"Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready ... if you are prepared "
"I am," said Snape.
He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.
Harry gazed blearily at the portraits of rotting wood and painted faces that looked everywhere but him. His hands were kept neatly folded in his lap while his legs stayed close together. With his features strait-laced and his quiet posture, he looked every bit like the man in control he wanted to be. Not versed in subtlety, however, his eyes continually betrayed him. They belied the sorrow and nervousness welling up inside of him that he could not display otherwise. He dared not display it anyway. He had a public that believed the best of him and if he did anything else to Ginny...
But he wouldn't. Her tears when he sent her away cut him deeply but they were necessary. He couldn't live with her any longer, couldn't allow any harm to come to her.
They had married long ago, when Harry was fresh out of school. Sitting in the waiting room chair, he looked less than his twenty-one years in stature but his eyes were ageless in their weariness. It had not been easy to send her away but it had been necessary.
So much was necessary to him now. Including his visit to a therapist. A Muggle one, no less because it was only through a Muggle that he could speak about what he had seen.
His hand twitched in his lap and his gaze drifted downwards. A stomach cramp immediately got the better of him and he lurched forward, feeling bile rise up his throat, his perfect posture ruined, and he worried that this could just be a normal thing. How long had it been since he'd last eaten? Far too long and the dark hollows under his eyes would've been noticeable had he not applied that glamour charm around them. The pain crept through his stomach and he shut his eyes tightly, begging for an end-
"Mr. Potter?"
His head jerked upward at his name and he realized he was on his knees against the ground. The pain had disappeared with only the residual aches telling him that he would need to eat soon.
"Are you all right?"
A slow blink as Harry gathered himself. "Yes...yes, I'm fine." Trembling despite himself, he managed to stand. "I'm fine. But we must talk. There's something I need to say."
"Are you sure? Do you want me to call a doctor?"
Wasn't the Muggle a doctor? Ah, but not a real doctor, Harry thought with a dry laugh. Just someone he was paying to be his confidant for just a little bit longer. "No. No doctor is needed. I know what's wrong with me. I just want to talk. Please, can we just talk?"
It was a grueling minute until the therapist gave in. She touched his arm as she helped lead Harry into her office. Harry thought the touch burned him through his clothes but he kept his mouth shut until the door was closed and he was left alone with her in the office. The click of the door handle never seemed so loud.
"Do you mind if I record this session?"
"With a video camera?"
"No, with a tape recorder. It helps me with my notes." She took out a black device that Harry didn't care to pay too much attention to.
"I don't mind. I don't mind at all. In fact, it'd probably be better for you if you did. This may have to go public soon."
"None of my notes go public, Mr. Potter."
"Please, call me Harry." His voice sounded more desperate than he would've liked. Again, there was another agonizing moment of startled surprise before she acquiesced.
"Shall we begin then?"
---
He told her about his childhood.
"I know, Mr. Potter. I read your books."
He told her about Hogwarts.
"I know, Mr. Potter. I read your books."
He told her about Dumbledore.
"I know, Mr. Potter. I read your books."
He was beginning to hate his books. They had been published at the end of the final war because he didn't want Rita Skeeter writing his story. He wanted to get his own version out first. Not because he was fearful about her smearing his reputation, but because he needed a story to get out. People accepted it as the truth and he felt himself safe. Until that gnawing itch began to grow on his mind and he found himself haunted not by the ghost of one Severus Snape, but the very idea of the man.
That itch sprouted into something else entirely and he was starting to feel sick to death of the 'story' that crept out of his quill and parchment. The scars on his hand left a constant reminder.
I must not tell lies.
He needed the truth to come out. Just this once in the privacy of a therapist's office. He needed to tell someone what had actually happened and just what he saw. He had no desire to destroy the reputation of Snape which had been built up so neatly at the end of the war. Snape hadn't truly been a traitor to Dumbledore, he knew, but the man was certainly...complex.
"My books are a lie." That was how it all began, he thought as he edged toward despair. "Not all the words are truthful. I had to distort some things because I don't think the wizarding world would be ready for the truth. I don't think they'd understand."
The therapist indicated that he should continue. She looked riveted and Harry had to remind himself that this was a Muggle. A Muggle who had read his books and probably passed them all off as fiction. Who was probably passing Harry off as a nutcase even before he started speaking. But at that moment, Harry was done caring. He shut his eyes for the briefest of moments and felt like he could sleep forever.
"Mr. Potter?"
How long had it been since he had last slept? He shook his head, rousing himself. "I'm sorry. Let me begin. It all started when I found this potions book."
---
"Snivellus!"
Running. Jumping. Wishing he could fly without the use of a broom that barely worked for him because of Potter's constant hexes.
"Snivellus!"
Being overturned. Humiliation. The dunking. His mind flitted back to history when the English and Americans dropped their witches into water. How cruel they were, he had thought, but surely their cruelty was laced with something passing good intentions. They wanted to protect their souls. All Potter wants is to have a laugh. Of course, this may not end with my death...
"Snivellus!"
Into the jaws of a werewolf and he swore to himself he would never fear again, take the rage out of the wolf and what does one have left but the animal in question, their bestial nature diminished?
Wolfsbane, he called it. It did not cause serenity, or a way to relieve the transformation, but it did block the primitive receptors to the wolf's brain. Blocked them enough so that logic and due process could come forth and he was pleased.
"Snivellus!"
And he was angered because he could never escape that name or his fate.
---
"I don't understand. What does this have to do with anything?" The therapist asked, crossing her legs.
Harry frowned. "I wish I could start at the beginning. But after the war, I raided Snape's rooms and found all his pensieves. They cleared up things for me and-"
"I think, Mr. Potter, it might be better if we started it at your beginning. This is your story to tell, isn't it?"
Harry hung his head. "I don't know anymore. I think it used to be. But I think I did Snape a grave disservice by making it all about me."
"What began as it did should continue that way. Otherwise you run the risk of not making any sense. Why don't you tell me your story, Mr. Po-Harry?"
Harry's left hand twitched. He clutched it to his lap before he continued. "Very well. I found a potions book and on it was engraved the title 'Property of the Half-Blood Prince'."
---
He had scrawled past the pages after he had found the spell labeled 'For Enemies', hoping for any other hints or clues that may grant him a bit more ease and power over Voldemort. He felt little for Draco Malfoy bleeding in the bathroom. Snape had seen to that with his willingness to hand out detention to him. Considering the blond ferret was about to cast the Cruciatus on him, he felt he was well within his rights to protect himself.
It was the Prince's fault, after all. The guy should've labeled his spells better. He had promised Hermione that he wouldn't go through the book again.
But the idea of helpful, useful magic kept him awake at night. What good was it beating Voldemort with an Expelliarmus spell? It would never work and even wandless, Voldemort was a threat.
So he flipped through page after page of tips on potions until he stumbled across something that gave him pause.
'For Peace of Mind'.
Potions ingredients. How to prepare it all. What to use, when to use it. When to stir. How to chop. Every detail was so thorough that Harry had a hard time believing it was written by the Prince who tended to keep his notes curt and blunt.
Perhaps the Prince had a lot on his mind. Just like Harry.
So he prepared the tincture, so much easier without a large, black bat looming over him, and he drank it. He went to sleep content and woke up content but other than that, nothing had changed. He had no dreams, but he could take a dreamless sleep potion for that if he so wanted. And that was nowhere near the hassle of preparation as the Prince's spell.
He supposed it wouldn't work on him. Perhaps the Prince was never chased or hunted by a Dark Lord. Lucky bastard.
Besides, after everything else the Prince had offered him, it was only fair that he should fail at least once.
All the same, he dearly wished the potion had worked. His year was a terrible one.
"I trust Professor Snape," repeated Dumbledore. Though he'd never say the reason why. Not even in his last moments. The only bright spot of Harry's year had been Ginny and he had to leave her behind to face what was supposed to be the greatest duel of his life.
Unfortunately, he had gotten it all wrong and he never wanted to go camping again.
---
"Ugh," Harry rubbed his sinuses, his glasses moved upwards with his hands.
"Do you need a moment?"
"No. It's just..gods, it was so dull and so terrifying at the same time. It was mundane in its horror, you know? Everything felt gray. Everyone felt gray. It was bleak and broken only when we had a lead which wasn't often. But this isn't about that. This is about...well, let me tell you when I first saw Snape and Voldemort together."
---
He never really did see them together, though he certainly wanted to. He remembered his triumph of seeing Lucius Malfoy punish Draco back in Borgin and Burkes. So no doubt he'd want to see Snape being berated by the man who he had been so eager to run back to before. Perhaps the bastard would be tortured but he hastily stomped down on that thought.
Heroes weren't supposed to think like that.
He had seen Voldemort. Heard the "Mine!" That horribly possessive word. Saw the spidery hand reach out for him and the hunger that blazed in those red eyes.
But before then, he had heard George let out a cry of pain and it was only later that he realized his friend had lost an ear.
So Snape had been there. Snape had used the Sectumsempra and Harry had just missed him as he was too focused on Hagrid's back.
---
Through his connection to Voldemort, he saw the Dark Lord. Saw him gradually deteriorate into something resembling a beast with a mind focused solely on genocide and cruelty and constant destruction. He never wondered why Voldemort was so intent on proving himself to be utterly insane when the man was capable of being calm and logical in the pensieves Dumbledore had shown him.
If pressed, he'd say it was because of the horcruxes.
And then there was the murder of Snape.
---
"I need a moment."
"Take as much time as you need." The therapist glanced at the clock and Harry had the idea that she probably wanted to call the men in white to take him away. He was spouting ludicrous things to a Muggle, and the best case scenario would be that she thought all this a joke. That he would come to her, claiming that his fictional tale was real and it was probably all for publicity and any moment, the candid camera crew would pop out and they'd all have a laugh. She'd chide him for doing such a thing and wasting her time but she'd look less annoyed when she was given a check.
"Harry?"
"I'm fine." How many times had he said that so far? He raised his head and realized he had a headache from clutching it too hard. His fingertips hurt as well. "That was when I found the truth."
"The wand?"
"No. Not about the damn wand." Was there even anything to do with the wand? No, it was just something he had to throw in there in order to divert everyone's attention. Dumbledore's portrait had agreed with him. "There was never an Elder wand. It was just a stupid fairy tale. Same for the stone and the cloak. They never accomplished anything."
Just like me, he thought but didn't say as he felt the bile rising back up his throat again. He choked it back down. "I'll continue."
---
He had expected Voldemort. He had found Snape. Nagini was there in her little bubble and Snape was looking sorrowfully at the long serpent.
"Where is Voldemort?" Harry asked, coming out of hiding.
"So you've come. I thought you would." Snape didn't move a muscle. His hands were clenched into fists in front of him. "And I thought I told you not to say his name!" His voice echoed within the shack and Harry was reminded of that time in Dumbledore's office when Snape had ordered him the same with such angered vehemence.
But Harry was not the same person as he was back then. He was angrier now, clinging onto the last strands of his rope-like nerves as his friends died around Hogwarts. He did not falter and his wand stayed poised at Snape's head.
"Tell me where he is!"
Snape let the uncomfortable pause go on for some time and laughed when Harry tried to repeat the question. "Where? He's in hiding, Potter. And you're a fool for coming here. I knew you would and if I knew you would, so did he."
In hiding. Surely not the Dark Lord who feeds off of chaos and destruction. Not Voldemort who'd want to see bodies drop in his mind, who enjoyed seeing the terror on the faces of people as he walked on by, who would likely enjoy stepping over carcass after carcass as he surveyed the empty landscape around himself. "Where is he?"
"I told you. Dumbledore told me-"
"You killed Dumbledore!" He expected his words to make Severus flinch, or at the other end of the spectrum, signal a harsh cascade of insults delivered back in his direction. He did not expect a shrug of Snape's shoulders and a dismissal.
"I had no choice."
Harry recovered quickly enough. "You did! You always have a choice! But you're such a coward that you'd rather kill-"
"I am NOT a coward!" With that, Snape turned around, moving to his feet in an instant, so fast that Harry could barely follow him. Harry raised his wand arm, ensuring that he was still pointing it at Snape's head. "He made me!"
"Who did? Dumbledore? This wasn't his idea!"
For the second time since Harry first saw Snape, the man looked violent. Like a hungry tiger pacing his cage. "There were other circumstances. Tell me, Potter," and then his manner was relaxed. "Did you enjoy my book?"
"Your potions book?" Harry would congratulate himself later on for knowing what Snape was talking about. He felt his mind slowly turn to mush as he lost control of the conversation. "What about it?"
"Did you enjoy it?" Snape stepped forward, getting closer to Harry's wand. Nagini instantly became agitated and started swimming about within her bubble.
"Yeah, I suppose I did." The truth wouldn't harm anything now. "Got your Sectumsempra from there. I guess it wasn't just my father who took your spells." He wanted to hurt Snape at that moment. He hated how Snape looked tired but otherwise unhurt. Hated how Voldemort seemed to harm all his other Death Eaters except Snape when Snape deserved it the most. "I even tried your failed potion too. Peace of mind, my arse."
He didn't expect the cold, contemptuous laughter coming from Snape. "You're such a fool, Potter! Ah, such a fool! How is it that I can describe all the ingredients so perfectly and yet you have no idea what you're truly making? Oh, but of course it failed for you! You're special, haven't you realized? Such a special boy!"
Harry felt a cold chill creep up his spine at Snape's tone. It wasn't his words that got to him; it was the high and mighty way Snape appeared to insult him. The word 'special' felt like he had been hung to dry on a meat hook and he couldn't explain why exactly. Snape had certainly insulted him many times before but there was something about that word that he couldn't place...
And then there was no time because Snape lunged at him, ignoring Harry's wand and if their positions were reversed, then Harry would've ignored it too. He was too surprised to curse, too confused, and when Snape's hands found their way around Harry's neck, it was only his will to survive that made him jab the lower half of his wand against Snape's head.
"Fool, fool!" Snape was yelling as Nagini swirled even more in her bubble, hissing profanities at Harry and promising devouring when she escaped. Harry was on Snape, uncaring about the snake or his former potions professor. His only concern was to get the man to stop moving and lashing out against him.
Snape's nails raked across his face. "Finish it! Finish it!" He just would not stop screaming.
Harry finished it. Over and over, each blow to Snape's head took with it a small portion of his anger until Snape had finally stopped moving and blue liquid was spilling out with the blood from Snape's head. Harry acted quickly, as though some foreign presence had taken hold of his hands and made him scoop up a small bit of the blue liquid and stopper it in a conjured vial.
He only realized what he had done after he had gotten off of Snape's body. His hands were trembling and he didn't dare look at his bloodied wand. Snape was so still, so...ugly in death. He wouldn't curse at Harry again, wouldn't berate him in class, and wouldn't live to see his hated enemy triumph over the Dark Lord.
Why was the man moving?
Harry blinked in the dim light of the shack. Nagini still moved, but she had ceased her infernal hissing. Instead, she was looking pleased.
Snape's fingers elongated. His skin turned from sallow to a bone-white color. His hair receded into his head and Harry desperately thought of polyjuice potion and please, please, let it be dead!
Voldemort rose in front of him, shaking off bits of blood and tissue that had collected on Snape's head and he cracked his neck and opened his red, burning eyes and he smiled that disgusting sharkish smile of his.
"That tickled."
Harry ran away, having never felt more lost.
---
"You killed Severus Snape?"
"Yes. I thought I had no choice in the matter. I thought he was going to kill me and he was...he was certainly trying to." A breath of air that felt stale and tasted rotten. Harry closed his mouth.
"Very well." The therapist looked down at her hands then cast a quick glance at her tape recorder. Harry didn't notice. "Was it polyjuice?"
"No. There was no polyjuice potion."
"There never was a Severus Snape?"
"There never was a Voldemort."
---
The blue liquid was poured into a pensieve. Harry had raced back to Hogwarts, back down to the dungeons, back to Snape's office, where he dropped his head into the bowl and looked at the memories of Snape's life.
Snivellus.
Lily. A beautiful girl. A beautiful woman. Lily who he had insulted. Lily who would never forgive him. Lily who would learn about the Wolfsbane one day and even though Snape had helped one of her friends, she would still never forgive him.
He would never forgive himself. His friends were the dark ones, not him. Never him. He would be respectable, refined, and far too intelligent to give in to his baser impulses. He would show her and in doing so, he would show them all.
He would separate his darker impulses from himself. If he could do it for a wolf, he could do it for a human. Perhaps...
Perhaps he might even be handsome once his baser impulses had been destroyed.
There was the experiment. On the night of a red moon, he had become something bigger and better and grander than himself. He had his own intelligence but he found it to be far more creative, stimulated as it was by his need for revenge against those who harmed him.
He became powerful and resentful of those who sought to discredit him. He roamed the school hallways, looking for pleasure, for things Severus dared never seek for himself, and he found it in the willing arms and legs of those who yearned for handsome young men with brains and balls and oh, he had plenty to go around. He hurt people who had hurt him. Had taken his father's life with claws and teeth and had hidden a laugh when it was ruled that a dog had destroyed him.
There was such joy in being Voldemort, for that was what his darker self had named himself and with that name, the dark creature had come into Severus' mind and was then his constant companion.
They wrote one another notes and Severus admired the handwriting of his personal beast, how it became more cultured each time, as though the creature could learn and oh yes, could that beast ever learn! He learned curses, spells, potions, all with a rapidly alarming rate for the beast was small at first, a shadow on the wall, something kept subterranean until Severus chose to let him out. And each time Voldemort was let out, he would grow just a bit.
Like a child, Severus thought in amusement. He held the reins to this particular pleasure of his and rather than destroy his baser impulses, he found himself becoming wonderfully, woefully, addicted to the man behind his own facade.
"Just you wait!" He promised Potter as he swallowed his own humiliation. "Just you wait!" Because he could never tell a soul about this other being.
Voldemort yearned for a life of his own, he realized, as he read one of the notes that Voldemort had left for him.
Scrawled in slanted writing were the words, "I want a family!"
It was understandable, Severus supposed. It was a want that was shared by Severus as well and yet...
And yet, if he couldn't have a good family of his own, why would he want to give such a thing to Voldemort? It would be completely unfair.
So he gave him the Gaunts. He fed the beast tragedy. A mother who didn't care. A father who clearly never wanted him. A decaying, ugly family rotted from the inside out and Severus smiled at the reflection of his own horrible family. He implanted memories, having always been good with Legilimancy, and moved on. Voldemort could figure out the rest for himself.
He knew it was important that the beast have a life of his own. After all, should Voldemort actually kill, why then...it wouldn't be on Severus. No, Severus Snape had to be a separate identity completely! So when Voldemort started recruiting his friends, speaking about ideals that ignited the fiery passion of hatred and resentment in their small bodies, why then Severus would go along for the ride.
And he set himself up as the greatest Death Eater Voldemort had, even marking himself to complete the illusion. Why wasn't he seen with Voldemort? Because their meetings were so close, so intimate, that they all occurred in private. Of course Severus was at the meetings! It wasn't his fault that Voldemort had chosen masks for all of them to wear. Identities had to be kept secret.
Especially if one had two of them.
But then Dumbledore started getting suspicious and more lies had to be thought up and Voldemort had been given the task of filling out that life of his, with the order that he was to keep it as far away from Severus' own life as possible.
Memories implanted. Pensieves filled. It was such tiresome work but Voldemort accomplished it and he was free to play in his little world and Snape enjoyed all it held for him.
Until there was Lily. The one dangling carrot in front of Severus that he had never managed to grasp. He could not stop her from marrying James. Could not stop James from taking her to their wedding bed. There was nothing he could do.
It was in a rage that he wrote to Voldemort about this situation. Wrote to him in letters by the dozen of the girl that had haunted his dreams, hoping that she did the same to Voldemort so that it would spur him into action. He never received a reply and his frustration grew rapidly until he found himself at Lily's door with the door being slammed in his face and his fists hammered against the wood as horrible please crossed his lips. He hated himself then, hated what he had become and why hadn't Voldemort made him stronger?
He spent the next few days in a fog, taking a job at Hogwarts in order to try and keep an eye on the old bastard Dumbledore, while attempting to distract himself with his work. It was only when he heard the prophecy did he feel alive once again and even the fact that he was tossed out on his ear didn't distract him from his good mood. He had kept a close eye on the Potters, close enough to know that they had a child.
In one fell swoop, he had his justification for Voldemort. A threat to his life and that was something he knew his beast could not bear. Voldemort would kill James and the child and leave Lily alone for him, all for him. He scrawled down what he had heard and his orders for Voldemort.
His reply was waiting for him when he woke up.
They will all die.
Fury and fear seized him. This is not what he had wanted to happen! Voldemort was his to control and command! Up until now, his beast had listened to him! What was Voldemort but an extension of himself and himself had to listen to himself!
He dared not risk his precious Lily. He would go to Dumbledore. Confess to...nearly everything. He could not tell Dumbledore about the potion, about his experiment, about his true self. He could only hope that Dumbledore would listen to him and choose to protect Lily over everything else.
And, oh, but it worked far too well. Perhaps Voldemort had become wise to his other half as neither of them were ever truly alone. For there was something different in the transformation this time. Snape could see himself going into Godric's Hollow, could see himself killing James Potter in a flash of light, could see himself reaching Lily who screamed and screamed even as her arms were ripped out of their sockets as Voldemort tore into her body with his own.
Snape could hear himself screaming, but he was no longer sure if it was due to what was happening or to the pleasure he felt coursing through his...their..bodies as Voldemort penetrated his beloved angel with as much anger as Snape held for her. The contempt went both ways, the lust went both ways, and so did the love. It was brutal. It was red. Lily had never looked so beautiful to Severus and Voldemort preserved her body, pale and lifeless, a true angel on the cold wood of Godric's Hollow having hopefully gotten her out of their systems.
Now if only that wretched brat would stop crying!
---
It had been so hard for Harry to watch that memory. So hard for him to keep his shock and horror to a minimum as he knew he could never go back to it again, could never watch it again. He wanted to feel sickened that Snape had preserved such a memory in the first place instead of disposing of it, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but anger at the whole ordeal.
It felt like madness. Like some sort of surreal show he was allowed to see, reserved only for his eyes and he found himself sad that Dumbledore didn't know this as surely the man would have prepared him for it all.
"But what about the potion that Voldemort used to give himself a body?"
The therapist's voice drew Harry out of his dazed state.
"Potion? Oh, in the fourth book I wrote? That one? ...That one was something I made up. There was a potion but it wasn't Pettigrew who dropped Voldemort into it."
He had gone through more pensieves of Snape's. "After the final battle, I was sure Voldemort was dead. I returned to Snape's office to try to put the rest together."
And it was there that he found his own little surprise.
---
Voldemort had been destroyed. Dumbledore had found Snape curled up against the doorway of Godric's Hollow, shaking, crying, and unable to be pried away except through extreme force. "You had promised! You promised!" He wailed and Dumbledore ignored the man until he had calmed down sufficiently.
Back at Hogwarts, Snape had told him that he had gone to Godric's Hollow to check up on Lily. To just see her again.
"Do you think that maybe you helped lead Voldemort to the Potters by doing that, Severus? Whose fault would it be that she died then?"
And Snape sobbed again.
Dumbledore had Snape exonerated. "He is no more a Death Eater than I am."
The man had no idea how right he was. Snape had thought that he had marked himself in order to keep his identity in check but now that he had years to think, he began to wonder if Voldemort had made him do it in order to keep tabs on his 'good' side. Just in case. After all, Voldemort had felt brave enough to disobey Severus so it was highly likely that his beast would have tried other methods first.
He wasn't completely sure that Voldemort was dead. He did not feel the stirrings in his body that came before a transformation. He stopped taking the potion that would induce the transformations.
Should Voldemort ever return, he decided, and then he would find himself thoroughly trapped within the halls of Hogwarts.
And so the years passed and Severus began to relax just a little. Until Quirrel came along and Severus recognized him as the young man who yearned to be a Death Eater back in the day. He clasped the new teacher on the back once, and if some strange bit of coldness passed through Snape and into Quirrel, Snape didn't notice. He was too busy warning Quirrel not to bother him and he thought nothing else of it.
Until Quirrel proved himself to be completely untrustworthy and at the end of the year, when he heard the truth, he spent several days in his bedroom, terrified that he had blacked out and checking his journals to ensure that every day of his was accounted for and that there were no charms on his handwriting to make it look like his.
Never had his memory been as important to him as it was then.
And then the second year came around and he learned something even more distressing. Voldemort had sliced off pieces of himself to preserve. Snape shuddered at the thought as the two of them shared a body and so they must share a soul. More than that, it showed to Snape that Voldemort had been preparing for a day in which Severus would try to get rid of him.
Voldemort had never trusted him. Likely resented the control Snape held over him and Snape could understand that because, well, he'd feel the same way had their positions been reversed. But how many pieces had been left of Voldemort? Snape wasn't sure. He had allowed Voldemort to form his own life, implant memories into people's heads. People that Voldemort never spoke to Severus about.
In order to find those pieces, Snape would have to talk to Voldemort. Would have to bring him back in order to become semi-whole again.
It was during the summer of Harry's fourth year that Snape unpacked his old ingredients, taking them out of storage and making up the potion once again.
And appeared in a flurry of dark, smoke, and liquid and Wormtail lost an arm because he was in the way and Voldemort was startled enough at being roused by the sudden emergence of his Lord.
"I say there are spots that don't come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d' you know what I mean?"
He could have laughed at Moody's words but didn't. Tricking people had lost its sense of fun with Lily's broken body. Throughout the fourth year, Snape had kept track of Voldemort's movements through Dumbledore. No one knew what he was planning but Snape had an inkling of a suspicion.
Voldemort was after Harry. That much was obvious. And since he knew about the prophecy, he would be able to reason why his beast wanted the boy. The boy quickly became the source of all that had gone wrong in his life. The byproduct of his loss with Lily. The thing that got Lily killed. The brat that wouldn't die so that he could stop taking the damn potions and would the boy have to kill the horcruxes?
The boy would end up killing him. Snape knew this as much as he knew that water was wet. An unpleasant fact of nature, for Dumbledore was leading the child on like a puppet, turning him into the perfect killing machine. Voldemort was inhuman so it made sense to kill him. Snape never felt so sick, but wasn't he using the boy as well? Only through Harry could he find those horcruxes and perhaps absorb them before the brat killed them. He certainly felt remorse for enough in his life.
---
"It didn't work out," Harry finished. "It didn't work out at all. He helped lead us, yes, but I destroyed the bits of soul before he could get them. Me, my friends, we killed them all..." He trailed off sadly, looking everywhere but at the therapist. "I couldn't help him in the end. I could only face down Voldemort and in doing so, I think I messed up."
"How so?"
Harry took a deep shuddering breath as he felt another stabbing pain in his gut. "Voldemort could possess people. He could pass through Snape into others but even then, his grip isn't all that strong. And when Voldemort tried to kill me...it took me so long to figure it out." His voice caught a little and he drew in another shaky breath. "It took me so long. There was so much confusion. I'd lose days at a time. Ginny said that she sometimes woke up to find me staring at her and how my eyes looked."
"How did they look?" Was it Harry's imagination or was she clutching her hands a little tightly?
"Red. They looked red. I set up cameras. I saw him emerge and I knew then what it was. When Voldemort tried to kill me, he implanted a horcrux within my head. The potion I took, the one in the book, didn't work because I already had him but after Snape died, he woke up!" Harry's tone became increasingly agitated and one of his legs started shaking up and down in a too fast rhythm to follow. Another stabbing pain shot through his stomach and he clutched at himself.
"I'm so sorry!" He cried out. "I haven't eaten in days! I've been trying to weaken him but...■
"Harry!" The therapist quickly sprung up from her chair and headed over to him.
"I'm...so...sorry...I am Harry Potter! I am Harry Pot-"
---
The small black tape recorder captured the last few words. It caught the sounds of a quick struggle, two screams - one male and the other a female that choked off too suddenly - and the snapping of bone.
For awhile, there was silence. When next someone spoke, the voice was crisp and clear as though the speaker was holding the recorder up to his mouth. The voice couldn't be identified as being Harry Potter's or the psychiatrist.
It was the detective who found the tape recorder that pressed the play button.
"I dreamed I was a man. I was loved. I was respected. I was considered by my peers to be the best person they knew." There was no hiding the contempt in that voice. The volatile nature of it shocked the detective who had heard many confessions in his day and none like this one.
"Thank God I woke up."