A/N: Sorry for the incredibly long period between this chapter and the last...because the chapters are always at least 13,000 words, it takes a lot longer to produce one decent chapter for this story that one or two decent chapters for another one of my stories. Alas, the time between this chapter and the next update will also be longer due to school starting back up soon for me and my increasing workload of AP classes...sorry! I will try and write every chance I get, but I have three stories to work on right now, so I have to rotate which ones go to the back burner every now and then.
Anyways, enjoy chapter 3!
He had never fully understood just how difficult it was to go shopping until he tried it himself. Usually he was saddled with Dudley's hand-me-downs, and Mrs. Weasley or Hermione had always picked out his clothes—on the rare occasion that he made the choice to purchase new ones—so he'd never really thought about the mechanics of bargain hunting, not that he needed to, or having the right size. He didn't even know how to properly choose a shoe based on size; Petunia had always handed him Dudley's old ones and he had to use them or go barefoot.
It was a strange thing, he mused, having the money to actually go shopping. A quick trip to Gringotts and a stop at the conversion counter had set him up for a shopping spree. He had never realized the exchange rate between the galleon and the muggle pound was so great; he would never have to work a day in his life if he lived in the muggle world with the money he had.
Still, that would imply having to build up a tolerance for shopping, and he was still incredibly easy to tire out when shopping was involved.
So it was a very tired and shopping-worn Harry Potter that dropped onto a bench in muggle London around lunch time.
"I still have so much to do," he muttered to himself; why did girls love shopping so much? Did they enjoy falling into a puddle of aching legs and arms at the end of the spree? He grumbled something about having to build up an endurance to the sport-like activity before pushing himself from the seat and steering himself towards the Leaky Cauldron.
Figuring he had until the end of summer, a very long five weeks, to do research, he allowed himself some time to think more about the present; he had no illusions about his soon-to-be predicament.
Only last night, Order members and presumably Death Eaters, had bombarded Privet Drive in the hopes of whisking him away to their bases, whether that be as a guest or a prisoner depended on the group. As hard as they may have tried, there was no way the Order could keep his disappearance quiet for very long, and they were no doubt looking for him themselves, despite the wishes he expressed in his letter.
This had left Harry Potter with a very interesting question: how could he not look like Harry Potter? He found himself desperately wishing for Tonks' metamorphosis ability, but knew it was not something to be learned, and he berated himself for not at least attempting a Polyjuice when he'd had the chance; it had not been something he was overly concerned with at the time.
He had been moments from sleep, staring out his window into muggle London when it hit him like a wall of bricks; why did his disguise have to utilize his skills as a wizard? It wasn't like he was miles away from muggle shops that could supply him with everything he needed to look like a semi-different person; different enough to get past scrutiny anyways.
So along with the magical shopping he had already planned to do, Harry mentally reorganized his "schedule" to include muggle shopping and disguise preparation before reentering Diagon Alley; there was far too much chance of him being discovered.
Climbing the stairs, he groaned at the weight of the bags. It was so difficult carrying fifty pounds of muggle clothing up two flights of stairs; why didn't the Leaky Cauldron have elevators. The bag-laden boy snorted. Of course, since everyone who stayed was a wizard or witch, what need would they have for it? They could simply charm their things or levitate them once they were of age…
…Which he was now. Unable to smack himself in the forehead, Harry walked the short remaining distance between where he stood and his door before dropping the offending bags. Blaming his apparent lack of memory recollection on sleep deprivation, stress, and the after-effects of shopping, he unlocked hid door and levitated the bags into the room with a satisfied nod.
It wasn't his fault he forgot that, at the stroke of midnight only a few hours previous, the Trace on his powers had broken and he was a legal wizard. After all, six years of the 'no magic' rule combined with the fact that he'd been out and about in muggle London had probably contributed to his forgetfulness.
Shaking his head, he berated himself for thinking of such stupid nonsense when there was still so much left to do for the day. He aimed his wand for the rucksack on his bed, no larger than a pack of bubble gum, and expanded it back to normal size before unpacking the items he wanted to take with him into Diagon Alley.
Feeling childish, he grinned indulgently and stuck his head into the pack, surveying the space that was as big as a room. He briefly wondered if the American Walt Disney had been a wizard; who else would have thought of that bag in the old movie about a magical nanny—Mary Popper or something similar—with the bag that had a lamp and everything else she seemed to own in it?
Still, there was an enormous amount of space in the pack—more than his old cupboard, most definitely. He shouted and laughed when he heard the echo bounce off the material of the bag, but stopped when the echoed laughter began to creep him out too much. It was amazing what magic could accomplish, he thought, like how even though there was so much space, his clothes stayed perfectly folded, one on top of the other.
Finally pulling his head from the bag, he closed it and shrunk it once more, placing it in his pocket; there were far too many valuables to leave it lying around in a place like the Cauldron. He began unpacking his muggle clothes and placing them in the dresser by the enchanted mirror that had not stopped talking since he walked back in the door. Charmed items really did start to annoy one after awhile.
After the clothes were put away and the bags they had been in were vanished, he took out the colored contacts he had picked up from the optometrist. He was a little worried, what with them being ready in only ten minutes, but time was of the essence; he could not be bothered to wait around for a week while they came in. It had been a great force of luck on his part that his eyesight was not some weird prescription and that the place had had his in stock.
Plucking the tiny brown circle from its compartment, he looked at it and grimaced; he was supposed to shove his finger into his eye and leave this thing there? How disgusting…
But, he sighed, it was for the sake of his disguise, so he'd have to summon the courage to do it. He thought it funny that the savior of the wizarding world was afraid of some harmless eyewear.
When both contacts were in, he let out a mournful sigh; he hadn't realized how accustomed he was to his eyes until they weren't themselves. Despite how many times he had been told, it never got old, the fact that he had his mother's eyes. It gave him something of her to hold onto. Their bright and vibrant color made him wonder if she'd been as bright and vibrant as they were.
The changed eyes combined with the short-cropped haircut he had stopped in for made him look different, but not enough so for him to go unnoticed. After all, wouldn't everyone expect him to do something so predictable? Maybe not the eye color change, but definitely the hair. Maybe they were even betting on some kind of hair color change from a simple color change spell?
He wished, briefly, that it wasn't so dangerous to perform that spell on his eyes so he wouldn't have to go through the squirm-inducing process of putting in the contacts, although he was glad he didn't have to worry about losing his glasses anymore.
The point was he knew he could only rely on his disguise as long as he didn't go out every day. He could not venture into the Alley often enough to draw attention; only once a week at the most would do.
Flopping back onto the bed, tired at only twelve thirty-five, he stared at the ceiling through the darkened lenses of his contacts with a sigh of annoyance. How he longed to not be who he was. To not have to dodge press, allies, and enemies, to not have to complete the stupid task Albus sent for him, to not have to appear to be the school-day enemy of the one person he loved more than anything; to not have to deal with any of it was a life he longed for.
But he realized the cost would be too great. If he was not Harry Potter, would he allies and enemies be the same, or would he have ended up on a different side? Would he still be as close to Albus?
Would he love Draco, would Draco love him, the way he did now?
And it was the thoughts of whom and what he was protecting that spurred him to continue, that made him try harder than he thought he could.
But mostly, he sighed and closed his eyes, preparing for a nap; it was Draco that he fought for.
He was in the Forbidden Forest. The dark trees, the sounds, even the smell that assaulted his nose told him quite clearly he could not be anywhere else. Briefly, he wondered why his sense of smell was so strong in a dream, but the thought was quick as he took in the other things happening around him.
From the way that no one even glanced at him, he could tell he was simply an onlooker, not an active participant, and he tried to identify as many people as possible.
In a circle stood the Dark Lord's most trusted followers: Yaxley, Runcorn, Lucius, and Avery. A few others stood near the back, but only these four stood proud at the front. Hagrid's massive half-giant form seemed broken, fallen to his knees behind the arc of followers.
Front and center, looking at something further in the distance than him, was the Dark Lord himself, looking malicious and brandishing a very elegant wand that looked much like Albus Dumbledore's.
He turned to get a better fix on what the Dark Lord was looking at and felt his heart clench; Harry Potter on his knees, struggling to stand and fixing a pointed look at the creature in front of him in an obvious act of defiance.
"Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, obviously ecstatic. "It seems you have failed. All of your efforts to outrun, outsmart, and evade my followers has been in vain. You have failed your mission to Dumbledore; Nagini still lives, you fool of a boy. I have his wand, and you stand before me, or kneel before me," the Death Eaters snickered, "with a broken wand, defeated. You are done."
He heard Harry mutter, "You will be soon, too." Before he could even begin to work out the mechanics of the retort, a cry from the Dark Wizard and a flash of green light told him exactly what was going to happen. With a cry, he leapt in front of the very real-looking curse, knowing it would not help. He shivered desperately when the light passed through him, but it continued towards Harry, not failing to miss its mark as he had foolishly hoped.
Mentally and physically defeated, Harry's eyes flashed defiantly before his body crumpled, one hand clenched, the other holding a broken half of his wand.
"Harry!" Drenched in sweat, Draco nearly rolled off his bed when he woke. Tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, he attempted to turn on the lamp by his bedside table, hoping to solidify the fact that he was awake and what he had just seen had only been a dream.
But it was so real right down to the smell that he could not push it off as a dream. He could ask Severus about it, but would the man take it seriously? He had been having the dream for at least a month, no variations, down to the cracking twigs. Every detail stayed the same, from the words to the positions of every person, and Draco could recall it perfectly.
It was probably about time for some Dreamless Sleep Draught.
His legs shook as he stood, but eventually he managed to move through his morning routine, showering and dressing in simple muggle jeans and a t-shirt. If he was going to get his clothes dirty with botched potions, as he knew he would, he didn't want to be well dressed.
By the time he was done and making his way towards the kitchen, it was nearly seven, and Severus was preparing his morning tea.
"Nightmares, Draco?" The simple statement was loaded with concern and curiosity that only the blonde could detect, and his lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. Knowing there was no option but to tell the truth, Draco let his shoulders sag in mock defeat and gave a sad, little nod. "I assume you want me to put the ingredients for a Dreamless on the list?" Of course his godfather knew every little thing that went through his mind. Why couldn't Severus have been his father?
Merlin knows Lucius never should have been a father.
Last year, when he had been assigned his task, it was the furthest he had ever been from Severus, and it made him uncomfortable when reviewing his past behavior. He had been so caught up in trying to make the Dark Lord happy in the beginning, had truly wanted to be a Death Eater, that he lost sight of everything.
He never realized his mother slipping into a frenzied depression, constantly moody and depressed but always trying to help him accomplish his goal.
He never realized his father, after he was broken out of Azkaban, using him to make the Dark Lord see his own value more, rather than trying to help his own son.
But most importantly, he didn't realize the help that Severus had kept trying to give him. He never realized the help Severus tried to give him was to help him see the light, not steal the glory for his task.
All his focus had been on finding a foolproof way to kill Dumbledore to please Voldemort, but he lost sight of his beliefs; he had never wanted to serve the madman until his father made it a necessity for him.
It still shamed Draco that the Wizarding Savior, Harry "the Boy-Who-Lived" Potter, had to save him as well from personal hell and the steady self-destruction he had been well on his way to finishing.
Still, Severus had seen past Draco's pigheadedness and idiocy and given him a second chance at redemption. He accepted Draco's "needless" apologies about how stupid he'd been to ignore and scream at his godfather during the year and harbored no ill will, and he behaved no differently than before.
Like offering to make him a Dreamless Sleep Draught, something his own father would have told him to make himself after beating him for whining about something so stupid.
"Severus, why didn't you ever have kids?" He mentally scheduled a second shower later in the day as he received an impromptu spray of tea. "Thanks for that, Sev."
"I won't say sorry, because quite frankly your question warranted that. What in Merlin's name possessed you to ask such a question so bluntly? Haven't I taught you better subtlety than that?" Draco snorted; the man was more irked about the form in which he had asked than the question itself.
"Yes," he answered his godfather truthfully, "but I'm far too tired to think of a clever way to trick the answer out of you, and you'll just end up telling me anyways, so on with it." Said to Lucius, that statement certainly would have warranted a Cruciatus.
Still, his godfather glared at him as he refilled his now-empty cup with more tea. Knowing he would get his answer in, at most, a few more minutes, Draco leaned back in his seat and stirred his own tea, waiting for Severus to break.
It went without saying that the man did not disappoint.
"I get quite enough children at that blasted school, thank you very much," he snarled, obviously trying to get the topic changed as soon as possible. Draco was not so merciful.
"That's a lie. You seem to have done a wonderful parenting job in my case."
"Draco, you are not my son."
"That's a lie, too," Draco snorted. "Let's be honest, shall we? For the last six years, I've seen you three-quarters of the year. I saw my parents for Easter, Christmas, and summer. And if we were going to be brutally honest, we'd both admit that I saw more of you and Crissy than Lucius and mother for the first eleven years of my life as well. Hell, my earliest memory is you teaching me to ride a broomstick!"
His father had been far too busy kissing ass to Voldemort and his mother was constantly barraged by pureblood customs, traditions, parties, and following Lucius to his Death Eater meetings that she never particularly participated in.
Voldemort had done a real number on Draco's childhood.
"Draco, what is this really about?" Severus' words caught him by surprise and any chance of a retort died on his lips; what was it about? How had he gone from thinking of his dream, or nightmare, to asking Severus about children to Draco's childhood? It really was an odd conversation twist.
"I don't know, Sev," he finally answered as honestly as he could. "So what's the plan for the day?"
"Draco, what is this really about?" He could tell his godson was amazed that he had actually asked a direct question for once rather than tricking it out of him, but he was more focused on reaction to the meaning behind the words rather than the words themselves. The blonde looked genuinely baffled as he turned the words over in his head, appearing to try to find a response.
Throughout the conversation, Severus had noticed odd twists in not only the subject, but the way they were speaking.
What had started as a simple discussion about Draco's nightmares had quickly traveled to territory he had never believed Draco would broach; why would the boy be so interested in Severus' paternal life, or lack thereof? As the blonde began talking about his own childhood, it became more apparent; Draco was wishing Severus was not his godfather, but his actual father.
As flattering as the notion was, Severus truly did not want children of his own. When he wanted to be, he was rather good with other children; just never would he be able to handle raising his own.
Still, the Potions Master could not figure out why Draco was once again bemoaning his horrible candidate of a father; Lucius wasn't exactly parenting material either, or so Narcissa had confided in him during Draco's early years. Of course, it was clear to anyone who knew the family that Lucius had not been made to be a father. Not Draco's, in any case.
So he was back to the beginning; why Draco's change in attitude. He supposed Draco's "I don't know" answer should not have surprised him, so he didn't let it show that he was disappointed in such a lack of appropriate answers.
"So what's the plan for the day?" The subject change was so blatant, even Potter, oblivious to the extreme, would have been able to figure it out and realize that it was better to let the situation lie where it was. Not to be outdone by a Potter, however mental the competition was, Severus left well enough alone and answered the question.
"I will be taking a visit to Knockturn Alley during the morning when it is less likely to be crowded," and Death Eaters are at the Ministry, he added silently to himself, "and then venturing through Diagon Alley in the afternoon. I hope to be back somewhere around two so we can brew a proper Dreamless by the time you are ready to sleep tonight." Draco nodded.
"I suppose I'm going to have to find some way to amuse myself for the next few hours." Severus raised his eyebrow; the Draco Malfoy he knew would never sound so defeated just from hearing he was spending the day alone. Was the boy suffering from feelings of abandonment? He had thought him stronger than that.
He didn't say anything, choosing to nod his head.
"You may try and get a few more hours of sleep, seeing as last night was…shall we say disturbed?" Something in the boy's eyes gave him the creeping feeling that it wasn't just a nightmare, but he decided it would best to let the Draco come to him; if he asked, his godson would get defensive and then nothing would come of it.
"I'll just read." There it was again; that uncomfortable, frightened, ready-to-bolt gleam in his eyes. Whatever he had seen in his nightmare, it had made Draco extremely shaky.
But did Draco trust him enough to come to him? Only time would tell.
"Very well. I hope to return around two. Please do something constructive," he mocked, knowing whatever Draco did, he would find a way to convince Severus that it was, indeed productive. With a smirk and one raised eyebrow, he turned on his heel and Disapparated to the Leaky Cauldron's apparation point.
There was just something about floo that was so uncomfortable…the whole landing thing still bothered him.
Wondering why the run-down pub didn't have a more stable area for apparating as dust and splinters of wood flew down, he ignored the still-resounding echo from his apparation 'crack' and took a peek into the pub before sweeping through.
Being a Death Eater, spy or not, he certainly got plenty of fearful and dirty looks from passerby. Berating himself internally for not appearing in the Stained Skull, the Knockturn Alley pub, he continued down the street with his head held high with a disdainful sneer on his face, scaring the innocents further.
They were so easy to scare, so innocent and naïve, that Severus wondered how they were planning on fighting a war where the enemy used fear to win. It was with a bitter feeling of resentment in his stomach that he remembered that over ninety-five percent of these people would not be participating in the final battle, but would be not cheering Potter on, but expecting him to win.
What would they do if their expectations were too high?
No, he berated, we cannot afford to think such pessimistic thoughts. Even if they are my specialty. It had been increasingly hard for Severus to remember it would all come down to Potter, and if he thought everyone was gunning for him to win but believing he would lose, he would indeed lose. It would come down to not only skill and alliances, but attitude; a very different aspect for the spy to consider.
He took a sharp turn down a dark alley behind Gringotts towards the barely lit streets of Knockturn Alley. Despite the bright and shiny windows and walls of Diagon, the wizarding black market remained as gloomy and depressing as ever with its dingy, dusty shop windows and negative coloring. It was like being surrounded by dementors, except he was unbearably hot and sticky with sweat.
His eyes scanned back and forth, peripherals open for anything lurking; just because he was the Dark Lord's right hand man did not mean he was untouchable. In fact, there were many who would want a go at his throat; a good spy was always on the lookout, and Severus Snape was the best.
Goyle, a big, burly bloke, did an odd sort of waddle that made Severus smirk with mirth. The man was not a threat to a first year; he was simply good at pointing curses at stand-still victims.
"Oi, I figure congratulations are in order, Snape!" For a moment, Severus wondered if the idiot had gone completely mental. Crabbe, who had not been far behind, finally caught up and added his own bit,
"I'll bet you can't wait to get back to that muggle-lover's school and make some changes of your own," he sniggered, raising an eyebrow in a poor imitation of Severus, which, of course, did not amuse the sinister man.
"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" He briefly noted that the fathers seemed to be dimmer than the sons, although that wasn't saying too much for either party.
"I don't think he knows yet, Crabbe!" Goyle's harsh whisper did nothing to lessen Severus' suspicions; it was not often something slipped his attention. Most certainly anything that captured these dunderheads should have been top priority, for it meant the smarter Death Eaters knew about it already.
"Well, have a good shop, then," Crabbe commented, turning over his shoulder and shoving Goyle far in front of him, preventing the other idiot from revealing any more than they had already. But Severus was no Crabbe and certainly no Goyle; it didn't take Albus Dumbledore to figure out what the two of them meant, and Severus suddenly got a horribly sick feeling in his stomach.
He knew he would not be able to make it through both Knockturn and Diagon without a stop in between, so he slammed the door to the Warlock's Apothecary open and began shopping for the darker ingredients that would be necessary for his Polyjuice and other dark potions. Despite how sick he felt, he remained composed, a skill he had gained from years of being a slave to the Dark Lord, and measured each ingredient precisely before sealing them in their own bags and tossing them in his floating basket.
When he was satisfied that he had all the dark materials he would need, he directed the basket to the front where a wizard, apparently in his mid-thirties, with warts and greasier hair than his own sat picking the gunk from under his fingernails.
Disgusted, Severus hurried to pull his galleons from his coin pouch to pay for his items; he did not want to be in the area any longer than necessary.
"Snape! Doing some potion restocking, I imagine?" Nott Senior came up behind him and clapped him on the back. Though Severus was not particularly frail, Nott was not exactly normal size, so it was with great effort that the Potions' Master did not wince at what he was sure would later be an ugly bruise.
"Yes, I believe that is what one would be doing in an apothecary like the one we are in, Nott." He said it as coldly as he could, hoping to drive the man away so he could return to the safety of his home and Draco's conversation.
Draco; he wondered how his godson had chosen to entertain himself.
"Don't see why you need to; Dark Lord could procure anything for you without payment. After all, Hogwarts needs you to do more than brew potions now, eh? Isn't all your old stuff still in your storeroom? Nothing wrong with going back yet, right?"
Severus' blood ran cold; he had had his suspicions, which tended to be correct in situations such as these, but to hear it confirmed in such a cruel way and by such a person was, daresay, horrifying. For it to do such a thing to Severus, he felt weak; after all, most would be overjoyed to realize they would soon be the Headmaster for Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Severus now wished he had thrown himself from the Astronomy Tower that night more than ever.
Gracefully and with a skill Draco had not yet acquired, Severus turned on the spot and disapparated, leaving Draco to stare at the empty spot, scowling; now he was stuck trying to find something to occupy his time. He would gladly find something if there was anything! Severus' home wasn't exactly child friendly with pets, bright colors, and a large backyard. Then again, Draco had never had much of a childhood, so he wouldn't know what to do with any of it if he had it.
Still, he had to find something to do, right?
Eventually, he forced himself into the library; he was well aware that the remainder of his summer would be spent brewing, studying, and finishing homework, seeing as he had every intention of returning, Dark Lord controlled or not.
Skimming his eyes along the rows, his breath hitched when he saw a familiar lightning bolt. Searching for the title, he allowed himself a smile and rolled his eyes; of course Severus wouldn't have a book on Potter, and a lightning bolt was a perfectly acceptable emblem for 'Lightning Defense: A Long Guide to Quick Actions.' Picking out the nearest book, 'Simple Potions in Thirty Minutes,' he sat in his favorite chair and cracked the book to page one.
Ten minutes later, he was still on page one.
It was rather depressing, he mused, that he couldn't make it through a single day without thinking about Harry Potter. That kiss they had shared at the funeral a mere few weeks ago was still fresh in his mind, and so were his words.
"I love you."
How could he love Harry? Not only was he betrothed to Pansy Parkinson, a detail that would not be announced until he made the formal proposal after seventh year, but Malfoy's were incapable of love. Narcissa certainly didn't love Lucius; their marriage was as false and planned as Draco knew his own would one day be.
If Harry didn't win.
But if he did, then that left Draco free to choose who he wanted…would that be Harry?
It circled back to that one question he had been pushing…did he love the Boy-Who-Lived? When he had said it to Harry, there was no doubt he wanted the boy. He wanted him the same way he wanted him that night on the Astronomy Tower.
There had been no feelings of love. When he saw Harry that day, barely held together, he had been well aware of what he had to say, of what Harry had needed to hear.
So he'd said it.
And then that talk he'd had with Severus; he'd claimed so passionately to love Harry. But what if all his talk had been just that: claims and talk. It wasn't that he didn't want to love Harry. With all his being, he wished he could believe in love. But the tragedy he had seen because of it was too great for him to have such a false hope. People died, killed, for love. They killed others, their lovers, themselves, and anyone who got in the way. Love was just a messy business that Draco was not so sure he wanted a part of.
But hadn't he said he loved Harry? He had told the Boy-Who-Lived point blank that he loved him, hadn't he? But he already had that one figured out; Harry believed in love, and Harry needed that belief to win, so Draco gave it to him. Draco didn't believe in it himself, because only fools, weaklings, and Harry Potter believed in such childish nonsense.
It was a thing of fairy tales meant to give an unexplainable explanation to the unexplainable. In fact, he remembered quite clearly a promise he made to himself when he had found out he was to marry Pansy one day; he would never say those dreaded three words to anyone, least of all her.
And then he had said it again, to Harry Potter of all people. Perhaps it was said in a form of trickery to boost Harry, perhaps not. All he was sure of was that he wasn't sure if he meant it or not, which didn't help him in the slightest.
And now he was realizing that, should he have to say it again, the feeling would still be as confusing as the first time.
He had tried convincing himself he wasn't in love with the Gryffindor, but wasn't that a sure-fire sign that he was in love?
Suddenly the book he had been trying to read cracked against the far wall. He realized belatedly that I had been his wild magic at work since his hands were still firmly crossed.
"I shall overlook that slight maltreatment of my personal property in the hopes that it was for a damn good reason and expect it to not happen again." Draco nearly toppled from his chair at the drawl coming from the apparation point in the kitchen.
"Sev! You're back so early," he noted, observing the clock. "Did you get everything?" Severus nodded.
"In Knockturn. I came to see how you handled the morning alone in my house. I must go back out after noon for Diagon items." Draco smirked; Severus often commented on the possessed, cursed, and unacceptable condition of the equipment in Knockturn. Not to mention the unsavory people Draco had witnessed firsthand last year. But still…something seemed to have Severus a bit shaken.
It wasn't blatantly obvious, or one of those cheesy 'in-his-eyes' things, but the thinner-than-normal lips, tightened tone, and lack of a smirk told Draco everything.
"What really happened?" Knowing he had won, the blonde simply sat back and waited, similar to earlier that morning, with a smug smirk and raised eyebrow already in place.
"The Alley had more traffic than appropriate for during work hours," the man muttered, levitating his bags.
"And?" That could not be all.
"And the majority of them were Death Eaters congratulating me on my new position at Hogwarts. I do not think it needs to be said that I haven't the slightest bit of knowledge as to what they mean."
Of course it went without saying that anything Severus perceived as a threat, Draco tended to as well.
"There are only two positions at the school he would assign me besides Potions, Draco." Without a doubt, defense was one.
"What would he possibly give you aside from Potions and Defense?" He had never seen pain more evident in all his life.
"Think, Draco. What better reward to give me than the position of the man I murdered?" It became quite apparent just what had thrown Severus into such a state. For most people, such tension would be just stress, the result of a bad day. But for Severus to show even a twitch meant something was off (unless it was double Potions with Gryffindor and Slytherin with Harry and Draco).
That Severus wasn't breaking down completely after such news made Draco so much more proud of his godfather, but it also concerned him. The man seemed to have just barely gotten over his guilt at killing the only father he had ever felt he'd had, and now he was about to be in the man's previous office nearly every day. Remembering the one time he had been in the office, Draco felt sick; Dumbledore's portrait would be on the walls forever with a Permanent Sticking Charm.
True, both men knew the truth, but Severus would feel guilt eat at him from the inside more and more every time he saw the portrait, frame or inhabitant. Hopefully, the elderly wizard would have enough common sense to vacate the portrait for the first few weeks.
Draco began to feel increasingly guilty as he stared at his godfather from his own seat after ensuring the man did not collapse before he reached his. Even as his godfather, the closest thing Draco considered as family besides Crissy, sat determined not to break down over something that most definitely deserved a bit of crying over, Draco was close to insanity debating his supposed love for the Boy-Who-Lived.
They were in the middle of a war, and his focus was on whether or not he loved Harry 'bloody' Potter. He squared his shoulders and waited for Severus to bring his thoughts back to the present; there were far more important things to deal with before the war was over.
Like making sure Severus didn't break before the final battle he so desperately wanted to take part in.
"Severus, you're not seeing the silver lining in this." The man shot a glare at him; had those words truly just come from Draco Malfoy's own mouth, or had some cheerful git 'Imperio-ed' him?
"What, pray tell, could be good about seeing the face of the man I murdered every day I go to work at a place where some of my worst memories are? I despise the years I spent at Hogwarts as a student, and my years as a teacher were spent as a double agent Death Eater!" Draco was shocked; Severus had never revealed his true feelings before; there were hints and obvious indications, but never had he been so blatant.
Severus Snape was all about subtlety.
"Sev, I…"
"Did you know I was planning on retiring as a professor after you had graduated?" The defeatist tone coming from the broken-looking man inspired pity in Draco, a feeling he never thought possible to associate with the secretive, strong man known as his godfather, Severus Snape. He hated feeling pity for someone he considered a role model.
Still, the surprises kept on rolling.
Severus, for the first time ever, told Draco about his past with dark depressing details that he had thought would make his stomach turn.
He didn't miss a word.
"Draco you and I grew up much the same," Severus began, unsure of what details he was going to tell his godson, but letting the story flow freely anyways.
An eleven-year-old boy looked at his father, searching for approval, but receiving nothing but a curse.
"Don't bother me while I'm brewing, boy! The Dark Lord needs his potions." Severus' father had always been a proud server of the madman. Personally, Severus didn't see anything wrong with the muggles that lived only a few streets away from the Pureblood village; no one ever mentioned Severus was only a half-blood. After all, it wasn't his fault his 'Mudblood' mother had bewitched his father with love potions and spells.
Nothing Severus ever did satisfied the man, and he knew nothing would until he took the oath to serve his father's master.
Years later, the summer before his seventh year, Severus found himself before the Dark Lord.
"Please rise." With an increasing amount of difficulty, Severus forced his pain-wracked body to stand as he clutched his left forearm. Every fiber of his body screamed in protest, but he did not want to be cursed as he had seen other recruits submitted to. He realized, as he looked at the snake-faced evil monster that the Half-Blood Prince was no more; he could not be what he was previously so proud of if it made him sound arrogant, especially if it made him sound better than the Dark Lord.
This was his master. When he looked to the left of the Dark Lord, where his father stood, he saw no pride in the man's face; he had just sold his soul for approval he now realized he would never receive.
How…depressing.
The transformation had taken a mere three years to turn him from the approval-seeking teenager to a bitter, resentful nineteen-year-old with better things to do than deal with his father. He had proven himself to be an apt potion brewer, far better than his father, after only his seventh year, and the Dark Lord had ordered him to be sent to Merlin's University for Wizards and Witches where, after a year, he had received his Potions' Apprenticeship.
Albus Dumbledore, under the impression that Severus was as good a boy as he was at school, allowed Severus to apprentice under Horace Slughorn, the current Potions Master, as was required before he could obtain a Mastery.
He despised the year he spent under the idiot; he could do a far better job teaching these sniveling brats that this glory-seeking pig. Still, he forced his best smile through classes until, by the end of the year, it was a scowl. This was what the Dark Lord wanted out of him? To teach at the school where his worst enemy taught?
Not that Severus had quite the problem with Albus that he did; the man was like a father to him. He had given him a real home where he was accepted, by few maybe, but still given approval he had so craved rather than "you'll never be good enough" looks as his father did.
Was it any surprise, after the abuse of the Marauders and the want to still receive approval from his father, he would turn to the Dark Lord?
By nineteen, he was enrolled in the University once more, this time for two years in order to study for his Mastery. By the time he was finished, he had already sold the Potters out, not that he knew it at the time, become a double agent, but for Voldemort, and was the godfather to a wonderfully perfect Malfoy with a father like his. This boy would not grow up as he had—this he promised.
But how could he be a proper role model when he was spying on Albus in his own school for the Dark Lord? This was where the guilt really started. This was when the decision to change began.
Just before the Potters were killed, Severus had been teaching at Hogwarts, having replaced Slughorn, for a few months, which gave him the perfect opportunity to ask Albus for forgiveness and help, which the man gave at a high price; join the Order of the Phoenix and be a double agent—spy on Voldemort rather than Albus.
He knew he would be watched for quite a while before the Order completely trusted him, but with the amount of Fidelius' and secretive charms on the group, Severus knew he would not be able to, accidentally or on purpose, reveal too much.
But that would mean continuing to teach at Hogwarts. Draco would be here in just ten years; after the boy was done with school, where Severus could watch and guide him without his devil-worshipping father to hurt him, he would retire for good from teaching and go abroad as a Potions' Master.
And as a professor, he could appear to be spying on Albus while truly reporting his actions to the Headmaster. Voldemort knew he had joined the Order, but he was under the impression it was simply to get further 'in' and report actions. He and his father had displayed enough loyalty to be trusted implicitly.
And then Voldemort had disappeared, destroyed by Harry Boy-Who-Lived Potter. Severus was free, but Draco was not. Besides, Albus was convinced the man was not dead yet, which meant Severus would have to stay or risk looking suspicious.
So he stayed against his will. Until Draco graduated, this was where he would be.
"I stayed to protect you from my childhood," Severus finished. "I stayed to make sure you did not suffer as I did, in or out of school. Granted, you were a Malfoy, purebred and respected, where I was a Snape, and a half-blood no less, much like Potter. Still, I did not want you to turn out as I did."
"But I still ended up a Death-Eater-In-Training," Draco lamented. He was wordlessly apologizing for Severus' wasted effort. "It was all for nothing."
"I knew it would be no other way," Severus claimed truthfully. "With your father and his connections, not to mention your high ranking in Pureblood society, what else was to be expected? I had hoped though, with my constant interfering with his parenting, or lack thereof, you would realize his approval was nothing you needed and that there would always be someone there for you—someone fighting on the other side."
"You hoped I would switch as you did, be a spy." Of course, Severus' subtlety was always put to waste when Draco bluntly called him on whatever he said. Knowing anything else would be refuted, he nodded, glaring at the boy for his blunt words. "What? I'm always blunt when you're around," he argued, smirking. "I'm always good about being subtle when there're other people. It makes them mad."
His godson truly was what he imagined his own son would be, and that scared him more than anything the Dark Lord could do.
Outside, children ran in circles, screaming and laughing at one another.
"Severus, yet another blunt question, but I'll ask anyways." Severus had known he would; it was simply the boy's nature. "Why do you live in a muggle neighborhood, and why does the Dark Lord allow it?"
"I live here because it reminds me that we can live in peaceful coexistence and because I rather like the house itself." Severus smirked. "And the Dark Lord allows me to live here because I told him I liked the dismal and same-looking houses that reminded me of how only one thing should come above the rest. And I promised to torture the muggles if they came within a few feet of it; not that I'm home enough to notice if they do anything of the sort." Draco nodded, apparently satisfied.
"Severus, what are you going to do now that you're Headmaster?" His blood ran ice cold at the words coming from his own godson's mouth. What would he do? He was to be Headmaster if the ramblings of Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott were anything to go on. How had he missed something as obvious as this? How could the peons know and not the right-hand man?
He had never wanted the position of headmaster. To have to deal with everyone in the school, the teachers and their pensions, the students and their misdeeds that some teachers could never seem to handle themselves, and the general wellbeing of the school, including its house-elves and such, was way more than Severus ever wanted.
Besides, no one could ever do as much as Albus did; no one could fill his shoes, even Minerva, who was the acting Headmistress. At least, until it was announced that he was Headmaster.
Oh, the woman would have a field day with that; no one but Potter and Draco knew of his innocence. What would she scream when she saw him? Murderer? Traitor? Filth? That it was an insult to Albus' memory for him to sit in that office. Perhaps he would agree with all of what she would scream—inwardly—but she could never know.
He wondered when all was said and done if people would truly accept the truth of what had happened. If he died, he obviously wouldn't care, but if he survived, would Potter be enough to exonerate him, or was he doomed to be hated for the rest of his life.
It wasn't as though being hated was abnormal for him, but it sure as hell made everything much easier if he could talk to people without being glared at constantly.
Oh, what a mess one decision in your young life can make. Then again, looking at Draco, he realized maybe it wasn't all bad. After all, he couldn't stand to lose some of the things he had gained by being…close…to the madman these past years.
Perhaps when everything was over, it would be worth it.
Familiar blue eyes gazed out at him from every direction, but he couldn't see them. It was as though they knew every move he was going to make before the thought to do anything had crossed his mind. He felt a tug from an imaginary force and followed the tug, knowing those bright blue eyes could only belong to one person; a person he trusted explicitly and completely with his life.
But those blue eyes turned to a cold red as he continued following. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to turn, but he was deaf to everything except the chilling scream coming from up ahead.
He didn't take the time to figure out where he was, where the eyes he knew were watching him came from, or who the scream belonged to. His only comfort was knowing a Death Eater would not scream in such a way; they would gloat or beg for their lives to be spared until the end. Never would any lower themselves to scream in such a way, which led Harry to believe it was an innocent up ahead.
But still, the scream was so familiar. It was feminine and singular at first, but the closer he got, the louder it got until he realized it was the screaming of dozens of people, all speaking some undecipherable language; the different voices yelling different things made it impossible for him to comprehend what any of them were saying, until,
"Where is Potter? Do not tell me he did not show to a wedding for a family he considers his own, for I will not believe! Did he escape?" Suddenly, without waiting for the scenery to clear as the people had, he knew where he was; this was Bill and Fleur's wedding. But it was not set to take place until later in the afternoon—could this be sometime in the near future? That would mean he was viewing what would be in a few hours; could he change this?
He hoped so, as he looked away from a Death Eater torturing a redheaded man, most likely a relation to Ron.
His dream would not end, even as he realized he was in a dream and attempted to pull himself out. If he did not get up soon, there would not be enough time to warn the guests of the danger that was to befall them. What else could possibly be holding him?
Without warning, he felt dizzy and his surroundings grew dim and foggy. Struck with inspiration, he shouted Tempus and watched as green sparks illuminated his darkening vision with a bright 10:45 pm. Then, everything went dark.
As Harry lifted his head from the moth-eaten pillow, he blinked at the red sparks in his face shouting 12:23 pm at him; had the spell remained behind even out of the dream? He waved his hand to dissipate the numbers; he had no reason to know what time it was. He had to figure out how to inform the wedding guests that at fifteen minutes to eleven, less than ten-and-a-half hours from now, they would be in danger.
Of its own accord, his wand jumped in his hand a fine silver fog surrounded the tip, reminding Harry of a certain spell. He complied with the wishes of his wand immediately with a cry of,
"Expecto Patronum!" His customary silver stag erupted with the more recent additions, but he respectfully bowed to them and waved his hand, letting them know only the stag was needed; everyone knew his father's Animagus was his. For anything else to show up would call into question exactly who was trying to communicate with them.
"Prongs, what do I do? I know Tonks used Moony to deliver a message to the school once," never mind that it had been Snape she delivered that message to, "but is there something else I need to do?" The stag bowed its head before looking him in the eyes and opening its mouth.
"I just say the message?" The stag lowered its head and poked its left antler softly into his side. "If you say so. At 10:45 pm, there will be a Death Eater attack; escape before or face a dangerous fight you may not win. Um, could you send that?" Prongs nodded before fading into a gentle mist and floating out the window faster than Hedwig could fly, which was saying something.
As he gazed out the window, he wondered how his friends had spent their summer: training for some plan to help him escape the confines of his muggle home, perhaps. Evading Mrs. Weasley seemed like a likely pick. Had he told them his plans and allowed them to come, they would probably be packing and preparing to leave at his words, but right now, all they knew was he was out here somewhere trying to find the Horcruxes.
With not much luck.
He'd been through every possible place in his head, but he couldn't decide which was the most foolhardy to visit first:
The orphanage where he'd grown up.
Hogwarts, his first real home.
Borgin and Burkes, his first job out of Hogwarts.
Albania, where he'd spent his years of exile. Yes, traveling to Albania by broom seemed a likely idea. Not for the first time, he cursed the licensed apparation laws and tracers and his stupid idea not to ask Hermione and Ron along. At least the both of them could apparate without being traced.
At least he'd been smart enough to research a few protective spells when he was out and about. He could only hope he could properly cast them as Hermione would if she were here.
And once again, he cursed the fact that Dumbledore had sent him on this alone; how could the man have so much blind faith in him?
He glared angrily at the innocent book the Headmaster had left him, sitting harmlessly on the edge of the dresser by his loads of empty bags; muggles were so inefficient. A snort escaped him as he realized what he had just thought; hadn't he lived like one for eleven years and a few summers since then? How could he base such accusations off a few years of living at Hogwarts?
Harry felt so many emotions conflicting within him that he couldn't take it anymore; he threw a pillow behind him into the mirror that had been spouting endless rubbish since he woke up and walked to the window. He had thought if he stayed away from it the reflection would go away, but the reflection-Harry thought he would stick around longer than he was needed.
As the indignant reflection began streaming more nonsense, he dropped his head into his hands. His life had been one train wreck after another, and this was certainly no exception to the depressing never-ending destruction that was Harry Potter.
From birth, he was destined to either destroy or be destroyed by one of the Darkest and most powerful wizards of all time.
At one, he lost his parents and was forced to live with abusive muggles who were somehow related to him.
From one until eleven, he was forced to be raised by said abusive relatives.
At ten, he had set a boa constrictor loose at the zoo after talking to it.
At eleven, a mere few weeks later, he had discovered he was a wizard. He had also found out, once at Hogwarts, that he was way behind the majority of the other students and incredibly famous.
He had come face-to-face with Voldemort many times, been accused of being Slytherin's heir, set loose a rat who brought back the Dark Lord, lost many close to him, including his newfound godfather and Albus, a man like a grandfather to him, and now had no idea how to go about re-destroying Voldemort.
Not to mention he had fallen in love with his former archenemy.
Everything that happened to him seemed to go from pretty good to bad to worse to "oh, shit, how are we getting out of this one".
And he was always expected to fix it; by his friends, by his teachers, by the entire wizarding world, and even the muggles—who had no idea any of this was happening—expected him to protect them.
What would they do if he lost? How would they handle the crushing disappointment? Would they realize maybe if they hadn't bet all their money on one horse, there might have been a different outcome? That if everything that went wrong wasn't "a cry for attention from Potter", he might have had a better reason to keep fighting.
One reason alone can't keep someone fighting, and maybe Draco was a damn good reason, but Draco could always find someone else. What reason did he have to protect the wizarding world that had done nothing but tear him down from the heroic figure they thought he was to nothing more than an Azkaban convict, only to build him up once more?
They had no shame, no rhyme or reason to their actions, and no conscience. Because if it wasn't their fault, which it never was, it had to be someone's, and Albus had been far too powerful to point the finger of blame at. And Harry had been such an "easy and willing" target, right?
He dropped to his bed again, rubbing his scar in frustration. He would fight with every ounce of strength in that final battle, but not for them—never for them. He would fight because of those who could not: Cedric, Sirius, and Albus. He would fight because of those who had always believed in him, who had never believed he could be Slytherin's heir, who counted on him, not as Harry Boy-Who-Lived Potter, but as Harry, their friend.
And he would fight for Hogwarts, his one true home.
Regardless of the people in it, he thought, his mind drifting to the Slytherins he knew would be in the final battle in Death Eater robes, already branded. Would Draco mourn for the loss of his previous friends? Had they ever been his friends?
His thoughts were wandering too far, he realized, and he forced himself to stand and grab his money. With his hand on the doorknob, he was going through his mental checklist when the mirror called out, "Nice scar!" For the first time ever, the damn thing had said something useful.
It was amazing, Harry mused that no one ever thought of muggle concealer as a solution to hiding scars and marks, such as the Dark Mark. Finite Incatatum only stopped charms and spells; maybe the muggles really were underestimated.
Finally, with his highlight-charmed, short-cut hair, colored contacts and muggle attire, Harry swung a cloak over his shoulder and prepared himself, praying to whatever god that existed that his disguise would work.
"Are you going to be alright, Severus?" His concern was touching, but Severus didn't want his godson's pity. "You won't be shaken up if you meet one of them?"
"The odds of them being in town when they should be at the Ministry, infiltrating and doing their jobs are slim to none. Your father and I alone are the only two under the Dark Lord who have not been ordered to infiltrate the Ministry, and he is not to leave the Manor until the Dark Lord's takeover." He despised the look of pity in those eyes, but he ignored it.
"I shall see you tonight, Draco." For the second time that day, he turned on the spot and found himself in the Leaky Cauldron.
He exited into the alley to find it still open and saw a boy, no older than Draco but very familiar, walking through. Stepping through the archway, he quickly forgot about the teen until he saw him again in the Apothecary. Now he was confused.
The average teenager would go to the Ice Cream Parlor or Quality Quidditch; certainly none but his own godson would find the Apothecary a suitable shopping stop. Still, he made an effort to put the boy out of his mind and walked over to the shelves of vials and bottles.
If he truly was going back to Hogwarts, he wouldn't need new supplies, but he didn't want to visit his old dungeon; it would bring back far too many horrible memories this early. Likewise, he would not be visiting the Astronomy Tower.
But that still left the current issue; he needed new supplies and ingredients. He already had more than enough cauldrons in the basement below his house at Spinners End, so he levitated a few packages of vials and bottles into his floating basket and proceeded to select quality ingredients from the disinfected barrels that lined the walls.
There was something deeply satisfying in selecting one's ingredients; it made the potion highly personal from ingredient to finished product. The best method was growing them himself, but some things were difficult to obtain and rather annoying, such as Lacewing Flies, that flew only in South Africa. He simply did not have time to traverse that far to obtain an ingredient necessary for only one potion, regardless of its importance.
Still, picking the perfect ingredients was familiar to him, and Severus enjoyed the minutes he spent doing so—until he ran sidelong into the boy whom he had previously forgotten.
The boy's basket was filled already by three neatly stacked and quality cauldrons, a set of scales, and a set of knives. Was this boy a beginner? Surely he must already have his equipment if he was old enough to look to be in his seventh year of schooling.
The cauldrons, Severus noted, were filled with ingredients from the other end of the line and it seemed the two of them had collided. Before Severus could find the perfect snarky tone in which to send the boy off, he stopped cold.
"Well, this was certainly the last place I expected to find you, Severus." The evident sarcasm in the teen's voice suggested otherwise, as though he knew if there was one place he would run into Severus, it would be in an Apothecary. "It has been awhile. I must confess; I thought it would be much longer before we saw each other again."
That voice…so familiar. Maybe it had never dared mouth off to him in such a way before, but he had certainly dealt with it many times before.
"Po…"
"Now, Severus, I thought you had more sense than that. Jacob Miller, at your service." The boy had certainly gotten smarter—and Severus had gotten more careless. Was it sheer stupidity or lack of sleep that had nearly made him reveal Potter's identity? Still, he raised an eyebrow.
"A pleasure, I'm sure. Is there any particular reason I get the surprise of seeing you in an Apothecary in Diagon Alley? I was sure you'd be long gone by now."
"Unlicensed apparation makes it hard to go anywhere without being completely sure of where you're going." Who had told the boy such lies? The Ministry had not the ability to trace apparation unless the individual was underage, in which case it was not apparation, but underage magic.
"Miller, you dunderhead. The Ministry can only trace unlicensed apparation if the user is underage, in which case it is underage magic. Who spilt such lies?"
"The apparation teacher," Potter, or Miller rather, said dumbly.
"Well, she certainly accomplished the goal of scaring you children into not doing anything stupid. Not that anyone ever managed to properly instill that fear in you, boy." Potter at least had the decency to look ashamed, but he still smiled, and Severus could not fight the smirk that twitched into a true smile.
"All part of the charm, sir." Severus rolled his eyes.
"Severus, you dolt. I thought we went over this at Albus' funeral?" The thought of Albus brought back the memory that he was soon to take the man's place and it made him rather sick…again.
"Severus, are you alright? You don't look well." But there had been on change in his stance; had Potter, or Harry, or Jacob (ack, this was confusing) picked up the same delicate and intricate knowledge Draco had. Still, Harry (he finally decided) looked genuinely concerned.
"Physically, I am fine, Miller. Mentally and emotionally, I am…not. You will find out soon, I am sure, the reason why." Saying anything else would call into question how the knowledge had leaked and the Dark Lord most likely wanted a big bang with his announcement; he was rather into the big and flamboyant.
The Potions Master realized his answer had not exactly answered the boy's actual question.
"Do not worry about me, Miller. Now, an apothecary is certainly the last place I ever expected to see someone such as you."
"I needed to stock up on certain ingredients and make a few potions. I would buy them, but my old professor taught me it was best to make your own; you never know what your enemies are planning, after all." Here, Severus had to let a smile breach the hard and cold mask. So perhaps the boy had learned something.
Maybe Potter wasn't so bad after all.
They spent the rest of their shopping time picking ingredients and talking about Draco's new place of residence for the summer, Harry's disguise, and the Dark Lord's intentions. It was, daresay, comfortable, and Severus found the boy was actually tolerable when he wasn't being taught.
But as they went through the ingredients and picked through the unacceptable ones, Severus was pleased and proud to see he had managed to pound some kind of knowledge into Potter's thick skull. The Boy-Who-Lived, rather than tossing random ingredients into the bags without checking for quality or imperfections, was actually inspecting them thoroughly. It took him a bit longer than Severus, who had used this skill since his first year and become a master at it, but it was definitely a start considering how much he seemed to detest Potions all through Hogwarts.
It was an odd feeling when Severus realized he was displeased that they had to part; Draco would get concerned if Severus hadn't apparated back soon, thinking something had happened, and the more time they spent together, the greater chance there was that a Death Eater off duty at the Ministry would see them and ask Severus who he was and how he knew him.
They shook hands, and Severus apparated back home feeling oddly elated at seeing Harry. Their conversation almost made him forget he was about to become Headmaster at a school he wanted nothing more than to get far away from.
Almost.
Harry had known Severus was behind him since he entered Diagon Alley; the man had an aura about him that simply spread about wherever he was. Turning around and acknowledging him, however, was not the best idea; he wanted to see how long his disguise held up against the best spy he had ever met.
He had the feeling the man was avoiding him or simply ignoring him, because he felt careful scrutiny for about half a second before he was passed over in favor of the apothecary products. He felt the eyes again a few moments after he went to the front of the store to speak with the worker, but the eyes passed over him again.
Granted, he had not actually spoken to Severus yet, nor had the former professor taken a glance at his face, but that meant, from the back, Harry was safe. At least he wouldn't have to be on the lookout as much for spells from the back.
After speaking with the clerk and getting cauldrons, scales, and knives, he shuffled his way with his floating basket to the other end of the room from Severus and began choosing beetles.
Above the barrel, on a shelf, was a box marked 'Bezoars.' A box of six was forty-five galleons; Harry wondered how they were obtained and what happened to the goat to make them so expensive. Still, to have one in his pocket and on hand was a good option in his book, so he levitated the pack into his cauldrons.
Finally, one barrel down from Severus, after glancing back at him every now and then, Harry could take it no longer. He missed having human contact and, oddly enough, he missed Severus. Not like he missed Draco, but he still missed him.
Without realizing the fact that Severus had moved another barrel down, Harry moved to the same one moments later and collided with the sinister-looking man. Looking up, he grinned and said,
"Well, this is certainly the last place I expected to see you, Severus." He knew the man could tell by his sarcastic tone that it was indeed a place he would have placed money on Severus being, but he also knew it took a few moments for the man to realize who he was, so he added, "It has been awhile. I must confess; I thought it would be much longer before we saw each other again."
That did it; Severus knew he was—after searching his face for the longest part of a minute. And he very nearly blurted it out when Harry neatly cut him off and insisted on being called by his alias. What had almost caused that slip? Did he not notice the disguise Harry had worked so hard on? It wasn't like the man to let something so important escape his notice and almost flub the whole thing up. Something was wrong.
Then, he'd asked why Harry was still in Diagon Alley and not already searching for more Horcruxes. Harry had certainly gotten a surprise when he learned unlicensed apparation could not be traced if the wizard or witch was of age.
"Well, she certainly accomplished the goal of scaring you children into not doing anything stupid. Not that anyone ever managed to properly instill that fear in you, boy." Here, Harry looked down with a barely suppressed grin on his face; to Severus, that 'barely suppressed' meant blatantly obvious.
"All part of the charm, sir." Six years ago, if someone had told him he was going to be playing a game of witty banter with Severus Snape, he'd have asked if they'd just escaped the 'men in white.' Still, it felt comfortable, and he enjoyed it.
Severus explained to him how he had tricked the Dark Lord into letting Draco stay with him, away from the Dark activities at the house he had previously been required to take part in, under the guise of helping Severus with potions—of course he could not be bothered with twenty different potions at once, Potions Master or not.
Harry told Severus of his escape and transformation into Jacob Miller and his newfound disgust with shopping. The older man could not help laughing, and Harry glared before joining in.
Through all their talking, Harry was proud to note that Severus looked extremely satisfied with his ability to pick the most quality ingredients rather than tossing them into the bag. Apparently, Severus realized he had managed to teach Harry something.
He was almost sad half an hour later when they both finished their picking; for Severus to be gone any longer would raise suspicions and Harry had research to begin if he was going to get onto his actual hunt anywhere near on schedule.
With a promise to say hello to Draco and a firm handshake filled with understanding between the two, Severus turned to the Leaky Cauldron's apparation point while Harry wandered aimlessly in Diagon until he was certain Severus had gone; Severus had said it wouldn't be safe for him to know where Harry was exactly, and Harry agreed.
By six o'clock, all three cauldrons were bubbling with pepper-up, skele-gro, and Dreamless Sleep. The latter, he knew, would take another day, so when the batch of skele-gro was finished, he would begin a Draught of the Living Death, a complicated but one-day potion should he need to eliminate someone for a day while he took their place with a Polyjuice, courtesy of Slughorn and his horrible protection skills during sixth year. Why the man was brewing Polyjuice at the end of the year, Harry hadn't questioned, but once he saw the bubbling brown substance and knew what his quest was, he knew it would be smart to keep the stuff around.
Thank Merlin potions didn't expire.
In between simmer periods and stirring and chopping and adding to the potions, Harry sat at the desk and read through the journal on the only clear spot where the potions and the ingredients weren't.
Realizing how much information was in the book, he cursed himself for shrinking it down with the rest of his things, rendering it unreadable for the time he was at the Dursleys.
He placed his finger on the lock as it read his magical signature and fingerprint, scrawling his signature to the last loop on the cover underneath Albus' ever-present one. The cover opened easily and stayed in place, a sign of a well-worn and used book. So Albus had written plenty in the book, or at least often.
Harry—
If you are reading this book, I am dead. I would like to believe that I am immortal, but that is quite impossible, so I have written everything I would tell you if I was alive. If I am dead, I have most likely given you information about the Horcruxes and expect you to destroy them all before the final battle.
In this book, I have marked and mapped and plotted and guessed the locations and objects Voldemort has used for his Horcruxes. I cannot begin to guess how many yet, but I have written a list of places he was likely to hide one of his treasures:
The orphanage
Hogwarts
Borgin and Burkes
Albania
The Riddle house in Little Hangleton
Gringotts'
I am sure you will be able to find the reason for each of the places I have listed.I have written in this book like a journal, so some things I did not know in say, tomorrow's day, I will know in an entry six months from now. Be patient, as I am, or was, old and it has taken me much time to compose this book for your use.
You have destroyed the diary so that is our start. I believe you will need to wait until the final battle for Nagini, as finding her would mean crossing paths with Voldemort before the others are destroyed.
I am sorry I have no more information for you today, but skip to the next entry and perhaps I will have found something out for you.
—Albus
Everything Albus had written, Harry had already known from either his own knowledge or from what he had been told throughout the year. Apparently, though, everything between second year and Albus' death in sixth year was still not known, which meant no ring, no idea of splitting the soul into seven making six Horcruxes, and, unfortunately, no idea what Gryffindor or Ravenclaw's object was. In fact, all he seemed to know was Horcruxes, that Voldemort would place the object's somewhere special, and that the diary was one and already gone.
The only new knowledge was the possibility of something being at Tom's father's old house or Gringotts. He understood the former, but why the goblin's bank? What was so great besides the fact that nothing, and he meant nothing, could actually be stolen?
His room, incidentally, had a wonderful view of the white marble building. He remembered his first encounter with the sight; the vastness and sheer brilliance had intimidated him far before he had seen the 'Warning' plaque or what manner of creature worked behind the desk. To him, the building had embodied power.
Perhaps it had done the same for young Tom Riddle. To him, being a part of the wizarding world would mean having the financial means to actually live in the world, and to have a key to the impressive white marble bank would mean being a true member of the wizarding world.
It was beginning to frighten Harry how well he thought he knew Voldemort's mind, because he realized the only reason he had an inkling what the crackpot madman devil's-disciple was thinking was because Harry had had the same childhood and the same abuse Tom Riddle had.
Minus the going insane and obsession with immortality part, of course. But there had been times when his wild magic nearly hurt his family, if they could be called that. He had wished to be able to hurt the Dursleys every now and then the way they hurt him. And he had been as relieved as he was sure the young Dark Lord had been to receive his letter (after many issues, of course) and be free from the confines of his magic hating, 'perfectly normal thank-you-very-much' relatives.
He sometimes wondered what it had been to save him from going dark the way Voldemort had. He had the same tools, the same framework, and he even had a piece of Voldemort inside him. Truthfully, he didn't know what circumstances had led to their differences, but he thanked Merlin every day. To live like Voldemort was a fate worse than death in Harry's book—but maybe he was a bit biased—although being the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't too appealing either.
The next entry was shorter than the previous.
Harry—
I do not have dates on these entries, but I will only be writing when I discover something of relevance; not every day or once a week. However, know I began this journal after the events of the Triwizard Tournament. I knew the possibility of Horcruxes existing, specifically the Dark Lord's, was very likely from your second year when I investigated the remains of the book you gave back to me when Lucius Malfoy refused to take it back.
It was very lucky the man did not know what he had given to Ginny or what he so carelessly threw back at you, a mistake he will pay for at the hands of the Voldemort.
It is my belief that Voldemort does not think we know of his Horcruxes and that he believes we simply thought the book to be nothing more than a Dark artifact—not his soul, or part of it.
Regardless, we must be careful in destroying the next Horcruxes if we are to prevent the Dark Lord from becoming too incredibly suspicious. If he feels we are getting too close, he may remove them and start keeping them all close to him, in which case we shall fail.
This entry was put in the summer before your fifth year, and I will continuously try and give you knowledge of when I am writing so you do not feel so out of the loop of when I am speaking.
—Albus
So now he had confirmation of where in time Albus was in the journal. That meant he had another year's worth of entries before he got into anything worthwhile.
Researching was going to take way longer than he thought; coffee was definitely going to be necessary.
A/N: VampireAlchemist: Ah, yet another chapter completed! Beautiful...wonderful....MAGNIFICENT!
Harry Potter: What the hell? The entire chapter was about Malfoy and Snape!
Draco Malfoy: That's because the public loves me and, to get as many reviews as possible, the beautiful authoress is exploiting my amazingness.
Severus Snape: Get your head out of your ass, Draco.
VampireAlchemist: Actually, Sev, let's see if he's right. Reviewers, I need 5 reviews on chapter 3 to keep Draco alive in the next chapter.
Draco Malfoy: You can't do this to me again! You already did that in Colors of the Wind, and if I remember right, I died and then you brought me back to life!
VampireAlchemist: Not my fault.
Draco Malfoy: How is that not your fault!?
VampireAlchemist: It's just not. Apparently, the reviewers didn't like you in my story.
Draco Malfoy: But it's about me!
VampireAlchemist: And Hermione...you're quite the player, ain't ya Draco?
Harry Potter: Draco...you...you cheated on me?
VampireAlchemist: Save it, Boy-Who-Lived-To-Do-A-Shitload-Of-Impossible-Things. You're with Ginny.
Severus Snape: If you care to know what they're bickering about, head over to li'l Miss Vamp's author page and take a look at 'Colors of the Wind.'
VampireAlchemist: At least *someone* is trying to promote my good work!
All: Shut it!
VampireAlchemist: Oh hell no. I'll bite you!
All: Please Review!!
Crabbe & Goyle: Heey...you...um...made...fun...of...us...
Severus Snape: And with good reason. Now fetch me my fuzzy bunny slippers, lackeys!
All minus Severus Snape: *cricket chirps* fuzzy...bunnies? *pass out*
Severus Snape: Why do *I* always get saddled with this job? *sigh* Sorry for the exceptionally long drabble and PLEASE REVIEW!
VampireAlchemist: *wakes up* Yeah, 5 Reviews or Draco dies!
Next Chapter: Of Invasions and Inheritance