Hey there new readers, I just want to say that not a lot of people read this, and I think that may be because in an earlier version, Harry actually did die for good, and stayed dead, however after some working, he doesn't, so please be patient until his return ne?

A/N - this story takes place during the Goblet of Fire, about a week after the first task.


Potions, Harry decided once more, was a royal waste of his time. There was just no point to the ruthless degradation he faced, the ritualized humiliation from both Snape and Malfoy. Oh, and the endless sabotage and substandard marking of his work was a pain too. He worked damn hard on his essays and then Snape would mock him. Was that really what teachers were supposed to do, mock their students?

When he had entered the school as a frightened first year, Potions was one of the subjects he was looking forward to the most. He had believed that he would be able to apply knowledge from his chemistry classes in his primary school, but he was wrong, very wrong indeed.

Snape continued to drone on and on about how a single slip of a stirring rod could change the entire composition of a Potion or something. Honestly, did it really matter that much?

According to Snape it did.

Would it really matter if he trembled slightly when stirring?

Then again, he thought, Neville's potions never turn out that well...

Eventually they set to work and Harry began preparing his ingredients. From where he was sitting, he found it difficult to read the blackboard—maybe it was time to consult someone about new glasses. On top of his questionable eyesight, Snape's handwriting was spikey and cramped. Harry seethed inwardly; this man had the gall to insult Harry's handwriting, when his own wasn't much better.

Half an hour later Harry realised there was something seriously wrong with his Potion. It wasn't the same colour as Hermione's—it was something on the other end of the spectrum. While her's was a syrupy, scarlet colour, his was a slightly ill-looking green. Green. How on earth did he do that? Even Neville's potion was only orange. Green. Judging by the prominent leer on Snape's face he was in trouble.

"Explain why your potion is green, Potter," he instructed, loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Of course, Harry had no answer. He stared at the Potion's Master hoping he would be given the answer.

"Can anyone else explain why Potter's potion is green?" Snape asked, with particular direction at the Slytherin half of the class.

Seriously, why did McGonagall make them take lessons with the Slytherins? It was just asking for trouble in Harry's opinion. He glared at Snape, wishing the man would just stop talking.

Credit where credit is due though, Snape nodded at Hermione.

"I would guess he's been stirring counter-clockwise instead of clockwise," she said, smiling nervously at Harry.

"You guessed correctly," Snape replied, his tone acerbic. "If you continue with this atrocity, your cauldron will begin spewing highly toxic fumes. I suggest you turn out the flame and get out of my classroom."

Sensing now was not the time to argue, Harry did as he was told.

Once out of the lesson he strolled outside, walking casually toward the lake.

Suddenly, something heavy landed on his back, sending him sprawling to the ground. His arms were twisted, tied in an excruciating manner behind his back.

He wondered idly if this was a Death Eater's doing. A hand gripped his hair tightly, and yanked him upwards. A scream tore at his throat; it was one of the most painful things he had experienced.

A jagged voice hissed in his ear, it was not a language he recognised. Sensing he was being told to be quiet, he clamped his mouth shut. A slender set of arms wrapped around his torso, in a vicelike embrace. The person holding him growled something, again Harry didn't have a clue what was being said. The ground vanished beneath him, strong wing-beats buffeting the frigid November air.

_._

Severus stepped out of his classroom, only half expecting Potter to be standing outside. He was of course, not present. Unconcernedly, he went to dinner and took his usual seat.

As per usual, he scowled in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

Potter wasn't there.

Severus definitely wasn't the only one to notice, a few other members of staff had also noted the boy's absence.

_._

It was now two weeks after the disappearance of Harry Potter. The morning following the brat's mysterious departure, Headmaster Dumbledore had gone to the Ministry of Magic, asking for aid. There was a horrific backlash of terror, and the standard of the students' work had begun to slip.

Black had been called into the school; he listened in shocked disbelief as the Headmaster explained the dire circumstances. As soon as Albus mentioned Severus's very slight involvement, Black had flown into a rage, cursing every aspect of Severus's life. Since that day, Severus and Black had spent many hours in Dumbledore's office. Once the Aurors had arrived, Severus –along with every other member of staff- was questioned extensively.

That evening, he and Black were sitting in Dumbledore's office, a civil yet terse silence blanketed the room.

Without warning, the door swung open, and Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped in, accompanied by a tall, slender person. The slender one was of high gender ambiguity, but Severus was certain it was a man. Shacklebolt had his wand pressed against the newcomer's throat, his hands were bound behind his back.

"Albus, I caught this thing and one other trying to enter the grounds," Shacklebolt informed the room. The newcomer's eyes darted around the room, he seemed very ill at ease with the situation.

Unsurprising, Severus thought cynically, he's got a weapon pressed against his neck.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" Albus asked, looking up at the man's pale features. The man replied shakily, stuttering several times. With a jolt, Severus realised he was speaking Ārian. He felt some small sense of relief, his requests for help had finally been answered. Black jumped up, evidently about to start yelling, so Severus quickly translated.

"Headmaster, he said his name is Lysan Dharker, and that he brings news about Potter," he conveyed. Just as Shacklebolt had said, a second man was escorted into the room, he was both slightly taller that Dharker and at a glance appeared tougher than the black haired one.

"Severus, could you please ask him to tell us what he knows?" Dumbledore asked calmly, hoping for good news. Before he was able to speak, Dharker interjected.

"…I can speak… English," he notified them, talking slowly.

"Let him go Kingsley, this could take some time," Dumbledore ordered. Dharker was released, and he searched for words.

"He died," was Dharker's agonisingly blunt reply to the Headmaster's question. A tsunami of intense guilt crashed over Severus, he felt incredibly responsible. Black sunk back into his seat, his head in his hands.

"What do you mean he's dead?" Sirius rasped, incredulity colouring his voice.

"He died …he was attacked… shot here," he tapped his chest twice, apparently finding it difficult to find the correct words. "He had scar, here," he gestured at his own forehead. There was no doubt that Dharker was talking about Potter. "Like lightning," he finished simply. Severus motioned for Dharker to sit beside him, which he did. A calculating edge entered Dumbledore's eyes, he was clearly contemplating his next move.

"Severus, what do you think we need to do?" Albus asked, staring intently at the Potion's Master.

"The reason Dharker is here is because I asked for his help, I suggest you talk to him and also have confidence him." Severus replied straightforwardly. The Headmaster seemingly weighed up the pros and cons of telling a complete outsider their predicament. After several minutes of contemplation, Albus decided to trust Severus's judgement.

"There was an evil wizard once, a while ago; he was intent on killing everyone that didn't descend from a pure magical bloodline. Fifteen years ago, I interviewed a woman by the name of Sybill Trelawney for the open Divination position. I wasn't convinced of her abilities, until she made a real prophecy. I listened intently to the prophecy, and when Sybill regained normal consciousness, I heard a noise outside the door.

"Of course, I looked and saw a man retreating: he had obviously been eavesdropping. The spy took the information to Voldemort—the evil wizard I mentioned—and Voldemort decided he would fulfil the prophecy, and grant himself immortality. He went to the place where the other subject of the prophecy was hiding, and killed both of the boy's parents. The boy in hiding was Harry Potter, who, at the time, was one year old.

"Both of Harry's parents defended their son and both perished. However, when Voldemort turned his wand on Harry and attempted to murder him, he found the spell rebounded on himself and destroyed his body—but not his soul.

"According to this prophecy, Harry Potter was the only one able to defeat Voldemort. Unfortunately, he's dead now—as you said—so we're in trouble.

"Several times, Voldemort has attempted to kill Harry within the school walls. I am almost ashamed to admit how easily he managed to get into the castle."

"I think I understand. May I provide my thoughts?" Dharker asked politely, looking thoughtful.

Dumbledore nodded his consent. The other occupants of the room listened intently, including Black.

"I do not believe in prophecy; I believe that prophecies become true because people believe they are true. I believe that if you taught the students this belief, anyone could kill this man."

He spoke thoughtfully, as if he were unsure of himself. Dumbledore thought this was a distinct possibility; he didn't know how long this man had been speaking English.

"So what do you suggest we do?" Dumbledore queried. He had to wait several minutes for the other to answer.

"I think you should tell your students to work harder, and tell them they are as important as Harry Potter," he replied, glancing once more at Severus. "I am quite sure Severus is capable of doing it," he said.

Both Black and Severus snorted simultaneously.

"I am missing a key point here," Dharker muttered.

"The only thing you're missing is that I've bullied half of my students—therefore most of them fear me and none of them respect me," Severus said sceptically.

"Ah, yes, that could possibly stop people listening to you," Lysan replied. Dumbledore thought carefully for a few seconds.

"If you are willing, I'm sure you could do the job, do you have any teaching experience?" he asked, peering over his spectacles.

"None at all," Lysan laughed, his laughter dying at the serious expression on the aged wizard's face. "If you gave me a day or two, I might be able to come up with a workable idea," he said pensively, staring at his boots.

"Okay, I think I will give you the benefit of the doubt, you have seven days to come up with a suitable idea and begin, during that time, you may talk to Severus for assistance. What you teach the students is up to you, within reason, I expect a full report on your class plan within the next week." Dumbledore declared grimly, "I need you to fill out some forms."

At his words, Dharker's features coloured deeply, a colour reminiscent of beetroot.

"I only began learning English a few months ago so I cannot read or write yet, I am sorry," he apologised.

"It is something you definitely need to learn, otherwise you're going to have a tough time teaching, but it can't be helped. I will read the form out to you," replied Dumbledore benignly.

"Hang on," Sirius interrupted, "you're just going to let some random foreigner that's just shown up teach?"

"Severus trusts him, and please before you say anything else on this, he hasn't said anything to suggest any malice toward the school," Albus instructed.

Lysan nodded his thanks. At a motion from Albus, Severus retrieved the appropriate form from Dumbledore's desk.

"Firstly, what is your full name?" He dipped a quill in some ink and paused, waiting for an answer.

"Lysan Kimikko Dharker," replied Dharker.

"How is that spelt?" The aged wizard asked, tipping the end of the quill upwards so as not to drip ink on the page.

"I do not know, I did not learn this alphabet, only how to speak."

Again the thin man seemed embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. The other man interjected, however, with the correct spelling. He had been standing so quietly up until that point that the other occupants of the room had forgotten about his presence.

"Thank you. How old are you, Mr Dharker?" Dumbledore asked, privately thinking the willowy man didn't look much older than twenty.

"Nineteen, though I do have experience," Dharker added defensively, as if fearing reprimand.

"To be honest, Mr Dharker, Severus was only two years older than you when he began teaching here. I think that in some cases, age does not matter in the slightest," Albus said reassuringly, and Severus nodded, confirming it was true. "Have you committed any criminal offences?"

"None," Dharker replied confidently. They continued the question and answer, until the form was completed. Finally, Dumbledore came to a question that he wasn't sure about—he didn't want to sound rude.

"Are there any contact details I can have for your family in case of emergencies?"

Lysan frowned slightly. There was a lengthy and somewhat terse pause, both Severus and Albus wondered if Dharker had even understood the question. Just as Severus was about to ask in the man's native tongue, he abruptly answered.

"It is hard to contact outside of the country," replied Dharker, and the Headmaster fixated him with an utterly perplexed stare.

"I believe he is talking about the official communication methods. It is quite hard to get letters in and out of the country due to their prolonged state of social disorder and issues with the constant threat of attack. There are unofficial methods of communication but even they aren't guaranteed, if something should happen I will endeavor to notify the family, but for the sake of ease, Orani Dharker should be listed as a contact," Severus informed the Headmaster with a thinly veiled sense of unease. Severus did not like the temperamental elder Dharker, not since their various ill fated encounters when Severus was a teen himself. After several minutes, Albus completed the form and picked up the next one, motioning for the other man to step forward.

"What is your name?"

"I can fill the forms in myself, Headmaster," said the blonde politely. Severus detected an Eastern European accent and immediately recalled one of the few tidbits of information he had received from Dharker's home country.

"I apologise for interrupting once again," he began and switched to Dharker's native language, asking several questions. Once his fears were both confirmed and allayed he gave several snappish instructions to the blonde, with a tone that demanded they be followed.

"I'm Lysan's language tutor, I will be helping him to continue learning spoken English as well as beginning to teach written language. I'm Caelen Drakkon, sir," the blonde introduced, as he had been instructed. Severus felt a small shred of relief, he had been half convinced that either of the two newcomers would say something that would get them removed from the school, seeing as the Drakkon family had connections with the Dracul family, he believed that was a piece of information that did not need come into light.

Dumbledore nodded, and handed the blonde the forms. Once the Headmaster read them over he nodded twice, and looked toward Lysan again, who was studying a runic poster.

"I can have quarters arranged for you for tomorrow. How many of you are there?"

It was Caelen that answered, leading the Headmaster to believe Lysan probably didn't know how to count in English.

"There are four of us, but I'm not sure if the other two will stay, in fact there is a good chance that they will not. I suppose others may join us in time, depending on what Lysan decides to teach, he may need additional resources," Drakkon said, staring at the back of Dharker's head.

Dumbledore nodded, deciding not to question them further that evening and scribbled a note.

"You'll have to stay with Severus for this evening," he told them. "I expect you at breakfast tomorrow morning at eight o'clock."

Both men nodded, and followed Severus out of the room.

_._

As they neared what Lysan assumed was a dungeon Severus struck a conversation in Ārian. They approached a door which Severus unlocked with a heavy bronze key.

"Would any of you like a drink?" Severus asked as they entered his quarters. All three declined. "I only have one spare room, I'm sorry." Lysan looked at Caelen before answering.

"Caelen can take that. I will need to begin working anyway. I can sleep here if I need to.

Caelen seemed surprised, but said nothing to disagree. Dharker seated himself on the sofa in what seemed like a contemplative silence. Severus said goodnight to the pair. He collapsed in bed, an awful feeling plaguing him, he had never felt so guilty, he should've been watching the boy closer. He had broken his promise to Lily, and he felt unpleasant.

_._

Notes;

Ārian is Lysan's native language.

Also, Vlad Dracul was Dracula's father, if I remember correctly, Dracula means son of the devil. You probably all know the bare bones of the story of Dracula right? Well, same deal here, the implication? Work it out for yourself.