A special thanks to hazeldragon

A/N: Please review! It always helps to spur the fickle creative muse =) Let me know what your likes and dislikes are, confusing concepts, whatever. I do recommend reading To Give it Time, of course, before reading this piece.

I am grateful to those of you that have put me on your author's reading list. If you enjoy another piece and pursue this contingent upon that, or are interested in my general writing, know that I love and appreciate your support! =)

Please see this site if you would like to view any original style pieces: Foxemerald

There is ample poetry here, and some story pieces. And feel free to PM me anytime!

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Thanks,

SM ~


Chapter 4-

Seeking More Than the Truth ~


While seeking the truth is often very difficult to find, even for the best wizards, the time is not so uncommon when the dark secrets in our hearts find pleasure in even the most telltale thumping of madness. The madness makes it burn with an emotional pumping that seems to be without cause, yet we suffer it because it makes us feel human, in some strange way. The parts of the human soul that are hidden make themselves finally known again, through this simple ventricle- it is here, at last, in which we can finally speak to the demons which have incinerated our breast, lain dormant for longer than most of us would dare to hope for- would ever wish to hope for, if in fact that quality was sought out through ruthful force and struggle. But, when the heart finally becomes it's absolute, finer quality self, takes on that characteristic which becomes it at its quality best, and, in the discovery, finally connects itself to what it really is . . .

Harry sometimes felt as though he were tugging upon his own interior image through a window, trying to grasp at some instinct, or some kind of carelessly falling particle of himself that somehow slipped beneath a darkened shadow. However, when he did at last discover where that ventricle of truth lay hidden in his body, and examined it carefully, he could not retreat, and was caught in vice . . . filled with a torrent of emotion that he could not control. Sometimes, it seemed as though he was seeking sheer madness, simply because the rage forced him to feel a natural facet of being human. Although he did not want to admit it to anyone, perhaps . . . perhaps he sought Voldemort's visions, at times, because they forced Snape to offer him his assistance to overcome them.

Admittedly this did not sound rational. However, he was decidedly correct in his assumption that Snape had steered his emotional state, and his mind, back to a working facet, a living spirit. He knew that he would have gone insane without question, had the familiar sense not been present for him. While undergoing the horrors of Voldemort's prodigious cunning, his slicing of Harry's sense of reality through manipulative brutality- Snape provided an anchor for him that he was bereft of at other times. He found the dark, caustic voice to be a source of solace. He remembered that he was still a part of life and was brought back into his own body, the living, authentic form that composed Harry Potter. He no longer felt as if he was a puppet, so much, or a card to be played, but a complex version of himself that still maintained human emotion. However cruel and however copious the time he spent locked in what seemed to be Voldemort's pent up cacophony for his play toys, he could hear Snape's voice forcing its way into his brain, tearing apart the pain, and forcing it to fall away . . . his throat felt tight. He felt disgusted. Why was it that he always felt as though he were zipped up lately, like an overly tight pair of pants?

He now sat outside of the tent once again, in the chilly air of the morning, warily observing the faint activity that he could just barely detect through the flaps. Over the last few days, the headmaster had delegated various assignments to the group, many of which took place during the treacherous art of the thick night. Working in the day was more dire and dangerous, it would seem. This played unkind games with their sleep cycle, of course, but Harry found, interestingly enough, that he did not mind sleeping during the daylight hours. He was enjoying the way that the air breezed through his hair this morning, throwing speckles of moisture onto his face, giving him a feeling of irreverent rapture.

He could not help but to notice that there were a few shadows caressing the tent from the outside that he had never seen from this perspective. He had sat in this same place for so many mornings that he practically knew each crease and fold of this part of the tent mentally. He looked up, noticing the telltale dark robes before he saw Snape's face, scouring through the other side of the clearing in his usual stalk. He was moving in the direction of the walking route that the headmaster had plotted. He did not immediately make known his presence, opting to scrutinize his actions from a distance. When he came in Harry's plain sight however, he paused for a split second, meeting his gaze. One of his eyebrows rose delicately. Then without waiting for an answer to the unspoken question, he abruptly pivoted and went the way of the next course, which interconnected with that one.

Harry sighed. He had been feeling a bit more virile of late, which was in itself an amazing feat considering his odd, constantly destructive connection with Voldemort. Today he was extremely bereft. The sounds wafting out from within the tent began to irritate him. He was contemplating giving up his post, shaving off the last hour that he was meant to be stationed at the tent, when he heard a commotion inside that made him pause in the standing process, and consequently fall back to the hard earth when a heavy thrust knocked him over.

"How dare you, Ronald!" Hermione cried, her voice strained and sharp. Harry was immediately on his guard.

"Oh, hey there, mate," Ron grunted, as though just seeing Harry and immensely brightened by his prospect, although, he could not help but to notice that his best friend looked rather pale. His freckles stood out in stark contrast to the white.

"What happened?" he asked. Hermione ignored him. Her hair fell in wild, sweaty hoops around her face, which was tinged with pink that indicated a possible crying episode. She looked like a fiery hen that had lost all of her chicks and was desperate to get them back. He was slightly unnerved. Ron had backed up to the side of the tent, beside Harry, attempting to cower away from Hermione. He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could emit a sound, another voice hissed, in a much silkier manner instead,

"What have we here? Tut, tut. Not taking care to ensure the safety and well being of our- ahhhh, esteemed cause? I'm sure that the headmaster will be most aggrieved to note how meticulous you are in following his instructions. Where is he now? Ahhh, yes. I believe that he has taken a small nap, due to his tireless efforts in working to defeat the Dark Lord now for many months," Snape enumerated with a foxiness that made him seem almost marked. Hermione and Ron shrunk back. Harry on the other hand, merely observed him guardedly as he stepped out from his destined path and into the soft light hovering over them, almost as though it was about to be whisked away by a darkness that would creep into their midst, even though it was yet dawning day. He appeared to be in a fouler mood than usual this morning. Hermione did not seem to be daunted by his presence, though. In fact, unless Harry was much mistaken, he saw the line between her furrowed eyebrows fade a little when she looked up at Professor Snape.

"We can't follow Professor Dumbledore's instructions anymore, Professor, because Ron allowed the Obliquus Potion to become overheated," she said in a voice that was only a suppressed shake. Harry was not actually sure whether the tears that she was clearly hiding were wrought from pain or fury- more than likely both. Snape now turned his long, overgrown nose toward Ron, who by now looked as though he wanted to sink into the canvas behind him and allow it to swallow him, and promptly.

"Is what she says true?" he asked, in a tone of frigid quiet, that caused Harry to still, like a rabbit caught between a hunter's steel trap. He suddenly felt quite cold . . .

"I- I- " Ron appeared to be choking over his own words. His face was a testimony in itself to her statement. Snape took a step forward, and then stopped short. His shadowed silhouette became ignited with an anger which suddenly suffused the white skin, causing the taught, his taut, sallow face to gleam like a scorched pearl, the darkness of the morning fading away through the strength of his fury. Even Harry swallowed nervously. His heart began to sink. Although he did not know much about the functions of the Obliquus Potion because Dumbledore had not entrusted the information to anyone save for Ron and Hermione, they had worked tirelessly- especially Hermione- on accumulating the necessary ingredients for brewing throughout the week, constantly refining it and tailoring it to the headmaster's specifications.

"Do you- have any idea what you have done?" he demanded in a low hiss, his hair falling around his face, as his arms, Harry noticed, moved downward with a surreptitious movement, making him desperately hope that he wasn't seeking his wand. "The potion which in your careless arrogance you destroyed was an exceedingly rare and invaluable counterpart to one which I have not only been delicately honing for several months, but also an irreplacable weapon against the cause of the Dark Lord." Ron took a jerky step backward, making some kind of strangled noise, while the shadows beneath Hermione's eyes swam starkly into view before him. As Harry looked between the two, he could only think to himself that there was now a reason for Snape's fury that chilled him to the very bone, the reality becoming a fierce demon in his blood that Snape's anger could never have manifested.

"You have- " A sudden cry rent the air. And then, a split second before anyone else saw it, Harry noticed Snape's hand moving toward his wand pocket. He stumbled forth, yelling out to Snape on instinct.

"Severus- no!" and threw himself between Ron and the Potions Master. Just at that moment, though, their exchange was interrupted by a benign, and yet somehow honeying, sweet, slippery voice coming out of the mouth of the headmaster.

"Lovely day out, isn't it? Too much so, perhaps, for any unnecessary altercations, I would think?" His accentuated eyebrow poignantly indicated the four of them. Professor Dumbledore was wearing long, lemon-meringue colored inlaid with complicated designs of bright, graceful, loping sunflowers. Harry was not quite so sure that Snape caught the irony Dumbledore presented though. His wand was still raised in a wide arc over Harry's head, pointed directly at Ron's chalk-white face. But, as the headmaster stepped closer to them, his well-established gait appeared to bring Snape back to his senses. He flipped his wand back into his pocket, and then, without another word, stalked rapidly in the direction of the forest. The voluptuous black robes billowed out behind him haughtily, as Harry muttered quietly,

"I'm going after him." Ignoring the others, he followed in Snape's wake, desperately willing away the voices trailing after him. His efforts were having a rather sorrowful effect, however. Dumbledore's quiet questioning was blissfully swept away into the air, the further along he went, for he was now encroaching upon the edge of the clearing, near the beginning of the lush, wild pine trees that seemed to stretch into eternity. He allowed himself to tempt the looming glades, placing one foot forward as though waiting for this beautiful greenery to push him back into the empty space. They swayed back and forth within thick shadows that seemed to mock him. At that point, he heard a slight bristling derived from something that was not part of the forest, which caused him to turn in the other direction. He immediately spotted the telltale dark robes, which nearly blended in with the scenery to an indistinguishable view. Slowly he inched along the edge of the forest a few paces, and nearly ran into Snape as he moved out into the clearing once again.

"Potter." He voice was no longer laced with fury. It sounded cool and distanced from the life around him, and, he thought, if steel could talk, then his words were well endowed. Harry could not help moving his hands into his pockets unconsciously, staring out blankly at the expanse of trees, although not really seeing them. He saw the white hand within its dense, heavy garland of black clench and unclench a couple of times beside him. He sucked in a deep breath, absorbing every detail of the bleak forest, and then turning towards the potions master's rigid back. Harry did not wish to break the solitude, or its bleak spirit, for an unidentifiable reason.

"What is it that you require?" Snape hissed to him in a frozen, almost, Harry thought curiously, faint tone. Snape turned his head sharply, the piercing, cold glint in his black eyes shining as a dangerous, calculating scythe that was just waiting to slice through him. Harry held back, lingering upon the spot, riveted, unmoving, still.

"I know that you were working on that potion for eons," he started, hesitantly, "but, well, maybe Ron hasn't actually destroyed the content," he murmured, observing his own fingertips revolve slowly around the twig in front of him, not saying anything else as listened for a response. He thought that he heard Snape draw in a rapid breath, but he wasn't sure if he was only imagining it. Finally, after what seemed to be an age, he responded lowly,

"What makes you say that?" Harry bit his lip. Then he said fervently, feeling somehow choked,

"Well," he took a deep breath. "I remember Hermione saying something to the effect of- the potions were made from extracted qualities, the same ones which are needed to counteract horcruxes."

"What, exactly, is it that you are trying to say, Potter?" He asked the question slowly, his voice laced by a subtle sarcasm that was practically nonexistent, which caused Harry to avert his gaze uncertainly.

"I was just wondering whether we might be able to use the extraction itself," he asked, now slowing down his own words, not wanting to give the impression that he understood more than he actually did. He lowered his head to the side, his eyes brushing over a few, extremely fascinating twigs that glittered in the dew of the morning, uncharacteristically examining the detail of their bark in its detail. He felt agonized, and truly pitiful.

"You are completely fooled by your notions Potter," Snape said softly, in a double-edged, cryptic, light manner of speaking that made Harry look up at him quickly, watching his eyes darkening, his hair falling down over his shadowed temples.

"But the potion- I'm not pretending that I know anything about it, mind you, other than what Hermione's slipped in now and then, and it wasn't much, granted- I do know that it is used as a counterpart to the Dark Lord's immortality. Doesn't that mean that some of the qualities of the potion need to include that component? Perhaps we could use the raw ingredients themselves as a protection?" he suggested, making a rather pathetic attempt not to sound too hopeful, as his words died off, flatly into the cool air around them. Snape's mouth thinned into a stretched into a tight white line.

"You do not understand the technicalities of the potion, Potter- "

"Harry," he interrupted him. "And, no, I admit that I don't." To his immense surprise, Snape cocked his head to him slightly, acknowledging the admission. His long hair fell to the side, masking his expression, while he slipped his hands into his pockets almost shiftily, turning slightly away. He then lifted his hair back enough to allow a sliver of his face to show. His eyes were fastened upon a particularly large and bristly, mean set of burs that laced themselves in a figurative eight around a bramble, in an almost ladylike fashion. There was a silence that lasted for about two minutes.

"There is a possibility that some of the ingredients have effects that will be retained in their original configurations," he said slowly, and Harry almost imperceptibly breathed a small sigh of what he supposed was relief, "although most of the compositions are made up of intricate patterns that would be almost impossible to test before actual use." His words were precisely weaving around Harry's notion, which felt now somehow, jerky, and uneducated. He couldn't help but to feel a small tinge of shame. His tongue darted across his mouth as he lowered his eyes to the tree leaves in front of him, which glared at him through cruel, black shadows.

"Well, I didn't assume that it would be of any use," he muttered, feeling angry for a reason that he did not completely understand. He felt something gently glaze his shoulder, although he didn't pay it much mind.

"Po- Harry, your thoughts were not without foundation," he said in such a deep, sunken tone of voice, that Harry barely heard the statement, as it whooshed by him into the trees. He stared vacantly into the distance for a moment, not knowing how to respond to this, yet desperately wanting to express gratitude- yet this did however, seem to be without a foundation somehow He smiled lightly at Severus, feeling something hard clench in his stomach, gazing everywhere into his surroundings, not wanting to look him in the face. Snape began to move in a waif-like fashion into the distance, and then, seeming to think better of his movements, he paused, about two steps away. He looked like a rippling demon in the faint light.

"The potion which I had constructed, and brewed meticulously for several weeks, was a counterpart to the one which your friends," Snape spat, his ire provoking, flaying and as fiery as a demon, yet somehow, his face seemed to deflate momentarily, "destroyed." Harry swallowed a lump.

"Does that mean that our efforts were all for nothing?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. "That- that the concoction cannot be brewed again?" Snape drew in a breath that instantly turned into a hiss. He was glaring at something imaginary that Harry could not see, far into the distance, his rock-hard hands now as white as a sheet.

"The Dark Lord and his minions have been increasing their own efforts, Potter," he paused. Harry was engulfed by a feeling of foreboding that threatened to eat him from his head down to his feet, which he dug into the grass more deeply. "It is almost certain that they will not only grace us with their presence, but that the headmaster's brilliant plan has been thwarted," he said the last part with a sardonic tinge in his tone, ripping through every small hope that Harry had ever held onto. Snape sighed lowly, uncharacteristically, allowing his hands to go momentarily lax, a movement carrying a certain amount of disquiet. The glades offered a quiet picture but comforting environment with an easy manner, dead and desolate though the area seemed. For some reason, it was not unnerving to him, and contradictory though this may have been, it stretched itself around Harry, soothing his fraught, and by this time frayed to thinning, nerves.

"It has been a trying and unremarkable misfortune, Potter." Harry had no clue as to what he meant by this statement, but he thought it would be prudent not to walk on the side of what had so far been better luck He leaned against the tree behind him in a casual way, allowing his body to mold into the graceful curve of the old pine without response.

"They can't see us from here," he said finally, feeling the need, for some reason, to offer some kind of reassurance to Snape, as comically ironic as that would seem . . .

"It was more than Lily's locket that catapulted into this catastrophe," Snape said in melodious, low tones, causing Harry to raise his head. His voice had flattened out like a type of dough bread that had melted- Harry had never heard him speak like this before, but he did his utmost best to rule his astonishment away from being displayed upon his features. He jerked his head minutely, as though casting away a fly that had landed on it. Everything that had occurred over the past few weeks was hanging over him like a heavy bag that he wanted to punch, which was just out of Harry's groping reach. Nonetheless, his mouth turned downward into a repulsed sort of line, and for a moment, he stood there merely thinking, it seemed to Harry. He didn't realize that he was unconsciously holding in his breath until Snape started to speak again.

"At sixteen, I joined the Dark Lord's ranks, clueless as to the dangers that awaited greater society." He did not have to say his next few words, but when they were past his lips, Harry felt a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the weather at that moment. "The alleged reasons could not be put into any sort of language. Your mother- had known of the bonds that I was forming with those that were within the Dark Lord's circle, although I provided no verbal proof to her of those suspicions. She could not have anticipated however, what the power of the locket she had given to me had the capacity to do. Even I did not fully realize the implications of transferring my loyalties to the Dark Lord, but I took the risk, and I kept the locket rather than magically connect it with someone else, though I had no grounding upon which- " His body seemed to sag, almost imperceptibly, underneath that voluptuous black garment that always swathed his lank, surly form. A shadowed light fell between the canopy that the trees created, making Snape looked like some lost demon in the early morning sun. Harry had never realized how pale he really was before now.

"Severus?" The words that fell from his lips somehow seemed natural, slipping out without thought. His black eyes darted toward his left, while he leaned against another tree, without seeming to put any weight onto it.

"I never meant for her to put that locket- " He stopped, the words never forming. Harry did not realize until then that his own hands were clenched, for he took them out of his pockets to give himself something to look at.

"I'm sure that my mum knew what she was doing when she gave the locket to you," he said in a rush, which sounded like immature blurting to him- inwardly he cringed. "And she would have wanted you to realize that you couldn't- that is to say erm, well, there is no reason for you to feel as though you should have known. You couldn't foresee the future," he said simply, shrugging. Snape leveled him with a darkened gaze for a split-second, before turning his head away.

"No matter what conceptions you have about your mother Harry, she was an exceptionally bright witch, and she understood who I was, and the risks that were involved in being a friend to me."

"Then she would have known what she was doing," he answered him, this time sounding firm. He lifted his arm in the shadowy gleam of the faint, weak light of the morning. He pulled down the sleeve of his robe and Harry winced unconsciously. The cross and black skull were eerily speckling the air, and then, just as quickly, he pulled the heavy-looking dark fabric back down to his wrist.

"I cannot enumerate what may have occurred, had she lived, but I have an idea of how our relationship might have ensued, and I understand precisely her reasons," he said in a low tone, ending on a hiss. He looked very angry. He could not say exactly why his tone had just changed altogether, or why Snape had gone rigid.

"The Dark Lord has an extremely limited understanding of why his servants decide to put their lives underneath his power. Lily understood why I had joined his ranks, although she would not attest to that fact. I was not raised to know anything except- " his voice wavered dangerously for a moment, and his face become unresponsive, and, for a second, void. Harry felt his heart began to race a little faster, and an indefinable something grew hard within his chest.

"My father did not teach me to know anything except his natural inclinations." His hands were clenched so tightly at his sides now that they began to shake precariously, causing Harry to be afraid, a feeling, which he could not analyze right then. Yet, he merely looked on into the space of nothing, so that he could not decipher exactly what Snape was thinking, although, he had to admit to himself that he probably did not want to know.

"You are a different person." Harry averted his eyes, not knowing what else he could say, feeling the rock lodged in his stomach grow with an odd magic.

"Yes," Snape agreed, lifting his head up into the air a fraction. "But that is not the point, nor will it ever be." Harry opened his mouth to reply, but then abruptly closed it. He couldn't imagine what Snape's life had been like growing up, nor was there any apparent consolation that could be offered. But the way that he spoke gave him new insights into his character, his stoic, roughened and many times crass manner that he had never seen, and he could not help but to feel a pull, a strange- connection. Snape's past was very similar, it would seem, to his own in many ways, although neither of them had ever noticed the tie before. Had anyone told him about it during his first class that he endured under Snape's sneering face he would never have believed them. He pulled his arms up around himself, touched by the biting chill of the air around them, and closed his eyes.

"Your past and mine- well, they aren't so different," he said in a lowered tone as well, his words fading away like piano notes, and lighter than Snape's, while gravity tugged him into a place where he didn't want to be . . . "when I lived with the Dursleys, I spent most of my time buried in my room, pretending that I didn't exist," he mumbled, trying not to allow shame to creep into his tone. He didn't know what was compelling him to tell Snape about his past, but for some reason he could not seem to stop himself from spouting further details about his abhorrent childhood, as if they were rising from a well inside of him that needed attention. He hated the feeling. "I wasn't really a part of their family," he said roughly, "at least, not in the literal sense. They had no pictures of me, or- or belongings of mine in the rest of the house, and when visitors came over I'd stay locked in my room the whole time," Harry stopped speaking, merely glaring down at his fingers. Then he shrugged almost nonchalantly, his eyes slits in the dark. "It's not as if it mattered, after a bit, but, it would have been nice to be acknowledged once in awhile." The air carried a deep sigh, and it was a minute before he realized that Snape had actually breathed it. He looked up confusedly.

"It is without any question that if your mother had known about it . . . " Harry just kicked a bramble to his side, but he felt no stirring of anger, strangely enough. A twig snapped in the distance, followed by the call of a bird. Harry wondered why he could not keep his mind focused upon what was in front of him. If the ground beneath him had been carved into a window, he still would not be able to decipher why his past scorched him beneath this cold grass.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" he mumbled, averting his eyes. There was a beat of silence-

"We should be getting back. The others will be wondering what happened to us," he muttered. Snape lifted a thin finger and rubbed upon his temple with a light pressure.

"Severus," he said hollowly, straightening his back in a defensive measure as the name poured out of him, though not knowing why- "It doesn't matter. If the potions are damaged, then this is not your fight." Snape steeped his hands in front of him, and for a minute, Harry was not sure he actually heard him. His face was void and blank once more, as he stared out at the wide expanse of trees, with a look of what could only be described as pure nothing upon his face.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out, in a near whisper, suddenly urged by the thin ripple of black that served as an oblique wall of some type, before him. He was the epitome of impenetrable. "But it isn't your fault." Snape gave him an eerie look, his mouth quirking up at the corner. He cocked his head toward him, in an ironic gesture.

"Oh, but isn't it?" he said on a low-tongued hiss, and then, without another word to, he swept back into the circle of Harry's friends, drawing his cloak around himself in a gesture very similar to that of the Severus Snape who had intimidated every student in the Hogwarts castle, for fifteen years of his life. For some reason, Harry suddenly felt extremely heavy, as though the world's gravity had sucked itself into his single chest, becoming his.


Until we meet again. Press the- ahem- you know . . . =)

Until we meet again =)