"Who dares summon Lord Voldemort like some common demon?!" the man in question hissed and spat, Parsel coming more naturally to him than English, especially in his current state — insubstantial and writhing in pain. Someone, some incredibly foolish, entitled, arrogant man, hooded and robed in black, his mind guarded, but still projecting ecstatic triumph, had had the audacity to invoke him, dragging him through the aether, bound by chains of magic as insubstantial as himself, disintegrated and re-composed within the boundaries of — as he realised, attempting to throw himself at the man (soon to be dead for this insult) to no avail — a circle which held him as firmly as the summoning magic had only moments before.

"It is I, my Lord," the man hissed back, lowering his hood to reveal sandy blond hair and intense, wide-set brown eyes. His pale face was thin, almost starved, his expression worshipful.

Lord Voldemort's fury vanished in an instant. The man's appearance — the boy, he was barely in his thirties, hardly more than a child — identified him far less clearly than the fact that he had responded to the Dark Lord's (entirely rhetorical) question in the same language. Much as he had always hated the man who sired him, Bartemius Crouch Junior was his father's son, sharing his gift for learning even the most magical of languages — though the one loyal to Lord Voldemort was far more resourceful in his use of it. (What good was an omniglot in law enforcement? His Crouch was a ward-breaker, one of the best.)

He scratched a break in the circle, even as he begged, "Please, my Lord, forgive my impertinence, my Lord, but I– I had to find you, I have been searching—"

In that moment, as he realised the truth — that a loyal servant had finally, finally, returned to him, that he would soon return to Britain, pick up his war, make Dumbledore and his lackeys and that Potter boy pay for the circumstances to which he had been reduced over the past thirteen years — white-hot triumph flared to life in him as well, dwarfing that of his servant, casting his joy into shadow as he wrapped himself around him, demanding entry into his mind.

Crouch dropped his barriers, welcoming his master's presence, entirely open to him. In an instant Voldemort perceived the tortures the boy had suffered over the same span as himself, kept prisoner in his own home by his oh-so-self-righteous sire, under the influence of the most terrible of the Unforgivable curses, broken free by a loyal servant as he would break his own Lord free of this horrible half-life, restoring him, his loyalty, his love — for it was love, love for the man who had raised young Barty from obscurity, who had recognised his talents and given him a purpose beyond attempting to earn the respect of a sire who had never truly seen him — restoring his Master, his true father, to power and glory. And, if his Lord saw fit to reward his loyalty, his sire's precious Britain would burn.

Yes, oh yes, my child, Voldemort whispered directly into his mind. You will be rewarded for the loyalty you have shown me, rewarded beyond your wildest dreams...


Halfway around the world, Harry Potter woke screaming, his hand flying to his forehead, the scar there, the legacy of his impossible survival in the face of the wrath of a murderous madman, burning as though hot iron had just been touched to the inside of his skin.

Clapping his hand to the scar did absolutely nothing to lessen the pain, and his screams did nothing more than summon a handful of variously startled witches and wizards to, presumably, assist him in fending off whatever intruder had caused his alarm. At least, Sirius (fearsome and furious and utterly naked) had his wand out as he burst through the doorway, quickly followed by Blaise (wide-eyed, confused concern on his face, with as little regard for nightclothes as Sirius) and his mother, her hair a sleep tousled mess. The less said about Mirabella's sleeping attire, the better, really. Harry was in pain and barely conscious and he still could hardly look away from the attention-grabbing lace and layers of see-through fabric. Though, given that the alternatives were his very naked godfather and the equally naked (very fit) boy he fancied, perhaps he couldn't be blamed for focusing on Mirabella's very eye-catching...what was that thing even called? Surely it couldn't count as clothing, Harry was pretty sure it would have drawn less attention if she wasn't wearing anything at all.

It would definitely have been less distracting than Blaise taking a seat at the end of his bed, as though it was completely natural to jump into bed with a bloke when you weren't wearing anything, acting as though he hadn't even noticed Harry's distraction (which he almost certainly had, even with Harry quickly pulling his knees up to his chest, because the sheet was thin enough that it draped, making everything far more obvious, and even if it didn't, he was fairly certain his face was literally glowing), asking all seriously whether he was okay, and what had happened.

"Yeah, seconded," Lyra drawled, coming to lean on the doorframe, fully clothed (thank God), and looking far less concerned than the others. She had a book in one hand, clearly hadn't gone to bed yet. "I know I didn't feel the wards trip, so..."

"Er, no— It's nothing, really. I'm sorry, I just— You can all go back to bed, it was just a dream, really. Sorry I woke you."

"Were you dreaming you were being murdered? Because it kind of sounded like it."

I was dreaming I wanted to kill myself, does that count? "No, no, I... I don't even really remember what it was about, now, I just. I'm sorry, could we please not make a big deal out of this?"

Sirius nodded, though the look he gave him was rather suspicious. "If you're sure, pup..."

"I am, just— I'm fine, I swear. You can go back to bed."

Sirius nodded reluctantly, but clearly didn't have anything else to offer in this situation. (Harry didn't have any better idea what you were even supposed to do when your kid woke you up having a nightmare. Aunt Petunia had only ever banged on the door of his cupboard to wake him up, and berated him for waking everyone else up...) "Okay. But, you know, if you need anything, just yell, I'm right next door."

As if Harry would be waking everyone up again if he could help it. He nodded anyway.

Apparently sufficiently assured that he'd done his godfatherly duty, Sirius looked around rather awkwardly for a moment before leaving with a tiny shrug and a double-take at Mirabella's...attire.

She stayed long enough to say, "If you kids are going to stay up for a while, please try to keep it down? I have to be up in—" (She yawned and checked the time: just after three.) "—three hours."

Blaise nodded, as though he did have some intention of staying up for a while. (Great, he was probably going to make a big bloody fuss over Harry, which he hated...)

"Er, yeah, sorry, Mira."

"Don't worry about it, dear. I know it wasn't intentional."

"I'll put up a silencing," Lyra assured her, though it appeared she had no intention of joining Blaise in his fuss-making, since she stepped outside before pulling her wand. "Harry, Blaise." She nodded in farewell in that way purebloods tended to do, as though this was any other social call, before smirking at Mirabella. "So, Zee, what's with the déshabillé? I thought you hated nightgowns with a fury and passion to shake the world with the voice of thunder and much misquoting of Shakespeare."

"Yes, well, I've come to appreciate them since..." She yawned, cutting herself off. "When the hell did I say that, anyway?"

"Er...right." Lyra cast the silencing palling with a few flicks of her wand and a muttered incantation, cutting off the rest of their conversation as they disappeared from the doorway.

"Does their relationship ever strike you as...really odd?" Harry asked Blaise, both in a somewhat desperate bid to avoid discussing the nightmare he'd just had — which of course he remembered (because occlumency), and Blaise knew he remembered (because legilimency) — and also because, well...they were.

"No, never," Blaise said, completely straight-faced, which just— No, Harry refused to believe that.

Blaise's own relationship with his mother might be pretty strange, even for the magical world (Daphne had confirmed this), but that didn't mean he didn't know what normal looked like. And, well...the way Lyra acted with Mirabella reminded him more of the way she acted with Hermione than anything. And he was pretty sure there was something going on with Lyra and Hermione. Like, a dating sort of something — which was kind of terrifying, they'd probably end up taking over the world or blow up the school or something, but not the point. He hadn't said anything because, well...Lyra actually seemed to like Mirabella, he was pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate it if he suggested there was something going on between them that there really shouldn't be. And, okay, he didn't think they were actually doing anything (necessarily), maybe Lyra just fancied Mira or something, but it still made him uncomfortable, whatever.

"Liar."

"No, really. Okay, yes, they're both weird people, but I know what you're thinking, and no. They're friends. That's it. Well, Mira used to know her mother, I'm pretty sure Lyra knew her before she came here — to Britain, I mean — but no, it's nothing like that. Mirabella's a shameless slut, but she doesn't go for kids. And you're trying to change the subject."

"Fuck yes, I am. You know who Lyra's mother is?"

"Yes, obviously. She is my godmother. Why did you lie about not remembering that dream? What was it?"

"Obviously because I don't want to talk about it. And...I don't want to talk about it." Really, he'd rather not think about it, it had been...he had been... "So about that subject change — who the fuck is Lyra's mother?"

"I'm not going to answer your questions if you don't answer mine."

"I— You..." Harry glared at him. He suspected that Blaise wouldn't answer his questions anyway, he'd done a pretty fucking good job avoiding telling Harry anything about Lyra that she hadn't already told him herself. "Promise you'll answer mine if I answer yours," he demanded.

Blaise shrugged. "Sure. You first, though."

Harry groaned. On the one hand, he really didn't want to talk about his dream — the longer he was awake, the more absurd it seemed, being so afraid of it (though his scar was still prickling uncomfortably, even though he was sure he was awake, and definitely himself) — but on the other, this was the closest he'd gotten to finding out anything about Lyra that she hadn't told him herself in...ever. And while he wasn't as obsessively curious as some people he could think of, he really wanted to know who the fuck Lyra actually was. Not that he expected the answer to be that interesting, really, just... It annoyed him, having her rub it in his face pretty much constantly (possibly unintentionally, but still) that he didn't really know anything about her. (And he really didn't want to talk about the dream, it would give him an excuse to change the subject, after he told Blaise about it.)

"Fine. I dreamed I was Riddle. Voldemort. Like, the wraith version of him. He'd been summoned somehow, by...Bartemius Crouch? I think? I couldn't make out his thoughts that clearly, but."

"Wait, make out his thoughts?"

"Er, yeah?" What part of dreaming he was Riddle was unclear?

"So...you actually thought you were him, or...?"

"Yes, Blaise," he snapped, completely failing to keep his annoyance out of his tone, but fuck it. "I was him, I felt him being summoned — which hurts like a bitch, by the way — and how furious he was, until he realised that Crouch was one of his people, and then how—" he broke off, shuddering. "He was pleased. Really pleased." That was an understatement, but. "He— Crouch let me — him — possess him, and I— Riddle promised him that he'd be rewarded beyond his wildest dreams... He wanted to see Britain burn, Blaise. And Dumbledore. And me. And I wanted it too, more than I've ever wanted anything, it was..." It was fucking terrifying, was what it was. He'd never...scared himself, before, but that... Blaise looked kind of scared, too, actually. Well, he looked like he was focusing very hard on not feeling anything at all, which basically amounted to the same thing. "It was creepy as hell, okay, but it was just a dream," he said, trying to reassure them both.

Blaise shook his head. "I'm not sure it was, though."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that sounds a hell of a lot like accidentally legilimising someone, having your mind drift into theirs, thinking you are them, feeling what they feel, their thoughts kind of going on in the background, like you know they're not coming from you, but they feel like they're yours..."

Which was...eerily accurate, that description. But... "Don't be stupid. I was asleep. And I'm pretty fucking sure they were somewhere in Europe — not exactly an expert, here, but I don't think I managed to legilimise someone, who is an expert legilimens himself, in my sleep, from halfway around the bloody world." That was ridiculous. Just absurd.

Blaise wasn't acting like it was, though. "But your scar was hurting."

"So bloody what? It does that, sometimes." Granted, the last time it had had been when he'd been face to...weird mutated skull-face with Quirrelmort, but he was pretty fucking sure that wraith hadn't been in his fucking bedroom, so. It had to be something else. Had to be.

"I think we need to talk to Snape."

"I think you're overreacting. It was just a dream, Blaise. A weirdly vivid, horrible, nightmarish dream, but still a fucking dream. It didn't mean anything, I'm sure of it."

"I'm sure you're in denial. Or, well, it seems like a good possibility at least. That doesn't sound like a normal dream, at all, so even if you don't want to talk to Snape, I'm writing him. If he tells me I'm overreacting, I'll drop it, but if not... Sleep-legilimising an undead fucking Dark Lord doesn't exactly seem like it'd be good for your health. Riddle is a legilimens, like you said — he is going to notice sooner or later. Probably sooner. Hopefully Snape will have some idea how to teach you to stop, before that happens."

Hopefully Blaise was wrong, or completely full of shite. But, well...that wasn't how Harry's luck worked. It just wasn't. He wasn't quite ready to admit it, though. "I don't know, Blaise, it sounds— You realise how mad this sounds? Snape'll probably say I'm making shite up for attention, or something, tell me to bugger off."

"He'd better not," Blaise said, frowning absently into the dark. It wasn't really dark, of course, there was always a sort of city glow coming in the windows, here, and Sirius had cast a light charm when he'd burst in, it hadn't quite faded entirely, yet, but still.

His petulant tone drew a reluctant smile from Harry. "What are you going to do, if he does?"

Blaise shrugged, moving to the desk in search of a spare bit of parchment and lighting a candle to write by. "Guilt him over neglecting his duty to Lily's memory by ignoring her son in his hour of need?" Harry winced. He really didn't like being reminded of the fact that Snape and his mother had been friends for...practically their entire lives. Well, hers, at least. "You may not know this about me, but I can be a bit manipulative at times." He grinned. Harry rolled his eyes. Yes, he was aware. "He won't, though. Now shush, I can't write and talk at the same time."

That was fine with Harry, he was content to just lie here, watching light and shadows flicker over Blaise's skin as he frowned at the parchment, absently brushing the end of his quill against his lips between words. He really was infuriatingly pretty. Well, the infuriating part was mostly him acting like he hadn't a bloody clue that Harry fancied him, when that was even more impossible than Harry legilimising fucking Voldemort from California. But he was still very...

The feather brushed the corner of his mouth again. Harry wondered what he would do if he just...got up and kissed him. If he would pretend to be surprised. He didn't, of course, because he had no idea what to do after spontaneously kissing a bloke. The only actual example he had was Lyra kissing him to distract him that one time, and, well... Lyra probably was not a good example, immediately going back to talking about Sirius as though she hadn't just done something thoroughly...Lyra-ish.

Though, now he was thinking of Lyra and godparents, and that seemed as good a way to distract him from his staring as any... "I answered your question," he reminded Blaise.

"Hang on a second... Okay, I'm just going to say that I'm requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience regarding you and whether a shared experience can establish a basis for long-distance communication with another legilimens, which I think is sufficiently vague, in case the letter's intercepted, could just be me looking to establish something like that with you. But it's also sufficiently weird that he'll understand that's not it. Especially since he knows we're together."

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Harry snapped, trying not to get distracted by that matter-of-fact he knows we're together, and completely different contexts in which that phrase might be uttered. "You promised you'd tell me who Lyra's mother is."

Blaise hesitated. "Let's send this, first. Do you think Hedwig would take it through the portal?"

Harry shrugged. Probably. She'd come through it to get to California in the first place. It really hadn't seemed like a good idea to bring an owl on an airplane. "I'll ask her to do it in the morning, a few hours won't make that much of a difference, and she's probably out hunting now, anyway. And you may not know this about me, but I can tell when you're stalling."

Blaise gave him a weak smile, sighed. "It really doesn't matter, you know. Lyra's mother. It's not like she raised her."

"If it didn't matter, you wouldn't be trying to avoid telling me."

He had a point, and Blaise knew it. He sighed again. "Okay, it's just— Try not to hold it against her, okay, but I'm like, ninety...two per cent certain that that rumor about Bellatrix... Well, she definitely never had a child herself, but there are ways to make someone else carry a child for you, dark magic blood alchemy stuff."

Harry gaped at him. "Are— You're serious? You're seriously telling me that Bellatrix Lestrange is Lyra's mother?" That was—

Well, honestly? a traitorous little voice thought at the back of his mind, That would explain...kind of a lot.

"She hasn't confirmed it, and neither has Mira, but that's what Sirius thinks, and Dumbledore, according to Snape. And, well...pretty much anyone who ever met Bellatrix." Including, Harry suddenly recalled, that man, the one Lyra said was Blaise's father, at Mirabella's wedding. Something about Mirabella being the godmother to Bellatrix's child, except she never had one... "And it makes a hell of a lot more sense than anything else I've managed to come up with."

"I...don't even know what to say to that. Wait, does that mean Bellatrix Lestrange is your godmother?" Harry asked, his brain latching on a peripheral detail which was...almost weirder than the idea that the mysterious "cousin" who'd appeared out of nowhere to take him under her wing, one of his best friends, his first fucking kiss, was actually the daughter of Riddle's right-hand woman.

Blaise shrugged. "She and Mira were friends at Hogwarts."

"Well, yeah, okay, but. By the time we were born, Lestrange was...Bellatrix fucking Lestrange!"

"Yeah. And at that point, it was starting to look a hell of a lot like Bellatrix fucking Lestrange was going to be the reigning Dark Lady of Magical Britain in a year or two. Mira had never supported Riddle even if she'd never really openly defied him, and she had known muggleborn and even muggle associates, even then. My understanding is, it seemed like a good idea to renew her relationship with Bellatrix, just in case. She's always been very practical like that."

That was just...just fucking weird to think about, honestly. Especially when he thought of Mira now, being a bloody tech company CEO and having a muggle staff and a computer in her house. But he did have to admit, it made a sort of...very ruthless sense. And as nice and kind of...weirdly not adult-ish as Mirabella could be, Harry was pretty sure no one could go from being pretty much a nobody in Magical Britain to one of the richest people in magical or muggle Britain over the course of two decades without being a lot more ruthless than she generally seemed. And she was a politician, a Department Head at the Ministry. And then there was the whole...husbands...thing. (She couldn't really be a serial killer, if the rumors were true, everyone would know, and...)

Okay, it had officially become weirder and more awkward to think about Bellatrix Lestrange being Blaise's godmother than it was to think about her being Lyra's mother. As well as the one-time potential Dark Lady...of...

"Blaise," he said, as a thought suddenly occurred to him, his voice impressively even, in his own mind.

"Yes, Harry?"

"If Bellatrix Lestrange is Lyra's mother, who the fuck is her father? Who raised her, for that matter?"

"Er...who said she has one? I mean, we're talking about blood alchemy, here, and have you ever seen a picture of Bellatrix when she was our age? They're identical." Was it more disturbing to think that Lyra was a bloody clone of Bellatrix Lestrange, or that she had a father out there as well, like, oh, Tom fucking Riddle, as had just occurred to him? Harry didn't know. The clone option was definitely weirder, which probably made it more likely. "No idea who raised her. Could've been one of the Black metamorphs, or one of Bellatrix's old associates from the War." He shrugged. Shrugged. As though it didn't even matter, which was just—

Does it, though? Blaise asked, whispering into his mind. She's still the same person she was twenty minutes ago, you know.

Uh, yeah, I kind of think it does, Harry thought back, before shoving Blaise out of his head, uncomfortably reminded of (maybe) sleep-legilimising Riddle while he went and possessed Crouch.

And now he was thinking about that again, which just... He groaned, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a dull thunk.

"So, are you going back to sleep?" Blaise asked. "Because I'm pretty awake, now, but I can go."

No. The only thing Harry really felt sure of at the moment was that he definitely wasn't going back to sleep. "You can stay. But do me a favor?"

"Hmm?"

"Put on some bloody pants, Blaise. Please." He really couldn't deal with trying not to look anywhere he really shouldn't be looking when he had so many other things to try not to think about at the same time.

Blaise just laughed at him, teasing fucking bastard.


"So," Severus said, looking from the ernest, convincingly concerned Zabini to the sullen, embarrassed Potter and back. "In sum, you believe that Potter somehow slipped into the Dark Lord's mind, in his sleep, from halfway around the bloody world, in some strange initial manifestation of his talent as a legilimens?"

Zabini nodded. "Basically, yes."

"You do realise that Potter is far too sullen and puerile to be the Morrigan. Not to mention too male."

Potter obviously had no idea what Severus was talking about, because he clearly suspected he'd just been insulted. If he had ever heard of the Queen of Nightmares he would realise that, no matter how disparagingly Severus might phrase it, such a comparison was anything but an insult.

He had been skeptical when Zabini first told him the boy was a legilimens, but upon reflection he had decided that this development was not entirely surprising. He hadn't had the experience to notice at the time, but in hindsight, there was no way Lily's talent for manipulating people had been entirely natural. She hadn't been a proper mind mage — he certainly would have noticed that — but he suspected she'd had just enough unconscious insight into the minds of those around her to portray herself as exactly the person they wanted to see in her, maybe encourage them to overlook some of the more egregious deviations from such a persona. Really, the ease with which she'd picked up Occlumency ought to have given it away. He simply hadn't realised at the time how unusual her intuitive grasp of the subject was because, well, after ten years in her company, he'd probably have been more surprised if he'd introduced her to a new branch of magic and she hadn't intuitively grasped the basic principles.

Magic had liked Lily.

"I'm pretty sure the Morrigan could make you think she was a fourteen-year-old boy if she wanted to, but that is so not the point. Look, just look at the memory, that's all I'm asking."

And then, if it turned out that Potter's legilimency had manifested in the most impossible, ridiculous, Potter-esque way it possibly could have, they would doubtless expect Severus to do something to fix it. Because, well... If he really had done what Zabini thought he had done (impossible for at least three different reasons...assuming Potter wasn't actually the Morrigan fucking with him) — which Severus had a sinking suspicion he had, if only because, well, Potters lived to make his life difficult, this was a verifiable fact — someone should do something. Though Severus hadn't the faintest idea what.

He was going to have to come up with something, though, because if (when) the Dark Lord realised that there was some sort of...connection, between the two of them, he'd eat Lily's son alive. Possibly literally — the wraith had to be sustaining itself somehow, possessing creatures and subsuming their life-energy was Severus's most reasonable guess as to how.

"Very well," he muttered. "Potter?"

"Er, what?"

"The memory, Potter."

"Uh..."

"We haven't really done memory transfers yet. I figured it would be easier to wait until he'd come into his talent," Zabini explained.

Probably true, but hardly helpful. "Fine. Potter, I'm going to legilimise you to examine the memory. Don't fight me."

"But, what if I don't want—" the boy began, though he cut himself off as he felt Severus enter his mind, seeking the memory which should be relatively near the surface of his thoughts, they had been talking about it for several minutes, now. Get out of my head, Snape, he thought furiously instead, making a valiant attempt to circumscribe Severus's presence, push him back out.

Not that it would work, Severus had been doing this longer than he'd been alive. He allowed the boy to push back the obtrusive projection, simultaneously slipping a far less substantial probe past his guard. Potter was, interestingly enough, clearly aware of its presence as well, though he couldn't quite manage to hold it well enough to trap him or repulse him entirely. Instead he resorted to snatching memories out of Severus's reach, blocking his attempts to reach the necessary incident with a looping chain of dark, cramped memories, one leading smoothly, almost indistinguishably to the next, a maze of... Is this a bloody boot cupboard, Potter?

The question prompted a related memory, though one which certainly wasn't intended to be part of the loop: Petunia Evans — Dursley — shrieking at him, perhaps five or six years old, ordering him into the cupboard for some minor misbehavior or other. It was snatched away too quickly for Severus to determine exactly what his offence had been, but certainly not too quickly for him to orient himself, escape from the (mostly) disconnected loop into the boy's memory-structure proper.

Fuck, you weren't supposed to see that!

As though Severus wasn't fully aware of that muggle slag's abuses. He had questioned her after Black had gone to examine the blood ward, after all.

The embarrassment that rippled through the boy's mind suggested he'd forgotten about that. This was followed by a few half-suppressed flashes of other memories he really didn't want Severus to see, the reasons, presumably, that he didn't want Severus in his mind at all, brought to the forefront of his consciousness by the very fact of Severus having caught a glimpse of one.

I have no interest in your petty secrets, Potter. What part of my trying to help you do you not understand?

The part where you fucking hate me? the boy suggested, striking out at him, attempting to find the line between their minds.

Honestly? How had he expected this meeting to proceed without allowing Severus to examine the incident?

What are you— Fucking ow, Harry! Zabini snapped, as the ill-focused attack entirely failed to distinguish Severus from the background noise of his mind, but found a lingering connection to the other young legilimens quite easily. Someone once told me it's rude, lurking invisibly, he 'said', presumably in defense of his having been caught. Which it was, but that was hardly the issue at hand.

Someone also told you that lurking is rude in general, Zabini.

Oh. My. God. If you two are going to argue, do it in Blaise's head!

We're not arguing. Who's arguing? I was just going to say, he doesn't hate you, he—

Severus, unlike Potter, was fully capable of expelling an invader from his consciousness. He himself, unfortunately, had a job to do before he could return to his own mind-space, happily ignoring Potter's existence, so far as such a thing was possible.

Potter, if you don't stop faffing about, I will hunt down every memory you least want me to see in pursuit of the only one of any interest to me whatsoever.

Resignation echoed through the boy's mind, envisioned walls appearing around Severus's disembodied form, a doorless, windowless corridor leading to a single memory.

A memory which, when Severus approached it, appeared to be exactly what Zabini had thought. Harry Potter, blessed or cursed with all of both his parents' capacity for driving Severus mad, had somehow managed to fall into the Dark Lord's mind, as though a madman on the other side of the bloody planet was, somehow, the closest, most convenient mind for his own wandering consciousness to fall into. While unconscious.

Severus withdrew, finding himself face to scowling, petulant face with a very familiar glare. "Damn it, Potter," he muttered. "Only you..." He sighed, trying to focus.

"So, I take it I was right?"

"Yeah," Potter said, caught between horror and resignation. Ha. At least he was equally aware of the absurdity that was his life.

"I knew it!"

Not exactly the sort of thing I want to celebrate, you smug bastard, Potter projected loudly, accompanied by a two-fingered salute in Zabini's direction.

"Sorry, sorry. So, Snape, what do we do now?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? There was a veritable slew of things Severus ought to do, in preparation for the Dark Lord's now-inevitable return — Barty was supposed to be dead, damn it! But as he unmistakably wasn't, and he was one of the more brilliant, resourceful young Death Eaters, it was only a matter of time until he managed to restore their Lord to power... But none of those had anything to do with the pressing issue of Harry bloody Potter unconsciously invading Riddle's mind.

"Firstly, you continue to practice your occlumency, Potter. Your attempt to repel me was not poorly done, but certainly not up to the task of protecting your mind from the Dark Lord, should he realise the existence of the apparent connection between you."

"Er...thanks?"

"No need to sound so surprised, Potter. I do give credit where it is due." It was hardly Severus's fault that Potter so rarely managed to earn it. "In case you missed the second half of that evaluation, however, the pertinent bit was that your defenses are far from adequate."

"...Right. But. Even if I do get good enough at occlumency to...keep him out, or even you...I was asleep. How am I supposed to do occlumency while I'm unconscious?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Really, the issue was more one of not doing legilimency, but the problem was ultimately the same — and not entirely unheard of in other young legilimens, though most dreamwalkers tended to meander into the minds of those who were physically nearest to them, with a slight preference for those with whom they were most familiar, much as they would if they had been awake whilst allowing their minds to wander. Since this sort of behavior was entirely subconscious, dreamwalkers tended to invade other unconscious minds, as they were generally foiled by even the most basic habitual occlumency.

Generally, the solution to this particular issue was to use specialised wards or amulets to limit the degree to which one's mind might stray in sleep, preventing the dreamwalker from coming into contact with other minds they might wander into, but physical distance didn't seem to be a factor in this case, which meant that the connection between the boy and the Dark Lord would not be limited by such facile methods. Barring that, most legilimens (barring those with certain psychological issues) grew out of dreamwalking around the same time they managed to stop straying into others' minds while awake, presumably because their conscious habits carried over into their subconscious. But Riddle would almost certainly realise that someone had a back door into his mind well before Potter reached that degree of unconscious self-control. It had taken Severus nearly six months to cease accidentally wandering into Lily's mind (which had been rather disturbing for multiple reasons), and he'd had far more self-control than her son even then.

Which simply left...some method of maintaining a sufficient degree of consciousness to catch one's mind wandering, and withdraw immediately.

"Lucid dreaming." It was really the only reasonable solution to attempt, and had the added benefit of being a relatively easy skill to master, once one had the initial knack for it.

"Er...what?"

"Learning to control your dreams," Zabini explained. "I hear it's almost like being awake, but because you're in your own dream, you can do whatever you want. Like, godlike powers to break the laws of magic whatever you want."

"What, seriously?"

Zabini nodded. "Sounds cool, right?"

"Er, yeah, how've you never mentioned this before?"

The other boy shrugged. "Didn't think of it. I can't do it, so it's not like I think about it very often."

"Oh." Potter suddenly sounded very disappointed, though he did an admirable job of keeping the psychic manifestation of the emotion to himself. "So, it's really difficult, then?"

"Er, no, not really, I don't think? It's just, well, you kind of have to have dreams to have lucid dreams."

"Everybody dreams, Blaise," Potter said, with a certainty reminiscent of Granger quoting a textbook.

"I don't."

"Are you seriously telling me you don't remember ever having a single dream?"

Zabini shrugged, throwing a helpless look at Severus. (Purely for the show of it, he expected.) "No, I don't. And yes, I know that's weird."

"Yeah, but, you know, sometimes that bears repeating. Because you're really weird."

"Potter, stop flirting." Severus only barely managed to maintain his habitual frown as the boy went positively scarlet. Zabini flipped him off behind Potter's back, glaring furiously, which was nearly equally amusing, especially since Severus was fairly certain that this would in no way impair the development of their...relationship. (Personally, he didn't see the appeal, but the idea of Zabini playing nursemaid to Potter's myriad insecurities was vastly preferable to the alternative of his being co-opted to direct and aid in Black's antics, so he did theoretically support said...relationship.) If anything, knowing that even Severus was aware of his fancy might encourage the idiot to pull his head out of his arse and do something about it. "Lucid dreaming is not an especially difficult skill. I will send you a book on the subject. The first step in the approach most people find reliably effective is to record your dreams, though it can also be helpful arranging to be woken at random intervals, as most people tend only to remember their most recent dream before waking. It would behoove you to begin practicing immediately."

"Er. Right."

"See, I told you he wouldn't be an arse about it," Zabini said — a lead-in, Severus was certain, to an attempt to discomfit him in turn. No doubt a reference to his relationship with Lily was forthcoming.

"Language, Zabini. And it would hardly do to discourage one of the few instances of responsible behavior demonstrated by any Gryffindor." Really, if he could find a way to compel Potter to bring all Riddle-related issues — or even potentially life-threatening issues in general — to him rather than running off and doing something near-suicidally stupid in an attempt to resolve said problems himself, Severus thought he might.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure it has nothing to do with this clearly being a Lily problem, not just Harry being a complete Potter."

Of course. Predictable, Zabini.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Snape was like, school-boy arch-nemeses with your father, but there's no way he can blame you being a legilimens or having some weird connection to Riddle on him. He wasn't the one fucking around with soul magic when you were a baby, and the Potters don't have any legilimens in their family tree for, like, six generations. Which just leaves your mum. And Snape liked Lily. So he really can't be too annoyed about all this, even if it does mean he has to deal with us over hols."

"Surely my lack of overt annoyance could have nothing to do with receiving advanced warning of the Dark Lord's imminent return. Barty Crouch was one of the more intelligent of my cohort, and one of the most loyal to Riddle personally, rather than the Cause, even before being sent to Azkaban and then held captive by his own father for untold years. If he somehow fails to return Riddle to a body, and thence to power in his quest for revenge against Crouch Senior and the British government at large, I would be shocked. It truly is now a matter of when he returns, not if."

As though they hadn't been sufficiently fucked with Bella's escape. Though, to be fair, he'd yet to receive any word indicating that she'd left the veela, so perhaps she'd decided to lie low for the time being. Stranger things had happened. Delacour seemed to be under the impression she had no intention of attempting to return Riddle to power herself, for example. (Though that really only meant that she and Riddle were separate incredibly dangerous threats to be concerned with.)

"Nah, I'm sticking with this one clearly being on Evans."

"I recommend the two of you keep each other company for the next few nights, until Potter gets into the habit of documenting his dreams."

Potter went very red again. Zabini pouted at him. "Now you're just being mean."

He was, yes. Well spotted. "It is the summer holiday, you can hardly expect to be treated with the same consideration as when you are legitimately my responsibility."

"Er...so. I just...need to start writing down my dreams?" Potter said, making a valiant attempt to force the subject away from his blatantly obvious interest, and Zabini's equally obvious disinclination to do anything about it.

Severus nodded. "In as much detail as possible, the theory being that you will begin to pay more attention to your dreams, thus attaining a greater degree of consciousness within them. If Zabini is unable to wake you at random intervals, I'm certain Black will be more than willing to do so." Potter, rather unexpectedly, grew even more awkward at that suggestion. Even more unexpectedly, Zabini did as well. Significantly less-so, but still. Severus gave the two of them a put-upon sigh. "Do I even want to know?" (He did, especially if Black had managed to do something that made Zabini uncomfortable.)

"I...may have told Harry Dumbledore's theory about Lyra's origins," Zabini explained.

Of course he had. Severus had mentioned it months ago, and the boy had decided that as the only truly reasonable explanation anyone had come up with for Lyra Black's existence and the fact that she was very clearly the same person as Bellatrix, it would be her final cover story. Anyone who managed to poke a hole in that one deserved to know that she was a bloody time traveller from an alternate dimension and the year 1963. (Severus had gotten the impression that Zabini was becoming a bit annoyed with Black's inability to keep her story straight.)

"She's, um... Okay, you knew Lestrange, right? Is Lyra...actually her clone?"

No, but it would make sense, wouldn't it? "Albus Dumbledore is many things, Potter, but he's not an idiot. That Bellatrix created Lyra using blood alchemy and arranged for her to be raised by some associate on the continent as an heir to her natal House is the most logical explanation for her existence." This did not seem to reassure the boy. Understandably, Severus supposed. He had heard of Bellatrix, obviously. "Just ask."

"Is she, um... That is, if Lyra is...basically the same person as Lestrange, does that mean she's, ah...insane?"

Severus just raised an eyebrow at that patently ridiculous question. Of course Black was insane, even Potter couldn't possibly have overlooked that — she'd faked his death only two weeks ago.

"You know what I— Like...mass-murdering insane, not just normal Lyra insane." The words were accompanied by an echo of concern for...Hermione Granger?

Severus suppressed a groan. If this was going where he thought it was going... He wasn't entirely unaware of the relationship between Granger and the junior Bellatrix (much as he might wish to be). Granger was nearly as obvious about her (conflicted) infatuation as was Potter, and Bellatrix, while largely oblivious to the nature of Granger's affections, was clearly partial to the muggleborn's company and therefore unlikely to rebuff her inevitable romantic advances. In the all too likely event that Miss Granger didn't realise the folly of such a relationship the first time Bellatrix inadvertently made her cry over some inane teenage drama, they would probably end up taking over Magical Britain within ten years.

"Given the degree of effort Miss Black has been known to put into limiting the collateral damage caused by her pranks, one can only assume that whoever raised her was a better influence than those who raised Bellatrix." Never mind that Granger was almost certainly safe from Black, in any case — Bellatrix was very loyal, after her own fashion. Anyone Granger happened to have a problem with, on the other hand...

(Minerva McGonagall appearing in her tartan night-dress at Severus's door to complain about the junior Bellatrix breaking into her rooms — to threaten her over the Weasley girl's sleeping arrangements, supposedly at Granger's behest — was one of the funniest things he had ever seen. Especially since he hadn't the slightest idea what she'd expected him to do about it, he had actually been on Weasley's side in that little contest of wills. Doubly so since he was quite certain Granger hadn't intended for Black to go threaten Minerva when she'd asked her to solve Weasley's problem.)

"That wasn't a no," Potter pointed out.

"Come off it, Harry, I already told you they aren't the same person, really."

"Yeah, but you didn't actually know Lestrange."

"No, but you do know Lyra. Do you think she would just go around killing people for the fun of it?"

"Well no, but she does kill giant talking spiders for fun, and she has suggested killing people before, and the more I think about it the more I think she might have actually been serious about that."

"Yeah, well, the Dursleys are abusive twats, so."

"That's not the point, Blaise!"

"It is, actually," Severus intervened. "It is hardly as though Bellatrix became a murderer through a psychotic break. Miss Black has thus far limited herself to acting out her more destructive tendencies on targets which are largely socially acceptable. She is unlikely, I think, to decide to kill a human without a very good excuse, or permission from someone she considers a reference for socially acceptable behaviour. Riddle is by far the greater threat, and the one upon which you should be focused."

"Lyra's on our side, she's not a threat at all," Zabini corrected him. Inaccurately — Bellatrix was always a threat, her primary loyalty being to Chaos, rather than any mortal 'side'.

But Severus was not inclined to argue the point. "In any case, you have more imminent problems to deal with. Continue to practice your occlumency, begin cataloguing your dreams as soon as possible, and send your owl to me tomorrow morning to pick up that book."

Potter nodded. "Yes, sir. Er...thank you."

An unsolicited honorific and an expression of gratitude? Would wonders never cease! Severus nodded back. "Very well, then. If you have no more relevant questions — regarding Riddle, not Miss Black — there are other matters I must attend to today," he announced, rising to leave. Like start brushing up on his dueling skills, and find some way to alert Dumbledore to Barty's survival and current course of action, preferably without alerting him to the fact that Potter apparently had some sort of soul magic connection to the disembodied Dark Lord.

"Of course," Zabini said quickly, obviously recognising that Severus's patience for this discussion was at an end. "Thank you for meeting with us. I'll see you out, sir."


So the first scene here takes place around 8 July, and the meeting with Sev is on 10 July, just a couple of days before Dora runs into Sev brushing up on his fighting skills.

FYI, Severus completely fails to come up with any reason that he could possibly know about Barty's survival and his tracking down Voldie without telling him about Harry's connection to Riddle. —Leigha

It still amuses me that Severus and Harry have pretty much the same exact opinion about Lyra and Hermione's relationship. —Lysandra