Well. I'm informing you now, the only reason this chapter is up so fast is because I already had it written. I can pretty much guarantee that two chapters will never again come out in such quick succession. Especially considering that the chapters to this story are unusually long in comparison to what I usually write.

That done with, I'll reiterate what was said last chapter--nothing belongs to me except the plot. And, considering that this partly in answer to Severitus' Challenge, even the plot doesn't belong wholly to me.

Review answers at the bottom. Now read, please. *innocent smile*
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~*~The Child-Who-Lived~*~
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The rest of dinner passed by in something of a blur to Harry. He paid enough attention to identify the new woman as Arabella Figg, their new Care For Magical Creatures professor, and the man as Mundugus Fletcher, their new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. No mention was made of Professor Lupin or what he was doing back; Harry decided he'd just have to corner the werewolf later.

He was eating, mechanically, when a sudden drop in the amount of noise in the Great Hall directed his attention back outwards. He looked up to find the attention of most of the hall on him. In dead silence. Making use of a gesture he had finally learned over this summer, he raised an eyebrow. Elegantly, he hoped.

I said, Malfoy, of course, looking rather miffed at having been ignored, that with all the help' you've been against You-Know-Who, we might as well just roll over and surrender already. Getting people killed . . . allowing him to rise like that . . . surely the Great Harry Potter could have done something.

Harry's temper flared. Shut up Malfoy.

The blond fifth-year continued on as if he hadn't heard. And getting rid of Diggory, of all things. Sure, he was a Hufflepuff, which tends to cast doubt upon his worth, an entire fourth of the hall, attention distracted, turned murderous glares toward the lone standing Slytherin, but he might have been some help to the cause of the Light.

Harry stood, putting his hand on Ron's shoulder to keep the redhead down, and glided over toward the Slytherin table, only barely containing his anger. It's a pleasure to learn Lucius Malfoy's take on the situation. He said, loudly enough to make sure everyone heard. Now, what do you think? Or can you think without running to your father first for that too?

Some scattered laughter, mostly from fellow fifth-years who had heard and grown sick of Malfoy's oft-used prelude, My father says . . .'

He ran his gaze from Malfoy's barely visible, no doubt ruinously expensive, black shoes to the silvery-grey eyes that were beginning to lose their vaunted ice. No. This is not my oniisan. He may be in the other world, but he is still the same as always here. If you think you can be a better Harry Potter than me, you have my leave to go ahead. I'm sure Voldemort nearly the entire hall flinched would be happy to meet you.

Malfoy took a nearly unnoticeable step backwards, suddenly not so sure that this was a good idea. Harry shook his head. No. How very disappointing his oniisan had turned out to be. Take my advice for once, Malfoy. Grow. Up. He turned on his heel.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned back. Holding Malfoy's eyes for a long moment, he suddenly smiled sweetly. Oh. And this is for insulting Cedric. Still smiling, he brought his hand back, formed it into a fist, and punched Malfoy as hard as he could.

He knew he shouldn't. But oh, it felt so good.
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He sat, leaning against the wall next to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Despite the fact that she knew him on sight, she had refused to let him in. Rules are rules, you know'. He was just hoping that one of the prefects came up here so that he could get the password and go on inside.

He flexed the fingers on his right hand. Malfoy's nose had been harder than he expected. Not that he'd really expected anything. He hadn't been planning on punching Malfoy. It had just . . . happened.

Good evening, Harry. A voice from the relative twilight just a bit further down the hall. A familiar, welcome voice, tinged with a certain amount of amusement. Dumbledore hasn't dismissed supper yet, you know. He's wise enough to know that no one would move even if they did. They're too busy discussing your confrontation with Draco Malfoy.

A note of worry entered the older man's voice. Look, Harry, you know that I'll be here for you if you want to talk . . . about last year . . . or anything.

About Cedric's death, you mean? And Voldemort's revival? Unlike many, Lupin did not flinch. Yes, Professor Lupin, I know. I appreciate it. I know you may not believe me, but I truly don't need to talk just now. Not about that. He raised his eyes to meet those of his former professor. I noticed you didn't get the DADA position back. So what are you doing here?

Lupin's mouth formed an expression that Harry was not sure whether it was supposed to be a grin or a grimace. Some bright person decided that, seeing as I knew and had worked with Dumbledore already, I would be the best ambassador to Hogwarts from the faction of Dark creatures' that is willing to support him against Voldemort.

Dark creatures'? Harry questioned. Werewolves, of course . . .

Vampires, naga--those are very rare, almost extinct, nearly immortal were-snakes--other various werecreatures . . . Lupin made a very definite face. Go on. You can start questioning their mental competence any time now.

I think you'll do a good job. Harry said. Sure, I never really thought of you as in any way Dark. But you will make a very good diplomat.

Are you saying I'm a good liar? He asked, a hint of mock-danger in his voice.

Well, you'd have to have been, to be Moony and to have hidden your secret all these years. But no, actually all I meant was that you struck me as a peacemaker, something that will help you when you have to work out compromises.

He pursed his lips. Also, there is the fact that you seem rather harmless. It will make other humans more inclined to trust you. This will make your job negotiating easier, and will also ensure that you will most likely get a better deal for the Dark creatures' than if they had chosen someone who looked like, say, Snape. At the comparison, Lupin snorted--a snort that sounded like it was concealing a chuckle.

I'm not sure how Dark creature' he inserted a bit of sarcasm into the phrase society works, so I'm not sure if that will work for you on the other side of the equation as well. But there's probably an equivalent advantage.

Harry . . . Professor Lupin's tone held respect. If you ever get tired of being the Saviour of the Wizarding World, you could probably make a killer politician. Where did this come from?

I've been thinking a lot more this summer. Harry replied with a shrug. And reading more, too. It just seemed obvious to me.

You look . . . well, different. Lupin peered at him. Your family . . . they weren't starving you, were they?

Harry ground his teeth. Why is everyone asking me that? No! The Dursleys hate me, they would love nothing more than to see me vanish off the edge of the Earth, but they don't starve me. Feed me less than their pig of a son, yes. Starve me, no. And that's not even counting all the scrounging I was given plenty of chances to do.

Everyone is asking you that because you look starved, or at least malnourished. Your cheekbones are a lot more prominent . . . enough to where it looks almost as if the entire structure of your face has changed.

Harry shrugged dismissively. I'm growing up.

Lupin looked at him uncertainly. If you think that's all it is . . . still, tell me if anything . . . strange . . . happens, okay? There may be more to this. I don't know what, but I'm willing to help you find out.

I'll let you know. Harry replied quietly. He knew what Lupin meant--it really did feel, at times, as if something deeper was happening than just adolescence. What this something deeper' was, though, he had no clue. So for the most part he shrugged the feeling off.

For something he himself made a point of blowing off so thoroughly, he was not about to allow Lupin to worry himself. And the werewolf inevitably would worry himself if he thought there was any proof at all that something was not quite right. Better to just figure this out--better yet, figure out if there was anything necessary to figure out--by himself.

As it became evident that Harry was not going to say anything else, Lupin nodded. All right. I should probably be getting back, but remember, I'll be around if you need me.

I will. Good night, professor.

Lupin turned back. I'm not your professor anymore. If you don't mind terribly, you could call me Remus.

Harry smiled. Good night, Remus.
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And yet again, we miss the Sorting Ceremony. She sighed. Is this fated or something? Of the five years, I've managed to attend only one Sorting other than my own.

I wonder what Father has to say that's so important that he told us to remain home tonight? Draco stared into the fire. He's been gone all summer. I know that the Dark Lord is back, so he has to do a certain amount of work for Him . . . both blond young man and black-haired girl shivered . . . but that couldn't possibly be all he's been doing.

Give thanks for small favors. She said quietly. He was there. He recognized me. And Voldemort recognized me as Harry Potter. It is only a matter of time before the two of them get together and figure out that Harry Potter is Henrietta Malfoy. At that point . . . She shrugged. My life expectancy becomes nil.

Harry . . .

The black-haired young man started awake.



Parvati bent over him and giggled. Harry, Harry. What were you doing out here? Just patiently waiting for a prefect to come along?

Harry curled a strand of black hair--nearly shoulder-length after only a summer's growth and almost disturbingly flat--around a single finger absentmindedly. Something like that. He noticed a glint of silver on the front of her robe. Parvati, you're a prefect? Congratulations!

She blushed. Thanks. Everyone was expecting it to be Hermione, you know. I was stunned.

Harry frowned consideringly. Well . . . everyone know that prefects are supposed to help uphold the rules and everything, right? Well, I'm sure Hermione knows every rule and its basis by heart, but the fact is that Ron and I have corrupted her. She's really not all that terribly good at necessarily following the rules. With all the trouble we've gotten into together, I don't think we're exactly good examples for the younger students.

Now that you put it that way . . . Parvati nodded. Still, me? A prefect? She jerked her head down the empty hallway. I came on up as soon as people started being released. Dean's still down there dealing with the new first-years. She turned toward the Fat Lady. The password is

Typical Dumbledore. Harry smiled as he followed Parvati into Gryffindor Tower and attempted to suppress the unease other-Harry's words had created. Surely nothing too terribly bad would happen . . .

Surely.
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Harry sat in a corner of the common room and watched the festivities. There had been a multitude of congratulations on his treatment of Malfoy that evening in the Great Hall, but after everyone had passed along their congratulations, they had for the most part left him alone. He was reminded, with feelings of annoyance, of Cho's comment about how everyone walked on eggshells around her.

At least no one had come along who outright--and verbally--thought that he had intentionally murdered Cedric. Indeed, Dumbledore's end-of-term speech the previous year had had the effect of focusing everyone's attention almost solely on the threat of Voldemort.

The Hufflepuff table had seemed unusually subdued. But in most cases, it was almost as if everyone had forgotten Cedric's death in favor of the circumstances that surrounded it. Everyone except himself and Cho.

There were unusually few new students this year. Gryffindor had only netted four, three girls and a boy, and the numbers had been about the same for the other three Houses. There would probably be more than the usual proportion of Double classes for the first years this year.

Are you Harry Potter? An awed voice asked, and he turned.

One of the new girls, with long brown hair in twin plaits and wide hazel eyes. Yes, I am. He said gravely. And you are?

Me? Oh, I'm Jane. Jane Blakely. She smiled shyly. Um . . . is it true that You-Know-Who is back? 'Cause, you know, my parents don't believe it, but I figured if anyone knew, you would.

I'm afraid it is true, Jane. He replied sadly. I'm sorry.

Why are you sorry? It's not your fault. She said simply. I'll help you beat him, and then everyone can live happily ever after. She offered her plan solemnly.

Harry smiled despite himself. Pure Gryffindor. I don't think that would work. The best thing you can do right now is pay attention to your teachers and learn all you can.

I will. She swore. She wrapped her arms around him, suddenly. Thank you.

For what? He wondered, but she was already gone, swallowed back into the crowd.
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The four first-years had been packed off to their beds. The sole first-year boy was sharing the second-year boys' dorm so that he didn't have to sleep alone. For the rest of the House, the party was still going strong, although it showed hints of beginning to wind down.

Over on one side of the room, surrounded by spectators, Ron and Hermione were pitching chess savvy against pure raw intelligence in the fifth chess game of the evening. So far they had each won once and declared the other two games a draw. Elsewhere, Fred and George were holding their first official sale of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes products; they were drawing quite a crowd as well.

And Harry? As the minutes passed, he was growing more on edge. His nerves were screaming at him that something was wrong, but he had no idea what. Finally, he gave up. Creeping up to his dorm room--one extra set of stairs this year--he opened his trunk and dug through his stuff to find two items. Invisibility Cloak and wand. He wanted both with him just in case.

Tossing the cloak over himself, he drifted back downstairs, threaded his way through the common room, and walked out into the dark hall. He had no idea, he admitted readily, where he was heading. Only that he was going somewhere, and that getting to wherever he was going was important.

He walked down hallways and turned down others, walked up stairs and down. As he walked, the feeling intensified and his pace quickened. By the time he ran into Mrs Norris, he was literally running. The cat, normally the bane of his nighttime wandering existence, received not even a second thought.

He only vaguely noted when his path took him down into the dungeons; the already cool air dropped another couple of degrees. Then, suddenly, the feeling cut off. Completely. He eyed the door in front of him with a certain amount of trepidation. Yet . . . whatever had drawn him here, had almost certainly meant for him to go in.

He reached out and pushed the door open, expecting anything from Voldemort to nothing at all on the other side of the door. But what he found . . .

A mirror. A very familiar mirror. He walked closer with hesitant steps. Why . . . what would be drawing him so inexorably to the Mirror of Erised? He hadn't even thought of the artifact more than once or twice in the years since he used it to find the Philosopher's Stone. Why would it reappear now?

He drifted closer, taking the Cloak off as he looked into the mirror for the first time in over three years. What did he most desire now? Peace, perhaps. Or Voldemort's demise, that would be nice too. But he saw neither of them. Instead, for a long moment, the mirror reflected nothing. Then, suddenly, the blank silver . . . rippled.

It was dark. Then as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and the light itself actually grew the slightest bit, his eyes picked out three figures. Two blond and one dark, one of the blonds taller than the other two. Light flared, and he could make out the faces, two he knew well, one he was seeing clearly for the first time.

Like looking into a mirror. Yet, not. He now understood everyones' comments about how he looked different, gaunt, like someone else. That is what he saw, in a face that had slightly softer edges, framed by very short, spiky black hair. And the scar.

Unlike his own, this was not innocent little lightning bolt in the center of his forehead. This scar began above her left eye, delicately drew itself down across her eyelid in a way that in no way impaired the function of that eye, slashed down over the bridge of her nose, and trailed off into oblivion at the center of her right cheek. She looked scared, yet determined.

The tallest of the three, revealed to be Lucius Malfoy, gestured peremptorily at Draco. The younger Malfoy shook his head, firmly. One arm encircled his sister's waist as the two defied their father.

Lucius Malfoy's face hardened, and his lips moved. Although Harry was not and had never been a lipreader, he could guess what was being said. So be it. The wand in his hand moved to point squarely at other-Harry. He moved closer to the mirror, hands now resting gently against its surface. He couldn't bear to watch what would happen next, yet neither could he bear to turn his face away.

My life expectancy, He remembered her saying, becomes nil.

Lip movements, the flash of green light that he had dreaded and expected and feared. It cleared, and in front of other-Harry, Draco Malfoy keeled over without a sound. Harry sank to her knees. Harry sank to his. Angrily, he beat his hands against the cool glass of the mirror.

Lucius Malfoy smiled, coldly, at the crying girl he had called daughter for the last fifteen years. Let me through. Another person had died because of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Another person. Someone else he couldn't save. Again he pointed the wand, and now other-Harry screamed for an entirely different reason. I WON'T LET ANYONE ELSE DIE!

He fell through the mirror.
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She had expected to die. Ever since she discovered she was the one person she had been taught to hate the memory of since before she could remember, she had known that some day, sooner rather than later, she would die. She had no illusions about her father's ability to kill his adoptive daughter.

But . . . he had always doted on Draco. Draco had been his heir, while she had always been just the extra, the unwanted ugly duckling in a family of swans. She had never expected that he would be willing to kill his heir.

And now, once again, her oversight had cost someone's life. Except this time, it wasn't just a friend, an older student whom she knew only slightly. This time, it was her oniisan, the one person who meant more than anything . . . more than life to her.

She supposed she now knew . . . that he felt the same about her.

When the pain began, she almost didn't notice it through the breaking of her heart. Her life was over. What did it matter how she left it?

She was screaming and thrashing. The Cruciatus Curse, one small dispassionate part of her mind noted. She remembered it. She remembered the feeling. She remembered how it had looked when Cedric writhed on the ground. Behind the roaring of her ears and the shrill counterpoint of her screams, she could vaguely almost hear something else. Words. A word.

And suddenly, the pain stopped.

Arms picked her up. Strong arms. I've got you now.

She remembered second year. Oniisan carrying her out of the Chamber of Secrets. They had been smaller then. Still, he had carried her with every evidence of ease. For one who never grew all that tall and kept an eternal air of almost feminity, he had always been strong.

Her vision faded from grey to black, as she rested, content, in the memory of her oniisan's arms.
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The world around him rippled, as he wished with all his might to return home. Return to Hogwarts, before Lucius Malfoy could reawaken and make him sorry, once again, that he still could not kill. He fell out of the mirror, precious burden still clasped tightly in his arms. She had hardly stirred since he picked her up, and even in this light she was unnaturally pale and breathed only irregularly.

The thought of this entire scenario's blatant impossibility never occured to him. This is what he had been called here for. Out in the hall, he looked around wildly. Of course, when he actually wanted Filch . . . or even Snape! . . . to swoop down upon him angrily and catch him out after curfew, neither was in sight.

Snape! His quarters were down in the dungeons. That would be closer than the infirmary. And if anyone knew how to counteract the effects of the Cruciatus--for it could have hardly been anything else--it was the ex-Death Eater Potions Master.

He dashed down the corridor, holding other-Harry close, vainly searching for a door that would lead to the elusive Potion Master's quarters. Finally he found something. It was nothing much, seeming like only another stretch of wall, but set into this particular stretch of wall was a small plaque. Originally probably copper, it was now dingy and faded; it had probably not been cleaned since Snape became a professor here. And on the plaque, in immaculate cursive, were the words Professor Severus Snape'. He had found it.

He began to pound the wall.
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Professor Severus Snape often made a habit of staying up quite late. It was rather in his nature to prefer night to day. If he hadn't had to teach, he might very well have turned wholly nocturnal. He did, however, need only five to six hours of sleep per night. He could get away with less when necessary, of course, but about six hours was a full night's sleep to him.

It was only midnight. All his lesson plans were prepared for the coming year, he had no potions going just now that required his immediate surveillance, and there were no tests or essays to grade yet. All in all, this was one of the only evenings in the year where he was required to do nothing but relax.

So he sat down in his most comfortable armchair--the one that he hid religiously; it did rather mar his image as an austere, greasy bastard, after all--propped his feet up, and prepared to indulge in his most secret vice, the one aspect of his personality that was guaranteed to make him the laughingstock of the entirety of Britain if it every leaked out.

I don't know why, but . . . I think I love you. I've loved you since the first time we met.

You mean, when I accidently dumped soda down your dress, encountered something I shouldn't have when I was trying to help dry you off, and you slapped me? He took her hand in his; their fingers intertwined. I never believed in love at first sight . . . he whispered, . . . until I met you.

Romance novels. He especially liked the historical ones, but he was a sucker for them all, no matter what their setting. Perhaps it was because he knew that love at first sight and true love, for some at least, were not superstition, but a reality.

Even in the wizarding world it was rare, of course. Very few people met each other and knew that they were destined for each other. Destiny rarely interfered, after all, in such mundane things as love. And, as always, there was a price. One who was given such knowledge was never seriously attracted to anyone else. Romantically, their heart belonged to one person only, and so there was no room for anyone else.

Even if she left. Even if she died. No. One. Else.

Ever.

He allowed himself the luxury of a sigh and put the book down. Somehow, the exploits of . . . he glanced at the back cover . . . Amanda and Jacob failed to hold his attention tonight. Another time, perhaps. Tonight . . . tonight seemed to be a night for dredging up all the regrets he though had been long buried.

It had been a beautiful wedding, he had heard. He hadn't attended. Back then, the wounds had still been too deep. Even now, he kept to the shadows. And watched.

It was a beautiful christening, as well. All the friends came forward and made the requisite gifts and cooed over the child. He did not move. Instead, from the shadows, he prepared to make his gift. A gift with considerable magic behind it. A gift that would be his own way of safeguarding their happiness together. Of making sure their happiness was safeguarded.

But first, he had to know. For his own sake. Safely hidden from all eyes, he drifted forward to gaze down on the child. Wide green eyes gazed straight up into his own, and a tiny fist raised, fingers opening and closing in a grasping motion in his direction. Short black hair spiked in all directions, uncontrollable even at this young an age. That was what clinched the matter. Despite the closeness of the timing, there was no doubt as to who the father of this child was. Yet . . . he would still perform the spell. Because it seemed like the right thing to do.

No matter how much he hated it, he would not interfere in their happiness. He wasn't that vindictive, not yet. He took out his wand and pointed it in the direction of the cradle. I give my gift. May you alway look just exactly like your father, James Potter.

For a brief moment, pale silvery-green sparkles surrounded the cradle. Inside, the child reached upward to grab a few, gurgling happily. His eyes softened, briefly, then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Several of those people, he would never see again.

Pounding interrupted his musings. A steady beat that was out of place in his quiet sanctuary. Unaccountably irritated, he levered himself out of his chair as he identified the sound as coming from outside his door. Who would be out at this time of night, a little past midnight? More importantly, why would any of them be anywhere near his door?

He stalked over to the door and wrenched it open. For a moment, his brain refused to register what his eyes were trying to tell him. A pale young man, his face stained with tears, with longish black hair--not that much shorter than his own, in fact--and green irises rimmed in a thin line of black stood at his door, holding someone else with short spiky black hair the exact same shade.

Professor Snape? The young man asked, his voice threaded through with desperation. Can you help her, please? She's been struck by the Cruciatus Curse, for probably at least a minute, and then she fainted, and she needs help and you were closest . . . His eyes begged. Please, Professor.

Snape blinked. Without even really thinking about it, he stepped aside. Come in. How did Potter get into these sorts of situations? Put her down over there. He gestured toward the couch right in front of the fire. A threadbare, uncomfortable thing, it was there for exactly this purpose, so that he would have a place to collapse when he absolutely couldn't go any further.

He glided over to his own personal stock of potions, choosing with the ease of long habit the potion--his own invention, in fact--that blunted the lingering pain of the Cruciatus. Casting an appraising glance, turning inwardly concerned at the depth of the pallor on the prone girl's face, he also chose a potion that would help her to regain her strength. What happened? Who caused this?

I told you. She was hit by the Cruciatus. Potter's voice was impatient now. As to who . . . that's rather complicated.

Snape rolled his eyes. Voldemort or a Death Eater?

Death Eater.

And just where were you, Mr. Potter, that brought you into contact with a Death Eater? He handed the potions to the frantic boy, judging that allowing Potter to apply the potions would be easier than trying to maneuver around him. It was obvious that he wasn't going anywhere.

He had taken the unconscious girl's hand and now held it gently to his cheek. That starts in on those things that are rather complicated and more or less unbelievable. He raised his eyes. There are no Death Eaters on Hogwarts grounds that I know of. Those black-banded green eyes rested for a long moment on his covered left forearm before returning to his face. I hope you believe that, if I thought the school was in any way in danger, I would be in Dumbledore's office right now.

A third voice whispered. Alto or perhaps mezzo-soprano, the voice was hoarse from screaming. He was sure she had screamed. Everyone did. But what was this word? Was she foreign?

I'm sorry. Potter bowed his head, his voice anguished. Why? I wasn't fast enough. Were those tears?

The girl's eyes opened, although from here he could not tell their color. She disentangled her hand from Potter's, only to raise it to cup his cheek. You. You're Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. How? And here it came, Snape was sure. The posturing and bragging of the boy celebrity.

The same as you, I'm sure. He said cryptically. A flash of green light. Both flinched.

Her eyes were closed again. Why didn't you just let me die?

I've been dreaming of you for over a month now. He sounded outraged. Nearly every night. Sometimes, I wonder if you weren't all that kept me sane, you and your oniisan. Now . . . now that I've found you, there's no way I'm going to let you go.

You don't understand. Now that he's dead, I have no reason to continue living. There's nothing left to live for. Her voice was defeated, bringing back memories of a period in his own life in which he had felt much the same way. Not because of a specific person, perhaps, but because of everything he had seen and done.

So you're just going to lie down and die. That's it. You don't care how it would make me feel, to lose you on top of your oniisan--despite the fact that I never knew him, I felt I did, through you--and Cedric, and my parents. And what about Voldemort? He placed one finger on her nose. There are many people who believe that only you/I can defeat him. We are a talisman of hope. No matter how annoying it gets, do you really want to deny everyone else the hope our presence brings?

And what if we really are the only ones who, in the end, can strike the final killing blow?

Would you really miss me so very much? She asked, incredulous.

Snape gave up on seriously trying to understand this conversation. Dreams and death and oniisan--whatever that was--and Potter practically making the girl out to be another Harry Potter. It was all very confusing.

More than just about anyone else I know.

For the first time, something vaguely resembling life returned to the girl. She tried to sit up, leaning shakily on an elbow. Where are we?

Potter made a soothing motion. My Hogwarts. You have nothing to fear from your father. He can not reach you here. Her father. Her father had done this to her?! Even the worst of the Death Eaters generally had a sense of familial . . . duty, at least, if not love.

How? You're only a dream, so how can you be real?

I'm not sure. You were nothing more than a dream to me, either. Somehow, though, you have become real, and I for one am not going to complain. A small smile touched the black-haired boy's face. I'm so very glad I got to you in time. I couldn't have borne it if I had been too late for you, too.

You . . . I'm here, in your place. That means . . . oniisan! He's still alive, isn't he? Her voice was incredibly intense. Whoever or whatever this oniisan was, it was obvious that he meant a great deal to her.

He is. Potter admitted . . . reluctantly? But . . . he's different. In this life, were they talking about reincarnation, now, too? Damn, this was confusing . . . he was an only child as far as I know. He has grown up to be a carbon copy of his father. I don't know, there may still be good in him . . . but if there is, it is buried a great deal deeper. We've hated each other since first year. He paused. For example. Just this evening, in the Great Hall, with everyone watching, he insulted Cedric's memory and as much as said that the cause of the Light was a lost cause. He's different.

My oniisan would never . . . She sounded lost now. Snape's brow furrowed. Potter could only have been speaking of Draco Malfoy. But what connection did Malfoy have to any of this?

No. He wouldn't. He may be Draco Malfoy, but he's not your oniisan. Not really. I'm sorry, Harry. So very sorry.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He had stood there, ignored, listening, because he had figured that he could perhaps find out what Potter was refusing to tell him through the conversation. But all he was getting was more confused.

He stepped forward. Could someone please tell me what's going on? And stared. For now he saw clearly, for the first time, the girl's face.

The scar was something of a shock, of course, but he was used to seeing things such as that. It was the rest of the face. In a word, identical. To Potter. Completely. A few shades paler, perhaps, but that could be explained away by the lingering effects of the Cruciatus. And the hair, of course, was different--spiky and short and chaotic all over the place, just the way Potter's had been before he had, for some reason, grown it out.

And the eyes. The exact same shade of green, with the same thin black band around the rim of the eyes. A black band that he could have sworn hadn't been there before the summer . . . but then, he made a habit of looking at Potter's eyes as little as possible. They brought back too many memories.

Professor Snape! It was . . . disconcerting, to say the least, to see the equivalent of Potter's face light up upon seeing him. Then her face fell. Oh, right. You're not the same, either, are you? She slanted a querying glance Potter's way.

The boy pursed his lips. Considering the fact that you're happy to see him . . . probably not. He seems to hate me, and ordinarily I make a point of despising him right back. The current theory is that he hates me because he hated my father back when they were in school together and somehow believes I've gotten a swelled head because of my celebrity, which he feels is his duty to puncture.

It was clear from his face and tone of voice that Potter was getting a feeling of unholy glee out of talking about him like this. He would love nothing more than to get me expelled. He's sarcastic, cutting, and unfairly favors the Slytherins over the rest of the school.

Despite this, he seems to feel it is his duty to save my life, no matter how much he makes a point of enjoying making it hell the rest of the year. Dumbledore trusts him . . . and surprisingly enough, I think I do too. As he made that unexpected announcement, Potter very carefully did not look in his direction. A good thing, considering the expression that was probably on his face just then.

The girl had seen, though, and she smiled. I don't know. I doubt either of you hate each other as much as you think you do. Otherwise . . . he doesn't sound too different to me. She cocked her head. Are you still teaching Survival?

He frowned. I suggested an elective course by that name two years ago. Albus vetoed it--he didn't think anyone would be interested. This course . . . one that combined advanced potions useful in combat and general defense against Dark Arts knowledge to prepare people for combat against the Dark? I actually had a chance to teach it . . . He frowned, and hazarded a guess, the only guess (as impossible as it seemed) that made any sense, . . . in your world?

She nodded. I've taken it for two full years now--I started third year--and was planning on taking it a third. Although you forgot to mention that you also taught us hand-to-hand and a couple of weapons in case we ever found ourselves in a situation without our wands. She grinned. A few of the Slytherins were rather huffy about using Muggle knowledge, but you convinced everyone eventually.

I think that should convince you that there's at least one person who's interested. Potter interrupted. Truthfully, I'm interested too. Even if you are the one to teach it. The addition, meant to be a return to their normal hostility toward each other only managed a sort of sarcastic humour.

Snape could not suppress an incredulously raised eyebrow at Potter's unexpected civility. Sorry, Professor. I'm feeling too calm and at peace with the world to think, much less voice, properly nasty thoughts. Maybe tomorrow.

So that's two. The girl smiled. Can you ask the Headmaster again? Please? It's one of my favorite classes, and I'd really hate to lose it.

Despite the fact that the voice that was asking could easily have been the twin of his least favorite student's, he found he couldn't say no. And . . . well, the fact is, he really had wanted to teach that class. Especially now that Voldemort was back and it was no longer just a nameless evil they would be preparing for, in the event of its appearance someday. He nodded.

I'll go do that now. Potter, you do realize that this would be at least three days a week? Shall I sign you up anyway? If, that is, Albus pays me any more attention this time around than last time.

I was toying with the idea of dropping Divination anyway. The boy shrugged, then snickered at the identical looks of disgust on the faces of his Potions Professor and his double (from another dimension?). He bit his lip. If necessary . . . I hate to, but if necessary I'll drop Care of Magical Creatures, too.

Snape nodded curtly. Suppressing a sigh, he made an offer that he was afraid he'd regret. Since you're here already . . . and she really shouldn't be moved for another couple hours, ideally . . . I suppose you can stay here for the night if you must. If anything breaks . . . He loosed his best glare of imminent death, destruction, and permanent maiming, and was satisfied as both flinched.

Thank you, Professor. I'll try my best. Potter replied. Heh. When he wasn't being an overbearing brat, the boy could be almost . . . bearable.

Hand on the door panel, Snape suddenly realized there was one last major question that he had never quite managed to resolve the answer to. The rest, he could deduce. Girl. What is your name, anyway?

She bit her lip, looking almost as if she was suppressing a smile. That's right, you don't know, do you? I keep forgetting. Henrietta Lucia Malfoy.

Potter didn't even bother to try to rein in his grin. She's Harry Potter. The Child-Who-Lived.
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Phoenix*--Thanks! I rather like the way Harry and Cho worked out too. Originally, he was just going to apologize and leave, but then he insisted on staying . . . *sigh*. I called Henrietta other-Harry because it sounded better to me than girl-Harry or himself-yet-not and, since Harry didn't know her name, he couldn't very well use it. Oniisan . . . well, I wanted Henrietta to have a pet name for her Draco (I admit, partly so I could keep the fact that it was Draco a secret for as long as possible), and since I'm currently taking Japanese in school, that seemed the obvious choice, since it does, after all, mean 'big brother' and that's pretty much how she sees her Draco.

Hana-chan--I like the Severitus fic challenge stories too. *blissful smile* It's half of what got me hooked on Harry/Sev stories--father/son or romantic, it doesn't matter--the other half being "The Mirror of Maybe" (storyid=656995). Draco/Henrietta I really couldn't see (it would be like incest to poor Henrietta), but Draco/Harry is a definite possibility.

Harry/Neville . . . I must admit, that thought never occured to me. Gee, now I feel rather ashamed for forgetting about Neville again. :( It's a very interesting idea; I'll keep it in mind . . .

anon--Here. Sorry about it being confusing, I guess that's my evil side taking control . . . This chapter should have cleared up a few questions, at least. Oh, and thank you. ^_^

AtieJen--I really enjoyed writing it, so I suppose we're even. *grin* As for slash . . . um. To tell the truth, right now you have as good an idea as I as to just who is going to end up with whom. I'll admit that I am biased slightly in favor of slash as far as reading goes, but if the best pairings end up being non-slash . . . I ain't complaining. However the story goes, and right now that's anyone's guess. Snape. Well, he's going to be important later, as per Severitus' Challenge. I hope he'll soften somewhat toward the Harrys even before everyone finds out, though.

Carrington--I hope this cleared up some of your questions about Henrietta, She Who Was Formerly Known As other-Harry. *grin* Yeah, I like it when Harry (or, for that matter, anyone other than Hermione) starts using his brain too. *chortles* Poor Snape is going to have problems, and discovering that Harry has a brain is going to be the least of them.

Laurie--Glad to know I'm being original(-ish) in one way at least! :) As for the plot . . . yes! I assure you, this story does have a plot! Just because I'm not absolutely certain what it is yet . . . ^_^;;

Phoenix Flight--Aw, you guessed it was R/Hr?! How on Earth . . .? I thought I hid it so well, too . . . *pouts* Slash . . . no promises. Either way, I'm not making any promises yet. You're right, Harry isn't looking for anyone yet, but that may change. Eventually. I think.

Beater for Appleby Arrows--Congratulations. You're my first bad review. Thank you for thinking I was occasionally funny. The first chapter was meant to be somewhat confusing, in order to obscure a certain fact until the very end.

If you ever get to this point--or even, possibly, beyond!--I hope you find it somewhat less confusing.

Pardon me for thinking, though, that I've pulled it off pretty well, considering that you're the first person that's complained.
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End Note: For anyone who doesn't know, Severitus' Challenge is, basically, one that calls for Snape to be Harry's father. There's more, but that's the gist. Lupin has to show up; it's supposed to be more or less Snape/Harry interaction centered. That's all I can remember just now, and since ff.net removed the challenge . . . *growl*

There were also three or four different conversations that you could choose from to insert into the story at one point or another if you wished; I wasn't planning on using any of them in this story, though. I think that's it.

Grr. Stupid ff.net. Grr.

I bet Snape didn't count on having both a son and a daughter, though. *evil grin*

3 September 2002
28 November 2002