A/N: Sorry for the delay. My goal is to update every three or four days, but this chapter grew a bit longer than expected. Hope you like it!

Alteration

Harry woke still feeling numb. He said nothing as Snape handed him a big bowl of stew. There was a rickety kitchen table with two chairs, but he didn't have the motivation to stand and walk over there. Instead, he sat on the floor in his corner and drank it slowly. The liquid slowly filled him with warmth, and he set it aside with a sigh only half empty.

"You should eat as much as you can."

Little light came in through the dirty windows, so Snape was half in shadow. Harry used that to convince himself it wasn't Snape – the man he hated, the man he tortured. He was just a dark figure with no name, no history. He didn't want to remember the way Snape shook and screamed, didn't want to remember how good it felt. Harry had never felt as free and powerful as he had in that moment.

Shite. He was thinking about it.

Disgusted, he set aside the bowl. This time Snape said nothing, merely took it to the kitchen to put it away after spelling it clean and storing the leftovers. Minutes ticked slowly by, and the heat from the soup wasn't dissipating. Harry shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading on his brow. He pulled at the collar of his robes, his breath coming in fast little pants. He looked to Snape, but the man lingered in the kitchen, presumably to give him space.

Damn, it's hot in here, he thought irritably and glanced at the small grungy window.

Ten minutes later, he couldn't take it. It took all his strength to get the window open, and he was growling and cussing by the time it was done. Sweltering in his robe but not wearing anything underneath, Harry practically hung his head out the window. It wasn't working. He pulled back into the house with a jerky movement, his eyes shooting to Snape.

"Can't you call a breeze or something?"

"It's not hot. The detox has begun," Snape answered softly.

"Bloody hell." Harry began to pace, but he was so hot he soon stopped, the exertion making it worse. He pulled his arms out of the robe, allowing it to hang around his waist. "Can I have some water?"

Snape handed him a little cup.

It was like heaven, filling his mouth with cold. It didn't last long, and he held it out demandingly. "More."

Snape shook his head. "Drinking too much will hurt you."

Harry gritted his teeth. It took conscious effort to set the cup down. He remembered being locked in the cupboard and the unbearable thirst. This was worse. Hot. Sweating, panting, cooking from the inside out, Harry broke after an hour and rushed to the kitchen. The taps wouldn't work! Snarling, he turned on Snape, but a barrier kept him three feet away.

"I just want some water, you bastard! What the hell's the matter with you? You're sick! A sadistic arsehole! I should've killed you when I had the chance!"

Exhausted, fists bruised, he moved away. The room dipped and swayed. His tongue felt thick. Dry, so dry. He made it to the front door, intending to escape. To find a river. A lake. Hell, the ocean. Anything.

Locked. The door was locked. Harry pushed away, moved carefully back to the window. "Out. Need out. Air!" It wouldn't budge. Hadn't it just been open? He was confused and beginning to grow afraid. "Please. Some water. Just a little. I won't drink too much."

"Hush," a gentle voice whispered from the shadows.

Harry squinted through the heat waves, but he couldn't see anyone. Had the cupboard gotten bigger? Where were his glasses? "Please, Aunt Petunia. Some water, please, I'll be good."

"Rest. Sit down, Potter. Conserve your strength."

He wasn't in his cupboard; he was at Grimmauld Place! He moved to the cot sitting against the far wall and sat obediently. Was the stove on? "Dinner's going to burn, Sirius," He warned, voice slurring.

"You're sick. Just rest."

"Okay." Harry lay down. Then the walls began to melt.

He sat up again with a gasp of terror. A strong hand pressed him back. Murmuring, soothing, a voice spoke to him, calmed him. Harry held tight to that wrist, knowing they were about to be crushed. Something cool and wet slid across his forehead, and he babbled about spiders and deadly ceilings, the words confused.

Without warning, he was puking. His whole body convulsing with the deep spasms. Acid in his chest, throat, nose. He couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe. His body ached and strained. Then blessed unconsciousness swept him away.

xXxXxXx

Petunia must have indeed spoken to her husband. Over the next three weeks, the Dursleys very carefully stayed out of his way. The woman and boy's fear was extremely amusing, but he was very aware of the hate-filled eyes of the Muggle man. Voldemort almost wished he'd do something. He was getting bored.

Unfortunately, his rash wish was about to come true.

Voldemort made a sudden breakthrough with organizing his mind and taming Potter's power. With a triumphant grin, he sat up, only to slump back as a vicious dizzy spell washed through him. He was ravenous, but a glance out the window told him it was dinner time. If he went down now, he'd be forced to speak to the wretched Muggles. Another dizzy spell came. Voldemort stood carefully and moved downstairs. He wouldn't wait. Not when he needed food so badly.

As expected, the Dursleys sat around the kitchen table, stuffing their gobs. He had no intention to eat with the Neanderthals. Instead, he grabbed a plate and began to fill it, planning on taking it back up to his room. The baked chicken and potatoes smelled heavenly. Eager and distracted, he didn't notice the weak simile of a smirk that came over the fat boy's face. He did notice when a meaty hand hit the bottom of his plate and sent it crashing to the floor.

Voldemort stared hard at the boy until Dudley paled and shrank back. Obviously he had forgotten just who he was dealing with. Vernon seemed to be in the process of forgetting as well. The man turned a horrid dark purple, completely ignoring the frantic whispers of his wife.

"You little freak!" Vernon bellowed. "Did I say you could come down? Clean up this mess immediately! Or I'll get down the belt!"

Voldemort snapped. He'd had enough of this bastard. It sickened him that his enemy, the one he marked as his equal, had to put up with this utter shite. It was time to get even. With an evil glower, he moved to the cupboards, but he didn't grab the cleaning supplies. Instead, he grabbed a stack of fine china. He flung the first at the wall. It shattered with a deliciously loud crash. Petunia shrieked, Vernon roared incoherently, and Dudley gaped in utter shock.

Voldemort yelled over all of them, his voice high and clear. "Oh god! Don't! I'm sorry!" He flung another plate and Vernon ran at him crazed. He easily dodged and the fat man hit the wall with a resounding crash. "Please! I won't do it again!"

Again Vernon hit a wall. Voldemort laughed. This was fun! He threw another plate, this time at the kitchen window, shattering one and cracking another. Petunia began to shriek, "Stop! Stop!" Vernon's massive bulk hit a wall for a third time, sending the pictures hanging on the other side crashing to the ground.

"So you're fat, slow, and stupid," Voldemort mocked the enraged man.

"Grab him, Dudley!" Vernon easily tossed his desperate wife aside. She hit the table and more dishes were flung to the floor.

Voldemort screamed bloody murder, pleas lacing the horrific sound, all the while a mocking smile twisted his lips and his green eyes sparkled. As he moved around the lumbering males, he watched the clock. After twenty minutes, he allowed Dudley to grab him from behind. Vernon struck him across the face, sending his glasses flying.

A second blow. Stars exploded behind his eyes, his neck spasmed with the brutal force. Waves of dizziness crashed over him, and he had to claw his way back to consciousness. Passing out was not part of the plan. A fist crashed into his stomach, and the dizziness turned violently into vomiting. Bile and blood from his lips spattered the floor. Sharp pain tore at his shoulders as Dudley held tight, and he gasped and groaned.

Thankfully, the police finally arrived. Petunia was on the floor, crying and screaming for them to be quiet. Vernon was still screaming hateful words as he battered him. The police jumped him instantly. It took both to wrestle the beast of a man into handcuffs and outside to the waiting car. Voldemort sank to the floor, released by a horrified Dudley. Petunia raced to her son, knowing they'd be back to arrest him, too.

"Testify against your husband and I'll spare your child," Voldemort offered.

Petunia stared at him as if he were some demon, utterly terrified and helpless against his power. He smiled, revealing blood-coated teeth. Dudley sputtered, wanting to know what was happening. Finally, she nodded. The police returned. One headed for Dudley, the other crouched in front of Voldemort. Dudley squeaked and began to cry fearfully as his hands were cuffed behind him. It looked rather painful for the obese boy.

"I'm okay," Voldemort said weakly as he was helped into a chair. He looked at the one holding Dudley. "It wasn't my cousin's fault. He didn't want to hurt me. He helps as much as he can, but if he didn't do what his father said it'd be worse for both of us. Please let my cousin go! He helped me so much!"

The officers shared a look, obviously unwilling to upset him further, and released Dudley. Petunia held her son, sobbing into his shoulder and making sure Dudley didn't say anything unfortunate that would get him arrested despite Voldemort's plea. Thankfully, the fat boy was too shocked to string a sentence together and he was safe.

Two days later, Voldemort was released from the hospital with cracked ribs, whiplash, and a fractured cheekbone. He had strict orders to rest. Voldemort indeed rested. Petunia waited on him hand and foot. If he grew displeased, he could always change his mind about Dudley and have him put in jail for life, too. He never grew bored with her simpering. It was all the more delicious for how much she hated to do it.

However, as the week passed, he realized that he may have created a problem. The bitch wouldn't say anything against him for fear of Dudley, but that didn't mean she wouldn't give him away when Dumbledore came for him. They were Muggles, thankfully. That meant they couldn't be Legilimized, which was an internal magic and didn't work without inherent magic. However, Dumbledore would question her, and he had the ability to tell when someone lied. Since this was external magic, which could affect all physical matter, it would work on Muggles.

Hmmm…. He'd have to have a "talk" with Petunia. Explain to her what she should say and train her to avoid any outright lies. An evil smile spread across his face as he rubbed his hands together in glee. His fun wasn't over yet.

xXxXxXx

Harry crouched, glaring malevolently. He scratched idly at his itchy arms, tearing at scabs and open sores. Time had lost all meaning. Lucidity came and went as he vacillated between night terrors and physical agony. Sick, a deep pervading sickness that went bone-deep. He ached, his skin felt too tight and dry. He had no energy for anything anymore except the essentials. And he had hate. It was the only thing that kept him from lying listlessly, hopelessly in this hell.

Snape stood in the kitchen, brewing more potions he'd inevitably force down Harry's throat. He wanted out. He needed his magic. Attacking the man had earned him nothing but bruises. He had to be smarter. He'd escape, and then Snape had better run. Harry wouldn't stop this time. He wouldn't let him go to suffer again later. He'd kill Snape.

Hate him, hate him, hate him, the chant ran endlessly through his mind as he watched his prey through smoldering red eyes.

xXxXxXx

Dumbledore arrived one month into summer expecting to have another unpleasant encounter with the Dursleys. Instead, he found a more oppressive air than usual hovering over number four Privet Drive. He hurried up the steps and knocked on the door. Harry opened it a moment later and Dumbledore gasped at his appearance. The teen's face was swollen and horribly bruised on the left side, the eye almost completely swollen shut. A fading green and yellow bruise marred the right side of his jaw and the way he held his chest foreboded an injury there as well.

"My boy, what happened?"

"You should come in, sir," Harry answered, shoulders slumped and eyes on the floor.

Dumbledore sat down in the sitting room, horror growing in his gut as he listened to Harry's short tale, detailing Vernon's arrest one week ago and the two days Harry spent in the hospital. He'd known the Dursleys were a miserable sort, but he never imagined it would escalate to physical violence. He wondered if Harry would ever be able to forgive him.

"I'd like to speak to your aunt, if I may? She has some explaining to do."

Saying nothing, Harry got up and left the room, the whole time hiding his eyes. Dumbledore tugged unhappily at his beard. He'd made one mistake too many with the child. First his silence and seeming abandonment last year, added to the fact he'd been unable to save Sirius, and now this.

Petunia entered. She looked frail and terrified. "I couldn't stop him. And I told you we didn't want the boy back."

"I'm sure you couldn't," Dumbledore answered, thinking the exact opposite. "Have a seat and tell me what happened."

"Vernon snapped. He couldn't deal with it anymore. Every year you forced us to take the boy back. Threats and freakishness. He just snapped," she answered, wringing her hands. "Please, just take the boy and go."

"Very well," Dumbledore stood, heavy with guilt, and moved to the stairs. Slowly he climbed, only to stop at a door with ten different locks. The Order had reported this last summer, but seeing it had a stronger impact. He opened the door to find Harry standing at the window, shoulders still slumped. "Let's go, dear boy."

Harry had already packed his few things and he passed them over to Dumbledore to be shrunk and stowed. "Where are we going?" he asked dully.

"We have one errand to run, and then I'll take you to where you'll be staying the summer." Dumbledore only hoped it would be enough to win back some little trust. "I believe you will be quite happy with the location."

O

"Harry! We've miss – " Hermione came running downstairs but froze on the bottom step. "What happened?" Her wide eyes took in his horribly battered face.

"Bloody hell…" Ron gasped, stopping behind his girlfriend.

Voldemort ducked his head as if in embarrassment. Really he needed to hide his smile. Causing emotional distress was so much fun. "Hey, guys," he said softly.

"Come, Harry. I'm sure Molly can set you to rights," Dumbledore murmured gently, reaching for his shoulder.

Voldemort sidestepped the touch and had to bite his lip to keep glee from his expression as the old fool's face filled with hurt. Dumbledore's obvious anguish was magnificent.

A little while later, he couldn't help but feel the bastard had gotten him back. His bruises and the consistent pain were almost gone after Molly applied ointment, but he was still about to kill the smothering witch. Sure, watching Molly Weasley chew out her beloved leader had been amusing, but he hated to be treated as if he were a fragile toddler.

He marched upstairs and scowled at the two Gryffindors who leapt to their feet as soon as he entered the room. Voldemort almost turned around. The Burrow was horrid, but this room was worse yet! Orange, Quidditch obsessed, and filled with worn hand-me-downs.

"Harry, what happened?" Hermione demanded again.

He ignored her. Instead, he unpacked his things and unshrunk them. They were allowed to do minor magic in the house without alerting the Ministry. That was his only consolation. He could feel their demanding eyes scouring his back and he snapped. Spinning around with a ferocious glare, he spat, "Leave me alone."

"What did we do?" Ron demanded, face going red.

"It's not what you did; it's what you didn't do. You want to know why I'm hurt? My uncle almost beat me to death. He was arrested, and I had to spend two days in a Muggle hospital when Wizarding treatment would have healed me much quicker and without inflicting more pain." The two teens looked absolutely stricken. Voldemort swelled with pleasure. "That's right! Muggle strangers cared more about me than you did! They actually got Vernon away from me, but you never helped when I tried to tell Dumbledore I couldn't go back there!"

Hermione was crying by this point. "Harry, I…"

"Just leave me alone, okay?"

Voldemort stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him. Smiling, he went out to the backyard to be alone and think. His little stunt would gain him a few days of freedom from everyone breathing down his neck. Another positive effect of his provoking Vernon; the pain had been well worth it. Still, not everything was perfect. He needed to think.

Whatever Dumbledore was up to with Slughorn couldn't be good. He'd have to keep a sharp eye on that. And being in a house full of blood traitors was sure to test his acting ability. He had to be careful not to blow his cover as Potter. Hopefully any mistakes on his part will be attributed to his grief over Sirius and the abuse he suffered this summer.

"Dinner!" Molly's shrill call echoed over the grounds and he winced.

Sighing, he pulled his "Harry" mask back on and returned to the Burrow, still bitter about being brought here instead of to the Order's headquarters. He'd been looking forward to finally seeing the place. Still, he'd have to make due. It was going to be a long two months. He couldn't wait to get back to Hogwarts.

xXxXxXx

Detox took almost ten weeks despite everything Snape could do to speed it up. Harry was now skeletal, barely more than skin and bones. Ointment glistened in patches on his ruptured skin, soothing what remained of his weeping sores, scratches, and bruises. Across this field of physical devastation, there was evidence of his hard-won victory. Black hair stubbled his once bald head and began to outline long eyebrows. His skin was less waxy, suppler, while a faint hint of pink suffused the once corpse-grey color.

He'd been stripped bare. He'd suffered in every way there was to suffer. But he had survived. Everything had burned away except the very core of who he was, but he had survived. Glorious Dark magic swirled and spun around him, filling him when for so long he'd been empty. It no longer had claws that itched under his skin. It slid smoothly, gracefully, tamed to his mind completely.

Red eyes shifted from the small dirty window he sat quietly next to as Snape entered the room. Snape was lucky the magic obeyed him and no longer whispered in his ear. He still wanted to destroy the man for everything that had happened.

"My Lord," the man murmured, obviously not wanting to trigger Harry's temper.

He felt conflicted about Snape. The man had done what he had to help him, but a lingering sense of rage and hate overshadowed rational thought. He had not left Harry's side unless it was to brew more potions. He had nursed him as he vomited, as his bowels released uncontrollably, as he bled and screamed. He let Harry place his head in his lap as he wept. He soothed him through nightmare hallucinations, and he didn't abandon him when Harry attacked with fists and bared teeth, hate and fury driving him into madness.

But he had also kept him here, trapped in pure hell. He had witnessed Harry's utter humiliation, his utter helplessness. Snape could have ended it if he'd wanted. Could have killed Harry and released him from the unbearable pain, and he hadn't. Instead he denied him again and again. Harry was glad Snape was leaving for Hogwarts. He didn't want him around, couldn't stand looking at the man.

"What have you learned?"

"The Ministry acknowledges Voldemort's return despite all Lucius' efforts at damage control. Though he did manage to keep all the Death Eaters free of Azkaban. Albus has granted me the Defense position. I do not yet know who he has hired as Potions professor. I'm more concerned with the wound he has suffered." Severus bowed his head. "He is doing what he can and I'll make potions, but I don't think it can be healed."

Harry sighed sadly. The Headmaster was still fighting, even though there'd been no new activity from the Death Eaters. "Voldemort?"

"He took him to the Burrow."

Harry frowned at him.

"I know." Severus lowered his eyes. "I still insist they will be safe. Voldemort cannot attack without dire consequences. And it is preferable to him being taken to Headquarters. Apparently, Vernon Dursley was arrested for child abuse over the summer. The pretender arrived at the Burrow quite battered."

Harry looked out the window thoughtfully. The Dursleys rarely tried to hit him. They detested him, hated to touch him. But Vernon occasionally grew angry enough to lash out. What had Voldemort done to get that to happen? It seemed suspicious that he hadn't defended himself. He was pulled out of his thoughts by Snape's voice.

"On a lighter note, Lucius survived. I was not allowed to see him, but Draco informed me his father has been changed. He would not tell me how. My skill is Occlumency, not Legilimency. He would sense my taking any information."

Harry snorted, smiling wryly. Yes, he was intimately aware of the brute force of Snape's Legilimency. "The Headmaster still doesn't suspect?"

"No. Due to the Dark Mark, I cannot relate information you tell me directly. Albus has gotten good at interpreting my advice not go to certain places, or to watch certain people. Sometimes I'll overhear other Death Eaters speaking of a raid or plans. Those I can relate clearly. I've tried to warn him about the pretender, advised him I felt uncomfortable, that the boy is dangerous, but he brushes my words off as my old animus."

"I could tell him myself," Harry suggested.

"I don't think it will work, my Lord. Any letter you send will be in Voldemort's handwriting, imprinted with Dark magic from your aura. Furthermore, how will you explain not informing him immediately? No, Albus would see it as a trap or trick to get him to abandon Harry Potter, so you could kill the boy more easily."

"And to switch us back I'd have to kidnap my body and possess him, thus proving I am evil Lord Voldemort." Harry tilted his head to rest against the warm glass. "I've been thinking. Maybe it's good what happened. Maybe I shouldn't rush to go back to being Harry Potter. I have Voldemort's forces. I can stop the war like this, even if no one knows it's over."

"Ending the battle completely is not possible. The Death Eaters wouldn't accept it. They are fighting for reasons they believe in."

"Why?" Harry looked at Snape curiously. For the first time since they began talking, he met the dark eyes.

"The Light has always sought to eradicate the teachings of the Dark, to suppress those who are called to its power. This cannot be borne. Dark wizards will not allow this oppression of who we are to last much longer."

Harry tilted his head, thinking. At first, he'd been afraid of the Dark. It was the cause of his suffering, but throughout the last two days, Snape had taught him it was nothing to fear. It was like a chaotic thunderstorm, capable of destruction but possessing a majestic beauty if respected. Dark magic wasn't intrinsically evil. Sometimes it was necessary to destroy in order to build anew. Destruction was as natural as creation.

Harry understood this. His life had been destroyed with the death of his parents, and he'd suffered at the Dursley's. But it had built him into someone who could survive the burden placed on him at eleven years of age. And again, his life was destroyed, body and life stolen in one moment. He'd been thrown down, suffered unimaginably, and had come out the other end as someone new, someone stronger.

Snape spoke, drawing his attention. "The two sides can't be reconciled. They are each other's opposites in every way. Usually a balance of power keeps them from war, but the balance has tipped too far in the Light's favor. Thus more wizards are being called to the Dark and granted above average power with which to rise and reassert the balance."

"So it's not about Muggleborns?" Harry demanded.

"The problem lies in Muggle culture and customs, not so much their magic. They see the Wizarding world as backwards and old fashioned. They promote progress and degrade centuries of tradition and symbolism, professing that the Pureblood ways should be abolished because it's exclusionary. They don't realize the traditions are there for a reason. Magic empowers wizards. In turn, we empower magic. It is a symbiotic relationship. Dark wizards fear that just as it was in ancient times, before Merlin worked the great change, magic will return to the creatures and wild woods, and wizards will be blind to it once more."

Harry stared, stunned, both by the explanation and by Snape's quiet passion. "The Light doesn't care?"

"The Light and Dark disagree over the best solution. Instead of returning to the old ways, the Light campaigns to reintroduce Wizards to the Muggles. They want to have wizard-kind become the priests and priestesses of society. They want the Muggle masses to add their faith and belief to the rituals and traditions that tame magic in return for guidance, protection, and miracles."

"Sounds like something the Dark would want, not the Light. Becoming powerful vassals to 'gods' and lording it over hundreds of Muggles," Harry murmured with confusion.

Snape shook his head. "The Dark has no desire to serve the world, no desire to save it from destruction. They know it is futile. The world moves in cycles. The time when humans face near annihilation is coming. The Light wants to stand this off. It always does, but it is not meant to be. It is unfortunate but necessary for the world to be periodically cleansed. After will be the time of renewal and regrowth. The Light sees the death and the increasing desperation of the Muggles and wants to interfere."

Harry turned his face to the window again, torn. It was a difficult thing. He felt compassion. He didn't want others to suffer, but he agreed in principle with Snape, even if it galled him to do so. Magic had no place in the Muggle world right now. They wouldn't worship; they would fear. Yes, save those you could, save what you could, but it was sheer arrogance to think any one group could save the whole world.

He knew more intimately than ever before that pain and fear were necessary. They taught you, remade you, and revealed great truths as much as love and joy did. Suffering was a part of being human. To reject it was to stop being human. See what refusing pain and death had done to Voldemort! Could the Light not see that? They needed to save themselves, save magic, not save the Muggles. That was out of their hands, as it should be. No one should be that powerful. They had no right to play god, magic or not.

Harry felt the Dark magic in him swell, pleased with his agreement. "Why haven't I heard all this before?"

"Few are called by Light or Dark magic. Most are neutral as I've said. Dumbledore is a Light Lord and leads those few dozen who are called to use Light magic specifically. They have taken advantage of the instability in the Dark forces to sway those neutral to their side. As is their way, they have not revealed to the masses the end goal. They instead direct their attention to oppressing the Dark, who would check them. They claim this allows things to 'unfold naturally', regardless that the situation never would have done so without their influence."

Harry rubbed at his eyes. "I need to think about all this. Leave things as they are for now. Tell no one who I am, but continue to encourage Dumbledore not to trust the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Yes, my Lord."

"I need to take information from your mind. I need Riddle Manor's location and a feel for how Voldemort acts toward his followers. Do not shield."

"Very well," Snape bowed his head without a hint of mockery, granting his consent.

"Look at me."

Snape did, holding Harry's eyes evenly.

Harry easily pulled at the magic always eddying around him. The sweet rush of power, of enjoyment in his baser desires, tried to overwhelm him, but Harry used Snape's teachings to keep a steady head. He rode the Dark effects of his magic without either fighting or submitting. It was a complicated balance.

Keeping his mind centered and focused, he directed the magic into the other wizard's mind. He accessed only as much of Snape's memories as he needed, ignoring the siren call of 'more, take more'. Thoughts molded and ordered in a distinctively 'Severus' way swept through him, memories flowed and leapt. It was over in less than three minutes.

"Thank you."

Snape nodded, undisturbed, which only emphasized the change in their relationship. Last year the man had gone ballistic over the glimpse Harry had of his Pensieve. This had been twice as intimate and Snape hadn't even flinched.

A rush of confusion, gratitude, and hate made him look away. "Come to Riddle Manor if you have news. Otherwise, I'll call if I need you."

"Yes, my Lord," Snape said again.

Harry clasped his elbows, his back resolutely turned so he wouldn't have to watch Snape leave. As uncomfortable as he was, as glad as he was to have the man finally gone, he also felt afraid. Without his guidance, he was alone and his mind was a mess. He had no idea what to think, what to do. The only thing he was certain of was that he wanted to preserve magic. He knew the Dark and Light wouldn't stop fighting, but how could he pick a side when both were right… and both wrong? He needed more information.

With a nod of his head, Harry made a possibly reckless decision. He Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

He'd never gotten a good look at the old mansion. Now, in the light of day, he could see the beauty, the historical pieces on display, and the tapestries woven to tell stories by Malfoys long gone. The Manor suddenly represented all he wanted to protect. He could see the symbols and metaphors, the old ways, brought to life in every room.

As he toured the elegant mansion, he became aware of the empty bedrooms. The manor was built to house many, but now there were only three Malfoys left.

"My Lord."

The faint voice had him turning. Narcissa stood in a doorway to a sunroom. Her fair hair shone in the light, cascading to her hips. Sirius' cousin, he remembered as familiar blue eyes glanced up at him. The woman tensed, fear radiating from her. His magic stirred uneasily. This wasn't right. Dark wizards shouldn't fear him.

"Where is Lucius?"

Narcissa paled further and her hands fluttered fearfully over her chest. "He is resting, my Lord."

"Wake him. Bring him to me. I shall wait here." Harry moved forward.

She instinctively stepped aside, allowing him into the room behind her. "My Lord, there is a more comfortable room," she said almost frantically.

Harry took in the glass dome ceiling, marble floor, art supplies and easels. Draco Malfoy, sixteen years old, stood at one, still as a statue, grey eyes wide and afraid. Blue paint smeared one cheek. Narcissa was obviously terrified to leave her son with him. "I will not harm your son," he reassured in a low voice. Still, she hesitated. Harry did not want to push her. "Have an elf summon Lucius then."

"Yes, my Lord," she answered in relief.

After it was done, she moved to stand close to her only child. Draco still did not move or blink. Harry gently brushed the surface of his thoughts and winced at the memories of his father's suffering. Draco's hate was understandable, but Harry could not allow it to grow or fester more than it already had.

Lucius came into the room, a shadow of his former self. He looked much the way Harry did… Scraped raw. Without a word, the once proud man sank to his knees. Draco's hands fisted, while Narcissa quickly put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Do you still serve me, Lucius?"

"Yes, my Lord." The answer was monotone.

"Look at me."

Gently, Harry searched out his beliefs…

In the beginning, Merlin tamed magic to human hands through rituals and symbols invested with meaning. Without these rituals binding magic to human understanding, magic would return to its once wild state. Of the Dark traditional bloodlines, many were gone or had no Heirs. The Light fared better, but whole families like the Weasleys had abandoned the old ways. Lucius resigned himself that the end of magic had come. Wizarding-kind would be no more within a few short generations.

The grief this realization caused the man was staggering, and Harry pulled away quickly before he could be brought to tears. "What did you learn from your punishment?"

Draco tried to yank away from his mother with a sharp movement, rage on his face, but Narcissa held him fast, silencing him with a wandless charm.

"I learned not to fail you, my Lord." His voice never wavered, blank and empty as his eyes.

"I had hoped you learned more than that," Harry said softly. "It was an example of how we both have been given to excess lately."

Lucius' eyes widened, flickering with some emotion.

"Are you still mine, Lord Malfoy?"

"I am…" Lucius was hardly breathing.

"You will hold this secret dear, Lucius. As will your family."

"Yes, my Lord. We are yours."

The room was completely still. Even the Dark seemed to hold its breath as Harry made his decision. He bowed his head and decided. He would commit to the Dark, thus forsaking who he once was. In Snape's memory, he had seen the charismatic Tom Riddle before the Dark addiction. The same desperately needed leader was in Lucius' thoughts. The least Harry could do for them, and for magic, would be to fulfill those fragile dreams.

"You discovered your addiction while recovering," he stated. "Did you detox fully?"

"Yes, my Lord." Lucius tensed as if to receive a blow.

"I made a similar recovery," Harry admitted.

Lucius gasped near silently, hope flaring through the charred ashes of his broken spirit.

Harry granted him a moment to recover and turned to face his once archenemy. "Do you practice the Dark Arts, Draco Malfoy?"

Narcissa looked frantic for her son, but she didn't interfere. Good.

"Yes, Lord Voldemort." Draco bowed his head, hiding his features.

Harry smiled. Draco thought he was so clever, but it was obvious he had purposefully avoided saying 'my Lord'. Lucius made to stand, to reprimand or possibly shield his son, but Harry stilled him with a sharp gesture. "Do you uphold the old ways? Do you know the dangers of the Dark you seek?"

Draco answered yes but as he looked up Harry saw he did not know the risk of addiction. He had not used enough to become addicted yet. His parents had protected him. But in a few years they wouldn't have been able to do so, and Draco would have been lost.

Harry looked to Narcissa and read in her eyes that they had been forbidden to speak of addiction to anyone, even their children. Voldemort did not believe in such nonsense. He looked down on Lucius solemnly. "You have lessons to teach your son."

Fierce relief struck through the man like lightning, making him almost glow. "Thank you, my Lord."

"I will need your help cleansing the rest of my followers."

"I will gladly help, my Lord."

Harry nodded. "I need your help in another matter as well, Lucius. I am saddened by the reduction of noble Dark families. I worry greatly that those who honor the ancient traditions will be gone by wars' end. I need fighters, but I also need each family to produce children whose purpose is remembering."

Narcissa made a small sound, and Harry glanced at her. This was her greatest desire. To have more children. She had always wanted a large family and bitterly envied the Weasleys. The reason they hadn't had more than Draco was due to an infertility curse placed on all the Death Eater wives. Voldemort thrilled in being able to control who had children and when. He also feared a child being born who could match and challenge his power.

"I will remove the curse if you will promise me to fill these halls once again," Harry told her, eyes glowing happily.

"Yes. Oh, yes, my Lord, please." She left Draco's side and knelt beside her husband.

Harry nodded and touched her head. Magic rushed through him, down his arm, and gathered the remnants of itself back into the main current grounded in his body. She cried out in pleasure, back arching, cheeks flushed. Harry did not let her obvious beauty distract him, nor did he surrender to the pull of the magic to make physical the intimate connection that temporarily encircled them. She was not his to touch.

"Mother!" Draco raced to Narcissa's side as she collapsed to her hands and knees. He glared fiercely at Harry, his hand clutching his wand.

"Draco!" Lucius barked, the old authority cracking in his voice.

His son jumped and instantly lowered his head, though nothing changed in his expression.

Harry met Lucius' gaze. This must be addressed. Lucius nodded, acknowledging the problem and promising to fix it.

Narcissa rose to her knees and reached for his hand. He allowed it. Soft lips pressed into his palm in deep gratitude. "Thank you, my Lord."

"I want to hear good news by Halloween, Narcissa Malfoy."

"Yes, my Lord," she answered with a big smile.

"Good. Bring me the other Dark wives in a week. You may have until September 1st when Draco leaves for Hogwarts before attending me. I will entrust them with the same charge."

"Yes, my Lord!"

"Lucius. Come to me with your wife. After I deal with the women, we shall make plans."

"It will be as you command, my Lord."

Harry looked into all three pairs of eyes once more before departing, the long black robe barrowed from Severus swirling elegantly around his legs. His expression never wavered until after he Apparated away. Then he allowed his face to crumple.

This year he would have turned sixteen. He would have been Draco's peer. Sure, he would've been the Light's pawn, Boy-Who-Lived, but he would've been given the chance to laugh and play, to have friends, to fall in love. Maybe he would have had a wife of his own and even children one day. A real family.

Now that was all gone. He had no time to devote to love, even if someone could be found who would accept his new body. He was a Lord. A leader. Never a friend. Not anymore. His decision separated him forever from Hermione, from Ron and the Weasleys, from Remus.

Tears gathered behind his lids and no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, they still escaped, gently falling down the strange face he had just made his own.

Chapter end. Review please! ;)