JUST LIKE YOU

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Harry Potter or Bleach; nor do I own this song. They belong to their respective authors. I however own this story and its quirks.

Shout out: Third part is out; I am currently working on the fourth. And thanks for the support, you really are the best. By the way, I am writing the story, so if you don't like how it's going (carnivores especially (i.e. bloodthirsty ones,)), you don't need to read it. That especially means those, who are allergic to SLASH – meaning, boy/boy love. (Harry/Muramasa, as if you didn't knew already.) Gotta admit, this is kind of an experiment, in "what if", universe, so... Enjoy!

Warnings: Already done, SLASH, morbid themes, and confrontation of Harry with those who had betrayed him.

I could be mean
I could be angry
You know I could be just like you

I could be fake
I could be stupid
You know I could be just like you

You thought you were standing beside me
You were only in my way
You're wrong if you think that I'll be just like you

- by Three Days Grace

They waited anxiously for Harry to wake up. The 'rescue squad' had returned successfully, retrieving Harry safely. However, there were some oddities happening at the extraction process.

Those doors – nobody in their right mind could open them; they were too heavy and magic-impervious. When Kingsley had reported, Dumbledore paled stark white, as the dark-skinned Auror described the cell.

It was an infamous oubliette, the cell for forgotten prisoners – not forgotten per se, but whoever was thrown in that special cell, it was doubtful that would come out without outside help, and what was worse, if the prisoner was a wizard, the cell had sucked out their magic, and it wasn't uncommon that those few who were lucky – or unlucky enough to be rescued, were suicidal or went completely mad.

The oubliette was designed for the worst prisoners. You could come in, but you couldn't come out. So it was even stranger that they could get out – so easily. Tonks said that the door opened, as if it were an ordinary door, nothing usual – which was impossible. The door was firstly too heavy, there was nobody to help the two Aurors from the outside – and it baffled Dumbledore that they could get out with such an ease. Harry was out – his magic was depleted, Madame Pomfrey reported grimly, and it would take time to get it back on its previous levels, of at all.

But that was not the worst of it. Harry's physical state was deplorable. His body was weak, bones brittle with the absence of sun and healthy meals, and his growth would never achieve his year mates – not that it had before, anyhow. His skin was caked with filth and some odd wounds were infected, the old wounds were healed, even if it was poorly done, with no magical intervention – moreover, it seemed that his healing had been prevented by some kind of dark magic. His skin was paper white and brittle at the touch, like ancient sheet of papyrus. His hair was matted with filth and grease; reaching to the youth's back and apparently used as some kind of a poorly constructed blanket. The green eyes were unfocused, and Poppy feared that the damage was final – that Harry had become blind. And that was just a part of it. His muscles were deteriorated, and it would take months of intensive therapy just to get Harry to partially move on his own.

They knew it would be bad, but this –

It was a disaster.

The dark-eyed man was watching the youth silently. It was surprising – and not in a good sense – how Potter – Harry now – had changed. The boy was lying in the bed, his face starkly white even among the bleached starch linens of hospital-issued covers. His youthful face was sunken in, revealing the fine boned structure that reminded him of Lily's face. So delicate, like crystal...and yet, so alien looking. It was like the youth there was someone else, some stranger that was accidental casualty of the cruelty of this world. Under his eyes, there were eye bags, dark purple in colour, indicating long-term insomnia. The ribcage was delicate, revealing the concave of stomach, even with the fluffy covers thrown over the body. Something squeezed his heart uncomfortably, as he thought about what the boy had to suffer through to come to that miserable state.

This was no James Edmund Potter. This... boy had none of his father's arrogance and braggart posture like the elder Potter had. If anything, the boy was shunning the limelight something fierce. This was Lily... and yet, it was not. It was a part of Lily, and it unsettled Snape that he knew nothing about the person which was now sleeping under those covers.

Black hair was unknotted and sheared at the tips, leaving the mass of it behind the boy's head in heavy- and a little coarse to the touch- loose waves. Snape was reminded of Lily again, of her fire red hair that she wore unbound, and rarely partially bound, her red mane her only vanity, her pride and joy. And yet... this black hair reminded him of Potter, may the foolish idiot burn in Hell – and yet, it was something else, something alien and different.

He was doubtful about heaping the burden on the boy – and he was proven right. But seeing that fragile form, his doubts returned once more, like hungry Furies, whispering in his ears, that war was lost for certain. They had so little time, and the only one that could save them, was lying in front of him, broken and shattered –

He looked in those green eyes. And blinked.

Those green eyes... They were like Lily's, and yet, they were so unlike her radiant gems of the colour of emerald – those eyes were too old, too broken – Or were they?

Those eyes – were empty. There was no spark in them, no recognition, no fury, nothing. It was like looking in eyes of some statue, and yet, even statues had more lifelike eyes than this - !

He started.

"Potter!" He blurted out. The youth didn't acknowledge him. The Potions Master didn't know what to think. Should he be happy to be ignored, or insulted?

The eyes blinked. Snape shuffled on his chair uncomfortably. Those eyes weighed on him. They didn't accuse him, didn't question him, they did nothing. Just watched him. He felt, as if he was a mouse, staying in front of the great predator, left here to depend on its mercy, and found ...inconsequential. Dismissed.

He exhaled a harsh breath. No mere brat would toy with him like that! "The Great Harry Potter finally deemed our presence worthy enough to wake up." He sneered out, black eyes glittering with challenge.

Green eyes blinked. They were still eerily empty of feelings.

And they stared at each other. Snape was too stubborn to look away, and Harry –

Who knew?

"You would be glad to find out that your precious little mutt is here," Snape spat out with disgust, trying to rouse the youth.

"He is whining to see you, the same as your incompetent friends." Still no reaction.

Snape growled.

"You are still arrogant, just like your father," he growled out.

Ah. A blink.

"Has that empty head of yours enough brain cells to use your tongue?" He demanded. "But then again, you wouldn't know how to talk, after all. I can't decide if that's a blessing, as I don't have to listen to you babbling about mindless drivel, or you are just incompetent enough to hold your mouth shut. Then again, that would make you a genius, so – "

"Just like you." The hoarse voice spoke. Snape's mouth was open, his face showing his bafflement.

"You know, I could be just like you." The boy spoke out, forming the words with difficulty, grating them past his mouth.

"What do you mean? Of course you couldn't be just like me, you imbecilic brat!" Snape bit out, fuming.

The boy watched him, his face expressionless. "So why are you insisting that I am just like my father?"

That simple question snapped the spy's mouth shut.

Inwardly, he seethed. But then, he looked at the boy. Really looked.

The gaunt face, sickly white skin with deep purple eye bags, black eyebrows, the eyes with colour of green diamonds – not emeralds, those were warm and Lily's, but the boy's eyes were hard, flat and expressionless, like diamonds. Sharp nose, thin colourless lips and black hair, thin, fragile throat...

His fingers twitched. He was tempted to pull the wand on the brat and curse him to the deepest level of Hell imaginable.

Because he had been right.

He could be... just like him.

Abruptly, he stood up, his chair clattering away.

Harry eyed him calmly.

Slowly, the man sat down, his hands still trembling with helpless fury.

"Well? What did he say?" Molly pressed, as soon as she saw the man. Snape sneered at the woman's foolishness. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" He bit out, revelling in the collective winces. He was enjoying the show, and for once, he was glad that he didn't look at Potter – as some kind of a glorified almighty saviour.

The talk he had with the young man just five minutes prior was very informative. Grudgingly, Snape admitted – if only to himself – that he could come to like this... person.

"May we... Talk to him?" Hermione asked timidly, her hand nervously wringing in her lap. Snape looked at her. "Suit yourself," He said gruffly. "Just don't expect him to be cordial to you."

"H – How is he, Professor?" Ginny asked timidly, biting her lips nervously. She flinched under his heavy stare. Shrinking into herself, she tried to bravely look into those dark eyes, but she was unable to hold the contact for long.

"He is... lucid, if you are asking that," the Potions Master answered her sharply. "Or, as much he could be, under those circumstances. I am baffled that he even survived being in that hellhole in first place." He muttered to himself.

He looked at the crushed expressions of Potter's so-called friends. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

His eyes were closed, when they entered his room, but that didn't mean he wasn't aware of their presence.

Hermione. Ron. Ginny. He had thought them to be his friends. He thought that he could depend on them.

But he was wrong.

It was odd, how dispassionate was he now. It was as if they were strangers to them, he mused silently, and not the ones who practically crushed his heart with their betrayal.

He listened to their hitching breaths – obviously they didn't expect him to be so... changed, he pondered idly.

Hermione. A bookworm, and reported to be one of the brightest minds of their generation. Sadly, she was ruled by authority and books.

Ron. Jealous of his brothers, and by default, jealous of him, Harry Potter, the one he proclaimed to be best friend of. A bright strategic mind, but alas, he wasn't inclined to use it for more than occasional chess match.

Ginny. Little sister, and so deeply in love with image that never existed, was never real. So obsessed and determined, his little girlfriend – well, ex-girlfriend now –

Idly, he wondered where the others were, but then, he mentally shrugged. It didn't matter.

Should he forgive them? Should he let them back into his life, young and foolish as they were? Should he... trust them again?

He felt those slender hands on his shoulders, strong and sure, a delicate touch of predator on its prey. The very edges of the tips of those nails were scraping his pectoral muscles gently, a subtle touch of ownership and support. Inwardly, he smiled at Muramasa's possessiveness, but he didn't begrudge the spirit for it. Far from it, in fact, he accepted it and even encouraged it subtly. In those moments, he was grateful that Muramasa had that unique ability of traversing freely between the material and intangible world.

But... He forgave Muramasa. Shouldn't he forgive his friends, too? Muramasa had killed him. They only betrayed him... didn't they?

Foolish, foolish children.

Suddenly, Harry felt weary, feeling every ounce of his years and experiences. In comparison with Dumbledore – hell, even Flamel, he was positively ancient, even if he was youthful looking. His years as Kouga weren't exactly a rose-littered path, and this ... life was just as troublesome, if not more so, than the previous one in Seireitei.

He exhaled a weary sigh.

They were shocked out of their minds, when they saw him. Small, almost petite, thin, skeletal – so different –

Hermione sobbed. They had done that to him, because they were stupid enough to assume first and ask questions later – and until then, it was already too late. She knew about Harry – she knew him, and yet, she betrayed him, thought him to be a murderer - She gulped as those green eyes looked at them.

It was, as if he was looking at them, and yet through them, a truly disconcerting feeling. She shivered in dreadful anticipation and guilt.

"Why are you there?" the question was oh so simple, and spoken with such an indifferent voice Hermione almost wished Harry would scream, yell, accuse her, anything!

This... just wasn't Harry.

"Um..." Ron began. He coughed uncomfortably, wishing to be anywhere but there. Shuffling, he quickly looked at the fragile form under the bed covers, and flinched.

"We are sorry." He managed to get out, his voice tight.

Green eyes stared at them, and then blinked. "You are sorry? Sorry?" The youth was incredulous. They flinched. The voice was scratchy and monotone. They prepared for the verbal lashing that would undoubtedly follow the outburst.

"I am sorry, too." Harry said. He said the hopeful gazes in their eyes. "Sorry that I trusted you enough to think you would hear me out. Sorry that I was foolish enough to consider you as friends. Because you obviously were not." Their eyes dimmed with guilt again.

"C – Can we ever be friends?" Ginny stuttered out, her brown eyes shiny with tears.

Harry sighed. "Why?" He asked. The tips of those sharp nails pricked his skin a little bit harder. "Why should I trust you again?"

They were silent. Harry resisted the urge to rub his temples. He frowned instead. "Foolish," he muttered out. "You are wasting my time, and my patience is becoming thin enough as it is. We are at war, and you still want to play forgive and forget games. Get out and leave me be."

He felt the spirit squeeze his shoulders affectionately. "But Harry – "Hermione began shakily.

He looked at her.

And in that one moment, Hermione felt incredibly small. She bit her lips, as her shoulders slumped. "Will you ever... forgive us?" She whispered, defeated.

Green eyes closed. A weary sigh rattled out of the damaged throat. "I don't know, and I don't care. Either I will or I won't; but you lost my trust either way." The words hit them brutally, making them flinch with their bluntness.

Quietly, they filled out of the room, their hearts feeling even heavier than before.

/To be continued/