin. A nearly
imperceptible coolness, so soft that he may have just completely imagined
it…and then it vanished.

He vanished.

And Harry knew, without a doubt, in the bottom of his tangled, twisted mess
of a heart…that he was gone forever.

Regardless, the two remained motionless and curled up against each other on
the cot for a long time afterwards. Harry's heart was palpating so erratically
he worried it may never beat properly again.

Eventually, finally, Riddle removed his hand from Harry's mouth. Harry ran
his tongue over his top lip apprehensively and tasted blood. Was it his
own…?

And then, inexplicably, a memory came to him.

He thought suddenly of the time that he had been in the graveyard; when he
had been certain he faced death in the form of the newly resurrected Lord
Voldemort… Yet then their wands had connected and the Dark Lord's
victims had risen, had come to his aid so that he might escape the murderous
wizard's grasp…
They weren't…real—nothing can bring the dead back to life, not really, but—
they weren't…not real, either…

Harry then had a moment of indescribable clarity.

It easy to separate everything into two categories—dark or light, good or evil

—real or imaginary—but the truth of the matter is that few things are so cut
and dry, and are not strictly one or the other at all, but somewhere in
between… Yes, there is black and there is white, but there are infinite shades
of gray in between, and really, just because something exists inside one's own
head, why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

"You…you s-saved me…you… are you…" Harry broke the vast stretch of
silence with words that felt fragile and weak; childish, even, but which he
could not help but voice.

"…Are you some kind of angel?"

He turned to see if he would be able to make out a face on his savior, yet…
but no. He saw only darkness. A silhouette in shadows.

Arms wrapped around him again, so warm and soft and now, now they felt
nothing but safe, nothing but protective.

And even though he couldn't see him, he could feel the heat of his breath
against his ear, could just sense the smile that accompanied his response…

"…That…is exactly what I am."

St. Paul's Cathedral stood proud and tall atop Ludgate Hill. The highest
geographical point of London.

It was a lovely structure. Built in the English Baroque style, it was a famous,
iconic symbol of the city for hundreds of years. It was an emblem of faith.
 Of hope.

The building had withstood the devastation of the Blitz in his youth. They
were told it was a miracle. They were told it was a sign. Cut-out, black and
white photographs from old newspapers were shoved under their noses—
images of the Cathedral, unharmed and unscathed among the smoke and
flames and debris—they were held in front of the faces of the orphans, of the
abandoned, the unwanted children of London, and they were told,

'This is proof that God exists.'

The Cathedral had survived the muggle war.

…It would not survive his.

Hundreds and thousands of tourists from all over the world came daily to see
St. Paul's, to enter its doors and behold its beauty…and today, August 6th,
the Feast of the Transfiguration, was no different.

The choral evensong was extraordinarily spectacular in celebration of the

holy day.

The organ was mesmerizing. The choir was captivating. Their voices began
to crescendo in unison as they reached the climax of their hymn, the final
notes of that Song of Peace—the spectators watched in fascination with
widened, spell-bound eyes, the music in the hearts, their souls filled with a
false notion of rapture—

The singing slipped seamlessly into screams.

The walls ignited in flames of black and indigo. The muggles within joined in
the chorus, filling the air with their horrified cries before the last notes of the
organ had even begun to fade.

And he watched.
He and his most faithful observed from the shadows, untouched and unburnt.

The dome above them caved in on itself and fell. The stained glass windows
exploded and littered the ground with prismatic shards in gem-colored hues.

And they screamed.

It was…the most beautiful song.

…They did not endure long. The heat, the smoke, the lack of oxygen.

So weak.

Once they had all perished, he descended upon the center aisle, towards the
nave, his most loyal at his heels…

He hovered above the crumbling altar as he brandished the Elder Wand.

With one, fluid motion, he willed stars into existence. He cradled the cosmos
in his arms, bore constellations between his fingertips. His followers watched
in awe as he so effortlessly controlled the heavens themselves…

He lifted his arms above him, and the brilliant lights rose at his command,
soaring through the hole in the ceiling where the dome once was. Higher and
higher it climbed, until, with a wordless, graceful motion of his wand, they
arranged themselves into that iconic symbol, his symbol…

A snake emerged from within the hollow void in a skull, and the sky bore his
mark.

He folded his hands in front of him.

He closed his eyes, and they waited.

…Like moths, they came to his flame.

That first wave of aurors. Those boldest defenders of the light. They cast their
 protective spells as they arrived—brave, so brave—

The Order of the Phoenix.

The Death Eaters.

How appropriate, these arbitrary names they had chosen for themselves.

Courageous, yes. But they froze in unconcealed terror at the sight before
them.

Lord Voldemort, hovering motionlessly above the crumbling altar of this

fallen place of worship. Above a dozen of his reverent, masked Death Eaters.

Above the hundreds of muggle corpses.

Surrounded on all sides by enchanted, flaming walls, dark fire which was
only being held at bay by his own will, his own power…

He opened his eyes, and they saw him.

Knew him.

It did not matter how he had changed. There was no mistaking such power.
No possibility for misinterpreting who he was as he held his arms out on
either side of him, the Elder Wand intertwined between the fingers of his
right hand. They were paralyzed by the very sight of him, could not even
raise a wand against him in their gripping terror…

He spoke, and they listened.

"This is the beginning."

…And it was the truest sermon St. Paul's Cathedral had ever heard.

They vanished, and the flames exploded in his wake. The entire infrastructure
would be wholly consumed in an unstoppable firestorm of black and violet. A
roaring, sacred inferno, the likes of which London had never seen before…
 and would never see again.

It mattered very little, which of those members of the Order of the Phoenix
managed to save themselves. Those who did would carry his words to the
others on their tongues, and all would know, all would understand.

The message was clear.

This is the beginning.

This is the beginning.

This is the beginning.

 13. Occlumency Trials
For a long time after he awoke, Harry laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling
and not at all feeling like moving. Draco had woken up over an hour ago, but
Harry had feigned sleep so that he would be left alone, desperately craving
some solidarity.

His dreams…his nightmares…

Where did the reality end, and the fantasy begin?

How much…how of what he'd been through in the past year was real?

What would have happened if he'd answered the parseltongue beckon, after
all?

If Voldemort had heard him…how would he know it was real? How could
the Dark Lord be certain that Harry's response was a legitimate one, and not
just some fictional, abstract reply from a ghost in his imagination?

Would he just know? How could he know?

It had been so close… He would have done it, too; he would have responded
and shredded the barriers and then…then… He didn't know what, exactly,
what Voldemort would have done as an intruder into his dream world once
more, but he would probably be thrown right back in that crystal prison
again, where he could hardly move because he had said forever before, and
everything was just white, endless white, and his heart was beginning to
thrum erratically, and he reached his hand up to clutch at his chest and—

The locket.

His fingers closed around the metal charm, and the most divine thing
happened. The mounting panic, the escalating hysteria stopped, was derailed
completely…and was replaced with an odd sense of calm.
Of peace.

…Harry let a slow, steady breath as he tightened his grasp on it. 'It doesn't
matter, what would have happened', he thought to himself firmly. 'It doesn't
matter, because it didn't happen. And it will never happen. He's gone, and
I…'

He thought of his faceless savior, his silhouette in shadows…

I will never leave you.

'I have something…someone looking over me.'

Feeling strangely level-headed now, Harry sat up. It was nearly noon. As
much as he was dreading it, he knew he should tell Snape what happened…in
as much detail as he dared. It would be worth the awkward conversation if it
meant he could be relieved of these damn, foreign mental walls. Snape could
have his energy back, and he could finally have some peace of mind.

Harry, however, did not get the chance to speak with Snape all day. He
waited patiently for him to resurface, passing the time as he usually did—in
the library with Draco—but by late afternoon he was beginning to feel
frustrated.

"Do you think he's really that exhausted?" Harry finally asked, closing his
copy of 'The Rise and Fall of Gellert Grindelwald'. It was a massive book,
and he was already nearly a quarter of the way through it. "Or do you think
he's actually doing things?"

"Dunno," Malfoy said off-handedly. He was scribbling away in the journal

again, and he seemed to be completely absorbed in whatever it was he was
writing about.

Harry sat up a bit straighter. "What if…what if he's actually leaving the
house, somehow?" he ventured.

Draco looked up at that remark, lowering his quill. "What? How would he be
doing that? There’s so many wards on this place it probably rivals Hogwarts'
defensive barriers. He'd have to go to the front doorstep to apparate, at least.
And he's not stupid. If he left, and someone recognized him…"

"Maybe he has Polyjuice Potion. Or uses a glamour, like Hermione."

Malfoy cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

"That would be risky…and complicated…" he murmured, though Harry

could tell by the look on his face he was at least contemplating the idea.
"Why would he do that?"

"To help Ron and Hermione with whatever it is they're searching for,
maybe…"

They'd already discussed at length what these items could possibly be, and
agreed that they must be some kind of powerful weapons. Powerful enough
that they could sway the tides of war in their favor…

But neither of them had any idea what kinds of items could possibly do that.

"…I dunno… I still don't think he would risk leaving the house, at least not
yet, unless it was some kind of emergency," Draco concluded.

Harry got up and stretched, abandoning the heavy tome on the couch.
"Yeah… You're probably right. I was just speculating."

Draco looked so stunned by the fact that Harry Potter had just told him he
was probably right about something that his jaw hung open, useless with
shock. But Harry missed the expression entirely, hadn't even registered that
he'd said such a thing, as his attention was now focused on the piano on the
other side of the room.

Whatever apprehension he'd had about playing the previous afternoon was
completely gone today. He ran his fingers over the keys and, without
hesitation, began to make music.
To really, truly make music.

It came much more easily to him than it ever had before, and he was so
pleasantly surprised by his sudden technique that he felt giddy. It was like
something…like some sort of permanent connection had been made, since
the last time—some kind of muscle memory that was just inexplicably there,
like he'd been practicing for months. And while it wasn't perfect—he would
occasionally hit sour notes, or fumble ineloquently on the more complicated
chords—he thought that, really, that was okay. Better, in fact. The song in his
dreams was so perfect, so pristine, that it was truthfully quite eerie.
Unrealistic.

Unnatural.

But this—the song that he played now…this was real. This was flawed, and
human, and raw. This was his Awake Song, and it was alive with every
tangled, confusing emotion in his heart. And he knew it was all because of
his mysterious, inexplicable savior… He recalled the graveyard again, and
the silvery phantoms of the past that had come to his aid, and he wondered
vaguely if it was, perhaps, the spirit of his Godfather who had come to save
him, this time… Brought forth because he was here, in this house, where
Sirius Black, too, had once been trapped…

The music filled him with hope.

And it made him happy.

For a fraction of a moment, he looked up at the sunflower on top of the piano

—it had long since withered, now more brown than it was yellow—and was
surprised when he unexpectedly made eye contact with Malfoy. The blonde
was staring at him, quite blatantly, his quill motionless in his hand, and it was
probably the only time that he had seen Draco looking at him with something
that was not some varying level of distaste. In fact, he looked… Well, Harry
didn't actually know what that look was.

But he couldn't be bothered by it when he was feeling so cheerful, so Harry

just continued to smile before returning his gaze back down to the keys at his
fingertips.

The music went on.

It was late in the evening, and still Snape had yet to make an appearance.

Harry was beginning to feel both frustrated and wary by this. While he wasn't
exactly excited at the prospect of informing the Potions Master of his dream
last night, he was more than ready to begin Occlumency lessons and be rid of
these itchy barriers. Yet it was nearly nine, and still, the older wizard had not
yet graced them with his presence.

He wondered what would happen if he disturbed him in his quarters. Surely

this didn't qualify as an 'absolute emergency', but, well, he should know,
shouldn't he? He would want to know…

He deliberated for another few minutes before deciding—to hell with it. He
would go and wake him, and, hopefully, the consequences would not be dire.

"I'm going to go talk to Snape," Harry informed his blonde counterpart, who
had taken a break from writing to read again, instead.

"Oh… Okay." He looked a bit suspicious, like he wanted to ask, but didn't.

Truly strange times indeed, Harry thought, that they could now share an
exchange without even attempting to insult one another. Harry left, and
Malfoy did not follow.

His thoughts were racing (agitatedly) while he walked, trying to plan his
words as he approached the Potions Master's room… To tell him about how
he knew Voldemort would no longer stalk his nightmares, that he really, truly
thought him dead, now… That he was certain they could start Occlumency
lessons…

But he didn't need to explain any of this at all.

As fate would have it, Snape had been leaving his room to go to Harry at that
exact same moment. For the second time, they met in the hallway—yet in this
instance, it was Snape who looked startled by the Harry's sudden arrival. The
older man's face was quite pale, and Harry could have sworn he saw a flicker
of terrible trepidation in those ashen features that he was not meant to see.
But the moment their eyes met, Snape’s fearful expression vanished, and it
disappeared so quickly and effortlessly that he wondered if he hadn't just
imagined it in the first place.

Harry opened his mouth to say something, to begin to try and explain…but
Snape spoke before he had the chance, and the first words out of his mouth
were, for once, exactly what he wanted to hear.

"I believe we can begin Occlumency lessons now."

…And he'd really meant it.

No less than fifteen minutes later, and Snape and Harry were standing across
from each other in the drawing room. And Draco (who was currently
banished from this side of the house while they practiced) had been right—
there was a Pensieve here. It was very different than the one that had been in
Dumbledore's office, though equally nice, in its own way. It was made of
black onyx, sophisticated and glossy with Hellenistic-styled embellishments
around the perimeter of the basin. It nearly reached Snape's navel, it was so
tall and grand, and Harry couldn't imagine a more appropriate object to exist
within the House of Black.

Harry examined it as Snape swept around to the other side, standing with his
back to him before he began to extract memories from his temple with the tip
of his wand…

And then he was hit with such a powerful wave of dreadful realization that he
nearly swayed and fell over.

For whatever reason, 'Occlumency lessons' had, in his mind, been solely and
completely connected only with the blessed relief from the irritating barriers
of Severus Snape.
Harry had been so preoccupied by this very welcome and long awaited
respite, in fact, that he had forgotten that 'Occlumency lessons' also meant
'Snape digging through his most intimate memories in a very aggressive,
unconcealed, and dangerous way'.

About a dozen fearful questions popped into Harry's mind at the same
moment as he watched Snape continue to dangle and drop silvery thoughts
into the Pensieve. Would Snape purposefully look through his more recent,
horrible memories? Could he see dreams? Were memories and dreams even
connected like that? Harry tried to think—had Snape been able to see his
dreams before? And then—

Oh, yes. Fifth year. The locked doors, the hallways. The prickly sensation in
his scar—

The Department of Mysteries.

He'd seen that, and that… That had been a dream.

…Oh dear.

Snape finished siphoning off a particularly long, ghostly tendril into the basin
before he turned to face him.

"Have you been practicing emptying your mind?"

Oh…oh dear.

"Um…"

Harry felt like an utter fool. He had not been emptying his mind in the
slightest—in fact, he'd been talking and thinking and pondering more than
ever…

"…Yes."

Snape's face betrayed no emotion.

"We shall see…but first." The Potions Master advanced on him—close, too
close—Harry actually took a step back in retreat, jumpy and nervous as he
suddenly was, when Snape scowled at him.

"I need to remove the barriers I have in place from your mind," he drawled. "I
require you to stand still while I do it… Unless you'd rather me rip them off
like bandages. I imagine that would be highly uncomfortable for you." His
thin lips curled up into a smirk, giving Harry the immediate impression that it
wouldn't bother Snape in the slightest, no matter how he went about it.

Harry swallowed thickly.

"O-okay."

His smirk vanished. "Then remain still." He stepped forward again, pocketing
his wand and placing his hands on either side of Harry's head, one on each
temple, just as he had when he'd first put them in place. Harry tried to keep
his face straight, much as he was inclined to show his discomfort.

And then he started chanting.

It was that same, wordless non-language that he'd used before. Snape’s dark
eyes bored down into Harry's, and it was oddly hypnotic, bizarrely
mesmerizing… The alien sensation of the barriers began to shift,
becoming more uncomfortable for a moment—

But then it began to lessen. The itchy feeling became number, less
aggressive…and within moments, the mental wards started slipping away,
slowly unraveling like soft fabric deteriorating and sliding through his
fingertips.

It was like sinking into a pool of cool, clear water after having spent all day
in the blazing heat of a sun-drenched desert. Harry had to suppress the urge to
sigh blissfully and not simply collapse into a pile on the floor—the relief was
so soothing that every single muscle in his body relaxed, like they had
temporarily been turned to jelly.
Snape finished chanting and removed his hands from his temples. Harry
stretched his neck to one side, letting out a low, audible breath.

"Thank God," he muttered.

"You may call me Professor Snape," the older man said without missing a
beat, turning to face him and retracting his wand from his pocket.

Much as Harry would have liked to laugh at that, he could not find any
humor in this situation—for now the Potions Master was pointing his wand at
him, and Harry was hit with another crushing wave of trepidation. He was
about to have his memories broken into again, and he had not been
practicing, was not prepared even slightly—he didn't even have a wand this
time. And worse still, removing the Occlumency barriers seemed to have had
a currently very unwelcome effect on the other wizard. A significant amount
of color had returned to his face, and his eyes were clear and focused and
directed right at him like he was some kind of lethal predator, ready to strike
—

"Are you ready?" Snape asked, raising his wand.

Harry was not ready. He was not ready at all.

"Y-yes."

…Damn his Gryffindor pride straight to hell.

But Snape made no comment on his clearly troubled disposition. "Then focus
on emptying your mind, and when you feel my presence imposing itself on
your thoughts, concentrate on blocking it off. That will construct a barrier,
and, should you be successful, I will be unable to see anything."

"I—what?" Harry balked, unable to stop himself from sounding indignant at

such vague instructions. "That's-that's it? That's all the explanation you
have?"

Snape's gaze did not even flicker enough to look annoyed. "Yes. There is no
way to properly explain the intricate nature of the mind arts in simple words.
You must learn by acting and defending."

Well, that certainly didn't make him feel any better. Harry was about to
respond, thought to say what, he wasn't quite sure—something stupid,
probably—but he never got the chance.

Snape’s stare was like a laser.

"Legilimens."

…And into memories they fell.

Harry didn't even feel his 'presence' as Snape prodded his way into his mind,
it was just suddenly there, the mental landscape…and it was the most
welcome sight of all.

Hogwarts.

Outside, on the grounds, to be precise, and Harry was about to face the
dragon.

He grinned widely as he observed himself, summoning his broom from the

castle…which currently resided in his bedroom, he remembered suddenly,
which his Godfather had given him…and there it was, soaring into his hands,
and he was off…

Maybe it was a bit arrogant of him, but really, Harry thought, as he watched
himself soar through the air with a fierce look of determination on his face—
he was a good flier. He ducked and zoomed and twirled agilely out of the
way as the vicious beast lashed out at him, attempting and failing to knock
him from the sky—oh, no, it managed to graze his shoulder that time, and
they crowd gasped in shock—he remembered that—ah, but he was about to
make up for it spectacularly, here—

"You are not even trying."

And then the memory was falling away, and Harry found himself back in the
drawing room…across from a very disgruntled Severus Snape.

"Er… sorry," Harry mumbled. Snape's scowl deepened considerably.

"Tell me," he sneered, "what is it we are doing, precisely?"

"…P…practicing Occlumency, sir."

"Are we?" Snape drawled, feigning shock. "Are we really?"

Harry just nodded uneasily.

"Then, for the sake of both of us, put forth some effort this time around. I
know it shall be incredibly difficult for you, but try not to be so caught up at
the sight of your own useless skills as to forget what it is we are trying to
accomplish. As much as I am sure you would like to do nothing but stare at
yourself all day, our survival is at stake."

Harry frowned but still said nothing, only nodded again. Snape lifted his
wand. His dark eyes were narrowed in tangible dislike.

Well, this certainly doesn't bode well, Harry thought anxiously—but, once
more, he had little time to gather his scattered thoughts, before—

"Legilimens."

He felt it, this time.

Before a memory came floating forward, he felt…something. Like a shadow

on his thoughts—not necessarily painful, or uncomfortable, but…
unwelcome. He tried to will it away as it approached, tried to empty his
mind…

Was that…was that Privet Drive…? No, don't focus on that… Empty your
mind…

For a split second, it shimmered, white and hazy, and the memory looked
strange—foggy—but then Snape broke through, Harry couldn't force it away
—and the world around them became crisp and clear—

"Stay still!"

Aunt Petunia's shrill command grated on his ears like nails against a
chalkboard. They were in the kitchen at his old house, and there he was, a
small, thin child—God, had he really been that tiny?—and Petunia was, none
too gently, hacking away at his unruly hair.

And he was crying. Valiantly trying not to, but the tears were leaking from
the corners of his eyes like little shimmering rivers down his cheeks, fogging
up his too-big glasses.

"And stop pouting!" she snapped, grabbing another handful of hair. Harry—
the child—sniffled.

"B-but you're hurting me—"

"It wouldn't hurt if you would stop moving."

But watching it from this point of view, Harry could see just how awful his
Aunt really was. He hadn't been moving at all, and she was clearly pulling far
harder than was necessary. She cut off another fistful of hair, and his child-
self let out a horrible, choked sob—

Harry felt his blood beginning to boil at the sight, but closed his eyes instead,
trying not to let the emotion overwhelm him… Empty your mind… Empty
your mind… Empty—

The memory-child in the chair let out a tiny, high pitched yelp. Petunia
snarled.

"You moved!" she chided angrily, and when Harry opened his eyes it was to
see him with a tiny hand pressed against his scalp—

"Oh, enough of this." His Aunt stood and reached for something on the
counter. A moment later and the the buzzing sound of something electric
filled his ears.

"I'll just shear the rest off."

The young Harry Potter was openly crying, now, but Petunia seemed wholly
unaffected by the sound. Tufts of hair were falling to the floor, save for his
bangs—to 'cover that horrid scar'—

And then the memory fell away.

Snape stared but said nothing. Harry suppressed a mortified groan.

"It grew back the next day," he muttered. He wasn't sure why he felt that it
was important that Snape know this, but he did. "My first bit of accidental
magic, in fact." He scoffed as he recalled his Aunt’s expression when she'd
woken him up the next day for school…

"I thought she was going to cut my head off that morning."

To his surprise, Snape looked rather sour…on his behalf?

"Petunia Evans is an exceptionally nasty human being," he stated with ire

evident in his voice.

"Yeah…she—wait." Harry paused suddenly, a bit confused. He quirked an

eyebrow in Snape's direction.

"You…you say that like you knew her."

And he'd called her Petunia Evans…

For a brief moment, Harry thought he saw the tiniest, most fleeting emotion
cross Snape's features, like he had touched upon some truth which he had not
been meant to—

But then Snape's deeply resentful glower that he seemed to reserve especially
for Harry was back in place.
"Most unfortunately, I have had the displeasure of needing to gather more
information about you and your terrible muggle relatives in the past year than
I ever would have wished to," he drawled before raising his wand for the
third time.

"I did, however, feel some fraction of resistance that time. Try to focus more
on my presence and less on the memories that I attempt to break into—and
then on dissipating the memory entirely. You will feel it like an abstracted
blockade, at that point. Focus on that."

Harry nodded shortly, taking a deep breath—

"Legilimens."

There… He definitely felt it… Snape's cool, shadowy infiltration, and then
something was coming into focus… He could hear people chatting, talking…
Empty your mind, Empty your mind… It shimmered, and that presence,
which had been rather gentle, before, became more aggressive, pulling the
memory towards it… No, will it away… Empty your mind…

It was like a strange game of reverse tug-of-war which lasted only a few
moments. Harry pushed, Snape pulled, and Snape won.

Madame Puddifoot's coffee shop.

And there was Harry, and there was Cho, and it was Valentine's Day.

Great, Harry thought miserably. Snape had just seen him get his head shaved
by his evil Aunt, and now he was about to witness the one and only date he'd
ever gone on go catastrophically wrong… He would probably relish forever
the sight of Harry Potter being so romantically inept that girls cried at his
very presence, storming away in dramatic, theatrical displays of emotion…

How he wished that was what happened.

"Cho," Harry's memory-self said seriously, and her smile faltered at the
tension in his voice. He looked very confident, completely untroubled by her
presence as he had been in reality, and he grabbed her hand, looking deep
into her eyes as he did so—

Real-Harry was smacked with a cold wave of clarity at the realization that
this…

This was the dream.

The dream.

"I apologize for being so forward… But I just have to say it. You're beautiful,
I thought so from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Would you mind very
terribly if I kissed you?"

Oh, no, oh god—empty your mind, will it away—but his panic was too high,
too much, and Snape must have sensed that, for he suddenly exerted far more
energy into remaining present, and it was impossible to rid himself of it—

They were kissing, and—Harry couldn't help but actually be distracted for a
moment—he was quite good, wasn't he? He'd even gently bitten her lower lip
at the end—he didn't remember doing that, but it was a nice touch, it really
looked like he knew what he was doing—

"Cho…" His memory's voice was husky and low as he pulled away from her
star-struck face. "I don't know how else to say this, and don't be alarmed…
But, how would you feel if I told you we were being watched?"

Oh god, no, no, no, no—Snape can't see this—will it away—

But then it was happening. Harry's stomach dropped.

"Are you familiar with the phrase…'Peeping Tom?'"

…Why, it looked even more bizarre and surreal the second time around.

There was Lord Voldemort, tall, dark, imposing figure that he is, surrounded
by blushing cherubs and pink confetti, the sunlight pouring in from the wide,
open windows, bright and cheery and illuminating him from behind—and
there was Harry, turned in his chair and just leering at him, smirking, and
God, he really did look like a smug, little asshole, didn't he?

And if looks could kill, Harry Potter would have been dead at the Dark Lord's
hand after all, because the hatred his gaze was palpable even in the memory.
And yet his dream-self looked nothing but delighted by this, laughing and
smiling widely with a mischievous, Cheshire-cat grin—

Maybe it was just the sheer shock, but Snape's escapade into his memories
ended quite abruptly, this time. Harry staggered and nearly fell to his knees,
so jarringly had he been mentally dumped back into the drawing room.

The look on Snape's face almost made the following conversation worth it.

His jaw was hanging open, his eyes wide and his brows raised in complete
and utter shock. He was staring at Harry like he'd just sprouted an extra head.

…Except even that would have made far more sense than what he'd just
witnessed.

Harry…could not attempt to so much as think of a way out of this one.

There was a long, terribly awkward pause, in which Snape's expression

(which Harry would have found hilarious in any other given situation)
remained so still that he could have passed for a rather unattractive
mannequin.

But then—

"When in the seven hells did that happen!?"

He never would have guessed that Snape's voice could possibly sound so
shrill.

Harry stared fixedly down at the ground, his face burning so badly he
probably could have boiled water on it. It took him many attempts at opening
and closing his mouth before he could form a single word, and even then, he
didn't know what to say.

"…It…" he swallowed, taking a breath—

"…didn't."

…That was all he could come up with. He dared to glance up briefly at Snape
again, whose face was still frozen in that shocked expression that really was
quite unbecoming.

Another pause.

"What!?"

Harry was looking at the floor again. He scratched the back of his head and
cleared his throat.

"Well, that was a good session, don't you think?" he stated much too quickly
in a voice that was much too high. He turned and went for the exit, making a
hasty and rapid retreat.

A spell hit the door before he could even reach for the handle, and the lock
clicked in place.

Oh, damn.

"Explain."

Harry turned slowly—very slowly—and when he faced the Potions Master

again, it was to see that he had finally managed to recover from his fixed
expression of disbelief. He was glowering, vindictive and intimidating
and impatient.

Harry laughed nervously. It sounded like a giggle more suitable for a ten year
old girl than a seventeen year old male.
"Explain," he repeated, his voice now ominously low.

Harry wet his lips, feeling so uncomfortably hot that he half-hoped he would
just burst into flames, if only to put off this conversation for just a moment
longer.

"It…it didn't happen," he repeated.

"Of course it did," Snape snapped, crossing his arms. "Legilimency in this
respect is infallible in terms of truthful visualization, as you are nowhere near
possessing the skill required to create false memories—I was in your
mind, boy, that must have happened at some point, even—"

He abruptly stopped talking, and Harry saw the dawning comprehension in

his black, bottomless eyes.

"…That was a dream."

Harry could say nothing. His gaze was downcast again, but he nodded.

"He…infiltrated your dreams, when you were asleep."

"…I…sometimes," he confirmed weakly, not looking up.

Silence again, in which Harry knew that Snape was rapidly putting together
the pieces of a puzzle with a very unwelcome, unhappy image.

He, Harry, kissing Cho—Lord Voldemort, looking absolutely furious at the

sight—Harry, calling the Dark Lord a Peeping Tom, suggesting that this was
not the first time that such a thing had occurred—

Lord Voldemort, having been strangely busy after Harry had gone missing,
delegating tasks to others in a very uncharacteristic manner… Mysteriously
distracted, not telling anyone where he was going, what he was up to…

When Harry finally glimpsed back up again, it was to see that Snape's
eyebrows had risen so high on his forehead that they practically disappeared.
He looked like a bat-like caricature of himself.
Harry could not say or do anything. When Snape spoke next, his voice was
completely flat, like his quota for any and all possible emotion had been
entirely used up for the day.

"We shall reconvene and begin again tomorrow."

A wordless spell hit the door, and Harry bolted from the room the moment he
could.

As it was getting late anyway (and because he wanted nothing more than to
bury himself under a mountain of blankets and hide from the world—a state
of mind that seemed to be happening on a daily basis, now), Harry went
straight to his room. Draco was there, already in his pajamas and propped up
against a stack of pillows. He was writing again. The lamp on the bedside
table illuminated one side of his face, and when Harry entered he glanced up.

"How'd it go?" he asked off-handedly, his attention already shifting back

towards his journal. He seemed not to notice Harry’s flustered bearing at all.

The sight of the little black book still made Harry feel uneasy. He turned
away, not even bothering to change his clothes before disappearing under
several layers of heavy, shielding covers. He was quite ready for this day to
be done.

His response to Draco's question was a muffled by a thick wall of blankets,

his head half-buried into his pillow.

"Oh, like a dream."

Riddle was especially perceptive that night. Harry had barely fallen asleep
before the voice was in his ear, pulling him into the still, quiet bleakness of
the cupboard.

"You're extremely tense."

Harry blinked in the darkness, sitting up straight on the cot. He felt hands on
his shoulders, and they began slowly applying pressure there, rhythmic and
steady…

"Mmmm…" he hummed gratefully as Riddle began to massage his back—

quite expertly, he had to admit. "A savoir and a masseuse," Harry muttered,
smirking.

"You really must be an angel, after all."

He laughed, and the sound made Harry's stomach turn in the strangest way. It
wasn't…entirely unpleasant.

"Yes," he responded, his hands moving between his shoulder blades on either
side of his spine. "But only for you."

"Mm."

"You played the piano today."

Riddle sounded genuinely happy about that. Harry nodded.

"You were good," he went on, continuing his gentle, but not too gentle
ministrations, moving to the base of his spine. "Very good. It was even better
than the song I heard in your dreams. In your memories."

Harry was listening, he was, but he was finding it difficult to focus on his
words when he was too busy focusing on how good his hands felt on his
aching muscles…which he hadn't even realized were aching, before. But they
had been… Ever since his little episode, since he'd accidentally conjured up
lightning, they'd been stiff and tense…

"Uh huh," he managed to mumble—barely.

"Do you feel better?" Riddle’s hands began to slowly make their way up to
his shoulders again. "Now that the foreign Occlumency barriers are gone?"

It took Harry a moment to realize that he'd been asked a question.

"Ah…sure."

Riddle chuckled softly and stopped rubbing his shoulders. Harry's lip
automatically stuck out in disappointment.

"You would just blindly agree to anything I ask when you're like that,
wouldn't you?" he said slyly. But he didn't give Harry a chance to answer,
just wrapped his arms around his chest again and pulled him towards him.

"Do you feel relieved, now that Severus Snape's oppressive shields are
gone?" he tried again.

Harry sighed, leaning back against his savior's chest. "Yes. But—it's a bit
terrifying, not having anything there…" He glanced through the darkness
towards the cupboard door, which was still and in focus, no magical, mental
barriers there to cause it to shimmer slightly… If the Dark Lord were to
appear here, now… Why, he could just walk right in, couldn't he?

Except…could he? This was still Harry's dream…

He had power, here.

…So…so why was he still in the damn closet?

"Then you must learn to construct you own," Riddle said. Harry groaned.

"I dunno if I can, truthfully," he admitted. "I…began Occlumency lessons,

and I'm just a dreadful as I've always been."

"What do you mean?" Riddle tightened his embrace ever so slightly.

"I just can't do it. I just can't 'empty my mind', I don't know why…and that
seems to be the basic trick to being able to do all of it, to fending people off
and to constructing shields… So if I can't do that, I'm just…"

He moaned again, looking up at the creaky, boarded ceiling of the underside

of the stairs.
"I'm doomed."

Riddle made a low, thoughtful humming noise as he began to trail a hand

gently down his arm. Harry had to resist the urge to ask him for another back
massage. He'd really been enjoying it.

"Not necessarily…" Riddle murmured. "I believe…emptying your mind is a

poor method for you, Harry. I believe there is a better way."

"Yeah?" Harry said, tensing slightly. But his muscles relaxed again a moment
later as, blessedly, his miraculous angel began rubbing his shoulders again.

"Yes," he confirmed, his breath warm against the base of Harry's neck. "Your
mind is extraordinarily complex, Harry. Intricate. Severus Snape may have a
corner of his psyche that is nothing but a vast void of nothing to which he can
escape when he wants to practice Occlumency…but you don't."

Harry snorted, briefly revisiting the notion that maybe this was, in fact, a
spiritual force connected with his Godfather.

"So rather than attempting to focus on nothing, perhaps you should instead
focus on a specific feeling. Try to bring to mind a sense of calm through a
memory. A moment of peace."

"A moment of peace?" Harry repeated, slightly dazed. He was really, really
good with his hands…

"Yes. When you next try to clear your thoughts, rather than attempting to
bring to mind the abstract idea of nothingness…" He moved his hands lower,
earning a low, appreciative moan from Harry's lips—

"Think of this. How you feel right now. Calm. Relaxed."

Riddle laughed when Harry failed to respond, lost in bliss as he was. He

stopped to pull him back into an embrace, his arms warm and safe…

"Are you at peace, Harry?" he asked softly.

Harry smiled, reaching up to hold his savior's hand, which rested against his
chest. He'd never done that before, and he was surprised when he felt the
other's stiffen slightly, like he hadn't anticipated it and wasn't quite sure how
to respond to such a simple action… But then his angel's fingers wrapped
around his own, and Harry felt the sudden, unexpected sensation of
something like a hundred butterflies being released into his ribcage, fluttering
and wild and…

And…it wasn't…entirely unpleasant.

"Yes," he answered, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded.

"Always, when I'm with you."

Harry was feeling marginally better about Occlumency the next morning.

…Marginally.

However, he'd hoped that he would have the majority of the day to prepare
for it.

He'd hoped that he could spend the morning drinking his tea in silent
contemplation, perhaps even play the piano for a few hours to calm his
rattling nerves.

His hopes were in vain.

Harry had just put the kettle on (and Draco was still in his usual morning
phase of 'physically present but mentally still absent') when Professor Snape
entered the kitchen, looking far perkier and alert than he ever had since
staying in this house.

And Harry knew why, of course. Because he was no longer having all of his
energy poured into up-keeping mental barriers which were not his own.

"You," he said, pointing a wand at Harry, which caused him to jump

instinctively. "We will resume Occlumency lessons as soon as you've had
breakfast. You—" He pointed at Draco now, who was yawning, "—are to
remain out of the drawing room while we practice. Is that understood?"

Malfoy nodded drowsily, still too tired to be bothered by this command.

"Good," he said, looking back to Harry. "And be quick about it. If you make
me wait more than ten minutes, you will regret it." And with that ominous,
unnecessary threat, Snape turned and left, his cloak swishing grandly behind
him as though it, too, had a newfound vigor.

Harry poured the boiling water into his mug, suddenly not hungry in the
slightest. He made a cup of tea for Draco, too, who had fallen into a chair at
the table emotionlessly.

"He's a ray of sunshine," the blonde muttered before taking a tentative sip.

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's ever-present enthusiasm.

"You both are."

Malfoy grunted, and it reminded Harry so much of Ron that it made him
smile while at the same time filled him with profound sense of sadness, and
life really was strange in the House of Ghosts, wasn't it?

When Harry entered the drawing room no less than ten minutes later, it was
to find Snape siphoning his memories into the Pensieve again.

"We shall practice today until noon," he said with his back to him as he
dropped another silvery coil into the onyx basin. Harry glanced at his watch
—it was nearly nine thirty. He observed silently as his ex-professor worked,
extracting strands of thoughts from his mind. He wished desperately that he
could do the same thing. What he wouldn't give to empty out of all of his
deepest, darkest, and most embarrassing secrets before they started… But he
had a pretty good idea what Snape's response would be to that request.

The Potions Master turned to face him. "So I shall expect nothing but your
best efforts in that amount of time. Is this clear?"
"Yes, sir," Harry answered morosely. Well, at least Snape seemed just as
inclined to not mention the horrifying truth of what he had uncovered last
night as Harry was.

But as Snape lifted his wand and pointed it in his direction, he got the
unnerving feeling that the older wizard was not going to go easy on him.
Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself—

"Legilimens."

His presence was obvious, now. Harry's vision became clouded by white,
muggy and hazy… Something was coming in to focus, some memory… No,
don't focus on that, he though, don't let him pull it forward…

He thought he heard…he thought he heard music…

There was dancing… It was the Yule Ball, he could tell, but it was still out of
focus…clouds of white blurred the scene, making it look more dream-like
than ever…

And it was the dream, he could tell. The way the music sounded, the sheer
volume of dancers which he did not recognize—no, he would not allow
Snape to see any more, empty your mind, empty—

But wait—no, what was he supposed to try? To focus on—

A moment of peace.

He closed his eyes and recalled the feeling of arms around him, feeling calm
and relaxed and safe…

He breathed in slowly. He exhaled, and it was a long steady plume of air that
escaped his lungs…

…The music faded…

He opened his eyes, and everything was a shrouded and foggy, blank and
undecipherable…
The shadowy presence was still there, though; he could feel it attempting to
pull the memory back into focus, but Harry would not allow it, not this
time… He closed his eyes again and concentrated on that memory, of being
at peace…

When that dark force prodded at him next, Harry coolly and serenely willed it
away, and it was as if he had raised a mental hand to stop it… It was a wall, a
shimmering, illuminating barrier, and it was his, and it was working—

And then it all vanished. Harry opened his eyes to the drawing room, smiling.

"I… I did it!" he shout disbelievingly.

"I stopped you!"

Snape, however, did not seem to share his excitement. In fact, he looked
angry…and very, very suspicious.

"What?" Harry asked, his grin faltering. "Didn't I do it right, for once?"

"Yes." The Potions Master glared. Clearly, he had not expected it to go like
that at all.

Yet Snape was anything but complimentary. Without further comment, he

pointed his wand at Harry's chest, looking much more intimidating this time.

"Again," he muttered. Harry braced himself, anxious—

"Legilimens."

The world dissolved, and in its place another landscape began to form…

White.

His blank, white dream world, and at first it was completely silent and empty.
Was Snape trying purposefully to snoop around in his dreams from the past
year, now? Harry took another deep breath, about to bring to mind that same
sensation of tranquility—

The single note of a piano struck him like bolt of lightning.

It was crisp and clear and resonated throughout the world of white, and the
empty air was waiting for his music…

Another note, and then another, and soon a beautiful melody was infiltrating
his very soul… He turned and looked, unable to help himself…and there he
was, playing like he was some kind of musical prodigy…

His dream-self's eyes were closed, and he…he had been singing, sort of. It
was just the occasional wordless note, harmonic and low…and then his
expression flickered, became darker, and the song shifted, too. It became
hopeless and despairing, and this sinister new rhapsody pulled at his
heartstrings, filled him with terrible grief, because he knew, he remembered
—that had been the moment when he'd truly believed that he would never
wake up.

There…there was the Dark Lord, silently observing, and the look on his face
was so… Well, Harry didn't know what that look was.

And then he felt the shadowy presence of Snape's mental prodding, and he
nearly had a heart attack. He'd allowed himself to get so caught up in his own
song, in his own memory, that he'd momentarily forgotten that Snape was
trying to watch, too—

Don't panic. Can't panic. Calm, be calm… Harry took several deep breaths, in
through his nose, out through his mouth, and recalled that same state of
peace…

Warmth, protection, safety…

The music became quieter, softer…and then was gone.

A shield, a wall. Harry felt that dark energy attempting to sink its claws into
his memory, to pull it back, and he thought,
'Be gone.'

…And it was so.

Snape pulled, Harry pushed, and Harry won.

This time, it was he, Harry, who brought them back to the physical realm.
Grimmauld Place formed around them, and—

Why did Snape look so mad?

"How did you manage that?" he snapped at him, seething.

"I- like you told me!" Harry said defensively. "I emptied my mind, I formed a
barrier… R-right? Isn't that what I was supposed to do?"

Snape nodded so shortly it was hardly discernable.

"So—why—w-what's the problem, then?"

The Potions Master glowered for a long moment before responding. "How
did you make such monumental progress in such a short span of time…?" he
asked quietly, seemingly asking himself just as much as he was asking Harry.

"I…practiced?" he answered feebly. "I…I dunno, something just clicked, I

guess."

Snape continued to look accusingly doubtful.

"Again," he finally snarled. "And this time I will not be gentle. Let's see how
much has truly 'clicked'… Legilimens!"

He didn't even give Harry a moment of warning. The world whisked away
and they were rushed into a gloomy, dismal place—

A thrill of terror swept up Harry's spine at once.

He knew this room, he knew this hall, was aware before it had even fully
formed, and his fear prevented him from focusing—

The Department of Mysteries.

How many times had he come here, in his nightmares? In reality?

Which memory would this one be?

Would he once more witness the death of his Godfather?

Would he watch in horror as Sirius's mangled corpse emerged from beyond

the veil?

Harry…Harry…Harry…

"Harry…"

The last whisper was not from beyond the fluttering fabric. And when Harry
turned to look, his heart lurched in his chest, lodging itself in his throat and
preventing him from drawing breath—

"Step away from the veil, Harry."

The Dark Lord's spoke in an authoritative tone of voice that

simply demanded obedience.

No, oh no—this—this could not happen—Harry felt Snape's imposing force,

and it was much more aggressive this time, latching on with razor sharp
talons, rather like when Voldemort himself had torn through his thoughts. It
was painful and horrible and this could not be happening—

Harry's dream-self laughed. "Why? Oh, because you would like to do the
honors. Right." He held his arms out wide, mockingly. "Well, what are you
waiting for? If you think it will work, kill me."

No, no, no—stop panicking—peace, think of—

"Strike down your mortal enemy in his dream."

Snape was relentless. Harry tried to concentrate, but the pain was distracting
—

"I am not here to kill you, Harry Potter."

No, no, no—If Snape saw this—if he—Harry couldn't—

"That's a shame…"

He couldn't—

Breathe.

And then he felt them. Arms around his waist that were not possessive or
hungry, but warm and protective, and the word being spoken softly in his
ear…

Breathe.

Was he really there, with him, or was he imagining it? But…the sensation
was real, the feeling of serenity, of…

Peace.

…The memory vanished.

Plumes of foggy haze smothered the scene of the Department of Mysteries,

and with a steady, well-directed thought, Harry pried Snape's influence from
his mind.

And they were back in the drawing room.

Harry caught a flicker of pure shock pass over Snape's face before he looked
furious again.

"How-!?"

But Snape's accusatory outburst was cut short by the most welcome of
interruptions.

They heard a crack from down the hall, outside the front door. They both
turned to look, and then, just a moment later, the door swung open.

"Ron," Harry breathed. A tall, gangly, red-headed boy gave him a giant
smile, and-

"Hermione." She beamed, her grin discernible even with the glamour in
place. Harry felt like the sun had just emerged from behind a dark, ominous
cloud.

"You're back."

"You're early."

The moment that they had finished exchanging friendly greetings and
embraces, Snape snapped at them. Typical, that the older wizard would not
bother to tell Harry that the reason they were only to practice until noon was
because he was expecting Ron and Hermione to return. Because God forbid
he actually have something to look forward to in the horrible house, he
thought bitterly.

But Harry could not remain sour for long. The warm presence of his two best
friends was more than enough to keep a smile fixed on his face.

"Yes, we are, aren't we?" Hermione checked her watch, finding that it was
only eleven. Also typical that Snape would manage to be angry at his ex-
students for arriving ahead of schedule. "Sorry—were we interrupting?" She
looked back and forth between Harry and Snape apprehensively. "Would you
like us to leave, should we—?"

"No," Harry said at once, and he was surprised to see that Snape did not
disagree. "No, we were just practicing Occlumency…"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really?" she asked. "Already? But

—but that's wonderful!"
"Yeah, once you get the hang of it, we can finally tell you what's going on!"
Ron added cheerfully—but then he backtracked, looking anxious as his eyes
darted to Hermione- "Er- right?"

"Right," she agreed happily. Ron exhaled. "Though it may take you awhile to
really become well-versed in creating relatively permanent barriers. It took
Ron about a month, I believe."

"Maybe it will be sooner than you think," Harry said coolly, glimpsing at a
glowering Potions Master.

Snape waved his hand in front of him dismissively. "Enough. You, out. We
have work to do."

"But—" Harry started—they had just gotten back!

"You can have your joyous little reunion later. We have important matters to
discuss. Miss Granger, please dispel of that glamour. Mr. Weasley, unless
you are attempting to catch and consume flies, I would recommend that you
close your mouth. …Evans," He pointed at Harry again, and what was it with
him and looking like it made him slightly sick to call him that?

"Go stay with Draco, and do not disturb us."

He flicked his wand at the door, which flung open at once.

And just like that, Harry was banished. It took a great amount of effort to not
knock something over in a fit of rage on the way out—perhaps Malfoy's
childish behavior was really starting to rub off on him. Scowling, he marched
from the room, ignoring Hermione's pitying look, and the second he stepped
into the hall the door slammed behind him and locked itself shut.

He found Draco writing again in the library. He was in his usual spot at the
desk, a quill in hand with the journal opened about midway through. It
seemed he had written quite a lot…

He didn't look up when he spoke. "Was it like a dream, again?" he asked

dryly.

"Naturally."

Harry sat at the piano bench, still feeling deeply resentful. "Ron and
Hermione are back."

Draco stopped writing. "They are?"

"Yeah. But Snape told me to piss off the moment they got in. You know,
'important business' to talk about…."

Draco closed the journal, turning around in his seat. "So they didn't even tell
you where they've been?"

"Not yet."

Malfoy looked towards the door pensively, tapping a finger against his chin.

"…They're in the drawing room?"

"Yep."

"And they just got in."

"Uh huh."

He paused, glancing at the door and back again.

"…I'm going to go eavesdrop."

"What, you're just going to listen outside the door?" Harry asked shrewdly.
Draco nodded.

"Go knock yourself out."

What Harry didn't bother to say was that, in his experience at Grimmauld
Place, eavesdropping had never ended well for anyone involved… But he
wasn't about to ruin that experience for his dear friend Malfoy. The Slytherin
slinked away with a mischievous smirk on his face, like he thought he
was so cunning. Harry rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the piano in
an attempt to rid himself of his agitation.

…Draco wasn't gone long.

Harry's playing had only just gotten started when, a few moments later, he
heard a bang, a yelp, and some muffled shouting.

…And then Malfoy was marching back into the library, rubbing his shoulder
and swearing under his breath.

Harry tried not to laugh. "How'd it go?" he asked lightly as Draco flung
himself angrily onto the couch.

Malfoy glowered at him. "I was just outside the room—I didn't even make a
sound!—and then, somehow, he hits me with a stinging hex through the
damn door!" He continued to massage his shoulder. "Then he yelled
something about how I'm—I'm worse than wormtail…and I'm pretty sure he
put a silencing ward around the door afterwards, too, because then I couldn't
hear anything at all."

He looked up at Harry. "What the hell is a wormtail?"

Harry's expression darkened. "It's a who, not a what. And he's a traitorous,
filthy rat."

Draco didn't seem to notice the depth of the hatred in Harry's voice.
"Whatever," he muttered, examining his apparently throbbing shoulder.
"Stupid asshole…"

Harry didn't think he would ever get over the strange dynamic of the
individuals in this household. To think, Snape used to dote on Malfoy. "Did
you at least hear anything, before he got you?" he asked, mildly curious.

Malfoy's gray eyes glittered, and Harry had his answer before he even spoke.
"I did hear something," he said, leaning forward.

"Something good."

Harry waited but didn't say anything, if for no other reason than he could tell
that Draco was just waiting for him to beg and tell him.

"…Something really good." He dangled the words in front of him like bait.
Harry rolled his eyes again.

"Whatever did you hear, Malfoy?" he asked blandly.

"I'll tell you, if you share the whiskey."

Harry suppressed a smile—he was going to be able to use the promise of

alcohol to manipulate Malfoy forever. "Hm…" he said, sarcastically
pretending to contemplate that offer.

"…Nah."

"What!?"

Harry smirked at the way Draco uncrossed his arms, nearly jumping to his
feet.

"Nah, you keep your secret information to yourself… Even though I'm sure
it's really good."

Malfoy glared at him venomously, crossing his arms again as he tapped one
foot irritatingly… Harry started to play the piano, acting like he did not
notice his impatient disposition, because he just knew that Draco wouldn't be
able to keep whatever information he'd just garnered to himself, he would
want to share it with someone, and, seeing as he only had the one option…

He cracked in about two minutes. "Ugh, fine!" he spat, standing up and

crossing the room to lean against the piano. He loomed over Harry, casting a
shadow down across the keys at his fingers, across his chest…
"Gringotts." He said it as though it was the single, most impressive word in
the world.

"What?" Harry gasped, his victorious grin fading just as quickly as it had
formed.

"Yes." Malfoy's steely gaze was intensely bright. And, for some reason,
Harry felt an absurd rush of fear at his next speculation, a foreign wave of
fear, of terrible trepidation…

"…I think they're going to break into Gringotts."

 14. The Devil in Silver
"…No."

Harry wasn't sure where the feeling of such intense fear came from at Draco's
declaration, but he felt it in the pit of his stomach like a block of solid ice.

"Yes," Malfoy said, noting and relishing the fact that he was garnering such a
reaction with this information. "I'm sure I heard them say that. I know it."

"But…" Harry shook his head, recalling a memory from many, many years
ago… So far back that it felt like it was someone else's life, some other, much
happier person's recollection…

'Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe-
'cept maybe Horgwarts.'

Hagrid, and his booming tenor, when he, Harry, had been just eleven years
old…

"It's impossible to break into Gringotts," he said. "Whose vault would they
need to break into? And why?"

Draco's eyes were shining inquisitively. "Maybe they need access to an

ancient, noble blood vault. Maybe one of these weapons is in the vault of like
—like the Flamel family, or—"

"Or the Dumbledore family—"

"Or the vault of Salazar Slytherin—"

Draco's eyes widened at that.

"The vault of Salazar Slytherin," he repeated gleefully, as though he thought

this the most delightful possibility.

They continued to speculate on this topic for another ten minutes or so, but
no matter what grand names they came up with, neither of them were able to
even hazard a guess as to just how they were planning on breaking in to the
wizarding bank in the first place.

"This is all assuming you actually heard them correctly," Harry finished, after
a time.

But Draco could not be deterred. "I did. I know I did." He sat the desk,
running a hand over his no-longer slicked back hair, probably more out of
habit than intention. "Damn… If they're planning a heist like that…" His face
suddenly turned sour.

"They'll probably be holed up in there for hours."

Harry knew he was only sounding so bitter because he was impatient,

wanting to pester Ron and Hermione for information now (or, as was more
likely to be the case, be a passive audience while he, Harry asked), but his
words struck him with a sudden bolt of inspiration.

"Hey," Harry said, getting to his feet. "If they're going to be distracted for a
while, then… We could use this." Draco's annoyed expression became
curious. Harry grinned.

"While Snape's preoccupied… I can sneak into his room and get the snitch
back."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes warily. "…And what if he catches you?" he said
slowly.

They both became quiet at the unknown but undoubtedly dire consequences
of Snape finding Harry digging around in his bedroom—consequences they
would both suffer from, surely, considering that Draco was supposed to be
'keeping an eye' on him, which probably also meant 'not letting Harry Potter
search through Professor Snape's private things.'

Harry's mind was racing as he tried to think of some sly, clever way to get
Malfoy to agree to let him go anyway—but the Slytherin boy surprised him.
A beat of thoughtful silence later, and Malfoy was smirking as he stood,
crossing the room in two, long strides and picking up the giant tome on
Gellert Grindelwald that Harry had been reading.

"You go in Snape's room, and I'll wait in the hall," he began explaining,
holding the heavy book aloft. "If they come out of the drawing room before
you're out, I'll drop this. That way you'll hear it and can get out of there
before he catches on."

Harry blinked up at him. "I… That's a really good idea," he said blankly.

The sly smile slid from Draco's face in an instant. "I've been known to have
them," he drawled humorlessly—but Harry laughed.

"Excellent. All right, then. Let's go."

And so, with one thoughtful suggestion of retrieving the snitch, Harry had not
only managed to get Malfoy to not stop him or follow him into Snape's room,
but had even roped him in to assisting. And while he did intend to look for
the snitch, his real goal was vastly more important.

The Invisibility Cloak.

They tiptoed past the drawing room door, down the dimly lit hallway where
Draco took residence, book in hand. Harry alone ventured further, turning a
corner, until—

What if it was locked? Surely Snape would lock it, wouldn't he? But maybe
not, he was, after all, in a house with only two other people, neither of which
had wands… And he always knew where they were and what they were
doing…

He was in luck. Harry turned the handle, and the door swung open.

The master suite was exactly what one would expect the largest bedroom in
the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black to look like.
It was a massive space. The bed was easily the largest that Harry had ever
seen, four people probably could have slept on it quite comfortably. It was
covered with thick blankets of ebony black (Harry noticed that Snape, unlike
he and Draco, actually made his bed—in fact, it was so well kempt that it
looked like no one had ever actually slept in it before). There was a
magnificent rug over the hardwood floors with intricate patterns of black and
green, and several ornate mirrors on the walls, which were covered in such
decorative wallpaper that it really was rather gaudy, and there was a door
slightly ajar on the other side, leading into what looked like a bathroom…

Harry tried to not be distracted by the overwhelming garishness of his

surroundings so that he could focus on the task at hand. The cloak. He needed
to find the cloak, and Snape had… he had shoved it into the pockets of one of
his robes…

Feeling very uncomfortable about it, Harry began digging through the closet,
searching the pockets of every single black cloak which was hanging within.
The closet alone was nearly the size of the room which he and Draco
currently stayed in, though Snape's garments filled only a small section of it.
He was just beginning to lose hope, was just starting to think that Snape must
have moved it and put it somewhere else, when—

Yes! There it was, in the interior pocket of a particularly thick, heavy robe.
Harry extracted the silvery material from within and held it to his chest like a
child might hold a beloved stuffed animal. He smiled fondly.

After allowing himself this moment of joyful reunion with his cherished
Invisibility Cloak, he finally forced himself to shove it into his own pocket—
his once more.

Right, he thought as he entered into the main bedroom again. Time to find the
snitch… If I were Severus Snape, where would I hide a snitch…

Rummaging through Snape's personal items in his current bedroom made

Harry feel even more anxious than sneaking into the Restricted Section in the
Hogwarts' library. But he was determined to find the snitch, too… He opened
up a large, ornate cabinet, so impressive and grand that it may have actually
been a wardrobe—though why someone would possibly need a wardrobe in
addition to that massive closet, Harry could only fathom—and was shocked
to find several shelves filled with potions of various kinds.

Well, that shouldn't have been too surprising, Harry mused. This was, after
all, the Potions Master's room. There were a myriad of glass bottles in
numerous shapes and sizes, and while most of them looked completely
foreign to him, he definitely recognized one.

So Snape did have a small stock of Polyjuice Potion…but nearly half of the
container was gone… Interesting… Harry hummed thoughtfully, wondering
what Snape could have done with it, or was planning on doing with the rest…

And then he snapped out of it, abruptly remembering what it was he was
supposed to be doing. Right. The snitch. Find the snitch.

He turned next to the desk. The top drawer held nothing useful, it looked like
items that must have belonged to Lady Black in the past (unless Snape had a
rather eclectic and impressive collection of silver hair combs… Maybe…?),
and the next drawer as well, nothing useful…and then—

Harry hit the jackpot.

The bottom drawer held more than one recognizable item of interest. The first
and foremost being his mirror.

He pulled it out of the drawer reverently, in a state of complete disbelief. It

was the hand mirror, the one which his Godfather had given him to
communicate with… Which his own father had used, when he and Sirius had
been in separate detentions…

The mirror which he, Harry, had smashed!

But here it was, perfectly intact and whole. Harry examined his own
perplexed and scandalized reflection.

Why did Snape have his two way mirror?

And—more importantly—who had the other one?

He stared into his own, vibrant eyes for a long moment. How badly did he
want to call out for someone, to say a name and see if anyone answered on
the other end, to see who it was…

Yet he didn't. Couldn't. He was supposed to be dead; he couldn't just show up

on one end of a two-way mirror without warning, he'd probably give whoever
saw his face a heart attack…

But…Snape was supposed to be dead, too!

Harry bit his lip in conflict. He set the mirror aside for the moment, returning
his attention back to the contents in the desk.

And there it was. The snitch, poor thing, was shut up tight in a small box in
the back of the drawer, wrapped in several very sturdy rubber bands to keep it
from fidgeting. That was unnecessary, Harry thought, as he gingerly picked it
up and stripped it of its bindings. They stopped struggling after a few
moments on their own, once they'd accepted that you'd caught them; there
was no need to make them miserable…

The snitch opened its wings slowly and dolefully once they were free, resting
quite still on his palm. Harry brought it to his lips, so he could see the words
again…

'I open at the close.'

He frowned at it. "What is it that Dumbledore hid in you, little guy…?" he

muttered quietly. Naturally, the snitch didn't answer. It folded its wings
tightly against its body, tranquilly inactive once more—no rubber bands
necessary.

Harry put it in his other pocket, which did not contain the cloak, before
picking up the mirror again. Well, yes, it was his, but if he took the mirror
with him, and Snape had been using it to communicate with someone, he
would obviously notice it was missing… Ah, and what if he noticed the
snitch was missing? He wouldn't, hopefully—he'd put it in a separate box,
after all, with any luck he was not regularly checking up on it to see if it was
still there—same with the cloak; he'd left that in the same robe he'd brought it
here in… But the mirror, he would definitely know…

Sighing in defeat, Harry slowly lowered it back into the drawer…when

something else caught his eye. Something moving. A photograph? A corner
of a moving image was peeking out from under a piece of parchment with
only a few sentences written near the top of it. He reached for it, curious—it
looked like someone laughing—

But then a loud thud sound derailed his action completely, a noise which was
ominously like that of a heavy book being dropped. Panicking, Harry quickly
shoved the mirror back in the drawer and dashed out of the room, hoping that
he had left everything in the same manner in which it had been in when he'd
entered.

He met Malfoy in the hall. They could hear the voices of Ron and Hermione
from further down, still out of sight… Draco quirked an eyebrow at him
questioningly, to which Harry gave a quick and silent thumbs up. They both
grinned.

"…continue going over this in an hour's time, once—" Snape turned the
corner first, pausing at the sight of Harry and Draco standing motionlessly in
the hall…smiling at each other.

His dark eyes bored down on them, narrowing distrustfully as if he could just
smell the mischief on them.

"What are you two doing out here?" he asked suspiciously, his gaze
flickering back and forth between the two.

"Nothing," they said at the same time, now looking in opposite directions.
Neither of them were stupid enough to make eye contact with a master
Legilimens, especially now.

But it didn't stop Harry from tangibly feeling the sensation of Snape glaring at
him.

They were saved future questioning, however, when Hermione and Ron
joined them, the former of which reached forward and grabbed Harry by the
hand.

"C'mon, let's go to the kitchen," she said, pulling him towards her. "Ron's in a
miserable state from not eating, and I promised I'd cook…"

Harry felt a wave of relief as his bushy haired friend led him down the hall,
away from the menacing glower of Severus Snape… But he felt his
accusatory gaze fixated on his back the entire time he walked away, certain
that he knew, without a doubt, that Harry had been up to something…
something devious. So very like his father.

"So, where have you been?"

Hermione, while not nearly as remarkable as Snape was in the kitchen, was
an impressive cook nonetheless. She supervised several vegetables being
diced while she lit the stovetop with the tip of her wand, preparing to make
rice. Malfoy had joined them, too, unable to resist the conversation that was
sure to take place, though he did look rather uncomfortable to be sitting at a
table with Ron and Harry…and was probably even more so at the fact that
Hermione Granger was voluntarily making food for all of them. Harry was
curious to see if the Slytherin would actually eat it.

Snape remained absent. Hermione had said it was because he needed to

prepare something for when they reconvened, but Harry was feeling anxious
that he might be checking the status of a certain flying, golden sphere, that he
had somehow just known at once that was what he'd been doing…

Well, like all the rest of the uncertain things in his complicated life at the
moment, only time would tell.

Harry had directed his initial question at Ron, who was sitting across from
him. He glanced up warily at Hermione—always seeking permission before
saying anything—who gave a sort of half-hearted nod.

Ron took a deep breath, and his next word was spoken with deepest loathing.

"Albania."

Harry stared. "A…Albania…?" he asked, astounded. "Where…where you-

know-who was hiding out for years…?"

Ron nodded. Harry looked from him, to Hermione, and back again.

"But…why…?"

"Beats me!" Ron shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "Fucking Albania.
You know what's in Albania?"

Harry did not know what was in Albania. He shook his head silently.

"A bunch of goddamn mosquitos, that's what!" Ron went on heatedly—and

as if referencing them had caused them to itch, he began scratching at his arm
vehemently, where he did, in fact, seem to be covered in tiny, red bumps.
"And nothing else! Nothing useful—a huge waste of time—"

"It was not a waste of time," Hermione snapped, and the flame underneath
the pot of water flickered dangerously for a moment. "At least we know for
certain that nothing is there, now, we had to check…"

"Easy for her to say," Ron muttered to Harry and Draco. "Apparently
parasitic bugs of all kinds just love me, so she didn't get bit hardly at all. So
long as they had the option of sucking my blood instead, they pretty much
left her alone—"

"That's utter rubbish," Hermione quipped. "You wouldn't have gotten bitten
nearly so much if you would have just worn the stupid, charmed repellant
that I made—"

"That stuff smelled like vanilla—and flowers—I wasn't going to wear that—"
"Well, it's your own fault, then," she fumed, and while Harry found their
bickering oddly comforting for its familiarity, he did wish that Ron would be
smart enough not to do it while Hermione was conjuring fire.

Ron scoffed, scratching his shoulder now. "Might've gotten Spattergroit for
real…" he muttered tersely.

"Spattergroit?" Harry asked. "What's that?"

"Oh." Ron blinked, his anger fading slightly. "It's a really infectious disease,
makes you break out in purple postules… It's the story that my family has
been spreading for the reason I'm not at Hogwarts… Attendance was
mandatory for all witches and wizards of school age for the first time this
year."

"It was?"

Malfoy had beat him to asking the question, and Ron faltered at answering
right away. It was quite an adjustment for all parties involved, to be a part of
a civil, group conversation like this.

"Er…yes," he answered, and then his gaze went back to being predominantly
focused on Harry. "So my family had to come up with a good excuse as to
why I couldn't attend. Fred, George, and my dad helped me transfigure the
ghoul in the attic to look like it has Spattergroit. Nasty illness, no one will
want to get near enough to him to check if it's really me, if anyone actually
goes to confirm the story."

Harry felt a rush of guilt. It must have shown blatantly on his face, too,
because Ron instantly went on. "Ah, it's all right! The only one who refused
to accept that I wasn't going to Hogwarts this year was my mum, and she'll
get over it. The ghoul was ecstatic, too. He gets to sleep in my bed and
everything."

But even though Ron was trying valiantly to look unaffected by this, Harry
felt terrible. "So… Hermione has just gone 'missing', you have Spattergroit,
and Malfoy and I are dead."
Draco snorted, causing Hermione and Ron to both glare at him. "What?" he
drawled, crossing his arms. "Is it a crime to find it amusing just how screwed
we all are?"

"No one is screwed," Hermione said curtly as she poured rice into the pot.
"We are making progress, and—"

She paused. Harry and Draco exchanged anticipated glances.

"And what?" Harry prompted, for she looked very on the verge about
whether or not she should continue talking.

"And… Well, tomorrow…tomorrow we are going to finally do something

that we've been planning for a very long time."

"…And?" Harry prodded again. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh… I…" When she turned to face them, she looked extremely anxious.
"I… It's…something very big, and it's been very, very complicated to plan.
Professor Snape has been working on it for months, and—and he called us
back here because he thinks that we need to do it tomorrow, because—"

For the first time ever, it was Hermione looking to Ron pleadingly. Ron
swallowed audibly, and Harry got the impression that, this time, whatever it
was they were unwilling to just tell him, it was less because it was 'unsafe',
and more because it was simply…bad news.

Ron cleared his throat. His words sounded somewhat rehearsed.

"There was an attack, yesterday," he explained. "The Death Eaters, they…

destroyed a public building. Really public… It was all over the news, both
ours and the muggles—they were making…quite a statement."

"What did they do?" Harry asked warily.

Ron and Hermione glanced nervously at each other again, and it was really
starting to piss him off. Why couldn't they just spit it out, already?
"They…they lit a…a well-known establishment on fire," Ron finally said. "It
was pretty…big. A lot of people died, and the aurors have been running
around like mad, trying to cover it up—make it seem like some kind of
natural, freak accident, something explicable by means other than magic—
and it's been mayhem, because there were so many witnesses, things caught
on tape…and… Well…there were… there were more than a few ambushes,
in all the aftermath, and…"

He voice trailed off as he seemingly lost his nerve.

Hermione, who had been biting her nails as Ron spoke, finally broke, the
confession rushing out of her in a sudden, emotionally drenched sob.

"Oh, Evans—we l-lost Mad-Eye!"

Harry stared, his jaw falling open in shock. "…What?" he gasped.

She nodded, her large, doe-like eyes filling with tears.

…And it was so strange, to feel such a wave of loss and sadness course
through him for a man that, technically, he had not known very well at all.

He'd thought he'd known the hardened auror; had even been told by him that
he would make an excellent dark wizard hunter himself… But it had been a
Death Eater he'd been getting to know, all along…

Harry had only had a few conversations with the actual Alastor Moody.

"I-it was dreadful. He… He…"

Ron stood, putting an arm around Hermione's shoulder, who sniffled loudly.
"He died saving Tonks, apparently," he finished for her, looking back at
Harry again. "He was like a mentor to her, you know…and—oh, God, we
haven't even told you!"

He smacked himself on the forehead with his other hand.

"Lupin and Tonks got married!"

"What!?"

Another wave of shock, and Harry wasn't sure if he should be grinning or

crying at the moment. He got to his feet, too, unable to remain seated with so
much conflicted emotion swirling around in his head. "But—I didn't even
know they—"

"Yeah, it kind of took us all by surprise," Ron said with a somewhat forced
smile. "I guess Tonks had a thing for him for a long time, and Remus was
really against it. Said she should be with someone younger—and, you know,
not a werewolf—but you know women, when they know what they want…"

Hermione hiccupped, pushing him away from her but grinning slightly
despite herself.

She wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Yes, yes… They're very happy
together…b-but…" Her small smile vanished as quickly as it had come.

"They were all in a battle that broke out in some back alley in London,
shortly after the attack," Ron continued. "Moody took a hit for Tonks, and so
she and Remus managed to escape… We lost several of the aurors from our
side, too, but no one else that I think you've met…"

"Who did it?" Harry asked, suddenly needing to know who, exactly, was
responsible. "Who killed Mad-Eye?"

Ron's voice lowered significantly.

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry's blood ignited in pure, undiluted fury.

The one person in existence who he hated even more, perhaps, than Peter
Pettigrew (barring Tom Marvolo Riddle, obviously…obviously!). That horrid
witch, with her high-pitched, condescending baby-voice… Who had mocked
him, when he'd tried to make her feel a fraction of the pain that he'd felt,
when she'd—

Harry clenched his hand into a painfully tight fist. He wondered how he do in
performing such a curse, now…

"Yeah," Ron said darkly, after this information had set in. "She really has it
out for Tonks…probably because they're related, and she went and married a
half-breed…"

Harry's next comment was derailed completely as he suddenly realized

something. "I'm sure you're—wait. How do you know all this?" he asked.
"How do you know what's going on in such detail, were you—were you
there?"

Hermione looked…guilty. "No, no, of course not; we've been in Albania, like
we've said… We've been in contact with Remus, over the past week. Ron and
I have," she said in a small voice.

"You have!?" Harry shouted, but he was too curious at the moment to be
angry. "Well why didn't you say so!? How has he been? What else has been
going on, have you been talking to anyone else, is—"

"No," Hermione interrupted, seizing on his last question. "We haven't been
talking to anyone else at all, only Remus, and they have been very short, very
one-sided conversations," she said quickly. "He agreed to keep Ron and I
posted on what's been happening, while we…while we don't tell him
anything about what we've been up to. He doesn't know about you. He
doesn't know about Snape, or Malfoy. All he knows is that Ron and I are
working on Dumbledore's orders, and he hasn't told anyone that he's been in
contact with us at all. Not even Tonks."

Harry took a long moment to register all of this.

"Does Snape know you've been talking to him?"

"Yes."
"…But Remus doesn't know that any of us are alive. He…he just thinks he's
passing along information to you two…but you've been sharing that
information with Snape, right?"

"Yes," she repeated.

Another quiet moment of contemplation.

"…Oh," Harry finally said, feeling at a loss for anything else at this point.

Then he remembered what it was they had begun talking about in the first
place. "So…there was an attack yesterday, and so Snape called you back
here, and now you're going to do something…something major tomorrow?"

They both nodded. Hermione paled a bit, while Ron turned slightly green.

"Yeah…" he croaked. "Something absolutely insane. We can't tell you what,

precisely, but let's just say I don't know anyone ever who has managed
anything like it before, but… Snape seems to think it has to happen
tomorrow, or we may never get a better chance."

"Okay… Why does he think that?"

Hermione intercepted, now. "Because…l-losing Moody, and so many other

aurors… It was a real blow, to our side, because we didn't manage to so much
as catch a single Death Eater for questioning. And Professor Snape is very
insightful; he seems certain that, after such a successful move on their part,
they'll celebrate—you-know-who knows the importance of rewarding things
like that, he'll want to honor his followers for doing something right, for once
—" She nearly spat the last words, and Harry was surprised that she could go
from sounding so sad to so bitter in a single breath, "—so they'll be
distracted, he thinks, for at least a day or so, definitely not running to the
bank first thing in the morning—"

Hermione's eyes went incredibly wide, and she clapped a hand over her
mouth.
"Gringotts," Malfoy said pointedly, looking right at Harry when he said it—
the unspoken words, 'I told you so' obvious by his stare.

"Hermione!" Ron gasped, but he sounded only very stunned, not angry.

"Is…that true? Are you… Are you really going to break into Gringotts?"
Harry spluttered—but the horrified expression on her face answered the
questions for him.

"Oh—oh—" She looked from Harry, to Ron, to Draco, and back to Harry
—"Oh—damn." she finished in a horrified squeak.

The room was silent for a few seconds, and then—

"Oh God, the rice!"

Hermione twirled on the spot, and the rice she had been preparing was, in
fact, burning to the interior of the pot. She frantically brandished her wand
over it, putting out the fire on the stove and vanishing the ruined food.

"You shouldn't have heard that," she all but whispered afterwards, her hands
down flat on the counter with her back to them. "I shouldn't have…I—"

"We'll play dumb," Harry offered up, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I'm not afraid of Professor Snape being cross with me, if that's what you
mean by that," she snapped as she turned to face them, surprising them all
with the ire in her voice. "It's… I'm just already so nervous about this, and—
and Evans, you really, really need to become efficient at Occlumency as soon
as you can—"

And then she was right back on the verge of tears again, reaching for both of
his hands and holding them tightly in her own. "Please, please, please, it is
the most critical and important thing right now, and once you're there, once
this is over tomorrow, we can start to tell you more, and—"

"All right, all right!" Harry said, unable to stand the prospect of Hermione
Granger bursting into tears in his arms—a sentiment which he could tell was
shared by the room at large, based on the uncomfortable shifting of both Ron
and Draco. "I… We'll drop this conversation completely until tomorrow, and
I'll keep practicing, and everything is going to be just wonderful."

Hermione blinked up at him, glittering tears clinging to her lashes. "I mean
it," he said calmly. "Whatever it is you have to do tomorrow, I'm sure you'll
be brilliant. You're Hermione Jean Granger, the brightest witch of our age,
and with Ron helping you, I'm sure that there is nothing, nothing that you
can't manage to pull off… Besides, you have Snape in your corner. And
while I'm sure the company is insufferable, he at least seems adequately
invested in making sure none of us get kidnapped by Death Eaters or die
horrible, painful deaths. In fact, sometimes…" Harry paused for a second,
lowering his voice slightly as he leaned in a bit closer to her,

"…It almost seems like he actually cares about us."

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, which quickly turned into a high pitched,
surprised squeak, when—

"Don't delude yourself."

Snape, leaning against the doorframe, looking somehow both very cavalier
and sour.

How long had he just been standing there? How had none of them noticed his
appearance?

The Potions Master retracted his wand as he stepped into the room, his
scornful expression deepening with every word he spoke. "Let me make this
clear. There is one thing and one thing only which I care about—winning this
war. Which is very closely related to the art of not only survival, but
progress. I am keeping your sorry skins alive for the sake of progress. Don't
let the emotional stresses of war confuse you into thinking that I actually care
about any of you as individuals. You—" he pointed at Malfoy, "—have
managed to lose what little preference I had for you by keeping rather
important information from me last year, for no other reason than your own
selfish pride—you two—" he pointed at Ron and Hermione, now, "—have
been some of my least favorite students from the moment you walked into
Hogwarts' Great Hall, for both your contrite, stereotypical Gryffindor
personality traits as well as the fact that you are so closely associated with—"
now Harry was being pointed at, "—this one, who I detest so greatly and for
so many varying reasons that we would all die of old age before I could list
them all and why are you smiling like that?"

Harry was smiling. His grin had started the moment that Snape had pointed
his wand at Malfoy, and had only grown broader the more he'd gone on—this
monologue of his which bordered ondefensive.

He looked back to Hermione, who still had tears on her lashes. "…I think he
loves us," he whispered to her…purposefully loud enough for the entire room
to hear it.

She failed to suppress a snort. Snape's eye twitched so violently that Harry
though he might just be on the verge of a stroke.

"Out!" he bellowed, and his wand, which was still pointed at Harry's chest,
shot out sparks of white. "Out—you and Draco—go to your room and stay
there—"

He was snarling, but Harry couldn't help but find it very funny. Snape was
banishing Draco and him to their room, like an angry parent.

His laughter was cut very short, however, as a powerful stinging hex hit him
in the shoulder. "Ha—Ow! Ow—okay! I'm going, I'm—OW!" Two in a row,
and still he couldn't stop laughing as he ran to the door—which Draco had
bolted for the moment he saw sparks, holding the giant book on Gellert
Grindelwald in front of him like a shield as he went. Harry narrowly dodged
a third curse as he rounded the corner, sprinting down the hall, calling, "Love
hurts, Professor!" over his shoulder as he went, unable to stop himself.

Fortunately, Snape chose not to chase after him in order to continue his
onslaught. Harry shut the door to their room behind them as he entered,
where Draco already was, panting—
And then they both started laughing. It went on for a long time, just an
uncontainable stream of laughter, and it was quite difficult to stop once they'd
gotten going.

It felt so, so good, just to laugh.

"You idiot," Draco finally said between breaths, trying and failing to regain
his usual drawl. "Now we're stuck in here until he cools off."

"What can I say, it's in my stereotypical, contrite, Gryffindor nature," Harry

muttered.

Draco laughed again, despite his best efforts.

But the humor of the situation eventually wore off, and, as one might
imagine, being stuck in their room was even more boring than being
anywhere else in the house. There was no piano playing to be had in here…

"We didn't even get anything to eat," Draco eventually whined. Harry rolled
his eyes at his typical complaining.

"Here," he said as he opened up his trunk, digging through the contents

(during which time, he sneakily and stealthily slipped his Invisibility Cloak
from his pocket and stashed it underneath his jeans). He then grabbed an
apple from inside of a paper bag which Hermione had brought them days
before. He tossed it in Malfoy's direction.

"Catch."

Draco did—barely. He looked completely baffled. "You…you hid food in

your trunk?" he asked incredulously.

Harry shrugged. "Not much. Bit of an old survival habit of mine from
childhood… My Aunt and Uncle weren't exactly above sending me to bed
without dinner…regularly." What Harry didn't say was that he'd been
consistently dreaming of being trapped in that household, in one specific,
dreary cupboard, and that the recurring nightmare had brought about some…
old habits of his.

Yet he'd explained enough that Malfoy's head tilted to one side at his
response, like he'd never quite seen Harry James Potter before, and he was
trying to figure out exactly what he was.

"They did?" he said in a tone of voice that made it clear that he wasn't sure
why he was asking in the first place.

Harry nodded like it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah. But I'm not hungry, you have
it." He grabbed a giant sweatshirt out from a pile of clothing. "And hey—at
least we got the snitch." He flashed the golden globe at him, grinning.

But Draco glanced at it only briefly. "Yeah," he said a bit dazedly, before
looking back at the apple in his hands. He was staring at it with a strange,
blank expression on his face, as though he was questioning his entire
existence, and that the explanation for everything might be there, somewhere,
on the surface of that particular piece of red fruit.

"…Yeah."

…Harry wondered if he would ever understand a single person who had been
sorted into Slytherin.

Shrugging it off, he pulled the hoodie on over his head and closed his trunk.
Harry flung himself down on his bed, grabbing his massive book and picking
up where he'd left off—he was now at the beginning of a new section entitled
'Inseparable Relations: Associations and Correlations with the Muggle War.'

Malfoy remained largely silent for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually, he
pulled the diary out from under his mattress and began to scribble away in it
again, almost feverishly.

Draco wrote, Harry read, and the day passed slowly.

"We need to leave."

At some point, Harry wasn't sure when, he had unwittingly slipped into
unconsciousness. They rest of the afternoon had been uneventful—Malfoy
seemed incapable of conversation after Harry had performed the (apparently
monumental) good deed of giving him an apple…and only once, in fact, had
Harry ventured to leave the bedroom all, simply because he'd needed to use
the toilet. Harry could see that Ron, Hermione, and Snape had taken up
residence in the drawing room again, as the door was closed and, when he
tossed a rolled up sock at it, it soared away inexplicably—a sign that wards
were firmly in place.

And they must have stayed there all day, because never once did Ron or
Hermione come to talk to him…and he was sure they would have, if they had
been able to.

A boring, monotonous day, indeed.

It was nothing at all like his night was soon to be.

"Er…come again?"

The voice in his ear was harsh and demanding.

"We need to leave this house," Riddle reiterated, tightening his grasp on
Harry's waist.

Harry sat up, the arms around him loosening most reluctantly. "Are you
mad?" he balked, though when he turned to face him he still saw nothing but
shadows. The mysterious darkness was really beginning to drive him crazy.
"We can't leave, that'd be suicidal—worse than suicidal, actually."

"Staying here is suicidal," the voice snapped.

Harry flinched at the severity of his tone. "What are you talking about?"

"Your friends… Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley… They are not your
friends… And Severus Snape… They are doing something dangerous,
something terrible, and it will ruin you."
A pause.

"…Ruin us."

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. "No, you've got it all wrong…" he
started, and the silhouette retracted, disappearing completely into the
darkness. "They would never do anything to hurt me, they're my best friends.
They've saved me loads of times, and Snape… Well, sure, he's Snape, but
he's on our side, too…"

"None of them are on our side."

The icy words sent a shiver down his spine. They were sharp and cold, and
made Harry think of shards of pointed glass.

"We need to leave, Harry," he said again, and this time, his voice was coming
from a different corner of the cupboard—Harry turned but saw nothing there
in the darkness but the faint outline of a silvery spider's web—

And while his heart was already beginning to race, the adrenaline starting to
course through his veins in trepidation, it was the next statement, spoken so
silkily smooth and low that made his stomach drop completely—

"I'm going to take over for a while, I think."

Harry turned again, for this time, the sound had come from another corner,
near the door—

"What—where are you—" he breathed, but he was cut off by laughter—soft,

musical-sounding laughter—

"I want to see you," Harry said as firmly as he could. "Let me see your face."

Another bout of laughter. "Are you sure you're ready, Harry?" From below
him, this time—under the cot, beneath the floor boards—

"Let me see your face," he repeated, his voice raspy.

"Careful what you wish for…"

Above him, from the dangling, broken lightbulb—he was laughing again, and
it was all around him and yet it was nowhere—

"Let me see you. I want to know, I—" Harry's voice stuck in his throat for a
moment— "Who…who are you?"

"…I'll give you a hint." Harry's heart was palpating erratically as he turned,
seeing nothing—

"I'm someone you know… How exactly did you put it, again? In the privacy
of your own thoughts? Oh, yes, I remember… Someone suave and
handsome, deceptive and cunning… Someone with perfect, porcelain skin
and aristocratic features, with shining black hair and shining black eyes… A
boy with a quick wit and—my favorite bit—"

The next words were right in his ear, Harry could feel the warm breath
against his skin—

"…A silver tongue."

But when he whipped around there was no one there, nothing but shadows,
and his laughter was ringing in the empty air—and it couldn't be, couldn't
possibly be, because—

"Couldn't it?"

Harry's breath was hitching in his throat as he backed away towards the door,
reaching for the knob, but it was locked—how was the door locked in his
own dream? He willed it to open, but it wouldn't budge—

"So what's it going to be, Harry?" There was no mistaking it now, that voice,
and how could he not have pinpointed it sooner? How—

"Fight…"

Harry felt a single finger being dragged up his spine, barely making physical
contact at all, but it brought with it a terrible, earth-shattering shiver—he
turned—

"…Or fuck?"

Parseltongue. Right in his ear, and—p

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

…Just like the memories he'd seen in the diary…young and handsome and
Harry had killed him—

He was simultaneously hit with too many emotions at once to process them
as his back collided with the closed door behind him—terror, rage, confusion,
and—

And something entirely unwanted that the parseltongue seemed to rip right
out of the pit of his stomach.

"You—you can't—impossible—" Harry spluttered as he stared at what was

undeniably the terrifyingly beautiful face of the Heir of Slytherin. "The diary
—it—"

"The diary…" Riddle drawled as if Harry had just made a poor, ill-timed
joke. "No… Close, close…but—"

He leaned closer, and Harry was momentarily paralyzed by his piercing stare.

"I'm something better… I'm an angel, remember, Harry?" His saccharine

voice was saturated in so much sarcasm that Harry nearly blanched.

"You're no angel," he said, trying valiantly to sound brave. "You tried to kill
me—you're the devil—"

"Satan was an angel, Harry," Riddle stated matter-of-factly—before his lips

curved into what was a rather demonic smile. "An angel of light, God's
favored… Then fallen… So tragic, really, so misunderstood… It's quite
fitting, don't you think?"
He laughed. Harry's stomach was coiling like a serpent in his chest.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Riddle's grin vanished, and his voice was suddenly so gentle that Harry could
have sworn he'd just become a different person entirely. "You know I won't. I
saved you, remember? I'm saving you now, in fact… Can you see them?"

Before Harry could react, Riddle had reached forward and grabbed his
shoulders, twirling him around so that he was facing the door again.

"Do you even feel them?"

Harry was too shocked to even struggle at the moment. He stared at the
wooden door, unsure of what he was supposed to be looking at, when—

"Wards," he breathed in disbelief. He reached a hand out, running it softly

along the surface of the door…and they were there, shimmering just barely as
he touched them, but they felt like almost nothing, nothing at all—they felt—

"Natural." Riddle finished his thought for him. "Because they're yours…
Well, mostly." Harry turned to face him again, and he was smiling serenely.

"I did that for you, Harry. I simply connected the intrinsic pathways in your
mind in order to construct Occlumency barriers that are you own. Just like I
brought music to your fingertips." He leaned in a bit closer, and Harry
retracted instinctually, his back against the door again. "Just as I saved you
from him before… I am your savior, Harry…"

"But—but why?" Harry shot out, more baffled than he was scared in that
moment. "Why would you want to save me from him? From yourself?"

The smile vanished from his face in a flash, replaced by a mask so bloodless
and cold it could have been made of stone.

"I am nothing like him," he seethed. "I would never do to you what he did. I
would never be so monstrous, so—"
He reached forward, moving to place his hand around the crook of Harry's
neck, but Harry jerked away, suddenly furious, confused, enraged—

"You are him!" he snarled, his heartbeat thundering like a drum in his ears.
"You are him, you, you tried to kill me, you—"

"I am not him!" Riddle was so fast that he barely saw him move. He snatched
the silver chain around Harry's neck, grasping the locket and yanking him
forward so that Harry practically fell into his arms.

"I saved you from him!" Riddle seethed, his forehead flush against Harry's,
his lips dangerously close to his own. "I am on your side and you know it,
you know it, I've seen it in your heart… You trust me." He loosened his grip
so that the metal chain was no longer biting painfully into his skin. His voice
softened. "You do. You trust me completely, because I have kept you safe. I
would never hurt you Harry…" His lips grazed his cheek, just barely…

"…But I could."

Then he shoved him, hard—the back of Harry's skull hit the door with a sharp
thud, and he was too stunned, too petrified to react—

"I could hurt you. I could take your body by force, possess you, control you
without your consent…"

Pure, devastating horror swept through his entire body—wake up, he thought
torridly, wake up—

And then Riddle was laughing again, low and breathy, as though he had
heard Harry's desperate thoughts and found them amusing. The next words
out of his mouth filled him with something even more debilitating than fear.

"…I could eat you alive, Harry Potter…"

Parseltongue again—and it was soul-crushing.

The blood coursing through Harry's veins seemed to freeze for a moment
before racing chaotically, unsure of which direction it should be rushing.
Riddle smirked, and the hand which had been holding the locket slackened
completely, letting go of the necklace and moving down his chest.

"…I could sssskin you with my tongue…"

He leaned into the crook of Harry's shoulder, running the aforementioned

tongue along his collar bone, up his neck—and the blood in Harry's veins
made up its mind completely, seemingly leaving his brain and therefore all
rational thought behind and heading lower—

Riddle was tearing at his shirt, ripping it apart as if it were made of thin,
feeble plastic rather than fabric. He bit at Harry's neck and there was the
sound of a throaty, deep moan filling the small room that couldn't have
possibly been his.

"Yesss…" the Slytherin heir hissed, his hands moving to Harry's shoulders
and guiding him across the cupboard effortlessly.

"…I could ssssteal your thoughts… I could conssssume your ssssoul…"

Harry's head was swimming as he was being forced down on his back on the
cot—though 'forced' was a strong word, really, as he was putting up exactly
no physical resistance at the moment. Riddle was crawling on top of him,
straddling him—he leaned over him and his lips were in his ear again—

"…But I won't."

He ran his hands down Harry's sides, just like he'd always done before, so
soothingly, though now they had an entirely different effect on his body.

And then he paused.

"I won't do anything without your consent." He looked right into Harry's eyes
when he said it, in plain, comprehensible English. There was the familiar
sensation of hundreds of butterflies trying desperately to escape the confines
of his ribcage, wild and unbidden—
Riddle's lips were less than an inch away, but he did not move. He stayed
completely still, simply hovering there, not acting.

A pregnant, silent pause—

And then Harry was the one reaching hungrily, craning his neck towards him,
and it was divine. Their lips crashed together with an almost manic intensity,
and Harry stopped caring altogether about how insanely reckless and crazy
this was.

Or…was it? Was this really another version of the memories of Tom
Marvolo Riddle, or was it all just his fucked-up, imaginary subconscious?
Was this just a dream, after all?

…Was one possibility actually any better or worse than the other, really?

All he knew for certain was that…he didn't care.

Not at all.

Kissing Tom Riddle was exhilarating. It was fire and flame, it was thunder
and lightning. It was pure passion, powerful and all consuming, and Harry
was on fire with it. Riddle was ravishing his neck and he was putty in his
hands.

"…I'm going to take over for a while, Harry…" he said for the second time
with his lips against his chest, covering him with semi-painful, heavenly bites
along his sternum—and Harry was listening, he was, but it was so difficult to
care about what he was saying when it was being spoken in such velvety,
seductive parseltongue—

"I'm going to ssssave us…" he was running his tongue along his abdomen
now, and Harry felt an indescribable thrill of anticipation as he worked his
lips lower, and lower still—

"…I just need you to say yes…" His hands were on the hem of his pants now,
pulling them down with agile fingers…
Harry's back arched when he unexpectedly sucked on the skin over his hip
bone; the wavy, black hair on his head brushing against his throbbing, hard
length-

"Fuck—" The swear just leapt out of his throat, and he was more jumbled and
nervous and absolutely enthralled than he'd ever been before in his entire life,
and all he knew as that now, right now, the only thing in the world that
mattered was that Tom Marvolo Riddle not stop what he was doing—

"Say yes for me, Harry…"

His lips were hovering directly above the tip of his cock, which was so hard it
was painful—he felt his warm breath against the sensitive skin there and it
took every ounce of willpower to not simply beg and whimper—

"…Say yes…"

On some strange, deeply buried level of his conscious mind, Harry knew
what he was saying, knew what he was asking, but there was nothing that
could make him give a damn at that precise moment. Albus Dumbledore
himself could have appeared right then and there in the closet with them,
dressed in robes of brilliant white to play the metaphorical role of God—he
could have looked right at Harry with those twinkling blue eyes, and said,
'Harry, my dear boy, if you actually let this happen, all will be lost, and the
entire world will be consumed in a lake of fire,' and Harry would have said:

'Fuck it, let it burn.'

…And maybe Tom had somehow followed that twisted train of his addled
thoughts, because he let out a short, throaty laugh before running his tongue
along the side of his length, like some demented reward system, and Harry
moaned—

"Oh, fuck," he swore again, unable to stop himself from bucking forward
longingly. Tom put his hands firmly on Harry's hips, pinning them down.

"…Say yes…" he said again, before sucking at the skin on Harry's lower
stomach—so close, yet so far—

"Fuck—yes, y—"

"No." And that silky smooth parseltongue was suddenly a spitting, lethal
snarl—Tom looked up at him and Harry swore to high heaven that his eyes
flashed red—

"I said say it."

His nails were digging into his hips like talons, and that crimson glare made
his heart skip several beats—and perhaps that should have scared him to hell
and back—but then he moved his lips so that his mouth was right at the tip of
his length again—

"…Ssssay it…"

And Harry knew what he meant, somehow, but… He'd never done it, not
with another person, wasn't even sure he could… He felt a rush of
nervousness amongst all of the lust and yearning—

"…Yessss…" And the parseltongue was on his lips, he felt it, he could tell…
Riddle smiled sardonically up at him…

"Good boy..." he hissed, running his tongue down his cock again, making
Harry tremble, completely helpless.

"Ssssay it again. Ssssay you're my sssslave…"

"Yesss…" And then his mouth finally closed around him entirely, and it was
warm and wet and utter bliss—Harry nearly lost it in that instant, it was so
overwhelmingly good—Riddle moved his mouth up and down, torturously
slow, his tongue wrapping around his length in a way that Harry would have
never thought possible—though if anyone had that particular capability, it
would only make sense that it would be a parselmouth…

Harry lost all ability to form words, parseltongue or otherwise, then. It was
just a continuous, snakelike hiss that escaped his lips, and his thoughts were
running rampant. This, he thought madly, this is so wrong, so completely
wrong, but he wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life—
nothing else mattered so long as Tom Marvolo Riddle not stop what he was
doing, however he was doing it, because this was heaven—nothing else held
any importance at all—not the war, not the Order, nothing—and the next
words he heard must have been in his head, as Riddle's mouth was currently
very preoccupied—

'Yesss, Harry… Go on…' It was seductively smooth in his thoughts, and God,
the sound of that voice in his mind and the sensation of his tongue wrapped
around him was too much, far too much—his fingers were tangled in Tom's
hair, anything, anything to keep him there, for this to continue—

'Spill out all of you sssssinful sssssecretsssss…'

He was feeling lightheaded, dizzy—weak—and somehow, somewhere in the

back of his feverish mind he knew that this—this situation, him climaxing
under the ministrations of Tom Marvolo Riddle was synonymous with just
signing his body away—knew it, but—

'I want to tassssste them on my tongue…'

But—

'I want to sssswallow them whole…'

Oh, fuck—

"Wake up!"

'Yess—'

"Wake up, wake UP!"

A vicious, deadly snarl—furious—

"AH—What! I—"
Harry sat up so quickly that his vision blurred, and the top of his skull
collided painfully hard with what could have only been Draco's chin.

"OW—what the hell!?" Malfoy spat, cupping the lower half of his face while
Harry did the same thing to the top of his head.

And then Harry froze completely, because right then, at that very moment, he
realized—he had the most horrifically erect boner he'd ever had in his entire
life, pressing painfully down into the mattress underneath him, and if he
moved—if Draco Malfoy saw, he would—he would—he'd be damned before
—

"What in Merlin's name were you dreaming about!?" Malfoy snapped, still
rubbing his chin. But, Harry noted, he looked more…afraid than…smug, or
embarrassed… "You were…you were hissing, and it looked like you were
trying to claw your way through the mattress…"

…And then Harry understood where his fear had come from. Only one other
person ever, in all of existence, hissed as a form of communication, and that
person happened to terrify everyone, especially his young, fearful, unwilling
followers…

Well, whatever Malfoy was coming up with in his mind, it was far better than
the truth. Harry decided to run with it.

"I…I need a minute," he muttered in the darkest, most mysterious tone he

could muster. "Just…leave me alone."

Malfoy nodded almost imperceptibly, pale and confused—and the moment

he looked away, Harry bolted for the door, hoping against all hope that he
had been quick enough for Draco not to notice his shameful, raging erection.
At least he was wearing rather baggy sweatpants, to help, er, camouflage
things, he thought morbidly.

He dashed to the bathroom down the hall and closed the door. The shining
stars on the face of his watch glittered up at him, indicating that it was nearly
seven in the morning.

Holy shit, he thought as he tried desperately to calm his rapidly beating heart
now that he was alone. Holy shit—that—that dream…

But then—it was so strange, so bizarre—because he had just had it, had just
envisioned everything so clearly, so precisely—was even still feeling the
repercussions of horrified yet mesmerized shock—and yet—but now—

…He couldn't remember.

What in the hell! It was the most infuriatingly frustrating thing, because he
could have sworn that he'd known it a just moment it ago… And as he
screwed his face up, trying to remember it… Why, it felt just like when he'd
been in grade school, sitting in the furthest corner away from the teacher and
from Dudley's horrible gang of bullies, before he'd known he'd needed
glasses, and he was trying so desperately hard to make out what it was that
had been written on board…but no matter how he squinted his eyes, no
matter how hard he strained, it was so difficult to make out…and then, just as
he was beginning to read the words, just as he was beginning to put together
the beginnings of a sentence, the message was being scrubbed away,
disappearing behind a cloud of chalky, white smoke…

The more he tried to recall the specifics of the dream, the more blurred and
distorted they became…

He only knew two things for certain.

The first was that parseltongue was involved—quite liberally.

The second was that it was the hottest thing he'd ever experienced. He knew
that, without a doubt, even without remembering what it was exactly, because
he was hornier than he'd ever been in his entire existence, and he was
throbbing so painfully—

Shit, he thought, as he tried to focus on lowering his heart rate. He

desperately did not want to make the conclusion that he knew he would
eventually come to…for there was only one person who he could have been
dreaming about, if parseltongue was involved, and, seeing as he had just so
recently nearly relived a certain sexual encounter with that individual, thanks
to the horrifying Occlumency lessons with Snape, he supposed it would make
sense that his sub-conscious would bring it up in a dream…

Harry groaned as his dick throbbed painfully hard at the thought, as though in
humiliating confirmation.

No, he thought viciously. No, I will not accept that. I am not going to…to
masturbate to thoughts of…to…to…never. I won't lower myself to that.

…His head was saying one thing, while his body argued quite vehemently for
another.

Harry took a deep breath. "I need a very, very cold shower," he lamented
quietly to himself.

And he was just about to follow through with that, when he thought he heard
voices from down the hall…

A woman's voice…

But—no…

Harry's blood ran cold, and if there was anything in the world that could
crush his libido so suddenly and so successfully, it was the sound of that
voice.

He sprinted down the hall, all thoughts of sex and shame miraculously
forgotten in an instant. The acidic taste of bile was clawing at the back of his
throat at the mere thought of—but it couldn'tbe—he burst into the front room,
and—

"You!"

The dark gaze of Bellatrix Lestrange stared back at him.

 15. Progress
Bellatrix Lestrange was standing in the front room, her wand in her hand with
that haughty, poised demeanor. Her hooded eyes flickered to Harry, and he
tasted acid on his tongue and static in the air and—

Her dark eyes widened in shock.

"No! No, it's me, it's Hermione!"

"You—what?"

The electric tension vanished as Bellatrix Lestrange stumbled in her haste to

raise her hands up defensively, her face stunned and fearful—an expression
that Harry would not imagine ever being on the face of the real Bellatrix
Lestrange…

"Why…?"

"No!"

It was Snape who snarled, and Harry turned to see both he and a rather large,
brutish-looking man who Harry recognized only vaguely…

"R…Ron?"

The giant man nodded weakly.

"No, no, no!" Snape roared in Harry's direction. "You were not granted
permission to leave your room. What are you doing up at this hour?" He had
his wand pointed threateningly at his chest.

Harry recoiled—so very, very glad that his painful erection had died a sudden
and rapid death the moment he thought he'd heard the voice of Bellatrix
Lestrange… But his eyes darted around the three of them, and he began to
piece it all together.
"You—the Lestrange vault?"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Snape's eyes widened as
he rounded on Hermione and Ron, both of whom looked guilty and,
admittedly, a bit terrified.

"Oh, it's my fault, professor," Hermione confessed in a high pitched voice

that sounded very wrong coming from Bellatrix's mouth. "I accidentally
mentioned it, I—"

"Silence!" Snape seethed. She stopped speaking at once.

The Potions Master took a long, deep breath, closing his eyes and pinching
the bridge of his nose. He stayed still for a long time, looking both deeply
contemplative yet murderous. Ron, Hermione and Harry did not dare to say a
word.

When he spoke next, it was with a very forced, controlled voice.

"It does not matter how he found out, at this point. In a few hours' time, this
will all be over and done with, regardless. But I will not have you ruining
this." He glared at Harry, his teeth barred. "Every single part of this operation
was incredibly precarious to prepare, you cannot even fathom—everything
from producing the Polyjuice Potion to acquiring hairs to gaining access to
Bellatrix's wardrobe before I rescued you so that I could duplicate her exact
clothing—" He motioned snappishly at Hermione, who was, in fact, wearing
a tightly bound, black, leather corset, a thick, velvety cloak (also black), and
—he wondered how she was able to even walk in them—tall, laced up boots
(black as well) that went over her knees with towering, pencil-thin heels. The
look on Snape's face indicated that, had he been caught red-handed snooping
around in Bellatrix's closet, examining and replicating her shoes…the ridicule
would have easily been a fate worse than death.

"And I will not have it go awry because of your interruption. So not another
word from you." He flicked his wrist in Harry's direction, and he went
stumbling backwards against the wall due to a wordless spell. Snape then
returned his attention to Hermione.
"You have fallen out of character," he stated flatly, granting Harry one more
quick scowl, as though he had just undone a substantial amount of his hard
work.

"Seeing as there is no longer a need to keep quiet this morning… We shall go

through this again."

Ron and Hermione both bobbed their heads silently in unison. Snape crossed
the room, his robes billowing behind him.

"This," he said grandly, as he set an antique globe on top of a tall shelf, "is
the goblin Gurgrig—not that you would ever refer to him by his name—and
he is seated at the desk furthest to the left at the end of the main hall—the
desk which Bellatrix Lestrange always goes to. Your wand may have a
glamour cast over it, but it will fail a routine inspection. However, Bellatrix
Lestrange wouldnever allow such a mundane, somewhat lengthy procedure to
be taken on her. You are in a rush, you are above such things, but you are not
above raising your voice and throwing a temper tantrum in public places. It is
how you get what you want." He stood directly in front of Hermione, his
intense gaze lit up with something that Harry thought he might actually refer
to asexcitement.

"You are Bellatrix Lestrange," he said firmly.

"I-I am Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione repeated meekly. Harry got the

impression that she was still a bit shaken at the prospect of Harry having
nearly electrocuted her again. By accident, of course.

"No!" Snape fumed, grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her, fire in
his eyes. "You are Bellatrix Lestrange!"

She swallowed, staring back at him unflinchingly when she said, in a much
more sinister, convincing tone,

"I am Bellatrix Lestrange."

Looking appeased, the older wizard stepped away, his robes swirling about
him—and Harry couldn't help but think that, in another life, Severus Snape
would have made a fabulous acting coach… Which shouldn't have been too
surprising, really, seeing as he spent literally half of his life acting. Harry
watched the way the Potions Master stared at his ex-student, his face filled
with hopeful anticipation…

…quite possibly the other half, too.

"Begin."

Hermione Granger left the room.

Bellatrix Lestrange strode with a sophisticated, elegant poise as she

approached the 'goblin', and she walked so well in those pointed heels that
Harry came to the immediate conclusion that they must have been practicing
this all day yesterday.

She jutted her chin out as she glowered up at the globe with those heavily
hooded eyes. "I require access to my vault, goblin," she said in a voice
dripping with disdain, twirling her transfigured wand idly in his hands as a
silent, yet very clear, threat. "And I'm in a rush, so make it snappy. You—"

She turned to Ron, who was just standing there, looking a bit disgruntled and
awkward, "wait for me until I return… well?" She turned back to the globe,
as if it had just said something, and suddenly her voice was shrill and loud
and ever so outraged—

"A routine inspection on my wand!?" Bellatrix screeched, a vein protruding

out of her neck. "On my wand? You do know who I am, don't you? Or are
you that daft, you filthy creature, that you are unaware that you are speaking
to Bellatrix Lestrange? I need access to my vault, and I will not waste a
moment of my precious time on a useless procedure, nor will I hand my wand
over for even a fraction of a second to one of you! Take me to my vault, now,
unless you want to experience firsthand why it is that I am the Dark Lord's
most favored, his most beloved, his most—"

Her voice was escalating as she built up steam, her pale face flushing slightly
as the color rose to her cheeks. Her ebony locks even seemed to become more
twisted, to coil and curl with her heated, manic energy—

"What…?"

Draco gasped, causing them all to turn. He'd entered the room silently, still in
his pajamas, surely drawn in by the sound of the commotion…and he looked
absolutely thunderstruck at the presence of his insane, fierce aunt in the front
room, screaming her head off.

She paused when she saw him. "Draco…" Bellatrix purred vindictively. She
advanced on the startled blonde like a stalking, prowling cat, leering as she
advanced—Malfoy took a step back, looking panicked—

"So you are alive… We've missed you so much at the meetings, nephi-kins,"
she mocked condescendingly in that high-pitched, baby voice that grated on
Harry's ears like nails digging straight into his mind. "Cissy misses you…as
does your useless, sorry excuse for a father…" Her voice darkened, her black
eyes flashing dangerously as they trailed down his thigh, "Nagini misses you,
too…"

Draco went so pale that Harry thought he might pass out. In fact, his knees
buckled, and if Harry hadn't been so quick on his feet to steady him, Malfoy
would have fallen to the floor.

But Bellatrix threw her head back at his reaction, cackling madly—insane,
she was absolutely insane, and the tip of her wand shot out sparks of vibrant
green—

"Good God, Hermione!" Harry gasped.

And then a single clap broke the spell, and the laughter came to sudden halt.
They all turned to look at Snape, whose lips had curved into a devilish grin as
he stared at Hermione, clapping two more times in slow succession, and—
Harry couldn't believe it—he looked…he looked so pleased…

"Excellent.," he said, ignoring Draco's ashen and shaken form completely.

"You are ready."

Hermione glanced at the terrified face of Malfoy, shocked by her own

behavior. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, I lost myself completely—"

"Leave him." Snape intercepted at once. "Take one more drink of this, and be
gone. It is time." He handed Hermione a glass, which Harry knew at once
must be Polyjuice Potion. It was a deep, nearly black, purple color. He then
handed another one to Ron, which was thick and moss green.

Harry glanced to the man Ron was impersonating questionably. "What…

what do you have to do?" he couldn't help but ask, still supporting the
stricken Malfoy from falling over.

Snape answered for him. "Hardly anything. I chose Crabbe for a reason. He is
to wait in the lobby while Miss Granger goes to the Lestrange vault and
completes the task. Bellatrix would never allow someone else to escort her to
her own vault…with the exception of the Dark Lord himself, of course." He
stared at Ron accusingly. "So long as you fall short of screaming 'This is a
heist, my name is Ronald Weasley, and the Boy-who-lived still lives' whilst
you wait in the lobby, then we should be fine. Crabbe is exceptionally
unintelligent. He generally grunts more than he speaks." Snape smirked
sardonically.

"You are perfect for the role," he finished, forcing the goblet into his hands.
Ron glared at him but said nothing. He took a sip of the potion and made a
sour, disgusted face.

"Urgh," he spat, shaking his head before he looked at Harry. "Crabbe senior
tastes even worse than his son," he muttered knowingly.

Draco blinked, regaining some of his composure at these words. "What…

what is that supposed to mean?" he spat, pushing Harry's supporting arms
away.

Harry and Ron both grinned sheepishly.

"I'll tell you the whole story when I get back, if we make it out of this alive,"
he murmured.

"Enough," Snape interrupted, taking the goblet from Ron's hands and
seeming wholly uninterested in whatever it was they were talking about.
"You will be fine. Now go. They've just opened. The sooner you leave, the
quicker and more easily this shall go."

He ushered Ron and Hermione towards the door. Hermione glanced briefly
back towards Harry before they stepped out.

"Wish us luck!" she called breathlessly over her shoulder—only to be met

with an icy glower from Snape.

"I mean—I mean—" She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin in Harry's
direction, drawing herself up to her full height…which, in those heels, was
rather impressive.

"I hardly require the luck of a filthy, disgusting, half-blood abomination such
as you," she seethed, brandishing her wand fluidly—and Harry actually felt
genuine, palpable hatred towards her. She snapped her perfectly manicured
fingers at Ron. "Let's go, Crabbe. Do try and keep up. I know it will be
difficult for you, bumbling oaf that you are, but I am in a hurry."

Hermione turned, stepping out on the doorstep and holding out an arm
impatiently without a backwards glance.

Ron followed after her, shooting Harry one last, abysmal look before joining
her outside and grasping her arm…and really, Harry thought, he couldn't
have looked more distraught or terrified than if he'd left with the real
Bellatrix Lestrange.

The door closed, and then, with a loud crack, they were gone.

…And the three dead men could do nothing but wait.

Snape's version of anxious anticipation turned out to be essentially

transforming into a human statue. He sat on one of the arm chairs in the front
room with his hands folded in front of him, his wand interwoven between his
fingers and his eyes closed, and he was so still that Harry thought he may
have actually stopped breathing.

Which was exactly the opposite of how he reacted to this dire situation. Harry
was feeling increasingly wary and stressed, completely unable to stay still.
He fidgeted in his seat before getting up and pacing the room for a bit. He
then turned to head for the study, maybe playing the piano would help calm
his nerves—

"Sit."

Snape's voice cracked like a whip form across the room before Harry had
even touched the knob. He turned around, but Snape hadn't so much as
opened his eyes. How the blazes had he—?

"Neither of you are leaving this room until they return." The Potions Master
opened his eyes a mere fraction of an inch, his narrowed gaze focused in
Harry's direction.

"Sit."

Then he closed them again, resuming his practice of impersonating a marble

sculpture.

Honestly, Harry thought irritably, what did he think he was going to do? Run
off to the drawing room and take the portkey out of here? Dash into his
bedroom and grab his Firebolt, perhaps, and jump out of window so he could
chase after them?

…The moment these thoughts crossed his mind, there was a strange part of
him that seemed to say yes, yes, let's do that…and, well, Harry thought
shrewdly…maybe Snape knew him better than he even knew himself.

Harry sat, somehow feeling the accusatory glare from his ex-professor fixated
on him even with his eyes closed.
…But the horrible anxiety continued to build in his chest the longer they
were gone. Harry's breathing was becoming increasingly strenuous—short,
tight breaths that were less and less efficient at getting air into his lungs, and
he needed to do something, he needed to move, he needed to get out of here
—

"Hey."

He blinked up at Malfoy, who was peering at him from over the top of a
book. He set it aside.

"…Chess?" he offered. Harry swallowed, looking towards Ron's set on the

table in the corner of the room. Desperate for anything to distract him from
the nauseating sensation of dread in the pit of his stomach, he nodded
gratefully.

Harry was white. Draco was black.

The pieces were as animated as ever, but neither of them found their antics
very amusing at the moment. Snape seemed completely unaffected by all of it
—apparently his superhuman powers of observation were limited to
mischievous behavior or other acts which did not meet his approval…or he
simply didn't care, and was equally as skilled at ignoring things when he
wanted to, too.

It was the worst game of chess Harry had ever played.

He tried very hard to concentrate on the pieces on the board, attempted to

force himself into making smart, cunning moves, but his focus was split,
completely deterred by this ominous feeling…which of course, he should be
feeling; Draco surely was, too, but Harry was teetering on the verge of
another panic attack, his fingers trembling as he ushered his pawns into
unwitting, stupid places on the board where they were sure to meet their
untimely demise…

How long had they been gone? How long could it possibly take, to retrieve an
item from one's vault—especially considering that they had apparated there?
And that Hermione, in the form of Bellatrix Lestrange, was demanding speed
and efficiency? How long? How long, how long—

A little over an hour, and another sharp crack made them all jump in their
seats. Snape was on his feet in an instant, as were Harry and Draco—

Hermione and Ron stepped into the room, and Harry could never envision the
real Bellatrix beaming like that.

"We've done it," she said, closing the door behind them. She was breathless
and joyous, her pale cheeks flushed with exhilaration. "We've done it,
everything went precisely as you said. It was flawless, it was perfect, they
shouldn't suspect a thing, we've put the decoy in place, and—"

She was talking very quickly, he wprds directed towards Snape,"—and I

don't know how we would have managed it without you, Professor, it would
have been impossible, surely, chaos, but we did it, and it went so seamlessly,
thanks to you—"

"She was brilliant," Ron chimed in, also grinning. "Absolutely brilliant, I the
goblin immediately cow-toed to her when she started to raise a fuss about her
wand, didn't even try to fight her on it—she was in an out in half an hour—"

"It's destroyed?" Snape cut in, looking at Hermione. She nodded.

"Yes, we destroyed it exactly how you said, just like we'd planned, I have it
here." She shifted, and Harry saw that she was reaching for something under
her skirt—and then he accidently caught a full-on view of Bellatrix
Lestrange's exposed, pale thigh, as well as a rather substantial amount of her
buttocks, and it felt like someone had punched him in the gut at the sight—
partly because it was Bellatrix Lestrange, and that was horrid, and partly
because it was Bellatrix Lestrange, and some lizard-part of his male, teenage,
sexually-deprived brain had instantly thought '…Hm, not bad'-

But then Hermione had retracted her beaded bag from some hidden pocket
underneath all of that fabric, and she held it in her hands meaningfully in
front of her.
Snape's face quivered oddly when he looked down at it, like he was trying
very hard not to grin as broadly as Hermione and Ron currently were. He
jerked his head to the side. "The Pensieve," he said before turning and
leaving the room, not so much as waiting for an answer.

Hermione looked around at Harry. "He always wants to know everything

precisely, needs to see everything firsthand. He can never just take our word
for it," she explained quickly, and though she rolled her eyes at this, Harry
thought her tone almost bordered on fond. Like she could never, truly be
annoyed at someone for wanting to gather all of the solid facts on anything.

"I'll be right back," she finished before she went after their ex-professor. Her
heels clicked on the wooden floor as she walked, the hips of Bellatrix
Lestrange swaying with a kind of swagger that Harry could not possibly
imagine Hermione carrying off…

Which left Harry and Draco in the company of Ron, currently in the body of
Crabbe senior. He was watching Hermione's retreating form suspiciously,
like he was just realizing something that bothered him immensely…

"Snape never asks for my memories…" he said slowly.

Harry frowned. "Well yeah, why would he? Didn't you just wait in the
lobby?"

But Ron continued to look at the closed door which Hermione had just left
through with narrowed eyes. "Yeah…well, while we were at Gringotts…"

"So what happened?" Malfoy asked, unable to remain silent a moment

longer. "She said you destroyed something. You're destroying things?"

And Harry, who had been nearly dizzy with relief at the safe return of his
friends, felt a sudden wave of fear.

Ron blinked, rapidly coming back to himself. "Uh…yes," he said, and he

looked highly uncomfortable now, without Hermione in the room to grant
him permission for his every word.
An opportunity which Draco seemed inclined to capitalize on. "So you're not
collecting weapons, then. You're hunting down things that need to be taken
out. Are they powerful, dark artifacts? Something cursed? And my Aunt had
one stashed away in her vault? Did the Dark Lord put it there himself?" His
voice became much quieter at the last question, unable even still to not sound
reverent when speaking about the man who'd placed a permanent brand on
his arm.

"Uh," Ron started, and Harry thought that this was probably how the real
Crabbe senior spoke on a regular basis. "Uh, er, yes," he finally settled for.

Draco scowled. "Yes to which one?" he snapped. Ron shrugged.

"Take your pick. All of them."

"What did it look like?" Harry asked, this time. Ron's expression became
even more wary.

"I… I dunno if I should say…" He glanced back towards the door, as though
willing Hermione to walk back through it.

"Oh, come on," Malfoy prodded. "You've just said you destroyed it already,
right? So what's the harm in telling us?"

"Um…I…"

He took a deep breath. "…It…it was a cup."

Draco and Harry both stared, perplexed.

"A cup?" they asked at the same time, to which Ron nodded.

"What kind of cup?" Malfoy continued at once, committed to getting as much

information out of Ron as he could while they had him alone. "Was it some
kind of priceless antique? Was it charmed, or something? Did it have unique
magical properties? Did the Dark Lord do something to it to make it even
more invaluable? Powerful?"
Ron said nothing, but the way he hunched his shoulders defensively made it
clear that Malfoy had, once again, asked a string of pertinent questions, the
answer to all of which was probably, 'yes'.

Harry's stomach twisted into knots. His mouth felt terribly dry.

"I'm not saying anything else till they get in here," Ron muttered, taking a
seat on the couch. He let out a long, low breath. "Thank God that's over," he
sighed, and then he smiled again as all of the tension he'd been carrying in his
shoulders seemingly dissipated, and he sunk lower into the sofa.

"I need a drink." He Harry a meaningful look, but didn't dare to say anything
in the presence of Malfoy.

"Oh, I know," Draco spat, suddenly very cross. "You snuck in booze for dear
Evans, but wouldn't bring me any even when I offered to pay you."

Ron snickered. "Well, yeah," he said simply, before looking back to Harry.
"D'you still have it?"

"Course. I've had to hide it, though…" Harry smirked as he shot a sideways
glance at Malfoy.

"I hate you both," Draco seethed, crossing his arms. Harry laughed.

"Well, I suppose that maybe, just this once—"

But as it turned out, Harry did not need to offer up his own alcohol to share.
For at that moment, Hermione and Snape returned, and floating before them
were six glass goblets filled with what must have been wine.

Baffled, Harry caught the one that soared into his hands, as did Ron, who
hastily stood, and Draco, who was suddenly grinning so broadly it may as
well have been a holiday.

Snape held a glass, too.

"While none of you are anything near my first choice of drinking partners,"
he began in his characteristic drawl, "desperate times are desperate times…
and some occasions simply must be met with a toast." He raised his glass,
and the rest of them, completely shocked but smiling nonetheless, followed
suit.

"To Progress," he said, and his gaze flickered around to each of them in turn,
settling lastly on Hermione. And—Harry almost dropped his wine glass—he
was smiling, actually smiling, and Hermione was smiling back…but she
looked away from Snape to Ron and then to him, and never, ever, did Harry
think such a warm expression could ever have appeared on the face of
Bellatrix Lestrange…

"Yes," she said, those dark, hooded eyes blazing, and the rest of them
repeated her next words with her,

"To—"

"—Progress!"

Glasses were clinking together loudly as the circle of Death Eaters cheered
and howled in delight, draining their glasses yet another time that evening…
or, as was now the case, early morning.

His followers did everything in extremes. When they fought, they killed. And
when they celebrated…

Bellatrix slammed her empty glass down on the table so hard that it must
have nearly shattered before laughing, reaching for her husband and
corralling him into dancing with her once more. Always so full of untamable,
unquenchable energy, his dear Bella…a fire that not even those long years in
Azkaban could dampen…

She danced with Rodolphus, but her passionate, wild gaze was fixated on
him.

Always on him.
…But the Dark Lord did not dance.

He observed from his chair, his throne, his place above them…reclined
languidly in his seat with his beloved Nagini draped around his shoulders…
his precious soul… How she had missed him, in his mysterious absence, how
she had lamented over the potential loss of her master, to believe he may
have truly left her… How she had mourned and feared for him…

As had Bellatrix.

His dear, dear Bella. His most faithful follower, his most devoted…

It had been Bellatrix to whom he had appeared first…and he had found her
where it all began.

At that house in Godric's Hollow where he had vanished the first time, where
that fated family had once hidden from him, had hidden the boy within its
walls, out of his reach…

…Until it wasn't.

It was the closest thing he had to a tomb, that destroyed and broken home.

Bellatrix had been waiting there for him, lamenting what she refused to fully
accept as the loss of her master, yet again… She stood with her black cloak
pulled over her face, her hood shrouding her features in darkness and
shadows…

But he knew her, would always know his most devoted…

And she knew him, too.

It did not matter that he had changed. It did not matter that his physical
appearance was so drastically altered from what he once was. He appeared
before her, and her tear stained face became illuminated with recognition.

With hope.
She'd fallen to her knees before him, had whispered in fear and awe…

"My Lord…"

…And he was.

Then through her, the rest. He had gathered his other followers, summoned
them with his Mark… They saw him, and they believed.

Bellatrix truly was his finest. She alone had voiced to him her distrust of
Severus Snape, she alone had known all along what he was…and he had not
listened… Even still, she continued to prove to him her worth. Alastor Moody
had fallen at her hand…a powerful auror, a beloved member of the Order of
the Phoenix… One who had imprisoned many of his own, in his time…

The Dark Lord held his newest prize in his long, pale fingers, examining it
was keen interest.

The eye.

Abnormally large with a vivid, electric blue iris. He wondered vaguely what
he might do with it. He hardly had any personal use for such a thing…
Perhaps, he mused, he would send it back to them, at some point…

An eye for an eye, indeed.

He balanced it precariously on the tip of his index finger before letting it roll
back into his open palm, his agile hands which were so much stronger than
they'd ever been in his previous form…

This body…

He had yet to test its limits.

The phoenix magic coursing through him was like nothing he could have ever
anticipated. Fire in his very veins, in his very soul… His skin radiated with
its heat, his eyes glowed with its illuminating light… The resurrecting power
of such a creature had restored some of his old features… He could see the
resemblance, when he searched for it…

But he was different.

He was not the Tom Marvolo Riddle of his human days, nor was he the same
Lord Voldemort he had been when he'd first gained immortality through the
tearing of his soul.

He was something wholly, entirely new.

He was the eternal light of this deteriorating world, and he would be its
savior.

He wondered, now, if he was corporeally immortal as well. Were his

horcruxes even necessary, any longer? Were his body to be destroyed, would
he simply be consumed in flames, only to be reborn again?

Would his tears heal wounds?

…As though there were anything left in this world which could cause him to
shed tears.

Still…he did wonder, just as he wondered about the feathers… Could he

travel at a moment's notice, despite wards or barriers? Could he construct a
new wand around one as a core…?

The wings of a phoenix… Beautiful, yes, but highly inconvenient. They rested
flush against his back, folded tightly and out of sight completely beneath his
robes. He thought to vanish them, eventually, but not until he'd explored the
potential of them…

Fawkes…

He could hear the bird's lament even now, a continuous, sorrowful note in the
background of his mind… Like the endless wind, like a voice…

Perhaps, the phoenix had not really died, after all…

Perhaps nothing ever truly did…

He was…becoming quite philosophical, again. Maybe the heart of the

immortal creature had resurrected more than just his body… He wondered,
he wondered…

Bellatrix continued to gaze at him unabashedly, the blush on her cheeks from
her tireless dancing and drinking making her even bolder than usual…

How strange, he thought, to see that burning, desirous look in her eyes, that
same inferno which had always been there, but which he had never fully
comprehended, until now…

How strange, to see it, to recognize it, and, now, to understand it…and to
know it was aimed towards him, always him… Eternally unrequited, because
he was conceived without that capability, was unable to even contemplate it
until he had unwittingly taken the blood of another, of someone protected by
such an ancient, pure form of it, and even then it was bestowed upon him with
the sole capacity to be directed at only one person, and how cruel was fate, to
allow him to be born into this world without that ability, just to grant it to
him in his later years, after he had grown accustomed to life without it—like
giving the blind sight, only to plunge them into darkness again once they
finally realized that what they were experiencing was—was light—

The eye turned to dust in his hands.

The sandy texture sifted through his clenched fingers, falling gently to the
ground like glittering, crushed diamonds. There was blood on his palm where
he'd pierced his own skin, a violent, inhuman orange-red—

'… Masssster…?'

Nagini, sensing his emotion, hissed soothingly in his ear… His dearest pet,
his precious soul…

Breathe.
Would that voice never cease to haunt him?

Breathe.

Would he never be free?

Breathe…

He exhaled, stroking Nagini's coiling body rhythmically… He breathed, but

soon, the lesser mortals of this world would not be granted such an
undeserved blessing… The cathedral had just been the beginning…

…And it had been perfection.

The muggles came up with their own delightful explanations, as they always
do… A terrorist attack, some said… An act of God, said others, who claimed
to believe in a different deity than the one being worshipped in that particular
church… The beginning of the rapture, said some, a cleansing of the
unpure…

An accident, most seemed to agree, a great misfortune, caused by a gas leak

of some form or another, which accounted for the strange color of the flames,
the otherwise inexplicable black and indigo fire…

And it was here where the aurors pushed for acceptance… Chaos as they
struggled, breaking their own laws and casting Unforgivables wherever they
deemed it necessary, making certain politicians or religious figures say this
or believe that, anything to make the act seem feasible by means other than
his own, undeniable might…

But nothing, nothing could properly explain the stars in the sky, the
constellation of his sign…

And yet not even two, full days later, they already spoke of rebuilding. They
truly were like ants, weren't they? Disgusting, filthy insects in the dirt,
constantly constructing and consequently tearing apart the land, ripping it
open and violently stripping it of its natural, limited resources… Clouding
the air with their pollution, stuffing landfills with their waste, littering the
oceans with their man-made plastics and trash that would far outlive any of
them…

Destroying the Earth, this precious planet which was the source of all life, of
all pure, ancient magic…

He would be its savior.

Yet, for now, for the moment…

He would wait.

He would let the Order wallow in their loss, for the time being. He would let
them lament the death of their fallen, allow them to grieve, and accept… He
would allow the muggle filth to begin to rebuild, he would allow new hope to
blossom, watch them sow the seeds of possibility again…

Only to raze them the moment they began to flower.

He would crush their hopes again, and again, and again.

He would see them suffer.

But something permanent had changed, now. Something tangible had

undeniably shifted the moment that St. Paul's had been consumed by his fire.

The muggles were already referring to it as 'The Day God Died'.

…Which he found…so fitting.

There was no such thing.

There was no God, there was no Devil...there was no right or wrong; no

good, no evil…

No.
There was only power, and those too weak to seek it.
 16. Can Anybody Find Me
Notes for the Chapter:

This chapter comes with a homework assignment: I beseech you to go

listen to Queen's 'Somebody to Love'. Really. Really really. You won't
regret it! XO

"This…is divine."

Draco looked very content to be holding a glass of wine in his hand, swirling
it around like the poised aristocrat that he surely thought he was. He closed
his eyes and took another sip, letting out a long, low sigh afterwards,
reclining back into his seat.

Harry normally would have rolled his eyes at this, but, truth be told, he
agreed. The deep, blood-colored wine was very good…not that he'd drank
much to compare it to. He took another small drink from his own glass.

Ron, Hermione, Harry and Draco had moved to the kitchen, and were now
seated around the table, relaxing as they leisurely drank. Snape alone had
drained his glass completely after they'd made their toast, and afterwards he'd
looked around at the three of them and their still full goblets distastefully,
like they had just committed some kind of offensive, glaringly obvious social
faux pas…but then he'd sighed, shaking his head and leaving right then and
there, muttering something along the lines of 'surrounded by children' on his
way out.

Hermione grinned as she held her own glass up to the light. "It is quite good,
isn't it?" she agreed, examining the crimson liquid keenly. And Harry thought
it was very strange, to watch Bellatrix Lestrange look so innocently
curious…

"How long are you two going to look like that?" Harry asked, checking his
watch. It had been almost two hours, now.
"A while," Hermione sighed, looking up at the wall clock. "You know how
the Polyjuice Potion I made in second year lasted only an hour?" Harry
nodded—yes, he did remember, vividly—"Well, Professor Snape's brew lasts
twelve." And it was clear by her tone that she was deeply impressed by this.

"Twelve hours!?" Ron balked, almost choking on his wine. "You mean we're
—we're stuck like this until—" He checked his watch, "—until seven in the
evening!?"

Hermione nodded dismally. "I'm afraid so." She took another sip of her wine.

Ron's miserable expression was quite humorous on the face of Crabbe senior.
"But it's only eight thirty," he moaned.

"Yes… We are in for a very long, interesting day." Hermione shifted

uncomfortably in her seat. "Speaking of—"

She started unlacing the tall boots around her calves. "I need to get out of this
horrible outfit. I don't know how she dresses like all the time, this corset is
suffocating." She pulled the shoes off, tossing them unceremoniously to the
side where they landed on the floor with two loud thunks. Then she stood,
barefoot.

"I'm going to go change," she announced as she left the kitchen, that sultry
swagger no longer in her step.

"Wish she'd keep the heels," Ron commented after she was out of earshot.

Draco sniggered, about to take another sip of wine, but then, quite suddenly,
his leering expression vanished. "Wait," he said, lowering his glass.

"You said earlier. something about Crabbe…" He looked accusingly at Ron,

his eyes narrowing. "And she just said she made Polyjuice Potion in our
second year…"

He looked back and forth between Harry and Ron, his face a sinister glower
that grew more and more pronounced as the other two, in great contrast,
began to grin.

"Were you impersonating Crabbe?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah…" he said in a lofty, reminiscent voice.

Harry and Ron laughed. Draco set his glass down sharply.

"Why?"

"Well… It's a bit of a story," Harry started, not seeing the point in keeping
such long-ago secrets hidden anymore. Besides, it was pretty amusing, in
hindsight. "You see—"

"Uh, Evans?"

Hermione's voice interrupted him, calling to him from down the hall. Harry
turned in his seat.

"Do… Do you mind coming down here, for a minute?" She sounded…
nervous.

"Uh," Harry exchanged a wary glance with Ron. "Uh, sure," he responded.
He gave the other boys another skeptical look, but then left the room to see
what was wrong.

He paused outside of the bathroom. "Everything all right?" he asked.

Hermione opened the door a crack, and Harry jumped—he didn't think he
would be able to get used to those dark, hooded eyes staring back at in him,
especially when they looked so…embarrassed?

"Um, do you mind—I hate to ask, but—could I borrow a sweatshirt and some
shorts, or something?" she said in a tiny voice. "It's just—Bellatrix has—
well, my shirt doesn't fit anymore, and my jeans are uncomfortably tight…"

It took about two seconds of silent thought for Harry to put it all together.
Bellatrix Lestrange was much more…endowed than Hermione Granger, and
she was far shapelier. Hermione was relatively thin and lithe, while Bellatrix
was a classic, curvy hourglass.

She blushed. Harry snapped out of it.

"Oh. Oh, right. Okay. Sure. Yes."

"Thanks," she said meekly.

Harry rushed to his room, digging through his trunk to find a clean sweatshirt
of some kind. There was one crumpled up on the floor, but even if it were
clean, he didn't think she would want that one—it was massive enough on
him, she would probably drown in it—but then he found something even
better. Grinning far wider than he probably should have, he snatched up the
clothes and headed back towards the bathroom.

"Here you go," he said as she opened the door a crack, reaching her hand out
expectantly.

"Thanks," she repeated.

Still smiling, Harry returned to the kitchen.

"…So you see," Ron was explaining to a very perturbed-looking Malfoy.

"We were trying to figure out who was responsible for all the attacks, and,
well…"

"And you thought it was me?" Draco's eyebrows raised skeptically as he

looked up at Harry. "Really?"

Harry sat back down, picking up his glass. "Well, yeah," he said. "You were
sort of egging it on, too, you know… Remember? Trying to sound like you
knew things that no one else did, like you knew what was going on with the
Chamber of Secrets, and that we were just stupid…"

Draco smirked. "I suppose…but still. You impersonated Crabbe and Goyle so
that you could sneak in to the Slytherin common room and question me?"
His grin vanished. "When did you do that?"

"Around Christmas," Ron said. "I was Crabbe, he was Goyle, and we just
wandered around for a while at first, because we didn't know where the
common room was—or the password—and then you came along, and we just
walked on in with you." He laughed.

"It was surprisingly easy."

"Around Christmas…" Draco said slowly, his eyebrows knitting together as

he concentrated…and then his eyes widened as the realization struck him. "I
remember that!" He shouted, snapping his fingers.

"They were acting so strange, getting so defensive when I made that

comment about Granger, and then just taking off, all of a sudden…"

He glared at them, but they were both laughing.

"We weren't the best actors," Ron admitted.

"Well then, it's a shame that I didn't get to go with you, isn't it?"

Hermione had returned, and the sight of her stunned them all.

Bellatrix Lestrange entered the kitchen wearing a handmade, knitted sweater

which bore the image of a crudely rendered, black dragon. It was a bit large
on her, making her look quite petite, and the baggy shorts she wore nearly
covered her knees. Her long, thick mane was thrown up in a casual ponytail,
and really, Harry thought genially, it was one of the most bizarrely surreal yet
oddly delightful things he'd ever seen. She sat down next to him, perching
herself cross-legged on her chair.

"Oh my God," Ron gaped, a smile slowly spreading on Crabbe senior's face.
"Bellatrix Lestrange is wearing a sweater that my mum made."

He looked at Harry. "Amazing," he said in awe.

"It is a pretty good visual," Harry agreed before taking another sip of his
wine. Hermione rolled her eyes before picking up her own glass.

"You were telling Malfoy about the Polyjuice Potion fiasco?"

"Oh, yeah," Ron said, looking back to Draco. "Well, we weren't very good
actors, but we did figure out what we wanted to know. It wasn't you opening
up the Chamber of Secrets, much as you liked to insinuate that it was."

Malfoy grinned smugly. "You really thought that I was the heir of
Slytherin…" he said, swirling the wine in his glass suavely. He tilted his head
to one side, looking contemplative. "Well, I can hardly blame you. I am
pretty much the epitome of all that Salazar Slytherin stands for. Cunning,
deceptive, clever…a pureblood…and hey, who knows, maybe I am distantly
related. All the pureblood families are, to some extent… Perhaps I am…"

He took another sip of his wine, looking incredibly self-righteous…and Harry

felt a sudden, very intense rush of spite.

"Oh?" he snapped. "Were you the one being ridiculed, constantly called
something that you were not? Were you the one who went down into the
Chamber of Secrets?" His voice became significantly darker.

"Are you a parselmouth?"

They were all staring at him apprehensively, shocked by this unanticipated

outburst. Draco lowered his glass slightly, looking like he was unsure if he
should be nervous or annoyed.

"No," he said in a measured voice. "No… That's you, isn't it?"

Harry's menacing expression didn't waver. "That's right," he said firmly.

"That is me."

…And for some reason, this made him feel much better.

There was a tense moment of silence. Harry took a large sip of wine, not for a
second taking his fixated glare off of Malfoy.
"…Riiiiight…" Ron finally said, drawing out the single word as a long,
monotonous note. Then he clapped his hands together, effectively ending the
strange, hostile staring contest that had broken out between the two. "Well,
no one sitting at this table is actually the Heir of Slytherin, right? Right." He
raised his glass jubilantly.

"So let's just drink to that then, shall we? Cheers."

"Cheers," Hermione piped up, clinking her glass to Ron's before taking a
drink. She hiccupped after, and Harry's sudden anger was completely
derailed.

"I just… I just want to watch you do things," he said as he observed the form
of Bellatrix bobbing one knee in her seat, a bit fidgety—just like Hermione
tended to do.

"Like what?" She took another drink of wine, and Harry wondered if maybe
there was some truth to the assumption that women had a lower alcohol
tolerance than men, because her cheeks were becoming a light tint of pink
that he did not see on either of the others.

"Like…like, just say something that Bellatrix Lestrange would never say."

She pursed her lips, staring up at the ceiling as she thought. Harry took the
opportunity to refill her wine glass—they'd found the rest of the half-full
bottle in the kitchen, much to Draco's delight.

A wicked grin crossed her face, and suddenly Bellatrix was back.

"Once," she said in a sultry voice, "I shaved my legs with an electric razor.
And—"

She lowered her voice to a whisper and she glanced at the three of them, like
she was divulging a great, juicy secret,

"…It was battery operated."

Harry and Ron both laughed. Draco…looked confused.

"What's a battery?" he asked.

Harry was about to try and explain, but Ron spoke first. "They're these little,
portable power tubes that muggles stick into devices so that they work. Like
plugs." He looked up at Harry for confirmation.

"Right? Like plugs?"

Harry and Hermione shared an amused smile.

"Yes, Ron. Exactly like plugs," he said, very serious. Draco and Ron both
nodded knowingly, as though they now completely understood the concept of
electricity.

"Say something else," Ron prompted. "Tell us—tell us about yourself,

Bellatrix. What is it like being the world's most feared Death Eater?"

Hermione quickly swallowed another large gulp of wine, and yes, Harry
noted her cheeks were definitely rosy, now. And he realized then exactly why
Bellatrix Lestrange wore the outfits that she did every day. Without all that
black leather and those tall, intimidating heels which made her literally tower
above everyone else, she looked…quite harmless. Why, seeing her like this,
with her hair tied up in a ponytail, sporting a knitted sweater and a flushed
face… She almost looked—dare he even think it? She almost looked cute.

She smiled. "Oh my goodness," she said, fanning out her nails like a prima
donna with her hand which did not hold her glass, and that sentence alone
was enough to make Harry snort, because she said it like a full-blown, prissy,
valley girl… An act which she continued to keep up, impressively well.

"Being a Death Eater is, like… It's just the best. You guys don't even know."

"Tell us," Harry requested, grinning.

"Like… Oh gosh, it's just so fun! Except the meetings, of course, those can be
such a bore. Like, after getting out of Azkaban, I swear, they became just so
much more painful than they used to be. I mean, for real." She paused to take
another drink. "…It's like, we all show up early, you know? Like we should,
except Snape, who always comes in five minutes late, and I'm like, what is
this? Who the hell is this guy? And he's always all, 'My deepest apologies,
My Lord, there was a pressing issue at Hogwarts…' (Harry nearly choked at
Hermione's impersonation as Bellatriximpersonating Snape, it was just so
good), and I'm just thinking, like what? What the hell were you doing that
you couldn't have been here five minutes ago? It's ten at night! What, were
you giving some abysmal student 'Remedial Potions lessons' again? Yeah,
right! But the Dark Lord is all 'No matter, Severus…' (again, the secondary
impersonation was incredible), and I'm just like, am I the only one who sees
through this guy? Really? Ugh! But, anywaaaaay…"

She waved her hand about flippantly. Ron poured her more wine, laughing as
he did. "Tell us more about Snape, Bellatrix," he said, chortling.

"Oh, don't even get me started," she gushed, leaning forward…definitely

getting started. "That guy. I mean, when he gets talking at the meetings, it's
just the worst. The 'goings-on at Hogwarts'…He doesn't ever actually tell us
anything useful! He's just all 'Albus Dumbledore has been leaving the castle
quite frequently, searching for the Boy Who Lived, but he has made no
discernible progress.' And I'm just like, duh! We already knew that! Tell us
something useful you, stupid, spineless fraud! Then it just gets worse from
there, like 'Earlier this week, I managed to give three out of the four Weasley
children detention, confiscate four dungbombs, and, despite the fact that
Hermione Granger managed to answer every single question I posed about
antidotes correctly, I still accomplished the outrageous task of taking no less
than twenty points from Gryffindor by the end of the period (Hermione's real
voice became discernible here, despite her otherwise flawless acting)."

Ron was beside himself with laughter, and Draco, too, was beginning to turn
red with his chuckling. Hermione, however, seemed to only just be getting
into her stride. She resumed at once.

"So, I'm just thinking, great, Severus, really great. Thank God we have you to
stop Gryffindor from winning the house cup. That will really help us win the
goddamn war. Tck." She drained her glass. "And then, then he bitches and
moans about how oh, woe is him, he so wanted the Defense Against the Dark
Arts position, and he plans to apply for it again this year, and he hopes so
desperately that he'll get it, this time…"

Harry was about to refill her glass again, but Draco, astoundingly, had
already beaten him to it. It seemed that the three boys had an unspoken,
unanimous agreement that they each wanted nothing more than for Hermione
Granger to continue to get even tipsier, because this…was gold.

And, surprisingly, Hermione seemed to want that, too. She lifted her glass so
that Malfoy could fill it more easily, in a snappish, impatient manner—a
gesture that Harry could easily imagine the real Bellatrix doing—and he
wondered if maybe Hermione Granger was a bit too good of an actress…

"…So he's throwing himself a little pity party in the middle of the meeting,
and the Dark Lord and I are just looking at each other, rolling our eyes at this
point—we're always doing that, the Dark Lord and I, exchanging secret
glances—he only does that with me, because I am his bestest friend—
sometimes we play footisie under the table, too, if we're really bored—"

That last statement had a profound effect on Draco. He literally fell out of his
chair, laughing so hard that it sounded like he might be choking.

But Hermione didn't even crack a smile, despite the fact that the other three
were all nearly in hysterics at her charade. She just kept right on going.

"But we're just like, Sevvy, darling, Dumbles is never going to give you that
position! Look where you are, sweet cheeks! He's not about to encourage any
more dark behavior! Seriously, he's stupid, but he's not that stupid! But then,
wouldn't you know it, the very next goddamn meeting, and Snape bursts in—
on time, for once—looking so happy there's practically rainbows shooting out
of his arse, shouting the moment he gets in the room, 'I got the job!', and I'm
like, are you fucking kidding me!?"

She took another swig. Harry couldn't see through the tears in his eyes, and
Draco, curled up in the fetal position on the floor, might have died several
sentences ago. "Like, for real? Are youfucking kidding me right now! I spend
eleven years in Azkaban, and this guy—this two-timing, fraudulent
cockroach who has been living in a cushy goddamn castle the whole time—
he gets his dream job! With a pension, to boot!"

She slammed her free hand down on the table. "Sometimes," Bellatrix—er,
Hermione—seethed, "Sometimes… I just wish the Dark Lord's snake would
freak out and bite his greasy little head right off."

Harry threw his head back at that, because, oh, if only she knew… Ron was
equally debilitated next to him, but Hermione, bless her, she was still in
character, drinking her wine and rolling her eyes disdainfully.

"I think," Harry finally choked out, glancing down at the shaking blonde on
the floor, "…you may have killed Draco Malfoy. He might really be dead,
now. Look."

Sure enough, Draco was laughing so hard it was silent—there was no actual,
discernible sound coming out of his mouth. Hermione smirked at him with
amusement simmering in those dark eyes.

"Have I?" she leered, getting to her feet. "Have I killed you, nephi-kins?"

Draco rolled onto his backside, trying desperately to compose himself. "…
I…footsie—"

…And then he lost it again. Hermione grinned wickedly. "Tee hee!" she said,
leaning over him and poking him in the stomach with the tip of her wand. His
body instantly curled into a ball, like a roly poly bug, shaking with silent
laughter again. "Ha, ha, ha!" she shouted, and with each word she poked him
in the ribs, but he was far too incapacitated to fight back.

"St-stop that—" he spluttered feebly, to the delight of Ron and Harry, who
just watched unhelpfully from the table, laughing.

It only ended when Malfoy finally did lash out at her, hitting her in the ankle
and sending her slightly inebriated form falling. She stumbled and almost
landed right on top of him. After a few moments, Ron managed to pull
himself together enough to help her up (a curtesy which was not extended to
Draco).

"Oh my God…" Harry said, wiping a tear away from his eye. "Hermione—
you're—that was too much…but, wait a second." He paused, only just now
realizing what it was she had said.

"Snape… Snape taught Defense, last year?"

Malfoy finally made it back in his seat, too, though his face was still pink
from laughter. "Yeah…" he said, picking up and draining the last of his wine.

"Really?" Harry looked round at Ron and Hermione—and it still felt very
strange, to be directing his questions towards what looked very much like a
bunch of Death Eaters around the kitchen table,

"Yep," Hermione answered, purposefully popping the 'P' on the end like a
child and causing Draco to snort again.

But Harry didn't want to be derailed by laughter once more quite yet. "But…
then who taught Potions?"

"A man named Horace Slughorn. A fat, old walrus," Draco answered, and it
was obvious by his tone that he did not much care for the man.

"Really pompous, greedy old wizard," Ron added. Apparently, he shared

Malfoy's sentiments.

"Oh, he was all right."

"Yeah, easy for you to say, Hermione." Ron muttered. "He liked you, invited
you to his little parties…" He glanced at Harry with an annoyed expression.
"He had a little club of all of his favorite students, all the people he thought
were special or smart or whatever…"
"I take it only Hermione was invited?" The sour expressions on the two boys'
faces answered his question for him. "So…wait, you got to take Potions,
then, Ron? Did you get an 'O', on your O.W.L?"

Ron laughed. "Oh, no. I got an 'E'. But Slughorn allowed 'E' students in his
class."

Harry let that information sink in for a moment. If he had gone back to
Hogwarts, he could have taken Potions…

And he would have taken Defense with… Well, he wouldn't have had a year
without Snape, after all.

"What do you think Snape is doing, right now?" he asked curiously. He'd
been absent for a while.

Hermione sighed, looking concerned. "Probably sleeping, I would imagine…

I don't think he's rested properly since… Well, probably not in a very long
time…"

Ron seemed to notice her softened expression and frowned, seeming a bit
annoyed…but Harry just nodded, recognizing that Hermione, like usual, was
probably right.

"We're out of wine," Malfoy said, drawing their attention to him as he picked
up the empty bottle. He glanced at Harry. "You should go get—"

"Some water, so we can all stay hydrated!" Ron immediately interrupted.

Draco shot him a quizzical look, but Harry understood at once. Hermione did
not know about the Firewhisky, and would probably disapprove of them
getting completely smashed on booze which he had snuck in.

"That's a good idea, Ron," she said in a level voice, and suddenly the no-
nonsense Hermione Granger they all knew had returned.

Ron shot Harry a quick, relief-filled glance before getting up, as if to say,
'that was a close one.'
Malfoy seemed to catch on then, too. "Well, now what, Evans?" he drawled,
swirling his empty goblet.

Harry grinned. He stood, and maybe the large glass of wine had affected him
more than he thought, because the blood seemed to rush very quickly to his
head at the action, and he felt a bit…buzzed.

"I know what we should do," he said, motioning for them stand as well.

"Follow me."

"Wow."

Harry wasn't sure what had made him want to share the wonder that was his
Godfather's old bedroom with his friends. A few days ago, he would have
been incensed if any of them had so much as set a foot in it. Maybe it was the
wine, maybe it was the sudden desire he had to smoke another cigarette…or
maybe it was the fact that the idea of seeing Bellatrix Lestrange in sweats,
admiring the still, muggle images on her detested cousin's bedroom walls…
Well, that was just too good to pass up, wasn't it?

Hermione ran her hands over a large band poster of the Beatles. She grinned
at it. "I have this same poster in my bedroom…" she muttered fondly.

"Whoa, look at all this stuff." Ron was digging through the closet, which
contained many boxes filled with a variety of strange items. "Look at all the
belts he had…and a camera! I wonder if it's got magical or muggle film in
it… He has a lot of muggle things in here…"

Harry joined Ron at the closet, opening up another box. He smiled broadly as
he uncovered a black scarf and a pair of vintage, gold aviators. He
immediately put both of them on.

"What do you think?" he said, looking up at Ron. The face of Crabbe senior
nodded approvingly back at him, smirking, and he turned to Draco.

"What say you, Malfoy? Do I pull this look off?" he asked, striking a majestic
pose.

Draco, who had been distastefully examining the muggle calendar with the
bikini-clad, rockabilly pin-up girl, glanced over at him…and frowned. "Damn
you, you actually do," he muttered, sounding very unhappy about it.

Harry's eyes widened at the unexpected answer—not that Malfoy could see
that, as the sunglasses concealed his shocked expression—but Draco seemed
to realize at once that he'd actually complimented him, and instantly cleared
his throat, looking back towards the calendar.

"Ha!" Harry shouted as he strode across the room to look at himself in the
mirror. He ran a hand through his hair, purposefully messing it up even more,
and really, he thought, as he struck another regal stance, he did look pretty
good in them. "If I ever get out of this house, I will definitely buy and make
myself an enchanted, flying motorcycle to ride."

"…Must you?" his reflection asked warily.

"But of course. I have the look for it," Harry answered before turning away.
He went back to the box he had been looking through. "He had all sort of
crazy things… Oh, look!"

Everyone turned to find out what he had uncovered. Harry held his newest
prize up above him so they all could see.

"A muggle radio!"

It was an old, small, somewhat beat-up device, black with an AM/FM

frequency dial and a skinny, long antennae which Harry immediately
extended. He turned it on, messing with the little knobs, but was greeted with
only static.

"Aw," he said forlornly. "It doesn't work…"

"Of course it doesn't work," Hermione chided, sounded exasperated. "It's an

electronic device, this house is way too oversaturated with magical
enchantments for any kind of muggle object like that to work correctly…"

But Harry refused to accept defeat so quickly, continuing to fuss with the
dials as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed…because the prospect of music
was just too great a temptation to resist.

"C'mon, baby," he said in a flirty voice, sticking his lower lip out. He peered
at the radio over the rims of his aviators. "Play me a song."

…Why, it was like it had just been waiting for him to ask.

Another moment of static, and then—a beat, a very familiar, rhythmic beat—

Bum-bum-bum-

Another one bites the dust…

Harry smiled so widely it hurt.

"Oh my god," Hermione gushed, jumping on the bed behind him and looking
at the radio over his shoulder. "Sirius must have enchanted it…"

"Excellent," Harry laughed. He turned the volume up. "Great band, too."

And another one down, and another one down, another one bites the dust…

"Who is it?" Malfoy asked, scrutinizing the radio from the other side of the
room.

"What do you mean, who is it?" Harry gaped, incredulous. "It's Queen, of
course."

"Is that some muggle band?" he drawled, rolling his eyes.

"Actually," Ron piped up, "A lot of wizarding families know Queen. Freddie
Mercury was a squib, everyone knows that, that's why he changed his
name… You've really never heard of Queen, Malfoy?"
Harry was completely blown away by the statement 'Freddie Mercury was a
squib', but Malfoy just huffed like he'd been greatly offended. "I have not,"
he said firmly.

"Oh, come off it," Harry argued, still not believing him. "Everyone knows
Queen. I bet there are pureblood witches living in China who don't even
speak English who know this band." Ron and Hermione both laughed, but
Malfoy stuck his nose up haughtily in denial.

"Well not me."

Harry sighed, turning the knob on the radio again. Another moment of static,
and then a much less energetic song began to play. It was slow, and sad, and
very much a ballad…

…There's no chance for us… It's all decided for us… This world has only one
sweet moment set aside for us...

Who wants…to live…forever? Who dares…to love…FOREVER?

When love must DIE…?

"Huh," Harry chortled, looking round at Hermione. "Guess it only knows

Queen."

Hermione sighed, and it was very surreal, to see Bellatrix Lestrange exhaling
longingly like a love-struck school girl (who'd had a bit too much wine). "I
adore this song. It's beautiful, yet so tragic."

She put her hand to her chest, swelling with emotion as the music went on.

But touch my tears with your lips… Touch my world with your fingertips…

"Uh, yeah?" Harry said as he and Ron shared a skeptical glance. "Maybe
something a bit less depressing, then—"

And we…can have…forever! And we…can love…FOREVER!

He turned the dial again, and this time…the song was perfect.

Can anybody…find me…

"That's more like it," Harry said, setting the radio on the dresser.

Somebody to love…?

The piano started, and Harry put his hands out in front of him, drumming his
fingers along the keys of the non-existent instrument, playing the empty air…
And when the lyrics started, he sang the words, serenading a grinning, rosy-
cheeked Bellatrix—er, Hermione—

"Each morning I get up I die a little, can barely stand on my feet—"

Hermione smiled, looking delighted. She immediately joined in on the parts

of the song where the choir sang, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and
spinning him so that he faced the mirror—

"Take a look at yourself!"

Harry did. His reflection…looked annoyed.

"Take a look in the mirror and cry, Lord, what you're doing to me…" he sang
towards it, extended his arm at himself, and his mirror-self's irritated
expression deepened.

"I have spent all my years in believing you, but I just can't get no relief,
Lord!"

Ron laughed, joining Hermione at the background, choral parts. Malfoy was
looking at all of them with utmost disgust. It was the same expression that
Harry recalled seeing on his mother, like there was a bad smell under his
nose.

"Somebody, ohhh, somebody, can anybody find me…"

Harry pointed at Draco, who flinched as if Harry had just hit him—
"Somebody to love?"

Maybe it was because Harry could just tell that Draco knew the song and
didn't want to admit it, or maybe it was because he was enjoying his
discomfort so much at being sung at by Harry, Hermione (currently Bellatrix)
and Ron (currently his best mate's father)…and, yes, maybe the wine had
something to do with it, too; but all three of them simultaneously made it
their mission at that moment to rope Draco Malfoy into this impromptu sing-
along whether he liked it or not.

Harry took the lead, and Ron and Hermione were his back-up.

"I work hard ("he works hard!") every day of my life, I work 'til I ache my
bones! At the end ("at the end of the day!") I take home my hard earned pay
all on my own!"

Harry dove forward, landing on his knees at Malfoy's feet and clasping his
hands together.

"I get down on my knees and I start to pray—"

Hermione and Ron stood on either side of him, tossing their hands up in the
air when they shouted, "Praise the Lord!" behind him.

"'Til the tears run down from my eyes, Lord!"

Harry jumped to his feet, throwing his arm around a completely flustered
Draco Malfoy.

"Somebody, oh somebody, can anybody find me…"

He put his free arm up into the air, as if he were addressing the question to
the sky itself… and Draco finally cracked, smiling, and—

"…Somebody to love?"

They all sang it, even Malfoy. There was a flash of bright light, and Harry
looked round in surprise. Ron was grinning at him, the camera he had found
earlier in his hands. Apparently he wanted documented evidence that Draco
Malfoy did, in fact, listen to 'muggle music'.

And then, Harry noticed suddenly, the music was getting louder…very loud,
as if the volume had been incrementally getting higher and higher the longer
the song played. Had Sirius charmed it to do that, too…?

But none of the others seemed to notice or care. Harry turned to the mirror
again, belting out the next words to it, and Draco was a filthy liar, because he
knew every single word after all, and couldn't seem to help himself anymore,
joining in, despite the fact that Ron had just photographed them.

"Every day, I try and I try and I try, but everybody wants to put me down!
They say I'm goin' crazy!" Harry ripped the sunglasses off, tossing them
across the room, and it looked like he was even going to win over his moody,
sassy reflection, too, because the Harry Potter in the mirror, who had been
sort of glowering at him before, looked like he was trying very hard not to
laugh. Harry grabbed a hairbrush from the top of the dresser, and began to
use it as a make-believe microphone.

"They say I got a lot of water in my brain! I got no common sense, I got
nobody left to belieeeeeve!"

Ron, Draco, and Hermione were all shouting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" right
along with the choir, and the music was so loud it was deafening, now—

…Which was probably why Snape appeared.

He made his typical, silent appearance in the doorway—not that they would
have heard him over the blaring song, anyway—and he looked…

Well, he looked exactly as Harry would have imagined he might look at

happening upon this very bizarre and unlikely situation. There were large
bags under his eyes, and maybe Hermione had been right, and he had been
resting…

But no one could possibly sleep through this noise.

The guitar solo was underway, and Hermione had untied her current thick
mane of curly, black locks, and—Harry couldn't believe it—she was playing
the air guitar, just like he'd been playing the piano earlier, and was there ever
a more wonderful sight than seeing Bellatrix Lestrange rock out to Queen
while wearing a Weasley sweater?

Snape looked like his brain had short-circuited, and he was trying to figure
out how, over the course of, what—an hour? Maybe two, max?—and one
bottle of wine, the morning had deteriorated from 'A Toast to Operation
Gringotts: A Success' to 'Harry Potter: The Musical', featuring Hermione
Granger as Bellatrix Lestrange, Ronald Weasley as Crabbe senior, and Harry
Potter and Draco Malfoy…as themselves.

Harry thought the expression on his sallow face nearly matched the one he'd
had when he'd discovered that Lord Voldemort had been invading his
dreams. He was completely still, struck immobile at the ridiculousness of it
all, his wand held uselessly at his side…

Snape was serenaded next.

Harry jumped onto the bed, still using the hairbrush as a mic. He looked right
at his ex-professor when he sang, and Snape looked dumbstruck—and mildly
horrified—

"Got no feel, I got no rhythm, I just keep losing my beat!"

And the other three, pointing up at Harry and throwing their arms up, "you
keep losing and losing!"

"I'm okay, I'm alright," ("he's all right, he's all right!") "I ain't gonna face no
defeat!" Harry pulled the scarf off from around his neck, tossing it at Snape's
face—who started, finally seeming to regain some sense of mobility—he
looked round to the radio on the dresser, glaring at it venomously—

"I just gotta get out of this prison cell!" Harry roared, raising his arms up in
the air. He was the overzealous priest, and the others on the floor around the
bed were his rapt, divine followers, and they threw their arms up with him,
joining in his gospel-like song—

"Someday I'm gonna be free, Loooord!"

And the fact that Harry had actually hit that perilous note seamlessly snapped
The Potions Master back to quick, lucid thought. He flicked his wand at the
tiny (yet horrendously loud) radio, and it combusted, breaking into several
pieces…and the music, just as it had reached its crescendo, stopped.

The air rang in silence. Harry lowered his hands, forlorn.

"Kill-joy," Ron muttered as his arms fell loudly to his sides. Harry was sure
that Snape was about to seethe something angry and venomous at him—or
perhaps hit him with a stinging hex, as he tended to do—but then, somehow,
miraculously…the song was coming back.

Find...me…somebody to love—

It started very quietly, a low chant, but the charmed radio continued to emit
music from each of its broken pieces.

Find…me…somebody to love—

A bit louder, this time, just as the actual song went—

Harry acted before Snape could.

"RUN!" he yelled, jumping down from the bed and snatching up one of the
radio fragments. The other three immediately followed suit, and Hermione let
out a very high-pitched, girly squeal that Harry found very out of character
for her, let alone Bellatrix—

"Get back here!" Snape was instantly yelling, and spells were being fired—
Harry thought he heard someone go down, and could only imagine it was
Ron, as he was both the last one out and the largest—Crabbe senior was not
exactly agile…

But he, Harry, was in the lead. He scrambled down the stairs, through the
hall, Draco and Hermione at his heels.

And then, for the first time, he saw Phineas Black.

His portrait had remained ostentatiously absent the entire time since he,
Harry, had returned to Grimmauld Place. He'd assumed that Phineas simply
stayed in his frame at Hogwarts, after Sirius had died… But there he was,
perhaps drawn by the sound of the impossibly loud music, and Harry dashed
past, grinning—

"Hi, Phineas," he panted quickly as he ran—and if the sight of the 'missing'

Undesirable running amuck in his house wasn't shocking enough, the next
thing he saw was—

"Hello!" Hermione gasped, though it appeared to an uninformed outsider to

be none other than Bellatrix Lestrange in a sweater and shorts, giggling as
Harry grabbed her hand, pulling her along like they were the best of friends;
and then Draco Malfoy, who sprinted past, saying nothing at all—

And only moments after that, Severus Snape, giving chase and looking
murderous, brandishing his wand and shouting, "Stop that infernal racket!"
while the whole time the words 'Find…me…somebody to love', repeated over
and over and over, continually getting louder each time—

But Harry couldn't be bothered by whatever Phineas Black possibly thought

at the moment. He, Hermione, and Draco scattered when they came to the
middle of the hall, each taking a piece of the enchanted radio with them in
opposite directions so that Snape would have to catch all three of them to
make the music stop.

Find…me…somebody to love—

It was getting louder and the choir was thundering—Harry thought he heard a
high-pitched squeal, and he assumed that meant Hermione was down, now,
too—unless Draco had a much more feminine voice when he was frightened
—
Find…me…somebody to love—

He dashed into the kitchen, the bit of radio clutched tightly in his fist…but
even an enchanted radio couldn't play forever once it had been blown apart, it
seemed, because it was beginning to sound static-y, fading in and out…

Find-me-love—

Then Draco burst in after him, panting and sweaty, and as the mantra came to
an end, they looked at each other, laughing, belting the words out together
over the now static-ridden song—

"Can anybody find MEEEE…?"

And then they jumped, about to run away again when the door was flung
open once more, but it was Hermione, not Snape. She had somehow managed
to escape, though she had lost the piece of radio she'd had before. She was
laughing, about to say something, when—

She froze.

Her mirthful expression vanished as she looked at Harry with giant eyes. The
blood left her face in an instant, leaving her pale as death, and her lips formed
into a perfect little 'o' of surprise.

The radio, just as it had hit another climactic moment of the song, stopped
playing completely, and the music came to an abrupt end. Harry felt like the
entire world had come to a shuddering halt as he stared at the face of
Bellatrix Lestrange, who was Hermione, who looked very, very afraid.

"What?" Harry gasped, the smile fading from his lips. Because Hermione was
not making eye contact with him, precisely, she was staring fixatedly at his
sternum… Harry dropped the silent, broken radio fragment to the floor, an
ominous feeling of dread washing over him…

"What? Hermione, what, what is it?"

"Give me the pieces of that damned, cursed radio!" Snape came charging in,
his wand held threateningly in front of him, his breathing labored—

But Hermione's arm shot out the moment he passed through the doorway, her
palm hitting him about the waist and blocking his path. He glared at her,
opening his mouth to seethe something or another…but then he seemed to
notice the ominous atmosphere in the room and paused. Hermione's eyes—
those dark, hooded eyes—never once left Harry's chest.

Harry glimpsed down, and then he noticed what she was looking at. The
necklace had come out from under his shirt at some point…probably when
he'd whipped that scarf off to throw it at Snape…and Hermione was staring at
it as if it were some kind of living, poisonous snake wrapped around his neck.
He glanced back up at her, confused, and the fearful look on her face sent a
violent thrill of terror up his spine—

Hermione took a hesitant step towards him. She looked up into his eyes,
forcing a very strained, taut smile that somehow made Harry even more
anxious, and the way she was advancing on him was so cautious, so
measured—the way someone might approach a ticking time bomb, for fear
that it could go off at any moment, if there was too sudden a movement—

"Evans…?" Hermione said in a hushed voice. Her dark gaze darted from his
eyes to the locket and back again, and he clutched his fist around it
defensively. She took another tiny step forward, extending her hand with her
palm facing up, and her fingers were visibly trembling…

"…May I… May I see that locket…?"

The Chamber of Secrets.

Lord Voldemort walked slowly on its hard, stone floor, the shallow water
cool beneath his bare feet…but he did not feel the cold… It no longer
bothered him, in this form, it was no longer an affliction…

One more weakness which he had defeated. He did not suffer from hunger, he
did not suffer from the cold…

Did he even require sleep, any longer?

He had not slept in… He had not slept since…

It had…been a long time, since Lord Voldemort had fallen into slumber.

For a while, he thought he may never sleep again.

He had not felt particularly tired, even moments ago…but his Death Eaters
had finally departed, exhaustion claiming them in their much weaker, mortal
forms… Even his dear Bella had been lost to it, eventually, the wariness
draining her of that manic energy, pulling her into unconsciousness… Sleep,
so that she may wake again with renewed life in the sunlight…

And Nagini…his precious soul… She, too, had drifted to sleep on his very
shoulders, her body coiled intimately around him… While she had always
adored being near to him physically, had always wanted nothing but to be in
his presence, now…now, in his new form, as he radiated an eternal,
welcoming warmth, her coldblooded body was drawn to him even more, even
in slumber… If he did not physically remove her from his person to place her
gently on the hearth near the fire, she would probably choose to stay
wrapped around him forever…

Though her reptilian eyes remained open, he knew she slept. He could feel
the peaceful rhythm of her cold blood pulsing through her body, and it
soothed him… And it was this, perhaps, more than anything that lulled him
into slumber himself… A conscious decision, of course, he made the choice to
sleep, allowed himself to be pulled under the veil of unconsciousness…

And so, on the seventh day after his resurrection from that World of White…
the Dark Lord rested.

…
The Chamber of Secrets.

It was logical, of course, that his dreams would bring him here. This place,
this great achievement of his ancestor… Where he, Lord Voldemort, had
awoken the basilisk, had continued his noble mission… And again, years
later, his diary self had done the same thing…

But the Chamber was empty now… The basilisk, gone, the diary, gone…

Gone…

Gone…

G—

"It's a bit chilly in here, don't you think?"

…That voice…was impossible. Impossible, because that man was also g—

"Bit of a draft, too."

Voldemort turned.

His voice was a murderous hiss that slipped between his barred teeth, the one
word containing more venom than the bite of a basilisk.

"… You."

Albus Dumbledore smiled at him.

"Hello, Tom," he said causally.

Voldemort nearly flinched at the sound of that name…nearly, but he did not,
nor did he comment on it. "Get out," he seethed instead.

"But I've only just arrived!" Dumbledore shouted jovially, those blue eyes
flashing like neon lights come to life. He looked at Voldemort appraisingly.

The Dark Lord was exerting all of his willpower into banishing him, to
vanishing this abomination from his dream… But it was not working. Why
was his subconscious conjuring the personification of Albus Dumbledore?

There was…no one he would like to see less.

"Now that is just rude," Dumbledore said astutely, as if he had said that out
loud.

"How are you here?" Voldemort spat.

Dumbledore shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. This is, as they say…your party."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed even more. Dumbledore said nothing after that,
but he began humming a strange tune, examining his left hand curiously,
flexing it experimentally…smiling, like he was so pleased that he could
simply make a fist…

"I took your wand," Voldemort suddenly shot out, surprising even himself at
the unexpected outburst. Dumbledore did not look up at him at the statement,
only continued to inspect his hand, holding it in front of him now as though
he were admiring his nails.

"Did you, now?" he said airily. Voldemort felt a rush a powerful annoyance
at his lack of respect, at the fact that he did not so much as look at him when
he spoke.

"I pried it from your cold, dead fingers," Voldemort continued cruelly. "I am
the Master of the Elder Wand, now."

He was smirking evilly at him, eager to see the dreadful realization wash over
that calm, aged face as the old man discovered that he, Lord Voldemort, had
figured it out, had divined that the Deathstick was real, and that he,
Dumbledore, had held it all long, and that now—
"Are you?" Dumbledore asked in that same tone of slight indifference, still
not looking up. He snapped his fingers suddenly, grinning as the sharp sound
echoed in the Chamber. "Are you really…" Another powerful wave of anger
at his lack of a proper reaction—

"I killed your phoenix," Voldemort spat this time. And then, as if to prove the
point, extended his wings to their full, majestic width. The span of them was
massive, feathers of gold and red glimmering in the small amount of light
within the dismal Chamber, but they emitted a soft, ethereal glow of their
own accord…

This time, Dumbledore looked. Voldemort grinned sadistically. "I drank its
blood and consumed its heart," he said as he watched Dumbledore's eyes rove
over the span of his wings.

"I have killed your precious Fawkes."

He waited for the expression of horror to show itself on that cursed face…but
it never came. Instead, in that same, light tone, Dumbledore replied, "Again,
Tom… I question the accuracy of your statement."

"I claimed its life," Voldemort snarled, his wings twitching. He then took in
Dumbledore's full appearance…and he smirked again. "Is that why you are
wearing robes of black, Albus Dumbledore?" he leered scathingly.

"Are you dressed in mourning for the death of your precious pet…? Or
perhaps it is your own death you lament…"

"Am I wearing black?" Dumbledore muttered quietly as he looked down at

himself. "…Ah, yes. It appears that I am. How very unfashionable of me.
That is not my typical style, you know. I generally prefer something with a
bit more pizzazz, a bit of sparkle…" He sighed. "But this is your world, not
mine…"

Voldemort just blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by that strange

declaration.
"Incidentally," Dumbledore continued, quite nonchalantly, "…where are we,
exactly?" He peered around the Dark Chamber over the rims of his half-moon
spectacles, his eyebrows raised as he examined the vast corridor.

Voldemort's lewd grin slid back into place. "You, Albus Dumbledore, stand
in the Chamber of Secrets. The very one which no one believed to exist,
which everyone thought a mere myth… Which Iuncovered, which I
reopened… The great, hidden Chamber of Salazar Slytherin, which no one,
not even you, believed to—"

"Oh, I always believed in it," Dumbledore said flippantly, cutting him off.
Voldemort snarled.

"You did not," he fumed. "It was I who found it, no one else had uncovered it
for centuries until I—"

"I never said I found it," Dumbledore interrupted him again, and Voldemort
felt his fingers twitch in pure agitation. "I only said I believed in it. One need
not see something to believe it is real, Tom…"

His voice drifted off dreamily. Dumbledore readjusted his glasses back onto
the bridge of his crooked nose, and was now looking about the Chamber with
much clearer eyes, as though he had been unable to properly see anything
before Voldemort had told him where, exactly, they were.

He looked back at the Dark Lord, his head tilted to one side as he examined
the golden, fiery wings. "My, how you've changed, Tom," he said before
returning his gaze to his face. "Having a nose suits you." He smiled playfully.

"You look good, as a phoenix born."

"You look good…dead," Voldemort shot back icily. But Dumbledore only
chuckled.

"Truly, Tom…my phoenix? I must admit, not even I saw that one coming…
However, I do not know if I would say he is dead… Consider this."
Dumbledore took a step closer to him, his eyes twinkling—Voldemort
watched him suspiciously, but did not back away—

"I have been in your dream for several minutes now, an unwelcome visitor—
a dead one, as you so kindly pointed out—into your mind… The one man
you've claimed all your life to hate above everyone else, one of your greatest
threats… And yet, you have not moved to strike me even once. You have not
so much as thought about it, in fact, when you could have. I am utterly
defenseless. You took my wand, remember? And the ability to raise my own
wand against met—the Elder Wand, the Deathstick… Why, that seems the
kind of golden opportunity that the old Lord Voldemort would be hard
pressed to pass up, don't you think?"

Voldemort simply stared at him for a moment as he digested those words.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled even brighter.

"You should know better than anyone the potential consequences of playing
with pure, ancient magic like that, specifically blood magic, Tom… The heart
and blood of my loyal, faithful Fawkes…?Really…"

And as Voldemort considered all of this, he realized it—that usual,

instantaneous, fiery rage that he'd always had before at the sight—no, at the
mere mention of Dumbledore, before—

…It was simply not there.

Dumbledore's grin widened. "Why, you might even like me now," he said as
he peered up at him over his glasses.

"No amount of ancient magic, pure of otherwise, could possibly make me like
you, old man," the Dark Lord fumed, clenching his hands into fists. "You
made certain of that the moment you lit my wardrobe on fire at the
orphanage."

He glared accusingly. Dumbledore's smile vanished.

"Yes…" he said slowly, "fire… A dangerous affection we seem to have in

common… Though my fire was not real, Tom, nor did it kill hundreds of
innocents…"

For a long, drawn out moment, the two said nothing. They only looked at
each other, each wearing a mask which was expressionless and cold.

"Is that why you are here?" Voldemort eventually asked, a feeling of
ominous, dawning comprehension crawling up his spine. "Because I took the
life of your faithful pet, because I consumed its heart…?"

His last words were practically a whisper, addressed more to the cavernous
walls of the Chamber than they were to the former Headmaster.

"Have I unwittingly allowed the ghost of Albus Dumbledore access to my

dreams, to my sub-conscious mind…?"

Lord Voldemort did not sound afraid, ever…but these words were very close.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I haven't the foggiest idea, Tom," he answered, and
Voldemort's glower returned with a vengeance at his nonchalant demeanor.
"No one has ever done such a thing before. You are, in a sense, the
experimental trial." He paused for a moment, looking up again.

"Did you know you would acquire wings?" he asked in a genuinely curious
tone.

Voldemort glared, deliberating if he should even answer. "…No," he finally

muttered, turning away from him and folding the wings flush against his
back.

"Huh," Dumbledore said. "That is strange… I wonder if you could use the
feathers. They are dead useful, you know, phoenix feathers. One can use
them to—"

"I know of the properties and uses of phoenix feathers, Dumbledore,"

Voldemort fumed, facing him again.

The older wizard inclined his head respectfully, but he was still smiling. "Ah,
yes. Of course you do. Always so intelligent. But you have changed very
much in other ways since I last saw you, Tom. And I am speaking about more
than just the obvious, of course."

Voldemort said nothing, only continued to glare. Dumbledore's expression

softened.

"…I once loved a man, too, you know."

…It felt like someone had reached into his chest and physically tied his
stomach into knots. Voldemort did wince, this time—a reaction which was
not lost on Albus Dumbledore. He would have spat something vicious,
something murderous, but it was like the air had been stolen from his lungs at
that same moment.

"A man that was my enemy, a man I was meant to be the downfall of… A
man whom I did go to meet, in the end… Whom I defeated, and consequently
imprisoned…" His eyes lost a bit of their luster, turning vacant as, quite
suddenly, he was looking through Voldemort, rather than at him…

"…Gellert Grindelwald," Voldemort confirmed quietly. Dumbledore nodded,

his eyes refocusing.

"Yes," he said. "I fell in love with him. It was…unrequited. But I never
stopped loving him, and never will… I watch him, sometimes, in his cell. He
is in pain, in his old age, he suffers in his solitude…and it causes me pain,
too… Nurmengard…" Another long pause.

"Imprisoning those whom you have fallen for does tend to put an abrupt end
to your love life, does it not? I never loved again, after him." Voldemort
couldn't tell if he was trying to make light of the situation or not, but the
insinuation was there, and…and he felt so many foreign, coiled emotions at
the words, at the accusation, none of which he wanted to address and all of
which left him completely dumbstruck and rendered him incapable of a
retort.

"Should you happen to find yourself there… Should you happen to meet
Gellert… Do me a favor, won't you?" The old wizard looked up at Voldemort
expectantly.

"Tell him I was right. Death is not an ending, only another beginning."

Voldemort regained a bit of his composure at that. "And what makes you
think I would ever deliver a message on your behalf, Dumbledore?" he said…
though the words did not come out as venomous as he'd intended them to be.

Dumbledore shrugged, closing his eyes. "Perhaps you will get bored…"

Another long moment of silence.

…But then those twinkling, blue irises were back, looking right at Voldemort
with a new vigor. "Yes, my torrid love life came to an abrupt end, then,
though that didn't stop me from making a pass or two at Gilderoy Lockhart
when he joined my staff," he muttered shrewdly, winking—an action which
shocked the Dark Lord as much as it disturbed him. Dumbledore chuckled at
his incredulous expression. "What can I say? I have an exceptional weakness
for blondes. Alas, beauty and brains rarely coexist within the same
individual…"

He inclined his head demurely again, gesturing towards Voldemort. "An

exception stands before me, of course."

Voldemort would have rolled his eyes, were he not above such petty and
contrite actions. "Are you making a pass at me, Dumbledore?" he muttered
disdainfully.

Dumbledore laughed—loudly. "My goodness, no! Weren't you listening,

Tom? I've just said I prefer blondes. Not raven-haired men..." His eyes
glittered dangerously. "No, that's a bit more up youralley, isn't it…?"

…Lord Voldemort did not feel embarrassed, ever…but this sensation…was

probably close to that.

Dumbledore grinned knowingly. "But your hair—which looks nice, by the

way, much better than being bald—is it really black, anymore…? It is
difficult to tell, in such poor lighting. It looks as though you might have
acquired the slightest hint of red, during your transformation…"

Voldemort turned away, wanting nothing more than for this conversation—
and this dream—to end.

Albus Dumbledore in the Chamber of Secrets… It was practically sacrilege,

that someone such as him should ever set foot in this place, be it
subconscious or not.

"Yes, I am a bit out of place here, aren't I?" Dumbledore commented at his
back. "But…I suppose this makes perfect sense, for you…"

Voldemort faced him again, most reluctantly, to see the other wizard running
a hand down his long, snow-white beard thoughtfully. "Robes of deepest
black, the mysterious, disconsolate Chamber of Secrets… Very romantically
dark, very macabre… Quite reminiscent of an Emily Dickinson poem, don't
you think?"

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow at him despite himself. Dumbledore cleared

his throat and closed his eye, speaking in a low voice as he recited,

"…One need not be a Chamber, to be haunted… One need not be a House…

The Brain has Corridors-surpassing…material place…"

His voice trailed off quietly again before he looked back up at Voldemort.
His eyes were positively glittering in amusement. The Dark Lord flat out
refused to acknowledge that he had any idea what the old man was talking
about.

"I have always thought that the muggles made the best artists… Don't you
agree? The best poets, the best painters… The best musicians…"

He put a lot of emphasis on the last word, folding his hands behind his back
and grinning playfully.
"Tell me, Tom, do you like…Queen?"

Voldemort stared.

"You know," he went on, waving a hand casually. "The band. Queen."

"…Do I like what?" The Dark Lord spat…but he sounded a bit too offended
to be convincingly ignorant.

Dumbledore clicked his tongue disbelievingly a few times before responding.

"Oh, come now, Tom," he chided. "Don't pretend not to know who I'm
talking about. I bet there are— ha, oh, that isgood—I bet there are pureblood
witches in China who don't even speak English who know Queen."

And then he started laughing quite hard at his own joke, so much so that he
had to remove his glasses to wipe a tear from a twinkling, blue eye.

Voldemort just continued to stare at him. "You are as mad in death as you
were in life, Albus Dumbledore," he stated flatly before turning away again.

"Here. Take a listen."

…And then it started.

Find…me…somebody to love—

Voldemort almost jumped, looking wildly above him—

Find…me…somebody to love—

"Where is that coming from?" he gasped, for it was above him to one side,
and then the other, it was all around them, yet always from above—

"Are you doing that?"

"Maybe." Dumbledore answered innocently. "Ah, music…"

But Voldemort was beginning to feel panicked. There was light streaming in
from somewhere, now, too, like rays of molten sunlight from the ceiling—but
where was it coming from? There were no windows, here… The song
continued to get louder and louder, a choir—a chamber choir—a chamber
choir in the Chamber of Secrets—singing about love—

Find…me…somebody to love—

Dumbledore was laughing, and he had turned away, was now walking up the
steps—steps? Where had those come from?—up towards the light… And
Voldemort was a jumbled mess of anxiety and disbelief—what was this?
Were these voices, this choir, were they the voices of those he had killed in
the cathedral? Was this the song of his victims, raining down upon him in his
dreams—in this nightmare—

Find…me…somebody to love—

Dumbledore let out a loud "Ha!", looking over his shoulder as he shouted.
"Always so morbid, Tom… Why, sometimes…it's just music! And oh, look,
your hair—yes, I can see it now, in the light…" He pointed at him.

"Red. A deep, deep shade of red. I was right." He winked again. "I generally
am…"

And then he turned around and kept walking up the stairs, swaying slightly
with the beat…

Somebody—somebody—somebody to love—

The song was becoming louder, the light brighter, blindingly so, and the Dark
Lord realized, then, that it was consciousness—vivid, startlingly white… He
clung to it, thinking that if this, this was what he had to look forward to in his
dreams…he would never sleep again.

Find…me…somebody to love—

"Is this real?" he breathed as he watched the retreating form of Albus

Dumbledore, the fallen Headmaster's black robes a stark contrast with the
blinding white in front of him… A blot of ink to mar the otherwise pristine
landscape that was that world of white…

"…or has this been happening inside my head…?"

He'd only whispered it, had barely said the words at all… And there was no
way that the old wizard could have feasibly heard it anyway, as the music
was now thunderous, surrounding them on all sides from up above…

Can anybody find me—?

But Dumbledore turned around, now at the topmost stair, and the music and
the booming choir came to a jarring halt, echoing ghost-like in the chamber.
He smiled genially down at him as though Lord Voldemort were not a mass-
murdering, powerful wizard, but an innocent, harmless child who knew
nothing of the world… And he heard the response just as he became
completely enveloped by light, just as he was lost to the whiteness…

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Tom…but why on earth should
that mean that it is not real?"
 17. Life Imitates Art
Notes for the Chapter:

So this is the chapter where I inform you that I am actually not a human
being but a monster, and where you all begin to hate me. That's not so
much a warning as a fact. I am horrible. Just...horrible. Enjoy!

Hermione's hands trembled as she advanced, reaching towards Harry. He was

consumed in an inexplicable wave of dread.

"What…why?" he gasped, taking an instinctual step away from her.

"What, are you that attached to your pretty necklace, Evans?" Hermione's
focused gaze betrayed her for a moment to glance at Draco, who, evidently,
did not quite sense the severity of the situation. "He's been wearing that
stupid thing for a while, now."

Hermione's other hand flew to her mouth, as if to physically prevent the next
sound that threatened to escape the lips of Bellatrix Lestrange. She quickly
looked back to Harry, then to Snape, who had most stealthily shifted, but
Harry, with veins that were now rapidly flooding with adrenaline, had noticed
—the Potions Master looked very much like he was preparing to strike, and
the rage that had been on his face just seconds ago was now completely
blank, those black eyes fixed on the locket in Harry's fist—Draco just glanced
back between the three of them, completely confused, and Harry felt the
overwhelming desire to run—

"What?" Malfoy balked, a definite edge of concern in his voice, now. "What,
what's the big deal, it's just a necklace."

No—

"Evans." Hermione took another step closer to Harry, her face a bit more
resolute, her voice a bit more level. "Give me the locket. Please." She
flinched when Harry defensively recoiled away from her, from all of them,
like a caged in animal, his eyes darting between her, Snape, and the door in a
manic way. "Just… just for a second," she said through another forced,
painful smile. Another step—

Time skipped.

One moment Harry was in the kitchen with Hermione, Draco, and Snape, and
the next thing he knew, he was screaming in pain, on his back on the floor in
the drawing room. He was looking up, disoriented, and his blurry gaze was
fixed on something sparkling above him… Something silver, shining… It
floated into slighter better focus… The other locket… And there was a
feeling of deepest longing still lingering in his mind that felt foreign and
strange, of need, of hope.

But that sensation paled in comparison to the sweltering, scorching pain in

his chest. Harry was howling in agony. It felt like someone had tried to burn a
hole straight through his sternum, right into his very heart. The locket—his
locket—was gone; his t-shirt had been literally burnt apart, straight down the
middle, so that there were only scraps of singed fabric left around his
shoulders and back. His bare chest was covered in soot and ash and blood,
and an angry wound was throbbing with every beat of his rapid pulse, crying
rivers of crimson, spidery trails of ruby lines snaking their way down his
sides—

It was chaos.

" Get the sword!"

Harry tried to focus through the pain. Something, something intangible was
holding him in place, pinning him to the ground—he couldn't move, he
couldn't do anything other than struggle and scream—

"Ron! Now!"

He could hear a clamor of footsteps, wild and frenzied. He looked up and saw
—a Death Eater—no, Ron, he was holding something long and silver… A
sword. And Harry knew that sword, and its ruby encrusted handle…
There was a clash of metal and something like the sound of a chain sliding
wildly across the floor, near to where he lay. Harry stared, horrified,
bewildered—were they trying to stab his locket with the sword of
Gryffindor…?

Then Snape's voice, surprisingly level and emotionless.

"It is inside."

"What the hell is going on!?" Draco was in the doorway, trying to stay clear
of the madness, but he was staring at Harry, not the writhing, unnervingly
animated necklace on the ground a few feet away from him. Its chain was
twisting and contorting around itself, like a living creature, like a snake.

"What kind of cursed object is that!?"

Yet no one else was paying he or Harry any mind; Ron, Hermione and Snape
were focused only on the locket. Snape was casting wordless spell after
wordless spell on it, lighting up the space with different colors each time. The
room was bathed in blue, then red, then yellow—

But they seemed to have no effect on the silver charm, other than to make it
thrive even more, like it was becoming stronger, more desperate.

"What's h-happening to him!?" Draco shouted another question, and this

time, they followed his pointed finger to the figure on the floor.

Harry was no longer screaming or trying to thrash against the spell forcing
him to remain on the ground. He was rolled onto his side, the blood from his
wound soaking into the remains of his scorched shirt… Harry was taking in
long, labored breaths, his eyes going in and out of focus. His heartbeat, which
had been racing, before, was slowing…

Hermione rushed to his side, pulling him onto his back again. "Evans!" she
cried, her hands on his shoulders. "Oh no, oh no, no, no—" She looked up to
Snape, the eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange full of desperation-
"You're right, he'll have made it so—so that the only way is…" She looked
back to Harry, propping him up gently. "Oh, oh Evans—we need you, stay
with us! We need you to tell the locket to open…"

"…W…what…?" Harry felt lightheaded as Hermione supported him. The

necklace was twisting around itself like a cobra, and Harry could swear it
was…hissing…

"Tell it to open, tell it in parseltongue, and you'll be okay—"

…It…it was hissing, Harry could tell… He could hear the parseltongue in his
mind; muffled, though, like being spoken to him through a paper cup…

'Don't do it—'

It was his voice… The voice of his…

'Don't do it, they will kill me, Harry—'

He sounded so…so afraid, so desperate…even more afraid than when he,

Harry, had nearly been lost to Lord Voldemort…

When he had saved him…

"What… No." Harry shook his heavy head. "No, I—"

"Evans, you have to, th-that's not a locket, that's—" Hermione spoke so
quickly, and her voice, which was getting higher and higher with each word
she spoke, trembled before she shrilly cried:

"There's a piece of you-know-who's soul in there! We need you to open it,

only you can do it! We need to destroy it!"

Harry's slowly beating heart seemed to pause completely.

A piece…of his soul…?

'Don't let them kill me, Harry!'

"It's a… That's…" His world was falling apart, his head was swimming…

It was a horcrux…

'Please—' It—he—was so frightened—

The locket was…was just like the diary, just like—

'Save me like I saved you—' He sounded so desperate and choked with

emotion—

But—

"No, no, I—"

"Step back."

Snape's command was cold and clinical. Hermione jumped out of the way,
and Harry saw the wand being pointed at him through a haze, like he was in a
world saturated in thick, moist mist… He tried to move, but he could not.

"Imperio."

…The weightless feeling that consumed him was utter bliss.

All of the panic and fear, all of the overwhelming, unwanted realizations that
were the storm clouds brewing in his mind dissipated, replaced by a sensation
of pure emptiness. It was miraculous, to feel nothing, to be without that
constant sensation of trepidation that had truly, never once left him since he'd
woken up—probably far before that, really…

'…Tell the locket to open… Use parseltongue, and tell it to open…'

Wait… No, Harry thought, trying to recall what exactly had been causing
those particular waves of dread from just moments before. He wasn't… He
was being asked not to do that… by—

'…Just tell the locket to open… Tell it to open…'

But this voice sounded very nice, too… Very warm, very kind…

'…Everything will be fine…' it went on reassuringly. '…Everything will be

okay… Just tell the locket to open… Say 'open' in parseltongue…'

But… I don't know if I can, Harry thought emotionlessly. I can only do it if

there's a snake, or…something…

'…Yes, you can…' the voice encouraged. '…Say 'open' in parseltongue…

Just commit to obeying, and you can do it…'

There was a muffled sound, a hissing sound, but it was far, far away in this
cloud of weightlessness… Why hadn't he wanted to obey, again? This voice
seemed to think it would be all right to… It was so…nice…

'…Say it…'

Harry opened his mouth hesitantly. The background hissing was suddenly a
bit louder, but he couldn't make out the words… But, maybe…maybe he was
supposed to be speaking in parseltongue, then…?

'…Yes, that's right… Say 'open'…'

"…O—"

No, it was no good, it was English. The strange, muffled hissing choked for a
moment, and while he still couldn't make out what it was saying, it definitely
sounded…upset…

'…Try again…'

No, Harry thought suddenly. He didn't like how distressed that other voice
had just sounded, it bothered him… No, he decided, I don't think I will…

The sensation of weightlessness abruptly increased, and the other, snake-like

voice vanished in an instant. It swooshed through his entire body, this
buoyant feeling and, why, it almost felt like flying—he was practically giddy
with it, high on this warm, pleasant relief and total lack of other emotion—
'…Tell it to 'open' in parseltongue, now…'

The voice was sugary sweet, yet oddly forceful… Are you sure I should be
doing that..? Harry thought, but the feeling of lightness made it hard to see
the harm in just listening…

'…Yes… Tell it to 'open', and everything will be wonderful… Just like

this…'

Well, he thought, all right, if you're certain… Are you certain? Are you
really?

'…Yes…' A bit more forceful, this time, but still rather pleasant… All right
then, if you're very sure… I'll try…

Harry took a deep breath, trying to think of snakes…

'…O…open…'

Several things happened at once.

The beautiful feeling of being weightless and airy vanished. Harry came
violently crashing down from whatever magical high he'd been on, and the
pain in his chest returned with a swift vengeance. His body was flung against
the wall to the far side of the room, away from the rest of them, away from
the necklace—

And his voice—Harry's voice was gone, stolen from his very throat, again—
he tried to scream in agony, but couldn't—

And in a lightning flash of dread he realized what had just happened. He'd
done it, he'd said it, and the rest of the occupants in the room were staring at
the suddenly still locket on the floor, wands raised—all except Draco, who
was in the opposite corner, looking terrified and confused—and Ron had the
sword in his hands, high above his head, ready to strike—why that sword,
whyGryffindor's bloody sword, Harry had no idea, but he was certain,
somehow, without a doubt, that it would—it would—

'No!' Harry tried to scream, but he made no sound. They didn't know, they
didn't understand—

For a second, the entire room was completely still.

And then, the now innocent-looking, motionless locket…swung open.

…Another heartbeat…

…in which nothing happened.

Harry felt an instant surge of relief. They had been wrong, it was nothing…
there was nothing in the locket, there was—

—the music exploded.

A thunderous, deafeningly loud piano song blasted into the room, and with it,
a ripple of power, like a sonic boom emanating from the empty silver
encasement. Everyone was sent stumbling backwards, wands went flying—
the sword went clattering to the floor—

"No!" Hermione's shrill voice rang out, but it was hardly discernible over the
song—the piano song… His song…

"Get the sword, get the—!"

And he was sure that there was yelling after that, too, but Harry could hear
nothing but the music, now… Nothing but that haunting melody, that
rhapsody of his dreams, of his nightmare…

Smoke came billowing forth, coiling upwards from the locket… Tendrils in
light, ethereal gray… Nearly…nearly white…

Could everyone see it…? Harry wasn't sure, but he wasn't paying attention to
anyone else now, anyway… The smoke was curling into something, was
forming into something tangible…

It was… It was him…

It was he, Harry, playing the piano…

And above him, standing over him at the bench, leaning down with his chest
pressed into his backside was…

Riddle…

Tom Riddle, and he was guiding Harry hands like a marionette puppet
master, his fingers hovering over the black and white keys, just above Harry's
own, bringing the music from his dreams to his fingertips…

He was…smiling…

He was smiling, Tom Riddle was smiling at him, and he looked so happy to
be giving him the gift of music, and Harry felt that strange sensation of
butterflies in his chest…

'I have seen you heart…'

He was whispering it in his ear, and it was so lovely…

'And it is mine…'

And suddenly, he remembered.

Harry remembered everything.

The memories struck him like instantaneous wildfire; like multiple,

simultaneous flashes of lightning straight into his mind. He remembered the
scene—this scene in the smoke and haze—he remembered playing the piano
like that, he could feel it now, how wonderful it had been, to be able to make
such lovely music so agilely, so quickly—

He remembered just now—running, sprinting for the portkey and nearly

making it, being so close—

He remembered last night, he remembered the dream—

He remembered Tom Riddle revealing himself, he remembered the way he

had said the words 'the diary…' like it was a cruel joke… He remembered
Tom's sultry parseltongue in his ear and his lips on his neck, he remembered
the way he'd stopped and said 'I would never do anything without your
consent…' And…and Harry had believed him… still…believed him, wanted
to believe him… He needed to believe in something…

The locket was Tom Riddle. The locket was a horcrux.

Just like the diary.

Just like…just like him…

They were hunting things… They were destroying things…

They were hunting horcruxes… They were killing pieces of Lord

Voldemort's soul, piece by piece…

They were going to kill… They were going to kill Riddle… But Riddle had
saved him… They didn't know, that he had saved him from Lord Voldemort
himself—

They didn't know that he—that he was—

I am nothing like him.

He had said it himself, he had proven it, and Harry—he didn't want—he
couldn't lose—

His vision was dimming.

There was movement all around him, and probably shouting, too, but Harry
could only hear music… Yet that, too, was fading… The piano notes were
becoming softer, quieter…

The fog shifted, and something new was appearing…

A body, a silhouette coming to life in the ethereal haze…

Tom…

It was like he had quite abruptly gone deaf. The music vanished. There was
no yelling, no sound of feet shuffling around him, no beautiful piano melody,
nothing. Pure and utter silence in the room.

And Tom.

It was Tom Riddle, so very much like the Tom Riddle from the diary that he,
Harry, had met in the Chamber of Secrets…and…

He was beautiful.

Only it was not the diary, it was the locket, and it was not Ginny Weasley
being drained of life…

…It was him.

Tom Riddle was standing in the middle of that light gray mist, and—could
everyone else see him too? Or was it just he, Harry…?

The next few seconds contained an eternity. They would be vividly burned
into Harry's memory forever.
His vision continued to dim. There was movement around them, surely, there
must have been, the others grappling for their wands, looking for the sword in
the fog—but Harry's focus remained solely on Tom Marvolo Riddle, who, in
turn, remained focused only on him. Yet Harry was so far away, shoved
against the far side of the room, and he didn't even have a voice, or he would
have told the locket to close again, he would say…something…

His life was flowing out of him, and if it weren't for the spell keeping him
pinned against the wall, Harry knew he would be a nearly dead body on the
floor, just like Ginny Weasley had been. Even now, his vision was fading to
black, bleakness all around the periphery of his eyesight, encircling the image
of Tom Riddle in a dark, tunnel-like frame of darkness…

And Tom was looking at him with an expression that… Well, Harry didn't
know what that expression was… All he knew was that Tom was becoming
corporal, which meant that he, Harry…was dying.

Go on then, he thought, as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Go

on. Take my life, take the portkey and run. You saved me.

I don't deserve to live, anyway.

I'm worthless.

Take my life.

Take it.

Take it.

Take it.

Tom Riddle…did not.

He could have. The few, opportune moments that he needed were there, right
within his reach. He could have drained Harry of all that he had and grabbed
the necklace on the mantel before any of the others had located their wands,
he could have left The Chosen One for dead and made a run for it…but he
did not.

Tom did not move at all.

He just stared at Harry with an expression on his beautiful, porcelain-skin

face that was utterly tragic. It was a look that said,

What have you done?

…And though it only lasted for a few, fleeting seconds, it was the single most
profound connection that Harry had ever had with another being in his entire
life.

Tom Riddle's obsidian eyes—heartbroken, hopeless, betrayed—would haunt

him forever.

His ability to hear returned to him with the sharp clash of metal on metal.

The smoke vanished. He vanished.

Harry felt life rushing back into him in a powerful, dizzying surge.

He screamed with a guttural sound that came from somewhere dark and
unknown to him before, saturated with an emotion which did not have a
name. The spells which had robbed him of his voice and which kept him
constrained against the wall broke like they were nothing more than rubber
bands snapping in his hands.

There was screaming that was his, and there was screaming that wasn't.

There was static and lightning. His mind was a tempest, and his reality would
be, too—it was at his fingertips, he could taste the electric-like currents on his
tongue—

But before he could unleash it, before he could dig his claws into the world
and drag it down with him, he felt it.

That familiar sensation of a stunning spell, right at his chest, right at his
scorching, burning, bleeding wound. Right at his heart.

He fell into darkness.

The cupboard was empty.

Art.

Does life imitate it, or is it the other way around?

Do music, poetry, and visual exemplifications come from some deeply innate
source of human connection from which stems the societal norms of everyday
life, or are humans inspired by the beauty in the mundane to create great art
which transcends such trivial acts…to connect with some kind of higher
purpose?

Lord Voldemort, though he would never confess such a thought, tended to

agree with the muggle man Oscar Wilde on the matter…

Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.

The Dark Lord was not sure what, exactly, had spurred this sudden
excursion, this strange need to act. He had not planned on such a thing, at
least not for some time, and spontaneity was not exactly a trait which he
usually displayed… Yet he had always found such solitary practices…
therapeutic…
Lord Voldemort had many followers, now, this was true, many supporters…

But he still preferred to work alone.

…And if he was being completely honest with himself, he did know why he
was here. This particular plan of action was inspired by his dream…

'I always thought that muggles make the best artists, don't you agree…?'

The National Gallery in London.

Today, this morning, at half past eleven, Lord Voldemort…was a visitor.

He walked quite casually among the muggles, a flawless glamour artfully in

place…though how they did not perceive anything extraordinary about him
at all, how they did not sense even the slightest tremor of something as he
stalked past, was beyond him… Power was radiating off of his body in
droves, the promise of their deaths saturating the air around him, thick and
heavy with their demise…

But no one so much as gave him a second glance. He supposed it was

blissful, willful ignorance…

No one looks for death in the daylight.

For the next hour, muggles who were flocking to come and see the expansive
collection of paintings on view in the National Gallery would suddenly
remember, once they got too close to the establishment…an appointment, a
meeting, a trivial distraction…and they would turn around, back the way they
had come…

And those who had already entered within the Gallery's walls…would never
leave.
…It was not the first time that Lord Voldemort had been here.

No, he had been here once before. As a child.

As Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A school field trip. It was before he knew anything of the magical world,
before he knew where he truly belonged…and the muggle school which he'd
attended before had scheduled a day for the children to come and see the
paintings, to observe the majesty that was 'fine art'…

Their teacher, an especially vulgar, horrid woman, had corralled them

through the corridors, dragging them about the galleries before they'd found
the tour guide in one large, energetic group—stay together, no wandering off
—I saw that look, Tom, don't even think about it—

…For Tom Riddle had been exceptionally good at mysteriously

disappearing…no matter how they tried to contain him.

There was one particular painting that had struck something within him, that
day. It was one of the rare occasions in that foul, waste of a public
educational facility in which he had actually learned something.

...Something that had nothing to do with art.

He stood before that painting now.

Samson and Delilah, a work in oil by Peter Paul Rubens, done in the early
17th century.

The children had crowded around it, the museum's appointed educational
tour guide's eyes wide with wonder at the work. He made a spectacle of
telling them about the piece, of the story that lay behind it…

And even now, as he viewed the work of art through the eyes of Lord
Voldemort rather than the eyes of the child Tom Marvolo Riddle, he had the
same thought…
It was beautiful.

It was, he would not deny that even now. The colors were rich and luscious,
the figures were rendered in the marvelous, stylistic manner of the 17th
century masters… The composition, flawless…and truly, in their stillness,
muggle paintings really were…superior. Lord Voldemort would never say
such a thing out loud, would never proclaim such a blasphemous thought…
but in the privacy of his own mind, he thought it to be true. Magical
paintings, while highly useful as tools with their ability to share information
by moving between frames or conceal secretive pathways, were…utter
failures as works of art. The personalities of their occupants were often
stifling, the very fact that they could talk and move at all made them irritating
—Lord Voldemort detested mostreal, living people, let alone painted
representations of them—and what else was artwork for, if not thoughtful,
internal contemplation? Was it not meant to be experienced on a deeper
level, to help the viewer perceive and reach some kind of philosophical state
of mind that was, perhaps, even if just fleetingly…transcendence?

…It was difficult to experience transcendence when the figurative image you
were supposed to be observing kept asking you idiotic questions or walking
out of the frame.

Yes, Lord Voldemort secretly preferred muggle paintings to magical ones…

which meant that, generally, as a whole, he disliked all of them.

But that did not mean that they were not beautiful, as the one before him was.

Beautiful, but...meaningless.

Completely meaningless.

At least, it was meaningless to him, then.

...The story of Samson and Delilah is a tragedy.

Lord Voldemort remembered that day quite clearly. Their guide had been
rather melodramatic, clearly used to the practice of putting on a show for the
young students to which he was accustomed to working with… His voice had
lowered mysteriously, so that the children would gather in close, leaning
forward in anticipation of the tale…

Samson was a man of God. He was born with a higher purpose, to save his
people from the might of the war-hardened, Pagan worshippers, the
Philistines… He was born with the gift of almighty, superior strength.

He was the most powerful man in the world.

And the Philistines were beginning to fear him…because he was moving to

rise against them.

But Samson had a great flaw. He had always been very solitary, before, he
did not rely on others, ever… He trusted no one…

…until he fell in love.

He fell in love with the woman known as Delilah. A Philistine, his very
enemy. He fell in love, and no matter how his countrymen told him to stay
away from her, he could not.

The Philistinian army found out, of course.

They spoke to Delilah, convinced her to help them overthrow Samson, to

discover the mysterious cause of his godlike strength. They bribed her,
swayed her, convinced her…

And of course she agreed, in the end. She was a Philistinian woman, after all.

He confided in her the source of his power. It was his hair, as it turned out.
His long, uncut hair, which was the symbol of his vow to God…without it, he
was powerless...

Delilah told her people. She betrayed him, and the Philistines plotted against
Samson. They came to her home in the dead of night, while he was sleeping
in her arms, unaware… They cut his hair and stripped him of his power while
he slept… They imprisoned him…

He was lost because of love, because he allowed himself to trust in another,

which he had never done before. The painting depicted a statue of Venus, the
Goddess of love, and Cupid, in the background. Beautifully rendered symbols
of his downfall, representations of his demise…

The other children had gasped and sighed when the story came to this
unhappy ending. They clutched their little hands to their chests, and one of
the more emotional, outspoken girls even cried out 'No!' …The guide had
nodded, eyes full of empathetic emotion…

And it was in this moment that Tom first realized it.

He was too young to understand what it was he was figuring out, exactly, but
he knew…there was something he was missing.

He had already known he was different at that point, of course. He had

already known he was special… He could move things without touching
them, he could talk to snakes… He could hurt people, when he wanted…

But this…had been different.

Tom Riddle had looked around at the faces of his peers and saw something
simmering in their eyes, something that he didn't have, and he didn't
understand it. What was it that everyone else around him was experiencing?
Why was it that no one seemed to make the same, simple conclusion that he
had—that Samson was foolish, stupid; that he was wrong to trust Delilah—
that he had doomed himself, so unwittingly? Why did they seem so sad and
sympathetic over his demise, when he had so idiotically devised it, had done
it to himself…?

He didn't know it at the time, but in hindsight, he later figured it out, that it
was then, in that moment, when he'd first realized that he was born without
that ability…

He could not love…

…

He was seven.

…Something small collided with his leg.

Lord Voldemort had been so lost in his own reverie that he had not even
heard them approach. Two children. Boys. One with blonde hair, one with
black… And there was a group of them, at the other end of the gallery. A
school, perhaps? Just as when he had first come…

But two of the group had dashed off, and their teacher was now bidding for
them to return… The dark haired boy had been chased by the blonde,
laughing, and he had been looking over his shoulder while he ran. He had
not noticed the still, ominous figure right in front of him, and he had run
straight into his thigh…

Lord Voldemort did not move.

The raven-haired child froze, too.

The blonde, who had been giving chase, hesitated… And maybe, when they
were young, they were more perceptive, these muggles, because he instantly
turned and ran away, abandoning his friend to return to the safety which was
his class… It was not the first time a child had instantly fled at the sight of
him…

But the dark haired boy did not run. Lord Voldemort looked down at him,
and the child was struck motionless under his gaze.

…It was like he had quite abruptly gone deaf. The Gallery was, very
suddenly, completely and utterly silent.

…Green, green eyes.

But…were they really green?

Were they really like his, or was he just seeing them there because the boy
had dark hair and wore glasses? Was he just superimposing them on the face
of this muggle child, because he was that desperate to see them again, that
horrifically, pathetically stuck on the thought of them, even still…?

Lord Voldemort lowered himself down to the child's eye level, to better see
for himself. The boy was paralyzed, his gaze locked onto his own almost
hypnotically. Like he could see right through the glamour. Like he knew him
for what he really was.

And he was afraid.

The Dark Lord could feel his hummingbird heart fluttering in his chest, could
smell the fear rolling over his skin…such a tiny, fragile, thing…

He reached out a single, pale finger and tilted his chin up. The child did
nothing at all to stop him, but his heart lurched violently at his touch. The
light caught in his eyes, reflected off of the smooth surface of his glasses…

But…were they really green?

The Dark Lord's hands fingers fell from his face, glided down to his tiny,
fragile throat…

In a movement that was so quick it was undetectable, Lord Voldemort

snapped the child's neck.

The lights were still shining in his impossible eyes before he fell forward and
the Dark Lord caught him, and as he gently laid him down, he thought:

Mercy.

There was probably shouting, then. There was probably screaming. But he
did not hear anything. There was nothing but silence.

Lord Voldemort stood…and walked away.

...

He exhaled the poison.

The cursed air from his lungs permeated the space, invisible, toxic plumes.

The cameras—every single muggle, recording instrument within The

National Gallery—they combusted and collapsed, they shattered apart and
released tendrils of smoke. The only eyes which would witness their tragic
ends were made of oil and canvas, eternally still and un-seeing.

And Lord Voldemort walked.

He walked at a steady, measured pace as they began to asphyxiate. They

slowly fell to their knees as they gasped for breath, the poison displacing the
oxygen as their skin turned red and then purple and then blue. He stepped
over their twitching, thriving bodies when they attempted to reach out to him
as he alone remained unaffected. He passed the guards in the lobby who
were crumpled on top of each other with their broken, electronic devices
smoking in their hands.

He went out the main exit. He walked out onto the sidewalk with his hands in
his pockets. He joined the throng of the muggle crowds, became an
anonymous pedestrian, another visible, tangible ghost of London… He did
not apparate or disillusion himself or use the portkey he had in place…

He didn't even conjure the Dark Mark.

He just walked.
 18. Horcruxes and Hallows
Harry was numb.

He was once again on the tiny cot in the cupboard, curled up in the fetal
position as tightly as he possibly could be. A coiled, twisted, knot of a
person.

…He'd screamed, at first.

He'd called for him over and over again.

But…Riddle didn't answer.

He didn't answer when he was angry. He didn't answer when he begged.

He didn't answer…not even when he cried.

There was no one there.

And now, after that frenzied slew of feelings, that chaotic stampede of
emotion after emotion after emotion, Harry felt…

Nothing.

Hollow.

…What had he done?

He saw Tom's face. Those heart-wrenching, beautiful, broken black eyes.

What have you done?

Harry suppressed the violent feelings that threatened to resurface, that swirled
somewhere dangerously within him. He shoved them in a casket and nailed
the lid shut, buried them in the blackest, darkest depths of his tortured mind.

Keep them there. Lock them up.

Let them die and rot and decay.

He should have stayed a hollow shell, the first time.

After Sirius.

Numb was better. Numb was easier.

…Had Tom Riddle really cared for him?

Harry now pondered the question with a cold, clinical detachment.

Had he meant it, everything he'd said? Riddle had told him his soul was
beautiful, that his mind was, too… He had said that he, Harry, had brought
his world to life…

And when he had spoken to him, just before…pleading, begging…just… just

before it was all over…

He had sounded so afraid…and he, Harry, had let it happen, he had been the
cause…

Why hadn't he been able to throw off Snape's Imperius curse?

Had he just been that desperate to feel weightless, like that?

Was it because he had already been so mentally and physically weak?

Because Tom was…

Tom Riddle was killing him.

He, Harry, had felt his life draining away. He had been so light-headed, so
feeble and frail as he laid there…

But… Tom didn't kill him.

Why?

Why hadn't he done it? He was Tom Riddle. He was a horcrux, he was a
fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul. But Harry was a horcrux, too… Was that
why? Was Tom Riddle literally incapable of killing another being which
shared a portion of the same, broken soul?

But…the diary, the diary had tried to kill him, the diary had not hesitated, had
not even taken a moment to consider… Ginny Weasley was, without a doubt,
dying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, and he, Harry, had been, too…
There was no emotion in that shade of Tom Riddle, and if it hadn't been for
the miraculous tears of a phoenix, he would have been lost…

But this one, this horcrux… The locket… He had cared, Harry was certain.
This version of Riddle, his Riddle, was different. Yes. He was. He had cared.
He had, Harry knew it.

'Your soul is…so beautiful.'

He knew that he cared, he did… The way he smiled at him when he brought
him music, the way he wrapped his arms around him and gave him peace…

The Occlumency wards…

Were they still there, even now?

Harry sat up, unfurling himself from the tightly bound, human tangle that he
was. The rusty bedsprings creaked in protest against the movement as he
shifted his weight. He got to his feet and slowly approached the door,
squinting through the darkness.
When he touched his hands to the wooden surface, he felt them. The barest
shimmer of the mental barriers, so unobtrusive that they hardly seemed to be
present at all…

Ghost walls for his haunted mind…

But how?

'…I did that for you, Harry… I simply connected the intrinsic pathways of
your mind in order to construct Occlumency barriers that are your own…'

Had Riddle awoken in him some kind of dormant ability to effortlessly make
Occlumency shields, then? He focused on them, concentrated on the
shimmering walls, and he felt them… An indescribable, gentle tension
between his attentive thought and the barriers, could sense it grow stronger,
denser… When he backed off, they diminished again, back to the unobtrusive
walls that they were before… And he felt it, now, that barely-there
connection of his mind to the shields, that slightest trickle of his magic going
forth into the walls in order to keep them in place… And it was easy, it was
so simple…

Tom…had done that for him.

And Harry had damned him.

Terrible guilt thrashed and writhed in its locked up confinement somewhere

deep in his psyche. He pushed it away, shoved it back down. Buried it.

Let it die.

Harry fell back onto the cot, feeling nothing.

He had killed him, and Tom had… He had cared for him, Harry knew he
had… He had saved him from the Dark Lord, his older, psychotic
counterpart; he had given him the ability to protect himself, to expertly
practice Occlumency, a skill he'd never had, before…
…He…had cared…

Hadn't he?

Those who knew him always spoke about how charming the Dark Lord had
been, in his youth… How manipulative and cunning, how he could weave his
sultry words into the exact lie you wanted to hear, could string just about
anyone along into getting what he wanted… Dumbledore alone had remained
un-fooled by his mental games…

Was he, Harry, just another fool?

Had he been tricked by Lord Voldemort…again?

He curled back into the smallest form he could fold his body into. He pressed
his scarred forehead into his knees and breathed in the familiar scent of the
cupboard's dust. His chest, his wounded, aching chest, throbbed with each
beat of his heart.

Had it all been a lie?

Had the Tom Riddle in the locket just said what Harry had wanted to hear?
Had he meant it when he'd said that he had a beautiful mind, a beautiful soul?

Had he really cared, at all? Or was it all just a charade, an act in the name of
self-preservation…

'I would never do anything without your consent.'

Was that a lie, too? Just to gain a little bit more of his heart, of his soul…

He had possessed him, at the end… He had taken his body and run, sprinting
for the portkey, for freedom…

But Harry could not fault him for that, could he?

'I am nothing like him.'

Was he, or wasn't he?

At the end of it all, the Slytherin Heir had not killed him…

There were a few precious moments where he could have.

Tom Riddle could have taken his life and at least tried to take the portkey and
run.

He could have… Couldn't he? Harry had already been so weak, his vision
had dimmed and the world around him had become silent and dark… How
much time had truly passed, when he had been forced against the wall,
voiceless and powerless?

Did Tom Riddle really commit an actual act of selflessness, in that moment?
Had he truly sacrificed himself in order for Harry to live? Or had he been
trying to flee, but failed? Had he just not been quick enough before the sword
descended, and the ringing sound of clashing metal forever ended his
fractured existence?

Harry saw that porcelain expression shrouded by the ethereal haze as vividly
as though it was a photograph in his mind.

So betrayed. So utterly, completely betrayed.

Heartbroken.

What have you done?

Had Tom Riddle…had he really cared?

…He, Harry, had.

Harry had cared very, very much for his nighttime companion. His silhouette
in shadows, his angel in darkness…
He had…he had even…

Sorrow, grief, loss…and something else, something nameless. They banged

and clawed at the surface of their mental cage, monsters in the depths of
Harry's mind demanding to be felt.

He turned them away, forced them further underground.

Let them die.

…Harry had cared for Tom Riddle, there was no denying that… But had Tom
Riddle cared for him?

The image of his tragic face remained fixated in his mind's eye, and the
answer that came to him was the worst possible one.

…He did not know.

That was the really tragedy of it all, wasn't it? He did not know if Tom Riddle
had really cared for him or not. He could ponder the question from all angles,
he could hear the exact thoughts of what any outsider would say on the
situation—of course he didn't! This is you-know-who we're talking about,
here! He isn't capable of feeling anything for anyone!—and he could fight
back with his own argument of what he, Harry, felt was right, of what he so
desperately wanted in the bottom of his broken heart to be the truth, and at
the end of it all, the answer was the same.

He did not know.

He did not know if any of it had been real, or not…

And now?

Now he never would.

Harry awoke to the sound of shouting.

Slightly muffled, at first. His ears were ringing again, and his body felt
lethargic and heavy. It was a very familiar sensation, like his bones had been
replaced with dense, stiff metal. He blinked open his iron-weighted eyes with
a considerable amount of effort, straining to listen.

Angry shouting. Very angry, very vehement… and slowly, the words began
to come into focus, clear enough to understand.

"…look like I give a single shit why!?"

…Malfoy?

Someone else must have said something, someone who was not yelling, for
there was a brief pause, and then—

"No! No, you listen to me, Granger!" There was a bang, and something
screeched and crashed, loudly, like a chair being flung against a wall or
something. "This entire fiasco, this entire shit situation, this was all your
fault! Yes, it was! Don't you dare deny it! I already know the exact argument
you're going to try and pull, too, so allow me to just make my rebuttal now
and save us all some precious time!"

A slamming sound. Harry had… He had never heard Draco Malfoy sound so
vicious, before.

"You couldn't tell us much because it wasn't safe, because he has some
fucked up connection with you-know-who. Yes, we all know that, but so.
Fucking. What! Snape had Occlumency barriers in place in his mind, and
now he's practicing it on his own! This all could have been avoided, if you lot
weren't all so tight-lipped! But I'll go even further. Maybe you argue that
there's something about their mental connection I don't know about that
makes it especially dangerous if he knows too much. Okay, I'll bite. Let's just
say, for conversation's sake, that you aren't a bunch of assholes for not telling
him what the hell has been going on… You could have told me!"
The last part was such an angry snarl that even Harry winced from where he
was in the bedroom. There was another crashing sound.

"We—"

"No! Shut up, Weasley! Shut your goddamn mouth! You could have told me!
You should have! I was the one tasked with keeping an eye on him, after all!
And I have been! I noticed him wearing that cursed necklace days ago! If I
had known what it was, if I had any idea what kind of stupid objects you
were looking for, I could have prevented all of this! But no, I didn't know!
And the real reason you lot didn't tell me what was going on? You all can
play like it was strategic, like it was for some noble fucking reason, but the
truth? It's just because you. Don't. Like. Me."

A taut moment of silence. Harry had pushed himself up into a seated position
by now, his jaw hanging open in disbelief.

"That's the real reason and we all know it. You two don't like me, and Snape's
not exactly thrilled with me either, and, well, why should you like me? We've
all hated each other quite a long time. But this is war. I may have started out
on the wrong side, but I'm not anymore. You may think I'm just in this for
survival, but I am capable of being useful, too. And while it should have been
thelogical conclusion to make sure that the person who is going to be
spending all of his time with our tragic hero actually be informed about what
is going on, that didn't happen, for no other petty, stupid reason other than the
fact that you just don't like me, and because Snape is such a fucking control
freak. He deserved exactly what he got. And if you think I'm going to let you
just waltz in there and wake him up when you're the one that knocked him
out, you can think-a-fucking-gain. I'm sure the very last thing he wants to see
when he comes to is either of your sorry faces. So back. The fuck. Off."

Another long stretch of quietness. There were a few measured footsteps,

heading in his direction, and then, in much softer, choked-up voice, that was
teeming with a different variety of spite—

"I…I could have saved him from all of that."

And then—Harry couldn't believe it—

"…I could have redeemed myself."

More footsteps, and Harry quickly fell onto his side again, pulling the covers
up over his head.

The door opened just seconds later. It clicked shut afterwards, followed by a
softly muttered 'colloportus,' and it took Harry a moment to realize that…
Draco had a wand? He had just magically locked the door…

Whose wand did he have?

…Well, there were only the three options, and he had just said Snape
deserved what he got…

What happened to Snape?

Harry, feeling numb and still freshly stunned at Draco's rather

uncharacteristically passionate speech, decided that…he didn't really care.

About much of any of it, really. Already he was rapidly getting over the
blonde's raucous monologue, slipping back into a completely hollow state of
mind. Perhaps he should have been touched, by how defensive Malfoy had
been on his behalf, perhaps he should have felt gracious or moved…

But as he closed his eyes and listened to the soft ticking of the wall clock,
took in the unmistakable sounds of Draco sinking onto his bed and beginning
to scratch away in his journal again…he didn't feel anything.

He didn't feel anything at all.

"What did you see?"

Harry wasn't sure how long he'd just laid there, listening to the sounds of
Draco's quill on paper. He also didn't know how long he had been
unconscious before that. Harry hadn't so much as glanced up at the clock to
see what time it was, nor had he checked the watch on his wrist. He didn't
move now, either, as he directed the question to the blonde behind him,
though he was currently facing the wall. His words came out muffled and
hoarse. They were scratchier and less discernible than he'd thought they'd be.

Unsurprisingly, Malfoy didn't understand him. Harry heard the rhythmic

sound of his writing come to a stop.

"…Sorry?" he said timidly, like maybe he'd just imagined Harry's stifled
voice.

Harry still didn't shift to turn away from the wall. The idea of physically
facing him—of sitting up and seeing the truth in those steely eyes—was
simply too much.

"What did you see?" he repeated, a bit more firmly.

The wall clock ticked away quietly, fragmenting the otherwise long stretch of
silence. Harry wondered if he would need to clarify. He didn't.

"There was smoke. Kind of a…a mist."

Another pause. Harry waited, certain that he was not finished.

"…And…and you."

A dull, muted feeling of dreadful confirmation. Draco cleared his throat.

"You. Playing the piano. That…that was what I saw."

Harry fists clenched tightly around a handful of blankets, but he otherwise

remained still. He wet his lips before asking, after what must have been at
least a full minute—

"…Just me?"

When Malfoy answered, it was such a quiet, feeble whisper that Harry almost
didn't hear it.
"No."

Another wave of dulled mortification. So that was it, then. If Draco saw it,
they all saw it. They saw Tom Riddle in the ethereal haze. They saw him
leaning over him, guiding his fingers and bringing him music…

They saw him… They saw him…

Harry should have felt completely exposed and embarrassed. But he didn't.
Not really. He could sense those emotions somewhere inside of him, but he
was determined to keep them at a distance. And it was even easier than it had
been the first time around, retreating into himself to become that hollow shell
of a person again. He actually, nearly smiled at that moment, too, because,
surprisingly, the thing he thought right then was—

Lord Voldemort had been right.

Love makes you weak. It makes you stupid. It blinds you, destroys you.

'…You're a fool, Harry Potter…and you will lose everything…'

…He was. He was, he was, he was.

How twisted, that now, after all that had happened, he found some sort of
demented solace in the mindset of his mortal enemy. He was right, all along,
and he, Harry had been the stupid one. The fool.

…But never again.

The wound on his chest throbbed with a dull pain…but Harry barely noticed
it.

He just laid there for a long time, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing, and,
eventually, Draco resumed his writing.

It was getting dark by the time that Harry finally decided that it was time to
get up.
As much as he did not want to, he needed to face the others. While he was no
longer burning with wild, fiery curiosity about what was really going on, he
did still want to know. He had to know.

Cold. Clinical. Detached.

He needed to know. He had a prophecy to fulfill, after all… Or did he?

Was he even remotely important to anyone at all, anymore?

Probably not.

But there was only one way to find out.

Harry abruptly stood, despite the agonizing protest of his sore muscles and
freshly injured chest—shocking the hell out of Malfoy, who appeared to be
half-asleep on the bed next to him. The diary was open flat on his stomach,
his quill held loosely in his hand like he'd been dozing off mid-sentence. The
moment Harry stirred he started violently, sending the little black book
falling to the floor.

Harry felt slightly nauseous at the sight of the diary, even still.

Tom…

No, stop it.

"Y-you're—" Malfoy stuttered, flustered as he, too, got to his feet and
scooped up the journal. "You're—"

"I need to talk to them," Harry said, his voice still quite raw. "I don't really
want to, but I need to." And without waiting for any kind of response, he
reached for the door.

"Do you mind?"

"Oh. Oh! Alohomora." Draco pointed the wand and—yes, Harry had been
correct, it was Snape's—the lock clicked open.
"Thanks."

And down the hall he went.

He wasn't sure why he had thought they would be in the kitchen, but that is
where his feet had taken him, and he had been correct. Hermione and Ron,
who now looked like their normal selves and were dressed in their regular
clothes, were sitting across from each other in silence as though they had
been waiting for him. And maybe they had.

He wondered what they thought of him, of what they would say. They'd had
all day to dwell on it, after all, to let the shock settle. To critically analyze the
how, what, and why of the situation.

Would they think him completely naïve and childish? Would they reprimand
him for being so stupid, so reckless—so easily tricked, again?

Would they be disgusted by him?

…Did he care, if they were?

Hermione jumped up the moment he walked in. Ron made a kind of warning,
hissing noise at the action, and she glanced around at him before lowering
herself back down, nervously. They kept their gazes downcast as Malfoy
slowly entered the room behind Harry. It didn't escape his notice that the
blonde had his temporarily acquired wand raised towards the others, his
stance fierce and bizarrely protective.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Harry remained standing, looking
from Ron, to Hermione, then back to Ron again.

"How many are there?"

Ron made eye contact with him for the first time, then. The guilt and pain in
those blue irises was profoundly tangible.

Harry didn't feel anything.

"…How many what?" he croaked.

"Horcruxes." Harry noticed Hermione twitch involuntarily in his peripheral

vision, but he didn't take his eyes off of Ron's. "That's what you're hunting,
isn't it? Horcruxes. Fragments of you-know-who's soul. Killing them off,
piece by piece, so that he can die. That's what the locket was. That's what the
diary was, and whatever cup you got from Gringotts. So, tell me, then. How
many are there? Do you know what they all are? Where they are?"

Do you know that I'm one of them?

…Neither of them asked how he knew what a horcrux was.

"I…six total, we think," Ron said hoarsely. Hermione's neck snapped in his
direction. "And—"

"Ron, we shouldn't—"

"No, you shouldn't, Hermione," Ron snarled back at her, and in all their years
of bickering and fighting, Harry had never heard Ron sound this genuinely
malevolent towards her. He got to his feet. "I'm done, I'm done with this.
Because you know what?" He pointed towards Draco, who instantly lifted his
wand higher on pure instinct, "as much as it pains me to say it, Malfoy was
right.I was right. I thought we should be telling him everything from the start,
but I listened to you, I listened to Snape—I kept my head down and went
along with it, because it was the smart, safe thing to do—" The sarcastic
drawl was so thick here that it rivaled that of Malfoy—

"—but not anymore."

He turned to Harry, looking both fierce and guilt-ridden.

"Six," he reaffirmed. "And we've already destroyed four. And—"

"Wait, wait!" Hermione squeaked, also standing. Her hands were caught up
in her mass of curly, frizzy hair. "I just, I don't think—I'm sorry, but—"
"It's okay," Harry said hollowly before Ron or Draco could verbally bite
Hermione's head off. "You can tell me, now. I can practice Occlumency."

Ron gestured at him pointedly. "See? There you go. So—"

"You can?" Hermione interrupted, looking apprehensive. Harry nodded.

"It's just… I mean…" She looked to the door and back, and it was obvious
that the reason she was so conflicted was because Snape was not present to
be their guiding, adult expert.

It was a just bunch of delinquent teenagers against the world.

"I just… Okay, we'll tell you, we'll tell you everything if—do you mind if I
—" She looked extremely nervous before finally spitting it out—p

"Can I just check, first? To make sure?"

Harry stared at her, confused. "Check?" he asked. She nodded, her big, brown
eyes shimmering with barely-contained tears.

"Really, Hermione?" Ron spat viciously. "Really? You have to personally

prod at his mind before you feel justified? You can't just take his word for it?
Your best friend?"

Hermione quickly wiped a wayward tear from her cheek with the back of her
hand. "It's got n-nothing to do with trust or friendship, Ronald!" she shouted
heatedly, though her voice cracked more than once. "It's about making sure
that we're safe, that we're not putting everyone in d-danger—that we're not
—"

"You want to try using Legilimency on me?" Harry interrupted,

comprehension finally dawning on him. Hermione nodded again, and Ron
scowled.

"Yes," she confirmed quietly. "J-just to see if you are really effective at
blocking me out. Then…then I would feel much better about telling you
everything we know. And we will."

Maybe Harry should have felt offended. He didn't. To Hermione's surprise,

he shrugged nonchalantly.

"Okay."

Her teary eyes widened. "O…okay?" she questioned, a bit shocked at how
easily he'd conceded.

"Sure." Harry put his hands out widely on either side of him, as if to make
himself an easier target. "Knock yourself out."

Ron and Malfoy both made disapproving, angry noises, but Hermione
hurriedly rubbed at her runny nose before retracting her wand.

"Th-thank you," she stammered. Harry didn't respond. She hesitated for a
moment with her wand pointed at his chest, as if reconsidering…but then her
emotional face suddenly became flat and clinical, and she said,

"Legilimens."

...The Imperius curse cast by Hermione Granger was nothing like the same
spell being cast by Severus Snape.

Perhaps each witch and wizard had their own, distinctive style when it came
to the mind arts, Harry mused, because this plunge into his psyche was a
vastly different experience than it had ever been before.

When it was Snape who had been attempting to break into his thoughts, it
was something akin to…an army barraging your home, marching onto the
porch and banging on the door—a squad of lethal and dangerous soldiers
shouting, 'Surrender! Come out with your hands up!', and when you failed to
comply, would not hesitate to brutally knock the door down and force their
way in.

And when Lord Voldemort had invaded his mind… Well, Harry thought with
a morbid sense of humor, he was like the big, bad wolf storming up to your
doorstep, the monster who would huff and puff and blow your whole damn
house apart—a tornado of power that would tear your walls violently into
shreds, and when they were gone he would pick among the wreckage like
some kind of manic, demonic vulture to find exactly what memory or thought
he'd been looking for—only to disappear again quite abruptly, leaving
nothing but wreckage in his wake…and not exactly caringabout the damage
he'd done to your mind afterwards.

But Hermione… Hermione was an altogether different matter. She was not
aggressive in the slightest. No, she was like a falsely friendly, door-to-door
salesperson, almost trying to pass as someone who was supposed to be
there… 'Oh hello, I was only checking if you were home, just wanted to see if
you had a moment…?' And if you were ignorant, you'd just let them in, and
before you knew it that innocent-looking person would be in your home with
a gun to your head, stealing your valuables while you were left wondering,
'Just how the hell did this happen'?

And really, he thought, while it was nowhere near as outwardly powerful, it

was just as dangerous in its own way.

But he, Harry, was not ignorant. And seeing as he was a relatively
emotionless shell already, it was absurdly easy to put forth just a tiny bit of
effort into strengthening the already-there barriers…and Hermione could not
get it. A memory never even started to form. There was nothing there.

Nothing.

A few moments later, and she pulled away.

The kitchen swirled back into place around them. She looked thunderstruck.

"Well?" Ron and Draco both asked. Hermione's eyes never left Harry's when
she answered, quite incredulously,

"I couldn't see anything," she whispered. "Nothing, nothing at all, it was…it
was perfect, Evans…"
Harry just regarded her with a cool, cold look of indifference.

"Great. Moving on, then," Ron said bitterly, snapping Hermione out of her
shell-shocked stare. Harry turned to face him.

There was a pregnant pause before he spoke.

"That thing… The locket… It was one of the horcruxes." His friend's face
twisted up in what was undeniably terrible guilt. He took a somewhat hesitant
step towards Harry, and it looked like that action alone caused him pain.

"I-I'm so sorry—"

"Don't," Harry said numbly. Because he was numb, and he didn't want to hear
their apologies. Those buried emotions writhed somewhere deep below, but
they could not reach him.

…Ron noticed.

"No," he said, sounding more grief-stricken now than Harry ever heard him.
"No, no, no, no—not you, not you, too!" And then he was inches away, his
hands on Harry's shoulders, looking pleadingly into his mask-like face—
Harry just blinked back at him blankly, a bit taken aback—

"Not you too, god damn it—that look, that empty loo— that's exactly what
happened to Ginny, afterwards, sometimes, I see it, even still—I won't let that
bastard—he can't have done that to you, too—"

Pain, loss, anger…bitterness? They all clawed at the back of his throat,
demanding recognition—Harry refused, choking them back—

"I'm fine," he said in a broken voice that was definitely not fine.

Something cracked in Ron. He turned away and slammed his fists down on
the kitchen table, his pale face instantly red in fury. "I'll kill him!" he roared,
causing all three of the others to jump. "I will fucking kill him! That
manipulative—that bastard—first my sister, and now—"
He looked back up at Harry, suddenly pleading again. "I don't know what he
said to you, Evans, how he disguised himself into making you see him as
something that he wasn't, but—whatever he said, whatever he told you—it
wasn't real! It wasn't real! He's a psychopath, and everything he said was a
manipulative lie, and-and he was killing you—"

Something cracked in Harry, too.

"Why couldn't I fight off Snape's Imperius curse?" he muttered as he looked

up vacantly at the ceiling towards something that was not there, speaking
more to himself than anyone else.

"…What?" Ron gasped, confusion cutting across his otherwise desperate

expression.

"I'm supposed to be good at that," Harry continued in a voice completely void

of emotion. "It was one of the only things I could actually do right. But I
couldn't do it, then. I couldn't fight it off."

There was a beat of silence, and when the next words came out, they weren't
his, couldn't have been his, they were someone else's—they were the words
of someone much weaker and feebler, someone who would actually be so
foolish as to actually give into that overwhelming sense of total loss—

"I killed him."

A confession.

"No!" Ron roared, grabbing his shoulders again, and he was so blurry, so out
of focus, and Harry—he wasn't crying, he wasn't—

"First of all, you did throw off Snape's Imperius curse, you damned, stubborn
prat! He had to cast it twice, didn't you hear him? And it was a miracle that
you were even sitting up straight on your own, let own fighting off powerful,
dark curses! Because he was killing you!" Harry clamped his eyes shut,
shaking his head—he didn't want to hear this, he didn't want—
"Yes! You didn't see it, you couldn't see yourself like we could—you were
hardly breathing, you were so pale—you were dying! He was sucking the life
out of you, he was going to leave you for dead, just like Ginny—he used you,
Evans, he used you—please look at me!"

Harry might not have done it if he hadn't sounded so, so heartbroken.

Begrudgingly, after a long pause, he opened his eyes.

Ron was suddenly much calmer. He took a deep, steadying breath.

"No matter what he said to you, that was the same person that killed your
parents," he said flatly. "That was the same man who killed Cedric Diggory
in the graveyard. That was the same person who tricked us into going to the
Department of Mysteries, whose followers killed Sirius and Mad-Eye. The
same person who kidnapped you and put you to sleep for an entire year. He
was the same monster. Whatever he said to you was a lie. Whatever he did
was a trick; a deceitful, terrible, cruel, manipulative trick. He does not know
how to love. He only knows hate."

He stared at Harry resolutely, his blue eyes burning with intensity, refusing to
look away and, in turn, refusing to let Harry just look away, either.

…He wanted to look away.

He wanted to just shut his eyes and not acknowledge it.

But Ron's hands on his shoulders were like anchors, and he wasn't letting go.

The seconds ticked by, and finally, in a defeated, hoarse voice, Harry caved,
finally choking out the words:

"I know."

And then, before he could so much as blink, Ron pulled him into a rib-
crushing hug, causing the wound on his chest to throb painfully at the
contact, but he didn't seem to notice Harry's sharp gasp. Ron was holding him
close and murmuring the words, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," into his shoulder
and Harry hated him in that moment, hated him because he was making him
deal with this horrible thing that he did not want to deal with—

And as Ron continued to mutter apologies into his robes, Harry wondered if
maybe this situation was somehow, in a different way, even worse for him,
who'd had to deal with the aftermath of his little sister going through this
same situation years ago… To feel so guilty and helpless…and, oh God,
Ginny…

How in the world had Ginny recovered as well as she had? He, Harry, had
only had the locket for…what, a week or so? But she…she'd had the diary for
months…

She'd been possessed so many times, she'd killed roosters and gone down into
the Chamber of Secrets and set the basilisk on students and then-then she'd so
very nearly died herself…

And what had they done, afterwards? Given her a cup of cocoa, Harry some
house points, and said, 'Ah, very well, you were lucky this time, Miss
Weasley, good thing Mr. Potter here saved you. But I'm sure that after a nice
mug of something warm and sweet you'll feel good as new in the morning,
right as rain. Being mind-raped by a Dark Lord for several months won't
affect you that much—probably—but anyway, off to bed with you…'

They had touched on it only once after that…and it had been brief. What was
it that Harry had said, again? That he'd forgotten?

' Lucky you.'

…If he ever saw Ginny Weasley again, Harry decided, he owed her a giant,
huge, astronomical apology.

Ron…was crushing him. Both emotionally and physically. He needed

—needed it to stop, before he fell apart completely. He tentatively put his
hands on the redhead's shoulder, prying him away as gently as he could.
"Ron," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I'm…I'm okay. I just…I didn't know—but it's fine. I'm fine." Ron looked
down at him disbelievingly. "I only had that thing for a week or something,
after all, and I—I get it…" He smiled thinly. His charade of being only
slightly affected felt weak even to him, and he knew they all knew it was a
lie.

"W-we're sorry…"

Hermione's voice was a high-pitched whimper. Harry almost started; he had

quite forgotten that both she and Draco were still present.

"Stop it," Harry said tersely. There was something stirring within him that
might have been close to anger, then, if he allowed himself to feel anything at
all. He hated the fact that they were both teary-eyed right now. Where did
they get off, being weak like this? He didn't want their weakness. He didn't
need their pity.

No, he wanted answers.

"You've gotten rid of four, you said."

Ron nodded, trying miserably to compose himself. "Yeah," He said, dragging

his hands slowly down the sides of his face. "And we know what the other
two are. At least, we're pretty damn certain."

Harry waited expectantly. "He made them out of these really valuable
objects, you see." Ron explained, looking worn. He started pacing. "Wanted
to use really rare, powerfully magic items. He made six total, we think,
because he was into this insane idea of having seven total soul pieces. So…"

He held out a hand, and began ticking them away with his fingers. "The
diary. His first one, which you destroyed. Then, there was a ring, one that
used to belong to Salazar Slytherin himself. Dumbledore destroyed that one.
Then the goblet, which Hermione destroyed. And now…"

He swallowed thickly, avoiding Harry's gaze for a moment. "The locket…

That was—that one was me."
It was obvious that he was trying valiantly to not sound guilty as he said it,
that he had done the right thing…and Harry knew that he thought that he had,
hadn't he? But there was still a dull, muted sensation of betrayal somewhere
deep within him at his words…

Ron had been the one to wield the sword, after all…

"Why the sword of Gryffindor?" Harry asked.

"Ah…because, well, horcruxes…" Ron started, looking uncomfortable.

"They…they're really, really hard to get rid of. They—the vessels which
contain the soul fragments—have to be destroyed beyond magical repair…
and only a few things can do that. Basilisk venom is one of them. So when
you stabbed the diary with that fang, it was actually one of the only things
that would have worked."

"And when you killed the basilisk with the sword," Hermione picked up,
"well, the sword of Gryffindor is a goblin made artifact, and goblin made
items like that can sort of absorb the properties of other magical substances
they come into contact with in order to become stronger. So it became
impregnated with basilisk venom when you killed that monster down in the
Chamber."

Harry's thoughts whirled as he tried to process all of this information. The

sword of Gryffindor could now destroy horcruxes… But otherwise, they were
very difficult to kill…

Harry wondered, he wondered…

Did this all apply…to him?

He finally just nodded, not saying anything.

Ron cleared his throat. "Well, so, now, these last two… We're positive about
one of them, at least. This diadem of Ravenclaw's… He had a thing about
collecting founder's items and turning them into horcruxes."
Harry just nodded like that made sense to him. Hermione spoke next.

"The diadem was especially difficult, it took me forever to figure out how he
could have found an artifact that has been missing for so long," she said, a bit
of her usual, crisp tone seeping into her voice. "Which is why we went to
Albania, actually. Turns out that the Ravenclaw House ghost, the Grey Lady
—she was Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter, did you know? It took me a long
time to come to that conclusion, luckily I managed it while we were still at
Hogwarts, so I could ask her—I finally got her to confess what had become
of the allegedly lost diadem. Her mother made it. It supposedly gives the
person who wears it great wisdom. So her daughter, the Grey Lady, she stole
it, and, well, long story short, it wound up in Albania… Which is where you-
know-who eventually found it, which is why, we thought, maybe, he would
keep it hidden there after he'd turned it into a horcrux…"

She sighed.

"Yeah, well, that was a total waste," Ron muttered, scratching at his arm
involuntarily, like the mere mention of Albania irritated the mostly-healed
mosquito bites on his arm. He shot her a dirty look before glancing back at
Harry. "We're almost positive it's in Hogwarts, now."

Harry blinked. "Hogwarts?"

"Yeah," he said, still absent-mindedly rubbing at his forearm. "There was a

chance when he could have hidden it in the castle after he'd found it in
Albania. Did you know that you-know-who applied for the Defense Against
the Dark Arts teaching position, years and years ago?"

Harry cocked his head to the side, momentarily curious and distracted. "He
did?"

"Yep," Ron answered, smirking slightly. "He had a little interview with
Dumbledore that didn't exactly go very well. Needless to say, he was
rejected… But we think he took that opportunity to stash the diadem in the
school. He always hides his horcruxes in meaningful, powerful places, and
keeping one in Hogwarts would have really appealed to him."
"Where specifically do you think he'd put it?" Harry did his best to keep his
voice steady, because the longer this conversation went on, the more certain
he was that they truly, honestly, did not…

"Well, I said the Chamber of Secrets—" Ron answered, but then Hermione
cut in.

"Which would make a lot of sense, obviously, but Professor Snape and I
agree, we don't think he would be so stupid as to go there after he'd just
spoken to Dumbledore, he wouldn't want to risk going anywhere near the
Chamber if there was even a chance that the Headmaster could be following
him… He wouldn't want him finding out where the entrance was…"

"So where do you think, then?" Malfoy spoke now. He had finally lowered
his wand, at this point, but he still held it tightly in one hand with his arms
crossed.

"The Room of Requirement," Ron responded, sounding very vexed. "And we

may have gotten the chance to find it while we were still at Hogwarts, too,
but it was just the damndest thing, because we could never get in…and now
we know it was because somebody else was spending all their time in there,
last year…"

His words trailed of ominously, incredibly venomous. He glared at the Draco,

an incensed glower which was returned in like. Harry observed the
interaction with more than moderate confusion.

"It doesn't matter, now," Hermione intervened, attempting to derail whatever

heated argument was about to explode. "What's done is done. We do believe
that's where it is, though, and breaking into Hogwarts, now…"

She didn't need to finish her statement, they all knew it—breaking into
Hogwarts was going to be even more perilous than breaking into Gringotts
had been.

"Well… We're working on it," she finished morosely.

A few moments of silence, and then Ron cleared his throat.

"And then this last one," he muttered. "Well, we're not one hundred percent
certain, but… It's especially tricky, because…it's alive."

Harry's entire numb world came to a shuddering halt—

"…We're pretty sure it's his snake."

—and then it promptly began moving again.

They really didn't know.

"His snake?" he repeated, and apparently his momentary thrill of terror had
gone unnoticed, because Ron just shrugged miserably.

"Yeah. His horrible atrocity of a pet. We think he put a piece of his soul in
another living thing, which is just mad, isn't it?"

Harry had to struggle to suppress a laugh that probably would have sounded
quite mad.

"Nagini is a horcrux…" he murmured in awe. He recalled that out of body

experience, that fateful day where he had been called by name and
unwittingly summoned by Lord Voldemort himself…and how possessing the
snake had been so easy… There was no pain, then, no horrible agony like
there had been with Trelawney… As a matter of fact, he had felt rather
comfortable, in her snake's body, it had almost felt natural…

"You're right," he said, looking at the perplexed faces of Ron and Hermione.
"I'm sure of it. She's got to be."

They looked at each other nervously.

"Well, that's all just wonderful, isn't it?" Draco sneered, drawing their
attention to him. "So the Dark Lord is literally immortal until these other
horcruxes are out of the picture. One is practically untouchable in Hogwarts,
and the other is that goddamn, foul snake which he pretty much always keeps
near him. How the hell do you plan on killing it?"

No one said anything. Malfoy scoffed.

"Great," he muttered.

Harry's addled mind was positively buzzing. They didn't know he was a
human horcrux, they didn't know… Should he tell them? He wasn't sure, but
—

But Snape knew! He, Harry, he had been the one to tell him! He'd been in
Trelawney's horrible body and he'd told him to his face! The Potions Master
obviously hadn't divulged this information to Ron or Hermione—and he was
certain they weren't lying to him, because no one, not even Hermione, was
this good at acting—but…but why?

Just what the hell was Severus Snape playing at?

And…what did he plan on doing to him, in the end? Did he have some
insane, master plan up his sleeve? Harry was certain that his ex-professor did
not know that Harry himself knew that he was a horcrux…

…Could his tragedy of a life possibly get more complicated?

Harry glanced at the wand in Draco's hand. "What happened to Snape?"

Malfoy smirked, making Harry instantly apprehensive. "You happened to

Snape," he answered, his silver eyes gleaming.

"I… Come again?"

Draco laughed, and it was a sinister yet delighted sound. "You—Granger did
hit you with a stunner when you flung those constraining spells off, but not
quite quick enough—you went down, but you took Snape down with you.
There was this crazy bolt of lightning, and it hit him right in the face." His
smile widened.

"It was wicked."

"It was not wicked!" Hermione huffed. "It was really, really frightening, I
don't know how you—how—you could have killed him!"

Harry didn't exactly feel remorseful. "I… I conjured up lightning, again?" he

asked, looking to Ron for confirmation.

He nodded, failing to suppress a sly grin of his own. "…It was relatively
wicked."

"It was not!" Hermione actually stamped her foot in annoyance. "You
seriously injured him, Evans! I managed to fix most of the major bruising
that happened, but he'll have to heal himself properly once he finally wakes
up. He's been out all day, and probably will be all night, I imagine. You
singed a bunch of his hair off, too."

Malfoy laughed gleefully. "Yeah, you did. Maybe he'll have a lightning bolt
shaped scar of his forehead now, too."

Harry grinned despite himself. Hermione just huffed, giving up on trying to

convince any of them that it was not a laughing matter.

"Huh… I don't even remember that…" Harry said dazedly, scratching the
back of his head.

"But… We haven't even told you everything yet."

Ron sounded suddenly very serious and…excited? Hermione took one look
at his face and groaned.

"Not this again, Ron."

"Yes," he said vehemently. "Yes, because I think I'm right!"

Hermione sat, sighing as she buried her face in her hands. Ron gazed at Harry
with eyes that were ablaze with passion.

"Do you still have your invisibility cloak?" he asked. Harry nodded,
completely taken aback by that question…but Ron smiled widely.

"Excellent. Because I think, that you, Evans, are destined to be…" He paused
dramatically, putting a hand on his shoulder—

"…The Master of Death."

Harry…just stared.

"…The what?" he and Malfoy balked at the same time. But Ron's eyes never
left Harry's.

"Hear me out," he said, taking a step back and beginning to pace again. "So,
Dumbledore left us with some stuff, when he died," he began, motioning
towards Hermione and himself. "He left me with this useless contraption—I
dunno why, it swallows lights, I'll show it to you, later, if you want—but he
left Hermione with this book."

He gestured at Hermione, then, who reluctantly withdrew her beaded bag. He

made to reach for it, but she slapped his hand away, frowning. "Let me get it,
if you must—I have things in order now, finally—" She reached her arm
down impossibly far into the bag, digging around for a moment before she
finally pulled out a massive, very old-looking tome.

Ron grabbed it at once, flipping it open to a page that had a marker sticking
out of it.

"Here. This story—"

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" Malfoy interrupted, his brows arched. "Why
would Dumbledore leave you a book with a bunch of children's stories?"

"I'm getting there," Ron snapped impatiently. He looked back at Harry,

shoving the book under his nose. Malfoy peered over his shoulder. "This is
The Tale of the Three Brothers. And—"

"I know that symbol!" Harry shouted, cutting Ron off again midsentence. He
pointed down at the crudely drawn icon above the title. A circle within a
triangle, with a line down the middle…

Hermione's head snapped up. "You do?"

"Yeah… That's Grindelwald's symbol, isn't it?"

She blinked up at him, clearly surprised. "Yes. How…how did you know
that?"

"I read about it in a book," Harry said simply. Hermione continued to look
stricken. "Well it does happen, sometimes. Me, reading," he muttered before
looking back to Ron.

His friend's smile was getting wider by the second. "Yeah, it was
Grindelwald's symbol. But he stole it from this story, because it's a symbol of
the Deathly Hallows."

He said this as though it was deeply impressive. Harry and Malfoy continued
to look at him inquiringly.

"Oh, it's just a story Ron—"

"The Deathly Hallows are three magical artifacts that, legend has it, when
united, makes the wielder the Master of Death," Ron said loudly, as though
Hermione had not spoken at all. He snapped the giant book shut. "Basically,
it's the story of three brothers, three wizards. They went to cross a bridge one
day at twilight—"

"I thought it was midnight," Malfoy interrupted. Ron glared at him. "What?"
he said, annoyed. "That's how my mum always told it to me."

"Well then you can tell your mum that she's got it wrong—my mum too,
actually, because— oh, it doesn't matter!" Ron shook his head, looking
frazzled. "Midnight, twilight, Christmas morning—whenever—three brothers
came across a river at some point, and the water was really turbulent, so, you
know, since they're wizards, they conjure up a bridge, in order to pass safely.
Then Death shows up—"

"Death shows up?" Harry asked, bemused by Ron's less than great
storytelling expertise.

"Yeah, you know, Death. This is a fairy tale—sort of—just bear with me." He
waved the giant book around, nearly hitting Malfoy in the face with it. "Death
shows up, and he's all pissy because he feels like he was just cheated out of
three perfectly good lives when they made that bridge. But he's a tricky
bastard. Instead of being angry, he's all manipulative and suave and cunning
and deceptive (his voice became exceptionally bitter here, and Harry
wondered if he wasn't thinking of someone else…), and he says, 'Oh, very
clever, you three brothers, you. Let me reward you all for your vast
intelligence. Ask for anything you want, and I'll give it to you.'"

Ron set the giant book down on the table, leaving it open on its spine. "The
first brother wants glory and power. He asks for a wand that will be the most
powerful wand in all of existence. The Deathstick. And Death grins all
wickedly, snaps off a twig from a nearby elder tree, and lo and behold, the
Elder Wand is born. Yes," he paused, pointing at a stunned-looking Malfoy.
"The Elder Wand. But let me finish. So, Death hands the wand over to
brother number one, who goes on his merry way.

But he's a bit of an idiot, this guy. He goes around boasting about how
powerful his wand is, how he won it from Death, and some other greedy
bastard kills him in his sleep and takes it. Thus, Death gets the first life which
he felt was his to begin with. And then the guy who stole it does the same
thing, bragging and what not, and he gets killed, and the wand gets stolen
again, and so on and so on. Supposedly it was lost to time, until, eventually,
it's thought to only be a myth."

"But then Grindelwald found it."

Harry had figured it out before Ron got there. He nodded deeply, but asked,
"How—?"

"Snape told us a bit about it," Harry explained. "He said Dumbledore had it,
which is why Malfoy was in danger, because he disarmed Dumbledore…
And the Headmaster had to have won it from someone, and this is
Grindelwald's symbol, so I just guessed…"

Ron shot Hermione a look that bordered on gloating. "See? Everything is

connected!" he shouted jubilantly, gesturing back and forth between Malfoy
and Harry like they had just made some kind of great argument for him.

"But what—?"

"Let me finish the stupid story first." Ron hurriedly shushed Malfoy, who was
tapping Snape's wand against his arm impatiently. "But we are all in
agreement that the Elder Wand is real, yeah? This giant thing that at one
point everyone thought was totally made up? Yes?" He was practically
leering at Hermione when she finally, begrudgingly nodded.

"But—" she started. Ron ignored her.

"So the second brother," he continued with gusto, "poor bloke, he's upset with
Death already, because the love of his life died some time ago. So he asks
Death for a stone that will bring the dead back to life. So Death smiles, picks
up some little pebble or something, and hands it to the second brother. The
Resurrection Stone."

Harry couldn't help but be caught up by Ron's tangible excitement. "Is…is

that a real thing?" he breathed, hardly daring to allow the concept of such an
object actually existing to enter his thoughts.

A stone that could bring the dead back to life…

Sirius…

And maybe—his heart skipped a beat—maybe—

Hermione stood, noting the look on Harry's face and immediately becoming
worried. "It's not real, no one has ever—"
"Silence!" Ron snapped in what Harry assumed was supposed to be an
imitation of Snape. Unlike Hermione, he really needed to work on his acting
skills. "So he takes the stone and goes. He gets home, and twirls it around
three times—guess that's how it works—and the love of his life shows up.
But she's only like…half-real."

Harry shoulders slumped. "But…she could talk, and…and interact with

him…?"

"Yeah, but she's all depressed, because she's not quite alive again. She doesn't
belong in the living world, not really. So her depression ends up getting to
him, and the second brother eventually kills himself in order to be with his
beloved. And so Death claims the second brother's life for his own."

A tremor of sadness stirred in the depths of Harry's mind. He swallowed

thickly, willing it away.

"So we have the wand," Ron said, tracing the line on the symbol in the book.
"The stone," he traced the circle, "…and the third Hallow…"

He paused theatrically again. Malfoy was tapping Snape's wand almost

violently against his arm, he was so edgy, but Harry had never heard the
story, and so he waited patiently.

"The third brother doesn't want to embarrass Death even further like the other
two. He's smart. So he asks for a cloak that will hide him from Death himself.
And then, very begrudgingly, Death takes off his own Cloak of Invisibility,
and hands it over to brother number three."

"Death had an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Well sure," Ron answered, like this was perfectly obvious and logical. "How
else would he sneak up on people all the time? So he sighs, watching the last
wizard go, hating that he won't be able to find him. The third brother leaves
with the cloak on him, knowing that, until he is ready, Death will never touch
him."
Death will never touch you.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face at the unexpected sound of Lord
Voldemort's icy voice in his mind. The Invisibility Cloak… His Invisibility
Cloak, on that crystal casket, in that world of—

But nobody noticed his fleeting expression of terror, for Draco was looking at
Ron, who was pacing again, and Hermione had her eyes closed, rubbing her
temples like Ron's speech was giving her a migraine. "The last brother, then,
lives his life to the fullest, and it's not until he is old and ready to die that he
takes off the cloak, passing it along to his son, and Death finally comes to
greet him. And they enter into Death together, like they're old friends. Or…
something. The point is, he died on his own terms, unlike the other two
idiots."

"The second one died on his own terms," Malfoy disagreed, frowning. Ron
ignored him with an annoyed wave of his hand.

"Doesn't matter," he said quickly. He pointed at Harry, who had managed to

recover from his short but intense tremor of fear. "The Invisibility Cloak. I
think it's real. I think it's your Invisibility Cloak."

"Uh…really?" Harry raised an eyebrow at him dubiously. "It's…it's just a

cloak, Ron…"

Hermione looked up. "That's what I was saying," she started, looking a bit
relieved, but Ron cut her off again.

"I've seen other invisibility cloaks before, and even the best, most expensive
ones wear out, after a while. His is perfect, and it's been in his family for who
even knows how long, and—"

He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, gripping him tightly. "I think you're
related to the brothers in this story, and the cloak is real, it's all real. You're
already the rightful owner of the cloak, and if we can just get the other two—
if you become master of all three of them—I think that's your destiny!" he
finished grandly.
Harry laughed. "Why in the world do you think that? Where…where did you
even come up with all of this?"

"I didn't!" Ron answered loudly, but he was smiling like this was good news.
"I didn't—the Lovegoods did!"

Harry blinked numbly before breathed the name, "Luna…"

"Yes! Luna, and her father, Xenophilius," Ron said, nodding. "Remember
when I said they were at the wedding? Well, so was Viktor Krum."

He muttered the name of the international Quidditch player he had once

worshipped like it was a dirty slur.

"Krum was there?" Harry gasped. Ron nodded, glowering.

"Yeah, Fleur invited him. But she shouldn't have, because he nearly made a
scene, storming up to the poor Lovegoods just because Xenophilius was
wearing a necklace with this symbol on it—"

"Because it's Grindelwald's symbol!" Hermione interjected defensively. "Of

course he took offense to it, Grindelwald went to his school and caused his
country a lot of pain and turmoil, and—"

"Well, he was an idiot, wasn't he, because that's not why Mr. Lovegood was
wearing it," Ron scoffed. "He was wrong, and so are you."

"You're just mad because he kept flirting with Ginny and I all night,"
Hermione responded coolly.

"That is—that's completely off topic!" Ron shouted, though his ears instantly
turned red. He took a deep breath before looking back at Harry. Malfoy was
leering, clearly enjoying all of this drama far too much.

"So…" Ron began again, forcing himself to sound calm. "Krum makes a fool
of himself, almost starting a fight with Luna's father, but Hermione and I
intervened—she distracted the stupid oaf with her wily charms (Hermione
huffed, loudly), while I stayed with the Lovegoods…and we had a very
interesting chat."

He glared at Hermione again. "Which you missed completely. But everything

they said made total sense, even if they are a bit…eccentric." He turned back
to Harry and Draco. "They told me all about that symbol, and the hallows,
and the story… and then Luna gave me the sunflower…"

Harry's hand flew to his chest, the aching, fresh wound over his heart
burning.

And in that moment, he knew he believed. Harry didn't even understand it all
yet, but if what Ron was saying was what Luna believed in, then he did, too.

"But… Why do you think it's supposed to be me?" he asked slowly.

"Because of the prophecy!" Ron yelled, throwing his hands up in the air.
"The prophecy that said you're the one meant to off you-know-who, that
you're the Chosen One! Who else could become the Master of Death? How
else does an immortal man die, if not by the hands of the rightful owner of
the Deathly Hallows? And, I mean, I think that's why he couldn't kill you,
right? When he kidnapped you, he couldn't kill you, though he obviously
tried that first, right? But you're destined, it didn't work, the death spell
probably would've just bounced off you again, just like it did the first time,
and so he put you to sleep, locked you up—made everyone think you were
dead, because he literally couldn't do it!"

Harry stared. It was pretty concrete then that Ron had already thought about
this so much that it was nothing short of fact for him.

He…he thought Voldemort just…couldn't kill him…

Harry…liked Ron's story much better than the truth.

Hermione was biting her lip, looking back and forth between Harry and Ron
with great conflict simmering in her eyes. She had just opened her mouth to
say something, was just about to speak, when—
"But I'm the Master of the Elder Wand."

Draco muttered in a cool voice before Hermione could say whatever it was
that was on her mind. Ron looked at him and grinned, glad that Malfoy, too,
seemed to be giving his theory a chance.

"Yes. And I've been saying for a while now, ever since you and Evans have
both been here, that we should go dig up your wand from your fake grave and
bring it over so that Evans can best you properly, making him the Master of
the Elder Wand, but no, no, no, we had to go to Albania…" He gave
Hermione a fleeting, withering look. "But if we could still get it, then—"

"Then we just need the stone…"

Harry's voice was low and contemplative.

"Yes!" Ron thundered, looking joyous that Harry might really be coming
around, now, too. But then he deflated almost just as suddenly, his arms
lowering to his sides.

"Yes…the stone," he said slowly. "That's the real problem… We have no

idea where that could be… Or even what it looks like, truth be told…"

But Harry said nothing, because he… He had an idea of where it might be…

"It's not real, Ron," Hermione sighed. "The stone isn't real. There's no record
of it, none, I've looked and looked, I spent hours researching it—really, I did
—but… There's nothing. It's not real."

And she did look legitimately crestfallen. There was a long moment of
silence following her words, as everyone was momentarily lost in their own
thoughts. Harry's mind was absolutely racing with the possibilities of
everything he'd just learned…

"But the Elder Wand is real," Ron finally said in a decisive voice. "We all
know that."
"Yes, well, so what?" Hermione said dejectedly. "Malfoy is the current
Master of it, and—"

But Harry was not so sure.

"Draco," he said suddenly, in a voice that was cold and detached. "Do you
mind terribly if I steal these two for a few minutes? I…need to show them
something in private."

Malfoy, surprisingly, looked not angry at this request, but…hurt. "Trust me

when I say that it is something that I am purposefully not sharing with you
not because I do not trust you, but because…I am sparing you. It is
something you will not want to see." He kept his words ominously
emotionless. Green eyes flashed up to silvery gray, and there was a transitory
moment of kinship and understanding.

"Trust me, Draco."

…And maybe it was because he had switched to calling him only by his first
name, now, and it was sincere and legitimate, or maybe it was just the total
honesty in his voice… But Draco, astoundingly, did not argue or even put up
a fight. He just nodded, his face smooth and emotionless.

"I'll…be in the study," he said simply.

Harry's lips pulled up into a small but affectionate smile. "Thank you."

And the blonde left without another word.

Hermione and Ron watched him go with their jaws hanging open, but Harry
couldn't be bothered by their dumbfounded shock.

"Come on," he said, motioning for them to follow.

"I need to show you something in the pensive."

Moments later, and the three were gathered in the drawing room. Hermione
and Ron both looked apprehensive, though the latter was still radiating
excitement. Harry extended a hand towards him.

"Mind if I borrow your wand for a moment?" he asked. "To extract this
memory that I want you to see…"

Ron complied without question. Harry held the wooden tool in his hand and
nearly sighed—he had gone so long, without a wand… And while this one
felt friendly enough, it was nothing like how his own had felt. It was gentle,
but he could tell, without really knowing how he could tell… This wand was
not loyal to him, was not meant for him…

"Thanks," he said finally, before putting the tip to his forehead. He'd never
extracted a memory before, but he'd seen Snape do it many times… It
couldn't be too hard, could it? He focused intensely on the memory he wished
to bring forth, and then, sure enough, it floated to the front of his mind… He
summoned it with the pull of the wand, and felt it connecting there, and when
he pulled the tip away from his temple, it was to find a beautiful, ethereal
stand of silver attached to it…

He grinned, gracefully dropping the lovely, ghostly tendril down into the
Pensieve. He then handed the wand back to Ron, deeply missing his own.

"Ready?" he said, putting his arms out on either side of him, his palms facing
up.

They both nodded. Ron grasped his right hand, Hermione his left, and,
together, they plunged down into the obsidian basin filled with his memories.

"…from this day forward, there shall be a Taboo on the name of Harry James
Potter, and every shortened variation of the name."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione landed in a dark, ornate hall. Flames crackled
softly from a fireplace at the far end, bathing the room in an eerie, orange
glow. Over a dozen people sat around a long table in the center, dark robes
and pale faces half-lit in the dim light. And there, in the middle…
Hermione and Ron jumped at the same time. "Evans," Hermione gasped,
horrified. Her eyes darted around the room, and Harry knew… She was
looking for him…

"How…?"

"Just watch," Harry answered darkly. He glanced over at the motionless

snake in the corner, wary…

Lord Voldemort was leaning back languidly in his seat. His spidery hands
were folded in front of him, starkly white against his black robes. The hood
of his cloak was pulled over his head, casting his sinister facial features in
shadow. But his scarlet eyes peered out from the darkness like embers.
Clearly visible, vibrant as fresh blood.

Ron and Hermione watched with completely stunned faces. Whatever

hostility they'd harbored towards each other just moments ago in the kitchen
completely disappeared, as now Hermione was shaking, leaning into to Ron's
chest… He put an arm around her shoulder comfortingly, though he looked
equally afraid…

Harry paced around the table, taking advantage of this opportunity to study
the form of his former captor, his enemy…

Lord Voldemort…

"A Taboo, my Lord?" a blonde man across the table from Voldemort spoke.

"Yes, Yaxley…" Voldemort said softly, and Harry saw Hermione and Ron
both shudder out of the corner of his eye. "A Taboo. From this day forward,
Harry Potter is to be referred to as Undesirable Number One. Anyone foolish
enough to say his full name shall be taken into custody. Punishments will be
severe. See to it that Thicknesse puts this into effect. Immediately."

There was a tense moment where Voldemort stared at him with narrowed,
piercing eyes that seemed to flash in agitation. Yaxley looked both confused
and frightened.
"…Immediately," he hissed softly.

Yaxley, finally understanding that he was being dismissed to carry out this
task right at that very moment, jumped to his feet. "Yes, of course, my
apologies, my Lord…" he muttered before rushing out the door, nearly
passing right where Ron and Hermione now stood.

"How poetic," Voldemort said once Yaxley had gone. "To think, it has been
my name which all wizards and witches have grown to fear; my name which
no one dares to speak…and yet the same shall also be true of the supposed
'Chosen One'…" His fiery gaze swept down the table, settling on another
blonde at the far end.

"How goes the hunt for the infamous Undesirable, Lucius?" he asked lightly.

Ron and Hermione turned to observe the older Malfoy, but Harry kept his
attention on the Dark Lord.

You were right, he thought to himself as he stared into those red, red, eyes
which could not see him.

You were right. Love makes you weak. It makes you stupid.

"…Simply vanished…" Voldemort eventually hissed, after a moment. And

then—

"There is nothing!" Lucius spluttered, his voice cracking. "No traces

anywhere! Not even Dumbledore had—"

Several people made angry hissing noises at the name, and Bellatrix actually
snarled. The older Malfoy fell silent at once.

And soon, all of the Death Eaters gathered around the table were toasting
Snape, even Bellatrix, though it was rather begrudgingly… Harry finally tore
his gaze away from the Dark Lord to make his way back around the table
towards his friends.
"You…might want to step back." He muttered, guiding them away from the
currently stationery serpent near the fire.

They silently complied. It was obvious that they were both burning with
unasked questions, but were too caught up in the memory, too focused on
what was happening to risk missing something—

"…Perhaps I should have Severus take over the task of finding the
Undesirable, as he seems to be one of the only capable beings amongst
you…"

Hysteria ensued.

Hermione and Ron both screamed as Nagini lunged with a nearly impossible
speed, and even he, Harry, jumped at the sudden severity of it—

The entire ordeal was much more violent than it had felt, even then.

Bones cracked with a sickening snap. Severus Snape was falling to the
ground and Nagini was killing him—blood was pooling on the wooden floor
as every single person in the room got to their feet, their wands raised—

"Nagini!"

The sound of Voldemort's startled parseltongue caused the hairs on Harry's

entire body to stand on end. And when he answered back with that serpentine
tongue…

"…Wrong…"

And then Draco.

This is what he'd wanted to see, this is what he'd wanted to know…

Malfoy had made a run for it, was at the door, and Harry hadn't been able to
recall, exactly, as it had all passed in such a frenzied blur of blood and rage
and red, then, but now, now he could see, quite clearly…
Draco raised his wand. Nagini's deadly fangs sunk into his thigh, and the
wand dropped uselessly at his side as the massive serpent dragged him to the
floor…

Yes…

Then Voldemort cast a very complicated-looking spell, and his pet was
gathered up into a sparking, glittering orb… And Harry knew then, as the
Dark Lord approached the floating sphere with a piercing glare, that he was
casting Harry out, banishing him… Nagini hissed and writhed in agony, in
pure pain as the two furious wizards mentally battled for control of her
body…

But Voldemort won, and then…

The memory vanished. Harry, Ron and Hermione reappeared in the drawing
room at Grimmauld Place.

The others were both shaking with aftershock, their faces ghostly white. But
Harry… Harry was laughing before his feet had even hit the ground. When
had he started laughing?

"Don't you get it?" he said, when Ron and Hermione did nothing but stare at
him as he continued to laugh. "That—that was me!"

They exchanged wary glances, not understanding. Harry grinned, perhaps a

bit…manically.

"That was me! I was in the snake, I was possessing Nagini's body—I attacked
and damn near killed Snape, I took Draco down, made him drop his wand,
I'm—"

Harry's next words died before they could escape his mouth, replaced instead
with a sound that was similar, perhaps, to the sound a cat might make if its
tail had just been stepped on by Hagrid, or lit on fire, or perhaps both, at the
same time—
Because of course Snape would choose that moment to reappear.

Of course he would be silently waiting in the shadowy corner of the room for
them to return from whatever memory they were in. And he looked… Well,
he looked like he'd been struck by lightning earlier that day. Which he had.

Because of Harry.

His sallow face was terribly bruised, the colors painted on his pale features
like an artistic study in various shades of violet and blue. His hair was rather
singed on one side, frazzled and sticking out disorderly, and his robes, too,
were burnt and worn. He must have just woken up, to have not so much as
changed his clothes…

But his expression…

He was smiling.

Smiling, deceptively benign. Like he was so amused, so pleasantly

entertained.

Harry's heart was trapped somewhere in his esophagus, and he found he

couldn't quite breathe, let alone speak.

"No, please, go on," Snape said in a silky voice that contrasted greatly with
his appearance.

"I am simply dying to hear how this story ends."

 19. Portrayed
There was no getting out of this one.

Harry froze under the gaze of Severus Snape, whose smile, in combination
with his battered body, made for a devastatingly grim figure in the shadows.

The Potions Master stepped further into the room. Harry quickly noted that it
was with none of his typical, fluid poise. His gait was stilted as he favored
one leg over the over, and his tattered robes were in no state for graceful,
intimidating billowing.

But his black eyes were blazing.

"You're the what?" the older wizard prompted as he advanced, his tone still
deceptively light.

Harry glanced at Hermione and Ron, both of whom were still quite shaken
from the chaos they'd just seen in the memory. Snape peered down at the
Pensive with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

And as Harry looked about at the three of them—his friends, afraid and
baffled, and Snape, so brutally injured and bruised and currently wandless—
he swallowed back the anxiety he had, because really… What did it bloody
matter anymore?

He cleared his throat.

"I believe…" he started in what was a surprisingly level voice. "That I am,
perhaps, Master of—"

"He's the true Master of The Elder Wand."

They all turned towards Hermione in varying degrees of bewilderment. She

stepped away from Ron, addressing Snape directly as she spoke over Harry,
loudly and quickly.
"Evans just showed us in the Pensive, sir. He disarmed Malfoy, we just
witnessed it in a m-memory…"

She shot Harry a warning glance that he did not really understand.

Had they not shared Ron's theory about the Deathly Hallows with Snape,
then?

…Why not?

Part of him wanted to just blurt out everything that was on his mind right then
and there, because he was so sick of keeping track of who knew what and
why, the overarching, giant, vague question of why… But for the moment, he
held his tongue.

He knew that Snape knew that he was a Horcrux.

He knew that Hermione and Ron did not.

Certainly, he was going to approach his ex-professor about the former, to tell
him about his horrid experience in the body of Sibyl Trelawney and find out,
fully, what he intended to do about it, because as far as Harry knew, there
was only the one option… But that was a conversation that he would prefer
to have with the older man in private.

He wanted it to just be him, Severus Snape, and the truth.

Snape tilted his head as his gaze flickered back to Harry. The singed hair on
one side made a soft crunching sound against his shoulder, and Harry had to
suppress the terrible desire to laugh, because, now that the shock had worn
off, well… Snape looked a right mess.

"You were the snake."

It was completely emotionless, the way he said it.

"Yes."
Harry's gaze was unwavering, his response equally flat. Snape looked at him
with calculating eyes that were surprisingly void of any anger.

"...How?"

It was a simple question, really, and a completely understandable one, yet

Harry found himself hesitating, looking fleetingly to Ron and Hermione
again. Hermione's jaw was clenched, and Harry could practically feel the
vibration of her thoughts whirling around in her head from across the room…
But Harry was not a master Legilimens, and he had no idea what she was
thinking.

"I was…asleep," he started calmly, speaking now to all three of them.

"And…when I heard my name being spoken out loud, it sort of…called to
me."

Silence. He went on.

"So… I had an out of body experience, I guess. I was there. Er, mentally.
Spiritually? In the meeting. And… Well, you know, you really have to see it
from my point of view, sir," he paused, raising his hands defensively, and for
a moment he felt like he was in school again. Like he was right back in
Hogwarts, quickly explaining to his irate Professor why he was out after
curfew, or hexing Malfoy in the hallway, or ten seconds late to class, or
simply breathing, he supposed. Snape's black and blue face remained
impassive. "I'd just heard that you'd killed Dumbledore.Dumbledore! And
everyone was toasting you, even Bellatrix, for God's sake, and I thought you
were a traitor, after all! Why wouldn't I think that? And that Malfoy had
helped, so…so…"

Harry's voice trailed off feebly, more taken aback by how little Snape was
reacting to this information than anything else. His outstretched arm, which
he'd been gesturing with passionately as he explained, dropped lamely to his
side.

"…All understandable, of course," Snape said quietly, to Harry's utter

disbelief.
"I… yeah?"

"Yes. It is perfectly understandable that you would believe that I was a Death
Eater. That is what every single being in that room believed, as well. Even
the Dark Lord. But that is not the mystery that intrigues me…" Snape took
another hobbling step towards him, and there was an intensity in his
bottomless eyes that reminded Harry jarringly of the fact that Snape, unlike
him, was a master Legilimens, and he looked down at once.

"How did you have an…out of body experience? How did you possess the
snake?"

Harry shrugged, choosing to look at Ron and Hermione when he answered.

"To the first question… I don't have a clue. Like I said, I heard my name, and
that sort of called to me…"

Something like recognition was evident in Snape's voice when he interrupted.

"Had it happened before? Being summoned by your name?"

…And Harry knew that, more likely than not, Snape had just figured out the
real reasoning for the Taboo he'd been ordered to make.

Harry scratched the back of his head, still focusing on Ron and Hermione.
"Once…or twice. But I dunno why I was able to possess the snake," he
rushed into his response to the second question before he was asked to
extrapolate, though he was certain it would come up later. "I dreamt I was in
her body once before, you know, in fifth year, when she attacked your dad,
Ron. So when I saw her, I just kind of tried it out, and…and it was easy."

He shrugged like it was no big deal. Hermione's jaw looked to be so tightly

locked Harry wondered if her teeth would survive the rest of this
conversation.

Ron, however, seemed to be shifting from shaken to contemplative.

"Wait…" he said slowly. "When… when that happened, Dumbledore said…

He said he thought you saw from the snake's point of view because you-
know-who was possessing the her, at the time. That it had to do with
whatever connection you have with the Dark Lord." He turned his attention to
Snape. "So then—that's proof then, isn't it? His pet has to be a horcrux. That's
how you were able to control her, right? Because you-know-who wasn't
possessing her then, clearly… Whatever weird mental relationship you have
with you-know-who transferred over to his snake when you weren't in your
body, because there's a piece of his soul inside her already."

…So close, but so far, Harry thought darkly.

"I don't know," he said, his eyes narrowing as he finally refocused on Snape.
"What's your professional opinion, Professor?"

Snape's injured face revealed no emotion whatsoever. He was unreadable

when he responded, quite evenly, "…I have no idea."

A long pause in which Harry and Snape stared each other down, each
keeping impenetrable, mental walls in place. Harry was delighted to discover
that the Potions Master was unable to even skim the surface of his mind. And
he could tell that he was trying, too; he could feel the vaguest sensation of a
shadowy presence batting against his thoughts, but it was wholly ineffective.
The older wizard's eye twitched in annoyance. Harry smirked.

"Well, who cares how it happened!" Ron interrupted the taut silence with a
jubilant shout. "Evans is Master of the Elder Wand, now! That means it
doesn't rightfully belong to you-know-who, after all!"

Snape broke eye contact with Harry in a flash, turning towards Ron in a
predatory stance, all indications of physical injury momentarily forgotten or
ignored.

"Do you think that matters?" he seethed through barred teeth, and both
Hermione and Ron recoiled from his furious advance. Red began to creep up
the Potion Master's blue and violet neck, and really, Harry thought, this was
the most color he'd ever seen on the pale man.

"Do you really think that matters even slightly?" Snape reiterated, his voice
rising. "Even if what you say is true, even if he somehow managed to disarm
Draco and the Elder Wand is not technically in proper allegiance with the
Dark Lord, do you think that matters at all? Even unfaithful wands will still
perform magic for their unintended masters! Or are you that daft, that you
have never understood even this basic concept? The Dark Lord—the Dark
Lord—could wave a-a rubber chicken around and still manage to kill you all
with it!"

…There was a very poignant pause after Snape shouted this declaration. He
yelled it all very passionately, a furious glint in his blackened eyes, but then
—

Hermione cracked first.

It could not have been a more serious expression on the injured man's face as
he towered over them, rage pouring off of in him droves, but it happened.
More likely than not, it was only because of what the three teenagers had just
seen in the Pensive. Hermione, Ron, and Harry had literally just watched that
very same, referenced Dark Lord brandish the Elder Wand about, confining
Nagini in a transparent globe of magic with an almost otherworldly grace…
but at Snape's last words, they all imagined the same bizarre image at the
same time: Lord Voldemort, surrounded by his faithful followers in a
darkened room where chaos ensued, wielding a…a rubber chicken around
rather than a proper wand…

Hermione failed to suppress a short, high-pitched giggle. Her hand flew to

her mouth at once, immediately realizing her dire mistake, but it was too late.
Her tiny outburst was enough to make the other two break completely.

The three of them fell into peals of loud, raucous laughter.

Snape, as expected…was murderous.

"Stop—this—there is no humor in this!" he roared, nearly stumbling as he

waved an arm about in agitation, but it only made them laugh harder. Harry
was doubled over, leaning forward against his knees for support when he
peered up to see Draco poking his head in through the doorway, no doubt
curious about the loud shouting and laughing.

"Were…you yelling about a chicken?" he asked in a wary tone, completely

perplexed.

Ron snorted so loudly he nearly choked. Snape's annoyance was reaching

epic proportions as he clenched his fists before shouting, in a furious,
snarling voice,

"I—you—where is my wand?"

Malfoy immediately turned tail and ran. It was the unwise, cowardly action
of a guilty man, and Snape deduced where it was at once.

"Draco Malfoy!" he shouteded, limping towards the door. "Get back here
with my wand at once!"

"You mean your rubber chicken?" Harry couldn't help but say. Hermione
batted him on the shoulder chidingly, but she was still laughing, nonetheless.

"What? He could probably still manage to kill us—"

"Hold your tongue, boy!" Snape growled. Harry threw his hands up in
surrender, but he was grinning coyly. "Draco, if you aren't back here with my
wand in the next five seconds, you will lament this moment for the rest of
your sorry, pathetic life!"

Malfoy trudged back to the drawing room as slowly as he dared. Snape had
his arm out with his palm up expectantly.

"Now," he hissed.

Draco took a long look at Snape's damaged appearance before shooting Harry
an inquisitive glance, almost as if to say,

'We could take him down and keep the wand.'

To which Harry cocked his head to the side, a predatory glint in his eye, as if
to respond, quite nonverbally,

'...We totally could.'

A silent interaction that was not at all missed by Severus Snape.

"There are two ways this could go, Draco," he seethed, the redness rising on
his bruised face again—but his voice remained steady and calm. "You could
either give me my wand right now, and you will suffer no further
repercussions other than the fact that I will abhor you even more than I
already do. Or, you can stupidly, idiotically, recklessly (he shot Harry a quick
glare, here) attempt to keep a hold of it, and when I get it back—and I will
get it back—I will make these injuries," he gestured up to his bruised face
and then down towards the entire left side of his body, "look like a scraped
knee in comparison to what I will do to you."

Draco narrowed his eyes at him, unwilling to relinquish his weapon… But
after a few seconds of tense contemplation, he, rather reluctantly, handed it
over.

Snape smirked as his fingers curled around one end of his wand.

"A wise decision," he sneered condescendingly as he pulled it away from

him. He then turned to glower at the room at large.

"All of you, stay here. I am going to quickly, properly heal myself, and then
we are going discuss what has transpired while I was…indisposed." Dark
eyes locked onto Harry with barely-contained fury.

Harry…still didn't feel that guilty.

Then the Potions Master hobbled from the room with as much dignity as he
could muster. Harry caught Ron's eye to see a smile on his friend's face
which mirrored his own.

Once he was gone, Hermione went to close the door softly behind him. She
murmured a quick silencing incantation around the perimeter of the room
before turning to address them.

But Harry spoke first, immediately intrigued. It was very strange behavior
indeed, for Hermione Granger to want to withhold information from a
supposed, trusted authority figure.

"You haven't told Snape about the Hallows?" he asked at once. Hermione and
Ron both shook their heads.

"No," she answered, her voice quiet despite the fact that she had just put a
silencing ward in place. "We haven't…"

"Why not?" Draco asked. His pointed features were still bitter at the loss of a
wand.

Hermione sighed deeply. She looked very forlorn, almost depressed, as she
spoke. "I just… Well, first of all, we're not sure they even all exist, (she
quickly waved Ron off, for he gave every sign of wanting to interrupt and
argue the point) but that isn't the reason we haven't told him. Or…why I don't
think we should, at any rate."

She hesitated before continuing, suddenly unable to look at anything other

than the floor.

"Whether it's a myth or not, I… I just don't think some people should even
know about the possibility of such a thing as the Resurrection Stone. I've
done tons of research on it, and while there is no proof that it's real or not,
well… People have lost themselves completely, looking for it." She fidgeted
nervously. "People…who have lost someone, who would do anything to get
that someone back… But you heard what Ron said before, nothing can bring
the dead back to life, not really… And I just… I think it is possibly the most
dangerous object in all of existence, to someone who has lost a person they
care about that deeply, someone they truly loved, and I just don't think some
people should ever know that such a thing could even possibly be real."

There was a heavy silence following her words. She still couldn't look at
anyone, and Harry got the clear impression that Hermione thought that he,
Harry, fit into that category, too.

And she was right, of course. The very idea that he could possibly see Sirius
again… Or meet his parents, really speak to them…

And now, if he could bring back—if he could set right—

He swallowed thickly, cutting off that thought before it could fully develop.

"Snape…lost someone?" Harry had a difficult time imagining the bitter man
harboring any kind of genuine affection towards anyone, let alone romantic
affection…

Hermione's voice was so small Harry barely heard her response. "Just a…a
hunch I have."

She finally braved looking up. The pity was visible in her eyes, that somber
expression that Harry hated, but he couldn't find it in himself to be angry at
the moment. "Can we agree not to tell him, then? About the Stone, or the
Hallows in general? I just really, really don't think it would be a good idea."

The three boys exchanged quick glances, all coming to a unanimous

conclusion quickly and effortlessly. None of them had any qualms about
keeping this from Snape. They nodded.

"Thank you." Hermione looked immensely relieved. She flicked her wand
deftly towards the wall, removing the silencing ward and all evidence that
they'd been having a secret discussion.

They fell into a bout of silence then, each lost in their own thoughts.

Personally, Harry didn't see any harm in not telling Snape about the
Resurrection Stone or the Deathly Hallows. He was pretty certain that the
cynical wizard wouldn't have believed in the idea of a 'Master of Death',
anyway, just like Hermione clearly didn't buy into it. Harry wondered
vaguely, then, what Master of Death even meant…
Was it someone who could kill any living thing at will? Did it simply mean
immortality for the one who possessed all three hallows, being unable to be
die? Or was Death, like in the story, an actual entity who would appear, ready
to do the bidding of the wielder, its 'Master'…?

They were rather far-fetched ideas, and even Harry had a hard time believing
that any of them could be true.

But they all believed in the Elder Wand…

Yet Snape did, undeniably, bring up a very good point. What did it matter, if
Harry was the true master of it? The Dark Lord clearly wasn't having any
problem using the thing, which he had, apparently, dug up from
Dumbledore's grave, thinking that was enough to make him the proper
master. And so what if he was wrong? What was he, Harry, going to do about
it? Waltz up to Lord Voldemort and say 'Oh, hello. That wand there, do you
mind if I have it? I need it in order to become the Master of Death so that I
can save the wizarding world. You know, from you. Also, hi, I'm alive.'

…Clearly, a flawless plan. There was nothing that could possibly go wrong.
He should grab the portkey and leave at once.

"What are you grinning at?"

Malfoy was eyeing him suspiciously. Apparently, Harry's amusement at his

own train of thought was written all over his face.

"Oh, nothing," he said, shaking his head and chuckling.

Draco was just about to say something else when the door opened and Snape
reemerged. His face, while not completely cured of injury, did look much
better, as it was now only mildly discolored. His hair and robes were back to
their normal, unscathed appearance, and his limp was much less prominent.
Yet there was still a tightness to Snape's shoulders that made his posture and
overall body language less fluid than usual. Or perhaps it was simply his
own, sour demeanor which caused him to slouch slightly.
His expression was flat and business-like. Harry was amazed that he wasn't
furious with him about the whole 'I was Nagini and I almost killed you' thing,
even if it was completely understandable on his part.

It just wasn't like Snape to be reasonable when it came to the stupid things
that Harry did…ever.

"So," the slightly more invigorated man said as he entered. His black eyes
flickered about the three of them before settling on Hermione. "What lovely
conversations did we have whilst I was unconscious?"

It was like he already knew…and maybe he did. Maybe he could see the
answer in Hermione's eyes at once, with or without Legilimency.

But she answered, anyway. There was no denying that all the cards were out
on the table, at this point.

…Nearly.

"We told them everything," she answered honestly, gesturing towards Harry
and Draco. "They know about the horcruxes. They know that there are only
two left. They know one is in Hogwarts, and the other is the snake…" To her
credit, she did not sound afraid or nervous at all in admitting this to Snape. In
fact, she spoke with a slight air of defiance. "I checked to make sure that he
could effectively practice Occlumency beforehand, of course. And he's very
good, Professor. I couldn't see or feel a single thought. I can't think of any
reason to keep anyone in the dark at this point."

Harry tried not to smirk. It was pretty rich of Hermione to be saying all this
with such a straight face, seeing as she had just sworn them all to secrecy
concerning the Resurrection Stone and the Hallows. She was impressively
deceptive.

Maybe Hermione should have been in Slytherin house, Harry mused wryly…

Snape exhaled slowly and audibly, closing his eyes as a hand flew to his
forehead in exasperation. It was a defeated sort of groan, like that testimony
was what he had been expecting to hear…but he was not at all pleased about
it, regardless.

"I assumed as much," he muttered before reopening his eyes. They now
landed on Harry. "However… While you may be proficient enough at
Occlumency, I do not believe that makes you completely immune to the Dark
Lords' connection with you, should he become aware that you are, in fact,
alive." He paused, his attention returning to Hermione as he tapped a finger
under his chin thoughtfully.

"The sooner we act, the better," he murmured. "It is the tenth of August…
The school year will be starting up again on the first; we would be best to
strike before the semester begins, while the castle is relatively empty…"

"That won't work, Severus!"

They all turned at the sound of a voice from down the hall. Harry, Ron, and
Draco all looked at each other quizzically.

"Was that…?"

"Phineas," Hermione affirmed, and all at once, they left the drawing room,
making their way swiftly towards the animate portrait with Snape leading the
way.

Phineas Black looked both haughty and smug as the group gathered around
him. His gaze settled on Harry as he slowly stroked his short, pointed beard,
his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

"Well, well, well…" he drawled. "If it isn't our infamous Undesirable, the—"

"Enough, Phineas," Snape said, instantly irritated. "I've already told you he
was here, this is no time for contrite mind games."

Phineas huffed indignantly.

"He did know I was here?" Harry asked in mild surprise. "Malfoy, too?"
"Of course I know who is dwelling in my family's home, ignorant child," the
portrait sneered down at him.

Snape, too, eyed him distastefully. Harry couldn't help but have the strange
notion that, had Severus Snape and Phineas Black been alive and in school
together at the same time, they probably would have been great friends, for
they both wore similar expressions of pure dislike as they stared at him.

"Phineas has agreed to be our eyes and ears in Hogwarts once the school year
begins, as well as to inform me if anything comes up…" Snape peered up at
Phineas questionably. "I assume something has…come up?"

The older man in the painting laughed coldly. "That would be a vast
understatement, I'm afraid." He looked down at the group of teenagers in the
hall disdainfully over his raised nose. "I don't know if this is a discussion that
—"

"They can stay," Snape interrupted to general astonishment. Had Snape's

mind been permanently damaged when he'd been injured by lightning? Harry
was simply amazed by how…understandinghe was being.

Phineas frowned, looking like he wanted to argue, but Snape didn't give him
the chance. "What has happened, Phineas?"

"Well," he started huffily, singularly addressing Snape. "Just so you know, I

did try and come here right away after my first encounter to inform you as
soon as I found out, but—will someone please first explain to me why I
witnessed Bellatrix Lestrange running about in my home with young Mr.
Malfoy here, hand in hand with the notorious Boy Who Lived? And after that,
some other giant oaf that resembled something more like an ogre than a
man…"

Ron chuckled loudly. "Polyjuice Potion," he answered. "We needed to

impersonate a couple of Death Eaters to break into the Lestrange Family
Vault."

Phineas looked like he'd just been slapped in the face at those words. "You-
you what?" he spluttered, completely shocked. "The Lestrange Family
Vault!?"

"Yes," Snape said curtly. "There was an item within the vault which we
needed. It hardly matters anymore. It is done. Now tell us what has happened
at Hogwarts, Phineas."

The painted man gaped wordlessly for a moment, looking like he very much
wanted to continue talking about what had been stolen from a noble,
pureblood family's vault at Gringotts… But perhaps he simply knew it was
futile. Snape's crisp tone left no room for hope that they would continue that
line of conversation.

The older man scowled, but conceded.

"Very well," he finally began in a deep growl, glaring at the three teenage
boys like this was all, somehow, their fault. "I overheard you saying that you
believe Hogwarts to be relatively empty until the first. Well, that is wrong,
very wrong indeed. They've changed the start of term date. It's been moved
up to the twelfth of this month. In just two days."

"What?" Ron, Malfoy, Harry, and Snape all shouted the word at the same
time.

Phineas nodded, a bit of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He clearly
loved getting such a reaction from them, despite the sinister news he was
reporting.

"But the Hogwarts Express always departs on the 1st of September,"

Hermione stated matter-of-factly. And then, as if to prove the point, "it's
tradition."

"Just one of many traditions that are being demolished." the painting replied
ominously. "They've employed both of the Carrows at the school this year.
Alecto is going to be teaching Muggle Studies, and Amycus is going to be
teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts…"
Snape hardly even nodded, like he had already known all of this. "And the
Headmaster…?"

Phineas's eyes narrowed spitefully. "A man named Alexander Greengrass. A

young politician, not a teacher. A pompous, arrogant man who hardly looks
over thirty years of age, it shouldn't even be allowed—"

"Alexander Greengrass…" Snape repeated, interrupting. Then, after a brief

pause, he nodded as if that suddenly made perfect sense to him—though he
didn't bother to explain it to the rest of them. "I see. Continue."

"Yesterday, when I first came to inform you, and then earlier today..." For a
moment Phineas hesitated, looking a bit wary before proceeding.

"Have you…have any of you seen him? The Dark Lord?"

They all looked at him blankly. "I mean recently," he reiterated. He frowned
at the lack of response. "Ah. I can tell by the dumb looks on your faces that
you haven't. He has… The Dark Lord is very… He has changed immensely."

Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Remus did mention something about
that…" she said. "But he said he thought maybe his eyes were playing tricks
on him, that it was difficult to tell, with the enchanted flames and the dim
lighting in the church… He didn't mention anything about the school year
starting earlier, though… But I suppose it was right after the attack, when we
spoke, he probably wasn't thinking about it, in comparison to—"

Harry looked up at her, trying to keep track of her verbal musings. "Wait,
wait," he interrupted. "You said…a church?"

Hermione swallowed, looking torn.

"Uh… yeah," Ron responded instead. "That 'major establishment' he burnt

down? It was—"

"It doesn't matter," Snape cut Ron off completely, his attention fixed only on
the portrait. "Phineas. How has he changed, and what's happening at the
school?"

Harry made a mental note to revisit that particular topic later. His stomach
was twisting into knots at the thought of a burning church, of all things, and
he had a dark, foreboding feeling…

"Yes, well, he came to Hogwarts, earlier today. He, Greengrass, and the
Carrows were in the Headmaster's office, discussing the upcoming events for
this year—which is the only reason I know anything at all, mind you—but
when he came in… I didn't know it was him at all, I thought for sure, it was
some kind of part creature, or something…"

Harry almost jumped at the sound of Malfoy's sudden, indignant scoff. "A
creature?" he sneered. "The Dark Lord, a part creature? Are you mad…?"

Phineas glowered at his insolence. "Oh, my apologies, young Mr. Malfoy. I

did not realize that you were present in the Headmaster's office at the time of
his arrival. If you are so informed, then please, by all means, why don't you
explain to us all what has become of him?"

Draco glared at the painted man's condescending tone. "What's this?" he went
on, feigning surprise. "You don't know anything at all, whatsoever? I am
shocked."

"Phineas…" Snape warned impatiently.

The Black portrait shot Draco another sour look before turning back to
Snape. "If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought he was part…part
Veela, perhaps, or maybe some strange branch of vampire… Only neither of
those could be right, because the pale complexion was…different…and his
eyes…"

He shuddered slightly. "He doesn't look quite…human."

"He didn't really look quite human before, either," Ron added darkly.

"True," Phineas conceded. "But he looks inhuman in a very different way,

now. I wouldn't have had any idea it was him if it weren't for Dumbledore's
portrait." Harry felt a sudden, almost dizzying wave of lightness at those
words—he had forgotten completely that Dumbledore, too, would have an
animate, mentally active portrait in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts,
now!

He could ask, he could find out…

I open at the close…

"I should clarify, first," Phineas continued. "There were two separate
meetings I overheard. The first, yesterday, was between only the Carrows and
Greengrass, when the obnoxious new Headmaster came into his quarters to
'get settled'… That was when I found out that the start date had been moved
up. And that on the night of twelfth, they are planning a…a ceremony." His
dark eyes shone mysteriously as he let his audience contemplate that thought.

"Quit pausing for dramatic effect, Phineas," Snape snapped after a moment of
silence. "What ceremony?"

"A burning ceremony," Phineas responded, unperturbed by Snape's blunt

tone. "They're going to do away with the sorting this year. The entire school
with be Slytherin, essentially. No more House Cup, no more division…
They're striving for a sense of magical unity—"

"For everyone except muggle-borns, of course," Hermione suddenly spat,

causing them all to start.

"But of course," Phineas drawled. "Though if they register, they are,

supposedly, allowed to attend, if they are found innocent…" He shrugged like
he didn't really have an opinion on this particular new practice one way or
another.

"Innocent of what?" she snarled, and it was one of the few times that Harry
had ever seen her on the verge of losing her temper completely. "Innocent of
the crime of being born, of—"
Snape put up a hand to silence her. Funny, Harry thought, that Hermione did
not suffer the same reprimanding insults that he, Ron, or Draco would have
surely had to bear if their ex-professor had been annoyed by them…

Regardless, she stopped talking, though her incensed expression did not shift.
Phineas went on as though there had been no interruption.

"They're going to hold a ceremony on the night of the twelfth, the night
before classes begin. They're going to burn the Sorting Hat."

All of them shared mortified expressions, save for Snape, who merely
frowned, seeming largely unaffected by this statement. The portrait
continued. "So if you needed to break in to Hogwarts, I am afraid your
golden opportunity has already passed. The Carrows and new Headmaster, as
well as a number of the Dark Lord's followers, are currently residing here,
strutting about in preparation for this ceremony. It's going to be very grand,
from what I can gather. The Dark Lord himself is going to be present, and
after that, classes will have begun." He paused for a moment, stroking his
beard. "Where is it you need to break into, precisely? And why?"

"The seventh floor. A hidden room, there is another item we need to

retrieve," Snape replied. Harry could tell by his pensive expression that the
Potions Master's mind was racing, problem solving, thinking, thinking,
thinking… It was a look he'd seen on Hermione many times before, and when
he glanced at her now it was to see it on her face as well… thinking, thinking,
thinking…

"…Why would you think he was part Veela? What, is he pretty now, or
something?"

Draco interrupted their quiet contemplation. Phineas fixed his dark eyes on
him, ever hateful of young people and their insistent questions.

"I've already said it was only an initial response, obviously he is not part
Veela, as they are born, not made… And pretty is nothing close to the
adjective I would use to describe him."
He purposefully paused again, and Harry couldn't help but be immensely
curious about how—and why—the Dark Lord had altered his appearance. He
would never have thought Voldemort concerned with such things.

"…Well?" Draco prompted impatiently, crossing his arms. "What word

would you use, then?"

Phineas's eyes glinted, enjoying the process of irritating the young blonde. "I
would say…Godly."

Hermione, Ron, and Harry all shared deeply worrisome looks. The very last
word anyone wanted to hear being associated with Lord Voldemort was
Godly.

"What did Dumbledore's portrait say to him?" Harry asked, his mind burning
with inquisitiveness.

The older Black frowned, looking suddenly disconcerted. "It was the
strangest thing. The Dark Lord came in earlier today, like I'd said…and while
he was in the midst of a discussion with Greengrass and the Carrows,
Dumbledore's portrait—which was the only one not feigning sleep, by the
way—well… He started…humming."

Another painful pause. Snape said nothing, his sallow face completely blank
as he waited, still clearly thinking, thinking, thinking... "Dumbledore started
humming this song, and it was that same, awful song that was I heard playing
here, yesterday!" He looked completely perplexed. "I swear it was, I
recognized it, but I have no clue how he could have heard it! And even more
bizarre, is that the Dark Lord seemed to recognize it, too! Because he was
instantly furious at the sound of it, dismissing the Carrows and Greengrass at
once—from his own office—and…and once they were gone, Dumbledore,
foolish old man, he… He started saying the strangest things…"

He shook his head slowly, almost as if in mourning. "It was some kind of
poem, something about a chamber, and being haunted, and…" He looked up,
and his usual, haughty posture slumped dejectedly. "And then the Dark Lord,
without a word, he…he lit him on fire."
…They all gaped. Snape was snapped out of his contemplative mode at once.
"What?" he gasped loudly.

Phineas nodded solemnly. "It was…rather frightening. All of the portraits

screamed, because of course we were all actually awake, and poor Dippet…
He went up in flames, too, by mere proximity, as his frame was next to
Albus's… Dippet was never a very intelligent man, never really saw eye to
eye with him, but he didn't deserve that end…"

Harry felt a wave a terrible loss. The possibility of speaking to Dumbledore

was a hope that had just been born moments ago, and it was crushed
already…

Snape seemed to be thinking along the same lines. His pale face was ashen
with something that resembled grief.

"The most fearsome part of the whole ordeal was that he did it without a
wand. It was like he hadn't even meant to do it. He was just glaring with
those impossible eyes of his, and then whoosh,a wall of flames… and
Dumbledore… He laughed when it happened, when he was set on bloody
fire, like he'd been expecting it, almost… But then again, Albus was always a
bit mad…"

Harry ran a hand through his hair and found that it was trembling slightly.
There was an overwhelming amount of anxiety in his gut at everything that
had been said so far—Voldemort, altered and setting churches and portraits
on fire, Dumbledore's image, somehow having heard the song that they'd
been playing in Grimmauld place, and…and the Dark Lord burning him
because of it… Hogwarts, starting early and the Sorting Hat, too, would soon
be going up in flames…

What was the world coming to?

"Phineas…" Snape said, his voice low. "Do you know all of the details of this
upcoming burning ceremony? The specific times of what will be happening
and when? How long the event will last, and where, exactly, it will be taking
place…?"
The older man nodded. "Yes, that was what they were discussing yesterday.
It will be in the Great Hall, beginning after dinner, which will start, as usual,
at seven. The actual burning is scheduled to happen at midnight, the
transitional hour between the twelfth and the thirteenth of August. It will be a
long, drawn out affair, from what has been said thus far, though the aim is to
have students in bed by one…"

Snape was tracing his jaw with a single finger as his thoughts raced.

"Then that is when we must strike," he finally announced. Harry, Ron, and
Draco stared at him disbelievingly.

"Are you insane?" Phineas shouted, sharing their sentiments. "Have you not
heard a single word I've said, Severus? The Dark Lord will be present, there
will be Death Eaters here!"

"Yes. And that is why we must strike then," Snape responded coldly. He shot
Harry a spiteful glance. "We cannot risk waiting until winter holiday to break
into the castle; that is far too much time. You know too much, even with
Occlumency, the risk is too great. We must do everything we can to destroy
these last two artifacts as soon as physically possible." His dark eyes
flickered back to Phineas, who still looked aghast. "Any event the Dark Lord
plans will be a spectacle. He would never, ever expect an intrusion into the
castle when it is under his control, especially not during such a dramatic
ceremony… All attention will be turned away from the seventh floor, as, I am
sure I am correct in assuming, attendance will be strictly mandatory for all
students and staff?" Phineas nodded mutely. "…Then there will be no better
opportunity to sneak in undetected. This may be the one time that everyone
will be looking the other way. Once classes start, there will be nightly patrols,
students, teachers, heightened security and guards, I am sure… Perhaps even
dementors… The Dark Lord will expect a substantial amount of backlash
from a large portion of the student body and some of the professors, I am
certain, and he will plan accordingly…"

Harry looked to Ron and Draco, both of whom shared his expression of pure
horror at the thought of attempting to break into Hogwarts while Lord
Voldemort was present… But Hermione, to his great surprise, was nodding in
agreement.

"You're right," she said softly, though she did look very fearful. "But…how
on earth will we get in to the school in the first place? Surely he will know
about the entrance through the Shrieking Shack…" she looked at Harry
morosely, and when she asked the question, it was with the air of someone
who already knew the answer.

"You don't still have the Marauder's Map, do you?"

Harry's blood ran cold. He shook his head numbly in response, unable to
speak as he recalled that day… Before his long slumber, stuffing the map into
his knapsack, along with his cloak…taking off for the knight bus…the bag
falling to the floor as he caught sight of those crimson eyes in the reflection
of the window…

Forever lost to him, now…

Hermione nodded understandably. "Well, he surely knows all of the secret

entrances, and—"

"You're seriously considering this?" Malfoy gasped, interrupting her. "You're

seriously going to try and break into Hogwarts then?"

"There is another entrance…" Snape spoke to Hermione as though Draco had

said nothing. "Another way in, and it will drop you into the castle exactly
where you need to be, incidentally… There is one other individual who
knows of my existence outside of this house. One. And he will aid us."

"Who?" Malfoy asked at once. Harry, too, felt a flicker of intense curiosity.
Snape glowered at them.

"Even if I wanted to tell you, I cannot. I made an Unbreakable Vow with the
man months ago to never reveal his identity, location, or allegiance. To
anyone." He sounded quite spiteful. "Swearing my life is the only way to gain
anyone's good faith as a double agent, it would seem, and I've made more
Unbreakable Vows than any person ever should…though you all will simply
have to trust me at my word. Phineas."

He looked up to the portrait one last time. "Is there anything else that I should
be aware of at this moment? Any other critical or pertinent information that I
should know before we being planning?"

The portrait still looked completely stunned when he responded. "I…no,

nothing else that I can think of, for now…"

"Very well. Then return to your post at Hogwarts so that, should something
else come up, you can keep us informed."

Phineas seemed far too shocked to move. "…You're absolutely mad to be

thinking of doing this, Severus," he muttered, shaking his head.

Snape chose not to respond to that. "Go," he ordered instead. Surprisingly,

Phineas did not argue the point. He just continued to shake his head
disbelievingly, murmuring the words, 'mad, absolutely mad', over and over
again as he retreated…and just seconds later, the frame was empty once
more.

There was a moment of silence before Snape pointed at Ron and Hermione.
"You two," he said as he turned on his heel, heading down the hall.

"Come."

They all began to follow. Snape whipped around at once. "Not you. Or you."
he said dryly, gesturing to Harry and then Draco.

"Why not?" Malfoy moaned. "Why can't we—"

"Because this scheme does not involve you, it involves them." He motioned
towards Hermione and Ron. "They alone will be breaking into Hogwarts.
You two will be staying here, with me, just like last time. We are playing
dead, or did you forget? I already have a ploy in mind, but it needn't be
explained in detail to either of you."
"But—"

Harry only uttered the one word, and then it finally happened. The rage that
he'd been expecting all along erupted.

"But nothing!" Snape roared, whipping out his wand in a freakishly fast
motion. "I do not give a damn if you can practice Occlumency or not! The
mere sight of you gives me a migraine that is a detrimental to my intricate
plotting skills! I can hardly tolerate this one!" Sparks flew in Ron's direction,
who stepped quickly to one side to avoid them. "Time is not on our side, and
I will not let these next precious few hours be wasted, I will not allow myself
to be distracted by thoughts of the very recent experience of the lovely
injuries I just endured to lessen my focus! Surely even someone as thick as
you can appreciate that your mere presence conjures up vivid memories of the
most horrible, physical pain I have ever experienced in my life!" His chest
was heaving after his outburst, the fury flickering about him in a nearly
tangible way.

Harry did feel a twinge of guilt, then. He had a feeling that Snape was
referring not to the lightning, at the end, but to bite of Nagini's terrible, long
fangs, the sensation of so much deadly poison coursing through his body…
the snapping of his bones and the loss of so much blood… And, as if on cue,
Snape's right arm curled around his left shoulder, his wand shaking in his
pale hand. But his eyes were brimming with nothing but pure, undiluted
anger.

Harry said nothing. He just took a step away, not wanting to add any more
fuel to the fire of the Potions Master's rage.

"…And you," Snape continued as he looked at Draco, his voice now silky
and low. "You were assigned the job of keeping an eye on him, or did you
forget that, too? A task which you have been performing at abysmally."
Draco opened his mouth to argue, his face flushing, but Snape would not hear
it. "Silence!" he snarled, pointing his wand threateningly. Draco's mouth
clicked shut as he stared down at the wand, both longingly and warily.

"Out of my sight. Both of you. We have work to do." For a fleeting moment,
Harry locked gazes with Ron and Hermione. Ron looked slightly green and
miserable at the prospect of spending another all-nighter plotting with Snape,
as they had done just days ago, and Hermione… She looked pitying, yet
resolute. Neither of them attempted to argue the point with Snape.

They all knew it was useless, and would only waste time.

"Go!" Snape barked again, more sparks flying violently from his wand. Harry
was surprised they hadn't been hexed yet. Begrudgingly, angrily, Draco and
Harry turned and left, their feet taking them where they usually went when
they'd been banned—to the library.

"Should have kept his wand," Draco muttered as he slammed the door to the
study shut, his face red with rage.

"Should have kept his fucking wand."

They sat in silence for a long, long time.

It was late, nearing midnight, but neither of them were tired. Harry, whose
thoughts had been racing wildly before, found himself sinking back into
numbness. Into a state of dulled, repressed emotion.

He kept staring at the piano.

The keys—black and white and perfect—they held nothing for him, now. He
felt hollow as he examined it.

He knew he would never play again.

For as much emotion as the past few hours' revelations should have stirred in
him, Harry found himself feeling detached. The Dark Lord and horcruxes and
hallows and churches burning and portraits making strange declarations and
Hogwarts starting early and the Sorting ending—

…Who cared?

None of it seemed to matter as he stared vacantly at the piano.

Draco, who had begun writing again, looked up. He must have caught Harry's
empty gaze, because he closed the book and set it aside. Harry glanced at the
diary as he put it on the edge of the table, hating that the sight of it made him
feel sick inside.

"…You know what would make you feel better?" Draco started cautiously as
he stood. Harry, who was sitting in an armchair across from him, barely
looked up.

"No." His voice sounded exactly like it had earlier, when they'd been in their
room. Empty.

Malfoy gave a tiny, impish grin.

"Firewhisky."

The unexpected answer did manage to make Harry snort. He gave Draco his
full attention. "Firewhiskey," he repeated dryly. Malfoy nodded.

"I'm serious!" he implored. "I'm not just saying that so you'll share your
booze. Firewhisky is good stuff. It warms you up. You've never had it before,
have you?"

Harry shook his head, and Malfoy's grin widened. "Well… If not now,
when?"

There was a pause in which Harry considered him, and he was just about to
say no, drinking was probably a very stupid, reckless thing to do, when—

"Unless you've made it up," Draco's smile vanished. "Unless there never was
any firewhiskey, and you just made it up to get to me."

"I didn't make it up!"

"Well where is it then?" Malfoy threw his arms up in sudden exasperation.

"I've looked everywhere, you know, when you've been enjoying you hour-
long showers." He glowered.
"I think you did make it up."

Harry laughed as he got to his feet. "Oh, ye of such little faith," he said as he
approached the piano. He lifted the lid of giant instrument, and pulled out the
tall, unopened bottle of firewhiskey.

Draco looked both amazed and distraught. "But I looked there!" he shouted
indignantly, as he, nonetheless, rushed forward in excitement. "That was one
of the first places I checked…"

"Well, I did have it in my trunk, before."

"I looked there, too!"

"Ah," Harry said as Malfoy eagerly reached for the bottle. He allowed him to
take it and examine it. "Well then, you've just been looking in all the right
places at all the wrong times."

Draco was far too preoccupied by the precious object in his hands to interpret
that statement. His gray eyes were glittering as he read the label. "This is
'Enfer'…" he said in awe as he glanced up at Harry. It was, without a doubt,
the happiest that Harry had ever seen his Slytherin counterpart.

"What, is that good?"

"Is it good…" Draco drawled mockingly. "This stuff is-it's-my father drinks
this stuff." He said it as if that explained everything. "How in the world did
Weasley manage to get his paws on this? This stuff is expensive…"

"Is it?" Harry murmured, reaching for the bottle and inspecting the label
himself. It was black, with a little ring of fire encircling the elaborate script
which spelled out 'Enfer'.

"Yeah. It's brewed in southern France, imported. They age it in wooden casks
that are soaked in a specific breed of dragon's blood…" He peered up at
Harry meaningfully.
"This is good stuff."

"I guess that makes sense," Harry mused. "Ron said he swiped it from the
alcohol they had stored for Bill and Fleur's wedding, and her family is
French, so…" He shrugged. "Is it really that good?"

"Yeah." Draco was hungrily eyeing the amber liquid. "The trace amounts of
dragon's blood make it really…potent."

His eyes flashed mischievously. "We probably shouldn't drink too much of
this."

…Which was said in such a way that made it clear that Draco wanted to do
the exact opposite, and drink the whole damn bottle.

"Whoever said we were going to open it at all?" Harry teased, pulling the
bottle further away from him.

"Aren't…aren't we?" Malfoy's face fell so hard and so fast it was almost
comical. Harry tried not to laugh.

"Oh…okay. One glass. Just because I'm curious…" He looked back down at
the label thoughtfully. Malfoy was gone and back again so quickly with two
glasses Harry might have thought he'd apparated.

"Excellent," he said, a giant grin gracing his pointed features. Malfoy cracked
the bottle open with ease, and Harry wondered—just how much did Draco
drink in the year that he had been asleep?

Becoming a Death Eater, being ordered to kill Dumbledore, crying in

abandoned bathrooms to muggle-born, ghost girls…

…Probably a lot.

He poured two very generous servings into the matching rocks glasses that he
had obtained from God only knew where. Harry shook his head
disbelievingly but didn't comment on it.
"Cheers," Draco said happily, lifting his own glass.

Harry smiled.

"Cheers."

He hesitated as Malfoy, he was shocked to see, drained his entire glass in one
swift motion. Throwing all caution to the wind—and not wanting to look like
a pansy in front of Draco Malfoy—Harry followed suit.

…The whisky burned in the best way possible as it traveled down his throat,
surprisingly smooth. He'd expected it to burn much more harshly than it did,
but it was more of a deep, smoldering warmth. It started in his stomach
before flowing into his entire body, all the way to his fingertips, even in his
face. Harry wondered if his cheeks were rosy and pink like Hermione's had
been after a few glasses of wine.

He had to admit, Draco was right.

He felt…better.

"You liked it," Malfoy commented as he took the empty glass from his hand,
noting Harry's pleasant expression.

"Not at all what I thought it was going to be like," Harry admitted. "I thought
it would have a sort of horrible burn, honestly, or a weird after taste…" He
licked his lips then, enjoying the sensation of the mounting warmth which
had yet to dissipate.

"Not this stuff," Malfoy poured them each another generous amount before
taking a seat at the table. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass
around languidly, like he did this every day. Smirking, Harry sat across from
him.

Draco looked from the glass in his hand, to the bottle, and then back again—
before they suddenly landed on Harry. His silver eyes were alight with that
same mischievousness Harry recalled from earlier in the week, right before
Malfoy had uttered the words 'Where's that Snitch…?'

Harry was immediately worried and…excited.

Malfoy leaned forward. His fingers drummed along the side of his glass, and
he was smiling dangerously as he locked gazes with Harry. His voice was
taunting and low. A challenge.

"Let's play a game."

Draco Malfoy.

Firewhisky.

Drinking games.

It was the recipe for ultimate disaster.

 20. Two Truths -

Harry stared with a determined intensity into the silver eyes in front of him—
a gaze which was met with equal force. A frown started pulling at one side of
his mouth as the seconds ticked past, his frustration mounting.

"…One of those is a lie?" he asked skeptically, though his focus remained

resolute.

"Really? I don't believe you."

Malfoy smirked.

"Yes, this is the whole premise of the game. To be tricky. Do you need me to
repeat the rules?"

"No, thanks, I think I've got it," Harry responded drily. "One of those things
is a lie…one…" His brows furrowed in annoyance.

"Say them again."

Draco's grin faded as he leaned forward. "My middle name is Lucius," he

said in a monotonous voice. "My boggart takes the form of Fenrir Greyback."
His face remained impassive, blank.

"I received all 'O's' and 'E's' on my O.W.L.'s."

No emotion in his words whatsoever. Harry considered these again.

He believed the first one easily enough, and so it was the last two that he was
having a difficult time deciding between. Had Draco Malfoy ever
encountered Fenrir Greyback, before? It was possible, he supposed, as the
werewolf was on the same side as the Death Eaters, but he wasn't sure… But
then what would have happened to make Greyback Malfoy's worst fear? And
that that last one…

He had a hard time stomaching the idea of Draco having received overall
much better marks than him.

"You did not receive all O's and E's your O.W.L.'s," he finally decided.

Malfoy looked crestfallen. Harry grinned, feeling victorious…but then the

blonde laughed and his devious smirk slid right back into place. "Wrong," he
said delightfully. Draco poured a healthy shot of firewhisky into Harry's
glass.

"Drink up."

"What?" Harry balked. "You did receive all O's and E's on your O.W.L.'s?"

Draco pointed his nose in the air loftily. "Of course. Father would never
accept anything less. And he was still rather disappointed that I got as many
E's as I did, that I didn't get top scores in everything…"

"You got an 'E' in Defense? How'd you manage that?" Harry's eyes narrowed
suspiciously. "What, did Father pay the judges off, or something?"

"No," Draco muttered, "I studied. Granger isn't the only one who can open a
book, you know." His eyes flickered down to the untouched shot of whisky,
his annoyance quickly turning back to amusement. "Drink up," he repeated.

Harry glared but accepted defeat. Perhaps, he thought contritely, perhaps he

would have done much better on his own exams, had he not been so
preoccupied with other things that year… What with Umbridge, the return of
you-know-who, Umbridge, everyone thinking him an attention-seeking,
mentally unstable liar, Umbridge, Quidditch, the drama that was Cho Chang,
Occlumency lessons with Snape, Umbridge… Well, really, it was a wonder
that he had only passed out during one of his exams. Shrugging it off, he
lifted the rocks glass to his lips. The amber liquid burned wonderfully as he
shot it back, gently setting the glass down afterwards.
"What is your boggart, then?" he asked curiously, drumming his fingers
alongside the now empty tumbler.

Malfoy snorted humorlessly. "I'd need a lot more Firewhisky in my system

before I ever told you that."

…And Harry wasn't sure if that was meant to be a challenge or not, but he
was immediately intrigued. "Fair enough," he said casually, though he had
now made it a personal mission to find out.

"Your turn."

Harry bit his lip in concentration as he tried to come up with three statements
about himself, one of which was a blatant lie…but to be deceptive, to make
Draco Malfoy guess the wrong one as a truth…

Two truths. One lie.

I once had dream sex with the Dark Lord in the Death Chamber and,
wouldn't you know it, it was pretty all right.

Harry failed to suppress the smirk that accompanied that twisted thought.
How priceless would it be to see the look on Malfoy's face if he said that out
loud?

Draco raised an eyebrow at his mirthful expression, but didn't say anything.

Harry cleared his throat—and his crooked grin.

Two truths…one lie…

"I was asked by four different girls to go to the Yule Ball in our fourth year,"
he started, his tone flat. "My first bit of accidental magic was when I
unintentionally gave my fat cousin a pig's tail." A pause.

"My first kiss was Cho Chang."

Draco stared at him, scrutinizing his face. But after only a brief moment of
thoughtfulness, he said, quite confidently,

"You were not asked by four girls to go to the Yule Ball."

Harry laughed, reaching for the bottle. "Wrong," he said, pouring him a shot.

Malfoy looked a bit disgusted. "Ugh, really? Who?"

"Ah, honestly?" Harry slid the glass towards him. Draco shot it back without
a second of hesitation. "I don't remember. Some Hufflepuff girl and a few
others. I dunno."

Malfoy set the empty glass down, his face still slightly repulsed. "You don't
remember," he sneered.

"Yes, I was just that popular," Harry replied sarcastically—but Malfoy's

glower deepened. "Kidding! Don't get your panties all in a bunch." He
laughed, wondering why Draco was so perturbed by this. "I was the
Champion, everyone wanted to be my date, because it meant they got to
dance first or whatever…"

He shrugged, ignoring Draco's grimace.

"Your turn."

Malfoy refocused. He looked up at the ceiling ponderingly before he spoke.

"The core of my wand was unicorn hair," he began sordidly. Harry noted the
past tense. "My greatest aspiration in life is to become well known for
something other than being a Malfoy." A brief pause.

"My patronus is a snake."

Harry grinned, answering at once. "You can't make a corporal patronus!"

Draco's sour expression was definitely not a farce, this time. He scowled as
Harry poured him a shot.
"Why is that so obvious?" he spat, accepting the glass that was handed to
him. He quickly slung it back.

"Why, because you weren't one of my students, of course. Everyone I taught

Defense to in Dumbledore's Army learned how to make one, but you, no, you
were in Umbridge's Inquisa-inqestrial-in-"

"Inquisitorial Squad?" Malfoy said, his sour expression becoming a bit smug.

"The Inquisitorial Squad!" Harry thundered in agreement…before jabbing a

finger at him and glaring. "You wanker."

"Yeah…" Malfoy said wistfully. He stared down at the empty tumbler in his
hands, sighing. "Yeah…those were the days. Good year, fifth."

"Bloody terrible year," Harry muttered back.

"S'pose it was, for you. Shame you had to end your Hogwarts career on such
a bad note." But he didn't look even slightly sympathetic.

"Half the reason it was so awful was because of you," Harry snarled, recalling
all of the obnoxious things Draco Malfoy had done to fuel the flame that was
his atrocious social life that year.

"So sorry," he said…absolutely not sorry.

"Bet your patronus would be a ferret."

Draco's haughty smirk fell at once. "Would not."

"Bet it would."

"I bet it'd be a dragon."

Harry laughed harder at this than was probably necessary. "What, because of
your name?" Malfoy chose not to respond to that, only continued to glare
daggers.
"Well, there's only one way to find out," Harry said as an idea came to him.

"I could teach you."

"Oh, yeah?" Draco drawled sarcastically. "With what wands?"

"Maybe we could borrow Ron and Hermione's. I managed to teach a bunch of

delinquent fourth years how to make corporal patronuses, I reckon I can teach
you. Then we'll see what furry little animal represents you ferrety little soul."

Malfoy wrinkled his nose in irritation, but surprisingly, he nodded. "Fine," he

said coolly. "If it's not a dragon, maybe it would be a snake…" His voice
trailed off thoughtfully.

"Maybe it'll a rat."

"It will not—"

"Or a possum, since those play dead, too—"

"Shut up," Malfoy seethed, slamming his empty glass loudly on the table and
pushing it away from him. He crossed his arms, looking very much the part
of angry, fussy child.

"It's your turn."

Harry nodded, still snickering. "Okay, okay… Let me think."

The Dark Lord once stalked me in my dreams while I was snogging Chang,
and I caught him red handed and called him a 'Peeping Tom'… He was not
amused.

He bit his lip as he suppressed another bit of cynical laughter at that thought.
"My wand core was a phoenix feather," he said, taking a leaf out of Draco's
book and borrowing his ideas—who noticed, and frowned. "My favorite
color is red." And then,

"My patronus is a lion."

This time, it was Malfoy who instantly laughed, pouring a shot into Harry's
glass before he even confirmed his lie.

"Your patronus is a stag," he sneered. The glass slid across the table into
Harry's unwilling palm.

"How'd you know that?" he muttered. Harry paused for only a moment before
tilting his head back and downing the whisky.

"Are you kidding? You conjured it up during our Defense exams, you bloody
show-off! It trotted right past me, remember? And you were just oh so smug
about the whole affair."

"Oh. Oh yeah," Harry said dumbly. He had forgotten about that entirely. How
had he overlooked that? …Then again, in all fairness, that did feel like a
memory from someone else's life… Harry shook his head, shrugging.

They'd each deceived each other once. They'd each caught each other in a lie
once.

They were tied.

"Right. Your turn then." Harry placed his tumbler back on the table.

Draco didn't hesitate before beginning. His face was cold and serious.

"When I convinced my parents to buy the Slytherin Quidditch team new

brooms, I actually had to cry in order to make Mother agree to it," he started
in a surprisingly unabashed tone. "When Granger hit me in the face in our
third year… It kind of turned me on." Harry actually made a gawking sound
at this, but Malfoy continued on, unruffled.

"I lost my virginity when I was fifteen."

Harry stared, more than a bit taken aback.

"…I don't believe a single one of those."

Malfoy smiled innocently. The Slytherin boy had certainly upped the ante
with this turn.

Stifling his apprehension, Harry tried to consider the three statements

logically. Which one was the lie?

Well, the first one, about the brooms…didn't seem likely. Harry doubted that
Malfoy's parents would deny him much of anything where material
possessions were concerned… But then again…

Being turned on by Hermione slapping him in the face? He tried to recall that
day. How had Malfoy reacted, when she'd done it? He'd just sort of…he'd
just kind of stalked off, in disbelief… He hadn't retaliated, or drawn his
wand…which seemed odd, now that he thought about it, but…turned on…by
Hermione…?

And losing his virginity at fifteen? He, Harry, had barely managed to kiss a
girl at that age, and even that had seemed extreme, at the time… But that was
him, an overly innocent, golden Gryffindor boy, not a pompous, rich, sneaky
little Slytherin…

He was torn between the last two, again. Malfoy's small smile remained
firmly in place.

"…You did not get turned on when Hermione smacked you."

Draco's smirk vanished. A moment of silence, and then, without a word, he

reached for the whisky bottle, and poured a shot in to…

Harry's glass. "Drink," He muttered as Harry's eyes widened to the size of

galleons.

"No! Which was the lie, then?"

"Oh, as if I would ever have to cry to get Mother to buy me something. Ha!"
Draco snorted at the end, the very idea clearly outrageous to him.
But that meant… "You lost your virginity at fifteen?" Malfoy shrugged.
Harry leaned forward, burning with curiosity.

"Who? Oh God, was it Parkinson?"

"Like I've said before." Draco shoved the glass towards him. "I'd need a lot
more Firewhisky in my system to tell you that."

Draco Malfoy's boggart. Draco Malfoy's unknown patronus. Draco Malfoy's

first shag. Things Harry never thought he'd ever be even remotely interested
in learning, but now he was just itching to find out.

He shot the whisky back. It went down even easier the fourth time.

Was it just him, or was the rush or warmth even more palpable, now? "So,
you enjoyed getting hit in the face, eh? By Hermione… What are you, some
kind of closet masochist, or something?"

He would have never guessed that as a truth, either. Harry was, on some
level, quite impressed by how much personal information Draco was willing
to divulge solely for the sake of winning.

And even more surprised that he just laughed, completely unabashed and not
even slightly embarrassed by his own declaration. Was it just the effect of the
whisky, or did he really not feel bothered by it?

"Maybe."

…Okay, it must have been the alcohol, because he'd never seen Malfoy leer
enigmatically like that, or his eyes darken like…almost like…

Good, God. He was being… He was being sultry. Malfoy was running a
single finger along the rim of his rocks glass, leaving quite a lot…unsaid.

It was suddenly very believable that this arrogant blonde had lost his virginity
at fifteen. Merlin, were all Slytherins like this?

"Your turn."
Harry blinked, hating that Draco had managed to fluster him even slightly.
He decided to raise the stakes as much as Malfoy had…but in a different
direction.

Besides…they'd already decided earlier, before the game started, that nothing
said tonight would ever leave this room.

In a very recent dream, I was getting the best blow job in the fucking world,
when you unwittingly performed the cock-block of the century by waking me
up.

He didn't say it, but he couldn't help but think it. This game of 'Two Truths
and a Lie' was incredibly entertaining… Or, as Harry was now playing in the
privacy of his own mind, 'One Fucked Up Fact, Two Truths, and a Lie.'

He forced his expression to become blank. Draco waited.

"When I first arrived at Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat wanted to sort me into
Slytherin," he said flatly. Malfoy's eyes widened but he remained silent.
"When I went down into the Chamber of Secrets, I was actually bit in the arm
by the basilisk and injected with venom." Draco's eyes widened even further.
And then:

"When you and I dueled in our second year, and you conjured up that snake
—you know, when you cheated and struck too soon, you git—I lied. I really
had told it to attack Justin Finch-Fletchley."

Malfoy's previously leering demeanor vanished. His finger dropped from the
rim on the glass, his hand landing flat against the table.

Gray eyes narrowed as they stared searchingly at Harry's smirking face.

Harry remained composed, tapping his own fingers idly on the surface of the
wooden table.

"…Tick tock," he eventually said, growing impatient after a long, drawn out
minute…for Malfoy seemed to be taking this very, very seriously.
Finally, he made a decision.

"You were not almost sorted into Slytherin." Despite the long wait in his
response, he sounded relatively certain.

Harry sighed disappointingly, watching as Malfoy's face lit up in false

victory. "Damn," he muttered, reaching for the bottle…and pouring it in
Draco's glass. His jubilant expression dissipated.

"I was so hoping you wouldn't disappoint me, Draco," Harry slid the whisky-
filled tumbler across the table where Malfoy snatched it up at once. He shot it
back before pointing a finger at Harry.

"You were almost sorted into Slytherin?" Malfoy scoffed incredulously, like
it was an accusation rather than a question.

"Sure was," Harry responded. "As a matter of fact, the only reason the hat
didn't put me there was because I told it not to. Had to practically beg it to put
me somewhere else, actually." He muttered the last part in mild annoyance.

But Malfoy was looking at Harry like he was seeing him in a totally new
light. "Why would you ask it to do that!?" he shouted, completely dubious.

"So I wouldn't have to be in a House with people like you, of course."

Malfoy's glower would have made lesser people recoil, but it just made Harry
smile. "What? It's true. You were a complete and total prat. I didn't want
anything to do with Slytherin House."

"Well, I was eleven. What did you expect?"

"For you to not be a complete and total prat."

Malfoy ignored that comment. "Damn… Can you imagine…" he started

thoughtfully, leaning forward on his elbows again. He did so a bit
awkwardly, now, and Harry wondered if the whisky was starting to really set
in. "Imagine, if you had accepted my offer of friendship. If you hadn't made
friends with Weasel, first. And you had been sorted into Slytherin…" His eye
shone dangerously.

"If you had been in Slytherin, maybe… Maybe you would have been
recruited for the Dark side, from the beginning. Maybe you would have been
made to take the Mark, too." Draco tilted his head slightly, like he was
envisioning this all even as he said it.

"Maybe… Maybe the whole, the Dark Lord wanting to kill you… Maybe that
wouldn't have been a thing."

Harry laughed. Loudly.

"I'm pretty sure that would have 'been a thing', no matter what, Draco," he
said, still chuckling. Malfoy frowned in disappointment.

"You never know. He…he likes Slytherin, and all."

Harry laughed again. The whisky was definitely kicking in, affecting his
verbal skills quite atrociously.

"Yes. He likes Slytherin. Hates me, though." Draco finally made a sort of
shrugging motion, as if to say, 'I guess'…though he still didn't look
thoroughly convinced.

"Why'd you pick that one?" Harry suddenly asked. "You really believed the
other two?"

Malfoy shrugged again, and it was a bigger, sloppier motion than just a
moment before. "Well, sure. I mean, you've survived enough crazy shit, so I
figured, why not basilisk venom?" He paused. "…How did you survive that?"

"There…there was a phoenix involved," Harry said dismissively, like that

was completely uninteresting and continuing on before Draco could ask for
details. "You really thought I would sick a snake on Justin?"

…He shouldn't have been surprised at Draco's response. "Sure. Finch-

Fletchy? He was a sodding idiot, I would have had the snake to attack him,
too, if I wasn't dueling you." Then his expression darkened, and he looked
almost…disturbed. "That was one of the scariest fucking moments of my life,
you know. That duel. Barring the time that we were in the Forbidden Forest
the year before, of course, hunting for dying unicorns…"

Quite unexpectedly, Draco threw his hands up in the air, flabbergasted. Harry
jumped in his seat at the sudden gesture. "How was that even allowed, by the
way? We were first years! Who thehell decided that it would be perfectly
okay to allow a bunch of eleven-year-olds to go into the forest, alone, with
nothing but a useless, cowardly dog and a giant oaf who couldn't even legally
use magic? Except it was even worse than that, because, of course, we split
up—fucking genius—when we knew, and had been warned about all of the
countless, horrible, dangerous things in there, one of which was currently
active, killing unicorns!"

He stared at Harry as if waiting for him, personally, to come up with the

answer. And really, when it was put it like that…the whole thing did seem
incredibly ludicrous.

"…I haven't the foggiest idea."

A moment of confounded silence…and then they both started laughing.

"That was fucking mad, though, wasn't it?" Draco chortled. "We could have
died."

"I almost did, actually," Harry commented, surprisingly nonplussed. "You

abandoned me, you slimy coward. Did you ever learn that that was you-
know-who, that thing in the cloak? Hanging out on the back of Quirrel's
head?"

Draco paled, and he did look slightly embarrassed. "I…did find out, later…"
He shivered.

They fell into another bout of quietness, much darker, this time…but then,
Harry just couldn't help himself—
"Can…can you imagine living in a turban for months?" Draco looked up at
him bemusedly. "Or—or being Quirrel, in that situation? Getting dressed
every morning, taking showers… Living life as normal, only with the Dark
Lord poking out of the back of your skull…"

They both imagined it, then. Lord Voldemort's face being splashed
unceremoniously as Quirrel showered, Lord Voldemort yelling at him for
tying the head wrap wrong, or too tightly, maybe…

"Fucking. Weird."

And then they were laughing again, all traces of fear or apprehension gone.

"But why was the duel from second year…why was that scary?" Harry asked
after a moment. "That wasn't so bad, I just told the snake not to attack
anyone, and then Snape got rid of it…"

"Mmmm." Malfoy was shaking his head as he poured them each another
healthy dose of whisky. It seemed the game was on a temporary hiatus. "You
have to envision it from my point of view." He took a sip, and Harry followed
suit.

"Okay. Indulge me."

Malfoy set his glass down softly. "So, there we were, in the Great Hall of
Hogwarts," he began, as if Harry hadn't known where they were. "And Snape
chose me, and Lockhart chose you, and wasn't that odd, actually? To choose
a couple of second years to demonstrate? Shouldn't they have chosen some
seventh years who could actually do something? Anyway." He took another
sip. Malfoy's pale face was starting to become as rosy as Hermione's had
been.

"We're up on the platform, then. And I was thinking, 'Excellent, I am going to

defeat the Boy Who Lived in front of the entire school. Marvelous.' And I
thought I couldn't lose after Snape told me that spell. You only had Lockhart
on your side. It was a sure thing." His smirk faded.
"And then you cheated," Harry added in quickly before taking another drink.
Malfoy ignored him.

"And then I sent the snake towards you, and you did look terrified, and I
thought it was over, I thought I'd won, but…" He paused dramatically.

"…But then you start speaking parseltongue."

Malfoy shuddered before he drained his glass, like the memory was quite
distressing. Harry didn't fully understand it.

"So?"

"So!?" Malfoy repeated heatedly, his face definitely reddening, now.

"Everyone was trying to figure out who the Heir of Slytherin was, it was all
that anyone would talk about in our common room—sixth and seventh years
boasting and hinting that it was them, or that they knew who it was (he failed
to acknowledge that he had also done this), and then you, Gryffindor's
Golden Child, you just start chatting away to an enchanted snake for the
whole damn world to see, and it definitely looked like you were trying to get
it to attack a muggle-born, and—"

Malfoy's shoulders slouched. "Well, it took the wind right out of my sails.
The Slytherins couldn't stop talking about you, after that."

Harry laughed, but stopped short at Draco's serious expression. "What,

really?"

He nodded deeply. "Yeah. They were all claiming they'd known all along,
then, that you were rumored to be the new, rising Dark Lord, that their
parents had been telling them for years, that, perhaps, you would be the new
master around which they would all someday rally… Bunch of rubbish, of
course." He paused, and the bitter expression faded as his smirk returned.
"Your life would have been very different, had you been in Slytherin, Evans."

He poured himself more whisky. "You missed the real parties."

Harry slowly took another drink as he considered this. Life…definitely would
have been different. But would it have been better? He thought about his last
year at Hogwarts. And the year after. And where he was now.

…More than likely, yes.

"Ah, well," he sighed. "Can't change the past, now, can we?"

"Nope." Malfoy eyed the last of the whisky in Harry's glass. "You're nursing
that. Do you always drink so slowly?"

He knew it was a weak taunt to simply get him to keep up, but it worked
anyway. Harry drained what was left, setting the glass down so that Malfoy
could refill it. "Do you always drink so quickly?" he countered, not pointing
out that he, Harry, had never drank at all before this week.

"Obviously." Malfoy offered Harry his glass back, filled with a substantial
amount of amber liquid. If Draco's drinking capabilities were any measure to
go by, Harry thought, he really had missed the real parties at Hogwarts.

A pause while Draco look a long sip, appearing deeply contemplative as he

looked off to the side. "Parseltongue…" he muttered, the word leaving his
mouth with a sense of both reverence and apprehension. His eyes flashed
back to Harry, suddenly lit up in intensity.

"Say something in it."

It was a demand, not a request. Harry frowned.

"It doesn't—it doesn't work like that," he quipped, feeling the heat rising to
his face. "I can't just turn it on, I usually need to be looking at an actual
snake, or…or something that looks like one…"

"Would a picture work?"

"I—probably, yeah."

In a flash, Malfoy reached for a quill and some spare parchment. "Here," he
said as he began drawing. A moment later, and the piece of paper was being
shoved under his nose.

"Speak to that. Say something in parseltongue."

Draco was staring at him almost hungrily as he leaned across the table. Harry
looked down at the image…and laughed.

"What is this!?" he balked, gesturing down towards the parchment.

"It's a snake." Harry raised an eyebrow at him questionably. Draco looked

annoyed. "What? It's obvious. It's a snake."

"This looks like…like a tube sock with a forked tongue."

As if on cue, the little image sort of flopped to one side ungracefully—a very
un-snakelike movement, indeed.

"Oh, just try it," Draco snapped, undeterred. "Use your imagination."

"Okay…" Harry cleared his throat, looking back down at the very inexpertly
rendered, feebly wobbling 'snake'. In his periphery vision, he could see the
Draco tilting his entire body forward expectantly. The anticipation rolling off
of him was palpable.

When Harry spoke next, his voice was low and ominous, barely above a
whisper. He stared directly at the parchment, his head tilted down.

"…This is the worst, most atrocious drawing I've ever seen."

Malfoy scoffed. "No good," he sneered, crossing his arms. "That was
English."

Harry glanced up, keeping his expression dark. His sinister tenor remained
the same as he said, "I know. I just wanted to make sure you knew that. You
are a terrible artist."

Malfoy snarled, snatching up the parchment and crumpling it with his fist as
Harry laughed boisterously. "Fine, then," he seethed, tossing it at his face.
Harry managed to bat it way, and the ball of paper went soaring across the
room. "Fine, if you can't do it, then—"

"Ah, ah, ah, I never said that…" Harry wagged a finger at him like he was a
misbehaving child, still grinning widely. "Let me 'use my imagination'…"
Draco fell silent at once.

Truthfully, he was just as curious as Malfoy was to see if parseltongue was

something he could learn to do at will. He'd never really tried, by himself,
with no serpentine prompt… He closed his eyes, calling to mind the memory
of when he'd actually been in the body of a snake, the last time that the
slippery language had come to him effortlessly… It was relatively easy to
evoke, as he'd just witnessed the recollection from an outside perspective
earlier that evening, and as he kept his eyes shut, he began to feel it again…
almost as if…as if it were real…

His body was long and sinuous, his muscles lethal and powerful as he coiled
very, very slowly… He was wrapped around something, something…
warm…very warm… it felt wonderful, against his perpetually cold bones, far
better than his long, hot showers, by far… His body was twisting in a gentle,
methodical way, and tendrils of that same warmth were dancing tenderly
along his back—or was it his stomach?—and it was so relaxing, so
soothing…and the contented hiss that began in his mouth was, without a
doubt, what he intended it to be…

"…Massster…"

Why that word, he wasn't sure—it just seemed the right one, for some reason
—and he was rewarded with another loving caress of light warmth…

And then he was struck with such a reckless thought that, once he'd come up
with it, he simply had to do it. The Firewhisky had him feeling all sorts of
bold and reckless and daring, and because this was the only way he could say
it, in another tongue, and the idea of being defiant was suddenly just all too
delicious—
"…I am…" he began, pleased to feel the sultry, soft hiss pass through his
lips… He took another breath, feeling positively exhilarated before saying,

"…Harry James Potter…"

"Whatdidyoujustsay?"

"Huh?"

Harry opened his eyes to see Draco Malfoy leaning anxiously towards him,
his expression somewhere between mystified and enthralled.

"What did you just say?" he repeated in tones of deepest awe. Harry shook
his head, trying to shake off the very strange sensation of being…being a
snake…

"…I think I am very drunk," he admitted in a deadpan voice.

Malfoy slowly blinked before breaking out into a giant, gleeful grin. Harry
hadn't been trying to convince him even slightly that those had been the
words he'd uttered in parseltongue, but he'd apparently managed to do so.
"Ha! Look—fucking look—"

Draco rolled up his sleeves before extending both of his forearms. Harry
caught a glimpse of the muted Dark Mark on his left. "That literally gave me
goosebumps. Merlin, parseltongue is some… It's…" Unable to come up with
a good adjective, Malfoy settled for taking another drink, instead. "Say
something else," he demanded.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think I should," he muttered
dazedly. He smirked wickedly as Draco's face fell.

"Ah, just look at me," he said in tones of deepest lamentation, swirling his
own tumbler in a lofty impersonation of Malfoy himself. He examined the
glass, running his thumb over the engraving of what was the Black family
crest on the surface. "Seventeen years young, in my prime, with a sickeningly
fit body, pretty green eyes, and the ability to whisper sweet nothings in
parseltongue…" He sighed dramatically before taking another drink.

"Stuck in a house with you and Snape. I am wasted on you." He tilted his
head back and finished his glass, despite the fact that it had still been
relatively full. Malfoy looked like he was torn between being offended or
amused.

"Yes, your life is a true tragedy," he muttered.

"Tell me about it."

Malfoy was snickering when Harry was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea.

"Hang on a second," he said, getting to his feet. "Wait here. I'll be right
back."

It took about two steps for Harry to fully realize, truly, just how much the
Firewhisky had affected him.

The short answer was: a lot.

He had never been drunk before. The entirety of his body felt warm and
fuzzy, and his feet were quite rudely not paying attention to what it was his
brain was telling them to do. He nearly tripped as he made his way out of the
library, leaving a confused Draco behind, but he really, really needed to go
get them—

Fortune was on his side. Harry managed to make it up and down the stairs in
one piece, though he undoubtedly almost faced certain death at least twice
when he made his descent, practically falling over onto the curtain which
concealed old Lady Black. Harry chortled to himself at the prospect of her
seeing Harry Potter stumbling drunkenly about in her home.

Moments later, and Harry was back in the library. "What's that?" Draco
asked, his steely gaze flickering to the prize in Harry's outstretched hands.
Harry rejoined him at the table, looking triumphant.

"These," he opened the small box, pulling out a slender, cylindrical paper
object, "…are cigarettes. And this…" He pulled out another item which was
unknown to Draco Malfoy, a red, plastic device with a silver top that easily
fit in the palm of his hand, "…is a lighter."

With one quick motion, Harry struck it with his thumb and brought forth a
tiny flame. Though he didn't let it show, he was deeply relieved that he had
managed to light it on the first try. He hid his delight under a mask of cool
indifference, like he did this all the time, and lit the tip of the cigarette.
Malfoy watched in perplexed fascination as he took a deep drag, exhaling a
stream of smoke to the side.

He was also extremely thankful that he did not cough abhorrently this time.
Harry held the smoldering cigarette between two fingers, quite casually…
looking the very epitome of cool in that moment.

Draco stared. "What's it do?" he asked, his eyes fixed on what looked to him
like a smoking bit of paper. "A cigar-cigermette?"

Harry chuckled. "A cigarette," he corrected. "Or fags, they're sometimes

called… They're these things that muggles smoke that… Well, they make
you feel kind of buzzy when you're not used to them, and help you relax.
They're especially good with alcohol." He said this all as if he had been
smoking and drinking all his life. Nothing could have been further from the
truth, of course, but Malfoy didn't need to know that he, Harry, was as
inexperienced in the 'partying' department as Draco seemed to be.

"Muggle things?" he murmured apprehensively. Malfoy looked very torn

about whether asking if he could have one, or telling Harry he was a total
moron for doing anything, 'muggle'.

"Yeah." Harry took another drag, feeling so buzzed he thought he might

literally start floating. He almost sighed when he exhaled another plume of
smoke. Afterwards, he grabbed his currently empty rocks glasses and ashed
in it. Perhaps Malfoy could scrounge up another one…
Malfoy made up his mind, then. "Give me one," he commanded rather than
requested. Typical behavior, but Harry just smiled innocently. He pulled
another cigarette out of the pack, handing it over.

"How…how's it work?" he muttered as he examined it. Harry thought about

giving him the lighter and letting him attempt to figure it out—surely
watching Draco Malfoy struggle with a muggle device like that would be
worth a few laughs in and of itself—but thought better of it. They were in a
library, after all. Nearly everything in the room was flammable.

"Here. Just take mine," he said instead, offering Malfoy to trade for the one
he'd already started. Draco accepted it very, very slowly, his face suddenly
and inexplicably blank.

"What?" Harry said, waving his hand impatiently. "Just take it. There. Okay,
now you just suck in on the other end, and it's not just with your lips, it's with
your lungs, you really breathe it in, and then you just blow it out. Easy."

The blonde hesitated before acting, and then Harry maybe understood the
apprehension. "What, are you afraid I have cooties?" he muttered, placing the
new cigarette in his mouth. It took him a few attempts to get the lighter lit,
this time, but he still managed it relatively quickly.

Malfoy glared but chose not to comment. He finally committed, closing his
eyes and taking a long, long drag—

And immediately began hacking. "Ergh!" he spat between heavy, labored

coughs. Gray smoke came spluttering out of his mouth between every heave,
and Harry was lost to laughter.

"These are horrid!" Malfoy exclaimed, staring accusingly at the cigarette in

his hand as though it had purposefully been unpleasant for him. "Why-what-
do you actually like that?"

Harry stifled his laughter. "Eh, it's all right. Probably doesn't help that these
are, I dunno, maybe…fifteen years old, or something?" He examined his own
cigarette ponderingly.
"Muggles really smoke these things…? They taste dreadful."

Malfoy looked completely aghast at the very idea of someone purposefully

doing this on a regular basis. "They sure do," Harry confirmed. "Yeah, they
sort of leave a lot to be desired in the flavor department. Also, they're terrible
for you. Over time, they rot your teeth and give you cancer… Er, that's a
muggle disease—basically, they kill you slowly—also, they're rather
expensive."

Malfoy shook his head, totally dumbfounded. "So why on earth do they
smoke them, then?"

"Well. They do make you relax, and I think the taste sort of grows on you,
eventually… They stop making you cough, once you're used to them. That,
and…" He took another drag, exhaling a narrow stream of smoke above him.
His eye were glittering mischievously as he looked back to Draco.

"…They make you look cool."

And Malfoy, surprisingly, after a moment of consideration, nodded mutely in

agreement…though he did look rather bitter about the whole ordeal. He
glanced warily at the mostly full box of remaining cigarettes, like he was
considering giving it another go. Harry stared at the one between his fingers
with deepest fondness.

"Sirius had these in his room, hidden under his bed," he said quietly, feeling
only the slightest tremor of sadness. Strange, that he could go from deeply
depressed to numb to positively giddy to tolerably nostalgic so quickly.
Maybe it was just the alcohol, making him view the world in rose-colored
glasses.

Or maybe he had just completely lost his mind a long time ago.

"…Yeah?" Malfoy asked warily, unsure of how to proceed.

"Yeah." Harry grinned dolefully. "I just…I…I wish I could talk to him one
last time. He was the closest thing I had to a parent, you know." A thoughtful
moment of silence. Draco remained quiet, merely listening. "I wish I could
tell him… I wish I could tell him about how we found the radio."

Malfoy shared his wry smile, then. "I wish I could tell him about how we
sang Queen to Snape, and about how it horrified him, and that it was bloody
brilliant… He would have loved that. Or about the cigarettes. That I found
them under his bed, and they're horribly stale and taste awful, but I'll
probably smoke them all anyway." He laughed before taking another drag.
The smile dimmed after he exhaled.

"I wish I had told him I loved him, just once, before…I… I'm… God, I'm
stupid." He ashed his cigarette, instantly regretting uttering out loud such a
monumental regret.

Malfoy stood.

He crossed the room in a bit of a stumbling, drunken, zig-zap, heading

towards an armoire. He swung the door open and—Harry could see from
where he sat—the shelves were filled with fine, immaculate crystal that had
most assuredly all belonged to the most noble, ancient Black family. He
returned a moment later with another tumbler to replace the one that Harry
had turned into an impromptu ashtray.

Ha. Harry grinned stupidly as he stared down at the Black family crest on the
glass in front of him, reduced to a dingy receptacle for the ashes of his
muggle cigarette.

Sirius would have loved that, too.

"Here."

Malfoy had poured another hefty dose of whisky into the new glass, as well
as Harry's. He sat back down again, raising his arm above him. His own glass
caught the light just so, making the amber liquid within glow a warm, golden
hue.

"To Sirius Black."

…And for some reason, this, seeing Draco Malfoy prompting him to join him
in a toast to his beloved, lost Godfather… This was what nearly made him
burst into tears on the spot, more than anything else.

Because it was genuine. The recognition in those storm-cloud eyes was real,
it was…honest. Legitimate.

Harry swallowed back the unwanted emotion.

"To Sirius Black."

Their glasses clinked together, and, why, the Firewhisky went down even
smoother the…the…how many shots of this stuff had they had, at this point?

Harry glanced at the gradually emptying bottle.

The short answer was: a lot.

Draco poured them each another drink. They were putting an impressive dent
in their whisky stock.

"Finish….finish that," Draco demanded, though he had just poured it. "We're
tied, with our game…with all our stupid… games." He was waving a hand
around quite unabashedly, and Harry wondered just how drunk they had
managed to get in such a short time span.

"Finish that so we can go another round." Then, quite amazingly, he downed

his entire glass, setting it down on the table as though it were a personal
challenge.

Which it was, of course.

"I hate being tied with you."

Chuckling, Harry followed his stupid, stupid lead. His head felt… heavy. "It's
your turn, then," he murmured.

Malfoy rocked back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as he thought. Then
he leaned forward again, a determined glint in his eyes.

"My favorite season is winter," he started, waving an arm about exuberantly.

"I am bisexual," he continued, at which Harry failed to contain a strained
giggle, and then—

"…I want to fuck Weasley."

Harry laughed so loud it hurt. The recently healed wound on his chest
throbbed with his labored breathing.

"You do not want to fuck Ron!" he roared raucously. Draco…just nodded,

laughing as well.

"True that," he said, pouring himself a shot and draining it at once. "I
definitely do not want to shag the Weasel—"

"Maybe Hermione, though—if she hit you hard enough, that is—"

"Fuck you, Evans."

"That wasn't a part of the game."

Malfoy glowered, his already flushed face turning even redder. "Your.
Fucking. Turn," he muttered. "And if you win this round, you win the game,
but if I guess the right lie, then-then we're tied again."

"Hmmm… Yes, right. Very astute." Harry said jokingly. "Okay, give me a
moment…"

That time you were in Myrtle's bathroom, and you were talking about your
father, and she said she saw me? Yeah, I was actually there.

"What!?"

Harry nearly fell off of his seat.

Well, really… It was only a matter of time before he said something stupid
like that out loud, wasn't it?

Malfoy was staring at him with huge eyes.

"You were there!" he gasped, completely beside himself. "I knew it!
But…how!?"

Harry was far beyond being perturbed at this point. He shrugged as he put his
finished cigarette out and reached for another. "You," he said simply. Draco
looked dumbfounded. "You, you summoned me," Harry clarified.

"I was asleep, and the first time that I left my unconscious body, ever—which
happened only a couple times—but the first, that was because of you. I heard
you say my name—with the word 'fucking' thrown in the middle, none too
politely, might I add—but that was what called to me. And I left my body. I
was sort of a…a momentary spirit, I guess. And I saw you. I saw Myrtle's
bathroom."

He lit the new cigarette in his fingers, secretly loving how Draco was hanging
off of his every word. "I saw you. I cracked the mirror. You called to me,
Malfoy darling, and I saw it all."

Harry took a deep drag. Draco…was at a loss.

"Really?" he asked, stricken. "I did that? By saying your name…?" Harry
nodded, continuing to smoke nonchalantly.

"You were my first muse," he sighed before grinning.

Then Draco's astonished expression vanished. "You saw me crying," he said

flatly.

Harry took a moment to answer. "…For a minute," he answered honestly.

Malfoy's vacant expression did not waver. "But whatever. You've seen me go
through far more embarrassing shit, at this point."

He took another drink. Malfoy sat perfectly still for a moment, like he was
about to say something very, very serious…before he seemed to think better
of it.

"Give me another one of those ciggy things," he said instead, reaching not for
a new one, but for the one that was currently lit in Harry's hand. Harry
frowned but complied, handing it over.

"See, they're growing on you already. You're just as bad as a filthy, dirty
muggle. Also, you're bisexual?" Harry added the last bit on casually before
pulling out another cigarette.

"I like all pretty things," Malfoy affirmed, completely nonplussed—and

ignoring Harry's comment at referring to him as a muggle. He took a much
smaller drag of the cigarette this time, and managed not to cough.

"So…so who was your first shag, then? At fifteen…"

Malfoy tilted his head to the side. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he
said, smiling wickedly.

Harry tried to hide his unstoppable blush by taking a long, slow sip of
whisky. Draco's leering expression was significantly darker when he finally
lowered his glass again.

"Ah…that's…" he started, but then his voice trailed off feebly, because… He
could not possibly explain. And he wasn't about to ask Draco Malfoy if
dream sex counted.

"I can't," he finished lamely. He inhaled deeply on his current smoke, turning
his head to the side as he exhaled.

"Then neither can I," Draco replied stubbornly. He adjusted his own cigarette
in his fingers, trying and failing to hold it as effortlessly as Harry did.

"Bet it was Parkinson," Harry muttered.

"Was not."
"Bet it was."

"It was not!"

"That's the biggest lie that you've said all night," Harry said, eager to continue
verbally jabbing at him until he let it out. "Did you shag her, or did she shag
you?"

"It was not Parkinson!" Malfoy roared, slamming his glass down.

"Shhh! Don't scream, you moron, what if they hear us—"

"Oh, they can't hear us," Malfoy sneered loudly. "They'll have a thousand
wards on that room they're in—a silencing one, for sure, so we can't
eavesdrop on them—but then they can't hear us, either. Can you, you
assholes!?"

He bellowed the last part, despite Harry motioning for him wildly not to. A
moment of ringing silence followed his declaration, and Harry's heart
hammered in his chest… But after a few seconds where nothing at all
happened, they both laughed. Draco smiled victoriously.

"See?"

"Yes, I do," Harry said seriously, ashing his cigarette. Then, quite abruptly,
he, too, shouted at the top of his lungs,

"Malfoy fucked Parkinson!"

Draco's grin was replaced by a mask of fury in a flash. "I did not!" he snarled.
Then, finally, just because Harry knew he would—

"…It was Victoria Rowle."

Harry stared, the name unfamiliar to him. "She was a seventh year, when we
were in fifth," he explained, looking supremely proud. "Head girl, too. It was
the night of the Halloween party—Slytherin house always has a wild
Halloween Party in the common room." His eyes sparkled mischievously at
the word 'wild'. "She came on to me…said she liked my pretty blonde hair,
kept playing with it…" He ran a hand through his blond locks as if to prove
the point.

Harry was momentarily dumbfounded. It was amazing that Draco didn't

divulge this information at once, if for no other reason than to show off. Head
girl, someone two years his senior… "Well. That is…better," he finally
conceded. Malfoy snickered.

"Tell me yours, then."

Harry's face was instantly on fire again. "Can't," he muttered quickly.

"Oh, come on!" Malfoy whined, almost flinging his cigarette across the room
as his flourished his arm about.

"You should ash that," Harry said, looking pointedly at the precarious amount
of ash mounting at his fingertips.

Malfoy hastily did, nowhere near as gracefully as Harry—but he would not

be deterred. "Who was your first shag? I told you mine, it's only fair."

"Because you, Draco Malfoy, are such a fair individual," Harry responded
sarcastically.

"…Coward."

Harry glared.

Oh, he was obnoxious, wasn't he? Regrettably recognizing that the Slytherin
arse would never drop this if he didn't get some kind of answer, Harry finally
decided to give him one. And it was the truth, even. Sort of. Without making
eye contact, Harry begrudgingly responded, speaking directly into his glass
when he said,

"I am…a virgin."

A moment of silence before he finally looked up. Malfoy was smirking

delightfully.

"I knew it," he leered, swirling his tumbler around superciliously.

"Then why'd you keep asking!?"

"I wanted to see if you'd try and lie your way out of it. I was curious. I also
just wanted to hear you admit it out loud." His grin was so smug that Harry
had to resist the powerful urge to smack the cigarette out of his hand when he
brought it to his lips again.

Because everything was always a goddamn competition between the two of

them, and when it came to the topic of sexual experience… Malfoy was
winning. By a lot.

…Which was completely unfair, if you asked Harry, because he'd missed an
entire year!

He decided to change the topic dramatically.

"…My boggart is a dementor…though you probably could have guessed that,

seeing as you once dressed up as one, trying to scare me." Draco's smile
faltered at that unexpected statement.

"What's yours?"

For a long moment, Malfoy was still, looking deeply conflicted. He slowly
put the cigarette out and left it in the makeshift ashtray in the middle of the
table. He didn't look at Harry when he spoke, instead focusing on the tumbler
in his hands.

"It's me," he said finally. Harry remained silent, waiting for him to elaborate.
"Me, without magic. Me, as a squib."

"…A…a squib? Why?"

Malfoy drained his glass. Harry reached for it, pouring him another drink as
he spoke.
"I didn't… I didn't show any signs of magic until I was almost eight," he said,
his words heavy and thick under the influence of the whisky. "I heard my
parents talking about it, arguing one night, when they thought I was asleep,
about-about what they would do, if I was-if I didn't have magic." Harry set
his refilled glass down next to him. Malfoy wrapped his fingers around it,
still not looking up. "Most kids, they usually show signs of magic when
they're really little. But I never did. My mum—she would never disown me,
and she said as much, when I heard them fighting—but my dad…he—"

He stopped here to take a drink. He didn't need to say it out loud in order for
Harry to understand.

Had Draco Malfoy been a squib, his father would have never accepted him as
a son.

…And maybe, Harry thought for the first time, ever…maybe being the only
child of rich, well to do, pureblood family…

Well, maybe it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

"The next day," Draco went on, much to Harry's surprise, "I climbed a tree in
our front lawn. Really high. I thought that maybe, if I jumped from a
dangerous height, I'd bounce, or something. That's usually how it happens,
most toddlers are saved by their magic by being cushioned or randomly
teleporting to safety."

Harry nodded knowingly, as that very thing had happened to him when he'd
once magically appeared on the roof of his elementary school. Draco
continued. "So, I jumped." He looked up, finally. His gray eyes were
illuminated with some kind of emotion Harry had never seen there before.

"Nothing happened."

He looked back to his glass. "I broke my leg. Father was furious. Had to take
me to St. Mungo's to get fixed up, it was awful. I've never seen him so
embarrassed and angry than he was that day. And I thought… I thought for
sure, then. That I must be a squib." He took another drink. Harry listened
passively, completely absorbed by this intimate insight into Draco Malfoy's
life. "So that night, when I went to bed… Well, I had this night light, when I
was a kid."

A tiny smile pulled at the side of his lips as he recalled the childhood
memory. "It was my favorite thing, my mum got it for me. This little animate,
glass dragon. It would pick up on your mood and glow accordingly—like, if
you were sad, it would turn gold and pink, or if you were scared, it would get
brighter… I loved that thing."

His expression darkened again. "But that night, after I'd broken my leg,
Father took it away. Said that I was getting too old for childish rubbish like
that. He snatched it up and took it with him."

But then his depressed demeanor vanished just as swiftly as it had come. He
smiled. This time, when he glanced back up at Harry, he looked genuinely
pleased. "But I got it back."

"…How?"

"Magic," Draco answered simply. "First bit of it. Finally. I was crying in bed
late that night, and suddenly, it just appeared, right were it had always been
before. I'd somehow summoned it back."

He took another sip. "Father was so pleased, even if he was still angry over
me throwing myself out of a tree. My mum gave him such a hard time after
that, she still uses it to gaud him sometimes when they argue." He chuckled,
but then his expression became somber, his eyes cold.

"I… I hope they're doing all right."

And then Harry remembered, quite suddenly…Draco's parents, both of them,

truly thought that their only son was dead right now.

The emotion in the air was tangible. They drank silently for a moment, lost in
their own memories of loss.
Harry cast about wildly for a change in subject. The last thing he wanted was
to be trapped in thoughts of what was happening in the real world right now,
where everyone thought them dead and gone…

His eyes landed on the little black book at the edge of the table. How had he
not fully focused on it until now?

"What have you been writing about, this whole time?"

Draco's head snapped up at that, instantly reaching for the diary as though
Harry had been about to start going through it right then and there.

"It's…it's a secret," he slurred.

"Are you just keeping diary?" Harry prodded, noticing that his own words
were a bit run together as well. He shrugged, taking another drink anyway.
The bottle was over half empty. He felt drunk, yes, but…not completely
smashed… He wondered if that was just because they'd drank so much so
quickly, that it hadn't fully hit them yet…

Maybe he just had a naturally, wonderfully high tolerance for alcohol.

"It's not just a diary," Draco sneered, pulling the journal to his chest
defensively…and nearly toppling to the floor. "It's a-I'm writing a book."

"…A book," Harry repeated flatly.

"Yes. A memoir." Draco brandished it about before dropping it on the table

accidently, almost hitting the family Black ashtray with it and knocking over
the half-empty container of Enfer. Harry grabbed the bottle before it could
roll onto the floor and set it on the far end of the table, out of the way. Malfoy
snatched the book up again like nothing had happened. "The story of our
sorry experience in this hell-hole. So that someday, if we make it out of here
alive, I can-I can publish it. I'll make a fortune. I'll put Rita Skeeter to
shame." He grinned crookedly as he took another sip.

"Right," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Because what you need is more money,
Malfoy."

"It's not about the money!" he retorted defensively. "It's a-it's about a bit of
credit, is all, getting the story out—"

"A story about you? Who would want to read that?"

Draco's eyes widened in exasperation. "Everyone!" he shouted passionately.

"The torrid tale of Draco Malfoy, forced into a war on the Dark side, made to
take the Mark at the young, impressionable age of sixteen, given the task of
killing Albus Dumbledore as a student while at Hogwarts… Then shunted
away into hiding, with none other than the notorious turn-cloak Severus
Snape and the infamous, supposedly dead, 'Undesirable'…"

Harry pursed his lips and he took another sip, pondering this. "Yeah, okay,"
he admitted. "I'd read that."

Draco's grin was full of triumph. "I was thinking of calling it, 'Draco Malfoy
and the House of Ghosts.'" he said, theatrically scanning his open palm across
the empty air in front of him, as though he could see the title in blazing lights,
even now.

The laugh that burst out of Harry's lips was one he could do nothing to
prevent. Draco's hand fell loudly against the table, looking annoyed. "Maybe
take your name out of the title," Harry suggested. "Makes you sound like a bit
of an arrogant prat."

"…Fine. Just 'House of Ghosts', then," Malfoy conceded. Then his eyes lit up.
"Say—here. Do me a favor." He flipped the diary open to the last page,
which was completely blank, before shoving it and a quill across the table.
Harry's stomach churned uncomfortably at the insinuation being made.

"Write me a-a little something. Something…for our future readers. A little

intro."

Harry shook his head, not accepting the quill. "A little intro? Why? And-and
about what?"
Draco stared at him like he was an utter fool. "A personal introduction from
the Boy Who Lived himself? It'll be a best seller, hands down. And I dunno,
whatever you want. Your general thoughts on life or something. Whatever
you think your-our future readers should hear."

He thrust the quill into his unwilling hand. "Go on. It can be short. Whatever
you like."

The thought of writing in the diary made Harry feel…queasy. But the look of
pure, innocent excitement on Draco's face… Well, he never was very good at
letting people down when they expected something from him, was he?

Sighing, Harry looked down at the blank page.

It was impossible, not to think about…about him, with this familiar, black
book in front of him. But when he wrote, of course, the ink stayed firmly in
place.

He bit his lip as he wracked his brains for something to write. Something…
something insightful, something poetic, maybe… Harry Potter's thoughts on
life…

It seemed to take an exuberant amount of time to come up with what ended

up being one, meagre paragraph. Twice he started out, only to cross the
words out that he'd written, because they were just too stupid. Finally, on the
third try, he decided it would have to do.

"There," Harry said, sliding the book back towards an eager Malfoy, happy
enough to have the thing away from him.

Draco's eyes scanned the page rapidly. His expression, which started off as a
wide, cheery grin, became steadily less enthusiastic as he read. By the time he
was done, his face was completely blank.

"What? It's-it's stupid, isn't it?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
"Here, give it back, I'll try a—"
"No," Malfoy said at once, snapping the book shut. "No, it's-it's perfect."

…Which somehow made Harry feel even more embarrassed. "Er… All right,
then," he said, taking another long drink to avoid Malfoy's suddenly
smoldering gaze. He drained his glass, wondering vaguely how much
Firewhisky qualified as deadly.

"So," Malfoy started casually, though his eyes were still burning with
intensity. "If, in the highly unlikely event that I somehow die in the course of
this bloody war, but you make it out alive… You have to finish this." Harry
glanced up at the book in his hands warily, but Draco's expression was dead
serious.

"Promise me," he demanded. Harry would have rolled his eyes again, if it
weren't for the very solemn way in which he said it.

"…Okay," he finally agreed. Because really, there was no way that would
ever happen. "But in return," Harry continued, causing the blonde's eyebrows
to arch questionably, "you have to promise me that if I die, and you live…
you'll do me a favor."

Malfoy waited expectantly. Harry pointed a finger at his chest.

"Promise me you'll do better than Parkinson."

Malfoy glowered. He pulled another cigarette out of the carton, ignoring

Harry's mock request.

"Shut up and light this."

Grinning merrily, Harry obliged before joining him and lighting another one
for himself.

"So—wait a tick," Harry said after taking a drag, looking back at what
remained of the whisky. "I never actually finished. We're still tied."

"Oh, whatever," Draco said. "You can—you win this one."

"Really?" Harry asked, bemused. "What's my prize, then?"

He immediately wished he hadn't asked. Malfoy's already smoldering eyes

darkened, and he took a slow, long inhale off of his cigarette. Despite how
drunk they were, he'd managed to get much better at smoking as the night
went on. He almost looked poised. When he spoke next, his voice was
undeniably…suggestive.

"What do you want?"

…How was it that this single question made Harry feel so awkward? Malfoy
was looking at him like some kind of-of predator.

"Uh…" Harry started stupidly.

Was it just something about him, personally, that brought out the sadistic side
of people? Was he, Harry, a human magnet for megalomania?

Well, maybe you-know-who had been able to scare the piss out of him with
his creepy, unwavering stares… But he refused to allow Draco Malfoy to
have the same effect.

"I don't know…" he said slowly. Harry matched Malfoy's slow, evocative
motion of fluidly taking another drag before answering, his voice level and
cool. "What do you have to offer that's worth anything?"

Draco's lip twitched in amusement. He was just about to answer, had just
opened his mouth to respond, when the door opened.

"There you two are."

Ron came bustling in. Draco glowered murderously at his back as he shut the
door behind him. "Snape and Hermione are still going over—what's all this?"

His eyes darted rapidly around the scene before him. "Are those—what are
you smoking?" Then he noticed the rocks glasses, and for a moment he
looked excited, until—
His gaze settled on the bottle. He suddenly looked so horrified that it was
comical.

"Did you drink—have you drank that much?"

"Don't be ridiculous." It was Malfoy who answered in a clipped, irate tone.

Ron looked relieved, however, perhaps thinking that the bottle had been
partially gone before tonight, that they hadn't drank almost three quarters of
Enfer in one sitting…

Malfoy took another sip before tilting his head towards Harry. "Evans drank
some, too."

The laugh that came out of Harry's mouth was more of a giggle. Ron looked
devastated.

"No," he gasped. "Oh God, you idiots, you fucking morons—if Hermione
sees—if Snape sees—this isn't funny!"

Because Harry and Draco were both openly laughing, now. "Calm down,
Ronnie," Harry said after exhaling another plume of smoke. But then he just
laughed some more, because he'd never once called him 'Ronnie' in his entire
life, and that was funny, wasn't it?

Ron ignored him. "I've got to hide the bottle," he said robotically. He picked
up the container of Enfer, looking about the room wildly for a good spot,
"I've got to hide this, I, I, I, where—"

Draco was still laughing boisterously. "Are you a wizard or not!?" he drawled
in a slurring voice.

Harry snorted so loudly it hurt. "Did you hear that!?" he said disbelievingly,
looking pointedly at Ron. "He just said-like what you once said to Hermio—"
He hiccupped suddenly, and cigarette smoke came out of his mouth at the
sound.

But Ron was too busy being horrified to be amused. He pulled out his wand
and vanished what was left of the Firewhisky before turning his attention
back to his intoxicated peers.

"I meant for you to disillusion it, not vanish it, you twat!" Malfoy shouted,
somehow managing the peculiar task of sounding genuinely angry while still
laughing.

"Merlin's beard," Ron choked out, muttering quickly as he ignored Malfoy's

glare. "You've-you two've got to get out of here, g-go to your room and
pretend you've been asleep, or something—" He stared at the cigarettes.
"Those have got to go, now-"

He reached for the one in Draco's hand, who instantly pulled away. Ron
wrenched it out of his weakened, drunken grasp, putting it out on the table
before smashing it. "Hey, that was a perfectly good cigarmette—"

"Cigarette," Harry corrected again.

"A fag, then—"

"Yeah Ron, that was a perfectly good fag—"

"What the bloody hell are you idiots talking about?" Ron asked in an
incredulous, high-pitched voice, reaching now for Harry's smoke. "Give me
that—"

They all turned at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Ron's pale
face swiftly became a delicate shade of green as he turned to watch in horror
as the doorknob turned. Harry knew he should probably be worried, but he
couldn't help but find everything around him deeply amusing at the moment.

A sentiment which seemed to be shared by the leering blonde sitting across

from him. Malfoy's gleaming, silvery eyes caught Harry's just before the door
opened. He tilted his body over the table towards him, cupping a hand around
his mouth like he was about to divulge a great secret. Harry played along,
leaning forward so that Malfoy could whisper in his ear, and his words came
out low and raspy and playfully dark—
"…This won't end well."
 21. - and a Lie

"…I don't think that should be a—"

Hermione paused mid-sentence as she stepped into the room. The smell of
the cigarette smoke must have hit her at once, because her nose instantly
wrinkled. Her curious quickly gaze quickly landed on Harry's outstretched
hand. "Oh my God, Evans, are you smoking a cigarette?" she asked
disapprovingly as she entered.

Ron was so terrified at the prospect at what he knew was about to unfold that
he could do nothing but stand there, paralyzed.

"Is that a problem?" Harry responded, trying to sound very composed about
it. By the way that Hermione was staring down at him, it was not a very
convincing charade.

Snape entered right behind her. If he thought Hermione's gaze was

scrutinizing, it was nothing compared to the Potions Master's.

"'Lo, Snapey."

The green tinge to Ron's face deepened significantly. Draco snorted, his
forehead falling down against the table as he tried desperately to cover up his
laughter. Neither of them were putting on a very impressive sober front.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Harry said, waving the cigarette about and shaking his
head. He cleared his throat before trying to backtrack. He looked
unflinchingly at the older wizard when he said, quite seriously,

"I meant Professor Snapey."

"Welp, gotta run." Ron's voice was very high-pitched indeed as he regained
mobility and attempted to flee. A spell left Snape's wand tip so quickly that
Harry hardly saw it happen, and Ron had to swiftly step back further into the
room to dodge it.

"Stay."

He said it quietly enough, but Harry could still hear how dangerous Snape's
voice was over the sound of Malfoy's laughter. He couldn't help but find it
funny, too—though he did finally have the sense to put the cigarette out.

Snape swooped in closer to them like a giant, predatory bat. His eyes
flickered from the still smoldering cigarette, to the empty rocks glasses, and
then to the two teenager's flushed faces…

"You are inebriated," he deduced, surprisingly calm.

"Noooo…" Harry denied. Ron looked on the verge of a panic attack.

But Snape merely took a step away, folding his arms across his chest with his
wand still clasped in one hand.

"Stand up and walk across the room," he requested softly. The lack of
emotion would have been monumentally ominous to a more sober Harry
Potter…but as it was...

Harry jutted his chin defiantly in his direction. "All right," he started—but the
very moment he stood he stumbled, nearly crashing to the floor, and it was
only by the way in which he fell that he managed to land on his arse right
back in the chair he'd just attempted to stand from. Malfoy continued to laugh
heartily with his head down, and Harry tried very unsuccessfully to act like
he'd meant to do that.

"That-that is a ridicu-ridic-riddikulus request," he stammered out, apparently

hoping to banish Snape like a boggart.

"Professor, did you know—" Malfoy suddenly shouted as he lifted his head.
He pointed at Snape, completely unafraid and ignorant at what was clearly
about to be a bad situation. "That-that Evans here was s'posed to be in
Slytherin?"

…And yet, that statement did manage to make the older wizard's eyebrows
shoot up surprise. "Yeah! The hat, it wanted him to be in our house, and he-
he had to beg it not to put him there!"

"Traitor!" Harry roared, slamming his hands down on the table. "We said that
would never—that we wouldn't—"

"We said it wouldn't leave the room," Malfoy responded slyly. He made a
show of looking around himself theatrically.

"We're still in the room."

Harry glared. "Hermione, would-would you mind smacking Malfoy in the

face for me? Oh wait—he might like it—"

"Don't even—"

But Snape had heard enough. "Where did you get the alcohol?" he asked,
interrupting their argument. Neither of them said anything, but Malfoy's gaze
unwittingly flickered to Ron.

Snape followed his eyes. Ron looked every inch the guilty, terrified wizard
that he was.

"What was it?" the older wizard asked, quite nonchalantly. But the casual
demeanor only made him all the more frightening, and that was when it truly
hit him—Harry was suddenly very, very worried for the well-being of his
friend.

"…F-firewhisky," Ron whispered, not about to make matters worse by lying

about it.

"Firewhisky," Snape repeated flatly. He took a stalking step towards him,

black eyes boring down into blue, and Harry was certain that he was seeing
the truth of it there.
"And you thought this would be acceptable…why, exactly?" he asked, most
amiably, taking another step closer. Ron swallowed as he backed away,
seemingly shrinking in stature by the second.

"I….I…I didn't think they'd drink that much all at once."

"How much did you drink?" Hermione gasped in Harry's direction. But it was
Malfoy who answered.

"Oh, there was still, like…" he raised his hand, making a space of about three
inches between his index finger and his thumb. "…At least this much left.
Until Weasel vanished it, of course."

Ron laughed feebly. Snape's blank expression finally cracked.

The Potions Master's face lit up in rage. Ron backed away as he raised his
wand, but it was hopeless, and there was no way that it was going to be a
mere stinging hex heading his way, based on that murderous expression.

"Quick, look!" Harry shouted suddenly. He picked up his tumbler and

chucked it across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

"A distraction!"

And while it was by no means his wittiest idea, it did have the desired effect.
Snape's attention was deterred for a critical instant at the sound of shattering
glass, and Ron seized the moment and ran—he sprinted from the room at
breakneck speed, and though Snape chased after him just seconds later, he
was at a disadvantage. Ron was much quicker when not in the body of
Crabbe senior, and Snape was still not completely recovered from Harry's
accidental lightning strike. They could hear the chaotic sounds of their quick
chase as they dashed through the house, the crashes of doors flinging open
and furniture being hurled aside—but just moments later, the crack of a loud
disapparation signaled that Ronald Weasley had made it to the doorstep, and
would live to see another day after all.

Harry and Draco, still drunkenly oblivious to the imminent perils heading
their way, were dying of laughter again. Hermione glared at them, her
expression livid.

"Evans, what in God's name were you thinking, getting smashed with
Malfoy?" she seethed.

"I…wasn't," Harry answered. "It was-we were just gonna have one, and then-
and then we started this stupid thing, and-so much more of it was just, gone
—"

"Poof," Malfoy added unnecessarily, and they both started laughing again.
Hermione looked on the verge of turning her ire towards Draco, but she never
got the chance.

…The laughter died when Snape returned.

His face was contorted in absolute fury, and now, having lost his quarry, it
was all directed at them. When he pointed his wand in Harry and Draco's
direction, his hand was trembling in rage.

"You—"

"Wait." Hermione stepped boldly in front of them, her arms out wide. Her
own angry expression had miraculously and inexplicably vanished. "I know
what you're thinking, but it won't do anyone any good, at this point, to punish
them, They're drunk, they—"

"Move," Snape hissed. Harry and Draco exchanged terrified glances, and
now, now they were both wondering why they had been so stupid as to have
gotten this hammered with Snape right around the corner.

"No."

To the astonishment of all of them, Hermione did not budge. Snape opened
his mouth to snarl something else, something terrible, probably, but—well,
this must have been why Hermione Granger was sorted into Gryffindor and
not Ravenclaw, Harry thought, because cutting Snape off right now seemed a
very stupid, reckless thing to do.

"No, you're still injured, you need to rest so that you can actually be useful to
us when we go over everything tomorrow before we leave for Hogwarts.
Wasting your already diminished energy on two drunk, delinquent, teenage
boys does nothing good for anyone. Go to bed. I'll-I'll use my energy to make
barriers for him, tonight, if necessary, and just overall deal with these two
morons." She glared daggers down at them for a moment. Harry lowered his
head sheepishly. "And I will go retrieve Ron, after…and trust me…"

Now, she must have been channeling her inner Bellatrix, because her voice
became deeply dark and ominous.

"…I will be punishing him." A short pause. "…These two can wait until the
morning when they're sober and you're rested."

The silence that followed was staggering. Harry didn't dare to look up at
Snape, for fear that he might make eye contact. And just when he thought he
couldn't be any more shocked this evening…he was.

"Severus Snape. Go rest. Now. We need you and your mind at its absolute
best tomorrow. I will handle them."

Harry and Draco stared at each other in pure disbelief. Certainly, Hermione
was about to be on the receiving end of a nasty Cruciatus Curse.

But then, incredibly, astoundingly, remarkably… Snape left.

He just walked out the door, without another word.

Hermione turned to face them after he'd gone, her hands on her hips in what
was very much a Mrs. Weasley-ish fashion. Harry looked up at her in awe.

"Are you… Did you just…"

"She called him Severus," Draco whispered in utter astonishment. He stared

up at Hermione like she was some kind of supernatural being. "And then
just…dismissed him. How…how did you do that? How did you do that and
not get killed?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring his question. "What is wrong with you
two?" she chided angrily. "Getting drunk while we're planning the—"

"It's Snape's fault," Harry argued, suddenly much braver now that the older
wizard was no longer in the room. "If we had been in there, with you, then—"

"Oh shush," Hermione snapped. She glanced quickly at the clock. "I expected
you to be asleep, by now, it's nearly two in the morning… Come on, let's
just…let's get you to bed. No point in lecturing your sorry arses now, you
probably wouldn't remember it, anyway… But tomorrow… I suspect nothing
I can do will save you from whatever Professor Snape does to you
tomorrow… For your sake, I hope he's calmed down by then." She leaned
down, forcing Harry's arm around her shoulder so that she could help him
stand without stumbling.

"You mean Severus?" he asked playfully, unable to not say it. Malfoy
snickered as he also stood—swaying slightly, but nonetheless staying upright.

Hermione just sighed, choosing not to indulge them anymore. "Come on,"
she repeated sternly. "Bed. You can walk?"

Her question was aimed at Draco; apparently Harry had already proven that
he was incapable of such a colossal task. "Yes, I can walk," he sneered. "I'm
not that drunk." His eyes flickered to Harry when he said it.

Feeling unjustly annoyed, Harry chose to dispute that. "You drank just as
much as me—more, even!"

But Malfoy just smirked, turning and heading down the hall ahead of them.
"Ah, but I've actually drank before. My tolerance is-is sky high. Unlike
you…virgin."

Harry glared daggers at Draco's back as he headed towards their room,

disappearing around a corner. He definitely wasn't walking straight,
though…so maybe he was being a bit fictitious.

Harry thought to try walking on his own, too, but recognized almost at once
that this would be a very stupid thing to do. The world around them began
rotating in a bizarre way as he and Hermione took a few steps together. "You-
you're- thanks," he murmured, and he begrudgingly allowed her to guide him.

"Oh, Evans…" she sighed, helping him along. They were silent for a few
moments as they moved down the hallway…and then Harry felt her body
tense under his arm.

"What?" he said, noticing the sudden rigidity in her shoulders. She paused
and looked up at him with those big, doe-like eyes.

"Evans, did…did you-know-who… When he found you, on the Knight

Bus…"

Harry felt a strange wave of queasiness at this unexpected conversation. His

head was swimming, the hall slanting unnaturally…

"…Did he try and kill you, first? Or…or not?"

And Harry could tell, right then and there, even in his drunken stupor—
Hermione knew.

Hermione knew.

He wasn't sure what to say.

"…I…"

She bit her lip anxiously, her eyes widening—

"…am going to be sick."

Comprehension wiped the look of dread off her face in an instant. Hermione
somehow seemed to wandlessly conjure up the superhuman powers of
strength and agility, because she hauled Harry to the bathroom so quickly that
there just had to be magic involved. He definitely would not have made it on
his own, that was for sure.

Seconds later, and he was vomiting into the toilet. Violently.

"Oh…oh, goodness…" Hermione, bless her, was kneeled down next to him
on the hard, tile floor, rubbing his back as he continued to wretch. "Oh, what
a mess we're in, Evans…" she sighed. And then, in a much more irate tone,
"Firewhisky… I swear to God, I am going to kill Ronald for this…"

"Well isn't this quaint."

Malfoy had found his way back to them, hovering leeringly in the entryway
of the bathroom. He was grinning as he looked down at Harry, who had at
least managed to stop throwing up a moment before. "Drank a bit more than
you can handle, eh? Guess that makes you a lightweight."

"Or maybe Evans just has a much faster metabolism than you, and you're
next, Malfoy." Hermione snapped.

"Ha! Unlikely, I've never once gotten sick from drinking too much." Draco
shouted arrogantly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the door frame—
after which he stumbled, falling sideways and landing very ungracefully on
the tiled floor just a few inches from where Hermione and Harry sat.

Hermione smirked after first confirming that he hadn't critically injured

himself. "You were saying?" she said coolly, as she continued to rub Harry's
back comfortingly.

Malfoy pushed himself up so that he was sitting, too. "Hurt myself, yes," he
responded, amazingly unembarrassed by his own drunken tumble. "Made
some regrettable sexual decisions, absolutely." He pointed at Harry. "But I've
never thrown up. You may have won the game, but I won the night."

"Fuck you."

"That wasn't part of the game," Draco leered, using his adversary's own
words against him from earlier that evening.

Harry glared at him, one hand still gripping the porcelain tightly. "Bet your-
your regrettable sex decision was Parkinson," he spat.

"No," Draco answered casually. "Davis, once, and holy hell, was that a
disaster. And another time Zabini…and that…that did not turn out at all how
I thought it would."

Harry was sure there were some very good stories there, but he could do
nothing but wretch into the porcelain basin. He may have thrown up more,
too, if there had been anything in his stomach to throw up.

Hermione, however, looked utterly scandalized. "Get out, Malfoy." She

pulled out her wand, pointing it at him threateningly. "You're not helping-
you-just get out!"

"Whore!" Harry declared once he could speak again. His voice echoed
strangely from being practically submerged in the toilet bowl. "Malfoy is a
whore!"

Draco grinned. "I do try to be."

"Get out!" Hermione snapped again. "Out!"

"So tell me, Granger," Malfoy said, quite ostentatiously ignoring her wand in
his face, as well as her commands. His eyes were glittering wickedly. "Are
you and Snape fucking?"

Hermione nearly dropped her wand. Harry felt another wave of nausea roll
through his entire body that had nothing at all to do with alcohol.

But Malfoy had a giant smile on his face, delighting in how pale and stricken
Hermione had become. "Good God, you are, aren't you? Are—"

"No," Harry managed to spit out between dry heaves. "That's not true. Tell
me that's not true, Hermione-if it is, just-just lie to me—"
"Of course it's not true!" Hermione shouted shrilly, finally regaining some of
her composure at such an accusation. "It's not true at all!"

Malfoy was not convinced. "Then why does he always listen to you? How
come he never hexes or yells at you? How did you just get away with calling
him by his first name?"

"Because I, unlike the rest of you idiots, behave like an adult!" Hermione
answered sharply, all traces of shock replaced with pure rage. "Because I,
unlike the rest of you, treat him with therespect he deserves, and so he returns
it! Respect, much like trust, is something that must be given in order to be
received. It must be earned." She raised her wand up again so that the tip was
touching Malfoy's chin, propping it up. This time, he did not ignore it. The
grin slid from his smug, arrogant face.

"I don't know what sort of people you surround yourself with, Malfoy," she
hissed, leaning towards him. "…But I don't need to fuck anyone to gain their
favor." Harry was stunned—he had never, ever heard Hermione say such a
crude word in such a sinister way.

He also did not miss the way that Malfoy's drunken gaze darkened at her
sudden aggressiveness…because a very similar look had just been aimed at
him only minutes ago. "Whatever you do, don't-don't hit him, 'Mione," Harry
muttered warningly…to which Draco merely laughed.

Hermione sighed, lowering her wand and mumbling something about

drunken idiots and killing Ronald again, but Harry couldn't quite make it out.
His head was spinning as he reached up and grabbed the edge of the sink,
pulling himself up so that he could get a drink of water. Hermione moved to
help him at once.

Draco, too, managed to get himself to his feet. "All righ', Evans?" he asked in
tones of mock concern that sounded suspiciously like an impersonation of
Hagrid.

"Fuck you," Harry repeated. He cupped some water to his lips and swished it
around in his mouth, trying desperately to rid himself of the lingering taste of
bile. He would have liked to have brushed his teeth, but he knew he had
nowhere near the dexterity for it.

"Boys…" Hermione muttered. "Well, if you're not going to bugger off,

Malfoy, you can at least make yourself useful. Help me get him to your room
—"

"I think I can manage to make it down the hall—don't-don't touch me, you
dirty harlot—"

Malfoy sniggered as he completely ignored Harry's demand, taking the bulk

of his weight while Hermione did her best to guide both of the inebriated
boys down the hall. "Thank Morgana we don't have to go down the stairs,"
she murmured. Luckily, they made it to the bedroom without anyone
collapsing, stumbling, or getting sick again.

"Okay," Hermione huffed, and Harry was unceremoniously tossed onto a

bed. "You." She pulled out her wand again, pointing it at Draco. "Sit next to
him and just hold him steady."

"I can sit up!" Harry argued, though he immediately proved himself wrong as
his entire body began tilting to one side. Grinning malevolently, Draco sat
next to him to support him around the shoulders.

"Lightweight," he sneered. Harry glared, but allowed himself to be held.

Hermione sat on his other side.

"Evans, I'm just going to check and see if your Occlumency barriers are in
check, all right?" She spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a child.

Harry nodded, noticing how very heavy his head felt at the action. "Kay," he
said, not seeing the harm in it.

"Okay," she repeated. Hermione took a deep breath before putting one hand
under his chin, her wand held aloft. "Look at me."

He did. And then, in a soft voice, she uttered, "Legilimens."

And…it was just like the last time. Even in a drunken haze, he could feel
Hermione's gentle presence attempting to intrude on his mind…and, why, he
may have even been better at this while under the influence of alcohol, he
thought, because it was absurdly easy to just will it away, without
hesitation… She lingered for a while, but her force remained firmly on the
outskirts of his mind, getting nowhere, seeing nothing…

The bedroom came back into focus. Harry grinned sloppily.

"How did you get so good at Occlumency, Evans?" she murmured, like she
was asking herself the question rather than Harry.

"Magic," he responded shortly. Draco snorted.

Hermione shook her head, exasperated. "Oh, you two are so lucky I
intervened," she declared as she stood. "Snape would have skinned you alive
otherwise."

"Our…hero," Harry slurred. His body slumped completely, then—right into

the laughing form of Malfoy, much to his displeasure.

"Ah, poor Evans," he said in mock tones of pacification, even going so far as
to pat him on the top of the head like a toddler. "Couldn't keep up with Draco
Malfoy. Don't feel too bad, most people can't—"

"Get in your own bed, you terrible influence," Hermione snapped, sounding
very much the part of mother hen.

"This is my bed."

Harry felt Draco's chest moving against his head as he laughed, but he,
personally, was too far gone to find anything amusing anymore. The room
kept moving in a strange, outlandish way… Hermione had responded, and…
Malfoy was…was saying something else…

But whatever it was, Harry never found out. The world around him, which
had been rotating disjointedly ever since he'd stood up, seemed to fall on its
side completely, and Harry Potter experienced his very first drunken black
out.

There was crying.

That was the first thing Harry noticed as he found himself, yet again…in the
cupboard.

There was crying, and it was coming from the hall, on the other side of the
door.

…And it sounded like a child.

Harry slowly made his way to the door, feeling a bit drunk even in his dream.
The little panel that his Aunt and Uncle usually kept closed to cut him off
from the outside world completely was, curiously enough, slightly ajar.

Odd. It had never been open before, in his dreams…though the unobtrusive,
perfect Occlumency barriers were still there, still protecting him, even now…
not that he could blame Hermione for checking, of course…

He peered out of the opening, his eyes narrowed as they looked out into the
equally dark, bleak hallway of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Yes. A child.

There was a small boy sitting on the floor just a few feet away, on the other
side of the wards. He had his legs pulled to his chest, his head buried into his
knees… All Harry could see of him through the darkness was the hair on top
of his head, which was disheveled and black, and his small frame dressed in
oversized clothes, which trembled visibly as he cried…

Harry groaned.

He backed away towards the cot, perching himself on the edge of it as he put
his face in his hands. Time seemed to move atrociously slowly as he sat
there, hoping this dream would be short.
…But it wasn't.

It…was awful.

Was there ever a worse sound in all of existence than that of a child crying?

And it was endless! No matter how long he sat there, the pitiful, heart-
wrenching sobs never diminished even slightly.

Harry wanted to bash his head against the wall, because he was pretty sure he
knew what this was.

He was pretty sure that child in the hallway…was him.

His subconscious, his true subconscious, letting lose all of the emotions he
had buried deep within himself. He, Harry Potter, as the miserable, sobbing
child he had always been while a resident of this awful place.

His subconscious, saying,

You can't be a hollow shell, Harry.

Confront your emotions, Harry. Deal your feelings, Harry. Admit what
happened, Harry.

Get out of the closet, Harry.

As if on cue, at that thought, the sobbing grew louder.

Harry grimaced as he stood. Fine, he thought sourly, unable to stand the

sound of the crying a moment longer. Fine. He marched to the door, and,
without dwelling on it, he turned the knob.

This time, it opened.

He took one, deep breath in before stepping out into the hallway, passing
through his own barrier with ease.
…There was a slight draft, on this side of the wards. Everything was a bit…
colder. Darker. Harry shivered as he turned to face the trembling child on the
floor, who remained there, still sobbing with his head in between his knees.

"Stop it," he said, perhaps a bit too harshly. "Just, stop it. I-I get it. You're
sad-I'm sad, because-because…" he ran a hand through his hair in
exasperation as he struggled for words. "Ah, well, let's just-first thing's first
—"

Harry threw his arms up in the air, and this time, he really did bang his head
against the wall.

"You are, apparently, as bisexual as that Slytherin prat is, which is really just
something, isn't it? Because you're just-you're all over the place with what
turns you on, and it's all just totally fucked up, isn't it?" he lamented,
thunking his head again. "The closet analogy is just-is wondrous. Very, very
funny. We are officially out of the metaphorical closet, now. So maybe we
can finally dream of being somewhere else next time, yeah? Fantastic. And
hey, there's some silver lining, here. You could probably manage to have sex
with-with just about anyone and find some enjoyment in it, should anyone be
stupid enough to be involved with you. So there's that."

He paused, letting out a long, low sigh. "And you're crying because…
because… Oh, God." He wiped away a sudden, unwanted tear from his own
eye. Harry turned, pressing his back against the wall and glancing down at
the child as he took another deep, shuddering breath, before finally saying it:

"You loved him."

He choked back a sob, covering his face with his hands as he looked up at the
ceiling, banging the back of his skull against the wall behind him. For a brief
moment, his pathetic, personified feelings on the floor were forgotten.

"I loved him."

And he allowed himself to just feel it. The hot tears slid down his face as the
sobs came choking out, those suppressed emotions clawing their way up his
throat, and… God, it hurt.

With a doubt, it was the most painful experience of his life. The wound on his
chest ached terribly. His broken heart was in shreds.

It hurt.

The child's cries quieted. Harry glared down at his stupid subconscious,
vexed. "You idiot!" he yelled. "You moron! You fucking stupid asshole!
What's wrong with you, falling in love with the person you're supposed to
kill!?" He took another breath, and, he had to admit, as he moved from grief
to rage—it did feel good to shout these things out loud as if it were someone
else. "Youfool! And then-then you just-you couldn't save him…"

Harry's voice trailed off weakly. The child was completely, eerily still, now.
"Oh good," Harry spat, his voice thick with sarcasm. "You've stopped crying.
Finally. Good. That was-that was really starting to piss me off."

The tiny body on the floor remained motionless.

"You loved him," Harry repeated hollowly.

"You couldn't save him."

The child seemed to have stopped breathing entirely. It could have been a
statue in the darkened hall.

"And now…now he's gone."

Silence. And then, the tiniest sensation of something like…like hope, in the
furthest recesses of his mind… It felt…oddly familiar…

"What, am I supposed to-to hug you now, or something?" he muttered,

though he was beginning to feel a bit of trepidation…

The child slowly, very slowly…lifted its head.

"…Harry…?"
His voice was so feeble, so small. Harry blinked at the sound, and then he
saw—the child's eyelids fluttered open, peering up at him in utter disbelief
beneath long, dark lashes that were glittering with tears, with eyes that
were…that were…

Harry's shattered heart froze in his chest.

"Riddle…?" he breathed in shock. Black irises looked back at him from a

cherubic, porcelain face. Harry moved to take a step closer, willing his eyes
to adjust better to the lack of lighting in the hall—

But then, in a movement so snappish and fast that it was inhuman, the angelic
child's head tilted to one side, a twisted, sardonic smile forming on its lips
that was better suited for a demon—and its eyes, those eyes—they flashed red
—they lit up like fire, they shone in the darkness like burning, scorching
embers. A thrill on indescribable terror shot up Harry's spine, because this
was notRiddle, this was not his subconscious—

This was a—the monster—

The tiny flicker of hope from a second before ignited, clashing with his fear
in an overwhelming, dizzying way.

It was beyond happiness. It was far past joy.

It was mania.

Pure, frenzied desire, absolute obsession. It tore through him in the same way
that it always had, when he was feeling not his own emotions, but—

The monster lunged.

Harry screamed.

He stumbled backwards through the open cupboard door, barely, barely

dodging the merciless attack, falling onto the other side of the safety of his
wards—the door slammed shut in front of him, and he willed his barriers to
strengthen, and only just in time, for he felt nails like talons attempting to tear
through the wooden frame, through his mental shields—

There was a scream in his mouth, and a scream in his ear—

"AH! What, what!?"

Harry awoke with a violent start. He gasped as his shouts were cut short,
desperate to get some much needed oxygen into his lungs.

"What-where—" he stammered, whipping his head around. His already

hammering heart seemed to go into overtime as he registered just where,
exactly, he was.

He was on his bed…with the additional company of Draco Malfoy.

Harry sat up so quickly his vision blurred. He tumbled off the bed onto the
floor, tangling himself in a blanket as he went—and, most unfortunately,
bringing Draco down right along with him.

"I-ah-hey!" Malfoy spluttered as he crashed on top of Harry's ribcage,

effectively knocking the wind out of him. Harry was momentarily frozen
with horror as Draco's face ended up just an inch above his own.

"G-get off," Harry gasped as he hurriedly pushed him away.

His head…was pounding.

Frowning, Draco did. "The fuck, Evans," he muttered as he rolled off of him.
He groaned as he sprawled out on the floor on his back.

"What…what the hell happened?" Harry murmured. He wracked his brains,

trying to recall…to recall anything…

The library…and the cigarettes…and the game… He remembered all of

that…and then Ron had come in, and…

And then things got a bit fuzzy…

Harry sat up. The blood rushed to his head dangerously fast, causing it to
throb painfully. He stared down at the blonde next to him. Draco looked
equally miserable.

"How did we get to our room?" he asked as he rubbed his head with one
hand. "And why the hell were you in my bed?"

Draco peered up at him with narrowed eyes before he smirked. "You totally
blacked out, huh?"

Harry's face began to drain of color. "Why were you in my bed?" he repeated
in a complete deadpan, this time.

There was a long pause in which Malfoy purposefully said nothing, watching
in amusement as Harry's face continued to pale. "What happened!?" he
shouted. Draco winced at the sound.

"Ergh, Merlin, no more yelling," he muttered with both of his hands over his
ears. After a moment Malfoy propped himself, his smirk quickly returning.
"What's the last thing you remember?"

Harry bit his lip, trying once more to recall last night. "…Uh… Ron coming
in," he said slowly. "And… I threw a glass, so he could run… Oh, God.
Snape." Harry's heart skipped a beat at the sudden recollection of the older
wizard's deadly glower.

Malfoy looked just as concerned. "Yeah… I'm actually kind of surprised we

haven't been murdered yet."

Harry glanced down at his watch, the celestial backdrop glowing softly. It
was almost…it was almost two in the afternoon!

"That… yeah," he agreed. His head continued to pound in agony. "…Ao…

what happened after that?" he asked in a would-be casual voice that sounded
as forced as it felt.

"Before or after the sorry excuse for a blow job you gave me?"
Nausea. It rushed through Harry with an alarming swiftness, and surely he
was about to be sick.

"Calm down, Evans, just a joke. You would never be so lucky," Malfoy said
at once, unwilling to deal with that situation—again. "You threw up and
passed out, after Granger and I practically carried you in here. You handle
your liquor like a third-year school girl."

It took Harry a full minute of deep breathing to finally calm down enough to
speak again. "You…you asshole."

Draco frowned. "For what?"

"For trying to kill me, a moment ago, by saying that," he responded, still
feeling queasy. "Like I'd ever…like I would…"

He couldn't even finish the statement. Malfoy smiled darkly.

"To answer your previous question," he went on unabashedly, "I wasn't in

your bed. You were in mine."

Harry whipped around, looking up…to see that he was right. The bed they
had just toppled out of, was, indeed, the one that Malfoy usually slept in. The
queasiness was coming back with a vengeance.

"But why—"

Harry's words were cut short when the door opened.

"Thought I heard yelling," Hermione said coolly as she appeared in the

doorway. She crossed her arms in front of her chest as she peered down at
them distastefully. Harry and Draco both exhaled in relief that it hadn't been
Snape.

"Why are you on the floor…?" she asked. But then, before either of them
could say anything, "Never mind. Get up, both of you. Professor Snape
would like a word."
She was looking at Malfoy when she said it, but Harry knew it was directed
at them both. They shared worried glances.

Hermione snapped her fingers, motioning for them to get to their feet.

"Now."

They'd been sitting in the drawing room for what felt like ages. Hermione had
left them there before turning, assumedly, to go and get Snape…but that was
a while ago. Harry's pounding headache was getting worse by the second. He
made the conscious decision that he would never, ever drink Firewhisky
again. Ever.

They waited in tense silence. Malfoy, who was sitting on his right, kept
nodding off, only to wake back up with a start a second later. Harry couldn't
blame him. Despite the fact that they'd been passed out for so long, his own
eyelids were heavy and weighted. It was a kind of exhaustion he had never
known before; like sleep was a sentient being, pulling at his mind and
attempting to drag him back down into slumber against his will…

But he refused to give into his weariness. He was far too anxious, and
besides, he was certain that if the Potions Master walked into a room of his
guilty charges having both fallen asleep when they were supposed to be
waiting patiently, well…it could only make matters worse.

He wondered what had become of Ron. They hadn't seen him yet this
morning. Er…afternoon.

Harry began rubbing his temples methodically again, trying in vain to quell
the agony that was his hangover. He would have closed his eyes, but he was
afraid that if he did he would drift off. Instead, he stared fixedly at the clock.
It was after three.

He sighed as his hands dropped to his side. How long were they going to just
wait in here? Harry was just considering going to see if he could find
Hermione when the door opened.
Ron entered first.

When, precisely, he had returned to Grimmauld Place, Harry had no idea. But
Ron looked just as nervous as Harry felt. He nodded briefly in his direction
before sitting across from them.

He was followed almost at once by Hermione, who sat in the chair next to
him with a large, leather-bound book in her hands. Then, just seconds later,
Snape swept in with his wand aloft. The Potions Master looked quite
rejuvenated. His cloak swished impressively behind him just as it always
used to, and his injuries, which had still been moderately present the night
before, seemed to be gone entirely.

He towered over Harry and Draco. His black eyes bored down on them, and
with utmost trepidation, Harry peered up at him beneath his lashes.

To his surprise, Snape did not look angry or upset. In fact, he looked…
amused.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly. Draco and Harry remained silent. "I
expect you are feeling…well?"

Harry's headache throbbed in protest at that statement. He grimaced,

wondering if the Potions Master was somehow able to do that on purpose.
Draco failed to stifle an actual groan.

"Can we have a pain relieving potion?" he muttered morosely. Harry's jaw

dropped, beyond stupefied that he would even ask. Was Malfoy trying to earn
them an even more terrible punishment?

Snape, naturally, ignored the request, but he grinned, clearly delighting in

their pain. He sat in the armchair between the two pairs of teens, reclining
back and looking quite casual as he did. His tapped his wand nonchalantly
against his leg with one hand. Harry's eyes followed it warily.

"Rest assured," he began, his gaze directed towards Harry and Draco, "that
your idiotic decisions from last night will not go unpunished. I cannot even
begin to explain how very…displeased I am at your reckless behavior." He
paused. The way he spoke—so cool, so collected—was making Harry
internally panic.

"But your penance shall wait until after the infiltration into Hogwarts is
complete. For all three of you." This time, Ron was included in the threat.
Hermione, who held the book she had with her tightly to her chest, said
nothing, though it was clear by her expression that she did not disapprove.
"And trust me…"

Snape's eyes landed back on Harry. He felt his skin break out into
goosebumps as his head pounded, and Snape's voice, for the first time since
entering the room, was dark and cold. His grin vanished.

"…You will learn a lesson."

Ron, Harry, and Draco all exchanged terrified stares. Ron swallowed audibly,
his freckled face whiter than a sheet, and Malfoy did not look any better.

Snape inclined his head towards Hermione. "Miss Granger," he said in a

much more conversational tone. "If you will."

Hermione nodded and leaned forward. She addressed Harry and Draco when
she spoke. "Ron and I are leaving at six 'o'clock," she began in a business-like
tone. "The person's home who we're going to be apparating to—who we don't
even know the identity of, yet, will be expecting us, then. Professor Snape
was in contact with him last night."

Harry sat up straighter. He was in a bit of a state of disbelief—how was it that

they had temporarily avoided horrible punishment and were instead being
divulged in whatever had been discussed last night?

Had…had Hermione managed to talk that much sense into the furious,
perpetually irate Potions Master?

…It somehow made him even more anxious about what this mysterious
'punishment' was going to be.
She went on. "He lives near to the school, this person. In his home is a top
secret entrance into Hogwarts. One that's not on the Maurader's Map, even.
And, as fate would have it, it leads directly into the Room of Requirement."

Harry's jaw dropped. That sounded far too good to be true. "But… Well,
that's excellent, then, isn't it?" he said excitedly. "There's virtually no chance
of you being caught then, is there?"

"Well… technically, yes, there is," Hermione said, keeping her voice
relatively level. "It enters into one specific branch of the Room of
Requirement… It's complicated to explain. But you know how the Room
always changes, based on what the person entering it asks of it, yes? So, this
entrance is only connected to one version of the Room. Basically, we'll have
to enter into the castle halls. But only for a moment. Just to walk past the
entrance three times and request it to turn into the Room of Lost Things or
whatever you want to call it."

Malfoy nodded knowingly. "Do you know what the diadem looks like?" he
asked.

"Yes. And, actually, Malfoy, I have a question for you." Hermione opened
the book in her hands to a page which had a marker sticking out of it. She set
the tome down on the table, turning it around so that the pages were right-
side up for Draco and Harry to observe. She pointed down at a picture.

It was an image of a glittering tiara. A bejeweled crown, quite lovely, covered

in gleaming sapphires of deepest blue. The angle of the photograph rotated
slowly around the crown, so that the viewer could see it from all angles.
Hermione looked up at Draco hopefully.

"This is the diadem of Ravenclaw," she explained. "Have you… Did you ever
happen to see it, while you were in the Room of Requirement?"

Draco frowned as he stared at the slowly-moving image. "I…no." he finally

responded, and he did sound honestly forlorn at being unable to be helpful. "I
don't think so."
Hermione sighed, the hope falling from her face. "Oh, well. It was worth a
shot…"

"What if it's not in there, after all?" Harry asked.

Hermione closed the book, bringing it back to her lap. "It might not be," she
admitted. "But we'll look as long as we can. We know that we'll have from
seven until midnight, at least."

"It's a giant room, though," Malfoy added morbidly. "That's not nearly
enough time to look through the whole thing—"

"It is the time we have allotted," Snape cut across softly, effectively causing
Draco to shut his mouth. "I have no doubt that, if it is there, they will find it."
He looked at Hermione with an expression that was not warm or encouraging
even slightly, but coldly expectant.

But Hermione only nodded. "…So we have at least five hours to search," she
continued. "With any luck, we'll track it down quickly. Then it's just a matter
of getting in and out of the hall. And we'll be able to keep you posted as we
search."

She reached for her beaded bag, which had been resting on the table in front
of them, and extracted an item from within it very quickly, leaving Harry to
believe she had purposefully placed it right on top. And then, he couldn't
believe it—

"The other two way mirror!" he gasped. "You've had it!"

…And really, that should not have been surprising, now that he thought about
it.

Snape eyed him curiously, but Harry was saved from speaking as Hermione
went on. "Ah, yes. I've had Sirius's mirror for a long time now. I-I would
have asked, obviously, but—"

"But I was, er, missing in action. You're actually apologizing?" Harry

gawked, grinning despite the still -present, terrible aching in his head. "It
wasn't like I was getting much use out of it."

She returned his smile, if a bit sheepishly. "Yes, well… I have one and
Professor Snape has another. So we'll be able to communicate while we're in
the room."

"Has…has another?" Harry inquired at her particular choice of words. "What,

are there more?"

"Yes. After I repaired your shattered one, I duplicated it. Snape has one, and
Remus has another. That's how we've been keeping in touch with the Order.
And then this one…"

She flipped over the mirror in her hands, and Harry saw that it had a
reflective surface on both sides. One had a little green gem under the silver,
the other, a red one.

"I modified it so that I can use it to speak with both of them. It's been
extraordinarily useful."

Harry could do nothing but stare for a moment, a bit awed by the genius that
was Hermione Granger…before he remembered, quite suddenly, that she had
once forbidden him from using this same method of communication in their
fifth year, when he'd merely wanted to talk to Sirius. She'd deemed it too
dangerous, then, but now, now she was using it herself for a vastly more
perilous mission.

He decided, however, to keep this annoyance to himself. This was no time to

bring up childish grudges from yesteryear.

"Smart," he said instead.

Hermione perked up at the compliment, even if it was small. "And, in case

things really do go…awry…"

She reached into her pocket and set a coin down on the table. "The coins
from Dumbledore's Army…?" Harry asked, peering down at the fake galleon.

"Yes," she said, beaming. "I made more of them, passing them along to
Remus months ago. All of the Order members have them. Lupin instructed
everyone to carry the coins around at all times, and I've made an adjustment
to them, too. Now, if I press my thumb firmly onto the face side of this one,
here," she flipped the coin over, tapping the surface of it with her index
finger, "it triggers a simple incantation. All of the coins will not only burn
white-hot, but they'll light up and start spinning and emitting a high pitched,
siren-like sound. Like a sneak-o-scope, basically. That's the S.O.S. signal,
that something really bad is happening, and to send help immediately.
Professor Snape has one too, of course, and before we leave I'm going to go
speak with Remus and tell him to inform all of the Order members to be on
high alert until midnight. That if the coins go off, it means to appear at
Hogwarts at once."

Malfoy looked as impressed as Harry, though he tried to hide it behind a

mask of indifference. "Are you going to tell Lupin exactly what it is you'll be
doing in the castle?" Harry asked, looking down at the faux galleon. "That
you're going in for a horcrux?"

Hermione shook her head, her bushy hair swaying back and forth. "No. But I
am going to tell him we're getting something from the seventh floor, so they'll
have some idea of where we are, if, if…" She hesitated for a moment,
conflicted. "Well, it shouldn't matter anyway. The galleon is for emergency
use only. If anything comes up, I'm sure we'll just be able to use the mirror to
contact Professor Snape or Remus, and figure it out from there. We'll only be
present in the interior of the castle for seconds, literally, so-so it should be a
simple, in-and-out operation." She nodded firmly afterwards, like she was
convincing herself of this as she said it.

Yet Harry couldn't help but agree with her. Yes, they would be infiltrating the
castle while it was filled with Death Eaters, but…the seventh floor was
generally empty anyway, and they would, supposedly, be entering the castle
right there…
And everyone would be far away, in the Great Hall, forced to attend this
grand ceremony that the Dark Lord had planned… And the entire time that
they were in the Room, they would be able to use the mirror, updating them
as they searched, reassuring them that they were okay as they looked. And if
they could not locate it before midnight, they would simply come back, and,
well, they would just be right back where they started, then, wouldn't they?

Draco seemed to follow his train of thought. "What about the snake, then?"

It was Snape who answered, his response clipped and irate. "I can only focus
on the total destruction of one horcrux at a time."

Which served as a vivid reminder that Harry needed to have a very intimate
discussion with his ex-professor, soon.

Hermione stood, pocketing the false galleon and twirling the mirror in one
hand. "Right. I'm going to go talk with Remus, then."

What little color was in Ron's face drained as she headed towards the door.
"W-where are you going?" he asked in a high, shrill voice, and Harry
understood why at once. The very last thing that the three teenage boys
wanted was to be alone in the room with Snape. Hermione's presence was
like some semblance of protection, and without her…

"I'm going in the kitchen," she explained warily. "It wouldn't be wise to
contact him with these three in the vicinity, who are supposed to be dead,
don't you agree? Besides, I'll have to glamour the room I'm in while here, so
he doesn't recognize the location…"

Ron jumped to his feet at once. "Right you are, Hermione, let's go to the
kitchen, then. Haven't talked to Lupin in a while," he said, sounding suddenly
much more enthusiastic. And before anyone else could say anything, he put
an arm around her shoulder and walked with Hermione towards the door,
shooting Harry a very quick, slightly guilty look as he went.

…Which left Harry and Draco alone with the Potions Master.
The clock on the wall seemed to increase in volume all of a sudden. Snape
leaned back into his armchair, propping one ankle up on his knee and tapping
his wand against his thigh ominously. He said nothing, and though Harry
could just feel the dark eyes boring down onto him, he did not dare look up.
He didn't dare to look at Malfoy, either. He didn't dare to do anything more
than stare at his hands in his lap, afraid that if he so much as breathed the
wrong way Snape might decide to go back on his word and-and—

And do what, exactly? What horrible punishment did the older wizard have in
mind for he, Ron, and Draco once this was all over?

His mind began coming up with one terrible possibility after another. And
maybe Snape knew this, because he seemed content to remain quiet, letting
he and Draco wallow in their fears, his wand rapping against his leg
rhythmically the whole time, a visible, ever-present threat.

Many horribly long minutes later, and Hermione and Ron returned.
Surprisingly, they were grinning quite merrily, like they'd just had a
wonderful time.

"Everything all right?" Harry said, getting to his feet—anything to break the
awful, suffocating silence of being leered at by Snape.

"Yes, he's going to inform the Order members about the galleons, everything
should be ready before we leave at six," she affirmed.

"And," Ron continued, "We actually heard some good news, for once." Harry
quirked an eyebrow expectantly, but it was Hermione who answered.

"Tonks is pregnant!" she gushed in a very girly, un-Hermione-ish way.

"Remus said they just found out a few days ago, he seemed really anxious,
but—"

"But Hermione talked his ear off forever about how overwhelmingly
wonderful it was," Ron cut in, trying to sound annoyed but looking fondly
down at her instead.
"Yes, well, he was concerned about the baby being…wolfish, but I've read
about the condition a lot—mostly because of you, Professor, after you gave
that lecture when you filled in for him in our third year," she nodded in
Snape's direction, whose expression remained impassive, "and while there
aren't a lot of documented cases of werewolves having babies with non-
infected individuals, those that are recorded don't carry the characteristics of
lycanthropy. And really, it's probably true that there are many more people
out there who have one parent that was a werewolf, only it was covered up in
order to avoid discrimination from close-minded bigots."

She finished her little monologue with a pointed glare at Malfoy, who
actually had the audacity to look affronted. Harry laughed.

"That's great!" he said, feeling genuinely glad at the news. He could truly
think of no one better to be a loving father than Remus Lupin. And Tonks,
the wonderful, fun, jubilant Tonks…

What better parents could a child possibly ask for?

For some reason, his words made Hermione's face fall. "Y-yeah," she said,
suddenly looking conflicted.

"Hermione…" Ron said warningly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Don't—"

"What?" Harry asked at once. "What, what is it?"

She put a hand over her mouth for a moment, like she could keep the words
confined that way…but cracked almost immediately. "Oh, Evans, I just-I
can't wait until we can tell people you're okay," she said, full of emotion.
"He-Remus misses you so much. He was one of the few people who never for
a second thought that you died, you know. Still doesn't, really, I can tell-and
h-he said that he never thought he'd have children, b-but now that he knows
he's going to be a father, he dreamed of-of making you the child's Godfather.
That he couldn't even think of anyone else."

Harry stared, totally dumbfounded.

"…Me?" he breathed in disbelief. Hermione nodded vehemently.

He, Harry…a Godfather…

His mouth was suddenly very dry. "I…that's…" He could think of nothing to
say. Hermione nodded again in a knowing way, her eyes now sparkling with
moisture. She pulled him into a tight embrace.

A…a Godfather…to Remus's and Tonks's child...

Harry had never thought of being an important figure in a child's life, ever—
but suddenly, he wanted nothing more in the entire world.

"Touching," Snape drawled, ending their sentimental moment. "Please excuse

me while I try not to be sick in another room. I'll return before it is time for
you to disapparate." He paused in his retreat, fixing Hermione with a fleeting,
pointed stare. It wasn't hostile, but it was by no means kind, either.

"Pull yourself together, Miss Granger," he said simply before leaving, not
waiting for a response.

Hermione sniffled loudly after he left.

"Such a killjoy, that one," Ron muttered, pulling Hermione to him in a bit of
a side hug. She let out a breathy laugh, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Oh, he's all right," she argued, though there was a definite wariness to her
voice.

"Just…just misunderstood."

A few hours later, and they were gone.

Hermione and Ron left from the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld
Place at precisely 6:00 p.m, to the home of an unknown stranger residing near
Hogwarts. Snape had given them the exact address just moments before,
either unable or unwilling to share the same information with Harry and
Draco.
And now…they waited.

It was far worse than when they'd left for Gringotts.

Snape had taken up his same impersonation of a marble statue in an armchair

in the drawing room, his hands clasped in front of him as though he were
deep in silent prayer. His wand was intertwined between his fingers, and on
the table before him sat his two-way mirror and the fake galleon.

They knew that they would not hear from Hermione until at least after seven,
and maybe not at all, if things went smoothly. But right now, at half past six,
she and Ron were still in this stranger's home, probably being briefed in more
detail on the goings-on at Hogwarts, and about this top secret passage into the
castle…

Being in Snape's presence was absolutely unbearable.

Sentiments which were clearly shared with Draco. The two had sat in the
drawing room with the Potions Master for just seconds before Harry realized
that he simply could not take it. Maybe it was simply because he knew just
how angry the older man was, knew that he probably could not wait until this
was over so he could tear he, Ron, and Draco to pieces—but the fact that he
was acting so eerily calm about the whole ordeal, behaving so collected, so
unaffected, well…

To put it frankly, it was freaking him the fuck out.

Harry stood very slowly as Snape remained motionless. He fully expected

him to say something, to utter out some command to stay…but this did not
happen. Harry edged as cautiously as he could towards the door, hardly
daring to draw breath as he moved…yet not once did Snape say a thing to
stop him. Draco noticed this phenomenon as well, and he, too, got to his feet.
The two teens looked at each other nervously. Harry raised his eyebrows at
him as if to ask, without words,

'Do you think this is a trap?'

To which Malfoy replied by shrugging, responding with a quick, non-verbal,

'Beats me.'

They both looked warily at the statuesque Potions Master. His eyes remained
closed, his body unnaturally still.

Then, in unison, they slowly…very…very…slowly…exited the room, never

once turning their backs on the ominously still figure of Severus Snape,
fearful that if they did, he may become animate once more and fling curses at
their backsides.

But nothing happened. He let them go.

The moment they made it into the hall, they dashed on their tiptoes to safety.
They sprinted to the library, their hearts beating rapidly in their chests.

"He scares the shit out of me," Draco admitted once they had finally managed
to breathe normally again.

"What is he going to do to us?" Harry responded, to which Malfoy could do

nothing but shrug. Harry groaned. "Fuck, my head is still pounding," he
muttered as he sat on the couch, rubbing his temples.

"Firewhisky is pretty well known for its delightful hangovers," Draco replied
dryly, throwing himself down next to him.

"Well, if you knew this, you experienced alcoholic, you, why did you let us-
why did we drink so much?"

"No one thinks about the morning's hangover when they're getting drunk at
night." His last words became distorted, wrapped up in what became a long,
drawn out yawn.

And really, Harry couldn't argue with that logic.

He leaned back into the sofa, running his hands through his perpetually
messy, tangled locks. They still had at least half an hour until they may hear
from Hermione and Ron, if not longer…though two seconds in the company
of a creepily still Snape felt like a lifetime, and he would prefer to spend that
time in here, away from him…or, maybe…maybe he should take a shower,
or something, he thought lazily…

But even as the idea struck him, the overbearing wariness became too great.
Draco's yawn must have been contagious, because he failed to stifle one of
his own as he stretched his arms out in front of them. His heavy eyelids
finally fell shut, and as he lowered his arms his entire body slouched to one
side, his head colliding with Malfoy's shoulder as slumber finally, wholly
consumed him.

The dream world he was drifting into was becoming brighter, not darker.

Harry blinked his dazed eyelids open to what was, for the first time in a long
time…not the cupboard.

Everything was white.

He reached his hands forward, only to find them colliding with something
hard and solid just inches above him. Prismatic rainbows danced across his
entire body when he shifted, spectrums of color reflecting from the thin
threads of ethereal light. They clung to his lashes, to his hands, to his entire
naked body.

No.

He could not sit up.

No.

He could barely move at all.

No.

Everything around him was white and blinding and endless, and he could not
be here again, this could not be real, it could not be, he was drowning in
adrenaline, the hysteria was escalating monumentally, his heart was surely
going to explode in his chest, because this could not be real, this could not be
real and it must be a dream and he could not be here he could not be here he
could not be here and what if he had never actually left?

Far in the distance, there was an eerily motionless form. A cloak in black.
The dark figure marred the otherwise pristine, white landscape like a blot of
ink.

Harry blinked, and this time, it did not vanish.

'Scream.'

He did.

He screamed, and as he clawed at the coffin, and his own barriers shredded at
his fingertips.

He screamed, and it was the only thing he could scream, because it had been
the only word that had ever been able to pass through his lips when he had
been held here, in this crystal casket, in this world of endless white.

He screamed, and the white world flashed red.

Harry Potter screamed, and Lord Voldemort came crashing.

 22. Voldemort
'Forgive me, soul, for these, my sins…'

Harry was falling.

The transparent walls around him that he had shredded with his own hands
drifted above him like sheer bits of fabric, floating and fluttering upwards in
a non-existent wind as he fell down, down…

'…For they are many, and they are great…'

He was a cacophony of fear. Choirs sang chaos from all corners of his mind,
and it was the music of madness. He continued to descend into the white, that
world of blank, vivid nothingness that was the purgatory on the periphery of
his dreams and reality, the eternal, in-between space of his mental
landscape…

'…But you…derange me…'

Lord Voldemort's voice in his mind was…different. It was not cold and high
and shrill, the words were no longer like slivers of pointed glass or shards of
lethal ice…this voice was dark and low. These words were smoldering
embers, they were charcoal of deepest black, incendiary cinders and smoking
ashes.

He continued to fall.

'…I will mend you, my fragile phantom, my gorgeous ghost… My miracle, my

terror…but first…'

Something warm and solid and real caught him from behind. Possessive arms
wrapped around his waist and chest, pulling him into a tight hold that was
familiar, so familiar…the embrace of his fate, his downfall…

The next vow that was spoken was not in his mind, but in his ear. He could
feel the warmth of breath on his skin, fiery words that were promises of
future pyres…

"…I must bring you home."

And then the pain began.

It was the Department of Mysteries all over again. Pain beyond measure
burned through his entire being, but when he opened his mouth to scream,
this time, he was silenced. A hand covered his lips and stifled his panicked
shouts, but the agony was too much, his back was arching and his scar was on
fire, he was on fire…

"Submit, and the pain will end…" Such a gentle demand, such a deceptively
tender, kind tone. "…Submit, my beautiful, and suffer no more…"

But then Harry saw.

Through eyes that were his, but were not his…on the other side of reality,
Harry Potter's body was waking up…without him.

The sea of endless pain made it so difficult to focus, but he could make it out
above the agony, just barely, what was happening, he could see…

Draco Malfoy.

And it was so surreal, to simultaneously feel his own overwhelming fear

while at the same time feel the emotions of Lord Voldemort, who felt
genuine, true shock at the sight.

Draco Malfoy?

But he had seen his corpse, had witnessed his body being lowered into the
ground… He had watched as his wand went with him into the cold, hard
Earth, he had observed with a sense of detachment as his parents were lost to
emotion, and had decided, then, to spare Lucius, after all…

Draco Malfoy was alive?

Harry tried desperately to regain control of his body, but the pain was so
horrifically great, and Voldemort overpowered him with ease. How, he
thought savagely, how was this possible, why was he not sharing in this
terrible suffering like when he had possessed him in the Ministry, why was it
different, now, it seemed to be only he, Harry, who felt the searing pain…

"Names have power, my soul, even in dreams…and you've given me all of

yours…"

The Dark Lord whispered it throatily by way of response, his lips brushing
against the shell of Harry's ear in an unnervingly affectionate way, so gentle,
like a lover, a paramour, not a murderous monster…

"There is no need to suffer. Submit, and the pain will end… It is over…"

A sigh danced across the skin on the crook of Harry's neck before the Dark
Lord's mouth was in his ear again—

"You are mine…"

No, Harry thought torridly, no, never—yet Voldemort continued to constrain

his body and his screams with an absurd ease. Despite the agony, Harry
refused to willfully submit, because he could see, above the pain, through
eyes that were no longer his, that…that Draco was…

He was still asleep.

And if Draco was still asleep, that meant that Harry had not screamed in
reality, only in his nightmare, and that meant-that meant…

That meant that Draco Malfoy was alone and asleep in a room with Lord
Voldemort and he had no idea, he had no idea—

"…Draco Malfoy."

Harry's jaw was moving without his consent, and the sensation was
excruciatingly painful, like fire in his very bones—but not for the Dark Lord,
who controlled his body so easily…

"Mph."

Draco shifted slightly as he made a small, annoyed noise in response, and

Harry realized now that, based on the angle which he saw the blonde's
jawline, he must have fallen asleep with his head in his lap… Harry sat up,
and Draco's arm, which had been draped lazily across his chest, fell to his
side…

"You're alive."

Malfoy's eyes remained closed. "Every day's a miracle," he muttered dryly,

and he was completely oblivious and vulnerable and he had no idea—

Draco! Harry tried over and over again to yell, to warn him, but the Dark
Lord contained his screams effortlessly—

And then there were Voldemort's thoughts intermingling with his own. His
shock, his confusion… Severus Snape, he'd known, must also be alive; the
moment he'd discovered that the heart of his beautiful still beat, he'd deduced
that Severus, the traitor, his Judas, must also live…

But Draco Malfoy…?

In a motion that was so inhumanly fast that Harry would never have been
able to do it himself, he was straddling the young Slytherin on the couch, one
knee on either side of his waist, pinning him there, and his hand reached out
to grab his chin in a movement that was rather like a snake striking for its
prey. He sunk his nails into his jawline like sharp, pointed teeth, and Draco's
eyes flew open, completely bewildered—

"Whoa, what—"

But Voldemort did not hesitate. The Dark Lord leaned forward as his other
hand closed tightly around Draco's delicate throat, to stifle his voice, to
prevent him from screaming and alerting whoever else may be here…
Severus, he hoped dearly, oh, how he hoped…but first, he must see, he must
know…

Through Harry's body, Voldemort stared into the silver eyes of Draco
Malfoy…and the child's mind cracked like an egg. The Dark Lord ripped
through his memories with the ferocity of a tornado. And he saw…

…Draco Malfoy is in his home with his mother and father… The three are
locked in a tight embrace…but then the door opens, and Severus enters,
looking as cool and unreadable as always…

'…Lucius, Narcissa… It is time…'

Narcissa Malfoy pushes her son away, holding him at arm's length by the
shoulders…

'Be strong, my son.' She stands tall, valiantly holding back her emotion.
Lucius is less successful in his attempt at dignified, controlled pride, and he
turns away as a sob chokes its way out of his throat. His wife ignores him,
placing her hands on either side of her son's face so that he is looking at her,
and only her.

'We will meet again.'

Her voice is unwavering. Severus leads a tear-stained Draco Malfoy through

the door…

The memory shifts…

Draco Malfoy is alone in a dark and dusty bedroom… He is sobbing with a

pillow to his chest and he is lonely and afraid… His parents, his friends, the
entire world save for Severus Snape and those horrible Gryffindors, Weasley
and Granger, think him dead, and he is wandless and magicless and so alone,
so alone…

It shifts again…
Draco Malfoy is reading a book on wandless magic when he hears the chaos.
The door is flung open and there is screaming and shuffling and haphazard
movement—he runs to the front door to see—

'Holy shit.'

Harry Potter in the arms of what must be Severus Snape, under so many
layers of clothing he is unrecognizable…

'Move.'

Draco does, and he is speechless, because Harry Potter… Harry Potter is

alive…

It deteriorated again and again, snippets of the memories of Draco Malfoy,

and Lord Voldemort absorbed them with a nearly impossible, rapid
intensity… In lightning flashes, the Dark Lord saw and lived fragments of the
life of the young Slytherin boy…

…Draco is sitting across the room from Harry Potter, and they are glaring at
each other in tense, angry silence…

Draco leads Harry to the library, explaining to him how Snape found it only
recently… He is watching in a bored but mild curiosity as Harry is grinning
at him with such a radiant smile, when he has uncovered a-a piano…

'We could have music.'

…But Harry cannot play the piano in reality, and Draco is annoyed…
Eventually, Harry stops…

They are chasing a rogue snitch… They are dashing through the halls and a
portrait is screaming…

Harry plays the piano again and it is…better…

Draco begins writing… He is recording everything that has happened to him,

he is keeping his confessions in a little black book… A diary, just like his old
diary… Harry notices and it is obvious by the conflict in his eyes that he is
deeply bothered by this… Draco doesn't understand, but he doesn't ask,
either…

He is writing about how Harry Potter is infuriating and arrogant and

maddening and he hates it here, he does, but…but maybe, maybe the so-
called Golden Boy isn't…isn't…terrible…

…Harry is playing the piano again, and then suddenly, in the midst of a
mediocre song, the music shifts entirely.

It is haunting. It is wild and mesmerizing, it is the melody of his dreams, and

Voldemort knows this song, was there, when he played it, the first time…
Draco is staring in complete and total awe, because it is beautiful, and how,
how did he become so good, so quickly…?

…The memories shift again…

Draco hears the sound of—but no, it can't be—

Bellatrix?

'…Draco… So you are alive… We've missed you so much at the meetings,
nephi-kins…' His Bella is advancing in her elegant, poised prowl… '…Cissy
misses you…as does your useless, sorry excuse for a father…' Her voice
darkens significantly, her eyes flashing dangerously as they trail down to
Draco's thigh, 'Nagini misses you, too…'

There was the first wave of unconstrained emotion from the Dark Lord, then,
Harry could feel it amidst the chaos and pain—

When did Bellatrix appear here, when, and how, and—

'Good God, Hermione—'

'Oh, I'm so sorry—I lost myself completely—'

-not Bellatrix, but an imposter…the mudblood…but why…?

But then the memory shifted again, and it was because Draco was suddenly
fighting back… Foolish, impudent child… Voldemort dug his talons in
deeper into his mind and wrapped his fingers more tightly around his throat
to cut off his screams. He was gasping for breath, but Lord Voldemort was
not finished…

Harry, Draco, and…and the mudblood impersonator, and…Crabbe…but it is

not Crabbe, it must be the other child, also under the influence of Polyjuice
Potion… But why, what were they doing—Lord Voldemort would find out
why and—

That song.

That horrid song starts playing, and is Harry quoting the apparition of Albus
Dumbledore from his nightmares, or is it the other way around? But suddenly
Harry Potter is on his knees in front of Draco donning golden sunglasses and
a black scarf and Draco hates that he, just like everyone else, can't help but be
a little bit enamored by the famous, beloved Boy Who Lived…

The vision changes…

Draco and Harry are sitting across from each other at a table, a bottle of
Firewhisky between them… He is drunk and smiling and Harry is trying very
hard to look very serious…

'…The sorting hat wanted to put me into Slytherin…'

And that was the truth… Draco is shooting back whisky and Harry is
laughing, and the game goes on and they are smoking muggle cigarettes and
the blonde boy is having more fun than he has had in a very long time. Harry
begrudgingly writes something for him in his little black book and…

And…

Before Voldemort could see the words, the memory was ripped away from
him. Draco was internally howling in mental pain butstill, he was fighting.
Severus must have taught him some mediocre Occlumency, because that last
memory tangibly triggered something in him and he was frantic and
struggling as he attempted to cast up walls…but the Dark Lord tore them
away, and it was easy, so easy…

Voldemort dug in deeper, purposefully reaching for those memories which

Draco was trying desperately to shield from him, now, and the next image
that surfaced was—

Harry.

It is Harry, playing the piano, again… But this time, he looks so…

He looks so happy.

The music is…it is even more beautiful than his dream song. It is light and
hopeful and laced with just a hint of flawed, human emotion. It is the music
of pure joy.

It is perfect.

Draco is watching, even though he had been trying to feign disinterest…but

then Harry catches him. Vibrant green eyes glance up at him, but he just-he
just smiles warmly before continuing on with his melody, simply happy to be
happy—

The flustered emotions in Draco Malfoy's mind are-are—

And it did not matter.

It did not matter even slightly, why Lucius, Narcissa, and Severus thought it
imperative to hide Draco Malfoy away from him. To fake his death, to
contrive such a dangerous, foolish ploy. It did not matter, because Lord
Voldemort was about to right this wrong right here, right now.

His grasp on the child's throat tightened, and Draco's already shallow breaths
ceased altogether. But as he began to die Voldemort continued to relentlessly
rip apart his mind, determined to make him suffer until the very last second
of his life as his red face rapidly began to turn blue, and there were
deteriorating flashes of he and Harry shooting back whisky and running
through the halls and—

—was that his locket?

Virtually nothing else would have done it.

Nothing short of the sight of his locket around the neck of his adored could
have caused such an unhinging rift in the mind of the Dark Lord. For a very,
very brief moment, Voldemort was wholly distracted from his ire by pure and
utter shock.

It was the moment that would save Draco Malfoy's life.

Harry was able to shake free from his possessive grasp just long enough to
gain control of his body again, to loosen his death grip from around the
blonde's throat, and Draco's entire body shuddered as he inhaled the very
breath of life—

And this time, when Harry screamed, it was in the waking world.

It was wordless and panic-stricken. It was the sound of pain and misery.

It was short, a momentary scream that fleetingly shattered the still air before
Voldemort regained his composure and once more pulled Harry's body back
under his control, a lethal snarl of fury in his throat—

But it was enough.

Seconds later, and Severus Snape was in the doorway, his wand held high.

Lord Voldemort turned and saw his traitorous ex-pupil through Harry Potter's
eyes, and though the Dark Lord had remained successfully cold and collected
in his mental disposition until now, there was no stopping the powerful rush
of hate that flowed through him at the sight, the crushing emotions of rage
and betrayal as he looked up at the face of his Judas, and the sheer power that
was Lord Voldemort was so overwhelming that Harry almost drowned in it
completely…

"…Severus…"

Harry's voice was unnaturally chilling, but Snape's face remained

undecipherable, though he must have known at once, he must have
recognized the uncontainable aura of the fury that was the Dark Lord… The
Potions Master raised his wand in Harry's direction, and in an irrationally
level, detached voice, said,

"Legilimens."

…Harry's mind was a battlefield.

All three of them plunged into his white, endless mental landscape…and it
instantaneously became a tempest, a cyclone, a whirl wind arena. On one side
there was Severus Snape, and on the other was…

Who was this man?

There was no one else he possibly could be, and yet the question repeated
itself in Harry's mind over and over.

Who was this man, infiltrating his mind and tearing at his thoughts? Who was
this man, fighting for the possession of his body?

Who was…this?

He was unrecognizable.

Lord Voldemort was tall and towering and frighteningly glorious. He was
hovering in the turbulent air, staring down at Snape with eyes that were red,
and they had always been red, but now they were lit up like fire, burning like
flames—his irises glowed crimson and his hair shone black and his skin was
so vibrant it seemed to radiate light, even against the backdrop of this world
of vivid white…

And the strangest thing of all was something which, arguably, wasn't even
there. There were shadows, long and dark and…and they were shaped like
wings, as if Voldemort had giant, overarchingwings, but when Harry looked
up at the Dark Lord himself, there was nothing physically there, that he could
see, only the impossible shadows that such nonexistent appendages would
cast…

Voldemort was someone, something else entirely… and it was terrifying.

The Dark Lord's fiery rage was once more suppressed, and it was with an
emotionless exterior of expert self-control that he turned his focused, deadly
wrath on Severus Snape.

The two stone-faced wizards waged war on one another.

Winds were screaming in Harry's ears and tearing across his fear-filled mind.
Snape had his arms raised as he relentlessly forced up wall after mental wall,
attempting to push Voldemort away, to banish him completely from Harry's
body… Harry was screaming in agony as his mind became a war zone, his
mental landscape being ripped and shredded apart with no consideration
whatsoever. He was curled up in the fetal position on the ground between
them, the cries of horror streaming out of his mouth without pause, but he
was completely ignored as the two dark wizards were focused solely on the
destruction of one another…

Snape continued to construct mental shields with an agility that Harry would
have never thought possible, but they were crushed under the all mighty
power of Lord Voldemort again, and again, and again…

It was teacher versus pupil, Master Legilimens against Master Occlumens.

…But Lord Voldemort was winning.

Lord Voldemort was winning, and Harry knew it, because occasionally there
would be a vision, a flash, a fragment of a memory, and they were not his,
they could only belong to…

…Snape is kneeling on a hill in a valley in the dark, and Albus Dumbledore

towers over him, his snow white beard billowing in the wind of a storm that
is so similar to the chaos of Harry's mind that, for a moment, it feels almost
as if the Headmaster may really be here, now, in the horror of his thoughts…
A younger Severus Snape is on his hands and knees and he is pleading to a
cold and unsympathetic Dumbledore, but Harry can't make out the words
through the turmoil and the pain of his own mental storm…

As soon as it came, the vision was gone. Snape must have reached deep
within himself to fight, then, for he conjured up several barriers at once, and
the Dark Lord's mask-like face was suddenly filled with the emotion he felt,
and Harry felt it, too…

There was unfathomable hate in his eyes and in his scowl and in his heart. He
was rage personified, and when he spoke, even amongst the chaos of Harry's
mental winds, the single word carried across, and it was brimming with pure
animosity…

"Traitor…"

And the Occlumency walls that Snape had just constructed, all of them,
exploded, and Harry was screaming and screaming and screaming—

Snape somehow, astoundingly, remained on his feet after such an onslaught,

but it was useless, he was going to lose and it was over, all over, Harry had
damned them all—

"Fight!"

For a fleeting second, Severus actually acknowledged the shaking, pain-

riddled form of Harry Potter writhing on the ground, and he…he sounded so
frantic, so pleading… He was asking—no,demanding that he, Harry, help…

But there was nothing, nothing he could do, save for scream…
"Fight!"

He repeated the command, and this time, when he shouted the word, Snape
fell to his knees, and Harry saw it… He saw the desperation in his black gaze,
could feel the rest of his unspoken words, and knew…

They were lost.

Harry closed his eyes and felt the burden of total, hopeless surrender weigh
heavy on his soul.

It was an emotion that Voldemort must have felt, too, because at that thought
a burst of vindictive, triumph-filled power crashed across his mind, and
another memory that was not his own came forth…

…Snape is in a dark, broken room where a gaping hole in the ceiling reveals
a clear, starry night sky… He is sobbing profusely, and there is another
sound, too… An infant… A baby cries right along with him as he is keeled
over on the wooden floor, cradling something in his arms… A woman…a
woman with dark, red hair, and…

Harry's pain was all but forgotten as his heart froze in his chest.

Snape is holding her, her, and she is lifeless in his arms, and that is him,
crying in the background, a baby who has just become an orphan, and-and
that is his mother—

The moment he thought of her, he heard it.

The music.

The memory of Severus Snape vanished, and Harry could hear the sound of
someone…someone humming.

A new vision forms, his own, and it is the antithesis of the one he has just
witnessed.

Flashes of a recollection that he did not know he even had.

…his mother, only she is warm and vibrant and full of life. She is cradling
her infant son in her arms as she hums a lullaby. Harry knows the song, can
recognize it… It is 'Amazing Grace', a muggle song, and she is humming it to
him as she rocks her son back and forth, back and forth, coaxing him in to
sleep, to rest…

It was the loveliest sound in the entire world. The pain, the horrific pain,
ebbed away as he clung to it, and as he focused on her voice the agony
continued to fade… A feeling of pure, beautiful warmth encapsulated him,
and it was such blissful relief, for the pain to end…

He felt safe and warm…

The world seemed to go into a vacuum. The devastating wind ceased, and he
could hear nothing but her voice as it became louder and more pronounced…

And then, when he opened his eyes… He saw her.

Here, now.

His mother.

Lily Evans was standing before him. She looked young, hardly any older than
he was, now… She was dressed in a long, flowing dress of pure white, and
there were flowers in her hair, lilies as white as the fabric against her skin, as
bright as this very world of his chaos-filled mind… She was glowing with a
soft, ethereal light, and she couldn't be real, no, because nothing can bring the
dead back to life, not really…

…But she wasn't not real, either.

She was…the most beautiful sight that Harry had ever seen.

Lily was looking down at him with such longing in her eyes that it was
palpable. Harry unfurled his crumpled, tangled body so that he was propped
up on his knees before her, and though she was saying nothing, the melody
from the memory continued to echo in his mind, her soft, humming lullaby…

"…M…mother…"

Harry could barely bring himself to say it, because he had never, ever called
someone else by that name before. Lily's eyes instantly watered at the single
word—this, the sound of her son whom she had never known calling her
mother, and she nodded vehemently, looking like she wanted to cry and
laugh and sing all at the same time…

Which Harry did, too. A cacophony of emotions swelled in his chest as the
pain from just moments ago dissipated entirely.

"Please," he begged, reaching for her. "…Please help me."

She was so visibly torn. She bit her lower lip in the same way that Harry did
when he was conflicted, and everyone had always told him that he looked so
like his father, but really, as he stared up into the face of the beautiful,
impossible woman… He knew that he was his mother's son.

"…Please save me."

Harry could feel the tears on his face as they flowed from the corners of his
eyes, but she remained firmly in focus. And he understood why she was so
torn, why she was so unsure of how to proceed…because Harry knew what
she was.

Lily was an angel and a goddess, she was his saving, amazing grace… And if
she, his mother, were to reach out and take his outstretched hand…

She would give him peace.

"I don't want to live like this anymore."

She was crying now, too. Silent tears that made her eyes glisten like
emeralds, green and bright and lovely, just like his… They were so beautiful
and he could look at them forever and he just wanted to look at them
forever…

There was a moment that did not know time as they simply gazed at each
other. The melody of her lullaby was growing louder, clearer, and the light
that seemed to radiate around her was becoming brighter and more inviting
by the second.

Outside of their sphere where the violent winds didn't blow, there was
shouting and panic and chaos. Because they could see her, too; they must
have been able to, because this was Harry's mind, and she was here, right
here…but even though they had both stopped in their war, were both
screaming and trying to reach them, they could not, and they went entirely
unnoticed and unheard.

Lily only had eyes for her son, and Harry only had eyes for his mother.

"Please."

She finally broke.

Lily stepped forward, nodding as the tears continued to flow like shimmering
rivers down her cheeks. She extended her hand towards him, and Harry
knew, knew, just like he knew so long ago, when in a dream he once stood at
the entrance before the veil in the Department of Mysteries…that if he took
her hand here, now, in this world of white…

Harry Potter would die.

She reached for him, and he was smiling and crying and finally, finally, the
pain, the struggle, all of it would end…

His hand was just inches from hers when he heard them.

Thoughts that were not his own, nor were they hers, nor were they Snape's.

They burst from the bottom of Lord Voldemort's blackened heart like a flock
of doves. Uncontainable thoughts that floated from him in an untamable
panic, like a child who was lost and confused and pleading—they were pure
and innocent and honest, and they fluttered fleetingly across Harry's mind,
each one with the soft caress of a feather… thoughts like—

'But I just got you back—'

'Please, no, no, no—'

And,

'But I lo—'

"…What?"

…Virtually nothing else would have done it.

At that inexplicable thought, at those impossible words, Harry's focus on his

mother wavered, and he turned to look at the wizard who has just thought
such an unbelievable, astonishing,authentic thing…

The presence of Lily Evans had caused the Godly entity of Lord Voldemort
to change completely. He had deteriorated. The Dark Lord had fallen from
the sky and was on his hands and knees, trying desperately, so desperately to
fight through the tempest and the chaos to get to him, but he could not get
any closer to the safe haven that his mother's love provided… And there was
emotion on his face that Harry would have never thought possible. Even as
he stared at him, even as he looked straight into his scarlet eyes and could
feel the true, painfully raw honesty there, he could not quite believe it, that
this look of desperation and longing and fear was really there…

'Don't leave me.'

He didn't actually say the words, but Harry heard them, anyway.
The silent vacuum that he had fallen into vanished. He turned to face her
again, but she was gone, Lily Evans was gone, though her lullaby continued...

And the sound of her music seemed to have had the exact opposite effect on
Severus Snape.

While Lord Voldemort was reduced to an impossible, emotional wreck, the

Potions Master had experienced a renaissance. Harry would have never
thought to use the word magnificent to describe Severus Snape, but he could
think of nothing else as he watched his savior rise up, both arms extended as
his black robes billowed around him triumphantly in the whirl wind of
Harry's mind—and for the first time, then, Lily's melody was given words,
and Harry heard the sound of his mother's voice at end of her beautiful song
—

'…was blind, but now…'

Snape was on the brink of victory—

'…I see…'

With one, fluid motion, Occlumency barriers of impossible strength burst

forth, and the weakened Lord Voldemort was banished.

The mayhem fell away, and Harry and Snape crumpled to the floor, back in
the library of Grimmauld Place. But hardly a second passed before Snape was
moving, active and on his feet in an instant—

He had his wand pointed at his left forearm and was muttering an incantation,
but Harry couldn't make out what it was over the high-pitched ringing in his
ears. He immediately performed the same spell on a trembling Draco Malfoy,
who was in a state of complete and total shock at what just transpired—

And then he pointed his wand away from both of them, saying in a flat, quiet
tenor,

"Expecto Patronum."
…A doe.

A beautiful, shining doe materialized before him. It tilted its lovely head in
the older wizard's direction, as though waiting for instructions… Snape
reached a hand out towards her like though he might run his fingers along her
neck, but pulled away before they passed through her like the silvery
phantom that she was...

"Your son lives," he said to her with a deadened voice. "Your memories were
modified. The Dark Lord knows. He will come for you. Run. Now."

He gave a short nod once he'd finished. The doe cantored away, passing
straight through the library walls like a ghost as it went to deliver its message.

…A doe. A doe.

There was pain in every orifice of his body, but Harry had reached his
threshold for suffering, physically or otherwise. He pushed his shaking body
to his feet and faced his deathly pale ex-professor.

Because everything made sense, now.

Yet before he could say anything, a distraction came in the form of a

quivering whimper to his right. Draco, shaking from the after-effects of such
a brutal intrusion into his mind—by him, Harry thought suddenly with a
wave of nausea, it was through his body, that such a terror had occurred—had
his left arm extended, and the Dark Mark on his forearm was an angry,
violent black…

But he was not screaming in pain, and neither was Snape, because he-he must
have numbed them, first, one tiny but monumentally critical step in front of
the Dark Lord…

And the patronus… He just sent the doe, to Draco's parents…

"Draco," Harry breathed in utter at what he had just done. "Draco, I-I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry, I—"
But Malfoy was staring right through him, like he was a mirage, an
apparition. He was in a state of such shock that he could do little more than
blink his wide, gray eyes…and they were flat and empty.

Harry's hands flew to his hair as he felt the familiar sensation of Snape's
mental barriers in his mind and his breathing was becoming labored and what
had he done, what had he done—

He turned to look at Snape, who seemed to barely be remaining on his feet,

he was so pale and worn and at the end of his rope. He looked like a standing
corpse in the library, the guest of honor at a wake in the Ancient and Most
Noble House of Black—

"Why didn't you let her take me?"

Harry's voice was raspy and crackly. Snape didn't move even slightly, and he
wondered if maybe the older wizard couldn't hear him. A spark of rage licked
its way up his spine.

"Why didn't you let her take me?" he repeated, and this time, Snape's eyes
came back into focus, like he was remembering himself…

But he still said nothing.

Harry shattered completely.

"I know you know what I am!" he yelled, and he tasted the metallic, familiar
cool of static on his tongue. Harry advanced on Snape in a stampede of rage,
and the older wizard did nothing, was frozen where he stood in shock. "I
know you know that I'm one of them!Iwas in Trelawney's body! Iwas the one
who told you in the hall at Hogwarts! I know you've known this entire time!"

There was a spark of something flashing in the air around him. Books from
shelves went flying behind him, slamming into walls in his frenzied rage—

"I am a horcrux!" he screamed, the words like razors cutting at his throat as
he proclaimed such a confession out loud. "I am a horcrux, I need to die, why
wouldn't you let me die!?"

Snape took a step back in retreat. His sallow face was twisted in fear at the
emotional wrath of Harry Potter, at his devastating words, and he looked so
afraid and conflicted and desperate—so similar to how Lord Voldemort
looked just moments ago, in the tempest of his mind, and, for some reason,
this made Harry laugh—it was nearly hysterical, this laughter, because wasn't
it so funny, that these two dark wizards dare had the audacity to become so
hopelessly weak and guilt-ridden at what has become of him, when they had
been the ones to take away his choices again, and again, and again?

The sound of his laughter made Snape pale even further. His wrath returned
with a swift and deadly vengeance.

"You loved her!" Harry roared, and the table snapped in half. The black diary
flew to the floor, landing open on its spine. "You loved my mother! You
loved her, and he murdered her anyway, and that's why you've switched
sides! That's why you are so hell-bent on killing him! So you want
vengeance? You want to kill the Dark Lord? Then you'll need to kill me
first!"

Harry reached for Snape's right hand, yanking his limp wrist up so that his
wand was under his chin, pointing at his throat—

"Do it!" he screamed, pressing the wand tip into the flesh on his neck. "Do
it!" Snape was shaking his head, looking more horrified and feeble than
Harry had ever seen him, but it only fueled the fire of his rage. "Do it,
youcoward! Do it, you fucking turncloak! Do it! Do it! Do it!"

Snape slapped him in the face.

It was such a harsh, powerful backhanded action that Harry actually stumbled
to the side, nearly falling. But the shock wore off almost at once, and as he
rubbed his stinging cheek he started laughing again.

"Why not?" he asked in a falsely conversationally tone, smiling through the

pain. "Why not, Professor? You're going to have to, eventually."
"No." Snape finally found his voice, though he still looked little more than a
dead man standing. "No. There is a way. There is a way…remorse. He can
take it back, through remorse…"

"Remorse," Harry repeated hollowly. "…He can…take it back, if he feels

remorse." Snape nodded robotically. There was a beat of silence, and then
Harry was laughing harder than ever.

"That will neverhappen!" he shouted between fits of hysterical giggles. "You

seriously think he would willingly take it back, that he could feel remorseful,
that—"

Snape became a human being again, and the anger that sparked to life in him
rivaled that of Harry's just moments ago.

"He will repent for what he has done!" the older man shouted murderously,
and he was no longer cowering, but standing tall and powerfully erect. "I will
destroy every other part of him, and then he can rot in a cell in Azkaban
while I figure it out! I don't care if I need to discover how to brew remorse
and shove it down his immortal throat! I don't care if I need to fracture my
own crooked soul and force it onto his so that he can feel it! I don't care what
I have to do, but I will makehim feel remorse for what he has done, and he
will take it back, and I will save you, because you—"

He took a step forward, reaching for Harry—

"Deserve—"

He grabbed the front of his shirt and was forcing him to hear the words being
shouted in his face, as if that would make him believe them, too—

"To live!"

The older, broken wizard's face was just an inch from Harry's. His black eyes
were smoldering with such a vehement passion and determination that he
wasn't sure how to respond, it was unnerving and terrible and painful, and he
didn't understand the tangled mess of emotions in his chest as they started to
unravel but then he realized that what he was feeling was…was…

Relief.

It was like a breath that he hadn't even known he was holding came rushing
out, some kind of terrible tension that suddenly broke. Because this entire
time, somewhere deep, deep down, he had convinced himself that Snape was
planning on killing him. He had been certain without consciously confronting
it that Severus Snape was going to orchestrate the destruction of all of the
horcruxes, leaving Harry for the very last, and that he had some complex ploy
to simultaneously kill Tom Riddle and Harry Potter at the same time, once
and for all ridding the world of Lord Voldemort.

But he was wrong.

The ferocity in his eyes could not be interpreted any other way. Snape had no
intention of sacrificing Harry, ever. He was determined to save him from the
beginning, no matter what the cost, what it took, even if it meant losing
himself in the process.

Harry's own rage-filled energy dissipated. He felt…unworthy. After all that

he had done, after what had just transpired…

"No, I don't."

His own whispered voice sounded like someone else's. Snape looked like he
may backhand him again.

"Yes, you do," he said instead, his low voice unwavering. He didn't blink as
his fist tightened around the fabric of Harry's shirt, not for a moment letting
him look away or deny it again. "You are innocent. You were a victim from
the beginning, you were never given a choice. You deserve to live. Never say
otherwise again."

It wasn't hostile, the way he said it, but it left no room whatsoever for
argument.
And Harry felt something that he never, ever had before in his entire life for
the man before him. As much as he wished he could just hate him, could go
back to yelling and shouting and being angry, so angry…he couldn't.

He couldn't do anything but fall forward and bury his head in the crook of the
other man's shoulder and sob. And Snape, Severus Snape, just held him
upright and let him, and…and he must have been imagining things, because
Harry could have sworn that it felt like the Potions Master himself may have
been sobbing, too.

Time felt warped and distorted. It could have been just seconds that they
stood there like that, it may have been an hour. But at some point the moment
was broken by another emotionally-drenched voice.

"…M-my parents…"

Draco must have awoken from whatever state of mental shock he'd been
trapped in. He was leaning forward on the couch with his elbows on his
knees, staring at his hands like he had never seen them before, like he was
looking at the open palms of a stranger.

Harry broke away from the rigid embrace of his ex-professor. He fell to his
knees before the damaged blonde, grabbing his hovering hands and staring
into his gray eyes pleadingly.

"Draco, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm-I didn't, I—"

"It wasn't you," Malfoy said. His voice was flat but his steely eyes were
glittering with tears. "It wasn't you, it wasn't your fault—"

"There is a very good chance they escaped." Snape's eyes were completely
bloodshot, and he looked worn and absolutely exhausted, but there was no
evidence of tears having fallen on his dry face. "Narcissa is incredibly quick
and excellent under pressure, I have no doubt that she reacted at once…"

Draco nodded mutely. Harry was about to begin apologizing again, to say
something, anything…but he never got the chance.
There was a ringing sound.

At first, none of them reacted. It was as if, maybe, they each, individually
thought that they were imagining the sound, that it was just some kind of
high-pitched, buzzing in their head as an after effect of what had just
happened… But when it did not stop, and, in fact, continued to get louder—
they knew.

They all sprang into action so quickly it felt surreal. Harry couldn't even feel
his body as they all entered into the drawing room, didn't even notice the
motion as his feet carried him there…

The coin on the table was spinning and glowing. The siren was a mechanical
scream in their ears.

"No…" Snape gasped as he took a step towards it, staring at it as though he

could will it to stop, could simply make it so that it was a part of his
imagination, after all.

And in a different mindset, he never would have done it.

Were he in a calm and collected state, Snape would have left without
checking, he would have followed his own protocol and gone at once—but he
was not level-headed, he was not the cool and detached Potions Master that
he usually was. He was a man who had finally been pushed beyond his limit,
who had just seen, in the mental warzone of the boy he had dedicated his life
to saving,her, the love of his life, the first and last person he had ever given
his unwanted affection to, and each and every one of the surgically precise,
carefully placed sutures he'd sewn into his broken heart over the years had
just been ripped apart, torn from his battered soul and strewn across the floor
—he was vulnerable and weak and in that moment he was in a state of total
denial, because it could not be, not now, not again, that he could lose anyone
else, no, he refused to accept it, to believe—

He reached for the mirror, and in a cracked and broken voice, said,

"Hermione Granger."
There was a second of silence.

Harry couldn't see what Snape could see, for the Potions Master had turned
so that the reflected surface was facing away from him…but he saw the blood
drain from the older man's face.

He saw the horror in his bottomless eyes and the fear in his very soul.

And he heard.

It was a sound that filled the room, familiar and crazed and hysterically
joyous.

It was the maniacal cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange.

 23. Draco's Redemption
"Severus!"

Bellatrix's shrill voice was mocking, even in the midst of her laughter. "So it's
true then! You are alive! Oh yes, don't look so pale, dearie, of course the
Dark Lord told me! I am his favored!Rumor has it you've been very, very
naughty, Severus…that you own sorry skin isn't the only thing you've been
hiding…" Her voice trailed off darkly before she erupted in to cackles again.

Snape was so weak and bloodless-looking that Harry was amazed he could
still stand, considering what had just transpired. Yet his voice was somehow,
miraculously, quite level when he responded.

"Bellatrix. Do not—"

"Do not!?" Bellatrix's laughter immediately ceased as she cut Snape off,
snarling. "Do not tell me what to do, you cockroach! No, you listen to me,
you filthy traitor!"

Harry and Draco were both trembling against each other. Harry knew that if
Malfoy's shaking arm around his shoulder wasn't supporting him both
physically and mentally at the moment, he would have done…something.
Collapsed, ran, grabbed the mirror, shouted—he didn't even know what, but
the pressure of Draco's arm, while not necessarily very strong, acted like an
anchor and kept him frozen in place.

"Oh, I am so glad you gave a call, though." The witch's voice was practically
a purr, now. Harry was still unable to see her as Snape purposefully held the
mirror facing away from them, undoubtedly so that shecould not see them,
but he could imagine her vindictive grin quit clearly. "I knew exactly what
this mirror was when I found it, and my, oh, my, if it wasn't just one of many
fascinating things in muddy's big bag of wonders. And to think, I was just on
the fence about whether or not these two rug rats breaking into the castle
counted as an emergency or not… Oh, but I didn't explain myself, did I? How
I caught them red-handed? You know, it's really a brilliantly enchanted item,
this map… Shows you the names of anyone in the castle, even mudbloods…"

A cold wave a comprehension rushed over Harry so quickly that he felt

lightheaded. The Marauder's Map. She had it, because the Dark Lord had
found it, because he, Harry, had been carrying it with him in his knapsack on
the Knight Bus, and for a fleeting instant he was reliving that moment when
he'd seen flashing red eyes in the reflective surface of the window and the
bag with his cloak and his map had gone tumbling down onto the floor and—

"Well," Bellatrix went on proudly, "the Dark Lord instructed me to keep an

eye on it, after saying so suddenly he would not be attending, after all… So
just imagine my surprise when the names of the world's most wanted
unregistered muggleborn and her supposed sickly companion show up! For
about three seconds, on the seventh floor!"

She started cackling again, and it was obvious by the way she was speaking,
so quickly, so gleefully, that she was more than eager to tell Severus Snape
about her own victory in detail in order to see him become increasingly
horrified. Harry's skin was crawling with anxiety, his heart pounding in dread
as he, Draco and Snape all stood transfixed at her words, fearing the
conclusion to this tale, but it couldn't be, she couldn't have—they could not
be—

"Could have just chalked it up to seeing things, I suppose, but no, not me, I
am the Dark Lord's most trusted for a reason… I decided to investigate, to
wait and see, and sure enough…" She sighed, like she was greatly
disappointed. "Silly little duckies didn't even disillusion themselves. It was
just too easy. Oh, but I'm being rude, aren't I? You didn't call to speak to me,
no, you called for muddy, didn't you? Here, I'll put her on—"

Snape's eyebrows raised, and Harry wouldn't have thought it possible for the
blood to drain from his face even more than it already had, but—

"Crucio!"

Draco's body tensed at the same time that Harry's did. They both inhaled
sharply in anticipation for the agonizing screams—
…But none came. None came, and yet Snape looked mortified, and was
shaking his head no, as if in horrified denial, and—

"You'll have to use your imagination, of course, I've silenced them both.
Wouldn't want their screams to carry down to the Hall, now that dinner's
over. This redhead especially, Salazar, he's evenlouder than the girl when I
curse her, and yet he still refuses to talk—disgusting, gangly thing—I can
almost see why one would think he really does have Spattergroit, but I'm
fairly certain those are just freckles—"

"Bellatrix, please-"

"Please!" she shrieked in delight. "Please, he says! Have you developed a

fondness for this one, Severus? Shouldn't be surprising, you have a history
for harboring affection for mudbloods, don't you…?" Her laughter vanished
at Snape's widened eyes. "Oh, yes," she drawled wickedly. "I know all about
that, too…"

Bellatrix made a low humming noise in her throat before speaking again. "I'll
tell you what, Severus," she said in a conversational tone. "I'll make you a
deal, for old time's sake… Here's what I'll do. I wasn't going to summon the
Dark Lord, I was going to just keep them locked up until he returned from
this mysterious critical issue he had to tend to, I would not dare distract him
just for them, no… But for you, oh, for you… I'll tell you what. I'll wait to
kill. I have two hostages here, and really, now that I think on it, I only need
one alive in order to figure out what they've been up to. I could slaughter one
of them and be doing the world a favor…especially if I rid it of the
mudblood."

"No, Bellatrix, d—"

"Ha-ha! Oh, you dolike her, don't you?" she sneered in disgust. "Well then
listen up, you vile, traitorous turn-cloak. I won't kill her…yet. I'll just
entertain myself with some non-lethal Unforgivables for a bit. I'll wait until
the Dark Lord arrives to kill. Then, once he rips her pretty little mind apart,
the girl's life is over. Maybe blood traitor's here as well, depending on what
he finds. And I'm summoning him right…now."
Snape actually winced at the sight of what must have been Bellatrix
activating the Dark Mark on her arm. She cackled elatedly.

"Think you can arrive in time to play the part of hero, Sevvy? Or will you just
be the cause of the death of another mudblood girl, hm? And the real
question… Who will get here first? You…orhim?"

She was lost to laughter again, and maybe he'd meant to do it, maybe he
hadn't—but the mirror in Snape's hand went flying across the room,
shattering even more violently than when Harry had smashed it so long ago,
when it had failed to show him the image of his Godfather…

The thoughts in Harry's mind were a chaotic, panicked mess. Hermione and
Ron were alive—but she had just summoned Voldemort, he would be there
soon, and—

He had seen the locket. He'd seen it through Harry's eyes, through Malfoy's
memories, and-and how much time had passed since he'd been banished from
his body? It couldn't have been long enough for him to go and check on
wherever he'd originally hidden the locket, could it? Would he even be able
to? Had the battle in Harry's mind drained him even a fraction of the amount
that it had drained Snape?

Whether he'd had time to check on it or not, he was sure to be heading to

Hogwarts, now…or would he? Maybe they had time, maybe he would go and
check on his locket first, after all… And Bellatrix had been manipulating
Snape, was using Hermione's life like a lure, to get him to go right now, so
that when the Dark Lord did arrive, it would be to the physical presence of
the man he hated more than anyone else in the entire world…

…And it looked like it was going to work.

Snape whipped out his wand and pointed it straight at Harry. His black eyes,
which were framed with dark bags from fatigue, were nonetheless calculating
as he stared at him…and Harry knew what he was thinking, because he knew
that Snape knew himso well.
He could knock Harry out to stop him from leaving or chasing after him, but
putting him in a vulnerable, unconscious state could potentially be very
dangerous, especially considering what had just happened.

He could put him in a full-body bind, but that would just be one more syphon
on his already severely drained magical energy—which was currently being
used to maintain Occlumency barriers in a foreign mind.

Which left the one option.

"No, don't—"

"Incarcerous."

Black ropes wrapped around Harry's entire body in a flash. Draco hardly
caught him before he would have gone falling sideways to the floor. His legs
were bound together at the knees and ankles, as well as his hands behind his
back, and yet another rope coiled around his midsection several times over.
He was rendered completely immobile.

"You stay here," he started, though he was looking somewhere in between the
two boys, not quite making eye contact with either. "Be prepared to
reconstruct your own Occlumency walls. Draco,you keep him here."

Snape's voice was cold and unfeeling. "If you do not hear from me before
midnight, take the portkey and leave. Is that understood?"

Draco was nodding like he was in a daze, but Harry was aghast.

"No! Snape—no! No! You'll die! It's me he wants! He'd trade them for me!
Don't go without me, he'll just—he'll just kill you too!"

But Snape was not listening. He was a dreadful sight to behold as he turned
towards the door, already so weak, so exhausted. He was at a mere fraction of
his usual capabilities, and as he turned to leave the house, it was with the air
of a man who knew he was going to meet his fate.
"SNAPE!" Harry bellowed. Malfoy barely managed to hold him upright as he
struggled in vain against his constraints. "Snape, take me, it's me, I can save
them, you can't just leave me here like this!" But the Potions Master did not
so much as turn back or say goodbye before they heard the door swing open
and shut, and a resounding 'crack' which signified his disappearance.

Harry was panting after he left, his heart racing like a madman's. Snape had
just left for Hogwarts…and he was going to die.

They were all going to die, if Harry didn't show up to stop it. Because
Bellatrix had said it herself—she'd dug around through Hermione's bag to
find the mirror, and while it was unlikely that Bellatrix Lestrange knew about
the horcruxes—or did she? Harry didn't think that was very likely, otherwise
she would not have hesitated to call the Dark Lord at once when she saw
the…the diadem…

Which he could only assume they'd found and destroyed. If they'd appeared
once in the hall, only to appear again a short time later…the only reason they
would have left before midnight would be because they'd accomplished their
goal with amazing swiftness, and destroyed the diadem with the sword of
Gryffindor while still in the Room of Requirement…

And once Lord Voldemort saw that, a ruined fragment of his soul…

He would remember the locket, if he hadn't checked on that already, and he'd
rip apart their minds, and it wouldn't matter whether they had decent
Occlumency skills or not, the Dark Lord would effortlessly shred them to
bits…and he would see, he would know…

And he would kill them all.

Without hesitation, he would kill all three of them.

But…there was hope. If the coin alerted Snape, here, that meant it alerted
everyone else in the Order, too, and they should be arriving at the castle at
any minute… Maybe they could free Hermione and Ron from Bellatrix,
maybe they could stall for time, before Lord Voldemort arrived…
His stomach turned at the sudden realization of just how catastrophic this
situation could become. Order members were headed to Hogwarts to aid
Hermione and Ron, who they knew were there tonight, operating on
Dumbledore's orders, and the castle was full of Death Eaters and students and
—

It would be a blood bath.

"Malfoy," Harry said, amazing himself at just how steady his voice was.
"Draco. Untie me. Untie me now and let me go to them, I—"

"No." Draco sounded irrationally firm and level as well. He shoved Harry
down on the sofa, who buckled and folded ineloquently in his bindings. "No,
I'm not letting you go sacrifice yourself—"

"Draco!" Harry snarled, leaning forward as best he could. "If you don't untie
me this instant, I will never forgive you! Never! I am not just going to sit here
while my friends die for me!"

"No, I—"

"You said you wanted redemption." Harry quickly cut him off, eyes blazing.
Draco froze. "I heard you. I know you do. Well, this is it. This is your chance.
You can redeem yourself right here, right now, by untying me and helping
me. If you don't do this now, you will never get another chance. This is it."

Malfoy's expression was painfully torn. He looked on the verge of tears, but
Harry was relentless.

"Please, Draco," he said, forcing himself to be composed and confident. "I

am asking you as a friend. Please, help me."

Another beat of silence. Draco clenched his fists tightly at his sides.

"God, damn it."

He muttered the words as he stormed from the room, and for a moment Harry
thought he was abandoning him—he was just about to shout some more, to
scream his name before Draco came marching back, a giant kitchen knife in
his hand.

"God damn it, God damn it," he repeated as he leaned over to start cutting off
the ropes. Harry felt a wave of relief that left his body in the form of a weak,
troubled laugh.

"Just don't cut my hands off," he said as he shifted to the side, allowing Draco
to angle the knife better.

But Malfoy didn't respond to that, only continued to murmur profanities

under his breath as, one by one, he sliced through the constraining bindings.

"What are you going to do?" he asked when he finished hacking away at the
last of them. Harry rubbed his wrists for a moment before standing.

A very good question. He'd been thinking about his plan of action while
Draco had been working, and while he had two ideas, plan A, he figured,
wouldn't work, and Plan B was a bit irrational… And while the ending of
both of them was absolutely insane, they were the only ideas he could come
up with.

"Can you apparate?" he asked breathlessly.

"I…yes, but not without a wand."

Damn. It had been the answer he'd been expecting, but that didn't make it any
easier to hear.

A wand. No matter what, they definitely needed a wand—ideally, two. And,

more specifically, if his plan was going to have any potential at all to work…
He needed Draco Malfoy's wand.

"Okay." Harry nodded before sprinting to his room. He tore through his
trunk, chaotically throwing clothes aside until he unearthed his precious
Invisibility Cloak. Then, without wasting a moment, he grabbed his Firebolt
and headed back into the hall, where the perplexed blonde met him, having
followed behind.

"You're going to flythere!?" he asked incredulously, staring wide-eyed at the

broom. "All the way to Hogwarts? In Scotland?"

"No," Harry answered. "Do you know where you were buried?"

It was a strange question on any given day, admittedly, and it definitely

caught Malfoy off guard now. "I-I…yeah. Why?"

"Where?"

"G-Godric's Hollow."

An outlandish swooping sensation swept up Harry's spine, but he forced

himself to ignore it.

"…Any idea how to get there?"

Draco was shaking his head in disbelief. "It's in West Country, it's—yeah, I
know how, but it could take like, an hour or something to get there by broom
—are you suggesting we go and dig up my grave to get my wand?"

Harry nodded, unperturbed.

"Yes. Yes I am."

There were a few seconds of silence in which Malfoy looked from Harry's
face, to the Firebolt in his hand, to the door, and then back to Harry…

It could go one of two ways. Either Malfoy was going to give in to fear and
panic (and arguably, sense) and tell Harry he was absolutely insane, that they
should stay here and not step foot outside of this house unless they had to,
or…or he would be swayed, perhaps, by the promise of leaving this terrible,
dreary prison, flying, and getting his wand back…

He gave a resigned sort of sigh before saying, in a despairingly casual voice,

"Well, let's go, then."

Harry grinned victoriously. "Wait one second—here, hold these." He shoved

his broom and the cloak at Malfoy's chest before dashing back to drawing
room.

…The other locket.

The portkey on the mantle sparkled benignly down at him. Even now, even
amongst all of the panicky, adrenaline-influenced emotions in his head, he
fleetingly relieved the recent memory of the last time he'd stared at it… How,
for just a few seconds, he'd felt the lingering sensation of deepest longing, of
hope—and he heard music and saw his face and—

What have you done?

No.

No, don't think about that.

I can't go there, Harry thought torridly as he shoved those dangerous,

distracting thoughts aside. Don't think about that. Don't think about…about…

No.

Harry snatched the portkey down from the mantle, hating his own trembling
fingers as he held it in his hands. Then, closing his eyes and taking a deep
breath as though he were about to jump into a pool of cold water rather than
don a necklace, he pulled the chain around his neck.

He exhaled loudly before returning to the hall. Draco noticed the portkey
dangling at his chest at once, and nodded approvingly.

"Good thinking. An emergency escape, if we need it," he said, but Harry was
already pushing him towards the door.

"Yes, yes. Okay." He gripped the doorknob tightly as he quickly yanked it

open, and then—
They both froze.

It was an extraordinarily peculiar yet beautiful moment.

For so, so long, both boys had been prisoners in their own ways. And now,
here, they had been trapped at Grimmauld Place together, unable to leave,
thought to be dead…

They both froze, because now they faced freedom.

It's strange, how one can so take for granted such simple things, like the sight
of sidewalk or an anonymous passerby or the sky. The sky, the sky, Harry
hadn't even realized it, but good God, how he'd missed the sky. At the
moment, it was turning a warm, golden hue as the sun began to set in the
west.

It was the most magical thing in the entire world.

Draco looked equally enthralled, and Harry was the first to snap out of it.
They did not have time to admire pretty sunsets, no, they had to move—

"Here," he said, motioning for Draco to go before him. "You step on the
doorstep before me, and… Hm, this is going to be tricky, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Malfoy asked, a bit dazed at the sudden sight of
outside.

"We need to go under the cloak, of course," Harry said, exasperated. "We
can't just take off on a broom in the middle of London, someone might just
notice that—"

Malfoy glared, and wasn't it funny how, regardless of their current, dire
situation, one little quip could bring the arrogant little fuss right back out of
him again? "I know that."

"So mount, then, and I'll get on behind you."

"M-me?" He looked honestly surprised. "You're letting me be in front? On
your Firebolt?"

Harry almost hit him when he hesitated. "Obviously, you said you know how
to get to Godric's Hollow, yeah? So you're driving. What? Just do it already,
and then I'll throw the cloak on us."

Without responding, Draco did. He moved very carefully so as to not teeter

off of the doorstep as he swung one leg over the broom, after which Harry
did, too. Then, just as cautiously, he wrapped the cloak around them both.
Fortunately, it was big enough to cover them. Unfortunately…it was only just
big enough.

"Try to contain yourself," he muttered sarcastically in Malfoy's ear as he was

forced to wrap his arms quite intimately around the blonde's waist and press
his chest tightly to his back. Malfoy chose not to respond to that, either.

"Weird…" he said, commenting on the sensation of being draped in a fabric

that he could see through. He turned his head, peering at Harry from the side
of his eye. "I've never ridden a Firebolt before."

And it was obvious that he was more than a bit excited at the moment.

"Well, then this just went from being the worst to the best day of your life,"
Harry responded, unable to not smirk as well. "Let's go—on three then,
yeah?"

Malfoy nodded. "Okay. One—"

"Two—"

"Three!" They shouted it in unison as they kicked from the ground at the
same time.

It wasn't the most beautiful ascension. Both of them were unused to sharing a
broom with a companion, and Malfoy was not accustomed to the way in
which the Firebolt moved, with such pinpoint precision at the slightest
suggestion. They nearly rolled to the side and fell over, causing Harry to
swear loudly in Draco's ear—but then they both leaned with all their weight
in the other direction and managed to right themselves just in time, rising
ever higher—

Then they were off.

…It was the most miraculous sensation. Flying, after so long, after such a
lengthy confinement within the dreary, depressing walls of the House of
Black, sent a rush of dopamine so strong shooting through their entire bodies
that, despite everything, despite the fact that they were in the midst of a war
and the Dark Lord and Death Eaters were hungry for their blood and their
friends were in dire trouble and life literally could not be worse, they were
both smiling and laughing as they picked up speed, getting higher and faster
and whooping like they hadn't done that in a long time, and it was glorious,
positively, earth-shatteringly glorious.

"I've got to get one of these!" Draco shouted back to him as they turned
towards the west, leaning forward and chasing after the setting sun.

They were just gaining momentum when he saw it.

In the distance, on the top of Ludgate Hill. Where there should have been an
iconic, glorious building, there was…

Rubble. Ash. Destruction. A blackened pile of debris, surrounded by vehicles

and construction equipment and what could only be muggle workers sifting
through the chaos, attempted to clean and make some sense of the
demolition…

"Damn!" Malfoy yelled, sounding surprised but not mortified. "What

happened to the cathedral?"

Harry couldn't find it in himself to answer, could not will his astounded lips
to move, because…it hit him, then.

A muggle establishment. A really public one. A church.

'I will light a pyre in your name.'

…Whoa.

Lord Voldemort had burnt St. Paul's cathedral to the ground. He'd reduced
England's most impressive, well-known church to mere ruins…in his name.

…Harry knew he should have been instantly mortified by such a thing. He

should have been outraged, incensed, aghast, terrified—any and all of the
above—but he couldn't even get that far. The connection between the Dark
Lord's vow in his dream and the attack that had occurred and this, the sight of
the blackened and incinerated remnants of the cathedral…

It left him completely stunned. The devastating comprehension wiped his

adrenaline-soaked mind completely blank, and he did not have a single
comprehensive thought at all, only—

…Whoa.

But then Draco was turning them to the side, forcing them onwards. With
movements that ran purely from muscle memory and not from any conscious
thinking, Harry moved to mime him, and soon the cathedral was left behind,
out of their sight.

Harry bit his bottom lip forcefully in order to snap himself out of the strange,
vividly empty mental state he was in. The pain helped him to refocus, and he
clenched the cloak tighter in his hands as they continued to pick up speed.

He would have thought that two people on one broom would have had the
opposite effect, but riding together, they tore through the air faster than Harry
had ever ridden alone in his whole life.

The wind in his hair, the pinpricks of the London lights below as they faded
in the distance, the speed and the adrenaline… For a few minutes, it was
enough to make him forget all of his troubles. The sight of the church was
forgotten, the foreign Occlumency barriers didn't bother him, the fear and the
panic were muted; why, he was even quite all right with the fact that he was
riding on the back of his own broomstick with Draco Malfoy taking
control…

But only for a few minutes.

"So what do we do when we get there?" Malfoy eventually shouted, once

London was left far behind. His voice was barely discernible over the rushing
wind. "I mean, my wand is buried in the ground! And we have nothing!"

"I have a plan!" Harry yelled in his ear. "Just trust me!" Draco nodded before
returning his attention back to navigating.

He had to admit, he was impressed that Malfoy actually seemed to know

where he was going. Had he been to Godric's Hollow before? Perhaps it was
a location that most witches and wizards who grew up in the magical
community visited at one point or another…

But he, Harry, had not.

His stomach was twisting into knots at the thought. He, Harry James Potter
himself, had never actually been to the location where it had all happened…
since the event itself, of course. He had never seen the home in which he had
lived for a meagre year with parents who loved him. Where they'd had a cat,
he remembered wildly from the letter he'd found, where he'd broken the vase
his Aunt had given them… Where he'd ridden around on a toy broomstick
from his Godfather…

And just how was it that this was the case? How had he never thought to visit
himself?

How had he never once had the desire to see the place where his parents were
put to rest?

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the emotions that had just so
recently been unearthed.

His mother…
No.

No, don't think about that.

He wondered how long it had been since Bellatrix Lestrange had summoned
her master, if they were already too late. They had no idea of knowing. Harry
could not feel the emotions of the Dark Lord with Snape's mental wards in
place…but because those barriers were still present, it meant that the Potions
Master was, in fact, still alive and capable of maintaining them. He clung to
that fact like a life line, using it to reassure himself that they still had time,
they still had time…

It was dusk, now, nearly dark. Stars were coming to life in the blood-red sky,
which was rapidly turning indigo, and would soon be black with night.

"We're getting close!" Malfoy yelled as if on cue, after what must have been
at least half an hour of riding. "Merlin, this thing is fast!"

Following Draco's lead as he straightened his body ever so slightly, they

started to descend. Harry kept a tight grip on the cloak wrapped around them,
and soon the tops of buildings of a small village began to become visible.

"Godric's Hollow!"

Hearing the name announced as it came into view made Harry's heart skip a
beat. For he could see, next to the buildings which must have been shops and
homes where there were a few people milling about, there was a church, and
next to that…

A graveyard. And it was in this direction which Malfoy guided them.

"Ready? We're going down!"

"Wait!" Harry shouted. "Don't land just yet. Sort of…hover around the
periphery, I want to scope the place out…"

He felt Malfoy shrug as he obliged, slowing the Firebolt down to a

comfortable, leisurely pace at a healthy distance above the earth. Harry
scanned the graveyard rapidly, and it was much bigger than he'd anticipated
—surely, there had to be someone, anyone who—

"There," he said, pointing in the direction of a tall man in black who was
standing at the edge of the graveyard, adjusting flowers on a headstone. "Do
you think that's a wizard? Or a muggle?"

"It has to be a wizard," Draco responded, a bit condescendingly. "That's the

magical section of the graveyard, a muggle wouldn't even notice it."

"Great. Excellent. Okay, so here is the plan." Malfoy turned his head slightly
to hear him better as they came to a stop in midair. "Land us over there, a bit
of a distance away from him. I'm going to take the cloak and sneak around
from behind while you distract him. Start chatting him up, get him talking to
you, whatever. Then I'll come at him when he's not expecting it from under
the cloak and steal his wand. We'll knock him out, blast apart your grave, get
your wand, and apparate out of here."

Malfoy was stunned into silence for a moment. And then—

"Thatwas your plan this whole time!?" he shouted, nearly tossing Harry off
the back of the broom with the sudden movement of his arm. "To just-to just
show up here and hope that there was a lone witch or wizard around that we
could knick a wand from!?"

"Pretty much, yeah. And keep your voice down, it could carry—"

Even from just the side of his face, Harry could see how absolutely
flabbergasted he was. "Are you completely mental? What if there hadn't been
someone here?"

"Then we're in Godric's Hollow, we'd just go steal one from someone in the
village or something—I don't know, I would've thought of something else."

"Do you live your whole life like this?" Draco gaped, sounding somehow
both impressed and deeply disturbed. "Running headlong into insanely
dangerous situations with a plan that is essentiallyno plan at all and hoping it
will all work out for the best once you've gotten there?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Harry repeated, but he was losing patience. "We're
wasting time, let's just do this, okay? Land us already."

Malfoy was muttering something under his breath, probably more choice
profanities, but he complied. They hit the ground with a surprisingly graceful
landing, making sure to be out of the other wizard's line of sight.

"Okay," Harry whispered as he took the cloak, allowing Draco to keep hold
of the broom. "Just keep him looking at you for a few minutes. Got it?"

Malfoy nodded as he wiped the affronted look off his face, then turned
towards their unwitting victim.

Harry edged as quietly as he could in the opposite direction. He was so

focused on making sure that he remained unheard and unseen that he nearly
tripped on a large branch. He barely held his tongue as he stumbled, almost
suffering from a heart attack in the process. He glared down at it like it had
come to life and tried to trip him on purpose—but then he grinned.

That could work, he thought smugly as he stealthily picked it up, carrying it

with him under the cloak.

"Excuse me?" He could hear Draco asking the other man. "Hi—sorry to
interrupt, but I was wondering—can you point me in the direction of the
village?"

Harry almost snorted as he made his advance. "The village?" the man asked
slowly. "You mean…that village? Right there?"

He pointed straight in front of him. Malfoy whirled around theatrically.

"Oh!" he gasped before laughing with a very forced smile. "Oh, there it is!
Silly me—it's just, I'm not from around here…"
"Are you…okay, kid?" The other wizard sounded wary. "…Where you
from?"

"Me?" Harry moved faster now. Malfoy was coming off as some sort of
guilty criminal or something, and this man picked up on it at once. The
wizard pulled out his wand, though he held it down at his side…

"Oh, I'm from London. Just visiting…"

"Well, get going, then." His voice was low and gravelly. Malfoy looked
panicked, because he could not see Harry and had no idea where or what he
was doing. "And don't—"

The branch collided with the top of the man's skull with a sickening thwack.
He remained on his feet for about two seconds before his eyes rolled back
and his knees buckled, and then he fell to the ground on his side like a tree
that had just been cut from the earth.

Harry pulled the cloak off and shoved it in his pocket. They were both staring
at the now unconscious man with wide eyes, like they couldn't believe that it
had actually worked.

Harry glanced up at Malfoy with one eyebrow raised. "Can you point me to
the village? That was the best you could come up with?" he muttered
tauntingly.

"Shut up, it worked didn't it?" Draco dived forward, snatching up the wand
that had rolled away from the man's limp wrist. He looked down at his body
distastefully. "What should we do about him?"

"Just leave him. He'll be fine," Harry said dismissively—though he was not
entirely sure that he would be fine. At the very least, he would have a giant
knot on the top of his head…but he was still breathing, and while Harry did
feel moderately guilty, they had much more pressing issues to worry about.

"We'll, ah, we'll make it up to him someday. Give him a free copy of your
book," he added casually. The stress must have really been getting to both of
them, because they both laughed heartily and genuinely at that.

"Fair enough," Draco said as he stepped over him. He examined the wand in
his hand with reverence, swishing it about experimentally. Sparks of blue
shot out of the tip when he thrust it upwards, and he nodded approvingly,
grinning.

Part of him wanted to say that they should leave right that instant. They could
apparate, now, Malfoy had a wand… But he needed to know, needed to have
it in his hands, to feel it…

The second half of his plan may have been absolutely crazy, but, well…if it
worked…

He needed Malfoy's wand.

Harry turned towards the many, many graves, his expression serious once
more. "So where were you buried?"

"I don't know," Draco said, his eyes still fixated on the wand as he twirled it
in his fingers. "How should I know?"

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Well I didn't exactly attend my own funeral, did I? Might have looked a bit
odd, don't you think?"

Harry had to suppress the urge to rip his hair out. "Right. Okay, let's just look
for fresh graves, then—I'll go this way, you go that way—"

They split up. Harry marched quickly down the aisle, mentally noting the
presence of the Occlumency barriers… Still alive, still well enough to keep
them there… Time, there was still time, yet…

He headed towards a still newish grave that looked promising. Along the
way, he couldn't help but glance at the names he passed. Most of them were
unfamiliar. Harry continued on towards the center of the graveyard,
practically at a run, now-

Then he came to a violent, shuddering stop.

He'd told himself he wouldn't look for them. The moment Draco had uttered
the words 'Godric's Hollow' back at Grimmauld Place, he'd sworn that he
would not look for them, would not seek them out, couldnot, that this was not
the time—

But there they were. He hadn't meant to find them, but he had.

James Potter

27 March 1960 – 31 October 1981

Lily Potter

30 January 1960 – 31 October 1981

And the inscription underneath…

'The last enemy to be destroyed is Death.'

Harry's panic-riddled world came to a total standstill.

Death… The last enemy to be defeated is…is Death… And then,

inexplicably, he heard Ron's words echoing in the back of his mind—

'…if you become master of all three of them—I think that's your destiny!'

"Hey!"

Draco's voice in the distance brought him crashing back to the present. His
head snapped in the blonde's direction, who was waving him over, the
Firebolt swaying high over his head. With one last, fleeting glance, Harry
swallowed back the crippling emotion simmering in the back of his mind. He
tore his eyes away from the gravestones of his parents with the solemn
promise to himself that he would return.
He ran. Draco waited with his gaze turned towards the headstone in front of
him. "…Here." He said emotionlessly as Harry approached, breathless and
anxious.

They both stared, transfixed for a moment on the stone tablet.

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Beloved, Adored Son

5 June 1980 - 3 July 1997

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.

Malfoy was in a greater state of disbelief than Harry had been just moments
before. He couldn't imagine how surreal it must be to stare at your own grave
in a situation like this.

"I wonder what item they used to make my fake body…" He murmured the
words as if he were in a trance as he looked down at his headstone. He was
like a pale ghost of himself, staring hollowly at his own empty grave site.

"Do it," Harry said after a few seconds of silence. "Do it, blast it open. Get
your wand back. …Do it."

Draco wet his lips in anticipation, yet nodded all the same. He raised his
newly acquired wand before pointing it at the ground and shouting,

"Confringo!"

The earth exploded at their feet.

Fresh grass and dirt went flying towards them, above them, around them—

"Again!" Harry yelled with his arms now protectively held in front of him to
ward off the debris, for he could see that there was still a substantial amount
of earth between them and the coffin. Draco nodded before shouting again,
"Confringo!"

More dirt exploded upwards, a violent spray of soil and muck—and then,
once the dust settled slightly, he could see—

The slick, ebony wood of a coffin. Harry looked to Draco excitedly—but his
hopeful anticipation waned at the sight of his companion looking so stricken,
so bloodless—

…At the sight of his own coffin. And why wouldn't he be? Harry was sure
that he would be equally debilitated.

"Here," he said, reaching for the wand in Draco's hand. "Let me."

Malfoy handed the weapon over like someone hypnotized. His eyes never left
the surface of the coffin as Harry took it. Then, without hesitation, Harry
turned on the spot, pointing the wand downwards and shouting,

"Diffindo!"

The wood of the casket broke apart with a sharp crack. Harry wasted no time
before jumping down into the hole in the ground, lunging forward and pulling
apart the splintered wood of the broken coffin and revealing—

Two things. One of which was the immaculately undamaged, pristine wand
of Draco Malfoy. The other…

"What is it?" Draco shouted from above, sounding more than a bit wary. But
Harry was grinning from ear to ear.

"Here. Catch."

He ripped the currently inanimate creature from around the center of the
wand before tossing it up in Draco's direction. He heard Malfoy gasp before
the shining creature must have landed in his outstretched hands.

"Sparkles!" Harry heard him gasp as he began pulling himself out of the
gaping hole in the ground they had created. "Merlin, you're what Mother used
to transfigure into my fake body?"

When Harry had found it, the nightlight had been completely still and
lifeless. But apparently, the moment it had come into contact with its old
master, it had been born again—for the tiny, glass dragon was now moving
and writhing as though it were a living thing in Malfoy's palm. It was
glowing a vibrant, cheery gold.

"Sparkles?" Harry questioned, grinning as he brushed the dirt form his

clothes as best he could.

Malfoy glared as he transferred the dragon from his hands to his inner robe
pocket. "Shut up. I named it when I was like, four."

Any other day, Harry would have loved to torment Draco Malfoy for this, but
now was not the time nor the place. "No, no, it's a great name," he said
dismissively as he held Draco's wand in his hand. And he was smiling widely
as he looked at it, for the moment he had pulled it from the empty grave, he
knew.

The sensation was impossible to describe, yet somehow, inexplicably, Harry

knew it was true… This wand was loyal to him.

He smiled savagely as he examined it, relishing the sensation. Draco waited

with one arm extended. When Harry handed him the other man's wand, he
looked perplexed. "No, you take this one," he said, staring hungrily at his
own. "I want—"

But Harry couldn't. "I'm sorry, Draco. This is going to sound weird and
confusing, but I need this wand."

"What? Why? That's my wand, you can have—"

"No," Harry answered, and his voice was suddenly so cold and flat that he
hardly recognized the tenor. "I need to use yours. I don't have time to explain
why now, Draco, how it all happened, but I'll let you have it back after this.
Just trust me, please, when I say that right now, tonight, this wand—your
wand—is the one I need to use."

"But you haven't even—"

"No time!" Harry snapped, and his face must have been as savage as he felt,
because Draco actually took a step back in retreat. He exhaled loudly, trying
to tone it down a bit. "…You'll get it back, and I'll explain everything later,
but right now we have to go."

Draco just stared for a moment, but finally, slowly nodded, his expression
blank. "…Fine."

Harry stepped towards him. "Thank you," he said quickly—but then he then
stopped an inch away, hesitant. "So… You can apparate now, yeah?"

"I…I think. But I-I've never apparated with someone else, before, and it's
been a long time—"

He sounded extremely nervous. But there was no other way, they needed to
get there, now—

"You can do it," Harry said calmly, staring into his steely eyes. "I know you
can."

Draco swallowed thickly, but nodded. "Okay." He raised the arm which held
the Firebolt to wrap it around Harry's shoulder. In his other hand, his fingers
were wrapped around the stolen wand. "Okay. Hold on tight—"

"Wait," Harry said suddenly. He pulled the cloak out from his inner pocket
and wrapped it around them both…just in case. "All right," he said
afterwards, nodding firmly.

Harry glanced up at Malfoy's pale face, pulling his slightly shaking body
closer to his side. "To the grounds outside of Hogwarts," he smiled
encouragingly, and, surprisingly, it didn't feel forced.

"Take us away, Draco."

Malfoy returned his grin with one of his own. His grip on Harry's shoulder
tightened before they both closed their eyes, and with a loud, resounding
crack, the two boys vanished, leaving Godric's Hollow behind.
 24. The Chosen One
Apparating with Draco was just as terrible as it had been with Snape. The
sensation of being flattened and compacted before being forced through a
rubber tube, and then just as the feeling of compression was almost
unbearable—

They reappeared. Air rushed into his lungs, and when Harry blinked his eyes
open, it was to see that Draco had succeeded.

The first thing he noticed was the smoke.

It was billowing from—Harry was hit with a sickening jolt of dread—the

windows of the seventh floor, as well as one of the towers connected to it…
and even from here, they could see rubble, like one of the castle walls on the
ground floor had been partially blown apart, but they were too far away to see
if there was anyone outside or what had happened.

Harry felt lightheaded. The air in front of them was shimmering oddly…and
it was a bit familiar, the way it was flickering…

Malfoy let out a long sigh, evidently relieved that he had gotten them there
successfully. "The wards," he said afterwards, noticing the strange
atmosphere as well. "Someone must be trying to undo them, to deconstruct
them so that they can apparate within the grounds…"

Harry nodded, and his head felt very…fuzzy. "Right, let's just-let's fly to the
castle, and…" His knees unexpectedly buckled beneath him when he moved.
Draco hardly managed to hold him up.

"Whoa, hey, are you—oh shit."

Malfoy's face paled. "Oh shit!" he repeated, and then Harry saw—

Blood.
He reached down, and it was so surreal to see a giant wound on his side, to
look at it and know that it was there, and yet hardly feel it at all. Blood was
saturating his clothing at an alarming rate, his white t-shirt which was dirty
with mud and soil from the graveyard becoming stained with a vivid, crimson
—

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—" Draco was shaking as he lowered Harry to the
ground. He set the Invisibility Cloak aside and pulled his shirt up so he could
properly see the damage. "Oh fuck, Evans—"

Harry felt dizzy as he looked down. It was like someone had reached out and
grabbed his smallest rib from the bottom of his ribcage and pulled it out, as
well as a small chunk of the skin and flesh surrounding it. Blood was rushing
out with an unprecedented swiftness.

"You've splinched, I-I've splinched you—"

"You-what?" Harry said, completely confused and a bit dazed.

"I-it can happen, when apparating—oh, God, oh, no—"

With a strength that came from he didn't even know where, Harry forced
himself to stand. They didn't-they didn't have time…

"We need to go." He pulled his t-shirt off and balled it up, pressing it against
the angry wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. "There's no time, let's
just get on the broom and fly to the entrance—"

"You can't move like that!" Malfoy gasped, looking utterly horrified. "Oh
God, I've killed you, I've killed you—"

"What, this?" Harry tried to sound casual, though his voice was far too high-
pitched to be even remotely convincing. "This-this is nothing, for me—
though if you happen to know any healing spells, I wouldn't stop you—"

Draco bit his lip, wracking his brains. "I-only one, but it's not very strong, it
won't fix this—"
"Anything would be lovely." Harry forced a grin, trying not to look as
distraught as he felt.

Draco swallowed. His face was totally ashen, but he nodded. "Okay, m-move
that." He took a deep breath and pointed the wand at Harry's side, and the
moment he lifted the shirt blood began pouring out again—

"Episkey." Harry didn't look. He couldn't bear to watch as Draco attempted to

heal him, but there was a strange feeling of something like stitching over the
odd absence of pain, like a tightening, an uncomfortable, pulling sensation…

He glanced down only once it had stopped. There was a patch of red, raw
skin that had mended itself over the majority of the injury. There must have
still been internal blood pooling within, though, because his side was already
blossoming into a substantial bruise, and a few trickles of scarlet continued to
leak out between the blotches of newly-formed skin. The slight indent into
his side from the missing rib was unnerving, too.

"Good as new," Harry said hurriedly before pressing his bloodied shirt back
onto it. "Let's-let's go."

"We c-can't," Draco stuttered, knowing just as well as Harry that his injury
needed real medical attention, and that his mediocre healing spell was little
more than a band-aid. "You're too hurt, and-and what are you going to do,
anyway? Y-you can't-I won't just let you hand yourself over—"

"I'm not going to, I have a plan." Harry grabbed the Firebolt from Malfoy's
weak, shaky grasp. "I'm going. You don't have to, you can apparate yourself
back to Grimmauld place, if you want, and I won't think any less of you. But
I am going in."

Draco looked miserably torn for a moment before shaking his head. Harry
had already mounted the broom and thrown the Invisibility Cloak on,
abandoning the bloodied t-shirt on the ground. He was just about to kick off
when Draco stopped him.

"No. You're not going by yourself like that. I-I'm going, too." He climbed on
behind him, lifting the cloak over his head so that it now covered both of
them. And even though Harry had just given him permission to leave, he felt
an unexpected rush of gratitude towards him, thankful that he would not be
heading to the castle alone. "Let's go."

They kicked off, speeding towards the entrance and passing through the
bizarrely shimming wards that looked on the verge of falling apart.

It was almost night. The sky was a deep, navy blue, and the stars and a
nearly-full moon shone between patches of billowing clouds. Smoke
continued to rise from the windows of the seventh floor and one of the
towers, and Harry wondered just how much damage had occurred within
Hogwarts… As they sped forward, the destruction on the outside became
clearer. A huge section of brick wall right next to the main doors had been
blasted off, leaving giant piles and chunks of castle wall in the vicinity, and—
Harry squinted his eyes as they got closer, very grateful for the adrenaline
that kept his light-headedness at bay—there were people outside, and—

Bellatrix's insane laughter came echoing across the grounds, setting the tone
for the scene they were about to come upon. Harry pulled the Firebolt to a
sudden stop as they approached, landing them next to one of the tallest piles
of bricks and rubble. A wave of nausea rolled through him as he saw—

Snape. The Potions Master was suspended upside-down, held in midair by

the very same spell that Harry had once witnessed being used on him by his
father, in a memory… And based on the way he was struggling and the way
Bellatrix was laughing, he must have only just been caught—disarmed, too,
because he wasn't firing any spells, only physically squirming as he fought
against the curse which held him in midair—

"So close, but so far, Severus!" Bellatrix screeched between labored breaths
as though she had just been running. Harry and Draco watched with horrified,
transfixed eyes as they peered from behind the pile of bricks, still hidden
from sight beneath the Invisibility Cloak.

"You put on quite a show, though, I must admit—you tricky, sneaky, vile
little cockroach—I should have known at once you'd fight with illusions, you
coward—"

"Bellatrix!" Snape roared, and Harry could see now that she did, in fact, hold
two wands in her hands. "Bellatrix, I will—"

"Crucio!" she suddenly yelled, the twisted smile still spread across her face
as Snape screamed in agony. She only held it for a few moments before
retracting the curse. Snape's chest was heaving much harder than hers
afterwards.

"Tck, your shouting is dreadful—I think I much prefer hers, here, I'll restore
her voice, so we can all enjoy it—Crucio!"

Another blood-curdling scream cut across the air.

Hermione. Harry hadn't seen them before, crumpled on the ground in the
darkness a few feet away, but she was there, writhing and screaming and next
to her was-it was Ron, and he must have been silenced again, because he was
obviously shouting, too, but no sound came out. They were both bound even
more tightly than Harry had been earlier that evening by thick ropes that
rendered them almost totally immobile, though Hermione's back was arching
as she screamed endlessly—

"No!" Snape shouted, and Bellatrix lifted the curse. Hermione stopped
screaming, but her body was shaking so badly that Harry could see it from
where they stood… Ron continued to silently shout, attempting to reach her,
but his constraints kept him several feet away…

"Oh Severus…" Bellatrix crooned, returning her attention to the suspended

man before her. "You put up a brilliant fight, yes, I'll give you that… But it's
over, old friend, you've lost… He will come, he'll be here any minute…" Yet
her last words sounded slightly anxious, a tiny bit concerned…

Harry could hardly believe his ears. They had made it to Hogwarts before the
Dark Lord…? A wave of relief, of hope—if he could just stun Bellatrix here,
now, before he arrived, then they could turn and escape right this second—he
aimed his wand, steadying his hand—
"No," Snape gasped, shaking his head in complete and total denial. "No,
you'll never win, he will never win—"

"Won't I, Severus?"

Harry's blood ran cold.

He had just been about to act, had just been about to fire off a spell from
underneath the cloak in Bellatrix's direction when he simply…appeared.

How long had he been standing there? The Dark Lord was a mere fifteen feet
from them, leaning quite casually against the castle wall in the shadows as his
masterfully cast disillusionment charm melted away. Harry felt like the very
air had been stolen from his lungs.

The Undesirable and Lord Voldemort had been a mere stone's throw away
from each other, and neither of them had known it because they'd both been
invisible.

Bellatrix immediately fell to her knees at the sound of his voice. "My
Lord…" she breathed in deepest reverence and noticeable relief. The manic
smile slid from her face, and she bowed so low and so devotedly that her
forehead must have touched the ground.

Voldemort stepped into the pale moonlight…and he was a sight to behold.

It was the first time that Harry truly realized the difference between
perceiving something in a subconscious, mental landscape or in a dream as
opposed to the real, waking world. Because even though he had just seen him
in the chaos of his mind, had experienced his presence so very intimately,
nothing, nothing could have prepared Harry for the actual, physical presence
of Lord Voldemort himself. And he found himself asking yet again—

Who was this man?

Next to everyone else in the vicinity, the Dark Lord stood out like something
otherworldly.
His skin was brighter, practically illuminating in the darkness like some kind
of strangely beautiful, nearly pearlescent material. And his eyes—they were
blood red flames, literally glowing crimson, the irises of a monster… His hair
was as black as his long, dark robes, and his face was no longer snake-like or
deformed as it had been in his previous body. But Harry couldn't get beyond
those eyes long enough to focus on the rest of his features.

He seemed impossibly tall, inexplicably grand—the very embodiment of

nightmares. And to complete this perfect picture of complete hellacious
intimidation, he had Nagini on his shoulders, and even his colossal snake
appeared longer and more powerful than ever as she coiled slowly around her
master…

Yet it was his body language that may have been the most disarming. The
grace with which the Dark Lord moved was unnaturally seamless and
elegant, fluid like water or wind—despite the fact that he had a massive
python wrapped around him. Had he always moved like that? Harry couldn't
remember. Maybe he had, only it was heightened, now, by this far more
menacing appearance… He slowly approached the suspended man with a
mask of complete indifference, and as he got closer Nagini began to hiss in
excited anticipation…

Draco made a tiny whimpering noise. Harry yanked him back behind the
rubble before he could give them away.

"Holy shit, what is he, what is he?" he whispered in a panic once they were
facing the other direction, their backs pressed firmly against the mass of
bricks.

But Harry was straining to hear what was being said over the rapid
thrumming of his own heart—and the fighting, he noticed for the first time—
there was shouting and the sounds of what must have been dueling from
within the Great Hall echoing in the distance.

How had Snape managed to get Hermione and Ron even this far, if a battle
had broken out within the castle walls?
"…Severus Snape…"

Oh, no.

There was a long pause. Harry slowly moved so that he was peering around
the edge of their wall of ruins again.

The Dark Lord was looking at Snape with absolutely no emotion on his face,
but his eyes, those impossible eyes were staring directly into his. Snape was
so stricken under his fiery gaze that he was rendered paralyzed.

"Rise, Bellatrix…" Voldemort said softly—but his eyes never left the
captured man's.

She stood at once, her demented smile back in a flash. "My Lord," she
repeated, stepping closer to him. "I lured him here, he came for these two."
She gestured towards Hermione and Ron, the former of which was twitching
in a disjointed way. "I caught them breaking into the castle, I saw their names
on the map…"

Harry's heart skipped several erratic beats. The Map. He'd forgotten about the
map entirely! A sudden hand gripping his shoulder informed him that Draco
had the exact same thoughts at those words, and they shared a brief, horrified
glance. But Harry returned his attention to Bellatrix, noting that she did not
have the map out, now—she probably had it put away, would not think it
necessary to retract it when she had her quarry right here, in front of her—

They could only pray that Voldemort did not feel the need to look at it
himself soon.

"And this one…" Bellatrix stepped forcefully on Hermione's spine, her heel
digging into her backside. She let out a sharp, high-pitched squeal at the
action. "This one had a mirror on her that she'd been using to communicate
with him, and lots of other interesting things… You keep lots of fun stuff in
your magic bag, don't you, muddy?"

Bellatrix pulled the beaded bag out from her inner robe pocket. For the first
time, Voldemort's intense eyes left Snape's. She handed it to him at once, and
the Dark Lord examined it with a blank, unreadable expression…

And Harry knew, then, without a doubt:

He didn't know.

Lord Voldemort was holding, in his very hands, at this very moment, a bag
which contained a broken fragment of his own, shredded soul—possibly
several of them, Harry suddenly realized with a wave of dread, perhaps
Hermione had the broken locket and the cup in there, too—and the sword of
Gryffindor, and he had no idea, otherwise—

Otherwise he would not be passively looking at the bag in his hands with that
mask-like face, he would not be merely putting it in his robe pocket to
examine later, as he was doing now—hecertainly would not have brought
Nagini…

He didn't understand how, how he did not yet know, but it was nothing short
of a miracle. What had Lord Voldemort been doing in that critical hour that
he and Draco had flown at breakneck speed across Britain, if not checking on
the status of his locket? Harry had no clue whatsoever, but the fact that he
was still somehow unaware was the only possible explanation, otherwise he
would be tearing into Hermione and Ron's minds right this second, ruthless
and murderous…

But he was not. He was ominously detached as he stood there, his gaze once
more fixed on Snape. He was staring at the Potions Master with a cold hatred
that somehow had an even more powerful impact than his passionate, burning
rage from before.

Harry was hit with a very strange sensation indeed at that moment, and it
took him a second to realize that, amongst all of the fear and panic and
horror, he was feeling…hope.

A tiny, tiny flicker of hope—if he could just—

"He's developed a weakness for this one, my Lord," Bellatrix purred
maliciously. She dug her heel into Hermione's backside again, eliciting
another cry of pain.

Voldemort's eyes flickered down for a second before returning to Snape's.

"Another mudblood, Severus?" he murmured. He tilted his head ever so
slightly to one side. "How… predictable."

Bellatrix burst out into laughter. She took a step closer to the suspended
wizard, pointing a finger in his face before she began shouting in a mocking,
sing-song voice:

"Snape and Lily, sittin' in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" She threw her head back at
Snape's livid expression, but then her gleefulness turned to cold fury so
quickly it was like she'd flipped a switch.

"Did you love her, Severus?" Bellatrix leaned closer to him, her voice now
low and raspy. "Did you fuck her? No, I bet you didn't…even a mudblood
wouldn't have you… I bet that's why you were the first to show up at the
scene, weren't you, you pathetic, sorry excuse for a man, so you could come
across her body while it was still warm and fuck her corpse."

…Oh, how close Harry came to revealing himself right then and there at
those words.

His entire body tensed, and rage burned through his veins with an intensity
that annihilated any and all traces of light-headedness from blood-loss or fear
or pain. His hand clenched tightly around his wand, and he tasted static on his
tongue—

But then Bellatrix was laughing again, because Snape seemed unable to say
anything at all. He must have finally been at the end of his strength, he must
have lost the ability to fight at all anymore… He had nothing left, and
Bellatrix knew it, and Voldemort knew it, and that must have been why the
Dark Lord was quite keen to take his time, to prolong his humiliation…

He needed to act. Think, think, think—for now, Harry realized fully, given
these particular circumstances, his original plan of action would simply not
work at all. Even if he did manage to disarm Voldemort, even if he was right
—Bellatrix was there, right there, and she would take Harry and Draco down
so quickly it would make their heads spin… That was, of course, if the giant
snake didn't get to them first.

And Nagini was nearly as sinister as Bellatrix. Harry had experienced

firsthand the lethal power that was Lord Voldemort's serpentine horcrux…
And she was a terror to behold.

For a paralyzing moment, Harry was suddenly, horrendously grateful that

they were hidden behind a wall of rubble as well as the cloak. He'd never
figured out if this thing worked on animals, and Nagini and he had a unique
history in which she could see him…even when no one else in the vicinity
could.

He needed to get Voldemort and Bellatrix away from his friends. To

physically lure them away so that they could escape, and barter for their
safety away from them…

Because if he revealed himself right here and now… Well, why would the
Dark Lord trade, when he could so easily have them all?

Think, Harry, think-

"Bella, sweet Bella…"

Harry could barely hear his soft voice over the sound of her continued
cackling, but it died the second that her master called her by her pet name.
Her face became solemn and full of veneration as she looked upon him.

Voldemort turned away from Snape, advancing on his prized, deadly

lieutenant in what was the closest thing to fondness that Harry had ever seen
on him. Bellatrix was immediately spellbound. "My most favored, my most
loyal…how you grace me with the gift of these souls…"

He reached his hands out to place them on either side of her face, and Harry
could tell by the way that she was staring at him—stunned and completely
mesmerized—that this, touching, was something that the Dark Lord never
did.

She was, it would seem, at a complete loss for words.

"…And yet I ask more of you, my treasure. Return to the Great Hall and put
that beautiful bloodlust of yours which I adore so much to good use. I would
like a private conversation with my…wayward child…"

Bellatrix blinked as she nodded slowly, beyond entranced.

"Go, Bella."

He leaned in closer to her, and in a movement that was swift and fluid, he
placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead like it was the highest of blessings.

"I want to see you dance."

Bellatrix almost swayed like she was in a dream. She had lost the ability to
speak completely, and when Voldemort removed his hands from her face and
stepped away, effectively dismissing her, she looked like she might just faint
on the spot. But after a second where she simply stood there in a daze, she
nodded. Then, with a gait that was even more magnificent than Snape's was
when he was in good form, she turned and marched towards the Great Hall in
those towering heels, her long, black skirts billowing behind her.

The bubbling hatred boiling in Harry's veins by that interaction was eclipsed
almost at once by his disbelief. He'd dismissed Bellatrix—but Nagini, that
damn snake was still here—

"…Massster…pleassse…"

The unexpected sound of parseltongue literally gave Harry the chills. He was
broken out in a cold sweat, despite the fact that it was a relatively warm
August evening—though being shirtless, hungover, exhausted, critically
injured, and emotionally battered beyond recognition probably didn't help
matters.

And it was so strange, too, to note the difference between Nagini's serpentine
voice and Lord Voldemort's. Her hiss was higher, smoother…and, at this
particular moment, she sounded a bit…upset. Perhaps because her master had
just showered affection on someone else.

"…Your promissse…"

Voldemort gave a low, throaty chuckle as his pet slithered from his shoulders
to the ground. He watched her with a mild expression that almost looked
doting as she began writhing in circles underneath the hovering Snape, and it
was quite reminiscent of a certain graveyard scene where it had been he,
Harry, who was being surrounded by her sinuous body…

Snape looked as horror-struck now as Harry probably had, then.

"Yessss… Your master knows…"

Oh, God.

Harry was hit with a plethora of conflicting, debilitating feelings at the sound
—terror, panic, lingering anger from Bellatrix's words and another sensation
that would remain nameless because it had absolutely no business being here
—

"…Look at you." Voldemort had returned his attention to Snape. His crimson
eyes were gradually and unabashedly roving over his entire body, like a
calculating monster that was trying to decide just how to begin picking its
prey apart. All traces of warmth were gone from his bloodless face, and it
was with an emotionless tenor that he spoke. "There always was just a bit too
much of you, wasn't there? So tall, so gangly. So…unnecessary."

He took a step closer. Harry thought Snape might actually pass out. "I'm
going to cut off all the parts of you I don't like and feed them to my snake,"
he said conversationally. He pulled out his wand very, very slowly.
"Where should I start?" The Dark Lord ran the tip of his wand along his
jawline, looking mockingly contemplative. "Your eyes? No, I want you to
see… Your ears, perhaps? No, no, I want you tohear… Your tongue…?"

He tilted his head the other way, making a deep humming sound in his throat
as though he liked that idea. "…Ah, no, because I need you to speak…and
you will speak…secret-keeper…"

"Never."

Snape somehow regained the ability to form words. Voldemort did not react.
"I'll never tell you where they are. You'll never have him."

Harry's mind was racing a mile a minute. Draco seemed so frozen in fear next
to him that he wondered if he'd suffered from a heart attack several terrifying
statements ago.

Nagini continued to writhe in circles underneath of the Potions Master's

upside-down body, her reptilian eyes fixated on him hungrily like the
predator she was. "…I want his legsssss…" she hissed pleadingly, and
Voldemort laughed.

"Patience, Nagini." He stepped even closer to his human prize, clearly

relishing the fact that he had him here, now, at his mercy in the worst
possible way.

"I'm going to make you a crown, my Half-Blood Prince," he murmured as he

leaned over, so close to him now that his lips were a mere inch from his ear—
Harry could barely hear his voice from where they stood, it was so low and
dark—

"I'm going to weave it from the memories of Lily Evans' beautiful screams,"
he said huskily. The hair on Harry's entire body stood on end.

"You are going to wear it every day for the rest of your long…long…life…"

Harry turned to face Draco behind the rubble. "Plan," he whispered hurriedly
in his ear. "Plan, plan—here's the plan. I'm going to take the cloak and sneak
around somewhere far off from here. You're going to stay hidden behind this
rubble—he's so focused on tormenting Snape, he won't see you. I'll cause a
distraction, I'll lure him away, and then you guys get out of here once he
comes after me. Okay?"

Malfoy was so stunned he could do little more than shake his head in
disbelief. "That's-you can't just—"

"Maybe you can get Snape to finish tearing down the apparation ward,"
Harry continued. "If not, then-then you can take Ron on the Firebolt, and
Snape can carry Hermione—he can fly."

Draco stared at him like he was beyond mental. Harry knew what he must be
thinking, that this was it, Harry Potter had finally lost his mind, really and
truly, calling this a plan and claiming the Potions Master could fly. "What-but
you—"

Harry flashed a giant, overly bright grin. "Portkey," he whispered, holding

the locket in front of him. "Okay? Stay here. I'll be fast. The moment he steps
away, get them out of here."

"B-but the snake—"

"You have a wand, Draco!" he hissed. "I'm going now—"

"Don't leave me."

Malfoy's voice was suddenly so feeble and weak that, in any other
circumstance, Harry may have been debilitated. But he could not be deterred,
not now.

"You can do this," Harry said, giving him a deep, meaningful look as he
gripped one shoulder. Draco didn't react. At all. But there was no time to stay
and rally him, he had wasted so much time already—

Harry pulled the cloak from Draco's shoulders and left.

He moved slowly, at first, in order to be as quiet as he possibly could. He
edged around the horrible scene towards the castle, slipping within its walls
towards the chaos through the newly formed, giant hole. The moment he was
in the entry way, he broke out into a run.

It only took about three seconds of sprinting for him to realize just how badly
he was injured. He refused to look down at the wound on his side, though, for
he knew that seeing it would do him absolutely no favors at all at this point—
though he must have lost a serious amount of blood, because everything
seemed a bit fuzzy, giving the world around him a bit of a dream-like
quality… But the adrenaline kept him on his feet, and it was through sheer
force of will that he forced himself to continue running towards the sounds of
shouts and spells.

The Great Hall was pandemonium.

The students must have been ushered away before the fighting broke out, for
now the hall was filled with only Death Eaters, Order members, and what
must have been Ministry officials…

It was a battle like Harry had never seen before.

Witches and wizards with vivid red hair were scattered about, a plethora of
Weasley's fighting for the side of the Order—Harry saw both Fred and
George, locked in a duel with the man Harry recognized as Yaxley, and Bill,
too, further along—and there was Kingsley Shacklebolt—

Focus, Harry berated himself. Get further away, somewhere further away—

A sudden spell flew just inches away from his face. Harry veered to the side,
taking off in the other direction—and before he knew it he was on the run,
dashing across the hall on the outskirts of the fighting, simply trying not to
get hit as he moved—

And why, just why had he thought it would be a good idea to come here,
exactly? To this room? Towards the fighting? Why hadn't he just gone down
the hall, where it was quiet and he would not, potentially, get clipped with a
wayward curse? Was it just something in his stupid, Gryffindor nature that
said, 'ah, yes. The most dangerous, chaotic place, that's the location and
situation we want. Let's go there.'

Brilliant.

Harry's mind was swimming as he pushed his body to its limit, heading
towards the farthest end of the hall towards the giant hourglasses. Funny, he
thought wildly as moved. He would have expected them to be gone, what
with the ending of the sorting. Maybe they had been planning on vanishing
them tonight, as part of the ceremony…or keeping them purely as
decoration…

Focus, Harry—his mind was starting to drift, and the light-headedness was
beginning to become insuppressible. He just need to get to that far end, and
then…

Another spell went flying in his direction. He barely stepped out of the way
in time, and when he turned to see where it had come from, his heart froze.

Remus.

Remus was dueling viciously, not ten feet from him…with Bellatrix
Lestrange.

There was murder in the dark witch's eyes as she spun around him. Lupin
barely managed to dodge another curse, but Bellatrix was a force of nature as
curse after curse flew from the tip of her wand, and it could not have been
clearer that she wanted Remus Lupin's life, very, very badly—

Harry was completely derailed from his course of action. He raised his wand
to help him, to aid him against this monstrosity—

But he was too late.

…Harry's whole world seemed to move more slowly.

Bellatrix must have shouted the words, but he hadn't been able to discern
them over the rest of the noise in the hall—but that color, that flash of green
was unmistakable, undeniable…

It caught Remus in the backside as he'd been turning to dodge the previous
spell.

He was facing Harry head on.

He was looking directly at him, right into his amber eyes.

The vibrant hue illuminated Remus's body from behind like a sickly, emerald
halo. His lined face contorted in shock at the collision of the curse hitting his
spine.

There was a suspended moment where Harry's eyes were simply fixed on
Lupin's, where he could do nothing but stare. And maybe this Cloak had
some connection with death after all, because even though Remus could not
have possibly seen Harry a moment before, could not have been aware of his
presence as he made his way across the hall, there was a fraction of a second
when the killing curse hit him that Harry saw it—

Recognition.

It lit up in the depths of Lupin's irises like a beacon. Like he knew, in that
fleeting moment, knew that Harry was there, right in front of him, staring,
reaching—knew that his best friend's son was alive and well after all, that he
had been right all along, that there was still hope—and the tiniest yet most
profound smile formed on his lips.

He was smiling as he fell to his knees and the light of recognition faded from
his eyes.

He was smiling when he slumped to the side, completely still.

He was smiling, and he was dead.

Harry was paralyzed.

No, no—not Remus, not him—

Remus, who was the very last of the true marauders, who had just found out
that he was going to be a-a father…

Bellatrix let out a howl of malicious triumph. Bile and acid clawed at the
back of Harry's throat, and there was static rolling over his skin—he raised
his wand to strike, to kill—

But she had already turned, had thrust herself back into the throng of battle
just seconds later, whirling like an enigma of dark energy, high on bloodlust
and manic power—she danced now with Kingsley, who must have beaten his
former opponent, and she moved even quicker than she had been against
Remus.

People…people were dying.

He needed to end this. Now.

Harry turned to his left. The Gryffindor hourglass had been shattered in
places, and orbs of shining crimson were tricking like giant rubies from one
of the holes. With a sudden and possibly very stupid stroke of inspiration,
Harry rushed towards it before turning his wand on himself and muttering,

"Wingardium leviosa."

He rose like a cork screw, above and away from the chaos and the fighting.
He floated up to the top of the towering hourglass, lunging forward and
trying desperately to keep the cloak around him as he crawled onto the flat
surface. Casting just the one, measly spell had been draining, and as he
pushed himself to his feet, he felt something wet and warm on his side.

The newly formed skin on his wound had reopened. Blood came seeping out
of the gash, and the bruise that had formed there was devastating. A giant
patch of purple and blue in varying shades radiated over the entire span of his
left rib cage, and in combination with his still vividly red, raw scar on his
chest over which the other locket now lay, he…he did not look good. Maybe,
Harry thought morbidly…maybe Draco Malfoy had killed him, after all…

There were worse ways to die, he supposed…much worse…

Harry took a deep breath, focusing his rapidly deteriorating mind.

Just one more spell. He could do this… But he needed to do it right, he

couldn't just go shouting it, couldn't give away where he was…

He whispered the words as softly as he could. He thought about a woman

with green eyes, red hair, and a crown of white flowers.

"Expecto patronum."

The stag materialized in the same way that he verbalized the incantation.
Silvery strands flickered to life at the tip of his wand, and he willed the
creature to come to life slowly, further away from him…

He ushered the spell onwards, and the ethereal threads became plumes before
finally, as they gathered into something substantial, the form of a stag
became fully realized on the floor of the Great Hall like a gleaming,
shimmering ghost.

Go get him, Harry thought, a slightly delirious smile pulling at the corner of
his lips.

The stag walked, at first, and a few people who were nearby were distracted
from their fighting as they caught a glimpse of it. Then it broke out into a run,
charging majestically as it ran straight through Death Eaters and Order
members alike—

From as high as he was, Harry could see in the distance, through the hole in
the wall… Lord Voldemort in the midst of his terrible, mental torture of
Snape, the man still hanging in the air like a fish on a hook…
The stag waltzed right up to him, and Harry could see the way the creature
cocked its silvery, antlered head to one side, lifting one of its front legs,
almost playfully, as if it was saying,

Catch me if you can.

And then it turned and headed back towards the Great Hall.

…It was almost too easy.

Lord Voldemort left Snape in his suspended state at once, chasing after the
stag with his wand drawn. Harry willed his patronus to stall, had it going this
way, and then that, and then to the other side—everyone had stopped dueling
now, was turning their unwitting attention to the spectacle that was unfolding,
because everyone knew that the Undesirable was known for producing a
corporeal patronus in the form of a stag—

Harry glanced up at the enchanted ceiling. The stars in the night sky were
half-concealed by dark, gray clouds, but the waxing moon was exposed,
illuminating the heavens with its pale light. Were the wards fully broken?
Harry didn't think so, by the way that the air in the atmosphere seemed to
vibrate. Would Snape be able to tear them down? They needed…they needed
to come down, he thought in a haze, they needed to come down, so that the
other Order members could escape, too…

The patronus was putting on quite a show. Voldemort followed it in what was
palpably growing irritation, and Harry knew he would not be able to stall for
much longer before he began blindly casting wide reaching spells, not caring
even slightly who he hit in the process if it meant catching him.

The stag came to a halt a few feet in front of the hourglass on the ground.
Everyone was staring in shock. Everyone except Voldemort, that was, whose
intense gaze was now scanning the hall, looking for what he knew was his
invisible, human horcrux, hidden beneath his Cloak of Invisibility…

For a few, brief seconds, Harry tried to see it.

He looked down upon this new form of the Dark Lord and tried to see some
resemblance, some connection to the boy in the locket that he had grown so
attached to, that he had so stupidly, foolishly loved. He didn't. This man was
someone else entirely, and he didn't see so much as a trace of the soul he used
to be. He didn't even see the person he had known before, the snake-like
wizard from the graveyard and his nightmares.

This was a man that Harry did not recognize at all, and he was a stranger to
him.

He lifted his wand, the tip barely extending beyond the shielding
concealment of the cloak, and in a quiet voice murmured,

"Expelliarmos."

Voldemort reacted so quickly it was frightening. For even against an invisible

opponent from an unanticipated eyelevel, the Dark Lord was fast. A spell of
his own came flying in Harry's direction, one that he did not recognize. He
wondered vaguely what it was, that the Dark Lord had sent at him…

But it didn't matter.

Harry's spell was the one which prevailed. The streak of red went straight
through Voldemort's gold one, obliterating it as it went hurtling towards its
astounded, confused opponent, and the wand in his hand went flying…

It jumped out of his fingers like someone had tied a string around it and
yanked it upwards and forwards. Harry's dazed smile widened as it soared up,
up, up… It hit the peak of its flight several feet above him, and Harry
watched it with his left hand extended, staring in wonder at the sight of the
Deathstick against a backdrop of the enchanted ceiling's starry night sky…

To me, he thought as he unfurled his fingers, and the Elder Wand obeyed its
master.

The moment it hit his outstretched hand…everything changed.

Before, he was just a battered boy who had been nothing but a victim, over,
and over, and over again… He was feeble and torn, ruined and weak. He was
Evans, and he had been in a cage in one form or another for far too long.

Yet the very second the wood of the elder branch touched his skin, that
person died.

…The power.

It rolled through Harry's entire body with such an intensity that he knew
nothing else. It consumed his heart in an instant, it owned him and enthralled
him and it was exhilarating and the power, the power, it was begging—no,
demanding that it be used, now—because the storm in his thoughts, the static
on his tongue, that chaotic, violent, ever-present tempest on the periphery of
his mind finally, finally had a conduit.

Harry looked back up to ceiling. Without knowing how or why or even really
thinking through the action, he thrust the wand upwards, pointing it towards
the clouds and the stars and the moon—

And it was one of those moment where one truly had to question what was
real and what was not. Was it really just a ceiling, enchanted to look like the
sky above it? Or was it something more, something greater, something above
and beyond like a gateway into the true heavens themselves?

He focused his attention upwards and thought:

Break.

An imperial lightning bolt of godly proportions exploded from his fingertips.

The world flashed white with a deafening, thunderous crack as it ripped into
the celestial star-scape above and scattered across the clouds, destroying what
remained of the wards around the castle like shattering glass, and the Master
of the Elder wand broke the sky itself. Before the lightning could fully
disperse, before it vanished completely, Harry willed it to reform. He wanted
to rob them of their power, his enemies, just as he had been robbed of his for
so long, for too long—
He slashed the Elder Wand down across his body, and the one, massive bolt
of lightning split and scattered in midair, hovering in a static cloud for a
moment before fragmenting into smaller bits, cascading down upon each and
every Death Eater, forcing them to their knees as their wands went flying
from their grasps…

…Harry's ears were ringing.

And it was the wind…no, whispers…

"…Harry… Harry… Harry…"

Everyone was saying it, the entire room was whispering his name, the Taboo
be damned. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from his head, lifting the
silvery fabric and holding it in his right hand, which still had Draco's wand…
The stag, which had reared up on its hind quarters at the burst of lightning,
ascended into the air, its gait much slower now as it circled around the
bruised and bloody form of its master. It came to a halt behind him, and it
was glowing so brightly that it bathed him in it bright, ethereal halo of white.

The hall fell into silence.

"My name is Harry James Potter…" said the man with the lightning bolt scar
and thunder at his fingertips, the wizard who was just one step away from
Master of Death.

He was looking right at the Dark Lord when he said it, was staring down at
his prophesied enemy without a trace of fear, who had also fallen to his knees
before him… But it was the strangest thing, because Voldemort wasn't
looking at him…at least, he wasn't making eye contact. No, he was on his
knees and he was staring with wide, impossibly darkened eyes not into his
own, but…first they flickered to his chest, to the vivid scar over his heart, and
the locket—the wrong locket—before they became fixated on the wound on
his side, the giant, bleeding, terrible injury that was draining him of life even
as he stood there, and the power and the stress and the loss of blood must
have really started to affect him quite powerfully, Harry thought, because it
almost looked like Lord Voldemort's scarlet eyes might be shining with…
with tears….

Harry tilted his head back towards the sky before sighing and closing his
eyes. He extended his arms out at his sides, the Elder Wand in one hand,
Draco Malfoy's and the Invisibility Cloak in the other.

"…And I am the Chosen One."

And with those words, Harry James Potter reclaimed his name, his title and
his destiny.

The portkey whisked him away.

Notes for the Chapter:

Now go re-read the chess match from chapter 9 and tell me I didn't tell
you this was coming. ;)

Or tell me anything else, really. I love your words. XO

 25. Safe Haven
Notes for the Chapter:

Please enjoy the longest chapter I have ever written in my life, which
really f***** me up when I initially wrote it. O.O (emotionally, that is)

Harry's whole world whirled around him. The sensation of a hook underneath
his navel yanking him away caused his entire, battered body to convulse in
pain. He barely managed to land on his feet as he resurfaced, quite
jarringly…in what appeared to be a kitchen.

His fading mind only just had time to note that there was a table with a few
chairs around it and a man, a tall man with wiry grey hair who, at the sound
of Harry's sudden arrival, turned on the spot to face him.

A man with dirty spectacles and bright…bright, blue eyes…

"D…Dumbledore…?"

He promptly passed out.

…Harry was on a gurney.

He was laying on his back, but everything was moving around him with a
staggering velocity. He was rolling on his side this way, and then that, and
then back again, nearly falling off of the racing, rotating surface beneath him,
but each time he would come close to the edge of the stretcher he would feel
them—itchy, uncomfortable walls that were in his mind and in his reality—
they would become unbearable when his aching body would collide with
them, and he would involuntarily claw at the barriers until they were ripped
away, shredded to pieces, only for them to reappear just seconds later,
endlessly, ruthlessly returning with a swift and cataclysmic vengeance—and
his scar, his scar was on fire—

Lights flashed above him, intermittent blares of bright white between patches
of darkness, adding to the sensation of moving at a great speed. Black, white,
black, white, deep shadow and blinding brightness in a rapid succession, it
went on and on and on—until he came to a sudden halt.

The reprieve of stillness lasted just long enough for him to take a single
breath, an inhale that scorched his insides as if he were drawing in cinders
and ash rather than air. He coughed violently afterwards. The blood coated
his throat before he tasted iron on his tongue.

Then the monsters appeared.

It was like being in a nightmarish, surrealist painting. Demons of vibrant red

and green and black were dancing and twirling around him, each with teeth
that protruded out over their twisted lips and tall horns atop their heads. Their
bodies were covered in shiny, diamond-patterned flesh that shimmered like
moist dragon scales. How many were there? Three? Four? A dozen, a
hundred? They were muttering and screeching in a horrible non-language,
squabbles and snarls in foreign tongues, all the while prodding at his body
and running their nails down the skin of his sides, forearms, and legs. They
shrieked as they held him in place, propping his head up and forcing him to
drink liquids of deepest crimson from an obsidian chalice—

"Blood!"

It was the only thing they said that he could understand, the single word
punctuating their otherwise foreign stream of incomprehensible, rumbling
growls-

"Blood! …Blood, blood! …Blood!"

Another liquid being pressed to his lips, and though he tried to spit it out, to
deny it, s Harry's mouth was wrenched open anyway, and he was too weak to
fight it—

"Blood! Bone! …Bone! Blood!"

Another word added to their slew of horrible howls, and then—

"Flesh!"

Flesh, bone, and blood.

He couldn't tell if the monsters were laughing or screaming or crying in their

vocalized chaos. Harry was lost in a sea of semi-consciousness, of fevered
half-sleep—he was cold, so cold, and yet at the same time he was on fire, like
his very bones were made of frozen water while his skin was bathed in
burning flames, an impossible combination of fire and ice. He was broken out
in a frigid sweat, and the pain, the pain… A different kind of pain had begun
to blossom throughout his whole body, in addition to the scorching agony of
the scar on his forehead. He could feel it radiating from…from his side, it
was his side that was searing in such anguish, and it was a very specific kind
of pain… He knew this sensation, but he couldn't focus enough to place when
he'd felt it before…

"Blood! Blood! …Blood!"

Something cold and damp was laid gently across his forehead. Harry blinked
up to see which demonic entity had placed it over his burning scar, for it was
the first and only tender action that he had felt, and it was irrationally
soothing, such a simple thing… He opened his eyes to see—

"Hermione?"

Her warm eyes came into a crisp, clear focus as, for a moment, Harry's
monstrosity of a nightmare vanished in a sporadic wave of clarity. Her face
was upside-down, hovering a few inches above him as he peered up at her
though his lashes…

Her face looked worn and abused, but she smiled when he said her name,
nodding as tears sprang to life in her widened eyes…

"Harry, oh, Harry…"

He stared in confusion. She was calling him…she was…

"…Who's Harry?"

Hermione frowned, looking concerned, but…but then her lips continued to

pull down unnaturally far, her contorted mouth somehow sliding right off of
her ashen face, and her hair and eyes and everything around her was being
jumbled and pushed around like wet oil paint on a canvas. The colors shifted
and blended together and she was a human and a monster and then she was
nothing at all, because the various hues bled into one solid, muddy brown
which became darker and darker until all became black.

He was holding something in his hands, and it was everything.

The world was in fragments at his fingertips and they were shattered and
dead and damaged beyond magical repair.

His ears were ringing as, at first, he was struck numb.

…But not for long.

This hollowness was ephemeral. This empty shell that such a shocking
revelation had caused him to become would last little more than a fleeting,
evanescent moment.

Horror.

Grief.

Rage.

The emotions were torrential. Harry felt them rising above him in a wave of
monstrous proportions, and he knew, knew that when it came crashing down
in full force, he would be lost completely.

Goodbye, cruel world, he thought solemnly as the shadow of hate was cast
over him, a dark promise of his eminent demise.

…But it never came.

Just seconds before the colossal tide could crush him, that flood of emotion
that would consume him and from which he would never surface again…
Harry was saved by light.

An intangible current of something bright and warm pulled him gently away
from the onslaught, and he found himself back in his mental, endless world of
white. The transitory place where he always ended up in between dreams and
nightmares, in between the horrors of his own subconscious…or the
constructed terrors of someone else.

It was peaceful here.

Harry walked in the vast, empty landscape, thinking of nothing, feeling

nothing. It was quiet, but not in a disconcerting way…just blank, vacant
space…

Serene. Pure. Simple and clean.

…And then it began to snow.

He peered up into the infinite sky which was indiscernible from the equally
spotless ground, and he could barely make it out against such a pristine
backdrop, but what was falling gently from above… It was… No, it was not
snow, but…

Flower petals.

Harry smiled as one fluttered playfully close to his face. Just a few, at first,
scattered and sparse, but then more and more began floating down from up
above. White flower petals, twirling as they made their slow, entrancingly
elegant descent onto the immaculate ground upon which he walked.

It was beautiful.

They fell on his shoulders and landed in his hair. They smelled like lilies.
Strange, he thought, as he slowed his gait and then stopped altogether. He
held his hands out wide on either side of his body and looked up, as if he
could maybe locate the source from which they fell. He had never noticed
anything having a scent before, in his dreams.

It made everything feel exceptionally…real.

The number of flower petals was increasing. Soon the air was full of them,
and they began forming into small piles at his feet. He closed his eyes, and
simply breathed in the calming aroma of lilies.

When he finally blinked his lashes open again, he saw it. A full one. A single,
miraculously whole, white flower, complete with a number of bright green
stamen poking out from the center. The tiny bit of color in this world of white
stuck out like a beacon.

Smiling, Harry reached out a hand, waiting for it to float onto his stationary
palm. It was just about to land, when—

Someone else got it first.

It shot out from behind him. An arm from around his right side came
forward, placing his hand just above his own in order to catch the flower
before he could.

Somehow, even by just his hand...Harry knew who it was.

Arms encircled him from behind. The fingers which had ensnared the lily
held it to his chest, over his scar, over his heart.

Harry didn't turn his head to look. Because he knew who it was, and…and he
knew he wasn't real.

He knew, because even though he could see his arms, even though he had
just caught this impossible lily of vivid white… He couldn't feel him.

In his repetitive nightmares of the oppressive cupboard, Harry had always felt
him. His arms had been warm and soft, they'd had weight to them; physical,
tangible weight. They had felt so, so real.
Harry felt nothing at all as this ghost embraced him from behind. His limbs
were shimmering in a way they never had before. Translucent, like some kind
of transient projection of light.

This was a phantom, a dream…and nothing more.

Harry tried to wrap his fingers around the hand which held the flower, and
the contrast between his own body and this mirage was the difference
between the radiant sun and the lifeless moon. Nothing. No warmth, no pulse,
nothing. Harry's hand passed right through it, and he wondered how this
apparition was able to even hold the lily to his chest.

He wasn't real.

"…Did you love me?"

Harry's heart asked the question before his head could stop it. His whispered
voice sounded lost and alone in this vast world of raining flower petals and
infinite white.

The lily slipped from between his fingers and fell to the ground.

Of course he didn't answer.

Sunlight.

Harry felt it streaming onto his face, discernible even through his closed
eyelids. It was warm and welcoming on his skin, and for a few moments after
he regained consciousness, he simply basked in the pleasant sensation. He
was laying on a cushy bed of some kind, and it was just the most amazing
and astounding thing of all, because he was actually not in pain.

As a matter of fact, he felt…why, he felt pretty good.

His eyes flew open at that realization. Because the first conclusion he jumped
to, at the lack of anguish, was…
He must have died.

Harry sat up abruptly and tossed the blanket off of him. To add to his horror,
he noticed that he was inexplicably clean of mud and blood, as well as
completely naked. He looked about the room, in a bit of a panic, and—

Ah, there it was. The pain. A dull, aching throb on his side. Nothing terrible,
nothing awful; he'd only felt it at all because of the sudden movement, he was
sure, but it was undeniably there. Harry let out a breath of relief.

So he was not dead, after all. That was good. Wasn't it?

He was also not alone.

An older man in plain, brown robes was sitting in a chair on the other side of
the bedroom. He started at Harry's jarring movement and dropped the
newspaper which he had been reading. For a moment he looked as shocked
as Harry must have, but then his lined face broke out into a grin.

"You're awake," he said, beaming as he got to his feet. "How are you
feeling?"

Harry stared with giant eyes at the old man before him, quickly gathering up
the blanket he had just thrown off of his body to cover himself. He looked
vaguely familiar…

"Who are you?" he asked breathlessly, clutching the comforter to his chest.
"Where are we? What happened at Hogwarts? Is everyone all right, did they
make it out, where is—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, one question at a time, son!" The gruff wizard grabbed
a pile of clothes from the top of a wardrobe. School robes, like the ones he
had worn while still a student at Hogwarts… "Calm down, calm down…
Here, make yourself decent, and then we'll chat."

He tossed the robes at Harry's chest, who barely managed to catch them.
Then, before he could fire off more questions, the stranger stepped out of the
room.

Harry literally jumped out of bed, about to get dressed more quickly than he
ever had before in his entire life, when—

His reflection in the mirror next to the wardrobe made him pause.

The giant, devastating bruise was…was all but gone. Only a slight tinge
remained, a vague hint of mottled yellow and green, like it was almost fully
healed…and his rib was back, he noted pleasantly as he poked at his side.
That was good… They must have made him drink Skele-grow, last night…

Merlin, no wonder he had been in so much pain.

But it looked like he was going to have a lovely new scar, now, on his side.
In the middle of where the slight bruise lingered, there was a curving,
swooshing mark of deep red, like a crescent moon or the top of a scythe…

Perfect, he thought morbidly. Just what he needed. Another scar, to go along

with the one on his forehead and the one on—

His chest.

…Harry had never actually examined it, not really.

He'd been avoiding looking at it in the mirror fully, after…after it happened.

Couldn't bear to stare for more than a fleeting second at the reminder, the
evidence, the visceral proof…

It was a perfect oval of crimson, a few shades lighter and duller than the one
on his side. The exact same shape that the locket had been, like the silver
surface had literally imprinted itself onto his sternum.

…What have you done?

Harry tore his eyes away from his reflection. He couldn't, he couldn't—

He took a deep breath and got dressed as quickly as he could with his
trembling hands. He wondered what happened to the portkey.

But that particular question was at the very bottom of his list of worries and
concerns. He wrenched the door open, barely resisting the urge to yank the
older man in by the robes and start shouting his inquiries.

"Who are you?" he asked again, as that seemed the most pertinent thing
which he should know first.

The man frowned as he stepped back into the bedroom. "Aberforth…

Aberforth Dumbledore," he muttered, as though he didn't particularly like
admitting who he was out loud.

Harry's eyebrows raised in shock. "A-Aberforth…?" The wizard's sour

expression deepened. "You're-you're Dumbledore's brother…?"

"Aye," he affirmed bitterly. "Proud bartender and owner of the Hog's Head."

Harry could actually feel his face pale. "The Hog's Head… In Hogsmeade."

"Aye. Hogsmeade."

"Hogsmeade!" he squawked now in fervent disbelief, his hands shooting out

on either side of him. "I'm in Hogsmeade!"

Some safe, undisclosed location! Some grand escape! He had just made the
biggest, most insane spectacle in all of Hogwarts history with that getaway,
literally storming out of the Great Hall after he'd-he'd disarmed the Dark
Lord, in front of everyone—and now-now he was just a stone's throw away
from the castle grounds!

Harry thought he just might be sick.

"I've got to get out of here," he said blankly, looking around the room for
what, he wasn't sure. His broom? A fireplace and some floo powder? A
convenient threstral that would willingly take himanywhere else?

Aberforth snorted disdainfully. "Don't get your knickers all in a bunch," he

scoffed, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and forcing him down so that he
was sitting on the edge of the bed. For an older man, Aberforth was very
strong. "You're safe here. You think Snape would allow this place to be an
emergency safe house if there weren't about a thousand different
enchantments within the walls and around the perimeter? Bloody complicated
ones, too—had to be, so the Death Eaters who instill that damn Caterwauling
Charm wouldn't notice them—"

"What? The what?" Harry spluttered, his mind racing. "Wait—so you're the
only other person that knew Snape was alive? Who he made an Unbreakable
Vow with?"

"Damn right, he did." He actually smiled here, a crooked smirk that pulled up
at one side. "Wasn't too happy to do it, either. But I wasn't about to just
blindly trust an ex-Death Eater… No matter how much my dear, older
brother might've."

His last words were coated in sarcasm. Harry would have asked if he didn't
have a thousand other, far more pressing questions on his mind.

"What happened?" he asked. "After I showed up, do you know, did you see—
Snape and Draco, and—"

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps racing up the stairs interrupted his

stuttering. He only just had time to get to his feet again and face the door,
when—

Harry's heart sang at the sight.

"Ron!" he shouted as his tall, ginger friend came storming in, grinning widely
and—

"Hermione! You're okay, you're—"

But his next words were muffled beyond comprehension, as both of them
rushed forward, pulling Harry into an overbearing hug that was wonderfully
suffocating…and shoving Aberforth Dumbledore quite ostentatiously out of
the way in the process.

"You moron!" Ron declared with an enormous smile on his face once he had
finally pulled away. Hermione's arms remained wrapped around his
midsection. "You insane, reckless, brilliant fool! You crazy son of a bitch!"

But he was laughing jubilantly.

"Tell me what happened," Harry commanded—though Ron's merry

disposition was contagious, and he found himself smiling, too. Hermione
finally released him, both grinning and teary-eyed.

She, however, did not appear quite so rosy and flushed as Ron was. She was
extremely pale, with bags under her eyes that looked more like bruises than
anything, and—

"Oh God, Hermione," Harry said, for now he recalled quite clearly—
Hermione under the Cruciatus Curse of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Are you all right? Are—"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said quickly, though Harry noted that her voice was
weak and raw. He pulled her into another embrace—albeit a much gentler
one, this time.

"Really," she continued with her cheek pressed against his chest. "I-I was
lucky. Imagine if she had known that I-I'd been impersonating her, breaking
into her v-vault at Gringotts…"

Harry's stomach churned at the thought. For surely, if Bellatrix Lestrange had
known that Hermione, a mudblood, was waltzing around in her skin under the
influence of Polyjuice Potion…

He shook his head forcefully. That was a thought he could not dwell on.
"What happened?" he asked again, after a brief moment of just holding her.
And while she did seem quite shaken, Hermione appeared otherwise
unharmed.
"After you disarmed you-know-who in front of all his Death Eaters and the
entire Order of the Phoenix, you mean?"

Ron sounded so gleeful that Harry couldn't help but feel a bit giddy as well.
He felt a blush rising to his cheeks. "Er…yeah," he finally said.

"You showed up in my damn kitchen, is what!"

They all turned to face the disgruntled wizard in the corner of the room.
Harry had already forgotten he was there. His expression was a strange
combination of scandalized and awed, affronted and deeply impressed and…
and almost fond.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, unsure of what else to say.

Aberforth batted a knotted hand in front of him as if to cast the weak apology
aside. "Imagine my surprise when Harry Potter himself—"

"You can't say that!" Harry yelped. His hand, which was still resting on
Hermione's shoulder, tightened in anxiety.

"It's okay!" she said hurriedly, attempting to remove his vice-like grip from
her robes. "Really! The Taboo—it's broken!"

Harry unclenched his fist. "What?"

"Yeah!" Ron shouted raucously. "When you reappeared—casting your

patronous, striking lightning, on top of the Gryffindor hourglass—you crazy,
goddamn loon, you beautiful, mad, freak—everyone was saying it, your
name. Too many people at once, as it happened, because the hex was
disrupted, and it totally broke! It was-it was magical overload!"

Harry felt slightly dizzy. "You mean…people can say my name again, now?"

Hermione and Ron both nodded. Harry ran a hand through his hair absent-
mindedly, stunned that such a small scrap of information could leave him so
shell-shocked.
He had his name back…really and truly…

"So imagine my surprise," Aberforth went on, smirking, "when Harry Potter
himself shows up in my kitchen, just as I'm putting tea on. Miss Granger and
Mr. Weasley I'd expected, at some point, but to come through the hole—so
when you appeared via the portkey, well, it was a bit a shock, to put it
mildly." His smirk widened.

"Shirtless and bloody as all hell, covered in dirt like you'd just been out
robbin' graves (Harry snorted very loudly here), and a bruise the size of
London on your side, literally bleeding to death on my kitchen floor—"

And though these were all reasonable things to be upset about, Aberforth's
smile only continued to grow bigger the more he rambled on, and it could not
have been clearer that this all actually amused him immensely—now that
Harry was recovered and well, of course.

"By all rights, you should be dead, son," he muttered almost accusingly, but
his blue eyes were twinkling in a way that only a Dumbledore's could.

"He defies the laws of nature, this one." Ron clapped him on the shoulder.
His unwavering smile was so big it must have been hurting his face at this
point.

"Well, so then what?" Harry asked, looking about at all three of them. "I
showed up here, you somehow managed to fix me up—"

"You didn't make it easy for us, mind," Aberforth added dryly, though his
grin never faded, as though he found that amusing as well.

"Us?"

"Listen," Ron said, and for the first time his expression became a bit somber.
"I think… We need to show you something, Harry."

Harry. Hearing his best friend call him by his name again felt unreal. "Y-
yeah?" he said nervously, glancing back and forth between Ron and
Hermione, the latter of which nodded in agreement.

"Yes." Hermione wiped at her misty eyes, her demeanor becoming more
serious as well. "Yes, we need to show you something, before we say
anything else."

Harry felt his mouth go dry. He was suddenly extremely apprehensive as

Hermione grabbed his hand, leading him away towards…

A blank painting?

"Do you mind, Aberforth?" she asked tentatively.

"If you must," he said. Then, standing directly in front of the empty frame, he
shouted,

"Ariana!"

…At first, there was nothing. Then, after a few moments, the sound of
echoing footsteps came from beyond. The noise of someone running, and
then he could see, coming from the background…someone was heading
towards them…. A child…

A girl. A young, blonde girl with braided pigtails came prancing forward, a
cheery grin across her face. Her blue eyes were bright and twinkling.

"My sister," Aberforth said shortly by way of explanation. Harry was a bit
taken aback—he never recalled the former Headmaster mentioning that he'd
had a sister, before… But this was undeniably a representation of someone
from the Dumbledore family in front of him. Her sparkling gaze flickered to
Harry in benign interest before returning to her brother's. "Ariana, would you
be so kind…?"

The girl nodded. She then danced out of the way, and…and was the painting,
a…a…?

"Did it just become a hole?" Harry gasped in disbelief. It was the strangest
thing, almost imperceptible…before she had come into view, this had most
definitely been a flat, two-dimensional picture in front of them, of that Harry
was certain… But now, since Aberforth had made the request, the very same
image had a newly formed, impossible depth to it, and did not, in fact, look
like a painting at all, but—

"A tunnel, yes," Hermione said. Ron stepped in front of them, quirking one
eyebrow playfully.

"And we're going in."

Then, true to his word, Ronald Weasley lifted one leg through the frame and
entered into an impossibility. Harry stared in awe.

"Well, come on!" He waved his arm impatiently, beckoning for them to
follow.

"Are you joining us, Aberforth…?" Hermione asked in her quiet, hoarse
voice.

The older man snorted, running a hand down the length of his wiry beard.
"No, no, no. I'm staying here, I've got a bar to run... You lot go on. But before
you go—"

Aberforth crossed the room and retracted his wand. He tapped it several times
upon the surface of a wooden chest that he had stowed away in the corner,
muttering some incantation under his breath as he did. A loud click signified
that the crate had become unlocked.

He reached into it and retrieved several items. First, the Invisibility Cloak,
and then not one, but two wands…the wand of Draco Malfoy, and…

"Put them here for safe keeping after you passed out on my kitchen table," he
said, grinning crookedly.

Harry rushed forward. He initially grabbed the cloak, stowing it away in his
new robes; then Draco's wand, which he shoved in his outer pocket…
…And then the Elder Wand.

Aberforth was staring at it with conflicted emotion, and Harry knew why.
This was the wand of his deceased, older brother; the Deathstick, the wand
which Albus had won from Gellert Grindelwald…which Voldemort had
stolen from the former Headmaster's very grave, prying it from his lifeless
fingers…

The older wizard looked nauseated. Harry wasn't sure what to say.

But then Aberforth was shoving it at him, his expression shifting as though
he'd come to a sudden conclusion. "Take it," he said sternly. It was clear by
his tenor that he did not want to verbalize any of his own, torrid thoughts.

Tentatively, Harry did.

…Even simply holding the Elder Wand felt…powerful.

It thrummed through his fingertips and rolled over the skin of his entire body.
The sound of his own heartbeat seemed to increase in volume, a dull,
rhythmic drum that with every beat whispered:

Now. Now. Now.

Harry wet his lips as he stared at the slick, black piece of wood in his hands.
He would be lying if he said it wasn't a bit…mesmerizing.

Enthralling.

…Dangerous.

Shaking his head, Harry put the wand in his inner pocket. His hazy thoughts
while he'd held it must have shown on his face, for when he peered back up at
Aberforth it was to see that he looked concerned.

"You be careful with that, son," he murmured. Harry simply nodded.

Ron stuck his head in through the frame on the wall. "Are you coming, or
what?" he said, having missed the whole interaction. But Hermione hadn't.
She had remained silent at his side, though the expression on her face that
was disconcertingly similar to Aberforth's.

Harry forced a smile, trying to appear as though no strange, tense moment

had transpired at all. He wiped his slightly sweaty palm on his robes before
extending it out to the wizard before him.

"Mr. Dumble—"

"Ab," he interrupted. "Call me Ab."

"Ab." Harry conceded, inclining his head. "Thank you. I can't… We can't…"
He wished desperately that he could come up with something profound and
significant to say, but he found himself at a loss. He would probably never
fully understand just to what extent this stranger in front of him had risked
his life to help him and his friends.

He seemed to understand, though, because his apprehensive expression

softened. "No need to thank me," he said dismissively. He grabbed Harry's
hand and shook it with a firm grip. "I daresay you've done more for me than I
have for you."

He smiled, exposing all of his yellowed, slightly crooked teeth. "Now get out
of my damn house."

Harry laughed. Hermione grinned as well, once more taking him by the hand.

"Thank you, sir," she said meekly. Aberforth waved the comment away with
a knotted hand before prodding them along.

Ron was practically vibrating with impatience. "Here," He said, reaching

down with both arms to help them up through the frame—assistance which
was much appreciated by Hermione, who was significantly shorter than either
of them, but which Harry hardly needed.

But he let him take his other hand, anyway.

The Golden Trio entered through the magical, eerily dim work of art that was
a painting and yet was not a painting at all. Hand in hand, with Hermione on
one side and Ron on the other, Harry allowed his friends to guide him though
the darkness.

…They were going up.

Harry wanted to ask a thousand different questions, but found himself unable
to speak. The darkness had inexplicably cast him into a state of odd, numbed
silence, one which Hermione and Ron seemed to have fallen into as well. The
passage was gloomy and a bit cold.

It was a long walk. They trudged along in silent contemplation, and perhaps it
was merely the aftereffects of having handled the Elder Wand, but Harry
felt…strange. Bizarrely calm. Despite his anxiety, his thoughts felt—

He nearly stumbled at the realization. The Occlumency shields. Snape's

Occlumency shields. The itchy, uncomfortable barriers in his mind were
gone, and—he could feel them, just barely, his own mental wards were back
in place, undeniably present…just when and how had he done that, without
even realizing he'd done it?

But the absence of the Potions Master's shields was enough to crack the
uncanny serenity that had come over him.

"Who died?"

Harry's hoarse voice echoed in the empty tunnel. They had been walking a
long time, and it seemed that they had finally come to what appeared to be a
dead end. A boarded-up, wooden surface greeted them at the top of their
ascent.

Ron and Hermione exchanged apprehensive glances. Harry's anxiety sky-

rocketed in an instant.

But before he could say anything more, Ron knocked on the wall—once,
twice, three times… There was a shuffling sound, and then it swung open just
a crack. A sliver of light cascaded down across his face, and Harry's vision
had become so accustomed to the darkness that even this small amount of
light made his eyes narrow.

Ron didn't say anything as pushed the door open the rest of the way, and he
and Hermione stepped aside so that Harry could enter first. His heart was in
his throat as he went forward, and he was suddenly extremely wary and
afraid and nervous and excited and—

He was attacked.

The moment Harry Potter stepped out of the tunnel, he was assaulted by so
many people at once that it was difficult to make out who any of them were
—Neville Longbottom was the first he recognized, his face parallel and
practically shoved into his own, then Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan,
his old dorm mates—and Fred and George Weasley, laughing and cheering
and hollering like animals—but they all were, they were all shouting,
repeating his name over and over again. He was almost dragged down to the
ground under the weight of them all, and Harry was so overwhelmed and
overcome with joy at seeing the familiar faces that he wasn't sure what to say
or who to attempt to address first, and so he ended up settling for yelling,
quite loudly, "I-I love everyone!"…to which they all laughed even harder.

A number of overstimulating things happened in a rapid succession after that.

The first of which was Ginny Weasley.

Ginny, who had remained on the outskirts of the initial bombardment of a

group hug, waited a few moments before making her presence known. Harry
was just looking around at everyone, taking in their radiant smiles as they
patted him on the shoulder and stared at him in awe, when the youngest
Weasley stepped forward.

Harry's own grin faltered when he saw her…for she did not look happy, she
did not look cheerful—in fact, she looked angry, and everyone that had been
surrounding Harry parted slightly at the tangible fury rolling off of her as she
approached. Harry had just opened his mouth to ask, distraught by such
unexpected rage, when she slapped the startled expression right off of his
face—literally.

"Youasshole," she seethed, her brown eyes simmering dangerously—and

before he could so much as attempt to process that, she grabbed a fistful of
the front of his robes and pulled him into the most unpredicted, violent kiss
that he'd ever experienced in his life. He was utterly confused and astounded
and now his face hurt and that, he thought blankly, pretty much summed up
his love life in general.

The group around them, which was, he assumed, equally as shocked at the
fact that Ginny Weasley had just smacked the newly resurrected 'Chosen One'
in the face (before deciding she'd rather snog him, of course), recovered more
quickly than he did. Jeering catcalls sounded in his ears on both sides as
Ginny tangled her fingers in his hair, and he was too dumbstruck to even
consider trying to escape. So, with no other choices really left to him, he just
sort of let the whole thing happen.

Fortunately for him, the rest of the occupants in this mysterious room were
not about to let her have Harry Potter all to herself for more than a few
seconds.

"Oi, you're going to suffocate him, Gin, let him breathe—"

"I dunno, that kind of looks like fun. Can we all have a go? Should we form a
line?"

"Excellent idea. Me next!"

"Does anyone have a breath mint? First impressions are everything, and I
don't want to ruin mine."

It was Fred and George who intercepted, their playful bantering finally
causing Ginny to release her grip. She pulled away, but her eyes were still
blazing as she looked up at him. Harry wasn't sure if he should be afraid or
aroused (again, why was that always the case?).

"…H-hello to you, too," he stuttered. Her fierce demeanor finally cracked,

and then she was laughing along with the rest of them.

And that was when he noticed Malfoy.

Draco had been just a few feet away, watching that particular interaction with
what appeared to be utmost contempt. His eyes were narrowed on the back of
Ginny's head like she was a vile abomination, but Harry hardly noticed or
cared, because he was here, and he was alive—

"Draco!" he gasped, and the blonde's entire demeanor changed in a flash.

Malfoy grinned as he locked eyes with Harry, shoving Ginny aside with
unnecessary force to get to him. They embraced like brothers that had just
survived a terrible, bloody battle.

Which they were, and they had.

Everyone stared at the most unprecedented sight of Harry Potter and Draco
Malfoy holding each other like the best of friends. The laughter ceased.

"Evans," he muttered, ending the hug rather quickly. The next words rushed
out of his mouth very quickly, like he couldn't stand to keep them in even a
second longer. "I did it—I killed the snake!"

Harry's jaw dropped. "You…you what!?" Draco nodded, his face glowing.
"How!?"

"With this!" He reached to his side, where there was a low, wooden table, and
Harry couldn't believe it—

"The sword of Gryffindor!" he shouted in disbelief. "But how—"

"It was wild," Draco went on quickly, and Harry could tell by the relatively
passive body language of everyone else that this was a story that they'd
already heard. "I was just there, waiting, where you left me—behind the
wreckage—and the Dark Lord was-was doing his thing, and then, your
patronus—it shows up and he takes off, but he snarled something in
parseltongue, first, he must have told his snake to stay behind and watch
Snape, because she continued to circle around him, guarding him—"

He paused only long enough to take a breath. Harry listened raptly. "And-and
I seriously considered running for it, you know. I was pretty fucking close to
just taking off when I saw her. But then, I don't know, I don't know what
came over me, but I just thought, '…No. I'm going to save Snape, like he
saved me. I'm going to save all of them, and I'm going to kill that fucking
snake.'"

He was beaming. It was a giant smile that Harry returned with gusto as he
was filled with fierce pride for his friend.

"He was brilliant," Hermione gushed, looking at Malfoy admiringly. He

seemed to inflate even more at the praise.

"But how did you get the sword?"

"It just appeared!" Draco yelled. "I turned and looked, and it was just there,
sticking out of one of the blown up bits of the castle walls—and that's mad,
isn't it? Because the Dark Lord had it, it was in Granger's bag, it was in his
pocket—but then there it was, right in front of me, and when I saw it, I just
knew, knew that I was supposed to pull it out of the stone and use it to kill the
snake." He gave a short laugh.

"And so-and so that's exactly what I did."

He finished vaguely and simply. Harry was sure there was much more to the
story than that, but then Ron interrupted.

"So that's all of them!" he shouted jubilantly, and even he looked impressed
with the blonde before him. He was smiling from ear to ear. "All of the
horcruxes, gone!"

Draco and Harry shared a very brief, fleeting glance where their happy
demeanors faltered. Because Draco had been there, when he'd shouted it at
Snape, Malfoy also knew…
Harry quickly whipped around as he realized that Ron had just shouted this to
the room at large.

"We know."

Neville spoke now, and his face was the first that made Harry realize just
how much time had passed since he'd seen them all.

Neville Longbottom could have been a different person entirely. He was

almost as tall as Harry was, now, and his face, while still round, had lost
nearly all of its softness. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. There
was a hardened glint to them that Harry recalled being vaguely present in
fifth year, during their D.A. meetings...something dark and severe that was
now undeniably permanent.

"Ron and Hermione filled us in last night. About everything, about how you-
know-who kidnapped you, how you were asleep…and how they were
hunting you-know-who's horcruxes…"

"No point in keeping such things a secret anymore, eh?" Ron said happily,
though Harry was internally cringing. "They're all gone, now! And-hey—!"

Ron's next words were cut off entirely. A rapid pitter-patter had sounded
across the room, much like the sound of someone running, but Harry hadn't
seen anyone—Ron staggered inexplicably to the side, looking baffled, and it
wasn't until it had collided with his leg that Harry realized the source of the
noise was merely below eye-level—

The small creature flung itself around his calf and let out an ear-splitting,
emotionally drenched howl.

"Dobby!"

Harry and Draco shouted it at the same time, but in completely opposite tones
of voice.

Dobby the house elf had wrapped himself tightly around his leg. Harry stared
down at him in delighted surprise.

"AAAAWOOOOOOOO!" The elf threw his head back, his giant eyes
drenched in tears as he howled and cried and seemed utterly beyond words at
the actual, physical presence of Harry Potter.

"It's-it's okay, Dobby…" Harry tried lifting his leg, but the action did not
have the desired effect. Rather than release him, Dobby scaled the length of
Harry's body like some astoundingly agile and very unattractive spider-
monkey, not stopping until his arms and legs were clinging to his torso and
he was crying aggressively into the robes on his chest.

Everyone was grinning and chuckling as they watched the spectacle. Draco
alone looked completely aghast.

"What is my house elf doing here?" he sneered in disgust, taking a step away
from them.

Dobby snapped his head quickly in his direction. His ears flopped animatedly
as he snarled, at the top of his little elf lungs,

"Dobby is a FREE ELF, young Master Malfoy!"

And while Harry found it funny that he had, in one breath, declared himself
free and referred to Draco as 'young Master Malfoy', he decided not to point
such a thing out. Then, just as quickly as Dobby's tears had turned to rage, the
elf was a blubbering mess again, turning to rest his head onto Harry's chest
and making noises that sounded more like Harry was beating him rather than
returning his painful embrace. For such a small, fragile-looking thing, he was
ridiculously strong.

"D-Dobby was-Dobby was being so worried! Dobby has been l-looking

everywhere's—"

Harry's heart swelled with emotion for the poor, shaking creature in his arms.
"I'm sorry, Dobby…"
Which was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Dobby howled louder than
ever. "Harry Potter is-he is apologizing t-to Dobby—"

The sobbing continued. Harry decided it would probably be wisest to not say
anything at all, and instead simply patted Dobby on the back a bit awkwardly
as he continued to cry.

For the first time, Harry looked beyond the faces that were directly in front of
him. He had a pretty good idea of where they were, and he was just admiring
the vibrant red of the walls when he saw something that distracted him
completely.

She was the only person in the room not clamoring for his attention. She sat
in the middle of a suspended hammock, twirling a strand of golden hair
around her finger. When Harry locked eyes with her, she waved benignly, as
though they had just been passing each other in the hallway between classes,
a small smile on her lips…

Harry finally wrenched Dobby from his chest. "Here, hold this," he muttered
absent-mindedly as he thrust the shaking hysterical house-elf at whoever
happened to be nearest to him (he would later find out that it had been Ginny
Weasley, who had not found it amusing). Everyone else fell momentarily into
the background.

"Luna," he said breathlessly. She blinked her giant, blue eyes at him when he
approached, and before she could even stand to greet him, Harry reached
down and scooped her up in his arms. He swung her around and around,
clutching her to his chest like she was a princess, laughing all the while.

"You beautiful girl, you angel," Harry muttered as he finally stopped whirling
her about—though he continued to hold her close. "You godsend. You saved
me, you saved me—I would have never known, if it weren't for you, I would
have never figured out I had any power at all, in my dreams, if it weren't for
you—"

He held her at arm's length for a moment just to look at her, grinning so
broadly it hurt. Then he kissed her on the forehead before holding her against
him again. She seemed to be taking it all in stride.

"Hello, Harry," was her response to his assault. It was so passive, so gentle—
and Harry decided right then and there that he loved her all the more for it.

"How did you do it?" he finally asked as he released her. She blinked up at
him owlishly. "How did you find me? In my dreams?"

"You needed help," Luna responded simply. "And so I helped."

God bless this girl, Harry thought, for her vague answers that aren't really
answers at all and actually just beg more questions. But he decided not to ask,
and instead settled for whirling her around once more. She gave a high-
pitched squeal as her legs left the ground, which only made Harry decide to
do it again.

"You are a gift to the world, Luna," he said once he'd decided that she could
stand on her own two feet.

She laughed. A tugging at the bottom on his pants informed him that Dobby
had returned.

"H-he is aliiiiiiiiiiiive!" he screeched—a living, breathing, unstoppable

fountain of emotion. Harry was beginning to become concerned that it may
never end.

"Ergh, what happened to it?" Malfoy was staring down his old servant in
what bordered on horror. Obviously, this was not proper behavior for a house
elf, and he had never acted anything like this while in service to the Malfoy
family.

"He got out of captivity and found people who actually care about him, is
what," Hermione snapped. She stepped forward and pried the trembling elf
off of Harry's person again, and, thankfully, he let her.

"I missed you too, Dobby," Harry said cheerfully, patting the poor thing on
the head once he was in her arms. "I'm glad to see you're okay."
Dobby made a shrill, blubbering noise in response. Hermione rubbed his
back, trying to calm him down to the point of being able to breathe properly
again.

"He sounds more imposing than the ghoul in our attic," Fred commented,
looking impressed with the tiny elf.

"Before we gave him fake Spattergroit, of course," George added.

"Supposedly now he just sleeps soundly all the time because he actually as a
bed. Mum should have swapped him for Ron years ago."

"What are you two even doing here?" Ron snapped, but the grin was still
plastered on his face. "Shouldn't you be with the rest of the Order, being
useful on the outside?"

The twins gave identical smirks. "Nothing could have made us miss this
party," Fred responded.

"Besides, being useful isn't really our strong suit."

"Never has been."

Ron sighed at their antics. "We don't even know how they got in here," he
muttered, aiming the comment to Harry.

"And we'll never tell," they said in unison, beaming.

But Harry was looking to Draco, as his thoughts had gone elsewhere. "So…if
you killed the snake, then-then where…"

His voice trailed off at Malfoy's darkening expression. A thrill of dread

coursed through him, and he was preparing himself for the worst, when—

"Mr. Potter…"

Harry whipped around at the softly spoken, contemptuous, familiar drawl.

"…our new…celebrity."
A harsh sound that was meant to be a laugh but came out more as a sob
chocked its way out of Harry's throat. For there was Severus Snape, and who
knew when he'd actually shown up—probably had just silently observed the
entire, emotional affair from the shadows like the mysterious entity that he
was—and…well, he looked dreadful, truth be told, worse even than when he
had left from Grimmauld Place last night, like a standing corpse, but he was
not a corpse, he was alive, alive, alive—

Harry stepped away from Luna to approach the miraculously intact Potions
Master. "You…you made it," he said lamely once he stood in front of him,
unable to think of anything better.

"Indeed. And it would seem that our survival is owed to the insanely
irresponsible and absolutely unacceptable behavior of two deviant teenagers."
He glanced at Draco before looking back to Harry.

"You left the safe house. You decimated a grave site at Godric's Hollow. You
apparated—barely—to Hogwarts, and then you disarmed the Dark Lord in
the most attention-seeking, monumentally reckless, colossally foolish way
that you possibly could have. You caused the entire Great Hall to say your
name and therefore break the Taboo, you struck lightening through the
ceiling into the actual sky itself—which isn't even possible, even if it is
enchanted—in order to completely dismantle the semi-failing apparation
ward, after which you proclaimed yourself the Chosen One and then…then
you disappeared with the stolen portkey."

Harry furrowed his brows, frowning. Everyone had fallen silent behind him
at the tension in Snape's voice, even the sobbing house elf. It wasn't fair to
put it like that, Harry thought, irritated, it wasn't like he had picked those
words for the portkey, he hadn't had a choice! And really, he hadn't meant for
it to be some crazy spectacle, it had just sort of happened that way, but in the
end, it did save them all, and—

But then Snape smiled.

Really, truly smiled. And even on his bruised face, it was by far the happiest
expression that Harry had ever seen him.
"I would say that I am completely and solely outraged by the danger you
placed yourself in by disobeying me…but not even I am that good of a liar."

But then the grin vanished as quickly as it had come. His next words were
cold and serious.

"Never. Do it. Again."

Harry laughed breathlessly. "Oh, I'd never dream of it, sir," he answered,
smiling—and they both knew it was a blatant lie.

Snape glowered, and that was a much more familiar expression aimed at him,
Harry thought merrily. "Harry James Potter…" he muttered, shaking his head
as he stared at him with a mixture of contempt, and…astonishment? Or was it
just disbelief? "…My personal nightmare."

"You should have seen it, mate." Ron pointed at Snape in an accusatory
fashion, but his eyes were on Harry. "Snape, when he came in to save us—it
was incredible. He blew up all the windows on the seventh floor, and-did you
know he can fly?"

Ron was going on about the Potions Master as if he wasn't standing right in
front of them. "I did," Harry answered.

"Madness!" Ron shouted. "He flew in, and-and he and Bellatrix dueling was
—it was the most epic fighting I've ever seen. I'm talking Dumbledore level
spell-casting. There were these giant, colossal snakes-but not really, because
they were illusions-but-and then-the fire-and-and-" he stuttered to a halt,
throwing his hands up as if he were surrendering.

"I can't do it justice in words. I'll have to show you in a pensive sometime,
though, Harry. It. Was. Awesome."

Snape was looking more annoyed than flattered by Ron's uncharacteristic

gushing. Harry was about to laugh again, but then a terrifying thought
suddenly struck him. "Are-are you sure you should all be saying that? My
name?" He looked around at the rest of them. "I mean, you said the Taboo
broke, but couldn't he just reinstate it at any time? What if it suddenly
becomes Taboo again, and we don't even know until it's too late?"

He was surprised to hear sinister laughter behind him at those words. "Oh, it
is possible that he may try…" Snape answered, and his black eyes were
simmering with a dark yet delighted mischievousness that Harry rarely saw
there. He waited anxiously for the explanation.

"I…might have interwoven an irreversible dismantling curse into the spell

when I initially mapped out the magical infrastructure of the hex, so that if
the Taboo were to ever be broken, it would be irrevocably impossible to ever
reinstate…"

Harry stared in disbelief. For a long moment he could do nothing more than
look at the older wizard with his jaw hanging open stupidly.

"…You brilliant bastard," he finally gasped, to which Snape, rather than

being affronted, nearly inclined his head and closed his eyes, as if to
acknowledge that he was quite aware of this fact.

Harry wasn't sure what came over him. Suddenly he was trapping Severus
Snape in a giant hug, probably knocking the wind out of him as he swung
him around in a circle nearly as effortlessly as he had Luna Lovegood just
seconds before. Everyone laughed, and Harry had never really noticed before,
but-but Snape was so thin! Either he weighed hardly anything at all or Harry
really was just much stronger now than he'd ever truly realized. It must have
just been the older man's height, which was still a few inches taller than him,
admittedly, and his intimidating personality that made him seem physically
much grander than he was.

Snape was so scandalized, so thunderstruck when Harry set him back down
again that it looked as though he may pass out. He said nothing, nothing at
all, only looked at him with a blank, shocked expression.

It was a very rare opportunity, to catch the Potions Master in such a state of
weakness. Fred and George acted at once.
"For he's a jolly good fellow!" Fred sang out loudly, throwing one arm
around the immobilized man.

"For he's a jolly good fellow!" George repeated as he came around on his
other side, effectively trapping him between two Weasley's—and then
everyone joined in—

"For he's a jolly good fellooooooooooooooow!" A pause in which Snape

looked about anxiously, like he was trying to locate the nearest escape route
—

"That nobody can deny!"

And then they all burst into applause, even Dobby, who surely had no idea
what was going on.

"Let me—release me—" Snape gasped, trying to rid himself of the twins. But
he must have been as physically weak as he looked, for he made no progress
whatsoever.

"We're going to invite you to the Burrow for Christmas, Professor," Fred said
cheerfully.

"My mum might even make you a sweater. I'm thinking one with a cauldron
on it—"

"In green—"

"No, red—"

"I bet sunshine yellow would be his color, actually—"

"Let him go, guys," Harry said between laughs. Unlike with Snape's
commands, they obeyed Harry's words at once.

"Just trying to be friendly." Fred held his hands up defensively, an action

which George quickly mimicked.
Snape retreated hastily out of their reach, retracting back towards the
shadows he'd come from like a vampire trying to escape sunlight. Harry tried
not to laugh harder, and finally turned his attention fully to the space around
him.

It was glorious.

The room was a like some kind of giant, dorm-like jungle gym meant for
adults. On one side, several hammocks hung in various places, not in any
particular form of organization, with pillows and blankets strewn on a few—
signs that people were actually meant to use them, if they hadn't already. The
other side of the room was relatively open. A large space with wooden floors,
and along the far wall he saw bookcases filled with books, as well as a few
tables and many mismatched, eclectic arm chairs…

"So…where precisely are we, then?" Harry asked, though he was pretty sure
he knew the answer.

It was Neville who responded. "A brilliant new branch of the Room of
Requirement, of course." He placed one hand on Harry's shoulder, waving the
other in front of him as he scanned it across the air.

"Welcome…to Safe Haven."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at his theatrics. "Safe Haven?"

"Yep. I just named it that now," he said, smiling. "It showed up last night."

"It appeared specifically for us, I think." Ron stepped in, nodding approvingly
towards the space. "After you broke the wards and stormed your way out of
the castle (he paused here to simply stare in wonder at him for a moment),
well, Professor Snape knew right where the portkey was taking you, of
course, and he'd placed an enchantment around Aberforth's house so that he
specifically could apparate there."

"He side-along apparated all three of us," Hermione said admirably. They all
glanced at Snape, who was still clearly appalled at how Harry Potter had
whirled him around like he was little more than a rag doll. But Hermione was
not finished. "Then he and Aberforth managed to save you—s-somehow—
you really did not look good, Harry—"

Harry recalled the massive, devastating bruise. He ran his hand over his side,
feeling the newly re-grown rib there. "I'm sure I didn't," he agreed quietly.

"I was certain you were dead."

The words seemed to leave Snape's mouth without his consent. He spoke
with the air of someone reliving a horrible, horrible nightmare.

"You should have been dead. You had lost too much blood too quickly. And
your mind was…you were deteriorating. You kept tearing down the wards I
had in place. I had to force them back up over and over. It probably added
greatly to your discomfort in recovery. I was sure it was hopeless. You were
dying."

He shook his head, staring at Harry like he was some kind of impossible
mirage. "But then you simply…weren't. All of a sudden, for no particular
reason…you became stable. You became stable, you began breathing
properly, and your own Occlumency wards had reconstructed themselves. I
would ask you how, but I am fairly certain you'll just tell me that you don't
know how it happened. It shouldn't have happened. It makes no sense at all."
He paused for a moment.

"You make no sense at all."

…And Harry could only nod in agreement at that.

"He still stayed there with you and Aberforth all night, though. Even though
he looks like that." Ron waved an arm at him, grinning, and Snape's vacant
expression soured at once. "Ab literally just managed to convince him to
come here so he could recover… So, naturally, seconds later, that's when you
chose to wake up. Master of excellent timing…among other things." He
nudged Harry on the shoulder and winked.
"But—should we really be here?" Harry said, looking up towards the ceiling.
"Isn't this the stupidest, most dangerous place to be?"

"Actually," Hermione began, still holding a sniffling Dobby to her chest.

"This is, oddly enough, one of the safest places we could be."

"Yeah?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Yes. I mean, first of all, it is the very last place he would think you would
hide…considering." She failed to suppress a wry smile.

"And it's only one branch of the Room, a specific area that nobody else can
get into. No one undesirable to us can get in, simply because…well, because
we don't want them to," Neville added cheerfully.

Hermione nodded in agreement. "In addition to that, it's not on the map, and
we have direct access to someone on the outside who can keep up informed,
act for us, and provide us with any provisions we need…that the room itself
can't provide for us, of course."

She glanced around at the hammocks and book shelves. Harry had a difficult
time imagining Snape sleeping on a hammock, but decided not to voice that
thought.

"Can we just, like, take a moment, now, to acknowledge something?" Fred

said in a conversational tone.

"Just the one thing," George said, and suddenly they were on either side of
Harry much like they had been around Snape.

"One tiny, infinitesimal thing."

"That small, minor event which occurred last night, in which…" They then
shouted in unison:

"You disarmed you-know-who!"

"You shot lightning into the sky!"

"You made all of the Death Eaters fall to their fucking knees!"

"It was the most brilliant thing I've ever seen in my whole damn life! You
crazy hero!"

"You God of thunder!"

They were building up steam, getting louder and louder as they concluded,
bellowing grandly into the empty air,

"The Chosen One!"

They all cheered and shouted raucously afterwards. Harry felt his face
burning.

"How did you pull that off?" Seamus finally forced his way into the
conversation, muttering in awe. "I mean—Malfoy told us the gist of the story,
but how did you have the balls to do it!?"

Harry's blush deepened. "Er… Well, I was a bit out of it, to be honest… I'd
lost a lot of blood." He paused, recalling how the world had been tilting and
fading around him as he ran. "A lot of blood," he reiterated. Draco's stature
withered slightly in guilt.

But Harry ignored it. "What happened at the school, though? After I left?
What's going on here at Hogwarts?"

"Well," Ginny pushed herself into his direct line of sight again. "We should
explain it all properly. There was an announcement after dinner that there
was a school invasion. A 'terrorist attack on Hogwarts', was what the new
Headmaster called it. All of the students were ushered out and evacuated to
the common rooms." She grinned wickedly. "So, naturally, Dean, Seamus,
Neville, and I snuck out the moment we could. We've gotten incredibly good
at disillusionment charms this past year. We only found Luna because we
literally ran into her in the hallway."
Luna gave an airy smile as she nodded.

"That was about the time the fighting had broken out in the Great Hall. Order
members were storming the castle, and the Death Eaters met them head on,
and things escalated pretty quickly."

"It was not looking good for our side, at all," Dean added to Ginny's
recollection. "Until you showed up, of course. And then you-know-who…
That was the craziest thing! Everyone stopped fighting to watch your
patronus. How did you even come up with that? Talk about a distraction!"

"Brilliant!"

"Genius!"

"And also, in hindsight—hilarious!"

Fred and George had interrupted with their rapid-fire comments. Harry
laughed weakly, feeling more embarrassed by the second—as well as
impatient

"But what happened after I left?" he asked again. "After I left with the
portkey…"

The twin's smiles faltered a bit, and it was Ginny who continued. "Well…
You disarmed all of the Death Eaters, but not the Ministry officials. The
Order still had to retreat…but they were able to, because of you. Because you
shattered the ward."

"So…" Harry started, his mind racing. "So the school is staying open and all
that? They're still going to stop the sorting and carry on as usual…?"

"Yes and no," Seamus responded. "The first day of classes was pushed back
another day. But yes, attendance is still absolutely obligatory for anyone of
school age… And there is a mandatory meeting today in the Great Hall,
where I expect we'll hear more—actually." He checked his watch, suddenly
nervous. "Oh, bloody hell! We have to go, like, now!"
He looked up anxiously at Ginny, Dean, Neville and Luna. "It's ten till ten!"

They all jumped in alarm. "Damn!" Ginny said, looking startled. "Shit, we
can't be absent, or they'll catch on—"

"But you've just said you were a part of the fight!" Harry shouted. "You can't
just show back up, they'll-they'll arrest you or something, won't they?"

To his surprise, they all shared somewhat guilty looks. "Er…no," Seamus
said. "We stayed disillusioned the entire time, and snuck back to our common
rooms before anyone could find us. No one but you lot even know we were
there."

Draco made a scoffing noise. "Fighting enemies while disillusioned?" he

sneered, though he looked amused. "How very Slytherin of you."

"Gryffindor's chivalry died the day Harry Potter went missing."

Ginny's voice was cold when she said it. Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Does that
mean it's back, then…?" he asked sarcastically, his gaze flickering to Harry.

"I don't know…" Ginny said slowly, her attention refocusing on Harry as
well. "…Is it?"

It was a question with some kind of hidden meaning that Harry definitely did
not grasp. She was staring at him with that same, fiery intensity she had after
she'd...well, after she'd hit him in the face.

"Er…"

"Guys." Dean saved Harry from trying to come up with a response. He

looked oddly annoyed. "We seriously have to get out of here."

"But we'll visit, later," Ginny promised.

"What? No!" Harry shouted. She instantly looked hurt. "That's too
dangerous! What if they catch you heading here, they have the map—"
"Actually…" Harry whipped around to face Ron, who was smirking
devilishly, and holding—

"The Marauder's Map!" Harry was beyond shocked to see it there in Ron's
hands. "How did you get it back?"

"You remember that Bellatrix had it on her, yeah?" Harry nodded, for he
remembered all too well, "So when you disarmed all the Death Eaters—God,
I have goosebumps even still!—Lestrange lost not only her wand, but all ours
as well…" He pulled out his wand, and nodded his head in Hermione's and
Snape's direction.

"…and she dropped the map!" he finished happily. Harry beamed, snatching
it up and holding it to his chest.

"…But…how did you get it…?" he asked a moment later. "You were outside,
you were nowhere near Bellatrix…"

Ron's happy expression vanished entirely. The atmosphere in the room

darkened.

"…We need to go."

Neville made the command this time. He reached forward and pulled Harry
into another embrace, but it was stiff and slightly detached. Then he turned to
face the other still-current students of Hogwarts.

"Come on." They all nodded as they each, in turn, gave Harry a quick hug as
well.

"We'll be back," Ginny whispered in his ear softly enough so that no one else
could hear.

Finally, they turned to leave. They each cast over themselves a

disillusionment charm, and, just as they had declared earlier, they were very
good. Harry was sure he could only follow their shimmering silhouettes
because he knew that they were there. "Be safe," Luna's voice called out
while the door was slightly ajar. Then it softly swung shut, and they were
gone.

There was a tense moment of silence after they left. Snape glowered after
them. "They should not be involved in this."

"They aren't going to say anything," Ron muttered defensively.

"That was not my concern." The Potions Master shook his head wearily as he
sighed. He truly looked dead on his feet.

Harry, however, was still waiting on the rest of Ron's explanation. "How did
you get the map?"

"…Kingsley." It was just a single word, but his voice cracked. "Kingsley
grabbed the map and our wands for us, and he was really beating himself up
about it, because…because he said that he could have maybe taken Bellatrix
down, in that moment when she was disarmed, could have captured her,
even… but-but instead he went for our wands and…and for…for..." He took
a deep breath as his face paled to the color of snow.

"…Remus's body." He looked up to Harry with shimmering eyes.

"We lost Remus, Harry," He whispered. "We lost Remus."

…And there it was.

Harry had been stopping himself from asking in some futile attempt to maybe
make it so that it had not occurred, like he had just imagined the whole thing
while in such a daze of blood loss and adrenaline. But it had. Remus Lupin
was dead, and he knew it, because he had seen it, and it had been vividly,
viciously real…

"Oh, God." Harry's heart, already so shattered, so broken, froze in his chest.
He looked between Ron and Hermione, almost too afraid to ask, but he had to
know...
"Tonks?"

Hermione's eyes flooded with tears. She set Dobby down on the ground,
whose giant ears fell flat against his head. "Tonks wasn't there during the
battle," she said quietly, wiping at her face. "Remus had convinced her not to
go, b-because…"

Her words died in her throat. But Harry didn't need her to finish the sentence,
because he knew why.

Because Nymphadora Tonks was pregnant.

And Kingsley Shacklebolt had decided, in that fraction of a second where he

could have, maybe, taken down Bellatrix Lestrange… He had decided to grab
Lupin's body instead. For Tonks, for his newly widowed wife…to maybe,
perhaps, give her some sort of closure…

In that critical moment where pure instinct must have taken hold over logical
thought, Kinglsey had chosen to act out of love rather than hate.

…Harry wondered if he would have done the same.

Remus was dead. Remus was dead.

"…Who else?" Harry asked emotionlessly.

Snape's voice was business-like in his response. "No one else from our side.
Dolohov, a Death Eater, was killed. And Minerva McGonagall is in St.
Mungo's, recovering from severe injuries. But that is all."

Harry swallowed thickly. He was feeling overwhelmed. To first feel such

relief that his friends had made it out, that Draco had managed to flee with
Snape, Ron and Hermione…and to even kill the snake in the process…but to
then feel such deep sadness at the loss of Remus—a husband, a Marauder, a
soon-to-be father…

And the hate.

The overwhelming, all-consuming hate for Bellatrix Lestrange, who had
murdered Sirius, and Moody, and now Lupin—

Harry's palm flew involuntarily to his chest, where he felt the relief of the
Elder Wand in his breast pocket.

Now. Now. Now.

The sound of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears, the cool taste of static on
the tip of his tongue…

The power—

A hand on his shoulder brought him swiftly back to reality.

"I'm…I'm sorry…"

It was Draco. He looked genuinely sympathetic. The somber expression was

oddly sobering.

"What about your parents?" Harry asked, suddenly remembering the patronus
that Snape had sent.

He gave a tiny smile. "They made it out," he said. "No idea where they are,
but we know they're alive…"

"How?"

"Because of this." George grabbed something from one of the tables, the
same one which also had the sword of Gryffindor resting on it.

It was an issue of The Daily Prophet. "Came out this morning," Ron muttered
darkly. "You can see for yourself the story that they're displaying for the
public."

Harry grabbed the paper being thrust at him. His other emotions were swept
away as his eyes scanned the title.
'The Undesirable: Terrorist Alive and at Large', with the subtitle, 'Attack on
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

There was a large image of he, Harry, alongside the bold letters… An
outdated portrait, the same one that was used when he was in the Triwizard
Tournament, and underneath them, smaller pictures of Hermione, Ron and…
and Severus Snape…

They gave him a moment to digest this. "Go to the next page," Draco
muttered in his ear. Harry ripped the paper open to see the next shocking
article.

'Malfoy Family Suspected of Terrorist Involvement'. Under this title were

images, more recent, of Draco, as well as both of his parents…

"They wouldn't be wanted for a ridiculous amount of reward money if they

hadn't successfully gone on the run, obviously." Malfoy sounded both
relieved and deeply concerned.

For how long could anyone outrun a malevolent, malicious Dark Lord?

"Terrorists," Harry said, flipping back to the front cover. His own bespeckled,
young face grinned up at him sheepishly. "They're portraying us as
terrorists?"

Snape gave a humorless laugh. "Well, why not?" he drawled, and he

suddenly looked even more worn than he already had. "I've been a Death
Eater, an Order Member, a Turn Cloak, and—my personal favorite
—deceased…" he rubbed his temples wearily.

"Why not a terrorist as well?"

Harry scanned the article, but Hermione decided to do what she did best and
summarize the whole thing efficiently. "Essentially, they are proclaiming that
we are a vagabond group of terrorists connected with the Order who are hell
bent on destroying the wizarding world, championing muggle and muggle-
borns over all else, targeting and murdering purebloods…and that the
Malfoys are blood traitors who, like Severus Snape, are treacherous turn
cloaks. They reported that we attacked Hogwarts, attempted to steal school
property, kill as many Ministry officials as we could, as well as teachers and
even students, and they're offering outrageously large rewards for
information on any of us, especially you…alive." She gave him a meaningful
look, her eyes still swimming with unfallen tears.

"That part is made very clear. All of us. Strictly alive."

There was a long stretch of silence. It was only broken when Snape made a
slight groaning sound, and he staggered unexpectedly to one side. Harry
rushed forward and caught him just before he would have stumbled to the
floor.

"You should seriously rest," Harry muttered, for he really did look worse than
death—but already Snape was shoving him away, attempting futilely to stand
on his own. Harry did not oblige him, but settled for lowering him down onto
a chair which he could have sworn was not there a moment before.

"There is no time for rest," he muttered. "It has already been over twelve
hours. While the Dark Lord and his followers have undoubtedly been nursing
their pride and their wounds from last night—as were we—he is sure to act
soon, and we must…we must be prepared…"

"What do you think he'll do?" Harry asked.

Snape looked contemplative for a time, tapping his chin thoughtfully…and

then, finally, he seemed to simply crack. He started laughing, and though it
was a weak, tired sound, it was oddly sincere.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "Something horrible, I am sure. I'm far too
drained to be very imaginative. But it will be devastating, and there will be
blood, and…and I have no idea how we can possibly stop it. I need time, time
to recuperate, time to think, time to plan…and we have none." His black eyes
were hollow with defeat.

"We have none."

But Harry was suddenly inspired. "I can get us time," he said.

"No."

They all said it together. Draco, Ron, Snape, Hermione, Fred and George.
Harry shook his head incredulously.

"You haven't even heard what I was going to suggest!" he shouted.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "You're not going to just go throw yourself
at him—"

"I wasn't going to say that!" Harry argued. They all looked at him in varying
levels of disbelief.

"I wasn't!" he repeated adamantly. "Really! Professor." He turned his full

attention to the fatigued Potions Master. "When you send a patronus, as a
message… Do you need to know where it is going? Like, physically? Or just
who it's going to?"

Snape tilted his head to one side, a glimmer of understanding flicking in his
eyes. "…You do not always need to know the specific location, not
necessarily. They are manifestations of the soul, representations of our deeper
selves… The corporal patronus of one individual can generally find itself to
someone that the original caster is…close to…" He paused, looking pensive
as he stared at Harry without blinking.

"I daresay your patronus would have no issue locating the Dark Lord and
delivering a message, if that is what you are getting at." He rose one eyebrow
inquisitively.

"What, pray tell, would you tell him?"

Snape was clearly suspicious. Which he should have been, because Harry
was smiling a bit…wickedly.

"Excellent," was his simple response. Then, without hesitation, he retracted

the Elder Wand.

And maybe the thrum of power that he felt at his fingertips was noticeable to
everyone else in the room, too, because they all recoiled ever so slightly.
Their minor retreat somehow made Harry feel…good.

He thought of thunder and lightning and breaking the sky.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The stag exploded into the air. It pranced in a circle before coming to a stop
before him, waiting patiently.

Everyone held their breath, far too curious and caught off guard to think of
stopping him before they knew what he was going to say.

"No attacks," Harry said firmly, and the silver creature listened. "Harm no
one. Capture no one. Do this for me, and in two days…we will talk."

Harry pursed his lips for a moment, thinking if there was anything else he
should add, but then decided that less was probably more. Then, in the same
manner which he'd seen Snape do yesterday, breathed the word,

"Go."

The stag took off at once, straight through the wall and out of sight.

Snape was the first to voice his very loud, very livid opinion.

"What was that!?" he shouted, completely aghast and horrified.

"What? I just bought us some much needed time, didn't I?"

"No!" Snape shouted fiercely, pushing himself to his feet. "No! Idiot boy!
Reckless fool! You honestly think he will accept that-that threat? For what
reason? To talk to you? Have you lost your mind completely? The Dark Lord
does not barter! What in God's name made you think that was a logical
course of action!? He will never agree to that and he will probably destroy
half of London and why do you keep smiling like a damn fool?"

Harry was smiling like a damn fool. "Oh, I think he will agree to it," he said.
"But—hm, I didn't think about it—how will he respond? Can you-know-who
cast a corporal patronus?"

Snape's rage was moderately derailed by this question. His brows furrowed as
he contemplated the answer—which he came to rather quickly. "I would say
it is highly improbable… Nay, impossible. A corporal patronus can only be
conjured from a pure, truly happy thought. A clean one. A light one. He is
incapable of such a thing. Besides, he's never needed to cast a patronus
before. Dementors don't affect him like they do everyone else."

"…Ah." Harry sort of wished that he had thought that form of

communication through, now. "Well, how will we know his response then?"

"Oh, I am sure we will hear of his response in mere minutes when Aberforth
informs us that-that a muggle hospital has gone up in flames or something
equally horrid!" He was seething again, snarling the words through clenched
teeth.

"I really don't think he will," Harry said coolly. Snape's ire flickered with
curiosity.

"Why?"

Harry looked from Snape, to Hermione and Ron, to Draco, and then, lastly,
the strange new addition of the Weasley twins…

"We are being perfectly transparent now, yes?" he asked evenly, eventually
returning his attention to Snape. "Putting everything all out on the table? No
more secrets between occupants of this room—assuming that none of this
leaves this room?"

"We are all sworn to secrecy," Fred answered at once.

"We shall never utter a word out of the confidence of the Chosen One,"
George agreed, his hand over his heart.

And that was good enough for Harry. "Right, then. So. I think he will agree to
waiting for two days to speak with me, because…" He paused, and everyone
leaned forward, tangibly burning in curiosity—Harry braced himself to utter
out loud the craziest thing he was ever to say in his entire life—

"The Dark Lord loves me."

…No one said anything.

The silence hung in the air like it had a real, physical weight to it. No one
spoke, no one moved, no one even seemed to be breathing, as far as Harry
could tell, until, finally—

"...Great."

Draco clapped his hands together. "Great. He's lost it. He must have been
permanently brain damaged after last night."

"I'm not brain damaged," Harry snapped. "I'm…I'm serious…"

But the way that everyone was looking at each other shiftily made it pretty
clear that they did not believe him.

Harry took a deep breath. "I'm serious," he repeated in a level voice. "I know
it because I felt it. You know, you remember, in fifth year? How I would
unwillingly feel his emotions every now and then when they were really
strong?"

He directed his questions to Ron and Hermione, who nodded. "Well, it

happened again, yesterday. When…" He looked at Snape, now, who had
gone into full-on, stationary mannequin-mode at the words 'the Dark Lord
loves me.'

"…When that whole thing…happened."

Which meant, of course, 'when the Dark Lord possessed me, tried to kill
Draco, battled you in my mind, the ghost of my mother appeared, I tried to
die, no one would let me, Voldemort fell from the sky, and now here we are.'

Snape blinked, but otherwise did not move at all.

"You…you felt it," Hermione said, apprehension written all over her face.
"Are…a-are you sure, Harry…?"

"Yes," Harry answered stiffly. "I'm not saying I understand it even slightly,
but it was definitely there. I-it—"

For the first time, he felt embarrassment getting the better of him. He had
been determined not to feel frazzled by this conversation, but it was starting
to happen, anyway.

"He just does. I don't know why, but he loves me."

"It is not possible."

Snape finally spoke. His pale, bruised face had somehow managed to become
even whiter.

"It is," Harry countered. "I know it is. I did not imagine that. I felt it, I lived
it, it was-it was crushing." He stopped. It was incredibly weird to try and
describe the inexplicable rush of pure-purelove that had come from—

He shuddered. From Lord Voldemort.

"It is…it is not… He physically, mentally lacks the ability to love…"

"Well, I'm sorry Professor, but you're wrong," Harry argued stubbornly.
"Maybe he used to be unable to, I dunno, but he definitely can now."

Snape's eyes fell to the floor, and the expression on his face was one that
Harry knew well—the same one he so often saw on Hermione—thinking,
thinking, thinking… He distinctly saw him mouth the words, 'used to…' more
than once.

"You're mad," Draco was staring at Harry in vivid disbelief. "Obsessed,

maybe, determined to own you just like he thinks he owns everyone else,
maybe, but love…? No way. There's just no way."

"We are talking about the same dark wizard that killed your parents, aren't
we?" Fred shared Draco's expression.

"The same, sinister villain who has tortured and maimed and killed hundreds,
if not thousands of innocents?" George, naturally, chimed in as well.

"Who has been trying to kill you since you were a baby?"

"Who kidnapped you and locked you up and then convinced the whole world
that you were dead?"

"Who put a Taboo on your name so no one could even talk about you
anymore?"

"Yes!" Harry shouted, stopping the rapid-fire, condescending questions

before the two could really build up momentum. "Yes, I know it sounds
completely insane—and it is! It is totally mad! But—"

"Blood."

They all snapped their heads in the direction of Severus Snape. He was
staring at Harry with an eerily vacant expression.

"Uh, come again…?" Harry asked.

"Blood," he repeated hollowly. "It's… You could be…right…" He then let

out an exhale that was as theatrical and loud as if someone had just knocked
the wind out of him. He slowly fell back into the chair behind him,
apparently unable to be on his feet for any more of this conversation.

After a short pause, he looked up to Harry again.

"You are right."

How Harry wished he could have recorded that. Severus Snape declaring
that, for once, he was right. He would save it for rainy days and listen to it
over and over again when he was feeling depressed.

"Thank you," he answered curtly.

It was too bad no one else seemed as willing to simply believe him.

"What!?"

Ron's face was already turning red, and he'd only just started shouting. "You
believe that!? Seriously? He doesn't have the ability to love anyone, ever!
Especially not Harry Potter!"

"Hey," Harry said, unable to stop himself…and even smirking a bit. "I'm
totally lovable."

Fred and George both made humming noises as they nodded their heads in
agreement, muttering things like 'fair point', and 'true enough.' Ron glowered
at them.

"It's true, Ron," Harry put both of his hands on Ron's shoulders, facing him
directly. "I would never make this up. You know that I'm not lying about
being able to feel what he's feeling, you were there when I would be laughing
like mad or angry because they were his emotions in fifth year. Well, believe
me when I say I felt this. And it was undeniably genuine."

Ron's angry expression melted away into one of dread. "…H-he loves you?"
he choked out in a crackly voice.

"Yes."

"Like a…like a parent?" Ron was really grasping at straws. "Or-or like a
friend, maybe…?"

…And wouldn't that have made life easier? Harry suddenly had a series of
bizarre and crazy images flashing through his mind; make-believe scenes of
Lord Voldemort chiding him for not getting better marks on his school work,
like an angry parent…of he and Lord Voldemort, sharing a train
compartment on the Hogwarts Express, playing a game of exploding snap
together like they were the best of friends…

Alas, this was not the case. The Dark Lord existed only in extremes. When he
performed magic, it of was the most impressive, brilliant, darkest sort. When
he hated, it was with the kind of passionate rage that would raise an army and
leave the world in ruins. And when he loved…

Harry's expression must have answered the question for him, because Ron's
white face turned a dangerous shade of pastel green. "…Oh, Merlin…"

Another chair appeared out of nowhere as Ron's knees buckled and he

slumped down into it. The Room was really doing its job exceptionally well.

"…Well that's not good, is it?" he muttered weakly.

And Harry knew that was the truth, because really, if there was anything
more dangerous than the most lethal and powerful dark wizard in all of
magical history's hatred, it was his insanely inexplicable, obsessive love.

And after last night's stunt… Harry had surely acquired both.

Draco seemed to be taking this news just as badly, if not worse, than Ron. He
was running a hand through his hair, looking beyond traumatized. "…He…is
in love with you?"

Odd, Harry thought, how just a slight adjustment to the structure of the
sentence could alter everything. Saying 'he loves me', while definitely bizarre,
did not seem nearly as earth-shattering as it did when the simple, arbitrary
words 'is in' and 'with' were thrown into the mix.

His stomach was twisting in a way that he didn't want to acknowledge.

He chose not to answer Draco's question directly, either. "But wait, there's
more," he said in a deadpan voice. Harry's eyes flickered to Ron, Hermione,
and the Weasley twins briefly before setting on the debilitated Potions
Master.

"All out on the table?" he muttered one last time. Snape looked far too
exhausted in every conceivable way to argue. He didn't even shrug.

"Okay, then." Harry turned back Ron and Hermione, wondering how they
would take this revelation…

"I… I am a horcrux."

Ron's reaction was just about what Harry thought it would be. His jaw hung
open in shock, completely overloaded at this point, and his eyes widened
even further in horror.

But it was George who spoke first. "That," he said diplomatically, pointing a
single finger up in the air, "actually makes your previous insane statement
make a lot more sense." And Fred was nodding furtively in agreement.

"D…Does it?" Harry questioned, a bit thrown off by their casual demeanors.

"Totally." Fred began pacing. It was a slow, methodical action that his twin
quickly mimed, though in the opposite direction, so that they were passing
each other in perfectly synced intervals. "It makes complete sense, doesn't it?
Professor Snape just said that you-know-who can't love—"

"But if you're a horcrux—and, forgive us if our understanding is a bit

remedial, but we've only just learned about these things last night—"

"That means you have a piece of you-know-who's soul inside of you—"

"So who else could he ever possibly learn to fall in love with, if not someone
who contained a bit of himself?"

"He is that level of narcissistic."

"Quite full of himself."

"Supremely egotistical."

"Utterly vain."

"But the real question here is—"

They both came to a standstill, and finished the question at the same time.
"How do we get it out of you?"

Harry stared in amazement at the identical anomalies before him. This was
the most devastating news he could have ever thought to deliver, and yet
these two took it, quite literally, in stride. Like finding out that Harry Potter
was alive, the object of Voldemort's desire and hatred, and also,
unfortunately, his human horcrux…was not really all that surprising.

Hermione, too, seemed to be taking this much better than he would have
expected. She looked pale and stricken, yes, but was not shouting or crying or
otherwise freaking out…

Ron alone was animated in his horrified shock. He stared up at everyone else,
totally flabbergasted. "Did-did you all know!?" he said, directing the
accusatory question towards Snape, Draco, and Hermione.

Snape didn't respond. "I only just found out yesterday," Draco mumbled
under his breath. And Hermione…

Ron's eyes locked onto hers. She was shifting nervously under his penetrating
stare. "I-I didn't know, but…but I d-did suspect…"

"You suspected?" Ron gaped in horror. "When did you suspect this!?"

Hermione's gaze fell to the floor, unable to make eye contact with anyone.
"When…when Dumbledore first called us into his office, when he first told
us about the others… W-when he seemed to certain that H-Harry was alive…
I f-figured it would be the only reason..."

Ron looked like she had just stabbed him in the back. He got to his feet, his
pale face turning red. "And you didn't tell me?"

"O-of course not! I didn't know, it w-was just a thought…" she trailed off
weakly. Ron looked torn, like he wasn't sure if he should be enraged or not.

Harry intervened. "It doesn't matter at this point, Ron," he said, pulling his
glower away from a pitiful-looking Hermione. His tense disposition softened
a bit at the truth of those words.

And then, after a few moments of simply looking at Harry, his angry
expression vanished completely. He suddenly appeared…desperate.

"…How…how do we get it out of you…?" He whispered, repeating Fred and

George's inquiry.

"Remorse."

Hermione and Snape both said the word at the same time, but it was
Hermione who elaborated. They all turned to her, listening attentively.

"A broken soul fraction can be reabsorbed if the creator feels genuine
remorse," she said. "The opposite of how one is created in the first place. One
can shatter their soul through the most vile act—murder of an innocent.
That's how they're made…through the act of guiltlessly taking the life of an
innocent soul for personal gain, a process steeped in the darkest of magic…
So the only way to reverse it is to do the exact opposite. True remorse for
what you've done. Steeping yourself in pure, light magic."

A few moments of quietness fell over them as they each processed her words.

"But-but he's just said that you-know-who can't perform light magic," Draco
uttered hopelessly. "That it's impossible…"

Another bout of silence at this declaration. Harry was just about to say
something, to proclaim what he knew was, quite possibly, the only solution to
this tragic dilemma, when Snape cut him off.
"There must be another way," he said sternly. "I have been researching the
topic, and… I have several possibilities to further explore. Dark Magic opens
impossible braches of opportunity, and—"

He abruptly stopped speaking. They all jumped as they stared at Harry, with
wide, perplexed eyes, because—

Harry Potter had just started glowing.

Harry looked down at his chest, paralyzed in alarm as, for no conceivable
reason, his entire body began to emanate with a sparkling light…and well,
why not? Harry thought morbidly, for only Harry James Potter would
inexplicably began to light up like a fairy for absolutely no reason at all. Was
he about to explode, maybe? Magically vanish, perhaps, only to reappear in
some other, undisclosed location? Or was he about to find out that he was
actually something other than human, and now was the moment where he
would go through some strange, outlandish 'creature inheritance'?

Before anyone could do anything other than stare at him, the shining light
had become…had become something, something with a form that was
wrapping around his entire body, around one of his legs, his waist, his chest
and his neck… Though it had no actual weight to it, he felt a barely
discernible sensation of warmth where the ghost-like entity coiled over his
skin…

Then, right in his ear… The voice was soft and low and struck him to his
very core—

"…Two daysss… Chosssen One…"

The last words were spoken with a level of pure ire that Harry had never
experienced before. His blood felt like it had turned to ice in his veins, and
yet, at the same time…

The entity vanished. Everyone was staring at him with identical expressions
that were beyond stunned.
And it wasn't until after it was gone that Harry's paralyzed mind registered
just what it was, exactly, that had transpired.

That...had been a patronus.

His patronus. A giant, colossal snake had just manifested itself on him, and
had…he had responded…

The Dark Lord had, wherever he was, in mere minutes… had just learned
how to make a corporal patronus so that he could respond… And there were
the literal words, of course, the ones that had just been whispered in his ear…
but… but there was also the unmistakable, unspoken message. It was written
in the way the serpent had appeared, not in front of him, but wrapped
aroundhim, ensnaring his entire body in a disturbingly, twisted way, the
blatant, quiet promise of:

I will crush you, Harry Potter.

The silence that followed was smothering. Harry felt himself burning under
their stares as he tried desperately not to turn crimson.

"…Wh…what did he say…?"

Malfoy was the one who finally asked. Harry cleared his throat. Right…
because he'd answered in…in parseltongue, they hadn't understood…

"He agreed," he said in what was an impressively level voice. He looked at

Snape.

"Two days, Professor." And Harry struggled not to add a somewhat

contemptuous, 'I told you so.'

Snape looked… Well, there really was no clear way to describe it.
Devastated, stunned, weak, feeble, horrified, amazed, completely
overwhelmed… He looked each and every one of these things, but really,
more than anything, he looked—
"Done." His black gaze was empty. Snape slowly and stiffly pushed himself
to his feet.

"…I need…to pass out," he said quite matter-of-factly. "If you need me, I
will be…"

His eyes flickered to his left where a door had suddenly appeared. Evidently,
the Room of Requirement had decided that Severus Snape did, indeed,
require more than a mere hammock for his recovery, and Snape seemed to
know that this room was for him.

"In there," he finished blankly. "I will…"

He didn't even bother to finish his statement. He walked to the door much
like a zombie might, and without another word, without so much as a last
glance at any of them, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Silence rang in his wake. It stretched on and on.

After some time, an arm slithering around Harry's shoulder made him
physically jump. He turned to see that the culprit was Fred. "Well, this…" he
began, his voice dripping with mischievous—

Another arm drooped on his opposite shoulder, "…is a fascinating

development."

…And there was something about the way that the twins were staring at him
—roguishly, and slightly…predatorily—that made Harry more than a bit
nervous.

"Harry, Harry… We have a slight confession." Fred sighed theatrically.

George nodded in deep, solemn agreement. "Yes, indeed. As much as we did,

truly, want to see you—"

"We have one other reason for staying here—"

"Bit of an ulterior motive—"

"But we think you'll like it—"

"For you see—"

Fred released his hold on Harry's should to grab the newspaper which he had
dropped earlier. "This lovely article in the Prophet, well, it simply must be a
misprint—"

"An honest mistake—"

"A genuine error on their part—"

"But our friends at the Ministry have left out just a few minor details about
what happened here last night."

Harry almost felt dizzy, the way his head was swiveling back and forth
between the two of them. He finally decided to settle his gaze on the paper
instead, where is fourteen year old self smirked back at him.

"You see, it is just the strangest thing, but somehow, the best parts of this
story were left untold." Fred pointed down at the article accusingly.

George's arm on his other shoulder tightened. "Curious, really, but they didn't
include the part about you disarming you-know-who."

"Or the lightning, or the ceiling…"

"And they say here that it was Severus Snape who dismantled the castle's
wards."

Fred made a tsk-ing noise in disapproval. "So sad, our dear reporters of The
Daily Prophet, to have gotten their facts so skewed. Must have had a bad
source."

Hermione finally interrupted their onslaught of sarcasm. "They're making it

sound like Professor Snape did all of the work, Harry, and that you're
unstable and weak, just as they were portraying you in fifth year," she
seethed.

"But everybody saw it!" Harry shouted, glowering. "All of the Order, and the
Death Eaters, and the Ministry officials…"

"Well, the Order got away before they could be affected, but-but I'd bet my
wand arm every other person in that Hall had their memories modified,"
Hermione fumed. Harry couldn't help smirk at her rage, for it was the very
same ire she'd harbored for Rita Skeeter, when she'd been reporting such
falsities years ago…

Hermione Granger was an adamant advocate for the truth, and Harry would
always admire her for that.

She was, apparently, not the only one.

"Ah, but fear not, for we have a way to get the real story out, my friend."
Fred's voice was velvety smooth.

"Indeed we do. And so, we have a question for you, oh mighty Chosen One."

"Will you, Harry James Potter…"

They exchanged quick, wry grins before, at the very same time, Fred and
George Weasley both fell to one knee. They each grabbed one of his hands,
looking up at him beseechingly, as though they were about to simultaneously
ask for his hand in marriage…

"…be on our radio show?"

 26. The Most Desirable Word
The wine was red; the goblet, glass.

Lord Voldemort held a crystal chalice at the center of its stem, staring
vacantly into the scarlet liquid which was so saturated in color it was nearly
black. He carried it more to preoccupy his hands than anything else. It was
something thin and delicate to wrap his fingers around while he waited…for
a wand.

One which had best be completed quickly and flawlessly. The old wizard's
very life depended on it.

Of course he had a wand, he would never be without one completely. He just

didn't like it. This wand in his pocket was…disconcerting. It felt weak, it felt
hollow, it felt…wrong. Yet it was convenient for the time being, and would
suffice until a proper, far more superior one could be constructed…

Besides… It wasn't like Dolohov would be getting much use out of it,
anymore.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his murderous, scorching glare aimed at nothing

and no one.

Breathe.

…The music was soft. Evocatively so.

Somber notes emanated from an old, vintage radio on the far side of the
room. Beethoven. The Piano Sonata No. 14. More commonly known as 'the
Moonlight Sonata'…

'I have always thought that the muggles make the best artists… Don't you
agree? The best poets, the best painters…the best…musicians…'
…

This place. This manor.

Lord Voldemort did not take pleasure in returning here, but it guaranteed
him the uninterrupted solitude he desired.

Isolation was what he required, after…

After…everything.

And it was everything.

The entire world had fallen in on itself in mere hours.

But no, no, that was not the truth… The descent had begun days, months,
even years ago…

It was only now that he had become aware.

His soul.

The diary.

The locket.

The cup.

The diadem.

…Nagini.

For hours afterwards, his cataclysmic horror was…indescribable. There was

the briefest moment of numbness, first…the most fleeting, evanescent period
when the empty, broken vessels had slipped through his fingers and he had
apparated himself…away…
Away, had been his thought while vanishing on the spot. Away. And even
now, he did not know where, precisely he had gone.

He knew it was the ocean, and that there was no land in sight.

He knew that it was endless and serene and peaceful.

…Until it wasn't.

The storm of the Dark Lord was not a quick lightning-flash of ephemeral
power.

It was hell on earth.

The sea had parted and risen into walls of salt so great that the sun itself had
been lost, casting his shattered world into pure and utter darkness. Those
apocalyptic winds and staggering waves of water would have crushed and
killed armies.

He…would crush and kill armies.

…And yet, eventually, as all things must, his personal tempest of rage and
hate had…dwindled…

His fury was channeled now into something colder. Methodical…

disconnected.

Nagini…

A dull throb in his chest at the loss of his precious pet, his dearest serpent…
She was his beautiful creature, an innocent beast…

Nagini had not deserved such a cruel fate.

And how, how such a devastating blow had even come to pass, how Severus
Snape had managed to free himself, how he'd managed to slay his Nagini in
such a debilitated, worn state…without a wand…

Beheaded.

He had separated her head from her body and fled with the others, surely to
scurry back into whatever secret hole they had come crawling out of.

…Oh, the horrible monstrosities that would befall Severus Snape when he
had him in his grasp again.

And he would.

He placed the cool glass of the goblet to his lips. Dry. Bright. Steely. It was a
seductive flavor that made his mouth water. A beautiful complement to the
bloodlust already present on his tongue.

…They had known of and been searching for his horcruxes for a long time
now, of that he was certain. It was the kind of impossible, complex scheme
that reeked of Albus Dumbledore, who must have passed along the quest to
Severus Snape, who had recruited the assistance of the blood traitor and the
mudblood…

They would burn.

…He wondered about the locket.

If they had been searching for and murdering the fragments of his soul, how
and why had it ended up, for any amount of time, for even a moment, around
the neck of—

He could speculate.

He could theorize and hypothesize and dwell on the matter…but he would

not. The locket was destroyed, now… Dead…
But Lord Voldemort did intend to find out.

The diary.

The locket.

The cup.

The diadem.

…Nagini…

The ring, however, he had not found… It had not been in the mudblood's
charmed bag, yet it had also not been in the safe haven he had constructed
for it. The ring had not been in the worn and dilapidated house of his
ancestors…

But he was certain it was gone. Perhaps Albus Dumbledore had found that
one first, perhaps he had discarded it elsewhere… But it was lost, he knew it,
with his very being, he knew… It was empty and broken and dead, just like
the rest… All of them, gone…

There was still Harry.

Harry James Potter and his stag patronus...

...

…How was it possible?

How was it possible to simultaneously feel so many powerful emotions at

once? For them to clash together this catastrophically within one mind, this
calamitously, this horrifically?
The first, the foremost, the one which he was supremely well-versed in…

The anger.

The overarching anger and its many various, underling subtleties of

vengeance, fury and spite.

Disarmed, in front of all of his Death Eaters. In his school, in his castle, at
his own ceremony, the very one which he had set aside in order to find him…

And how?

The burning, resentful question of how it had been so? How had a mere
disarming spell obliterated his far more powerful, superior curse? Why had
the Elder Wand so willingly left his hand?

It was not logical.

None of it was. The Elder Wand, the lightning, the ceiling which was the
sky…his wordless incantation that inexplicably shattered the ward, before
that very same storm struck down his followers as well…

It should never have occurred. It was impossible.

And yet…the impossible seemed to happen to Harry Potter with an alarming

regularity.

...

Yes…the anger, the pure, simple anger was easy enough to confront…

The shame…slightly less so.

Despite the supposed impossibility of it, he, Lord Voldemort, had been
disarmed.

Forced to his knees in the most humiliating of ways. Shown to be weak in

front of his Death Eaters… Which was, on many levels, simply…
unacceptable…

…It had been Bellatrix who responded first.

Bella, Bella. His sweet, dear Bella.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had gone for the body of his fallen comrade, and
Bellatrix had swiftly regained her own wand… She had been the first on her
feet, after the rain of scattered lightning, the first to be active, and…

She had looked down upon her master who had fallen to his knees… For he,
Lord Voldemort, had been too stricken, too paralyzed to move, to act… An
atrocity that had never, ever befallen him before…

Without a hesitant word, without waiting for a command…she did what

needed to be done.

Bellatrix was an enigma of dark and powerful grace. Her rapid spell casting
was a sight to behold; half the occupants of the Great Hall were obliterated
and unconscious before the ringing had even left their ears.

Every last one of them. Their memories from the last several minutes wiped,
gone, non-existent. She knocked them out and left them cold but breathing on
the hard, castle floor.

He, the Dark Lord…had only just made it to his feet as she'd finished rolling
Greengrass to his side.

…And then she had come to him.

Fiercely, swiftly, unwaveringly… Bellatrix had approached her master with

her wand in her hand. She had knelt before him and instantly prostrated
herself at his feet, her forehead touching the ground, and…

She had offered up her own wand, so that he may do the same to her.

'I am yours.' There was not a trace of doubt in her voice. Not a hint of
hesitation.
'Your will be done.'

In the past, the Dark Lord would never have paused.

Exposing himself as weak in any capacity would have been absolutely

intolerable. He would have wiped her memory without a moment of
consideration and been done with it.

But now…now Lord Voldemort understood.

He understood the fire in her eyes and the selfless, obsessive determination in
her soul.

He understood it…and he would use it.

'No, my Black beauty…'

It was a name he had not called her in years. Not since before his first fall
from grace, before her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange…when she was
young and wild in a different way, untouched by Azkaban and years of
turmoil…

'Not you.'

And as he had placed a hand under her chin, tilting her head back so that she
should look upon his face, there was an undeniable, passionate light in the
depths of those midnight irises.

His Bellatrix would throw herself upon the pyre if only to see him pleased.
She was on fire…and she burned for him.

'I will bring them to you begging…'

His dark witch had whispered the vow as though it were the most sacred of
oaths. She had grasped at his hand and kissed his fingers, a bold action
which she had never dared to do before.

'I will bring them to you screaming…'

…To which he had smiled.

The Dark Lord had pulled his most loyal to her feet just as the others in the
Hall had begun to move, blinking their hazy eyes open in a state of pain and
confusion… He had leaned forward and let his lips nearly graze her ear as
he murmured his response…

'Then go.'

...She had departed at once.

His dark huntress in the shadows, his lethal predator driven by manic,
obsessive adoration for her master…

And Lord Voldemort knew that she would not return to him without worthy
prey, squirming and trembling and twitching between her teeth.

…The anger, the shame…these were emotions he could, at the very least,
confront…

The patronus.

If he had thought that the silvery creature was insulting the first time it had
been used to lure him, it was nothing compared to how imperiously offensive
it was the second time.

The sheer…audacity of it.

Had the stag appeared before him while in the midst of his followers, the
Dark Lord would have needed to incinerate half of London if for no other
reason to reassert himself.

But it had not… The patronus had manifested itself while he was in the house
of Gaunt, looking hopelessly for a ring that was no longer there…

There were the literal words, of course. The actual voice out loud which
spoke, in such a firm, decisive tone,

'No attacks… Harm no one. Capture no one. Do this for me, and in two
days…we will talk.'

It was not a request, but a demand. And the precise way in which it was
worded—

For me. For me.

Like Lord Voldemort would be so lucky as to have the opportunity to be the

one to serve him.

…And then there was the unmistakable, unspoken message. It was written in
the way that the words were delivered to him. By the act of using of a
patronus to speak to him, implementing such light, pure magic… Magic that
the Dark Lord had never wanted nor needed to use before in his entire
existence…

An incantation that, in order to respond, he would need to confront…to

recall…to think of…

The sheer…audacity of it.

He could see him even now, just as he'd once envisioned him in a dream. His
supposed sub-conscious with that damned coy grin that made his skin burn…

'…It's coursing through you, whether you want it or not, you can't rid
yourself of it…'

It was the only thought that could possibly work for conjuring a corporal
patronus. And it was the one thing he wanted to deny and ignore and distract
himself from fixating on because it made him reckless and short-sighted and
weak—

Breathe.

…He would have never thought Harry Potter so utterly conniving. To force
him into focusing on that, to push him into a state of vulnerability against him
in order to respond.

And it had worked.

It…should not have.

He had already been so distraught, so on edge that the moment he received

the patronus, it had not actually occurred to him then that the best response
would, in fact, be to not respond at all. To leave Harry Potter contemplative
and concerned, wondering just when and how the Dark Lord was going to
react to such a foolish demand…

But when it had appeared to him, speaking in his voice, he had not even
considered not answering as a viable option. Because he had not been sure,
up until that point, had not been completely certain that…that he had…

The wound on his side… Blood, so…so much blood…

And so he had done it. Lord Voldemort had, begrudgingly, spitefully, forced
himself to focus on what was the only pure, happy, light thought he'd ever
had.

The sensation was…revolting.

Harry Potter, alive, and his heart drowning in joy at the sheer miracle of it.

It was disgusting.

A lie.
It was vile and repulsive.

Another lie.

It was the most sickening and disturbing sensation he ever experienced, and
he hoped to never fully confront such revolting emotions ever again.

Such. Lies.

…The truth…was that he needed time just as badly as they surely did. Time
to unravel this tightly twisted jumble of feelings that had knotted itself inside
of his broken soul. Time to pull the strings apart into some semblance of
order…to get them under…control…

He took another sip of wine. The taste was inexplicably bitter, now.

Harry James Potter.

His entire body sweltered with sweltering conflict. Passion fueled by two
contradictory, ruinously powerful sensations which resided on complete
opposite ends of the emotional spectrum.

…Harry James Potter.

He wanted to make him sing and scream and every conceivable sound in
between.

He wanted to tear into his skin and heart and soul and devour every part of
him. He wanted him bent and broken, he wanted him on his hands and knees.
He wanted him begging and moaning. He wanted his skin exposed and his
back arched and his entire frame trembling beneath him. He wanted him to
suffer and he wanted him in ecstasy.

He wanted to throw his body down upon the altar and break him open, he
wanted to rip that pure, beautiful light right out of him until he was as black
and dark and corrupt as he was.

He wanted those green, green eyes to see nothing and no one else but this
fire, this eternal flame, this pyre which threatened to consume him, and it he
wanted it to consume them both.

He wanted, he wanted, he-

Breathe.

The Dark Lord glowered as he paced the study, the incinerating heat
smoldering under his skin threatening to ignite the very robes he wore—and
when, precisely, had he begun pacing?

Such a petty, mortal action. The phoenix wings which lay folded and flush
against his back, concealed and hidden from view under his clothing,
unknown to anyone, twitched uncomfortably.

…Feelings.

He despised them.

5:59.

The somber notes of the piano song grated on his nerves. Of course they
would, it was a piano, and it infuriated him that something as simple as a
mere song that he had heard many times years ago could have such a
profound impact on him solely because he happened to have an interest in the
same instrument.

He hated it, and the music only made him angrier, and it wasn't until this
very second that it occurred to him that he could have had the music off this
entire time, or changed it to something else. Why had he not changed it to
something else?

…Feelings.
…

Of course Lord Voldemort knew about the broadcast.

Those rebellious idiots had been spewing their worthless thoughts for
months. But their newscasts had been mediocre at best, not in the least bit
threatening… They had never said anything that he, Lord Voldemort, had not
known they would report. In fact, they had even been occasionally useful to
his cause. Their little shows only grew less and less enthusiastic with time.
Less hopeful, less frequent, less encouraging… They were a true measure of
just how much the resistance was waning…

Tonight, he had even been looking forward to hearing about their rendition
of the Burning Ceremony. It surely would have been entertaining.

But now, considering the unanticipated turn of events…

If they had a meagre scrap of intelligence between them, tonight's broadcast

would be…canceled.

Rapier. River. Royal. Rodent. Romulus. Those contrite little code names that
they had given themselves. Lord Voldemort had his suspicions on who they
were, of course. Connected with the Order, certainly, if not members
themselves… But he had never bothered confirming their exact identities
because they had never been a worthwhile pursuit.

But if they reported what occurred last night, they would undoubtedly
acquire the honor of his…attention.

His own followers would not be listening, if they even knew of the broadcast
in the first place, of this he made certain. Each and every one of his Death
Eaters had been given very specific tasks that would make the luxury of
sitting in their own extravagant, garish manors while listening to radio
shows…quite impossible.

But he would be…

Because Lord Voldemort was always listening.

The clock struck six.

"…Hogwarts."

Even the passwords were unoriginal.

Mundane. Predictable.

Pathetic.

The music shifted and dissolved…and the sweet sound of static met his ears.

…Good.

Voldemort let out a breath he had not been aware he'd been holding. Good.
Now he would—

The static stopped. His wings twitched again.

"Good evening, listeners, good evening… Before we begin our regularly

scheduled broadcast, we're going to start things off a little…differently.
Please allow us a few minutes of your precious time to bestow upon you the
gift…of music."

"This song goes out to anyone who has ever asked themselves the
question…"

'Can anybody…?'

Voldemort froze entirely.

'…find me…somebody to…'

The chalice slipped from his fingers.

'…love?'
The glass shattered to pieces when it hit the ground, and the entire room
knew red.

Harry hit play.

He, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Draco were gathered around a circular
table within the Room of Requirement. In the center of this table was a
pristinely silver, enchanted microphone, as well as an old radio that looked
similar to the one that Harry had found in Sirius's bedroom. The sword of
Gryffindor also rested there, its ruby encrusted handle dazzling.

Lastly, in front of each of them was a porcelain cup, each upon its own little
white saucer. Dobby had most kindly served them all tea earlier while they'd
plotted (with the exception of Draco. The elf made it a clear point to never do
anything for Malfoy, which Harry found deeply amusing and which Draco
found incredibly insulting. The only reason he even had tea at all was
because Harry had personally requested two and given him one), and was
always there to refill their cups the very moment they were empty.

He smirked at his companions over the rim of his mug before blowing gently
across the steaming surface. They returned his mischievous expression with
grins of their own.

Harry leaned back into his seat. He let the sound of music wash over him as,
for a few seconds, he relived the moment where he had uncovered the
charmed radio in Sirius's bedroom. He'd been wishing for another one earlier,
and the Room had provided.

It had also conjured them up the charmed microphone so that they could
broadcast their show from here. They could start and fight in a war, and they
could do it all while hidden away within the very walls of Hogwarts School
of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Harry's smirk widened.

They had conspired all morning. It was a bit of a debate, at first, about just
what, precisely, they should report. To tell the truth? All of the truth? Part of
it? Just how much, and in what way?

"Well, we can't just go telling the whole world about his horcruxes and
shattered soul and all that, even if it is true," Hermione had said, furrowing
her brows as she'd contemplated. "It's too much, it's too disturbing—it sounds
insane, because it is, obviously—and it will be all too easy for them to cast it
aside as a crazy rumor, a desperate attempt of the Order to make him sound
like a monster and nothing more. No…"

And she'd looked more roguish than Harry would have thought possible. It
was an expression that made the Weasley twins look almost innocent in
comparison. "They think they can twist the truth?" she'd sneered, tossing the
Daily Prophet down on the table. "We can make a much better story. One
that will be believable and digestible, one that will make the Dark Lord out to
be convincingly dangerous, conniving, and, most importantly…wrong.
They'll be dying of curiosity about what happened here last night, about why
we would attack the castle in the first place, about what 'school property' we
were attempting to steal…they'll be thirsty for a good, juicy story…"

A quill and some parchment had appeared before her. She'd begun writing at
once.

"So let's give them one."

…And they going to.

Harry was all but brimming with excitement. Fred and George were even
more so—the twins were visibly vibrating in their seats, smiling widely as the
sound of Queen filled the background.

They'd explained it all to him earlier, of course.

"Potterwatch, we were calling it before," George had said. "But we had to

change the name when the Taboo came into effect."

"Once it was official law that you were only to be referred to as 'the
Undesirable', well…" Fred's eyes had glinted playfully, mirroring his twin's
precisely.

"We came up with a new title of our own."

And Harry had to admit, he liked the new name much better.

'…Somebody…to love… Find me…somebody…to love…'

The song eventually came to an end, the repeating words softening until they
quieted completely.

Fred leaned forward.

"Ah, music," he sighed into the microphone. "Albus Dumbledore once said it
was a greater magic than anything ever performed at Hogwarts."

"True words of wisdom," George commented.

"Indeed they are, Rodent." Fred paused before proceeding in a very serious
tone. "Thank you for tuning in tonight, our lovely listeners. We are, as
always, honored to have your attentive ears for a spell."

"We here on The Most Desirable Word—or the M.D.W., as we so often refer
to it—have the privilege of telling you that, without a doubt, this shall be our
greatest broadcast yet."

"Perhaps the greatest broadcast in the world, Rodent."

"Maybe in all of history, Rapier."

"I think we'll make history." Fred's eye were gleaming. "For you see, ladies
and gentlemen, gathered at our sides, seated at our very table, joining us for a
nice cup of tea…is the loveliest group of terrorists you ever did see."

"Indeed," George continued. "And while we usually keep our honored guests
shrouded in obscurity with vague and often humorous code names, tonight…
tonight I think—and they all think the same—that the world should know
exactly who they're listening to. Wouldn't you agree, Rapier?"

"I would and I do." Fred nodded. "Now, as much as I believe that each and
every one of you charming individuals deserves a long winded, elaborate
introduction, I think the most appropriate and effective thing would be to
simply have you each state your name. The world must be dying to hear the
dulcet sounds of your sweet voices."

They laughed softly. "Let's just go round the table then, shall we? We'll start
with you, my good lady."

"Hermione Granger." She spoke clearly and evenly before taking a sip of her
tea.

"Ronald Weasley." Ron was next, leaning forward excitedly.

"Malfoy…Draco Malfoy." Draco said his own name smoothly and suavely,
like he'd been practicing in order to sound as sophisticated as possible.

Harry's lip twitched. Truly, Draco Malfoy's participation in this whole affair
had surprised him greatly. He would have never expected him to so willingly
want to put himself out there like this, proclaiming to the world that he was
on the Order's side so blatantly, so…dangerously. It was uncharacteristically
bold of Draco to be so daring and cavalier, and yet he had been as much a
part of the scheming as any of the rest of them. It was quite uncanny, really,
just how much the dynamic had changed.

Killing the snake had wrought some undeniable changes in the young Malfoy
heir. Harry wondered if they would prove to be permanent.

"And last, but most certainly not least…" George intervened for a moment,
inclining his head towards Harry…who purposefully paused, perhaps a bit
longer than was necessary, before saying…

"…Harry James Potter."

"Oooh!" Fred exclaimed, shaking his shoulders. "Look at me, I already have
the shivers—and we've only just started!"

They all chuckled in response. George spoke next. "Now, I know what you
must be thinking, dear listeners, so allow us to explain. The Taboo that was
put into place on the Undesirable—" he drawled that particular word with
thick, palpable sarcasm, "—was dismantled. The curse is broken. Gone!"

"Though that's not to say it's necessarily safe," Hermione piped up, looking
suddenly concerned. George frowned at her as she interrupted. "I mean, yes,
the Taboo is no longer in effect, so it is possible now to say Harry James
Potter again while thinking of him, but you should still exercise caution in
public. Just because you can't be tracked for saying it doesn't mean that you
won't be punished for talking about him if the wrong people are listening."

George's frown turned into a playful smirk. "Well, listeners, if you had any
doubts about the authenticity of the identities of our guests, surely you can set
those uncertainties aside now. For only Hermione Jean Granger would
interrupt one of the charming co-hosts of the M.D.W. to make such a smarty-
pants remark."

"Sorry, Rodent," she muttered, though she was grinning. "Just wanted to
point that out."

"But of course, Miss Granger." George took a sip of his tea before setting it
down with a soft clink on the porcelain saucer. "The safety of our listeners is,
as always, of utmost importance to us."

"Enough about that," Fred said impatiently. "We have so very much to
discuss."

"Yes," George agreed. His smile faded, and his voice became much more
somber.

"Yet before we get into the thick of our torrid tales and quench your burning
curiosities with our illuminating interview…we must acknowledge a great
loss."
A pause. Fred carried on with a melancholy tone. "Last night, the world lost a
brave, honorable man." He said before swallowing thickly. "…Remus Lupin
was a brilliant fighter for our cause. A valiant and bold soul. He aided our
side in so many ways that we cannot even put into words how much is owed
to him. He was a true warrior."

"And more than that, he was a friend. A kind and loving man. A husband, and
soon to be father. He died in battle at the hands of a Death Eater, fighting
until the very end."

"So join us, please, in a moment of silence, for the loss of a truly great and
extraordinary individual. His sacrifice will never be forgotten."

Harry lowered his eyes to stare down into his cup. They were quiet for what
was only really twenty seconds or so…but it felt so much longer.

Remus Lupin was gone… All of the Marauders, dead…

…Unless one counted Peter Pettigrew.

Harry tasted bile in his throat at the mere thought of him. He recalled the
photograph he'd found in Sirius's bedroom, the one of all four of the
Marauders while they were still in school, smiling and looking so happy, so
peaceful…

Peter Pettigrew was the only one still alive, and he was the only one who did
not deserve to be. If Harry ever, ever saw Pettigrew again—

"Thank you."

George finally ended the moment of silence. "Yet life, as it always does, goes
on… And we go on. We carry on this mission, the one which Remus Lupin
and so many others have died for. We carry on, and we look to the future…
because this war has only just begun."

"Yes." Fred nodded deeply in agreement. "And we have a great deal of

explaining to do on that account, don't we?"
"That we do, Rapier, that we do…"

"Where to even begin, Rodent?" Fred looked around at Draco, Hermione,

Ron, and Harry. "So many questions we have for you all!"

"Perhaps we can start with current events?" George asked lightly as he held
his tea cup to his lips.

"An excellent idea, Rapier." Fred cleared his throat as he reached for the
issue of the Prophet, crumpling the paper audibly on the table as he unfolded
it. "Now, in case there are those of you who are not aware, a rather
exhilarating issue of the Daily Prophet came out this morning."

"A riveting edition."

"Yes, with the dramatic headline of—let's see here—" Fred held the paper out
before him as he read, "The Undesirable- Terrorist Alive and at Large. Attack
on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

George gasped loudly and theatrically. "How scandalous!"

"How outrageous!"

"What an accusation! Say it isn't so!"

"Allow us to summarize this load of garbage for you," Fred sneered, the
sarcastic shock gone from his voice as he set the paper down. "Basically, the
Ministry is saying that Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Hermione Granger and
Ronald Weasley infiltrated Hogwarts school last night in rebellion of the new
regime during the—how do they word it, here? Ah, yes— '…what was sure
to be a powerful, pivotal moment in magical history. The Burning Ceremony,
an event which was to be a peaceful and meaningful representation of the
new order of our magical society, was destroyed. A ceremony which should
have brought unity was shattered under the Undesirable's cruel and
unexpected attack, stained with the magical bloodshed that our new Minister
is so adamant about preventing and protecting…'"
George scoffed. "Basically, this is saying that our jolly group of terrorists
here stormed the castle in rebellion of this 'peaceful' Burning Ceremony in
order to kill as many purebloods as possible, because, I don't know, why not,
as well as to steal valuable school property…but, funny, it doesn't say what it
was you all were trying to steal…"

"Curious and curious-er." Fred tapped his chin thoughtfully. "So," he said
after a brief pause, his eyes landing on Harry. "Let's just get this first,
monumental question out of the way right now."

George leaned forward on his elbows, looking at Harry expectantly. "Harry

James Potter, are you and your companions here, in fact, a terrorist group
who despise and hate all pureblooded witches and wizards, who want to
destroy the wizarding world, and see us all divided as a magical community
for all of time?"

Harry let the question hang in the air for a moment. "Rapier, this may
surprise you…but no. We are not." He took a short sip of his tea.

"And there you have it," George said, grinning. He turned back towards the
enchanted microphone. "Dear listeners, we here on the M.D.W. are here
tonight to tell you that this entire issue of theDaily Prophet is a poorly
constructed, cowardly, spineless lie. There isn't a scrap of truth to it with the
exception that there was, in fact, a battle at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry last night. But it was not an attack on the school, nor was it an
attempt to storm the castle by a terrorist group and kill innocents, and it most
certainly did not end with Harry Potter and his little ragtag group of friends
barely making it out by the skin of their teeth simply because those foul and
vile Death Eaters—because that is what they are, folks, always have been,
always will be—did not aim to kill because they are now suddenly just oh so
noble and firmly above spilling magical blood—"

"Biggest lie in there," Ron added in scathingly.

"—all a bunch of rubbish. A literary pile of lies, the sort of which we have
come to expect from our dear Ministry over the years," Fred finished.
Everyone made humming noises in agreement as they sipped at their tea.
Harry thought the sound of the china clinking delicately in the background of
their dangerous and radical accusations was a lovely addition.

"So let's start with giving you the real story, then, shall we?" George set his
cup down softly. "We are so very honored to have with us such infamous
guests."

"Real notorious bunch."

"I always wanted to be in the papers," Ron said.

Fred rolled his eyes. "Of course you did. Probably not like this, though, I'd
imagine?"

"No, no, not quite like this," Ron agreed as he looked down at the prophet.
"At least they used a recent photo of me, though. Not a portrait from when I
was fourteen."

Harry laughed, but George looked suddenly very serious. "Yes, that it very
strange, isn't it? I suppose they don't have a recent photo of you, but…" He
fixed Harry with an accusatory stare while he paused.

Fred continued for him. "Folks, I wish you could see what we could see,
because the man sitting before us bears absolutely no resemblance to the boy
you all knew and loved from the Triwizard Tournament several years ago."

"And after what happened last night, just…holy hell." George was shaking
his head incredulously.

"Allow us to paint the picture for you, listeners." Fred leaned towards the
microphone. Harry felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably as he drew a breath,
a twinge of nervousness creeping up his spine…for they had already
discussed at length whether Fred and George should speak as though they
were there or not during the battle, therefore narrowing down who they could
conceivably be. But in the end, they'd decided that it probably, truthfully,
didn't really matter. They seemed to think it unlikely that the Dark Lord even
knew they were still broadcasting at this point, especially since they changed
the times they hosted and they always, always had a password…

And the harsh reality being, of course, that if they Dark Lord was listening,
and he really wanted to find out who they were…there was probably very
little they could do that would prevent him from figuring it out.

"So a battle of epic proportions had broken out in the Great Hall of
Hogwarts," Fred began in a low and ominous tone. "The students were rushed
away to their common rooms, Order members and Death Eaters were at each
other's throats, and let me tell you, they were definitely aiming to 'spill
magical blood'…"

"And we were losing ground pretty quickly, my friends," George added

darkly. "We were just on the brink of needing to consider retreat, we might
have all been lost—captured, kidnapped, or worse—"

"When the impossible happened."

They both grinned mischievously in Harry's direction. "In case you were not
aware, ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter is sort of well-known for his iconic
corporal patronus which takes the form of a stag."

"Bit of an emblem for him, actually."

"Maybe we should make ourselves a banner with it," Ron added to the
repertoire.

George batted him over the head in a very sibiling-ish manner. "Quiet, you,
we're telling a story."

"So everyone knows about the silver stag of Harry Potter," Fred went on at
once. Ron glowered but remained silent. "The icon of the supposedly missing
and more than likely, at the time, thought to be dead, Undesirable."

"So imagine the shock of every single person in that Hall when that very
patronus just…appears."
Fred paused for dramatic effect. "…The fighting was in full throttle. Spells of
the deadliest variety were being fired in every direction. And then, right in
the middle of all the chaos, a silver stag appears on the ground like the very
ghost of the Boy Who Lived himself."

"And it just walked, at first," George explained. "Because, see—we didn't

know it, at the time—but you-know-who was actually just outside of the
castle doors."

"Yes, but he was distracted at that particular moment. Busy torturing the also
not-dead, not-a-Death-Eater Severus Snape, who was out there with a tied-up
Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley—"

"We'll come back to that," Fred muttered quickly.

"Yes," George agreed, before carrying on. "So, the stag struts right through
the door to go…to go get the Dark Lord and bring him in the castle."

Fred looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "It was the greatest
thing," he said. "The patronus came back into the hall, and-and it was kind of
prancing this way, and that, and then back again—"

"And everyone, every single person—Death Eater, Order member, teacher,

Ministry official—everyone stopped fighting to watch. Because you-know-
who came storming in—which, by the way, if you haven't seen our lovely
dark overlord lately, he's gone through quite a transformation himself—"

"—we'll come back to that," Fred muttered again.

"—he comes storming in," George reiterated, "and…and it was like a niffler
chasing a trinket."

"A cat going after a wand light."

"A seeker pursuing a snitch."

"It was incredible. Amazing. You-know-who probably didn't even notice

there was a fight going on, it was that kind of single-minded obsessiveness."
Fred did snort, now. "But, eventually, as all good things, must…it came to an
end."

Another pause. George cleared his throat. "Picture this, listeners. The stag
patronus comes to a standstill in front of the Gryffindor hourglass—which
had shattered at this point, spilling huge ruby orbs out onto the floor like
giant drops of blood—and the Dark Lord is scanning the room, looking for
our favorite He-Who-Shall-Also-Not-Be-Named—"

"You-know-who-two—"

"—when a spell came firing down from above."

"A disarming spell," Fred clarified. "And the Dark Lord fired back, of course,
with some unknown but likely very dangerous and unfriendly curse, but-but
the Expelliarmos went straight through it."

"Obliterated it, more like," George said in tone of deepest awe. "And you-
know-who…was disarmed."

"In front of everyone. His wand went flying out of his hands, up, up, and
away…and then. And then! A hand shoots out of nowhere from on top of the
hourglass."

"Under the cover of a cloak of invisibility," George went on, "a hand reached
out and caught the Dark Lord's wand, and the very moment it hit his palm, he
shot it up towards the ceiling, and—"

"Lightning!" Fred shouted, slamming the table. The tea cups rattled on their
saucers. "A god-like bolt of lightning went flying from his newly-swindled
wand, shooting up towards the ceiling—except, it was the craziest, most
insane thing, because it didn't just hit the ceiling—"

"It actually went into the sky!" George exclaimed. "It went out into the
heavens themselves, and the apparation ward around the castle shattered.
That was how the ward broke, it was Harry James Potter, not Severus Snape.
The ex-Potions Master was a bit hung up at that time."

"Again, we'll come back to that."

"So the ward explodes, the stag is rearing its antlered head, and then that
same bolt of lightning—it sort of gathered into this crazy, static-y cloud, and
then it split into all of these tiny little bits of light—"

"And lightning was raining down upon the Death Eaters! Literally!" Fred
slammed the table again. Harry picked up his tea cup to prevent it from
spilling. "Each and every one of them was disarmed! Their wands went flying
and they fell to their knees! The Dark Lord fell to his knees!"

"You can't just make this stuff up, folks," George muttered seriously.

"He was on his knees, and everyone's ears were ringing, because that
lightning brought along with it a healthy dose of thunder, too."

"And then…" George's voice lowered significantly. He craned his neck

towards the mic. "…Harry Potter reveals himself."

There was a pertinent pause. Everyone around the table was staring at Harry
in varying degrees of wonder and awe. He tried very hard not to feel so
uncomfortable under their gazes.

"…So…let me preface this next bit of information before I continue by, ah,
clarifying something," Fred said diplomatically as he folded his hands on the
table.

"I love the ladies." Draco and Ron both snorted at the unexpected
announcement which was spoken with utmost seriousness. "I love a woman
with a slim waist and not so slim behind—"

"In a little red dress with long, dark hair," George added in wistfully.

"With that perfume that smells like summer—"

"In those kitten heels I love—"

"Me-ow!"

"But you, sir," Fred pointed at Harry most accusingly with one eyebrow
raised.

"…You made me seriously question some things about myself that I never,
ever thought I would."

Harry almost choked on his tea. Draco covered his mouth to stifle a delighted
laugh.

"Listeners, allow us to give you the full visual, here," George said in a level
voice. "So after this crazy display of power and lightning and impossible,
miraculous shit, Harry Potter pulled the invisibility cloak from his body…
And, you know, it was almost like you were trying to make the entire world
question themselves, Mr. Potter."

Harry opened his mouth to say something to that, but Fred was carrying on
before he could even think of anything. "This is not the timid boy of fourteen
you knew from years ago, people."

George slammed the table sharply, this time. "Gone, are the wiry glasses that
used to cover those piercing green eyes!"

"Gone, is the short, scrawny body of a malnourished boy!" Fred slapped the
wooden surface as well, quite vehemently.

"Towering above us all was the figure of a man, with a body that almost
looks fake, it's so stupidly perfect—"

"Only, at the time, he was battered and bruised, covered in mud and blood
and oh, did I mention he was shirtless?"

"A wound on his side that was bleeding, covering his abs—and there are abs,
like, damn!—in blood, and then-and then…"

"…Everyone starts saying his name." Fred almost whispered it now, in

contrast to the shouting from just moments before. "Everyone, even the Death
Eaters. It. Was. Incredible."

"It broke the Taboo."

"Magical overload."

"And then…" Harry, who had directed his gaze down to his tea in
embarrassment earlier, briefly glanced up. George's stare was like a laser-
beam.

"He announces himself. Says, 'My name is Harry James Potter…and I am the
Chosen One.'"

"Oooh!" Fred shook his head. "There I go again! I've got the shivers!"

George chuckled before adding to that. "Me too, Rapier, me too…and then,
listeners, then…he disappeared."

"He had a portkey on him. It took him away. Harry Potter stormed the castle,
broke the wards, disarmed the Death Eaters, stole the Dark Lord's wand, and
then just went on his merry damn way."

They were all silent with awe. Harry's face was positively burning.

"…So," Fred took another short sip of tea before speaking again. He sounded
quite conversational, now. "So, Harry—may I call you Harry?"

Harry laughed shortly. Fred, evidently, took that for a yes. "Excellent. So,
Harry…are you single, or what?"

"That's all the world really wants to know, I think," George said.

"And I've never been with a bloke before, but I'll try anything once—"

"Maybe twice—"

"A few times, if you like—"

"And really, you'd be getting a bargain, Rapier and I are sort of a package
deal—"

"You'd get two for the price of one—"

"And we're more than generous—"

"If you know what we mean."

They finished the last statement together. Their eyes were gleaming, and they
were both smirking at the way that he, Harry, was surely blushing brighter
than ever.

He just looked back and forth between the two of them, utterly and
hopelessly beyond flustered. Draco continued to cover his mouth to stifle his
laughter, while Ron, in great contrast, looked disturbed. Hermione, oddly
enough, seemed quite composed.

"…I…uh…" Harry finally stammered, unable to form any kind of coherent

sentence. Going up against the Weasley twins was a battle of sarcastic wit
that he would surely never win.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh…" Fred leaned forward and put a single finger to Harry's
lower lip. He froze completely in bewilderment. "…Don't say anything,
now," he purred in a voice just loud enough to carry to the microphone.

"…Just think about it."

He winked as he removed his finger. Harry was…no longer certain if they

were entirely joking or not.

Their smirks widened.

"…Things just got really weird here on the M.D.W," Ron muttered darkly
into the microphone, looking at Fred and George with genuine concern in his
eyes.

They both laughed. "Ah, apologies, ladies and gentlemen!" Fred shouted
jubilantly. "I forgot that were in the middle of a live broadcast."

"Please disregard our flirty banter."

"Or don't." Fred winked at Harry again. He let out a nervous laugh.

"But let's move on to more serious matters, shall we?"

"Yes, Rodent, let's do just that." Fred smiled as Dobby had reached up to
refill his nearly empty cup. "Ah, tea with terrorists. Lovely, lovely," he
sighed.

"Really, I could think of no better way to spend our evening than here, with
you beautiful people, enjoying this gorgeous sunset."

"The Czech Republic really is lovely this time of year, folks."

"But no more…distractions. Down to business, then." George folded his

hands on the table. "According to this issue of the Daily Prophet, you all
were storming the castle not only to attack and murder random purebloods
for good fun, but to steal school property." He tilted his head to one side.

"Is there any truth to this accusation? And if so, what was it you were trying
to steal? And why?"

Hermione leaned forward. "Actually, Rodent…yes. Yes, there is some

validity to that accusation. Though to say that we were trying to steal
property is questionable… We were merely trying torecover property that
rightfully belongs to Hogwarts, really, but was stolen initially by the Dark
Lord himself."

"Really?" Fred questioned. "Please explain."

"We were attempting to locate and save the diadem of Ravenclaw."

George snorted in faux-surprise. "The diadem of Ravenclaw?" he asked

incredulously. "You mean the legendary artifact that was lost to time? That
people have been trying to find for centuries, who philosophers still debate
may not actually exist?"

"That very one, yes," Hermione responded. "You see, before he passed away,
Albus Dumbledore informed us that he believed that you-know-who was
hunting for and collecting artifacts connected with the Hogwarts founders."

"Interesting," Fred commented. "Why would he do that?"

"Well, we have a few theories." It was Ron who spoke, now. "Supposedly,
each of the Founders had at least one powerfully enchanted item that was
imbued with the essence of their magical core. Gryffindor's courage in his
legendary sword, Ravenclaw's wisdom in her diadem, Hufflepuff's rationale
in her goblet…"

"…Slytherin's cunning in his locket."

Hermione finished his list in a level voice. Harry's chest tightened, but he
ignored the aching sensation. "There is a legend, you know, a myth, that
should these artifacts come together, it would make the owner…invincible,"
she explained. "Albus Dumbledore feared that you-know-who knew of this
legend and would be crazy enough to actually put some stock in it, and the
former Headmaster's fears were confirmed when he managed to locate the
cup of Helga Hufflepuff."

"He found the lost chalice of Hufflepuff?" Fred asked in surprise.

"Yes. Dumbledore found what was left of the cup, but it was already…
destroyed. Cracked and broken. The founder's magic was obliterated
completely."

"He destroyed it!?" George shouted, sounded outraged. "A priceless artifact!
Hogwarts property!"

"Seemed he would rather break and ruin them than even entertain the
possibility that someone else could get their hands on them and supposedly
become some kind of powerful, threatening sorcerer," Ron muttered tersely.
"How awful." Fred shook his head solemnly. "So the cup was found but
destroyed…and you had reason to believe that the diadem was in Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "We had been searching for a very long time, but
finally we tracked its location back to Hogwarts itself…and we did find it,
but, alas." She sighed dramatically.

"We were too late. He had already destroyed that one as well. We found it
hidden within the castle walls…destroyed beyond magical repair."

George let out a long, audible breath. "Are you listening to this, folks?" he
asked disbelievingly. "Are you getting all this? The Dark Lord is so hell-bent
on being the most powerful wizard in all of existence that he would find and
destroy such precious, valuable artifacts, for such a stupid reason as a legend
that more than likely has no shred of truth to it."

"Honestly. I'm sure that they had great magical properties, but they're still just
objects," Hermione agreed. "Being the owner of a few powerful items doesn't
just magically turn anyone into an all-powerful entity."

"Indeed," Fred said as he took a sip of tea.

"…So the cup, destroyed," George continued softly. "The diadem, destroyed.
What of the other two?"

Ron's eyes fell to the table when he answered. "The locket…the locket was
destroyed, too."

George gasped. Harry stomach twisted uncomfortably again. "He would even
destroy the property of his own special, noble ancestor to guarantee that no
one else could ever potentially acquire its power?"

"Yes—but the sword," Ron spoke quickly, clearly not wanting to dwell on
the topic of the locket, "…that one, we don't know. We haven't found it, and
we have absolutely no idea where it might be."

"You don't say…" Fred muttered, examining that very sword as it lay on the
table, right in front of them.

"Probably lost to time," George added.

"Never to be seen—"

"Or touched—"

"Or looked at—"

"Or admired—"

"Or wielded again."

Hermione smirked. "Yes. Well. That was the real reason we infiltrated the
castle. We were trying to recover and save priceless school property, not
attack anyone. Unfortunately, we were found out—and that was when the
Order came to our aid, to save us from…from being captured." Her voice
broke slightly.

"Bellatrix Lestrange was torturing us for information. She was the one who
found us," Ron muttered spitefully into the microphone. "She cast the
Cruciatus Curse on Hermione, trying to force us to talk—threatened to kill
us, and she surely would have. We would have been murdered in cold blood,
if Severus Snape and Harry Potter hadn't saved us."

"Is this the kind of world you want to live in, listeners?" George said
fervently. "A world where your children's attendance to Hogwarts is
mandatory so that they can be corrupted by Death Eater instructors? Where
'The Dark Arts' is a required course, as is 'Muggle Studies', which now spews
nonsense about how muggles want to kill us all with their plugs and their
phones and their cars?"

"A world where the people in charge cast Unforgivables just to get
information? On people who have done nothing wrong, people who were
trying, in fact, to save precious artifacts that were stolen and destroyed by the
Dark Lord himself? The one who claims to be such an advocate for our
magical society, who says he so passionately believes in and admires magical
ancestry?"

The sighed in unison. "Such a shame, that those ancient objects, which were
such an important part of the history of Hogwarts, should be destroyed for
such a stupid reason as an impossible, dumb myth."

…And Harry couldn't help but feel very smug about this whole story they had
contrived. For there was a ring a truth around it, really, except…this actually
all sounded a lot more believable than what was really going on.

The real genius to it all, of course, was that everyone would be furious at the
idea of such priceless, legendary items being destroyed. Even better was the
fact that they would be accusing the Dark Lord himself of being the one who
destroyed them 'beyond magical repair'…

Which couldn't be further from the truth. But what could Voldemort possibly
say to dispute it, if anyone ever saw the broken artifacts? 'No, no, I didn't
destroy them, they did, because I had turned them into horcruxes. Yes. My
soul has been ripped apart more than a few times. But I am not crazy because
of it and you should definitely still support me as your Lord.'

Harry almost laughed out loud at his own internal dialogue.

"But that is just how much he fears potential adversaries," Ron continued on,
regaining his full attention. "He believes in that sort of thing. Legends.
Myths… Prophecies…"

They all glanced fleetingly at Harry.

"Well… There are some prophecies that are worth believing."

"Indeed, Rapier…indeed…" Fred rested his elbows on the table as he spoke

into the mic. "Dear listeners, you may recall when, around this time, last year,
rumors were flying about the Prophecy that you-know-who was trying to get
out of the Department of Mysteries."
"About Harry Potter, and how he might be the 'Chosen One'…"

George grinned widely. "So, Harry," He said, inclining his head towards him.
"Is it true? Is that was the Prophecy said?"

"…Yes," Harry said softly but firmly.

"Oooh!" Fred repeated his same, wordless exclamation from earlier. "With
just a word, he does it to me! Goosebumps again! He's like a wizard, or
something!"

"A Prophecy!" George shouted.

"A warrior of thunder!"

"A God of lightning!"

"A deity of storms!"

"The Chosen One!" the twins shouted in unison. They began slapping their
hands on the table raucously, a loud action which Ron and Draco instantly
joined in, hooting and hollering like a bunch of animals. Hermione shook her
head a bit condescendingly, mouthing what looked like the word 'boys'.
Harry couldn't help but laugh when he caught her eye…and she cracked a
smile, then, too.

"What…is this racket…?"

The shouting ceased as a groggy and irate Potions Master emerged from his
private room.

Snape had been getting some much needed rest the entire time they'd plotted
and schemed. And while he did look much better, after a few hours of sleep,
he still had definite bags under his eyes. He looked very cross indeed at
having been woken up by such a cacophony of bellowing.

Harry…wondered how he was going to take this.

Probably not well.

…That was also probably why he was smirking.

"Ah, there's our oldest and most conniving terrorist!" George shouted,
gesturing for Snape to join them. "Come take a seat, have some tea—"

"Our listeners would love to hear your point of view—"

"Listeners?" Snape's eyes zeroed in on the microphone in the center of the

table as he approached them.

"Yes," Fred said. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are joined now by everyone's
favorite ex-Death Eater, Severus Snape. Sugar for your tea, Professor?" He
slid a saucer with a full cup towards an empty spot where George had just
pulled up another chair.

"What-are you-is this—" Snape's sour expression was becoming more and
more horrified by the second. "Are you broadcasting this live?"

"Nothing gets past this one, folks," George muttered.

Snape's face paled significantly. "What-how-what if he's listening?"

"What if who's listening?" Fred asked innocently.

"You mean you-know-who?"

"Who?"

"You know, you-know-who!"

"Oh, you-know-who!" Fred snapped his fingers. "You don't think you-know-
who would be listening to our silly broadcast, do you?"

"Surely he has better things to do, that you-know-who- but maybe not, who
knows—do you?"
"Yoo-hooooo! You-know-whooooo!" Fred trilled in a sing-song voice.

"Gosh, can you imagine? The Dark Lord himself listening to our radio
show!"

George fanned at his face theatrically, and when he spoke next it was in a
dramatic, overly flamboyant tone. "Oh my goodness I am all in a tizzy just
thinking about it! Rapier, quick, how do I look?"

"He can't see you, Rodent—"

"Yes, I know that, obviously—that's why I need you to say out loud how
good I look, to tell the world how handsome I am—"

"Ah, I see—you look very handsome, indeed, good sir—why, I would say
you look nearly as handsome as myself."

"Oh, and that is saying something, because you are a devilishly good-looking
bloke."

"But we have nothing on Harry Potter, of course-"

"Well of course not, I mean, just look at him—"

"All tall and fit—"

"With his windswept, black hair and pretty, green eyes—"

"Conjuring up lightning and shattering skies—"

"A god among men—"

"A warrior—"

"A knight—"

"THE CHOSEN ONE!"

They proclaimed it together again, and were once more slamming on the
table and causing the porcelain to rattle and clink together. Snape was
clutching at his chest like he was literally having a heart attack at that very
moment.

"No," he gaped, pulling out his wand. "He is always, always listening, he will
be hearing all of this—this ends n—"

"Don't."

The single word was so cold, so mirthless that everyone fell silent in an
instant. Even Snape faltered as his focus shifted to Harry.

The amused smirk had vanished from his face. Harry sat back in his chair, his
elbows on the armrests with his hands folded in front of his face. His eyes
flickered up to Snape's, and he was pleasantly surprised to see that the
Potions Master actually flinched when they made eye contact.

"Don't," He repeated, glancing at Snape's wand.

"…I still have things to say."

…For a long, tense moment, they did nothing but look at each other. Snape's
outraged expression slipped away into that flat, unreadable mask as, for quite
some time, they both simply stared.

But Harry would not back down. Hearing Snape voice that he believed, quite
firmly, that the Dark Lord was listening…did not make him afraid.

It made him think…good.

"…This is madness." Snape finally looked away first, his arm lowering
slowly to his side. "…Madness…" he repeated hollowly.

"A bit, yes," George agreed genially. "But really, we're just clearing your
name. Don't want to be targeted as a terrorist the moment you leave here,
eh?"
"I mean, as much as I enjoy Italy, I don't suppose you want to be stuck here
forever, do you?"

"Maybe he does, I mean, I sort of do—Florence, is lovely this time of year,

listeners—"

"Si, bellisimo!" Fred made a loud kissing noise into the mic. Snape's face
paled even more.

"But we've gotten very off topic, Rapier."

Fred stirred a bit of sugar into a newly refreshed cup of tea. "That we have,
Rodent. So let's get this interview started, shall we?"

"Yes, yes." George turned to Harry expectantly. "The first question—the one
that I am sure all of our listeners are simply dying to know the answer to,
concerning your mysterious disappearance for an entire year…"

He paused for a moment, letting the tension mount. "…Harry Potter…where

in world were you, and what were you doing?"

Harry took a slow, measured breath.

They had gone over this.

Hermione's instructions had been to just be very vague, very mysterious… To

say he couldn't tell the world exactly where he was, that it was top secret, and
the public would make up the stories for them.

And that was true. If Harry just hinted that he was out and about, doing
important stuff, the public would talk and gossip and come up with all sorts
of incredible things about what the mighty Chosen One had been up to when
he left the wizarding world for a year.

"…Where was I…" Harry repeated softly. He stared at the silver mic in the
center of the table, getting lost in the shining, dancing reflections there.

He saw ice and snow.

He saw endlessness.

…Harry had never allowed himself to revisit the memories. His

imprisonment. His time in a crystal coffin, for how long, he didn't know,
because it was one long, eternal day where the sun did not move… awake,
and alive, and alone. He had kept the memories locked up and buried them
alongside the emotions he never wanted to feel again.

He thought of them now.

"I was in another realm." His eyes never left the reflective surface of the mic,
but he could feel the bodies of every single person in the room tense at the
unexpected answer.

"I was in a world of endlessness, a sea of infinity. I was in a dream and a

nightmare. I was…elsewhere."

Another pause. He relived the sensation of mentally clawing his way towards
consciousness, only to be pulled gently back down into slumber, again, and
again, and again…

"I was in a place of mental turmoil that is beyond this reality. I was in the
belly of the beast, and that was where I needed to be. Because I saw. I felt,
and I lived…and I learned."

He felt a sunflower being pressed into his sweaty palm. He heard a haunting,
wild rhapsody. "I learned what it is to be a prisoner. I learned what it is to be
trapped and held… I learned what it is to be unable to wake, and what it's like
to be unable to rest… I learned how to make music, and I learned that I never
will again. I learned about hate, and I learned about love. I learned what it is
to be weak…and I learned about power."

He felt hard walls of glass encasing him from every side, and heard his own
screams as though they were the cries of someone else. His name, again, and
again, and again.
"…Where was I…" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

The silver reflected an endless plane of white.

"I was in hell."

Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort—

"…And now I'm back."

…Everyone was silent for a long, long time.

They were each staring at him with widened, terrified eyes. Hermione even
had her hand clamped over her mouth in fright. And no one, not even Snape,
seemed to be able to bring themselves out of the stunned stupor he had
thrown them into.

He had never talked about it before.

He would never talk about it again.

Harry reached down and picked up his cup of tea, knowing he was going to
have to be the one to break the strained silence. He took a drink before
smiling.

"I hope that answers your question," he said casually before taking another
sip.

Fred leaned towards the mic very, very slowly. He cleared his throat.
"Listeners… I just want you to know that you should not feel ashamed or
embarrassed right now, because I, too, just pissed my pants a little."

Harry laughed, as did the others—albeit very nervously.

George was shaking his head. "I feel incredibly sorry for anyone who is
stupid enough to be on the receiving end of your anger."

"Please don't kill us."

The laughter was a bit less tense, this time. "Why ever would I want to kill
either of you?" Harry asked. "You're both so good at making me feel special."

"One of our many talents," George said, the color returning to both he and his
twin's faces as they got back into their stride.

"And we do have many. But our listeners don't want to hear about us." Fred
waved a hand flippantly, becoming animated again. "So… Harry Potter, back
form the dead, from hell itself…"

"Returning to the wizarding world to save his companions from Hogwarts, as

well as managing to disrupt the Burning Ceremony—"

"Which wasn't our intent, but yes, that did happen," Harry admitted. "But
we're not sorry about it. I liked the sorting, it was tradition. It's a shame that
it's gone."

They all murmured in agreement, sipping their tea. Snape alone remained
standing, a silent observer looking deeply conflicted.

"Well, perhaps, next year, things will be different," George said. "Maybe the
sorting will be a tradition that can be reinstated. I heard a rumor that a few of
those vagabond rebels managed to nick the Sorting Hat amongst all the
chaos."

"Some really smart, attractive rebels."

"Very attractive."

They grinned at each other knowingly. Harry wondered where they'd stashed
it.

"End this."

Snape seemed to come back to the decision that this broadcast must end—
now—but did not seem inclined to blow up the microphone, this time.

"Say what you need to and finish this."

Fred and George both fixed him with identical, pouting faces. "But Professor,
we haven't even gotten into our theories of why you-know-who looks sort of
like a Veela-monster, now, or how you dueled Lestrange—"

"Now."

George made a huffing noise. "All right—well, we can't very well deny the
wishes of one of our mighty saviors, so we'll just give it to you fast."

"Nothing wrong with a quickie."

"Harry," George said, "if you and your friends are not, in fact, terrorists who
want to destroy the world… What are you? What do you stand for, what are
you beliefs?"

"We believe in equality," Harry answered easily enough. "We believe in

equal respect and treatment of all people—muggles, muggle-borns, half-
bloods, pure-bloods… It doesn't matter. We're all just people. We're all
human."

"Cheers to that." They all clinked their little tea cups together as they made
noises of agreement.

Fred finished the last of his drink before asking the next question. "So, just to
make it painfully obvious and clear—you are not in support of you-know-
who's regime, and are, in fact, standing in complete and total opposition of
it?"

Harry nodded. "That would be correct."

"And you all." George looked towards Hermione, Ron, and Draco. "You
stand behind him? You are all still fighting for the world that Albus
Dumbledore believed in? For the Statute of Secrecy to remain firmly in place,
for the protection of everyone? To live in peace, where there is no social
hierarchy, and we are all on the same level, because we're all just people?"
They all voiced their agreement again.

"Even you…Draco Malfoy?"

Draco leaned forward as he spoke into the mic, looking only slightly
apprehensive. "Yes," he affirmed. "Yes. I…" He paused, swallowing thickly
before looking up to Harry.

"I stand by Harry Potter."

"…I never thought I'd see the day," Fred muttered. "Folks, if you happened to
attend Hogwarts at the same time as our guests here, then you would know
that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were arch-enemies from day one."

"And now, here they are, having tea together like best friends. We have a
table with a muggle-born, pure-bloods, half-bloods… And wouldn't you
know it? We're all getting along just fine."

"Because none of us is any better than another because of something as

contrite and meaningless as blood status."

"No," George agreed. "Our superiority rests solely in our dazzling wit and
charm."

"Don't forget good-looks."

"Well, obviously."

"This is the world we believe in ladies and gentlemen. This is what we're
fighting for."

"Now, I know what you're probably thinking," George said. "What next?
Well… We're working on that. But, more importantly, you're also probably
wondering… What can you do?"

"What can you, the average listener, do in order to lend your support? To aid
in our cause?" Fred furrowed his brows as he contemplated. "Well, we would
never, ever advise doing anything that would put you or your loved ones in
any danger. Your safety is, as always, of highest importance."

"But there are ways you can show your support. Little things. Things that you
can't possibly get in trouble for, like…"

"Stop paying for the Daily Prophet, for one," Hermione snapped.

George smirked. "Yeah—steal it from your lousy neighbor's trash bin the day
after, instead."

"Blast muggle music really loudly, all the time," Ron offered up.

"Extra points if it's Queen," Draco added, grinning coyly.

Fred sighed. "Love Queen. Excellent band. Right—what else?"

"Having a baby soon? About to become a proud parent?" George suddenly

voiced. "Name your baby Harry!"

Hermione folded her arms a bit huffily. "And what if it's a girl?"

"Name it Harry anyway!"

"Oh, I know!" Fred's eyes were sparking with mirth at his next suggestion.
"Send Dolores Umbridge in the Ministry an anonymous howler. Something
wonderfully offensive, like-like she that should arrest herself, as she is clearly
a creature half-breed. Because a drunk witch and a giant toad-monster simply
must have shagged in order to create that disgusting, nasty body type."

They all laughed heartily at that—Harry could have sword he even saw
Snape's lips twitch. He leaned forward and grabbed the mic. "I, Harry James
Potter, will personally kiss the hand of anyone who sends Dolores Umbridge
an offensive howler."

"Oh! I think he really means it, ladies and gents," George said delightedly.

"Of course I really mean it, Rodent," Harry responded coolly. "I must not tell
lies…"
"Ha!" Fred slammed the table energetically. "Brilliant! Trust me, listeners,
when I say that is an opportunity you don't want to pass up."

"I've already sent three Howlers," George said. "Though they make take a
while to get there, as we're so far away. The Caribbean really is lovely this
time of year, friends—"

"Enough!" Snape shouted, and this time, his wand was out again. "End this-
this nonsense already!"

"Nonsense, he calls it," Fred muttered. "Just keeping our beloved public
informed, but sure, yes, nonsense…"

"Well, dear listeners, I believe we have said everything of immediate

importance. But fear not! For we on the M. D. W. will, as always…be back."

"Let's schedule the next broadcast for… How about next Wednesday? At
seven in the evening. And the password will be…"

They looked at each other and grinned simultaneously.

"Chosen One," they said at the same time. Snape pinched the bridge of his
nose and closed his eyes, looking very much like he was in pain.

"Jolly good, Rodent."

"Excellent, Rapier." George nodded deeply. "Listeners, thank you, thank you
for tuning in to the Most Desirable Word… Be careful out there, be safe, and,
above all else, be aware…" He paused for a moment as he looked around the
table.

"Anything else to add, you beautiful, not-really terrorists? How about you,
Harry—care to end our broadcast with a few words of wisdom from the
Chosen One himself?"

Harry hummed as he leaned back in his seat, thinking…and then he grinned,

his eyes flashing with a wicked gleam. Fred and George looked excited.
Snape looked…wary.

"Yes…" he said softly into the mic. Harry wet his lips and paused briefly
before speaking.

"Just remember, listeners…lissstener…" He purposefully drew out the word,

and almost slipped into parseltongue in the process without even meaning to.
He felt a thrill of recklessness as he noticed everyone's body bristle at the
sound.

"…Behave yourself."
 27. Believe in Luna Lovegood
"What are you idiots thinking?"

Snape snapped the question the moment Fred touched his wand tip to the
microphone, effectively ending the broadcast. It looked much duller now that
it was no longer emitting any magical aura, and the silver gleams that had
moments ago reflected planes of endless white faded into nothingness.

"A live broadcast? Are you insane? For what purpose?" he continued,
looming over them. "Exactly what did you say, before I put an end to it?
Because he will have heard every single word!"

"You shouldn't be so worried, Professor, the only people who know about the
M.D.W. are Order members or people who are somehow connected with it!
Unless it's somehow grown in popularity beyond our knowing…but it's
always password protected! And, well, we told them the truth," Fred
answered, but then he furrowed his brows as he realized that this was not the
truth. "Er, well, part of it, anyway—"

"We said what needed to be said."

Everyone looked round in surprise at Hermione. Her unexpected answer was

cold and clipped as she looked up at Snape with a stare that bordered on
hostile. Harry, along with everyone else, was a bit taken aback by the sudden
animosity in her posture.

"You think broadcasting what you want people to think happened last night is
helpful?" he sneered. "If what Mr. Weasley here is saying is correct, then the
only people bothering to listen were already against the Dark Lord's regime
anyway!"

"Yes, I know," Hermione said. "I am perfectly aware of who bothers to listen
to the M.D.W., and that was the intended target audience."

They all jumped as she got to her feet, a palpable spark of something
ferocious in her eyes. "What do you think we are doing here, Professor? Did
we just infiltrate Hogwarts and almost die just to keep quiet and hide in a
hole, to be too scared to so much as whisper? Yes, staying metaphorically
underground was important while we were hunting horcruxes so that he
couldn't get to them before us, but that task is done. Now we face a much
bigger adversary, and it is larger than just the Dark Lord."

Snape opened his mouth to retaliate, his scowl deepening with every word
she said, but Hermione boldly cut him off. "It is. Yes, the Dark Lord is the
cause of it all, the one doing all of the terrible things, but it is beyond just him
at this point. He has had over an entire year to convince people that his
ideologies are right, to persuade or Imperius whoever he has needed to in
order to gain control of the Ministry and now Hogwarts, and the resistance
has been slowly falling apart at the seams all the while. It started when Harry
went missing and nearly deteriorated entirely when Dumbledore died. The
M.D.W. had been the only consistent effort into rallying those who don't
believe in this new Ministry."

She glanced at Fred and George appreciatively before returning her attention
to Snape. "But that was dwindling, too. Soon there would have been nothing
left. People need something to believe in. Someone to believe in."

Now she looked at Harry. "We need to give them hope."

And as she stared down at him with that fierce demeanor, Harry was struck
suddenly by how…damaged she was. Damaged, but determined. There was
passion in the depths of her eyes despite the fact that they were framed by
broken blood vessels of purple and blue. It hit him quite hard, then, as he
remembered with a jolt—no less than twenty-four hours ago, Hermione
Granger was being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry swore he would be the death of her.

Hermione put a hand on her hip as she returned her focus to Snape again. The
Potions Master looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable.
"There is more to this fight than killing off you-know-who. He's not just a
Dark Lord with a dozen lethal followers anymore, he's not just the monster
lurking in the shadows. He's a political figure. He's put into motion a new
system, a new Ministry, and now, now he is taking over Hogwarts and its
students and therefore the future. He has already gained enough momentum
and support that, at this point, what do you think will happen if and when we
do manage to kill him? The world won't just magically switch back to what
we used to know! Someone else will swoop in to take his throne, just as men
who lust after power have always and will always do. Granted, I don't think
anyone could be as intimidating or dangerous as the Dark Lord himself, but
the point remains that if we don't give the resistance another option, another
figure to fight for…then when he falls, nothing will change."

She took a step closer to the older wizard, but Snape didn't move. "What are
you fighting for?" she asked. "Killing him has been your sole obsession for
years. But what about after he is gone? Are you done, then? Or do you
actually care about what happens after? I am fighting for the future. I am
fighting for the world that will still carry on after this war. I am fighting for
the living." She tilted her head to one side, squaring her shoulders before she
asked again in the same ice-cold, accusatory tone,

"What are you fighting for, Severus Snape?"

…The room was eerily still.

All of them, Harry included, were staring at Snape with expressions that
varied from nervous to wary. Harry, personally, was merely curious.

How could he not be? It was something that he had wondered about himself,
though he never dwelled on the matter long because for one, he had far more
important things to think about and for another, it didn't really matter… But
he was curious. What did Severus Snape actually believe in, politically?
Morally? Obviously, he must have believed in at least some of the Dark
Lord's twisted agenda, otherwise he would have never joined in the first
place… Actually, now that Harry truly thought about it, he must have really,
really believed in it, because, well, he had been in love with a muggle-born!
He must have been completely seduced by the Dark Lord's ideals to throw
himself into the service of a man and a league that was firmly prejudiced
against the one woman he had fallen for.

What would have happened, Harry wondered, if the Dark Lord had not killed
Lily Evans?

What if he had just stunned her, instead? Pushed her aside, let her live…then
he, Harry, would never have been saved by her sacrifice, and he would have
died as an infant…

There would have been no Boy-Who-Lived, and Severus Snape would have
no burning, unquenchable desire for vengeance, because his mother would
still be alive…

Would Snape ever have seen the error of his way, if this had been the case?

…Did he now? Did he really? Or was this all solely about retribution for him,
and nothing more?

Obviously, Hermione Granger had been having these same preoccupations.

And how could she not? She had been working with him for over a year, a
muggle-born girl who had everything to lose if they did not succeed in
correcting the changes in their magical society that the Dark Lord had set into
motion.

But Snape had just stormed the castle in order to save Hermione and Ron,
had stayed up all night to watch over Harry as he lay in a fevered nightmare,
forcing Skele-grow and blood replenishing potions down his throat…
Obviously, no matter what he believed in the past, he must genuinely care for
them, now, at least a little bit… He must have cared for more than just killing
the Dark Lord, or he wouldn't have risked his life to save them when he knew
the diadem was probably already destroyed…

But Hermione, to Harry's bewilderment, was quite clearly accusing him of

exactly that. She was glaring daggers at him. Snape's face, which just
seconds ago had been some kind of cross between an angry sneer and an
uncomfortable grimace, slid into that undecipherable mask again, his jaw set
and his dark eyes revealing only emotionless, black holes. Harry wouldn't
have been surprised if there was a silent, mental battle going on, because both
of their expressions were of the same kind of intensity that he'd come to
associate with Legilimency and Occlumency.

There was something much deeper going on here, and it looked like things
were about to get very, very ugly.

Ron broke the silence before it could happen. He got to his feet quite slowly,
glancing back and forth between the participants of this hostile staring contest
like he was afraid one of them might explode at any moment.

"I think…we are all very stressed and tired," he said in a low and calm voice.
"Tensions are high, no one has properly slept in days, and I think… I think
we all just need to get some much needed rest."

Hermione made no indication that she had heard Ron speak at all. Neither did
Snape. But after another few seconds of blank, unreadable staring, the
Potions Master turned on his heel and left, retreating back into the private
room that he had been in earlier. The door slammed shut behind him,
followed almost immediately by a loud, practically violent click.

Hermione made a rumbling sound in her throat that reminded Harry a bit of
Crookshanks. Fred and George eyed each other warily.

"…Well," Fred began cautiously as he and his twin both stood. "This has
been fun, but we really must be going."

"Right you are," George agreed, nodding. "We have a joke shop to run after
all, and—"

"Don't be so stupid," Hermione snapped, and they both recoiled at the venom
still lacing her every word. "You heard him, and if he's right, if you-know-
who was listening… If the Dark Lord heard all that, he's going to track you
down. You may have just been a minor annoyance before, but now you're a
threat. It won't matter that he promised not to capture or kill anyone.
Wouldn't stop him from sending someone else after you."

The twins exchanged nervous, contemplative stares.

"Probably could have been a bit less cheeky," Ron said to them in a half-
hearted sort of way. Draco snorted.

"Just a bit?" he drawled superciliously. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I

thought it was hilarious—but I wasn't thinking that he Dark Lord might
actually have been listening." He raised an eyebrow at Fred and George, his
expression darkening.

"I've seen him kill for far less than that. I…I agree with Granger."

And it was truly amazing that Draco Malfoy could utter the words 'I agree
with Granger' without making some kind of blanching sound or visibly
shuddering afterwards in self-disgust.

"At least until after I've spoken with him," Harry added. "You know, to see
for sure if he heard all that and gauge precisely just how pissed off he is." He
bit his lower lip and he recalled, quite vividly, George trilling the words 'yoo-
hoooooo! You-know-who!' in an obnoxiously high-pitched, sing-song voice.
He couldn't help but smirk, despite the potential severity of the situation.

"...Probably pretty pissed off."

George frowned. "Well… I suppose we could have Lee cover for us at the
shop," he muttered, to which his twin nodded.

"How are you going to let him know you're not going back right away?" Ron
asked. "Can't exactly send him an owl from here…"

But Fred and George just smiled. "The only fail-safe way to send a message
these days."

"All the cool kids are doing it."

"It's all the rage!"

They both raised their wands, and in gestures that were so perfectly
synchronized they might as well have choreographed, they pointed their
wands and shouted, "Expecto patronum!"

There was a brilliant flash of silver, and then two identical, glowing
chimpanzees materialized in the air, swinging from non-existent hand-holds
and hanging up-side down.

"Dearest Lee," Fred began, and his glowing chimp listened…or, at least, it
looked sort of like it might be listening. It was scratching the back of his head
as he spoke.

"Current circumstances have us holed up for a few days, so please, watch

over our shop for us in our absence." George's chimp was idly examining the
bottom of his foot. Harry had never seen such animated patronuses before.

"We'll pay you overtime."

"If anyone asks, tell them that we are…" They looked at each other
contemplatively. Their chimps started to poke at each other during the small
stretch of silence.

Then Fred snapped his fingers, his eyes brightening. "Tell them that we are
away on business, conducting market research in America as we consider
expanding."

George nodded. "Yes, tell them we're off finding out just what your average
Yankee wants from their joke shop."

"That's an inappropriate sort of term," Hermione muttered quietly.

"I'm an inappropriate sort of guy," George responded before looking back to

his patronus. "Thanks, mate!" he finished happily.

A pause. The chimps tilted their heads this way and that, like they were
confused. "Well…off you go then—to Lee Jordan—"
For a moment, it looked like they weren't going to go anywhere at all and just
continue to stare at them and scratch their arses—but then, quite suddenly,
they reached upwards and started climbing, like they were scaling some sort
of invisible, vertical rope, and within seconds they were gone, straight
through the roof and out of sight.

"Well, that went all right... I think," George said, though there was a bit of a
questionable tone in his voice.

Harry was still smiling from the humorous display of their monkey
patronuses. "Ah, they'll make it," he said. "If I can manage to get it right on
my first try to send one to the Dark Lord, I'm sure yours will make it to Lee."

"Will you still teach me how to do that?" Draco asked as he, too, got to his
feet. Ron followed suit, and Dobby quickly and quietly began gathering up
their empty tea cups.

"To make a corporal patronus?" Sure. Maybe tomorrow… Oh, that reminds
me."

Harry reached in to his front pocket and retracted Malfoy's wand. Draco's
tired face lit up at the sight. "Here."

He snatched it up at once. "Oh, good," he breathed, sounding extremely

relieved. "I was worried you might have lost it or dropped it or something."

He swished it around happily, shooting sparks of green and silver.

"Excellent." His silver eyes shone with joy as he immediately did it again.

Harry observed the spectacle curiously. "Does it…does it feel all right?" he
asked in a light voice.

Draco raised a single eyebrow. "What do you mean, does it feel all right?" he
muttered before shooting out another dazzling fountain of sparkles—gold,
this time.

"Like…does it feel different, at all? Your wand?"

He frowned as the sparks faded. "Feels the way it always has," he said,
shrugging. Then, in a slightly more accusatory tone, "Why?"

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione. They both hunched their shoulders, the
universal, non-verbal symbol of 'I dunno.'

Odd, Harry thought. Maybe wands could be loyal to more than one wizard…
or perhaps Draco's wand, specifically, was very flexible, pliable…or maybe it
simply remembered its old master, and was happy to be back in his familiar
hands…?

Harry didn't have a damn clue. He shrugged as well. "Just wondering," he

said, and left it at that. Malfoy pocketed his wand, apparently not feeling the
need to ask any more questions and instead simply looked content to be
content.

Despite the fact that he had only spoken to try and relieve the tension in the
room, Ron's earlier words rang true. Everyone looked extremely exhausted.
They'd been plotting all day, and, Harry realized now, surely no one had slept
last night while he, personally, was…

Well, dying, really. Yet somehow he managed to cling to life, yet again…

He was probably the only who had gotten any kind of rest at all, fevered and
nightmarish though it was.

"We really should all get some sleep," Harry said firmly.

They all nodded in agreement. Draco looked over towards the hammocks that
hung on the far side of the room, but he seemed too exhausted to be
disappointed by the lack of a magnificent, king-sized bed with silk sheets—or
whatever it was Draco Malfoy was used to sleeping in at his old Manor.

Ron had already made his way over, claiming one that looked as though it
had been used before and was covered in blankets and sheets. "Guess this is
our new living arrangement," the drowsy blonde muttered under his breath
with a quick glance at Harry.
"It could be worse," Harry murmured, grinning. "We could be dead. You
know...for real."

Draco laughed as Harry said the same thing now that Malfoy had seethed
when they'd first shared a room at Grimmauld Place. "Yes," he agreed
wholeheartedly. He grabbed a pillow from a pile in the corner, which may or
may not have been there moments before.

"It could be much, much worse."

Harry couldn't sleep.

It was an affliction that he alone seemed to suffer from, as he listened to the

steady, rhythmic breathing of all of the other occupants in the room. His
friends had all fallen into slumber nearly the moment they'd laid down,
confirming Ron's earlier statement and making him feel more than a tad bit
guilty. Dobby had passed out in their midst as well, rather than return to the
kitchens, and the room had even produced a tiny, elf-sized hammock meant
just for him.

…It wasn't that he was afraid.

That would have been the logical response, surely, to be terrified of

dreaming, considering what had happened last time he'd fallen asleep. Being
tricked by the Dark Lord into revisiting his worst nightmare which had not
been a nightmare at all but a horrifying, terrible reality…

But he wasn't. Wary, yes, anxious, yes… but not afraid.

He wouldn't be tricked anymore.

He wasn't weak, anymore.

He was aware.

Harry absent-mindedly fingered the Elder Wand in his pocket. It seemed to

hum with energy as he touched it, thrumming with that same pulse of—
Now. Now. Now.

It made him feel antsy, it made him feel…reckless. He found it a bit

disturbing how difficult it was to lift his fingers from the slender stick of
wood. It was no wonder that the Deathstick had such a bloody, violent
history, if this was what it did to its masters.

This thing was dangerous.

Harry scratched at his head, feeling for and confirming the presence of his
own, comfortable Occlumency barriers. The ease with which he was able to
construct and strengthen them now was still nothing short of amazing to him.

Would the Dark Lord try and reach him in his dreams, tonight? Harry bit his
lower lip as he pondered on that.

…Maybe.

But then again, maybe not… The idea of Lord Voldemort caving after
agreeing to his terms of two days and being the first to reach out to him
would be…desperate. Weak.

And Lord Voldemort would never do anything that could conceivably come
off as desperate or weak, no matter how pissed off he was.

Harry wandered vaguely what he was doing right now as he adjusted the
pillow under his head. His bed swayed gently underneath him at the action.

Truthfully, the hammocks were far more comfortable than one might think.
Harry felt like he was swaddled on all sides in a fluffy, soft cotton, and he
actually quite enjoyed the way he was suspended in air, able to rock back and
forth in a slow, leisurely way. He currently had a thick blanket pulled over
his head—just one of many that was piled on top of him. It seemed to be a
strange condition that he could not completely rid himself of, a deep-seated,
ever present coolness. Like some kind of permanent chill had crept into his
bones the very same moment that Severus Snape had freed him from his
crystal containment, and no matter how feverish he became, how many
blankets he wrapped himself in—how long he remained in his excessively
hot showers—it never quite went away.

He sighed as he pulled the blanket down under his chin, peering curiously
around at his slumbering companions.

Below him was Draco. The blonde was in a hammock a few feet lower than
himself, looking exceptionally peaceful as he slept. On his chest rested the
tiny, barely illuminated nightlight that they had resurrected from his fake
grave site. Harry grinned. The animated creature must have crept out of
Draco's inner robe pocket. Currently, Sparkles the dragon was emitting a soft,
baby blue. Harry's smile widened as he watched its little glass body move
with the air it wasn't actually breathing. Was it reflecting the mood of its
master even now, as he slept? What did blue mean? Was Malfoy dreaming
about open skies, or endless seas, perhaps? The moment he had that thought,
the dragon's shiny, translucent tail twitched, and it turned a rosy tint, instead.
What did pink mean? Harry liked to think it meant something happy. That
one of them, at least, was capable of having good dreams.

Above him, on hammocks that hung at perpendicular angles to each other,

were Fred and George. They were a tangle of sheets and limbs, somehow
managing the task of sleeping on their stomachs while suspended—a position
which looked highly uncomfortable, but apparently, was not—at least, not for
them. From here, Harry could see George's head hanging just barely over the
side of his sheet, his jaw hanging wide open as he slept. At least he wasn't
snoring, Harry thought wryly.

He looked next to his right, where Ron and Hermione laid in separate
hammocks that were nonetheless very close to one another. Harry wondered
whether they still fancied each other…and if they did, just when and if they
were going to do something about it. Even now, Ron's arm was hanging off
the side of his hammock in Hermione's direction, like he was subconsciously
reaching for her in his sleep… Hermione, however, was curled in to herself
with her back to him, and she looked conflicted and distraught, even in her
slumber. Harry could still make out the bruises around her eyes despite the
bleakness of the room, and he felt another dull wave of guilt.
Maybe someday, he thought, Ron and Hermione would become…something.
But he couldn't help but think that any kind of romance for anyone would be
impossible in the current, stressful climate of warfare they were in.

…And then there was the matter of Snape.

An unwanted rush of mild nausea coursed through him. That interaction

between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger earlier had meant something,
he was sure, and he did not like the idea of it at all. Was there some strange,
deeply buried affection that they were harboring for each other…?

Ergh, he thought distressfully. How could Hermione ever, ever see something
like that in Snape? It didn't matter that he had saved their skins who knew
how many times at this point, he was stillSnape. He had been their teacher,
and way too sinister and bat-like and-and old for her…

Then again, he had once quite willingly had dream sex with Lord Voldemort,
the very devil himself, who was, incidentally, much older and more sinister
than Severus Snape, and—oh God, Harry realized suddenly—he'd technically
been only fifteen, at the time…

So, really, he pretty much had no room to judge anyone, ever (not that he
intended to let anyone find out that it had happened in the first place—even if
it was a dream).

…But about that.

Harry pulled the blanket back over his head, stifling a groan. What the hell
kind of clusterfuck was his life?

Lord Voldemort was…in love with him.

He knew that, knew it, because he had felt it.

It was a kind of sweltering, overwhelming passion that he, Harry, had never
personally experienced before. The only time he'd felt anything even close to
that kind of sensation was—
What have you done?

Harry clenched his eyes shut as he forced that haunting, tragic image away.

…He had never felt love quite like that, and it had been very, very strange to
feel that emotion as though it was his own…to feel Voldemort's impossible,
overbearing love and obsession as if they were his feelings…for himself.

Very fucking weird indeed, Harry thought exasperatedly, and it was the kind
of crazy thing that could surely only happen to him.

He rolled his eyes at his own internal musings. So Lord Voldemort was
obsessively in love with him, he knew that for certain, despite how insane the
idea was…but what he didn't understand waswhy.

Why was the Dark Lord in love with him? When and how had that happened?

Harry didn't pretend to be an expert in romance by any means, but in his short
and very small experience with the matter, he was pretty sure that one had to
actually know the person in order to genuinely fall in love with them. Their
personality, their interests, and…well, sure, looks probably played a big part
in it all, too, but with true love, it was all about who the person was on
theinside…

But the thing was… Lord Voldemort didn't know him at all.

…Did he?

Harry frowned as he thought on that, reliving their…history together.

Their first meeting—assuming, of course, that one did not count the short
encounter in which he, Harry, had been a baby—was when he was eleven.

An eleven year old boy and a two-faced Professor Quirrel with the Dark Lord
sticking out of the back of his head. Voldemort had tried to get Harry to join
him, then, under the false promise of bringing his parents back…

But nothing could bring the dead back to life…not really.

He knew it then just as well as he knew it now. And so Harry had declined,
quite politely…before getting the stone from the Mirror of Erised, burning
Quirrel to death with his bare hands, and sending the phantom-like Lord
Voldemort out of the ex-Defense professor's smoldering, deteriorating
corpse, screaming in rage and pain and utter horror as he fled into the night.

…There was certainly no romance blossoming, there.

Then, in his second year, Harry had encountered…

Not him.

That was not him.

...

What have you done?

Third year.

When he was thirteen, Harry had somehow, in what was practically a miracle
by the standards of his life, managed the monumental task of not coming face
to face with the Dark Lord. He had only nearly been murdered or turned into
a werewolf by Remus Lupin…

Harry's heart clenched painfully in his chest. Remus Lupin, who was gone,
now…and that same year in which he had met him, he had met his beloved
Godfather, Sirius Black, and…and Peter Pettigrew…

And he had let him live.

He, Harry, had been the one to spare his wretched life.

Now. Now. Now.

A wrong he would be sure to right, if he was ever given the opportunity.

…Fourth year.

Ah, fourth year. The Triwizard Tournament, and the year that Lord
Voldemort had really and truly come back from the nearly-dead.

Blood, flesh, and bone.

His blood.

The Dark Lord had used his blood, taken by force by the very same Peter
Pettigrew…

And then he'd tried very hard to kill him. After a delightfully terrifying
monologue in a graveyard, a snake writhing around his tied-up body for a
spell, and being handed his wand back so that he could 'duel' properly…
which hadn't been the Dark Lord's best idea, really.

Their twin wands had connected, and Voldemort's victims had once more
walked the Earth… Harry paused briefly in his reverie to wonder what
happened to his wand. His holly and phoenix feather wand, his true wand…
It had felt so different than the one in his pocket. It had been warm and
friendly.

He missed it.

…Fourteen, and there had definitely been no possibility that the Dark Lord
went to bed that night thinking, 'You know what? I like that kid. I think I may
fancy him, even.'

The graveyard fiasco had left a terribly bitter resentment in Voldemort's heart
for Harry James Potter.

So…fifth year.

Fifth year, when the Dark Lord was dreaming of locked doors and bleak, dark
corridors… When he first realized the full extent of their mental connection,
and figured out that he could use it to trick him into going to the Department
of Mysteries…

But he'd tried to kill him then, too!

And then the possession…

Harry bit his lip so hard it nearly drew blood. That kind of possession was the
most painful, agonizing sensation, and that first time it had occurred, when
he'd been begging for death…

That must have been when he'd figured it out.

That he, Harry Potter…was the Dark Lord's very own horcrux.

Was that all it was?

Like Fred and George had said so casually just earlier today? Was the Dark
Lord simply in love with himself, and so the moment he realized what Harry
was, it was love at first sight? Er, recognition?

It seemed the most logical answer, but…Harry didn't think so.

He didn't think so, because when he had felt it—that sweltering, passionate
love—that hadn't even been on his mind.

Lord Voldemort hadn't been thinking about the fact that Harry was his
horcrux even slightly, then, in that moment where he'd been reaching for his
mother's hand. There was no concern at all for his own 'precious soul', in that
instant, no fear for the loss of his own immortality…

It was just Harry.

He was deeply, undeniably distraught over Harry and Harry alone.

Lord Voldemort was in love with him.

…But why?
That was what did not make a lick of sense.

When and how did Lord Voldemort fall so genuinely in love with him as an
individual?

Had it occurred while he was asleep? Had he fallen for him while he was
stuck in his strange dream world, while stalking the background of his sub-
conscious thoughts? Maybe the Dark Lord had been digging around into all
of the corners of his mind, and decided he liked what he saw there and-and
fell in love with him that way?

How…incredibly creepy.

And potentially feasible, Harry thought morbidly. He stifled another sigh.

He supposed that, really, it didn't exactly matter, at this point. Voldemort

loved him, for better or worse…and after everything that had just happened,
he surely hated him, too.

For some crazy reason, Harry found this deeply amusing.

How conflicted he must be. That kind of love and that kind of hate at the
same time? How disorienting.

…Which was why he'd said it, of course. That little jibe at the end of their
broadcast. Harry smirked.

How was Lord Voldemort dealing with that remark? He wondered. He'd
promised not to harm anyone, and Harry knew, really, just knew that he
wouldn't go back on his word, simply because that would mean he would be
the first to break, and that would be weak…

And the Dark Lord was not weak.

Harry yawned. The whole thing probably should have had him far more
concerned than it did, but the truth of it all was that he sort of found it all a
bit…exciting.
He rested his hand against the Elder Wand on the outside of his robes again.
Was it just the Deathstick, making him feel this way? So stupidly fearless?
So bold?

…Maybe.

He envisioned the Dark Lord on his knees in the hazy memory of the Hall of
Hogwarts, his illuminated, ruby eyes darkening with what had looked like
tears… Had they been…? Harry wasn't sure…maybe…

Voldemort on his knees before him… He grinned crookedly… What are you
doing now, he thought airily, what are you up…

Harry liked to imagine that he was climbing the walls, thinking about him…
and…behaving himself…

With those last, fleeting thoughts, he finally drifted off in slumber with a
smile on his lips. And for the first time in a very, very, very long time, Harry
Potter fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Harry awoke to the sound of soft talking, clinking china, and the tantalizing,
alluring, delicious smell of food.

He slowly opened his eyes, surprising himself as he instinctively reached for

his glasses…from a bedside table that was not there. Maybe it was just the
nostalgia of being back in Hogwarts that made him do it. Maybe it was
because he had finally, blessedly gotten a good night's rest…but in his semi-
awake state, he was suddenly struck by what an incredible miracle such a
thing was, to be able to wake up feeling well and whole and to see.

…And then his eyes landed on the closest thing to him. A living, breathing
thing that was staring right back at him from the hammock at his side, just a
few inches from his face.

"Good m—"

"Ahhhh!"
Harry shouted in surprise at the same moment that Dobby the house elf
attempted to greet him, his whole body twitching involuntarily in shock.
Normally, had Harry been on a normal, flat surface, this would not have been
an issue at all…but this was not the case. The hammock which Harry was on
flipped over and he went right along with it, being spun wildly upside down.
Even worse, he didn't simply fall a few feet to the ground—which would,
admittedly, have been a painful and jarring way to wake up, and more than
likely given him a few bruises—but it would have been preferable to what
did happen, which was that he ended up trapped in the cocoon of blankets he
has swathed himself in, tangled up and suspended face down, completely
trapped and unable to free himself. His heart beat wildly in his chest as he
stared down at the floor in front of him, before a flustered Dobby scurried
into his line of sight.

"I-I is sorry, sir!" Dobby stood directly underneath him, peering up at Harry
and looking frantic. There was about three feet between Harry's face and the
top of the elf's head, and he was suddenly wondering why he hadn't adjusted
his hammock last night so that it was closer to the ground. Sleeping higher up
had seemed sort of fun, last night.

Stupid.

The sound of laughter alerted him to the less than pleasant fact that he was,
apparently, the last one to wake.

Fred, George, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and—Harry's eyes widened in surprise

—Ginny and Luna, were all seated around the same table which they had
been at last night, only now that table was overflowing with various food
items. It looked like they had only just begun to help themselves to the
inviting looking buffet…which was probably why Dobby had snuck over to
see if he was awake.

Harry struggled against his encasement of sheets and blankets. "Dobby," he

breathed, trying to slow his rapidly beating heart. "Help me out of this—"

"Naw, I think you should leave him," Fred said, voicing his opinion from
across the room.
His twin nodded heartily. "Yeah, he looked good like that. Dobby, you can
just hand feed him from below."

Draco, who was laughing harder than any of them, sauntered over. Dobby
scurried out of the way. "Always waking up in such a dramatic way, aren't
you?" he muttered with a giant grin on his face, looking perfectly content to
just stand there unhelpfully and leer. "Always shouting and flinging yourself
around—"

"Maybe because I'm always waking up to such dramatic shit," Harry seethed,
trying to free his arm again—only this time, one of the blankets started to
give, and he felt himself unraveling—literally. "Oh—uh-oh—"

Malfoy reached forward just in time to prevent him from falling face first
onto the ground. He did not, however, manage to remain on his own two feet
in the process, and rather than catching Harry comfortably, ended up
buckling under the weight of him, sending them both tumbling to the floor in
an angry, swearing pile of teenage hostility.

"Fucking-ow!"

"Shit, that was my elbow—"

Draco glared as he shoved Harry off of him…though there was a definite

glint of amusement in his eyes. "Always dragging me down with you, too."
Harry glowered as he got to his feet, disentangling himself from the many
twisted layers of sheets.

Everyone else was grinning and chuckling at the amusing morning

entertainment. Harry tossed the last of the blankets to the floor on top of
Draco, leaving him there as he made his way over.

"Good morning," he said in an overly dignified tone, as if that entire affair

had not occurred.

"Good morning," they chorused back, still laughing. Draco made a huffing
sound as he scrambled to his feet as well.

Everyone looked quite rejuvenated, almost chipper, even, and Harry was
happy to see it. Perhaps a long night's sleep had been exactly what was
needed. It was almost like a reset button had been pressed, because each
person around the table, including Hermione, was smiling. She especially
looked much improved, and the bruises around her eyes were lighter.

Snape, however, was not among them. Harry glanced towards the where his
separate room had appeared, noting that the door was still closed. He decided
he didn't want to ask first thing. Perhaps the Potions Master was simply going
to be out of commission for a much longer time. He had, after all, exhausted
himself more than any of the rest of them.

Dobby came rushing over. "Would Harry Potter like some tea, sir, or
something that Dobby has not been bringing already?" He looked up at Harry
with bright, shining eyes, looking a bit nervous at displeasing him further
after his wake up call had gone so disastrously wrong.

Harry looked at the piles of food already present on the table. His hollow
stomach twisted uncomfortably, and he was hit with an almost dizzying wave
of hunger. "No, no—this is amazing Dobby—thank you! Sorry I yelled in
your face."

Dobby's giant ears fell. "Dobby was not meaning to scare's you, sir—"

"I've already forgotten it," Harry reassured. He reached for an apple and took
a bite with a loud, audible crunch.

"Maybe you should make the mental request for a bed," Ginny said wryly,
sipping at a cup of tea.

Harry looked back and forth between the unexpected presence of her and
Luna in their midst. "What are you two doing here?" he asked with a
mouthful of food—which he realized was probably rude, so he swallowed
quickly. "I mean, shouldn't you be in class right now? What time is it, even?"
He glanced down at his watch to answer his own question. It was half past
eleven.

"Luna and I have a free period until noon," Ginny answered.

"At the same time…?" Harry asked, finding that unlikely. They were in
different houses, and—

Ah. The understanding must have visibly crossed his face, because Ginny
nodded. "Class schedules are only separated by year, now. There are no more
houses…"

Harry frowned as he took a seat, joining the rest of them around the small
feast that the house elf had provided. Dobby immediately served him a cup of
tea, which Harry accepted gratefully.

"So how do things work, then?" he asked curiously. "Like, where do you all
sleep? The same common rooms, still?"

Luna was the one who answered. "It's random selection for first through fifth
years." She reached for a grape from a large bunch of them, popping on in her
mouth before continuing. "Sixth and seventh years got preference. We were
able to choose."

"Huh." Harry cocked his head to one side as he chewed another bite of apple.
"That's…strange."

"I think they plan to get rid of the Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff
common rooms, eventually, and just expand the Slytherin chamber," Ginny
continued scornfully. "This random arrangement is just a temporary thing.
I'm just glad I get to stay in the Gryffindor tower…"

Harry glanced at Luna. "So I take it you're still in the Ravenclaw dorms?"

"Actually, I elected to stay in the Hufflepuff room," she answered, to Harry's

surprise. "I thought it might be nice, to be near the kitchens. I rather like the
house elves. I enjoy talking to them much more than I do the other students."
She smiled down at Dobby, who quickly moved to be by her side. "And the
house elves is loving it when Miss Lovegood is visiting us!" he squeaked
happily. And though Harry kind of hated to admit it, the way that Luna
Lovegood and Dobby were grinning at each other, so fondly, so amicably,
well… There was no other way to describe it. It was probably the cutest thing
that he'd ever seen, and it was amazing, really, how such a small,
inconsequential moment could warm his heart so much that he nearly forgot
all about how broken it was.

"I'll miss being a Ravenclaw, though," Luna continued. "I liked having
different houses. I think the competition made things interesting."

Harry pondered that statement for a bit. For there to be no houses, and
therefore no house cup… No inter-house competition… "But what about
Quidditch, then?" he asked, a bit perplexed. "How do they separate the teams,
how..?"

The sinister expression on Ginny's face answered his question at once. She
slowly lowered her tea cup.

"There is no more Quidditch," she said in the same tone of voice that
someone might use to say 'there is no God.'

"What!?"

Harry and Draco both shouted it at the same time. Fred and George looked
equally outraged, and Ron nearly choked on the bit of toast he was eating.
Obviously, this was news to everyone else, too.

"There's no more Quidditch!?" the twins yelled angrily.

Ginny solemnly shook her head. "Nope. No more houses, so no more

Quidditch."

For a moment, they all just glared with incensed looks on their faces, at a loss
for words to fully express the sheer and utter fury that they felt.
All except Hermione. "Well," she began, looking merely contemplative. "I
guess that makes sense, that they would do that. I mean, Quidditch was the
one thing that drove a stake between the houses more than anything else,
causing more competition between everyone than all the other clubs
combined, really, and if their goal is true, school unity, then…"

Her voice trailed off feebly at she took in all of the antagonistic glares that
were suddenly being aimed at her from every other individual at the table that
she would dare rationalize such a scandalous decision (with the exception of
Luna, who was staring quite intently into the dredges of her empty cup…
possibly interpreting her dreams, or the future outcome of the war, or the fate
of the universe, or whatever it was that Luna Lovegood saw in tea leaves).
She physically withered in her seat, lowering her gaze and quite wisely
shutting her mouth.

"He's a monster," Ron gasped next, as though Hermione had said nothing at
all.

"A demon," Fred added.

"A true spawn of Satan," George agreed.

"He must be destroyed," Draco seethed, curling his fingers into a fist and
cracking his knuckles.

"Yes, it's made more than a few students pretty pissed off," Ginny muttered.
"I'm especially bitter. I think I would have had a real shot at being Captain,
this year."

She turned her attention to Harry. "I played last year, you know…" she said,
her sour expression softening.

"…Seeker."

Harry felt strangely hollow for a moment as he registered that statement. "…
Oh," he finally said numbly.
Ginny Weasley had…had played Seeker, in his stead, while he was…

The atmosphere in the room grew a bit more somber, but Ginny carried on.
"Gryffindor played Ravenclaw for the championship. I played Seeker against
Cho Chang…" She smirked, then. "I snatched the snitch right from under her
nose," she said with barely contained glee.

"She cried."

Harry couldn't help but snort at the smug expression on her face. "Shocking,"
he said sarcastically, envisioning the all too familiar face of a crying Cho
Chang.

Her smile widened. Harry lifted his cup as though to cheers her.

"Well, I'm glad you made Gryffindor the winner of the final Quidditch Cup,"
he said appreciatively, and he really meant it.

Her smile slid into something stoic again. "We did it for you," she responded,
clinking her cup to his. And there was that intensity in her eyes again, a very
meaningful, loaded insinuation in her words…

Ginny Weasley had bested Cho Chang at Seeking…and Harry couldn't help
but wish he could have seen that match.

"You got lucky," Draco snapped, interrupting whatever moment was

transpiring between the two of them. Ginny glowered at him.

"Lucky?" she said coldly, her brows raised.

"Lucky," he repeated. Draco crossed his arms over his chest. "That was a
close match, and if Chang hadn't been distracted by that bludger that was
headed her way, then you wouldn't have had a chance—"

"Excuse me?" Ginny's accusatory tone so closely resembled Mrs. Weasley's

that every single redheaded occupant at the table physically retracted. "You
mean that bludger that I steered her into, because I was paying attention to
what my other team mates were doing, such as our beaters? Because I, unlike
you, am a decent Quidditch player and actually notice what is going on
around me while I fly, rather than use underhanded tactics like making snide
remarks or inventing stupid, distracting songs to frazzle my opponents?"

And Harry had to admit, Ginny was pretty on point. Draco's already bitter
expression deepened significantly.

"I'm an excellent Seeker, thank you very much. I've been flying since before
your family could even think about affording a proper broom—"

Which was a poor choice of words, given that over half of the table was
comprised of Weasley's. Harry almost cringed for him at the way that they all
suddenly scowled in his direction—but Ginny retorted before they could, not
about to let her brothers fight her battles for her.

"You're right," she answered coolly. "You've been flying longer than me, I'm
sure, which is just an insult to yourself, really, as I'm still much better than
you. But I guess we'll never know for certain, will we? Seeing as you quit the
team halfway through the year." She glanced over at Harry. "We never got to
play Slytherin while Malfoy was their Seeker. Probably scared he was going
to lose to a girl."

Harry's eyebrows shot up at Ginny's accusation. "You quit the team?" he

asked in disbelief, gaping at the disgruntled blonde.

"Nom" Malfoy denied at once, shooting his nose up in the air.

"Yes, you did!" Ginny and Ron both fired back.

"I did not quit!" Malfoy continued adamantly…before finishing, a bit

sheepishly, "…I… I was kicked off."

They all blinked in surprise. Malfoy cleared his throat. "Snape kicked me
off," he explained in a would-be casual voice. "He was all pissy about me
not-not letting him 'assist' me, and kicked me off the team in all his stupid
spite."
He paused for a moment. "…Might have also found me passed out drunk in
the Slytherin common room once," he added, muttering under his breath.

They all stared at him, looking scandalized. "What? Going to be all high and
mighty and judge me? Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose everyone just deals with the
task of figuring out how to go about murdering their Headmaster on the Dark
Lord's orders in different ways. Oh, wait. Only I had to deal with that."

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "All right, all right," he said, hoping to
ease the tension in the room. Ginny and Draco were glaring maliciously at
each other, like one of them might just leap across the table at any moment
and start swinging punches or pulling hair. Harry was simply glad they
weren't sitting too near to each other…though the thought did make him
smirk.

So Snape had kicked Draco Malfoy off the Quidditch team…

He really had missed quite a year at Hogwarts.

"Where is Snape, anyway?" Harry attempted to sound casual with the

question. "Has he not gotten up yet? It's getting close to noon…"

Hermione bristled. "Haven't seen him yet," she said curtly, without making
eye contact with anyone.

Ron peered down at her warily before looking at Harry. "…Assume he's still
asleep," he said. "And I don't exactly fancy being the one to wake him up, do
you?"

Harry took another giant bite of his apple. "I've done a lot of stupid things in
my life," he muttered the moment he had swallowed it down, "but I would
sooner face a hungry, angry, pregnant dragon than be the one to wake up
Severus Snape." Harry almost added 'after last night', but smartly decided
against it.

At those words, the empty portrait on the wall to their right swung open, and
the sweet sound of Snape's condescending voice met their ears.
"…Good."

And he, too, looked rather revitalized. Still a bit pale, but he was drastically
improved from his ashen and battered disposition of last night.

"Then that means you are, by some sort of miracle, learning. A daunting task
I never quite managed to accomplish whilst I was your Potions Professor."

Harry smiled as the older wizard stepped into the room. In his hands were
two newspapers—one was this morning's issue of The Daily Prophet, and the
other appeared to be muggle.

"To be fair, I don't think you really tried to teach me much about potions,"
Harry responded nonchalantly. "Though I did learn a lot about how very
arrogant, stupid, and reckless I was. So very much like my father."

Snape's lip twitched. "A point you continue to prove every single day of your
life," he responded dryly.

"Good morning, Professor Snape," Fred and George said happily.

"Won't you join us for some tea?"

"Or some toast and jam, perhaps?"

"What did Aberforth say?"

Hermione's question caught them all off guard for a moment. She had quickly
jumped to the conclusion that Harry had yet to get to—that Snape must have
woken up much earlier than any of them in order to speak with Aberforth, to
see if there was any pertinent news as of this morning…

Snape's expression remained neutral as he made eye contact with her. The
room was tense for a moment, wondering how this would play out…

But it seemed that everyone, Snape included, was committed to simply acting
as though the hostility of last night had never occurred.
"…As of this moment, no major news." He looked back to Harry accusingly.
"Despite your reckless little remark last night, there have been no attacks, no
deaths…yet. However…"

He set the two newspapers down on the table. He peered around at all of the
occupants of the room, like he was debating whether he should remain
standing or not—his eyes lingered for an especially long time on Ginny and
Luna, who he clearly did not think should be present at all—but decided, in
the end, to sit amongst them (though he did look at bit sour about his
unfortunate, young group of companions which consisted solely of a rather
eclectic group of his former students).

"Aberforth has informed me that Ollivander has gone missing," he continued

as Dobby served him a cup of tea. "There was no sign of a struggle or a break
in, but it was also not reported in The Daily Prophet… So while we have no
solid proof that he was captured by Death Eaters, it does seem likely."

"Why would they capture Ollivander…?" Harry asked.

Snape looked at him like he was an ignorant child. "Let's see," he began with
a drawl. "You show up at Hogwarts with a wand that isn't yours, fire a
disarming spell, manage to obliterate a much more powerful curse with it,
and somehow summon the Elder Wand across the Great Hall and into your
hand." Snape drummed his fingers along the table.

"You don't suppose he might have just a few questions about wandlore in
general?"

"…Ah."

That was Harry's vastly intellectual response to that. "Well—he broke his
word, then," he finished huffily.

Snape gave a short and derisive laugh. "We cannot prove that he is
responsible for Ollivander's disappearance... What, are you actually surprised
that the Dark Lord broke his promise to you? Are your feelings hurt?" Harry
opened his mouth to argue that, but Snape went on before he had the chance.
"There was one other thing."

Everyone leaned forward expectantly. He pulled out the other newspaper, the
muggle one. "There was a very strange, very unusual occurrence in a muggle
art museum in London a few days ago…in The National Gallery."

Hermione set her cup down sharply. "The National Gallery?" she gasped.
"What? What happened?"

Snape looked very grim as he explained. "The muggles are reporting that
there was a toxic gas leak. All of the occupants of the museum died of
asphyxiation. But there was no trace of any kind of poisonous gas in the air.
And all of the video cameras, all of the electronic devices that could have
recorded evidence of foul play…everything of that nature was destroyed."

"That…certainly sounds like magical, Death Eater involvement," Ron

muttered darkly.

"Yes…but there was no indication whatsoever that it was them. There was no
Dark Mark. No traces of Dark Magic. Nothing."

They all fell into a deep bout of silence as they each contemplated the same
question.

Why on Earth would Lord Voldemort order an attack on the National Gallery
of London, if not to make a statement? Wasn't that the whole point?

"But…if that was him…" Harry finally said slowly, frowning, "…Then he
broke his word twice."

Snape shook his head. "No," he said, pointing towards the paper with the
article. "This occurred days ago. When he still thought you were dead."

…Another long moment of silence. Harry's mind was buzzing.

"Maybe…maybe I should talk to him sooner, rather than later," he muttered,

causing everyone to look in his direction. "I mean, if he's already gone and
taken Ollivander…maybe sooner would be better."

"But…how?"

Draco was the one who voiced the question that they all surely had been
wondering. "How and where would you meet him to talk, in a way that we
know he won't just knock you out and-and lock you in a box, or something?"

"Very nicely worded, Malfoy. Really tactful," Ginny spat. Draco scowled at
her.

"You should meet him in a dream."

Luna, who had been staring pointedly into her own porcelain cup up until that
point, finally looked up. Her giant eyes landed on Harry.

"A…a dream?" he asked, but even as he said the words, he was processing
the idea…

"It's easy," she said.

Hermione immediately looked skeptical. "What's easy? Pulling someone into

your dream to have a nice chat…?" She scoffed, but Luna just nodded
benignly.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "I do it all the time. I once summoned Celestina
Warbeck herself into one of my dreams. She serenaded me with the song 'A
Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' while we rode on a gondola on the
Northern sea, under a violet sky filled with bubblegum clouds…" She looked
up at the ceiling wistfully, as though she was reliving the experience that very
moment.

"It was quite lovely. People are very nice to me, in my dreams. No one calls
me Loony or anything." She blinked owlishly as she looked back to her tea
cup. "I think it's because they think I'm not real."

Harry's heart throbbed with deepest adoration for this impossibility of a

strange, lonely girl. But she did not look upset even slightly when she turned
her attention back to them.

"It's easy," she repeated. "Lucid dreaming. You just clearly imagine wherever
it is you would like to be before you fall asleep, with the intent of inviting in
whoever it is you wish to see. Then, if they happen to be asleep at the same
time, and they happen to be listening—and willing—they will come."

Luna set her cup down and closed her eyes, like she was envisioning
something mystical right then and there. Harry almost felt bad asking his next
question, like maybe he was interrupting a deeply spiritual moment.

But this was a concern that he absolutely had to voice. "…So… if I invite
him in to my dream, then… What if I want to wake up? What if it goes awry,
and I want an out?"

Her eyes fluttered open. "Oh. That's easy too, Harry. You just have some
kind of sign that you use to wake up. Some kind of pre-determined trigger."

Harry stared at her, more than a bit confused. "For example," Luna clarified,
"in my own dreams, I always know it is time to wake up, because before me
will appear a lovely white rabbit. And so I follow it, and every morning it
leads me into consciousness."

She smiled. Harry…was cautious. "Yeah? And…and that works, for you?"

Luna looked at him with an almost questionable expression, and it was

bizarrely clear in that moment that this did in fact work for her, and was,
perhaps, the only way Luna woke up. Ever.

Harry wondered just what kind of wonderland it was like, inside the mind of
Luna Lovegood.

"That…is actually an excellent idea."

Snape voiced the compliment very hesitantly, looking at the blonde girl like
he'd never actually taken note of her existence before in any of his classes
from years past. And maybe he hadn't.

His eyes flickered down to the cup which she had been peering into earlier.
"Are you a Seer, Miss Lovegood…?" he asked apprehensively.

She blinked at him slowly before answering in a vacant, eerily hollow voice,

"…I see."

…And it was one of those times where Luna simultaneously managed to

answer a question while at the same time not really answer anything at all.

Snape tilted his head to one side at the odd response. "What do you see in the
dredges of your tea, if I may ask?" And he did seem honestly interested. Who
would have thought, Harry mused, that Severus Snape was one to believe in
such a fickle branch of magic as Divination?

Luna looked back into the contents of her empty mug, almost somberly,
before snapping her head up just seconds later, sending her long hair
bouncing and shimmering about her shoulders. "I see the evidence of a very
much enjoyed cup of tea, thanks to the hard work of a kind and capable elf."

She grinned brightly down at Dobby and patted him on the head. He puffed
his little elf chest out, looking quite proud and happy indeed.

Almost everyone laughed. "Ah, I've missed you, Luna," Ron sighed, to which
she smiled more broadly.

Snape seemed surprisingly contemplative. "You are…a very peculiar girl,

Miss Lovegood," he said after a few moments of silent thought.

He then turned his attention towards Harry.

"We already know that you can communicate to the Dark Lord through your
dreams," he said, suddenly all business. "Dream magic can be…dicey, but I
think it would be safe to say that if you were to reach out to him in your
subconscious, he would answer. He's done it before."
"He has?" Ron and Hermione both asked the question, looking distraught.

Oh, right, Harry thought with a bit of embarrassment. They had not been
there while Harry had been possessed when he'd fallen asleep before, and
they did not know that Voldemort had been stalking his dreams while he'd
slept for a year…

"Might've happened once or twice," he muttered, averting his gaze.

"It's actually quite simple." Luna twirled a strand of honey-blonde hair

around her finger as she spoke. "So long as the other person is listening, and
you invite them in…if they want to come, of course. I've stumbled upon
others' dreams, as well…"

She smiled knowingly at Harry.

But Hermione still looked unconvinced. She glanced back and forth between
Luna, Harry and Snape with more than a bit of apprehension. "You don't-you
don't honestly believe all this, do you?"

Harry chuckled softly. "I don't believe in much..." he said, his eyes still on the
golden girl across from him.

"But I believe in Luna Lovegood."

Luna beamed.

"…And then, if things were to go sour…if-if you can't—what did you say?
Follow a rabbit…?" Draco glanced at Luna with his brows furrowed, as he
too, considered all this. "Then we can just wake you up. If you start freaking
out, or something." He was beginning to smile at the genius of it all.

"You could talk to him without being in any real, immediate danger. It's
perfect."

"Not perfect," Snape responded measuredly to that remark. "…But perhaps

the best circumstances we can hope for."
"Great," Harry said. He reached for a piece of toast from on top of the still
overly tall pile of food, having finished his apple earlier. "Then it's settled. I'll
send him a message—another patronus, I guess—telling him to be asleep at a
certain time, and then I'll talk to him that way."

He smiled genially. "When should we do it? Is tonight too soon, do you

think?"

Snape looked highly concerned at how casual Harry was acting about the
whole affair. "We need time to work on…you," he said sternly.

Harry glowered. "What is that supposed to mean?" he muttered, for Snape

was eyeing him quite objectionably, like someone had thrown Harry into his
possession and said 'this is what you have to work with'…and he was not at
all happy with the results.

"You have no idea what you're about to walk into, Potter." Harry's lip
twitched at being referred to by his old surname again in such a familiar,
bitter tone. "This is the Dark Lord we are talking about."

"I know who he is, thanks," Harry scoffed. "I know better than anyone, in
fact."

"Oh, do you? Do you really?" Snape's lips curled up on one side, sneering.
"Have you ever actually had a conversation with him? A real one, one where
he is sitting across from you, looking at you not as a child or an object or an
annoyance, but as an adult? He may have once viewed you as weak and
harmless, but he certainly won't anymore. He will not make the mistake of
potentially underestimating you again… Which is a shame, really, as that
could have been used to our advantage…but I digress. Have you ever had a
true, civil conversation with the Dark Lord?"

Harry bit his lip as he processed all of that, thinking…and eventually, to his
great displeasure…shook his head.

"…No," he finally admitted.

Snape smirked. "I didn't think so." He took a sip of tea before continuing.
"Luckily for you, I have, and I do know him. Very, very well."

He muttered the last words like he was quite unhappy about it. Harry frowned
as he looked down. The little stars on his watch glowed softly on his wrist,
and he watched absent-mindedly as they twinkled lightly…

He almost jumped when he saw the time. "Oh—guys, it's almost noon," he
said, looking at Luna and Ginny. "Isn't your free period almost over?"

Ginny swore as they both hurriedly got to their feet. "Yes! Ah, lost track of
time completely." She quickly threw back the last of her tea. "Thank you,
Dobby," she said as the elf collected it, bowing his head politely.

"If we can sneak back tonight, we will." Ginny muttered the words while she
swooped in to give Harry a quick hug.

Luna followed suit. "Just-just don't do anything that will get you caught or
into trouble," he said. Ginny flashed him a crooked grin.

"Oh, we would never," she said sarcastically, winking.

Malfoy set his tea cup down harshly, making a sharp clinking sound. "Best be
off, then," he said in a voice that was far too chipper to be sincere.

Ginny chose to not acknowledge him. She and Luna gathered up their things
as they headed towards the door, shouting their goodbyes over their
shoulders. The rest of the group waved them off, except Snape, who
remained motionless in his seat. Draco smiled wider than any of them, being
overly happy to see them leave.

Snape returned his attention ta Harry as though their previous conversation

had not just been interrupted.

"I know him and his tactics better than anyone. So we can work on it all day
—what you'll say, how you'll say it—we already know what he wants."
"…Me," Harry finished grimly. Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes," Snape sneered in mild disgust, like he really didn't agree with the Dark
Lord's tastes. And now that Ginny and Luna had left the room, he could be
blunt. "…You, because you are his horcrux."

"And because he loves him," Fred said, smirking.

"Don't forget that tiny bit," George added.

Snape looked like he very much wanted to forget that tiny bit. Harry
suppressed the strange urge to laugh at his repulsed expression. "Well, that's
good though, isn't it?"

A repulsed expression which now looked confused. "I mean, he's never loved
anyone before, right? But for some insane reason he loves me, but…he
definitely hates me, too. At least, I would imagine, after all that's happened.
And that has to be terribly confusing for him, don't you think? So we can play
off of that. Use his emotional confusion to our advantage."

He took a long sip of tea as Snape considered his words. Harry grinned.

"Perhaps…perhaps Draco was right, Potter. You should have been sorted into
Slytherin."

Harry turned and glowered at Malfoy, who smirked in response. "Should

have been in our house," he agreed.

"You could have been mine…" Snape's lips were curling up in a sinister sort
of way. Harry's eye twitched in annoyance.

"Are you all like this, you Slytherin lot?" he said in exasperation. "So
possessive, so controlling—acting like you all own each other and…and
would it really have made a difference? If I were in your house?" He directed
his question at Snape in particular.

"Would you have hated me any less, if I was yours? If I was in Slytherin
house, would have honestly doted on me the same way that you did Malfoy?
I still would have been me."

Snape tilted his head slowly to one side. "…I don't know," he said, sounding
and looking genuinely honest in his response. Clearly, this was something he
had never considered before.

Would he have treated Harry Potter any differently, had he been in his own
house?

"…Probably not," he finally concluded. "Though I imagine I would have

taken far fewer house points from you."

"Yeah, he would've just given you loads of detentions," Fred muttered.

"Not if I was playing Quidditch for him, he wouldn't," Harry said wryly.
"You wouldn't want me to miss too many practices, Professor. What a
conflicting life you would have had, if I'd been a Slytherin."

Snape shook his head in an annoyed sort of way. "We are wasting time,
debating such nonsense. None of this matters. We need to focus on your
upcoming discussion with the Dark Lord. He will…undoubtedly want to
make some sort of deal with you."

Harry leaned back in his seat. Dobby reached up and kindly poured him more
tea. "Yeah. A deal to get me to go to him. I imagine he'll threaten to kill a
bunch of innocents if I don't, or something."

They all nodded in grim agreement. "More than likely, yes," Snap said.
"However, because he…" His face was screwed up in revulsion for a
moment, before he finally managed the words, "…loves you, we… We
can…"

Then his expression changed completely. Something like an epiphany

seemed to wash across his sallow features, like a dawning realization that
would surely change the world.
"We can use this," he said, more as if he were talking to himself than anyone
else. "Love…this kind of love… This opens up an entirely new branch of
magic to us. The most powerful and ancient kind, a kind that the Dark Lord
knows nothing about."

His eyes came back into focus. There was a devious glint in them as he
leaned forward.

"Send him a patronus." His tone was firm and derisive. "You said two days,
and so we will keep to that—technically. Tell him to be asleep after midnight,
and that you'll invite him in to your dreams. Because I agree, sooner would
be better…and we have all day, to work on the details. I think… I think we
will have longer, actually…"

Harry raised an eyebrow in confusion, but nodded all the same, sure that he
would explain himself in time.

"We can use this," he repeated vehemently. His eyes were shining with
passionate, malicious intent.

"We can use this."

They plotted late into the night.

Harry couldn't sleep.

Earlier that day, a patronus had been sent with the simple message to the
Dark Lord to be asleep after midnight, and that he, Harry, would invite him
into his dream.

There hadn't been a response. They hadn't expected one, really, but Harry
knew the patronus made it to him…and he knew he would be waiting.

Right now, actually, seeing as it was officially after midnight.

…But Harry was having a difficult time falling asleep.

An easily understandable situation, considering that everyone was staring at
him.

They were all admirably trying not to, as they sat around the table and in
various armchairs on the other side of the hall, pretending to read or, in
Draco's case, write…but it was painfully obvious that they were. Everyone,
which included Luna and Ginny, as the two had managed to sneak back in
after lights out about an hour ago (much to Snape's and Draco's displeasure).
And while Harry had been happy enough to see them when they'd first
arrived…

"Can't-can't I just go in the other room, or something? Away from you all?"
he muttered.

"No." Snape's response was clipped and rude and really, Harry thought
sourly, he could have at least pretended to be sympathetic.

Draco snickered. "We're supposed to keep an eye on you."

Harry really wanted to strike him.

He growled as he pulled a thick blanket up over his head. It was no easy task,
falling asleep while you were being watched, knowing you were about to
enter into a dream where a Dark Lord was waiting…probably impatiently.

"Counting always helps me." Luna's soft voice carried from further away.

Harry smirked despite himself. "Are you really telling me to count sheep,
Luna?" he asked dryly.

"Sheep, fairies, nargles…whatever you like."

He snorted. "Okay, then," He answered back from underneath the knitted

blanket.

One…two…three…

Harry envisioned his dreamscape, the place he wanted to meet him… He

could see it clearly in his mind's eye…

Four…five…six…

He wondered how he would react to it… Probably not well…

Seven…eight…nine…

Nargles, she said… What did nargles even look like…?

Ten…eleven…

Maybe they were like fairies…only uglier…

…Twelve…

And meaner, probably…

…Thirteen…

At some point, with no clear recollection of exactly when or how, Harry's

counting and swirling thoughts slid away, and unconsciousness washed over
him.

Harry slipped into a dream…and the monster was waiting.

 28. An Elephant Named Love
Prison.

Prison, or something like it. Harry grinned as he leaned back into the wooden
chair, folding his arms and looking around the space appreciatively.

It was a set from a movie he had once seen as a child. Secretly, of course. His
'guardians' didn't take him to the cinema like they did his cousin and his
group of obnoxious, brutish friends (not that Harry would have wanted to
accompany them in the first place). But this particular movie he had seen,
because it was one that his aunt and uncle had watched at home, late at night
on the tele…and he, Harry, had been feeling particularly daring that evening.
Things had been going well, at the time—he hadn't gotten into trouble
recently, hadn't been sent to bed without supper for a solid week—and his
aunt had, in fact, stopped locking the cupboard at night.

So, naturally, Harry had snuck out from his dreary imprisonment to watch
T.V. from behind the couch at the bottom of the stairs.

The reason he remembered everything so well was because that night had
been a profound moment in his life at Number Four, Privet Drive. It was one
of the very rare, few times that he and Dudley had actually gotten along and
conspired together. For his fat cousin had crept down the stairs at some point
in the night—either to do exactly what Harry was doing or to steal food from
the fridge, he wasn't sure—and a moment had transpired where Dudley, upon
catching him, had opened his mouth to yell for his mum and therefore get
Harry into trouble for being up past bedtime, watching the movie with them
while they were unaware… But Harry had frantically waved his hands about
and pointed to the glowing television screen, and his brutish oaf of a cousin
had actually decided against it.

Because it was obvious at once that this was a grown-up movie, one that
young, innocent children as they were would never be allowed to knowingly
watch, not even precious, special Duddy-kins…
Which of course meant that Dudley wanted nothing more than to see it, too.
So rather than rat Harry out and get them both chastised and sent to bed
(though Dudley would have assuredly blamed it all on Harry, somehow), his
cousin had grinned wickedly, crouching down and silently joining Harry at
the bottom of the staircase, his piggy face all lit up in the warm glow of the
muggle television screen.

It had almost been like they hadn't hated each other. That night, watching that
movie, with his aunt and uncle unaware of their young charges viewing
secretly and silently from behind them…

It was the closest Harry had ever been to feeling like they were a real family.

…It was a scary movie.

A thriller, really. A murder mystery. People were dying in the most brutal
fashions in the nightmare city, and one frustrated, flawed, emotionally
conflicted detective seemed to be the only hope for the entire world. Because
he understood the killer, in his own way. Was a bit of a monster himself.

The most exhilarating parts were the interrogations.

Not the killings, not the murders. Not the chase scenes or the violent
bloodshed. It was when he had the murderer in his grasp, when he was bound
and cuffed and trapped within a cell…when he was shuffled into an
interrogation room on one side of a thick, solid wall of glass so that they
detective could safely ask him questions…through a phone.

It was those conversations that had made Harry's heart beat rapidly in in his
chest in anticipation. It was the villain's words that had made his blood run
cold.

The interrogation room was where the real thrills occurred.

He recreated that setting, now.

Or, at least, something very close to it. He'd made a few modifications, made
it a bit more normal looking. The room in his world was painted a dark gray,
not white, and the lights on either side of the barrier weren't quite so harsh,
but all in all, it was the same. To the right of the glass, Harry sat on the side
that was actually meant for the person in custody. A bland room with nothing
in it except for the low hanging light fixtures, two plain, wooden chairs which
faced each other, a small desk-like surface that sat about waist-high along the
length of the solid, glass 'wall' before him…which shimmered, ever so
slightly.

Perfect.

A very boring and empty room indeed, but he didn't need anything—not a
door, not an escape route. This was his dream, Harry thought wryly as he
picked the phone up from the receiver.

And he had all the power here.

…Voldemort, would, of course, be allowed access to the visitor's section.

Harry tapped his finger on the wooden surface in front of him, waiting
patiently for the sinister wizard to reveal himself. Because he could feel him,
lurking, just on the outskirts of his mind… A prowling, wary predator…

Well come on in, then.

Harry would never have thought it possible for the Dark Lord to make a
dramatic, moderately terrifying entrance into such a mundane environment,
but he managed to do it, anyway.

He came in the form of a pair of glowing, red eyes.

They just suddenly appeared there, blinking open in a rapid flash of

illuminated crimson, and at first, Harry couldn't even see his body. He was
just two vivid, blood red orbs hovering in the darkness, an intense gaze which
quickly narrowed into a vicious glare.

Harry's heart leapt in his throat at this most unexpected and jarring of
entrances. Of course he couldn't just use the bloody door that he had so
kindly imagined for him on that side of the wall—no, he had to materialize in
the most inhuman, creepy way possible. Harry bit back the unwanted thrill of
fear that had fired up his spine, simply grateful that he hadn't physically
jumped.

Lord Voldemort took two steps out of the dismal depths of the shadows
before stopping, his menacing form dimly lit on one side from the dull,
hanging light.

The Dark Lord was intimidating in every sense of the word, there was no
doubt about that. Tall, dark, and clothed in long, flowing black robes that
made his unnaturally pale skin seem even brighter in comparison…

He was…something else.

Harry took a calming breath. This was his dream… He had all the power
here…

Lord Voldemort's fiery gaze swept across the room as he took in the
dreamscape which Harry had invented. He stood perfectly still as they
flickered first to the door on his side, then to the hanging light (which nearly
brushed the top of his head, he was so tall- had he always been so tall?), then
across the span on the glass barrier to the phone which hung at its side, until,
finally…

They landed on Harry. He smiled up at him from his seat with the phone to
his ear.

The Dark Lord…did not look happy.

"What…is…this?"

He seethed the question much more like a venomous accusation. And though
he could hear it, just barely, Harry feigned deafness.

"Sorry?" he said into the mouth piece. And he knew it worked, because
Voldemort's piercing eyes suddenly flashed back to the phone on his side
where the sound of his voice must have come from. Harry made a shrugging
motion before he put a hand to his ear, as if to say, I can't hear you!

Voldemort's scowl deepened to the point that, were there not a convenient,
impenetrable wall in between them, Harry might have been a tiny bit afraid.

As it was…

"I know you know how to use a phone," he muttered cheekily.

If it had been anyone else in the entire universe, surely Lord Voldemort
would have done…something else. Instead, to Harry's great pleasure and
barely concealed delight, he moved very, very slowly to the chair—still
looking absolutely murderous, though, as he did it, like he might just explode
or start throwing curses at any moment—but then, in that same, horrendously
unhurried motion, he took a seat.

Voldemort glared at the phone on his side like it was the most offensive
object in the whole world.

Harry grinned as he tilted his head towards it. "Pick it up, then, if you want
me to hear you. This isn't Advanced Arithmancy, or something."

Voldemort glared at Harry Potter like he was the most offensive person in the
whole world. Harry continued to smile benignly.

Then, carrying on with his slow and deliberate movements, and not for a
second lifting his fierce gaze from Harry's face, the Dark Lord reached for the
phone and curled his pale fingers around it to lift it from the receiver—rather
unnecessarily tightly, Harry noticed, like maybe he was pretending that it was
The ChosenOne's throat he was grasping, instead—before he finally brought
it to his ear.

He didn't say anything. Only continued to glare at Harry with an intensity that
would probably burn holes through lesser men. Maybe even literally.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. And it was the first time
that Harry had actually gotten a good look at Lord Voldemort's new face up
close.

He was…something else.

The dim lighting reflected off of his dark hair, which was quite
disconcertingly shiny and…obnoxiously perfect. It was the exact same
ebony, wavy hair that…that Harry had seen on…on the one from the diary,
that kind of pristine, effortless luster that most girls would kill for. And his
skin was so strange, illuminated, almost, like there was a literal fire that
flickered from within, and he was all aglow from it. And his face was…well,
it was difficult to say. He didn't look old, but he didn't look exactly young,
either. Like he was thirty, perhaps? Maybe a bit older? Younger? Harry
wasn't sure, he had never been good at that sort of thing…though the lethal
expression he was currently aiming at him might have been making it harder
to tell.

He hated to admit it, but he could certainly see why Phineas Black had used
the term 'godlike' to describe him. On one hand, he looked much more like a
healthy man than he had before—having a nose and hair certainly went a
long way in achieving that—but on the other hand…

There was no way this entity before him was…human. Just what had he
done, to achieve this new form? Some other, more sophisticated version of
dark magic? And why?

Why had he bothered to do it in the first place? Had he merely grown bored
of his old body…? Did the Dark Lord suddenly care about appearances, after
he thought Harry had died? Why had he bothered to acquire this strange skin,
those lips, and, of course…

Those eyes.

Those impossible, scarlet eyes that were currently burning with what Harry
could only imagine was utmost contempt and rage at the current situation.
And…there was something else about them, too, besides the unnatural way in
which they lit up like embers… Something else, that was different…

Voldemort's motionless lips finally parted. "What is this?" he repeated in a

much lower snarl. The sound of his furious voice right in his ear coming from
the phone almost made Harry drop the thing.

"This is my dream, of course," Harry responded evenly. "What were you

expecting it to be? Madam Puddifoot's coffee shop? The Yule Ball, perhaps?"

The Dark Lord's glower, surprisingly, softened at those words. His features
slid fluidly into a perfectly composed, neutral expression.

Blank. Cold. Unreadable.

Which is what Harry knew would eventually happen, especially after a series
of very, very, very (very) long-winded lectures from Snape about what to
expect from a conversation with Lord Voldemort himself.

'…Do not even attempt to read into any of his non-verbal cues. By this, I
mean his body language. His facial expressions. His posture. Every twitch,
every smirk, every casual way in which he tilts his head or blinks his eyes or
curls his lips—every single thing he does, it is on purpose. Every time you
think you see something that registers as emotion pass over that mask-like
face, know that it is because he wants you to see it. Every smile is a
manipulation. Every snarl, every frown, every single movement, even
something as nonchalant as a shrug, every single thing he does, a
manipulation…and a lie.'

…And Harry knew Snape was right.

He stared unblinkingly into that undecipherable face, and despite the vast
difference in physical appearance, Harry was suddenly reminded of the Dark
Lord from his long ago nightmare, with words like shards of ice and a high,
cold voice to match.

But that wasn't his voice, now. "…I did not anticipate seeing you in a dream,
at all," he answered softly, and it was a lower, much deeper tenor.
Was this the voice Lord Voldemort would have developed, had he not gone
on to shred his soul and forgo his humanity beginning at the tender age of
sixteen? To contort is body into a sinewy, serpent-like man as he chased
immortality down into the depths of Dark Magic?

Just a few of the many, many burning questions that Harry had, really…but
there was an agenda he needed to stick to.

"I'd say I'm sorry to disappoint you, but…"

Harry left it at that. The Dark Lord did not physically react at all, nor did he
utter anything in response.

For a very long time they fell into silence. The each stared with inscrutable
expressions that were totally unreadable and yet at the same time brimming
with a static, bristling energy. There were a thousand things that each was
thinking, surely, that they wanted to say or ask or demand or accuse… But
the quietness stretched on and on, and they simply continued to do nothing
but look at each other, examining the person before them who was somehow
simultaneously the individual they thought they knew more intimately than
anyone—and on some level, that rang true—yet at the same time, did not
really know at all.

"…Your pupils."

Harry surprised even himself when the words left his mouth…because he had
just figured it out. The other reason why his eyes were so different.

Voldemort remained completely motionless. "They're not slits, anymore,"

Harry elaborated. "They're round."

He wasn't sure why that seemed so profound, why he even noticed or thought
to comment on such a trivial thing, but for some reason he did.

The Dark Lord still didn't say anything. Harry was beginning to find that both
eerie and frustrating. What, had he said something offensive when he'd made
that observation? Was he being rude?
"Er…So…sorry?"

"For what?"

Harry blinked at the question which was asked suddenly so quickly, for
someone who had been so keen to just stare at him for such a long stretch of
time before.

"I…uh, for pointing out your…your eyes…"

He hated how stupid that sounded. He hated that he cared that he sounded
stupid in the first place.

"You are apologizing to me for vocalizing your observation that I now have
rounded pupils."

…He hated how dumb that sounded, and how the Dark Lord didn't actually
say it mockingly…but it felt immensely condescending, nonetheless.

Harry frowned. "Yes, I suppose I was," he muttered in annoyance. "Now

you've put it like that, though, I take it back."

Voldemort's face still remained impassive when he responded. "Any other…

observations that you would like to make, apologize for, and then
immediately rescind said apology?"

"I-what? No." They'd been talking for all of five seconds, and already Harry
was feeling flustered for no real reason. He narrowed his eyes in frustration.
"No, there's obviously nothing else different about you at all, no, just the
pupils. Clearly."

"Nothing at all."

…Was he…was he joking? Harry couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or not,

because he was so straight-faced, so stone-like and unreadable, that-that it
almost could have passed for serious… But of course he couldn't be, because
he could not possibly look more different than he was before.
Harry shook his head disbelievingly. He decided not to say anything else, for
fear that he would have his next words immediately twisted into something
confusing…and let the Dark Lord make the next move.

It was a long time, before he did finally speak. The staring was highly
uncomfortable, but Harry refused to squirm under his penetrating gaze. He
wished he knew what the Dark Lord was thinking, as he stared right back.
But it was absolutely impossible to so much as guess what thoughts were
racing through his mind behind that stoic mask.

"…Where are you?"

Voldemort whispered it into the mouthpiece so softly that his lips barely
moved. Harry smirked.

He smirked, because surely the Dark Lord knew that was a pointless, stupid
question to even bother asking, because of course Harry wasn't going to just
tell him, knew he was wasting his breath putting the burning desire to know
where he was, precisely, into words…but he asked it anyway.

And Harry knew he would, because he knew he couldn't not ask it.

"I am, for all intents and purposes…asleep."

Oh, how satisfying it was, to see that perfect mask crack just barely under the
weight of his words. Voldemort's eyes twitched at hearing his own statement
from long, long ago being thrown back at him now, for that had been the
Dark Lord's very response when he, Harry, had asked the same question
concerning his physical location, when he had first been kidnapped and
pulled against his will into slumber…

Harry's smirk widened. It was fun, getting to spear the Dark Lord with his
own icily sharp, pointed words.

He hoped he would get to do it more often.

But other than that almost indiscernible flinch (which Snape would have
chastised him for even noticing or dwelling on, because he would have said
that even the Dark Lord's twitch was on purpose…but Harry knew it wasn't),
Voldemort's face remained neutral.

"You are with them."

Completely flat and detached. Harry nodded.

"With my friends. Yes," he said. Because they both already knew that.

"They know what you are."

To which Harry just nodded again.

At his next words, Voldemort's stern expression still did not move at all, still
betrayed no feeling whatsoever…but his eyes, oddly enough, darkened. It
was a small transition, but a noticeable one. They faded from a brilliant
crimson to a duller, ruby hue.

"They will kill you."

Harry shook his head. "No, they won't," he said in a tone that rivaled the
evenness of the Dark Lord's.

"They will kill you."

The sudden hostility in the quietly spoken words did, admittedly, catch Harry
off guard, but he kept his composure.

"Well, they haven't killed me yet. As a matter of fact, they've saved me more
than a handful of times, so if they wanted me dead, I imagine they would
have either done it by now or just let me die—"

"They are using you." Harry scowled at being interrupted, but Voldemort's
face remained static. "They are keeping you alive for this very purpose. They
are using you to get to me. Severus Snape is using you and—"

"And what?" Harry shot out, deciding boldly then that if Voldemort was
going to cut him off mid-sentence, then he could, too. "And he plans on using
me to get you to do something stupid so that he can kill us both? Because I
have a part of your soul within me, and he knows it—they know it. Well,
sorry to disappoint you, but as it turns out, they all like me more than they
hate you. Even Snape."

Harry let out a short, mirthless laugh at the way Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
"I know. It surprised me, too."

"A lie," the Dark Lord spat the accusation with venom that Harry assumed
was more meant for Snape than for him, personally. "He is lying to you. He
will say and do whatever he needs to in order to manipulate you into
manipulating me—"

"Because I'm a horcrux?" Harry snarled back, leaning forward towards the
glass wall and putting his elbows on the ledge. "So what? You think that
Snape really thinks you would risk your own, personal safety, your life, for a
horcrux? Just because I'm the last one? Getting yourself caught in the process
would kind of defeat the purpose of having a horcrux in the first place,
wouldn't it?"

The Dark Lord glowered, but said nothing… because they both knew that the
fact that Harry was, in fact, a horcrux, was not the main reason for any of
this.

Though he knew the Dark Lord would never, ever say so. And right now,
Harry knew that Voldemort must be teeming with inner, raging turmoil,
because surely he was burning with the desire to know if Harry had told them
that as well, if Severus Snape knew that his former master was inexplicably,
insanely, impossibly in love…with Harry Potter.

But Lord Voldemort would probably sooner profess his undying devotion
and adoration for Albus Dumbledore before he would put such an outrageous
question as that into words. Harry doubted that he would admit out loud,
ever, that he 'loved' at all.

…Which was probably why he had settled for just sitting there and glaring at
him with the hostility of an incensed cobra.

After a long, heated moment of silence, Harry decided to voice his other
concern. "You broke your word," he said tersely.

The Dark Lord's angry expression became stoic once more. "I did not," he
replied softly.

"Ollivander." Voldemort's unexpressive demeanor cracked slightly at that,

clearly not expecting Harry to be privy to such information. His eyebrows
raised at the name.

"You captured him, didn't you? So you could get information about wands…
Have a few inconvenient things… explained."

The flickering image of shock was gone in an instant. "No," he said simply.

"Liar."

"I am not lying to you," Voldemort answered back in an even tone.

"I will never lie to you."

That unexpected vow of perpetual, determined honesty certainly threw Harry

off for a moment. He scoffed loudly as he leaned back against his chair. "Oh,
good, I'm relieved to hear that," he drawled sarcastically. "So what,
Ollivander just went on vacation then, did he?"

"No. I have him."

"What-then-then you've just lied, now!" Harry balked.

"I did not capture him. I did not harm him." Voldemort allowed the tiniest
smirk to pull at one side of his no-longer thin lips. "I merely asked if he
would be so kind as to take up residence in one of my bases for a brief period
of time. He came quite willingly. He is being treated more than kindly and I
am, of course, paying him handsomely for his…services."
His smirk widened at Harry's obvious frustration. "I have not broken my
word," he repeated smoothly.

Harry wanted to tear his hair out. "You didn't have to!" he shouted. "I'm sure
the threat was perfectly fucking clear when you just showed up in his shop,
though! He only agreed to go with you because otherwise you would have
had him killed or something!"

"I would have done no such thing."

"And I'm sure that was totally obvious to the poor, old man," Harry muttered.

Voldemort's smirk was so sardonic that Harry wished he could just smack it
off of him. "What other people think they hear is outside of my control.
Words are limited. Language is misleading. If Ollivander heard a threat that I
did not actually verbalize, than that was no fault of mine…but the fact
remains that I did not break my word."

Harry actually snarled in anger at how goddamn smug he was acting.

Voldemort's eyes instantly flashed a vivid crimson at the sound, and there
was a glint in them that-that was horribly familiar and that Harry didn't like.
At all. He cleared his throat.

"The National Gallery," he said suddenly. The unexpected words had the
desired effect—Voldemort's haughty expression slid into that flat mask at
once. "All those people, dying of a 'toxic gas leak', and all the cameras
blowing up…" He stared at the Dark Lord's face, scrutinizing, searching for
any sign of recognition in those eyes (and mentally ignoring the imaginary
voice of Snape in the back of his head, who would surely be yelling at him
for even trying to decode the Dark Lord).

"Was that you?"

Voldemort tilted his head to one side. "The National Gallery?" he repeated
inquiringly.

"Yes," Harry murmured, furrowing his brows. "It was all over the muggle
news, everyone in the building died of asphyxiation. Don't act like you
haven't heard about it. Were you behind that?"

Harry tone was firm, but the Dark Lord did not so much as blink at the
accusation. "I heard of it," he said, nodding. "…Why would you believe that I
was responsible? Was there a Dark Mark hovering in the sky? Were aurors
drawn into traps afterward and taken prisoner? Were there any benefits as
consequences for my regime whatsoever?"

Harry frowned as he paused, and Voldemort continued on when he did not

respond. "Why on Earth would I do such a thing? I am a Dark Lord, yes, but I
do not waste my time and efforts nor risk the safety of my followers on such
meaningless exploits. Perhaps this may come as a surprise to you, but I have
vastly more important missions for my Death Eaters to be carrying out than
going on day trips to muggle, public art museums and killing for no
discernible reason."

He tilted his head the other way at Harry's skeptical glare. "…I did not order
an attack on the National Gallery of London, child."

Harry visibly bristled at being referred to as a child. Voldemort smiled.

"A gas leak… I sometimes wonder if I should bother with the muggles at all.
Apparently, given enough time, they shall simply take care of themselves."

Harry bit back another growl. "Don't call me child," he muttered…perhaps a

bit childishly.

Voldemort leaned forward at that, closer to the transparent barrier between

them. The hanging light from above cast his face in sinister, dramatic
shadows. "As you wish…" he started slowly, before practically purring the
word,

"…Harry."

Harry barely suppressed the involuntary shiver that threatened to shake his
spine. He bit his lip instead, hoping that it wasn't somehow obvious how dry
his mouth had suddenly become.

Voldemort watched the contrite action with what was clearly more than
appropriate interest. Harry stopped at once.

"The cathedral," he said, hating that his voice sounded a bit raw. "…You
burnt down Saint Paul's cathedral."

"Yes," the Dark Lord said with no hesitation whatsoever.

Harry swallowed thickly, wary of even venturing into this territory, knew that
he was getting off task…but he couldn't help himself from asking.

"Why?"

"A myriad of reasons."

There was a moment of silence after his response. Harry glared as it became
obvious that he was, apparently, not going to elaborate. "And they were…?"
he prompted, gritting his teeth.

For a fleeting second, Voldemort's lips curved into a ghost of a smile at

Harry's annoyance—but it was gone as quickly as it had come, and when he
spoke it was flat and emotionless. "To make a statement…many statements,
in fact. To lure Order members out into public. To cause a bit of chaos."

His eyes glowed a vivid red at the last word, and he did smile, then. It was a
wicked grin which exposed his surprisingly even, brilliantly white teeth.
Harry adjusted the phone against his ear, noting with annoyance that his palm
suddenly felt sweaty.

"…Statements?" he asked, knowing he probably shouldn't be.

"Yes…" Voldemort's crooked smile vanished, but he didn't offer up what,

precisely, those statements were. Instead he said something else entirely. His
eye darkened, smoldering into that same deep, ruby hue again.

"I did it for you."

It felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Harry wet his lips,
accepting that this…this was not good, this strange sensation in the pit of his
stomach. He decided to change the topic.

"…What do you want?"

Voldemort's brows raised slightly at the sudden shift in conversation, but he

answered unflinchingly.

"Your safety."

Harry almost laughed. It wasn't exactly the response he'd been expecting.
"My safety?" he asked incredulously. "My safety has been something that's
never been guaranteed in my entire life, because of you! Where I am right
now, away from you, is probably the safest I've been in years!"

"No." Voldemort's fingers tightened around the phone he held, and his
posture became rigid. "They will kill you for what you are." He hesitated for
a second. Some emotion that bordered on conflict crossed his features, and
his voice was suddenly lower when he spoke next.

"Only I can keep you safe."

Now Harry laughed. Bitterly. "Well, sure," he said. Voldemort's face was a
stone cold mask again. "I would be very safe, locked up again, I'm—"

"No."

The severity of the single word made Harry stop short. The false smile from
his bitter laughter slid from his face as he waited for the Dark Lord to go on.

"Never again."

…And that was, evidently, all he was going to say on the matter. He simply
stared at Harry now, with that same, intense gaze that made him
uncomfortable. Harry shook his head exasperatingly.
"Well, if it's just my safety you're concerned about, then, I suppose we're
done here. Because I am perfectly safe where I am, thank you very much, and
—"

"No."

The word was a snarl, this time. Voldemort's face contorted into something
that was a mixture of fury and…desperation? "You cannot stay with them.
They have been murdering pieces of my soul, and they will murder you."

Astoundingly, his voice almost cracked on the words 'my soul'. And he did
look desperate, he looked positively torn and almost vulnerable and it seemed
so genuine—but was it?

Snape, he knew, would say not. He would say it was all just an act to
manipulate him.

But Harry did not think so. His heart throbbed with a dull, painful ache…but
he forced his face and his voice to remain as neutral as possible.

"…They aren't going to kill me," he said. "I'm perfectly safe with them."

Voldemort's momentary expression of weakness swiftly transitioned into a

scowl. "They are lying to you," he snapped.

"They're not," Harry responded firmly. "They're my friends. I know you've

never had friends, but the way it works is we tend to not kill each other. So if
it's just my safety that is you're worried about, I guess you don't need to be
concerned any longer. You can just leave me be."

The Dark Lord's scowl deepened. Harry couldn't help but smirk a tiny bit,
because it was true, of course, that Voldemort wanted him to be safe, but he
also desperately wanted Harry in his possession…partially because of the
horcrux, yes, but the real reason being the thing that he would probably
refuse to verbalize for all of time, that he could not put into real, actual
words, that they were simply not addressing, and it was the big, giant
elephant in the room and oh good God there was a giant elephant in the room.
Voldemort's eyes widened when he followed Harry's suddenly alarmed gaze.
He lowered the phone as he turned to look over his shoulder and see that
there was, in fact, about three feet from the back of his chair…an enormous
elephant behind him.

It stood against the back wall, its long trunk sweeping slowly across the
concrete floor. The creature took up nearly all of the empty space, which
must have felt very suffocating on that side, considering that it was a small
room to begin with. Stranger still was that it looked more like a cartoon
drawing of an elephant than a real one. It had massive eyes and long, curling
eyelashes that Harry had certainly never seen on an actual elephant, as well as
other outlandish qualities. It blinked at Voldemort benignly, looking very
tranquil and peaceful indeed.

Harry stared in disbelief at the incredibly bizarre addition to his dream that he
had not intended—at all. Voldemort slowly turned in his seat to face Harry
again, his face undecipherable and cold…until he smiled. It was an extremely
fake, genial grin that did not reach his piercing eyes.

"Harry," he said in a faux-casual voice. "…Would you mind explaining why

there is an elephant behind me?"

Harry swallowed as his eyes flickered back to the huge creature. It waved its
trunk at him.

"I have no idea," he responded hollowly.

Voldemort continued to grin in a way that was actually much more

threatening than his previous glower.

"…Why is it pink?"

"I have no idea," Harry repeated in that same empty tone. His eyes darted
back to Voldemort's. "Let's…let's not address it."

Voldemort's thin smile vanished. He looked very much like he wanted

nothing more than to shatter the barrier between them and backhand him.
Harry cleared his throat. "So you want me to come to you, then," he said
casually, as if their new guest was not present at all. "Okay. I'll meet you…
but I have terms."

Voldemort glared in silence as he waited. The elephant continued to sway its

trunk back and forth, becoming a bit more animated as it went on. "I want the
attacks to stop. No more killing masses of innocent muggles so that you can
make your little statements. I want the guaranteed safety of all of my friends.
All of them."

Voldemort let out an angry, involuntary hiss. "They have been killing my
soul," he seethed with more ire than should have been physically possible.
Harry felt the hair on his arms stand erect. "They must pay."

"No," Harry said. "Their safety is not negotiable."

The Dark Lord cocked his head to one side. "And that's all you want, Harry?
Not going to demand that I just surrender in my efforts to change the
wizarding world completely?"

"I'm not that stupid," Harry muttered. "Nothing would ever make you just
surrender. But...but I don't care about that. I just care about the safety of my
friends. I…I would do anything for them."

Voldemort looked skeptical. "And I am sure they would simply let you walk
away, knowing that you have made a deal with a Dark Lord about their
safety. That they would willingly let you leave for such a small price."

"They're not here, are they?" Harry responded dryly. "They think they know
what kind of conversations we're having, but they don't. I can tell them
whatever I like. But their safety… That's necessary. I won't come to you if
you so much as threaten to hurt them."

"No."

"Yes."
"No. They—"

Voldemort abruptly stopped speaking. For the elephant, which was somehow
even bigger than it had been just moments ago, its giant, floppy ears now
brushing the ceiling, had silently moved forward…and was now lightly
poking at the back of the Dark Lord's head with its trunk.

Harry's hand flew to his mouth to stifle whatever choking noise threatened to
come out—something between a gasp and a short, involuntary laugh.

Lord Voldemort…did not find it funny.

"Ba. Nish. It," he snarled, effectively turning the two words into three
incredibly lethal, venomous sentences.

"I-I-I'm trying!" Harry stuttered, focusing very hard on not laughing. "I am,
really—but the more I try and make it disappear, the-the bigger and more
animated it gets—"

Indeed, at those words, the elephant twisted its trunk around started stroking
the side of the Dark Lord's face. Voldemort went extremely rigid, and Harry
was torn between finding this hilarious and terrifying, because that
expression on his face was positively murderous.

"Get rid of it!" he demanded. The elephant started tousling his perfect, wavy
hair.

"I don't think I can!" Harry said, shaking his head…but he was openly
grinning, now, as he witnessed the impossible spectacle of Lord Voldemort
shoving away the trunk of a giant, pink elephant...which refused to cooperate,
and became more adamant about touching him the more he tried to make it
stop. But despite his best efforts, he couldn't get it off of him.

Because this was Harry's dream, and Voldemort had no power here.

The elephant made a strange, high-pitched honking sound in the Dark Lord's
ear that real elephants definitely did not make as it started stroking his face
again.

"I think it likes you," Harry said cheekily. And then, just because he couldn't
not say it—

"Maybe even loves you."

Voldemort's entire body twitched as he turned to look at Harry, his eyes

widening for a moment at the accusation being implied…before they quickly
narrowed into a furious glare.

"Their safety," Harry continued as the elephant continued to practically

molest the Dark Lord. "No more attacks. Those are my terms."

"No," Voldemort spat. He rose to his feet, still trying to push the persistent,
pink creature away. It made another honking noise in response. "Never. They
will never be forgiven for what they have done."

"Shame. Well, I guess we're done here, then." Harry sighed theatrically.
"But... I'll give you some time to reconsider. If you decide you'd like to take
me up on my offer, then we can talk again tomorrow night. Same time, same
way. In the meantime, no attacks. No capturing people…or asking them
politely if they'd be your willing prisoner, as it may be. Otherwise we're done
for good. And trust me…" Harry leaned forward towards the glass, his
elbows resting against the wooden ledge.

"I am somewhere where you will never, ever find me."

He smiled. "Goodnight, then. Perhaps I'll talk to you tomorrow. And I'll try
not to bring my, er, friend, here."

The elephant blinked its huge eyes at him. Voldemort scowled, ignoring the
animal in favor of glowering at Harry. "If you think that—"

But Harry couldn't make out any more after that, because he had moved the
phone away from his ear, and softly hung it up in the receiver.
And then he woke up.

A pre-determined action that would bring him into consciousness. He had

decided, before he fell asleep, that when he hung up the phone, he would
awaken…and it had worked beautifully.

Harry Potter woke up in the Room of Requirement, and he instantly started

laughing.

Rushing footsteps sounded around him as his companions quickly gathered at

his side. Harry pulled the blanket from over his head, grinning as he got out
of the hammock and to his feet.

"How'd it go?" Ron asked at once. Everyone stared at him with eager
expressions.

Harry's smile broadened. "I just hung up on the Dark Lord," he declared, and
everyone smirked and laughed.

Everyone except Snape. "It worked, then?" he said in an emotionless tone.

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. It all worked perfectly. And it went pretty much exactly as you said it
would go."

"Meaning…?" Malfoy prodded, looking wary.

"Meaning that he said no, of course." Harry shrugged as he looked towards

the Weasley twins. "He didn't let anything slip about whether or not he heard
the broadcast, though, so you'll have to stick around for another day or so
until I can figure it out. Sorry."

Fred and George both brushed the apology aside at once—for they had
discussed at length how it would be wisest for Harry not to be the one to
bring it up during their discussions, in case the Dark Lord actually didn't
know about the M.D.W.
"No worries," Fred said amicably.

"We don't mind having a Hogwarts slumber party for a few days," George
added, grinning.

Draco stepped between them, effectively getting Harry's attention again. "So
he said no, then. To your terms."

"Yeah. But we already knew that he would say that at first. He'll be back
tomorrow, I'm sure."

Hermione pursed her lips apprehensively. "Are you…?"

"Most definitely."

Snape did not yet look appeased. "It went exactly as I presumed it would,
then?"

"Yep. Er…well." Harry felt his face suddenly grow warm. Should he tell
them about the unexpected creature? He felt oddly embarrassed about it—but
then knew at once that lying was out of the question, because Snape was
staring at him accusingly, waiting.

Harry cleared his throat. "Well, there was…there was an elephant in the
room."

They all stared in confusion.

"…Like…like a metaphorical one?" Ginny voiced first. Harry shook his

head.

"…No," he admitted, and his face definitely grew hotter. "Like…a literal one.
It was huge. On his side of the Occlumency barrier. And…and it kept getting
bigger, the more I tried to get rid of it, and-and it kept poking at him…"

He ended with a nervous laugh as he visualized it again. The Weasley twins,

along with most of the others, looked utterly delighted.
"That's…hilarious," Fred breathed.

"Merlin, I wish we could have seen that," George said, and they both nodded
vehemently.

But Snape, in great contrast, looked utterly scandalized. "You conjured up a

giant elephant?" he gaped.

"I didn't mean to!" Harry shouted defensively. "And also, it was pink." He
frowned as he pondered that. "Why would it be pink?"

Snape actually smacked his forehead at that. He dragged his hand down
across his face in an overly animated way, like he couldn't believe that this
was what he had to deal with.

"I'm sure that made him very angry," Hermione muttered. She and Snape
were the only ones who didn't look amused. Her wide eyes were clouded with
anxiety.

"Oh, yeah," Harry agreed gravely. "Yes, he was extremely mad. But he
couldn't do a damn thing about it. And neither could I, though I did try…" He
laughed again.

"At this point, I don't know if he would rather kiss me or kill me."

Snape shook his head morbidly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Everyone
else sort of shifted uncomfortably or laughed lightly…except Luna.

Luna Lovegood sighed melodramatically, like Harry had just uttered the
single most romantic, beautiful thing in all of human history. She started
swaying on the spot with her arms extended, like she was dancing with an
invisible partner. There were stars in her eyes as she looked up towards the
ceiling, rotating slowly as she breathed the words,

"It's love."

Harry watched her in awkward disbelief. She started humming a slow tune to
herself while she danced with a ghost, sashaying away from them all towards
the middle of the room in a world of her own.

Snape stared incredulously between her, the others, and Harry. Then, with a
great sigh, he, too, departed. The Potions Master stalked off towards the door
which led to his own, personal space, looking worn as he went. But his
words, muttered and terse though they were, carried clearly across the room
over Luna's soft, hummed melody.

"…It's going to be a long, long week."

 29. The Dead Remember
Harry may have had his eyes closed, but he was wide awake.

He had tried to sleep. After Luna and Ginny had said their goodbyes with
promises to return when possible, perhaps with Neville, Dean, and Seamus,
and long after he had declared that he simply wanted to go to bed—for every
single person had stared at him adamantly afterwards, teeming with curiosity
about the specifics of their interaction—he had flung himself down in his
hammock, and everyone else had begrudgingly failed suit…because Harry
was just not in the mood to talk about it.

Truthfully, he was tired. But every time he managed to slip into slumber, he
would begin to have vivid dreams of wasps swirling about his head in
swarms, and though they never actually stung him through his protective, net-
like clothing, he could hear their incensed buzzing in his ears like angry,
blaring sirens. Maybe it was the Dark Lord attempting and failing to break
through his mental barriers, maybe it was simply his own subconscious, wary
mind… It was impossible to know or tell. Either way, it made for poor sleep,
and he found himself waking up more than once with his arms twitching
defensively.

Eventually, after struggling in vain for over an hour to fall into peaceful
slumber, he decided that enough was enough. Harry glanced lazily at his
watch. It was nearly six in the morning…

He looked across the room in a bit of a daze. He didn't really feel like getting
up or drinking tea or eating breakfast. No, what he really felt like doing was
—

Harry grinned gleefully. For the very moment he'd had the thought, he saw it.
On the left wall, the opposite side of the room where Snape's private space
was…

It was a door he recognized. And it was exactly what he wanted.

Harry slowly and stealthily climbed from his hammock, making his way as
quietly as he could towards this new and most welcome of additions to Safe
Haven. He shut the door behind him with a soft, almost inaudible click.

"Excellent," he breathed in amazement into what was an exact replica, if not

the actual prefect's bathroom. A familiar, flirty mermaid waved at him from
her rock as she flipped her hair.

Of course, the Room had provided small, functioning toilets as a part of the
general space that was Safe Haven, but nothing at all like this. Harry Potter's
yearning for a giant, unnecessarily large swimming pool of warmth had not
gone ignored, and he could not have been happier that he was the first one
awake so that he could enjoy it in solitude.

Ah, solitude. When was the last time he had true, actual alone time? …Well.
When he was awake, alert, and free, of course. Deciding to make the most of
it while he could, Harry reached for the taps and immediately began filling
the basin with water that was nearly scalding and a healthy dose of vibrant,
blue-green bubbles which had a bit of a minty scent. He stripped in record
time while it filled, and in mere minutes found himself lowered into the
soothing, blissful warmth of a much required bath, sighing audibly at the
wonderful sensation.

Perfect, he thought serenely as he closed his eyes and sunk further down onto
a bench within the water. Silence and solitude and warm, warm water… He
leaned his head back against a rest and spread his arms out wide on either
side of him, relishing the tranquility and the space which he had all to
himself.

Several minutes went by where he didn't have a damn thought. Not a one, just
beautiful, lovely nothingness… In fact, he thought he might even drift off to
sleep again after all, he felt so warm and peaceful…

"Is Harry Potter needing anything, sir?"

Harry about had an aneurism at the unexpected voice.

Dobby had materialized seemingly out of thin air, directly behind him,
looking at the back of Harry's head with giant eyes that were shining with
inquisitiveness—until Harry jumped so badly that he fell forward into the
water, accidentally swallowing an unfortunate amount of minty bubbles
(which tasted nowhere near as good as they smelled).

Dobby rushed to the edge of the tub nervously as Harry began coughing up
soapy suds. "Oh-oh, I is sorry, sir! Dobby was not meaning to startle you, sir
—!"

"Dobby," Harry finally gasped painfully. He took a few labored breaths as his
heart continued to spasm rapidly in his chest. "You-you have to stop trying to
kill me. We've been over this, years ago, remember?"

He forced out a few more painful, spluttering coughs. Dobby's ears flattened
on top of his head in shame.

"Dobby is sorry, sir…" he squeaked quietly. "Is…is there anything Dobby

can be bringing for you, sir? Tea, or water, perhaps?"

Harry shook his head incredulously. How had this tiny elf even found him in
here? Dobby had returned to the kitchens last night, he hadn't slept with them
in the Room… How had he even known Harry had woken up, and then
appeared there so silently?

Perhaps, Harry mused, this was the kind of behavior that was learned, and
even expected from a proper house elf in a pureblood family, manor setting…

But Harry found it more than a bit unsettling. "I don't want anything other
than some peace and quiet, Dobby," he said firmly. "Some alone time, if you
please."

The elf's already huge eyes widened knowingly before he nodded. "Okay, sir!
Dobby is totally understanding, sir!"

He then scurried away quickly as he backed up against the wall, remaining

perfectly still…only to remain there. Silently, awkwardly staring, not making
any sound at all, but…definitely not leaving, either.

Harry groaned. "I said alone time, Dobby," he reiterated.

Dobby blinked. "…Oh!" he squeaked and nodded before swiftly turning

around, with his back to Harry and facing the wall.

…And still not leaving the room.

"Dobby," Harry said in what he hoped was not too obviously a false, sweet
voice. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I would appreciate it greatly if you
would kindly get out of here."

The elf jumped as he spun around. "Oh!" he repeated in the exact same tone.
"Oh, okay, Harry Potter, sir. If you's is needing anything, sir, anything at all,
just say Dobby's name, and Dobby will be happy to—"

"Yes. I will," Harry said, cutting him off but forcing himself to smile as he
did. "Thank you, Dobby. Goodbye."

Dobby bowed deeply before apparating away, and, Harry noted, it was with a
much quieter 'crack' than he was accustomed to hearing when others
apparated.

Hm…apparating, he thought distractedly as he resumed his leisurely position

in the tub. That was something he would like to learn how to do. Should learn
how to do, probably, seeing as he often found himself in situations where
teleportation would be quite handy. Maybe he could teach Malfoy how to
make a patronus in exchange for apparation lessons… Then again, Draco had
nearly killed him last time… Probably should do the smart thing and ask
Hermione to show him instead…

He grinned lazily as he recalled the time that Hermione had spent hours upon
hours with him, late into the night, teaching him how to properly summon
things so that he could use it to call forth his Firebolt during the First Task…
Was his broom still here? Had Draco left it behind on the school grounds?
Harry made a mental note ask. He deeply missed flying on a regular basis. He
wondered how Snape did it, without a broom… Maybe he would ask the
Potions Master to teach him how to fly… His sloppy smile widened at that
thought…

He was just drifting off to sleep, envisioning the very bizarre and humorous
scene of Hermione Granger summoning various objects and trying to hit a
flying Severus Snape with them, looking at Harry pointedly and saying things
like, 'it's all in the movement of your wrist', and 'the real trick is to enunciate
the incantation correctly on the second syllable' as she attempted to ransack
the older wizard with books and pillows… He, Draco, and Ron laughed as
they watched, and the twins cheered her on raucously…

What a strange group they had become, he mused wryly...

…Very…strange indeed…

"Excellent."

Another unanticipated voice, and Harry was once more jolted out of his near
slumber with a start. Draco Malfoy was grinning wickedly as he shut the door
silently behind him.

He was suddenly very, very glad for the copious amounts of bubbles.

"What are you doing up?" Harry spluttered in annoyance. "It's like, six in the
morning!"

Draco shrugged. "Light sleeper, remember? I heard you earlier." His steely
eyes drank in the sight of the room. "Holy hell, the castle's moved the
Prefect's bathroom for you?"

Harry lowered himself down further into the water. "Evidently. Or replicated
it. Now get out. I should have required a lock."

"Ah, yes. A lock. Six years of magical education, and a simple lock definitely
would have kept a wizard out," Draco responded dryly. Then, to Harry's
horror, he started taking his shirt off.
"What are you doing!?" he shouted.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him incredulously. "I am going to take advantage

of your requirements and share, obviously. What, you think the other male
prefects didn't? Look at the size of this thing! It's like a pool. Too bad we
don't have trunks, though… Ah, well. If it was privacy you wanted, that's
what the giant shower stalls are for. This territory is communal." He pointed
over to his left, where there was, in fact, a hall that looked as though it led to
a row of individual, private showers.

"Unlike you, Evans, I actually was a Prefect. So I used this bathroom all the
time. What, are you embarrassed?" Draco said coyly as he tossed his shirt to
the side. Harry quickly turned away, hating pretty much everything about this
situation.

"No," he muttered in response, still averting his gaze. "I just wanted to be
alone, is all. Some peace and quiet."

"Then consider me non-existent—Merlin, this is hot." Harry could hear the

sounds of water splashing as he got in on the other side. He peered through
his lashes unwittingly, to see that Draco had left his boxers on. Harry was
now desperately wishing that he'd done the same.

Though he hadn't known to expect company. He was once again glad for all
of the bubbles. He supposed he was just going to have to pretend that he was
as decent as Malfoy was underneath the soapy surface.

"Fine," Harry finally said tersely. "Just…no talking. And stay over there."

"Mmhm." Draco sank into a comfortable position across from him, closing
his eyes and really acting quite unabashed about the whole ordeal. Maybe…
maybe he was overreacting, Harry thought, as he also attempted to relax
again. Did the Prefects often share this huge bath during the school year…? It
seemed a bit odd, but then again, it really was more like a giant hot tub, way
too big to logically be for only one person… But what about the girls? Did
they have their own, separate bathroom, as well? Or did they all share this
one…? That seemed a bit…scandalous.
Harry decided that it didn't matter, really, and eventually shoved those
inconsequential thoughts aside. Ignoring Draco Malfoy to the best of his
abilities, he allowed his muscles to relax once more, slouching against the
back of the tub and closing his eyes…

It was pretty incredible, being surrounded by warmth like this. The chill in
his bones was almost gone entirely. Perhaps he would just stay in here
forever, he thought with a smirk. No fighting in wars, no bartering with
malicious Dark Lords, no plotting intricate verbal schemes with Snape and
the others… Just…Harry Potter and the Eternal Bath. He grinned broader. If
Draco was still writing a book, then this would be the portion where things
got very boring.

Except of course nothing in Harry's life could be even moderately boring,

could it?

He should have known that Malfoy would be unable to keep his peace
forever.

"…I lied, you know."

Harry cracked his eyes open in annoyance, yet it was to find that Draco was
looking not at him…but at the mermaid painting. She stretched her hands
over her head, clearly noting Draco's gaze and putting on a show because of
it.

Harry knew he probably shouldn't bite, but he did anyway. "…About what?"

Draco sighed, his eyes still on the mermaid. "During our game. About being
so experienced. About Veronica Rowle. It was all a lie." His eyes flashed to
Harry's. He almost looked…ashamed.

"I made it all up. I… I'm a virgin, too."

Harry's eyebrows raised at this most unexpected of declarations. "Er…uh…

okay…" he started, unsure of why this was even coming up. "Um, why?"
"Why'd I lie?" Draco scoffed. "Well, because I'm an idiot, and I-I guess I
wanted to impress you, was all." He actually blushed slightly. Harry felt a
wave of embarrassment as well.

"No, I meant…why are you telling me this, now?" Harry shifted

uncomfortably. "I believed you. I would have just gone on believing you, if
you hadn't just told me."

Draco shrugged. "I sort of had a bit of an epiphany when I almost died. That I
shouldn't be such a smug, deceitful bastard, anymore." His eyes darkened. "I
never told you the details about what happened with the snake."

Now Harry was curious. "No, you didn't," he agreed as he leaned forward into
a sea of blue-green bubbles. "How'd it happen?"

Malfoy slid through the water so that he was on the bench to Harry's right so
that he could speak to him more easily. "Well," he began, brushing some suds
from his hair. "After you left… It was fucking terrifying, being there,
knowing that if the Dark Lord just took a few steps and looked around the
corner, there I would be, perfectly visible and just standing there,
eavesdropping—God, you should have heard the things he was saying to
Snape, because my name came up, too—I was almost too scared to breathe,
because you'd taken so long, I was sure something had happened to you, that
you'd been caught or hit by some hex or something, and that I was waiting on
a miracle that was never going to come."

Harry's shoulders slouched slightly. Had he really taken that long? It hadn't
felt like it… Then again, he supposed even a moment in Draco's predicament
must have felt like a year. "Sorry," he muttered, regardless.

Draco waved it off. "I'm not trying to guilt you, Evans, just trying to explain."

"Evans," Harry repeated with a tiny smirk. "You don't need to call me that,
anymore. You can call me Harry."

Malfoy eyed him suspiciously. "Okay… Harry," he said slowly, and he

almost looked bashful about it. "Salazar, that's weird…"
He smiled benignly. Harry…wasn't sure what to make of this suddenly very
benevolent Draco Malfoy.

"Er…anyway," he went on, looking down at the water and running and hand
across the surface. "So finally, your patronus comes. And the Dark Lord takes
off, and, like I said before, I considered bolting—you know, like the coward I
am—but then, I dunno, I just…didn't." He looked up at Harry again, like he
was even still confused about the whole thing.

"I just decided I was going to save them, like you told me to do. And then
there was the sword, sticking out of the rubble. I didn't hesitate, I just-I just
grabbed it, and went charging at that damnsnake like a damn fool."

Harry grinned widely. "How very Gryffindor of you," he said appreciatively.

Draco chuckled. "Yeah, well. I guess that's what happens when you have his
very own sword is in your hands. But the whole part with killing the snake
didn't exactly go smoothly." His smile vanished.

"What happened?" Harry asked in anticipation.

Draco's gray eyes clouded over. He cringed as he relived the interaction. "I…
It attacked me, of course." He swallowed thickly, and Harry noted that his
right hand instinctively reached for his left forearm, where the intensely black
and angry Dark Mark stood out vividly against his pale skin. "She—Nagini,
right?—went for my neck, but I put my elbow up to block her, and she ended
up latching onto my forearm instead… Only I didn't feel it, of course,
because Snape has my whole arm numbed from the elbow down…"

He flexed his hand experimentally. Harry could only imagine how weird that
must be, to not feel one of your forearms at all… "So when she bit me,
instead of being lost in pain or whatever, I just lifted her up, and-and used my
right hand with the sword to hack her head off."

He started laughing at the insanity of it all. "It was so easy!" he declared as

his eyes landed on Harry. "It's a damn sharp sword."
Harry laughed as well. "I know, I thrust it through a basilisk's head when I
was twelve! But—"

Harry's brows furrowed as he recalled his own battle with a lethal python…
One which would have been the end of him, were it not for Fawkes the
phoenix and his life saving tears. "But—the venom—how did you…?"

"Snape," Draco said simply. "I barely managed to cast the counter-curse to
Bellatrix's spell so that he would fall to the ground before I keeled over, the
snake's severed head still stuck on my forearm—and there was venom, oh my
God, yes—even though I couldn't feel the pain in my arm, I was dizzy as hell
and it was just like the last time, when that damned creature attacked my leg
for no fucking good reason—"

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, feeling a wave of intense guilt. But Draco

went on unawares, after taking a deep, measured breath. "Anyway. Snape has
been carrying the anti-venom on him ever since that meeting where we were
both almost killed by it. Thank Merlin, too, or I would have died for sure."

He examined the Dark Mark on his arm thoughtfully. "I don't even have a
scar…though I suppose that could be a part of the curse from the Mark. To be
un-blemishable, or something."

Harry stared down at it, too. The deep eye sockets on the skull were so dark
they looked like endless black holes on his skin. The serpent's body emerging
from the widened jaw almost seemed to be moving with the Dark Lord's
continued, persistent fury, coiling slowly against the dead man's boney teeth.

Draco looked back up at Harry. "So, you know. That whole 'life flashing
before your eyes' thing. I remember thinking, 'I'm going to die a bloody
virgin and liar. All for Harry Potter.'"

He threw his head back and laughed. It reverberated in the large, tiled room.
"Ha! What a way to go!" he shouted.

Harry couldn't help but grin a bit, too—even though it really wasn't funny.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't die," he murmured.
Draco's smile waned. "Yeah, me too…though I am glad I almost died."

"Uh…yeah?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Yeah," he said, nodding—and suddenly looking very, very serious. "I

realized a lot, in those moment where I was sure I was done for. I realized
that I was glad I wasn't going to die a coward. That my death was going to
mean something, that I had given my life for other people. I never would
have thought that possible for me, to actually care that much about others,
especially considering they were people I wasn't particularly fond of. But I
didn't do it for them, not really."

His gaze darkened again in a familiar fashion. "I did it for you."

Harry's insides twisted uncomfortably. Those words, did he have to use those
words? His mouth fell open in a very unhelpful way, as, typically, he couldn't
think of anything to say to that.

"…You know…" Malfoy said, inching closer to Harry's side. "…The way I
see things, now, I should have died that day. One hundred percent,
absolutely. But I didn't. So really, everything else that happens from this
point on is just a bonus. And I plan on living it to the fullest. I mean, how
lucky are we? To be here, now, in this Room?" He gestured up towards the
mermaid, who nodded in agreement as she ran her fingers through her hair.
"So we should enjoy it. Do whatever we can…while we can."

He leaned in a bit closer, and Harry felt suddenly extremely vulnerable. "You
don't need to die a virgin, either, you know," Draco said quietly, his eyes
gleaming.

"I can…show you things. No strings attached, of course."

Harry's entire body must have turned crimson, for that statement made even
the scalding water around him feel cool. "I-I-uh—" he stammered,
completely baffled as he leaned away slightly from Draco's penetrating stare.

"I'm an excellent friend with benefits, or so I'm told."

"Um-I—" Harry was at a total loss, far too flustered to even seriously
consider this unanticipated proposal…but then he realized something.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "Show me things? Or so you're told? Didn't you

just say you were a virgin, too?"

Malfoy's seductive expression faltered. "Er…I am," he said, in a horribly

unconvincing tone. "I just… I'm not completely inexperienced, is all—"

"Liar," Harry snapped at once. Draco continued to looked conflicted…before

he finally cracked, and a devious smirk took its place instead.

"Oh, my God," Harry gaped. "Were you…were you just trying to con me out
of my virginity, Malfoy!?"

His impish grin became more pronounced. Evidently, he did not see the point
in denying it. "…Was it working?" he responded wryly.

Harry shook his head and shoved him away forcefully. "No!" he seethed, but
Draco just laughed merrily at his outburst. "You bastard! Get out of here!"

Malfoy, as expected, ignored that demand. "Well, I had to try," he murmured,

gliding through the water to sit just out of Harry's reach.

"Why!?"

"It would make an excellent chapter for my book," he replied, still smirking
devilishly. "Not to mention the bragging rights!"

"I am going to hurt you, Malfoy."

"Is that a promise?"

"What? No! I mean-ergh!" Harry eventually gave up. He sighed

exasperatedly at Draco's continuous, sinister smile.

"You're impossible."
"Hey, it's a standing offer." He shrugged as he ran his finger through his hair
nonchalantly. "…If you change your mind…" he added suggestively.

Harry glowered. "Are you kidding me? After you just said you're going to
write a chapter about it in your supposed best-seller book, and that you would
brag about it!?"

"I was joking!" Draco slapped the surface of the water flippantly, sending a
bubbly wave in Harry's direction. He moved to one side, annoyed. "I wouldn't
tell anyone! My lips will be sealed…afterthe fact, of course."

"Oh, cut it out, already," Harry snapped, hating that he still found himself
blushing. He really wished he had his boxers on now, too, because he would
have gotten out right then and there.

Malfoy raised his hands in a falsely defensive way. "Fine, fine…"

"Oh Draco! You ruined it!"

Both boys whipped around at the sudden, shrill outcry of—

"Myrtle!"

Indeed, Moaning Myrtle had finally chosen to reveal herself, looking even
more upset and sour than usual. She floated forward, staring daggers down at
Malfoy with her transparent, phantomlike hands on her hips.

"H-how long have you been there!?" Harry spluttered.

Wasn't one time enough, to be caught in the bath by Myrtle? Only this time
was much, much more embarrassing.

"Not very long…" she responded…before she smirked. "About the time you
kicked the house elf out." she then admitted. "So disappointing, I really
thought I was going to see a show. Would have been the best day of my
afterlife."

"Oh, my God. Myrtle, get out of here—"

Malfoy looked even more perturbed than Harry. Her angry expression
suddenly melted away.

"Oh, Draco!" she gushed, floating down into the water next to him as if she
actually could sit at his side. "I was so broken up about it when I'd heard
you'd died in St. Mungo's—I cried for days—my poor, poor dragon!

"Myrtle!" Draco seethed, quickly turning scarlet. "Don't call me-not now—"

"My dragon?" Harry balked incredulously, grinning.

Myrtle's attention shifted to Harry. "So it's all true, then!" she gasped. "I
overheard Nearly Headless Nick whispering about it to the Fat Friar, about all
that happened in the Great Hall! The lightning, and-and you took his wand!"

She stared at Harry with huge, gray eyes which shone behind her glasses,
completely in awe. He felt a wave of panic course through him.

"Myrtle-Myrtle, you can't tell anyone we're here in the Room of

Requirement," he commanded at once. "Not a word to anyone, I swear to
God—"

"Is that where we are…?" she asked thoughtfully. "I thought the pipes felt
different…"

"I mean it, Myrtle. This is dire—"

"Oh, I won't!" she shouted. "Who would I tell? Weren't you just listening? I
only knew about what happened because I was eavesdropping, I'm not
exactly popular amongst the dead, let alone theliving."

Harry did not feel reassured. He looked at Draco skeptically. "Does

Legilimency work on ghosts…?"

Malfoy shrugged unhelpfully.

"No, it doesn't," Myrtle answered, sniffing. "And we can't have our memories
erased, either… The dead remember everything."

Harry pondered this for a moment. So the Hogwarts ghosts knew, Ginny,
Dean, Seamus, Neville, and Luna knew… And Dobby the house elf knew, so
probably the rest of the elves did, too…

In all of his Hogwarts experience with secretive gossip, Harry thought wryly,
it was very likely that most of the castle knew the truth of what happened that
night, but was wisely—hopefully—playing dumb.

Myrtle smirked playfully. Her ghostly gaze, which had been fixed on Harry's
face, slowly trailed down his body…which caused him to quickly gather
more minty bubbles about himself. "My, how you've grown up, Harry!" she
shouted gleefully, gliding over to sit by his side, instead. He moved away at
once.

Why in God's name hadn't he kept his boxers on? And even worse, why had
he left his clothes—and a towel—so far out of arm's reach?

"Just kill me," he muttered as he looked up. The mermaid was silently but
openly laughing at him.

"Ohhh, then you could haunt the bathrooms with me! My offer from second
year is still open, we could share a toilet…"

"I change my mind. I would like to live forever."

Malfoy laughed shortly as Myrtle stuck her lower lip out. "How very
Slytherin of you," he crooned, poking Harry in the shoulder. He winced and
fled in the opposite direction, which was, unfortunately, closer to the
lecherous she-ghost.

But what Malfoy had said… It made him suddenly think of something.

"Say, Myrtle…" he started, already feeling apprehensive. But once the

question had popped into his head, he couldn't stop himself from asking, "…
What was…what was he like?"
He paused for a moment while she looked at him, confused. "You know…the
Dark Lord. You went to school with him… What was he like? In hindsight,
now that you know it was he who sent the basilisk on you… I mean, you
probably had classes together and everything, right? Were you in the same
year?"

Harry could see Malfoy tense out of the corner of his eye. Truth be told, he
was a bit surprised at himself for asking so many bold and daring questions,
but once he'd started talking, he found his curiosity increasing with every
word he spoke.

For a moment, Harry feared that Myrtle was going to be greatly offended.
She opened her mouth soundlessly, taken aback… But then she seemed to
quite suddenly radiate with enthusiasm for the topic of her death—or, more
precisely…her murderer.

"Well..," she began, and Harry leaned in closer. Myrtle noted this and
immediately did the same. "Yes, we were in the same year. I didn't know him
very well at all, truth be told. I only talked to him once, in fact. But I'm sure
that's obvious why. I didn't really have friends, especially not someone like
the Tom Riddle… "

Harry felt his heart skip a beat at hearing his name out loud, spoken so
casually—if also quite a bit spitefully. "And, obviously, we were in different
houses. Oooh, I still remember his sorting to this day."

"Yeah?" Draco asked, moving in closer to the conversation. Myrtle looked

absolutely beside herself at having the rapt attention of Draco Malfoy and
Harry Potter simultaneously—in the Prefect's bathroom and mostly (or in
Harry's case, completely) naked, no less.

"Oh, yes," she gushed. "It was so dramatic. You have to remember, of course,
this was so long ago. Things became a bit more lax over the years, but back
then, blood status was a huge ordeal if you were sorted into Slytherin house."

"It still is," Draco quipped. Then he seemed to recall that there was only
Slytherin house, now. "Er, when there was sorting, anyway."
"Yes, well, back then it was far, far worse than what you two knew in
school," Myrtle explained. "If you were in Slytherin, you had a name, and
money, and if you didn't—well, generally, the Sorting Hat just didn't put you
there."

She paused theatrically. "So?" Malfoy prompted immediately, ever impatient.

"What happened at his Sorting?"

"He was one of the very last to get Sorted. And usually the Hat at least takes
a moment to decide, sometimes much longer, you know how it is—but…
well, you have to understand what he looked like. Like it wasn't enough that
he had the last name of 'Riddle' (Harry's heart fluttered again), which is
obviously not a pureblood name, because if that was all, then maybe, maybe
he could have assumedly been a half-blood, with the unfortunate
circumstance of inheriting the wrong surname… But no. He was wearing old,
beaten up robes, clearly used and probably donated. He waspoor. And no one
with relations to an old, pureblood family is poor."

Harry frowned at this, wanting to argue, but Draco nodded knowingly. "But
Ron's family isn't wealthy," he pointed out.

Draco scoffed condescendingly. "My father says that the Weasley family
used to be respectable. Er, sorry. They used to have money. It's only recently
they've begun to-to-right." He stopped short under Harry's mutinous glare.

Myrtle continued. "He was a tiny thing, too. Smaller even than me, if not the
smallest one of us all. Short, scrawny—cute enough, I suppose, but most
eleven year olds are—but he didn't lookhealthy, I remember that. He looked
neglected. Even before the word got out, it was pretty obvious he was an
orphan."

Harry felt his stomach twisting into knot…for Myrtle had essentially just
described his own entrance into Hogwarts.

Only he'd had money. And a name. A name that everyone knew, a name that
everyone revered…
They may have both been orphans, but…Harry Potter had gone to Hogwarts
with everything that Tom Riddle had ever wanted…

Because of what Lord Voldemort had done.

"So imagine the great shock it caused when he sits on the stool, and before it
even touches his head—before Professor Dumbledore could even take his
fingers off of it!—it shouts, 'Slytherin!'"

She grinned impishly. "How confused and angry were they, the other
purebloods who had been sorted into that house. I remember feeling bad for
him. He sat in the Slytherin section, and you could just see the people
scooting away from him like he had a sickness, muttering things under their
breath…"

"Mm, mm, mm." Myrtle shook her head solemnly, sighing like it was a very
depressing thing, yet she still had a sinister smirk on her face. "The Hat might
as well have thrown him to the wolves. Of course, I imagine it knew who he
was at once, even if no one else did yet."

Harry pondered that. When, precisely, did the Dark Lord figure out that he
was, in fact, the Heir of Salazar Slytherin himself? Surely he didn't known
right when he'd arrived… Of course he hadn't, or he wouldn't have been so
confused…

Because Harry had seen the briefest snippet of it, long ago in a whirlwind of
violent nightmares. When he'd accidentally broken into the Dark Lord's mind,
he had seen it, the way the other Slytherin students had spat the word
'mudblood' at him, and he had been confused because he didn't know what
that meant…

…But it had sounded like 'freak'…

"To answer your question." Harry refocused on Myrtle's shimmering face.

"He was everything that you might assume he'd be…when he got older. He
really grew into himself. I would say around third year, maybe, was when he
stopped being so meek and quiet and started to really stand out. Girls adored
him, of course."

She sounded suddenly very bitter. "Oh, I'd hear them gossiping all the time in
the bathroom about how cute that Tom Riddle was. So smart, so handsome…
top of every class, Slughorn's favorite pupil… No doubt he'd be a prefect,
probably Head Boy, too… They all just threw themselves at him! But I don't
think he ever once had a girlfriend... Which, as you might expect, just made
them drool over the idea of him even more. Like he was some kind of
unattainable male God or something."

She made a distasteful 'tsk' noise as she readjusted her glasses. And it was
very strange, to observe a ghostly Myrtle who, just as when she had died, was
wearing her school robes, pretend to be translucently lounging in the bath
with them as she spoke. Harry cocked his head inquisitively. "So when did
you talk to him?"

Her eyes seemed to darken at his question. "In our first year," she said. "Only
time. And… gosh, it's just so deliciously ironic, in hindsight."

She twirled the hair of one of her pigtails around a finger absent-mindedly.
Harry and Draco, each on either side of her, leaned in even further. "I was
just minding my own business in the library one day, trying to read up on
basic wizarding practices—because I was muggle-born, and I literally knew
nothing—my classmates kept making references to all sorts of things that
meant nothingto me, and oh! It was so frustrating, to not understand! When a
couple of older Slytherin students caught me reading a book that explained
Gringotts in a way that only someone of my birth would need to read at all."
She paused for a second, looking decidedly mutinous. "But anyway. I was
reading, and this mean group of bullies looking for something to do decided
that they would pick on the poor, Ravenclaw mudblood."

Harry almost recoiled at how venomous her voice had become at the last
word. "They were all pureblood prats, of course, and seeing me alone at a
table in the middle of the library, reading up on a bank that their families all
had massive vaults with for Merlin knows how long…well, I was ripe for the
picking, wasn't I? So they started poking fun, asking when I was going to
trade in all of my muggle money for a galleon or two, what they thought it
would get me, if I had enough to buy a proper husband, because I was such a
worthless, stupid mudblood—"

She stopped short. The ghostly tears that simmered in her eyes, which Harry
had witnessed many times before, seemed…different, this time.

They almost looked real.

"…And then Tom Riddle came."

Both boys remained silent. She looked straight ahead when she spoke, no
longer glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"He was always in the library, you know. Stacks of books all around him, like
some permanent fixture at the corner table. Well, he saw them all surrounding
me, and strode on over, tiny, unimposing thing that he was, and told them to
stop calling me that."

Harry and Draco stared in disbelief as she nodded. "Yep. Told them that it
was a dirty, vile word." She sniffled. "So naturally, they laughed their arses
off, being told what to do by their own, pathetic, orphan, house-mudblood. It
got really bad—they started picking on both of us, making all sorts of
comments about how we would make lovely, mudblood children—and it
would have gotten really out of hand, I'm sure, if McGonagall hadn't stepped
in."

"McGonagall?" Harry gapped, totally bewildered. "Minevra McGonagall?"

"Oh, yes. She was a prefect when we were first years. She happened to walk
in to the library at that moment and stop it all. She was wonderful. Probably
saved us from getting hexed half to death, as the librarian was, as usual, not
paying attention…but Tom Riddle didn't seem to think so."

Harry's mind was still reeling from this revelation that his former Head of
House used to be in school at the same time as an eleven year old Lord
Voldemort. "N-no?"
"No." Myrtle fixed him with a blank stare. "She came in and rescued us, and
once the Slytherin lot left—because none of them found taunting first year
students worth a detention—asked us if we were all right, and…well. He sort
of snapped. Said he hadn't needed her help. That he didn't need anyone."

She paused for a long moment. "…I remember thanking him. Telling him he
shouldn't have done it, you know. Stood up for me like that. And do you
know what he said?"

Harry shook his head silently. "…He said, 'you're right. I shouldn't have'…
and walked away. Stormed out of the library, leaving all of his stuff behind,
even. And…and that was that. I never spoke to Tom Riddle again. Unless, of
course, you count when he killed me. But I didn't know who I was shouting
at, then."

There was a long and heavy silence that followed her words. No one, dead or
living, looked at each other. Harry stared into his own distorted reflection in a
pastel green bubble.

Tom Riddle had… He had stood up for a mudblood girl, before he knew who
he was…

Only to murder her, years later.

Harry wondered vaguely what life would have been like, if Tom Riddle had
never discovered he was the Heir of Slytherin. If his empathy had blossomed
into something more…rather than blackened into venomous loathing.

Because he wasn't a 'mudblood'. Had never been, all along. They had all been
wrong…

The quietness was only broken when the unwanted sound of the doorknob
turning shattered the spell of silence. Draco reacted first.

"Myrtle! Get out of here!" he demanded at once. To Harry's great surprise,

she actually listened.
"Fine," she snapped as she lowered even further into the water. "But you had
better come visit me when this is all over…my dragon." She winked
flirtatiously at Malfoy before disappearing below the sea of bubbles, to,
presumably, hopefully, leave through the pipes from whence she had come.

A moment later and the sound of not one, but two voices greeted their ears.
The Weasley twins stood in the open doorway, identical, giant grins on their
faces as they took in the sight of the Prefect's bathroom.

"Excellent," they murmured in unison.

Harry groaned. So much for privacy.

Once the twins had awoken, it wasn't long before everyone else in the Room
did, too. Harry had eventually decided to summon Dobby simply so that he
could hand him a towel, demanding that everyone look the other way when
he got out.

Hermione and Ron had entered just as he'd secured it around his waist, about
to get dressed. Ron had found the whole things just as magnificent as the
twins and Malfoy had (also muttering an impressed 'excellent' upon seeing
it), but Hermione, in great contrast, nearly had a panic attack. For, as she
pointed out, quite wisely, that if the bathroom really had been moved, that
meant that the actual Prefects of Hogwarts wouldn't be able to get in, because
it simply wouldn't be there, and that would assuredly cause a bit of an upset
and set off alarm bells that something in the castle was awry.

And, of course, there was too much truth in this to be ignored. She bustled
the group of rebellious, teenage boys out of the room (a much harder task
than one might think, as the twins were already half naked and had long ago
perfected the art of ignoring the wisdom of Hermione Granger—eventually,
Harry had to demand that they get out, as they seemed to listen to him alone
these days), and the very moment they all made their exit and closed the
door, it vanished behind them.

Such a shame, Harry had thought, sighing wistfully after it was gone. The
only good thing about the ordeal was that Snape had just so happened to be
down at Aberforth's again, so they at least did not need to deal with what
would have assuredly been a long-winded, angry lecture form the Potions
Master (as if Harry had purposefully told the castle to go around, rearranging
rooms for his pleasure!). But Snape did not see it, and no one planned on
telling him, not even Hermione.

"He'd just panic, but there's no point now, is there? It's gone now." She'd
shrugged. "I already did enough of that for all of us, I think."

And it was true. No one else seemed too fussed about it at all, only slightly
disappointed that it was now gone.

The remainder of the day passed surprisingly leisurely. Dobby, beautiful,

delightful creature that he was, brought them all copious amounts of
whatever food they desired (except Draco, who settled for constantly stealing
from Harry, instead—which Harry allowed, just asking for more whenever he
pleased). Snape returned to them a few hours later, more newspapers in his
hands, but informing them all that, thankfully, that there was no major news
to report.

In the afternoon, Harry had made good on his promise, and began teaching
Draco how to cast a patronus. The Elder Wand in his hands radiated power
through his entire body, almost demanding that spells be cast…preferably
magic of a much more powerful, dark variety. While wielding it, he had to
resist the strange and nearly overwhelming urge to challenge everyone in the
room to a duel.

It was both enthralling and unsettling, to feel so reckless. With the Deathstick
in his hands, Harry felt like he could conquer the world…

But he settled for teaching Draco Malfoy a thing or two.

"The wrist movement is important, yes—it's like this—Expecto Patronum!"

For the third time, a stag strutted about the room merrily. Draco nodded as he
gave it another go.
"Expecto Patronum!"

A small, wispy wave of silver. Malfoy's eyes lit up at the sight…but it

vanished nearly as soon as it had come. His face fell.

"No, that was good!" Harry said encouragingly. "That was a start, really! It
took me way longer than that to even get something to show up." He did not
point out, however, that he had started practicing against a boggart from the
get-go.

Draco grinned sheepishly. "Yeah?"

"What do you think it'll be?" Ron asked curiously, watching their practice
idly from the table as he helped himself to some crackers Dobby had
provided. He crunched on one loudly.

"Maybe it will be…a snake." Hermione commented lightly from his other
side.

"Like you-know-who's?" Ron sounded very skeptical.

Hermione shook her head. "No, no, not like that. That thing was massive, like
some kind of python. I bet Malfoy's would be much smaller, like a garden
snake—"

"Hey," Draco muttered in annoyance. "I—"

"I bet it will be a ferret," Ron said, smirking.

Harry snapped before he pointed at him. "That's what I said!"

"Hey!" Draco was turning red, now. "It—"

"Maybe it will be a rat," Fred joined in, as he and his twin were also situated
around the same table.

"Or a fat toad," George said thoughtfully. "Shall we take bets? We can all
throw in a galleon, and winner gets the pot!"
"Put my money down for a ferret," Ron said at once. George nodded as he
scribbled that down on a scrap piece of parchment.

"Aw, I wanted ferret," Harry whined sarcastically. "Put me down for…

possum, then."

"Hey!" Malfoy was getting redder by the second. "Quit—"

"And you, good sir?" George looked to his twin expectantly. "I've already
taken rat."

"But that's what I said!"

"Too late, my quill has spoken. Better think of something new. What about
you, my lady?"

Hermione, to Harry's surprise, decided to join in rather than reprimand them.

"I'm sticking with garden snake," she said firmly.

"Armadillo," Fred said suddenly. "They hide in their shells whenever they're
threatened, and sort of roll away—"

"What is that supposed to mean!?" Draco seethed shrilly. No one paid him
any mind.

"All right, armadillo, then—quite adventurous of you, brother—"

"Put me down for peacock."

They all turned in shock at the sound of Snape's drawling voice. He was
peering at them over the top of his Daily Prophet from the other side of the
room, reclined leisurely into an armchair. There was a sardonic smirk on his
lips, and he looked highly amused at Draco's obvious discomfort.

"…A peacock!" George repeated in awe as he scribbled it down. "That's

brilliant! Of course he'd be a flashy, snooty peacock, just like the ones in his
yard—"
"Stop it!" Malfoy shouted angrily, but they all laughed. "It's not going to be
any of those things!"

He scratched his head irritably before lifting his wand. "Stupid—I'm

imagining all of you getting locked in a dungeon right now, just so you know
—Expecto—"

"Stop!" Harry shouted, reaching forward and grasping his wrist. "Stop, stop!
Never try and cast a patronus with a thought like that!"

Draco faltered at how sincerely worried Harry had become. He lowered his
arm. "I mean it. Trying to cast a patronus with an impure thought can have
seriously bad outcomes. That's…that's why dark wizards generally never try
and learn, you know. It's not just difficult, it's dangerous."

His own, shining stag came sauntering slowly towards them. It lowered its
antlers dolefully.

"Remus told me that," he said hollowly. He stared at his patronus, his green
eyes lit up by the gentle, steady pulse of silver. He was momentarily lost in a
reverie of him and Lupin, practicing tirelessly for hours in his office… And
thoughts of his father, who, for a brief moment in time, while he knelt next to
his dying Godfather in the woods, had thought alive… He had thought it was
he, James Potter, who had cast the patronus which saved him and Sirius both
from the dementors…

But they were gone, all gone…

The stag vanished.

"Well," Malfoy sneered after a moment, pocketing his wand. "I guess I'm
done for the day, then, because all my happy, pure thoughts just went out the
window." He glared at them all mutinously.

"Good."

Snape got to his feet, folding up the newspaper as he came forward. He

stopped in front of Harry…and he suddenly looked quite serious. He glanced
down at his wrist to check the time. It was still early, not even six yet. They
still had hours before he would be meeting with the Dark Lord again.

"You and I need to have a conversation. A…private one." His dark eyes
swept fleetingly over the others before returning to Harry.

"Oh…okay," Harry said apprehensively. Snape turned without another word,

heading towards his private room. Harry gave everyone a quick, confused
look before following. There was a deep sense of foreboding in his chest as
he walked.

What could Snape have to tell him, at this point, which he could not tell the
others?

The door clicked shut behind them. Harry stared in slight amusement at what
was almost an exact replica of the master suite from Grimmauld Place.

But Snape's demeanor had become exponentially grimmer once the door
closed, and he immediately locked it with a complicated spell and cast a
silencing charm about the perimeter. Harry watched in confusion as he did.
Was that really necessary?

Snape's sallow features were distorted in a way that was terribly familiar, and
it took Harry a moment to recall when he had ever seen the Potions Master
like this. It was similar to when he'd been preparing himself to apologize to
him. Only…worse. Much more anxious.

Harry waited silently. The trepidation in the air mounted with every passing
second. "…Your conversation with the Dark Lord tonight shall be much
more invasive," he said slowly. "The last one was quick. Decisive. It was
setting the stage and proving that you could end it whenever you wanted. He
knows what to expect now, and will have planned his words and verbal
tactics very carefully. He may attempt to pull you into what seems like idle
conversation, if only to throw you off balance. He will make false promises
as well as set his own terms. And what will you do?"
He almost sighed. They had been over this countless times already. "I will
play the perfect role of myself, as a reckless teenager who has a bit of a
'saving people thing', and pretend like I am willing to lie to you all about
what we agree upon in the privacy of my own dreams."

"But of course, you are lying."

Snape's black eyes were cold and accusatory.

"But of course, I am lying."

Harry repeated this mantra, blinking innocently. Snape's eyes narrowed

suspiciously.

Harry did sigh, this time. "Professor, we've gone through this a thousand
times. I know what to do, I get it—"

"Do you?" Snape said quietly but firmly. "You must. You must know exactly
how to react, how to speak, how to move forward… I need to know that you
understand this perfectly well."

He appeared suddenly very desperate, practically afraid. Harry almost

cringed at the uncharacteristic look on his face. "I do!" he said reassuringly.
"I…I do…"

Snape nodded, averting his gaze down towards the floor, but that horrible
expression only deepened.

"Good," he said hoarsely. "Because… I need… I am going to tell you

something. Something…something horrible. So horrible that you may
demand that I leave afterwards. And I will, if that is the case. I'll leave
Hogwarts and seek refuge elsewhere. But you need to know. You need to
hear it… And you need to hear it from me."

Harry's stomach dropped completely. A cold wave of dread washed over him
in terrible anticipation for whatever awful thing Snape was about to say.
…And it became pretty evident why he had cast a silencing charm around the
room, after that.

Harry had, amazingly, fallen asleep much easier that night.

There were no guest visits from Luna, Ginny, or the others, this time. Harry
had climbed into his hammock with a numb mind, and sleep had come to him
nearly at once.

He opened up his dreams as he fell into slumber. The Dark Lord was waiting.

To Harry's extreme surprise, he did not look angry or upset even slightly. He
was already sitting on his side of the barrier, the phone already in his hand.
His face was stone-like and unreadable. His eyes shone crimson.

Thankfully, there was no unwanted, giant elephant joining them this evening.
Harry suppressed a sigh of relief as he picked up his own phone and smiled
thinly, wondering what, exactly, would transpire tonight.

This conversation could go about a thousand different directions...

The Dark Lord remained silent. Harry cleared his throat to speak first.

"…Have you reconsidered my terms, then?" he asked casually.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, staring at Harry with that undecipherable
expression. For a long moment he said nothing. Only looked at Harry
blankly, like he was a mildly interesting photograph.

Harry waited.

"Dreams are…strange, aren't they?" he finally murmured, completely

ignoring the previous question.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "I…I guess."

"Take, for example, this…glass." Voldemort ran his fingers ever so lightly
across the surface of the transparent wall between them, and Harry couldn't
help it, he reacted instinctively—the ward strengthened at once, shimmering a
bit as it did. The sensation of his fingertips against the Occlumency barrier
was soft and feather-light, but he could still feel it. The Dark Lord's lips
curled into a knowing grin.

"To me, it feels cool, hard…smooth…because that is what my mind is telling

me. That is what I know of glass, that is what it has always felt like in my
past." He lowered his hand. "Because our bodies are not actually here, we
perceive physical sensations only through what our minds tell us, through
what we already know. If I had never experienced…glass, it may feel very
different to me, here. It may be warm or wet, soft or slick. It would be a blank
space in my memory, and my mind would make a presumption…and that
would be what I would feel."

He fell silent after this. Harry's mind was reeling at these very strange words
as he tried to figure out just what he was getting at. So, because they were
dreaming, their minds were telling them what they were feeling, which may
or may not be accurate if it was something that they'd never experienced
before, and—

Oh.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut as he realized exactly what
physical sensation he had never experienced before that the Dark Lord was
referencing. He felt a blush sweep through his entire body in a rapid wave of
scorching heat. Voldemort's grin broadened at how Harry went from pale to
red in an instant.

"…You could have been completely off," he said, his eyes flashing a bright,
dangerous crimson.

Harry probably should have hung up the phone right then.

 30. Taboo Topics
Harry probably should have hung up, but he didn't.

His body seemed quite frozen in place as he jumped to the very unwanted
conclusion that Lord Voldemort had made an insinuation about…and it was
one of the three topics that Harry had decided should be avoided at all costs.

The first was his captivity.

He knew that in some respect, he could possibly use that, but…Harry wasn't
entirely sure that Voldemort was capable of guilt, even if he was capable of
love. Though that was only a partial truth. The main reason was that Harry
simply did not want to talk about it.

Never, ever again.

…The second topic was that of his parents.

That was one of the very last conversations Harry ever wanted to have in his
entire life with Lord Voldemort…especially considering what had transpired
between the mass murderer and himself.

Which was, of course, topic number three.

We had sex. In a dream. In the Department of Mysteries, in the Death

Chamber, as I was contemplating nightmare-suicide.

…And that was putting it all rather lightly, truth be told.

It was also exactly what Lord Voldemort was bringing up, right now, in the
most vague and unsettling of ways. In a few, seemingly unrelated statements,
the Dark Lord had effectively pointed out that he knew very well that these
were Occlumency barriers in front of him which were preventing Harry from
feeling Voldemort's emotions and vice versa (as well as other dangerous
possibilities), had completely thrown him off balance by talking about the
fickle intricacies of dream magic, and now—

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling like his very skin was on fire.

"…Off?"

It was not the most eloquent, intelligent response, echoing Voldemort's last
word back to him like some kind of stupefied parrot, but really, under that
scrutinizing and wickedly amused stare, Harry was impressed that he'd been
able to say anything at all.

Voldemort laughed softly.

"What did you feel, Harry…? Do you not remember…?"

Harry swallowed again, not wanting to dwell on that, not wanting to go there,
knowing that this was the worst thing to—

"Yes, you do, I remember, too. I felt everything that you perceived, just as
you tasted each of my emotions… Your mind was wide open, and you were
begging, wanting…pleading…"

Voldemort leaned closer to the glass, a ruthless, relentless, malicious entity.

Harry could do nothing but sit there, totally paralyzed. "You were desperate
for so many things…" he crooned huskily, and Harry swore he could feel his
breath in his ear, despite the fact that he was using a telephone, but that could
not possibly have been the case—could it?

"Desperate to feel, desperate for someone, something, anything to end the

emptiness… Desperate to want, and desperate to be wanted… You were
longing for me…"

"No."

Harry gasped the word. He shook his head, trying to re-align his frazzled
thoughts. "No. I wasn't. I wasn't- I- not for anyone. I wasn't think of anything,
then."
"Yessss, you were," he purred, the words bordering on parseltongue in a way
that made Harry's heart skip a beat. "How do you think I found you, Harry?
One cannot simply appear in another's dreams, they must be invited, in some
form or another."

"I never invited you!"

"Mmm, but you did…"

Harry decided then and there that he wished Voldemort still had a high, icy
voice. This deep, slightly rough one was…worse. Worse. "You may think
that you wanted to die that night, but you did not. No, it was a cry for help. A
desperate plea for someone to come. To be wanted. It was an open invitation
to anyone who was listening…and I would never ignore a cry from my own
soul."

Harry shook his head in denial. Voldemort was unrelenting.

"Yes, yes, yes…" Each word felt like a nail being drove into a confinement
Harry barely registered he was being trapped in. Voldemort's eyes seemed to
grow brighter and bloodier with each passing moment.

"…D-did you know—?"

Harry barely stopped himself from finishing the question, because no, no, this
was not what they were supposed to be talking about, and—

But Voldemort immediately took advantage of his half-finished inquiry, and

began filling it in as he pleased.

"Did I know…before I arrived that you were my horcrux?" he asked in a

falsely innocent tone. "I had not come to the conclusion yet, no, not before I
heard your unwitting call in my own dreams. I may not have never come to it
otherwise, if I am being perfectly honest. The possession, while at the
Ministry…should not have been painful, I assumed, if you were mine. But
now I realize it is because you were not submissive. I require your surrender,
in some fashion, for the pain to cease."
Harry's clammy fist curled more tightly around the phone in his hand. He
recalled quite vividly the much more recent memory in which Voldemort had
tricked him into revealing himself and giving up his power in his nightmare
at Grimmauld Place, how it had nearly cost Draco his life—

But Voldemort went on unabashedly. "Did I know…before I arrived that I

was going to pull you away from the veil of Death and kiss you…?"

Harry's anger instantly faltered under embarrassment again. Voldemort's eyes

were gleaming wickedly, his lips curled into the most dangerous of grins.

"That I was going to fuck you?"

Oh, God.

Harry physically reacted to those words, his entire body twitching and nearly
dropping the phone. He didn't think it was possible, to burn even hotter than
he already was, but he felt another powerful, very unwanted wave of heat
rush right through him, like he might actually, literally catch on fire.

Voldemort obviously noticed this, too, but his voice was rather casual when
he went on. "…No. I had no idea."

And then he laughed, an oddly genuine, light sound, and he even ran a hand
through his hair in a fashion that was incredibly strange in that it made him
look, momentarily, so…so human.

"I had no idea!" he repeated, smiling, like he, too, found the whole ordeal
crazy in hindsight.

But then his predatory demeanor was back in a flash, his eyes glinting
perilously again. "But it seemed like the right thing to do, at the time."

He laughed again, only it was much darker, this time.

"Th-the right thing to do!?" Harry balked. "Are you- are you kidding? That
was-it was-couldn't have been more wrong—"
"You didn't seem to have a problem with it, then. That was your magic that
shredded my clothes off, not mine…"

Harry couldn't have possibly blushed deeper. "It-it was not."

"Denial does not become you, Harry…" Voldemort's fiery eyes roved over
his body blatantly for a moment as he cocked his head to one side. Harry
somehow managed to turn an even brighter shade of red. He really couldn't
handle this.

"…Mmm… I take that back."

His smile…was far too smug.

"St-stop that."

"Stop what? Reminding you of what started this whole ordeal in the first
place? That you begged for pain and pleaded for pleasure and took so much
ecstasy in being fucked by Lord Voldemort?"

A tiny pause while Harry's stomach twisted and curled in unfathomable ways.

"…That it made you feel alive?"

"I-you-I-I was fifteen!"

It probably wasn't the most powerful argument—as it did not, in fact, deny or
argue against any of the accusations that the Dark Lord had just made—but
that was what came spluttering out.

Oddly enough, Voldemort actually shrugged at this. "Age is a relatively

meaningless concept when you are immortal."

"I'm not immortal," Harry snapped heatedly.

Voldemort's dangerous, lust-filled gaze darkened in an instant. His bloody,

bright irises dimmed, and his entire hot-blooded demeanor transitioned into
something icy and stiff.
"No," he said, his face and voice suddenly flat and cold.

"No…you are not."

A long stretch of silence. Harry was thankful for it, even if it meant having to
endure the Dark Lord's other kind of intense, analyzing stare. His core body
temperature slowly fell to something normal. The blush faded from his skin.

"You cannot stay there."

"You cannot hurt my friends."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed maliciously.

"Your friends…" He seethed the word like it left a bitter taste in his mouth…
only for his posture to relax slightly a moment later.

"The blood traitor. The mudblood… Treacherous and unworthy of an ounce

of mercy, but they were mere children, when it began… Young, twisted
pawns of Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape… You can keep them, if it is
so important to you, the safety of your murderous friends."

Harry almost winced at how venomously he spat the last words.

"…But then you leave them tonight."

"And Draco Malfoy, and his parents. And Severus Snape."

"No."

Harry clicked his tongue. "Then I'm staying right here."

"You think you know Severus so well, don't you?" Voldemort said softly. He
drummed his fingers lightly on the ledge. "You think you have him all
figured out, that he was on your side all along, working on Dumbledore's
orders and solely faithful for the side of the so-called light… You are wrong.
He is deceiving you now just as he was deceiving me."
The lethal anger in his words made it clear that this, Snape's betrayal, was a
like a raw wound that Voldemort would never heal from. Harry found that
striking in a way, because if he was so affected, so…so hurt, it could mean
that on some level, he had actually, genuinely liked Severus Snape…

Could Voldemort experience true friendship? Kinship? Not love, but…

something like an attachment for a person? It was a novel concept that had
never really struck him before, but now, hearing that sour, venomous tone in
his ear…

"No, he's not," Harry said calmly. "He's not being deceptive, not anymore.
Not to me."

"…Really…" Voldemort's eyes burned a bit brighter. "Have you ever

wondered, Harry, how I came to know that there was a prophecy concerning
you and me in the first place?"

Harry's brows raised in surprise. "I… I suppose. But it also doesn't really
matter at this point, now, does it?"

"Severus Snape."

His face was contorted in some mixture of disgust and determination. "He
was the one who was listening in that day, it was he who overheard Sybil
Trelawney in a Hogsmeade. Only the first half, ever so conveniently enough,
before he was thrown out by Aberforth Dumbledore…and he came running
to me afterwards. So desperate to please his master, so truly loyal, then…"

Harry swallowed down a lump in his throat. Voldemort was smirking evilly.
"If it would have been anyone else, he would have never turned from me. He
would have been happy to watch me kill any other family in cold blood for
the sake of our cause, would have celebrated their deaths with the rest of my
followers…until he realized exactly who it was about."

He leaned forward, taking in Harry's devastated expression and relishing in it.

"He's been lying to you all long. Severus Snape was the one. Your savior.
Your protector. He was the sole cause for all of it."

"I know."

The Dark Lord's malicious grin flickered.

"…I know," Harry repeated hollowly. "He told me. Earlier today, in fact. He
told me everything…and…and I forgave him."

An involuntary, murderous snarl tore its way out of Voldemort's throat, and it
looked like he might just snap the phone in half. It was very, very obvious
that he had wanted to be the one to tell Harry about Snape's critical role in the
death of his parents.

Which Snape had figured out, as well. The Potions Master, once again one
tiny but infinitively monumental step in front of the Dark Lord.

Voldemort looked murderous. His free hand was clenched tightly into a fist
on the table. "He only told you because he knew that I would, otherwise. All
he does, all he has ever done, since that day, is attempt to quell his own guilt.
He does not care for you. He is a liar."

"I know. I know that's why he told me. I'm not stupid." Harry's voice was
empty, his tone flat.

"And yet you forgive him."

"Yes."

Voldemort's fist uncurled, digging his nails into the wood of the shelf.

"I forgive him because I don't want to spend my life being angry and bitter.
There is nothing I could scream or shout or do to him that would cause him to
suffer more than what he does to himself, carrying his own regret. And I did
scream. And I did shout. But it didn't make me feel any better, when I was
done. My words were nowhere near as terrible as his own."

He paused. "…He saved me. He's not a good man, but he's a remorseful one.
Hating him would accomplish nothing except to fill me with hate, too… So I
forgave him. More for my own sake than for his."

Another brief pause as Harry relived the incident. A room filled with
splintered wood and broken glass and an even more broken man.

"He certainly didn't want my forgiveness. But I gave it to him, anyway."

Voldemort snarled again—albeit a bit less vehemently this time. Harry's

vacant expression lifted as he finally got a bit more of his confidence back.
"You would have liked that, wouldn't you? To be the one to tell me. To work
me up into a storm of fury so that I would wake up all hateful, sending him
away—right into your open, waiting arms, huh? Because you have people
searching for us everywhere, don't you?"

He let out a bitter laugh. "Sorry you don't get to manipulate me. I'm not
turning anyone away, and I want their safety. Enough people have died in this
war. I won't… I can't… No more. No more."

An unanticipated rage suddenly shot through him. "Remus died because of

you."

Voldemort's narrowed eyes widened at the accusation. "I did not kill Remus
Lupin," he stated flatly.

"You as good as did. Bellatrix killed him, because of you."

The dark wizard looked almost amused by that. "Not even I can wholly
predict the murderous actions of my dear Bella when she is in battle…"

"A battle you sent her in to! With the order to be as lethal and deadly as
possible!" Harry slammed the table. The wards shimmered. "What was it you
said, exactly? Something about putting her bloodlust to better use? Oh,
and…" His voice darkened considerably in his imitation of the Dark Lord
himself.

"'…I want to see you dance.'"

Voldemort looked genuinely surprised. "Yeah, I was there. Right there, right
beside you, and you had no idea. Going to make Severus Snape a nice crown
out of my dead mother's screams, are you…?"

The Dark Lord's face fell into that completely blank and emotionless mask.
For a long time, he was silent.

"…I am not responsible for the death of Remus Lupin." Harry scowled at
how he so blatantly ignored his last words. "I never gave the order to kill.
Bellatrix had a personal vendetta against Remus Lupin, as he was a half-
breed who married one of her own blood. She did not kill him because of
what I said—that was a murder she had been trying to commit for a long
time. Only my direct and specific order not to kill him could have possibly
stopped her."

There was a definite ring of truth to that, Harry knew it, but it certainly didn't
make things any better.

"I hate Bellatrix Lestrange," he fumed, and this time it was he who was
digging his nails into the ledge of the table.

"And I hate Severus Snape."

Harry scoffed. "Trade you Snape for Bellatrix," he muttered sarcastically.

"Done."

"I-What? No-no! I was just- that was just a-a very poor-God, there wasn't
even a second of hesitation on your part, was there?"

Voldemort smirked. "Bellatrix Lestrange for Severus Snape. I accept your

offer."

"No, I didn't actually mean—"

"Where shall I leave her? Would you like her disarmed? Tied up? Maimed in
some way? I want Severus whole."
"Stop it—"

"But you must. You offered up a deal. I have accepted. We have now entered
into a magically binding agreement. You cannot back out or you could lose
your magic. Maybe even your mind, I would not know… I have never made
a deal I did not intend to keep."

Harry's face paled. "You're…you're lying."

Voldemort's expression remained cold and unmoving for a long, tense

moment…until he finally cracked a small, sinister smile. "Joking, actually.
My, Harry, how gullible you are. Do you really think magically binding
contracts are so easy to form? If that were the case, half of the magical
population wouldn't make it through puberty."

Harry let out an audible puff of relief. "….You…you were…joking," he

gasped disbelievingly.

"About the contract. But I would gladly take you up on that offer."
Voldemort leaned forward expectantly, his red eyes brightening in that way
that Harry was coming to associate with dangerous deviousness. "Tell me,
Harry. What would you do with my Bellatrix, hm? Would you murder her?
Would you stand over her and cast the killing curse and watch the light fade
from her eyes? Would that make you feel… powerful?"

Voldemort had a suddenly intense hunger about him that nearly made Harry
squirm. He sat back in his chair, if only to get a few inches further away. "I…
I…maybe. Maybe… Maybe I would let Neville Longbottom Crucio her until
she went insane. Probably wouldn't take more than two minutes, she's already
so far gone."

His last words were muttered scornfully. Voldemort considered this for a
moment before sort of shrugging, like he was mildly disappointed in Harry's
response.

Harry shook his head, exasperated. They were far from the topic they were
supposed to be talking about. "If I gave you Snape, you would really agree to
not harm the others?" he asked skeptically.

"Not the Malfoy's. Not Draco."

"But why?"

"They bore my mark, they were my followers who turned their backs… Their
lives belong to me." His temper flared like a newborn flame all over again,
his irises blazing in a crimson inferno.

"Okay. So you want The Malfoys and Snape…and me." Harry tapped his
finger on the table thoughtfully while he paused.

"Anything else, then? Just so I know where we stand."

"The Elder Wand."

Harry's brows raised before he laughed—darkly. "You want the Elder

Wand?" He took the Dark Lord's stiff and sinister motionlessness as a 'yes'.
"…I don't think the Elder Wand wants you," he said coolly.

Voldemort visibly flinched at this, actually looking a bit…wounded, and,

Harry suddenly realized, he hadn't even meant a deeper insinuation when he'd
said it, but…

He cleared his throat. Voldemort's distraught expression swiftly became

blank and flat again.

"I want my wand back," Harry said firmly. The Dark Lord's illuminated eyes
flickered.

"…Your wand."

And then, his stony face became—if such a thing were possible—even
blanker, like whatever thoughts and emotions Voldemort was feeling at that
moment were terribly distressing.

And maybe that was why Harry decided, for the first time ever, to play
offense instead of defense.

He struck.

It was…surprisingly easy.

Maybe it only worked because the Dark Lord was absolutely not expecting
Harry Potter to attempt Legilimency on him right then and there. Harry stared
right into his ruby eyes and thought,'show me'…and the moment he voiced
the command in his head the tiniest crack appeared in the glass, and Harry
dove straight into the mind of Lord Voldemort.

It was very fast, but it was enough.

…The most southern tip of the planet…

…The world is vast and white and endless, and Lord Voldemort has been
walking the landscape for days… But no more…

Harry Potter's wand.

Holly. Eleven inches. Relatively supple. Phoenix feather core. The same
phoenix. Voldemort's wand's other half… He holds it in his blackened, dead
fingers, and it falls to the snow, where it is immediately consumed by
whiteness… Like it never was…

And then it is the other wand which he holds…

He breaks it to pieces, watches as the splintered yew scatters across the

blinding landscape… There is a crimson light to mar the otherwise blank
field of white, a beautiful splash of red and gold…A phoenix feather…

Harry was tossed.

Quite viciously, Harry found himself mentally thrown from the mind of Lord
Voldemort, back to the safety of his own head, on the other side of what he
saw was his blessedly intact barrier…
But it was too late. He'd already seen it.

Voldemort's face was as still and mask-like as it ever was, sitting stock still
on the other side of the glass.

Harry's face was profoundly, emotionally etched in every ounce of horror and
utter disbelief that he felt.

His wand…his wand…was buried underneath the snow and ice at what he
now knew for certain was the South Pole.

Voldemort's wand…was broken to pieces all around it, scattered and

irreparable and without a core.

The symbolism…was sickening.

Neither of them said or did anything for a long time. Harry's face never
changed at all as he stared in stunned and mutinous silence, and Lord
Voldemort did not offer up any explanation whatsoever.

Eventually, after who knew how long, Harry slowly moved the phone away
from his ear. The Dark Lord, who now knew that hanging up the phone
meant the conversation was done for the night, did nothing to stop him, only
watched Harry's hand silently as he very, very gradually, almost robotically…
hung up.

"That bastard!"

Harry bellowed the words the very moment he woke up. He nearly tumbled
out of his bed again, and decided that sleeping in a hammock was a practice
he was going to have to end, given the circumstances. He got to his feet in a
rage.

"That bastard!" he repeated heatedly.

"What? What is it, what's happened?"

They were all gathered around him in an instant. Snape looked exceptionally
pale and sickly.

"My wand!" Harry roared. "My bloody wand! He's-he's gone and left it at the
South fucking Pole!"

He started pacing vehemently. They immediately cleared a path.

"It's probably under a solid block of ice, by now! That…that bastard!"

They remained silent while he continued to rant for a bit, slews of curse
words to describe his outrage leaving his mouth in a steady stream, until he
finally calmed down to the point where he was no longer shouting.

"I can't believe him," he eventually muttered at a reasonable volume. He

flung himself down into an armchair.

The others sat at his sides, all moving a bit nervously. Snape alone remained
standing a few feet away.

Harry couldn't blame him. He wondered whether things would ever be

normal between the two of them again.

…Or as normal as they ever had been, at least.

"S-so what did he say, Harry?" Hermione asked hesitantly. "You know, to
your terms…?"

He ran a hand through his tousled hair, still rather disgruntled. "Well, it went
better than we thought it would, this time."

Naturally, he was decidedly leaving the entire first half of their conversation
out. He glanced back and forth between Ron and Hermione.

"He's agreed to let the two of you live, at least."

Ron made a let out a very loud, theatrical exhale. Hermione smiled weakly.
"Still didn't let on that he knows about the broadcast though…sorry."

The twins both shrugged. "Ah, well," Fred said unconcernedly. "I suppose
that just means you aren't going to be rid of us quite yet. Hopefully Malfoy
can manage to produce a corporal patronus soon. I have a feeling there's a
juicy pot waiting for me."

"Shut it." Draco glared at him before looking desperately to Harry. "What did
he say about us…?"

"You and Snape? Oh, no, definitely not." Malfoy's face turned slightly green.
"Well we expected as much, didn't we? Give it awhile…" Harry tried to
sound reassuring, but Draco barely managed to nod weakly.

Snape was staring at Harry in what was obviously great conflict. No one else
in the Room knew what the Potions Master had admitted to him just hours
before, and Harry did not see the point in telling them. It was Snape's burden,
now…and it was he, Harry, who had suffered the consequences. So as far as
he was concerned, there was no reason to bring anyone else into it.

Harry had forgiven him.

Snape would never forgive himself.

…And that was that.

Harry knew that the Potions Master was looking at him like that because he
was wondering if Voldemort had brought it up, after all. If he'd been right in
assuming that the Dark Lord would try and use it against him, to
manipulate…or if he had admitted his greatest regret of all time for nothing.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Harry did not feel the need to inform him either way
at the moment.

"I'm going to bed. For real, now," he announced, feeling far too emotionally
spent in a way that was probably unhealthy. No one argued his decisions
anymore—at least, not when it concerned strenuous conversations with the
Dark Lord. Because none of them could truly understand what it was like.

It had always been him, hadn't it? To deal with this insanity. Harry glowered
as he silently climbed back into his hammock, wondering if and when the
Room would be kind enough to grant him with a sleeping arrangement that
was slightly less hazardous.

There was some quiet shuffling as the others respectfully followed his lead, a
door shutting softly on the other side of the room…and soon, the lights went
out, and all were enveloped in darkness.
 31. No Shortage of Love
Harry wished he could say that he covered himself up in copious amounts of
blankets, closed his eyes, and fell into a nice, dreamless sleep.

He wished he could say that he was able to masterfully push all distracting,
unwanted thoughts aside, and allow his poor mind to get the rest it so
desperately required.

He wished he could say that was the case…but it was not.

Harry had been lying awake for quite some time. Everyone around him had
dozed off, even Draco—though his softly glowing nightlight was nowhere to
be seen, tonight.

It would have been understandable if it were thoughts of the Elder Wand and
his own beloved holly wand (which was probably more of an Antarctic
popsicle, at this point) that kept him up. Or if it were just general concerns
and fears for the well-being of his friends as he looked forward to more
negotiating with a monster.

But no.

'…You could have been completely off.'

God damn it, Harry thought angrily as hid his burning face under the covers
from no one.

Because as much as he tried to clear his thoughts, to shift them into focusing
on something else…his traitorous mind would bring him right back to that
dream.

That dream.

…Had he been totally off?

It may have been a dream, but he could remember everything quite clearly,
now. It was strange, too, because when he'd first woken up, that morning
afterwards, all he had been able to recall were his words:

'I will come for you.'

Everything else had been a foggy haze until he was on the Knight Bus,
stumbling down the stairs in an attempt to flee… But then his mind had
exploded with the joy of Lord Voldemort's joy, who had been so
unexpectedly, happily surprised to be able to catch his human horcrux so
quickly… Because he, Harry, had been such a damn fool…

And the moment that the Dark Lord had possessively grabbed him from
behind, the moment they had touched, that dream-like memory came back to
him with a swift vengeance, completely clear and lucid and—

Stop it, Harry berated himself. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about
what it may or may not have felt life. About how you, apparently, shredded
his clothes off. About how it felt to have someone else's emotions fill the void
of loss. About how…how sickeningly wonderful it was to be kissed by—

Stop it stop it stop it!

Harry dragged his hands down his face, which was about as hot as the desert
sun. This is what he wants, he told himself. For you to get stuck on this.
That's why he brought it up. This is a distraction technique. To get you all
flustered. To get you all…bothered.

Right. Right. I am not bothered by this. I did not enjoy it, nor do I think it
should ever happen again and he is a horrible, horrible monster.

…But…then again…he is quite a bit different now… I mean, he does love

me, and isn't that absolutely mad? Also…he is really, really—

Don't even go there. Don't even think it—

He's kind of stupidly good-looking now, in a crazy, terrifying, sort of way—

Oh, THERE it is! Why did you even have that thought, you stupid pile of
teenage hormones! Who cares what he looks like, now!

But it's true, no one's said it because no one wants to, but there's a reason
'veela' kept coming up as the comical point of comparison—only he literally
glows a bit, which is really weird, but also sort of—

Harry James Potter, stop this internal dialogue at once—

I mean, if having sex in a dream with the much less attractive snake-like
monster was like that, then I can only imagine—

Nothing! You can only imagine nothing! He is a monster and murderer and
he killed your parents and Cedric and is the reason that Sirius and Remus and
Mad-Eye and so many others are dead and he would kill everyone you love if
he could and he locked you in a god damn box and—

And I totally want to have sex with him.

Harry shook his head despairingly, hating himself on more than a few levels.
He felt like he was burning alive under the sheets, and he couldn't simply lay
there a moment longer. He quickly glanced around at the others: all asleep,
all peacefully, beautifully asleep…

He was about to get up when his eyes landed on Draco in particular. Light
sleeper… Harry retracted his wand, and even now, in the dead of night
surrounded by unconscious people, the Elder Wand seemed to stir in him
some need to…well, to do more than just cast a mere silencing charm around
himself, so that he would absolutely not be heard when he moved.

Smirking as it his own cleverness, Harry crossed the room as quietly as a

ghost, and found some solace in the (normal, regular, non-prefect) bathroom.

He locked the door behind him, little good though it may do against a group
of wizards, as Malfoy had pointed out. But it gave him the false sense of
privacy that he so desperately wanted.
I am so being manipulated, Harry thought morbidly.

And thoughts of the Dark Lord—horrible, awful, wrong, wrong, wrong

thoughts—assaulted his mind, and he firmly pushed the much more
reasonable voice in his mind away so that he could be a terrible, horny
teenager for a few minutes.

The shame would probably be crushing and all that, he knew it, but that was
five minutes from now, and present-Harry didn't really care much for very-
near-future Harry's feelings. He did at least have the presence of mind to
make sure his Occlumency barriers were all perfectly intact.

They were. Very good.

Harry closed his eyes as he slid his hand down his stomach, pushing his
sweatpants down and getting an erection ridiculously quickly. Fuck, he
thought as he lightly stroked himself, exhaling and thinking of−of…

Unexpectedly, almost like the memory had been waiting on the outskirts of
his subconscious for exactly this moment of weakness to resurface, Harry
recalled that sultry, hypnotic parseltongue from when he had been hiding
himself in the confines of his own nightmare. How it had been so lovely, so
inviting… He could hear it like it was being spoken in his ear, the warm
breath across his skin…

'…Harry Potter…'

He wrapped his fingers around himself more tightly, biting his lip to suppress
his own, unanticipated moan as he thought about his hands, his fingers both
around his member and digging into the skin on his back and the pleasure and
the pain and how he had wanted all of it—

'…I will have you…'

Oh, God, Harry thought as he began rhythmically moving his hand up and
down his length, reliving the sensation of what it had been like, to have Lord
Voldemort's lips crashing over his own, so demanding and possessive and it
shouldn't have felt so good, to be so dominated like that, but it had—to be
bent and broken, to have nails drawing blood as they dragged across his
shoulders and back, to be so violated, so owned—

'…Yesss, Harry… You are mine…'

It had felt good, it had felt disturbingly good, and maybe they had been his
emotions, maybe not, but it hadn't mattered. It had been most amazing
sensation in the world, and nothing else in his entire life had even come close
to it… He could imagine it so perfectly, now, his fuller lips, his new body,
burning with whatever new, strange magic he had coursing through him,
biting at his neck and claiming every inch he touched—

'…I want to hear you sssssing, Harry…'

Where those words had come from, Harry had no idea—but the imagined
sound of his parseltongue hissing in his mind made him throb in his own
hand, and a short, involuntary whimper escaped his throat, despite how
tightly he was biting his lower lip. Yet the pain only made it better, and he
wished there were more, more—

'…yesssss…'

He was pumping himself harder than he ever had, hips bucking as it took
nearly all of his willpower to stop from crying out at this insane,
unfathomable ecstasy that was so beyond what should have been happening
—lost in the delirium of the memory of that seductive, hypnotic hymn, the
ghostly imaginings of the Dark Lord taking and owning and fucking him—

'…Sssweet sssoul…'

He was so close, now, the oncoming climax driving every single logical
thought from his mind, and there was nothing else but this, this—

'…Sssing for me…'

And then it happened. Harry came so hard it was debilitating, his entire body
shaking as he reached his peak, throbbing in his own hand, and there was no
stopping it—he did moan, a loud, guttural cry that sounded like it was half in
pain, half in total, overwhelmingly powerful ecstasy—he moaned, and in the
back of his mind, it felt like a covetous, desirous serpent was drinking in the
sound, relishing in its victory—

'….Yesss, yesss, yesss…' it hissed over and over again, and Harry's back hit
the wall, sliding down to the floor in a trembling and inexplicably exhausted
heap. He was still hard as he sat there, panting and reeling from what was
easily the longest orgasm he'd ever had.

He…was imagining all of this, wasn't he?

Harry took in several long, deep breaths as he tried to calm down enough to
feel for the barriers in his mind.

'…Next time, you will ssscream…'

What the fuck, Harry thought in a panic—but when he reached out to feel for
them, they were there, perfectly intact. His mental wards, keeping Lord
Voldemort completely in the dark on what he was doing, thinking…feeling…

Weren't they…?

There was a knock at the door, and a voice, small and whispered though it
was, jarringly shocked him out of his own thoughts.

"Harry…? Are you in there?"

Harry nearly had a heart attack as a wave of horror swept through him. For he
had just made the loudest, most horrendous sound in his entire existence, and
surely that must have woken everyone up.

But then he realized that the silencing charm he had cast around himself was
still intact. God bless Draco Malfoy and the fact that he is a light sleeper, the
Elder Wand, and my own spell casting abilities, Harry thought wildly as he
retracted the spell. Thank every god and goddess and deity that may or may
not have ever existed —

Harry quickly cast a cleaning charm and made himself decent, forcing all
thoughts of−of everything else aside. He splashed some cold water on his
face before clearing his throat, willing his body to stop shaking.

"Are you okay…?"

Unsure of the answer to that question himself, Harry tentatively went to open
the door. The concerned face of Hermione Granger greeted him, her wand
held before her with a softly glowing light at its tip.

Then, without an invitation, before Harry could even utter a single word, she
entered into the bathroom with him and shut the door. The light from her
wand grew brighter, and her concerned expression became more pronounced.
She cast a silencing spell around the room.

Harry had a large sense of foreboding.

"I noticed when you got up," she explained in a louder voice. "I couldn't
really sleep, I kept having bad dreams…but anyway. You were in here for a
while, and…"

She turned and sat on a bench that Harry was certain had not been there when
he'd been in the bathroom by himself. She motioned for him to sit next to
him…and he did, reluctantly.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, Harry. Right?" Her tone was
so warm, so friendly. She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "I would
never judge you for anything, you know that. Never. You're my best friend,
you always have been—ever since you saved me from a troll in the girls'
bathroom."

She laughed breathlessly. Harry smiled, but his stomach was twisting into
knots.

"I mean it," she continued. "It's not healthy, to keep everything bottled up
inside just because you think you're doing everyone else a favor by not
burdening them. I'm here for you. And I've been told I'm pretty smart, so I
may even be able to give some good advice. So…is there anything you want
to talk about?"

Harry's already contorted stomach seemed to do somersaults.

Should he tell Hermione Granger what had transpired between him and Lord
Voldemort in a dream over a year ago…?

Hermione Granger, who had always had always remained loyal and true to
him, in all of his best and worst moments? Who had dealt with the drama of
Rita Skeeter with the grace and sophistication of a woman much older and
experienced than she? Who had decoded the complex and confusing riddle
that was the emotional disaster of Cho Chang…?

Harry seriously considered this.

…For about two seconds.

"Nope," he said hoarsely, averting his gaze. "No, I just… I just couldn't sleep,
either."

Her intelligent, wide eyes made it clear that she was not at all fooled.
Nonetheless, Hermione did not press the point.

"Okay… But you do know that you can talk to me about anything at all, don't
you? Even things you don't want Ron or Malfoy or Professor Snape to know
about." She smirked. "Especially Professor Snape."

Harry laughed nervously, but shook his head. "I know. But really, there's
nothing bothering me… Besides, you know, all of the obvious. It's just…
mentally exhausting, these dream conversations. These supposed
negotiations. I can't sleep normally, now. I don't know if I ever will again."

Hermione put an arm around his shoulder, pulling him into a sort of sideways
embrace. She sighed. "I can't even imagine what it's like," she muttered. "I
hope you know just how much we all admire you for what you're doing. For
persevering, despite everything you've been through."

She looked up at him, and Harry was a bit stunned to see that her eyes were
suddenly shimmering with tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm just… I'm so sorry."

And maybe it was a bit stupid, to actually feel less bitter about everything at
that, but he did. Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist in a much
tighter embrace, which Harry returned at once, and he hadn't even realized it
until then, how much he just wanted to be told he was appreciated for all of
the exhausting turmoil that was always thrust upon him.

They were just a few words, but they made him feel significantly better.

Hermione wiped her face with the back of her sleeve when she pulled away,
quickly stifling whatever sobs had threatened to overwhelm her. "You know,"
she started in a much more level voice, "you missed an entire year of magical
education… I was thinking, since we have so much free time during the days,
that tomorrow I could maybe catch you up a bit, if you like? We learned
loads last year—despite how horrible it was without you, of course—potions
with Slughorn was fascinating, and in Transfiguration, we began to delve into
magical theory. It was incredible! And for Defense, with Snape, we got into
wordless incantations, which you should definitely learn, of course, not to
mention these defensive shielding techniques…"

Harry grinned as Hermione prattled on about all that he had missed in classes
during what would have been his sixth year at Hogwarts, and the familiarity
of her enthusiastic, academic tone made him forget almost entirely about his
own unwarranted thoughts.

And strangely enough, life, for a few hours in the confines of a small
bathroom as he listened to Hermione Granger go on and on and on about
school work…almost felt normal.
"I think we should start with Potions!" Hermione said brightly.

Harry stared at the massive accumulation of books that she had piled on the
table in front of him. The moment that she had mentioned going over
everything he'd missed in classes the night before, the Room had provided
another bookshelf consisting solely of old, used textbooks from students of
Hogwarts' past.

Harry and Ron sat next to each other at the table, watching as Hermione
continued to scour the new shelves and find more texts that could prove
useful. Malfoy was on the other side of the room, practicing making a
patronus. Fred and George hovered nearby, watching gleefully and
continuing to speculate on what kind of animal Draco would eventually
produce. The Malfoy heir was, thus far, doing an impressive job of ignoring
them.

Snape had gone down to speak with Aberforth earlier that morning, and had
yet to return.

"Potions?" Harry said skeptically as he picked up the old textbook. "Why

Potions? Isn't that the most inconvenient and useless thing to practice,
here…?"

He flipped through the book, frowning as he examined the worn and

weathered pages. "This one's been scribbled all over, too," he muttered.

Which was true. It had so many handwritten additions added to the text that it
was difficult to read the originally printed words.

"Hm." Hermione pursed her lips disapprovingly as she looked at the pages
over his shoulder. "That's a shame… Okay, well, how about Charms, then?
We learned a ton of useful new spells last year—"

"What I really want to learn is how to Apparate," Harry said wistfully,

shutting the Potions textbook and setting it aside.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron spoke first, in what was a poor but
discernible imitation of Hermione herself.

"Harry, you can't apparate inside of the castle walls! You would know this if
you had ever bothered to read Hogwarts, a History!"

Harry smirked. "What if I break the ward, first?"

"Then we'll have to rewrite Hogwarts, a History."

"Or add a footnote, at least."

"Oh, yes, that'd be brilliant," Ron agreed.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well, what would you like to focus on, Harry?
That we can actually practice, at least."

Harry scanned the towering pile of books in front of him…and found that he
did not see a single one that piqued his interest.

No, what really caught his eye was the struggling Draco Malfoy in the
corner, who was quickly becoming flustered under the verbal assaults of the
Weasley twins.

"I think I'm all right with being a magical drop-out," Harry said, getting to his
feet. He crossed the room to join the disgruntled-looking blonde.

Malfoy paused mid-incantation. "May I ask what it is you're thinking about?"

Harry asked lightly.

Draco hesitated for a moment as he lowered his wand. "…I was thinking
about getting out of here," he finally muttered. "About being free again."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm. Yes, okay," he said. "I think that's your
problem. That thought…it's happy, I guess, but…it's too weighed down with
anxiety, you know? It's a hope, but also a fear. You need to think of
something that's purely joyful. Memories work best. A moment in your life
where it was just pure, untainted happiness. Innocent. For example, I thought
about when I found out that I was a wizard, the first time it worked for me.
That I wasn't doomed to a life with the Dursley's, that I wasn't a freak… That
I had magic. Something like that."

Draco looked highly uncomfortable. "You don't have to tell me what it is,"
Harry went on quickly, even taking a step back. "But I think that will help."

"…Okay."

Malfoy lifted his wand again, about to shout out the incantation once more,
when—

"Happy Backwards Rubber-Necking Day!"

Luna's joyful shouting caused everyone to turn. She and Ginny removed the
disillusionment charms around themselves, smiling widely as they door shut
behind them.

"Happy what?" Ron asked first. "Backwards what?"

"Backwards Rubber-Necking Day!" Luna answered. She thrust her hand up

in the air jubilantly. "It's the day in which the famous excavator and explorer
Leopold MacPherson Gericault Jr. first discovered the rare and exotic Albino
Dunglepopper, completely on accident, because he was distracted, watching
the—"

"Ah, yes." Ron clapped his hands together and nodded. "Backwards Rubber-
Necking Day, now I remember. And here I am, without my butter beer cork
necklace!"

Luna blinked at him owlishly, tilting her head to one side and looking
thoroughly confused.

"…The butter beer cork necklace is for nargles, Ronald."

"Yeah, Ronald," Ginny said teasingly. "You should know better. Oi, what's
Malfoy doing that's got you all watching him?"

She turned her attention to Draco, who instantly lowered his outstretched
arm. His face turned sour at the presence of the youngest Weasley. "Nothing,
I—"

"He's trying to make a corporal patronus," George answered.

"Oh, really? I bet it'll be a ferret."

"That's what I said!" Harry and Ron shouted at the same time.

Ginny made and held eye contact with Harry, smiling mischievously. Draco
looked mutinous.

"It will not!" he seethed. He glared pointedly at Ginny. "What is your

patronus, then, hm? A leech, maybe?"

"It's a horse," she answered coolly.

Malfoy bristled even more at that, as that was an undeniably impressive

creature. "Well mine is going to be something better," he snapped, shoving
his wand in his pocket.

"Whatever." Ginny turned away from him. "Say…Harry," she said, looking a
bit nervous—a trait which suddenly reminded Harry of how she used to be
when he had first met her. Meek and shy.

"Yeah…?"

"Do you mind… Could I… I know this is going to sound like a huge favor,
but could I borrow your Invisibility Cloak?"

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Ginny instantly blushed. "Only for a

few minutes, I swear. I would just disillusion myself, but I'm not good at
making the charm work outside of my own body, and−and you won't regret
it, I promise!"

She looked up at him almost pleadingly. "Really. I'll be back before you
know it, I just have to go get something, and now would be the best time…
It's a Saturday, but most everyone is at Hogsmeade, and…and you really,
really won't regret it."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, hating that he was having such a hard time with
this request. The Invisibility Cloak was his most prized possession, and what
would he do, if she lost it…?

But the way that she was staring at him, so desperately, so beseechingly…
Well, he never was very good at denying people what they wanted when he
could be helpful, was he?

"…Okay," he finally said. Malfoy scoffed. "But you'll bring it right back,
yeah?"

"Yes," she nodded vehemently. "Yes, I'm just going to grab something and
come right back. I swear you won't regret it."

Harry went and retrieved his Cloak from a small wardrobe in the corner,
holding it to his chest for a moment. He swore he felt the Elder Wand thrum
in his pocket.

"Be careful," he said as he handed it over.

Ginny only nodded again before donning it, and she took off at once.

"I wonder what that's all about," Ron muttered thoughtfully after she'd left.

But Hermione was grinning in a knowing way. "What?" Ron asked, noticing
her wry expression. "You know, don't you? What's she up to?"

"I've no idea," Hermione blatantly lied. She sat at one of the chairs around the
table, picking up the old Potions textbook and flipping through it
nonchalantly. Ron sighed.

"I hate how she does that," he said, looking to Harry. He laughed.

Harry and Ron both took a seat as well. Luna joined the twins on a couch on
the other side, but Draco, who was obviously too irritated to try a patronus
again, sat himself in an armchair as far away from the rest of them as
possible, and began writing.

"Is Backwards Rubber-Necking Day really a thing?" Harry asked under his
breath. Luna had begun animatedly chatting with Fred and George about
corporal patronuses. Harry thought he saw Fred write something down.
Perhaps Luna was placing a bet as well.

"I don't think so," Ron answered.

"What do you think that even means?"

"I dunno. What is rubber-necking?"

"I think it's a muggle term, but I forget…"

They carried on this discussion for a short while, but it was a conversation
that was cut short as Ginny fulfilled her promise and returned only a few
minutes later. When she pulled the cloak from her body, it was to reveal
herself, looking breathless and radiant, and there, on her outstretched arm—

"Hedwig!"

Harry jumped to his feet, a giant grin breaking across his face. Hedwig the
snowy owl immediately took flight when she saw him, soaring across the
room and landing on his extended forearm.

"Hedwig! You're alive, you're okay!"

Hedwig fluffed her feathers joyously, nipping at Harry's ear so zealously it

bordered on painful, but Harry was laughing and laughing as she emitted a
continuous, cheerful coo-ing sound.

Everyone (with the exception of Draco Malfoy, who peered over the top of
his new journal bitterly from a distance) watched the happy reunion with
cheerful expressions. Hermione looked like she might just burst out into tears
of joy.

Harry finally turned his attention back to Ginny. "Ron said that you were
taking care of her," he suddenly recalled.

She nodded. "Yeah…though she certainly didn't make it easy for me."

Hedwig let out a low hoot, nipping at Ginny's fingers in a friendly way that
she used to reserve only for Harry. "Stubborn girl wouldn't eat for a long time
after…well, anyway. Doesn't matter, now."

She gently stroked the top of Hedwig's head.

"Ginny, I can't−I can never thank you enough."

"You're welcome," she said simply. "I mean, I'll have to take her back to the
owlery, obviously, but… I thought you'd want to see her…"

Harry grabbed her with his owl-free arm, pulling her into as tight a hug as he
could manage—but Hedwig decided to take flight anyway, settling herself on
top of the bookshelf instead. He wrapped both arms around her.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Harry muttered into her shoulder. He
breathed in the scent of her hair, and noted that it had a distinctly flowery
smell to it that was actually quite pleasant.

When he pulled away, she was a blushing a bright pink. "You're welcome,"
she repeated.

"I used her to send a few letters throughout the year, Harry, I hope you're not
upset," Luna interrupted, looking absurdly, sincerely concerned about it.
Harry laughed loudly.

"Luna, there is virtually nothing you could do that would make me upset with
you." He looked back to Ginny. "Either of you. Really."

Ginny's blush deepened.

"Oh, it's all just so beautiful!"

Fred shouted dramatically as he jumped to his feet. George immediately

followed suit.

"It's too much! I can't handle all of these feelings!"

They both burst into pretend-tears, holding each other and sobbing
theatrically. Everyone laughed as the twins embraced, fake crying into each
other's shoulders and falling into a pile of false emotion, acting like they were
sobbing and wailing until they couldn't keep it up anymore, and they were
left laughing, too.

Draco alone remained silent and unamused.

"So… You're missing out on Hogsmeade?" Harry eventually asked, once the
spectacle was over. He and Ginny joined the others around the table.

"Yeah. Dean is going to be furious, I expect, I forgot I told him weeks ago
that I would meet him at the Three Broomsticks for drinks…"

"Dean Thomas?" Ron, Fred, and George all inquired at once.

"Yes, Dean Thomas."

"At The Three Broomsticks?"

"For drinks?"

"As in, a date?"

Ron was leaning forward across the table accusingly. Fred and George had
crossed the room in a flash, standing ominously on either side of her.

"Yes, I suppose you could call that a date," Ginny responded. "But I forgot
entirely—"

"I don't like that Dean Thomas much," Fred said scathingly—which Harry
found very amusing, as they had all seemed quite fine with Dean just days
ago, when he, Neville, and Seamus had been there.
"Me either."

"Always was a bit of a prat."

"Well who asked any of you!" Ginny shouted heatedly. "Besides, I've just
told you, I blew him off to come here, to—"

She stopped short, glancing fleetingly at Harry before turning red again. "My
personal life is none of your business, anyway."

"I disagree," Fred muttered. "As your older siblings, it is in our job
description to make your personal life a very large part of our business—"

"Lest some lecherous, destructive teenage boy attempt to—"

"Oh, stop it!" Ginny shouted, her blush deepening even more. Draco let out a
low snicker which carried from across the room.

Ginny glared at him. "I don't like Dean Thomas, either," he added, shrugging
dismissively before going back to his writing.

"Aw, you hear that?" Ron said adamantly. "You know it's bad when even
Malfoy doesn't approve."

"What!" Ginny balked. "That—"

"Guys," Harry interrupted, trying not to laugh. "Leave it alone, already."

And, perhaps only because it was Harry who had made the request, the
Weasley boys listened. Fred and George took a seat, folding their arms and
nodding…though they continued to look at Ginny skeptically.

It was then that they noticed Luna. She was pacing, examining the room with
a hand under her chin and looking pensive, and Harry was pleasantly
surprised to see that Dobby was at her side, having silently reappeared at
some point.

"I was thinking some baubles across the ceiling, here. In violet and green, of
course, in honor of Backwards Rubber-Necking Day."

Dobby nodded. "Yes! Baubles! And Dobby is thinking…garland!"

"Yes!"

And they all watched in amusement as Luna Lovegood and Dobby the house
elf decorated Safe Haven in a most outlandish way. The entire time they
worked, Luna explained in a passionate voice just what, exactly, this bizarre
holiday was. And really, Harry had to admit, the story of Leopold Gericault
Jr. was actually quite dramatic and terribly entertaining; a torrid tale of
romance and passion, lust and loss.

"You've got to love that girl," Ginny muttered to Harry under her breath as
Luna began impersonating the rare and exotic Albino Dunglepopper—which,
evidently, did a backwards crab-walk and made loud whooping noises when
feeling threatened.

Harry smiled. "Yeah," he agreed.

Hedwig chose that moment to fly across the room, landing on the table in
front of them and hooting softly. She looked fondly back and forth between
Harry and Ginny; her wide, amber eyes filled with affection.

"There's certainly no shortage of love, here."

The rest of the day passed leisurely enough. Ginny and Luna left before the
rest of the students were to return from Hogsmeade so that they could pretend
to have been on the grounds and in the library all day, and so that Ginny
could take Hedwig back to the owlery. She returned the Invisibility Cloak as
quickly as she had the first time, earning another rib-crushing hug from
Harry.

"Be safe," he'd told them both before they'd disappeared, as were his usual
parting words. They'd left with promises of visiting again as soon as they
could.
Snape had resurfaced as well, though he seemed keen to keep his distance
from all of them. He noticed the glittering baubles and garland with a
confused, distasteful look gracing his sallow features, but made no comment
as to their mysterious appearance.

As a matter of fact, he only spoke once all day. It was Harry he'd addressed,
and it wasn't until late at night.

"Are you feeling prepared…?"

His black eyes held no emotion. Snape's face was a blank mask, cold and
detached.

"Yes."

To which he'd nodded curtly, settling himself into his usual armchair on the
far side of the room, disappearing behind the latest issue of the Prophet.
Again, there was no major news to report.

…Harry wondered how tonight would go.

His conversation with the Dark Lord the night before had been quite…well.
There really wasn't a single part of it that had been good, was there?

Harry pulled a blanket over his head, hating that everyone else stayed awake
during these 'negotiations' so that they could wake him up if he started acting
too distressed in the real world. It made falling asleep a real chore.

…Especially when he recalled what it was that had occurred just that
morning.

It had been easy enough to distract himself from it when he was talking with
his friends, but now, as he closed his eyes and prepared to enter into yet
another dream with the Dark Lord himself…

…Had he felt it, when he…?

No, Harry told himself firmly. He couldn't have felt it, he doesn't know. My
Occlumency barriers were perfect. Are perfect. It wouldn't be possible, for
him to know that−that I−

He swallowed thickly as he shoved those thoughts aside. Don't dwell on it.

That is literally the last thing we need to be thinking about right before we
see him.

We? We? Harry bit his lip exasperatedly.

He started counting.

Nargles, though he still had no idea what they looked like. Each time he tried
to picture one, he invented a new creature in his head for what they might be,
and he found that the process helped distract him. Maybe they have scales, he
thought idly, as he pictured something that looked like a miniature, blast-
ended skrewt…

One…two…three…

…Only without the barbed tails…

Four… five…six…

…Or maybe nargles do have barbed tails, he thought dazedly…

Seven…eight…nine…

Yeah…yeah, I think they might…

Ten…eleven…

He eventually drifted to sleep.

Lord Voldemort was waiting.

Just like the last time, he sat stock still, looking cool and collected. The phone
was to his ear, and there, in his other hand—
"My wand!"

Harry stared in disbelief at what was, in fact, his beloved, familiar, beautiful
holly wand. Voldemort held it intertwined between his pale fingers, and
though his face was initially quite stoic, his lips pulled into a tiny smile at
Harry's overzealous grin.

"Did you−but how—?" Harry ran a hand through his hair excitedly. "How did
you find it? What, were you just digging through the snow and ice all damn
day, or something?"

At this, Voldemort's expression fell. "…No, Harry…" he started, speaking

very slowly and clearly. He looked deeply concerned.

"I cast an appropriate warming spell around myself, apparated to the

approximate location where I dropped it, and said… 'Accio Harry Potter's
wand.'"

Harry stared.

"…Ah," he eventually said after a long stretch of uncomfortable silence. He

laughed. "Yes, I… I suppose that would work, wouldn't it?"

Voldemort continued to look genuinely worried about Harry's mental well-

being.

"How do I know that's real?" Harry asked, ignoring the sinister wizard's
troubled gaze and pointing at the wand. "How can I believe you, how do I
know it's not just something fake that you've thought up?"

The Dark Lord actually scoffed. It was one of those strange mannerisms that
made him seem so much more human—even if only momentarily. "If I had
any amount of power here outside of my own person, do you really thing that
we would be…here?"

His scarlet eyes scoured the length of the glass wall, like he hoped he could
ignite it into flames with a glance. "…Fair point," Harry conceded.
His fiery gaze landed on Harry again. "I fell asleep with the wand in my
hands, and so I have it here with me."

"Is that how it works…?"

"Yes."

Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering if that was a lie. But he could think of no
other explanation as to why the Dark Lord would have the power to conjure
up his wand in his dream, if he didn't want him to be able to.

He stared at the slim stick of holly wood longingly. Voldemort ran his fingers
across it in what Harry could have sworn to high heaven was intentionally
meant to be a very suggestive way (Harry had to force himself not to think
about the night before, no, no, no)… before putting it the breast pocket of his
robes and hiding it from sight.

The Dark Lord grinned wickedly.

Harry cleared his throat, trying to look and sound unaffected. "So you found
my wand," he said. "That's-that's great. Have you reconsidered my terms,
then?"

Voldemort's smug expression vanished, replaced by that cool, calculating

stare that Harry now knew generally preceded some comment or question
that he would not enjoy. He swallowed thickly.

The Dark Lord's irises darkened. They transitioned into that richly saturated
ruby hue, the same color they always turned when he was filled with some
kind of heavy emotion.

His tone, too, was deeper when he spoke. It was the closest thing to fear that
Harry had ever heard in his voice.

"…What happened to my locket, Harry?"

 32. Tu Vis Dans l'Obscurité
Harry's entire body went cold.

He knew that it must have shown on his face and that his skin had probably
paled to the color of snow, but Voldemort remained motionless, patiently
waiting for a response.

It was a long time before Harry finally found it in himself to speak. He did
not want to have this conversation. Could not. Would not.

"…Gone," he finally said in a gravelly, hoarse voice.

Voldemort's expression remained still.

"I am aware that it is…gone." When Harry didn't say anything, he asked the
question again. "What happened to my locket?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "It doesn't matter. It's destroyed, now. They all are.
It doesn't matter."

Harry was resolutely staring down at the wooden ledge when he said it.

"It…doesn't matter." The Dark Lord repeated his words viciously, a fierce
accusation in his ears. Harry didn't look at him.

There was a long, horribly uncomfortable stretch of silence.

"Tell, me, Harry," Voldemort finally said, and his voice was now alarmingly
conversational. When Harry glanced up, it was to see that he was drumming
his fingers idly along the ledge, and that he had one foot propped up on his
knee, looking quite casual. Like they were just discussing the weather over
tea.

"Did they call it murder, when they killed my soul?"

Harry flinched at the word 'murder'. Voldemort blinked benignly. "Did they?
Or did they call it something else, some other word to make it sound less
horrifying, what it is they have done?"

"It doesn't matter," Harry reiterated. His voice sounded hollow. "It doesn't—"

"It matters."

Voldemort's entire disposition had switched from falsely calm to bloodthirsty

in a flash. He was suddenly leaning forward, his furious expression just
inches from the glass. His free hand slammed down onto the table in a tightly
clenched fist.

Harry's breath caught in his throat at the unexpected action, and his
Occlumency wards shimmered in response. He froze completely under the
Dark Lord's paralyzing stare.

"It is murder, what they have done. They committed murder when they killed
my soul, when they killed Nagini. Even worse, they have the audacity to
pretend that they have not. The side that you like to think of as light is just as
dark as mine is, Harry. They kill without a second thought for what they
believe in, only they justify their actions in warped, convoluted ways, without
consideration for the outcome of their brashness. They then call it something
else so that they can sleep at night, thinking themselves good and brave. But
bravery is just another word forrecklessness, and there is no such thing as
good in war."

Those red, red eyes were scorching pyres. Harry found himself both terrified
and mesmerized by them.

"Their hands are just as bloody as mine, Harry. Only they lie to themselves
about it."

"That's not true."

Harry's voice sounded far steadier than he'd thought it would. Voldemort
waited. "…That's not… They don't kill anyone. You…you've killed
hundreds. Thousands. But the Order… They've never murdered anyone.
That's not what they do, what the aurors do. They protect people, from
monsters like you. They save people."

At first, Harry was certain that Voldemort was going to start screaming in
fury, he looked so enraged… But then, to his great surprise, his incensed
expression melted away like shards of ice being warmed by sunshine. In its
place came a most unexpected look—soft, almost…affectionate.

It troubled Harry far more than anything else he had seen the Dark Lord do
yet.

Voldemort shook his head, staring with wide eyes at Harry like he was some
kind of poor, innocent creature. "…Vous vivez dans l'obscurité, mon chéri…"
he murmured in a low voice.

Harry balked at the unexpected words—which he did not understand. "I—

was that—was that French?"

Voldemort didn't answer his question, only continued to gaze at him in a

semi-adoringly fashion. "You are so young. So naïve… It must be wonderful,
to view the world as you do. Everything must be so uncomprehendingly
beautiful. Much like a language that one is not yet fluent in; the unknown
tongue flows over you in a stream of sound that is so mesmeric it is quite like
an abstract song… Yet once one learns how the syllables add up to words
that form sentences loaded with intent, the beauty is then displaced by the
much more vulgar concept of meaning… How much easier it must be, to
remain unaware… Ah, to see the world through the innocent eyes of a child
again… I almost envy you…"

The Dark Lord actually sighed. Harry scowled. "I am not a child," he
seethed. "I already told you not to call me that."

"If you do not wish to be addressed as a child, then you must not think like a
child, Harry," Voldemort replied smoothly. His lips curled into a smug grin,
clearly enjoying getting such a rise out of Harry so easily.

"…What are you talking about, then?" Harry finally muttered, forcing
himself to act more calmly than he felt.

Voldemort continued to grin. "Did you know," he began sardonically, "that in

the week following my mass murder of muggles at St. Paul's Cathedral—and
yes, it was a mass murder, because I, unlike your precious Order members,
actually call it what it is, murder—that the head of the Auror Department at
the Ministry of Magic officially signed off on the death warrants of no less
than twenty-two muggles who had witnessed the event? In order to keep the
all-important Statute of Secrecy intact…?"

"Liar," Harry spat at once, not for a second believing it. "What, killing
muggles just because they saw some magic? They would just erase their
memories!"

But to Harry's great displeasure, Voldemort's eyes glittered dangerously at his

outcry. "Oh, they tried that first, of course. But there were a lot of witnesses;
so many, many muggles and so fewcapable wizards and witches. Which is the
root of all of our current problems, of course, but I digress… They did try and
erase the memories of everyone, but some muggles are more…resistantto
certain spells than others."

Voldemort paused then, his coy grin faltering like he'd only just realized
something.

"Tell me what you know about magic."

Harry was so caught off-guard by that demand that for a long moment he just
blankly stared, completely perplexed.

"I—what do I—I—" Harry laughed breathlessly, but the Dark Lord's now
mask-like expression did not falter. "Could you be a little more…vague,
maybe?" he prodded, mostly in jest. "Magic is kind of a broad topic. And
bear in mind, I only have up to a fifth year education, thanks to you."

Voldemort ignored that last, bitter remark entirely. "I am not talking about
the subjects which were spoon-fed to you in your school days; those arbitrary
labels which attempt to separate and categorize something so complex and
multifaceted. I am talking about magic. As it is, at its core. True, raw magic."

He was leaning forward with both of his elbows on the ledge, and it was the
wildest thing, because Harry actually thought that Lord Voldemort
looked…excited. And not in a disquieting, 'I want to kill you, or fuck you, or
possibly both', kind of way, but in an innocent, genuine way. Like a child on
Christmas morning who still believed that Santa Claus was real.

"I…don't know what you mean," Harry answered in a hedged voice.

"Magic," Voldemort repeated breathlessly, "true magic is not simply the

waving of a stick and uttering the correct incantations. Wands are merely a
conduit, and truthfully, they are an enabling device. Pure, honest magic exists
not in thin strips of wood that happen to be in capable hands, but it is all
around us. It is in you, and it is in me, yes, but it is also in the air, in the skies
above our heads and the dirt beneath our feet… It is in every lifeless object
that you have ever come into contact with, and it is in the soul of every single
organism that has ever been and ever will be… Yes, even in the muggles."

Harry blinked stupidly at that proclamation. For not only did he find that
statement baffling in and of itself, but to hear it from the lips of Lord
Voldemort…

"But… That can't be right. I mean, that's why they're muggles, isn't it?
Because they don't have magic."

"The world is not that simple, Harry," Voldemort explained. "Magic is

everywhere. It only exists in much larger quantities in us. And even we, who
call ourselves witches and wizards… We are not all equal in our bearing.
Surely you understand this. Some are extremely powerful, with so much
magical energy saturating their cores that it is nearly palpable. Some are
hardly more than squibs. It is the same with muggles, only in a much weaker
form. Magic exists in them, it must."

Harry probably looked as confused as he felt, for Voldemort paused.

"Language…is misleading," he said slowly. "The word magic, is, I believe…

misleading. It is just a label that we have given it in order to discuss it
properly. But the very moment you give something a name, you simplify it in
ways that are, by their very nature, impossible to describe. Some things go
beyond language, Harry."

Harry continued to look at him with raised brows, though he couldn't help but
be completely absorbed with all the Dark Lord said. It was all very confusing,
of course, but the way he spoke, with such true, genuine passion… Well, it
was a bit spell-binding.

"To illustrate this," Voldemort went on, "think of muggle prodigies. Those
who are born with inexplicable skills, however narrow and specific they may
be. For example, a muggle who has average intelligence in every conceivable
way, only they are extraordinarily gifted in music. Or painting. Or
mathematics. The kind of skill that these people are just born with. That is
magic, Harry. A very trace amount of it, yes, far too miniscule to allow that
person to wield a wand should they ever hold one or to see the Hogwarts
castle for what it is should they ever happen upon it, but magic, nonetheless.
Magic, which places them somewhere in the vast gray area that is between
'muggle' and 'wizard'."

He fell silent for a time. Harry could think of nothing to retort, only found
that he was hungry for further explanation.

And Lord Voldemort provided.

"A better word for magic, perhaps, could be…energy." He tilted his head
slightly, running a finger along his jawline and appearing deeply pensive. He
wasn't even looking at Harry anymore, but somewhere above him, like the
conversation was more with himself than the boy on the other side of the
barrier.

"It is, after all, the cause and the explanation for everything. When a sperm
and an egg somehow combine to create the miracle of new life, when a cell
inexplicably divides, and those cells flourish and grow into tissues, organs,
organ systems, and, eventually, a complex organism of its own that is
typically wholly unaware of its own extraordinary existence…one which
blinks, breathes, and moves through the world around it without ever being
cognizant of its own intricate circulatory system, the bones beneath its skin,
its beating heart… Energy; a vague term, perhaps, but it is quite possibly a
more honest one than magic. Energy, which was the start of this universe, the
beginnings of this planet. Energy, which is the electric, synaptic pulse
between neurons and muscle fibers whenever we so much as close our
fists…"

Somewhere in the midst of his monologue, Voldemort had fixed his starry
eyes on his own hands. Harry watched as he opened and closed his palm
experimentally, like he had never seen his own fingers before.

Eventually, after doing this no less than three times, his wonder-filled gaze
flickered up to Harry again. "Magic…is energy," he concluded.

He was looking up at Harry expectantly, like he was so very excited and was
just waiting for Harry to return his enthusiasm and agree.

When Harry failed to do this, his face fell.

"S…So..?"

"So, Harry," Voldemort continued in a much less enthused tone, "magic is

everywhere. It is energy. It is life. And so it is in the muggles, in trace
amounts… And some muggles, depending on how magic has manifested
itself in their minds, display certain, unique traits. Some may be
exceptionally gifted in specific skills, as I've said before. Some may have
uncanny good luck, or be remarkably good at reading people… And some are
particularly resistant to certain spells being cast on them by proper witches
and wizards." He smirked, his scarlet irises glittering. "Including memory
charms."

Harry shook his head in denial. "They wouldn't kill muggles just because
they saw some magic. They…they wouldn't."

"They would, and they did. Twenty-two…and fifteen were children."

Harry's jaw fell open in horror.

"Oh, but they tried to modify their memories first, Harry, they really did,"
Voldemort drawled, his voice thick with false empathy. "But it really is
advanced spell work, to obliviate away such a traumatic event, and it was
critical that the incident be contained as quickly as possible… So rather than
hold them in St. Mungo's for further evaluation, the aurors requested
permission from the Minister of Magic for their…termination."

"Th-the—the Minister—he's under your control!" Harry snarled, "You're the

one in control of the Ministry!"

"Thinly," Voldemort replied through curled lips. "But not every individual is
directly caught in the strings of my intricate spider's web… yet. The aurors,
as do most of those currently working within the Ministry, believe in up-
holding the Statute of Secrecy. They requested permission to legally murder a
few muggles on their own. I don't deny letting the paperwork get signed off
on, though."

His smirk was so self-satisfying. Harry felt an overwhelming desire to lunge

right through his own barriers and physically beat it off of him.

"But do you know what they call it, Harry?" the Dark Lord continued
conversationally. "Do you know what they refer to it as, when they kill in
such circumstances? 'Requisite Casualties'." He paused, his smile becoming
ever more twisted. "Sounds so much nicer, doesn't it? Than murder."

Harry couldn't deny that this revelation made him nauseous. He never knew,
never would have thought that aurors would actually kill muggles like that.
For simply being exposed to magic, for not being able to forget it…

But he wasn't about to let Voldemort shift his focus so unjustly. "They
wouldn't have had to do it at all, if you hadn't set the cathedral on fire in the
first place," he seethed. "You did that. You killed all of them."

"Yes."
His immediate, unwavering acceptance caught Harry off-guard. "Yes. I killed
them all. Lord Voldemort was the cause of all of it. And I call it what it is…
Murder."

Harry's fury soared. "You know that referring to yourself in the third person
like that is a sign of insanity, don't you?" he spat.

To his annoyance, this completely failed to get a rise out of the sinister
wizard. Voldemort merely looked amused. "You will have to forgive me," he
murmured, inclining his head in an absurdly demure sort of way. "That is
practice that I developed in my youth, when I first began using my true name.
Back when I was still looked at as Tom Marvolo Riddle…"

Harry desperately hoped that his internal pain at hearing that name didn't
show on his face, but he knew that it must have. Voldemort was watching
him carefully, ever-observant. But if he noticed Harry reacting in any way, he
chose to ignore it. "It was more difficult, then, to force wizards much older
than me to take the threat of a young man seriously…especially such a
prettyone. A despairing predicament that I am sure you can relate to, no
doubt."

His smug grin was back with a vengeance—as was Harry's urge to punch him
in the face. "And so I often found that I needed to…remind people, verbally,
just who I was. But I don't need to do that with you, do I, Harry? You know
exactly who you are dealing with…or do you?"

He shifted closer to the glass. The hanging light above his head hit his eyes at
just the right angle, highlighting the bright, curious gleam in their depths.
"What do you know about Lord Voldemort? What do you know of my plans
for the Ministry, for the future? For the world? If you are so certain that you
are not a child, but a well-informed man… What do you know? Tell me,
Harry James Potter…"

His voice was a low, undeniably flirtatious purr.

"Tell me all about myself."

Harry's fist clenched tightly in his lap. He scowled, hating how good
Voldemort was at flustering him, but refused to let it show. "You want to
destroy the Statute of Secrecy. You want to make it so wizards and witches
rule, purebloods as the top of the social hierarchy. You want to make
Hogwarts mandatory and turn it into some sick perversion of the school it
was meant to be, that the Founder's made. You want to kill all the muggles
and muggle-borns…if not torture them for fun first, maybe."

Harry muttered the last part scathingly. Voldemort was quiet for a long
moment, his eyes fixated on Harry's lips like he waiting for him to continue.
But when it became obvious that that was all Harry was going to say on the
matter, the Dark Lord laughed.

He closed his eyes and he laughed, leaning back into his seat as if Harry had
just told him a very funny joke. Harry glowered, and was just about to snarl
something offensive when the laughter abruptly ended. Voldemort snapped
back to his much more offensive position near the glass with his eyes blazing.

"Is that all that you think, Harry?" he asked with a discernible hint of
mockery in his voice. "That I want to kill all of the muggles and muggle-
borns—after torturing them, of course—change Hogwarts, and destroy the
Statue of Secrecy? Some of those things are true, certainly, but you have
oversimplified the ideas to the extreme. Can you tell me why I want to do all
of those things? Or how I plan on doing them? And to clear up one particular
notion right now—I do not want to kill all of the muggle-borns."

"No, you just want to make them register, or whatever, and-and put them on
the very bottom of this new society you're building, where they'll be treated
like dirt. If they're lucky."

Harry was seething. Fred and George, having been on the outside and in the
public eye this entire time and with a father working in the Ministry, had
been able to tell the rest of them in disturbing detail what was going on with
the 'Muggle-born Registration'. About how Umbridge was the head of the
new department, about how families were being torn apart…

The concept made him sick to his stomach.

Voldemort was still for a time. His scarlet eyes assessed Harry unabashedly,
thoughtful intelligence simmering in their depths.

"Have you ever wondered why I detest the muggle-borns, Harry?" he finally
asked quietly.

Harry snorted. "Because they're not purebloods. Because they don't come
from a line of only great magical families."

To his astonishment, Voldemort shook his head. "I do not come from solely
magical lineage. Neither do you, nor did several of my followers. Some of
which were my favored."

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed dangerously for a fraction of a second, but his
pensive expression returned nearly at once. "I do not detest the mudbloods
simply because they were born from two muggle parents. That is outside of
anyone's control. It was not a choice, but an unfortunate circumstance. It
would be absurd, to hate someone for the order of their birth alone."

Harry stared in disbelief. "I…I…yes. Obviously," he gaped. "But you—"

"The Statute of Secrecy," Voldemort interrupted in a cool voice, "stands on

thin ice as it is. It will break, it is inevitable. The muggle population has been
increasing at an exponential rate for decades. The magical population of
Britain, inversely, is actually dwindling…albeit at a much smaller frequency.
But the fact remains that the muggles outnumber us. And more and more
witches and wizards are marrying into muggle families. Each time that
happens, each time one magical person becomes bonded so significantly with
a muggle, they are allowed to tell their muggle companion about magic. That
is a formality that is expected, in fact, when there is a marriage proposal. And
so the Statute weakens. With each muggle that is aware of our kind, the
inevitable disaster of true, global discovery comes ever closer."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Voldemort spoke over him.
"And then they have children. Half-bloods that exist half in one world, half in
another. Children who are typically magical, but have close ties to non-
magical people as well. More muggles learn of magic. The Statute weakens."

Again, Harry tried to talk, but Voldemort was not finished. He leaned in
closer.

"But it is the muggle-borns that are the largest problem. Born into purely
muggle families, growing up knowing that they are different—because they
all do, Harry, deep down, they know—going to muggle schools with muggle
children until, one day, a Ministry official appears at their doorstep to talk to
them and their parents, explaining what they are and informing them that that
they could attend a magical school, if their parents are willing."

At this point, Harry stopped trying to interrupt. "And they almost all do,
because the Ministry has trained its employees to paint the entire situation in
a light that makes it seem critical that magical children be trained properly.
So muggle-borns attend Hogwarts. They are thrust into a world which they
know nothing about, only to return to their muggle homes on holiday, telling
their muggle families all about the magic they have learned, to then return to
Hogwarts, and so it goes until they graduate… Do you know what most
muggle-borns do after they leave Hogwarts, Harry?"

For all of his previous efforts in trying to speak before, Harry found himself
unable to come up with something, now. "…Uh…"

"They return to the muggle world, essentially," Voldemort filled in, sounding
deeply disgusted. "And why wouldn't they? They are outsiders in the magical
community, they don't understand or appreciate the holidays or traditions—
many of which have been eliminated and disbanded over the years, even,
because of the muggle-borns—and their families are not a part of that world,
anyway. So they get muggle jobs doing muggle things, earning muggle
money. And why wouldn't they? With the aid of a simple charm here, the right
potion there, it is absurdly easy to navigate one's way through muggle society
with magic! It is much more appealing to most mudbloods to be a rich,
respected muggle that secretly practices magic than a frowned upon, second-
class citizen within the far superior magical community who can never
measure up to those who were born into it."
Harry's mind was reeling at this revelation. Truly, he had never thought about
any of this before. He'd always assumed that anyone who went to Hogwarts
would get a job doing something…magical. But the way that the Dark Lord
had just put it…

Harry had, essentially, grown up just like any other muggle-born child. He
didn't know much about any of the magical world's holidays or special
customs, and, truthfully, was not all that interested…

Being a rich, respected muggle with little to no effort… Well, Harry thought
wryly, that kind of sounded all right.

His amusement must have shown on his face, for Voldemort looked incensed.
"It is a huge problem, the way in which muggle-borns are currently being
integrated into magical society, for a vast number of reasons. They practice
magic in dangerous ways that nearly expose us on a regular basis, marry
muggles, produce children that are, again, typically magical, and then where
does it end? They must be allowed to tell their partners, but what of their
partner's parents? The grandparents of these new magical children? What of
their extended families? Where is the line drawn? It is a gray, murky territory
that is not monitored nearly as well as it should be by the Ministry. The
Statue of Secrecy has an expiration date, Harry, that is undeniable at this
point to anyone who bothers to look at the current state of affairs closely
enough...only few do. And those who are completely aware of what is
happening turn away, choose to bury their heads in the sand because they
convince themselves that it isn't happening, that it won't actually happen—or,
even worse, the truly honest ones secretly acknowledge that it is happening,
but realize that it probably won't be a dire issue for many, many years, and so
it will just be someone else's problem, then."

His eyes were glowing brighter with every word he said. "The Statue will fail.
This is a fact. The magical community will become entirely exposed, and
when and how it does could either be the end of us…or the beginning."

Voldemort eyed Harry curiously. "What do you believe would happen, if the
masses of muggles suddenly discovered us all at once…?" he asked.
Harry considered this for a long moment. "I…I dunno," he finally admitted.
"Ask us for things, I suppose. They'd want spells to heal their sick or make
them smarter or richer or whatever else."

Voldemort looked like he might laugh again. "Sweet, innocent soul…" he

murmured quietly, almost adoringly.

But his next words were anything but. "They would kill us, Harry. The
muggles would get out their guns and their bullets and their weapons of mass
destruction and they would kill us all. You don't fully understand the
profound impact our magical energy has on them. It is terrifying to someone
who cannot comprehend it in the same way that you or I can. It is a mystery
to them, it is unknown, dangerous. They would do what muggles have always
done in their unified fear. They would stop at nothing to destroy us all, and if
the muggles, all of them, with their nuclear explosives which exist in every
pocket of the world, now—if they decided as one to fight us, we would not
win. Not in our current state. There are so many of them, more and more
every day... Standing as we are, fractured as a community with muggle-borns
and witches and wizards who have married into muggle families, we would
lose. All of us would lose. They would destroy the entire planet in their
frenzied fear, and we would all die. The witches. The wizards. The muggles,
the mudbloods. Every innocent creature of the earth, magical or otherwise.
Life as we know it would end."

Harry was completely dumbfounded. "S-surely it would never come to that!"

he shouted. "That…that sounds like apocalyptic, nuclear warfare…"

"It would be," Voldemort agreed, "and it could easily come to that. Probably
not for many years, true, but I am not willing to bury my head in the sand on
the issue. It is too important. Why do you think I so desperately wanted to
become immortal, Harry?"

Harry was, once again, caught off-guard by the seemingly random question.
But Voldemort hardly gave him a chance to respond before answering
himself. "Because you think I am afraid of death? No, it is not the mystery of
death I fear. I have never been afraid of the unknown before. No, I fear for
the future. This future of this planet, of its magical inhabitants; I fear for their
children, for their children's children… The existence of humanity is but a
blink of an eye as far as the history of life on this Earth is concerned, and I
fear that mankind shall make an exit quite soon if something is not done. The
muggles are destroying the world, Harry. They have been for a very long
time. This planet was never meant to hold so many people. Especially not
wasteful, idiotic, reckless muggles."

He laughed shortly before continuing. "Here is a lesson that you were never
taught in History of Magic…assuming, of course, that you were able to stay
awake through an entire period in the first place."

Voldemort smiled knowingly. Harry couldn't help but grin as well.

"When humans were first born into the world, after years and years of
evolution, all were magical. It was as inherently a part of each human as it
was the air and the sea, the sky and the earth… It was in the hunt, when they
killed for survival. It was in their rituals of sacrifice and thanksgiving. It was
in the fire…"

The Dark Lord's gaze was dark and smoldering. Harry listened intently.
"There were far, far less people, then. All of them cast magic, and they were
in harmony with the planet, with its natural, magical flow. It was not until the
advent of agriculture that the population began to increase so unfathomably
quickly. People stopped being in tune with the world around them as
technology developed. They began getting weaker, smaller…and losing
magic entirely. Squibs, who were previously born few and far between,
began to survive and even flourish in a new world where magic wasn't
necessary. They began reproducing far and wide, and muggles filled the
world."

Voldemort looked completely disturbed. "What do you know about the

muggles, Harry? What do you know? Do you know how they fill craters in
the earth with their trash and their man-made materials that fail to
decompose, that they flood the oceans with plastic and oil and kill
unprecedented amounts of wildlife in the process? Do you know that the air
which you breathe, which weall breathe, muggle or not, often borders on
toxic? Do you know that now, as we speak, muggles breed and keep animals
in slaughterhouses for meat in conditions that are so utterly inhumane that if
you saw it, you would probably never feel properly hungry again? Did you
know that muggles trade and sell other muggle children in dark corners
across the world with just as a much consideration as they do cattle? Or did
you think slavery was a thing of the past? Just one more disgusting practice
that muggles have done to each other and continue to do, and yet the witches
and wizards, the Ministry of Magic officials, the aurors you hold in such high
esteem, do nothing about. Wherever muggles are concerned they close their
eyes. They tell themselves it is because they should not get involved, that
nothing the muggles do can affect us, but their actions do affect us, and they
always have. They will be the death of all of us if they are not stopped."

Harry's thoughts were swirling about in his head in a frenzy as he tried to

make sense of all of this. Just how was Lord Voldemort so knowledgeable
about…about everything? "I…so…so what would you do, then? Just…just
kill all the muggles, just like that?"

"Eventually." Voldemort sounded so nonchalant about the mass genocide of

every single muggle that ever lived. "The world is sick, Harry; it has been
sick for a very, very long time…and it will take equally long for it to recover.
That is why I desire immortality. Not because I am selfish or scared of death.
But because I am willing to look at the state of this planet and address it.
Because I am unwilling to live a short, normal life without considering the
consequences of what we do today, of what our ancestors have done. You say
I am cruel and arrogant, haughty and selfish… Yet the truth is that I am the
most selfless one among you. The earth, magic, humanity… All will die if we
continue on this path of destruction…but I will be its savior."

There was a very long stretch of silence. Harry simply stared in awe,
struggling with more than a few of these concepts…such as the fact that Lord
Voldemort was quite an extreme environmentalist. And he thought that he
was going to be…the…the savior of the world, basically… To save it from
polluting, destructive, and potentially magic-fearing, nuclear war-
faringmuggles…
It was all more than a bit mind-boggling.

"I am a visionary," he proclaimed. "I see a world where there are no such
terms as 'muggle', 'mudblood', or 'pureblood'. A world where all are magical,
as it is supposed to be. Where human beings only use magic as a means to
build society, working with the natural energy of the world rather than
against it. A utopia that is far, far away, but possible, if one is willing to carry
the burden of eternal life and see it through, to guide mankind…and I am."

His expression was flat, but his eyes were aflame with passion.

"I will."

"You're serious," Harry responded, baffled. "You…really mean and believe

all of that."

"Yes." Voldemort's voice was firm and decisive. "And if you spent the time
to examine the world in the same way that I have, you would see that I am
right. Even now, even though you would deny it, I can tell. I can see it in
your eyes, Harry… You know, deep down, that my words make sense."

Harry shook his head, ignoring that accusation. "Do you actually tell all of
your followers this?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Do you tell them all about
making it so there is no social hierarchy of magical people?" He somehow
didn't think that any of the snotty, pure-blooded witches or wizards would
support such a crazy-sounding, farfetched plan for the future.

Voldemort smirked. "Of course not," he answered smoothly, surprising Harry

again with his cool and quick response. "Very few people know of my
idealistic…long-term goals. And I do not feel the need to tell them. Such
things will not come into fruition for hundreds of years, anyway. No, I tell
my followers only what they need to know…and what they want to hear in
order to gain their undying loyalty and support, of course. For right now, the
issues of utmost importance are magical unity…and dealing with the muggle-
borns."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What would you do about the muggle-borns, then? If
you don't want to just kill them…er, why don't you want to kill them,
actually?"

Voldemort laughed. Harry wasn't sure why, but he found himself laughing,
too. "I'm serious," he said, trying to stop smiling, "I mean, not that I'm
supportive of that particular plan, obviously, but… It just sort of seems the
thing that you would want to do, you know. Kill them."

"I said I don't want to kill all the muggle-borns," Voldemort elaborated. "As a
matter of fact, considering the current population of magical people in
Britain, they are actually necessary. But they have to register. We need to
know who they are, and they need to be willing to leave behind their muggle
ways of life entirely. Those who are will find that they have a place in the
new Magical Britain. Those who are not…" His voice trailed off ominously.

"You'll lock them up in Azkaban? Because—what is it you're officially

accusing them of, again? That they're stealing magic? Which—" Harry
paused, his eyes widening at the full realization. "You don't believe that at
all, do you? The whole stealing magic thing…? You've made that up
completely! Just to use as an excuse to throw the muggle-borns that don't
want to abandon their non-magical families and into prison!"

Voldemort's supremely smug grin confirmed his accusation. "A means to an

end, Harry," he said slyly.

Harry slammed his fist on the ledge. "You are-that's just-that's horrible!" he
roared. Voldemort didn't seem to be bothered.

"I am making difficult decisions. Terrible things are sometimes necessary for
the greater good…"

"What are you, Grindelwald's pupil?" Harry spat. Voldemort looked

genuinely surprised at that. "Maybe I did manage to stay awake in History of
Magic," Harry added icily.

The Dark Lord's lip twitched. "As if the rise and fall of Gellert Grindelwald
would ever be allowed in the Hogwarts curriculum of your days."
"…You're right. It wasn't. But I did read about him, and—what? Why are you
looking at me like that? That's exactly how Hermione stared at me. Is it so
surprising that I read?"

Voldemort's amused expression turned sour at once. "Your mudblood

friend…" he muttered scornfully.

"She has a name, you know," Harry snarled.

"Yes. Hermione Jean Granger." He smirked at the way Harry's brows shot
up, surprised that Voldemort knew her middle name, too. "Hermione Jean
Granger, born September 19, 1979 in London. Muggle parents, both
employed as dentists. Hermione Jean Granger grew up in the suburbs of the
city. An introverted child. Have you ever asked her, Harry, what her life was
like before she knew she was a witch? Surely, as a muggle-born girl who
went to a muggle school prior to Hogwarts, it must have been difficult to
leave behind her friends and family. Have you ever bothered to ask her what
it was like?"

Harry stared, struggling to form words. He was reeling at the fact that Lord
Voldemort knew such details of Hermione's life. "I…I, uh, no. I've never
asked," he admitted, and he actually felt a tiny bit of shame at the words.

"You have no idea what her life was like before Hogwarts, because you never
asked? My, what a terrible friend you are, Harry. And to think, you said that I
am the one who knows nothing of friendship. I ask all of my closest
companions to tell me about themselves. I am excellent listener."

"Only because you want to manipulate them," Harry muttered.

Voldemort waved his hand as if to brush the comment aside. "Hermione Jean
Granger was a timid girl. She never mentioned any previous friends from
outside of Hogwarts to you on her own because she never had any. She was
different, and the other children in her classes knew it. There was something
about Hermione Jean Granger that perturbed them. That, in addition to
having frizzy hair and abhorrently large teeth made her an instant outcast.
She was teased ruthlessly on her worst days and ignored on her best. She had
no real friends…and so she made friends with books, instead."

He paused, relishing in Harry's astounded expression. "One day, when

Hermione Jean Granger was nine years old, she headed home from the public
library down the street from her home in London where she spent nearly all
of her free time. She was walking with books in hand when a dog happened
to get loose from its owner's leash. Startled and timid as she was, upon seeing
a rather large animal wrench its way from its master's hands, she made the
mistake of running. The dog chased her down the street. She dropped all of
her books and screamed when it lunged for her leg…and then it died."

"…What?" Harry gasped in shock. "What, how?—"

"Not all accidental magic is harmless bouncing and inconsequential

apparation, Harry," Voldemort said, "And while it was by no means her first
bit of magic, it was by far the most powerful. Hermione Jean Granger
happens to have a great deal of magical energy coursing through her, despite
the fact that she is muggle-born. She was deathly afraid when the dog
attacked her, and so her magic responded. The dog's neck snapped and it
died."

Harry was beyond horrified. He wanted to say about a hundred different

things, but found himself unable to voice any of them.

"Ministry officials appeared to clean it up, of course. She was an unaware

witch, an innocent muggle-born child, and these things do happen… The
animal's body was vanished, the witnesses and the owner's memories were
erased… The muggle man, who lived alone in his flat, was forced to forget
that he had ever owned a dog in the first place, and all pictures and items in
his home which indicated otherwise were removed and vanished as well.
Hermione Jean Granger had her memory modified, too. She went home that
afternoon feeling shaken and nervous, unable to sleep. She could not figure
out the reasoning for her mysterious anxiety. Eventually, she contributed it to
the fantasy novel she was reading, which happened to be a particularly
suspenseful story. Hermione Jean Granger stopped reading fairy tales, after
that. Textbooks were…safer. Smarter."
The Dark Lord was smiling wickedly. Harry remained silent in his shock, his
thoughts racing as he processed this story.

Hermione had accidentally killed an animal, as a child... An accident, of

course, but still. To kill something without meaning to? And then her
memory was modified, but, apparently, the feelings of fear and anxiety had
not been completely wiped away…

Harry had always admired Hermione and her studiousness, that was true, but
he's also always thought that her one major flaw was in her mental
inflexibility. She didn't believe in anything if there was no solid logic behind
it, and while she was brilliant at memorization and execution, her imagination
was a bit…lacking.

Perhaps, Harry thought, if all that Lord Voldemort had said was true…
Perhaps, if that incident had not occurred when she was a child, she would
not be quite so prudish. Maybe she would have kept reading fairy tales.
Maybe she would have been more open-minded.

"How do you know all this?" Harry finally asked.

"It is astonishing how easy it is to make insightful discoveries, Harry,"

Voldemort answered. "One only needs to look."

His smile widened when Harry just stared. "All of these kinds of incidents are
reported and kept on record in the Ministry of Magic. I merely dug a bit
deeper beyond the paperwork. The muggle man's erased memory was kept on
file, too. I watched."

"But… Why?"

"Because I desire a full understanding of the world we live in, not just a flat
explanation of ink on parchment," Voldemort explained curtly. "And yes,
your murderous allies have had the honor of garnering a substantial amount
of my attention. Hermione Jean Granger was a miserable child, Harry, before
she knew what she was. She was an outcast. She was called a freak."
His eyes shone dangerously. Harry waited on bated breath, and while he
honestly did not know what he expected Lord Voldemort to say next, it
certainly was not what he did say.

"…My childhood was horrific," he murmured softly. Harry hardly stopped

himself from gasping.

The Dark Lord…was going to discuss his childhood…with him?

"My magical aura was overwhelming. The air around me was like an
indescribable cloud of darkness. My presence was toxic to them. To the
adults, to the caretakers…to the other children."

His gaze darkened. Harry's entire body was broken out into goosebumps at
the fierce hatred in his eyes.

"Horrific," he repeated quietly. "…Until it wasn't. Until I learned to control it.

But most children are not as gifted as I was. They do not learn to use their
powers without the aid of a wand. They suffer." Voldemort tilted his head
inquisitively. The light above him flooded his face on one side with dramatic
light.

"What about you, Harry?" the Dark Lord asked in a surprisingly gentle voice.
"Did your muggle relatives treat you with kindness, knowing what you were?
With love…?"

Harry's mouth went completely dry.

…Maybe it was because Voldemort, however briefly, had spoken about his
own terrible past that made Harry feel inclined to answer, despite the fact that
he desperately did not want to. Talking about his life with the Dursely's was a
topic that Harry had always avoided, for obvious reasons.

"No," he answered hoarsely. His gaze had shifted away from the Voldemort's,
and he found himself focusing on the hanging light above his head, instead.

"They…were awful. They hated me. They spoiled my cousin rotten, and
when he and his friends used me as a human punching bag, they looked the
other way. They made me do all of the housework while he got to do
whatever he pleased."

His throat felt raw. His vision was blurry. "They locked me in a cupboard
under the stairs. It was small, dark and dusty. They'd send me there without
dinner most nights. I was cold and hungry all the time. No one cared. My
Aunt sometimes, for a second, would look like she might care, just a little,
but I think I just imagined it because I was desperate. Sometimes I would cry.
They locked me up, anyway."

Harry's eye remained firmly fixed on the light. Never, in his entire life, had
he ever admitted that out loud to someone else. Not even to Ron and
Hermione.

"…Did they…?"

Voldemort's voice was eerily, disturbingly calm, but Harry hardly registered
it. His chest was tightening, threatening to burst with emotion—and before he
knew it, against all better judgment, he said:

"I went back there, because of you."

Voldemort's face was cold and unreadable. Harry's blood was coming to a
boil in his veins.

"Every night, in my nightmares, because you were hunting me. My

subconscious took me there and I relieved the horrors of my past every single
night. My life was hell when I was awake and hell when I was asleep. It has
been, ever since the moment you found me on the Knight Bus. Far before
that, actually. Ever since you first tried to kill me."

Harry's rage turned into some other emotion that he didn't recognize.
Voldemort's expression remained neutral, and it made him so angry, that he
could sit there and listen to Harry speak when he was obviously in such pain
and keep up his perfect façade, and the next words being spoken felt foreign
in his mouth, like someone else entirely was speaking with his voice.
"You killed my parents," he said. "You murdered my mother and my father.
You took away a life where I could have been happy. I could have been
loved. But instead, I grew up hated and miserable. You took away my
family… How can you ever expect me to look at you as anything other than a
monster, when you killed my parents?"

Harry had sworn he was never going to bring it up. Whatever the Dark Lord
had to say on the matter, he didn't want to hear it. Nothing he could possibly
say would make it better.

…So why had he brought it up?

Voldemort was silent for a very long time.

"…Yes, I murdered your parents," he eventually said, his voice low. "I was at
the height of my power. I believed I was on the threshold of success, of
gaining the majority of the support of Britain's magical community. I was so
close to instituting the changes that I deeply believed in, that my followers
believed in…and then Severus told me of the prophecy."

Harry tasted bile in the back of his throat. For the first time, Voldemort did
not sound murderous when he mentioned his ex-pupil. His mask-like face
remained flat. "He told me of the prophecy… And, I admit, I reacted rashly.
Being so close to success had made me…paranoid. It seemed almost too
easy, our near-success. The Order was failing and people were surrendering,
even those who we thought to be so loyal to Dumbledore. Peter Pettigrew,
too, was just one of many who realized how much the tides were turning, and
like a rat on a sinking ship, hoped to find a place among my followers when
the war was over…"

Harry's fist clenched in his lap, his chest burning in a white hot rage.
Voldemort continued with a level voice. "So when I heard that my supposed
downfall would be rising soon, I knew what had to be done. We had worked
too hard, had come too far to be undone. I found out who it was referring
to..."

A heartbeat.
"Harry James Potter."

Harry's gaze finally fell back to Voldemort's again. He was trembling, but
whether it was from rage or something else, he wasn't quite sure.

"I do not enjoy killing, Harry," the Dark Lord said, once they'd locked eyes.
"I am sure you have been led to believe otherwise, but I do not. I do not enjoy
spilling magical blood. I do not enjoy killing anyone, especially not children.
But I had to consider the future. I needed to end the war. How many magical
lives will be spared, I thought, with the death of this one infant? One life
sacrificed to save thousands. To bring peace…and then Pettigrew came to
me, offering up the location of you and your family in exchange for
acceptance into my ranks. So easily, so soon was I able to find you. All of my
trepidation vanished after that. I thought it fate. I thought I was meant to kill
you that Halloween night, and that it would be the dawn of a new era."

"Well, you were wrong. You killed my parents but failed to kill the one that
mattered. You doomed me to a miserable childhood." Harry meant to sound
vicious when he said it, but his voice was weak and feeble.

Voldemort continued to look unaffected. "Yes. I failed to kill you. But I

never sentenced you to a life with abusive muggles. That blame lies with
Albus Dumbledore... Yet that is a discussion for another time. I killed you
parents, Harry. I killed them, and I tried to kill you, because what was one
infant's life against thousands?"

"But it was my life," Harry choked, and his eyes were filling with tears he
desperately wished would vanish. "They were my parents, it was my life you
ruined—and for what? Some stupid prophecy? You're supposed to be the
most intelligent wizard in the world, don't tell me you didn't know that
prophecies only matter you if decide to make them matter! You could have
ignored it! You could have brushed it off and gone on and won the war, and
maybe I'd be living in your fucked-up society, but at least I'd have a family! If
my parents had surrendered, if you really weren't willing to spill more
precious magical blood, I could have had parents who loved me! I could have
had a real home!"
He hated how much his emotions were affecting him, and how, inversely,
Voldemort seemed to grow more stoic by the second.

"I regret it," he responded coldly. "I regret acting as I did. I may not have, if I
had heard it in its entirety, but I had not…still have not…but it does not
matter, now. I killed them. If I could go back, I would do things differently."

He paused, red eyes darkening to ruby-red spheres.

"I would do many things differently."

Harry laughed—bitterly. "Well, you can't," he said, hurriedly wiping at his

eyes before those damned, unwanted tears fell on their own. "You can't go
back and change what you did."

"But I can make better decisions going forward," Voldemort said. "The
tragedy of your childhood amongst the muggles, much like my own… Those
stories of abuse can be prevented, Harry. They are disturbingly common with
the muggle-borns. I have personally looked into over eighty cases within the
last decade alone. Many have suffered some kind of abuse at the hands of
their parents, their siblings, and most commonly their peers. Others, while not
physically harmed, are emotionally neglected and tormented. No magical
child should be treated as something lesser by such muggle filth. I plan to put
an end to it, Harry. To save them. I plan on divining a way to locate magical
children the moment they are born, rather than when they first perform
accidental magic, and save them from that life. To integrate them into
magical society when they are infants, so they will not be outcasts, so that
they will never be called freaks. So that they can belong."

Harry gaped, his previous anger now totally derailed. "You want to kidnap
them, essentially? Take them away from the parents?"

"From their families which are more than likely to be abusive in one form or
another? From their lives of neglect, confusion, and sorrow? Yes," Voldemort
said. Harry was shaking his head in bewilderment. "You could do it with me,
Harry. You could help me change this world for the better. To save innocent
children from the horrors that you went through. That I went through."
Voldemort's blank expression finally broke. His lips pulled up into the
slightest of smiles.

"We could save them, Harry."

Harry's heart lurched violently in his chest. Manipulated, manipulated, you

are being manipulated!, screamed a voice in the back of his mind that
sounded suspiciously like Snape.

"It's not right, to do that," Harry finally answered. "Not all muggles are
horrible, not all of them would be terrible to their children just because they
have magic… They should be given a chance…"

Voldemort hesitated before his face bore that same, almost adoring-looking
expression from before. "You are such a kind heart, Harry. It is almost
inconceivable. But you are wrong. It may sound extreme, but it is the only
way to guarantee their safety. There have been too many tragedies because of
the abusive fear of muggles. I will see an end to it. They are not deserving of
more…chances."

Another uncomfortable stretch of quietness. Harry avoided Voldemort's fiery

gaze, attempting to bring the conversation back to where it was supposed to
be in the first place.

"I want my friend's safety. All of them, including Draco Malfoy, his parents,
and Severus Snape." Harry wet his chapped lips, still looking away. "Grant
their safety, and I'll come to you willingly. I'll even give you the Elder Wand,
in exchange for mine."

"No."

Harry's eyes flashed up at the speedy response. Not even a second of

consideration! "Why not?" he shouted in exasperation. "I mean… Okay,
Snape. I guess I get Snape, at least. He was your actual, loyal follower for a
long time. He betrayed you. That sucks. I get it."

Harry rolled his shoulder, switching the phone from one ear to the other. He
stared at Voldemort—who had regained his mask-like expression—
unblinkingly. "But the Malfoys? What did they really do to make you so
angry? What did Draco do to make you want him dead so badly, now?"

"They bear—"

"Yes, yes, your mark, I am aware," Harry interrupted, secretly loving that
now Voldemort was the one looking murderous at being cut off. "But just
think about it from their perspective, yeah? Draco took the Dark Mark at
sixteen, because you basically forced him in to it one way or another. He—
just like Ron and Hermione, like you said before—was just a child when this
all started. And he was only doing what you ordered him to do when he
accidentally became Master of the Elder Wand."

Harry feigned deepest surprise when Voldemort looked uncharacteristically

thunderstruck. "Oh, sorry. You hadn't gotten there, yet? Ah, okay. Allow me
to explain." Harry cleared his throat loudly. "So when Snape killed
Dumbledore—you know, on Dumbledore's own orders—he meant to become
Master of the Elder Wand…but he didn't, because Draco Malfoy, acting on
your commands, had disarmed him first. He had no idea at the time, but
Draco became its true master in that moment. And Snape knew that if you
ever figured it all out, if you tracked down the Deathstick to Dumbledore's
grave and divined that Draco had become its master, that you wouldn't
hesitate to kill him."

Voldemort's scowl was menacing, but he was stock-sill, listening intently.

"Funny thing about the Deathstick, though, is that you don't actually have to
commit murder to gain its allegiance. Just disarming someone is enough,
which is why it switched to Draco in the first place. But wouldn't you know
it… I overpowered Draco Malfoy first."

Harry grinned jubilantly. "And it was all thanks to you. When you said my
name, at that fun little Death Eater Meeting. I wasn't invited, but I was there,
remember? You said my name, and I headed your call, my Lord…and I
almost killed Snape and Draco both, when I possessed Nagini. Funny to think
about in hindsight, isn't it?" He sighed wistfully. "I mean, if I had actually
succeeded, I would never—"

Harry abruptly stopped talking. He had just skirted far too close to another
topic that he never wanted to bring up.

A pause. "…So that was why, in the Great Hall, I was able to disarm you so
easily. Now you know. Perhaps you can let Ollivander go now, hm? But that
wasn't the point of bringing all of this up… My point was that Narcissa and
Lucius Malfoy only hid Draco away from you because they thought you
might kill him. And really, in the large scheme of things, is that such a big
deal? It wasn't like they were actively opposing you or doing anything that
would threaten your power. They were just protecting their only son. I mean,
did you actually care for a second when you believed that Draco was actually
dead?"

Harry took his furious, unmoving expression as a 'no'.

"I didn't think so. Yes, Draco and Lucius bear your Mark… But so what?
They didn't do anything that unreasonable, not really. Just trying to survive. It
wasn't like they knew Snape was deceiving you and not telling you or
anything like that. They just didn't want you to murder Draco in cold blood
because he actually tried to do what you ordered him to do."

Harry allowed him a few moments to dwell on this. Then, leaning forward
and looking directly into his eyes, he said in a steady, calm voice:

"Spare the Malfoys. They were afraid for their son's life, and for good reason.
They're no threat to you. Let them be."

The tension in the air was palpable. Voldemort's angry look, which had
appeared the moment Harry started explaining about the Elder Wand and
hadn't shifted since, remained perfectly in place when he finally relented.

"…You can keep the Malfoys," he hissed in a soft tone that indicated he
deeply wished he could say otherwise.

"And Snape."
"Never."

Harry tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "I'm not budging on my terms.
You're going to have to spare Snape, too, if you want me."

"Why do you defend him so?" Voldemort spat. "He is not deserving of such
mercy from either of us."

"Probably not," Harry admitted, "but I'm still not handing him over to you."

"I will never give up my claim on Severus Snape."

"Then you will never have me again, either."

Voldemort's nails were scratching against the ledge, perhaps absent-

mindedly. Harry couldn't help but feel supremely satisfied by this, knowing
that he could frustrate the Dark Lord just as badly as Voldemort bothered
him. "He will kill you, Harry. He already has a plan, I am certain. He is going
to attempt to use you in order to kill us both."

"I honestly thought that, too, for a long, time. But I know he isn't, now."

"And how do you know?"

"Because he told me I deserve to live." Voldemort laughed mirthlessly at

Harry's simple response. "You find that funny, do you?"

"Very."

The Dark Lord's eyes gleamed viciously, and he grinned in a warped way.
"Severus will say anything to gain your trust. He is the epitome of falsity. He
has lied to you countless times…but that is something I will never do to you,
Harry. I am many things, but I am not a liar. Even the bold claims I make
about myself are entirely true. I am what I say I am."

"Like the world's saving grace? Which you're going to save through mass-
genocide?"
Voldemort's smile broadened, exposing all of his teeth. "Indeed. I am a savior
and a murderer."

Harry snorted. "Right. And I am the Chosen One, and that's going really well
for me so far."

"I am the most powerful, capable wizard in all of existence, and in a proper
duel, you wouldn't last two seconds against me."

"I am the most mediocre, normal wizard in all of existence, and in a proper
duel against you, I'd probably do something inexplicable and outlandish that
would still somehow result in my narrow escape."

Voldemort laughed genuinely at that. "I am going to save this wretched

society and win this war, and you are going to leave that place, wherever you
are."

"I am going to save my wretched friends and then yes, I will leave this place,
wherever I am."

"I am the closest thing to a God this world has ever seen."

"I am a complete and total fuck-up."

"You are perfect."

"I—"

Harry stopped short, his mind coming to an abrupt and jarring halt. He had
just been smiling, actually finding their banter a bit entertaining, when
Voldemort completely startled him by switching tactics.

Harry had never understood such phrases as 'being blown away', or 'swept off
your feet,' but that was sort of what it felt like now, as he sat there with his
tongue tied and his mind buzzing and there was the Dark Lord, staring at him
with eyes that were deeply saturated and glowing, an intense expression that
was not malevolent or threatening but something else… And Harry was just
shocked, numbly shocked, and it felt a bit like he was suspended in mid-air,
weightless and unsure of how he was going to land—

"Perfect."

Voldemort repeated the word without a hint of hesitation, his throaty voice in
Harry's ear reminding him of slow-burning embers, and then the weightless
ended—his frazzled mind came crashing down to earth, and it was like he'd
landed in a pool of lava, so rapidly did the heat explode throughout his entire
body, and Voldemort was still staring, so piercingly, so—so something, and
his eyes were smoldering and there was an inferno in Harry's chest that was a
burning storm, a sweltering, unfathomable want—

It felt like a fiery tempest was swirling within his body, but Harry remained
sitting there, pinned under the intense gaze of Lord Voldemort, who did not
look away for a moment. And…and it was a really good thing, Harry
thought, that there was a solid wall of…glass between them, because
otherwise…something…something would probably be happening right now.

The silent staring was going to drive Harry mad. He was suddenly hyper
aware of his own breathing, his own heart rate, and had it always been so
quick and so loud? Or did that just happen a moment ago?

It took a ridiculous amount of effort to finally wet his chapped lips and force
himself to speak.

"I'll never agree with you," he found himself saying in a voice that was,
unfortunately, far breathier than he'd thought it would be. "I-I'll never
surrender anyone's safety, I'll never budge on my terms, and…and I'll never
agree with your views."

The Dark Lord's piercing gaze brightened. He leaned closer so that his nose
was nearly touching the glass, inches away from where Harry sat, and if it
were not for the barrier, Harry was certain he would be much, much closer.

"…Vous vivez dans l'obscurité, mon chéri…" Voldemort repeated his

statement from earlier in a low, husky whisper. But then he added something
else.

"Je serai votre lumière… 'Arry…"

Harry desperately wished he knew what that meant. And—and why was it
that Lord Voldemort saying his name in a disturbingly perfect French accent
somehow seemed to affect him even more than when Fleur said it?

Voldemort's lips curled into a knowing grin, and he tilted his head to the side,
amusement dancing across his features. "…I believe this is the part…"

Harry's breath hitched in his throat—was he actually going to explain what

that meant? Or—

"…Where you hang up."

Harry stared. Voldemort's smug smile broadened, and he leaned back in his
chair, eyes blazing in something in triumph, and it was like he was just
daring Harry to argue otherwise.

For a highly stressful moment, Harry just gaped at him, sure that he was
blushing brighter than any individual in the history of world ever had, his
mind and body both traitorously not listening to him as he tried and failed to
come up with some kind of intelligent remark, some snappish comment that
would let him have the final word—but he could come up with nothing,
nothing at all, and Voldemort had begun to chuckle softly, his victorious
smirk growing ever more amused—

Harry scowled, tearing his eyes away from Voldemort's and eventually giving
up. He pulled the phone away from his face, but it slipped from his sweaty
palm not once, but twice—Harry was fumbling like an idiot after it as it
dangled by the cord, until finally, with both hands, he managed to grab it and
slam it down on the receiver.

Voldemort had laughed the entire time.

And Harry hated that, even though he had, technically, been the one to end
the dream…that that conversation had absolutely ended on Voldemort's
terms.
 33. Amazing Grace

Harry feigned sleep for several minutes after he had awoken, taking his time
in order to gather himself under the protective shield of a blanket. He did not
want to face the others before he had mentally…settled down.

He could still hear Voldemort's soft laughter in his ears when he'd fumbled
for the phone, flustered and…

Wooed, he thought irritably. He had been wooed, totally and completely

swept up by a single word, like he was some thirteen year old school girl, and
that was terrible, and embarrassing, and it could never happen again, and
damn it, Harry, get it together!

Harry suppressed a groan. Instead, he took a deep breath and prepared

himself to speak with his expectant audience. Obviously, he would be
skipping the part where the Dark Lord had said that he was—

Perfect.

—and he had subsequently felt like he'd been dropped into the heart of an
active volcano.

Finally, once he was confident that he appeared sufficiently calm, Harry

threw the blanket off of himself and got to his feet.

Everyone was waiting in their usual spots on the other side of the room,
gathered around the table, lounging in chairs, reading, writing… But this
time, several of them had been nodding off. Hermione dropped the book in
her hands at Harry's sudden movement, and Ron swore out loud at the
resulting 'thud' of the giant tome hitting the ground, having been half-asleep
himself.
Harry glanced at his watch. He'd been asleep nearly two hours, this time…

"Well?"

Draco was the first one up, crossing the room and approaching Harry before
the rest of them were even standing.

"Well," Harry echoed his word, stretching his hands up high over his head.
He stifled a yawn before dropping them to his sides. "Consider yourself
saved."

"R…really?"

"Really," Harry said, grinning. "You and your parents."

Draco's jaw fell open. Harry smiled happily, and it took a few moments for
the blonde to regain the ability to speak. "Really? Both of my parents…?
Even my father?"

Harry nodded. Draco stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief.

And then, before he could prevent it, Malfoy grabbed him in what was the
most overbearingly tight, crushing embrace he'd ever experienced, putting
even Dobby's hug to shame. It was so forceful that Harry thought that Draco
might actually be trying to kill him, or at least break a few ribs, which, now
that there was an abhorrent amount of pressure being applied on his side,
Harry realized he was still a bit sore there…from the last time that Draco
Malfoy had nearly killed him due to a mediocre apparation.

"Okay, okay…" Harry gasped, awkwardly patting Draco on the back. He

finally released him.

"He really, really said he'll let us all go?"

"Yep." Harry rubbed his side gingerly. "All three of you are free."

Draco beamed, and then quickly pulled up his left sleeve. The Dark Mark
there remained a deep, angry black that clearly was still attempting to cause a
severe amount of pain. Draco's cheerful expression faltered.

"Well, I never said he was happy about it," Harry admitted, peering down at
the black tattoo and trying not to wince, "but we'll get that sorted it out—and
hey! You're safe, now!" he added brightly. Malfoy let the sleeve fall back
down over the Mark, not looking entirely convinced.

"And Snape?"

Hermione voiced the question tentatively. Snape remained further away from
them, still keen to keep a healthy distance from Harry. Their previous
conversation was still painfully fresh in both of their minds.

Harry's eyes flickered from Hermione, to Snape, and back again. "No," he
finally said. Hermione frowned concernedly. "No, but he will. Eventually.
Everything is going exactly as we thought it would still, eh?"

"…Yes…I suppose…" Hermione murmured. She rubbed her eyes with the
back of her hands.

"What about us?" Fred asked. "Did he let on that'd he'd heard the broadcast?"

"Er, no. Still not sure."

"Damn," George muttered before yawning loudly. "Maybe he really hasn't,

then?"

"I don't know," Harry said. "I still don't think you should leave, though. Not
until this is all sorted out." The twins nodded lazily.

Everyone, Harry noted, looked very tired and worn. These continual night-
time negotiations with a Dark Lord where their lives hung in the balance
were certainly beginning to take their toll…and even though it was he, Harry,
who had to brave the monster face to face, the stress deeply affected all of
them.

Especially Snape. Harry could see the strain in his eyes, despite the fact that
he pretended to be calm. Harry could not blame him. He, personally, may
have been acting confident about being able to convince Voldemort to let
Snape be, but he was beginning to wonder if that would ever actually
happen…

What was more important to Lord Voldemort? His inexplicable, insane love
for Harry Potter, or his colossal, insurmountable hate for Severus Snape?

…Now that was certainly a question he never imagined that he would be

posing, Harry thought incredulously. He failed to contain a yawn of his own,
then, and a great wave of exhaustion rolled through him. Mental bartering did
not exactly make for restful sleep.

"Might as well get some shut-eye, then," Fred said, looking just as tired as the
rest of them. "Can't move forward until tomorrow night, right?"

"Right," Harry muttered. He glanced over at Snape, who had remained quiet
the entire time. The older man nodded curtly when they made eye contact.
"…Right."

They all moved to climb into their prospective hammocks. Snape turned and
left, heading for his private space and leaving the rest of the group to
themselves.

"Hey, Ron," Harry said suddenly, inspiration striking him as they all got
settled.

Ron rolled clumsily to his side. "Yeah?"

"Did you... Before your brother's wedding, when the Delacours were staying
with you… Did you ever pick up on any French, at all? Talking to them?"

Ron blinked at the unexpected question. "Er…to be honest, I wasn't actually

paying too much attention to what they were saying when they were around,
you know…"

Draco snorted. Hermione shot him a disapproving glare, and Ron cleared his
throat, ears turning red. "Why do you ask?" he went on quickly.

"Just… I was just wondering what something meant. But never mind." Harry
laid down in his own hammock, adjusting his pillow beneath his head.

"What is it?" Hermione asked. "I picked up a little bit of French when my
family and I went there on vacation once. Maybe I can make a guess."

It only hit Harry then that, maybe, whatever it was Voldemort had said to him
might be something embarrassing. But Hermione was looking at him with
great curiosity, and he knew there was no backing out, now.

"…Tu vis dans l'obscurité," Harry recited, feeling oddly impressed with
himself that he could remember it so easily. He did, at least, have the sense to
leave out the 'mon cher' part at the end. "And, je serai ta lumière."

Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You…you something…and I think

that obscurité means—"

"Darkness."

They all jumped at Snape's unanticipated voice. Harry had thought he'd
already disappeared into his room, but Harry snapped his head to the side to
see that the Potions Master had paused, hovering outside of his doorway and
looking at Harry over his shoulder. His features were flat and emotionless,
but even from a distance, Harry could see the trepidation in those black,
bottomless eyes.

"You live in darkness…I will be your light."

Harry swallowed thickly. Snape was still for a long moment, staring back at
him unwaveringly.

But Harry did not respond, and Snape said nothing else, either, only turned
and went into his private quarters. The lights in the room went out after his
door closed, and Harry felt a strange, deep sense of foreboding coiling
somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
Perhaps his great discomfort and reluctance to explain himself was evident,
because no one said anything after that, only shared concerned, confused,
and, in Harry's opinion, unnerving glances.

He covered his face with the thick, heavy blanket, and settled in for what now
promised to be a restless night.

He wasn't the only one who was unable to sleep.

Harry had stared vacantly at his watch for over an hour, now, his troubled
mind taking him to places that he would rather not go.

He had thought a lot about what Voldemort had said. A lot, and, even though
he knew it wasn't what he was supposed to be doing, when he went to meet
him again, he had come to the conclusion that…he had some questions.

A lot of questions.

He was brought out of his inner turmoil when he heard someone getting up.

Harry peered quietly over the top of his blanket, watching as Draco Malfoy
tip-toed across the room, entering into a new and mysterious door which had
appeared. Harry recognized it as one of the castle's familiar, wooden ones
which led to the spare classrooms. Draco slipped into the new addition
silently and shut the door behind him

Harry quirked an eyebrow. Why would Draco feel the need to require a
classroom…? Far too curious to not look, and feeling as though he owed
Malfoy, anyway, for barging in on him in the Prefect's bathroom, he decided
to follow.

Everyone else was in a deep, peaceful slumber. Harry envied them and their
serene expressions.

But just moments later, he was reaching for the handle of the newly formed
door. It swung open at his touch, and Harry was struck speechless at the sight
that greeted him.
It was the Forbidden Forest.

Except, if couldn't be the forest, not really…but a room which looked exactly
like the forest. There were trees surrounding a small clearing of grass and
dirt, and above them, the endless, cloudless sky which was filled with
thousands upon thousands of stars. Harry recognized it suddenly as the
classroom which Firenze had requested in their fifth year, when he had begun
to teach Divination.

"Well shut the door, then."

Draco was laying on his back in the grass, splayed out like a child about to
make a snow angel. On his chest rested the softly-glowing, dragon nightlight.
It was currently white. Malfoy peered up at him in the open doorway, looking
mildly annoyed.

Harry complied and closed the door. "The forest?" he questioned, walking
over and sitting next to him on the grass.

"Yeah," Draco answered, his irritated expression instantly softening into one
of deep satisfaction. "Yeah…I couldn't sleep, and I was thinking about all of
the things I plan on doing, when we really get out of this mess…and I was
thinking about all of the little things I always took for granted. Like…grass."

He stretched his arms out wider on either side of him, practically sighing.
Harry smirked.

"And dirt," he added. "And trees, and fresh air, and the sky."

He thrust one hand upwards, pointing towards the glittering field of stars. The
moon was a sliver of silver to one side, a crooked grin beaming down at
them.

"The mother fucking sky."

Harry snorted, leaning back so that he was laying at his side. "Yes," he
agreed vehemently. "The mother fucking sky."
They both laughed.

Afterwards, they fell into a state of comfortable silence in which they both
just looked up at the stars, feeling blissfully, wonderfully content to be
outside…or close to it.

"We really shouldn't keep rearranging the castle, you know," Harry
eventually murmured. "If someone notices a classroom missing, it'll raise the
alarm or…or whatever it was Hermione said."

"Oh, look who's talking," Draco sneered. "It's four in the morning, no one is
going to be out and about, sneaking into Divination classrooms right now.
We'll get out of here, before morning… Now, the Prefect's bathroom,
however..."

Malfoy rolled over so that he was on his stomach, propped up on his elbows
and looking at Harry directly. Sparkles the dragon perched itself on his
shoulder, now glowing purple. "That is a room which students definitely
sneak into in the dead of night. I would know."

He smirked knowingly. Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh? Is that where you were
corrupted by Victoria Rowle?"

"No," Malfoy answered quickly. "That was in her private dorm. She was
Head Girl. And damn, I don't know if you've ever seen the living spaces they
give to Head Girl and Boy, but it would seriously be worth all of the work
just to have those bedrooms…and those beds…"

He sighed wistfully. Before Harry could say anything, he shook his head and
continued. "No, the Prefect's bathroom was where I shagged Zabini."

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but Malfoy just grinned. He twisted around so that
he, too, was propped up on his elbows. "You're kidding me," Harry said
doubtfully. "You didn't actually shag Zabini."

"Well, I suppose you could say that's true…" Malfoy replied. "If I'm being
perfectly honest, it was more like he shagged me."
Harry's jaw dropped. Draco's grin broadened at his reaction.

"What—what!?"

"Yeah. Not at all how I thought it would go, but in the end, well, it wasn't
bad. I expected to play that role, really, but, well…ha. I did get him back,
later, though."

Harry continued to gape stupidly at just how casually Draco was talking
about this. "You...wow. I can't believe I'm about to ask this, but… Draco
Malfoy, exactly how many guys have you had sex with?"

"Four."

"Really!?"

Draco laughed, clearly loving all of Harry's dramatic reactions…perhaps a bit

too much. "Four," he affirmed. "Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Zachariah
Fawley, and…" he ticked each of them off with his fingers, and paused
before saying,

"…Percy Weasley."

Harry's already dropped jaw nearly hit the forest floor.

"No," he eventually gasped, shaking his head. "You're… You had sex with
Percy Weasley?"

Draco continued to grin mischievously…but then he was laughing hard and

loud. "Ha! You should have seen the look on your face, just now!"

Harry hit him in the shoulder before he was laughing, too. "Damn it, why
would you lie about Percy Weasley?"

"For that. That look of utter shock. It was great," Malfoy said, smiling
widely. "Please… Like I would ever shag Percy Weasley, of all people…"

"Did you make them all up, then?"

"Hm? Oh, no, those other three definitely happened. More than once. In the
case of Zabini…six times, to be exact."

"Seriously? …Why?"

Draco frowned. "What kind of stupid question is that? Why does anyone have
sex, ever?" When Harry failed to answer, he rolled his eyes. "Because it's
amazing and it feels good, idiot. But I suppose you wouldn't know." He
smirked when Harry averted his gaze, trying not to blush or act like he cared.
"Truthfully, though, I prefer girls."

Harry's eyes snapped back to his at that statement. "Then why did you keep
shagging Zabini repetitively?"

"The same reason he kept shagging me, I suppose." Harry stared in

confusion. Draco sighed. "You don't understand what it was like, being in
Slytherin house. It was very, very different from the other houses. Social
etiquette was paramount; everything from where you sat in the common room
to how you addressed your superiors…and dating."

He practically groaned the last word. "That was the worst."

"Er…why, exactly?"

"Well, just look at me," Malfoy said, propping a single finger up under his
chin. Harry scoffed at his arrogance, but Draco wasn't smiling.

"I'm being serious," he said. "There I was, a pureblood in Slytherin, the sole
heir to the Malfoy name, mansion, and fortune, one of if not the most
powerful family in magical Britain…not to mention, you know, my stunning
good looks. I was what every girl in that house could ever want and then
some."

He sounded surprising bitter about it all. "So what's wrong with that, then?"
Harry asked. "It sounds like you could have had your pick of girls. Dating
should have been easy for you..."
"You don't get it," Malfoy spat. "Pureblood girls from noble, proper
families… They don't just date around casually, you know…at least, not with
someone like me. They would never consider just messing around with the
Malfoy heir. The exception being Victoria Rowle, I suppose, but that was
probably just because I was just fifteen and it was obviously not something
she took seriously. No, every girl I even contemplated anything with instantly
became so clingy it was painful. Because they didn't want to just have fun
with someone like me, they wanted to marry me. And my name, and my
money. I eventually started to go sort of steady with Parkinson last year,
more than anything because she was exhausting me and it was just easier to
let her think I was her boyfriend. That and, well, I had my mind on other
things."

Harry paused thoughtfully. "So…you didn't date girls in your house because
they were too clingy, and instead opted for having sex with guys," he
concluded blankly.

"Pretty much, yeah. What? Oh, don't look at me like that, all judgmental. It's
actually a bit of an underground practice that's been going on in Slytherin for
a long time."

"What is—guys shagging each other because the pureblood girls are too
uptight, and they threaten you with marriage?" Harry laughed, but Draco
nodded seriously.

"Yeah. Really."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to, I guess." Draco shrugged. "But it's true. And it was great,
because there was never any pressure of relationships or feelings when it was
another bloke. Because we all knew how it went, we all knew that, no matter
what your actual sexual preference was, we were all expected to marry a
pureblood girl from a noble family, in the end… It was just sex, and really, it
was always very interesting, because you never really knew how it was going
to play out, with another guy."
"…What do you mean?" Harry asked warily, wondering if he even should.

"Because the dynamic is always so competitive—or, at least, that's how it

was with me—like with Zabini. I kind of assumed that I would be the, er…
top, I guess. Because he's just such a pretty boy, I dunno, but…damn, was I
wrong." Draco laughed. "But then the next time we met up, it was my turn…
And I think he enjoyed it more than I did."

Harry stared, mouth hanging open wordlessly as he listened, because…

because it had never occurred to him, until this very moment, that…yes, it
definitely could go either way, and suddenly he was thinking of a time which
was not so long ago, when he had been standing on top of an hourglass,
bloody and shirtless and raw power coursing through his veins, and there, far
down below him, disarmed and on his knees was the Dark Lord…and that,
the thought of Lord Voldemort being the one bent and yearning and
submissive—

Why, that was just a novel concept that had never, ever crossed his mind
before.

"Huh," Harry said dazedly, wondering what to make of this particular

revelation.

"So, you know," Draco leered. "My previous offer still stands…"

He winked flirtatiously. The glass dragon turned a vivid pink.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Harry said dryly.

"Yeah… You'd need a bit of work, honestly, before you'd be up to my

standards."

"What!?"

Harry balked at the way Draco was now looking at him in such a scrutinizing
way. "I mean, honestly, the raw material is there, but it's painfully obvious
that you couldn't care less about your appearance. You look, act and carry
yourself like a muggle, and seriously…that hair."

He eyed Harry's wild mane distastefully. "Have you ever even tried to control
it? No, don't answer that, I already know the answer. You couldn't even be
bothered to fix it for the Yule Ball. And even Granger managed to make
herself look presentable, then."

"As a matter of fact, I have tried to make my hair look…presentable before,"

Harry snapped. "It just…it just won't."

"Sure, sure... Well, your hair is the least of your problems. You dress far too
plainly. We all know that you're the heir to the Potter family vault; it isn't like
you can't afford to get nicer robes than the mediocre ones you chose to wore
at school. And yes, this is the kind of thing that Slytherin students notice.
Looking smart is half the battle, Harry…" He scanned Harry's body one more
time, spending a lot of time glaring at his hair.

"And you are losing."

"Just one more reason it was a good thing I wasn't in Slytherin, then, because
none of that rubbish matters to me. In Gryffindor, we cared about people's
personalities, not the quality of theirrobes."

"Well, that's where you're wrong again. Having the right attire and
appearance was simply the prerequisite for gaining social standing in our
house. Bare minimum for getting taken seriously, but it by no means got you
anywhere. Anyone can buy proper clothes and clean up nicely—well, anyone
with money, that is. Another prerequisite. But then you have to know how to
speak to people. Know names, policies, family histories, current affairs…
There are all these little, yet infinitely important social cues that you have to
be aware of and know how to act on. It's painfully obvious when someone
hasn't grown up in a pureblood family that appreciates and passes down old
traditions. I was practically bred to be a sophisticated, smooth, politician. Just
like my father."

"That sounds fascinating," Harry said sarcastically.

"It is," Draco answered, totally unabashed. "I'm thankful to have been born
into such a good family. The purebloods rule the wizarding world, Harry,
everyone knows that. They always have, and now, they most definitely
always will."

"Yes, but we're terrorists now, remember? I think any and all opportunities
you may have had for power have dwindled down to non-existent, at this
point."

"Unless we win."

Rather than looking crest-fallen, like Harry would have expected, Malfoy's
eyes were shining with fierce determination. "Right," Harry agreed slowly.
"…Unless we win."

"And we will. I'm sure of it. We have a good plan, and it's been going
perfectly so far, and soon all of this will be over, and…and I'll be able to see
my parents again, and…"

Draco's voice trailed off, the passion in his eyes smoldering into something
else. "I…I can never repay you, for convincing him to spare them."

"Don't mention it."

For a moment, Draco did nothing but stare at him. But then he quite suddenly
jumped to his feet, extending a hand down to Harry eagerly. The nightlight
turned a bright, cheery orange.

"Here. Come with me to the bathroom."

"The…the bathroom?" Harry slowly and cautiously took his hand.

"Yes. The bathroom. We need to get out of here, anyway, so the castle can
put it back before morning."

"Wh-why the bathroom…?"

Malfoy pulled him along towards the door, grinning far too devilishly for
Harry's liking.

"I'm going to do something to, uh…start repaying you for saving me," he
replied vaguely. When Harry continued to look apprehensive, he grabbed his
hand tighter.

"Trust me. You're going to love it."

"Ow—ow, that hurt, you twat—"

"Well it wouldn't hurt if you quit moving—almost there—yes—"

"Ow! You're yanking hard like that on purpose!"

"Quite whining, I'm nearly finished—"

"This has been going on for far, far too long already!"

"Okay, okay! I'm done. Here. Put this on."

"Can I take this stupid blindfold off, yet?"

"No! No, not yet. Here, I'll help you. Put your arm out, and I'll button you
up…"

"Just what are you doing to me?"

"Shhh! Let me just—one more clasp—okay…There."

Draco finally stepped away.

"Now you can take the blindfold off."

Harry slowly reached up to remove the cloth tied over his eyes. He blinked in
amazement at the stranger looking back at him in the mirror.

Whoa.
Two hours, three full bottles of some kind of powerful beauty product, lots of
painful hair pulling, the death of no less than six combs, stylish robes being
selected from a mysterious, apparentlyrequired chest of clothing, and lots and
lots of bickering whilst being blindfolded…had resulted in the person before
him.

Draco was grinning gleefully, looking at Harry like he was the Malfoy heir's
very own masterpiece.

"And you said I was a terrible artist," Draco said, smirking haughtily at
Harry's stunned expression.

For Draco Malfoy had managed the impossible. Harry Potter's characteristic,
wild, unruly mane…had been tamed. His ebony black hair was slicked back
much in the same way that Malfoy used to wear his. Smooth, dark, and so
shiny, Harry noted in awe. When it wasn't sticking up all over the place, it
was kind of bizarre, just how glossy it was…

And his clothes were so...so suave. He wore black, thick robe that fit his
newer, healthier body like they had been tailored just for him, showing off his
broad shoulders and chiseled chest. Silver clasps appeared at his throat and at
the cuffs of his sleeves, and, Harry noted, they had tiny, shimmering snakes
embossed on them.

His clothes and his hair… Only two things, and yet they drastically changed
his entire appearance. With his hair back and out of the way, his scar was on
full display, a jagged lightning bolt across his forehead. And his eyes, his
piercingly bright, green eyes…without his glasses, they stood out like
shimmering, opulent emeralds. Harry almost wondered if Malfoy had put
some kind of spell on them, to make them gleam like that.

"Normally, I would say the scar is a problem and you should cover it up with
a charm, but now that I'm taking in the whole picture, I don't think so," Draco
said, walking around Harry slowly to examine him carefully from all sides. "I
think it's brilliant. It's perfect, like a permanent, masculine crown or
something."
Harry finally tore his eyes away from his own reflection to gape at him. "A
crown…?"

"Yes." Draco nodded, stepping forward so that he was by Harry's side. He

pointed at him in the mirror. "Now this is how the Master of the Elder Wand
should look… What do you think?" His eyes shone in what was absurdly
genuine hopefulness.

"I…" Harry looked back to his own, foreign reflection. Now that the initial
shock had worn off, and he could stare at his own body objectively, he sort of
thought that, well…

"I look positively regal."

His reflection smirked devilishly, crossing his arms and jutting his chin
forward. "Damn right," it muttered smugly.

Draco beamed.

"You're nearly perfect."

"Nearly?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, yes. You have the look, but you have
to actually carry yourself with some dignity, some grace—"

"I think you will find that I can carry myself in a very dignified and graceful
manner, Mr. Malfoy," Harry sneered in his best impersonation of a snotty,
pureblood prat.

But Draco only grinned broader. "That's a good start! Do—"

"What're you two doing in—Merlin's beard!"

Ron entered into the bathroom, and the moment he saw Harry he completely
froze.

"Morning, Weasley," Draco said causally.

Harry squared his shoulders, acting annoyed at the way Ron was staring in
shock. "Mr. Weasley, would you mind moving? Some of us have more
interesting things to do with our time besides gaping like idiots at their
superiors."

Ron, whose stunned expression did not change, took a silent step to the side.
Harry swept from the room impressively, attempting to make his cloak billow
behind him and amazing himself a bit when it actually worked. Draco smiled
mirthfully, looking like this, Harry Potter, his own creation, was Christmas
come early.

Everyone else was already up. They were just helping themselves to
breakfast which Dobby had provided when he entered. Ginny, Luna, and,
Harry was pleasantly surprised to see, Neville had joined them. Snape, too,
was awake, though he remained seated further away from the rest of them,
hidden behind the current issue of The Daily Prophet.

They all stopped what they were doing. Everyone instantly fell silent at the
sight of Harry Potter striding towards them confidently with immaculate hair
and the most stylish, sophisticated robes that any of them had ever seen.

Harry looked down at the impressive spread of food like it smelled bad.
"What is this?" he jeered, amazing himself with how much he sounded like
Snape. He glared around at the lot of them. "Sitting around, enjoying a nice,
pleasant breakfast while the world is in turmoil?"

"Look at your hair!" Hermione gasped, totally astonished at this detail alone
and ignoring his snide comment completely. "How did you do that!?"

"I did that," Malfoy answered. "Brilliant, isn't it? It took more than three
whole bottles of Sleakeazy Hair Potion, but I managed to make Potter's hair
presentable."

"Three bottles? That's—that's more than I used before the Yule Ball…"

"Well, I might have overdone it a bit." Draco glanced at Harry sheepishly.

"Your hair might just be stuck like that forever, actually…"
"Good," Harry replied curtly. "I don't have time to spend doing my hair every
day, so it's all well and fine if it's just done for me permanently. Time is of
the essence, you know. I can hardly fathom how you all are wasting your
lives drinking tea and eating toast when you could be reading a book or
learning something that may be of some value, but I suppose apathy is a trait
that is common in Gryffindor house…"

Harry sneered his words like he thought they were all the scum of the earth.
Fred and George picked up on his uncanny impersonation of Snape
immediately, and instantly played along.

"But, sir, we are but poor Hogwarts drop-outs—we had to leave the school—
Professor Umbridge took our brooms—"

"And our dignity—"

"And she tried to have our way with us—"

"Done in the dungeons, during detention—"

"It was awful—"

"Being so powerfully, sexual attractive is such a burden—"

"Silence!" Harry seethed, looking deeply annoyed. "Are you all so idiotic? So
simple-minded, so uneducated? Are you all magical drop-outs?"

He looked from Fred and George, to Ron, to Hermione, and lastly to Draco,
who all sort of shrugged half-heartedly as they realized that yes, technically,
they were.

"We're still in school, but the curriculum is severely lacking…" Ginny added,
nodding towards Neville and Luna. Neville, for his part, was still gaping with
his mouth wide open at Harry's appearance. Luna was examining her
reflection in the back of her spoon. "I fear we may end up dropping out, as
well."
"Then I suppose I shall have to accept the very heavy burden, yet again, of
attempting to teach you all something useful myself…much as I loathe to
take on such an impossible task."

Snape, who had remained quiet and still, was watching over the top of his
newspaper through narrowed eyes. Harry wondered if he was just now
figuring out that it was he who Harry was pretending to be.

He glanced to his right, and smirked at what had manifested itself there. No
less than eight student chairs and four tables had materialized, as well as a
professor's desk and a blackboard. Harry quickly masked his amusement,
acting as though he had known those were going to show up and anyone who
was surprised by their presence was an idiot.

"Take a seat," he commanded sternly, making his way over to the board—and
yes, Harry thought smugly, he was definitely a natural at this cloak-billowing
thing. "Tardiness will not be accepted in my classroom."

Failing to suppress grins and a few giggles, they all quickly jumped up,
muttering things like 'yes, sir', and 'of course, sir' as they each grabbed a
chair.

Harry began prowling between the tables, channeling all of the internal,
intimidating aura that he could muster. His green eyes flickered over each of
them like he was very disappointed with what he had to work with.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class…"

he drawled.

Snape was openly glowering, now.

Harry grabbed the first book from the stack which Hermione had been
attempting to make him read the day before, and, sure enough, it was the old
Potions text. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-
making," he said, taking the book with him to his desk. He examined them
from the other side with a cold, calculating stare. "I can teach you how to
bottlefame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of
dunderheads as I usually have to teach… Mr. Longbottom, what would I get
if I added the powdered bone of a thestral to an infusion of unicorn's blood
and myrrh?"

"Er…" Neville frowned, actually trying to come up with something—which

Harry found impressive on its own, as he had just made all of that up. But it
must have actually been something, too, because Hermione's hand shot up
into the air. Perhaps it was just on pure instinct. Harry ignored her.

"I have no idea, sir."

"Let's try again, then. What are the properties of a bezoar?"

Hermione continued keep her hand raised. "Uh…"

"Nothing? You have no idea? I would say I am shocked, Longbottom, but

somehow I find your inability to articulate thoughts rather predictable.
Anyone else? Is there anyone in this sorry excuse for a class who knows the
answer? …Anyone?"

Harry looked around at each of them in turn, all of whom were forcefully
suppressing grins. Hermione was bouncing in her seat, waving her hand
around. Finally, after ignoring her for an exuberant amount of time, Harry's
eyes finally settled on her.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" he muttered as though the words pained him.

"A bezoar is a stone-like mass taken from the stomach of a goat which acts as
an antidote to most poisons, with Basilisk venom being one notable
exception. It is usually made of hair, plant fiber, or similar indigestible matter
that stays in the gut of an animal and forms a hard ball, or 'stone'."

"Spoken like someone who had memorized the text word for word like a
mindless drone. Mr. Malfoy, take five points."

Hermione gasped, looking honestly affronted. "Points for Malfoy? But

why!?"
"For sitting next to you out of his own free will. He must have the patience of
a saint. And you will refer to me as 'sir' in my class, Miss Granger."

Hermione glared. Draco laughed gleefully, and everyone else was chortling at
how impeccably Harry managed to channel the persona of Severus Snape.

Everyone except Severus Snape, of course, who was looking more sour and
mutinous by the second. Harry ignored him, too.

"Today," he announced, opening up the Potions text and letting it fall to a

random page, "we shall be preparing the potion…Felix Felicis. Otherwise
known as liquid luck, this brew will grant those who consume it with
incredibly good fortune for a period of time, during which they will be
successful at everything they do—blimey, really?" Harry muttered under his
breath at the words he was reading, momentarily breaking character. "Why
the hell aren't we all drinking this all the time?"

Hermione's hand shot up into the air at his murmurings, and she answered at
once. "Because Felix Felicis is extremely toxic in large quantities, very
difficult to brew and disastrous if made incorrectly, composed of many rare
and expensive ingredients, and it takes a very long times to stew before being
ready to consume."

Harry glowered. "Sir," she added quickly.

"Miss Granger, if I want to hear the sound of your monotonous, dull voice, I
ensure you that I will call on you. Mr. Malfoy, have five more points."

"But—why give points to Malfoy? Why not just take points from Hermione?"
Ginny asked.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her before smirking. "Mr. Malfoy is worthy of
more points because he obviously shared that information with Miss Granger
before she answered, as it was a response that was not regurgitated from a
textbook, which is the only kind of answer Miss Granger is truly capable of
on her own… Obviously. But that is an excellent idea, Miss Weasley. Ten
points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn from Miss Granger, and five
from you from you, Miss Weasley, for the same offence. As well as a
detention," he added for good measure.

But Ginny just smiled coyly. "Are we talking about a scrubbing-the-

bathroom-floors kind of detention, or a private, solitary detention where I
come alone to you in your big, dark, dungeon, Professor…?"

She leaned forward in her desk with her eyes gleaming. Harry managed to
only be frazzled by this for a second, clearing his throat and acting
unaffected. "Miss Weasley," he sneered, though he was grinning, too, "if you
are attempting to seduce an honorable Professor of the faculty of Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…you are going to have to try much
harder than that."

His smirk widened. "Much harder."

"You don't say…" she purred, tracing her finger along the surface of the desk.

"I thought we were supposed to be learning something," Malfoy spat,

interrupting their flirtatious exchange. Ginny glared at him.

"Indeed," Harry agreed. "Take another five points, Mr. Malfoy, for being the
voice of reason. You are all here to make Felix Felicis. The instructions—"
Harry brandished his wand, pointing it towards the black board where words
then appeared, "—are on the board. I expect your finished brews by the end
of the hour. Begin."

They are stared at the blackboard, where the instructions had manifested
themselves as thus:

1. Do not disappoint me.

2. Do not disappoint me.

3. Do not disappoint me.

4. Do not disappoint me.

5. Do not disappoint me.

6. Do not disappoint me.

7. Do not disappoint me.

Harry then sat at his desk, leaning back into his chair languidly and flipping
through the Potions text. He ignored the laughter coming from the others
entirely.

"Um…Professor Potter? Merlin, that sounds weird—is that what you'd like to
be called, sir?"

Harry's eyes glanced fleeting up at Ron. "Hm… Professor Potter…" he

murmured thoughtfully…but then he was shaking his head and getting to his
feet. "No, that sounds like a silly line from some childish limerick. I would
prefer one of my other, far more impressive titles. For I am the Boy Who
Lived, the Chosen One, the Master of the Elder Wand, the Wielder of the
Deathstick—I am—"

Harry glanced down at the front page of the Potions book, where he saw the
words scribbled there,

"The Half-Blood Prince!"

He snapped the book shut and tossed it behind him. Snape dropped the
newspaper he was holding.

"What did you just say?" he snapped loudly from the other side of the room.

"You must raise your hand if you would like to speak in my class!" Harry
thundered, pointing his wand in Snape's direction. Amazingly, without even
meaning to, a quick, wordless spell fired out, and Snape's hand went shooting
up into the air against his will. Bewildered, Snape stared up at his own arm in
shock, before swiftly looking murderous and managing to pull it back down
to his side.
Everyone laughed. Harry cleared his throat and quickly went on like he'd
intended to do that.

"You were saying, Mr. Weasley?" he said instead, returning his attention to
Ron.

"Uh…well, it's just, we don't have any ingredients, or…or cauldrons, or

anything at all, for that matter…" he said, speaking through his laughter with
great difficulty.

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He let out a long,
slow breath before speaking. "Must I do everything…? Is there not a single
other capable being in this entire universe? Must I coddle each and every one
of you?"

He finally looked up, sighing loudly. "Can anyone please explain to me how
it is I am perpetually surrounded by individuals who cannot manage to
impress me for even a moment?"

Hermione's hand shot up. Harry ignored her in favor of staring piercingly at
everyone else. "Miss Lovegood, you look as though you might have
something that resembles a coherent thought in that head of yours. What do
you think? Why is it that you are all such sorry disappointments?"

Luna, who had remained quite silent this entire time, looking more at the
ceiling than at Harry, finally glanced at him like she'd only just noticed Harry
was there in the first place. She stared at him for several long moments before
finally saying, "Why is anyone anything, sir?"

Harry sighed. "Miss Lovegood," he said through clenched teeth, "What you
have just uttered was the exact opposite of an answer, and was, in fact,
another question."

She blinked slowly. "Can questions not be successfully answered with other,
much more pertinent questions?"

Harry put a hand to his forehead in exasperation. "You pain me, Miss
Lovegood. You physically, truly pain me." He then turned his attention to
Neville. "Mr. Longbottom, I would ask you, but I imagine I would receive a
better response from your conveniently non-existent cauldron."

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Weasley," he
said, waving his arm vaguely towards the group, "What do you think?"

"I think—" Ron started, but Harry quickly cut him off.

"No, the other Weasley."

"Well, I—"

"No, the other Weasley."

"…Um, I—"

"No, the other—oh, forget it!" Harry's eyes flew open, and his wand emitted
sparks of red. "No one? Not a single one of you is able to come up with
something?"

Hermione was still waving her hand back and forth in front of his face.
Slowly, very, very slowly, Harry looked to her.

"…Yes, Miss Granger?" he said in that same, strained voice.

"I would say," she began, eyes shining inquisitively, "that the reason we are
the way we are is that we are all victims of circumstance. Each and every one
of us is the product of the society in which we were born into, and while
nature may be partially responsible for certain, individual tendencies, nurture
is what shapes our principles and forms our core beliefs."

Harry was quiet for a long moment at this unexpected answer. He stared
down at her with slightly parted lips, fleetingly and completely
dumbfounded. For as he looked at her, he saw not his bushy-haired,
intellectual friend of seven years…but a small, timid, muggle-born girl who
had been teased and picked on. Who, for a long time, had no friends but
books.

Who had stopped reading fairy tales because of something that should never
have happened, because of how their society worked…and that it wasn't fair.

It just wasn't fair.

"I… I find that I am inclined to agree, Miss Granger," he said softly.

Hermione beamed at the praise, like he was a real Professor and his approval
actually mattered. But then Harry cleared his throat loudly, straightened his
posture and regained his haughty, false composure.

"Mr. Malfoy, take another five points."

And so the day went.

Number Four, Privet Drive.

Mr. Price was walking down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, heading
towards that particular home. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining,
the birds were singing...and had the sky ever been so blue? He could not
recall a single time in his life where it had been quite so vibrant.

Yes, it was a beautiful day. Perhaps, he mused, he would go for a walk in the
park later.

That would be lovely.

He arrived at his destination. Mr. Price adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses

before checking his watch. He was a bit early, but, well, he did not think that
they would mind.

The door opened a few moments later. A tall, thin woman opened the door.
She appeared slightly flustered as she did, wearing an apron and holding an
oven mitt in one hand. "Robert!" she said breathlessly. "Oh, we weren't
expecting you for another fifteen minutes or so—come in, come in—"
"Petunia," he responded warmly as he stepped over the threshold.

"It is so lovely to see you again."

Footsteps announced the arrival of a large, bulky man. He grinned widely

through his thick mustache, immediately extending a hand in Mr. Price's
direction.

"Robert! Glad you could come for dinner." They grasped hands firmly. Mr.
Price inclined his head.

"Always a pleasure to be invited into your beautiful home, Vernon. Truly, it is

immaculate."

Petunia blushed at the praise. "Dinner will be just a few more minutes.
Vernon, why don't you serve our guest a drink and take a seat in the dining
room?"

"I'm two steps ahead of you, dearie." Vernon placed a swift kiss on his wife's
cheek before leading the way down the hall. Mr. Price followed dutifully.
"What would you like, Robert? Pick your poison."

"Oh…surprise me. You know what kind of man I am, Vernon."

Vernon quirked an eyebrow inquisitively. "…Brandy man," he finally said.

Mr. Price smiled. "Yes. A brandy man, indeed."

"Straight?"

"Straight."

He poured them both a generous amount of brandy, and seconds later they
were seated across from each other in the dining room, glasses in hand.

Vernon was about to take a drink before Mr. Price stopped him suddenly by
grabbing his arm. His colleague stared piercingly at the way his lips had
nearly touched the glass, and Vernon almost could have sworn that his eyes
flashed, and the grip on his arm become oddly, uncomfortably tight—Vernon
winced, confused—

"To your good health," Robert said, holding his glass high.

Vernon exhaled.

"Cheers."

Their glasses clinked together, and they drank.

Mr. Price leaned back into the cushion of his chair. "You really do have an
exceptionally lovely home, Vernon," he said, examining the elaborate
wallpaper, the impressive furniture, and the glass cabinet which was filled
with crystal stemware. His eyes then landed on a photograph on the wall.
Three motionless figures stared back at him.

"And family. Such a…beautiful family."

Vernon beamed. "Yeah, I'm lucky. Charming wife, talented son… Dudley is
quite the boxer, now. The noble sport." He puffed his chest out proudly. "I'm
sure he'll tell you all about that at dinner though, and I'll introduce you—he
loves to tell the story of how he won the district championship a few months
ago."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Tough as nails, my Dudders. Undefeated. Couldn't ask for a finer son."

Vernon took a long sip of his brandy. Mr. Price stared at the family photo,
eerily still.

"…What happened to the other child?"

Vernon nearly choked.

"Your nephew." Robert's eyes remained fixed on the photograph, wide and
unblinking. "I remember it being in the news…teenage boy gone missing,
police unable to locate him… That was your nephew, correct? What was his
name, again?"

Vernon's face contorted in conflict. This was obviously a topic he did not feel
even remotely comfortable discussing…but, eventually, he answered.

"Harry," he answered shortly.

"Harry… That's right. Do you have any idea what may have happened to
him? Oh, forgive me. I can tell I'm making you upset. It must have been very
hard for you and your family, when he went missing."

Vernon took another drink before shaking his head. "No, it's just…between
you and me, Robert," he muttered, leaning closer as if to divulge a great
secret, "that boy... He wasn't right. He was…involved with a dangerous
crowd. Gangs, you could say. I think that he was into drugs, just like his
father was before him. Petunia and I tried to squash it out of him, did
everything we could to make him normal, raise him right, but…it was just in
his blood. There was no stopping nature from running its course. When he
disappeared, I'm sure he just ran off with his drug lord or something. And
good riddance to him."

He took another deep drink, draining the glass. "Kid was a freak."

"…A freak."

Vernon nodded. He poured himself another healthy serving of brandy.

"Dinner is ready! Dudders, get down here!"

Petunia swept into the dining room, bring with her copious amount of warm,
home-cooked food. She faltered for a second, almost thinking that Mr. Price
had been—had been glaring at her husband viciously, and his eyes, had they
—?

But then he was smiling genially up at her, and she was sure she must have
imagined it. "Lasagna," she announced happily.
"Excellent."

A burly, teenage boy with blonde hair and watery, blue eyes joined them. His
focus was predominantly on the food the second he entered the kitchen,
looking ravenous.

"Dudley, this is Mr. Price, my colleague at the plant," Vernon said, gesturing
to the man at his side.

The boy tore his greedy gaze away from the lasagna. "Nice to meet you, sir,"
he said. Mr. Price stood and shook his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine."

Petunia beamed at her son like he was the most chivalrous, angelic child to
ever walk the earth. They both joined them at the table.

"I was just telling Mr. Price here that you were a boxer, Dudley," Vernon
said at once. Dudley had already begun helping himself to food. "Why don't
you tell him about how—"

"Did you get along with your cousin, Dudley?"

They all froze at the unexpected question. Dudley dropped the fork he was
holding, and the silver sounded loudly as it clattered against the porcelain.

He didn't say anything. "Your cousin. Harry… Were you kind to him, Dudley
Dursley?"

Dudley glanced at his mother pleadingly, concerned. She gathered herself

quickly. "We don't like to talk about that, Robert," she said, not meeting his
gaze. "But we would love to talk about—"

"About how you would turn away when your son would strike your nephew?
Your sister's son?" Mr. Price's voice was shockingly cold. "About how you
neglected him and locked him under the stairs in the darkness? About how
you sent him to bed in a cupboard, hungry, cold, and alone?"
Petunia's face paled, her jaw hanging open uselessly. Her husband got to his
feet. "What is the meaning of this, Robert? Accusing my wife of—"

"Sit."

Vernon's knees buckled underneath of him. The wood of the chair screeched
in protest as he fell back down, nearly breaking under the sudden, forceful
weight.

Petunia probably would have screamed, had she not been so shocked.

"Do you deny it?"

Mr. Price stared directly into her eyes, cold hatred simmering behind his
horn-rimmed glasses.

"Don't you dare—"

"Silence."

Vernon's spluttering was cut off with a word. His hand flew to his throat,
confused and quickly becoming terrified—

"…Who are you?"

Petunia's skin was as white as death. "Y-you're not Robert," she gasped,
reaching protectively to wrap her hands around her son's shoulders. "Who
are you?"

Mr. Price slowly stood. Vernon recoiled away from him, but found that his
bottom was inexplicably stuck to the chair. He fell over sideways with a loud
thud, unable to yell, and Petunia let out a shriek of fear before she knelt at
his side—

"…Who am I…"

"Dudley, run!"
The door slammed shut in Dudley's face when he sprinted. Petunia struggled
in vain to remove her cursed husband form the chair, writhing and shouting
silently—

"…Who am I…" Mr. Price repeated softly. Petunia's eyes flashed up to his,
wide and fearful.

A shadow stretched across his body. Impossibly, his entire form shifted,
skewed—"I…am the woman whom you look down upon in the part of town
which you do not approve of; the one whom you gossip about like she is the
dirt beneath your feet, because her husband has left her and she is poor,
unable to afford or maintain the immaculate home and the perfectly
manicured garden which you believe make you better…"

And he was that woman, worn-down and defeated, eyes flashing and
murderous and Petunia knew that woman—

"…Who am I…" she repeated in a new voice. Petunia screamed and

scrambled backwards as this monstrocity took a step closer to her. Dudley
held his mother at his side, as though he could shield her from the sight—

Another dark, impossible shadow fell upon her, and she shifted again...

"…I am the man beneath the bridge who does not have a home; the one
whom you used to pass on your way to work nearly every day, Vernon
Dursely, whom you spat upon... Whom you made a formal complaint against
so that he was forced to leave and find another home which was not a home,
and you thought yourself noble and righteous for it…"

And he was that man, battered and mal-nourished, his sunken eyes blazing
and Vernon knew that man—

The lights flickered. The furniture all shook as though the four walls of the
room contained within them a personal earthquake. The china on the table
began clinking together and the large, ceramic container which held the
lasagna fell to the floor with an ear-splitting crash—the door flung open
violently, and Petunia and her son screamed—
"…Who am I…"

The entire table went flinging forcefully towards the wall, and then the
chairs, finally freeing Vernon from his enchantment—they smashed and
broke against the wallpaper, splinters of wood flying about in a fury of
impossible winds…another stretch of darkness swept across him, and the
homeless man became smaller, much smaller…

"…I am the boy you never loved; the one who you abused, the one who you
let go hungry and who you locked in the cupboard under the stairs..."

They all watched in horror as the door to the cupboard down the hall went
flying off of its hinges, exploding into pieces with a thunderous boom—

"…I am the boy you never loved…"

And he was that boy, small and fragile with green, green eyes and a lightning
bolt scar—they were all backed into a corner on the ground as far away from
him as they could possibly be, shrieking as the ghost from their past
advanced on them because they knew this boy—

"I am the retribution for your actions, I am the vengeance for your
negligence… I am the witness of every sinful seed that you have ever sown, I
am the silver scythe in the shadows… And I have come…to reap…"

The glass cabinet and all of the crystal stemware within it exploded violently.
Tiny bits of glass were everywhere, cutting their skin and decorating the
cowering family with splotches of liquid crimson. He moved closer still, his
hands raised up on either side of him, causing the turbulent winds to scream
in their ears—they were begging and pleading but their cries were swallowed
by his storm—

And then everything stopped.

The lights stopped flickering, the winds ceased. The fragments of broken
wood, china, and glass, which had been flying through the air, fell to the
ground.
And it was only Mr. Price standing there, smiling down at them benignly.

He was silent for a long moment. The Dursley family stared up at him in
paralyzed horror.

"Here is what you are going to do, Vernon, Petunia. Dudley. As fate would
have it, I have given my word to not kill…for the time being. And I do not
make such promises lightly. So here is what will happen instead. You are
going to leave this place and never return. You are going to shed your names
like a second skin. You are going to create a new life with nothing but the
clothes on your back. You are going to run, and you are going to run very,
very far...for my promise to not kill is not indefinite…and I am everywhere.
You will have to cross oceans if you should even hopeto escape the darkness
of the great shadow that I will cast, and even then... I will find you. I have
your scent now, Dursley family, and one day… I'll come sniffing."

He smiled widely, exposing all of his teeth. They flinched as though he'd just
bitten them.

"Do you know the song 'Amazing Grace'?" he asked lightly. He removed his
glasses and began cleaning them casually on the fabric of his shirt. "Oh,
forgive me. That was a silly question. Of course you know the song, Petunia,
dear. Your mother used to sing it to you when you were young…at least,
before your sister was born and all you mother's songs were for her, the
favored child, instead… Instilling a kind of bitter resentment which
blossomed in you, turning you into the foul monstrosity of a human being
which you are today... A neglectfulness which you then passed on to your
innocent nephew, who somehow managed to not be corrupted in the same
way by your oil-slick of a personality…"

He placed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Petunia was
trembling violently. "Yes, you know 'Amazing Grace'…as do I. So here is how
this will work. I am going to sing you a song, Petunia. I am going to sing
'Amazing Grace', and if you and your family are not a kilometer away from
this doorstep by the time that I am done singing, I will am going to break my
word, after all. Fortunately for you, I know all of the verses…"
His smile was demented and warped, viciously elated. "And then, if you are
not gone…then you will see exactly who I am…"

Mr. Price's eyes flashed impossibly red, a bloody, illuminated hue.

He then turned and walked past the Dursely family, quite leisurely, and they
watched as he reached for the one, single item in the room that had remained
unscathed during his chaotic storm.

His glass. Mr. Price's rocks glass with brandy was, somehow, still perfectly
intact, sitting atop a thin splinter of wood and balanced there perfectly in the
most unnatural way. He grabbed it and took a slow sip, humming
thoughtfully.

He then closed his eyes…and began to sing.

"Amazing Grace…"

The Durlsey's scrambled to their feet in a panic.

"How sweet the sound…"

Mr. Price listened to them as they shouted and ran, falling all over
themselves in a frenzy, looking for something or other… He was only half
paying attention, as he sang the song of their fear…

"…I once was lost, but now am found…"

"Vernon, where are the...!"

"…Was blind, but now…"

Ah, yes. He knew what they were searching for. He reached into his pocket.
How rude of him.

"Catch," he said, pausing in his song for a moment. He tossed the keys in
Petunia's direction.
They hit her square in the chest before they clattered loudly to the ground.
Clumsy. She fell to her knees at once, fumbling for them with trembling
hands. He cleared his throat and continued singing.

"…I see…"

A few moments later, and they were dashing out the front door. The three of
them piled into the car, yelling wildly at each other—the engine started and
then died, started and then died…started and then died...

He was on the fifth verse, when they finally decided to abandon the car and
run.

"…I shall possess…within the veil…a life of joy and peace…"

He peered through the curtains of the window, watching idly as they went.
Curious neighbors—who had, strangely enough, not noticed anything at all
when Number Four, Privet Drive shook and quaked with an impossible storm
within its walls—looked out their windows and stepped out onto their
doorsteps, stunned and astonished at the sight of Vernon, Petunia, and
Dudley Dursley sprinting as quickly as their legs would carry them down the
street, screaming as though being chased by an invisible ax murderer.

For being as large as they were, the two males could certainly move fast.

Mr. Price continued to sing even after they were out of his sight. He was the
kind of man who liked to see things through to their end, after all. He took a
sip of his drink.

A brandy man, too.

"…When we've been there ten thousand years…bright shining as the sun…"

Ah, yes. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing,
and so was he…

"…We've no less days to sing God's praise…"

Yes. A walk in the park would be lovely. He drained the last of the brandy
and headed towards the door, finishing the final verse with a smile on his
lips.

"…Than when we'd first begun…"

 34. Happy Thoughts
Nargles.

Harry still had no idea what they looked like, and he kept forgetting to ask
Luna when she was around.

The group had continued to play 'school' for a time, until Snape finally got so
annoyed by Harry's theatrics that he demanded they stop. They then whiled
the day away in their usual manner; eating, reading, and doing their best to
talk about anything and everything that was not the Dark Lord. Harry greatly
appreciated them and their distracting conversations.

Fred and George were always especially entertaining, having endless stories
of their adventures from when they were young children at the burrow and
new students at Hogwarts. Harry recommended that Draco write a book
about them when he'd finished his own. Malfoy looked like he might actually
consider it.

Luna, Ginny and Neville stayed as long as they dared. When Harry asked
why Dean and Seamus hadn't joined them, Ginny admitted that she and Dean
had a bit of a 'falling out' the night before, and left it at that. Harry couldn't
help but notice the way Hermione and Ron watched their every interaction
curiously…as well as the way Draco tended to make sharp, annoyed sounds
whenever they so much as made a verbal exchange.

That night, Harry was actually justified when he took his usual, unnecessarily
long shower. It had taken a ridiculous amount of shampoo in order to get all
of the Sleakeazy Potion out of his hair. Draco looked genuinely depressed
when he emerged from the bathroom with his usual, wild mess of a mane, but
Harry much preferred his disheveled appearance to looking falsely regal and
suave…talented though he may be at pretending that he was such. No, he was
quite all right with being his normal, disheveled self in his normal clothes
(though he did wonder where those expensive robes had come from, as they
had to have come from somewhere…).
Except he was not a normal anything, of course. He was the Chosen One, a
prophecy, the supposed savior of the wizarding world…

And, as usual, he was having a hard time falling asleep.

…Nargles.

Perhaps, Harry pondered as he lay curled under a blanket, perhaps they

looked like bowtruckles.

One…two…three…

Meaner, angrier bowtruckles.

Four…five…six…

Darker, though. Black instead of brown.

Seven...eight…

With bright red eyes…

Nine…

That glowed…

He slipped into sleep.

Harry appeared gracefully in his familiar dreamscape, materializing in his

chair smoothly and effortlessly. He was getting better at this.

Voldemort was already there, waiting, unmoving and unreadable…though his

eyes flashed at Harry's arrival.

Harry picked up the phone and put it to his ear. "I've been thinking," he
started, leaning back into his seat and getting comfortable—

"An extremely dangerous habit," Voldemort cut in.

"…Proceed with great caution."

He smiled.

Harry…tried very hard not to laugh at that remark. "I was thinking," he
repeated, "about everything you said. About your plans for the world and all
that. And…and I have a few questions."

Voldemort said nothing, only waited.

Harry cleared his throat. "First of all…the whole Statute of Secrecy thing.
You say that you don't believe in it, that you think it should be wizards ruling
over the muggles until, I guess you kill them all, or whatever."

Voldemort remained expressionless.

"Yet at the same time, you expressed concern about the muggles finding out
about us, because you think they would cause nuclear warfare or something."

Still no reaction.

"So…if you don't want muggles to find out about us like that and start a crazy
war, why would you so blatantly break the Statute by setting the cathedral on
fire?"

Another long pause, and Harry was just about to get really annoyed at his
complete lack of response when he finally spoke. "…The Statute of Secrecy
will take far more than one catastrophe to fail. It is something that will not, in
all actuality, happen for a long time. Muggles are exceptionally talented at
denial. They do not believe in magic, and so it does not exist for them. They
find explanations in anything else. I did not burn St. Paul's because I felt like
killing muggles for fun or breaking the Statute. I did it to for the Order of the
Phoenix, because we are at war. I did it to show what I am capable of and
what I am willing to do. That our power only grows and that those who
oppose me shall burn… It was a pyre."

His eyes smoldered darkly.

"It was for you."

Oh, damn.

Harry hated that it had taken all of two minutes for him to feel flustered
again. He maybe should have seen that answer coming, but he really, stupidly
hadn't. He tried with all his might to not feel any of the conflicting feelings
that stirred in his chest—horror that he had inadvertently been the cause of a
mass-murdering of muggles, anger because he certainly would never want
anything like that, and…and damn it all, feeling horribly yet undeniably—

"The squibs," Harry spluttered out. Voldemort's brows raised at the outburst.

"…The squibs?" he repeated. Harry nodded, swallowing thickly and

composing himself.

"Er, yes. The squibs. So, let's say…let's say you win the war, and now it's
been, I dunno, a thousand years or something, and all the muggles are gone,
everyone is magical, and life is just grand."

Voldemort, again, didn't say anything. "Well, what about the occasional
squib, then? They're rare but they happen. That's how you said muggles
supposedly started in the first place, right? So…what about when they're
born? What would you do with them?"

Voldemort considered this for a moment. "An interesting question you pose,"
he murmured. Harry couldn't help but feel irrationally pleased at those words,
like saying something that the Dark Lord found interesting was an
accomplishment. "Perhaps, in ancient times, non-magical children were seen
as cursed, or deformed… It is possible, I suppose, that such unfortunate
people were not immediately condemned… Maybe they were even seen as
rare and unique; maybe those born without magic into a society where
everyone else around them harbored such abilities were forced to connect
with the world in other ways, to think more creatively, to be vastly more
philosophical…perhaps…perhaps they were the artists…"

Voldemort's eyes glazed over slightly, looking somewhere above Harry's

head like this was a deeply profound thought that he had never considered
before this very moment. But seconds later, and his focus was back on Harry,
shrugging like it was inconsequential.

"More than likely, they would be killed."

"But—but that's not fair!" Harry gaped. "Even in a world where you have
everything you want, you would kill the squibs just because they don't have
magic?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I had not honestly put any thought into the matter until
this moment. I am largely preoccupied with the purebloods and the current
state of the world, Harry."

"The purebloods…who supposedly rule magical Britain," Harry sneered,

remembering Draco's words from earlier.

"Yes," Voldemort agreed. "They do. But I rule the purebloods."

Harry tried not to roll his eyes.

"Of course you do."

"I do." He smirked. Harry stopped trying to ague.

"Any other questions, Harry…?" The Dark Lord's voice was unnervingly low
and husky and how was it that he could make even the most mundane
question sound so suggestive?

Harry did have questions, many—but he found himself unable to remember

any more of them, now. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling worn,
flustered and utterly exhausted.

"I need a bloody vacation," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and
sighing.

"I hear that the Czech Republic is lovely this time of year."
Harry froze. When he opened his eyes a moment later, it was to see that
Voldemort was looking quite composed and calm.

"…I prefer Italy, myself," Harry said in hedged voice, waiting to see how this
would unfold.

"Really? You strike me more as someone who would prefer the Caribbean."

…And there it was. The answer to Harry's unasked question concerning The
Most Desirable Word.

"No, I like the architecture of Florence. Lots of tourists, though."

"That is a problem. One which I intend, ultimately, to fix, you know."

Harry's lip twitched. "You were listening to the broadcast, then."

He finally just said it. Voldemort nodded.

"Indeed."

"I…I suppose that made you very angry."

"Positively livid."

The Dark Lord smiled thinly, but his eyes glowed a bloody, vivid red.

"I want their safety, too." The words rushed out of Harry's mouth at once.
Voldemort blinked in false surprise.

"…Whose safety?"

"The—the hosts of the M.D.W."

"How can I possibly grant you their safety when I have no idea who they
are?"

"Oh, very slick," Harry growled. "I'm not going to give you their names, on
the off chance that you actually don't know who they are—"

"I most certainly do not. How could I? They have been so clever. Using code
names to disguise their true identities. How could I ever divine who such
individuals could possibly be? Two obviously young, reckless people
connected with the Order, maybe even young members themselves, each with
masculine voices…similar voices…why, one might even say that they are
identical…"

He sighed theatrically, and Harry hated that his lips threatened to curve into a
smile at the way he was acting. "Truly, it is beyond me. I shall never figure it
out if you do not bestow upon me the answer. They have been far too sly.
Like tricky, little forest creatures who manage to sneak away to their holes in
the ground every time I think I may be close. Quite weasel-y of them, really
—"

"Okay, okay!" Harry finally shouted, grinning despite himself. "You've made
your point, you know it's Fred and George Weasley… I want their safety,
too."

"Is it?" Voldemort gasped, eyes widening as though incredibly shocked. "I
am stunned. You stun me, Harry."

"I—stop it," Harry said, trying to stifle his chuckling. "This isn't—it's not
funny."

"You're right. It is not. I actually find it deeply unsettling that you are
laughing. You are so cold, so cruel. I am beginning to become personally
offended at how blasé you are behaving. I was at my wit's end, trying to put it
all together. You insult me. Stop laughing this moment, Harry, or I may cry. I
am very sensitive, you know."

He was so perfectly composed, so flawless in his ability to pretend to be

wounded, that Harry couldn't help but laugh. "God, just stop it already!" he
yelled. "You—You're not funny."

"Of course not," Voldemort agreed.

"…I am hilarious."

Harry snorted. "No, you're not," he argued again, even though he was still
grinning. "You just—you think you're so damn charming, don't you?"

"Why, Harry," Voldemort purred, his eyes flashing. "Was that an accusation
which bordered on being a compliment? And here I was, thinking we had far
more pressing issues to discuss… But by all means, you can continue to
reference how charismatic and charming I am. I must admit, I never tire of
being complimented."

He smirked. Harry shook his head, annoyed and a bit flustered again.

"No, I was not—just—you know, you're right. We have far more important
things to discuss. I…I want the safety of the Weasley's, too."

Voldemort's playful expression vanished. "That was a very interesting

broadcast," he started, his voice now dangerously low. "A fascinating story
which you and your little friends invented… But ultimately meaningless.
Only those who were closely tied to the Order were listening, and my story
has already been declared and accepted to the general public as the truth."

"You were listening," Harry countered. "Tell me, how is Dolores Umbridge
doing these days?"

For a moment, Harry thought that the Dark Lord was about to do something
very terrifying, he looked so murderous—but his glower disappeared nearly
the moment it had surfaced, and then his expression became, oddly enough, a
bit amused.

"…She had to move to a different office," Voldemort said, and Harry was a
more than bit confused, because he sounded almost sheepish about it.

"Lots of mail, then? Of the howling variety?"

"A substantial number of letters, one could say." Harry studied the Dark
Lord's face warily, for he seemed to be trying to suppress a grin. Finally,
Voldemort's strained demeanor cracked, and he smiled.

"…I don't like her, either," he admitted.

For a moment, Harry just stared, baffled.

"Well, of course you don't," he said once he'd found his voice. "No one does,
she is a horrid, horrid woman—"

"Her voice is like a single nail being dragged across a chalkboard."

"And that little cough thing she does—it could drive a man mad—"

"I think she has already successfully driven many men to madness—"

"At least you never had her as a teacher. She made my life hell, calling me a
liar because I wouldn't deny that you weren't back!"

"Well, I never said she didn't have her uses," Voldemort said slyly. "…But I
still find that, were I stuck with the options of spending an entire day either in
the company of Dolores Umbridge or some poor, unfortunate muggle, I
would take the muggle, every time."

For a second, they were silent…and then they were both laughing, and wasn't
this the craziest thing, Harry thought, to be sharing a mutual hatred for
someone with Lord Voldemort?

"…But…but shouldn't that worry you?" Harry asked. "If she got that many
howlers, that means there were obviously a lot of people listening. A lot of
people who aren't supportive of you."

Surprisingly, Voldemort looked unconcerned. "Those howlers could have

been multiples sent from a very small number of people, for all we know," he
responded. "It means nothing."

"Oh, really?" Harry cocked his head to one side shrewdly. "How are the sales
for The Daily Prophet doing? Been any Harry juniors born into the world,
recently…?"
Voldemort's expression darkened drastically. He glared in silence, choosing
not to answer those questions. "For someone who has claimed to not care
about the war, but only for the safety of his friends… You made some very
powerful claims in that broadcast, Harry."

His tone was perilously soft. All of the lightheartedness which had existed
moments before disappeared.

"Consider these my terms, in return for the safety of your friends," he went
on, his voice rumbling in Harry's ear. "You step down. You no longer
publicly oppose me, and you stop entirely in your efforts to rally those who
would follow you."

Voldemort's eyes were like burning embers, pools of lava that would swallow
Harry whole if he got lost in them. "Fine," Harry said. "But I will never, ever
say that I support you. I don't agree with you and your ideals, and I never
will. And I refuse to lie."

"Of course not," Voldemort agreed, before adding:

"…And I want Severus."

"No."

"Yes."

"No! I will never give you Snape! I can't! …Don't you get it?" Harry leaned
forward with his elbows on the ledge, outwardly pleading. "It isn't even about
Snape, it's for my own peace of mind that I can't hand him over. I won't be
responsible for someone else's pain, I won't. I can't live with that burden. If
you take Snape, and torture him, or do whatever other terrible things you plan
on, then you hurt me, too."

Voldemort was quiet for a very long time. His eyes, which had been so vivid
before, all hellfire and brimstone, seemed to slowly cool. They dimmed to
something much less hostile.
"…He must be killed, then."

"No."

His fury instantly sparked back to life. "While he is alive and uncontained, he
is a threat. He will stop at nothing to kill us. Nothing. If you will not
surrender his worthless existence, then you must grant me the ability to end
him."

"No. I'm not going to be responsible for anyone else dying. No more. There
has been too much death, already." Voldemort opened his mouth to seethe
something else, but Harry cut him off. "But let's just say, for argument's sake,
that I had said yes. Yes, you can have Snape."

That statement immediately wiped the glower from the Dark Lord's face.
Harry almost laughed at how rapidly he could switch like that, from deadly to
calm.

"Go on."

"Well, I guess my first question is… What will we do?"

Voldemort looked genuinely thrown off by this. "I guess I'm just curious. If I
come to you, alone, and you're not planning on faking my death again and
locking me up in some manner… What will we do? What would life be like,
for me? I mean, you've told the whole world I'm a terrorist, and everyone
thinks we want to kill each other. It might look a bit odd if I'm suddenly, I
dunno, staying in your guest bedroom, or something. How would you explain
it, that you've decided to not only let me live but that you also want to keep
me…close? What would you tell people, what would you tell your followers?
Oh, what would you tell Bellatrix? I have a feeling she wouldn't take the truth
very well."

Harry was inwardly relishing that now, for once, he was the one making
Voldemort internally squirm. Because Harry knew he would never admit it
out loud to himself, let alone his Death Eaters, let alone the world…
The truth—that he, the Dark Lord, was obsessively in love with the Chosen
One.

How would Lord Voldemort deal with it, being unable to hide Harry away
like some secret treasure that he could enjoy in the privacy of his own
dreams, whenever he pleased?

"Just wondering."

"…What would you have me to tell them?" Voldemort asked quietly.

"The truth would be refreshing, but I'm sure hell would freeze over first. Or
maybe I have the whole thing wrong. What is the truth? …Why do you really
want me?"

Harry held his breath. He knew it wouldn't happen, but hopeful anticipation
grew in his chest like a bubble as he waited to see if maybe, maybe he would
have the gall to admit it to him, here—

"…You are my soul."

—a bubble which promptly burst. Harry scowled, knowing that he should

have known better.

But Voldemort smirked, suddenly the coy, dangerous wizard that Harry was
far more familiar with. "I have a plan, Harry… I could tell you, but I wouldn't
want to ruin the surprise."

"Of course you do," Harry muttered. "Well, whatever. I don't care what you
tell people, I was just curious. But when we come to an agreement… You do
know I'm not going to just take your word for it. I'm not just going to say,
'Okay, great! Where should I come meet you, then?'"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What exactly did you have in

mind…?"

"A contract," Harry answered. "A binding contract. We'll both draw one up.
I'll provide one with all of my terms, and you'll provide one with all of yours.
We'll both sign and then…then we'll make a vow, promising an oath that we
will not break those contracts."

He paused for a second. "…An Unbreakable Vow."

Harry waited patiently while Lord Voldemort processed this.

For it was something which they had discussed at length, that first day they
were in the Room of Requirement. The ability to write down everything that
they wanted, to carefully construct a tight, completely perfect contract with
no loop-holes whatsoever, and then, to not only make it binding…but to
make it bound only upon the completion of a verbal, magical oath.

An Unbreakable Vow. And while no one knew the answer as to what,

precisely, would happen to Lord Voldemort if he broke his word, he would at
least forfeit his magic due to the binding contract. That, and he would more
than likely be reduced to something less than a spirit, as he had been when he
was first hit with a rebounding killing curse so many years ago.

Because he couldn't die. Not while he still had a horcrux in existence.

…But he, Harry Potter, that very horcrux… If he broke his word, then he
would, undoubtedly, die.

If Lord Voldemort broke the Vow, he would be reduced to something

powerless and magicless, and he would lose.

If Harry broke his half of the Vow, he would die, and Lord Voldemort would
lose.

…Which, naturally, put Voldemort in a position where he had essentially no

power at all.

Sure, he could make any demands on that contract that he like—that Harry
never leave him, that Harry never try and overthrow him, that he never rise
against him again—but then if Harry broke those terms, well…
Harry would die, and Lord Voldemort would lose.

The Dark Lord seemed to come to this conclusion much more quickly than
they had.

"Absolutely not," he seethed after only a few moments.

"Yes," Harry said. "That is the only way I'll know that you won't go back on
your word and not try to kill my friends."

"An Unbreakable Vow is entirely unnecessary," he spat. "…Severus came up

with this."

Harry didn't deny it. "This is his entire plan, then. To create a contract that he
knows one of us will inevitably break and which will either result in your
death or my damning, giving me absolutely no power in the ability to make
terms of my own, because he will coerce you into breaking them himself, if
he has to."

"Better not make any demands that you think will be difficult for me to keep,
then," Harry answered coolly. "But what you don't know—and what they
don't know—is that I'll be able to edit whatever it is that we write up without
their knowing."

Voldemort waited for him to elaborate. "…Snape has a lot of things he wants
in that contract. But it's like I've said before, they don't know what we're
talking about here...they only know what I tell them. After we write it up, I'll
have it on me when I fall asleep, now that I know that's how it works, since
you had my wand—thanks for that, by the way, we were really struggling
with how we were going to get you to sign it—and then, once I'm here, away
from them… I can change it however I like."

Voldemort did not look even slightly relieved.

"I will never make an Unbreakable Vow with you, Harry."

"There is no other way. None. None at all." Harry refused to back down, to
even make it seem like there was another option. "If you won't agree to my
terms, sign on the dotted line, and shake on it, then it will never happen."

"You would never leave your friends without their guaranteed safety, either."

"I don't want to, no. But if we don't come to an agreement in three days, we're
done. Three days, and we will disappear. We'll leave our hideout and go
somewhere far, far away. We're smart, you know, and we're good at hiding.
We'll vanish off the map and you will never see us again."

"Such lies, Harry… We both know that you would never just vanish. You are
not a coward. There are so many people you care about that are still easily
within my grasp, only safe in this moment as a personal curtesy that I have
extended to you. There is an excess of Weasley's in the world, just to start. I
could string them up, one by one, and you would come running."

"You won't do that."

Harry looked him straight in the face, unaffected when the Dark Lord glared.
"You won't. Because if you do, I die, too. If I hear that you so much as hurt a
single person in an attempt to manipulate me, then I'll take my own life, and
you will lose me forever."

Voldemort visibly flinched. "…You would never do that," he spat, but he

didn't sound entirely certain.

"Try me," Harry said. "If you think you know me so well…try me."

There was a very long stretch of silence. The Dark Lord's face slid into that
emotionless mask, revealing nothing.

Harry spoke first. His voice was soft and low. "Refuse to make the Vow with
me, and we will disappear, and you will never see me again. Not in my
dreams, not in reality, not ever."

He looked at Voldemort with unwarranted, yet genuine, emotion.

"You will never, truly know me."

The tension which followed was palpable. Voldemort's face remained still,
but his eyes burned, staring at Harry with what was obvious, desperate need.

Minutes passed. The longer it went on, the more uncomfortable Harry
became.

"...Do you want to truly know me, Harry…?"

The question, which was spoken so quietly that Harry barely made it out,
caught him off guard completely. The inflection in that soft, whispered voice
was hardly discernible at all, but Harry thought it almost
sounded…vulnerable.

Yet Voldemort's expressionless mask gave no indication whatsoever if that

was the case or not. Harry looked for the answer there, in those deep, scarlet
eyes…but found nothing.

He couldn't think straight. Harry's mind went numb, and the answer to that
question eluded him, hovering somewhere out of his reach.

He hung up the phone.

"Happy thoughts, Draco."

Harry watched as Malfoy continued trying to produce a patronus. He was

getting close, consistently creating a wall of silvery vapor with each attempt.

Though he may have accomplished it by now, Harry mused, were it not for
everyone leering at him, making snide remarks about what they planned to do
with their winnings when he inevitably conjured up a ferret or a rat.

Ginny, specifically, seemed to be a radical deterrent. She and Luna somehow

managed to sneak their way into the Room of Requirement nearly every day,
and the moment the youngest Weasley appeared, Draco became too flustered
to carry on…especially when she talked to Harry.
Which was probably why he was struggling so badly now. Ginny was
watching with the rest of them, smiling as Dobby refilled her tea.

"Yeah, Malfoy, happy thoughts," she repeated, smirking. Draco glared.

"Like the lost boys from Peter Pan, trying to fly," Harry added. Malfoy's
glower shifted to him.

"Like the what from what?" he asked. "Was that another muggle reference?"

"Yes," Hermione answered wistfully. "It's a really amazing story, actually.

About a magical world called Neverland, where fairy dust and happy
thoughts are the secret to flying."

"Yeah, I used to love that story…" Harry grinned, but then he paused. Harry
turned to look at Snape, who, as usual, sat as far away from the rest of them
as he could, hidden behind The Daily Prophet.

"Is that how flying works, Professor?"

Snape's eyes flickered up. "…No," he said stiffly before disappearing behind
the paper again.

"Oh," Harry said, looking disappointed. And then, "…How does it work?"

Snape lowered the paper slowly.

"…It is very complicated." The Prophet flew back up again like a shield.

"Oh," Harry repeated. And then, "…Will you teach us?"

Snape looked generally surprised that Harry would even ask. He stared at him
for a long moment before muttering, very sternly, "No."

Fred and George pounced at once.

"Oh please, Professor?" Fred cried, running over to the older wizard and
ripping the paper from his hands. Snape glowered.
"Pretty please, sir? Pretty, pretty please?"

"We want to be lost boys in Neverland—"

"No—stop it—give me that—" Snape reached for the paper, glaring when
Fred danced out of the way. He pulled his wand out instead.

But everyone else was becoming enamored at the prospect of flying, too.
"Why not?" Draco shouted. "I want to learn how to fly!"

"Yeah, me too!" Ron agreed, getting to his feet.

Hermione looked even more excited at this idea. "I would like very much to
learn how to fly, Professor Snape," she said very seriously.

Snape blinked in surprise, suddenly wary as they all gathered around him like
moths to a flame. He seemed unsure of how to handle this; a group his least
favorite students, all of whom were very uncharacteristically approaching
him with wonder-filled gazes and beseeching expressions.

The older wizard's wand hung uselessly at his side. Hermione stood directly
in front of him, and Snape could not have looked more uncomfortable as she
advanced . "I—you all—" he stammered, backing away.

"Please, Professor? We'll be excellent students, and practice very, very hard!"
Hermione pleaded, and everyone shouted their agreements.

Their bobbing heads and desperate faces finally became too much for Snape.
"I—no one is learning how to fly!" he snapped, raising his wand.

Most of them just looked sour at his words, but Hermione instantly became
irate.

"Excuse me?" she said, putting her hands on her hips. "Did you just tell me,
Hermione Jean Granger, that I will not learn something?" Snape watched her
uneasily, but said nothing. "Fine, don'tteach us like a proper instructor. I'll
figure it out on my own, if you won't help."
And with that, Hermione turned on her heel and strut across the room
towards the bookshelf, pulling down no less than six giant books. She
promptly fell into an armchair and disappeared behind one of the massive
tomes.

Everyone else slowly dispersed, going back to whatever it was they were
doing before. "The good news," Harry muttered under his breath to Snape, "is
that when she does that—" he nodded towards Hermione, who was now
reading, "—it generally shuts her up for a solid three hours, minimum."

Maybe despite himself, Snape's lip twitched in amusement. Harry got the
impression he was still being cautious, as this was the first time Harry had
spoken to him conversationally since his confession.

"The bad news," Harry went on, "is that she'll probably be flying circles
around us by the end of the day... Literally."

Snape did smirk, then. "Highly unlikely," he muttered, though his eyes
lingered on her curiously, like he might not be so sure. He shook his head.

"Excuse me while I seek solace from the masses," he said, and then he turned
and made his way to his private room, disappearing behind a closed door.

Harry watched him go. He couldn't help but feel a bit less hostile towards the
Potions Master, now, as things were progressing.

He had, of course, informed them all of everything he and the Dark Lord had
talked about last night.

Fred and George were very distraught indeed to hear that the Voldemort had,
in fact, heard everything they'd said on their broadcast, and were now
resigned to staying with them in the Room until their safety was guaranteed,
too. Harry had also told them that he'd informed the Dark Lord about the
contract he would demand, and that he had three days to finally relent and
allow Severus to go free.

And that if he didn't, they would disappear.

Of course, they were banking on the hope that it wouldn't come to that. Snape
seemed certain that Voldemort would cave, never allowing Harry to
disappear from the world in the company of his traitorous ex-pupil. He
believed the Dark Lord would agree…but would have more than a few
adjustments to make to the contract that they would prepare.

And that, Harry knew, was when things would really get complicated.

"Flying…" Ron sai as he leaned back in his chair. Dobby offered him a tray
of grapes and cheese, which he gratefully accepted. "You guys should have
seen it, seriously, when Snape showed up at the castle. I thought that
Hermione and I were so screwed, that Bellatrix was going to kill us both…
But then he showed up, flying, and Merlin, that was the most insane, mind-
blowing duel I'd ever seen. If only we had a—"

Ron abruptly stopped talking, smiling as his eyes zeroed in on something on

the other side of the room. Harry followed his gaze and grinned as well.

"Excellent," Ron said, jumping to his feet. "A Pensive!"

He motioned for everyone to follow. "C'mon! You have to see this—Oi!

Hermione! Get your nose out of that book and get over here!"

Hermione considered this for a moment before conceding, snapping her book
shut and joining them. They all gathered around the Pensive and watched as
Ron pointed his wand to his head, extracting a long, silvery memory.

"Prepare to be amazed," he said gleefully as he dropped the shimmering

strand into the Pensive. He grabbed Hermione's and Harry's hands, who
happened to be on either side of him. Everyone else followed suit.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Draco, Luna, and Ginny. They formed
a ring around the Pensive, holding hands and looking excited to watch what
promised to be a good show.

"Ready?" Ron asked, to which they all nodded. "All right. Ladies and
gentlemen...Bellatrix Lestrange versus Severus Snape!"
They fell into the memory.
 35. Seventh Floor Wars
The world of memories formed seamlessly around them. Silver wisps became
brick walls and high ceilings, and soon it looked as though they had simply
walked out the door of the Room of Requirement and into the actual corridor
of the seventh floor.

Only there were a few key differences, here.

Harry turned to see two people huddled on the floor. One, of course, was
Ron, and the other Hermione, both of whom were bound with thick ropes.
And there, in front of them, seated and with a superior air about her—

Bellatrix Lestrange.

It was amazing how, even though he'd known he was about to see her, the
face of Bellatrix Lestrange filled him with such a visceral, instant hate.
Harry's fingers curled into a fist at his side, the Elder wand thrumming in his
breast pocket over his heart—

Now, now, now—

But this was a memory, and Bellatrix Lestrange did not notice the glower of a
non-existent Harry Potter. She hardly seemed to notice her actual captives of
the time, either. The dark witch was sitting quite languidly on a chair that she
must have conjured up, one leg hanging off the side of the armrest and
bouncing impatiently—and in all actuality, chair was not the right word. It
was more of a throne she had created for herself, finer even than the one that
Harry recalled Dumbledore producing at his hearing in the Ministry.
Evidently, Bellatrix Lestrange could have nothing but the best to so much as
perch her arse on. She checked her watch and sighed.

"Crucio," she uttered lazily, not even bothering to look away from her wrist
while casting an Unforgivable. Hermione thrashed on the ground but did not
scream, and Harry remembered then that Bellatrix had silenced her… Ron,
too, though it was obvious that what he was trying to shout was Hermione's
name, over and over…

Hermione—the real Hermione—recoiled at his side. Harry put a hand on her

shoulder. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, unable to watch and
relive her very recent torture.

Ron paled; clearly, he had not taken this into consideration. But no one got a
chance to say or do anything before Bellatrix spoke, drawing all of their
attention to her as she lifted the curse.

The memory of Hermione continued to twitch sporadically. Bellatrix sighed

again. "Where is your knight in shining armor, hm?" she drawled. "I grow
weary of waiting for him."

When she received no answer, as she damn well knew she wouldn't, Bellatrix
finally looked at them. "I'm bored," she said loudly.

The memory-Ron tore his pained gaze away from Hermione to glower at her.
He tried to yell something that looked very much like a slew of swear words.

Bellatrix smirked. "Feisty little lion, aren't you?" she purred. She tilted her
head to one side, her hooded eyes trailing over his body in a way that made
even Harry feel uncomfortable by proxy. Her lips then curled into a much
more sadistic, dangerous grin.

"Have you ever cast an Unforgivable, Weasley?" she asked softly. "No, I bet
you haven't… I'm bored of torturing your little mudblood bitch myself, but it
might be fun to watch you have a go… How about being under the influence
of the Imperius curse? Have you ever experienced that?"

Ron's face, which had been red with useless screaming, swiftly turned a
delicate shade of green at those words. He stared at her vacantly in horror,
shaking his head at what she was suggesting. "No?" she inquired, "Never? It's
not bad, Weasley. It feels so nice…"

Bellatrix leaned forward on her throne, her eyes gleaming. With a quick flick
of her wand, the ropes which had been constraining Ron disappeared. He
hurriedly back away, scrambling on the floor.

"N-no," he choked out, his voice returned to him. "No, you can't make me, I'll
never hurt her, never—"

"Aw, don't worry, ickle Weasley," Bellatrix crooned in that mocking baby-
tone. Harry bristled at the sound. "I'll be real gentle… I'll be the best you'll
ever have…"

She reached into her inner robe pocket, pulling out Ron's wand from where
she'd stashed it away. Ron glanced from it to her and back again, and before
he could do anything other than stare, terrified, she was uttering the curse, her
own wand directed at his chest—

"Imperi—"

The hall exploded.

Bellatrix was on her feet in an instant, and the chair which she had been
sitting on disappeared. The windows, every single tall, glass window which
lined the corridor, shattered, sending shards of broken glass cascading across
the floor. Bellatrix cast a quick, wordless shield to protect herself—a curtesy
which was not extended to Ron, who dove to cover a still-shuddering
Hermione with his own body.

There was a brief pause after the dust settled, a tiny moment of silence…and
then monsters entered the castle.

Giant, shimmering serpents came soaring in through the now open spaces in
the wall; three, four—no, more—impossible creatures made of some dense,
smoky material that bordered on fiery, their eyes a glowing a vibrant red—

Harry vaguely recognized them; they were similar to snake that Draco
Malfoy had cast at him, once, in their second year, during that fateful duel…
A curse which Snape had whispered into his ear just moments before…

Only these were massive. And there were seven of them.

They coiled around each other in midair, hovering monstrosities of black and
red, hissing as they glared with scarlet eyes down at Bellatrix…

And then another dark figure came hurtling in, lightning fast—and there was
only one person it could possibly be, but Harry couldn't help but gape in
amazement, fascinated as he watched Severus Snape land in a crouched
position, not on the ground before his enemy…but on the wall.

Bellatrix, too, looked stunned—obviously, she had not been aware that Snape
could fly. The Potions Master rose fluidly to his feet, standing impossibly
poised and erect at a ninety-degree angle from the castle wall. He had his
wand raised and a smirk on his face. Casually, he dusted off the front of his
robes, looking like flying through windows with a guard of seven shadowy
snake-monsters and standing on walls was something he did every day.

"He's like a superhero from a comic book," Harry muttered under his breath
to a still shaky Hermione. She laughed breathily, finally removing herself
from his side to watch with the rest of them.

"I…didn't exactly get to see much the first time around," she muttered back,
and Harry could not blame her for being curious, now.

They were just getting started.

"Bellatrix," the memory of Snape said coolly—and Harry was simply

astonished, because he had begun walking along the wall, totally defying
gravity as he advanced on her. He nonchalantly made his way down until he
reached the ground, strolling out onto the floor the hall. The sinister group of
snakes writhed over his head like a magical storm-cloud conjured by Salazar
Slytherin himself, threatening to rain down violence and pain at any moment.

Bellatrix's shocked expression quickly melted away, replaced instead by one

of almost manic delight. "Severus," she responded, her voice equally cool.

She then flicked her arm to the side, and with another wordless spell Ron and
Hermione went flying out of their way, colliding with the wall...but her eyes
never left Snape's, and Snape's gaze was just as focused on her.
At the exact same moment, they began to circle each other. Their movements
were so perfect, so in sync, that it almost looked choreographed…and it was
very clear, by the looks on their faces, that this, dueling each other with
nothing but pure, mal-intent, was something they had both been wanting to
do for a very long time.

"I knew you'd come," Bellatrix said. "We've missed you, Severus… The Dark
Lord is so looking forward to seeing you again…"

"Is that so?" And it was only now, as Harry edged a little closer to where
Snape prowled, that he could see—Snape's expression may have been cool
and collected, but his skin was deathly pale, bruises of purple and blue under
his eyes…because he had still been recovering, Harry recalled. Snape, in this
memory, at this time, had been exerting a substantial amount of his own
energy into upholding Occlumency barriers in Harry's mind…

Bellatrix noticed it, too. "You look tired, Severus. Do you really think it wise,
to take me on? I demand a lot from my partners…"

They continued to circle each other as they spoke. Snape broke eye contact
with her for just a moment, quickly looking her up and down, and then he
shrugged.

"I remain…unimpressed."

"I am going to annihilate you," Bellatrix snarled, her features twisting into
something fierce and lethal. Snape, however, remained stoic. His voice
bordered on bored when he said,

"We shall see."

It began.

The coiling creatures from above came crashing, attacking with open jaws
and barred fangs upon the witch, who instantly twirled on the spot to dodge
them. Bellatrix swiped through the air with some kind of curse that Harry did
not recognize, bright and orange, and the snake which she had aimed at
hissed and went to one side, avoiding it—

All around her, the serpents lunged and struck, trying to sink their shadowy
teeth into their target, but Bellatrix was a rapid whirlwind, evading their
attacks with a swiftness and grace that Harry couldn't help but find a bit
mesmerizing—

And Snape, too, had joined in the throng. He was firing spell after spell at
her, wordless, all of them wordless, from both parties. And, though Harry
was loathe to admit it, Bellatrix was able to hold her own against Snape and
all of his monstrous allies.

"Merlin," Draco muttered, as he and everyone else edged away from the
battle, despite the fact that they all knew it was a memory and couldn't affect
them. Malfoy was staring at Bellatrix like he'd never seen her before. "I'm
related to that," he said to no one in particular.

Harry would have thought that such dueling would be exhausting after only a
few moments, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on Bellatrix
Lestrange. The more she whirled and danced around Snape's curses and the
serpentine shadows, the more energized she seemed to become. She was
smiling manically, and had even begun to laugh at some point.

"She's mad," Harry gasped, and he despised how impressed he sounded,

regardless.

Ron caught his eye. "Just wait," he said. "Just fucking wait."

Bellatrix let out an especially loud cackle, and then a brilliant flash of blue
went soaring towards Snape. He dodged it and returned fire at once, a
disarming spell which Bellatrix evaded with an especially graceful move in
which she bent backwards, incredibly flexible, and Harry had to wonder what
the hell kind of creature Bellatrix was, to be able to move like that.

One of the snakes lunged for her neck, and she just continued to roll
backwards to avoid the advance, successfully doing a backflip and issuing a
curse which exploded with a bang. A flash of yellow sent all of the serpents
which had been circling her flying.

One of which went soaring straight towards Ron and Hermione. "Move!"
Snape called, but too late. Ron was wandless, and he wouldn't abandon
Hermione, who was still clearly unable to move on her own, shaking from the
Cruciatus Curse. He could do nothing other than throw himself over her, and
so he did, closing his eyes and bracing for the impact—

Only no impact came. The snake passed right through them, like it really was
made of smoke. Ron blinked as it dissipated around him, bewildered—

Snape, however, looked stricken. It was the first time that he had appeared
anything other than composed since he'd arrived.

And it was obvious why. Bellatrix had also observed the phenomenon, and
her surprise turned to malicious glee almost at once. She reached forward to
grab one of the other snakes, fearlessly so, and when the creature made to
attack her, it passed right through her open hand.

Bellatrix's eyes were glittering with recognition when she looked at Snape.
"How…deceptive, of you, Severus," she sneered, and the rest of the
illusionary snakes vanished. "Though that's hardly surprising, is it?" Snape
said nothing, only watched her warily with his wand at the ready. "Fake
snakes of smoke. They say where there's smoke, there's fire, you know…
Let's play with somereal fire…"

Bellatrix extended her arm out to one side and started twirling her wand.
Snape fired another disarming curse at her, but she effortlessly stepped to the
side to dodge it. Her wand, which she continued to spin, had started to
glow…

A moment later, and it appeared that Bellatrix was wielding a giant wheel
which consisted of bright, blue flames rather than a wand. Its span was
massive, almost as wide in diameter as she was tall, and when Snape shot
another spell at her, she deflected it with her creation like a burning, whirling
shield—she kept it spinning, a cyclone of cursed fire—
She smiled, her crazed expression illuminated by blue, swirling light.

"Let's dance."

She lunged, and now it was Bellatrix who was on the offensive while Snape
was forced to dodge and twist away. Maybe it was telling of their dueling
styles, Harry thought. Snape preferred to fire spells from a distance, casting
from afar…

Bellatrix, however, liked to be close.

She slashed through the air with enviable swiftness, and Harry could tell,
they could all tell—Snape was no match for her like this, toe to toe. Bellatrix
was an enigma, a dark and manic twister of fire and movement, as she struck
so quickly that it was all Snape could do to dodge her—

And then he disappeared.

The very moment that Bellatrix had her back turned, Snape pointed his wand
at himself and vanished on the spot. It was the most impressive and rapid
disillusionment charm that Harry had ever seen. Bellatrix snarled, scouring
the room with narrow, hate-filled eyes—

"This part was really fucking scary, because I actually thought he left us, for
a minute," Ron narrated for them. Draco sniggered, but someone else
responded first.

"Considering how little you think in the first place, I am hardly offended."

Snape—the real Snape—had joined them in the Pensive. "Ha!" Harry

shouted, pointing at his former-professor. "And you got so mad at me, when I
went into your memory in fifth year. See? No one can resist the temptation of
an unguarded Pensive."

Snape ignored that comment completely. "What are you imbeciles doing in
here…?"
"We're watching you play the part of hero, Professor!" Fred answered,
grinning.

"I never thought I would say it, but you are amazing, sir! Landing on walls
like it's no big deal—"

"It was very Spiderman of you," Harry chimed in. Snape glared.

"Oh, what're spider-men?" George inquired. "Are they like acromantula?"

"Do they live in Neverland?" Fred asked.

"Professor, will you please teach us how to fly?"

"Yes, we want to be lost boys who walk on walls and meet the spider-men in
Neverland—"

Snape had opened his mouth in what was sure to be an attempt to make the
Weasley twins shut up, but he never had to.

His memory-self did it for him.

A resounding boom echoed throughout the corridor, and suddenly,

inexplicably, it began to rain.

To pour, actually. Buckets of water came down upon them in what was
nearly a solid wave, and Harry almost made to get out of the way before he
remembered that it wasn't real. Bellatrix howled into the air. Her magical
wheel of fire had gone out.

"Snape!" she bellowed, raising her now normal-looking wand above her head
and peering through the rain. She had positioned herself so that she was
standing in front of Hermione and Ron, the known quarry of her opponent.
The downpour made her hair curly hair fall flat against her body, black
tendrils plastered to her skin. "Show yourself, you fucking coward!"

"Wicked," Harry heard Fred and George say at the same time, staring up at
the enchanted rain appreciatively.
Memory-Snape revealed himself in the form of no less than five disarming
spells. They came in a rapid fire, one right after another, and Harry was
stunned, because even though they had come from behind, even though
Bellatrix had been so intensely focused in the other direction, at that moment,
she turned and dodged all of them, disturbingly quick.

And she cast a curse of her own. Something colorless that she aimed not at
Snape, but up. A wave of light collided with the ceiling, and with a ripple of
white, the rain stopped.

All of the water that had fallen vanished, too. By all rights, the hall should
have been drenched, but it and all of the occupants within it were suddenly
perfectly dry. Bellatrix looked a bit confused by that for a moment, too.

"That was a really incredible illusion spell," Hermione said in tones of

deepest awe. "Even I thought I felt water on me, when it was happening. He
managed to make all our clothes look wet and everything." Hermione, who
had been talking primarily to Harry, glanced fleetingly at Snape—the actual
one, who was currently standing with his arms folded and looking annoyed
that they were all in the Pensive at all. Yet at Hermione's words of praise, his
aggravated demeanor slipped slightly, and Harry could have sworn they
shared something dangerously close to a smile.

But then Bellatrix let out a high-pitched laugh, and they all turned their
attention back to the memory. Bellatrix's eyes landed on the Snape of the
past. He had his wand at the ready, and then, just as they had when he first
arrived, the two began to circle each other.

"Fool me once, Severus," she seethed, "shame on you…"

Snape had regained his collected disposition. "We both already know what a
fool you are, Bellatrix."

"Ha! Me, the fool? When you are the one who has been so stupid as to betray
the Dark Lord…?"
"I think he might have been the foolish one, considering that he never figured
it out."

Bellatrix looked like Snape had just reached across the room and slapped her.
"How…you dare—"

"Oh, I do. I have dared to say and do all sorts of unspeakable things…half of
them only possible because of what he taught me. Foolish, indeed."

"You are a spineless, despicable cockroach," Bellatrix hissed. "I knew it, I
always knew you were worthless—and he will honor me above all others,
when I hand you over to him, when I deliver you into his waiting arms—his
most loyal, his most cherished—"

"Yes, his most cherished. That must feel so nice, now. So different for you."

"What is that supposed to mean!?" Bellatrix spat, though her cheeks had
turned a slight tint of pink. "I have always been his most beloved—"

Snape laughed loudly and cruelly. "You are an even bigger fool than I
thought, Bellatrix. Trust me when I say that he never, ever considered you his
most 'beloved'…and I would know, seeing as Iwas his favored for a
significant amount of time."

Bellatrix face burned brighter. Her wand emitted sparks of brilliant green.
"Lies!"

"You really think so…?" Snape's voice was velvety smooth, and Bellatrix
seemed to be listening against her own better judgment. "You think he
favored you over me, once I agreed to play the part of spy for him from
within Hogwarts? After the Ministry fiasco? …After I killed Albus
Dumbledore?"

Bellatrix shrieked like a banshee. "Which were all deceptions, just like you
spell-work! You were never his true servant, you were always a rotten, horrid
turncloak!"
"Yes," Snape answered lightly. He was grinning quite broadly, now. "I was.
But you, Bellatrix, you managed to figure it out when he did not, and we've
already established what an idiot you are, so… We are in agreement." A very
pregnant pause before he said:

"The Dark Lord is a fool."

"Oh, shit!" Draco shouted from across the room. He looked both deeply
impressed and gleeful, his eyes fixed on his insane Aunt to watch her
reaction. "Oh, shit!"

Oh, shit was right, Harry thought. Bellatrix let out a blood-curdling scream,
and then spells were being fired again, rapid and frenzied, and maybe
taunting her had been an actual tactic, Harry mused, because she seemed
much more flustered this time around.

But it wasn't enough. Just a few short minutes later of spectacular dueling,
and it was clear that Snape was going to lose. He was too weak, too
drained… Casting illusions had been brilliant, as they required much less
energy, but he could hardly manage to trick her yet again with another false
spell…

Snape finally took a hit. Something with the force of a cannon ball collided
with his chest, and all of the spectators, Harry included, winced in unison as
he went flying backwards across the floor, landing ungracefully near to
where Hermione and Ron were.

Bellatrix advanced on him, eyes blazing in triumph at how Snape was

gasping for breath, struggling to pull himself to his feet. He leaned against the
castle wall, his chest heaving.

"Help," he choked out, looking to Ron. Harry was suddenly struck with a
memory of his own at the sound. One in which he, Snape, and Voldemort had
been battling within his mind, and Snape had demanded that same request
from him… And he had failed…

It looked like Ron was going to fail, too. He was wandless and petrified in
fear, and though he moved to stand, they both knew that Bellatrix would have
him unconscious in a second.

Yes, it was Ron whom Snape had asked for help…but it was Hogwarts which
answered.

"Release the cavalry!" came a thunderous voice. It took Harry a moment to

realize where it was coming from, because it did not belong to someone in
the hall…but from someone in the paintings.

"The castle is in danger! Rise up and defend her, you bold and defiant
knights! Protect these sacred lands against the demonic rogues!"

Sir Cadogen was riding along on a white stead, from portrait to portrait,
screaming out into the corridor—Bellatrix and Snape both watched despite
themselves as the gallant knight roared, "ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!"

The suits of armor, which usually remained stationary along the wall, sprung
to life.

A dozen of them, at least, and Harry had never before appreciated just how
many empty suits of armor were littered throughout Hogwarts. The empty
vessels moved with a surprising agility, wielding swords and spears as they
all charged as one at Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix's momentary shock twisted into fury. She brandished her wand like
a blade, confronting the hollow knights with admittedly admirable boldness.

Snape took this much needed time to recover. His chest was still heaving, but
he managed to push himself to his feet. Ron remained too dumbstruck to do
little more than shield Hermione with his shaking body.

Unfortunately, as intimidating as the suits of armor may have looked while

charging, they were no match against Bellatrix. She was making quick work
of them, aiming explosive curses at their chests which sent their various
metal limbs flying. And, as it turned out, they were lousy at putting
themselves back together.
By the time she had sent the last one soaring out the open window, Snape had
composed himself—or was convincingly acting composed, at least. He faced
Bellatrix with a dignified stance.

Harry wondered if the Order had appeared yet on the castle grounds, and
where he and Draco had been at this moment… Were they still flying through
the skies, headed towards Godric's Hollow? Had they landed in the cemetery,
had they taken that stranger's wand?

Had Harry stumbled upon his parent's graves, yet?

He was snapped out of this reverie by Bellatrix's cold, mirthless laugh. "How
cute, the castle thought it could help you by throwing some toys at me," she
jeered. "You pathetic insect…you sicken me."

She flourished her wand, and though Snape cast a wordless shield charm
around himself, the spell did not come at him, but towards the ground… At
first, it looked like very little happened; like Bellatrix had just coated the
carpet with a thin layer of dust motes or something, small dots of black…but
then the dots began writhing, moving, and soon they were sprouting legs and
crawling and Harry's stomach churned as he realized that they were
cockroaches. It must have been a hundred of them, but they were shinier than
any cockroach that Harry had seen in real life, and even faster. Just watching
them made his skin crawl.

They headed straight towards the memory versions of Snape, Ron and
Hermione. Luna and Ginny—and Draco, Harry noted with amusement—all
screeched as observers, unable to contain high squeals of alarm at the sight.

Ron from the memory yelped as well, because it couldn't have been more
obvious that these magical monsters, unlike Snape's, were not illusions, and
would probably have some very horrific, very real manner in which to harm
them.

"Your true family," Bellatrix crooned, voice dripping in sadistic amusement.

"You should rejoin them, Severus."
But Snape didn't look alarmed at all. He only inclined his head slightly and
said, quite simply, "Okay."

And then—poof, Snape vanished.

Except…he hadn't vanished. The real Ron pointed down at the floor where a
new cockroach had appeared, and Harry actually laughed out loud. Snape had
turned into a cockroach!

"How'd you do that!?" Harry asked, beaming and looking towards the actual,
human Snape. He was still standing with his arms folded and looking sour.

"I am a master of illusion," he answered drily.

Snape-the-cockroach scuttled away, joining the throng of all of the other

cursed insects and blending right in—and, perhaps it was because they were
confused that their target had disappeared, or perhaps Snape had managed to
influence the spell himself—but they all began heading back the way they
came, turning away from Hermione and Ron and crawling towards Bellatrix,
instead.

Bellatrix screeched in annoyance, firing a few angry, red curses down at her
own monsters, but it was no use. It was impossible to tell which one was
Snape.

She should have lifted the curse sooner. Several of the bugs had begun to
crawl up her leg, and she squealed in a very girl-ish way when they did.
Finally, she brandished her wand, and the cockroaches began to vanish.

Except for one on her thigh, which turned into a very tall, male person.
Bellatrix reacted so strongly to Snape being under her skirt that she screamed
in what was the closest thing to horror that Harry had ever heard in her voice.
Her entire body turned red as she staggered backwards, and it was then, in
that miniscule moment of shock, that Snape finally struck with success.

A vibrant, golden spell—one which looked suspiciously like the one that
Lord Voldemort had fired at he, Harry, when he'd been on top of the
hourglass—hit her right in the throat. She only just registered that she'd been
hit before the magic went into effect.

What looked like golden rods sprouted from where they'd hit her, forming
themselves around her into some kind of barrier. They melded together,
trapping her within a glowing prison which looked very much like a birdcage.
The spaces between the pulsating barriers shimmered like crystal…like…like
glass…

Harry felt suddenly very sick.

Bellatrix must have, too. She instantly started slashing across the walls with
blinding, powerful spells, but they did nothing, had no effect whatsoever…

Severus laughed victoriously. He watched in amusement for a few moments

as Bellatrix struggled in vain to escape, obviously quite confident that she
would not succeed. "Ah, Bellatrix… I wish I could say that I would kill you
now, but I am currently in the market for as many bargaining chips as I can
acquire." He paused, grinning crookedly. "Should I shrink you down to the
size of a pixie and bottle you up? Or maybe I'll transfigure you into a cheap,
muggle radio that plays nothing but Queen…"

"What is this?" she gasped, ignoring Snape's threats and examining the
entrapment surrounding her. When her eyes finally landed on Snape, she
looked, for the first time, afraid. "A cage, Severus? What kind of cowardice is
this?"

"Oh, you don't recognize this spell?" Snape sauntered around her, supremely
smug now that he had won. Harry couldn't help but think 'Snape, you idiot!
You don't have time to be insulting, he's on his way, you dolt!', even though
he knew it was a memory and such thoughts were useless.

Really, shouldn't he have known that? But it seemed like taunting Bellatrix
Lestrange was something that Snape could simply not pass up.

"You don't? I am shocked… So you mean to tell me that the Dark Lord did
not choose to spend his time with you, staying up late into the night and
discussing various warding techniques…? No?"

Bellatrix fired more curses at his face. Snape didn't even blink, and the cage
contained the spells effortlessly. "You mean to say that he didn't teach you,
his most…what was it, again? His mostbeloved how to dismantle barriers?
How to build, cast and weave impenetrable wards? How to fly…? Yes, he
showed me that, too. We would soar across oceans when he taught me, under
a moonlit sky in various parts of the world... It would have been deeply
romantic, if either of us had been into that sort of thing."

"I'll kill you, Severus!" Bellatrix screamed, aiming another slew of hexes at
him. They were swallowed by the golden cage. "I will rip you limb from
sorry limb!"

Snape lifted his wand lazily and sighed.

Then, quite suddenly, Harry noticed something that was easily the craziest
thing he'd seen all day.

Ron and Snape—the real ones—were staring at each other with matching
expressions of horror. Harry was boggled; he'd never seen the two
acknowledge each other with anything other than spite, so to see them share
such a devastated look…

The reason why became apparent at once.

"How difficult it must be, poor Bellatrix, to be so weak, so stupid…"

murmured the memory-Snape. "To suffer from such massive inadequacies
which you will never overcome… Such a burden it must be, to be a
woman…"

The whole world seemed to freeze.

All of the male observers in the Pensive looked over at where, conveniently
enough, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny stood next to each other. In a perfectly
synched, slow motion, the three witches turned their heads to glare as one at
Snape, and it was rather like something out of a horror film. Never in his life
had Harry seen Luna with any kind of hostile expression, but she looked
positively murderous, now—as did Hermione and Ginny, the instantaneous
fury and outrage rolling off of them in waves—

Harry placed a hand on the shoulder of the very distressed Potions Master. "I
am the Chosen One," he said in a low voice. He caught Snape's eye and
shook his head.

"…But even I cannot save you from this."

Hermione's voice was nothing short of deadly when she spoke. "What did you
say to her?"

Snape vanished.

Hermione snarled, looking like she was about to maybe go after him, but they
were all quickly distracted.

Bellatrix's fury was like nothing that Harry had ever seen. She screamed
louder and more savagely than ever before, and the ground shook with her
rage. Snape's haughty expression faltered, and Bellatrix never stopped
screaming, and endless screech, like she didn't even require oxygen—the
castle walls trembled, sending the paintings falling to the ground—the cage
around her shimmered more brightly, and then, to memory-Snape's great
horror, began cracking along the seams—

Bellatrix's wand was issuing a stream of that same blue fire from before,
swirling around her like a maelstrom. She exerted it out towards the barrier
and the cracks grew, her mad glare fixated on Snape as she finally paused in
her screaming to draw in a breath.

"But remember, Severus…" she seethed, and the cage began to shatter—

"Hell hath no fury…"

Snape took several steps back.

"…like a woman…"

He turned and ran. "Get up!" he shouted at Ron, who, in the memory, was
still hovering over a trembling Hermione. Snape fired a quick spell at her,
and Hermione's limp body, bizarrely enough, started to sparkle, and her chest
lifted off the ground a few inches as though she had just become
weightless…

And indeed, she must have, for when Snape came swooping in a few seconds
later, he scooped her up like she was light as a feather. Ron had gotten to his
feet, and the two began tearing down the hall. Harry and the others followed
them.

They were on the staircase when they encountered the first Order members.

Kingsley, Mr. Weasley, and—Harry's heart throbbed painfully in his chest—

Lupin were all heading towards the seventh floor, where they'd been
instructed to go, and there were others not far behind them. But they all froze
when they saw Severus Snape, who they all thought, first of all, was a true
Death Eater in the end, and second of all, dead, carrying a sparkly and semi-
conscious Hermione Granger alongside a very pale Ronald Weasley.

"S-Severus?" Lupin balked, but Snape did not pause in his sprinting.

"No, no—Snape is good!" Ron shouted, throwing his arms up defensively

when they raised their wands. "Snape is good, and alive, yes—long story—
but Bellatrix is bad, very bad—"

"We need to run!" Snape yelled, but then a thunderous, explosive crash shook
the castle from above and caused them all to stumble, and they could see the
evidence of what must have been a great wave of flames—thick smoke and
flashing light. Harry assumed that this must have been when the tower down
the hall caught on fire.

"Severus!"

Bellatrix's battle cry made everyone pale, no one more so than Snape. They
all watched in a sort of horrified trance as she emerged at the top of the stairs.

Bellatrix appeared before them, and it looked as though she had all of hell at
her backside. Whatever firestorm she had started was spreading. Her dark
eyes were reflective orbs of crimson, flames dancing in their depths, and as
she stood there, wand raised and mad with bloodlust, Harry was certain of
one thing:

The devil was real, and it was a woman, and her name was Bellatrix
Lestrange.

She pointed her wand at Snape.

"…You…"

Everyone ran. All of them, despite the fact that they had her greatly
outnumbered. They all sprinted like bats out of hell at the terrifying vision of
the Dark Lord's most loyal follower, and Harry could not really blame them.
They were only there for Ron and Hermione, after all, and as they were
running, too…

But there was already chaos in the Great Hall, at this point. Death Eaters and
Ministry officials advanced to detain and arrest the Order members, and they
had no choice but to fight back…

"Well, I think that's quite enough of this, hm?" Ron said nervously, glancing
between Hermione, Luna, and Ginny like he thought they might attack one of
them at any moment. Harry was grateful for his decision to end the memory
—Ron, like him, had probably realized that they next thing that would
happen was Bellatrix would catch them, curse Snape and Hermione with the
Cruciatus, and then…and then Voldemort would appear, and he did not much
feel like reliving any of that…

"And so misogyny ruined the day," Ginny muttered just as the world around
them began to shimmer, looking towards Harry. "We could have had
Bellatrix!"
Draco crossed his arms and scoffed. "Yeah, misogyny ruined the day," he
drawled.

Ginny turned on him, the anger still dancing in her eyes. "Okay, what is what
is it with you?"

She started stalking towards them as they were removed from the Pensive; an
action she continued seamlessly when they landed back in Safe Haven.

"What?" he sneered, looking down his nose at her.

"I know you're an obnoxious, condescending prat just on principle, but it's
like you have some personal vendetta against me! Every time I say anything,
you make some snide comment or make little scornful noise. What is your
problem with me, Malfoy?" Draco glowered at her, but before he could
speak, Ginny's eyes widened like she might have just realized something.
"Oh my God, is this about the bathroom thing?"

Malfoy reacted so quickly it was frightening. He whipped out his wand and
pointed it at Ginny's chest. "Shut your mouth, Weasley."

Everyone glanced at each other confusedly. Ginny pulled her wand out, too,
smirking scornfully. "Oh, yeah, Malfoy was spending lots of time in the girl's
bathroom last year, weren't you? Paying a visit to dear—"

"Shut up!" Draco roared. "You shouldn't have—what were you even doing
there, anyway!? No one uses that bathroom!"

"What was I doing there?" Ginny balked. Her ears reddened in the same way
that Ron's did when he was angry or embarrassed. "What's it matter what I
was doing there? It's a girl's bathroom! Unlike you, I'm a girl!"

Draco's eyes narrowed, his voice cold and vindictive.

"…That must be such a burden."

Ginny was momentarily so affronted that she couldn't even move. Harry saw
Hermione out of the corner of his eye as her hand flew to her mouth. Fred
and George both muttered, 'uh oh' under their breaths.

"Expelliarmos!"

"Protego!"

And just like that, they had transitioned from one duel right into another—
Ginny and Draco were at each other's throats, and while it was nowhere near
as impressive as watching the likes of Bellatrix and Snape, it was equally
dramatic. They were pretty evenly matched, dodging and firing at a steady,
rapid rate, though none of their spells were wordless or meant to be deadly.

At least, Harry didn't think. Everyone else had backed away so as not to get
hit with a wayward spell, and it was then that he noticed that Snape was not
among them. The Potions Master must have either gone down to Aberforth's
or warded himself in his room to escape the feminine backlash of his former
students.

And so there was no authority figure to stop this brawl. They all watched as
Ginny and Draco whirled around each other, screaming and snarling spells,
throwing up shields and dodging hexes.

"I never got you back for that bat-bogey hex, Weasley," Draco seethed when
they both paused to catch their breath.

"When you were Umbridge's little bitch, you mean?" Ginny retorted. "What'd
you have to do to get on the Inquisitorial Squad, Malfoy? Let that toad of a
woman play with you whenever she felt like it?"

"No," Malfoy fumed, "but that was what you did with Slughorn, isn't it? No
other logical reason you could have been invited into his little Slug-club!"

Ginny instantly blushed. "I was invited because he saw me fire off a powerful
hex, and he was impressed!"

"I call bullshit," Draco sneered. "You were only invited because Slughorn
wanted at least one pretty little girl in his club…even if you are dumb, poor,
and weak."

This time, when Ginny gaped incredulously, Draco didn't hesitate. He took
advantage of her frozen disbelief, and she wasn't quick enough to dodge his
next "Expelliarmos!"

Ginny's wand went flying out of her hand, and Malfoy was on her at once. He
grabbed her wrist and twisted her around so that he had her in an arm lock,
his wand pointed threateningly at her temple and mouth in her ear.

"Weak," he repeated, triumph gleaming in his eyes.

Ginny threw her head back. The back of her skull collided painfully with his
nose, and everyone watching visibly flinched as he dropped his wand—

"You asshole!" Ginny screamed. She turned around and shoved him, hard,
and Malfoy went stumbling backwards and fell to the floor. But the youngest
Weasley wasn't done. She climbed over him, one knee on either side of his
waist, and slugged him in the face.

"Oh, dear, oh, no!" Luna cried, because Ginny had raised her fist, about to
punch him again—Draco's hands were over his nose, which was bleeding
profusely—

Fred and George finally intervened. "All right, all right!" they shouted in
unison. They each grabbed their little sister, one under each arm, and dragged
her away from her opponent.

Ginny did not go quietly. "Let me at him!" she yelled, struggling against the
twins' grips—and it did seem to take the combined effort of both of them to
keep her contained. Draco was staring at her from the ground in utter shock.

"I'll show you weak!" she screeched. "I'll show you—"

"Ginny."
She instantly stopped squirming at the sound of Harry's voice. Ginny tore her
eyes away from Draco to look at him, face flushed and hair tussled.

"Calm down," Harry went on in a low voice. "It's over… You're both done."

He glanced down at Draco for a moment before looking back up to Ginny.

She took a few more deep breaths, but then the fight seemed to leave her
entirely. Her muscles relaxed, and Fred and George let her go.

Ginny quickly went and retrieved her wand. She pocketed it before glowering
down at Draco one last time, who was still holding his bleeding nose. "We
are not done," she spat. "I'll be back, Malfoy."

And then, without giving anyone else a second glance, Ginny left.

"Oh, no, no…" Luna muttered. She looked at Harry apologetically. "I'll talk
to her," she said, and then Luna, too, took her leave.

There was a heavy and awkward silence after they'd gone. Harry moved to
help Draco up, but the injured blonde refused him, pushing himself up
instead. He snatched up his wand, swearing under his breath as he went.

"What in the world was all that about?" Harry asked, but Malfoy didn't
answer. He only stalked away, going into the bathroom and locking himself
in, presumably to heal his bloody nose.

Everyone looked at each other, confused and alarmed. No one knew what to
say after that outburst.

"T-t-t-tea?"

They all turned at the sound of a very high, squeaky voice. Dobby crawled
out from under the table. The poor elf had been there throughout the entire
duel, hiding under the furniture in order not to get his with a random curse or
hex. He now looked at Harry with giant, perturbed eyes, breaking the tension
in the only way that Dobby knew how. He smiled hopefully.
"Tea would be great, Dobby," Harry said as casually as he could. "Thank
you."

Dobby beamed, going to gather a tray and some cups.

And so they all sat, drinking tea and passing the time as they usually did,
doing their best to act as though such dramatic duels had not taken place…
and Harry found himself wondering, yet again, just what kind of year he'd
missed.

It was a tense day.

Malfoy remained in the bathroom for a long time, and when he did emerge,
he sat as far from everyone else as he could, scribbling away in his book.

Harry did try to talk to him, once. He sat across from him, bringing him a cup
of tea as a peace offering (and because Dobby still refused to serve Draco
himself).

Draco looked at the cup suspiciously before taking it and setting it on the side
table. "…Thanks," he muttered.

Harry glanced at the journal he was writing in. It was different than the one
he'd had before. "Still determined to write that book, huh?"

"Yes," Draco said simply, not looking up.

"How's it coming?"

"…Slowly," Malfoy admitted. He finally set it aside and reached for the tea
Harry had brought him. "I wish I had the first part here. We'll have to go back
to Grimmauld Place at some point, you know. I didn't have the diary on me
when we took off. It's still in the library there."

"Yeah, we will," Harry said, nodding in agreement. They would have to

return to Grimmauld Place at some point, Harry thought, envisioning a little
golden snitch with a secret message…
'I open at the close.'

…Yes, they would definitely need to go back when they could.

They fell into silence. Draco started writing again.

"You're going to need to apologize, you know," Harry said.

Malfoy dropped his quill. "What?"

"To Ginny. I don't know what happened with you two last year, but there was
no reason to insult her like that."

"She—she punched me!" Draco shouted, face reddening.

"You sort of deserved it," Harry pointed out.

Draco snarled and picked up his quill. "No way," he muttered. "No way."

"It'd be the right thing to do," Harry said. "…It's what I would do."

Malfoy peered up at him with steely eyes for a second, like he was maybe
considering him…but then scoffed, returning his attention back to his new
journal.

Harry sighed, giving up on the Slytherin boy. It was getting late, and he had
more important things to think about besides the drama between all of the
occupants within this room. The animosity between Ginny and Draco, the
strange and unsettling…something that Harry desperately wished he was
imagining between Hermione and Snape, and the idea of Ron really picking
up on it and the emotional explosion that would be sure to follow…and Fred
and George, who seemed to exist solely to fuel such fires for entertainment…

Harry rubbed his temples. He was exhausted, and today was the first day that,
when he looked in the mirror, he really noticed it. He'd hardly slept at all
since their first night here, and it was starting to show on his face. He looked
worn. Bags were forming under his eyes, and he was unhealthily pale.
Three more days. Three more nights of bartering with the Dark Lord, three
more conversations in which he would have the opportunity to win Snape's
safety, and they would advance to the next phase of their complicated ploy…

Harry hoped he could make it that long.

He yawned as he sauntered over to his hammock. It was starting to get late,

but it was nowhere near midnight. He supposed that he could drift off to sleep
sooner, if he wanted, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Ginny was going to
make good on her word. She'd left in quite a fury earlier, and if she came
back with the intention of pummeling Draco…well, he wanted to be awake
for that.

Harry laid on his back, swaying back and forth and his mind drifted to
thoughts of telephones, glass walls, and the all-consuming question:

'…Do you want to truly know me, Harry Potter…?'

A few hours later, at a quarter to midnight, and it transpired that Harry was
right.

Ginny arrived with a sour look on her face. Surprisingly, he was not
marching with an air of fiery determination about her—rather, she was glum
and bitter. Luna watched her expectantly, a stern look on her usually dreamy
face.

She approached Malfoy grudgingly, like it was the very last thing she wanted
to do. No one said anything, only waited cagily to see what would happen.
Draco had just moved to reach for his wand, when—

"I'm sorry I punched you in the face."

Ginny barely looked at him when she said it. Malfoy's jaw dropped. He
looked bewildered; obviously, the last thing anyone expected was for Ginny
Weasley to come back and apologize.

Snape looked up over the top of the book he was reading at the two bitter-
looking teenagers, one eyebrow raised, probably wondering what the hell had
occurred when he'd been in hiding to cause Ginny to punch Draco in the
face…but he didn't ask, and went back to reading like he didn't much care,
either.

Harry caught Draco's eye and nodded encouragingly. Malfoy swallowed like
there was something sour-tasting on his tongue.

"…Sorry I called you weak," he muttered.

Luna beamed and nodded approvingly. Harry couldn't help but laugh at the
way they still glared at each other, obviously still very angry. "Ah, good," he
said, stepping between them and clapping each of them on the shoulder.
"Everyone loves everyone. I can now rest easy."

He smirked as he left them to their own devices, heading back to his

hammock. He heard Fred and George chucking behind him.

"You know, it's really our fault, Malfoy, she learned how to fight from us."

"We used to hold her down and tickle her until she couldn't breathe when we
were younger, and she eventually figured out that if we hit her, my dad would
murder us, but that if she hit us, he would just laugh and tell her to go for the
nose."

"It's true, he did," Ron added, and soon they were all conversing quite
casually, talking about their childhoods and questionable parenting
techniques.

Amazing how quickly the atmosphere in a room can change, Harry thought
as he pulled a cover up over his chin. He was still painfully aware that,
despite the fact that they pretended to be absorbed in other things, everyone
was watching him intently.

Especially Snape. The Potions Master's gaze on him was practically tangible,
even more so now that things were progressing.
Harry closed his eyes, and for the first time in days, his exhausted mind faded
into unconsciousness almost at once, no imaginary nargles necessary.

Voldemort, as usual, was waiting.

Harry, as usual, was unsure of what to expect.

Especially considering how the conversation had ended last time. The Dark
Lord, whispering words of vulnerability. Harry, unable to wrap his mind
around it.

As a matter of fact…the way that Lord Voldemort sat, so still, so

statuesque… It almost looked like he hadn't moved at all since the last time
they spoke.

Like the Dark Lord had remained here, on the outskirts of his dreams and
waiting for Harry to come back and answer him.

…Which Harry couldn't.

They were silent for a long time, and it was oddly reminiscent of the first
time they had met here, in this dream world. Staring intently, evaluating each
other in the endless stretch of quietness. Harry searching for something,
something in the depths of those red, red, eyes; eyes that no longer had slits
for pupils and were simultaneously more human and less so, glowing and
warm, fire and light.

He wondered what Voldemort thought, looking into his. What it was he was
searching for in Harry's eyes, and whether or not he was finding it there.

Harry finally spoke. "…Do you accept my terms?"

His voice sounded strained. He wondered if he looked as tired in his dream as

he did in reality. He didn't think so. He didn't want to appear fatigued and
weak, and so he was fairly certain that he didn't.

Voldemort definitely didn't. He looked as flawlessly composed as ever, his

face predictably unreadable.

"…Harry…" the Dark Lord started, and the way he said his name was
ominously dark. His hand went into the front of his robe and—Harry's eyes
widened—started to undo the top buttons of his undershirt, and for a wild,
wild moment, Harry thought he was about to take his shirt off.

"…Tell me what happened…" he went on, and he reached for something

under his robes—something around his neck, something shining and heavy
on a silver chain—

"…to my locket."

Harry's heart froze mid-beat.

Never before had he imagined what 'damaged beyond magical repair' looked
like. He had not seen the locket afterwards, had not thought to ask, would not
have ever wanted to see it again, even if he had—but here it was, now,
hanging over Lord Voldemort's heart. And it must have been the real one, the
true, broken artifact, because he had Hermione's bag, where she'd been
keeping them…

It was not simply cracked or split, but shattered. The entire front face of the
silver looked like it had exploded, and the exposed interior was black, a
darkness that had dripped out over the surface, as though the entity within
had been crying obsidian tears when it… When he…

Harry's breath hitched in his throat as the horrible pain of loss, which he had
so vehemently kept locked away, suddenly seized him—like two hands made
of ice reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs, cold and quick and
airless—

The glass cracked with a soft 'click'.

 36. Shattered

The glass cracked—a tiny, hairline fissure—and Voldemort did not hesitate.

The Dark Lord tore through the vulnerable tear in Harry's Occlumency
barrier and ripped into his mind, pulling with a vicious precision. Memories,
the very memories which Harry had buried so deeply in his heart—memories
he wanted to let die and rot and decay—came flying forward, forcing him to
see, to show him… To relive them as Voldemort watched…

…Harry is in a dark and dusty attic, looking disgusted at the way in which
the old elf has been living… He finds a locket and picks it up… The elf looks
murderous, and Harry, feeling strangely drawn to it, decides to keep it…

No—

Harry tried to pry the Dark Lord away from his mind, but Voldemort was as
ruthless as he was cold. No, Harry begged, no, don't do this, don't do this!
Voldemort did not react to his turmoil, only dug in deeper.

…Harry is in the shower, the locket still around his neck, because if felt
weird, oddly cold, to not have it on... When he looks at himself in the mirror,
naked and exposed, there is someone else looking back at him in the silver…

No—please, stop—

…Harry is fumbling at piano keys, trying to recreate something resembling

his dreamy rhapsody… Draco is a distraction on the other side of the room,
and eventually, Harry snaps. He has the Malfoy heir cowering in fear,
backing up until he is flush against the wall, and Harry is seething… "…If
you were a Dark Lord with incredible power, if you were a master Occlumens
and Legilimens, if you had been trying to kill one particular person for years
but had failed, many times… If you finally had that object of your heated,
manic obsession in your grasp, and you were him—sadistic, evil, twisted,
insane—"

Voldemort's grasp faltered at these words from Harry's past, which were
spoken with such genuine ire, that Harry found in himself the ability to fight
back. He threw up mental blockades, prying Voldemort from him and
burying his more recent memories of the locket as deeply as he could—

But it was a mistake. Voldemort's determination returned with a rapid

vengeance, it was those very memories, the ones which Harry guarded the
most, which came rushing forward next.

…Harry is playing the piano, and it is mesmerizing…

No, no, please stop this, Harry begged, I can't go through this again—

…Harry is in the cupboard…

No, no, no—

…and Tom Riddle is everywhere.

The young Slytherin heir is in the cobwebs and the shadows, he is in the
floorboards and in the dangling, broken light… He is under the bed,
whispering words of endearment to a susceptible and lonely Harry Potter…

No!

…Riddle is manifest, now, holding Harry from behind and speaking in his
ear; beautiful, wonderful things that make Harry's heart feel like his ribcage is
full of fluttering creatures that are trying desperately to escape, and it is not…
entirely unpleasant…

Harry's was internally begging, begging, begging, but Voldemort did not
stop.

…'We need to leave.'

… Riddle's words are uncharacteristically cold, and Harry is, for the first
time, afraid of his supposed angel… He demands to see his face, and Riddle
is laughing...a finger is being dragged up his spine, and the words are being
whispered in his ear:

'Fight…'

No, no, no—

…'Or fuck?'

No—

But it was useless—Voldemort pulled harder, and the next image that
surfaced was of Tom Riddle hovering over Harry as he laid with his back on
the cot, spell-bound under the influence of him, and it was the most pivotal
moment, easily the most thrilling, romantic instant that had ever happened to
Harry in his life—

…'I won't do anything without your consent.'

…There is a pregnant pause in which Harry's entire world stops. Riddle

freezes over him, obsidian eyes boring into his but not intrusively, no…
beseechingly. Patiently. Tom does not move or speak, only waits, and soon it
is Harry who is reaching up, hungrily, desperately. Their lips crash together
and it is divine. It is fire and flame, it is thunder and lightning. It is pure
passion, powerful and all consuming, and Harry is on fire with it—Tom
Riddle is trailing his lips down his stomach, burning kisses into his skin and
Harry is powerless against him—

Harry tried once more to yank the memory away. It shifted under his
influence, shimmering and breaking apart, but Voldemort was a strange
conglomeration of emotions, and he was powerful, too powerful. Harry could
not shake him, and another of Harry's most buried of memories came forth.

…Harry is running, sprinting down the hall to the sound of music—that

horrid song—face flushed and laughing and this is the most fun he's had in a
long time… He, Draco, and Bellatrix—no, the mudblood—dash past a
portrait of…of Phineas Black…

Harry was a frantic mess in his desperation to rid himself of the Dark Lord's
intrusion. His mind was a sea of panic and pain, but Voldemort ignored him
completely.

…Harry is in the kitchen, and he and Draco belt out the final words at the
same time:

'Can anybody find me…?'

No, no, no, no—

...Time skips. A patch of blackness, and then Harry is on the floor, a searing
pain in his chest… The locket is on the ground, writhing of its own accord…

No, no, NO—

…'Imperio.'

NO—

…Harry struggles, despite the fact that he is so weak… But then the word is
slipping through his lips and the locket is swinging open… Music explodes in
the room, sending everyone crashing to the floor, and Harry sees himself,
and…and Tom…

Harry's desperation to stop the memories ceased. Everything—the pain, the

horror, Voldemort's presence—it all fell away at the sight of Tom, leaning
over him; Tom, with his back against him; Tom, guiding his fingers and
bringing him music…

And then the smoke shifted, the music stopped, and…it was just Tom.

Harry was able to watch it in a clarity that he did not have when the tragedy
initially occurred. Tom stood in the center of the room, directly in front of the
locket. He was staring at Harry, who was voiceless and powerless against the
wall, and he had been thinking, pleading for Tom to just do it, to take what
was left of him and grab the portkey, to save himself…

But Tom didn't move. He could have, he could have, Harry could see that
now. The seconds stretched on, and Tom did nothing but stand there, dark
eyes fixed on Harry, and that face, that porcelain perfection—

What have you done?

A clash of metal. A scream of horror. And at the very same moment where
Harry, in the memory, had struck with bolt of impossible lightning towards
Severus Snape, the Harry Potter of the present ruthlessly lashed out at
Voldemort. The Dark Lord was forced from his mind in a blinding flash.

The prison dreamscape came snapping back into focus.

The glass wall was once more between them, visibly shimmering but intact.
Harry was trembling, a mess of emotions that were tangled together, fighting
for prominence. He glared at Voldemort with eyes that were narrowed in hate
yet were shimmering with unshed tears.

Voldemort, for his part, looked simply…stunned.

An expression of pure shock graced his features as he comprehended all that

he had just witnessed. But after only a few seconds, the Dark Lord's
astounded face broke out into a grin. Haughty, superior. Like he had just won
a great victory.

He looked…so smug.

"You have fallen, Harry."

Anger. Out of all of the frazzled emotions that warred in Harry's psyche, fury
won out.

"How dare you," Harry snarled, fingers tightening around the phone at his
ear. "He—he wasn't you. He was nothing like you, he said so himself—he
hated you!"

Voldemort's coy expression didn't change. Harry's rage bubbled like boiling
lava in his veins, and the barrier shimmered and shook.

"He hated you, he hated you—he was nothing like you—everything I felt
then had absolutely nothing to do with you—"

"That was me, Harry," Voldemort drawled. He then leaned closer to the glass,
and…and it seemed as though some kind of shadow swept across him,
veiling his features for a moment...and when the darkness lifted...

"…Is me."

Harry's heart stopped.

Dark eyes, ivory skin, and full, youthful lips smiled back at him. The
damaged locket around his neck suddenly appeared immaculate and intact.

Whole.

A second of still disbelief before Harry's anger swelled to epic proportions.

"Do not fucking insult me!" he roared, getting to his feet and sending his
chair flying back behind him. He should hang up, now, he should—

"Insult you? Never." Tom—no, Voldemort—said innocently.

"You aren't him!" Harry fumed. "He was nothing like you, he said so himself,
he never would have hurt me like you did, he never would have done the
horrible things that you have done!"

Voldemort continued to smile benignly, like he found Harry's rambling

amusing and little more than a feeble rationalization. Harry's outrage soared.

"You didn't see it, but he saved me from you, stopped me from responding to
you and your horrible, seductive parseltongue lure—he saved me from you!"
At this, the Dark Lord's smug expression actually slipped. For a fleeting
moment, Harry felt triumphant, like he had finally gotten his point across.
Harry smirked vindictively when Voldemort's lips parted, the Dark Lord
looking so shocked when he said,

"…You could hear me."

Harry's face instantly paled.

For he only just realized what it was he had just given away. Voldemort had
not known, before, that Harry had ever been able to hear him while he'd
beckoned to his lost horcrux; could not have possibly known what kind of
effect it had actually had on him... The Dark Lord had probably assumed that
Harry had not been able to hear him at all, which was why, once he was
certain that Harry was alive, he'd used the very different and far more
effective tactic of tricking him into thinking he was back in that crystal
prison, in that world of white…

But he knew now.

Harry's eyes darted to the receiver—he should hang up, he should hang up
now—

Voldemort's head tilted to one side, looking sweetly curious.

"…Ssseductive?"

Harry's breath hitched at the sound which sent an unbidden rush of heat up
his spine. The already shimmering glass cracked again; another hairline
fissure. The moment it did, Voldemort inhaled sharply, gasping and closing
his eyes. He dropped the phone and threw his head back like he'd just been
struck with something.

"...Oh, Harry…"

His name was a moan on Voldemort's lips. The wave of heat escalated, and
when Voldemort's head snapped back to look at him it was to see that all
traces of the smug and composed Dark Lord had vanished.

With onyx eyes, Tom—Voldemort, Voldemort—had become the monster of

his nightmares.

"I can sssssmell your desssire, Harry…"

Harry felt lightheaded. He nearly swayed on the spot as that want washed
over him, and it was something that Voldemort must have felt as well, as he
gasped again—the Dark Lord stood, eyes flickering to the crack in the glass
—

Hang up, hang up, hang up—

"I can tassssste your lussst…"

Voldemort lifted his hand, tracing a single, pale finger along the fissure, and
as he ghosted over the surface the crack grew, fracturing and splintering
wherever he touched. Harry couldn't help but watch the action as though
mesmerized.

"You are ssstarving without me, my sssoul… You are sssuffering from a thirst
that only I can ssslake…"

Oh—

Harry's breath was short and fast, all of his previous rage totally eclipsed by
that overwhelming lure, that pull. His arm fell to his side, the phone held
uselessly in his limp hand, but he could hear the parseltongue perfectly,
anyway. It was not in his ear, but permeated his very being, struck him to his
soul—

Hang up hang up hang up—

"Only I can sssatisfy that need, Harry…" Tom—Voldemort—continued to

glide his finger over the glass, and the cracks multiplied at his touch—click,
click, click—
Hang up hang up wake up—

The Dark Lord slammed his palm flat against the barrier, and it caused a
circular, spiraling break to form across the surface, an intricate spider's web
of lines radiating from his fingers—

"I could break you, Harry," he hissed, surveying him with a hunger that both
terrified and enthralled—but the hypnotic parseltongue made Harry want it,
need it— "I could shatter your walls and consssume you, I could make you
sssing and I could make you ssscream…"

Those dark eyes were clouded in lust, his posture rigid and poised like a
python preparing to strike. Harry tried to make his body cooperate, to look
away, to hang up the damn phone—

"…But I won't."

English. His expression, which had been so predatory just a second before,
softened. He removed his hand from the glass and took a step away.

Harry came back to himself, mind racing—

Wake up wake up wake up—

"I would never do anything without your consent."

Tom was staring at him with pleading eyes, standing completely still with his
hands at his sides. Harry's heart palpated erratically in his chest, and he knew
it was an illusion—but he wanted it to be true, he wanted it, he wanted—

The phone slipped from Harry's fingers, and the barrier shattered apart.

Tom was on him in a shower of shards of glass. Sharp, crystalline slivers

grazed Harry's skin, but he hardly registered them as Tom's mouth found his
own, crashing down with a fervent need. Tom bit at his bottom lip, nearly
painful in his demand which Harry gave into at once, parting his lips and
allowing the Slytherin Heir access, to explore every inch of him. Harry
moaned, and the vibration of his voice seemed to unhinge something in Tom,
for he suddenly had a hand in Harry's hair, tangling his fingers in his wild
locks and yanking his head back, demanding a better angle, more access,
more, more, more—

Harry was lost in a sea of lust and ravenous want. It was his own and it
wasn't, and he knew, knew that this wasn't right, that this wasn't his Riddle—
but Harry's hand clawed at Tom's chest, fingers curling around the locket
there, and it felt whole, it felt real…and so Harry allowed himself to give into
the fantasy, if only for a moment…

Tom pulled away when he felt the moisture on his skin. His grasp in Harry's
hair slackened, his expression concerned and confused to see that Harry had
started to cry.

"I-I-I didn't—" Harry gasped, still clinging to the locket like a lifeline. He
tried to blink away the tears, but they kept coming, anyway. "I didn't want to
—I c-couldn't save you—"

Harry buried his face into the crook of Tom's neck, letting out a horrible sob.
"I-I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to contain his emotion.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"

Tom grabbed his face with both of his hands, gently lifting his chin so that he
was looking directly into his eyes. "No," he murmured, leaning forward so
that their foreheads touched. Harry let out another feeble sob. "No, not you,
never you, my beautiful tragedy…" Tom began to kiss the tears away from
his cheeks, and it was such a tender action, so affectionate, and yet it only
served to make them stream even more profusely.

"It was not you, it was them… They will pay for what they have done… But
not you, my perfection, never you…" He placed his lips to Harry's forehead,
carding his fingers softly through his hair. "I will save you from this pain,
from all of them… But I need you to do something for me, my treasure…"

Tom pulled away slightly, though he still held Harry's face with both hands.
Tears clung to Harry's lashes despite his best efforts to blink them away.

"Do you want me, Harry?" Tom asked. His dark eyes were so thoughtful and
so…so…

So vulnerable.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, rendering him speechless. Tom's already
susceptible expression deepened.

"...Do you want to truly know me…?" he tried again, and it was heart-
wrenching, the way his voice trembled with fearful anticipation.

Harry couldn't handle it. "Yes," he breathed, dropping the locket so that he
could wrap his arms around his neck. "Yes, yes, yes…"

Tom exhaled in relief, his breath dancing across Harry lips… And he smiled.

It was the most beautiful sight that Harry had ever seen, to witness Tom
Riddle looking so light, so genuinely happy. There was no malicious intent in
that expression, no ulterior, manipulative sneer…just pure, honest joy. Harry
pressed his lips to Tom's like he might be able to capture it, to claim the rarity
that was that innocent smile and keep it forever.

It was a chaste gesture that quickly escalated to something more, something

passionate and savage. They both were lost in a primal need to have each
other, and Harry felt a definite spark of something like amusement that
definitely didn't belong to him—How adorable, that Harry imagined he could
be dominant—

The moment that thought flickered across his mind, Harry was shoved so that
his back collided with the wall. Tom was ravishing his neck with his mouth,
biting and sucking at the skin there and making Harry's head swim.

"Oh—"

"Harry, Harry, Harry…" Tom hissed his name into his ear like it was a
blessing. Harry's blood rushed south, all coherent thought annihilated. "How I
have longed for thisss… To have you quiver beneath my touch, to have you
mewling and keening under me…"

Tom brushed his fingers lightly between Harry's legs, and if he hadn't been
getting hard already, he certainly was, now. Harry whimpered at the
sensation, hips bucking forward, and soon a moan was rumbling in the
bottom of his throat—

Tom swooped in and crushed his lips over Harry's like he might swallow the
sound whole. He ravaged his mouth, tongue diving in, dominating, forceful.
Harry's body melted into his, unable to be anything but pliant and submissive
in response to such savage energy. When Tom finally pulled away, Harry
was gasping for air.

"I will worship you with my fingertips…" he hissed, fingers trailing teasingly
across his stomach, his chest, his thighs. "I will exalt you with my tongue… I
will show you true rapture..." Tom bit and licked at the shell of his ear,
making his back arch—

"…But not here. Not like this."

His hand, which was now just barely ghosting over the length of his member,
stopped. Harry tried to press further into his touch, but Tom suddenly gripped
him by the hips and pinned him to the wall.

Harry struggled against him uselessly. "Please," he gasped, his mind a chaotic
cloud of raw need. "Please, please—"

"Sssay my name, Harry… Sssay my name, and you will know nothing but
ecstasy… Sssay my name, and I will bring you home…"

Tom pulled away to look into his eyes. Harry hesitated, a foreboding feeling
somewhere in the pit of his stomach, telling him this was bad, this was not
right—

"Ssssay it…" Tom pressed his hips closer to his. Harry tried to lean into them
further, seeking more friction against his painful, throbbing erection. Tom did
not allow it. "Ssssay it…"

Harry's eyes fluttered shut in surrender. He sighed.

"…Tom Marvolo Riddle…"

Tom claimed his lips in another dominating kiss. Harry moaned into his
mouth, hands running through his hair—

But then Tom's body tensed. He pulled away suddenly, and he looked…
confused. His brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed… Tom searched Harry's
face, perplexed, like he was looking for some kind of answer there.

The fire that had been scorching though Harry's veins ran cold.

"…I didn't think so."

Harry attempted to push him away, another sob choking its way out of his
throat. He hurriedly wiped away what was left of his tears, but Tom still
clung to his hips, his confusion quickly turning into anger.

The fantasy shattered apart like the glass wall.

"It didn't work, did it?" Harry said, his own spite and lucidity returning.
"Possessing my body. It didn't work like it did last time, did it? Because
you're not him… You're not him."

Voldemort's expression darkened. As if in damning recognition, those

obsidian irises flashed red.

"What would you have done, if it had worked?" Harry fumed, trying again to
force him away. The Dark Lord's grip on Harry's hips tightened painfully.
"What would you have done? Pretended to be me, waited until my friends had
all fallen asleep, and then—and then murdered them in their beds?"

Harry laughed, and it was cruel and slightly manic sound. "Well, it didn't
work, because you're not him. You haven't been Tom Marvolo Riddle in a
long time. You're…you're just a monster, now."

Voldemort flinched at his words. Harry didn't try and shove him away this
time, though he knew he should have. That he should have taken advantage
of the Dark Lord's momentary weakness and forced him back, banishing him
to the outside of his mind in order to re-establish his Occlumency barriers—

Harry should have, but he didn't.

He desperately wanted to hear the Dark Lord argue otherwise. He wanted

Voldemort to tell him it wasn't true, he wanted to hear him deny it all—that
he was still Tom, deep down, and that he would never possess Harry's body
and harm those he cared about, because he knew that would hurt Harry, too,
and that he would never, ever hurt him again—

Harry wanted to hear it more than anything. The whole world seemed to hang
in the balance as Voldemort stared at him, conflicting emotions cutting across
the face which still resembled the boy in the locket he had fallen for.

Harry wanted that denial. Needed it.

…That wasn't what happened.

Voldemort's eyes flashed crimson, and Harry's expectant mind was ripped
wide open.

…The portrait of Phineas Black…

Voldemort latched onto to that memory, and through it, somehow,

inexplicably—

'Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place—' Thin, elegant script—

'The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black—'

No! Harry mentally screamed in retaliation, but Voldemort had seen it, had
seen the actual, visible structure through Harry's mind—
And he had seen that they were no longer there.

'Where, where, where' was the obsessive mantra that chorused in Harry's
psyche, and Voldemort tore and shredded his thoughts, a cyclone of
destruction in his need to know—

'…actually the safest place we could be…considering—' Hermione's voice—

No—

'—the Room of—?'

NO—

'…Safe Haven?' Harry is looking to a smiling Neville Longbottom—

'…because we don't want them to.'

Harry roared his protest as the sight of the Room of Requirement filled his
mind's eye. With every ounce of willpower he had, he managed to tear
Voldemort off of his memories, sending him staggering backwards into the
dreamscape of that prison cell. Then, with a great and desperate effort, Harry
willed the shattered barrier to reform itself, and somehow, miraculously,
managed to do so.

Voldemort stared at him from the other side of the glass. He no longer
resembled Tom Riddle, but was once more the other-worldly, intimidating
Dark Lord with hellfire eyes and ethereal skin.

For a moment, he was entirely expressionless, and Harry thought that maybe
he hadn't seen it, maybe he still didn't know…

But then the Dark Lord threw his head back and laughed.

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed. It was both the heartiest and most
unnerving sound that Harry had ever heard.

Voldemort stopped abruptly. His eyes landed on Harry's, and they flashed a
bright, bloody red.

"In my castle," he said softly, and even though it was in English, Harry could
hear him quite clearly. "Right in the very room you first locked me out of, so
very long ago, in your year-long dream… Where no one can get in, because
you don't want them to…"

Harry tasted bile in the back of his throat. Voldemort grinned.

"…But you do want me, don't you, Harry…?"

It took a great amount of effort not to sink into the sound of the parseltongue,
even then, and Harry realized the damning implication of those words.
"Don't," he begged, "don't, please—I'll—"

Lord Voldemort vanished.

Harry snatched at the phone, fingers trembling, and once he slammed it on

the receiver he woke up gasping for air. His eyes flew open to be levelly met
with none other than Snape, who was hovering much closer than usual.

"What is it?" he said at once. "You had just stated to breathe sporadically—"

"We need to leave."

Harry stood, throwing blankets aside and shaking like a leaf. "We need to
leave, now. He knows where we are, he knows—"

Everyone paled. Ginny and Luna exchanged nervous glances. "Should we

disi—"

"No time," Harry interrupted, and he gestured towards the tunnel concealed
behind the painting. "No, no time, just—we need to go, all of us, now—"

Harry felt a wave of frustration as everyone seemed frozen to the spot. "I
SAID NOW!"

"B-but he shouldn't be able to get in—"

"He can," Harry snapped, cutting Hermione off. "He can, and he will, and—
and we need to go, right now—"

"We can return to Grimmauld Place," Snape said, and though he was whiter
than a sheet, his voice was level.

"No." Harry shook his head. "We can't—he… He saw that, too… I-in my
thoughts, h-he…" Harry swallowed thickly, looking up at the Potions Master
in desperation. "He saw it. He saw the portrait of Phineas Black, a-and I… I
don't think we can go back there."

Snape somehow became even paler. "But we need to go!" Harry went on
heatedly. "We can—we can figure something out from Aberforth's, but we
just c-can't stay here."

Snape said nothing to this, only nodded. "Quickly," he said in an emotionless

tone. "Gather whatever things you have, now."

There was a split second where no one moved, and then, quite suddenly,
everyone was scrambling. They grabbed their wands, Ginny and Luna
grabbed their bags, Ron grabbed the sword of Gryffindor, and, Harry noticed
numbly, Draco had his Firebolt… His broom, Malfoy had managed to hold
on to his broom…

Harry checked to make sure that his Invisibility Cloak and the Elder Wand,
his only possessions, were safely tucked away in his robe. He felt like he was
experiencing the world through a dense fog as he watched the others
frantically move. Harry headed towards the painting, his heart beating
frantically. How long would it take the Dark Lord to arrive at Hogwarts, from
wherever he was…?

He had his answer quickly enough.

'…Harry Potter…'

Harry almost stumbled and fell where he stood.

'…ssssssssssssssss…'

The portrait of Ariana swung open, and Snape was ushering the others
through… Yet Harry hardly saw it…

'…I will have you…'

The sound of footsteps, of creaking floorboards…but was it in reality, or in

his mind…?

'…sssssssssssssss…'

Harry wanted to slip right into it, to fall into that seductive, hypnotic lure and
—

"Potter!"

Harry was somewhat snapped out of his trance at the sound of Snape's voice.
He blinked dazedly, confused. When and how had he crossed the room,
reaching for the door…?

Snape was gripping his wrist, his face contorted in horror-filled realization.
The others, Harry noticed, had already gone into the tunnel. He could see
Hermione sticking her head through the entrance, looking confused as to why
Snape had needed to suddenly sprint across the room...but of course they
hadn't heard the Dark Lord's beckoning; it was parseltongue, and it was in
Harry's mind, and—

Harry felt disoriented. Snape yanked him back, away from the door and
towards the tunnel.

'…Let me in…'

The doorknob, which Harry's hand had just been hovering over seconds
before, turned.

It all happened very quickly.

Snape turned to look at the portrait, where Hermione watched them with
wide, terrified eyes. They were too far away, they would never have made it,
even if they had run. Harry knew it, and it seemed that Snape knew it, too. He
pointed his wand towards the painting, and in a flash of light, it swung shut.
Hermione's scream of refusal was sharply cut off when the portrait slammed
against the wall, and in another rapid motion, the entire work of art was
slashed down the middle, and it was clear by the angry, violent tear in the
canvas that it was a portal that was now permanently cut off.

"Your cloak," Snape gasped, directing his wand back to the door and casting
some kind of spell on it that Harry could only assume was meant to keep it
shut.

But it was no use.

Harry didn't have time to reach into his robes for his cloak, he didn't have
time to do anything other than allow Snape to force his numb body
backwards. The older wizard put as much distance as he could between
themselves and the entryway, wand raised—

The parseltongue stopped. Cold, hard reality crashed into Harry with the
force of a tidal wave.

The door flew open, and—

Lord Voldemort was smiling.

And wouldn't that have been quite bad enough? Harry thought with horror,
but no—because with him, standing at his side with an expression that was
malevolent and deranged was the devil herself.

Snape ushered Harry back further, standing in front of him with his arms
spread protectively and his wand held high. Harry was paralyzed in fear. All
he could think was that this was it, it was all over. There was no way out of
this one.

Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange.

Harry Potter and Severus Snape.

The Dark Lord's scorching eyes flickered from Harry, to Snape, and back
again, and it couldn't have been clearer that he was beyond delighted with
just how well this had turned out for him.

Harry couldn't catch Snape's eye, but he could see the way that his wand-arm
was shaking. Bellatrix let a short and high-pitched cackle, her gaze fixed
hungrily on the traitorous wizard in front of her.

But Voldemort only had eyes for Harry, now. They burned with something
far more frightening than desire as he stared at him, so ecstatic to be here, in
Hogwarts, his elusive human-horcrux finally within his grasp. The Dark
Lord's eyes brightened like fire, and when he spoke, his voice was the sound
of victory.

"Fate truly does favor Lord Voldemort."

 37. Judgment Day

Voldemort and Bellatrix advanced.

Their movements were slow and fluent, the practiced motions of two people
who had dueled together many, many times. Bellatrix consistently stayed a
half-step in front of Voldemort, hovering protectively in front of her master
and making Harry think wildly of something like a panther on a leash.

As if the Dark Lord needed protection of any kind.

Inversely, Harry and Snape retreated hastily and clumsily. Snape had his
wand held high, his other arm forcing Harry further behind him, away from
the prowling monsters who were hungry for their blood.

Far too soon, Harry's back hit the wall, and they could withdraw no further.
Voldemort paused. The moment he stopped moving Bellatrix did as well, her
posture rigid, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Voldemort never once took his eyes off of Harry.

"Bella," he said quietly, speaking into her ear and resting a hand on her
shoulder. The dark witch looked like she might just melt into his touch.
"Severus Snape is yours. To kill. But do me a favor, won't you, my most
loyal? Keep it to that side of the room… I need to have a word with Harry."

His intense gaze remained fixated on Harry's face the entire time he
addressed her. "Feel free to make him suffer," he added softly.

Harry grabbed Snape's arm. An insane idea suddenly popped into his head,
and when Snape's eyes met his, he willed his mental plea to be heard. 'Grab
me,' Harry thought, putting forth all of his effort into envisioning it as he did.
'Grab me, and—'
Snape went flying. He was wrenched from Harry's grasp by Voldemort's
wordless incantation, and he was sent sprawling to the ground, clear across
the room, where Bellatrix descended upon him at once. Instantly, they began
firing spells, Snape scrambling to his feet and quickly composing himself.
And they were talking, too; Bellatrix was jeering and taunting, but Harry
hardly heard it as his focus shifted to the wizard before him.

Lord Voldemort was smiling…but it was anything but kind.

"…Harry."

He twirled his wand idly in his fingers, and it was then that Harry noticed just
what wand it was. Voldemort observed the way his eyes widened and
laughed. "Yes," he said, taking a single step forward and brandishing the
wand in front of him like a great prize. "I thought you might like to see it
again. Fascinating, too, how comfortable it feels in my hands… It is almost
like it wants to bend to me, for me to be its master…"

Harry's fist clenched at his side, shaking in anxiety. "Go on, then," Voldemort
continued, his voice condescending. "Draw the Elder Wand. Let us see if
something outlandish occurs to save you, this time." His smile widened,
sardonic and falsely sweet.

"I'll even give you the first two seconds free."

Harry swallowed back the bile that threatened to claw its way up his throat.
His gaze kept flickering to where Snape and Bellatrix dueled, and, just as her
master had commanded, she seemed intent on keeping her opponent as far
away from Harry and the Dark Lord as possible—though Snape continued,
over and over, to try and get to him.

I require a miracle, Harry thought hollowly. He reached for the Deathstick in

his robe pocket, slowly, knowing that all was lost, it was hopeless. He
wrapped his fingers around the thin stick of wood, and—

Now, now, now—

Power thrummed through Harry's entire being the moment he touched it. He
instantly stopped trembling, awash in a wave of unanticipated lucidity.

Harry's eyes darted from Voldemort, to Snape and Bellatrix, and then back to
the Dark Lord. He knew that he had to act first, to do something that would
cause Bellatrix to become distracted and would prevent Voldemort from
instantly trying to control him with that parseltongue lure…

And then it came to him. A course of action that was mad, absolutely mad,
but then again…what did they have to lose?

The raw force that emanated from the Elder Wand stripped away all of his
fear, leaving something far more daring in its wake.

"…No."

Voldemort's brows raised in surprise, looking more amused by Harry's

sudden shift in demeanor than concerned.

"No…?"

"No. I don't want to duel you," Harry said, and this time it was he who
advanced. Voldemort's head tilted to one side, wary but curious. "What
would be the point? You're here. You've already gotten what you want."
Harry gestured towards where Bellatrix was currently tormenting Snape with
verbal threats. For a fraction of a second, he caught the Potions Master's eye,
and with every fiber of his being Harry thought of his plan, envisioned what
he wanted his former professor to do…and could only hope that Snape was
able to see it there before he was forced to turn his attention back to Bellatrix.
"Severus Snape is yours…but leave the others."

"I haven't signed anything, Harry," Voldemort responded, glancing briefly at

the destroyed painting on the wall. "They cannot be far. I'll track them down,
every single one of them. They do notdeserve mercy for what they have
done."

"I'm not asking you for their sakes. I'm asking you to do this…for me." Harry
took another step towards the Dark Lord, slowly closing the gap between
them. The Deathstick had him feeling bolder than ever before.

And maybe the power he felt coursing through him was palpable, because
Voldemort's amused expression slipped. He lifted his wand—Harry's wand—
higher. Clearly, he was expecting a terrified, pleading Harry Potter like the
one he had just left in his dream, not...this.

"Am I not enough?" Harry asked accusingly, just daring Voldemort to say
otherwise. He took another step forward. "If you let them be, you can have
me… All of me." Another step. Voldemort's eyes darkened, his face
completely expressionless, now.

"Completely. Irrevocably… I will willingly and eternally be yours…"

Harry lowered his wand to his side, leaving himself exposed as he continued
his advance. The sounds of Bellatrix's and Snape's duel seemed to fade,
replaced by the sound of his thundering heart, his own, raspy voice…

"I will worship you with my fingertips…" Harry said, getting closer still.
Voldemort lowered his wand slightly. "I will exalt you with my tongue…"

They were a mere arms width apart, now. Harry lifted his hand which did not
hold the Deathstick, and in response, perhaps completely despite himself, the
Dark Lord's arm fell to his side.

"I will show you true rapture… If you let me." Harry's hand hovered close, so
close to Voldemort's face, and everything fell away in that moment. The Dark
Lord's malice vanished entirely, his irises darkened now solely with lust. He
was captivated by the seduction of Harry Potter...and, in all actuality, Harry
was equally enthralled. His fingers were less than an inch from the skin of
Voldemort's cheek, and what would happen, he wondered, when they actually
touched in the real world? When was the last time that they had physically
been close to one another?

Harry withdrew his hand slightly, though it remained dangerously close. His
eyes fell to the Dark Lord's lips, suddenly consumed with the realization that
he had never experienced them in reality.

"If you'll let me…" he repeated. Voldemort, who had become spell-bound by
Harry's forwardness, only nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Harry cautiously leaned in, still not touching him, though they were so near
now that Harry could feel the heat radiating off of him, the Dark Lord's
breath dancing across his skin. Voldemort's eyes fluttered closed, and after he
drew in a shaky breath, he laughed softly.

"You smell like lightning," Voldemort whispered, lips curling into a small
smile.

The static was tangible; literal currents of energy that shot back and forth
between them, magnetic, intoxicating—Harry held his breath, his own eyes
closing as he leaned even closer, needing to crane his neck up to reach the
Dark Lord's lips, to claim him in a kiss—

A vice-like grip closed around his wrist. In a motion that was so rapid and
fluid it was almost like they'd practiced it, Snape and Harry went whirling,
spinning backwards away from Voldemort, whose eyes flew open in shock at
the sudden movement—one, two, three full circles of billowing robes and
practically choreographed stepping until they came to an abrupt stop—

The world was still spinning when Harry let out a sharp gasp…for it had
worked. His crazy idea had actually worked.

Bellatrix was looking at Voldemort in sheer disbelief, clearly having

witnessed the impossible sight of what was undeniably Harry Potter and Lord
Voldemort, her master...about to kiss. And Snape, who had been watching
and waiting for the opportunity, took advantage of her moment of shock and
struck.

He'd grabbed Harry and spun him around so that he now had the Chosen One
in his arms, Harry's back against his chest, one hand gripping his wild hair
painfully tight while the other held his wand, which was not only pointed at
Harry threateningly, but—
This part, Harry thought with a thrill of terror, was not something he had
envisioned. From the tip of Snape's wand there protruded a long, curved
blade. The steel was horrifying in every imaginable way. It emanated a deep
red; a glowing, cursed scythe, and the sheer darkness that was oozing off of it
was so strong that Harry felt nauseous simply being near it. Snape held it
right at his throat, hovering over the vulnerable skin there.

"Drop your wands! Both of you!" Snape shouted, his voice right in Harry's
ear. "Drop them, or he dies, right here, right now!" And Harry could feel it,
just how easy that would be. In one, swift motion, Snape could drag this
cursed blade across his neck before anyone could do anything about it. He
swallowed thickly, doing his best to pretend that he had not orchestrated this
situation and was merely a victim. He stared into Voldemort's eyes in what he
hoped was convincing desperation.

Voldemort's stunned face slipped into something emotionless. "Severus…"

he said warningly, and though he held his wand down at his side he did not
drop it, and instead took a tentative step forward—

Snape pressed the blade against Harry's skin, and for as bright and crimson as
it glowed, it was surprisingly cold. The moment it touched him Harry felt a
wave of something horrible wash through him, something dark and
disgusting, and he knew, without a doubt…this was death against his throat.

Voldemort stopped moving, but still did not drop his wand. 'He knows',
Harry thought, desperately trying to reach Snape, though he could not catch
his eyes from this angle. 'He knows that it's a trick, that you won't actually do
it—do something to convince him, anything—'

"I am going to take his life… But first…" Snape's voice was suddenly much
lower, much more sinister than it had been moments before. Harry felt his
skin crawl at the sound.

It…it was a trick, right?

"I'm going to make you a crown, my Lord..." Snape murmured softly. "I'm
going to weave it from the beautiful screams of Harry Potter…" The blade
was pressed tighter into his throat, and then—

"Crucio!"

Pain beyond measure ripped through him. Harry screamed as the curse
started at his throat, radiating from the frigid steel that cut into his skin, now
drawing blood, and shot up to the back of his skull to where Snape's other
hand gasped his hair—Snape yanked his head back further, exposing more of
his neck, and the agony of the Cruciatus shot back between these two points
like electricity, searing behind his eyes and making him scream more
horrifically than Harry had ever screamed in his life—

And he wasn't the only one. Voldemort, too, had begun to roar his protest,
and Bellatrix…

Snape lifted the curse, leaving Harry teary-eyed and gasping for breath. The
Dark Lord was still gripping Harry's wand, fury written all over his face.

Bellatrix Lestrange, however, looked mortified. Tears glistened in her eyes as

she stared at her master, the unwanted, damning comprehension revealing
itself on her features. The dark witch was seeing the irrefutable proof of the
very last thing she ever hoped to see.

For how could she have known? Voldemort had certainly never told a soul,
least of all any of his followers, that he loved anyone…especially not Harry
Potter. She, like everyone else, had probably been led to believe that the only
reason Voldemort had obsessed over the Boy Who Lived for so long was
because he wanted to be the one to kill him, in the end. Which was true at one
point, of course, but now…

Bellatrix was clutching at her chest like someone had just stabbed her there.

"You are going to wear it every day, for the rest of your long…long…life…"
Snape crooned sadistically.

"Severus!" Voldemort yelled, and this time, when Harry stared at him, eyes
wide…he suddenly didn't have to pretend anymore.
'He is going to kill me,' he thought, and he knew that Voldemort could see
that was the truth.

"Crucio!"

More screaming. Harry's eyes snapped shut, and it felt like his skull was
going to with explode, to shatter apart from the inside out.

Harry's screams of agony, Voldemort's screams of desperation, and

Bellatrix's strangled cries of an altogether different kind of pain…

This time, when Snape lifted the curse, Harry looked to see that the Dark
Lord's hands were both empty. Harry's holly wand had been dropped to the
floor at his feet.

"That's better," Snape drawled. Harry felt something hot and sticky on his
neck where the blade stayed firmly in place, biting into his skin. "You, too,
Bellatrix. Drop your wand."

"Do it, Bella," Voldemort seethed. She gasped, looking horrified. "Now!" he
snarled when she hesitated.

Bellatrix lowered her wand to the ground as though in a trance, staring at her
master like she had never seen him before. She was openly crying, now, and
her tragic expression was one that Harry knew quite well.

Right here, right in that very moment…Bellatrix Lestrange's heart was

shattering to pieces.

Perhaps Harry would have felt something in reaction to that—whether it be

pity or satisfaction, he wasn't sure—but he didn't have time to dwell on it,
because soon her focus shifted to him, and her tear-stained face held nothing
but unfathomable hatred for Harry Potter.

"How does it feel?" Snape began, suddenly sounding quite conversational.

"To be so helpless to save the only one you ever wanted? To be unable to
save your most beloved…?"
Bellatrix made a strangled, sobbing sound at that, half in pain and half in
rage. Voldemort ignored her. "What do you want, Severus?" he hissed. "What
are your terms?"

"Maybe I'm done bartering. It would be so much more satisfying, I think, to

kill him in front of you. To see my pain in your eyes… After all, was it not
you who taught me the importance of the phrase, 'an eye for an eye', my
Lord? Of retribution…?"

"You won't—"

"Crucio!"

Another guttural scream tore its way out of Harry's bloody throat, joined
almost at once by both Voldemort and Bellatrix. Snape just laughed, clearly
relishing that with a single curse, he was able to torture not one, but three
people.

"Tell me what I won't do," he spat the moment he ended the spell. Harry was
trembling in his grasp, his vision slightly out of focus.

Voldemort opened his mouth to respond, to say something…but someone

else answered, first.

"YOU SHALL NOT HARM HARRY POTTER!"

Something rather like a small bomb exploded at Harry's feet. A ripple of

power sent Snape's wand flying, no longer glowing with a lethal blade, and in
the same moment, Voldemort, Bellatrix, and Snape went catapulting
backwards—Voldemort and Bellatrix fell to the floor on the far side of the
room, away from Harry, and Snape, who had been standing so closely behind
him, hit the wall next to the painting just a few feet away—

Dobby the house elf stood before him, a terror to behold.

Harry, still trembling from the after effects of the Cruciatus, could do little
more than stare down at him in awe. This small creature had just swept the
floor with the three most powerful people that he knew…literally. Dobby
reached up and grabbed his arm, and when he lifted his tiny hand in a motion
that looked very much like he was about to snap, Harry divined what was
about to happen just before it did.

The next few seconds stretched on forever.

Had the world really begun to turn more slowly on its axis, or was it merely
the copious amounts of adrenaline rushing through his veins that made it feel
like something magical was affecting the way time moved? For the following
moment seemed to happen in slow motion.

He dove, facing the fallen Potions Master and lunging—fortunately for

Snape, he had not gone flying far, as he'd collided with the wall—Harry
stretched forward with his free hand, reaching, reaching—

Snape's fingers barely managed to cling to his when Harry noticed the way
his gaze shifted. His former professor's eyes widened in horror, focusing on
something behind him as a shrill, high-pitched cry assaulted his ears—Harry
turned at the sound, though he could already feel the beginnings of Dobby's
magic about to take hold. But there, headed straight for him—

A dagger.

A dagger, and he could see, quite clearly—Bellatrix was on her hands and
knees, her body bent forward in a way that indicated that she must have just
thrown it, some hidden weapon coming straight for his heart—

The last thing Harry saw was Voldemort, his face lit up in horror and one
hand barely raised, like he might be able to reach out and pluck the blade
from the air from so far away.

Safe Haven vanished. Dobby's grip on him tightened, as did Harry's fingers
around Snape's. The elf disapparated, taking Harry Potter, Severus Snape…
and the dagger with him.
The air around them compressed, making Harry's ribcage feel like it was
snapping and collapsing in on itself. They were being forced through space in
an inconceivable way, and he could not breathe, he could not hold on to
Snape, he was going to lose him—

Just when he thought he couldn't possibly stand it any longer, they hit the
ground. Cool air rushed into Harry's lungs, and he gasped, shaking as he took
in his surroundings. Dobby was clutching at his chest, wrapped around his
midsection.

Snape was by his side, miraculously still holding on to his fingers and
appearing unharmed. He took in a shuddering breath, his dark eyes instantly
scanning Harry's body, looking for—

A horrible cry made them all jump, and the next thing Harry knew, the entire
world was composed of nothing but bushy, brown hair.

"I saw it! I saw the d-door opening! Was it him, was it—and how—and OH!"
Hermione had pounced the moment they appeared, grabbing all three of them
and trapping them in an embrace.

"Hermione!" someone shouted. "Give them a second!"

Ron reached for her, presumably to attempt to pry her arms off of them, but
he didn't need to. She and Harry realized the same thing at the same time.
Something warm and wet was saturating both of their chests, and Hermione
stepped away, her face instantly turning a stark white.

Dobby's grip on his chest slackened. Harry only just caught him before he
fell, and he saw it, sticking out of his back, next to his spine—

"Harry… P-potter…"

The elf's giant eyes looked up at him, his little mouth twitching into a smile.
Harry didn't have time to do anything other than stare before his fragile form
went completely limp. His shining eyes glazed over, the light within them
flickered and went out…and Dobby died in his arms.
"No!"

Luna leapt forward, taking the lifeless creature from him and pulling the
dagger out of his back and tossing it aside, like she might be able to save him
still. "Episkey!" she shouted, pointing her wand at the gash. Her wand lit up,
but nothing happened.

"Episkey! Episkey!"

"L-Luna…"

Luna dropped her wand when Ginny said her name. She clutched the elf to
her chest and sank to the floor, wordless cries choking their way out of her
throat. Ginny fell to her knees beside her, encircling her from behind. Luna
buried her head into the crook of Ginny's neck and sobbed, still clinging to
Dobby's bloody body.

Harry numbly noted where they were. Aberforth's, Dobby had apparated
them down to Aberforth's… And the others were all here, safe and sound…
He stared down at his hands and chest, which were coated in a layer of
Dobby's blood. The dagger lay discarded on the floor, covered in scarlet.

In the back of his mind, Harry felt an onslaught of emotions. Voldemort,

violently reaching for him…desperate, Harry was certain, to know if
Bellatrix's aim had been true, if his human horcrux was alive…

But Harry found that he did not feel anything in response. He perceived the
Dark Lord's rage and grief from a distance, like he was watching a storm
from across a vast sea…and he willed it away from him with a detached ease.

Luna's crying filled his ears.

Harry had seen and experienced so many tragedies in his life, far more than
anybody ever should...and yet something about watching Luna rock back and
forth, cradling Dobby while Ginny tried to hold her steady, nearly made him
come undone completely.
Was there anyone less deserving of experiencing another loss than Luna
Lovegood? This innocent girl who had witnessed her own mother die, who
was always teased and bullied in school… Who had, over the past year, made
friends with the elves, instead?

And was there anyone less deserving of such a brutal end than Dobby the
house elf? This blameless creature who had bravely gone back to save him,
who had been feeding them and taking care of them for days while in the
Room of Requirement?

Harry wanted to sink down to the floor with them. He wanted to say he was
sorry, he wanted to make it better, he wanted to do something—if nothing
else, he wanted to let grief wash over him, to be consumed by this tidal wave
of loss—

But even this was denied him.

"Potter," Snape said, gripping him by the shoulder. He forced Harry to look at
him, his face stern and unwavering. Harry had to wonder, even then, how it
was that Snape managed to keep his composure in moments like this. "I need
you to tell me—you said he saw Grimmauld Place in your mind. What
exactly did he see? And how?"

Harry's vision was still a bit blurred, his body still trembling from Snape's
torturous curse.

Had it been an act?

"…He saw…" Harry tried to make his mind cooperate. It took an obscene
amount of effort to recall the exact image, the precise thoughts which
Voldemort had ruthlessly torn asunder…

"He saw the address. Written." His voice sounded hollow. "Green ink…
Dumbledore's handwriting."

Snape's already pale face became even more ashen. Harry understood at once
—because that was a memory from when the Headmaster, the then rightful
secret keeper, had divulged the location of the headquarters of the Order of
the Phoenix to Harry…

And now Lord Voldemort knew it, too.

"Neville," Harry said suddenly, "…He…he saw Neville… He needs to get

out of the castle…"

Snape paused for a moment, and Harry could practically hear his thoughts
racing in his mind…but then he nodded, turning to Hermione.

"Miss Granger, send a patronus to Minerva McGonagall. Tell her that Neville
Longbottom is in imminent danger, and he must leave Hogwarts without
anyone knowing, immediately."

Hermione must have had some sort of auto-pilot that kicked in whenever
being instructed by an authority figure, for she was able to do exactly as he
said without issue. Harry watched the silvery creature vanish on the spot,
knowing that if he were asked to produce a patronus right then, he would fail
miserably.

"Wh-where will we go?"

Draco finally voiced the question they were all wondering.

"Well, you can't stay here!" Aberforth, who Harry hadn't even noticed before,
waved his arm about frantically. He was in his pajamas, looking absolutely
panicked. "You've got to get out of here as soon as possible! I'm sure he'll be
tearing Hogsmeade apart any moment, now!"

Harry felt nauseous. They all started talking, throwing out ideas, but the
conversation didn't reach him… Harry heard nothing but Luna's sobs and his
own, shaky breath…

"Harry."

Ron was in suddenly right in front of him, shaking him. Harry blinked up at
him owlishly. Had it been seconds that they'd been here, in Aberforth's
home? Minutes? An hour?

Ron seemed to understand without asking that Harry hadn't heard any of the
conversation they'd been having. "We're leaving. We're going to Bill and
Fleur's, they have a cottage that—that will be safe, for now. There's a ward on
it that only lets their immediate family members in, plus a side-along, so
you'll have to apparate with one of us… Fred, George, and I are going take
three of you now, and then we'll come back for the other three. Okay?" Harry
nodded mutely. "Okay," Ron repeated. He reached for Harry's hand, but
Harry pulled away it away at once.

"Them first," he said, surprised at how firm his voice was. He nodded down
towards Luna and Ginny. "Take them first."

Ron, as well as a few others, looked like they wanted to argue…but no one
did. "I'll stay," Snape said quietly, dark eyes surveying Harry emotionlessly.

"Me too," Draco volunteered.

Ron finally relented. He wrapped his arm around Hermione, while Fred and
George gingerly pulled Luna and Ginny to their feet. Luna refused to let go
of Dobby's body.

"We can bury him there," George said soothingly. "It's…it's a beautiful
place."

Luna nodded, sniffing loudly. Harry wanted to sink into a hole in the ground
and never resurface.

Aberforth cleared his throat. "All right," he said, his wand pointed upwards.
"I'm going to take down the apparation ward around the house. The second I
do, you go, and you better be back for these three in seconds, you hear?"

Ron, Fred and George all nodded. "All right." Aberforth murmured an
incantation under his breath, and the air in the room shimmered oddly. "Go."
Three cracks sounded one right after another, and then it was just Harry,
Snape, Draco and Aberforth. No one dared to breathe, the seconds of being
exposed in a house without an apparation ward feeling much longer than they
actually were.

But less than a minute later and another round of cracks broke the silence.
Fred, George, and, surprisingly, Bill appeared.

"Harry," he breathed in disbelief, face breaking out into a grin when he saw
him—a joyous expression which faltered when he saw the blood on his hands
and neck.

"You can have a happy reunion when you're out of my damn house!"
Aberforth snapped. Bill quickly nodded, reaching forward and grabbing
Harry's arm at once. Fred did the same to Draco, and George with Snape.

"Prepare yourself," Bill said warningly in his ear. Harry wanted to ask what
that meant, but before he could he was being ripped away, the force of
another side-along apparation scouring his body.

Harry thought he might truly be sick this time. The sensation of being
compressed so uncomfortably was something that he thought he would never
get used to. Bill steadied him when they landed, holding him upright.

They arrived in what looked to be a small but quaint home. Everyone else
was there, Luna still cradling Dobby's body in her arms while Ginny rubbed
her shoulders…

"'Arry!"

Fleur's shrill voice hit him like a slap to the face. The part-Veela woman must
have just gotten out of the shower, for her long, silvery hair was wet and she
wore nothing but a bathrobe. She rushed forward, grabbing Harry's face and
staring at him in awe. Then, before he could so much as blink, she was
peppering his cheeks and forehead in kisses and crushing herself against him
in an embrace that was even more suffocating than Hermione's had been.
It truly spoke to the effect that Veela women had on the objects of their
attention, because Harry's sorrow-filled mind went blissfully blank. Fleur was
spluttering away in French—or, at least, he thought it was French, because he
couldn't understand it at all—though he supposed it could have been English,
and his brain had just been turned to such mush that he couldn't comprehend
it—hell, she could have been gibbering away in ancient Egyptian, and Harry
would have had no idea—for all of his mental capabilities had been totally
annihilated the moment she'd touched him, all thoughts other than 'Veela',
'wet', and 'all over my body' completely beyond him.

"Fleur!" Bill shouted. She finally released him, though she kept her hands on
his shoulders. Harry's body felt hotter than a blazing sun, and he was sure that
he must be bright, bright red.

"H…H…Hi," he hardly managed to gasp.

He shouldn't have even said that. Fleur beamed at the single word, pulling
him into another hug. "We 'ave been so worried! I 'ave to tell Gabriel, she
will be so 'appy—"

Harry felt dizzy with the overwhelming effect of her. His blush deepened,
and he was pretty sure he might faint, or that his body would otherwise betray
him if she didn't get off of him very, very soon.

"Fleur!" Bill yelled again, this time physically pulling his wife away. "You
can't just do that to...to people, especially when they're not expecting it…"

Harry blinked dazedly, still starry-eyed. Ron was almost as red as he was,
possibly just embarrassed by proxy. Ginny and Hermione both looked
annoyed. Their ridiculously mutinous expressions was oddly sobering.

"Oh, I am sorry!" Fleur spluttered, and even while crying and wiping her
nose, she was a stunning vision. "I-I forget myself, sometimes…"

But Harry's attention had already gone back to the quivering blonde girl. He
crossed the room and approached her, the reality of Dobby's death washing
over him again after his moment of Veela-induced forgetfulness.
"You said… You said we could bury him, here," Harry said, glancing at
George and then to Bill. They nodded.

"We could have had him."

Snape's unexpected voice caused them all to turn. "We could have had him
agreeing to anything, if that elf hadn't intervened… Foolish creature."

Anger exploded in Harry's chest, sudden and fierce.

"Don't you dare!" he spat, rounding on Snape and brandishing his wand.
"Don't you dare insult him!"

His abrupt, frightening rage made everyone back away. "He didn't know! He
didn't know it was a trick, that it-it wasn't real! He didn't know! He was just
fooled by what was a very convincing performance!"

Harry wasn't sure who he was talking about anymore, Dobby or himself.
Snape put his hands up defensively, empty, and it was then that Harry
realized that he did not have a wand… Dobby had disarmed him while still in
the Room…

"I…am sorry," Snape said slowly, perhaps his second apology in a century. "I
only did what I had to in order to convince him, to make progress towards—"

"Shut up!" Harry's anger spiked, static crackling around him. Everyone stood
paralyzed by this unexpected display of power and malevolence. "Shut the
hell up! I don't care about progress, I don't give a shit about any of it
anymore—fuck the Dark Lord, I'm never, ever talking to him again! Fuck
him, fuck all of his Death Eaters, fuck the war—and fuck you!"

Harry hardly registered the way in which he had backed the Potions Master
against the wall, how he had the Deathstick pointed threateningly at his chest
—he only knew that the power surging through him was broiling, building,
demanding to be used—it pulsed in his veins like a drug, his subconscious a
stream of dizzying thoughts—Snape had tortured him, and he was here, right
in front of him, with no wand, utterly defenseless, and it was be so easy to
strike him down, to make him hurt, to kill—

Now now now NOW NOW—

A gentle hand on his arm caused him to pause.

Harry tore his vicious gaze away from the target of his wrath to look into the
fearful eyes of Luna Lovegood. Her face was wet with tears, and in her other
arm she…she still held Dobby to her chest, cradling him like an infant, and…
his eyes were closed… She must have done that, Harry realized, Luna must
have closed them, and now, now it looked like he could just be sleeping…

She slowly shook her head, pleading him to stop without saying a word.
Harry felt all of the anger drain right out of him.

"…I'm going to go dig a grave for my friend," he murmured. "And I'm doing
it myself."

He didn't bother explaining in any more detail than that, nor did he wait for a
response. Harry just walked outside, into the night, brandishing the Elder
Wand and producing a tool with which he could tear into the earth. He picked
a spot that felt right, and began digging.

Harry didn't know why it seemed so important to do it like this, to physically

labor over making a grave for Dobby… But for some reason, it felt like the
right thing to do. The respectful thing to do.

It must have been hours that he dug, for the sky was beginning to brighten in
the East by the time he was done. Harry felt Voldemort's desperate beckoning
to him on the periphery of his mind the entire time, but he did not feel the
need to answer him.

He felt numb.

They buried Dobby by the seaside under a beautiful sunrise. Harry carved the
words, 'Here Lies Dobby, A Free Elf' into the tombstone, and Luna spoke
about friendship and bravery, about how it just wasn't fair.
It just wasn't fair.

Hermione tried to put a hand on his shoulder, to say something soothing, but
Harry brushed his friend's words and comfort aside. He walked away from
the grave and everyone gathered around it and headed towards the beach, as
far as he could go while remaining within the wards. Harry sat by himself on
the sand and stared out into the endless ocean. He envisioned Voldemort's
turmoil somewhere far across that great stretch of water, and imagined how
panicked he must be, trying and failing to garner any response from him.

Harry didn't care.

He felt numb.

Harry stayed there all day.

Several times, he saw in his periphery vision that someone was

contemplating approaching him. Twice, Hermione had hovered a small
distance away, standing there and looking conflicted...but then Ron would
appear, pulling her back towards the cottage and shaking his head.

Draco, too, had almost done it. Harry caught his eye before he got too close,
though, and Malfoy saw at once that Harry didn't want his or anybody else's
company. And so Draco had nodded, respectfully letting him be.

Harry didn't eat or sleep all day. He didn't think he could do either of those
things, even if he tried.

Instead, he allowed his thoughts to drift aimlessly.

He wondered vaguely about what had happened to Bellatrix, after she'd tried
and failed to kill him with a dagger in front of Voldemort. Harry had his
suspicions, and yet, oddly enough, he found he didn't much care.

He wondered what the Dark Lord would do, if Harry never spoke to him
again. Of what would become of his still-fragile, new empire if he had to face
it after all that had transpired… And again, Harry found that he didn't much
care.

He felt numb.

It wasn't until late in the evening when someone finally threw all caution to
the wind and joined him, regardless of his icy demeanor.

Ginny plopped herself down at his side—a moderate but safe distance away
—and smiled. Her flowery scent wafted over him, light and familiar. For a
long time, she didn't say anything, just sat nearby and watched the gently
rolling waves.

"So," she finally said, straining to sound conversational, "…the Dark Lord is
in love with you."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at this most unexpected of opening statements.

"Ron told me," she explained. "I mean, I knew that you were bartering for
everyone's safety and all, but… I thought Luna was just being, well, Luna,
when she said that, dancing with a ghost... But she was right. He's seriously
in love with you."

Ginny laughed breathlessly. "Well that's mad, isn't it?"

Harry wasn't sure why he cracked a smile at all; maybe it was just how blasé
she was being about the whole thing. "Yeah," he muttered. "Pretty mad."

They once more fell into silence. Ginny turned her attention back to the
ocean, where the sky was starting to turn a golden hue as the sun began its
slow descent into the waves.

"…He told me about the locket, too."

Ginny kept her focus on the sky when she said it, her face resolutely blank.
Ron. Harry's fist clenched at his side, a ripple of anger coursing through him.
He could only hope that his best matehadn't been a complete fucking moron,
and that she did not at least know that he, Harry, was a horcrux as well. "He
shouldn't have told you that," he seethed. "He-he shouldn't have said anything
to you."

"Oh, right," Ginny snapped, glaring at him. "Right, of course, because I

wouldn't know anything about what it's like to get too attached to a horcrux,
would I? Silly me… I forgot."

Harry's rage instantly dissipated, replaced by a stifling amount of guilt. Ginny

started to get up. "Wait," he said, grabbing her by the arm before she could
stand. "Ginny, I… I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

She paused for a second, looking torn…but then she sighed, settling back into
a seated position beside him. "It's okay," she said. "…It was a long time ago."

"That's no excuse," Harry muttered. "I… I did forget. Twice now. I'm kind of
an idiot like that."

"You're not an idiot."

Another stretch of quietness. The sky continued to shift, more orange now
than blue.

"I loved him."

Harry flinched at the sound of her whispered, sorrowful voice. Ginny was
staring out into the water with an empty look on her face. "…He was my only
friend for a long time. I was vulnerable, I was young, I was…lonely. And he
was so kind. So easy to love."

"I… I'm sorry," Harry murmured. She looked at him with eerily vacant eyes.

Haunted. Ginny Weasley was utterly haunted.

"Did you love him, too?"

Harry…found that he was unable to say anything to that.

"That's a stupid question, sorry," she said. "Of course you did. He was just
that kind of person, wasn't he? Anyone with a heart would fall for him. He
just had a way with words, always knew exactly what to say to make you feel
wanted…" Ginny paused, looking like she was reliving a terrible tragedy.

Which, of course, she was.

"He told me I was everything he'd ever wanted. Smart, pretty, a pureblood…
He told me I was perfect for him. He told me my soul was…so beautiful."

Harry felt like his entire body turned to stone. He felt irrationally wounded at
her words, like he had just been horribly betrayed. "He…he told you that?"

"Yes," she answered bluntly. Harry envied her, the way that she was able to
talk about this so emotionlessly. He could tell by her expression that she had
carried this burden for so long, now, that she could do this. Discuss the
skeletons in her closet like the bones were just objects, not the remains of
anything that had once been living or meaningful.

Harry couldn't. It was still so fresh, so raw…

"He said all sorts of poetic, romantic things. He told me he would place my
story in the skies; that he would rearrange the stars to share my beauty with
the world…" She laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "I was an idiot."

"You were a child," Harry said. "You were only eleven, when that happened
to you…"

"But I wasn't unaware, Harry." Ginny shook her head, her fiery hair loose and
spilling over her shoulders in the breeze. "That diary was the exact kind of
dark object that my parents warned me about, had been telling me to avoid
my entire life… I knew I should never have messed with it."

Another short, harsh laugh. "You know, at some point, I think I knew what
was happening. Before any attacks, I mean. I knew he was using me, I knew
he was possessing my body, doing things to me… But I didn't care. I would
have these hazy recollections of feeling…strong. Of being powerful. And I
just…I adored him, and I wanted him to adore me, too, so… I just let him use
me."
Her eyes darkened. "Part of me…some really sick, twisted part of me...misses
it. Misses him. That's… That's why I ran into Malfoy in Myrtle's bathroom.
Last year, when you were gone, I… I just found myself going there. I dunno,
it was stupid, but… God, I don't even know what I was trying to get back,
what I was thinking. I was such a wreck, we all were, with you gone."

Harry's mind felt numb. "I… I'm sorry," he whispered. Ginny shook her head
again.

"You have nothing to apologize for. I just… I still dream about him,
sometimes. The nightmares were a lot more frequent right after it happened,
but I still have them, occasionally. Me, in the Chamber. Sometimes you save
me. Sometimes…sometimes you don't."

She paused, her expression becoming blank again. "And yet I still miss him,"
she admitted quietly. "I miss his reassuring words. I miss his false friendship.
But the thing I miss the most? I miss…I miss feeling powerful. I miss…the
parseltongue."

Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. Ginny ran her fingers through her hair,
letting out a breathy, nervous laugh. "Yeah, I know. I can't believe I just said
that. I've never told anyone any of this… Merlin. And you thought you were
fucked up," she muttered, completely misinterpreting Harry's stunned
expression.

"I…no. I am definitely the fucked up one, here."

"Well… At least we can be fucked up together, now."

Amazingly, Harry actually, genuinely laughed at that, and she did, too.

They didn't say anything for a while. Ginny's idle fingers found a shell in the
sand, and she began to absent-mindedly play with it, cleaning it off and
turning it over in her palm.

"No one would blame you, you know."

Harry blinked. "Er… Pardon?"

"If you never talked to him again. If we threw in the towel and just got the
hell out of here. No one would blame you, least of all me." Ginny shifted a bit
closer to him. "We could go into hiding, get out of Europe… We could go
anywhere we want, really, live as vigilantes… I've always wanted to go to
New York."

Harry thought about that. "That could be fun," he said, like going into hiding
and starting a new life in another country to avoid being critical instruments
in a war was something people did all the time.

"But…but Ron explained the plan to me, the whole thing, and… It could
work. Especially now. He's got to be desperate at this point, and if there was
ever a chance for him to be willing to agree to all of your terms, it would be
now." She sounded nervous, and Harry could tell it took a great deal of
courage for her to say all of this.

But Ginny was no longer a timid girl who let fear stop her from speaking her
mind. "If you gave him one more chance, we could have him. This crazy plan
could more forward, and…and it could all be over, soon. You could prevent
the suffering of countless people… We could lead normal lives, then."

Harry sighed heavily. Ginny, still looking anxious, quickly went on. "Not that
I give a damn either way," she said, shrugging like she really didn't
care...though she obviously did. "This place sucks. If you want to bust out of
here, that's fine by me. Fuck it." She tossed the seashell she'd found into the
water. "Let's go be Yankees."

"That's an inappropriate sort of term," Harry said, smirking.

"I'm an inappropriate sort of woman," Ginny answered slyly. Harry laughed.

She really was influenced beyond belief by her many brothers.

The sky was now a cascade of colors. Red, gold, purple, and navy surrounded
them, a kaleidoscope of beauty over the sparkling waves. Harry found
himself feeling much better than he had all day. He reached over and
squeezed Ginny's hand gratefully.

"Thank you," he said. "…For…for sharing, and…just, thanks."

Ginny blinked in surprise, her cheeks turning pink as she looked down to
where their hands touched. She just nodded, still blushing as she turned her
attention back to the sky.

Harry did, too. She cautiously intertwined her fingers with his, and Harry let
it happen, feeling oddly flustered about it, and really, just how the hell had he
never properly noticed Ginny Weasley before?

They were silent for a very long time, simply sitting on the beach and
watching the sun set. Stars began to make themselves known in the sky,
pinpricks of light that made Harry think of dreams long past… Where he had
laid on his back on his four post bed, drifting in the ocean and listing them
off, one by one, like they were old friends…

Harry Potter, lost at sea…

"Tomorrow night," he said quietly. Ginny glanced at him, eyes widened in

surprise. Harry squeezed her hand tighter.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow night."

Black.

It went on, and on, and on.

Voldemort's mind was chaos, his panic paramount. Why was he not
responding? For he could not be gone, he could not… He would know, Lord
Voldemort would know if he was gone, and yet no matter how he tried to
reach him, he felt nothing… It was like grasping at empty air, beckoning to a
phantom, reaching for a ghost… It felt just like the last time, when he'd truly
thought him gone, but he was not gone, could not be, and why was he not
responding? It was not like he had thrown the dagger; Lord Voldemort had
not harmed anyone, not yet, and how long was he going to refuse to answer
him, how long would he spend wallowing in this dark desperation, how long
had it already been, how long, how long, how long—

"Goodness, Tom. It's hardly been a day!"

…No. No, no, no, he was not there, that voice was not real—he would not
acknowledge him—

"…I believe the phrase, 'in the doghouse', would be an apt description for
your current situation."

Lord Voldemort kept his eyes closed, clenching his jaw and speaking through
his teeth.

"Go. Away."

Silence…but when Voldemort finally peered out into what he desperately

wished was pure darkness, it was to be met with the very unwanted, very
close face of his least favorite wizard in all of existence.

"Lemon drop?"

Albus Dumbledore grinned at him genially, two bright, yellow candies

resting on in the center of his extended palm. "Fawkes used to eat them out of
my hand."

Voldemort bristled. "I would sooner bite off your fingers, Dumbledore," he
seethed.

"Ah, yes. He would sometimes nearly do that, too, if he had just molted… He
was always a bit feisty, then." He popped one of the candies in his mouth,
looking contemplative as he chewed. "Is that what's happened to you, Tom?
Have you molted…? Or are you simply keeping your feathers tucked away?"

Dumbledore leaned to one side, pointedly looking up and down at the empty
space behind Voldemort where there was no longer a pair of brilliant phoenix
wings. When Voldemort only snarled wordlessly in response, he went on. "I
suppose I can't blame you. Lovely as they are, wings like that don't exactly fit
with the image you've crafted for yourself. The phoenix was my symbol, after
all… People might start to get the wrong idea, think you're somehow
connected to me…"

Dumbledore sighed, putting the other lemon drop into the pocket of his long,
dark robes. "Shame. They're very pretty. Though our best qualities tend to
have a way of making themselves known in the end, one way or another,
whether we want them to or not…"

"Get out of my head and out of my life, old man," Voldemort demanded.

Albus Dumbledore, naturally, did not listen. "But I'm having such fun. Your
life story is quite the torrid tale. Such a tangled mess of emotions you've
become, Tom. It's been simply fascinating to watch you come undone. I think
my favorite part so far was right after that radio broadcast—The Most
Desirable Word… You must admit, that is good—after Harry told you to
behave yourself... Oh, your reaction to that was marvelous. What was it you
screamed, again…? I believe you shouted something along the lines of, 'you
audacious fuck', just before you lit the radio on fire. It was a very human
display of emotion. Though you should really get that temper of yours under
control, my dear boy, or one of these days you're going to ignite something
that you don't intend to and regret it."

Voldemort's jaw dropped, completely aghast at this declaration. The

irrefutable proof that Albus Dumbledore was watching his life…evidently, all
the time. Despite his best efforts, the Dark Lord felt the blood rush to his
face, and found that forming words was suddenly far more difficult than it
had ever been in his entire life.

"You can't—you—you shouldn't have seen any of that!" he spluttered,

outraged.

"You shouldn't have eaten my bird, Tom," Dumbledore responded,

shrugging.

Voldemort swore loudly.

Dumbledore wasn't going away.

This…was mortifying.

"…Rita Skeeter has written a book about you," Voldemort suddenly spat,
injecting as much virulence as he possibly could into every word. "A real
page-turner. I read it all in one sitting."

"Ah, Rita Skeeter. Lovely woman," Dumbledore said. "I am glad you found
my life story written through the lens of such a charming individual
entertaining. Did it manage for a moment to actually distract you from your
other, far more pressing issues?"

Voldemort glowered, saying nothing. Dumbledore sauntered over to him with

his hands clasped behind his back. "You're not in a very good place right
now, are you, Tom? Such a shame, you were actually doing quite well, for a
while… Though that's hardly surprising. You have always been good at most
everything you've put your mind to, seducing teenage boys is obviously no
exception. I'll confess, I thought that the bit of French was a nice touch. Très
charmant."

He winked. Voldemort wanted very badly to ignite him.

"But you messed up, Tom. You were doing a fine job, but then you went and
did that… You cannot win someone over by force, dear boy. To truly win
someone's heart, you cannot use manipulation, you cannot rely on your
cunning as you usually do. Love is not deception, it is not underhanded.
No… Love, much like trust, is something that must be given in order to be
received. It must be earned. Love is… Love is…"

Dumbledore paused, looking thoughtful before it came to him, and then his
lined face broke out into a dreamy grin.

"Love…is surrender."

Voldemort took one look at his wistful gaze and thought he might be sick.
"But you knew what you were doing was wrong," Dumbledore continued
briskly. "You're not an idiot, you knew that pretending to be something you
no longer are and then abusing the connection you share through the horcrux
was cruel. Admit it, Tom…"

Dumbledore peered up at him over his glasses, condescending in every sense

of the word. "You did a bad thing."

Voldemort swore again, hating how much of a rise this old fool was able to
get out of him, and that he was here at all, the most obnoxious and
unwelcome of distractions. He stalked in the other direction, trying to focus
on reaching the only person he was interested in having a conversation with
right now, calling to him, beckoning—

"He's not going to answer you. Not tonight."

Voldemort froze. "Then he is unharmed," he breathed, and an absurd rush of

relief washed over him. Absurd, because of course he was alive and well. He
had known that, he would have known, if this was not the case…

But the moment of irrational joy was very brief. The Dark Lord turned to face
Dumbledore, glaring again. "How do you know that? Are you… Can you see
him, too?"

Dumbledore smiled shrewdly. "If you thought your story was dramatic, it's
nothing compared to his. Harry Potter's life is better than a muggle reality TV
show. What? Oh, don't give me that look! We all have our guilty pleasures.
Don't get me started on yours."

Voldemort was hit with another wave on nausea when the old man winked at
him again, his blue eyes sparkling playfully. He decided to ignore that last
comment. "Not tonight… You said not tonight." Voldemort swallowed
thickly, trying to sound dignified in his demand for information. "Then
when?"

"Tomorrow… Maybe. If you are lucky. You are only going to get one more
shot at this, Tom. One more chance."
"How do you know that? Is…is that what he said? To who?"

Dumbledore chose not to answer those questions and instead asked one of his
own. He looked not at Voldemort when he spoke, but out into the vast plane
of darkness. "Have you ever wondered, Tom… Why Harry's mind is the way
it is? Why his mental landscape is so pristine, so pure?"

"What?" Voldemort balked. "What are you talking about?"

"Take yours, for example." Dumbledore waved an arm in front of him,

gesturing towards the endless sea of shadows. "So dark, so black…
Depressing and dreary, so very hopeless…"

"What is your point?"

"My point is that this, your internal dreamscape, is a reflection of who you
are. You have a blackened heart, Tom… But Harry. His world is the exact
opposite. Haven't you ever wondered why that is? By all rights, he should be
more like you. Harry did not have a happy childhood, he was not raised by
people who loved him… He was miserable, just as you were."

"Thanks to you," the Dark Lord hissed. "You were the one that left him with
those filthy muggles when you knew full-well what they were like."

"Yes, I did," Dumbledore agreed, quite unabashedly. "I left him with Petunia
Dursley in order to allow the ancient magic of Lily Potter's sacrifice to
remain in place. And I did know. I knew that she and her husband would
never love Harry, that they would never treat him like one of their own. But I
also knew that he would be okay. Don't you find it odd that Harry was
never… How did you put it? 'Stained by her oil slick of a personality'?"

"Have you been watching everything!?"

"Love, Tom," Dumbledore said, answering his own question and ignoring
Voldemort's outburst. "I knew that Harry would be unaffected in that way
because of his mother's love; that same magic that protected him from your
curse. Harry may have grown up in a dismal home, but he had so many things
that you did not. He was conceived from two people who were genuinely,
romantically in love. He had parents for an entire year that showered him in
nothing but love. Those same individuals died for him, and his mother, who
could have saved herself, chose not to—the ultimate sacrifice of love. Love,
which Harry has carried with him in his heart ever since. It has always been
the source of his inexplicable resilience, his ability to recover from even the
most horrific events… He may not consciously realize it, but it is there, her
love, protecting him in ways that he cannot even fathom. I knew then that the
only way to allow that kind of magic to flourish and grow was to allow him
to live with the only blood relative Lily Potter had left."

Voldemort simply stared, his mind reeling as he tried to fully comprehend

what the old Headmaster was telling him. "It was a difficult decision to make,
but I did what I thought was right. Despite what any washed-up, crooked,
spiteful author may write about me, I am not a malicious man, Tom. The guilt
of knowing that Harry was going to be denied a joyous childhood weighed
very heavily on me. You, of all people, should be grateful that I did it. I knew
that the only way for you to overcome that kind of protective barrier was to
take his blood, and I knew that in doing so, you would be making yourself
vulnerable in an entirely new way…"

"…You foresaw all of this?" Voldemort asked, unwilling to believe it.

"Well… Yes and no," Dumbledore admitted. "I knew it would all go down
either one of two ways. The first, and what I considered the far more likely
outcome, was that you would never figure it out. That you would never
realize that Harry was a horcrux, and that you would never divine that the
burning desire in your new body was more than just obsession…and that he
would kill you, in the end. Yes, Tom, he would. Or have you not picked up on
that particular pattern in your life? Every time you and Harry Potter come
face to face, pitted against one another, Harry wins."

"I have not—"

"The second possibility, of course, was that you would figure it out,"
Dumbledore continued, speaking as though Voldemort had not tried to
interject, "and that you would try and do something about it. Which you did,
obviously… Though what I did not foresee was the crystal-coffin fiasco. That
was beyond horrific, what you did to him."

He fixed Voldemort with a cold, horrible expression that made his stomach
twist into knots. Voldemort cringed.

"We call that guilt," Dumbledore said softly, as though he had felt it too. "But
I digress… I knew that there was an infinitesimal, yet very real possibility
that you could figure it out. And so here we are."

"I suppose that you are greatly disappointed, then," Voldemort said, trying
and failing to sound emotionless. "That it transpired not in the way that you
expected."

"Ah, quite the contrary, Tom… I am always on the side of love."

Voldemort said nothing to that. Dumbledore stared out into the darkness
again. "Yes, Harry's heart is the antithesis to yours…in many respects. For
one, he has always been capable of love. Harry is one of those very few, rare
people who could find it in himself to fall in love with just about anyone,
really… Unfortunately for you, though, he is also easy to love."

There was a brief moment where Voldemort just looked at him, puzzled.
"Also doesn't help that you fixed his body up. As one of the brilliant hosts of
The M.D.W. so aptly put it… Like, damn."

"What are you saying?" Voldemort spat, wanting to deny the realization that
was dawning on him.

"It is one thing to think that the person you have fallen for has died... There
is, on some level, a tragic yet beautiful finality to that. But have you ever
considered what it would be like to know that Harry was alive and well,
perfectly healthy and happy…with somebody else?"

All of the blood drained from Voldemort's face at those words, and it was
obvious that no, he had never, ever considered anything like this at all.
Dumbledore went on. "Yes, there is a sort of somber solace you can take in
the loss of a loved one, but finding out that they just prefer someone else?
Well, to put it bluntly, Tom…that just sucks."

Voldemort's heart felt like it had turned to ice, frozen in his chest. "Is that
what is happening, right now? Wherever he is? With whoever is with him?"

Dumbledore didn't outwardly answer, but he didn't need to. His grave
expression said it for him. "…Suddenly Draco Malfoy doesn't look like such
an impudent, foolish child anymore, does he?"

"I will kill him," Voldemort instantly hissed. "I will rip him apart."

"Good God, Tom! That's not how it works! You can't win someone over by—
by killing off the competition!"

Voldemort snarled, looking very much like he wanted to say that yes, he
could, and he would—but Dumbledore shook his head, speaking first. "And
he's not even your biggest threat, you know."

"Who else?"

"Well, really, Harry could probably have just about anyone he wanted, but…
Imagine, for a moment, if he chose to be with someone who could truly make
him happy. Someone who has suffered first-hand from your cruelty as he has,
who could give him things that you never could… Imagine him, if you will,
with a woman."

The rush of nausea that coursed Voldemort this time was so strong that he
actually clutched at his side. "Someone who could give him children, with
whom he could recreate the family that he never had, that you stole from him.
Maybe he would even name one of his children after me… Maybe he would
name one after Severus…"

"No," Voldemort breathed, his face white as death. He had never conceived
of a greater horror than the image which Dumbledore was creating for him at
this moment. The Headmaster nodded, his face empathetic and filled with
understanding.

"How do I prevent this?" the Dark Lord whispered, looking out into the
darkness and feeling more desperate than he'd ever felt.

"Why Tom… Are you asking for my guidance?"

Voldemort's eyes snapped back to Dumbledore, who was looking at him

curiously.

"For my…help?"

"No."

The refusal was instant and sharp. Voldemort ostentatiously turned away,
unable to meet the old man's knowing gaze.

"…Ah. Of course not. My sincerest apologies."

Silence fell between them. Dumbledore reached into his pocket, withdrawing
the other lemon drop. He popped it into his mouth, sucking on it and clicking
it against his teeth, rolling it back and forth along them…from one side, to
the other…

It felt like the loudest sound in the entire world, that clicking. When he
finally bit down on it, the crunch of the candy might as well have been an
explosion. Voldemort's eye twitched.

"…Maybe."

"Maybe…? Or…"

Voldemort looked at the former Headmaster warily. Dumbledore lifted his

arm, extending his hand towards him with his palm up, the invitation
abundantly clear. His eyes were glittering with mirth.

The Dark Lord's scarlet gaze narrowed, zeroing in on his outstretched fingers,
hating, hating, hating that he was actually considering this…
Swallowing back every bit of pride that he had, Lord Voldemort slowly
reached forward, and…

"…Yes."

He grasped Dumbledore's hand, and the world fell apart.

"Oho! Very good, Tom!"

The darkness surrounding them was brightening, and Voldemort was being
pulled away from his shadowy dreamscape into a place which was much
lighter and far more colorful. Brick walls were constructing themselves in the
distance, and vibrant, green grass was blossoming beneath their feet under a
clear, blue sky…

"Now, I must warn you, before we arrive… Forgive me, for sounding so vain,
but I am very popular, you see, and when I informed a few people that you
would be arriving, well…"

"Wh…what?" Voldemort gasped, struggling to keep his vision in focus as

their surroundings shifted. Everything was spinning, whirling chaotically in a
rush of color and sound, and Dumbledore, too, was changing… His robes
were no longer black and dismal, but…but gold, they were gold, and covered
in what looked like diamonds, and his hair… Dumbledore's long, snow-white
beard was suddenly ginger, as it had been when he was younger, the way it
had been when he was a Professor, and…he was becoming taller, too…

No, no, he was not becoming taller. It was he, Lord Voldemort, who was
becoming smaller… He looked down at his hand and nearly screamed.

"I am a child," he breathed, too shocked to be properly horrified yet. But

Dumbledore continued to pull him along effortlessly.

"Oh, come now, Tom, it's not like you were above such petty deceptions
before! Now, as I was saying, I told a few people you'd be coming—again, I
know, quite presumptuous of me to just assume you would accept, but I am
usually right about these kinds of things—so you may want to brace
yourself…"

The environment finally stopped swirling, and Voldemort registered at once

where they were. Dumbledore was ushering him along towards the castle,
and the front doors of Hogwarts opened for them the moment they
approached.

"You're going to love this, Tom," Dumbledore said, still pulling him along by
the hand like he was as light and easy to maneuver as—as—well, as the
young boy he'd suddenly become. He could hear people talking, what
sounded like a great crowd of them, and was that music?

The tall doors to the Great Hall flew open…and Voldemort nearly fainted on
the spot.

"You're in my world now!" Dumbledore shouted raucously. "Welcome back

to school, Tom!"

The hall was packed.

Hundreds of people filled the four house tables, all of them staring gleefully
at Voldemort as Dumbledore dragged him to the front of the long room,
craning their necks to get a better look at him… And though he did not
recognize them, they definitely seemed to know him…

But it was not the crowds that caused his heart to attempt to beat its way out
of his chest. It was the long table at the end of the Great Hall, where the staff
usually sat, their chairs on a slightly higher plinth…

Not staff. Not professors. Only four people, and they were the four
individuals that Lord Voldemort would do absolutely anything to avoid.

He did try to flee.

"Not so fast!" Dumbledore shouted, reaching for the child-like Dark Lord the
moment he wrenched his tiny arm out of his grasp. Voldemort had hardly
made it two steps before the former Headmaster grabbed him by the collar,
eliciting a loud roar of laughter and jeering from the crowd. "You've only just
arrived!"

Before he knew how it had happened, Voldemort found himself sitting,

having been forced into a desk that had most definitely not been present a
moment before. It was at the front of the hall, positioned so that his back was
to the masses of laughing people and so that he was, quite against his will,
forced to face those four figures head on.

To one side sat Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

Voldemort recognized the two men, despite the fact that they both appeared
much younger than he had ever seen them in life. Black's hair was shiny and
smooth, his handsome features twisted in the most malicious of grins. Lupin,
too, seemed healthy and whole, his eyes lit up in wicked anticipation. They
both had a distinct canine aura about them. Black was picking at his teeth like
a dog which had just finished tearing apart its latest victim, and Lupin was
leaning forward, a wolf about to strike.

To the other side was—it was—

Voldemort's heart palpated in a horrible, wrenching way, because for a

fraction of a second he thought it was Harry, but no... The eyes were wrong,
and he was wearing glasses, and given the nightmarish context…this could
only be his father.

James Potter wore a crooked grin that was far more predatory that anything
he had ever seen on his son. It widened as he watched Voldemort's face pale
in dread, clutching at his chest with a child's hand, for his eyes drifted, and
there, between the three men, was someone else.

She sat on the Headmaster's chair like a queen upon her throne, emanating a
regal ferocity. And Voldemort knew at once it was her, for he had seen her
just days ago, when she had appeared in the whirlwind arena that was her
son's mind when he, the Dark Lord, had attempted to possess him… Where
she had been a vision in white, with lilies in her hair… An angel, a miracle,
her son's saving grace…
Lily Evans.

...But she was no angel for him.

She wore a gown of deepest black; dark, rich fabric with a plunging neckline
and a cascading skirt which fell to her ankles, a single slit revealing her
crossed legs. Her hair was no longer falling over her shoulders, but was piled
atop her head like a crimson crown, a few loose, fiery tendrils about her face
which framed—

Those eyes.

Voldemort gaped in horror at the sight of those green, green eyes. They were
fixed unwaveringly on him, piercingly bright…and as he looked, he knew
that that was the murder he had committed reflected back at him.

He quickly turned away. Voldemort tried to stand, to escape, but found that
there was some invisible force keeping him in place at the desk. Dumbledore
laughed.

"So sorry, Tom, but you don't have much power, here, I'm afraid…"

The music—where was that coming from? An entire orchestra was playing,
and it sounded like it was all around them, but above, and—

Voldemort's eyes widened when he looked up. There, in the ceiling, in that
fucking ceiling which was supposedly only enchanted to replicate the sky—

The chamber choir.

It was the choral gathering from St. Paul's cathedral, all of the participants
from that day. They wore long robes of white, standing on the clouds and
looking gleeful as they glared down at the man responsible for their deaths…

That's when it hit him. Voldemort turned to look over his shoulder at the
crowds behind him, and sure enough, there, right in the front—

The boy with the impossible eyes… The child from the National Gallery,
whose throat he had crushed so easily beneath his fingers…

And the rest of them. Every person who he had killed in that church, every
muggle who had been in that museum… And as he looked, he saw other
faces that he recognized, too; witches and wizards he had killed… They were
all here, had all gathered at the prospect of seeing the one who had murdered
them rendered weak and powerless…

Hogwarts was filled with his victims, and Lord Voldemort was trapped.

Wake up wake up wake up—

"That won't work, Tom!"

Dumbledore was chuckling, his robes of gold and sparkling gems far more
garish even than anything Voldemort had seen him wear in reality. He was
smiling joyously, waving his arms about towards the crowd, causing them to
cheer as with every movement rainbows scattered about his clothing,
reflecting off of the prismatic adornments there and making Voldemort feel
the need to shield his eyes—

"No, you accepted my offer of help… Ask, and you shall receive!"

More cat-calling and jeering. Voldemort wasn't sure where to settle his eyes,
everywhere he looked was a terrible sight to behold—

Though anything was better than the stare of Lily Evans.

"Let me make one thing clear before we begin, my friends," Dumbledore

shouted, addressing the masses. The music quieted. "This is not a trial. This is
not a case for Tom Riddle's innocence. No… This is a guilty man before us."

"Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"

They all echoed the word, boo-ing and screeching venomously. Voldemort
covered his ears, lost in a sea of anxiety.

After a time, Dumbledore put up a single hand. The crowd fell silent. "No…
This is not a trial. This,"

Another snappish gesture, and sparkling colors danced across the hall—the
sound of the organ and the orchestra escalated—

"…is…"

His other arm, this time—more lights, and the instruments were grew louder,
thunderous—

"Judgment Day!"

The choir erupted into song above them, their voices singing an apocalyptic
hymn of epic proportions. Voldemort tried again and again to escape the
deafening music, but he could not.

The Dark Lord could do nothing but sit there…trapped in his victims' song.
 38. The Life and Lies of Tom Riddle: Part I
Notes for the Chapter:

Okay, my dear AO3 readers, I am officially out of pre-written material.

You are now on the same page as my FF.net readers (who had to wait
longer for updates, and also had to deal with way more typos, as I tried
to fix those things up before posting on here, btw). So now you are all
on the same sinking ship together.

Note: Please know that anything minor details you read in this chapter
that are not canon are 100% intentional. I know way too much about
Tom Riddle's life now, good God. This chapter was crazy painful to
write. I hope you enjoy it.

"Ah… Music."

Dumbledore sighed as the thundering hymn from above came to a

conclusion, deafening when it reached its final crescendo. The unseen
instruments came to a halt at the same time as the choir, and everyone began
applauding.

Everyone except Voldemort, that was. The Dark Lord stared up at the
impossible singers who nodded graciously at the clapping. They beamed
down at their audience from upon thick clouds of white with sunlight
streaming over them, looking some kind of sick travesty of an Italian
Renaissance painting.

But they were the least of his concern. Voldemort closed his eyes, refusing to
accept that this 'dream' was happening.

"This cannot be real," he muttered as the applause quieted. "This is not real,
this is not—"

"Depends on your definition of real, I'd say."

Voldemort's eyes snapped open, landing on the man who had spoken. It was
Sirius Black. He let out a loud bark of laughter when the child-like Dark Lord
tried and failed to stand again.

"What is this?" Voldemort seethed, attempting to twist his anxiety into

something with which he was more familiar and vastly more comfortable
—anger. He shifted his focus to Dumbledore, who was still clapping politely.
"This is not help, this is—this is a nightmare—"

"I suppose you could look at it that way," Dumbledore said, lowering his
hands. "But in all actuality, Tom, they are here to help. Well… If it is decided
that you are worthy of help, at any rate."

"What?"

Dumbledore nodded deeply. Everyone in the hall fell silent. "Yes. You see, I
made certain that everyone gathered here would only be allowed to attend on
the stipulation that they would be…open-minded."

"Open-minded? Open-minded about what?"

"About you, of course. About whether or not you are worthy of

reconciliation. Of forgiveness."

Voldemort glanced very, very fleetingly towards the so-called Marauders at

the front of the Great Hall, all of which were staring at him almost hungrily
with anticipation. His heart beat erratically, adrenaline racing through his
veins. "Reconciliation? Forgiveness? From them?" he breathed in disbelief.
"Are you mad, Dumbledore?"

"That's what I said."

James Potter's hazel, bespeckled eyes were gleaming as he leaned forward on

his elbows. James grinned when Voldemort gaped at him, the Dark Lord's
childish face paling, because this man he had murdered in cold blood just
looked so much like Harry…
"He's too far gone, Dumbledore!" James went on, looking to the Headmaster.
"He's shredded himself too many times, he's killed too many. There's no hope
for him."

"He and his followers," Remus added, looking slightly less hostile and a bit
more matter-of-fact than the other two dead wizards. "He has not only
committed terrible acts himself, he has passed on the blackness in his heart to
countless others."

"He's a monster," Sirius snarled. "Tom Riddle doesn't deserve mercy."

The crowds murmured their agreement, jeering and booing. Voldemort sunk
lower into his seat, finally accepting that, no matter how he tried, he could
not simply get up and run away from this.

"Now, now," Dumbledore said, raising both his hands to quiet the taunting
crowds. "You are correct, of course, in all you have said. Tom Riddle has
done atrocious, horrible things. However, before we make any hasty
decisions, I believe a bit of…context is necessary."

The Headmaster turned to face the child in the chair, who hardly looked like
the murderous Dark Lord responsible for the deaths of everyone present. "Do
you mind terribly if I borrow a few things, Tom? I just need to fill in a few,
ah, gaps, here and there…"

Without waiting for an answer, Dumbledore motioned widely in Voldemort's

direction—causing rainbows to dance blindingly across his robes as he did—
and the thoughts came flying out of the Dark Lord's temple in stream of
silver, one after another after another…

"I—hey!" he yelled, but it was useless. The memories went soaring towards
Dumbledore's outstretched palm, where the circled above him before
dropping into a massive Pensieve that the Dark Lord was certain had not been
there a moment before. A Pensieve that was already brimming with ethereal
thoughts to the point where it was almost overflowing. Voldemort stared at it
in horror.
"Whose memories are those?" he asked as his own recollections continued to
flow from his mind and join them.

"Oh, a little from here, a little from there…" Dumbledore said nonchalantly.
"I've gathered just about everything I require, I just need a few from you to
round things out…"

"A few!?" Voldemort spluttered, for the memories were still being forced
from his mind. It looked like his entire life was being taken from him…

"No, Tom. Only the good parts," Dumbledore said, his eyes glittering.

"Stop this at once." Voldemort hated how small and pitiful he sounded with
this child's voice. His words came out less like a demand and more like a
desperate plea. "You can't—"

"I can."

"Do not—"

"I already did."

Dumbledore grinned as the train of silver finally ended, the last tendrils of
light landing gracefully into the giant, glowing basin. "My dear friends," he
said loudly, addressing the crowds with his arms held wide. "It is true that,
more often than not, monsters are made, not born. But in the tragic tale of
Tom Marvolo Riddle…he was both."

Everyone was whispering behind their hands as they stared at Voldemort,

pointing and glaring. The Marauders leaned forward curiously, though he
could see the three men sharing skeptical glances.

The only person in the Hall who remained still was Lily Evans. In fact, this
entire time, she had not lifted her fierce and steady gaze from him even once.
Voldemort hadn't been foolish enough to make eye contact with her again
since he'd arrived, but he could tell. He could feel those green, green eyes
fixated on him with a fierce intensity. Lily didn't mutter, laugh, or jeer with
the rest of them.

She just…stared.

"Before we decide if this man is, in fact, worthy of your forgiveness, of your
grace and help, we must hear his story. We must learn the reasoning behind
the existence of such a dark, corrupt soul." Dumbledore flourished one arm
over the Pensieve, causing a wave of silver to rise out of it. The sheet of gray
began twisting in the air, expanding, becoming something large and
tangible…

"Don't do this," Voldemort said quietly, and this time it was a plea. Panic
gripped him as he watched the memory materialize before them, a scene large
enough for everyone in the Hall to see. "I don't need their—their forgiveness,
their pity—"

"Yes, Tom." Dumbledore's voice was suddenly low and cold. The sparkle
from his eyes died entirely.

"Yes… You do."

Voldemort swallowed thickly. Dumbledore turned away from him, the

typical warmth reappearing on his face almost at once as he beamed towards
the audience.

"Now, I know I have given you some background, but I believe a bit more is
required before we really get into the thick of it." The sunlight from the
enchanted ceiling dimmed, turning into night and allowing the still-hazy
recollection in the middle of the Hall to shine even brighter. It snapped into
focus, then, revealing someone that made everyone gasp—Voldemort
included. Someone he knew, even though he had never met her…had never
actually known her.

"Merope Gaunt… Tom Riddle's mother," Dumbledore narrated, and the

crowd made wincing sounds at the sight of her.

For she was, in a word, ugly.

The image of Merope Gaunt was projected for all to see, like some kind of
three-dimensional, muggle movie. Her hair was lank and dull, and she had a
pale, round face. Her dark eyes stared in opposite directions, but in this
particular memory, they appeared to be focused wistfully out of the window
of a shack. A shack that Lord Voldemort recognized, because he had been
there himself, had met his uncle there…

"How did you get this?" the Dark Lord gaped, his voice hardly more than a
whisper as he looked to Dumbledore in shock. "This—this memory, how—?"

"I'm quite a wily old man. I have my ways," Dumbledore muttered back to
him so that no one else could hear. He winked. Voldemort felt so many
conflicting emotions that he thought he may be sick with them. He then
jumped in his seat as he was hit with the sudden, horrible thought—was she
here, too, were his parents present in this disturbing nightmare that Albus
Dumbledore had brought him to—

"I get a lot of visitors, Tom," Dumbledore said, interrupting that torrid train
of thought. "But your parents are not among them, I assure you."

Voldemort felt a small rush of relief. The sensation was short-lived, though,
when the Headmaster cleared his throat and spoke loudly to the Hall at large.

"Merope Gaunt, daughter of Marvolo Gaunt, was a pureblood witch," he

explained. "She was a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin, an infamously
powerful dark wizard from long ago…and she fell in love with a muggle
man."

Voldemort flinched as a few people whistled and clapped at that. He glared,

but the glower of a powerless, small child at a desk had little effect on
anyone, other than to make them laugh.

"His name was Tom Riddle as well. A very wealthy man who lived in a
nearby manor." The memory showed them all the handsome muggle whom
his mother was watching longingly from her dismal home. She sighed when
he passed on a horse-drawn carriage, looking utterly heartbroken…for he was
riding along with another, far more beautiful, woman. "However, Tom Riddle
did not notice nor care for Merope Gaunt, and so she bewitched him by
feeding him a very powerful love potion… Amortentia."

The memory shifted to show exactly that. Merope was standing on the side of
the road with a cup in her hands, offering it to his father, who, in this
recollection, was alone and clearly tired from a full day of riding. Looking
genuinely grateful, if also a bit hesitant, at her hospitality, he drank…

"And so they lived together for over a year." Dumbledore swept his hand
through the air, and the memory deteriorated into sparkling clouds of silver
and white. "Tom Riddle senior believed he loved her, under the influence of
the potion, and Merope Gaunt became pregnant. And this is why her son was
to be born without the ability to love."

The muggle audience made sad, sympathetic sounds at that. Tom glowered at
them all, hating them and their pity, hating every single thing about what was
happening.

"At some point, however, whether out of guilt of inability to produce more,
she stopped feeding him the Amortentia," Dumbledore went on. "Perhaps she
believed that, because she was with child, he would stay with her. He did not.
Merope Gaunt was abandoned and alone in London when she was to give
birth…

And it is here, at Wool's Orphanage in London on December 31st, 1926, that

the story of Tom Marvolo Riddle begins."

…The memory came to life with a sudden flash of white.

A raging snowstorm was visible through the gap in the curtains of an

otherwise dim room, vibrantly bright. Merope Gaunt was shaking and
covered in a layer of sweat, laying on her back and pale as death. A short,
portly woman was bustling about, putting rags and sheets here and pots filled
with water and other bodily fluids there. The new, young matron of the
orphanage stood trembling in the corner, muttering 'bloody hell' under her
breath as she drank liberally from a flask.

"Is he alive?"

Merope Gaunt's voice was weak, hardly a whisper. Her off-kilter eyes were
dazed, but she managed to reach a quivering arm out and grab hold of the
woman who was discernibly trying not to look at her. "I…I didn't hear
crying…"

But the short woman was saved from needing to answer, for at that moment
the nurse, who must have delivered the child, returned. In her arms was a tiny
infant swaddled in white cloth.

"A boy," she breathed, approaching Merope and smiling. "And he's
underweight, but otherwise perfectly healthy."

"A boy…" His mother repeated the words softly, her ashen face breaking out
into a small grin. She closed her eyes. "His name…his name should be Tom,
for his father, and his middle name… Marvolo, for my father… Tom
Marvolo Riddle…" Her smile broadened slightly when she said his full name.
"I hope he looks like his papa…"

The nurse looked like she was just about to hand the child over, to let his
mother hold him, when the other woman interrupted. "She's losing too much
blood," she said, panicking. "We need more t-towels, we need all the towels
you have, Mrs. Cole…"

The matron nodded in response, finishing the last of whatever was in her
flask before leaving to do as she was told. The nurse thrust the child into the
other woman's arms.

"I hope he… I hope he…" Merope was muttering incoherently just before her
head lolled to one side, limp and lifeless.

"No, no, oh no, stay with me, dearie…" the nurse said, slapping her on the
cheeks to try and rouse her.
It didn't work.

By the time Mrs. Cole returned with the towels, Merope Gaunt was dead.

"Bloody hell," she muttered again. She lit a cigarette and began chain-
smoking right then and there in the room with the dead body, staring down at
bloodied floor of her orphanage.

The baby finally began to cry.

The scene deteriorated…

The striking memory became an abstract cloud of silver and gray once more.
Dumbledore spoke with a booming voice.

"And so Tom Marvolo Riddle was born, a child intrinsically incapable of

love. With no mother to care for him and with no one knowing the identity of
his biological father, he was raised at that very orphanage in London, never
being aware of his own magical heritage…"

Voldemort scowled as he took in the faces of all those watching, fascinated

by the show Dumbledore was creating for them…from his memories, of his
life. Even the Marauders and Lily Evans were observing with genuine
interest, and the men's leering expression had turned passive and
contemplative. Voldemort unwittingly tried to get up again, but he still could
not. The Dark Lord couldn't even shift his appearance—and why was that so?
Even while he was in Harry's dreams, he had at least maintained the ability to
change his own looks at will.

But here, in this world, he seemed stuck in the form of a mere child. "This is
outrageous," he fumed just loud enough for Dumbledore to hear him.

"What can I say?" he murmured back. "I like to put on a show."

The plumes of silver began to form into something tangible again…

…

Tom Riddle appeared in the fog…and he was a child.

He couldn't have been more than five years old, in this memory. It was a
bright, summer's day, and the children were all outside, enjoying the warm
weather. The matron and a few of her young helpers were watching half-
heartedly from the porch on the front of the building.

Most of the children his age were playing together in groups…but not Tom.

Tom had never gotten along with the others, and the others had…not exactly
cared for Tom, either. He usually went off on his own, preferring to explore
the woods—which they weren't supposed to do, technically, but Tom had
always been very good at successfully wandering off.

Yes, he had preferred to play by himself…when he could.

"Pipsqueak!"

Voldemort bristled in his seat at the sound of that voice. Billy. Billy and his
dumb bunny. It was amazing, really, how the recollection of a mere muggle
boy from his past could bolster such an instantaneous, deep-seated loathing in
his heart.

Billy.

He hated him.

"Why are you so small, Tom?"

Billy and a group of his friends, who were all much, much bigger, towered
over Tom. Billy was holding a white rabbit in his hands. His pride and joy,
and he called it his, even though it technically wasn't. It was a gift to the
orphanage from some parent whose own child grew bored of it, not Billy, but
it just happened to be Billy's birthday that day, and when he proclaimed that
obviously it was a gift for him, well, Mrs. Cole had just been too tired to
argue otherwise.

…Billy.

"I'm not small," Tom from the memory argued, standing as tall as he could—
only to be pushed instantly to the ground. Billy and his friends laughed. He
stroked his rabbit like he was showing off a great and fabulous prize.

"Yes, you are, you're puny," Billy spat. "You're the smallest five year old I've
ever seen. Are you sure you have your birthday right, and you're not really
four?"

"Yeah, you're even smaller than Sarah—and she's four and a girl!"

"I'm not four," Tom muttered, pushing himself up and dusting the dirt off of
his clothes. He glanced over at Mrs. Cole, who was, of course, not paying
attention. "And I know my birthday. Just because a bunny didn't show up
then doesn't mean I don't know how old I am."

Billy hugged the rabbit closer to his chest. "You're just jealous," he said.
"Just mad that someone actually likes me enough to get me a birthday
present, and no one cares about you."

"I am not jealous!" Tom huffed. He glared at the rabbit with a very spiteful
expression for such a young child. "It's stupid. It was a stupid gift, it's just
going to die someday—whoever gave it to you was stupid, and so are you."

"You're the stupid one!" Billy kicked him in the chest, and Tom went
sprawling to the ground again. "I'll tell you what," he said looming over him.
"We won't beat the snot out of you…if you tell us how you do it."

Tom glared up at him, his eyes watering. "How I do what?"

"How you makes stuff float." They all smirked as Tom's gaze widened in
shock. "Yeah, I saw you. We all saw you. You thought you were by yourself,
that no one was watching, but we saw it…you were making branches and
rocks and stuff float."
The other boys' expressions were, for just a moment, no longer angry or
leering. They looked eager. Hopeful.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Tom stammered. Because he
hadn't understood it, at the time, this was before he'd had a decent grip on his
magic. He just knew that, when he really, really focused on it, sometimes he
could make things…move.

But he didn't know why he was able to, and he definitely wasn't about to try
and explain how he did it to Billy, so that he and his horrible friends could do
it, too.

"Liar!" Billy roared. "Tell us how you did it!"

"I don't know!" And that, at least, was the truth. "I j-just did!"

Billy's brows furrowed at that, looking contemplative…but then he seemed to

come to some kind of a conclusion. He kicked him again, hard, right in the
gut. Tom instantly curled into a defensive ball. "Freak!" Billy shouted, and
his friends immediately picked up the mantra.

"Yeah, freak!"

"Freak of nature!"

"Puny little freak!"

They all started to attack him, then, but other than Billy's initial blow to his
gut, they didn't do much damage. They were small, after all, and Tom wasn't
stupid enough to move out of his protective position on the ground.

Eventually, they grew tired, and left him alone.

Mrs. Cole, as usual…missed the whole thing.

Several memories like that one were shown, in which a young Tom Riddle
was teased, beaten-up and ostracized. Voldemort sat there, internally fuming
and burning with a shame that he tried desperately to conceal as the
spectator's eyes would occasionally glance down at him—not exactly
pityingly, but almost even worse…understandingly.

"An unhappy childhood, indeed…." Dumbledore said gravely as he took the

stage again. The memory became neutral, glistening and shimmering
benignly. "Yes, Tom knew he was different from a very young age, but one
day, he was to learn just how special he was… Ah, Tom, do you mind? I fear
this won't be very enjoyable to watch if we can't all understand."

He flicked his wrist in Voldemort's direction, and something like a ripple

emanated from his body all across the Hall…but it didn't appear that anything
had occurred. Everyone else must have felt something, though, because they
were shaking their heads and rubbing at their ears. "What did you just do?"
Voldemort asked, instantly anxious.

"You'll see." Dumbledore turned away from him, and the hazy plumes of
silver transitioned yet again into a movie-like scene.

…Tom was around the same age as in the other memories, and he recognized
what this one was at once. He was five, it was autumn, and they had gone on
a trip out to the country. Tom had managed successfully to sneak away under
the not quite so attentive gaze of Mrs. Cole and her helpers, as well as the
group of other children.

He crept past the tree line they were told not to cross, smirking as he
managed to not make a sound, despite the fact that he was stepping on dry,
rust-colored leaves that, by all means, should have been crunching loudly
under his feet. He'd thought, at the time, that he had just been extra stealthy.

He'd had no idea it was magic.

Tom continued walking along, following a small stream with his hands in the
pockets of his hand-me-down, ripped-up jacket. It was a sunny enough day,
but it was much chillier in the shadows cast by the evergreens.
"Hungry…hunt, hunt… Musssst find food…"

Tom froze, staring out into the thick of the trees and looking alarmed.

"…Sssssso hungry…"

"Who's there?" he asked, peering into the woods—but he saw no one.

"…Food… Mussst eat…"

He took a step closer to where he heard the voice coming from, feeling oddly
unafraid. And then—

He yelped. A snake—a long, brown snake—was slithering along, and he'd

nearly stepped on it. It recoiled away from his foot, and Tom stumbled
backwards, falling on his behind when he tripped on a branch.

And then the oddest thing happened. The snake didn't flee, it didn't slip away
into the dead leaves and dirt, but came a bit closer, staring at him.

The snake was staring at him.

And little Tom Riddle just stared right back, frozen, his heart hammering in
his chest.

Voldemort was seething as they all watched this recollection of his

childhood, livid as he realized now what it was that Dumbledore had done.
Somehow, somehow, the old man had made it so that everyone, not just him,
could understand the ancient language of the serpents. He could tell by their
attentive stares that they knew what was being said, despite the fact that it
was discernibly not English.

Muggles comprehending parseltongue.

It was horrendous.

"…Sssso hungry…"
The boy in the memory looked at the creature, then glanced to either side of
him, perplexed, before pushing himself to his knees and leaning towards it.

"Can you…can you talk?"

The snake undulated a bit closer, its unblinking eyes fixed on Tom curiously.
"He sssspeaksss…"

Tom's eyes widened in fascination. "You can talk!" he gasped, grinning

widely. "A talking snake! Wow!"

The snake pulled away slightly when he shouted. Tom cleared his throat.
"Sorry," he said, much more quietly, now. "I've never met a snake that spoke
English, before."

"No…" The creature actually shook its head, then. "It is the man-child who
ssspeaksss thissss tongue…"

"I…I…what?"

"Lisssten to your wordssss, man-child…"

Tom's brows furrowed in concentration. "What do you mean, lisssten to—oh!

OH!"

He had felt it, then. The way in which his words came out as a smooth and
slinky hiss. The snake twitched in annoyance when he yelled again, but Tom
was beyond delighted. "It's me! You're not speaking English… I can-I can
talk to animals!"

Tom beamed, looking wildly about, until his eyes landed on a squirrel on a
nearby tree. "Hey, you! Squirrel!" he called, smiling and waving. "Come
here!"

The squirrel immediately scurried up the tree at the spitting sounds he was
making. Tom's face fell when it fled, his arm falling forlornly to his side. The
snake was laughing at him. Or, at least, that's what it had sounded like. It was
emitting a strange, hissing sound that he would have never thought possible
for a snake.

"Ssssilly man-child… If that worked, hunting would be ssssso easssssy…"

Tom looked back towards it, his voice a bit melancholy. "I guess I can't talk
to squirrels, then. Just snakes…" But his despondent expression cleared at
once, and he was smiling again. "Well, that's still pretty cool." He edged
closer to the snake, excited to speak with it in a way that he had never been
interested in conversing with other people. "Do you have a name?"

The snake tilted its scaly head. "…What issss a name?"

"Um… It's something that you call people. Er, and animals. You know, so you
know who you're talking to."

The snake continued to look confused. "…Isss food a name…?"

Tom laughed. "No," he said. "Food is just a…a thing. A name is something
special. Everyone has their own. They're unique." He wrinkled his nose in
annoyance. "Well. Sort of."

"We do not have namesss, then," the creature concluded. "Doessss the man-
child have a name?"

"Yes. I don't really like it, though… My name is Tom. Lots of people have the
name Tom. I wish it was something better."

"Tom…" the snake repeated. "The man-child is a Tom."

Tom smirked. "Well it sounds much better when you say it," he hissed, now
clearly able to discern the way in which the words were not words at all, but
low, soft hisses. "Would you like a name, too? I can give you one."

"Will a name help me hunt?"

"Uh… Maybe. Maybe, if you're named the thing you want to be, then…then it
will help you be that. Are you a boy snake, or a girl snake?"
"A what?"

"You know. A boy or girl. No?" The snake clearly didn't have any idea what
he was talking about. Tom shrugged. "You're a boy, then," he decided for
him. Tom paused, pursing his lips and looking thoughtful before his eyes
brightened. "Hunter," he said. "I'll name you Hunter."

The snake didn't seem to feel one way or another about his newly assigned
gender or his name, but Tom was quite proud of himself for having come up
with it. "Issss the Tom-child hunting as well?" he asked.

"No. I was just exploring. I don't hunt. They feed us at the orphanage. It's not
very good, though. Sometimes, I steal from the old man who sells fruit down
the street. Grown-ups say stealing is wrong, but I like doing it. It's easy, for
me. And the old man is mean, anyway, so I don't feel bad. He sells apples.
Those are my favorite, especially the green ones. What do snakes eat?"

"Squirrels, ssssmall birds…mice… Mice are very nice…"

Tom's face brightened. "Really? There are lots of mice in the orphanage! I
could take you there, if you like. It's nothing special, but it's warm, and I bet
you could fit in the little mouse-holes they've made in the walls."

The snake perked up, lifting its head so that it was level with Tom's gaze.
"Mouse-holes, you sssay?"

"Yeah. Lots of them." Tom nodded fervently. "Do you want to go?"

"Yes," the creature said without hesitation. "Take me, man-child… Tom…"

"Okay! But-but you should hide in my jacket or something. If anyone sees

you, they'll probably freak out…"

Tom held his arm out, and the snake instantly slid around his wrist, slithering
up his arm until its body was wrapped completely around his bicep. Tom
giggled when he moved. "Ah—ha, that tickles—okay, good! Are you
comfortable?"

He peered at it though the front of his coat, where its scaly head rested on his
shoulder. "Yesss… The Tom-child issss so warm…" Hunter hissed pleasantly.
Tom grinned.

"Great. Just stay hidden, then, and when we get back to the orphanage, I'll
sneak you in."

They made their way back towards where the other children were. Tom
walked with a bounce in his step, happier than he'd ever been. He was
special, he knew it, he could make things move and talk to snakes… He
ambled through the dead leaves, inexplicably quiet as he went.

"Ssssso snakes like mice, huh?" Tom asked, focusing on making his hisses
longer and more eloquent. "Are they good?"

"If they are big…" the snake said. "Mice are good… Rabbits are better…"

Tom paused, his youthful face breaking out into a wicked grin.

"…I think you're going to like it there."

The memory shifted…

Hunter the snake lived in the orphanage for days, and the rest of the children
as well as the matron and her helpers were completely unaware—though
Tom did once overhear Mrs. Cole commenting on how it seemed odd that
there were almost no rodents to be found; a very peculiar thing when the
weather had started to get cold at Wool's Orphanage.

Luckily, Hunter was a crafty snake, and so he was able to successfully stay
out of sight, slithering in and out of mouse-holes and living in the walls. Tom
would hear him hissing as he moved about on the other side of the plaster—
things like, 'bite, tear, rip, kill, kill, kill'—and the sound warmed his heart as
he imagined his pet ridding the world of the pests.
Until, one day, there were no mice left to eat…and so Tom told him to kill
Billy's rabbit, instead.

But Tom was only five, and he hadn't thought it through very well. He
showed Hunter where the rabbit was, where it slept, and it was easy enough
for Tom to creep along in the dead of night to watch. And while Tom was
skilled at being exceptionally sneaky and quiet, as was his new pet…rabbits
who were about to be eaten are not quiet at all.

Tom hadn't even known that rabbits could make sounds like that when they
were afraid.

It screamed.

The rabbit emitted such a loud, high-pitched shriek that it sounded nearly
human, and all the children were awake in an instant.

It was a dreadful scene. Voldemort hated that he felt a ghost of that trauma
even now, as he watched. He had told his companion to flee, had tried to save
it…

But it was no use. Billy shoved him aside, and Billy's much bigger, much
stronger friends had held him back when he'd lunged to protect his new and
only friend. Just as Hunter was slithering to safety, Billy stepped on the
snake, hard.

Hunter twitched once, and then he died.

One of the young helpers came in moments later, disheveled and in a

bathrobe with curlers in her hair, startled out of her mind from what sounded
like someone screaming, only to find a dead, crushed snake on the floor…as
well as everyone pointing and gaping at Tom.

"He told the snake to kill Fluffy!" Billy yelled. "I heard him, he was-he was
hissing at it! The freak was talking to the snake!"

Tom didn't say anything. The woman muttered something about how that was
nonsense, and Billy, children, it's two in the bloody morn'…everyone back to
bed, now…

Tom had watched with teary eyes as she'd swept up Hunter's squished body
with a broom and dust pan like he was little more than dirt.

Billy had cracked his knuckles at Tom, glowering when he muttered the
words, "I'm gonna stomp on you next, freak."

Tom had vowed that there would be retribution.

…The memory shifted…

Fluffy the bunny was hanging dead from the rafters.

Billy was crying, and Tom thought that was the loveliest sound in the whole
world.

He had tried to pin it on Tom, of course, had told Mrs. Cole that he was
behind it, but Tom was so small, and how could he possibly have climbed so
high and hung a rabbit from the ceiling like that, with a perfect noose tied
around its little neck?

"I told you," Tom had whispered when he'd found Billy alone that day,
sobbing by himself because he hadn't wanted to look weak in front of his
friends.

"I told you it would just die."

Billy stopped bullying him, after that.

…The memory dissipated, transitioning back into a sheet of sparkling gray.

The crowd was murmuring, and Voldemort could tell, by the tone of their
voices, that…maybe they didn't entirely blame him for what he did. After
having watched how Billy had terrorized him over and over again… Why,
some of them, he could swear, were actually nodding.
Dumbledore said nothing, this time. He only fixed Voldemort with an
undecipherable look before the smoky haze became another tangible
memory.

…Years had passed since the last memory.

Tom Riddle was now eight years old, and he was no longer the victim…but
the tyrant.

Voldemort squirmed in his seat at the scene that was materializing before
them. Because it was a warm, summer's day, and the orphanage had gone on
a trip to the seaside, and this was the day that he had discovered the cave.

If he had earned any amount of sympathy from these people before, he was
surely about to lose it, now.

Tom was exceptionally skilled with his magic by the time he was eight,
though he still didn't know that was what it was. He used it to rule over the
other children in a way that made him feel like a God. He could make them
do anything he wanted. He enjoyed when they tried to fight back, or when
Billy or his friends would attempt to go back to their old ways and hit him.
Tom would make them hit each other, instead.

…He could make them hurt, if he wanted to.

And he liked to take things, afterwards. He collected their old toys like
trophies when he was done tormenting them, keeping them in his wardrobe
and fishing them out whenever he was sad. It made him feel a bit better.

Because it was easy to become depressed in the orphanage, where the only
people who came to potentially adopt were interested solely in babies. No
one wanted an older, jaded child.

Tom hated the orphanage, he hated the old clothes and the bland food, he
hated Mrs. Cole and her drinking, and why had there not been anyone around
to collect him, when he'd been an infant?

Why did he have to have such a weak woman for a mother? Why did she
have to die?

Why didn't he have a father?

Why?

Those thoughts used to consume him, but the rush of power he felt from
terrorizing the others made him forget. Going through his collection of
trophies acted like a balm, and Tom became addicted to the practice of
causing others pain so that he no longer felt his own.

…The cave.

"Amy… Dennis."

The two he'd chosen for his victims that day were specific. They were older
than him by a few years, and they had begun this strange practice of holding
hands and smiling at each other. In all of Tom's experience with observing
the way the other children interacted, it was rare to see boys and girls play
together, and extremely odd that they should wander off alone, just the two of
them, with their fingers intertwined and their cheeks turning pink.

They looked so happy, when they did that.

Tom hated it.

"Come with me."

They'd hesitated, they always did—and Tom loved that, too, seeing the fear
flicker in their eyes as they looked like mice, considering fleeing—but they
didn't, because they all knew, at this point, that running from Tom never
ended well.

…He could make them hurt, if he wanted to.

"We're going down by the water."

Amy cringed, curling a strand of her auburn hair around a finger. Dennis
reached for her other hand. "Wh-why?"

"I found something there. I think you'll like it."

Tom turned and walked away.

Reluctantly, they followed.

Truthfully, Tom had just wanted to see if he would be able to get them there
alive. It was easy enough for him to cross the rocks, to hover where he
needed, to stop himself from slipping, but he'd never tried to help anyone else
do the same thing, before.

He was curious. He figured he could do it, if he'd wanted. Extend his superior
capabilities to other beings in a helpful rather than painful way. Maybe. He
was about to find out, at any rate, and if he couldn't, well, it was their idea,
Mrs. Cole, to go down towards the shore, Dennis and Amy were just
wandering off again, and I tried to stop them, but they were bigger and older
and told me to go away…

But Tom could do it.

The same force that he usually used to make their knees buckle could be
twisted around them in order to make them move more quickly, or jump, or
float.

They looked stunned when he did it, but they didn't ask. No one asked Tom
questions, anymore.

…The cave.

It was dark, vast and empty. A lake pooled in the center of it, its surface so
smooth and clear it looked like glass. In the center was a small, rocky island.
Tom pointed towards it.
"Swim out there," he'd instructed. Could he help them swim, too? He
wondered…

"N-no," Dennis stuttered. "No, please, d-don't make us, we already came all
the way here with you, and—"

"Do it," Tom said icily, cutting him off. Amy whimpered. Dennis reached for
her hand again, and it made Tom so mad. Why did it make him so mad? His
dark eyes zeroed in on the gesture like it was deeply offensive.

"Do it!" Tom roared, and Dennis dropped her hand to clutch at his chest
when he was hit was a spasm of pain. Of Tom's pain.

"Do it!" An impossible wind swept through the stone walls, making Amy
scream. "Do it, now!"

They finally listened, running towards the water like their lives depended on
it. Tom had never done that, before. Made winds blow. He felt a rush of
power, intoxicating, dizzying. He urged the wind to blow stronger, for the
waters to move, for turbulence, for chaos.

Amy and Dennis screamed before going under, only for Tom to bring them
back up again, spluttering and gasping for air. His laughter echoed in the cave
like a manic chorus.

They nearly drowned down there…but they didn't.

…The memory shifted…

Tom, Amy, and Dennis were all quite dry and unharmed as they rejoined the
other children on the sand. Mrs. Cole, who hadn't even noticed that they were
gone before, saw them approach. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Where were you three?" she asked, folding her bony arms across her chest.

Tom gave her a dazzling smile. "We were just walking along the shore,
exploring a cave we found and looking for shells. Weren't we?"
Amy and Dennis nodded numbly. Unlike Tom, they were ashen and
trembling, clearly traumatized.

But neither of them said anything, and Tom sauntered away, cheery and
looking so small, so cute, so innocent.

Mrs. Cole lit a cigarette and didn't bother trying to find out the truth.

Amy and Dennis never held hands again.

…The memory dissipated, deteriorating into a cloud of silver mist.

The audience was muttering in troubled tones. The men at the front of the
Hall—James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin—were stone-faced as
they glanced at each other. There was something about their expressions,
though, that Voldemort recognized. They were disturbed, of course, by the
things that he had done, but they were also undeniably impressed. The most
magic they had probably performed as children was bounced to safety,
maybe, or perhaps apparated if they were especially threatened.

But Tom Riddle had created storms with caves. Controlled chaos.

He had done terrible things, yes… Terrible, but great.

Lily Evans alone remained unanimated. When he glanced at her, it was to see
that her face was cold and blank. Her vibrant gaze was fixed right on him,
emotionally detached. Voldemort felt like he was hit with a jolt of electricity
when they made eye contact. He quickly looked away.

"It is not uncommon," Dumbledore said to the masses, "that those who are
victimized tend to become the future predators. And Tom Riddle was no
exception. With no one having cared for him, being mistreated by his peers
when he was small, and his innate inability to feel love, and therefore
compassion or empathy…he was, to put it bluntly, a recipe for disaster."

"Go to hell, Dumbledore," Voldemort drawled, venomous as the crowds

made noises of agreement.

Dumbledore's face became so grave, then, that Voldemort almost winced. His
blue eyes clouded over in a disturbingly deadened way.

"I did peer, once, into the abyss of what one may consider Hell…into the sea
of the damned, into that lake of fire…" he said in a vacant tone. Voldemort
shuddered at how…hollow he sounded.

"And that is a fate that I would wish on no one, Tom…not even you… But
you should be more respectful to me, my dear boy. I am on your side, after
all. I am your advocate. I, personally, have already made the decision that
you are worthy of and require all the help you can get… But it's not my
approval you need, now."

The Hall was eerily quiet. Dumbledore tilted his head towards the Marauders
and Lily Evans, who all stared at the child-like Dark Lord coldly.

Voldemort found that it was much easier to look at Albus Dumbledore than
anyone else—a distressing fact all by itself. "And this, putting my life on
display—you think this is going to gain theirapproval?"

"It is your only chance," Dumbledore said, nodding. "Of course, if they
decide to assist you, the rest will then be up to you…"

"That's a pretty big 'if'," James shouted, running his hand through his hair.
Voldemort flinched when he did it, because his son did the exact same thing
in the exact same way, and maybe James realized this bothered him, because
he smiled wickedly and did it again.

Voldemort glowered. Dumbledore turned his attention back to the crowd.

"I, myself, did not encounter Tom Riddle until he was eleven years of age,"
he said loudly, his voice reverberating in the Hall. "When he was old enough
to attend Hogwarts, it was I who went to him, to give him his letter and
explain to him what he was…"
The abstract silver swirled to show them exactly that.

The orphanage. The wardrobe. The fire.

The way his trophies battered around in the box like they had come to life.

They all watched as Dumbledore informed a young Tom Riddle that

Hogwarts did not tolerate stealing, and that he must return those items to the
rightful owners and apologize. He gave him just enough money to purchase
what he would need for school, as well as his letter and a list of supplies, and
offered to take him to go shopping himself…but Tom instantly denied his
help, said he wanted to go alone, and so Dumbledore explained to him in
detail just how to access Diagon Alley.

"I can speak to snakes," he'd admitted, just as Dumbledore had turned to
leave. Voldemort cringed at reliving his own blunder, how he never should
have told the then-Transfiguration Professor about that skill.

"…Is that normal, for a wizard?"

Dumbledore's face was cool and impassive. "It is unusual, but not unheard
of…"

…The memory changed again…

The scene before them was of a busy, bustling street lined with small stores.
Tom had successfully made it into Diagon Alley all by himself…and it was
wonderful.

The small boy was beaming as he looked into various shop windows,
weaving his way around the other people who were all dressed so strangely,
in long, sweeping robes and funny hats—he'd felt giddy as he saw a store that
sold brooms, actual brooms that flew, and there were owls flying around
overhead, and a magical candy shop, and it was all so marvelous.
But Tom didn't have money for candy or pets and most certainly not brooms,
he realized with a jolt when he'd peeked at a price tag. Dumbledore had
explained the currency of the wizarding world to him well enough that he
realized, quite quickly, that he could only afford the very basics.

Before he'd done any shopping, Tom had been content to merely observe. He
watched as people milled about, eavesdropping on their conversations,
listening, listening…

"…can't wait until we get to Hogwarts and get sorted!"

Tom paused when he heard that snippet of conversation. Two boys that
looked about his own age were chatting as they walked. Tom turned,
following behind just far enough to go unnoticed and still be able to hear
them.

"I know! We'll be in Slytherin, of course. My whole family has been in that
house, as far back as we can remember."

"Mine too, obviously. Well, except my barmy uncle. He was sorted into
Ravenclaw house, for some crazy reason." He scoffed loudly. "His parents
were so disappointed, my father still gauds him about it at family gatherings."

"It could have been worse," the other boy said. "At least he wasn't put into
Gryffindor."

"Or Hufflepuff. Merlin, can you imagine being sorted into Hufflepuff? God, I
think I would just drop out and transfer to Durmstrang, wouldn't you?"

They both laughed as they turned a corner. Tom froze, processing what he'd
just heard. So they would be sorted into houses, at Hogwarts…and Slytherin,
that one was the best…Ravenclaw was mediocre, and the others were…
bad…

He smirked. Slytherin, then. He would be in Slytherin.

Finally, Tom pulled out his list, and began to shop.

The first store Tom had gone into was the book store, Flourish and Blott's.
He'd stared up at the towering shelves of texts in wonder, mesmerized at the
titles he saw. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions…

"Ah, Hogwarts student?" A young, pretty woman with dark hair noticed him
with his school list in his hands. "Here for your textbooks, then, yeah? I'd be
happy to help you find everything."

Tom was about to tell her no, he didn't need her help, when she looked over
his shoulder, confused. "Are your parents with you?"

Tom only looked taken aback for a moment before responding, quite evenly,
"They're at the bank."

He'd seen it earlier, when he'd explored the area. It was a giant, immaculate
building, and there were real-life goblins there… He'd observed in silent
fascination as people went in and out, and he felt intensely jealous of
everyone who did. People who had bank accounts, magical ones, with lots
and lots of these galleons of which he hardly had any, now, and which would
be gone by the end of the day…

"They're just at Gringotts, down the road. They're coming later," he said, and
her troubled expression cleared.

"Oh. Okay. Well, you picked a good day for shopping, we've been dead all
morning, I'm bored stiff. What year are you? I'll help you find everything."

"…First," Tom admitted. "I-I'm going to be a first year."

She beamed. "Oh, how exciting! Well, I know right where all those texts are.
I'm Alicia, by the way. What's your name?"

"Tom."

"Nice to meet you, Tom. So, any idea what your favorite subject will be? I
really loved Divination, myself, even though I was bloody terrible at reading
palms—but you won't be taking that until third year, if you even choose it.
And Charms, that's always a good time…"

She was very chatty, motioning for Tom to follow her and grabbing a book
every so often. For once, Tom actually found that he was very, very
interested in everything another person had to say.

"Divination?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. Being able to see the future in tea leaves and all that. But like I said,
you won't get into that until later. No, you'll be taking Potions and
Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts…" She plucked all of the
books from the shelves as she talked and walked, Tom following at her heels.

"What's this?" Tom inquired, grabbing a different, very large book from the
shelf and examining it curiously.

"Ah, that's an encyclopedia of magical creatures," she said. "You can take
that in your third year, too, if you choose it. Care of Magical Creatures."

Tom's eyes widened when he flipped the book open…and the image within
moved.

But Alicia misinterpreted his awed expression. "Beautiful, aren't they?" she
said, nodding down towards the unicorn that galloped across the page. "Even
cuter when they're young, they're gold."

"They are?" Tom gasped.

"Yep. And their blood is super powerful, used for all sorts of crazy stuff—
same with dragon's blood." Tom ogled at her, and she smiled at his stunned
expression. "Yeah, you'll learn all about that in Potions. Slughorn is a great
teacher—if he likes you, anyway."

"Tell me more about unicorn blood," Tom practically demanded as he shoved

the giant book back on the shelf.

But she grinned merrily, looking happy to have something to do and someone
to talk to. "Oh, here, we have whole books on unicorns, in this section! And if
you're interested in that, you'd probably like these, too…"

And so Tom asked question after question, getting as much information from
this witch as he possibly could. Soon, she had recommended so many extra
books that he had twice as many as he was supposed to have, and he had been
so caught up in it all, so eager to have all of that knowledge right then and
there, that he had forgotten completely that books…cost money.

When his face fell, Alicia seemed to figure him out. It had been over an hour,
after all, and…

"…Your parents aren't at the bank, are they, Tom?"

Tom swallowed thickly. "…No," he admitted, not seeing the point in denying
it. "No. I'm… I'm an orphan." He looked at the tower of books he knew he
couldn't possibly take with him. "And… I can't afford these. I can't even buy
those books I'm supposed on get on this list. I…I'll need to get used ones, if
you have them."

Alicia was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, we have used ones," she said. "Come
with me, the second-hand books are back here…"

She spent a long time, helping him pick out the ones that were the least
battered. Tom's excitement, which had been so bright and bubbly the entire
time they'd talked, was suddenly somber and cold. Alicia looked deeply
pitying.

"Say… I'll tell you what," she said once he'd selected the best of the used
texts. "I…I can't sell you the new texts for cheaper, my boss would have my
head, but… I'll throw in one of these, free of charge."

She pulled out a small, black book. Tom took it, flipping it open with one
eyebrow raised. It was blank. "A…a diary?"

"They're all the rage this year," she said, smiling. "It's not on your list, but
students have been buying them up, they've been flying off the shelves. All
the wizarding kids will have one…and now you will, too."

She winked. Tom held it in his fingers reverently.

Something new, that all the wizarding kids had…

"Won't you get in trouble?" he asked, glancing back up at her. "If you just
give me one?"

"Nah. Sometimes, inventory is just…off," she said, winking again.

Tom grinned and held the diary to his chest. "Thank you," he said. "I'll
cherish it."

"You're very welcome! Now come on, I'll ring you up." They went to the
front of the store, where Tom begrudgingly handed over a substantial amount
of his money. She smiled and held the door open for him on his way out.
"You're going to be great, Tom, I can tell. Now get out there and conquer the
world!"

Tom smirked. "I will," he promised.

The memories of Diagon Alley continued, and everyone watched as a young

Tom Riddle went from store to store, buying the cheapest, most worn-down
supplies that he could. And it wasmortifying to watch, to have everyone
watch as he purchased tattered robes and a semi-rusted cauldron…everything
old and barely functioning…

Until he went for his wand, that was.

He'd saved it for last. A wand, a real, magical wand…

Tom really had picked a good day for shopping. Every store had been in was
relatively empty, and he was the only one there when he entered into
Ollivander's Wand Shoppe.
"Hello," the strange, young man had greeted him, his eyes huge and silver.
He took one look at Tom and beamed. "How may I help you?" he'd asked,
though the reason for Tom being there was obvious.

"I…I'm here to buy a wand, sir."

"First one, I take it?" Tom nodded. "Excellent! Are, ah, your guardians—?"

"They're not coming," Tom cut him off, his tone clipped. "I have money.
Here." He put all that was left of his wizarding coins on the desk. He offered
up no further explanation, and Ollivander, other than looking momentarily
startled by such a cold action, merely nodded and didn't ask.

It began.

Mr. Ollivander was the epitome of youth in this memory, lively and energetic
as he pulled out a plethora of small, thin boxes, blabbering on about how he
was making wands in ways that no one ever had before, by crafting them
himself, from creatures and woods he thought to be most compatible, rather
than letting witches and wizards bring in their own magical substances...

He opened the first box. "Unicorn hair, eleven inches. Ash," he said. "A bit
springy. Here, try it out." The young man held it out to him.

Tom stared at it, both eager and apprehensive. "T-try it out?"

"Yes, just swish it about, we'll know at once if it's right."

Tom wet his lips, anticipation coursing through him. He was about to touch
his very first wand…

But he had only just grabbed it and moved it around before Ollivander was
snatching it away again. "Nope, nope, that's not it at all," he muttered, putting
it back in its box. Tom glowered, wanting to yell at him, but another one was
being shoved at him before he could.

"Try this one. Dragon heartstring, acacia, ten inches."

He tried that one, too, but the moment he twitched his wrist, Ollivander was
shaking his head, taking it back. "Nope, no good… Ah, here, try this."

And so it went. Wand after wand after wand…and Tom was soon beginning
to panic.

"There is something wrong with me," he said as Ollivander put away yet
another thin piece of wood—a short, cedar one.

"Wrong? Oh, goodness no! I wonder… I wonder…"

Ollivander paused, his face becoming very pensive. "You know, last night, I
couldn't sleep, because… Well, you see, just a few weeks ago, I paid a visit to
a friend of mine in order to get a feather for a new wand core. And it was the
strangest thing, because I usually don't take more than enough material from
a single creature to make more than one wand, but it just felt like I was
supposed to take a couple, at the time, do you understand? And so I started
making these two wands at once; one with holly, and one with yew… Now,
the holly has been giving me a tricky time. It might be that this kind of core
and wood don't often go together, but I feel inclined to keep going with it,
and the wood has been very patient, very forgiving… The holly tells me to
take my time, that there is no rush… Ah, but the yew."

He reached behind his desk for another box, one which had not been on the
shelves with the others. "The yew was so very different. It was forceful,
powerful. It demanded that it be created right away, kept me up at night,
sometimes, with its insistence, you know what I mean?"

Tom did not know what he meant, at all—this man was talking about wood
and feathers like they were living, speaking entities rather than objects—but
he nodded all the same.

"So this one… This one I just finished, no less than twelve hours ago." He
handed Tom a dark, long wand.

"Give this one a go."

Tom instantly felt something different, before he'd even touched it. The air
seemed thicker, the atmosphere charged. He slowly wrapped his fingers
around one end, and the wood felt oddly warm against his skin. The very
second he moved his arm—

A shower of sparks flew from the tip. A cascade in all different colors, like a
glorious fireworks display, erupted in the middle of the shop. A spare piece
of parchment from a nearby table even caught on fire.

But Ollivander was laughing and clapping. "Oh, very good!" he yelled as he
lazily shot a stream of water from his own wand onto the smoking paper.
"Marvelous! Excellent! I knew we'd get you sorted out!" Tom was grinning
so broadly that it hurt. The sparks finally stopped. "Yes, that's a fine wand,
that is, truly unique… Yew, thirteen and half inches…and a phoenix feather
core."

Tom stared at it in wonder. "A phoenix…?" he breathed reverently.

Ollivander nodded. "Yes, a very handsome one, too. That is a powerful wand,
my dear boy, very powerful…"

His silver eyes were gleaming, his smile wide and knowing.

"…I imagine that you shall do great things."

…The shop dissolved…

...And the next memory that came into focus was one that Voldemort
absolutely detested.

His Sorting.

What he detested even more was the way that Dumbledore narrated it, his
voice echoing in the Hall that was now also being projected above them.
"And so Tom Riddle arrived at Hogwarts, perhaps a bit malnourished, but
otherwise healthy and whole."
"For a time," Sirius Black added on, smirking. Voldemort glared at him.

"Slytherin. Gryffindor. Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw," Dumbledore continued. "The

four houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Tom
Riddle did not yet know when he arrived that he was a direct descendant of
Salazar Slytherin himself…"

He fell silent as the first-years in the memory came bursting in through the
castle gates. The audience watched with rapt attention.

Tom Riddle was easily one of the smallest among them. Tiny, and one of the
very few who was wearing such worn-looking robes. But Tom had told
himself it didn't matter. He'd shared a train compartment with a few of his
future peers, and while he didn't talk much at all on the ride over, he did
listen. Evidently, he was not the only one here who had not grown up with a
wizard and a witch for parents—there was such a thing as being 'muggle-
born', and that was maybe not common, or good, necessarily, but was
certainly not unheard of, either.

But Tom was sure that he was not a 'muggle-born'. His unknown father had
to have been a wizard, he was sure of it.

…His Sorting.

He had been so excited! He could see it now, on his memory-child's face—

which looked very much like his current face, in this nightmarish world he
thought in annoyance—how very eager he was. As they all were, of course,
but Tom was actually bouncing on his heels, straining to see over the taller
children in front of him.

"Are you nervous?" one of the girls behind him asked in a whisper as the
Headmaster spoke in a monotonous tone. He hadn't known who she was, at
the time, but he knew now…

Myrtle Warren.

"No," he answered at once. He'd hardly glanced at her before Dumbledore

stepped forward with a scroll in his hands and called the first name.

Tom waited on bated breath as student after student was sorted, some taking
a few seconds, some taking nearly a full minute, and he suddenly hated his
surname in a way he never had before. Riddle, why did it have to start with
an R? Why did it have to be near the end of the alphabet, why couldn't it have
been Avery, like the boy who went first?

But soon his name was called, and Tom Riddle approached the then-
Transfiguration Professor. Dumbledore smiled and nodded in a somewhat
formal way, acknowledging that they had met before. Tom returned it, feeling
shaky and yes, he actually was nervous, after all. What if it put him in
Hufflepuff?

But his anxiety was for naught. Dumbledore hadn't even taken his fingers off
the hat before it roared, "SLYTHERIN!"

It was easily the quickest sorting. Tom beamed. That was good, Slytherin was
the best house! He hopped off the stool, smiling…but his grin faltered at the
suddenly frigid atmosphere in the Hall.

The applause, which for everyone else, had been so loud and raucous—from
the house which was selected, at any rate—was notably absent when he had
been sorted.

His house mates did not look happy to have him. They did not look happy at
all.

In fact, they looked angry, and even confused. Tom noticed the two boys he
had seen in Diagon Alley, who he had overheard as they'd walked—both in
Slytherin, just as they'd predicted—glaring at him like he was a vile
abomination.

Tom's body felt heavy and strange. Dumbledore touched his shoulder, and
though Tom was sure that his smile was meant to be encouraging, it was
anything but. "Go on, then, Tom," he said quietly, motioning for him to go
join his new housemates.
Feeling like he was in a trance, Tom did. The moment he sat down, the other
first years shifted away from him, recoiling from his proximity like he had a
contagious disease.

"Mudblood…"

He heard them muttering it to each other, snickering behind their hands.

"Filthy mudblood."

"Puny one, too…"

He hadn't known what it meant.

"Dirty mudblood."

…But it had sounded like 'freak'.

…The Hall evaporated in a sea of glistening gray, but only stayed that way
for a moment before a new scene began to form.

"Tom was a quiet child during his first years at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said
as the memory was in mid-transition. "He spent many hours in the school
library, determined to both learn as much as he could about magic and
wizarding society…as well as prove that he was not a muggle-born, after all."

…The Hogwarts library materialized in the air. And there was Tom, tucked
away in the corner of the room.

There were so many books stacked around him it was comical; it looked
rather like he was attempting to build himself a fort out of magical texts. But
he was using them all, really, several of them were open on their spines as
Tom looked from one to another, only to close this one and then open that,
and more than once he almost sent the entire, towering pile crashing to the
floor as he'd needed one right in the middle. The crowd chuckled when he
nearly did exactly this, barely managing to prevent what could have been a
literary earthquake by hugging the pile to stop it from toppling over.

The audience was 'aw-ing' like they just thought he was so cute, as a child,
being so frantic, and Voldemort hated the sound, he hated their expressions,
he hated all of them.

But the Tom Riddle of the memory went largely unnoticed, as the library was
mostly empty. Only a few other students were working there at the time, and
he was too focused on his task to pay them any mind.

His name. Tom had been obsessing over the history of his surname since the
very moment he'd arrived at the castle.

Riddle.

It had to be here, somewhere.

It had to.

He'd been searching everywhere. He'd scoured the old trophies, first, hopeful
that maybe his father had been someone impressive and important, but there
was nothing. Old newspapers, then, past issues of The Daily Prophet that the
school had on file from the last fifty years…but no, nothing. Books, then, of
recent history—perhaps his father had invented a potion, or created a new
magical invention—hell, he'd be pleased to find out that his father's claim to
fame was making broom-handle polish, if it meant he'd been a wizard.

But he couldn't find him. He couldn't find the name 'Riddle' anywhere.

"Oh, look what we have here. Reading up on Gringotts, mudblood?"

Mudblood.

Tom's eyes snapped up as he heard the word that grated on his eardrums like
a pointed nail. He watched as two older students—from his own house, no
doubt—stood over a small, pathetic-looking girl.

The girl who had stood behind him in the sorting. A muggle-born girl…and
an idiot, apparently. What was she thinking, reading about something like
that in the middle of the bloody library? If she was going to research
something that was so obviously only something a muggle-born would bother
reading, she should have done it in her common room or something, not here.

The older students leered, picking up the book she was reading and flipping
through it. They taunted her ruthlessly.

"Going to trade in all of your muggle money for a galleon or two,

mudblood?"

"Hoping to be able to afford a proper husband, perhaps? With your looks and
your lineage, you better have money, it's pretty much your only hope, muddie
—"

"Hey! Give that back!"

They held the book high above her head, laughing as she reached for it
uselessly.

"Jump, mudblood! Show us some of those muggle skills!"

"Shut up!" They all looked over when Tom snapped. It wasn't her, it wasn't
the girl he cared about. It was that word. "Quit calling her that!" he said, his
wand clutched tightly in his hand as he stormed over. The older students'
faces lit up in glee.

"Oh, look who it is! Our very own house mudblood!" one shouted in delight.
"Riddle, isn't it? A very apt, mudblood name for you; you're quite the riddle,
having been put in our house—"

"Maybe the hat knew we would need some good entertainment—"

"Or maybe it's just finally lost its touch, sticking us with such a little
mudblood—"

"Shut up!" Tom seethed, pointing his wand at them. He'd read about a few,
good curses, he bet he could make them work…

But these were not muggle children from the orphanage, and these teenagers
looked at him like they found him the most amusing, pathetic joke. They
didn't even draw their wands. "Look, Rowle, it thinks it can duel us. Want to
take this one to be your second, Riddle?"

"Maybe they're friends, Travers. Maybe he's secretly in love with her."

"Oh, how romantic! There you go, girl, you don't need to be able to buy a
husband, after all. You and Riddle can get married and have lovely,
mudblood children together."

Tom's face turned a furious shade of red. He was just about to hex them, to
do something—

"What's going on here?"

Another older student, a girl, came marching over. She had auburn hair and
narrowed eyes, looking very austere and authoritative. A shiny prefect's
badge was pinned to the front of her robes.

"Just helping some younger students, McGonagall," one of the boys—

Travers—said.

"They were calling us names, and-and stealing my stuff!" Myrtle instantly

tattled, hands on her hips. McGonagall pursed her lips at the others.

"Stealing? It's the library's book, girl—"

"Enough." McGonagall cut them off, frowning. "Get out of here or it's
detention for both of you."

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a bunch, we were just having some fun." But
they both backed away, regardless. "…See you on the pitch, McGonagall…"
They sauntered off. "Are you two all right?" she asked after they'd gone.

Myrtle nodded, thanking her, but Tom was still shaking in rage. "I didn't need
your help," he seethed, and McGonagall was so shocked by his unexpected,
venomous reaction that she merely blinked at him.

Myrtle touched his shoulder nervously. "You…you didn't need to do that.

You shouldn't have gotten involved, just to stand up for me."

She blushed when she said it, like she thought Tom really had done it just for
her. But she couldn't have been further from the truth. "You're right," Tom
spat, pocketing his wand.

"I shouldn't have."

And he stormed off, his mission momentarily forgotten, even leaving all of
his things behind.

…The memory swirled and transitioned again…

It was Tom, weeks later…back in the library.

The parchment he had been scribbling notes on as he searched in vain for his
father in a book was stretched in front of him, the magical ink making the
words he'd written quiver and twitch with his anxiety. His signature, which
was right in the middle of the page, was going crazy. The first and the last
names had broken out into fight, waging war—the 'T' and the 'R' were
circling each other while the 'o' was being bounced back and forth between
the two 'd's' like a ping-pong ball; the 'l' and the 'i' were trying to help the 'R'
kill the 'T', and the 'm' and the 'e' had joined together to form the word 'me',
which then quickly scurried away towards the top of the parchment to find
refuge in a new sentence.

Tom sighed as he watched the chaos, groaning at how stupid his name was…

…Except his middle name.

The letters which made up Marvolo, oddly enough, had not moved at all…
They stayed firmly in place, perfectly still, as though they were above such
things…

Marvolo… Marvolo… That was a strange name, wasn't it? And they'd told
him at the orphanage that it was for his grandfather, that he had been called
that…

Marvolo…

He began again.

…The memory faded, only to resurface seconds later…

It had taken him just a few days, once he'd started looking for a 'Marvolo'
rather than a 'Riddle'. In fact, it only took him as long as it did because he'd
thought that it may be surname, but it wasn't. Marvolo was a first name, and
he'd found it on a family tree in a contemporary pureblood wizarding
genealogy book attached to the name 'Gaunt'...a book which had been
published just seven years prior, and, according to this text, the last known
Gaunts included Marvolo Gaunt's son and daughter, Morfin and Merope…

Merope Gaunt, born 1907… She would have been about twenty, then, when
he was born…

It must have been his mother who was the witch, after all…

Tom obsessively followed the lineage of the Gaunt family as far back as he
could, pulling down tomes from high shelves within the depths of the
Hogwarts library that probably had not been touched in decades, if the
amount of dust on them was any indication. And it was then, in one
particularly massive text, that he had found it…

Slytherin.

If what he was reading was accurate, if he had mapped it all out correctly,
then he was directly descended from Salazar Slytherin himself…
He may not have believed it, if it hadn't been for the next thing he'd read. A
book which detailed the lives of the founders of the school, and in the section
on Salazar Slytherin, a portion had read:

'…for his ability to speak to snakes, otherwise known as 'parseltongue', a

unique and hereditary skill…'

The ability to talk to snakes. Hereditary. Parseltongue.

Tom reread that passage many times, his smile growing larger by the second.

He had been right. Not only was he not a mudblood, he was a descendent of
the most revered and powerful sorcerer in history. He was the heir of
Slytherin, the very wizard whose ideologies his own housemates
worshipped…

Tom had laughed. Quietly, at first, but then, once he'd started, it quickly
began to get out of control. He felt almost delirious with both relief and awe
at such a revelation, at such an astounding discovery—the heir of Slytherin!
Him!

It was unfortunate that the library was not completely deserted, that day.

One of the older boys who had picked on him before, Rowle, was at a table
on the other side of the room. He looked round in surprise at the sound of
Tom's slightly manic laughter, but he was concealed on the other side of a
bookshelf.

"Oi, who's laughing over there?" he yelled, craning his neck to see who it
was.

Tom ignored him. He gathered up his things and slung his bag over his
shoulder, and was going to be on his way, when—

"Oh, it was you."

Rowle stood, stepping in front of him and blocking Tom's way. "What was so
funny, Riddle? Finally come to the conclusion that your mudblood life is a
joke?"

Tom cracked.

For a split second, Rowle merely looked confused, but then Tom was
grasping at the front of his robes, panicked—

"You will never…"

Tom's face was far more sinister than any child's ever should have been. He
may have been small, but the magic that he had come to be able to control
while he was in the orphanage come roaring back to life, no wand necessary,
because he had always been able to do this…to make others feel pain…

"…ever…"

Rowle was gasping, struggling to breathe—Tom took another step forward,

and Rowle looked genuinely afraid now, fumbling for his wand within his
robes—

"…call me that…"

The second he located it, the moment he managed to retract his wand from
his pocket, it shot out of his hand, inexplicably clattering to the floor—

"…again."

He gripped the back of his chair, his face turning blue—

"Is everything all right, over there?"

The librarian, a stout, generally warm old woman, called from behind the
shelves. Tom's dark expression immediately lifted, and by the time she came
around the corner, it was to find that Rowle was pale but breathing, and that
Tom was standing in front of him, a look of innocent sympathy on his face.

"Are you okay?" Tom asked, directing his question to the older boy like he'd
just shown up. "It looked like you were having a bit of a panic attack. I know
how that is; I nearly had one myself before my first Transfiguration exam, I
can't imagine what it must be like when you know you'll have your O.W.L.'s
at some point. Here." Tom reached down, grabbing Rowle's wand and
handing it to him.

"You dropped this."

Rowle stared at him with an expression that was some mix between stunned
and fearful. Tom only smiled, and when he finally took his wand back, it was
with trembling hands.

"You might want to go to the hospital wing. I've heard that the matron,
Madam Prewett, makes a wonderful Calming Draught. It may help you with
your anxiety." He turned to grin sweetly at the librarian. "I'm just going to put
this book back where I found it, ma'am. Have a lovely day!"

He turned and left, quickly placing the text where he had gotten it from and
leaving the library…but his innocent smile turned into a far more devious
smirk once his back was turned. The librarian watched him go with her hand
held to her chest, grinning fondly when she said, "Such a sweet boy. Such a
lamb."

"A wolf…in sheep's clothing."

Dumbledore's grave voice emanated as the memory fell apart, deteriorating

until it was neutral, sparkling haze. Voldemort fixed him with a skeptical
look at his theatrics, as if to say, 'really, Dumbledore?' The former
Headmaster's eye gleamed playfully.

"Tom Riddle's time as a small, weak child was very short, however,"
Dumbledore went on, speaking to the crowds and ignoring Voldemort's
pointed look. "He soon scaled the social ladder, becoming a favorite in the
eyes of many students and staff…"
…The silver swirled to reveal Tom, still as a first year, though it was now
nearing exam time. After his encounter with Rowle, the fifth year, Slytherin
boy, no one called him 'mudblood' anymore. They still murmured about him
behind their hands occasionally, but the whispers were different, now.
Colder. Less leering, and more…wary.

This memory showed Tom in Potions class, as he, along with all of the other
students, worked on making a Forgetfulness Potion. Tom was further along
than any of them. His brew was already simmering while he crushed his
mistletoe berries, waiting to add the final ingredients. It looked especially
nice next to his table mate's potion, Avery's, which was an abysmal shade of
moss green that was nothing close to what it was supposed to be.

Tom eyed it distastefully, but turned away when Slughorn ambled past,
peering into Tom's old cauldron appreciatively.

"Ah, very good, Tom," Slughorn said. "I see you've already made it to the
point of simmering. And the color is spot on, excellent."

Tom smiled. "Thank you, sir."

Slughorn frowned, then, looking at Tom like he found him a bit of an enigma.
Because he was, really. Tom remembered all too well the first time he had
answered all of his Head of House's questions correctly in the first week of
classes, apparently having been the only one to read the textbook beforehand
—and Slughorn had been delighted that one of his own first years was so
knowledgeable.

His cheery expression had fallen when Tom had told him his last name was
'Riddle', though. He'd furrowed his brows, obviously racking his brains to see
if he knew some famous wizard or witch with that name which he could
associate the young Tom Riddle with…

But there were none. He'd shrugged, but had given Tom a substantial amount
of house points, regardless.

"You know, Tom," Slughorn murmured. "You are grasping the art of potion
making extremely well, especially considering that you're muggle-born."

Avery snorted next to him, though he hurriedly tried to pass it off as a cough.
"Take a look at Avery's concoction, Tom," Slughorn said, nodding towards
the other boy's cauldron. "Tell me—why do you think it is the wrong color at
this point in the brewing process, and smelling rather like eggs gone bad?"

Avery paused, and the whole class had now stopped what they were doing to
listen. "I would say that it is because the flame beneath his cauldron is
burning far too hot, Professor," Tom answered. "He is trying to complete the
brew too quickly. In short, he is being impatient, and it has resulted in a
potion that is now unfixable…unless he'd already created a Forgetfulness
Potion before he began, and his own concoction was so successful that he
forgot what he was supposed to be creating in the first place."

Slughorn, as well as a few of his classmates, mostly the Gryffindors, laughed.

"Ha! Correct on all accounts, Tom. Take fifteen points for Slytherin." He
waved his wand over the cauldron Avery had been working on and vanished
it. His classmate's face reddened to the color of a cherry tomato, looking
outraged.

"…Also, sir…I'm not a muggle-born." The laughter stopped. Slughorn

looked at Tom with his brows raised. "My mother was a witch…though she
died when I was very young. I never knew her."

Avery looked like someone had just slapped him in the face. Slughorn,
however, after a moment where he looked uncomfortable at how
nonchalantly a young student had just talked about his mother's death,
grinned. "Oh! Well, then, I suppose you could be related to any number of
prestigious wizarding families! I wouldn't be at all surprised, Tom, with your
innate skills, I would not be surprised at all…"

Tom nodded his head demurely, smiling. "Neither would I, sir," he said, his
dark eyes flashing to Avery's. The blonde boy's face had gone from red to
white so quickly that it looked like someone had flipped a switch. Tom's
smirk widened.
"Neither would I."

…It was simple, after that.

With the story out that Tom Riddle, the Slytherin house mudblood, was not
actually a mudblood at all, in combination with the more hushed rumor that
he had hexed a fifth year, Tom's rise to popularity was a swift one. With his
newfound, mysterious blood status, his obvious intellect, and his undeniable
skill at earning the house more points than any other first year by far, the
other Slytherins were soon approaching him, asking his opinion on matters,
seeking his companionship… Even Avery had come to him, apologizing for
snickering when Slughorn had said he was muggle-born…and Tom had
'forgiven' him with the strict instructions to never do it again.

It was not quite friendship, what he developed with his year mates, but
something more like a reverent following.

…Which was just fine with Tom Riddle.

The next memories that were shown were like snapshots of his life—Tom as
a second year, having praise lavished upon him nearly every Potions class,
Slughorn's new favorite… Tom Riddle in Defense Against the Dark Arts,
absurdly knowledgeable with curses that no one should have known,
especially not a third year, causing his house mates to cast him admiring
looks… Tom Riddle, star student who girls fawned over and boys admired…
Tom Riddle, transfiguring tortoises into tea pots with ease, and though he did
look impressed, Albus Dumbledore alone seemed unmoved by Tom's façade
of innocence…

Years in which he had been forced to return, every summer, to that horrible
place, to be dumped right back into the filthy, muggle world to which he did
not belong… One which was currently atwar, which resulted in meagre food
rations and more, recently orphaned children living there than the facility
could comfortably hold… It was horrible, to be reminded, viscerally, that this
was where he had come from, unlike his peers, who always discussed their
summer plans near the end of the school year, where they would be going
visiting, traveling with their family, staying in their luxurious vacation homes
in France and Italy and Spain…

They had made the mistake of asking Tom once what he'd planned to do
during the summer months. Tom's response had been so vague and icy that
they didn't dare bring it up again.

…It was his fifth year when everything changed.

The memory that appeared next showed Tom Riddle at fifteen years old,
prefect's badge gleaming on his robes (which were much nicer, now, as he
had become very proficient with tailoring charms). He'd smiled fondly when
he'd received his golden emblem in the mail that summer, grinning as he
recognized it as his first taste of power…officially.

Unofficially, Tom Riddle was the most influential person in Slytherin

House…and those who were in his closest circle were no longer referring to
him as 'Tom'…

But that was off the record.

As was his other quest, which he had been working tirelessly on ever since
he'd read of its potential existence in Hogwarts, a History, years prior.

The Chamber of Secrets.

Somehow, Tom just knew it was real.

He'd been searching for it diligently, and he was determined to locate it while
he was still a student at Hogwarts. At first, he had been searching in the
dungeons—surely the chamber would be deep underground, beneath the
castle. But after years of exploring every single stone passageway that existed
within Hogwarts, he had come to the conclusion that the entrance was
elsewhere.

During his fourth year, he had begun searching high rather than low. And
while he had yet to find the Chamber, he had found a fascinating room which
seemingly only appeared when it was needed. Tom had discovered it in a
vast, almost church-like corridor, and he was sure it only revealed itself to
him, as an heir of one of the castle's founders…

Mesmerizing as it had been, though, the Chamber of Secrets it was not. But
Tom was not deterred. There was still so much of the castle left to explore,
and maybe he was off yet again, and the entrance was not located high or
low, but somewhere on the first floor, instead.

It was during his fifth year in which he finally found it.

Yes, Tom Riddle at fifteen bore little resemblance to the small child he had
been when he'd first arrived at Hogwarts. He was tall, now, taller than most
of his classmates, even, and handsome, with dark, wavy hair and obsidian
eyes. With his poised stature and gleaming prefect's badge, Tom Riddle made
quite an impressive figure.

Girls noticed, too. Everywhere he went, they would giggle and whisper,
elbowing each other and waving when he passed. And he was the perfect
gentleman in response, though he did not, of course, have any actual interest
in any of them.

Romance was the furthest thing from Tom Riddle's mind. His thoughts were
largely divided between the two major tasks: Finding the Chamber…and
immortality.

And achieving perfect scores on all of his O.W.L.'s, of course. It had been a
stressful year, fifth.

This memory that was displayed before them now showed Tom at night, out
after hours, slipping along in the shadows with an unprecedented stealth. And
while he thought it far-fetched, that the entrance to the Chamber would be in
a girl's lavatory, he hadn't checked, yet, and well…he was starting to get
desperate.

But that was where it was.

He'd felt the pull towards it the moment he'd entered the bathroom—and
really, he'd thought, if he had been a girl, perhaps he would have discovered
it much sooner. The indescribable draw towards the sink was like a magnet,
and when he found the crudely rendered serpent on the porcelain, he knew
he'd finally found it.

"Open."

It did.

Tom peered warily with his lit wand down the tunnel…and then, after only a
moment's hesitation, plummeted down the hole.

Everyone watched as Tom slipped into the tunnel, hardly managing to keep
himself upright when he landed, quite gracelessly, on a dungeon floor. The
channel had been slippery and disgusting, coated in mud from years of
disuse, and when he emerged in the Chamber, it was to find himself
sufficiently disgusting.

The crowd laughed as the teenaged Tom wrinkled his nose at his own
appearance, disgruntled when he magicked away the grime from his clothes.
But his annoyance—and their laughter—was short-lived, for he had truly
found it… Tom explored the vast Chamber with a sense of wonder,
mesmerized by the miracle he had discovered…

And the rumored creature was waiting.

Tom summoned it with a parseltongue beckoning, and from within the depths
of Salazar Slytherin's stone mouth, it came to him…and though its eyes were
closed, Tom knew at once that they were vibrant and yellow behind its
unnatural, reptilian lids, and that it was a basilisk, his to command…

"Show me what you can do," he crooned to the massive beast as it undulated
around him, almost lovingly. "…Mudbloods only, of course."

And so it had.
That year, three students had been petrified. Tom knew, of course, that
basilisks could kill with a glance, but he also knew that this creature would
not kill unless specifically instructed to do so. And so it had shown him what
else it was capable of. That it could turn a man to stone, could make a mortal
lifeless and rigid as the statue of Slytherin within the Chamber of Secrets…

And Tom had been hesitant, at first, to instruct his monster to kill.

The world could say all that they wanted of Tom Riddle and his past, but the
truth was that killing had not been easy, not even for him, in the beginning.
He was fearful of death, of the permanence of it. It was why, of course, he
had already begun his obsessive research in the Restricted Section of the
library on the topic of horcruxes. He was fairly certain he knew how to make
one, too, after the prerequisite murder of an innocent… but he had yet to
attempt it, and was still, as a teenager, wary of murdering another human
being in general.

But when Myrtle Warren had been crying in the bathroom, when he'd
discovered her there, just as he had been about to open the Chamber again…

Well, he hadn't had a choice. He couldn't risk someone knowing of the

entrance, it was the only thing he could do…

And so they all watched as Tom stood there, the basilisk coiling at his side on
the tiled floor when Myrtle stormed out of the bathroom stall, about to yell at
him—

"Kill."

The basilisk opened its eyes, and Myrtle died on the spot.

It happened so quickly, so effortlessly. And even though it had not really

been he who had struck the blow, Tom felt the weight of her death on him
like a heavy, cold drape.

Tom kneeled at her side, fingers trembling as he processed what he had just
done—that he had officially ended a human life, that she was dead, and it
was because of him, and he stared into her glassy eyes feeling dazed and
mesmerized, disturbed and awed—

It truly dawned on him, then, how easy it was to die, how terrifyingly simple.
He brushed the hair out of her hollow eyes, looking into their blankness
through the lenses of her glasses, and was momentarily spellbound at how
she seemed to contain a sort of fragile beauty that she had never had in life.

Tom felt the darkness of her murder on his very soul, and knew that he was
one step closer to immortal life…but not then.

At that moment, he'd needed to leave, to get as far away from the body as
possible…

"Go back into the Chamber," he'd commanded the basilisk. The creature
instantly obeyed, ever compliant to the true Heir of Slytherin, and Tom left at
a brisk pace, his mind strangely vacant as a result of his first killing.

…The memory blurred, momentarily distorted until it refocused to show Tom

in Headmaster Dippet's office, pleading to stay at the castle over the
summer…and when he realized that they may close the school due to the
attacks, Tom Riddle had come to a difficult conclusion.

Rubeus Hagrid was framed, and it was a bit ludicrous, really, that such a
falsity was so easily believed. But Tom Riddle was convincing, and a prefect,
and so charming—the exact opposite of the half-giant with an illegal
Acromantula pet who no one wanted to believe, and the next thing they were
watching was Tom Riddle being awarded a shiny trophy for performing
special services to the school in the Great Hall… Everyone was applauding
graciously, Slughorn clapping loudest of all, elbowing Albus Dumbledore
playfully at how superior the students in his house were…

But Dumbledore alone remained unsmiling, his piercing eyes cold as they
stared at Tom suspiciously over his half-moon spectacles. Tom only grinned
more broadly when they made eye contact, winking.
They had both known. It was why Tom had decided, right then, that he could
not open the Chamber of Secrets again…for Albus Dumbledore was on to
him.

But he'd also decided that he would use Myrtle's death to create his very first
horcrux, and that he would do it soon. With some benign item, something
which could easily be slipped back into the castle, which another student
could carry around and go undetected so that his own soul could open the
Chamber at a future date, when Salazar Slytherin's cavernous secrets within
the castle were thought of as little more than myth again…

Someday…

"…Tom Riddle committed his first murder at just sixteen years old,"
Dumbledore said to a largely disturbed audience. "And managed to frame an
innocent man in the process. But with the inability to feel empathy, to
experience guilt, he was to go on to kill again, very, very soon…"

…The shimmering mist whirled about, until it became something dark and
ominous…

…Tom Riddle at sixteen years old, just weeks after the death of Myrtle
Warren…in Little Hangleton.

He had been enraged, truthfully, that he had been forced to return to the
orphanage that year. Tom had assumed that he would be allowed to stay at
Hogwarts since he had caught the culprit who was supposedly responsible for
the attacks (again, how everyone other than Dumbledore actually believed
that story so easily really was beyond him), that he would be able to remain
there, but no… He was shipped back to Wool's Orphanage, back to the
terrible, muggle filth…

Except for when he left, of course.

…Little Hangleton.

Tom found what remained of his Gaunt relatives in a deteriorating shack.

Morfin, his uncle, was more than a bit hostile, and it was only when Tom
spoke parseltongue to him that he calmed at all. His father, he finally learned,
was alive, and lived just down the road… A disgusting muggle, a rich,
pompous fool…

Tom had stupefied his uncle, taking his wand, and, when he saw it, the ring…
The ring, with the Peverell family crest…

He took them both, and left at once.

Riddle manor sat on top of a tall hill, its size both impressive and
intimidating. But Tom did not hesitate as he approached, fearlessly crossing
the threshold into his father's home.

…They were just sitting down to dinner when he'd arrived.

Tom froze when he saw them…three of them. He had not anticipated coming
across his grandparents as well, but there was no one else they could possibly
be. His father, and his father's parents… A family, a real family, in a
massive, beautiful home, with food that was not bland and little more than
sustenance. Everything that he, Tom, had never had, because this man before
him had abandoned him before he was even born.

This man who looked so much like him that it was beyond unnerving.

…There was a moment where he'd paused.

There was a second where Tom merely held his uncle's wand high, staring,
his hand shaking—where all of the questions he had buried so deeply in his
subconscious came roaring back to life—

Why did you leave my mother? Why did you let her die?

Why didn't you want me?

Why didn't you come looking for me, later?

Why didn't you care that you had a son?

Why? Why? Why?

His father's face contorted in unprecedented fear and revulsion when his eyes
zeroed in on the wand.

He knew.

This muggle knew that this was his son, and he knew that he was not simply
holding a mere stick above his head. That was recognition in those dark eyes,
and his father was both afraid of it and disgusted by it…by his magic.

By his might.

That expression was what did it more than anything. Tom didn't ask any of
his burning questions.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The killing curse, the very first time he had ever performed it, hit his father
right in the heart. His eyes went wide before he slumped forward in his seat,
dead in an instant.

His grandparents hadn't even had the chance to scream before Tom killed
them, too.

"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!"

He'd shouted the words, pale as he nonetheless performed the spell

flawlessly. His entire body was shaking afterwards, the after-effects of having
cast such powerful, dark magic not once, but three times, coursing through
him. Murder, real murder, death by his own hands… His father who had
never wanted him, and now he would never want anything ever again,
because death was so damning, so permanent…
Tom allowed himself one, emotionally drenched sob before forcing his mind
back to cold, rational thought.

Magic. He had performed very powerful magic, and soon…soon Ministry

officials would arrive, and…

He quickly returned to the shack.

"You did it," he breathed as he twisted Morfin's weak mind with ease,
altering his memory. Morfin blinked at him dolefully, nodding. "You
murdered them all… You are so proud…"

…His uncle was arrested later that day. The deteriorating shack would remain
empty forever, now.

That night, Tom laid on his too-small bed at the orphanage, unable to sleep.
He held the gold ring in his fingers reverently.

His muggle father's life would not be entirely useless, after all, he'd decided.

The ring, this ring…would be the second. And he knew exactly where he
would hide it, now, too.

The crowd was muttering darkly. Voldemort glanced at the Marauders as

they spoke quietly under their breaths, whispering things to each other…
Except Lily Evans, who remained unreadable, a regal, statuesque figure in the
center…

But Voldemort could tell that the hushed murmurings weren't all hostile.
While it could never be completely rationalized to these people, to kill, it
could at least be made…understandable. And Voldemort could see, now, that
this was precisely what Dumbledore was doing. Reminding them that Tom
Riddle could not love, then, could not feel guilt for what he had done…

His tasted bile, acidic and sour, on the back of his throat. What was going to
happen, if they decided not to 'help' him, after all? If they did not feel he was
worthy of a chance at 'redemption'?

…What was going to happen if they decided that he was?

"Tom Riddle knew at a young age that he was going to create horcruxes,
physical items in which one can place a fragment of his or her soul, in order
to obtain immortality," Dumbledore said. "Horcruxes are horrendously dark
objects; the discussion of which was essentially banned at Hogwarts…though
that did not prevent Tom Riddle from attempting to glean some information
from his then Head of House…"

…The cloud of glittering gray formed into a new scene.

Sixteen, and Tom and Slughorn's other favored students were enjoying a nice
get together in his office, chatting amicably. The clock chimed behind him,
making them all turn round as they realized just how late it was.

But Tom lingered, after the rest of the boys filed out of the room, one by one.

It was a moment he'd been working towards for weeks. He was fairly certain,
at this point, of the process for making a horcrux, of how to split his soul…
but before he did it, he wanted to ask, to see if Professor Slughorn could
possibly know something that he did not… He was, after all, a very
experienced man, much more intelligent that he often let on… He wanted to
hear his thoughts, before he committed…

But Slughorn had disappointed him. He'd merely looked horrified when Tom
had mentioned the idea of splitting one's soul into seven pieces.

He'd known, then, that this caliber of powerful Magic was beyond anything
that even wizards as well-traveled and knowledgeable as Slughorn would
entertain. He was entering into Dark, unexplored territory, with the creation
of more than one horcrux…
But Lord Voldemort was unafraid.

…The diary was first.

He was still sixteen when he did it, down in the depths of the Chamber of
Secrets…and it had been easier than he'd anticipated, to conceal his
fractioned soul within the pages of the black book. The memory of the death
of Myrtle Warren had simmered to the forefront of his mind, and her murder
broke his soul apart like a sharp, sinister blade. Oddly painless. He wondered
if that was something unique to him, if it would have been a horrible
experience, for someone burdened by emotion which he was incapable of…

…It had been even easier the second time.

The diary. The ring.

Lord Voldemort…was rising.

"Tom Riddle had not even completed his education at Hogwarts before he'd
fractured his soul twice," Dumbledore narrated, his voice dark. "By the time
he was to finish his last year at school, he had successfully created a tight-
knit group of peers who thought themselves his friends but were little more
than followers, pureblooded wizards who shared his ideologies and were
devoted to his cause of magical supremacy…who believed that muggle-borns
were lesser, and that non-magical people were nothing but filth…"

The muggles behind him hissed and booed. Voldemort sunk lower into his
seat, wondering how reiterating that particular point was supposed to be
helping his cause.

But Dumbledore didn't look at him, only waved his arm towards the gray,
glistening fog until a new vision emerged…

…Tom Riddle was eighteen, nearing the end of his time at Hogwarts as a
student. He was the epitome of power for a student of Slytherin House—
Head Boy, top of his class, taller and more handsome than ever before. His
charm and charisma was palpable, even in a memory, and the boys gathered
around him were obviously deferential.

They were in the common room, alone. It was late at night as Tom, currently
referred to as 'my Lord', by his closest, sat around a table, clearly in the midst
of an important conversation.

"…Grindelwald…is a problem."

Even exhausted-looking as he was, Tom Riddle was stunning. He was

currently drumming his fingers along the table, his brows furrowed in
thought.

"…But…but his regime closely resembles our own, my Lord—"

"Yes, I am perfectly aware of Grindelwald's regime, thank you, Lestrange,"

Tom snapped. Lestrange instantly withered at his spiteful tone.

For a moment, they were all silent, unwilling to interrupt their leader's clearly
intense internal dialogue. "…Grindelwald is becoming too powerful. He
needs to be stopped, and soon."

Avery, who was sitting to his left, gaped in disbelief. "Are you… You're not
saying that you—that we should—"

"Don't be stupid," Tom seethed, cutting him off maliciously. "We are young,
we are few, we are not even graduated, and Grindelwald has an entire army
fighting in his name… We are rising… And when we come to power, we
want it to be to a magical society that is lulled into a false sense of security
after years of peace, not one that has been hardened by war. Besides, I want
to build myown empire, not usurp someone else's inferior throne. No, this
Dark Lord must be stopped, and there is only one man who can end Gellert
Grindelwald. Everyone knows it, too, the whole wizarding world is aware…"

"…Dumbledore," Lestrange muttered scornfully.

"Dumbledore," Tom agreed. "…He receives countless owls, there have been
jabs in The Daily Prophet, even Slughorn has been accosting him, urging him
to act, and yet he does not go… I admit that it baffles me. To ignore the pleas
of so many, someone so noble… There is something much more to this story,
there is some kind of connection between Dumbledore and Grindelwald that
is preventing him from going to destroy him… They are of the same age;
perhaps they were familiars… Perhaps they have a history…"

Tom trailed off thoughtfully. His peers waited on baited breath for him to
speak next.

"Maybe…maybe he needs a different kind of push. The words of old men

and crass reporters have not yet swayed him, but…" His weary face broke out
into a devious grin. The others brightened at this, for it was an expression
they all knew very well.

Tom Riddle had a plan.

"Nott," Tom said, turning towards a boy with dark hair and watery, blue eyes.
"What department does your father work in at the Ministry, again?"

"The Department of International Magical Cooperation, my Lord," Nott

answered at once.

"That's what I thought. Good." Tom's smirk widened. The others leaned
forward in anticipation.

"This is what we are going to do."

…The vision dissipated, a new scene surfacing seconds later…

It was transfiguration class. Tensions were high, and Voldemort could feel
the anxiety even through the memory—they were practicing the kind of
practical spells which were most likely to be on their N.E.W.T.'s, complex
work in which they needed to be able to transform complicated, living
creatures into other, complicated, living creatures. They focused that day on
turning cats into peacocks and back again.

Nott was staring at his cat with a manic intensity, his wand arm shaking. Just
as Dumbledore was walking past, he pointed his wand at the brown tawny. It
screeched, sprouting a brilliant tail and beak only, becoming some kind of
angry and frightened hybrid creature.

"Here, Alexander, let me help you…I think your wrist movement was off…"
Tom put a hand on his shoulder, but Nott bristled at the touch.

"Oh, what's the point!" he shouted, causing his cat-bird to squabble and fan
out its tail. "I can't do it, I can't do anything—there's no point to any of this-
this stupidity!"

Nott shoved the poor creature off his desk before he grabbed his bag, shoving
his wand in his pocket and storming out of the classroom, sobbing as he
went.

Silence sounded in his wake. "Ah, you'll have to excuse him, Professor,"
Tom murmured. "His father, who works in the Ministry, just wrote him the
other day… Supposedly there is a rumor flying about that Grindelwald is
going to march on Godric's Hollow, and he has family there, you see…"

He spoke lowly, like he was trying to be discreet...but was purposefully just

loud enough that Rebecca Silverstein, a Ravenclaw girl who he knew actually
did have family in Godric's Hollow, could hear.

"Did you say Godric's Hollow?" she shrieked, paling. Her own peacock
squawked as she accidentally poked it in the eye with her wand. "My aunt
and cousins live there! And her husband—he's a muggle-born—I have to owl
her, right away—"

"What? Grindelwald is attacking England?"

"Oh my God, West Country? My sister is there on work, she's going to be

there for weeks!"
The pandemonium was escalating at a perilous velocity as students began
panicking, their cats and peacocks getting away from them. "I suppose that,
for once, I am the luckiest one here," Tom murmured. He glanced at
Dumbledore, his expression icy.

"…I have no family to worry about."

The blood drained from Dumbledore's face. Tom gathered up his things. "If
you don't mind, sir? I think Alexander could use some comfort…"

"Of course," Dumbledore responded hollowly, granting him permission to

leave.

Tom fled the classroom and its frightened occupants, grinning as he heard the
sounds of his distressed Professor, attempting to quell the chaos…

He found Nott in the library, just as they'd planned. His eyes lit up
expectantly. "Well? How did it go?"

"Excellent. Flawless acting," Tom said, beaming. "The class is in total chaos,
I think Silverstein may have even started crying."

Nott shared his malevolent smile, his chest swelling in pride at his Lord's
praise. Tom's eyes were glittering in mirth.

"I'd be shocked if he hasn't gone by the end of the day."

…And he had been right.

The next memory they watched was days later, once Albus Dumbledore had
returned to Hogwarts, triumphant in his prestigious duel against Gellert
Grindelwald.

The Great Hall erupted into applause when he arrived; thunderous, deafening
approval. Tom Riddle and his closest grinned knowingly at each other,
cheering louder than any of them.

"Our path is clear," Tom muttered before whistling loudly. When

Dumbledore caught his eye, the future Dark Lord's smile was dazzling.

…The memory vanished, leaving behind a sheet of silver and gray.

Dumbledore—the current one, standing directly in front of him—was looking

at him with an annoyed expression on his face.

"What?" Voldemort snapped. "That was a noble thing I did, there."

"For the wrong reasons, Tom."

"It was for the greater good."

Dumbledore sighed and turned away. "…And so Tom Riddle graduated from
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…though he did try to stay."

Voldemort glowered. Was it necessary, to show everyone the way in which

Dippet had denied his request to remain at Hogwarts and teach? Apparently it
was, for Dumbledore was doing just that. The plumes of silver brought forth
a new scene…

"I appreciate your enthusiasm for education, I really do, Tom," Dippet was
saying amicably. "But usually our teachers are a bit older. Surely you
understand the strange dynamic that would create, to be less than a year older
than some of your students?"

Tom smiled thinly. "But the position I am interested in is open now, sir," he
said. "And I am more than capable of teaching anyone. My age should not be
a discriminating factor. I received top marks in all of my O.W.L.'s and
N.E.W.T.'s. I would be an excellent instructor in Defense Against the Dark
Arts, I assure you."

Dippet furrowed his brows, considering him…but then shook his head. "I
have no doubt that you would be excellent, Tom, but I digress. Apply for a
teaching position in a few years, once you've gained a bit more experience."

Tom's smile vanished. His obsidian eyes flashed dangerously, and it looked
like he was about to yell—but his sinister expression was fleeting. He stood.

"Very well," Tom said. "Perhaps in a few years, then."

And then, with a curt nod, Tom left, leaving a somewhat frazzled Dippet
behind.

…The Headmaster's office disappeared.

Dumbledore stepped forward again. "So Tom was denied the ability to stay at
Hogwarts and, no doubt, recruit future followers there. And though he easily
could have gone on to work at the Ministry of Magic and scale the political
ladder, Tom Riddle was not interested in such things. Instead, he opted for
employment at Borgin and Burkes, a shop in Knockturn Alley with a focus
on dark, magical artifacts…"

And Dumbledore showed that, too….

Tom Riddle, while he was working in Knockturn Alley, exceptionally skilled

at getting witches and wizards to part with their things… And a large part of
his job was going out to potential seller's homes, to see their collections and
to ask for what price they were willing to sell…

The cup.

The locket.

…Hepzibah Smith.

That murder had been a real turning point for Tom Riddle.

Killing Myrtle had been easy, because he had not actually been the one to do
it. It was one thing to say 'kill' and then have it happen, it was quite another to
point the wand and feel that flow of power, to watch the light fade from
another's eyes.

His father… He had deserved it. His father had abandoned him, he had
deserved to die at his hands…

But Hepzibah Smith, while unpleasant, was completely innocent.

Murdering her and framing her house elf simply because she had come into
possession of something he wanted was the point of no return for Tom
Riddle. He'd felt something before he'd done it,something… Not guilt, but
some nagging sensation that was not…good.

But after he'd sealed another portion of his shattered soul within the locket…

It was much easier, after the creation of his third horcrux. Killing.

He didn't feel anything when he ended another's life, after that.

…Tom murdered a homeless woman when he made the cup. A muggle. She'd
had eyes that stared in opposite directions. He felt nothing at all when she
crumpled into a pile of lifeless limbs in a back alley in London.

Tom Riddle took his horcruxes and disappeared.

…The memory vanished…

"Now this," Dumbledore said, speaking over the crowd which had begun
muttering animatedly, "is where I am really curious, Tom…"

Everyone was staring at him with intense expressions. The Marauders were
leaning forward with their elbows on the table in front of them, and Lily
Evans was tilting her head, looking genuinely inquisitive.

"Where did you go?"

 39. The Life and Lies of Tom Riddle: Part II
…

Tom Riddle went everywhere.

He'd known long before he graduated that leaving the country was inevitable.
And truly, it was something he both wanted and needed to do. Tom had his
sights set on England first, yes, Hogwarts and its picturesque, Scottish
landscape being his first home, his real home…but his vision went beyond
that.

The United Kingdom, all of Europe…the entire world would be his.

But before he left, Tom first made certain that he'd gathered all of the items
associated with the Hogwarts founders that were to be found.

It was why he had taken the job at Burgin and Burkes in the first place. Tom
had known that if such valuable, precious artifacts existed, they would be in
the homes of the richest and most well-to-do wizarding families…and he had
been correct. Or correct enough, at least. The locket and the cup had been in
the very same household, and the day that Hephzibah Smith had shown him
both had been better than striking gold.

But he had no such luck in any of the other lavish manors he'd visited. The
sword of Gryffindor had remained elusive.

But the diadem…

Tom had already known that the diadem was not in England.

It was in Albania.

As it turned out, Tom Riddle was just as good at charming ghosts as he was
people, and the Grey Lady—Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter—had admitted
its existence and location to him during their very first conversation. For Tom
had known who she was…his knowledge on the Hogwarts' Founders and
their histories being as in-depth as it was.

The very first place Tom Riddle had planned on traveling to was Albania.
But first, he knew that the security of his current horcruxes was of utmost
importance. He had several ideal locations for hiding them, of course, the
first of which was Hogwarts. But he had already botched that—Tom Riddle
had, admittedly, arrogantly, assumed that he would get the teaching position
he'd applied for, and would therefore have ample opportunities for storing a
horcrux there. But he'd been wrong, and the castle was, then, untouchable…

But there were other places…

The silvery mist in the middle of the Hall glittered and swirled, forming into
a memory for all to see.

…The Gaunt shack was the first location Tom Riddle returned to. Dear Uncle
Morfin had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, after all, and so Tom knew
that no one would be returning to the deteriorating building. He doubted
anyone even knew it existed…other than a few muggles who lived in the
area, perhaps.

Feeling as though it was a secure place, Tom decided to place three of his
horcruxes there, under the most powerful and effective protective
enchantments he could create. The diary, the cup, and the ring. Eventually, he
would move two of them—he did not like the idea of having three in one
location—but it was a temporary arrangement, and one which he felt secure
about.

The locket, however…

He had felt much more attached to the locket.

It had belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself, after all… And his own
mother… She had once worn this precious silver, she had held it with hands
that were warm and alive…

That inanimate object was the closest that Tom had ever been to her.

And she had been so unaware of its value! So much so that she sold it for a
mere pittance, if Hepzibah Smith's words held any weight. His mother had
not known its worth, much like she, undoubtedly, had not know her own
worth… Merope had sold it in desperation while pregnant… To the very man
he happened to be employed under, at the time.

Once he'd learned that, Tom hadn't bothered informing Caractacus Burke that
he would not be coming into work the next day.

…Or ever again.

How different would his life had been, he wondered, if his mother had
survived? If he had grown up with someone who cared for him, knowing of
and learning about the magical society to which he so rightfully belonged?
Someone to teach him, to love him…?

Would he have been an entirely different person? Would he have understood

paintings about betrayal and affection, would he have felt that same emotion
he had seen but not understood on the faces of the other children?

Would he have been better…or weaker?

Was Merope Gaunt's death a blessing or a curse?

It would have been easy, to blame his upbringing on her death, to be bitter
towards the woman he had never met. And for his entire childhood, he had. It
was not until he learned that it was hisfather who had destroyed her that
Tom's feelings had changed. His muggle father had turned his back and left
Merope Gaunt weakened and alone…

It was his fault. It was the muggles who had killed Salazar Slytherin's female
heir, and subsequently sentenced her son to the life of an unwanted orphan.
The memory showed Tom Riddle, holding the heavy charm reverently in his
hands and looking deeply contemplative…though Lord Voldemort alone
knew exactly what torrid thoughts were whirling in his young mind, at the
time. He had not wanted to place the artifact which belonged to his own
blood there, in the Gaunt shack, even if it was where his mother had once
lived. Those dilapidated walls and roof had not been a home to her, much like
the orphanage had never been a home to him. No, he wanted the locket
somewhere else, somewhere better, where it could rest by itself…and as
Hogwarts was not currently an option…

Seemingly resigned, Tom Riddle disapparated. He appeared again, seconds

later, in the familiar landscape in the cave by the sea. A place no one—save
for Amy and Dennis, he supposed—knew about.

He smiled in the darkness, fondly reminiscing over his own fascinating

display of power when he'd tormented those two muggle children. He thought
Salazar might have liked that.

Tom hid the cherished item in on the island in the center of the lake, hidden
by more of his complex enchantments. Someday, he vowed, staring deeply
into the dark, glass-like waters of the cove, he would fill the lake with his
victims. He would make it a sea of the undead. Muggle corpses to guard his
wizarding treasure, a temple of his magical might.

…Yes, Salazar certainly would have approved.

Feeling satisfied for the time being, Tom Riddle disapparated once more,
leaving England and his hidden ties to immortality behind.

…The silvery haze in the middle of the Hall swirled, forming into a different
memory…

…Tom Riddle was nineteen years old, wandering through a thick, dense
forest…but the vision was an especially odd one, as it appeared as though the
teenage boy was navigating, quite effectively, with his eyes closed. He was
murmuring a stream of incomprehensible words under his breath. It was not
parseltongue, but it was not English, either—though several snakes did seek
him out, following along behind him. They were always doing that, his
serpentine friends, and Tom never had the heart to tell them to go away. He
enjoyed their company, truth be told. They were a reminder of who he was
descended from, after all. So he just let them glide alongside him; a hissing,
serpentine guard.

Tom continued to mutter enchantments as he moved through the woods,

finding his way by magic alone. His wand was held in front of him like a
compass, pulling him this way, and then that…

It did not go on very long. Tom was exceptionally skilled at sensing magical
energy.

He paused. The handsome, if a bit sweaty and disheveled, young man placed
his hand upon a seemingly average tree. The moment his palm touched the
bark, Tom's face broke out into a gleeful grin. It was a kind of manic joy that
did not enhance his features, but, somehow, made him look less human…

Without hesitation, Tom reached into a small hole in the side of the wood, a
gap just large enough to fit his arm into. He struggled for a moment,
reaching, searching…

His face brightened. Tom pulled his arm out again, and there, in his hand…

"Hello, beautiful," he murmured. A dazzling diadem of silver and sapphires

glittered back at him, a bit tarnished, but otherwise undamaged.

…Tom Riddle killed an Albanian peasant for the creation of that horcrux, and
the murder was a much easier feat than finding the item itself had been.

When his soul fractured for the fourth time, the young, dark wizard felt
nothing at all.
For the time being, Tom had left the diadem right where he'd found it, back in
that same hollow tree. It had, after all, remained untouched there for
centuries, thought to be lost to time…

But Tom Riddle knew that he would move it someday. The forests of Albania
meant nothing to him.

He wanted one horcrux in Gringotts…but he would not place one there until
he had acquired a follower who was nothing but subservient, nothing but
loyal… Not one of his peers, but someone else with an ancient family vault.
Someone who would meet him and know him only as Lord Voldemort, at his
height of power…

He wanted one in Hogwarts…but not until he could reenter the castle without
raising any suspicion. He would wait to place one there when he had a just
reason to return…

The diary he would eventually entrust to one of his more powerful, influential
followers… One with a child, to fit with his future plans of reopening the
Chamber…

The cup for Gringotts, this diadem for Hogwarts. The ring to remain in the
shack, where he had initially stolen it from his uncle, the locket in the cave…
And, someday, when he finally located the artifact of Gryffindor, Godric's
sword… He did not yet have a location in mind for that one, but he would
think of somewhere fitting.

But once he found it, he would be complete. Six horcruxes. His immortal
soul in seven pieces. The most powerful, magical number.

All in good time.

…The memory disappeared, replaced by clouds of gray. Dumbledore looked

unsurprised at Tom Riddle's first ventures after he had disappeared, but the
Marauders were eyeing each other in what was obvious, ill-concealed
astonishment. That was hardly surprising, though. Only a teenager, and Tom
Riddle had found three out of four of the supposedly lost, priceless artifacts
that so many experienced wizards and witches had wasted their lives
searching for.

As if reading his mind, Dumbledore spoke. "Only nineteen years old, and
Tom Riddle had accomplished feats that no one else had. Impressive things,
terrible things… He had murdered in cold blood more than once, creating
horcruxes from their lives out of priceless items that he deemed worthy as
vessels for his soul. And for years, no one heard of Tom Riddle. It was a
great mystery—though I did, personally, hear whispers. I am rather interested
to see if the rumors hold a candle to the truth."

Voldemort glared; he did not want anyone to witness what it was he had
spent his time accomplishing while he was still young and learning...but that
was what was happening. Knowing by now that there was very little he could
do about it, Voldemort sank further into his seat, hating his current existence.

…Tom Riddle was nineteen, still…and he was in Canada.

That may have seemed like a strange place to travel to after his brief stint in
Albania, but Tom had found it the prefect location. He craved solitude, time
to focus on developing skills that he could learn and keep to himself.

Tom wanted to study the natural world. He needed a reprieve from people,
with their complicated lives and exhausting emotions. He had always had
much better relationships with animals and other forms of life than he had
with humans. Snakes, of course, but any creature was preferable to most
people.

More than likely, this was due to the fact that Tom Riddle, personally, had
the emotional range of a teaspoon. Lust, envy, frivolous anxiety, sympathy,
empathy, pity—confusing, complicated hormones—nearly all of it stemming
from love, or something like it…
He found all of it nauseating. Animals were so much simpler, so much easier.
And Tom, naturally, enjoyed the magical ones the most.

The deep forest of northern Canada was exactly where he wanted to go.

The Taiga, otherwise known as the snow forest, was the largest biome on
Earth apart from the oceans. And the boreal forests of Canada to which he
ventured were home to the largest population of wild thestrals.

The memory showed Tom Riddle, nineteen years old and walking in a
shadowy forest that was just beginning to awaken to the beauty of spring. He
had been observing one particular band of thestrals for a long time. They
were similar to the ones in the Forbidden Forest which the newly appointed
and idiotic 'Gamekeeper' was attempting to tame (how in Merlin's name
Dumbledore had persuaded anyone that the half-giant student who had
supposedly let a murderous acromantula loose in the castle should be the
Gamekeeper was a bigger mystery that Salazar's chamber, if you asked Tom).
The skeletal creatures were wild in every sense of the word…and
immediately wary of the foreign human in their forest.

But Tom was patient, smart, and cunning. He earned their trust slowly,
leaving them fresh kills as gifts and never imposing unwisely onto their
sleeping grounds…all the while observing in them the skill which he hoped
to acquire for himself.

Flying.

Those fascinating beings associated with death did not fly with their wings,
no… Tom had noticed that the very first time he'd watched them pull the
carriages at Hogwarts. He had been able to see them that same year, after his
murder of Myrtle Warren… He had seen the fragile beauty of death in her
vacant eyes, and understood…

Thestrals did not use their muscles to take flight. In fact, they hardly beat
their wings at all. No, they did not use force like a bird or a hippogriff…

They used magic.

And if a magical creature could utilize their energy to make their own bodies
defy gravity…then Tom Riddle could, too.

The memory showed him in that pivotal moment, after he had spent over a
month earning their trust, their affection, even…

Tom Riddle was shirtless, standing in a clearing next to a shimmering lake.

His arms and torso were covered in a thin layer of his own blood which he
had shed in order to draw them out. He held his hands out on either side,
quite fearlessly, keeping his wand concealed in his back pocket. The thestrals
emerged from the trees around him, their reptilian heads coming forth from
the shadows of the tall pines, their eyes white and staring…

Tom had thought them the most beautiful creatures.

The band of dark creatures tentatively approached the strange, harmless

human who had been living in their midst. Tom kept walking towards the
lake as they licked at his skin, lapping up his blood lure. He could feel it,
then. That unique magic coursing through them, that energy which shielded
them from more naïve eyes and which allowed them to float like phantoms…

The audience, even the Marauders at the front table, watched in silent awe.
To the untrained eye, it looked as though this blood-stained man and his
following of adoring, skeletal horses of death was walking on water…but in
reality, the young Dark Lord was learning to fly…

"…Truthfully, Tom," Dumbledore muttered quietly, sounded respectfully

impressed.

"Your life would have made a much more interesting book than mine."

…The scene changed…

…
Tom Riddle, months later…and he was in the Midwest of North America.

Tornado Alley they called it, and with good reason. Tom had been listening to
the weather reports for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment. And in this
memory, Tom finally knew when and where to be. The young Dark Lord
traveled to the state of Illinois…to chase a storm.

Both magical and muggle sources were saying that it would be a twister of
epic proportions. A tornado for the history books, wind speeds that would
surely break world records. It was expected to hit the countryside, far from
any major cities or towns, but those who did live within a specific
geographical distance were told to evacuate.

Yes, muggles, witches and wizards were fleeing the area in fearful
anticipation…but Tom Riddle was heading straight towards it.

It was supposed to be the storm of the century…

And Tom Riddle wanted to ride.

The memory formed to show him standing alone in a flat and largely empty
landscape. Soybean fields and grass as far as the eye could see, leaving the
vast expanse of sky clearly visible. It was currently a deep, unnatural emerald
color—the green hue that notoriously proceeded a tornado.

And the winds were a promise of that, too. Tom Riddle's hair and clothes
were being swept to one side, and he grinning so broadly it bordered on
manic. The young wizard was bouncing on the balls of his feet, fidgeting, and
he was even biting his tongue in overenthusiastic expectation.

Why, he looked just as excited as any young, twenty-something year old

male when they were about to do something reckless and stupid.

Reckless and stupid. Words which were not often used to describe Tom
Riddle at any point in his life, but, well, not even Dark Lords can resist the
urge to have some fun…
And flying…

Tom had been getting very good at it. The sensation of personal
weightlessness felt nothing at all like using a broom. It was indescribable, the
ability to literally look down at the world and know that he was above it all…

It was intoxicating. It was thrilling. And Tom wanted to see just how far he
could push his limits.

Maybe he wouldn't have been so willing to try riding the winds of a torrential
tornado, had it not been for his horcruxes. But as he had no less than five ties
to immortality already in place…

Tom Riddle could not die. If he became injured, he'd mused, he would be
able to heal himself… Unless he became so injured that his body was in
pieces. But then he still could not die, could not become that broken…
Though Tom supposed that depended on the power of his horcruxes in the
first place. He did not know what would happen, if his body were utterly
destroyed, he could not be sure…

Well, he'd thought darkly, no matter how it went, he was sure to learn
something by the end of the day…

Reckless. And stupid.

The tornado appeared.

It was a literal, visible cone of rapid winds, a sinister funnel of airstreams. A

dangerous twister in the distance, and Tom could not have looked more
pleased at how massive it was. The young Dark Lord waited on bated breath
as it came closer. The static in the air was tangible, sizzling in his blood like
electricity. When it was finally so near that he felt his body being lifted by the
natural winds alone, Tom jumped.

The currents swept him away.

…It was most embarrassing to watch.

Not because he was bad, not because he was untalented or unable to navigate
the windy streams with his might…but because of his youthful, idiotic
behavior. Lord Voldemort was shaking his head as everyone watched his past
self's very boyish, unsophisticated theatrics.

For it had been amazing.

It was easily one of the most incredible experiences of his life, those first few
minutes of riding the invisible streams of a twister. The memory showed him
grinning like a fool, soaring through the turbulent storm with his arms held
wide. Tom Riddle was laughing and hollering and gliding along at a
breakneck speed, tearing across the air so quickly that it would put the most
quality, top-of-the-line brooms to shame.

Once he had really got going, he had even started doing tricks, just to see if
he could. Tom Riddle was summersaulting in mid-air, doing back-flips and
front-flips, turning in circles and diving down into the center of the twister,
just to come shooting back up again, faster than ever—

And then he caught something.

A small, black speck had come barreling towards him. At the time, Tom had
thought it a rock or twig. He instinctually reached out and caught it, making
himself think briefly that, had something as pointless as Quidditch ever
interested him, Tom Riddle would have made a fine Seeker.

But it was not a pebble, nor a branch. It was a bird.

And it was alive.

Tom laughed as he held it in his hands, a tiny, young, living raven. It opened
its beak to make a sound, but the subsequent 'peep' was instantly stolen away
by the fierce airstreams.

"Silly bird!" Tom yelled, his own voice—as well as the rest of his body—
being protected by a shield of magic. "This is no weather for fledglings to be
out and about!"
The bird merely stared at him, a captive in his life-saving hands. Tom
grinned, in far too good a mood to simply drop it and let it be swallowed by
the storm. "Well, if you must!"

Tom frowned for a moment as he concentrated, forcing his own magic to

imbibe the tiny raven as well. The fledgling blinked when the foreign energy
coursed through it, warming its feathers and rendering it capable of
withstanding the powerful winds. When Tom released it, it fluttered quite
proficiently at his side, and when the little bird trilled, its musical note was
clearly audible.

"Come along, then!" Tom shouted, beaming at his new avian companion.
"Stick with me, and you'll be safe!"

And so, for the rest of his time soaring through the turbulent air, Tom
Riddle's solo flight became a duet.

Reckless.

Appalling Gryffindor behavior if Lord Voldemort had ever seen it… A

sentiment which seemed to be shared by James Potter, if the way his eyes
were gleaming in envy while he watched were any indication.

Voldemort mentally berated himself in that moment, glad that James Potter—
the father of his obsession, whom he had murdered—was currently too
focused on the memory of Tom Riddle to notice the current Dark Lord's
glances…because Voldemort just couldn't help it. His gaze kept wandering to
his face, drinking in the sight of him and his mannerisms, because he looked
so much like Harry, so much like him.

…Stupid.

Voldemort scowled, focusing once more on the memory from his own past…
which was about to turn into disaster.

...The youthful Dark Lord's frivolous fun came to a very abrupt end.
Lightning flashed above Tom Riddle and his fledgling friend, sudden and
sharp. And with it, harsh rain that fell in sheets. Without warning, the tornado
had, indeed, turned into the storm which had been promised by all news
sources.

Tom's face quickly fell into one of apprehension. He grabbed the twittering
bird and shoved it into his inner his pocket before reaching for his wand. The
winds were too strong, now, it was too difficult to see with the slew of water
falling from the cloudy, emerald sky—Tom opened his mouth, about to cast a
shielding charm—

His wand was ripped from his hand.

There was a split second where, in the memory, Tom Riddle's expression was
quite comical…in hindsight. His face was so blank, so utterly disbelieving.
Lord Voldemort remembered very clearly what he had been thinking in that
moment:

That did not just happen. I did not just drop my wand in the middle of a
tornado. I imagined that.

Tom had even reached back into his pocket, like he might have a do-over. A
distraught, fledgling raven warbled back at him.

It went downhill very quickly, after that.

Tom Riddle, wandless and defenseless, was caught in the storm. He couldn't
see, he was forced to blindly follow along with the currents of the twister,
which were becoming ever more violent as time went on—lightning flashed
and thunder roared, and they must have been approaching some kind of
forest, now, for large twigs and braches had begun to swirl with him, caught
in the cyclone, and it was all he could do to avoid being hit—

Tom feared the worst. He thought he would be reduced to a pile of broken

limbs, incapable of putting himself back together. And what kind of immortal
life would that have been? He was beginning dread that he may actually find
out.
For he was becoming drained. Tom could not maintain the ability to fly
indefinitely, it was both magically and physically exhausting. He barely
dodged another large branch, panting and weak, knowing he could not keep it
up forever. The irrevocable, unwanted truth fully crashed over him:

Tom Marvolo Riddle could not outlast the storm.

Then, just as he thought all was lost, his eyes fluttered shut.

The young Dark Lord transcended.

Voldemort shifted in his seat, leaning forward eagerly. This was actually
something he was curious to see. For this had been the moment where he had
blacked out entirely, and he'd never quite figured out what it was he had
done.

Tom Riddle's head tilted back. He exhaled slowly and purposefully…and his
breath came out as a visible puff of air; icy, like frost… The chilly droplets of
frozen moisture grew, flowing from his lips in a continuous stream that
should have been impossible, for no normal man's lungs could hold so much
oxygen…

But Tom Riddle was no normal man.

The cool breath swirled in circles, infecting the turbulent streams. All around
him, the droplets of rain and the air began to freeze, forming spiraling tendrils
of ice that shone like ribbons of crystals. Gradually they grew, until the rain
was no longer, and the entire cyclone was completely still. A stationery,
mesmerizing twister of glass.

The audience was ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the sheer beauty of it all. Even
Voldemort was moderately impressed at his own unintentional skill.

Tom Riddle, with his eyes still closed and back arched, hovered in the center
of the frozen cyclone, eerily motionless. He then slowly and gently began to
fall to the ground…
…Until he was about ten feet above the torn-up soil.

He must have run out completely, then. Tom's reserves of magical energy
must have run completely dry, for just as he was nearing the ground at a safe
pace, his body dropped like a rock. His back hit the ground with a sickening
thud, and even though it was memory, everyone, Voldemort included,
flinched at the sudden impact.

No wonder he had been in such pain, afterwards.

The crystalline, radial loops of ice dissipated, melting away in a hazy mist.
The droplets of air evaporated in a cloud of moisture, rising up into the air
until there was nothing left.

Tom Riddle, passed out on the ground, had tamed the storm.

For a few moments, it was quiet. The sky had shifted from its previous,
ominous green to a benign blue, bright and cheery with a few puffy, white
clouds. The winds were gone and the world was still.

Then the front of Tom's tattered robes began moving.

The bird. The raven fledgling came scrambling out of his pocket, feathers
ruffled but otherwise unharmed. It tweeted loudly in Tom's face once, twice.
Three times, and no reaction from the unconscious, young Dark Lord, who
looked very much like he was dead. The relentless bird then hopped onto his
face, where it began to pull at his hair. Hard.

That garnered a reaction. Tom's eyes flew open, his entire body twitching as
his arm flew up. The raven squawked indignantly at being batted at and
fluttered away.

Tom's chest was heaving in shock, pain coursing through him which each
labored breath. He tried to push himself up, only to find that his muscles
ached excruciatingly. Several times he tried, but he simply could not do it.

Sighing, Tom gave up. Never had he been so drained and exhausted. He
stared up into the no-longer emerald sky, which looked so peaceful, now...
And there, that bird… The fledgling he had rescued was flying away, getting
smaller by the second…

Tom watched it go, feeling disoriented. As he followed the raven with his
eyes, he was met with a very lovely and unexpected sight. A rainbow. Two of
them, in fact. Twin arches or color decorated the cerulean sky, where there
had once been a fierce tempest of green, destructive wrath…

His wand.

The startling realization that he had dropped his wand hit him with a crushing
force. Tom, unable to stand, looked frantically to one side, then the other—

He gaped. There, no more than ten feet away, sticking up out of the dirt, quite
serendipitously…was his beautiful, yew wand. Completely undamaged, like
it was just waiting there for him to come and get it.

What were the odds that it had not snapped in half? That the winds had not
broken it and scattered the pieces across all of Illinois?

The battered wizard extended his arm out towards it, beckoning his wand to
come soaring back to his fingers. It was a simple bit of magic that he had
always been able to accomplish, even when he was just eleven years old…

Nothing. Tom reached and reached, screwing up his face in concentration,

but the long, thin strip of yew ignored his bid. Ostentatiously so.

But it was there, and it was intact, and so was he…

The relief that swept through him at this most welcome of outcomes made
him suddenly giddy. And even the fact that he could not so much as summon
his own wand had him feeling oddly…amused. Tom closed his eyes and
laughed.

He laughed harder and more joyously than he had ever laughed in his entire
life, and he had never laughed like that since. It didn't matter that it hurt his
broken ribs so painfully, once he'd started, he couldn't stop. The young, dark
wizard was high on adrenaline and endorphins and sheer life.

Tom Riddle looked back up to the sky with its rainbows and sunshine. For
the first time, he believed with certainty that fate clearly favored Lord
Voldemort…and all of his plans for the world.

…The scenery changed, shifting into a sheet of glittering silver for only a
moment, before transitioning to something new…

Tom Riddle, traveling the natural world and exploring all of its power and
potential.

To East Africa, where he spent weeks observing the beasts known as the
Nundu. Extremely dangerous creatures which resembled leopards, only much
larger and far more deadly. Tom had been interested in them, as they were
considered by many to be the most dangerous beasts in existence. The fire
they breathed was toxic, capable of destroying entire villages with a single
breath…

Tom Riddle went there to see if he could invent a curse to recreate this deadly
fire, but came away learning more than he ever thought he would.

The young Dark Lord's transfiguration skills were impeccable—a fact to

which Albus Dumbledore could surely attest, seeing as the former
Headmaster himself had been the one to instruct him in the art. The memory
came into focus to show Tom Riddle not as a man…but as a small Nundu
cub.

He took the form of a cub, not an adult, because of the way these
extraordinary beasts lived. In prides, rather like lions, only there was a single,
massive male which controlled group of females rather than two or more. But
what was really fascinating about the Nundu was the way in which their
hierarchy of power operated.

The male kept its females in line by marking them, biting them and scarring
their backs with a magical signature that was unique to the one male. The
beasts were capable of their own form of legilimency, too—for the male
could communicate with its pride by thought alone. Tom observed the
phenomenon for a long time, pretending to be a harmless cub in their pride in
order to do so. The female adults would be out hunting, and then, quite
suddenly, they would all turn as one to return to the male and cubs, as though
a silent call had been issued…

Their scars. It had taken Tom a long time to figure it out, but one day, he
noticed it—the marks on the fur of their backs, which marred their otherwise
perfect spots…they darkened, just before they would react in that perfect,
synchronized way.

The male was summoning them with a Mark…

…Fascinating.

…The East African scenery transitioned into something else…

…Memory after memory in which Tom Riddle went everywhere.

To Japan, where he studied the dragons there that were not associated with
air and fire, but which lived in the deep oceans, wingless and aquatic… Tom
barely managed to observe them at all, as they so perfectly disillusioned
themselves, appearing to muggles and less observant wizards as simply a part
of the sea…

And so Tom learned how to become physically invisible.

To Greece, where he studied the manticores and learned, quite quickly, that
merely being skilled at transfiguration was not enough to fool those monsters.
Whether they were highly sensitive to magical energy in general, or it had
just been he, Tom, who had too powerful an aura for their liking, he still was
not sure… But learning to control his own magical signature had become a
skill of utmost importance, then.

And so the young Dark Lord learned to become not only visibly untraceable,
but magically invisible as well.

To the deep jungles of Brazil, to the Sahara desert. To the top and bottom of
the Earth. To worlds of lush greenery that were teeming with life, to worlds
of white that were empty and thrumming with a far colder, more sinister type
of mystical energy…

When the memory showed him there, at the southern-most tip of the planet,
Lord Voldemort's stomach twisted into knots. He had found that lifeless
plane of ice intriguing in that there was no life there, magical or otherwise…
Only energy, coming directly from the planet's core.

Nothing could survive there. Nothing. And Tom Riddle had thought, then,
that when he found an artifact of Gryffindor's…that the bottom of the Earth
would make a fine place to hide it.

The young Dark Lord practiced warding techniques there by manipulating

the unique, magnetic properties of the area.

And so Tom Riddle became a master of protective enchantments.

Years of steeping himself in the most powerful and darkest of magic… And
by the time he was twenty-eight, his features had begun to reflect all of the
abuse he had put himself under. But Tom Riddle was unworried about the
loss of his more handsome attributes; in fact, he welcomed the transition from
overtly beautiful to slightly less so... The time had long since passed where
good looks and charm could get him what he wanted. No, he craved power
and respect, now…

The young Dark Lord remained well-informed throughout his travels.

Always he listened to the WWN, keeping track of what was going on in
Magical Britain. The day he had learned that Albus Dumbledore had been
made Headmaster of Hogwarts, he was not surprised…but he was bitter.

He also remained in touch, loosely, with his group of followers from his
school days, to which he promised that he would be making a return, when
the time was right…

And one day, at nearly thirty years old, he knew that day had come.

Tom had traveled the world, he had performed magic that no wizard or witch
had ever even attempted… Such spectacular feats, he thought, that no one
would be able to deny him…not even Albus Dumbledore.

Tom Riddle returned to Britain…after he made a quick stop in Albania to

retrieve a certain 'lost' artifact, of course.

The Dark Lord believed it would all fall into place, then. He requested a
meeting with the new Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Albus Dumbledore had,
as expected, politely agreed.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Tom contacted his followers, bidding
them to meet him in Hogsmeade where he would be staying for a short
amount of time.

…The memory formed to show that meeting…

…Tom Riddle was no longer.

The Dark Lord was hardly recognizable to his peers of years past. Yet there
was no mistaking the man who waited at a table by himself in the dreary
setting of the Hog's Head, his pale face cold and expectant. Voldemort's hood
was drawn over his face, his bloodshot eyes peering outwards with a
detached demeanor.

"M-my Lord…"

Nott. Rosier. Mulciber. Dolohov. Lestrange. Avery.

All of them had traveled to meet him without question. They entered into the
pub, brushing the snow off of their shoulders as they did. Faithful as ever,
despite the desolate weather, despite the infrequent contact over the years…

Faithful…and receptive.

Their discussion that night had been long and prolific. The wizarding world
was exactly where Voldemort needed it to be: in a state of blissful ignorance,
all thoughts of Grindelwald and his war long forgotten. And the Dark Lord,
too, had matured. Immortal—though his followers did not know the extent of
this, and he was inclined merely to allude to his unending life—and so
powerful… Voldemort was teeming with a tangible, sinister energy, though
he could mask it, if he wished…

He hadn't wished to disguise it, then. Everyone could feel it—his followers,
the few, other occupants of the pub, the bartender—they all shot him uneasy
glances, fearful and apprehensive of this dark, dangerous wizard.

Voldemort smirked when the bartender quickly looked away, having

accidentally made eye contact with the most powerful sorcerer in the world.
Good, he had thought at the sign of submission.

Good.

He had not thought to be careful with his words, then, but the child-like Dark
Lord could see his own folly as he watched the memory now. The bartender
kept his head bowed, pretending to wipe clean the same, grimy beer
mug...but he was clearly eavesdropping.

Voldemort spoke…and they all listened.

He told his gathered peers of his worldly exploration, of how he had
unlocked the mysterious of the darkest magic… Of how he had traveled
down the path to immortality further than any being had ever dared. How his
power was extraordinary, his knowledge unlimited, and that soon, their vision
would begin to come to fruition…

"The vision we first spoke of when we were mere students at Hogwarts…and

it is at Hogwarts where our conquest shall begin. I meet tomorrow with Albus
Dumbledore, where I shall ask for the position of the instructor of Defense
Against the Dark Arts. Once my post is secure, I shall have access to the
future generations, a fertile recruiting ground… And it shall be our
beginning."

They all nodded fervently, so easily swayed by his words. Just as they always
had been…

"And so I ask you, my most faithful…" Voldemort continued, his voice full
of vigor. "To join me not as mere men, or even as ordinary wizards…but as
my inner circle. To take on a title which will distinguish you as the highest
among what shall soon be my many supporters… To become my Death
Eaters—a designation which will one day mark you as the epitome of our
pureblood society."

There was no hesitation. They all agreed, they all wanted nothing more than
to be Lord Voldemort's most favored. "Good," the Dark Lord said, his pale
fingers drumming along the side of his untouched drink. "Then tomorrow
night, we shall reconvene. Same time, same place…and you shall see just
how marked you will become."

Voldemort smiled wickedly. The others looked a bit taken aback by that
statement, but were wise enough not to question it.

…They departed…and the scene quickly dissolved to show a memory which

most certainly did not belong to Lord Voldemort.
…

"ALBUS!"

The Dumbledore of the past looked as though he'd nearly had a heart attack.

The newly appointed Headmaster was alone in his office, feeding his pet
phoenix (lemon drops, out of the palm of his hand, Voldemort noted with
ire), when his fireplace suddenly ignited, sporting the face of that very
bartender which Voldemort had just left behind.

"Merlin's beard!" Albus Dumbledore started violently, unintentionally

sending yellow candies flying out of his hand. He turned to face the fireplace.
"Aberforth! Some warning, would be appreciated!"

Aberforth ignored that remark. "Albus!" he repeated, the emerald flames

crackling around his floating head. "You—th-this man, this person you're
meeting tomorrow, who wants a job—do you know who he is!? This—this
Voldemort?"

"I am quite aware of who it is I have corresponded with, Aberforth…"

Dumbledore said, sounding condescending now that he had recovered from
his initial shock.

"Oh, do you? Do you really?" Aberforth drawled. "Are you aware of all of
the crazy things he's done? Are you aware of all his little followers that he's
begun calling Death Eaters…?"

Albus frowned. After a moment of thoughtful contemplation, he grabbed a

chair and pulled it closer to the fireplace so that he was facing it. He took a
seat and folded his hands on his lap. "You have my attention, brother," the
Headmaster said quietly.

"That's what I thought," Aberforth muttered. The bartender then began to

relay every single word Voldemort had spoken to his followers…

The Dark Lord of the present, in his pathetic, small body, glared venomously
up at the also-current Albus Dumbledore. "Merely friendly with the local
barmen, you'd said," Voldemort spat, bristling. "That man is your brother!"

"Unfortunately, we do not get to decide who we are related to," Dumbledore

responded, shrugging. "But, as you can see, it was a relationship that did
come in handy…"

Voldemort scowled, making a mental note to keep a much closer eye on this
Aberforth Dumbledore and his damn pub in the future, once he finally awoke
from this nightmare.

…The vision changed…

…to display a memory of Hogwarts.

The very first thing order of business that Voldemort saw completed once
granted access to the castle was the security of his diadem. He hid it in what
he had concluded must be a room of lost things… Voldemort idly examined
the space, which was as tall and wide as a cathedral, and made the
assumption based on all that was there. Books, brooms, joke shop
paraphernalia, banned potions and cursed objects… It must have been a room
where all of the lost possessions which careless students had misplaced ended
up, claimed by this almighty castle and shared only with someone such as
him, one of the Founder's direct descendants…

Of course, Salazar's Chamber would have been preferable, but he would not
risk reopening it while Dumbledore was present in the castle. Voldemort
placed the diadem on a shelf, not concerned with hiding his horcrux any
further in this already most secretive of places.

And then he went to meet Albus Dumbledore.

The Dark Lord, fully expecting to get a job…and the Headmaster, quite
simply dismissing him.

Merely friendly with the local barmen.

This bastard, Voldemort thought, not for the first time as he witnessed this
infuriating conversation from a new, far more illuminated perspective.

Albus Dumbledore had called him out on everything, because the bartender
had told him everything, and all the while had refused to address him as
anything other than 'Tom'. Just as he did now.

Infuriating.

Perhaps the worst part—no, obviously the worst part—was the way in which
this muggle audience reacted to it all. They laughed and jeered the entire
time, applauding the Dumbledore of the past like this was some sick
television program…as did the men at the front of the room. Which could
have been tolerable, maybe, were it not for that fact that Voldemort's eyes
kept flickering to James Potter and seeing his son.

Everyone was just having such fun, being entertained by Voldemort's past.

…Everyone except Lily Evans.

Not once had she laughed or even cracked a smile. The crimson-haired
woman remained stoic and unemotional…unnervingly so.

But the Dark Lord did not look at Lily Evans.

…The haze of silver contorted, shifting…

…Voldemort had been denied the position he sought. The vision which
formed showed him that night, walking through the snowy landscape of
Hogsmeade with the Headmaster's words echoing in his head:
'The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe
and force you to make repayment for your sins... But I wish I could, Tom…I
wish I could…'

When Lord Voldemort and his followers reconvened, they did not remain at
the Hog's Head.

"Rosier," he said at once, when he found them gathered there, waiting. "To
your manor."

Again, no question. They departed at once. The bartender shot them a furtive
glance on the way out, looking happy to see the back of them.

…Lord Voldemort had made good on his promise that night.

His branded his inner circle with a skull and a snake, forever marking them as
his devoted Death Eaters.

They screamed when his wand touched their forearms, searing into their skin,
and they thanked him afterwards.

It was a blessing, to be considered the most trusted of Lord Voldemort's

followers…

And there would be many, many more.

"Our path shall not be through Hogwarts," the Dark Lord explained to his
respectful group of newborn Death Eaters. "We shall go elsewhere, first. We
shall spread our ideologies to nearby countries… We shall focus on the
North, in Norway, where I know Durmstrang to be located, and in France,
where rests Beauxbatons… We shall gather and recruit, and once our power
reaches perilous heights, we shall return to England, not as a small and
secretive gathering…but as an army at war."

The donned masks of silver, skeletal bones.

The bore the Dark Mark, the symbol of their cause.

It was just the beginning.

…The image of men in black cloaks and skull masks dissipated, becoming a
foggy haze of silver…

Lord Voldemort's travels were no longer a quest for personal knowledge and
skill…but for power.

Two of the most beneficial aspects to having this specific group of followers
was their political influence and their endless amounts of money. It was why
Voldemort had chosen the purebloods in the first place. Of course their
connection to the wizarding world was a factor, of course he believed those
most intimately tied to ancient bloodlines superior…but the real draw was
their power which was woven so intricately into the infrastructure of the
Ministry of Magic. The purebloods ran the world...and so Lord Voldemort
ruled the purebloods.

Also convenient was that, along with their endless galleons, were extravagant
manors in all corners of Europe. Wherever they traveled, there was no
shortage of places to stay, to gather, to entertain…to recruit and impress…

And this was exactly what they did.

Lord Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to spread his message throughout
Norway, Germany, Sweden… Those countries, where the magical children
attended Durmstrang, would be easy. That school and its associated
wizarding community was already inclined to his cause. Grindelwald's
message was still one which many of them believed in, and his defeat at the
hand of Albus Dumbledore left a bitter taste in their mouths that the years
had not washed away. The Death Eaters dutifully spoke of a new Dark Lord,
a much more powerful, younger entity around whom they could rally…
They came to him. Brought in by his inner-circle, these dark wizards who
craved a new leader were brought to Voldemort, to see the rising Dark Lord
for themselves…

And when they saw his face, when they felt his sheer power…they believed.
Not marked, necessarily, for that was an honor which was earned, but his,
nonetheless. They vowed to earn his Dark Mark, to spread his message and
aid in the revolution which all of Magical Europe so desperately needed.

And so Lord Voldemort's power grew.

Yes, those countries in the north could be swayed…but the same could not be
said for those of the south.

France was much more…liberal, in their beliefs. Unlike at Durmstrang, those

who attended Beauxbatons were very accepting of muggle-borns and the
muggle community in general, much like Hogwarts. Lord Voldemort had
been aware of this for a very long time, of course—it was why, while still a
student himself, he had taught himself French. So that when he did eventually
travel to France, he would be able to speak to the magical community in their
native tongue, to be more easily accepted…

And it had made a difference. Voldemort hosted many meetings in which he

invited the oldest and most powerful families to Lestrange's lavish vacation
home in Nice, having long discussions in rapid French which confused his
own Death Eaters and delighted his French guests.

Yet the Dark Lord knew it was not enough. He may have swayed a few of
them, or, at the very least, planted the seeds of possibility… But already, too
many of the younger generations had married into muggle families,
weakening the spite that Voldemort required for magical supremacy.

Those nations associated with Durmstrang could be swayed, but France,

Italy, Spain…these countries, like England, would need to be conquered.

And so the Dark Lord focused on gathering power in other ways.

…

…The next memory which came into focus showed Lord Voldemort, alone,
now...at Azkaban.

It had been simple, appearing at the inescapable fortress with hardly anyone
being aware. His connections within the Ministry were many and varied, but
even without his pureblood followers, Voldemort could have breached the
island.

It was incredible, really, just how much faith the Ministry of Magic placed in
these dementors which guarded the prison. So much so that the island was
often left without a wizard or witch guard present at all—more than likely
because of the dementors and the horrid atmosphere they created. Very few
could stand to be near one dementor, let alone dozens of them, for more than
a few moments...

The exception, naturally…was Lord Voldemort.

The sensation of hopelessness could not touch a man with only a fraction of a
soul.

The memory showed Voldemort taking to the air as he arrived, soaring over
the turbulent, North Sea. The dementors gathered around this seemingly
empty wizard with intrigue, slow and graceful in their ethereal movements…

"…Fractured man, broken man…"

Dementors' voices were high and cold—the hallmarks of one filled with pure,
dark magic. Voldemort's own voice had already begun to take on such
qualities. He held his arms out wide in greeting, his wand respectfully stowed
within his robes.

"Beautiful creatures," he said, bloodshot eyes gleaming as he stared at them

all unwaveringly. They must have been very shocked, having never before
been addressed so unflinchingly by a wizard. "You are starving, here, with
nothing but empty shells to slake your thirsts. There is no joy in these souls
for you to feed from…"

They gathered around him more closely, clearly interested, despite the fact
that they were hooded and therefore expressionless. "I can give you whole
souls, untainted souls…many souls…if you will join me. A war is brewing,
my friends…one which I shall win. Join my cause, and I will see that you are
given all the souls you desire. The world is filled with muggles, after all…"

Voldemort's voice trailed off suggestively, letting the unspoken words hang
in the air for them to digest. For it was illegal to so much as influence a
muggle, as the Ministry stood, now… Those mundane, powerless people who
nonetheless had souls, who would make ideal targets for these sinister
creatures…

It was a simple enough decision for the dementors.

"We will join you, fractured Lord… If you make with us a bond."

Voldemort's brows raised in surprise. He had never heard of any creatures

partaking in such practices… "You require an Unbreakable Vow…?" he
asked, knowing that such a thing was no possible without a third party who
had a wand.

A strange, high-pitched note reverberated in the air, and it took Voldemort a

moment to realize that it was the sound of demented laughter. "No." The
cloaked creatures gathered around him in a circle. One dementor floated so
that it was directly in front of the Dark Lord. It was this one which spoke.

"That is a practice invented by soul-filled people with their weak words, with
their harvested pieces of trees imbibed with the power of other creatures…
No, we do not want your word. We want your guarantee."

"And how do I accomplish this?" Voldemort, for the first time, looked wary.
The dementors had him surrounded, and though he knew they were not
interested in his broken soul, he was beginning to feel the coldness for which
they were so notorious.
The dementor in front of him reached its skeletal hands up, wrapping its
deadened fingers around its hood. "Our power is your power, if you wish
it…" it said softly. "Will you look into the eyes of one which was born from
pure darkness? Which has existed beyond the veil of death?"

The sheer dark magic which had begun to radiate around him was nearly
overwhelming, even to Voldemort. But it was being offered to him, this
power, and he wanted it, craved it, needed it…

"Yes," he agreed, almost dizzy with the seduction of such power.

"It will change you," the creature warned, but its fingers tightened around its
hood. "In exchange for power, your body will warp, your already broken soul
shall weaken further… You may break without intention someday, Lord of
Darkness… You shall never see the world the same way again, once you look
upon the face of true damnation…"

"Yes," Voldemort repeated, without a trace of uncertainty. Another round of

ringing, eerie laughter as the dementor lowered its hood…

The memory turned entirely black.

…A clear, high-pitched note, like music… No, the wind… No, a voice…

Lord Voldemort left the island irrevocably changed.

His eyes, which had already begun to bleed crimson, were now a vibrant,
bloody red. His pupils had turned into thin, black slits. He lost all of his hair,
and his features were more snake-like than ever before.

And his voice…

The Dark Lord truly resembled the monster which he had become.
…

…The muggle audience was gasping in horror at the image of Lord

Voldemort, at how he looked when he was at his height of power. They
glanced down at him, who currently resembled such an innocent child,
disbelief etched onto their faces…

Dumbledore said nothing, only allowed the memories to continue telling the
tale.

…The year was 1970, and the war had truly begun.

Lord Voldemort was in Nott's manor in Germany, carrying on a casual

discussion with his inner circle…when a knock at the door signaled the
arrival of more.

One of his other Death Eaters appeared, and with him, a woman.

She was beautiful.

The witch was clearly just out of school, young and lovely. Her black hair
fell in curls around her pale, heart-shaped face, with blood-red lips and dark,
hooded eyes. The wizard accompanying her had his hand on her shoulder,
guiding her into the room towards the Dark Lord…for she had frozen at the
sight of him.

"My grand-daughter… Bellatrix Black."

Bellatrix blinked, seemingly awakening from whatever trance she had been in
upon looking into the eyes of Lord Voldemort. She boldly stepped forward,
approaching the Dark Lord and immediately falling into a subservient bow.

"M-my Lord…" she said, her voice trembling. "I have heard so much, so
many incredible things…"

The others chuckled softly at her nervousness. She looked up at the sound,
and as her dark eyes darted around the room, her apprehension grew.

"My apologies, my Lord," Pollux Black said. "But she was insistent. Bellatrix
has been begging me to bring her to you for years, and simply refused to wait
another day after graduation to come to you…"

There was another round of soft laughter. Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, her
cheeks flushing as she took in the sight of all the older men surrounding her.

Lord Voldemort saw the anxiety in her eyes. "Bellatrix Black…" he said
quietly, and the laughter ceased. Her gaze landed on the Dark Lord, looking
mesmerized at the way he had just said her name. "Do not worry yourself,
child… There are many qualities which I find worthy of just prejudice, but I
assure you… gender is not one of them."

Her tensed muscles relaxed slightly as his assurance. "I wish to join you," she
said breathlessly. "Your cause, your mission… It is everything I believe in. I
wish to dedicate myself to you. I… I am strong. I was the most capable
duelist in my year, I was undefeated… I…" She paused, faltering before she
finally forced the words out.

"I wish to bear your Mark, my Lord."

The room was silent. Voldemort tilted his head to one side, considering her.

He could feel her magical signature, and even while simply standing there,
anxious as she was, he could sense her power. Bellatrix Lestrange was
powerful, very much so… She probably did not know her own potential. It
was a dark and sinister energy which coursed through her; but her mind was
young and wild, slightly unhinged—a typical trait among the Black family,
he had come to learn.

But her intention was genuine. Bellatrix Lestrange did not wish to be a
leader; she longed to be owned. She wanted a figure to worship, a God whom
she could lavish all of her adoration upon…

She was a perfect weapon, just waiting to be crafted.

"I require a great amount of loyalty from those who wish to bear my Mark,"
Voldemort said. "I require irrefutable faith. You must prove your worth. It
can take months, years, even…"

Bellatrix's face paled, so stricken at the prospect that it could take so long to
attain her heart's desire. "Anything," she gasped, desperation in her voice. "I
will give you anything your want, my Lord. Anything."

Voldemort stood. He stepped towards her, and Bellatrix's entire body went
rigid at this unexpected advance. She held her breath as the Dark Lord
brushed her thick mane of hair to one side.

"Igor Karkaroff. The newly appointed Headmaster of Durmstrang…" he

murmured quietly into her ear.

"…I want him."

And when that statement was not followed up by the word 'dead', Bellatrix
nodded, understanding. "Of course," she said. The young witch took one step
away, her face hardened in determination. "I will not disappoint you."

"See that you do not…Bellatrix."

Her face turned red at being addressed by her first name alone. Flustered, she
bowed again, moving gracefully despite the fact that she was so nervous. She
left without another word, instantly going to fulfill her mission.

The Death Eaters laughed once she was gone, but Lord Voldemort did not.

…It happened much more quickly than he had anticipated.

Though, in hindsight, he really should not have been so surprised. Bellatrix

was young, gorgeous, and most of all, determined. It must have been
absurdly easy to sway the already susceptible mind of Igor Karkaroff…
though Lord Voldemort never did bother to ask her how, precisely, she had
done it.

Only days later, and Igor Karkaroff was seeking an audience with the rising
new Dark Lord. An audience which was eventually granted.

Bellatrix Lestrange received the Dark Mark for her successful endeavor.
Weeks after that, and Igor Karkaroff, too, joined their ranks, securing Lord
Voldemort's future influence over Durmstrang…

And Lord Voldemort's power grew.

…The memory changed…

…For years, the Dark Lord worked often and tirelessly with his new favorite.
His fierce, young witch, his Black Beauty…

Bella was a natural at the Dark Arts, just as he'd suspected. And so eager, so
desperate to learn from her master… So very powerful…

But she did not share his mind. She was not unintelligent, no... But his Black
Beauty lacked the discipline that the finer forms of magic required. Her
concentration wavered when he attempted to discuss complex topics with her
such as warding techniques. And the Dark Lord could see it in her eyes,
where her mind wandered… She thought of him, lost in the sound of his
unnatural voice, consumed by fantasies of her and her master, alone, and
together…

Voldemort hadn't been concerned with the fact that he knew Bellatrix lusted
after him. If anything, he found it useful.

This one's loyalty was absolute.

The memory which formed showed a moment that, at the time, had been
relatively meaningless to Lord Voldemort. But now, it held a deep
significance that left him feeling…something, as he watched.

"…My Lord?"

Voldemort was alone in the study of one of his many bases. He was writing a
letter to a correspondence in France when the voice of his most devoted
interrupted, uncharacteristically feeble.

The Dark Lord paused in his writing. He lifted a single, hairless brow when
he looked at Bellatrix, who was standing meekly in the doorway with her
eyes downcast. His dark witch had not looked so nervous since the very first
time she was brought to him.

"Bella," he said, setting the unfinished letter aside. "Come in."

She did. Bellatrix bowed deferentially before sitting across from him. "I…I
came to inform you... My parents, they…"

She hesitated, her fingers tangling together in her lap like a frightened child.
Very uncharacteristic behavior, indeed. "What is it, my Black Beauty?"
Voldemort asked, honestly concerned that something serious was amiss.

Bellatrix looked up at him, her expression desperate. "My parents wish to see
me married," she said, the words rushing out very quickly. "They have
offered my hand to Rodolphus Lestrange, who will soon officially propose to
me, I am certain." She swallowed thickly, her gaze falling to the floor again.
"They expect me to accept," she finished in a whisper.

Voldemort stared, confused as to why she was telling him this. The Dark
Lord had made it abundantly clear that he was not interested in such things,
and never personally intended to marry…ever. She was aware of this fact, he
knew that she was.

And yet she was hopeful. Bellatrix did not truly expect Voldemort to want
her, not really…but she couldn't stop herself from coming to him and trying,
anyway.

"Rodolphus Lestrange is a fine wizard," Voldemort said emotionlessly. "A

pureblood from a powerful family. He is a worthy match… Bella." She
looked up when he said her pet-name. Her face was riddled with emotions
that he, at the time, had simply not understood…nor had he cared to
understand. "Marry him. It would please me."

Voldemort reached for his letter which he had set aside. He begun to write
again, motioning towards the door and effectively dismissing his most
faithful Death Eater. Bellatrix slowly stood and walked away, looking like
she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders as she went.

"Oh, and Bella?"

Bellatrix turned on the spot, her face lit up suddenly in hope. She held her
breath when he spoke. "Let me know once you have access to the Lestrange
family vault in Gringotts… There is something I would like to place there, if
you are not opposed to it."

Devastating disappointment cut across her features, but Bellatrix quickly hid
her tears by bowing again, her long hair a veil which concealed her pain.

"Of c-course, my Lord."

She left. Voldemort returned to his writing, unaffected and unsympathetic.

…But the Dark Lord of the present, being forced to observe his past's
interactions through a lens which now understood…felt so much more.

…The years went by, and Lord Voldemort's numbers grew.

Younger recruits were brought in by their older family members once they
were considered mature enough. Those of the Yaxley, Dolohov, Greengrass,
Black, and Rowle families… Lucius Malfoy, a young and particularly
cunning Slytherin, who intended to one day marry Bellatrix's younger sister,
Narcissa… Promises of children and future generations of pureblooded
followers…

Until one day, someone who was not a pureblood was brought to him.

The memory that next came into focus was one that Voldemort remembered
vividly. The child-like Dark Lord hissed in disapproval, for this, what they
were all about to witness…was the day he had met Severus Snape.

…The war was going well for the side of the Dark.

Dumbledore had organized an army of his own, his Order of the Phoenix…
but every day they grew weaker, and it was only a matter of time until they
would be brittle enough to be crushed entirely.

The serpentine Dark Lord resided fully in Britain at this time. In the memory
that formed before them, Voldemort and his most faithful were gathered in
the dining hall of Malfoy manor. Lucius had practically begged for the honor
of hosting his new Lord in his home, and it was easily the most garish and
ostentatious of all the mansions Voldemort had been to. On one of the Dark
Lord's sides sat Bellatrix and her husband, and on his other was Yaxley,
Rosier, and Mulciber. They were waiting for Lucius Malfoy himself to
return, for he had promised to bring with him a most auspicious gift…

Voldemort had not expected it to be another recruit.

The door opened to expose a handsome man with long, blonde hair, looking
poised and confident…and another, younger man, who was anything but.

Severus Snape was awkward, gangly, and extremely tense. His black hair was
lank and greasy, and his sallow features were far from attractive. But the
moment he made eye contact with Voldemort, he straightened his bent
posture and took a deep breath. When he approached the Dark Lord, it was
with the rehearsed motions of someone who had practiced and prepared for
this moment many times.

"Severus Snape," Lucius said, motioning towards the teenager who was
currently bowing low to the floor. "The promising wizard I have spoken to
you about, my Lord."

Voldemort stood. "Is it…?" he murmured thoughtfully. Severus looked up

again. Voldemort smirked as he assessed the young man's pale features and
lank hair…for he was not at all what Voldemort had expected him to be, after
Lucius's descriptions of his abilities.

"The Half-Blood Prince," Voldemort crooned sarcastically.

Severus's face instantly turned red. Everyone laughed, none louder than
Bellatrix. "He's just an ickle baby!" she jeered—despite the fact that she, too,
had only just gotten out of school when she'd first approached the Dark Lord.

The Death Eaters all laughed harder at that. Snape's eyes fell to the floor, his
blush deepening. "Lucius has told me much about you, Severus Snape,"
Voldemort said. The laughter instantly stopped, though they all continued to
smirk at the nervous newcomer. Bellatrix Lestrange's grin was particularly
sardonic. "He said that you showed much promise, even as a young student…
and that you are especially gifted at the Mind Arts…"

Snape looked up, nodding quickly before looking back to the ground again.
Voldemort stood and approached the anxious wizard. The Death Eaters all
watched in confusion as their master propped up Severus's chin with the tip
of his wand, his snake-like face completely emotionless.

Snape's eyes widened when the yew touched his skin, looking equal parts
terrified and perplexed. "Show me, child…" Voldemort said softly. And then,
before Snape could even draw a breath:

"Legilimens."

…Lord Voldemort learned very quickly why Lucius had been so eager to
bring the Half-Blood Prince to him.

Naturally resistant to his mental advance, it took a great amount of effort for
the Dark Lord to break through his blockades…but break them he did.
Severus gasped at the intrusion, but, wisely, after a few moments of
involuntarily trying to cast him out, allowed Lord Voldemort to explore his
thoughts.

The Dark Lord was impressed with all that he saw. Powerful, yes, but not
greatly so… Nothing in comparison to his Bella, and certainly not himself.
But that was not what fascinated Voldemort. This young wizard was not only
intelligent, but wise. Severus Snape understood concepts that very few had
the ability to even contemplate, let alone grasp. And he was only just
blossoming, just beginning to reach his potential… He was brilliant, this
man, and Lord Voldemort recognized what a rarity he was at once.

Severus Snape was, perhaps, nearly as brilliant as Lord Voldemort himself on

some levels… And he had even crafted a new name for himself, just as Tom
Riddle had… A title, to improve upon the tragedy that was not being born
with a proper surname…

This Half-Blood Prince…

Lord Voldemort looked at this young man and saw an echo of himself. He
wanted this one, not for his power, but for his mind… And he wanted him
now. This one, he would take under his wing. This one would invent spells
with him, devise curses, and weave wards…

This one would fly.

"Kneel."

All traces of amusement vanished from the faces of his Death Eaters at the
word.

Voldemort vanished from Severus's mind, leaving the young wizard

disoriented. Snape blinked owlishly, glancing quickly to Lucius, as though
questioning whether he had just imagined the Dark Lord's command and
what it might mean.

Lucius looked equally stunned. But he instantly nodded, and Severus fell to
his knees, his dazed eyes refocusing on Lord Voldemort.

"Do you pledge yourself to me, Severus Snape? Your mind, your body, your
soul…for all of time?"

Snape nodded, swallowing audibly before speaking. "Y-yes. Always," he

vowed. His dark eyes were shining with genuine devotion, with awe.

"Your left arm."

Severus Snape was the first and only Death Eater that the Dark Lord marked
without first proving himself. Bellatrix's face contorted into something foul
and ugly when he was marked, her hooded eyes filled with deepest loathing.

…And the Dark Lord's power grew.

…Severus Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange, and next, Bartemius Crouch… Lord

Voldemort's most faithful Death Eaters, always vying for his attention, as
they all were… But these three, in particular, were especially amusing to
watch.

Bellatrix lacked any form of subtlety, making crass and mocking remarks
whenever she had the opportunity. But she was outmatched when it came to
wit. Severus and Barty had much sharper tongues, and would often conspire
together to goad her. The Dark Lord had needed to intervene on more than
one occasion, reminding his dear Bella that the dark curses he had taught her
were to be aimed at the enemy, not the younger recruits...and to remind the
men that it was dangerous to poke at an already disgruntled dragon, as it
were.

But he secretly encouraged the behavior. The Dark Lord enjoyed it, and knew
that a bit of competition was beneficial within his ranks.

Bellatrix was his most powerful, and Barty, who felt neglected by his own
family and had therefore sought another, was his most fearless…but Severus
was his most intelligent, and it was with him whom the Dark Lord spent the
most time.

"…Type of ward?"

The new memory that emerged was one of Voldemort and Snape, somewhere
in the remote country. Around them the air shimmered oddly. Severus stared
into the sky, his brows furrowed.

"…Anti-apparation," he answered after a moment.

"Very good." Voldemort brandished his wand, and a new layer of magic
stretched across the air. "And this one?"

Snape was quiet for a long time as he analyzed it. "I…am unsure," he
admitted, after several long minutes.

"That is because I have not shown it to you yet," Voldemort said. "But you
should be able to figure it out. Describe it to me."

"It…is lighter. A higher frequency of energy. Less oppressive and more…

intentional. It is mental…"

"Yes," Voldemort agreed. "And?"

"And…" Snape closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind and examining
the shield. "Something like a memory charm, only…not quite…"

Severus's eyes flew open. "It is an anti-muggle ward," he said. "The kind
which causes them suddenly remember false appointments and such."

"Indeed." Voldemort looked pleased. He flicked his wand another time,

creating a new layer of energy. "And this one…?"

And so it went.

...The memory changed…

…Voldemort and his Half-Blood Prince, out in the country again, only this
time, it was night. A full moon cast its light down upon them, bathing them in
its glow. Snape had his eyes closed and was hovering a few feet above the
illuminated ground…for a moment.

Severus had just begun to float, but the moment he focused too much, he fell
from the air. Voldemort sighed when the uncoordinated teenager landed with
a thud. Snape groaned, sprawling out on his back and looking defeated.

"I cannot do it, my Lord," he lamented. "I just can't. I can't fly."

"Yes, you can," Voldemort argued, frowning. "Now pick yourself up off the
ground. Your pitiful body language is making me feel inferior by merely
looking at you."

Severus's lips twitched, knowing that the Dark Lord was jesting—partially—
but he did as he was told, pushing himself to his feet. "But I am inferior to
you, my Lord. In every conceivable way. Hence, I cannot fly."

Voldemort smirked. "Flattery will not save you from this, Severus," he said.
"You will fly. I know you are capable." The Dark Lord paused, his scarlet
eyes focusing on Snape's hand. "I believe you are relying too heavily on your
wand. You should be able to fly without one. A wand is a conduit, and
therefore makes such things easier…but it is enabling you. I want you to be
able to fly unassisted."

Snape's face fell. "But…but I can hardly hover with a wand, my Lord."
Voldemort tilted his head at him. He was thoughtful for a long moment
before he spoke again. "Tell me of the first time you unintentionally
performed magic, Severus."

Snape blinked at the seemingly random question. "…I was…six, I believe,"

he began, looking instantly embarrassed. "I was, ah…almost hit by a car. I
apparated."

"Almost hit by a car?" Voldemort asked, knowing by the way his Half-Blood
Prince was blushing that there was more to the story.

"I was doing something I shouldn't have," Snape admitted. "I was…following
someone. This…girl. So I wasn't paying attention, and a car… Well, anyway.
I apparated. I ended up in a tree, somehow."

"So you performed wandless magic. You can, even now, apparate without a
wand. Correct?"

"Y-yes…"

"And you were able to do so when you were a young child because…?"

Snape's hand tightened around his wand, looking fearful of where this was
going. He recognized the devious expression on his master's face and was
wary of it. "Because…I was in danger."

"Very good. Now give me your wand, Severus."

Snape's face paled. "Why?" he asked. It was truly a testament to just how
much the Dark Lord enjoyed Severus, that he was able to question his master
without being hexed. In fact, Snape's anxiety just made Voldemort grin.

"Because I require it. Hand it over."

Severus wasn't stupid enough to be told a third time. Looking terrified, he

did, and the Dark Lord stowed the wand in his pocket. Then, without any
warning, Voldemort gripped Snape's forearm, and they disapparated.
They two wizards reappeared elsewhere…high in the air, over the ocean…
and there was no land in sight.

Snape instantly yelped. He clung to his master when he saw just how high up
they were, despite the fact that Voldemort was obviously keeping him afloat.

Voldemort's smile widened. He brandished his own, yew wand around them,
causing the air to shimmer familiarly.

"Type of ward?"

"…A-a-anti-a-apparition," Snape stuttered, horror in his voice.

"Very good."

The Dark Lord's eyes glittered, sinfully mischievous. "Please don't," Severus
pleaded.

Voldemort dropped him.

Snape fell, screaming as he went plummeting down towards the water. He

twisted and contorted in mid-air, his arms and robes flapping about and
making him look more uncoordinated and bat-like than ever.

The whole thing was very amusing to watch, now, and everyone else in the
Great Hall seemed to think so, too. The Marauders at the front table were all
laughing very loudly, and Sirius Black had even slammed his fist on the
table.

Lily Evans alone looked unamused, her lips pursed in something that vaguely
resembled concern.

The Dark Lord of the memory was also beginning to look worried. His smug
grin was fading with each passing second, as Snape continued to fall, getting
closer and closer to the water below… A few moments later, and Voldemort
had been seriously concerned that he may have just tossed his favorite young
pupil to his death.
The Dark Lord was just about to summon him back up again when it
happened.

Severus, just inches above the water's cold surface…stopped.

Snape froze with his face looking straight down into the ocean, his arms and
legs spread wide. He quit screaming when he realized that he had done it, and
was not going to hit the water. Voldemort hovered down to him, his haughty
expression sliding right back into place. Snape's chest was still heaving when
Voldemort arrived at his side, looking like he had known all along that this
was how it would transpire.

"I-I'm doing it!" Severus exclaimed. His face broke out into a giant grin. "I'm
flying!"

"Of course you are," Voldemort drawled superiorly. "I knew that you would."

Snape laughed, twisting ungracefully in the air as he tried to right himself.

The Dark Lord, in great contrast, flew with an inhuman grace in slow, lazy
circles around him. "Come along, then," Voldemort said, motioning for
Snape to follow. "You will have to keep up, if you want your wand back one
day."

Voldemort then flew away, not going overtly fast, but by no means going
slow, either. Snape laughed again, forcing his body to move in that direction
and dutifully trail after his master.

It was no easy feat, to keep up with the Dark Lord…but Severus Snape
always just managed to do it.

…The vision dissipated, turning into a glittering cloud of gray…only to then

form into a far more sinister, violent memory…

…
…A raid.

A major raid, one in which Lord Voldemort had hoped to draw out the Order
and lower their numbers even further, if not eradicate them entirely.

Godric's Hollow.

The entire village was an abomination to all of magical society. Muggles with
mudblood children lived there, as well as purebloods and halfbloods who had
married into muggle families… It was an intersection of everything that Lord
Voldemort and his followers stood against.

The Dark Lord had been clear in his instructions before they departed.

Kill. Kill many, and kill entire families. When the Order arrives, do not
hesitate.

Kill them all.

The vision in the Hall picked up right when the Dark Mark appeared in the
sky. Voldemort had cast it silently, and the celestial symbol glittered above
them almost innocently in its beauty…

The Dark Lord gave the signal…and the dementors descended.

His Death Eaters, all donning their skeletal masks and robes of black, waited
in the shadows as this first wave of the attack commenced. The dementors, so
loyal to Lord Voldemort, so eager to feast on new, fresh souls, were almost
too easy to control. The glided through the streets, and the blood traitors, the
mudbloods, even the muggles screamed, for they could feel their aura, even if
they could not see them…

The response was immediate. A flock of brilliant, silver creatures lit up the
night sky, washing out the light from the Dark Mark.

Many creatures. Albus Dumbledore had been recruiting for his army, as well,
for there were more corporal patronuses than the Dark Lord had expected. A
phoenix to lead them, of course, but also a fox, a badger, a panther…a giant
dog and a fierce wolf…

A doe. A stag.

The dementors fled, and Voldemort's rage ignited in his chest.

Dumbledore.

The dueling broke out, spectacular and devastating.

Wordless spells were fired in every direction as masked Death Eaters fought
against unmasked Order Members. Several of his followers—and Lord
Voldemort was fairly certain who—seemed determined to kill as many
muggles and mudbloods as they could, despite the opposition, and soon
houses were going up in flames. People were screaming, fleeing from their
burning homes and dodging curses…

It was chaos.

Lord Voldemort, who was the only one on the side of the Dark not wearing a
mask, found Dumbledore in the center of it all. The Headmaster's face was
more lined than ever, his expression cold. It had been years since they had
come face to face…

"Dumbledore," the Dark Lord said conversationally. His lipless mouth curled
into a grin. "You look…old."

"Tom," Dumbledore responded, taking in Voldemort's snake-like features, his

crimson eyes and slit pupils. "You look…exceptionally warped."

Voldemort scowled. But rather than waste his breath on words, he attacked.

But then the strangest thing happened. The memory was moving away from
them… It did not remain focused on the Dark Lord and his subsequent duel
with Albus Dumbledore, but instead shifted to show a different part of the
battle…
It became clear quite quickly whose memory had taken over.

A young woman with red hair tied back in a braid dueled viciously with a
Death Eater. It seemed they were evenly matched for each other, their spells
fired with equal vigor…

But the Death Eater was aiming to kill.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Lily Evans barely dodged the curse, quickly returning fire with a wordless
stunner. But it didn't matter that her spell had also missed.

Someone else attacked for her.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green, and the Death Eater fell to the ground…at the hands of
another Death Eater.

Lily Evans gaped, raising her wand at this most unexpected assistance. Yet
this new, masked opponent did not strike her, but raised his hands
defensively and spoke.

"Lily."

She stared, utterly confused.

"Who—?"

The Death Eater took advantage at how flustered she was, grabbing her arm
and pulling her swiftly into a narrow alley which shielded them from sight.
The sounds of the battle became muted by the brick walls.

It hit her, then. "Severus…?" she breathed.

Snape nodded, though he kept his mask on. "You need to leave, Lily. He is
determined to kill as many as possible tonight. You must go."
"Severus, I can't—"

"Please!" Snape's voice broke, suddenly pleading and frantic. "It's not safe for
you, you…you…"

"I'm a mudblood," she finished bitterly. "I'm perfectly aware of what he

thinks I am…of what you think I am."

"No. Never," Snape said. "I just…I only…" His voice trailed off, weak and
pathetic.

Lily's harsh expression softened. "…You don't need to do this, Severus," she
said. "You don't need to be on his side… Think of all you have to lose…"

She put one hand to his face, her palm resting against the skeletal mask.
Snape reached up to cover it with his own, sighing, like there was nothing he
desired more than to hold her hand.

…Which he did, his fingers brushing over her large, glittering engagement
ring. "I've made my choice…" he said, his voice low and hoarse. Snape
clutched at her hand, running a thumb over the silver band and all that it
stood for. "As have you."

Lily shook her head. "You could make another choice, Sev. Right here and
now, you could change your mind," she pleaded. Her vibrant eyes were
shining, beseeching him.

Then Snape winced, and his hand dropped to his side. The Dark Mark. It had
burned on his skin, his master's signal to retreat. He seemed as surprised at
the sensation as Lily was, who glanced down at his arm, confused…until
understanding washed over her.

"Don't go," she begged, putting her hand back to his masked face. "Don't go
to him. Stay."

For a moment, it looked like Severus might actually listen to her…but then
his fingers were tracing her ring again, and he shook his head.
"Forgive me," he murmured. Snape took a step back, about to disapparate—

And then he threw all caution to the wind. Severus ripped his mask off,
making Lily gasp as her arm was flung aside—and grabbed her face, pulling
her towards him and crashing his lips over hers.

Perhaps it was just because of the tension in the situation; perhaps it was
because she knew, somehow, that this would be the last time she ever saw
him… Or maybe there really had, at some point, been something between
Severus Snape and Lily Evans…

Whatever the reasoning, the kiss was heartbreakingly genuine. Lily's posture
was rigid with shock only for a second, but then she surrendered to what was
happening and melted into her lost friend's arm. For just a moment, Severus
finally had the object of his undying affection, and the passion was
incinerating, even in the memory.

Snape stepped away, looking like it took all of his willpower to do so. He
quickly put his mask back on.

"Forgive me," he repeated. Then, with a soft pop, he disappeared.

Lily let out a choked sob, reaching towards where Severus had just stood and
closing her fingers around nothing.

"Lily!"

James's voice, frantic, called out to her in the distance. Lily allowed herself
one more strangled cry before she wiped away her tears. She stood straight
and tall, all evidence of her encounter with Snape gone. "I'm here, James!"
she shouted back.

Lily Evans ran into her future husband's arms…

…Godric's Hollow vanished…

…

…and Malfoy Manor appeared.

"Severus," Voldemort said when Snape apparated. The wards on the manor
were very specific at the time, only allowing his Marked Death Eaters entry.
"How kind of you to join us."

The Dark Lord's tone was perilously cold, for Snape had not arrived the
second he'd bid them to flee. It was only a few moments later, but Voldemort
noticed everything.

"My apologies, my Lord," Snape instantly explained, bowing. "I was

attempting to aid a comrade…"

"My nephew?" Dolohov ripped his mask off, his face screwed up in concern.
"He h-hasn't apparated back yet, either…"

Snape shook his head, looking honestly sympathetic. "I am sorry," he

murmured, "I tried to help him…but he has fallen. I…am so sorry."

Dolohov swayed. The men at his sides steadied him. "No," he gasped. "No,
not Nathaniel, no…"

The emotion began swelling in his chest, making Dolohov's breathing rapid
and short. "Take him," Voldemort instructed shortly. The two men supporting
him promptly obeyed, carrying the soon-to-be hysterical wizard out of the
room.

"All of you," the Dark Lord seethed. Voldemort looked truly frightening.
Obviously, he had not expected Dumbledore to have gained so many more
capable fighters. "Dismissed, for the time being. We shall reconvene in the
morning."

The Death Eaters all bowed, quickly retreating from their irate master.

"Except you, Severus."

Snape froze with his back to him.

"…Stay."

It was difficult to say whether the looks the other Death Eaters cast him were
sympathetic or malicious, as they kept their masks on. They slowly filtered
out, until only Voldemort and Severus remained.

Snape swallowed thickly, turning and facing his master. He waited with his
chin lowered in submission.

"Remove your mask."

Slowly, Severus did. His fingers were visibly trembling.

"Look at me."

Snape's face was unreadable, despite the fact that he was shaking. Voldemort
approached him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Who was it?" he asked.

Snape frowned, confused. "Who…what do you m-mean, my Lord?"

"You said that you were attempting to aid the young Nathaniel Dolohov, but
that he fell to another. Who struck him down?"

Snape blinked, but then his expression soured. "James Potter. Training to be
an auror at the Minsitry," he spat.

"Potter…" Voldemort repeated the name, noting how genuine Snape's ire
was. "A pureblood?"

"Yes," Severus answered, even angrier.

The Dark Lord saw the obvious envy there, and felt his previous
apprehension fade. That was the truth, in those words…that was raw, real
hatred, and the Dark Lord easily believed then that James Potter had been the
man to kill one of his own.
And that jealousy. It was a sensation that he, Lord Voldemort, was well
acquainted with.

But he had misinterpreted the bitter resentment, and had assumed that Snape's
envy stemmed from the same source which his own had.

"I see," Voldemort said. He paused before continuing. "…Did you know,
Severus…that I am a half-blood as well?"

Snape's jaw dropped. The Dark Lord inclined his head, his eyes darkening.
Never before had he told any of his follower this. "My mother was a witch,
but my father was a muggle. A disgusting, vile man."

"…I…I had no idea, my Lord," Snape said, completely shocked. Voldemort

nodded.

"Yes. A tragic occurrence…but we cannot change how we came into this

world, Severus. We can only move forward and transcend, despite our
circumstances. And for those of us who were born with a heavier burden…
Most buckle and fall under such weight, but those who are worthy are made
stronger because of it… Like myself. Like you." The Dark Lord's eyes were
simmering with a fierce intensity. "It was valiant of you to remain behind in
an attempt to assist another, less capable comrade, Severus…"

Voldemort's next movement was quick and jarring. He gripped Snape by the
chin, painfully tight. "Never do it again," he commanded.

Severus nodded weakly in his grasp. "Your life is far too precious to me, my
Half-Blood Prince," Voldemort murmured softly. After a long moment, he
released him. "…You are dismissed."

Snape bowed, low and subservient. He turned and headed for the door, still
trembling.

"And Severus…" Voldemort called to his young Death Eater again, but his
gaze was downcast, focused on the currently empty fireplace. The Dark
Lord's expression was deeply pensive.
"We must repay this James Potter in full. An eye for an eye, my faithful…
Don't you agree?"

Voldemort looked at him, then. When his crimson eyes met Snape's, he saw
nothing but truthful intent there. "Yes," Severus said, smirking.

"An eye for an eye…my Lord."

Voldemort returned his crooked grin. He then waved a pale hand, dismissing
his Prince.

…The memory disappeared…

…only to display Malfoy Manor again.

Months had passed since the last vision, and despite the unsuccessful raid,
Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters continued to rise in power. It hardly
mattered that the Order had managed to acquire a few more capable fighters,
Voldemort's number were greater still, and growing…in many ways.

The loyalty of giants was secured, his Death Eater envoy having gone to the
mountains and offered many lavish gifts in his name… The dementors, of
course, so adoring of their bonded master… And the werewolves, too, were
siding with the Dark Lord. They would never be given the same respect as
proper, pureblooded wizards and witches, of course, but with the promise that
they would be considered citizens and that muggles would be fair game as far
as hunting rights…

It was more than they were being given, now…and Fenrir Greyback had been
very receptive.

Yes, the war was going well for the side of the Dark.

…Too well.
Lord Voldemort was becoming concerned with all of his seamless successes.
While he believed that fate was on his side, truly, the Dark Lord was just
waiting for some unforeseen obstacle to arise, something or someone other
than Dumbledore who would threaten his ultimate victory…

The unwarranted fears had begun to make him paranoid. For weeks, positive
news made the Dark Lord irrationally angry, and he found himself punishing
his followers for the slightest offense. But nothing made the tension fade
from his mind, and it only grew worse with time…

And then Severus came to him…with news of a prophecy.

The vision above them came into focus, showing that very moment.

Disheveled and looking concerned, Snape arrived without warning in the

study where Lord Voldemort had been having a private discussion with
Bellatrix. His dark witch, whose expression immediately soured at the sight
of Snape.

"My Lord," Severus gasped, bursting through the doorway. "My apologies
for coming unannounced, but have just heard—it is of utmost importance…"
He trailed off, glancing questionably at Bellatrix.

Lord Voldemort understood at once. "Leave us, Bella," he said simply.

Bellatrix glowered, but she did not disobey. She bowed to her Lord before
departing, shooting Snape a venomous glare on the way out.

But Severus was unbothered. "My Lord," he said as he took Bellatrix's now
empty seat. "I was just at that pub, the Hog's Head, in Hogsmeade…and
Albus Dumbledore was there, of all people. W-with a woman."

He paused. Voldemort raised a hairless brow at him. "If you are here to tell
me of Albus Dumbledore's dating life, I can assure you that I am not only
uninterested, but…disbelieving. A woman, you say? I remain skeptical."
Severus balked at that, but quickly shook his head. "No, no, not a date. It was
an interview. She had applied for a teaching post at Hogwarts."

Voldemort scowled. "An interview."

"Yes," Snape went on. "For Divination. I-it didn't seem to be going well for
her, though. She kept saying she was a Seer, a true one, but was unable to
convince the Headmaster of anything. Dumbledore seemed unimpressed."

"Shocking," Voldemort drawled.

"But that's not—it was—just as it seemed it was all over, she—the woman—
she went into a trance, my Lord. She was a Seer." He leaned forward, his
eyes wide and fearful. "She made a prediction, a real one, I am sure of it—
she made a prophecy. About you."

Voldemort's face cleared of any expression, his mind going numb. He could
tell by the way Snape's face had paled that this was not a fortuitous prophecy.
"Out with it, Severus."

Snape swallowed audibly, looking very nervous to be the one to inform his
master of this news. "…She said that…that the one with the power to
vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born as the seventh month dies, to
those who had thrice defied him…"

Silence. The Dark Lord's mind was reeling at this…revelation. But then, to
Snape's great surprise, Voldemort grinned.

This was it. The unforeseen obstacle that would test his strength. Only it was
not unforeseen, as a prophecy had come into existence to warn him…and his
faithful follower had come to him, to inform him at once…

Fate favored Lord Voldemort.

"Thank you, Severus…" Voldemort said quietly. "When we truly come into
power, you shall be greatly rewarded."
Snape's face flushed with color at this unexpected promise. He inclined his
head respectfully.

"You are dismissed," Voldemort then said. His Death Eater did as he was told
at once, bowing low to the ground before leaving.

And the Dark Lord remained, alone with his thoughts.

…Months went by…

…There had been two boys born that July who fit the prophecy.

One, a pureblood.

A boy born to Alice and Frank Longbottom. Both Order members who had
been a consistent thorn in the Dark Lord's side…three times, thus far. And
their son…Neville, he was named. Born the thirtieth of July.

Another…a halfblood.

Born to James and Lily Potter, a pureblood wizard and a muggle-born witch.
Also Order members, also having defied him thrice. And their son, born July
thirty-first, just one day younger than the pureblood boy…

Harry.

…Lord Voldemort knew.

"…Severus."

The next vision that surfaced was, once again, of Lord Voldemort and
Severus Snape. His young Death Eater bowed to him upon entering the study
where the Dark Lord stood, having clearly been invited this time. "My Lord,"
he said in response.

Voldemort was staring into the crackling flames of an ornate fireplace,

holding a glass of wine. "A drink?" he offered, to which his servant humbly
accepted. Snape looked expectant. Lord Voldemort did not often drink, and
when he did there was usually a substantial reason.

Either very good…or very bad.

"I have put much thought into this prophecy," Voldemort said, once Snape
also held a goblet filled with red liquid. "And I now know exactly who it is
referring to."

"That…is most welcome news, my Lord," Snape said. "And who is this most
unfortunate soul, to be the target of your might?"

"Harry James Potter."

Snape dropped his glass.

The Dark Lord watched with raised brows as his follower muttered
apologies, fumbling as he vanished the spilt wine and fixed the broken
goblet. The Dark Lord noted how his fingers shook, how the blood had
drained from his face…despite the fact that his expression was flat.

"I thought you, of all people, would be pleased at this news," Voldemort
murmured. "Did we not agree that James Potter would suffer for his sins?
That we would have…retribution?

Severus set the now empty glass aside, shaking his head. "No—I mean, yes—
I do agree that…that he…but…"

He stuttered into silence, fingering his wand nervously. Voldemort was

honestly confused at his anxiety, and his…fear.

"What is it, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked. "What troubles you so?"
Snape looked so very conflicted. His face had gone from white to a delicate
shade of green, like he was going to be sick. "It's…I…the woman," he
whispered, unable to meet his master's eyes. "I…do you know of—"

"Lily Potter née Evans," Voldemort interrupted. "A muggle-born witch, born
January thirtieth, in Cokeworth, England…very near to Spinner's End…"
Snape's eyes snapped up to his at that, shocked that Voldemort knew.

But he should not have been so surprised…for the Dark Lord always knew.
"Who attended Hogwarts at the same times as her now husband, the auror,
James Potter," Voldemort continued. "At the same time…as you."

A long moment of silence. Snape's already green face had turned an even
darker, sicklier shade. "…Yes," he finally said. "…She…"

Severus then fell to his knees, his face suddenly contorted in desperation.
"Please spare her!" he begged. "Her husband, the boy—this prophesized
enemy, of course—but please, please, my Lord, do not k-kill the woman…"

His dark eyes were watering, imploring his master to listen…and Voldemort
truly understood it all, then.

"Ah," he said, his serpentine face tilting to one side and taking in the pathetic
form of his young Death Eater. "Then it is not out of spite for his blood-status
that you detest James Potter. It is out of envy…over a woman."

The Dark Lord could not have sounded more disgusted. Snape didn't say
anything, but nodded, unable to deny it. "Please spare her," he said, sounding
more pitiful still. "I will do anything you ask of me, anything…"

Voldemort sighed. He stepped away from his trembling follower, flicking his
wand and refilling his own glass. He motioned lazily for Snape to stand, who
immediately did. "Really, Severus?" he said, looking disappointed. "A
mudblood? A mudblood who is also a member of Dumbledore's Order of the
Phoenix?"

Snape's eyes fell to the floor. Voldemort sighed again. "My poor, wretched
child. You know, if it were anyone else, Severus, I would kill the girl for no
other reason than to remind you that such people are below us, and should
never be considered."

Snape nearly swayed at those words. He clutched at the back of a chair for
support. "…Though I admit, I have a weak spot for you, my Half-Blood
Prince," Voldemort went on. "One could almost call it fondness. It is actually
quite repulsive."

The Dark Lord took a long sip of his wine before pointing his wand at
Snape's glass, which sat empty and untouched on the table. It instantly
became full. The Dark Lord picked it up and forced it into Snape's hands. "If
she is wise enough to stay out of my way, then the woman shall have nothing
to fear, and I shall l spare her."

Snape swallowed thickly. "I… Th-thank you, my Lord, I—"

"Enough." Voldemort took another drink, looking expectantly to Severus to

do the same. Still trembling, the young wizard managed to follow suit. "…
You cannot marry her, you know," the Dark Lord said after a thoughtful
pause. "She is both a mudblood and a traitor. By all rights, she should be
destroyed…but I did promise a reward, for your service. You can keep her as
a pet of sorts, I suppose."

Snape nearly choked on his wine. For just the tiniest of moments, his eyes
had gone wide, obviously imagining the reaction who would get from Lily
Evans is he informed her that she was now his pet…as a reward for the
murder of her husband and son.

The audience in the Great Hall made noises of deepest disdain at the Dark
Lord of the memory's words…but no one was more horrorstruck than
Voldemort himself, in his child's body, sitting right in front of the
aforementioned 'mudblood traitor'. He didn't look at her, Voldemort did not
dare—though he could feel Lily Evan's glare on him, like she was attempting
to burn straight through his skull, and might soon be successful.

But Severus, in the memory, recovered from this statement quite quickly.
"M-my Lord is most generous," he said, bowing at the waist.

Voldemort shook his head, looking overall frustrated. "Leave me, then. Your
emotions are making me feel ill. Unless you have any other nauseating
requests?"

"N-no, my Lord."

"Then consider yourself dismissed, Severus."

Snape quickly bowed again. He then downed the rest of his wine in one long
gulp, and left.

He obviously did not believe that the Dark Lord would spare Lily Evans.

Not for a moment.

…Of course, Lord Voldemort was aware of that, by now. He knew that
Severus had gone to Dumbledore. But it did not make watching the
whirlwind scene of his favorite young Death Eater any easier to watch, which
was what materialized next.

Severus Snape, begging Albus Dumbledore to hide her, to hide all of them, if
he must… For Lord Voldemort believed the prophecy to mean the Potter
boy…

And so Albus Dumbledore, imposing figure that he was, in that vision,

promised that he would.

…The desolate hilltop vanished…

...

...and the next memory could have belonged to several of those seated at the
front table, for more than one of them were present.

James Potter, Sirius Black, Lily Evans…and Peter Pettigrew.

The three men entered into a quaint home, talking and laughing, having been
carrying on a conversation before they'd arrived.

"—and so that's when I finally just told her—Bertha, you're on the wrong
floor! The Department of Mysteries is downstairs, and that's not a time-turner
around your neck—it's just a really ugly necklace!"

They all burst out into laughter at James's words. "I know! I mean, I get that
she's new, but I've never met anyone with a worse sense of—"

He abruptly stopped speaking when he took in the sight of his wife. Lily was
sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a mug in her hands and looking
exceptionally ashen.

"What?" he asked, and the smiles vanished from all of their faces. "Lily, are
you all right? …Where's Harry?"

Lily's eyes flashed up to meet his. "Asleep," she said quietly. "James… Albus
came by, earlier. While you were at work."

"Dumbledore?" he balked, looking stricken. "Oh, Merlin—who is it, who's

died?"

"No one…but… You'll want to sit down."

James shared a concerned look with his friends.

"Should we…?"

"No," Lily said, cutting Sirius off. "No, you should stay. All of you. It's…
good that you're here to hear this, actually. Please, sit."

Nervously, they all did…and Lily told them everything. About the prophecy,
about how Dumbledore had heard it firsthand…about a boy born at the end of
July, to parents who had thrice defied him…

About who the Dark Lord believed it was referring to.

"…He thinks it means Harry?"

Sirius's voice was beyond baffled. James seemed too stunned to speak in that
moment, his mind clearly processing all that his wife had just told him.
Pettigrew, too, looked too frightened to comment.

Lily nodded. "Yes. He… The Dark Lord is going to target our son, James."

James just stared, still unable to say anything.

"What did Dumbledore suggest?" Sirius asked. "Did…did he tell you to

leave? To run?"

"No, though that was my initial thought, too…but with a baby, and… Well.
That would be difficult. He recommended the Fidelius Charm. Like what
we're doing for Headquarters." There was a moment of silence while they all
considered this, and what it meant. "He even said that he would be willing to
be our Secret-Keeper himself, James. Even though he's already the Secret-
Keeper of the Order, and it would be another burden for him…"

"I'll do it," Sirius said without hesitation. Tears sprung to life in Lily's eyes.

"Oh, Sirius. I knew you'd say that," she said, wiping at her face.

"Well, I'd be a pretty lousy Godfather if I didn't."

Lily laughed breathily.

"How did Dumbledore find out about this?"

James finally spoke, causing them all to turn. His face was cold and hard.
"About—about how Voldemort knows. Who told him that the Dark Lord is
planning on targeting our son?"
Lily paused for a long time before answering. When she did, her eyes were
fixed on her tea in front of her. "…Severus told him," she whispered.

"Snivellus." Sirius and James hissed the word at the exact same time.

"That bastard," Sirius went on, growling. "Knew he'd go on to be a little

Death Eater minion, just like my idiot brother..." His silver eyes darkened
with emotion, conflicting shades of fury and regret. He shook his head as
though to shake away unwanted memories. "But…why would he do that?
Why would Snape tell Albus this? That sounds like a suicide mission, to try
and deceive the Dark Lord… He's a master Legilimens…"

James looked pointedly at his wife. "Oh, I'm sure I can make a few guesses as
to why."

Lily's head snapped up, defiant. "We were friends, James. Very good friends,
for a very long time."

"Yeah. Friends."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. Something we should all be thankful for, now. If I
were cruel to him, as you lot always were, he wouldn't have risked his life by
finding a way to warn us."

James scoffed. "Right. I'm sure he's very concerned for the safety of our son.
The Fidelius Charm… We can use it to protect you and Harry, but I'm not
staying cooped up in here—"

"Oh, don't be stupid, Prongs." It was, surprisingly, not Lily who reprimanded
him, but Sirius. "This is Snivellus we're talking about, here. Knowing him, he
probably asked his new master to off you as a personal favor, or something."
He pointed at James's chest. "You, sir, are in just as much danger as your
poor son."

For a moment, James looked positively mutinous, like he was going to argue
—but there was no argument to be made. The truth in Sirius's words was
undeniable. James got to his feet, swearing loudly as the chair behind him
went crashing to the floor.

"Snivellus!" he roared, punching the wall. The commotion caused their cat,
which had been asleep on the floor, to bolt from the room. James began
pacing, shaking his now injured hand.

"James—"

"Don't, Lily, just don't," James spat, not looking at her. They all fell silent.
James continued to pace.

"…Th-this is madness."

Peter finally spoke, his voice timid. He beady eyes darted around all of the
occupants of the room, and James finally ceased in his relentless marching.
"This… Are you all aware of how crazy this sounds? You-know-who is
targeting your son, and your solution is to just—to hide? I'm sorry that I have
to be the voice of reason, but if the Dark Lord wants to find somebody, he's
going to do it."

"Peter, don't say that—"

"No!" Peter shouted, cutting off Sirius and suddenly sounding much bolder
himself. "No, I will say it, because clearly no one else is going to! We are
losing the war! Why do you think Moony isn't here?" He paused, looking
pointedly to Lily. She didn't answer, only shook her head and looked taken
aback by the bitterness in his voice.

"Because he's busy trying to infiltrate a werewolf camp, when we already

know that their Alpha is siding with you-know-who! Madness!" He threw his
arms up in the air, looking back to Sirius. "We are losing, we have been
losing for a long time, and nowyou're suggesting that we basically give up
two of our best aurors and put a big, fat target on your back! Because you
know that Snape will know it's you, Sirius! He'll know that James would pick
you, and then he'll—he'll use his Legilimency or whatever, and break it out of
you!"
Pettigrew got to his feet, though he was so short that this was hardly
impressive. "The war is over, and we are just being stupid, continuing to fight
a losing battle! We…we should surrender. I know that's not what we want!"
he hastily shouted, for all three of the others looked furious at that statement.
"I know! But we are going to lose anyway, we might as well not lay down
our lives for a lost cause!"

"He would kill my son, Peter, whether we surrendered or not," Lily said. "Are
you asking me to hand over Harry in exchange for our safety? Are you asking
me to sacrifice my son?"

Her voice was dangerously soft. Peter withered under her stare, but did not
back down entirely. "I… N-no, of course not," he muttered. "But… But if we
surrender, perhaps he would be receptive to a deal. An Unbreakable Vow,
maybe, that Harry would be unquestionably subservient… Maybe he would
need to take the Mark, when he is older, but—"

"So you would rather see my son become a Death Eater," James snarled
down at him.

"Would you rather see him dead?" Peter countered, standing as tall as he
could.

The two men glared at each other, a sinister staring contest that neither
seemed willing to back down from.

"It…it should be you, Wormtail."

They both turned at Sirius's surprisingly calm voice. He was looking at Peter
Pettigrew like he had never seen the man before. "It should be you," he
repeated, standing. "You've already said it yourself. Snape will assume right
away that I would be James's Secret Keeper, but…but you know how
Snivellus was, how you were the only one of us that he ever really had the
balls to goad—always calling you short and a coward and questioning why
you were in Gryffindor—so he would never think it to be you! Snape would
never expect James to pick you over me, so therefore the Dark Lord won't
think of it, either. And then, even if he does somehow catch me, there won't
be any secret to find. I'll be a red herring."

They fell into thoughtful silence as these words sunk in. Peter's face was
blank. "M-me?" he squeaked.

"Yeah," Sirius said, standing. "I'll even go around making it sound like I am
the Secret-Keeper, to everyone, even the Order…so no one will suspect you!
It'll just be between you, me, James and Lily."

James, who had been glaring so venomously before…grinned. "That's…that's

brilliant," James said. "Padfoot, you're absolutely right. They'd never think to
target you, Peter. If you're our Secret-Keeper, then… Then he'd never find
us."

"…I agree," Lily added. "Wormy, they would never suspect you."

"B…but…" Peter looked honestly taken aback by the way the others were
staring at him. "But I'm not smart or strong like you, Sirius… I'm not brave,
like you are, James… I am a coward..."

"You are not a coward," James said adamantly. "You are smart, Wormtail,
otherwise you're never have been able to be an Animagus! And you are
strong, and you are brave. You are not a coward, and…"

James fell to his knees like he was about to propose, grinning wickedly as he
did. He grabbed the shorter man's hands. "Will you, Peter Pettigrew…be our
Secret-Keeper?"

Sirius and Lily both laughed despite themselves, and Peter, too, cracked a
smile. "You really want me, James?" he breathed, playing along.

"You would make me the happiest man alive," James agreed.

They all laughed again. "Well, then… Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!"

James pulled him into a crushing hug. Sirius stood, looking quite pleased
with himself for having thought up such a foolproof plan.
"Now that," he said, helping himself to the Potter's liquor cabinet and pulling
out a bottle of Firewhisky. "Deserves a toast."

And they all drank to that. Best friends, clinking their glasses together to the
future, to their health, and to Harry James Potter.

…The memory deteriorated…

…to reveal the same house.

The vision began just as the door swung open, revealing a worn-looking Peter
Pettigrew.

"Wormtail!"

James's greeting was bright and overenthusiastic. He grinned like the sight of
his friend was the most welcome thing in the world. "Come in, come in! Lily,
look who it is!"

James ushered Peter inside. Lily popped her head around the corner, smiling
as well. "Oh, hello, Wormy!" she said, but then she returned to whatever it
was that had her preoccupied in the other room.

"You should have come a few days ago, for Harry's birthday," James said.
"We still have cake, if you want some. Do you? Cake? Ice cream? Beer?
Whisky? Wine?"

He was speaking very quickly, his hazel eyes shining. It couldn't have been
more obvious that he was desperate for someone to talk to.

"I-I-I don't think I'm hungry," Peter answered.

"Whisky, then." James poured them both a healthy serving. Peter took a seat
at the table, and James joined him. "So where are Padfoot and Moony?
Especially Moony, Merlin, it's been ages!"

"Dumbledore has been keeping them both pretty busy," Pettigrew muttered.
"Remus has basically been living in that werewolf camp, trying to undo all of
the damage that Greyback is causing…can't say I envy him. And Sirius has
been training with this nutty auror, Alastor Moody or something…"

James's eyes widened. "Moody? The Mad Moody?" he gasped. He then

frowned, noticeably jealous. "He's an excellent auror, best there is. Bit mad,
yes, but damn… Training with Alastor Moody…" He sighed wistfully, taking
a long sip of whisky with the air of someone who drank that way often.

"I'm going a bit mad myself, to be honest," James went on. "This is unnatural,
being boxed in like this. It's been months… We've taken to doing the
strangest things, just to keep busy. Lily has started cleaning likes her muggle
sister—atrocious woman—right now, even, she's re-organizing all of our
books so that they're in alphabetical order."

"And what have you been doing…?" Peter asked.

"Trying to get fat, mostly. Pretty much all I do is sleep, eat, and occasionally
change a diaper. As a matter of fact, I don't know why I offered you cake
earlier, because I just finished it off this morning. Alas, this metabolism…"
He gestured down towards his very skinny body. "It is a curse."

James looked up to see that Peter had not even cracked a smile at his joke.
"What's wrong, Wormtail? Are you all right? Did…did something happen?"

Pettigrew fidgeted in his seat. "I… The Mckinnons, did you hear…?"

"Oh," James's face fell. "Yeah, I did… Bloody terrible."

Peter leaned forward, pushing his untouched drink away. "Things are bad,
James," he said gravely. "Really bad. We're losing people all the time,
Remus's mission with the werewolves is makingno progress, it's only a matter
of time until he gets himself killed, and now the giants are attacking muggle
towns… It's chaos. We're losing." He stared at James beseechingly. "I…I still
think—"

"Nonsense." James firmly cut him off, refusing to hear his friend's ideas
about surrendering again. "We're not losing anything. Remus is fully capable
of taking care of himself, and everything is just…it's just…a lull." He paused,
his face suddenly lighting up as an idea came to him. "Say, next time you see
Dumbledore, could you do me a huge favor, and ask him for my Invisibility
Cloak? He still has it, but if I got it back, maybe I could get the hell out of
here, just for a night… It'll be like old times!"

His eyes were glittering at that prospect. Peter shifted uncomfortably under
his stare, but he never got the chance to respond. A sudden, a high-pitched,
yowling sound made them both jump, and a cat came tearing through the
kitchen, terrified. It instantly scoured the length of the drapes, escaping
from…

…It was Harry.

The Dark Lord of the present felt his stomach twisting into knots, for this was
the first time that Harry Potter, technically, had made an appearance in this
retelling of his life story.

And he did so…on a broom.

Laughing his head off, a small child was flying about two feet off the ground,
zipping around the corner before he was out of sight again. James jumped to
his feet.

"James!" Lily appeared with her hands on her hips, furious. "I thought I told
you to put that thing up where he couldn't get it!"

"I-I did!" James spluttered. "I did, I put it up above the pantry, I swear! Didn't
you just put him down, besides?"

"I did… He was sleeping," she said, frowning.

But then James's face broke out into a large grin. "Ha! Lily, do you know
what that means? He must have gotten out of the crib and—and summoned
it!" He laughed boisterously. "Our son is an escape artist! Our one-year old is
a broom-summoning champion!

"Either that, or my husband is an irresponsible liar," she snarled.

A thud and a crash from the other room made them all turn—followed at
once by the sound of an infant crying.

Lily ran. "Uh oh," James muttered, following cautiously behind her.
Pettigrew remained at the table, looking like he was deeply regretting
dropping in.

James entered to see Lily holding her wailing son, who had managed to
knock over what may have once been a nice vase, though it was impossible to
tell, now. The child must had caught a piece of the porcelain, too, because his
palm was bleeding from a deep cut. The toy broom had been flung across the
room.

"Oh, look at that," James muttered dryly, picking up his son while Lily
brushed the fragments of vase to one side. "Your charming sister has
managed to make her opinion of our family known, even with the Fidelius
Charm protecting us. Are you quite sure she's not a witch?"

Lily sighed, ignoring him. James carried Harry back into the kitchen. "It's
true, what I said," James murmured under his breath to Peter so that his wife
could not hear. He set Harry into a high chair, who was still crying. "Most
vile woman I've ever met, Petunia. Lily doesn't like her either, but she'd never
say it—look, look! See, she's not even fixing the vase she gave us, she's just
throwing it away—"

James quickly turned his attention back to Harry when his wife re-entered,
hovering the broken pieces of the vase and tossing them in the trash. "Let's
see the damage then, champ," he said, pulling Harry's bleeding hand towards
him. "Blimey, that's quite a cut you gave yourself, Harry. Ah, but have no
fear! I'll fix you up—"
James pulled out his wand, about to do just that, when it quite inexplicably
went flying out of his hand.

"Don't," Lily spat, catching it deftly and glaring. She had quite skillfully
disarmed him with without a word. "You're lousy at healing spells, you'll
probably just make it worse. Besides, we have dittany."

She left, presumably to go get the dittany…taking her husband's wand with
her. "You see what I have to deal with, Wormtail?" James muttered once she
was out of earshot. "We never used to bicker like this—we're both going
insane, being stuck in here—I'm losing my mind." He gripped Peter's
shoulders, shaking him and looking a bit crazed. "I'm losing my mind!"

But when Lily returned moments later, he was reclining back in his seat,
looking casual. "Here we go…" she said, leaning down and grabbing Harry's
hand. The child was still sniffling loudly.

"This will make it go bye-bye, okay?" Lily pulled out the dropper of a small,
brown bottle. She let several drops fall onto his wound, and the cut healed
over almost at once. "There, see?" she said, wiping away the blood. "Good as
new. This is dittany, Harry, and it's very good. I made it myself."

Harry's green eyes, exactly like his mother's, widened like she had just told
him the most impressive thing in the world. "That's right. Your mum is a
regular Potions Master! Best in my class, second only to Sev."

James's expression soured at that, but Lily didn't notice. Her attention was all
for her son, whose tears she wiped away with one hand. "Now it's back to bed
with you, my little escape artist."

Lily smiled, and her son mimicked the expression. She chastely kissed his
smooth, scarless forehead before she picked him up, rocking him as she
walked out of the room and singing softly as she went.

"Amazing Grace… How sweet the sound…"

James's face, which had looked so bitter a second before, melted at the sound
of his wife's song. He watched her go with the dazed expression of a man that
was irrevocably, helplessly in love.

"I…I should leave."

"Huh?" James looked back to Peter, like he'd quite forgotten that he was
there. "Oh… Oh. Right, then." He stood, walking his melancholy friend to
the door. "Well, thanks for stopping by… Bring Padfoot and Moony with
you, next time. And remember…"

His next words were not spoken out loud, but mouthed silently. 'Get my
cloak!' He winked, giving Peter a thumbs up.

Pettigrew nodded, but the smile he gave looked more like a grimace. He
stepped out onto the doorstep and disappeared.

…Voldemort's memory again…

…And the Dark Lord was becoming more vexed than ever.

Days and weeks and months had passed, and still, they were unable to locate
the Potters. Voldemort had correctly deduced that they must be hidden under
the Fidelius Charm, but the question was…why?

It was a matter he discussed in private with Severus Snape, in the memory

that materialized next.

"…It is as if they know," Voldemort murmured, fingering his wand absent-

mindedly.

Snape watched the action warily. "B-but Dumbledore does know, my Lord,"
he said. "He must have seen me in the pub that day… He knew I was in
Slytherin while at school, that I was associated with many of the students
who went on to become your Death Eaters… It would only be natural to
assume that I may tell you, that you would learn of the prophecy and
therefore target the Potter boy…"

"That is not what puzzles me, Severus," Voldemort said, his crimson eyes
gleaming as they bored into Snape's. "For you see…the prophecy could have
referenced another boy."

Snape looked surprised, this bit of information clearly news to him. "I… It
could have? M-my Lord?"

"Yes. Neville Longbottom fit the prophecy as well. His parents had also
defied me three times at the time the prediction was made, and yet the
Longbottoms did not go into hiding, they have not mysteriously vanished…
In fact, they continue to oppose me at every turn… But the Potters
disappeared the moment I decided that it meant their son." He paused, and his
eyes flashed dangerously. "They know it is Harry Potter I seek. How could
they know?"

Severus's face went completely blank. For a very long moment, they simply
stared at each other—Voldemort, cold and accusatory, Snape, ashen and
undecipherable.

"…Perhaps, my Lord…" Severus began slowly. "…Perhaps Albus

Dumbledore, personally, had reason to believe that you would target
someone of…his birth, over the pureblood boy."

There was a pregnant pause after these words. For a second, it looked like the
Dark Lord was going to be very angry, like he might strike his Death Eater
down for uttering such a thing out loud, which he had told him in confidence
—and Snape did, briefly, look afraid—but then Voldemort's fierce demeanor
lifted, and when he touched Severus's shoulder, he looked at his Half-Blood
Prince as fondly as the Dark Lord ever looked at anyone.

"Yes… I believe you are correct, Severus," he said softly. Snape exhaled, a
bit of color returning to his face.

"…You are my most favored, you do know that, don't you?"

Snape's face flushed at the praise, and when Voldemort looked into his eyes,
he saw honest, sincere adoration there. True devotion.

And it had all been a lie.

…The image of the Dark Lord and the Half-Blood Prince disappeared…

…The memory which surfaced next was something that made Voldemort's
blood run cold.

Why would Dumbledore show this day? How could this possibly be of help?
Why would he force them all to relive it—the murdered, the victims?

The murderer?

…Halloween.

The Dark Lord had been at the Lestrange Manor, that day.

He and his closest followers, as well as their families, had gathered there in
order to celebrate the holiday in the traditional, wizarding way. Ancient
customs that were frowned upon, now, and some of which were technically
illegal, under the current Ministry laws… Laws which Lord Voldemort had
sworn would be abolished, soon…

The memory began with the shrill cry of a struggling creature, bleating and
afraid.

A lamb. Pure white, a fragile, innocent thing—and the small animal was very
aware that it was about to be sacrificed.

Bellatrix had prepared the lower level of her Manor most appropriately. The
ancient runes on the table's surface were beautifully artistic, the light from the
floating, flickering candles creating an ambience that was quite reminiscent
of Hogwarts.

It was perfect.

His dark witch had just approached him with the dagger when their ritual
was…interrupted.

A house elf appeared before them with a pop. It instantly bowed before its
mistress as it did.

"Minnie!" Bellatrix snarled. "I told you to stay out of sight!"

"B-b-but a security ward has been breached, Madam!" the elf squeaked. "A-a
man is here, a wizard—"

Tension, sudden and overwhelming, filled the air. Rodolphus Lestrange

stepped forward, silencing the shrieking lamb with a flick of his wand.
"Someone from the Ministry?" he asked, voicing everyone's concern.

"No, Master Lestrange, a Mr. P-peter Pettigrew… He says he wished to speak

to the Lord and Lady of the house, sir…"

Bellatrix and her husband shared perplexed looks. Clearly, the name was
unfamiliar to them. "Peter Pettigrew?" Rodolphos asked skeptically. "I do not
know a Peter Pettigrew…"

"Peter Pettigrew?"

Everyone's heads turned at the sound of Snape's cynical tone. He sounded

both disgusted and surprised. "Pettigrew is here?"

"I take it you are familiar with this wizard, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

Snape nodded, shortly, but his expression darkened. "I know who he is, yes…
He was in my year at Hogwarts. One of Dumbledore's men, surely, he is
friends with many of the current members…though I've never seen him out in
battle. And I would recognize him."

"Is he alone?" Bellatrix inquired of her elf.

"Yes, Madam."

Voldemort's thin lips curled into a grin. "Then we must be courteous hosts to
this unexpected visitor," he said. Bellatrix nodded, about to command the elf
to allow him in, but Voldemort stopped her. "No… Let Severus go and invite
our guest inside. Surely a familiar face would be more welcoming. It is a
holiday, after all…"

Severus looked like there was little else he would rather do, but he obeyed all
the same. He nodded curtly before heading up stairs.

"Peter Pettigrew…" he muttered under his breath. He marched through the

corridors, pulling out his wand and holding it at the ready when he answered
the door.

The short wizard's beady eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his old
classmate. "S-s-snape!" he stuttered. "What are—but this is—?"

"The Lestrange Manor, yes," Snape sneered, noting Pettigrew's confusion.

"You have arrived at the correct household, I assume, if it is the Lestrange's
you wish to speak with." His eyes narrowed.

"Why do you wish to speak to the Lestrange's?"

Peter took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I… It is actually the D-
Dark Lord I seek an audience with," he said. "I just… I presumed that, I
could, perhaps, th-that maybe Rodolphus Lestrange or his wife could arrange
a meeting, sometime…"

"With the Dark Lord? You?" Snape drawled, crossing his arms. He had yet to
invite the other man to cross the threshold into the Manor.

"Yes," Peter said. "I wish to speak to him."

"What useful things could you possibly have to say to the Dark Lord? Good
God, have you come to surrender in some futile attempt to save your sorry
skin?" Snape's eyes wandered quickly up and down the short length of
Pettigrew's body, making the unsaid statement abundantly clear—Lord
Voldemort would not want the servitude of someone like Peter Pettigrew.

"Th-that is between me and the Dark Lord," Peter retaliated.

Snape smirked. "Well, then you are in luck. He is here now. We're having a
bit of a party…which you have just unintentionally crashed."

Peter's face drained of color. "He is here? N-n-now?"

"Indeed."

Snape's expression was maliciously amused. Peter Pettigrew had obviously

not expected his audience with the Dark Lord to happen right away. "Please,
come in," Severus said, stepping aside and motioning towards the hall.

Peter's eyes darted back towards the path which he had just walked on to get
there, like he was reconsidering—but then he took another deep breath, and a
look of determination washed over him. "Thank you," he said with as much
dignity as he could muster. He then entered into the manor, walking as tall as
he could.

Severus led the way along the corridor, down into the basement. "Not a
coward…not a coward…" Peter was muttering under his breath. "Not a
coward…"

Snape rolled his eyes. When they approached the entryway into the Hall
where the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters were gathered, he grinned
wickedly. "This," he said, taking in Peter's feeble attempt at looking unafraid,

"…Ought to be good."

He pushed the door open.

As expected from his master, Voldemort had rearranged his followers so that
the sight which greeted them was nothing short of intimidating.

The Dark Lord was seated in the middle of a mahogany table at the back of
the Hall, his pale fingers curled around the arms of his throne-like chair. On
his sides were his Death Eaters, also deeply imposing, their dark gazes all
fixated on the newest arrival with expressions of deep disdain. The flickering
light from the floating candles was scarce, making shadows dance across
their features.

The scene rather resembled a dark, sardonic version of Da Vinci's Last

Supper, only there was nothing Christ-like about the figure in the center. The
sacrificial lamb which they had just been about to slaughter was in the middle
of table, still alive and silenced, though now it was bound. The creature
struggled in its restraints over the runes which were carved into wood of the
table.

Pettigrew's gaze flickered from it, to the many Death Eaters, until they finally
landed on Voldemort himself. The small wizard's façade of appearing brave
melted at once, and he withered under the Dark Lord's penetrating gaze.

"May I present Peter Pettigrew," Snape said, shoving the now-shaking man
forward. "He says it is not the Lestrange's he seeks an audience with…but
you, my Lord"

Voldemort tilted his head. His split-crimson eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
"Peter Pettigrew…" he said softly, and Peter shivered violently at the sound
of his name. Voldemort's lip twitched. "To what do I owe the…pleasure, of
being sought out by one of Dumbledore's minions? Does he have a message
for me, and this is the envoy he has selected? Someone disposable, perhaps?"

The Death Eaters surrounding him chuckled softly. Peter's fingers were
twisting together, nervous and twitchy. "No. I-I come here on my own," he
stammered. "I-I-I h-have come to… To surrender myself to you… To join
your side…my Lord."

Snape scoffed at his side, shaking his head in contempt—a reaction which
was shared with everyone else in the room, as well. Voldemort was grinning.
"To surrender…" he repeated. "Why are you surrendering, Pettigrew? Is it
out of self-preservation? Or do you truly wish to see yourself as one of my
own?"

Pettigrew's eyes fell to the floor. "I wish t-to truly join you, my Lord," he
said. "I…have seen the logic of your regime, and wish to join the ranks of…
of your Death Eaters."

Everyone laughed, and Peter turned a furious shade of red. Voldemort let it
go on for a while before raising a single hand to end it. "And why would I
want you as one of my Death Eaters, Pettigrew?" he asked. "Only my most
faithful, trusted…useful followers are graced with the Dark Mark." He leaned
forward, his eyes assessing the trembling wizard and looking unimpressed.
"What do you have to offer me, which I do not already have?"

Peter was silent for a long moment. He continued to tangle his fingers
together, biting his lip and looking torn. He must have fully realized the
severity of his situation, now. If Peter Pettigrew failed to offer up something
substantial to the Dark Lord, to be accepted into his ranks…he would not be
allowed to leave the Lestrange Manor alive.

He inhaled sharply, and when he spoke he looked up to meet Voldemort's

gaze head-on.

"I can give you the Potters," he said, barely above a whisper.

...The atmosphere changed drastically.

Voldemort's contemptuous gaze faded, quickly turning blank. The Death

Eater's expressions became stunned, and Snape…

Severus's jaw fell open, his skin turning a stark white. "…You?" he gasped,
causing Peter to tear his focus away from the Dark Lord and look at him.
"They chose you, as their Secret-Keeper? Over Dumbledore? Over Black?"

Peter puffed his chest out indignantly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they did," he
snapped. Snape could not prevent the look of horror that cut across his face at
the devastating news. He had just allowed the Potter's Secret-Keeper into the
Dark Lord's midst, had welcomed him in through the front door…

"And you would offer them up to me, Pettigrew?" Voldemort's icy voice
drew all eyes back to him. "You would damn your…friends?"

Peter swallowed throatily, fingers twitching again. "They…they are no

friends of mine," he said, but his voice was rough and hollow. "I will tell you
where they are. I can give you the boy."

Voldemort stood, rising fluidly to his feet and quickly coming around the
table. Snape was clutching at his chest, panicked, struggling to keep himself
composed. By the time Voldemort stood directly in front of Peter, many of
the Death Eaters were on their feet as well, to better watch the following
interaction.

"Show me," Voldemort commanded.

Pettigrew nodded. "Th-the location of the—"

"Did I say speak?"

The Dark Lord's frigid tone made Pettigrew yelp before falling silent, looking
down and trembling harder than ever. "I said…" Voldemort extended his
arm, propping up Peter's head with a single finger under his chin.

"…Show me."

The entire room froze. Snape, the Death Eaters, Peter Pettigrew—all parties
held their breath as the Dark Lord looked into his beady, blue eyes, searching
for the truth—where Harry James Potter and his family remained
untouchable, if Pettigrew truly knew the location and was willingly divulging
such a secret with the Dark Lord…

A pause, and then—

Peter was screaming and on his knees. In a motion that was so quick it had
been undiscernible, Voldemort had retracted his wand, the tip of which was
now burning into Pettigrew's left forearm. The Dark Lord released him a
moment later, and Peter crumpled to the floor.

"Consider yourself under the protection of Lord Voldemort…my newest

Death Eater," he crooned, smiling sadistically.

The others broke out into raucous cheers, shouting and clapping. "Excellent!
Superb! Incredible!" Bellatrix yelled, racing around the table and yanking
Peter to his feet. "Minnie!" she snapped, and the elf instantly appeared.
"Champagne, our finest bottles—all of it, serve it all—this is deserving of a
thousand toasts!"

The elf bowed and disappeared again. "Well done, Pettigrew!" Lucius Malfoy
said, clapping Peter on the shoulder which Bellatrix did not currently have
her talons sunk into.

And soon they were all crowding around him, jeering and laughing.
Champagne glasses appeared, hovering into everyone's hands, bubbling and
bright. Pettigrew was hardly able to hold one, still wincing in pain from the
curse on his arm. He looked highly uncomfortable at the way all of the Death
Eaters were invading his personal space, eyes lit up in glee. Peter Pettigrew
looked very much like a rat in a snake's den.

Apart from Pettigrew, the only one not smiling was Snape. When a glass
floated over to him, Severus ignored it, taking a step back, his eyes darting to
the door.

"To the Dark Lord!" Bellatrix roared, and everyone echoed her words,
drinking. Voldemort himself even imbibed, draining his glass to the toast
which had been made to him.

Severus had just been about to escape when Bellatrix's arm shot out, curling
around his shoulder. "What's wrong, Sevvy?" she purred, her hooded eyes
gleaming. "You don't look so well… Are you unwilling to drink to our Lord's
success?"
Snape's breath hitched in his throat, painfully aware of Voldemort's eyes on
him. "O-o-of course I want to," he said. He cleared his throat, and when he
spoke next, his words were much smoother. "Nothing would please me
more."

"Then have a drink with me." Bella forced the floating glass into his hand.
When he took it, she smiled sweetly.

"To the treacherous turncloak!" she shouted, mockingly toasting Peter.

"To the treacherous turncloak!" they parroted back, drinking again. Snape
said nothing, but drained his glass…quickly reaching for another, and
another, like he suddenly could not consume the alcohol quickly enough.

But Lord Voldemort was unbothered. He had told Severus that he would
spare the woman, if she stepped aside…

"Tonight, my faithful followers, will be a day that shall go down in history.

Tonight, I shall strike down my prophesized enemy, and our path to greatness
shall be clear. Tonight, the war shall officially end."

They all cheered. Snape was on his fifth glass of champagne.

The Dark Lord's gaze fell on the lamb which was still struggling on the table,
bleating soundlessly. "Tonight…there shall be a much greater sacrifice to
celebrate this holiest of days. And when I return…we shall truly celebrate."

And with that, Voldemort left the manor, the sound of his Death Eaters'
cheers behind him, his wand held tightly beneath the sleeve of his robe.

…The vision of Lestrange Manor disappeared…

…and Godric's Hollow began to take its place.

"Dumbledore!" the current-Dark Lord screamed, his child's voice small and
cracking. "Stop this! You—you cannot show this!"

The Marauders' faces were blank canvases of cold fury. Voldemort couldn't
look at them, couldn't watch the memory which was forming. He stared at the
Headmaster imploringly, begging.

"Unfortunately, Tom… I must."

"No, don't—"

But then the image snapped into focus, and there was nothing he could do.

Voldemort's hands flew to his face, peering through his fingers, desperately
wanting to look away from the memory…and unable to do so.

The night was wet and windy, and as the Dark Lord walked with purpose
down the street… Two children dressed as pumpkins waddled past, carrying
baskets and collecting candy. The Muggle shops in the town square were
decorated in paper spiders and nylon webs, all of the fake, gaudy trappings
which they thought best represented a world which they did not believe…

"No…" The current-Dark Lord was breathing through his fingers, shaking his
head, fighting back the bile in his throat.

He could have killed the child that peered up at him, seeing his serpentine-
face and recognizing what he was, but that was unnecessary, quite
unnecessary… Only one child would die, tonight…

…
"No, please, stop this," the desperate spectator pleaded to an unyielding
Headmaster. His stomach was contorting in unfathomable ways, and
emotions, feelings that he had never felt before and which he certainly had
not felt then, were clawing at his heart, searing into his soul—

At last, his destination was in sight, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they
did not yet know it… The curtains were wide open, he could see them quite
clearly… The tall, dark-haired man in the sitting room, making puffs of
colored smoke for the amusement of a boy in blue pajamas… And then his
mother, a woman with long, red hair falling across her face, entered, saying
words he could not hear… The man lifted up his son, and the woman scooped
him up, cradling the child in her arms… The man threw his wand on the sofa,
stretching and yawning…

The Dark Lord could not do this, he could not watch what it was he had done,
and yet he could do nothing but watch…

The gate creaked when he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear
him… Voldemort went to the door, which burst open when he pointed his
wand at it. He was over the threshold when James came sprinting down the
hall…

There was a moment where the air in the home seemed to freeze entirely.
Their eyes met—James Potter, Lord Voldemort—and it was too easy, the
Dark Lord thought, he had not even grabbed his wand…

For a fractional moment, James's mind was in a state of instant denial. No,
was the thought that cut across his mind when their gazes locked. No.

And the Dark Lord, though he had said nothing, sent a mental message of his
own. Lord Voldemort's lipless mouth curled into a smile, sardonic, twisted.
Trick or treat.

James Potter screamed. "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold
him off!"

Hold him off, without a wand…? Voldemort laughed before uttering the
incantation…

…But the Dark Lord of the present did not hear the words of his own Killing
Curse, for he was too busy screaming himself, willing to away, willing it to
stop… The muggle audience, too, was shouting and crying out, though they
all knew it was a memory, they all knew it was already over… And though it
had been James Potter who spoke in the vision, though it was James whose
body fell like a lifeless marionette puppet, it was Harry who Lord Voldemort
heard, in the back of his mind:

'You murdered my mother and my father… You took away myfamily… How
can you ever expect me to look at you as anything other than a monster, when
you killed my parents?'

How could he look at himself as anything other than a monster, now that he
was being forced to fully grasp what it was he had done? The grief which was
coursing through him was crushing, he could not bear it, it would kill him—

…The Dark Lord could hear her screaming upstairs, trapped, but she, at least,
had nothing to fear, if she had any sense at all… He ascended the steps,
mildly amused at the sounds she made while attempting to barricade herself
in… She did not have a wand, either… How stupid they were, how
ignorantly trusting, thinking that safety lie in friends, that they could even for
a moment set their weapons aside…

With one lazy wave of his wand, the door was forced open, casting aside the
chair and the hastily piled boxes… And there she was… At the sight of him,
she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms out wide,
like that might help, like shielding him from sight would save him…

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, silly girl…"

…Voldemort's cold, high voice, mocking, ringing in his ears, in everyone's

ears… The Dark Lord looked up at his own malevolent expression, crying
out between his hands to make it stop, to make it not happen, stop it, don't do
it, stop, stop, stop—

The green light flashed around the room, and Lily Evans fell to the floor, just
like her husband…

And he had noticed, then, the slight shift in the atmosphere, the charged
energy in the room, but he had not thought anything of it… He did not
recognize it at the time, could not have possibly perceived what that subtle
magical shift that surrounded the child was, that settled in his heart, that
coursed through his veins… It was a force he did not understand…. A power
he knew not…

But he knew it, now.

The child had not cried the entire time. Harry Potter was standing, clutching
at the side of his cradle and looking up at the intruder with a kind of bright
interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father, and this was a game, and his
mother would soon jump back to her feet, laughing…

Voldemort pointed his wand at the boy's face. He had wanted to see it
happen, the destruction of this one, this inexplicable danger… The child then
began to cry. The Dark Lord cringed, he did not like it crying, could never
stomach the sound of such wailing from the young ones at the orphanage…

"Avada Kedavra!"

He broke.

The Dark Lord of the past and the one of the present were both screaming,
for Voldemort recalled that pain so vividly, so clearly—he could feel it now,
tearing him apart, ripping him open from the inside out—a child was crying,
crying—

And then the vision projected above them vanished entirely, no trace
remaining of glimmering silver from the Pensieve, nothing at all—for James
and Lily had no memories from their lives left to give, and the Dark Lord had
no longer had eyes with which to see, ears with which to hear, a body with
which to feel—

Tom Riddle broke, and when his meagre spirit fled that shattered home, he
had unknowingly left a piece of himself behind.
 40. The Impossible Truth
Notes for the Chapter:

Much love to Kaidyen for beta'ing!!!

Silence.

It was more suffocating than any amount of screaming, shouting or crying

ever could be. The memories disappeared completely, and afterwards,
everything went painfully still, horrifically frozen…because it was done.

It was over, it had already happened… Tom Riddle had become the Dark
Lord, and he had killed them, he had killed so many… Voldemort had his
head lowered against the desk he was unable to move from, shoulders
trembling and eyes closed… It was over…

It was over…

"But it wasn't over, Tom."

Voldemort peered up through his lashes, hesitant. Dumbledore stood next to

him with a severe and distant expression. His voice carried clearly through
the quiet hall.

"Your actions caused far more damage than that. When you murdered Lily
and James Potter, you ruined the lives of many. Sirius Black was wrongly
imprisoned. Remus Lupin believed he lost all of his friends in one night,
thinking them either dead or traitorous… Harry Potter was to be raised by a
family who would never love him, who would never treat him with
kindness... Who would lock him in a cupboard, alone and unwanted…"

Voldemort cringed as Harry's words once more echoed in his ears:

'I went back there, every night, because of you…'

"Stop," Voldemort whispered, his fingers digging into his scalp and tangling
in his hair. "Just…stop. I…"

He couldn't articulate it, the horrible sensation that he was experiencing. It

felt like something sharp was clawing at his ribs, and at the same time he was
being hit with wave after wave of awful nausea, like he was going to be sick,
or faint, even…

"We call that…remorse," Dumbledore said evenly.

Voldemort's eyes widened. "Is that what this is all about?" he gasped.
Because of course he knew, he had read every single word that had ever been
printed on the matter of horcruxes. "Feelingremorse? Removing the fragment
of my soul from him, getting it back?" Voldemort was shaking his head, not
wanting to acknowledge that conclusion.

"Actually, Tom… No. Quite the contrary," Dumbledore said, to his very
great surprise. "In fact, I believe that having such an intimate connection with
Harry's soul is your only chance for salvation at all."

It was one of the very rare occasions where Voldemort was actually so
confused, so unprepared for such a response that he just stared,
uncomprehending. "Because your broken soul is now connected with Harry's,
you can feel his emotions, just as he can feel yours. There is the potential for
you to experience all that you have been so unfairly denied in your first life."

"But you've already said it yourself, Dumbledore," James Potter interrupted,

leaning forward and pointing at the Headmaster accusingly. "It doesn't matter
that Harry's emotions can affect him, not if he can't feel love in the first place.
And you said that he was born incapable of such a thing."

Sirius and Remus nodded at his side. Lily did not react. "So I did,"
Dumbledore agreed. "And that was the truth. He was born under the
influence of a powerful love potion, and then grew up without parents who
loved him…and so it was something he never knew."

James opened his mouth to say something else, but Dumbledore cut him off.
"However," the Headmaster continued briskly, "Tom Riddle did something
when he regained a body that opened him up to the possibility."

The Marauders shared skeptical glances. "Prove it," Sirius barked.

Dumbledore grinned.

"With pleasure."

The Headmaster conjured up another plume of silver from the Pensieve, and
a new memory sprung to life before them.

…The graveyard.

They all watched in horrified fascination as Peter Pettigrew, much older and
one finger down, did the Dark Lord's bidding in a gloomy and ominous
landscape. Pettigrew worked around a giant cauldron which collected the
bone of Tom Riddle Senior, the flesh of the Dark Lord's terrified, but willing,
servant…

…and the blood of Harry Potter.

Harry, who was tied to the headstone of his muggle father. Harry, who was
struggling and so afraid, eyes misting behind glasses as they darted from the
writhing form of Nagini, to the simmering cauldron, to the body of a
handsome boy with unseeing eyes…

And when Lord Voldemort rose again, gathering his followers to him and
relishing the sensation of being corporal once more, he had not known, had
not sensed it… Everything had felt so new, so overstimulating, being able to
fully perceive the physical world again… The connection with the boy, he
had presumed, was nothing more than a new type of obsessive hatred, for
hatred had been all he had ever known…

The memory faded just as he placed his hand on Harry's face, smiling when,
with just a touch, Harry Potter screamed…
…

The Dark Lord of the present winced at the sound and closed his eyes.

"When Tom Riddle took his blood that day, he deepened the bond he shared
with Harry Potter in an unprecedented way," Dumbledore explained in a level
voice. "The magic which Lily bestowed upon him when she died was of the
most ancient and powerful kind. Blood magic, existing of nothing but pure
love. The moment she died, that magic was born in Harry's heart and flowed
through his veins. It was that protective enchantment which caused the killing
curse to rebound… And because it was blood magic, it would only remain
intact if it was continually exposed to that same familial blood. It was a
difficult decision, to leave Harry Potter in the hands of Petunia Dursley But it
was the only option, the only way. That love flourished in Harry's very soul,
even when his surrogate family was cruel and distant. Harry was the epitome
of light and love… Also recklessness, one might argue."

Dumbledore paused to smile shrewdly at the Marauders. "That would be

putting it mildly," Remus muttered, and Sirius laughed.

"But I digress. Tom used Harry's blood to regain a body. Blood that was
imbued with ancient magic. And while it granted him the ability to touch the
boy without coming to harm, as he knew it would, it had several
unanticipated side effects for our oblivious Dark Lord. He didn't know it, yet,
but for the first time, Tom Marvolo Riddle was able to feel love...for Harry
Potter."

The reactions were dramatic and varied. The crowd muttered to each other
animatedly, Remus appeared distressed but thoughtful, Sirius looked
sickened, and James just covered his face with his hands and hid his
expression completely.

And Lily…

Voldemort decided that James had the right idea, and buried his face in his
hands as well. "But this is where it gets interesting, Tom," Dumbledore said.
Voldemort kept his face hidden and said nothing.
"Tom! Pay attention, this is important!"

A sharp pain on the top of his head made the childlike Dark Lord look up.
"Ow—what—?" Voldemort rubbed the back of his head, growling when
people started laughing, most pointedly and loudly Sirius Black, because
Dumbledore had just hit him, and where the blazes had the deceased
Headmaster gotten a yardstick?

Dumbledore pointed the aforementioned yardstick at his face. "Because of

the connection with the horcrux, you can feel Harry's emotions. Because of
the bond of your shared blood, you can now feel love. And with love comes a
plethora of other emotions that have remained dead and buried deep within
your broken psyche—sympathy, empathy, remorse—just to name a few.
You're still learning, but you're able to feel them, even now, ever since you
took his blood. And you'll only get better at it as time goes on… So long as
Harry allows it. When your minds are open to one another…that is what you
need, Tom. You need him to be a willing participant, if you ever want to see
the world through a lens that is not clouded by hate and bitterness. Love will
make you stronger, not weaker… But you need Harry to experience that. And
you need him to want that for you."

Dumbledore paused, his blue eyes glittering like polished gemstones. "Why,
you could even say that, before Harry Potter, you were living in darkness…
and he could be your light."

The nausea in the pit of Voldemort's stomach, somehow, got worse.

Dumbledore just laughed good-naturedly.

"So, what say you?" the Headmaster said, turning away from a mortified Tom
Riddle to address the people at the front table directly. "Should we offer up
some assistance? May I remind you," Dumbledore lifted one hand, silencing
Sirius Black before he could interrupt, for he showed every sign of doing so,
"that no matter what you decide…he is going back. Lord Voldemort will
wake up soon, back in the corporal world where lives still hang in the
balance. I would personally advise, then, that we do as much as we can, if it
means returning him to the physical realm even slightly less malevolent and
more informed than he is now. But the choice…is up to you."

They deliberated. Remus, Sirius, and James all glanced at each other,
muttering things and frowning.

But not Lily. Her eyes remained on the Dark Lord, eerily static. Voldemort's
feelings of foreboding about this woman were escalating with every passing
second. He still had not yet chanced looking at her face again, only noted her
rigid posture in his periphery vision.

"I want to see proof."

It was James who had spoken. He folded his arms across his chest, and even
in the way his jutted his chin out, even in the way his brows furrowed, he was
remarkably reminiscent of Harry. "Show us one instance where he actually,
truly felt something other than pure want or greed or…or obsession."

It stung far more than it should have. Voldemort hardly stopped himself from
wincing at the accusation, however justified it was.

"Fair enough," Dumbledore said, shrugging. "I can provide an excellent

example of Tom Riddle experiencing emotions that prove he is not the same
man he once was… As a matter of fact, it would probably be best for you to
experience this again as well, Tom."

Voldemort was hit with a fierce wave of panic as the Headmaster conjured up
another memory from the stone basin. But before he could even try and stop
it from happening, the vision appeared before them.

…It was Harry's mind, and it was a tempest.

Voldemort and Snape were battling in an apocalyptic storm, tearing through

Harry's mind with little regard for the screaming victim himself. The Dark
Lord of the present squirmed at the sound of Harry's howls of pain now,
though. They were screams of pure agony, the sound of someone who…
Someone who had wanted to die.

Harry had wanted to die, and it was because of what he, Lord Voldemort, had
put him through…

Lily Evans appeared. She was a vision in white for her son, flowers in her
hair and tears in her eyes. An angel and a miracle.

Lord Voldemort fell from the sky. He was reduced to a mortifying heap of
fragile limbs on the ground, heartbroken and desperate and Harry could not
just leave him again, no—

And even if he had wanted to keep his thoughts to himself, he wouldn't have
been able to. They burst out of his broken heart like a flock of doves, pure
and light and uncontainable.

'But I just got you back—'

'Please, no, no, no—'

'But I lo—'

Harry turned, and Lily vanished.

The woman in white disappeared, but her lullaby lingered, filling the
mindscape with her song. When Snape pushed the Dark Lord from Harry's
mind once more, Voldemort was too weak to fight it, and he was banished.

But the memory didn't stop there.

Voldemort woke with a start.

The vision continued to show the Dark Lord's eyes opening in his own
quarters, gasping for breath as he abruptly sat up straight. He lifted his hands
to his face to find that his fingers were trembling. The Dark Lord was
shaking, panting, and utterly horrified.
Voldemort stood, clutching at his chest. He was confused and disoriented. A
horrible pain was coursing through him, and it was like nothing he had ever
experienced.

It terrified him, the foreign sensation. At the time, he had thought that maybe
Severus had cursed him, had invented some new hex which was slowly going
to destroy him from the inside out. Merlin knew he had taught that child far
too much back when he had been faithful…

And so the Dark Lord had acted at once.

The memory was mortifying to watch. Voldemort, quivering and alarmed,

ransacking his own potion stocks for potential antidotes to dark and complex
curses—only to remember that Severushad been the one to make them all in
the first place just as he had begun to drink one. Voldemort spit it out and
subsequently vanished every single glass bottle and vial he owned.

He then turned to counter-curses, charms, and other spell-work… Anything

to end the debilitating pain in his chest. Bellatrix had attempted to summon
him, but he could not be bothered to listen to her mental request, not then…

But nothing worked.

The Dark Lord spent over an hour trying to divine what dark magic could
possibly cause him to feel so horrible, but he could not. No diagnostic tests
yielded any results whatsoever…

"…This is not magic," he finally gasped out loud, staring at himself in the
mirror in shock.

"Astute conclusion," his reflection answered back, looking far less concerned.

Voldemort walked away from the mirror in a state of disbelief. He was still
shaking. Knowing that it was not a curse which affected him had not made
him feel better, but worse, much worse…for then what else could it be?

He sat on the edge of his bed, Bellatrix's message waiting for him on the
outskirts of his mind. He finally paid attention.

The blood traitor. The mudblood. I have them, at the castle… Severus is
coming.

Voldemort's fists clenched at his sides, suddenly no longer trembling.

Severus.

The horrible and painful sensations that made him feel sick did not dissipate,
but they were instantly overshadowed by a tidal wave of scorn. Severus
Snape, traitor, deserter, turncloak—who stole his precious soul from him,
who faked both their deaths, who had been living with him in secret for
weeks now while he, Lord Voldemort, had grieved and suffered and—

"…Massster?"

The unexpected sound of Nagini's voice made the Dark Lord start. He had
not even realized what he was doing—Voldemort had risen to his feet again
and had begun pacing, his heart thundering in his ears. His fists were slick
with a scorching hot, vivid red-orange, his own fingers having dug into his
palms and drawn blood.

"Nagini," he hissed. The hatred in his heart ebbed away slightly at the sight of
his pet. Nagini came towards her master, dutifully slithering onto his
shoulders and hissing a stream of wordless, soothing sounds. Voldemort's
tense muscles relaxed at her touch, and he vanished the blood on his hands so
that he could stroke her diamond scales. Being in contact with his horcrux
made the horrible nausea fade marginally. Not entirely, but enough to regain
his usual, lucid composure.

"My beautiful creature," he crooned adoringly. "How I treasure you… Are

you hungry, my pet?"

"I am alwayssss hungry, massster…"

Voldemort laughed softly. "Good," he said, and then he pulled out his wand.
With Nagini still on his shoulders, he cast over both of them a flawless
disillusionment spell. "We are going to go to the castle, my dear. And you
can have whatever extraneous limbs of Severus Snape that you like."

Nagini hissed in approval. With a soft pop, the Dark Lord disapparated.

…The memory vanished.

Dumbledore inclined his head towards Voldemort, but his eyes were on
James. "That was a man experiencing guilt for the very first time in his life,"
he explained. Voldemort's face was burning with he didn't even know what.
Shame, probably. But there were too many other sickening emotions
clouding the Dark Lord's mind for him to be able to properly label any of
them. "He didn't understand it, then. He thought it was Severus Snape's
doing, that pain, that he had been hexed… Am I correct in that assumption?"

Yes, that was definitely shame in his heart. Voldemort didn't say anything,
only gave the tiniest nod in response. How foolish, how asinine, to have
thought that… But then, how could he possibly have known? He had never
felt it before…

"But it was guilt. Raw, overwhelmingly powerful guilt… And there isn't a
potion, charm, or spell in the world that will cure that."

Voldemort scowled. The Marauders all looked thoughtfully conflicted, and

were quiet for a time.

"…Did your snake eat Severus's legs, then?" James eventually asked,
hopefulness evident in his would-be casual voice.

Voldemort's scowl deepened. "…Most unfortunately, no," he said, and it was

the first time he directly addressed any of the people at the front table.
Looking at James still made his stomach churn, even more so when the man
who so resembled his son looked disappointed. "I did snap his wand in half
later, though…"
James's lips twitched, and even though he didn't respond, his hazel eyes lit up
in the closest thing to approval that the Dark Lord had seen in them yet.
Voldemort smirked.

"Well, I don't believe I can provide for you a better example of Tom Riddle's
current emotional capacity than that," Dumbledore said. "So it is time to
decide, then."

There was a long stretch of silence. Voldemort tore his gaze away from
James to look at Dumbledore, still very unsure if he wanted any part of this.

You are not going to show them any of the memories from after my second
rise, then?

The moment Voldemort caught the Headmaster's eye, he wordlessly willed

the thought towards him. Without missing a beat, Dumbledore responded
with an instant, legelimized thought of his own.

Am I going to show them what horrible things you did upon your return, you
mean? Besides what they have just witnessed? No, Tom… There is only one
person's forgiveness which matters on that account.

Somehow, that thought did not make Voldemort feel relieved. Only guiltier.

Emotions were suffocating, and he hated them all.

"Do you?"

Voldemort started when Dumbledore verbalized the question loudly enough

for everyone to hear. "Do you hate these emotions? If you could go back, if
you could revisit that moment in the graveyard where you took Harry's
blood… Would you do it differently? Would you choose someone else
instead, if you could? Now that you've experienced love, would you willingly
get rid of the capability, and go back to how you were? Think about it first,
Tom, before you answer…"

A more embarrassing, heart-stopping question could not have been asked.

Voldemort had never felt as exposed as he did right then, with everyone
staring at him, eyes wide, expectant and shocked…

The obvious answer was yes, yes of course he would go back, of course he
would do things differently. Love was obviously a huge weakness, clouding
his judgement and rendering him so vulnerable… It gave his enemy power,
turned him into something beautiful that the Dark Lord wanted to keep
forever, not destroy, and this entire war was supposed to be about killing
those on Dumbledore's side, not falling in love with them and jeopardizing
everything…

But even as he had these rational thoughts, he knew that would be a lie, to
say that. Yes, it was horrible and weak and every intelligent part of his mind
screamed as much; but there was another, much more savage, primal part that
overpowered it. It didn't matter that he knew love was stupid, he wanted it. It
was wonderful, it was bliss. The image of Harry's smile, the idea of Harry's
lips pressed against his own—it was like electricity flaring beneath his skin,
and now that he had experienced it, he wanted it, needed it…and no amount
of logical, coherent thought could ever make him willingly give it up again.

He hated to admit that. But everyone was staring, and he knew he couldn't lie.

"…No," he finally whispered, his eyes flashing to Dumbledore's only briefly

before falling to the ground.

A resounding wave of quietness. No one, evidently, expected that response.

"Do you want to be loved, Tom?"

Voldemort's eye twitched. His face must have been brilliantly red, with how
hot he suddenly felt. He looked back up at the Headmaster, violent,
incoherent curses being mentally thrown at the old man's mind.

"It's a yes or no answer, Tom," he said evenly. "Simple, really."

I hate you, Voldemort thought venomously. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
But the Headmaster just looked at him, eyes shining, because they both knew
it wasn't quite true.

With a deep sense of mortification, Voldemort slowly, quietly said:

"…Yes."

Dumbledore smiled.

Remus Lupin came to a conclusion first. He gave a thumbs up to the

Headmaster, who then nodded approvingly. Then Sirius Black and James
Potter, after sharing one more quick and despairing glance, followed suit.

And then silence fell. Everyone was waiting for the final 'vote', as it was…
from Lily Evans.

Voldemort finally looked at her.

She looked right back, all green, green eyes and bright, crimson hair. He
knew his face must have paled, looking at her, and maybe…maybe that was
why her lips twitched.

Voldemort turned away. Lily gave a thumbs up, and the crowd cheered.

"Very good!" Dumbledore said, smiling and sending another array of

blinding, rainbows scattering across his horrendous gold robes. He pointed
the yardstick at Voldemort's face again. "We don't have a lot of time, Tom, so
you'll have to forgive us for giving you a lot of information all at once—but
you're a smart boy, I've no doubt you'll be just fine. Consider this a crash
course."

Voldemort scowled, though his heart was still palpating erratically from his
split-second of eye contact with Lily Evans. "A crash course in what?"

"My dear boy! What do you think?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. This…
could not be happening. A crash course. With his dead enemies. With Albus
Dumbledore. On…

Wake up, wake up, wake up—

"Tom. Stop that."

Voldemort glowered. "…Love," he finally drawled, the one word spoken

through teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw hurt. Dumbledore beamed.

"Five points for Slytherin."

The sound of green, emerald-like balls hitting something solid made the Dark
Lord's jaw drop in disbelief. For five spheres had fallen from the full top of
the Slytherin hourglass at the front of the hall, the only one which now had
any substance in the bottom portion of the glass.

Voldemort's eyes landed on Dumbledore again, his stunned expression

having quickly turned sour. "…You're kidding," he sneered.

"Goodness no! That was completely worthy of points, it was the right
answer."

"Points? Points!?" Voldemort spat incredulously. He tried to stand again, and

was, of course, unable to do so. "Is this a game, now? My life?"

"Pretty much. What? Don't look so upset, Tom. It really is the best way to
learn." Dumbledore grinned, and he pointed the yardstick at the Pensieve like
it was a wand. "Here's how it will work. I'm going to show you an example to
illustrate a point. Understand the vision, comprehend it fully, and answer my
question correctly, and points for you. Of course, you're not the only one
playing…but we'll get there."

Voldemort's nails were digging into the underside of his chair. Dumbledore
conjured up a cloud of silver from the Pensieve, and a memory began to
appear…

"Example A: Bellatrix Lestrange."

…

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Only…this must have been actually been a memory of hers, not Voldemort's,
because it was Halloween. That very same night, in Lestrange Manor. The
silenced lamb was still thrashing on the table, alive and afraid, but going
completely ignored. It must have been hours since the Dark Lord had left.

"How… How did you get this memory?" Voldemort asked, utterly perplexed.

"Don't ask me how I do things, Tom, or you'll be here all day. Now pay
attention."

Voldemort grimaced, wondering just how his life had gotten to this point…
where when he wasn't pining over the denied attentions of his supposed
enemy, Harry Potter, he was suffering through the nightmare of another
supposed enemy, Albus Dumbledore.

The memory showed most of Voldemort's Death Eaters berating a terrified

Peter Pettigrew, asking him question after question about Order members…
but not Bellatrix.

Bellatrix was pacing and looking concerned. "He has been gone too long,"
she said to no one in particular as she glanced at a large grandfather clock
against the wall. She looked around at the others. "He has been—where is
Severus?"

Everyone looked up, peering over their shoulders and frowning. Severus
Snape had disappeared.

"Where did he go? When did he leave?" Bellatrix was shouting, now. She
whipped out her wand, brandishing it like a blade. "Severus!" she snarled.

But there was no response. He was gone.

"This is wrong. Something is very wrong," she said, becoming panicked. "He
has been gone far too long, and Snape has vanished, and…you." Her eyes
landed on Peter, who instantly flinched. "You were up there, alone with him!
With Snape!" She pointed her wand at his chest, stepping closer to him.
"What were you doing up there? Were you conspiring? What did you say?"

"N-nothing!" Peter squeaked, backing away from her. "I wasn't conspiring
with Snape!"

"Where are the Potters located!?" Bellatrix snapped. "Where did the Dark
Lord go, where is this hiding place?"

Peter swallowed thickly, but didn't even consider not telling her. "G-Godric's
Hollow," he stammered. "They're in G-Godric's Hollow."

Bellatrix shot a spell at him so quickly that the movement was hardly
discernible. Ropes wrapped around Peter's midsection, making him yelp and
all of the other Death Eaters step out of the way. "You're going to take me
there. Right now, Pettigrew," she spat, grabbing him by the bindings and
pointing her wand at his temple. "Right fucking now, you traitorous scum!
Right now!"

And without even looking to her husband or anyone else, Bellatrix marched
Peter up the stairs, out of the basement and onto her doorstep where they
could apparate. Before they left, the witch cast a glamour over herself.
Bellatrix Lestrange soon had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a thinner frame,
suddenly looking much closer in appearance to her younger sister, Narcissa.
She jabbed her wand at Pettigrew's backside.

"Apparate us there," she commanded.

Peter, looking almost as terrified as when he had first set eyes on the Dark
Lord, did as he was told. They both vanished, and then appeared a second
later in Godric's Hollow.

It was mayhem.

The first thing Bellatrix saw was the house.

Its roof was blasted apart, and there was a team of aurors on the premises.
Shimmering skies indicated that wards must have been in place, keeping
muggles or otherwise away from the site. Bellatrix didn't need to ask Peter if
that was the location.

"No," she gasped, clutching at her heart. "No, something…something has

gone very wrong…"

She looked down the street in confusion. Witches and wizards were openly
walking around in their robes, not even bothering to don muggle clothes.
They were speaking to each other with grins on their faces, making only half-
hearted attempts at keeping their voices down.

"Pettigrew, what—?"

Bellatrix turned, but Peter was gone.

She stared in dumbfounded disbelief. Bellatrix had only removed her

attention from Peter for a few seconds, but when she turned around again the
man was gone, vanished, just like Snape, leaving nothing but a pile of ropes
behind. "Peter!" she cried shrilly into the night. A rat scurried away at the
sound of her voice. "You traitor, come back here!"

A few passer-by's gave her concerned looks. Bellatrix ran a hand through her
currently blonde hair, chest heaving and looking on the verge of a panic
attack.

"To the boy who lived!"

She turned at the sound of what was obviously a wizard's voice. A small
congregation of three hooded men stood several feet away, clinking glasses
and drinking. Right in the middle of the street, right in the open…

"What has happened?" Bellatrix said, storming over to them and interrupting.
"What is going on?"

"You haven't heard?" One of the men lowered his hood. He gave her a huge,
toothy grin. "You-Know-Who has fallen! He is gone, dead and gone!"

Bellatrix paled. "No," she uttered, disbelieving.

But the man mistook her shock. "Yes! It's true!" he shouted happily. "He tried
to kill a baby, young Harry Potter—but it killed him instead! The curse
bounced off the child and hit the Dark Lord! He's gone!"

The wizard gestured up at the broken house. As if on cue, a conflagration of

fireworks exploded behind it, lighting up the sky in red and gold. "As you can
see, the wizarding world is celebrating!" He laughed and downed his drink.

"And the child?" Bellatrix asked in a hollow voice. "What of the child?"

"Harry Potter was completely fine! Probably safe and sound in some other
home, by now… His parents weren't so lucky. You-Know-Who killed them
first…but not Harry! He's the Boy Who Lived!" He grinned, refilling his
glass from a large flask in his pocket.

"Would you like a—?"

But Bellatrix was already walking away. She appeared to be in a daze. "No,"
she muttered quietly to herself. "No, he is not gone, he is not gone…" She
stared at the house, looking like she might rush right in…but there were
Ministry officials there, and she thought better of it.

Bellatrix turned a corner and disapparated.

…The vision changed…

"Where is he?"

Bellatrix, Rodolphus, Rabastan, and Bartemius were circled around a tied-up

Alice and Frank Longbottom. Bellatrix was screaming in the woman's face,
her wand at Alice's throat.

"I know you know something, you bitch!" she screeched. "He spoke to me of
your family, of you and the Potters! He spoke of people who had that thrice
defied him, at the time… What did it mean? What do you know?"

"N-nothing," Alice stuttered, shaking her head. Tears were leaking from the
corners of her eyes. "I don't… I don't know what you're talking about…"

"Crucio!"

…The torturing went on for hours.

Bellatrix was relentless, to the point where she would not leave, she would
not stop. When her husband and his brother attempted to make her cease,
convinced that the Longbottoms truly knew nothing, she would not hear of it.
On and on it went, until her victims were not even forming words, until they
were foaming at the mouth…and even then, she did not stop. She was openly
crying, filtering all of her pain into innocent people, screaming in denial.

When the aurors arrived, arresting them all, her cries of grief had turned into
fits of hysterical laughter.

…The memory vanished, leaving a cloud of silver in its wake. Everyone was
horror-stricken at such an awful vision.

"Terrible acts committed by a terrible person," Dumbledore said in a dark

tone. "But can you explain the drastic actions of Bellatrix Lestrange, Tom, in
the aftermath of your disappearance?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed on the Headmaster's face. "Bellatrix is my most

loyal and devout follower. She is also mentally…unstable, and therefore
unpredictable, especially when emotionally distraught."

"No shit," Sirius added, looking fiercely bitter.

Dumbledore sighed. "No, Tom. Devotion alone did not drive her to such
lengths…"

He looked at Voldemort expectantly. Voldemort's shoulders tensed, detesting

that look of hopefulness. "…Because she loves me," he finally drawled. The
verbal admission made his stomach churn in a way he didn't fully understand.

"Close, but not quite… I'll still give you five points for that, though." Five
more spheres of green fell to the bottom of the Slytherin glass. "Maybe one
more vision, to illustrate the point better?"

But Dumbledore didn't wait for a response. He waved towards the cloud of
silver, and another memory of the Dark Lord's most devout follower
appeared…

…And this was a memory which Voldemort found very familiar. Painfully
so.

The Dark Lord was in his renewed form, his most recent body which burned
with a phoenix's magic. Voldemort was verbally torturing a very terrified
Severus Snape outside of the Hogwarts grounds…

Until a stag appeared.

…Must he relive this experience again?

Dumbledore evidently thought so. The Dark Lord had abandoned Severus
with his Nagini—his precious, innocent pet—and all thoughts of anything
else had vanished.

It was quite horrifically astonishing, in hindsight. The entire hall was broken
out into full-on warfare, people were dying, Snape, the mudblood, and the
blood traitor were all in his grasp, and yet—

Yet the moment that damned stag appeared, all thoughts other than 'Harry'
had vanished, gone, died completely.

Not full thoughts, like 'Harry Potter is here, and he is not particularly fond of
me at the moment, and so this might be a trap'; not, 'Harry Potter is here, but I
have everyone he cares about right in front of me, so I should just stay
exactly where I am and demand he surrender himself or they will die'…

No.

Just Harry, alive and well and whole, and that was it. He had chased after the
patronus like a damn fool.

And so they all watched as Lord Voldemort was disarmed in the most
spectacularly epic of fashions. He fell to his knees, as did all of his followers,
struck down by impossible lightning from an enchanted ceiling which had
opened up and broken apart. Harry Potter, shattering the heavens
themselves…

Harry revealed himself in the memory. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from
his shoulders, dirty and bloodied, illuminated by a halo of silver which
emanated from the glowing patronus behind him, and—

"My name is Harry James Potter…"

And—

"…and I am the Chosen One."

Voldemort wanted him.

The Dark Lord didn't even care about the fact that he had been so utterly
humiliated. Well, that was a lie—he did care, very much—but that sensation
paled in comparison to the eruption of heat that burned in his veins, the
colossal desire that scorched through his entire being… Oh, how he wanted
Harry, and for reasons that had nothing to do with souls or blood or anything
else. He wanted him for his lightning and his thunder and his idiotic boldness,
he wanted him for his defiance and his pureness and his suffocating light.
Voldemort wanted him for his green, green eyes and his innocent grins and
his infuriating, wild hair that not even his magic could tame—

But then Harry vanished, and the Dark Lord of the memory was more broken
and vulnerable than he had ever been before. His eyes had flooded with tears,
for Harry had been bleeding…

Blood, there had been so…so much blood…

And even with all of the eyes of his followers fixated on him, dumbstruck,
Voldemort had been too distraught to do anything.

…But Bellatrix hadn't.

His dark witch had acted before he, Lord Voldemort, had even been able to
rise to his feet…

Bellatrix was a sight to behold in the vision before them, modifying the
memories of every single Death Eater, professor, and Ministry official
present. She had them all passed out on the floor by the time Voldemort
finally managed to stand.

And then she approached him. Bellatrix immediately fell to her knees and
offered up her own wand, her head bowed as she expected her master to do
the same to her.

He should have. Voldemort should have treated her like the rest…but he
didn't. Because he did understand it, then—the way the fire burned in her
eyes when she looked at him. He understood that passion and the power
behind it, how it made people capable of doing otherwise impossible
things… Voldemort chose instead to fuel the flames of her unrequited love,
so that she would use that energy to drive her forward, to hunt down those
who had wronged him and bring them to her master…

"How disastrously that backfired for you."

Dumbledore vanished the memory just after Bellatrix disapparated.
Voldemort glowered. "Care to try again, then, Tom? Why did Bellatrix do all
that she did? Including, of course, when she tried and failed to kill Harry, and
then you subsequently were unable to immediately kill her in response… Or
should we watch that, too?"

"No," Voldemort instantly gasped, shaking his head and feeling light-headed.
The very last thing he wanted was to relive that, the memory of Severus
Snape torturing Harry… To witness from an outside perspective the way in
which they had all screamed, all of them suffering in their own way…

And when it was all said and done, after Bellatrix had thrown the dagger…
Voldemort had reacted violently, of course. Uncontained rage and magic had
exploded from his fingertips, and Bellatrix had fallen, unconscious and
battered…

But not dead.

"Then please… Explain."

Voldemort's tongue felt oddly heavy in his mouth. "…Bellatrix acted the way
that she did because she is in love with me."

And wasn't it strange, how just a few words could change the entire concept
so dramatically? But it was true. 'She loves me' was admittedly
uncomfortable, but 'she is in love with me'…

"By George, I think he's starting to get it!" Dumbledore agreed boisterously.
And then—

"Hallelujah!"

They all looked up at the unexpected sound of the choir bursting out into a
short bit of song. The Dark Lord had forgotten about them entirely, standing
impossibly on clouds in the enchanted ceiling. They smiled down at him,
grins that were as amused as they were genuine. The crowd laughed, and
Voldemort scowled bitterly.
"Take another five points," Dumbledore said, smiling widely. Rainbows
danced across the sequins of his robes, forcing Voldemort to squint at the
horrid brightness. "Bellatrix harbored a love for you which you were
perfectly aware of and decided to use to your advantage. It really is cruel to
lead people on, Tom."

Voldemort glared at the Headmaster with as much venom as he could muster.

"But you aren't entirely guiltless, anymore," Dumbledore continued. "The old
you would have killed her at once, the moment she attacked Harry… But you
didn't. You struck her down, certainly, but you did not murder her… Why
not?"

Voldemort shook his head, not entirely sure himself why he had not done it.
He only remembered being there, hovering over her unconscious body and
feeling strangely, inexplicably guilty. And though the killing curse was coiled
in his very heart, waiting, ready… He had been unable to do it. Voldemort
had held Harry's holly wand in his hand, having retrieved it from the floor,
and he had been unable to murder her…

"Define empathy," Dumbledore prodded. He was inclining his head and

fixing him with a familiar look that made Voldemort feel like he was right
back in Transfiguration class, being told to explain magical theory of some
sort.

Oddly enough, it worked. Old habits must truly run deep, for the Dark Lord
uttered the definition like he had an encyclopedia in the forefront of his mind.
"Empathy is the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to,
and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of
another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts,
and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner," he
recited dutifully.

"Take another five points."

And damn it all, if he didn't feel the ridiculously familiar sensation of pride at
getting it right.
"…I was feeling empathetic," Voldemort muttered, more to himself than
anyone else. "Because… I was partially responsible for her actions. And
because I knew that if I were her, in her place… I would have done the same
thing."

It was a revelation that only came to him as he said it out loud. It was true; if
he ever discovered that Harry loved someone else, he would plunge a dagger
into their hearts without hesitation.

"Just so we're clear, I'm rewarding the revelations, not the prospect of
murder…even if it is deeply romantic," Dumbledore muttered shrewdly.
"That being said, take another five points."

Voldemort stared at the hourglass, mind reeling as the emerald-like spheres

fell to the bottom.

Empathy…

"But luckily for you, Tom, we have better examples of love than Bellatrix
Lestrange… Much better." Dumbledore smiled charismatically. Voldemort
was unsurprisingly concerned.

"Example B: Ginevra Weasley."

Dumbledore, who was still brandishing the yardstick around like a staff,
pointed it at the Pensieve and conjured up another memory.

Ginevra Weasley.

Voldemort knew the name well, as it was the one that came spluttering out of
Lucius Malfoy's mouth when questioned about the whereabouts of his diary
horcrux. Tossed in the daughter of a blood traitor's used cauldron like it was
worth less than the leather it was made with…

But the Ginevra Weasley of this memory was not the eleven year old girl that
Tom Riddle had seduced. No, this was a teenage girl, alone in a room with
bright pink walls and…

And Harry Potter's owl.

A snow white owl was laying at the bottom of a large, open cage. It…did not
look good.

"Please, Hedwig… Please, you have to drink something… You have to

eat…"

The girl was pushing food towards the creature and nudging it hopefully. Her
expression was determined. The owl blinked at her once, but it did not move,
and its amber eyes were dull and hollow. Hedwig appeared to be on death's
doorstep. The bird was missing a substantial amount of feathers, and she was
extremely thin and frail-looking.

"Just a little bit… Please, girl?" Ginevra tried again. The owl didn't respond,
and the girl's lip trembled. "P-please?" she repeated, trying valiantly to be
firm. But when Hedwig ignored her again, she broke.

Ginevra Weasley could not keep down the sobs that forced their way out of
her throat. Tears welled in her eyes, and she sunk to her knees, defeated.
"You can't die, Hedwig, you c-can't," she murmured, but she was no longer
attempting to address the creature. It was clear by the way she rubbed at her
face and continued to pointlessly try and stop her tears that this was a girl
who did not often cry. "You can't l-leave me, too… I know he's g-gone, but
he'll come back, I know h-he will… You c-can't die, you c-can't… You're all
that's left…"

And then she completely gave up. Ginevra fell to her side and pulled her
knees to her chest, sobbing harder than ever.

The owl watched her. Hedwig's golden eyes lit up with the faintest veil of
life.

Ginevra's crying halted when she heard the sound of movement. She looked
up in astonishment to see that Hedwig was, slowly, purposefully…drinking
water out of her dish.

The girl hastily stood, beaming. She wiped away her tears with the back of
her sleeve. "I'll get more food, then," she said evenly.

Ginevra Weasley squared her shoulders and carried on.

…The vision disappeared.

"Five points to Gryffindor, for that," Dumbledore said once the memory had
dissolved. Five spheres of crimson fell into the bottom of the corresponding
hourglass.

Voldemort's muscles tensed. "What?" he spat, watching the red orbs hit the
bottom. "Why?"

"Why don't you tell me, Tom?" Dumbledore inquired, leaning on the
yardstick and peering at him over his spectacles. "I did say that you weren't
the only one playing."

The Headmaster's eyes sparkled with mirth. Understanding hit the Dark Lord
like a slap to the face. "This is the competition you spoke of before?" he
snarled. "Ginevra Weasley?"

"At the moment, yes. Now answer the—"

"I will destroy her!" Voldemort roared, fingers clawing at the surface of his
desk. He felt the chair shake underneath him, and he was fairly certain that
the wood might actually break apart at his fury. "I will rip her apart, I—"

"No, Tom! We've been over this! Killing the competition solves nothing, and
would actually create a slew of entirely new problems for you. Five points
from Slytherin."

"Fuck your points!" he snarled as the green orbs floated upwards. If there was
any indication of just how much he'd regressed lately, it was that. Lord
Voldemort almost never swore, but in the past week alone, he'd done so more
than he had in the past fifty years of his life combined.

Dumbledore sighed. "Five more, then. You're losing ground, Tom… If you
can't control your temper, you are doomed."

Voldemort glared, fuming as more emerald spheres left the bottom of the
hourglass, but held his tongue.

"Now, answer the question. Why was that worthy of points, Ginny Weasley
taking care of an owl?"

"Who cares?" Voldemort spat, crossing him arms.

"My son, for one."

James Potter's face was hard and unyielding. Voldemort's white-hot rage
turned cold in an instant.

"…Answer the question, Tom. Or say you don't know, if you don't."
Dumbledore's voice was suddenly much softer than before.

Voldemort glared when his attention shifted back to the Headmaster.

"Because that was Harry's pet, and he cared for it, and wasn't that a kindness,
for her to take care of it in his absence," he drawled. "Are you suggesting that
I should have adopted his owl when I found him?" he added sarcastically.

Dumbledore shrugged. "That would have been a nice gesture. But I think you
pretty much missed the mark entirely when you kidnapped him and forced
him in to a magically-induced coma in the first place."

Voldemort withered at that. The fact that the Marauders, nor anyone else,
reacted strongly to those words made it abundantly clear that this, at least,
was not news to anyone.

They do not know you woke him up, came Dumbledore's wordless thought.
Again, only one person's forgiveness is pertinent, there…

Voldemort cringed.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Another example, then," he said, and the
hovering cloud of silver swirled, turning into something new…

…Hogwarts.

It was the Quidditch Pitch which appeared next. Tryouts for the Gryffindor
Quidditch team, by the looks of it. Most of the players were assembled,
seemingly selected…but they appeared to be one person short.

A girl with brown hair and blue eyes wore the Captain's badge, but she did
not seem proud of it. Her posture was slouched and her expression forlorn,
like the emblem was heavy and more of a burden than an honor.

Because they all knew who should have been Captain, that year…but Harry
Potter was missing.

Next to the blue-eyed girl was a small, wooden box that was open on its
hinges, in the center of which was a struggling ball of gold. The snitch fought
against its constraints, wings beating furiously, already active but still
unwillingly constrained.

"Katie… I don't think… I don't…" Ronald Weasley was pacing. His freckled
face was pale and his fingers were twisting together in nervousness. "This is
madness. I don't even want to—we can't—"

"Shut it, Weasley," the Captain snapped. Ronald fell silent, but kept pacing.
"We just… We just need a Seeker… There's still time left…"

She checked her watch anxiously. But there was no one in the stands, and it
did not appear that anyone else was going to try out.

Until Ginevra appeared.

A dot of brilliant red in the distance, Ginevra Weasley came storming across
the pitch. Her brother gaped as she approached, turning a delicate shade of
green.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, throwing her fiery hair up into a ponytail. "I'm here
to try out… Seeker," she clarified. The captain beamed.

"Ginny, you don't—"

"Shut it, Weasley," Katie snapped. She then smiled at the younger, redheaded
girl. "Not you, obviously. Your idiot brother. But you… Brilliant." The
Captain handed Ginevra one of the school brooms. "I'll let the snitch loose
and count to ten. Then…then you show us what you can do, Ginny."

Ginevra nodded. Her brother looked like he was going to vomit, but didn't
say anything else.

The snitch was finally set free. The glittering globe went shooting up and
away, zig-zagging across the pitch…

The Captain counted down. Ginevra mounted the broom, her face set with a
cold determination.

"Two… One… Go!"

In a flash of red, Ginevra left the ground.

She was a remarkable flyer, even Voldemort could acknowledge that. Skilled,
too—she caught sight of the fluttering snitch almost at once. It was off
towards the stands, hovering low to the ground.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't flinch at all when she dove, straight down
towards the ground at a nearly ninety degree angle with the earth, a perilous
nose-dive which few would have attempted.

The memory actually moved in slow motion then. Voldemort frowned

angrily and glanced at Dumbledore, who must have been responsible for such
theatrics. As if in confirmation, the Headmaster winked at him.

Ginevra dove, and her catch was, admittedly, infuriatingly…impressive.

She did a complete three hundred and sixty degree circle on her broom.
While she was upside down, her arm shot out and captured the snitch, which
had been hovering just inches above the pitch. As she snatched it up, victory
written all over her face, she had been so close to the ground that her hair
skimmed the tops of the blades of grass.

But then the memory returned to regular speed, and Ginevra pulled out of her
dive with a rapid upward thrust. She quickly turned and landed back to where
the rest of the team was, all of whom were so stunned by what they had just
witnessed to be impressed yet. They all stood there, gaping and silent as she
dropped the school broom on the ground at the Captain's feet. Her brother
had gone from green to a strange shade of yellow which made him look even
sicklier.

Ginevra didn't say anything. She held up her right hand to show them that she
had, in fact, caught the snitch, the struggling proof in her clenched fingers.

Then, without a backwards glance, she left. And it couldn't have been
possible—of course it wasn't, it was a memory—but as she marched across
the pitch back towards the castle, her eyes hard and her face triumphant,
Voldemort could have sworn, in that projected haze of silver, that she was
looking right at him.

The Captain was the first to regain her composure. "First p-practice is next
Tuesday!" she yelled at Ginevra's backside. The new Seeker held her fist up
in response.

She took the snitch with her.

…The memory disappeared…

"That. Was. Amazing!"

James Potter was shouting before the vision had even entirely vanished. He
was on his feet, running his hands through his hair and grinning excitedly.
"She just—that dive—and then! Then she just walked off with the snitch!
Like she owned it!"

Obviously, he was beyond impressed. Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, quite

admirable. Ten points for Gryffindor."

"Ten!" James looked scandalized. "Ten? Did we just watch the same
memory…? That was worthy of—of fifty points, at least!"

"Fifty?" Voldemort couldn't stop himself from shouting out indignantly.

James glowered at him, but Voldemort glared right back resolutely. "Why,
because it's something as idiotic and asinine as Quidditch?"

"My son likes Quidditch," James responded coolly.

Voldemort matched his tone almost perfectly when he responded with, "I
never said he had good taste."

"It's not about the sport, of course," Dumbledore quickly intervened, glancing
back and forth between the two of them. "It's about much more than that. But
maybe it is worth more than ten points. What do you all think? Fifty
points…?"

He aimed his inquisition at those seated next to James Potter. Both Sirius
Black and Remus Lupin approved almost at once, grinning as they gave
Dumbledore a thumbs up.

But not Lily.

The woman in the Headmaster's seat sat with her legs crossed and her head
tilted to one side. Dumbledore waited for her response. Voldemort, unable to
stop himself, glanced at her again.
Her face was blank and unreadable, even though her eyes were fixed on
Voldemort with a burning intensity. It wasn't malicious or angry, just…
thoughtful.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime and a half, Lily gave her vote.

Thumbs down.

"What!?" James balked, staring at her and throwing his arms up. "Lily, whose
—?"

James's question died in his throat. With a single, sideways glance, he was
silenced, shrinking back into his seat, looking equal parts afraid and outraged.

But Voldemort was just as stunned. He had certainly not expected Lily Evans
to agree with him on the account that, just because some act of love happened
to correspond with a flashy game on brooms, that did not make the gesture
suddenly more meaningful.

Even more surprising was just how much weight her vote held. Dumbledore
nodded when Lily looked back to him expectantly. "Ten points, then," the
Headmaster murmured, despite the fact that it had technically been three
votes to Lily's one. Ten red spheres fell to the bottom of the Gryffindor glass.

Voldemort swallowed thickly. It was abundantly clear, then, that while it may
have Dumbledore's world…the Headmaster was not the one with the most
power here.

"But you can earn ten yourself if you can explain why Ginevra Weasley's act
of playing Seeker was worthy of points," Dumbledore said.

Voldemort clenched his jaw again, hating that it actually bothered him
immensely that the red and green spheres were actually comparable in
substance, now. "…Because it was the position which Harry played, and
because he was missing, fulfilling any role he left behind carried with it a
profound sense of dutiful expectation. Failing at doing well in a position
which everyone knew should have belonged to him would have been met
with a substantial amount of bitterness, and would therefore be quite
intimidating to voluntarily step in… And it must have personally been very
emotionally difficult, as well."

Dumbledore grinned. "Ten points," he said. More balls of green fell towards
the bottom. "Two more examples of Miss Weasley, then." The Headmaster
gestured up towards the currently imageless cloud of gray, and another
memory appeared.

…It was still the Quidditch pitch, but this time, the stands were packed and
the air was full of energy and life.

A match. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, and the blurs of red and blue were
moving against each other with a ferocious intensity. It was clear at once that
this had been a very dirty game thus far—the crowd was screaming and
jeering, several of the players on both teams had bloodied lips or torn robes,
and the score was even at thirty to thirty.

"And Katie Bell has the Quaffle, and she passes to—oh, look! It appears that
Chang may have found the snitch. She is diving rather quickly, isn't she? Yes,
I believe that is what's happening. And now Ginny Weasley is following suit
—"

The suddenly deafening crowd drowned out the rest of a blonde girl's
bizarrely calm narration. Ginevra Weasley and Cho Chang—Voldemort
recognized her, it was the girl that Harry had dreamt about and kissed at the
coffee shop in his dream—were neck-and-neck, tearing through the air at
breakneck speed. Everyone in the stand was on their feet, jumping, shouting
—Minerva McGonagall, who had been in the announcer's box next to the
blonde girl, snatched the magical microphone out of her hand and screamed,
"CATCH THAT FUCKING SNITCH, GINNY!" right into it, all thoughts of
sportsmanship and decency thrown out the window in the heat of the
moment.

The two Seekers were reaching, their arms out, but the Snitch had flown
downwards, perilously close to the ground—it looked like they might both
smack into the earth, if they kept going—

The both pulled out of the dive at nearly the same moment. The crowd waited
on bated breath to see if one or either of them had managed the task, when—

Ginevra Weasley thrust her arm up into the air triumphantly.

The muggles and spectators in Voldemort's nightmare cheered just as loudly

as those in the memory.

The Hogwarts stands exploded, most of the students roaring their approval
and spilling out onto the pitch. Ginevra's teammates all instantly swarmed
her, flying over to her and throwing their arms around each other, sinking
slowly to the ground as one mass of red and gold. They were met almost at
once by what appeared to be all of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff House, as well
as Madam Hooch, who carried a giant trophy. It was claimed by Minerva
McGonagall before the referee could make it anywhere near the Gryffindor
team. The Head of House held it above her head, a gesture which was met
with deafening applause.

On the other side of the pitch was the Ravenclaw team. Their own house,
forlorn at their loss, was slowly heading back towards the castle. Most of the
players began to trudge towards the locker room, their heads hung in defeat…
except Cho Chang.

The Ravenclaw Seeker was on her knees in the dirt, her broom tossed to the
side. She was crying into her hands. Her teammates only gave her depressed
looks before turning away, clearly used to the behavior.

In the midst of the Gryffindor crowd, Ginevra had managed to shove her way
through the masses of her adoring fans. She was marching towards the fallen
girl in blue with an unwavering air about her. Her expression was hard and a
bit intimidating, not at all kind.

Everyone watched in confusion as she stopped right in front of Cho Chang.

Ginevra stared down at her rival, the girl who had been her competition in
more ways than one. The only girl whom was known, at this point, to have
dated the now missing Harry Potter…

Voldemort shifted forward in his seat, for the first time, actually interested in
how this would play out. For Ginevra Weasley did not look pitying at all as
she stared down at the crying Cho Chang; in fact, it looked like she might
kick her while she was down, and Voldemort could not blame her, because
that is what he would do, in this situation—

But then the Weasley girl stuck out her hand, offering to help the dark haired
girl up. Cho stared at her in disbelief, conflicted, like she wasn't sure if she
wanted to tell the Gryffindor Seeker to piss off or not.

Yet when Ginevra smiled and said "That was a damn good match," Cho
smiled, too. She nodded and allowed the other girl to help her to her feet.
They stood there for a long moment, holding hands and smiling in a
melancholy way. There was a lot that was going unsaid as they looked at
each other.

And then, quite suddenly, they both broke out into tears. The two Seekers
sobbed and held each other, black hair tangling up with red.

On the other side of the pitch, applause broke out again, followed almost at
once by a song with the words, 'Weasley is Our Queen'.

…The vision vanished.

"Ten more points to Miss Weasley," Dumbledore murmured, and the red orbs
clattered together as they fell to the bottom. "Can you explain why, Tom?
And no, it's not because she won the match… Though it was a damn good
catch."

"That was brilliant! Bloody brilliant!" James yelled. He was on his feet again,
having shouted and hollered along with the rest of the non-existent crowd as
if he had actually been there. "I hope he picks her," he added scornfully,
glancing down at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord glared but chose not to respond to that. He turned his furious
gaze back to the Headmaster, forcing his voice to remain level. "…Because
she did not further humiliate or strike down her competition after she had
won, and instead made a gesture of peace," he muttered, hating the lesson
which was being implied. He felt a strange combination of ire and shame. He
would have spat at that crying girl's face if it were him; just knowing that she
had once held the attentions of Harry made him hate her on principle. But
Ginevra Weasley had helped her up and then cried with her, holding her like
they were sisters…

Did this make him, on some level, inferior to some teenage girl?

That particular revelation…was quite possibly the most repulsive one that
had come to him thus far.

"Very good, Tom. Take ten points." Dumbledore's voice snapped the Dark
Lord out of his own, torrid thoughts. Green orbs fell into the Slytherin glass,
making it so that he was, at least, still in the lead.

For now.

"One more, then. You might want to brace yourself, Tom," Dumbledore said.
"This one is big."

The nausea in Voldemort's stomach was probably never going to go away.

…The silver haze formed to show them a beach.

Harry Potter, seventeen and covered in dirt, was sitting on the sand by the
water. He had a vacant expression on his face as he stared out into the ocean.
It must have just happened, this memory… Harry looked…empty.

Voldemort's heart ached at the sight of him looking like that in unfathomable
ways.

But then Ginevra Weasley appeared, and that painful longing turned into
malicious spite.

They talked. She told him about the diary, about how she had loved…him.

Him.

Ginevra's expression was equally haunted as she explained, divulging in

Harry secrets which she had never told anyone else. Because she had known
that Tom Riddle did not love her, he did not love anyone…

Harry didn't respond with stories of his own, but he was looking at Ginevra
Weasley with a light in his eyes that had been absent before.

Then they talked about Voldemort.

She told him that no one would blame him, if Harry didn't talk to the Dark
Lord again…that they could just disappear, and that she didn't care either
way. But she obviously did care; she and everyone else would be giving up
all that they had ever known, to go on the run with him… But she was willing
to do it.

Silence again. For a long time they just watched the sun set, brilliant colors
over a dazzling ocean.

But then Harry was squeezing her hand, smiling, and Ginevra blushed in the
most endearing way, and really, the diary horcrux had failed him in an
extremely monumental way, Voldemort thought maliciously, because this
ticking time bomb of estrogen should have been crushed far before it ever
reached puberty.

Suddenly Harry was blushing, too, as their fingers intertwined, and they
stayed that way, holding hands and watching a sunset and the entire hall was
cooing over the sight like it was some horrendous, romantic muggle movie.
Even Lily and James, at the front table, were sharing an emotional, heartfelt
look, and they held hands, too, and it was suddenly uncanny, the resemblance
between Ginevra Weasley and Lily Evans. The couple on the beach looked
nearly like a carbon copy of Harry's parents, and it was all just so perfect and
beautiful and everyone was fawning over it and Voldemort hated every single
one of them. He wanted to rip apart each entity in the damned hall, to tear
them open and shred them to pieces until there was nothing but bloody,
human confetti in his wake.

"Tomorrow night," Harry eventually said. He smiled at his female companion

and squeezed her hand more tightly.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow night."

…The scene deteriorated, leaving a sheet of glittering silver behind.

"Ten points for Gryffindor," Dumbledore announced, and more rubies joined
the other scarlet spheres on the bottom of the hourglass. He glanced at
Voldemort, frowning when he saw how bristled and murderous the young
Dark Lord looked.

"You shouldn't be so hateful towards the girl, Tom. In fact, you owe her a
great deal. If she had not spoken to him, Harry may have decided to never
speak to you again. You may have never had another chance."

Voldemort's furious mind raced at those words. His fingers were digging into
his palms at his sides, feeling ridiculously spiteful at the undeniable truth in
that statement. He snarled wordlessly in response.

"Explain why that was a noteworthy example of love then, Tom, if you want
to remain on par," Dumbledore went on unabashedly.

Voldemort took a slow, deep breath before he responded, trying to cool the
boiling hatred in his veins. "…Because the lovely girl bared her soul,
admitting things that were clearly painful to her in order to relate to him. And
then continued to vocalize that she would be supportive of him, no matter
what his decision," he said through clenched teeth and a thin, fake smile.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said gravely. He pointed towards the Slytherin

hourglass, and ten more emerald orbs filtered down. "Baring your soul and
admitting things which are uncomfortable, embarrassing, painful, even…
Something you will have to do as well, Tom."

Voldemort's false smile slid from his face. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. You will have to tell him everything, if you want
even a chance at happiness. What did you think we were doing here, Tom?"
Dumbledore took a step closer to him, and his eyes darkened in an ominous
way. "Forcing you to relive your past, to witness the horrors you committed
with eyes that can see exactly what it is you have done, now that you have the
ability to feel remorse… Showing you these examples of love and trying to
teach you why these things are important… This is for you to acknowledge it
yourself, so that you can return to the waking world and explain. If you
cannot make Harry understand, if you cannot admit how you came to be and
why you are worthy of his empathy…"

Dumbledore's voice trailed off, leaving the implication dangling in the air.
Voldemort felt his blood run cold. The idea of explaining to Harry his
horrible life story felt unbearable.

"…There is only one memory I have left to show you, Tom," the Headmaster
continued. "Love comes in many varieties, you know. Familial, romantic,
platonic… Brotherly love is a particularly strong one. It can make people do
very bold things, indeed."

Dumbledore gestured towards the glittering cloud of gray again.

"Example C: Draco Malfoy."

…Hogwarts again. Lord Voldemort was beginning to feel bitter upon seeing
the castle—a feeling which he had never associated with his true home
before.

Again? He was going to have to watch this memory again?

Lord Voldemort, verbally abusing a hovering Severus Snape… But then the
scene shifted, pulled further away….

"You can do this," came Harry's whispered voice from nowhere. And then
Draco Malfoy was revealed, a silvery slip of transparent fabric sliding off his
shoulders.

The Dark Lord of the present nearly jumped in shock. He had not even
known that Draco was present at the castle that day. But there he was, just a
stone's throw away from where he, Lord Voldemort, had stood before an
upside-down Severus Snape, standing behind a pile of rubble and looking
like he was about to pass out from fright.

Voldemort's own voice carried from the memory. "I imagine you have been
having such fun, haven't you, Severus?" the Dark Lord murmured, though the
vision remained focused on Draco's face. The boy was shaking with his back
against the rubble. "Spending all of your time with him; why, you must know
each other so well, now. And not only my Undesirable, but with your
favorite ex-student, too… Tell me, how is my pretty little Malfoy Heir?"
Draco twitched violently, covering his mouth with his hands to stifle a
whimper. "I've no idea why you would want to hide him as well, but it hardly
matters anymore… I will find him, too. And when I do, I am going to let
Nagini eat him alive."

Draco turned a putrid shade of green. Voldemort laughed cruelly. "If you tell
me where they are now, Severus, I'll spare you the torture of making you
watch her devour Draco whole. It is agruesome sight."

"I'll never tell you where they are," Severus gasped. "Never. Never."

"Good," Voldemort said, his voice so low and smooth it was practically a
purr. "That's it, Severus. Be resilient. I always cherished that about you, my
Half-Blood Prince… I will enjoy the process of breaking you until there's no
part of that man left…"

A flash of silver. Draco started, taking a chance and peering around the side
of the rubble.

"Guard them, Nagini," Voldemort hissed. Then he was gone, following after
the emblem of Harry Potter and leaving his serpent behind.

Draco stared at the massive python and turned an even darker shade of green.
He looked back out towards the grounds, glancing at the broom which he
held in one hand and the wand in the other. It was obvious what he was
thinking. He could run, he could get on that broom and take off into the night,
disapparating once he made it far enough, and flee.

And for a moment, it looked like this was what he was going to do. He even
shoved his wand in his pocket and started mounting the broom, but then he
swore under his breath and tossed the Firebolt to the ground. Draco's gray
eyes hardened, and then—

The sword of Gryffindor.

That damn sword which he, Lord Voldemort, had spent years trying to track
down in his youth… It just appeared there, sticking out of a bit of castle wall
with his ruby-encrusted hilt dazzling in the moonlight.

Draco gaped at it, and when he moved, it was like his body acted without him
even needing to think. He gripped the handle and ripped it out of the stone,
the sword's silver gleaming as he brandished it over his head. Nagini turned
at the sound, and the Malfoy Heir looked right at her without a trace of fear
on his face.

Draco lunged. Nagini hissed and spit wildly as she, too, coiled and struck.
The snake had aimed for his neck, but Draco put his left hand up defensively
to block her—Nagini's long fangs sunk into his forearm, but Draco didn't
react to what should have been a devastating blow, he didn't even flinch, it
was like he hadn't even felt it. He raised his arm up while she was still latched
on to him, lifting her body and exposing her. Then, in one swift and fluid
motion, Draco Malfoy swung the sword of Gryffindor and severed the
serpent's head from her body.

Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley were all staring in
awe, but Draco's inexplicable moment of heroism was coming to an end.
Copious amounts of venom were flooding through his veins, and though he
was able to pry the dead snake's head from his arm, it was too late. Draco
swayed where he stood, clumsily reaching into his pocket and pulling out his
wand. He just managed to point it at Severus and undo the hex which held
him in midair before he fell to his knees. He and Snape both hit the ground at
the same time.

"Draco!" Snape gasped, haphazardly pushing himself to his feet and rushing
over to the boy. "Draco Malfoy, you—you—"

The older man examined Draco's bleeding arm with wide, horror-filled eyes.
Draco was extremely pale, sweat broken out on his forehead. When he
looked up at Severus, it was with extremely dilated pupils that were out of
focus. The venom was beginning to take effect.

"The book," Draco gasped, clutching at Severus's chest in desperation.

"Tell… Tell Evans…he has to finish the book…"

Snape was shaking his head, digging through his robes with trembling hands.
"Idiot boy, delusional boy…" he muttered under his breath. He then pulled
out a small, glass vile filled with a dark liquid. "D-Drink this, now…"

He forced the fluid down the boy's throat. Severus then grabbed the wand
which Draco had dropped and pointed it at Ronald Weasley and Hermione
Granger. The ropes which had bound both of them disappeared, and though
the boy seemed in decent shape, the girl, having been tortured, could hardly
move.

Severus was just about to say something when a thunderous clash of

lightning caused them all to jump. The sky seemed to shatter apart. They all
turned towards the source of the light, stunned…
From where they were they could only see Harry. It was almost too perfect,
the small hole in the castle wall which allowed them to witness it. Harry
Potter pulled off his Cloak of Invisibility and appeared, the stag behind him,
arms held wide…

"My name is Harry James Potter…and I am the Chosen One."

And then, just like that…he was gone. The portkey whisked him away.

"…Ha... That slick bastard," Malfoy slurred ineloquently, smiling and dazed.

"The wards, the wards are down," Ron breathed. Snape jumped, snapped out
of his state of total disbelief. He pulled a limp Draco Malfoy into his arms.

"Here, all of you," he commanded. Ron grabbed Hermione and carried her
over to them. "I know where he went… Get ready to side-along."

Snape gathered all of his former students close to his chest, like some sort of
highly uncomfortable group hug. "Wait, WAIT!"

Draco's eyes widened, suddenly panic-stricken, manic. He clutched at the

wand in Severus's hands like his very life depended on it.

Snape gaped at him, instantly afraid, but Draco pointed the wand and shouted
a spell before he could ask.

"Accio Firebolt."

The discarded broom came soaring towards him. Draco caught it with a
sloppy, triumphant grin on his face.

"'Kay," he said, handing the wand back to Snape. "Now we can go."

Snape stared at him, clearly too stunned to be furious. But rather than yell or
glare or anything else, the Potions Master just shook his head, embraced his
young companions, and disapparated.

…
…The memory disappeared, and Lord Voldemort was incensed.

"Draco Malfoy killed my Nagini," he snarled vituperatively. He had assumed

that it was Severus who had done it, though he'd had no idea how… But it
wasn't, it had been Draco, and he had killed her with Gryffindor's sword…

His rage was paramount.

"Harry once killed your basilisk with that very same sword," Dumbledore
commented lightly. "I believe I awarded him one hundred points, for that. I
probably should have given him more, but, well. They were already winning
the cup." He shrugged. "One hundred, then, for Draco Malfoy… Ah. But
which house do we award points for in the case of Draco Malfoy?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sirius shouted. "He just killed the Heir of Slytherin's
monstrous pet snake with Godric Gryffindor's sword! Those are Gryffindor
points!"

There was a murmuring of agreement. "True," Dumbledore said, "but he was

technically in Slytherin House…"

"You could always bring him in."

It was Remus Lupin who made the suggestion. He had his hands folded in his
lap thoughtfully. "Bring him and let the Sorting Hat decide where he belongs,
now."

"That's brilliant," Sirius Black said, his eyes gleaming. "Bring him in!"

"Bring him in!" James thundered in agreement.

"Oh, I don't know…" Dumbledore said, pretending to look conflicted.

"Bring him in!" the Marauders all roared together. Lily did not join in, but
she looked amused. "Bring him in!" they repeated, and soon people from the
crowd were joining in, turning it into a chant.

"Bring him in! Bring him in! Bring him in!"

"Oh, all right!" Dumbledore finally said, acting like he was exasperated but
smiling. "I can try, but it will only work if he is asleep, of course, and if he is
willing… But we can give it a shot."

Everyone clapped. Dumbledore looked at Voldemort and grinned. "You're

going to love this, Tom. Ah, do you mind terribly if I borrow your wand?
Thank you, thank you…"

Voldemort stared, dumbfounded as a wand went flying out of his robes

pocket. He had not even thought to reach for it before…though he was
certain that he would not have been able to, even if he'd tried.

Dumbledore smiled when he caught it. "Truth be told, I don't actually need
one to do anything, here. I was just curious as to what wand you were using
these days. Oho!" He laughed when he examined the thin strip of holly in his
fingers. "Really, Tom? …How is this one working for you?"

Voldemort glowered. "Fine," he spat shortly.

"Is it, now… Fascinating. You know, I doubt it would have worked so well
for you in the past… Unlike your unyielding yew, this one is far more…
flexible."

Dumbledore eyes flashed knowingly, smiling at Voldemort like he just

thought that was the funniest thing in the world.

But then he was conjuring up a small cloud of what appeared to be gold

sparkles. He cleared his throat, and then…paused.

"Actually, I do not think I should be the one to summon him," Dumbledore

said. "Hearing my voice might have the opposite effect on the poor boy…
James, I think you should do it." The Headmaster flicked his wrist, and the
sparkles flew over to hover in front of James. The glittering cloud remained
connected to the tip of the wand in Dumbledore's hand by what looked to be a
string, like some kind of ephemeral, sparkling kite. "Just say his name, Draco
Malfoy."
"Me?" James asked in surprise.

"Yes, I think that would be our best bet. Put a bit of sass into it, too."

James blinked, a bit confused, but then shrugged and complied. "Draco
Malfoy," he said in a smooth and low voice. And Voldemort understood,
then. For not only did James Potter look almost exactly like his son, he
sounded just like him, too.

Dumbledore beamed in approval. "Excellent," he said. He then thrust his arm

upwards, and the glittering cloud went soaring, higher and higher, straight
into the enchanted ceiling until it disappeared into the starry night sky. The
muggles in the choir watched it float past with curious expressions.

"What in the hell…?" Voldemort murmured, shaking his head. Dumbledore

was holding onto the wand with both hands, and it looked rather like a fishing
pole, only the Headmaster was fishing into the sky, not a lake.

"This really is a neat trick. Names have power, you know," Dumbledore said,
smiling at Voldemort genially. Before the Dark Lord could snarl something
vicious in response, however, Dumbledore jumped. "Ah!" he shouted, for the
slightly slack wire attached to the wand had gone taut. "We have a bite!"

The Headmaster pulled, hard, and someone screamed.

From far, far above them, a shout of despair emanated, a sound which was
getting closer and louder. Before long, the source of the scream became clear.
A young, blonde man came barreling down towards the Great Hall at a
perilous speed.

Just before he hit the ground, Draco Malfoy froze. His body hovered just
inches above the floor. He stopped screaming, eyes bulging in fear. Then,
after a moment of hanging in suspension, Draco fell the rest of the way,
sprawling out of the floor ungracefully with his chest heaving.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said calmly.

Draco started violently. "D-D-Dumbled-dore," he stuttered, immediately
trying to back away. He was shaken and clumsy, and ended up putting as
much distance as he could between himself and the deceased Headmaster by
doing a sort of graceless, backwards crabwalk.

Which suited Voldemort just fine, as it put the Malfoy Heir closer to him.

Voldemort watched him with a hungry glint in his eyes. But Draco had his
attention fixed solely on Dumbledore, and had not even noticed the person in
the chair behind him. "I d-didn't kill you," Draco said, scrambling back even
further. "I-I didn't do it, in the end, I didn't k-kill anyone—"

"All water under the bridge, my dear boy!" Dumbledore said pleasantly. But
Draco was still backing away, and he was very, very close, now…

"Like most of the people here in this Hall, I attribute my timely death to Mr.
Riddle, here."

Dumbledore nodded towards Voldemort. Draco was so close to the Dark

Lord now that he merely had to look back and up…and there was a dark-
haired, innocent-looking child smiling down at him.

Voldemort attacked, reaching furiously for the treacherous, murderous boy—

Draco yelped and barely rolled out of the way in time. Voldemort, still
confined to his horrible desk, growled wrathfully in response. The wood
splintered and cracked under his waves of rage and power, but didn't break.

"I will be your death, Draco Malfoy!" he seethed, and Draco's turned a stark
white. "I will peel the skin off your traitorous bones, I will boil your faithless
blood in your veins, I—"

"TOM!" Dumbledore flicked the holly wand at him. Voldemort's tongue

became glued to the roof of his mouth, turning the rest of his words into
incoherent, but still clearly furious, sounds. "How many times do we have to
go over this? Murder is wrong! Twenty points from Slytherin!"

Voldemort thrashed uselessly in his now fractured chair. Despite the fact that
he had damaged it, the desk still managed to contain. Infuriatingly so.

"Don't mind him, Mr. Malfoy. He's as harmless as a kitten." Voldemort made
a throaty, angry growl in response to that—which, unfortunately for him,
sounded rather a lot like an angry, young cat.

Draco was staring at him with huge, disbelieving eyes. His gaze flickered
from Voldemort to Dumbledore, and then Malfoy finally took in the rest of
his surroundings, noting the crowds of people and realizing that they were in
the Great Hall of Hogwarts…

"What…what kind of nightmare is this?" he gasped, looking to the

Headmaster again and finally pushing himself to his feet. "You said—you
called him—is that—?"

He pointed at Voldemort. Dumbledore nodded, and Draco gaped at the Dark

Lord, completely dumbstruck.

"But…but he's just a child…"

Voldemort made another snarling sound. "Well, it's all very complicated,"
Dumbledore said. "But we summoned you here because we have a quick
matter for you to settle for us, Mr. Malfoy, if you would be so kind."

Draco spun in circle, scanning the faces in the crowed. "Where's Harry?" he
asked, sounding worried. "I thought—I could have sworn I heard—"

"Ah, yes. Harry is not here. I apologize, that was a bit deceiving on our end.
You actually heard the voice of James, not Harry." The Headmaster pointed
towards the front table. Draco turned and looked to see James Potter waving
at him, smirking.

"H-Holy shit…" Draco muttered as his eyes darted around the front table.
"You… You're James Potter…and P-Professor Lupin! And—!" His hand
flew into his hair as he yelled, "Sirius Black!"

Sirius grinned wolfishly. "The one and only."

"But then, that means… Oh… Merlin…" Draco stared at Lily Evans, and
even he seemed immediately intimidated by her regal stature, despite the fact
that she smiled at him. "Oh, wow, oh, what a crazy dream… I didn't even
drink or eat anything last night…"

Dumbledore chuckled softly at his side. "Yes, dreams are fascinating, aren't
there? Here, take a seat."

Draco was pushed none-too-gently down onto a stool which had not been
there moments before. He blinked dazedly, looking up at Dumbledore in
confusion.

"What—?"

Before he could finish the question, the Headmaster shoved the Sorting Hat
onto his head. Where he had acquired it, Voldemort did not have the slightest
clue. This entire nightmare was deteriorating into chaos, and the Dark Lord
thought he might just explode in frustration at any moment.

"I am glad you didn't burn it, Tom," Dumbledore murmured, nodding
towards the hat. Voldemort glared, being unable to use his tongue at the
moment.

Silence fell. The crumpled old hat sat on Draco's head for a long time, much
longer than any sorting that Voldemort, personally, had witnessed. Finally,
the seam opened, and the hat spoke.

"Well, considering the circumstances… Better be GRYFFINDOR!"

The hall broke out into raucous applause. James, Sirius, and Remus all began
slamming the table in approval and hollering like a bunch of animals. Lily
still didn't join in, but she did look like she could barely contain her laughter
at their theatrics.

Dumbledore clapped as well before plucking the hat off of a very perplexed
Draco Malfoy.
"Very good!" he shouted, clapping Draco on the shoulder. The blonde stood,
obviously confused but grinning and enjoying the tumultuous applause that
was, apparently, meant for him. "One hundred points for Gryffindor!"

Red spheres rained down in the Gryffindor hourglass. Voldemort was

growling angrily in retaliation, but he was ignored.

"What is going on…?" Draco breathed, staring at all of the people who were
cheering for him. A look of something like comprehension dawned on his
face as his eyes ghosted over Voldemort again, before settling firmly on
Dumbledore.

"Is this… Is this madness real?"

"That depends on your definition of real, I'd say," Sirius answered.

James rolled his eyes at him. "How many times are you going to say that,
Padfoot?"

"As many as I can."

"All right, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for your participation," Dumbledore said,
speaking over the Marauders' bickering and laughter. The Headmaster
pointed the holly wand at him, and Draco began to hover. "Back to your own
dreams… Don't worry, you won't remember any of this tomorrow. Probably."

"What? Wait, I—"

But Dumbledore flicked the wand upwards, and Draco went flying towards
the ceiling again. "Wait!" he yelled, but he was still rising—

"Wait! Wait! Sirius Black!"

He stopped in midair when he shouted Sirius's name. Everyone stared at him

inquisitively—none more so than the man he addressed.

Draco twisted about in midair, looking very uncomfortable as he did. He was

currently upside down, and though he tried to right himself, did not seem to
be able to do so. He shook his head, giving up and choosing to deliver his
message with his robes nearly falling off of him.

"We…we found your radio," he said, grabbing his shirt and holding it up to
cover his stomach. "That muggle radio you charmed to play only Queen, in
your old bedroom..."

Sirius's eyes widened. "Really?" he said, his handsome face breaking out into
a wide grin.

Draco nodded. "Yeah, and we—we used it to serenade Snape, to the song
'Somebody to Love'—Harry sang it to him, he was horrified, it was brilliant,"
he said, laughing. "And we found those cigarettes, too. They were stale and
terrible, but we'll probably smoke them all, anyway. And…he wanted you to
know that you were the closest thing he had to a parent—er, sorry—" Draco
paused, glancing to James Potter and Lily Evans… Harry's actual parents.

"Sirius knew him better than we ever could have," James said. "You too,
Remus."

"He's just like you," Sirius said forlornly. "Smarter, though," he added,
smirking. James tossed a crumpled bit of parchment at him.

But Draco cleared his throat loudly. He motioned to Sirius Black, determined
to finish.

"He loves you. He said he regrets not ever telling you that. He loves you
and…and that's all. Harry...wanted you to know all that."

Sirius swallowed thickly. The emotion in his eyes was deeply conflicting,
like he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

"…Five more points to Gryffindor," Dumbledore said quietly. The Marauders

all smiled at Draco, and they each gave him a thumbs up at the same time.

Draco grinned back, probably not really understanding anything that was
going on, but giving them a thumbs up in response—only he was upside
down, and so it was actually a thumbs down. He frowned, realizing this just
as he did it. But before he could adjust accordingly, Dumbledore flicked his
wand again, and Draco went zooming up and away with a short yelp of
surprise, disappearing into the stars.

The Headmaster then pointed at Voldemort, whose tongue became unstuck.

"Here you are, Tom, you may have this back…"

Harry's wand went flying into his pocket. Much as he expected, when
Voldemort tried to reach for it himself, his hand collided with a strange,
invisible force which prevented him from grabbing it.

"Things aren't looking good for you, Tom…"

Dumbledore—suddenly with his yardstick again—pointed towards the

Slytherin hourglass, which had precious little in the bottom portion, now. The
Gryffindor one, in great contrast, was very full.

"What does that matter?" Voldemort spat, glaring.

"The points? Not very much, in the end… What does matter is that you
actually learned something. Have you? Do you understand love any better at
all now? You know, now that I think of it… You've never actually said it out
loud before, have you?"

Voldemort's angry demeanor faltered. "Said what?" he asked, his voice

nowhere near as bitter as he'd wanted it to be.

"That you love him. You've never actually said the words."

The atmosphere in the Hall changed significantly when Voldemort didn't

deny it. It was indescribable, the way in which the air became so charged so
quickly, but it made the Dark Lord's skin crawl.

"You have to say it, Tom," Dumbledore said, sounding graver than he had
yet. "If you cannot say it here, now, then you will not be able to say it to him,
either… And if you cannot admit to being in love, then this has all been a
waste of time, and there is no hope for you. None at all."

A resounding, crushing wave of silence. The weight of everyone's eyes on

him—the muggles, Dumbledore, the Marauders, Lily Evans—their gazes
burned into his very soul.

"Say it, Tom," Dumbledore prompted. "…Say it."

He couldn't.

Voldemort shook his head, his lips suddenly too dry, his mouth suddenly,
inexplicably parched. His tongue felt strangely heavy and foreign in his
mouth, and he could not will himself to speak…those words.

The Dark Lord hid his face in his hands. For the first time, he actually did
feel like the child he was being forced to resemble. It was not possible. He
could not bring himself to say it.

The silence stretched on and on. The seconds turned to minutes, perhaps even
an hour. Eventually, the crowd began to get restless. People starting
murmuring to each other in hushed voices which gradually became louder as
time went on. The Marauders had started talking, too. James and Sirius were
playing catch with a paper bird one of them had made while Remus watched
in amusement.

Lily just…stared.

Voldemort sat completely still. His forehead was flat against the desk with
his arms wrapped around his head protectively, trying to drown out the sound
of the talking. He could not do it. He could not say it. He could not…

He… He could…

Voldemort mouthed the words into the splintered surface of the wood.
Experimental whispers on his lips, like he was testing the waters of what they
meant, exploring uncharted territory which terrified him deeply.
A soft clink from the front of the Hall caused the murmuring to falter
somewhat. A few people looked up in surprise, and Voldemort, too, peered
up from the surface of the desk.

A single, green sphere had fallen down into the Slytherin hourglass.

"…Did you say something, Tom?" Dumbledore asked.

"I didn't hear anything," James drawled as he caught the bit of parchment
which Sirius had thrown at him. The folded, animated bird fluttered into his
hand.

"Neither did I," Remus added.

But Voldemort was staring at Dumbledore in desperation. "One point?" he

gasped, his voice high and feeble. "That was worth one point?"

"Words, no matter how profound they are, are worth very little if no one can
hear them," the Headmaster said wisely.

Voldemort swallowed audibly and shook his head again. "I c-can't," he
muttered, and he sounded so weak, so pathetic. The Headmaster sighed
heavily.

"This is all a waste of time, Albus!" James shouted. He turned the animate bit
of parchment around in his hand. "He's a lost cause, just like we told you," he
said. James tossed the bird towards Sirius, who held his palms out
expectantly to catch the fluttering thing—

It never made it there.

In a disquietingly rapid motion, Lily Evans snatched the bird out of the air.
Her fingers closed around its paper wings, ensnaring it completely in one
hand.

When she caught the creature, it was parchment. When she opened her fist,
ashes.
The hall fell silent at once. Everyone was staring at Lily Evans, but the
expressionless, crimson-haired woman in the Headmaster's chair only had
eyes for Tom Riddle.

Green, green eyes.

Voldemort was completely trapped in them. There was no one else. Just this
impossible, terrifying woman and the confession that sat in his blackened
heart, waiting for her to hear it.

Speak, she said, without actually saying anything at all.

"…I…love him."

It was the quietest whisper, but the words carried more weight than anything
Lord Voldemort had ever said. Lily's arm lowered to her side, but she
otherwise did not react. She waited, emerald eyes gleaming in anticipation.

"I love him," Voldemort said again, a bit louder this time. His eyes were
watering, and the whole world was becoming blurred and distorted.

"I love him," he choked out, his throat raw. "I love him, I love him—I am in
love with him, I am in love with Harry James Potter—"

Voldemort's breath caught in his throat at saying Harry's name, and he wiped
away the unwanted tears that were streaming down his face, blinding him.
The desk finally, miraculously vanished, and he fell to his knees. "I love
him," he said again, and Voldemort definitely heard the sound of heavy
spheres falling into an hourglass, but he hardly cared. "I love him," he
repeated, and how was it that saying something could be both so horrible and
so wonderful at the same time? It felt like the greatest weakness, the most
vulnerable exposure, but at it was also so freeing, so weightless, to put it to
words—

"I love him," he sobbed, and it felt like surrender.

He said it over and over again. He confessed it repeatedly, until he was

reduced to a sobbing, emotional mess, his head down against the floor and his
entire body shaking.

Eventually, after a long time where Voldemort just knelt there, not looking at
anyone and completely ruined, Dumbledore spoke.

"And the House Cup goes to…"

Voldemort forced himself to look, unable not to. Dumbledore had gotten rid
of his yardstick and exchanged it for an actual trophy, it would seem.

"…Hufflepuff!"

The crowd broke out into moderate applause. Voldemort stood, wiping away
the residual tears from his face.

"Hufflepuff!?" he questioned indignantly, despising himself for that fact that

he even cared slightly. "Why Hufflepuff?"

"Because really, they deserve it," Dumbledore responded. A boy crossed the
hall from one of the tables to claim the Cup. Voldemort gaped when he
passed, for he recognized him, too. It was Cedric Diggory, the boy from the
graveyard, the real Hogwarts Champion…

The handsome young man beamed as he took the trophy, smiling and bowing
to the audience. Yes, Voldemort remembered this one well, for he had
appeared as a phantom on that fateful day… Cedric Diggory had prowled
around the outskirts of his and Harry's duel, muttering threatening words of
spite as he passed…

He said the same thing to Voldemort now as he did then. When he was very
near, Cedric's charismatic smile vanished for just a second as he whispered,
quietly enough so that only Voldemort could hear him:

"You will lose."

And then he was beaming and waving to the audience again, taking his seat
back at his table.

"You have not won yet, Tom, but you have also not yet lost," Dumbledore
announced. Voldemort looked above him and saw that the sky was
lightening. Sunlight was streaming in from the ceiling in a familiar way, and
finally, he thought, finally, he was waking up.

"Off you go, then…and good luck, Tom."

Dumbledore pointed towards the main entrance. The doors flew open, letting
in much more light. The Dark Lord didn't need to be told twice. He instantly
headed for the exit, quickly marching past the crowded tables filled with
murmuring muggles without a backwards glance towards any of them.

He had almost made it to the entryway when a cold voice stopped him dead
in his tracks.

"Tom Riddle."

A woman's voice. The muttering ended at once, and it was that same, sinister
silence which had fallen after the paper bird had been turned to ashes.

Voldemort's body, almost against his will, like he was in a trance…turned.

Lily Evans.

She had been clear across the hall just a moment before, but now she stood
directly in front of him, towering over him in his small, child's body.

"…Voldemort," she drawled, tilting her head to one side. With a single word,
this woman had successfully made his carefully crafted, self-proclaimed title
sound truly and utterly pathetic.

He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe under her penetrating gaze.

Lord Voldemort…was afraid.

"If you ever…" she began, taking a step closer to him and leaning down so
that her face was level with his, "…ever force yourself on my son again in
any way, if you ever manipulate him when he is unwilling… If you ever
cause him pain like what you have caused him already… I will come for
you."

The light which signified consciousness flickered. A sheet of deepest black

momentarily washed over Voldemort's mind, emanating from Lily Evans,
pouring out of her eyes—

"Run, Tom—"

It was Dumbledore's voice, but Voldemort couldn't see him. The Dark Lord
could only see green irises and black pupils.

"I will come for you, Voldemort," Lily vowed, and she reached out to grab
his chin. The moment her fingers touched his skin, agony like the Dark Lord
had never known exploded in his chest. Horrible, sharp pain that erupted in
his heart, white-hot and searing—it was in him, it was inside of him, this pain
—it was in his veins, pumping through his body like a million, tiny shards of
glass that were cutting him up from the inside out—he could not escape it—

"Tom, run—!"

Dumbledore's voice sounded further away, muffled. There was another flash
of blackness, but this time, something moving, writhing…

Lily's lips twisted into a smile, but Voldemort was stuck on her eyes. "Harm
my son again, and I will come… I will pull myself out from under the veil of
Death itself. I will sink my mudblood nails into what's left of your broken,
shattered soul, and I will drag you down to hell with me…even if it damns us
both."

She tightened her grasp on his face, those very nails piercing his skin. The
indescribable pain was far too much to bear, Voldemort couldn't even scream,
it was so horrific—and it didn't matter that what she was promising was
technically impossible, that was the truth staring back at him from the depths
of those eyes.
He saw it, then.

When the next wave of darkness fell, it was not a momentary flash. It was in
Lily's eyes and it was all around him. An endless sea of corpses, the
deteriorating bodies of the damned… They were piled on top of each other,
mountains of rotting flesh, writhing, twisting, contorting in endless pain,
eternal suffering…

And he was being pulled towards it. The grip on his jaw was so tight now that
it was nearly crushing the bone, and the calamitous vision was becoming
clearer, more realistic with each second—the pain in his heart was killing
him, consuming him, dragging him down into the very pit of Hell—

"Tom, run!"

Lily let go.

Voldemort stumbled backwards, and the vision of darkness vanished—but

whether the Great Hall of Hogwarts had reappeared or not, Voldemort did not
know. He instantly turned and ran towards the whiteness, sprinting to
consciousness without taking in what was left of his surroundings.

Voldemort ran.

When he finally broke into the welcome warmth of light and awoke, the Dark
Lord was sweating, shaking, and gasping for breath as though he had just run
the length of the world.
 41. Acceptance
Harry was having a hard time sleeping.

Hardly surprising, considering the circumstances. He, Draco, Ron, Fred, and
George had all been shoved together in one of the guest rooms while
Hermione, Luna, and Ginny shared another. Shell Cottage was nice, but not
exactly large. And while Harry was extremely grateful that Bill and Fleur had
been more than happy to have them all stay, he sincerely hoped that it would
only be for a few nights. The boys' room was tight for space—small beds
which had been duplicated were pressed together so closely that Harry
wondered why they didn't just enlarge one, giant bed and toss them all on
that.

Harry smiled to himself at the thought. On one of his sides was Ron, his jaw
slightly open and frowning slightly. His right leg kept twitching, reminding
Harry of a dog chasing something in its sleep. Harry watched him in
amusement for a while, trying not to laugh.

On his other side was Draco. The blonde was, surprisingly, sleeping on his
back and snoring softly. Having slept next to Malfoy more often than he
cared to admit, Harry knew that this behavior was out of character for him.
Usually Draco slept curled on his side, and would wake at the slightest of
sounds. Now, though, he was absolutely out. Once, just because he couldn't
help himself, Harry poked him in the side. Nothing. The supposed 'light
sleeper' did not react at all. And they said to never poke a sleeping dragon,
Harry thought wryly.

Fred and George, too, slept like the dead. One twin had his head resting on
the other's chest, though Harry couldn't tell who was who.

Yet the tightly packed room and sounds of snoring were not the reasons why
Harry couldn't sleep. He felt sick to his stomach with a nausea that came in
seemingly random waves. At one point it was so strong that he thought he
might literally be sick. But then the queasy feeling would ebb away, leaving
him feeling not completely awful, but certainly not well, either.
Thus, Harry was having a hard time sleeping. And so once again, he found
himself surrounded by peaceful, blissfully unconscious people whom he
envied deeply.

With the exception of Snape, of course.

The Potions Master had barricaded himself in the basement after Harry's
emotional explosion, possibly to never show his face again. Apparently he
did still have a wand—the one which Draco and Harry had stolen from the
stranger in the graveyard. It had been in his back pocket the whole time.

Harry felt a rush guilt. For attacking Snape, when he knew, deep down, that
his former professor was just doing what he had to do… He felt bad for
having pointed the Elder Wand at him and for nearly…what?

What would he have done, if Luna had not brought him back to his senses?

Harry shuddered. The Deathstick was a frightening object, and he sincerely

hoped that he would have his own, holly wand again someday.

Harry suppressed a sigh at the thought. His beloved holly wand, currently in
the hands of Lord Voldemort…

He wondered if the Dark Lord was reaching out to him, now. If he was,
Harry couldn't feel him. Even though he'd checked and made sure his
Occlumency Barriers were intact, he had expected to feel…something.

Earlier, when he had sat on the beach, staring off into the distance… He had
felt the Dark Lord, then. Harry was able to ignore it, sure, but when he paid
attention, it was undeniably there—a frantic, desperate beckoning for his
acknowledgment, for Harry to respond…

But now, nothing. Harry felt a sense of foreboding at the realization. Why
had the Dark Lord suddenly stopped reaching out to him? What was he
doing, if not trying to contact him?

Well, perhaps he would find out. Tomorrow night, he'd promised… He

would speak with Voldemort tomorrow night…

He was going to have to talk to Snape beforehand, Harry knew that much. If
he really was going to give it another shot with the Dark Lord and their
complicated ploy, for progress, then they would need to plan accordingly…

And they would be hopeless without Snape.

Harry turned onto his side, facing a still-twitching Ron. Maybe his freckly
friend was a dog in his dream, he thought lazily… Chasing an otter,
perhaps… Ha…

Harry finally fell into a light, fretful sleep. He dreamt of strange, glittering
clouds of gray that seemed to hold unfathomable secrets. His heart's deepest
desire was there, hidden in those ephemeral plumes of silver, he could feel it,
if he could only see through the haze…

But no matter how hard he tried, it was just gray.

Harry waited until he heard the sound of someone else stirring before he
pretended to wake up himself.

He had laid in bed for a long time that morning, and in addition to his strange
bout of nausea, his chest had begun to hurt. Again, not all that shocking,
considering. He was stressed, sleep deprived, mentally and physically
exhausted in every way… So whatever aches and pains plagued him were
probably just a result of, well, all that.

It was not one of the other boys who had awoken, but one of the girls from
across the hall. Harry crept out into the hallway to find himself face to face
with Hermione.

"Good morning," she greeted him quietly. Hermione was already dressed and
quite alert, the antithesis of Ron and Draco when they first woke up.

"Morning," Harry answered. He, personally, didn't feel the need to change
out of the pajamas that Bill had let him borrow. Small comforts, he thought.
At this point, he would take every one that he could get.

"Are the others up?" Hermione asked, looking over Harry's shoulder towards
the room he had just come from. "Ginny and Luna are just getting dressed,
then they'll be out."

"No, not yet," Harry said. "I'm sure they will be soon, though." He then
frowned, remembering how absolutely passed out they all had been. "Well…
maybe."

Hermione smiled knowingly. "Come on. Let's go downstairs, maybe we can

make everyone breakfast and tea…"

Harry followed her towards the kitchen, his aching chest suddenly feeling
heavy with sorrow. For so long, it had been Dobby who had been doing that
for them…

He shoved those depressing thoughts aside. It would do no good at all, to

dwell on that loss. Not right now.

As it turned out, they were not the first ones up. Bill and Fleur were both
already seated at the kitchen table, Fleur with a cup of coffee in her hands,
and Bill with tea.

"Good morning, 'Arry," Fleur said at once, smiling radiantly and getting to
her feet. "You are up early! Would you like some coffee? No, I imagine zat
you would rather not. You English and your tea."

"Actually, coffee would be great," Harry said, to which Fleur positively

beamed. "I could use the extra caffeine. Is it strong?"

"Zat is the only way to 'ave coffee," Fleur responded, pouring him a cup.
Even in the small gesture of brushing his fingers when she handed him the
mug, Harry felt the queasiness and aches in his body disappear, vanishing
under the influence of her Veela-inducing numbness.

"Th…thanks," he said, trying not to blush like he was still fourteen and
totally naïve. He noticed Hermione frowning out of the corner of his eye, but
she didn't say anything. He almost couldn't blame her for looking annoyed,
this time. Fleur hadn't exactly offered her anything.

But before Bill could right that wrong, several sets of footsteps announced
the arrival of others. Ginny and Luna, dressed and smiling brightly at Harry
as they entered, followed shortly by Fred, George, and Ron, all of whom
were still in their pajamas and looking disheveled. Maybe males in general
really were just slobs, Harry thought amusedly.

"Good morning, you beautiful, gorgeous people," Fred said happily as they
all entered.

"And Fleur," George added. They all laughed, including the beautiful,
gorgeous woman herself.

"So. What's on the agenda for today?"

"Some of us still have to go to work," Bill answered, standing and looking at

his brothers. "I just wanted to wait until most of you were up. Help yourself
to whatever you want to eat, please."

"Yes," Fleur agreed. "I shall need to be leaving 'az well, but if there is
anything zat you would like me to get while I am out, let me know and I
would be happy to get it for you."

Maybe that offer was supposed to be meant for everyone, but Fleur looked
only at Harry when she said it. "Er, no, I'm sure whatever you have here is
fine. We're not picky."

Fred and George had already begin to rummage through the pantry, pulling
out bread and eggs and all sorts of other food. "I'm going to eat everything,"
Fred admitted.

"We'll make it up to you later, promise," George said. But Fleur just smiled
and shook her head.
"Well, we have to take off." Bill drained the last of his tea and set the empty
cup on the counter. "I'm at Gringotts today, things have been absolute chaos
lately… And don't worry, your secret is completely safe with us. I wish I
could stay, but it would look suspicious if I called in sick the day after…well,
you know."

"And I cannot stay, either. I am working at ze bank as well, I already agreed

to translate for some French-speaking clients who are visiting…"

"That's a shame," Ginny said in tones of deepest lamentation. She didn't look
at Fleur when she spoke, and instead started helping her brothers make what
promised to be a very large and impressive breakfast.

Fleur glared but ignored her sarcasm. "I will back as soon as possible," she
said, glancing back towards Harry and smiling. "We shall see you tonight."

"Yes, if something happens don't hesitate to send me a patronus, all right?

But I'm sure you'll be fine. Only Weasley's can enter through this ward—
well, and Fleur, of course—and Snape is here, besides."

Harry frowned at that, looking around the room. There was definitely no
sulking Potions Master among them. "Where is Snape? Locked up in the
basement, still?"

Bill and Fleur shared an uncomfortable glance. "…He's outside," Bill

responded slowly. He was obviously still unsure of how Harry felt about the
man, given what happened yesterday. "He was up even before we were. He's
been out there all morning."

Harry's brows rose in surprise. He didn't say anything in response, just

breathed over his coffee to cool it down before he took a sip. Fleur was right;
it was very strong, and quite bitter.

"We'd best be off, then," Bill said. "Don't do anything stupid." He looked
pointedly to Fred, George, and Ron.

"Never, dearest brother," the twins chorused together as they cracked eggs
into a pan and started making toast. Ron tried to say something indignant but
ended up yawning wordlessly instead.

Bill eyed them suspiciously, but then turned and headed for the door. "See
you later," he called over his shoulder.

Fleur gave Harry one quick, chaste kiss on the cheek. "'Ave a good day,
'Arry," she said before following her husband. Harry watched her go in a bit
of a daze, feeling as hot as the coffee in his hands.

"And good riddance," Hermione muttered after she'd gone. Harry considered
reprimanding her, but was certain that whatever he might say to try and
defend Fleur would be wrong and stupid.

Turning his attention elsewhere, Harry spotted Luna standing alone in the
other room. She was staring out of a window through the curtains and
looking forlorn. Harry walked over to her to see what she was looking at.

It was Snape. The Potions Master was off in the not too far distance, sitting
on the beach by himself and facing the ocean. Luna was watching him with
pity in her eyes.

Maybe it was just because that had been exactly what he had been doing all
day yesterday, but Harry's guilt grew exponentially. Luna noticed the way he
frowned and touched his shoulder.

"There's enough discord in all our lives already, I think," she said simply. She
smiled at him, and Harry couldn't help but nod and smile back.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You're right."

Without saying anything to the others, Harry snuck out the back door and
headed towards the water.

Snape didn't react at all when Harry approached, though Harry was certain he
had seen him coming. It was a very surreal experience, to look down at his
former professor sitting on the sand with no familiar sneer of malevolence on
his face. His expression was blank, his eyes empty. It was obvious he didn't
fancy company, at the moment—especially not the company of Harry James
Potter.

Harry decided to take a leaf out of Ginny's book and just sit next to him,
anyway. Snape didn't respond one way or the other.

Harry didn't say anything at first. He just drank his coffee and sat with the
silent Potions Master, gazing out into the water. The early morning sky was a
steely gray, quite the opposite of the sunset he had witnessed the evening
before.

"…Do you drink coffee?"

Snape's black eyes flickered to Harry's at that strange and unexpected

question. Harry held up his mug, waiting for Snape to answer. He didn't. "It's
kind of awful," he went on. "But it's really strong, and we'll probably need all
the help we can get, if we're going to work all day and try and win a war."

Snape shifted his focus back to the ocean. "Is that what we're going to do?"
he asked quietly, drily; a bit of that characteristic drawl back in his voice.
Harry grinned merrily at the familiar sound.

"Only if you'll help us. God knows we'd all be dead by now if it weren't for
your genius mind. Or worse, I guess. In my case." Harry said it all quite
conversationally before taking another sip of coffee. Snape looked both
suspicious and—maybe Harry was just imagining it—a bit smug.

"What is it you're actually trying to say, Potter?" he asked.

"That I'm sorry."

Snape's brows raised at that. Harry's expression became much more serious.
"I am. I'm sorry I…freaked out on you. I'm sorry I pointed the Elder Wand at
you and—and shouted all of that…er, stuff."

It was a pretty tame way to apologize for having screamed 'fuck you' into his
former professor's face while essentially threatening his life, but Harry felt it
was probably better not to be so specific. "I didn't really mean all that, I was
just…"

Harry's voice trailed off, unable to articulate what it was, precisely, he had
been feeling. Far too many far too powerful emotions, that was for sure.

Snape seemed to understand. His surprised expression slid into one of solemn
comprehension. "…You have no reason to apologize," he said, shocking the
hell out of Harry when he merely looked out vacantly towards the water
again.

"Well, I am. I do. Apologize, I mean," Harry muttered, stubborn as ever.

Snape shook his head slightly, his gaze still directed somewhere far in the
distance. "…War has a way of bringing out the best and the worst of people,
the ugliest and the most beautiful…. Parts of us that we never even knew
existed before, which had remained dormant until the promise of seeing
another morning was no longer guaranteed," he said in a hollow voice. Harry
watched the way in which his eyes went out of focus, and was reminded of
how Ginny had stared out into the horizon just the day before.

Utterly, completely haunted.

"I have seen these drastic changes in everyone who has been touched by such
turmoil, both in this wizarding war and in the first one. I have experienced it
myself. War changes you in irreversible ways. And always you will question
your actions. You will find yourself wondering days, weeks, years later:
What if I had never said that? What if I had swallowed my pride? …What if I
had stayed?"

Harry knew they were rhetorical questions, but he found himself searching
for some sort of response, regardless. Anything to say, something to wash
that tragic, void expression off of the older man's face.

He could think of nothing. "And you will never find the answers, no matter
how hard you search for them," Snape continued aptly. "But at some point,
you realize that even if you had them, even if you knew the exact outcome of
all of your 'what could have been's'… It does not matter. What is done is
done. All we have is here and now, and the possibility for a brighter future…
so long as we have something to fight for."

He looked at Harry again, the slightest bit of life flickering in the depths of
his eyes. "Do we have something to fight for?"

Harry smiled. "You didn't think I actually wanted to run away and hide, did
you?" he asked. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'm a bit of a stereotypical
Gryffindor in nature. More of a stupid, reckless, charge-right-in-without-
thinking sort of person than anything." He pursed his lips, feigning
thoughtfulness. "Someone once told me that my father was like that, too…
Can't remember who said that, though."

Snape's lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. Harry was amazed at just how
happy that made him, almost being able to make Severus Snape grin.

The world was a very strange place indeed, in times of war.

"Probably someone with the unfathomable amount of patience and wisdom,"

Snape muttered wryly.

"No," Harry answered, shaking his head. "No, I'm pretty sure he was an
egotistical, biased,—"

"Watch it."

"—genius?"

Harry grinned innocently as he finished. He took another sip of coffee, hardly

containing a laugh when Snape rolled his eyes. Because even though he was
trying to look as sallow and miserable as he always did, Harry could tell that
the Potions Master was at least a tiny bit amused.

"Come back inside," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. "This coffee
needs an Umbridge-worthy amount of sugar added to it, but I still think I'll
drink half the pot. They're making breakfast, too… Also, Draco's not up yet.
If we hurry, we can get in there before he graces us with his presence. I know
that messing with him before he's properly cognizant is secretly one of your
favorite things."

Snape did smirk, then. It seemed so crazy, too, referencing their days when it
had been just Harry, Snape, and Malfoy living in Grimmauld Place. At the
time, it had felt miserable. In hindsight, though, it was actually rather funny,
the way in which they had all cohabitated.

Harry offered Snape his free hand. Hesitating only for a brief moment, the
older man accepted his assistance and allowed Harry Potter to help him to his
feet. They went back into the cottage, walking side by side.

To the uninformed eye, they might have looked something like friends.

Oooo

The awkwardness of Snape rejoining the group was actually not as bad as
Harry might have expected. Maybe it was just because he had entered with
Harry, but once everyone saw that he and Snape were surprisingly amicable
towards one another, they all chose to follow Harry's lead and not question it.

The sole exception to this was Hermione. She did not say or do anything
outwardly rude to Snape, but she kept her distance and was quite blatantly
giving him the cold shoulder. Harry wondered wildly why she was upset this
time, but was not stupid enough to try and figure out in front of everybody
else. It seemed to be that only Harry noticed the odd something between
Hermione and their former instructor, and he was still secretly hoping that he
was really just imagining it.

Nearly an hour passed before Draco finally joined them.

They were all seated around the kitchen table, listening to Fred and George
doing what Fred and George did best—distract them all from the terrors of
their reality with anecdotes and stories—when the Malfoy heir came
shuffling down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Fred said before anyone else could speak,
raising his mug in Draco's direction. Malfoy glared at him silently in
response.

"More like sleeping catastrophe. I've never seen your hair so messy, Malfoy.
You look like a blonde Chosen One."

They all laughed at George's admittedly accurate remark. Draco grunted and
sort of half-heartedly tried to flatten his hair.

"You slept in really late, Draco," Harry commented, checking his watch. "It's
almost eleven. You must have been really tired…"

Truth be told, they all were, Harry included. But despite the fact that he had
not personally slept very well, the coffee really was helping. He had just
finished his third cup, and he was almost starting to feel chipper. The sugar
had definitely helped with the taste.

"I…had the craziest dreams…" Draco murmured.

"Oh, what were the about?" Luna asked, leaning forward at the table. "I loved
interpreting dreams in Divination."

Malfoy frowned, now scratching his head and undoing all of the progress he
had made on fixing his hair. "Something…something about the ceiling," he
said slowly. He was frowning, clearly struggling to recall the details.

"The ceiling at Hogwarts… I think I was in the Great Hall, and there were
lots of people there, and… And a child." He suddenly shuddered, like the
idea of a child was the most horrendous thing in the world. Luna tilted her
head to the side. Obviously, she had no idea what to make of such an odd,
vague dream.

"…But… But I think I did something good," Draco concluded, sounding

somehow both firm and confused.

"Well, that's refreshing," Harry said, refilling his mug for the fourth time
before Draco poured himself a cup as well. "At least someone manages to do
something good in their dreams."

Snape frowned concernedly at those words. "An unfortunate circumstance

which can still be remedied," he said curtly. "…If you are still willing, of
course."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Tonight." He added more sugar to his coffee and
stirred it. "Do you really think we have a chance, now? That he might
actually agree?"

"Considering all that has transpired recently… I would say it is a strong

possibility."

Everyone exchanged meaningful looks. Draco fixed joined them at the table,
still looking half-asleep. "You're gonna meet him in a dream again tonight?"
he asked.

"Yeah. I did say that this would be the last day that we would stick around,
after all… He'll be waiting. I know he will be."

There was a long stretch of profound silence. Harry stared into the dark liquid
of his coffee, looking intently at his own reflection.

Would the Dark Lord really agree…? Would he finally accept his terms, and
willingly give up his claim on Snape's life? Was there a real possibility that
they could actually continue with their plan, and potentially end the war?

Could they truly, someday, have normal lives?

The others seemed to think so. "Can you imagine?" Fred said, grinning and
looking at his twin. "Running our shop without all of those insanely
inconvenient safety wards? Without mum breathing down our necks for
every hilarious gimmick we come up with, thinking we're going to be
murdered in our beds?"

"A life with no mid-morning Howlers?" George asked dubiously. "No, I

cannot imagine such a paradisiacal life."

"Yeah… If the war were over, we could focus on far more…pertinent

things." Ron looked at Hermione when he said it, smiling in an almost shy
way.

"Like Quidditch," Ginny said wistfully before Hermione could react.

"Yeah," chorused Fred, George, Harry and Draco in response.

"I think I'd like to try out for the Holyhead Harpies someday," Ginny
continued. "I'd love to go pro."

"Really?" Harry asked. "I've thought about that, too. Er, not that team,
obviously. But playing professionally."

"Wouldn't that be great?" she gushed, beaming. "Playing Quidditch for a

living? Actually getting paid to do what you love?"

Draco made a sudden snorting noise in annoyance. Ginny glared at him. "Oh,
and what would you do, Malfoy? Because Merlin knows you wouldn't be able
to pull something like that off, considering your own Head of House kicked
you off the team in school."

Snape smirked at the memory. Draco glowered mutinously, and Harry could
tell by the slow way he spoke that he was still groggy. "I'm gonna write
book," he answered.

"…A book," Ginny repeated skeptically.

"Yeah. About this. About the war, about everything we've been going
through. A memoir."

"Really? Is that what you've been writing?" Hermione voiced the question,
looking pleasantly surprised. Draco nodded. "That is actually an admirable
idea, Malfoy. I had no idea you were interesting in publishing."

Draco just shrugged and drank his tea. Then, looking a bit hesitant as she did,
Hermione addressed Snape for the first time since they'd arrived at the
Cottage. "…What would you do, if the war were to finally end, Professor…?"

Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously at her question, like he was wary that he
was about to step into a trap. Hermione just blinked at him innocently.

But then Snape looked away from her, and when he spoke it was in his usual
sneer. "With any luck, I shall purchase a small, private island, make in
unplottable, and never have to deal with any of you people and your
monumentally dramatic problems ever again," he drawled.

Harry laughed. "A private island?" he balked, imagining the bizarre and
hilarious image of Snape on a much warmer beach than the one outside,
wearing swim trunks and sunglasses as he basked in some tropical climate.
"Might be a bit excessive, an entire island. Also a bit expensive."

Snape's eyes glimmered mirthfully. "If we actually pull this off and win the
war, I will never have to worry about something as trivial as money ever
again," he said. He then turned his somewhat sadistic grin to Draco, who
looked surprised at the attention. "Your parents are going to owe me so much
for keeping your sorry skin alive that I could probably buy a dozen islands…
You can kiss your inheritance goodbye, Draco."

That statement seemed to wake Draco up completely. "Wh…what?" he

gasped, slamming his mug down on the table. "You're not getting a single
knut of my inheritance!"

"Your mother is going to just throw your family's entire vault at me when I
give you back to her, alive and well," Snape responded smoothly, and it was
really hard to tell if he was joking or not. "What's worse, Draco—being dead
or broke?"

Draco's face contorted like the question caused him actual, physical pain. It
looked like he honestly wasn't sure of the answer.

"Ah, don't worry too much, Malfoy," Fred said. "Being poor's not too bad!"
"Yeah, we all turned out all right," George added, gesturing towards his twin,
Ginny and Ron.

Draco looked horrified.

"You're not getting any of my inheritance," he muttered firmly, pointing at

Snape. "No way."

Snape smiled crookedly, but didn't say anything else on the matter. "I believe
we are getting just a bit too far ahead of ourselves," he said, waving a hand as
though to dismiss the conversation. "We still have more work to do." He
looked at Harry, and his expression instantly became stern.

"You are certain about this?" he asked again.

"Absolutely," Harry answered.

"Very well." Snape pulled out his wand and cleared the table of the various
dishes which were scattered about. "Tonight, if fate is on our side, the Dark
Lord may agree to your terms," he said, speaking in way which reminded
them all of Potions lectures from classes long past. "So we must be
prepared."

Snape stood and made an intricate movement with his wrist, conjuring
something from the tip of his acquired wand. He frowned and looked a bit
frustrated as he did it, and Harry got the impression that the wand which he
and Draco had stolen did not work very well for the Potions Master.

But a moment later, and a long, strange looking piece of parchment appeared.
It was blank, and glowing slightly. Harry had never seen paper like it before
in his life.

Next, he conjured up a quill and a bottle of ink. The ink, too was oddly
illuminated. It was a bright, emerald green.

Snape handed Harry the quill and flattened out the parchment so that it was
stretched before him. Everyone stared up at the Potions Master expectantly as
he began to pace, furrowing his brows and looking pensive.

Finally, after a long pause, he looked back at Harry. His dark eyes were
gleaming maliciously.

"Write this down."

They worked all day and well into the night. By the time Harry finally fell
asleep that night, it was with a sense of something that might have been hope.

And just as he'd expected, on the other side of consciousness…Voldemort

was waiting.

The familiar dreamscape of the prison-like room materialized around him.

Harry Potter on one side of the glass, and the Dark Lord on the other.

Voldemort was still, seated in his chair with the phone already to his ear.
Completely composed, eerily motionless. His face was as mask-like and
undecipherable as it had always been during these tense conversations, like
nothing at all had transpired since they last met.

Like Voldemort had not invaded Harry's mind against his will, shattering his
barriers and bringing forth memories that he had never wanted to relive. Like
he had not torn through his thoughts, found where they were staying, and
proceeded to arrive at Hogwarts with his deadliest lieutenant at his heels.

Like he had not been seduced by the cunning of Harry Potter, tricked into a
near-kiss which had enthralled them both. Like Voldemort had not witnessed
Harry being tortured at the hands of Severus Snape, a blade of dark magic
being pressed against his throat as he screamed and screamed…

No.

The Dark Lord was totally unreadable, his posture relaxed and comfortable
and his face blank.

…But Voldemort's illuminated eyes betrayed him.

Harry slowly took his seat on his side of the glass. He reached for the phone
and cleared his throat, trying to act equally composed, as though all that
happened had not affected him, either.

It didn't matter that they had spent all day and night at the Cottage discussing
just how this conversation would go, Harry was sure that nothing could fully
prepare him for what was sure to be an exhausting argument. While they
knew there was a good chance that the Dark Lord would agree to his terms,
they were also painfully aware that it would not be an easy acceptance.

"…So," Harry began, amazed at just how casual he was able to sound.
Despite his anxiety. Despite everything.

"Have you—?"

"I accept."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. He stared, silent, unsure if he had just

imagined the words or not.

Voldemort's gaze was darkly intense. His features remained otherwise

smooth and controlled, but the indescribable emotion that simmered in those
ruby irises was irrefutable. Harry tried to put a name to it, to whatever it was
that seemed to be smoldering there, in the depths of those impossible eyes,
but could think of nothing.

"…Your terms. All of them," Voldemort clarified, when Harry continued to

be speechless. His voice was soft but unquestionably clear. Harry's lips parted
in shock. The Dark Lord's expression remained still.

"I accept."
 42. Nargles
The stretch of silence which followed the Dark Lord's acceptance was fraught
with tension.

For a long time, Harry simply stared. Like he was just waiting for Voldemort
to suddenly throw his arms up and yell, 'Just kidding! I want Severus's head
on a spike.'

But after several highly uncomfortable minutes in which this failed to

happen, Harry slowly reached into the front pocket of his robe…and pulled
out the contract.

It was a tightly furled scroll, glowing faintly even in his dream. Harry
glanced down to the ledge which rested at waist height between them on both
sides of the glass, and willed a small, horizontal opening to appear—just
large enough for a piece of paper to slide through. With numb fingers, Harry
unfurled the scroll and pushed the parchment towards the Dark Lord on the
other side of the barrier.

The action was so small, so contrite—but in that moment where Harry had
willingly made a passageway between his mind and Voldemort's and had let
his fingers invade the space on the other side of the glass, he was unable to
breathe. He envisioned the Dark Lord lunging suddenly, reaching down and
grabbing his hand, attacking the small, exposed part of his Occlumency wall
and ripping it to shreds and—

But this did not happen.

Voldemort waited patiently until after Harry had pushed the document
through and retracted his fingers before he, the most powerful wizard of all
time, slowly and purposefully picked it up.

The Dark Lord's eyes darted across the script so quickly that Harry was sure
he couldn't have actually have been able to read it.
And yet, evidently, he was. Voldemort's eyes, which had been such a deep,
ruby hue when he began, became brighter and more alarmingly crimson with
every word. By the time he had read the entirety of the contract, they were
searing like embers, brighter than hellfire. He read through it again, and
again, and again, and Harry was surprised the damn thing didn't burst into
flames under such a fiery gaze. After the fifth read-through, Voldemort's eyes
darted around the piece of paper like it was a treasure map rather than a
contract, looking feverishly for an 'X' marks the spot. When he found none—
no secret treasure, no loophole—his gaze flickered up to Harry's, vibrant and
deadly.

"Severus wrote this," he hissed, murder in his softly-spoken voice.

What Harry really wanted to say was no, he wrote it, because technically he
had. Three times, in fact. Twice because Snape kept changing his mind and
had him start over, and a third time because the ex-professor deemed Harry's
penmanship unacceptable, and made him write it all over again in a slightly
more legible fashion.

Harry had very kindly recommended that Snape write it himself, then. But
no… It had to be Harry's hand.

Harry's hand, but Snape's words. And there was no denying that.

"Yes," Harry responded simply.

The Dark Lord looked like he was resisting the very powerful urge to rip the
contract to shreds when he spoke. "I cannot sign this," he spat, eyes flashing
ever more dangerously. "Severus knew this when he wrote it. These are not
the terms we agreed upon previously."

"Circumstances have changed," Harry replied coolly.

And oh, had they ever.

For a very brief time, Harry had actually begun to think that there was
something more to the Dark Lord. He had really thought that he was not
completely heartless. That he had he heard something like vulnerability in the
barely spoken words:

'Do you want to truly know me, Harry…?'

How wrong he had been.

Voldemort had torn apart his mind, deceived him, taken advantage of him,
caused him unfathomable pain, and would have killed everyone he cared
about…

The Dark Lord may love him, for whatever insane, unfathomable reason…
but that didn't make him good.

He was the same monster from his nightmares. The same dark wizard who
had murdered his parents and ruined his life, who had tortured and killed and
done so many unspeakable things, ever since the age of sixteen when he
ripped his soul apart for the very first time.

Voldemort was a monster, and Harry had been stupid to think that he could
ever be anything else.

The Dark Lord clenched his jaw. "I cannot sign this," he reiterated, his teeth
barred. "Severus knew this when he had you write it."

"Why not?" Harry asked innocently.

But of course he already knew.

"This part, just to begin with." Voldemort set the contract down on the ledge
and turned it around so that the script was facing Harry. He pointed down at
the line:

'I shall not cause any harm to Harry James Potter upon his arrival at an
agreed upon location of my choosing, and shall not hurt him in any way
while he is in my presence.'

Harry feigned surprise, though he was anything but. This was, just as Snape
had predicted, the very first thing that the Dark Lord would find issue with.

"Are you saying you're going to cause me harm?" Harry asked, tilting his
head to one side and pretending to be concerned. "Don't you want to protect
me from harm? I thought that was the point of all this. My safety. Surely you
won't harm the poor soul you wish to protect?"

"It is too vague," Voldemort snapped, ignoring Harry's condescending words.

"What if I aim a curse at someone else, and you unwittingly end up in the
crossfire and are harmed as an unintentional result? What if someone else
attacks you, and the only way to save you is to do something which could
potentially harm you in the process? …What if I tell you I don't like your
hair,and your feelings are hurt?"

Harry's jaw dropped as though he were deeply offended. "You don't like my
hair?" he gasped, running one hand through it instinctually. "…Huh. Funny,
neither does Draco. I even let him play with it one time to fix it, but I dunno,
I think I prefer it like this."

"What? No. What? No," Voldemort gripped the phone so tightly at that
statement that Harry was sure it would break in half. And he was secretly
feeling smug to no end at how easily that had worked—just the mention of
Draco Malfoy having played with his hair had Voldemort looking equal parts
incensed, supremely jealous, and flustered.

Flustered. Harry suppressed a smirk, wishing that Snape could witness his
own predictions come into fruition.

The Dark Lord shook his head, like he was visibly clearing away the image
of Draco running his fingers through Harry's unruly locks so that he could
focus on the task at hand. "…It cannot stay this way," he said in a forced,
even tone. "This contract was written in your hand, and so you can edit it, just
as you claimed. Change it."

He slid the document back to Harry through the small opening in the glass.
Harry stared at it for a moment before pulling out a quill and a capped bottle
of that same, green ink from his other pocket. Voldemort watched the action
with furious eyes, because it meant that Harry had been completely prepared
to change the contract from the beginning, even though he had feigned
otherwise, and this was all just a very complicated, twisted game they were
playing, wasn't it?

Harry dipped the quill in the emerald ink. He let his hand hover over that
statement, pursing his lips before he finally asked, "…What would you have
me change it to?" He looked up to meet Voldemort's stagnant, incensed
expression. "It's like you said, Snape wrote this, not me. I'm terrible at this
sort of thing. What would you have me put, instead?"

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed into scarlet slits. "At the very least, add the
words, 'to the best of my abilities,'" he said, but even as the words left his
lips, Harry could tell that he was questioning it. "No," he went on almost at
once. "Wait."

Harry did. The Dark Lord stared down at the parchment with a deeply
pensive expression, thinking, thinking, thinking…

After just a few moments, Harry sighed. "I'm sorry, I really am bloody awful
at all of this nonsense. I just want this over with," he muttered. Then, quite
boldly, he drew a solid, green line through the entire statement.

'I shall not cause any harm to Harry James Potter upon his arrival at an
agreed upon location of my choosing, and shall not hurt him in any way
while he is in my presence.'

"There. Is that better?"

Harry glanced up just in time to catch the tail end of Voldemort's look of
sheer disbelief. But then the Dark Lord's eyes flickered up to Harry's, his face
once more cold and expressionless.

"Yes."

"Well okay, then. I'm just taking it on your good faith that you won't
purposefully cause me any harm," Harry muttered.
"Never."

Harry scoffed, loudly, at what he may have once mistaken as a genuine note
of concern. Voldemort winced at the abrasive sound. "Whatever. I don't care
what you do to me, I don't care about myself. It's everyone else I'm worried
about."

The Dark Lord looked nearly believably concerned at that, but Harry wasn't
buying it. "What else?" he said instead. He shoved the contract back towards
Voldemort. "What else is a problem for you?"

His look of distress melted away almost at once. "This," he said, pointing
now towards another line which read,

'I shall, to the very best of my ability, attempt to remove the horcrux from
within Harry James Potter's soul, by whatever means necessary.'

"I cannot do this."

Harry was surprised to see that the Dark Lord's smooth features had become
pained again so quickly.

"Why not?" Harry asked, though he had, just as Snape had, assumed that
Voldemort would not be happy about this demand. "You have to admit,
everyone's like would be much easier if you had it back."

Voldemort's aggrieved expression deepened significantly. Harry actually was

a bit confused to see him looking so distraught. Sure, he knew that the Dark
Lord would not exactly look forward to attempting to conjure up some
remorse, impossible as that may be, but he looked…

He looked like he might be sick, the Dark Lord's face had become so riddled
with conflict. "I mean… You're worried that Snape will stop at nothing to kill
me, right? He would have no reason to, if I weren't your human horcrux."

Harry could practically hear Voldemort's thoughts racing. His eyes had
darkened to a deeply saturated red again, and kept flickering back and forth
between Harry and the contract. "…It could kill you," he finally said.

But the way he said it only served to confuse Harry even more. It was almost
a bit hesitant, a bit unsure…like he had only just thought of that possibility as
he said it.

There was something…else.

"Attempting to reabsorb the shard of my soul from you could conceivably kill
us both," Voldemort continued, and his voice was suddenly much firmer, his
face much more controlled. Harry wondered if he had just imagined the
distress from a moment before. "It could cause unforeseeable pain and
possibly even death, and I will not do anything that puts your life in
jeopardy."

"Leaving me with a target on my back for everyone who knows what I am

puts my life in jeopardy," Harry countered. "Enough other people know what
I am. They could tell others, and soon the whole wizarding world would
know that Harry Potter is the Dark Lord's horcrux. And you have plenty of
enemies who would have no issue with killing me if it meant being one step
closer to killing you."

The truth of this statement seemed to hit the Dark Lord like a physical blow.
He flinched, and he was behaving so strangely, so much more emotionally
exposed than he ever had. Harry wondered if it was all just an elaborate
façade, some kind of act with deep, ulterior motives.

Probably.

"…I cannot sign a contract which demands that I remove the horcrux,"
Voldemort repeated, shaking his head. "It would be far too dangerous to
attempt on another living being. I, perhaps, couldhave practiced this
complicated procedure on Nagini first, if…"

His tone became a dangerous snarl near the end, and Harry could finish the
statement easily enough on his own: …If Draco Malfoy hadn't cut her damn
head off.
But Harry was certain that Voldemort didn't even know Draco was there that
fateful day, and he wasn't about to tell him. "Look. There's no time limit on
this. You wouldn't have to do it tomorrow or something… It could be later."

Harry had meant to sound exasperated when he said it, but was unable to
force any bitterness into his voice as Voldemort's expression became so
painfully conflicted again. He paused, making eye contact with the Dark Lord
and hating himself for adding, "Much later."

Voldemort did not look relieved. "Okay, okay. Here." Harry dipped the quill
in ink again, and added a stipulation to that particular line of the contract.

'I shall, to the very best of my ability, attempt to remove the horcrux from
within Harry James Potter's soul, by whatever means necessary—but only
upon the personal request of Harry James Potter himself.'

"Is that better? Now you only have to try it if I ask you to. And I personally
promise not to ask you to."

"And why would you promise such a thing…?" Voldemort asked skeptically,
his eyes fixed on the document.

Harry shrugged, like everything they were talking about was inconsequential.
"Because I don't think it will work, anyway."

Which was offensive in that it really meant, 'because I don't think you're
capable of remorse.' Harry didn't actually say the words, but they both heard
it in his hopeless, hollow voice.

Voldemort chose not to respond to that morbid statement. He just nodded

slowly, his face slipping back into something cold and unreadable.

Harry slid the parchment back to the Dark Lord. "Anything else?" he asked
conversationally.

Voldemort lifted the parchment up, reading the entirety of the contract an
additional two times. It was a very wordy document, that was true, but Harry
was certain that there was only one other thing that he would try and change.

The beginning half of elaborate contract was all about the protection of the
muggles. It ensured that Lord Voldemort would not attack any innocent, non-
magical individuals, publically or otherwise, nor vicariously plan an attack
through other parties.

The next section of the contract went on to ensure that the Dark Lord would
not harm, any manner, any of the individuals listed, which included all of
Harry's friends and their immediate families.

Following this was a small division which indicated that Harry would
relinquish the Elder Wand once he arrived safely at the agreed upon location,
with the guarantee that Voldemort would relinquish Harry's holly wand in
return. An action which Snape was very adamant that Harry do at once. For
the Elder Wand did not recognize contracts or documents, only power… And
if Harry handed it over willingly, he would, technically, still be its master.

Which didn't really do him much good, considering he would not physically
wield it anymore… But at least it would not rightfully be Voldemort's, and,
well, that was something, wasn't it?

And then there was an entire clause solely dedicated to the safety of Severus
Snape and the Malfoys, whose protection was much more complicated in that
the Dark Mark was involved. By signing this document, Voldemort was
renouncing all claim over their lives, and swearing that he would never again
attempt to cause them harm or contact them in any way via the Dark Mark.

Harry had been surprised that Snape didn't demand that Voldemort try and
figure out how to get rid of the Marks entirely. But when he'd asked, even
Snape seemed resigned to believe that vanishing the Marks would be utterly
impossible.

There were enough things he'd have to deal with during this taxing
conversation, after all.

Eventually, Voldemort set the parchment down and addressed the final
statement at the bottom of the page.

'I hereupon agree to all of these terms, and recognize that this contract does
not go into effect until it has been sanctified by an Unbreakable Vow with
Harry James Potter. If Harry James Potter does not arrive at the agreed
upon location of my choosing at the decided time, then this contract is null
and void, as will be the Unbreakable Vow.'

"I will not make an Unbreakable Vow with you, Harry."

"Yes, you will." Harry's tone left no room for dispute, but Voldemort argued,
anyway.

"There is no point," Voldemort seethed. "I am not having you sign anything,
as you knew I wouldn't."

And they had, obviously. Even though Harry was sure that Voldemort would
like nothing more than to make Harry swear up and down that he would
never leave the Dark Lord's side, among a thousand other things, he wouldn't
do it. Because if Harry broke the contract…

The only thing that everyone seemed to agree upon in this insane situation
was that no one, evidently, wanted Harry Potter dead.

"An Unbreakable Vow would only serve to possibly destroy my body if I

break any of these oaths. It should be more than sufficient to make this a
standard, magically binding contract."

"Nope," Harry said simply. "Sorry. That's not more than sufficient for us. I
may not know the specifics of magically binding contracts and all of their
legal baggage, but Snape does. They can be repealed in the Ministry, and
seeing as you currently run nearly every office in every department of the
Ministry of Magic right now…"

Voldemort scowled deeply, an unintelligible, furious sound rumbling deep in

his throat. "What, you didn't really think I would just say, 'oh, okay, good
point,' did you? An Unbreakable Vow, or no deal at all."
The Dark Lord clenched his free hand into a fist at one side so tightly it
looked like he may draw blood. But then he turned the parchment around
again and slid it back to Harry.

"I will sign… If you add one more statement."

Harry waited. He watched as the Dark Lord's irate expression became flat and
composed again.

"…And that is?" Harry prompted, holding the quill in his hand loftily.

"Harry James Potter alone has the ability to edit this contract at any time,
even after the Unbreakable Vow has been completed and every magically
binding spell is in effect."

Harry's eyes narrowed in deepest suspicion. "You can add," Voldemort went
on, after a moment of thoughtful consideration, "These potential adjustments
can only be made while Harry James Potter is in a lucid state of mind,
unaffected by any outside, influential factors, magical or otherwise."

Harry was silent for a long time. Voldemort's expression remained cool and
composed. "You really think I'd ever willingly change it?" Harry eventually
asked, dubious.

Voldemort's face didn't change. "Perhaps. This addition would allow you to
make it far worse for me, you do realize that? I am giving you a substantial
amount of power with this statement."

Harry bit his lower lip, his mind racing. He did realize that; if he could edit it
at any time after Voldemort signed… Well, he could have him do anything
he wanted, then, couldn't he?

What was troubling him was why Voldemort would want that. Harry tried to
find the reasoning for it, the underhanded, clever tactic that was being
employed here…but he couldn't. Not after the Dark Lord had added the 'lucid
state of mind bit', at least.
At the very least, if he wanted to, he could just cross that whole section off
later, he supposed. Harry dipped the quill in ink.

"Say it again," he muttered, glancing up to Voldemort. The Dark Lord

repeated it word for word while Harry wrote it down. By the time he was
done, Voldemort's eyes were a bright and ominous red, but his face remained
stoic.

"So you'll sign, now?"

"Yes."

Harry's heart was suddenly thundering in his chest, amazed that this had
happened as quickly as it had. "Okay. Here's what will happen," he said,
masking his own shock. "We decide upon a location and a time where you
can…collect me, I suppose. I'll add that to the end, here. Then you sign on the
line at the bottom. I'll wake up, and return as soon as possible with a third
party who will act as our Bonder. Then—"

"And who will that be?" Voldemort suddenly spat, anger cutting across his
features.

"You let me worry about that," Harry answered smoothly. Voldemort's eyes
flashed in annoyance, but he didn't prod.

"…Then, that's it. I'll come to meet you."

"Not me."

Harry frowned. He knew he should have been expecting this response, but it
still bothered him. "No? Not you?"

"I'll send an envoy to…collect you," he said.

Of course he would. Snape had predicted this, as well. The Dark Lord would
never willingly appear in some public place where Severus knew he would
be, lest his traitorous ex-pupil set up some kind of intricate trap. Harry could
hear Snape's curt voice even now:

'Which of course, I would set up an intricate trap, if he were stupid enough to

actually agree to get you himself. Which is why he will not. He shall send
someone else.'

"And who will that be?" Harry asked measuredly.

"You let me worry about that," Voldemort answered, mimicking Harry's own
response perfectly. Harry glared.

"Fine. Whatever," he muttered. He dipped the quill in ink again, shaking his
head as he did. "I guess we better decide upon the time and the place, then."
Harry smiled thinly, the quill hovering just inches over the parchment. It was
technically Voldemort who could decide the location, but it would be
ignorant to pretend like Harry didn't really hold all the power, here.

"I have a place in mind," Harry said. "So long as you see no issue with it."

A location. A time. Harry wrote the specifics down before sliding the
document back to Voldemort, along with the quill and the enchanted, emerald
ink.

The Dark Lord gave the contract one last overview before he finally resigned
himself. His signature at the bottom of the page made Harry's breath hitch in
his throat unexpectedly.

It was a signature he recognized very well, even all these years later. Like his
handwriting had hardly changed at all since he was a young wizard with a
whole soul.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Voldemort returned the contract to Harry, who took it with trembling fingers.
When had he started shaking?

Harry cleared his throat as he rolled it up into a scroll again, placing it in his
pocket. "I'll be back," he said shortly.

Voldemort didn't say anything. Harry hung up the phone.

Harry awoke on the other side of reality to a group of people who had clearly
not expected him to wake so soon.

While Fleur and Bill had been brought up to speed on all that was going on
(or, at least, whatever Snape deemed necessary that they should know), they
had decided to not stay in the same room as everyone else, and instead chose
to let them be. Harry had only just become accustomed to falling asleep with
this lot staring at him—the last thing he needed was a Veela's gaze to make
him squirm.

Draco was scribbling away in his journal, Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Ginny
were speaking in low voices, Fred and George were playing some card game,
and Snape remained still, separate from all of them with his black eyes fixed
expectantly on Harry's sleeping form.

The Potions Master was therefore the first to notice him stir. Snape stood the
moment Harry opened his eyes. His gaze flickered to the clock before settling
on Harry with raised brows.

Not even half an hour had passed.

"Well?" Snape asked. "What happened?"

"He signed," Harry answered, smiling. "Hardly got a word in before he said
he accepted."

They all stared in shock. "Really?" Ron asked first. "He—he actually signed
it, too?"

Harry nodded, and everyone beamed. Draco even laughed breathlessly as he

shut his journal. "He did," Harry confirmed happily.

"And what changes did he have you make to the contract?" Snape alone did
not grin or look appeased; if anything, he seemed suspicious.

"Only the changes that you predicted he would make," Harry said
confidently, patting his chest where the contract sat furled within his pocket.
"But we should hurry. Have him make the Unbreakable Vow now before he
sits too long in the vast, empty landscape that is my abysmal subconscious
and changes his mind."

Snape nearly smiled at that. "That was…extraordinarily quick," he muttered,

glancing at the clock again.

"He wasn't happy about most of it," Harry admitted. "Especially the Vow
part, obviously. I think he believes I'm going to bring you into my dream as
the Bonder, professor."

Snape looked surprised at that. "Aren't you?"

Harry laughed. Obviously, this part of the plan had seemed so concrete in
Snape's mind that they had not even bothered to discuss who would be the
Bonder for the Unbreakable Vow. "No! Are you kidding me? I'm not letting
you anywhere near him, in a dream or otherwise."

"And who else do you know who can infiltrate your dreams in order to
perform this task?"

The Potions Master asked it in a sarcastic, condescending drawl, but Harry

just laughed even more. His focus shifted to another occupant in the room.
Someone who was currently staring up at the ceiling, like there was
something incredibly interesting floating around up there that only she could
see.

Harry beamed when he finally caught her eye.

"I know just the person."

They fell asleep together, hand in hand.

Maybe it was just the comfort of someone's warm and friendly touch, but
Harry drifted into slumber quite quickly. A fact which surprised him greatly,
seeing as this was the most nerve-racking dream he'd entered into yet.

His world of white was empty, blank, and pristine. There were no concrete
floors nor glass barriers. It was just open space. Complete exposure.

Voldemort was there, waiting. Harry knew he would be, but there was
nothing which could have prepared him for the wave of nervousness that
washed over him at the sight. The Dark Lord, just a few feet away, with
nothing to stop him from a ruthless attack.

But he only stood there. Waiting.

Harry and Luna appeared in his dream just as they had fallen asleep—holding
hands, side by side. Voldemort did not say anything when they appeared, but
Harry noted the way his brows rose in surprise by this unexpected third party.

He also noticed how Voldemort's fiery gaze zeroed in on their clasped hands,
vibrant and dangerous. Harry stepped in front of her protectively. The Dark
Lord looked up, glancing first at Harry before his attention settled on the girl
behind him.

"…The girl with the sunflower," Voldemort murmured, recognition

manifesting itself on his face. Because he had seen her, just briefly, in Harry's
psyche… Long, long ago, when Voldemort had delved into his memory and
caught a flickering vision of her pressing a sunflower into Harry's palm…

Luna Lovegood looked at him with giant, mesmerized eyes. "Oh. Why hello,
Fawkes," she said in an airy voice.

…Harry had heard and seen a lot of odd things in his life. But this, by far,
was easily the strangest. Luna Lovegood addressing Lord Voldemort as…as
Fawkes, as in Dumbledore's pet phoenix…and Lord Voldemort not being
confused or angry in response, but just…oddly perturbed. Luna tilted her
head and blinked at the Dark Lord in her familiar, owlish way, and Harry was
just so astounded, because Voldemort said nothing, and instead mimicked her
by doing the exact…same…thing.

Harry was far too perplexed to even ask. It was a suspended, outlandish
moment, even for a dream, and felt like it might just go on forever.

But then Luna smiled and stepped towards the Dark Lord, fearlessly
extending her hand. "Luna Lovegood," she announced.

Voldemort stared at her open palm apprehensively. "The daughter of

Xenophilius Lovegood," he said quietly, like he was speaking more to
himself than anything.

"The very same," Luna agreed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dark Lord."

Mr. Dark Lord. Harry stared at her, absolutely dumbfounded. "How were you
not sorted into Gryffindor…?" he gasped.

Harry hadn't actually expected a response, but it looked like he was going to
get one. Luna turned her radiant smile to him, lowering the hand which the
Dark Lord was clearly not going to take. "Oh, it did consider it," she
answered happily. "The Hat whispered in my ear, 'Yes, I see that you are very
bold… You would do well in Gryffindor.' And I asked, 'But is that a good
thing? Is boldness not just another word for recklessness?' To which the Hat
responded—"

Luna's arm shot up into the air as she bellowed, quite loudly:

"'RAVENCLAW!'"

Harry jumped at the unexpected shout. In all actuality, he was even a bit
impressed. It was a reasonably decent impersonation of the Sorting Hat.

But what was even more mind-boggling was that she had, without even
knowing it, practically quoted the Dark Lord himself from one of his and
Harry's previous dream conversations concerning Gryffindor House.

Luna was unaware, but the Dark Lord wasn't. Whatever assumptions
Voldemort had been making about Luna Lovegood a moment before were
quickly changing. He smiled as he reached up to grab her hand which he had
previously ignored, bringing it to his lips while moving into a formal sort of
bow, like a very proper greeting.

It was a gesture which Harry did not recognize at all, but Luna must have.
For after only a moment in which she looked surprised, she fell into an oddly
graceful curtsy in response, and the way their two bodies were positioned
made Harry wonder if this wasn't some sort of traditional wizarding greeting
that he had never learned.

Voldemort's eyes gleamed approvingly at her fluid reaction. Harry didn't miss
the way his smile became just a bit more twisted…nor the way his gaze
flickered over her bare forearm like he was already staking a claim.

"No," Harry said, pulling Luna away and pushing her behind him
protectively. "You don't touch Luna."

But Voldemort's smirk just broadened. "It was only a simple handshake,
Harry."

"Right. Of course it was." Harry rolled his eyes. "Let's just get this over with,
shall we?"

"Actually, I have one more request."

Harry's entire body stiffened. The Dark Lord was looking at the presence of
Luna Lovegood like he had just happened upon some kind of golden
opportunity. "What?"

Voldemort's expression became emotionless again. "You are staying with

them, correct?"

"…Yes," Harry answered, wary.

"All of them. The mudblood, the blood traitor, his siblings…and Severus
Snape included."
"Yes," Harry repeated, warier.

Voldemort's eyes flashed, though his face remained blank. "Just a simple
addition to the contract, as you can now edit it whenever and however you
like. I am sure you will understand my reasoning as perfectly logical and
permissible once I explain myself. You require a Vow from me, and I shall
do so, right here and now… But only if you add this final statement."

Voldemort did explain.

Harry's reaction was an instant and resounding refusal, but after a long and
tiresome argument in which both he and Luna discussed the implications…
Harry finally, begrudgingly, wrote down the Dark Lord's final words.

"It will be fine," Luna said reassuringly, as Harry slammed the bottle of
emerald ink down on the desk he had conjured into his empty landscape. For
some reason, the Dark Lord glared at the wooden surface of the desk like he
found it incredibly insulting.

"Completely unnecessary," Harry spat. But he was just ready to have this be
done with. He rolled up the illuminated parchment and pocketed it.

"Ready, then?"

Luna's voice was bright and clear. She looked from Harry to Voldemort with
eyes full of anticipation.

Harry nodded, extending his hand in the Dark Lord's direction. Without any
hesitation whatsoever, Voldemort reached forward and grasped Harry's
forearm.

The physical contact made Harry's heart positively race. It was only a dream,
it wasn't real…but the sensation of Voldemort's grip on his arm was almost
dizzying. The Dark Lord's eyes were like pools of lava boring into his, hot
and unbearably…something.

Luna pulled out her wand and pointed the tip down over their joined hands.
Harry swallowed thickly, trying not to sound as breathless as he suddenly
felt. "…Do you vow to keep all of the oaths on this magically binding
contract which you have signed, which concerns the safety of the muggles
and all individuals listed, as well as the welfare of Harry James Potter?"

It felt very strange, to word it that way, but that was the manner in which
Snape had instructed him to say it. Voldemort was silent for a long moment,
his gaze so intense that Harry thought it might burn straight through him.

"I do."

A thin, glowing cord emanated from the tip of Luna's wand. It was bright red,
nearly as vivid as the Dark Lord's burning irises. It wrapped around their
forearms like a sentient being, like a fiery snake.

It hovered there for a few moments. They both watched as it coiled and
twisted around them, binding the Dark Lord to Harry Potter and his contract.

Then it vanished. Luna lifted her wand, smiling benignly. "Very good," she
said.

Harry loosened his grasp. Voldemort, almost reluctantly, did the same.

What followed was a very awkward stretch of silence. Harry scratched the
back of his head as he realized only then that…that he didn't know how to
end this dream. There was no phone to hang up, he had not come up with a
predetermined way in which to return to consciousness. It was a vast
oversight on his part, and he suddenly felt very, very stupid for not having
considered it.

Voldemort was staring at him in a deeply unsettling way. "Um…"

"Oh. Time to go, then."

Harry may not have considered their wake up call…but Luna had.

Before them appeared a small, white rabbit.

It was so light in color that it nearly blended in seamlessly with Harry's blank,
empty world. Were it not for its black eyes and little pink nose, it could have
been missed entirely.

Luna grabbed Harry's hand and squeezed it encouragingly. "It was a pleasure
meeting you, Mr. Dark Lord, sir," Luna said, inclining her head towards
Voldemort respectfully.

Voldemort smirked, returning her gesture. "The pleasure was all mine, I
assure you," he responded suavely. Harry glared at his smug expression.
"Tomorrow at noon, then," Voldemort said, fixing his attention on Harry.

"…Right," Harry agreed, nodding. "Tomorrow at noon."

Harry turned, about to follow Luna towards where the rabbit was, when an
abrupt grip on his other arm made him jump in surprise.

"And Harry," Voldemort said, and his face was suddenly inches from Harry's
own. "…Promise me that you will listen to what I have to say."

The way in which he spoke was so bizarrely desperate that Harry couldn't
help but gape. "Not a vow, not an oath…just your word," he went on, and
then, astoundingly, in the most beseeching manner yet:

"…Please."

…Please?

Harry's eyes widened, stunned. "…O…O-okay," he finally stuttered,

completely frazzled.

Voldemort's grip on his arm tightened, and Harry was sure that, based on the
way his scarlet eyes had flickered down to Harry's lips, dark and hungry, that
he was going to pull him towards him and—

He let go.

Harry's heart was beating erratically as he exhaled a breath he had not been
aware he was holding.

"Tomorrow at noon, then," Voldemort repeated quietly, stepping away.

Harry's whole body felt numb. He just nodded, his mouth unwilling to
cooperate.

"Come along, then."

Harry had quite forgotten that Luna was there in that moment. He turned to
face her, blushing furiously, but she was smiling like she had found the entire
interaction between he and Lord Voldemort endearing rather than alarming.
She squeezed his hand again and led Harry towards the white rabbit, where a
path had begun to form.

Luna's dream, Harry realized, as they began to walk. She was inviting Harry
into her dream, so that they could wake up…

All along the trail at Luna's feet, flowers began to bloom.

Sunflowers first. Dozens of them burst from the ground, blossoming to life in
the new world which materialized around them. But soon flowers of all
different colors, shapes and sizes joined them, many of which Harry was
fairly certain did not actually exist. The sky had turned from a blank white to
an eccentric yet cheery pink, complete with golden clouds and a vivid, orange
sun. From behind bushes and between flowers, little creatures appeared,
running along the ground and playing with each other. Harry watched what
looked like a group of squirrels scramble up a tree, only they were peculiar
shades of blue and green, and a few of them had multiple heads. Fireflies
littered the fields of flowers, hovering above the grass and lighting up at
random intervals in different colors with every flash.

Harry almost couldn't comprehend the dreamscape of Luna Lovegood, it was

so overzealously whimsical and…well, magical. It was no wonder, he
thought, that someone like Luna spent most of her time in her own head,
daydreaming or otherwise.
Her mind was much more beautiful than reality.

Harry found himself feeling oddly embarrassed, suddenly, for his own blank
and empty mental landscape. What did it say about him, that his
subconscious was often just a sea of endless white?

"This way," Luna said, startling Harry out of his own thoughts and pulling
him down the path where the rabbit had gone. The fluffy, white bunny was
hopping towards a hole in the ground. Only the hole was not dark, but
shining with a familiar sort of light. The kind which Harry now knew to
associate with consciousness.

But Harry was distracted as they headed towards it. "Wow…" he gasped,
looking up at what appeared to be a swarm of giant, glittering butterflies.

They were gorgeous. Dozens of magnificent insects which were as wide in

diameter as a quaffle. They looked similar to butterflies, only they had six
sets of wings rather than one. They were transparent and shiny, in all
different colors; impossible wings which were illuminated like stained glass
under a morning sun. Sparkles of gold hovered around them as they fluttered
about, surrounding them in glittering clouds of diamond dust.

Harry stared at them, completely starry-eyed.

"Uh oh. Here," Luna muttered, and she promptly tossed something around his
neck. Harry looked down at it blankly—it was a butterbeer cork on the end of
a chain.

The butterflies scattered. "What…?" Harry breathed, feeling like he was in a

bit of a daze.

"Nargles," Luna explained. "A whole slew of them, too."

Harry blinked in surprise, his wit swiftly returning. "I—what? Those are
nargles?" His jaw dropped when Luna nodded. "But... Wow! I was way off!"
He watched the exquisite creatures fly away into a rosy, unnatural sky.
"They're beautiful!"
"The most dangerous monsters are," Luna answered wisely. "That's how they
operate. They distract you with their loveliness, and then they take your
things while your brain is mush. Look, see? Your left shoelace in untied. A
moment later and you would have stepped right out of your sneaker, and they
would have taken it."

Harry looked down to see that his left shoelace was, indeed, untied. "Huh.
Well I'll be damned," he muttered, bending over to tie it again.

"Yep. You know, people can say all that they want about power and
knowledge being the most perilous traits in the world, but I think that beauty
is far more dangerous. Power induces fear, which is crucial for escape, and
knowledge can be acquired, ploys outsmarted… But beauty is thought-
annihilating. No one is more vulnerable than when they are caught up in
what is beautiful."

Harry looked at her with a dubious expression. Luna just shook her head and
grinned, causing her own butterbeer corks—of which she had several—to
tangle and jumble together. "We best be going, though. Everyone is waiting
for us."

Harry nodded silently. The white rabbit had gone down into its glowing
rabbit hole, which seemed to be growing in size the closer they got to it. By
the time they approached the entrance, it was wide enough for them to both
step down into it. There were even stairs which had formed, much to Harry's
surprise.

Harry allowed Luna to guide him down the steps towards consciousness. Just
as they were about to descend into the light, he looked up over his shoulder.
The nargles were flying away in a kaleidoscopic flock, towards a brilliant,
hilly landscape covered in a rainbow field of flowers.

"So they're real, then?" Harry asked, utterly amazed. "Nargles?"

Harry spotted the silhouette of Voldemort in the distance. The Dark Lord was
standing in a small patch of empty whiteness, right where they had left him,
uninvited into the beauty of Luna's dream. Maybe it was just Harry's
imagination playing tricks on him from so far away…but it looked like the he
might be laughing.

"Of course, Harry," Luna responded. Harry turned back to face her, the light
of the waking world washing over them both.

"It's all real."

 43. The Angel of Death
Notes for the Chapter:

Hi... So I realize that I have a horrible habit of writing A/N's on

fanfiction and then forgetting to write them here. Oops. I'll try to be
better about that.

Some of you may know this already, but in case you don't, I'm also
writing an original story on FictionPress... It's basically a
dragon!Voldemort captive!Harry story, if you want to think of it that
way, hahaha. I mean. not really, but hey. I think it's fun. You can read it
here, if you're interested:
https://www.fictionpress.com/s/3292638/1/Treasure

Aaaanyway... I hope that this monstrosity of a story, Hauntingly, has

good re-read value, especially now as more and more things from
previous chapters come full circle. Well, as re-readable as it can be,
anyway, considering how freakishly long it is. I just, Idk. Love writing?
...Sigh.

Thank you for reading, as always… XO

"Potter!"

Harry braced himself.

He was not surprised at all to be met with the irate sound of Snape's angry
voice the moment he woke up. Harry got to his feet, releasing Luna's hand
and drawing a breath.

"I—"

"What is this?"

Before he could even get a word in, Snape cut him off, seething. He had
grabbed Hermione by the arm and pushed her forward into Harry's direct line
of sight. She had both hands over her neck, slumping her posture like she was
trying to disappear completely under the mane of her thick, bushy hair.
Everyone else watched nervously from the sidelines.

"Show him!" Snape snapped, shaking Hermione in a none-too-gently fashion.

Looking terrified and blushing as she did, Hermione lowered her hands and
looked up. She closed her eyes and held her breath, and—

Merlin.

Even though the others must have already seen it, they all winced and gasped
at the sight. Or maybe they hadn't seen it properly yet, Harry thought, for
Ron's face turned a sickly shade of green and his eyes widened horrifically.

Around Hermione's neck was a snake.

A tattoo-like emblem, not unlike that of the Dark Mark, only in a far more
perilous location and no skull. The black serpent was slowly undulating in
circles around her neck, just long enough that it could nearly bite its own tail.

But far more distressing was the small addition in the center of her throat.
There was no skull, but there was a small, perfectly rendered hourglass right
where Hermione's Adam's apple would have been if she were a man. It was
counting down, slowly tricking a stream of black sand into the bottom portion
of the glass…

And there wasn't a whole lot of substance in the top half.

"Hermione," Harry gasped, reaching forward as though to embrace her. "I am

so, so, so sorr—"

But when he tried to touch her, Snape pulled Hermione away, fury written all
over his face. "What is this?" he repeated.

"I had to do it," Harry explained quickly, looking guiltily from Snape to
Hermione and back again. "I had to, he absolutely refused to make a Vow
otherwise, and—"

"Give me the contract."

Harry did. Snape snatched the parchment out of his hand and unfurled it with
lightning speed.

His eyes instantly zeroed in on the final section, the last addition which
Voldemort had demanded.

'If Harry James Potter has not crossed the wards and entered into the
property of the agreed upon location of Lord Voldemort's choosing by noon,
August 18th, 1997, then this contract and the Unbreakable Vow which
sanctifies it shall be null and void, and Hermione Jean Granger will die
under the influence of the Morsmordre curse, which shall be implemented
upon the agreement of this magically binding contract. Should Harry James
Potter pass through the wards unharmed before noon on August 18th, 1997,
then this curse shall be lifted, and Hermione Jean Granger's life shall be
protected under all of the previously agreed upon terms within this document.
This particular portion concerning the life of Hermione Jean Granger
cannot, under any circumstances be edited, nor can it be influenced by any
additional clauses. The Morsmordre curse on Hermione Jean Granger will
only be lifted upon the safe arrival of Harry James Potter in the agreed upon
location by the agreed upon time.'

"I had to do it," Harry repeated adamantly, though he felt he may just drown
in his guilt. "Hermione, I am so sorry, but it won't—"

"How could you do this?" Snape snarled, once more preventing Harry from
touching Hermione's shoulder. Hermione's hands had flown to her neck
again, covering up the ominous, coiling serpent and the tattooed hourglass
like she could make them disappear. "You never should have—"

The moment Snape reached for his wand while glaring at Harry, Hermione
started to scream.

She was clutching at her throat in a much more desperate way, keeling over
and screaming in obvious pain. Snape's furious expression instantly fell into
one of concern, and the second he turned away from Harry, the screaming
stopped.

Hermione was gasping for breath as she slowly stood, Snape hovering over
her and looking mortified. Draco, too, was wincing in a sort of pained
understanding—he was grasping his left forearm like he knew that agony
well, and could hardly imagine what it must have felt like on one's throat.

"I didn't know it would do that," Harry said, looking at Hermione

beseechingly. And it was true—Harry had had no idea that the curse would
cause her pain if…

If he, Harry, felt threatened. It initially surprised him, but now that the
thought had fully formed in his mind, Harry realized it hardly shocked him at
all.

The image of Voldemort laughing in the distance, a solitary silhouette

surrounded by white, suddenly seemed to make a lot more sense.

"I didn't know that it would hurt you like that, Hermione," Harry reiterated
vehemently. "I didn't know, it didn't say—"

"What does it say?"

Ron's voice cut across the room like a cold draft. His face was
disconcertingly emotionless. "Harry… Don't tell me it says what I think it
says."

"It says exactly what you think it says," Snape growled, brandishing the
contract over his head. Harry snatched it out of his hand, making Snape snarl
at him in annoyance. "If Potter doesn't cross the wards before noon
tomorrow, then—"

"But I will cross the wards before noon tomorrow!" Harry yelled frantically
as he shoved the contract back into his pocket. "We have no intention
whatsoever of me not going, so—"
"So this was completely unnecessary!" Snape roared. His face was turning
red, and the protruding vein on his neck looked likely to burst.

"That's what I said!" Harry retaliated. "And I outright refused for a long time,
but he wouldn't let it drop! But nothing will happen to her, I would never do
anything that would actually put any of you in danger! I'm going to go
tomorrow, and then that Mark will vanish forever!"

"Why was he so adamant about this, though?" Fred asked, his voice bizarrely
level in comparison to Snape's incensed shouting and Ron's empty, terrified
tone. Ron, who was currently staring at Snape with a dangerously peculiar
expression, like he had never properly looked at the man before. "I mean, the
contract is totally void if you don't go, right? So it's not like you would
considernot going, anyway, not after all that we've gone through…"

"I know that," Harry muttered. "And he did, too. He knows I'm going to
come, regardless. He said he wanted to add it as an insurance policy…"

"…Well, obviously."

Hermione shocked them all by speaking up. She cleared her throat, keeping
one hand over the slithering snake around her neck. "He's just making sure
that we don't try and h-hurt you, Harry. That we d-don't try and change our
minds…"

"Why Hermione?"

Ron's voice had gained a bit more inflection. His eyes flickered to Harry's
again, narrowing slightly. "Why would he pick Hermione?"

There was a very tense moment of absolute silence. Hermione cleared her
throat again, and though it was obvious she was trying to sound academic and
nonplussed, her voice was several octaves too high. "Well, he had to pick one
of us… So I suppose I just get to be the lucky one." She laughed breathily,
forcing a very strained smile.

"I don't think so," Luna said. She looked so irrationally unconcerned, pursing
her lips and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "He was very, very
adamant that it be you specifically. He was absolutely resolute that it be
Hermione Jean Granger."

Harry actually shoved his fist in his mouth, biting his knuckles the entire time
Luna had spoken. Luna certainly had a history of voicing uncomfortable
truths, but this was one which Harry would have gladly thrown his entire
bank account at for her to be able to take it back.

Hermione recovered quickly. "It's p-probably just because I'm a muggle-born,

then," she added, her voice even higher still.

But Harry knew that wasn't it.

He knew exactly why Voldemort had chosen Hermione and would accept no
one else as his unnecessary 'insurance policy'. The thought made him sick to
his stomach, but it was obvious that it had nothing at all to do with Hermione
and everything to do with Snape.

Placing a ticking tomb bomb of a curse on Hermione's neck, promising her

death if anything happened to Harry, was Voldemort's unique way of giving
his traitorous ex-pupil a giant, metaphorical middle finger.

"Bollocks," Ron snapped, and his skin was swiftly changing from green to
red. Harry could tell by the way that his face was screwed up in concentration
that he was finally piecing it together. "You and I were the first people that he
was willing to let go when Harry first started to negotiate with him,
Hermione. You-know-who may not particularly like us, but he hates these
two—" Ron gestured snappishly towards Draco and Snape—"far, far more.
And he hates Snape most of all. If there's one person he is hell-bent on
getting revenge on, its's Snape. And he already has a Mark, so it would have
been much simpler to just use his life as an insurance policy. It's you he
wants to fuck with, sir."

Ron's jaw was completely set. He drew himself to his full height, and Harry
only just then realized that he was actually a hair taller than the Potions
Master. Ron stepped towards Snape and glared at him in a most venomous,
accusatory fashion.

"So why Hermione?"

No one said anything. Snape's eyes had narrowed into black slits, and the
hostility crackling in the air between him and Ron was tangible. Harry's skin
was broken out into goosebumps, waiting for sparks to fly as everyone's
minds raced in the silence.

"…Oh…My…God."

Fred and George's faces were lit up in identical enlightenment. They had
spoken in unison, their heads swiveling back and forth between Hermione
and Snape and gaping.

"Hermione!" Fred gasped, looking numbly horrified.

"…Snape?" George added in utter disbelief.

"I fucking knew it!"

Draco's sudden shout made them all turn. Rather than looking stunned, the
Malfoy Heir was grinning in a wicked sort of way, like this was all incredibly
satisfying to him. He pointed at Hermione when he yelled, quite boldly:

"I knew you were fucking Snape!"

The reactions were instantaneous.

Harry flinched like Draco had just struck him over the head with a beater's
club. Ginny made a sort of shrill, screaming sound. George's brows
disappeared up into his hair while his twin had to grip his shoulder for
support so that he wouldn't fall over. And Luna, sweet Luna, had simply
cocked her head to one side inquisitively, hardly affected at all.

And Ron. Ron's face was just going to cover the entire spectrum of the
rainbow tonight, Harry supposed, because it was now a sort of bluish hue, his
jaw slack and his eyes giant as he looked at Hermione.
Snape had reverted back to what Harry fondly referred to in his mind as
'mannequin-mode', completely still and emotionless. Maybe the accusation
had short-circuited his brain, Harry thought. Perhaps those words had been
the last straw, and Severus Snape was now officially a vegetable.

Hermione, for her part, turned a brilliant pink. "I am not!" she shouted shrilly,
shaking her head as she glared at a gleeful Draco Malfoy. "I a-am n—"

"What the hell is going on?" Ron interrupted. "Hermione, tell me what
happened!"

"N-nothing happened!" Hermione said, blushing furiously but standing her

ground. "Nothing has happened at all! I am not—there is nothing going on
between—"

She stuttered herself into silence. Hermione couldn't voice what Malfoy had
just blatantly shouted, and Ron interpreted her loss of words in the worst
possible way.

"She was your student!" he snarled, his face now bright red again as he turned
to Snape.

"He's Snape!" Fred yelled unnecessarily, looking repulsed as he addressed

Hermione. Hermione was shaking her head, but was far too flustered at this
point to speak.

"I…am oddly into it."

Everyone turned to stare in shock at George, who had his hands on his hips
and was nodding approvingly.

"What!?" Fred shouted in disbelief. And Harry was simply floored, not only
because George was just so blasé about the whole thing, but because he had
never once heard the Weasley twins disagree about anything, ever.

George just shrugged under everyone's flabbergasted stares. "I always said I
was the kinkier one," he said, smirking at Fred. Draco laughed mirthfully.

"There is nothing going on!" Hermione shrieked, drawing everyone's

attention to her. "There has never been—we are not—"

But then she once more stuttered herself into speechlessness. Ron aimed his
fury at Snape again. "That's bullshit!" he roared. "I remember what Bellatrix
said, when we were outside the castle—she said—she said that you had
developed a weakness for her—"

Snape's eyes were so narrow that Harry wondered if he could even see
properly. Ron seemed to be torn between rage, horror, and just plain shock.
"Do you…fancy her?" he gasped. And then, before even waiting for a
response (which Harry was sure he would not have received, anyway, as
Snape was still quite reminiscent of a very uncomfortable, rigid statue),
turned to Hermione and asked, in an even more horrified tone:

"…Do you fancy him?"

Hermione was such a bright red that she was more vibrant even than Ginny's
hair. Her mouth fell open uselessly for a moment, before she finally said, in
an unconvincing, tiny voice:

"…Don't be ridiculous, Ron."

Ron roared in wordless fury. In a motion that was impressively quick, he

whipped out his wand and faced the Potions Master, spite written all over his
face.

This was something which Snape was clearly much more comfortable
responding to. The older wizard had his own wand drawn and pointed
directly back at Ron in a flash. His face was still undecipherable in its
blankness, but his posture was rigid and coiled, prepared to strike.

Everyone else backed away in response. Hermione's hand flew up to cover

her mouth, perturbed.
"You bastard!" Ron bellowed. "I'll—"

Snape fired a disarming spell without a word. Ron ducked just in time, and
the hex hit the wall, making paint chip and splinter.

Oh, hell, Harry thought as Ron shouted, "Stupefy!" and fired a spell of his
own. Snape blocked it with hardly a flick of his wrist.

Unfortunately for all parties involved, Ron's deflected curse went flying near
to where Harry was, colliding with the large couch he and Luna had been
sleeping on and shredding one of the cushions.

"I am feeling very threatened!" Harry shouted as he dodged it, and Hermione
was clutching her throat again, screaming—

A sharp bang made everyone jump.

"What is the meaning of zis?"

Fleur appeared in the doorway, and she was a sight to behold.

The veela woman's eyes darted to where the paint had chipped off the wall to
where Ron's wayward stunner had ripped apart the cushion. She looked to
Snape and Ron, both with the wands drawn, and looked positively
murderous.

"He—"

"Dueling, in my 'ouse!?" Fleur screeched, and her voice sounded suddenly

much less human. Ron withered in an instant at the sound, as did everyone
else. "Zis is 'ow you repay my 'ospitality? Bydestroying my 'ome?"

Bill peered warily into the room, moving slowly and staying several paces
behind his furious wife. Ron opened his mouth to try and explain, but Fleur
was not having it.

"I should toss you both out zis moment!" she snarled, withdrawing her own
wand. "I demand order in my 'ome! Or was that not perfectly obvious?"
Harry very, very slowly shifted so that he was standing next to Hermione. He
wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders and held her to his chest
protectively. When he spoke, it was in a cautious, low voice.

"…I think that everyone should leave this room, except Hermione and I…
and…and we will stay right here until morning."

Everyone exchanged wary looks. Everyone except Ron and Snape, of course,
who were glowering at each other with a cold fury.

But then, without a single word, Snape left. The door nearly flew off its
hinges as he made his exit, and Harry wondered where he was going: the
basement, outside, or perhaps another country altogether now that his safety
was guaranteed in the form of this contract. Harry assumed the former, but
the latter wouldn't have surprised him, either.

"…All of you," Harry reiterated, as everyone shifted uncomfortably in the

silence. Hermione was shaking in his arms, and Harry had never felt guiltier.
"Out."

They all showed signs of wanting to argue, but Fleur was in no mood. "You
'eard him!" she shrieked in a tone that bordered on bird-monster. "To your
rooms, all of you!"

They scattered. The moment they were all gone, Fleur turned her attention to
Harry, and her venomous expression softened.

"There are more blankets and pillows in 'ere, 'Arry," she said, reaching into a
chest and pulling out several thick, fluffy blankets. "Dueling in my 'ome…
The nerve…"

Harry just nodded gratefully as she muttered under her breath and set the
blankets on one end of the couch. Fleur pointed her wand at the shredded
cushion and, quite skillfully, mended it on the spot. She then repaired the
chipped paint, looking bitter as she did.
"S…Sorry…" Hermione said meekly as Fleur finished fixing all the damage
that Ron and Snape had caused. "Sorry about…that…"

Fleur looked surprised that Hermione was apologizing to her. But then she
took in the way Hermione was slouching, covering her neck with her hands
and visibly quivering in Harry's arms.

"Men," she said, leaning forward and smiling wryly. "…are pigs."

And it really was a mad, mad world, because Hermione Granger and Fleur
Delacour shared a genuine smile.

"Except you, 'Arry," Fleur instantly went on, her voice more of its usual,
seductive purr.

Harry grinned. "Right, of course. I knew you only meant every other man
except me. And Bill, I suppose."

"Do not bring me into the conversation," Bill muttered warningly. He had
remained in the doorway the entire time, and yawned loudly when Harry
looked at him. "I'm going back to bed. Unless you two need anything else?"

Harry and Hermione both shook their heads. Fleur gave Harry a quick kiss to
the cheek before, astoundingly, she swooped down and did the same to
Hermione. "If either of you do need something, wake me," she said. They
then left, leaving two shocked teenagers in her wake.

Harry had, naturally, started burning up where Fleur's lips had touched his
cheek. Hermione just looked confused. "Does it really not affect you at all?"
Harry asked quietly, glancing at her. "Fleur's veela-ness? Because you're a
female?"

"Nope. It really doesn't," Hermione answered simply.

Harry shook his head, ridding himself of the strange, fuzzy feeling. He sat on
the edge of the couch, and Hermione perched herself at his side.
"Hermione, I am so, so sorry," Harry said, looking at the serpentine tattoo
around her throat. "You know I would never—"

"Don't," she said, cutting him off. "You don't need to apologize. It's fine. It'll
disappear tomorrow. I would have told you to do it, if I were there. I would
have done the very same thing."

"Still. I am so sorry you have to go through this. I didn't know it would hurt
you, if someone just looked at me the wrong way. That was…low."

"Well. This is the Dark Lord we are talking about, here."

And there was nothing Harry could think of in response to that.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. But Harry couldn't stand
the awkward silence for too long.

"So… That was something, eh?" he said brilliantly, earning a well-deserved

eye-roll from Hermione.

"That was absolutely ridiculous," she scoffed…but her cheeks were turning
pink again.

Harry paused, choosing his next words very carefully. "You know you can
talk to me about anything, Hermione...right? I would never judge you for
anything, you know that. Never."

Her eyes widened as she realized that Harry was saying to her, now, exactly
what she had said to him in the Room of Requirement. It seemed like a
lifetime ago, when Hermione had wandered into the bathroom where Harry
had locked himself away, having secretly…gotten off to horrible fantasies
that he would never acknowledge again…ever.

But Hermione didn't know that Harry had been having any such thoughts. He
smiled encouragingly, knowing that if he, personally, had experienced such
taboo desires, than he could probably handle anyone else's baggage, really.
Hermione blushed brighter. "Nothing has ever happened between Professor
Snape and me, Harry," she said firmly. "Never."

"Okay," Harry said, resisting the urge to sigh in relief. But she was looking
down at her lap, twisting her fingers together, and he knew there was much
more to this story.

"…Do you fancy him?"

The words sounded surprisingly steady for how nauseous they made him feel.
Harry kept his face neutral, though, as Hermione's eyes flickered up to him
for the briefest of seconds.

"I won't judge you if you do," Harry said, shrugging and feigning
indifference. "I'm sure you've been through a lot with him, learning
Legilimency and Occlumency, hunting for horcruxes together and everything
else…"

And he hated how, even as he spoke, he realized the truth of it. There was
nothing more invasive or intimate then having someone prod around in your
mind, and Harry could only imagine how…how well they got to know each
other. Considering that Hermione was a female and substantially more skilled
than Harry in almost every conceivable way, learning Occlumency from
Snape probably wasn't all name-calling and condescending drawls, like it had
been for him.

Hermione was quiet for a long time. "…I don't know," she finally murmured.
"He's very intelligent, and there is much, much more to him that we ever got
to see as students, but…"

She frowned, biting her lip and looking deeply torn. Harry waited patiently.

"But it doesn't matter," she finished, and the somberness in her voice was
undeniable. "Even if I did…fancy him. Even if…if such a thing was
mutual… Which it isn't! Because he doesn't!"

She shouted the last part a bit sharply. Harry raised his brows but didn't
argue.

…Despite the fact that he knew that wasn't right, either.

Just minutes ago, Harry could have been easily convinced that Snape didn't
feel anything other than slight fondness towards Hermione, but he was now
certain that this was not the case. The truth of it was not in the way he acted,
nor in the tiny but noticeable interactions Harry had witnessed between the
two over the weeks…

No, the irrefutable proof that Snape harbored something a bit…more for
Hermione was in the way he had examined the contract after Harry had
woken up.

The Potions Master, who was always so meticulous, so organized and

thorough in all things, had looked right passed the glaring, monumental
addition which Harry had made.

Snape hadn't even noticed the small section which had not been there before,
giving Harry ultimate editing power forevermore. Harry was positive he
hadn't noticed it. Because if he had, surely Snape would have either made
him cross it out, not trusting Harry to one day do something stupid, no doubt,
or…

Or he would have made Harry make additional clauses right then and there.

…Which Harry would have refused to do.

And he couldn't rationalize why he felt so strongly about that, but he did.
Maybe it was just his stupid righteousness, but editing the contract which
essentially ruled Voldemort's life, now, behind his back and away from him,
when he had given his word that he would at least listen to what the Dark
Lord had to say…

It didn't sit right with him. Maybe that was completely ridiculous, all things
considered, but Harry just wouldn't do it.
But Snape's behavior was just completely astounding, because even in the
portion concerning Hermione, there was a reference to Harry's new editing
abilities. But, again, Snape hadn't picked up on it. He was that sort of
emotional, that sort of concerned, panicked and frazzled. Completely
debilitated, blinded to all other thoughts besides 'Hermione could die'.

Which was irrational in and of itself, because Hermione would not die,
because of course Harry was going. But still. The notion had royally fucked
with Snape's concentration, and Harry wondered if the Dark Lord knew just
how effective his underhanded tactic had been.

If there was one thing Harry had learned over the course of the last few
weeks, it was that there was no better parameter for love than just how stupid
it made you.

"…Well…regardless of such…impossibilities," Hermione went on, and

Harry was snapped out of his own thoughts. "I doesn't matter. Severus Snape
will never be happy with anyone, ever again."

"What makes you think that?" Harry asked, though he already knew the
answer. But Hermione had not been there, when Snape conjured up a doe and
Harry had roared the revelation out loud…

"He was in love, years ago." Hermione's eyes darkened, her gaze downcast.
"Once, I accidentally saw this flicker of a memory of his, while we were
practicing, and… Well. He was in love, and she's dead, now. He'll never get
over it. It would be different, I suppose, if she were still alive, even if she was
with someone…else. There's recovery from rejection… But she's not. The
love of his life is gone, dead, murdered, and that's the end of that. He will
never love again."

She gave Harry a very dark and heartbreaking look. "There's no competing
with a ghost," she whispered.

…And Harry could only nod numbly in agreement.

Her words were beautifully, tragically honest. Maybe she knew with certainty
that it had been Harry's mother that Snape had loved, maybe not. And Harry
was certainly not about to be the one to point it out, just in case she didn't.

Either way, she was right.

No, no one could compete with ghost. Harry felt the truth of that in his very
core, in the way his shattered heart ached in his chest at the thought of
fingertips hovering over his own, bringing forth music and making butterflies
flutter in his chest…

Longing for Tom Riddle…and getting Lord Voldemort instead.

…What have you done?

Harry shook his head, willing away the image of a boy with porcelain skin
and a tragic expression, dark eyes burning holes into his soul just before the
sound of steel clashing against silver ended his existence forever.

…No, no one could compete with a ghost.

They were silent for a time. It was suffocating. Harry had to end it, even if it
meant asking another, possibly even more uncomfortable question.

"…What about Ron?"

Hermione's shoulders tensed. "I don't know if you've picked up on it yet, but I
think he likes you," Harry continued, smirking.

She laughed breathily. "And I like him, too. What? Oh, Harry, of course I
do… He's just a sodding moron, sometimes."

"I'd venture to say most of the time, yes," Harry agreed, grinning. "But that's
just a part of his charm."

"I suppose you could put it that way," Hermione said, though she was
smiling, too.

"So…nothing substantial has happened between you two either, then?"

Harry knew he may have been venturing into dangerous territory, but he'd be
lying if he said he wasn't burning with curiosity.

"Not really," she admitted, the smile sliding from her face. "…Last year was
very dramatic and emotional, with you missing. We were all just a bunch of
hormonal disasters. I think I was the worst, to be perfectly honest."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Yes… Well, I don't know. Maybe Malfoy was worse, now that we know
exactly what he was going through. But still. I was a catastrophe. I spent all
of my free time researching ways of locating lost persons, digging through
the Restricted Section for anything, any techniques, Dark Magic or
otherwise… I left the castle some weekends to follow what were really not
leads at all, chasing after where I thought you may have been, even though it
was hopeless from the start… I even forgot to turn in homework, sometimes."

She gave Harry a sly smile. "No," Harry gasped, and he was only being
partially sarcastic.

"Oh, yes. I missed a deadline for a Defense paper. Professor Snape gave me a
detention. First one I've ever had."

Harry couldn't tell if she sounded bitter or wistful when she said it. He didn't
ask.

"Anyway… Usually, Ron would come with me on my little impromptu

Harry-hunting session. But sometimes I wouldn't tell him, because, to be
honest, he would just slow me down. I know that sounds awful, but
occasionally I just…needed to get away from everyone. Everything."

She looked at Harry with a strange expression that he couldn't decipher.

"We… Ron and I… We almost got together, a few times, but… I always
stopped it, because it seemed so irresponsible, to complicate our lives further
with a relationship when everything was just such a mess. It scared me,
honestly. What if we had dated, only to break up a week later? And then how
would we cooperate and work together to find you? I couldn't bear the idea of
having him just to lose him… So we stayed friends."

She paused, frowning suddenly. "You know, I think the whole year was even
more confusing for him, in the end. I knew exactly where I stood and why,
but I think he was really torn up in ways he probably still doesn't understand.
I spent so much time talking about you, worrying about you, losing sleep
over where you may have been… I think he was actually jealous, on some
level. Like he thought that I really did fancy you over him. And that must
have made him feel bloody terrible, being irrationally bitter towards you
when you weren't even around, when you were conceivably in great danger…
So he was probably really resentful towards himself, all the while trying to be
optimistic and strong for me. Because I would cry all the time, and if weren't
for Ron being there, being my pillar, I would have been so much worse. He
let me cry on his shoulder when I wouldn't even kiss him. It must have been
very hard on him, to deal with all of that."

Harry was quiet for a long time as he processed this. Hearing what his friends
had gone through because of his absence, what Ron and Hermione,
personally, had dealt with…

"That… That sounds like an emotional range that far exceeds a teaspoon," he
finally concluded.

Hermione blinked once in surprise before they both broke out into laughter.

It was the kind of laughter that got a bit out of control. Maybe it was just
because tensions were so high at the moment, but there was a sweet, sweet
relief in just laughing, and neither of them were keen for it to stop anytime
soon.

Eventually, though, it came to an end. Hermione rested her head on Harry's

shoulder, and he absent-mindedly put his hand in her hair, sighing.

"What a mess you're in, Hermione," he muttered, and she laughed again.

"You're one to talk."

"Let's not talk about me and my fucked up life, we'll be up all night."

"I meant your love life, specifically," she said leeringly. "It's sort of
fascinating, isn't it? The way circumstances can make you…do things with
people you once considered mortal enemies…"

Harry's muscles stiffened. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, and

his traitorous voice had gone up an octave.

"Oh, please. Like if we hadn't gone into the study just two minutes later, we
wouldn't have walked in on you and Malfoy snogging that night you got
stupidly drunk."

Harry exhaled, albeit his relief was only moderate. "Are you actually
accusing me of almost snogging Malfoy?"

"Are you actually accusing me of being wrong?"

She raised a single eyebrow at him. Harry instantly fished for a distraction.

"Is it just horrible, being so intelligent?" he asked, and she looked surprised
by the question. "To be so smart, all of the time? To always figure everything
out and have to live with the knowledge? It must be so tiring, knowing
everything. I prefer ignorance, myself."

She grinned but shook her head. "That's not going to work. You almost
snogged Malfoy. But that's hardly anything meaningful, you were black-out
drunk. You probably would have had sex with the giant squid if it was in the
room and willing."

"You think I have a chance with the giant squid?" Harry exclaimed, a hand
flying to his chest. "Really and truly?"

"I was just—"

"Is she single?"

"Harry—"
"No, seriously, do you have her number? I am so into that. Or do you think
sending an owl would work? She might eat it, though..."

"Okay, stop—"

"Do you think she would want me to move in with her? Eating Gillyweed all
the time would suck, but I would do it in the name of love—"

"Stop it!" Hermione finally shoved him in the shoulder, laughing as she did.

"Stop what? I'm trying to get laid, Hermione," Harry said, but he was
laughing again, too.

"Well, you probably won't have to try very hard, Malfoy's right upstairs."

She grinned mischievously. Harry stopped laughing at once. "Very funny."

"I think it is," she said. "I think it's adorable, actually, the sort of fuzzy
relationship you two have formed. Going from nemeses to friends. It's the
kind of crazy thing that can only happen in war. That kind of monumental
shift in social dynamics."

Harry shrugged. "I guess," he said, not wanting or willing to overthink it.

"…And that's to say nothing of your tenuous relationship with the Dark
Lord."

Harry's blood ran cold. And here he was, thinking she really hadn't known
anything.

But Hermione always picked up on everything, didn't she?

When Harry didn't say anything, she went on in a cautious voice. "…I'm not
going to even pretend to act for a second like I understand the connection
between you two," she said, her hands already in front of her defensively.
"None of us can possibly know or comprehend what's happened, whether in a
dream or reality or whatever… But one thing is painfully clear, and that's that
heloves you. And it's real love. The patronus proved it."

Harry swallowed thickly, unable to make eye contact with her. "It's not my
fault that he…that he feels like that," he muttered, feeling obscenely
defensive.

"Love is nobody's fault, Harry," Hermione said softly. "No one consciously
decides how they feel about someone else… But God, wouldn't that be nice?"

Her voice brightened near the end, and Harry looked up, confused. "Wouldn't
it? Life would be so much easier if we could just look at each person we meet
and decide, right then and there, like checking off a box above their heads:
'Friend', 'Enemy', 'Lover' 'Acquaintance'… But that's just not how it works. It
feels good to think like that, sometimes. To categorize all of our
relationships, to put them all into neat little lists. But that's just how we
navigate our complicated society as people; categorization is a method our
minds use to make sense of the world… But sometimes friends become
enemies, sometimes we fall in love with the people we simultaneously
despise, for whatever reasons… And you can't just decide, 'okay, loving him
is stupid, so I will not do that.' It justhappens, and it's outside of our control.
It's what makes us human."

Hermione's eyes were wide and shining, staring up somewhere over Harry's
head and reminding him wildly of when the Dark Lord had spoken so
passionately about magic. He looked down to her neck where the snake
continued to coil around her throat, feeling simultaneously guilty and…and
far too many other things.

"…Is it just horrible, being so intelligent?" Harry asked again, but his voice
had lost all of its humor. Hermione's eyes came back into focus, and she
smiled.

"Sometimes," she answered honestly.

Hermione sighed, once more leaning on Harry's shoulder. Harry grabbed one
of the blankets and draped it over both of them. He then pointed his wand at
the light fixture on the ceiling, and the room became dark.
"What a mess we're both in, Hermione," he muttered, shifting and getting
more comfortable.

"I know," she mumbled. She yawned into his chest, evidently deciding that
Harry Potter made a better pillow than the ones that Fleur had provided. "I
can't wait until this is all over…"

"Me either."

Silence fell. Harry's mind was buzzing, far too preoccupied to possibly fall
asleep anytime soon—though he did try. He wanted to at least get some
actual rest before tomorrow…

Tomorrow at noon, when he would finally go to the Dark Lord in person…

Harry was certain that Hermione had already fallen asleep when she spoke,
surprising him.

"You're my best friend, Harry. You know that, right?"

Harry smiled in the darkness, draping one arm over her shoulders and pulling
her closer. "Well, don't tell Ron, but you're my best friend."

She laughed quietly. "I wouldn't dare."

Hermione did fall asleep shortly after that. Harry listened to the steady sound
of her peaceful breathing, staring up at the ceiling and hoping that he would
soon be able to do the same.

Harry's mind and body were both exhausted, but something was keeping him
awake.

From the small crack under the door, he could see…the light in the kitchen
was on.

Someone else was still up.

Harry waited a long time, until he was sure that Hermione was so deeply
asleep that he wouldn't wake her. Then, as slowly and as gently as he could,
he laid her down on the couch and slipped out from underneath her. Harry
pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, and Hermione never woke.

Harry left the living room on his tiptoes. He closed the door softly behind
him before facing whoever it was that was still awake.

He was not at all surprised to see who it was.

"Oh," Ron said quietly as he looked up to Harry. He was sitting at the kitchen
table by himself with an empty mug in front of him, his face pale and
emotionless. "…Hey."

"…Hey."

Harry joined him at the table.

"…Ron, you have to know that I really, really didn't want to let him add that
—"

"I know."

Ron's voice was gravelly, his eyes red. "I know you didn't want to. It's not
your fault… She'll…she'll be fine."

He stared down into his empty mug. "…Heard you guys laughing," he
muttered, clearly trying not to sound bothered and failing monumentally.
"What… What were you talking about?"

"Mostly about what a joke my life is," Harry responded, feeling that was an
honest enough answer.

Ron didn't look thoroughly convinced, but his frown vanished.

Then, surprisingly, he chuckled quietly. It was the saddest laugh that Harry
had ever heard.
"You know," he started, speaking through a terribly forced grin, "I used to
really believe that life would be simple. That we would stay together till the
end, the Golden Trio, defeating the Dark Lord and living happily ever after.
That I would be with her, and…and you would be with…"

He paused, like he was unsure if he should say it, but then shook his head and
carried on. "I thought you would be with Ginny, and we all get married and
have normal lives… I pictured us working together, maybe as aurors, if we
could swing it, and possibly even having kids someday… I really thought
there would be this perfect ending, that everything would end up so neat and
clean and…and that all would be well."

He shook his head and laughed again. "I don't think I've ever felt stupider,
actually believing that things could have been that way. The day you
vanished, the whole world just went to shit. No one lives happily ever after,
not after a bloody war."

"That could all still happen," Harry said adamantly. Ron looked shocked
when Harry didn't instantly agree with his morbid conclusions. "It could…
All of that. We're so close, now. Remember what you said to me, when I first
showed up at Grimmauld Place? We are going to win this war, Ron."

Ron's face hardened, his gaze fixated on the dredges in his cup. After a long
moment in which he didn't say anything, Harry continued with a different
thought.

"…She loves you, you know."

Ron physically jumped. A bit of life sparked in the depths of his previously
empty eyes.

"Did… Did she say that?" he asked, his face already turning red.

It was clear then that Ron was not going to bring up Snape. Harry was
secretly very relieved.

"She didn't have to, but it's kind of obvious," Harry said, smirking. "You just
need to quit being a sodding idiot and just kiss the girl already."

Ron's blush deepened considerably. "J-just what did she tell you?"

"I am sworn to secrecy," Harry replied smoothly. She had technically made
Harry promise no such oath, but it was one of those unspoken
understandings. "In fact, I have already said too much. I'm going to have to
obliviate your mind. Hold still."

Harry reached for his wand, but Ron grabbed his hand and stopped him.
"Don't go waving the Deathstick in my face. You'll try and erase one memory
and end up making me forget my whole life."

"That doesn't sound awful, actually," Harry commented. "Wanna give it a go

on me? I'd like to forget quite a lot. No, wait, you have an awful history
where memory charms are concerned. Your wand will end up exploding in
your face and you'll be puking slugs for weeks."

Ron scowled, but looked amused despite himself. "You have no idea how
much that sucked," he muttered.

"No, I don't. It was bad enough waking up to the sound of you hacking up
slugs in the middle of the night. I can't imagine the actual experience."

"Yeah…" Ron sighed. "Well, at least that shitty, broken wand was good for
something. It saved us from Lockhart, so that was nice."

"One of your finest moments," Harry agreed. "And it wasn't even planned."

"Just like all of my fine moments."

Ron grinned cheekily. Harry laughed, because in every instance where Ron
had said or done something inexplicably amazing, Harry was fairly certain
that this was accurate.

"The same is true for me, actually," Harry said. "I mean, it wasn't like I
planned on being bloody and shirtless on top of the Gryffindor hourglass
during a battle in the Great Hall when I disarmed the Dark Lord. It just sort
of…happened."

"Oh, sure," Ron said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up. "Just like
you didn't put your name in the Goblet of Fire."

"Oh, sod off," Harry muttered, but he couldn't help but laugh when Ron did.

"…We're been through some pretty crazy shit, haven't we?" Ron said once
they stopped laughing. They were doing their best to keep their voices low,
lest the wake anyone else up, but it was proving difficult.

"Yeah… We really have." Harry grinned. They were quiet for a long time
after that, each reminiscing about the aforementioned 'crazy shit' they'd gone
through.

Harry glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning. "I really should try
and get some sleep before… Well. You know."

"Yeah. You probably should." Ron examined Harry's face in a blatant

fashion. "…You look like shit, mate."

"Thank you, Ron," Harry said cheerfully.

But he knew it was probably true. Dream negotiations made for poor beauty
sleep, and last night he had hardly slept at all.

"Hey. I'm just telling you like it is. That's what friends are for."

"Well, in that case, then, you also look like shit."

"And I thank you for your honesty," Ron instantly replied, inclining his head
in mock respect.

And that was accurate, too. Ron's skin was ashen, his eyes red and puffy…
but Harry knew better than to ask.

"Want to try and get some shuteye, then?" Harry said, motioning towards the
stairs.

"Nah…" Ron's gaze fell down to his empty mug again, suddenly much more
somber. "I kind of just want to sit here and… I dunno, question my entire
existence."

Harry nodded knowingly. "You could go out onto the beach and stare
vacantly into the ocean," he suggested. "It's all the rage, these days."

Ron snorted. "Thanks. But I think I'll stay in. Not a fan of the sand and all
that."

Harry shrugged. "Suit yourself… Want me to stay?"

"No... I'd rather be alone."

"…Okay."

Harry stood, quietly pushing his chair in. "See you in the morning, then."

He had just turned away when Ron also stood, grabbing him by the arm.

He didn't say anything. Just pulled Harry into a rib-crushing hug that
completely caught him off guard.

Harry hardly had a moment to reciprocate before he pulled away. "You're my

best friend. You know that, right?"

Harry almost laughed. "…And you're my best friend. But don't tell Hermione
that."

"I wouldn't dare."

Harry did laugh, then.

Ron stepped away and sat back down, falling almost seamlessly into his
previous practice of trying to find the answer to all of life's questions at the
bottom of his tea cup.
Harry wondered if he actually saw anything in the dredges, but he didn't ask.

Their bedroom was filled with the sounds of soft snoring and deep breathing.

Fred and George were, once again, sleeping very close to each other. The
heads were touching, making their hair stick up at a funny angle. Harry
wondered if they always slept like that, or if it was just because there wasn't a
lot of space in this cramped, spare bedroom.

Draco was sleeping as he usually did, curled into a ball on one side and
facing the wall. Harry crept passed him as quietly as he could to his own bed.

He laid down and got under the covers. Harry was just staring out the
window, examining the starry night sky and feeling victorious at having not
woken Draco, when—

"Get sick of the couch, then?"

Well, he had tried.

Harry rolled to his side to see Draco looking back at him, his eyes like bits of
silver shining in the soft glow from the crescent moon which filtered in
through the window.

"Something like that," Harry whispered back. "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake
you up."

"I was already up. I heard you and Weasel talking downstairs."

"Did you really?" Harry asked. "Sorry. Thought we were quiet enough." He
looked over at Fred and George, both of whom were snoring.

"Oh, don't worry about them. I'm pretty I could cast an explosion hex and
those two would sleep right through it."

As if in response, George—or maybe it was Fred—let out an exceptionally

loud snore. Harry grinned.
"Probably," Harry said. When he looked back at Draco, it was to see that he
was frowning, staring at Harry with a pointed look on his face.

"…You look like shit," he said.

Well, it was just one of those nights where everyone was stealing each other's
words and kind thoughts, wasn't it? "Thank you, Draco," Harry said, smiling
thinly.

"Too bad we don't have any Dreamless Draught… That would come in
handy, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Harry agreed. And then he furrowed his brows as he realized, with a
rush of annoyance, "…You know, a Dreamless Draught could have saved me
a lot fucking trouble when this whole mess started. Back at Grimmauld
Place."

Surprisingly, at that, Draco looked guilty. "Uh… Yeah," he said, shifting

uncomfortably. "Well. We did have a stock of some before you arrived….
But. Um. I sort of drank it all."

"What!?"

"Shh!"

One of the twins grunted and rolled over, but didn't wake.

"…What?" Harry repeated, much more quietly.

"Well it wasn't like I knew you'd be showing up anytime soon!" Draco hissed
back in a heated whisper. "Besides, it probably wouldn't have worked for
you, anyway. I doubt a stupid Dreamless Draught would stop someone with a
soul connection from…from bothering you, or whatever."

Harry's eye narrowed, even though he knew that was probably true. "…I am
still upset," he muttered, stubborn. Draco smirked.

"You're just cranky. Go to sleep."

"I am so cranky," Harry mumbled in agreement. He just caught the way
Draco looked surprised that he hadn't argued with him before he rolled onto
his back, focusing his attention on the open window again.

He smiled at the stars and the slight sliver of a moon. It reminded him vividly
of the night when he had wandered into Draco's required Divination
classroom, where they had laid on the grass and said:

The mother fucking sky.

Harry's mind wandered from there. His thoughts drifted lazily from the stars
in the sky to the static-ridden clouds of the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling, to
flying over London with Draco Malfoy taking the lead…

"…You kept ahold of my Firebolt," Harry suddenly murmured as he recalled

that day.

Draco, naturally, was still awake. Harry glanced at him, and the blonde was
smiling devilishly. "I'd have sooner left Weasley," he said.

Harry chuckled softly. He was certain that a Firebolt would be the very first
purchase that Draco made once they got out of this mess. If Snape didn't take
all of his inheritance, at least.

It had been the single most freeing moment of his life, taking off on a broom
from Grimmauld Place's doorstep, soaring into the air and…

The image of St. Paul's cathedral, reduced to nothing but ruins and ashes,
burned itself into Harry's mind. He stomach twisted uncomfortably.

'…I will light a pyre in your name…'

Frowning, Harry thought of something that he had never bothered to dwell on

before. And even as the question came to him, he wondered why it had never
bothered him, why he had never been curious enough to ask.

"What do witches and wizards think happens when we die?"

Draco's brows rose in surprise by the unexpected and very profound question.
"Is there some kind of magical religion?" Harry went on. "I'm assuming not,
as I've never heard of one… But is there?"

Draco was quiet for a moment before he answered. "No, there's not magical
sort of religion… That's really more of a muggle practice. Maybe some
witches and wizards who are muggle-born or whatever do, but generally
speaking, no."

"So... So what do they think happens, then? When we die?"

Draco shrugged. "You just die."

"…And that's it?"

"Yep." Draco's voice was a low, humorless drawl. "You just die. Poof. Gone.
The end. You just cease to be."

"Is that what you believe?" Harry asked, dubious at his assured morbidity.

"Yep."

"…Huh." Harry scratched the back of his head, mind reeling. How…
depressing, to think that there was really just nothing afterwards. It was no
wonder dark lords were born, wreaking havoc and hell-bent on finding the
answer to eternal life, if that was what they were led to believe.

Of course, that could be true… Harry, personally, did not have any firm
beliefs whatsoever about what happened after one died, but…

But he had experienced too many miracle-like encounters to believe that

there was nothing. The ghosts of Voldemort's victims, for one, prowling
around the outskirts of that fateful duel in the graveyard… His mother,
appearing before him in his time of need…

"Well. I don't think that's true," he muttered. "I think there has to be
something more than this world. I don't know what, but…something. I don't
think we just cease to be."

Draco scoffed. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"And does believing that we just die and that's it help you sleep at night?"
Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Obviously not," Draco sneered. "Light sleeper, remember?"

"Not last night," Harry pointed out. "You slept like a rock. You were snoring
and everything. You looked like one of them."

Harry pointed towards the Weasley twins. One of them was drooling onto the
other's chest.

Draco's eyes narrowed distastefully. "Did I…?"

"Yeah. It was kind of incredible."

Malfoy furrowed his brows, looking deeply contemplative. Harry wondered

if he was trying to recall whatever it was he had been dreaming about again,
when he'd slept so soundly.

"You know… Maybe there is more than just…nothingness, after we die," he

said in soft but meaningful voice. "Maybe there is something…else."

Harry was surprised by this sudden shift in belief. Just moments ago, Draco
had sounded so depressingly certain that it was just poof, gone, the end.

"…Yeah." Harry said quietly. "Maybe."

Neither of them said anything else after that. Harry turned his attention back
to the sky, gazing out the window where the crescent moon smiled back at
him, wondering if death really was just a sea of darkness, in the end, or if
there was something more.

The sky was beautiful, tonight.

The old man gathered the torn and tattered sheet around him, looking out
through the bars of the one, small window. Even with his deteriorated vision,
he could see that the stars were brilliant, shining brightly alongside the slip
of a moon which radiated a soft, ethereal silver. He sighed.

Even that hurt.

Pain, in his lungs and in his throat. Pain, in his bones and in his tired
muscles. Pain, in his heart.

…Death would come for him soon.

The prisoner knew it in his very soul. His time was near, and he fought it with
every ragged, agonizing breath.

He did not want to die.

…He was afraid.

For what if there truly was nothing, in the end? What if he ceased to be, what
if there was nothing but a sea of endless darkness waiting on the other side?

…He would deserve that, if it were the case. An eternity of hopeless despair.
Of nothing.

He had done such terrible, terrible things…

But still, he clung to life with every fiber of his being.

How desperately he had searched for the answer to immortality. And how
close he had been, too… He would have done it, if only…

…No.

There was no use in dwelling on such 'what-could-have-been's'… Because it

did not matter. He was here, now, in this construction of his own prowess.
What was once his pride and glory was now his confinement, and he would
die here, alone and afraid…
A spark.

The old man gasped, turning to face what was an inconceivable sight. Fire,
like a burning pyre, right in his very cell. It roared up from the stone floor in
an impossible way, bright and warm.

He backed away, his muscles screaming in excruciating protest when he

moved too suddenly and fell to the ground. He rubbed his weary, ancient
eyes. Was he hallucinating? Had his mind finally deserted him completely?

For the fire vanished, and in its place was a man.

But…no.

This person had skin that shone with the same brilliance of the stars. His eyes
were glowing a vivid, deeply saturated red, like rubies in the sunlight, like
roaring flames.

And then…

The prisoner gaped, bewildered, as he found himself shrouded in an

impossible shadow. Darkness that appeared to be exuding from this entity, on
either side of him…

As though he had wings…

But when he looked back up to this unimaginable presence, there were no

such appendages there…

This person…was not human.

"Death is not an ending..."

His voice was low and smooth. Calm.

Peaceful.

The entity moved with a slow but cautious grace. He kneeled at the prisoner's
side, eyes illuminated in a strangely gentle way. The old man had never
known red, the color of blood, the color of rage, to look so innocent and kind.

"…only another beginning."

The old man's lips parted in disbelief. He reached for the entity with
trembling hands, taking in his skin, his eyes, his invisible wings which
nonetheless cast shadows over his old, broken body…

"Is…Is that what you are?" he breathed. When the prisoner touched his face,
the glowing skin was unnaturally warm and soft.

"Are you… Are you the Angel of Death?"

A smile. So beautiful.

"…Yes."

The old man stared in awe for a moment before he laughed. It hurt his lungs
to do so, it hurt his face to grin, but it was unstoppable. Yet his laughter soon
turned into painful, horrible coughs. The Angel of Death wrapped his arms
around him, holding him steady and enveloping him in warmth.

"I guess… I guess he was right, then," the old man said when he could finally
speak again. "Albus… Oh, Albus. He was right…"

The prisoner chuckled softly at that, relaxing into comforting, warm arms.
When he looked up into the miracle's face again, it was to see that he, too,
was smiling in a knowing way.

Like Death… Like Death agreed with him…

The old man felt a relief that he had never known before. His fear of Death
slipped away, eclipsed by this reassuring warmth, by mesmerizing, crimson
eyes.

"Rest, child."
The old man died with a smile on his lips, free from pain, cradled in the
embrace of the Angel of Death.
 44. Lilies
Notes for the Chapter:

So in case you were not aware, Morganiana and Sonarus have made
some KILLER fan art for this story. And Sonarus even made a trailer.
It's awesome. Links are on my profile page. :)

His soul.

The diary.

The locket.

The cup.

The diadem.

…Nagini, he had already laid to rest.

The ring, lost to him…but he knew it was gone.

Lord Voldemort held the remaining hollow vessels in his hand, all broken
beyond magical repair. Black substance like liquid obsidian coated each one
of them, like they had shed tears of darkness in their final moments…

…What had they felt?

Had his diary, devouring the secrets of a young girl's heart, who had drank
in her soul in order to pour himself back into her own, felt anything other
than the insatiable desire to survive?

Had the diadem and the cup, both sequestered for such extreme periods of
time, been aware of their eternal loneliness? Had they been cognizant of their
isolation, had they suffered in their solitude?

Had the locket felt anything for its fellow, human horcrux? Had it known?

Had that shade of Tom Riddle…loved him?

'Love…is Surrender.'

…Had any of it been real?

The dream. The nightmare. It had all been so vividly clear upon awakening,
so viciously vibrant… But the more time passed, the more the Dark Lord
tried to recall, the more warped and skewed the details became…

Had he somehow, impossibly, gone through a near death experience in his

sleep? For it felt as though his entire life had flashed before his eyes…
Exactly as it was, exactly as it truly had been, only…

It was as if he had lived the first time in a world of black and white and
shades of gray; but in his dream, in his inconceivable nightmare, he had
witnessed it all, for the first time, in color…

Lord Voldemort had lived a wretched life…but he had also been born a
wretched soul.

His memories, his past… And there was so much more to the nightmare, he
recalled fragments of music and laughter, of screaming and horrible,
horrible pain…

Of vicious, green, green eyes…

But it was mottled, and only became more obscured the harder he tried to
bring such specifics back into focus.

Though it hardly mattered. Wisdom was not in the details, but in the broader,
overarching experience and its lasting repercussions. And not all of it was
lost. For Voldemort could hear his voice even now. The former Headmaster's
words, spoken with conviction:

'Love…is Surrender.'

...And the knowledge, terrifying and difficult though it may be…of what he
now knew he must do.

Knowledge he would have never otherwise acquired, were it not for the
assistance, however ethereal…of Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore, who had always preached of love and who he had always
scorned…who he, Lord Voldemort, had dueled many times and never lost
against, yet had never truly won, either…who had once believed in 'the
Greater Good'…but not over his belief in love.

'…Should you happen to find yourself there…Tell him I was right. Death is
not an ending, only another beginning.'

It seemed a small form of repayment for such invaluable revelations.

Gellert Gindelwald was a man afraid of Death, living in agony fueled by

nothing but fear. He was dying, he had been dying for a very long time…

He had been waiting for peace, and Lord Voldemort had provided.

The Dark Lord knew one act of kindness did not undo a lifetime of cruelty…
but he did not intend to die himself.

There would be time for reconciliation. There would be time for healing.

There would be time.

…

The Dark Lord placed the dead and empty vessels of his lost soul on the
forest floor…holding for a moment longer the locket.

The locket, which had been created by his ancient and most noble ancestor.
The locket, which had belonged to his own mother…

The locket, which had hung from the neck of his beautiful tragedy, his fragile
phantom…

…Lord Voldemort placed it in the grass alongside its broken brethren. The
truth was that he did not know the truth. He would never know whether or not
the fragments of his broken soul had ever been capable of love…

But he knew that his cherished miracle had fallen. The treasured heart of his
heart had loved Tom Riddle…

Perhaps, then, perhaps…there was hope…

Fire.

Burning energy which pulsed in his veins and thrummed along his skin… He
brought it forth, willing it to consume the corpses of paper and sapphire, of
gold and silver…

Would they find rest in the immortal fire of a phoenix's flames?

Could such entities be saved from the eternal sea of nothingness which was
the supposed, inevitable result of such unforgiveable, dark magic? Could
they find…peace?

The truth was that he did not know the truth.

The Dark Lord watched as the flames consumed what was left of his past. A
final pyre to forever leave behind who he used to be, so that he could look
forward to something…more.

He watched the smoke as is rose into the sky; a coiling trail of shimmering
gray, a smoldering serpent. It floated and dispersed into the heavens just as
the last stars began to fade under the influence of the blush in the east. The
light of the rising sun…of a new dawn.

He waited.

Harry was tempted to just stay in the shower forever.

Sleep, unsurprisingly, had not come easily to him last night. Harry had rested
for maybe all of an hour before he was being shaken awake, his heart racing
and gasping for breath. Draco had been the one to wake him up, thinking,
with great warrant, that something awful was happening.

But it was just a regular nightmare, and Harry couldn't even recall what it had
been about.

He hadn't slept again after that.

Instead, Harry had decided to spend an exuberant amount of time in the

blessedly vacant bathroom.

Living in such a small home with so many people had meant not being able
to indulge in his gloriously long showers as he had done at Grimmauld Place.
So, since everyone else was either asleep or staring vacantly at ceilings,
empty tea cups, or whatever else… Harry decided he deserved at least one
more.

Why was it that the water never seemed quite warm enough? No matter how
scalding he made it, the chill in his bones refused to completely go away.
Being freed so suddenly into the frigid air of Antarctica must have
permanently ruined him. Just one more fucked up quality he had to thank the
Dark Lord for…

Harry waited until he was sure he heard other people up and about before he
finally forced himself to get out. Staring at his own reflection in the mirror
after he'd wiped the condensation away was a brutal sight.

He really did look like shit.

Harry's face was a bit reminiscent of how Snape had looked after his duel
with Bellatrix. Maybe a bit less battered, but there were heavy bags under his
eyes in alarming shades of deep purple. Unsurprising, considering how little
he had slept and how stressed he was, but still.

As he was getting dressed, Harry briefly considered asking Hermione how to

perform a glamour in order to conceal just how…bad he looked. In his
dreams, at least, he knew he had appeared confident, well and healthy.
Because he had not wanted the Dark Lord to see him as sickly or weak, he
didn't seem that way.

But in reality…

Well, what does it matter? Harry quickly concluded. Even if he did manage
to learn to make himself appear less worn, the Dark Lord would probably be
able to pick up on such enchantments…and that would just make everything
worse, wouldn't it? Might as well let Voldemort see just how damaged he
was up front.

Sighing heavily and tugging a hand through his damp, messy locks, Harry
went to face the day.

Walking into the kitchen felt like walking into a wake.

Everyone was already up, seated around the kitchen table or leaning against
the counter, speaking in low voices like they were afraid they may disturb
someone. When Harry entered they fell silent, looking up with forced smiles.

Harry tried to smile back, but found he didn't even have the energy for that.
He checked the time. It was ten past ten.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked. Harry's eyes fell on the snake tattoo
around her neck, writhing a bit faster than it had last night. The hourglass was
still counting down… "I was so panicked when I woke up, and you were
gone…"

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Harry murmured, pulling her into a hug. "I just
couldn't sleep."

He waited until she stepped away. Harry scanned the faces of everyone
gathered before he said, quite evenly, "I should go."

"It's way too early," Draco argued at once, looking at the clock and frowning.
"You still have almost two—"

"I want to go early," Harry interrupted, voice firm. "I want to spend some…
time."

Draco shook his head, but was unable to come up with something else to say.

"So…" Harry looked around at those who were old enough—and capable—
of apparating with a side-along. Bill and Fleur must have already left that
morning, but he still had options. "Who wants the honor of escorting me
there?"

"I can take you," Hermione said first, squeezing his hand. "I—"

"No."

As it transpired, the Potions Master had not left the building.

Snape appeared in his usual, absolutely silent manner, possibly having been
hovering undetectably in the doorway the entire time. "I will take you," he
said, addressing Harry alone. Harry stared at him with raised brows, honestly
surprised.

Hermione looked like he had just backhanded her. "But I just—"

"As of this very moment, every single person in this room's life is under
protection…with the exception of yours, Miss Granger." Snape's eyes barely
flickered to Hermione's when he spoke. A second later and his attention was
fixed solely on Harry. "I will take you."

Harry, recognizing that hardened tone of absolute resolution, decided it

wasn't worth the effort to argue. "Okay," he said simply, and gently pushed
Hermione away. "Then let's go. Now."

Hermione looked very much like she wanted to fight, she appeared so angry,
but Harry gave her a stern look. "I want him to take me. I want you and
everyone else to say here… Please, Hermione."

And that was all it took. Hermione's fury instantly crumbled into a sob, and
she pulled him into another hug, nodding into his chest.

She hadn't even let go yet before Ron had joined them, wrapping his arms
around both of them. It was just like when Harry had first walked into the
kitchen at Grimmauld Place, when the Golden Trio had finally been
reunited…

"Okay… Okay…" Harry mumbled, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

"It's going to fine, I know exactly what to do… I'm not going off to an bloody
battle or something."

Which was true. Hopefully.

Ron let out a short laugh that sounded more like he was choking. Hermione
hid her face in her hands, probably hiding tears that she knew Harry didn't
need to see right now.

"You really don't need to go yet," Draco tried again. "You don't—"

"I do." Harry gave him a pointed look. "I do and I am."

Draco glared for a moment, but then relented. "…Okay, fine…just…don't

screw it up."

"Me?" Harry gasped, pretending to be offended. "Never."

Draco scoffed before he, too, let Harry pull him into a quick embrace. He
grinned afterwards, and though it was forced and pained, it was genuine.

The twins, at least, seemed capable of returning his attempts at nonchalance.

They both patted him on the shoulder in a brotherly sort of way, though not
even they cracked a joke this morning.

Luna, too, was smiling at him. "Good luck," she said quietly as she gave him
a hug.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled back, knowing his gratitude towards the girl could
never be expressed by such a simple word.

…And then there was Ginny.

She was leaning against the counter, twirling a stand of hair around one
finger in nervousness. When Harry caught her eye she stopped, and her
expression quickly turned from anxious to valiant. She stepped closer to him,
and Harry could have sworn that everyone else in the room shifted back a bit,
and had even averted their eyes.

"I believe in you," she whispered, grabbing his hands. And there it was again,
that sort of flustered feeling when she touched his fingers… Ginny blushed as
she peered up at him through her lashes. "There will be time, right? Time…
for us?"

It was such a vague question and yet not vague at all. Harry swallowed
thickly, nodding. "Yeah," he responded softly.

"…There will be time."

And then her lips were pressed against his, only it was so very different from
what their last kiss had been. It was soft and fleeting, it was innocent. It was
both a promise and a goodbye.

"Let's go."
Snape's voice sucked all of the warmth out of the room in an instant. He
pulled out his acquired wand, his sallow face betraying no emotion
whatsoever. Harry nodded and released Ginny's hands before he made his
way over to him.

"I'll see you all soon," he said in what he thought was an admirably
convincing tone of assurance. Snape had already left the room and headed
outside. Harry, feeling he could no longer handle the overwhelming emotion
emanating from all of his friends, followed his former professor out and
didn't look back.

Harry walked a few paces behind him until they were outside of the wards.
Once there, Snape waited, his face unreadable and his wand drawn.

He looked at Harry with a flat expression. "…You are aware that my anger
last night was not actually directed towards you, correct?"

Harry tried to match the indifference in his voice. "I am aware of a number of
things, sir," he responded. Snape's eye twitched at the insinuation being
made, but, predictably, he didn't comment on it.

"You have the wand and the contract?" Snape asked instead. Harry nodded.
"Good. Stay still. I'm going to make sure that everything is still stable."

Snape lifted his wand, brandishing it over Harry's head and muttering under
his breath. Harry closed his eyes as the familiar sensation of Snape's magic
crawled across his skin, still present, still active. Just as it had been last night
when it was initially cast.

"Good," Snape concluded after a moment. "Remember… It will only work if

you don't want it."

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Because of course he remembered,
they had gone over it a thousand times already… But it did, admittedly, make
him feel a bit better. Like he had just a bit more power.

"I know," Harry responded dutifully. "So let's go."

Snape nodded and grabbed his wrist. With a soft pop, the two wizards
vanished.

Snape apparated them to the center of the grounds. Harry was glad he hadn't
eaten that morning, not that anyone had even thought to offer anything.
Apparating was as horrible a sensation as ever, and it made him feel instantly
nauseous when his feet hit the ground.

The graveyard was blessedly empty. Or maybe not blessedly, maybe

purposefully. Perhaps the Dark Lord had made sure that no one would come
visit their departed loved ones today, knowing that Harry Potter would be
present.

Harry looked up into the steel gray of the cloudy sky. It was surprisingly
chilly, considering that it was August. In the distance, thunder rumbled, soft
and low. It wasn't raining at the moment, but there was certainly a storm
coming. Harry could feel it in the air.

Figures, Harry thought, as he looked out to the many aisles of headstones.

Fitting, that it would be so bleak and dismal today.

But Harry didn't care if it poured buckets while he was here. He had promised
that he would be back.

"I used to come here all the time."

Harry turned to see that Snape had already walked several feet away from
him. He was staring up a statue that Harry had not noticed the last time that
he had been here, at Godric's Hollow. It was a sculpture of…of…

Harry gaped, staring up into the carved faces of his parents.

His mother and father, forever immortalized in stone…and he, Harry, as an

infant…

They looked so real. They looked so happy.

Snape's eyes were fixed on the smiling face of Lily. Harry had never seen the
man look more tragically lost.

"…Did you?" Harry asked. Snape nodded, tearing his gaze from the statue
like it was both the most difficult and yet the only thing he could do.

"Yes." Snape began walking away from the statue. Harry fell into step at his
side. "Quite frequently. Until you started at Hogwarts, I used to come here
every week. Once, I even attended a muggle service at the chapel over there,
because I thought it may make me feel…something. It didn't."

Harry was speechless for a moment, unable to picture someone like Snape
going to church. "Why… Why did you stop when I started at Hogwarts?" he
asked, perplexed.

"Because I realized then that my time was better spent on the living."

Snape didn't look at him when he said it. Harry decided not to pursue the
subject further.

They walked in silence to where Harry knew his parents' graves to be. It
seemed to take hours to cross the graveyard, though Harry knew it couldn't
have taken more than a few minutes. His eyes scanned the headstones as they
went, his heart jolting when he recognized certain surnames. Dumbledore's
made him pause. Except not the Dumbledore he knew, but it must have been
his mother…and his sister… And there, written underneath it, a quote which
made Harry's throat tighten:

'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'

Harry looked away, feeling hollow, eyes darting to the next headstone as he
forced himself to keep walking, and the next, and the next…

And then—

Cedric Diggory?
Harry had never known that Cedric, too, was buried here… He hadn't gone to
his funeral, so he couldn't have known…

But how had he and Draco missed it before? It was even near to where they
had stolen that wand… And Harry hadn't even noticed, then, he had missed it
entirely…

Harry's heart felt empty and cold.

They kept walking.

When they finally arrived at the graves of James and Lily Potter, Snape's face
was a stark white. For a long time, they said nothing. They just looked down
at the final resting place of two people who should have still been with them,
who had sacrificed everything…

'The last enemy to be destroyed is Death.'

…Was that still his destiny? Harry wondered with a sense of numb
detachment, thinking of Ron's words with none of his initial excitement from
when he had first heard them.

Maybe.

It didn't matter.

"…They would be so proud of you."

Snape's voice was quiet, but the words were so unexpected that Harry almost
jumped.

He tried to think of something to say to that, but could think of nothing. He

just stared at Snape wordlessly, perplexed and unsure of how to respond.

But the Potions Master seemed to understand what Harry was feeling, even if
he, personally, didn't. Snape lifted his wand then, and in a fluid, purposeful
motion…he began to conjure flowers.
Lilies.

White and pristine, just like the flowers that had adorned his mother's hair
when she had appeared before them as an angel and a vision. He formed them
into a wreath, a circle of beautiful, vibrant lilies.

Harry just watched in fascination as, without hesitating, Snape lowered the
wreath. He positioned it so that it was resting between the two headstones,
adorning not just one, but both of them.

"They would be so proud."

Harry quickly rubbed his face, refusing to cry.

"…Thank you."

Snape looked up at him with his pale face still strictly blank. "I will stay until
—"

"No," Harry sharply interrupted. "No, I want…I want to be alone, for a bit. I
want to be alone, with…"

His voice trailed off feebly, not trusting himself to voice the rest of the words
without his emotion betraying him. Snape was quiet for a moment before he
finally nodded.

They both knew that Harry was in no danger, here, after all.

"…Remember everything, Potter," Snape said—no, commanded. Harry

blinked in surprise at the sudden rigidity. "Promise me that you will not
forget what he has done. No matter what he says. No matter what he does.
Remember all that we have lost, because of him."

His gaze fell to the ring of lilies. Harry nodded. "I will," he vowed. "Of
course I will."

Snape stared into Harry's eyes for a long moment, like he was searching for
something there. "And Potter… Harry…"
His composed mask finally cracked, and the older man looked suddenly so
desperate, so deeply torn.

"Be brave."

Harry smiled and laughed, causing Snape to look completely baffled. "Of
course, Severus," Harry said, and he actually felt as cheerful as he sounded.

"Always."

Snape's look of confusion slid into one of such uncharacteristic shock that
Harry just laughed again. It was almost as if, with a single word, Harry had
said the most profound thing that Severus Snape had ever heard.

And then Snape did something even crazier than calling him by his first
name. He grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him into an embrace that was
even tighter than Hermione's had been.

Though it was much, much shorter. Snape retracted almost before Harry
could even reciprocate. "You know how to reach us if needed," he said, and
though his face was once more calm and collected, his voice was full of
emotion.

Harry's grin never faltered. "Expecto patronum," he answered brightly,

patting his chest where the Elder Wand rested in his pocket, alongside the
contract.

Snape looked on the verge of coming undone. Before that could happen, he
just nodded one last time. And then, like he couldn't stand to be in Harry's
presence a moment longer, Snape disapparated…leaving Harry alone in the
graveyard.

For long time, he simply stood there.

James Potter

27 March 1960 – 31 October 1981

Lily Potter

30 January 1960 – 31 October 1981

…Harry wouldn't forget.

Eventually, though, he knew he would need to leave them. Not only because
he was going to face the monster, but because the specific meeting place was
not here.

It was at his home. Or what would have been his home, at least. Was, he
supposed, for a year he didn't even remember.

Taking one last look at the circle of lilies and committing them to memory,
Harry walked.

He walked through the aisles of headstones with his head held high. Thunder
rumbled again, a bit louder than before. He thought he felt a raindrop on his
head as he went, but it might have just been because his hair was still damp.
Just one more stupid decision he had made on this most monumental of days
—leaving the house with his hair still wet when it was unseasonably cold out.
He supposed he could dry it with a heating charm, but again, he just felt too
lethargic, too weak.

It was a good thing he didn't need to be strong or sharp-witted to finish this.

Not that Snape would ever have devised any sort of plan that would rely on
Harry's cunning, anyway.

Yes, it was definitely beginning to rain. Harry had just made it to where he
knew his old home was when it started to really come down.

And how miraculous it was, when the building came into sight.

A moment before he hadn't been able to see it, as it was hidden with
enchantments that would make it invisible to muggles. But then it came into
view; a beautiful, broken home. A cottage, covered in ivy and surrounded by
waist-high, overgrown grass, and…

The roof was shattered. Harry's heart froze at the realization that—

It happened there.

Swallowing back the bile which threatened to crawl up his throat, Harry
placed his hand on the gate surrounding the property to push it open. He
nearly jumped out of his skin in shock when, the moment he placed his hands
upon the rusted metal, a sign sprung out of the ground. It rose up through the
nettles and wild grass like a bizarre, rapidly-growing flower, bearing words in
golden letters which read:

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,

Lily and James Potter lost their lives.

Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing
Curse.

This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a
monument to the Potters

and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

And all around these neatly printed words were scribbles and scrawls, hand-
written words from witches and wizards who had come to visit the place
where the Boy Who Lived had escaped. Some were just names or initials
written in ever-lasting ink, but others, more recent and covering the older,
faded signatures, were messages.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are.

We're behind you, Harry!

My entire family sent Umbridge Howlers (and I'm awaiting my kiss! God
Bless the M.D.W.)!
Long Live Harry Potter!

Harry was beaming, chuckling to himself at the mention of the M.D.W. and
Umbridge recieving a Howler. Brilliant, he thought, absolutely brilliant.

Upon reading those words, Harry felt a bit less afraid.

He entered the house.

It was definitely dilapidated, probably even dangerous, but Harry didn't care.
He wanted to run his hands along the ivy covered front, he wanted to walk
across the floors where he had once crawled as an unscarred infant and
hovered on a toy broom…

It was dark inside, and smelled of must and dust. Harry wasn't bothered; if
anything, he was glad. It should be like this. It was honest. This house was
the reality of the tragedy, whereas the stone statue of he and his parents, an
eternal, happy family…was a lie.

The stairs were mildewed and creaky, but did not seem otherwise unstable.
The moment Harry put his weight down on the first step, it made a high-
pitched creaking noise that sounded rather like a scream. A cat came darting
out of the shadows at the noise, howling as it scampered out the front door.
Harry wondered wildly if it had been his cat, having never left the confines of
these deteriorating walls…

He continued on.

Harry was drawn to the nursery in a way he couldn't even describe. His feet
just guided him there, down the hall, the second door on the left… He pushed
the slightly ajar door all the way open…

And there it was.

Boxes were scattered on either side of the doorway, like someone had cast
them aside as they entered. The old, peeling wallpaper was decorated in faded
snitches and broomsticks, a repetitious pattern that his father must have
chosen… A rocking chair sat in one corner, and Harry imagined his mother,
sitting there, singing him to sleep…

And there, on the far side of the room…a crib.

A crib, and above it, a gaping hole in the splintered ceiling. The rain came
dripping in through the exposed space, like the sky itself was crying on the
scene where Lily Potter had died and Lord Voldemort had fallen.

The floor directly in front of the crib was marred with a deep, black stain.
Looking at it made Harry's skin crawl.

Voldemort's body had been destroyed, here, and this was all that had
remained.

He stared at fixedly for a very long time. The rain began to fall more heavily.
Harry felt numb.

He checked his watch. 11:24. There was still time.

Harry stood there, as frozen as the statues in the graveyard.

11:42.

…Who would Lord Voldemort send?

As the time came nearer, Harry was beginning to feel anxious. Hermione
only had until noon…

Voldemort would send someone. He would send someone any minute now.

…But who?

At one point, Harry may have guessed Bellatrix… But now…

Maybe Dolohov, Harry thought. No, wait, Dolohov had been killed at
Hogwarts, hadn't he? Maybe Yaxley, then….
11:53.

Harry was just about to start panicking when he heard it.

A barely audibly pop. Were he somewhere else, he might have missed it

entirely. But here, when his anxiety was paramount and his senses
heightened, he heard it clearly over the soft sound of the rain filtering in
through the broken roof. Someone had just apparated behind him.

Harry turned, simultaneously relieved and nervous, when—

"He sent you."

…For his part, Peter Pettigrew looked equally unhappy with the arrangement.

Blackened, instantaneous hate roared to life in Harry's very core. He whipped

out the Elder Wand in a flash, power thrumming at his fingertips, singing,
begging to be used—

Now, now, now—

"Hermione Granger!"

Pettigrew threw his hands up defensively, one of them silver and gleaming.
He has his wand drawn, but he didn't raise it in attack, only cowered as he
backed away. Harry hesitated at the sound of his best friend's name.

"Kill me, and she'll die!" Pettigrew yelled. Harry scowled as he realized the
truth of it, but he kept the Deathstick aimed carefully at his face.

"He sent you," Harry repeated, voice laden with deepest loathing. "Does he
mean to insult me, sending you here?"

Pettigrew winced slightly at the insinuation. "I didn't ask to be the one," he
muttered. He was keeping his cowardly gaze averted, opting to look at
Harry's feet rather than his face. Not even man enough to look him in the
eyes. "But before you waste any more time deliberating whether you want to
murder me or not, you might want to note the time. She only has…"
Peter glanced at his wrist. "Six minutes left."

Furious, Harry lowered his wand. Pettigrew's eyes followed it warily. "You'll
need to hand that over before I take you," he said.

"No."

Peter twitched. "Yes. Give me the wand," he demanded, though his voice was
high and trembling.

"I agreed to give it to the Dark Lord, not you."

"I'm not taking you to him unless you give it to me, first. I'll give it to the
Dark Lord," Pettigrew said, and though he still sounded weak, he was
surprisingly bold and firm. "And you want me to take you now, don't you? Or
do you really not care for Miss Granger's life, after all? …Each second you
spend arguing with me is one more second she spends thinking she is about
to die."

A powerful, electric-like current rolled over Harry's skin. Static crackled

around him, barely contained as he glared daggers into Peter Pettigrew.

But then he envisioned Hermione, and how, right now, everyone was
probably gathered around her, staring at the hourglass on her neck and…

"Five minutes."

Harry turned the Elder Wand over in his hand, offering it up to the envoy.

Peter approached with utmost caution, waiting for Harry to change his mind
and strike him down. He didn't. Pettigrew's unnatural, metal fingers closed
around the handle of the wand, and he backed away very quickly afterwards,
like maybe Harry Potter was more dangerous unarmed than he had been with
it.

"...Just so you know, he didn't send me as an insult to you," he muttered, a bit

less fear in his voice as he pocketed the Deathstick. "He sent me because I am
the only other person who knows of this undisclosed location."

He said it all very bitterly. Harry narrowed his eyes, not feeling like this was
nearly good enough of a reason to send the man who had betrayed his
parents to collect him.

"How do you live with yourself?"

It was like someone else had spoken with Harry's voice. Peter winced and
kept his eyes fixed on the ground. "How do you sleep at night, Pettigrew?
How do you live yourself, knowing that this was all your fault?" Harry
pointed down toward the black stain on the floor. Thunder rumbled above
them. "How do you live with yourself?"

Harry never raised his voice as he spoke. His tone was low and controlled; a
deadly, cold tenor that was far more threatening that any shouting ever could
have been.

Peter didn't respond to his questions. "Four minutes," he whispered.

It was only the image of Hermione, crying and thinking all was lost, that
made Harry step forward and suppress his lethal fury. "Take me, then," he
said.

Harry held his arm out expectantly. Pettigrew nodded, raising his own hand,
and then—

In a movement that was shockingly fast, Peter slashed his wand across
Harry's hands. There was a flash of white which shot first across one of
Harry's arms and then to the other, two circular cords of light which wrapped
around his wrists. Harry backed away, shouting and swearing as he attempted
to fling off whatever spell Pettigrew had just cast on him, but it was useless.
Within seconds, two cuffs had formed around his wrists like shackles. Only
—and Harry's stomach twisted horribly—they were snakes, they were
shining snakes, biting their own tails to remain secured and glowing with a
dull, silver light.
And they were doing something to him. The magic which Snape had cast
over Harry last night, which was essential to their plan—it had sparked and
frazzled the moment Peter raised his wand against him, like something short-
circuiting, and by the time the snakes had fully materialized, Harry could tell,
it was dead, inactive, gone—

"What is this!?" he roared at Peter, who no longer looked afraid now that
Harry was both wandless and hexed.

"Magical suppression bands," Peter responded coolly.

"What—that—this was never a part of the deal!"

"It was never not a part of the deal," Peter drawled. "Honestly, you should
have thought more clearly before dealing with the Dark Lord…" But as he
spoke, Pettigrew's brows began to furrow, and he was glancing back and
forth between Harry and the tip of his wand, looking perturbed…

"Why?" Harry spat, fuming.

"I suppose because the Dark Lord only wanted to worry about one kind of
lightning potentially striking today…" Peter looked Harry in the face, then,
for the first time. His eyes were widened in sudden understanding.

"There was something on you, wasn't there?"

The blood drained from Harry's face. "There was," Pettigrew gasped, taking
in Harry's horrified expression and seeing the truth of it there. "I thought I felt
something—what were you planning? You really thought you could get one
over on the Dark Lord, didn't you? He's not going to be pleased when I tell
him."

"No," Harry gasped, having switched from angry to terrified so quickly he

thought he may be sick. "No, you c-can't…"

"Three minutes… No, two, now." Peter held his hand out with his palm up
after checking his watch again.
"Take these off," Harry gasped, pleading where he no longer had the strength
or courage to demand. "Take them off, take them—"

"Even if I wanted to, I can't," Peter said. And he actually looked and sounded
sincerely pained. "…I can't. You won't be able to pass through the wards
without them. I just thought I would save the time in which you surely would
have argued with me if I had asked nicely." He gave Harry a meaningful
look, offering up his palm again. "…One minute."

"I—okay!" Harry grabbed his hand. These was a beat of silence, and then—

He would never get used to it. Apparation was the most horrendous
experience, and Harry hoped that he would never have to do it again after
today.

They arrived in a place which, even in the whirling, fragmented seconds

where he had yet to gather his bearings, felt familiar. He released Peter's hand
the second he could, and looked up to see a massive, worn-looking
mansion…

With a sense of slack-jawed comprehension, it dawned on Harry before Peter

said it out loud… He had been here, before… He had been here…

"Welcome to Riddle Manor."

…in a dream.

He, Harry, had witnessed the death of Frank the gardener, he had seen Peter
tending to a tiny, child-like Dark Lord in a small and fragile body…

Pettigrew marched Harry towards the door at a quick pace, his wand pressed
into his back. Rain fell in colossal sheets, immediately soaking them.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared, loud and menacing. The storm was
directly above them, here.

But Harry exhaled, for he could make out the oddly shimmering air around
them, despite the rain… They were inside the wards, Hermione was going to
be fine…

His relief was extremely short-lived. "Wait!" Harry hissed, stopping in his
tracks and turning to face the Death Eater. "T-take them off now!" He tried to
sound threatening, but it still came out much more like a plea.

"And have the Dark Lord murder me in cold blood?" Pettigrew snapped. "No,
I don't think so. Keep walking."

He jabbed Harry in the midsection, pushing him towards the door which had
just flown open. "Wait—wait!"

He didn't wait. Peter shoved Harry forward, and he was astonishingly strong
for someone who was so short and stout. Or maybe it was just because Harry
was that tired and weak, that he was so easily forced through the open door
and into the manor. When he continued to fight from going in any further to
the house, Pettigrew pushed him, hard, and Harry stumbled and fell.

Peter lifted the left sleeve of his robe. "Wait! Just—just don't tell him!" Harry
pushed himself onto his knees, beseeching. Water from the rain pooled
around him onto the wooden floorboards, cold and wet. "If you won't take
these things off, just d-don't tell him what you felt! Please, Pettigrew, please
—if you do, he'll—he'll do s-something horrible, you'll be damning me—
please, if you feel even the smallest amount of remorse for what you've done,
just don't tell him!"

Harry couldn't have felt or looked more pitiful. Water was clinging to his
lashes, coating his weary, bruised-looking face where his black hair was
plastered against his pale skin. Peter hesitated, waiting with his metallic
finger hovering over the Dark Mark and his face twisted in conflict.

"Peter…Wormtail. Please."

Harry's voice cracked. Peter, after a moment which felt like a lifetime…
touched the Dark Mark.

"Fine," Peter said, wincing in pain as the Mark turned a deeper black. "I won't
tell him. I…"

It happened horrifically slow.

Peter's silver hand rose in a deliberate way, and it was clear by the Death
Eater's raised brows that it was acting on its own. Peter hardly had a moment
to look confused before the shining fingers wrapped around his own throat.
He stepped backwards and fell, landing just a few feet from where Harry was.
Peter dropped his wand as he hit the floor, and it rolled away into another
room, far from reach.

"No—no, no, no—"

Harry quickly scrambled over to him, trying in a panic to pry the magical
hand from Pettigrew's neck. He couldn't do it. Peter's face turned a sickly,
deep red.

Harry's fingers were shaking so badly he could barely reach into Peter's robes
to locate the Deathstick. But even as he grabbed it, even as he lifted it to the
metallic hand to try and loosen its lethal grasp, Harry knew he was too late.

Peter Pettigrew was dead.

The hand had not just strangled him, it had crushed his throat. Peter's death,
horrific and agonizing as it must have been, was swift.

Harry knelt at the corpse's side, the Elder Wand held limply in his hand at
Peter's neck…at a complete loss for what to do.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His entire body was trembling,
but he was so shaken in that moment that he couldn't be sure if it was from
the cold or his fear.

A soft, strange sound, not unlike that of fluttering wings or a gentle breeze,
made him to look up.

Harry, wet and kneeling, fright shining in his eyes...was instantly ensnared by
the fiery gaze of Lord Voldemort.
 45. To Know Red
Notes for the Chapter:

So, uh… Yeah. So much for my hiatus, huh?

There are so many things to respond to that I just don't even think I can.
So instead of trying to explain, apologize, or anything like that… Just
know that I appreciate all of your comments, your beautiful words of
support, and I do plan on responding to messages/long reviews/ etc.
soon. I just. Yeah.

Anyway. Thank you.

p.s. I'm on tumblr now? Which was probably the best/worst decision,
but if you want to read stuff that may sometimes relate to this story, you
can find me as obsidianpen. (related searches: harrymort, hauntingly …
LOL) AND SOMEONE MADE A PINK ELEPHANT/VOLDEMORT
FAN ART. It's there. I swear it is. Find it.

Harry had spent many sleepless hours thinking about this exact moment.

About how it would unfold, when he, Harry James Potter, finally met Lord
Voldemort on equal ground under agreed upon terms. About how he would
carry himself, about what he would do. And while he hadn't been entirely
sure what his very first words would be when he arrived, he'd had a few
ideas.

Perhaps something dramatic but suave. A timeless classic, like: 'So… We

meet again.'

Or maybe something a bit less theatrical, slightly witty, even, like: 'For once,
you don't look like a dream.'

Or a simple but effective:

'…Hello.'

What he had not anticipated was this, landing on the doorstep of Tom Riddle
Senior's massive old mansion with Peter Pettigrew's corpse in front of him,
on his knees and positively drenched. And Harry realized at once how it must
look to Voldemort, who had only just appeared—his envoy and Death Eater
unquestionably dead while he, Harry, had the Elder Wand pointed right at his
crushed throat…

And so the first words which came rushing out of Harry's mouth upon
locking eyes with Lord Voldemort, most unfortunately, were:

"I didn't do it."

For a moment, Harry even willed the Dark Lord to see the truth of it there, in
his eyes—when he remembered suddenly that the Voldemort would see no
such confirmation, because Harry's Occlumency walls were up and stronger
than ever.

Snape had spent an appalling amount of time the previous evening making
sure that Harry's mental barriers were once more impenetrable, though he did
try himself to break them again and again. But Harry's shields had held
strong, and, for once, Snape had seems genuinely pleased with Harry's
performance.

Obviously, keeping a few secrets from Lord Voldemort was paramount to the
success of their plan.

Yes, Harry's Occlumency wards were firmly in place…and he highly doubted

he would ever, for any reason, lower his mental defenses again.

The Dark Lord's scarlet eyes shifted to Pettigrew, focusing on the silver hand
which was still clamped around his throat. "…No," he murmured as he took a
few steps closer. He stopped when he was right in front of Harry, his
attention remaining on his dead Death Eater. "You did not."

A pause. Harry willed his trembling body to move, but found he couldn't do
anything other than sit there and hold his breath.

"What exactly did he do?" Voldemort asked quietly, still looking at the silver
hand. "Did he attempt to remove the magical suppression bands after you
passed through the wards?"

Harry glanced down at the shimmering serpents which still hung at his wrists,
heavy and glowing faintly. He decided that was a good enough lie for him.
Harry nodded, but as he examined the snakes, he couldn't help but be a bit
confused. Peter was dead, but the cuffs were still present… Which probably
meant that Harry wouldn't have been able to cast any spell at all, so of course
Voldemort didn't think that he had killed Pettigrew…

"Then he was an even bigger fool than I thought," Voldemort said. Harry
looked up at him, wiping some of the moisture from his face. "That hex was
mine. Pettigrew's wand was merely the conduit... Only I can remove those
bonds."

Harry was about to snarl something angry in response to that, but he was
distracted when Voldemort pulled out his wand. His wand. Harry's own,
beautiful and holly.

In a swift movement, the Dark Lord wordlessly vanished the entirety of

Pettigrew's body. The silver hand alone remained, landing on the wooden
floor with a loud thunk.

"That was not the end I intended for Peter Pettigrew…" Voldemort looked at
the metal appendage thoughtfully. It wasn't angry, the tone of his voice. It
was almost…disappointed. "I had other plans in mind… But it seems you've
managed to unravel them."

His gaze landed on Harry. Voldemort's face was a cold, undecipherable

mask, but his eyes were an inferno.

"Harry Potter, thwarting all of my plans…even now."

He said it so indifferently that Harry wasn't sure if it was meant to be a joke

or a threat. Rather than react incorrectly, he decided to say nothing at all.

Voldemort's eyes flickered over Harry's shaking, drenched body. No emotion

whatsoever crossed the Dark Lord's face when he lifted the holly wand and
pointed it at him. Harry reacted so quickly and fretfully that he hadn't even
seen it coming himself.

The moment Voldemort had a wand aimed at his chest, Harry's survival
instincts manifested in a nearly violent way. He scrambled away from the
Dark Lord at breakneck speed, retreating clumsily on his hands on knees until
his back hit a wall. He lifted the Elder Wand and raised it defensively, though
he could tell that he would be unable to use it. The bands around his wrists
made his whole body feel sort of compressed, like there was something heavy
and stifling being pushed against his very core.

But Harry held up the Deathstick anyway, evidently unable to react in any
other manner when Lord Voldemort—in love, in hate, in some horrible
combination of the two—had a wand pointed at him.

They stayed that way for a tense moment. Harry, heart racing and panting on
the floor, and Voldemort, standing a few feet away and looking perfectly
composed…only his eyes had darkened a bit, and Harry could swear that
there was something there, that he was…uncomfortable.

"…I am not going to hurt you," Voldemort said. His voice was so soft that it
was barely above a whisper.

Harry's focus shifted to the holly wand, which the Dark Lord had lowered a
fraction. "Yeah," Harry scoffed, still breathless and holding the Deathstick at
the ready. "I've heard that one, before."

Voldemort winced just slightly. Harry wasn't stupid enough to fall for it, to
believe that he could actually be so bothered by Harry's completely legitimate
reaction.

But then the Dark Lord pointed the holly wand at Harry's chest again, and
there was nothing he could do. "…Exaresco," Voldemort said clearly, though
Harry was sure he didn't actually need to verbalize the incantation.

All of the water which had been soaked into his robes and splattered across
the floor vanished. Harry blinked in surprise as he became perfectly dry.

Then, before Harry could even react to that, Voldemort walked slowly and
purposefully through the entryway into the next room. Harry had to crane his
neck to see from where he sat on the floor, but he watched as the Dark Lord
entered into what must have once been a very lavish, nice dining room.

Harry's heart froze as he finally examined the space properly. For it was
there, in that very room, at that very table, where Tom Riddle had murdered
his father and his grandparents… Harry had seen it, had witnessed it in the
Dark Lord's memory, in a dream long ago…

Voldemort set the holly wand down on the table and walked away from it,
making his way back to Harry at a slow pace, no longer armed.

Which may have been a much more effective gesture if he, Harry, wasn't
forced into magical incapacitation. "What is the meaning of these?" Harry
snarled as he pushed himself to his feet, lifting his arms and clearly speaking
of the serpentine shackles. He decided to just not comment on the fact that
Voldemort had only meant to dry him off when he'd reacted as though he was
about to be tortured. "What, do you think I'm going to try and best you in a
duel or something? What in God's name have I done to warrant these?"

Voldemort's face remained cool and indifferent. "A mere precaution. There
are many things I need to…explain. Past experience serves to remind me that
you have a history of powerful emotional outbursts. And as much as I detest
this manor… I would rather not see it destroyed."

Lightning flashed and thunder roared the second the Dark Lord finished his
sentence. Voldemort's eyes flickered to the window where rain beat against
the glass. "Yet," he added softly.

And it was in that moment, where the tall and sinister form of Lord
Voldemort was illuminated by a blinding flash of light, that Harry realized he
was actually very, very afraid.

It was a fear that was muffled by indignation and anger, but it was certainly
present. Even without a wand, Harry knew all that the Dark Lord was capable
of. And now, with these bands on his wrists… He was utterly defenseless.

And really, Harry thought, it was sort of the epitome of a nightmare situation.
Magicless in what resembled a haunted house from a muggle horror film,
alone with the Dark Lord…and it was storming viciously, and yes, Harry
realized fully now that he was dry and no longer had the rain to blame, it was
extremely cold in here. Much colder than it was outside.

Harry failed to repress a sudden shiver as it tore its way up his spine. Acting
like that visible shudder hadn't just happened, he feigned bravery.

"You could have told me," Harry muttered. "You could have just explained
that, and I would have agreed to it. Probably."

"A potential risk I was unwilling to take," Voldemort answered smoothly. His
fiery gaze zeroed in on the Elder Wand. Harry almost jumped as he recalled
what Snape had told him—that he must relinquish it quickly and without a
struggle. Harry flipped it over so that the handle was facing the Dark Lord,
and—

"Keep it."

…and felt his jaw drop in absolute confusion.

"Er…What?"

"Keep it," Voldemort repeated, though his eyes were bright with desire.
When they shifted back to Harry's face instead of the wand, the hunger never
faded, though his expression remained neutral. "…It is yours."

His stare was suffocating. Harry couldn't stand to look at him for more than a
moment, completely perplexed and unsure of how to proceed. None of this
encounter was unfolding as he thought it would thus far…
But Harry knew one thing for certain—he could not give Voldemort the
opportunity to take the Elder Wand by force. Clearly, by telling him to keep
it, the Dark Lord was planning on doing just that when Harry was caught off
guard. So Harry did the only thing he could think of. He lowered the
Deathstick and walked slowly into the dining hall—feeling a thrill of terror in
the few seconds in which he had his back turned to Lord Voldemort—and set
the Elder Wand right next to his holly wand.

Harry briefly considered snatching his old wand up, but he resisted the urge.
He turned instead to face Voldemort, his hands empty.

They were both unarmed.

Maybe that thought should have been a relief, but it was anything but. Harry
had never felt more exposed, just a few paces away from the Dark Lord,
willingly wandless.

Another flash of lightning made his heart skip a beat. Voldemort's already
bright eyes and pale face looked even more unnatural in the storm's light,
even more dangerous, more…God-like.

They were quiet for a long time. The sounds of the storm reverberated
between them like a living, present force.

"…You do not look well," Voldemort finally said tonelessly, but his irises
darkened again. They always seemed to do that, to turn a more ruby-ish hue
when he was…concerned. Like no matter how skilled he was at masking his
true emotion in his facial features, these new, impossible eyes would betray
him at every turn.

Harry wondered if Voldemort knew that about himself, or if this was

something that only he, Harry, who had spent so long at this point simply
staring at those illuminated eyes, was aware of.

"H-haven't been sleeping very well, lately," Harry responded, hating that he
had stuttered. He forced a smile afterwards, like he actually found it funny.
Voldemort didn't. His eyes narrowed. "Did they harm you?" he asked, and his
voice had taken on a bit of a sharp edge.

"No. They didn't hurt me," Harry said. But then a rush of anger coursed
through him, distracting him from his fear entirely. "No, as a matter of fact,
the only one who was hurt at all was Hermione. A detail of your stupid curse
which you just happened to leave out, conveniently enough."

Voldemort said nothing. "That was all completely unnecessary!" Harry went
on, anger bubbling in his veins. "If I hadn't passed through the wards in
another ten seconds, Hermione would have—"

"She would not have died."

"D—what?"

Voldemort's face was still flat and controlled. "Hermione Jean Granger would
not have died. The curse was in my control. I would not have allowed her to
perish."

"Bullshit."

Voldemort's eye twitched.

"I would not have killed her," he reiterated simply.

"What, so that was all just a stupid ploy to mess with Snape?" Harry laughed
when Voldemort didn't deny it. "Classy. And how can I believe you, anyway?
That you really wouldn't have let her die. How do I know you're not just
lying?"

"You don't."

Harry's eye twitched.

"Right. Whatever," he muttered, running a hand through his hair and fighting
the urge to tear it out of his scalp. "I suppose it doesn't matter anymore.
Because here I am."
"Yes," Voldemort agreed, and Harry's irritation dwindled and died in an
instant when the Dark Lord took a step closer to him.

"…Here you are."

How powerful was the impulse then to just run, to bolt for the door and see
how far he could get in the pouring rain without a wand and with crazy,
magically suppressing snake-shackles on his wrists. But Harry didn't run. He
never had been very good at fleeing from Voldemort, even when he
desperately wanted to. Instead, he stood his ground, waiting to see what
exactly the Dark Lord would do.

But to Harry's surprise, Voldemort was not making his way over to him after
all. He was approaching the table again, where both of the wands now rested.
Voldemort picked up the holly one again. He held it for a moment with both
hands, cradling it like it was the most precious and beloved item in the world.

He then handed it to Harry. "You should take it back, if you refuse the Elder
Wand," he said as he lifted it with the handle facing Harry's very perplexed
face.

"…It is yours."

Harry stared at it for a long time before he nodded and accepted it. His
finger's barely brushed against the Dark Lord's as he did.

Harry hadn't meant to touch him, he really hadn't. But the reaction was
instantaneous.

Voldemort withdrew like he had just been electrocuted, backing away several
paces, his eyes wide and falling to the floor as he retreated.

Harry jumped, too. Not because he was so jarred by the fact that he'd
accidently touched Voldemort's fingers, but because—

"You're so hot!"
Voldemort's gaze snapped up to Harry's, his face still, somehow, infuriatingly
blank, despite his giant eyes.

Harry felt the blush burn across his whole body in an instant. "I-I mean, like,
temperature," he stuttered ineloquently, flustered beyond belief.

Voldemort stared, silent.

"Like, hot hot. You are—temperature."

You. Are. …Temperature.

Harry was internally howling in despair at his own verbal shortcomings. But
externally, even though he was flushing furiously, Harry, ever the bold,
stupid Gryffindor, jutted his chin out defiantly. He just let his stupid, horrible
words dangle in the air, like he was just daring Lord Voldemort to call him
out on his idiotic statement.

He didn't. Lord Voldemort didn't do anything other than stare at him with a
very, very mildly amused glint in his eyes.

Harry swallowed audibly, looking at the holly wand in his hands rather than
at Voldemort while he attempted to gather his bearings.

This, he thought…this was not going well.

Harry, a bit sorrowfully, set the wand back down on the table. It just felt the
right thing to do, for some reason, seeing as the Dark Lord had not once
reached for the Deathstick. Harry realized that his chivalry was probably
more foolish than admirable, but he set his holly wand down all the same and
stepped away. Voldemort watched the action with his brows raised, but his
face remained otherwise unreadable.

"I… I just... I would like to start over," Harry said. He cleared his throat and
looked at the Dark Lord, willing his face to stop burning and forcing a very
jubilant smile.
"Hi. My name is Harry Potter. And…"

The smile then slid from his face as, at the very same moment he said it our
loud, Harry realized:

"...I have no idea what to call you."

Voldemort was quiet for a time. Thunder rumbled above them, deep and low.
"…The Taboo has been lifted," he eventually said with little inflection in his
voice.

But Harry flinched like he'd just been struck.

It wasn't because that had come as a surprise, the Taboo on Voldemort's name
being lifted. Snape had anticipated that as well. It would have been easy,
otherwise, for Harry to just say that word and trigger the hex, thus alerting
others as to where he was.

Bus there was no possible way that Harry could actually call the Dark Lord
by that name… Harry could not address him as the one word which he had
been cursed with, the only thing which he had been able to say when he had
been imprisoned, in that claustrophobic, crystal coffin; that one word,
screamed over and over, reverberating against enchanted glass walls and
shredding his ears with his own voice, and—

The bonds around his wrists tightened and burned. Harry was snapped out of
his horrid, addled thoughts by the physical pain, hissing as they seared
momentarily into his skin. The indescribable feeling of something being
pressed upon his mind increased. Harry tasted static on his tongue, but it was
muted and repressed.

Voldemort looked honestly worried. Harry laughed at the expression, a

terrible and mirthless sound.

"No, I don't think that will work," Harry said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Another short but pregnant pause. And it was in this instant that Harry
realized something positively astounding.

Voldemort, he noticed, had one hand across his chest, holding the sleeve of
his robe about the elbow of his other arm. And…and Harry would have
normally thought he was imagining it, but no—Voldemort was clutching at
the fabric there, tightly, and…and his hand was shaking slightly, and…

Good God, Harry thought with absolute incredulity.

Lord Voldemort…was nervous.

"You…could call me by my true name," Voldemort said carefully. "…My

given name."

If anything, this made Harry feel even sicker. The very notion made him
nauseous, the thought of calling this man by that name, by addressing the
monster who had prowled on the outskirts of his mind and beckoned to him
by the name which he had, and always would, associate with the angel which
had held him through the night…who had brought him music…

Who had not yet become this monster. Who was nothing like the dark wizard
before him.

'I am nothing like him!'

"I…I don't think I can do that," Harry confessed, his voice as hollow as his
heart.

Voldemort cringed but didn't respond.

In the silence which followed, Harry wondered how strange this all must be
for the Dark Lord. Voldemort, who had spent his entire life hating the name
of his muggle father and had therefore crafted a new one, now lamenting the
fact that his prophesized enemy was unable to think of him as Tom Marvolo
Riddle…
At some point, Voldemort's gaze shifted to the large window. Rain continued
to drizzle down the glass, distorting the view of the grounds outside.

This was not at all how Harry—or any of his plotting companions—had
expected this to unfold.

He, personally, had anticipated a haughty, smug Dark Lord. Vicious,

powerful, and, above all else, dangerous.

What Harry had not expected was this, a man who was keeping his distance,
retracting away from Harry like the thought of touching him was
unacceptable… A man who was, astonishingly, sonervous.

If things continued on this confusing path, their plan would never work.
Harry glanced down at the cuffs on his wrists, wondering what he would
have to do in order to get Voldemort to take them off. He had a feeling that
just asking nicely wouldn't work.

"…What is it you wanted to tell me, then?" Harry finally said, though he
feared the answer. "You asked me to hear you out. I'm assuming that's why
you have me wearing these…things. So I don't… What was it? Have a
powerful emotional outburst and destroy your house."

Voldemort's eyes flickered to Harry's for a brief moment before he continued

to stare out into the storm. It was thundering less, now, but was still raining, a
consistent and dreary downpour.

"…Imagine…a sunset," Voldemort said.

Harry was sure he'd misheard him.

"Er, sorry?"

"A sunset," the Dark Lord repeated, his deeply saturated eyes still focused on
the steely sky. "The kind which consists of the most brilliant, warm hues.
Which causes people to stop all that they are doing simply to watch as the
colors bleed out until night has fallen. The kind of sunset that inspires poetry
and music, which painters try in vain to recreate on their canvases and which
photographers could never truly capture with a camera. The kind which
exudes a gentle, amber light which bathes the world in a rose-gold tint,
making everything it touches more beautiful because of it…"

Harry gaped, listening intently as the Dark Lord stared into storm clouds and
gray skies, like he was envisioning this glorious sunset in its place.

"…Imagine it," he said again, his eyes still on the rain.

Harry nodded. "…Okay."

He felt strangely nervous at such a request, but he did as he was told. It was
easy to envision, considering that he had witnessed such a sunset only two
nights ago. When he had been sitting on the beach, Ginny's fingers
intertwined with his…

"Now imagine that you are there, watching this magnificent spectacle of
nature, but that you are not alone. Imagine that you are there with a group of
others… Children."

Harry actually rubbed his ears, this time. "A… a group of children?"

"Yes."

Lord Voldemort was requesting that…that he imagine watching a beautiful

sunset with a group of kids.

Strange didn't even begin to cover it.

"Okay," Harry said again, expectant.

"Now imagine that you are all observing this beauty when you notice that one
of the children doesn't seem to be captivated by the display. He does not have
the same wonder-filled eyes, he does not stop and stare in fascination.
Instead, he seems confused. Irritated, even. And it is only upon asking that
you realize that this child is color blind."
The image of a brilliant, kaleidoscopic sunset in Harry's mind suddenly
became stagnant and cold. He looked out the window to see the same clouds
of monotonous mid-tones which Voldemort saw.

Harry waited quietly for the Dark Lord to continue.

"But the child is not unintelligent. He is very…aware of the fact that

everyone else can see something exquisite, but that the same imagery is
unavailable to him. And so he asks you: What is color? Explain to me blue,
explain to me indigo. Tell me what violet is like. Describe to me pink, and
yellow, and gold. I want to know them."

He paused. Harry's mind was racing.

"What would you say to that child, who has never experienced color?"
Voldemort went on. "What would your response be, to the depraved boy who
says: I want to know a true sunset. I want to know red."

The Dark Lord finally turned his wistful gaze to Harry. Instantly, Harry's
befuddled thoughts came to a shuddering standstill, once more pinned under
those eyes which were very red, like pools of glowing, molten lava.

He was lost in them for quite a while before he realized that he had, in fact,
been asked a question.

"…Um…" Harry tore his focus away from those annihilation eyes, biting his
lower lip and looking back out the window. The rain was lessening, but the
sky was still a dull gray. He racked his brains as he tried to come up with a
way to describe color to someone who had never seen it before.

To describe…red.

"I…I would say," he began, brows furrowed, "…I would say that red is…
Red is…heat. Red is life and warmth. Fire. It's dangerous, the color of
warnings and caution, but…but also…energy. Life.Passion."

He tried to come up with more, but quickly realized that he had nothing else
to add. "And…and that's what I would say red is," he finished, somewhat
lamely.

Voldemort's face was its usual, impenetrable mask, but his eyes were brighter
than ever. They stood out in the bleak atmosphere of the frigid mansion like
pyres. "And would you say that does red justice?" he asked softly.

"No," Harry answered, once more trapped in the Dark Lord's ocular inferno.
"…That…that doesn't do red justice at all."

Voldemort turned away.

"…I was conceived under the influence of a love potion," he said distantly,
practically with his back to Harry as he looked out the window again. "My
mother was a witch, but she was not beautiful, and she was unhappy. She fell
in love with my father, a muggle man, as you know. …Tom Riddle."

Harry inwardly cringed, but managed to remain composed. Voldemort kept

his attention on the bleak world on the other side of the window. "No
extensive studies have been done on children conceived under such powerful
potions… But reason stands that such magic would be influential on the
unborn child. That they would be more likely to be…developmentally
arrested, in certain respects."

Voldemort lifted his long, piano-player hands to the glass, touching the flat
surface there like he might pass right through the translucent plane and feel
the rain. "My mother stopped giving my father the Amortentia when she was
pregnant. My father left her. She mourned the loss of him, suffered in the
knowledge that she would give birth to a son whom she could not care for,
whose father did not want either of them. She was barely able to live through
pregnancy. In desperation, she sold the one valuable item in her possession
for money… Her locket. One which had once belonged to Salazar Slytherin
himself."

He paused, allowing those words to hang in the air. Harry felt his shattered
heart somehow, inconceivably, break even further.
"She sold it for a pittance, not knowing its worth. Eventually, she showed up
on the doorstep of a muggle orphanage just as she was about to give birth.
Merope Gaunt died when I was born. Her last request was my name. That
was the extent of her love for me, personally. The ghost of what she never
truly had to begin with. She died. I lived."

The rain softened, but didn't cease.

"…I grew up in the orphanage where I was born," the Dark Lord continued.
Not once did his voice stray from being anything other than lifeless and
hollow. "I was just one of many orphan children, at that time. Not neglected,
necessarily, but certainly not loved. And my own, dark aura did little to help
manners. I was marred before my birth. It was an inexplicable but perceivable
energy, even to muggles. I should never have been. I was a product of forced,
fake affection through powerful magic. Perhaps, if she had lived, if she had
cared, this could have been overcome. I could have known what love was.
But she did not, and that ability withered and died within me before I was
even aware I was experiencing such a loss. I never received love, so I did not
miss it, and I did not experience it.

…Until you."

Voldemort finally turned and looked over his shoulder to Harry again.
Harry's wasn't mentally prepared enough for that intense stare to feel
anything other than stunned.

"…The ability to feel deeper emotions remained buried in my psyche,

dormant, essentially dead, for all intents and purposes… When I took a life
for the first time, I did feel…something. But it had not been by my hand, it
had been at the command of the basilisk. It is much easier to instruct another
to kill than to do it yourself. I didn't feel remorse, but I felt…something. I
didn't linger on it."

Voldemort looked down at the ornate chairs surrounding the long table
meaningfully. "The murder of my father was more difficult. But I had long
ago decided that he deserved to die. He had abandoned my mother. He had
abandoned me. He was a coward, and in my childish youth, I blamed him for
all of my indescribable turmoil, for the lack of love which festered in my
marred soul. I needed to blame someone. He was a muggle, and so I hated
him and everyone like him. I murdered him, as well as my negligent
grandparents. I convinced myself that he deserved it; that they all deserved it.
But still I felt…something."

The Dark Lord was examining the old, wooden table like he was reading
from a script written in its tree-lined surface. "It was not until I murdered
Hepzibah Smith that I stopped feeling any remnants of regret at all. She was a
rich, old witch. Hepzibah Smith had purchased the locket which my mother
had sold in desperation to Borgin and Burkes for far more than my mother
had received. I wanted it back. I wanted it more than anything in my entire
life. I murdered an innocent woman."

More soft, gentle rain against cold, hard glass. "I felt nothing, after that…
when I killed."

Still, the Dark Lord did not look at Harry when he spoke. Harry was certain
that, even if he had wanted to speak, he would have been unable to.

But Voldemort continued, emotionless but resilient, like he had already

committed himself to saying every word which now left his mouth. "I have
done unspeakable, horrible things," he said, nearly whispering. "I have
committed unforgivable acts… But I never understood the pain I saw in
others' eyes when I did them. I could not comprehend the loss of a loved one,
because I could not comprehend love. I did not know…"

Voldemort finally looked at Harry, arm clutching at the sleeve of his robe and
sounding disarmingly innocent.

"I did not know."

Harry wasn't even sure what he felt, so the next words which he said
surprised even him.

"You said until me," Harry murmured. "…Why? Why me? And how?
And…"
His numerous questions died after that, trailing off into uncertainty.

"…Largely because of what I did to you," Voldemort answered, and he was

looking away again, back to the cloudy sky. "I took your blood when I
required a new body, because I knew you were protected by ancient magic
imparted onto you by the sacrifice of your mother. I wanted to overcome
such precautions. I did not consider the potential consequences, because it
was a source of magic which was so unfamiliar to me.

I took your blood, and with it, pure, undiluted love. It was instantaneous, but
I did not realize that was what it was. But the moment I took your blood into
my own veins, I resurrected within myself the ability to feel…more."

Harry was quiet for a very long time as he processed this. His emotions ran
rampant, a tangled mess of conflicting thoughts as he tried to understand just
what it was, exactly, that was making him feel so disastrously sad by this
admission.

After a torturously long minute, however, he figured it out.

"So… so it could have been anyone, then," Harry said, vocalizing the
realization as it came to him. Voldemort waited, head tilted and eyes
darkening. "If you had just lost the ability to love, and you only got it back
because my mother died for me, and you took my blood… Well, it's not
actually me at all, is it?" Harry's voice, which had started so feebly, grew
louder and more irrationally distressed with every word. "It's never been me,
it was always just circumstance. It was because a prophecy made you think I
needed to die. If someone else's mother had died for them—and most mothers
would sacrifice themselves for their children—then it would have been them.
It just happened to be me. And it was never, ever intentional."

Harry shook his head, hating just how honestly wounded he felt as the truth
of it crashed over him. "You never had a conscious choice in this. You might
as well be…be under the influence of Amortentia. Just like your father was."

"Never say that again."

Voldemort's nervous, cautious disposition switched into one of such sudden
rage that Harry nearly stumbled in his instinctual retreat, backing away from
Voldemort's flashing, hellfire eyes like they might burn him. The Dark Lord
didn't need to raise his voice nor a wand in order to be terrifying; one softly
spoke, venomous sentence was enough to crush all of Harry's momentary
boldness.

Harry had only stopped moving away when his back hit the wall, despite the
fact that Voldemort hadn't actually advanced on him at all. Yet the Dark
Lord's murderous expression was gone nearly as quickly as it had come. His
fierce temperament softened. Voldemort took in Harry's shaking and terrified
form and looked so convincingly guilty that Harry truly almost believed it
himself.

"It is nothing like that," the Dark Lord whispered. His eyes transitioned into
something so dark they were nearly black in the dim light of the storm. His
face so was painfully conflicted, so torn.

"…I love you."

It was like all of the oxygen was sucked out of the room.

No amount of precursory conversation could have ever prepared Harry for

that impossible moment. Lord Voldemort, looking right into his eyes, saying
those words. And while they were quiet and vulnerable, they were also
irrevocably, heartbreakingly honest.

Harry could do nothing but stand there, mind buzzing in a numb sort of way
as Voldemort approached him. It was an advance that was somehow both
cautious and determined, hesitant yet resolute.

He grabbed Harry's hands, and his fingers were like fire personified. The
warmth burned through Harry's entire body with a single touch. Harry closed
his eyes, pressing his back more firmly against the flat surface behind him
like he hoped that maybe the wall would open up with wallpaper jaws and
swallow him whole, because he just couldn't handle this.
"Look at me."

It was a demand—definitely—but it wasn't a hostile one. Harry opened his

eyes, and when he did, Voldemort's fingers tightened around his own.

"It is paramount that you understand this," Voldemort said, and his face was
so close to Harry's. So, so close. "What happened to me was not a potion or a
curse which creates a false sensation which mimics what love may be. Blood
magic is powerful, but love, by its very nature, cannot be forced. Not truly.
Taking your blood gave me the ability to experience such emotions again, for
you, but it was never forced."

Harry was speechless. He tried several times to say something in response to

that, but his tongue felt like it was suddenly the wrong size for his mouth, and
made out of some foreign, heavy material which made it impossible to move.

"…I do not love you because of blood magic." Voldemort's eyes brightened,
redder, hungrier. "I love you for your defiant nature and your reckless
abandon. I love you for your purity and naïve hope. I love you for your
ability to see beauty where there is none."

The Dark Lord's attention flickered up for a moment, the ghost of a smile on
his lips. "I love you for your wild hair, which no amount of magic could
possibly tame, and I hate that I would fail if I tried, and I love that I would
fail if I tried."

He looked back into Harry's eyes. Harry was sure he'd never been as stricken
as he was right then, hearing Voldemort list the reasons why he loved him. "I
love you for your emerald eyes which have haunted me from the moment I
first saw them. I love the scent of your skin which is reminiscent of an
approaching storm…" He leaned in closer, eyes flashing, inhaling with his
lips hovering over Harry's neck.

"…I love imagining that you must taste like lightning, too…"

…Was there a war going on? Was there something important he was
supposed to be doing? Because those last words had Harry forgetting his own
name, the insinuation was just that blatantly, deliciously sinful.

But even though Voldemort's mouth was so close to Harry's throat that he
could feel his ridiculously hot breath on his neck, he didn't move. Voldemort
remained relatively still, his fingers still intertwined tightly around Harry's
limp, absolutely useless ones.

Harry didn't move, either. To be honest, he was surprised he was even still
standing, as he could no longer feel his legs. He swallowed thickly, willing
his frazzled mind to start functioning properly again. Part of him felt that
walking outside into the rain might be a good idea, a sort of natural cold
shower to wipe away all of the very bad urges that were scouring his body at
that moment.

But he could hardly breathe, let alone walk away. So Harry just stood there,
resisting the very powerful desire to sink into the heat that was Lord
Voldemort and surely never resurface.

A difficult task, considering all that he had just said. As his thoughts slowly
started to realign themselves, Harry realized that he was feeling it—damn it
all—so wooed again.

Because in all of the reasons which Voldemort had given him for his
obsessive love, not a single one had anything to do with the fact that Harry
held a fragment of the Dark Lord's soul within him.

A familiar sensation like butterflies erupting in his chest hit Harry so

powerfully that he felt dizzy with the realization. The Dark Lord was
honestly and undeniably in love with him. He loved Harry James Potter, and
he loved him for who he was, and—

The buoyant feeling died nearly at once. Harry's yanked his hands from
Voldemort's grasp and pushed him away. The Dark Lord's face twisted into
one of confusion at the sudden, forceful action.

"How could you, then?" Harry gasped, heart palpating erratically. For all the
flustered warmth that had been flooding through his body before, Harry now
felt cold and hollow.

"If you loved me… How could you do that to me?"

It was a question he had never, ever wanted to ask, a topic he never wanted to
breach. But the words were rushing out of Harry's mouth without his consent.
His eyes watered. His body shook.

"How could you leave me there, alone and awake? How could you do that to
me?"

Voldemort backed away, his stature withering under Harry's pained glare.

"I begged for you. I pleaded. I screamed and screamed and screamed and you
ignored me, you just left me there, and how long did you leave me there?
How long did I suffer, how long did I scream uselessly, how long, how long,
how—"

"Twenty-three days."

Voldemort's crimson eyes were no longer glowing at all. They were flat and
lifeless when he spoke, but he somehow had the gall to look Harry in the face
when he answered. "…Twenty-three days…and I thought of you in every
second."

"…Twenty…twenty-three…" Harry's hands were in his hair, his chest

heaving with panicked, troubled breaths. The dulled sensation of static stirred
deep within his core, and he was sure, were it not for the shackles on his
wrist, there would be lightning in the air. "How…how could you?" he
gasped, clutching at his chest. "How could you? You say you loved me, that it
was love, then how could you possibly—"

"I did not know!"

Voldemort's outburst was so unexpected and emotional that Harry was

startled into a state of numbness again. The feeling of a storm brewing in his
mind instantly dissipated.
"I did not know what it was that I was experiencing!" he continued, his voice
both full of self-loathing while at the same time beseeching Harry to
understand. "I did not understand what it was, that was making me feel so
bothered by what I was doing to you! I did not know it was guilt, because I
had never felt guilt! I did not know it was love, because I had never felt love!
I assumed it was all just a new, more powerful flavor of hate, because hate is
all I have ever known!"

Voldemort's own, uncontained magic was snapping around him like

firecrackers. The chair closest to him splintered and broke apart. He paid it no
mind. "I nearly went to you every day. I so badly wanted to go to you the
moment I first heard you scream. It infuriated me, my own lack of self-
control. That I should be so weak as to give in to such unwarranted desires.
And every time I thought to go, every single time, I would see your mocking
smile and hear you voice which spoke the truth: that I was obsessed with you.
And it would drive me mad, knowing that you were right, that you were the
stronger of the two of us, and so I would not go…"

Harry stared at the shattered chair, unable to look at the Dark Lord anymore.

"…So it's my fault, then," Harry said in a deadened voice. "It was just a
punishment, wasn't it, then? For my reckless abandon."

"No." Voldemort had never sounded so heartbroken before. He moved

towards Harry, reaching for his hands again, but when Harry recoiled form
his touch he lowered his arms. His face was riddled in pain. "No. Every
single part of your pain has been my own doing. I am the cause of all of your
suffering. It is my fault…"

Harry kept his gaze on the broken pieces of wood scattered on the floor,
silent.

"Look at me…please."

Less of a command this time, and more of a desperate plea. Harry hated that,
even know, he was unable to be cruel. His heartstrings had always been easy
to pull on, and the Dark Lord succeeded at it now, too. Harry looked up.
"I am sorry."

…It shouldn't have been as monumental as it was, considering that a simple,

verbal apology could never make up for even a fraction of what the Dark
Lord had done.

Yet it was not in the words he had spoken, but the way in which Voldemort
had said them. His voice cracked, his eyes shone. The raw emotion on his
face was almost too agonizing to look at, but Harry did, and it was real, and it
was tragic.

"I will never be able to undo the pain I have caused you," Voldemort
continued. "I will never be able to do proper penance for all of the sins I have
committed… But I would like to try."

He didn't approach Harry again, but Harry could tell he desperately wanted
to. Instead he remained right where he was, standing next to the table and the
fragments of a demolished chair. "…I never understood, before. I made
horrible decisions. But I understand now, and I have more choices yet to
make. I could make better ones. I could be something other than what I
was… I may be a dark wizard, and that will never change—there will always
be a monster deep within me that craves chaos, that thrives on pain—but I do
not need to listen to those horrific whims any longer… I can choose not to...
It is our choices that show who we truly are, far more than our abilities…and
who I truly am has changed."

Harry blinked in surprise at that statement, for he had heard it once before.
"Dumbledore said that," he muttered in disbelief. "That our choices show
who we truly are…"

Voldemort, astonishingly, gave the slightest of smiles. "Albus Dumbledore

was, perhaps…correct on several accounts…"

Harry must have imagined that statement.

Yes, he was definitely hearing things, he thought, because after that

impossible statement came a familiar, musical sound. It was the note of a
phoenix. Fawkes, it was the beautiful voice of that fiery bird which had once
rescued him in the Chamber of Secrets with its life-saving tears… Harry
turned, wondering if he really had just heard it, looking to see where such a
noise could have possibly come from…

A loud, sudden series of ripping and crashing sounds nearly gave Harry a
stroke. He turned back around to see that Voldemort had fallen forward with
his arms against the table, like he had be slammed against it so hard that the
table must have nearly broken. And around his hands were what just seconds
befoe must have been his shirt and robes, but were now scraps of shredded
and incinerated fabric…

Shredded and incinerated, because, unbelievably, insanely, out of the Dark

Lord's back had sprouted a pair of massive, scarlet wings.

"Whatinallthefucks?" Harry spluttered, once more with his back pressed

against the wall. His heart was beating so powerfully from the sudden crash
and unexpected sight that he wouldn't have been surprised if it was an actual,
visible force, his heart thumping against his chest like something out of a
cartoon.

If the look of dumb horror on the Dark Lord's face was any indication to go
by, Voldemort had not meant to do that. At all.

Voldemort slowly straightened his bent posture, looking from the remnants of
his shirt to his own wings, actual wings, like he couldn't actual believe what
had just happened. Harry had never seen the Dark Lord look like that before.
So absolutely thunderstruck, so shocked, so—

Embarrassed.

In the seconds which followed his cold realization, Voldemort's unnatural,

ivory skin—his entire face, even all the way up to his ears—turned a brilliant,
bright red.

He was blushing. Lord Voldemort was blushing. Vividly so.

It was a strange thing to think, considering that he had huge, extended wings,
but Harry had never thought Voldemort to look more human than he did just
then. Blushing, speechless, and finally looking up to Harry with his lips
parted and unable to do anything but stand there, positively mortified.

Why, he looked like he was thinking that this…this was not going well.

But Harry might have just fallen in love.

"…You…you do have wings," Harry finally said once his heart rate had
slowed a bit. He looked up at them, recalling how he had thought he'd seen
the shadows of such appendages when the Dark Lord had torn across his
mind, fighting Snape after he had possessed his body…

Voldemort didn't respond—not like it was in any position to deny it. Harry
could actually see the way his throat moved when the Dark Lord swallowed
thickly, still too embarrassed to speak.

Harry stared in wonder at the feathers of scarlet and intense, vibrant orange,
and though he supposed he should have asked a thousand questions, then,
what he found himself saying was:

"They're beautiful."

Harry turned his attention back to Voldemort's stunned face. Strangely, he

didn't feel bashful at all.

"You're beautiful," he added, unashamed of his own, honest statement.

Voldemort' face became an even brighter shade of red.

For a moment which felt much, much longer than it was, neither of them
spoke. Voldemort dropped what was left of his shirt, leaving the tattered
fabric in a pile on the table. He still had pants on, which Harry supposed was
a good thing, but he realized then that he had never before seen Voldemort's
body exposed like this.
Well. Unless one counted a dream which had occurred years ago. But that
had been such a rapid, disorienting event, and besides, he'd been on his knees
most of the time, and—

Get a grip, Harry berated himself, biting his lip and shaking his head. Now
was not the time to be so…so distracted…

But the fact remained that Voldemort had a damn nice chest. And wings…
Harry never would have thought that to be a turn-on for him, but there it was.

Voldemort, despite the fact that he was now shirtless and still a bit pink in the
face, seemed to be putting an exuberant amount of effort into composing
himself.

"…Do you have the contract?" he asked in an impressively level tone.

Contract? Harry had forgotten about such things entirely. For several seconds
he just stared, wondering what this shirtless, winged man was talking about.

But lucid thought eventually made its way back into his mind. "Y-yes," Harry
said, reaching into his pocket and pulling it out. He held it out to him so that
the Dark Lord could see it. The whole time Voldemort moved to take the
parchment from his slightly shaking hands, Harry stared at those gorgeous
wings, wanting to ask a thousand different versions of why and how…but
found himself unable to say anything at all.

Voldemort took the contract and quickly looked it over before setting it on
the table. "I have a confession, Harry," he said, looking down at the
document. Harry's heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name.

"…Er… Okay," he said, but he didn't feel as apprehensive as he should have.

Because really, just how many more insane, heart-stopping surprises could
this day possibly hold?

"The portion of the contract which deals with the horcrux," Voldemort began
uneasily. "…I said I did not want to attempt to remove it because it could
harm you. That is true, technically, but it is not the main reason."
He looked up at Harry, and the contract suddenly seemed so contrite, so
meaningless. "I do not want to remove the horcrux from your soul for…
selfish reasons. You know how you are able to sense my own emotions at
times because of it, when your Occlumency shields are not in place and you
are mentally exposed…correct?"

Harry nodded. "…The same could be true in reverse," Voldemort went on.
"At this moment, I am able to experience…love, but it is limited. It is only
for you which I feel such strong emotions. But through you, because of the
connection of my broken soul, I could feel…more. I could learn different
versions of love, other feelings which have been closed off to me for so
long… I could know friendship… But only through you."

Harry stared vacantly as these words, and what they meant, truly sunk in.

"If you lowered your defenses…" Voldemort offered up his hands to Harry's
again. His skin was hot and inviting, but Harry didn't take them, couldn't. "I
could see the world in a new way. A better way. I could experience life
through the lens of your pure, perfect heart… If you let me in."

It really hit him, then, just what Voldemort was asking him to do. "A-are you
kidding me?" Harry stuttered, equal parts flustered and incredulous. "Lower
my Occlumency wards? After what you did last time?"

He scoffed. Voldemort flinched at the sound and stepped away. "Why on

earth should I ever trust you, after the way you took control of my body like
that? After you almost killed—"

"I know that I am undeserving of your trust," Voldemort interrupted, and he

looked more anxious than Harry had seen him yet. He looked...afraid. "I
know. I have never once done anything to deserve it, I have only caused
pain… I… I am not asking for right now. I am only asking for the chance.
For the opportunity to someday be worthy of you… But either way, no matter
what your inclinations are…"

And this all must have all been a dream, after all, because then the most
shocking, unbelievable thing of all happened.
"…I am yours."

Lord Voldemort, the darkest and most powerful wizard in existence…slowly

sunk to his knees before Harry Potter.

He lowered himself until he was not only on the ground and kneeling, but so
that his head was lowered, too. Voldemort's forehead was touching the floor
in absolute submission, much in the same way that Harry had witnessed his
Death Eaters doing to him.

And to complete the picture of impossible vulnerability were those

magnificent wings, spread out on either side of him, glowing crimson,
brilliant feathers splayed out on the floor at Harry's feet.

There was no way to properly explain what Harry was feeling in that
moment.

It was beyond shock. It was beyond astonished. Lord Voldemort stayed that
way while Harry stared, his mind frozen like he had just been stunned.

It took a long time for him to notice that…that the Dark Lord was trembling.

Voldemort was physically, truly quivering, and Harry realized that it was
because he was terrified of what his response might be. Lord Voldemort was
afraid…of rejection.

And there was nothing more human than that.

All other thoughts and concerns died in that instant. It wasn't even a question,
then, of what he should do.

Harry fell to his knees too, joining the trembling Dark Lord on the hard,
wooden floor. He reached down and lifted Voldemort's bowed head, holding
his face in his hands and gently coaxing him to lift himself up so that he and
Harry's gazes were level. Voldemort's eyes were dark and wide, but they
brightened hopefully when Harry smiled.
Okay, Harry thought, and he could tell that Voldemort could hear that
thought in his mind. His mental wards fell away, and his heart was open.

I'll show you.

…It was easier than breathing.

Harry thought of memories which illustrated what love really was, of every
variety. They flowed from his mind to the Dark Lord's, as well as all of the
emotions which came with them.

…Harry is eleven years old, and he is struggling to find the platform… An

older woman with red hair introduces him to her son, and Ronald Weasley
smiles at him… They sit together on the train, and they talk and laugh, and
for the first time, Harry thinks he might be making a friend…

…Harry is racing towards a bathroom with Ron at his heels, terrified… There
is a troll in the castle, and Hermione Granger does not know, because she was
crying… They save her by pure luck, using only a simple spell, and the
experience bonds them a way few things could… They were inseparable,
after that…

…and the Dark Lord, for the first time, experienced real friendship…

…Harry is older… He is in Grimmauld Place, but it was long before he was

there with Severus and Draco… He is there with his Godfather, Sirius Black,
and they are ridding curtains of doxies, laughing as Sirius tells him anecdotes
from his school days…

It is not a riveting moment, but a simple one. A happy one, a carefree one.
Harry loved his Godfather for his ability to make him forget that he was
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, born to be a hero…

…and the Dark Lord, for the first time, experienced the love felt for someone
like a parent…
…Harry is in Grimmauld Place again, but this time, he is sitting across from
Draco Malfoy. The blonde is pouring whisky into two glasses, lifting one in
the air, and saying,

'To Sirius Black!'

And Harry's heart swells with emotion for his supposed nemesis…

…and the Dark Lord experienced brotherly love, kinship…

…Harry is crying, screaming at Severus Snape, who has just rescued Harry
from Lord Voldemort's own vicious assault…

And then Snape is backhanding him, hard. He tells Harry that he deserves to
live. They were the words that Harry never realized he needed to hear.

…and as Harry fell into the arms of Severus Snape, shaking and sobbing into
his arms, he felt a kind of love that not even Harry had a name for, but which
was all the more powerful because of it…

…And then there was music.

Harry is playing the piano, and the song is beautiful. His heart is fluttering in
his chest, and Harry is so inexplicably happy. It was before he even knew that
the spirit which protected him was Tom Riddle, it was before he knew it was
the locket around his neck which brought him such joy… But Harry was in
love with his angel in the dark. He was in love with his mysterious guardian
for his words and for his gentle embraces, for his promises and for his
beautiful, beautiful soul…

…It was love.

By the time the memories vanished, Harry was crying. Reliving the loss of
his Godfather and of the shade of Tom Riddle had been devastating for him,
but he had done it. Harry had done so Voldemort could feel it, too.

"…Thank you," Voldemort whispered. He brushed his scorching fingers

across Harry's face, wiping away the moisture there, though it was a useless
action. The tears kept coming.

Neither of them were aware of who leaned in first, but it hardly mattered.

…Harry knew it was all over.

The second the Dark Lord's lips were on his, nothing else mattered. The
shackles on his wrists were forgotten, the contract on the table practically
ceased to exist. The war, the plan, progress. All of it was meaningless, now,
and there was only this moment, only this kiss.

Oh, glory, was the single, abstract thought that sang in Harry's mind as lips
like fire burned against his. Voldemort's hands were in his hair, his mouth
effortlessly coaxing Harry's open and eliciting a deep, throaty moan as his
tongue slid against his own, not forceful or demanding, but moving so gently,
lovingly…

It was all over.

"I want to worship you," Voldemort breathed, breaking their kiss only so he
could whisper his calamitous desires like a prayer.

He was an incendiary angel with eyes like burning pyres. Visceral, undiluted
red.

"Then do it," Harry responded, all reckless abandon.

He fell into the fire.

 46. Rapture
Limbs like corporal flames wound around Harry's waist. Molten lips were
crushed against his own as, in a rapid movement that he could hardly register,
Harry was lifted from the floor and practically thrown onto the table on his
back.

The Deathstick and the holly wand went rolling to the floor like they were
little more than mediocre twigs. The contract fluttered away, suddenly such a
useless, innocent scrap of paper.

Inconsequential. Everything else was inconsequential.

Scorching fingers clawed at Harry's shirt, ripping it apart like tissue paper.
Kisses with a building sense of urgency were burning into his skin as the
Dark Lord claimed Harry's torso with his lips; his collar bone, his rib cage,
his stomach. Harry's entire being was on fire as he recalled the last time that
he had been touched like this, brought back from the brink of death and
emotional detachment with nails like talons, being so taken, so deliciously
owned as he was forced down onto the cold, hard stones, and—

Yes, yes—

"No."

Voldemort's own burning thoughts froze. Harry could sense it happen, as his
Occlumency wards were down. The Dark Lord ceased in his tantalizing
descent down his chest and moved so that he was straddling Harry's hips on
the mahogany surface of the dining room table. Voldemort held Harry's
wrists down at his sides, gripping him just beneath the heavy, serpentine
shackles. It wasn't a tight grasp, but it wasn't exactly gentle, either. His face
was smooth and unreadable, despite how brilliantly red his eyes were.

"Life…is not a dream," he murmured, and something about the way he said it
made Harry's skin crawl. "If I did to you now what I did to you then…you
would be unable to walk for days."
Harry shuddered.

Because he felt them: Voldemort's dark, sinful emotions as the monster

within stirred. And at the thought of reliving that particular dream-experience
in the Death Chamber, the Dark Lord felt a distressing amount of bloodlust,
of wanting nothing more than to see Harry Potter bent and on his knees
beneath him, quivering as he screamed in pain and in ecstasy, bleeding and
broken and his, his, his—

But the torrid thoughts were shuttered away almost at once. The Dark Lord
closed his eyes and inhaled a slow, deep breath, like he was reining in the
feral beast and trying to realign himself.

It was a short but vivid sensation, that intense glimpse into Voldemort's mind
—but it certainly put things into perspective. It was a very visceral reminder
of just who, exactly, Harry was pinned underneath at this moment.

"…That will never vanish entirely," Voldemort said, speaking quietly. He

leaned down so that his lips were brushing against Harry's neck. Hot, hot
breath burned against his skin.

"That part of me which delights in your pain, which craves the sound of your
screams and would do nothing but relish the fact that you scream for me…
That monster will never go away. Not completely. I can keep it caged…"

Voldemort's voice dropped even lower. He whispered his next words into
Harry's ear: a demand, a thrilling terror, a dare

"…Just don't go rattling the bars."

And before Harry could be properly terrified by that statement, Voldemort

was kissing his neck in a soft, tender way, such a contrast to the flickering
and violent thoughts which had torn across his mind just seconds before.

It was more than a bit unsettling. Not just the nerve-wracking experience of
feeling firsthand just how badly some part of the Dark Lord desperately
wanted to…break him apart, essentially, though that was certainly
frightening by itself. Yet what was even more disorienting was how quickly
Voldemort's thoughts had switched. Harry found himself experiencing a sort
of emotional whiplash by proxy. In the span of a single second, the Dark
Lord had gone from bloodthirsty and lethal to—

Ah, so warmly affectionate, so sweet… Which is how he was behaving right

now. It was like Voldemort was making up for the quick but horrifying vision
of violence, attempting to shift Harry's focus by ravishing his neck. Suddenly
the Dark Lord's thoughts were all love, love, love.

It was pretty damn effective, too. The way Voldemort was softly kissing his
throat was enough to make Harry's head swim. Surely, he thought, under the
influence of such powerful waves of adoration, he must have imagined just
how vicious that momentary lapse into Voldemort's darkness was.

The pure innocence was short-lived, though. The Dark Lord released Harry's
wrists, but only so that he could run one scorching hot hand up his stomach,
and another, making his untouched skin everywhere else break out into
goosebumps.

"Oh, God," Harry gasped the second Voldemort's fingers ghosted down his
thigh, making him hard in an instant. Voldemort crushed his lips against
Harry's at the sound of his sigh, tongue diving in like he wanted to taste it and
consume it, consume all of him.

Harry's back arched, pushing against the table underneath him as Voldemort's
fingers curled around the waistband of his pants, demanding, forceful as he
tore them, too, and—

For a wild second, Harry thought the world really was falling apart.

But it wasn't. It was just the table.

The old, mahogany table in the dining hall—the one where Tom Riddle
Senior and his parents had once sat at before being killed, the one which that
very murderer who was responsible was now attempting to take the
innocence of Harry James Potter on—broke.
Both of the legs on one end snapped, and the sound was so loud and
unexpected that they both nearly had heart attacks. Harry fell forward, his
chest crashing into Voldemort's as the dark wizard caught him. Warm arms
wrapped around Harry's waist, pulling him up and away from the now broken
table…which truthfully looked right at home next to the shattered chair and
the remains of their shredded robes.

At this rate, they really were going to destroy the damn house.

Voldemort smirked, a grin that was somewhat sheepish and yet also fairly…
wicked. It took Harry a moment to realize that he had been able to sense that
thought. Both of their barriers were down completely, and everything was
just so open.

It was distressing, how intimate it was. Being so connected with someone.

Bonded by blood and…souls.

Voldemort moved Harry away from his chest just far enough so that he could
look down at his face. And even though the space between them now
amounted to only a few inches, Harry had to wonder, did he do all of this on
purpose? Because being even such a small distance from the warmth of him,
physically, made Harry feel incredibly cold by contrast. It was unreasonably
freezing in this mansion, and Harry was suspicious that Voldemort had
devised all of this to work to his advantage.

Voldemort laughed.

Oh, damn, Harry thought, blushing. This…mental link was going to take
some getting used to.

The Dark Lord chose not to answer any of Harry's unvoiced accusations, and
instead snaked his arms around Harry's waist again. Well, Harry thought, if
making it cold inside was a part of some ploy of his, it was working. The heat
of Voldemort's body was enticing enough that Harry thought he might just
melt into it, and when he brought his lips down to touch Harry's forehead he
actually felt his knees go weak.
It was such a chaste, loving gesture accompanied by such a sweetness that
Harry would have never, ever thought anyone possible of feeling such
adoration, let alone Lord Voldemort.

Butterflies fluttered in Harry's chest.

"Hold on to me," Voldemort whispered, and damn it all if Harry didn't

comply without a single question or concern.

The Dark Lord's brilliant wings curled around them both. Harry stared, wide-
eyed and star-struck with his cheek against Voldemort's burning chest,
numbly wondering why—

Fire.

Literal flames flared up from nowhere and surrounded them both. Harry's
heart skipped a beat, terrified, and was about to scream—

Except there was no pain. Soothing, benign warmth like Harry had never
known flooded his whole body, heating him from the inside out. It was the
most exultant sensation he had ever experienced, that consuming fire, and it
filled his vision, his mind, his soul.

But before he could even fully comprehend it, the flames vanished…and so,
evidently, had they.

Harry blinked, confused to find that they were no longer in the dining hall of
the manor, but somewhere else.

He didn't get a chance to take in his new surroundings properly, however.

The second the fire dissipated, the Dark Lord had scooped him up and placed
him—much more gently, this time—on a massive bed with bright, white
sheets.

Harry fleetingly caught the sight of a window on the way down, and was able
to note the beating rain and familiar wallpaper.
Upstairs…they must be upstairs, now… Voldemort had transported them into
a bedroom, using fire…

The startling insight and the many, many questions it should have inspired
were quickly and completely disrupted when Voldemort picked up right
where he had left off from the broken table. His hands trailed down both of
Harry's sides as his lips pressed against his neck, and Harry realized with a
jolt that the fire, while having not harmed either of them, had somehow
managed a fine job of incinerating what was left of their clothing.

Both of their clothing.

Tumultuous nervousness exploded in Harry's chest. He was naked, on his

back, and…

One single glance down was enough to make the gravity of the situation
really sink in.

Voldemort's anatomy was…intimidating, was one way of putting it.

And this was not a dream.

Harry was here, actually here, on a bed with the Dark Lord looming over
him, full of longing and want, a desirous need that he could feel himself, and
this was actually happening, this was real—

Voldemort must have felt Harry's sudden anxiety, for he stopped what he was
doing and lifted himself up. His face was one of mild concern, but his irises
were bloody and red with lust.

"I will stop," he said quietly, his hands now resting on either side of Harry's
waist.

Harry swallowed thickly, no longer noticing the cold of the house as his skin
flushed. "I…I…"

What he was trying and failing to say was, I have never done this before, not
really, and am absolutely terrified of the reality of it. And I like being able to
walk.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it—

Voldemort could sense Harry's thoughts whether they were spoken out loud
or not.

Voldemort didn't say anything. He simply shifted so that he was no longer

straddling Harry's hips and was instead laying by his side, and before Harry
could have a single coherent thought, placed both of his hands on Harry's
face and pulled him into a surprisingly gentle kiss.

This would be enough, was the tender thought that danced across Harry's
mind.

This would be enough.

…It was almost too easy, then.

Harry's eyes closed and his lips parted, and it was all so fond and warm, so
simple. His anxiety slowly faded, forgotten in the warmth of what was only
soft lips and soothing fingers carding through his hair. Time ceased to exist.
The rain outside lessened until there was no longer water falling from the
sky. As the storm passed.

It was easy to forget to be nervous.

…Harry wasn't even sure how it happened.

One moment, it was all innocence and the reverberating belief that this was
all this needed to be…and the next, Harry was ending their kiss so that he
could place his lips on Voldemort's neck, so that he could be the one
ravishing, for once, and he found himself wondering, what does that
luminescent skin taste like…?

Harry felt Voldemort's shock as he broke away and brushed his lips against
his throat, running his tongue along the Dark Lord's neck. His skin was
blazing, and Harry adored it.

Voldemort's shock lasted only a second. All of the previous innocence

vanished, and powerful waves of a far stronger desire resurfaced. Harry
gently sucked at his skin, and couldn't help but feel incredibly haughty at how
the one act made Voldemort's yearning skyrocket, to the point where it was
difficult to stop it from affecting him, too.

"Harry…"

Voldemort's tone and thoughts were meant to be a warning, to make him

back off, but it had the opposite effect. Hearing the Dark Lord say his name
like that, like he was about to lose himself, and to know that he, Harry, was
responsible…

Well. He always had been a bit of an idiotic thrill-seeker, hadn't he?

Smirking, Harry slid one hand down the Dark Lord's chest, feeling every
indent from bone and muscle, committing the heat and smoothness of his skin
to memory. He hadn't even gone lower than his waist, but the simple action
of Harry touching him was enough to make the Dark Lord internally moan.

Internally. Harry was determined to elicit a real one.

Harry propped himself up on one elbow, leaving his hand on Voldemort's

chest. He looked down at him, the darkest and most powerful wizard in the
world, laid out beside him, and—

God, he was stunning.

He was, Voldemort was irrevocably gorgeous. The Dark Lord's new form
was such an ethereal, mesmerizing thing, it was actually overwhelming. His
radiant skin would put a polished, marble statue to shame; his glowing eyes
would make fires look dull and rubies seem lackluster. And his wings, those
transcendental appendages were nothing short of fascinating, a crimson
sunset of feathers that were like something out of a dream.
The Dark Lord's beauty was thought annihilating.

Harry didn't have time to just sit and appreciate it long.

Voldemort moved in ways that were as inhuman as his mesmeric appearance.

Harry didn't even see the motion happen, he was just suddenly on his back
again, the Dark Lord's hands on his wrists and legs on either side of his waist,
just as they had been when he had first brought them to this room…

Only now, all of Harry's anxiety was gone.

"I will show you true rapture…" came Voldemort's low, whispered purr in his
ear. His hands were teasingly slipping down his sides again, burning trails
into his skin as they went to his hips.

But…the Dark Lord's hands were currently wrapped around his wrists, so
how was it that he could feel his fingers grazing against his torso, too…?

Harry glanced down before looking at Voldemort's face, beyond confused.

Voldemort was smiling in a devious way that made him instantly concerned.

"H-how are you doing that?" Harry asked, breathless as he wondered wildly
if Voldemort had somehow managed to sprout not only wings, but an extra
set of hands, as well. Yet even as he glanced down again, feeling the
undeniable pressure of something on his chest, he could see nothing there.
"What kind of crazy magic is this?"

"The best kind," Voldemort replied, his smirk widening sardonically. The
feeling of hands which may not have actually been there continued, sliding
below Harry's waist. The Dark Lord leaned forward so that their chests were
nearly touching, whispering throatily.

"Mine."

And then Voldemort was biting at Harry's ear, simultaneously yet impossibly
pinning his wrists down at his sides while teasingly trailing phantom fingers
across Harry's inner thighs, so close, so—
Harry couldn't help it. The second he felt the ghostly sensation of whatever
brand of dark and sinful magic this was against his erection, he let out a
pathetic, desperate whimper, his back arching and hips bucking forward.
Voldemort's grip around his wrists tightened, holding him in place as he
continued to run his tepid tongue along the shell of his ear.

"Oh, fuck," Harry swore, his heart pounding. Feather-light, impossible

touches began to move up and down his hardened length, barely making
physical contact in the most torturous manner.

Voldemort relished the sound of his panting breath and racing pulse, Harry
could sense it, but he was keeping his own lust contained as he focused all of
his attention on Harry's pleasure…ever the controlled, meticulous Dark Lord.

The tormenting pressure against Harry's member increased slightly. He

moaned, a noise which immediately caused Voldemort to stop biting his ear
so that he could claim Harry's lips again, seemingly unable to stop himself
from devouring such deep, lust-filled sounds.

Then, as the Dark Lord ravaged Harry's mouth in a dominating way, another
sensation happened which made Harry's pounding heart flutter.

Something very warm and very wet slid between his legs, curling behind his
thighs and up between—

Panic.

Even though nothing else had stopped—the tantalizing rhythm of his length
being caressed, the burning kiss and hands holding down his shackled wrists
—that additional feeling and what it meant made Harry's previous
nervousness return with a vengeance.

Because—and he was trying not to look at it or think about it, though such a
thing was inevitable—the Dark Lord was huge, and Harry just didn't see how
that was conceivably going to work. It was a physical impossibility, really.

And this was not a dream.

Voldemort paused, reluctantly ending their kiss to look at Harry's anxiety-
riddled face. His eyes were the brightest that Harry had ever seen them, but
his voice was impressively cool and collected.

"Harry," he said, releasing his grasp on Harry's wrists so he could run his
fingers through his hair in a calming manner. "You must relax."

Harry's eyes snapped shut, barely suppressing what would have surely been a
very high-pitched, terrified laugh. Relax? Relax! Relax, says Lord fucking
Voldemort, while performing impossible god damn magic on his body and—
and thinking of putting that in him and—and he couldn't relax about that, he
couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't—"

"Breathe."

Harry's addled mind froze.

Because just then, in that moment, he could have sworn that the voice he
heard was not Voldemort's, but…

Harry opened his eyes, surprised that he was surprised. No, those were the
glowing, crimson eyes of the Dark Lord looking down at him, and he couldn't
see a trace in those scarlet irises of what this man may have once been.

…But Harry did breathe.

He inhaled deeply, trying not to panic. He instantly failed. Harry's heart leapt
in his throat when the pressure of something hot and slick slid between his
cheeks. His muscles tensed as he involuntarily tried to move his arms which
Voldemort continued to hold down at his sides, only with magic, now, rather
than his actual hands.

"Breathe…" The Dark Lord whispered the word in Harry's ear, and it was so
disarmingly endearing for a command.

Breathe.
"I will not hurt you… Never again."

Breathe.

Harry managed to lessen his own tension slightly as the light stroking of his
still hard length resumed, making his hips rock forward.

Breathe.

"Good," Voldemort praised, speaking between kisses with words like fire
against his neck. Harry exhaled slowly, earning another murmur of approval
from the Dark Lord. "So good, Harry…"

Then, without saying that he was going to do it, Harry felt that hot, wet
pressure slowly but gently enter him.

Harry gasped, fluttering sensations of deep annoyance that he hadn't been

warned, first. But the irritation vanished almost at once as Voldemort licked
and bit at his neck again, effectively distracting him.

And maybe it was just as well that he hadn't been warned, because otherwise
surely Harry would have been far tenser, had he known the intrusion was
coming. As it was, the penetration was not actually painful as he feared it
would be…though he knew with certainty now that this was only because
everything was so lubricated and warm.

And, undoubtedly, whatever invisible force the Dark Lord was using to pry
him open was much smaller than…than he was.

Harry…still tried not to think about that.

"Breathe…" Voldemort reminded, lips in his ear. Harry forced himself to

take in another deep breath, trying not to shudder in nervousness. "Good,
Harry," Voldemort purred. "Just breathe…and I will show you bliss…"

The force inside of him began to move, slowly pumping in and out, hot and
slick. It wasn't painful, but the sensation was so foreign, and a bit
uncomfortable, and—and he was just so tight—

A flickering but extremely powerful lust that definitely wasn't his tore across
Harry's mind. Voldemort's desires nearly breaking loose, but not quite, and
quickly contained.

Oh God, Harry thought, fearful again. Voldemort paused and ran his fingers
through Harry's hair again in an attempt to make him not linger on that
unintentional, near-loss of control on his part.

"Breathe," he repeated, because Harry just kept forgetting. "Breathe for me,
my perfection…"

Harry's breath hitched at the endearment, which was really counter-

productive to the request. Voldemort kissed his forehead and waited
patiently.

Finally, Harry closed his eyes and managed to draw some much needed air
into his lungs again. Voldemort murmured approvingly. "Very good,
Harry…"

The moment he exhaled, the wet heat started moving inside of him again,
slowly pushing in and out, in and out…

For a split second, it bordered on painful as he felt it stretching him. Harry

winced, about to cry out in protest when—

Oh, oh, oh.

Something changed completely, though Harry had no idea how or why.

Suddenly, the thrusting within his body had shifted from uncomfortable to
inexplicably good, like some kind of dormant nerves had just sprung to life
and been lit on fire in the best way possible.

A powerful wave of satisfaction blossomed from Voldemort's mind when

Harry gasped. The Dark Lord claimed his lips triumphantly as Harry's hips
started moving to the rhythm of his magical ministrations. Harry didn't
understand how he was doing any of it, but he stopped caring entirely as with
each impossible penetration Voldemort sent surges of pleasure wracking
through him.

Just as he thought it couldn't get any better, the stroking on his throbbing
erection started again, pumping his length in tandem with the powerful, deep
thrusts. All this while Voldemort's actual hands were tangled in his hair,
pulling his head back so that he had better access to his throat, which he was
biting with a growing viciousness, sucking forcefully at Harry's neck like he
was trying to mark him for life.

It was impossible, it was glorious, it was rapture…and Harry was sure that it
—and he—could not possibly last long.

"Yesss…" Voldemort whispered, nearly slipping into parseltongue and

almost pushing Harry over the edge right then. "Come for me, my beautiful,
gorgeous light…"

But even as nearly lost as he was in a sea of blissfulness, Harry was…

confused.

He had thought from the beginning that the Dark Lord wanted to…well, have
sex him. Actual sex. But this was, astonishingly, not the case.

Well, no, that wasn't right. Voldemort wanted to do exactly that—very, very
badly—but he wasn't planning on it. At least, not now.

At this moment, they only thought in Voldemort's mind was worshipping

Harry, making him moan and whimper and experience as much pleasure as
physically possible. Incredibly enough, Voldemort did not intend to actually
take him at all. His only goal was to make Harry happy…and that was it.

…Was it just his defiant nature? Or perhaps it was simply because Harry had
such a penchant for ruining all of Voldemort's carefully laid plans, no matter
what they were. Whatever the case may have been, the second Harry caught
wind of the Dark Lord's admittedly chivalrous intentions, he craned his neck
so that he was speaking right in Voldemort's ear, and said:
"I want you."

Everything paused. Voldemort's muscles went rigid, and the magic that had
been enchanting Harry's body stopped. The Dark Lord's eyes locked onto his,
and a dangerous, dark want coiled in the depths of Voldemort's mind.

Yes, yes—

"No." Voldemort's yearnings were once more beaten back, though less easily
this time. But when he spoke, his voice was firm. "No. Not now…not yet."

Harry's eyes narrowed. Voldemort's extreme self-control was somewhat

infuriating. "Why not?"

The Dark Lord said nothing in response, only lowered his lips to Harry's neck
again and resumed his previous proceedings of magically fucking him rather
than actually fucking him. Harry bit back another moan as Voldemort so
skillfully ravished him, nearly succeeding in distracting him, at bringing him
to his peak—

Nearly.

Harry pried Voldemort's face from his neck, forcing the Dark Lord to look at
him. Harry's eyes were positively gleaming.

"Fuck me," he ordered.

And with that statement, Harry James Potter once more thwarted the Dark
Lord and his meticulous plans.

In a jarring movement, Harry's legs were being spread and knees bent.
Voldemort's mind was a disorienting cloud of need which threatened to
consume him entirely. He barely had the presence of mind to pause before
plunging into Harry at once, eyes bloody and body aching with raw desire.

Harry was feeling too smug to be afraid, in that moment, even though he
knew that was completely unreasonable.
"It will hurt."

Saying the words out loud had an oddly sobering effect on the Dark Lord's
feverish mind. His face slid into one of concern. "It will hurt you," he said
again, shaking his head and returning to his previous state of rational lucidity.
"I will not—"

Harry angled his hips upwards. Voldemort's statement abruptly turned in to a

gasp as the tip of his length began to press into Harry's already slick entrance,
and there was something sosatisfying about that, about rendering the Dark
Lord speechless and making him gasp in shock.

"Please," Harry begged, whimpering breathily in a way that he knew would

drive Voldemort mad. Harry wrapped his arms around his neck, eyes wide
and beseeching.

"…Please."

The Dark Lord lost it.

Voldemort crashed his lips over Harry's in the same moment that he thrust
into him in a motion that was probably more forceful than it should have
been. Harry inhaled sharply, his nails digging into the Dark Lord's shoulders,
because yes, it did hurt—but not exuberantly so. It didn't feel like he had just
been ripped apart, at any rate…more than likely due to all of the preparatory,
lubricated magic-fucking, as Harry now thought of it.

But when Harry winced, Voldemort moaned.

It was a sound that was more than enough to distract Harry from whatever
pain he was experiencing. The Dark Lord involuntarily but actually moaning
in pleasure gave Harry such a heady rush of power than he felt dizzy with it.

He wanted to hear more.

"Gods, yes," Harry said, moving his arms so that he could drag his nails
down Voldemort's back.
Voldemort froze again, trying desperately to control himself. But he was
already too far gone, literally inside of Harry Potter, and there was no turning
back now...though he did try.

The Dark Lord slowly and carefully stared to pull out, nearly sighing as he
did, with every honest intention of stopping. "H…Harry—"

Whatever feeble argument Voldemort had been about to make died the
second Harry once more rocked his hips up towards him.

It was truly over, then.

Voldemort let out another throaty moan and his resolve fell apart. He thrust
into Harry again, and this time, though it still hurt somewhat, the pain was
less. The Dark Lord had felt it, too; he was able to sense that Harry was
feeling discomfort, but he couldn't stop anymore. Voldemort quickly fell into
a deep and satisfying rhythm, and it was all he could do to not be as violent
and rough and the darkest parts of him so dearly wanted to be.

Harry didn't mind the initial pain, though…and thankfully, it didn't last long.

Soon the same, nerve-wracking pleasure than Harry had been experiencing
earlier began coursing through him. It was somehow even more powerful
than just moments before, and far more powerful than what he recalled from
the dream. Everything was so intense, so real. Harry's nails tore across
Voldemort's back, his hands colliding with those magnificent, incendiary
wings.

"Yes, there, right there…" Harry whimpered when Voldemort increased his
force slightly, not even caring how pathetic he must have sounded. His hands
slid down Voldemort's back so that they were around his waist, pulling him
in more deeply with every thrust. He could feel his own climax starting to
build, and it was magnificent, absolutely intoxicating. "Don't stop, please…"

Voldemort stopped.

For a second, Harry thought it was simply because he had told him not to.
Frustration that bordered on appalled bubbled in his chest, and Harry was just
about to voice his extreme annoyance…when he felt them.

Emotions that weren't his, emotions that were an uncomfortable and sudden
mixture of worry, anxiety, and…shame?

Voldemort, personally, was past the point of being able to put those racing
thoughts into words. He was too consumed by lust, too far gone in pleasure.
Voldemort had not, after all, gone through any of the sobering discomfort
that Harry had just experienced. And now, being inside of him, hearing Harry
begging him not to stop fucking him because it was that good…

He hadn't paused because he felt the need to stop... No, Voldemort had
suddenly frozen because he was…

Ah.

"I want you to," Harry said, and he meant it.

The second he realized that Voldemort was on the verge of losing himself,
despite all of his intentions of absolutely not doing that and focusing only on
making Harry climax… Harry knew it was the one thing he wanted more
than anything.

Voldemort was trying so, so hard to wait, to take a moment and gather
himself enough so that he could possibly last longer and make Harry come
first. But Harry decided that no, he didn't want that. He wanted to watch the
Dark Lord's control crumble because of him, he wanted to witness
Voldemort's power buckle under the weight of a single, breathy word.

Harry wanted to own him.

Voldemort didn't have the resolve to stop himself when Harry bit at his ear
and again whispered, in such a pleading, simpering voice, "Please."

The Dark Lord plunged into him again; hard, deep thrusts that were much
faster than before. Harry gasped at the intensity of it, but he was so engrossed
by just how delicious the sounds of Voldemort's loss of control was that he,
unlike the Dark Lord, somehow managed to keep a level mind.

Lord Voldemort was overwhelmed by the seduction of Harry Potter, unable

to form coherent thoughts as he came dangerously close to his peak…and it
was beautiful.

"That's right," Harry coaxed, running his fingers up through his hair and
across the Dark Lord's scalp.

"Come undone for me."

He did.

At those words, Voldemort moaned louder than ever. He came, hard, spilling
out into Harry with a burning heat that was almost searing. The Dark Lord
buried his head into the crook of Harry's shoulder as he came, the throaty,
wordless sounds of his voice reverberating against his shoulder, so
completely lost in pleasure that his entire sense of self was gone.

There was only one discernible thought chorusing through the Dark Lord's
mind while he rode out the most staggering orgasm of his life.

Yours, yours, yours.

Harry smiled. "Good," he praised, one hand still in Voldemort's hair while the
other glided soothingly down his back. His orgasm seemed to last forever,
Harry could feel all of the pulsing, burning heat of it. The Dark Lord's
shoulders shook and his scarlet wings twitched and spread. Harry smiled up
into the feathers of crimson and orange above him, having never felt more
powerful in his entire life.

"…So good."

Voldemort's body slumped forward, falling onto Harry completely. He was

panting with exertion, trembling slightly in the aftermath of such an
overstimulating experience, his mind still incoherent. Harry's smile
broadened, unable to think of anything more impossibly endearing than this
—the Dark Lord reduced to something weak and quivering because he had,
for once, lost control completely.

And he had been the cause of it.

Harry pressed his lips to Voldemort's temple, content to simply wrap his arms
around the Dark Lord's shaky body and hold him until his heart rate slowed
and his lucidity returned…feeling supremely smug the entire time.

The first emotion which finally surfaced from Voldemort's state of absolute,
mind-numbing bliss was, adorably enough…embarrassment.

Harry smirked. Voldemort's mortification swiftly changed to one of

annoyance. At himself, certainly…but mostly at Harry.

Voldemort lifted himself up with his elbows on either side of Harry's very
haughty face. His crimson eyes narrowed. Harry tried not to laugh, but he
was feeling almost high on power at the moment.

The Dark Lord bent to him.

The surge of annoyance from Voldemort's end intensified. Greatly.

And it was so strange, too, because while he was truthfully agitated,

Voldemort was also still so obviously lovesick. Harry almost laughed again
when he felt the conflicting emotions flicker across his mind, of Voldemort
simultaneously wanting to hit him and kiss him.

Yet he did neither. "…When precisely did you become so astoundingly

arrogant…?" he whispered, looking at Harry but seeming to ask the question
to himself.

Harry answered, anyway. "Hm… Probably right around the time I had you on
your knees before me in the Great Hall, disarmed for the whole world to see."

The reaction was a lightning flash of spite.

One quick but vivid moment of rage, of pure and unfathomable fury. It was
instantly repressed, that bloodlust…but Harry had felt it, and it was more
than enough to knock him off of the power-high he had just been on back
down to cold, hard reality.

Reality, where he was currently pinned underneath that very source of spite.
Who was still inside him, in fact, while he laid on his back with magically
suppressing shackles around his wrists.

He…probably shouldn't have said that.

Bars. Rattled.

"Is that so?" came Voldemort's disquietingly cool response. His head tilted to
one side, examining Harry's face in a most ominous way.

He grinned.

Harry didn't even have time to be thoroughly afraid before Voldemort

grabbed him, and in another impossibly quick movement they were across
the room. The Dark Lord held Harry against the wall with his dangerous
brand of wandless magic. His arms were under Harry's legs, and he remained
still buried deep inside him the entire time.

"Is…that…so."

It wasn't a question the second time he said it. The words were a challenge,
and all of Harry's brashness dwindled as the Dark Lord dug his nails into his
hips, eyes flashing brightly.

When Harry didn't answer, Voldemort's grin became a bit more crooked. The
Dark Lord slowly dropped his arms and pulled out of him, and though it was
a relief to be able to unbend his legs and let his feet touch the floor, it was
also very…strange. Mainly because of the burning hot liquid that came
oozing out once Voldemort had removed himself completely, unusually
warm as it dripped down his thighs. And partially because, insanely enough,
Harry felt cold and empty at the loss of him.
Voldemort shifted away just far enough so that he could fully take in this
sight. His illuminated eyes scoured Harry's body, from his torso beaded in
sweat, to his still very hard erection, to what was the Dark Lord's own seed
sliding down his legs. Harry thought for a moment to ask him to vanish it, as
it wasn't exactly a comfortable feeling, that; but one look at the way
Voldemort's eyes flashed made him realize that there was simply no way he
would comply.

Not that Harry had the gall to be asking for favors, at the moment.

Voldemort tore his eyes away from Harry's body to look at his face. The Dark
Lord's expression was, in a word, dangerous.

His lips twitched.

Harry's arms went flying above his head, wrists pinned together by that
infuriating, invisible force. "Around the time you had me on my knees…"
Voldemort murmured, repeating Harry's words while brushing a few
wayward strands of hair from his forehead in a disarmingly affectionate
gesture.

Harry had a very bad feeling.

"And you could have me on my knees again…" Voldemort whispered,

pressing his lips into the center of Harry's throat as he swallowed thickly.

The Dark Lord began trailing his hot tongue across his collar bone. He then
lowered his head, kissing his chest and focusing for a moment on the scar in
the center and making Harry's heart flutter. But he didn't linger there long
before he was sucking and biting at one of his nipples, making Harry gasp at
the unexpected but thrilling jolt of pleasure that shot through him.

But again, Voldemort didn't spend long ravishing him there, and began to
burn his lips into Harry's ribs and stomach, across his abs until he was so low
that he did, in fact, have to kneel to—

"Oh."
Harry's back arched as much as it could against the Dark Lord's magical
restrictions. For Voldemort had begun to suck at the skin above his hip bone,
swirling his tongue in a terrible, teasing way.

Harry was in a state of disbelief that this could actually be happening—Lord

Voldemort on his knees before him about to—to do this, to him—but he
wasn't about to question it. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, hating that he couldn't
move his arms.

"But I…unlike you…" Voldemort murmured between molten kisses on his

hips, "am suddenly in no rush to…pleasure you…"

He looked up, then. Harry felt a jolt of terror when they made eye contact, for
at the very same moment he had said 'pleasure' out loud, Harry distinctly
heard the word 'torture' in his mind.

Voldemort laughed softly, his breath dancing across Harry's skin and making
him shudder. The Dark Lord returned his attention to running his tongue
alone one of his hips, then the other, across his lower stomach and edging
perilously close to his erection by kissing the dip above his thighs, but
leaving his throbbing, aching member untouched.

Harry was a mess in moments, keening pathetically as he kept trying to move

his arms in vein. "This…this is-ahhh-cruel and unusual p-punishment…" he
managed to gasp between simpering moans.

"I am Lord Voldemort," came the smooth reply, like it was an explanation for
everything.

Which it was, of course.

"Fucking…fuck," was Harry very sophisticated response to that. Voldemort

laughed again, and that hot, hot breath against him, knowing that his mouth
was just a fraction of an inch away, really was torture.

"Beg."
Voldemort voiced the command with his lips barely brushing against Harry's
length. Harry inhaled sharply at even that slight, physical contact, wishing
dearly that his hips weren't pinned forcefully to the wall.

Well, naturally, Harry just had to be stubborn. He shook his head, biting his
lower lip to stifle another pitiful whimper.

But Voldemort smirked. He kept his eyes locked on Harry's, now, speaking
every word against his cock so that Harry could feel the words, too. "Beg, my
beautiful tragedy…" he purred, dragging his nails down the sides of Harry's
thighs. "Beg for me… Tell me just how much you want thisss…"

Voldemort ran his scorching tongue down his length as he hissed the one
word in parseltongue, making Harry throw his head back when he whined.
Unfair, he thought viciously, his mind unhinging.

"Isssss that ssssso…" Voldemort hissed again. The dark amusement in his
voice was discernible even in the velvety tenor of the parseltongue. He began
kissing the indent of Harry's hips again, moving away from his cock and with
an air of indifference to the fact that Harry's head had begun weeping with
pre-cum, so desperate and aching for attention.

Harry couldn't handle it. "Please," he finally begged, voice cracking.

Voldemort didn't look up or respond to the one word, just kept running his
nails softly along Harry's thighs and kissing his lower stomach.

"Please, please, please," Harry tried again, past the point of caring how pitiful
it was.

"Mmmmm..." Voldemort whirled his tongue briefly around the tip of his
erection, hot and wet and oh, oh—

"More," the Dark Lord said dismissively, returning his attention back to
Harry's stomach.

Harry made what he had intended to be a vicious, angry snarl, but which
instead came out as just a much louder and far more deplorable cry.
Gritting his teeth and doing his best to ignore the emotions of how supremely
self-righteous the Dark Lord was feeling, he tried again. "Please, please,
I'll… oh, God, I'll do anything, please, just—just please do it, please, please
—"

His words were cut off by another sharp gasp when Voldemort ran his tongue
down his length again. "Ssssuch a ssssweet sssssound," he hissed. Harry's
mind was a conglomeration of desire, wanting nothing more in the world than
for the Dark Lord to just take him in his mouth already, to be lost in that hot,
wet warmth—there was no one else, there was nothing else—

"Yesssss…." Voldemort said approvingly, moving so that his lips were at the
tip of Harry's cock again. "No one elssssse…"

No one, Harry agreed, though the words were an abstract thought in his mind,
so far beyond speech he was.

Finally, Voldemort closed his lips around him, sliding his tongue down and
around his length and oh, God, it was divine—

How was it that the Dark Lord was so fucking good at everything he did?
Some part of Harry's baffled mind couldn't help but think that, because the
way he moved his tongue and lips so teasingly slow, up and down—it was
almost masterful, like he had been doing this all his life, and had he?

Lord Voldemort, king of sex and master of blow jobs. Well, however he had
acquired these questionable skills, Harry definitely wasn't complaining.

Because this, this was better than anything he ever could have experienced in
a dream. Just seconds into it and he was already right on the verge of coming,
knew he would not last long at all—

'Not yet…' came the smooth parseltongue, now in Harry's mind as the Dark
Lord's tongue swirled around his tip. And then, strangely, though
Voldemort's hands continued to caress his legs, Harry felt a firm…pressure,
from nowhere, encircling the base of his erection…
Voldemort's eyes flashed up to his, vibrantly red.

That was when Harry knew he was in deep trouble.

Because in that moment—when the Dark Lord was making eye contact with
him while on his knees and with his mouth around his cock—Harry knew he
would have come.

But he didn't.

It was rather like the shackles on his wrists which were suppressing his
magic. Only this pressure was stopping him from…

A dark and sinister wave of amusement swept across Harry's mind…and it

was obviously not his own.

Harry made a sound that was between a growl and a moan as he fully realized
what was happening. Voldemort continued his ruthless, masterful
ministrations of his hot mouth around him, and oh, God, it was surely the
most agonizingly pleasurable torture than anyone had ever been forced to
endure in the history of the world.

Harry was positive he was going to lose his mind. His erection was literally
painful, now, and it was a throbbing ache that only built the longer it went on,
the more time that Voldemort spent lavishing it with attention… He couldn't
stand it, it was so good, too good, he wanted, needed to come—

But no matter how much his body yearned for release, it just wouldn't
happen. The pain and pleasure were on par, now, and Harry's wordless pleas
were edging closer and closer in to outright screams.

Which was a real problem.

Not because Harry was embarrassed at the sound…but because of what was
happening to Voldemort.

Harry could feel it, even through all of his own tangled emotions. Voldemort
was breaking apart far more than he was, listening to the sound of his almost-
screams, and wanting to hear realones, needing the sound of his raised voice
in his ears, craving his pleasure and his pain, searing pain, delicious, all-
consuming pain—

Voldemort's fingers, which had been only lightly grazing Harry's legs before,
dug into his skin with a sudden, vicious tenacity. The stinging pain was too
intense, pushing Harry's strained vocal chords right into the scream that the
Dark Lord's deepest self had been yearning for.

The sound was his undoing.

His complete undoing.

Voldemort's mind went from semi-coherent to chaotic in a fractional

moment. Harry literally could not comprehend it, the way in which his
thoughts became completely tainted by blackness. A rapid infection of
darkness saturated the Dark Lord's entire being, and that was all he was.

The monster.

Harry's body was flipped and his stomach slammed into the wall in a jarring,
unconceivable movement. Voldemort, whose already shaky sanity was gone
in that moment, thrust into him with a renewed vigor, not even a second of
hesitation.

Fortunately, Harry was still slick from before, and so the hard and powerful
penetration didn't tear him open like it surely would have otherwise.

The first thing that happened was Harry instantly coming.

The moment that pressure was released from his cock and Voldemort hit him
right there, he came, body shuddering as he spilled out against the peeling
wallpaper with the Dark Lord's body pressed against him.

But Voldemort hardly noticed, and definitely didn't care.

The Dark Lord was no longer anything human, but a violent entity which
Harry had never seen in full force before. One hand tightly gripped Harry's
hair while the other dragged down his back, instantly drawing blood and
making his orgasmic moan turn into a high, perilous scream.

"Yessss," he hissed before thrusting into him again, stronger, deeper, more
forceful. The pleasure of his orgasm was still pulsating throughout Harry's
entire body, but so too was the stinging pain of being treated so brutally.
Harry would have never thought it possible, to feel such conflicting
sensations at the same time.

The pleasure was fleeting. The pain wasn't.

"Ssssscream for me," Voldemort demanded with another powerful thrust.

Both of his hands were now scraping across Harry's back, breaking into his
skin and bringing forth blood like thin, weeping red vines.

Harry did. He couldn't not scream under such intense pain. But the entire
situation was cyclical: Voldemort tore into him, Harry screamed, Voldemort
enjoyed it and therefore ripped into him again, eliciting more screams…

He was going to be shredded into pieces in moments.

"Stop!" Harry begged when the Dark Lord bit violently at his neck, causing
the worst damage yet. Harry's eyes watered as he felt the heat of his own
blood trickle down his chest.

But the plea, yet again, had the opposite effect. Voldemort's bloodlust rose
ever higher, biting down harder and delighting in this, the anguish of his
beautiful light, and he would make him suffer, make him share in the same
pain that he had experienced; he would take that light and darken it until it
was as black and as terrible as he was, and then, then he would never leave
him, because he would be an outcast, a monster, just like him...

"Stop!" Harry yelled, tears now streaming down his face. "Please, please stop
—Tom!"
Everything stopped.

The Dark Lord released his tight grip on Harry's body. The blackness in his
mind vanished, and in a second Voldemort had pulled away, retreating in a
rapid flash to somewhere behind him where Harry could not see.

Harry almost fell when the force of the Dard Lord's magic disappeared,
leaving him to stand independently on his own two feet. But he didn't. Harry
remained afoot, barely, his arms lowering as he leaned against the wall and
shuddered in pain.

His back and neck felt like they were on fire. And not in a warm, welcoming
way.

Harry's heart was racing, his thoughts still a web of panic and fear…but far
more powerful than that were the waves of emotion he felt coming from
Voldemort.

The Dark Lord, after a moment of numb realization, was instantly drowning
in terror. He was nothing short of horrified at what he had just done, looking
at the back of his beloved which was now covered in deep, terrible wounds;
scratches which he had caused, which he—

Harry glanced over his shoulder just in time to watch as Voldemort looked
down at his own hands…which were covered in Harry's blood, looking like a
stunned angel of death.

Voldemort's horror amplified a thousand-fold.

The Dark Lord made an excruciating sound that Harry couldn't even describe,
it was that awful. His instant remorse was unfathomable; because here, at his
fingertips, was the proof of what he was—a monster. Despite all of his
careful planning and strict intentions, he had done everything that he swore
he would not do, and he had caused pain, more pain to his only, and how
could he ever, ever have been so intrinsically idiotic to think for a moment
that this could possibly work? For how could someone as pure and light as
Harry was ever love someone as blackened and damaged as him? When this
was the devil he truly was, this was his inner demon? What had he done,
what had he done, what—

"Stop."

Voldemort's darkly saturated, widened eyes snapped up to Harry's, away

from his bloodied hands. Harry, as bold as he ever was, approached the
wizard who had just been tearing into him with a bravery he did not actually
feel.

"It's okay," he said, ignoring the stinging pain in his back. "It's okay… I'm
okay. And…and so are you."

Because Harry could see it all so clearly, now.

How many times had Voldemort referred to Harry as something 'fragile' or

'broken'? Because the truth was that, as hurt as Harry had been in the past, he
was nowhere near as delicate as the Dark Lord was, now.

Voldemort's inner darkness was like an animal that had been abused from the
moment it was born. Unloved and unwanted with its bones all broken and left
to heal at wrong angles, so that the result was a monster which had to learn to
move through the world in a disjointed, unorthodox way.

…But that wasn't all he was.

The Dark Lord may have had dangerous darkness within him, but he also had
a mind like a prism, scattering beautiful thoughts like an organized rainbow
when light struck it the right way. It wasn't easy to see, and that beauty was
skewed by shadows and spite…but Harry had seen it. It was a splendor that
just needed a spark to bring it to life, was all. Harry knew it was there, and he
knew it was real.

Just as this crushing remorse was real.

Harry approached him with a smile and slightly trembling hands, which he
wrapped around Voldemort's scarlet ones, ignoring the blood. "I'm okay," he
repeated reassuringly. Voldemort's eyes were shining, heavy with moisture.
There were messy, chaotic thoughts about wands floors away and healing
and must fix this, but Harry shook his head.

"It's okay. I'm fine… There will be plenty of time for healing later… But not
right now." Because he could tell, he recognized the signs of such panicky
behavior—if Voldemort left to retrieve either of their wands, there was a very
good chance that he may simply flee, remove himself from the presence of
Harry Potter once and for all and never come back.

Harry's smile broadened, unwilling to let that happen. The one who needed
healing wasn't him, after all, it was the Dark Lord…and he would never be
able to if he didn't have light.

"I promise, Tom."

A horrible choking sound escaped Voldemort's throat. His mind was an

absolute, tragic disaster, but Harry could feel one thought above all others,
loud and clear. Unworthy, the Dark Lord thought, as Harry pulled him to his
chest. Voldemort's head fell onto Harry's shoulder, and he felt the moisture of
cool tears there; the only part of the Dark Lord which was not unnaturally
hot.

I am unworthy.

"No, you're not," Harry said, and even though he knew that he had every right
to be furious about what had just happened, he simply wasn't. Maybe he was
just too soft for his own good. It hardly mattered, though, because in that
moment he felt nothing but pity for this deeply disoriented and self-loathing
man. Voldemort didn't want to be a monster—at least, not anymore—he just
was, in part, and something which had been seventy years in the making
wasn't going to change overnight.

He needed time.

"You're not unworthy," Harry continued. "No one is unworthy of love… No

one. And you have mine."
Voldemort's breath hitched. Half of his mind was lit up in hope despite
himself, but the other, far more reasonable part was riddled with doubt—for
how could Harry love him, having just experienced the savage horror that
was his reality?

Harry gently lifted Voldemort's face from his shoulder so he could look at
him. "I do," he said confidently. "I love you. All of you. In fact, I love the
darkest parts of you the most."

Voldemort was beyond stunned. Why? his mind asked while his lips parted
uselessly, unable to speak.

Harry laughed, and he sounded rather nonchalant about it all.

"Because that is where you need it the most, of course," he said, his smile
widening.

Evidently, he could have said nothing more heart-wrenching. Voldemort

experienced actual, physical pain in his chest at those words which were
spoken so casually, but which irrevocably altered the Dark Lord's entire
world.

Yet unworthy was still the chorusing, powerful mantra in his mind.
Voldemort pulled Harry to his chest and cried.

The cool tears pooled on his shoulder and fell down his chest, and for a
while, Harry was content to just let it go on… Would have all night, in fact,
his entire life, if that was what Voldemort needed…but his body and his soul
were not in alignment. He could hardly support his own weight at the
moment, let alone the Dark Lord's. After only a few moments of supporting
this despairing, beautiful wizard before him, Harry felt what was left of his
strength diminish, and knew he would soon fall.

But Voldemort felt it, too. Sensing Harry's exhaustion brought forth a new
sense of determination in him. The very least he could do was take care of
Harry now, after all that he had been through, after that he, the Dark Lord,
had done.
Straightening his posture, Voldemort swiftly wiped his tears away, like he
could just pretend they had never been. But when Harry looked down at his
chest, he saw the incredible, irrefutable proof of them there.

There was a single line of tears that had trailed directly down his sternum,
right across where the oval scar on his chest was from the locket… and where
that streak of tears had gone through it, that linear portion of the scar was
gone…

Harry felt a myriad of powerful, conflicting emotions at the sight. They

ranged from simply 'How?' to an enraged, 'But that was all I had left of him!',
to 'If you can heal the scar, can you heal the pain?'

But the second thought was the one that rang the loudest.

Voldemort fought against the instinct to recoil at once. His instant inclination
was to disappear at such painful thoughts, knowing he was a poor
replacement for the person he once was…but he didn't. Voldemort gathered
Harry into his arms. It was an easy feat, considering how completely drained
he was.

Just one more blame which fell on the Dark Lord.

Harry didn't even have a chance to attempt another logical thought before
Voldemort was placing him gently on the pristine, white sheets they had
arrived on. The Dark Lord cradled him in his arms so that Harry's head was
on his chest, his wings spread out underneath them and curling around
Harry's body like a gorgeous, feathery blanket.

Harry sighed involuntarily at the welcome heat. The bizarrely panicked

thoughts from before vanished, and Harry sighed in blissful contentment.

He was just so, so tired.

"Rest, love," Voldemort murmured, pressing his lips into Harry's forehead as
he spoke. "Rest."
Harry had already started to drift to sleep the moment he was laying down.
He struggled against the weight of slumber, now. "What about you?"

Voldemort laughed. "I do not need to sleep often… And I never will while
you do, my perfection. I will be your living torch through the night, awaiting
your return…"

Harry was too drained to decide if that was creepy or endearing. It was
always a bit of both with the Dark Lord, wasn't it? Harry laughed breathily.
"I…I seriously can't think of a single person worse for me in the world than
you."

Voldemort's shoulders tensed in anxiety. Harry laughed again at the response,

only partially lucid as he burrowed his head more firmly into Voldemort's
chest like it was a heated pillow. "I guess that…that makes you perfect," he
said, a statement which was disrupted by a long, drawn-out yawn.

He'd said it nonchalantly enough, but Voldemort's blackened heart swelled

with emotion. He reached down and wrapped his hands around Harry's
wrists.

It took a moment for Harry to realize through his own drowsiness what
Voldemort was doing. The shackles… The magically suppressing bands, the
Dark Lord was removing them…

He felt it the moment they were gone. Harry's own magic sparked back to
life, no longer smothered under the weight of such debilitating suffocation.

"I love you," Voldemort whispered with his mouth against Harry's forehead.

Harry smiled lazily, lifting his head up to look into those annihilation eyes of
vibrant red.

And wasn't it insane, that this should be the place where he felt the safest, the
most content? With his magic happily coursing through him again, here, in
the Dark Lord's arms?
But he did. Harry had never felt more at home, looking up into crimson irises
and thinking that this was what he wanted, and everything else—wars,
politics, progress—be damned.

Voldemort smiled back before pressing his lips to Harry's in a chaste and
loving way.

It was beautiful, it was innocent.

It was when the world really did fall apart.

 47. Morsmordre
Notes for the Chapter:

Just a few random notes - I officially have a patreon page, if you were
reading 'Treasure' before or are interested in reading my original work. I
guess we're not supposed to put links here? But if you go to the patreon
site and search ObsidianPen you'll find me.

And for this chapter... you might want to reread chapter 17 first? Just a
super fun suggestion.

At first, Harry thought nothing of it.

He assumed the strange tingling that started in the pit of his stomach when
Voldemort kissed him was just the familiar sensation of butterflies coming to
life…and it did feel like that.

But when the fluttery feeling curled up his spine in an unnatural way, he
knew something was wrong.

Voldemort tensed as Harry's weary contentedness faltered. Harry felt his

concern, his pure and innocent worry that he had done something.

And then the Dark Lord's mind was suddenly a vicious sea of pain.

True love was a curse, and it had been waiting on Harry's lips. A spell which
had lain dormant until that very moment when the suppressing shackles had
been removed, and the Dark Lord had lowered his mouth so chastely onto
Harry's.

Like a viper, fierce magic sunk its teeth into the Voldemort's very core. It
clamped on, savagely tight, making it impossible for either of them to break
the kiss while the curse ran its course.

Horrific pain, unfathomable pain. It was filtering into the Dark Lord's soul
like poison.

Harry panicked; his confusion and exhaustion quickly turning into lucid
thought as he realized exactly what was happening. But how, and why, and—

Memories.

The Dark Lord didn't need to rip through Harry's thoughts in order to see
them. Their minds were already so connected and open to one another that he
merely had to look to see… And he absorbed the memories in rapid flashes.

…Harry is sitting across from Severus Snape and the others, in the Room of
Requirement…

"We can use this."

Snape's voice is sinister and gleeful. Harry stares, eyebrows raised in

expectation.

"Love…this kind of love… This opens up an entirely new branch of magic to

us. The most powerful and ancient kind, a kind which the Dark Lord knows
nothing about… We can use this… We can use this."

"Love?" Harry asks, and his companions clearly share his skepticism. "How
can we use…love magic, to hurt anyone?"

Snape's eyes glisten and his lips curl into a baleful grin. "Anything can be a
weapon, so long as the orientation is correct. Magic—dark, light, whichever
—is all essentially the same at its core. Counter-curses are really just a
different configuration of the curses they are meant to undo. Light magic can
be twisted into something very dark and dangerous indeed, if one knows how
to do the twisting…and I have learned from the best."

A short but pertinent pause in which Snape's expression becomes blank. "But
the real question is…are you prepared to be the vessel for such debilitating
magic?" Severus leans across the table, dark eyes blazing. "You will need to
say and do things which you are unwilling to do. You will need to be
convincing in the most pristine manner, and you will need to do it while
maintaining flawless Occlumency barriers. Can you do this? Are you willing
to set aside your chivalrous tendencies and embrace your Slytherin nature?
Do you believe yourself capable of being a deceptive, cunning, believable
liar…?"

Harry laughs, but it is a mirthless sound. His eyes are not alight with the same
warmth that the Dark Lord has just experienced in reality, but are hardened
and cold. "Can I lie?" he asks in a sarcastic voice. He grins. "But of course,
professor… I have learned from the best."

He raises a tea cup in Snape's direction, toasting him. Severus's crooked smile
returns, and there is nothing but a brutal mutuality between them, nothing but
a shared desire for vengeance.

Nothing but spite.

Harry barely felt the flickering sensations of extreme shock and betrayal
before the Dark Lord left his mind. Immediately afterwards, Voldemort's own
Occlumency wards flew up with a colossal and impenetrable force. But still
his lips were still glued to Harry's, and though he tried desperately to pull
away from him, already, the Dark Lord was too weak…

The curse was draining him of his energy, of all he had…and Harry himself
could do nothing at all to stop it.

No, no, wait, no, Harry thought chaotically, trying with all of his might to
disrupt the curse, to sever the spell which felt like a cold oil slick in his mind,
but which must have felt like daggers into the heart of its intended victim,
Lord Voldemort.

But why, why was it happening? Harry didn't understand, he had said, Snape
had said that it would only work if—
'Remember… It will only work if you don't want it.'

…It?

Harry had always thought, had always assumed that Snape had meant that the
curse would only work if the Dark Lord forced himself on him—if he didn't
want him, if he didn't want Voldemort to touch him, to kiss him…

Yet now, Harry realized with a crushing dread…he had been wrong.

He remembered, then, quite suddenly and vividly… Harry recalled that

critical moment in the Room of Requirement, where Harry and Snape had
plotted against the Dark Lord… Where Harry had distracted Voldemort with
the promise of a kiss…

But the truth of it was that Harry had been just as enthralled, equally
debilitated. That façade was no façade at all, not really, and Bellatrix and
Snape had both seen it…

The Potions Master had never for a moment trusted Harry not to fall prey to
the Dark Lord's advances. Severus Snape had deceived him…just as he had
deceived everyone else.

It was a clear and devastating comprehension.

And wasn't that the dreadfully ironic, gut-wrenching horror of it all?

Everyone thought that this was a war between Harry Potter and Lord
Voldemort: light versus dark, good versus evil, and that the two of them were
the hero and the monster facing off on either side of the battleground in this,
the Second Wizarding War…

But the reality was that the mastermind was Snape, and it had always been
Snape. The traitorous, conniving turn-cloak who orchestrated everything
from underneath the guise of this person's comrade, of that wizard's servant,
or as a dead man, winning a war while thought to be a corpse by all parties
involved…
But Snape only served one person's agenda…and it was his own.

Harry attempted to stand, but could only manage to kneel as Voldemort's

strength faded and he became useless and heavy against him. Harry's muscles
screamed in protest when he tried and failed to move. Blood dripped down
the open wounds on his back, staining the white sheets below them with
splatters of vivid crimson. The Dark Lord weakly tried to push Harry away in
another pitiful attempt at escape. Yet neither of them could break the kiss,
and the curse continued to reduce Voldemort to something which would soon
be utterly helpless.

Love…was a burden.

No, no, no.

Harry couldn't quiet his horrified thoughts, nor could he get through
Voldemort's mental walls to try and explain—he hadn't wanted to do this to
him, he hadn't, he hadn't—

But the Dark Lord's mind was not being affecting in the same way that his
body was, and his Occlumency wards held strong against Harry's
unsophisticated attacks. Voldemort's physical form was being corrupted and
drained, but his mind was untouched.

Voldemort could feel and comprehend everything.

No, no, no.

All of the frigid darkness which had started in the depths of Harry's soul
finally left him, having fully filtered into the Dark Lord's own lovesick, open
heart.

The curse wouldn't have worked, otherwise. If it wasn't true love.

The moment it was completely out of him, Harry was able to end their tragic,
cursed kiss. But it was too late. The damage had already been done, and there
was no stopping what was about to unfold.
Voldemort fell onto Harry's chest, his body wilted and wholly vulnerable. His
wings were limp at his sides, and he was dead weight in Harry's arms.

No, no—

The earth shook. The sky fell apart.

Mentally cognizant but magically and physically depleted by the curse,

Voldemort's wards above the grounds fell apart. Harry could see the
shimmering fragments of them through the window, where it no longer
rained and the clouds had begun to part. Beams of sunshine highlighted the
fractured edges like silver lines of broken glass.

The house, too, was shattering. The wooden floor contorted beneath them,
creaking and groaning under the stress of the curse which permeated the air
with a nearly tangible weight. The windows split and broke apart. The ceiling
was cracking in half, showering them in bits of splintered wood and dust.
Powerful magic was rolling across the grounds like a siren; an earth-
shattering, magical signal.

Riddle manor was falling apart around them…and there was no question
about who was responsible.

'…The moment his lips touch yours, I shall know. I can use my connection
through the Dark Mark to feel the distress as a summons, as it shall be my
curse. And I am certain that I will have no issue with dismantling his wards,
especially considering that he shall be in a weakened state… I have done it
before, after all.'

'And then what, professor?'

Harry's mind was lost to panic. He started to get up, thinking instantly of his
wand, he needed his wand—but the second he began to stand he froze, unable
to let go of Voldemort, who could hardly lift his head to look at him, and—

…How long had he looked for it?

How long had Harry stared searchingly into the Dark Lord's eyes, desperate
and longing? How long had he examined this ethereal new face and tried to
find it there? Some semblance of the person he used to be, some fraction of
the boy he had fallen for—the companion in his dreams, his angel in the
darkness?

Harry had never been able to find it, before. There had never been a trace of
Tom Riddle left in the features of Lord Voldemort.

He could see it, now.

It was in the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips. It was in the tragic
expression written on his porcelain skin, one which Harry did not have a
name for. One which said:

What have you done?

Harry's heart felt like it had been cleaved in two.

They were out of time.

The roof broke open completely, reminding Harry of the shattered home he
had just left behind as the hole in the ceiling revealed a mottled sky of gray
and blue. Harry toppled off of the bed when the ground shook, unable to stop
himself from falling with the additional weight of the weakened Dark Lord.
He landed on the fissured floor on his injured back, shouting out as a sharp
pain shot up his spine. Voldemort fell with him, and it was all Harry could do
to hold on to him, wrapping his arms around his waist in the most defensive
way possible.

A brilliant light shot up into the air from somewhere on the grounds. Harry
looked up towards the sky and screamed.

Above them, a celestial body depicting a skull and serpent had manifested. It
was so bright that it shone like a beacon, even against the clouds, even in the
thin beams of sunlight.

No, no, no.

They were out of time.

The Dark Mark was an instant lure. Harsh cracking sounds like gun shots
erupted all around them, signifying what Harry knew at once must be the
Order.

No, no, no.

"Harry?"

"It's Harry Potter!"

Aurors and Order members everywhere. And Harry was screaming, hurt and
bleeding, and on top of him was the Dark Lord, and both of them were naked,
and what must it look like—but they didn't know, they didn't know—

Over a dozen wands were pointed at Voldemort's back. Harry glanced

fleetingly at them, his vision blurred by welling tears.

He didn't know most of the witches or wizards, but Harry's eyes quickly
landed on Tonks. Her hair was long and black, but he recognized the heart
shaped face and small, feminine lips.

Though her eyes were cold. Dark, cruel, empty—like nothing that Harry had
ever seen on her before.

"Get off of him!" she shouted threateningly. Tonks held her wand high. Her
tone was high and murderous.

"Wait!"

Harry held the Dark Lord more tightly to his chest, pushing himself up so that
he was sitting up. Voldemort was limp in his grasp. "Wait, no—"

"Move."

Snape.

The Potions Master finally appeared. Harry had known he must be near, that
he had been the one to destroy the wards and cast the Dark Mark into the
sky…

But there was nothing which could have prepared him for this moment.

The Order members looked stunned at his appearance, though the entire
wizarding world now knew that Severus Snape was both alive and on
Dumbledore's side thanks to the story issued in The Daily Prophet. Snape
stood before them with his acquired wand drawn, his expression carved in a
cold and unfathomable fury.

It was a rage which was directed solely at the Dark Lord. For here he was,
finally, his former master weak and vulnerable before him, and now he had
what was left of the Order of the Phoenix at his side…

"No!" Harry screamed, shaking his head as tears spilled out onto his face.
Voldemort was lifeless against his chest, but Harry wouldn't let them have
him. To me, he thought chaotically, willing the Deathstick to come to its
master—but the Elder Wand may as well had been worlds away—

"Let go, Harry."

Harry was too distraught to form words any longer. He merely shouted in
denial, panic and horror in his voice, but his frazzled mind screamed what his
lips were unable to say.
He stared right into Snape's eyes when the thoughts broke from his mind.
Thoughts like:

'But I just got him back—'

'Please, no, no, no—'

And,

'But I lo—'

Snape looked away.

If the Potions Master felt anything at all about finding Harry bloody and
naked at Riddle Manor, mentally professing honest love for his former
captive, he did not let it show. Snape remained as unreadable as always, even
now.

A spell collided with Voldemort's back, and the Dark Lord was yanked from
Harry's grasp. Harry shrieked in protest, but another hex came just as quickly,
effectively ending his shouts of terror and rendering him voiceless.

No.

"Grab him!"

The Dark Lord was moved, shoved, pinned by his arms to the floor and
sprawled out on his back, completely exposed.

"What's happened to him?"

"Is he unconscious?"

Voldemort's eyes were open, just barely— a cool and deadened red.

"No—he's awake, but—"

"How does he have wings?"

Snape was towering over him. There was not a trace of pity in his bottomless
eyes as he examined the cursed, dark wizard, his former master, the murderer
who had ended the life of Lily Evans.

"Are those phoenix feathers?"

"What in the hell—Severus, what is going on!?"

The Order's confused shouts rang like they were sounding from across a great
distance. There was a dull ringing in Harry's ears, and he was so exhausted,
so worn despite his panic, that it almost felt unreal—like perhaps this was all
just a dream, and he had simply fallen asleep in the Dark Lord's warm arms
after all. Like maybe he would wake up at any moment, and this would all
have just been a horrible, horrible nightmare…

But it wasn't.

"Someone cast a killing curse already!" one of the younger wizards shouted,
his wand shaking in his hand as he pointed it at the Dark Lord.

"It will not work. He is unable to be killed as he is," Snape said levelly, to
which everyone gaped. "We must hold him, for the time being."

"We cannot hold him with phoenix feathers attached to him…"

Kingsley responded in a disarmingly cool and collected tone. He stood at

Snape's side, aiming his wand down at Voldemort and looking at his feeble
form with a detached look on his face.

Snape brandished his own acquired wand, and from it sprouted a blade which
Harry recognized all too well. It was a deep yet vivid crimson, glowing and
emanating such a dark energy that Harry instantly thought that he would be
sick. It was the same cursed blade which had been pressed to his throat, just
days before, which had felt like death against his skin.

"Turn him over."

Understanding washed over everyone at the very same moment. Tonks and
the other young wizards who were holding Voldemort by his arms moved as
one, forcing him onto his stomach so that his back was exposed, and—

Harry's mind was a tempest.

His screams of rage were wordless as he saw what they intended to do. Static
rolled across his skin; he could taste a storm brewing in his mouth—this
would not happen, he would not allow it—he would tear apart the world and
every single soul in it before—

They all turned in shock as Harry got to his feet, bloody and savage.
Lightning crackled around his clenched fists, and his eyes were a bright and
disarming green.

"Contain him!"

Kingsley and the others descended upon him, wands raised and casting
nonverbal spells. And maybe, if he had not been so drained, or if it had just
been one or two, Harry could have prevailed. If it had just been Snape, like
Harry had thought it would be, maybe he would have stood a fighting chance
—even wandless, even exhausted.

But Severus Snape, as always, had been prepared.

Harry managed to dodge the first stunning spell which went soaring over his
head, and even the next—some curse he did not know—but when Kingsley's
hex was fired, it hit him square in the chest.

It felt like being dowsed in a bucket of ice water.

Instantly, all of the static and heat which had been bubbling in Harry's veins
went cold, like an inferno being put out by a monsoon. His bones turned
frigid, and the electric currents in his mind became numb.

No, Harry thought, as a strange sensation began filling him up from the inside
out. It felt like cotton, cool but soft, pressing against his skin. Suppressing.
Similar to the snake-like shackles which had been around his wrists, only
gentler in their debilitation.

The world was getting darker.

No.

Harry refused to be pulled under the veil of unconsciousness again. He fell to

his knees, trying desperately to explain, to tell them everything—he looked
into Kingsley's eyes as the man continued to keep his wand pointed at him,
thinking furiously—but if the wizard was practiced in Legilimency and could
understand his torrid thoughts, he did not react.

No.

Snape had already returned his attention to Voldemort.

Harry watched in dread as the Potions Maser raised his sinister blade. The
Dark Lord was being held down by his arms on his stomach, now, though the
force was hardly necessary. Voldemort could hardly keep his eyes open, let
alone fight back.

And that was the greatest horror of all.

He was still awake.

Harry was, too.

They were eye-level as Harry fell to his side, Kingsley's curse making him
struggle to remain awake. He tried desperately to rekindle the tempest which
he knew was within him, but the storm was unreachable, and he was just too
weak.

What have you done?

Tom's eyes sang songs and spoke tragic accusations.

What have you done?

Harry's temple hit the floor, and his tears fell onto the distorted wood.

What have you done?

His vision was blurred, but Harry saw and heard it all. The sinister glow of
Snape's raised blade bathed the room in a deep and disturbing crimson.

The aurors held out the Dark Lord's lifeless wings and waited. Harry no
longer had a voice to scream, though his lips parted uselessly and his vocal
chords burned. He looked at Tom and willed him to hear thoughts which
were doomed to go unheard, lost apologies and remorse which he knew
would die within the confines of his own mind like neglected, caged birds.

"Retribution," Severus said softly.

The blade came down with a swift and unforgiveable dexterity, and the result
was red, visceral, all-consuming red, every corner of the room and the manor
and the world knew red, red—

Black.

It went on, and on, and on.

Voldemort laid sprawled on his stomach in his vast and endless mindscape of
darkness.

Unconsciousness…

It had finally consumed him, somewhere in the midst of such unfathomable

agony. His weakened body had been unable to stay above the threshold of
cognizance under such…pain.

The physical pain…had been the least of it.

The emotional pain…had been far worse.

Something sickeningly warm was flowing against his arms. Blood, he

realized vaguely, even in his oblivion. Blood was spilling around his body,
pouring from the searing, open wounds on his back. It swept across the black
ground of his dream; two puddles of deep scarlet pooling like some sort of
sick travesty of the wings that no longer were.

Harry had betrayed him.

Of course he had. Why wouldn't he? Harry was on the other side of this war,
after all. He had said so himself. Yet Voldemort had decisively chosen to
ignore this fact, had been blinded by his own love…

He was a fool.

The Dark Lord supposed he should have felt incredibly devastated by such a
revelation...and he had, initially...he had felt horrendous pain upon realizing
what a trap he had fallen into…

But he did not. Not anymore.

He did not feel anything at all.

Voldemort felt numb.

A soft and nearly indiscernible sound caused the Dark Lord to turn his heavy
head. With his temple pressed against a cold ground, he looked up, his vision
unfocused in the darkness…
Albus Dumbledore.

Donned in robes of deepest black like fabric shadows. He no longer appeared

young and vibrant as he had before. Dumbledore looked older and more
decrepit than ever, even somewhat translucent. There was no expression on
the former Headmaster's face, which was reminiscent of a skull, it was now
so pale and gaunt. His piercing, blue eyes were deadened.

Did you foresee this as well, Dumbledore…?

Voldemort couldn't actually vocalize the words, but he knew that Dumbledore
could hear them. The Headmaster's expression fell into something tragic.

The blood continued to pour. Dumbledore's light skin flickered.

Did you know this would happen, all along…? Did you foresee this—love—
as my downfall, Albus…?

The Headmaster looked like he may have shook his head in denial, then, but
it was difficult to tell. The darkness which shrouded him, which made up all
of Voldemort's despairing dreamscape, began to swarm the semi-transparent
wizard from all sides.

He was fading.

But the Dark Lord supposed it did not matter, what his response may have
been…or even what the reality was, for that matter. The Headmaster could
have said anything.

He could have said that Tom Riddle's life was an unfortunate tragedy, and it
simply was not fair, how it had transpired…or he could have said that it was
what he deserved, in the end. That the Dark Lord had done this to himself.

Either way, Voldemort felt numb.

Dumbledore's fleeting form vanished completely, swallowed by cold and

endless shadows…and Voldemort knew that he would never be back.

The Dark Lord felt nothing at all at the realization.

Nothing at all.

Notes for the Chapter:

...It's not over yet.

It's not over.
 48. Black and White
The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

Harry had returned to Grimmauld Place in the quiet, dead of night.

Nearly two weeks had passed since Riddle Manor had been destroyed.
Thirteen days…and Harry had been in a magically induced coma nearly the
entire time.

He remembered those final moments before his blackout far too clearly.

His body, heavy and weak under the weight of Kingsley's curse, sinking to
the ground as he stared beseechingly into the eyes of the fallen Dark Lord…

What have you done?

Harry pushed the palms of hands against his eyes, forcing away the
horrifying memory.

He hadn't been able to handle the bloodshed for long. He had passed out.
Maybe it had been because of Kingsley's curse, maybe it had been his own
mind which simply couldn't witness the crimson tragedy a moment longer.
Either way, Harry's red, red world had gone black.

It felt like only seconds had passed by the time he had awoken in St.
Mungo's. There were no nightmares, no strange dreams. Just a fleeting
moment of darkness before his eyes fluttered open to white sheets and a
solitary, sterile environment.

Harry had been able to tell several pertinent things the very moment he'd
come to.
The first was that a significant amount of time must have passed. He knew
this because there was a table on the far side of the room which was covered
with a myriad of items, such as old issues of The Daily Prophet, brightly
colored packages, sweets, and massive piles of letters. A bundle of balloons
was tethered to a weight on the ground, one of which said 'Get Well Soon!' in
giant letters. But they must have been old, because the charm which had been
making them float was beginning to fade. They hovered half-heartedly when
Harry saw them, nearly touching the floor as they slowly deflated.

There were several other things there, too, which made it clear who some his
visitors had been.

His Firebolt was leaning against the wall with a piece of parchment tied to the
handle: a drawing of what Harry knew was supposed to be a snake, but which
was rendered terribly and looked like a tube sock with a forked tongue.

Hedwig was perched in her cage by his bedside, sleeping peacefully with her
head tucked beneath her wing.

And under his pillow…

Harry had been astonished at what he'd found stuffed underneath of his heavy
head when he finally pushed himself up.

His Invisibility Cloak.

Who had gotten ahold of his Invisibility Cloak? Harry had left it with Snape
before he'd left. He'd done so because the older man had wisely pointed out
that Harry wouldn't need it to meet the Dark Lord, and would only risk
having it taken away from him if he did...

Harry highly doubted that Severus Snape would leave even an unconscious
Harry Potter with a means of hiding himself completely. No, someone else
had stolen it and left it for him in secret, so that Harry would find it once he'd
woken up.

But who had done it? There had been no note… Ron, maybe? Harry was still
unsure.

Another thing Harry had been instantly certain of was that no one expected
him to become conscious when he did. Whatever had occurred, it was clear
that everyone assumed Harry would be asleep for a much longer period of
time. Otherwise there would have been people around, surely? In case he
unexpectedly woke up? Then again, it had been nearly two in the morning
when Harry had checked his watch in the semi-darkness of his secluded
hospital room.

Maybe the Healers had been giving him routine doses of Dreamless
Draughts, Harry thought. Perhaps they had been keeping him asleep and
unable to dream on purpose, waiting to wake him up until everything had…
blown over.

Probably. That definitely sounded like the kind of ploy Snape would be
behind.

And Snape must have been behind it, Harry knew it, because there was
another unfortunate, familiar sensation which he had noticed the second he'd
become cognizant.

Occlumency barriers. The itchy, foreign mental walls that he had been forced
to endure when he'd first been rescued by the Potions Master. Harry had
barely had the sense of mind to not rip them to shreds with as much violence
as he could muster the second he felt them. Because if he did, Snape would
be able to sense it, and he would know that Harry was awake.

Harry wasn't about to be outsmarted again. If he was being kept asleep in the
wizarding hospital on purpose, he wasn't about to alert anyone to the fact that
he'd woken up without permission—especially not Snape.

Yet even then, even when Harry was filled with a fresh, bitter rage towards
the man as he'd awoken, Harry had a feeling that Snape wasn't quite the
monster which Harry would prefer to envision. Because otherwise, Harry
would never have been brought to St. Mungo's in the first place. If Snape
really had wanted only to get revenge against Lord Voldemort, then Harry
wouldn't have woken up in a hospital with mental walls in his mind,
protecting him.

Snape may have used him to finally capture the Dark Lord…but Harry had a
feeling he still intended to do whatever necessary to save his life.

Harry shoved that thought aside, too. It was easier to just be angry at his
former professor for what he had done. And he had been nothing short of
enraged when he'd first woken up, scratching at his scalp uselessly.

Harry had scrambled out of his bed wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown.
He was angry and confused, but he physically felt much better than he had in
a long time. Hedwig had stirred then, too, fluffing her feathers and hooting
cheerfully at the sight of her owner, finally awake.

It didn't take Harry long to figure out what to do once he'd found the treasure
hidden under his pillow.

He'd grabbed the cloak, the many issues of The Daily Prophet (all of which
had alarming headlines and none of which he could read right then and
there), and his broom. He released his snowy owl from the confines of her
cage and donned his Invisibility Cloak.

Harry James Potter then made yet another grand escape, sneaking out of St.
Mungo's Wizarding Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries by soaring
straight out of the window. It was surprisingly easy—which was just further
confirmation to him, really, that no one expected him to wake up at that
point. He and his faithful pet took to the air, and Harry regrettably left
Snape's awful Occlumency barriers untouched…for the time being.

Maybe it was just because he, Harry James Potter, was the rightful owner.
Perhaps it was because the wards recognized him from before. Whatever the
reasoning, Harry had no problem finding and getting into Number Twelve,
Grimmauld Place.

The old house seemed even drearier than when Harry had first entered into it
years ago. Dark, depressing, and dismal. Harry lit up the light sconces and
locked the door behind him, though he knew that such a thing would not keep
out the likes of Snape or any of the others.

Harry wanted privacy. He knew he didn't have a lot of time.

Harry set the Firebolt and his Invisibility Cloak down on the table,
remembering how not so long ago, he and Draco Malfoy had played a very
intense game of chess on its surface. Ron's board and the pieces were still
there, too. They looked up at him expectantly, pawns and queens, black and
white, but Harry didn't acknowledge them.

Hedwig perched herself on his shoulder. She nuzzled her head against his
bird's nest hair, cooing softly.

Harry took a seat and read.

He read all of The Daily Prophet issues which had been printed in his
unconsciousness. He read them in chronological order. He read them cover to
cover. He read every single word, and with every single world he felt his
heart fracture and crumble over and over again.

The first was dated August 19th, 1997. The headline simply read, 'THE
DARK LORD HAS FALLEN' in big, bold letters. And next to it, an image of
Severus Snape with the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix
behind him.

That particular article was not very informative; at least, not to Harry. It had
obviously been written quickly and before many details had yet to be
confirmed. It was a lot of wild speculation and dramatic possibilities, and
very little substance. Rita Skeeter had written the article. Harry scowled.

The next issue for the following day was, perhaps, the most jarring. 'THE
DARK LORD – TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE – HELD IN AZKABAN', with
the sub-headline, 'Most Infamous known Death Eaters Also Imprisoned,
Awaiting Trails'.

Yet it was the image which was truly unsettling.

A moving, magical photograph of Voldemort…not naked on the floor of
Riddle Manor, bleeding and unconscious, but half-hidden in shadows in the
corner of a cell, face shrouded in darkness…but it was undeniably his body,
and he was covered and bound by many magically glowing, metal chains…

Harry could tell it was a photo that was taken without permission, because it
was quick and filled with distorting movement, like the photographer had
snapped it hastily before fleeing. There was only a brief moment during the
magical loop which was in focus. Voldemort's red eyes were hollow, even in
the unexpected flash of the camera.

Harry read that article feverishly. And the next, and the next.

Surprisingly, nearly everything which had been reported in The Daily

Prophet over the past two weeks was accurate.

Snape had come out and told the entire wizarding world the truth about the
Dark Lord having created horcruxes. Hermione and Ron, who were also
immediately seen as symbols of the resistance, confirmed this, admitting that
their story broadcasted on the M.D.W. was simply a means to rally resistance
in the most conducive and powerful way. The twins had spoken adamantly in
an interview about how they'd known this during the broadcast, and hoped
that their listeners would forgive them for the misconception in the name of
progress.

The public was more than accepting.

There were entire articles on the Malfoy family. Lucius and Narcissa
publically declared their past mistakes, saying that they had once, unwisely,
been supportive of the Dark Lord, but only because they had been seduced by
his powerful brand of dark magic…and that they renounced him, now, and all
that he stood for. Draco spoke about how he had been forced into hiding for
the safety of his life, as he feared the Dark Lord would kill him in order to
punish his father for his less than enthusiastic service.

There was no mention of the Elder Wand.

Ginny, too, had become a spokesperson of sorts, alongside Snape, the
Malfoys, Hermione, and Ron. She came out with her story about the diary
horcrux. She divulged details that she had never told anyone before in an
interview with Rita Skeeter, speaking of the horrors of Tom Riddle's
deceptive, false love, of his abuse of an eleven year old girl in a way that
surely caused every reader to weep. And when the wretched reporter used the
words 'glistening with the ghosts of her past' to describe Ginny's eyes during
the interview, Harry didn't think that she may be lying for a second.

…And then there was Harry.

The way in which Harry Potter was being portrayed throughout all of these
many articles was subtle, at first, but increasingly firmer and more decisive as
they went on. The Boy Who Lived…

The truth had finally come out here, too. Or most of it, at least.

Harry Potter, who had been missing for over a year, had actually been
kidnapped by the Dark Lord himself after the battle at the Department of
Mysteries…

Harry Potter, found a year later by Severus Snape, having been kept at the
South Pole in a magically induced, comatose state; presumably as a 'trophy'
of sorts to the demented wizard…

Harry Potter, despite his torment, bravely volunteering to be the lure needed
to finally capture the Dark Lord and end his rule, only to suffer even more at
the hands of this corrupt and violent man before help finally arrived…

'…Currently, the Boy Who Lived is staying at St. Mungo's, being kept in a
dreamless sleep while his mind recovers, which has been extremely damaged
by this darkest of wizards who is well-versed in the art of Legilimency…'

There was no printed material about what had really occurred at Hogwarts,
despite the fact that they had talked about it on The Most Desirable Word.
And the more Harry read, the more he understood why.
Harry Potter was no longer being depicted as the supposed hero which could
save them all. He was being made to be a victim. Tragic, and a source of
monumental, focused sympathy…and, therefore, a great amount of hatred
towards the Dark Lord for all that he had done to him.

Something weak, someone to be pitied.

Harry remembered what Hermione had said in the Room of Requirement,

from a memory which felt like it had occurred years ago. When she had first
snapped at Snape after the broadcast with the M.D.W., fierce and full of vigor
—

'People need something to believe in. Someoneto believe in… We need to give
them hope.'

At the time, she had meant Harry. That Harry Potter needed to be the savior
around which they rallied.

But that wasn't what he was, anymore…and someone else had stepped up to
take his place.

Not Severus Snape, though he was being seen as the mastermind and the hero
responsible for taking down Lord Voldemort. Not Hermione or Ron, though
they were also given due credit for their part in the war.

It was Neville.

Neville Longbottom spoke, and the wizarding world listened.

He talked about the prophecy, which he now knew could have referred to
either he or Harry. He told the tale of the Department of Mysteries from his
point of view, talking about how he had personally smashed the glass sphere,
making it so that Voldemort would never hear it himself.

He spoke about the year in which Harry was missing; how Hogwarts had
deteriorated into a dangerous place for anyone who was not a pureblood
witch or wizard. He talked about how, in Harry's absence, he led a resistance
called 'Dumbledore's Army' which met regularly so that he could teach
younger, fearful students defensive magic. A story which was instantly
confirmed by many interviewed students, including Ginny—who must have
been famous at this point from her previous interview alone—as well as
Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and Susan Bones—the last of whom Harry
learned through this article had lost her Aunt in a brutal murder during the
year in which he had been asleep…presumably at the hands of Voldemort
himself.

Neville's grandmother told the story of when Minerva McGonagall arrived

with her grandson in the middle of the night ('apparated right into my damn
bedroom!'), because the Transfiguration professor had received a strange
patronus informing her that Neville Longbottom was going to be targeted by
the Dark Lord himself. It had confused her at the time, Augusta Longbottom
reportedly said, but now, in light of current events, she realized that 'The
Dark Lord was recognizing what a threat her grandson was, within his very
own school, and sought to take him out.'

But Neville had escaped, and the fact that Voldemort had supposedly sought
to kill him personally within the walls of Hogwarts only solidified his
newfound position. Neville Longbottom, the other boy born as the seventh
month died, who had shattered the prophecy himself and taken on Harry's
underground resistance while Harry was missing… Whose parents, both of
whom had been loved, respected, and notable aurors and members of the
Order of the Phoenix during the first Wizarding War…

Who, in photographs, appeared strong, whole, and with a hardened glint in

his eyes as he spoke passionately against the Dark Lord and all which he
stood for…

Neville Longbottom had become the new hero the Wizarding World wanted
to worship, while Harry Potter was a poor, unconscious thing who was
probably broken beyond repair.

…And then there was Voldemort.

Much of the truth had come out about the Dark Lord, as well.
His name, for starters. 'I Am Lord Voldemort' was now known to all as being
an acronym for 'Tom Marvolo Riddle', and everyone was being encouraged
to refer to the Dark Lord as this, his actual name… Or, at least, that was what
the current interim Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was instructing
the general public to do.

But there was still a great deal of fearful reverence concerning how to address
this darkest of wizards in the days following his downfall, and Harry noted
that Voldemort was still most commonly referred to as 'the Dark Lord'…even
in Rita Skeeter's otherwise very bold articles.

The correlation between who he had been as a student was completely

exposed in an interview with a man whom Harry had never met, only heard
about: Horace Slughorn.

The old wizard who did, in all actuality, resemble a walrus, admitted to
regrettably having once had a very short but disturbing discussion with his
then favorite student, Tom Riddle. A Slytherin boy who had been a prefect
and his favorite pupil. So charming, so kind, and he had said, then, that it was
all theoretical, of course, his interest and questions about horcruxes…

Snape's story, which had been published days prior to this interview, had
suddenly gained a whole new legitimacy. The public clearly believed that
Lord Voldemort had, in fact, created six horcruxes in his insane quest for
immortality…and they believed them all to be disposed of, now.

The diary, which Ginny had spoken about on a very intimate level… The
ring, which Snape had said that Albus Dumbledore had destroyed…

The locket, which had been disposed of at Grimmauld Place, and there was
no elaboration on that particular horcrux…

The goblet, destroyed by Hermione Granger, pretending to be Bellatrix

Lestrange… The diadem, also demolished by the intelligent, muggle-born
girl…
The snake, murdered by Draco Malfoy, in a stroke of bold brilliance…

An action which had, undoubtedly, resulted in his parents being pardoned for
their crimes with only a large fee, but no time in Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy
and his son were free men, a conclusion which must have only been possible
because they had worked against the Dark Lord in the final days of the war,
and because Draco's actions had personally brought about the destruction in
one of Voldemort's horcruxes. Draco was seen as something of a tragic hero
himself.

And it was just a bit ironic, Harry thought, as he read the articles pertaining to
Voldemort's most faithful followers and what had happened to them. His
inner circle had followed Lucius's lead quite dutifully once their master had
fallen—irrevocably, this time—claiming that they had been bewitched in
various ways.

Lucius and Narcissa had even gone as far as to vouch for the other former
Death Eaters. Lucius made claims that Harry was certain could not possibly
be true. Like that he had seen the Dark Lord casting the Imperius Curse on
Yaxley and was therefore the sole wizard in control of Thicknesse (who
actually had been under the Imperius, and was very, very upset about being
lumped together with Voldemort's Death Eaters), that he had witnessed
Mulciber being given more than a few questionable potions, but hadn't dared
asked…

It was ironic, because Voldemort's main priority had been magical unity.
Well, it seemed that was what was occurring, now. Purebloods and Muggle-
borns were uniting in a way that Harry had never seen before.

Draco Malfoy, Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Hermione

Granger, formerly enemies, were photographed together, their smiling faces
gracing the cover of the August 21st issue of The Prophet. Harry felt
strangely jealous at the sight, but of whom he was jealous, he wasn't sure.

Magical unity was happening, really and truly…all united under the same
accord: the stand against Tom Marvolo Riddle.
It wasn't until the last three issues that Harry really began to panic.

In the earlier issues, it had been declared. Tom Riddle was sentenced to life in
Azkaban without a trial.

It was the same sentence which had been given to Bellatrix Lestrange, once
she had finally been found.

When the Dark Lord's most deadly lieutenant remained elusive in the days
following Voldemort's fall, Severus Snape had suggested that she may be in a
hidden room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts.

A very specific, peculiar room.

Neville Longbottom said he was rather familiar with it, and it was he who led
the aurors there.

…And there they had found Bellatrix Lestrange.

She was unconscious, but alive. Neville had, reportedly, been the one to
check her vital signs and make sure that she was still breathing. He had
confirmed that she was, and rather than try and seek vengeance right then and
there, demanded that she be taken to the Ministry in order to await her fate.

The public had adored him all the more for it. For being able to be so
righteously pure and just, even against the woman who had driven his parents
to madness…

He truly was their Chosen One.

But when Bellatrix Lestrange's sentence was announced to be the same as

Voldemort's, which they also retaliated against, the wizarding world had
turned savage. They did not think her worthy of life in Azkaban. They
wanted her dead. They wanted her worse than dead; they wanted her kissed.

And maybe Kinglsey would have complied with this demand…but he never
had the chance.
Bellatrix Lestrange had died in her cell that very same night.

For over a decade, the dark witch had survived the wizarding prison. For so
long, she had endured the dementors and the horrors of that place, clinging to
the idea that her master still lived, and would come for her…

Harry could only imagine what that night in Azkaban must have been like.

Had Bellatrix Lestrange been taken to the same cell she had stayed in before?
Had she been placed near to where her master was being kept, weakened and
chained?

Had they spoken, before she passed?

…It didn't really matter. Either way, Bellatrix Lestrange, who had been so
powerful and full of rage before, had died within hours after being brought
back to her former prison.

The public had been outraged.

Harry thought he understood, and yet he didn't. They were all incensed
because they felt as though justice had been stolen from them. Like her death
happening in that manner was a blessing she had not deserved, because they
had not been the ones to issue the curse.

Did it matter, though? She was dead, gone…

Evidently, it did.

The public wanted blood, they wanted retribution. And if they could not have
Bellatrix Lestrange's death, they would definitely have Voldemort's.

Which was where the horror really set in.

Harry wondered how someone had gotten wind of it. Maybe one of the aurors
who had been there during the Dark Lord's bloody amputation had mentioned
something. But at some point, even though Severus Snape would not say a
word on why he thought the Dark Lord was still unable to be killed, despite
the fact that he no longer had any horcruxes…somebody had.

Rumors of Voldemort having somehow acquired 'phoenix magic' as a means

to immortality were published one day, and the reactions, while extremely
varied, were all dramatic.

'He should be sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss!' one wizard from the
Wizengamot had reported in a heated opinion's section. 'If it doesn't work,
then it doesn't work—but why wouldn't we try?'

And it seemed like this was going to happen… Except, the next day, in the
issue dated August 28th…the dementors had vanished.

All of them. Every single one, no known reasoning. One day, there was
discussion within the Ministry that Tom Riddle would be subjected to the
Dementor's Kiss. The next day, the dementors had disappeared from the
wizarding prison completely.

No one could explain it. Not Kingsley Shacklebolt, not Severus Snape. The
public thought it some kind of conspiracy on the Ministry's part for keeping
Voldemort alive for some unknown reason. But the Interim Minister had
argued vehemently that of course this was not the case, and that he had the
Auror Department working tirelessly to find a means of execution…

But what could they do with a wizard who was potentially immortal through
phoenix magic?

It was a question which, as far as Harry was able to tell, was still unanswered.

As Harry read the last of the available newspapers, he knew one thing with
certainty: no one knew that he was a human horcrux. Never once was there
even a hint that Harry Potter, the tragic Boy Who Lived, was yet another tie
to eternal life for the Dark Lord. There were plenty of references to him being
the object of Voldemort's obsession, and even one or two that actually
questioned whether or not he-who-must-not-be-named harbored a deep,
secret attraction to the green-eyed boy—yet there was not a word published
that gave any indication that Harry was carrying yet another portion of Lord
Voldemort's fractured soul.

It was true, then. Harry could read it in the statements Snape had made,
which were adamant for Voldemort's imprisonment, but not for his swift
demise.

Severus Snape wanted Harry to live. Severus Snape wanted Voldemort to

live…for now. So that he could figure out a way to make the former possible,
surely.

But after the untimely death of Bellatrix Lestrange, which the public felt they
were robbed of…the wizarding world strongly disagreed.

That was as far as Harry could read. The last issue was from two days ago,
dated August 29th.

For a long time, Harry simply sat there, processing all of this troubling
information. His mind reeled. His chest felt heavy with emotions he didn't
really understand.

Eventually, moving as though he were in a trance, he went into the room he

had shared with Draco. Two twin sized beds on opposite sides of a small
space. His trunk was still there, with all of the clothes which Hermione had
tailored to fit him. Feeling thankful to have something decent to wear, Harry
pulled on a pair of denim jeans and a loose fitting t-shirt. Hedwig hooted
distastefully when he asked her very politely to move so that he could take
his hospital gown off, and returned to his shoulder almost instantly once he
was properly dressed.

She nuzzled into the crook of his neck again. Harry stroked her head, noting
how good and healthy she looked, despite the fact that she was actually quite
old for an owl, wasn't she? How long did snowy owls live, usually?

Harry tried not to think of that. She didn't look old, with her vibrant gaze and
soft feathers. "Ginny takes good care of you, huh, girl?" Harry murmured
thoughtfully. Hedwig let out a low, doleful note, staring at him with giant
amber eyes that were full of intelligence.
"Yeah… I know."

Hedwig continued to burrow her head into his hair. Harry sighed, checking
his watch. It was almost five in the morning. The sun would rise soon, and
surely someone would notice he was missing from his hospital bed, then.
And it wouldn't take long for Snape or someone to track him down to
Grimmauld Place.

He didn't have much time.

Harry decided to take one last look around.

He passed the kitchen, remembering the first time he'd witnessed the
spectacle that was Severus Snape cooking. He walked slowly down the Hall,
tiptoeing past the portrait of Lady Black, despite the new, heavy curtains. He
went into Sirius's old bedroom, smiling when he found another small piece of
the broken, enchanted radio.

Harry thought about avoiding the study all together, but knew he couldn't.

It felt a bit like visiting his parents' graves had felt.

The piano was as beautiful and pristine as ever, though on top of it was a
dead, completely withered sunflower. Harry's throat constricted at the sight of
it all. The colorless flower, the glossy surface upon which it rested, the
piano's polished keys—black and white and perfect. He ran his hands over
them, fingertips ghosting over their cold surfaces, and for a moment, was
consumed with the wild urge to play and make music.

But he didn't.

Harry walked away. He avoided the pieces of the broken table which he had
snapped in half so long ago, nearly stepping on—

The diary.

The little black book which Draco Malfoy had written in. Harry stared at it,
open on its spine with two pages in the middle exposing some of its hand-
written content.

'Harry Potter—and God, it feels weird to even write that name, considering
that they world may go to shit if we say it out loud—is, despite everything,
just as bull-headed and obnoxious as I recall him being from our Hogwarts'
days. He plays this piano all day, I've no idea why. Actually, no. I think I
might. I think he does it because he knows it annoys me, because I've said as
much. He's not very good. Well, okay, it's getting better, but still. Being
forced to sit here and endure his practicing is mentally taxing. I catch him
smiling when I roll my eyes about it. I can tell he secretly enjoys the fact that
I'm suffering, being forced to constantly 'keep an eye on him'.

Growing up, I had always wondered what it may be like, to have a brother. I
think I understand, now.'

Harry almost laughed as he finished the entry which was facing him from the
floor. He thought to pick the diary up, to flip through it and read it, but he
decided against it. It wasn't his place.

He left it behind.

Harry wasn't sure why he felt the need to go into the room which Snape had
stayed in. But there was something tugging at the back of his mind,
something that was even more annoying than the itchiness of the Potions
Master's Occlumency barriers plaguing his thoughts. Harry followed his
strange instincts and went in.

He found her in the drawer where he had once uncovered the two-way mirror
and the snitch.

His mother.

It was the other section of the ripped-up photograph he'd found in Sirius's
room, Harry was certain. Snape must have torn it in half so that he could have
this half to himself.
Lily Potter, grinning, laughing, full of life…

Harry smiled, and at the same time, tears welled in his eyes. Then he saw the
piece of parchment underneath the photo. He'd noticed it last time, but hadn't
had a chance to read it…

The second page of his mother's thank you letter to Sirius…

…could have ever been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind's
going, personally!

Lots of Love,

Lily

Harry stared at the words. It took him a long moment to recall just what the
end of the first page had said to begin with. She had been talking about
Dumbledore, hadn't she?

Albus Dumbledore had been friends with Gellert Grindelwald…

Harry frowned, thinking of all that he knew about the dark wizard who had
proceeded Lord Voldemort. Harry had read nearly the entire, massive book
on the man in his boredom when he'd stayed here. The admittedly ingenious,
if slightly mad wizard who had come up with the mantra 'For the Greater
Good'…

Harry set the letter and the photograph down. A part of him wanted to take
those, too. To keep the smiling face and written admission of Lily's love, but
he didn't.

He left them behind.

Harry finally made his way back to the guest room. He sat at the edge of his
bed and sighed. His heart felt so weighed down with tragic thoughts.
Everything he had read in the old issues of the Prophet had him feeling…too
much.
He wanted to be angrier.

That would have been the easiest thing, to simply be mad. To be infuriated
with Snape for using him in order to get to the Dark Lord. To feel enraged
that, while he was asleep in the hospital, everyone else had gone forward and
made such critical declarations.

It would be so much simpler, to just be angry with them all for what they had
done to Voldemort.

But how could he? How could he possibly blame them?

They didn't know Tom Riddle's story, and it wasn't as though the Dark Lord
had apologized and bowed on his knees before them. It wasn't like anyone
else could possibly feel the genuine remorse that emanated from his
fractured, broken soul.

…And even if they could, what would it matter?

Tom Marvolo Riddle could beg for forgiveness until his voice was raw, and
Ginny Weasley would still have nightmares of having the life drained out of
her in a dark chamber where sometimes, Harry saved her…and sometimes,
Harry didn't.

Voldemort could kneel and scream of his remorse, and Alice Longbottom
would still be pressing candy wrappers into her son's hands like they were
treasured gifts.

The Dark Lord could sacrifice what was left of his life, and Severus Snape
would still be haunted by the ghost of a woman he loved whose smiling face
he would never see in reality again.

…So how could Harry possibly blame them?

Just because he, personally, was able to find in himself the ability to forgive
such monstrous acts—considering that the Dark Lord had, arguably, hurt
Harry Potter the most—how could he ask so many others to do the same?
Because it wasn't fair. It wasn't right that someone should be able to commit
such atrocities and simply be forgiven.

But what Harry understood, now, was something that he could not expect
anyone else to grasp.

It was that vengeance wouldn't make it better, either.

How long had Harry thought that it would, himself? How long had he been
certain that he wanted nothing more than to make Peter Pettigrew pay for his
betrayal? To see Bellatrix Lestrange's face contort with pain, to feel the same
agony that he had once felt?

And yet, when Pettigrew was in front of him, a silver hand crushing his own
throat, lifeless at Harry's feet…Harry hadn't felt better.

When Harry saw the pain in Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes as she realized,
dreadfully, crushingly, that her master was in love with no other than the Boy
Who Lived…Harry hadn't felt better.

Harry had been so sure for so long that retribution would result in some kind
of satisfaction, but it hadn't. Not even a little bit.

But maybe that was just him. Perhaps Severus Snape really did feel
vindicated, having been the one to personally maim and imprison his former
master.

Would it make the ghost of Lily Evans haunt him any less?

Harry doubted it.

Hedwig cooed softly in his ear, nearly making him jump. Harry wiped his
eyes with the back of his hands, sick of crying, sick of the useless, worthless
tears.

It was all just so horrendously unfair. He wanted to see the world like
everyone else did, he wanted to go back to how it was just weeks ago when
there was that side which was bad and this side which was good; where
Voldemort was just some two-dimensional villain with no backstory, no
reasoning for being the way that he was—just a flat, blatant, hideous monster
who was easy to hate.

But that wasn't what he was anymore. He was a real, flawed person. He was a
damaged man who had once been a neglected boy; he was a human who had
grown into the wizard he now was because of the society which had shaped
him.

Lord Voldemort was horrible and he was beautiful.

…He was…

Too many things, Harry thought miserably. A victim, certainly. Born to a

mother who died in childbirth and of a father who never wanted him, a
muggle man who had also been a victim, forced to think he was in love…

And while there would have certainly been pity for Tom Marvolo Riddle
when he was a child, there could be no such sympathy for the man he'd
matured into.

That was what really made Harry's head hurt. This revelation that all of the
people he had so easily despised before…well, they had all been children
worthy of sympathy at some point, hadn't they? Voldemort, Bellatrix
Lestrange, Peter Pettigrew, Severus Snape—every single Death Eater to ever
live—they had all once been innocent boys and girls susceptible to whatever
their environments had been when they were younger. And who knew what
they had gone through? Harry hadn't known until Voldemort had told him
about his dark days at the orphanage, of the possible effects of being born
from a man under the influence of amortentia…

Every villain had a story… But the world didn't want to hear them.

Nobody looked at a headline which declared that this man or woman had
done some awful thing and thought, 'I wonder what their childhood was like?
I wonder how it got to this point, for them as an individual, for them to be
driven to commit such an act?'

No.

Everyone preferred to see the world in black and white, because it was so
much cleaner, so much easier.

A part of Harry deeply wished he still could. He found himself being

irrationally jealous of the boy he used to be, who had not yet found an angel
in a locket or an old, deteriorating manner.

Who had never fallen in love.

Harry shook his head. It wouldn't do well, to dwell on such things. Not now.
He rummaged through his trunk and found what it was he had come here for.

The snitch.

The glittering orb unfurled its wings when he pulled it out. Harry held it to
his lips and sighed.

I open at the close.

He didn't say anything. The words vanished.

When he released it again, the snitch took to the air. It flew around his head
like Harry was the sun, and it a golden, slow-moving planet caught in his
orbit. It hovered in a depressed sort of way, like it was feeding off of Harry's
emotions. Hedwig watched it warily.

"Now what?" Harry asked of himself out loud.

To his surprise, he received a response from the most unexpected of sources.

There, right in front of him, appeared a silver, shimmering rabbit.

Harry smiled. The rabbit twitched its nose.

"…I have something of yours. I think you might want it," came Luna
Lovegood's dreamy voice.

The rabbit didn't disappear after she was done speaking like Harry thought it
would. Instead it waited, head tilting to one side and ears flopping.

"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London," Harry said clearly. He

wondered if just telling her the location would be enough to let her pass
through the wards. Maybe. It was his property, after all.

Just in case, he decided to give her a proper invitation. "Well… Come on in,
then."

The rabbit vanished.

A few moments later, and he heard the front door open. Harry went to greet
her. The snitch followed dutifully, perking up a bit at his sudden energy.

"Hello, Harry. Oh! And Hedwig."

Luna was wearing a long, yellow dress. She had hanging on one shoulder a
purse the color of sunshine, and in her hands a vase filled with sunflowers.
Harry had never seen a more welcome sight.

"Luna," he breathed.

She gave him a one armed hug, keeping the vase held in her other hand.
"Have a place where I might set these down?" she asked when she pulled
away. "They're quite heavy."

"Oh—er, sure—come this way—"

Harry pocketed the hovering snitch and led her towards the kitchen. Luna
looked about with keen interest as they walked, eyes speculative as she
examined the heads of the dead house elves lining the hall.

"Oh, here is great," she said. Luna set the flower-filled vase down on the
kitchen table. "This is a very interesting house you have, Harry. Were the
heads of the elves in the hall your idea?"

She spoke very casually, like they were meeting here under perfectly normal
circumstances. "God, no," Harry answered. "No, the house elves that used to
serve the Black family here wanted that. I think it's bloody weird and
creepy."

As if in reaction to that statement, a quick, scurrying sound echoed above

them…rather like a small creature running across a small enclosure.

Harry's face paled. Luna quirked an eyebrow at the noise. "Is someone else
here?" she asked curiously.

Merlin, Harry thought with a wave of guilt. Kreacher. He had forgotten about
the old elf completely.

…Harry reckoned he was probably done with his lines, by now.

"Er… Might be someone, yeah," Harry admitted.

Luna's eyes narrowed. And though he desperately wanted to, Harry found
that he just couldn't lie to Luna Lovegood. "Might…might be an old house elf
we locked in the attic," he muttered.

"Harry!" Luna gasped, clearly and understandably affronted. "How could you
lock a house elf up in an attic?"

"Er—well, it—he—Kreacher, is his name—sort of did some really terrible

thing a while ago, and—and he's a real…"

Harry shook his head, knowing that he didn't have the time or will to explain
away the imprisonment of Kreacher. "It's a long story, just—know that I'll set
it right, okay?"

Luna was quiet for a long moment before nodding. Harry felt another wave
of guilt. Luna had befriended many house elves during her last year at
Hogwarts, after all…
"So long as you promise," Luna eventually said, and her face softened into its
usual, benign expression. "Here. I did say I have something for you, and I
didn't mean just sunflowers." She reached into the vase, and pulled out—

"The Elder Wand!"

Harry gawked in astonishment as Luna Lovegood revealed to him the

Deathstick, which she had hidden in the middle of a thick bundle of
sunflowers.

"But how did you—when did you—"

It all clicked, suddenly.

"You put the cloak under my pillow," Harry murmured in disbelief. He took
the Deathstick from her, and it thrummed with a familiar feel in his fingers.

Luna nodded. "I did," she said. She then smiled a bit…sheepishly. "I…I also
am sort of the reason you woke up, Harry. I hope I didn't do anything
dangerous. Are you feeling all right?"

She put her hand to his forehead, like she was checking for a fever. Harry
almost laughed. "I feel fine, I—what do you mean, you're the reason I woke
up?"

Luna hesitated for a moment before she took a seat. She patted the chair next
to her, gesturing for Harry to do the same. He did.

"Did you get all of the old issues of The Daily Prophet I left for you, too? Did
you read about everything that's been going on?"

Harry nodded, shocked even further. "Oh, good. That will make this easier."
Luna twirled a stand of blonde hair around one finger. Harry waited eagerly
for her explanation. "Well. After everything… happened with you-know-
who, Professor Snape told us that you were unconscious. That your mind had
been damaged, and that you were going to be kept at St. Mungo's, monitored
and asleep until such a time as when the Healers deemed it safe for you to be
woken up."

Harry inwardly scowled. He had been right, then. Snape.

"But as you've read…a lot has happened since then. You were asleep for
almost two weeks. You-know-who is in a high security cell in Azkaban
which is guarded by over a dozen aurors, day and night. Bellatrix Lestrange
died. The dementors fled. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Draco Malfoy, and Neville
Longbottom are practically celebrities. Professor Snape is all over the place,
trying to explain and help with the Ministry as ex-Death Eaters await their
trials. It has all been very dramatic."

Luna said it all in a sort of sing-song voice, like she found it all draining
rather than interesting. "Yeah…so I've gathered," Harry responded dismally.

"Quite. Well, you haven't read yesterday's paper yet, because I didn't leave it
for you. I thought…I thought I should be there, when you read it. It's why I
decided to wake you up."

She reached into her bright yellow purse. "But how did you wake me up?"
Harry asked.

Luna smiled sheepishly again. "Don't tell anyone, but… I confounded a

Healer."

"You what!?"

"I know!" But rather than look guilty, Luna's timid smile widened. "I know, I
shouldn't have, but, well, I knew that if it were me, I would want to be awake
for this. I would want to know. So I just… I said I was visiting, and, well,
when the Healer came in, I sort of… confounded her, so that she thought
you'd already been given your Dreaming Draught that evening."

She laughed. "And no one caught on to that?" Harry asked in disbelief. "No
one noticed?"

"Well, everyone has been very busy, you know. Obviously, you were being
monitored very closely by only the best Healers, but… I suppose that's my
greatest strength. No one ever suspects me of anything."

She shrugged. "I've had your cloak for a while, actually. I took it while we
were still at Shell Cottage, right before Professor Snape left to go…to go get
you." She paused for a moment before continuing. "No one even noticed I'd
nicked it. Shockingly enough, getting the Elder Wand was even easier. I just
had to wait until the moment was right."

"…And when in the world was the right moment to steal the Deathstick?"
Harry asked, now grinning broadly in some mixture of amazement and
amusement.

"Snape was asked to give a speech a few days ago at the Ministry, after
Bellatrix Lestrange died. I knew that he'd be very distracted, thinking of what
to say and how to say it. He's been staying in a flat in London, close to the
Ministry, you know. Snape. I asked Hermione if I could stop by with her
while they worked on their political propaganda, saying I just wanted to help.
I made them tea. I stole the Elder Wand out of his bedroom while the water
was boiling."

Harry laughed. Loudly. "Just…just walked right in and took it?"

"Yep." She smiled demurely. "Like I said…no one suspects me of much."

The coy grin slid from her face. Luna handed him yesterday's paper. "You…
you should read this, Harry."

Any bit of joy Harry had felt at the miracle which was Luna Lovegood faded
the second he glanced at the headline. Next to it was a picture of Neville,
standing tall and proud behind a podium, surrounded by witches and wizards
who were obviously cheering at whatever speech he was giving.

Harry hardly recognized the round-faced boy who had once tried to stop him
from going to retrieve the Philosopher's stone.

Harry set the Elder Wand down on the table and read.
Luna waited by his side, silent.

"…There's…there's got to be something we can do," Harry said when he'd

finally finished. "There's…"

But even as he said the words, he knew there was no validity to them.

"I don't think there is, Harry," Luna whispered. "Since Neville came up with
the idea, it's all anyone wants to happen. Snape is speaking against it, but he's
not the interim Minister. Kingsley is. And he agrees."

There was a long stretch of silence. "I'm sorry," Luna said. "I'm sorry. Maybe
I was wrong, maybe I should have just let you sleep through this, like
Professor Snape wanted. I'm—"

"No," Harry said, cutting her off. "Never apologize to me, Luna. Thank you
for waking me up. I…"

He couldn't say anymore. He set the Prophet down and stood. "I'll be right
back," he murmured. Hedwig hopped from his shoulder to Luna's before he
went to the front room. He retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and took it back
with him to the kitchen, setting it on the table next to the Elder Wand.

Harry then reached into his pocket and pulled out the snitch. It laid in his
palm, lifeless and inactive.

"…You always believed in the story, didn't you?" Harry said quietly. "Ron…
Ron told me, about your dad's necklace, at the wedding… When you gave
him a sunflower to give to me…"

Harry looked at the bundle of sunflowers which currently sat before them in
the vase, bright and cheery. Such a contrast to the dead one which rested
alone on top of a silent piano.

"Yes," Luna answered simply.

I open at the close.

"Luna… I think. I think I know what to do." Harry swallowed as he looked
down at the golden, winged sphere in his hand. His throat was dry. His voice
was hoarse.

"Will you help me?"

Luna grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently.

"Always," she said, smiling.

 49. The Final Chapter
Summary for the Chapter:

Thank you for sticking with me until the end of this story. It's been about
one year and around 500,000 words, but here it is. I've changed a lot in
that time. The world looks different now.

I would of course be thrilled if you would leave whatever thoughts you

may have at the end of this chapter. I can't believe that you could read
all of this insanity and not have had at least one interesting thought.
Maybe not positive, but pertinent, I hope. I'd like to know what that was.

It's not the end, it's just…an end.

September 1 st .

You, dear reader, now know this day as Victory Day. More than likely, you
associate it solely with happy things. It was the day that the Second
Wizarding War officially ended. It's a national, wizarding holiday. It's the day
that the Hogwarts Express leaves King's Cross Station from Platform 9 ¾,
taking students to a school for witchcraft and wizardry where they'll find out
if they're brave, cunning, intelligent, or diligent.

You might even remember what it was like, that very first Victory Day in
1997. Maybe you recall the fireworks that went off all night. Maybe you
remember the way witches and wizards threw all caution to the wind,
walking around in front of muggles in their cloaks and drinking firewhiskey
in the streets. Constant celebration and cheer.

Most people recall it as a very happy time.

I remember it quite differently.

It hadn't been easy, those weeks immediately following Tom Riddle's fall.
Harry was unconscious. We were all allowed to visit on the first day of his
admission into St. Mungo's, but afterwards the Healers became extremely
strict. His mind was too fragile, they'd said. He'd been damaged in ways that
were very difficult to explain. But they were hopeful, saying that with enough
time and peaceful rest, they anticipated a full recovery.

Harry Potter was a very resilient individual, after all. It would just take time.
We were led to believe that the best thing we could do for him was leave him
alone and let him rest.

I never predicted what a burden it would be on all of us, to be

such…emblems.

Funny, how all I had ever wanted was some recognition. To be known as
someone pertinent for something besides being a Malfoy. I got my wish.
After the Dark Lord was taken to Azkaban and we could all come out of
hiding, we pretty much became celebrities overnight—Snape, Granger,
Weasley and I—whether we liked it or not.

They had anticipated the chaos. I… hadn't.

Chaos.

Reporters and quick quills everywhere I went! Camera flashes around every
corner when I was out in public! And while they asked about Harry, of
course, they were just as interested in me. Draco Malfoy, famous, tragic hero
forced to become a Death Eater at the tender age of sixteen, ordered by the
Dark Lord to murder the Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore…

I should have seen it all coming, considering that I used to joke about that
being my life after this war if we somehow won… but I hadn't.

Even more surprising was how much I hated it. The attention, the adoration,
the fan mail. I hated all of it. I didn't care about fame.

I was worried about Harry.

It wasn't just me who was concerned, I'd never say that. We all were. But it
wouldn't do anyone any good at all to just sit around and be depressed about
it. Hermione Granger distracted herself by focusing on helping to set the
Ministry straight again. Ginny Weasley bared her soul for the entire
wizarding world to see. Ronald Weasley and his brothers did anything and
everything they could to help, talking about the M.D.W. and whatever else.

And Neville Longbottom came out of nowhere, winning over the hearts of
witches and wizards across the nation like he was the hero that should-have-
been.

Well, Longbottom wasn't the one who had brought the Dark Lord to his knees
and conjured lightning through an impossible ceiling, shattering all of the
Hogwarts' wards. I don't recall Longbottom negotiating night after night with
the Dark Lord in his dreams, bargaining for everyone's safety except his own.

But those stories just sort of vanished for a while, didn't they?

I'm not saying that what Neville Longbottom did wasn't admirable. I'm sure
everything he said about his year at Hogwarts after Albus Dumbledore died
was perfectly true—that he continued Harry's resistance, that he protected
muggle-born students, all that.

But he's not The Chosen One. No, no, no.

That was Harry Potter.

It just happened to be that Harry was asleep, and Longbottom wasn't. After
all that talk about the Prophecy, and how he, Neville Longbottom, also born
as the seventh month had died that year, had smashed it himself, well…
everyone just wanted another hero, I guess. A future leader. A youthful face
of the new age, or whatever.

I never would have seen Neville Longbottom coming.

…I also never would have guessed that it would be he who came up with a
solution to the 'Immortal Dark Lord' problem, or that not even Severus Snape
would be able to stop it. Maybe he would have, somehow, if we had known
that Harry had gone missing from St. Mungo's just hours before.

But we didn't know.

It's still a complete mystery as to how it all happened. Harry James Potter,
mysteriously waking up from his magically induced coma in St. Mungo's,
somehow sneaking out with no one being any the wiser. It shouldn't have
been possible. But then again, this is Harry we're talking about, here.

Well, I at least was partially to blame for it. I thought I was being nice,
leaving his broom there in the room with him. I thought he would laugh when
he saw it and my amazing drawing of a cobra.

I didn't think he'd bloody use it jump out of the window in a hospital gown.

…In hindsight, maybe I should have.

Too late now, though. Harry went missing sometime during the night, and
though the Healers noticed early that morning and immediately issued a
search, it wasn't like they were about to send a crew of people straight down
into the Department of Mysteries and interrupt what would later be
considered one of the biggest events in British Wizarding History.

We were all down there, waiting... and none of us had any idea that Harry
was awake.

I remember that day perfectly.

The Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries is just as ominous and

unnerving as you might think. Polished, black floors made of stone. Dark
brick walls. A massive space, sort of like a very sinister arena, only at the
center there is nothing but a round dais and a single, stone archway.

The veil.

I don't think I can properly explain it. It's this old, ancient thing. The stones
which make it up look like they're on the verge of crumbling. The cloth that
hangs in the middle seems like its deteriorating, fringed on the edges and sort
of ripped up.

But there's just something about it… Something that pulls you in.
Mesmerizing, almost. And I swear, when I listened hard enough, that I heard
something that almost sounded like whispers coming from it…

It's bloody creepy.

I know all this about it because I was standing really close to it on that day. I
guess they thought they were granting me some kind of great honor by giving
me a front row seat. Right next to Granger and Weasley. The press would
have had a field day photographing us again if they had been allowed in, but
they weren't. Most of the public was forced to stay outside of the inner
chambers of the Department of Mysteries, out where they sometimes hold
hearings.

The number of people who were permitted direct access to the Death
Chamber for this historic event was limited. It was a relatively exclusive
execution.

There was the Wizengamot, of course, as well as a dozen or so other Ministry

officials. Some of the Professors from Hogwarts, too (excluding the ones who
had been Death Eaters, naturally). Granger, Longbottom and his
grandmother, Arthur and Molly Weasley and all of their children, Luna
Lovegood and her father, my parents, me… and Severus Snape.

Snape, who had actually fought adamantly against this and keeping
Voldemort imprisoned until a less questionable method of execution was
found. But he hadn't been able to tell the interim Minister, Kingsley
Shacklebolt, the truth, because that could have meant damning Harry…as
well as himself.

We all swore it to secrecy. After Harry left to go meet the Dark Lord, to end
it all for good, Snape made us each make Unbreakable Vows with him. None
of us questioned it.
'I will not reveal in any way shape or form the knowledge that Harry James
Potter is a living horcrux.'

Not that any of us would have, anyway. But Snape doesn't like to leave much
to chance.

He lifted the Vow a few weeks later.

But it was active then, and so Snape couldn't tell the Minister the reality of
what Harry was. And after Bellatrix Lestrange died and Longbottom,
everyone's favorite new hero, had come up with the idea…

'Through the Veil!'

Even if Shacklebolt hadn't agreed, I don't think he would have been able to
stop it. Things were bad enough after the dementors mysteriously took off.
Riots in Diagon Alley, radio broadcasts spewing crazy conspiracy theories
about why the Ministry wanted to keep you-know-who alive…

The Unspeakables, shockingly enough, chose not to speak or give their

opinion on the matter when questioned, not even to the Minister of Magic
himself. Everyone wanted retribution, and Shacklebolt didn't see any reason
not to give it to them.

We were all worried as hell, though. What would happen, we wondered, to a

man who was not mortal, with a tie to life still existing on the other side,
when he passed through the veil? And, more importantly, what would happen
to that human anchor who remained with us?

We'd talked about it a lot. The only silver lining that came out of it all was
that Snape seemed certain that this wouldn't adversely affect Harry. Snape
was protecting his mind, he'd reminded us all. Harry was in a high security
hospital with the best Healers monitoring him. This only meant that now,
Snape was going to have to figure out a way to remove the soul fragment
without the Dark Lord's remorse.

Like that would be so simple.

But we could only deal with one dramatic obstacle at a time. Tom Riddle was
sentenced to Death through the Veil, and we were all cordially invited—no,
expected—to be present.

I can still picture it all so clearly.

The Death Chamber, dark and eerily quiet. The veil, only a few feet in front
of me, with the softest of incoherent whispers issuing from beyond. The way
the cloth fluttered and danced in a non-existent breeze. Looking back, I feel
like I should have known, I should have noticed by the way the fabric was
moving, but I hadn't.

I was trying not to look at it.

The audience, too, I can recall so well. A crowd of grave faces and ashen
skin. Snape was standing with the other professors, looking as unreadable as
always. Slughorn had this horrid expression on his face like he was on the
verge of tears despite himself. Everyone was wearing all black, practically
blending into the stone walls and floor. The exception was Luna Lovegood.
She wore bright yellow, sticking out in the chamber and practically glowing
with the neon of her dress. She was sitting in the very back of the room, like
she'd been there all day, looking oddly comfortable. Strange girl, that Luna
Lovegood.

No one spoke while we waited. We stood in there for what felt like hours in
cold, tense silence, until they finally brought him in.

It was a short and disquieting procession.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, current Minister of Magic and auror, entered first. He

had a stern, determined look about him, jaw clenched and walking with
purpose.

Then, the rest.

Was it really his aura? Or was it just because we all knew it was He-Who-
Must-Not-Be-Named who was about to enter, and we were all expecting and
dreading it. Regardless, it felt like the already dark hall became a bit darker at
his presence. I remember shivering and being unable to breathe for a
moment.

I noticed that I wasn't the only one.

An encircling team of no less than seven aurors came with their wands
carefully aimed at the darkest and most powerful wizard of our time.

Tom Riddle was covered in silver, lightly glowing chains. They wrapped
around his neck and waist, they bound his hands and legs. On his head, too; a
repressing, silvery crown. I remember thinking it was so surreal, because the
way it was glowing made it seem as though the Dark Lord had a radiant halo.
Like he was something holy and tragic.

He could hardly walk. Based on the way the chains brightened, it was
obvious they were magical suppressants. Years ago, my mother told me that
the highest security prisoners of Azkaban were sometimes forced to wear
them. My aunt had been one of them. She once showed me the scar on her
neck after she was initially broken out by the Dark Lord and then came to
stay at our manor. Those chains must be excruciating, to be able to leave
behind such vivid scars. And she'd just had one, a single shackle around her
throat.

Tom Riddle was covered in them.

Snape's curse may have been powerful when it was initially cast through
Harry, but it was not, evidently, powerful enough to permanently weaken the
Dark Lord. Or perhaps the spell had just begun to wear off. Snape was, after
all, exuding a great deal of his energy into keeping wards around Harry's
mind at that time, too.

Either way, Tom Riddle was laden down with silver like it was armor. The
sound of the enchanted metal clicking with his every movement was soft, but
it echoed like music in the vast Chamber of Death.

I didn't know most of the aurors, though I did recognize my cousin, the
metamorphmagus Nymphadora Tonks. She had dark hair and eyes, then,
making her look much more like one of my aunts. I had forgotten that she
was pregnant. She didn't look it, then.

She and the other six aurors surrounded Tom Riddle like a guard, though they
must have had spells cast on him as well. Some kind of incantations that
forced him forward, because it was obvious that he was resisting an invisible
resistance as he moved. The aurors also looked strained. Clearly, it was
taking a decent amount of effort to keep him walking—even though he was
covered in chains and there were seven of them working together to control
him.

Voldemort's power was staggering, even then.

The aurors marched him forward until he was standing before us all. The dais
was still a safe distance away, cloth fluttering and whispered voices
murmuring, almost imperceptible. I'm sure I only noticed them because I was
so close. I could have taken two steps and reached out and touched the fabric,
if I'd wanted.

But I was trying not to look at it the veil at all. I, just like everyone else, was
focused on the darkest wizard in the world, the man whom I had once
referred to as master and was forever marked because of it. The Dark Lord
was resolutely not looking at anyone.

It wasn't a long moment of silence, but it was a profound one.

Never before had I seen the Dark Lord in such a disposition. I only ever knew
of him or saw him as a terrifying and wicked man, confident and frightening
in every possible way. Whether he'd been in his snake-like form or this new,
far more striking one, he had always been so…otherworldly, so strangely
graceful. Powerful, exuding the kind of authoritative aura that simply
demanded obedience.

But then…

The Dark Lord was wearing nothing other than some worn, fringed scraps
across his hips, as well as those exuberant chains. His back was marred by
two massive, angry red wounds.

Snape had told us about the wings. It was one of the very few things he had
told us, actually, about when he'd gone to get Harry. That the Dark Lord
inexplicably had wings of made up of phoenix feathers…

He didn't have them anymore.

I never would have thought that someone so imposing could look so defeated.

Maybe that's not the right word. It was less defeated and
more…hollow. Apathetic. The very last word I would have ever used to
describe the viciously passionate Lord Voldemort.

Completely apathetic… and he was about to die.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The Minister's voice was like a funeral drum, low and deep. The Dark Lord
didn't look up when he was addressed.

"You have been charged with the crimes of the theft and destruction of
priceless magical artifacts, the coercion of multiple individuals within the
magical community, the consistent use of the Unforgiveable Curses,
conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic, the kidnapping and unlawful
imprisonment of Harry James Potter, and the murder of countless innocents.
You have been found to be guilty of all of these crimes. You are sentenced to
death through the veil."

Silence following those words. Voldemort didn't react. His eyes were a dull,
vacant red, looking at no one. I wonder what he was thinking, in that
moment. It looked like he was thinking nothing at all.

"Do you have any final words?"

The whispers coming from beyond the veil fell silent. The deteriorated cloth
stopped fluttering.

The entire atmosphere in the Chamber became strained in an instant. People

shot each other fearful, confused glances. No one had expected the Minister
to even offer him that opportunity.

The Dark Lord was quiet for a very long time. So long, in fact, that I was
certain that he wasn't going to say anything after all. Shacklebolt had just
gestured for the aurors to continue when Voldemort turned. Not fully, just
looking over his shoulder so that he was facing away from the Minister and
the veil.

Voldemort was staring directly at Snape, there was no doubt about that. Like
the softly whispered message was meant for him and him alone, though we
all heard it very clearly.

"…I regret it."

And there was something else being said, then, too, I could tell. The eye
contact between the two of them was just a bit too long; Snape's usually
practiced, neutral expression was just a bit too tense. There was definitely
some mental conversation happening between the two Legilimens right
then… but I'm sure Snape will never admit to it, and the world will never
know what it was.

Voldemort turned away.

The Minister stepped aside and nodded towards the aurors, who redirected
their wands at the Dark Lord and magically pushed him towards the dais.
Everyone held their breath, grasping at each other's hands and tensing.

We all watched in rapt horror as, for the first time since entering the chamber,
Voldemort cracked and showed some emotion.

Fear.

The second he'd stepped onto the dais, just a few feet from the veil, his blank
expression crumbled. The chains glowed with a sudden, bright intensity, and
the aurors all moved forward, shouting things to increase whatever spells
they had already cast on him. Voldemort hissed in pain as the chains started
smoking, presumably burning him when his magic began to stir, crackling
about his body.

Kingsley raised his wand, too, in an effort to help, because suddenly the Dark
Lord was panicked and fearful, and had decided that no, he did not want to be
executed and forced to go through the veil, after all. Imagine that.

It was just when I thought things were going to really get crazy—the chains
had started flashing, one of the auror's wands had gone flying from his hand
inexplicably, spectators had begun to draw their own in preparation of some
massively unbalanced battle—that it happened.

I know I heard it.

I know, because I was right there—right there!—so close to the dais. And
Voldemort heard it, too.

"Do not be afraid."

The Dark Lord's panicked expression melted away, and he suddenly looked
so stunned. So was I.

His voice.

I only saw it because I was looking for it. Everyone else had their attention
fixed on Voldemort, but not me, not after I heard that. I saw him before
anyone else.

Just his fingers, at first. A hand being extended from a man who was mostly
concealed beneath a Cloak of Invisibility. And on his middle finger, gold
gleaming in the light of the enchanted, flashing chains—

A ring.
And this is the part, readers, where I'm sure I may lose some of you. But I
know what I saw. It was a giant, golden ring, and on it was a cracked stone. A
very large, dark gem. And there, in the center of that stone, right in the
middle of the crack, was the same symbol which Weasley showed us all once
in a book. A crude drawing someone had put at the beginning of The Tale of
the Three Brothers. A line within a circle within a triangle.

It dawned on me as it happened.

That was the resurrection stone. That was the resurrection stone, it was real,
and that man who was standing in front of me at this supposed entryway into
Death was Harry, and he had somehow woken up and found it—

This impossible realization was exploding in my mind right then, but the
entire Chamber seemed to have frozen in a state of suspended disbelief.

Because even though I don't think anyone else heard the first part, everyone
noticed when a semi-transparent, silvery silhouette shimmered directly in
front of the veil. The tattered, old cloth was flickering at his backside,
dancing against his skin in way that, had I been paying proper attention
before, would have been obvious that there was someone standing there.

So Harry Potter shocked the world again with another unexpected, brief
appearance… or, at least, the person who used to be Harry Potter.

People will tell you it's just a story, but mark my words, dear readers: that
was the Master of Death, standing there in that Chamber on September 1st,
1997.

Gods, I can still envision it all precisely! Like a photograph in my mind. He

didn't actually take the cloak off, only tilted his head back just enough so that,
from where I was standing, I could make out one of his eyes.

Visceral, vibrant green. Brighter than anything they'd been in life.

He was smiling.
I don't think I could ever explain it properly, but there was a sort of coolness
all around him. Like winter air. At the time, I'd thought it was just coming
from beyond the veil itself, but…

"I'll go before you… always."

The second time he spoke, the entire hall heard it. In response, Voldemort
made this sort of choked sob that was nothing like any sound I'd ever heard
the Dark Lord make.

Then Harry took him.

He reached out with both hands and wrapped his fingers around the chains
that covered Voldemort's waist. Harry pulled him towards him, and then…
then they were gone.

Gone.

Even now—especially now—it seems unreal. It was such a quick and

confusing movement. Harry, only partially visible, reaching forward and
swathing the Dark Lord in his Cloak of Invisibility so that no one could see
either of them, and then the veil… The veil swishing back; the undeniable
evidence of people passing through it, beneath the stone archway.

One moment, there. The next, gone. The dark aura of Voldemort's presence,
gone. The coolness in the air, gone.

The whispers, silent.

Gone.

I remember all of that so well… too well.

It's the moments after that which are all a bit fuzzy, for me.

I recall the sort of buzzing tension as everyone in the Chamber put it all
together, what had just happened. I remember the noise that broke the
strained silence.
Ginevra Weasley's scream from somewhere further back in the hall is a sound
that will haunt all of us, I'm sure.

She screamed, and her voice echoing in the Chamber made it sound like a
dozen people were screaming. And maybe they were, maybe others had
joined in shortly after. All I really remember was that Ginny screamed, and it
took both of her twin brothers to hold her back when she lunged forward.
Because she'd tried to run. She'd tried to make a break for the veil, like she
might be able to reach in through it and get him back. Or maybe she was
planning on going in after them. I don't know.

My memory becomes splotchy from that point on, after everyone realized
who that was and what had happened. People's reactions, sobbing and
shouting, so on and so forth.

Me? I went into a kind of cold state of instant denial.

Not denial of it what happened; oh, no. I saw better than anyone else that
Harry Potter had just gone through the veil with Tom Riddle. I just denied
that this meant they were dead. Cold, immediate state of denial was my initial
reaction.

After I tried to kill Snape, that is.

Now, hear me out, readers. Honestly, I don't remember doing it. Really. But
right then, right after it happened, I came to the simultaneous, instant
conclusion that Snape had planned all of this.

That he had lied about Harry needing to be asleep, that he had lied about
wanting to protect him this whole time. That all of it was a pile of lies, and he
had somehow contrived all of it, down to this very last moment. I mean, it all
seems so neat and clean, doesn't it? The way the last of Voldemort's
horcruxes willingly took the Dark Lord with him into death. So perfect, all
wrapped up so nicely.

Snape's modus operandi, really.

So what I tell you now is based on what I've been told I did, because I don't
personally recall it. But, according to everyone who was there, I screamed
that Snape was a 'mother fucking bastard', that I would 'kill him with my bare
hands', and then proceeded to try and do just that.

I failed, as you all know, but I did manage to get one good swing in before
anyone stopped me. I'm sure it was just because everyone was still in such a
state of shock (I skipped that part in favor of cold, instant denial, so I imagine
the transition into rage was simply much quicker for me). I punched Severus
Snape in the face. I broke both his jaw and my hand.

But then someone must have done something, because next thing I know I'm
waking up in my bed at home, wondering what day it is.

September 2nd. And The Daily Prophet Headline was all the motivation I
needed to get the hell out.

That's right. That very day, I started making plans to leave Britain. I didn't tell
anyone. In fact, the only reason I stuck around at all was because I had a
letter waiting for me from the Minister of Magic, inviting me into the
Ministry later that week.

It was the last time we were all together, those of us who had lived together
in the Room of Requirement and at Shell Cottage. Harry Potter had left a
will, and we were all mentioned by name.

It was easily the most awkward meeting of my life. Snape was, amazingly,
not enraged by the fact that I had slugged him in the face. I should have been
apologetic to him, because my mother had told me all about how he'd sworn
up and down that no, he'd not had anything to do with what happened on
September 1st at all, and had even taken veritaserum before professing all of
this to my mother in person, but… I don't know. I was bitter and angry, and I
wanted someone to be bitter and angry towards. Snape seemed like the best
option.

Anyway, we were all gathered in the Minister's office for the official reading
of Harry Potter's will. I can't properly explain how depressing and horrible it
was, so I won't really try. Just know that it was terrible, because we all knew
the only reason we'd been forced to spend time together in the first place was
because of Harry, and now…

He'd left something for each of us. Kingsley Shacklebolt read them off, one
by one.

'To Fred and George Weasley, I leave to you the Marauder's Map. It's only
fair, seeing as you gave it to me in the first place. I want you to have it back,
so that someday you may pass it on to one of your children, ensuring future
generations of mischief makers. Maybe one of you will have a boy, and you'll
name it Harry. Maybe one of you will have a girl, and you'll name it Harry,
anyway.

Keep making the world laugh.'

Luna Lovegood was included too. He left her Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

'Luna, Luna, you wonderful girl, I would leave you the world if I could. But
all I have is this stupid house. Do with it what you will, I'm sure whatever you
decide will be amazing. Good luck with Kreacher. You're not a Pureblood, so
you'll be fighting an uphill battle right from the get-go. Maybe introduce
yourself by saying that you are his new master, and he will never be seeing
Harry Potter again. That ought to get you started on the right foot.'

Then there was Ronald Weasley. Harry left him and his family all of the gold
to his name, which was a substantial amount, considering that he was the heir
to both the Potter and the Black family vaults. His message to his first friend
was short.

'Thanks for sitting with me on the train.'

There was a lot of crying, after Kingsley read that out loud.

To Hermione Granger, Harry left every book which existed within the
Grimmauld Place library, with the simple statement:
'Do I even need to explain this one?'

More crying mixed with some of the most painful laughter, ever.

Ginny Weasley was next.

I have to admit, I was curious about what Harry could possibly leave Ginny.
He'd already left her whole family with all of the gold to his name.

It was Hedwig. And the message was the most tragic by far.

'Ginny… I am so, so sorry.'

That was it. She didn't cry like anyone else. She just got up and left the room.
It was a weird moment, because all of her brothers made to go after her, but it
was Granger, surprisingly, who stopped them.

Then it was my turn. To me, he left the Firebolt, with the very eloquent
statement:

'To the mother fucking sky!'

…and only Harry Potter could use such crude language—in a will of all
things—and still make it feel like poetry.

I suppose you're all dying with curiosity about Snape.

Severus Snape, the man who I still, to this day, harbor a substantial amount of
suspicion. I mean, how can you not? He deceived the Dark Lord, it wouldn't
exactly be difficult for him to deceive everyone else. If anyone could figure
out how to lie while on veritaserum, it's Snape.

The Potions Master, our ex-professor. The man who had simultaneously
tormented and rescued Harry Potter for years, who was the mastermind
behind all of this.

Harry left him the snitch.

That goddamn snitch, that glittering, winged monstrosity that Snape had
spent countless days laboring over, trying to figure out why Albus
Dumbledore would leave Harry Potter a snitch of all things…

But he never did figure it out, and Harry had left it for him again, with the
very same message that Dumbledore had left for Harry.

'For nostalgic purposes.'

And I have never, ever seen Snape honestly laugh or cry…but he did both,
then.

It wasn't until later that day that it all hit me.

I open at the close.

The snitch! The snitch! The resurrection stone was in the snitch!

It was an epiphany that blew my mind. Because I had seen it! I saw the
writing, I saw the way the words appeared on the surface of that golden
globe, and the ring on his finger before he went through the veil…

And no one believed me.

Still don't, I'm sure. Because we didn't tell anyone! Harry and I decided not to
tell anyone about the secret message form Dumbledore, because we were all
pissy about being kept in the dark on everything. So we didn't tell anyone,
and now that message won't show up anymore, because it only recognized
Harry's lips and now Harry is gone.

But it was there, readers, I swear on Salazar's grave. I open at the goddamn
close. It. Was. There. Doesn't matter, apparently, that in my memories in the
Pensive there's the proof of it all. Did you know, readers, that memories are
subject to belief? I didn't. Supposedly, our memories become skewed based
on what we think happened, which is why they don't hold up in court half the
time. Doesn't matter if in my memory there's a ring on Harry's finger or
words appearing on the surface of a snitch. I could just be making it all up in
my mind in desperation to believe it's all real.

Bollocks. It was real, and I was going to prove it. Just one of many reasons
why I decided I needed to find that bastard. Harry's will was just a ruse, I was
so certain. I collected 'my' Firebolt and took off, leaving Britain and all of its
bullshit behind.

Well, I made one stop, first.

I went to Gringotts. I pulled all of my inheritance out of my family vault and

opened up a brand new one, one which would be accessible to only me. The
goblins almost pissed themselves when I made the request. I don't think an
heir of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families has ever moved money out
of an old account into a new one. Those old vaults are deeper, safer, and carry
with them such a high prestige. But I didn't give a shit about wizarding
traditions anymore. I only cared to make sure that I would be able to access
my gold whenever I wanted to, and that Snape never would.

I moved my gold around, took out more than enough to live on for a while,
and left.

Because my cold state of denial hadn't waned, despite my lapse into blind
fury for a few moments right after it happened and a bit of unconsciousness. I
saw what I saw. The Prophet may have published a tragic story about Harry
Potter committing suicide, about some crazy, semi-love story between a
monster and a boy, the likes of which we'll never understand. But that's not
what it was.

That was the Master of Death and the Dark Lord, The Chosen One and
someone who had acquired the magic of an eternal creature. The world can
say whatever it wants, but I don't believe that they died. I don't believe that
when immortal men pass through the veil of Death that their lives actually
end, but that they go…elsewhere.

So I decided that I would find them.

For over a year, I looked. I traveled the world in search of where they may
have gone, of places associated with Death that could possibly be where they
would end up. And it was an even wilder journey than you might think,
because, oddly enough, there aren't a lot of myths and legends about death or
the afterlife in magical folklore. There's the Tale of the Three Brothers, but
that's really about it.

Most wizards don't believe in an afterlife. There's not much in the way of
mythology about what happens after we die, because there's not a lot of
belief.

Ah, but you know who does have a lot of stories? The muggles. The non-
magical people have lots of theories and lots of beliefs about death… so I
followed those, instead.

Readers, I did some crazy things in that year. I learned how to use a subway.
I was almost shot. By a gun. I was kicked out of a cathedral in Italy and I still
don't know why.

I made a return trip to Scotland and snuck into Hogwarts, staring up into the
enchanted ceiling and looking for something for so long that, I swear to God,
the stars were laughing at me.

I can't show my face in southern Australia because there's a warrant out for
my arrest (neither can Neville Longbottom, actually, even though he wasn't
even there. It's…complicated). I owe my life to Luna Lovegood and an old
house elf, as well as to a muggle girl who no longer remembers me. And if
there is any advice that you take away from reading this book, my dear
readers, please, let it be this: Ride. A. Jet Ski.

Have you ever wondered what a dementor breeding ground is like? No, of
course you haven't, because no one with a single, functioning brain cell has
wondered that… but I found one.

Have you ever been curious as to how Inferi came into existence? Again, no,
you have not. Neither had I, but I came across what some wizards believe to
be the birthplace of those lovely active corpses. Yes, there's a curse to
animate lifeless bodies, now... but that inspiring dark magic came from
somewhere.

Most of those exciting (and terrifying) adventures were a bit pointless, truth
be told. The majority of the myths concerning 'passageways into the
otherworld' or what have you were complete rubbish. The volcano I went to
in Sicily was just a bloody volcano. The ancient city in China was just a
bunch of ruins.

But I left no stone unturned. I went everywhere. And once, I swear—no, I

know—

…Well. That's a story for a different time.

I probably would have kept searching forever, if they would have just let me
be.

By they I mean the other 'heroes' of the Second Wizarding War. Severus
Snape tracked me for a long time, and almost caught me once at Hogwarts—
but I managed to give him the slip using a combination of Peruvian Instant
Darkness Powder, a helpful ghost, and my Hand of Glory.

And people doubt whether or not I'm clever.

But like I said before… That's a story for a different time.

Snape never caught me, no… But Weasley eventually did. Not Ronald, not
the infamous twins.

Ginny.

And how she tracked me to New Orleans, I have no idea, because she still
won't tell me. But find me she did, and if she hadn't, I'd probably have kept
looking for Harry Potter and Tom Riddle until I caught my own death.

Ginny found me, and convinced me to finally stop.

It's not that I've changed my mind. I still don't think that they died, especially
not after all that I went through. I don't think that Harry Potter and Tom
Riddle are dead.

But I don't think they're here.

So this is where the story ends, readers. I leave you now with these last, few
things.

At the bottom of this page are the words of someone else. I'm sure you
haven't forgotten the part in this tale where Harry wrote something too, and I
cruelly didn't tell you what it was. I wanted to wait until the very end for you
to read it. I know, I initially asked him to write it as a prologue, but I think
that maybe some beginnings make better endings, and maybe there isn't any
difference between the two at all.

Lastly, the picture on the opposite page. Ronald Weasley took it when I was
still stuck in Grimmauld Place with Harry and Snape, when Harry was
belting out the lyrics to Queen and not even I could stop myself from singing
along.

I hate that picture.

I hate it, because it's a muggle photograph, and it's so eerie, the way it's still
like that. Lifeless and cold, a literal frozen moment in time.

I hate it, because Harry is wearing that stupid scarf and those stupid glasses,
and you can't see his eyes.

I hate it, because I look so happy.

I hate it, because I was.

Thank you for reading my story. You have the very best of me.

Regards,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

I don't think one can really articulate their thoughts on life through writing,
but I've been asked to try, so here it goes. I think we're all connected. Maybe
not in a way that makes much sense, but I don't think anyone is ever truly
alone. You, reading this, are not alone. We may never meet, I may never be
more than a character in a story to you, but that doesn't matter. I think that
when we pour a little bit of ourselves into paper and ink, those stories pour a
bit of themselves back into us, too, and that makes us closer than you can
imagine. Life is strange and difficult. You'll sometimes feel completely lost.
You'll fall in love with the voices in your head. You'll look in all the right
places at all the wrong times for something that you think will make you
happy. You'll be forced to go through so much pain. But just know that,
through it all, you are not alone. I'm with you, the character in the story that
you poured a bit of yourself into when you took the time to read. I'm with you.

You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.

 50. Epilogue: Beyond
Notes for the Chapter:

I wanted to wait until closer to Christmas to post this. Clearly... I failed.

Hard.

You are loved.

Epilogue: Beyond

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some

Who till they died, did not alive become—

Who had they lived, had died but when

They died, Vitality begun.

-Emily Dickinson

Tom opened his eyes to starlight.

He blinked in the gentle glow, his still unfocused vision blurring the sky
above him and making the field of stars look like an oil painting. His body
felt heavy. His mind felt fuzzy and warm. Tom rubbed the sand from the
corners of his eyes and sat up.

"You're awake."

Lucidity struck him in the form of a black hair, a timid smile, and brilliant
eyes.

There was his precious soul, his angel, looking very much the part of
something immaculate and divine as he sat there, somehow, impossibly, with
his legs dangling over the edge of a cloud. His emerald eyes sang of
happiness when Tom stared at him, slack-jawed and confused.

"Sorry I didn't try to wake you sooner. I've been up, but… I just couldn't do
it. You looked so peaceful."

Tom gawked in disbelief. He was just attempting to gather himself when he

realized something which might have surprised him even further, had the
sight of Harry Potter on a cloud not instantly caused him to meet his
threshold for being shocked.

"I'm naked," he said numbly, looking down at his completely exposed body.
He noticed then that he, too, was on a cloud; though that bizarre detail
suddenly seemed inconsequential.

"Yep. You look…" Harry paused for a second. Tom glanced up to see that
Harry's brows were furrowed, like he was looking for the right word to say.

"…Good," he eventually settled for. Tom got the impression that this was not
what he had first thought to say, despite the fact that he then smiled
innocently. Harry's grin faltered when Tom's eyes narrowed.

"What? It's not like I did that. I guess that's just how these things work. You
don't get to take anything with you."

Tom frowned. "You're not naked," he pointed out.

That was true. Harry was wearing long, swirling robes of shimmering silver.
Fabric like liquid light that clung to his shoulders and waist, almost like they
were a part of him. The cloak fell below his legs, ending in an ephemeral
smoke that dissipated at his feet.

But his ghostly clothing was the least startling thing about him. He still
looked like Harry; it was undeniably his perfection who was smiling down at
him, here…and yet it was not that same man at all.

Harry's disheveled hair seemed even wilder than before; something which, as
far as Tom was concerned, should not have been possible. His green, green
eyes were brighter than anything conceivably found in nature. They were
alight with a sort of cold energy that Tom knew he knew very well, but
couldn't quite put his finger on at the moment. And all around him, there
seemed to be a sort of…coolness. Like winter air.

Despite the icy feel, Harry's voice was warm and friendly. Just as it always
had been.

"You're right. I'm not," he answered simply, shrugging.

Tom shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "What happened to
us…?"

"What do you remember?"

Harry fixed him with a blank face and two vivid, neon irises. Tom found
himself momentarily stunned by the intensity of them. "…I…" He closed his
eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remember.

Memories like patchwork flashes of thought swept across his mind in no

particular order. Azkaban. Bellatrix, Severus. Harry's lips on his neck, cold
kisses on his scorching skin. Conversations and shattered glass. Riddle manor
falling apart all around them when he was so, so in love.

The veil.

"I remember everything," Tom said softly, after a time. When he looked back
up to Harry, it was to see that his soul's neutral expression hadn't changed at
all. "You tricked me. I suppose I should be very upset with you," he said,
though of course Tom felt nothing of the sort.

Harry shrugged again. Such a casual action for what should have been a
monumental accusation. "I didn't know your story."

Tom suppressed the urge to scoff. "And what now of our story? Has it finally
come to an end? …Are we dead?"

Harry pursed his lips for a moment, tilting his head and looking up towards
the sky. "Maybe… But maybe not. Perhaps there are no such concrete states
as alive or dead. Perhaps we are all transitory, only at some points in
existence we are a bit more stable than others. If life, like magic, is energy,
then it is neither created nor destroyed, only constantly recycled. I therefore
hypothesize that we are ephemeral. We are in a constant state of flux."

He looked back at Tom with huge eyes, blinking owlishly. Tom stared, too
perplexed to be astounded. "What do you think?" Harry asked.

For a long moment Tom was quiet, trying to come up with some kind of
intelligent response…and was surprised to find that he had absolutely nothing
to offer.

"I don't know," he murmured—words which he had surely never uttered

before in his life. The thought made him break out into a giant, lopsided grin.
"I don't know," he said again, and his smile widened when Harry raised one
eyebrow questionably.

"I have noidea!" Tom exclaimed, collapsing onto his back on the cloud
beneath him and declaring his ignorance to the heavens.

"I don't know!"

And then he was laughing. Harder than he had ever laughed before, harder
than when he'd survived the tornado and lived to see rainbows and sunshine.
He laughed until his ribs hurt. He laughed until tears were welling in the
corners of his eyes. Tom laughed until Harry was laughing, too, and the
sound of their laughter filled the sky.

Finally, Tom managed to contain himself. Still splayed on his back, he rolled
his head to one side and looked up at Harry, grinning. "I spent my entire life
traveling the world, searching for knowledge, discovering the world's greatest
secrets. With each passing day I learned more, becoming smarter and more
cunning over the span of decades…and then you happened."

Harry's face fell, but Tom only smiled more brightly. "You weren't even born
yet, and you'd already started to undo me. One prediction from one
incompetent woman, and my downhill spiral into idiocy began. I believed in
a partial prophecy right away, even though I knew that most prophecies never
came into fruition because the belief was not there. I knew that countless
glass spheres sat on shelves in the Ministry, completely unfulfilled…and yet I
did. I believed in it, and every decision I ever made afterwards concerning
you was incredibly stupid, and they only became stupider as time went on. I
used to be a prodigy, but that genius came to an end when you began. The
mere idea of you was born, and I became a bit less intelligent every day
thereafter."

Tom sat up again, forcing his face into a carefully controlled mask of
seriousness when he looked pointedly at Harry. "I believe we should start
over. Hello, my name is Tom Riddle, and I am a complete idiot." He kept his
face blank when Harry cracked a smile. "And who might you be?"

Harry was silent for a while. He bit his lower lip in that endearing way he
always did when he was thinking, looking far too innocent. Tom waited
patiently. "Who am I…" he murmured, looking down at his hands. Tom only
just then noticed what rested on Harry's left middle finger.

His ring. Tom's golden ring, which he had…acquired from his uncle, and…
and it looked to be perfectly intact…

Harry looked up. "My name is Harry Potter, and I believe I may be the
Master of Death, if I am not mistaken."
If there were ever a statement that could have distracted Tom Riddle from the
sight of his missing ring on Harry Potter's finger, it was this. Tom stared
blankly at Harry, who stared blankly back, like even he was a bit perturbed
by what he had just said.

That was when it hit him. Why that bright tint of Harry's brightened eyes
seemed so familiar.

Avada Kedavra.

A beat of silence…and then Tom was laughing again.

"But of course you are!" he shouted between labored breaths, throwing his
arms up in the air in complete surrender. "Tom Riddle, idiot, and Harry
Potter, philosopher and Master of the one thing I ever feared." He laughed
again, catching Harry's eye and feeling almost delirious with the
ridiculousness of it all.

"We certainly have come full circle, haven't we?"

Harry didn't say anything to that, just smiled.

Tom tore his eyes away from Harry so that he could take in their
surroundings properly. "Where are we, exactly, Master of Death?" he asked
casually, gesturing towards the endless sea of stars and dark, night clouds.

"I've been trying to figure that out myself," Harry answered. "I'm not sure. I
think I just came with you. That this is your place, and I'm only here—
wherever here is—because I'm tied to you."

Tom felt a twinge of annoyance. A familiar sensation when conversing with

Harry Potter. "Didn't you just say you've been awake this whole time?"

"Yes, I have," Harry said, nodding. "I suppose I could have been trying to
figure out where we are, but I was…distracted." He grinned mischievously.

It took Tom about two seconds to put it together.

"You looked really peaceful," Harry added, nodding down towards Tom's
still very naked body. Tom felt his face instantly light on fire.

Before he could think of something to say to that, though, Harry spoke again.
His vibrant gaze flickered to the ground below. "Oh, look! Down there!"

Tom followed Harry's pointed finger, staring in incredulity at what appeared

to be…

"It's the Great Hall!" Harry shouted excitedly, jumping to his feet. A strange
action, considering that he was standing on a cloud, which shouldn't have
been possible. "It is! Tom, we're in Hogwarts, we're—"

Harry's eyes went wide with sudden understanding. "We're in the ceiling,
Tom. We're in the enchanted ceiling of the castle!"

Harry laughed, craning his neck as he looked down, green eyes darting across
the Hall almost feverishly. "Look, there's Dumbledore! And McGonagall!
And—ergh, Snape, unfortunately—but that's gotta be Hagrid…"

Yet that wasn't what Tom saw. "Is that who you see…?" he asked, confused.
For he saw not Dumbledore in the Headmaster's seat, but Dippet…

"Yeah…wait, no," Harry answered, hesitant. "I mean, I did, but now it's all
changing… Is that… Is that Draco?"

Tom was able to see that. The scene had melted away, deteriorated…and now
the young Malfoy heir was there by himself, standing in the middle of the
Hall and staring up at the ceiling with a very intense look on his face. "It is!
It's just Draco, now … Oi, Draco! Draco!" Harry yelled, waving his arms
about. He scowled when Draco didn't respond, taking a deep breath before
cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing downward:

"Draco fucking Malfoy!"

Tom hissed and covered his ears. Harry scratched the back of his head when
his exclamation garnered no reaction at all from the stern-looking wizard
below. "Huh. Guess he can't hear us," Harry concluded aptly. He looked at
Tom and smiled, sheepish. Tom responded with a sarcastically skeptical look.

Then they were both laughing again, louder and more raucously than ever.

"But wait!" Harry shouted suddenly, still half in laughter. "It's—it's all
fluctuating again! Wow, it's just a big ball of wibbly-wobbly down there, isn't
it? Who are all of those people?"

Tom silently mouthed the words 'wibbly wobbly', completely dubious, before
he decided not to comment on that outlandish statement. Instead, he looked
back towards the hall. The faces appeared blurred and unintelligible to him.
"I don't know," he responded once more, leaning over the edge of his cloud.
"I'm an idiot, now, remember? You're the Master of Death. Shouldn't you
know?"

"I wasn't given an instructions manual."

"How convenient." Tom smirked, turning his attention away from the
faceless people on the ground. "Here's a better question, then. Why are you so
far away?"

Harry's eyes widened, clearly taken aback by the inquiry. When Tom had
first woken up, they had been only a few feet apart, each on their separate
clouds in the night. But as time had gone on, they must have been drifting
apart, slowly enough that they hadn't even noticed it happening.

"Oh. I didn't realize... Here, grab my hand." Harry extended his arm across
the empty air. Tom reached for it, but he was just a bit too far away. Only a
few inches separated their outstretched fingers, but no matter how hard they
tried, they couldn't touch.

"Can't you fly?" Harry asked, once they'd finally recognized defeat and
stopped reaching for one another.

Tom thought about that. He didn't feel the same kind of weightlessness inside
of him that he used to. "I…I don't think I can, anymore," he admitted, feeling
a wave of dread at how true those words rang when he said them out loud. "I
don't think I can, Harry. I think… I think I'm forgetting things."

Harry looked concerned. Tom felt…off.

"You're leaving, Tom," Harry said, breathless and aware. "…You're going
beyond."

"What?"

Harry's face became something unreadable. "Don't you see it? You're heading
towards the east. The sun is about to rise. You're on your way."

Tom turned and looked over his shoulder, where the sky had begun to
lighten. "Are you coming, too?" he asked, feeling oddly unafraid…and
recognizing this, on some deep level, as a warning sign.

"No."

While Tom was drifting towards the light, Harry was slipping away towards
the west, where the sky was a dark and endless sea of shadows. "No," he
repeated softly. "I'm going…somewhere else. That light is for you and you
alone."

Tom felt a thrill of panic. "I don't want to go," he said, voice breaking. "I
don't want to be without you…" He felt suddenly so small, so afraid. Like a
child. "Don't I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice." The Master of Death glanced quickly down at
the ground and back up again, eyes gleaming. "You could jump. If you do,
I… I promise I'll follow. I promise I'll find you."

The intense, powerful terror that had coursed through the boy with the
porcelain skin and obsidian eyes ebbed away, replaced by a strange state of
numbness. He looked down towards a place that looked like home, despite
how unfamiliar it was.
"Jump!"

There was a glowing man in silver on a cloud far away from him, looking
anxious and fearful. He and his green, green eyes were being enveloped in a
blackness that went on and on and on, while at the same time he felt himself
being consumed by a world of white.

"Jump! Now, Tom!"

…Who?

"Jump!"
 Table of Contents
Title Page
1. Prologue: The Magnificent Mind of Severus Snape
2. White, White World
3. House of Ghosts
4. Thoughts and Fears
5. Lonely Together
6. Outstanding
7. The Monster in the Attic
8. Dead and in the Dark
9. Riddle, Riddle, Riddle
10. Promises
11. The Holly in the Snow
12. Pyres
13. Occlumency Trials
14. The Devil in Silver
15. Progress
16. Can Anybody Find Me
17. Life Imitates Art
18. Horcruxes and Hallows
19. Portrayed
20. Two Truths -
21. - and a Lie
22. Voldemort
23. Draco's Redemption
24. The Chosen One
25. Safe Haven
26. The Most Desirable Word
27. Believe in Luna Lovegood
28. An Elephant Named Love
29. The Dead Remember
30. Taboo Topics
31. No Shortage of Love
32. Tu Vis Dans l'Obscurité
33. Amazing Grace
34. Happy Thoughts
35. Seventh Floor Wars
36. Shattered
37. Judgment Day
38. The Life and Lies of Tom Riddle: Part I
39. The Life and Lies of Tom Riddle: Part II
40. The Impossible Truth
41. Acceptance
42. Nargles
43. The Angel of Death
44. Lilies
45. To Know Red
46. Rapture
47. Morsmordre
48. Black and White
49. The Final Chapter
50. Epilogue: Beyond