Disclaimer:  Hello?  Anyone here still *really* think I don't yet know HP isn't mine?  Doggone it.

Chapter 30

I've never been here before, I realize as I Apparate into a small churchyard and travel towards my destination.  Intuitively I *know* where I'm being called to go, and I suppress my annoyance that the indicator should be gauged by the amount of pain the Mark sears into my arm.  The closer I get the more painful it becomes.  Such lovely touches Voldemort thinks of.  Amazing this life *ever* appealed to me.  As I pass through the overgrown graveyard, I see Muggle cars parked along a street, and cozy little cottages lit from within merrily behind drawn curtains in the evening drizzle.  *Not* the sort of place I expect *him*.  I press hard against the Mark, the act at least reassuring although in reality it does nothing to ease the pain.  The weather, although typical, has forced everyone indoors for which I'm thankful.  It's never fun to try to be inconspicuous in robes amidst Muggle jeans and raincoats, umbrellas and galoshes. 

I see my final destination, and find *it* is not so surprising.  It's some sort of large house, more like a manor, dilapidated, with broken windows and doors boarded over.  I can see that its garden has overgrown to such a degree in the twilight that much of the actual detail of the home itself is hidden behind ivy and weeds.  Ironically, it's nearly the classic definition of what Muggles like to refer to as a haunted house.  The thought of foolish teenagers daring each other to spend the night inside when my Mark tells me what is already there sends chills through my veins.  Let the weather keep fools and romantics away at least until he's left, I pray. 

My heart beats in my throat, as it always does when I've been summoned.  I know it's wrong to feel so alive when I know I stride so close to death, but it happens nonetheless.  The air smells fresh, the overgrown garden I'm travelling through makes my fingers itch to pluck through, searching for herbs and other useful ingredients for my potions.  Old overgrown gardens like this are ripe for heirloom seeds, soon to be lost or forgotten, replaced by Muggle Technicolor fruits and vegetables, the precious herbs perceived as weeds to be yanked out and replaced by monstrous rose gardens.  I shiver at the thought.  Gack.    My footsteps echo loudly in my ears, wet yet crisp.  The charms I've placed on my robes keep me warm and dry, merely a spectator of the weather rather than its victim. 

When I first took up the role of spy, I found an interesting correlation between my life path's choice and a Muggle game.  At first, due to its reference, I thought it had real historical origins.  Russian roulette is the game.  With a Muggle gun, put one bullet in the chamber and spin it.  Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger.  If the odds work for you, you live.  But there's always *that* chance.  I had to look into it, to find out more.  What kind of people would play a game like this?  Why?  In truth, I was mildly disappointed.  There *is* no hard proof as to this game's origins, although evidently it's still played today.  The closest I could come was a book written in the 1930s describing Russian roulette, only played with five bullets in the chamber and one empty slot, not one bullet and five empty slots.  Different game altogether, isn't it?  It's more of a dance with suicide than chance.  The more I've thought about it, the more I've realized I'm playing the second version of the game.  I've got one shot at life, at least one I find acceptable to *live* with. 

I don't pretend to expect to live through this.  I'm not naïve.  I'm not going to live to a ripe old age, have little rugrats to care for, and bouncy grandchildren to tell my life story to.  Heh.  That'd teach them.  I'm not going to die in my sleep, or of natural causes.  And when I die, there will be *very* few people to mourn my passing.  As in… maybe one or two.  I'm going to die painfully, and young.  Although I certainly *feel* old.  I'm going to die alone, in agony, with my dignity stripped away by an Unforgivable Curse… and not regret a moment. 

Because the path I chose before this was no path at all.  Muggles have an idea of Heaven and Hell that I find amusing, for the most part.  But parts of it ring true to me.  There are some people in this world that are truly evil.  Some places naturally corrupt.  I've met evil, allied myself with it.  And finally seen it as it truly is.  Flashier, simpler, easier, but *not* better.  As I step around the pried open boarded door and into the musty, rotten manor, I know I have entered such a place.  Evil lives here, manifests here.  And I wonder, not for the first time, and hopefully not the last, if this is it.  Will this be the last place I see before I die? 

Lovely.  I'm as melancholic as the weather.  Sighing, I take several slow steps inside until I'm confident that no one has followed.  I cast a light spell and look around as it appears with a faint crackling sound, holding the handful of shimmering light in one hand as I carry my wand in the other.  Shadows are appropriate in this place.  I've stepped into an enormous entryway, with dusty marble floors and ornately carved wooden columns that rise to the ceiling in a half circle, showcasing the spider web shrouded crystal chandelier that still manages to reflect hundreds of tiny rainbows throughout the room.  The cheerful spectral arcs of color seems so completely out of place in this dank relic of a home, as if the tiny rainbows are little raspberries being blown into the face of hate itself.  I struggle not to smile, and realize Dumbledore must *really* be rubbing off on me to find this all so amusing. 

"At peace with your Maker, Potions Master?" a voice hisses behind me, and instantly I feel the nub of a wand point digging into my neck.  Only one man has ever been capable of sneaking up on me like this.  A man I loathe and pity and hate for what he's become... for what I made of him. His Animagus form makes him remarkably silent, and this is not the first time he's snuck up on me completely unawares.  That he's the *only one* gives me no comfort. 

"How about yours, Pettigrew?  Any happy faces waiting to greet you on the other side?" I reply, my voice calm and biting.  It's odd how I've always responded to stress.  The worse my circumstances become, the more in control I am.  Is this why I've succeeded as long as I have as a spy?  Better nix that thought before I jinx myself.  At the moment, though, he's showing more aggression towards me than he *ever* has before, which doesn't bode well. 

"You're just as bad as I am.  Don't look down that beaky nose at me, Professor, for I know you're just as much a product of *him* as I am.  Only at least I didn't willingly seek this life out," he said.  Ouch.  That much is certainly true. 

"Killed any children lately?  Cedric was quite the menacing threat, wasn't he?" I ask, and let my hatred slip through.  My disgust at the pointless death of Diggory helped renew my own hunger for Voldemort's defeat.  So much death.  Fingers curl through my hair and pull my head back, exposing my neck.  Pettigrew's wand tip caresses my throat for a moment menacingly, from the tip of my chin, off the slope of my Adam's Apple, down to the top of my clavicle.  He presses it in, and I can feel the wand bend with the tension even as it bruises my skin. I fight the urge to swallow. 

"He shouldn't have been there.  It's not my fault he was," Pettigrew replies, and I can sense his shrug.  Quite nonchalant.  I frown.  He's acting awfully self-possessed.  Much more so than I've *ever* seen him behave before.  It's keeping me off balance, and I'm finding it difficult to piece together my next actions. Either way, it appears my time is up.  For Pettigrew does nothing of his own accord, and never has.  He is not decisive, by any stretch, but his eyes are ever watchful, and sometimes I find myself wondering what goes on in that mind of his.  I've called Pettigrew many things in this lifetime and the last, but never dumb.  Never.

"So brave…  Gryffindor through and through," I mock, the ridicule a reminder of what he *should* have been, who he failed, all he betrayed.

He pulls me nearly off balance by the back of my robe, making it difficult to breathe or swallow.  Chills zing up and down my spine and I struggle for my composure not to slip at the strange sensations that jolt through me.  It's that hand of his.  That's what he's got at the base of my skull.

"He's going to Azkaban once he's done with you, traitor.  The emissary has already been favorably received.  He's coming for the boy," he says, his voice oddly hollow.  Traitor.  They know.  How?  Pettigrew, of course.  I feel resignation surround me like a shroud.  Yes, today's the day.  I'm much more deadly in combat than Pettigrew, but with his wand at my throat and his strange magical hand entangled in the hood of my robe… things aren't going well so far.  Instead I try another tack.

"You were free, once.  Why did you come back?" I ask, and I feel him pause at the genuine curiosity in my voice.  I hate this man, but know I made him once.  The guilt I carry for the blows I've dealt, I face nightly.  I see his sweaty, broken face, the blood vessels nearly bursting through the skin on his eyelids, around his temple, at his jugular.  The reddish, purple coloring of his flesh, of the pain he endured.  Telltale signs of my *skills*.  But for all that I've done to him, what he's chosen to remain is entirely upon him.  Given all he's sacrificed and the ridicule he endures even amongst the other Death Eaters, it's never been clear why he returned at all, not when *everyone* thought him dead. 

"He'll never rest.  He'll never stop.  He'll never give up, until I'm dead," Pettigrew whispers in my ear, and I shiver at the raw terror in his voice.  Not Voldemort.  Sirius Black.  A coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero dies but once, the quote echoes in my mind.  I can't remember who said that.  How many times have you died, Peter?  As much as I despise the man, I suspect I'm much better at giving pain than Black could ever be.  Ironic that who Pettigrew ran *to* is far worse than Black could ever hope to be.

"That afraid of death?" I ask scornfully.  Sometimes, I've rather thought death would be a blessing, a relief to finally be done, for my burdens to be taken upon other shoulders.  There *is* such a thing as above and beyond the call of duty.

"That afraid of him.  Death…  I've *been* dead, or haven't you noticed?  This is my punishment," Pettigrew says and disentangles his hand from my robe to wave it in front of my face.  Its Dark Magic hums with power.  How much stronger a wizard is he now that he carries Voldemort's gift? I wonder.  It glows faintly in the dim illumination, shimmering in an almost hypnotic way, leaving a ghostly shadow of its form like a comet trail in the night. 

"Poor misunderstood Peter, look what's become of him," I taunt, unsure why I'm doing so.  Maybe it's my rage at his weakness.  My head snaps back again, his icy cold hand once again entwined in my hair, and he's pulled me close to the point where his warm, rancid breath caresses the side of my face. 

"Survive the night, Potions Master, and we all might have a chance.  If I'm right…" he says, and stops as brisk footsteps echo through a hallway to my left.  What on Earth was *that* about?  What little I can see of this home is that it is enormous, with doorways leading off into numerous different directions.  Out of the darkness, Lucius Malfoy steps.  He doesn't even bother with light charms, traveling easily in the darkness.  As he enters my small ring of light, his gray eyes gleam eerily, reflecting red like an animal at night caught in a stray beam of firelight. 

"Severus," he says, his voice smooth, soothing… disappointed.  Yes, definitely my cue to go. 

"Lucius," I reply and feel my heart plummet into my stomach as my wand slips from my fingers.  Pettigrew steps away from me, his wand now aimed at my back, and slips my wand into his robe pocket, patting it as if to validate its security there.  My illumination flickers and dies, leaving us in total darkness for a moment.  I listen to Peter's uneven breathing and the faint rustle of Lucius' robes as he stands beside me.  Now?  Should I make a move now?  No, Pettigrew alone I could have taken.  Not Lucius and him both… not wandless.

"Why?" Lucius asks simply as Pettigrew pushes me forward, propelling me towards the hallway Lucius came from.  Until I hear Voldemort himself saying I am a traitor, it could still be a ploy, a trick to force me to reveal myself. 

"Why what?" I reply, and torches begin to light up magically as we proceed further into the bowels of the decrepit home, no more windows in evidence for easy escape.  Lucius shakes his head.  "Never mind, Severus.  Our relationship was never forthright.  I suppose I'll have my answer soon enough," he says in disappointment.  We are all silent as I follow Lucius, and I quickly analyze my options.  Lucius is deadly in combat.  Right now, escape isn't a likely possibility, so I settle instead in waiting for an opportunity to present itself.  I realize that if indeed tonight's the night they kill me, I will need to sever the link with Potter, or he'll die with me.  Merlin, don't let him be there when they do.  I pause at that last thought.  When?  That's not good, Severus.  *If*, not *when*. 

I catch glimpse of a portrait painting, faded with time and age.  Its subjects are seated primly at either side of a young child, his face solemn and bitter.  This painting finally answers the question of *where* I am.  The Riddle House.  For whomever is in that painting is clearly related to Voldemort.  No wonder thieves didn't take it.  I wouldn't either.  I'm glad *I* appreciate my humor, even if no one else does.  Of course, the occasional untimely snort isn't usually a good idea amongst Death Eaters, so I refrain.

The home itself is impressive even in its current state.  Graffiti occasionally is painted across the walls in the rooms with vaulted ceilings.  Silly nicknames and messages that hold no meaning for me are written, messages left from teenagers in rebellion against their own hormones.  The hallway is strewn with light squares of wall space much brighter than the rest of its surrounding paint.  It's where paintings once hung, and I suspect most of the truly valuable things have been gutted and looted already from this home.  Only the family portraits, plus a couple of surprisingly ugly, discolored canvases trying to pass themselves off as landscape and scenic panoramas remain.  Discerning vandals.  How appropriate for this place.  I'm surprised the crystal chandeliers are intact. Perhaps no one but me has bothered to look up.  Rich wooden paneling and ornate rosettes on the walls, coffered ceilings in the smaller rooms I pass through, and masses of books remain.  If *I* were looting this place, the books would have gone first.  In its time, this home must have been splendid indeed for a Muggle home.  No illusion spells, just simple, extravagant opulence. We begin to head down spiraling stair cases that I suspect were for the staff as opposed to the family members. 

Why indeed? Lucius' question echoes in the stillness of the home. Why did I become a spy?  There are so many reasons, but one lesson in particular still stands out in my mind.  It's when I got what I wished for.  An education. 

When I first met him, all I could see was Voldemort's brilliance, charisma, charm, and his biting wit.  He was more of a natural leader then, when he couldn't rest on his laurels and rule through fear.  He played on our strengths, preyed on our weaknesses.  It was magnificent to watch.  He's still the best I've ever seen at Dark Magic, his natural aptitude nearly limitless.  But back then he had a hunger for *knowledge* that only perhaps Lupin and Granger could rival.  *That* is what he promised me.  At Hogwarts, knowledge was restricted to a privileged few, the favored.  I would never be one of those.  But to *him*, I was a prize.  Wanted.  And, oh, how eager he was to teach!

Looking back, I think he was always insane, he just kept it in tighter rein.  It would slip out every now and again, but the snarling menace that haunts Potter's dreams didn't start that way.  My realization of his madness started with a gift.  For me.  I'd found a tome of potions dating back centuries, one which I eagerly studied.  Its incantations were dark and haunting, and the complex potions filled my imagination with their complexity.  This book was brilliant.  Its subtle blend of magic and herb and forbidden nuances.  I've always loved potions, but these…  These were magnificent.  Complex, challenging.  Only a Master could create them, contain them.  Of course, I'd never intended to use them.   It's amazing what a man can delude himself with when forced to.  What lengths he'll go to lie to himself, to justify and rationalize his desires. 

It was a seduction.  I see that now.  The potions Voldemort gave me to learn, to study, were increasingly sinister, increasingly powerful and thick with Dark Magic.  I saw his hunger for my creations, and gladly immersed myself in making them.  I look back and see now that I always knew what the others were doing.  That enemies of Voldemort were being systematically killed, even back then.  That Muggles were cattle to be tortured and murdered for sport.  But I deluded myself with the notion that for me, it was purely academia.  If I did not partake, then I was safe.  Then I didn't have to worry about right and wrong, foolish notions used only to teach children.  This was *art*, and who was I to stop its creation? 

He was a homeless Muggle, reeking of booze and filth.  He looked much older than I suspect he actually was.  His face was lined with wrinkles and liver spots, and his nose and cheeks was rosy and littered with broken blood vessels.  A chronic drinker then.  When the Muggle obediently followed Voldemort into my chambers, I couldn't comprehend why he would be there. 

"I have a gift for you, my boy," Voldemort said and proceeded to transfigure a chair into a metal table with straps.  The man was oddly still, and I realized Voldemort controlled him with the Imperius Curse as the Muggle obediently stepped up onto the table and allowed the straps to bind around him.  "You asked me to teach you, Severus.  It's time for a lesson," he said and stepped behind me.  I felt a strange floating sensation distance my mind from what I *wanted* to do.  It was so much easier to listen to the voice inside my head.  I still held the flask of potion I'd just created in my hand.  Yes, good idea.  I walked over to the Muggle, who was now wide eyed with terror, no longer under the curse.  His eyes struck me as so… human.  It's easy to hate someone from afar, but this Muggle *was* someone.  He had a name, and a childhood, and he just stumbled into a nightmare his mind probably never even dreamed of.  He whimpered as I magically forced his mouth open, and in numb shock, I watched as I tipped the dark potion down the man's throat.  Abruptly, I was back in control once again.  I still don't know if fighting the Imperius Curse would have assuaged my guilt any, but even now I remember how easily I gave up control to *him*, allowed him to make my decisions for me. 

"I haven't created the antidote for this yet," I say.  He chuckles. 

"Dark magic potions are about sin and death, Severus.  Haven't you wondered what it would be like to actually see one in action?  To see something you created, you gave birth to, come to fruition?" he asks.  I had.  "You've created something few people in the world can make.  You've read what it's supposed to do.  Don't you want know for sure if the book is accurate?" he asks.  To my shame, I did.  I would never have said it aloud, but the more Dark Magic I imbued into my potions, the more I hungered to see them at work.  It was an itch inside of me, in my gut.

The Muggle's eyes flit from Voldemort to myself as we have this conversation.  He understands what we're saying, but I suspect he thinks this is a nightmare, and that he's going to wake up at any moment.  His breath reeks of cheap wine and cigarettes, and his clothes are filthy.  His beard still contains food from his previous meal, and his hands and fingernails are black with grime.  I think he's still slightly drunk, and I cannot help the urge to keep my distance from him, as if his hard luck is catching. 

"I'll be back in an hour's time, Severus.  Have fun," he says and leaves me with this man.  My first victim.  When his convulsions begin, I feel terror and unreality wash over me.  The first thing I can think of is that there still might be time.  I might be able to make the antidote, if....  The next hour flies past, and I occasionally glance over at the man who is now begging and screaming incoherently in my chambers, his words no longer understandable.  I succeed in creating the antidote, a feat in and of itself.  I've rushed a potion for the first time in my life.  I've forced the magical forces to bind faster than they were meant to, and I believe I've succeeded.  I approach the man for only the second time.  He is on the threshold.  I almost didn't make it.  As I'm about to administer the antidote, a hand wraps around my wrist and pulls it away from the man's face.  I struggle against him. 

"See, Severus?  So close to the edge…  Look at his eyes," Voldemort whispers reverently.  As I watch, I can see sanity begin to drain from his expression.  It is too much.  I struggle harder.  It's nearly too late to save his sanity, but it's not too late to save his life.  "Why are you fighting this, Severus?  Look.  Look at his face.  Look at the madness.  Isn't it beautiful?" he says.  I shake my head.  The man is drooling, his lips open in a scream, but sound no longer escapes his throat.  Occasional nonsensical words escape him.  His eyes roll around, focusing on nothing. He thrashes his head about, heedless of the damage he's causing to himself, straining against the straps.  There is no longer any room in his mind for anything but the pain my potion has inflicted.

"Let me go.  I've made the antidote, and I have to see if it works," I beg.  I'm trying anything to appeal to his sensibilities, to make him let me save this Muggle's life. 

"You were always so talented, Severus.  Clever, how you forced that antidote to fuse prematurely.  Do you think it'll work?  Even rushed like it was?" he asks me.  I nod my head eagerly as the gibbering man before begins to breathe erratically.  His body can no longer contain the poison.  It's eating its way out from the inside. 

"Yes," I say, a plea.  He chuckles as the Muggle ceases to breathe for a moment. 

"Why, Severus?  It's already too late," he says, and quirks his head to the side like a puzzled puppy.  It's unnerving. 

"Let me try," I beg again.  He laughs merrily and plucks the antidote out of my hand entirely.  He places the flask to the side of the Muggle's face but does not tip it.  

"*This* is his life, Severus.  Your potion is Death stoppered.  It's magnificent.  Life and death," he says, tilting his head towards the Muggle for a moment, then leaning away and waving the flask dramatically.  Abruptly he sets aside the antidote aside and grabs my hand.  He presses it against the Muggle's neck and I feel the faint pulse fading.  The man's breathing isn't normal anymore at all.  Instead it's jerky and unnatural.  As I watch, the Muggle goes unnaturally still, and I realize he's died.  He has blue eyes, I note absently.  They're looking right at me.

"I think the antidote would have worked," I say ridiculously.  I feel numb, and stunned, and sick inside.  The Dark Mark, before a mark of pride, of rebellion, now burns.  It's mocking my decisions, my choices.  I don't know what else to say to this man I've sworn allegiance to. 

"Why do you persist in turning a blind eye to this last step?  If you don't use your creations, you're not a Potions Master, you're a fraud.  Death is an art as much as life.  If you are unwilling to learn it, your commitment to knowledge is a lie.  Life and healing are only one half of the equation, pain and death the other.  When you first were about to give this Muggle the antidote, did you really think he could just be Obliviated and returned to his old life?  Pathetic as it was, of course," Voldemort asks, and awaits my answer.  Refusing to vomit, I try to say something intelligible. 

"Yes, I did," I reply.  He shakes his head fondly, as if amused by my naïveté. 

"The Dark Arts are fascinating.  They give us tiny glimpses into a world no one is willing to admit exists.  It's the realm of the unconscious, the unspoken.  It's where pain cannot be completely forgotten… ever.   Unless you'd administered that antidote only ten minutes into its intake, you wouldn't have saved this Muggle's life.  Not in the long run.  Within several months time, he'd have committed suicide anyway.  See, Severus?  There's so much left for you to learn," he says and pats my shoulder affectionately.  Some moments are so vivid, the shame so tangible, that I'd give anything to be able to Memory Charm myself. 

"I've given you a toy, Severus, and you've broken it.  I'm so proud of you," he says, and I realize he means it.  His voice brims with emotion.  He pats my back one last time and leaves.  As I face the lifeless Muggle, I realize I have just killed a man.  My first. 

Lucius opens a door at the end of the hall, seemingly the most inaccessible room in the entire home.  Pulled out of my reverie, I realize I'm finally at my destination.  My Dark Mark sings.  Voldemort is on the other side of that door.  Pettigrew pushes me forward, and I enter.  The room is filled with Death Eaters.  Probably fifteen in all.  Only the most loyal.  Their masked faces turn to look at me as one.  Yes, I'm cooked. 

"My prodigal son," Voldemort says fondly, his red eyes expressionless.  He's sitting in a high back chair that looks awfully similar to a throne by a fireplace, the only lighting in the room. 

"Master," I reply and kneel painfully, my knees protesting as they press against the cold stone floor.  I feel Pettigrew's foot on my back and he pushes me forward, sprawling headfirst into the center of the room.  Wandless and surrounded by Death Eaters.  Lovely. 

"Did you know Wormtail is quite a storyteller?" Voldemort asks from his seat, his face animated.  I say nothing.  "It's quite fascinating, the things he comes up with.  Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, has these dreams, you see…  He dreams of when I kill people.  Have you heard this story, Severus?" Voldemort asks, and I swear he looks like a cat playing with his meal before he kills it.  I remain silent.  "I questioned their authenticity, of course.  What a silly plot line.  Where would it go?  And it featured you, my boy, playing the role of traitor.  But you and I have gone round this before, haven't we?  We know where we stand," Voldemort says.  Even with all those men in the room, I could have heard a pin drop.  It was only Voldemort and myself. 

"Master," I say again, but am unsure how to proceed.  I don't. 

"I punished Wormtail for his impertinence.  This is my Potions Master we're talking about.  If *he* were in contact with the boy, surely I would have known by now.  I damaged my favorite pet because of you, Severus.  Only when Wormtail insisted on using a Pensieve did I realize I was trusting the wrong man," Voldemort says, then smiles again.  "Lie to me once, shame on you.  Lie to me twice… shame on me," Voldemort says, and holds his wand out.  "Crucio," he says forcefully, and I know nothing more as my reality narrows down to second by second moments of pain.  How long?  A minute?  An hour?  It could be a lifetime.  My body feels like it is losing its form, twisting on itself.  Abruptly, it stops.  My face is pressed against the stone floor, and I can't seem to catch my breath.  I seem to have lost muscle control for a moment, for all I can do is quiver uselessly. 

"Professor!" a voice says right next to me.  I jerk in surprise, but no one seems to notice.  Lucius is currently talking to Voldemort in hushed tones, and the Death Eaters are talking amongst themselves until the show begins again.  I force my eyes to turn to the side, and I see Potter lying next to me.  He looks bad.  His nose is bleeding and there is bruising on the side of his face. 

"Where did you get that?" I whisper.  Potter shrugs. 

"Convulsions, I think," he replies.  "Where are you?  I couldn't reach you.  I tried, I swear I did, but I couldn't.  Voldemort is going to kill you.  You have to get out of there," Potter says, and I suppress snorting at the obvious. 

"Good idea, Potter.  Smashing.  How do you propose I do so?" I ask him.  It strikes me as odd to find myself so ridiculously relieved to see Potter here.  He frowns as he weakly tries to push himself up on his hands and knees. 

"The spell.  Can I hold your soul for a while?  Until he's done torturing you?" Potter asks, his voice raspy.  How does the boy keep going? 

"What do you think he'll do when he's done?  Leave me alive?" I ask.  Potter frowns and bites his lower lip absently.  He's trembling all over, and he looks so thin now.  Emaciated.  Not that he was ever normal weight to begin with. 

"So I protect you until he kills you, then I help you remanifest in your own body.  It could work, couldn't it?" he asks.  I shake my head faintly.  Good.  A little muscle control is coming back to me now. 

"Potter, when he kills me, you die too unless we end the spell holding us together," I tell him.  His eyes are such a bright green now that it gives me chills.  Or perhaps it's the torture.  It could be either, really.  Potter is transparent, as I can see the door, my escape, *through* him. 

"You need me to do that, too, don't you?" he asks me.  Relieved that he understands, I nod. 

"All we have to do is say 'Finite Incantatem' at the exact same moment, and it's done.  We don't even need a wand," I tell him.  He smiles genuinely.  It's a rather strange response. 

"Good.  Because I'm not letting you die that easily.  Forget it, Professor.  We're in this together," he says determinedly.  I am stunned.  What?  What just happened here? 

"Potter, I'm about to die.  As you're bound to me with Albus' spell, you're going to die  as well," I say in a hissed whisper.  If anyone has noticed me talking to myself, I cannot tell. 

"So I can't help you with the bond thing we've got, then?" Potter asks thoughtfully. 

"As you so articulately put it, that *bond* thing is of no use here," I reply, angry.  Why, for once, doesn't someone, anyone, but most *especially* him, do what I ask?  Is this so hard? 

"Hmmm.  Magic...  Magic...  I never did try magic in my dreams like you suggested.  I didn't get a chance," Potter says regretfully, and looks at his empty hands.  He's now sitting on the ground and frowns as he bites the side of his cheek.  "Hmmm.  Accio Wand!" he says and looks around hopefully.  Nothing happens. 

"Your wand is being held by Fudge.  I doubt if it's even in Azkaban," I say weakly. 

"Then how am I supposed to *do* magic at all?" Potter asks me.  I roll my eyes. 

"Haven't you ever done magic without a wand?" I ask him incredulously.  I nearly snort at the look of bemusement that crosses his face.  "I take that as a yes," I say.  Even as a specter, he's blushing.  It's bizarre to see, trust me. 

"Yes," he agrees.  "Okay, so it's possible.  Is it just like using a wand?" Potter asks.  How can I teach wandless magic in less than five minutes?  I need ten at the very least, I think ironically.  At least my humor is still intact. 

"The wand is a conduit, a way to focus magical transmissions.  Your body does it naturally, especially as a child, but as you grow older and more powerful, you need insulation against the magic.  It grows as you do, and its power can burn you inside out if you don't protect yourself," I say. 

"Okay.  Too late to insulate myself," Potter says, completely undaunted, and holds his hand forward, deciding using it as a focal point might work. 

"Potter, did you hear me?" I ask and watch in horror as Lucius steps away from Voldemort.  The torture is about to begin again.  The room silences once more. 

"There's nothing to be done about it, Professor.  I'll keep the spells simple.  Just remember to *run* when I do it, okay?" Potter asks me. 

"Severus…  Where were we?  Ah.  Crucio," Voldemort says absently again, and I can hear Potter beside me as I convulse against the stone floor, reality turning away once again.  Even as awareness of everything but the pain fades, I find myself perversely reassured that Potter is beside me.  That I'm not alone.  It's not fun to learn these things about oneself so late in the game.  I thought I was at peace with this kind of death, but evidently I'm not.  I'm more fond of life than I anticipated.

"Expelliarmus!" Potter's shout breaks through the pain, and a wave of power blasts through me for a second.  Abruptly, the room is still.  I raise my head weakly and see the room scattered with the crumbled forms of Death Eaters.  They moan, and wands are littered across the stone floor.  I look at Potter.  He's lying on his side, panting heavily.  Blood now pours from his mouth. 

Fascinating.  I've never seen this sort of reaction to a first go at wandless magic.  Of course, for it to even *be* tried, normally the student must train for years.  The perimeter affect is normal, though.  Without the wand as a focus, the spell is dispersed three hundred sixty degrees.  Until the caster learns control, of course.  To compensate for the lack of focus.  What surprises me is the strength of the spell.  Magic without a wand is measured in three things:  ability, innate talent, and will.  I suspect it's Potters' will that has made his spell as strong as it has.  As if his Patronus and the ability to throw off the Imperius Curse isn't testament enough, I'm reminded once again of the hope Albus has placed in him.  If I had enough energy to articulate, I'd give tips and encouragement.  And critique, of course.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I'd critique.  But instead I can barely find my voice.

"Potter," I say.  He wheezes for a moment, his eyes looking around the room. 

"I've only got a few seconds left before I'm released from this dream, Professor.  Go!" he says.  Weakly, I climb to my feet.  "Stupefy!" he mutters, and the moaning around the room ceases.  Even Voldemort is on the floor, his chair on its side.  He's unconscious for the moment, but I have no idea how long it will last.  I can still feel the Apparition wards in place, although they're wavering at the moment.  I look back to the place where Potter was, but he's gone now. 

His magic blasted everyone in the room except me.  Remarkable.  I've been converted.  Hope has been for me a useless indulgence I've never bothered with.  I chose my life, and come what may I'll face what it brings me.  But for the first time in my life, something flutters in my heart.  Something obscenely… optimistic.  Great Merlin.  The specter of a boy near death, whose body resides in a cell in the most feared wizarding prison on Earth, has just knocked unconscious Voldemort himself and his group of Death Eaters.  Don't tell me that after all this time, Dumbledore was right about the boy? 

I approach Pettigrew cautiously.  He is perfectly still, his breath even. I reach out my hand weakly to reach into his robes for my wand.  His hand grabs my wrist abruptly.  Startled, I'm too weak to pull from his grasp.  His eyes open and he smiles brilliantly at me. 

"I was right," he says to me.  I look around.  Is anyone else waking up?  Why isn't Voldemort already conscious, if Pettigrew is?  He sees my puzzled expression and raises an eyebrow.  "I raised a few shields, just in case.  No one else expected this.  Relax.  You've got another half hour or so, and by then the Apparition wards will be fully down.  They'll know better than to even try to find you.  They're going to Azkaban anyway," he says to me.  I stare in shock as my wand slips into my palm.  He's given it to me.  Am I conscious?  Maybe this is a dream, because this most certainly would never happen in real life. 

"What?" I ask stupidly.  Not one of my finer questions.  Usually, I'm more articulate after a bought of Crucio, but I suspect I was held under longer than I have been in many years. 

"Does Harry know the nature of Dark Magic?" Pettigrew asks me as I still stare at my wand.  "Have they been taught that yet?  I can't remember what year they taught us," he says absently, and I force my focus back onto him.  What is he blathering on about?  I concentrate on the question, more difficult than it should be. 

"No," I say after a moment. 

"Then *you* must teach him," Pettigrew says urgently, looking deep into my eyes, trying to impress… something into me.  I'm too tired to know what.  Pettigrew releases my wrist and says passionately, "You must make him understand, Severus.  That's the price for your freedom."  I can live with that.  I nod.  He lets go and looks at me expectantly.  Right.

"Stupefy," I say, and he smiles again as the spell hits him.  I turn for the door and stumble out.  I memorized the way in, so reverse my steps accordingly.  After a ridiculously large amount of stairs, I finally breathe in a deep breath of fresh air.  I'm free.  I'm alive.  And bloody hell if, despite it all, I'm not feeling bloody *cheerful* as well.  Perhaps I've been driven insane and don't realize it.  I can't walk properly, and stumble about like a drunk.  My limbs still scream with pain and fatigue, and all I think is, I'm free.  They know I'm a spy.  I never have to go back to that life.  I never have to pretend again.  Come what may, my life as a Death Eater is over, and I have to suppress the urge to whistle a jaunty tune.  I owe a Wizard's Debt to Potter and Pettigrew.  Can life get any more surreal?  Now to save Potter's life in return...  Again. 

Don't you bloody die on me, Potter.  You won't be there for much longer, I promise, and am amazed at the emotion I invest in the thought of freeing him.  I decide not to pursue that line of thought much further.  Too much emotion in one day gives me heartburn.  Socrates says the unexamined life is not worth living.  A poem begins to run through my mind, one I learned many years ago, and seems oddly appropriate.  At this moment, I hold to the dream that I'll have enough energy to warn Dumbledore about Azkaban.  That he'll rescue Potter in time, and maybe… just maybe… we can win this war.

Yet ah, why should they know their fate
Since sorrow never comes too late
And happiness too quickly flies.

Thought would destroy their paradise.
Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.

TBC…

Author's Notes:  First and foremost, credit for the above poem goes to Gray's "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College".  Secondly…  I apologize profusely for the delay in posting.  I'm moving this weekend, and all that this entails.  I've been ridiculously busy, and so have been pushed back.  I've certainly not forgotten the fic, have no fear.  Hopefully, November will prove smoother sailing.  Also, to those of you whom I promised much Sirius…  mea culpa!  This chapter went on long enough, and as I've delayed this one in particular already…  I just thought you'd at least prefer a post.  Sirius starts the next chapter.  Honest.  Thanks for all your patience with this.  I certainly didn't intend to leave you hanging. 

And now…  a word for my kind reviewers…

Kaydee:  I'm glad you liked the Animagus form. 

Kathleen:  Ummm…  Wow.  It's a multi POV story…  Sorry, but I'm trying to keep all the balls in the air (juggling metaphor).  Hope you're feeling better now…

LaminaCourt, linds, Sakura Le (no, you don't suck at it g),  WeasleyTwinsLover1112 (lol), SilverMoon, Meep (how was that?), Lisette (me, too!), Phoenix (I understand!), bramblerose (I'm glad you liked it!), AllAboutMe (g), brinn (glad I surprised you!  Thanks!), Stickmarionette (Thank you very much.  I'm glad it rings true for you.  That's what I'm working for!), Anonymous, LittleEar BibEar's sis G, Anti Pasta (Thank you!), Fleur (g), kapies, EaRtHaNgEl831 (No worries), sk8reagle, SpiderGirl05 g, Bobbi (hm.  Good question.  I'll address it next chapter!  g), coconut-ice agent h/h (NO!  Really, it is SO not!  Hehehehehe, thanks….  Bwah hah hah hah), chochang1234 (sold my condo, am moving, and tons more…  Haven't forgotten this!  Promise!), rowan, japangirlcarley24 (I missed you!  Welcome back!), Gypsy Malfoy (NO…  No slash here.  Definitely not appropriate for this fic. No worries there), candledot (G  Thank you very much!!!), curlylox (hmm.  No, I don't think he's immortal.  You'll see, though, I hope… g), Moondancer (Thanks!):  Thank you all so much for your kind reviews!  No slash here.  Really!  Sorry I left you hanging in the previous chapter about Snape and Harry, but hopefully this has helped.  As for Sirius:  Next chapter!  Honest! 

Sarahpeach:  I do too.  That's why I wanted to write one.  I think there's something about actually permanently extricating Harry out of that awful environment that I really wanted to do!  You'll see…  Nope, Snape's the only 1st person POV. 

Michelle:  good question.  I'll address it, probably in the next chapter.  I like the idea.  Don't know if I'll get that opportunity, though.  Sorry! 

JustMe:  lol  Yes, it is a true Angst story, isn't it?  8-)

Gypsy Romance: Ironic, isn't it?  g  Sorry about no Sirius.  After 9 pages of Snape, I realized I'd better just quit while I was ahead.  I'm so glad you like them.  I adore them as well.  Yeah, there are just not enough happily married couples in fiction or cinema, are there?  Nice analogy.  Hope I don't disappoint! 

Tempest Princess:  Glad you liked that!  I absolutely agree with your quote.  Was that from his On Writing book?  I just loved that one!  And it does sum a lot up, doesn't it?  That's why some poems can literally leave a person breathless, when somehow, someone catches the sublime in the simple and makes you see the truth of it.  I heard a quote once where the writer said that writing is easy.  All you have to do is slit your wrists and bleed on the paper.  Capturing a feeling and conveying it with words…  It's the challenge that keeps drawing me back.  So I absolutely loved your point, because it's absolutely true.  When, as someone once said, the silence between the words speaks louder than the words themselves.  Le sigh!  Thanks for the terrific insight! 

Lilybee2003:  Wow.  I definitely admire you taking it all in one shot!  Thank you very much for that.  Every once and a while I'll get a feedback that makes me worry that what I'm trying to convey isn't succeeding.  Nope, no romance here.  Glad you agree.  Thank you so much for the kind review.  I must say this has been an absolute pleasure to write. 

Naia:  Wow… all at once?  Wow…  G  I'm really glad you like the story.  I love writing about these characters, so it does make it easier… 8-) 

LadyCatBailey:  hehehehehe…  *blushes happily*  Thank you very much!  Glad you like it!  Yes, I loved visualizing poor Sirius trying to get upstairs in French poodle form.  I had a good time with that one. 

x-woman: We'll see…  Hmm…  Lots more to come, so I don't want to spoil the surprise!  Sirius next chapter.  Honest!  Hm, I don't foresee that.   Not sure about Malfoy, but probably not.  I like the idea, though!  Yes, I am… 8-)

Sakura Blossom:  I'm so sorry!  I know I promised, but it was already 9 pages already, you see…  Next chapter, 1st thing!  Um… I'll take that recommendation to heart.  g 

Celebony:  LOL!  Hehehehe…  Nope, not gonna tell.  Yes, yes, so *this* week I really took two weeks.  Semantics, I say!  What's a week to a rock?  I could have meant *geological* time, in which case I posted *extremely* early!  Thanks!

SilentPegasus:  lol  No, I wish!  Hmmm…  I'll have to see if I can fit all that in.  I like the suggestion though!  Thanks!

Moonlight: Thanks!  Ironic, isn't it?  Bwah hah hah.  Oh, no, that's what Fudge is doing with the bodies of the people Voldemort has killed.  All those people murdered in Harry's dreams? The Ministry has been covering up the attacks, and cremating the bodies.  No one knows what's been happening, only that wizards and witches have disappeared without a trace.  The Dragonfire is hot enough to cremate the murder victims. 

Moonlight Yellow:  ahem  *Usually* every week.  I think I protested too much, didn't I?  I should have knocked on wood or something when I said that.  Hmm, glad you ignored that voice that told you not to!  Lots of Snape here.  Just one POV.  I picture the Ministry getting the Floo equivalent of a 911 call, then blanket Memory Charm the neighborhood.  I'm glad you like how I did Rita.  She's a tough one.  Oh, you'll get a kick out of this one:   pyretostium spiraero gland: fire opening breathing mouth gland.  I used medical terminology to put this one together.  Pyr(et)/o – fever/fire.  Or/o – mouth.  Osti/um – opening.  Spir – breathing.   Aer/o – air; gas.  Wow.  Okay.  Yes, I'm AR.  Lots of Snape in this one.  Absolutely, and I'll always take what I can get.  Thanks as always for the kind review!

Colleen:  8-)…  Never saw Jin-Roh.  Is it good?  Glad you enjoyed Arthur.  I sure have fun writing him.  I thinks it's the dynamics of a family.  There's very little that can be so simple and complex at the same time. 

Mara Arwen Black-McGregor:  g  I'm so glad you liked the Weasleys.  I love to show how they interact as a family.  Their dynamics are really enjoyable to write.  Yep, I see Ron as smart in other areas, just not necessarily 'book smart'.  I've known many people like that.  They may not get good marks in school, but no one would accuse them of being slow.  Oh, good, you liked the Barnes' addition.  I always worry about that sort of thing.  Yes, I'm missing Remus in this story.  He's taken a back burner for now, but he'll be back in the thick of things next chapter.  Trying not to let the muggles get me down.  Easier said than done.  Thank you for the kind review! 

Lothey:  I love it!!!!  I absolutely love your stuff, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're inspired to draw art based on my story.  It *really* means a lot to me.  I must admit, I've taken to keeping your pic of Harry and Sirius open just to inspire me.  Anyone else reading my responses, Lothey has drawn a delightful pic of Harry studying his "Quidditch book"  g:  http://www.geocities.com/gredandfeorgeareuptonogood/Book.jpg  As for where this story is going, I'm glad I'm still keeping you guessing!  Yes, even *I* am really wishing I could see Harry happy.  Jeez, who'd have thought I could angst out lil' ol' me?  8-)  Pah!  Never! 

AutumnHeart: Thank you very much!  I worry about that, but so far my mistakes have been relatively minor.  *knocks on wood superstitiously*  I hope the unwind is as good as I picture it in my mind.  I agree with Arthur's typical depiction.  Thanks.  I've seen enough storylines where the main conflict seems so personal, like it's *just* Harry and Voldemort, and everyone else are bit players.  Although I'm sure Harry feels that way, I think it's a bigger idea.  The discrimination, the fear, the random attacks…  An entire community won't even say his name.  Although I see a big similarity to Frodo, there is a pronounced difference too.  While Frodo was swept up in events he had no chance to succeed at, Harry is not only forced to, he's expected to.  He's expected to win, he just can't see how he's going to do it.  Nope, not paralleling that one!  8-)  Oh, and in my delusional world, Frodo didn't cave at the last moment, the ring finally overpowered him.  *sticks fingers in ears to prevent any discussion*…  Hmmm, neither looked right to me, either.  Although, I swear some days even the word *are* looks bizarre to me.  Go figure.  Thanks!

Sherylyn:  *wipes brow in relief*  Good.  I liked having Arthur threaten Rita.  He's not a man to make idle promises.  He he.  Hadn't thought of that one. 

Wonder:  Sorry it was two weeks this time!  8-(  Thanks!  *blushes happily* 

Juushita: Thanks!  I could visualize it, too.  Heh, gotcha with that?  Cool.  Thanks again!

P.A.R.:  You're back.  This single POV chapter was just for you.  Well, mostly.  8-)  Yep, you totally got me on the Ginny thing.  lol  Yes, I know.  At the time, I used it just to ease the transition from formality to friendship, because it already hadn't been established.  I agree, though.  Mea culpa!  I guess I'm surprised you like my description so much, because in my mind it's still a bit weak.  I try to put in enough to flesh things out, but I sure feel like there's lots of people out there who do better.  I do consciously try to stay away from clichés, although darn it if they don't sum things up the best sometimes!  Oooh, I'm glad you liked that!  I wanted to convey the true horror, and how it *had* to change how they perceived Harry.  After all, this is a lot more than a quick AK!  As for the plot, let's just say my fiancé wishes I'd use all this energy towards original fics!  8-)  Hmmm… did I clear it up better in later chapters?  Should I have hinted further in the beginning?  No, I understood your point, but because I'd started Snape as 1st person I feel obligated to keep him that way.  When I do a rewrite, I may try to match it up, but…  This far in, I felt I needed to carry forward with it.  You know, it's funny, but because I've put Harry through *so* much, coming up with unique and sinister symptoms that don't sound repetitive has become a bit of a challenge, so I'm glad you like it!  g  Hmm.  Foreshadowing there.  Was it too soon?  I thought it sets the intention for what Harry later does.  I had to look up the title to see what you meant.  8-)  I hope I'm not being too subtle.  It's a fine line, because I don't want to be so obvious I beat everyone's head over the point.  I personally like those moments of 'Ah hah', so try to keep them from being too overbearing.  Of course, I'm the one with the outline, too…  8-)  2nd paragraph in 17?  Yes, I did ramble.  The discovery of italics and uploading in html has enabled me to differentiate between thoughts a bit more in later chapters, too, so hopefully when I do something like that, it reads better now.  Hmm.  True.  Good point.  Of course, do you see them remembering to do that all the time?  You're right though, more effort and mention would have been appropriate.  I love Snape and Lupin together as well.  He's actually far more challenging to have interact with Snape than Sirius, just because of the complexity of their relationship.  So, does that play better now?  When Arthur threw Sirius the wand, did it come together, or did the foreshadowing fall short?  Just curious with the later stuff, now that it's passed, if it played out any better.  I'll try to do better with the more distinct marks between paragraphs…  I discovered (this is preHTML upload, mind you) that my paragraph border marks (XP) weren't showing up.  So, completely my own fault, because I don't want to repost anything until I've got all the reviews saved off (I'm a total reviewaholic).  But I did have breaks, they just didn't upload.  Hopefully later chapters are better?  No, no worries.  My responses are also pretty bad grammatically and all that.  I'm grateful for all the time you've spent helping me with this story.  Your input has been enlightening, to say the least, and I really enjoy going through the story line by line with you and really *seeing* what you're referring to.  It helps a lot!  So, no worries about spelling errors.  Hmmm…  Should Willaby have been mentioned earlier, then?  Would that have been smoother?  See your point about Hermione.  I could have built that up better. I love Sirius and Lupin, just because there is so much still unsaid between them.  There is so much water under the bridge between them, it makes for really rich dialogue.  I see your point, but I thought I did convey it a little bit.  Percy keeps his distance in his embarrassment of his family.  I felt it gave him a sense of superiority that wouldn't necessarily disdain his family's opinion, but certainly would make him question it.  I can see what you mean, though.  I agree, though.  I've really tried t keep it close to canon.  Me too.  It's such a protective gesture!  By the way, I loved that story!  Hmm, didn't mean for the plausibility factor to drop.  I just saw Snape still trying to keep the peace.  If he said he wouldn't come to blows, then he'd really strive to honor Albus' wishes.  I should have conveyed that better.  Continuity thing, there.  A simple reference to an *empty* glass would have sufficed, huh?  No, *I* don't think he's old, but I do see him as seeing himself as…  jaded.  Even old.  Worn out.  Haven't messed with the dictionary addition yet.  Hmmm.  Not sure what didn't play for you  with that one.  Rain and cloudbursts are different.  It can be raining, but a cloudburst is a torrential downpour.  I'm not sure if Snape would care enough to know the details of the Gryffindor pet status.  Like I wouldn't see him knowing about Scabbers either.  He'd know about Hedwig, of course, because of how visible she is, but really… Crookshanks wouldn't be commonly  visible, I wouldn't imagine.  Of course, Minerva would know, but that's different.  I did Snape's POV different because of what I foresaw as problems in delving into the bond with Harry.  Because this story is more of an ensemble piece, I do switch a lot.  Yes, it enables me to keep the plot in place, but I didn't see it as cheating.  As for the bleeding over of 1st person and 3rd, you're right.  It is hard to switch back and forth.  My bad.  I see your points about mixing 1st and 3rd, and can see why you're protesting so much.  For this story, though, I started it with Snape's POV as 1st person and feel it would take away from it to switch it so late in the game.  In the future, I will try to refrain. How about keeping it to just one POV?  Did that help?  I can see what you mean about the actual abruptly stilling.  It could almost be read as Bugs Bunnyesque, couldn't it?  8-)  Glad you like the Sirius scene.  Hmm.  Not sure if I rushed it or not.  Oh, yes, another continuity pause, isn't it?  I suppose it's silly to mention something about it now just to explain the gap?  I'll see if I can stick something in.  Well, as always, thanks a TON for all the input.  It's funny.  Now that they have that silly time-out thing, it lets me know just *how* much time you're spending giving me input.  Wow.  Considering how much I admire and respect your work, it *really* means a lot to me.  I eagerly await anything additional, and am truly grateful (and just a hair intimidated) by your input.  It's really good stuff.  Please please please continue!