Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

--William Butler Yeats "He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"

“I am Jonathan Frost. I was Voldemort and Tom Riddle. I was also Harry Potter.” After the final confrontation with Voldemort, Harry finds himself changed and thrown back into the time of the Marauders and Severus Snape.

I.

The wind howled over the stones, damp and stained with age and years of impure water. Along the walls, the cloaked men stood, their faces covered by white masks. A wizard with red eyes stood in the middle of the cavernous room, and a man lay in a heap before him. The wind whistled around them.

"Crucio!" the red-eyed wizard hissed, and the man jerked like a puppet in the hands of a careless infant. His screams seemed to claw at the walls, seeking a way out. Thorny ropes bound his arms, and his body was bruised and bloody. There was a lightning-shaped scar down the center of his forehead.

"Ssso we meet again, Mr. Potter," the red-eyed wizard whispered, a cold smile on his lips. "But unlike three years ago, there will be no traitor to save you this time. Crucio!"

The man screamed again, though this time, his voice was hoarse and drops of blood flecked the ground.

"Are you ready to die, yet, Mr. Potter?"

Red light crackled around the man like thorny vines, and he jerked over the red-stained floor. His eyes were glazed and sightless from pain.

"You should thank me, Mr. Potter," the red-eyed wizard smiled. It was a very ugly smile, showing small, pointed, yellowed teeth. "You will see all those meddlesome fools I killed… like our parents, and that dog of a godfather, whom Bellatrix was so kind of dispose of. And I will send you others, very soon: that Muggle-loving fool, Dumbledore, and that family of redheads. The Weasleys." The smile widened, and a fork of black flesh stuck out from between the two front teeth. "I will even send you the one whose mind you destroyed: the one who was your best friend…"

The man's heavy breathing sounded like the wintry air rushing through jagged rocks and crags. He lifted his head and glared, a spark of defiance leaping out of hazy depths of pain. "Kill me then, Tom," he snarled. "You tried, so many times, but you've failed each time, even when I was… only a baby. Turned into a wraith by a Muggle-born's spell… try, you half-blood freak—"

"Crucio."

The man writhed once more. There was a barely controlled fury in the red-eyed wizard's voice as the red light pulsed.

"You will die, Potter—you will die today, but I will mark you first, and show the world what their savior has become…" The red light ended. "Inuro Morsmorde!" Black light erupted, flittering like vapid bats, hurtling through the air and seething into the man's bloody chest. His shriek of pain was buried under the sizzling of flesh and crackling of darkness.

The red-eyed wizard smiled and lifted his hand. The man, now with the mark of a skull and snake branded onto his chest, floating limply into the air. "Your body I will hang at the gates of Hogwarts, but I would like to keep your head. A little reminder, if you will. Inuro Mormorde." The man's flesh sizzled, and the black lines traced themselves of the forehead, cheek, nose. The man's mouth strained in silent scream.

"Fare you well, Harry Potter," the red-eyed wizard hissed. "I will not be seeing you again." He aimed his yew wand at the lightning-shaped scar, and did not noticed the smile on the beaten man's face, so faint that it would be invisible to anyone who was not looking for it.

"Avada Kedavra," the wizard whispered, and as green light exploded to engulfed the room, reaching even the farthest corners and illuminating everything—the dark holes of the masks, the folds of blood-stained black robes—there was a clap of thunder that deafened everyone, and yet no sound was heard. The green light changed tenor and texture, and there was scream, so high and piercing the thunder of the green light shattered before it, and then the man with the lightning-shaped scar collapsed onto the ground, next to a pile of robes and ashes where once the red-eyed wizard had towered.

Someone yelled that the wards had fallen, than their Lord was dead, and on the bloodstained floor, the man's eyes focused, and his lips widened into a hesitant smile; but it faded when a wisp of silver shimmered into being above the pile of rags.

He could feel the magic of the Killing Curse awake in the wand and hurtle itself into him, rush through his mind and body and strike his soul with the sound of thunder. For a brief moment of nothingness, everything was so bright that he thought with calm certainty that he must be dead, but the moment ended and he felt the curse reflecting off the mirror, leaving him, rushing like shrieking winds from a thousand storms. In one crystalline moment, through the blood that trickled over his eyes, he saw Voldemort's crimson eyes widen in anguished shock and fury, burning themselves into his. And then the moment passed, and the green light engulfed his vision once more; but those burning eyes lingered even as his vision cleared from the flood of light and the piercing scream faded into echoes.

He heard shouting, rustling, commotion, and it occurred to him dimly that he should get up, that he should at least attempt to defend himself, but that thought was swept aside as a new one took its place. He's dead. Voldemort is dead. I've killed him. He's dead. Suddenly, he was so weak from numbing relief and exhaustion that nothing mattered anymore: he had accomplished the task; the desperate plan had worked; the mirror he'd painstakingly built in his soul had successfully bounced back Voldemort's Avada Kedavra, even though the Dark Lord was—had been at least three times as powerful as him. They'd won. He'd won. Voldemort was dead—dead—dead—and he was too tired and his body hurt too much and he was too giddy from senseless relief to move…

Then he noticed the shimmer in the air above the pile of rags. He watched it ripple and quiver, like the air over the Hogwarts grounds on a particularly hot summer day, and as a silver hue slowly seeped into the air, breathing through it like mist from a Patronus charm, he felt icy fear and bewilderment clench his heart.

What the hell is this?

He tried to move his arm, to prepare to defend or attack this new devilry, but found he was too exhausted and pained to move. Through the black haze that quivered over his mind, he watched the silver drift vaguely, almost lazily over the rags. Even as it floated serenely, he thought he saw it writhe in furious, powerful agonies, like winds of a storm.

Then, with an almost audible sigh, little strands of it reached towards him, and Harry's mind blanked out in pain—a pain so deep and blinding it shook down the walls of his mind and exposed him, naked and raw, to its brunt—as the silver drifted into his body.

He was in too much agony to notice the frenzied rat with one silver paw scrambling through the chaos of falling bodies and stomping feet towards him.

Remus Lupin felt the wards fall, and with a jolt of shock that made the tiny glimmer of hope flare into a roaring bonfire, felt the portkey take him with the multitude of aurors—some surprised, some shocked, others with a gleam of victory—into the dark chamber where Voldemort lay dead.

He slammed aside the haze of surprise, and hexes and curses sailed out of his wand, streaking over the stunned Death-Eater's like death's scythe with a vigor and strength he hadn't felt in nearly four years—not since when Voldemort went through that ritual and became stronger than Harry and Dumbledore combined. He ducked with instincts from a full moon that was only a day off, fired off another curse, and looked around desperately. Where was Harry?

The air sizzled with curses, and he had to roll ungracefully across the floor to avoid an angry stream of magic as he paused to sniff for his best friend's godson; where was the boy?

"Harry!" he shouted, though his voice was drowned in the roar of incantations and screams. "Harry!"

He flung aside an opponent, and in the space between the bodies, he thought he saw—he could see—in the darkness, swathed by shadows that flickered with colors—

"HARRY?"

In the center of the room next to a pile of limp rags was the naked body of his godson. He was jerking back and forth, as though in the throes of some unbearable agony, and, though it might very well have been a trick of light from the multitude of curses and spells, an unearthly silver light seemed to flicker around him, turning the red blood black and making the pain-filled green eyes glow.

He's hurt, badly hurt, Remus thought with a burst of anxiety. He couldn't remember ever seeing Harry so raw, so open and vulnerable; in the six months Harry had been out of hiding, he'd been a calm pillar of hope and strength in a crumbling world. But the werewolf could remember the glimpses he'd had of his best friend's godson when Snape had rescued him three years ago from Voldemort's clutches. The boy had reminded him sickeningly of one of the victims of that Muggle genocide, the Holocaust, but it had been worse, because there had been so much blood, and the boy had reeked of lifelessness and despair; and even as the Boy-Who-Lived had grinned his wry smile and quietly soothed a worry, Remus wondered that a shadow of that stench lingered.

"Harry, hold on!" he shouted, fear spurring his actions until he was clawing and snarling like a wolf. It was miraculous that Harry hadn't died from a curse yet, but it seemed that the writhing silver light made a flickering clearing around him, keeping away the dark chaos—

He saw a little black shadow streak into the ring and stretch into a short, scrawny figure, more rat than man—

NO! Remus shrieked in his mind, and he redoubled his assault, but it was like fighting against the ocean tide— He tripped, felt something smash into his mouth, shot off a curse and wiped the blood off his mouth, and glanced up through eyes clouded by perspiration—

Pettigrew had his wand pointed at Harry's neck, and Harry, trembling, didn't seem to notice; the Death-Eater's lips moved, but they slowed, as though time itself had paused them, and then Remus was aware of the strangest feeling of floating. A light he'd thought was a spell began to brighten, glowing so dazzlingly he wished he could close his eyes, but he found he couldn't. Air rushed past him, and the lightness tossed him aside like a rag doll, and he suddenly realized, as though he had been staring at a mere hill before discovering that it was part of a towering mountain, that there was so much power throbbing in the room—raw but controlled, as though someone had drawn lightning out of the sky and was painting it with deft strokes through the air.

The light winked out and he nearly collapsed as heaviness and feeling returned to him. He looked up.

Then he panicked. The strange feeling of lightness left him completely and his eyes adjusted. Harry was still lying in the middle of the room, but the silvery glowing hadn't been imagined: it pulsed ever so faintly, but in the dark room, it might as well have been the sun. There was a body lying next to Harry, slumped over in death, and Remus recognized it as Peter Pettigrew.

Remus only had time scramble to his feet and notice that he was stepping on someone when there was a flicker in the air next to where Harry lay convulsing, as though a cloak was being swished aside, and then a cloak was swished aside, revealing a figure that seemed drenched in shadow.

The werewolf froze at the sight. His mind refused to work as he watched the stranger bent over Harry's jerking form and laid a hand on his forehead, and then Harry Potter disappeared.

Hermione felt the curse hit her, and the hot pain spread out from her shoulder. I'm dead, she had time to think before she felt herself float away. She half expected some feeling of sadness, or an extension to the pain, but it all faded, and the light grew until she wished she could close her eyes. She had enough consciousness to wonder why she couldn't close her eyes when the light winked out.

Feeling returned, and she gasped, wondering what had happened, and realized with shock the sheer power that had been behind the light. It was like nothing she'd ever known. She shook herself slightly, and noticed that the room was quiet as a tomb except for heavy breathing, and she was not where she had been a moment ago.

What happened? she wondered dazedly, noting also that there was no burning flash of curses or hexes being thrown. She prodded her shoulder, where the curse had hit, and felt nothing. The only source of light in the room—

Her mouth dropped open as she caught sight of the figure in the center of the room. Harry? She stared, glancing at those eyes, clouded with pain. She'd never seen him so raw and open and vulnerable and in pain. Four years ago, maybe, but after—after (her throat closed momentarily at the old pain that rose) that happened at the end of their sixth year, and Harry went into hiding three years and came out six months ago—he was like a stranger. Calm, cool, collected, distant; a grim smile the last remnant of his sparkle, a wry remark the shadow of his laughter and humor. A leader, yes; a friend, no. She remembered seeing him for the first time in three years and feeling the smile on her lips flee and the hug she had readied go limp as dead leaves.

So horrified and transfixed was she by Harry's expression that she hardly noticed the hand that laid itself over the man's brow, and when she did and blinked, Harry was already gone.

She blinked again, unable to comprehend what she saw. Harry. He's—he's— Then she noticed that in the middle of the room, darkened now without the elusive silvery glow that had surrounded the Boy-Who-Lived, was a stranger whose face and body were hidden in a cloak of inky darkness.

The shock and disbelief wore off. She whipped out her wand and pointed it at the stranger. Her blood pounded madly in her ears. A distant part of her noted that it felt strangely ridiculous aiming a wand at him: it was like pointing a gun at the sun, or arming oneself with a bucket to scoop out the sea.

"What did you do to him?" Remus Lupin demanded harshly. "Where did you send him?"

Hermione hadn't noticed the werewolf standing up, but spared him a glance and noted Dumbledore a few steps behind him. Strange, she noted, while keeping most of her mind focused on the stranger; how did all the Death-Eaters end up in a pile over there, and we over here? She remembered, briefly, the strange white light, but then the stranger suddenly swept his arm, and a jet of purple light ricocheted off his arm and arced into the Death-Eaters on the other side of the room. A few strangled cries rang out.

"Bad move, Malfoy," the stranger said in an amused tone. His voice was low and rough, but vaguely familiar.

"Where did you send Harry Potter?" Dumbledore asked in a stern voice. Even from a distance, Hermione could feel the power radiating from the old headmaster.

The stranger drew himself up, still wrapped in his cloak, or whatever it was: Hermione could only be sure that it was made of shadows.

"Albus Dumbledore," the stranger said slowly. "So we meet again. After a day and twenty-three years."

There was a pause. The headmaster didn't lower his wand. "I do not believe I know you."

The stranger lifted his arms, and his hood slid back. He's wearing a mask, Hermione thought blankly; a rather strange mask. It covered the right side of his face and left the left side exposed. It was the face of a man of forty, that much she could tell; it looked vaguely familiar, but with only half a face and the fey, flickering lights of pale, dim lumos spells, she couldn't figure out how. But most striking of all were the eyes—they were brilliantly green, eerily familiar, but had streaks of crimson in the emerald irises.

"I see that you recognize my eyes, Albus," the stranger said in his low, rough voice, and his eyes darted to a figure in the corner before returning to the headmaster. "But there is more. The last time we met, I told you that you would have much to answer for if I survived. I lied. Much of what you said was true. It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."

Hermione turned to glance at the headmaster, and was treated with an expression of shock, disbelief, hope, and dismay. No help there, she thought, and noted dimly that she'd never seen such a startling array of emotions on Albus Dumbledore's face.

"Who is he, Albus?" Remus Lupin demanded suspiciously, wand still trained at the stranger.

"And most importantly," growled Mad-Eye Moody as he clunked to his feet, "what did you do to Harry?"

The stranger turned his gaze to the grizzled, old auror. His eyes twisted for a moment with regret, and the red streaks seemed to glow, but it was so brief Hermione was sure she had imagined it. "I am sorry about your cousin, Alastor."

Hermione watched the auror's face retain its usual scowl of suspicion for a long moment before it morphed into a shocked look of dawning comprehension. "You—"

"Yes," the stranger said evenly. "And more." He seemed to hesitate a moment before turning to face a figure in the shadows.

All heads swiveled, and Hermione had to squint before she realized that the figure the stranger had turned to was Severus Snape.

The stranger moved hesitantly towards the shadowy figure of the potions master. For the first time since the stranger appeared, he seemed uncertain. "Severus…"

Snape seemed to shudder. "No," he snarled, voice strangely wobbly. "You—he died—many years ago."

"Severus, I—"

"NO!"

"Please, let me explain—"

"Explain?" Snape sneered, though Hermione could hear the pain wrenching his voice.

"I had to, Severus, you know I had, and—God, how I wished I could've—"

Hermione watched the potions master pull something out of his hair with clumsy fingers (the emergency portkey, she realized), clutch it in a trembling fist, and then vanish completely.

The stranger let his arms drop to his sides, and Hermione felt some of the power that had crashed about them recede. She let go of a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"And he doesn't even know half of it," the stranger said wryly to the suddenly silent room, and Hermione froze at the voice. It was so—devastatingly familiar, and from the half-face she could see the same grim, half-wry ghost of a smile, the same light, quiet tone—

But it can't be! she thought, mind whirling.

Then the stranger removed his mask, and Hermione nearly dropped her wand. There, on the right side of his face, was the Dark Mark, stretching from his hairline over his nose and cheeks and the edge of his lips down to the curve of his neck.

"DON'T MOVE!" Mad-Eye Moody roared.

The stranger wrinkled his nose, seeming not to notice the multitude wands that were all focused on him. "Masks do tend to be more cumbersome, but at least they're not maddeningly itchy as glamour charms are, and they're more predictable."

He quirked a grin, eyes roving over the crowd of aurors and Order members, and Hermione nearly dropped her wand again when his eyes caught hers for a brief moment—that smile, that look, that spark of recognition—it was too familiar, too—

"I see that you've caught on, Hermione," the stranger said. Hermione gulped.

The stranger sighed. And then he rubbed his forehead, making the skin a little red, and the white, jagged scar suddenly became clear as day. Utter silence settled over the room. "Well. I've returned, though I believe only Albus knows how." He smiled grimly, wryly. "And with me comes all my names. Jonathan Frost, Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, and Harry Potter."

II.

His entire body was in pain. He didn't know how long he had been in pain, but it seemed like eternity. He was lying on something cold and rough and sticky with a sharp, metallic scent. His eyes opened, and he saw a tuft of brownish grass, splashed with blood, growing in the cracks of the cement he was lying on. The sky overhead was gray, and the drab yard and distant buildings were all gray.

Grunting slightly, he tried to sit up, but hissed with pain as his ribs throbbed. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, but opened them when he heard familiar footsteps approaching.

He curled up warily and kept his eyes focused on the hem of the orphanage matron's dirty black dress. He was dimly aware of the blood that rolled down in bright red rivulets down his forearm from his elbow, but took no notice of it.

"Disgusting," she sneered. He glared balefully up at her. A spike of hatred surged through him, so strong that he felt a tinge of red color the edges of his vision. You'll die someday, he thought with cold conviction. He imagined himself ripping her face off, ripping away that face that would no longer hold contempt, but raw fear; he imagined tearing the skin off, patch by patch, and then smashing the bleeding head—

Harry jerked awake at the sound of murmured voices and a door opening. He kept his eyes shut, his breathing controlled, and his right arm darted to where his pillow was for his w— His wand was gone. Shit. Where am I? He always, always slept with a wand under his pillow, even though his wandless magic was more than simply proficient— Am I in the hospital wing?

The familiarity of one of the voices stilled all his thoughts.

"I doubt our visitor is truly asleep, Frank."

Harry's eyes snapped open, taking in the gray stones of the ceiling, and he turned his head, noting the faint pain in his neck and the pulse of a headache when he moved. "Albus?" he croaked. It is Albus, Harry thought with relief, taking in the purple-robed silver-bearded old man. His eyes were above to move to examine the headmaster's companion when he abruptly brought his gaze back to Albus's face. It was difficult to tell, because the only source of light was the dim paleness that streamed in through the door behind the headmaster and his companion, but—was that shock on Albus's face?

"Don't try anything," Albus's companion said harshly after a pause.

Harry blinked. What's going on? He wished he had his wand in his hand. He tried to sit up in a position better suited for dashing out the door, but discovered that his muscles wouldn't listen to him.

"I'm afraid you're in no position to move," Albus said apologetically, casting a rather stern glance at his companion. "You were suffering from some severe wounds when we found you in the dungeons of Nott manor."

Dungeons of Nott manor…? Harry blinked once, and then memory flooded him: the desperate plan, the hours of torture, the casting of the Avada Kedavra, the fury of the reflection, the strange, silvery thing, and then the pain—

"I…" He blinked. No wonder I'm hurting all over, he thought. "Is he dead, Albus?"

There was a stunned sort of silence. Harry glanced up, ignoring the throb at his temples.

"Who, dead?" the headmaster asked, in the gentle voice Harry that knew was meant to invite the victim to blab on to the caring and grandfatherly headmaster.

Something's definitely wrong, Harry thought, heart clenching with trepidation. How can Albus not know—unless this isn't Albus? But—this would be the stupidest attempt at impersonation, and— He frowned. "Voldemort." He looked up. "Did it work? Is he dead?"

Dead silence. At any other time, Harry would have smirked at the stunned look on Albus's face.

"I'm afraid," Albus said, when his companion opened his mouth, "that I do not quite understand you."

Harry blinked and realized what else it was that was off. The formality—Albus was never this formal to him, even before they had their—not really friendship, but old men's camaraderie. Am I under a glamour charm of some sort? But Albus isn't that stupid to be fooled—

"The plan…" Harry said slowly, flicking his gaze from the headmaster to his companion. "To reflect the—" He paused. And squinted, because Albus's companion, the one named Frank, was—terribly familiar: the wispy blond hair, the stocky build— "Neville?"

Albus and the man named Frank exchanged glances. "Neville," he said, "is my father. Sir Neville Ulfric Longbottom."

Harry blinked. The pounding of his headache was not helping his brain processes; when did Neville have a middle name? And how can Neville have had—this is impossible, it's—

Then it clicked. Frank Longbottom.

He drew a sharp breath, ignoring the pain of his ribs. "What year is it, headmaster?" he asked, glancing up at the half-moon spectacles and penetrating blue eyes that he was all but immune to by now.

Albus Dumbledore frowned. "1977."

Harry closed his eyes. That explained everything, and—damn it. Damn it, he cursed wearily, his headache throbbing more heavily now. How had he suddenly gone back twenty-three years? All he could remember was (he shivered) the pain. Perhaps Voldemort had cast upon him a final curse? Or one of his Death-Eaters. But time-travel wasn't much of revenge, especially successfully done time-travel (he might have been smeared quite messily across several years if it hadn't been), and besides, successful time-travel was a very tricky thing, and only the most-skilled, most-powerful could even attempt it…

"Why?"

Harry opened his eyes, feeling old and grim and worn. "I am from the year 2000."

There was a stunned silence. Harry let his eyes close again. Stupid headache, he thought. Why is it that these things always happen to me? He let the thought slide away like a raindrop over the smooth surface of a statue. It was his fate, and nothing came from questioning it.

"Are you willing to repeat that under Veritaserum?"

"Y—no," Harry said, opening his eyes again. Veritaserum would make him far too vulnerable, and he knew Albus would not have any qualms in asking further once he was under the grips of the truth serum. He wouldn't risk making a paradox. "But I am willing to say that under the Medallis Veritas."

"Very well," Albus said. He took out a battered lead disk with a silver chain and handed it Longbottom. Harry lifted his head, ignoring the intensification of his headache, and let the medallion fall onto his chest. He noticed that under the sheets he was wearing white hospital robes—he remembered being stripped before the torture session—and then Albus asked the question.

"Are you truly from the year 2000?"

Harry didn't bother sitting up. "I am from the year 2000," he intoned, feeling the magic of the medallion weaving around him like a cocoon. The medallion pulsed silver.

Albus nodded, his silver beard folding slightly before straightening. Harry realized for the first time that it wasn't white, as he'd remembered: in the light of the torch that Longbottom had conjured, it looked almost black. "Did you willingly take on the Dark Mark on your face and chest?"

Harry froze. His mind strove to make sense of the words, and then he remembered. He lifted his hand (Longbottom tensed) and touched his chest, feeling the scabs… He moved his hand to his face, and traced where he knew the Dark Mark to be… I'd forgotten, he thought numbly.

"I… no."

The medallion heated and turned an ugly red and he suppressed a wince. Perhaps he had accepted the Dark Mark willingly, as he had accepted every curse and whip and thrust, because he hadn't been able to afford the strength to be defiant, and because he had let his mind drift away as the pain had engulfed his body.

Harry's eyes went to Longbottom's wand, which was pointed at him unwaveringly.

"I do not support or intend to support Voldemort," Harry said flatly. The medallion pulsed in agreement. Longbottom's wand wavered, and the auror glanced at the headmaster. Harry glanced too, and recognized the inscrutable expression in those penetrating blue eyes.

"I do not know how I ended up here, three years before I was born," Harry continued. The medallion glowed softly. "I would like to return, for I have unfinished business."

"Time travel is tricky business," Albus Dumbledore said after a pause. "It is unheard of to travel more than a week, and without finesse or power, traveling too much too quickly can shatter the soul. We'll try to help you, my boy, but in the meantime…" A smile crept over the headmaster's face, a smile that didn't fool Harry for a second. "Where did you go to school?"

"Hogwarts," Harry replied, wondering what the old wizard was getting at.

"Why don't you enroll in Hogwarts as a seventh year, where you will be protected, while I research and try to find a way to send you back in time?"

Frank Longbottom sputtered incredulously. "But Albus, he—"

"In no supports or intends to support Voldemort," Albus finished firmly.

The auror ended his sputters and grumbled something about being far too trusting and forgiving and having mental difficulties. Albus only smiled brilliantly.

Harry managed a crooked grin, though his insides had frozen over. Don't think you can trick me, Albus Dumbledore, Harry thought, briefly meeting the twinkling blue eyes. I know what you're intending to do, just as I know which wandless little spell you're using to produce that damnable twinkle. Do you think I don't know that you are only keeping me at Hogwarts so that I'm under your thumb? Do you think I don't know that you're only putting off Longbottom taking me to a dank Ministry cell because I'm too curious, too dangerous, too wild-card a specimen to let loose? Do you think I don't know that I have no choice? He felt a vague prickly feeling settle over him as the headmaster leaned over him and removed the medallion from around his neck like some caring old man tending his sick grandson. Harry suppressed the urge to brush off those gnarled hands. Do you think I cannot feel the tracking spell you've put on me?

He quickly stomped on his thoughts. No, he told himself. You forget. This Albus isn't your Albus, so don't—don't take it so personally. This Albus has no reason to trust you, and you can hardly expect otherwise. He is just another enemy. Harry closed his eyes and let the thought sweep over him like the bite of wintry air, leaving him a little more worn, a little more alone, in a time that wasn't his own.

He heaved a mental sigh. The Albus Dumbledore of his time had become much more tolerable when he'd stopped trying to manipulate him. The old wizard had been almost—pleasant. Perhaps it was because Harry was the only one who saw through the twinkling eyes and grandfatherly façade and Albus was the only one who knew the Harry beneath the reassuring, Gryffindor mask: they were like chess opponents, who'd played so many games and gone through so many of life's trials and were trapped in a war so fierce that the enmity had muddled into something that could only be described by the camaraderie of old veterans.

"But I'm twenty, I'd look too old," Harry protested weakly, because it would be suspicious if he didn't.

"Nonsense!" Albus cried.

"And the curriculum," Harry added. "I know it already…"

"Nothing wrong in reviewing what you know. And you'll be visiting Hogwarts again."

Visit again, Harry thought with a humorless mental laugh. It's not I who trapped you in a secret chamber in Hogwarts and forced you to mold yourself into a bloody weapon there without seeing a single soul for three years. "If you say so, headmaster." And then, for good measure, and because he knew that, as hardened as Albus was, he would still feel that splinter of guilt and doubt, Harry added with a smile that he knew made him look wan and selfless, "I trust you, Albus."

Harry hid the smirk as he noticed the blue eyes flash a moment with pain. Then he let his eyes slide close, and felt the headache overtake him.

The day was unusually cold for the end of August.

Harry emerged from the Leaky Cauldron and touched the brick that would open to Diagon Alley. He stepped in and stopped, marveling at the tide of people. Shoppers rushed and strolled, chatted and squabbled; children gazed in shops and shrieked and darted about; strange, cloaked creatures stayed in the shadows and disappeared into dark alleys; a baby gazed about with eyes wide with innocent wonder.

And none of them looked at him (besides the hag who looked at everyone with a disturbingly famished look in her eyes).

In the castle, none of the students would ever rush past without whispering or sending him awed looks; in the Order meetings, and even those he dealt with regularly tended to nod dumbly when he said something, even if it was to send them to their deaths; on the streets—

He smiled wryly, humorlessly as he remembered the debacle that followed him everywhere on the streets—unless, that is, the streets were littered with bodies and curdled with black smoke.

He shook his head and stepped towards Madam Malkins, contenting himself to be glad that he didn't need to use his "Gryffindor" mask (yet).

"Hogwarts robes, please," he said to a girl who looked vaguely familiar.

"This way, please," she said, eying his clothing with distaste and leading him deeper into the shop. The tape measure danced about him, and he gazed out the window in troubled thought.

After dipping in and out of consciousness and dreaming confused dreams amidst bouts of sleeping potion and jerking himself awake when the pain of his healing body flung him out of sleep, he had finally made a complete recovery. Albus had cheerfully cast a glamour charm on his Dark Marks and found him an assortment of clothes (fortunately, all the clothes at wherever-they-were were in drab colors, minimizing the damage of Albus's deplorable fashion sense). Then the headmaster made a big show of trustingly letting him go free in Diagon Alley, and Harry had made a big show of smiling in thanks while he ignored the buzzing that he knew was the tracking spell.

It was during that period of restless recovery that he realized something that would make his situation all the more difficult to bear: thanks to Albus's machinations, he was going to be his parents' classmate. He would see Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin, and (cold anger clenched itself around his heart fleetingly) Peter Pettigrew, and Severus Snape. They'd be his classmates, and—God—possibly roommates.

How am I going to prevent a paradox? he thought, though he knew that he would be successful in preventing a paradox—his past was proof of that. The comfort, however, was cold. Perhaps I died on the train and never met them, he thought glumly.

He sighed inwardly. There was no use struggling with fate and with things he couldn't change. Accepting fate was a bitter skill he had learned and mastered. He let his mind wander, and was engrossed in watching a pink-clad toddler trying to grab a squelchy eyeball when he felt a bag get thrust into his hands.

"There's some more wizard's wear in the back," the girl said, indicating with a nod of her head. "You might find something there."

"Right," Harry said, remembering that he didn't have any underclothes besides this set of what Albus had forced him to wear, and headed towards the back of Madam Malkin's.

He paid and walked out of the shop wearing comfortable Muggle shirts and trousers that fitted perfectly, and glanced back to where he'd last seen the toddler. The toddler was in a smiling young woman's arms now, and next to her was a young man, who had one arm around his wife's shoulder and one tickling the toddler's chin; and as Harry watched, he was struck by how perfect the triangle they formed was.

He turned and walked into Ollivander's, squashing the sharp spike of emotion before he could even decipher what it was.

The dark store was like a recluse's hideout compared to the bustling street outside. Once, a long time ago, the silence would have unnerved him, but now it felt almost comfortable.

He turned around swiftly at the quiet patter of footsteps, and the shopkeeper's eyes widened for a moment as they face each other. Probably doesn't have many customers who can catch him sneaking on them, Harry thought humorlessly.

"How may I help you, Mr.…"

"Frost," Harry said. "Jonathan Frost. I need a new wand."

The widened eyes took on an intrigued gleam. "Did you have a wand before? A wand that suited you?"

Harry hesitated. If I take my holly and phoenix feather wand now, I'd create a paradox, he thought with a trace of panic and bewilderment; but a different voice added wisely, Ah, but you didn't take that wand. No matter what you do now, you won't have taken that wand, because it was still there. He paused for a moment at the rather surrealistic thought. "No," he said at last.

"Wand hand?"

"I'm ambidextrous"—a truly useful skill, one he had perfected per Albus's suggestion—"but I prefer my right hand."

"Most interesting," Ollivander murmured. He pulled a box out from his shelf. "Try this one," he ordered. "Cherry and unicorn hair. Firm. Good for Transfiguration."

Harry took it and wasn't surprised when it was snatched out of his hand barely a moment later.

"Oak and dragon heartstring. Inflexible. Nice dueling wand."

Again the wand was snatched out of his hand before he could even get a good grip.

"Willow and phoenix feather. Swishy. Good for charms and healing."

The stack on the spindly chair grew higher and higher, and after Ollivander cheerfully went to the door and put a "CLOSED" sign up, Harry began to get worried. It seemed as though hours had passed. What if his only match was the holly and phoenix feather wand?

"Redwood and basilisk fang. Stiff. Good for curses."

Harry held it for a moment before it was taken away once more. Dust motes flew through the air, sparkling in the slanting light of the afternoon sun, when Ollivander came back at last with a gleam in his eye and a box that brought a sinking feeling to his stomach.

"Let's try this one. Holly and phoenix feather. Powerful wand, this one is."

Harry picked up the wand and gripped it. The rush of power, flowing like a phoenix song, nearly made him forget the pit of dread in his stomach, but as he lifted his arm, the feeling of pure completion abruptly flew away, and he was left with sense of wrongness, and wand that wasn't his.

"Not quite," Ollivander said, snatching away the wand, and handing him another.

Harry took it in something of a daze. You're hardly the boy you were at age eleven, he told himself. But to be rejected by the wand that had been more faithful than any human could be, to which he'd identified himself, that was yet another inexorable link to his destiny to fight Voldemort—

"Amazing," Ollivander murmured, a few wands later. His pale eyes gleamed. "It seems that none of the wands I have made suit you. I believe… I believe that I will have to make you one."

"Oh," said Harry cautiously. It was a little difficult to believe that all the wands—there must've been thousands, he realized—had rejected him. "Um. How much will it cost?"

Ollivander was already disappearing into a back room. Harry followed. "It is rare that I would have the chance to create a wand for a customer as unusual as you," the shopkeeper said distractedly. "Come along."

The room seemed smaller than it really was in the dim red light of a single candle that burned on a battered worktable. Next to the table was a large, battered cauldron. Harry peered inside, and saw a silvery liquid shimmer.

"A drop of you blood, please, Mr. Frost," the wandmaker murmured, holding a scalpel in his hand.

Harry hesitated a moment and nodded, extending his hand.

The wandmaker swiftly pricked Harry's left index finger and squeezed out a drop of blood. "It is the wand that chooses the wizard, you know," Ollivander muttered, tapping Harry's finger with his own wand. The wound healed. "The weaker the wizard, the easier it is for the wand to agree with him."

Harry watched the drop of his blood diffuse through the silver solution. A bubble rose from the depths and broke the surface with a little gloop.

"Not so with powerful wizards," Ollivander continued, staring intently as another bubble rose. Harry wondered briefly if there was some message in the bubbles, like the tealeaves in Trelawney's tower. "An unsuited wand will be cowed by the power," the wandmaker muttered as he crept to a rickety cabinet in the back of the room. "True, one may gain or lose power, but that usually occurs after the wand has bonded to the wizard, and so they stay true to each other."

Harry watched the old wandmaker return with two halves of a very dark wood and lay them on the battered worktable. With his wand, Ollivander began to trace runes around the two halves of wood. Harry recognized a few of them, shimmering and moving like spirits in the flickering candlelight: the sign of askance, the sign of harmony, the universal rune of power…

"Wandmaking is like poetry. My muse will come and goes without command, and I'll be lucky to have her long enough to complete a masterpiece." Ollivander paused before scratching out the last, glittering rune. "But sometimes, there is inspiration. Your challenge, my tricky customer, is the best gift you can grant an old wandmaker."

Ollivander glanced up and caught Harry's eye. "Your wood is Yggdrasil. A wizard's tree. The strongest, the rarest, the most dangerous of woods. None other would work for you. It is something I should have suspected."

Harry kept his expression carefully blank, not letting any of his whirling emotions show. He'd heard of Yggdrasil in Nordic myths Hermione had blathered about, and never even suspected that the tree was real. He let himself entertain, for a brief moment, the fantasy of being chosen not by the Yggdrasil but by some common, harmless wand, but he brushed aside the thought and lowered his gaze to scrutinize the two halves of dark wood on the table before him. The smooth surfaces didn't gleam in the candlelight.

"But your core." The wandmaker slowly moved to a cabinet at the other end of the room and took out a plain stone basin.

"It is strange," Ollivander murmured, for the first time sounding hesitant. "I do not remember this core…" He set the basin at one end of the worktable. Harry frowned: in what seemed to be a cloud of the mist that would curl up over a pensieve was a single strand of black hair.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A strand of hair in a memory," the wandmaker said after a long pause, as though he'd dug up a memory long buried.

Harry continued to stare at the hair, floating in the silver cloud of memory, and pretended to ignore Ollivander's scrutiny. "What is the hair from?"

"A… wizard."

Harry blinked. "Oh."

Ollivander shook his head, still perplexed. "The wand chooses the wizard. It is strange, however, that I do not remember collecting this core…" He levitated the core into the air and between the two halves of dark Yggdrasil wood. The runes glowed suddenly, and Harry shivered at the power that radiated from them. The two halves of wood clasped together.

"Hold it!" Ollivander ordered, a note of command that Harry hadn't heard before in the wandmaker's voice. "Now!"

Harry reached forth and gripped the wand—and it was as though he were inside thunder, inside the white lightning that reached every dark corner and hidden nook; and Harry felt his breath taken away as the wand sang through him, cutting past all his walls and layers and memories, and deeper yet into places he didn't know existed, and as his breath caught in the timeless space, he thought he felt—the strangest thing, like a memory that sent thrills sparking down his spine, something that—

And then it was over.

"Thirteen and a half inches, Yggdrasil and an unknown core," Ollivander murmured, pale eyes shining. "An excellent wand, Mr. Frost. May you put it in good use."

Harry nodded dumbly and didn't protest nearly as much as he might have when Ollivander refused payment.

He stepped out of the shop and the wash of voices and sounds and busy end-of-the-summer air of an unusually cold August day broke his daze. He lifted the wand before his face and looked at it, felt it in his hands. Thirteen and a half inches: the exact length, he remembered suddenly, of Voldemort's wand.

He pushed aside the thought (coincidence, he told himself), slipped his wand into his sleeve, and wandlessly bound it to his forearm the way a wand holster would. He moved towards Flourish and Blotts, and was suddenly overtaken by a feeling of being utterly lost, of loneliness, like a cliff—battered by the bitter ocean waves and parched by the relentless sun. Twenty-three years in the past, with a different name, two Dark Marks branded on his body, bereft of Albus's trust, totally alone, and with a wand that wasn't his— He turned, perhaps to distract himself by looking into the shop window, but saw only his own reflection. Why can't it have ended? his eyes asked plaintively, briefly flashing with pain.

He turned away, eyes flat and hard again. There's no use whining, damn it, he told himself coldly. He had to find a way to return, because he did not know whether Voldemort was truly dead yet, and he couldn't and wouldn't rest until either he or the Dark Lord was dead beyond any shadow of doubt.

Thinking and repeating that ultimatum calmed him somewhat, and he entered Flourish and Blotts to buy the required seventh-year books, ignoring the thickening of the ice around his heart.

That night, he dreamed a dream, so real it seemed a memory, of a boy, all alone, in a cold, gray orphanage. He dreamed of the matron's cruel eye and crueler sneer, of the boys who made his blood splatter on the cement, and the hours under a twisted tree; he dreamed of hours remembering his mother's words to him, remembering his destiny, and feeling so alone and empty that there was nothing left except for poisonous hatred, which grew and grew and grew until he—

Then he awoke, feeling dazed, and was careful not to think of the dream as he boarded a Muggle taxi to Platform 9¾ and sat in anonymity and silence in the backmost compartment all the way to Hogwarts.

III.

Harry didn't mind the rain. It drizzled over him and the other first years, sliding over his skin and soaking his clothes, and while he cast a water-repellant charm on his trunk, he didn't cast one on himself. The feeling of little rivulets running down his face and seeping through his robes made him feel refreshed, and clean, and somehow attached to the world—all the things which brooding over his situation and the strange dream made him not feel.

He frowned as he thought back yet again to the dream he had last night. It was incredibly vivid—more like a vision than a dream; and yet, it didn't have the same feeling as a vision did when he awoke. It almost felt like… a memory. He remembered the rising hatred that he had—no, that the boy in his dream—had felt, and shivered. He lifted his face and closed his eyes as the raindrops gathered on his eyebrows and eyelashes. Whatever you are playing at, Voldemort, he thought, I won't let it be easy for you.

"Follow me, first years!" McGonagall barked.

The castle was just as he had remembered, and thoughts of hate-filled dreams and Voldemort were easily swiped away as Peeves cackled and McGonagall shouted and first years screamed. Harry let a little smile creep onto his face.

The smile faded, however, when he caught sight of the frayed Sorting Hat in the middle of the Great Hall.

McGonagall marched to the middle of the hall and quelled the laughter and chatter with a stern gaze. Then she picked up the scroll and shouted the first name: "Adams, Nathaniel!"

So I'll be Sorted again, Harry thought dryly. The brief happiness of returning to Hogwarts dissipated as what he knew all along and had managed not to think about finally made itself known: that he would probably not get sorted into Gryffindor, because he hadn't been a Gryffindor in a long time. He remembered the months of training in the Founder's Nest, the Gryffindor mask he had learned to wear, the Yggdrasil wand that wasn't his, the dream that couldn't be his—

You never know, a small, inexorable whisper murmured; you pulled that sword out of the Hat in your second year, didn't you? The small, terrible hope rose like a tendril of smoke, and Harry swallowed hard and tried to squash it before it could inflame his thoughts and make the disappointment even more painful.

"Hudson, Frederick!"

Harry glanced up briefly at the head table. I suppose I'll be Sorted last, then, he thought, and watched one of the first years trot to the…

His breath caught in his throat. Sitting there happily cheering was James Potter, black hair everywhere and glasses glinting, and next to him was Lily Evans, red hair pulled back and a smile on her face; besides them was Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and—and Peter Pettigrew. Harry felt a cold feeling clench his heart as he scrutinized the man who would later betray his parents. He didn't look like a traitor. There was a certain amount of idolatry, or bumbling indecision, but Harry could also see the courage that had landed him in Gryffindor. Courage to turn to Voldemort in his friends' time of need, Harry thought darkly, and squashed the thought before it could fester. He reminded himself that he couldn't change the future—that he couldn't change his past.

"Lee, Michael!"

He felt the weight of a stare, and glanced up to see James Potter sending him a threatening look. Harry looked away quickly, wondering if the hostility had shown on his face. He felt his throat tighten—his parents had been so good to that rat, and in the end…

"Mattingly, Kathy!"

Perhaps it is best that I am not Sorted into Gryffindor, Harry thought. He had known he would see them sooner or later—his parents, and Sirius, and Remus, and Pettigrew; and he had felt not a little dread at the prospect, but the reality was far more painful than his imagination. It'll be hell getting used to seeing them and not gaping or choking or whatnot. I suppose any other House will do, as long as I'm not in Slytherin. He glanced at the head table. Albus would get chokingly suspicious if I get sorted into Slytherin. He shivered and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the Sorting Hat's words to him at his first sorting—'You could be great, you know…' A little thrill of excitement that rose up in him—you could be great: powerful…

He shook himself, vaguely unsettled, and turned his head decisively to examine the head table.

"Turner, Megan!"

Dumbledore was there, resplendent in robes of purple and silver; Flitwick, looking much as Harry remembered, was gazing indulgently at the first years; Sprout was looking bored. Harry didn't recognize any other staff members, besides Filch, who had a nasty gleam in his eye, as always. That last aspect was strangely comforting.

"Zwelling, Asmot!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The last first year trotted away, and Harry realized belatedly that he was only person standing where all the first years had been.

Albus Dumbledore stood up, face wreathed in smiled. "This year, I would like to introduce a special guest: we have here a transfer student from Merriman School of Magic. He will be a seventh year, and I am sure we will all endeavor to make him feel right at home. Everyone, please welcome Jonathan Frost!"

The headmaster sat, and there was a smattering of applause.

"Frost, Jonathan!" McGonagall barked.

Harry strode to the middle of the hall, too used to being stared at to be self-conscious. He felt Albus's ceaseless gaze, and made sure that he didn't glance towards the Gryffindor table—it wouldn't do him any good to stumble in the middle of the Great Hall; but as he lifted the hat and let it settle over his ears, he glanced to the Slytherin table, and he squarely met Severus Snape's eyes. He hesitated, caught by the intensity, before he closed his eyes and waited for the Sorting Hat to begin to speak.

'I see that I've met you a few times already. Strange that I don't remember you.'

'Ah,' Harry thought back, feeling a sudden rush of delight at talking with the Sorting Hat. Perhaps it was because he had nothing to hide—that he couldn't hide anything—from the Hat. 'I assume you would also know why?'

'Hmm, yes. And of course, I will keep it a secret.'

Harry let a smile creep over his face. 'Thank you. And where will you place me?'

'A tricky one, you are. You are hard working, and patient, but only to suit your needs. You've got plenty of intelligence, but you won't and can't distance yourself from the world. A life of books isn't for you. You have courage, yes, plenty of courage, but you certainly aren't reckless—'

'Anymore,' Harry interjected.

The Sorting Hat sounded faintly amused. 'Yes, anymore. And you rather detest the spotlight and rash glory that so typifies Gryffindor. Slytherin now—you've got cunning, you've got ruthlessness, you've—' There was a pause. The, the Sorting Hat said, slowly, 'How interesting. There is… something to you that I have never seen, nor would have expected to see. And it is not for me to reveal it to you.'

Harry frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Nothing,' the Sorting Hat said dismissively, but Harry caught a rather preoccupied note in its chirpy voice. 'You would do very well in Slytherin, but ambition isn't your suit. Where shall I put you, Mr.—er—'

'Frost,' Harry supplied. He shrugged. 'Put me where you will.' He had a moment of hesitation as he remembered James Potter's laughing face and Lily Evan's smile, and he felt a muted tug of pain; but he remembered, also, the inscrutable look in Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes, and the thrill of excitement as he contemplated the possibility of power, and he was acutely aware of the thirteen and a half inch Yggdrasil wand on his right forearm. He gave an internal sigh. 'Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, if you please. It will be less painful, and it'll take off some of the suspicion while I try to find a way back—home.'

The hat chuckled. 'A rather Slytherin thought, that is. Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, hmm. Hardly where you belong. You will do well in either, but you will not discover what you need too discover. Better be…'

"SLYTHERIN!"

Harry pulled the hat off his head, knowing without looking that the heavy gaze he felt was Albus Dumbledore's. Once more avoiding glancing at the Gryffindor table, Harry made his way to the end of the Slytherin table. He hesitated a moment when he realized that he'd be sitting next to Severus Snape, who was staring balefully at the Gryffindor table, but Harry slipped into the seat anyway.

So I'm a Slytherin, now, Harry thought. The notion wasn't particularly odious, and parts of him that had always felt out of placed slipped home immediately, but other parts of him—precious memories, and that fragile sense of identity—teetered, and fell into a bottomless pit of black fog. Stop it, he thought irritably. It hardly makes a difference. You're still Harry Potter, you're still the subject of the prophecy, and it doesn't matter what House you're in.

He knew he'd have to tread cautiously. He knew without doubt that Albus's suspicions had sharpened and that he would be watched more carefully than ever. But he knew Albus's wiles, and after he figured a way to solve this tracking spell problem, he would have access to the Founder's Nest and find a way to return.

He tried to ignore the muted gloom that lay over him by the fact that, once again, he and Albus were opponents. The best thing Voldemort did to me, Harry thought, was to push Albus and me into what we became. Old veterans with a peculiar camaraderie. Then he stopped that train of thought before it could widen the emptiness in him, and he wished that Snape were the kind of person to attempt small talk. At least that way, he'd be distracted.

He felt a slight tapping at his shoulder and turned to see Lucius Malfoy scrutinizing him with cold gray eyes. Harry winced inwardly—he'd forgotten that he'd have to deal with this git—but he consoled himself: it could have been worse, much worse. In a different year, he might have had to endure Macnair, or Rookwood, or Rodolphus Lestrange. Malfoy had never been a really good Death-Eater: his interests in the Malfoy family had always superseded his loyalty to Voldemort. It had been his eventual undoing.

"Frost," Malfoy said arrogantly. "I am Lucius Malfoy."

"How do you do," Harry replied coolly, surprisingly himself at how easy it was to keep his face calm and stony, his voice expressionless and suave. How easy it is to be a Slytherin, he thought.

"The Muggle-loving fool said you were a transfer student," Malfoy continued. "I've heard that Merriman School of Magic doesn't accept any mudbloods."

"Really," Harry said with an arched eyebrow. He glanced furtively towards the head table and, as he expected, Albus was staring at him. Harry smirked. "Whoever told you that was a liar," he said with a negligent air. "I am what you would call a 'mudblood.'"

Lucius Malfoy's face morphed into a full-blown sneer. "I see," he spat and turned away. Harry turned away as well, but he couldn't refrain from glancing again at the head table.

Dumbledore was only a split second too late in masking the suspicion that still burned in those pale blue eyes.

Harry sighed. He admitted that it was a rather stupid thing to do, to make enemies of his classmates on the first day of term, but he had hoped that it would somewhat alleviate Albus's suspicion, and that was far more important than the good will of the pureblood bigots of Slytherin house.

His plate began to fill with mashed potatoes when he looked up to catch Snape staring at him intently.

"What?" Harry asked guardedly.

Snape sneered and quickly turned back to his dinner. His black hair swung down on either side of his face. "You must be daft to make an enemy out of Lucius Malfoy," he said condescendingly after a moment.

Harry shrugged, feeling unexpectedly warmed. At least Snape was still Snape—perhaps not as bitter, his mask of disdain not yet perfect—but it was Snape nonetheless. Nobody else could sneer and make you feel like an imbecile quite like Severus Snape. "There's a reason I'm not in Ravenclaw, you know…" Harry said around a mouthful of potatoes.

The other Slytherin gave him a withering look, and Harry answered it with a grin he knew would irritate the future potions master.

A loud bark of laughter caught his attention, and before Harry could stop himself, he looked towards the Gryffindor table. His appetite fled. It hurt to see them so young, so carefree… Sirius had evidently just told a joke, and James was roaring with laugher. Remus and Lily were trying not to join in, but their giggles were spilling out. Pettigrew was looking wistfully reverential. Sirius reached an arm across and playfully punched the rat animagus's shoulder…

This is hell. I can't stay here, Harry thought fiercely as he turned back to his cold dinner, keeping his face smooth and emotionless as he mechanically lifted the spoon to his mouth. I'm going to get back, and I'm going to get back soon. He could still remember with absolute clarity the Founders' Nest and the ordeals that had to be undertaken to open it. It would be much more difficult this time around without Albus and Hermione's help, but he'd already done it once, and he was going to do it again.

He ate quickly, efficiently, and didn't notice Severus Snape curiously glancing at him every so often.

"Password is carnificina," said the Slytherin prefect, a slender, black-haired boy with aristocratic features.

So much for pleasant passwords, Harry thought as he followed the other Slytherins into the common room. It was much as he'd remembered: large, roomy, rather dank, with the only source of light being the low flames of the fireplace and the few torches along the walls. There were tables next to the torches and large, stuffy green chairs scattered throughout the room.

"Everyone should be going to bed," the prefect said. "I doubt our head of house, Professor Camentum, will be giving any kind of welcoming speech." There were a few dry laughs, and the students began to drift down the corridors that would lead them to the dormitories.

Harry was following the boys into one of the corridors when he heard a voice addressing him: "Not so fast, Frost."

He stopped and turned to face Malfoy. Harry had a moment of déjà vu as he noticed, on Malfoy's right, a gorilla-like bulk, and on Malfoy's left, another, smaller ape-like mass. Crabbe and Goyle, Harry thought. At least they're not in the same year again. That would have been… disturbing.

"Malfoy," Harry said with a cold nod of his head. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, the dark-haired prefect standing squarely in the passageway to the dorms—blocking my escape route, apparently, Harry thought.

"We wonder, really, how you tricked the Sorting Hat into placing you in Slytherin," Malfoy sneered. "Filthy mudbloods aren't allowed."

Harry arched an eyebrow as he dispassionately scanned the crowd. A ring of mostly older students had gathered around him, and Harry had another flash of déjà vu, this time of black cloaks and blank white masks of Voldemort's circle of Death-Eaters. He hastily shook away the thought and noticed that only about a third of Slytherin was part of this… mob. The rest, save for one or two wide-eyed first years, were scattered throughout the common room, acting as though they noticed nothing.

Typical Slytherin behavior, Harry thought with a mental snort. His gaze wandered to a darkened corner, and he noticed Severus Snape curled there in green couch. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Snape turned away in a movement that was a bit too quick. The black curtain of his hair fell over his face.

Harry's attention snapped back to the Slytherins around him as a girl sauntered up to Malfoy and declared in a high-pitched voice that made Harry wince, "We should teach this mudblood his place, shouldn't we?"

Let's see them try, Harry thought, well aware of the balance of power that would be determined in this confrontation. He curled his upper lip and adopted a negligent pose, arms crossed and head slightly cocked. The ring drew a bit tighter. Malfoy elbowed Crabbe and Goyle, who then stumbled forth like zombies.

Harry sidestepped lazily and lashed out his foot in an almost imperceptible movement, and the two goons fell over a chair. Someone laughed before hastily smothering himself.

Two spots of color had appeared high on Malfoy's cheeks. He had his wand out and hissed, "Adligo!"

Harry dodged it easily, and would have smirked and slipped into the corridor towards the dormitories had he not felt a flutter of magic behind him. He immediately sidestepped that as well, and was faintly alarmed by the hot haze of its malice and power as it flew past him veered up into the air before it could reach Malfoy.

Harry turned, and his gaze met that of the prefect's, who had his wand out and a cold smile on his face. Interesting, Harry thought, eyes narrowed. He took a step forward and saw the prefect flick his wand. Cold magic pooled towards him. Instantly Harry flicked his wand in response, cutting through the hostile magic, and the prefect's eyes widened. Harry smiled coldly in return, though inwardly he was quite startled at the power and complexity of his adversary's magic. I wonder who he is, Harry thought. He is dangerous. I don't remember him being one of Voldemort's, but he… reminds me of someone.

Their eyes met for a moment. Harry felt a vague, futile probing at his mental shields before the prefect stiffly stepped aside. In defeat, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. He heard Malfoy sputtering but he ignored it and strode into the corridor. He also ignored the dark-haired prefect's unyielding gaze, though he could still feel it burning the back of his neck even after he disappeared around the corridor's curve.

He stopped, realizing that he didn't have a clue where he was going. Calm down, Potter. Don't be reckless, he chided himself. Though he didn't really think there'd be a deadly trap in the boy's dormitory. The corridor was long and winding and dank, and for the moment, empty. The only source of light was a torch at the far end, which protruded from above a tapestry that was so dark he couldn't make out what it depicted. There were seven doors, four on his right, and three on his left.

I suppose I should go through one of these, Harry thought, moving swiftly and finding the door marked "Seventh Years" in a strangely serpentine handwriting. He pushed it open, and found himself staring at four more doors. He blinked. The Gryffindor dorms were so much simpler…

"Problems, Frost?"

Harry tensed and turned around. The black-haired prefect was leaning negligently against the wall, a small smile playing on his face.

"I am not sure which door to enter," Harry said coolly.

"Ah." The prefect straightened. "With you, we have five Slytherin seventh years. There are three rooms in the dormitories, two students each. That one," he waved lazily at the rightmost door, "is Winston Crabbe's. This one," he pointed to the door next to it, "is where Lucius Malfoy and I room. This one is Severus Snape's room." Harry couldn't help notice how the prefect's lips curled at the mention of Snape. "And that, there, is the toilet."

Harry nodded.

"So you can either room with Crabbe or Snape," the prefect added. He stretched out his right hand. "I'm Terrance Lestrange. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Lestrange, Harry thought. No wonder he looks familiar. Rodolphus must be his brother. He took Lestrange's hand and shook it briefly. "Jonathan Frost." Their hands parted, and Harry had the distinct urge to wipe his hand on his robe. "I've had a tiring day," he said as Lestrange eyed him calculatingly. "Please excuse me." He turned and headed for the third door from the left.

"I'd room with Crabbe if I were you," Lestrange called. "In the long run, he's better company."

"I think not," Harry replied coldly, without turning, and entered the room he would share with Severus Snape. When he later sat down on one of the large, four-poster beds, he wondered if there was another level of meaning to Lestrange's words.

He walked down the corridor, rubbing his bruised elbow and not meeting anyone's eyes. The rainwater still clung to his tattered robes and he shivered: it was so cold in the dungeons, and he really didn't want to be sick for his first day of classes…

He reached for the door that said "1st years" when he nearly fell; he didn't have to turn around to know whom it was that pushed him.

"Half-blood freak," the tall, black-haired boy sneered before sauntering down the hallway. A few other boys snickered, eying him disdainfully, from his scrawny build to his frayed robes.

Pretending nothing had happened, he pushed open the door to the first years' dormitory and, taking a brief glance at the four doors, plunged through one of them.

Someone was already there, and his heart sank as he recognized the other boy's features.

"This is my room," the blond sneered from where he was lying on the big, four-poster bed. "Half-blood freaks aren't allowed."

He didn't move for a moment, too full of seething anger and the desire to shout out his true heritage to leave so meekly.

"GO!" the boy on the bed shouted, lifting his wand.

He gritted his teeth and turned around—and felt a hot blaze of magic hit his back. He slammed into the door and slid to the ground, head spinning. Someone opened the door from outside; he stumbled through, the other boys' laugher mingling with the hatred and loathing, of the world and of himself, that was burning, burning, burning in his heart—

Harry awoke with a start and his wand was already in his hand as he sat bolt upright.

He blinked. His heart was pounding his blood into a whirlpool that jumbled his mind until he couldn't form a single coherent thought. He stared sightlessly at the blank stone wall, slightly reddened from the dimmest light of smoldering embers from the small fireplace.

He lay back down, slipping his wand back under his pillow.

It's a dream, he thought, another dream, like the one last night. Except it wasn't a dream: it couldn't have been a dream. No dream felt so raw, so real, so full of real emotion and pain; he could still feel the bruise on his elbow, the faint pulse of pain on his back… And it wasn't a vision, that he knew for sure. What he saw in his sleep didn't come through breached walls and curse-scar links; it came from somewhere within him.

Damn you, Voldemort, he thought fiercely, eyes staring at the deep green canopy, black in the darkness. What are you playing at? The boy in the dream—or memory—or whatever it was—in whose body he'd been in felt incredibly familiar. Like it was his own. But despite it all, he still didn't know whose body it was (because it couldn't have been his own, no matter how familiar it felt; he'd never had had those memories, he was sure). And he recognized the corridor—he was only a few steps away from it after all: the dream obviously took place here in the Slytherin section of Hogwarts. He could still see the arrogant faces with echoes of hatred and feel that constantly burning loathing of himself and the world…

I won't let you have your way, Voldemort, Harry thought angrily. He knew that all this must have had something to do with Voldemort and that silvery wisp and that excruciating pain, but how, and why, and even what, exactly—

He closed his eyes. The answers were so close, he knew, so frustratingly close, but when he tried to grasp them, they flew away like shadows and smoke, veiled by the memories of hatred that confused all his thought.

He sighed and turned over. He'd get no answers tossing and turning. Starting tomorrow, he'd busy himself with figuring out a way to get around Dumbledore's tracking spell and open the Founder's Nest. There, he'd find what he needed: millennia of information, carefully stored and guarded…

He frowned, eyes opening again. He was so wrapped up in reminiscing his dream and planning that he'd forgotten about how he'd awakened. It wasn't the dream itself that had awoken him; somehow, he remembered a thud, and something hitting his ribs. He turned onto his other side and stared at Snape's bed.

The room was silent. Green curtains fell around Snape's bed, hiding its occupant from view. Snape, Harry recalled, had seemed rather sour with the prospect of rooming with someone. They hadn't exchanged a single word that evening, besides Snape curtly telling him which bed was his. Snape's breathing, which Harry could hear clearly despite how quiet it was, was calm and controlled—too calm, Harry thought, and noticed that on the floor next to him, between him and Snape, there was a shoe that he distinctly remembered not being there before.

He sank back into his bed, and something laboriously worked its way up through memories of disturbing dreams and quivering darkness and played at his lips and felt a bit like the fresh, cleansing rain. So that was what the thud was, Harry thought. He had a pretty good idea of how he'd been awakened, and who had done it. He took a deep, calming breath, and pulled the soft sheets closer to his neck. Then, remembering all his (effective) Occlumency lessons, he tried to slip into a meditative slumber and actually get some rest.

Sleep did not come to him for a long time.

IV.

Interestingly, Harry felt quite refreshed when he awoke the next day. Snape was still sleeping quietly, and Harry, with the silent grace of an assassin, put on his clothes and washed and crept out of the dungeons.

He spared a glance outside, and paused to take in the mist that tumbled out of the Forbidden Forest and floated over the lake to the castle walls. No dreams, he thought, though perhaps that was because his sleep after waking up the first time hadn't been very deep. It was shallow and drifty and exhausting, like the healing sleep he'd undergone when he'd first awakened twenty-three years in the past.

He moved to the end of the Slytherin table, where he had eaten last night as well, and began to butter his toast. Professor Camentum, the Slytherin head of house, crept by like a giant spider and handed him his schedule.

Harry eyed it critically. There wasn't much here that he didn't know better than the back of his hand. After spending two and a half years in the Founder's Nest, learning from the Masters (memories the Founders had collected of every kind of magic, and even some Muggle things—Gryffindor had gathered memories of Muggle fighting), there wasn't much that he couldn't do or improvise.

Not that I plan to spend much time here learning anyhow, Harry thought determinedly. He would break out of Dumbledore's tracking spell (which buzzed about him like a net of hornets, once he'd tuned himself to it), open the nest, and return.

He stood up and was making his way towards one of the exits of the Great Hall when he heard a loud bark of laughter. He stopped just before walking smack into James Potter, who came tumbling into the Great Hall, doubled over with mirth. Beside him stumbled Sirius Black, and behind him trailed in Remus Lupin, who (Harry noticed with a slackened jaw) looked ages younger. The three of them had evidently found something incredibly amusing the morning, and were all saying something, but Harry didn't catch a single word. He couldn't help but stare and feel his heart slowly twist itself into a painful knot. They're all so terribly young, Harry thought; young, and naïve…

He moved to hurry past—

"Hey, James," Sirius hollered. "Look, a snake!"

He stuck out a foot, and Harry stepped over it in a smooth, automatic motion, but his mind reeled, startled by the careless hostility that was directed at him, the hostility that was exuded so arrogantly, with such casual naïveté, from such familiar faces…

They're not really your father or godfather yet, he reminded himself a few steps later, feet carrying him away from the halfhearted taunts, past sleepy students and suits of armor. To them, you're just another Slytherin. He took a deep breath. They haven't seen or endured half of what you have. They're still only children, and to them, you're just another Slytherin. You know all this. Don't fool yourself. Don't play tricks with yourself.

He stood still for a moment, sighed, and continued his way to the library.

Harry observed his Transfiguration class and felt like a boulder in the middle of a river. Everyone else was so young, so innocent. The girls were invariably giggling over something or rolling their eyes or smiling; the boys were guffawing or smirking or being contentedly quiet (except for Snape, who was sour and sulky); some of the faces were a bit worn, a bit grim, but only a bit, and (aside from Snape) they all managed to produce a genuine smile every so often.

Harry became very conscious of the fact that he rarely smiled, and when he did, it was usually grim. He felt old. Not that you didn't feel that way before, he reminded himself, but back then, there had been Albus, and you didn't have to pretend to be one of these students. He sighed and told himself not to think of Albus, or of how surrealistic his situation was, or how childishly James Potter and Sirius Black were behaving.

"Evans!" James Potter shouted and beckoned the redhead over to the throne-liked chair he'd conjured from thin air. "Get off, Sirius," he hissed when his friend threw himself into the chair and flashed the room with a dazzling smile. A gaggle of girls in the back sighed.

Lily Evans stood up hesitantly, and at one of her girl friend's giggly prods, marched with lips pressed thinly together to where James Potter was grinning. She sat, and James conjured a glittering crown from thin air. Someone gasped and cooed. Lily blushed. The Slytherins growled mutinously or sneered.

"For you, my Queen," James said, bowing deeply and setting the crown on Lily's head.

"Evans! Potter!" McGonagall barked when she swept back into her classroom from after having gone into her office for a few moments.

She doesn't look as stern as she might, Harry thought, noting that her stern glare belied an indulgent twinkle in her eyes. Lily immediately began to apologize, reminding Harry with a pang of Hermione when they'd all been younger and more innocent; James just grinned cheekily.

Harry felt his lips twitch at the Marauders' antics, but beneath the not-quite-a-smile, he felt the pang of sadness grow. James and Sirius and Lily's careless happiness was going to end in, what, less than four years? Barely thirty-six months. And they didn't know it, and wouldn't know it until it was far too late to amend things, to unsay things, to say things that shouldn't have been left unsaid.

All because of one rat, Harry thought, feeling a stab of cold hatred, which he hastily suppressed. It wasn't only his parents' death that fueled the fire of his revulsion: during the second war, Pettigrew had been instrumental in so much of Voldemort's successes, and when the cowardly rat had finally been caught, he'd pleaded and begged and cowered and wailed…

It was strange, how Pettigrew was the only person for whom Harry felt such hate. When one is hurt and broken enough, one forgets how to hate. But all he'd experienced had only fanned the flames of his hatred for Pettigrew. Perhaps it was because Harry knew that no matter how many promises the rat made or vows he swore, he had and would have nothing but his own pathetic life in his mind; that the memory of friendship and love meant nothing to him, that he would kiss the hem of whomever had a wand at his neck. Perhaps, also, it was the wild, broken emptiness Harry could see in Pettigrew's eyes; an emptiness that was like an abyss that opened into nothing—not even darkness…

Harry quickly looked away before he could try looking for that emptiness.

Transfiguration ended soon, with McGonagall holding Harry over a bit to test his knowledge of the subject. He thought he pulled off his façade as an inconspicuously above-average-but-not-excellent student rather well. The syllabus that McGonagall had passed out in the beginning of the class was quite useful in that regard.

He left the Transfiguration classroom unhurriedly; there was a short gap in his schedule before lunch. He made his way down the corridor and stopped at what he saw. Severus Snape stood in the shadows, quietly muttering curses as he held a hand over his face. Both his eyes were closed.

Harry took a hesitant step down the corridor, trying to be as soundless as possible, but then Snape opened his eyes. He stiffened, and Harry stopped.

"Um… Hi," Harry said as amiably as he could. "Something the matter?"

Snape glared, eyes narrowing. He drew himself to his full height. "What do you wan', Frost?" he spat.

Harry arched an eyebrow. The other boy's nose sounded distinctively muffled. "If Black and Potter broke your nose, you should be in the infirmary."

The other boy glanced up sharply. "How d'you know about dem?"

Harry shrugged, though he mentally slapped himself. He wasn't supposed to know about the Marauders-Snape feud yet. "If glares could kill, they'd be dead ten times over, and you'd be too." He paused. Then, "Come on. I'll take you to the hospital w—"

"NO!" Snape shouted before quickly recovering his dignity. "I'm fine as I am," he said coldly, his sleeve still covering half his nose. "I'll get dere myself."

"I have seen broken noses before, you know. There's no need to hide…"

"My nose is none of your concern," Snape grinded out, glaring the best he could with half his face covered. Harry, who had braved and bested the future Snape's refined and perfected death glares, only felt a twitching of the muscles around his lips in response.

"My concern or not, you should be on your way to the infirmary if it's broken."

"I've tol' you already! I'm fine!" Snape staggered a few steps. Harry frowned. He's probably got more injuries elsewhere, he thought, noticing the other boy's limp. "Find somewhere else to stick your unwanted attentions, Frost! My nose is perfectly fine."

Still as snarky as ever, Harry thought, a grin dancing at the edge of his lips. "I won't laugh, I promise…"

"There's no'ing to see," Snape snapped. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" He took a few steps down the corridor before he suddenly stumbled. Snape reached out instinctively to break his fall, but Harry's hands darted out and then Snape was in his arms.

Harry stared. Snape's sleeve had fallen away, and Harry could see that the other boy's nose hadn't been broken; it had been transfigured into a flamingo's beak. Then he noticed the Snape's eyes darkening, the startled expression of gratitude swiftly replaced by a look to rival a thundercloud, and—

"Wait, I—" Harry reached out instinctively and grabbed a handful of Snape's robes. No wonder Snape hid his nose, Harry thought, quelling the almost alien urge to laugh; him and his prickly pride. The other boy struggled fiercely and jabbed his elbows backwards—

"Stop moving," Harry snapped in a tone he used to calm roomfuls of aurors and panicked Ministry officials. "You'll only hurt yourself more."

Snape stopped struggling after another moment, and glowered. His cheeks, Harry noticed, were flushed an ugly brick red. He blinked and let go of the other wizard's robes, the realization that he'd just caught Severus Snape in his arms clicking in its entirety for the first time in his mind. Snape, meanwhile, had drawn himself to his full height, which was a good few inches over Harry. "Go," Snape hissed venomously, pointing hand still covering his nose. "And leave me alone, Frost!"

"Don't be so touchy," Harry replied evenly, hand snaking out and grabbing a handful of Snape's robes again as Snape moved to flee. Fortunately Snape didn't struggle very much this time. "I'm sorry I stared, truly I am, but I'm not laughing or ridiculing you at all, am I?" Snape stubbornly looked away. "Look," Harry said placatingly, "why don't I change your nose back for you?"

Harry could easily see the sneer on Snape's face even though half of it was covered. "Don't think I'm stupid. Potter didn't use a hex, or jinx, or curse—he did human transfiguration, which is incredibly complex. Only Potter and Black"—the names were spat out—"can manage that in our year. I saw your effort in class today. You're simply not good enough."

"Better than you, at least," Harry replied, unperturbed and feeling rather amused. "Really. At least let me try. The worst that could happen is that you end up with an elephant's trunk or something, and then we can have Madam Pomfrey fix you up."

"The worst that can happen is that you can vanish my head!" Snape barked, trying to pull away. "And how do you know Madam Pomfrey?"

Harry shrugged, though he cursed himself for the slip. Why did he always have to encounter suspicious people? And why did he have to make these little slip-ups all the time? "I met her. Come on," he said, drawing out his wand (Snape stared at it with trepidation), "just trust me on this, okay?" He let himself grin, hoping it was reassuring, and realizing that this was the first time in several days that he had smiled. He pried Snape's hands off, not noticing how Snape had frozen stiff at his smile, and tapped his wand on Snape's nose. It shrank and turned back to normal. When that was finished, Harry found himself meeting black eyes that churned with suspicion.

"You're better at transfiguration than you let on, aren't you?" Snape demanded flatly. It wasn't a question: it was an accusation.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, though he was mentally bashing his head. Spending too little time with other humans made him forget things, and there hadn't been a Master on… er… social stealth, or whatever it could be called.

"You're still injured," Harry pointed out. He frowned. "Did Black and Potter really hurt you that much?"

"It's none of your business!" Snape snarled and stormed away and tripped. Harry grabbed him again before he could fall.

"You're going to see Madam Pomfrey," he said firmly.

Snape gave him a murderous glare. A blood vessel in his left temple pulsed. Harry felt a smile tickling the edge of his lips again and proceeded to steer the other Slytherin towards the hospital wing. He had the presence of mind to ask Snape for directions (to which he got terse, through-gritted-teeth answers of "left," and "right," and "idiot"), and after Harry purposefully made a few wrong turns, they arrived at the infirmary. As soon as they arrived, the nurse shooed Harry out, and Harry left reluctantly, wondering why Snape was limping.

He was distracted by lunch, however, and, having arrived a little late, finished a little late as well. He had stood up and was on his way to the next class, Defense, when he saw Snape stomping into the Great Hall. His limp, Harry noted, was gone.

"You've got no time left for lunch," Harry said, waylaying Snape, who had glanced at the time and was prepared to sweep out the hall. "Let's go now, or we'll be late."

He offered a bread roll to Snape. Snape stared at it as if Harry had handed him a goblet of poison.

"What?" Harry asked, puzzled.

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he took the bread roll, sniffed it, examined it a bit more, and sank his teeth into it cautiously.

"I'm not going to poison you," Harry said, bemused and amused. Snape snorted and stormed without glancing back once towards the defense classroom. Harry followed.

The rounded a corner into a deserted corridor (we are late, Harry thought, no wonder nobody's around) when Snape stopped and whipped out his wand. Harry had his wand ready a split second later, but he stayed his hand, waiting to see what Snape was planning.

"What are you up to, Frost?" he hissed fiercely. "Spit it out. What do you want from me? Why did you help me, and why are you following me?" His eyes narrowed. "Did Lestrange or Malfoy tell you"—he broke off and continued in a different vein—"They sent you, didn't they? Or was it Potter and Black?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Firstly, I have no idea what you are talking about. I'm following you right now because I haven't the faintest idea where the Defense classroom is, and when I found you in that corridor with a flamingo's beak for a nose and other injuries to boot, I did what any human should have done—I took you to get yourself fixed. I've hardly even met Potter or Black or Malfoy or Lestrange, and I am not the kind of person swayed by money. And the moment I let Malfoy bribe me is the moment I castrate myself." He met Snape's glare squarely, face impassive and eyes smoldering.

For a moment the two of them stood still as stone, Snape's wand at Harry's throat. Then Snape withdrew his wand and stuck it back into his sleeve. "Don't think me a fool, Frost," Snape said curtly before making his way towards the potions classroom.

"Of course not. And what was it that Malfoy and Lestrange were supposedly to have told me about?"

"That," Snape snarled, as he stormed down the corridor to the Defense classroom, "is none of your business." He pulled open the door viciously and stomped inside.

Touchy, Harry thought, following him and muttering apologies to Professor Matellan, the Defense professor. I can't believe he's actually mellowed in his age, Harry mused, noting that Snape chose a seat as far away from him as possible without straying into Gryffindor territory. Really, one would think that at the age of seventeen, he'd be a bit more—reasonable. But I suppose that's simply his personality. Harry shook his head and tried to ignore all things Snape related, but it was surprisingly difficult, and he realized that he caught little of Matellan's speech after its conclusion an hour into the period. Though it was probably due to the professor's grating, metallic voice, and the utter lack of content in the speech.

"All right, everybody!" Matellan trilled, standing up from where she had been sitting. Harry subdued the instinct to close his eyes at the jarring colors of her dress. Unlike Albus's horrific color schemes, however, Matellan's choices of colors seemed somehow sinister. "Wands out! We're going to review what you've learned last year! Pair up with a partner!"

Harry watched the other students turn to their neighbors: James Potter prodded Sirius Black with his finger and grinned; Lucius Malfoy eyed the black-haired prefect, Terrance Lestrange, and smirked, and received a cool nod in return.

"Whoever doesn't have a partner, stand up!" Matellan called over the rising babble, pacing back and forth at the front of the class.

Harry stood. He looked around and saw that Snape, a scowl planted firmly on his face and a few spots of ugly brick red on his cheeks, was also standing.

"Excellent!" Matellan breezed, sweeping towards them. "The two of you can partner up!"

Just peachy, Harry thought as he moved to the corner where Snape had stubbornly seated himself.

"Everybody ready now?" Matellan called. "Excellent! Everyone stand up and move from your desks"—the class obeyed; Matellan flicked her wand, and the desks scurried to the walls—"Now, begin with shielding spells! Proceed!"

Snape's wand was moving even before Matellan had finished speaking.

"Petrificus Totalus!" he snapped, jabbing his wand, and Harry evaded the spell in a swift sidestep. He heard a squeal loud thump behind him. ("Snape!" someone screeched.)

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Stupefy!"

Harry sidestepped again, secretly impressed by the raw power he felt in the spell that hurtled past him—

"Expungo!"

Harry dodged.

"Fundo! Attonbitus! Frost, stop avoiding my spells and shield them!"

Harry blinked as another student thumped onto the floor behind him. "Oh… right." He shrugged apologetically and summoned a sheepish smile (courtesy his versatile "Gryffindor" masks). "I forgot." And he had forgotten: forgotten that for this class he was supposed to waste his energy casting shielding spells instead of dodging his opponent's spells, as he should with such sloppy spell-casting, though apparently Snape was rather skillful compared to the others. He reminded himself that these were only children, and he had to remain inconspicuous…

Snape snorted and flicked his wand again. "Congelo!" he shouted.

Harry waved his wand and remembered at the last moment to utter the incantation, feeling very foolish as he did so, for he hadn't needed to yell out an incantation in many years: "Protego!"

A blue dome snapped into existence, and Snape's beam of magic dissipated. Snape stared for only moment before jabbing his wand again, and Harry winced inwardly: his instincts were going to be hard to overcome (not as though he wanted to lose those instincts: they'd been critical to his survival).

"Ocurro!"

Harry was in mid-flick when he saw a flutter of malicious magic speeding through the air at Snape— Harry darted away and jabbed his wand fiercely at the approaching spell, and with an almost audible sigh, the flow of hostile magic disappeared.

Snape whirled around.

James Potter and Sirius Black's shocked looks were quickly replaced by blank, innocent expressions as they turned and proceeded to fire harmless curses at each other.

Harry watched Snape's face scowled and eyes darken.

"Don't!" Harry snapped, using his sooth-panicked-aurors-voice as Snape aimed his wand at the Marauders. Snape stopped, as though someone had poured ice water over him, and turned to glare at Harry. "Don't," Harry said again, firmly. "Don't respond to them. It's what they want. And they'll be expecting you to attack, and they'll counterattack, and it'll be two against one, and you'll be worse off."

Snape didn't lessen his glare. "Yes," he spat bitterly. "Two against one."

Harry didn't have a chance to reply because one of the Slytherin girls flew past him and crashed into the wall. When he moved to help her up, she snapped at him and told him in no uncertain terms that if he, a dirty mudblood, were to touch her, she'd hex him until even his dirty mudblood descendents would be wincing from the pain. From the other end of the room, Malfoy sniggered.

The rest of the lesson passed quickly, with Professor Matellan liberally awarding points to both Gryffindors and Slytherins. At the end of the class, when the students were filing away, Harry heard the professor call shrilly, "Mr. Frost, please stay a moment!"

Very aware of the ominous feeling at the pit of his stomach, Harry walked up to the front of the class, where the Professor sat marking papers in a strangely florid handwriting.

"I have been observing your skills, Mr. Frost, and I daresay, I am impressed." She stretched the last word out as she finished writing something with an oversized eagle feather quill. Harry couldn't help but notice that her voice had a harsh, metallic ring.

"I've visited the Merriman School of Magic before, you know, and I'm surprised that you've so surpassed their—pardon me—somewhat lacking curriculum."

Harry shrugged. "I didn't limit myself to what the school taught, ma'am."

Professor Matellan smiled beatifically. "Would you please show me the strongest defense spells you've learned?"

"Of course." Harry stood up, mind rifling through the spells he learned. He was strangely reluctant to cast the Patronus charm in front of Matellan, and the spells above that in level would arouse too much suspicion. He pointed his wand at a nearby desk. "Patrocinium!" He let flow a moderate stream of magic and watched it wrap itself around the desk in a shimmering silver bubble.

"Bravo!" Matellan trilled ecstatically, and Harry suppressed a wince. "Strong, very strong!"

Harry smiled complacently and undid the shield.

"I'm sure we'll have a fine time this year, won't we?" she asked, beaming happily.

Harry wasn't too sure he liked the smile, but he kept his face fixed into a vaguely pleasant expression.

"Go on, now," she shooed, and Harry smiled again before turning around, letting his face drop into a frown, and walking to the exit. He felt her gaze on him the entire way. I'll have to be cautious around this one, he thought as he opened the door and slipped out—

Just in time to duck as a jet of purple shot past his head.

"Gotcha, Snivellus!" Sirius Black shouted.

Snape slammed into the wall and shackles appeared, snapping around his ankles, wrists, and neck, pinning him to the wall. His wand clattered to the ground.

"What do you think we should do, Prongs?" Sirius sneered, nudging his friend in the ribs. James Potter looked around quickly. "Oh come off it, James. Moony took your girl to the library, and Wormtail's on the lookout." He grinned. "So what should we do with this slimy git? Show his underpants to the school again? Or what?"

Harry flicked his wand, and Snape slid to the ground. "Nothing," Harry said in a flat voice. He walked to the center of the corridor, standing between Snape and his attackers. He crossed his arms over his chest and impassively watched his father and godfather-to-be exchange looks.

"Look at this, James," Sirius Black drawled. "Another dirty little Slytherin."

"I'm warning you, Black," Harry said levelly, his face a smooth mask.

"Or else what?" Sirius sneered. "You'll join Snivellus there and rub your snot all over your rags?"

Harry ignored him and turned to James Potter. "You'd better control your friend, Potter, or Evans might hear of this."

James Potter turned pale.

"She won't believe you!" Sirius snarled. "She won't believe a Slytherin snake like you! James," he poked his friend in the ribs, "you're Head Boy, do something!"

"There is nothing he can do," Harry said coolly. "And are you willing to bet on that, Black? Don't forget, I'm a Muggleborn just like Lily"—James Potter's face whitened and darkened simultaneously—"and that'll forge a strong connection between us. There's also the fact that she's objective and won't disbelieve me simply based on House prejudices."

"How do you know about Lily?" Potter demanded.

"How could I not, what with the way you—dote on her?" Harry countered, though he inwardly smacked himself. Just a few more weeks, and then he wouldn't have to pretend not to know anything. "And she's hardly keeping her heritage a secret."

Black stepped up menacingly, his wand pointed at Harry. "Stay away from her, you filthy little Death-Eater in training!"

Harry narrowed his eyes, but Potter was pulling away his friend, muttering in his ear. For a moment Harry understood the pleasure Snape had gained from infuriating Sirius Black: the apoplectic face, the quivering shoulders…

"If you try anything—" Black shouted as Potter pulled him down the corridor and out of sight and hearing.

Harry sighed, face grim once more. Though he had long lost his glorious illusions about the Marauders, seeing his father and godfather-to-be act this way brought a deadened feeling to his already heavy heart. How could his mother have married such a—such a git? Harry knew he was not his father, but just knowing that his father was more like Draco Malfoy than anyone else Harry had ever had the displeasure of knowing brought a taste to his mouth that strangely reminded him of dirty socks.

He shook his head and turned around to face Snape, who was clutching his right arm. A bruise was forming on his face. Harry eyed him severely. "You attacked them first, didn't you?"

Snape glared. "Of course I did," he growled. Before Harry could continue, Snape sneered, "Tell me the truth, Frost. Don't think you can deceive me. What do you want from helping me?"

"What if I told you that I wanted you to stop being such a paranoid bastard?" Harry retorted coldly, before he could stop himself. He added, when Snape opened his mouth to respond, "But having Severus Snape at my disposal is too great an opportunity to pass up. To satisfy your suspicions, let's just say I'm saving this debt for a rainy day, all right?"

Snape upped the level of his glare.

Harry sighed and tried to reclaim his calm, which wasn't often lost. It was strange how Snape could soothe him and rile him up like nothing else could. "I don't think Pomfrey would be too pleased with having to see you twice a day. Unless…" He paused. "Don't tell me that in the past six years, you didn't go to her with your injuries?" Though that rather reminds me of me, Harry thought.

"Mind your own business, Frost!" Snape snarled, pushing himself off the wall and moving to escape.

"You are my business now," Harry retorted, grabbing a handful of the other Slytherin's robes, "and stop moving! Let me heal you—I can perform basic healing spells." He moved forward and pointed his wand at Snape's face. "Hold still, will you?"

Snape promptly jerked his head aside, his greasy hair brushing the tip of Harry's wand and blocking his face from view. Harry sighed irritably.

"How did you know that Lily Evans was a mudblood?" Snape demanded.

"Don't call her that," Harry snapped, flicking his wand to get rid of the interfering locks of hair. "In case you've forgotten, I too am a 'mudblood.'" He quickly healed Snape's face before the other wizard could move. "Finally," Harry muttered and waved his wand. Snape's right sleeve rolled up to his shoulder, exposing sallow skin, mottled with yellowing bruises.

He grabbed Snape's hand, examining the bruises. "You— But Pomfrey—" Harry blinked and Snape flushed that ugly brick red again and yanked down his sleeve. "Unless…" Bruises, he knew, could easily be healed if brought to attention within an hour of formation, but if the wounds were older than a day— Realization clicked. He remembered, from so long ago, the images he had seen in Occlumency lessons with Snape: the boy cowering in a corner as the father screamed at the mother…

"MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, FROST!" Snape shouted, his eyes flashing furiously as he whirled around and ran down the corridor, stumbling for a moment at the corner before disappearing.

The silence echoed. Harry stared at where Snape had disappeared before sighing, wiping his face of Snape's spittle, bending down, and picking up the other Slytherin's wand. He must have been really flustered if he left even without his wand, Harry thought, feeling empty. I just hope he doesn't meet the Marauders…

Footsteps.

"Difficult boy, isn't he?"

Harry stiffened, connecting the voice to the black haired prefect who had challenged him on his first night here. "Lestrange." He turned, face impassive.

Terrance Lestrange was leaning against the wall, looking strangely smug. "You know, despite being a mudblood, you are quite powerful, and you are a true Slytherin, though Merlin knows why you're associating with that disgrace."

Harry narrowed his eyes, though he filed the information away for later: Snape? A disgrace? Besides the usual social difficulties, how so? "Your point?"

"Our Lord has ways of… purifying tainted blood. You could be great under his guidance." Lestrange took a step closer, his voice dropping. "Greater than you already are. Powerful in more ways than one…"

Ah, so now he's trying to recruit me, seeing that he can't defeat me, Harry thought darkly. Try your best, Lestrange. He kept his face composed, knowing that he couldn't afford to bring too much attention by flat-out refusing, no matter how badly he wanted to. He smiled coldly, rigidly. "I have a rather pressing essay to write for Transfiguration. Good day." He turned and walked down the corridor.

"Don't think you can avoid it, Frost," Lestrange called. "You will serve Him. One day, you will."

Harry's fists clenched. Don't bet on it, Lestrange.

"Here's your wand, Snape," Harry said as he seated himself for dinner in his usual seat, next to Snape.

Snape snatched back his wand without another word and eyed it suspiciously.

"No, I didn't jinx, hex, curse, or otherwise damage, change, or modify it in any form," Harry drawled as he reached for a bread roll.

Snape glared in response. "And why should I believe you?"

Harry shrugged and stuffed a buttered roll into his mouth.

After Defense, Harry had spent his time in the library, quickly completing his homework by using a little wandless magic. Then he'd pretended to be engrossed in a Quidditch magazine while he fiddled with the tracking spell Dumbledore had cast. It was actually more complicated than he had expected: while he was strong enough to completely dissolve the spell, Dumbledore would note its absence and get only more suspicious.

It didn't help that he had been distracted by stray thoughts of Snape.

Dinner passed without any conversation between him and Snape. Not that he'd been expecting any anyhow. They went to their dorm without exchanging a single word and got ready for bed in silence. In fact, the only person who spoke at all was Malfoy, who kept blabbering on to Lestrange about an uncovered scandal in some pureblood family's pedigree.

Harry sighed with relief as he firmly closed the door to his room, cutting off Malfoy's monologue as he groomed himself in the bathroom.

"Doesn't he ever get sick of hearing himself talk?" Harry muttered to nobody as he chucked off his shirt and trousers and padded to his bed. He hadn't bought any pajamas: he hadn't worn any ever since he had awakened in the Founder's Nest, and it had become a habit.

Snape emerged from behind his bed in a flimsy gray nightgown that might have once been black and froze.

"What?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes and sliding under his covers.

Snape only sneered and muttered something about barbarians. Harry sighed and remembered to hold his wand in his hand as he waved at the fireplace. The fire dimmed to smoldering embers.

In the darkness, Harry closed his eyes and discretely twirled a finger in Snape's direction, weaving a sleeping charm.

Now, I'll have to wait, Harry thought, until two in the morning, I suppose. Two and a half more hours. Nobody will be up that late; it's the first day of classes, and nobody has too much homework to do.

He sighed and continued analyzing Dumbledore's tracking spell. It was completely new to him, for though he had learned a few tracking spells in the Nest, he had never encountered this one. It was, he knew, specific enough for the headmaster to know that he was in the dungeons, or in the Gryffindor tower, or in the library, but not specific enough to pinpoint where, exactly.

It would be easier if I reconstruct the magical equation, Harry thought, but decided to leave it until tomorrow.

He turned to his side and whispered, "Tempus." Green numbers floated in the palm of his hand: 1:38. Late enough, Harry thought, slipping soundlessly out of bed and quietly opening the door. He slipped into the corridor and crept into the common room.

Harry realized that it was cold, but he didn't feel it. The reddish light from the dying embers merged with the deep green of the tapestries and sprawling chairs into an inky darkness. Shadows splayed across the walls and stretched out like denizens of a different realm. Here in the cold and green and blood red darkness, Harry felt a sudden shift, as though he were a stranger walking in a strange world.

He moved to the fireplace and stroked the mantelpiece with his wand.

"Yield to me," he hissed in parseltongue.

The dark silver of the mantelpiece slid away, and Harry reached in a careful hand. He found it and gently took it out: the living dagger, Slytherin's key. Its handle was silver and green and in the form of a hissing snake, with two great emeralds where the eyes would be. The blade was thin and keen as lightning.

He lifted it in the air and touched the blade, and felt a sudden, thrilling rush. He flicked it as easily as breathing, and watched it catch the dim red light of the dying fire. It felt remarkably like flying: completely free and natural and correct, and he waved it in a savage arc before plunging it deep into the stone above the fireplace.

The castle groaned in agony and the light shivered, seeming to flitter with shadows.

Harry drew out the dagger with a broken gasp and dropped it onto the hearthrug as though it burned, and he was acutely aware that he was barefoot, naked except for his pants, shivering in the cold of the Slytherin common rooms.

This didn't happen before, he thought, heart pounding a hole in his chest. The first and only other time he'd retrieved Slytherin's key had been in his sixth year, when he was a still young and headstrong; it hadn't been in the dead of the night, that first time, and the door to the common room had been open enough to let in some pale daylight. He had swung the dagger about clumsily, sheepishly under Ron and Hermione's amused gazes. He hadn't felt a rush of power, of ruthless strength; he hadn't waved it as naturally as he would wave his wand; and he hadn't plunged it into the castle walls while cresting that plateau of power.

He swallowed hard and picked up the dagger again, unable to ignore how he didn't even feel an inkling of awkwardness.

It must be because—because I've changed, he told himself. And because… He tried rapidly—desperately— to rationalize, but he couldn't think very well—he was sleepy, and his emotions and thoughts were a muddle as his heart continued its relentless thumping. He decided flatly to go to sleep instead and ponder it all the next morning. Don't think of it, he told himself as firmly as he could. His heartbeats were deafening and his hands were shaky. It won't do you any good.

He crept back into his room and transfigured the dagger into a fake wand. He stowed it quietly into his trunk. Snape's breathing was still quiet and even. Sighing softly and wearily, Harry crawled under his covers, trying to keep his mind blank and not to think at all about—about everything…

But even with a focus bred from years of Occlumency, he couldn't help but remember… The thrill as he gripped the dagger, the beautiful way it flashed in the blood-red light, the rush as he plunged the dagger to the hilt into the castle…

He squeezed his eye shut and grabbed handfuls of the coverlet, grinding his teeth together and forcing his mind blank. He felt sick. Nauseated. Suddenly he was dreading sleeping. He didn't want to know what hate-filled dreams he'd be having.

You can't not sleep, he growled to himself, shutting his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath and let his fatigue dull the emptiness he felt from Albus's unfriendly eyes and from being flung without knowing how or why into a time, all alone, with only fragmented clues from his past to guide him; with even breaths, he let his exhaustion somewhat ease the remembrance of the deep, tainted (and now, nauseating) satisfaction as he thrust the dagger into the stone…

V.

He sat under the tree, reading while eating an apple. The cement of the orphanage was hard and rough and blistering hot after being under the blazing sun the entire day. He moved to brush off an ant that was trying to climb into the cracked plastic cup next to him, but he changed his mind and let it continue its way, teetering over the rim and wandering into the liquid. He leaned over and blew, and the liquid engulfed the ant. After a moment, it stopped struggling.

"You!" The voice rang through the empty courtyard. Most of the others were already inside, enjoying dinner. He looked up to see a tall, bony girl with mousy hair leading a small girl with a bundle in his arms. "Freak!"

He sneered, closed his book, and put it facedown onto the ground; it wouldn't do to let the useless Muggles see that he was reading about advanced Transfiguration. "What is it, Stanton?"

"What did you do to Amy's cat?" the bony girl demanded.

"Oh dear," he drawled with an air of saccharine concern. "Is something wrong with it?"

"Shut up!" the bony girl shouted, pointing an accusing finger at gun. "Don't even try denying it. We saw you feed him something, and now he's sick. What did you do to him, you freak?"

He stretched and flicked the apple core into a shrub. "Why should I answer you? After all, I'm only a freak." He smirked at the pinched look on the bony girl's face. "And I don't see what you're so worried about. All that's happening is that the poison I fed it is finally acting."

The little girl gave a strangled sob. He smiled at her, and she backed away in fright. His smile only widened.

"I'm telling Madam Nephridia!" the bony girl declared shrilly, spots of pink appearing on her cheeks. "She'll get you thrown into a jail for this!"

He cocked his head, looking up innocently. "But then I won't be able to give your dear sister's cat the antidote."

The little girl looked up, eyes sparkling with hope. He grinned at her again, and she backed away in fear. He smirked, reveling in her fright.

"There's an antidote?" the bony girl asked suspiciously.

"Of course there is," he sneered. "Unfortunately, the antidote requires ingredients I'm quite sure I won't be able to find here, and takes a month to make, by which time I'm afraid your little pet won't be around." He smirked. "What a pity. However"—he continued with an air of mock thoughtfulness when the bony girl looked ready to kill—"I did make six antidote pills before I got back from school."

The bony girl's lips curled at the mention of school, but she curbed her comments. "Really. Then give me the antidote. Now."

"Gladly," he drawled, pointing at the cracked plastic cup. "See those floating things? Those are the antidotes." He picked up the cup. "Go on. Take it!" He smiled again and thrust it into the bony girl's hands. She took it hesitantly, eyes still rife with suspicion.

"Are you telling the truth, freak?" the bony girl demanded.

"You don't believe me?" he asked in mock indignation. "I never lie!" And I did swear that you'd suffer, he thought, the embers of hatred in his heart leaping into poisonous flames. The bony girl cast a final, suspicious glance, but plucked a pill from the cup.

"There's an ant in here," the little girl exclaimed, peering into the cup. "And it's dead."

"Mm, yes," he said conversationally. "That's because it's not water that I soaked the pills in. It's arsenic."

The bony girl stopped dead. He went on airily, pretending not to notice. "I'm afraid I must've forgotten to mention it. Those are the antidotes, but if you were to feed your cat one of them, I'm afraid your pet will have even less time to live than if you left it alone."

The bony girl was trembling. "You goddamned freak," she hissed.

He narrowed his eyes. "Count the pills in the cup," he ordered. The bony girl, eyes still brimming with suspicion, obeyed. "How many are there?"

"Five," the little girl piped up.

"Yes, very good. Five. I made six." He felt a deep, tainted satisfaction as hope blossomed once again on their horse-like faces. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small misshapen thing. "This is half of the last pill. Feed it to your stupid pet. It'll be able to live for three more months. I'll give you the other half at the end of the holidays, but you never know." He smirked. "I might 'accidentally' lose it."

The bony girl stared. "You freak, you—you bastard…

His grew cold at that particular insult. The flames of loathing roared: he barred his teeth, and the little girl scurried back with a small cry. He stood up slowly, and the bony girl took an involuntary step back. Her long neck worked as she swallowed nervously. He smiled then, a true smile, as he coldly regarded these filthy, disgusting Muggles. Even if they ripped their hearts out and laid them at his feet while begging for mercy, he'd take pleasure in grinding his heel in them and watching the blood squirt over the cement, running in dark rivulets into the dirty cracks…

Harry was wrenched out of sleep, jerked out of his nightmares by something shaking him, and he bolted upright and flung his hand in a wide arc and hoarsely cast a wandless Stupefy—

His head hit something very hard.

He clutched his forehead, stars spinning across his vision as he blinked, trying to get his bearings. He was lying back down, after being… bounced back from his collision, and he… He blinked again, taking in his surroundings. The darkness of the canopy. The red tint of the flagstone ceilings. The cold of the dungeons. The memory of what had happened before he had sunken into dreams. The dream itself.

He shivered and closed his eyes tightly, feeling weak and shaky, and not just from having smashed his head into something. The dream had felt so real, like a memory he had once lived… Propping himself onto his elbows, he sat up slowly and wondered what he'd smashed his head into. "Lumos," he whispered, and the room gradually brightened. Blinking owlishly, he saw that Snape's bed was empty and the curtains parted. He looked down (the stars in his vision were finally dissipating) and saw the other Slytherin sprawled on the ground, face up and unconscious.

Oops, Harry thought weakly. Judging from the impressive swelling of Snape's nose, he must've knocked his head into Snape's nose when Snape had tried to awaken him…

He frowned. How had Snape awakened? The sleeping charm he cast should have been more effective, unless… Harry's frown cleared. Of course. The nightmare. That explained everything: he must've been quite… vocal through the night, and if he'd been louder than a groggy mumble, the sleeping charm would have been broken…

He lay back down onto his bed, feeling too exhausted to move. For a long moment, he let the exhaustion caress the edges of his consciousness, but tired as he was, sleep evaded him. He opened his eyes and glared at the darkened canopy. You won't win, Voldemort! he snarled. Whatever you're playing at, you will not win. And perhaps, he thought, this is why I felt the way I did when I took Slytherin's key. Some trick of Voldemort's.

He sighed and stared bleakly at the darkened canopy. The pain of his forehead distracted him somewhat from the horrible complexity of the problem before him. He was certain Voldemort had something to do with everything, but how exactly he didn't know. It was probable that Voldemort had cast a final spell on him to send him back in time and cause certain side effects, but what precisely, and why, and how? There were so many mysteries, so many unanswered questions. The dreams and that thrill of power, for example—why did they not feel as though they'd come from a foreign spell or vision? Why did they feel as though they had come from deep inside himself?

He curled up onto his side and took a shuddering breath. He wouldn't think of it all right now. It was too confusing and he knew altogether too little. Tomorrow, he'd work on breaking Dumbledore's tracking spell, and then he'd open the Nest, and then… he'd go on from there…

I'd better do something about Snape, he thought belatedly, having almost forgotten that his roommate was lying unconscious on the floor next to his bed. He sighed and opened his eyes again. Rubbing his forehead, he slipped groggily out of bed and knelt down next to Snape and, pointing his wand at the other Slytherin, muttered, "Ennervate."

Snape opened his eyes blearily, focused on Harry, and then scowled. Harry managed a crooked grin. "Um. Sorry." He leaned back as Snape sat up and tenderly prodded his nose. "Don't," Harry said quickly. Snape's scowl darkened. "You'll make it worse if you touch it. Let me heal it for you."

Snape sneered. When he spoke, his voice was very muffled. "Bruises are one thing, but for me to believe you capable of healing a broken nose—one, I might add, that you broke…"

"I'm sorry," Harry said sincerely, and had the good grace to blush, if only a little. In the darkness, he didn't think Snape saw. "But you—but I'm rather paranoid. And you woke me a bit abruptly. Again, I apologize."

Snape's glare didn't lessen. Harry sighed and kneaded the scar on his left shoulder, which always throbbed whenever he was especially tired. "Come on. I learned medimagic at my old school. Really, I'm not bad at it. It's quite a useful skill, you know…"

"Then shut up and do it!" Snape snapped angrily. He clambered to his feet, ignoring Harry's proffered hand, and seated himself on his own bed.

"I'm about to," Harry said calmly, moving from next to his bed to Snape's, "but the healing process is much easier both magic-wise and practically if the patient is willing to be healed…"

"Excuses, excuses," Snape sneered in a muffled, singsong voice.

"I didn't know you were that keen on seeing Pomfrey this early in the morning," Harry retorted, a bit sharply.

Snape clamped his mouth shut. "I want a straight answer from you," he grated through clenched teeth, eyes burning intensely as they met Harry's, "what do you want from 'helping' me, Frost?"

Harry glared back. "I wonder," he responded coldly, "if it has it ever occurred to you, Snape, that I might not have any ulterior motives?"

Snape sneered in response. "Do not presume to think," he said in his frostiest voice, "that you can fool me."

Harry sighed and looked away, massaging the bridge of his nose. I don't suppose I could have expected much else form him, he thought. Bloody suspicious bastard. "I am merely trying to heal you because I just broke your nose with my thick skull," he said flatly, not looking at Snape. "Is that really so hard to accept? Actually, forget I asked that." He shook his head to clear some of his sleepiness. "Right, whatever. Just—please cooperate. Let me get some more light…"

Harry flicked his wand at the fireplace, and the flames grew, but Snape's face was still cast mostly in shadow. He's not helping the situation, Harry thought crossly, noting how Snape slouched in the darkness.

"Is there a torch here?" he said, mostly to himself. He looked up and pulled out one of its socket from the wall between him and Snape's beds. "Don't do that," he said sharply as Snape's fingers crept up to prod his nose.

Snape looked up irritably, and their eyes met.

With a start, Harry realized suddenly how close they were. He felt— He looked away and saw Snape do the same. He suddenly felt less sleepy.

The handle of the torch was made of some kind of dark wood, and the end was shaped like a metal cup, coated with some type of potion or oil. Harry remembered to point at the thing with his wand, and muttered, "Incen—"

"Use Candeo," Snape interrupted. Harry paused and looked at him, wand still pointed at the torch. "It burns more smoothly," Snape explained stiffly, his voice completely devoid of malice for the first time. His eyes didn't meet Harry's. "Same wand movement as Incendio."

"Oh," said Harry, momentarily nonplussed. "All right." Harry pointed his wand at the torch. "Candeo." It warmed and began burning a pleasant whitish flame. "There we go," Harry said, feeling rather surprisingly cheerful. He sank into the mattress next to Snape and pointed his wand at the other Slytherin's nose. "You can close your eyes if you want," Harry remarked lightly when he noticed Snape stiffening.

The other Slytherin only glared in response, and Harry, to his surprise, felt a grin tickling the edge of his lips.

"Relax," Harry said, as soothingly as he could, and tapped his wand on Snape's nose. "Sano." The swelling ceased, and the nose returned, albeit jerkily, to its normal state. Snape felt his nose gingerly before wrinkling it and sniffing the air experimentally.

Harry chuckled, and he took a moment to marvel at the strange sensation, all shadows of sleep lost. He stretched and yawned anyway, and Snape gave him a disgusted glare, but there Harry found no animosity in it.

"Go back to your bed, Frost," Snape commanded, "and try not to wake me again."

Harry sobered immediately. "Was I… very loud?" Did I say anything in my sleep?

Snape frowned. "Not especially. But I felt… something coming from you."

Harry blinked. "Oh." That's rather vague. Snape is usually never vague. He frowned, wondering if this strange something had to with V—don't think of it now, he told himself. A little voice answered: then when are you ever going to think of it? He closed his eyes and said, a bit tersely, "I can put up silencing spells, if you want."

Snape shrugged irritably and crawled under his covers. "I told you. You weren't especially loud. Something else coming from you woke me up."

Harry nodded once, slowly. "All right." Then, after brief silence, broken only by the flickering of flames in the fireplace, he said, "Thank you. For waking me." A short pause. Snape turned over and grunted in response.

Harry sighed and smiled wanly in the direction of the other Slytherin. He doused the torch and whispered, "Tempus." It was six in the morning. I suppose I can function on four hours of sleep, he thought. Anyhow, I doubt I'd get anymore sleep today even if I tried. He dressed quietly and left the room. Snape said nothing.

________________________________________

Harry came upon a solution to Dumbledore's tracking spell halfway through his third sausage. Being the first one down for breakfast had its advantages: he had the entire, echoing Hall to himself, a sleepy gray from the morning light, and there was nothing to disturb his ponderings.

He knew he couldn't simply dissolve the spell, though he was capable of it: Albus would notice its absence, and everything would spiral down the drain. Nor could he temporarily disable it; yet again, Albus might notice. However, he could probably transfer the spell to something else, an anchor that would stay in his dorm while he prowled the castle at night for the other Founders' Keys…

At that moment, he wished, more than ever, that he had access to the Nest. He had never shifted spells and didn't even know if it was possible.

I suppose there's no hurt in trying, he thought. After finishing breakfast, he trekked out to the lake (the library wasn't opened yet) and cast a weak tracking spell on a stone. Then he tried to shift the spell from the stone to a tree, and utterly failed.

Huh, he thought as the tracking spell rapidly disintegrated in midair. I suppose it'll get easier with practice. Or maybe my technique is all wrong. He recast the spell, and, gritting his teeth, lifted it from the stone… and watched it unravel itself and disappear in little tangles of magic.

An hour later, he was frustrated and tired. Even when he put the stone right next to the tree, he couldn't transfer the spell. When he lifted the spell from the stone and tried to connect it to the tree, the spell invariably dissipated; when he lifted the spell from the tree in an attempt to move to the stone, the spell fell apart even more quickly. Bloody magic, he thought, glaring at the stone in his hand, and sighed.

With a quick, forceful toss, he skipped the stone over the lake, watching it jump over the glass-smooth surface and disappear halfway across the misted surface. His eyelids drooped, and he imagined himself gliding through the mist, leaving behind all his troubles at the shore…

There might be something in the library that can help, he thought idly, turning around and heading back for the castle. He hesitated a moment and then changed his route, choosing to enter via a side entrance instead of the main entrance, through which he had exited. He didn't feel like facing people and having them wreck this rare moment of calm.

Pushing open the small, wooden door, he ducked inside and wandered down the corridor. In the six months after his two and a half year imprisonment in the Nest, he never went anywhere nor saw anybody without donning his shining "Gryffindor" mask. It slipped onto his face with oiled ease and made him feel sick. Of course, he hardly needed it when he was alone, but when he was alone, he felt, more acutely than ever, the fact that he was just that: alone. It often led to brooding, which only made him feel worse.

At least Albus could see through that horrible mask, even if I never truly dropped it around him, Harry thought. He paused as a sudden thought struck him: or Snape. He saw through it, I'm sure. Even then. And now… He continued his way to the Great Hall and remembered Snape with a flamingo's beak, Snape on the floor with his nose the size of a kiwi, and was startled to feel his lips moving into a grin…

"…to the whole school again, Snivellus?"

He stopped short. So much for not losing my rare moment of calm, he thought grimly, and turned the corner with a deadened feeling on his heart.

Sirius Black and James Potter were standing there, wands out and smirks on their faces. Severus Snape was barring his teeth on the opposite side of the corridor like a cornered animal, and his cheeks were flushed an ugly brick red. His outer robes, Harry noticed, were in shreds on the floor, and he was only wearing a thin, too-small gray shirt, and frayed gray trousers, making him look like a stork.

"I knew you were poor, but really, couldn't your mother have gotten you anything better?" Black taunted. He was nursing a red welt on his right forearm, but looked otherwise unharmed.

Harry watched Snape stiffen, and flashes of memories darted through his head: of Snape, a frightened little boy, cowering as his father towered in rage and shouted, and a woman, his mother, wept impotently—

Snape's eyes blazed murderously, and his wand was trembling—

"EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry shouted. Three wands sailed through the air and into his waiting hand.

"Frost!" Black barked after a stunned silence. "Give back our wands!"

Harry ignored him and turned to James Potter, who looked ready to hex him to pieces. "Potter," he said coolly, "I might be mistaken, but are you not the Head Boy?"

Harry was immensely relieved when James Potter immediately lost his enraged looked and began to squirm guiltily. So at least he's reformed somewhat, he thought dryly.

"Yes, James is Head Boy," Sirius Black smirked, looking smug, "and he can assign you detention and take off points from your filthy house. Now give—"

"Of course," Harry interrupted and couldn't resist twirling the wand he knew was Sirius's. "But I was not aware that using magic in corridor to attack other students was part of a Head Boy's duties."

Black was momentarily flummoxed. "Just—you attacked us," he said triumphantly. "And Snivellus just attacked me. Look," he thrust up his right arm, showing the red welt that ran from his wrist up to his elbow.

"Sirius, he's got a point," James Potter said slowly. "I… give back our wands, and we won't mention that you attacked us in the corridor."

"James, you can't be serious! He's a—he's a Death-Eater in training! And what Snivellus did—"

"I know," Potter snapped, "but he's got a point—"

"Indeed I do," Harry said coldly. He tossed the Marauders' wands back to their owners. "I may get detention and many points deducted, but you may lose your Head Boy status, and I'm quite sure Evans would disapprove."

Potter immediately began sputtering. "You—you leave Lily out of this!"

"Lily, is it?" Harry smirked. Black, face twisted with rage, had raised his wand and was ready to bring it down, but Potter snaked out a hand and stopped his friend.

"Let's go," he growled, and pulled Black with him out of the corridor, shooting Harry one last glare. They disappeared around the corner, and silence fell, broken only by the distant lull of voices.

Harry sighed and turned, his mind a mess. He was interfering, as he told himself—as the laws of time dictated—that he wouldn't. Part of him shouted that it was stupid and reckless and rash to get in the way of what had already happened, of the inevitable. But some stubborn part of him refused to listen, and anyway, whatever he did would already have been in effect. He knew he hadn't forced Snape and his father (to be) to become friends; his past would have reflected that. He hadn't; he hadn't done anything "wrong"—in fact, everything he did now could only be "right"—because it had already happened. And, he thought, reveling in the irritation and exasperation and however distant hurt he felt, there's no way I'm sitting back and letting them make asses of themselves. The arguments firmly fixed in his mind, he pushed away the storm of doubt and looked at Snape.

The other Slytherin was standing with his back against the corridor wall, and when he noticed Harry's gaze, looked down at the ground. The memory of earlier that morning floated through Harry's mind, of having healed his nose as he sat sullenly in his flimsy nightgown, of chuckling as Snape gingerly sniffed the air.

"Your robe…" Harry said hesitantly. Snape continued staring at the ground, his thin arms ramrod straight at his sides. He pressed himself against the wall, and light from a window fell across him, and Harry could see clearer than ever the faded yellow bruises on his bony arms.

"I am sorry they did this to you," Harry said.

Snape looked at him with angry eyes. "Sorry?" he spat. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You don't control their actions."

"I don't pity you," Harry replied quietly, and Snape fixed him with a fierce, disbelieving look. Harry gazed back steadily, and then the tension in Snape's shoulders lessened abruptly, and he looked back down at the floor.

Harry had the strangest urge to reach out and touch the other Slytherin's shoulder, or his sallow cheek, but the impulse came and went so quickly that all he remembered of it was a slight moment of bewilderment. He wrinkled his nose at the pile of rags on the ground. "I don't know of any spell that can fix that, but you can borrow one of my robes."

"I don't want your charity," Snape growled through gritted teeth, looking up again with glinting eyes.

"I charge interest," Harry replied blandly. Snape looked momentarily taken aback. "A vial of dreamless sleep potion for every week you use my robe."

"Don't taunt me, Frost," Snape snapped furiously, hurt flashing briefly in his eyes.

"Taunt? But I'm sure y—"

"There's no such thing as a dreamless sleep potion, and you know that, Frost!" Snape spat. "Dreams are necessary for magical equilibrium; enforced dreamless sleep can drive someone insane, or kill them."

Harry blinked. "Oh. I… didn't know that, actually. Really, I am not that… up-to-date with potions. I thought—never mind." How was I to know that the potion for dreamless sleep was such a recent invention? Snape was staring at the ground again. "I wasn't taunting you. I—sorry." Harry let his voice trail off in the air. Snape glanced up, and Harry was relieved to see that he wasn't using his death glare (again). "I'll think of something," he said at last, "to charge as interest. Um. Can you walk? Did they hurt you anywhere?"

"No," Snape muttered. His lips curled. "They just wanted to… unclothe me."

"And I suppose you didn't provoke them in any way?"

Snape opened his mouth angrily again, and Harry said quickly, "Forget I said that." For now. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk!" Snape snapped indignantly.

"Good." Harry took out his wand and pointed it at Snape. "Obscuro. So that people won't comment." Snape's now translucent mouth snapped shut. Harry smirked. "Let's go, then. I've got Charms in ten minute, and I intend to be on time."

Snape glowered but didn't argue as he followed Harry into the dungeons.

________________________________________

"Ah, almost late!" Professor Flitwick chirped as Harry hurried inside.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, ducking his head and looking around for a place to sit. There was only one other Slytherin here, the girl who had threatened to hex him to pieces if he sat next to her. He turned to the Gryffindor side of the room and noticed to his relief that Black or Potter weren't there. He hesitated: when had Sirius become Black? Shaking his head quickly, he headed for the empty seat near the front, and noticed that he would be sitting next to Lily Evans.

For a moment, he froze, unable to do anything except for stare at his mother-to-be, but catching himself, he quickly looked back up at the front of the classroom and slipped into the seat. Relax, Potter, he told himself. A small part of him noticed it a bit strange to call himself Potter when James Potter had become Potter. Perhaps it would be better to stick to Frost, even with his… er… "inner voices"…

Flitwick took roll call and rambled on about the N.E.W.T. level curriculum. Harry idly wondered if the teachers were aware of how similar and boring their first lessons were. His m—Lily Evans, he noticed, was paying rapt attention.

Harry was snapped out of his ennui when Flitwick toppled off his pile of books and squeaked that the class would begin the Patronus Charm.

Relax, Harry told himself. Potter isn't here, and neither is Black or Lupin or Pettigrew. Nobody here besides Lily Evans might recognize Prongs… If it still is Prongs. He had a sudden, desperate urge to cast the Patronus, just to reassure himself that it was still Prongs. What if it isn't? But no—it simply can't have changed. Can it?

"Who here has heard of this charm?" Flitwick called.

Lily Evans raised her hand. Harry wasn't very surprised when she gave a completely thorough explanation.

"Excellent!" Flitwick beamed. "Now, who might be able to cast this?" His eyes twinkled and unexpectedly turned on Harry. "How about you, Mr. Frost? Professor Matellan told me that you were quite excellent in Defense Against Dark Arts. Let's see how you'll fare with Charms, eh…?"

For a moment, Harry just blinked like a deer caught in wandlight. Then he hesitantly took out his wand. He remembered his earlier reluctance around Matellan, but this wasn't Matellan, and the urge to see if—to see that his Patronus was still Prongs was as insistent as ever. He ducked his head and pretended to be embarrassed. "I… er… I'm not very good—"

"Give it a try," Flitwick encouraged in a kindly voice.

Harry nodded nervously. He held his wand up and cast his mind about… A happy memory. This was going to be harder than he thought. His mind flitted years back, to his first years at Hogwarts. He remembered, without any specific memory, being with Ron and Hermione, the sense of unity and joy and belonging and simplicity and love, and—oh, it hurt, to think of Ron, of Hermione, of their lost and shattered childhood. How they had changed, how they'd all changed; and Ron (his heart clenched), Ron—

"Expecto Patronum," he whispered before the happiness could be eclipsed by anguish and melancholy, and noticed that his voice was slightly hoarse.

A silver mist poured from his wand and coalesced into a brilliant stag. He heard gasps from about the room and Flitwick's ecstatic commentary, but he didn't pay attention to any of it. Prongs trotted on a cloud of mist to the other end of the room and back, and bowed his head, nuzzling Harry's face. Harry closed his eyes: Prongs it was still, Prongs, his father, not the immature bighead of this time, but his father…

The stag dissolved, and Harry felt strangely bereft. He sat back down to a smattering of applause.

"That was really amazing," someone whispered, and Harry turned. It was Lily. He managed a crooked smile and tried his best to look abashed.

"Thanks," he whispered back.

Harry rather appreciated Flitwick's long lecture on the perfection of Harry's spell. It gave him time to collect himself, but by the end of it, Harry didn't need the wandless spells to make his ears look red. After the "lecture," Flitwick beamingly delegated Harry to aid the students as they attempted to cast the Patronus.

"You shouldn't focus on the spell itself," Harry said, noticing how Lily Evans was trembling with effort. Her face was as red as any Weasley's hair and her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but only a wisp of silver drifted out from the tip of her wand. "You have to focus entirely on the happy memory and let it envelope you. Sort of like a warm blanket."

She opened her eyes and eyed Harry speculatively for a moment before nodding and casting him a quick smile. "Expecto Patronum!" she declared. The mist was more certain this time, flowing out and gathering lazily at their feet.

"Better," Harry remarked. "It gets easier with practice. Just remember to concentrate on the memory and not on the spell."

She nodded and smiled at him, widely this time. "Thanks. You're the new student, Jonathan Frost, aren't you?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Hi. I'm Lily Evans, Gryffindor." She extended her hand and Harry took it.

"Jonathan Frost, Slytherin. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He smiled, and found that the smile wasn't as forced as it might have been.

"I've heard about you from James Potter." She smiled when Harry gave her a mildly alarmed look. "Don't worry, I don't believe everything he says. He's terribly prejudiced against Slytherins for some reason." She seemed rather displeased as she said the last sentence.

Harry nodded and settled with, "I see."

The class ended soon after that. Harry found Lily's company enjoyable, and he managed to ignore the part of him that was in a state of shock at fact that he was conversing with his mother, who had died for him when he was one…

"Don't forget," Flitwick chirped as the chattering students filed out of the classroom, "to find partners for the term project!"

Term project? Harry thought, and then noticed someone tapping his shoulder.

"Jonathan?" Lily shifted the books in her arms. "I was just wondering—would you like to work with me on the term project?"

Harry blinked. He noticed over Lily's shoulder Black and Potter working their way towards them through the flood of students, looking murderous. "Sure, I'd love to," he said, and grinned.

Lily smiled. "Great! Um… do you have any ideas? I was thinking of the charms based on loving sacrifice, specifically the Sacrificum Ara spells from Mes—sorry, I'm rambling," she smiled sheepishly, "do you have any ideas?"

"Um. Not really." Harry wracked his brains: that spell Lily had mentioned was familiar… "I'm fine with anything, really. But—" He stopped, remembering. Sacrificum Ara. He had read of it in the Nest: it was the spell of sacrifice and protection, the type of charm his mother—Lily, this girl in front of him—had done to save his life. So it started here, he thought, and a tingle ran down his spine. His voice was surprisingly hoarse when he spoke. "Spells of sacrifice and protection. It sounds… fascinating."

Lily looked surprised. Harry pretended not to notice Potter and Black as they shoved aside a Hufflepuff fifth year and approached. "You know of the Sacrificum Ara? That's really wonderful, I've only read of it in Unqualë Greene's Treatise of Ancient Charms, and even then it wasn't—"

"EVANS!"

Lily turned around in surprise. "James!" Harry watched as James Potter grabbed Lily's arm and roughly pulled her away—"JAMES! What are you doing?"

Black stepped in, casting a threatening glance at Harry and saying urgently, "Lily, you shouldn't associate with people like him—"

"There's nothing wrong with me associating with Jonathan." She pulled her arm out of Potter's grasp and turned to Harry. She gave him a strained, apologetic smile. "Sorry." Then she whirled around and narrowed her eyes. "James Potter! What's the meaning of this? You are Head Boy! You should not condone such stupid prejudices, even if it is your best friend making them!" She glared at Black.

"Um… I'll go now, shall I?" Harry said. The three Gryffindors turned to look at him as though they'd forgotten he was there (which they probably did, he thought). Black growled. Harry gave Lily a weak smile. Hopefully Potter and Black—well, Potter, at least, will get that in his head, and Lily won't marry a moron, and I won't have a git as a father, and Snape won't have killed them by the end of the school year. He fled down the corridors to the dungeons and potions and Snape.

________________________________________

"No, Frost," Snape snapped, as loudly as he dared. "Don't scatter the diricawl feathers as though you were feeding hens! The whole point is to make them float over the surface."

"Is this better?"

"You—half a second too late."

Harry had partnered with Snape instead of Snape working alone, as he usually did (there had been an odd number of students in that particular Slytherin-Hufflepuff class). Snape hadn't seemed too pleased with the new arrangement; but honestly, Harry thought, I'm not that bad. Potions was never my strong suit, but I'm at least as good as Hermione was!

"No—yes, now you stir, slowly, Frost," Snape hissed, staring intensely as Harry carefully stirred their Sound-Capturing Concoction. Snape scooped up a handful of minced (they're powdered, Harry thought crossly; he'd been the one who had to do the chopping) cypress roots and held it at ready. "Yes, like that… and stop… right… now!" Harry stopped. Snape immediately began to sprinkle the roots, and Harry watched, fascinated. The Snape he knew was intense, but didn't burn, and didn't have obsidian eyes that gleamed and glinted like that… But on second thought, he decided that he could see glimpses of this open intensity, this coiled energy, in the future Snape, but it had been dulled and made bitter. I wonder what happened, Harry thought, heart unexpectedly clenching, for Snape to lose whatever innocence he had left.

Snape leaned back and sighed, a long, sensual drawl.

"Done?" Harry asked, hiding a smirk.

"Yes," Snape said dreamily, eyes half lidded and lips settled in a faint smile. This is the first time I've seen him smile like that, Harry thought, and then paused with the vial halfway to the cauldron. This is the first time I've ever seen Snape smile. Smirk, sneer, yes, but not… this. This open, vulnerable smile or contentment. Harry tore his eyes away and bottled the potion.

Snape was still glowing (Harry never thought he'd see Snape glow) well after Professor Camentum had drifted by and complimented their potion.

"I should've strained the kneazle fur in the bubotuber more thoroughly," Snape mused. "And you could've sliced the hyssop into more even pieces."

"They were perfect!" Harry exclaimed, exasperated. Snape glared. "Oh all right," Harry conceded, feeling his lips twitching into a grin. "They weren't. But they were close."

They sat in silence until the end of class, with Snape (re)reading his potions text, and Harry observing the other students. Indeed, Harry thought, at least in the potions classroom, little had changed in twenty years.

As the class ended and the students began to scramble out, Professor Camentum croaked, "Don't forget, class, to find partners for your term project!"

Another term project? Harry wondered, and glanced at Snape. Snape met his eyes for a moment before looking away, too quickly.

Harry smiled inwardly. "Snape," he asked with mock-gravity while gathering his books in his arms, "would you like to honor me with your partnership for the term project?"

Snape drew himself to his full height and nodded stiffly. "I suppose I am amendable to that proposition."

Harry grinned. I haven't grinned like this in a very long time, he thought absentmindedly as they left the potions classroom. As the Slytherins separated from the Hufflepuffs, they found Sirius Black loitering suspiciously in one of the corridors. Harry prodded Snape and led them through a different route to the Slytherin common rooms.

"I expect Potter and Black will attempt to murder me sometime in the next week," Harry said seriously when Snape sent him a mildly irritated look. "But I'm hoping to last this week at least."

"Really," Snape said, sounding interested. They reached the common room, Snape said the password, and they stepped inside together. "What did you do?"

"I sent Lily Evans on them," Harry said, shrugging. "The last time I saw them, she was biting off Potter's head, and was ready to do the same to Black."

"I see," Snape said, after a moment. His face was shadowed. "How did you manage that?"

"She asked me to be her partner for the charms term project." Harry cast Snape a shrewd look. "Between her and me, I doubt Black and Potter will give you too much trouble."

Snape sneered as he jerked open the door to their room. "I don't need your help, Frost." He flung aside the curtains to his bed and sat stiffly on the green covers, the curtains slowly drifting back over his face.

"Indeed, you hardly seem to need my help in getting in trouble with them," Harry said coolly, dropping his books onto his trunk. "I've been here three days and found you in trouble with them two times." He sat down on his bed.

There was a sullen silence in the room. Harry wished it would go away. "I wouldn't want to one day find you bruised beyond repair," Harry said, as lightly as he could. Snape was still hiding behind his curtains. "Try not to respond to immaturity with… well, immaturity."

More silence. Harry sighed, massaged the bridge of his nose, and left the room.

He was in the corridor when he became aware of someone standing next to him. "Lestrange."

"That was quite a show with Potter and Evans," the black-haired prefect said. Harry kept still, staring straight ahead. He could see a shadow of the aristocratic face in the corner of his eye.

"Indeed," Harry murmured. Lestrange, standing next to him, felt like a snake, a very dangerous snake, wrapped in shadow. "I'm glad you enjoyed."

"Mm. You, for one, and unlike the rest, are a true Slytherin."

Harry laughed humorlessly at this. I wonder what he'd think if he knew I was Sorted in Gryffindor the first time around. But people change. I changed. "Really. How so?"

Lestrange snorted. "I don't even have to speak of Malfoy, nor think of Crabbe. Though I do have hopes for Lucius. He's got cunning and ambition, but no ruthlessness." Harry saw the prefect look at him strangely for a moment. "And Snape. Ambition, cunning, and ruthlessness, yes, but…" The lips curled. "He lets his emotions clouds his wits. And his ambition is based solely on his weaknesses, his inadequacies."

Harry felt a jab of annoyance at Lestrange's analysis, but realized, a moment later, that much of it was true. Snape was ambitious and could be cunning and ruthless, but in a flash of clarity, Harry saw how Snape was just as emotionally driven as any Gryffindor—even more so, perhaps. The fires of Snape's being weren't gold and gloriously red: they were darker and hotter than any Gryffindor's and the colors of blood and broken, convulsing shadows.

"Indeed," Harry murmured.

"But you can be cunning, and ruthless." Lestrange stepped closer, and Harry stepped away. "Would you not let the Dark Lord bring out the best of you, then?"

"I don't understand you," Harry said brusquely and turned around and left, glad that Lestrange didn't follow. He was reluctant to outright refuse Lestrange, who was clearly the spearhead of Voldemort's sway in Hogwarts, but he would never accept the offer. He knew, all too well, how cunning Voldemort could be, and how tight the webs he wove were: Snape was testament to that. Harry shivered.

He continued his trek out of the Slytherin common rooms and up through the levels of the castle. You're in Hogwarts, Potter, he scolded himself. You learned from the Masters in the Nest; you have nothing to fear from Lestrange. Hell, you may very well be stronger than the Voldemort of this time! He paused and considered the notion. Him? Stronger than Voldemort? The thought felt utterly alien. He remembered with a bittersweet tang when his first instinct when he thought of the Dark Lord wasn't of fear or wariness but of headlong rashness. That was before he knew how cruel Voldemort could be, before he knew what pain really was, before he knew how inadequate he really was, before that had happened at the end of his sixth year, before Ron had… before all that had happened.

Frost, not Potter, he told himself a moment later as he headed for the libraries. Stay in character, even inside your head. He was wondering where he would be able to find information pertaining to transferring spells when he heard loud, familiar voices echoing in the halls.

"…disgust me! After all that, I can't believe—"

"But James is right, Evans," Black interrupted tightly. Harry crept around a corner, making sure to stay in shadows and to wandlessly cast a mild notice-me-not charm. "I'd trust those Slytherins about as far as I could throw them."

Lily Evans, green eyes snapping and red hair rather disheveled, stamped her foot in exasperation. "There's no proof that he's a Death-Eater in training or anything less than a respectable human being!"

Potter and Black sighed in exasperation. Standing by, Remus Lupin sighed as well, though more out of resignation than exasperation, and Peter Pettigrew was twitching agitatedly.

"He threatened us, Lily," Potter explained, as though to a very young, very stupid child.

"And how, exactly, did he threaten you?" Lily demanded.

Potter looked taken aback. "Well—er—"

Lily's eyes flashed. "I can't believe you, James Potter! And I thought you'd changed, I thought you'd dropped all those stupid prejudices last year, but it was all an act. You lied to me. I—I refuse to speak to someone as unreasonable as you." She turned around.

"Lily!" Potter lurched forward. "Wait—"

"Don't talk to me until you've thought everything over!" Lily snapped, her green eyes ablaze. She met Potter's brown ones squarely, and Harry noticed both their hands curl into fists. And then she turned around again and stormed away. Potter's shoulder slumped visibly.

Harry slipped away a moment later, as Black swore up and down to squash all the Slytherins and Pettigrew and Lupin uselessly tried to console James Potter. He will learn, eventually, Harry thought, continuing on his way to the library. He felt a splinter of doubt, as though he'd overstepped his bounds, even though he knew, coldly and logically, that he had no bounds: whatever he did was fated to be, had already happened. It made no sense, even though it did, and didn't quite assuage that feeling of uncertainty.

He considered what might have happened if he had not appeared. Perhaps Potter would eventually overcome his prejudices by himself, but with Voldemort's darkening shadow, that chance was dimming. Perhaps the two would wed, and perhaps they would not; but if they did indeed wed, and Potter kept his harsh biases… Harry remembered the photos of his beaming parents, and tried to see if there was any mar in their joy, any flaw their in happiness. Perhaps it was I who brought them finally together, Harry thought at last, hesitantly; for I doubt Lily Evans would be content with a man who was a bigot.

It was a very surreal thought, but nevertheless, a feeling he hadn't felt for months, that glowed without being feverish or restless, bloomed in his heart.

________________________________________

"Take him and go!"

He felt the wards melt under his touch as he walked through the doorway. The black-haired man shot a curse at him, which he blocked easily. He caught sight of someone darting up the stairs, and he immediately moved to follow.

A jet of red light shot towards him; he sliced his wand through the air and the red light shattered into a thousand glittering shards.

"Don't even think of it," the black-haired man shouted, running to the bottom of the stairs, crouched in a defensive position. He was panting and wary, like a cornered animal.

His patience was thin tonight. He narrowed his eyes at the man guarding the stairs. "Move aside, Potter," he hissed, waving his wand.

"NO!" the black-haired man shouted, but he was being wrenched from his position. "Run, Lily! Take him an g—"

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green, and the corpse fell to the ground.

He continued up the stairs and heard a woman's voice, and a baby's wail. His lips curved into a smile as he flung aside the flimsy protective wards and traps the mudblood had laid.

"No!" the woman shouted, clutching a bundle to her chest.

He flicked his wand, and the windows glowed with unnatural red light. There was no escape.

The woman flicked her wand and shouted a curse. He dodged it easily before stretching out his hand, watching with satisfaction as her wand flew into his.

The foolish woman's eyes widened.

"Give him to me."

She shook her head and curled her body around the bundle. "No… Anything but Harry…"

"Stand aside, foolish girl."

"No! Please!" Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on him, something the others rarely did. "Take me, take me instead…

He raised his wand and pointed it at her. Pity that she would have to die: if she weren't a mudblood, he might have been interested in her. She was no weakling. But she'd hardly live up to Bellatrix.

"Please… Have mercy…"

"Avada Kedavra."

Her green eyes went blank and she slumped to the floor, the bundle still locked in her arms. He flicked his wand, and the baby, tightly wrapped in pale blue blankets covered with golden snitches, floated into the crib.

He smiled. At last. That was almost too easy. Disgusting creature, this baby was: he was wailing and slobbering all over. He entertained the thought of killing it with his bare hands, of strangling it and watching its face turn blue, but decided against it. It as better to be quick, in case Dumbledore had some other trick up his sleeve…

He pointed his wand again at the baby's forehead and the words came easily. "Avada Kedavra."

There was a flash of green, but it didn't fade. Instead, he heard a strange rushing sound, and he had a moment of confusion before the green light exploded before his eyes and he screamed in hate and anger, but by then he had no throat to scream with anymore. There was a horrific wrenching—the pain exploded through his very being—

It felt like being pulled out of an icy lake, shivering and drenched in cold, but this cold burned like fire, and he tipped over when he felt something or someone touched him, and he was barely aware of sliding off and falling onto something hard and bare that dug into his knees and elbows and helped drive some of the phantoms of sleep from his mind.

He was trembling, and he focused on the cracks on the ground. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to things like the flagstones and tints of red from the fireplace and a white-glowing torch (no green, he thought, no green); and he got off his knees and elbows and slumped against… something.

He was still quivering. His eyes took in his bed, with their parted green curtains and tangled sheets…

He swallowed harshly and realized that he was leaning against someone, rather than something. He turned, still too shaky to stiffen, and saw Snape staring back, eyes telling an odd mixture of emotions. If Harry had been more coherent, he would've seen a storm of fear and bewilderment and concern.

Harry took a shuddering breath, eyes falling to where his naked shoulder was leaning against Snape's chest. "I'm… s-sorry," he mumbled, and decided to shut up; he sounded like a stupid six-year-old with nightmares. He closed his eyes, and felt a hand rubbing his bare back, hesitantly and lightly, so lightly it was almost…

He sighed and let the hand ease away the trembling and the shakiness. "I'm sorry," he muttered once more. The hand paused.

"For what?" Snape said, just as quietly, and Harry could feel the vibrations of the other wizard's voice in the thin chest.

"Waking you, and being such a… such a miserable wretch…" Harry said, looking up again and meeting Snape's eyes. They were guarded again, and hidden by the shadows and the curtain of hair. Harry looked down and sighed. The hand had stopped.

"Perhaps you should move in with Crabbe," Harry said, surprised by how bleak he sounded.

"Why would I do that?" Snape asked, and his voice sounded cold.

Harry shivered, and cursed himself a moment later for doing so. "At least you'd get a good night's sleep."

"I'm much rather not room with a Neanderthal, thank you very much," Snape replied coolly, and Harry felt the fingers brush his back. "And I wouldn't want to subject you to ape, unless you find my company so repulsive."

"No," Harry said immediately. He leaned back, and the contact between them was lost. "Of course not."

The silence stretched a few moments, and Harry let his mind sink into a slump of ennui as he watched the embers of the fireplace. He was aware of Snape, kneeling next to him and watching him with eyes he couldn't see.

The floor was getting painful. Harry shifted, and tried to get to his feet, and found it surprisingly difficult. An arm came, long and slender and motley even in the dim light: Snape's; and Harry took it and sank onto his bed, feeling the curtains drift over his bare back. He shivered again.

Snape sat down next to him. Harry could see the other wizard's eyes a bit more clearly, and saw the gaze run over his chest and pause at his collarbone. Harry rubbed at the scar there absentmindedly, and Snape averted his gaze.

"I have… nightmares," Harry said, breaking the silence. There was a pause. "They are… of a peculiar sort. Not pleasant at all, I assure you. I apologize for waking you and ending such—such a wreck." He sighed. "Judging from… from what I know, I doubt you will have much respite in the following nights."

Snape curled his lips, eyes going cold again. "If you desire to move out, then go ahead," he snapped.

"It's not like that," Harry said wearily. "It's nothing—nothing against you, or anything, it's..." Snape's eyes softened a bit. "You'll hardly get a good night's sleep, and when tests begin, and when the N.E.W.T.s come around…"

"How much I intend to sleep is none of your business," Snape said curtly. "What time is it?"

Harry blinked a moment and then reached behind Snape for his pillow, and shifted it aside to grasp his wand. "Tempus," he muttered. "It's about five thirty."

"When did we sleep?"

"Half past ten, about."

"About seven hours of sleep. I can manage," Snape said with an air of finality, and Harry felt a smile creep through the layers of his weariness onto his lips.

"Very well," Harry said. "I shall help you indulge in your urge for insomnia." He paused, and his smile faded away. "Was I very loud?"

Snape gave him an odd look. "When I woke, you were absolutely silent, except for your tossing and turning, but when I tried waking you, you… screamed."

"Oh," said Harry, blinking. He didn't remember screaming.

"Not loudly," Snape added.

"That's… good to know," Harry said, and looked down to where he was fingering his covers. "I suppose I'll put a silencing charm, so as not to wake the others."

"The walls are thick and made of stone, Frost," Snape said, eyes still fixed on him.

Harry shrugged. It wasn't so much as to keep Lestrange and Malfoy from hearing—Snape was right, the walls were thick and made of stone, but to keep Snape from hearing what he might blurt out. Merlin knows what might happen if he heard me shout 'Avada Kedavra,' he thought dryly, and for a moment considered the ramifications. They were momentarily funny before memory of the all-too-familiar green light engulfed him again.

"Frost," Snape said, sounding surprisingly hesitantly. Harry looked up. "I… if it is amendable with you, perhaps we might try to create the dreamless sleep potion for the term project."

Harry blinked in surprise. "But you said…"

"I know what I said," Snape snapped. "If you think nothing of the idea, then you think of—"

"No, I'm find with it." He felt his spirits rise and a smile came with surprising ease to his lips. "If you're willing, then I'm all for it."

"The dreamless sleep potion is something many masters have attempted, and none successfully," Snape reminded sharply. "Experimentation of possible formulas ended in the 1800's when the deaths of trial subjects increased."

Harry shrugged. "My life is my own to throw away, just as your hours of sleep are yours."

Snape snorted. "Frost, you are an idiot."

"Right, and you are a genius?"

Snape gave him a mildly offended glare. "Of course."

Harry chuckled, the unfamiliar sensation sending thrills up and down his spine. He didn't wonder at the fact that Severus Snape was capable of humor, and wondered if he should have wondered; and he wondered what had made the man become the grim and bitter shadow of the future. He crawled under his covers as Snape moved to his own bed. "Try getting some sleep before classes, Snape," Harry said. "As much as you may think otherwise, insomnia is not good for you."

"Shut up, Frost, and go to sleep."

Harry smiled a little, and listened to Snape settling in under his covers and coverlets and eventually lapse into silence. He closed his eyes, listening to Snape's breathing even, and then opened his eyes again.

He stared up at the darkened canopy, and felt the warmth of Snape's presence seep away as he remembered. At least now I know who I am in those dreams, Harry thought. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. No wonder the hatred felt so familiar.

He shivered, and for the first time in many, many months, he felt fear: not vague dread and wariness that came with the acceptance of hopelessness, but real fear. Panic, gnawing like red-eyed beasts; a tightly reigned terror that thrashed like mad warhorses.

What are you playing at, Voldemort? Harry thought. He didn't close his eyes. It would be too easy to imagine a tall, crimson-eyed presence standing at the foot of his bed, the lipless mouth stretched in a ghastly grin, the power of its darkness grasping him like the clammy hands of a dementor. What are you playing at, Voldemort? What spell did you cast? Why was I sent, and only you had the power to manage it, twenty-three years back in time? Why is it that these—dreams feel nothing like regular nightmares or even visions, but like my own memories? Why?

There were too many missing pieces from this puzzle. Or perhaps he was looking at it from the wrong perspective. But those thoughts swirled away in the presence of fear—fear, which rose like a choking cloud of smoke and mocked him as it stung his eyes and nose and mouth.

VI.

Harry prodded the figure huddled under the green sheets.

"Snape. Snape, wake up."

Snape turned and muttered something indistinguishable.

Harry felt a wry grin pulling at the edge of his lips. So much for his claims of getting sufficient sleep, he thought as he poked the other Slytherin again.

"Sna-ape!"

No response.

All right. Let's see if this works, Harry thought. "SNAPE!" he barked, using his calm-the-frantic-aurors voice.

Snape's eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. His greasy hair was tousled and disheveled, and in the uncertain gleam of the firelight, Harry thought that Snape's eyes looked a little wild, a little fearful.

"It's morning," Harry explained. "Breakfast, and then we've got Arithmancy."

Snape grunted and then flopped back into bed.

Harry sighed. "Sna-ape…"

A few minutes later, they were in the Great Hall. He looks as though he's sleepwalking, Harry thought. How is it that he was never like this when he became a teacher? Did he keep a secret brew of wake-up potion?

They sat at the end of the Slytherin table, and a mug of coffee appeared next to Snape's plate.

Aha. It was, Harry thought, like watching some complex Transfiguration. Snape drained the mug, blinked, wrinkled his nose, and suddenly became the waking, snarling, snapping Snape that he knew.

"Caffeine addict?" Harry asked, spearing a sausage. He probably kept a personal coffee machine in his quarters when he became a professor.

He glanced at Snape when the other Slytherin didn't answer after a long pause. "Perhaps," Snape said at last, carefully, and Harry suddenly realized that Snape probably had been scrutinizing the two careless words endlessly for any hidden, hostile meaning.

He's just as bent and broken as I am, but in a different way, Harry thought, sausage halfway to his mouth, and felt the notion hit something inside him—

The light flickered, and Harry glanced up to watch the owls soar into the Hall, that last thought lost like a pebble sinking into a deep lake. The owls swooped and darted, flapping their wings large and small as they wove over the students and staff, some screeching, others completely silent—

A gasp went up through the Hall. Harry turned to look.

A platoon of owls had just sailed into the Great Hall. Four snowy white owls were carrying a slender, glittering package, and leading the four owls was a hawk of pure ebony. The platoon circled once over the Hall, swooped over the Slytherin table, and dropped the package into Lucius Malfoy's lap.

Harry watched as all the Slytherins in Malfoy's vicinity leaned forward in eager anticipation.

"It's the Lightning 260, the latest model," Malfoy crowed. "There are only ten models in existence, and the other seven belong to the Harpies."

"You're sure to beat Potter on this broomstick!" squealed a girl who Harry thought vaguely resembled Pansy Parkinson.

"Of course," Malfoy sneered, letting a few of the Slytherin's run their hands reverently over the gleaming handle.

The broom seemed to vibrate, ready to leap out and fly, and Harry, watching it, felt a pang in his heart. It had been so long since he'd flown free and high above all the world and all its worries and woes. He realized, dimly, that he hadn't played Quidditch in years, not since… not since his sixth year at Hogwarts. He closed his eyes as memories flooded back and he waded through them to shut the floodgates—

He opened his eyes and neatly picked up his toast, biting into it.

"Frost."

Harry turned to Snape with an automatic smile on his face and didn't see the faint worry in the sharp black eyes. "What?"

Snape stabbed a sausage. "I was just thinking—why don't we do a little research after classes today in the library on our term project? We've got Potions last thing today."

"Of course," Harry answered. He threw down his napkin and stood up. "I'm all done with breakfast, and we have five minutes before we'd run the risk of being late for Arithmancy. You coming?"

Snape stuffed the last of his sausage into his mouth and slipped out of his chair without a word. Harry followed the other Slytherin out of the Great Hall, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead so that he would not have see Malfoy preening over his broomstick, nor meet the unwavering gaze of the black-haired prefect.

But as he walked, he glanced up, and—quite by accident—squarely met the penetrating gaze of the headmaster. Harry felt the smile of his Gryffindor mask slide onto his face with oiled ease as Dumbledore returned the smile. And then, waiting just enough for the timing to be perfectly natural, he looked away.

When he was out of the Hall, he let the smile slip and shatter. Dumbledore's eyes had been as cold as ice.

Don't think of that, Harry told himself, fixing his gaze on Snape's flapping robes. Don't think of anything at all.

He closed his eyes for a short moment, trying to snuff out sudden and bitter pain. Unbidden, the memory of Snape's presence last night, hushed by shadows and smoky light, rose like heat from a warm fire, and the pain eased like a receding wave, leaving only foam where the seawater had been…

"Hey, Frost!"

Harry's head snapped up and he stepped swiftly out of the way. His wand was in his hand as he shot out his senses to scan his surroundings of Death-Eaters in ambush or webs of hostile magic, or perhaps—

But the sole source of danger was standing in front of him at the other end of the short corridor, and as the spell hit the wall behind him and burst into a harmless shower of purple sparks, he turned his gaze dispassionately on Sirius Black.

Snape stepped up. "Black," he growled and took out his wand in a slow, menacing movement.

"No, Snape," Harry hissed, automatically slipping into his command-voice. Snape stopped, as though jerked back by a string, and he glared.

"I'm warning you now, Frost!" Black shouted from the other end of the corridor. "Stay away from Evans!"

Harry folded his arms. Don't pay him any attention at all, he thought, his mind steeling itself. "Come on, Snape," he said calmly. "We're going to be late for Arithmancy."

"Did you hear me, Frost?" Black roared. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, trying to rope Lily away from James. She won't fall for a dirty Slytherin like you! Keep your dirty little Death-Eater arse away from her, d'you—"

Snape whirled around, wand out and face twisted in a fierce snarl—

"SNAPE!" Harry snapped, but Snape didn't listen. The other Slytherin's black eyes glittered, and magic was bristling in his wand like a living thing.

"Confuto!" he snarled, a blast of angry magic streaking out like the lash of a whip.

With a speed and ease honed from years of training and experience, Harry flicked his wand. The arc of his magic spread out like a net, smearing through the bolt of Snape's magic even as Black was fumbling with his own wand.

Snape turned, face a mixture of shock and anger.

"Your suspicions are highly entertaining, Black," Harry said evenly, his voice cutting through the silence like diamond through glass. "Please excuse us."

Harry turned to go, but Snape stayed where he stood. Don't, don't turn around and start attacking Black, thought Harry, and he reached out to pull Snape's wrist; but Snape snatched his arm away at the last moment and stalked down the hall, his frayed robes flapping behind him. Harry watched him go for a moment before following him, feeling that today was not going to be a good day at all…

________________________________________

"You simply had to do that, didn't you?" Harry sighed, setting his satchel of books onto a stuffy library chair and taking a seat.

Snape remained silent as he stalked to one of the bookcases and began to look through the shelves.

Harry remained where he was sitting. I should have known he'd do something like that, Harry thought. Throughout the day, Severus had remained rather curt and silent, giving a new meaning to the word 'sulking.' Harry had weathered it patiently, but in Transfiguration…

"You attacked Black," Harry tried a second time, "unprovoked, and if it hadn't been for Lily, both Potter and Black would have riddled you with hexes, and you'd have to spend time in the hospital in addition to detention with Filch."

Snape stalked back to their table and slammed a heavy book down in front of Harry with a deafening thud.

"What is going on there?" screeched Madam Pince.

Harry quickly donned an innocent smile and muttered apologies. Snape crossed his arms and glared at a torch on the other side of the library. When Madam Pince subsided, he flipped open the book with harsh, angry movements.

"Look through this for information on the Kyrus and Mengele experiments," he hissed. "I'm going to go through the Alucinor experiments."

With that, he took a seat and began rifling through a different book.

Harry sighed. "Snape, I—"

"Shut up, Frost," growled the other Slytherin, still looking down at his book.

"I understand that you—well, hate them, Potter and Black, and that the animosity is mutual, but that's—"

"Understand?" Snape repeated scornfully, bitterly. "Don't think you can 'understand,' Frost. You have no idea…"

Harry thought back to Draco Malfoy and the future Snape, and all the scathing, hateful comments he'd endured and—well, responded to. He'd been young. Now he knew better. "How can you be so sure that I can't 'understand'?" he asked softly. If only you knew that it was you who helped me 'understand'…

Snape looked up, momentarily startled, but irritation clouded his face a moment later. He turned back to his book.

"Potter is an insufferable prat, I give you that," Harry continued, "but you need two wands for a duel. At least you shouldn't start anymore quarrels."

The other Slytherin sneered. "What you shouldn't do is associate with that—with Evans," he snarled.

Harry blinked, completely taken aback. "Lily?" he asked. "What does she have to do with anything?"

Snape sneered some more but turned back to his book. "Read your book, Frost," he muttered coolly after a pause.

Harry continued staring at the other Slytherin a moment longer before he looked down mechanically at the pages. What does Snape hold against Lily? He perused his mind and dredged up the memory from fifth year, of Snape's response to the Muggle-born when she tried to help him…

Perhaps it is his Muggle ancestry? But as Jonathan Frost, I am a Muggle-born as well, he thought. He frowned and peered surreptitiously at the other Slytherin.

Snape was frowning, studying the book intensely. The greasy hair fell down in tangles on either side of his face, and his nose resembled, more than ever, a giant beak. His mouth was curved in a harsh line, and in the dim light of the library, his face looked lined, older than it really was. A small part of Harry's mind noted, moments later, that he should stop staring, but he…

Snape stopped suddenly and looked up. "What?" he demanded, eyes narrowing.

Harry kept his face an impassive mask and his mouth blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "What do you have against Lily?"

The other Slytherin's brows drew together dangerously. Oops, thought Harry, mentally smacking himself. Agh. I shouldn't have said that. "If you are so abysmally stupid that you cannot figure it out for yourself, Frost, then I will not tell you," Snape snarled, biting out each word as though addressing a stupid child—or Neville Longbottom, thought Harry, feeling a faint shadow of déjà vu. "What did the book say about Mengele and Kyrus?" Snape snapped in his lecture-voice, and the bewildering feeling of déjà vu intensified. Here's to Professor Snape, through-and-through.

"Snape, I've hardly finished the first page," Harry answered smoothly. In fact, he'd hardly finished the first sentence.

Snape raised on eyebrow, though his eyes smoldered dangerously. "Dear me," he drawled. "Daydreaming of Evans, were you?"

Harry blinked. "What? I—" of all the conclusions he could've drawn! He regained some composure and replied shortly, "Don't be ridiculous, Snape. Of course I wasn't. That's ludicrous."

"You certainly weren't thinking of Rosemary Paean's discoveries nor the three stages of sleep," Snape countered nastily.

"Three stages?" Harry retorted. "I thought there were four or five."

Snape gave him a withering glare. "There are three, Frost."

Harry frowned. "But I'm sure there are five," Harry said seriously. "Plus the—what was it?—Rapid Eye Movement stage. I think the five stages were for non-Rapid-Eye-Movement stages, and… What?"

"What are you talking about?" Snape demanded.

"The stages of sleep," Harry replied slowly. "I read it in an article in a medical journal for sleep," he added. When the dreamless potions that had failed to block out Voldemort, he had decided to look for some Muggle medication, and had read some journals and articles of that nature. Muggle medical journals, he decided, were harder to read than even the most convoluted, complicated potions text. "In a Muggle journal, of course."

"Muggle journal," Snape exclaimed triumphantly. A look of disgust crossed his face. "Why in the name of Merlin would you go through a Muggle journal?"

"And pray, what is wrong with a Muggle journal?" Harry countered. "Many things in Muggle medicine and magical healing are interrelated. Take the cancer treatment, for example. A far smaller percentage of witches and wizards get cancer, and so advancement was minimal in that area, but by applying the Muggle concepts of radioactive treatment to terminate the fast-growing cells—" He stopped, noting the look of complete confusion on Snape's face.

"What are you talking about?"

Oops, thought Harry, realizing that the Muggle and magical medicine connection had not been made yet. In fact, it was only through Hermione's efforts that the complete bridging of things Muggle and magical medicine had come to pass. Damn it. "Regardless, there's a lot in Muggle medicine that you shouldn't discount," he said smoothly, fighting the flush that was creeping up his neck. Snape's stare was heavy with deep-set suspicion. Harry felt his heart sinking: the suspicion was all too familiar.

"Frost, you cannot be serious," Snape said, very slowly, again as though he were addressing Neville Longbottom. Harry felt a flash of exasperation. "The idea of any merit in any type of Muggle gibberish is completely absurd."

"It is not, Snape," Harry replied, feeling himself grow a little irritated. "Muggles have really been able to do amazing things without being gifted with magic. Take surgery, for example—and without magic. Even healers now blanch at opening up the body to do operations."

"That's barbaric," Snape exclaimed, looking disgusted.

"No, it is not, it's—" he replied, voice steely, and then stopped, aware of someone coming closer. He looked up, as did Snape.

It was Lily Evans. She had a stack of books in her arms, and she looked vaguely apprehensive. "Er—hi, Jonathan," she said, eyes slipping quickly over Snape and resting on Harry.

Snape sneered and buried himself into a book, but Harry noticed that the other Slytherin's eyes weren't roving over the page as though they were reading. Instead, they were glued to a spot.

"Uh—hi, Lily," Harry replied. He attempted a smile.

"I was wondering if you had time for the Charms project tomorrow," she said, shifting her stack of books. Snape sat frozen like an icicle. "I found a few interesting rituals in manuscripts by Myrddin ab Morfryn that we might look into."

"Sure," Harry replied. "Um. What time?"

"Oh, we have Charms last thing tomorrow, so I was thinking we could go do it right after class."

"That sounds great," said Harry, slipping a smile onto a face. "Thanks, Lily."

Lily smiled. "You're welcome, Jonathan. And good luck with your potions project." She turned for a moment to Snape, her face inscrutable, and then left after casting Harry a final smile.

The silence that descended buzzed like the air before the storm. Harry turned to look at the other Slytherin, almost afraid of what he'd see. But Snape was as still as a statue, eyes glued to the pages in front of him. With an inward sigh, Harry followed suit.

Snape stayed that way the rest of the day despite Harry's best attempts at bringing the other Slytherin to talk. Harry cursed himself for being such a rotten conversationalist. But he couldn't really blame himself: usually it was other people who were squabbling to talk to him.

They ate dinner without exchanging a single word.

As Harry entered the Slytherin common room, he noticed a crowd gathering in front of a wall next to the fireplace. Severus cast a derisive sneer at the crowd before stalking towards the dormitories. Harry moved to follow, but hesitated. His curiosity was piqued.

"Acies," he murmured, climbing onto one of the poufs.

The words were written in a strange, rather curly script. With his sharpened vision, he could see every stray spot of ink and uneven scratch of quill. As of tomorrow, September the Fifth, there will be tryouts for the Slytherin Quidditch Team on the Quidditch Pitch.

Harry wandlessly cancelled the spell and got off the pouf. Quidditch, he thought, and it was like thinking of water in a desert. He closed his eyes briefly and tried to forget the freedom of flight and the exhilaration of air rushing through his hair.

I expect Malfoy will be there with his new broom, he thought as he made his way through the dimly lit corridor and into the dormitory. For a moment, he had to clench his fists, so hard did he try to forget it all—second year, with Draco Malfoy insulting Hermione, and Ron—Ron: the remembrance was like a white-hot iron—

He opened his eyes swiftly and pushed open the door before walking in with firm, precise steps.

I need to stop remembering, he thought. Why? Why all these memories?

He looked around. Snape wasn't in sight. In the loo, Harry thought dismissively. He buried his head in his hands and took a deep breath. "Bugger," he muttered.

He knew why these memories were coming back. It was simple, really. It was because here, now, there was no more war. Just days ago (or twenty years in the future), he had had flung himself into the war, pouring everything he had into that ruthless, all-consuming, utterly hopeless war. It was easy not to remember when he was tired as death, when his mind buzzed with exhaustion and his bones ached.

Of course, there were times when it hadn't been so simple. There had been those nights of sweat-soaked sheets and endless tossing and turning when he simply had been too tired to sleep. And it was then, when he was exhausted and powerless to stop it, that his mind would rise like a hollow ghost and flow down forbidden paths, and unlock quivering doors of memory, and—

He swallowed and looked up. The door opened and Snape walked in. His face darkened when he saw Harry, and then he slouched to his bed.

Harry sighed and lay on his bed. Snape, he thought, mouthing the name to himself. Stupid stubborn suspicious Snape.

He got up and went to get ready for bed, ignoring the feeling of hollowness inside. It was easy to forget as he stepped into the steaming shower. He concentrated on the feel of hot water on his skin, and it was only after he'd finished that he thought of it again.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. Green eyes, black hair, a face neither young nor old. A grave face that held no smile.

________________________________________

He awoke with shuddering gasps. His heart was pounding like a hammer and his blood was pulsing like thunder in his ears. The sweaty sheets wrapped around his neck like a strangling serpent, and it was a long time before he realized that he was on hands and knees on the cold stone floor, and that there was no danger, no swarming mass of hate choking his heart and mind.

He collapsed face down on the floor. His arms and legs were suddenly weak and trembling, and he shivered from the cold sweat that soaked his body and the cold stone floor beneath his body.

Slowly, slowly, his mind returned. He slowly lifted his head, blearily taking in the dim embers of the fireplace and the shadowed tapestries on the dungeon walls. He was still weak as jelly, and his heart and breathing were still too fast, but he was aware of where he was, and why he was a pathetic, shivering wreck on the cold, cold floor….

He felt. A hand, on his back. An uncertain… hesitant touch.

His eyelids slowly drifted shut, and the world became as dark and as safe as a womb. Severus. For a moment, he could forget—he did forget—that Snape had been a bastard just hours ago. For now, all he could do was feel, and he felt… a kind of contentment. A kind of wholesomeness that he had long forgotten. He…

He took a soft, shuddering breath. The hand remained. There was something there, hovering at the edge of his mind, something that was important, that was… like clouds opening before the sun, or the flaming horizon that heralded dawn, but it—he—

He pushed himself off the ground and into a kneeling position. The hand left. He felt cold. He climbed back onto his bed, untangling the sheets, smoothing the coverlet. He glanced up.

Snape was standing there, between their beds, one hand on Harry's bedpost. His back was to the fire, and the nightgown hung loosely from his gaunt shoulders. His sallow skin looked golden in the red light, and his face was lost in darkness, except for two glints where the black eyes were.

"Thank you," said Harry, glad that his voice didn't break or shake (very much).

"There is no need to thank me," said Snape. His hand left the bedpost and he took a step to his own bed, and then stopped. Harry remained in a sitting position. He felt, vaguely, that he was waiting for something to happen.

Then, as Snape half-turned to return to his own bed, Harry blurted out, "How did I end up on the floor?"

"It was when I prodded you awake," said Snape, slowly. "You… flung yourself out of bed, and onto the floor."

Harry nodded.

There was a pause. Then Snape turned and made his way back to his bed, slipping between the curtains and crawling under his own covers, his sheets. Harry found himself watching and automatically turned his head to glance at the canopy of his bed instead.

"We should do some more research on our potions term project," said Snape, after a silence.

"Yes," Harry agreed. He added, before the pause got too long, "I wanted to compare how the Kyrus and Mengele experiments differed, since Mengele used Sidhe tears and dragon blood, and Kyrus just used dexamphetamines infused with peppermint."

A rustling of sheets. "Can you meet me tomorrow—or today, rather—in the library? after classes?" Snape asked in a terse voice.

Harry opened his mouth to say yes, but he shut his mouth. "I can't. I have to do the Charms project with Lily on the Quidditch pitch." A pause. "I'm sorry."

Another pause. "I see," said Snape, the sneer so audible that Harry had to suppress the urge to flinch. He had an uncomfortable sinking feeling.

"I can go research with you in the library about an hour, an hour and a half, after classes end," Harry offered. His voice was very calm. "I don't the research Lily has planned will take longer than an hour at most."

Harry heard Snape turning, and when the other Slytherin spoke, it was with his back to Harry. "Very well then," Snape said acidly. "And be sure to actually keep your mind on Mengele and Kyrus when you research them, Frost."

Harry sighed, very softly, and gave no reply. He turned so that his back was facing Snape and closed his eyes once more.

________________________________________

"I can't believe I've almost got my Patronus to materialize!" Lily chattered excitedly as they left the Charms classroom. She shifted her satchel of books from one shoulder to the other. "I could almost feel it!"

"Mm," said Harry, glancing back. He saw Snape stalk down the corridor, black robes snapping behind him as he left. Harry sighed and glanced down the other end of the corridor, towards where they were heading. His heart sank some more as he caught sight of Black and Potter, waiting there menacingly.

Lily must have caught sight of them too, for she immediately stopped talking. The flood of students carried them forward until Harry could see clearly Black's scowl and Potter's angry glare.

"Lily!" Potter shouted, moving forward. He spoke hurriedly. "What's he doing there? I thought I told you yesterday that—"

"What do you want, Potter?" Lily asked coolly. Potter looked as though he'd been slapped.

"C'mon, Lily, you can't have meant it! I mean, he's—and you—" Harry watched as Potter gestured wildly in his direction.

Lily's lips tightened into a thin white line, and her cheeks bloomed with angry color. "I'm afraid I don't see how my Charms project has anything to do with you, Potter." She turned. "Let's go, Jonathan."

"Jonathan?" Potter shouted, looking suddenly murderous. "So it's Jonathan now, eh?" He slammed his attention to Harry. "You!" he shouted. His face is very red, Harry noted and reflexively gave him a blank, innocent look. "Stay away from her, or I'll—"

"Let's. Go. Jonathan," Lily snarled through her teeth.

She is very red, too, Harry thought, as he let himself get dragged away. I guess there haven't been any overnight miracles.

"I can't believe him," Lily hissed under her breath, "and I thought he'd changed, since fifth year! I can't believe that he was just faking it, that underneath, he's still that bigheaded, conceited, bigoted—"

"Lily," Harry interrupted, before the girl's ranting could make him seriously doubt his having butted in between them and taking fate in his own blundering hands, "I was just wondering—where are we going?" We're certainly not heading for the library, he thought.

"To the kitchen, to get something to sacrifice," she answered shortly.

To sacrifice! Harry thought, nearly stopping short and shouting it aloud. But his mask, he found, had already surrounded him like an encasement of ice, and all that happened was that the smile froze on his face. Can she believe that she could waltz up and sacrifice something in broad daylight, with only a few days' preparation, and have it succeed? he thought with disbelief.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan, for snapping," she was saying. "It's just—he gets me so mad."

"Oh, it's all right, I can understand," he said easily, only barely hearing what she said.A thought that had only been half-conceived formed fully in his mind: perhaps I was meant to help her—or have helped her—understand these spells of sacrifice, so that fate would run its course and I would not die that Halloween night. The notion seemed to him to be—terribly surreal, but also terribly true: that this was proof that he came here, that his very existence was proof that what he was doing now, twenty years in the past, was what was "supposed" to have happened and indeed had happened.

Something in him clenched. Three years later, he thought: three years later, and she'd be nothing more than a corpse and fading memories. And they're so young.

"You seemed to have been having an—intense discussion with Snape yesterday."

Harry almost started: the mention of Snape brought his abruptly out of his thoughts. Snape. "Yes. I suppose so." They entered the corridor that would lead to the kitchens. "We were discussing the nature of dreams, and we had an argument over the merits of Muggle medicine."

"Let me guess—he said that all that Muggle stuff was worthless gibberish, didn't he?" she asked, sounding more scathing that Harry had ever heard her.

Harry frowned and opened his mouth to defend Snape, but Lily was right. Why am I defending Snape anyway? "Well—yes. That's pretty much what he said."

Lily reached up and tickled the pear. The portrait opened. "Frankly," she said, climbing over the portrait threshold, "I'm a bit—surprised that he's working with you." She looked down. "I mean, it's not you or anything, but Snape's not been known to be… objective when it comes to Muggleborns."

She climbed onto a table before Harry could reply and shouted, "Nobby!"

Harry frowned, pondering. Lily Evans had a point. Snape hadn't given him any trouble at all over his claimed parentage. The only time Snape had shown any prejudice had been when it had come to Lily, but that was random, to say the least, and—

What were Snape's opinions regarding Muggles and Muggleborns, anyway? Harry wondered, trying to dig up any memory that would help him solve the enigma. All that came was that memory from fifth year and Snape's pensieve, of the derisive tone and ugly words Snape had snarled at Lily when Potter had accosted him…

But was that out of prejudice or pride? Harry wondered. And why hasn't he made a big fuss about my—Jonathan Frost's—Muggle heritage?

Just then, a house-elf barreled out of nowhere and knocked Lily off the table.

He's scarily like Dobby, Harry thought as Nobby zoomed off and came back a few seconds later with two baskets. Or she. One was about the size of a regular picnic basket, but the other was about the size of a baby's cradle. It was covered by a white cloth.

Lily peered inside the bigger basket and then looked a little green. "Thanks, Nobby," she said. "Let's go, Jonathan."

"What's in the baskets?" Harry asked as Lily levitated them in front of her.

They turned a corner. "One's a snack that Nobby insisted we bring, and the other's what we're going to sacrifice for the ritual," Lily explained. "It's—er—it's a spring lamb."

So she's pretty serious about this all, Harry thought. Serious but misguided. He pretended to look surprised. "I… ah… presume it's dead?"

"Of course," Lily said quickly. "At first I just wanted to use fruits and vegetables, things like that, but I read in the book that things of flesh and blood are more—effective."

"I see," said Harry. He paused. "Did you go through Flitwick with this? Sacrifice rituals are restricted by the Ministry, I think." In fact, thought Harry, if you're not careful, you're liable to spend quite some time in Azkaban.

"I actually wheedled him about it all through last year," she said, grinning at Harry. He grinned in return like some kind of puppet. "We're allowed to do the simple kinds that are still used in certain parts of the British Isles. We're only allowed to explore the more… interesting rituals on a theoretical level, though."

"Hmm," said Harry, easily. "So… what specifically are we doing?"

They were at the doors of the Great Hall now, and with one push, they were outside. "Just a simple ritual to invoke wild magic. They still do it on the Isle of Arran. We'll need to make runic symbols and chant the whole spell, but I've got it all prepared."

"Ah," said Harry. She truly is serious about this sacrifice, he thought, rather impressed. Though the chances of her being successful are nearly nonexistent. He himself had learned a bit about the sacrifice spells while in the Nest, but only the bare bones. They weren't terribly useful in combat circumstances, unless one were in an absolutely life-or-death situation and were willing to sacrifice an arm or leg for a helping of the magic from the earth. He was rather glad he had never had to perform such a ritual.

"I could have helped with the preparations," Harry suggested. "I mean, you shouldn't have to do the project all by yourself…" They were nearing the Quidditch pitch, and Harry suddenly remembered the Slytherin tryouts. Harry looked around: the pitch was deserted. I suppose they're starting later. I hope that'll be after we're finished.

"Oh, it's fine—or—actually—" She blushed. "I'm sorry. I tend to want to do everything by myself, my friends tell me I can get a bit overbearing…"

"I had a friend like that, too," Harry said. He smiled easily and glanced away when he noticed the Gryffindor looking up at him. "At my old school," he added. "She was—very dedicated."

"Ah," said Lily, sympathetically. "It must be hard for you, changing schools and having to make new friends."

Harry shrugged. "The people here are… mostly quite friendly," he said, and thought of Malfoy, Potter, and Black.

Lily looked as though she wanted to say more on that subject, but instead, she flicked her wand. "Let's head over there," she said, pointing in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. "We won't go in there, but the closer, the better."

Harry nodded, agreeing, and followed her to the fringes of the woods.

It was a beautiful day. The skies were cloudless and sunny, and a little wind came and wandered through the branches. The shadows of the Forbidden Forest looked more enigmatic than ominous, and the songs of the birds wove through the air like a brilliant tapestry.

"Here's fine, I suppose," said Lily. They were a few paces from the Forest. The ground beneath their feet was still grassy, though a few steps away, it was damp and covered with leaves.

She flicked her wand and the two baskets plopped to the ground. Her satchel of books slid to the ground next to them. She reached for the white cloth covering the larger basket, but paused.

"Are you fine with blood?"

Am I fine with blood? thought Harry, and felt an empty laugh swimming about inside him like a mocking fish. "I'm fine with blood," he said.

Lily peered under the cloth and turned a little green again. "The lamb is very—uh—very bloody."

"I'm fine with it," Harry said again, in a voice devoid of emotion. But Lily seemed not to have heard it. She had looked under the cloth again before straightening. Harry wondered curiously what the lamb looked like under the cloth to merit such discomfort, but he'd find out soon anyway.

"We have to make a rune of sacrifice before taking the lamb out," she explained, voice only a little shaky.

"What does it look like?" Harry asked, though he already knew.

"Like an 'X'," she said. "It's called Gebo. We should make it so that the openings are facing north, south, east, and west." She took what looked like a bunch of toothpicks out of her robe and enlarged them. "Branches from an ash tree," she explained and laid them on the ground. "That side's north, right?"

Harry nodded.

"All right," said Lily, sounding as though she were preparing to jump into an icy pond. She pulled the cloth off and looked away. "Time to take out the lamb."

She levitated the basket so that it hovered over the two ash branches and then flipped the basket upside-down. The lamb toppled out. It's not that bloody, thought Harry, almost amused. He'd been expecting something worse. The lamb had obviously already been bled: there was no blood pouring out from the clean cut in its throat, though the fleece around the head and neck was soaked. There goes any chance of success, though Harry. No blood usually means no sacrifice.

"Ugh…" Lily looked as though she might be sick. "So. Um." She reached out and pushed one of the ash branches that had been knocked askew by the lamb. She took a deep breath. "Now. I memorized all the words of power, so I'll be the summoner and chant those, and—do you mind being the conduit? From what I read, the conduit seems to be the person who can more or less direct where the earth's magic goes."

Harry reminded himself that Lily Evans could not have known what he knew—he, who had the benefit of all the Founders' knowledge, gathered in their Nest. "I don't mind."

"Good," she said, grinning. "I reckon you'd be a good conduit, since you could already conjure a Patronus and everything."

Harry schooled his face to mirror the grin. "It's just that one spell I have a knack with. I'm quite abysmal at Herbology, actually."

"Really? Herbology was pretty easy for me. What's your favorite subject?"

"I'd have to say it's Defense Against Dark Arts," Harry replied, and then asked, before the conversation could settle on him, "What about you?"

"Charms, definitely," said Lily. Harry let her constant stream of words wash over him as he helped her set up the runes. He looked up to reply when she looked up, and chuckled at the appropriate parts, and carefully pushed the conversation back onto Lily whenever the Gryffindor's curiosity manifested.

His face hurt from smiling.

"Right, this is it," she said, and took a deep breath. "All we need now are grounding points in case the magic goes out of control. Those are the runes we just made. And what's going to happen is that—if this works—you'll feel the power of the wild magic in you, like water in a vessel, or so the book says."

"All right. That sounds pretty straightforward," said Harry. Does she really believe that these flimsy ash sticks can serve her as grounding points, that the wild magic would respond like a tame lamb? He closed his eyes for a moment. She was still young. He couldn't help thinking again that she would be dead less than three years later.

Lily gave him a quick smile, closed her eyes, and began chanting: "Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta…"

The Forbidden Forest hasn't changed much, thought Harry. He waved his hand: a few flies had emerged and were circling the lamb. I wonder if there's a spell to ward off flies. He considered stunning the flies in a gentle, wandless wave, but decided against it. There's bound to be some kind of household charm…

"Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu…"

Harry glanced in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Still no one. In the far, far distance, he could make out one or two figures lounging near the lake. I wonder what Snape is doing, he thought suddenly, and found himself wishing that he were in the musty library and working with Snape…

"Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni…" Lily opened her eyes. She frowned and waved her hand at the flies that had gathered around the lamb. "Did it work?" she asked hopefully.

"No," said Harry, apologetically. He hadn't felt a thing.

Lily's face fell. "But I did everything…" She frowned and sat down. "Stupid flies," she muttered as she reached for her satchel of books. "A spring lamb, yes, and the runes are all right…" Lily flipped through the pages of an old, worn-looking tome, a frown creasing her forehead. "You might burn the lamb, but it's not necessary… We did the incantation, we have a conduit and a summoner… I don't understand. I did everything." Her face was downcast and she looked defeated.

I suppose I should nudge her along a bit, thought Harry, feeling compassion rise inexorably inside him. This girl, he thought. She is my mother. A thousand sensible thoughts rose instantly, and he grimaced, but he scooted over and glanced at the book. Ah, he thought. There's a copy of this in the Nest! How coincidental.

"Here," said Lily, pushing the book over so he could have a better view.

"Hmm. Well, I think that—for one—even though the Forbidden Forest is very magical, we're not really in it yet. So this place, perhaps, isn't magical enough. It might work under, say, a full-moon, or one a solstice night, or something."

"You're right…" Lily said slowly, creasing her brows.

"Also, the spring lamb's been bled dry, and I remember reading that sacrifice only really works if there's still blood that soaks the earth and the runes. But I suppose it might work if you burn it, so that the ashes may return to the earth. Plus, we need to have a—different attitude. To be humbler, I think, or else the wild magic won't respond."

For a moment, Harry wondered if he had revealed too much. She's not going to pull a Snape and get all suspicious on me, is she? Harry wondered, but Lily just had a thoughtful expression on her face. "You're right," she said, and gave him a look that was both shrewd and filled with newfound respect. "I really do think you're right." She got excitedly to her feet. "I read a bit about burning the sacrifice. I'll go get Nobby to get me some wood, like the book says. I just hope none of the teachers will see the smoke and pounce on us. Can you stay here and look after the lamb?"

Harry blinked. "Um… sure." She's indefatigable, he thought. But, well—why not. There is no harm in her failing again. And only half an hour has passed at most.

Lily turned to go, but she stopped and turned back. "Jonathan, if you happen to see James or Sirius, tell them that I'll give them a piece of my mind if they don't leave you alone." She looked grim. "They're just—just so unreasonable and immature sometimes." Then she flashed him a bright smile. "Well, see you in a few minutes then."

"Bye," said Harry, fixing a smile onto his face, and then she was off.

He felt the smile trickle away like blood out of a wound. The birds were still singing, the sun was still shining, but as he looked up blankly at the sky and air, he felt that he might as well have been staring at a wall. He felt hollow.

I should try the transfer a tracking spell again, he thought. He had tried it yesterday, thinking that perhaps it would work better if he shifted it from human to human (his test subjects were Malfoy and Crabbe at dinner). As before, he'd been unsuccessful.

The flies whirling around were beginning to annoy him, but he ignored it and picked up a branch at the edge of the forest. He had been thinking that he would try first transferring the spell from one part of one entity to another part, like a hand to a foot, or one end of a branch to another.

Here goes nothing, he thought, and cast a weak tracking spell on one end of the branch. He grit his teeth, and tried to hold it, tried to keep it intact… And felt the spell unravel and fade to nothingness.

He sat there staring at the branch. Then he picked it up and tossed it back into the forest.

I hate this. He thought with cold anger and burning frustration and wandlessly stunned all the stupid flies. The dead lamb jerked a little from the strength of the spell. There is nothing I can do. There is no war yet. I know nothing. I can do nothing besides wait, and wait, and wait! He still couldn't transfer this damn, annoying tracking spell of Dumbledore's, and plus, every single goddamned night, there were those—visions, or dreams, or whatever they fucking were

I'm thinking like an idiotic Gryffindor, he thought with a frustrated sigh, and closed his eyes. There's no point in feeling irritated or sorry for myself. I need to be strategic. I need to get into the Nest. If I can't transfer Dumbledore's stupid spell, there has to be some other way. He briefly considered sneaking up on Dumbledore and casting a strong Confundus spell, but discounted it immediately. If I know anything at all about Albus, he'd have keyed all his personal wards and spells specifically against me—the wild card of dubious origin—and in a fight—

He couldn't let it turn into a fight. It would—or would have—changed the future far too much. Nor, obviously, could he simply kill Dumbledore, or any variation of that… And gaining the headmaster's trust was impossible.

He felt the anger leaking out of him, replaced again by that emptiness he knew only too well. He unclenched his fists, which he hadn't even noticed clenching, and massaged the deep, crescent-shaped marks in his palm. If only Lily—or anyone at all—were here, he thought dully. That way, I'd be able to slip on my mask again and feel nauseated instead of hollow.

But no, he thought suddenly, remembering the hooked nose and greasy hair, the sallow cheeks and unforgiving eyes. There's Snape.

Snape. He hadn't even realized it until now: with Snape, he could let down his masks. Even—especially—those nights where he'd been a shivering wreck, when he'd been too shaken to put on a mask. For a moment, he wondered why: why it was that it felt right to let down his masks around that—boy, or man, who was too often a prickly, suspicious, cantankerous…

Memory drifted through his mind, and instead of them being the memories of a life long lost, of the faces of those long dead, he remembered the rare occasions that Snape had curled his lips into a smile, and remembered how he had felt. He took a deep breath: he had felt—felt real. And a little less… perhaps a little less alone…

Footsteps. He quickly took his mind off Snape (he had a bewildered moment when he wondered why it was that he was thinking of Snape) and found that the hollowness was not as acute as it had been.

"Jonathan?"

Harry looked up and smiled automatically. "Hello, Lily." He noted that she was levitating in front of her a stack of logs.

"I really hope this works," she said, drifting the logs closer. "I've sworn off lamb for an entire month. I don't want them killing more lambs than they have to." For a moment she looked indecisive, but she hardened her jaw and said, "We'll follow the book's instructions on how to arrange these logs and we'll burn it. I think magically lighting it on fire is fine."

Harry levitated the lamb as Lily carefully arranged the logs on top of the ash branches. "There're no more flies," she remarked.

"You're right," said Harry, pretending to be surprised. "That's strange."

"Right, then," Lily said, stepping back. Harry carefully laid the lamb onto the stack of logs. "I'll do the chanting again, but we'll have to do what you said. Put ourselves in the proper attitude. And burn the lamb." She took a deep breath. "Incendio!"

The logs began burning, a small hesitant flame that barely reached the lamb. "Shall I make it bigger?" asked Lily, sounding very queasy again. She muttered something under her breath that might've been, "I can't believe I'm doing this…"

"I'll do it," said Harry firmly. "Incendio!" he remembered to bellow, and felt very stupid in doing so, but it worked, and within moments, he could smell burning flesh.

Lily took a deep breath and looked away. This time, when she began chanting, her voice was soft, earnest, humble, and grew in strength: "Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta…"

Harry felt a prickling down his neck. The breeze changed abruptly, and the song of birds seemed to belong to a different world altogether. With a sudden shock, he realized that—somehow, despite the fact that they were working in broad daylight, that the lamb was stiff and bled dry, and that they were just a few steps from the Quidditch pitch—the wild magic was responding.

"Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu…"

Harry suppressed a shiver as he felt the magic rising like ghosts from a shallow grave. This shouldn't be happening, he thought, but it was. He steeled himself but forced himself to relax. That was how to handle any situation: to remain alert, calm but alert—

"Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni…"

The magic was at a fever pitch. He had never felt anything like it before: always, in the Forbidden Forest, he would feel it sleeping, or sometimes even watching, but never howling like the winter storm and swirling as it was now—

With a sudden, furious gust, the flame suddenly went out, and the lamb, now barely more than a gruesome black thing on ashen logs, tumbled onto the grass—

—the little ash sticks scuttled across the ground, swept by the angry wind; the stack of logs and the rune underneath—all toppled, all fell like fragile leaves in a careless wind—

It is coming for the sacrifice, this magic, thought Harry, wide eyes meeting Lily's. Dimly, he thought: her eyes are like mine; and then he felt something inside him—breaking open a giant serpent from its translucent egg, filling him with a terrible pain—

he was in the dungeon, watching the silvery thing where Voldemort had been suddenly rush into him, feeling the pain that was more terrible than a dozen Cruciatus curses at once

—he felt nothing.

________________________________________

"…I couldn't! I tried really…"

He had a headache. The voices drifted through his mind as his others senses slowly awoke: the feel of grass on his neck and wind on his face, the light filtering through his half-open eyes, the lingering scent of burnt flesh…

"…and no wonder you couldn't, you filthy mudblood."

Harry's eyes opened wide. He knew instantly to whom the voices belonged: Lily, and Snape. He was aware of other noises too, other voices, and few words: "What's going on?" "Who's he?" "What happened?"

"Whatever. What's important is getting him to the hospital wing—"

"Don't go near him! You've done enough harm already!"

Harry blinked and tried to sit up. The world spun for a moment, but then he was in a sitting position. He shook his head, trying to clear the persistent headache… He licked his lips and frowned. There was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth, and something wet and warm on his chin. He swiped it with his hand: it was blood.

"Jonathan! You're awake!"

"Yeah," Harry replied, swallowing the taste of blood, and looked up, grimacing as his headache sharpened. There was as little ring of people—none that he could recognize right away—but the majority of them were Slytherins and holding broomsticks. People from the Quidditch tryouts? Harry thought.

"Frost!" barked Snape. "Can you stand?"

"Of course," said Harry, getting to his feet. The world whirled like swirls of autumn leaves, and then stilled. Snape was standing next to him and was holding one of his arms in a very uncomfortably tight grip. How did Snape get here? Harry wondered dimly, shaking his head again.

"Don't touch him, filthy mudblood!" Snape hissed furiously as Lily reached out a hand.

"Don't call her that," Harry said sharply, blinking hard in the sunlight. The little crowd of people holding their broomsticks was beginning to make him feel claustrophobic.

"Don't defend her, Frost," he hissed. "She was stupid enough to try a ritual to rouse the wild magic, and you"—this word he spat out furiously—"were stupid enough to go along with it! I—" He stopped suddenly. Harry turned to look and groaned inwardly: it was Potter and Black, hurrying towards them. He did not need them there. His headache was getting worse.

The atmosphere of the group, which had at first been cautiously hostile, immediately turned belligerent.

"Black, Potter," one of the Slytherins shouted derisively. "What're you two doing here at the Slytherin tryouts?"

"Sod off, Zabini," Potter snapped. "Hey Lily, are you all right?" His voice was very concerned.

Harry turned to look at Lily, and saw for the first time that eyes were a bit red a puffy. She quickly sniffed and composed her face. "I'm fine," she said coolly. "What're you two doing here?"

"We were—er—down by the lake," said Black, giving Snape a surreptitious glance.

"And we saw Snivellus running down the pitch," added Potter, sneering.

"Yeah," Black continued with a smirk on his face, having caught on. "We were wondering if he was going to try out for the Quidditch team and thought it would be amusing to see him attempt not to fall off his broomstick."

Harry was surprised when one or two of the Slytherins in the crowd snickered. The grip on Harry's arm tightened until Harry had to suppress a wince.

"Don't," Harry snapped through clenched teeth as Snape reached for his wand. He could barely manage that one word: his head felt as though it would crack open at any moment. Snape froze and gave him a furious glare that would have burned through metal.

Black snickered and crossed his arms negligently. "You've got him well trained, Frost."

Harry staggered back a step as Snape let go of his arm as though he had been gripping white-hot iron. Don't, Harry wanted to shout; don't respond, just ignore it! but his headache suddenly intensified as he himself felt a sudden surge of anger. He watched, throbbing with helpless pain, as Snape, sallow cheeks splotched with ugly patches of color, whipped out his wand—

"Noceo!" he shouted, and in a flash of light, Black fell to the ground, wand flying across the grass, his face contorting—

NO! Harry shouted in his throbbing, deliriously pained mind, but it was as though he was paralyzed. Potter had shot a spell at Snape, but Snape blocked it effortlessly. Harry watched as Snape's face suddenly twisted into a sneer, and then, as Potter was about to mouth another incantation—

"Impedimenta!"

Potter was knocked flying backwards—

"Suspendi!"

It was as though Potter had hit a brick wall. He jerked in midair, eyes bulging and head whipping backwards, his body in a nearly upside-down position—

"No! Stop it!" Lily shouted, looking horrified, and pulled out her wand—

"Expelliarmus!" Snape crowed triumphantly, and Lily's wand arced through the air into his hand.

No, no, no, though Harry, still frozen where he stood. A storm was raging in his head. The smirk was widening on Snape's face; Black was slowly inching towards his own wand; Lily was fearfully backing up a step; Potter was gasping; the crowd was murmuring apprehensively— NO! Harry screamed in his mind as Snape casually, but with a look of vindictive satisfaction, aimed his wand at Potter—

It was like something bursting out of him. Harry jerked forward—"Stop it, Snape!" he shouted, and felt an intense wave of magic rush out of him. The spell that had been hurtling towards Potter shattered and slammed into Snape instead. Snape flew backwards, a look of shock on his face before he smashed into a tree and slid face down onto the ground.

There was a moment of shocked silence before the crowd started sniggering. Snape shakily clambered to his hands and knees, pink soap bubbles pouring out of his mouth, and his face flushed an angry red.

Harry was only dimly aware of the noise from the crowd, only dimly registering that the Slytherins were jeering at their own housemate. His entire being was riveted by that look on Snape's face as their eyes squarely met: a look of deep humiliation, of anger and hatred, of hurt and betrayal.

Snape abruptly looked away, and Harry felt as though something had been ripped out of him.

"Wait!" he called hoarsely, reaching out a hand, but Snape had turned and was hobbling as fast as he could towards the castle.

"Hey!" Lily Evans shouted. "Hey, Snape! Give back my wand!"

Harry watched as the other Slytherin stopped and, with a fierce snarl, flung a length of black wood over his shoulder.

"Goodness," muttered Lily as she picked up her wand. "That's Snape to you." She turned to Harry. "Thanks Jonathan for stopping him. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't. That was pretty impressive, too."

Harry nodded, barely aware of what she was saying. His headache had vanished, gone with that same burst of magic that had tossed Snape backwards like a rag doll. It was magic, he thought dispassionately. Magic that caused the headache. And he knew with a hollow certainty that this magic was his, and somehow, the wild magic had awakened it. He should be wondering how, and why, and a small part of him did, but the rest of him was a roaring storm of nothingness.

He felt empty: vastly empty, and utterly numb. All he could think of, all he could see, was that look on Snape's face: the anguish, the hate and anger and hurt, the betrayal—

He swallowed. Lily said something else, he responded without really hearing what she said. His face was already in a mask, and he felt sick. Hollow. You did the right thing, Frost, he told himself. It was like throwing a pebble into a bottomless abyss. He shouldn't have attacked Black or Potter, and you did the right thing in stopping him.

But he still felt utterly, utterly empty.

________________________________________

The day was dizzyingly hot. His mouth was dry and parched, like a cardboard desert, and his tongue felt like a rolled-up length of sandpaper. His entire being throbbed with thirst, but there was no water. His mother needed the water, and his mother had told him not to go far. The nearest public water fountain, at the orphanage, was too far away, and he did not want to go to the orphanage, even if it was to drink its water.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and sniffed, even though heat was descending from the sky like plumes of hot, white flames. He was thirsty.

At the sound, he turned. Approaching him were Muggles, three in all. Two of them had those ugly mop haircuts, and the third one was tall and thin and freckled. He recognized the freckled one: Roger something. He couldn't remember if Roger had done anything mean, but his mother had always told him never to trust Muggles, and he wasn't about to now.

He was thirsty.

"Hey, Riddle-boy!" Roger shouted. He held something up, and Tom squinted through the sweat that beaded his eyelashes. It was an orange Popsicle, and under the sun, it glimmered in the sun. "You thirsty?"

Yes, he thought. He opened and closed his mouth, feeling the roughness and dryness, and he was so, so thirsty—

"Not really," he lied politely. But he eyed the Popsicle hungrily and licked his lips with a sandpaper tongue, wishing it were his…

"Yeah, right," Roger snorted. He waved the stick mock-enticingly. "C'mon, now, Riddle-boy. My friends and I got three Popsicles, and Joey here didn't want his." The one called Joey sniggered. "I'd hate to see it go to waste."

He hesitated—but he was so thirsty.

"All right," he said reluctantly, slipping off the bench he was sitting on and timidly reaching for the Popsicle stick. He was relieved the Roger didn't pull the Popsicle stick out of his reach at the last moment.

The stick was wet and sticky in his fingers, and little rivulets of the juice were running down as though it had been sweating. He licked the bar of ice cautiously. It tasted good. He licked again, lapping at the delicious water—

The three Muggle boys burst out laughing.

"What do you know?" Roger asked between gasps of laughter. "Riddle-boy likes sucking on toilet water!"

He froze in mid-lick and jerked the Popsicle out of his mouth. His lips were sticky but he didn't dare lick them. He felt the blood rushing into his face, and his already scorched skin burned. He felt sweat running down his ear and dropping off his earlobe.

Roger stepped forward and clapped his shoulder in a mock-friendly fashion, though a brainless sneer was on his face. "Fancy some more, Riddle-boy? I know you want it."

He felt a suddenly rage of anger and humiliation. The other boys laughed as though it were the funniest thing in the world. He snarled and shoved the Popsicle into the Muggle's grinning face.

The grin faded fast. For a moment, Tom felt a plateau of satisfaction, seeing the big smear across the shocked, freckled face—and then he was on the ground, his face throbbing from the blow that had landed on his cheek.

"Little bastard!" Roger shouted and kicked his ribs—hard. He cried out, unable to bite it in. Something had cracked. "This is it. You are going to worship toilet water. C'mon, boys!"

He struggled, but it was three against one, and he was so much smaller, and his ribs hurt. In a matter of seconds, his hands were in a tight, iron grip, and he was lifted into the air, two rough hands grabbing his struggling feet—

"Mum!" he screamed in desperation. Roger laughed and spat in his face.

He felt panic, then, and fear, and hatred and anger, and he tried to concentrate on magic, tried to call it up and melt Roger's stupid, laughing face, but it didn't respond. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and he tried to wipe his face against his arm to get rid of the spit, but he couldn't, they were taking him, he was utterly helpless—

"Mum!" he screamed. Panic rose like a hideous cloud—

"SEVERUS!" he shouted, and in a jarring moment, he wasn't there anymore. There was no heat, there was no thirst, the boys had vanished, there was only an endless emptiness—but in another moment he was there again, sweaty and struggling.

"MUM!" he screamed again, and he thought: why do I call for her? She is so young still, I need— A flickering of darkness; the images contorted and faded—I need Severus—

It was like drowning. He opened his mouth to shout again, but he was falling, and the void stretched over all his senses, and he mouthed the name again, feebly, but nothing came to wrench him out, to pull him through. It was over.

He fell deeper and deeper into darkness.

________________________________________

The fire in the hearth had sunk to a few glittering coals.

Snape sat up suddenly. He looked around quickly for a moment, but then slowly sank back into his pillows.

A low moan sounded in the room.

Snape turned his back to the sound and squeezed his eyes shut.

There was the sound of rustling cloth. There was another low moan, or perhaps slurred words.

Snape opened his eyes for a moment before squeezing them shut again, more tightly than before. He pulled the sheets more firmly around himself and folded the pillow over his head to block out the sound. His hands were clenched into fists.

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence and quiet, slow breathing. And there was another moan, groggy and pained—

Snape's eyes snapped open and he abruptly sat up. He turned his head and looked at the direction of his roommate. For a moment he seemed to be poised, reading to spring out of bed in his tattered nightgown, but then he flung himself back down onto his own bed and stuffed his fingers into his ears.

Another moan, this one ending with a gasp…

Snape turned his back to the sound again and curled into a tight ball. He could feel that strange something coming form his roommate. Always before, he would have clambered out of his bed and awakened the tortured sleeper, but tonight—

Not tonight.

He squeezed his eyes so tightly it hurt and clenched his fists until his fingernails were digging deeply into his palm.

And suddenly it was over. There was no strange something nagging at his mind. There were no groans or miserable moans. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Snape rolled over onto his back and stared at the canopy for a long moment, holding his breath as he did so. There was no sound. Absolutely no sound at all. He stared a moment longer, wrenched with indecision and a vague, nameless fear.

He leapt out of his bed and crept hesitantly to his roommate's bed. On the way there, he groped on the wall and took down the torch.

"Candeo," he whispered, and his voice was unsteady.

He held the torch up and parted the curtains, peering through. He stared for a moment: Jonathan Frost simply looked asleep. His lips were parted slightly, his eyelids gently shut, his hair plastered over his moist face, and Snape found himself staring a moment too long. But he realized suddenly that there was no movement: no gentle rise and fall of the chest, no drifting of the eyes under the eyelids. Nothing.

When Snape reached out his hand, it was trembling. He held it over Frost's mouth, under his nose.

Nothing.

Seized by panic, he searched frantically for the pulse, moving his hands over the moist skin of the neck—

Nothing.

"Jonathan?" he whispered. "Jonathan! Jonathan, wake up!" He pointed his wand: "Ennervate! Jonathan! Frost! Jonathan—wake up!" His voice caught.

Barefoot and clad only in his nightgown, Severus Snape stumbled out of the Slytherin dormitories and raced to the hospital wing.

________________________________________

Here's the incantation translated from Icelandic to English:

Villtir töfrar jörðar, lofts og allurra fjörlegra hluta

Hlýðu auðmjúku kalli mínu

Og takdu við þá gjöf sem ég fórni.

Wild magic of earth, air, and all living things,

Heed my humble call

And accept this offering that I sacrifice.

VII.

His first thought was Severus.

His mind unfurled from sleep and he thought immediately: I meant Snape. Not Severus. When did he become Severus? He heard movement, and couldn't help thinking fleetingly, rebelliously, Why not? Footsteps approached, and his heart quickened.

But it wasn't Severus who came.

"Ah, awake now, Mr. Frost?"

The hazy veil of sleep flitted away like a leaf torn away by a gale, and all thoughts of Severus (or Snape) crashed away as he eased open his eyelids and slid on his Gryffindor mask.

Albus Dumbledore smiled down at him. The blazing light from the open windows flooded in from directly behind the headmaster, and the lined face was cast entirely in shadow.

Harry summoned a wan smile onto his face. "Albus," he whispered, the smile widening a bit. There was a silence. Suddenly he realized how easy it was to pretend that this Albus was his Albus—mentor, friend, and silent comfort. But then the headmaster leaned back into his chair, the sunlight caught the cold blue eyes, and Harry was left with nothing but grief and wariness and self-reproach—how could he be so sentimental?

Still the headmaster remained silent. Unbidden, a thought that had been swimming underneath Harry's consciousness surfaced, rousing a spark of worry: Where's Severus?

"Jonathan, my dear boy," Dumbledore said gently, and Harry quickly dropped his line of thought. The old headmaster was smiling. "How are you feeling?"

Harry stretched his lips. "Better." He let the smile fade. "I… what happened?" It was an honest question, even if the lost-lamb expression on his face wasn't. He let his eyes fall to half-mast as Dumbledore sat back with a sigh that would have caught the mind of one unused to the headmaster's wiles. But Harry's mind was groping for memories… Panic, he now remembered, sheer panic; and desperately calling a name…

"It seems as though you fell into a magical coma," said Dumbledore, softly and regretfully.

A magical coma. Harry processed the information, remembering that a magical coma was when one's magical core experienced such a strong shock that it reverberated physically. He recalled that it was a very serious, sometimes fatal condition. I could have died, he thought. I could have died. He couldn't quite process it yet.

Harry swallowed: his throat felt dry. "How?"

"Mr. Snape came to Madam Pomfrey last night," Dumbledore continued, still using that voice of his. "He was quite panicked and told her that you were no longer breathing…"

The sunlight seemed to make the ceiling glow, but Harry didn't see it. His mind was filled with darkness as he saw a boy running down the hall, barreling through doors into a bare, sterile room; Harry could see the dark eyes glinting in the torchlight, wild with fear; could see how the thin lips—red in the smoky torchlight and then pale in the dim wandlight—parting and quivering just the slightest—

He swallowed. He remembered now. He had been screaming for Severus.

"He said that you had been having a nightmare before you had stopped breathing…"

A pause.

"Mr. Frost?" Dumbledore prompted gently.

Care to explain, Mr. Frost? What have you been hiding, viper? Harry closed his eyes. He would have to be careful. There were so many things he did not know, so many things…

"I had been struck by a curse," he said tiredly. He opened his eyes and turned his gaze trustingly to that of the headmaster's. Those light blue eyes were hidden under the thick white brows, but he knew they were probing, scouring the mental shield of images he had constructed. "That was… a year ago? It gave me nightmares that… disturbed my magical core. But they were under control, for the most part. I think the time travel… exacerbated things."

Buy it, old man, Harry thought. Believe it.

"Mm," Dumbledore murmured wisely, softly, cannily. "I see. Mr. Snape told me that you had been having nightmares in the past few days, and that he had awakened you each time…"

…Snape, looking at the ground while sitting, as small as possible, in front of the headmaster. Snape, like a shadowy corner in the presence of a garish lamp, haltingly—sulkily—confessing. Snape, glancing up with fear and uncertainty and distrust, and seeing those kindly, compassionate blue eyes. Snape—Snape— Severus! thought Harry with a thrust of fury at the headmaster. How dare the bastard manipulate Severus in his soft, unyielding way? How dare he—

Snape, he thought, trying to quench this flare of anger. It's Snape, not Severus! He calmed and felt vaguely disturbed by this sudden thrust of anger.

"But this time, Mr. Snape said that he had not heard your movements, and had thus failed to wake you in time."

Harry nodded, almost imperceptibly, though inside he was frowning. Heard his movements? He felt a rush of warm relief. Evidently Snape hadn't spilled his soul to the headmaster: it hadn't been the sound of his movements that had awakened the other Slytherin every night. It had been an intangible sense of magic. But it was equally puzzling how Snape hadn't woken up. Why was it that he had awakened all those times before?

"Oh," said Harry, when the headmaster did not begin speaking for some time.

The headmaster sighed. "I do not know the nature of this curse, though rest assured that I will do my best to find a way to undo it. But for now I have found a solution that I am sure is amenable to you." Harry could hear the smile in the old coot's voice. He sharpened his gaze: sure enough, Dumbledore was smiling, and his eyes were twinkling menacingly. "Hogwarts, I assume you are aware, is maintained by quite a few house-elves. Just last night I found a house-elf who is more than willing to look after you while you sleep and wake you up ate the slightest sign of any sort of disturbance."

Dumbledore beamed.

"Oh," said Harry, carefully. Those eyes were still twinkling. He has something planned. He must've told the elf to monitor me, to spy on me, or something. "It seems like a good idea, headmaster, but perhaps it would be better to first consult Mr. Snape…"

"How considerate of you," Dumbledore said, cheerily. "But Snape has already agreed to move in with Mr. Crabbe. You'll have the room to yourself."

Harry felt his stomach turn to lead. "Snape has already agreed?" he echoed.

The headmaster nodded, still smiling sunnily.

The word was on the tip of his tongue: no! But he said nothing, his mouth paralyzed by the words: Snape has already agreed… And even Dumbledore couldn't tell so blatant a lie as this.

Harry forced out a smile. It was like squeezing blood out of a rock. "That would be best, I'm sure." He remembered the darkness of the room and a sneering voice that was both warm and cool, the flare of a torch and a hand on his back, and he felt a sharp and endless pain. Snape has already agreed…

"Excellent!" Dumbledore said, looking jubilant. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I already had Mr. Snape's things moved. Your things are undisturbed. And—ah." Footsteps and the rustling of a stiff robe. "Poppy."

Madam Pomfrey steered into view, casting the headmaster a disapproving glance. "Albus, you should have notified me that Mr. Frost had awakened! It's extremely dangerous, this magical coma." She turned to Harry and clucked sympathetically. "Now, dear, let me take your temperature…"

Harry let himself be propped up and poked and prodded. Dumbledore had left with a smile and an extra-twinkly twinkle. Harry wondered what Dumbledore, who could misshape lives and mold fates with the sleight of his hand, would look like without those eyes. He wondered what the headmaster would look like if, instead of orbs of clever blue, there were only gaping pits of torn nerves and flesh…

He banished the thought with a start. What am I thinking? he thought, as the image, suddenly nightmarish, whirled away.

"Now, dear, open your mouth… yes, say 'ah'…"

He stared straight ahead, obeying the mediwitch as though he were under the Imperius. He kept his mind blank, his emotions numbed. It was only after the nurse had cheerfully told him that he was free to go, after he had felt a sudden wave of reluctance, that he realized he had been waiting.

Don't be ridiculous, he chided himself coldly, angrily. Don't be a sentimental fool. He walked out the door, swiftly and silently, and ignored the flicker of disappointment when no lips greeted him with a sneer and no black eyes flickered darkly over his face.

The hall was empty. He was alone.

The four great tables seemed to throb with noise and chatter. Half the Gryffindor table was laughing uproariously at some joke; the Hufflepuffs were discussing something seriously; little clusters of Ravenclaws were hotly debating some topic or other; the Slytherins were sneeringly crowing the Quidditch tryout results.

Harry headed straight for the end of the Slytherin table. He easily spotted Snape, hunched over slightly as he always was, silent as stone as he methodically ate his lunch.

"H'lo," Harry greeted as nonchalantly as he could as he slipped into the empty seat next to the other Slytherin.

Snape stiffened immediately, losing his slouch and donning an ice-cold mask. Harry noticed it but said nothing as he grabbed his fork. He opened his mouth to speak, but Snape had already begun talking.

"Per Professor Dumbledore's suggestion, I am now rooming with Crabbe," he said. His voice was cool, polite, clipped, without a trace of disdain or sarcasm. "I presume he has already informed you of this new arrangement?"

Harry shut his mouth with a snap. "Yes," he said at last, his lips and tongue and mouth moving with a life of their own. "Yes, he has." He stared at Snape a moment longer before looking down unseeing at his mashed potatoes. He prodded them with his fork, suddenly not very hungry at all. But he forced himself to go through the motions of eating, stuffing a load of potatoes in his mouth and chewing it without tasting. His mind whirled with fragmented thoughts.

He cleared his throat. "Pomfrey wouldn't let me out until now, so I missed Potions and Arithmancy." He paused and glanced at Snape. Snape said nothing. "Did anything important happen?" he added, almost desperately.

Snape stiffly shook his head. "No, nothing." Again, that clipped, lifeless tone.

Harry reached for a roll and sank his teeth into it with more force than necessary and observed the other Slytherin, trying to find clues, secrets in the hooked nose and stringy hair. Something was wrong. Snape had lost his slouch and was now sitting as primly as an elderly pureblood; his eyes, half-lidded, stared ahead stonily, and the slim fingers moved like animated sticks.

The silence between them became unbearable. "I was wondering…" Harry began and quickly cast his mind about for something to say. He kept his eyes on Snape. Snape didn't even seem to have heard him. "I was wondering when we might get together in the library to research the Dreamless Sleep Potion."

Snape's fingers, breaking open a roll of bread, faltered for the briefest of moments. Harry caught that movement and played it over and over again in his head as he chewed his mince pie, trying to fathom what it meant.

"Not today, I'm afraid," Snape said at last in that same, clipped voice. "I need to—to study for an Ancient Runes exam."

Ancient Runes exam? Harry frowned. He's not telling the truth. The thought continued to whirl in his head: something was wrong. Was it Dumbledore? He clenched his teeth for the briefest of moments to suppress a swell of anger. He had to be dispassionate about the whole thing. He had to be. Calm. Detached. He glanced up at the head table. Dumbledore was grinning like a skull and gibbering like a puppet.

Harry looked down quickly, his heard pounding. His fork. It was slightly bent.

"Snape, don't lie to me," he said tersely. The words came out by themselves, unplanned by his mind. He looked up. Snape had frozen, still staring ahead. "Snape."

"I think it would behoove you," the other Slytherin said, slowly, still with that maddeningly polite tone, "to find a more… suitable candidate to work with on the potions project."

A pause. "What?" Harry hissed. The word came out sharply and involuntarily, and Snape stiffened.

"I said—"

"I heard what you said, Snape," Harry whispered angrily. He closed his eyes for a moment. He was losing his temper. He never lost his temper. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been driven to madness by the flames of anger. He couldn't— he swallowed. Keep calm, keep calm, he whispered in his mind; keep calm, keep calm, keep calm… His voice was curt. "Since you are the one who"—he searched for the correct phrase—"has decided to terminate our partnership, I think I at least deserve an explanation."

He opened his eyes. Snape looked quickly away.

"Our personalities are not compatible," Snape said icily, "and we have not been productive."

"Snape, we've been only been researching for—what—two days? I know you're brilliant with potions and everything, but I hardly think it possible that we invent the Dreamless Sleep Potion in less than half a week."

Snape stabbed viciously at his meal and stayed silent. Harry stared at the piles of tasteless potatoes. He willed himself to eat, but the voice of his mind was drowned in a veritable maelstrom. He couldn't eat. It was impossible to stuff the white blob of starch into his mouth and not puke. It was useless to even try. He simply couldn't swallow past the—the raw pain in his throat. All of a sudden, he felt as tired as death, so tired that his entire being ached with weariness.

Why are you feeling like this? he thought to himself. It was a mixture of frustration and annoyance and hurt. It's only Snape. It's nothing—personal. He'd long learned that the key to almost anything was never to let it be personal, and it had been so easy. Why was it suddenly hard? Why did he suddenly care?

"It doesn't matter," he said aloud. He stood up and pushed in his chair. He had to get away. Snape tensed immediately, as though expecting Harry to make a drastic move. "I'll be working in the library after classes, looking over some of Mengele's experiments." He paused, wondering if he should add anything, if he should make a blatant invitation for Snape to join him, but he turned abruptly and left. It was up to Snape now—but what Snape chose didn't matter. No, it didn't matter at all.

He kept telling himself that, letting it whirl around in his head as he walked past all the noisy students. He knew he was being stared at, and—it didn't matter at all—he tried to ignore it, pretend that he didn't know which two pairs of eyes were watching him leave: one blue and one black. He clenched his fists and then slowly—it didn't matter at all—unclenched them.

But as he left the Great Hall, he became aware of a third set of eyes, a third gaze, far darker, coming from the black-haired prefect. Harry paused, for the barest of moments, and then left the hall.

Harry finished his Transfiguration and Charms homework within an hour, and his essay for Defense Against Dark Arts in two. He thought it would be extraneous to plow ahead and take notes on the next chapter in Shielding Yourself from Those Who Wish to Hurt You. The book itself was impossible to read: not only was it boring and convoluted but it was also incorrect in so many places that Harry wondered irritably what potion the author had ingested before writing. He hoped fleetingly that this was not a reflection of Professor Matellan's character.

He fidgeted.

The spot he had staked out was in the corner of the library, just outside the fringe of light that filtered through the gently stained glass of the tall, narrow windows. He was undisturbed. The library itself had very few people. A cluster of quiet Ravenclaws were working studiously while a bunch of—he squinted—Hufflepuffs were giggling over something that obviously wasn't homework.

Heaving a sigh, he got out of his seat and returned a minute later with a stack of books on dreamless sleep research. As he seated himself, he thought he saw movement near the doorway. He glanced up immediately, but it was only a Gryffindor second year.

He flipped open a book at random, ignoring the disappointment and subsiding wave of adrenaline. This was ridiculous, getting so worked up, and getting so worked up over Snape…

The words rambled through his mind. Josef Mengele, a warlock who had masqueraded as a Muggle and harbored a deep resentment against Muggleborns. Harry thought that the name sounded vaguely familiar: he must've read it somewhere. Experimented on Jews and gypsies… Oh, I remember now, Harry thought. The Auschwitz concentration camps. Apparently, Mengele had furthered experiments done by the ancient ruler Kyrus "the Cruel" and proved, in the most categorical way, that dreamless sleep led to insanity, a loss of magic, and death. Ah, what fun. Here be pictures, Harry thought.

A movement he espied from the corner of his eye made him look up, and in that split second, his heart sped up. But he saw, moving towards him through the streaks of pale sunshine, not Snape, but Lily Evans.

"Hi, Jonathan," she said.

Harry managed a smile. "Hello," he said, flipping over the page with gruesome illustrations. As Lily approached, he thought that she seemed a bit more nervous than he'd last seen her. She stopped in front of his table and paused for a moment.

"You missed class today," she said. "You weren't in Arithmancy."

Lily isn't in my Arithmancy class, he thought. Someone must've told her. Or she asked. "I wasn't," Harry replied calmly, busily fabricating a lie.

"Were you sick?" Lily asked, looking down at the books cradled in her arms.

"Yeah," Harry said. He shrugged elaborately. "It wasn't much, but Madam Pomfrey made a fuss, and so I missed a few classes."

"Oh, okay," she said, and sounded a bit relieved. "I thought"—she glanced up hesitantly—"that, perhaps, you were hurt by the ritual we did yesterday. I'm terrible sorry that you—uhm—passed out while I was invoking it, and I'd understand if you want a different topic, or perhaps find a different partner."

He hesitated, for the barest of moment, but he realized that it was an easy decision. I must've guided her through learning the spells of sacrifice, he thought; I must have been there—been here. And it wasn't painful seeing her, working with her, as it would be if he had been forced to partner with Black or Potter. She was—he could separate her from his mother. He could pretend that she wasn't of special significance, that she was just another person in the crowd that teemed on the other side of his mask.

"Don't feel so bad about it," Harry said, smiling reassuringly. "I wasn't hurt, and it wasn't your fault at all." In fact, the ritual shouldn't even have worked.

"Thanks," she said, smile genuinely. "But honestly, if you ever want to switch topics, or something, just tell me." As her smile faded away, her eyes strayed to the book Harry had open. Her mouth opened, and she looked up, as though about to say something, but she decided against it, and closed her mouth. "Well, bye then," she said at last.

"Bye," said Harry, getting the distinct impression that she wanted to say more. Interesting. She only smiled again, though, and turned around, and left.

Harry watched the doorway for another while. Beyond it was the corridor, where light dimmed away in curious patterns upon the wall. There would be a shadow, every so often, and Harry would sit up eagerly, but the shadow would leave, or come in and chip away at his hope, and…

Why the hell are you staring at the doorway? Harry looked down angrily. How could he be so easily distracted? How? Why? Before, he had been able to concentrate for hours on end, working like a dead man through the timeless hours of the night, decoding and encoding garbled messages, reading over Hermione's endless notes, interrogating prisoners, soothing those who had, in the hour of the dead, had ceased to be human, and were only trembling things locked in a nightmare—or, he would wait. Wait with sleepless vigil (sometimes with Dumbledore) for the rise of the sun.

Waiting. That was what he was doing now.

Waiting? he asked himself as scornfully as he could. For what? Snape? He tried to toss the thought away with the flippancy it deserved. He flipped to the page with all the gruesome black-and-white photos. He studied each contorted face, each bloated dead body, willing himself to immerse himself in the ghastly pictures before him.

He looked up at the doorway.

The sun began to sink, and the streaks of light that filtered into the library turned from white to orange to dusky red. The people came in and wandered out, some silently, others while giggling under their breath. And none of them stalked inside fiercely with glittering black eyes; none of them swiftly scanned the room and focused on him with a disdainful sneer.

Harry shut the book and stood up. After a moment of hesitation, he picked up his book and strode to Madam Pince. His mouth moved, his tongue worked, the muscles of his cheeks directed his lips into a smile, and he glanced at the doorway. When the librarian handed him the book, he thanked her in a subdued tone, and he walked rapidly out of the library and into the darkened corridor.

The hallways were dark when he made his way down to the Slytherin dungeons. He moved from shadow to shadow, staying out of sight and sound as much as he could.

"Carnificina," he snapped, and the entrance to the common room opened. He stepped in and looked around: the aristocrats in their well-lit corner, the lesser years scattered here and there, the Quidditch enthusiasts bypassing all boundaries and clustering in whispering groups.

He strode down the curved hall and pushed open the door to the seventh year boys' dormitory.

"…by Merlin, I will slice off your skin in strips and fry them and force you to ingest it, you Cro-Magnon degenerate, not that you would even understand what I am saying—"

Snape stopped in mid-rant and looked up, startled. Harry stared back. The door was open, and Harry could see the two beds within. Crabbe was sitting dumbly the one closest to the door, and Snape, moments ago striding furiously from one of the room to the other, flinging aside underwear of the size that Harry estimated only Crabbe could wear, was standing between the two beds.

"Hello, Snape," Harry said, after an endless pause.

Snape stiffened. His face closed, and his back straightened. "Hello, Frost," he said with stiff politeness.

The silence stretched. I should be walking away. I should be going to my own dorm, Harry thought. He knew that he shouldn't be there, that he should have turned his head seconds ago, that it was a mistake to stop and watch Snape walk angrily from one end of the room to another. I should go, he thought, but he didn't.

Crabbe turned his head. "Who're you?" he mumbled stupidly.

Harry didn't reply. Neither did Snape—Snape, who had tightened his fists at his sides and was staring fixedly at the ground.

"You didn't go to the library today," Harry said at last. His voice was quiet.

Snape's eyes flickered up to meet Harry's, and he sneered in reply. "I'm well aware of where I was over the course of the day, Frost!" But in the next moment, the mask of politeness fell over the sharp features once more.

A pause. "If you'll excuse me, I must manage the unpacking," Snape said, with the toneless articulation of a butler. He turned around and muddled with something on his own bed.

"Hey, don't ignore me," Crabbe demanded. "Who are you?"

"I am Jonathan Frost," Harry replied. He turned away and pushed open the door to his own dorm.

It seemed barren.

Snape's bed was gone. Where it had been was just more stone floor, unmarked and gray, a vast empty space.

Harry leaned back, gently pushing the door shut. Snape hadn't had very much stuff, but it had been much more than he, Harry, had… The room looked deserted, in fact. And it wasn't just the absence of stuff, it was—more.

Harry sighed and ambled to his bed. Why am I getting so worked up over Snape? he thought morosely. You've been living alone for three years. Why have you suddenly started wanting company? This is insane. He buried his face in his hands and massaged the bridge of his nose. And I'm hungry.

Sighing, he stood up, wondering if the Great Hall was still open. Or he might sneak down to the kitchen. Yes, think of food, he thought with a grim, inward laugh. Think of food. He glanced involuntarily at the wall.

Don't think of him.

He was unsure if this was a good idea. Back in his previous life, it had never worked. But here, in the world his mother had promised he would be great in—here, perhaps it would be different.

He took a deep breath and said the password: "Janus."

The gargoyle jumped aside. He crept in cautiously. The password he had heard from old Professor Oparin while hiding in the shadows. That fox Dumbledore had come around as well, but he hadn't dared creep closer to hear the password; even though he was safely ensconced in shadows, he wondered if Dumbledore knew he was there.

He shivered and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

He pushed open the door and shut it behind him. He remembered to keep his head up, his eyes calm and unrevealing, his shoulders back, and his face composed—just as his mother had told him to.

Dippet looked up, and the aging headmaster's eyes widened in surprise.

"Hello," he said. "Did one of the professors send you here?"

Tom shook his head. He gathered up his courage and launched into the speech he had prepared beforehand. "Headmaster Dippet, the ancient laws of Hogwarts govern that a student may bypass all authority to a direct appeal to the headmaster if the student feels a threat to his or her well-being. By this rule, I am here."

Dippet blinked. "That's fine, Mr.—?"

"Riddle," Tom said, reluctantly. Riddle wasn't his name. He hated it. But one day, he'd be rid of it.

"Mr. Riddle, what is it that is—er—threatening your well-being?" Dippet asked.

Tom swallowed, conjuring his next words. He didn't like the look in the headmaster's eyes. They seemed too kind. There was a word for it, a word he remembered reading somewhere, but he couldn't remember it now. "As you might already be aware,"—unlikely, Tom thought—"I am an orphan, and so I would be returning to a Muggle orphanage for the summer." He curled his lips slightly the way he remembered his mother did whenever she talked about that filth. "However, upon arriving at Hogwarts, I realized how low the standards of living really were at the orphanage." Standards of living: that was an impressive sounding phrase he had found in one of the books he'd read. "I request therefore that you allow me to remain on Hogwarts grounds over the summer, or situate me in a different place, perhaps in an orphanage for magical children."

Dippet leaned back in his chair and frowned slightly. "As much as I would like to help you, Mr. Riddle, Hogwarts is not authorized to withhold students in Hogwarts over the summer. Since you are an orphan, Mr. Riddle, you are under guardianship of the Ministry. I suggest you direct your appeal there."

Tom clenched his jaw. The Ministry? That hellhole of filthy Muggle-lovers? And he knew that they'd find his mother's maiden name and deny him anything. He'd know. He'd tried before. "Please, sir," he said, trying his last card. "I—at the orphanage, I'm"—he lowered his eyes, hoping this would work—"I'm hurt a lot, and…Sound helpless, he thought, sound like a pathetic little idiot. "And please, sir, I really don't want to go back there." He blinked and willed some tears into his eyes.

He looked up.

Dippet was looking very uncomfortable. "Mr. Riddle," he said at length, "as much as I wish I could help you, really cannot. And I am sure that conditions at your orphanage are not so terrible." The headmaster managed a smile. "It will only be for three months, and then you will be back."

Tom kept his head down.

"Mr. Riddle? Don't be so morose, Mr. Riddle. I'm sure it'll be fine."

He didn't look up. Let the old fool blab, he thought coldly, angrily. He should have known better. This was how it was in the orphanage, and this was how it was going to be like here. His mother had lied to him. A dagger of hurt cut his heart in half. His mother had said that it would be easier and better here, but that first, terrible night had showed him the truth. His mother had lied.

But he realized suddenly that his mother had been lying to herself as well. He remembered the way she seemed to be convincing herself that his father's blood didn't matter, that her blood would be able to cover the filth from that Muggle. She said it to convince him, herself, and he had nodded, pretending to be convinced, when it had only made him feel dirty—disgusting—filthy—a freak, a bastard——

Darkness tilted dizzily around him as he sat upright. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears, and his entire body was wet with sweat. He took in the dim red light from the coals, the nearly invisible wall of the opposite side of the room, the cracks between each block of stone, seeming to shift in the darkness…

After a moment, he sighed and squinted at his palms. There were deep marks where he had clenched his fingernails had dug into his flesh. He closed his eyes, and the memory of that dream—or memory—swelled through him. He shivered, fighting a losing battle to keep it at bay. It's not real, he thought. It's not your memories—it's Voldemort's. He shivered. Even if the memories weren't his, the emotions had been all too real: the terrifying surge of self-hatred, of disgust, of hurt and vengeance…

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye. "Stupefy!" he hissed, a jet of light flashing through the air. He rolled off the bed and crouched in the darkness.

He thought he heard a high-pitched squeak and a very faint thud.

His wand was already in place, aiming at where the sound had come from. Slowly, cautiously, forcing calmness into his being with steely resolve, he peered over the bed.

Something was huddled in the lightless corner of the room, something about the size of a pillow. Harry frowned, and, after hesitating a moment, whispered, "Emoveo lumos."

A small ball of light drifted out of his palm and floated towards the thing. Harry squinted, unused to the sudden brightness. As the light drew closer, he could make out a grubby piece of fabric, and ears…

Of course, Harry thought immediately, feeling relieved and stupid at the same time. It's only the house-elf.

"Ennervate," he said.

The creature stirred. Then, like a stretched spring coiling, it snapped upright. Its eyes bulged like bloated tennis-balls, and its ears quivered with fear.

"Hello," Harry said, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

The house-elf stayed unmoving, like a mouse caught in a basilisk's shadow.

"I am sorry I attacked you," Harry said gently, feeling a bit uncertain.

The elf seemed to be carved from stone. Harry felt faintly unnerved by the house-elf's terrified eyes. They seemed really to fall out of the tiny, misshapen skull at any moment.

Harry fidgeted. "Don't be frightened," he said, hesitantly. Why is it looking at me as though I were some terrible kind of monster? "I won't hurt you."

The elf let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak. And then it flung itself onto the floor.

"Forgive Cushy, Master!" it sobbed, and Harry winced as it pounded its head onto the floor repeatedly. "F-Forgive C-C-Cushy!" It leapt to its feet, and Harry saw blood—colored black in the half-light—streaming down from its forehead.

"Stop it!" Harry shouted hastily when the elf began to throw itself against the wall.

The creature froze instantly, its bulging eyes swiveling madly. "F-F-F—" Its thin throat worked and the word choked into a formless squeal.

Harry found his fingers trembling. Why was this elf so terrified, so terrified… of him? Ice washed through his heart. Terrified—of him. Harry remembered the Dark Mark that was branded on his face and chest, the memories of black hatred and anger that swamped his mind and soul, and his wand—thirteen-and-a-half inches—just like Voldemort's. He felt sick.

"Don't be frightened," Harry said softly, pleadingly. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

The elf made a kind of high-pitched squeak. "C-Cushy is s-s-sorry, Master. Cushy will—Cushy will b-b-bake his stupid head in the o-oven—"

Harry shook his head frantically. "NO, don't! Don't—"

The elf cringed. "Bad Cushy, bad, bad—"

"You're good, you did nothing wrong!"

The elf shook its head vigorously. "Cushy so bad! Cushy woke Master and Master going to kill Cushy now." The elf's voice dropped until it was barely audible. "C-Cushy see it in M-Master's eyes. All elves know it—the l-look before they are k-k-killed by their master."

Harry felt a ball of ice form at the pit of his stomach. "Kill you? I—of course I won't kill you, Cushy. I'm not at all mad at you." The words rolled out of his mouth on their own accord in a meaningless tide. "Cushy is a good house-elf. Cushy did all the right things, and Master won't hurt Cushy. Cushy won't hurt himself either."

The house-elf had a look of skeptical disbelief. "But… but Master is mad at Cushy, and…"

"I'm not mad," Harry said, a bit sharply, and the house-elf recoiled. Damn it, Harry thought, closing his eyes. Relax, relax, calm down. "Cushy is good. Cushy will not hurt himself. Cushy will not punish himself. Do you understand me, Cushy?"

The house-elf nodded reluctantly. "But can Cushy still bake his head…? Master can have Cushy's head on a platter and spit on it like angry Masters do."

"No," Harry said, shaking his head vigorously. "If you do that…" He lowered his voice. "If Cushy dares hurt himself, then Master will be very, very mad."

Harry let his voice fade into the walls. The house-elf was stiff as bone, and its eyes were so big and round they resembled the bloated faces of drowned bodies. Harry leaned back slowly. He felt rather—satisfied, somehow…

"Y-yes, Master," Cushy stammered, and Harry lost his train of thought.

"Good," Harry said gently. He paused. "Do you want to make Master happy?"

"YES!" Cushy squealed, nodding its head like a spell gone out of control.

"Then if the master with a long, silver beard asks you about me, don't tell that you were scared. Don't tell him I was mad either. Otherwise, Master will be mad."

"Oh, yes, yes!" The house-elf was ecstatic. "Cushy knows what to say! Cushy will not make Master mad! Cushy will say that Master is kind and good and not mad at all, and that Master wasn't scary, no, not at all!"

"Yes," Harry said, smiling encouragingly, "and don't call me Master when the wizard with the silver beard is around. Call me Master Frost."

"Yes, yes! When white-beard wizard is around, Master is Master Frost! Master Frost is always kind to Cushy! Always!"

"I'm proud of you, Cushy," Harry said gently. "Now, Master would like to sleep…"

"Then Cushy will leave now," the house-elf said, still in throes of rapturous joy. "Master Frost so kind, always so kind! A great wizard, Master Frost, a great wizard…"

The house-elf bowed so low that its head hit its knees, and then it disappeared with a loud crack!

Silence descended. Harry stared at the spot where the house-elf had disappeared. Cushy's grating voice seemed to echo endlessly in his skull: Master, Master is so kind, so kind…

Harry shivered and stood up. Why had the house-elf been so terrified of him? Why did he feel a tide of fierce pleasure, reminiscent of the hazy hot nights under sweat-soaked covers when the madness of battle became too much for two wearied bodies? Why did it seem to—itch, like a rash that spread even as he reveled in unholy relief and scratched it?

He buried his head in his hands. Why had it felt so good being called Master?

Something clicked inside him. He looked up at the smoldering coals. I can't wait, he thought. Or else I'd go mad. He had to leave, and he had to leave soon. There was no more waiting.

He picked up wand (thirteen-and-a-half inches) and steadied himself. He was going to throw off Dumbledore's tracking spell, damn the consequences. And you've already tried transferring spells, and that doesn't work, Harry reasoned. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his beating heart. This is the only thing you can do. The only way.

He opened his eyes and quickly cast several perimeter spells. Then he shut his eyes and held his wand in both hands.

He could feel it. Intangible threads, attached to his own magic like a burr. He gripped the body of the tracking spell and then turned his attention to the individual threads that bound it to him. Dumbledore's spellwork was distinctive: seemingly light and airy, but as deceptively powerful as the calm sea. Harry gathered his own magic, remembering how powerful Dumbledore was. They had crossed wands in training, and they had been evenly matched in power… Harry readied himself, for he knew that the old wizard was a fighter, if nothing else, and he cut—

The filaments ruptured as easily as skin.

Harry's eyes flew open, and he blinked. Is this a ploy? he wondered. It shouldn't have been this easy to undo Dumbledore's spellwork, unless the other wizard was much weaker than he had been in the future, or—

Harry froze. Every fiber of his being was suddenly aware of the fact that he was holding the tracking spell. He was holding it with his magic, as he had been unable to days ago: it had not fallen apart, or scattered like dust; it was intact, meekly shimmering in his presence. He was holding it.

Harry inhaled sharply. Transfer it, you dolt! He passed the tracking spell through the curtains, but it didn't attach; he let it hover close to his body, and he felt the threads awakening, reaching towards him—

Maybe it only attached to other humans, Harry thought. He stood up and glanced at the wall the separated him and—and Snape.

He swallowed, feeling something he couldn't name rising through his body like an electric shock. He remembered that Snape was angry at him for some reason—but Snape wasn't awake right now.

The floor was cold under his feet. In a few steps, he had slipped outside his room. He squinted in the light of the torch that lit the little space outside of the three rooms and tightened his hold on Dumbledore's magic. It was like cupping water in his hands.

He opened the door quietly and walked in, grateful that the door didn't creak. It was like moving through a dream. In another instant, he found himself standing in front of Snape's bed.

The curtains hung limply around the bed, but through the crack, Harry could see Snape's face. He stared at it, transfixed. The face was mostly lost in shadows, but Harry could make out the little frown that had creased Snape's forehead, the lines of the eyebrows that led to the hooked nose. He doesn't look at peace even when he's sleeping, Harry thought. I wonder what he's dreaming about. Snape had long eyelashes. Strange how he hadn't noticed before…

The sleeper stirred. Harry drew back, ready to dart into shadows. The tracking spell pulsed in his hand.

Now or never, he thought, bracing himself. He felt a sudden stab of fear: what if Dumbledore's magic somehow mutated and hurt Snape in the process? Snape, of harsh remarks and cynical retorts, suddenly seemed terribly vulnerable. Harry briefly considered trying it on Crabbe instead, but—he was already here, and as he reached out and touched Snape's face…

He sucked in a breath. The tracking spell quivered. With utmost care, he let the nets of his own magic loosen slightly, letting Dumbledore's spellwork trickle in the only direction it could—towards Snape… When the flow of magic strained to burst forth, he immediately tightened his hold like a clam snapping shut, and then slowly, gradually, let out a few drops, a soft stream…

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. He had transferred the spell. He had transferred it to Snape. He had done it.

I wonder how I could manage it, Harry thought. He reached for the tracking spell, prickling like a spiny burr, and felt it attached to the other Slytherin's magic. Gently he pulled it off, and let it hook back onto his own magic. I wonder why I couldn't do it two days ago and why I can do it now. A memory rose languidly: the sacrifice ritual. He frowned. Might that have done something? He remembered how the wild magic had risen, scattering the flimsy sticks and pathetic sacrifice, diving into him like a vengeful spirit, awakening something inside him…

His mind hit a blank wall. What was it that it awoke? Magic, obviously, but—where did it come from? It's highly unlikely that this load of magic was just sitting inside me and waiting… He was, after all, no stranger to wild magic. The lessons in the nest and more 'practical lessons' in the forest had assured him that.

And that house-elf, he thought, feeling the giddy happiness of his success sudden die away. What did it mean?

Harry realized then that he was sitting on the ground, and that his hand was still on Snape. It was no longer touching the other Slytherin's face; instead, it was resting on a shoulder. He was suddenly aware of the warmth beneath the worn nightgown, the bones and muscles under the sallow skin—

Harry took back his hand as though he had plunged it into scalding water.

I'd better go back, he thought, standing up. His heart was beating madly, and he felt strangely reluctant to leave. He'll wake up, Harry argued, but he found himself secretly hoping that Snape would awake, that he'd see those glittering black eyes…

But Snape didn't wake, and after a moment, Crabbe gave a loud snore. It broke Harry's reverie, and he was out of the room, door firmly closed behind him, and in his own room before the whirling fragments of thoughts could arrange themselves in his mind.

He threw himself into his bed. His heart was beating hard. For once, it was easy to keep his mind blank. There were too many things trying make themselves known, too many thoughts at once, too many emotions…

This is crazy, he thought and shut his eyes. The image of Snape rose in the darkness: Snape, with the slight frown on his forehead, the long eyelashes, the pale, vulnerable face…

He's angry at me right now, Harry reminded himself sleepily. He's not talking to me, for some reason. The memory of it cleared away some of the sleepiness, and he felt the contentment disappear. I'll find out why, then, Harry retorted. Then I'll make him talk to me, no matter what…

His mind drifted away, and with it went all memory of the terrified house-elf and the itching satisfaction of being called 'Master'…

VIII.

The morning was cold, but he was relieved he had awakened. From the vague recollections of his dreams, he knew he had been on the verge of nightmares (or memories) when sleep had left him and the cold had snuck under his covers and against his skin.

"Tempus," he murmured. It was a bit past six. The others won't be up until much later, he thought, yawning and swinging his legs off the edge of his bed. He blinked groggily before staring at the empty space before him. Where was Severus's bed? Where was Severus—

Then he remembered that Severus—Snape, he corrected himself—had been mad at him for some stupid reason and was stubbornly refusing to talk, and had moved in with that idiot Crabbe. Harry shook his head quickly and padded into the loo. He came out refreshed, though a bit red from the vigorous scrubbing he'd given himself and the harsh shaving spell he'd cast.

He pulled on some clothes and glanced about, perfectly awake from all the times he'd sprung out of bed with wand in hand. The room looked exactly the same in morning as it did at night. The air felt clearer, now, but the floors and walls and ceilings were all bathed in shadows and dark red torchlight.

He thrust his wand into his pocket and walked out of his room with an air of determination, coolly pushing aside the memories of the quivering house-elf. There was no point in thinking about it; all he needed to do was get the Keys, and enter the Founder's Nest, but to do that, he needed to transfer the tracking spell—

He stopped in the space adjoining the three rooms of the dormitory, unclenching his fists. He turned and moved to the door in the middle. Is he still asleep? Harry wondered. He put his ear on the door and listened intently. Silence.

Reminding himself that Se—Snape was still mad at him for some unknown reason, Harry turned the knob and pushed, entering the room as silently as a shadow. He closed the door behind him and moved quietly over to Snape's bed. Hooked nose, thin lips, the slight, persistent frown on the forehead. Harry felt a smile glow on his face. He's beautiful, he thought.

Harry started. Beautiful? his brain squawked. Where did that come from? He looked around nervously. He's not beautiful, he told himself firmly. He's ugly. The sentiment felt as hollow as a dead tree. He is ugly, he repeated to himself, stubbornly. He frowned. The nose was far too large for so thin a face; the lips seemed rather twitchy; the hair was greasy, and would probably felt disgusting if he were to run his fingers through it; the skin was sallow, though it looked golden in the smoky light…

He shook his head again, sharply. He was wasting time.

He took out his wand and gripped it firmly, clearing his mind as he did so. Keeping his eyes fixed on Snape, he reached into the back of his consciousness and found the odd buzzing that was Dumbledore's tracking spell. Harry gripped it, pulling it the way he'd pull a burr off his robes—it came off, and jiggled precariously like a lump of jelly. But it did not fall apart.

Then, with the utmost caution, he let the spell dissolve into Snape, feeling it unravel and latching onto a new victim. Harry shivered, slightly, and waited tensely. But Snape's frown only deepened, and Harry felt a peculiar twinge somewhere in his chest. The creased brow stayed for a few moments before the thin lips parted, and the forehead smoothed until only a line or two of an uneasy dream were left.

Harry realized that he was staring again, and suppressed a spike of irritation. You're wasting valuable time, he thought, berating himself. You'll have to take the spell back by lunch; he has Ancient Runes, you have Charms. He stood up. With one last look, he strode decisively out of the dormitory, casting a strong disillusionment charm as he did so.

The crisp morning air refreshed him. It was time, at last, for his plans to come to fruition. It was a time, at last, for answers, for this dark entanglement of mysteries to be undone. He felt free as the wind, but he also felt more than a bit nervous. He could remember the solemn majesty when he had first invoked the Nest, just as he could remember the long years of nothingness and solitude. He shivered. I'm going to make Severus speak to me today, he thought suddenly.

Windows began appearing on the walls, letting in splotches of pale, morning sunshine. Not here, a bit further, Harry thought. Ah. The Hufflepuff common room guardian. The pudgy gardener in the portrait, who wore drab tan robes and was bald except for a ring of hair above his ears, was snoring peacefully. Now I wait, thought Harry, and leaned against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. Shouldn't Hufflepuffs be early risers? Harry wondered and spotted a spider crawling down the wall above his head. He moved aside.

Finally, when Harry was on the verge of forcing his way inside, the portrait swung open and a gaggle of fifth-year girls came out. Harry slipped inside, nearly bumping into a sneaky-looking third-year boy.

How do the Hufflepuffs stand looking down? Harry thought as he stole towards a shadowy corner. The carpet was a blazing shade of yellow, made worse by the light that seemed to enjoy bouncing right back into his eyes. The walls were a bit better, though half the tapestries depicted plump women tending gardens.

At least the statues are tolerable, Harry thought, looking around at the six corners. Each corner had a black bronze statue of a badger the size of a small child. Bit of an overkill, though. He scrutinized each one, and stopped when he came to the sculpture of a badger poised with its front paws on a rock.

Harry took a deep breath. He approached it, and cast a second, stronger disillusionment charm about himself, as well as a silencing spell. After waiting until the common room was empty, he whispered, "Lady Helga, the hour of need is here at hand; by labor and by loyalty, we firmly stand." Nothing happened. Nothing's supposed to happen, Harry reminded himself, not after just saying a stupid rhyme. He looked around cautiously. But the first time he'd done it—Merlin, how long ago was it? four years?—Hermione had been so excited she had somehow tripped on Ron's foot and fallen onto Harry. After the three of them had finished snapping nervously at each other, Ron had attempted to calm Hermione by pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her neck, which only got her royally annoyed, which led to some spectacular bickering—

Harry jerked out of those thoughts. His heart was pounding, and pain throbbed in his soul with each beat. Don't think of it, he thought, swallowing hard. He put his hands around the oblong rock under the badger's front paws. Now, all I need to do is think loyal thoughts. He frowned, concentrated… No, not Dumbledore, he thought quickly. The first image of Dumbledore that he saw in his mind was not that of warm blue eyes, but icy cold ones, and right after that came the nightmarish vision of Dumbledore with his eyes gouged out— Think of James, or Lily, Harry thought desperately. For a moment he thought he might succeed, as he conjured one of the pictures in the ageing album he had left behind: his mother and father, smiling happily and waving out at him. But another image encroached the memory—the image of his father, sneering with careless arrogance, his mother, shouting angrily; the memory of her telling him that she never wanted to talk to him again—

No, Harry thought abruptly. It's useless. Four years ago, he had thought of Dumbledore, and his parents, and Sirius, but now… He could hear footsteps. Damn it, he thought. Loyalty. To whom am I loyal? His mind was blank. He squeezed his eyes together and thought, but could think of nothing, nothing at all—

He opened his eyes in defeat. I'm loyal to nobody, he thought, feeling empty. No one at all. But worst of all was that it was no big surprise. From the moment he'd put on his mask and smiled at the crowds of terrified Aurors and sent them to their deaths, he had expected it. Just like honor, or justice, or morality, or—he snorted disdainfully, bitterly—love, or any of those things. They were dead to him.

I'll just have to wrench it out, Harry thought grimly. And if that doesn't work, I'll have to do some tricky self-confundus spells.

He moved aside as a flood of Hufflepuff girls nearly ran into him. They're all heading for breakfast, Harry thought, a bit enviously. He was suddenly aware of his hunger. Two years of nothing but nutrition potions (he shuddered) and days on the field with nothing to eat had taught him to savor food. As long as I'm there at about the same time as Severus is, thought Harry, then Dumbledore won't suspect… He wondered, briefly, if Snape was still mad at him, or if he'd open up and finally talk. Knowing him, probably the former, Harry thought dryly. But he couldn't suppress a small spark of hope—

The stone under the badger's paws came free.

Harry stared at the piece of black bronze. Then, after taking out his wand and quickly spelling an illusory rock in its place, he darted out of the Hufflepuff common room, following the tide of second year girls.

It came free, he thought, skirting around a major corridor in favor for a smaller, darker one. It came free—when I thought of Severus. He was about to correct himself, but he thought angrily, suddenly, What's wrong with calling him Severus? He was nearing the Slytherin common room. Nothing. Everything. Why? The very notion that he should hold any loyalty—loyalty of all emotions!—towards Severus Snape—it was—

Harry remembered just in time to dissolve the disillusionment charms about him before he plunged into the common room, told himself not to look around for Snape, went into his dormitory, and hid the oblong slab of bronze under his bed and numerous spells of secrecy.

The common room was mostly empty when he emerged. Most of the students had gone to breakfast. I wonder if S…nape woke up in time, Harry thought, and felt a momentary impulse to backtrack and just peer into the room adjacent to his. But he shook himself and went into the Great Hall.

The Slytherin table was nearly full. Harry scanned the length of the table and found Snape hunched over at the end seat, wearing a set of tattered robes. There was one chair open next to him, and Harry made a beeline towards it.

"Hello," Harry said cheerfully, slipping into the chair.

The effect was instantaneous. Snape knocked over a glass of orange juice and nearly choked on a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Just as Harry was about to pull Snape out of his seat and do the Heimlich maneuver, the other Slytherin swallowed and drew himself up until he was as stiff as a poplar wand, and stared straight ahead.

"You all right?" Harry asked, waving his wand to clear up the spreading puddle of juice.

"I am perfectly fine, thank you," Snape replied frostily.

Harry shrugged. "That's good." He reached for a piece of toast from the toast rack, feeling very aware of how tensely Snape was sitting next to him. I'm not going to bite him, Harry thought. There's not need for him to be so strung up. And where's the marmalade pot? He glanced over the table. It's usually right in front of me, but today— Then he saw it, sitting on the other side of Snape's plate, a bit towards the middle of the table. Harry opened his mouth to ask Snape to pass it, but, instead, he reached over languidly and grabbed the pot. Snape stiffened. He's so close, thought Harry, retracting his arm. His heart was beating too fast.

"Very polite of you, Frost," Snape sneered after regaining his equanimity.

Harry smiled. "Yes, I know. I have impeccable manners, don't I?"

Snape opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. No response, thought Harry, looking down and spreading marmalade over his toast. Oh well. He bit into his breakfast and wondered what to say.

"So," said Harry, clearing his throat. What did Professor Camentum say we were going to work on today? Er… oh yeah. "Ah—we're working on the Verisimilitude Potion today, aren't we?"

"Yes," Snape answered warily.

"The instructions looked quite complicated." He thought hard and remembered something… something about usage of hemlock with milkweed. "I don't really remember the part about hemlock and milkweed. I mean, I know we stir it counterclockwise to undo the toxic properties, but…"

Snape swallowed his mouthful of eggs. His glass of orange juice filled up by itself.

"Um, was the next step adding salamander blood? I mean, it might make sense, since salamander blood is supposed to direct specific properties of the milk—I mean, the hemlock—" He stopped. "Or was it milkweed?"

Snape drained his glass of juice and stared ahead stonily.

You'd better shut up now, Harry thought, and bit into his toast. He's probably sneering at how stupid you are inside that head of his. He gave Snape a sideways glance. The other Slytherin had stopped eating, and was just staring at his plate. At least I hope so. I wish he'd say what he was thinking, even if it's the worst things…

"Yes, I'm sure," Snape said, at length. His voice was toneless and cold. He set down his fork and napkin. "Now, please excuse me…"

It was on the verge of Harry's lips to shout no!, to force Snape to stop and give an explanation, to make the other man talk—but Harry didn't; he couldn't make a scene in the Great Hall. He watched Snape disappear into the milling crowd of students.

As it turned out, the Verisimilitude Potion did indeed require salamander blood, but the blood was to be added after the powdered fairy wings, and not after the milkweed and hemlock.

"Do I put it in now?" Harry asked, poised with a handful of diced frog spleen over the serenely bubbling cauldron. They were partners again, by default. Snape hadn't said a word besides parroting off, in a terse voice, the instructions, or snapping angrily or muttering under his breath as he counted the time.

"Not yet," Snape answered in a clipped tone.

Harry waited a moment. "N—"

"Now!"

Harry scattered the spleen over the potion. The color changed from yellow to a translucent green. Good, that's right, thought Harry, and he glanced up at Snape's face. They were standing opposite to each other. Like enemies, thought Harry. Snape was looking away studiously. Why is he so afraid of meeting my eyes? Harry wondered.

"The quail feathers," Severus snapped.

"What? Oh! Right." Harry quickly snatched up a quail feather and stroked a figure eight on the potion surface.

"Exstinguo," Snape muttered, jabbing his wand at the flame. The fire went out in a brief breath of smoke. Snape slumped back and leaned against his desk, eyes still fixed on the floor.

Harry leaned over the cauldron and peered at the softly bubbling concoction. "Is everything right?"

"Yes," Snape muttered, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"That's good, then," said Harry, and leaned back against the desk behind him. "I'll clean up then, shall I?"

Snape nodded, tight-lipped. Talk to me, Harry wanted to say. But instead, he levitated some frog guts into the waste bin, and cast a scouring charm on the tabletop. Every movement he made seemed to creak with a ropy tension that tangled the air between them.

Abruptly, Snape stood. Harry stopped, his wand pointed at a bit of powdered pixie wings that had spilled onto the floor. He opened his mouth, but with a swish of robes, Snape was stalking up the aisle towards Professor Camentum.

Harry bent his head over the bubbling cauldron and stirred his wand in Snape's direction. The sounds began to separate, pulling apart like strands of spider webs in the wind, and one voice passed over another, until—

"—regards to the potions project."

The potions project? Harry wondered. There was a pause. Harry waited intently. Finally, Camentum spoke. "Well, is Mr.…"

"Frost," Snape said.

"Is Mr. Frost aware of this?"

"No, but there is a reason he doesn't know." Snape's voice was low, smooth, unhurried. He's lying, Harry realized suddenly, recognizing the tone for what it was. "Though I have tried to accommodate his behavior, I find it impossible to work with him productively."

Harry frowned. What is he talking about? "Well, certainly you may exchange partners," said Camentum, "but have you found someone willing to switch with Mr. Frost?"

Harry felt his stomach clench. So he wants to switch partners, does he? And he knows that I'd have none of it, so he thinks he can manage it without me knowing. The sneaking bastard! Harry took a deep breath and kept his wand steady. "No," Snape said reluctantly, after a pause. "But it still stands, sir, that—"

"Snape," Camentum interrupted. His voice was patient and slow. "If you cannot find another partner to work with, I'm afraid you must work with Mr. Frost."

"But sir, is it not possible that I complete the project on my own? Though traditionally—"

"Traditionally, all the NEWTS preparatory final projects are composed of partners, a notion that some historians allege to be in honor of the Sacred Band of Thebes. If, Mr. Snape, this class had an odd number of students, I would be willing to make an exception for you. But as things are, I'm afraid you will have to work with Mr. Frost." Camentum's tone became more genial, more kindly. "And your work together seems most satisfactory."

Snape was silent for a moment. "Thank you, sir," he said stiffly.

Harry quickly broke the auditory spell. He resumed his task, mechanically flicking his wand and sending little streamers of pixie dust or pieces of ground figs into the rubbish bin. He looked up, and for the first time that day, his eyes met Snape's. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and then he looked away quickly. From of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape do the same.

"What did you ask Camentum?" Harry queried nonchalantly. He scoured the floor around their worktables and found that there was nothing left to clean.

"Nothing," Snape muttered, leaning back against his table and folding his arms over his chest again. His gaze was fixed on the floor. Harry adopted the same pose and noticed, a second time, that Snape was no longer wearing the set of robes Harry had lent him, but his own threadbare ones. His pride probably couldn't stand it, Harry thought with a sudden bite of anger and bitterness.

"D'you think you can meet me later today to do some research?" Harry asked, lifting his chin and staring at Snape's face.

Snape shifted, as though he could feel Harry's gaze, and a lock of oily hair fell over the sallow face. "Research by yourself, Frost," Snape replied, and then looked up, a sneer on his face. His eyes flashed darkly. "Surely you do not require my supervision."

"I need you to keep me from getting distracted," Harry replied archly. His eyes were locked with Snape's now, and it was like falling into a smoldering pit of darkness. He couldn't turn away even if he wanted to.

A vein in Snape's temple twitched. "Don't worry, Frost," he hissed in a low voice and leaned forward slightly. "I won't be keeping you from ogling that Mudblood bitch."

Harry found himself clenching the tabletop so hard his fingernails hurt. "You don't want to say that again, Snape," he whispered, voice as tightly calm as a dueler's grip on his wand. "You really don't."

Snape's lips curled into the parody of a smile. "Defending her now, are you, Frost?" He leaned forward infinitesimally, and Harry could suddenly feel his heart pounding a hole through his chest. He could, in fact, almost smell the other man— "Do you not wish to hear me speak of her as what she is…? A Mudblood b—"

"Professor," Harry interrupted in a cool, flat voice. He nodded at Camentum, who was heading towards them with a placid expression on his face.

Snape drew back immediately, his face closing like the moon behind clouds and his gaze dropping to the ground. Harry stared at that face, that oversized nose and glittering eyes. His blood was still singing through his veins.

"Let me see now," Camentum said, dipping a ladle into the translucent potion. "Very good viscosity, a bit on the opaque side, but…" He brought the potion to his nose and sniffed. "Otherwise excellent. Good consistency, too."

Camentum dropped the ladle, gave both Slytherins a brief smile, and moved to the next potion.

Snape continued to stare at the ground. His arms were crossed sulkily over his thin chest and tattered robes, and a curtain of hair had fallen over his face. Look up, Harry willed mentally, but Snape only turned around and slipped into a chair, flipping open the Potions text and pretending to read while scowling deeply.

You're staring, Harry snapped at himself. He shook his head sharply and slipped into his chair, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead and his face as expressionless as stone. For a moment he wanted to laugh. Last night, he thought, you were so determined to make him speak to you, just like some idiot kid in a fight with his best friend. He snorted mentally. You are a fool, Potter. After all these years, still an utter fool.

He glanced at Snape. Words abruptly returned to him, as if someone else had spoken them: He's beautiful. He hurriedly tried to dismiss that thought as well, to slap it down scornfully, but found that he couldn't. He looked away quickly, feeling… feeling so strange, as though someone had lit a fire in him, burning and aching and making him—

Harry took a deep breath. It's always Snape, he thought. Perhaps it was some magical aura Snape was born with, and he was allergic to it. It doesn't matter, though. Snape doesn't matter here. I just need to get the keys and get into the Nest, and find a way back home. Home to war, and his responsibilities, and his ceaseless fate.

Lunch was a silent affair. Harry still sat next to Snape, but only because no other seats were open. He didn't attempt to start any conversations with Snape. He simply ate, mechanically and dutifully, and looked over every so often, when his spoon was halfway to his mouth, or when he reached for the ketchup… It felt as though a writhing, unresolved mass hovered between them, and Harry felt that it was going to quietly drive him mad—

He quickly finished his lunch. While wiping his mouth, he took out his wand, and searched for the tracking spell on Snape. He found it, and gently detached it, scrupulously careful not to glance in Snape's direction. He finished wiping his mouth, left, and went to the library, where he found a Hufflepuff first year girl poring over a giant book that was twice her size and which delved into the various and versatile properties of mugwort. Good, Madam Pince is way over there, Harry thought. He promptly cast sleeping and disillusionment charms on the girl (sorry, he thought without much feeling) and levitated her gently snoring body into an untouched corner of the library, in the section about ancient goblin laws that didn't manage to get passed by the General Goblin Gathering of 879 AD.

Now, to Ravenclaw, thought Harry after sliding the tracking spell onto the sleeping Hufflepuff.

To his dismay, he found himself waiting again, and this time outside the stately Ravenclaw common room. He had thought that, in the after-lunch rush, he might sneak in without dally, that his mind would be able to stay suspended in his body's actions.

No such luck, he thought. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. Cleanse your mind of emotions, he thought dully, remembering from the Occlumency lessons he'd received from the Masters. Be the air beneath the sun when the rain-clouds have cleared. It was hard. Thoughts about Snape would stray into his mind, making him feel so—so confused, and so—

The sound of many feet broke his reverie. He darted aside as a three or four seventh year Ravenclaws approached, laughing and talking to themselves. Finally, thought Harry. He quickly spelled a strong invisibility charm over himself, and felt it washing over his skin like a sheet of icy water. It's taken them long enough to get back. I wonder—

"…talent, but considering the environment Potter was raised—"

"Oh, spoiled is spoiled, but he's still damn good with his wand," said a Ravenclaw wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

Harry frowned, listening carefully.

"I still say it's because of his upbringing. I mean, he's incredibly in touch with the Wizarding traditions, and if he hadn't been a Potter, I'd be shocked that he ended up in Gryffindor." The speaker, a thin and lanky boy with hair that already showed a bit white, stopped in front of a portrait of a graceful satyr. "Gnaritas."

The portrait sunk in and slid open. The Ravenclaws clambered in one by one, and Harry darted in swiftly as the painting moved back in place.

"Still, Potter's Transfiguration is better than anyone's—"

"Except for maybe Black," said the bespectacled Ravenclaw, who wrinkled his nose at the name.

"Maybe," conceded his companion, "but I've never seen someone do that bit of human transfiguration."

The other Ravenclaws snickered. "Yeah. Bet Snape'll have a hard time sleeping tonight." They laughed.

Snape. Harry felt a surge of anger that burned up through his body; he had an urge to cast a jinx or two on these sniggering, sauntering Ravenclaws—not to mention Black and Potter. But underneath his anger was a cold sense of guilt and confusion.

Don't think about him! Harry snarled.

The Ravenclaws streamed in endlessly, and Harry couldn't help hearing their conversations, noticing that more than half of them was about whatever Potter and Black had done to that 'slimy Slytherin.' I suppose they all stayed and watched, Harry thought with cold fury. I suppose they just stood there and did nothing—

He shut his eyes. Calm down, he told himself, unclenching his fists around his wand. Clear your mind. Calm down. He opened his eyes after the storm of anger had subsided, but he felt a shudder of cruel dislike when he saw that gaggle of idiot Ravenclaws.

The tide of students didn't abate. Harry glanced at the ornate mantle clock that sat on the bronze mantel of the Ravenclaw fireplace. I've only ten minutes left, thought Harry.

He sighed and took out his wand and pointed it at himself. I'm not sure it'll work, he thought. But here goes nothing. "Fluito."

He could feel his weight draining away, trickling off as though a warm furnace had blown away all the cold droplets. The contrast between the iciness of the Invisibility Charm and the buoyant warmth of the Weightless Spell felt… very strange—

A Ravenclaw standing a few feet away with a red-splotched test paper in her hand sighed in his direction, and Harry felt the movements of air waft him backwards. Not a very practical spell, Harry thought, grabbing the light-blue tiled walls and pushing himself up. He floated like smoke. I should stay next to the wall…

He looked up and kicked himself off the ground. Up he drifted, his eyes still fixed on the painting of an eagle holding a quiver of arrows in its claws. The painting was halfway up the lofty Ravenclaw tower. It's so high up I doubt anyone from down below would actually be able to notice if one of the arrows in the painting were missing…

He pulled himself up, clinging to the cracks between the stones. Almost there, he thought. He glanced down briefly. Everybody looked so small, milling about and peering down obsessively at books or parchment of tests. None of them looked up. That's Ravenclaw to you, thought Harry.

With a final tug, he drifted in front of the painting.

"Greetings," Harry whispered.

The eagle turned its solemn head a fixed Harry with a baleful stare, as though daring him to attempt to take one of the arrows it guarded.

"I ask you, on behalf of the witches and wizards that call this castle home—I ask you to bequeath upon me an arrow of your wisdom, so that I may open the Nest and use that knowledge to defeat the great evil that threatens this world." Harry lowered his voice even further, and surreptitiously kicked his legs to keep himself from sinking. "Cuidigh liom, a Choimeádaí Eolais."

The eagle continued to stare. Harry stared back, letting down the guards of his Occlumency. The trick with Ravenclaw was truth, that high, Socratic ideal. I'm more of a Nietzsche fellow, thought Harry. But it's not as though I have anything to hide from the eagle, he thought firmly. His intentions were clear, and Hogwarts… Hogwarts was his home.

The eagle intensified its stare. It had been difficult to lay open his mind the first time he'd sought for the Ravenclaw key, and now… He suppressed the mental flinch he felt whenever he felt the phantom of Legilimency ghost across his memories. Images floated before his eyes: scenes from his childhood, scenes of his time as a Hogwarts student, scenes of the nightmarish hell at the end of sixth year, scenes of his recuperation and learning in the Nest, scenes of the war, and scenes—

Suddenly he felt the direction of the probing veer aside, and Harry felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. Images flashed by—images from his dreams, images of hatred and torment, of hot, concrete orphanages and rages so intense they burned the world— No! Harry screamed in his mind, but, with sheer strength of will, held his mind open—

And then the direction changed again, as quickly as a raw whiplash. He saw Snape, youngish looking with scowl and frown; Snape, snapping suspiciously; Snape, comforting him in the hazy dark of the night, so close and safe and warm and—

Harry slammed his mind shut.

He returned the eagle's stare. Shit. I've screwed things up, he thought. His heart was pounding too fast, his breathing coming too quickly… He had never felt so open and vulnerable before, nor so utterly naked… not even when the Death Eaters had taken him.

They continued to stare at each other, even when Harry began to drift into sideways position. And then the eagle turned its head slightly. Harry couldn't read any expression in those fierce eyes, though he thought there seemed to be a bit of a sad, knowing tilt to the noble head. But it was permission enough. Harry reached forward with an unsteady hand and pulled the arrow from the quiver.

"Thank you," Harry said softly, voice a bit hoarse and shaky. The eagle seemed not to notice. Harry slowly dissipated the spell that kept him afloat, transfigured the arrow into a quill, and idly tucked it into his robes.

What is wrong with me? he thought, frustrated and aggravated. Why did I react so strongly to… memories of him? He shuddered, still feeling rather weak. He understood why it had been so jarring when Voldemort's memories had been dragged up to the surface of his mind: he had been unprepared to relive them, those memories of the nightmares—or memories of memories, whatever they were. But the remembrances of Severus…

He shivered. His feet gently touched the ground, and he felt the last of his weight return, jarring him so that he nearly stumbled into a convoluted statue of something that resembled a waterfall.

I've got five more minutes before I'm late for Charms, Harry thought as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. The crowd in the Ravenclaw common room had thinned out when he reached the ground. Prompt scholars, each and every one of them. But first, I need to get to the library. He waited for a frantic looking second year to dash out of the common room before hurrying out behind her.

As it turned out, he was late for Charms anyway, but only by a minute. The Hufflepuff girl had been rather uncooperative. She had stayed asleep even when he'd lifted all the charms from her, and he had had to prod her rather forcefully to awaken her. Then he had had to dash back down to the Slytherin dormitory to retrieve his Charms book and then hurry to the Charms classroom (which was at the other end of the school).

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, slipping into his seat next to Lily Evans as Flitwick gave him a reproving look.

Harry ducked his head and turned to see Lily giving him a more intense version of Flitwick's. Oh God, a second Hermione. Or rather, the first?

Charms was boring. They were once again working on the Patronus charm, and Harry was once again delegated as helper. Some of them will never succeed, Harry thought, watching a Gryffindor boy hold his wand so tightly that Harry was surprised it didn't break. Some of them can't think of the right things. Some of them don't know what to hold onto, what to remember.

But he smiled at them and spoke encouraging words, walking and talking like a machine. From the window he could see that the sky outside was gray and overcast, and that a wind was blowing across the chilled grounds. Harry shivered, and backed into a corner, hoping that none of the students would go to him for help. He wanted to watch. He wanted to forget.

He thought of Severus.

Don't, he berated himself. Find a distraction—just don't think of him…

"Lily, I think you're still trying too hard," Harry called over the various strained incantations the other students were grinding out. Lily Evans was off by herself, holding her wand straight ahead with her elbows locked and her eyes squeezed shut. "What memory are you using?"

Lily sighed exhaustedly and opened her eyes. "Going to the zoo with my sister," she said, a spark of defiance in her voice.

With Petunia? Harry was taken aback for a moment. "Are you are on good terms with your sister?"

"Yes," Lily said flatly, not meeting his eyes.

Harry shifted. "I don't have any siblings," he said quietly. "But I imagine you must love your sister very much."

"I do." Lily's voice was soft. "She wa—is very sweet to me, all the time. You know, the first year I was here, she sent me letters every week on Sunday for the entire school year. She'd always ask me all sorts of things, like the classes I took and the people I met, and…" Lily looked down. "I forgot, sometimes, to reply to her, because—there was so much here, and other times I said too much." Her eyes looked troubled. "But"—she took a deep breath—"we are very close, Petunia and I. I love her very much."

Harry nodded. "I think," he said slowly, "that when thinking of a Patronus, you must not try to forget the bad things. When there's a dementor nearby, you can't help remembering the bad things. But… you can't forget the good things, and if you manage to remember, and know that they'll be with you no matter what…"

He stopped. Lily was looking at him intently, and he looked down, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

"So you… still accept the bad parts, but just don't let the bad parts ruin the good parts? Is that what you mean?"

Harry nodded. "Yes." Lily smiled at him and then took a deep breath, holding her wand with a determined air. I'm such a liar, Harry thought. He wondered idly what had compelled him to lie, and if the lie really was a lie, or if it was something else as well. Perhaps I'm just a bit—peaky today, he thought. He took a deep breath and told himself that he was not going to think of Snape, nor of what the Hufflepuff badger had made him feel, nor what the Ravenclaw eagle had made him see.

Suddenly, Lily gasped. Harry looked up, and saw that a silvery mass had poured out of the end of her wand. It glowed brightly, and just before it disappeared, Harry thought it resembled a thing.

"Wow," Lily breathed.

"Wow," Harry agreed, though his voice sounded dry and a bit sarcastic.

Lily sent him an irritated look, but smiled blindingly right afterwards.

"I did it," she whispered, voice full of awe. "I did it!"

Harry smiled, and found that it wasn't too difficult. "You did indeed." His lips twisted a bit as he said, awkwardly, "Good job." He was unused to being so sincere.

Lily smiled again, but this time it was directly entirely at him. "Thanks, Jonathan. I couldn't have done it without your help." She looked down, blushing slightly. Harry opened his mouth to reply but she looked up with a shadow of nervousness on her face.

"Um… about the Charms project…" She paused, and then plunged on. "I've read on the sacrificial rituals, and realized that—well, what we didn't shouldn't have worked. There wasn't enough blood, for one, for that type of sacrifice, and that there are many other kinds of sacrifices that don't require such… cruelty. And since you were—um—"

"Since I fainted?" Harry supplied.

"Yes, since you—er—fainted, I thought that perhaps we could try exchanging positions, so that you would be the summoner and I the conduit?"

"Of course," Harry said quickly. I'm glad she brought it up, he thought. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the whole fiasco, which had ended up with Dumbledore stationing a bloody house-elf to spy on him, and Snape being mad at him for some unknown reason—

Don't think of it, Harry told himself firmly.

Charms ended soon afterwards, with only half the class capable of producing even the faintest mist from their wands. Lily Evans had busied herself, swooping from person to person and helping them while Flitwick beamed at his protégé. Harry stood in the shadow next to a window. The wind outside had increased, and darkness had fallen.

"For all of you who can't manage a Patronus, listen," Flitwick called from his tower of cushions. "The Patronus charm is an immensely difficult charm, and certain people simply have the ability to do it, while others do not. It has nothing to do with your skill at Charms, and it certainly won't be tested on your NEWT's."

A collective sigh went up at this, and the room sagged with relief.

"Off with you, now!" Flitwick cried as the students filed out the door. "Nasty weather we're having… Hope it clears in time for the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tryouts…"

Harry slipped out of the classroom. Still an hour or two before dinner, he thought, and watched Lily Evan's retreating back. I wonder who's in the library right now…

This time, it was a Slytherin first year boy who ended up dozing peacefully with the tracking spell in the section about ancient goblin laws that failed to pass before the General Goblin Gathering of 879 AD. He shouldn't be missed, thought Harry as he made his way towards Gryffindor tower. Nobody misses Slytherins, much less first year boys.

He stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, wrapped in an impenetrable disillusionment charm. It's too familiar, he thought sadly. Inside the portrait would be the crimson common room, with its soft couches and warm, wide sofas. Inside would be memories. But inside wouldn't be home. It hadn't been home in a long, long time.

The portrait swung open abruptly, and a gaggle of boisterous fourth years poured out. As the last one clambered over the threshold, Harry darted in, blinking as his eyes were assailed by the burst of crimson and scarlet and gold. Very bright, thought Harry.

The portrait opened behind him. Harry moved aside, and his heart skipped a beat when he noticed who entered.

Sirius Black came in first, snickering under his breath; next came James Potter, who looked as though he'd been having a good long laugh; trailing behind him were Remus Lupin, smiling wanly, and Pettigrew, who had some difficulty climbing over the threshold.

"Maybe he'll cut it off instead," Potter said between giggles and gasps.

Sirius Black roared with laughter.

Potter opened his mouth again, but then snapped it shut.

Harry turned, and saw why. Lily Evans had stood up, very slowly, from where she had been sitting, surrounded by mounds of books.

"Lily," said Potter, after a pause. The entire room seemed to have gone quiet.

Lily Evans simply turned around and walked up the staircase of the girl's dormitory.

"Lily! Wait—" Potter ran to the bottom of the stairs. "EVANS!"

There was a sound of a door slamming.

Potter turned around, running a hand angrily through his hair. "What're you staring at?" he demanded at the common room. All heads turned immediately, and a faint and excited whisper rose in the crowd.

"Calm down, James," Black said lazily. He doesn't sound very soothing, thought Harry, moving aside as Potter stomped back to his friends. "She's not worth it."

"What do you mean, she's not worth it?" Potter snapped.

"There's still plenty of other girls out there," Black said in a reasoning tone. "Like Goodman, Charlotte Goodman, in Ravenclaw." A smug look flowered on his face. "And I know for a fact that she's pining after you, James."

Potter glared. "You just don't get it, Sirius," he snarled and whirled around, storming towards the boy's dormitory.

Black leapt to his feet. "Hey, James! Wait—"

"You don't get it!" Potter shouted back. "You just don't get it, Sirius!" He ran up the stairs, slammed into a third year Gryffindor, swore, and disappeared.

Interesting, thought Harry. Though… don't get what?

"Don't get what?" Black muttered, echoing Harry's thoughts. He collapsed onto a couch, and shifted one of the scarlet pillows.

"It's obvious, Sirius," Remus Lupin said negligently, sitting back and opening a book.

"Tell me then, Mr. Moony," Black snapped irritably.

Lupin opened his mouth, but it was someone else who answered.

"It's love, isn't it?" Pettigrew blurted out.

Harry blinked in surprise and turned to look who had spoken. Pettigrew was sitting on a chair while the other Marauders were reclining in sofas. He seemed a bit nervous, as though afraid to be wrong, and he wrinkled his nose as Sirius gawked at him.

Harry felt anger mounting in him as the shock ebbed away. How dare you mention love? he thought furiously. You, who betrayed them? You, who turned traitor? You, who—

"Love?" Black burst out. "Psh! That's ridiculous."

Lupin sighed. "My dear Mr. Padfoot, Peter's right. It is love. Our Prongs is in love."

"In love?" Black said again, sounding utterly aghast and confused. "With Evans?"

"No, with you," Lupin retorted.

"Seriously, Moony—Prongs is in love with Lily Evans?"

"Yes," Lupin and Pettigrew said at once.

"Shut up, Peter," Black snapped. "And that's not true, Moony. James—he can't be in love."

Lupin sighed.

So it's love, is it? Harry thought, slowly. He turned around and carefully made his way to the other side of the room, where the fire roared in the fireplace. Love. He shoved it from his mind. It was dangerous to think of love, especially when he remembered the two weary-eyed lovers who had entered the Aurors as fresh-faced youths. They had died together, and very gruesomely. That's love, he'd told himself.

He ran one hand down the wall next to the fireplace, trying to find the right stone. Gryffindor, Gryffindor, he thought. Courage unending, valor unyielding. But you understand valor, don't you? I think I understand it now. Now that it's too late. Like that thing called love. His hand stopped, his eyes having found the stone: like all the others except for a faint carving of a griffin in its center.

My old friend, Gryffindor, Harry thought, closing his eyes and thought of Ron. Ron—who had died because of his—Harry's—foolish, valorous acts. Ron, Ron. Faithful friend unto the end, whose eyes (Harry could see them so clearly: blue, glassy, pained) never held recrimination, not even when Harry had, broken by Voldemort's power, turned his wand on his best friend and tortured him into madness.

The griffin shuddered and slid back. Harry reached inside and found what he was looking for: an unsheathed falchion, the short, one-edged sword that Gryffindor favored.

"Thank you," Harry whispered, casting an invisibility spell over the falchion. The stone slid back into place, and Harry crept back to the portrait hole, taking special care not to accidentally stab someone.

When Harry finally returned to the dormitories (after retrieving the tracking spell and releasing the first year Slytherin from his sleep, which had been a bit nerve-racking, as the young boy had blinked at him suspiciously after awakening), he was quite tired. Four Keys in one day, he thought. Not bad.

He dissolved the disillusionment charm and slumped onto his bed, enjoying the silence. The air was heavy, both from the storm outside and the usual weight of dampness. It's a bit cold, he thought and approached the fire.

There was a chair in front of the fire, and in it was folded one of his robes. He blinked at it for a moment before he realized that it was the same set he had lent Snape. He reached out a hand and touched the small, neat pile, mind slowly processing the realization: Severus. He must have put this here while I was gone. So he has returned to me what little I had given him. So he tries to cut himself from me.

He ran his hand over the fabric. These clothes, Severus had worn them, up until a day ago. Just a few hours—minutes, maybe?—Severus had entered this room, his room… Had he looked around, perhaps? Stared at the spot where his bed had been? Where he had soothed Harry after the throes of a nightmare? Harry wondered if these robes—if these robes smelled different, or felt different if—when—he wore them, or— He knelt in front of the chair and put his face onto the cloth. He took a deep breath, and let it out…

"WHY?" he snarled. "Why won't he TALK to me?" He snatched up the robes and threw them at his bed. They plummeted down like a stricken bird. "Why? Why do I even care? Why can't—what is wrong with me?" Why do I feel so strange, so unexpected when I think of him? Why am I feeling… feeling—all this? Why?

He jumped to his feet. It doesn't matter, he thought. It doesn't matter at all. I have the Keys. Tonight, I will open the Nest. And soon, I will have returned. He squashed the sudden, strange reluctance he felt at the notion. Don't think, he thought. Don't think, don't feel. He paced some more. Don't feel at all.

________________________________________

The night was cold. Harry breathed on his hands as he stealthily approached the gap between the bookcases. The Four Keys felt heavy in his pockets.

Sneaking out had been relatively easy. The wait had been hard. Dinner had been a silent affair, the tension between him and Severus so brittle and edgy that both he and Severus had finished in record time. But while Snape had stalked into Slytherin territory, Harry had snuck into the library to find a book and pass the time. He had managed to, after finding a tome on the worst criminals in wizard history.

He had left the library when Madam Pince had announced curfew and just as he finished reading about Elizabeth Bathory. After putting the book back onto the shelf, he had returned to his room.

And waited. And paced.

At one, he had crept out. Snape had been asleep when Harry had entered his room. The little perpetual frown had been a bit deeper, Harry thought, and the face wearier. Harry remembered thinking, with fierce satisfaction, that Snape had indeed managed to sleep soundly, no matter what trick Potter and Black had played. Though I wish I had helped him…

He'd withdrawn after that, quickly yet reluctantly. While sleeping, Snape had seemed so… open. So vulnerable. Harry could almost imagine that they were on speaking terms again, that whatever grievance Snape held (it was probably something really petty) had vanished.

Harry shook his head and looked at the shadowy corner of the library. What's become of me, he thought wearily. I've taken to gazing secretly at Snape every night. He sighed and took out the four Keys and laid them on the floor.

Four keys to a rose of five points, thought Harry. Few people knew that the Hogwarts library was constructed in the shape of a pentagon. The symbol of Venus and of war. Ravenclaw must have planned this.

He held the falchion and the arrow in one hand, and the dagger and club in the other. He pushed both hands against the walls that met at the corner of the pentagon. Let me enter, he thought, willing the door to open with all his might. Let me enter, Founders. On behalf of the sanctity of fate, let me enter…

Suddenly, the wall fell away from his hands. When he opened his eyes, it was dark, as dark as night without star or moon.

Harry took out his wand and lifted it up, feeling a spark of nervous excitement. This he could remember, this endless dark… "Lumos," he muttered. The light leapt forth like tongues of flame and he saw, sweeping up the side of the library with narrow walls on either side, a flight of stairs.

It was exactly as he remembered it.

Turning, he found the four Keys fixed to the wall behind him. All right, then, he thought. Everything is set. He looked up and began walking up the steps, swiftly but without hurrying. His mind felt feverish, as though on fire.

He came at last to a tall and narrow door. He shifted his wand into his left hand, and with his right, gave a hard push. The door creaked and slid against the floor before moaning open, and Harry stepped in.

This—this isn't what it was like, he thought, looking around with wand aloft and mouth agape.

He could remember the Nest as clearly as he could remember the green flash of the Killing Curse. Vast, empty, pentagonal, walls lined with ancient scrolls, a glowing mirror in the far corner, and in the other four, the Masters—bowls of memories, like Pensieves, but not quite. The floor, as expansive as the library below it, had been utterly bare.

But this—this— The shape at the far corner resembled the mirror of his memories, but it was dusty and dim. The Masters in the four corners were invisible, obscured by the dust and grime that seemed to hang in the very air. There was no open expanse of space. All over the floor, piled up on desks, chairs, broken tables, were scrolls—yellowing with age, cracked, rolled, open, cluttered like craggy mounds in a desert; and over everything was the dust: deep, dark, thick, and ancient.

He suddenly wished that Severus were by his side.

"Lumos maximus," Harry whispered. The light expanded. In the eerie half-light, the scrolls and rising dust seemed to be smoking piles of bodies on an ashen battlefield…

Harry took a step forward. The dust swirled up around like a choking cloud of smoke. He waved his hand in front of him, wrinkling his nose as the dust coated his face and hair and burned his nostrils. At least it's proof that I was—am here, he thought. I cleaned it up. He smiled wanly to himself and took another step. I wonder who had left this mess, though, and where all this dust came from anyway…

He stopped for a moment and looked around, the silence suddenly too oppressive. The Nest seemed dead. There was only the sound of his shuffling footsteps and the soft in and out of his breathing. Of course, he thought. You haven't awakened the Nest yet. Of course it's quiet as the dead.

He was nearly there when he saw it. In the weak yet oddly harsh light, it seemed just another haphazard pile of scrolls and broken furniture, but when he got close enough to be able to touch it if he reached out his hand, he realized that it was a shriveled body, nearly a skeleton, slumped over a cluttered table.

That certainly wasn't there when I first came a second time around, Harry thought, frozen where he stood. The body was shriveled and decayed, flesh black and bone white in the wandlight. Harry could see a mass of curly gray and white hairs on its scalp. It had been wearing some kind of thin garment, and when Harry moved closer and stirred the air, the cloth fell away, revealing more of the withered flesh.

It's little more than a skeleton, Harry told himself, stepping back. It's probably some old guy who died in here and nobody found him. He turned away to face the mirror again, but he was acutely aware of it as he moved away. Somehow it felt an ill omen to just leave it lying there… But what can I do? he thought, a bit irritably. I must awaken the Nest first.

The mirror was coated in dust and grime. It was tall and round and dim, and the ornate design around its surface seemed ancient. It is ancient, Harry reminded himself. But when he had first seen it, it hadn't reminded him of dead things, of memories and secrets that had lingered too long in the world.

"Adflare," Harry whispered, pointing his wand at the mirror.

A breeze lifted, and Harry covered his mouth and nose and closed his eyes as the dust swirled through the air. He could feel it coating his hair and face, collecting on his robes as it spiraled away and settled across the Nest.

Harry looked up, and felt his heart lift when he saw that the mirror looked almost—almost—as he had remembered it. The carvings around it glimmered silver and winked with precious stones of ruby, sapphire, emerald, and topaz. The surface itself shone brilliantly that Harry had to squint when he looked into it. He saw no reflection, but expected none. It only shows reflections after it is awakened, and the Nest with it, Harry thought. And the reflections it shows are only reflections of truth.

Taking a deep breath, he began the invocation.

"I am the stag: of seven tines,

I am a flood: across the plain,

I am a wind: on a deep lake,

I am a tear: the Sun lets fall,

I am a hawk: above the cliff,

I am a thorn: beneath the nail,

I am a wonder: among flowers,

I am a wizard: who but I

Sets the cool head aflame with smoke?"

His voice was muffled, throbbing like a deep drum. It had been different the first time he'd chanted the invocation. Then, his voice had echoed, flung back by the five walls; but this time, it seemed as though the Nest, living, were listening and whispering back to him in a hundred different tongues.

"I am a spear: that roars for blood,

I am a salmon: in a pool,

I am a lure: from paradise,

I am a hill: where poets walk,

I am a boar: ruthless and red,

I am a breaker: threatening doom,

I am a tide: that drags to death,

I am an infant: who but I

Peeps from the unhewn dolmen arch?"

The mirror shimmered. The light seemed to swirl, frothing and murmuring as his voice grew stronger. He could feel power in the room: power from the other four corners, from the walls and the ceiling, from the scrolls on the ground, from the air…

"I am the womb: of every holt,

I am the blaze: on every hill,

I am the queen: of every hive,

I am the shield: for every head,

I am the tomb: of every hope."

Harry could the feel the air on his skin and in his lungs quivering as power awoke and the mirror flashed like a blazing lighthouse. The ground groaned under his feet, and the light in the mirror grew until it cut through all his other senses. He had thrown up a hand to block the light as it pierced his eyelids, but for a moment he could hear light, smell light, taste light—

And then, like a bolt of lightning, the mirror winked out. Harry blinked in confusion: it was so dark he could barely see.

"Lumos," he whispered, holding his wand before him. He looked into the mirror.

The face that stared back at him was very pale, almost as pale and white as death. The lips were thin and cruel, and seemed to be curled in a knowing half smile. The eyes were red. There were no pupils, no irises, no whites, just red; and on the right side of the face was the Dark Mark, contrasting with terrifying sharpness against the white of the skin.

Harry gaped. The face in the mirror gaped back, and Harry saw, then, the jagged line on the forehead: the scar. His scar.

This… is me. It's— He touched his face, traced his hands over the Dark Mark. I—it can't be! He stared at his reflection. His reflection stared back. My eyes. They're red. They are Voldemort's eyes. Garbled words returned, haunting his mind: The mirror reflects… only the truth… to awaken to the truth…

The swirl of shadows and light behind him seemed to shift, and suddenly the reflection smiled. It was a cruel smile, and Harry found himself copying it. He picked up his wand—thirteen inches and a half—and traced the air, as his reflection did the same:

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

He stepped back then, and watched his reflection take a step back as well. Just as the light in the mirror began to absorb the edges of his image into a sea of glowing white, the fiery letters rearranged themselves languidly, moving in perfect accord:

"I am Lord Voldemort."

________________________________________

Harry's invocation is the 'Song of Amergin', which the Gaelic druid Amergin (from 'Amhairghin', meaning 'birth of song') incanted while wresting for possession of Ireland from the Tuatha Dé Danann.

IX.

He staggered back, shrinking from the light as though it scalded him. He peered through squinted eyelids and saw himself there, cowering, the slits of his red eyes regarding him with cool disdain.

With a cry, he lunged and clawed at the mirror; his fingers touched something above it, and with the fall of a cloth heavy with dust, the light went out.

Darkness.

He could feel the grime coat his face like a sick sheen of magic; he could hear the dust whistling in and out his heaving chest; he could feel his heart slamming inside him, echoing off the grimly silent walls; he could hear the clamor of panic, screaming no no nonono—

He stumbled backwards—something smashed his shin, and he hissed from the pain—red eyes, they were red—His—he tasted the age-old dust, the unstirred layers of grime and dirt—the mirror is lying; it never lies, but it’s lying, because it can’t be, I—just—can’t be—he tried to gain footing, tried to hoist himself back onto his feet, but the thing he had been touching toppled over and he fell with it—

His body ached. The sound of his breath seemed to echo. His legs were tangled in an invisible mess, and something had fallen on top of him in the darkness.

Trembling, he lifted a hand and whispered, voice as dry as ancient parchment, ‘Lumos.’

The skeleton’s face peered back at him. Harry felt his breath rattling in his chest, feeling the dried flesh on the corpse’s ribs press against him. The black holes where the eyes had been peered back darkly, and Harry caught himself staring at the shriveled lips, the encroachment of ancient hair falling over its desiccated face.

But something dangled above Harry’s face, something… something fine and small that swung from around the skeleton’s neck. Harry reached up a hand and caught. A necklace, he thought, staring at the fine silver chain and the thing at the end—it’s not a jewel, Harry realized. It’s a bone. A bone, carved in the shape of a pentagonal rose.

He shivered, wondering for a fleeting moment who the skeleton might have been. He shifted and the skeleton slid off with a rustle of dry parchment.

Harry stood, the wavering ball of light still in his hands. I don’t understand, he thought, somewhat calmer now, though still shaking and feeling sick. How can I be Voldemort? But the memories of the strange memory-dreams, the flashes of hate and anger… Suddenly, it all made sense, terrible sense.

But how? he wondered stubbornly. When had a part of Voldemort somehow got into him? How?

He turned to one of the corners. The Masters. I’ll ask them, they’re bound to know. He hesitated: Rowena, Helga, Godric, or Salazar? He cast his mind about. Salazar, he decided reluctantly. Salazar would know the most about the secret and deadly art of soul magic.

He cut through the marsh of parchments, broken furniture, scattered scrolls, and dust, remembering the feel of each of the Masters. Rowena’s had been stern and cool, Godric’s warm and noisy, Helga’s patient and firm, and Salazar’s— Harry paused, letting the waves of memory enter his mind. Salazar’s had been dark—dark and shadowy, full of welcoming hints and nuances, whispering of secrets and power, always masking a flash of cruelty…

His hands were on the edge of the basin, and he was looking into the clear pool. Thankfully there was no reflection.

“Salazar,” he whispered. His voice sounded very loud, as though the Nest had hushed to hear him speak. “I ask for your help.”

The clear pool rippled from his breath. An instant later, Harry felt air rushing through him, howling as though he didn’t exist—

Darkness. A blaze of silver light. The moon, pouring itself into the chilled room through a window. The ring of masked figures standing in a circle. In the center, a man—a triumphant man, a jubilant man, a man with red eyes and more power than any other being in the world. Before him knelt his beaten opponent.

I remember this, Harry realized. This is my memory, my memory of the final night… It all came back to him: the preparations with Dumbledore, the ploy to get himself captured, the nights of torture during which he’d suspended his mind, and finally… the last night, the night he would die…

But it worked, Harry told himself. He watched himself writhe in agony on the floor. The memory was strangely silent. But he realized that he did not wish for the sounds. That would have made it all too real. It worked; I did reflect the Avada Kedavra.

He watched Voldemort point his wand—saw the Dark Lord’s eyes narrow the way they always did before he was ready to cast the Killing Curse—

Everything slowed. The light burst from the end of the yew wand, and it traveled lazily through the air. Harry stared, transfixed. He saw himself—a barely recognizable and bloody mess—stare up at the light, watched the green of the spell reflect in the green of his eyes, watched the spell finally hit him—

A moment. Another. And a starburst of power, and the green light returned with the intensity of the sun. Time sped, and the light had blown through Voldemort like a wind to steal one’s soul, and in a frozen moment, Harry saw Tom Riddle’s expression—shock, infinite shock, just enough time to turn to dismay and fury, and then…

The light was too bright. When it finally faded, so abruptly that Harry felt himself gasp for breath, time was still dripping slowly, sluggishly, and Harry saw the thing that he had only glimpsed for a moment and then forgotten.

What is that? Harry wondered, staring as though fascinated. Silvery, shimmering and moving so quickly it seemed not to belong to that time… It’s hovering exactly where Voldemort was. His mind sped through a thousand thoughts. Can it be… but it can’t, surely? I…

The world was still locked in unmoving stillness when Harry saw the wisps of silver fall like a curtain over the Harry in the memory. I don’t remember this, Harry thought, his thoughts unable to coalesce into anything more complicated as he watched the wisps drain into his eyes, mold into his skin. It reminded him of worms burrowing into the soil.

And suddenly, time accelerated. Harry watched his own face contort with pain, and in a blur of movement, he was on the floor, thrashing and screaming—he remembered, white-hot, the pain of those moments, the pain that made him forget everything afterwards—

He gasped in air with great gulps. Dust motes danced in the dim light that was rapidly fading from the surface of the Master. He was on the floor. His knees were as weak as jelly, and his stomach was revolting, ready to throw its contents in his agony of nausea.

He knew what had happened. He understood, though he did not—could not comprehend it yet. That silvery thing had been Voldemort’s soul, Harry thought shakily. And it is in me. It is in me now. I have that monster’s soul—in me.

________________________________________

He knew he was dreaming as he hurried through the halls of Hogwarts. He said it aloud, too. I am dreaming. This is a dream. He wondered dimly if this was a Voldemort-memory dream, or just a regular dream, but he thought it could be either. The air was cold in the dream, and he was trying to find something. It was something important. Maybe this is a memory dream, he thought. But he didn’t know what he was trying to find.

He turned the corner and saw Dumbledore. Dumbledore’s hair was not as white as he remembered, and his eyes were stern, as though the headmaster had forgotten to mask his misgivings and suspicion, but that hardly mattered. There was something he needed to find, and Dumbledore was in the way.

It’s for your own good, said Dumbledore. It’s for your own good.

That’s right, said Harry. He moved on and found himself still in a corridor. There were a thousand corridors in Hogwarts, and suddenly they were all the same. He hurried on, knowing he needed to find something, knowing that it was terribly urgent. The urgency crawled up around his neck and clung there like a dark spell.

Dumbledore again in front of him. Harry quashed a spike of irritation, and he burst into the Great Hall. As he ran through it, faces flashed by: Hermione, who looked worried and was flipping unseeingly through a book; Ron, who sat like a dummy and had the glazed eyes of a dummy; Terrance Lestrange, the black-eyed prefect whose unwavering gaze was fixed on him. Harry hurried on, not pausing to look anymore, though he knew that the loud whispers were James Potter and Sirius Black, and the scuttling, scurrying sounds were of that traitor, Pettigrew—

He bent like a whip and slammed down on the rat, feeling the crunch of bones, the brief flash of cruel satisfaction, but when he lifted his fist, there was nothing there.

It’s for your own good, said Dumbledore. It’s for your own—

Shut up! Harry screamed. Dumbledore appeared before him, and the face was still the same—stern, forbidding, suspicious, but the eyes were gone, there were holes where the penetrating blue eyes had been, black holes, skeletal holes, like the holes in the skeleton’s skull.

But Dumbledore kept talking. It’s for your own good. It’s for your own good. So Harry noisily ripped off Dumbledore’s head and the entire corridor splattered red with blood as though Dumbledore’s body had exploded, but that had never happened, it was Bill Weasley who had exploded when hit by Bellatrix’s curse. But Dumbledore had stopped talking, his tongue stuck somewhere on the ceiling.

He hurried along.

The hall was empty now, empty and quiet. He hated the quiet. He wished he had Nagini with him. He wished that Nagini were here now, hissing lovingly and with the blind idiocy of a faithful pet. There was a sound that might indeed have been Nagini, but she was unimportant; there was something far more important, and he had to find it, he had to, he—

The corridor turned sharply, and he raced down into the dank darkness of the dungeons. The narrow hall burst into a large room, and he strode in confidently, surrounded by all his servants. They parted before him in a swish of black robes and white masks, and he saw what was in front of him.

Pale skin. Black hair. Broken, beaten, beautiful. But he had to hide it. He couldn’t let them know about this disgusting weakness that remained no matter how many transformations he went through, no matter how hard he had tried with the mudblood bitches before killing them.

Leave, he shouted, and his servants left, roughly pushing the naked figure onto the ground. They were alone, and he knew spells to make the mind disappear, to turn the quick-witted into a zombie—

The world shifted as the figure on the ground stirred. The hair clung to a sweaty face; the eyelids parted slowly. The black eyes locked onto his.

All of a sudden he was on the floor too, and there were tears running down his face. Severus, he said, rocking back and forth, feeling remorse and regret as bitter and sharp as Crucio. Severus. But Severus’s eyes were empty, and they looked past him, and he felt his heart clench and turn to ice, and it hurt, hurt more than he could ever remember it hurting—

Later, after he was awake and staring up stonily at the canopy, there was only one thought in his head: that it wasn’t real, that it was only a nightmare. Images flashed through his head: Dumbledore with gaping holes where his eyes had been; Ron staring ahead listlessly; the flawless manner in which the Death Eaters parted before him; the strange and unidentifiable feeling of heat and sickliness that clawed him when he saw Severus, naked and bloody on the floor; the anguish as their eyes met—

He knew it wasn’t just a nightmare. The nightmare was real. He was Lord Voldemort.

________________________________________

He had no appetite whatsoever for breakfast. The scrambled eggs might as well have been frogspawn and the sausages salamander entrails.

He wondered what Voldemort usually ate for breakfast.

Dealing with the house-elf had been painful, but he’d managed to calm it down (hopefully) and send it on its way. By then, the blush of dawn had faded into the warmth of the morning sun. He hadn’t wanted to go among people yet, but neither had he wanted to stay alone, there in the dungeons. So now, he was slouching at the Slytherin table, staring dazedly at the food on his plate.

At least I’m not madly massacring Muggle-borns, Harry thought broodingly. Yet. Several more students streamed into the Great Hall. Thoughts had been slow coming to his head. Everything had been overwhelmed and broken like a hut beneath a tidal wave. He shook his head ruefully. What kind of fighter am I? Even in the worst of situations, a fighter must retain his calm and must not panic. I panicked worse than a first year in front of a dragon.

He sighed and forced himself to eat some of the eggs. I hold no hatred for Muggle-borns, meaning that I’m not Voldemort, he thought. He felt somewhat heartened, and the eggs tasted better. Yes, be rational, he encouraged himself. Be sensible. Apply logic. He resolutely ate some more eggs. I might have his soul, but I’m still in control. He paused. That didn’t really make sense. Can a person have two souls? he wondered. Or have our souls… merged. He shuddered. It was as if he had to walk around with Voldemort joined to his hip.

He looked up from his half-eaten breakfast and caught sight of Dumbledore. Immediately the image sprang forth of Dumbledore with gaping holes where his eyes had been, of the white-bearded head ripped off, blood splattering the ceiling—

The blue eyes turned towards him. Harry looked down right away. Too quickly, he thought. He knows you’re hiding something. But he couldn’t help feeling that the hideous grin and Dark Mark he had seen in the mirror were still branded on his face, clear for all the world to see. Calm down, he chided himself. You’re losing it.

Voices floated towards him.

“Did you chop off your tail, Snape?” Black called out.

Potter snickered under his breath, but glanced uneasily at Lily and immediately quieted.

“It was a great tail,” Black continued. A few students laughed. “A perfect snake tail for a slimy little snake.”

Harry looked up. Severus had come into the Great Hall. He snarled in Black’s direction, but, with an eye towards the staff table, sulked to the Slytherin table.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He expected no response and got none. I suppose that’s what those Ravenclaws were talking about yesterday, Harry thought. He wondered how Severus had undone the human transfiguration. Probably with the Revert Transfigurito potion, he thought.

Severus gave him a glare. “What?”

Harry quickly turned away. He hadn’t realized he was staring. “Nothing,” he said. He couldn’t help remembering his dream last night—the strange urgency, the revelation that it had been Severus that he’d been searching for, and then, the memory of Snape, naked and beaten, on the floor before him…

The image disturbed him. He lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth—

And then it clicked, so suddenly that he dropped his fork with a loud clatter and splattered ketchup all over the tablecloth.

A few Slytherins glared at him.

“Sorry,” Harry croaked. It was difficult to breathe. He stood up and, without daring to glance once in Severus’s direction, fled the hall.

His footsteps were even and his face calm, but his mind was raging as he remembered—the warmth of the nights as Severus comforted him—the realization that Severus was beautiful to him, beautiful—the ease and pleasure he found in simply staring, staring at Severus—the swell of happiness, the surge of anguish and heat he felt—and, most damning of all, the dream last night, the dream of Snape’s naked body and the lust he had felt.

Because that was what it was—lust.

He suddenly felt like an old pedophile. He felt disgusted, repulsed by himself.

He lusted after Severus. Ever since he’d come here, he’d fallen in lust. Voldemort had lusted over Severus, and now he, because he was Voldemort and Voldemort was he—he, too, lusted after Severus.

He stopped suddenly, staring vacantly down the hall. For a moment, his mind was blank—blank as an empty slate, blank as the sky on a desert day.

But then he heard footsteps behind him, and he immediately started walking again. His next class. Charms. And then there would be Defense and Merlin… he’d see Severus again. He felt a moment of paralyzing fear. Severus.

________________________________________

“Jonathan? Jonathan, are you all right?”

Harry blinked and smiled smoothly. “Yes, of course,” he lied.

Lily gave him a harsh look. “You’re pale,” she said. She stretched out a hand for his forehead; he flinched. “Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“I’m fine,” he said. You’re touching Voldemort, will you ever know that? he thought. The monster who will later murder you. He shook himself imperceptibly. Stop that! he barked at himself, steeling his nerves. Be sensible. He felt sick.

“You don’t look good,” Lily continued musingly.

“Look, really, I just had a sleepless night,” Harry said, smiling as disarmingly as he could. He knew it came out strained.

“Mm. Maybe you should go visit Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry felt a spike of hot anger. “I’m f… I’m fine.” God, I’m losing it. I’m losing it. He stared down at the table, the silence between them heavy as death. I wonder how Voldemort managed it. He snorted inwardly. Probably by killing a few Muggle-borns and half bloods. Or maybe by fucking one of his Death-Eater servants, maybe fucking S—

He looked up, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Jonathan?” She sounded worried.

“I’m sorry, Lily,” he said, trying to project his exhaustion into his voice, hoping it covered whatever madness lurked beneath the surface. “I’m just… tired.” He mustered a smile. Lily didn’t return it. He let his smile fade.

“Is it Severus?” she asked suddenly.

Harry started violently. “Wh—Se—” He swallowed. “No, of course not.”

She continued staring at him, and he felt the blood that had drained from his face returning. Damn it, was Voldemort this volatile? Or, he thought, maybe it’s just you, and you’re trying to push all the blame on poor old Tom. The thought perturbed him. How much is Tom and how much is me?

“All right,” she said delicately. She turned to face the front of the classroom, where Flitwick was demonstrating for the tenth time how to properly cast a Joaquin Charm, and Harry caught her lips forming a slight smile at the last moment.

Does she know something? he wondered, bewildered. Why is she smiling? Is she hiding something? He peered at Lily from the corner of his eyes. She didn’t seem to be the type to hide things—she was a Gryffindor, after all, and from what he knew, an exemplary one. But— Why are you so suspicious?

“All right!” Flitwick shouted from atop a pile of books. “Eighteen inches on the usage and application of the Joaquin Charm! You’re excused!”

Harry felt his blood turn to ice. Defense. Severus. Merlin help me.

He got up, but before he was carried by the tide of students into the hallway, he heard Lily calling his name.

“Jonathan!” She looked rather flushed. “I really hate asking you, knowing how you’re really tired today and everything, but…” She took a deep breath. Harry felt his heart clench—does she know something? he wondered wildly. “Tonight’s the full moon, and I found in the book a ritual that might work the way it’s supposed to. Under a full moon, that is, and I’d not ask you, seeing how badly you feel, but tonight’s the full moon, so…”

Harry stopped and stared. Out—under the full moon? Merlin knows how Tom will react. He knew that Voldemort had done something that had made him the most powerful being in the world. It was an insidious ritual, to be sure, that involved the killing of many people, but no one knew much about it…

What if I am that powerful now? Harry thought abruptly. It was a possibility he hadn’t considered. His mind went to how he had effortlessly removed Dumbledore’s tracking spell—But I couldn’t do that before that ritual, he thought. The ritual. The one that shouldn’t have worked. It had awakened something in him—something that had made the nightmare that night particularly vicious, that had put him in a coma—

It had awakened Voldemort.

“Jonathan?”

But you must help her, he thought, because of what she did later. Because of what had already happened.

“I’m fine with it,” he said. Lily looked both pleased and surprised. “Where will I meet you, and when?”

“Actually, what we’re doing isn’t really with the rules…” She gave him a hesitant glance.

“Oh,” said Harry, pretending to contemplate. When have rules ever stopped the great Harry Potter? he thought. Severus had said that. Oh Merlin.

“I’ll talk to you after dinner,” she said. “Will that be fine?”

Harry nodded, spotting the Marauders approaching. He was in no mood to deal with them. “Sure,” he said, and left.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thought, approaching the Defense classroom with his heart beating madly in his throat. He ambled in and found a seat near the back of the class. He glanced up at the clock—just a few seconds before Severus would be late…

“Almost late!” trilled Professor Matellan.

“Sorry, Professor,” Severus muttered, breathing hard and looking around for an empty seat. Harry looked away, determined not to catch the other Slytherin’s gaze. But he could feel it, moving over him—

There was a rustling of cloth, and Harry turned to see Severus slouching into the seat next to him. Harry looked away again. He didn’t know what to feel, what to think; he felt Severus’s gaze, but when he turned to look, Severus was glaring at the front of the class.

“…Headmaster wants you to polish your skills in combat,” Matellan was saying. Her voice, metallic and harsh, bounced jarringly in the room. “Name some of the spells we’ve been learning, class…”

Severus was looking bored. Harry tried concentrating on the list that was writing itself on the blackboard in front of the class… Stupefy, Aedifico Aegis, Intercipio…

The pale neck, the tangle of hair clinging to the sallow skin… Harry licked his lips unconsciously and quickly turned aside, squeezing his eyes shut for control as the thought, having laid latent for so long, finally surfaced: In two, three years, he will be tortured, raped. You—Voldemort—will rape him, and take pleasure from it. The thought hung in balance before he stretched his mind, wondering desperately if he had any memory of it.

There was none.

“Now, find a partner!” Matellan shrilled. “Practice these spells! They will be on your practical next week!”

Harry stood up, his legs weak from relief. I am not Voldemort, he thought. I am not he. I do not have his memories. I do not have his mind. I do not have his passions. He may be a part of me, but he’s always been a part of me. He took a deep breath, feeling exhilarated by this beautiful piece of logic. I’m not Voldemort. He paused. My new mantra.

“Ready, Frost?” Severus barked.

Harry nodded.

They dueled—or methodically shot spells at each other, rather—until Severus had worked up a good sweat. Harry, on the other hand, looked completely unperturbed. He looks good like that, Harry thought, and felt disturbed again. I’m not Voldemort.

“Excellent!” Matellan cried, swooping upon them. “Frost, Snape! Fabulous job at applying what we’ve learned! Class! Look here!”

Harry bit back a sigh of annoyance and maintained a rather sheepish look on his face. He glanced at Severus and caught the other Slytherin scowling. For a moment, their eyes met, and Harry quirked his lips in a smile in Matellan’s direction. Severus’s scowl softened reluctantly, infinitesimally, before he quickly looked away.

“Go on!” Matellan encouraged, sailing aside as though introducing celebrities on stage. “Don’t be shy!”

A few people laughed from the crowd. “Yeah, Snivellus,” Harry heard a distinctly Black-like voice jeer. “Don’t be shy.”

The scowl morphed into a look of stony tightness. Severus turned, and their eyes met again. This time, neither of them looked away. Severus nodded his head, doing a half-bow, and Harry, eyes not leaving the other Slytherin’s face, copied the gesture. He was aware of the rest of the class, the teachers, the room, but all of that suddenly faded, seemed insignificant.

Severus lifted his wand. I’m sure Matellan didn’t ask for a duel, Harry thought just before Severus shouted, “Confodio!”

Harry stepped back and waved his wand in a smooth gesture. “Aedifico Aegis!”

Severus didn’t wait. “Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus!”

“Intercipio!” Harry shouted. But he looked down, noticing a ripple of magic coming from the downstroke of Severus’s wand. Sneaky, Harry thought, bringing his wand down silently and catching the magic on his wand.

Then he jabbed his wand out like a rapier. “Stupefy!” Flowing behind the jet of purple light was that cascade of unknown magic. Harry watched Severus’s eyes, at first narrowed with suspicion, widen with surprise and grudging respect.

Severus ducked (hypocrite, Harry thought cheerfully, always telling me not to dodge the spells) and waved his wand; sparks danced on the floor as the unknown spell dissolved.

Ah, thought Harry, so it’s a silent spell of weakening. He looked up from the floor and their eyes met again. Harry felt his lips twisting into a wolfish grin, and felt a thrill of exhilaration when Severus replied with an arrogant thrust of his wand.

“Adlido! Retardare!”

“Frost, Snape! Stop!”

Harry waved his wand. “Remeare!”

“Intercipio! St—”

“STOP!”

Harry waved his wand. “Deliquesco!” The last of the magic dissipated, but his eyes were still fixed unwaveringly on Severus’s. This time, both of them were breathing hard. It had been so long—too long—since Harry had seen anything other than that dull, closed look in those eyes. Speaking, maybe not, Harry thought triumphantly, but ignore me—no more.

And then, like a storm wave crashing onto the shore, he remembered who he was, what he was, and the smile on his face vanished. He looked away, self-loathing and disgust filling him as he remembered the heat and sickliness from the dream. He slipped into his seat, feeling, more than ever, Severus’s gaze. It burned.

“This is a demonstration, not a duel,” Matellan said. Harry barely heard her. “But—excellent job, the both of you! Ten points each to Slytherin.”

Harry saw, from the corner of his eye, Severus nod, his face expressionless once more. “Thank you, Professor,” Harry said. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears.

Class ended mercifully soon after that. Harry spent the rest of it sitting in something of a daze, repeating again and again—I am not Lord Voldemort, and reminding himself why. Then he would chide himself for being so stupid and for losing it—he was supposed to have nerves of steel—and he’d manage to ignore the whole thing for a few blessed moments.

Then he’d see Severus, or Peter Pettigrew laughing with the other Marauders, and he’d start all over again.

________________________________________

The air was cold and dewy. Moonlight streamed down from the enchanted ceiling, basking everything in an eerie light. Harry gazed blankly at empty House tables as he leaned in the shadows against the wall.

Severus had pretended once again at dinner that Harry didn’t exist. Harry felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment and—he clenched his teeth—longing. He closed his eyes in an attempt to suppress the mixture of horror and self-loathing, but saw again Severus’s eyes, their stare so intense that they burned more than a Death Eater’s brand…

There was a movement coming from the entrance of the Hall. Harry straightened, and relaxed again when he recognized the slightly upturned nose, the hair that seemed black under the moonlight.

Does she want to get caught? Harry wondered, creeping up behind her. She was standing full view in a puddle of moonlight.

“Lily?”

Lily jumped and whirled around, and Harry lunged forward, clapping a hand over her mouth, muffling her shriek.

He let go. “Sorry,” he whispered, “but do you want Filch to find us?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Lily replied, sighing in relief. “Did you wait long?”

Harry shook his head. “No. The sooner we leave, the less likely we’ll be caught.”

“You’re right,” Lily said. She shifted a wrapped basket from her left hand to her right hand. “Follow me. I know a… passage outside the castle that isn’t the main entrance.”

“Right,” Harry whispered, following the Gryffindor’s lead. “That’s not another lamb, is it?”

“What?—oh, the basket? No. It’s only some absinthe, I read that it was—”

“Shh,” Harry hissed. He thought he heard Mrs. Norris. “Tell me later.”

Lily nodded, looking around in curiosity, her eyes, silver in the moonlight, widened with excitement. A true Gryffindor, through and through, Harry thought dryly.

The passage Lily had decided to use was hidden behind a tapestry of Selena the Salacious, one that Harry remembered having been filled in. Something must’ve caused the tunnel to collapse in the next decade, Harry thought. I wonder what it was.

“This is a passage?” he asked, blinking in feigned astonishment.

Lily flashed a mischievous smile. “Yeah. It leads to a spot behind the man-eating mistletoes in Greenhouse Five.”

“Doesn’t Sprout know about it?” Harry asked as Lily stroked the wall in front of her. It sunk in slightly before shifting aside. “That’s amazing…”

“Yeah, isn’t it?” Lily replied in hushed tones. “I love this castle,” she said with a sudden, fierce conviction that surprised Harry for a moment. But I do too, Harry thought, realizing it was true after the thought had formed. Hogwarts castle was… not really home, but what he imagined a real family might be like. Quiet, but there. Lily went on, “And I doubt anyone, not even Sprout, goes behind the man-eating mistletoe bushes. Donovan might’ve known.”

Harry stopped short. “Who?”

“Donovan?” Lily’s voice echoed from further down the passage. They were descending a long, musty flight of stairs, and in the dim wandlight, the passage was claustrophobic. “He was the Herbology Professor two—no, three years ago, before Sprout came. He just left one day, they think he was eaten by the mistletoes…”

The stone walls and ceiling turned suddenly to earth. Harry felt something brush his hair; looking up, he saw a tangle of roots. “They?”

“The Gryffindors,” Lily replied, her voice muffled now. “Well. I am a Gryffindor, too, but sometimes I wonder if the Sorting Hat meant to put me in Ravenclaw…”

“Ravenclaw?”

“Yes. You sound surprised.”

“Sorry. It’s just… only a Gryffindor would be sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to attempt unorthodox rituals in the middle of the night.”

Lily laughed brightly. “Yes. Or a Slytherin.”

Harry smiled briefly. She has a point. Then he wondered how much of a Slytherin he was. I was half-and-half—before, he thought. What was he now—three-fourths Slytherin with the addition of Voldemort? He shivered slightly and clenched his teeth. Don’t think about that.

“This is it,” Lily whispered. The passageway came to an end. Lily reached up but her hands barely brushed the ceiling. “Can you—um—”

“Magic,” Harry said, pointing his wand at the ceiling. There were no enchantments here, only the slumbering power of the earth and its plants. He could feel it. Rise, he commanded in his mind. The patch of earth above their heads shifted up, and moonlight poured in.

“What?” Harry asked, noticing the look Lily gave him and wondering what he’d d— oh. He’d forgotten to say an incantation.

“How did you do that?” Lily asked. Harry was relieved that she didn’t sound awed or frightened, merely impressed.

“Magic theory,” Harry explained. “It’s the will, not the words. Read Kriesberg or Lao Tzu.”

Lily had a puzzled look on her face. “Why don’t they teach that to us? It’s so much more useful than having to learn the incantations for everything.”

Harry shrugged. “Institutionalization,” he replied. He glanced up through the opening. The chill of the night air had descended into the tunnel. “We’d better hurry, or the moon might set before we can get it done…”

“Right,” Lily said. She hesitated. “Levitate me out?”

Harry flicked his wand. “Wingardium Leviosa.” Lily rose into the air, basket in hand, and landed lightly outside.

Harry moved under the opening and looked up expectantly.

“Well?” Lily called, looking down. Her face was cast in shadow, but her voice betrayed a smile. “Can’t you do some magic theory and levitate yourself out?”

“I see how it is,” Harry replied, grinning slightly in return. “You’d better move aside then.”

As soon as Lily had shifted aside, Harry bent down and jumped. He gripped the edge and swiftly pulled himself out.

“That wasn’t magic theory!” Lily exclaimed.

“It wasn’t,” Harry replied, brushing himself and looking around. They seemed to be in a corner of the greenhouse, with towering hedges on all sides. “Levitation is one of the most imprecise magics, especially self-levitation. Sometimes it’s much easier to jump. And have you any idea how we’re going to get out?”

“Oh—yeah,” Lily said, whipping out her wand and creating a bluebell flame. Just like Hermione, Harry thought, staring at the writhing coil of warmth. He wondered what Hermione’s reaction might be, if he told her that he had Voldemort’s soul in him. He tried to picture her face, but all he could see was that look of doubt in her warm brown eyes, that hesitant look, as though she wasn’t sure who it was she saw. It was that look that he had grown used to, that he had taught himself to expect.

The mistletoes shivered. Lily flicked her wand, and the bluebell flame snaked forward, clearing a path through the hedge.

“C’mon,” Lily said, still in a whisper. “I was thinking of going down by the lake. Water should help.”

They hurried across the frost-covered ground. The castle loomed in the distance, its many windows dark and shuttered, like the eyes of a slumbering giant.

“Here we are,” Lily said, rubbing her arms. She was wearing a fleecy but inadequate-looking sweater. “It’s almost moonset, but not quite. Want some absinthe?”

“Sure,” said Harry. He remembered Lily having mentioning it earlier, at dinner. He also remembered Hermione mentioning it, but he hadn’t really paid attention. “Is it supposed to do something?”

“Of course—it’s different from Muggle absinthe,” Lily said animatedly, pulling out a bottle of poisonously green liquid. She took out also two classes, and two strange looking spoons. “An absinthe spoon,” she explained. “You have to strain it over sugar, or it’ll taste like the Polyjuice Potion.”

“Ah,” he said, shuddering. Then: “you know what Polyjuice tastes like?”

Lily glanced up, startled. “Only theoretically, of course.” She looked down quickly and poured a shot of absinthe in the two glasses.

“I see,” Harry said, watching the emerald liquid swirl. “Theoretically.”

Lily might have blushed, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. Harry stared at the two glasses. While everything else in the world had sunken into shades of black and white, the absinthe seemed to sparkle and gain luster and brilliance.

“Is it glowing?” Harry breathed.

“It’s a magical reaction between the moonlight and the wormwood,” Lily explained, handing Harry one of the spoons. “So yes, it is glowing. Now”—she rummaged in the basket—“some sugar.” She opened a jar and put a cube of sugar on both of their perforated spoons.

“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” Harry remarked.

“I—um—tried it out a few times in the kitchens,” she said, and added quickly, “It’s brilliant, it really is.” Her eyes sparkled. Harry realized he hadn’t ever seen her so cheerful, except for when she had finally accomplished the Patronus Charm. Thinking back, he realized that she seemed most unhappy with the Gryffindors; she seemed always to be huddling with a book, alternately arguing with the Marauders or concentrating on some difficult passage. What must it have been like for six years? Harry wondered. He would have been crushed back then, naïve and vulnerable, without Hermione and Ron—

Don’t think about Ron. Don’t think about Voldemort and what he did he did to him. What you did to him.

“Right,” Lily said. “Hold my spoon for me, will you? I need to get some water.”

Harry obliged. Lily took out a pitcher and dipped it into the lake. She returned, taking back her spoon and pouring a glistening stream of water over the sugar cube. To Harry’s surprise, the sugar melted almost instantly, as though the water from the lake was insistently pulling apart the cube of sugar.

“La Fée Verte,” Lily said, lifting her glass and smiling. The absinthe had changed color from a sparkling green to a murky white. “Why don’t you do yours?”

Harry took the pitcher of moonlit water and poured it over the sugar on the absinthe spoon. The sparkle and luster immediately vanished, leaving behind a rather opaque concoction.

“Muggles feel the first effects of absinthe,” Lily explained, lifting her glass and holding it up before the moon. Silvery light glittered through. “It’s a bit of a buzz, somewhat like those drugs Muggle teens are always on nowadays… And then the magic part starts, and it lasts about an hour. Things become… clearer.”

She glanced at Harry expectantly. “Ready? It’s still really bitter.”

“Polyjuice with sugar cubes,” Harry muttered. “Right.” He saw Lily lift the glass to her lips and take a sip, and he followed suit. Here goes nothing, he thought. Alcohol and drugs—at least the non-magical, non-sleeping kinds—weren’t substances he had ever—in fact, could have afforded to ever—indulge in. True, there was coffee, and lots of it, but—

“Aggh,” Harry gasped. “This is disgusting! I—you—”

Lily laughed, so hard that Harry saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Harry let a small smile find its way to his lips. “I hadn’t seriously expected it to taste so much like Polyjuice. It’s worse, I think. The absinthe.”

“Oh come on! It’s only the first sip! C’mon, take another.” She lifted the glass and Harry watched in horrified fascination as the ghastly liquid drained into her mouth. She made a face and then sighed explosively. “Oh hell,” she said. Harry thought that her eyes were a bit unfocused. “Go on, Jonathan—it gets better, really.”

Harry looked down apprehensively. Might as well, he thought, and followed the Gryffindor’s example.

The liquid burned its way down his throat and stomach, scalding his taste buds until he was sure he had none left. He squeezed his eyes shut—Polyjuice was bad, this was bad, but he’d had worse, a lot worse, including what fares the Death Eaters had given him, locked up in their dungeons—

“Jonathan?”

He opened his eyes. There was a buzzing his head, shivering through the rest of his body, his soul. The moon’s so bright, he thought. He could almost touch it, almost bring it down from the sky… It’s really beautiful, he thought idly. I wish Severus were here, next to me, to see it…

“Hello? Jonathan?”

“Yeah?” Harry replied. He turned—the whole world spun a bit—to face Lily. Her face seemed to flash with all sorts of color… “Maybe not quite as bad as Polyjuice.”

“Ah,” said Lily, a rather silly smile spreading across her face, “so you know what Polyjuice tastes like too, eh?”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Only theoretically.”

Lily laughed. Harry let a smile bloom on his face, and wondered at how he felt—hollow, but not as though his insides were dead. Instead, it felt as though he had a universe in his throat, all the clear sky and air in his chest… “So how are you going about this… ritual?” I’m slurring my words, Harry thought. I’m a terrible drunk. Even my mum can drink me under the table. “Y’know, I feel really bad that you’re doing everything. I ought to… do something.” Like save the world from Voldemort—from myself. The happy feeling diminished at the thought, retracting into a shell of sobriety. From myself, he repeated morosely. Myself.

“You’re out here risking expulsion with me,” Lily pointed out. “You’re indulging in my intellectual pursuits.”

“You wouldn’t really get expelled,” Harry grumbled, still feeling markedly depressed. Get a grip, he thought from somewhere far away, but he didn’t feel like paying attention to that voice. “Dumbledore’s monstrously biased towards Gryffindors. Everyone knows that.”

“He is not,” Lily said stoutly. “I swear he knew what Severus and I were doing, but he didn’t say a thing.”

Harry blinked. “Severus?” he hissed coldly. Severus? Severus—with Lily? He felt an insane flare of jealousy. How dare she try to take what was his! how dare she—he should kill her right now and dump her body in the lake, and let it bloat up and then everyone would know not to touch what was his—

“Snape, I mean,” Lily said, a shuttered look coming to her eyes, the look that Harry remembered would linger on her face whenever she was in that mob of Gryffindors. “Your friend.”

“My friend,” Harry whispered, feeling the night air crawl over his skin. His voice, he knew, was sharp enough to cut through class, cold enough to freeze an ocean. “What, pray, were you doing with him?”

Lily’s eyes focused on him with difficulty. She frowned, a bit bewildered, a bit concerned. “It was… a couple years ago. It was actually an Arithmancy thing. See, I’d always been fascinated with rituals and stuff, so…” She knitted her brows. “It was a class assignment, I think. Anyway, we did it together, and he always came up with these books from the Restricted Section that he wasn’t supposed to have…” Her face darkened, and her eyes saddened. “That was before—” She stopped.

A pause. “Before what?” Harry urged. He felt a sudden need to know, even though the terrible jealously had evaporated. “That was before what?”

She took a shuddering breath. “I still think he’s a good person, somewhere,” she said stubbornly. “But he hurt me—a lot. He started calling me—calling me names, calling me ‘mudblood,’ and—” She suddenly stopped. Harry realized that she was on the verge of tears. They were silent for a moment, and Lily hurriedly wiped her eyes. “It’s the absinthe,” she mumbled. “Quite a bit of alcohol in there.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurted out. He was mad—mad to have been so crazily jealous—it wasn’t the absinthe, either, he knew—it was him—it was Voldemort. “I’m sorry. I’m like this sometimes, and I hate it.” He swallowed with difficulty. Why did I say that? he wondered. It doesn’t matter that it’s true. Nobody can know that their Golden Boy hates it— There came, echoing through the ethereal clarity of the absinthe, an answering voice—nobody can know that their Master hates it—

He hiccupped. Lily was looking at him. He glanced away. “Moon’s almost set,” he muttered. “Maybe a few more minutes, I reckon.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lily entreated. She doesn’t sound really drunk, Harry thought dazedly. I wonder how she does it… “It’s all right. I understand.”

“You do?” Harry asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“Yeah, I—well, when I first saw you, seemed so—cautious, and—lonely—and I thought you must be, since you just transferred here, but…” She seemed to struggle for words. “But you seemed more than just a bit lost at being somewhere new. It’s like you’d been through something really sad, all your life, or that you’ve never had a chance to be happy…” She stopped. “Oh hell. I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

No, Harry thought, no, you’re right, Mum, you’re right, oh Merlin, you are right— He took a shuddering breath. Severus, he thought suddenly, irrationally. And then, with a snap of clarity, it became clear. This is why I wanted him close—this is why I want him near me. He sees me, and more than that, he understands, and he touched me, he— He choked back his thoughts. “I must’ve seemed really pathetic, huh?”

“No, no! Not like that—God, that’s not what I meant. I meant that—that you were—you were just—”

“When I first saw you,” Harry interrupted dryly, deciding to rescue her, “I thought you were half of a dream couple. Lily and James.”

“Potter? James Potter? He’s such an arrogant, stuck-up, lying, bullying toerag! He and his friend, Sirius Black, strutting around as though they own the school—it’s enough to make me sick! It does make me sick. You won’t believe—”

Harry gave an involuntary chuckle. “All right, I get your point.” He glanced up. “It’s moonset.”

Lily glanced up as well, and the look of intellectual excitement returned to her eyes. “It is,” she agreed. She reached into her basket and took out a piece of parchment and a quill. “I basically wanted you to take notes on what happened, and rescue me in case I started convulsing, or something,” she said apologetically. “Sorry I—er—took the exciting part—”

“That’s all right,” Harry said, though somewhere inside he felt a bit guilty again. “You’ll be in awe of my notes, don’t worry.”

Lily laughed, clear and silvery in the night. I told a joke, thought Harry. I told a joke. He fully expected the moon to explode with fireworks. It’s the absinthe, he decided. Can’t be anything else.

“Moon, water, sap of the earth,” Lily murmured, putting her hands into the lake water. “We have everything that is needed…”

“Lumos,” Harry whispered, copying down what Lily said on the parchment. She wanted notes, I’ll give her notes.

“I open myself to the magic of the air, the water, the earth…” Lily continued quietly. It’s almost as if she’s singing, Harry thought. “I empty myself for the air and water and earth…”

Harry felt it then, the pulse of magic rising from the lake and coalescing from the air, the earth. The bottom edge of the moon was just brushing the horizon, and the rosy light from the coming sunrise had bathed the sky in hues of soft blue and pink.

“Is mise árthach do chumhachta. Tar isteach ionam” Lily's voice rose in a crescendo, flowing from her mouth like a moonlit brook. "Osclaím mé féin do dhraíocht an aeir, an uisce agus an talaimh! Folmhaim mé féin don aer, don uisce agus don talamh!" It worked, Harry thought, breath catching. She’s been called. The buzz from the absinthe had faded into a kind of hyperawareness. He could feel the air touching every pore of his skin, each blade of grass prickling, the faintest breath of breeze from over the lake…

Lily turned suddenly. Her eyes, once green, were now the white of the moon, the pale shades of the dawn sky—

Harry froze.

The girl at the waterside fell to her knees. He was standing. He watched her take his robes and kiss them, watched her look up with a blank face and flickering eyes. It was a gesture of servant to master, and Harry found himself lifting his hand slightly, benevolently, in a gesture of master to slave, from him to the powers of the earth, air, water…

Suddenly, the spell was broken.

Lily blinked, her eyes green again. She moaned and looked around groggily. “Jonathan? What the hell just happened…” Her eyes fell on his face, and she stopped short.

Harry stepped back, his mouth dry.

“Jonathan? What happened, Jonathan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or—”

“No, nothing,” Harry said quickly. “I’m fine. It just surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting it.” He swallowed hard. What did you do, Voldemort? he screamed. It must’ve been something truly terrible, to bend the untamable powers of the air and earth and water—to him—

From far off in the distance, a wolf howled.

“Shit!” Harry hissed. “Werewolf!”

Lily turned to look at the Forbidden Forest. “Werewolf?” she said bemusedly. “The moon has set, there aren’t—”

“No, it’s not that,” Harry snapped. Damn it, how could I forget? Remus! He’d be out here tonight, with Prongs, Padfoot and Wormtail— Calm down, he snarled at himself. I’m losing it, he thought; I’m losing it. Just because you heard Remus howling doesn’t mean any one of the Marauders saw you, or smelt you. And it doesn’t matter if they did, because you can handle it later.

“Let’s get back, before we’re missed,” Harry said. He stood up and hurriedly put the quill and parchment, the pitcher, the—

“Scourgify,” said Lily. “Versum.” The spoons shot out of Harry’s hand into the basket, and the glasses dived in after.

“Right. Magic,” Harry muttered, lifting the basket and glancing around quickly. Not a soul in sight. “Let’s go. Same way?”

“Um… okay,” said Lily, looking rather uncertain.

Harry stopped momentarily. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “But I just—” He stopped himself before he turned to glance at the forest another time. That would seem suspicious, and he’d already messed up enough. “Never mind. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Lily. “Seriously, get some sleep. You look a wreck.”

I probably do, Harry thought, but then he remembered the dream he had had last night, and shuddered.

In the end, he did take a nap—a twenty-minute one, blissfully devoid of dreams. The way back into the castle had been quick and silent, and they had separated immediately upon exiting the passageway. Quite a few students were in the Great Hall already, but Harry felt too knackered to even attempt to appear normal. Fortunately, Snape had been asleep when Harry had crept inside to take back Dumbledore’s tracking spell, and he had only stared for a moment—or two—before he had managed to wrench himself away.

Then he had flopped onto his bed and fallen asleep before he could dread dreams. Even a two-minute nap can do wonders, Harry thought, yawning and quickly getting ready for the day. That, and coffee.

He was late by the time he reached the Great Hall. The empty seats were of those who had finished breakfast, not those who hadn’t yet begun. He saw Lily staggering in from the Gryffindor entrance and flashed her a smile. He was relieved when she returned it.

“Good morning, S—nape,” Harry said, slipping into his customary seat. I nearly called him Severus, he thought, a bit shaken. Not good. He glanced at Severus, and was surprised to see him glaring with unmasked loathing over Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turned, and felt his stomach sink to his feet. Oh please, no…

James Potter, with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew in tow, was storming towards the end of the Slytherin table. All three Marauders looked rather worse for wear, as though none of them had slept a wink, but Potter looked by far the worst. His messy hair resembled an Afro gone wrong, and his pale face was twisted in fury.

“Frost!” he snarled, voice ringing over the sudden hush. “I’ve a word or two to say to you!”

Harry was aware of the attention of the entire Hall, of the whispers that were rustling down each of the four tables, of Dumbledore’s keen gaze, of Severus’s surprise.

He stood up, keeping his face a mask of ice. “You can say them here, Potter.”

There was the sound of quickened footsteps. “James! Sirius, what’s—” Harry glanced over Potter’s shoulder. Lily was hurrying towards them, her face a mixture of consternation and apprehension.

Black shifted so that he was in the way. “Stay out of this, Lily,” Black intoned.

Lily frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sirius, I—”

A high-pitched voice rang out: “Traitor!”

Harry felt his blood boil as Lily gaped at Peter Pettigrew. How dare you say such a thing!—you, you who betrayed them! Harry seethed. He felt wave after wave of loathing and disgust as he glared at the short, floppy-haired rat—instantly he imagined those fierce eyes being reduced to a glazed dullness by a thousand crucios—he saw the hale face shriveled with fear and age; he—

“Peter,” Potter snapped. “Shut up.”

Lily looked up at Potter, a frown on her forehead and worry in her eyes. “James, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Me? What did you think you were doing? Don’t deny it, Lily! Out of bounds, at night—” Potter choked with anger.

Lily’s eyes flashed. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Potter. Now stop this nonsense right away, and—”

“Please,” interrupted a cool, mellifluous voice that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “Do take this lovers’ spat somewhere else. It is curdling my appetite.”

Sirius Black’s face contorted in anger. “Shut up, Snivellus.”

Harry felt an instant leap of fury. “Shut your trap, dog,” he snarled, and felt a surge of satisfaction when Black’s face blanked out in shock. Harry let a knowing grin form on his face. Got you there, he thought fiercely.

“What is the meaning of this?”

All six of them froze and turned to see Professor McGonagall staring at them with very pinched lips.

“Nothing,” Black and Potter replied in an expressionless monotone. Lily, Severus, and Pettigrew kept silent.

Harry smiled thinly. “We were merely having a discussion about the merits of inter-House academic partnerships,” he said.

McGonagall treated him with an acidic stare. He weathered it. She was nothing to Snape or Dumbledore or even her future self.

“Isn’t that so, James?” Harry added, not breaking eye contact with the Transfiguration professor.

Harry thought he heard the sound teeth being ground to dust. “Yes, that’s right,” Potter finally made out.

“I see,” McGonagall said at last, turning her gaze to the others. “Be that it may, I must remind you that there are to be no brawls or fights while you are at this institution.”

Various forms of, “Yes, Professor,” were drowned by the swell of conversations that had risen once more.

McGonagall nodded and then swept off towards the staff table.

Harry watched her leave. He let his eyes wander until they met Dumbledore’s. The Headmaster gifted him with an indulgent sort of smile, and Harry returned it with a rather apologetic shrug. So he does not yet suspect, Harry thought, relieved. The old fool.

“Don’t think this is over, Frost,” Potter growled.

“Let me tell you this, James Potter,” Harry said coldly, turning the weight of his gaze to the Gryffindor’s face. “If you believe that there is anything romantic going on between Lily Evans and me, then you are sorely mistaken.” Harry could help glancing at Severus. The other Slytherin’s eyes were averted. “We work together on the Charms project. We may be…” He stopped and searched for the right word. He found it, disbelievingly. “We may be friends, but that is all.”

Black snorted. “Likely story. Friends don’t go sneak out of the castle at four in the morning.”

“Really?” Harry replied, arching an eyebrow. Black blinked and snapped his mouth shut.

Potter crossed his arms. His face was still stony. “I don’t buy that,” he said flatly. “I know what you’re trying to do, Jonathan Frost. I know you and your slimy, Slytherin mind.” He sucked in a breath. “I, James Potter, challenge you to a duel.”

There was a silence.

“No,” Harry said flatly.

“Are you crazy, J—Potter?” Lily demanded. “I swear, if you go through with this, then I’m telling McGonagall—”

“Then I’ll tell her you’ve been prancing about with a Slytherin at night!” Potter hissed. He turned back to Harry. “Jonathan Frost,” he said, “I challenge you to a magically binding duel, and if you refuse this duel, you will be magically obligated to concede to the demands I make.”

Magically binding. The phrase echoed in Harry’s mind. He racked his brains for how he might worm his way out of this one, but a part of him, still seeing Pettigrew’s indignantly triumphant face and hearing Black’s voice sneering “Snivellus,” wanted nothing more than to draw his wand…

Severus stood up. “In this duel, I, Severus Alexander Snape, bind myself to Jonathan Frost as his Second.”

Harry whirled around, his heart pounding in his throat. He sought out Severus’s eyes, but the other Slytherin was staring straight ahead, fixing a look of disdain and hatred at Sirius Black.

“NO!” Lily shouted.

Black crossed his arms, adopting an arrogant pose. “And I, Sirius Terebellum Black, bind myself to James Earl Potter as his Second.”

Harry felt something struggling to free itself. He let it come out, and realized that it was a smile. So be it. He turned his full attention to James Potter, ignoring Lily’s pleading gaze. “Very well. I accept.”

________________________________________

Is mise árthach do chumhachta. Tar isteach ionam! -- I am the vessel for your power. Enter me!

Osclaím mé féin do dhraíocht an aeir, an uisce agus an talaimh. -- I open myself to the magic of the air, the water, the earth.

Folmhaim mé féin don aer, don uisce agus don talamh. -- I empty myself for the air and water and earth.

X.

"...this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine." -- from The Tempest (V, i, 275-276)

“Jonathan! No!”

Harry turned his attention to Lily, keeping his face clear of emotion.

“It’s too late now,” Potter said in a flat voice, before Harry could say anything. “It’s magically binding. If one of us doesn’t show up, then the other’s terms will automatically apply. There’s no way out.”

“I’ll tell McGonagall,” Lily threatened.

Potter shrugged, still not looking at Lily. “Even if we get expelled, we’ll still have to go through with this. It’s magically binding.”

“You can’t!” Lily shouted. “It’s foolish, it’s dangerous, you’ll—”

“What part of magically binding don’t you understand, Evans?” Severus interrupted, smooth as silk. Lily stopped short. Harry looked between the two, remembering what Lily had said the night before. They had been friends, Harry thought, observing Snape’s face as he sneered.

“I can’t believe you!” Lily cried in a strangled voice and then hurried away. Potter turned to watch her leave, twisting his neck so quickly that Harry thought he might have given himself a whiplash.

“Sleep deprivation,” Harry said aloud as Lily slumped into her seat, tears coming out of her eyes, a clump of Gryffindors watching in consternation.

“Where and when?” Potter cut in through gritted teeth, going back to glaring at Harry.

Harry returned his gaze evenly. “Where would you choose?”

Potter traded a glance with Black. They seemed to come to an unspoken agreement, for both Marauders nodded slightly.

“Hey,” Pettigrew piped up, “what about the trophy room—nobody goes there, and it’s in neutral ground—”

“Peter!” Black snapped. “Shut up.”

The rat animagus snapped his mouth close with a loud click.

“Trophy room, at midnight?” Potter asked coolly.

Harry turned to Severus. The glittering black eyes met his, and Harry felt his heart skip a beat. “Trophy room, at midnight,” Harry confirmed when Severus inclined his head slightly.

“And terms,” said Potter. Harry ripped his gaze from Severus; his heart was beating fast. The Gryffindor’s eyes flashed momentarily. “As the challenger of this duel, I shall name my terms: that if you should lose, you will never speak to Lily Evans ever again for a year and a day.”

Harry snorted. “Agreed.” Harry felt a subtle shift of magic, like a cloud forming above his head. “As the challenged, I shall name my terms.” He stopped, weighing his options. Automatically, he glanced at Severus, but the other Slytherin’s face was unreadable. He looked a second longer, trying to gauge any thought, any emotion from those fathomless eyes. “I shall name my terms just before the duel,” Harry said at last.

“You can’t do that!” Black protested.

“Can I not?” Harry challenged, lifting an eyebrow. “The terms only need be named before the duel—and that is the only limitation.” I think. He didn’t even know that terms were needed; he’d assumed that ‘honor’ would be the only thing at stake.

Black frowned angrily and cast about for something to say. “Fine,” he forced out. “Midnight, at the trophy room, and you’ll name your stupid terms first.”

Harry nodded. “Agreed.”

Black’s face broke into a wolfish grin. “Prepare to get your Slytheirn arse kicked.”

Harry smiled thinly. “We’ll see,” he said, before Severus could get a word in. “Tonight. Trophy room.” He turned his attention to his breakfast, dismissing the Gryffindors and hoping they would leave. Thankfully, they did.

“So,” Severus said flatly.

Harry set down his fork. Suddenly, he didn’t feel very hungry anymore. “So,” he replied. His mind tossed for things to say. After a moment’s pause, he continued. “You’re talking to me again.”

“Of course I am,” Severus snapped.

“Why weren’t you?” Harry cut in, making an effort to keep his voice calm, unemotional. He relaxed his grip on his hapless fork. “You’d been ignoring me for a couple of days now.”

“That’s not important,” Severus said, suddenly angry. “What matters is that you win this duel against Potter!”

Harry snorted. “There’s no way I can lose,” he replied coldly. It feels good to be arrogant, he thought. It thrilled him. He hadn’t been able to afford to be arrogant before; he had had to present a mask of the confident, caring savior, the good Gryffindor boy—but he wasn’t Harry Potter here, he was Jonathan Frost, he—

—was Voldemort. Voldemort, who was arrogance personified. Harry felt his stomach sink.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Severus muttered, breaking Harry from his reverie. “We may be evenly matched in dueling, but Potter has quite a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“You’ve dueled him before?” Harry asked politely. Some part of him winced at the sudden change—one moment as haughty as a pureblood, another as meek as a house-elf.

“Yes,” Severus said, haltingly. “Last year. I don’t think his tactics will have changed very much. I’ve compiled a—an analysis of Potter’s dueling methods and techniques.”

Harry studied Severus from the corner of his eye: with those last words, the other Slytherin had reverted back to his stiff, unemotional shell. Why? Harry wondered, a sudden fear seizing him that Severus was resuming the cold shoulder thing again—but then, a moment later, he understood the reason. He’s uncomfortable, Harry realized. He doesn’t want me to know something—that he lost the duel, that must be why. So he’s pretending to be cold and indifferent.

Suddenly, Harry felt heat rush through his body, and he looked down at his plate, feeling terribly self-conscious and stricken by an urge to touch the man beside him. The feeling struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he was almost breathless with longing.

He clenched his fists. You’re succumbing to Voldemort’s desires, he thought digging his nails into his palms. You mustn’t let him win—you mustn’t! The wave of longing ebbed, and he was conscious enough to realize that Severus was waiting for a response.

“I suppose,” he said neutrally.

“We have Potions, and then lunch. I can show you the analysis and diagram at lunch, in my dormitory…”

“Your dormitory,” said Harry, feeling strange all over again.

Severus nodded his head. “Yes,” he replied carefully. “Anyway. We’re going to be late for Camentum. We have a Potions practical today. Hurry up, you’ve been working on that sausage for five minutes.”

This is the first time he’s prompted me to go to class, thought Harry, and he wondered what that meant, and wondered if it meant anything at all.

The Potions practical was simple enough that Harry could float through it while observing Severus. Severus, of course, finished first, and Professor Camentum had remarked something about it being perfect—as always. Severus had lifted his chin at that, looking like a fierce little hawk, and Harry felt a strange thrust of pride.

Too bad Malfoy isn’t up to par, Harry thought, as the blonde’s cauldron shivered and belched out a noxious bubble of purple. Harry quickly bottled his concoction and brought it up to Camentum.

He slowed down, though, when he noticed Lestrange moving to Camentum’s desk, arriving a few steps before Harry did.

“Full marks, Lestrange,” said Camentum. The Potions professor sounded weary as he tapped his wand and an ‘O’ appeared on the parchment in front of him in front of ‘Lestrange, Terrance Orion Ophiuchus.’

Lestrange turned to leave, but gave Harry a small smile. His eyes glittered. “Good luck, Frost,” he said so quietly that only Harry would be able to hear.

“Thank you,” Harry replied coldly, and moved quickly to Camentum’s desk before Lestrange could continue.

Camentum gave Harry’s sample a brief glance. “Full marks, Frost,” the professor droned.

Harry slipped back into his seat and glanced at the time. He’d finished quite early; there was still about fifteen minutes left, and he hadn’t brought a book to read, and he had no homework. I actually don’t have anything to do, Harry thought wryly. This hasn’t happened in… quite a few years.

He wondered if the professor would be annoyed if he sneaked in ten minutes worth of sleeping, and decided that Camentum probably wouldn’t notice. But as he laid down his head on the table, wrinkling his nose at the lingering smell of salamander guts and newt brains, the thoughts that came to his head were memories—his identity as Voldemort—the bending of the wild powers to his command—and Severus—

He sighed and shut it eyes, trying to occlude everything away. He was tired. He needed sleep.

You can’t just shove things into the back of your mind, he thought angrily, a moment later. You can’t just forget about it. They won’t solve themselves. He rubbed his eyes. What was he going to do then? Severus is finally talking, he thought. The thought brightened his mood a bit, and he glanced fondly in the other Slytherin’s direction. Severus seemed engrossed in a Potions periodical, frowning slightly as he examined something, touching his lips with his slender fingers.

Harry swallowed. Maybe we can go back to working on the Dreamless Potion, he thought. And it doesn’t really matter why he ignored me for so long. He’s talking to me again, and that’s all that matters…

He stopped and quickly looked the other way, running his hand through his hair. What was wrong with him? The moment he wasn’t careful, his mind was slipping back into thoughts of Snape—lustful, Voldemort-tinted thoughts!

IGNORE him! Harry growled to himself. Severus was not important. His current situation—stuck twenty years in the past—was. He had to return. He had to reopen the Nest (his stomach dropped and he wondered briefly at the merits of turning the mirror so that it faced the wall) and find some way of traveling through time. It might also be a good idea to find out what spell Voldemort had performed to bend the Wild powers to his will…

Yes, that’s what I’ll do, he thought, and laid his head down sleepily on his folded arms. He peered at Severus, feeling his lips pull in a smile as the other Slytherin turned a page and scrutinized a passage, or diagram, or…

Harry buried his face in his arms and groaned. Not again…

In the end, he decided to write out notes of the ritual last night for Lily—he’d be seeing her in their next class, Transfiguration. He took out the parchment he had begun earlier and wondered what he should write. That the Wild powers entered her and made her treat me like their Master? Does she even know the Wild powers entered her? When there was only a minute of class left, he scribbled something down about seeming to have been ‘possessed by a power stemming from nature.’

Class ended soon afterwards. Harry stuffed the notes into his bookbag and found himself bumping into Severus as they poured out of the classroom.

“I noticed that you got full marks, too,” Severus said immediately. “Good job.”

Harry suppressed the urge to smile. “Thank you. I’m sure it’s nothing new for you—Mr. Perfect-As-Always.”

Severus actually blushed, splotches of red appearing high on his cheeks. Harry felt a thrilling desire to laugh.

“So, Mr. Perfect, perhaps we can work on the Dreamless Sleep Potion sometime?” Harry said lightly.

The smile on Severus’s face vanished like the lingering rim of the sun as it set. Say yes, Harry thought fervently, keeping his gaze on the other Slytherin’s face. Please say yes…

“I, uh, found some information about”—shit, I didn’t find any information on anything yet!—“the… uh…” He searched his mind. “Kyrus the Cruel. His experimentations in the denial of dreams.”

“That was Mengele,” Severus said frostily. “Kyrus experimented on the denial of sleep; Mengele did the denial of dreams, because Rosemary Paean wasn’t alive in 1000 B.C.”

“Oh,” Harry said weakly, wondering who Rosemary Paean was. “That’s what I meant.”

Severus sneered. “Perhaps we might work on the project tomorrow. Today you need to prepare for the duel.” His eyes gleamed.

Harry felt a wave of glorious relief rush through him. “Right,” he said happily.

“Anyway, about the duel…” said Severus, clearing his throat, and Harry resigned himself to Severus’s detailed critique of James Potter’s dueling skills.

They stepped into McGonagall’s classroom, and suddenly Harry hesitated. In all the classes before, they had sat far apart—Harry in one corner in the back, and Severus in the other one. But Severus automatically pushed Harry towards one of the corners.

“You’re blocking the doorway,” he hissed.

Harry moved to one of the desks, and Severus immediately slipped into the seat to Harry’s left.

“Someone else sat there last time, I think it was Bulstrode…” Harry began, but Severus leveled him with a withering glare.

“The second stays with the dueler the entire day,” he lectured. “Didn’t you know that?”

“Not really,” said Harry. “I’m… I wasn’t raised in a wizarding family.”

Harry peered anxiously at Severus’s face from the corner of his eyes.

“I see,” Severus said coldly.

Damn it, Harry thought. Why’d I have to go reminding him of that? But no, that was the wrong thing to be thinking. He had to shift Severus’s attitude about Muggleborns. He wondered if the Snape of twenty years later would still carry those prejudices. Harry blinked as he realized he didn’t rightly know. Shows how little I knew of him back then, Harry thought, feeling strangely regretful.

They were spared any further conversation when McGonagall swept into the room.

“Where are Potter and Black?” she asked, glaring at their empty seats. “Late again?” She sighed and sat down. “I must—”

Just then, Potter and Black came tumbling in through the door.

“Sorry,” Black said breathlessly, brushing some hair out of his eyes. “We were—um—”

“Delayed,” said Potter.

“Yeah, delayed,” Black agreed quickly. “By Peeves.”

Potter nodded.

McGonagall glared at them. Then she switched her attention to Potter and said, in a colder voice than Harry had ever heard her use, “Must I remind you, James Potter, that you are Head Boy, and that you are expected to be a model of proper conduct?”

Potter blanched. “S-sorry, Prof—”

“You understand, don’t you, that such behavior may warrant a loss of certain privileges?”

Potter swallowed and nodded. He walked unsteadily to his seat, and flinched when Lily gave him an incinerating glance.

Severus snickered loudly, but Potter seemed too shaken to respond. Black, on the other hand, gave the Slytherin a nasty grin.

“Ignore him,” Harry said quietly.

Severus gave Harry an irritable look.

“Today, class, we will be exploring Animagus transformations,” McGonagall announced.

The entire class broke into excited whispers—except for the Marauders, who all smiled smugly, almost at the same time. Harry glanced to his side and noticed that Severus had a very dark look on his face.

McGonagall cleared her throat. The class quieted. “The Animagus transformation process is extremely difficult and most of you”—she leveled her gaze at the class—“will not be able to achieve successful transformations.”

Black smirked in Severus’s direction. Harry quelled the urge to do something violent to the Gryffindor.

“The process of Animagus transformation begins with an understanding of your animal, often termed the spiritus animans. There is a simple spell that can be used to identify this animal, and…”

Harry frowned. He felt a tendril of magic unfurl from where Black and Potter were sitting, wearing inscrutable masks of innocence. But the magic wasn’t heading towards Severus. It drifted over McGonagall’s shoulder and brushed the blackboard.

“…you will enter the consciousness of the animal and be able to identify characteristics such as the presence of fur or feathers, scales or—”

Harry narrowed his eyes, watching the chalk write itself on the board. He had seen that handwriting before on the Marauder’s Map. He felt Severus stiffen beside him.

McGonagall paused. Then she turned around. A few Gryffindors burst into fits of giggles.

‘Be sure to bring along some bandages,’ the board said. ‘You’ll have to bandage Frost’s arse really good, Snivellus!’

Harry sighed in annoyed boredom. “Very funny,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at Severus, but to his surprise, Severus’s face was paler than usual, and his nostrils had flared in anger. It’s not even a very clever jab, Harry thought, quickly running through the message, searching for any significance.

“Black, Potter!” McGonagall barked.

“We didn’t do anything!” Black exclaimed, dripping with mock innocence. “Did we, James?”

Potter looked much more hesitant than his partner-in-crime. Afraid to lose your Head Boy badge? Harry thought. “Ah—Sirius is right, we—”

McGonagall whipped her attention towards Potter. “I recall having warned you about the suspension of certain privileges merely five minutes ago!” she stormed.

Potter turned white, and Black suddenly faltered.

“Professor!” a voice piped up. “It was me. I did it.”

Harry turned, startled by the voice of Peter Pettigrew.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” McGonagall snapped.

“It’s true, I did,” Pettigrew insisted.

Harry took a deep breath. Pettigrew’s voice annoyed him like nothing else in the world could. The sneaking traitor, he thought before taking a deep breath. How he got into Gryffindor, I’ll never know…

“Very well,” McGonagall said briskly. “Fifteen points from Gryffindor for this disruption, and detention tonight with Filch.”

“Yes, Professor,” Pettigrew said meekly. McGonagall turned around and with a swish of her wand erased the message from the board.

The rest of the class was rather subdued. Harry noticed that Severus seemed unduly affected by the prank, becoming more snappish and more sullen, especially after the spiritus animans spell refused to work.

“You beat him, Frost,” he said suddenly. Harry looked back startled, caught in the path of Severus’s gaze. “I’m going to make sure that you beat Potter and Black,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded. I’ll beat them, he thought fiercely. They won’t know what’s hit them.

The moment stretched too long, and when Harry tore his gaze away, his heart was pounding. He knew what it was: Voldemort’s lust, but—why was he letting it win? He could suppress what hatred Voldemort had for Muggleborns. He could defeat this as well—he had to.

He turned away from Severus and found himself reaching into his bookbag. Ah, he thought, pulling out the notes.

“What’re these?” Severus asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Harry said dismissively, flipping the parchment so the writing faced the desk.

Severus narrowed his eyes, but before he could pursue it, McGonagall dismissed class with their assignment (“Attempt the spiritus animans spell and read chapter three!”).

Harry slipped out of his chair and scanned the classroom. Black was waiting impatiently with Pettigrew and Lupin at the doorway of the classroom, but Potter was lingering somewhere between Lily and his friends.

Harry walked to where Lily was stuffing books into her bag, stoically ignoring everyone else.

“Lily,” Harry said.

Lily looked up, surprise written on her tired face. Then she frowned. “Jonathan,” she said flatly.

Harry held out the parchment. “Here are the notes I took of last night,” Harry said, ignoring Potter’s approach. “They’re not very good, I’m afraid, but at least they’re something.”

Lily took the parchment and gave it a quick glance. “Thank you,” she said hesitantly. “I… I’m sorry at breakfast, I realize I was sticking my nose in business that’s not mine, but—”

I wonder if she knows what Potter’s terms are? Harry wondered before he felt—and let—Potter seize him by his upper arm and pull him roughly away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Gryffindor snarled.

“James!” Lily shrieked just as McGonagall, from the other side of the classroom, snapped, “Potter!”

Potter let go, but his face was contorted with hatred and rage. “I’ll get you,” he muttered before turning around and storming off.

“I don’t understand him,” Lily sighed. “I mean, I thought he was getting better…”

“Mm,” said Harry, noticing Severus stalk out the classroom. “Actually, his terms for this duel are for me never to speak to you again.”

“What?” Lily blurted out.

“Yes, well, I’ll see you later,” Harry said, moving to catch up to Severus.

Lily reached over to grab her bag. “Jonathan! Wait—”

Harry hurried out of class, looking up and down the corridor—he caught sight of Severus, cutting through the crowd with his characteristic stalk. Harry quashed the urge to shout, to tell Severus to slow down—instead he pushed his way forcefully after the other Slytherin, muttering a stream of “Excuse me” and “Pardon”.

They were heading down an empty flight of stairs towards the dungeons before Harry shouted, “Severus! Wait!”

To Harry’s relief, the other Slytherin slowed.

“What did you call me?” Severus snapped as Harry hurried until they were shoulder to shoulder.

“What? Oh”—damn it, Harry cursed himself—“I called you by your first name. Severus. I’m sorry if you don’t want me to call you that,” Harry said quickly, as Severus opened his mouth. “It won’t happen again. If you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t,” Severus snapped.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Well. Okay. Snape.”

“What was it that you were doing with that mudblood?” Snape snapped, resuming his breakneck stalk. “What were you doing that you needed to take notes on?”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but I, too, am a Muggleborn,” Harry answered with matching asperity. Severus increased his speed. “Stop running away!” Harry shouted.

Severus stopped and spun around. “What were you doing with her?” he snarled.

“Why were you ignoring me for the past few days?” Harry countered.

The anger suddenly drained out of Severus’s face, and Harry wondered more than ever what the answer might be. He hadn’t meant to ask it, but the words had tumbled out on their own accord, and now an urgent curiosity had awakened within him.

“Nothing,” Severus muttered. “Nothing to do with you…”

“Oh, come on,” Harry insisted. “Tell me. It had to have dealt with me—it was me you were ignoring, remember?” Harry cast his mind around for answers. “Was it something I said? Was it about Lily?”

“No!” Severus snapped. “Just leave it. You’ve got a duel with Potter today, and you shouldn’t be arguing about—”

“Then tell me!” Harry interrupted forcefully. “Was it something I did?” He thought back—hard—to what had happened then. He remembered doing the first ritual with Lily… but it didn’t seem to be Lily—what could it be? Suddenly a memory surfaced. “Was it because I slipped into a coma in the middle of the night?”

Severus’s face suddenly drained of color and Harry felt his stomach fill with lead. Shit, he thought. How the hell am I going to explain this?

“Wait—Se-Snape, don’t go!”

He flung out a hand and grabbed the other Slytherin by his upper arm. Severus gave a furious jerk, but Harry kept his grip, not without a little help of wandless magic. He could feel the wiry sinews working against his hand.

“Stop struggling,” Harry ordered in his calm-the-aurors voice. He yanked hard—and Severus tottered off balance, one hand fumbling for his wand—they bumped, Severus’s shoulder into Harry’s chest. Harry’s other hand darted out, grabbing Severus before he could reach his wand, and then he shifted his grip, locking his hands around Severus’s wrists. “Stop it. Look at me.”

Severus looked up, breathing hard. Harry stared into those eyes—black, utterly black in the dimness of the corridor. “Please,” Harry said, at length. “I won’t judge you for it. Tell me, please.”

Severus looked down, still breathing hard, and the curtain of his fair fell before his face. Harry looked down too, and saw his hands around Severus’s wrists—his roughened fingers, scarred from battles, around Severus’s, fine-boned and golden in the darkness. He’s so close, Harry thought, and wanted to pull a bit, to lean forward, to mingle their breaths, to—

Footsteps.

Harry let go and took a step back. He looked up and saw someone coming down the flight of stairs.

“Lestrange,” Harry acknowledged with a cool nod of his head.

“Frost,” Lestrange replied, striding calmly down the last steps and pausing to look appraisingly at them.

Severus turned and left, his robes snapping at his heels as he made his way to the Slytherin Common Room. Harry lifted one arm halfway—an almost imperceptible movement beneath his robes—but he stilled it, and let his arm drop.

“A difficult catch,” Lestrange sighed. “Tough one, isn’t he.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said harshly and mounted the stairs.

“Oh, but you do,” Lestrange murmured. Harry ignored it, climbing up into the light and walking swiftly to the library.

________________________________________

Harry saw little of Severus for the rest of the day. After a solitary lunch and Arithmancy, he’d marched into the library and read a few passages on dueling etiquette. Apparently, Hogwarts had its own impressive legacy of duels, though the numbers had dwindled of late. Unsurprisingly, most were between Gryffindors and Slytherins, and the Slytherin side usually won. Cunning over brawn, Harry thought.

After his research session, he’d devoured a hefty early dinner in the kitchens and then snuck into his dormitory, dawdling only a bit in the common room to see if Severus would arrive. But when Severus hadn’t shown, Harry had sighed and set the timer before trying to regain as much sleep as possible, automatically casting the locking, silence, and perimeter charms as he did so.

He awoke at 11:45. Well, that gives me plenty of time, Harry thought, flinging himself out of bed and dressing quickly. He splashed some water on his face before peering into Severus’s room. As he had expected, there was nobody there besides the ponderously snoring Crabbe. Excellent, thought Harry, quietly transferring Dumbledore’s tracking spell onto the other Slytherin before heading to the kitchens for some wake-up coffee.

When he reached the trophy room, it was 12:01.

“Where were you?” Severus hissed when Harry walked in. “I searched for you the entire day, and you weren’t in your library, or the common room, and I couldn’t get into your dormitory.”

“I cast a locking and silencing spell,” Harry said distractedly. “Calm down. We’ll win.” Silencing charms, perimeter charms all set—good, he catalogued. At least the Marauders know what they’re doing. No disturbances from Filch tonight.

Black, from the other side of the room, snorted. “Keep dreaming, Frost.”

Harry cast an eye about the trophy room. He’d been there several times before, but he’d never really loitered: mulling over old glories and past grandeur did little in times of war. The light was dim, provided by the torches along all four walls. Shadows stretched where the orange light didn’t gleam, but Harry could clearly make out the Gryffindors’ faces, pale but determined, as well as two others standing behind Potter and his second.

“So you’ve brought your entire gang, Potter,” Harry said, his voice breaking the silence.

Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin shifted. Lupin stifled a yawn while Pettigrew thrust his chin forward in defiance. Harry curled his lips.

“There’s nothing wrong with an audience,” Black countered.

Harry shrugged. “Of course there isn’t.”

Black was wearing what Harry thought must have been traditional duelist robes: close fitting with abruptly wide sleeves and a glaring ensign on the back and chest. Harry glanced at Potter and noticed that he was wearing the same. It looks much better on Black, though.

“Have you decided on your terms?” Potter asked sharply.

Um, no, Harry thought. He glanced at Severus, but Severus was busy glaring death at the Gryffindors. At least he’s not wearing one of those ridiculous garments, thought Harry. But it’s not his school robes, either. He frowned. It was a dress robe—tattered, old, but clearly in the style for balls or dances.

Severus turned, then, and met Harry’s gaze before looking away quickly. Is he ashamed of what he wears? Harry wondered, feeling his heart wrench in compassion.

“Decided yet?” Black called.

“Hurry up, Frost,” Severus said flatly. “Name your terms.”

“Very well,” Harry said at last. “As the challenged, I shall name my terms: that from this night, you should remain faithful to Lily Evans for a year and a day.”

There was a definite pause. “What!—that’s—” Black was sputtering, eyes wide, “James! He’s basically forcing you into celibacy, and it’s our seventh year—what about Amanda Wilkinson or that Ravenclaw prefect—what was her name?—”

“Cool it, Sirius,” Potter snapped, a look of calm determination on his face. “I accept your terms.” Harry felt magic shift again, like changing threads in a tapestry.

“But James—” Black whined ineffectually before Potter gave him a withering look.

Harry nodded. “I believe that the seconds are to attempt a reconciliation at this step.”

Severus snorted and Black sighed in disgust.

“Hey, I researched about dueling etiquette in the library,” Harry said quietly to Severus, smiling slightly as he turned.

“Right, researching perfectly useless customs instead of finding me to get techniques for beating him!” Severus hissed in response. “His attacks are based mostly in Transfiguration, and I could give you his attack pattern if you—”

“Ready?” Black called. “I assume no reconciliation is necessary, right?”

Severus silenced and stepped back, still glaring angrily at nothing in particular. “Right,” he barked before Sirius could issue a foghorn-like yell again.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said softly, ignoring Black’s hollering. “I’ll win.”

Severus snorted again, but Harry turned and took out his wand.

“Ready?” Black shouted. “On the count of three. One—two—”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted. “I want to add another term.”

Harry felt the stares of five pairs of eyes.

“You can’t do that,” Black said blankly. “You’ve already named and agreed on the terms. Now you have to fight it out.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten the duel between Eteocles and Polynices? The two of them named forty-seven terms—each—before the duel itself. Of perhaps you haven’t heard of the duel between Cynthia de Cygnus and the Duchess of Avion? The Duchess named twelve separate terms while Cynthia named twelve conditions pertaining to the duel before the two sparred.”

Black and Potter shared identical looks of confusion. Harry heart Severus behind him sniff scornfully.

“What’s your new term, then?” Potter asked.

“As the challenged, I shall name my second term,” Harry said, “That every time for a year and a day that you speak ill of or partake in hostile action towards Severus Alexander Snape, you will suffer an immediate vindication.”

Harry finished and cast a cautious glance in Severus’s direction. Their gaze met for a brief moment before Harry’s gaze flickered to the flummoxed Gryffiindors. The expression in those eyes was unfathomable, but Harry felt his heartbeat speeding. At least he’s not biting my head off, he thought weakly. Yet.

“Another term!” Pettigrew wailed. “That’s cheating!”

“Shut up, Peter,” Black said automatically. “Refuse his terms, James. He’s trying to protect Snivellus, now isn’t that touching.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Severus tense. Don’t let them rile you up, Severus, he thought. Please. Accept this.

“That’s cheating!” Pettigrew insisted. “He should lose—automatically.”

“It’s not cheating at all. The challenger may add his own terms,” Harry said lightly, though he wished he could throttle the little traitor. He directed his attention to Black. “Perhaps you would like to know how I know certain things?”

Black stopped short. He and Potter exchanged a glance.

“Very well,” Potter said slowly. “As the challenger, I shall name my second term: that you should ingest Veritaserum and answer any questions I may ask for an hour and a minute.”

“Unacceptable,” Harry said immediately. “Interrogation under Veritaserum for an hour and a minute? Do you even know how much Veritaserum that would need?” Only three drops, but they don’t need to know that.

Potter flushed. “Fine, for… for eleven minutes.”

Harry smirked. So it has to be something and a bit, he thought. How quaint. “Do you accept my second term?”

Potter nodded. “I accept your second term.”

“Then I accept your second term,” said Harry, and he felt the magic working again, knotting up words and spells in the air above them.

“Right,” said Black. “On the count of three. One—two—”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted a second time. “I—”

“Not another term!” Black exploded.

Harry felt something move behind him. He tensed as Severus gripped his arm tightly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Frost?” Severus hissed. Harry felt the other Slytherin’s breath tickling his air, like the most elusive of seraphs. “You read about what happens if too many terms are named, it causes too many repercussions—”

“Severus, calm down,” Harry said loudly, not looking in Severus’s direction, though his entire body had tensed up. It was difficult to think with Severus so close that he could feel his heat in the cold of the night. “As the challenged, I name my third term.”

“I refuse anymore terms,” Potter declared, looking annoyed.

Harry ignored him. “That the same conditions of my second term apply to Sirius Terebellum Black, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus John Lupin.”

“What the hell!” Black swore. “That’s—that’s—”

“How did you know my middle name?”

There was a silence after Lupin quietly uttered his question. The werewolf’s face was pale, but he seemed to have maintained his composure.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I might tell you if Potter wins this duel.”

“But you can’t just apply terms to people who aren’t actually the duelists or their seconds!” Black shouted. “That’s common sense!”

“Of course,” Harry said calmly. “That is what I’m asking.”

Black stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

But before Harry could say anything, Severus snarled, “Are you crazy? Either you are the most deranged and unbalanced idiot I have ever met, or you are severely mentally challenged! How can you think of taking on all of them at once?”

“All of us?” Black gaped.

“That’s madness!” Severus hissed.

“No,” Harry said forcefully, sternly, but not unkindly. He reached out his hand and took Severus’s wrist, pulling the other Slytherin’s hand off of his arm. He’s too close, Harry thought, taking in the anger on the sharp-featured face, the fierce eyes, the feel of breathless air rushing over his neck and face. “There’s no way I can lose,” Harry said gently.

“You—!”

“Trust me,” Harry said, voice low. He locked his gaze with Severus’s. Believe me, he thought. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he could simply reach into Severus’s mind and bend his will like a rag doll—but he didn’t want that. No. He wanted…

“You’re crazy,” Severus said forcefully, his voice a little hoarse. He drew back and Harry let go, suddenly aware of the Gryffindors at the other end of the shadowy room, suddenly aware of the storm of emotions in him.

He turned away. You’re letting him go undefeated, he thought angrily. Show more strength!

“I probably am,” Harry said curtly. “But I’m still going to win.” He turned to face the Marauders. “My third term for all four of you at once. Will you take it?”

Potter and Black exchanged glances. Lupin and Pettigrew leaned in, whispering.

Harry gave a little chuckle. “It’s somewhat difficult to believe that four Gryffindors are afraid of being beaten by only one Slytherin.”

Black lifted his head and glared. “Well, when it comes to the obvious fact that Slytherins cheat—”

“Afraid that I’ll have something up my sleeve?” Harry asked, arching an eyebrow. With slow deliberation, he unfastened his robe and slid it off, tossing it into a bundle in a corner. “You will notice that I have no sleeves,” he said dryly.

He was wearing a black shirt without sleeves, tucked in securely to his trousers—old jeans that he’d gotten God-knows-when ago. It was what he wore through his training in the Nest and what he wore in practice rounds with the Aurors. The shirt and jeans were rather small now, but they were comfortably tight, with none of the swishing of cumbersome robes. In actual combat, he’d wear a big swath of cloak-like garments on top of enchanted, form-fitting gear; the cloaks were mostly for distraction, providing an incorrect target to enemy crossfire, but most of the protective spells were woven into his flesh or the layer of clothing closest to it.

“Decided yet?” Harry called.

“We accept,” Potter said at last, while giving Harry a disgusted once-over. Harry was about to tell Potter to declare it formally, but he felt the magic moving through the air in affirmation. “But what are the terms of defeat? And seconds?”

“Defeat would be if none of you are standing,” Harry said, “And you don’t need seconds. In the duel between Lilith of the Wood and—”

“Shut up already,” Black interrupted. “Anymore terms?”

“Yes, actually,” Harry said. He raised a hand when the Gryffindors began to squawk in indignation. They silenced. Harry smirked inwardly. Works every time, he thought. It’s near impossible to beat antsy aurors. “As the challenged, I shall name my fourth term: that you will not speak of this duel to anyone—not even yourselves—for a year and a day.”

There was a silence. “Why?” Black asked suspiciously.

Harry shrugged. “Because I am merciful and would like to give you an excuse for your silence after being utterly beaten.”

Black snorted. “Fancy that. Do you want to work a new condition into this, James? Like perhaps have this snake accept ten shots before counterattacking?”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” Harry said. “I am willing to let you take five and one shots at me before I counterattack if you accept my fourth term.”

Severus swore. “I refuse! As this idiot’s second, I refuse—”

“The second has no say in the terms,” Harry interrupted, turning to face the other Slytherin. Don’t succumb to Voldemort’s lust, he warned himself, be careful—fight it— He held his breath.

“Ready?” Black shouted.

He’s so close, so close, Harry thought. He could feel Severus’s breath on his face; he could see the flicker of uncertainty, anger, exasperation, fear, a different kind of fear, one that sent shivers down Harry’s spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with the caress of cool night air; Harry could feel the warmth of Severus’s body—so close—

“One—”

It’s lust! Harry’s mind screamed. Voldemort’s lust!

“Two—”

He thrust out and hand and shoved Severus, hard enough that the other Slytherin staggered back into the wall and out of the line of fire—

“Three!”

Harry ducked and rolled in a smooth movement, feeling the scorching path of a spell veer overhead and smash into the wall at the back.

He leapt lightly to his feet. “One!” he shouted.

Two spells came at once. Idiots should at least attempt a wide-ranger, he thought as he darted out of the way, feeling a third one—ah, this is better, wide-ranged at last—sweep towards him like an inexorable ocean wave—

He stood and steeled himself, and let the last spell wash around him like river water around a boulder.

“Two, three, and four!” he shouted. He caught a satisfying glimpse of the Marauder’s faces, their mouths agape and eyes wide. And then he couldn’t resist—he turned and sneaked a fast glance in Severus’s direction. What’s in his mind? Harry wondered, for the black eyes were hidden in shadow—what is he thinking—

Severus stirred, lifting his head slightly, and Harry saw an anxious light in those eyes—

Harry twisted out of the way, felt the spell curve in its path towards him, felt another veering through the air—

He ducked at the last moment and whispered a shielding spell above his head. The two spells collided, and he felt magic shiver in waves through the air and over him like rain.

He rose. “Five and one other,” he said in a low voice.

The Marauders shifted. Black nudged Pettigrew, and the traitor scuttled towards the side. At least they know to spread out, Harry thought. Lupin had a look of concentration on his face; Potter, a look of wariness and—yes. Fear.

Harry smiled. He lifted his wand. Black tensed.

“Stupefy!” Pettigrew squeaked.

Harry slashed down his wand in anger—the damn traitor had broken the moment, and Harry could feel three other spells hurtling towards him—

“Obturbo!” Harry hissed, remembering in time to hide his skill in wordless magic. Magic shot snaked through the air and hit the traitor. Harry smirked as he swept his wand in a wide arc, and the three other spells dissipated. Should’ve blabbered something, Harry thought, hopefully they won’t notice—

“PETER!” Black roared. “What the hell are you doing—?” Pettigrew was wandering confusedly, and Harry watched in horror and amusement as the rat traitor threw himself at Black’s feet and clung to the other Gryffindor’s legs, snuggling his face between Black’s two legs—

With a shout, Black staggered and fell backwards.

Harry sneered, and then turned towards Potter. He saw the spell approach, a violent rush of red. Shall I duck, or block? he wondered. It was thrilling—thrilling to fight, to conquer, to defeat these fools—it was thrilling to be powerful—

The most powerful in the world—

He stretched out his wand. The spell hissed and sparked and coalesced into a struggling coil around his wand, writhing like a tangled beast. He snapped his wrist, and the magic flew back, faster than it arrived. Lupin’s face widened in momentary shock, and then he collapsed in a boneless heap.

“Moony!” Black cried, his voice strangled. “Get—off—you—little—”

“Give him a little slack, won’t you?” Harry murmured, but his voice echoed and reechoed in the room like a roll of thunder, a roll of thunder that carried within a sibilant note—as though the sound came from the moving coils of a great snake.

Harry pointed his wand, and Black froze. Relax, Harry thought. Let the pathetic traitor satisfy his dreams for once. Black relaxed, lying on the ground with empty eyes as Pettigrew eagerly straddled his chest—

Harry stepped aside, annoyed, as a volley of spells rained down at him from Potter’s direction. The little squirt. Did he think he could challenge me?

“Sirius, snap out of it!” Potter shouted.

“I’m afraid he’ll be quite unable to ‘snap out of it,’ as you say,” Harry whispered. His voice resonated in the air like a thousand hisses. Potter’s eyes widened, and he took a step back.

Harry stepped forward.

“Your friends have fallen, Potter,” he said quietly. “How does it feel like to be the last alive? How does it feel like to be alone—when all your friends have abandoned you, when all you have left is the memory of their hate!” He felt power surging through him. The trophies shivered on their stands; the medals shook, clattering against their glass cases.

Potter stumbled back.

Harry lifted his wand—

“Frost! Don’t—don’t kill him.”

Harry stilled and turned.

Severus stood before him, and the light fell across his face like a cascade of jewels. He is so beautiful, Harry thought, a terrible heat blazing to life within him. And he is mine—

He felt a spell rushing towards him—

He swiped his wand through the air, and the spell shattered. But it was a strong spell, and he felt the waves of its broken magic fan across his face.

“Potter…” he growled, taking a step forward.

Potter suddenly fell to the ground, his eyes bulging in terror and his lips trembling—he made a strangled sound in his throat…

Harry heard a gasp. He flicked his wand; a looming trophy of a stocky mermaid shifted aside.

“Lestrange?” Harry hissed as the black-haired prefect staggered forward. “What—”

But he stopped, because he saw a look of fear and awe on the pale, aristocratic face. Lestrange fell suddenly to his knees, his eyes glowing in the torchlight.

“Master?” he whispered, and Harry felt the voice echo and echo and echo in his heart, his soul…

He felt trapped—trapped between the gaze of adulation in Lestrange’s eyes and the look of wild terror in Potter’s. He backed away. Something was wrong.

He turned suddenly. His heart tore when he saw Severus pull back as though struck.

He strode to a smooth shield looked at his reflection.

A face stared back—the face he had seen in the Nest. A face with the Dark Mark across one side—a face with a ghastly smile—a face with one terrible red eye—

He couldn’t hold in the strangled cry that wrenched from his lips. No, he thought, his mind a ruin of scattered thoughts. No! He was trapped, trapped by those looks of fear and awe and—

He turned desperately to Severus, but Severus flinched. His heart shattered.

This can’t be, Harry thought. The thrill of the duel, of defeating and conquering and winning and power—all that had faded utterly. Disaster control, he thought. Memory charms—memory charms—

“Master—” Lestrange whispered.

“Stupefy!” Harry shouted. Lestrange scuttled across the floor and slammed into the wall. “Obliviate!” he hissed. “Stupefy!”

“No!” Potter choked—

“OBLIVIATE!” Harry thundered before he lost his nerve. Potter’s eyes instantly went blank. He’ll only know that he was defeated, but he will not remember this. “Stupefy,” Harry said hoarsely, and let the spell spread, until all the Marauders lay, unconscious, on the floor.

He turned. Severus! he thought with anguish.

Severus stared, face a sickly hue in the torchlight. Harry wished he could disappear now, wished he could vanish, wished he could throw himself at Severus’s feet and cry, No! I am not Voldemort! I am not. I am only Harry, or Jonathan—don’t go, don’t leave—

“Severus—” he croaked.

Severus took a step back.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. “Please. Let me explain. I…” I am not a monster. There is a monster in me—but I am not a monster! Believe me, please. I am only… Jonathan Frost.

He only realized he had said it aloud by the look on Severus’s face.

He swallowed and took a step forward. “It’s the truth,” he whispered.

Severus didn’t move. They were an arm’s length apart now, and Harry felt a terrible longing—an aching he didn’t know—

“Say something,” Harry managed, wishing Severus would look at his eyes. But Severus’s gaze stayed stubbornly on his chest, unable to look up…

Harry stopped his advance, waiting. Slowly, he lifted his arm. Stripped of its glamour charms, the scars were clearer than ever. He held his arm there, waiting eternity after eternity.

Severus took it.

It was like dancing, Harry thought. He moved and Severus moved, and then Harry felt the bony body against his, the tattered robes against his skin, the greasy hair against his cheek. His throat choked, and words died before they could form.

This is lust, his mind reminded him. Voldemort’s lust. But was it? He could feel the bones of Severus’s back as he held the other man. Was this Voldemort’s lust? Or was it something all his own. Something that was his and his alone.

All mine. He squeezed Severus to him so tightly he thought he must leave bruises, but Severus didn’t pull away. Severus was here, staying in his embrace. This is madness, he thought giddily. This is a wonderful madness. It is that, and more, more, more. It was thing he only knew the names of; it was things that frightened him. It was things so beautiful and terrible he didn’t dare name.

Severus.

He let go at last, reluctantly but remembering that they were out in the middle of the night with five unconscious students lying haphazardly among toppled trophies and medals.

“Should we wake them up?” Harry murmured at length. He knew he was smiling; he could feel it on the unfamiliarity of his face. He felt like a five-year old let loose in a toyshop.

Severus shook his head. “No,” he said thickly. “Just leave them.” You’re smiling too, Harry thought, and he wanted to take the other Slytherin in his embrace again, but he picked up his robes instead.

They moved silently, because of Filch and because an unwary word might break whatever it was that lay between them. But Harry noticed, with thrill after thrill, that they walked more closely than two mere friends should, that on occasion, their hands would brush, and they would stare ahead in the darkness, pretending it didn’t happen.

They reached the Slytherin Common Room at last. Harry opened the door to the Seventh Year dormitory and paused a moment.

“Sleep in my room,” Harry murmured. Everything needed to be quiet, as quiet as a heartbeat. “Please.”

“But my bed…”

“I can conjure one,” Harry interrupted fiercely. I need you. “Remember what you said about waking me up when I had nightmares?”

Severus’s eyes darkened. Don’t even think of leaving, Harry thought, grabbing one thin wrist. “Tell me. What is it?” He kept his voice low, as gentle as the sound of Hogwarts sleeping.

“I—” Severus swallowed. He looked down and his voice was choked and miserable when he spoke. “I made you fall into that coma.” He looked up tremulously. “I was mad at you, over something stupid, and so when you were in your nightmare, I didn’t wake you up.” He paused. “I was—I could have killed you.”

Harry blinked, digesting it. “But I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you expect me to blame you?”

Severus’s eyes flashed suddenly. “It is my fault, don’t deny it. You’re much safer with a house-elf.”

Harry snorted. “Dumbledore’s house-elf, which he sent to spy on me? Not likely. And I forgive you, as long as you wake me up in the future.”

Severus swallowed. “Don’t be an idiot. I can’t promise anything.”

“Not even that?”

“You’d be trusting me with your life—me, a perfect stranger.”

“I do trust you,” Harry said. With my life, several times over. “Even if you hate me, even if you are furious at me—you’d still wake me up, if you promise it.” I know you, Severus Snape, even if you don’t know yourself. Better than I know myself. “Sleep with me?”

Severus swallowed. For a moment, Harry wondered if he was going to cry.

“Yes, if you wish,” Severus said, and his voice was even.

A long while later, Harry lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Severus breathe in his bed (transfigured from a chair). Harry felt tired, but only distantly.

He was content. Almost happy.

You’ll have to leave, a voice whispered in his head. You’ll have to leave him, eventually.

Harry turned over, trying to shut that voice up. It was too late now, he told himself. Too late to go back to where they were.

His mind tossed and turned, and he thought back to the duel, of the wave after wave of vicious anger as he fought. That is Voldemort, not me, he thought, frowning at the ceiling. There has to be something in the Nest about it. I’ll find it, and destroy that monster, mind, body, and soul. His resolution seemed to echo in his mind, like a declaration made in the hollow of a mountain. His darkness I do not acknowledge mine.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

XI. 

A nebulous being for which he’d forgotten the term—or perhaps never known it. Someone to sit next to on a summer day. Someone to touch in the firelight. A lover, a friend?

His mind reeled from sleepiness as he sat up, all the while contemplating what scraps he had of his dream. It was pleasant, he remembered. The blankets fell away and he shivered. Cold air hit him like a shock of icy water, and the darkness was deeper than he could remember it ever being.

He had to go piss.

Harry hissed when his bare feet touched the ground. Why, he thought, is it so freaking cold? He held his hands before his face and squinted as the dim orb swelled out of nothingness. As he glanced at the fireplace, he realized that it was empty. Lifeless. The house-elves had forgotten to tend it.

Wafting the ball of light before him, he crept, trembling, outside the room. It’s so much warmer here, he thought, feeling the warmth curl about him like wisps of smoke. How could the house-elves forget? They never forgot.

Unless they hadn’t forgot. He concentrated on aiming at the toilet bowl as he quelled memories of red-tinted darkness and a cringing form whimpering Master…

He flushed. Even the loo was warmer than his room. There was at least an hour before he’d have to wake up properly, and sleep was a precious commodity. He stole back into his room—

Severus! Memories from last night rushed over him and he hurried to Severus’s bed, the orb of light bobbing ahead of him. How could he have forgotten? They had transfigured an extra quilt from the cushion on the chair, but the quilt hadn’t been very thick, and transfigured things had a troubling tendency to be unreliable.

Severus was curled up in a small ball, his long limbs wrapped around his pillow. Lying like this, he looked much smaller, much more child-like. He was shivering slightly, and his lean muscles were tensed from the cold. A bit of mist formed in front of his face with every exhalation.

Harry strode across the space between their beds and snatched his quilt. He flung it over the sleeping form and watched as Severus shifted slightly and frowned a bit deeper. Is he warm? Harry was about to transfigure another quilt from a parchment when he remembered the fireplace—he could light it and warm the room just as well that way. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?

He knelt before the fireplace, grateful for the hearthrug. God, it was cold! There was nothing in the grate besides ashes, but it didn’t matter—a magical fire would suffice.

“Burn,” he whispered, and watched the fire appear out of nothingness, a cheerful ball of red-orange flame. This will do, he thought and moved back to look at Severus. He’s stopped shivering now. He looks… peaceful. Harry watched and wondered if Severus was used to sleeping in the cold, was used to sleeping in a vast and empty room as comfortless and cruel as a cupboard or an orphanage.

No more, Harry thought with fierce determination. He very gently ran a hand on Severus’s cheek before picking up a sheet of parchment from his table and transfiguring it into a quilt for himself. He burrowed under it and turned his head so that he could watch Severus sleep.

Severus.

The room was warming up already, and the deep red light from the fire softened the edges that were harsh and cold under the pale light of lumos. Harry smiled. He couldn’t help it. It was ridiculous, but the world was such a wonderful place. Today, he was going to have breakfast (with Severus), and then he’d have Charms (without Severus, but he could think about Severus), and then there’d be lunch (with Severus), and then Defense (with Severus again), and then he’d have that chunk of free time—with Severus.

Severus.

It was hours later when his mind had drifted into a half-drowsy state of soporific daydreams that Severus stirred.

Harry kept still as he lay in the darkness. He could see a shadow of Severus’s face in the light from the fireplace—the hooked nose, the glint of half-lidded eyes. From outside, he could hear muffled footsteps.

Severus turned his face and then their eyes met. Harry blinked and suddenly felt a splinter of fear: what if Severus withdrew into his shell again? What if Severus decided to pretend that the night before hadn’t happened at all?

Severus blinked sleepily. “G’morning,” he muttered.

“Good morning,” Harry replied.

Severus frowned and shifted. Then he sat up. “Did you pile these quilts onto me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, sitting up as well.

“No wonder I feel hotter than a manticore’s belly,” Severus mumbled as he shifted out of his bed. Harry watched as the other Slytherin padded, without glancing back, out of the room, and shut the door behind him.

He’d going to the loo, Harry thought. A drift of cold air from outside settled across his skin. It doesn’t mean he’s decided to ignore me again. The door opened and Severus entered, blinking blearily as though he had just yawned.

“Good morning,” he said again. “So why did you decide to stifle me with quilts?”

Harry shifted so that his feet were on the floor. The ground was curiously warm. “It was cold at night,” Harry explained, watching Severus’s face. He could see little in the shadows of the room. “I woke up and found you shivering. So I got you an extra blanket.”

“It was cold last night?” Severus said, the edges of lips curling down in a frown.

“Yes. The house-elves had forgotten to light the fireplace. I lit it myself.”

“That’s…” Severus sat down and looked at the fireplace, then his bed. “I would never have thought that the house-elves would neglect to light the fire.” He paused and grabbed a handful of the quilt, looking at it closely. “This quilt is yours,” he said.

Harry nodded. “Yes,” he said with some apprehension. There were more footsteps from outside. Breakfast had begun some time ago; they would have to leave soon. “I transfigured mine from a parchment.”

Wordlessly Severus pulled the quilt on his bed into a ball and walked the distance between their beds.

“It’s not…”—Harry began as Severus solemnly handed him the quilt—“charity.”

“I know,” Severus said. Harry peered up anxiously. There was something in that voice, in that face, that he couldn’t place. Severus stayed where he was, clad only in his nightgown and standing before him. “I know it’s not charity,” he said softly.

Harry reached out a hand just as Severus did—and they clasped hands: a brief touch of the slender fingers in roughened palms that made Harry’s heart skip a beat. Then he stood and Severus moved away; Harry felt his hand tingling. “Breakfast will be over soon,” he said. “We have to hurry.”

“You’re a bad influence,” Severus said from the other side of the room, changing out of his nightgown. Harry sneaked a glimpse and quickly looked away. “I used to never eat breakfast.”

“Then I am your worst nightmare,” Harry proclaimed, pulling on his Hogwarts robes.

“I’m truly terrified,” Severus said dryly. “By the way, keep your socks on your side of the room, Frost.”

Harry continued, unperturbed. “And I shall corrupt you into becoming a cheerful morning person—”

Severus suddenly threw a balled-up sock at him, and Harry ducked behind his bed with a laugh.

“A disgustingly cheerful person who rises incredibly early and greets everyone with a jolly ‘hello.’” Harry climbed onto his bed and bounced on it while Severus folded his arms and sneered. “That was very immature of you, by the way,” Harry said, arching an eyebrow. “Almost—dare I say it?—Gryffindorish?”

Severus drew himself up to his full height and glared down imposingly. Harry smiled and picked up the sock Severus had thrown, and pulled into his left foot. “I resent that most unwarranted insult,” Severus said coldly. “And your socks don’t match.”

“It’ll start a new trend, I’m sure,” said Harry. “Do you want one of my socks? They’re very”—he reached into his trunk and found a snitch-dotted sock he’d bought in Diagon Alley with Dumbledore’s money—“vibrant.”

“How rather hideous,” Severus sneered.

Harry looked up happily, smiling, and they were silent for a quiet moment. Then Severus looked down—his eyes shuttered, his face inscrutable—and left the room. Harry finished pulling up his other sock and quickly followed, wondering what that last look had meant—indeed, what the entire morning had meant, for there had to have been something in it all. He remembered that moment when they had touched, and his heart fluttered again.

They entered the Great Hall some minutes later and took their usual seats. Harry glanced at the Gryffindor table and found the Marauders conspicuously missing—all except for Black, who rose from his seat and began making his way towards them.

Harry pretended not to notice the Gryffindor as he and Severus buttered their toasts. Severus, too, ignored Black, his face betraying nothing even when Snape planted himself defiantly in front of the Slytherin table.

“Frost,” Black greeted. Harry looked up with an uninterested look on his face. “And Snape.”

“Black,” said Severus in a supremely disdainful voice after a moment’s pause. He examined the sausage at the end of his fork before taking a bite. “Well, where are your friends? Have they left you at last?”

“Watch your tongue, Black,” Harry warned quickly as Black bristled like a cornered dog and took a step forward.

“Don’t think you frighten me,” he snarled as he advanced. “And don’t think you’ll prevent me from keeping my mouth shut about that dirty little—”

Black gave a sudden yelp as he slipped and crashed to the floor. Students all around glanced at the fallen Gryffindor and giggled; a few Slytherins laughed outright. Harry glanced at Severus and their eyes met—and then their amusement doubled, tripled; and Harry suddenly found himself laughing. It was silly, inexplicable, laughing over nothing at all, but it felt wonderful, as though his soul had been released from a cage; and Severus—Severus was smiling, smiling so widely it made him seem so young, and everything was wonderful.

“Don’t even try insulting Severus,” Harry said after he managed to curb his mirth. The Gryffindor clambered to his feet, smoothed his hair, and glared sulkily at everyone in sight. “You’ve been cursed. The terms of the duel hold.”

“Shut up, you snake,” Black spat. He turned to Severus. “If Snivellus here is so pathetic he can’t fend f—”

There was a sharp thud!, and Black winced and swore as he rubbed the back of his head.

“S-sorry!” a Hufflepuff first year squeaked, scurrying out of his seat and bending over to pick a saltshaker from the floor. “It must’ve slipped from my hand… I’m always clumsy like this, I—”

“Don’t blame the wrong person, Black,” Harry interrupted. Black swung his attention away from the Hufflepuff, and Harry smiled—tauntingly. If he had been alone, he wouldn’t have—but Severus was sitting next to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth, and Severus was smiling with a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Snape,” Black growled, leaning menacingly on the table. He was breathing hard, his hair as messy as Potter’s and his eyes a little wild. “You are the world’s slimiest, greasiest, disgust—most disgusting little f—”

“Sirius?”

Black whirled around. Standing there was Lily Potter and another girl, tall and good-looking with short brown hair. Harry gave Lily a quick smile, surprised that he hadn’t noticed her approach. He glanced at Severus, but Severus seemed suddenly absorbed in eating his toast.

“Amanda,” said Black, startled. “Why’re you here?”

Amanda looked the Gryffindor over critically. “Well, I got the—er—letter you sent me a few days back. I’m—flattered, really, and the roses were lovely. But I’m involved with Frank Longbottom right now—”

“What?” Black exploded. “Longbottom? That clumsy, stupid, pathetic little lowlife?”

“Lowlife? You’re the only lowlife here!” Amanda replied hotly. “You disgust me. And I heard you were beaten by the Slytherins last night.” She smiled maliciously and turned to Severus. “Good job, Snape.”

Severus shrugged. “It was Frost,” he said neutrally.

Harry smiled languidly, still pondering Severus’s suddenly aloofness. Was it the sudden appearance of these newcomers? “Piece of cake, really,” he said, picking up his glass of orange juice. “Too bad Black won’t be able to tell you about it.”

Amanda seemed about to say something, but Black pushed through and shoved his wand at Harry’s face.

“What have you to say now?” Black snarled, his wand quivering between Harry’s eyes. Harry ignored it, serenely drinking his orange juice.

“I’d take that wand back if I were you,” Severus hissed in a chilling tone. Harry glanced over and saw that Severus had his wand in his hand, ready and aimed with the poise of a coiled snake. He’s defending me, Harry thought, feeling as he’d never felt before as he saw the determination and fear in those black eyes.

“Shut it, Snivellus,” Black barked, wand still pointed at Harry’s face. “Nobody asked y—”

“SIRIUS BLACK!”

McGonagall’s voice echoed down the length of the Great Hall as she bore down upon them, her lips pressed ominously thin.

“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Threatening a fellow student, and in the Great Hall, during breakfast! Well, Mr. Black? I’m waiting for an explanation.”

Black opened and closed his mouth like a fish on land.

“Thirty points from Gryffindor and detention for a week with Mr. Filch,” McGonagall said shortly. “I want no more disturbances like this, Mr. Black. Nor from any of the rest of you.” She leveled her stare at the students, pausing a bit as she glared at Severus, before she swept off.

“Well done, Black,” Amanda remarked dryly. “I’ll be going now. I’ll see you in Ancient Runes, Lily. Bye.” She left without waiting for a reply.

“You heard what McGonagall said,” Harry said, taking another sip as though nothing at all happened. He was aware of Black twitching like a zombie struck by lightning. “You’re dismissed,” he continued airily when Black didn’t move.

Black hissed something under his breath, too quiet for Harry to hear. “You’ll get yours, Frost,” he snarled. “And you too, Sni—” He stopped, like a slavering hound being jerked on a leash. “Snape,” he finished.

“Good dogs follow instructions,” said Harry, taking satisfaction in the way Black’s face transformed with fear and suspicion. “Go on.”

Black gave one last, frightened snarl before he stormed off, bumping into quite a few people as he exited the Great Hall.

“Why do you call him a dog?” Lily asked.

“Because he acts like one,” Harry lied easily. He found himself wondering why Lily hadn’t followed Amanda or Black. Under the Gryffindor’s scrutiny, Severus didn’t even once glance at Harry, didn’t even seem to acknowledge Harry’s existence. It was just how Severus was like, Harry realized—Severus was a private person, as tense and solitary as the taunt string of a violin; but Harry wished they were back in their own room, alone and sequestered from the world.

“Yeah, well, I agree,” said Lily. “I tried to get him to allow us to go to the Black family library to find information, but he refused.”

“The Black family library?” Harry echoed. He remembered that decaying place of musty curtains and decapitated house-elves and wondered if Lily were insane to think she—a Muggle-born—could waltz into the library, even with the prodigal son’s permission.

“It’s got the most expansive collection of literature on the not-so-Light arts,” Lily said. She looked around, seemingly intrigued by the way the plates began to vanish. “I talked to Flitwick this morning, and he said we had permission to go to the Bibliotheca Caeca in Muggle London.”

Harry blinked. “The what?” He glanced at Severus, but Severus was quietly eating some toast.

“It was founded by a disciple of Nicholas Flamel, I think,” Lily explained. “It’s supposed to have one of the world’s biggest collections on ancient rituals. We ought to go take a look.”

“It’s in Muggle London?” Harry said, frowning, as his plate and unfinished sausage disappeared. Why hadn’t he heard of it before?

Lily nodded. “It’s weird, but Sirius said that’s how the old Black place is—hidden in plain sight. I was thinking of going later today—if that’s all right with you.”

He quashed his first impulse to say no. He didn’t want to go anywhere. All he wanted to do was to spend time with Severus, and he didn’t think Severus was going to be pleased if Harry spent too much time with Lily Evans. But he knew he needed to help Lily in order to cement the future, and there would be plenty of time tomorrow—Potions and Transfigurations and Defense.

“All right,” Harry said amiably.

“Great,” Lily smiled. “We have Charms next, don’t we?”

Harry suppressed a spike of irritation. Why couldn’t she just leave them be? With her here, Severus was as forthright as a clam, as aloof as a snowy peak. He wanted to be with him alone—if only for a little while.

Severus stood.

“You’re going?” Harry said, if only to hear Severus reply.

Severus nodded and gave Lily a cool, unreadable look. Then he turned with a swish of frayed robes and walked swiftly out of the Great Hall.

“He’s rather taciturn today,” said Lily.

Harry had to press down on his annoyance before replying. “Yeah, he is,” he replied. He stood and gathered his things in his arms without looking once in Lily’s direction. “Let’s go then.”

________________________________________

“You’re taking a camera with you?” Harry said, looking at the black contraption hanging from around Lily’s neck. It looked terribly outdated, but Harry reminded himself that this was the seventies.

“Yeah,” said Lily. She fingered her camera. “Petunia loves Trafalgar Square, with all those pigeons flying up at dusk. Mum and Dad took her there over the summer, but I was at a program for young Muggleborn witches, so I couldn’t go. Have you been to Trafalgar Square?”

Harry shook his head. They were walking down to Hogsmeade, their faces reddening from the brisk wind. Harry wondered if they might get something to drink before flooing to Diagon Alley and finding the Bibliotheca Caeca.

“It’s quite lovely,” she said conversationally. Hogsmeade was nearing; Harry could see the clutter of buildings and the rising smoke. Very little has changed, he thought warmly. But as he gazed fondly, an image flashed before his mind: of Hogsmeade, charred and gutted, a skeleton of what it had been. He felt the warmth leave his heart.

“Where do you live anyway?”

Harry glanced up. He couldn’t say Little Whinging in Surrey—that was where the Evans lived, after all, but he hadn’t lived anywhere else either. “In Barnton.” He had been once or twice, actually, to oversee a few auror operations.

“Barnton?” said Lily. “Where is that?”

“Somewhere near Liverpool,” Harry said simply. He strode forth and reached out to the handle of the Three Broomsticks, pulling the door and holding it open.

Lily smiled. “Thanks,” she said daintily and stepped in. The air was much warmer, and there was an air of contentment. A few witches chatted and giggled at one end of the otherwise empty bar, and an ugly gnome sat moodily in front of a tankard in a shady corner of the room.

“Why, hello!” said Madam Rosmerta. She tossed her hair back and moved to the fireplace with an energy that twenty years and two wars had worn away. Harry took a closer look at the room: there were few things that had changed from his memories, but it was the… feeling he had. There was an air of merriment in this room, a far cry from the gloom and shabbiness and desperate cheer he remembered.

“You are Lily Evans, and you Jonathan Frost?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Yes,” said Lily.

“Albus told me about you two and the project you were working on,” she said, winking.

“He did?” Lily said falteringly.

“Of course!” Rosmerta said. She passed the can of floo powder to them. He noticed Lily taking the can hesitantly before scooping out a rather sizable handful of powder. Perhaps floo powder becomes perfected in the future, he thought, following suit.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” Lily shouted, tossing in the powder. The fire flickered green, and she stepped in.

Harry moved up to the fireplace.

“Remember to stay focused,” Madam Rosmerta called just as Harry tossed in his floo powder. I hope she isn’t implying what I think she is, Harry thought, nearly inhaling a cloud of ashes as the endless hearths spiraled by.

“I don’t think Dumbledore told her what we’re really researching,” Lily said as Harry stumbled out of the floo. “I mean… We’re researching ancient rituals that tie together sacrifice and emotions. I just can’t imagine Madam Rosmerta smiling at that.”

“Neither can I,” said Harry, brushing soot from his robes. He still didn’t understand how some people could saunter out of the fireplace as though it were an open doorway.

“I wonder what Dumbledore told her,” Lily said as they wandered out of the Leaky Cauldron.

“Something harmless, I expect,” Harry said amiably. He watched the frown on Lily’s face clear before she shrugged slightly, as though resigning herself to the paradox of the venerable headmaster’s behavior. You owe me one, Albus, Harry thought. I might just have saved you a pawn. The ramifications swirled about him for a moment—this pawn, his mother, Lily Evans, soon to sacrifice her life for her son, who was selling her out to the cunning liar who blinded the world with his twinkling eyes.

The thoughts slid away, more easily than they had before, and he followed Lily out the exit of Diagon Alley.

“The library’s right over there,” said Lily, looking over her shoulder to talk to Harry. “We’re on Charing Cross R—ow!”

“S’ry,” a Muggle muttered as he shoved past.

“Anyway, we’re on Charing Cross Road, and down there is a bunch of bookshops,” said Lily. “The library’s hidden between two of them.”

“Clever of them,” said Harry, but he was distracted. A Muggle, dressed in the shabbiest of clothes and wearing a straggly beard, was staring at Lily unswervingly. Filthy old Muggle, Harry thought, moving so that he stood in the Muggle’s line of sight.

Lily glanced at him curiously before she pointed to a door that stood in a bush. “There it is.”

Harry stared at it. It was simply that: a door sprouting in the middle of a bush that grew between two Muggle bookstores. Carved on the door was a message, nearly indecipherable: “Praedamno spem, quisque haec iniit.”

“‘Abandon all ignorance, all ye who enter here?’” Harry translated. “Very interesting.”

“Yeah,” Lily said enthusiastically, wading into the bushes and grabbing the handle. A few Muggles gave them strange looks. “C’mon,” she said.

Harry followed suit, all the while wondering why he hadn’t heard of the library before. Chances were that it had been destroyed. He wondered if the books had been saved or if the entire thing had been annihilated. He wondered, too, which attack—from the first war—would destroy it.

“Wow…” Lily breathed, looking around with awe on her face. “This is… this is…”

Harry glanced about, taking in the inside of the library. It was quite small and gave the impression of being in an underground cavern. The walls and ceilings were carved directly from the stone, and one passage led away from the right while another disappeared to the left. A massive desk loomed in front of them, but nobody seemed to be there.

Lily’s voice had fallen to a hair of a whisper. “This—this is…”

“Nice,” Harry said. “Do we need a pass or a—thing of some kind to go in further?” He probed for some sort of hostile magic or defense perimeter, and found none. Perhaps this is why the whole thing got destroyed. He shook his head. Whoever founded this library was an idiot to trust in its immortality.

“Not so loud!” Lily hissed. “No, we don’t need anything like that because the philanthropist Ginevra Chaucer didn’t want any restrictions who could the library. Um.” She nudged him towards the passageway to the left. In a hushed voice, she said, “D’you suppose we go that way?”

“Why not?” Harry said, shrugging. He walked towards it, and Lily followed a few steps behind.

“Is there a cataloguing system of some sort?” Harry asked. “I can’t imagine Ginevra Chaucer intended us to sift through each and every book to—”

Lily gasped suddenly, cutting Harry off. “Oh…” She moved towards the center of the room. Harry followed, mystified. She bent in front of a small black cauldron. “It’s the cauldron of Cailleach!”

“Lily,” he said in a low, flat tone, the one he used to chill belligerent aurors and warn stubborn prisoners before interrogation.

“All right,” Lily whispered. She edged away reluctantly, her gaze still fluttering on the cauldron and the plaque in front of it. “What were you saying?”

“How are we going to find the books we want?” Harry repeated. “And after we find some books on ancient rituals, I want to see if there’s material on what Severus and I are working on.”

“Oh, sure,” said Lily. “There’s a spell that’s planted in the library. All you have to do is think really hard of what you want, and you’ll feel a tug towards wherever the book is.”

“Really?” Harry said, impressed. “That’s quite an… original spell.”

“Yes, it is,” Lily said excitedly. “It’s terribly complicated to cast, too. Oh, let’s try it!” She shut her eyes and frowned in concentration. Moments passed, and Harry watched as her frown deepened. She’s so like Hermione, Harry thought, a bit sadly. Lily turned towards a shelf far in the back of the room, and, with her eyes still closed, began drifting away.

Harry cleared his mind and closed his own eyes. He wondered for a moment what to think of. Druidic sacrifices? Ancient rituals? Rituals. He saw the dusty tumbles of the Nest, hiding the secrets of Voldemort’s power—his power—and the dried corpse that was slumped among the scrolls…

He felt a tug to his mind. He frowned, and followed it, keeping his hands in front of him as he walked like a blind man.

When he felt the wood of the bookshelf against his palm, he opened his eyes and saw, in front of him, between massive gold-etched and cloth-bound tomes, a book with a single pentagonal rose on its spine.

Harry took it down. The front and back covers were blank, and when he opened the book, he saw only empty pages. He closed it again and fingered the pentagonal rose on the spine.

He remembered the white-bone pentagonal rose of the skeleton’s necklace, dim and pale in the Nest…

He felt footsteps behind him. “D’you find anything interesting?” Lily whispered, peering at the book in his hand.

“Somewhat,” Harry said, as neutrally as he could. He flipped the book about innocently in his hand. “This might help Severus on the project.”

“Oh,” said Lily, and there was a note in her voice that caught Harry’s attention. He understood instantly, and he wondered what he might say: that he had been thinking of his and Severus’s project all morning, that he was sorry he didn’t find something that would help her, that she had no need to be resentful? Or that she was nothing compared to Severus?

“What about you?” Harry said, putting the book at his side, somewhat out of sight.

Lily hefted up a giant volume. “Here,” she said, wiping off a layer of dust. “It seems very promising. I think I actually read about it in one of the books from the Hogwarts library.”

“That’s great,” Harry said, attempting a smile. “Let me try again. Maybe I’ll find something more helpful a second time around.”

Lily’s face brightened. “Good idea.”

Harry closed his eyes and cleared his mind once more. Rituals, he thought. Rituals of sacrifice. He saw blackened bodies, faces frozen in horror, blood across frost in the unforgiving night. Rituals using emotions of love and—positive things, Harry modified.

There was a moment of nothingness, and then he felt a tug. He followed it, moving with both hands in front of him. The tug came from quite far away, and he realized that he was moving out from the passage and towards the entrance of the library, and then down the stone-carven hall to the other wing.

He stopped at last in front of a bookcase, Lily only a few steps behind. Harry opened his eyes and reached forth to pull a withered scroll from the shelf.

“What is that?” Lily whispered.

Harry jammed the scroll back, wondering why he the tug had led him there, even when he’d specified positive emotions. He knew exactly what the scroll was: a piece of Dark literature, widely circulated among the Death Eaters because of its instructions of how to use the corpses of enemies for… a variety of purposes.

“Nothing useful,” Harry said and moved away. He willed Lily to follow him, and, to his relief, she did. He cursed himself for having stuck the scroll back in so suddenly—it was a suspicious move, and he could see the doubt flickering in Lily’s eyes.

“Why don’t you try again?” Harry suggested.

“All right,” said Lily. She shut her eyes and held herself still for a moment. Her frown deepened, and then she opened her eyes, shaking her head. “I think this is it,” she said, indicating the tome in her hands. “I didn’t feel anything else.” She hesitated. “Are you sure that scroll you pulled out was useless?”

“Yes, I’m positive,” Harry said, making sure not to put too much emphasis into his voice. “I read about it somewhere,” he added. “It was a misguided attempt to catalogue rituals of sacrifice, and many witches and wizards who used it went insane.”

“Oh,” said Lily in a subdued voice. Harry looked at her face carefully, hoping that she was convinced, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light. “I suppose not, then. Let’s check these books out.”

They made their way to the massive desk. On closer inspection, Harry realized that it had been cleaved right out of the trunk of an enormous tree. Around the sides were delicate carvings of… He peered closer, unable to make out the frenzy of pictures.

“I suppose we just write down our name and the title,” said Lily, indicating a giant, ink-spotted ledger and a worn-looking quill. She peered at the ledger and dipped the quill in ink.

“There,” she said, handing Harry the quill. At the end of a long list of names and titles she had written ‘Lily Evans – A Treatise on Ritualistic Sacrifices Stemmed from the Emotions of Light.’ The last two words had got crammed to fit in the allotted space.

Well, my title is nice and short, Harry thought. He wrote, ‘Jonathan Frost,’ and drew a small sketch of a pentagonal rose in the space for the title.

“There,” Harry said and put down the quill. But the quill stuck to his hand, wrapping around like a vine.

“Your name!” Lily whispered.

Harry looked down. The words he’d written in a careful, precise script had turned from black to glistening red.

Lily looked up, her eyes glimmering with uncertainty. “There’s supposed to be… some sort of truth charm on the quill,” she said. “I—did you put your full name in?”

“Oh, that must be it,” Harry said calmly, though inwardly he was cursing himself to pieces. How could he have been such an idiot? The truth charm was glaringly obvious—why hadn’t he felt it before?

Stop thinking about that, damn it, and do disaster control! he thought furiously. He held his hand out as though ready to hold a quill, and the feather slipped back into place. He crossed out the name he’d written down. He paused, wrenched in a moment of indecision as he cast his mind for something to do—

He dipped the quill in ink and began writing. ‘Jonathan…’ He bent his mind towards the quill, feeling the truth charm. It was useless: the charm was strong and ancient, fed by powerful magic and protected by the years. A middle name, quick! He wrote down the first thing he had in mind. ‘Lynn…’ He thrust his mind at the quill again, this time carrying behind it all the force he could muster—and felt the quill shiver in his hand. ‘Frost…’ No, he couldn’t attack it like some head-butting Gryffindor.

“There,” he said, and shifted his mind. This time, his will carried with it the dark cloak of a Confundus Charm. He flung it over the magic of the quill and felt the truth charm writhe under the dark nettings. Let it work, he thought, and set the down quill.

Nothing happened.

“Your middle name is Lynn?” Lily said.

“Yeah,” said Harry. It is now, at any rate. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, let’s,” said Lily, and she moved first to the doorway.

Harry followed quietly. Lily didn’t seem suspicious. He had been considering a memory charm, but she seemed to be accepting everything in stride. That’s a relief, he thought. Thank goodness she’s such a trusting Gryffindor…

“Why don’t you shrink your book and put it in your pocket?” Lily asked, pointing to the untitled book Harry had in his hands.

“Good idea,” Harry said. “Not here, though. There’re Muggles about.” He looked around and fixed his gaze on the same Muggle that had stared insolently at Lily on their way in. Still hasn’t left, has he? Harry thought. The Muggle shifted his sullen gaze from Lily to him. Perhaps he needs a warning.

“Let’s go,” Harry said. “To Trafalgar Square?”

“Yes,” Lily said, turning to go. In that instant, Harry forced his will through his eyes and into the mind of the Muggle—

The Muggle cringed, clamping his hands of his eyes with a soft, hoarse cry.

“I think it’s that way,” Lily said, moving down the street and looking at the shops curiously.

“I suppose,” Harry said, following her.

Trafalgar Square opened before them. Harry looked up, impressed. A single pillar rose grandly from a base of bronze lions. On either side were two fountains, the water tumbling out over a brimming basin.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Lily asked.

“There’re so many birds,” Harry observed aloud. Indeed, the ground seemed carpeted with pigeons, wandering boldly amongst the humans.

“We can feed them, if you like,” Lily said. “But…” She picked up her camera and peered through it at the pillar in the center. She clicked, and the camera made a whirring noise. “Petunia will love this!”

“I’m sure,” Harry said hollowly. He wondered what became of these photos Lily would send her sister. Thrown away? Burnt? Hidden somewhere, out of sight, out of mind?

“Let’s climb the lion,” Lily said, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him towards the bronze statues.

“Why are there so many pigeons?” Harry commented as Lily plowed through the sea of birds. “I feel like I’m being mobbed.” It was rather unnerving to have the birds crowd around his feet.

“Don’t be silly,” Lily admonished. She stopped and took up her camera again.

“Why are you photographing the pigeons?” Harry asked, mystified.

“Petunia likes them,” Lily said simply as the camera’s shutter clicked and something within it whirred.

It’s pointless, he thought. They’ll all be destroyed or disposed of anyway. He thought back to his dear Aunt Petunia. Surprisingly, she and her family had escaped Voldemort’s wrath—at least, to his knowledge. In the last months of the war, the dying had escalated until life and death had been reduced to mere numbers creeping over a piece of parchment.

“C’mon,” said Lily. “Help me up the lion. And take my camera.” She handed him the camera and began to clamber onto the base of the statue.

“Here,” said Harry, putting the camera around his neck as he laced his fingers together. “Step up this way.”

“Thanks,” said Lily, giving him a quick smile as she stepped in his hand and hoisted herself up. She edged to the space between the lion’s front paws and curled into a ball under its long mane. “How’s this?”

“It’s fine,” said Harry. He lifted the camera to his face and then held it at a distance, squinting at the tiny parts. “Can this zoom?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Harry said, stepping back and bringing the camera back to his face. “Keep smiling!” He clicked the button and he felt the camera whir under his fingers.

“Your turn!” Lily said excitedly, sliding off the statue’s base and landing lightly on the ground. “Go on, get on. I want to take a photo of you riding the lion.”

Harry shrugged. “Sure,” he said, handing her the camera. He put his hands on the stone base and easily hoisted himself up. “On the lion?” he called.

“On its head,” Lily said.

Fine with me, Harry thought, clambering onto the lion’s back and onto its head. He looked down, legs dangling over the lion’s face. “Is this good?”

“It’s brilliant,” Lily shouted, moving back with the camera up to her face. “Smile!”

Smile? Harry followed the order hesitantly. He hadn’t needed to smile for a photo in the longest time. He had been required to look solemn, confident, calm, stern—but never cheerful. Better not to smile than to look constipated, he thought, and let his face relax, imagining that he was high above the world.

With Severus.

All of a sudden, longing washed over him with a bittersweet pain that took his breath away. He wished Severus were here with him—that they were both atop the lion, Severus in sitting beside him, initially sullen, but then relaxed as they watched the sun go down over the flocks of pigeons and glimmering water of the fountain.

“That was brilliant!” Lily shouted, lowering the camera from her face.

Harry smiled wanly and swiftly clambered down the statue.

“You’re like a cat,” she commented. “I don’t know how you do that. Hey, look at that man over there! Isn’t he interesting?” She lifted the camera to her face and snapped a photo.

Harry glanced over and saw a man practically hidden by pigeons. “Muggles,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“What?” Lily snapped, jerking the camera away from her face. “Don’t say it like that!”

Harry blinked. “What—Muggles? How’d I say it?”

“As though you were rather disgusted but them all.” She looked at him searchingly. “You’re… not like that. You’re also a Muggle-born.”

“I’m not,” Harry said automatically, though a fear gripped his heart. “I’m not like that at all.” Am I? He looked back to the Muggle and was conscious of the tinge of disgust—but that was because of the pigeons, he told himself. I’m not like Voldemort. He looked away and saw a couple sitting quietly at the fountain. He searched himself for any feeling of disgust and found only… “It’s only the pigeons,” he said aloud.

“Really? So are you scared of birds?” Lily asked. “Avephobia?”

He looked at her seriously before realizing she was teasing. He smiled, a bit weakly. “No, just insane pigeons that want to eat you alive. And it’s Ornithophobia, not Avephobia.”

Lily laughed, but it was a short, rather strained laugh, and they both knew it. “I’m sorry to have accused you,” she said. “I know you’re not like that.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking back and suddenly remembering the Muggle whose eyes he’d sent a jolt of pain through. He felt his heart sink as he floundered for an explanation. “I’m not.”

“Well, I guess I’ve just broken the moment,” she said, sighing. “You looked really happy and sad all at once up there on the lion.”

Harry looked at her, startled. “I did?” Then he remembered what he had felt, and felt a hint of warmth on his face.

Lily nodded. “Seems like you’re enjoying yourself, your first time at the Square.” She hesitated before plunging ahead. “You know, I use this as my Patronus memory—when Petunia and I came here as little girls and Father hoisted us up onto the lions.” She stopped again, her eyes seeking out the great, bronze statue. Harry followed her gaze. “That’s what I want to do,” she said, her voice full of determination.

“What, climb the lion again?” Harry said, watching as a girl with flaming hair clambered onto the lion’s back. A man below stepped back and lifted a camera to his face.

“No,” Lily said, shaking her head. “The spell, the rituals and things. It seems to me that things are—unbalanced. It seemed that there are so many spells powered by hatred and cruelty and anger and—and all the dark things of the world, but that there are so few spells that joy and love and… simple happiness can bring. It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Harry said quietly. “There isn’t an Expecto Patronum for every Avada Kedavra.”

“I know,” Lily said. She turned and looked at him fiercely. “But the question is: are you going to do anything about it? Or are you just going to sit there and whine like some rotten old cynic?”

Immediately after she spoke, her face fell apologetically. “Sorry,” she muttered. “There I go, accusing you again. I didn’t mean to be so…”

“Truthful?” Harry suggested, grinning wryly.

“No! No, of course not. I’m just…” She looked out over the Square, at the birds that lifted up like a beaded curtain, at the men and women and children that wandered over the cobbled stones. “Hey, I want to do that,” she said, eyes fixed on a girl posing in front of the fountain.

Harry reached down and took the camera from her hands. She looked up, startled, before smiling widely. “Go on,” he said, watching with a mixture of pity and regret as the Gryffindor walked briskly to the fountain and poised happily.

The rest of their stay passed quickly, with Lily snapping pictures at a furious pace or asking Harry to photograph her as she posed and smiled. She stopped only when her entire roll had been used, and even then she lingered fondly in front of the fountain.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she sighed gustily. “I’ll get you the photos soon. I’ll drop them at Hogsmeade to be developed when we get back.”

“They’re the magical sort?” Harry said, though he couldn’t say he was surprised that they were.

“Yeah,” Lily replied, dipping a finger in the water and lazily tracing patterns. “D’you think I can make a wish with a Knut?”

“I think we should go now,” Harry said. “I’m hungry. And I’m afraid Madam Rosmerta will think that we’re not focusing on what we should be.”

Lily looked up blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, leading the way back to Diagon Alley with the nameless book in one hand and Lily’s camera in another. “Let’s go.”

________________________________________

He turned away from the mirror’s glow, though from what he glimpsed, it showed only luminous mist.

He was in the Nest once more, among the piles of scrolls and parchment. He did not know exactly why he was here, why he was avoiding sleep, why he was standing utterly still and watching the shadows of dust on the distant walls.

And yet again, perhaps he did know.

He waved his hand, and the scrolls whispered as they moved away from the corpse. A little circle formed as the rolls of parchment clustered on ancient tables and the tables slid across the floor against the walls.

He bent down and touched the pentagonal rose necklace. He avoided looking at the shriveled lips on yellowing teeth, or the empty sockets where eyes had been; he felt the length of string of the necklace and found that there was no knot. It was complete, unbroken. After a moment’s hesitation, he delicately pulled the necklace over the hardened flesh and tangled hair, and pulled it up from around the shrunken neck.

He pocketed the necklace and looked at the corpse.

Ten minutes later, Harry was shivering in the night air as he stole into the Forbidden Forest, levitating the corpse behind him. He hoped that Severus was staying put tonight; if Dumbledore got suspicious and decided to investigate, Harry would have a very difficult time explaining where the corpse came from.

He came at last to a clearing in the woods. This would have to do. He let the corpse drop unceremoniously in the grass and then pointed his wand at it. “Incendio!” he said softly, instinctively lowering his voice in the quiet of the forest.

The corpse reluctantly caught fire. It sizzled and cracked, and even jerked a little, as though it had come a little back alive, and Harry wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of burning hair and flesh. He knew that smell all too well.

“Requiescat in pace,” Harry murmured and watched the fire burn until little more than ashes were left.

It was cold. He rubbed his arms and made his way back to the castle, feeling exhausted and groggy, and still too restless to lie down and sleep.

Was he really like Voldemort?

He wrapped his arms around himself and looked down at his feet, hearing the forest quiet itself suspiciously as he passed.

He remembered how he’d sent a bolt of pain through the Muggle’s eyes, how that word—Muggle—had slipped too easily from his lips. But… He looked up blearily. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. That first Muggle had been eyeing Lily the wrong way, and the other one truly was gross. If it had been a witch or a wizard, he’d have felt the same disgust… wouldn’t he?

He shook his head. He felt confused, lost, too tired to think, and what part of his mind that could think was occupied by Severus.

Severus. He went over the name in his mind, again and again, feeling more and more tingly and more and more confused. He remembered having been just as confused only days ago—but it had been a different kind of confused. Then, he hadn’t known what he felt for Severus. Now…

Now he didn’t know either. He just knew that—he just knew that—hell, he just knew that he wanted to be next to Severus, to sleep in the same bed and wake up feeling Severus against his face, his chest, his body…

Lust? Love? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Severus was all that mattered. And if it was love or lust he felt, or—or even some perverted potion-master fetish, he didn’t care. Severus was all that mattered.

But Severus was keeping his distance.

Harry sighed and quickened his pace across the Hogwarts grounds. That man confused him. One moment, they would touch hands and it seemed that a secret rose had bloomed between them; but in another, Severus would look away with the impenetrable coolness of a stranger.

Harry hurried down the corridor of the boy’s dormitories. He opened the seventh years’ door and then, with utter care, pushed open the door into his and Severus’s room.

Severus was still asleep.

Harry shut the door and leaned back against it, just looking at Severus. Perhaps he was too tired to move. Perhaps some part of him whispered in his heart to gaze as much as he could, as long as he might, for moments like this were rare.

He shook his head. It was late. He needed sleep. He made his way to his bed and undressed, slipping soundlessly under the covers. The fire he had lit (apparently, the house-elves had forgotten again) murmured in its grating, and the crack of the flames reminded him only gently of the corpse turning to ashes. As his eyes closed in sleep, he fingered the pentagonal rose carved from bone, and thought he heard someone sigh.

XII. 

Harry walked into the room and smiled when he saw Severus curled up on his bed, long hooked nose buried in a thick tome.

“Hey,” Harry said. “Did you find anything interesting?” He moved to peer over Severus’s shoulder. The script was old and Harry blinked at the interspersed Latin; there was some mention of fachen’s feathers and Sidhe tears and water from the cauldron of—

Severus closed the book around his finger. “Stop breathing down my neck, Frost,” he snapped. “I can’t concentrate.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He moved away and paused as he contemplated the pale neck. Then he turned and crossed the room to his bed. It was too bad the Slytherin dormitories didn’t have any desks; there were only the two beds, the hearthrug, and the fireplace. We’re living like monks, he thought. “I’ll need to go to Muggle London sometime soon,” he said.

Severus wrinkled his nose. “For that mu—ggleborn, Evans?”

“No,” Harry replied, glad that Severus hadn’t said what he might have. “I need to find information on the physiology of sleep and dreams.”

Severus made a disgusted sound and glanced up disdainfully. “That Muggle filth?”

“It’s not filth,” Harry replied evenly, though inwardly he was groaning with dismay. I’m sure we’ve had this argument before, he thought. “In the area of anatomy and physiology, the Muggles are quite ahead of us. Plus, they’ve made connection with eye movement and dreams and brain waves, which I think may be important—you know, don’t you, that the brain produces electricity?”

Severus was silent for a moment, staring at his book without moving his eyes. Perhaps he hasn’t even heard of electricity, Harry thought, wishing he had considered it earlier. That won’t go over well…

“You’re thinking,” Severus spat, “like a Muggle.” He looked up and sneered. “It’s beyond me why you look for solutions in Muggle blunderings when an answer can only be found in the realm of magic. Muggles,” he said slowly, as though explaining a fundamental principle to a five-year-old, “are inferior. They are stupid, slow, narrow-minded.”

“Some are,” Harry corrected. “But tell me, Severus, did you know that sleep has different phases, based on brain activity? Did you know that the human eye moves rapidly during dreams?”

“That’s irrelevant—”

“It may be irrelevant, but then it may not.”

Severus snorted and turned his attention back to his book. “Muggles are inherently inferior to wizards,” he said coldly. “You should be thankful not to have been born a Muggle.”

Harry sat there for a moment, silent. And then he pulled a piece of parchment from his book-bag and began to rip it to shreds. The parchment was different from paper: he could feel each strand of fiber and the faint magic woven within it. He scattered the pieces on the stone floor.

“What are you doing?” Severus snapped, slamming his book shut around his finger again. “Is that one of your strange Muggle rituals?”

“C’mere,” Harry said. He took out a quill, put it back because it was a good one, and took one out that had a broken nib. He transfigured it into a glass rod. “Take it,” he said, extending it towards Severus.

Severus looked at it suspiciously.

“Go on, I didn’t curse it,” Harry said. “Really.”

Severus set aside his book and reached out—very hesitantly—and touched the rod with a fingertip. Nothing happened. He took it then, carefully, as though expecting it to come alive and bite him at any moment.

“Rub it in against your robe,” Harry ordered.

“This is ridiculous,” said Severus, holding the rod as he would a wand.

“Rub it,” Harry repeated. Severus curled his lips as though to let the world know how this was so beneath him, and began sawing the glass rod over his sleeve.

“A bit more vigorously than that,” Harry said, and Severus complied after muttering something irritable under his breath. “Harder! All right. Good. Now, take it and wave it gently over the pieces of parchment.”

Severus climbed off his bed and knelt on the floor opposite to where Harry sat. “Go on,” Harry said when Severus cast a suspicious look at Harry.

Severus waved the rod slowly over the parchment, and the parchment stirred, curling up at the rod like autumn leaves to the wind.

“It’s static electricity,” Harry said quietly. Severus had stopped waving. “Muggles figured it out. It’s a flow of… things. In any case, the brain produces something of the same sort.”

Severus dropped the rod disdainfully and sat back. “A cheap Muggle trick, that’s all,” he sneered. He looked a little irate. “When you compare it to magic—”

“Trick?” Why is he being so intractable? Harry thought angrily. “Muggles use it to make light brighter than lumos—”

“—it’s utterly pointless, something for—”

“—and even fly, many times faster than brooms—”

“—fools to play with; it’s utterly—”

“SEVERUS!” Harry roared. His voice exploded in the room, and Severus tensed and clenched his fists. “You’re blinded by your prejudice. You’re regurgitating what your father or mother taught you.” Harry paused and the realization came that perhaps he had underestimated the strength of the deeply entrenched mindsets and prejudices.“Don’t you think and see for yourself? Have you even set foot in Muggle London?”

“No,” said Severus, and his voice was very cold. “Your mother and father, I’m sure, raised you to appreciate Muggles.”

“My mother and father died when I was one,” Harry said shortly.

Severus looked up sharply. “I—apologize,” he said brokenly. Harry let him flounder for words. “I… didn’t mean to be so—”

“It’s all right,” Harry interrupted softly. He looked at the pieces of parchment. They reminded him of fragments of fallen leaves, grinded up and pitiful. “I don’t remember them anyway.” Except when Dementors are near. But now, I see and hear other things, too… Don’t think of it. Don’t think, don’t remember—he looked up, trying to clear his mind of images and memories, and met Severus’s dark eyes.

Severus opened his mouth, as though to say something, but he stayed silent, his eyes brooding.

Harry averted his eyes, too aware of the raw and frightening things hanging unsaid above them. He swept the shreds of parchment into his hand and felt them crinkle in his palm. He looked at Severus’s fingers—fine, slender, rested gently on his robed knee—and wished he were clutching those instead.

Harry shook his head sharply and looked up. “Why are you so sure that Muggles are inferior?”

“They just are,” Severus replied automatically, but his voice and face held no sneer.

Harry was still for a moment. “That’s not a very good reason,” he said. “Magically, they are inferior. That’s pretty obvious, at any rate. But intellectually and emotionally and… other things. They’re human as well. They’re not that much different. That’s why even the child of two Gryffindors might end up in Hufflepuff. Or Slytherin.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Severus said. He sat back and crossed his arms sullenly over his chest. “Have it your way, Frost. Go research Muggle things.” He wrinkled his nose. “I shan’t stop you.”

“All right,” Harry said. He smiled secretly, and some of the darkness ebbed. “Severus.” He got up. “I’ll have to go ask Professor Camentum if I can go to London again.”

“I trust you’ll avoid mentioning of your Muggle purposes?” Severus said archly, climbing back onto his bed and opening his book.

“I am in Slytherin, you know,” Harry said.

Severus snorted. “Sometimes I doubt it.”

Harry shrugged, though he was a bit surprised at how much the remark stung. “D’you have a book I can read?”

Severus gave him a suspicious look. “Don’t you have a book of your own to read?”

“I’ve finished all my homework, and Lily has all the books on ancient rituals,” Harry said, though he thought about the book he had found in the Bibliotheca Caeca with the pentagonal rose on its spine, wedged between his Transfiguration and Potions texts. I’ll look at it later, Harry thought. When he’s gone, or asleep.

“You finished Transfiguration?” Severus demanded sharply.

Harry thought back to the Transfiguration homework: more drabble on Animagi. He’d faked failure at the spiritus animans spell and so had been assigned, along with Severus, to skip the Animagi curriculum, moving on to the less complicated live-transfigurations. “Yes, I did,” Harry said. “It was only to practice changing one of those gerbils into a tree, wasn’t it?”

Severus sneered without replying. I suppose he hasn’t done it yet, Harry thought; but Severus reached over and picked up a battered hardcover book.

Harry reached up from where he sat on the floor. “‘The Enigma of Dreamless Sleep?’” he read. “Right. Sounds interesting.”

Still sitting, he took out his wand and tapped the hearthrug. It twitched a bit before sprouting into a large, comfortable chair. “Excellent,” Harry said, thumping one of the ample armrests.

Severus muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “show-off.” Harry ignored it and sprawled into his creation, half-sitting and half-lying, one leg dangling from an armrest while his head was cushioned against the opposite one.

He opened the book and glanced up. Severus immediately looked back down at his own book.

Harry pressed his lips together to conceal a smile, feeling his heart leap like a stone skipping over a lake. He tilted his head slightly so that the light from the fireplace would catch his neck, and he shifted, as though to make himself more comfortable, and left his legs slightly wider apart. He stopped moving, and his eyes focused at last on the first words of the introduction. I actually do need to know this, he thought.

The book wasn’t uninteresting. The prose was refreshingly concise, and the introduction went over the major experimentations regarding the search for dreamless sleep. Here’s Kyrus the Cruel, and Mengele, and some Alucinor fellow, Harry noted. I think Severus mentioned the first two.

His mind disconnected for a moment from the text, and his eyes strayed to the corner of the page. Severus seemed to be reading deeply.

Anyway, Harry thought, quashing a feeling of slight annoyance, there seem to have been three major experimenters. None of the experiments were really well done, though. He frowned. He could remember very little about theory behind the dreamless potion, though he could recite the basic ingredients in his sleep. He vaguely remembered that Snape had explained it when Harry had started asking for dangerously high doses. Well, my ignore-the-old-bastard techniques have come around and bitten my ass, Harry thought. If only I’d paid some attention…

His thoughts stopped. Severus was staring at him—he could feel it. Then, as he held his breath, he felt the gaze melt away.

His mind reconnected with the words, and he went halfway through a paragraph on Alucinor without being aware of a word he read. But I do remember something about dreams and magic, Harry thought, stopping in mid-sentence. And I do remember Snape calling me a dunderhead. He frowned.

“So Severus,” he said and looked up. “How do you think we should go about making a dreamless sleep potion?”

Severus shifted and shut his book, though he kept a finger between the pages to mark where he had been. “I thought about it,” he began. His eyes flitted from where he frowned at the ceiling to Harry’s face. “Wizards and witches need dreams to keep their magic, that’s what Kyrus’s experiments proved. But Alucinor’s experiments showed that dreams had no connection with magic. I thought, perhaps, that dreams affected magic in more subtle ways.”

Harry tapped the cover of his book with his fingers and wished Severus would keep speaking, keep letting his voice spread through the room and tingle down his spine.

“I think there’s a flaw in Alucinor’s experiments,” Harry said. He looked up and met Severus’s eyes. Severus did not look away. “He showed that there was no ambient magic when wizards and witches dreamt, but it was only ambient magic of a certain sort.” He paused, and for a moment, he nearly lost his line of thought as he held Severus’s gaze. “There are many kinds of magic, such as elemental magic or divination magic, that ambient magic doesn’t gauge.”

Severus frowned. “Yes,” he said. “That makes sense. If dreamlessness makes wizards lose their magic, then there must be a connection between dreams and magic.” He gaze had wandered to the canopy of his bed, and then it wandered back, and their eyes met again.

A blush touched the tops of Severus’s cheeks, and he looked away quickly. Then he pushed himself out of bed. “I’m going to the library,” he said. “There may be something there about non-ambient magics.”

“Now?” Harry said reluctantly.

“Yes, now,” Severus said, and the tones of disdain returned to his voice. “The library closes in less than an hour.”

Harry clambered out of his chair. “Let me go with you.”

Severus, who had been fumbling in his bookbag, froze for a split second. “Why not,” he said coolly, and pulled out a parchment. “Come on, then.”

Severus was cursing under his breath and prodding the potted begonia with his wand when Harry entered the room.

“Having trouble?” Harry asked, squatting next to Severus.

“I’m perfectly fine, Frost,” Severus snapped. Harry remained where he was. The firelight cast a gentle glow on Severus’s skin, and his sharp frown was softened in the warmth.

“Will you cease staring at me?” Severus said coldly, still glaring at the hearthrug. He was gripping his wand rather tightly. “I find it extremely distracting.”

Harry shrugged and looked at the fire. “I was merely wondering if you would like some of my help.” He paused. “I did manage to turn the begonia into a terrier on my first try.”

Severus muttered something under his breath.

“You’re holding your wand all wrong,” Harry said. Before Severus could say anything else, Harry reached out and took his hand. Severus froze, and Harry shifted closer, feeling the warmth of the other man against his arm and neck and chest. “You have to hold it…” He reached his other hand to Severus’s wand-hand and rearranged the unresisting fingers. “Like this.”

Then he withdrew his fingers. “Go ahead and try it.” He cleared his throat, for his voice was rather raspy.

Severus shifted, though neither away from Harry nor closer. He thrust his wand at the plant. It shivered and ballooned in size, then sprouted a few hairs on the undersides of the leaves.

“You’re still doing it wrong,” Harry said. Severus scowled and jabbed his wand again at the mutated plant. It shrank back slightly. “Don’t scare it,” Harry admonished lightly. “Where’s your book? It says in there what to think when forcing transfigurations of dissimilarities.”

“My book,” said Severus, still glaring at the plant, and paused. “Is lacking. Certain pages.”

“Oh,” said Harry. The question—why didn’t you ask to see mine?—sparked and then passed out of existence. Harry knew why. Looking at the fierce profile outlined by the firelight, he knew why. “Let me look in mine,” Harry said. “I don’t remember exactly what it says.”

He got up to avoid crawling over the unforgiving stone, and reached into his book-bag. He hauled out his transfiguration text, and paused for a moment to cover the gray-colored book with the folds of his bag.

“Here,” Harry said. He flipped open his book. “It should be—”

He stopped.

“This is strange,” Harry muttered, looking at the pages. “My book seems to have… faded.” The normally crisp black ink was a sullen gray. He turned to the first page and stared. He remembered there having been the title (Advanced Transfiguration, by Dr. Chang Jing) in bold letters, but now he could barely see their shadows.

Severus peered over his shoulder, and Harry swallowed at the warmth. “What happened?” Severus asked in a low voice.

“It’s as though all the ink was leeched out,” Harry replied, staring at the nearly blank first page.

Severus pulled the book towards him. “There could be several explanations,” he said briskly, flipping through the pages. Harry watched, as Severus neared the end, the ink gradually getting darker and darker. “Where was this book?”

“In my book bag,” Harry said. My book-bag. He froze.

“The entire time?”

Harry nodded, glancing reluctantly at his bag. “Yes…”

“Let me see it,” said Severus, and before Harry could do anything, Severus had gotten to his feet and strode purposefully to where Harry’s bag lay on the floor. Harry watched Severus reach inside—and stop. He’s found it, Harry thought, watching Severus carefully take out the slate-colored book. Relax, Harry told himself as Severus’s gaze scrutinized the cover, his finger moving over the cloth binding. It’s not as though the book has anything in it…

Severus turned to look at the book’s spine, and froze.

“Where did you get this?” Severus asked at length. Harry tried to gauge that voice; the low warmth minutes ago and the crisp interest moments ago were utterly gone. The voice was at once cautious and soft, and cool and flatly expressionless.

“From the Bibliotheca Caeca,” Harry answered carefully. He let a pause ensue. “Why?”

Severus gave the back cover and blank pages a cursory glance before settling his gaze once more on the pentagonal rose. “Why did you pick it up?”

“I felt it calling me,” Harry answered. “You know how the spell works.” Harry watched in silence as Severus touched the pentagonal rose of the book’s spine. “Why?”

Severus kept his eyes on the book and his voice low and cool when he answered. “The wild rose is the emblem of the Snape line.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “How…” He searched for the right word. “Coincidental. I assure you, I wasn’t thinking of you when it called me.” I think, he added to himself. He tried to recall what he had been thinking when he had been beckoned, but nothing in particular came to his mind. But it’s most peculiar, thought Harry, that the line of Snape should have the wild rose as its emblem, that I should be summoned by a book with the rose on its spine, and that there should be a bone-carved rose upon that skeleton in the Nest. Perhaps that corpse was a Snape, one of Severus’s ancestors? It was certainly possible. But what other connections were woven in this tangled web?

Harry peered anxiously at the other Slytherin’s face, trying to read what he was feeling. Severus didn’t even look up once. But by the hawkish profile and the sharp shadows flung out by the fire, Harry felt his heart sinking. The face spoke of suspicion.

“Was it always blank?” Severus asked.

Harry nodded, wishing he might move closer to the other man. “Yes.”

Suddenly Severus stopped moving, his eyes fixed on the first page.

“What is it?” Harry asked, getting up swiftly and standing next to Severus.

Harry stared at the page. The paper was still that faintly yellow of indefinite age, but there were words there, words that hadn’t been there before, and when Harry glanced at it, the last, crisp ‘e’ had just finished its loop. ‘So you are a Snape.’

Harry and Severus exchanged a glance. And then Severus was gone, fumbling in his bags for a quill and inkpot. Harry looked back down the book, and then looked at Severus; he remembered Riddle’s diary and the danger it held, and the scrapes with death he had encountered because of his callousness and Ginny’s. But this… He bent closer to the words, hoping to sense some kind of magic—dark or light or…

The writing began again. The strokes were steady, and the calligraphy was rather spiky—and Harry was strongly reminded of how it resembled Severus’s handwriting.

‘You are not a Snape.’

Harry looked up just as Severus sat down next to him on the ground, their shoulders touching thrillingly as Severus quickly dipped his quill in the ink.

Severus read the line and paused. Then he wrote, more carefully than he scribbled his notes: ‘I am a Snape.’

The handwriting appeared again. ‘Not you, him.’

Harry pulled his wand out and flicked it at his book-bag. “Accio quill,” he muttered. A quill (fortunately one without a broken tip) floated into his hand, and he dipped it in the inkpot that Severus moved closer to where they both could reach it.

‘Correct,’ Harry wrote. ‘I am not a Snape. How did you know?’

The book wrote nothing for a moment, and Harry was acutely aware of Severus’s quickened breathing, the warmth of their bodies touching.

Then words appeared again. ‘What year is this?’

Harry briefly glanced at Severus for askance before extending his arm. ‘1977. Who are you, may I ask?’

The words came slowly. ‘I want Snape to answer the question. Not you.’

Harry stared at the message. “Huh,” he said and sat back. So it doesn’t trust me, he thought, and he felt his mouth hardening. He forced himself to relax it. It’s sharp, this book, he decided. But dangerous.

Severus reached out his hand and Harry watched him write a short, horizontal line—the top of an ‘F’ or a ‘J’—before heavily crossing it out. ‘He did not lie. The year is 1977.’

The words came almost instantly. ‘What is your name?’

Severus glanced at Harry for a moment, and Harry caught the gaze. “Not your middle name,” Harry said quietly. “Just to be sure.”

‘Severus Snape,’ Severus wrote. He lifted his quill and waited.

‘Where am I?’ the book wrote.

‘In Hogwarts,’ Severus replied.

“Ask it its name,” Harry said. “Quid pro quo.”

Severus was about to write, but the words formed again. ‘And you are a student?’

“Yes,” Harry said when Severus glanced at him again. “Now ask it its name.”

‘I am.’ Severus wrote. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

The book wrote nothing for a moment, and it was silent save the faint crackle of flames and the soft hush of their breathing.

‘I am a man from many years ago, a man named Christolph—or rather, his reflection. I am his journal, his memoirs.’

Harry shifted, reminded coldly of Riddle’s diary. He wasn’t going to let history repeat itself.

‘Severus,’ the diary wrote. ‘Tell your friend to go away. Let me write to you alone.’

Harry felt instantly a wash of cold descend his spine. “No,” Harry said. Severus looked at him sharply. “I read about a case where a diary belonging to a very powerful wizard was able to possess a young girl’s soul. This can be very dangerous.”

“Indeed,” Severus muttered. He dipped his quill in ink and wrote, after a moment’s pause. ‘He’s gone. What is it?’

There was no response for a long time, time in which Harry stared at the book and wished he could snatch it out of Severus’s hands and run his mind over the gray covers and comb the pages for any malevolent magic. Remembering the skeleton in the nest, the strange pull in the library, he was sure this was a thing of power; and with power—danger.

‘He’s still there. You don’t have to tell him to go very far.’

Severus and Harry exchanged another glance. The words came again.

‘Severus, please. Tell your’ The words stopped briefly in mid-sentence. ‘lover to leave.’

Harry froze, and Severus tensed beside him. Lover? Harry thought, his heart doing all sorts of acrobatics in his chest. He was overwhelmingly aware of Severus beside him.

‘No mischief will come to you, Severus, for I too am of the Snape line. I swear to bring you no harm,’ the book wrote. The words formed slowly, with inexorable force and purpose. ‘I am a stag of seven tines – I am a flood across the plain – I am a hawk above the cliff – I am a tide that drags to death – I am the wild rose on a hill – I am a wizard: who but I sets the cool head aflame with smoke?’

Harry stared at the words in disbelief, feeling his blood turn to ice in his veins. These words were part of the incantation of the Nest! How did it know? And—the Snape line? What was the connection? What was the meaning to all this?

Severus cleared his throat softly. “Jonathan,” he said slowly, deliberately, and Harry noticed belatedly that Severus had said his first name aloud. “I think I am—capable of handling this.”

“Oh,” Harry said helplessly. A silence lapsed. A few moments later he got up, took several well-measured steps back, and sat on his bed. He felt another twist at his heart when Severus shifted around on the flagstone floor so that Harry could not see the words being written.

Spy on him, Harry thought immediately, watching Severus read the words with a slight frown wrinkling his forehead. See what that filthy little book is saying. He could probably pull it off, so long as he made sure Severus didn’t get suspicious. I can probably bend my mind into Severus’s, Harry thought calculatingly, watching Severus write, the muscles and tendons of his forearm working under the sallow skin. There’s a spell—one that’s quite impossible to detect…

Severus shifted on the floor, and Harry watched spots of colors appear on the other Slytherin’s face. Then the colors faded into a deep scowl.

Harry got up and went to the other end of the bed, making sure his movements were natural, with nothing at all to attract suspicion. Wandlessly, he decided, propping his back against the headboard and turning his eyes onto Severus and focusing all his power—

Severus. From where he sat, the firelight seemed to fall over Severus’s face like a haze of warmth, cascading down his neck to where the tattered robe folded over a shoulder. I love him, Harry thought suddenly, and his resolve to thrust his mind into Severus’s mind vanished, melted like thin spindles of ice in the blazing glory of the sun.

And then, Severus shut the book. A moment later, he looked up, and there was a frown, a gloom, over his features.

“What did it say?” Harry said, springing off the bed.

“Nothing,” Severus said dismissively. But Harry saw the way it was affected, the way a troubled air made Severus stare down at the fire and avoid Harry’s eyes. Nothing my ass, Harry thought.

“Well—what was nothing?” Harry asked. He wondered if the words of what was written were still in the book. Probably not, he thought. He looked up searchingly at Severus’s face, but Severus was still looking at the fire.

“Nothing was nothing!” Severus snapped. He got up, leaving the book on the floor. “It was just some nonsense about our being—lovers, that’s all.” Severus snatched up the hairy begonia and stormed to his bed, where he plopped the trembling plant onto the blankets and aimed at it with his wand.

Harry reached for the gray book where it lay shut on the hearthrug. For a moment he wanted nothing more than to throw it in the fire, but he quelled the urge and opened it to the first page. As he expected, it was blank.

Harry looked up at Severus, who seemed absorbed in mutilating his half-transformed begonia. Then he reached down and picked up his quill, dipping it in Severus’s inkpot. ‘Hello,’ he wrote.

There was no response.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you told Severus.’ Harry waited; again there was no response. Harry heard Severus mutter something, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw the begonia twitch spasmodically. Harry thought a moment, and then wrote: ‘Did you suck the ink out of my Transfiguration text?’

There was no response.

Harry looked at the page, brilliantly blank in the light of the fireplace, and ran his hands over the edges of the cover. Still keeping the book open the first page, he flipped through the rest of the book, letting his fingers feel—feel for whatever magic that there was. He felt… an undercurrent, almost: tightly coiled under a mask, a shield. He dug at the shield, but it was like scratching the face of a rock. There was nothing.

But just as he was about to shut the book, the writing began again, this time with an almost flowing script, without interruptions for thought:

‘I See my life go drifting like a river

From change to change; I have been many things—

A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light…’

“Severus!” Harry shouted. “Look.”

Severus swung off his bed and squatted down next to Harry—but they did not touch, Harry noted in some distant, restless part of his mind.

‘…Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,

An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,

A king sitting upon a chair of gold—

And all these things were wonderful and great…’

“Yeats,” Severus said in a flat, expressionless voice.

Harry glanced up briefly. “What?”

Severus stayed silent, watching intently the words form.

‘…But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.

Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow

Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!’

Harry stared at it and read it quickly once more, then slowed himself down and went word by word, muttering under his breath and committing it to memory. But then, the letters began to fade, and the ink turned to gray, and then to nothingness.

Severus got up.

“Wait,” Harry said, shutting the gray cover with a soft thud. “What did you say? Yates?”

“Yeats,” Severus said condescendingly. “Y-E-A-T-S. An Irish poet. That was an excerpt from one of his poems.” He gave Harry a cold and critical look. “I would have thought that you would know. Yeats was a Muggle, after all.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Harry said. Severus said nothing in reply, and climbed back onto his bed and rummaged through what seemed to be a pile of ink-splotched Transfiguration notes.

Harry sighed, tossing Christolph’s diary onto his own bed. He laid his quill on top of it, and then picked up Severus’s inkpot and quill.

“These are yours,” Harry said, moving to stand next to the other Slytherin.

Severus gestured vaguely at the floor next to his own tattered book bag. “Put it somewhere there,” he muttered, pulling out a sheet of parchment with a small sketch of a begonia.

Harry complied. He stood up, and paused. “Severus,” he said. “What did the book say?”

The shadow from Harry’s form submerged half of Severus’s face in shadow. “I told you,” he snapped, staring down at the scrawled lines and words and pictures. “Nothing.”

“Severus,” Harry said slowly, sternly. “What did it say about me?”

Severus slapped parchment on the bed and the begonia jerked back. “Nothing!” he snarled, eyes flashing. “Nothing at all! I told you already!”

“If it had been nothing, you wouldn’t be this mad,” Harry replied coolly.

Severus picked up his wrinkled parchment and glared at it. “Let me be,” he growled. “Please find someone else to pester, Frost.”

“Severus,” Harry said again. He stopped.

They were alone in this room, this room of firelight and shadows. Alone. There was no window, and the door was swathed in darkness; the orange and red and yellow of the flames were all that existed.

Alone. I love him, Harry thought.

He reached out a hand and deliberately touched Severus’s shoulder. Severus tensed instantly, and Harry made no other move, just waited. There was the sound of the fire cracking, and their breaths, shallow and quiet in the stillness of the room. He lifted his hand from the shoulder and moved it closer to the sallow face. It brushed past the curtain of hair and—touched…

Severus turned away.

Harry withdrew his hand. He took a step back and turned. The air was oppressively still. Then he moved to his side of the room and climbed onto his bed.

“It’s a Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow,” Harry said after a long silence stretched between them.

“I know,” Severus said at last. His voice was slightly raspy, and he cleared his throat quietly after speaking. He set down his parchment and pulled the potted begonia closer.

“Do you have anything you want me to buy?” Harry asked. He kept his voice casual.

Again, a long pause. “Yes,” said Severus. He stared at the begonia’s flowers, which Harry thought vaguely resembled a terrier’s pleading eyes. “I’ll make a list.”

Harry watched Severus for a long while. “All right,” he said, and reached blindly over the side of his bed for a book to read.

Harry went into the room quietly. His cheeks were flushed from the brisk wind, and his shoes were splattered with mud.

“Hey,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “The weather was terrible today, but I got you everything on your list.”

Severus, lying like a shadow on his bed with a book in front of him, grunted a reply.

Harry sat and pulled off his boots. The heat within the room was kneading the cold from his face and neck, and even the stone of the floor was slightly warm.

“Did the house-elves light the fire?” Harry asked, pulling off his socks.

Severus flipped a page. “No,” he said absently.

“We should find out why they’re avoiding our room,” Harry said without conviction. He set his boots and socks in front of the fire. It occurred to him that Dumbledore hadn’t descended upon him yet, even though the house-elf that had presumably been sent to spy on him had practically disappeared. I suppose Dumbledore thinks everything is fine, Harry thought, pulling off his cloak. Let him think that.

“Where do you want me to put your things?” Harry said, taking the tiny jars from his inner pocket.

“Just put them next to my bed,” Severus said, looking up from his book so that the firelight glinted on his eyes. He looked down and added, “Please.”

Harry bent down and set the jars on the ground. “Finite Incantatem,” he muttered, and with the slight sound of glass scraping across stone, the jars grew to their previous size.

“How much did it cost you?” Severus said from his bed. “I’ll need to pay you back…”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Harry said, and then wondered immediately if that was the wrong thing to say. “Um. It was five galleons and twelve sickles, and—”

Severus lurched forward. “Five galleons?” he demanded. “What did you—did you go to the place I told you? Master O’Bliquus, next to Bathory’s Bath Shop?”

Harry looked over the jars: he had gotten what Severus had wanted, he was sure of that. “Er. Yes?”

“You idiot!” Severus snapped. “I could’ve gotten them for less than two galleons—one, if it was a good day. What possessed you buy them at the price he first gave you?”

“The first—I… didn’t know,” Harry said helplessly. He sat back onto his heels, looking up as Severus glared down like a gargoyle from the lip of a cliff. “I’ve never done bargaining before.” It was true: the Dursleys had never let him handle money, and after his inheritance he had never needed to be frugal; too often he had had to deal with the other end of the spectrum, with starry-eyed gift-givers or sellers who knocked down their prices for the Harry Potter.

“You’ve never done bargaining,” Severus echoed in disbelief.

“Is it that hard to believe?” Harry asked shortly. “Muggle stores all had fixed prices, and it’s not as though I bought my own things a lot.”

“What?” Severus sneered. “Did you steal them?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Then what? You had a mysterious benefactor who bought you everything you needed?”

“Actually I was locked in a cupboard too often to buy things,” Harry said dryly. “My aunt and uncle weren’t very nice people.”

Severus snorted. “Right.” But the look he gave Harry was laced with skepticism.

Harry forced out a chuckle. “Right, I was only kidding.” He glanced down at the jars and wondered why he brought it up. It was utterly stupid, and now Severus would be suspicious. “D’you know what I saw today?”

“What?” Severus said flatly.

“Malfoy getting a haircut. A botched haircut.” Harry managed a strained grin. “I saw him come out of that one shop on the same street as Madam Rosmerta’s, and his hair was cut in a very interesting bob. He was wailing as though his mother had just died.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Severus without expression, looking down at the jars. Harry scrutinized the face, but found nothing.

“Lestrange was there also,” Harry continued. “He managed to get the barber to give Malfoy a better cut. He looks like one of those Muggle musicians now.”

Severus curled his lip in contempt. “Really,” he said, withdrawing into the shadows and returning to his book.

Harry found himself wondering almost feverishly what it was that had caused hostility between Severus and Malfoy. But he couldn’t ask, not now. The air was almost tingling with unsaid things. Perhaps it was nothing—a schoolboy’s grudge, and Merlin knew Severus could keep a grudge. But perhaps it was something else.

“You’ll hurt your eyes reading without better light,” Harry chided.

“No I won’t,” Severus said shortly. “There hasn’t been a Snape who hasn’t had perfect eyesight. It’s part of the bloodline.”

“Genetics,” said Harry.

“What?” Severus asked irritably.

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Did the book tell you that?”

Severus’s voice was colder than the wind-whipped rain. “No, actually. I do know quite a bit about my family, Frost. And I’d appreciate if you kept yourself out of my business.”

“Your business?” Harry said incredulously.

“Yes,” Severus replied without looking up from his book. “My business.”

Well, Harry thought after it sank in. I just won’t mention that I found the book and brought it here. He wondered if the book had been conversing with Severus while he was gone. I wish I hadn’t gotten it! Harry wished savagely, and felt a thirsting desire to see the thing burn.

“Where is it?” Harry said. “The book, I mean.”

“In your book-bag,” Severus replied shortly.

“And by the way, I found that fellow of yours.”

Severus glared up irritably. “Fellow of mine?”

“Yeats. William Butler Yeats,” Harry said. He reached into his clothes and took out a tiny book. “Finite Incantatem,” he said, and the book burgeoned to its former size. “The storekeeper seemed very enthusiastic about my buying it.”

Severus snorted. “Muggle-lover,” he muttered, almost too quietly for Harry to hear.

But Harry heard it. “Your ancestor was quite a Muggle-lover too,” Harry said, making sure to keep his voice calm and level. It sounded steely to his ears. “He managed to quote the entire last stanza. Imagine that.”

Severus said nothing.

Harry went stiffly to his own bed. The air felt suffocating. The flickering warmth from the fire had lost its comfort. It was stifling. Harry peered into his book-bag and saw the gray book, wedged between his Transfiguration and Potions texts. He took it out and set it aside on the stone floor. He wanted to rip its pages out and see them flutter into the fire and curl up and turn black and the gray covers and pentagonal rose to vanish into mingling ashes and be swept away by a cold wind. He sat back on his bed and flipped open the book of Yeats’s poetry with a heavy sigh.

“The woods of Arcady are dead,

And over is their antique joy;

Of old the world on dreaming fed;

Grey Truth is now her painted toy…”

XIII. 

The room was cold despite the fire, and Harry was inclined to wrap his cloak around him as he sat at the hearth. The dungeons really need some desks, Harry thought. And spy or no, I really wish a house-elf would come and clean the grate.

Harry opened the gray cover and dipped his quill in the ink.

The idea of writing to the book while Severus was asleep had come to him during dinner, but he hadn’t spared much thought to what to actually write. He had been unexpectedly engrossed in reading Yeats. But he knew one thing: that he had what could potentially be a round-winning ace up his sleeve.

‘Hello Christolph,’ he wrote.

There was no response. That’s not unexpected, Harry thought.

‘Will you please answer me?’ Harry wrote. His hand was steady and calm, and he pressed the quill into the paper firmly to form the question mark at the end. ‘I would like to know why you harbor such hostilities towards me.’

The page stayed blank.

Harry dipped his quill in ink and began writing again:

‘Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!

Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:’

Harry waited, hoping this would work. When the book did not respond, he began again:

‘Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;

The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,’

As he was about to reach for the Yeats anthology sitting on his bed (the rest of the poem was lost from his memory), the words began to form in that firm yet spiky script: ‘So you found Yeats.’

‘Yes,’ Harry replied. ‘I like his poems. They’re fascinating, really. It’s rather surprising, since I find most poems beyond me.’ He searched for the right words to write, the right lies and leads to tell. ‘Was he also a Snape? The rose motif is most interesting.’

‘No. He was a Muggle, through and through.’

Harry paused, pondering on how to draw the lure so that it would be caught. But perhaps subtlety was overrated. ‘Is the Snape rose made out of a particular’ He paused. ‘material?’

The next words did not appear until after a long moment. ‘What do you mean, material?’

Harry smirked in triumph. He had forced the book to ask a question, and if his thoughts were correct, the tide would soon turn in his favor. ‘I have in my possession a wild rose carved from bone and set as a necklace upon a silver chain.’

There was a long pause before the words appeared again. Harry wrapped his cloak tighter and moved closer to the fire as he watched the script appear across the page.

‘Where did you find it? Did Severus give it to you?’

The strokes, Harry noted, were not as steady as they had been.

‘What did you tell Severus?’ Harry wrote back.

There was a moment’s pause, and then the words appeared fluidly. ‘So it’s quid pro quo for us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then answer me first,’ wrote Christolph. ‘And remember, I can tell whether or not you’re lying.’

Really? Harry thought skeptically. Did the book wield some sort of truth charm like the quill in the Bibliotheca Caeca? ‘Go ahead,’ he wrote.

‘Where did you find the rose?’

‘In Hogwarts,’ Harry wrote.

‘More specifically?’

‘In one of the bookshelves in the Hogwarts library.’

‘You lie.’

So perhaps it can tell a lie, Harry thought. But maybe it’s bluffing. ‘It’s the truth.’

‘It is not,’ the book wrote back, its handwriting smooth and strong with the assurance of its own conviction. ‘Do you expect me to tell you the truth if you lie?’

Harry hesitated. That was a good point, and there was no way he could gauge the truth of the book’s words. ‘Then it’s unfair,’ he wrote. ‘I will not be able to know whether you tell the truth or not.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ the book wrote.

Harry snorted. ‘Then perhaps you will never know the circumstances under which I came upon the bone rose.’

No words formed for some time. ‘Do you have the necklace with you?’

Harry reached his hand into his robes. ‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Hold it in your hand.’

Harry took the necklace out by the chain. He knew it could be a trick or a trap or some malevolent spell carried over from ages past. But he could feel no ill-magic coming from the necklace. If anything, there seemed to be a purity of enchantment. He clasped the bone rose in his hand, feeling the smooth contours of the petals. ‘I am.’

The words formed: ‘My name is not Christolph and you are from this time.’

That’s a lie, Harry thought automatically, as though the thought were waiting all along for him to discover. A moment later his blood froze from shock. How did he know I’m not from this time? Harry thought, staring at the words that had appeared on the page. How did he know?

‘Interesting,’ Harry wrote, hoping his handwriting wasn’t more shaky than usual. He would have to ask later; first he had to answer. ‘I found this necklace in a place with a mirror and five sides.’

The words appeared immediately. ‘The Founders’ Nest.’

‘Yes,’ Harry wrote. So he knows what the Founders’ Nest is, he thought. And he knows that I am not from this time. He hesitated, wondering what he should next ask, weighing which question pressed more heavily in his mind. At length he made his decision with rapid strokes. ‘What did you tell Severus about me?’

‘That you are filled with shadow,’ came the words slowly. ‘That you are hiding things from him. You are half-truth, half-lie, half-soul.’

Half-soul, thought Harry with a tightening within his chest, a feeling of icy fear that settled through his body. How does he know so much? How can he know—? And then, a moment later— Now Severus knows. Severus—what if he knows I’m not from this time?—

‘Was that all you said?’ Harry wrote, trying to keep his handwriting neat and impenetrable, though he felt his quill nearly cracking under his grip.

‘Under what conditions exactly did you find the necklace? In other words, how did it come into the Nest?’

Harry cursed silently. He paused, gathering his thoughts and considering how to answer. ‘The Nest was a terrible mess, and there were parchments and scrolls everywhere. There was a thick layer of dust over everything.’

‘And?’

‘How do you know I’m out of my time? What do you know about me?’

‘Tell me exactly how you found the necklace.’

‘I told you, in the Nest—’

‘That’s not all the truth.’

Harry hesitated. ‘On a corpse.’

No response came. Impatiently, Harry wrote: ‘What else did you tell Severus? And what else do you know about me?’ He waited some more. ‘Hello?’ he wrote.

‘A man’s corpse? Describe it, please.’

Harry paused before answering, and in those moments, he knew that the corpse was important in some way to Christolph. Perhaps the corpse is he, Christolph? Harry thought, and felt a humorless chuckle at the twisted irony of it all.

‘The corpse was practically a skeleton, so I imagine it was for a very long time. As to the sex, I couldn’t tell,’ Harry replied. He hesitated. ‘I think it was a man—the garments were those of a man. But tell me—’

‘Was the corpse of an old man?’

Harry frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes, the hair was all white—’

‘Do you know what scrolls the man had been looking through?’

‘What else did you tell Severus?’

There was a long pause. ‘Not much else. Only that lovers are fools.’

Harry frowned. What’s that supposed to mean? He held onto the bone-carved pentagonal rose, and rising up murkily to his mind was an impression of falsehood. But it was muddled and unclear. Harry dipped his quill in the inkpot. ‘You’re not being completely honest.’

He waited, for a clarification or a question, but no words appeared.

‘What else do you know about me?’

There was no response.

Harry frowned, shivering and rubbing his forearms against the creeping cold. The heat of the fireplace felt uneven: his face was uncomfortably warm, but the backs of his upper arms were covered by goose bumps.

‘Christolph? Hello? Are you there?’

Still there was no response. He’s gone, thought Harry as the words slowly faded into gray, lighter and lighter until they disappeared.

Harry sighed and shut the book. How did the book know so much about him? How? What else did it know? And why was it so freaking cold? Is Severus cold? he wondered suddenly. He stood up and pointed his wand at the fire. “Concalesco!” The fire leapt up, throwing sharper shadows against the stone walls.

Gathering up the inkpot and the book, Harry crept to the side of Severus’s bed. Severus was still sleeping. With a pang of regret, Harry noticed how Severus was huddled with the quilt wrapped tightly around his gaunt shoulders. It’s never warm enough, he thought, smoothing a hand gently over the curve of the back. Harry shivered and withdrew his arm.

Why must you be so suspicious? Harry thought sadly. But you have every right to be. That goddamned book is right. He felt a twist of bitterness in his heart. I am half-truth, half-lie, half-soul. And Merlin knows what you’ve lived through already. A great sadness overcame him, a sadness that came with the indescribable yearning to smooth the lines of pain that lined Severus’s face even in his sleep. Don’t turn away, he thought. Don’t.

He went quietly to his bed, set down the inkpot and book, and folded himself under the covers. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

Alone.

He is sitting on his throne, alone in the room. Even Nagini is not there. He has sent them all away. He cannot stand them right now; he cannot stand their mindless praise, their formless fear, their empty eyes. All their eyes are the same—the same hollow fear, the same slavish adulation.

OUT! he shouted, and they scurry out. OUT! Nagini followed, bewildered and disgruntled, and he will need to feed her soft flesh to appease her, but he hardly cares.

He sits alone and broods. There is a mirror at the other end of the room, and he sees himself swathed in finery and sprawling upon a seat of gold, red eyes set upon a striking face—

He flings out his arm, five fingers apart, and the mirror shatters.

Alone.

He seems himself in the orphanage. He sees himself seated at the base of a cracked concrete wall, shivering in the damp rain. He is gray. The world is gray. The flames of hate that have enrobed his heart in a wall of fire, in a citadel of poison, are gone. There is only the rain. And he is at once alone and miserable, miserable and alone.

Why? The drug of power that he had tasted, that had lifted him above the world, seems little more than ashes. The purposeful hate that gives him direction and guides each step, each spell, each murder is gone—and he is bewildered, lost, alone. What is the purpose? What is the meaning? Why…

And then he sees it: a vision so beautiful he forgets all. It is a vision of dark hair, sharp eyes, pale skin. It is a vision of solitude, a vision of yearning. It is a vision so beautiful it hurts. He is breathless.

Breathless.

And now, now upon his golden throne, now watching the glass shards on the ground, he feels it again. The gray, misty rain. The dampness, the cold. The purposelessness, the questions, the aimless misery. Why…

And he sees the vision of beauty. He sees it for it is the only thing left in the world, the only thing worth living for.

And he hates himself for it.

It is unnatural. It is disgusting. It is dirty, it is not pure; and the fires of self-loathing burn hotter than any other hatred he can feel.

But for now, it is a secret, a secret he holds deep inside; and in his mind’s eye he sees the young potion-maker—a vision of greasy hair, thin limbs, snarling temperament—and knows that he, Lord Voldemort, is a miserable boy in a gray orphanage, lost and alone, lost and alone, and it hurts so much, hurts like a scar that will never leave, even when his fortress of hate flares brighter than a thousand suns, even as he sits upon his throne in his vast throne room—

Alone.

He was drowning in a sea of red darkness, an ocean of cold and heat, warmth and ice. He clutched to something, clutched with both hands and his wet face in cloth. The world spun dizzily and he breathed too deeply too fast; he choked, and something smoothed his back, smoothed his hair, smoothed him with low, wordless murmurs.

Severus, Harry thought, and he clung to the thought like a lifeline in a dark sea. Severus. Severus. Slowly, he felt the tension trickle away. His face was buried in Severus’s shoulder, and Severus had draped one arm around his back, the delicate fingers drawing soothing patterns. He could feel the deep vibration in Severus’s chest as Severus made those low, wordless sounds…

His throat knotted with a fresh flood of emotions—a terrifying flood for its overwhelming strength. I love him, Harry thought suddenly, tightening his grip as his heart convulsed with the rush of emotions. I love him I love him I— His mind choked: words failed, thoughts failed, and love—only a simple four-letter word, said over and over—was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Nothing—nothing.

Severus had stopped humming. Harry took a shuddering breath and blinked blearily. A bit of Severus’s nightgown and fallen away at the shoulder, showing pale skin—golden in the firelight; but Harry saw bruises there, bruises he had made with his iron grip. He ran a trembling finger over the skin, and Severus hissed—tensed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, his voice no more than a hoarse croak, and he moved his face closer to the bruised skin. Severus didn’t move, didn’t speak. And Harry shut his eyes tight from the intensity that engulfed him as he pressed his lips to the warm shoulder—

I love you, Harry mouthed silently, his lips moving over the bruised skin, gently, gently, his entire body shaking like a candle flame in a dusky breeze. I love you, he said again, silently, whispering it to Severus’s bruised skin, golden in the firelight.

At last, reluctantly, Harry lifted his head, and he felt Severus give a long, shuddering sigh. I love him so much, Harry thought, almost feverishly. He was shivering all over. His gaze went up the smooth column of the throat, dusted with a downy dark shadow, past the lips, deep red in the light, and to the eyes—

Severus was looking away, his eyes closed tightly. Time slowed until it became the warmth in the room, the drop of resin on the wood in the fire, the space between heartbeats.

Then Severus shifted away, and, with another shuddering breath, left the bed. His outline seemed to glow white against the firelight. Harry watched, his eyes fixed yet half-lidded, as Severus went to his bed, slid under the covers and turned his face to the wall.

Harry felt his eyelids drooping. But they would not close: the light of the flames pulsed in the stillness and his heart was beating, beating, beating… What had just happened? His mind reeled as he remembered the smooth moistness of the skin, his own words echoing soundlessly in his mind…

Harry opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the canopy of the bed.

“Good morning,” said Severus from where he was sitting in his bed, a book in his lap.

Harry turned his body. “G’morning,” he muttered. “Is it… what time is it?”

“Quite late,” Severus said. “Breakfast’s long past, but I saved some for you.” He indicated a plate of toast on the floor, along with a glass of orange juice.

Harry sat up slowly. His mind wasn’t fully awake yet, and he wondered—he wasn’t sure—had something happened in the middle of the night? Something about dreams or memories, and then… He stole a glance at Severus, who was looking at him intently.

“Thanks,” Harry said, looking down and shifting his legs out from under the warmth of the blankets. It could be morning, noon, afternoon, midnight: the room was bathed in the same light, the same musky warmth. “We really need to get the house-elves to air this room,” Harry said, pulling on some clothes. “And a table of sorts.”

“The Romans ate lying down,” Severus said as Harry sat, cross-legged, on the hearthrug and pulled the plate closer. “You might as well do the same, except on the floor.”

Harry bit into the toast. “Mm,” he said. “But they had loads of cushions and slaves. Today is… Sunday?”

“Yes.”

Harry finished his toast quickly and washed it down with orange juice, all the while wondering what exactly had happened last night. It seemed but a dream. But… it wasn’t a dream. He blinked his eyes and touched his face: there were traces of tears, and he knew he must have wept last night. But the other part, where he had kissed Severus’s shoulder…

He felt his insides shiver.

“I expect the house-elves will take care of the mess?” Harry said, getting up from the floor.

“Supposedly,” Severus replied, sounding very absorbed in his book.

“Right,” said Harry and he left to brush his teeth and wash his face. In the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water and rubbed it harshly, annihilating any hint that he had cried. His green eyes were still rather puffy, but that couldn’t be helped. He splashed his face again and wiped himself with a towel. He was thankful for Hermione for creating the glamour spell he was using: it was, quite literally, a second face. But it’s not infallible, he thought, remembering how James Potter’s spell had shattered the part concealing the Dark Mark and his eyes… At least the rest of it held, and Severus didn’t see me as Potter’s double. The thought made him shiver with dread. He looked at himself critically. No, he didn’t look like a Potter—in fact, most of his features were the opposite. The boyish Potter looks were replaced by angular features; the straight, slightly upturned nose was more prominent (like Severus, he thought); his hair, still black, was much more manageable, and slightly curly. But the same closed look, the same distant air—that couldn’t be changed by a second face.

He left the bathroom, pausing as he heard a few angry noises emanating from Malfoy and Lestrange’s room, and then entered his own room.

“Do all Muggles brush their teeth after breakfast?” Severus said.

“Um, no, I think,” said Harry, a bit surprised. “I do out of habit. I had to make breakfast right after I got out of bed.”

Severus sneered.

“Why?” asked Harry. “Do wizards always brush their teeth before eating?”

“Most do,” Severus replied. He set his book aside. “I talked to Christolph while you were asleep.”

Harry nearly froze. “Oh,” he said, sitting on his bed. “Well?”

“I asked him about what kinds of magic might be affected by dreams and aren’t registered as ambient magic,” Severus said. “He said soul magic—”

“Soul magic?” Harry interrupted. Soul magic. The memories came rising like the sirens of death angels—Voldemort had tied power to his soul through soul magic. He had murdered hundreds, even thousands, for his soul magic.

“Yes, it’s had quite a reputation,” said Severus. “But he said something about not avoiding power when others would grab it at will.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. What else did he say? How does it relate to dreams?”

“Well, he doesn’t know if it relates to dreams or not, but he thinks it does, and there’s a way to find out.” Severus’s eyes became more shadowed. “Only he wouldn’t tell me. He insists on talking to you, saying something about quid pro quo.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Is that all he said?”

“Yes,” Severus said, in a voice that revealed nothing.

All right then, thought Harry. Nothing about mashed souls and hidden Nests, I hope. If anything, Christolph had probably spouted out vague warnings; otherwise, Severus would undoubtedly be exuding more suspicion. “I’ll talk to him now. Where is the book?”

“In your book-bag, where it always is,” Severus said, in his why-are-you-such-an-idiot voice.

“Oh,” said Harry. He reached into his bag and fished out the gray-covered book. “Right.” He reached deeper into his bag to find his quill and inkpot. Quid pro quo, he thought. Probably Christolph was going to ask about the scrolls the corpse had been reading before it died, and honestly, Harry didn’t know. I’ll just say I’ll find out, Harry thought, taking out his quill.

Severus got off his bed and moved to Harry. Harry’s movements slowed. Severus doesn’t know about the corpse, he thought. He doesn’t know, and if Christolph demands to know outright…

“Well?” Severus demanded.

Harry opened the cover. Then he dipped his quill in the inkpot and wrote.

‘Hello, Christolph. Severus, who is breathing down my neck, says you wanted to talk to me?’

“What?” Severus barked from a safe distance away. “I’m not breathing down your neck!”

“Figuratively,” Harry said, hoping fervidly that Christolph would get the hint.

‘What did you do with the body?’

Harry heard a sharp breath, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Severus glance at him, glance at him with an expression of incredulity in his eyes—and expression that slowly, inexorably, began to register suspicion. Harry forced his face into a mask of shock and disbelief as he muttered, “What the fuck?”

Play the part, play the part, he told himself. He lowered his hand and began writing.

‘What are you talking about?’

No words appeared for a moment. Harry looked up at Severus with a lost expression and forced out a humorless laugh. “This is—I have no idea what he’s talking about…”

‘The body in the Nest you told me about last night. What did you do with it?’

Severus peered closer. “What Nest?”

‘I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.’ Harry scrawled angrily.

A pause. Then, the words forming smoothly, ‘Ah, so you don’t want your lover to know about your se—’

Harry slammed the book shut.

“I’ve no idea what the fuck it’s talking about,” Harry said and slipped the book in one deft motion into his book-bag. He fumbled as he plugged his inkpot and tossed it in after his quill.

He forced himself to face Severus, who had been standing next to him the entire time.

Harry barked a laugh. “It’s almost funny,” he said and glanced away, “how it’s… coming up with the strangest things.”

Severus’s eyes were dark and hard: inscrutable.

Harry stood and looked desperately into Severus’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe it? I mean—a body?” Harry squeezed out another laugh, and even to his own ears, it sounded grating and harsh and fake. He let the laugh die, and silence settled. Say something. Anything. Please. Harry searched those eyes in the brief moment that they met, searched frantically, before Severus looked away.

“Of course,” said Severus with half a sneer. He drew away, eyes still glinting with suspicion. “It’s quite far-fetched. A body, indeed.”

Harry sat down, slowly, as Severus retreated to his own bed. The fireplace threw the same orange light on the walls, the same shadows, the same enigmatic flickers—the same as last night. But Harry felt cold.

“I read Yeats yesterday,” Harry blurted out. Anything, he thought—anything to break the silence.

“Yes, I noticed,” Severus said acidly. “You seemed quite enamored with that Muggle’s poems.”

“Well, some of them are… are very good,” Harry said. He reached over the side of his bed and picked up the Yeats anthology.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to read me poetry now,” Severus said disbelievingly.

Harry slowed as he flipped through the pages. “Well,” he said. “Yeah. I am. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? And I know today is Sunday and you have work, but it won’t be long. And you did quite a lot of it yesterday—”

“You’re rambling, Frost,” Severus growled, but he turned so that he was facing Harry.

“Right,” Harry said. Ramble. I can’t remember the last time I did that… He found the poem, but hesitated. To hell with it, he thought, pulling out his wand and transfiguring the hearthrug into a large, comfortable chair.

“You might as well make that permanent,” Severus muttered.

“Actually I’d rather have both,” Harry said, getting off his bed and sitting on the chair. “A fireplace without a hearthrug is like…” Dumbledore without his sherbert lemons. Lucius Malfoy without his hair. You without your cantankerousness. “Well. A fireplace without a fire.”

“Ooh,” said Severus sarcastically. “How poetic.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. Anyway, this one is called ‘Spilt Milk.’”

Severus stared. “‘Spilt Milk?’’

“Er—yes.” Harry shifted, suddenly nervous. Relax, he told himself. Get lost in the poem. He cleared throat, and began:

“We that have done and thought,

That have thought and done,

Must ramble, and thin out

Like milk spilt on a stone.”

Severus blinked. “That was… short.”

“Yes. Well. I liked it. I mean, the poems that my—that I had been acquainted with were all very long-winded, with so many flowery phrases it’s enough to make someone sick and confused. Not that Yeats didn’t do that in some of his earlier works.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about him, while yesterday you didn’t even recognize his name,” Severus remarked coolly.

“I didn’t! I mean, I hadn’t heard his name when you first mentioned it, but now I know a bit about Yeats only because I read the short biography in the book I got. But did you like it? The poem, I mean.”

Severus gave him a withering glare. “It was about spilt milk. An absolutely thrilling subject.”

“The poem isn’t just about spilt milk,” Harry said, a bit defensively. “I think it goes on about how futile everything is, how everything we think and do is just like… well, just like spilt milk.”

To Harry’s mild surprise, Severus didn’t toss back another acerbic comment. Instead, he nodded, slowly. “Yes. That’s… I suppose he was old when he wrote that?” The corner of his lip quirked wryly. “Old and bitter?”

“Old, certainly, but… I don’t know about bitter.” Harry let his eyes rest briefly on Severus before he looked down and began flipping again. “There’s another I wanted to read; let me look…”

“I trust it isn’t about spilt beverages again?”

“No,” said Harry, reaching the right page. “Here it is.” He glanced up at Severus, and—and suddenly he felt how utterly surreal the situation was, how utterly surreal their pretenses were: pretending that last night, fraught with dreams and nightmares and touches, did not exist; pretending that there was no cloud of suspicion, of secrets and lies and half-truths, troubling their very breaths; pretending that they were just two boys in a dormitory, one ready to read, the other ready to listen—and Harry pretending he didn’t love this man, love him so much it was a fire burning him from within.

He took a deep breath and began to read.

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths…”

Harry could feel Severus’s gaze, feel it fixed unwaveringly, those dark eyes affecting his breath, his heart.

“Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams—”

In a threatening moment, he nearly faltered. But I, being Harry Potter and Voldemort and Jonathan Frost, thought Harry. Forgive me, for I have only my dreams and lies and that which is anything but a lie—

“I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

There was a silence when Harry finished. Harry had lifted his head with the last lines—the lines he knew by heart—and Severus had looked away.

“How… sentimental,” Severus sneered with effort.

Harry looked down. “Yes,” he said without emotion.

Severus composed himself, mustering all the contempt that he could and letting it flash over his face. “A prime example of sentimental drivel,” he spat. “Artfully done, yes. But drivel all the same.”

Harry snapped the book shut. “Severus!” he said loudly. He pushed down the flood of anger, of hurt and—and all that sentimental drivel. “Well I’m glad you have your opinions.” Harry tossed the book into his book-bag, his equanimity swiftly recovered. “Anyway, today is Sunday, and I’ve still got Transfigurations to do…”

‘Hello Christolph.’

It was night, and Harry was again on before the fireplace, the gray book open on his lap.

‘Good evening.’ Christolph wrote, the words appearing in their usual, unhurried pace. ‘Did you enjoy entangling yourself in your lies?’

Harry smiled thinly. ‘How much do you know about me?’

‘Quid pro quo again, I see.’ There was a pause. ‘I trust Severus mentioned to you what I knew about soul magic in relation to dreams?’

‘Yes.’ Harry wrote.

‘I will tell you the method of proving the connection if you do two things: tell me what you did with the body in the Nest, and swear an oath to let your lover do a certain part of the proof.’

Harry paused. Swear an oath? he thought. What part of the proof would he want Severus to do, and not me… He lowered his hand. ‘That’s not an equal exchange. I already know, anyway, how to make the potion, just not the theory behind it.’

‘Then name a term.’

Harry sat back, for a moment struck by déjà vu: this was a duel, just like the duel with the Marauders, only in a most Slytherin manner. A term, Harry thought. He immediately thought to what Christolph had told Severus about him—but he changed his mind; it didn’t matter what Christolph had already said. ‘Will you swear not to’ He thought of how he might phrase it. ‘tell Severus things that I’m not ready for him to know?’

‘No.’ Christolph wrote immediately.

‘Then will you tell me all you know about me?’

‘That’s too wide a scope. What about I tell you something I know about you, and you explain it?’

Harry looked at the words, thinking that here was a chance for him to reveal everything, to explain that he wasn’t really Voldemort, a monster, that he really did love Severus… It was strangely appealing, this chance to clear his name. And Christolph might stop badgering Severus to leave me, he thought.

‘Fine, but if I am to bare myself to you, you must tell me about yourself.’

‘Accepted.’

‘I took the body out of the Nest and into the Forbidden Forest.’ Harry fingered the bone-carved pentagonal rose as he wrote. ‘There I cremated it.’

‘Good,’ Christolph wrote a moment later. ‘He’d have liked that.’

He, thought Harry. He searched his mind for that instant sense of duplicity of the necklace’s truth charm, but he found none. So was the corpse not he, Christolph? Harry wondered. Of course, it was possible that Christolph referred to himself by third person, but…

‘There are two parts to seeing soul magic,’ Christolph wrote. ‘One part is a potion. One needs a sprig of willow, harvested on a new moon near a darkling stream; one needs the dew at dawn, a breath before the sunrise…’

Harry summoned a parchment from his book-bag and hurriedly began copying the steps, word for word, onto what was apparently a page of Transfiguration notes. I hope he’s merely being artfully poetic, Harry thought, wondering how on earth he was going to get ‘the sound of a moth’s wings, lilting in the evening.’

‘…stir it beneath the sullen stars, and you will have the potion to see the magic of the soul.’

Harry quickly scribbled that down. He grasped the bone rose and felt no pang of falsity.

‘Thanks.’ he wrote. ‘By the way, can you say a lie? I just want to make sure the truth charm works.’

‘The enchantment of truth on the wild rose is not working.’

He’s lying, Harry thought instantly. ‘Right. Thanks.’

‘The second part of the spell requires an extension of mind-magic. Before I proceed, you must swear to allocate Severus this task—and not do it yourself.’

Harry frowned. Mind magic. Memories of Legilimency and Occlumency rose to the surface, and he almost chuckled at the grim irony. ‘I cannot swear that oath unless I know more specifically what it is that Severus must do.’

‘Swear it first.’

Harry looked down at the page, thinking hard. It made sense, he thought, and wrote: ‘Is it Legilimency?’

There was no response. So it is, Harry thought, waiting as the fire flickered and cracked gently against the backdrop of his breathing, of Severus’s breathing. And it was logical: to enter the mind to see the movements of the soul.

‘Swear it.’

‘You have no leverage anymore,’ Harry wrote. ‘You shouldn’t have said it was mind-magic. I know it’s Legilimency.’

‘Swear it if you love him.’

And Harry understood why: for Severus to let Harry run rampant through his mind was… staggering. Impossible with the Snape Harry knew. But I can’t let him run through my mind, Harry thought. I’ll just… have to convince him. His heart sank at the prospect. ‘I can’t. Not because I don’t love him. I do.’ He looked at what Christolph had written, and thought that it felt strange, a bit frightening—thinking the thought was quite different from seeing it set in ink. ‘He can’t know. Not because I don’t want to tell him, because I didn’t tell him. It isn’t written in his future and wasn’t in my past.’

No words appeared for a long moment. ‘So you are from the future, and you knew him.’

‘Yes.’ Harry wrote.

‘How did you go back in time?’

‘I don’t know. But I didn’t want to go. Someone else sent me.’ He paused. ‘Do you know?’

There was a pause. ‘You’re not lying.’

‘I’m not.’ Harry wrote. ‘I hope you’re not disappointed.’

‘You’re not lying about loving Severus, either. Or at least, you don’t think you are. So you do love him.’

Love. He sat back, looking at the statement. Suddenly it seemed fantastical, utterly unreal. He—Harry Potter, beleaguered leader of the light, scarred and broken and glued back together; he, who had been thrown into a time that wasn’t his own; he, who didn’t know himself and knew love even less—he had fallen in love, and with Severus? And only after what, a few weeks? he thought, still staring at the words that seemed to shift slightly in the firelight. It was like trying to believe Voldemort was gone. It was like trying to believe that his parents had come back to life. It was like trying to believe that he wasn’t Harry Potter anymore, that he was just a regular fellow on the streets, with no more troubles and pain and stupid lightning-shaped scars than an ordinary man. Maybe this isn’t love, and I’m just calling it love because it feels too beautiful and terrible to call it anything else, he thought. Maybe it’s really a twisted form of Stockholm syndrome, or a backlash from Voldemort.

‘But tell me about the unrest in your soul.’

Harry shook himself out of his reverie. The fire made a little cracking sound as a drop of resin sparked. ‘I’m not too sure.’ He reached for memories—memories of a silvery whisper and searing pain. It was fading. ‘I remember attempting to kill a’ He paused. ‘monster. The idea was that the Killing Curse he sent my way would be reflected by a mirror made from soul magic.’ He paused again, remembering. ‘It succeeded, I think. I didn’t die, at any rate. But then there was a silvery thing where the monster’s body had been, and then the silvery thing went into me. And then I was sent back twenty years.’

‘You’re not telling me everything.’

‘That was all that I remember happening—for some reason I was in great pain—but I think the silver wisp had been his soul, and that it fused with mine.’ He looked at what he wrote and quickly added. ‘But it doesn’t mean that I’ve become that monster—only that some of his characteristics bled into me.’ He cannot love, yet I can, Harry thought. Albus always said so. So I’m not a monster. I’m not Voldemort.

‘You seem sure of yourself.’

‘Yes. I am.’ Sure? Or merely desperate? He pushed the thought away. ‘What do you think?’

The response came after a long pause. ‘Your hypothesis seems most plausible. A fusion of two very different souls within one body.’

Very different souls, thought Harry. How true. ‘Tell me a bit about yourself.’

‘First I must ask you: are you planning to go back to your previous present?’

Harry hesitated and he dipped his quill reluctantly in the inkpot. ‘I must. I wish it were otherwise, but I must. And I did, because there’s no trace of my current identity in my previous present.’ He paused. ‘I wish I didn’t have to leave him.’ Not that it matters what I wish. But I wish I wouldn’t have to leave Severus for twenty years. For a moment, the enormity of the thought nearly overwhelmed, but he clamped it down. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘I don’t really know what to say.’ Christolph wrote back. There was a moment’s pause. ‘I was born about eight hundred years ago in a very remote part of Cornwall. My ancestors were Saxons who had fled four hundred years ago when Charlemagne destroyed the Irminsul.’

‘Oh,’ said Harry, finding that he knew almost nothing about Charlemagne and that he had never heard of the Irminsul. ‘Did you go to Hogwarts?’

‘Yes, I did. Slytherin.’

‘Who is’ He wondered how he might phrase this. ‘or was, rather, the deceased man I found in the Nest?’

The response came without too long a pause. ‘That was a man named Simon. He was a close friend I had at Hogwarts.’

‘I see.’ Harry wrote back. He understood what it was like, such a boundless longing for friendship. There was Ron. Ron, who was his first and closest friend; Ron, whom he had killed. And even if Ron had somehow become his enemy, there were things he’d still do, things, for the sake of the memory of that friendship, he would go any lengths to do.

‘By the way, you obtained an anthology of Yeats’s poetry?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Harry paused, a thought coming to him suddenly. ‘You know Yeats?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘But you were born eight hundred years ago. Yeats lived was born about a century ago.’ Harry cast his mind back—he had been holding the bone rose, and duplicity hadn’t sprung into his mind. He was sure of that. Was the truth charm on the bone-rose a fake, an elaborate trap?

‘And yet I knew him, yes.’

Harry could feel the hard edges of the bone rose digging into the palm of his hand. ‘You, Christolph, or you, his memory and his diary?’

‘I, Christolph.’

He’s telling the truth, Harry thought. Or this pentagonal rose is a lie. He bit his bottom lip, and suddenly—it was so obvious; why hadn’t he thought of it before?—the riddle was unraveled. ‘You traveled forward in time.’ That was the only possibility; and so did that mean that Christolph knew the secrets of time travel? Harry shivered.

‘Quid pro quo. Tell me what scrolls Simon had been reading before he died.’

‘I can’t tell you now.’ Harry wrote. He hadn’t cared to look at the scrolls, being too preoccupied with other matters. ‘But I can find out.’

‘Very well. Until then.’

‘One last thing.’ Harry wrote quickly before the words on the page could fade. ‘Is there anything specific about the potion and the Legilimency?’

‘Only that Severus, not you, should be the Legilimens.’

‘It can’t be done.’

‘But it should, or your love will fall apart. How can you think a love would last on lies, shadows, half-truths?’

Harry looked at the words and felt anger welling up like a bubbling poison. ‘Thank you very much for your blessing. I will reply to you soon about the contents of the Nest.’

He shut the book before the ink could fade on its own accord and then stared sullenly into the fire.

“So, what are you doing today?”

Severus looked up at Harry’s question.

“Mainly that stubborn begonia,” he said.

“I see,” said Harry. He fidgeted on his bed and set aside the book he had been pretending to read. “I can help you with that.”

“No thank you,” Severus said, enunciating each word very clearly.

“Oh come on,” said Harry. “I notice that Potter managed the transfiguration very well.”

Severus sneered. “He manages every transfiguration very well.” Then he sniggered. “But he looked quite… wasted today.”

Harry chuckled nervously. “Yes. And Lily Evans looked like a second McGonagall.”

They lapsed into silence. Harry took a deep breath. “But seriously, let me at least lend you my books. After all, your book’s missing pages.”

“And your book is missing ink,” Severus said coolly, returning to whatever tome he was reading.

Harry hesitated. Here it was now: the perfect opening for him to mention Christolph and the method of observing soul magic. But he knew how vehemently Severus would oppose, and he could almost feel the fragility of the ice stretched over the stream of things unsaid, unpalatable.

The words came out almost by themselves. “I talked to Christolph in Arithmancy today,” Harry remarked.

“Oh?” said Severus, looking up sharply.

“Yes.” Harry licked his lips and averted his gaze. “He gave up about the whole body thing. Did he happen to tell you what that was all about?”

The response came after a long pause. “No.”

“Well, anyway, he wanted me to tell him how I got him—the diary—and so I told him, and he told me how to observe soul magic.”

A pause. Harry glanced over at Severus from his bed.

“Well?” Severus drawled, his voice flat and impatient. His eyes were glittering with unspoken suspicion.

“There was a potion he said one of us had to consume,” Harry said, and reached into his book-bag. He pulled out a sheet of wrinkled parchment on which he’d copied the recipe Christolph had given him. “And then the one who drank the potion had to… do Legilimency and go into the other’s mind while the other was dreaming.”

Severus stared. “You’re not making it up as a prank, are you? Because, I assure you Frost, I do not find it amusing.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No—no, I wouldn’t. If you don’t believe me, if you think I’m lying, you can ask Christolph yourself.” Please don’t, Harry thought. He remembered the last time the two of them had read Christolph’s words at the same time… And I’ve got little leverage left. There was still the issue about the scrolls Simon had been reading, but what was that compared to the mess Christolph could make at any moment?

“Yes,” said Severus, moving to Harry’s bed.

Harry swallowed as Severus climbed up next to him. “Here,” Harry said, reaching into his book-bag and pulling out the slate-colored book. “I’ve got a quill here, I think.” He fished out a quill and an inkpot. “All yours.”

Severus dipped his quill unceremoniously in the inkpot and began writing. ‘Christolph, Frost here tells me that observing dreams requires a potion and then Legilimency?’

Harry waited, hardly breathing. There was no response.

‘Christolph?’ Severus wrote impatiently.

Harry reached for the quill. “Severus,” he murmured. “Let me—please.”

Severus yielded the quill, and Harry dipped it in ink. ‘Tell the truth, please, Christolph.’ He didn’t know how much that would help, and it might even make Christolph insufferably pleased, but…

Severus took the quill from Harry’s hand, their fingers brushing, but then a word appeared: ‘Yes.’

Harry felt a surge of relief, but he quickly checked the rising hope. Glancing at Severus, he saw a frown. ‘Yes what?’ Severus scrawled.

‘Observing soul magic requires the potion of Lethe and Legilimency.’

Relief—warm relief—flooded through Harry’s body, but as he glanced at Severus with half a smile on his face, the warmth vanished.

“Severus?”

Severus slammed the book shut and got off the bed.

Harry clambered off his bed as well. “What is it?”

“What is it?” Severus hissed. “What is it?” Harry tried to catch the other Slytherin’s eyes, but Severus was glaring at the other side of the room. One hand, Harry noticed, was clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Suddenly Severus whirled around. “You know Legilimency don’t you?” he spat.

“I—well.” There was no reason to deny it. “I do. Yes.”

Severus made a sound of disgust and anger and contempt and snapped, “There you go! Don’t pretend to be so unknowing and naïve. It sickens me.”

“I’m not!” Harry countered hotly. He ran his mind over his conduct over the past few days—had he pretended to be unknowing and naïve? He couldn’t really think of any instance. “But that… wait. You don’t know Legilimency?”

“No, Frost,” Severus said, voice soaked with sarcasm. “I’m actually the world’s expert. Even Dumbledore quivers at the mere mention of my nonexistent abilities.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “I… didn’t know that.” He had been so used to Snape knowing Legilimency that it was like linking the potions master to Potions: the connection came unthinkingly. But… That makes things so much less complicated, Harry thought with some relief. Severus would be upset, he knew, and Severus would fight, but Severus would succumb, knowing he had no other choice. He always did.

Suddenly Harry felt a shadow of guilt thinking those thoughts. He knew all too well how Severus hated being left without a choice, being forced to do what was right, that nobody else wanted to do. It’s almost funny that I should be the first, Harry thought grimly. Not Voldemort, not Dumbledore.

Not Voldemort. That wasn’t exactly true, either.

“Well?” snapped Severus. “Give me the recipe.”

Harry picked up the wrinkled sheet of parchment and handed it to Severus. Their eyes met briefly, and Harry glanced away at the hard, inscrutable look Severus was giving him. Guilt? Harry thought. That would be funny. Guilt. He hadn’t felt that in the longest time.

“I suppose they think they’re poetic,” Severus was murmuring disdainfully, looking down the list. “It’s written in the late eighteenth century style. ‘A sprig of willow, harvested on a new moon near a darkling stream’—really the leaves of a gray willow tree. And ‘the dew at dawn, a breath before the sunrise?’ That’s most likely purified water, though I’ll need to verify…”

It wasn’t guilt, Harry thought, letting Severus’s voice wash over him with the fire’s warmth. Merely apprehension. They could pretend the future wasn’t creeping inexorably towards them, but Harry’s heart weighed with dread at the thought of how Severus would react from someone romping through his mind.

But at the same time, Harry found himself curious. There were things he didn’t know about Severus, things he wanted to know…

“I can’t figure out Matellan’s alignment,” Harry said.

Severus made a “hmm” noise and carefully added a pinch of dried althea root.

Harry gave Severus a porcelain cup of powdered marjoram. They were huddled around the fireplace in their room, and although the setup, with the cauldron floating over fire from Harry’s levitation charm, was rather clumsy, it was serviceable. “And it saves us the trouble of explaining things,” Severus had said when they discussed it in low voices in Defense Against Dark Arts.

Harry reached over to the tiny glass jar containing Syrup of hellebore and kept it at ready. “Last week Matellan was quite hostile to Potter and Black, but today she was beaming over Potter’s Protego.”

“Last week was an anomaly, probably McGonagall’s doing. Matellan is Moody’s cousin,” Severus said, taking the essence of hellebore and pouring it carefully into the concoction.

“Moody? As in—the Auror?”

“Alastor Moody” said Severus. “One of Dumbledore’s friends, I believe. He’s been in the Prophet quite a few times, always catching Voldemort’s supporters…”

Harry nearly dropped the dried nettles he was holding. “Uh—yeah.”

Severus gave him a hard glare. “Don’t tell me you’re going to tremble at that name as well. Voldemort. Flight from death. It’s shamefully ridiculous, and it’s French.”

All changed, Harry thought. Changed utterly. It was tragic that in a few years’ time, this man—no, not yet a man, not yet the bitter man he would be—would quiver at that name. Even I—and most of all I— have learned to fear that name. “Of course not,” Harry said as nonchalantly as he could. “Voldemort. He’s quite a lunatic, don’t you think?”

Severus snorted, snatching the dried nettles and crumbling them up before sprinkling them into the brew. “Among other things, yes.”

A heavy silence settled. Harry wondered if he might ask whether or not the potion was finished, but quickly decided against it.

“And why are there only two Slytherins in Charms?” Harry asked.

“Charms isn’t an Old Magic,” Severus explained, as though it were terribly obvious. He gripped a thin, black rod with both hands and began to stir. “Potions is the oldest magic, and then Transfiguration, and enchantments and spells that don’t go under Charms. Charms is a relatively new branch of magic, one that many feel is…” He stopped, lifted the rod out and ran the tip of his tongue over it. Harry gulped, feeling a shiver shoot down his spine. “They feel it’s isn’t dignified enough.”

“But charms have gone back thousands of years,” Harry said. His mouth felt a little dry. “Do you want the asphodel?”

“No,” Severus said dismissively.

“But there are ancient charms,” Harry said, to cover up the silence. “And there are terribly powerful ones, too.”

Severus sneered as he dipped a ladle into the cauldron. “You won’t understand, Frost.” He held the ladle to his nose and sniffed. Then he made a satisfied sound and turned away from the fireplace.

Harry stared at the ladle. “You’re drinking that?”

Severus gave him a withering look. “What would I do with it then? Use it as a bathing condiment?”

“No I mean—” so soon, Harry thought, watching rather helplessly as Severus sipped the potion with half-lidded eyes. Then the feeling of helplessness melted and Harry looked away quickly as Severus licked the underside of the ladle. “When will it come into effect?” Harry managed.

Severus’s eyes were still half-lidded. “I imagine in a few minutes,” he said, stumbling to his bed. He shivered. “Cold,” he muttered.

“Concalesco!” Harry commanded, pointing his wand at the fireplace. The flames leapt, and Harry felt a wave of heat, uncomfortably warm, drift through the room. He was beginning to sweat. “Are you still cold?”

Severus shook his head, but he grabbed his quilt and pulled it jerkily into his lap. Harry helped, reaching over to pat the warm folds in place.

“We really need to ventilate this place,” Harry muttered, taking off his robe. Already the long black sleeves were sticking to his bare arms.

Severus’s eyes were still half-lidded, and his face seemed to be making an effort to sneer. But it failed, and the Slytherin wrapped his arms around his chest, huddling into a ball. “You—you know my eyes will be wide open when the potion’s effects are fully manifest?”

“Yes, a waking sleep,” Harry said. They had gone over this before. “Maybe it’d be more comfortable if you lie down?”

Severus complied without protest, and Harry smoothed the blanket over Severus’s body.

“You know I’ll try my best not to—not to go too deeply into your mind,” Harry blurted out awkwardly. All day they had avoided mentioning Harry’s part in penetrating Severus’s mind, almost as though it didn’t exist, but now—I have to say it, Harry thought. Severus just nodded. It’s almost as if he’s really ill, Harry thought. But it’s only a potion. Yet it reminded him of the wizards and witches, shivering from malevolent magic as their lives trickled away…

Severus’s voice shook. “Just—just do it.”

Harry swallowed. I’m sorry, he thought.

It seemed to go on forever. Then, Severus’s eyes widened, and a glassy look fell over them. If he weren’t shaking, he’d look quite dead, Harry thought, feeling a bit sick. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Should I bother with a wand? he wondered, briefly, almost feverishly, but he shook aside all frivolous thoughts.

“Legilimens.”

XIV. 

…red… black… shadows… The pillow was thin but soft behind his back, and he was curled comfortably with a slender finger between the pages of a book, feeling the texture of the page, watching… the figure lying on the hearthrug, lying on… the hearthrug, gray book open… on the hearthrug, lying…

Is he dreaming of me?

The muscles of his forearms moved leanly in the firelight as he wrote and sitting with the pillow behind his back Severus felt a heat envelope his insides, a heat that made it impossible to pretend to read, a heat that made him stare and do nothing but stare at the other man and his face a slight frown concentrating intense

He is dreaming of me. It’s me writing on the hearthrug.

…looking up… saying something— No longer was he wearing robes, he was wearing those Muggle things—black shirt and tight trousers as he lay on the hearthrug writing, but he wasn’t writing anymore: he was looking up, the firelight catching his throat, he was saying something, so beautiful in the firelight… so beautiful

Harry felt shock well up in him. He thinks I’m beautiful? he thought wonderingly, looking at himself. He was dressed in his jeans and old shirt, what he had worn to duel Potter and Black; and he was saying something— He thinks I’m beautiful. I’m

the face… some distant sadness there was, expressive but—rarely smiling, preciously rare…

beautiful to him.

He could stare forever at that form before the fireplace. He could stare forever at the face, the neck, the shoulders and arms and the strange sadness (why? why was he sad while all day long he tried to make him, Severus, smile) and courage…

No, Harry thought sternly (seeing himself was rather distracting: did his muscles glint like that normally?); he was here to see soul magic. But where was it? What was there to see…?

…golden now, golden—skin—remembering the feel of lips… A warm mouth on his shoulder, murmuring something, and he felt like stars falling through his body, what was it that Jonathan was saying, murmuring against his skin—ah! he was melting, melting and falling over the stone like heaven’s cloths, the warm mouth on his shoulder and the eyes awakening such yearning he had never known, the eyes still dazed from whatever nightmare or dream— look away . . .

How do I observe soul magic? Harry thought, wrenching his mind back, feeling his entire body tingle, his breath quicken. What am I looking for? he wished he had asked Christolph more specifically. He wished— Suddenly he thought of the pentagonal rose. Do I have it here? he wondered and looked down. To his surprise he saw it in the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers around the thing, white and dark and deeply red—

closer he could even see… eyelashes… green eyes so green, it was unnatural how they were green; he couldn’t look at them for long… he’d fall… ah, so close, please, Merlin… it hurt, the aching; he was saying something… his skin warm and glowing… firelight… it was warm…

—he saw it. The soul magic was there: he felt and knew it with the same conviction he knew a lie. And he saw it moving in the dream, moving in and through countless colors, countless hues, quivering and arcing like an aurora… I see it, Harry thought breathlessly. It’s there. He remembered it—perhaps he’d show Severus in a pensieve—but how do I leave?

…the eyes were so close, the lips, the face, smiling? touching… But no— no— He was a greaseball, an abomination, a piece of filth, a waste of space, Snivellus do you want your mummy, Snivellus? do you want her, alone, so alone

Harry watched, fascinated, as felt the dream beginning to shift. But there was something not letting the change occur. Some part of Severus’s mind was clamping down, preventing the shift, frantically stopping it. Harry reached for the texture, probing with his mind to find what direction the dream was drifting. Malfoy? Lestrange? Harry felt as though lightning had struck him. He was frozen in a moment of indecision. And then (just a moment, to see it for a moment before leaving) he bent his mind… pushed the dream forward—

He was lying naked on Malfoy’s bed and Malfoy was panting over him with a mean smile on his face and he was making little gasps and Severus was looking up with wide eyes mouth open wide letting the hot slickness move in and out of his throat in and Malfoy was chuckling something to Lestrange who was smiling a knowing smile on a child’s face a child’s penis in a child’s mouth in and out the puffy mouth eyes not knowing eyes wide staring a child’s eyes in a child’s face staring

Harry pulled out with a gasp. The air descended upon him in all its heat and stickiness. So that’s why, he thought shakily, moist sheets tangled around his legs. That’s why. The world reeled back into view and he saw Severus—huddled in a tiny ball at one end of the bed, his dark hair tangled about his face, his eyes moving wildly like a trapped animal’s.

“Severus?” Harry whispered hoarsely. “Sev—” His heart broke. He had nudged Severus’s mind into the direction of those—memories; he had done it; and now—

He reached out a hand—

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Severus screamed. The world darkened. Harry felt a wave of energy slam into him and fling him back. Stars exploded before his eyes. His head throbbed with pain—he must’ve smashed into something with the back of his head. The pain was crippling, nauseating.

“…Jonathan?”

Something cool and hard was against his cheek. He realized he was lying on the ground, on his side…

“Jonathan? Are you—”

Severus… Severus’s voice was shaky, sounding through the haze of pain as though it was caught by suppressed sobs. Severus. Suddenly there was one thing that was important, one thing he had to do as he reached out with his hands and clutched the quivering shoulders—

He pulled Severus close and pressed their faces together. Their lips squashed uncomfortably, and Harry could feel Severus’s nose press against his cheek; but Severus didn’t move, his body immobile, and Harry pressed closer, both hands drawing Severus closer, his hands then moving over the warm back, up and down almost frantically—

Harry drew away to breathe. Air rushed into his lungs and through his mind; he was sweaty, he realized, his hair clinging to his forehead, and Severus’s eyes were closed, his lips half open.

“Severus?” Harry whispered hoarsely. Severus said nothing. “Severus—are you—” Of course he’s not okay, Harry thought, suddenly miserable. You just barged through his mind and nudged the dream into showing a memory of him being—doing that with Malfoy, and then you suffocate him with a kiss. “Severus?”

Severus shrank back, knees drawn to his chest and arms crossed over his legs. “Go away,” he whispered, eyes still shut, as though he wished he were cast in darkness, blind and withdrawn from the world.

“Severus—” Harry wished he could think of something to say, something comforting and true and soothing, something besides imitating a parrot.

“Just. Go. Please,” Severus hissed through gritted teeth.

“I’m… sorry—”

“Sorry?” Severus spat furiously. “It’s not your fault you saw it!”

“I—” Harry stopped. He realized suddenly that Severus didn’t know. Perhaps it was the desperation of the dream, or the subtlety of Harry’s nudge, but Severus did not know. Relief washed through him. The longing and fire returned, and he reached out a hand to touch the other man…

“GO AWAY!” Severus shrieked, flinging out an arm. Harry caught it, but Severus jerked away as though scalded. “Isn’t that enough for you?” His eyes were wild, and his voice was hoarse now. “Now you know, don’t you, what kind of—thing I am? Go find Lestrange or Black or Potter or Malfoy and—”

“No, I—”

“I don’t want your pity!”

“No!” Harry shouted stubbornly. “I—love you!”

Severus looked up sharply, incredulously. Harry watched a mixture of shock, anger, and finally hilarity cross that sweat-sheened face. “Love me? What are you talking about, Frost?” Severus barked out a humorless laugh. His voice was twisted, twisted with hate. “You don’t know, you don’t understand—”

“I—” Harry tried to find words—any words—to say. “I—”

“Love me?” Severus sneered. “What you just saw happened in my second year, and I had”—he broke off and looked down at his hands, hands that clenched into a trembling, white-knuckled fist—“I wanted it. I threw myself at Malfoy. He and Lestrange, they gave me what I wanted.” He looked up with stricken eyes, eyes aflame with self-loathing. “I wanted it, Frost. Don’t make excuses for me.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry. “That’s… that’s not true—you didn’t understand, then, they took advantage of you.” He swallowed. “Anyway you don’t want it anymore…”

Severus shook and looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Just go and—and think of me as the whore I am.”

“You’re not,” Harry said helplessly. Whore. He wanted to cover his head with his hand. Memories from his dreams arose, dreams of a red-eyed monster whose lust burned with hatred into a towering black flame—dreams of a gangly man, a dark-eyed boy, sprawled in all his beauty—did it begin five years ago? did the monster within him find these seeds and reap what was sown—

NO!

He rubbed his face. No, he couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he—

He glanced at Severus. Severus was looking back dully, and he seemed old and tired and sick.

“Severus,” Harry began, and it was no more than a croak. He cast about for words. “Please, I…” He could think of nothing to say. His tongue felt heavier than lead, a stick of cardboard in his mouth. His mind was numb, dry.

Severus looked at him with weary disdain and sneered tiredly. “Just leave,” he said, voice emotionless. “I’m not what you want.”

Harry swallowed. He could feel the sheets tangled around his legs, the heat wrapping around them like a thick blanket, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Here they were, sitting a few feet apart on a bed in the sweltering heat from the fireplace, yet they might as well be an ocean apart, or separated by a forest of thorns, or entangled by a thick rope of pain, emotions, words, unsaid words—things that there were no words for.

He shifted closer. Severus flinched and tensed, and Harry waited, not daring to breathe. He reached out his hand and laid it gently on Severus’s shoulder. He let it rest there, lightly, and waited—waited an eternity before reaching out his other arm and wrapping it around Severus’s shoulders…

Severus shuddered—and then the tension collapsed. Harry nestled his face in Severus’s hair, only then daring to think the thoughts, only then daring to breathe and let the emotions well up in his throat and twist his heart: I love you, he thought fiercely. I love you, love you, love you— And he stopped, because the word was inadequate: four mere letters to express a depthless ocean of pain and wonder. It was painful to feel so much so deeply, to feel so much boundless longing, so much limitless joy at holding Severus in his arms; to feel so much aching, so much longing—and yet, to feel so complete…

There was a slight trembling under his hands, and Harry realized that Severus was weeping, weeping in that silent, wordless way that wracked the entire body with its strength. He moved slightly, as though to pull away, but Harry tightened his grip. Don’t go, he thought, heart pounding. Don’t leave. Let me hold you a bit longer. Just a bit longer. And Severus stayed still. A silence settled. Harry took a deep breath, listening to the gradual steadying of their heartbeats, the softening of their harsh breathing… They could stay like this forever. If only time would stop here, stop and preserve this fleeting moment of contentment and peace…

Severus pulled away at last, looking quite composed when he emerged. His eyes, though, were puffy, and he surreptitiously wiped his nose.

“Did you manage to see soul magic?” Severus asked, his voice only slightly muffled.

Harry blinked and had to remind himself what soul magic was. “Yes,” he said after a blank pause. “I did. See it, I mean.”

“Good,” Severus said and got up unsteadily. He pointed his wand at the flames. “Deminuo.” The fire flickered and shrank. “It’s quite warm in here,” he commented.

“Yes,” Harry managed, after a pause. Severus settled back onto his bed, about an arm’s length away, looking away from him at the fire. Harry wished he could see Severus’s face.

“Well?” said Severus impatiently. “Tell me about the soul magic you saw.”

“Um.” Harry struggled for coherence. He still felt shaky, as though he’d just withstood the onslaught of a tidal wave. “It was… like seeing dust in sunlight, I suppose. You can’t look for it though. It lingers at the edges of things, but it’s quite unmistakable.” It was also very beautiful, he realized. “I can… show it to you through a Pensieve, if we can find one.”

“I’m sure there are quite a few Pensieves lying about, waiting for us to find them,” Severus said sarcastically. “I think—perhaps you can confirm your observations with Christolph?”

Christolph. “Yeah, sure,” Harry said. He touched the back of his head and winced.

Severus noticed immediately. “Are you hurt?” he asked hesitantly, looking a bit guilty.

“Oh I’m fine,” Harry said. He could feel a sizable bump, but nothing his own rudimentary medical skills couldn’t heal. He cracked a grin when Severus didn’t look convinced. “I’ve met quite a few bludgers that have had the honor of hardening my skull.”

“That explains a lot,” said Severus dryly, and Harry laughed outright. He watched Severus leave the bed and fumble for the slate-covered book of Christolph’s diary. The firelight was dimmer than before, and the shadows deeper, the world awash with solemn colors. Harry took a deep breath.

“Severus,” he said slowly. “I… just want you to know. That I meant it. Everything I said.”

“You mean, you’re admitting you’ve got a thick skull?” Severus asked as he reached into his own book-bag to find an inkpot and a quill.

“No!” Harry said irritably as he tried to force out the words. “Well yes, maybe that as well, but I—I meant—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Frost,” Severus said. He thrust the book into Harry’s lap. “I understand what you’re saying.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do!” Severus said impatiently. “Open the book and write.”

Harry wanted to throw the book across the room and ask the unspeakable questions, but he couldn’t. He didn’t. He opened the book. But Severus thought I was beautiful, he thought. The thought nearly brought a blush to his face, and he glanced at the other Slytherin. He was neatly skewered by Severus’s annoyed glare. It’s as though I went in someone else’s head, he thought. Did Severus accept his love? Did he return it? By Merlin’s beard, why was this man so frustrating?

He dipped his quill into the inkpot before Severus could say anything else, and wrote. ‘Good evening, Christolph.’

The response came lazily. ‘Hello Jonathan Frost. I see that Severus is with you.’

‘Yes,’ wrote Harry, his heart clenched by a sudden fear. He hated it that Christolph could inflame the embers of suspicions and destroy everything that had been built with the slightest whim, the most careless of hints. ‘Severus wants me to tell you that I’ve just observed soul magic.’

‘I see.’

‘He wants you to confirm whether or not what I saw was indeed soul magic.’

‘Does he? Then tell me what you saw.’

Harry glanced at Severus. Severus looked away the instant their eyes met. Harry bit his lips and lowered his quill. ‘It’s hard to put into words, but it was like walking into a mist with everything shimmering at the edges, except you couldn’t look at it directly or it’d disappear. I just remember it as being very, very beautiful.’

“It wasn’t!” Severus snapped. “What are you talking about?”

Harry looked up, confused. “The soul magic…”

“My soul isn’t some shimmering and beautiful thing,” Severus said contritely.

A flood of understanding washed over Harry, and he was touched and greatly saddened, because Severus didn’t sound childishly sulky or secretly pleased: he sounded genuinely upset, as though Harry had said those things only to tease him, to mock him.

“It was,” Harry said firmly, and looked down to read Christolph wrote before Severus could deny it.

‘Severus, tell your lover that Snapes don’t go for flattery.’

Severus blushed. “We’re—not—lovers,” he growled.

“No,” Harry said mournfully, and surprised himself at how reluctant he sounded. He felt a blush creeping to his cheeks and saw that Severus was coloring as well. “But—uh…” I’d like us to be? He felt utterly at lost for words, and not a little stupid.

“Tell him!” Severus ordered, jabbing a finger at the book.

“Why can’t we be?” Harry muttered under his breath, eyes fixed unseeingly on the words wavering on the page.

“What?”

“I said”—Harry began loudly—“why can’t we be?” There. The words were out. Harry felt blood rush into his face, and he continued, stumbling and not quite knowing what next to say, all too aware of Severus’s stare, speaking only to delay that awkward silence that he was sure would fall. “I meant everything I said, a few minutes ago, about what I… how I—think and feel about you. But, of course, it’s up to you, you obviously might not even be able to stand being around me…”

“It’s not you,” Severus interrupted.

Harry glanced at him sharply. Severus was looking down studiously. The room felt stiflingly hot again. “Not me? Then…”

“I don’t want…” Severus gestured with one hand, rapidly and limply. “This. I mean—” He drew a deep breath and looked up fractionally, his profile sharp and distant and taut against the fireplace. “It is in my opinion that I would be unsuited to join you in an endeavor of such sentiment.”

Harry blinked. “But we haven’t tried,” he said. “And how do you know?”

“I think I know myself quite well,” Severus snapped, looking down and letting his hair hide his profile in a tangled screen. He took a deep breath, and Harry waited, waited with a heart he just realized was thumping recklessly against his ribcage, pumping blood with the sound of thunder in his head.

Severus’s shoulders rose, then fell. “Just… give me time.”

Time. Harry felt a shot of—something rush through his body, something that felt like an itching, impatient thrill. Just give me time… Well, then. He’d have to wait. He’d have to suffer each slowly dripping second, each sluggish minute until time came—time for the fire to be lit, time…

He shuddered and took a deep breath, feeling his face crack uncontrollably. Severus hadn’t said no. He had only said to give him time. He’s practically agreed, Harry thought. I feel… happy. More than happy: overjoyed, thrilled, excited—he was once more at platform nine and three quarters, making his way eagerly through the excited, chattering crowd to board the scarlet train and leave in a cloud of billowing white steam…

He glanced down, and saw, under the words: ‘Are you there? Hello? What are you lovebirds up to?’ the end of: ‘At least shut me if you’re occupied’ being written.

Harry dipped his quill in the inkpot and scribbled, with a shaky hand, ‘Sorry.’ He glanced up at Severus. “Anything else we should ask?”

Severus shook his head.

‘Thank you,’ Harry wrote.

‘Be careful,’ the words emerged. ‘Tampering with soul magic is no child’s plaything.’

‘We will be.’

The words disappeared slowly, almost reluctantly fading into the face of the page, and Harry shut the book.

“You’re on my bed,” Severus said after a moment had passed.

“Right,” Harry said, getting off. He lingered, though, a moment, standing behind Severus, standing so that Severus couldn’t see him—couldn’t see the longing in his eyes, the hope and yearning on his face, the terrible heat of his—

Lust? he wondered, much later, lying in bed. He heard Severus’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of it, lapping his mind like waves on the shore. Voldemort’s? or mine?

He turned over. It doesn’t matter, he thought firmly, trying to smooth out the wrinkles of troubled thoughts. It’s mine now.

“Snape,” Camentum called from his desk at one end of the dungeon. “Severus Snape.”

Harry glanced up in surprise and saw Severus’s eyebrows furrow, though the deft hands did not cease their stirring motion.

“Snape!”

“Put the dried nettles in when the potions turns a tint blue,” Severus hissed, thrusting the stirring rod into Harry’s hand.

“Right,” Harry muttered, watching Severus go. This was the first time in his memory that Camentum had ever called any one of them up for something besides grading potion samples.

He glanced down and noticed that the potion was an electric blue—quite a few shades from what it had been mere second ago. Severus is going to kill me, Harry thought as he tossed in a bundle of dried nettles, resulting in a furious hiss that drew a few irritable glances from those around him. He looked up guiltily.

But Severus’s back was to him, and the bony shoulders were tense. Harry frowned. Camentum’s voice was only an indistinct murmur over the frothing potions, and Severus was saying something—his voice too low to make out as well—and then Harry saw Camentum give a ghost of a smile, a smile that hovered between indulgent and consolatory, that faded as another few words were exchanged. Then Severus nodded reluctantly.

But just as he turned around, the tension draining from his shoulders, Malfoy, from a table nearby, leaned over and whispered something—and Harry saw the unmistakable hardness and immobility of fear appear on Severus’s face.

Malfoy, thought Harry, a cold, cold feeling gathering at the pit of the stomach as Severus neared.

“What happened—?”

“Idiot!” Severus hissed. He grabbed a pinch of powdered bicorn horn and tossed it into the dangerously purple concoction; it retched a few translucent bubbles before subsiding to sullen mutters. “You’ve almost ruined it! What were you doing, twiddling your thumbs and smiling at the ceiling?”

“I was watching you,” Harry said in a low voice.

“That doesn’t mean you should ignore the potion,” Snape retorted. He plunged a Jobberknoll feather into the potion. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued. “Camentum told me not to pursue the Dreamless Sleep Potion and said it was useless, but we can make a random thing to please him while we continue working on it…”

“What did Malfoy say?”

“Nothing!” Severus hissed. But he glanced sideways at Harry, resentfully. “It really was nothing,” he said, more quietly than before, though Harry could still make out every word spoken by that voice. “Malfoy just—riles me. Like Potter and Black.”

Harry stood.

“Frost!” Severus barked, then lowered his voice and fought down a blush as glances went his way. “Sit down and grind the shrivelfigs!”

“In a moment,” Harry said. He noticed quite a few people looking at him curiously—including Malfoy, with a slight smirk on his face, and Lestrange, who did so in a way that it seemed almost by accident. “I’m going to have a word with Camentum.”

“Frost!” Severus hissed, but Harry ignored him. He walked up between the rows of bubbling cauldrons and paused in front of the battered desk.

“Professor Camentum?”

The professor looked up, peering over his spectacles. “Yes… er…”

“Frost,” said Harry. Malfoy was looking at him, he could feel it. “Severus told me that you disapprove of our decision to make a Dreamless Sleep Potion?”

“Oh, yes, yes, the Dreamless Sleep Potion,” said Camentum. “I think it is quite admirable that Snape—and you—would like to attempt it, but centuries of potion masters have failed, and I would much rather you do a more feasible project.”

“I understand your concern, professor—and I don’t mean to boast—but Severus and I came a few days ago upon a method that we believe may actually accomplish a Dreamless Sleep Potion …”

capitalise

Camentum chuckled. “I suggest you thoroughly research your literature, Frost. There is very, very little that hasn’t been done before in the realm of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Now, why don’t you choose a different potion—I’ve a list of ideas if you need help—and make that one instead.” His smile faded when Harry remained where he was.

“He means for you to go back to Snivellus now,” Malfoy sneered.

Harry turned slowly.

“Malfoy—” Camentum chided.

The cauldron exploded. Harry ducked as screams burst out like a terrified chorus. He felt a gust of air across his skin and—split second later—blobs of potion on his back— He hissed, and in an action faster than a snake, swiped his wand across his shoulders—

Then Harry felt a blast of something cold and searing across his back, so forceful it almost knocked the breath out of his lungs— Then a frantic pair of hands pulling at the back of his robes, pulling with the desperation of a drowning man clutching at a passing ship—

“Severus!” Harry gasped. He heard a loud rip and felt air on his bare back. “Severus!” He whirled around. “I’m okay,” he said, breathing heavily. “I’m okay. I got rid of the potion already. I’m—”

But Severus pushed him around roughly. For a long moment, Harry felt Severus’s gaze run over his back, Severus’s breath against his bare skin, and then fingers lightly running between his shoulder blades.

Harry swallowed. “Severus?” he said hoarsely. He looked around. The only light came from a window at the other end; the fires and candles and oil-lit lamps in a large space around them had all been extinguished.

Harry snaked his hand back and grabbed Severus’s wrist. Then he turned around and, still glancing around furtively, felt Severus let out a deep breath, an enormous sigh of relief. “It’s okay,” Harry murmured, stepping closer to the other Slytherin. “It’s okay…”

“Malfoy! Keep your mouth closed!” Camentum shouted, peering from under the cover of his potion-soaked robes, which Harry supposed must’ve been charmed to protect him from accidents just like this. “Everyone, out! Except for those who’ve been hit… Someone get Pomfrey!”

From next to Malfoy, who had the potion all over his face and was writhing like a fish on land, Lestrange stood up and broke into a run. Harry stared, almost unable to believe that Lestrange was unscathed; but just as Lestrange left, he turned his head, and Harry caught a glance—a glance that was so brief Harry only knew it had disturbed him.

“If anyone’s skin has come in contact with the potion, don’t try to wipe it off!” Camentum shouted. His voice shrilled as the volume increased. “Wait until Pomfrey arrives… Everyone else get out!”

“Let’s go,” Harry whispered, tugging at Severus’s hand. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Severus answered as they hurried to the entrance of the dungeon, where the shaken students were squeezing out of the room.

“Let’s not stay here,” Harry said quietly when they had pushed their way out of the crowd. Most of the students were gathered near the entrance, either talking rapidly with the relief of having escaped a disaster or in the dazed way of uncomprehending shock.

“Where, then?” Severus muttered, but he followed Harry down the corridor and around the corner. “Classes don’t end until quite some time later.”

“I know,” said Harry. Just anywhere alone by ourselves. He reached a hand behind him and clasped Severus’s wrist. “Let’s go into the sunlight.”

“You like sunlight?”

“Not all Slytherins aspire to be vampires, you know.”

Harry heard Severus make an amused noise, and then they rounded a corner and paused. They were in a corridor with many tall windows on one side, each letting in a brilliant stripe of illumination, and tapestries on the other.

“Sunlight,” said Severus, his wrist still in Harry’s hand.

“Yes.”

Harry shifted through his mind, trying to think of something to say, so that the silence would not bring attention to his holding Severus’s hand. Not even hand—wrist.

“Did Camentum say anything?” Severus asked.

“Not really,” Harry said, relieved that Severus had solved the silence for him. “I told him that we had a new idea, but he told me to review the literature. The cauldron exploded before I could say anything else.”

Severus was silent for a moment, but Harry thought he knew what the other Slytherin was thinking. It made him uncomfortable as he remembered—remembered the hot burst of anger and the power that rose coldly through his body, reminding him that he was the most powerful being on this earth, that he could utterly destroy Lucius Malfoy if he wished.

“He’ll need some St. Mungo’s specialists to fix that face of his,” Severus said.

“Why? What does the potion do to your skin?”

Severus gave him a glance that seemed to inquire disgustedly whether or not he read anything. “It turns flesh into a rather gooey substance that, after cooling, solidifies.”

“Oh.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “That means they’d have to remelt Malfoy’s face mold it back to how it was before?”

“Quite probably,” Severus said. Harry wondered if there was a hint of troubled reproach in the voice (no fear, Harry hoped, not daring to listen more deeply).

“I suppose it might’ve been because Malfoy put some ingredient into his potion that made it explode.” He paused before continuing, his eyes resting on a tapestry on the wall. “After all, we’re handling extremely dangerous potions, and Malfoy isn’t the most meticulous potion student.”

“Quite possibly,” Severus said noncommittally.

Harry turned away from the tapestry of a unicorn rubbing her horn against a tree and met Severus’s eyes, feeling rather stupid for even attempting to lie. “I…”

“You’ve always told me not to get riled up by Potter and Black,” Severus said, rather pointedly, and meeting his gaze squarely.

Harry laughed. “Yes, you’re right. It would be… it was highly hypocritical of me.” He paused and wondered idly how much longer before classes ended and the corridor was streaming with students. His hand still held Severus’s wrist, but they were no longer looking at each other—Harry found himself observing the pale column of Severus’s neck, and he could feel Severus’s gaze on his forehead.

“It’s just…” Harry said, moving a bit closer. “I get so angry, seeing him. So mad.”

“Don’t,” said Severus. Harry could feel the brush of air across his face from Severus’s breath. “I don’t—I don’t even think Malfoy really remembers…”

“Not remember?” Harry hissed, looking up sharply. “How could he”—that bastard—“possibly forget—”

“Jonathan! Please.”

The faint haze of redness Harry hadn’t been aware of disappeared, and Harry found himself staring in Severus’s eyes. He felt a smile curve on his lips.

“Severus?”

Severus blushed slightly, but didn’t look away. “I meant, Frost. I—”

“Shh…”

Just give me time, Harry remembered, the voice running through memories of heat and flame and flagstone floors in his mind. Time. One night and a morning was too short a time, but… They were very close now, and Severus wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t glancing up over Harry’s head or over at the light falling on the tapestries. Don’t go away, Harry repeated fervently in his mind. Stay. Stay here. His heart was pounding like mad and he could feel the air of Severus’s breath on his face, on his neck, on his lips…

There was a peculiar gagging sound. Harry jerked away and looked to the end of the corridor.

“Black!” Harry spat after a moment of shocked silence. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have class?”

Sirius Black didn’t seem to have heard it; he was staring at the two Slytherins with an expression of utmost disgust on his face. In fact, he seemed ready to vomit.

“You—” he sputtered; “—fairies!” He took a couple of deep breaths, then broke into laughter—a laughter Harry had once, long ago, been thrilled to hear, but which now filled him with a deep sense of anger and hate. “Snivellus and the new student from the Merriman School of Magic, a pair of poofy lovers!”

There was a silence, and before Harry heard, faintly, the sound of something flying through air. Black frowned, as though he heard it too—and then, split seconds later, a round object flew through one of the tall windows and smashed Black’s head. He flew heavily into the wall without even a cry—and slumped to the floor along with the tapestry, which somehow descended with a chunk of stone it had been attached to and landed with a sickening crunch on his back.

“A bludger?” Harry exclaimed as the black ball whirled once or twice above Black’s body, dove one last time and hit the Gryffindor’s leg with a heavy thud, and careened back out of the window.

The hall was silent again. “Well, I hope he’s not dead,” Harry said lightly.

“I don’t,” Severus said abruptly. He went up closer to Black’s very still form. “He’s still breathing. But he’s bleeding rather heavily from the head.”

Harry smirked at the disappointment in Severus’s voice at the beginning and the relish at the end, but he could hear the shaky note in it as well, and cursed Black for walking in on them. “We should take him to the hospital wing.” But it was very foolish to be doing what we were doing here in the corridor, Harry thought. What if Filch caught you and reported you to Dumbledore?

“We should let him lie there,” Severus said fiercely. His voice trembled.

Harry flicked his wand and levitated Black off the floor. “And have him incriminate us when he wakes up?” he remarked mildly.

Severus glared, and there was a wild look in his eyes. “Don’t you understand? Once he wakes up, he’ll tell his stupid friends, and they’ll—” He stopped, and looked smolderingly at Black’s body.

“Would you be so ashamed?” Harry asked quietly.

“That’s—” Severus flushed, stammered. “You—!”

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly. “It was only a rhetorical question.” He paused. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure he won’t blab it. Without needing to use memory charms, which don’t work that well anyway when one is unconscious..”

Severus digested this, then nodded. “Do you remember the way to the hospital wing?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He went off, Black floating behind him. “D’you suppose I should try stopping the bleeding? He’ll drip a bloody trail after us.”

“Leave that to Filch. He might even enjoy the thought of Black bleeding, too.”

Harry laughed. “Just so long nobody sees us between classes.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of time.”

Time. They’d been so close, Harry thought. So close. Yet again he cursed Black for showing up at such an inopportune moment. They had Transfiguration together next, but Severus was usually too upset afterwards for anything more than acerbic comments. Perhaps after Severus cooled off in Ancient Runes and they were back in their room…

He suppressed a shiver of excitement. Don’t get your hopes up, Frost, he thought. Keep calm. Keep cool. Let him have his time.

Harry watched Potter wipe his mouth and stand, his action mirrored seconds later by Lupin and Pettigrew. At last, Harry thought, returning casually to his mashed potatoes. He didn’t think Severus had noticed the Gryffindors approach yet. The later the better, Harry thought, remembering how angry Severus had been over the animagus lesson, even though Black had been absent and Potter had seemed preoccupied over his friend’s disappearance.

He’s noticed, thought Harry as Severus froze and stopped eating his mashed potatoes.

“Potter,” Severus growled.

“Snape,” Potter answered with equal hostility. At least he’s not spouting off insults and getting bludgeoned by a bludger, thought Harry, still eating his mashed potatoes. “And Frost.”

“Yes?” Harry said, mock courteously. “Is there a reason why you’re seeking us out?”

Potter bent closer. “Yes,” he said lowly. Quite a few professors, Dumbledore included, were sending glances in their direction. “What did you do to Sirius?”

“Black?” Harry fixed his features so that he looked politely surprised. “I don’t quite understand.”

Severus sniggered. So much for the effect, Harry thought, watching a dark cloud gather on Potter’s brow.

“Sirius Black is my friend,” Potter hissed. “He is the best friend I have in the world, and closer to me than a brother. If you did anything to him—” He took a deep breath, reining in the depth of his emotion.

“Why don’t you go to the professors if you think I tried to kill him?”

“That’s not the point,” he said angrily, then paused, searching for words. Lupin opened his mouth to speak, but Harry cut in lightly.

“It wouldn’t be Gryffindorish enough, would it? Or perhaps the Marauders want to take things into their own hands. Barbaric and personal vengeance is what you want, eh?”

Potter looked ready to spit fire, but he swallowed and glanced back at the Gryffindor table. Harry followed that glance and saw Lily Evans pretending to read a book. “Either answer my question, or don’t,” Potter said in a low, shaking voice.

“Very well,” said Harry. He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood. “Come with me—alone—to the hospital wing.” He glanced at Severus, but Severus only gave him a quizzical and disapproving glance before returning to his mashed potatoes.

“James—” Pettigrew began, but Potter cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t follow me,” he snapped. “Let’s go, Frost.”

Harry went out first, well aware of the looks he was receiving from all over the Great Hall. Let them look, as long as they don’t try to eavesdrop, he thought. “Is this the right way?” he asked.

“Yes,” Potter answered shortly.

The hospital wing was as white and sterile as it always was, though one or two patients, who were awake, were nibbling at a very bland-looking meal of porridge and toast. Pomfrey, Harry knew, would be eating in her office at this hour, and if they were quiet, they would be unspotted until the nurse had finished her dessert, which was usually a cherry pie. Harry walked directly to the end of the wing without pausing to look around and stopped in front of Black’s bed.

“How’d you know he was here?” Potter asked suspiciously.

“I brought him in,” Harry replied. “What did he tell you?”

“He was awake for less than a minute,” Potter answered. He moved closer to his friend. Black looked very pale, and was lying on his stomach, a bandage wrapped around his head and the rest of his body covered by a white cloth. “He just said ‘Frost’ and ‘Snape,’ and then he looked as though he were trying to say something else, but couldn’t force it out.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Harry. That’s because of the jinx I put on him, Harry thought. But you needn’t know about that.

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing directly,” said Harry. He moved closer to Black, standing on the side opposite to Potter. “You remember the curse that I placed on the four of you as a result of losing the duel?”

“That? What did Sirius say? I mean, it must’ve been pretty bad…”

“It needn’t have been an insult at all,” Harry said. He pulled back the white cloth that had covered Black’s body from the neck down.

“What are you doing?” Potter demanded.

Black was naked underneath the cloth except for his Gryffindor-colored briefs. There was a thick bandage wrapped around the small of his back. Harry reached down his wand and, with a gentle wave, made the bandage suddenly lax, so that it exposed a heavy bruise and beaten flesh.

“Stop that!” Potter hissed. He had his wand in his hand, but he seemed unable to make up his mind what to do with it.

“Calm down,” Harry said sharply. Before Potter could do anything else, Harry laid a hand on the broken skin. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, and then removed his hand.

Potter stared. He looked up, then looked down again. “You… Are you a healer?”

“No,” Harry said dismissively. “It was only a little magic. Tell me, Potter, what is the name your Marauder’s Map gives me?”

Harry could see, from the corner of his eye, Potter goggling. “How do you know about the Map? Did—did Peter tell you?”

Harry nearly hardened his face with hatred, but stopped just in time. “Even your pet rat is more loyal than that.” As it would serve his own purpose. “What is the name it gives me?”

“It… doesn’t have a name for you,” Potter replied, looking, to Harry’s amused complacency, both awed and amazed. “Your name is… just kind of blurry. Just like Professor Matellan’s first name and Lestrange’s first name. Except we can’t make anything our of yours.”

Matellan? Lestrange? Harry’s interest was piqued immediately—he had not expected such information to tumble out so unexpectedly—but he maintained his look of omniscient calm, filing the knowledge away for later contemplation. “Interesting,” Harry said. “Do you know my purposes? Why I healed your friend? Why I included Lily Evans in the terms of our duel?”

Potter shook his head dumbly.

Harry sighed. It was rather melodramatic, he thought, pretending to be a Dumbledore. “I don’t hate you, you know. We’re humans, all of us. I don’t like you by any stretch, but hate…” He shook his head. I don’t hate you, Potter. You are too small for my hatred. Nor do I hate Voldemort, though, for there is too much fear and dread and pain to entertain hate alone. “But there is such a thing as fate.”

“Fate?” Potter echoed.

This is so corny, Harry thought as he nodded. “Remember that, Potter.” Then, abruptly, partly for effect and partly because he felt, for the first time in years, an irresistible smile tickling the edges of his mouth, he left, walking down the long length of the hospital wing while Potter stayed stupidly next to Black.

Well, I’ve done my part as the good son, bring mum and dad together, Harry thought wryly. But the information about Matellan and Lestrange… Lestrange I might have expected. He frowned, thinking. And, on second thought, Matellan as well. He remembered the metallic titters and harsh voice and felt a wave of unease. I’ll need to be careful—on two fronts, not just one…

XV.

…though mastery over Earth may hold in sway the inklings of her strength, only a Servant of the Earth can call the power from a Sacrifice.

Harry glanced down the rest of the scroll. The ritual for becoming a Servant of the Earth wasn't too difficult. The trickiest part was finding a spot 'untouched by hand of man or man's own work,' which meant trekking through the Forbidden Forest past Hogwarts's apparition wards.

Lily would probably be most willing to do this. Harry thought back on how naively eager she had been with the sacrifice of the lamb, and how they had sipped absinthe under the full moon. He grinned wryly. It was still a very surrealistic notion, drinking alcohol in the Forbidden Forest with Lily Evans.

He put the scroll in his pocket and picked his way through the mess of dusty parchments and broken furniture, making sure not to glance at the mirror. He wondered if there was anything here that Severus would want. For a moment he entertained the thought of giving Severus one of the lost potion scrolls, seeing the black eyes light with curiosity, watching the face glow with intensity…

But he'd be suspicious, Harry reminded himself, reluctantly breaking himself from his fantasy. He'd ask where I got it, and I'd have no answer.

Harry had kept his distance while alone with Severus in their room, speaking quietly as the flames murmured in the grate. But he couldn't resist little moments of contacts, a glance that lasted too long… He shivered at the remembrance of touching Severus's hands while going over their plans for the Dreamless Sleep Potion, running his thumb over the back of the fine-fingered hand and glancing up to the shadowed face. Can't he feel it in me? Harry wondered. How much I want him?

He swallowed back the hot feeling rising through his body. His heart was beating too fast, his breath coming too quickly. He needs time, thought Harry, and I must give him time. Checking to make sure the scroll on becoming a Servant of the Earth was safely in his pocket, he left the Nest.

"…he did it, I know he did it—agh!"

"Yes, I know it too."

"Then he must be punished!"

"Yes, he will be, for his slighting of you, and the Dark Lord's offer."

Malfoy snickered, his voice muffled. "The mudblood won't understand until it's too late, until he's begging for mercy, and—agh, can you be any rougher with your hands?"

"Would you rather go to dinner with bandages about your face?"

Harry smirked and felt a spark of vindictive pleasure. He hoped, though he knew it wouldn't come to pass, that Malfoy's face would be irrevocably ruined by the potion accident and Lestrange's ungentle hands. He crept stealthily into the room he shared with Severus, and found it empty.

"…somehow, I get the feeling you're not too concerned about making that mudblood pay for his insolence."

"Patience," Lestrange murmured, "he will be punished, oh yes—"

Harry sneered and reached for the door handle, planning to shut it loudly and see them jump in fright.

"—through his little catamite."

"Catamite?"

"Snape, I mean," said Lestrange, as Malfoy hissed in pain. "You must have noticed how close they are."

"Disgusting," Malfoy moaned.

"Mm, but very useful for us. I've contacted my dear sister-in-law. She'll be coming around tonight, by the lake. I'm sure we'll think of something for Mr. Frost and his charming companion…"

"Jonathan," whispered Severus, the frown of concentration vanishing as he looked up from the tome.

Harry smiled wanly and sat down across the table. "I knew I'd find you in the library."

"Mm," said Severus, frowning. "Are you…?" He stopped, and Harry looked away from that gaze. I wonder if he knows what it does to me, he thought, but only vaguely, for his mind couldn't help returning to what he had overheard only minutes ago. But he slid an easy expression onto his face, and said,

"Am I…?"

"Well," said Severus, glancing back down at the yellowed page, "I should hope you're planning on doing something productive."

"Yes," Harry murmured in a low voice. He leaned forward. "That would involve"—he slid his hand across the table and gently touched Severus's wrist—"finding out what you're reading."

Severus shivered, flushed, and snatched his hand back. "Not here, not in the library!" he hissed and glanced around furtively.

"Why not?" Harry said innocently.

"What do you think, nitwit? And I'm reading A Treatise on Soul Magic and Potion Making." He flipped to the cover, showing Harry the words sewn into the cloth cover with a golden thread. "It's rather vague, unfortunately."

"Was it from the Restricted Section?"

"Obviously."

"Then Professor Camentum approved?"

"He doesn't know it's for this."

Harry shook his head and made a clucking noise with his tongue. "How very naughty of you, Severus."

Severus snorted. "I'm not the one who wanders the halls at night."

Harry stilled, but then chuckled. "With Lily? If you want to accuse me of that, you might also have to look into the rules about alcoholism on school grounds."

"So the two of you are regular drinking partners?" Severus asked coolly as he nonchalantly flipped a page and waited, one finger lightly tapping the table. He's still jealous, thought Harry. He knows that I've been out at night. Only, he doesn't know it's to the Nest. And he can't know. So he must continue to be hurt by his jealousy. I'm sorry, Severus. I have to.

"Absinthe is, if not good for the liver, then good for the soul."

Severus sneered again. "You've managed to hide the reek very well, though."

"We do clean up well after ourselves," said Harry lightly, though his heartbeat quickened. "After all, it wouldn't have been very good for Lily to spoil her image as the 'perfect Gryffindor.'"

Severus snorted and moved to flip the page, but shifted the book instead. "So your binges are for two people only?"

"Not necessarily," Harry said carefully. "You know, Potter and his gang like to wander at night, too."

"Everyone knows that," Severus sneered, "even the teachers and Dumbledore, who, of course, do nothing about it."

"I think Potter's more than a bit frightened of McGonagall now," said Harry, glad that the subject had been successfully diverted.

"She wouldn't really take away his badge. He's Potter."

"She would," Harry said with certainty.

Severus curled his lips. "Are you planning on another binge tonight?"

Harry paused. "No," he said at last, "but I will go out tonight." He reached out a hand and took Severus's before another word could be said, and caught the gaze of the dark eyes with his own. "But it won't be for a binge."

Severus's eyes narrowed and his hand became rigid. "Then what for?"

Harry smiled as disarmingly as he could and slid his hand back across the table. "Well, I haven't decided. So does this treatise on soul magic say anything interesting?"

"Where are you going?"

"Should I read that book of yours?"

"You can read for yourself, can't you?" Severus said coolly, turning his attention back down at the minuscule lines of words and moving away. "That would be time better spent than frolicking through the halls in the dead of the night."

Harry sat back and let his smile vanish. He could hear clearly the words Lestrange had said—something about making him, Jonathan Frost, pay for Malfoy's injury and the slighting of the Dark Lord's offer—through Severus Snape. Harry felt a hot flame of rage, guttering with a tinge of fear. How dare Lestrange think he could even touch Severus—his Severus? He could destroy Lestrange with a mere thought. He could destroy Voldemort in a blink of an eye.

With difficulty he forced back the rising tide of anger. No matter what he wanted to do, no matter what he did to change to the present, he could not and would not stray from the future; and Severus's fate had always been hedged by pain. But he would be patient. He would wait and listen to the plans Lestrange had whispered that he would lay that night with his 'dear sister-in-law.'

So I'll be meeting Bellatrix, Harry thought grimly.

Harry fixed a smile on his face as he noticed Severus glancing at him. "Any book in particular that I should read?"

The look of concern and suspicion did not altogether vanish. "Soul Magic: The Forbidden Art," said Severus, "and maybe you should lower your alcohol consumption. It seems to be addling your brain."

"That's assuming I've a brain to be addled," said Harry as he got up and moved to the bookshelves.

The wind bit his skin despite his cloak and warming charm. He could see the ripples moving across the lake, their crests catching slivers of moonlight and carrying them towards the shore. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled, its voice rising in a lonely arc before fading into the rustling sounds of leaves and branches shivering in the wind.

Harry glanced up at the stars. It had to be at least two in the morning, but Lestrange still hadn't shown up. In fact, Harry hadn't seen a single living creature while waiting in the shadows. There was only the wind and the distant light of the stars and moon.

Harry drew his cloak closer about himself. It was possible, of course, that he had been tricked, that Lestrange had never planned to show up. He hadn't considered that until only a while ago, having trembled in the cold for well over an hour. But this was a very pathetic trap indeed if all it entailed was his standing here waiting for hours on end…

The wind rose again, shaking the branches and leaves, but this time, as Harry turned his face away from the bitter cold, something shimmered over the water. He narrowed his eyes. It was only something murky… a barely visible change in the light, almost as dim as the outline of clouds against the sky…

He pushed himself closer against the tree, one hand gripping his wand firmly. The shimmer brightened, the outline becoming sharper, and realization struck him like a star falling to earth. Two figures were standing on the water, so close together they seemed almost one. The outlines became clearer, the white blur of faces sharpened, and Harry drew in a sharp breath realizing that one face belonged to Severus—and kissing him fiercely was another face: his own.

He wrenched his gaze from the image, feeling his heart slamming against his ribcage, and knew this was a trap, Lestrange's trap. He retreated behind the tree in the direction of the castle, but as he took a step back, turning almost involuntarily over his shoulder to glance at the tantalizing image on the water, he felt a web of hostile magic hovering before him.

"Lestrange," he greeted coolly as the figure materialized.

Lestrange stepped closer, moonlight illuminating the curve of his smile. "Why, Frost. Fancy meeting you here. But why are you in such a dreadful hurry to leave?"

Harry sneered, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one leg. In his right hand he held his wand, letting it protrude meaningfully from the shadow of his robes. "Let's not mince words. What do you want?"

"What I want?" Lestrange echoed in a voice that rang with mocking incredulity. "It certainly isn't a question of what I want! Tell me, aren't the stars utterly beautiful tonight? And the wind—cold, yes, but refreshing. It peels aside the lazy warmth of the dungeons and lets something within come alive. Doesn't it, Frost? And the lake…"

The kiss that he and Severus's images were sharing on the lake had gotten increasingly intense. Harry couldn't help watching in fascination as his image's hand slid possessively under Severus's robe, pushing it aside until it fell, baring half the other man's back. Harry shivered, wishing that more of the cloth would fall away. Was that really what Severus looked like? That expanse of skin, finely muscled and utterly beautiful…

Lestrange's eyes gleamed. Harry snapped his head away. "You did that?" he demanded, pointing his wand at the image on the lake.

"Not especially," Lestrange said lazily. "The basis, yes. But really, that's what you want. What you truly desire."

"Really," Harry sneered, jabbing his wand fiercely at the lake. He let out a stream of magic, feeling it corrode what enchantment had been cast over the lake, but couldn't help feeling a wrenching sense of loss as the image blurred and faded.

"There is no shame in your desire," Lestrange said quietly. "Only a pity that you can only see it, only long for it at a distance." He stepped closer, and his voice became as gentle and persuasive as the ocean's retreating waves. "Would it not be better if—"

"Enough," Harry interrupted harshly. "I know what you want of me. You want me to join Lord Voldemort."

Lestrange paused. It had been a compromise, Harry knew, between calling Voldemort by his name and by the reverent title of his Death Eaters. But he knew, too, that he was close to the fork of choosing, and that he would need to balance on the edge of a knife if he were to stay in the middle—if he could stay there at all.

"I do," said Lestrange, his voice reverting back to its cool normality. "But you are a Slytherin, and you know that power is the true way. There is no other way—morality, compassion, debts, promises, honor; all give way to power. You are powerful, but you are only one person. The Dark Lord is more powerful still. You know it is true."

I could squish Voldemort with a wave of my hand, Harry thought coldly, but he merely nodded his head.

"Then join him," Lestrange said. "Join him. Become more powerful yet. Your Severus would want you to."

Harry's mind flashed back to Severus's disdainful comment about Voldemort's name ('and it's French!'), yet at the same time, he thought back to the Snape of the future, the embittered and hardened man he barely knew. But it was not Severus who was the issue.

"Lord Voldemort is undoubtedly very powerful," Harry said slowly, "but I have heard rumors that joining his ranks would be a very big… investment. In fact, I've heard that those who follow him serve him."

"Then you have heard wrongly. True, some who wish to join him cannot be anything more than servants. But those with power, the Dark Lord will take deeper into his fold…" Lestrange's voice lowered again, adopting once again that tantalizing tone of persuasion. "You will stand by his side, and together, you will rule the world."

"Indeed," said Harry, taking a step back. He felt again the webs of hostile magic hovering just beyond his cloak. "Is he really so intent on having me as his… acquaintance?"

"Oh yes," said Lestrange. "He is most eager to meet you, Mr. Frost. That is a rare honor. A rare honor indeed."

"Then I am flattered," Harry said curtly. "I will further consider your proposition, as I have since you last approached. But I don't believe I can make a decision now."

He waited for Lestrange to respond, but the lips only kept their smile in silence.

"Good night," Harry said at last, giving a last glance at the lake, and turning around.

He took a step forward and felt the magic like an icy sheet in front of his face. Frowning, he lifted his wand and channeled his magic into it, letting it quiver in his hand. Then he brought his wand down slowly, feeling it cut through the strands of Lestrange's spell like a knife through stubborn vines.

But as he finished the stroke and felt at the air his wand had passed through, he found the barrier intact again; the icy strands seemed to have reconnected to form an impenetrable net.

So you really don't want me to go, do you? Harry thought. He lifted his wand again, once more forcing as much of his power into it as possible. Then, with a savage cry, he chopped down and pushed out violently with his other hand. The net shattered like a thin sheet of ice.

Lestrange laughed. Harry ignored it, heading back up to the castle, his every sense on alert as Lestrange continued to convulse with mirth. "Very… very good," he gasped, clapping his hands as he did so. "I'm in awe, Mr. Frost. I am in awe."

Harry continued.

"But I think it would behove you to wait just a while," Lestrange said, the amusement fading from his voice. "I know that you bear the Dark Lord's mark."

Harry froze. He's bluffing, he thought. He has to be bluffing—he doesn't know, I made sure to erase it from his memory…

"Obliviate doesn't work on those who are unconscious," said Lestrange matter-of-factly. "It was something I'm afraid you forgot that night you dueled with Potter and his cohorts. You needn't worry about their remembering, of course, but as for me, you should've obliviated, then stupe—"

"Obliviate!" Harry hissed, and a jet of magic shot out the end of his wand. But Lestrange flung himself aside even before Harry had uttered his first syllable, and shouted in a harsh voice,

"Addle my mind, Frost, and your catamite will understand Dumbledore's wrath!"

Harry aimed his wand at Lestrange's form on the ground, the wind catching the black cloak and whipping it sharply in the darkness, the moonlight turning the face into alabaster. But he said slowly, "Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Dumbledore," Lestrange replied mildly, his voice drastically different from his earlier shriek. He sounded almost pleased. With care he picked himself off the ground and brushed his robes and cloak. "Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry tightened his grip. "You're bluffing."

"Perhaps," Lestrange said casually, "but then again, perhaps I'm not. Perhaps a letter will be delivered to Albus Dumbledore on the event of my death or my insanity. Perhaps this letter will also contain a memory—that of a very strange and enigmatic fellow, who somehow has the Dark Lord's eyes, and the Dark Mark branded on his face."

Harry swallowed, though he kept the rest of his body absolutely still. Lestrange was smiling like a satisfied cat. "There's no way you can manage that," Harry said in a cold voice. "You're lying."

"Perhaps I am. Perhaps nothing at all will happen if you kill me, or Confund me, or Obliviate me, or remove me from Hogswarts premises, or torture me most frightfully, or bury me alive in some half-forsaken place. But then again, casting spells that would be triggered by any of those frightful things certainly isn't difficult. It's quite similar to what they have in hospitals, you know. Perhaps—just perhaps—if any one of those things befell me, Dumbledore would receive quite a few letters, each containing a copy of that fascinating memory…"

Lestrange paused. "But then again, perhaps not."

Harry said nothing in reply.

Lestrange stepped forward until his chest was barely touching the tip of Harry's wand. In the moonlight, Harry could see Lestrange bare his teeth in a fierce smile. "Try it, Frost! I dare you. Confund me, or Obliviate me, or kill me even. Drive me insane with the Cruciatus. See if Dumbledore won't receive the memories"—his voice dropped—"see if your dear little Severus will ever be free."

Harry felt as though his heart had been ripped out and plunged into an icy pool. Severus. Without knowing it, while still thinking that he was safely far away, he had come to the edge of a cliff, and there was no choice but to jump. But with him would fall Severus—poor Severus, dear Severus, whose childhood had been shattered by his father, his youth destroyed by the careless hate of his classmates, and now… I'm sorry, Severus, Harry thought, feeling a terrible knot form in his throat. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry— The wind rose, and another thought formed, a thought as clear and emotionless as a snow-swept lake, whispered in an accusing voice: He'd be free if you didn't love him.

"Well?" said Lestrange.

Slowly, Harry lowered his wand.

"Very wise," Lestrange said softly. "The Dark Lord will hold his next meeting in three nights. I will find you when it is time." He smiled. "Perhaps you can bring Severus along."

Harry had a sudden, fierce urge to snarl at Lestrange to never even dare think of saying Severus's name, but Lestrange walked past without another word, and Harry stayed silent and still, feeling as though the ground had fallen away under his feet.

It was a long time before he took a deep breath and turned, walking back to the castle with his back facing the rising sun.

The Great Hall was mostly empty when he entered. Harry scanned it quickly, and felt a warm brush of relief when he spotted Severus finishing his breakfast at the far end, reading the Daily Prophet with a frown on his brow. Lestrange was nowhere to be seen.

"G'morning," said Harry, easing himself onto the bench and yawning at the plate of sausages and toast that appeared.

"Good morning to you too, if you can actually call this a morning," Severus said in a rather icy tone.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked in confusion and concern. Lestrange couldn't actually have done something to Severus, could he? "And it's only ten. Morning goes until twelve."

Severus snorted and tossed down his paper. "Where did you go last night?"

Harry turned to his breakfast and speared a sausage. "Why do you think I went somewhere last night?" he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

"I know you wandered the halls last night," Severus hissed. "Don't think me a fool, Frost."

"I don't think you a fool," Harry replied mildly. He finished his mouthful of sausage and turned his gaze onto Severus. "You are…" He paused and lowered his voice, "definitely not a fool."

Severus blushed and turned away, but he planted a fist on the table and snarled under his breath, "Not here, you dolt! And don't try to distract me by being—by being an idiot."

"Mm-hmm," Harry murmured, glancing down at the Daily Prophet. "I wasn't trying to distract…"

The Dark Mark flared in the black-and-white picture, looming like a ghostly bat over the half-burnt remains of what seemed to be a typical Muggle house. 'Death Eaters Massacre Family,' the headline read. Harry quickly scanned the article. It was the Fenwicks, a name Harry vaguely remembered. Everyone in the house at the time—half-Muggle mother, Muggleborn father, teenaged daughter—had been tortured and killed.

"Voldemort again," Severus muttered.

"Yes," Harry said softly. So this was what had been happening while he'd been waiting for Lestrange. Voldemort was no longer lying low, gathering his strength for the sudden storm; this was the storm, the tempest, the long-awaited gale that nevertheless took him by surprise. Only three days, Harry thought, feeling a heavy weight settle in his stomach. And now, even less than that.

"So where did you go last night?" Severus asked.

"Not there, I can assure you."

"But it's a secret, is it?" Severus sneered. "Something that—"

He broke off suddenly, and Harry, looking up, realized why. Coming towards them with a faint, friendly smile on her face was Lily Evans. Her smile faltered, and Harry followed her gaze to the glacial expression on Severus's face.

"Hi, Jonathan," she said, and, with much greater hesitation, "Severus."

Severus curled his lip in contempt. "Evans—"

"Lily," Harry said quickly, before Severus could continue with a scathing comment, "how are you this morning? I found something rather intriguing last night about rituals involving the Earth."

"Oh?" Lily said, looking interested. Harry noted that Severus also looked very interested, perhaps even more so than Lily.

"Yes," said Harry. "It was about becoming a Servant of the Earth. The theory is that if you wrest mastery of the Earth, you can control it to an extent; but the powers you call forth would be a lot greater if you submit yourself as a Servant instead."

"And where," Severus cut in, "may I ask, did you findthat information?"

"Here," Harry replied, taking out the parchment and handing it to Lily.

Severus eyed it suspiciously. "And where did you get that?"

"From the library."

Severus subsided, a look of discontent still simmering on his face. Lily looked at the two of them with bemusement.

"Thanks, Jonathan," she said, "But I was wondering if you would like to come along to Hogsmeade today." She smiled tentatively. "It is a Hogsmeade weekend, you know. And," she turned to Severus, once again with hesitation, "why don't you come too, Severus?"

Harry blinked. Hogsmeade? Lily Evans was inviting him to Hogsmeade? He wondered where Potter and Black were, imagined their conniption once they knew. Involuntarily he glanced at Severus, and saw him scowling fiercely.

"I understand if you're busy," Lily said apologizingly, "But I thought it'd be nice to go, get some butterbeer…"

There were only three days left. Harry felt the slight irritation fade, and was nearly overwhelmed by an urge to take Severus in his arms and hold him close, to feel and smell and remember as much as he could. But he couldn't—not now, and perhaps, he realized with a terrible aching, not ever.

"You can also buy some potion ingredients," Lily suggested in a hopeful tone.

The Dreamless Sleep Potion, Harry remembered, the heaviness of his duty sliding down his heart like an ice cube. Lily and James. The sacrifice. The world wouldn't know and wouldn't care whether or not I ever held Severus, Harry thought grimly. Only me—and him. He straightened and slid a thin smile onto his face.

"I've not had butterbeer in a long time," said Harry.

Severus scowled. "Have fun, Frost," he spat.

"Aren't you coming?" Harry said in a bewildered voice.

"Me—?" For a moment, Severus looked startled, but the frown returned and he said coldly, "No, of course not."

"It'll be fun, I promise," Lily wheedled, a glint of merriment in her eyes. "I heard the apothecary at Hogsmeade has some really rare items," she added hopefully.

"I'd rather not gawk at freak exhibits or waste my resources on childish pranks."

Harry sighed. "Come on," he said, shifting in his seat. "Please, Severus?"

"No."

He slid his hand under his table and gently ran it over the other man's leg. Severus, who had been reaching for his cup of coffee, froze in mid-movement. "Please, Severus," Harry continued, "for the sake of your favorite dorm-mate—ow!"

Severus, who had kicked him sharply in the shin, was now tranquilly drinking his beverage. He swallowed, set down his cup, and glared at Lily. "What are you staring at, Evans?"

"Nothing," Lily said quickly. "Just—Severus, come on, we don't have to go to Zonko's if you don't want to, and—"

"Never mind, Lily," Harry interrupted flatly, nonchalantly drinking his own glass of orange juice, "Severus can stay here if he wants. There's nothing we can say to convince him. And anyway, we can go to Zonko's without him, and you can show me some of the cleverer pranks. It's better that way, since he won't know what jokes I'm planning to play." He took another sip of orange juice, distinctly aware of Lily's confusion and Severus's stony glare.

"How much time do we have left?" he asked, setting down his empty glass.

"Not much," Lily said. "You'd better get your things now, it's rather chilly outside. But Severus—"

"It's useless Lily," Harry cut in once more. "He won't change his mind. Oh—by the way, Severus, do you have a list of potion things you want me to buy?"

Severus's voice was icy. "The last time I gave you a list, you bought everything at the wrong price and from the wrong places. I'm afraid I don't quite trust you to do something as elementary as buying ingredients."

"Too bad," Harry retorted. "Since you said you're not going, you'll just have to make do with me."

Severus stood up with a rather nasty smile on his face. "Oh, but I've changed my mind," he said coldly. "Most unfortunately for you, I'll be going too." He turned and headed for the dungeons, his cloak fluttering sharply at his heels.

Harry watched Severus leave with a smile on his face. He caught Lily's eye, and couldn't help letting out the strange thrill that bubbled up through his chest and emerged as laughter.

It was a cold day, and the sky was grey and sullen. The clouds hung gloomily over the little village like a thick shield, refusing to let it snow despite the biting cold.

"Well," said Lily, her breath misting the air, "it usually isn't this quiet here."

Harry looked up at the sky, then let his gaze travel down past the rooftops and to the people. Most had their faces covered with scarves, their arms held stiff by coats like straightjackets, their eyes staring out like two dull pebbles.

It must be the attacks last night, Harry thought. But even words of consolation and commiseration seemed inappropriate, so they kept the silence as they entered the village, greeting the others in the streets with wan stares instead of words.

"Let's go to the apothecary first," Lily whispered.

"Sure," Harry said, glancing at Severus. Severus returned the glance and grunted noncommittally.

The apothecary door opened with a faint ring. The room, lit only by the faint light creeping in from the windows and a flickering lantern at the back, was empty, but Harry could distinctly hear a grouchy voice muttering.

"I guess we're the only ones who want potion things," Lily said, her voice still low as she made her way carefully between the rickety shelves.

"There's someone back there," Harry whispered.

"No," Severus said absent-mindedly, his interesting already grabbed by a vial of flaky green things, "that's actually a murgurgle plant."

Lily's eyes went wide. "A plant?"

"Short and brown, with leathery skin and squinty eyes," said Severus, picking up a vial, this time filled with yellow flakes.

Harry veered off to an aisle marked by a weatherworn sign saying 'Things of Bestial Nature.' He frowned, trying to remember all the ingredients of the Dreamless Sleep Potion.

"What are you looking for?" Severus asked, suddenly at Harry's side.

"Nothing really," Harry said. He moved down the aisle, and felt faintly relieved when Severus wandered off in a different direction.

The Jobberknoll feathers weren't difficult to find, and he purposefully bought some aconite, which he was sure wasn't needed in the potion. He was on the last ingredient, hellebore, which was somewhere next to where Lily was talking to the murgurgle plant ("Smelly little goat 'round the corner, d'you sniff him?" "Goat?"), when he felt Severus approach.

"Are you planning on buying those?" Severus demanded under his breath.

"Um," said Harry, "yes."

"Why?"

"For the Dreamless Sleep Potion."

Harry picked up a little vial of hellebore leaves and moved on past the murgurgle plant ("Don't buy that here, it's cheaper in Diagon Alley").

"The Dreamless Sleep Potion?" Severus hissed, hurrying after Harry. "What—did you find something interesting?" He peered into the little basket of ingredients. "Aconite? Why are you buying aconite?"

"Otherwise known as monkshood or wolfsbane," said the murgurgle in its grumbling voice.

"Er—I thought it might be useful," Harry said.

"Did you have any plan in mind while picking the ingredients?" Severus whispered in a how-can-you-be-so-stupid tone. "Or were you exercising your abilities in selecting random and"—he picked up the Jobberknoll feathers—"expensive ingredients?"

"'Tis the best way to choose ingredients," the murgurgle said knowingly, and slanted its leaves in Lily's direction. "Isn't it, lassie?"

"I'm paying," Harry said resolutely, taking the Jobberknoll feathers from the other man's hand and walking up to the counter.

"You're an idiot, Frost," Severus muttered.

Harry peered over the counter, wondering where the cashier was. He heard Severus sigh in exasperation.

"What?" Harry demanded. "And where's the cashier?"

"Ring the bell, dummy," the murgurgle shouted as Severus reached up to the counter and tapped a rusty bell.

"Oh," Harry said stupidly as a faint melody rose from the bell like a wisp of smoke and drifted into the depths of the backroom. The melody suddenly made a loud, squishing sound, followed by a muffled yelp. Moments later, a balding man hurried to the counter.

"Hello, hello," he said, "customers, most unusual." His eyes crinkled in a smile when he saw Harry, but the geniality vanished the moment he spotted Severus. "You," the cashier said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Me," Severus said with a nasty smile. He moved up and nudged Harry out of the way. "I'm paying," Severus muttered, "and you can pay me later."

Harry moved aside bewilderedly. "But why—"

"This," Severus cut in, assuming a look of utmost boredom and contempt, "is the art of bargaining."

Ten minutes later, after Severus managed to bring down the price to nearly half the original, the three of them left the apothecary, the cashier's grumbles and the murgurgle's cackling laughter drifting after them.

"What are they used for?" Lily asked as they walked past the dark-windowed shops. "Murgurgles, I mean."

Severus slipped his ingredients carefully into his pocket before answering in a coolly polite tone, "Healing potions, mostly. They can be found in a wide variety of potions for flesh injuries, including the Paean Draught and the Salve of Asclepius."

"I'd like one," said Lily, "but not for potions. That one had a great sense of humor."

"You'd have to feed it flesh every full moon," Severus said dryly, "Preferably human flesh."

Lily blanched and Harry hid a smile.

They heard the sounds from the Three Broomsticks before they saw it. The pub was the only building with light and chatter flooding from its windows and spilling on the pavement, and as they approached it, it seemed to them that the air warmed and some of the cold ebbed away.

"How about a nice butterbeer?" said Lily, the firelight illuminating her smile.

Harry glanced at Severus, but Severus was staring fixedly at a doorway with a grimace of disgust on his face. Harry followed his gaze and saw two men stumbling over the threshold, arm-in-arm and singing lustily with their voices slurred by firewhisky.

"Again, pal o' me heart," one of them crowed.

The other straightened slightly and shouted, "An' made m'lips with music wed, murm'ring a wizard song for thee!" Then he swayed and nearly fell to the ground in a torrent of laughter.

Lily giggled into her hand. "Shall we?" she asked, taking a step towards the entrance.

"It'll warm us up," Harry said, reaching for Severus but checking the movement halfway. With arms folded, Severus stepped stiffly into the pub, still darting glances at the two drunken men, and Harry followed.

Lily had taken off her cloak in the blast of warm air, and Harry followed suit, breathing in the merry lights and noises.

"How about this one?" Harry called over the din, gesturing at an unoccupied table.

"That'll do," Lily replied, and they made their way past the crowds of Hogwarts students who were gibbering excitedly, and the pub regulars who looked on with amusement.

"Nice, isn't it?" Lily said, smoothing her hair and smiling at a passing Gryffindor.

"Yes," Harry said, but his eyes were on Severus, who sat with arms crossed sullenly over his chest, hunched slightly in his seat as though wishing to be unseen. "Isn't it, Severus?" Harry asked, reaching out and poking Severus in the shoulder.

"Stop it!" Severus hissed.

Harry bit back his reply at the sound of approaching footsteps, and he turned to find Madam Rosmerta standing at their table. "Why, Lily, my favorite Hogwarts student, I was wondering when you'd show up…" Her smile faded somewhat as she gave Harry and Severus a cursory glance. "James came in a few minutes ago," she said.

"Oh!" said Lily, eyes going wide. "I thought he'd be at Zonko's. Where is he?"

"Over there," said Rosmerta, pointing at the opposite side of the pub.

Lily craned her head to look, and Harry followed her gaze. He felt his heart harden immediately: sitting next to a despondent-looking Potter was Peter Pettigrew.

"And who are these friends of yours?" said Rosmerta, giving Severus an inscrutable sort of look. "I don't think I've seen them before." She turned her attention to Harry, who managed at the last moment to pull on his mask of geniality. He found the desire to twist his lips into a sneer rather difficult to resist.

"This is Severus, and this is Jonathan," said Lily.

"Are you Madam Rosmerta?" Harry asked in a courteous voice.

"Yes, I am."

"A student who had visited Hogsmeade told me about you when I was at Merriman Academy of Magic," Harry explained, and smiled. "He said you were the most memorable thing in the entire village."

Rosmerta's face turned slightly red. "What rubbish!" she said. "What was that boy's name?"

"He name was—ah—Murvus Gurgleton?"

Rosmerta frowned. "Murvus Gurgleton," she mused. "I don't think I remember a Murvus Gurgleton…"

"He was—um—kind of short and brown," Harry said, feeling Severus's scathing glare burning a hole through his neck. "With squinty eyes."

"I can't say I remember," Rosmerta said, sighing. "Well, what would the three of you like?"

"Butterbeer," Lily said curtly. Her eyes were still focused on the opposite side of the room. "Did he—is James drunk?" she demanded, a bit shrilly.

"I can't say," Rosmerta said in a carefully vague manner as she followed Lily's gaze to James Potter. "So three butterbeers? Excellent."

"Thank you," Harry said politely.

"I can't believe he's drunk," Lily hissed moments after Rosmerta had left, "He's Head Boy! He'll have his badge taken away! He'll be expelled!"

Severus snorted. Lily glared at him, but he seemed absorbed in tracing circles on the table, a sneer playing about his lips.

"He doesn't look very happy," Harry observed, and found himself wishing that Pettigrew wouldn't pretend to look so helpless and worried, that the traitor wouldn't sit so close to James Potter.

Lily bit her lower lip. Then her brows furrowed. "But it's deplorable behavior all the same," she said firmly, putting both hands flat on the table and looking ready to spring out of her chair. But a moment later her body locked in indecision.

"He should drink himself stupid at night, and with absinthe," said Severus in a cool, contemptuous tone. He fixed his eyes with a hateful look on Lily's suddenly white face and added, "Midnight binges seem much more acceptable."

"Binges?" Lily said faintly, looking at Harry with eyes wide with hurt and unhappiness.

"Here you go," said Madam Rosmerta, placing three pints of butterbeer on their table.

Harry managed a strained smile. "Thanks," he said and sipped the frothing golden liquid, not tasting it at all as it passed his tongue.

"You know," Rosmerta said nonchalantly, her hands on her hips and a thoughtful look on her face, "James is looking quite lonely there… I wonder what's going on with him."

Lily shrugged. "I don't know," she said unhappily, "I—don't know."

"Hmm," said Rosmerta, shrugging her shoulders in turn. "Enjoy."

The three of them drank their butterbeer in heavy silence. Harry dared only to sneak looks at the other two, but Severus was glaring a hole in the table, and Lily was looking into the swirling foam of her drink. Neither of them met his gaze.

Then a swell of commotion drifted towards them from the other side of the room, and Harry felt his stomach sink as he saw its cause. Potter was staggering through clumps of students with Pettigrew leading the way. Lily stiffened, though she kept her eyes downcast, but Severus didn't seem to notice anything, and was still staring fixedly at the table with both hands clutching his barely-touched pint.

"Lily," Pettigrew said anxiously, "James—he wants to say a few things—"

"No I don't," Potter slurred, swaying where he stood. "I've nothing to say, absolutely nothing to say, so"—he hiccoughed and squinted at Pettigrew—"lemme go, Peter, stop pulling me—"

"James, didn't you say you wanted to tell her—tell her something?"

Potter shook his head vehemently. "No I didn't," he said, now facing Harry with unfocused brown eyes. "I already said I didn't, Peter…" He squinted.

"James Potter," Lily said in a strained voice, "you're drunk, you smell of firewhisky, and you're exhibiting absolutely appalling—"

"Ah," Potter interrupted with an air of realization, "you're Jonathan aren't you—" He stumbled and fell headlong to the ground. Lily gave a small cry, and Harry extended his arms automatically.

"James!" Lily shrieked, sounding both angry and relieved. A crowd had begun to gather, and Harry gritted his teeth. Pettigrew was just standing there with eyes widened in shock, doing nothing while he, Harry, was lugging a very unwelcomed armful of James Potter. He should've just let the idiot drop to the ground; what was Severus doing?—

"Lily likes you now," Potter mumbled, his head lolling. "She likes you, you know… She doesn't like me anymore, she doesn't— She," he waved one arm vaguely, and Harry turned his head to avoid losing his eye, "she thinks I'm im-ma-ture—"

The crowd murmured, some giggling and some whispering feverishly. Lily's face was red as her hair, and Harry could feel his own face burn; he turned desperately to Severus— But the seat was empty.

Harry swore. "Severus?" he called, standing up and dumping Potter unceremoniously onto the table. He took in a deep breath to yell out again, but stopped himself in time. "Excuse me," he said curtly and pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the yelps of pain and indignation. Get out of the way you idiots, he thought furiously, shoving and squeezing until finally he barged out of the pub and onto the cold, breathless streets.

"Severus!" he shouted looking both up and down the streets. There, on the opposite side of the street, he could see a hunched figure moving slowly down the pavement— "Severus, wait!" Harry raced down the pavement and reached out a hand—

"Severus—! Oh." He backed away from the gnarled old woman. "Sorry," said Harry and looked around wildly. The streets were utterly deserted. "Did you by any chance see a boy—a man, this tall, sort of pale and a big nose—?"

"Fingernails," the woman rasped, taking out a rusted metal scale from inside her robes, "fingernails for sale, ten for a knut, thirty for two, comes in all shapes and sizes, very pretty ones too, look 'ere, this one's pink and Muggle—'ey, don't go, buy a few, very good for making biscuits—"

"Get lost!" Harry snarled, knocking the scale out of the crone's hands and onto the streets, the clanking of metal ringing harshly in the frigid air. "Severus!" he shouted, running further down the pavement. "Severus! Stop hiding, for fuck's sake, Severus!"

He turned the corner— There was Honeyduke's straight ahead. Severus didn't care for sweets, but perhaps—just perhaps— Harry dashed to the doorway and peered inside. "Severus?" A few students turned their heads and looked at him oddly. Harry swore under his breath and ran down to the next shop and tried the door, but it was empty.

"Severus!" he shouted. His footsteps scraped in reply. The day was dimming though it was barely past noon, and Harry rubbed his arms fiercely as he ran, watching his breaths form puffs of mist.

He turned the corner again, and rising before him was the end of Hogsmeade and the Shrieking Shack. Harry stopped and stared, letting his breath gradually return as the cold air rushed in and out his lungs. Severus wouldn't go in there, would he? That was the last place he'd want to go, the place where he had nearly lost his life to Lupin.

Harry turned around and shivered. The run had made him sweat, and now the cold was raking its claws over his skin. But he let his cloak hang loosely in his hand, let the chill grip his body. He wanted to feel cold, to feel his flesh and skin freeze like his heart. Only three days, he thought desperately, only three! And now I've made him hate me. I'm such an idiot. Now I'll never get him back. Potter, Frost, whatever you've become—you're the greatest fool in the whole, wide, fucking world.

His teeth began to chatter, and as he wrapped his arms about himself, he heard the sound of footsteps. He glanced sharply down the road, and saw a man standing sullenly to the side.

"Severus?" Harry rasped incredulously. He jogged quickly to the other man. "Severus! You—" Harry nearly flung himself forward to crush Severus in a tight embrace, but he only held his hands at his side and concentrated on keeping his face from splitting into a grin.

Severus ran his eyes critically over Harry's appearance. "Put on your cloak, you idiot," he commanded, taking out his wand, "or at least cast some Warming Charm. You look—" His eyes went up to Harry's face, and he curled his lips in disdain. "You look like a scarecrow."

Harry felt an involuntary bark of laughter escape his throat. "Well, if I'm a scarecrow, am I your scarecrow?"

Severus's face colored slightly. "Don't be stupid!" he hissed as he frowned and looked around furtively, as though to make sure nobody was near. "Put on your cloak."

"I can't, I'm a scarecrow," said Harry. He shoved his cloak into Severus's hands and took a step back before shivering exaggeratedly. "Are you g-g-going to let me f-f-freeze?"

"Put it on yourself!" Severus snapped, looking embarrassed as he thrust the cloak at Harry. "What's the matter with you? Stop acting like a fool!"

"It's the butterbeer and the running," Harry said, ignoring the proffered garment. "Where'd you go anyway? I thought I'd lost you."

"I didn't go anywhere. You were the one running about and bellowing like a Muggle train."

"Ah," said Harry sagely, "how undignified. So it was all about saving Slytherin honor, then." He stepped back before Severus could reply, the cloak still in Severus's hands, and closed his eyes. "Come on," he said, "put the cloak on me."

"Frost…"

"Please?" Harry said, eyes still closed. He could feel the heat from Severus's body, standing somewhere in front of him, warming his own. "I'm asking you," Harry added in a quiet voice.

There was a few moment's silence as Harry held his breath. "You're an idiot," Severus grumbled, and Harry barely managed to overcome the urge to grin like an idiot. He felt Severus reach past him and drape the cloak over his shoulders. "You're quite a bit taller than me," Harry murmured, keeping his eyes shut.

Severus pulled the two ends of the cloak together. "Than I," he muttered, and Harry could feel the other man's fingers brushing the hollow of his throat.

"Same thing," said Harry, shivering, though not from the cold.

"There. I hope you're satisfied now."

"Almost," Harry replied, his eyes opening slowly, his hands moving of their own accord to where Severus had touched him.

"What, do you want me to help you tie your shoelaces, too?"

"No," Harry said quietly. They were alone, and the only sounds were of the distant clamor from the Three Broomsticks, faint and muted as though worlds away. The cold glistened. "Why did you leave all of a sudden?"

Severus's face closed. "Not everyone is as tolerant as you are of Potter's drunkenness," he sneered.

"He was drunk," said Harry.

"Yes, I noticed," Severus said scathingly.

"He was—he wasn't saying anything… true." Severus was looking away now, eyes fixed and face an inscrutable mask. "Lily doesn't like me, she likes him, and I don't like Lily either, at least not—" Harry floundered, and for a moment he felt a stab of self-hatred—why couldn't he be as eloquent as Severus for once and manage to say what he felt?—"I don't love her like that—you know that! You're the only—"

"Don't say it!" Severus snapped.

Harry stopped. He could read the tension that was cracking Severus's mask, could now recognize the anxiety that was everywhere on that pallid face, in the faint furrow of the brow, the fierce and wild look of the eyes, the lips pressed together as though bracing for a storm.

Harry crossed the space between them and reached out a hand, laying it on Severus's cheek. He pressed his face into Severus's jaw, too aware of his heart pounding wildly at the boldness of his action. "I won't say it then," Harry murmured, letting his eyes drift shut. Three days, he thought. Less than that, now— He shuddered as Severus drew in a quick breath, shuddered as his lips rasped over the downy growth roughening the skin. His world was Severus's breath against his face and Severus's skin against his skin, Severus's trembling under his fingers and Severus's lips pressed against his like a secret whisper, touch on touch and breath on breath—

Severus broke the kiss and stumbled back, breathing hard. Harry watched him touch his face, moving a vague hand down his jaw and to his lips, eyes burning almost in wonderment.

"Just don't ever be jealous," Harry said, licking his lips and savoring the taste like a memory. "Just don't, you hear me? Because the notion that I would—be so idiotic about anyone besides you is just as stupid as—as James Potter and Sirius Black."

"Besides me?"

"Fine, more than you," said Harry. "Or even—even—" He broke off, at a loss for words.

"Even what?"

"Even anything! I don't know." He took a deep breath and they faced each other, eyes meeting wordlessly. I love you, Harry thought. You know that—you can't not know it, even if I don't say it. You're mine. I just wish I could spend forever with you, even if I can't say anything, even if I must spend it with my eyes closed and mouth sealed.

"Jonathan!"

Harry jerked as he turned to the voice calling him. It was Lily, running up to them with her red hair peeking out of her cloak. "I was looking everywhere for the two of you!"

Why couldn't you have looked longer? Harry wondered peevishly. "Sorry for just going," Harry said without much contrition.

"That's okay," Lily said, "James—I mean, Potter was being an idiot anyway. So," she gave Severus a wan smile, "did you want to look at the Shrieking Shack? It's quite famous, actually, but there's not much to see."

"No, thank you," Severus said, his voice still frosty. Harry glanced at him in concern, but his eyes were neutrally aloof, not malicious or frightened.

"Well," said Lily with a shrug, "I suppose we can go to Zonko's now…"

"Right," said Harry.

Lily walked ahead, and Harry followed. But he slowed his pace, stealing glances from the corner of his eyes until he and Severus were walking side by side down the cold grey street.

XVI.

Harry stretched sleepily and eased his head to face Severus's bed. It was empty.

He frowned but let the bleariness of gradual wakefulness ease his worry. The bed wasn't made (neither of their beds ever was), and as far as he could see, there was no note of any kind lying around. But Severus might very well have gone to work on the Dreamless Sleep Potion. He had muttered something about that last night, but Harry had been too concerned about… other things.

He rolled back onto his back and passed his hand in front of his face, and muttered, "Tempus." He was going to have to make do without breakfast, though he could always go to the kitchens… Vaguely, as he waved the glowing numbers out of existence and swung his feet out of bed, he wished Severus had awakened him; he would have liked standing next to Severus, listening to that low voice murmuring the theory behind each stir—and he would have been able to make sure Severus didn't get too suspicious about the near-perfect set of ingredients.

Momentarily he felt contentment decay. Ulterior motives, which he thought he had hardened his heart to, seemed so… filthy and dishonest and terrible when it came to Severus. Christolph was right, to a certain degree. No love could be built on suspicion and doubt.

But there were only two days left, and Harry felt his heart wrench with pain as he threw on his robes and went to search for Severus.

He found Severus half an hour later in the form of a piece of parchment stuck to the door of the Potions classroom. Frost (it had said), do NOT open this door. The experimental phase of the potion design requires more concentration than I can spare with you (something here was scribbled out very heavily) in my way. There was no signature, but the sharp, questionably legible handwriting was unmistakable.

For a moment Harry contemplated just opening the door a crack and slipping in quietly. But he could feel a strong locking spell the moment his hand brushed the doorknob, and he knew Severus was not jesting at all.

Reluctantly, Harry took back his hand and stared longingly, angrily at the door. Were they going to spend the last of their time apart with him loitering in the corridors and Severus slaving over the stupid potion? There were only two days left—two days! But, he told himself as he soothed his irritation, Severus would probably be done by lunch, and last night had been very… promising.

Suppressing the smile that was creeping to his face, Harry brushed his finger over the words Severus had written and left for the dungeons—and Christolph.

"Lumos Maximus," he muttered, and light flooded the Founder's Nest. Scrolls were still strewn all over the floor like a sea of parchment, with broken furniture bobbing like frozen ships. Blanketing everything was a layer of thick, muted dust.

"Scourgify," he said, sweeping his wand in a wide arc. The dust spread like ripples from a pebble thrown in a lake, lifting from the yellowed surfaces and disappearing like a breath of mist. Harry watched the ages of grime disappear, but averted his eyes from the untarnished surface of the mirror.

"Um." Harry frowned, trying to think of a spell that would sweep the scrolls back into the shelves lining the walls and straighten the broken chairs and tables. Well, he thought as his mind came up blank, I've had worse tasks to do…

"Wingardium leviosa," he said, twisted his wand to split the spell. The multitude of scrolls rose like birds and fluttered to the side. "Reparo," he muttered, and the chairs jerkily became whole once more.

A few minutes later, the Nest was nearly as clean as the first time Harry had seen it. The floor, made of the same grey stones that built the Hogwarts walls, was visible now, and suddenly Harry felt a flash of pain. This was one less thing he had to do, and he was closer yet to returning to the future.

Sighing, he set Christolph's dairy on the table where he had found the skeleton. Simon. For a moment Harry hesitated, but he shrugged and sat in the same chair the corpse had been slumped over in death. There was a parchment on the table, a letter by the looks of it—one that Simon had been working on before his death. But instead of recognizable letters, the parchment was covered with strange symbols.

More leverage with Christolph, Harry thought.

He opened the slate-coloured book, dipped his quill in ink, and began writing. 'Hello, Christolph.'

'Hello Jonathan Frost.'

How to breach the subject? Harry wondered. Well. Perhaps subtlety was overrated.

'I will need to leave this time soon.'

The reply came slowly, and Harry could almost hear it drawling with coldness: 'Indeed.'

'You understand, I'—think? trust?—'am sure. I must leave to prevent a paradox.'

'When will you leave?'

'In two days.'

Christolph did not reply for a long time, and Harry stared at those words he had written—In two days—feeling his stomach turn to lead. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay here, in this time, with Severus, this Severus. Here was the only place he was happy, that he had ever been happy in years. Here, he felt… content. And now he had to leave it for the future, to answer to his awaiting fate, to find the man he loved bitter and old. And I'll have to tell the truth, Harry thought heavily, the truth that Jonathan Frost never truly existed.

'And what will you tell Severus?'

'That the Dark Lord took my life.'

'You will destroy his life with that lie.'

Harry swallowed. Suddenly, he hated himself. 'I can't change what must be. It must happen, because it did.'

'Indeed. You don't seem too concerned.'

'Concerned,' Harry scribbled, almost illegibly. He could feel the quill cracking in his trembling hand. He stopped and stared. Full stop or exclamation mark? he wondered inanely.

'If you loved him, you would fight fate, not acquiesce so easily.'

'You can't fight fate,' Harry wrote tightly. 'Believe me; I've tried.'

'You don't deserve his love.'

'If you say so,' Harry replied, though his heart was clenching with anger and hate and— He took a deep breath. What this idiot said didn't matter. What did he know of Severus? What did he know of love—their love? It's not true, Harry told himself as calmly as he could. It's not true.

'I do say so. I see more than you think I see, Jonathan Frost. You know what your lie will do to him; you know that you are offering him to the Dark Lord. You know that the Dark Lord will lust after him and take him as his'

Harry shut the book. He felt sick. The silence of the Nest seemed to beat against his brain. His hands were clammy, and his heart was pounding like an inexorable drum.

Acting on impulse, he looked straight at the mirror. But the mirror only glowed blindly, revealing nothing—no cruel smile with twisted lips, no red eye staring knowingly, no glowing letters spelling out the unpalatable. Nothing.

Harry opened the book again. The pages were as blank the mirror. 'I need you to tell me how to return to the future,' Harry wrote, and waited.

'Do you expect me to tell you?'

'No,' Harry wrote honestly, 'but you'll tell me anyway, or I'll find out somehow, because I know I returned to the future.'

'How can you be so sure?'

Harry paused, thinking. Strangely, he found himself struggling to answer. 'If I stay, there will be some record of me. But there wasn't. Already I have made myself known in ways that might be mentioned in the future.' It was true, Harry thought.

'What if you hid yourself instead of traveling through time?'

'I would not have done nothing if I had not gone forward in time,' Harry wrote, though some part of him tensed with foreboding. He had thought it impossible that he would do nothing for twenty years, that he would let his parents die, let Sirius die, let Ron die, let himself suffer all the torture, let Severus turn into a hateful and broken man. But—perhaps—it was possible…

'Even if you know that you are fated to wait and do nothing, even as the world rages about you?'

Harry waited, a feeling of apprehension slowly stirring at the pit of his stomach.

'There is no way to travel into the future.'

Harry stared for a moment. 'You're lying,' he wrote shortly. He fumbled in his robes for the bone-carved rose and gripped it in his hand. 'Say it again.'

'There is no way to travel into the future.'

Harry waited for that instant conviction to tell him that it was a lie, that Christolph was merely hiding the truth, but his mind was blank as a wiped slate. Harry sneered and let go of the rose. 'You did something to this so-called lie-detector, because you must have been lying. I am not as stupid as you believe.'

'Very reasonable of you to think so, considering that I said I was born more than eight hundred years ago, while Yeats was alive only a century ago. But I am not lying. There is no way that I know of that can take you to the future.'

'Then how did you yourself travel into the future as you said you did?'

'I don't know.'

He might be telling the truth, Harry thought. He swallowed back the memory that he himself didn't know how he had been sent back in time; it was not impossible that Christolph would not know either. But—to say there was no way to travel into the future— 'What do you mean that traveling into the future is "impossible?"'

'I suppose you have done very little research on the theory of time travel.'

'You suppose correctly.'

'Traveling through time requires immense power, especially over great lengths of time. For us and the magic we use, time does not exist continuously, but in whatever present we are in. Yet the power needed to travel into the future is far greater than what is needed to travel into the past, for the past has already been decided and come to pass. The future is nebulous at any given point in time, and you must force it to come into being before its time in order to reach it.'

'But you managed it, or someone managed it for you.'

There was a pause. 'To this day, I am still unclear of what happened. However, I can show what I remember.'

Show you… The memory of Riddle's diarycrept into Harry's mind. 'Very well,' Harry wrote, and bent close to the page.

The crisp paper wrinkled, and suddenly the white darkened to grey and black. Harry felt himself falling, almost as though he had touched a Portkey, but there was no jerk at his navel, only the sensation of tumbling through emptiness and time…

Harry looked up and stared.

Colours drenched the night sky, green and blue and red and gold, shifting and rippling in their breathtaking dance, painting the darkness with brilliance. For a moment Harry could think of only one thing: that this had to be Severus's soul, that he had seen only one thing as incredible and achingly beautiful, and that had been Severus's soul… But then he realized that it was an aurora filling the northern skies.

Someone was walking in front of him, dressed in a strange garb that reminded Harry of the tapestries hanging on Hogwarts walls. Harry followed, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light and the fantastical colours. Is that Christolph? he wondered, quickening his pace so that he could examine the other man's profile. Ah, thought Harry, smiling slightly at the sight of the hawkish nose and sharp eyes. Must be.

The ground was covered with snow, shimmering with reflections of the sky, and the horizon stretched untouched for what seemed like eternity. Harry glanced around; where were they? There was nothing—tree, mountain, hill—for miles and miles around. There was alone in a vast tundra, trekking somewhere underneath the aurora.

Finally Christolph stopped walking and looked around. Then he sat on the snow and lay there spread-eagled.

Harry blinked. That was rather unusual. But as he followed Christolph's gaze to the shimmering heavens, he understood. He felt somewhat like a ghost as he sat down and lay on his back on the snow, the only sound in the entire world that of Christolph's breathing, and his own breath, unheard.

Harry turned his head. So this was Christolph, Severus's ancestor… There was indeed quite a resemblance. But Christolph had a faint smile on his face, as though his mind was wandering a pleasant memory from far away, and Harry could not remember Severus ever having worn such an expression. His clothes, Harry thought suddenly. I know where else I saw similar ones—on that corpse in the Nest, on the man named Simon…

The light reflecting off Christolph's face seemed brighter, shifting from red to blue to gold to green. Harry felt a sudden chill race down his spine—it was the same green of the Killing Curse. He turned his head to the sky just in time for him to see the aurora dip down, almost unnaturally bright, blooming like a rose, then—

Harry heard Christolph let out a cry of astonishment. One limb of the aurora seemed to have fallen like an enormous petal, and Harry shut his eyes as the blinding light seeped through his eyelids and poured into all his senses until the world was white, blank, empty…

Harry blinked and lifted his head from the paper. It was wrinkled where he had gasped his breath, and words in Christolph's handwriting appeared slowly across the page. 'That is how I went forward in time.'

Harry picked up his quill and wrote shakily, 'But what happened?'

'I can only surmise that it was an anomaly, an unexplainable freak accident. Auroras themselves, just like the rest of wild magic, are full of power, but the wild magic would almost certainly not interfere with mankind the way it took me. It is wild—free, untamed, uncontrolled.'

'You mean to say that a pure magical accident of unexplained origins sent you into the future.'

'I do. There was nothing in the nineteenth century magical world that could help me understand what happened, though I did learn how to travel back in time.'

'Tell me how to do that.'

'The answers are all around you. The knowledge of traveling back in time has been documented for millennia, but nowhere will you find any concrete information on traveling ahead in time. Believe me; I've tried.'

Harry felt a spike of annoyance and amusement at this last comment. Disregarding it, he wrote, 'Well, I might figure something out that you didn't.'

'Good luck,' Christolph replied, and Harry could almost hear the disdain, the same condescension Severus could ooze with a mere glance, a single word.

Harry shut the book and stood up, glancing swiftly at the rows and rows of parchment. So what if nobody before him had managed to travel forward in time? He had Voldemort's power within him; he might be able to do it after all—

His eyes fell on the mirror, flashing blankly, and suddenly, the determination vanished. A queasy feeling crawled up his throat, gripping his mind with something akin to panic. Was there truly no way that he might return to the future? No way at all?

How can I have stood by and let everything happen? Harry thought incredulously, looking down at the small grey book in his hand as though answers would form by themselves. Did I simply not do anything? I can't have, can I?

But another voice replied: yes, it is possible, very possible; and he remembered those sleepless nights tossing and turning among twisted, sweaty sheets, wishing that it was all over, that the war had ended, that he could simply die… Yes, the voice whispered, it was possible, very possible, almost simple. Hadn't he wished it never mattered to him? Hadn't he wished he was no longer Harry Potter, that the prophecy no longer tangled his fate? And now, now he could do it—

"But Severus," Harry whispered.

Severus.

Shakily he picked up Christolph's dairy and glanced around once. He hesitated at the sight of the letter Simon had been writing; he meant to mention it to Christolph, but he'd forgotten, and now he didn't feel like talking to Christolph.

I'll do it later, Harry thought, leaving the Nest and descending the staircase that would lead him to the library. I do wonder, though, what the weather is like in Timbuktu. I might as well visit if I've got twenty years of spare time…

Harry was sure someone was following him by the time he reached the second floor. He'd begun to suspect the moment he stepped out of the library, but now he was certain. Not Severus, Harry knew; the footsteps, though soft, scuffled too quickly and without that sharp grace. Nor was it Lestrange…

"Petrificus Totalus," Harry hissed, whirling around and jabbing his wand in the direction of the footsteps.

There was a moment of silence before Harry heard the loud thud of a petrified body falling onto the floor. Briefly a pair of shoes were revealed, as well as the rim of a black cloak, before they vanished once more.

Harry relaxed and flicked his wand. "Accio Invisibility Cloak!" The garment slid through the air and into his arms, revealing Potter's immobilized form, his wide brown eyes darting about, every so often focusing fearfully on him. Clutched at his side was a crumpled piece of parchment.

"Finite Incantatem," said Harry, and Potter coiled his body and immediately winced, reaching a hand to the back of his head.

"Ouch," he muttered, rubbing his head and peering up at the Slytherin.

"Petrificus gives the body some degree of rigidity," Harry said wryly, crossing his arms with the Invisibility Cloak dangling from one hand. "Otherwise, your skull would have cracked open."

"It still hurt," Potter complained. Then he smoothed his hair in an automatic gesture and gave Harry a nervous look, inching the piece of parchment behind his back.

"Yes?" Harry prompted, shifting his weight to one foot and adopting a pose of nonchalance. "Are you going to explain why you were following me around under your Invisibility Cloak?"

"Er—"

"And I see you have a rumpled bit of parchment in your hand, Potter."

"Uh, yeah, I do," Potter muttered. He had surreptitiously taken out his wand and seemed ready to wipe the map clean. But then he hesitated, and a look of determination crossed his face. "Here," he said, voice louder and clearer as he took a few steps forward, "this is the map. You know about it already."

Harry held the familiar piece of parchment and pretended to examine it. It was just as he remembered; only, the names on the roving little dots had changed. Almost automatically, his eyes swept down to the dungeons and he saw a small dot hovering in the Potions classroom, labeled 'Severus Snape.'

"Brilliant," Harry said, and without exaggeration. He scanned the rest of the map quickly and found the three names he had been looking for: himself, standing next to the 'James Potter' dot, his name a mere smear; Matellan, her name the same as she paced in her office; and Lestrange, though only his first name was a blur. "How did you manage this?"

Potter had a pleased smile on his face. "My grandfather had some of the architectural plans of Hogwarts, so we started from there… Then we had to research to find the spell—it took us most of fourth year, though we made the actual decision to make this thing in third year, and we finally managed it in the last half of fifth year. We've got all Hogwarts plotted"—Potter's voice became more than slightly boastful, and the smile edged into a smirk—"even the secret passages, here, see? And we even got the dormitories and common rooms of all the other Houses…"

"Very interesting," Harry said, unable to help from sounding dry.

"Wicked, isn't it?" Potter continued with a conspiratory smile, almost as though he hadn't heard Harry's comment. "This is our pride and joy, this. We've called it"—he tapped it smartly—"the Marauder's Map."

"An apt title, I'm sure," Harry drawled. Neither Lily nor Severus had been lying when saying that James Potter could sometimes be very self-absorbed.

Perhaps Potter cottoned on at last, for he gave one last radiant smile and folded the map, then put it back into his robes. "So."

"So," Harry said, rather amazed at how self-assured Potter was sounding; it reminded him almost of Lockhart, "you've not answered my question yet: why were you following me?"

Potter cringed slightly and deflated. "Erm. Mind if we go somewhere… where we won't be overheard?"

"Lead the way, Mr. Potter."

They entered a nearby classroom, with Potter holding the door open politely for Harry and closing it afterwards with a firm thud.

"So," said Harry, leaning negligently against the blackboard. Potter, on the other hand, flattened his hair again and lingered near the doorway. I'm almost nothing like my father, Harry thought suddenly.

"I—I wanted to thank you," Potter said awkwardly, "for helping Sirius. Pomfrey hadn't been able to cure him, for some reason, but you managed it."He smiled winningly—a nervous gesture, Harry recognized. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Harry said formally, waiting.

Potter fidgeted some more. At last Harry took pity, and said, "Does this by any chance have to do with Lily Evans?"

Potter started, blinked, and then nodded sharply. "Yes," he said, sounding almost relieved. "Are you and Lily—really not going out?"

Harry smiled dryly, but he felt an unhappy twist in his chest. "We're really not going out."

"Oh," said Potter, for a moment seemingly taken aback. Then, a relieved grin took hold of his face, which he transformed with effort into a nonchalant look.

"You've been spending a lot of time with her lately," he remarked. "Has she… mentioned me to you?"

Harry considered his words carefully. "She has. She says you're rather immature, and you don't often fulfill your Head Boy duties." Potter deflated. "I think she's rather frustrated with you."

"Frustrated?"

"Mm-hmm," said Harry, noting how Potter seemed to cling hungrily at every word Harry said. He could almost feel the strings of fate connect. "You went out with her for some time, didn't you?"

"Yeah," said Potter, "before—" He stopped.

Before I came along, Harry completed the thought. "I think she wants you to be more mature, less arrogant and childish."

"She always says that," said Potter, his tone becoming irritable and frustrated. "What should I do? Never pull another prank? Apologize to everyone in front of the whole school? Turn in my Head Boy badge? I've hardly played any pranks this year, and none on the teachers!" He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked at Harry helplessly. "What does she want me to do?"

"Perhaps everything you suggested," said Harry coolly. "I assure you, getting drunk as you did yesterday did not endear you to her. And there is a terrible threat to her kind, my kind." His voice became grim, and Harry saw a sudden matching grimness in the lines about Potter's mouth. "There's no more time or space for pranks. People are dying."

Potter nodded slowly. We aren't the only children to have grown up too early, Harry thought, watching the youthful resolve on Potter's face. They did too. Potter. Black. Lily. Severus. "You're right," Potter said, no levity in his voice. "Absolutely. All of it." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You're… right. I'm…"

"She does—love you, you know."

Potter looked up sharply, hope shining reluctantly, disbelievingly in his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes," said Harry. "All you have to do is prove that you deserve it."

Potter nodded once more. "Right," he said, a serious, thoughtful look on his face that Harry had never seen before. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," said Harry. And duty, he thought.

"By the way," Potter said, looking somewhat hesitant, "I think you ought to watch out for Lestrange."

Harry stiffened, but he froze his face into a bland, inquiring look. "Why, what makes you think so?"

"Well, W—Peter kept noticing Lestrange staring at you and Snape. Personally I didn't notice it much, but Peter did, and he's better at… well, seeing things, usually. 'Course, I don't know a thing of what goes on with you Slytherins"—at this, Potter smiled and shrugged—"but you might want to watch out…"

Harry smiled thinly and nodded. "Yes, he has been…" He sighed. "Lestrange has many enemies, even in Slytherin. But thank you."

Potter left with a last, hesitantly friendly smile.

Harry spent the rest of the day in a restless limbo. He passed the Potions classroom once after his conversation with Potter, then once after lunch, then once after a stint doing Transfiguration in the library, then, because he thought he would go mad if he waited any longer, he stopped resolutely in front of thick oak door and banged it.

"Severus!" he called, pounding again. "Severus!"

There was no response.

Harry felt his heart tighten. Had something happened? Even Potter had warned him to look out for Lestrange; how could he be stupid enough to let Severus be alone for so long, totally unaware of the terrible danger he was in? How could he be so stupid?

"SEVERUS!" he roared, taking out his wand and fumbling with the layers of locking spells Severus had woven—

"What?"

Harry sighed with relief and leaned against the door, feeling the parchment press against his fingers. His heart was hammering a hole through his chest. "Severus?" he said again. "Are you—"

"Go. Away."

Harry floundered, momentarily taken aback. "Severus?"

The door swung open, and Severus glowered in the doorway, a look of supreme impatience on his shadowed face.

"What's the matter, Frost?" he demanded, glancing quickly at one of the many cauldrons brewing behind him.

"Er—nothing," said Harry, "I just— Did you eat anything at all today?"

"Yes," Severus said, crossing his arms and drumming his slender fingers on his forearm.

"Oh, good," Harry said with relief, "because I didn't see you at breakfast." Or lunch, or dinner, thought Harry, and I had stayed in the Great Hall almost the entire time they were serving food, hoping you'd appear. "Wait, when did you eat?"

"Between lunch and dinner."

"How did you get food? Did you go to the kitchens?"

"Frost, how do you think I got—"

"What do you have to tickle to get into the kitchens?"

"I haven't any time for your idiotic questions—"

"You didn't eat, did you?" Harry said accusingly. "You're lying."

Severus sneered. "Are you quite finished? Now, if you would kindly remove yourself from my presence and let me finish incorporating the hellebore into the potion, the results so far are most promising—"

"You still have to eat!" Harry exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "And anyway, you've been in there long enough, you've been doing nothing but that for the whole day—" Harry felt his voice suddenly catch in the knot that had formed in his throat.

Severus gave him a strange look. "I'm not about to starve, Frost," he said dryly, "and the potion is coming along much better than I'd expected, I hadn't thought about Jobberknoll feathers soothing agitation of the soul, but I think it just might work—"

"But you can't stay in there all day," Harry protested. "Anyway, the potion isn't that important." Not now, not when we've only tonight left, and tomorrow… He wished he could seize Severus and smash their lips together right then and there, wished he could whisper those words over and over—I love you, oh God I love you so much, you are mine and no one else's, forever and ever, do you hear? and I will find you in twenty years because you are mine—

Severus's face hardened. "Not important?" he said, tone cold and disdainful. "Then you can go do what you think is 'important.'"

Harry winced. "No! That's… that's not what I meant." He bit his lower lip, and thought perhaps that the stoniness of Severus's face softened. "I just… Can't you work on it—later?" Harry berated himself mentally; he sounded so childish and whiny.

"I would much rather not procrastinate," said Severus coolly, "and I can't see why you insist on sticking your nose in my business."

"Because I—" care about you! Harry nearly shouted, but somehow, the words couldn't come out. Not here, minutes before curfew, not with Severus distracted by the bubbling potions behind him; not even when only one day and night were left— Harry cursed himself. Was he such a coward that he couldn't even make out those words? He opened his mouth, but Severus cut him off.

"I know," he said quietly, eyes on the ground, a blush on his face, and Harry thought: he does know. He does know. A warmth pooled through Harry's body, and he smiled. "But I am strongly convinced that I have found the correct approach," Severus continued, "and I really must continue this train of thought."

He raised his eyes. It's everything to him, Harry realized suddenly. The possibility that he might do something that nobody had been able to do before, not all the greatest masters of the past… It matters to him.

Harry nodded and stepped back with a terrible reluctance.

"You've classes tomorrow," he said.

"I know," Severus said, and Harry looked up, wondering if the soft, fleeting tenderness had only been his imagination.

"Then I'll—see you," Harry said, lingering.

Severus nodded.

"Good night," said Harry.

"Good night," Severus said.

"Try to—"

"Good night, Frost," said Severus, his tone more than slightly impatient.

Harry smiled a strained smile. "Night," he said, and turned, hearing Severus's door close behind him.

There's still tomorrow, Harry thought, later that night while lying in bed. Tomorrow.

And then? And then what?

Harry turned over in bed, wishing with drowsy desperation that sleep would come. If only this night could last forever, so that tomorrow would never come, and he would never have to leave and hide for twenty years. Twenty years! I'm only twenty myself, thought Harry, staring up at the ceiling. I'll have to wait an entire lifetime, doing nothing, letting Voldemort kill Lily and James, make their son's life unbearable, take Severus…

He clenched his fists at the thought. It was utterly absurd that he should fall in love in this place and time, and with the most unlikely of people. Impossible, even. But it had happened, and he didn't want it to end, not now, not so soon…

But will it last twenty years? a voice whispered in his mind. Will it still be there when you return for it? Things change; Severus will change, change utterly and terribly. And you…

No, Harry thought, squeezing his eyes shut. No, no no no. It was unbearable, the thought that it would end like that, dwindling away like an old man clutching to life until it was no more than ashes of time. It was unbearable that he would spend twenty years of solitude without anything to live for, with memories that amounted to nothing. No.

I love him, Harry thought. I don't know why, but I do, right now, at this moment.

He swallowed and turned. Even if it's on my own, he thought, I love him.

When Harry's eyes slowly opened, the first thought that entered his head was that Severus was snuggled in bed, his shoulders moving gently with every breath.

Then Harry sat bolt upright and cursed. "Tempus," he hissed. Thank goodness, they hadn't missed all of breakfast yet.

"Severus!" Harry barked. "We're late!"

Surprisingly, Severus stirred and rolled over onto his back without a noise. It usually took shouts of greater volume to awaken him, and even then, he usually stayed motionless while making drowsy sounds of annoyance.

"Breakfast will be over in ten minutes," said Harry, pulling on his trousers, "and—"

He stopped. Severus had looked at him blankly before his eyes focused and he moved like a machine to fumble for his clothes.

"Severus?" said Harry. He sighed. "You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?"

Severus, his haggard face reminding Harry uncomfortably of the Snape of the future, gave a weary but lighthearted sneer. "The potion," he said, then paused with an air of mock melodrama, "is a success. It works. Or it should work, but we'll see when we test it."

Harry blinked. "Oh," he said. He wanted to say congratulations, or at least smile, but all he could think was that this was one less thing that bound him to this time, one more broken chain.

Severus's face fell. It was only a fractional change in the eyes and mouth, a tightening of the thin lips and a darkening of the eyes, but Harry saw it with painful clarity. "No congratulations?" Severus said mockingly. "You seem almost disappointed."

"I'm not!" Harry said immediately. "Really. Um. Congratulations. Really, really good job, you've proved yourself smarter and—and better than all those Nicholas Flamels and Rosemary Paeans and—"

"Flamel wasn't a potions master," Severus said dryly. "He was an alchemist."

"Well you still managed to do something he didn't," Harry said stoutly. It was easy to feel happy for Severus, to feel his heart lifting with the wan smile on Severus's face; but the sadness was still there, almost palpable in the dimly lit room. I'm such an idiot, Harry thought. Severus just made one of the greatest accomplishments in the history of potion-making, and all I could do was think of myself. And I say I love him. Christolph is right. I don't deserve him.

"It's still untested," Severus said.

"You got it, though. I'm sure of it." Harry smiled, trying to make it as genuine as possible, but found some part of himself unable to. "Well, we have class in, what, seven minutes? Unless you want to plead sick and actually get some rest—"

"I'm perfectly fine," Severus interrupted.

"All right," said Harry, draping his school robes over himself, "hurry up then, today's Monday, we've got Potions…"

But Harry soon found out that Severus had yet to acquire his future self's ability to survive after not sleeping for an entire night. While making that day's assignment, a tricky Glamour-Stripping Potion, Severus did the unthinkable: he almost made a mistake.

"You're going to catch some sleep right after class ends," Harry said firmly, after taking a sample of their nearly-ruined potion for Camentum's inspection.

Severus was staring blankly at their empty cauldron. "The Chinese Chomping Cabbage," he muttered, "I nearly added an entire leaf…"

I wonder how he manages to stay alert later, thought Harry. Maybe he never does get used to it, and uses Energizing Potions… But that wouldn't be right. Harry skimmed through what little he could remember of the future Snape. Energizing Potions cause an eventual collapse if overused, but Snape never collapsed, did he? Harry felt a pang in his heart. He didn't want to think of the future.

"I'm fine, Frost," Severus snarked, as Harry prodded him into their dormitory. "I refuse to miss class just because you have some foolish notion about my needing rest."

"Sleep as long as you need," Harry said, unperturbed, "I'll get you food if you miss dinner. After all, I, unlike you, actually know where the kitchens are, and how to get inside." With his hands firmly on Severus's shoulders, he steered him to the bed and pulled back the covers.

"How do you know where they are anyway?" Severus asked irritably. "You've been here for – what? – one month only?"

Harry drew the covers up to Severus's neck. "Don't say anything." He waved his wand and the flames dimmed to embers.

"Frost? Frost, what are you doing?"

"Go to sleep."

Severus sat up, annoyed. "It's the middle of the day! And if you're really that tired, why don't you crawl to your own bed?"

"Come on," Harry said from Severus's side, reaching up in the dark to pull Severus down, "just… go to sleep…"

"It's lunch!" Severus snapped, his voice rising with unease.

Harry sat up, the covers pooling at his waist. "So?"

"And you're in my bed, uninvited," Severus snarled, swinging his legs out of the bed. He was about to stand up and leave, but Harry swiftly reached out his hands and yanked Severus back down onto the bed.

"Frost—!" Severus hissed, writhing in Harry's grip, but Harry was clutching the other man's arm as though he would die if he let go.

"Please," Harry whispered, his voice breaking.

Severus stopped. The light of the embers had faded until their faces melded in shadows. They were silent save their breathing, murmuring like the wingbeats of heavenly creatures in an eternal darkness.

"Frost…"

"Shh. Just go to sleep." Harry pressed his face into Severus's upper arm, feeling the warmth of the flesh against his lips, separated only by a thin layer of cloth. "Just—go to sleep."

Severus sighed lightly. Minutes later, as the embers dwindled into bare glints of red, his breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling in a gentle cadence.

Harry opened his eyes. Severus, it seemed, was truly asleep. Harry gave a shuddering sigh and shut them tight, burning everything into his memory: the warmth of Severus's body, the slope of the bed, the rhythm of Severus's breaths, the feeling of his body touching Severus's, the aching contentment as Severus quietly slept…

Severus muttered, pulling slightly at the grip Harry had on his arm. As softly as a dream, Harry let go and slipped out of the bed. Severus mumbled, and one hand almost seemed to grope in a vague, unhappy manner at the empty space beside him.

The stone jutted against Harry's knees as he kneeled before the bed. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay, to bury his face in Severus's chest and somehow ease the horrible pain in his throat. He wanted to cry. He had no appetite, and the thought of masquerading happily in class made him sick. But he could count the hours before the time would come. Why? Why did he have to leave just when he had found what he thought he would never, ever find— why?

He swallowed painfully. Perhaps it would be better if he just left now, a parting without words or lies. It would be either now or tonight, he knew, and why not get it over with sooner? Why not leave when their last memory would be of peace and, if not love, then contentment, with as much truth as any parting could contain?

This will be the last time I see this face, he thought, his mind suddenly and strangely calm, as though he were floating apart from the terrible pain in his heart, the throbbing sickness of his soul. I might catch a glimpse of you from time to time, but for twenty years, I will not see you again.

Twenty years.

He opened his mouth and the name came out only as a choked whisper. "Severus. Severus." For a moment Harry thought that perhaps Severus was awake and had heard his words, or heard them somehow in his dreams. But the other man was utterly still, save for the gradual rise and fall of his chest.

Harry stood, turned, and left the room.

He cursed himself for the bad timing. The trip to the Founder's Nest, carried out in a nauseating daze, was uneventful but it was just his luck that he finished rearranging the Nest exactly the way he'd remembered the moment classes let out.

But it hardly mattered. He was leaving, and none of them had the power to keep him here…

"Jonathan!"

Harry stopped, feeling his heart sink. "Hello, Lily."

Lily hurried up to him, shifting her stack of books into one arm so she could check her watch. "We've not much time," she said, trying to balance the books on one knee as she fumbled in her bag, "but I need to talk to you about that thing you told me—"

The books slipped and cascaded onto the floor. Harry watched impatiently at Lily piled the books back into her arms.

"Sorry," she muttered, smiling apologetically, "but about the ritual you found on being the High Priestess—I researched it, and there were a few things that I wanted to ask you."

Harry nodded tersely. "Yeah."

"Well"—Lily pulled out the sheet of parchment—"first, it says that the ritual to make one the High Priestess requires land that hasn't been touched by the hand of man, so that'd mean we'd have to go into the Forbidden Forest, behind the Hogwarts wards."

"Yes," said Harry, "we"—you—"would."

"But do you even know where the Hogwarts wards end?" She bit her lower lip. "It's probably really deep in the Forest… If one of the teachers found us, especially McGonagall…"

"They won't," Harry said, and then quickly made his voice less brusque, "don't Potter and Black always go into the Forbidden Forest when they're not supposed to?"

"I suppose," Lily said, frowning, "but that's not the most difficult bit." She moved her finger to point at a line further down the parchment. "See, here, it needs two people, but the second person must 'be wedded with the Wild.' And I can't find any reference in anything about what that means."

Harry frowned, looking at the line she was pointing at. "This isn't the original," said Harry.

"Yes, because the instructional part was written in the language of the La Tène people, even though the introduction wasn't. And this word—saecant—most directly means 'wedded,' though it also implies… giving, taking into possession, the way a bride is given to the groom."

Harry frowned. "So does the Wild have power over this second person, or does the second person have power over the Wild? And how is either possible?"

"You managed it, I think," Lily said suddenly, turning her green eyes upon him.

"What?"

"I should have thought of it earlier. Remember that ritual we did while, uh"—she looked around slightly—"we had the absinthe?"

Memory dawned. "Oh—that. I remember. So…" Harry stopped, his mind leaping ahead. "But how can you be sure it's not the Wild that's supposed to have power over the second person? How do you know it's supposed to be the second person having power of the Wild?"

"The Wild is always referred to as a woman," Lily explained. "So the Wild would be the bride."

My bride, thought Harry. So I would have to stay.

The longing surged in his heart. He stamped on it, stifled it, tried to crush it before it could overwhelm him. He shuddered and dug his fingernails into his palm as he clenched his hands into fists.

"But if someone else"—Harry stopped and cleared his throat—"if someone else, like Potter, did the ritual, then he'd be able to help you too, would he?"

Lily's face fell. "Well, yes… But I thought"—she stopped, looking apologetically embarrassed—"I thought that you wouldn't mind, as I really would rather have you helping me, but I completely understand if you don't want to… break anymore rules, or anything like that." She took a deep breath, and looked about to continue, but Harry blurted out before he could stop himself,

"That's not what I meant. I'm not—unwilling to help you." He could feel his heart pounding under his smile, its thuds echoing in his mind like a nauseating drumbeat. "I didn't mean it… that way."

"Oh," said Lily, and then giving a little laugh. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Harry said automatically.

"Well, I'm glad." She smiled. "We'll have to wait a week or so. The ritual only works on the full moon."

Harry felt his heart skip a beat as he nodded vaguely. "Right," he croaked.

"We're almost late," said Lily, shifting the stack of books in her arms, "I'll see you at dinner. Bye!"

Harry gave her a sickly smile and hurried in a daze to Arithmancy.

The next hour was a total waste. He felt feverish the entire while, and he was sure he failed the test Professor Vector gave. But he found that he didn't care. Nothing mattered now; everything had changed; he was going to stay, for at least another week, another precious seven days, and perhaps it would actually be a month, a year, many years before he would have to leave and face the desolation of solitude; but for now, he needn't leave—he could stay, stay with Severus—

Still, a nagging dread needled his mind, gnawing away like a poisonous rat. Staying meant that he was going to be summoned to Voldemort, and there was no way he could refuse, no way he could accept. Tonight, he was going to meet the monster that had killed his parents, shadowed his entire life, forced him to murder his best friend, tortured him until he nearly broke—

He shivered. He hadn't been this terrified in a long time.

Would the summoning come right after dinner? before? Harry wondered, trekking down to the dungeons. He avoided looking into the other Slytherins' eyes. Who knew who he might find in Voldemort's circle, eyes glittering with hate behind their white masks…

He pushed the door open and saw Severus sitting in upright in his bed, the sheets pooled about his waist.

"It's dinner," said Harry, walking in and dumping his school things into a disorganized pile. He walked halfway across the room and stopped, waiting.

"I'm not hungry," said Severus.

"You just woke up."

Severus gave him an irritated glance. "Yes, I noticed that too."

The fireplace smoldered in silence, giving off barely enough light to see the ceiling, veiled as it was in shadow. Severus pushed aside the sheets and quickly threw on his robes.

"I'll be going somewhere tonight," Harry said.

Severus continued, as though unperturbed. "Drinking again with Evans?"

"No," said Harry. "I just wanted to tell you, in case you wanted to know."

The sneer, almost invisible in the dim light, seemed to say that no, he did not want to know, but Harry hardly noticed it. His heart was clenching in his chest, gripped by trepidation. If only he hadn't been so blinded by his pain and his grief, for this was a mistake, letting Severus sleep during the day. What if Severus followed him—to Voldemort? He felt fear claw through him like a vast beast. Just minutes ago he had been nearly mad with a nervous happiness, but now, all he felt was a vague, unremitting dread.

Severus strode out the dormitory and into the bathroom, splashing water on his face before he came out.

"What happened to you today?" he asked, eyeing Harry critically.

"Nothing, really," Harry said. "Failed an Arithmancy test."

"Ah. Didn't study enough?"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose so."

"You seem more at loss than usual."

"I'm not," said Harry. Then he forced a bit of life into his voice and added, "Are you saying that I usually look like I'm at loss?"

"Very good, you can understand English. Now go gorge yourself. I don't want your late-night friends to suffer from the sounds of your stomach."

The sound of students' voices in the Great Hall rose like a dull roar. Harry seated himself on the bench, careful not to glance in Lestrange's direction. Food appeared on his plate, but Harry found his appetite lacking after only one spoonful.

"I thought you liked steak and kidney pie," Severus said, frowning.

"I do, I'm just not hungry," Harry said, smiling weakly.

Severus set down his fork and took out his wand. "Rescisco." Harry felt a tingle of magic wash over him, skimming down from his head down to his legs. Severus frowned. "You're not sick. You're not terribly fatigued either. But you are—preoccupied about something." He looked up at Harry's face, dark eyes narrowing.

But before he could say anything, the tone of the crowd changed. Harry quickly followed the gazes of the other students and found himself looking at James Potter standing on top of the Gryffindor Table.

Harry couldn't help glancing at Severus. Though the other Slytherins were muttering to each other at this strange occurrence, Severus did nothing more than stare fixedly, a stony look on his face. On impulse Harry reached under the table, and, still facing the Gryffindor Table with a neutral expression on his face, laid his hand on Severus's knee.

Potter tapped his throat with his wand. "AHEM." His voice exploded through the Hall, rattling the plates like an earthquake. He quickly tapped his throat again. "Sorry," he muttered, voice less magnified, as the students cautiously uncovered their ears.

"So, uh, I'm sorry I'm interrupting dinner," he said, and sent a quick, apologetic glance to the Head Table, "but I'd like to say a few things for everyone to hear." He took a deep breath. As he did so, Harry glanced at the Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and found puzzlement on all of their faces.

Potter spoke brokenly. "I would like to apologize for all my actions that resulted in any member of the student body or the staff feeling uncomfortable or unhappy. And yes," he added, sounding a bit more at ease, "that includes all the pranks I pulled. Or helped pull."

A surprised murmur rose through the crowd. From the corner of his eyes, Harry noticed students glancing at each other with bemused expressions, but his gaze rested on Potter, and he caught the almost imperceptible motion he had expected: the slight glance to Lily Evans's startled face.

"In particular, I'd like to apologize to—a certain Slytherin, who was the butt of many of my pranks." There was a struggle, Harry noticed, going on at Potter's feet. Black had pulled out his wand, but Lupin seemed to be attempting to stop him. Harry felt his heart harden and the old hatred return when he saw the look of utter disbelief on Pettigrew's face. "I admit that I doubt I'd ever truly—get along with… this certain Slytherin, but I hope we can let bygones be bygones. So." The charismatic smile appeared once again on Potter's face. "Thank you."

Harry turned to Severus, but stopped his movement halfway when he noticed almost the entire school doing the same thing. Harry edged closer to Severus and began to eat his dinner with careful nonchalance. I wish they'd stop staring, he thought furiously. He squeezed Severus's knee underneath the table, but Severus only shifted away. Harry let his hand drop.

Malfoy leaned across the table. "Potter apologizing?" he drawled. "How ever did you manage that, Snape? Hmm?"

A few Slytherins sniggered.

Harry set down his fork with a loud clink. "If I were you, Malfoy, I'd be more concerned about your face. I heard it melted and had to be remelted so you wouldn't look like Yorkshire pudding." He let a sneer cross his features as Malfoy stiffened. "That's a very Muggle thing to do, you know. It's called plastic surgery. See, when a Muggle think that his nose is too large, he goes to a Muggle hospital and ask a Muggle doctor to perform surgery—"

"Shut up, Frost," Malfoy hissed, "you were the one who made the cauldron explode. I should tell my father about this, he'd make sure you were—" Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence. He turned, gave Lestrange a bewildered glance, and then paled. "I'll have you later, Frost," Malfoy muttered, hate glinting in his eyes.

Harry ignored Malfoy, looking instead at Lestrange. Lestrange smiled back, almost lazily, tilting his head questioningly in the direction of the Great Hall entrance.

For a moment, Harry froze in indecision. He was seized by the urge to feign ignorance and pretend that he didn't know what Lestrange meant, to merely look away as though he had seen nothing at all. But instead he gave a terse, slight nod.

At that moment, a crash sounded from the Gryffindor table. Harry turned instinctively. It seemed that a plate of food had somehow fallen on top of Black's head. Harry returned to his steak and kidney pie. I'll have to remember to remove that curse before I leave, he thought detachedly, and brought another tasteless morsel to his lips.

Dinner ended soon afterwards.

"I'm heading to the library," Harry said, setting down his fork. The empty plate disappeared with a faint pop.

Severus nodded wordlessly, breaking a roll of bread and taking a bite.

Harry paused, for a moment wondering if there was anything more he could say. I'll be fine? Don't worry? "I'll see you later, then," he said at last, getting up. Severus made no response.

Harry left the Hall for the dungeons, making his way quickly to the dormitory he and Severus shared. As he paused in the middle of the room, he felt suddenly that this, here, the dim-lit quarters beneath the castle, was more of a home than anywhere else.

"Dormir Diuturnitas," he said, pointing at Severus's bed. It would be best this way, that Severus would sleep deeply for at least seven hours upon touching the bed. He mustn't know, not now, Harry thought fiercely as he wandlessly cast a Notice-Me-Not Spell and crept up to the Great Hall. Not now. But when? a whispering voice in his mind asked. The future could be delayed, day by day, week by week, but like death and parting it was inevitable…

Still, Harry thought with a rush of hope, whatever time I have is precious.

There was one last thing he had to do before he left. He turned his wand to himself and probed at Dumbledore's tracking spell. It prickled gently under his touch. Crabbe's still here, Harry thought, having heard the Slytherin belch loudly just moments ago, but perhaps he'll be going to Voldemort's little rendezvous as well, and transferring the spell to him would be useless…

Harry looked at the canopied bed before him and wondered if he could transfer the spell to a thing, rather than another human. He'd never even considered it; but now, being as powerful as he was…

He pried at the spell and guided it with the tip of his wand to the bed's headboard. The spell hesitated, threatening to burst like jelly and vaporize, but Harry clenched his magic around it, forcing it to ease into the wood.

I did it, Harry thought, feeling a strange freedom as he stepped back and looked at his handiwork. Dumbledore has almost no power over me. But, a voice reminded him, bringing up the memory of Lestrange's threat, what chance does Severus have if Dumbledore should bend his anger towards him?

The entrance to the Great Hall was empty. Harry leaned against the doorway, watching idly as the remaining plates on the four tables vanished like snowflakes on water.

"So you're here, Frost," said Lestrange.

Harry turned, hiding his surprise. He hadn't felt Lestrange approaching, and he could usually sense others' magical presence quite easily. "Yes, I am," said Harry in a calm, polite tone.

"Very good," Lestrange said, smiling again that impenetrable, satisfied smile. "Come with me then."

Harry followed Lestrange out onto the grounds. The sun had set, but the sky was still a glowing reddish violet. The eastern horizon had deepened so that it seemed a blackness was rearing out before them, arcing across the sky above the castle.

They approached the castle gates, and Harry drew in a sharp breath. An elegant coach was waiting at the gates, entirely black except for the hubs of its wheels, which were a cold silver. Drawing it was a team of neatly groomed thestrals.

"Lovely creatures, aren't they?" Lestrange said conversationally.

"Yes," Harry said in the same, expressionless tone. So Lestrange can see them too, Harry thought. I wonder whose death it was that he saw. Ah, another voice added regretfully, but now he knows that I can see them too.

Lestrange opened the door to the coach and levitated out an ornately carved chest. "Before we get in, though, there's something we must do—"

Harry whirled around. "Stupefy!" he snapped. "Reveloso!"

Severus materialized, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground like a discarded garment. Harry's heart froze; his mind balked, and some part of him cried out, No! No—not like this, not yet! But he did nothing, could do nothing, only stand there and stare.

"Hmm," Lestrange said disinterestedly, "I see we have a follower."

Before Harry could intervene, Lestrange had pointed his wand at Severus and incanted, "Enervate!"

Severus groaned and pushed himself into a crouched position, his hair falling down in a curtain around his face. Don't look up, Harry whispered in his mind, but Severus lifted his head, and the confused expression on his face flattened immediately and became inscrutable.

"Why, Severus," said Lestrange, "did you want to join us?"

Severus quickly got to his feet. He glared stiffly at the coach, his eyes not registering the thestrals as he surveyed the scene before him. He avoided looking in Harry's direction.

"In case we were wondering, we were about to pay a visit to an extremely interesting being." Lestrange smiled. "The Dark Lord."

Severus's eyes snapped to Harry's face. They darted to Lestrange, but slid back slowly to meet Harry's eyes. "Really," he said slowly, carefully.

Harry nodded. He felt numb, as though he had fallen into a vat of ice. Dimly, he was aware of his heart pounding frantically in his chest, but he could do nothing, say nothing. It seemed to him that there was a clamp gripping his throat.

"So would you like to join us?" Lestrange asked.

Severus crossed his arms stiffly over his chest, and nodded.

"Excellent," said Lestrange, sounding politely delighted. "Now, as this is what my Lord considers to be a special occasion, he has decided to hold a masquerade ball."

Severus snorted, but Lestrange seemed not to notice. He opened the chest that had been in the coach, and took out a strange hat Harry remembered seeing on Trelawney's tarot cards.

"I shall be a jester," he said, donning the hat so that it tilted at an angle.

"Very flattering," Severus sneered under his breath.

"And with this façade"—Lestrange took out a red-coloured mask, and swept it over his face—"I am complete."

His student robes had become a jester's stripes, and in his left hand was a staff at the end of which hung ribboned bells.

"Now, for you," Lestrange said, bowing to Severus. It was somewhat disturbing, Harry thought, how quickly and easily Lestrange was playing his role as jester. Who was this Lestrange, truly? he wondered, watching Lestrange reach into the chest with the wide, absurd movements of a jester. Who, and what?

"This, I think, would fit you sir most splendidly," Lestrange said, flourishing a mask that sent chills down Harry's spine. It was a Death Eater's mask.

"What is this supposed to be of?" Severus asked, hesitantly taking the proferred item.

"The eternal face of eternal knights, servants of Walpurgis," Lestrange answered, his voice taking on a singsong tone. "Surely you have heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?"

"Yes, I have," Severus said acidly, and flipping the mask onto his face.

Harry shuddered. Severus's student robes became a deeper shade of black, and the mask seemed to grow into his skin, sliding down his neck until he was nothing more than an extension of the mask.

"Frost?" Severus said, an odd note in his voice. Harry shook himself. It was only a mask, only a masquerade, even if it was Voldemort's magic. Harry swallowed, wishing that he could leap forward and tear the mask off Severus's face. I wonder if the Dark Mark forms on his arm, Harry thought.

"And last of all, this princely face for you, dear sir," said Lestrange to Harry, bowing low as he held out a strange, gold and silver mask.

Harry took it gingerly. He felt nausea building in his stomach. This was something Voldemort had touched, enchanted; he wondered if the darkness and malice he felt were merely his fear and imagination.

"No other costume will do, kind prince," Lestrange said softly, his eyes set within that macabre face suddenly more alive than Harry could remember.

Harry set the mask onto his face. Instantly he felt the magic pour over his skin. His robes became heavier, his shoes changed, and he felt his hair lengthen to his shoulders, set in place by a circlet around his head.

"And now, at last, we are ready," Lestrange said, and Harry stiffened; there was more Lestrange in that tone than the jester.

"Please, sirs," Lestrange said, holding the coach door open and bowing with exaggerated politeness.

Harry climbed in first. The seats, he had to admit, were soft and enchantingly comfortable, and suddenly the space seemed very small when Severus moved to his side.

"Here we go!" Lestrange cried. There was the lash of a whip, and the coach began to move.

XVII.

The carriage landed with a muffled jolt.

"Step down please, my dear sirs," said Lestrange, a few moments later, as he opened the door and bowed so low that a corner of his jester's hat brushed the ground.

Harry opened his eyes and clambered out of the carriage.

The manor seemed to soar into the darkness. A grand flight of stairs swept up to the black double doors that were almost as large as Hogwarts's. Perched on either side of the doors were two misshapen statues, their forms lost in the shadows that fell over the manor's face like velvet drapes.

Lestrange had climbed up the stairs, but Harry hung back slightly. He was aware of his heart pounding like a frightened animal's as he glanced at the mask that covered Severus's face. For a terrible moment, it seemed to him that standing before him was not Severus, but another nameless Death Eater of Voldemort's fold.

But Severus tilted his head. "Go on," he said, and his tone was impatient, almost irritable. Harry jerked into action, relief crashing through his mind as he mounted the stairs. It was still Severus's voice; it was still Severus, his Severus.

Lestrange had pushed open the doors, the light spilling out like blood. Harry paused as he neared it. He felt a faint sheen of magic hovering before him, but before he could move, he felt it sweeping over him like a hostile wind.

Harry could feel Severus stiffen. He heard a faint growl, and suddenly, glancing to his side, Harry saw that the misshapen statues were two giant hounds, their eyes glowing an unearthly red and a deep, vibrating growl rumbling in their throats—

Harry flung out his hand, but even as he did so, the image seemed to waver. He blinked. The red eyes were reflections, and the growl was just the clanging of an instrument from within the manor. Ah, Harry thought, an illusion. He frowned and groped in his mind for the magic he had felt washing over him.

"It's just an illusion," Harry whispered, snaking one hand to grip Severus's tense upper arm. "It was triggered by a pureblood spell."

Severus stiffened even more. "Indeed," he murmured coldly, stepping into the manor, and Harry suddenly realized: Severus isn't a pureblood. The spell went off on him, too. He's not a pureblood.

The room they entered was carpeted with red. The walls and ceiling, however, were an inky black, and Harry had the strange feeling that they were walking on a bridge of blood over an empty void. Lestrange was waiting at the far end, standing erect with one hand laid palm-down on the door. He seemed to be smiling. Harry felt a sudden stab of hatred. You were waiting for us to fall into that little trap, weren't you? he thought.

The hatred tensed and shriveled with sudden fear as Lestrange bent slightly, ready to push the door open.

"Wizards," Lestrange said, and his voice was mocking, "I present you—the Masquerade."

Voldemort's on the other side, Harry thought, panicking, as the door slowly swung open. He'll be there, sitting on his throne…

But as the doors opened fully, the sound of chatter and music flooding out, Harry saw that there was no throne. The doors had opened to an enormous ballroom.

Severus was the first to move. "Who's playing that harpsichord?" he muttered as he stepped into the ballroom. Harry followed quickly, suddenly afraid that he might lose Severus in the sea of masks and costumes. He felt suddenly bewildered. After the hideous illusions of the pureblood spell and the sickly red and black entrance room, the hum of chatter and bath of candlelight seemed almost normal. "Whoever's playing right now ought to have his fingers chopped off," Severus added.

"Why, Terrance, are these our Lord's esteemed guests?" said a woman, her voice arrogant and touched with a vague accent Harry couldn't identify.

Lestrange turned to a woman all robed in black with an enormous frilled collar around her neck and a bloodless mask on her face. "Madam Black," he said, bowing politely. Severus did so as well, and Harry followed suit. So this is Sirius's mother, Harry thought, wondering why he felt a bit amused.

"Purebloods, of good family, I expect?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Harry and demanded, "What is your name?"

"Frost," Harry replied automatically. "Jonathan Frost, Madam."

"Frost…" Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Not one of the blood traitors of Sussex, are you?"

"Of course not," Harry said, noticing that the pattern of movement seemed to have changed. People were beginning to cluster around him and Severus, all the while pretending to be disinterested.

"Good," said Mrs. Black. "Of what line are you then?"

"We saw your son Sirius while leaving the school," Lestrange interrupted in a courteous tone. "He seemed to be very, ah, unhappy—"

"Don't you dare speak to me of him!" she screeched, her collar quivering like the feathers of a furious bird. "He is not my son! I've disowned him, do you hear?"

"Oh, auntie, don't think of that traitor," laughed a voice, one that made Harry freeze with fear. He knew that voice too well, having heard it laugh at the death of too many of his friends, heard it laugh at her own death. "I'll kill him one day for you. Now, go talk to my mother, she's wanting your company…" Bellatrix stopped. "Oh, Terrance," she said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You're here."

"Bella," Lestrange greeted. "I see you look ravishing as ever."

"Thank you, Terrance," said Bellatrix, smiling and tilting her head so her crown of jewels caught the light of the chandeliers. Then her smile vanished as quickly as a swooping hawk, and she turned her gaze and fastened it onto Harry. Harry held her eyes steadily, though he was careening from a myriad of emotions.

"You must be the one our Lord is so eager to meet," Bellatrix murmured, her voice unusually soft and respectful.

Harry managed a faint nod. "So I am told," he said.

Bellatrix gave another smile, one that took on no pretense of being real, and turned her attention to Severus. "Snape?" she squawked. "Why is he here, Terrance?"

Harry felt Severus stiffen at his side, and he himself tensed, wanting to slash an ugly red scar over that too-beautiful face, but Lestrange intervened.

"He is very talented, my dear," he said, "and our Lord looks for talent."

Bellatrix snorted, but this time with less rancor. "He also looks for purity of blood," she sneered, but she stepped aside with a last glance at Harry. "I look forward to what you will do for our Lord," she said coldly, and swept away in a glitter of jewels.

"Well, she left before I could introduce her to you," Lestrange said, the singsong lilt of a jester's tone creeping back into his voice. "She is Bellatrix Black, soon to be Bellatrix Lestrange. She's engaged to my brother, Rodolphus."

"I see," said Harry.

"Isn't her sister Andromeda Black?" Severus said.

Lestrange's face soured only slightly. "Oh, we prefer not to consider her existence, though it is slightly difficult. She has just married—to some Muggle or another"

"Ah," said Severus, sounding somewhat smug, "I see."

They passed from one room into the next, and Harry wondered if magic was at work again, for the two rooms seemed identical. The enormous chandelier hanging from the gilt ceiling was the same, and the slowly waltzing paintings of dryads and nymphs were indistinguishable. But the people were different, each donning a different mask and conversing in variations of the same clipped tones, and the sound of the harpsichord grew louder.

"Is that where the infernal music is coming from?" Severus muttered, heading for a green-curtained room. Harry quickened his pace to keep up, trying his best not to be rude as he made his way through the sea of costumed figures.

Severus stopped suddenly. Harry wormed to the other man's side and looked at the harpsichord that stood on a raised dais towards one end of the room. A man wearing a beaked mask was pounding at it, but as Harry caught sight of the nearly bleached blond hair tied back with a silver string, he knew, with a surge of hostility, that it was Malfoy.

"He's butchering Bach," Severus muttered.

"Yeah," said Harry, with more than a little spite, "even I can tell he's playing it all wrong."

Harry saw Severus give him a look that might have been withering. "Do you even know what piece it is that he is playing?"

"Uh. I think I might've heard it somewhere," Harry said vaguely.

Before Severus could reply, a shrill voice cut in between the two of them.

"Why, hello, my dear young gentlemen!" crowed an aging woman who was stuffed in a too-tight evening gown. "Terrance, are these the Dark Lord's special guests?"

Lestrange bowed again. "Yes, indeed they are. This is Mr. Snape, and this is Mr. Frost."

The woman glanced bewilderedly from one to the other. "But I thought—which one, Terrance, does the Lord favor more? The one he wants so much to meet?"

Neither of us! Harry wanted to shout, but he could only press his lips tightly and give a strained smile.

"That would be Mr. Frost," said Lestrange, making an elaborate gesture with his right hand.

Harry felt the woman pull him away like a greedy dog. He cast a last glance at Severus, and felt his heart tear at the stiff posture of the other man's shoulders. Severus couldn't be jealous, could he? Merlin's beard, Severus was so impossible—

"Please, Mr. Frost, meet my daughter, Alecto Carrow," Mrs. Carrow simpered, nudging Harry towards a girl whose face was smeared with makeup and had an impossible halo of dark curls framing her head. Alecto, thought Harry. I know that name. "Alecto, this is—what was your name, I didn't catch it?"

"Jonathan Frost," Harry said resignedly.

"Yes, Jonathan," Mrs. Carrow said, "now, Jonathan was terribly eager to have a dance with Alecto, weren't you? And—"

She stopped and craned her neck. "Amycus!" she shrilled. "Go play the harpsichord, my dear. Play—play that one Scarlatti sonata!"

A gawky boy with a leering grin loped up to the harpsichord, and watching him, Harry suddenly realized where he had seen the two of them: Amycus and Alecto were two of the Death Eaters the Order had captured and executed. And here they were, more girl than woman, more boy than man, making curtseys and playing childhood tunes.

Harry winced. Amycus's playing (his hands as he shuddered with death had jerked like spiders, Harry remembered) was worse than Malfoy's. Before he knew it, Alecto was in his arms, smiling up at him cloyingly, and stepping on his feet as they danced.

"So, Mr. Frost," Alecto whispered in a breathy voice that Harry knew was not her own, "is it true that the Dark Lord looks to you in the highest esteem? Even more than Lestrange and Malfoy and Black?"

"Perhaps," Harry said, wondering if the girl's words were rehearsed.

"Oh, Mr. Frost, you are so handsome!"

Harry nearly burst out laughing. It was one thing to receive compliments in a faux-seductive voice, but it was another to receive them in so blatantly faked a tone.

"Thank you, Miss Carrow," Harry said solemnly, steering her away from the harpsichord, wondering how the instrument could stand such pounding. "And you, yourself, have the hallucinatory beauty and spurious grace of a molting grasshopper."

Alecto's eyes blinked a few times before she hastily masked her face with a simpering smile. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Frost!" she trilled. "I—I don't know what to say."

Harry smiled. "Please, don't trouble your verbally challenged intellect. I wouldn't want you buckling under the strain."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Frost!" she repeated. "I—I think you are so handsome!"

Harry couldn't help looking up in exasperation. It was one thing to deal with nasty Death Eaters, but it was another to deal with those who had the mental capacities of an oyster and who clung to him with the tenacity of a—

He stopped. For a moment he couldn't recognize the figure standing next to the drinks; there was only the white mask and black robe, the aloofness of a specter; but he shook himself. It was Severus, not a Death Eater. Not a Death Eater. Severus. For a moment he couldn't help wondering if Lestrange somehow knew of the future; for of all the costumes to choose—?

"Mr. Frost, I was wondering where your esteemed family came from?" Alecto simpered. "Forgive me, but I haven't heard of your glorious name before, and so I wondered if you could please enlighten me?"

"My family name?" said Harry, adopting a shocked voice as he steering them towards the drinks. "You have never heard of it? Truly?"

At least she's not deaf, Harry thought as Alecto turned to wood in his arms, a flummoxed look on her face. "I—no, I haven't— I mean, I have, I have!" Her face twisted into a smile. "Of course I've heard of your glorious name, Mr. Frost."

Harry adopted a look of relief, stealing a glance at Severus from the corner of his eyes. "Oh, that's good. You know, of course, of the importance of my family name in the pureblood circles. Obviously, I can't expect it to be known in places of… lesser standing."

"Of course," Alecto agreed quickly. "One can't expect mudbloods to know anything."

"No, though… Out of curiosity, what have you heard about my glorious name?"

"O-oh," Alecto stammered, "I—I've heard that… that you have an immense history of being one of the three—I mean, four true pureblood families, and… and that—"

"Refreshing that someone of standing knows of my illustrious heritage," Harry said. "And thank you for having this dance with me, Miss Carrow."

He tried disentangling himself, but found that Alecto was clinging to him stubbornly with a slightly dumbfounded expression on her face. So you want to be difficult, Harry thought, clenching his teeth and giving way to a slight burst of anger. Alecto let go with a little cry, and Harry quickly stepped back and bowed. Then, he slipped past a dancing couple and reached Severus's side.

"Hey," he said, smiling wanly.

"Back already?" Severus said coolly. "Was Miss Carrow not to your taste?"

I wish I could rip off that mask of yours, Harry thought. God I want to see your face. "She was ecstatic when I called her a molting grasshopper."

There might have been a smile under the mask, but Harry wasn't sure. "Then the two of you would be a perfect match. You seem delighted whenever you are called an idiot."

"No I don't."

Severus drew himself to his full height. "Jonathan Frost," he said, his cool voice rolling over Harry's skin like waves, "you. Are. An. Idiot."

Harry couldn't keep his face from splitting into a grin. "Fine, you win," he said, eyes still tracing the lines of the implacable mask, as though he were groping for the bottom of the sea. He knew what lay underneath, but he needed more; he stepped closer and turned so that he now faced the harpsichord in the middle of the room. "But it's only because it's you," Harry murmured, darting a glance to the corner of his eyes, feeling his heart skip a beat at the redness that flushed up the neck and made the mask seem ridiculous and cheap.

"Well done, Amycus!" Mrs. Carrow cried, her voice cutting sharply through the air. The daughter was at her side, Harry noticed, and he hardened his face. Alecto, glancing in his direction with a nasty sort of smile, faltered. "Now, why don't you play that other song, my dear?"

Amycus blinked stupidly. "I only know how to play this one, Mother."

"Idiot, play that other one!" Mrs. Carrow snapped. "What was it called? Goldenberg Variatons?"

"Goldberg Variations," Severus muttered. "I find it difficult to believe how many people are actually philistines masquerading as erudites."

"Mm," Harry said in a low voice, "at least I don't pretend to be an erudite."

"That," Severus answered, "is because you have no sense of honor or shame."

"Honor? Shame?" Harry said in mock indignation. "What do you think I am, a bloody Gryffindor?"

Severus's face soured. "I'll let you know, Frost, we Slytherins have an acute sense of honor, thank you very much."

Harry smiled, but then he frowned, looking out over the crowd. "There's Lestrange, at the harpsichord," he remarked. "Do all purebloods learn to play it?"

"It is a fashionable skill to have," Severus said stiffly, and Harry was reminded again of what Severus so reluctantly was not.

"Well, judging from Malfoy and Carrow's performances, skill obviously doesn't make up for talent," Harry murmured, and thought, perhaps, that under the mask Severus was smiling. It was on the tip of his tongue to add something scathing about Malfoy's proficiency when the first delicate notes swept over him like a warm stream of air.

Harry stared, transfixed, at the figure playing the notes with an almost loving grace. Even with the jester's hat and the ridiculously lurid suit, some part of his mind refused to grasp that it was Lestrange who was making this music, Lestrange…

"He's very good," Severus said, sounding surprised.

"Yes," Harry said, reluctantly, disbelievingly, almost irritably, that someone had interrupted the music. He looked away, but couldn't help glancing up again, above the crowd of masks, above the suddenly quiet murmurs, above the sea of distant people, as the music lifted in an arc, and met those eyes. They were black, Harry realized, just like Severus's. Then the notes fell, and Harry looked away to find Severus standing with arms crossed sulkily over his chest.

"Much better than Malfoy," Harry said, wishing Severus would look a little more cheerful.

"That's hardly an accomplishment," said Severus, snorting.

"So what's he playing?"

"He is playing Bach's Goldberg Variations," said a polite, mellifluous voice, "which, incidentally, is what Malfoy was playing earlier—or should I say, trying to play?"

Harry turned. The man who had spoken was very tall and, Harry thought, exceedingly handsome. His thick hair was pulled back immaculately, and the mask he wore gave him a slightly ethereal look.

"Trying and failing to gain any semblance of musical aptitude," Severus sneered, warming to the Malfoy-bashing.

The man's lips curved in a smile, but none of it reached his eyes. Harry felt a sudden roaring in his ears, like the rush of wind through a mountain hollow. He's not wearing a mask, Harry thought.

"Mr. Riddle, I presume?"

Voldemort's face remained unchanged, but Harry, who knew that face with the intimacy of a lover, saw the pupils dilate slightly, the irises chilling. "Voldemort, if you please," he said softly.

"Pardon me," Harry said, inclining his head slightly. Voldemort did the same. "I have heard much about you. I am very honored to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Jonathan Frost." Voldemort's gaze went to Severus, and Harry felt waves of ice wash down his spine. "And this is…?"

"Severus Snape," Harry said, moving aside as little as he could while still pretending to be polite, "a good friend of mine."

"Ah, Mr. Snape," said Voldemort, his lips curling once more into that emotionless smile, "if I remember correctly, Eileen Prince is your mother, is she not?"

"Yes," said Severus. His voice was hesitant, more than slightly suspicious, wary, and Harry felt his stomach tearing itself to shreds.

"Your mother was a formidable witch," Voldemort said. "I knew her once."

"At Hogwarts?"

"And other places," Voldemort said and smiled. Harry wanted to push Voldemort aside and skewer him with a hail of curses, but he could only stand there while the dazzling costumes drifted by like flotsam after a storm.

"Well, I shall see the two of you later," Voldemort said, with another handsome curve of his lips. Harry tried returning it, but thought he probably looked as though he were baring his teeth.

Neither Severus nor Harry said anything after Voldemort left, moving like a wolf through a herd of docile sheep. Harry suppressed a shudder and noticed that the crowd was applauding. Lestrange had finished.

Just then, there was a faint, melodious ring. The dancing couples separated, and those who were seated rose, setting down their drinks with delicate clinks of glass on metal.

"Do we follow them?" Harry whispered to Severus, but saw that Lestrange was making his way towards them.

"That is our Lord's signal," Lestrange said, bowing low. A part of Harry wanted to say no, his signal is actually a bloody pain on your arm, but he found himself following Lestrange into the large central ballroom.

There was a large stage at one end, which Harry hadn't noticed before, and which he supposed might have appeared through magic; and at the back there was a set of deep green curtains that hung, suspended from nothing. A strange, very fragile-looking glass podium perched at the front of the stage. Those in the crowd, Harry noticed, had mostly taken off their masks. None was seated.

"Not one for being prompt, is he?" Severus muttered.

"No," Harry whispered back, though privately he thought that Voldemort could be as late as he liked, better if he didn't show up at all—

The curtain parted and Voldemort strode out. The chandelier dimmed abruptly, and green flames leapt up to frame the curtains and fill the glass podium. The applause was deafening.

"Thank you, my fellow wizards and witches," he said, his voice echoing through the entire room, becoming one with the air and leaving no space, no surface untouched. The applause started again, but Voldemort held up a hand, and the noise quickly ceased. "Tonight is more than a night of merriment. It is a night of celebration. We have just scored a tremendous victory for the cause of what is good and must be preserved in our wizarding society. Tonight, Abraxas Malfoy has been named as one of the members of the Governing Board of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The applause rose again as the green flames of the podium and around the curtains flared. Voldemort was holding his hand out at the crowd, smiling at someone, and Harry turned to see what seemed like a replica of the older Lucius Malfoy, only older and with an even haughtier look on his face. Harry turned his attention back to the stage, and briefly met those eyes—green as his, like looking in a mirror. Harry shivered and dropped his gaze to the podium.

"Though this is a great triumph, we have much yet to do," Voldemort said, after the sound of clapping had subsided. "This battle has been won, but a war still needs to be fought—a war that we must fight to preserve all that is right and good in the wizarding world, a war that we must fight to prevent the rising tide of impurity and corruption from tainting all that we and our ancestors have worked so hard to create!"

Harry joined in the applause, though he noticed that he was clapping a lot less than anybody else was. They love him, Harry thought, looking at the upturned faces. And no wonder—Voldemort oozed charisma, from every pore of his all-too-perfect face, from his unswerving eyes. Did they know what he did? what he was?

When he looked back up at the stage, Voldemort had vanished. The flames were fading, and the light of the chandelier was becoming brighter.

Lestrange was approaching. Harry turned, keeping his face emotionless. "My dear sirs," Lestrange murmured, backing away slightly and bowing, "my Lord desires to see you." He stood straight, but those eyes were downcast—like a servant's, Harry thought. "Please follow me."

Harry met Severus's eyes in a hesitant glance, but quickly followed Lestrange's retreating form to a doorway at the far end of the ballroom.

Lestrange drew aside the curtain and bowed. "Please enter."

Voldemort was standing in front of a painting of the sea. Like all magical paintings, it moved, the waves crashing magnificently against the shore, the gulls circling and crying mournfully. Standing against it, Voldemort looked aloof and removed, impossibly beautiful, almost taking away Harry's breath. Almost. Manipulative bastard, Harry thought, wishing the paintings wouldn't move so much.

"Mr. Frost, Mr. Snape," said Voldemort, smiling and indicated two chairs around a table. "Do sit."

Harry approached the chair and reached out with all the senses. Nothing. He took a seat, just as Voldemort did the same across from them. His chair, Harry noticed, was slightly taller than theirs.

"I am very glad that the two of you were willing to attend this little dance tonight," Voldemort said. He smiled.

"The pleasure is mine," Harry said, not returning the smile.

"Terrance," said Voldemort.

Lestrange appeared, eyes down and head bowed. "Yes, my Lord," he muttered.

"Bring me the gifts for our guests," Voldemort commanded.

"Yes, my Lord," said Lestrange, and left the room.

Voldemort smiled again, and Harry found himself caught in the battery of those unwavering green eyes. "I had great difficulty choosing gifts that I thought would please you, Jonathan—may I call you Jonathan?"

"Yes, by all means," Harry said, feeling his heart pounding as he maintained a level gaze. "Voldemort."

Voldemort smiled and turned—Harry felt as though a heaviness had lifted—to Severus. "And you—Severus?"

No, thought Harry, but Severus nodded cautiously.

Lestrange entered the room, two intricately carved boxes balanced on a tray of glass. His eyes were still downcast, and Harry found himself strangely wishing that Lestrange would look up.

"Do take off your mask, Severus," Voldemort said, lifting his hand to take the boxes from the tray. He has a potion-maker's hands, Harry thought, watching the slender fingers open one box and— They stopped. Harry looked up, felt his stomach turn to lead.

"This first gift is a rare object of immense value," Voldemort said, his voice as smooth as dark wood, no hint that he had faltered for a moment. "This is one of the four crowns possessed by the great seer, Nostradamus…"

He saw his face, Harry thought, a roaring sound in his ears, watching the way Voldemort's eyes strayed, just slightly, in Severus's direction; here it begins, Harry thought with a curious detachment, the Dark Lord's desire…

"…for you, Jonathan."

"Thank you," Harry said, feeling as though he were in a daze, and reached for the crown— But he felt Severus nudge him. Harry stopped for a moment, and then gave himself a tremendous mental slap. Here he was, just reaching for a gift from Voldemort without any preparations, any checking. Thank Merlin for Severus, Harry thought shakily, and thrust forth his senses—

Ah, he thought. Reminds me of Albus, really.

He picked up the crown. It looked simple, just a circlet of whitish gold, but Harry could feel the layers of magic, both ancient and subtle, woven into it. "Thank you."

"And for you, Severus," said Voldemort, and Harry stiffened at the way he said the name, "I have for you a very rare potions ingredient, having heard that you are exceptionally gifted in the art of potion-making." Voldemort opened the second box and took out a clear vial. Harry heard Severus draw in a sharp breath. "Yes," said Voldemort, "unicorn tears, an entire vial full. Take it."

Severus reached out a hand, his eyes wide with wonder, but Harry was faster.

"Unicorn tears!" Harry exclaimed, snatching the vial into his own hands and giving Severus a nudge. "Amazing! How did you obtain it?"

"Quite difficult, it was," Voldemort said, smiling as though pleased. "You know, I'm sure, that an innocent is required to lure a unicorn. But there are certain—spells that can do more than lure a unicorn…"

Harry repressed a shudder, all the while scanning the vial with his senses. "Yes. I do." Unlike his crown of white gold, he could feel nothing on the vial. Probably because they're more concerned about netting me—for the moment, Harry thought grimly. "I thank you for these gifts, Voldemort," Harry said, raising his eyes to meet the other's.

"My pleasure," said Voldemort. "Terrance?"

"Yes, my Lord," Lestrange murmured. Harry frowned. Lestrange sounded more obsequious and vacant than he had before.

"Please lead our guests back to the ballroom?"

"As you wish, my Lord," Lestrange said.

All three rose and exited the room, Voldemort saying something inconsequential and Harry answering with something inconsequential. I wish he'd disappear like he did last time, Harry thought anxiously. I want to get back.

"And Severus," Voldemort said, seeming to caress that name, "I hope you make good use of the unicorn tears. I expect great things from you."

"Thank you, sir," Severus said evenly, but Harry could catch more than a hint of a blush coloring the sharp cheekbones.

He's mine, damn you, Harry thought fiercely. "I'm afraid I'm rather tired now," Harry said loudly, "and I don't think it would be advisable to have Dumbledore suspecting."

"He may suspect, but he will be too cowardly to know," Voldemort said coldly, and Harry felt a glint of malicious satisfaction—he had almost forgotten that Dumbledore had once been the only one Voldemort ever feared.

Lestrange led them through the crowd again, and Harry, glancing back to make sure Severus was close behind, followed past the costumes, through the room that seemed to be soaked in blood, and into the crisp night air.

They clambered into the carriage, and Harry felt the tension that had clouded his chest the entire evening gradually seep away.

"Interesting, wasn't it?" Harry muttered, giving Severus a tired glance.

Severus's face, swaying gently from the rocking of the carriage, was hidden in shadow. "Unexpected."

"How so? Besides that Lestrange can play music, and that Voldemort is—" He stopped before he could continue. What did he mean to say? Handsome, good-looking, beautiful?

Severus shifted. "Did you… detect anything from his gifts?"

Harry took out the vial of unicorn tears. "This is completely harmless, though I don't want to know how he got it. The crown, on the other hand…" Harry handed Severus the vial, and held the white gold circlet under the moonlight.

"How can you tell?"

Harry put the crown back into his sleeve. "I just… can." That's an unusual thing for Severus to ask, Harry thought. But then, Severus hardly ever asked questions. He usually kept this bottled within, letting it out only as resentment or jealousy. But perhaps that's for the best, Harry mused sadly. Don't ask, don't tell.

They were silent for the rest of the flight. Malfoy, Harry noticed as they crept quietly out of the carriages and into the castle, seemed to be one for late parties. He wondered if they were the first to return, but found himself almost too tired to wonder. Lestrange said nothing even when they parted in the dormitory corridor, which, Harry thought vaguely, was surprising.

"We should begin working on the potion tomorrow," Severus said.

Harry stuck his wand under his pillow and sighed deeply. "Yeah," he said, after a moment. "We should. And we've got Defense tomorrow, don't we?"

"We do," Severus replied from the other side of the room.

Harry closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, listening to the sound of his own breathing, Severus's calm rhythm, the soft flicker of flames like the quiet lilt of harpsichord notes.

"What did you find on the crown?"

Harry opened his eyes. He had thought Severus was asleep. "A tracking and eavesdropping charm. Don't worry, though. They're not there anymore. I got rid of them."

"When?"

Harry shifted and turned away. "When you weren't looking, 'course," he replied, slurring his voice with drowsiness.

He listened to Severus turn, heard the breathing even out into sleep. Harry listened for a long time before he began to dream.

The room was a dungeon, with a fireplace at one end and a heavy table in the middle. Nagini was coiled at his side, her tongue tasting the warm air.

There was a knock.

"Enter," he called.

Snape entered. He walked forward, the hair hiding his face as he bowed low and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes.

"Rise," Voldemort said.

Snape rose, his eyes still looking at the ground. Voldemort smiled and reached out a hand, holding the chin and lifting it so that the dark eyes were locked with his. He ran a finger over the unmoving jaw.

"Severus, my servant, do you know why I have called you here?"

Snape's gaze wavered. "No, my L—"

"Look at me when you speak!" Voldemort hissed, tightening his grip.

The black eyes darted back, and he could feel the muscles of the jaw working under his fingers. He smiled, gently caressing the cheek with his thumb.

"Do you really not know, Severus?"

Snape was silent for a moment. "I can only think, my Lord," he said hesitantly, "that I have somehow displeased you—"

"Very good," Voldemort said coldly and roughly pushed the other man away. "You have displeased me, Severus. Some of the potions that were used on the raid were not up to your usual standards."

"I am sorry, my Lord, but the ingredients that Pettigrew supplied me with were defective," Snape murmured.

"Oh, is that why? Is it, Severus?"

"Yes, it is, my Lord."

"Tsk, tsk," Voldemort said, shaking his head. "Are you criticizing me for my ability to pick out potions ingredients?"

Snape was silent.

"Pettigrew didn't pick out the ingredients. I did, Severus."

The fire crackled. Snape suddenly fell to his knees, crawling forward and reaching out with both hands (they were trembling, Voldemort noticed), bringing the robes to his lips.

"Forgive me, my Lord," Snape whispered, his voice shaking, "it will not happen again, I promise, forgive me—"

"What shall your penitence be?"

"Anything you desire, my Lord—anything you desire."

"Good," Voldemort said, and parted his robes. "Go on, Severus. You have done this before."

Snape reached up one quivering hand, and then the other.

Voldemort chuckled. "Don't pretend to be so modest. Go on, my blushing bride, my beautiful little whore. Yes, like that… Have I told you? Nobody else has hands like yours, with such skill… Now use your mouth. Yes."

The snake hissed in annoyance and slithered closer to the flames. Voldemort had thrown back his head, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the shadows on the wall, a faint smile playing about his lips. The smile faded.

He reached a hand and grasped Snape's hair, pulling him away roughly. "Now get up," Voldemort commanded. "Turn around." His hands gripped the hips, digging his fingers into the pale flesh, turned red in the firelight. "Relax, whore. Relax." Voldemort threw back his head. "Yessss…"

The chair creaked. One hand swept up the body, leaving a trail of scratches over the tender, moist skin. The other held the yew wand. "You disobeyed me, Severus Snape, deliberately," Voldemort hissed, "and for that you will pay." He shut his eyes, relishing the pressure and tension that only fear could invoke. "Crucio!"

"Frost!"

Harry's eyes snapped open.

"Jonathan Frost, are you awake?"

Harry turned slightly. "Y-yeah," he said, and cleared his throat. "I am. Severus." He closed his eyes, trembling. He felt sticky all over. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to drag yourself out of bed and eat breakfast." There were rustling sounds from the other side of the room. Harry shut his eyes, and surreptitiously reached a hand under the covers. He swallowed. The sheets were slick with… Oh Merlin, Harry thought and reached under his pillow for his wand.

"Were you dreaming again?"

Harry paused, one hand clenched around his wand. "Yeah, I was," he answered, pulling his wand out and pointing it at himself. "Tergeo," he muttered, as softly as he could, and felt the stickiness peel off his skin.

"You're going to be late for Charms."

Harry muttered a curse and clambered out of bed, his limbs still shaky.

"Since when did you get me out of bed?" Harry demanded irritably, stretching but quickly huddling into a ball as the cold dungeon air attacked him. By Merlin's beard, where was his shirt?

"Since you needed it, Frost," Severus snapped.

"Yeah, sorry," Harry muttered, pulling his shirt on. Too bad there was no time to take a shower; cleaning through magic didn't make you feel clean.

He stumbled into the bathroom and made himself as awake as he could—he felt vaguely as though he were suffering from a hangover, though he'd made sure not to drink anything last night—and returned to their room, shivering.

"Why's it so cold?" Harry hissed, pulling on his robes. Usually it was warm, what with two live bodies and the fire, but this morning, it was freezing. "C'mon," Harry said, picking up his bag. "Let's go."

Severus was still stuffing some of his books into his bag. Harry paused, and then moved to the dresser next to his bed, opening the top drawer. The white gold crown was still inside, along with the concealment charms he had cast. Nobody comes in here anyway, Harry thought, not even the house-elves.

"Frost!" Severus barked.

Harry strode to the door, and the two of them hurried to the Great Hall. As Harry seated himself, toast sprouting onto his plate, Severus muttered,

"What was your dream?"

Harry bit into the toast, chewed, and swallowed. "Nothing, really," he answered. He closed his eyes and tried to dispel the memory, to dispel the heat of the images that tore through his mind— By Merlin, Harry thought shakily, what kind of monster am I? I see Severus being—used like that, and I—

"It didn't seem like nothing," Severus said coolly.

Harry looked sideways. Severus was cutting up sausages with the same precise movements that he used to slice up boomslang or knotgrass, the hands working methodically, the dark eyes focused. "You're curious now," Harry said, sadly, cautiously.

Severus speared the pieces of his sausage. "I am," he said with an edge to his voice.

Harry shrugged, though a part of him felt ill at ease. He glanced down the table, wondering who had gone to Voldemort's little party. They all seemed quite normal, grousing with the same sleepiness, eating the same food. Malfoy and Lestrange were in their usual seats on the other side of the table.

Is that why Voldemort wanted a masquerade ball? Harry wondered. So nobody could tell who was who—except for the obvious ones, Malfoy and Lestrange? His gaze wandered to the Gryffindor table, and he felt the habitual hatred clench his heart. Did Pettigrew go? No, probably not, Harry decided. I'd have sensed that traitor.

The rest of the day passed without much incident. He exchanged some meaningless pleasantries with Lily in Charms, though part of him wished he could pull her aside and tell her that he had, last night, been conversing politely with the man or monster who would later murder her and her husband. And he had received a gift from him, a gift he now had in his dresser, would she like to see it?

"The ritual was actually developed by the ancient Saxons and was rather bloody," Lily muttered, as quite a few students slammed into the ceiling from miscast self-levitation charms. "Of course, we'll have to keep the bloodiness, but we'll use lambs, instead of humans."

"Very advisable," Harry answered, watching Lily float neatly into the air.

Severus was quiet during lunch, and though Harry wished for more than just silence, he let the other man be, even through Defense Against the Dark Arts which was inexorably boring.

"Your assignment," Matellan trilled, "is eighteen inches on the progress of Dark Arts regulations through the last fifty years, especially concerning the ramifications of Grindelwald's rise to power!"

"That's history of Defense, not Defense," Harry muttered later to Severus, after they were back in their dormitory room.

"And a completely skewed version of history," Severus added, "one made up by the Ministry, even though Hogwarts is an independent entity."

"How much power does the Ministry have over Hogwarts?" Harry asked, curious. Towards the end of the second war, the two had set aside their differences and combined in desperation. But before that, Dumbledore and the string of Ministers had often been at odds with each other.

"Magically and legally none," Severus said, "but apparently enough that Hogwarts is teaching a version of the history solely to appease the Muggleborns."

There was too much of a sneer in that last comment. "Well, I don't think it's to appease the Muggleborns as much as it is to appease those who're frightened of the Dark Arts," Harry said in a reasonable tone. "That'd make sense, wouldn't it?"

"What do you know, Frost," Severus muttered, pulling a book out of his book bag. "We should enter the experimental phase of the potion soon."

"Already?" Harry said, surprised.

"Yes, already," Severus snapped. "I made a protocol potion, didn't I?"

"Oh, you did," Harry said, a bit weakly. The potion would be complete soon, and the ritual with Lily would occur in less than a week. And only yesterday he had thought he had been saved, that he had all the time in the world…

"We'd have to experiment on a sentient creature," Severus said, "a magical sentient creature."

"Not humans, I hope."

Severus gave him an irritable glance. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it, and paused for a moment. "What did you dream of anyway?"

"Nothing, really, I told you," Harry said, looking away. Severus's fingers were spread over the cover of a book, as slender and delicate as a musician's. Nobody else has hands like yours, with such skill…

"You won't trust me," Severus said bitterly.

Harry felt a tide of anxiousness well up within him, and he turned to face Severus, but Severus was looking down, his black hair hiding his face.

"I do," Harry said, feeling the inadequacy of those two words the moment they left his mouth. "I do—it's just… some things, I'd rather you not know."

"You'd rather I not know," Severus said, and Harry watched, entranced, as the fingers slowly clenched themselves into fists. "I don't think I had—rather let you know what you saw when you did Legilimency."

Harry felt a spark of irritation, burning through the oil of his guilt, of the little time they had left. "Look, I didn't try to see what I did, all right? You know I didn't, I wouldn't." The words echoed in his mind—he remembered how he had, in Severus's mind, pushed the dream forward, so that he had seen the milky skin bare in the firelight, the eyes wide staring.

"Didn't you?" Severus muttered.

"I didn't," Harry snapped, suddenly angry. "Look at me, Severus. Look at me!" He reached both hands and gripped Severus's shoulders, but Severus was looking down stubbornly, at his hands that had clenched into fists.

"Look at me, Severus," Harry commanded, though his voice shook. "Look at me—please." He peered into that face, trying to see through the shadows from the firelight, trying to decipher what expression there might be. "Please, Severus?"

"No, Jonathan—"

"Severus, please," Harry whispered. He moved his hands from the shoulders and brushed aside the hair and pressed his lips against Severus's lips, feeling Severus's hands push vainly at his shoulders. "I never wished to hurt you," Harry murmured, his eyes closed and feeling the ache in his chest, hurting from the knowledge of what must come, what must be. "But sometimes, I can't help it, I—" He broke off and pulled away. "I love you," He whispered, and Severus looked up at last, his head lifting almost in wonder or hope, their eyes meeting—

Those eyes—

Harry felt his heart freeze. Those eyes weren't Severus's eyes. They were dark, widened with a sort of longing he would have ached to see on Severus's face, but these were another's eyes, eyes he had seen before, above a teeming crowd of colors and sounds, as harpsichord notes dripped like rain—

"Jonathan—" whispered Severus, or the being in Severus's body, and Harry felt hands touch his shoulders, hands that quivered with raw emotion, and then the moment was broken: Harry felt, rushing through him, the undeniable truth, the reason behind Severus's strange and sudden curiosity, the jarring and maddening realization—

"Lestrange!" Harry hissed, and suddenly, Severus grew rigid in his arms, as stiff as a corpse. The eyes began to change, subtly, as though Lestrange were retreating, retreating deeper into Severus's mind, fleeing into the mind of his Severus—

"Bastard!" Harry snarled and gripped the sallow face. "Legilimens!" The world shattered in a swirl of colors—black, red, shadows, flames, raining like ashes from a tumultuous sky, searing him on all sides, but before him, a mere haze in the distance, was Lestrange—

Harry plunged ahead. The world changed; he was running down a Hogwarts corridor, the grey stones lining ceiling and walls. Lestrange turned a corner, glancing back briefly, and Harry doubled his speed, charging around the same corner—

—into the memory of a potions classroom.

"Don't forget the armadillo bile," Professor Camentum called, writing something on the board. Harry scanned the classroom; the students seemed young, perhaps third-years, their cauldrons still up to their waists. In one corner Harry saw Potter and Black sniggering while glancing at the other side of the room, and Harry saw a much younger Snape, his robes too big for him as he crouched over his ingredients and ground the bicorn with hatred.

"Lestrange!" Harry shouted, leaping at the young Lestrange, who was sprinkling something delicately into a frothing green concoction. From behind the cauldron, the older Lestrange leapt up, darting past the line of potions in a flash.

"Stupefy!" Harry roared. A jet of burning red shot from his fingers, but Lestrange threw himself out of the way, stumbling around a serene Professor Camentum before staggering out the door, Harry hot on his heels—

—they were on the Quidditch pitch, and the children were even smaller. Their hands were held above the school brooms, and they were looking nervously at Madam Hooch.

"Shout, 'up!'" Hooch commanded, as her broom leapt into her hands.

Harry ran down the line of students, looking around, from one end of the pitch to the other. Where was Lestrange, that bastard? He pushed through two Gryffindor first years and stood still for a moment, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"UP!" the children cried in a chorus. Harry leapt aside as the brooms shot up; he could feel the whoosh of air next to him as some of the brooms brushed his skin, went through him—

He looked up and their gazes met again, Lestrange's almost dark as Severus's, Harry's more blazingly green than the Dark Lord's. Then Lestrange turned on his broom and shot towards the castle; Harry grabbed one of the brooms, felt his hand go through the wood, and forced a burst of magic through his fingers as he clenched at the broom—

A second one appeared in his hands.

"No, not like that, Snape!" shouted Hooch, as the young Snape clutched his broom at an awkward angle. "You must always hold it like this, or you'll fall off at once—"

Harry rose through the air amidst the sound of Potter and Black laughing, guffawing, rising like steam and echoing in his ears. He was flying through mist, he realized, but there, in the distance, was Lestrange. He was gaining, getting steadily closer, and he felt a fierce satisfaction— Nobody could beat him on the broom. In the air, he was the king, the hawk—

Lestrange suddenly dove, spiraling towards the earth, and Harry followed relentlessly. The mist was getting thicker, warmer, turning into a stifling fog—

—Harry could feel the wet tiles under his hands and knees. He could hear the constant drum of water splashing, and he realized, suddenly, that he knew this place: it was the dormitory showers of the Slytherin dungeons, and as he clambered to his feet, he saw a figure through the mist and water—

It was Severus. Harry felt the breath leave his lungs as though he had been struck. Severus was naked under the water, naked and utterly beautiful. Harry gulped; his knees were weak. And—Harry felt blood rushing into his face—Severus was—he was—

Severus moaned, and Harry felt an echoing moan uncoiling in his throat.

"Jonathan…" Severus sighed, his eyes rolling, the eyelids dimming half-shut as one hand trailed up the pale, moist skin…

A sudden movement—

Harry leapt forth like an animal, feeling his frustration and anger and hate and desire blaze into a ruthless savageness.

"LESTRANGE!" he roared, his voice echoing as he plunged through the steam. "Don't you dare go any deeper, you bastard! Lestrange!"

Harry tore past the line of unused showers, past the wet curtains, past the mirrors and sinks and through the door—

—they were in the Slytherin dormitory again. He knew too well the heavy green curtains, the smoldering fireplace, the shadows that swathed the walls, but on the bed—

Severus was lying naked on Malfoy's bed, naked as he had been in the shower, and Malfoy was panting over him with a mean smile on his face, gasping, and Severus was looking up with wide eyes mouth open wide, letting the hot slickness move in and out of his throat in and—

Lestrange! Harry raged, feeling the magic erupt from the darkness of his soul, sweeping through his body and snarling like an enraged beast, leaping with sharpened claws and landing on the black-haired prefect—

Harry dashed past the bed, and smiled fiercely when he saw Lestrange on the floor, bound by gnarled black ropes.

"Listen, Frost—" Lestrange gasped.

"SHUT—UP!" Harry shouted, and Lestrange's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. He reached down, grabbing Lestrange by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The eyes rolled in pain. "You wanted to bring me here so that you could escape, didn't you?" Harry whispered. "You wanted to distract me, didn't you, using my Severus as a distraction—using him, using this memory!"

The eyes focused, dim and without feeling, before the face twisted almost in mockery. Harry felt the hatred shoot through his body as he drew back his hand, clenched his fist—and smashed down on the aquiline nose.

"There," Harry snarled as Lestrange stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, "that's just the beginning—you bastard—" He lashed out his foot, and Lestrange made a muffled cry as something cracked—a rib, perhaps, Harry thought dimly, as he repeated the action, aiming at the chest, the back, the head, the groin.

"Are you liking it, Malfoy?" the young Lestrange asked courteously.

Harry whirled around. Malfoy chuckled, and his eyes were unfocused, his face a mask of vacant pleasure as his hips moved back and forth, back and forth. It's not his doing, Harry realized suddenly. He's only a puppet, a robot.

The young Lestrange smiled a knowing smile on his face, still a child's face. "And you, Severus?" he asked in a polite tone. "Are you enjoying it?"

Harry turned, almost against his will, to look at Severus. He nearly couldn't recognize the face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—darker than Lestrange's, eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

Lestrange moaned at Harry's feet. Harry turned and kicked again, viciously. He bent and pulled the other man to his feet. "Bastard," Harry whispered and spat into the battered, bloodied face. Lestrange's eyes opened, but there was no remorse, only spite and a mocking malevolence—

Harry pulled his hand back. He felt magic coalescing into something sharp. With a roar he plunged forward and felt warmth pour over his hand as he jerked upwards and Lestrange's mouth opened in a silent scream.

He let go. Lestrange swayed for a moment before falling forward, and Harry caught him, feeling the blood seep through his robes and warm the skin of his thigh.

Lestrange opened his mouth. Blood trickled out from a corner, but the broken lips were twisted in a smile. The eyes were dimming, but there was a spark of something, still burning relentlessly. "He can see it, you know," he whispered hoarsely, "Severus can see you, Jonathan." Then, like a cloud, his edges began to fade, melting away like a dream, and he was gone.

XVIII.

Shit, thought Harry.

Then the world melted in a whirl of shapes. He felt memories whipping by like a cold wind and freezing the warmth of blood on his hands. He heard voices, saw flashes of colors, felt the rush of a thousand jumbled thoughts—and then he landed on something, hard.

Darkness.

Harry's heart was pounding in his chest, filling his ears with the overwhelming drumbeat of its pulse. For a moment he wished he could close his eyes again and shut everything out with nothingness, but he sat up from where he lay on the ground.

Severus was crumpled across his bed like a discarded glove, dark hair disheveled and covering his shadowed face. His face was slack, the thin lips parted slightly, his brow lacking the furrow that was usually there. He looked dead.

"Severus," Harry whispered. He reached across the bed and placed a hand on the sallow cheek, holding a finger under the hooked nose. He's alive, Harry thought, relief rippling through his body. Alive.

He sat up and stared down at Severus's form with a strange detachment. I've just killed a man, Harry thought, remembrances of the bloody smile and the warmth that spilled over his hand flashing through his mind. I've just killed someone. He waited for the surge of horror to crash through his mind and ravage his mind, to cripple him with the weight of its agony. I wonder where his body is, Harry thought.

Footsteps. Harry sat up and moved swiftly to the edge of the door. He kept to the shadows. Lucius Malfoy stepped into the seventh years' dormitory, his features only faintly wrinkled with disdain, and crossed the space to the door of his dormitory. Harry crept out from the doorframe, watching the other Slytherin turn the doorknob and push open the door.

Malfoy stood still. Then he inched forward, one step after another.

"Terrance…?" he whispered, crouching in front of the dark shape that sprawled before the hearth, surrounded by a sticky darkness that ran down the cracks of the stone floor. Harry tilted his head, trying to see more clearly the figure that lay crumpled like a discarded glove.

"Merlin!" Malfoy hissed and straightened and stumbled backwards and turned around—and froze, his face twisted in horror and surprise.

Harry flung out his hand. "Obliviate!" he said coolly. Malfoy's expression suddenly went lax, the tension draining away like blood from a wound. He looked like an enormous puppet, face flat and limbs controlled by no thought of its own.

"Confundus," Harry added. He flipped his hand, and Malfoy drifted over to his bed, lying on it with eyes still focused on Harry's. "You came in and felt tired, and decided to take a nap," Harry said. "Stupefy." For a moment, consciousness rushed back into the face, but it was only for the most fleeting of instances before darkness overcame it.

Harry moved closer to the fireplace. Lestrange was curled like a fetus, his face crushed as though it had been run over by a vehicle, resembling a bloody scrap from a butcher's shop. The black student robe was soaked in several places, and blood had streamed out from the wound and stretched across the stone like enigmatic patterns, or the yolk of a broken egg. One hand was hidden in the cloth, but the other, bruised and broken and splattered so that it looked like a piece of an abstract sculpture, seemed to be reaching out blindly as it lay in the stream of blood.

I did this, Harry thought without emotion. He turned around. Severus was standing in the doorway.

Time seemed to slow, as though suspended in the depths of a motionless sea. Harry became intimately aware of his breathing, his heartbeat, thudding in the ponderous silence. Severus's eyes went slowly from the crumpled form in front of the fireplace to Malfoy, lying unconscious on his bed like a giant doll, and then to Harry's face.

"You killed him," Severus said.

Yes, Harry thought, but the words would not come. He wished he could read more in that inscrutable face than he saw, wished that Severus would give some indication in his face, in his voice. Yes, I killed him, Harry thought, I killed him before your very eyes, now see what sort of monster I am.

"He was in your mind," Harry said, his voice hoarse. I'm sorry, he wanted to add, but he knew the words would have fallen, hollow and inadequate, ridiculous in their sentiment. I killed him. He waited.

Severus's gaze returned to Lestrange's corpse. "What do we do?" he said in a low voice.

Harry frowned, uncertain and hesitant, wishing he could read some meaning from the furrowed brow, the thinly pressed lips. "What do you mean?"

"The body," Severus said, a hint of impatience in his voice. "What do we do with it? Hide it?"

Harry shook his head, and had to force words through the knot in his throat. "No," he said. "It might be found that way."

"Angel ashes."

Harry looked up. "Angel ashes?" he repeated blankly, perplexed, though he felt drained of all ability to be surprised.

Severus's gaze was fixed somewhere between Lestrange's body and Harry's face. "It's a derivative of certain fungi, mixed with the skin of a sidhe," he explained quietly. "It can turn any non-living body into dust." He paused, but only slightly. "I have some."

Harry nodded. "Will you… go get it?"

Severus met Harry's gaze. "Clean up the blood while I do that, will you?"

Again, Harry nodded. Severus left.

Harry looked down at the body, his eyes drawn involuntarily to the face. The features were unrecognizable. The eyes were shut, but Harry had a sudden memory of the mocking glint, clouded by blood. He pointed at the puddle of blood. "Scourgify," he muttered, and watched the red evaporate into nothingness.

Severus returned, holding a jar filled with a whitish powder. Harry tried to catch his eye, but Severus was staring at the corpse on the ground. His throat work before he spoke. "We must unclothe him first. The angel ashes work only on flesh and blood."

"Oh," said Harry. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he reached down and pulled aside the black cloth of the student's robe. Lestrange's white shirt was soaked through with blood, and Harry, glancing at where he knew his shard of magic had entered the body, wondered where the blood ended and the wound began.

"All his clothes?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Severus said.

Harry squatted down next to the corpse, taking care not to step on the outstretched hand. He unbuttoned the top part of the shirt and ripped as best he could. "Damn," he muttered; the material was too strong. It doesn't matter, he thought. He's dead anyway. Muttering a cutting spell under his breath, he sliced through the cloth, watching the skin rip underneath his hands.

His fingers fumbled slightly when he reached the underpants. He gripped the cloth with his fingers, and muttered a cutting charm. The cloth tore away like wet paper as he peeled down past the knees, the shins, and finally over the bare feet.

Lestrange lay naked with faint lines over his skin where Harry's cutting spell had touched. He's pale, Harry thought, though not as pale as Severus. The hint of muscle of the arm and shoulders, mottled by bruises that had no time to form. It seemed to Harry the limbs of a Greek sculpture—a broken statue at his feet, a hand outstretched in a silent plea, this thing he had rendered with his power into something as lifeless as a gutted fish…

He stood, almost heady from the rush that roared through his body, passing through his soul like a shadow over the sea. "I suppose"—Harry cleared his throat—"that this is good enough?"

Severus nodded. He opened the jar and tossed some of the white powder onto Lestrange's body. Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Its characteristic smell is of rotting fish," Severus said, tossing some more white power over the rest of the body. There was a faint bubbling sound, and Harry watched the skin crumple, falling into itself and crumbling into ashes, looking like salt on the seashore. The black hair grayed, whitened, became thin strands of transparency; the bones expired. Dust you are, and unto dust you shall return, Harry thought.

Severus screwed the lid back on. "There," he said, and his voice was not quite steady.

"What do we do with the dust?" Harry said. "Can we burn it?"

Severus nodded wordlessly.

Harry reached down again, scooping the ruined clothing into a bundle of ashes. He took a step forward and tossed the whole thing into the fire. The flames leap, startled, before the first tendrils of fire licked the cloth, crept along the seams, and crinkled everything beyond recognition.

"Done," Harry said, getting up. He turned to look at Severus, but Severus was standing stiff and rigid, his eyes on Malfoy. "He'll—wake up when we leave," Harry said, wondering if he should try to sound reassuring.

Severus nodded sharply. "We should go."

They left the room. Harry paused at the doorway, looking back at the room: Malfoy lying there like a wooden doll, the empty space before hearth, the fire that had consumed Lestrange's ashes and now flickered and flamed, like a smiling glint before death.

"Frost," Severus said sharply.

Harry turned and pulled the door shut. He walked into his own dormitory, moved to his bed, sat, heard Severus close the door behind him. Watched Severus fumble through his things and stash away the jar of angel ashes, then stand and walk to his own bed. There was silence.

Harry took a deep breath. He glanced at the fire, and then looked away. The flames reminded him too much of Lestrange. He looked up slightly, from the corner of his eyes. Severus was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly in front of him, eyes staring intently at the flames. His face seemed frozen, jaw clenched.

"Severus?" Harry murmured. Severus did not seem to hear him. Harry swallowed, not knowing what he wanted to say, only that he wanted—needed to hear Severus's voice. "I'm sorry, Severus, I—"

"SHUT UP!" Severus snapped. He sprang to his feet, and Harry fell silent, watching Severus's hands clench and unclench. "Don't—don't say anything." He turned and paced in front of the fire, back and forth, his shadow swinging across the wall.

Abruptly he stopped, and glared at Harry. "Well? What did you want to say?"

Harry blinked at the floor, trying to summon up anything that he might say. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Severus snarled. "Then go! Leave me alone you—" He stopped himself at the last moment, a strange light in his eyes. He chuckled humorlessly, one hand gripping the mantle place. "I'll have to be careful when I insult you now," he said emotionlessly, "or you might kill me in my sleep."

Harry got up, and left.

The air of the Astronomy Tower was slowly getting colder, taking on the moist chill of night as the sky faded from red to purple, from purple to black. Harry turned his head, sweeping his eye over the swift transition of color to darkness across the twilight sky.

He remembered the magic coalescing in his right hand, sharpening into a blade that could cut through flesh, but still rough enough to inflict pain. He remembered stabbing forth with all the delight of a monstrous fiend, riding the burst of cruel joy. After that, of course, shock and horror had overtaken him, carried him out of Severus's mind—but it had not been the horror of murder. It had been the horror of his joy.

And that is why I am a monster, he thought, lifting his hand before his face.

This was not the first time he had killed another human. The first person had been a young Death Eater with curly blond hair and a rather pimply face. Harry had been holding a conversation with Madam Rosmerta about the latest wards when a mob of Death Eaters had burst in, raining curses left and right. Harry had reacted instantly with an instinct born from hours of practice. He had ducked, shot spells, cast shields, stretched his senses, tumbled about the bodies and broken tables with the automation of a robot and the instincts of a wild animal. Then he had rolled right into a Death Eater, whose mask had slipped half from his frightened face and whose wand was pointing directly at Harry's neck. They had locked gazes for an instant, both of them too surprised to do anything, before the Death Eater began to stutter the Killing Curse. Harry had wrenched the wand from his neck and shouted a Reducto that blew the Death Eater's head off. Then he had leapt back to his feet and went on shouting spells and casting shields until none of the Death Eaters remained standing, and Hermione, her hair frayed and face bruised, remarked wide-eyed at Harry's bloody shirt.

Later, while hovering in a peculiar daze, everyone had consoled him. Hermione had gripped his hand; Ron had said something awkward; Mad-Eye had made gruff comments about how things like this were inevitable. None of it penetrated the haze, and Harry had eventually cried himself to sleep. In the following weeks, he had tried to find out everything about the Death Eater he had killed (his name was Elbert Mahuron, home-schooled by his mother, joined Voldemort only a few months earlier), until he killed his second, and then his third, and then the war drew over him like a thick cloud of numbness. But never had he taken delight in any of the deaths. The closest had been Peter Pettigrew, whom he had killed while riding a tide of anger, but after that, he had shuddered with disgust and sunken into memories of his parents.

It's Voldemort's soul in me, Harry thought, and brought his hands to touch his face. But even thinking that, it felt like an excuse. It was no longer Voldemort's soul, or Harry Potter's soul; it was his soul. The soul of Jonathan Frost. The soul of Tom Riddle. The soul of Harry Potter.

He heard footsteps approaching. He tensed, trying to recognize them, but before he could, they stopped.

"Frost," said Severus.

Harry froze, and then glanced backwards. Severus was standing awkwardly at the top of the staircase, his eyes flickering from the sky to the earth to Harry's face.

"I was looking—for you," Severus muttered, pulling his hands to his side and then crossing them over his chest.

Harry averted his gaze. "Oh."

Severus moved closer with sparse, hesitant steps. "Malfoy woke up some time ago. I imagine he's making inquiries as to Lestrange's whereabouts."

Harry nodded. He heard Severus sigh irritably and begin to pace around the Tower. "It won't be long before they realize that Lestrange has truly disappeared."

"No, it won't be, and Dumbledore will know I had a hand in it," Harry said, his voice a monotone.

Severus was silent for a moment. "How?" he demanded.

"Lestrange… blackmailed me into going to Voldemort's masquerade ball with the memory of my duel with Potter and Black," Harry said, hesitantly. "If I did not go, or if he, Lestrange, somehow died, or became—incapacitated, Dumbledore would receive that memory. And, since Lestrange is by now quite dead, I assume that Dumbledore will have seen it."

A moment's silence, and then another. Harry wished he could see Severus's face without meeting the intensity of that dark gaze. "So…" said Severus, "was it to—" He stopped. "You did not tell me that he was blackmailing you," he said softly.

"No," Harry said shortly. Of course I did not tell you, what good might it have done? But the answer came to him almost immediately: Severus might not have followed you to the ball. He might not have been possessed by Lestrange. Lestrange might not have died.

Too late now, Harry thought bitterly, pushing back the stinging tide of regret.

"There are a lot of things," Severus said, in a detached and matter-of-fact tone, "you haven't told me."

I can't, so stop asking! Harry thought furiously, but his mouth remained shut, clamped by trepidation and fear, the fear that Severus would leave, that these mandatory falsehoods would finally sever them. Christolph's words whispered through his mind—How can you think a love will last on lies, shadows, half-truths? You will destroy his life with that lie. You know that you are offering him to the Dark Lord. You know that the Dark Lord will lust after him and take him as—

"Teach me Occlumency."

Harry looked up, startled. "What?"

"You heard me," Severus snapped irritably, looking at the ground. "Teach me Occlumency. Dumbledore's infamous for his mind magic. If he suspects you, he'll search my mind."

For a moment, Harry wanted to laugh. It was so terribly ironic, so nauseatingly poetic, that he should teach Occlumency to Severus, just as Snape had crammed the secrets of Occlumency into his mind. The chicken or the egg? Harry wondered.

"All right," Harry said. "But Occlumency isn't something you can learn in one day. It's like learning the Patronus; it may take months before it 'clicks.'"

Severus gave him a withering look. "We haven't learned the Patronus yet."

"Eh, then you'll know what to expect," Harry said. "And frankly, I'm not too sure how to teach you. I rather learned Occlumency by myself."

Severus looked at him, brow creased in thought. "Did you use a book?"

"No," Harry said reluctantly. "I had Legilimens to help me." One that lived part-time in my head, another that dwelt in the dungeons, and one that controlled us all from his tower, Harry thought, and made an effort to twist the bitterness into a self-deprecating lightness. But it had worked in the end; not even Voldemort, after his rituals of power, had been able to easily shoulder through the shields he had made.

"You're a Legilimens," Severus said. "You can help me learn." He looked up, and their eyes met briefly before Harry immediately glanced away. Suddenly he was too aware of his heart, pounding as though they had just touched for the first time. "And if what you say is true, then Dumbledore will try to read my thoughts as soon as possible."

"Yes, you're right," Harry answered, clambering quickly to his feet. He had forgotten during his reverie about Dumbledore and the vulnerability Severus presented, but the thoughts flooded back with a new anxiety. They had so little time left. "We'd best head back, before it gets past curfew."

Severus grunted in agreement, and they began descending the steep spiral staircase, Harry leading the way. They moved wordlessly. Dinner's almost over, Harry thought, aware of the gnawing at his stomach. But there's no time. He had only a few hours to teach Severus how to defeat even Dumbledore's probing thrust, and judging by how difficult Harry had found the whole thing—

They entered the Slytherin Common Room quietly, and Harry was surprised to see Malfoy pacing in front of the fire.

"Has either of you seen Lestrange?" he demanded.

Harry frowned, timing his responses to be believable. "No," he said shaking his head. Severus said nothing, but Severus usually chose to remain quiet, Harry thought.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at them suspiciously. No Occlumency, though, Harry thought, and sneered. "Lost your friend, Malfoy?"

"Shut up, filthy mudblood," he snapped. "Why aren't you at dinner?" He glanced briefly at Severus and let a condescending smile spread over his face. "Too busy with your catamite, were you?"

"Is that why you're so concerned over Lestrange's disappearance?" said Harry, crossing his arms. "Has the catamite become so reliant on his owner?"

Malfoy's face colored unpleasantly, and Harry would have lingered to enjoy it, but Severus had left, heading for their dormitory, his shoulders hunched tensely. Damn it, Harry thought, hurrying after Severus without paying attention to Malfoy's retort. The jabs he had made to Lestrange—to a man he had just killed and Severus had helped dispose—must have been discomfiting. But only for Severus, not for me, Harry realized with as much emotion as a cold and calculating blade. I would have as Harry, even if it had been about a Death Eater, even if what I felt had been more anger and hate than this nothingness. Hastening down the corridor, he tried to conjure even a tiny shred of regret or remorse. A shadow of it did arise, ghosting over his mind like a phantom pain, and with it materialized the memory of cruel pleasure.

Harry shut the door behind them.

Severus stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, face expressionless. "So what do we do?"

Harry stood before Severus. Their eyes met. "I'm going to push myself into your mind and try to find your memories related to—what we did with Lestrange," Harry said slowly. "I want you to resist."

Harry watched Severus's brows draw down in irritation. "Are those the only instructions you're planning to give me?"

"Yes," Harry replied bluntly. "Just rely on your gut instinct."

Severus gave him one last, infuriated glare before composing his face. "Well?" he demanded coolly. "Go on."

Harry paused. He wanted to give some sort of assurance, to say something about how he had no intention of prying through Severus's more embarrassing memories, to tell Severus how reluctant he was to do this. But Severus's gaze was blank and pitiless, and in its coolness it was—thought Harry with a sinking heart—almost hostile.

Shaking aside the thought, Harry breathed in deep, and plunged.

He landed, after that brief instance of kaleidoscopic vertigo, in a room he knew at once to be their dormitory. Flames flickered in the fireplace. The shadows moved in brief rhythms over the gray walls and deep green sheets. Severus was lying in a fetal position on his bed, and Harry realized this was Severus's memory from a few hours ago, moments after Harry himself had awakened.

I should be able to feel him pushing me out, Harry thought as he watched Severus's eyes open. Snape was such a good Occlumens; I should think Severus has some natural talent…

Severus sat up and looked around bewilderedly. Then Harry heard a muffled sound of Malfoy's voice from the adjacent room. He watched Severus frown, look around the room some more, and then get unsteadily to his feet.

Harry followed the Severus within the memory, feeling rather impatient. He should be feeling at least some degree of resistance, wasn't Severus even trying…?

The door opened, and Harry found his gaze drawn involuntarily to Lestrange's body. He blinked at the sight and turned away, quickly pushing away the dismay that rose from the emptiness he felt. I really bashed his face in, Harry thought, glancing back at the sight, tracing the folds of blood-stained cloth to the outstretched hand—

He looked away quickly.

"You killed him," said Severus to the Jonathan Frost of the memory.

I did, Harry thought, gaze fixed on the relative safety of the shadowed walls, but once again, the words, caught in the frenzied beating of his heart, would not come. He glanced at his own face and looked at it with surprise. I looked so grim, Harry thought, so defiantly bleak.

"He was in your mind," the memory said in a hoarse, quiet voice.

More silence. Why isn't Severus pushing me out? Harry wondered. He can't have just given up, can he?

"What do we do?" the Severus of the memory asked softly.

With an internal sigh, Harry pushed off the ground and felt himself float, like a bubble wandering up from the ocean's depths. The edges of the memory blurred and smeared into darkness, before he opened his eyes and found himself looking at a profile of Severus's face.

"Severus?" Harry said quietly, hesitantly. Severus's lips were pressed tight, his eyes shut, his brows drawn, the rigid tension in his shoulders evident.

Harry reached out a hand, slowly, and touched the other man's shoulder. It was like touching a rock, hard and remote. He kept his fingers there, as quietly assuring as he could, his heart clenched at the pain in that fierce face, at the inadequacy of his silence and his gesture. And then Severus let out a breath that sounded like a sob, and he leaned forward slightly.

"Severus," Harry whispered, and reached forth to take Severus in his arms, but Severus drew away roughly.

"I have something to show you," he said, his voice regaining its control. His eyes were open and filled with a discomfiting intensity, a suspiciously bright glitter. "A memory."

"A memory?"

"Yes, one that might help explain a few things," Severus said. His tone was curt, brittle. "Go on," he said coldly. "We've not got all day."

"All right," Harry said, and he reached both hands to Severus's shoulders before taking a breath and plunging into those eyes.

Harry found himself in a plain, uncomfortable-looking room. The ceilings and walls were both painted white, but age had given them a yellowish hue. Old chairs with ripped cushions lined the walls, and in one corner was a magazine rack. Psychology Today, Harry read. Atlantic Monthly. This seems to be a Muggle place, Harry thought.

He turned around and saw Severus standing at a receptionist's desk, dressed in faded Muggle clothes that fitted awkwardly on his gangly frame. "Please," he said in a thirteen-year-old's voice, already fringed by that familiar coolness, "I would like to see someone."

There was the sound of a chair rolling across the concrete floor. "What?" demanded the receptionist, a squat middle-aged woman who seemed coiled in fat.

"Please," Severus repeated, his fingers clenching the countertop, "I would like to see someone."

"You're a lad," the receptionist said, wrinkling her nose and glancing at him critically. "Just trying to see the insides of a loony-bin, eh?"

"I would like to see someone inside," Severus repeated, his voice still tightly controlled. "My mother."

The receptionist paused. "Your mother? What's her name?"

"Eileen Prince," said Severus.

"Eileen…" the receptionist muttered, and a vague, troubled look crossed her face. Then she heaved herself out of her chair and waddled to the door. "Come on in, lad."

There was sound of the door being unlocked, and then it opened to a long hallway with the same off-white walls and ceiling. Harry followed Severus into the corridor. Loony-bin, Harry thought. Is this an insane asylum? And Severus's mother—here? Harry knew little of Snape's past, only that, by the time he had cared to wonder and ask, both Tobias Snape and Eileen Prince were dead.

The receptionist stopped in front of a nondescript door and knocked. "Eileen?" she called, her voice shrilling as it rose. "Someone's here to see you."

Severus shifted slightly.

"Who is it?" a voice replied, sounding cold and unfriendly even through the door.

"Severus," Severus called.

There was another pause. "Come in," Eileen Prince said.

The receptionist took out a set of keys and unlocked the door. "In you go, lad," she said, and Severus, closely followed by Harry, walked into the room.

So this is a loony-bin, Harry thought, looking about. The floor and walls were padded. An occasionally flickering fluorescent light bulb glowed from a cage of plastic and metal bars. There was a thin cot, a dresser, a sink, and a toilet. This is a prison, a cell, Harry thought, feeling a surge of revulsion.

Eileen Prince was seated in a stiff-backed chair, her face turned to the wall. "Please leave us, Miss Ratched."

"Can't, I'm afraid," mumbled the receptionist, Miss Ratched, almost as though she were an erring student, speaking to the schoolmaster. "It's against institutional policies."

Eileen turned her face, and her eyes—Severus's eyes, thought Harry—bored into Miss Ratched. "Have I not been very well behaved?" she said in a clear, precise voice. "Rest assured that I would never hurt my own son. Would I, Severus?"

She reached out a hand, and Severus stepped forward obediently, letting his mother caress his cheek.

"Please leave us, Miss Ratched," Eileen Prince repeated.

"Oh, all right," Miss Ratched said, fingering the ring of keys uneasily. "Mind you, I'll be just outside, so no funny business, hear?"

"Of course, Miss Ratched," said Eileen Prince, and Miss Ratched retreated, shutting the door behind her.

Eileen Prince immediately removed her hand from Severus's face, and Severus took a step back.

"I thought you had forgotten your mother," she said coolly, hands folded in her lap.

"I just got home three days ago, and I had to—" He stopped and quickly reached into his sleeves. "I brought what you wanted, Mother," he said. He slipped out his wand, and then took out two vials, one from each pocket. "I've also the fat of a pregnant sow," he said, taking off his shoes and upending them. Two squashed packages fell out.

Eileen Prince had picked up her son's wand, running one finger along its length. Watching her, Harry felt a tendril of foreboding.

"Mother?" Severus said hesitatingly.

"Petrificus Totalus," Eileen Prince said, waving the wand in Severus's direction. Severus's arms snapped to his body, his legs slammed straight, and he began to fall backwards. But his trajectory swerved, and he landed on the bed instead.

"Look at me," Eileen ordered, clambering onto the bed and straddling her son's body. "Look at me!" She slapped his face hard. "Look. At. Me."

Harry was clenching his fists anxiously, feeling a tremendous loathing swamp him. He wanted nothing more than to fling this odious woman down and torture her until she was a mindless wreck, until she was truly insane. But as the hatred pulsed through his body, the white walls of the room seemed to melt away, fading until they were nothing more than faint shadows in the background…

…He saw Severus sitting up straight in his bed, sweat coating his brow and slender hands clutching the dingy blanket. Moonlight flooded the cramped room, but Severus was listening to something— Harry heard it too, and suddenly thought he might know why Eileen Prince had pried this memory from her son's mind. It was the sound of indistinct moans and thuds from the floor below. Harry's attention was riveted to Severus's face, watching the despair surface on the too-young face, watching him shut his eyes, alone…

…Severus was descending a narrow staircase, and the afternoon light fell like leaves over the walls. He reached the bottom step, turned a corner, and stopped short— Before him, in a Muggle kitchen, a man and a woman were kissing. The man, as he drew away and wiped the lipstick from his nose, looked familiar; Harry realized it was Tobias Snape. He was very good-looking, thought Harry. Just like Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The woman gasped and drew away quickly. "Tobias, who is that boy?"

"He's nothing," Tobias Snape answered shortly, giving Severus an angry frown. "My first wife's son, finally got her into an institution several months ago, crazy woman, she was… Go on, don't dawdle there!" the elder Snape barked.

Severus backed out of the kitchen quickly and mechanically walked back up the stairs, keeping his gaze fixed before him…

The steep flight of stairs darkened as the padded walls and white, cracked ceiling sharpened into focus. Harry swallowed thickly. At least he had had the sanctity of his parents' memories while locked in the cupboard.

Eileen Prince clambered off the bed, ran her hands down her front to smooth her plain hospital gown, and sat stiffly in her chair, folding her hands once again in her lap.

"So he's found himself a whore," she murmured.

Severus's eyes darted back and forth as he lay motionlessly on the bed. Let him go, Harry thought, the anger rising. Let your son go now, you stupid woman.

But Eileen Prince rose to her feet and briskly began gathering the ingredients Severus had brought, moving about as though her son did not exist. She tapped the ground with Severus's wand and a bluish flame uncoiled from thin air. She emptied one of the vials, filled it with water, and hovered it over the flame.

There was a knocking at the door.

"Almost done, Miss Ratched," Eileen Prince called, flicking her wand. A blue light ran along the crack of the door, which Harry recognized as a locking charm.

With surprisingly swift movements, Eileen Prince assumed a kneeling position on the floor. She began to pull apart the small white roots she had emptied on the floor before sprinkling them into the vial of heated water. Her fingers are chubby, Harry thought critically. Severus must've gotten his from his father.

She reached for one of the small packets Severus had brought in his shoes, and unwrapped it. Fat from a pregnant sow, Harry thought, looking at the congealed lump with disgust. Eileen breathed on the lump, and then traced a circle around the fire and the levitating vial. She set the fat aside, then reached up and undid her hair.

Harry frowned, wondering if this was more of a ritual than a potion. He glanced back at the bed. Severus's face, caught in a frozen mask of surprise, betrayed nothing, but the eyes were focused with unswerving intensity on his mother's apparatus.

"Done," Eileen Prince said, flicking her wand and vanishing the fire. She drew the vial out of midair and corked it, raising it to the sickly fluorescent light. With her tangled black hair flowing down her back, spilling over her formless gown, she resembled a priestess of a world long disappeared.

Then, with awkward movements, she clambered back to her feet, and she was Eileen Prince again. She picked up the other block of fat and rubbed it vigorously on Severus's wand, like a violinist rubbing resin on the bow. What's she doing? Harry thought, glancing briefly at Severus, wondering what was going through his mind, wondering if, perhaps, this was not an uncommon occurrence, that Eileen Prince regularly petrified her son, invaded his mind, and brewed potions under weak, Muggle lighting. She held Severus's wand up to the fluorescent lamp, and Harry saw that the tip had become sharp.

Eileen Prince stood straight and smoothed her gown over her body. Her hands lingered at her belly, almost lovingly so, and Harry saw that her lower belly bulged against the white cloth.

"Engorgio," she said, tapping the other vial with the sharpened wand. It grew until the neck was large enough to pass through a fist.

No, Harry thought in disbelief, and moved instinctively to block the thirteen-year-old Severus's sight. But this was his memory; he had seen this already. Eileen Prince turned her chair so that the back faced her son, climbed onto it, squatted down slowly, and lifted her hospital gown.

"Lacrimo," she murmured, her voice catching in her throat. "Lacrimo—puerperus." Her breath hitched, and she clutched at the armrests of the chair. Harry heard her let out a trembling moan as her entire body shuddered, a sound he had never heard before. She moaned again, and then, at first a string, then a vague bloody shape emerged underneath the chair, dangling like the intestines of a gutted animal.

The moans stopped for a moment, as Eileen Prince panted from the exertion. Harry glanced backwards; Severus's gaze was as rigidly transfixed as that of a corpse, but there was only a look of vague surprise on the frozen mask of his face.

Eileen Prince suddenly let out another moan, and the bloody shape lurched, dangled, tracing streaks of blood over the enlarged vial. Then it fell to the floor, landing with a faint plop. Harry watched in morbid fascination a single bloody strand dangled above the floor, quivering like a strand of spider silk.

Eileen Prince let out an exhausted sigh and slumped against the chair, her head lolling slightly. Then, her breath still coming short, she whispered, "Accio fetus." A tiny, misshapen thing rose from the mess. She slipped it into the engorged vial, and it landed, thought Harry, like the yolk of an egg. "Scourgify," she muttered. Like flesh curling and turning to ash in flame, the bloody mess shriveled and disappeared. "Finite Incantatem." The vial shrunk to its original size. With slow, aching movements, she stood, pushing down her gown and smoothing it as best as she could. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"Take this, and have your father drink it," she said, pointing at the potion she had made. Her voice was steely. "And then show him this. Show it to him after he gets tired of his latest whore." She picked up the vial with the formless red mass inside, its sides streaked with blood. "Tell him that this was his last hope of Tobias Snape, Jr."

She picked up Severus's wand, the end returned to its normal state. "Finite Incantatem," she said, and Severus scrambled into a sitting position, his face paler than normal and his mouth opening wordlessly…

…The room melted away. The white of the walls and ceiling were replaced by the familiar light and shadows of flame.

Harry slowly took his hands away from Severus's shoulders.

"That, I hope, may explain my inabilities concerning Occlumency," Severus said coldly, and broke eye contact, glancing down at the ground.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, Harry flung his arms around Severus and squeezed so hard he could feel the bones of Severus's back under his hands.

"You're—" Severus gasped, but said nothing more as Harry buried his face in the other man's shoulder and clenched his eyes tight. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, filling the silence with the sound of its beating.

They stayed like that for a while before Harry felt a gentle push. He let go, and Severus let out a sigh.

"Is there any way I can learn Occlumency?" he asked, voice cool and controlled, but to Harry it sounded as quietly warm as a fire on a rainy night.

There has to be, Harry thought. He knew that Severus would be one of the greatest Occlumens of his generation, but—right now he was one of the worst. Thanks to Eileen Prince, Harry thought acerbically. Lestrange and Malfoy weren't the first to violate him. It was his mother. But as Harry felt again that surge of hatred, it was tempered by a strange pity. Why did Severus show that to me? he wondered, the fierce surge of emotion replaced by an overwhelming tenderness. "I don't know," Harry said reluctantly. "Did you try pushing me out?"

"I did," Severus said, but Harry could hear the hesitation and frustration and in his voice.

Harry paused. "When Lestrange was in your mind, did you—feel it? Did you try to push him out?"

"I don't think I was aware of it," Severus said, not meeting Harry's eye. "Everything he told me to do felt so—natural. I think I only realized after I saw the two of you running through my head."

"Sorry," Harry muttered, but Severus waved it off impatiently.

"I will not believe that there is no way for me to learn Occlumency," Severus said coolly. "Surely there has to be a theoretical basis that can help me more than this method of yours."

"You mean books? Not in the Hogwarts library."

Severus gave him a sharp glance. "How do you know?"

Harry felt blood rising to his face. "I—um—"

"Don't answer that," Severus whispered, so quietly Harry almost didn't hear. Harry fell silent, wondering if the connection had been lost, if the moat of secrecy had cut them apart once more, but Severus only drew away and said with a fierce conviction, "I must learn Occlumency." He looked up, eyes boring into Harry's. "I—there must be a way."

Harry shook his head. "I don't know—"

"How can you not know?" Severus demanded. He turned and began to pace furiously in front of the fire. "Wasn't there any book you read? There are other libraries I could go to. I could find books, I could read them, I could learn, I could—" He stopped with such a look of despair on his face that Harry felt his heart wrench.

"There won't be enough time," Harry said softly, voicing the thought that was in both of their minds.

Severus swore. "How can you be so calm about it?" he hissed. "You'll—if Dumbledore finds even a shred of proof, you'll go to Azkaban. Azkaban! People have gone for less. And you have no connections to save you, nor do I, for that matter."

Maybe that's how I'll spend my twenty years, Harry thought, but knew at once he would never allow himself into Azkaban. But perhaps that is how I must leave—not by Voldemort, but by Dumbledore. He felt suddenly quite calm, as though he had seen the entire path of the future in one sweeping gaze.

Severus stopped pacing abruptly. "I don't—want to lose you," he said, eyes downcast, voice so desperately quiet the words were nearly inaudible.

Harry swallowed. "You won't."

Severus looked up and tried to glare. "How can you know?" he demanded, voice rasping in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though fighting back a terrible thought or memory. "They will take the memory from me. They will drag it out, and use it to destroy you. And I—" He laughed humorlessly. "Maybe we will share cells in Azkaban."

"It won't happen," Harry said, as firmly as he could, "you won't go to Azkaban—"

"But they won't allow us to be so close to each other," Severus said, voice still as hollow as the eyes of a starving man, "they would not allow our 'horrible aberration of nature' to continue in prison."

"It's not!" Harry said angrily. He paused. "Is that what you think of us? A 'horrible aberration of nature?' Is that—is that what your father told you, or your mother—?"

"What does it matter how I think of it?" Severus snapped. "And what do my mother and father have to do with it?"

"Because," Harry said, trying to keep from stumbling, "that's what—my aunt and uncle told me. About being magic. And I've never forgotten it." He sought out Severus's eyes. "And that's what your father said, too. Isn't it?"

"It doesn't matter," Severus muttered, eyes closed, but Harry had reached out both hands and cupped Severus's face, feeling the high cheekbones, the too-large nose, memorizing everything under his touch.

"It does," Harry whispered, "it matters, because you are the most important and—beautiful thing in the world to me, and—"

"Stop it."

"I wish I could tell you everything, show you everything, even if you would judge me ill for it—"

"I would never judge you ill," Severus said quietly, opening his eyes. Harry felt words die in his throat, burnt to nothing by the flood of emotion that surged through his body. He has forgiven me for killing Lestrange, Harry thought. His conscience and his mind must be telling him to condemn me, but he has forgiven me instead— Why? Why did he? Is it love, is it faith? I don't deserve him. I don't deserve him—

"You are," Severus whispered, as he brought his trembling hands to Harry's, "the best thing—I have ever encountered."

Harry swallowed, feeling his heart thud wildly in his chest. And you are all that is good in me, Harry thought, wishing he could say it aloud. Your love is all that redeems me now. The twenty years suddenly seemed so vast, so forbidding— He saw himself lost, stumbling like a blind man through a tundra, or a man in a boat upon a storm-tossed sea. He would have power—power to destroy the world on a whim, power to end the war if he wished, but he could not change time, could not change his fate, could not keep this feeling of dark desolation at bay…

There was a knock at the door.

Harry drew away abruptly, the bubble of intimacy that had surrounded them abruptly shattered. "Don't," he cautioned, as Severus moved to open it. He closed his eyes, letting his senses probe past the stone and wood… "It's Malfoy," he said. "I'll answer it."

He walked forward and opened the door. "Why, Lucius Malfoy," he said, pretending to be surprised. "What a thoroughly unpleasant surprise."

Malfoy sneered. "Good evening to you, too, Frost," he said. "I have a message from the Dark Lord." He took out a scroll, sealed with the Dark Mark.

Voldemort? Harry thought, stomach sinking in dismay. He quickly scanned the scroll, then took it. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all," Malfoy said, craning his neck. He caught sight of Severus, and opened his mouth with a nasty smile, but Harry quickly shut the door on Malfoy's face. He turned and walked to Severus, holding the scroll cautiously.

"What does it say?" Severus asked, moving to Harry's shoulder.

Harry broke the seal. The page was blank for a moment before words shimmered into existence. My dearest Jonathan, Harry read. Please let me extend my fondest greetings to you and your esteemed friend. I hope that both of you found my gifts fitting. I must admit that I found your company most pleasurable at Abraxas Malfoy's masquerade ball. Flavia Black shall be holding a small dinner tomorrow night, and I hope you will be able to attend. Lucius Malfoy will be happy to assist you. Yours faithfully, Lord Voldemort.

XIX.

"What do we do?"

Harry crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fireplace, watching the flames crawl about the edges and consume the writing. "I'll have to meet him then."

Severus swore under his breath. "Idiot!" he hissed. "If I hadn't hear the Sorting Hat's decision myself, I'd be sure you were in Gryffindor."

Wouldn't you be surprised, Harry thought, feeling somewhat amused by the look of annoyance on Severus's face. "What do you propose, then?"

"Propose?" Severus echoed harshly, angrily. He clenched his fists and began to pace. "Something with slightly more tact and less foolishness that waltzing into a dinner party hosted by the Blacks, a bunch of inbred knuckleheads whose house elves fantasize about fixing their heads next to coat racks!"

Harry laughed. Severus whirled around. "I do not see at all what you find so amusing," he drawled coldly.

"Well," said Harry, wondering to himself why he was so amused anyway, "you are a funny man, Severus."

Severus gave a very humorless smile. "Thank you. I have always wanted to be a laughingstock."

"No! That's not what I meant—"

"I know," Severus interrupted dryly, "and you are a very gullible man, Jonathan Frost." His brows drew down in thoughtfulness. "I suppose I could go with you, though I can't say I'm on very good terms with the Blacks—"

"That's the most idiotic thing I've heard in ages!" Harry snarled. "You're definitely not going with me. Remember what happened the last time we met Voldemort together?"

For a moment, Harry wanted to slap himself for bringing it up, but Severus's face did not seal itself into inscrutability as Harry feared it would.

"Tomorrow night," Severus muttered. "I'll have time to brew for you a few protective potions, to make sure you aren't poisoned by something slipped into your wine, which isn't very difficult when it comes to you…"

"You needn't worry about me," Harry said softly.

Severus glared in exasperation. "You were the one who emphasized how terrible and dangerous this 'Dark Lord' was."

"Yes, but if you want someone to destroy your life, nobody is better than Albus Dumbledore."

Severus paused and Harry's stomach sank as he met the fathomless darkness of Severus's gaze. The inscrutability of his eyes was like a cold blade, deftly and silently chilling the warmth that had lingered in the air between them, freezing their connection and snapping it. Harry found himself cursing himself for being so stupid as to invoke that look, but before he could open his mouth to explain, Severus interrupted.

"Do I presume correctly that this is one of those things you simply can't explain?"

"I'm sorry, Severus, but—"

"Yes, I know," Severus said, and Harry felt all words leave his mouth when he felt two of Severus's fingers gently pressed against his lips. "Don't say anything."

Harry fell silent, all the nerves in his body concentrated at the point where Severus's fingers were touching his lips.

"I'm not very fond of listening to apologies or excuses, no matter how heartfelt they are," Severus said quietly.

Harry nodded slightly and, before the fingers could slip away, held them to his lips with his own hand. Severus's eyes widened in surprise, and a tinge of color rose in his cheeks. Harry parted his lips slightly, and he heard, with a sudden acceleration of his heartbeat, the hitch of Severus's breath.

I want this moment never to end, Harry thought hazily, feeling the incredible longing reopen in his chest. Never—ever— His other hand crept behind Severus's back, feeling the warm, bony body under the uneven fabric of robes, and he pressed forward, giving a hoarse moan that disappeared against the trembling hand against his mouth—

Severus pulled back. Harry let go, swallowed, trying to read Severus's face.

"This is—inappropriate behavior," Severus managed, looked away, and walked across the room to his bed. "It's ridiculous to engage ourselves so when you're only forty-eight hours from what is most likely a very unwholesome end for you."

Harry touched his lips, still burning with the memory, and desperately caught Severus's gaze. It was only for a brief moment before the other man looked away quickly, but Harry felt the answer come to him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Severus wanted reassurance. That was what he needed—something he could hold to in a world that left him drifting like flotsam upon the great grey sea, something that let him know in no uncertain terms that he was loved—yes, loved.

Can't I just tell him that, and haven't I told him that before? Harry thought wildly, and was a moment away from grabbing Severus by the shoulders and mashing their mouths together. But he stopped himself. No, Severus was a Slytherin, born and bred with ideals a family of his situation had never been able to meet. There had to be something more… ritualistic. Tangible. Words, after all, sometimes have two meanings.

A wedding ring? Harry wondered, and nearly puked. Well, maybe Severus would appreciate something like that. His mind conjured a picture of a gothic-looking monstrosity, studded with emeralds and other dangerously glittering gems. Eh, probably not, Harry thought, feeling rather confused. Where would I get one anyway? And to give it to him—?

The feeling came back, stronger than ever, the urge to simply clasp Severus's body against his and forget the world around them. I've so little time left, Harry thought, his gaze fixed on Severus sitting quietly on the bed. One day? Two days? And there are things I must do before I leave…

"…ask him for some help in the matter?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Severus's brows drew down impatiently. "I said, since you obviously have difficulty helping me raise the caliber of my Occlumency abilities, we might ask Christolph for some help in the matter."

"Christolph?"

"Yes, Christolph. Please do not tell me that you not only suffer from stupidity but from amnesia as well—"

"No, of course I remember! But…" He trailed off. He did not particularly want to think about Christolph, especially because those thoughts were always associated with his impending fate and the fact that, no matter how he phrased it and laced it with excuses, he was lying to Severus. Severus knew it too and had—in his way—forgiven Harry. But that changed nothing. "Sure, why not," Harry agreed reluctantly.

"Well?" Severus said archly, and Harry reached into his bag to retrieve the slate grey book.

As it turned out, Christolph had little to say about how to learn Occlumency.

'Do you know how to whistle?'

Harry and Severus had exchanged puzzled looks. 'Whistle?'

'Yes—you know, making a sound from the effluent of air through pursed lips?'

"I do," said Harry.

"I don't," Severus said coldly, making it sound like some sort of vulgar and distasteful habit.

'I do; Severus doesn't. What does this have to do with anything?'

'Learning Occlumency is similar to learning to whistle. It's very difficult to force it, and just as difficult to teach, but generally, with enough practice, it clicks.'

"Enough practice?" Severus muttered. "We've got about—oh, forty seven hours for practice…"

'We'd like an alternative that doesn't take quite so much time,' Harry wrote, 'but thanks anyway.'

'You're welcome. I do hope you two lovebirds aren't planning anything terribly dangerous.'

Severus had snorted slightly, but, as Harry shut the book and slipped it back into his bag, he noticed that Severus blushed only slightly, and looked far less uncomfortable than he had before. That's an improvement, Harry thought and hid a smile.

Unfortunately, Harry did not manage to touch Severus much more that night. Severus had dug out a Potions periodical and lost himself in articles about the newest advances in Dreamless Sleep Potion ("You may not care about being severely sub par, Frost, but I do"). Harry had tried to keep pace with whatever he could find to keep himself awake, short of conjuring himself a mug of coffee, but he had been dismally unsuccessful.

Flattering that a magazine about Potions is more exciting than I, Harry thought grumpily as he made the sheets comfortable.

"Night, Severus."

Severus grunted.

Why am I even waiting? Harry wondered sleepily. Why don't I just go up to him and kiss him on the mouth, down to his neck…? Harry could see in his mind the smooth, pale skin, uncovered by the robes that slipped off like a glimmering sheen of water… I'd kiss down his chest, down his stomach… A fuzzy image arose, one patched together from memories and fantasies, and with a vague smile on his face, Harry fell asleep.

.o0o.

The door to Number 12, Grimmauld Place looked the same as it ever had, though the Muggle flats around it seemed somewhat newer. The only difference Harry could see immediately was was a small ensign of the Noble House of Black on a plaque above the number on the door.

"Here we are," Lucius Malfoy said, giving a brief, distasteful glance at the shabby Muggle houses on either side.

"It looks like another house," Harry said.

"That is the whole point," Malfoy said in a long-suffering sneer as the doors to the carriage flung open.

"Please, this way, Masters," an old house-elf wheezed, its eyes rolling slightly as it bowed its head to the ground. Harry followed, wondering where he had seen that elf before; its features were distinctly familiar.

"This way, Masters, this way," said the house-elf as he opened the door. Malfoy slipped in, and Harry followed suit. "May I take your cloaks—?"

"Yes, hurry up," Malfoy said impatiently, undoing the clasp.

"Manny is hurrying, Manny is bad elf, too slow for masters," the house-elf wheezed, reaching up with old trembling fingers as he hung Malfoy's cloak. "And you, Master?"

"Thank you, Manny," Harry said, unclasping his cloak.

"No! Mustn't thank Manny!" the house-elf squealed, snatching Harry's cloak and hugging it desperately. Harry watched with disgust as a large drop of snot descended from the house-elf's nose onto the cloak. Oh well, Harry thought, it's only a transfigured sheet anyway.

The house-elf, meanwhile, seemed to be getting even more distressed. "Manny bad to be thanked, bad, very bad!" He sniffed tragically and then turned his suddenly adoring eyes upward. "Manny wants his head there on the wall, with all the other loyal house-elves…"

Ah, Harry thought, lips curling in contempt. So that was where he'd seen that house-elf before. A mounted head on a battered wall. Harry moved down the hall, following Malfoy to a larger room lit by what seemed like a floating palace of candles. Now, he thought, scanning the room carefully, where in this chamber of inbred purebloods could Voldemort be…?

The party itself was actually very similar to the one at Malfoy's, much to Harry's discomfiture. Though nobody wore masks, the dim light transfigured faces into distorted shadows, and the stiff dress robes seemed just as bizarre as costumes. There, too, was music—floating out of a room to the side. Once again, it was the Goldberg Variations.

Coincidence, or Voldemort's intention? Harry wondered, wandering into the room with the harpsichord. Sitting at the instrument was not Lestrange but Narcissa Black; she played as though she was preening, and Lucius Malfoy was standing beside her, smiling smugly. The rendition was far less compelling than Lestrange's, but provided a ghostly echo. The image of Lestrange's naked body—sprawled glistening and cold before the fire—flashed through Harry's mind and sparked an unnamable flame in his gut.

Harry stiffened; someone was approaching.

"Master Frost?"

Harry turned and looked critically at the man who addressed him. His features bore the vaguely noble look of a purebred lineage, but were otherwise unnoteworthy. It was not a face Harry recognized.

"Yes?"

"Lord Voldemort desires to see you."

Harry waited for the old fear to snap through his body like a reflex. It came like a phantom pain, twisting only in the memory of things, giving way to an entirely different feeling—one that might have been cold anticipation. "Lead the way, if you please."

"Certainly, Master Frost," the other man replied, bowing low. He turned and began weaving through the crowd. Harry followed, glancing around and wondering if his departure was noticed, wondering if this—perhaps—would be the end of it all.

"This way," said the man—servant, Death Eater, slave—as he opened a door into what Harry recognized as the library.

Harry entered, stretching his senses. No Voldemort.

The man walked up to a bookshelf and tapped twice. Harry felt a twinge of magic as the bookshelf slid away, revealing a heavy mahogany door. I've never seen this before, he thought, moving closer with interest.

The man pushed open the door. Red light flooded out, and through his squinted eyes, Harry saw a table of black wood laid like a coffin in the otherwise empty room.

"Welcome, Mr. Frost," Voldemort said, his eyes a strange half-red in the firelight.

Harry walked in. The chair closest to him drew back, pulled by an invisible hand. "Good evening, Voldemort," said Harry, taking his seat. Remembering the dinners he had been forced to attend with various Ministry dignitaries, he took the cloth napkin and spread it over his lap.

The monster smiled. "It is, is it not? Jiggins, please bring us our dinner."

"Yes, my Lord," said the man—Jiggins—with a deep bow.

Voldemort smiled. His teeth are very even, Harry thought. "I hope you and your friend enjoyed my gifts. I had hoped, though, that you would wear the white gold crown I had given you. It suits you very well."

Harry thought to the circlet sitting in a drawer by his bed. "Forgive me. I had forgotten it."

"Ah, no matter," Voldemort said, eyes glinting. "I have another present for you that would suit just as well. Jiggins?"

"Yes, Master," said Jiggins. He appeared at Harry's side, holding in his hand a large platter that was covered by a metal dome.

"Thank you," Harry said, after Jiggins had placed the platter before him. I wonder what's inside, Harry thought, as Jiggins disappeared. Why isn't there a platter for Voldemort?—oh, there's Jiggins, with another one of these platters.

"Thank you, Jiggins," Voldemort said. Jiggins slipped back into the shadows. "Shall we eat, Mr. Frost?"

"By all means," Harry said. He gripped the handle of the dome—perhaps there's something horrible in it, he thought, like a human head—and lifted.

"I hope you're just as fond of lobster as I am," Voldemort said, as the dome removed itself from his plate and levitated away into darkness. He picked up the lobster pick that lay on the left side of his platter. "They're especially good when seasoned with a bit of white wine."

"Yes, delicious," Harry said, picking up his utensil and poking the red-shelled crustacean. It really was a lobster, it seemed. The dome he had set aside rose into the air and floated away.

"Champagne?"

Harry tensed at the tendril of magic he could feel floating up from the table, but a wineglass merely materialized next to his plate. "Yes. Please."

Jiggins poured out the champagne, then walked down the table and did the same for Voldemort. The Dark Lord lifted his glass.

"To the pure-blood cause?"

"To the cause," Harry said simply. He sipped the golden fluid, and as the liquid tingled down his throat, he felt Severus's magic leaping up and wrapping around the champagne.

"Ah, champagne—the ambrosia of the gods," Voldemort murmured.

Harry made a noncommittal noise, still savoring the afterglow of Severus's magic. True to his word, Severus had brewed a potion to ward off poisons and had watched Harry drink it down to the last drop. Harry recognized the concoction; it was one of Severus's inventions, one that would later be familiar to all Order members.

"Be careful," Severus had said shortly while Harry had transfigured his bedsheet into a satin cloak.

"Of course," Harry had replied. "Aren't I always careful?"

"As careful as a drunken Gryffindor," Severus had snapped back, dark eyes flashing.

"Is the lobster not to your taste?"

"I'm sure it is," Harry murmured. He glanced up to where Voldemort was spearing the delicate white meat. I wonder how he got rid of the shell, Harry thought. Hmm. Oh well. Muttering a cutting charm under his breath, he sliced down the back of the lobster, gritting his teeth at the loud cracking noises that resulted. Ah, shit!—a swimmeret had broken off and skittered across the table.

Jiggins reached forth and discretely picked up the lobster leg.

"A bit salty, I think," Voldemort said in a thoughtful voice.

"Is it?" Harry asked politely, poking at the tasteless white meat.

"I'll need to tell Flavia that her house-elves have fallen under their usual standards," Voldemort said with an air of regret. "Jiggins—some music, perhaps?"

"Yes, Master," Jiggins said.

A moment later, the strains of a harpsichord drifted through the air, seeming to come from everywhere at once.

"Lestrange plays very well," Harry murmured.

"Yes," said Voldemort, his eyes glinting. "His playing is very distinctive. Pity he will never play for us again."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"I'm afraid he passed away quite suddenly several days ago."

"Oh dear. How terribly tragic."

"Yes," Voldemort said, and suddenly there was an overtone of a hiss in his voice, rising with an abrupt flicker of the flames, "Indeed it is, especially for you, Mr. Frost…"

Harry lifted his wineglass. "Some more champagne, please?"

For a moment, neither Voldemort nor Jiggins moved. Then Voldemort tilted his head, his face once again bearing that even-teethed smile, and Jiggins approached with the champagne bottle.

"Thank you, Jiggins," Harry said courteously. He sipped the beverage luxuriously, letting his eyes fall shut like a satisfied cat as the liquid flickered down his throat. "I must say, as outstanding as Terrance's musical abilities were, his other skills were a bit—lacking. I was rather surprised."

"I don't believe I understand you," Voldemort replied, his voice low and threatening like the first currents of wind before a cyclone.

"Ah, you wouldn't, as you never had the chance of examining Terrance's body," Harry said, his tone still unfailingly polite. "If you had, you'd have noticed that he never really had the chance to give much of a struggle." Harry sighed melodramatically. "Too bad all that remains of his corpse are ashes. From dust he came, and to dust he did return."

Harry heard the footsteps and continued to sip the champagne as the tip of something cold and sharp came to rest on his neck.

"I would advise a man in your position, Mr. Frost, to lessen his flippancy," Voldemort said.

Harry gave Jiggins a critical glance. "Is that your wand you're pointing at me? Do tell me—how did you make it all sharp and pointy? If I'm not mistaken, it goes badly against the fashion of our times."

The pressure increased, and Harry felt the first stabs of pain. He sighed. "Voldemort, I have a question for you."

"Ask it."

"Would you miss your servant more, or your silverware?"

Before Voldemort could answer, both Harry's lobster pick and Voldemort's rose slowly as though suspended by strings. Then, so fast that only a streak of silver was visible, they shot through the air.

Jiggins stumbled back, dropping his wand and giving an inhuman shriek. His fingers clutched desperately at his face. Streams of blood rolled down his face where the picks were lodged in his eyeballs.

"Do—do be careful, Jiggins!" Harry said in a concerned tone. "Please don't trip and fall on your own wand?"

No sooner had he said those words than Jiggins suddenly collapsed to the ground. He jerked once or twice like a preserved frog shocked by electricity, and then lay still. A puddle of blood pooled around his neck, trickling darkly along the cracks between the flagstones of the floor.

Harry sighed and shook his head sadly. "Oh well. What an unlucky accident! I did warn him. If only he'd listened to me, he'd still have his life at least. Still, I'm sure you can spare him, my dear Voldemort."

The Dark Lord moved so quickly that, for a moment, Harry was impressed. The spells hurtled at him like two flaming hot brands, searing the table and leaving behind two cracks like a railway track. But Harry held up his hand, and the magic dissipated.

Harry smiled dryly. "Nice try—"

Voldemort was on his feet, his wand cutting an arc through the air like a glittering scythe. Harry watched the wave of magic and remembered the holly and phoenix-feather wand he had had—the brother to Voldemort's. That had tied him to the monster as inexorably as Trelawney's words, but now—now he was as free as the sun was of the earth; he was unchallengeable in his might.

Harry snapped his wrist and Voldemort's magic broke. He smiled. "I confess I am duly impressed. Unfortunately, my dear Mr. Riddle, you're still a bit wet behind the ears."

Voldemort snarled, and thrust his wand like a rapier. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Harry froze. He watched the wall of green light approach him, filling the room like a massive tidal wave. A part of him cringed, the part that coiled instinctively with fear at the sound of Voldemort's name, the part that shuddered at the sight of death, the part that wept and laughed and found more than silence in the memories of lost friends and once-hated enemies and beloved family—that part begged him to duck, to hide under the table like any other human being would.

But he reached out his hand and caught the magic. Its halo passed through him, cold and biting and merciless like a river filled with shards of ice, but the core of the magic remained struggling in his hand. It twisted in his grasp like a worm, one covered with bristles, but he clenched his fist, and the magic dissipated into nothing.

He opened his fist, and smiled, but it was a dead smile. Suddenly he felt hollow inside, as though the blast of the Avada Kedavra had indeed killed something inside him and carried even the memory of it away.

Harry looked up. For the first time he could remember, there was a look of naked fear on Voldemort's face.

"I don't suppose that went as well as you'd have liked," Harry said. He pulled a piece of meat out of the lobster's tail, the juice dripping down his hand. "Why don't we finish dinner before it gets cold? Oh—I see. You're short two forks. That can be arranged."

There was a plopping noise, and the two lobster picks that had lodged into Jiggins's eyes returned to the side of their platters. "A bit bloody," Harry said through a mouthful of food, "but blood is high in protein and iron. Very nutritious."

He tapped the lobster's claw with his knife, and the thick chitin layer peeled away like a banana peel. "Much better," Harry said, and glanced up.

Voldemort's eyes were focused on the table, and his bottom lip was moving slightly, as though he were muttering something under his breath. Harry extended his senses, and felt the stirring of magic like the still of the sea before a storm.

Harry sneered. He lifted his hand, and the bottle of champagne flew through the air and into his grasp. "Ambrosia of the gods, indeed." He poured himself another glass and drained it. Under his hand, he could feel the glass quiver. The table, too, was shaking.

"Careful, now," Harry chided. The air thickened and tasted of something taut and untamed. "At least don't topple the Blacks' ancestral home. It'll be quite important for later generations, you know."

The sound of clinking dishware filled the air as the ground shook. "Alas, my lobster seems to be running away from me," Harry remarked with mock dismay. He quickly speared and ate the last bit of meat from the claw before the platter bounced off the table and shattered on the floor next to Jiggins's body.

"Hmm, no dessert," Harry murmured, licking his fork. "Unfortunate."

The table split with a tremendous crack. Fragments of wood splintered through the air like an explosion of glass, filling the air almost like smoke. Voldemort had his wand in both hands, and with a grimace, broke it in two.

Harry, still seated, watched the shell of light expand from the broken wand. He lifted his hand into the maelstrom of splintered wood and shrieking magic, feeling at the source of the power—and smiled at the familiarity. It was the Wild Magic, the same that Lily Evans had called with her rituals at the edge of the forest.

My friend, Harry thought, raising both hands and standing. The Wild Magic twisted like a giant snake in the sand, both tasting and resisting Harry's hold. My—servant…

The air groaned with the weight of magic struggling to remain free. Harry slowly closed his hands, and it felt as though he were squeezing an ocean of water into his clenched fists.

Finally! he thought with a mad rush of triumph.

He brought down his arms and opened his hands. Harry caught Voldemort's glimpse for a brief second, registering the frozen look of helplessness and fear—immense, mind-numbing fear—before the Wild Magic turned against its summoner like a loosed animal.

Leave him alive! Harry commanded.

The red light of the room mixed with the whitish-green tint of the magic, castling reflections over Voldemort's naked, shivering body.

Harry stood up and tossed aside the cloth napkin that had remained in his lap. A smile curved over his lips.

"How are the mighty fallen," Harry said, and his voice echoed through the room like the rays of the sun over the earth. He advanced upon Voldemort's shivering body, and the form of Wild Magic backed away slightly like a giant mastiff before its owner.

"I could kill you very easily," Harry said softly. "You are nothing to me—nothing. An ant in the dirt. An infant in its cradle. A hatchling just out of its egg."

Voldemort shuddered uncontrollably. He's not unattractive, Harry thought, examining the shadows of muscle under the white skin. But he was skinny and gaunt, like an underfed yet overgrown child. Harry's gaze went down to Voldemort's groin, and he sneered.

"My, my, my," Harry drawled, "poor little Tom. Am I really so frightening? You've even wet yourself." He flipped his hand, and Voldemort flipped in the air, landing facedown in the puddle of urine. "Lick it clean!"

Voldemort only jerked and quivered as though in the throes of a convulsion. Harry gritted his teeth impatiently and made a crushing motion with his hands. "LICK IT!"

As though pressed by a massive force, the raven-haired head smeared through the puddle, coloring the liquid red. But the mouth still hung open vaguely, ringed by blood and bruises.

Harry growled and clenched his fists. Voldemort's head jerked up as though pulled by a puppeteer. There was something familiar about that face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, and the dilated green eyes, wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

—he nearly couldn't recognize the face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—darker than night, eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

Just like Severus's in his memory, Harry thought.

He was suddenly aware of the immense power simmering in his hands. The Wild Magic, now awakened from its uncaring slumber, growled menacingly with the force to tear the world apart. If Harry wished it, he needed only put enough strength into the thought, and he could turn Grimmauld Place into nothingness—no, not only that, far more than that. In his mind came the image of London, a city twinkling with thousands of lights, each light falling into darkness like fireflies dying of poison. And he could do more than physical destruction; seeping his senses into all the hidden complexities of matter and magic, he knew how to throw the world out of time, to freeze it into a stasis, to move it through time.

The thought struck something in him that froze the frenzy of power. He pursued it, and more images yielded to him: he saw the future fragmenting, saw the present world tear into two different possibilities that each etched its own path in the slate of time.

I can change things, Harry thought, looking down at his hands. Voldemort was as fragile as an eggshell, and he pressed experimentally, waiting to hear the crack. Nothing binds me at all. Nothing. The books were wrong, Christolph was wrong, he himself had been wrong. Traveling through time—indeed, changing time—was possible. Borne on this tide of magic, he could see how he might split the world and let forth an alternate reality. It had never been done before, and the power needed was beyond infinite, but his power yawned beyond infinite.

I can, he thought. I can. He stretched out his senses, steeping them into the wells of his might, and felt his power lengthen out around him like the plains of a desert, rolling endlessly in all directions, melting into the sky as a metallic band of white and leaving him utterly and desolately alone.

He released Voldemort's soul and felt the delicate sphere slip safely out of his grasp. The unearthly hues of green and white faded to their previous shades of red. He was a statue, frozen in time, or a robot, devoid of thought and emotion and moving mechanically as dry desert winds blew sand into his ancient joints.

Voldemort gasped and shuddered. He blinked, eyelids fluttering like the wings of a newly emerged moth.

Harry stood unmoving for what seemed like a long time. He felt as though he were a great force of nature, starting with the green tide of the Killing Curse, bearing inexorably on the shore—but dying out and passing into nothingness before the water had touched the earth. Now… now he felt empty. Hollow. As though he had forsaken a chance forever.

He bent and picked up the two broken pieces of Voldemort's yew wand. He put them together, and ran his finger over the crack. The seam vanished; the wand was whole again.

Have it back, Harry thought to say, but remained silent as he dropped the yew wand in front of Voldemort's face. The Dark Lord stared at the wand, one trembling hand crawling across the wet floor to grip it.

"Forget," Harry commanded, holding his hand out with five fingers spread. Voldemort fell back limply, and his green eyes clouded over. "Forget that this happened. Forget that you were beaten and broken and humiliated. Heal your mind, yourself." Harry swallowed before he spoke the next commands. "Remember your hate and arrogance. Remember Severus Snape, the man whom you lust for." He closed his eyes momentarily and summoned an image from his dreams—the Severus of the future on his knees, eyes filled with a bitter hatred that was utterly helpless… "Remember—him."

Harry let out a long breath. The hollowness ached so much that, for the first time in what seemed like years, he felt like crying.

.o0o.

Snowflakes fell from the sky, appearing like small white pinpoints against the inky blackness before drifting down and revealing all their sparkling intricacies in the pale yellow lamplight of Diagon Alley. Harry watched them fall and disappear as they touched his face.

He had left before Voldemort could orient himself. Nobody had noticed him, which was what he had willed, and even if they had, he couldn't have cared. He felt like a corpse, animated by a maker who had forgotten to end the spell, who had forgotten to give him a heart and mind and soul.

He stopped in front of a jeweler's shop. It was closed. He reached out, felt the layers of anti-Apparition and Locking Charms, and slipped through them.

The store was rather small. In the darkness, it resembled a cupboard filled with forgotten odds and ends. Against one wall was the cashier's desk, and running along the walls were glass cases full of gemstones. They looked as dull as pieces of chalk in the blackness.

Harry waved his wand at the windows, and they shimmered slightly. "Lumos," he muttered, more out of habit than out of need.

The gemstones glittered softly in the hazy light. He blinked, running his gaze over the earrings, the tiaras, the bracelets, the necklaces, the rings. Nothing really caught his eye. He sighed and looked out the window. What was he even looking for?

Outside the snowflakes floated down idyllically. The streets were mostly empty, though a few people shuffled about slowly in thick winter cloaks. Harry felt like he was gazing into a pool of water, with the world outside as peaceful and alien as a shimmering underwater realm.

Something caught his eye. Standing on the pavement half in and half out the lamplight were two people, their hands interlinked. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman, or two men or two women, but the simple connection between them was unmistakable.

Harry suddenly remembered an image from what seemed like years ago, when he had just been thrown into this time. He had been walking down Diagon Alley, shopping for supplies, when he had seen the image of a family—father, mother, and child, cocooned in their own, small world. What had he felt then? Longing? Envy? Wistfulness?

The hollowness deepened. Harry looked down at the display of jewelry, turning his attention to the rings. Something simple. Anything.

He reached through the glass and took out a small silver band. He held it up to the light. It was somewhat flattened in the masculine style, and it seemed completely plain, without any gemstone or inscription.

This will do, Harry thought, banishing the anti-theft spells and snuffing out the Lumos spell. He stepped out of the shop and glanced to where the lamplight formed a soft yellow halo, but there was nobody there. Harry tucked the ring into his pocket and walked down the pavement. There was no jewel to ask for forgiveness.

XX.

"Wake up, Severus."

Severus moaned sleepily and turned his face away from the light of the fireplace. Harry felt a smile touch the corners of his lips as he bent closer.

"Severus, we've class."

Severus made an indecipherable sound and buried his face deeper into his pillow.

"Severus—"

Abruptly Severus jerked awake and shot into a sitting position, his eyes wide and disoriented. Harry stumbled back, startled.

"Jonathan—" Severus gasped, his voice hoarse and choked. Their eyes locked, and Harry felt his knees weaken, the longing surging forth in his chest with the ferocity of a desert sandstorm.

Then Severus pulled the mask back over his face, and Harry instinctively glanced away to let him gain his composure. "Frost," Severus said, his voice still somewhat unsteady, "you're back." A pause. "What time—?"

"We've fifteen minutes before class starts."

"It's morning?" Severus said irritably. He kicked back the sheets and clambered out of bed, quickly pulling off his pyjamas and donning his school robes. His back was to Harry when he spoke in an aggravated voice that belied a kind of hurt, "Why didn't you wake me when you got back?"

Harry heard the note of accusation in Severus's voice, and thought back to the first thing he had seen after entering their dormitory: Severus, lying on his desk with his head resting on a Potions periodical, his face worn with having worked sleeplessly the previous night to brew a potion for Harry that would ward off any imaginable sort of poison. Harry had not had the heart to wake him, and instead had gently carried him to bed and gazed silently at the vulnerable face.

"You were tired," Harry said softly.

"Wake me next time," Severus muttered, then paused. "Unless, of course, you have managed to avoid the necessity of visiting Voldemort?"

"Perhaps," Harry replied vaguely. Severus had finished donning his school robes, and was now stuffing various scrolls and schoolbooks into his satchel. "He knows I killed Lestrange, but he won't bother us."

Severus paused and turned around. "How did you manage that?"

Harry looked away, turning his gaze to the unmade bed. "I—convinced him."

"Convinced him?"

There was an odd catch in Severus's voice. Harry looked up and saw the worry and fear and anguish in Severus's eyes, and—albeit reluctantly—a little more, the briefest flash of an image; and he understood.

"No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Not like that."

Severus relaxed slightly, and Harry felt his chest suddenly laced with pain. The image in Severus's mind had been that of Harry naked and defenseless, in the same position Severus had been in Harry's dreams and those unpalatable memories. How ironic—how bitterly ironic—that it would be Severus who would be forced into that position, forced because of Harry's inaction. The question floated briefly to his mind—why?—but nothing answered.

"Then… how?"

Harry looked away again, unable to meet those unwaveringly black eyes.

"You can't tell me that either, can you?" Severus asked coolly, before Harry could speak.

"Severus, I wish I could, but—" Harry began, torn and despairing at the tone of Severus's voice, but Severus interrupted once again.

"I know."

With a slow, deliberate movement, Severus brought the second and third fingers of his right hand up to Harry's lips. They touched, and Harry felt as though an enormous pressure had been taken away. He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and closed the gap between them, burying his face in Severus's neck.

"I'm sorry," Harry muttered.

"There's nothing you can do," Severus said bitterly, but his left arm was wrapped around Harry's back, and his face was pressed into Harry's hair.

Nothing? Harry thought, and squeezed his eyes tighter. Nothing?

He brought both hands up Severus's back and cupped the thin face, tracing his thumbs over the high cheekbones, the soft brush of eyelashes.

"When it's all over, I'll tell you everything," Harry whispered. "I promise."

"All over?"

"All over," Harry repeated. In the darkness of his mind, he saw the Severus of twenty years later, brooding in front of his fireplace, eyes shadowed and embittered with years of pain and hatred and loneliness…

"When what's over? Voldemort?"

…There was a bottle of firewhisky nearby, and Snape picked it up and drank. He glanced up coldly at the mantelpiece, and picked up a small silver ring, looking at it with inscrutable eyes…

"Everything—" Harry swallowed. "You'll know." He drew back and took a shuddering breath. "But I swear it to you. When it's allover, I will hide nothing from you." He looked up fiercely into the puzzled black eyes. "Nothing."

The word echoed hauntingly in his ears, whispered insidiously in the hollow of his soul: nothing…

Severus nodded, still looking bemused. "And when will it, as you say, all be over?"

Harry turned and walked across the room, picking up his satchel and looking in the mirror to straighten his robes. His reflection looked back at him, a mask that showed nothing. "I don't know," Harry said. "But it won't go on forever. It may seem like forever, but it won't be. I promise you that too."

"You seem to have a strong desire to make promises this morning," Severus said suspiciously. "One would think that you're preparing to do something particularly foolish."

"One may or may not be correct," Harry said, and flicked his wand. He glanced at the numbers that formed. "Great, now we'll be late for Potions. I was counting on you to explain Polyjuice Potion to me at breakfast…"

"Your fault," Severus said curtly, picking up his satchel and sweeping out the door, "attending dinner parties with inbred idiots instead of studying your Potions."

"Ah, but you'll most likely have to test mine," Harry said, and hurried after the other Slytherin.

.o0o.

"Jonathan."

It was lunch. Harry looked up from his plate of mashed potatoes and chicken and quickly swallowed his mouthful of food. "Lily!"

Lily smiled at him, and then turned a bit hesitantly towards Severus. "Hello, Severus."

"Hello, Miss Evans," Severus said very politely.

Lily gave a smile that was equal parts delight and relief. That, Harry thought, was amazingly cordial, considering Severus's usual tone.

"I just wanted to ask you two if you wanted to have some cake," she said. "It's my birthday."

"Your birthday!" Harry exclaimed. "I—well, happy birthday!"

"Thanks," Lily said, looking a bit bemused.

I didn't know today was her birthday, Harry thought. He wondered what James Potter's birthday was. "So what do you think, Severus? Cake?"

Severus shrugged. "Personally, I'm not very fond of cake."

"Oh, come now, my mother made the cake herself, and managed to get James's owl to bring it to Hogwarts," Lily said, gushing slightly. "Won't you try it? I don't like those terribly sweet cakes either, but you'll probably like this one."

"Are Potter and Black going to be there?" Severus demanded, voice colored by his sneer.

"Well—yes, James and Sirius will be there," Lily said, a bit defensively.

Severus opened his mouth, but shut it quickly and gave Harry a glance. "Well." He paused. "I suppose so."

Lily's face broke forth into a smile once more, and she proceeded to explain how James had made some ridiculous arrangements to get a wizarding band to sneak unnoticed to Hogwarts while leading them through the halls to an abandoned Transfiguration classroom.

"And that thing at breakfast was completely unnecessary," Lily said, blushing.

"We missed breakfast," Harry said apologetically. "Slept a bit too late last night."

"Well, you only missed James making a fool of himself," Lily said, looking every bit like McGonagall. "It wasn't exemplary Head Boy behavior, I must say…"

Severus gave Harry a hard and pointed look, as though to remind him just how painful this whole thing was. Harry smiled weakly.

"I hope you haven't eaten all the cake, Sirius Black," Lily said as she pushed open a door that had a few lilies tied in a small wreath above the doorframe.

Harry peered inside. The room had been greatly enlarged, and a quartet of strangely dressed wizards stood on a podium in the middle of the floor. The sound of their music bounced jauntily through the room, and they seemed to be singing something about American pies. Colorful streamers hung from wall to wall, and magical balloons that floated by like large jellyfishes occasionally made loud raspberry noises.

"Darn you, Evans, you came back," Black joked, and then stopped dead. "Snape?"

"Yes, I invited him here to try some cake," Lily said firmly. "Now move. You've had enough cake for five people."

Black began spluttering. "But—him! It's—he's—he's Snape! You can't invite him—"

"Good day to you, too, Black," Severus sneered.

"Here's some cake," Lily said, holding out two paper plates with squares of cake on them and soundly ignoring Black.

"Thanks," said Harry, taking one of the plates. It was some sort of chocolate cake, Harry decided, though it didn't look too rich. A brief, momentary memory of Dudley Dursley cramming his mouth full of cake crossed his mind, but it was blurred and disappeared when he tried to catch it.

"What's this?" Severus said suspiciously, looking at the fork sticking out of his slice.

"A plastic fork," Harry said, stuffing the cake into his mouth. "Very useful Muggle substance, plastic is."

"James!" Black yelled. "James!"

Potter, who was busily rearranging the presents into a large pyramid in one corner of the room with the help of Remus Lupin, looked up irritably. "What's the matter?"

"What do you mean what's the matter?" Black snarled, making jabbing motions with his hands in Harry and Severus's general direction.

Potter frowned, turning to where Black was motioning, and then blinked in surprise.

"Well, do you like it?" Lily asked, prodding Harry and Severus both in the elbows.

"Mm," Harry mumbled around a mouthful of cake. "It's great." He looked at Severus.

The other Slytherin made a small scoop with his fork, put it in his mouth, and frowned for a moment. He chewed thoughtfully. "Tell your mother," he said, after swallowing, "that she is an exceedingly good cook."

Lily smiled, but her next words were drowned out by Black's yells.

"What do you mean—so?" Black shouted. He was still waving his arms at Harry and Severus and generally looking like an idiot. "She invited them to the party we helped set up!"

"It's her party," Potter said neutrally. "Good day, Frost," he said with an expressionless voice.

"Good day, Potter," Harry said with an equivalent tone.

Potter turned slightly, and a look of dislike flashed across his face. He managed to muster a smile, however, and said, "Good day, Snape."

Snape turned a disdainful eye on the Gryffindor before saying in a vaguely condescending voice, "Good day, Potter."

This is a rather bad idea, Harry thought, glancing at Lily, who was obliviously talking to another girl. She, too, was shooting querying glances at Harry and Severus. Obviously Gryffindor, Harry thought in mild disgust.

The door swung open. Peter Pettigrew stumbled in, nearly falling over a stray balloon as he did so. "Peter, there you are," Black yelled, motioning him over and shooting a glare in Severus's direction. "I've got something to tell you."

Pettigrew, Harry thought, the old hatred coming back to him like a slowly rising tide of acid. He narrowed his eyes as the traitor looked at him and Severus in surprise—but only mild surprise, one that changed into a strange look of vindictive triumph before a balloon flew straight into his face, and he tripped on his robes and tumbled backwards.

Harry gave a loud bark of laughter.

"Enjoying the party?" Lily asked, face flushed.

"Yes, very much so," Harry said, turning away from Pettigrew and wiping away the look of hatred from his face.

Lily smiled. "Don't you love this song? I've no idea where James found wizarding band that would sing it."

"What song is it?"

Lily looked at Harry in surprise. "You don't know it?"

"No," Harry said. "My parents played nothing but opera."

"You really missed out," Lily said, moving her body to the music. "This song's from the United States, actually. It came out—nine years ago, I think."

"What's it called?"

"American Pie," said Lily, and then broke into song, swinging her hips as she did so.

"Bye, bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singing, 'This'll be the day that I die,

This'll be the day that I die.'"

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Harry said.

Lily stopped dancing to explain. "There're several interpretations, actually, but the levee refers to the civil rights workers who were murdered somewhere in Mississippi, a state in the South. They were killed and then buried in the levee—that is, a dam."

"Oh," said Harry. "That's vaguely disturbing."

"Yes," said Lily, and her eyes flashed, "injustice never ends, does it?"

"I suppose not," Harry said. She's still so idealistic, he thought, and remembered that he had mended the wand that would kill her. "What's with the singing, 'This'll be the day that I die?'"

Lily shrugged. "I don't know. I think it might mean that, when those civil rights workers died, a part of the entire country of the United States died along with it. Do you get what I mean, maybe?"

Harry nodded. "Pretty deep. It's like saying—" He paused, trying to think of an example from this time, but he could not.

"I don't know, really," Lily said, "and maybe it means something completely different, but it's great to sing, isn't it? Come on, sing it with me."

"I don't know all the words—"

"Just the chorus. Come on, here it is—"

She began to sing, and Harry, hesitatingly, followed her lead.

"Bye, bye Miss American Pie

Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry

Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye

Singing, 'This'll be the day that I die,

This'll be the day that I die.'"

"Wasn't too bad, was it?" Lily said, laughing, her face flushed.

Harry smiled, but the last line of the chorus ran through his head: This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die.

Severus, he thought, and looked around. He frowned, scanning the room from one end to the other. Potter was conferring quietly with Lupin and Black over something; a gaggle of Gryffindors was laughing next to the punchbowl; the band was singing passionately into a set of magical microphones. He could not see Severus.

"Strange, I saw him there just a moment ago," said Lily, following Harry's gaze.

He wouldn't just leave, would he? Harry wondered, frowning. He swept his gaze across the room again, looking in particular in the corners—and, in one corner, caught Peter Pettigrew's eyes.

He knows, Harry thought with a furious surge of hatred.

He strode through the crowd, shouldering past the guests, slapping away the balloons that came too close. His gaze remained fixed on Pettigrew, and he felt a certain spark of satisfaction as the smugness melted away into fear.

"Pettigrew," Harry said, spitting out the name with distaste. "I hope you are enjoying the party."

"It's very nice," he said stoutly, but Harry could hear the quaver in his voice.

"Very nice," Harry sneered with deadly quietness. "Tell me now, Pettigrew, if it's so nice, would it be polite to force someone to leave the party?"

Pettigrew took an unconscious step backwards. "N-no—"

"Exactly." Harry stepped closer, and he could see the fear bloom in Pettigrew's eyes. "Now tell me, and I'll know if you're lying"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"where. Is. Severus?"

For a moment, Harry thought Pettigrew was going to wet his pants. But the pudgy face managed to pull itself into the semblance of a nasty sort of smile. "Are you so c-concerned about your lover?"

Harry stepped back. He's being protected, he thought. Someone's offered him protection; there's no other way he would not be a quivering mess right now. Is it Voldemort? Harry felt a wave of coldness wash through his body, but he hid it, instead sneering, "Don't be bitter. Simply because Sirius thinks you're ugly and fat doesn't mean you need to be jealous of what Severus and I have."

Pettigrew paled. Harry smiled and leaned closer. "You needn't worry. I probably won't tell. Probably." His voice dropped again to a whisper. "Where is Severus?"

The rat swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a small red buoy at sea. "P-Professor Matellan asked me to t-tell him to go t-to the Headmaster's Office."

Dumbledore.

Harry pulled back. The band was singing the chorus for the last time, stretching the final lines as much as they could, motioning for the crowd to follow their lead: This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die…

Harry turned and walked through the crowd, slipping past the waving arms and shaking hips. Lily was talking to Potter, their heads bent in a tender moment when Harry reached them.

"Excuse me," Harry said to Potter, drawing Lily aside by the elbow. Potter frowned, and opened his mouth to speak, but Harry flung out a command with his mind for the fool to stay quiet, and Potter's mouth snapped shut.

"Jonathan?" said Lily, looking up bemusedly.

Harry drew them aside to a corner, and cast a web of magic about them so that they could speak in peace. "Lily, remember the rituals we did?"

She frowned at the urgency in his voice. "Yes?"

"Those were rituals of sacrifice, drawing on the Wild Magic for power. No! Listen to me." He gripped her elbows, and for the first time, Harry saw fear appear on Lily's face.

"Jonathan—"

"The basis of the sacrifice need not be a ritual. If you can channel the Wild Magic, then you need only the strength of your sacrifice to complete the magic."

"Jonathan, your eyes—"

"LISTEN!" Harry hissed, and immediately fell silent. He could hear the power of his magic distorting his voice, ringing it with the hiss of an enraged storm. He cleared his throat. "What about my eyes?"

"They're red," Lily whispered in wonderment and in fear.

Red? Harry thought, and turned away quickly. Red. He remembered how he had looked right after he had arrived at this time: the Dark Mark etched into his face, the red of Voldemort's eyes streaking his irises. But no, he thought, it's not the red of Voldemort's eyes. Voldemort was a quivering wreck on the ground, nothing more than a plaything in his hands. It's the red of what I am, he thought.

"Sleep deprivation," Harry said shortly, and kept his grip on Lily's elbows. From the edges of his vision, he could see Potter, a concentrated look on his face, his gaze slipping back and forth over the corner where Lily was.

"But Jonathan, that would make the whites of your eyes red, not your irises—"

"Please Lily," Harry interrupted softly, "listen to me. Let me give you my gift. For your birthday."

"What? But you didn't even know today was my birthday, how could you have prepared a gift?"

"Lily," Harry said, repeating her name, trying to calm her, "please, listen to me. I am going to give you the gift of being able to channel the Wild Magic."

Lily blinked in confusion. She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry grabbed the back of her head and pressed their mouths together. Lily made a noise of protest, but it was quickly muffled.

Let her be my channel, Harry thought, and he could almost see, lurking like a shadow in moonlight, the form of the Wild Magic, loping about like a large hunting cat. He could feel Lily struggling in his grasp, feel Lily's pushing ineffectually against him, but he pressed forward harder, watching the Wild Magic sniff the girl experimentally. Then the Wild Magic purred deeply, a sound that vibrated Harry's sternum, and disappeared like shapes in the fog.

Harry let go. Lily stumbled as she gasped for breath and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Sorry," Harry said. "You can feel it though, can't you? The Wild Magic."

She looked up at him dazedly. "I—you…"

"Never mind that," Harry said brusquely. "Tell me—now. Can you feel it?"

Lily frowned, still looking bewildered. I just French-kissed my mother, a distant part of Harry's mind thought with a sort of droll and exasperated amusement. He waited impatiently.

"It feels like a wind's blowing through me," Lily said, looking up in bewilderment. "But that—?"

"Good," Harry said, and broke the magic that surrounded them.

"Lily! There you are," Potter called out in relief. He hurried towards them. "I thought you'd just disappeared…"

Harry slipped away from the two Gryffindors. He shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the cries of pain or indignation, and pushed open the door.

The fresh air brushed across his face like a breeze. He had not realized how stifling the room had been with all its noise and balloons and streamers. The silence fell like an anvil, stunning his senses into alertness. It was as though the entire castle were listening to him.

He ran. The corridors were filled with a handful of students who had just finished lunch. A few looked at him curiously as he past, but the world had trickled down to the blood pounding his ears, the thud of each step against the hard flagstone floor. In his mind ran the last words of that Muggle song, as persistently as the tendrils of the Devil's Snare—this will be the day that I die, that I die, that I die…

He stopped in front of the gargoyle, resting for a moment to catch his breath. The statue stared blankly at him.

Harry took a deep breath. "Open," he hissed, the Parseltongue slithering from his lips and echoing in the empty corridor. The gargoyle shuddered, and clambered aside with slow, grinding movements. The wall split in two, and Harry plunged through. The spiral staircase began its slow ascent, but Harry took the steps in twos, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs until finally he reached the oak doors.

Open! Harry thought furiously, and the two panels of wood slammed back, thudding into the wall with a tremendous crack.

Dumbledore looked up and smiled sadly. "Mr. Frost, what an unexpected surprise."

The headmaster was sitting behind his massive desk. All the small silver instruments Harry remembered so well still cluttered the surface. The curtains were drawn, showing the white moor surrounding the castle and the snow-covered trees of the Forbidden Forest. In a corner, perched in his cage, was Fawkes, sleeping and moving his wings gently in his slumber.

Harry walked with a frown to where Severus was sitting. Severus had looked up only once, and in that brief glance, Harry had caught a look of pain or bitterness before Severus had turned away, the curtain of his hair once more obscuring his eyes.

"Severus?" Harry said softly. He moved closer, and placed a hand hesitatingly on Severus's shoulder. The bony shoulder stiffened slightly at his touch. Harry strengthened his grip, trying to communicate comfort as well as he could, and raised his gaze to look defiantly, challengingly into Dumbledore's eyes.

"I see that you have abandoned parts of your glamour," Dumbledore said.

Harry smiled thinly. "The eyes are always the first to go, for some odd reason."

Severus looked up at this, and started slightly at the sight of Harry's eyes. Then he frowned, looking from him to Dumbledore.

"Yes, he knows that I am not all that I am," Harry said, answering the unspoken question. There was a chair next to Severus, and, without waiting for an invitation, Harry drew it back and took a seat. He let go of Severus's shoulder and moved his hand further down, feeling blindly until he had Severus's hand in his. He squeezed it, wishing he could tell Severus the thought that now ran through his mind: If I could tell anyone all my wretched secrets, I would tell you Severus, tell you first and nobody else…

"Unfortunately, I know little else," Dumbledore said with a sigh.

Harry waited. Dumbledore had opened a drawer, and was fumbling through it, his head bending lower and lower until it was almost out of sight. Hurry up, old man, Harry thought coldly. Nobody in this room is going to be fooled by your sherbet lemons.

Dumbledore emerged with a small, circular tin container. "I'm afraid there is little I can say to convey my condolences, but here are some specially brewed Lemon Memory Mints," he said, addressing Severus. "They may be of help if things seem too bleak to bear."

Severus looked down expressionlessly at the proffered sweets. "No, thank you," he said.

Harry frowned. Severus's hand was stony in his grip, tense and leaden like a statue that could only mimic the life around. "What is it?"

Dumbledore gave Severus a questioning look, as though asking for permission.

"My mother is dead," Severus said flatly.

Harry sat back in surprise. Eileen Prince—dead. Out of the numbness curled a small tendril of satisfaction. He was glad, glad that the woman's ghost was the only thing that could haunt Severus now. But, Harry thought, observing the frozen features of Severus's face, sometimes the dead is far worse than the living.

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

"She died with—a picture of him in her hands," Severus said, voice colored with disgust. "Wasted away while thinking of that—" He paused, and continued in a more controlled voice. "Of him."

Harry silently squeezed Severus's hand again, knowing that words were all but useless. There could not have been any lost love among the three, Harry thought, but pain could still fester from hate and longing.

"I wish I could give you words of consolation, but—alas, for grief as deep as this, perhaps time is the only balm," Dumbledore said gravely. "Only know that my door is open to you, whenever you may need it."

A bitter sneer flashed briefly over Severus's face, but he remained silent.

The headmaster sighed, and Harry, looking at the face that had far fewer wrinkles and lines than he remembered, thought that Dumbledore seemed momentarily as old as he would be in twenty long years.

"Mr. Snape, you may leave if you wish, but I must ask Mr. Frost to remain."

So it is time, Harry thought with heavy finality. He could feel Severus stiffen, and saw, from the corner of his vision, Severus glance questioningly at Harry's eyes.

"Mr. Snape?"

"You said that I may leave if I wish," Severus said. There was a pause. "And," he snapped, "as it so happens, I lack the desire to leave your office, Professor Dumbledore."

"Very well," Dumbledore said and nodded, almost grimly. He kept his eyes fixed on Harry's face.

The silence stretched, as tense as the skin of a drum. "What do you wish to say to me, Headmaster?" Harry asked.

"A few nights ago," said Dumbledore, "I received a most unusual message. A small container appeared on my desk, bearing a note telling me that what lay before me was a memory of great importance. Naturally I was curious, and so I decided to view the memory."

He paused.

"And you saw—me," Harry said.

"Yes. I saw you, Mr. Frost," Dumbledore said.

"And my eyes were as they are now—colored by Voldemort, and my face…" Harry tightened his grasp, as though afraid Severus's hand would slip away. "My face showed Voldemort's mark, the way it was when you first found me."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. Harry felt Severus's grip on his hand tighten briefly, unexpectedly in a gesture of reassurance, and Harry felt a surge of happiness flowup from his heart. I love him, oh God, I love him— Unbidden, the memories flashed through his mind: Severus, his eyes burning, whispering, I would never judge you ill… The warm light of the fireplace, flickering warm and wrapping them in a world of their own, You are… the best thing—I have ever encountered…

"Not long after I received that message, the person who sent it died a very mysterious death," said Dumbledore.

There was a silence. "How coincidental," Harry said dryly.

"That was what I hoped, too. However, upon scanning a particular section of the Slytherin dormitory, I was…" Dumbledore paused, and the look of weariness deepened, "…disturbed to find it simply radiating Dark Magic."

Harry was aware of the note of contempt that had seeped into his voice. "Not all Dark Magic is malicious."

Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. Harry felt a warning squeeze from Severus, but his mind was consumed by a turmoil of fierce, uncaring rebellion. What did it matter what he did now? There was now nothing left to lose, and whatever he did—whatever he did—

He remembered the worry that had plagued him when he first arrived, the fear that what he did would change the future. That fear had been reconciled by the belief that whatever he did was fated to occur anyway, but now he knew that, if he desired it enough, he could change the future. He could mold a world that suited his desires: no Dumbledore, no Voldemort, nothing that stood in the way between him and Severus. Nothing.

"We also found residues of Lestrange's clothing in your fireplace," Dumbledore said, looking more tired than ever.

Harry felt a touch on his wrist. Severus's thumb was prodding him slightly, and he realized he had been squeezing Severus's hand in an iron grip. He relaxed, and felt some of the anger in him fall away like withered leaves from their branches.

"Did you have a house-elf search the fireplace?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, looking at Harry with an appraising glance. "I would venture to guess that you could sense the magical signature?"

Harry nodded. "There was no magical residue from wizards or witches."

"Ah. Incidentally, there is one house-elf whose memories of you are rather unfavorable…"

"Room too messy?" Harry quipped, and Dumbledore smiled humorlessly. Harry could almost hear, again, the thin voice quavering, Master…

It was Severus who broke the silence. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? That is a very good and very rhetorical question, Mr. Snape. If I could have my way, none of this would have happened. Tom Riddle would be using his brilliance for a good cause, Terrance Lestrange would still be alive, and I would not have calledthe two of you here." Dumbledore sighed, and the sadness returned to his eyes. "But as it is, I wish I did not need to press charges against the two of you for murder."

Harry felt Severus tense, and he tightened his grip in a gesture of reassurance. "Two of you?" Harry said slowly. "There was only one murder, and one murderer."

"That, I'm afraid, is completely untrue," Severus snapped, giving Harry a fierce look. "I would like to make a confession, Professor Dumbledore, regarding my role in the death of Terrance Lestrange."

Harry shook his head. "Please, Severus—"

"A confession?" Dumbledore interrupted softly, and Harry felt sickened at the deceptively inviting tone.

"A confession in the form of a memory—of something that happened four years ago."

Harry froze in surprise. "Severus—"

"Four years ago?" Dumbledore echoed, frowning. "I don't quite understand."

Of course you don't, you old fool, Harry thought viciously, but the anger was dampened by a hollow sorrow that formed a tight knot in his throat.

"No, Severus, don't…" he muttered, and turned and closed his eyes, the knowledge of impending departure digging into his heart like nails. He took a deep breath and pressed his face against Severus's elbow, not caring a whit that Dumbledore saw. "Please. It's not worth it—not worth it for me."

"Not worth it?" Severus demanded, and Harry could hear the embarrassment and confusion and anger in his voice. "Don't be a fool. It's just the sort of thing that can turn a jury's decision."

"It doesn't matter," Harry whispered. He took a shuddering breath. "I—haven't much time, anyway."

Severus froze. Harry could feel the black eyes boring holes in his head, but he only stared down at Severus's slender fingers, etching their every detail into his mind. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. He raised his head to meet Dumbledore's blue gaze and sealed the barrier of his mind so that the old wizard would not hear the anguish of his soul as it wept for forgiveness. His voice was steady as he spoke. "Voldemort knows that I am responsible for Lestrange's death. He gave me two choices: to join his ranks, or…" Harry mustered a grim smile. "I would experience the full effects of having his Mark."

Harry reached up to his hairline and pulled his hand across his face. The magic rippled away as the glamour dissipated. He felt Dumbledore and Severus's eyes on his face, and he wondered what he looked like to them.

"But you said," Severus snapped, a note of desperation coloring his voice, "you said you managed to convince him—"

"I convinced him to let me decide at the next Death-Eater meeting," Harry said gently. Then, looking at no one, he continued, "I won't tell you how I received the Mark, and how my eyes became as they are, but it wasn't willingly done. This—treatment has made me—completely under the control of the Dark Lord." He looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes, and his words strangely did not feel like a lie. "In his hand, my life is nothing more than an eggshell."

"You can't be serious!" Severus shouted. Suddenly he was on his feet; his chair had fallen over with a thud. "You—you liar!"

Harry closed his eyes and felt almost with pleasure the pain of those words sinking into him, impaling his heart, worming their way into the emptiness of his soul and echoing there—liar… liar…

"Excuse us, Professor Dumbledore," Severus said roughly, and, grabbing Harry by the arm, pulled him out of the office.

"Ambio silencio," Severus barked, drawing a large arc with his wand.

They were in front of the large oak doors, at the very top of the spiral staircase. Whereas the light of Dumbledore's office had been white, suffused with reflections from the snowy ground, the stairwell was lit mostly by torches that flickered from the wall. In the reddish light, Harry could almost imagine they were back in their dormitory, away from the rest of the world.

"Can he hear us still?" Severus asked, poking his wand at the barrier he had just created.

"Probably not," Harry said.

"Good." Severus turned and Harry felt skewered by Severus's fierce, almost desperate gaze. "Listen, you idiot. Join Voldemort. Don't die. Do anything but die. Join him, kill as many people as he tells you to. Don't die."

"Severus, it's no use. He'll know I'm not loyal, and I'll be dead by mor—"

"NO!" Severus roared.

Silence followed. It was painful, too painful to look at those black eyes, usually so inscrutable, now naked with fear and anguish. A distant part of Harry's mind was murmuring like the wind through tree branches, bare and bleak: I'm sorry… But leaden emptiness gnawed him, reminding him of the hollowness and uselessness of those words, dead even before they could be born from his frozen lips.

"There's no other way," Harry said softly, looking down. "I—"

Suddenly Harry found his face pressed in Severus's neck, felt arms clutching him with a frantic desperation. Almost numbly, Harry moved his arms to return the embrace. I love you, Harry thought, and a voice inside him shrieked at him: Tell him! Speak them aloud! But like his arms, his lips felt paralyzed, and he could only shut his eyes and run his hands over the warm, quivering back, through the tangled, oily hair.

Finally Severus let go, his eyes averted.

"Severus," Harry said hesitantly. "There's something I want to give you." He reached into his pocket and fished out the small silver ring. "This is—for you."

Severus shook his head. He intercepted Harry's hand before the ring could slip onto his finger. "I don't want it," Severus muttered thickly. "Give it to me when it's all over. You promised you would tell me everything you can't tell me now. Give it to me then."

Harry swallowed painfully. "Severus, please, just—just take it." He reached for Severus's hand, but Severus shrunk away.

"I told you, I don't want it," he said, his voice rising slightly. "Give it to me when it's all over, or I won't ever take it."

"Severus—"

"I mean it," Severus said, his tone hard.

"It might never be over," Harry snapped, and immediately regretted the words, cursing his own stupidity for having said them. "Now, don't be ridiculous, give me your hand—"

"You promised," Severus hissed. "You—I hate you!"

"Don't be idiotic, come on, put this on—"

"NO!" Severus snarled. "Is this your idea of a parting gift? How long have you been planning this?" He snatched the ring from Harry's hand and threw it furiously against the wall. It bounced off with a sharp noise and disappeared down the stairwell. "I wish I had never met you," Severus said in a horribly shaky voice. "I don't ever want to see you again!"

There was a silence.

"As you wish," Harry said stonily, the ache in his chest and knot in his throat turning his voice cold and aloof. He reached for the oak doors, breaking out of the bubble of Severus's magic, and reentered Dumbledore's office.

The headmaster looked up, and Harry glanced away, unable to meet the penetrating blue gaze. He felt sick. He waited a moment, but Severus did not follow. Briefly he wished that Severus would stalk through that pair of doors, and the longing of that moment nearly consumed him, but he knew it would be easier if Severus remained outside. Harry walked across the room and took a seat opposite the headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said, "there was only one murder and only one murderer. Severus Snape is blameless. As the sole perpetrator of the deed, I intend to perform penance by killing the man who used to be Tom Riddle."

Dumbledore was quiet. Harry looked up, and immediately felt a probing against his mind. Harry pulled back his defenses and flashed images across his consciousness, images he calculated would derail the old fool—the silver ring bouncing off the stone walls; the cradle of smoky warmth, cocooning himself and Severus in a world of their own; the feel of Severus's fingers on his lips, the feel of Severus's mouth pressed against his as they kissed those two, desperate times; the first time they had touched with the intimacy of lovers, walking down the deserted corridors at night, fingers shyly touching; the intensity of hate as he stabbed Lestrange with his magic—

He felt Dumbledore cling to that memory like a burr. Harry offered only token resistance, then brought forth the memory of Lestrange's naked body, naked and pale like marble upon the hearth; the memory of Lestrange's mocking eyes, which glinted even at death.

But Dumbledore wormed for the previous memory, that of the whirlwind chase Lestrange had led through Severus's memories. Harry put up more resistance, torn between a desire to protect Severus's secrets and the craving to fling the horror of the memory into Dumbledore's face, as if to say: this is what your twinkling eyes have brought, this is the result of your stupid sherbet lemons, your idiotic reassurances of safety—

Dumbledore pushed harder.

…The young Lestrange smiled a knowing smile on his face, still a child's face. "And you, Severus?" he asked in a polite tone. "Are you enjoying it?"

The face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—burning darkly with a wordless anguish—eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly…

Suddenly, it was too much. Harry gave an involuntary cry, and Dumbledore was gone from his mind with an explosion of power.

"IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE?" Harry shouted. The world blurred before his eyes. "WHY MUST YOU HATE HIM WHEN I LOVE HIM?"

He swiped his eyes angrily and realized his hand became wet with tears: hot, sparse tears, burning his eyes uncomfortably. Dumbledore, Harry noticed, had been knocked onto the ground. The headmaster was now righting his chair, and a feeling of dread and grimness settled into Harry's stomach as Dumbledore took his seat with slow, deliberate movements. Harry reached into his sleeve and gripped his wand.

But when he lifted his gaze, he saw that Dumbledore's face lacked any trace of suspicion. There was only sorrow, a grief that deepened the wrinkles and turned the skin pale, as though the old headmaster had been struck by a sudden blow. He's only acting, Harry thought, it's all a façade, a mask both he and you wish to believe in. He'll attack you when you least expect it. But his hold on his wand slackened, and he felt the numbness creep back to encase his heart.

Dumbledore sighed, a deep sigh as he gazed out at the snow falling on the pines of the Forbidden Forest. He's averted his gaze, Harry thought dully. Dumbledore is never the first to look away.

"I never had even the slightest suspicion," Dumbledore said quietly. "Not even a whisper. How couldn't I have known?"

"Your track record with Slytherins is rather dismal," Harry said expressionlessly. Dumbledore shot him a pained glance, but Harry ignored it. "And I don't think you truly care." He paused, feeling the words come to him slowly, laboriously. "You probably would have twenty years ago, but not anymore. You think that you care, because it's nice to think so. But you don't. Not really."

Dumbledore sighed again. "Mr. Frost," he said in a weary tone, "I don't think there's anything I can say to convince you otherwise, is there?"

"Please don't try," Harry said dryly. Then he became grave and spoke in a grim, relentless tone. "I am leaving now. You won't be seeing me again for a long—a very long time, and neither—neither will Severus. Be kind to him. It will break him in the end, but it will be more than almost anything anyone has ever shown him."

Harry stopped. "Forgive him if he errs," he added, and realized that there was nothing more to say. He rose abruptly.

"Where are you going?" Dumbledore called, standing up as well.

"To fight," Harry answered. To die, he thought. This'll be the day that I die.

He pushed open the door and shut it behind him, waiting to see if Dumbledore would follow. The doors remained shut. The stairway revolved slowly, making almost no sound as it wound up in a lazy spiral. Harry looked down the stairwell. Severus was gone.

Numbly, Harry stepped onto the staircase and let it bear him down. He watched each carpeted step appear from around the corner, one after another in an unhurried progression. What was the last thing we said? Harry wondered. He tried to remember, but all he could see was the silver ring bouncing against the wall and disappearing down the stairway.

He blinked. Suddenly he was at the bottom, and with a frown, he bent down, looking across the ground. There was nothing; the ring was not there.

It can't have been Filch, Harry thought. And all the students are in class, and it can't have been Peeves—

He felt a strange lump in his throat, and was about to walk through the opening the gargoyle made when he felt strands of magic hanging in the air before him. He reached out a hand, but even before he could taste the signature, he knew who had left them there: Severus. The spell was a tracking charm.

"Severus!" Harry shouted, the word tearing out of his throat without conscious thought. He felt the sudden, desperate urge to see Severus once more, to look at that face, to run his hands once again over the sharp planes of the high cheekbones, the crease of the frown—

"SEVERUS!"

Down to the roots of the castle, his voice reverberated like waves moving silently through water; and Harry suddenly found his consciousness embracing the entirety of Hogwarts with that one burst of sound. In McGonagall's classroom, Potter was anxiously happy, his eyes fixed on Lily Evans, who was still in a sort of daze… Further down, in Ancient Runes, Malfoy was thinking angrily of how Bulstrode was not properly honoring the Malfoys, how to turn the Dark Lord against Frost, how he missed Lestrange… In the abandoned classroom, where Lily had had her party, Black was talking to Remus Lupin about the fissure he felt forming between himself and his closest friends… Outside the castle, near the broom shed, Severus was gripping one of the school brooms with fierce determination, pushing down the nervousness he always felt when he was around broomsticks. He could feel his tracking spell ready to spring, and when Jonathan left, he would follow—quietly, unnoticed, until it was too late for Jonathan to send him back—

Harry pulled the tracking spell and felt it snap in his hands.

He let go. The magic dissipated into nothingness, the shadow of its ashes drifting down in small eddies and vanishing.

Someone was in the corridor in front of him. When he looked up again, it was with a sense of dull surprise and weariness that he found himself staring down the length of Matellan's wand.

Matellan broke the silence. "Is there a reason why you are not in class?"

Harry shrugged. He felt tired and numb, and wished that he could lie down and let his shoulders become hills, his face a pasture, his hands and legs crags for trees to grow on.

"I asked you a question, Mr. Frost," Matellan said icily. "I would also appreciate it if you explained those… markings on your face."

"Judging from the position of your wand, I don't think you care what my answer is," Harry said. He suddenly didn't want to see anyone anymore. Turning around, he began his way down the hall.

"I am warning you, Frost," Matellan said.

Harry ignored it. Snow drifted down past the windows, and frost crept up in delicate rays from the iron bars dividing the window in blocks of glass.

He felt a surge of magic before him, and felt a rush of surprise—it was much faster than anything he had expected, and flowed with strange familiarity.

Lestrange! he thought as ropes wound about his arms and tightened painfully. Their magic… it is so similar.

Harry felt another wave of magic approaching, one that would bear him in the air and float him down the halls like a balloon. He clamped his mind down on the magic, and felt the floor meet his feet.

Matellan frowned and took out her wand. "You want to make things difficult, don't you?" she barked.

Harry looked at her curiously. "Why is your magic so similar to that of Terrance Lestrange?"

Matellan's wand was trained unwaveringly at Harry with the practiced grip of an Auror. "Lestrange?" Matellan repeated, her face carefully kept blank. "I have no idea what you mean."

"They're both cold and swift," Harry said, "like the wind upon the waves, the hawk above the cliff, the tide that drags to death, the tomb of every hope…"

Harry trailed off. Matellan's face, as pale as a frosted sheet of snow, seemed to be carved from wax, and the knuckles of her wand-hand were clenched white.

"Who told you that?" she demanded harshly. "Who?"

"Why are you so concerned?" Harry countered in a perfectly neutral voice.

Matellan stepped forward, and Harry could feel a ripple of power billowing from her form. "I asked you a question, Frost," she said on a cold, hard voice. "I command you to answer me."

"I made it up on the spot."

"Who told you that?" she shouted, voice reverberating down the corridor. "Was it Lestrange? Malfoy?" She paused before continuing. "Was it your master, Voldemort?" Harry gave no answer, and only stared at her impassively. "Was it your Se-ve-rus…"

Harry felt hatred roar through his body, turning his vision red. She had phrased the word like a taunt, framing it with the condescending leer of disgust. The ropes around his body snapped with a shrug, and he swept out his right arm in an angry, brutal gesture. Matellan flew down the hallway like a tumbleweed caught in a gale, smashed into the window, and disappeared in the snowstorm outside.

Harry walked unhurriedly to the window. Snowflakes were swirling into the corridor, forming little patches of snow on the ground. He could dimly make out the turrets, each coated with the ubiquitous whiteness, and the long, sloping roof. At the end of a rapidly vanishing smear across the roof was Matellan, struggling in the wind to right herself.

Harry took out his wand and flicked it. The snow and ice tore off the roof and formed an opaque cloud before revealing a path, black from the wet tiled roof.

He clambered out and strode leisurely down to where Matellan was crouched, her eyes narrowed like those of a cornered animal, her wand gripped tightly in both hands like a broadsword.

"No," Harry said, "I was not told that… by Severus."

It was difficult even to say the name. The spike of pain arose, and Harry flung out his hand as though to ward off memories.

Where is he? Harry wondered. Almost before he had finished the thought, an image materialized in his mind. Severus crouched in the broom shed, his nose red from the cold, his eyes set with resolve, his breath forming vapors as he huddled in a corner, waiting…

No! Harry cried, clawing away the image, trying to concentrate on anything but that—

Someone was behind him. He froze and kept his eyes on Matellan, who was pacing back and forth like a wary animal, briefly glancing over the edge of the precipice mere steps behind her. The presence he felt was familiar, though somehow distorted—

Ah, Harry thought. Pettigrew. In rat form.

Harry felt a streak of magic flying by his shoulder like a carrier pigeon. He snaked out his hand and snuffed it out, but before the magic disappeared, he caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a distress signal, flying towards Dumbledore's office.

"I would advise you not to do anything rash," Harry said pleasantly, though his gaze on Matellan was steely.

"And I would advise you to end this foolishness at once!" Matellan barked. Harry could hear the shiver in her voice, the trembling in her hands. "Return immediately to the castle before we all die of exposure."

Harry shrugged and smiled. He could feel Pettigrew's magic changing, the muffling presence of the rat slipping away as the traitor reverted to his true form. "Quite honestly, I find the weather just fine. A little snow never hurt anyone."

"Whatever you want, Frost, we can discuss it inside," Matellan said sternly. Harry smiled again, but coldly and humorlessly. He had seen the momentary flick of recognition in her eyes; she knew that Pettigrew was there.

"I merely want to enjoy the beautiful snowfall," Harry said, taking a step closer.

"Then you can enjoy it in the warmth of Dumbledore's office," Matellan snapped, shifting backwards closer to the edge. "I'm sure he can offer you some hot cocoa."

"I need the cold to say awake," Harry said, moving forward another step.

Then Matellan moved her wand in an almost unnoticeable gesture, twisting it slightly in preparation for a spell. Harry glanced up sharply, and saw the mirroring knowledge in her eyes (they were grey, Harry thought, grey as the sea, grey like Lestrange's eyes)—

He felt a hot burst brushing his shoulder, ready to sink into his flesh. Bastard! he roared in his mind. Time seemed to slow. He twisted furiously, watching the hot streak of magic soar past him like a flaming arrow, turning the unmoving snowflakes to vapor as it cut through the chilly air. Then time resumed its pace, and the spell struck Matellan in the chest. She fell backwards, and was gone.

Harry whirled around. Pettigrew was staring at the spot where Matellan had been, his mouth open in dismay, his eyes widening with increasing horror. Harry walked swiftly to the edge and looked over it. White emptiness, narrowed to a point by the endless turrets, stared back at him. Nothing can survive that, Harry thought. In fact, she might still be falling. He turned around, and felt a simmer of satisfaction.

"Well now, if it isn't Mr. Peter Pettigrew," Harry said. He clucked his tongue. "You seem to have caused a most grievous accident." He paused, watching Pettigrew pull himself into a shivering ball. Stay, Harry commanded, and Pettigrew gave a very mouse-like squeak as he collapsed in a heap on the roof.

"Are you thinking of leaving already?" Harry chided. "Aren't you going to attempt to see at least if you can rescue her, like the brave Gryffindor you surely are?"

Pettigrew was rooting through the snow for his wand, and nearly dropped it as he emerged. He glanced behind at the sloping roof, and inched backwards.

"Do you think you can run?" Harry asked coldly. He closed his hands slowly in a fist, and Pettigrew slipped and fell, his body slowly pulled towards the edge.

"Stupefy!" Pettigrew gibbered, his wand pointed at Harry.

Harry shook his head slightly, and the magic fragmented.

"Locomotor mortis! Impedimenta! Reducto!"

Harry batted the first two spells out the way, but as the third one came hurtling towards him, he paused and opened his mouth. The magic scraped against his teeth, scouring his tongue, fighting madly against the roof of his mouth. It tasted… alive and intangible, struggling and sparking, but tainted throughout with the aura of that traitor. Harry ground his teeth hard, and felt the magic wink out of existence, leaving behind only a few specks of memory that he swallowed.

"Reminds me of marmite," Harry said.

Pettigrew glared, the loathing in his eyes belying his fear. "What do you w-want, Frost?"

Harry gave a disdainful laugh. "Do you think I would need to frighten you to get what I want? I can have anything and everything I want. Anything."

But even as he said the words aloud, he heard a vast emptiness in them. If he could have anything he wanted, why did he feel so hollow? And what did he want? To be with Severus—to remove Voldemort from the world, shape the path of future to his pleasure? He reined back before his mind could reach those thoughts that were too terrible and painful to consider, thoughts that he would pretend not to exist, thoughts that would burn him like dark fire and leave him pale ashes.

"What I want," Harry snarled and clenched his hand into a fist—Pettigrew jerked as though pulled by invisible strings— "And what you can give me," Harry repeated, softly and politely this time, "is to know… How were you sorted into Gryffindor, since you were so easily induced to betray your friends? Was the Sorting Hat blind, or were you a particularly slippery student?"

"Betray my friends?" Pettigrew echoed blankly.

"Yes, your friends," Harry spat. "Potter, Black… Perhaps it has not yet happened, but it will—"

"I would never betray them!" Pettigrew shouted furiously, and he even sounded as though he meant it. "You sick Slytherin—pouf! I'd never do such a thing!"

Harry smiled indulgently. He searched Pettigrew's eyes, but they were too hotly outraged for him to see much. "Mm. You're not a bad actor, you know…"

"I would never betray my friends," Pettigrew repeated in a vehement hiss. "I would die first."

Harry smiled again, this time as coldly as the wintry air. He clenched his fist and whirled around. With a yelp, Pettigrew tumbled across the roof, his arms flaying and legs kicking helplessly as he shot off the edge in a spray of snow.

Harry walked to the edge and looked down. Pettigrew was dangling from the edge, clutching to an invisible rope that was wound around his neck. His face, already red from the cold, had a purplish tinge, and his eyes and tongue lolled grotesquely.

"Shall we reconsider?" Harry asked pleasantly, squatting at the edge and smiling downwards. "Your friends—or your life?"

Pettigrew seemed to be having trouble breathing. He kicked the air pointlessly, and pulled at the rope that encircled his neck, and Harry heard the traitor gasp before choking out two words: "My… friends…"

"Your friends!" Harry spat. He flicked his wrist. Pettigrew snapped up through the air, and made a gurgling noise as he dangled mere feet beyond the edge. Harry reached out and struck the ugly, purpling face. "Your friends—or your life?"

"F… friends—"

Harry tightened his fist and gritted his teeth in frustration. Pettigrew rattled up and down, and a few coins fell out of his pocket.

"They don't even like you!" Harry barked. "They think you're annoying, that you're a nuisance. You're nothing to them, Pettigrew. Nothing."

Even as Pettigrew struggled with both hands for air to draw half a breath, he glanced down at Harry with a look of contempt. "They'd… d-die… for me…"

Harry nearly laughed. "Yes, but would you die for them?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "Think about it, Pettigrew. What are you to them? Potter treats you like an infant, like a first-year. And Lupin only talks to you because nobody else does. And Black—" Harry smiled maliciously. "Dear Sirius. He's quite beautiful, isn't he? And sometimes, when he talks to you, he can make you feel as though you're actually someone, that he actually cares."

Pettigrew's face twisted into a rictus of hate. The helplessness of his eyes, silent in their fury, was positively delightful.

"You want him, don't you?" Harry whispered, stepping closer. "Oh yes, you want him." He edged his mind into Pettigrew's gaze; the resistance he countered was pitiful, parting before him like warm butter. He saw an early memory, that of Black defending Pettigrew against a few sullen-looking Gryffindors. Already Harry could see the worshipful light in Pettigrew's eyes. The scene changed, and now Black was soaring through the air in the Quidditch pitch, face beaming with delight. Pettigrew was clapping like an idiot in the stands, hollering and shouting with that same lovelorn gaze… Then the scene filled with steam, and the look of worship became furtive, almost shameful. They were in the locker rooms, and Black was strutting through the showers naked, his muscles glistening under his skin as he laughed and horsed around with Potter. Off to the side, hiding himself and his miserably chubby physique was Pettigrew. More scenes flashed past—Pettigrew biting his lower lip, his back to the bed curtains, as Black moaned nearby in the throes of passion with a girl; Pettigrew on the verge of tears as Black stormed away in disgust, muttering about the impossibility of teaching the skills of becoming an Animagus; Pettigrew staring in hopeless longing and jealousy as Black shared secrets with Potter, leaving him—Pettigrew—out of their chummy little world…

"Unrequited love," Harry crooned. He smiled at the tears that had now wetted the traitor's cheeks. "Touching. But hopeless. How does it feel to have your love forced into silence? How does it sicken day by day from an impossible dream? It's hopeless."

Pettigrew had shut his eyes, turning his face away resolutely. Harry leaned closer. "Your friends—or your life?"

Pettigrew smiled again, a brief grimace before he gasped again for breath, but Harry thought it might have been a pitying sort of smile. "M-my… fr—"

Harry felt a sudden surge of anger. How dare this traitor pretend to be loyal, how dare this pathetic little rat defy him! He reached forward with his magic and felt the sphere of Pettigrew's mind, and squeezed.

"Your friends—or your life?"

Pettigrew squirmed with renewed vigor. His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes rolled and stared with unfocused blankness. His lips seemed to have trouble forming the words, but after many failed attempts, Harry made out the whimpers: "M-m-myyy… f-frieeen—enn—"

Harry snarled like a beast and increased the pressure on Pettigrew's mind. He could feel it pulsing frantically in his hand, flitting with the desperation of a caught Snitch. With an instinctive certainty, Harry knew that it was on the verge of breaking.

"Your friends—or your life?"

Saliva was leaking out from the corners of Pettigrew's mouth. His limbs moved only jerked in brief spasms. His pupils had dilated to the point that the irises had become invisible.

"Well?" Harry demanded, spittle flying from his mouth, his voice a garbled hiss of power and rage. "Must I break you for you to confess?"

Pettigrew's face contorted as Harry applied more and more pressure, feeling with a fiendish satisfaction the first delicate cracks forming on the surface, increasing the force infinitesimally, waiting for that final crack—

I broke him, Harry thought suddenly. He felt as though the thin sheet of ice had given away under his feet, and he had fallen headfirst into the icy cold water. Pettigrew didn't betray them because he was a coward. He was no coward at all…

—Pettigrew abruptly stopped moving. Harry looked down into his hand, at the two separate hemispheres that had ceased to struggle.

He betrayed them because I broke him, Harry thought. I did it. I broke him.

Harry pulled gently, drawing Pettigrew away from the edge and lying him down on the snow-covered roof. Pettigrew was shivering, and his eyes were still unfocused. They darted back and forth like birds caught uncomprehendingly in a cage. His lips were white.

"Shh," Harry muttered. "You'll be all right." He pieced the two fragments together as best as he could, and let them fall lifelessly into the broken man's body.

Pettigrew began to mutter incoherently. "M-m-my… my—"

"Your life," Harry whispered. "Save yourself."

Pettigrew jerked about, but his eyes were no longer so dilated, and color was returning to his cheeks. "My l-life," he mumbled. "S-save… myself…"

"Save yourself," Harry repeated, and leaned forward, and kissed Pettigrew's forehead. The skin was clammy and cold, though a feverish head burned within. He could feel Pettigrew's finger clutch vaguely at his cloak, like a baby groping for some handle in a frightening new world. Harry met Pettgirew's grasp with his hands, and then gently disengaged himself.

"You won't remember this," Harry said softly. "Run along now, as a mouse. It'll be easier to bear in rodent form." Harry paused as Pettigrew pulled himself laboriously into a crouch, and slowly began to shrink, still trembling. "Forget that you loved Sirius!" Harry called, as the rat scurried up the roof. "Forget that love. It's better not to have loved at all."

The snow fell all around him. The castle was disappearing under a blanket of white, and no sound dared to disturb the silence. Far away, Harry could see the small black specks indicating the presence of the Forbidden Forest. Even farther off, stretching endlessly into the distance, beyond what the eye could see— Harry faltered. It all looked the same, a vast drab of grey and white. He could see no horizon.

I must leave, Harry thought. He knew he could return to the castle and sneak out invisibly, but the thought of seeing people filled him with dread. Particularly if he ran into Potter or Black or—

He shook his head and grabbed two handfuls of his hair. It was intolerable, to think of Severus. No. He couldn't bear it. It was like a hot iron blade that impaled his chest, making him feel filthy and terrible and undeserving all at once. He must not think of Severus.

I wish to be somewhere far away, Harry thought. Somewhere where I won't see anyone. Somewhere that's cold, mind-numbingly cold…

The air changed. Suddenly it swirled with ice on its edge, like the harsh streak of whips. He opened his eyes to a squint, and saw—nothing. Emptiness. The sky might have been mere inches above his head, or it might have been as far away as memories of another life. But it was grey, sloping down to the grey earth, lifting into the grey wind.

Harry stumbled to his knees and lied down, spread eagled. He turned his head so that he could stare up into the vast, vacant sky. He could no longer feel his feet, and sensation was slowly seeping out of his fingers.

He had killed people. He had tortured them before their death, then snuffed out their lives with pleasure. He had murdered others with hardly a thought. He had broken people, bent them and twisted them with joy, had sowed the seeds for a future of pain.

And he felt nothing. Nothing.

He welcomed the emptiness. He could feel the hollowness slowly take his body, and now he felt it gnawing at his mind, soon to draw the quilt of darkness over his consciousness…

But he had loved with a passion he had not dreamed was possible. He had killed for that love, for that all-consuming obsession. He had been tender, treading softly on the wondrous dream they shared. And he had betrayed that love in every way possible.

The vestiges of anguish flitted briefly over his mind. But it meant nothing now, as it had meant nothing before. This vast numbness was all that mattered. His greatest fear, his surest longing, the nothingness extinguished the last, lingering lights. All was dark.

Epilogue

November 1, 2001

Ginny entered the Black Family library and took her usual seat at the round table where the Order held its meetings. It was her favorite seat because, from there, she could view the portrait of the sleeping lady, which was probably the only pleasant view in Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"Ginny, I didn't see you at Colin's party," said Fred, taking his seat next to her. "He was quite disappointed, you know."

"Ron had his own party with his other classmates," Ginny said. "At least five kids set the decorations on fire with accidental magic. Really, it was a good thing I went. Saved a lot of paperwork."

"The Auror office still so full of parchment?"

"Yeah," Ginny said. "Stuffed with it. And who gets to wade through it all? Us trainees."

"You could bring in little Ron and a few of his friends," said Fred. "Burn down the Auror office."

"Just like You-Know-Who?"

"Yes, just like Voldemort," Fred said, and turned his attention to the basket of biscuits that was always at the table.

Ginny felt an instinctive clutch of fear. It felt so incredible that Voldemort had died—died. She still expected to wake up from a dream at any moment. Everyone else, too, seemed to be in a dreamy daze of elation; strangers hugged each other and laughed in the streets, and there were parties in every other neighborhood.

As frenzied as everything was, Ginny found herself unable to share it. She had spent the hours following the final battle by simply staring at the remaining Order members in exhaustion. Neville had suggested going out, but neither she nor Fred nor Hermione nor any of the others had quite felt like it.

"Hello, Hermione," Ginny greeted.

"Good afternoon, Ginny," Hermione said, taking a seat and absent-mindedly grabbing a biscuit. "How were the parties?"

"It's a bit embarrassing, but I stayed home with Mum."

"No, I can understand," Hermione said, around a mouthful of biscuits. "Plus, somebody has to look after things when everyone's celebrating." She looked up at the clock and tapped her fingers on the table impatiently.

"So, Hermione," Fred called, from where he was enchanting the biscuits to dance in circles. "Any idea why Dumbledore summoned this meeting?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well, actually I do," she said, and gave them apologetic looks.

"Can you tell us?" Ginny said, not very hopefully. After Professor McGonagall had died defending Hogwarts during the siege, Dumbledore divulged more to Hermione than just about everyone else, except for Snape and Harry.

"It's about Harry," Hermione said.

Fred's biscuits dropped lifelessly onto the table. "Harry!"

Remus leaned forward eagerly. "Did Snape's potion work—?"

Hermione held up a hand for silence, and then covered her mouth with her other hand. "No, he's not been found," she said, words muffled by the biscuit in her mouth.

A pause. "Well?" Remus demanded.

Hermione glanced at the giant grandfather clock, which stood next to the doorway like a silent sentinel. She swallowed her mouthful of food. "The thing is," she said, "we don't really know if the potion worked."

"Don't really know?" Remus echoed, sounding anxious and annoyed, "how can you not know? Snape's potion was supposed to turn white if Harry is still alive, and black if he's—not."

"It's trickier than that," Hermione said. She glanced over at the grandfather clock again. "And it relates to the other potion we did, on—Voldemort."

Ginny stared blankly at Hermione and felt the beginnings of a cold, icy dread. "I thought he was…"

"No, he's dead all right—"

"Harry killed him, we all saw it—"

Ginny looked up and exchanged a helpless glance with her mum, who had come in sometime during the conversation. If Voldemort were dead, then the next step would be to forget him as thoroughly as possible. Who could possibly want to keep those memories alive?—the pain, the dread, the coldness, the pervasive and paralyzing fear—

"He is dead!" Hermione shouted. The crowd quieted, and the haggard anxiety gradually left their eyes. "At least, we're pretty sure he is," Hermione added meekly.

"I think," Mad-Eye Moody's gruff voice cut in, before the crowd could rise in protest and alarm once more, "we'd better have Professor Dumbledore explain to us what Miss Granger means."

Everyone sat back as Moody stumped to his seat, and Dumbledore entered, resplendent in celebratory robes of gold and white. He looked like an Egyptian priest, Ginny thought.

"Ah, biscuits," Dumbledore said, a cheery glint in his eyes as he took one of the treats from the basket and found himself an open chair.

He still looks old, Ginny thought. In the past years, it had seemed to Ginny that she could see the war weighing on Dumbledore's shoulders, thickening like a black cloud. The cloud was gone, but the vitality she remembered from long ago had vanished in the storm. Dumbledore looked whitewashed, almost as though he had been leached of blood; despite his effervescent smile, he was pale, and his hair was the color of a white-burnt sky.

"Albus," said Hermione, looking relieved to see the headmaster, "I was telling everyone about the two experiments we carried out, using Professor Snape's potions."

Dumbledore nodded, and held up a finger as he chewed and swallowed his biscuit. As he did so, Ginny looked around the table and noticed that Professor Snape was not there. Where could he be? Not on some spying mission, surely: most of the Death Eaters were caught in one fell swoop in that last battle, and he couldn't be occupied at some party…

"Yes, Severus's potions," Dumbledore said. Ginny wondered if the unconcerned tone of the old headmaster's voice was real, or if it was a bad attempt at levity, or if it was a very good imitation of indifference. With Dumbledore, it was impossible to tell.

"Severus's potions?" Remus prompted in his mild-mannered voice, though Ginny was sure everyone could hear the wolfish impatience underneath. "Hermione told us that one was done on Harry, and the other on—Voldemort."

"And that you actually weren't sure whether either of them was alive—or dead," Moody finished, his magical eye darting from Hermione to Dumbledore.

"That's all I said," Hermione said quickly, at the sharp glance Dumbledore gave her. "I didn't tell them about—the other thing."

Other thing? Ginny thought with sudden dismay.

"Albus, I think the time for secrets is over," Molly Weasley said. Ginny looked at her mother with some surprise. "This war has been going on for five years. You have kept secrets for much longer than that, I'm sure, but with the war it was necessary. Now the war is over—or so you say. If it is indeed over, then the need for secrets is over."

Ginny noted how straight and stiff her mum sat, and how pale her knuckles were, and so slipped a hand under the table to comfortingly hold her mother's knee. Ginny's mother had always been a staunch supporter of Albus Dumbledore, but after Ron, then George, then their father—it had all been too much, especially since two had died because Dumbledore had refused their ransoms.

"I apologize, Molly," Dumbledore said in his sad, tired tone of voice, "but Hermione has not divulged anymore than I allowed her to."

There was a pause. Ginny stared at the basket of biscuits—biscuits that, outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, she had never been able to look at without a pang of unease and fear.

"We still do not know where Harry is," Dumbledore said gravely. "The few basic homing spells we attempted did not work. I thought it best, perhaps, to establish whether or not he is alive before continuing our search. We decided to use a potion that, though difficult to brew, usually gives very reliable results."

Dumbledore paused. Hermione leaned forward at her cue. "Basically, the potion functions along the same lines as do most tracking spells. We concoct the potion, add something connected to Harry, and wait for the results." She paused. "Of course, it would be best to use something that was part of the body, such as hair or fingernail clippings. However, even after using Scouring Charms, the amount of material connected to Harry was too little to give a reliable reading."

"What Scouring Charms did you use?" Moody growled.

"Verrere," Dumbledore said. He added, "It was very thorough. I performed it myself."

Moody sat back, though Ginny could see the skepticism on his face.

"So despite the lack of material, we were fortunate enough that the potion could function from substances that did not come directly from Harry's body," Hermione continued. She glanced about the table. "Professor Snape would be able to explain it better, but—"

"Where is Snape, anyway?" Fred interrupted. "Don't tell me he's at that Three Broomsticks party and is actually dancing up a storm at Rosmerta's?"

"He is quite safe from Rosmerta's charms," Dumbledore said with equal lightheartedness. Ginny felt a trickle of relief; the unasked question in Fred's remark had been answered. "Go on, Hermione."

"So instead of using materials that came directly from the body, we used other things connected to him," Hermione said. "We attempted first with physical things like his bed sheet and clothes and toothbrush, but those didn't work. Finally, we tried memories."

Memories! Ginny thought. That would be… unusual, to say the least. When it came to good, solid, incanted spells, there was very little Ginny couldn't do, but with the ambiguities of magical abstraction, she felt lost at sea.

"And the results were inconclusive," Moody said.

Dumbledore nodded his head. "With different memories from different people, the potion would turn black, white, or even grey."

Murmurs arose from the crowd. Ginny sat back and frowned. She had no idea what might be underlying the magical theories explaining the phenomenon, but she did wonder what memories they had used. It would make sense that memories of the schoolboy Harry Potter from years ago would elicit darkness; that person, even if the name and body were the same, was gone.

"Has that happened before?" Fred asked.

"Not in the records we found," Hermione said. "It was a very tricky potion, too, so there weren't very many records to begin with."

"But what can it mean?" Remus said anxiously. "He can't be alive and dead all at once. He has to be somewhere, he has to be—has to be somewhere."

"We do not know, Remus, but we must hope for the best," Dumbledore said gently.

"Hope for the best?" Remus snarled. "We've all been hoping for years, we've—" He stopped suddenly. Ginny glanced down at her hands. There was silence around the table, like the sounds of a cemetery in the hour before sunset. "I'm sorry," he said, not sounding the least repentant.

"The war may be over, but some things are changed indelibly," Dumbledore said slowly. He was, Ginny realized, using his wise-lecturer voice. "I am also sorry, Remus."

Remus said nothing. Dumbledore sighed, and looked at Hermione.

"Right," Hermione said and continued as though nothing had happened, "so we used the same potion to confirm Voldemort's death."

"And the results were inconclusive?" Moody growled.

"The potion was black, except for a tiny sprinkling of white in the middle," Hermione said. "But that is not to mean he's still alive," she added hurriedly. "Albus attempted the spell after Voldemort's first fall, and that time the potion was a much whiter shade of grey."

"So what does the white sprinkling mean?" Fred asked.

Hermione looked a bit uncomfortable. "We think it means that, due to his ritual, Voldemort's soul was so powerful and was such a conglomeration, if you will, of the sacrificial souls, that there will always be a bit of him around."

Silence greeted her statement. Ginny felt distinctly uncomfortable. It was bad enough that the scars and memories of Voldemort's reign still remained. She really did not like the idea that little bits of Voldemort were floating around in the air she breathed, the water she drank, the food she ate…

Mad-Eye Moody gave a cough. "Generally, one's soul disperses at death."

"Yes, usually that is what happens," Hermione said patiently, "but Voldemort doesn't happen to be a general case. Still, in almost every sense of the word, we've agreed that Voldemort is dead."

Ginny exchanged an uneasy glance with her mother, and then, in a movement that was mirrored across the table, looked at Dumbledore in questioning trepidation.

Dumbledore smiled.

"Everything Hermione has said is correct," he said, laying his hands out on the table with palms facing up. "Voldemort is well and truly dead."

"But what about Harry?" Remus said.

Dumbledore's face became at once compassionate and sad, yet filled with noble hope. Ginny blinked; since when had she been able to so accurately classify the old headmaster's expressions? It was almost like a catalogue of masks.

"We can only wait and hope," Dumbledore said. "For now, at least, Harry is beyond the reaches of our powers. But have faith, Remus. Harry's abilities are greater than what you or I know." He turned his attention back to the rest of the Order, and smiled again. "Go forth, my friends. Celebrate." Then, in a subtle movement that Ginny only caught because of where she was sitting, Dumbledore shifted to address Hermione. "That will be all."

That's it? Ginny thought. Dumbledore reached for the basket of biscuits and took one. "These are very good," he said, and stood. "But I daresay the cake I had at the Leaky Cauldron was a slight better…"

He turned, and with unhurried movements, walked to the doorway. He paused before stepping through. "Voldemort is dead," he said. "You are disbanded." Then he was gone.

Ginny blinked at the doorway, not certain what had happened. She was troubled by a pervasive sense of anticlimax, or of disbelief. After announcing that Harry was gone and Voldemort was not completely dead, did Dumbledore really expect them to wander off in forgetful bliss?

"He's not telling us everything," Fred said, his voice inscrutable.

"So what else is new?" Tonks said in a tone of forced flippancy, from the other side of the table. "We only found out about the plan to reflect the Avada Kedavra after Harry was kidnapped." At this, she gave Hermione a somewhat accusing glare.

Hermione sighed in exasperation. "I'm sorry, but he swore me to secrecy. Honestly, I wish I didn't have to keep secrets from the rest of you—"

Fred snorted.

Ginny saw the split second instant of hurt showing on Hermione's face before it hardened into the implacable look of Dumbledore's second lieutenant in the Order of the Phoenix. "If you are so unsatisfied, I advise you to have a private meeting with Professor Dumbledore and his sherbet lemons." She paused, then added, "Harry understood."

Suddenly, a voice snarled: "DON'T"—Ginny jumped in her seat, and then recognized it as belonging to Remus—"say his name. Please. Not you."

Hermione bit her lower lip, and looked as though she wanted to say something, either to comfort the werewolf or to plead her case. But she only turned and left the room.

Nobody broke the silence for a heavy pause. "Well," said Fred, getting out of his seat, "I'm heading over to the Green Dragon. Anyone else going there?"

A few members stood, murmuring their goodbyes as they followed Fred out the door. Ginny stayed, watching them leave. It occurred to her that this might be the last time all the members would meet in one place. She thought about a future without Order meetings, without seeing these familiar faces arranged around the table. Instead of sadness, she felt a strong block of relief tumble through her mind. She had had enough fighting and secret meetings. It was time to move on.

"Come along, Ginny," Molly said. She glanced at the grandfather clock beside the door and straightened her cloak. "It's time we went back home."

Ginny stood, looking around and pressing the faces into her memory. Suddenly she realized that not all the Order members had been present, that this could not be called the last time the Order was together; Snape was absent. Where was he? Searching for Harry?

Ginny listened with half an ear to her mother's chatter about how the garden gnomes were stealing her potatoes, how she wondered if little Ron would like carrot cake. Somehow, Ginny found herself unable to imagine Harry in the Burrow playing with little Ron, Harry celebrating in the pubs, Harry doing anything besides appearing and disappearing without notice, commanding troops and reading reports. He had been such a part of the war, and with the war now over—

He'll be found, Ginny thought quickly. They were outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and the afternoon sun cast lonely shadows from the shabby Muggle houses and the ragged trees. The street was silent.

November 8, 2001

The door to the flat was the same green as the other doors, but it seemed almost cleaner, more smooth and polished. Remus took a deep breath and knocked.

A few moments later, the door swung upon. "Remus!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Hello, Hermione," Remus said with a crooked smile.

"Please, come in," Hermione said, sounding almost excited. She stood back, and both of them automatically performed the charms to check each other's identity.

"Some tea? Biscuits?" Hermione said, and was gone before Remus could respond.

Remus moved hesitantly to the sitting room. He was never comfortably approaching someone else's living space; there was too much of the wolf in him. The flat, Remus noticed, was very neat, very clean. From the wall hung paintings Remus thought were by Muggle artists, and on the mantlepiece were photographs, some Muggle and some magical.

"Please, sit down," Hermione said, indicating one of the chairs.

Remus sat, and watched Hermione pour tea the Muggle way and summon biscuits from another room. "I haven't seen you or anyone else, really, in a week," Hermione said, handing him a cup of tea. "I did see Ginny and Molly and little Ron, but that's all. How are the others?"

Remus thought uncomfortably of the parties he had been invited to. He had noticed that Hermione had not been present at any of the others, and hoped that it was because she was too busy. After all, Hermione recently had taken up the position of legal consultant for the Department of Justice. "Well, Colin Creevey and Natalie MacDonald are engaged, and Fred Weasley is teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts."

"Oh," Hermione said, and attempted a smile. "Well, I certainly am out of the loop. I'd never thought of Fred as a professor. Anyway," she said, before Remus could say anything, "how are things coming along for you? I confess I'm simply swamped in paperwork."

Remus smiled against the dryness in his mouth and told himself to broach the topic he had come for, but he found himself saying, "So that's what legal consultant means? Paperwork?"

Hermione laughed. "They just want someone else to figure things out for them and decide how much food Lucius Malfoy should get in his cell. It's really rather boring."

"Ah, Malfoy," Remus said, feeling a shard of bitterness and hatred forming in his chest. "He got away with too light a sentence."

Hermione shrugged, but her reply was markedly neutral. "Being stripped of magic and being stuck in a high-security labor-intensive prison is very difficult for someone who abhors Muggles and was born rich. And there really isn't an alternative."

Yes, there is, Remus thought. One could kill him. Slowly.

"We fought to end a reign of terror," Hermione said, as though reading his thoughts, "and I'm not letting us begin another. Some casualties of the second war might have been avoided if we had been more… rational after the first war."

Rational? Remus thought disbelievingly. True, there were some—many—who did not deserve harsh penalties. Not everyone had joined Voldemort willingly. But others, such as Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew, were rotten to the heart.

"It mustn't have been a very popular choice," he said coolly. The Daily Prophet had run several entire issues full of tirades from wizards and witches demanding a harsher punishment for the former Death Eaters. He himself had thought of contributing, but had decided against it.

"No, it wasn't," Hermione said briskly, and then, with effort, smiled again. "Enough about me. What about you, Professor Lupin?"

Remus smiled. He opened his mouth and once again told himself to mention why he came in the first place, but instead he hesitated and said, "Nothing… really. I've been applying for jobs, but nothing good has come."

Hermione frowned. "You're quite famous for fighting against Voldemort, nobody could possibly be suspicious of you anymore…"

Remus shook his head. "Well, the rejection letters are much more courteous and apologetic than before." But they're still rejections, he thought. Voldemort's death was still too recent for him to feel bitterness, but that first rejection letter—to which he had unconsciously pinned so much hope—had poured cold water on whatever happiness was left after Harry's disappearance.

Harry, he thought. I came for Harry. Remus took a deep breath. "If you don't mind," he said, "I would like to talk about Harry."

Hermione looked at him without saying anything, and then nodded.

"After the Order meeting, I managed to talk to Dumbledore about Harry," Remus said. That in and of itself had been quite difficult, as Dumbledore seemed to have been too busy partying. That had frustrated Remus all the more: how could anyone party when Harry was still gone? There had been reports and headlines in the Daily Prophet about 'The-Man-Who-Defeated-You-Know-Who's unknown whereabouts, but they had seemed remarkably complacent, as though it was part of Harry Potter's fate or doom to disappear with his nemesis.

"What did he say?" Hermione prompted.

Remus swallowed. "He told me where Harry went." He glanced at Hermione. She nodded, her face expressionless. "He said that Harry went back in time." Hermione nodded again, still not saying anything. "My time."

"1977, to be exact," Hermione said.

"Yes," Remus said, and took another breath. "That was our last year at Hogwarts. Dumbledore told me that Harry went for several months as a Hogwarts student under the name of Jonathan Frost."

"Did you know him?" said Hermione. Her voice was gentle.

"Not very well, but—" He paused. Then, with a rush and not knowing why, he said what he had only half-told Dumbledore: "We were horrible. Mostly Sirius, though, and James never liked him at all. And I just played along, just let it all happen, not doing anything to stop it."

Hermione looked puzzled. "I'm sure you weren't all that bad, and you had no idea…" She paused. "But—forgive me for asking—why? I would think—wasn't he—" Realization dawned on her face. "He was sorted into Slytherin, wasn't he?"

Remus nodded.

"Oh. Well," Hermione said as comfortingly as she could, "you really had no idea who he would be, and Harry isn't—terribly approachable. I'm sure you weren't as bad as you think."

"But it must've been unbearable for Harry, that his own godfather would treat him so badly. I'm not exaggerating at all when I say that Sirius acted like a—like a jerk."

"You were young; Harry would have understood."

"Was Harry—gay?"

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Is Harry gay?"

"Gay?"

"As in, homosexual."

"Yes, I didn't think you meant ebulliently happy," Hermione said slowly, thoughtfully. "To be honest, I don't know. None of us had the time for relationships these last years, and Harry has always been cautious about endangering someone…" Her gaze was fixed on Remus, and he could see her mind working. "He was—involved with someone in your time, wasn't he? Was it—who was it?"

"I wasn't sure then, but now, it's obvious," Remus said. "Severus Snape."

"Snape!" Hermione exclaimed. "Snape? But…" She blinked rapidly. It seemed to Remus that she had suddenly stumbled upon a great realization. "Severus Snape," she echoed quietly. "It… I think it makes sense…" Remus wondered, a bit resentfully, what she knew; why was it that Dumbledore always confided so much in Hermione, even when it was about Harry?

"You didn't know that?" Remus said. "So Dumbledore didn't tell you that?"

"No, not that part," Hermione muttered, still looking preoccupied.

Remus waited a bit, and then said, letting the impatience show in his voice, "Well? What do you meanit makes sense now? What else did Dumbledore tell you?"

A look that might have been apologetic flashed across Hermione's face (Remus couldn't tell, the expression was too brief). She said, "Not much more, but there were some things I could guess. And with what you told me, it fits together better." Hermione frowned, as though collecting her thoughts.

"Then what did he tell you?" Remus asked politely, feeling belatedly that his burst of aggravation had been unwarranted.

Hermione took a deep breath. "He said that, because Voldemort's soul was too strong to be destroyed after the body died, it combined with Harry's soul, which caused a disturbance that threw Harryback in time. By coincidence, Harry landed in the year that you, Severus, Sirius, and Harry's parents were in their seventh year at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore had Harry pretend to be a seventh year student under the name of Jonathan Frost. Jonathan Frost left before completing his seventh year, and Dumbledore has no idea where he is." Hermione paused. "But you know all of that already, don't you?"

Remus nodded. "That's all that Dumbledore told me," he said. So the headmaster didn't tell Hermione any more than he told me, Remus thought, and felt guilty again. He was just like the others—so quick to accuse Hermione of sharing secrets with Dumbledore and hiding them from the others. In a cool, rational way, he could understand why: they needed someone to blame, and as Dumbledore was unassailable, Hermione became the scapegoat. She knows it, Remus thought, feeling unhappy and wishing he could change it. But only Dumbledore might change it now. Only Dumbledore had that capacity, and Dumbledore—

To his mind came the image imprinted in his memory of Dumbledore, standing before the frosted window as he answered Remus's curtly stated questions, staring out at the snowfall, his voice soft and perhaps sad, perhaps regretful. Remus felt a bit disturbed. Even though in his mind and heart he knew Dumbledore was an old man weighed down by his burdens, he could not remember having seen Dumbledore look so lost and transparent, almost like a ghost made of thin, white paper.

"The fact that Harry's soul merged with Voldemort's soul explains a lot of things," Hermione continued. "For one, it rather explains why Severus's potion couldn't determine conclusively whether or not Harry was alive. The person we believe to be Harry is no longer Harry. It also explains why the same potion, applied to Voldemort, yielded a slightly positive result."

"So," said Remus, a bit hesitatingly, "although that means that the Harry we know has… changed beyond magical recognition, all that still means that Harry's still alive, right?"

"Ye-es," said Hermione. But Remus caught the note of uncertainty.

"You don't sound very convinced."

"Oh," said Hermione, flushing slightly and looking down, reminding Remus of the schoolgirl who was caught doing mischief with her two friends, "it's only that the potion Severus used isn't… erm… well-documented."

"It works, though, doesn't it," said Remus, "as it shows that Harry's still alive?"

"It would—seem so," Hermione said.

It would seem so, Remus thought with a surge of frustration. She still doesn't believe it; she doesn't think it's true. "Seem so? Only that it seems so—?" He paused, the frustration he felt choking him remarkably like a tight ball of unshed tears, glowing and howling with the anguish of a famished wolf. "Is he alive—or not?"

"He is, Remus!" Hermione exclaimed. Then her voice became gentle. "Believe in it. He is still alive. Only, he's been so changed. With Voldemort's soul in him, and twenty years of difference, it must be a—a very significant change. That's why the magic doesn't work very well. That's the reason."

Remus felt Hermione's voice pull gently at the anger and rage crying inside him. He was aware that she was speaking almost as though to a child, pitching her voice to the softness of assurance, assuaging his worries with the compassion in her eyes. I'm an old man, Remus thought, feeling bitter and cold, but the impression passed after he glanced up again and saw Hermione biting her lower lip in deep thought.

"Then why hasn't he come back if he's still alive?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, shaking her head slightly and looking up above Remus's head. "Harry wouldn't have allowed himself to appear while his younger self was still around—that never happened, and he has to follow the laws of time. But now…"

"Perhaps he—doesn't want to see us anymore."

"If he doesn't want to see us anymore, it wouldn't have been because of you and Sirius," Hermione said. Remus gave her a weary but appreciative glance. Trust Hermione to be as sharp as flint.

"But why wouldn't he come back? If not for my—our behavior to him, Sirius and James and I,then he should have no reason for staying away. He—didn't hate us before he went back in time. And"—somehow, it was difficult to admit—"there's Snape."

"Yes," Hermione said quietly. "There's Snape."

Suddenly, Remus felt a pang of sadness lodge itself in his heart. Damn you, Severus, he thought. I'd loved Harry like my own son all these years, looked after him, worried over him, fought for him. Yet Harry never saw me as anything other than Professor Lupin. I could never get close to him. But you— He loved you more than he loved anything else in the world. He loved you. A ferocious hatred bloomed in his heart, firing through his soul with unbearable pain. I hate you, Severus, Remus thought, and wished with wolfish rage to slash open the pale throat and sink his jaws into the thin chest. But images floated up from the depths of his memory, little fragments that meant nothing then and meant everything now—a brief touch, seen from the other side of the Great Hall; a momentary smile that seemed as natural as breathing; two heads bent together in quiet murmuring; the haunting grief in those dark eyes…

Then Remus felt his hate exhaust himself, because Severus loved Harry too. The jealousy was still there, vague and wistful as clouds reluctantly parting from the moon. But he was too tired and sad for hate.

"I'm sure he'll return," Hermione said in a hopeful voice.

"Yes," Remus said. He smiled his crooked smile and stood up.

"Leaving already?" Hermione said, and Remus felt a surge of pity at the sadness in her voice. He decided then to visit her more often; she did not deserve the resentment of the Order.

"I'd like some time to think," Remus said. He tried to smile again, reassuringly this time. "I hope you won't mind if I drop by for tea every so often," Remus said, hesitatingly.

"Of course not," Hermione said, but Remus thought the melancholy look remained in her eyes. "Harry will be back, I'm sure," she said quietly as she opened the door.

Remus nodded in agreement. "Yes," he said, and the door shut behind him. For a moment he forgot which way to go. He found himself staring down the corridor of green doors, gleaming pale under the dim fluorescent lights. Remus had the sudden impression that he was looking into an endless mirror, and all he could see were shabby dreams and longings, mingled with the half-forgotten memories of an old man.

He shuddered and took a few steps forward, stopped and turned around, and walked down the hall.

December 8, 2001

Hermione knocked on the charred stone wall where the portrait of Slytherin had been. She winced slightly; the stone was hard against her knuckles. She peered inside, turning her gaze from the scattered crates, all empty now, and the many scrolls and pieces of parchment that seemed to have rained from an invisible cloud, covering almost every surface in the room. "Professor Snape?" she called.

She stepped inside. Before Voldemort had laid siege and taken Hogwarts, Hermione had only been in Snape's quarters once or twice, but she remembered a clean, if slightly depressing, room, with no photographs and only one chair.

"Are you in, Professor Snape?"

This is more of a mess than the war room was, Hermione thought, remembering the stifling little room in Grimmauld Place where she and Harry and Dumbledore had tried to decipher each of Voldemort's moves. She didn't think Severus Snape would be the type of person to live in a veritable pigsty.

I'll leave a note for him, thought Hermione, and then smiled wryly to herself. Any note she left would probably be lost forever.

She stepped past a large, heavy table, also overflowing with parchment, and glanced into an adjacent room.

"Prof—"

She froze. Snape was lying as though dead on the floor. His dark, tangled hair covered his face, and there was an empty chalice lying next to him.

Hermione whipped out her wand and slashed the air; instantly all the parchment flew aside. She knelt next to Snape's body, and searched frantically for his pulse—

His skin is still warm, Hermione thought, and felt relief pour through her body when she detected the faint throbbing against her finger. She closed her eyes, fighting back the memories of all those times when the skin had been cold, the body stiff, the search for the pulse only a useless gesture of hope…

He must've taken a potion, and not bothered to collapse on his bed like any normal person, Hermione thought, picking up the chalice. The bottom was still wet with a greenish fluid. Hermione sniffed it. She thought she could detect a whiff of chamomile, but beyond that she could not say.

If it's magical, I shouldn't disturb him, Hermione thought. She scooted back slightly, looking at Snape's thin body sprawled so unceremoniously on the floor. There was grey in his hair, and it occurred to her suddenly that Snape was already quite old.

Hermione sighed and stood, leaving the sleeping man to look into the other rooms. He must have a bed somewhere, Hermione thought. Or at least a chair.

Eventually, after wandering through the rooms and sifting through the scrolls, she found both a bed and a chair, both of which were buried under parchment and quills. Snape had never struck her as the type of person to let clutter accumulate, but then again, the end of the war brought many changes to many people. Perhaps Snape's sudden messiness was one of them.

Quite a few of these are quite ancient, Hermione thought with some surprise. She glanced at one such scroll, which was as wrinkled as the skin of an elderly man and had painstakingly illuminated letters written all over it. 'Hyd of geong swin, wac and fersc,' Hermione read, not knowing what it meant, besides that it had to do with pigs and skin.

She shifted it aside, and a piece of parchment, much newer, caught her eye, for the writing on it was clearly Snape's.

'AD 1196 – Christolph of Snape is born.'

Hermione's eyebrows rose. Might this Christolph be Severus Snape's ancestor? She knew there was a village in Suffolk called Snape, but she had never asked the Potions master whether there was a connection. Tracing it back more than eight hundred years would be quite impressive, but wizard families were more aware of their genealogy.

'AD 1207 – Christolph goes to Hogwarts and meets Simon Freegard.

AD 1213 – Christolph disappears into the Aurora Borealis.

AD 1871 – Christolph serves as a tutor for the Yeats family, and teaches William Butler Yeats.'

Hermione stared. This is incredible, she thought, quickly rereading what Snape had written. She had never read of a method of time travel besides using Time Turners or variations thereof. But this Christolph had disappeared into the Aurora Borealis, only to emerge six hundred years later to tutor William Butler Yeats—!

Hermione continued reading.

'AD 1902 – Christolph completes his little grey book.

AD 1904 – Christolph goes back in time.

AD 1261 – Simon dies in the Nest from the Gāst Cunnian spell.'

Gāst Cunnian, Hermione thought. Gāst was soul in old English, and Cunnian meant seek. She had never heard of it, but she was willing to bet it was one of the spells stashed away by the Founders in their Nest, hidden above the library. By the sound of it, it could not have been a very safe spell to invoke. I wonder how he knows that Simon Freegard died in the Nest, Hermione thought. There was no dead body when we opened it.

'AD 1262 – Christolph arrives.

AD 1276 – Christolph of Snape dies.'

She glanced at the dates: 1261 and 1262. They had missed each other by only one year. She did not know the connection between the two men, but they could not have been strangers. Perhaps they were close friends. Perhaps, even, they were lovers.

I hope they weren't lovers, Hermione thought, reminded uncomfortably of Snape and Harry. I've never met a more unfortunate pair.

'AD 1977 – '

The entry was blank. But Hermione could fill it in with her thoughts, from all the ponderings that would not leave her mind at peace in the past month. 1977, late August – Jonathan Frost appears. 1977, early December – Jonathan Frost disappears, presumably dying at Voldemort's hand. But between those two dates, who knows what had happened? Who could tell?

There was a sound from the doorway, and Hermione whirled around, wand in hand. She relaxed marginally when she saw Severus Snape standing in the doorway, wearing his customary black robes and giving her an unwelcoming glare.

"Good afternoon, Professor," Hermione said, beating down the sinking feeling that she was in deep trouble. She was no longer a student to be terrorized in his class, she told herself—although, she thought guiltily, she really should not have been reading what Snape had written.

"What are you doing, Miss Granger?"

Hermione stepped away from the parchment. "I, uh, came by to ask you a question, but you were sleeping, so I decided to wait until you were awake."

Snape gave a disbelieving sneer, and stalked to the table Hermione had been standing next to. Instinctively Hermione moved away. Though Snape's right leg had been shattered in the War, and he was so bent as to resemble a gargoyle's shadow, his stalk was still quite alarming.

"Well?" he demanded, glancing up sharply. "What did you want to ask?"

"I want to ask you if you were interested in becoming the next headmaster of Hogwarts," Hermione said.

"No."

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't think so. Fred Weasley will be the next headmaster."

"Fred Weasley?" Severus echoed in disbelief and, if Hermione heard correctly, deep disgust. "Why Fred Weasley?"

"Well…" Hermione made a wordless gesture with her hand. "He's certainly qualified—"

"Why not you?"

Hermione faltered, not expecting him to be so blunt, but smiled, though it took some effort. "I'm serving as the counsel in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Department of Mysteries. I've always wanted to work in either of those two departments, though I'd also have liked the Department of Magical Interspecies Relationships—but in any case, I wouldn't have time to work in both departments and oversee Hogwarts."

"Drop your positions in the Ministry," Snape said curtly, his eyes trained on her with uncomfortable intensity. "Hogwarts is more important."

"Yes, but you won't believe how much trouble the Ministry is having right now," Hermione said, looking down at the little table she was standing by. On a silver plate was a biscuit, more crumbled than whole, and when she poked it, she found that it was as hard as rock. "They're—they're even having trouble deciding whether to use numerals or letters to designate prisoners! Hogwarts is important, of course, but without the justice system running smoothly, the entire infrastructure of the Ministry might fall apart. And the same with the Department of Mysteries. The Ministry has fallen apart only fourteen separate times in its history, and each time has been associated with mishandling of the objects within the Department of Mysteries, except for the time when Bojr the Belligerent accidentally flattened the newly-built Ministry complex in a Quidditch accident."

She stopped suddenly. Snape was looking impatiently at the ceiling, the walls. At her pause, he gave her a withering glance.

"If I did not know you well enough to know you were spouting utter rubbish, I would have asked you to leave and never come back."

Hermione shut her mouth and swallowed. All the arguments she had composed in the sleepless dark of the night to convince herself in the morning that she was doing the right thing vanished at once.

"Fred Weasley is a dangerous fool," Snape said. "He embodies all the worst of you Gryffindors: narrow-minded, reckless, vain."

"You're judging him too harshly," Hermione said. "Fred is opinionated, but he would never do what he thinks is the wrong thing…"

"And you leave it to him to decide that?" Snape snapped. "Go on, fool yourself. I want to see whether you can keep fooling yourself when another dangerous idiot proclaims himself the next Dark Lord." He folded his arms and unfolded them in rapid succession. "I cannot understand how you would cede the position of headmistress so easily. You disappoint me, Miss Granger."

"Why don't you become headmaster, sir?" Hermione retorted hotly. She was not about to deny the truth in Snape's words, but they stung too much for her to let them pass. "I'm sure your judgments would be judicious."

"Yes, so you are finally admitting that my treatment of you while you were a student was balanced and justified," Snape said dryly.

Hermione sighed. Silence fell between them. She was surprised by how much Snape had admitted in that one statement, and troubled by what his words had forced her to realize. She did have qualms about Fred's leadership, but what could she do? The others did not take to her as they did Fred; perhaps it was her closeness to Dumbledore during the war, her remaining when Ron died and Harry disappeared, her being a Muggleborn. There was nothing she could do.

"I wish Harry—"

She snapped her mouth shut, cursing herself for saying the name in front of Snape. But she realized belatedly her action somehow made it worse. For a moment neither said anything, and Hermione wished that Hogwarts would somehow let her quietly Apparate away, or at least swallow her up into the ground.

Snape turned and gave her a rather inscrutable look. "Please attempt to be sensible, Miss Granger. I am not about to have a seizure at the mention of Harry Potter's name."

"I—I didn't think so," Hermione stammered. "I just thought that, perhaps, Harry would make the best headmaster of us all."

Snape gave a brief shake of his head, as though to dismiss the notion. "Don't be a fool. He would wish to remain unknown." Snape looked down briefly. "He'd had enough of all this tomfoolery."

Hermione bit her bottom lip. She had the strange feeling that they were talking of different people. The Potions master was staring at something unseen, a frown on his brow, as though he were remembering something, and Hermione watched with a bit of sadness as a little smile (was it a smile?) flickered at the edges of Snape's lips.

"Professor Snape," Hermione said, taking a deep breath, "I'm sure you're already aware, but there was something I wanted to—point out to you about the potion you created to confirm that Harry was still alive…?"

Snape looked at her sharply. "What about it?"

"Well, I did some research," Hermione said, looking back down at the stale biscuit on the little silver plate. "It's called the Ealdor Potion, isn't it?" She waited, and thought that perhaps Snape was not going to respond. But he gave a curt nod of his head, and Hermione went on. "I read that it had its roots in some very ancient druidic magic, and thus was very powerful, though it is not very… accurate. Of course, the stronger the memory is, the better the potion will work. However, if the practitioner had extremely powerful emotions for the person he or she is trying to seek, he or she may see a mirage."

Hermione paused, and tried to gauge anything from Snape's face. His gaze, though, was fixed on the wall behind her, and Hermione was not even certain that he heard her. "The most famous instance of this is when Isolde attempted the Ealdor Potion on her beloved, Tristan. Instead of confirming that he was dead, she saw an illusion of his living body, and… well, reliable history ends at that."

Snapegave a humorless chuckle. "So you, too, believe that he is dead?"

"No, that's not what I meant!" Hermione exclaimed, beating herself inside for the waywardness of her words. "I was simply wondering if you had taken into consideration—"

"Did you also believe that I would not know that already?"

"I—well—" Hermione floundered, her desire to placate the man clashing with her honesty. Of course he'd know! Hermione berated herself. He's the Potions master, for goodness' sakes! "I just—I just wanted to remind you, I meant no offence…"

"Remind me? Did you really want to remind me, or did you want to make sure that a lovelorn fool"—he spat out the word—"would not blind himself with illusions?"

"None of those, none," Hermione said wretchedly, miserable because what Snape said was true. She could still remember the look on Snape's face as they first performed the Ealdor Potion, mere hours after Harry had disappeared. Snape's face had been that of a man sick with no hope of recovering, with the haunted eyes of one touched by dementors. After Hermione and Dumbledore had failed with their memories, Snape had stood for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the bubbling depths, before lifting his hand to draw out a memory. His hands had trembled like a leaf. Snape's hands never shook. Even after being tortured by Voldemort, the Potions master had been able to brew the most difficult of concoctions. But they had quivered as the brilliantly shimmering memory melted into the potion and glowed white, almost as though the radiance came from the memory and not the potion. And seeing the wordless longing and anguish on the thin, sallow face, Hermione had felt unease uncoiling in her mind.

"Now you truly insult me," Snape said coldly. "Please leave, Miss Granger."

Hermione stood still, unable to move. Snape turned with a cold fury, parchment fluttering away as he stalked out the room. He stopped in front of the portrait hole, and slammed it open with an astonishingly brutal force. "GET OUT!"

Hermione reached out with her left hand to grip the edge of the table. Feeling the hardness under her hand gave her strength. "No," she said.

Snape glared. Hermione returned the gaze defiantly, though the fingernails of her right hand dug into her palm as she gripped her wand.

"I think that you forget, Miss Granger, just what sort of man I am," Snape said in a slow, menacing voice. "I may not have been one of the fools who followed Voldemort to his death, but I am assuredly a dangerous man. I have killed more people than you or Dumbledore suppose, and I am now the darkest wizard alive." He stepped closer, and Hermione clenched her jaw. "I suggest you leave, Miss Granger. Now."

"I think," Hermione said through gritted teeth, "you forget who I am. I am not your student anymore. I saw less of the battlefield than many, but I played my part in the war. I may not understand you, and I probably will never understand you, and I may still be—terrified of you, Professor Snape, but I am"—Hermione swallowed—"your friend."

Snape made a scoffing noise, and sneered. Hermione rushed on before he could say anything. "I don't care if you think I'm a fool, but I am not going to let you"—she made a swift gesture with her left hand, indicating the mess around them—"let you become more bitter than you already are, angrier than you already are, and I won't let you bury yourself alive, and if Harry or Jonathan or whoever were here, he'd not let you either."

Hermione kept her head tiled in defiance, though her heart was pounding madly like marching drums in her ears. She hoped she had not gone too far.

Snape was breathing unsteadily. His face looked too white, and he was hunched like a statue that had been lashed by centuries of weather, beaten by the cruelties of neglect. Slowly, though, he took his wand out of his robe. With a swift movement, he lifted it above his head—Hermione stiffened and made ready to dash out of the way—and swung it behind him. The portrait door creaked shut.

"What would you have me do, then?" Snape asked. She could not see his face, hidden as it was behind the thin curtain of hair, but his voice weighted heavily with a bitter weariness. "Drop my search?" He gave a hollow, mirthless laugh. "The world is content with its savior dead."

"That isn't what I meant," Hermione stammered, stumbling because what Snape said was true, cripplingly and terribly true. The Daily Prophet was filled with mentions of 'His Sacrifice' and 'the tragic ending,' and Hermione had squashed the Ministry's plan to construct a memorial for The-Man-Who-Defeated-You-Know-Who. But what struck Hermione the most was that members of the Order, despite their stout declarations of hope, did nothing. And Dumbledore—the only one who might have led the Order in its last quest—was in Saint Mungo's, sitting on the floor and playing with sweets. "I didn't mean for you to stop, that wasn't my intention at all—"

"Then you are wasting my time," Snape interrupted. "I mistakenly believed you had something to say."

"You know what I mean!" Hermione said irritably. "I don't want you to be consumed by your search. If—I mean, when—Harry or Jonathan or whoever comes back, I'm sure he'd want to find a living being, instead of—instead of an exhausted… shell."

Hermione let her voice trail off. It upset her to say those things, because she could see how they tore into Snape's soul, almost as though she were kicking an old proud horse already near its death.

"It would be wonderfully convenient for him to be dead," Snape murmured.

Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"

"As long as he lives, Voldemort does too," Snape said. He looked up, and his eyes were as calm and clinical as his voice. "It would be best if he died. Then the memories may die as well."

"Don't say that! And anyway, it's not true. Voldemort isn't alive—we tested it with the potion, and he's certainly quite dead."

"The potion functions on the body, not the soul," Snape said coolly. "And I'm certain you know about the mysterious deaths of Terrance Lestrange and Emily Matellan."

Hermione swallowed. "Yes, although… I couldn't find anything specific, only that the two of them had died under mysterious circumstances." She paused a moment, wondering if Snape might elaborate, but the man remained silent. "Nevertheless, in the past twenty years, there hasn't been any trace of that sort of—incidents."

"Perhaps he has been dead for twenty years," Snape said.

"You mustn't think that!"

"Why do you try to convince me when you yourself believe that Harry Potter is dead?"

Hermione was taken aback. "I—that isn't what I believe." She paused, words coming in jerks. "Not exactly, as in—that certainly isn't what I think, based on the limited information that I have, that he—Harry Potter—is not alive…" She trailed off, and glanced at the ground, the walls.

"Tell me, has Lupin given up hope?"

Hermione bit her bottom lip.

"That is as I expected."

The Potions master sighed and walked out of the room. At a slower pace, his limp became more apparent, and the crookedness of his back made him seem twice his age. He's an old, old man, Hermione thought. Older than anyone I know.

Snape gestured faintly at the portrait door in a clear sign of dismissal. Hermione hesitated, but there was nothing she could think of to say. Snape was right. It was simple as that. And everything Hermione had said had been futile words attempting to change a changeless fate.

She moved numbly towards the door, but stopped halfway. Snape was shifting through the scrolls on his table, and a few leafs of parchment fell to the floor in an ever-burgeoning stack, like dead lives piling under the branches of a tree.

"Severus—" Hermione began. She stopped, but the Potions master made no sign of having heard her. "I would just like you to know that—you have always been very good to me, and I appreciate that." She paused again, and lingered, wishing for some sign that he heard her. "I would just like you to know that I am… very grateful." A silence. Another piece of parchment drifted to the floor. "Thank you."

As she climbed out of the portrait hole, Hermione felt her throat knot with unshed tears. She could not get the memory of his bent and tired form out of her mind. Dumbledore, who was many decades older, and was now as mad as a hatter and as carefree as a toddler, seemed practically green in comparison.

I hope you come back, Harry, Hermione thought, but it was an aimless comment, the same way she found herself talking to Ron after he had died. He needs you so much.

Suddenly Hermione saw an image of the old Potions master sprawled on the floor again, but this time his lips white, his body stiff, his skin cold. Next to him would be his wand, and Hermione could see the words written on the parchment—Gāst Cunnian, the Soul-Seeking Spell.

Hermione stiffened, and had the overwhelming urge to turn around and dash back into Severus's quarters and check to see if he was still alive. But she curbed the impulse. It was only her own imagination, she told herself. A creation of remorse and sadness and pity. She continued her way down the dark, empty hall.

July 31, 2002

Severus Snape stepped into the lift, and moved directly to a corner. A tired-looking old witch with a cloud of white hair stood in the other corner, and a wizard with patched robes stood in between.

"Third floor," the monotonous voice of the lift intoned as Severus gripped the worn bars along the walls, steeling himself against the nauseating movements. "Potion and plant poisoning."

The wizard with the patched robes slipped out even before the doors had stopped moving. They remained open, gaping in a way that made Severus feel strangely exposed, before closing with the same sluggish movements.

The lift lurched upwards once more, and Severus gritted his teeth, feeling in that moment an intense hatred for all things Muggle. In the course of reconstruction after the war's end, many wizards had looked to their Muggle counterparts for inspiration. The results were, in Severus's opinion, disastrous.

"Fourth floor," the voice uttered. "Spell damage."

The doors opened. The old witch tottered out, one hand touching the wall as she made her way slowly out of the lift. The doors began to close while the witch's fingers were still on the door, and the lift lurched as the metal doors drew back. Severus tapped his fingers impatiently against his arm, but he relaxed infinitesimally; finally he was alone.

The door closed. "Fifth floor," said the lift. "Visitor's gift shop."

The neatly decorated gift shop, with its stands of roses and lilies, and the café that smelt of freshly brewed butterbeer, was empty, except for one person, clothed in the scrubs of a hospital worker, staring out into the night over a mug of butterbeer.

The lift's doors closed again. "Sixth floor," it said, and Severus heard the magical voice give a yawn. "Special guests floor. You'll need identification, sir."

Severus stepped forward and tapped his wand against an indented area of the wall.

"Have a good visit, sir," said the lift, and the doors slid open.

The hallway was long enough to seem a long way, but short enough so that Severus could see the end, where his reflection looked back from the night-darkened window. He heard the door close behind him, followed by the faint whirring as the lift descended into silence.

It had taken him a long time to finally make this visit. At first, he had not believed that Dumbledore had truly gone mad. Moreover, he had been occupied with researching spells, incantations, potions that would help him find Jonathan. Then time passed so quickly, and one day, Hermione Granger showed up—once again, uninvited.

"You ought to see him, and really you have no right to deny him a visit," she had said in her typically defiant Gryffindor tone.

"Perhaps you are not aware of it, but you are not my keeper," he had answered coolly. But it was the sort of remark he always made, and by then both of them knew it. "I will visit him, soon, but unlike what you might think, I am extremely busy right now."

"Soon? You said that last month," Granger had said.

"I will visit him when I wish," Severus had said with cold finality, and Granger had retreated meekly. Watching her go, he had wondered if he felt pity for her: Miss Hermione Granger, deputy headmistress under Fred Weasley, ministry counsel under Amelia Bones, everybody and nobody's friend.

But the thought of visiting Albus Dumbledore, who by all reports was well and truly mad, pressed on him like a shadow that refused to leave. It still seemed incredible that the irritating old fool had truly and finally gone insane. The satisfaction of a peace undisturbed by the headmaster's frequent calls for tea and the demands of teaching suddenly became hollow. Granger, Severus realized, was his sole visitor.

A few nights ago, he dreamed that Dumbledore had been cured of his madness and had returned to his office at Hogwarts. He dreamed that Dumbledore was inviting him once again for tea, which invoked feelings of annoyance and irritation: he was looking for Jonathan, he had no time for Dumbledore's antics. But all the same he wandered up the halls, stalking through the empty corridors and having the strange feeling that he and Dumbledore were the only people in the entire castle. Everyone else was gone.

He had mounted the spiraling red staircase, and looked at the walls as he waited. There were portraits there that were not there before, paintings of all sizes and shapes, but the canvases were empty. The ornate frames stared blankly at him as he passed them, glinting dimly in a light that illuminated his step and left everything else in darkness. He peered closely at the empty canvas, for it seemed that something moved behind the blankness, but he had reached the tall oak doors, and they swung open upon his approach.

The room within was bare, bare and white, stripped of portraits of previous headmasters, devoid of the ornate furniture Dumbledore kept, empty except for a bed in a corner, a Muggle toilet, a dirty sink. The light was sickly with the fluorescence of flickering Muggle lamps. It was a room in an asylum.

Severus had felt a surge of dismay; how could they put Dumbledore in so horrible a place? Dumbledore had led them all against unimaginable odds; what was the meaning of this? He looked around for some sign of the headmaster, but nobody was there. Severus turned around, and instead of doors he found a blank wall, staring at him like the other three blank walls. He was trapped, trapped in this bare and nauseating room, like an insect in a pool of poison. He felt at the walls, stumbling from wall to wall and groping like a blind man for any crack or hidden door, but then Dumbledore's voice rang with solemn finality, "It's hopeless."

Severus turned. Dumbledore, resplendent in garish purple robes, was standing in the middle of the room. His expression was stern, unforgiving. "Give up, Severus, my boy," Dumbledore said. "You are trapped in here forever."

No! Severus had shouted. I must go, I am not finished, I need to find Jonathan! Let me out, you old fool!

"Why must you search, my boy?" Dumbledore had asked, sounding puzzled, the echo of his laughter ringing in the room as though it were a cavern deep underground. "It's hopeless. You will never find him. He has moved on. He has left you."

The last two words reverberated as Dumbledore laughed, but it was not Dumbledore's laugh that Severus heard, it was Voldemort's, pounding into his head like the thud of black waves against a black shore, suffocating him as he remembered the way the monster bruised him while pleasuring itself in his mouth, his body, his skin.

Let me alone! Severus cried silently, reaching up to the ceiling as he felt himself pressed against the wall by Voldemort's laughter. Jonathan, where are you? The world seemed to shift, and suddenly he was sliding down the wall into an eternal pit, down, down, down the slippery walls and into the empty air. The white ceiling shrank farther and farther away until it was the size of a playing card, swallowed by the darkness and the fluttering echoes of his cries—

Then he had woken up, tangled in his sheets and on the verge of vomiting. After that, he decided to visit Dumbledore.

Severus paused and looked at the door in front of him. 'Albus Percival Wulfric BrianDumbledore,' it said in gold-gilt letters. 'Clearance required.'

Severus drew a circle with his wand against the indented area of the wall. There was a loud beep, conspicuously piercing in the silent hall. 'Please enter, Severus Snate,' the automated voice said.

"It's Snape," Severus muttered under his breath, and turned the knob irritably. The door opened. Inside, it was dark. Severus stepped inside. Albus is probably asleep, he thought, blinking in the darkness as the door shut softly behind him. Where's the bloody light? he thought crossly, refusing to succumb to the panic of déjà vu. His hands groped along the walls, and finally, he felt one of those silly Muggle contraptions, and flicked the switch.

Severus stared at the sight that greeted him. Instead of one of those ridiculous Muggle fluorescent lamps, light flooded from a window at the far end of the room, so that it appeared to be mid-afternoon. The room was large and spacious, and furnished exactly the way Albus Dumbledore's Hogwarts office had been: the portraits of the headmasters were there, as was the massive desk, cluttered by silver instruments.

So the healers advised a familiar environment, did they? Severus thought with an edge of contempt. On Dumbledore's table there lay a plate of fancy biscuits, half of which had been reduced to crumbs. Severus turned and saw, as he had expected, the partially hidden door which led to Dumbledore's private quarters.

Severus opened it. He felt for the light switch, flicked it on, and a gentle light emanated from the small chandelier attached to the ceiling. Severus frowned. The door to Dumbledore's bedroom was open, and he could see the large canopied bed, but it was empty. In fact, it looked completely untouched.

Where can the old coot be? Severus wondered, looking into the bathroom. It was empty. The living room, with its large purple couch and dominating painting of a fat, dozing woman, was empty. The closet was empty.

Severus hurried into the main room and stopped next to Dumbledore's enormous desk, looking out the fake window at the idyllic scenery of the sloping green grounds, the still blue lake. The silence was broken only by the tick of the grandfather clock. He is not here, Severus thought. Perhaps he was never really mad and only hid before escaping. Indeed, it was foolish to think that anybody could contain a wizard of Dumbledore's caliber, even if mad—

Severus felt something grab his ankle. He leapt back and slashed his wand. "Reducto!" he shouted. The desk rattled, and he remembered belatedly that anti-magic wards had been placed around the rooms. Laughter filled the air.

"Did I scare you?" said Dumbledore's voice from under the desk. "I did, didn't I? Admit it, I scared you!"

Severus moved to the other side of the desk and looked down. There, wearing only a thin purple nightgown, the tip of his white beard sweeping the floor, crouched Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore collapsed into another fit of giggles. "I like your nose!" he gasped. "It's just like a big, overstuffed bird! Have you ever met Augusta Longbottom? She's got a vulture-hat just like your nose!"

Severus sneered. "Very funny, Albus."

Dumbledore sniggered. "You're an adult, aren't you? Only adults talk like that, or kids who nobody likes."

It was very odd, Severus thought, to see Dumbledore with an impish grin on his lined and wrinkled face. "You could say I'm both," Severus said dryly. "Tell me, Albus—do you still remember who I am?"

"I don't remember you, but I remember your nose. It got changed into a flamingo's beak once. It was very, very, very pink."

"Ah, so you knew about that," Severus said.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore said with a glint in his eyes. He was playing with a sherbet lemon in his hand, and Severus noticed that lying on the ground in from the headmaster was a chessboard, covered with sweets. "I know everything."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Everything?"

"Everything worth knowing, that is," Dumbledore said, wearing a peculiarly arrogant expression on his face. "Nobody cares what the ingredients are for the Polyjuice Potion, you know. Or the Dreamless Sleep Potion. That's for amateurs."

Severus smiled thinly. So this was the madness of Albus Dumbledore. Hermione had never told him what the madness entailed, and he had always had the image of an old and broken man, or an inanely smiling fool, unhinged by the lifting of shadow. He had not expected Dumbledore to keep in his madness that singular insight; in fact, Severus had privately hoped it would be the first thing to go. Damn the old coot.

"Let's see, then," said Severus, tilting his head challengingly. "Who is the current headmaster at Hogwarts?"

"Why, Armando Dippet!" Dumbledore retorted contemptuously. "Everybody knows that."

"Ah. I'm afraid that you're mistaken, Albus," said Severus. "The current headmaster is Fred Weasley."

"You're fibbing!" Dumbledore said crossly. But then a sly smile went over his face. "Freddie Fred, Freddie Fred," he hummed in a singsong voice. He reached down to a small bowl of sherbet lemons, took one out, and put it on the chessboard. "He'll make an excellent headmaster. Everyone loves Fred. Too bad George died. Otherwise there might be a joint headmastership."

"Hermione Granger suits the position much better than that fool," Severus snorted.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Poor Miss Granger. She's just like an adult, so serious and earnest about everything. Plus, she's got no good friends anymore. She won't do."

"She might have had more friends if you had not singled her out," Severus said coldly.

"Oh, come on," Dumbledore said in a whining voice. "Don't blame me for everything! I'm awfully sorry and didn't mean for it to happen. There." Then he giggled. "Neville Longbottom would've made a splendid headmaster. Too bad he died."

"Yes, too bad he died," Severus repeated dryly. It was on the verge of his tongue to ask, What about your beloved Harry Potter? Would he have made a good headmaster? But he kept silent.

"The other day, I played a trick on poor Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with a snigger. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Not particularly."

"Oh, come on," Dumbledore said, crossing his arms sulkily. "If you listen to it, I'll let you tell me a story."

"I don't want to tell you any stories."

"But everyone has a story to tell," Dumbledore protested. "Well, if you don't tell me your story, I'm going to make one up for you. And," he threatened, "the main character will be your nose."

"What a thrilling premise," Severus said. He peered at the chessboard at Dumbledore's feet. For the first time, he realized that there were words scrawled on the wrappers of each of the sherbet lemons.

Dumbledore thrust his arms over the chessboard, and covered the checkered expanse with the wide sleeves of his nightgown. "Tsk, tsk, no peeking," he said with a mischievous grin on his face. "This is my little secret. I've been working on it forever. You're not allowed to look at it yet."

"All right," Severus said. "I won't pry into your secrets."

"But don't you want to?" Dumbledore needled. He lifted his right arm slightly, and Severus saw that the sherbet lemons were arranged in the form of a chess game; there were some pieces on the sidelines, and one or two empty wrappers. "My secret is really special. It tells me everything and anything I'd ever want to know."

"What, are you doing divination with sherbet lemons?"

Dumbledore made a scoffing sound. "Divination is for old ladies with too many cats and too many teabags, like Aunt Cassandra."He sat back and lifted his arms dramatically, like the raising of a curtain. "This is my storyboard. I collect stories, you see."

"I prefer potion recipes," Severus said, looking dispassionately at the curly letters adorning the wrappers. He saw a few names he recognized—Hermione Granger, Amelia Bones, and Molly Weasley; but there were others he had never heard of, such as: Mohini Chatterjee, Ghost of Roger Casement, and Toggy.

Dumbledore reached into a corner of the desk and took out a battered quill. "You won't have to tell me a story; I'll just add you to my collection and make up a story myself," he said. "But you do have to tell me what your name is."

Severus gave a thin smile. "You know everything, don't you? Do you mean to say that you do not even know my name?"

"Your name isn't something worth knowing," Dumbledore dismissed. "I bet it's something horribly gloomy, like Mordred Muddlemurg, or Nurville Norrowcooper."

"It is very gloomy," Severus said. "I want to see if you can remember it."

"Remember? You're funny! I've never even met you, how would I remember your name?"

Severus smiled enigmatically. "Ah, but we have met before."

"Really?" Dumbledore demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest and stuck out his chin. His dangling beard flopped over the chessboard. "When? Where? How? What? Why? Whither? Wherefore?"

Severus paused. Keeping with reason with Albus Dumbledore was like trying to fish the moon's reflection. He wondered what sort of insane response he could conjure to match Dumbledore's twisted logic, but the old wizard shouted, "Aha! You're stuck, you're lying. I can always tell when somebody is lying. We've never met before, but you just want to say that we have. Since you're lying, you need to pay your penalty. Now"—Dumbledore held his quill expectantly—"what's your name?"

Severus gave a bitter twist with his lips. How ironic it was that someone should not know his name, and that that person should be Albus Dumbledore. But the thought was an illusion, he told himself. It was impossible to tell what of Dumbledore's words was truth and what was lies. That, at least, was not surprising.

"Severus Snape," he said.

"Severus… Snape…" Dumbledore muttered, squinting through his half-moon spectacles as he wrote the name with painstaking care. "That is a gloomy name. In your story, you'll laugh only once or twice each year, and that'll be because you're laughing at someone else."

Severus held his silence, but he was drawn to a small circle of sherbet lemons, arranged at the center of the chessboard. His heart skipped a beat. 'Harry Potter,' said one of them. 'Tom Riddle,' said the other. 'Lord Voldemort. Jonathan Frost.'

"Who—who are these?" Severus asked, his voice catching as he pointed at the ring of sweets.

"Oh, people," Dumbledore said with a vague gesture of his hand. He set the sherbet lemon with Severus's name in one corner of the chessboard. "Miss Granger mentioned them to me, and they seemed to have the oddest story. They're all one person, you see, but they couldn't decide on one name, so they chose four."

Severus reached down and, with only the slightest hesitation, picked up the one with Jonathan's name.

"Hey!" Dumbledore called sharply. "What're you doing? You're going to mess up my secret! Put it back, put it back!"

"No need to panic," Severus sneered, reaching down and setting the sherbet lemon in its original position. It was only a sweet, after all. But his heart was still pounding, speeding the rush of blood through his head. "Did he—they—have any interesting stories?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled furiously. "Ah hah," he said. "You want me to tell you about them, don't you? That's what you wanted all along, isn't it? Admit it!"

Severus smiled thinly. "Very well. I admit it."

Dumbledore smirked, then made a peculiar noise, which Severus recognized was a muffled laugh only after the old wizard had doubled over in laughter. "Guess what? I'm not going to tell you anything!"

"Very amusing," Severus said. He had to push down the overwhelming urge to reach out his hands and strangle the irritating old meddler. Dumbledore's ability to incite murderous rages had not changed at all.

"Yes, don't you think it's hilarious?" said Dumbledore, still snorting with laughter. "See, I tricked you twice, fool on you!"

"This is boring," Severus said abruptly. He had been in an uncomfortable crouching position, and now he stood up and stretched his back, trying to clear the ache in his joints. "You actually don't know a single thing, Dumbledore. I was a fool to believe you could help me."

"Hey!" Dumbledore shouted, reaching out with both hands and grabbing the hem of Severus's robe. "Did you just say that I don't know a single thing? You're the idiot here! You're just a sore loser!"

Severus shrugged contemptuously. "I am. What of that? Let me go, you idiot."

Dumbledore tightened his grip. "I won't! I won't!" he yelled, pulling insistently at Severus's robes. "If I let go, will you promise to stay for a while?"

"Of course not," Severus snapped. "Let go. Now."

"Fine!" Dumbledore cried. He let go and curled up into the corner. The nightgown lifted enough that Severus could see the old wizard's thin legs, covered by a spider web of bluish veins. They looked like spindles, as skinny as a young child's. "Go ahead, leave me alone," Dumbledore said angrily. It was difficult to see in the shadow cast by the desk, but Severus thought the old wizard was blinking back tears. "I'd have told you all the stories you wanted only if you played with me. Nobody wants to play games with me—nobody."

"Maybe you should play a different game," Severus said in a neutral voice. It was pitiful, this wreck that Dumbledore had become. In a way, it was frightening. Dumbledore had seemed so invincible, so everlasting, although everyone knew it could not be so. But more than that, the old wizard had known so many of Severus's secrets, and with Dumbledore lost in madness, Severus was more alone than ever.

"I don't know any other games," Dumbledore said sulkily. "And anyway, I made up this game by myself. Why don't others want to play it with me? It's a perfectly fun game. I bet you haven't played a single game in your entire life. You ought to play with me."

"I will not know how to play it," Severus said.

Dumbledore dried his eyes and sniffed loudly. "I can teach you."

Severus shook his head. It was late, and he was tired. His back hurt. "Find another playmate."

"Nobody plays with me!" Dumbledore whined. He blinked his eyes rapidly. Severus felt a sharp splinter of disgust; he hated infants, and people who were reduced to tears as easily as small children. He knew that his bastard of a father had hated tears as well, but the notion had only made him view such sickening sentimentality with greater rancor.

Severus stood, and tried again to work the pain out of his back. As he did so, he felt the lump in his pocket, soft and squashy. Reluctantly, he returned to his crouching position.

"I thought you were going," Dumbledore said, glaring sullenly through tear-stained spectacles.

"I am. But here," Severus said, digging into his robe pocket and pulling out a pair of soft, woolen socks. "These are for you. Someone told me long ago that you wish you had more socks." The socks themselves were a horrible maroon color, and Severus could not remember when he had gotten them (most likely a Christmas gift from the old headmaster). He had never worn them.

"Socks?" Dumbledore said, a frown appearing on his forehead.

"Yes, socks," Severus said in a voice he knew would make anyone else ruffle indignantly. But never Dumbledore.

The old wizard sniffled and took the two shapeless pieces of maroon. Then, he smiled, a light that enveloped his face with an innocence Severus had never seen before. "Aw, gee. Socks! These are the woolliest socks I've ever had."

Dumbledore kicked off his fluffy pink slippers and quickly pulled up the two tubes of wool. "Aren't they so handsome?"

"They look very fetching," Severus agreed.

Dumbledore gave a sheepish look, and he said, almost shyly, "Thank you, Mr. Snape. Who's the bloke who told you I liked socks?"

Severus answered with only the slightest hesitation. "Harry Potter," he said, and pointed at the sherbet lemon with Potter's name.

"Oh, really! I wonder how he knew," Dumbledore remarked, wriggling his toes and looking at them from his crouched position. "Clever fellow, he is. Or perhaps I told him." Dumbledore giggled. "This is the nicest thing anyone's done for me, besides Miss Granger giving me all my sherbet lemons. Really I should tell you a story for that." He paused and smiled slyly. "Would you like that, Mr. Snape?"

"I would, actually," Severus said, working hard to keep his voice calm, untroubled, unbroken.

"Whose story shall I tell?"

Severus reached down to the chessboard and was about to pick up the sherbet lemon, but Dumbledore batted Severus's hand aside. "Nuh-uh," said the old wizard, shaking his head in a movement of mock-disapproval. "No touching."

Severus sneered briefly, but he found it hard to control himself with his heart pounding so madly in his chest. "Jonathan Frost."

"Ah, the mysterious Jonathan Frost!" Dumbledore exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in delightful anticipation. "So you want to hear about him, do you?"

"Yes, I do," Severus said dryly, trying his best to hide his impatience. "Why else would I have answered with his name?"

"You might've been trying to trick me, who knows?" Dumbledore retorted. "And be patient! A story can't be told in a rush."

Severus sighed. He leaned back slightly, supporting his weight with his hands, and arranged himself in a cross-legged seating position. He relaxed his hands, which had been clenched in fists. "I'm ready."

"Good, good," said Dumbledore, who adopted the same position. "Now, the tale of Jonathan Frost starts on a dark stormy night. He appeared one day out of nowhere in on a wide dark plain, a moor if you like, with nothing on him except for the clothes on his back."

Severus nodded. "Well? Go on."

"Patience!" Dumbledore hushed. "Anyhow, Jonathan Frost wandered for days and days and nights and nights until at last he came upon the biggest castle in the land. That castle was, of course, Hogwarts castle, and the headmaster was Armando Dippet."

It was on the verge of Severus's tongue to contradict that statement, but he stopped himself. This Dumbledore was insane. It was inevitable that some facts slid.

"What happened next?"

"Well, Jonathan Frost wandered through the halls. He had never seen so many beautiful moving paintings, or so many tall suits of armor. Of course, he might have seen them before, but he really could not remember. I think he had a very bad memory, you know."

"Really?" Severus said skeptically. Jonathan, though no Granger, had not been stupid.

"Actually, he was usually quite clever, but being dropped in the middle of nowhere made him rather confused," Dumbledore amended quickly. "At any rate, he came to a statue of an ugly gargoyle. Jonathan and the gargoyle stared at each other for quite a while, until the gargoyle, who was very unused to people staring at his ugly mug, finally spoke.

"'What do you want?' it asked in a horribly grating voice.

"'I want to pass through,' Jonathan answered.

"'Well, if you want to do that,' the gargoyle said, standing up and beating its fearsome wings, 'you will have to answer my three riddles!'

"Of course, Jonathan was frightened, because the gargoyle's wings were bigger than anything you'd ever seen, and the gargoyle's teeth were so sharp they could cut your bones like they were butter—"

"Can we skip this part?" Severus interrupted shortly. "For one thing, I don't think Jonathan ever talked to the gargoyle. Secondly, the gargoyle has no wings, and it is missing most of its teeth."

Dumbledore shrugged his shoulders elaborately. "Well, Jonathan might have talked to it on his own, and the gargoyle was probably different from what you remembered—"

"It was the same," Severus said in a steely voice. "If you remember, Jonathan and I were in the same year at Hogwarts."

"Oh, really!" Dumbledore said in surprise. "Were you in the same house? You look thoroughly like a Slytherin, or a Ravenclaw, but I've never met Jonathan, so really I can't tell—"

"YOU NEVER MET HIM?" Severus roared. He swiped his hand across Dumbledore's chessboard, and all the carefully arranged sweets scattered over the floor. "You were making all of that up, weren't you?" he hissed furiously. "You odious little—monster!"

Dumbledore was huddling in a corner, pulling himself into such a small ball that his beard seemed to cover his entire body. "Y-you broke my g-game—" he whimpered. Tears flooded his eyes. "I—I worked so hard on it, every d-day, and n-now—"

"Damn your game!" Severus snarled. He stared at the old man. Dumbledore was a sniffling wreck, staring back with watery blue eyes petrified with fear. His lower lip was quivering, and his whole body seemed frozen with terror.

"Albus, are you truly, truly mad?" Severus barked. He wanted to slap the tear-streaked face, smash his fist into the nose and break the twinkling half-moon spectacles. "I will go mad—mad if you keep up this—this sickening joke!"

"Don't hurt me!" Dumbledore cried hoarsely, bringing his hands up and trying to hide his face behind them. "I'm sorry, I w-won't tell stories anymore, just don't hurt me, p-please don't hurt me!"

"How did you know my nose had been turned into a flamingo's beak?" Severus demanded. "Tell me!"

"I made it up!" Dumbledore sobbed. "I made it up, don't hurt me, I won't—I won't ever mention your n-nose again!"

Severus gritted his teeth. He reached out and pried the old man's arms apart. Dumbledore was quite strong for his age, but Severus was stronger.

"Nooo!" Dumbledore squealed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Don't hurt me!"

"I'll chop off your fingers if you don't open our eyes!" Severus hissed.

"D-don't!"

"Then open your eyes!"

Dumbledore's eyes fluttered open.

"Legilimens!"

Severus waited. Nothing happened. Dumbledore was blubbering and whimpering like an idiotic baby. Severus then remembered the anti-magic wards, and cursed them with as many expletives as he could summon.

"LEGILIMENS!" he roared, tightening his grip on Dumbledore's wrists so hard that his own hands were quivering, trying to summon every last drop of magic in his body.

The anti-magic wards broke. Severus found himself hurtling into Dumbledore's eyes, and he gasped with the impact of his entrance. All was white. A blinding white light burnt Severus's vision, and he with a cry brought his hands to cover his face. Gradually, painfully, Severus felt his eyes begin to adjust. He looked around in wonder. He could hear, distantly, Dumbledore's wails ringing in his ears. There were faint shapes in the whiteness, like ghosts in the mist. He stared, squinting his eyes, trying to make out what they were. Were they human? They seemed to have arms, legs, faces, bodies, but they moved so fast, like withered leaves caught on a gale, and there were so many…

That isn't Dumbledore's voice, Severus thought with a start. That is an alarm.

He pulled himself out of Dumbledore's mind. A shrill noise was pulsing in the air, and Severus could feel a heavy string of magic draw around him like a noose.

"Resolvo!" Severus commanded as he jabbed his wand into the air. The magic of the room teetered for a moment, and then dissolved into nothingness. Severus clambered onto his feet, cursing the pain of his back, and stumbled to the entrance, nearly slipping on one of those sweets. He paused in front of the doorway; there was a strong magical net hidden there, one that was too tightly knit for him to break immediately.

From down the hall, he could hear the sound of pounding footsteps, belonging to six or seven people. Severus gritted his teeth. Those six or seven might be easily dispatched, but more would certainly arrive. His contributions to the war were well known, but he was far from trusted, and there would be no Dumbledore to defend him if he were caught.

Damn it all! Severus thought as he dashed back to the massive table where Dumbledore still hid, blubbering. The window was well warded, too, but the walls— Severus held his wand out to taste the tendrils of magic in the air. The wall was unguarded.

"Reducto!" Severus hissed. The wall next to the window blasted open. Severus cast a lightness spell and a layered notice-me-not charm on himself, and stepped out through the jagged hole, turning around as he did so.

Several wizards, common security staff by the looks of it, had entered the room. But they had not seen him, and were now crowding in front of the hole, casting detection charms randomly into the air. Severus smirked grimly, and floated down. Ending the lightness charm, he ran to the perimeters of St. Mungo's wards, cursing his aching back as he did so, and apparated away.

.o0o.

Severus stumbled down the corridors. The pain in his back had become a ceaseless throb. No wonder hunchbacks were sometimes called 'cauldron cats;' the horrible posture of many Potions masters rendered them into bent and broken creatures who could hardly walk.

He met no one as he went through the hidden ways into the dungeons. Hogwarts might have been torn down by Voldemort after the siege, but the dungeons, which lay underneath, were for the most part intact. His quarters, of course, had been destroyed, but the secret passages had remained.

"Anguifer corvus," Severus barked at the portrait.

The painting swung open, and Severus staggered through. It had been months since the last time he had so exerted himself, and already he felt far more tired than before. He was getting old.

The little grey book lay on his bedside table where he had last put it, though it was now hidden by a steadily growing pile of scrolls. Sweeping the parchment aside, Severus flipped open the book and picked up a quill.

'Christolph,' he wrote. 'Hurry, I have no time.' He set down his quill and swept his wand in an arc. Scrolls and parchments and books fluttered and tumbled away, leaving an open space in the middle of the living room.

Severus glanced back at book. 'What is it, Severus?' Christolph had written.

'I have no time left anymore. I am going to attempt the Gāst Cunnian.'

Severus straightened and pointed his wand at the fireplace. "Adoleo!" he commanded, and the fireplace leapt to life. "Accio yew," he called, and from another room, a branch of yew, still bearing its red berries, floated into his grasp. He threw the sprig into the fire and turned back to Christolph.

'What happened?' Christolph had written. 'Severus?'

'I went to visit Dumbledore, and ended up hurting him. I escaped St. Mungo's, but I left my name when they requested identification,' Severus scribbled. 'They could be here right now.' He ran a hand over the mantelpiece and snatched the necklace of the pentagonal rose and pulled it over his head.

'How badly is he hurt?' said Christolph.

'It does not matter. I hurt him, I ran. The world will never let me go. I will be locked away for a long time at least, without magic, forgotten. I would rather die.'

Severus pointed his wand at the fire. "Stinguo," he said, and the fire curled up and disappeared. He reached into the fireplace and cupped the hot ashes of the yew in his hands. Carefully, he sprinkled a circle of ash in the space he had cleared.

'They cannot lock you away forever,' Christolph had written. 'And perhaps it will give you time to think.'

Severus gave a humorless laugh. 'I have thought for twenty years. All other spells have failed. I have waited too long to do this.'

Severus reached up to the space above the mantelpiece and tapped the wall. The stone shimmered and faded away, revealing a small shelf. A grey ring lay on the shelf. Severus picked it up with care and slipped it onto his finger.

'It is your choice, though if I could have you way, you would have found it in your heart to forget. I wish Simon had forgotten.' Severus pressed his lips together thinly. There was no time for an argument; he was going to proceed with or without Christolph's consent.'But it is your choice, and it too will bring me peace.' Peace, Severus thought, wondering if that was what death could bring. It would be too bitter an irony that death would yield anything other than emptiness. 'Perhaps he is not dead.'

Severus smiled grimly. 'I will find out. What of what you asked of me?'

'I hold to that still.'

'It would be hypocritical of me to say so, but perhaps you should stay.'

'Indeed it is hypocritical. Still, thank you for the thought. I have decided. I have thought for more than one hundred years.'

'Very well.' Severus paused. It seemed fitting to write a farewell, but Christolph remained silent. 'Good-bye.' Severus wrote. He set down his quill without waiting for a reply, and lifted his wand. "Accio ointment!"

There was a clanking sound, and slowly a large basin floated through the air and landed with a thud on a pile of scrolls next to the ash-circled clearing. A bit of the liquid spilled out, and it glistened darkly in the dim torchlight.

Severus glanced back down at the page. 'Good-bye,' Christolph had written. 'And hurry before I become sentimental.'

Severus smiled wryly. 'Very well.' he scrawled. He pointed his wand at the fireplace. "Adoleo," he commanded a second time, and a fresh flame rose from nothingness. Severus shut the book carefully, picked it up with both hands, and laid it gently on the fire. The grey covers glowed a blazing yellow in the flames, shriveling quickly to blackness before the pages caught and blossomed in a burst of light.

Severus stepped back from the fireplace, and turned, approaching the basin of ointment. Quickly, he stripped until he was wearing only his undergarments, and stepped into the liquid. It tickled him, soaked through what little he was wearing, and sighed over his skin. Shutting his eyes, he ducked his head in the ointment, and he felt the potion caress his face.

He emerged, breathing hard and blinking the ointment from his eyes. It felt as though a second skin were clinging to him; he could not feel the air anymore. Stepping careful so as not to disturb the ring of ash, he stepped into the circle and swept his wand.

"Adoleo," he commanded, and the white ashes glowed, brightened, gave birth to a steady white flame that rose in anticipation.

Severus raised his wand into the air as far up as he could reach. "I summon the wild powers to take my soul and send it on its quest to find the man I know as Jonathan Frost," he said in a clear voice. Heat was spreading up his legs, body, engulfing his hands and his wand. Opening his eyes, he saw a white flickering distort his vision, casting a veil between him and the steady fire of the yew ash.

"I am a hawk: above the cliff.

I am the bush: that burns with light.

I am the hill: where sleeps the Sun.

I am the air: the winds bring by…"

He was beginning to sweat. Briefly he wondered if the ointment was wearing thin, or if it had sat for too long to retain its effectiveness, but the heat seemed to find a nest in his body, burning with a corresponding fire.

"I am the sand: a glittering fire.

I am the yew: the dead let grow.

I am a pyre: the—"

There was a pounding sound. "Professor Snape! Severus!" Granger shouted, her voice muffled by the walls. "Let me in!"

Damn it! Severus swore. Instantly he felt the flames recede, and the heat he had felt so clearly faded until it was nothing more than a shadowy fever.

"I am a pyre: the passage makes," he continued, raising his voice and trying to ignore the pounding from the portrait door. "I am a lake: where secrets—"

"Severus! I know you're in there!"

Severus shut his eyes and concentrated on the flickering flame, trying to put everything else from his mind. "Where secrets hide. Who but I can softly tread the—"

"Severus? It's safe, they're not looking for you!"

Severus stumbled. Abruptly the flames went out. The white fire that had surrounded him vanished like mist carried by wind, the blaze of the yew ash shrunk into nothing, and Severus shivered, feeling suddenly and nauseatingly bereft.

"At least answer me, for goodness' sake—"

Severus shuddered. It was cold; his skin felt clammy from what was left of the ointment. But more than that, the emptiness he felt opened a vast expanse in him that drained everything and left him a numb and shivering wreck in the middle of a cold, empty room.

"Sever—"

He stabbed his wand into the air. The portrait door swung open and slammed against the wall with a bag.

Hermione Granger blinked. She was wearing only a pale blue nightgown, and on her head was a hairnet which replaced the strict knot usually holding together her unruly hair. One hand held a candle, and the other hand held a wand.

"Severus? Are you…"

Severus thought what he must look like: wearing only his old and thin undergarments, slumped in the middle of the room, surrounded by ash and a mess of scrolls, parchments. He found it difficult to care.

"You interrupted me, Miss Granger," Severus said coldly.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, lifting her nightgown and stepping over the threshold. "May I ask what you were…" Her face tightened with worry. "Don't tell me you're doing that Gāst Cunnian spell."

He gave her a sharp look. He had thought the only records existed in the Nest, and those he had removed. "How did you know?"

"I guessed," Hermione said. "You look—horrible. Are you all right?"

"Close the door," Severus grunted, clambering to his feet. Sooner or later, he thought, my back will kill me.

Hermione flicked her wand, and the door closed. "By the way, about the situation with Albus—what did you do to him? He was bawling like a baby when I got there."

Severus picked up his robe and wrapped it around his body. With the ointment sticking to his skin, he felt dirty and clammy, and the robe did nothing to keep out the cold. "I overturned his chess board and attempted Legilimency."

"Severus!" Hermione chided as she crossed her arms and sighed. "I knew you were horrible with children, so I told you that when you visited Albus, I should go with you."

I don't remember that, Severus thought, shivering. But as he reviewed his memory, he realized that she had, indeed, said that. I must not have been paying attention, he thought.

"Do you have any tea here?" Hermione asked, looking at him concernedly. "Or should I summon a house-elf?"

"I don't wanttea," Severus said shortly. "What happened after you got there?"

"Everyone else was crowding around that big hole you made, but I went to the identification registry and saw your name. I wiped it out right away, because I knew you wouldn't hurt Albus intentionally, and goodness knows what they'd to do you if you were caught. Here," said Hermione, moving briskly to the fireplace. "Do you have any wood? You look very cold. Oh! Was this a book?"

Severus felt a pang ricochet through his heart. Christolph was gone. The one person he had talked to unfailingly for twenty years, who did not push him to talk, who was his family—was gone. "Yes, it was," Severus said, clearing his throat. "And… I don't think I have any wood."

"Toggy?" Hermione called.

With a faint pop, a house-elf appeared. It wore a clean tea-cosy and Severus presumed it was male. "Yes, Professor Granger, ma'am?" the house-elf squeaked, and looked around at the mess with goggling eyes.

"Get some firewood for Professor Snape, and some tea, and biscuits, while you're at it," said Hermione. "Thank you."

"Yes, yes, and no need for thankses!" Toggy squealed, and disappeared with another pop.

"I'm not a professor anymore," Severus said, wrapping his arms around his chest and crouching on his bed. He made a gesture at the only chair in his quarters, and Hermione gently shifted aside the scrolls before sitting. "I don't think I've seen more than three students this entire year. And I would have avoided them if I could."

"Once a professor, always a professor," Hermione murmured.

Severus snorted. There was a silence between them, and Severus wondered at the fact that there was only a slight trace of discomfort. It was strange not to feel awkward or annoyed in another person's presence. "How did you know I was performing the Gāst Cunnian?"

"I saw it on something you wrote, once," Hermione said. She ducked her head slightly, perhaps blushing from what she considered a misdeed. "I didn't mean to, but… Anyway. It said that Simon Freegard died from using the Gāst Cunnian, and as the spell means 'Soul Seek,' it sounded like the sort of spell one would use to find someone else." She hesitated. "It can't be a very safe spell, can it, to involve soul magic?"

"It works only if there is a strong enough—connection," Severus said. "Otherwise, the user is unhurt. You are right in saying that the usage of soul magic makes the spell dangerous. Literally, the soul is sent out to seek a corresponding soul."

"And if the target soul is dispersed in death—" Hermione began, but stopped.

"Then the seeker's soul disperses as well," Severus finished dryly.

Toggy appeared then, bearing a stack of logs twice as tall as itself and a large silver platter. Whoever decides the portion amounts should be cursed, Severus thought, looking with faint nausea at the veritable mound of biscuits.

"Thank you, Toggy," Hermione said, levitating the stack of firewood into the fireplace. "Um, Severus, may I—"

"Go ahead," Severus said. He flicked his wand, and the pile of scrolls and parchment tumbled off the only table in the room.

"Put it there, please," Hermione instructed. Toggy levitated the platter onto the table, letting it settle with a gentle clink, and then disapparated with a deep bow.

"Tea?" Hermione offered. Severus said nothing. As expected, Hermione poured him a cup anyway. "It's very good," she said, levitating the teacup and saucer to Severus's bed. "Jasmine tea."

"I prefer green tea," Severus muttered, but took the cup anyway. The scent, he admitted, was rather pleasant, and the warmth of the teacup crept comfortingly into his hands.

"The biscuits are very good too," Hermione said. She blew gently at the steaming liquid and sipped delicately from her cup. How like Minerva, Severus thought. "What if the target is in a different time?" Hermione asked, still looking down at her tea.

"Then the seeker's soul is smeared across the years and lost," Severus replied. "Yes, that is what happened to Simon Freegard."

"That doesn't sound very pleasant," Hermione said. She had stopped sipping at her tea. Severus watched her set her teacup on the table and fidget with her hands. "Severus," she began, and stopped, then continued hesitantly, "there will never be a time—when you have nothing to lose."

"Nothing to lose?" Severus repeated, twisting the words with his bitter scorn. He set aside his teacup and glanced, unintentionally, at the merrily blazing logs in the fireplace. A sharp sting of regret went through his heart as he thought of Christolph, and he clenched his hands. But he lifted his head and said coldly, "That, Miss Granger, is for me to decide. And some things are worth what might be lost."

"Jonathan Frost would not have wanted to you to take this risk," Hermione said with sickening patience.

"Jonathan Frost's opinion matters little," he snapped.

Hermione subsided into silence. For a moment, Severus thought she would retreat as she usually did and begin talking about something inane and harmless.

"Why did you hurt Albus?" she asked.

Severus looked at her in surprise, and then turned his gaze down to his hands when she lifted her eyes.

"You were asking him about Jonathan, weren't you?"

Her voice was gentle, insistent, almost like Dumbledore's, but he had known her too long to suspect her of deceit. "Yes," he forced out. "I did."

"And he told you a silly made-up story, didn't he?" Hermione let the silence answer the question. "You haven't let go of him at all, Severus," she said quietly. "Pardon me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me that he's haunted you for at least as long as I've known you. But… perhaps it is time that you let him go—"

"Let him go?" Severus hissed, and then gave a humorless laugh. "Do you think I would forgive him so easily? Do you know what he—what that monster has done?"

Hermione looked at him with some confusion in her eyes. "You mean, Harry? Or—Jonathan?"

"They are the same person," Severus snarled. He found that he was surprisingly angry, enraged by a fury that he had always twisted into bitterness before it could consume him. But he was too tired to fight the tide. "I will not mention that he killed Terrance Lestrange and probably killed Emily Matellan. I am selfish; their deaths mean little to me. But he, in all the power he absorbed from Voldemort, had the ability to change the future. He could change the future—but he did not. He did not."

And look at me now, Severus added in his heart. Look at me. A pathetic old man. Pitiful, broken, battered, forgotten, despised, distrusted. He shut his eyes and remembered with a shudder the feeling of Voldemort's hands moving over his body, Voldemort's breath burning against his skin like the touch of a cadaver. You knew it would happen, Jonathan, Severus thought. And you let it happen. You let it happen.

"Yes," Hermione said in a quiet, almost inaudible voice. "I know."

Severus shot her an incredulous glance. "What do you mean, you knew? Did Dumbledore tell you?"

Hermione shook her head. There was too much compassion on her face, Severus thought with another surge of anger. Keep your pity for yourself. "I think Dumbledore suspected, but I only knew when I calculated the amount of power Harry would possess after absorbing Voldemort's soul." She paused. "I realized, after doing the calculations for time travel, that he would have enough power to change the future."

Clever girl, Severus thought reluctantly. He took a deep, shuddering breath. The immediate days after Jonathan had disappeared had been—terrible. He could only remember a haze of misery, of a pain so raw that both his daytime thoughts and nighttime dreams had been soaked in memories and nightmares. He had been certain that Jonathan had died, murdered by the same monster who plundered his body for its own lust.

But even certainty had cracks. After Voldemort's first fall, Severus had waited while the others celebrated madly, waited for Jonathan to return with a hope that dangled him by a delicate strand. After all, Jonathan had promised—promised to tell Severus all after everything was over. The waiting stretched for a week, a month, a year, until that hope thinned and shriveled like a sapling in winter.

"I've also wondered," Hermione continued, "why he didn't change the future."

Severus looked up, broken out of his reverie. "And?"

"You must remember, he had Voldemort's soul in him," Hermione said. "And he was always… he was never happy, I don't think. Not after Ron died."

"Yes," Severus murmured, remembering how Jonathan seemed to have something haunting him constantly like a ghost visible only to him. "He had dreams, too. Voldemort's memories."

"Yes," Hermione said. "Perhaps he thought that—perhaps he didn't really believe he could carve happiness for himself. He'd always been stuck with a fate he didn't want, and perhaps—for all the power he had—he never really believed he could change things."

Severus nodded slowly, reluctantly. Perhaps. Jonathan had had such an air of fatality, and there had been times—frightening, then, but understandable now—that he had clung to Severus with an almost frightened desperation, an aching despair. But I was young, Severus thought. I would have done anything for you. Could you not have believed for me?

"And maybe he was frightened by his power," Hermione said. "On some level, he must have known that his power came from Voldemort. He must have known that that power was—tainted. If he changed the future for himself, who knows what else he might have done?"

He had already killed with his power, Severus protested. The line had already been crossed. The deed had already been done.

He shook his head. Why did he not wish to forgive, to forget? He knew he should not dismiss the logic of Hermione's statements, knew that he—the cold, calculating Slytherin that he locked himself into—should be weighing out his emotions in accordance to logic, but no. He wanted no logic. There had never been any reason in the meaning of pain, in his life of madness. It was a joke of cosmic proportions that he should fall in love with Harry Potter and remain deceived and pining for twenty whole years. A joke, that was all. Madness.

"Perhaps Harry—or Jonathan, whoever—is still alive, and perhaps he's just waiting for the right time to come," Hermione said. "But… you can't live in a limbo, Severus. This is your life. Can you, perhaps, try to forgive him, and perhaps forget him—just a little bit?"

Severus shook his head. It was too much to ask for, he thought, far too much. But he only lifted his head tiredly and stared into the flames of the fireplace. "I thank you, Miss Granger, for your concern, but I am quite exhausted."

"Of course," Hermione said, putting her teacup onto the table and standing up. She smoothed the creases from her nightgown. "Well," she said hesitantly, "good night, Severus."

"Good night," he said.

He heard Hermione make her way carefully through the mess of parchment, heard the portrait door swing open, the pause as she looked back. Then there was a gentle thud, and he knew he was alone.

He pulled himself into a tighter position. It was cold. The fire did little to warm the air, or even light the room. Shadows flung themselves over the walls and ceilings, hiding the corners in darkness.

Severus laughed weakly to himself. Forgive? Forget? He would be laughing if he were not so tired, or if the thought were not so ridiculous. Granger made it sound like some sort of conscious decision, that with a snap of his fingers, Jonathan Frost would cease to exist. Or perhaps it was some neatly-packaged spell that would snake through his mind, swallowing all memories of that limitless pain until he was left with nothing but a ray of eternal sunshine.

He stood up. In the center of the room, he could still make out the outline of the ash circle. The basin of ointment was still there.

"Verro," Severus intoned. The remnants of ash whispered into the fireplace, pulled by an unseen wind. "Recursus," he said, pointing his wand at the basin. It lifted into the air, and, swaying slightly, floated out of the room.

Whoever decided the portion sizes should be cursed, he thought again, looking blearily at the stack of biscuits. He turned to face the mantle. The little shelf in the wall was there; he had forgotten to reseal it.

His fingers went to the ring on his hand, but just as he was about to pull it off, he stopped. Then, slowly, he drew his hand over the wall and shut the hidden shelf.

He returned to his bed and sat down with measured movements. He glanced down to his hand, where the ring glinted dully in the firelight. It fitted snugly, comfortably, as though he had worn it everyday for the past twenty years. Gently, he traced a finger over its surface.

Twenty years was not too long a time, he thought. Very well. I will wait.

"Stinguo," he said, pointing his wand at the fire. With a quick curling of flames, the fire went out, and shadows reclaimed the room.

Finis