Harry was dozing on the sofa in the Common Room, face pressed against soft fabric, thinking about anything but his current reality. Just the sight of Tom made Ginny pale and nauseous, but she'd taken to purposefully sitting in the Common Room whenever he was around, until she didn't feel the overwhelming need to 'punch him in the face and forget to bloody breathe'. Now she had her head firmly buried in her newspaper, perched neatly on the back of the sofa, relaying the news to Ron, who hadn't wanted to have his morale smashed first-hand. "Well," she said. "It's not good. Three dementor attacks this week, and nobody seems to want to talk about it. You know I've heard Romilda moping and crying about the failure of her love chocolates at least once an hour without fail since it happened?"

"She's really that upset?" Harry asked.

"She says she knows your heart's been stolen by someone in Slytherin." Ginny scoffed. "'Stolen.' That's not how it works. Besides, you know what this means? She's been staring at you enough to have noticed how much time you spend with Voldysnort. Just thinking about that makes me feel dirty."

Tom fluffed up like an angry cat. "With whom?"

"Oh, sorry, did I say it wrong?" Ginny smiled.

"Yes," Tom said, at the same time as Harry's, "No." Then he glared.

"She thinks I'm dating, uh, what's his name again? Veldeport?"

"She's not shut up about it." Ginny huffed. "Don't misinterpret, I'll commiserate, but after the first fifteen times, it got old. Part of growing up is learning to move on and realise your one true love is married to a snake, and that's just life."

"Thanks for that unforgettable lesson," said Harry.

"You're welcome."

Ginny remained glued to her newspaper, and Ron was humming something off-key. But Hermione was looking even more transfixed by something old and faded in her hands. It looked like the Daily Prophet, but an article that hadn't seen light for thirty years. Hermione was reading it like the news was recent. "Harry," she said. "Look here."

Harry peered over her shoulder. There was a very stern looking woman pictured, face unmoving, the only sign of life in her breathing. She seemed the dreariest person imaginable. "Who's that? She looks like Umbridge when she has to face the fact that other people actually like one another, y'know, genuinely."

"Eileen Prince," Hermione said. "I've been looking for possible candidates for the author of that Potions book, Harry."

"The Half-Blood Prince's book? Can't we just move on from this?"

Hermione ignored him. "Her last name. Take a look."

"Yeah, it's Prince, but I'm pretty convinced the Half-Blood Prince was a bloke, though. I mean, Prince. Smug and condescending enough to be actually invoking royalty, not their real name. Plus, Eileen doesn't look like she's got a creative or witty bone in her body. She looks kind of dead. No, really, look."

"She's in this paper for an award, Harry."

"For being empty inside?"

"No, for becoming Captain of the Gobstones. Sound familiarly brilliant?"

"The Half-Blood Prince wasn't a girl. I can feel it... with my manly senses."

"What's that even supposed to mean?" Hermione gave him an exhausted look. "Girls can't be brilliant? Girls can't invent dark magic?"

"You're brilliant, and I've never met someone darker than Bellatrix. So, no, not that, I swear. He just seemed. I don't know. I felt like I knew him, even though I've never met him. I could almost see him." Harry shrugged. "I mean, Eileen could be. To be fair, I don't know her. She could've been the Prince. But she just looks so... I dunno. Mournful."

"And the Half-Blood Prince wasn't? You don't think someone who invents a spell to hurt others so severely was mournful?"

"He seemed kind of angry, actually. His notes were really sarcastic and bitter; he wasn't impressed with the original text at all. Eileen doesn't look like she'd feel anything about anything."

"We can't rule her out."

Harry sighed. "Why's it so important? If we do find the author, what will we do? Get them detention for dark spells? Thirty years late? We don't even know if they ended up using them. Maybe they had a terrible day and came up with it in a fit of rage?"

"We'd get answers!"

Harry shook his head. A dark witch or wizard from decades ago? No doubt they would've found themselves entangled in the business of the very man sitting next to him, feathers ruffled, having a tantrum over a nickname. How likely was it that the Prince was alive? And if they were, how likely was it that they'd come out of the War intact? Voldemort indicated that Harry's sharp tongue was the first he'd tolerated. Was the Prince a master of self-control? Or did Tom have their tongue cut out and used in one of their potions as an ironic punishment? "That's not a guarantee."

"It's better than nothing."

Part of Harry was terrified to meet the Prince. He'd found a friend in their ghost, but people changed. Everyone in this room proved that point. The Prince could be unrecognisable, and despite himself, Harry might grieve that loss. It seemed like something he would do.

Harry was pulled out of his reverie when an excited Jimmy Peakes came running up to him and shoved a scroll into his open hand. "For you," Jimmy said, stared sceptically at Tom's strikingly not-red tie, blinked, and rubbed at his eyes. When he'd sufficiently clued in on the fact that, no, he was not hallucinating, he seemed unbothered. "I thought the 'no inter-house friends in the Common Room' rule was stupid anyway," he muttered, finally, more to himself, and Harry laughed. Tom looked thunderstruck. "A prefect's badge? Mate, I like your style. Did you steal that? Are you sure you're a Slytherin, with that daring?" Jimmy grinned. "Right. I'm off, then. I'm only errand boy because I got a free period out of this. Enjoy your note."

"Thanks, Jimmy."

"Worth it," he replied, and ran off.

"Strange owl," Harry said, in his wake.

"Can I have him instead of Errol?" Ginny asked.

Carefully, Harry unwrapped the parchment, noticing elegant, curled, sweeping handwriting, finely printed. He couldn't even find a single inkdrop. If Harry hadn't suspicions already, the end was signed unmistakably with Dumbledore's name. A summons. "I think Dumbledore's finally about to show me the Horcrux."

Ron stopped humming. "Is he-? Are you-?"

"Going? I have to." Harry grabbed his shoulder. "I'll be safe. I know a few spells, and if all else fails, I have the two most powerful wizards in the world with me."

"If you don't come back I'm going to kill you myself," Ron said.

"I'm holding you to that."

Harry was running down the hallways at breakneck speed, feet pounding impossibly loud against cobblestone floors. He was pushing himself hard enough to be dizzy with it, vision blurring, breath catching, legs cramping. Tom was at his side, unfazed, without the need for any form of sustenance except where he was curled, nested, in Harry's soul.

Nothing mattered except reaching Dumbledore's office, until he stopped dead at the sound of a panicked scream and a heavy thud from around a corner. The effort of stopping was practically enough to wind him, sending him sprawling against the wall. Once he'd regained his footing, he ended his path directly in front of Professor Trelawney, many bracelets clattering to the ground, slipping off her shaking hands. Her glasses were cracked, and around her was what seemed like the Malfoy's entire liquor cabinet. "Professor?"

"I'm alright, dear boy, only shaken." Trelawney untangled the beads from her wild hair. "A gruesome brute has knocked me down without a care in the world! And he was all too glad to run off and leave me here to what could have very possibly been my death. The Inner Eye forewarned me all day, but I couldn't have imagined- being accosted in the castle!"

"What were you doing here in the middle of an empty hallway, Professor?"

"Why, nothing of any significance, certainly-"

Careless students eager to escape the notice of even an injured teacher? Empty, winding hallways? "Were you, by any chance, trying to get into the Room of Requirement?"

"I'll give no weight to spurious accusations, but, on this occasion, you see, it was necessary for me to store away a few personal items-"

"The alcohol," Harry said.

"Personal items," Trelawney continued. "Which are easily kept safe in the Room of Requirement, or so I thought. Students aren't supposed to be aware of its existence."

"I required it quite a bit," Harry clarified. "So you ran into someone who didn't want anyone knowing they'd been there?"

"Exactly so, Harry. I've so missed your contributions in class."

"I'm an awful Seer."

"But such a wonderful Object! Truly, an unprecedented talent for acquiring such terrible luck." Trelawney cleared her throat. "Yes, I ran into someone who desperately wanted anonymity. I came in and they were throwing themselves a celebration! You'd think they'd want for company, of course. Not even the Inner Eye would expect such an offence."

"A celebration?"

"They were whooping and cheering! But as soon as I called out, they couldn't leave fast enough."

Malfoy had fixed it. Shit, shit, if Voldemort came to the castle tonight, and Trelawney, for all her tea leaves and mysticism, had the disturbing knack to predict everything perfectly. If she'd been experiencing premonitions, visions of the future, it was possible the Death Eaters were on their way to storm the school at this very moment. "Did you see them?"

"Why would I be paying attention to their face, dear boy, when they were throwing me to the floor?"

"Your Inner Eye didn't see?"

"There is a great deal more to focus on than a passing face."

Okay, no sight. But they'd been cheering. They hadn't been some elusive shadow; they'd barreled right past with the force to blow over a grown woman. Some trace had to remain. "Did they sound specific at all? Male? Female?"

"Well, male, I suppose."

Malfoy. It was Malfoy. Harry had known it, but he'd hoped, he'd wished it was Tom's paranoia, that everything was in his head. But Trelawney herself knew he had an unprecedented talent for terrible luck, and terrible luck dictated that Malfoy had been successful in whatever endeavour the Death Eaters had set for him. "You know, Professor, you ought to report this."

"Really, I haven't needed the Inner Eye to see the headmaster has not appreciated my previous reports, no matter how the Fates tell us dark times have fallen. I'm above forcing my company on those who do not desire it."

"Well, this is different," Harry said, swallowing with difficulty. Dark times falling. That seemed fitting, given their current predicament. "Stuff like this just can't be allowed to pass. It's unacceptable."

Trelawney blinked. "You really think Dumbledore should hear about this?"

"Yeah. In fact, I was just headed to his office right now. We can go together."

"Very well, then. You're right, of course, that such rude behaviour cannot be encouraged. Students tossing away their teachers like ragdolls!"

That, and maybe Dumbledore might finally take what Harry had to say seriously. Maybe, just maybe, he'd stop dismissing Harry's accusations as paranoid delusions brought on from the half-mad soul latched onto him since birth. Now he knew of Tom's existence, all his opinions should be discredited? Somehow his thought process had changed from the six years before? That was ridiculous.

Trelawney had unceremoniously dropped off her collection of non-paranormal spirits in one of the school's many hidden nooks, before brushing herself off and heading with a determined righteousness in the direction of Dumbledore's office. "The other Seers must, too, see our coming doom. But none with the Gift have sought to warn our headmaster, save me. But it seems I cannot be taken seriously in such dire circumstances."

"Coming doom," Harry repeated, gloomy.

"I suppose Dumbledore has his reasons, for such a respectable man. But I do not dictate how the Cards fall, as I'm sure he is aware." Trelawney sighed. "But it hasn't done anything to chase away the rumours about my abilities. Pure hearsay, a small comfort for the jealous, yet is so widely believed. You know what I tell these doubters, Harry? I say, 'How can that be true if Dumbledore has let me work here all these years? How can it be true if I have his trust?' And I have, since the day I first met him! My unforgettable interview. I was hired on the spot."

Harry hummed something vaguely approving, which Trelawney took as permission to continue.

"I was at the Hog's Head, feeling rather under the weather, from lack of food or from the unsavoury conditions, I'm not sure, and I didn't have much hope for my chances. Dumbledore seemed quite disinclined to the practice of Divination. To my luck, would you believe it-"

You delivered the Prophecy that named me as Chosen and the sole being with the power to defeat Voldemort? Harry had been told this story before. Of course he had, when it seemed everyone was excessively dedicated to seeing every last word come to pass. Even Voldemort had been surprised when Harry suggested they just ignore the whole bloody thing. And why couldn't they? Why shouldn't they?

"-none other than Severus Snape was raising a fuss outside!"

Harry stopped. "What?"

"The barman hadn't taken lightly to Snape wandering around places he ought not to be. Of course, Snape was insisting he'd taken a wrong turn up the stairs, but I know he was listening in, dear boy. He, too, wanted to find himself under Dumbledore's employ, and I imagine he'd been hoping for some tips and tricks." Trelawney shook her head. "Needless to say, cheating endeared him to no-one. Dumbledore must have put aside his scepticism of the Mystical Arts in the face of such a contrast between my unassuming nature and Snape's terribly uninviting and uncouth aura."

Instead of agreeing to condemn Snape's unprofessional behaviour, as Trelawney expected, Harry's mind was flying far past a mile a minute.

"Harry, are you quite alright?"

He was not quite alright. Or even slightly alright. Snape had overheard the Prophecy and delivered it straight into Voldemort's waiting hands? Snape and the bloody Rat had, in one swift blow, sentenced his mother and father to death, just by opening their big mouths. How could they? How could they sit by and admire their stature within an organisation of terrorists while his parents suffered?

Harry was running down the hallway within seconds, waving away Trelawney's shock and concern. "I've got to go now. Something important's come up. You stay here!" he called.

"But, we were certainly just on our way to tell Dumbledore about my being knocked down so disgracefully violently-"

"You stay here!"

He was panting and dead on his feet by the time he arrived at Dumbledore's office. The man himself was curled regally in his seat, hands clasped together, looking perfectly composed. "Oh, Harry! I'm glad to see my note was delivered successfully."

"Sir."

"It's about time to set off. I do believe I promised you you could come along, after all."

He was still reeling from the revalation, and everything that went in one ear seemed to come out the other. Also, he was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, and his vision was going hazy at the edges. "Come along?"

"To the Horcrux."

Between the sickening hatred curdling in his stomach, he was flooded with gratitude at being allowed to get his hands on Pandora's Box at last. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course, there are a few points we must cover first. One can never be too cautious with these things."

Impatience flooded him. Every second the Horcrux wasn't safe in his hands, he risked letting Tom fall permanently to madness. "Points, sir?"

"First, I'd like to know what's wrong, Harry."

It was natural that Dumbledore should notice, but Harry still winced internally. He didn't trust himself to stay calm right now. He didn't know how much he could control. "Nothing's wrong."

Dumbledore looked sympathetic. "You've never been very good at hiding things from me, I'm afraid."

Harry scowled. "Trelawney told me something interesting," he spat. "She said Snape was there the night she delivered the Prophecy. She said he listened in."

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

"And you let him work here? You let him stay after leaving my parents to the dogs?"

"He didn't know you were the one the Prophecy had chosen, Harry. It is, I believe, his worst regret in life. Not a day goes by that he doesn't pay for it."

Did Dumbledore think that would make it better? Regret couldn't undo anything etched into the flow of time. "Yeah, so if I hadn't been the Chosen One, that'd make it any better? He'd still have let some random family die. He'd still have set Tom on them like a rabid animal."

"Yes. He would have. But he's since seen the true intent behind Voldemort's regime. He's come a very long way."

Harry knew it was hypocritical to forgive Voldemort so easily and yet remain resentful towards someone - though arguably unpleasant - with a thousand times greater moral standing. But Voldemort would always have killed. If not Harry's parents, someone else's. But Snape wasn't born under the influence of amortentia. What excuse did he have for caring so little about the consequences of his actions? What could he possibly say to defend himself, especially after daring to claim he cared for Harry's mother?

"You lied to me," Harry said.

"I simply didn't tell you."

A very familiar rage was boiling inside him, cooking his guts from the inside out, painting the metal taste of blood on his tongue. His face curled into a snarl. "That's still lying!"

"It was, indeed, a lie, Harry. But surely you understand why I couldn't possibly tell you?"

"So you hid it from me?" Harry's eyes narrowed into slits. "You thought you could do that?"

Of course, Dumbledore could do that, and he had, and Harry would go as far as to say he was entitled to, given the generally horrifically unstable atmosphere in Hogwarts. But Dumbledore was someone he'd trusted implicitly for as long as he could remember; he'd grown up viewing Dumbledore as a role model and an exemplary wizard, and much like realising an idiolised parent can't be held on a pedestal forever, seeing the ability for anything morally dubious in the famed, much loved, and adored headmaster was an overwhelming dose of cognitive dissonance.

Usually, Harry would deal with this by shutting down and trying to hide himself from the severity of the situation. But this was Dumbledore, and part of his soul was connected to the person who hated him most. It was like swallowing bleach, this poisonous wrath trickling through his veins, warping his perspective. Dumbledore's arguably logical decision felt like a personal attack. Like his mother and father's image was being purposefully defaced, despite the practical impossibility of such a thing being the case.

Most of Voldemort's anger was controllable. Barely controllable, with disastrous consequences when not properly reigned in, but at least tampered in some shape or form. Now it was as if a dragon were crawling up his throat, like he was going to burn from the inside out.

Is this what Voldemort was born into? The feeling of constantly losing control, the desperate urge to maim and lash out? No wonder he'd gone mad with it. It was agonising.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, or run, or pass out entirely. But all he could do was clench his fists until his nails dug little bloody crescents into his palms and grind his teeth to powder on his tongue.

"It seemed the best choice at the time," Dumbledore told him. "And quite frankly, I still believe that to be so."

From an objective standpoint, he knew Dumbledore was right. But that alone was not enough to quell the acid stinging the back of his throat. "How dare you, old man," Harry snapped. His rational mind had retreated and left Voldemort in its wake. "You've always treated me with such disrespect-" He was choking. "No, not me- him- stop it, Tom, I-" He was ripping at his mind with his own hands. "Don't!"

And then everything went numb.

He buried his head in his hands. After a long silence, he said, "I'm letting him do it again."

"If you intend to find another Horcrux, you cannot afford to allow him so much control. It's too dangerous."

"I know. I swear I'm working on it." He frowned. "Alright, there hasn't been anything to work on until now. I'm so used to it that it can't really bother me anymore. Or, it wasn't supposed to." He sighed, chin resting against his folded hands. "It's always different with you. If you get brought up, he just gets so angry, not like with anyone else. They're all idiots, to him, so it's like- like getting angry at a bug. But you're not that simple. You can see through him."

Dumbledore nodded and accepted this. "I can understand why such a thing would get him so... uniquely riled up. But you, too, can see through him, can't you, Harry? And he seems to be treating you with some very slight measure of care."

"I mean, we share each other's thoughts. I understand him in a way that literally no-one else can, because I have a constant window into his soul. I guess he thinks it's only natural that I'd see through him, but I understand him, too." Harry shrugged. "Well, not ideologically, but I can empathise with the kind of pain he's been through. Feeling alone and abandoned. The parallels scare me, but they help him, so they could be worse."

"That's an admirable view on something that must undoubtedly terrify you."

"Truthfully, I'd rather something else help him, but there's no way to change most of our similarities, anyway, so it's best to see the silver lining. Even the things that can be changed, they'd never really be true to myself, right? I guess it wouldn't be so bad if I dyed my hair, I'd just look stupid. But that seems kind of like something a toddler would do, honestly."

"It would be childish," Dumbledore agreed. "A fun revenge for a moment, certainly. Unfortunately, hair colour doesn't determine our personal values and choices."

"Probably that's a good thing," Harry said, cheekily. "Voldemort would look terrible as a blonde."

Dumbledore had insisted Harry drink some tea and have some of the sweets from his vast collection before continuing on. It made sense that Dumbledore would want to keep an even sharper eye on him and ensure he was calm enough to actually properly process information, but Harry was antsy, and not even an entire cupboard of sherbet lemons could keep the anticipation from worming its way into his insides and rotting there.

He had absolutely no idea what he'd find in whatever location Voldemort had chosen to hide his Horcrux. It could be guarded with the darkest magic imaginable. There could be nothing there at all. Voldemort himself could be lying in wait for them to appear and walk themselves right into a trap and get picked like apples on a tree.

Somehow, he didn't think Dumbledore knew much about what lay ahead, either. Surely how to enter, what the Horcrux looked like, maybe even the exact point it was hidden and how to reveal it. But not what kind of sick things they'd inevitably have to face down in order to retrieve it. Not what it was like as an individual. To be fair on his last point, only Harry could sense Tom's soul with that sort of precision. Only Harry could hear it so clearly, know it so intimately, and feel its every emotion as his own.

He wasn't certain the state of mind this Horcrux would be in. The diadem was relatively protected in the Room of Hidden Things for so many years, but the others couldn't be so lucky. They'd have faced innumerable challenges. It was almost a guarantee that he and Dumbledore were not the first to hunt them down - but also that they were the first with intentions to preserve, to restore, and not destroy.

It could be mad. It might be worse than Voldemort himself. Harry knew absolutely nothing.

"Before I tell you anything about this Horcrux, you must promise me something," Dumbledore said.

Harry tilted his head. "Promise you what?"

"No matter what happens, do exactly as I tell you. Even if I tell you to run and leave me behind. Give me your word you will listen to me, Harry."

"Leave you behind?" He gaped, eyebrows raising to his hairline, horrified. "You want me to abandon you?"

"Well, I'd prefer if you didn't. But with magic this dark, we may find that such drastic measures are necessary. It's a truth you must accept if you want to find any of the others. Especially if you wish to survive long enough to return them."

Harry knew he was right, from a point of view without sentimentality or emotion. But every part of him railed against the idea as hard as he could. "I'm not- I can't-"

"You have the power within yourself to make these terrible sorts of decisions. And I'm afraid I have to ask you to exercise it, no matter how great the pain. Your life is the number one priority, not getting a hold of the Horcrux."

Harry thought that was bullshit, personally. Voldemort could no longer kill him, but he had every reason to kill Dumbledore. In cold blood and without a single trace of mercy. Yet, if he was going to learn the location of any of the remaining shards, Dumbledore's word was now law, despite how vehemently he disagreed. "Alright," he said. "I promise."

"Good," Dumbledore told him. "Now, I think it's better to show than to tell. Return to me with your Cloak of Invisibility, and be prepared. What lies ahead is more dangerous than we can yet conceive."

Author's Note: I spent the past five billion months working on the chapter after this, actually, but I am still V FRIKKin nervous about posting this one. I mean,,, listen, JK did it better and we all know it. So just copying and pasting things exactly how they happened in the books is out, but there is Slightly Adapting Them (even the bit about harry's gaydar i MEAN HIS PERCEPTIVENESS detecting the half-blood prince being a dude). And hAVING BACKGROUND CHARACTERS RAMBLE WHEN IT'S NOT NEEDED? Still, all of the exact same notes are covered, except, uh, alTERNATE UNIVERSES MAKE WHAT THEY'D SAY A LITTLE DIFFERENT... and stuff. And in the face of the rEaL AcTuAL BoOk, i TREMBLE. So like this is pulled out of my ass and I'm gonna explode now b Y E

but real talk i accidentally inject humour in where i shouldnt bUT HEY THE LADY WHO WROTE MY IMMORTAL IS A PROFESSIONAL PUBLISHED AUTHOR NOW (AND EXCEPTIONALLY TALENTED) SO FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS I GUESS?

kill me pls,,, enD tHIS

(also famed multishipper here,,, harry abt snape like "i could almost see him" and im like AND I COULD ALMOST WRITE "i could almost taste him" but sHIT one ship at a time)