A/N: This is a story exploring Snape's horrific past crimes, Draco's flaws, and Slytherin dysfunction. It's all well and good if they're the enemies or if, for whatever reason, Harry never has to live with the reality of their depravity. Actually working with them, though, opens ethical dilemnas that are simply impossible to get right. So conventional morality goes out the window, and Harry's just going to have to wing it all and deal with the consequences of his actions.

Harry had been killed by Voldemort at the end of his fourth year, betrayed by Marcus Flint.

But instead of dying, he had become a formless wraith, lost, drifting across Britain. He didn't know how that had happened, but he hadn't had a lot of time to question it. And now he was in a cauldron, being resurrected courtesy of Snape - it was all quite overwhelming.

Even more so was his sudden rush of awareness of the past; his life had not flashed before his eyes as he'd died, but apparently it would now.

His four years at Hogwarts had all been varying shades of disaster.

"I wanna withdraw," first-year Harry wailed, pouting in his chair before the Headmaster's desk, kicking his feet angrily in the air.

Dumbledore was looking at Harry with a resigned, perceptive gaze. "I take it you've been having difficulties at school, Harry?"

"Where's Mum," Harry wailed. "I want my mum. You can't keep her away from me, that's -" Harry frowned, trying to remember what had usually worked on the teachers at Muggle schools. "That's against my right! She's my - my legal guardian! I want to see her! She'll tell you - I'm going to withdraw!"

"Harry," said Dumbledore, endlessly patient. "This is a place of magic. As much as I would love the pleasure of meeting Petunia Dursley again, I'm afraid that is not an option for the moment. She would not be able to come here."

"What! What do you mean, she wouldn't be able to -" Harry abandoned his train of thought and promptly switched to a new one. "I hate this school! I hate it! You have to let me withdraw! It's not meeting my, my, educational requirements!" On a roll, Harry's speech came fast. "I have a learning disability and you freaks aren't accommodating it. Everyone in Slytherin hates me because everyone's weird and they don't understand normal kids like me! Snape is -" Harry was searching for the correct words again - "harassing and bullying me and that goes against school code! See! So I'm withdrawing!"

Dumbledore's shoulders stooped slightly as he resigned himself to a long, difficult conversation.

In the end, Harry understood he would not be withdrawing, though the Headmaster's long-winded reasoning entirely escaped him. He felt like he could use the legal keywords that Aunt had taught him in order to poke holes Dumbledore's arguments, if only he understood them.

And Harry had a mentor now, in one Marcus Flint. Marcus Flint greeted him by hauling him up from the Great Hall by the collar of his robes, dragging him into a deserted corridor, and pinning him against a wall.

"I'm to help you ... fit in," Marcus growled, as if he could hardly believe what he was saying.

"What," said Harry flatly.

"You stupid?"

"No, you are," spat Harry. "Aren't you always failing your exams?"

Marcus snarled closer for one moment, pressing Harry's head back into the wall, before he burst into low, rumbling laughter. "And you wonder why you're being bullied, you little idiot."

"Well? Aren't you? Stupid, I mean?"

"At least I don't go crying to the Headmaster for help."

Harry perked up. "Help me escape from this shithole."

He scowled. "Hogwarts is not a shithole."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't -"

"Fine. If you won't do that, do my homework for me."

"Fuck this," snarled Marcus. "The only reason I'm stuck with you is because Dumbledore doesn't know anyone in our House. But I'm the Quidditch team captain, my name comes to mind! And now I have to mentor little socially suicidal morons!"

And first year had ended quite explosively. He'd been in detention with Snape, as always, when the castle had shuddered and groaned as if in pain; minutes later, Quirrell had burst into the Potions classroom, all trace of his stutter gone. He had said something about not being able to get a stone out of a mirror. Since his body was dying anyway, he reasoned, Quirrell might as well kill the Boy Who Lived, to make things easier for next time...

Harry had barely put two and two together - had barely realized he was staring into the face of Voldemort - when Snape, instead of paying the requested obeisance, had attacked Quirrell.

And Harry had understood immediately that he was caught right in the middle of a Death Eater power play. As cursed fire and snake conjurations and blinding light filled the small dungeon room, Harry had somehow, in the wild chaos, made it to the Floo hearth and escaped to the Slytherin common room.

First year had been miserable in a way that only magic world could be; Harry had been left bewildered and disoriented, finally realizing how utterly adrift he was in magical society.

Second year was slightly less of a trainwreck, all things considered. It was the year he had pretended to be the Heir of Slytherin. Most of the school despised him for it, but that was nothing new; the important thing was that, at long last, the Slytherins liked him.

At long last, they congratulated him for a good hit in Quidditch.

At long last, they were willing to partner with him in his homework, and the upper years even gave him advice. Harry became fiercely loyal to them because of it.

And in his free time, he and Draco would chase down Neville Longbottom, delighting in the game, like rooting a ferret out of its hole.

"Hey Longbottom!" Draco would call, upon spotting him down the hall. "Where are your friends?"

Neville would try to run, but it would always be fruitless: Draco and Harry knew just how to corner a little runt like him.

"They're in class," Neville tried, his hands trembling.

"Oh, is that what they tell you?" sneered Draco. "If I were them, I'd be thrilled to have an excuse to get away from you once in a while. Think about it, Harry - Longbottom's not even good enough for Weasley."

"And look at this," Harry rejoined, spilling out Neville's book bag and holding up a Potions essay triumphantly. "A Troll. Shall I read it out loud, Longbottom?"

Chasing Neville around reminded Harry of the good old days with Dudley, and he began to think that maybe Hogwarts wasn't so bad.

Third year, though, was unparalleled disaster.

Harry had been growing into his Slytherin identity by then. In a fit of cunning brilliance, he'd figured that he didn't have to put up with Snape's harrassment, not when he was the Heir of Slytherin and had such powerful friends as Draco Malfoy. If Dumbledore wouldn't do anything, thought Harry Slytherinly, he would go to the Board of Governors.

At the meeting, Lucius Malfoy sat back in his chair, and though his speech was humble and reasonable, his eyes gleamed as if he owned the room. He twisted his wrist delicately in the air as he spoke. "And so, Mr. Potter, you say that you previously approached Dumbledore twice - and that both times, he completely dismissed your concerns, despite the obvious unfairness of your treatment at Professor Snape's hands?"

Harry nodded.

Lucius addressed the board. "We have been complacent about Dumbledore's ineptitude for far too long. Last year, two students were Petrified on his watch, yet he did nothing. Yet it is not only the well-being of the Muggleborns that he disregards; he is ignoring the legitimate concerns and needs of the Boy-Who-Lived, who, for his services to our world, deserves at the very least a normal experience at school."

None of the later arguments had really mattered. By vote, Dumbledore was sacked. Every ounce of blame had been laid on him, and there was none left for Snape; and so Snape was pardoned.

Dumbledore had been understanding beyond belief. "Things are rarely ever as permanent or as terrible as they seem at first," he said. "Minerva will make a wonderful Headmistress. The school is not lost yet."

Dumbledore's forgiveness, however, had seemed to melt away in the face of Snape's demented rage. That Harry spent the rest of the year genuinely fearing for his life said enough about that encounter: and so began the Year of the Invisibility Cloak.

And in the Shrieking Shack on the night of the full moon, caught right between Snape and transforming werewolf-Lupin, Harry had run towards Lupin. Because werewolves couldn't be that bad, right, but Snape was certainly out to kill him...

Snape saved him, of course.

And then there had been Harry's fourth year, which had been defined most of all by his murder at Voldemort's hands.

Ah - There was a sudden jerk in Harry's consciousness, as if it had just been anchored into the whirling cauldron.

Harry had died, but this was his hope. All thoughts fled him now, and he knew only of the whirling liquid. The moment seemed to suspend; if he had a heart, it would have halted.

Then there was pain.

His skin was searing, boiling water roiling over every inch of his skin. His lungs were flat and burned with the need for air, but he didn't know which way was up, and he jerked forward in panic only to slam his foot into the inside of the cauldron.

Then someone was pulling him sharply up. His skin made contact with cool air but his muscles were not working; the minute the support was removed, he flopped to the dungeon floor, gasping like a stranded fish, thinking wildly that Voldemort had been far more graceful about this.

But he was alive.

Snape had stepped back and conjured robes over him, the lingering hot water soaking into the fabric. Harry saw his own hand in front of him, an angry red, steaming slightly.

Alive.

After he was confident his muscles would work again, Harry stood, wobbling only slightly.

"Harry?" breathed Snape, so quiet under the bubbling of the cauldron behind.

"Professor?"

All at once Snape's eyes flooded with ineffable relief, as if Harry's survival had mattered more than anything else in his life.

Harry had no response but to hug him, noticing Snape go stiff as a board but not really caring. Snape nearly collapsed into the nearest chair when Harry pulled away, but Harry's attention was captured by the room at large. He began to walk, then prance, then skip - literally skip - around the classroom, because he was alive, he was alive - because his story had not yet ended.

And it felt as if something had jarred in his brain, pushing things more or less into alignment, where before Harry had been blind. He had been a complete prat all his life, which was all well and good, but when Voldemort had already killed him, he just couldn't see the world in quite the same light.

It was time to stop being a prat. Voldemort was trying to tear down the world. Harry didn't want that to happen.

The next week was a whirlwind of activity. Dumbledore dodged his questions, paraded him in front of international media, then sent him back to Grimmauld Place.

The Order looked at Harry as if he were Christ himself. Moody touched his shoulder, then touched all over his face, as if he couldn't believe Harry was real. Sirius hugged him so hard he could barely breathe. Hermione's eyes were positively alight as she queried him endlessly about what it had been like to be an incorporeal wraith - and, her face suddenly becoming sombre, what it had been like to die.

Harry couldn't come up with a good answer to that.

To his utter relief, Aunt and Uncle had never been told of Harry's death. He was normally irritated at how much Aunt and Uncle were kept out of the loop, but this time, he was beyond grateful. Aunt berated him for disappearing for a couple days, and then Harry was allowed to return to his room. The normality of it all made his breath catch in wonder.

And on that first day of his new life, Draco visited.

Draco was an absolute mess. He all but collapsed onto Harry the minute he saw him, sobbing, clutching at Harry's Muggle clothes. "I can't believe you're alive," he whispered, "you're alive, you're alive... how?"

It was a rhetorical, existential question. Harry didn't answer, just stumbled back, touched and surprised at Draco's show of emotion. He clung onto Harry as if a lifeline, and it was a long time before he detached himself and sunk gracelessly onto Harry's bed, as limp as a ragdoll.

Harry watched him carefully. This behavior was so unexpected of him - but then, in the last few days, no one had behaved as expected. The world was turning upside down.

Harry felt a sudden flood of gratitude for Draco, his friend in his last life and in this one. Harry did not know why, but that meant a lot. "You all right?" said Harry quietly.

Draco shuddered, taking in a deep breath, but otherwise not moving a muscle, lying on his face in Harry's covers. "I betrayed them," he said, his voice shaking.

Harry spoke very carefully. "Betrayed who?"

"My parents."

Silence met that answer; Harry was frozen, staring. He had hoped for this for so long, yet could hardly believe it. Had his death and resurrection created a paradigm shift for others, too? Could he dare hope...?

"What do you mean?" Harry said, swallowing.

"I mean that - the way the Dark Lord put you on display... the way he tortured you, Harry, I just - I just can't -" Draco hesitated and trailed into silence.

"What happened?" said Harry quietly. "Dumbledore didn't really tell me anything."

"It was -" Draco's breath hitched. "Everyone was shouting after Marcus Apparated you away. It wasn't him, he didn't mean it -"

"What do you mean, it wasn't him?"

"He was under the Imperius," Draco breathed, closing his eyes into the covers. "You know how he failed his test last year? Couldn't graduate? Well, he got desperate - he asked Gemma to Imperius him, for the tests only, so that he could pass. Only Gemma didn't let up the Imperius after the tests were over, and..."

The breath went out of Harry's lungs; he sunk in relief. So it hadn't been Marcus. Of course it hadn't been.

"And then the Dark Lord," continued Draco, his eyes still closed, "he put your body out on display, for all the world to see, the day he took control of the Ministry. Harry, you - you didn't even look human, you just looked like broken meat and bone, as if he was trying to carve you up for a butcher shop..." Draco was rambling now, his breath unsteady again. "I can't ... can't handle that, Harry. And I'm sorry for the last year. I was trying to distance myself from you because Father said so -"

"I know. Don't worry about it -"

"I was trying to distance myself, Harry, but that was..." Draco trailed off, finally lifting himself off the covers, his eyes full of confusion. "I don't know, Harry, I don't know, I just know that I can't support that. I just left my manor, and I'm... I'm not going back." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ever.

"And I'm sorry I was such a prick," continued Draco, before Harry could respond. "If you want to be Seeker, you can be Seeker now, and I'll take Beater."

Harry closed his eyes, trying valiantly to steady his voice. "It's all right," he said - his voice cracked despite himself. "I like Beater."

Draco's eyes suddenly glazed over. "I can't believe you're alive," he said dully.

Even Ron and Hermione had changed. They had been the worst of enemies ever since first year, but now they at least spoke to him, rather than hexed him outright.

"Just because you had interesting information on resurrections doesn't mean we're friends," Hermione said coolly. "You're still a cruel, bullying -"

Harry apologized, apologized for everything: For hounding Ginny and Ron so viciously as a Beater, sending them both multiple times to the Infirmary; for mocking Hermione's teeth and burning her homework on multiple occasions; most of all, for hounding Neville.

He meant it, with a ferocity that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He didn't know exactly why he felt so strongly; he only knew that something about being resurrected had changed the way the world looked.

But at mention of Neville, Hermione's lips thinned. "No amount of saying you're sorry is going to take away what you did to Neville. He was terrified of walking down the halls because of you. He was crying, all the time, and he never told us how we could help because he was so ashamed."

"It was wrong," said Harry quietly. It was the only thing he could say.

Something in Hermione's eyes softened.

"This is loony-" started Ron.

She turned to him, sighing, finally moved by Harry's detailed acknowledgements of guilt and his profuse apologies. "Look, Ron," she implored, "Maybe dying and coming back to life really does change a person. I mean, this is Potter. Did you really ever expect him to come up and apologize like this?"

"Well, no -"

"I'm not giving him a carte blanche, but maybe we can give him just a chance." Her eyes narrowed. "If you're lying, Potter..."

Harry shook his head, and she gave him a slow little smile.

And so, over the course of the summer, Hermione told him a little bit about what the Order was doing. She was frosty at first, but their conversations gradually became easier and easier.

"Voldemort's reappeared," she said. "We're still not sure why he suddenly went missing after your resurrection..."

It had been in order to nullify the effect of Harry's blood in Voldemort's veins, without a doubt. If Voldemort was active now, the procedure must have been successful - if Harry died again, he'd die for good.

"Anyway," said Hermione, "Voldemort's in a weaker position than he'd prefer now. The Quibbler and international news outlets all reported your continuing survival."

Ron piped in. "So Voldemort looks a bit stupid for declaring you dead only for you to actually be alive. He's going to look even more stupid when you start attending Hogwarts again, and everyone can see for themselves that you're the real deal."

"But Voldemort doesn't know if Harry's alive for sure," said Hermione, "so in the meanwhile, the Order thinks he's is planning a full-out attack on Gringotts. He wants to have the Wizarding banking system under his control -" Hermione thinned her lips in disapproval - "rather the control of magical creatures."

"So if he manages that," said Harry, "Voldemort will basically control all of Wizarding Britain, besides Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts won't fall," said Ron. "It's too old for that. I think the teachers have been working on the defensive enchantments all summer, too." He grinned. "And besides, once you're confirmed to be alive... Mate, I'd give a lot to see the look on Voldemort's face when he finds out it's a sure thing."

"I'm only one person," Harry reminded him. He was a symbol of hope, maybe, but that wouldn't do much good if Hogwarts fell.

The rest of the summer passed quietly. The world outside seemed to be a maelstrom of conflict as Dumbledore tried to undermine Voldemort's ministry, Voldemort tried to tear down Gringotts' defenses, and various other groups scuffled for influence, nobody really knowing who had the upper hand. Grimmauld Place, though, was peaceful.

Hogwarts would not be.

On the train ride to Hogwarts, Harry was instantly engulfed in a crowd.

"Bloody hell, it's actually you!" cried Edgar, shoving through the crowd of Slytherins who had crammed themselves into his compartment. "And here I thought it was just a stunt of Dumbledore's, and we'd just lost our greatest Beater of all time, and before you even had a chance to phase in a replacement. That would've been a shame!"

"Your Patronus," Tracey was demanding, peeking over Lucas's shoulder. "Cast your Patronus!"

Rather amused by all the attention, Harry did so, displaying the tiny one-inch frog glowing in his hand.

There were gasps at this.

And then, after a moment of silence came the flood of exclamations, declarations of affection, and cries of relief, everyone competing to speak louder than their neighbors. With everyone crammed into the tiny space, pushing each other and shouting, Harry was sure someone would mistake this for the Gryffindor compartment.

And then Draco pulled Harry to his feet, and there was an awkward group hug that they really should've left to the Hufflepuffs. Harry was jostled around as if he'd just won the Quidditch World Cup, and for the rest of the train ride, he was bombarded by questions of how'd he survive.

"Well, clearly the Dark Lord's gone a bit mad," said Tracey reasonably. Half the compartment hissed at her for the blasphemy; the other half seemed to privately agree. She ignored them all. "I mean, you're obviously immune to the Killing Curse. Did he not figure that out the first time?"

"Immune to the Killing Curse?" demanded Draco, his cheeks flushing. "You saw his body splayed out in front of the gates of Hogwarts! We all saw it! He was dead, dead, dead -"

Daphne patted Draco's shoulder awkwardly, imploring him to calm down.

"Well," said Edgar, flashing a grin. "Us poor souls shall never know his mysterious powers, Heir of Slytherin and the Boy Who Lived Again." Edgar leaned in conspiratorially. "So, now that you're an international beacon of hope, d'you think you can get us a Quidditch commentator who's a little more, y'know, pro-Slytherin?"

When they went into the Great Hall, Harry couldn't see much of the student body; he was surrounded by a cluster his Housemates.

They chattered around him, but they seemed oddly defensive. They sat down as one, with him in the middle, and as the Sorting began, they traded whispers as usual.

Harry glanced around at the Great Hall. People at all tables were staring at him unabashedly, but they had done so when he'd declared himself the Heir of Slytherin, and later after he'd been responsible for Dumbledore's sacking. With only a mild twinge of unease, Harry ignored them and focused on the conversations around him.

"Is it going to be bad?" mouthed Aston to Daphne, his eyes darting nervously.

She was dismissive; she barely looked at him as she replied. "Are you blind? If they pick a fight with us, they pick a fight with Harry here. Even McLaggen wouldn't do that, not now." She rolled her eyes at the idea and turned to Draco. "How's your summer been? And is it true, were you really not at Malfoy Manor? I heard no one could find you..."

"Hey, shove off," said a low voice behind him. "Go sit next to Pansy or something..."

It wasn't directed at him. On his left, Aston slunk guiltily from his seat, and Flora Carrow took his place, facing Harry with a businesslike air.

Harry couldn't help but do a double-take. All summer, he'd been hearing about how involved Amycus and Alecto Carrow had been in Voldemort's various raids. Many of the other Slytherins had Death Eater connections, but none so close nor so prolific as Flora's.

"Not you too," she said shortly, reading his look.

"Er, I mean -"

Flora sighed. "Well, I've had to explain this to Theo and Aston too -" her disparaging smirk made it clear just what she thought of them - "so I guess I'll explain it to you, too, double Boy Who Lived." She spoke very slowly. "Hogwarts is a safe place. Have you seen the way McGonagall and her Auror cronies have locked every single entrance and exit besides the main one?"

"Sure." Dumbledore had told him about that.

"And there's also these rumors -" Harry glanced away guiltily as Flora spoke - "of a magical map that McGonagall has, which shows the location of every person in the castle."

"Mmm," said Harry vaguely.

"And since I've arrived," continued Flora, with a grandiose wave of her hands, "I've counted about ten random Aurors patrolling the halls. So. The jist of it is that no one is going to get murdered or kidnapped from this place - not you, because you're their poster boy, and not us, because Gryffindors are just too goody-two-shoes for that sort of thing. So I'm safe here. And I'm bloody well going to be here, building my connections with all and sundry, until I have to graduate. Satisfied?"

"So do you disagree with what Amycus and Alecto are doing? Because -"

"Stop going off on a tangent." She tapped her prefect's badge importantly. "For planning purposes, I wanted to know whether you're doing anything this year or not."

"Doing anything?"

"For the House," said Flora disparagingly. "Supervising the first years, what have you. Now, I know you're influential enough, being immune to the Killing Curse and all. But this is still a great opportunity to make yourself useful the little firsties -" she glanced at the kids, who were still being sorted - "up and rising stars, and all that. Maybe they'll remember you once they graduate and give you a leg up -"

"Flora," said Harry dryly, "have you mistaken me for a firstie? Death didn't make me stupid."

She didn't break her stride. "Well, I was just making sure you're aware of the benefits, seeing as you can be a bit daft sometimes. So? What's your answer?"

Harry would do it, of course. Connecting with his House was important, even more so now. "I'll supervise brewing up to the fourth-years."

Flora gave a half-snigger. "I mean, you could try, but no one would trust you. We all know you got a Dreadful last year. When you posted your transcript, Snape was really very clear with the D, all bolded and in a block script, so that we couldn't possibly mistake it for a P."

Harry felt a twinge of annoyance. "That grade wasn't my fault. Snape always fails me, it's not a reflection of my skill, and -"

"Forgive us if we take a Potions master's word over yours." Flora leaned thoughtfully against the table. "Your options are a bit narrow, considering your grades. You could supervise firstie Charms or Defense. They'd be grateful."

"I'll think about it," said Harry, "but really, my Potions grades -"

He didn't have a chance to elaborate. The Sorting had ended, and Harry was vaguely aware of the Slytherins welcoming their last firstie to the table as McGonagall stood to the Headmistress's podium.

Last year, her beginning of the year speech had briskly addressed the school rules before sending the students off to bed. This time, however, there was an uneasy anticipation that it would be different; Voldemort had taken over the Ministry, after all, and the boy who had survived him not once but twice was sitting in their midst.

"Students," she said, surveying all of them, "I have conferred with the erstwhile Headmaster Dumbledore, as well as those friends and allies who support us in the fight for peace in the Wizarding World. It is of our opinion that the Ministry is no longer a reliable edifice of authority." Murmurs spread among the Hufflepuffs. "And I am therefore removing Hogwarts from its control and influence. As of now, Hogwarts shall answer to no decrees nor ordinances from the Ministry, and we shall maintain our independence until such a time as the integrity of the Ministry is restored."

She elaborated on the theory that Pius Thicknesse was acting under a Death Eater's Imperius Curse, but there was muttering among the crowd. The Hufflepuffs were glancing amongst themselves now, worried. The Ravenclaws whispered to each other, debating this or that aspect of McGonagall's theory.

The Slytherins ignored McGonagall entirely, caring only about her political stance, but not the justification behind it. They smirked at each other, their expressions reading I told you so, and some of them seemed to shift closer to Harry, their first and best defense in what might soon become a more hostile environment.

This was not so bad, thought Harry. There might not be strong unity behind McGonagall's stance, but there was at least acquiescence, though it took different forms among the Houses. Maybe they could hold Hogwarts, and then...

Maybe, eventually, they'd even win the war.

A/N: I'm grateful for any feedback or discussion/comments you'd care to share! Update schedule should be weekly at most.