*sighs* So much for making even a month . . .

Insert all the standard excuses for lateness here --except the ones that involve people dying or other similarly truly serious personal problems. *blinks innocently* The dog ate my computer?

The quote that is quoted belongs to (as far as I can tell) James Dean. Harry Potter and associated people all belong to J.K. Rowling. I don't think I have any characters that I made up out of whole cloth in this chapter . . . but if I do, I'm sure it's obvious that they belong to me.

And now, especially since it's been so long, I will stop talking and let you get on to the chapter.
**
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~*~Hinting at Various Things~*~
***
**
"Professor? . . . I think I hear something. Or someone."

"I can hear it too." It sounds like . . .

The two shared an uncomprehending glance. Who on earth, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the Great Hall, would be giggling?
**
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**
It's all my fault. The laughter had subsided for the most part, though it left with it the realization that he had come far closer than he ever expected to understanding his godfather's mindset the day he was captured. Sometimes, when everything gets to be too much, and you get hit by a blindside you should have been expecting, what seems to be conclusive proof that the universe is, indeed, out to totally screw you over, there's nothing you can do but laugh.

He had pillowed his head on his arms, still not up to facing either Gryffindor Tower or Draco's room which might still be Riddle's . . . or someone else, anywhere in between. It was hard to tell which time period he had landed in--or whether it had been a simple matter of an impossible Apparation--when the Great Hall looked the same as it always had. And despite the fact that he was no longer laughing out loud, he could not seem to keep from giggling. Merlin, but I'm a royal mess.

And a royal screw-up. He reminded himself--as if he could forget! Can't you do anything right, Harry Potter? Except that wasn't his name anymore. Not exactly. Harry Salazar James Rafael Potter-Snape-Slytherin? The thought of even trying to carry around a name that laborious resurrected the giggles that had themselves been about to die. Or of his father trying to digest that mouthful as he targeted Jamie that first day of class in first year. So, Mr. Potter-Snape-Slytherin, where would I find a bezoar? Or the thought of, not only a Slytherin, but one with that last name, being the wizarding world's Golden 'Boy-Who-Lived'.

"I fail to see what is so amusing about being out--after curfew." A clipped voice that almost succeeded in shocking the last of the giggles out of Jamie, shocking him into a more--shall we say--sane frame of mind . . . a beloved, familiar clipped voice, one that he now knew almost as well as his own. At least that answers my question of what time period I'm in.

He turned and smiled up at Professor Snape. "Absolutely nothing, sir." Strangely, those familiar features seemed set in sharper relief than they ought to be--was his night vision improving along with his eyes in general? Or was this, perhaps, just an as yet undiscovered facet of the changes wrought in him due to his Animagus transformation?

And then his eyes shifted left, to where another figure stood beside and a little behind Severus.

And his heart stopped.
**
***
**
Blaise had met a large number of relatively varied people in his life, between his family (split Light and Dark almost exactly down the middle; it made family reunions veery interesting . . .), school, and all the trouble he inevitably got into with his best friend Harry; he was used to a variety of greetings.

Perhaps it was just his sense of humour, but one relatively common one that he never quite tired of was the almost inevitable "Are you a guy or a girl?!" The legend (false, of course, but still a good story--which was why Blaise went out of his way never to flat-out deny it) went that that was what his father had said the first time he looked upon his newborn child.

He was not, however, used to being stared at silently for an excessive period of time before the person in question burst out with "Oh my God! Blaise! You're still alive!" In addition to that being a rather obvious state of matters, the comment itself contained a few too many exclamation points for his preference. Not to mention the fact that it was currently dark enough in the Great Hall that the person--whoever he or she was--shouldn't have been able to see well enough to recognize him in the first place . . .

He stepped a bit closer. ". . . Do I know you?"

Motion; the stranger bowed his (her?) head. The shift in tenor of the darkness indicated longish dark hair falling; even if there had been a brighter source of light, it was likely that the hair would have hidden most of the stranger's face. "No . . . I suppose not." More motion, this time tilting his head back upwards. "You do know this is futile, do you not?"

"I know that I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." Severus replied stiffly. "I also know that you still have not yet given an acceptable explanation for what you are doing here at this time of night."

The stranger stood fluidly, a motion that Blaise found vaguely familiar but could not recall from where exactly. "You and Blaise are leaving now to go to a meeting with Voldemort--which, now that I think of it, I bet was prearranged, since if your Mark was hurting you, you wouldn't have stopped just because you saw something a bit out of place here."

"Once there, I assume the plan is to get Blaise initiated so that he can information that you may miss, since you are no longer quite as trusted a member of Voldemort's ranks as you were before." The stranger raked a hand through his hair. "But this will also be a test for you, Professor, to prove that your loyalty to the bastard is still strong. By the end of this meeting, it is extremely likely that, for whatever reason, either Blaise, perhaps you, or maybe even both of you will be dead."

"So . . . please . . . if only for my peace of mind . . . don't do this? Turn around, go back to bed, let a new spy work its way up through the ranks on its own."

"And just how have you managed to come to this . . . fascinating conclusion?"

The stranger slumped back down to the seat. "Please, Severus . . . Professor . . . it's too late and too much has happened to me already today; I'm not equipped to handle all that elaborate Slytherin crap right now. I saw it happen, all right? Back home, this has already happened; you ended up killing Blaise to prove your loyalty." He scrubbed his eyes. "I really don't know if I could handle any more death just now."

Despite the fact that the darkness inhibited their ability to see each other, Blaise and Severus still managed to share a quite effective Look. "We don't want to die either." Blaise assured him soothingly. "Look, why don't you just stay here and rest for a while? The two of us will be back soon, and then we can take you someplace nice. All right?"

"You think I'm crazy. You both do." He looked from one Slytherin to the other, a motion quite similar to a head shake. ". . . Now I know how Cassandra felt. I'm telling the truth. Believe me."

"Of course we do." Blaise smiled; he didn't expect the stranger to be able to see the smile, but knew it would leak over into his voice. Then, without a change, still in a conversational tone. "Petrificus Totalus."

"We'll return soon enough. Please refrain from leaving between now and then." Severus smirked. "Oh--good job, Blaise."

"Thanks." He nodded, entirely too pleased by the praise from his teacher and mentor. As they turned a corner, now out of sight of the odd stranger, he slowed momentarily. ". . . do you think there might have been any truth to his claims?"

"The possibility of one or both of our deaths?" Severus clarified, never changing speed. Blaise had to jog a few yards to catch up. "It could happen. The same could be said of any meeting with Him. One of the things you'll have to learn, Blaise, is that in this line of work nothing is ever certain.

"I may die tonight, or at the next meeting, or the one after that. So might you--though usually, he gives newer members a bit more leeway. You hope not, obviously, but eventually you learn to live with the fact that you're living on borrowed time. Or" he shrugged "you don't. Harsh, I know, but that's the way the world works."

"Dream as though you'll live forever, live as though you'll die tomorrow?" Blaise quoted softly.

"Precisely."
**
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**
What a . . . a . . . a Slytherin thing to do! Jamie was torn between exasperation and reluctant admiration. The exasperation won after only a very short battle, but he was no longer sure whether he was angry at Severus and Blaise for not believing in him or at himself for being stupid enough to think that there was any chance they would believe him.

None of which had much to do with the fact that he was now in a considerable bind . . . especially if he were to have any chance of catching up and saving this Blaise. He didn't even know where they were going . . .

Masster?

How many timess do I have to tell you not to call me 'Masster'? He snapped back, an instinctive response. Then blinked, when he realized he had managed to move his mouth enough to form the words in Parseltongue . . . and, for that matter, that he had managed to move his eyes enough to blink.

It would help if I knew what you are called now. The tiny snake's head detached itself from the layer of invisibility covering the rest of the dagger.

That was almost enough to send him into a renewed fit of giggles, but his balance had returned enough to where he was able to restrain himself. Or perhaps balance wasn't quite the correct word; he still felt frayed (and fraying) around the edges, but he had a goal now, something to focus on. Something important enough to him that he was able to keep himself from falling apart completely in favor of focusing on that goal. Call me Harry. Or Jamie. Salazar is fine, too, but only when there are no other Parselmouths nearby.

Jamie? The silver serpent rolled that around on its tongue. Jamie, what has happened to my sister? She feels . . . different. Wrong.

If he hadn't been otherwise constrained by the curse, Jamie would have shot straight up. You can feel the other dagger? Can you tell where it is?

Of course. We are as the closest of twins, always knowing of each others' presence; you made us to be such.

Jamie smiled slightly, lost for the moment in the memory that comment had provoked. So I did. So I did . . .

That took care of the problem of being able to find them. Wherever they were, Voldemort would be, and wherever Voldemort was, Jamie felt sure that he would bring 'his' dagger along.

Now, if only he could get free . . .
**
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**
"Do you know what happened to Harry?"

Parvati raised an eyebrow. Only now are they getting around to investigating? "Which one?"

"The guy."

"The girl."

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, and Hermione clarified, "Both."

Parvati shrugged, putting on an outward facade of relative uncaring. "I don't know."

"But we've asked everyone; you're the only one left." Ron's voice held a note of desperation.

"And you were the closest friend the female Harry had." Hermione added. "We figure they're both probably in the same place, and you're the only lead we have."

Parvati folded her arms. "I'm not even the last person to have seen her. I have as little to go on as--no, probably even less than--you do." Not that that's going to stop me . . . but you don't need to know that. I don't need either of your help.

"No, you're not the last person to have seen her; I am." Ron admitted, a bit shamefaced. "But you know her better. What could cause her to run off into the night . . . and not come back?"

"Harry had . . . a fairly well developed flight reflex. There are many things, most based in some sort of emotional uncertainty, that could make her run. But I can't think of anything that could keep her from coming back." Well . . . one thing. Parvati smiled a little. "She's just Gryffindor like that."

"Then . . . why hasn't she returned?"
**
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**
Six o'clock . . . Severus is usually back by now. Maybe he he stayed at Hogwarts a little longer to . . . I dunno. Grade papers? I hope he's staying safe . . .

He felt extreme frustration tint the bond. Only just barely, of course--it was impossible to feel anything deeply through the bond with it as stretched as it was.

Earlier that day, it had seemed to snap back into full operation for only a moment . . . but then literally the next moment, it stretched back out. Not quite as far he didn't think . . . or perhaps it was just as far in a different way. Hard to tell. He and Salazar had never experienced anything like this.

But even Salazar and I weren't nearly as big of trouble-magnets as Harry is, just on his own. Of course all this weird crap is happening to me, now that I've been so foolish as to ally myself with him in this way.

At least, apart from the frustration, Harry seemed to be doing all right. That was something.

The white fox curled further inward on itself, closing ice-blue eyes wearily. Not enough. But something.
**
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**
"It's so hard to find private places to speak."

"Especially when it's an inter-House deal. Otherwise, we could just stake out one of our dorm rooms." Cho agreed. "Well, we could try the Survival room . . ."

Parvati winced. "There are limits even to my Gryffindorish bravery. Did you hear what happened to the last group that went in there without a class-based excuse? It's like the Snape of the old days has returned with a vengeance."

Not having been on the receiving end of Snape's special treatment for Gryffindors--especially the Gryffindors having the ill luck to have both Harry Potter (the bane of Snape's existence) and Neville Longbottom (the bane of Snape's cauldrons' existence . . . and thus not very high on his list either) in their class--Cho, nodding fervently, added "And more so."

"Besides, even supposing he let us stay there, he'd be monitoring our conversation. And considering that he's the one that built the wards, I'm sure he'd have no trouble circumventing them and going straight to Dumbledore."

Cho looked at Parvati quizzically. "Why would Snape go to Dumbledore? I wasn't aware that we'd be planning anything that drastic . . . or, for that matter, that we'd necessarily be planning anything at all."

Parvati blushed. "Sorry. Strike of paranoia there. Still, just in case we did start planning something . . ."

"He'd probably kick us out anyway. I wonder what has him so out of sorts? I mean, usually I hear nightly horror tales about what Snape has done to the latest kid that decided it would be a brilliant idea to sneak out after curfew, but these last couple of days . . ." Cho shook her head. "Nothing. It's like he's not swooping the halls after curfew anymore."

"Do you get the feeling that all of this is interconnected? Harry's disappearance--both of them--Malfoy's disappearance, Snape's sudden change in habits . . ."

"Draco!" Cho clapped her hands, once, loudly. "I bet he could tell us where Harry-the-Potter has gone. And I bet the two Harrys are somewhere more-or-less together. So if we find one, we'll find the other." She frowned. "If only he hadn't disappeared, too . . ."

"Why would Malfoy . . .?" Parvati trailed off. They're friends, yeah, but so are Harry and I, and I have no idea where she's gone.

Unfortunately, Cho seemed disinclined to provide an answer for her almost-question.

"Snape would probably know where Draco is." A new voice interrupted. Both girls turned. Pansy, finding herself the focus of two none-too-friendly pairs of eyes, shrugged uncomfortably. "I recall hearing that he was helping Dumbledore look for Draco the night that he disappeared."

The two girls exchanged glances. "Why are you telling us this?"

Pansy sighed. "If you must know, I'm worried about Draco. And since you two seem to be the only other people in the entire school who are even peripherally considering doing something about his disappearance . . . three heads are better than two, right?"

Cho looked skeptical. "Surely the other Slytherins are worried."

Pansy sighed again, this time with a definite exasperated edge. "What other Slytherins? Our year has a very small crop, you know. And much as I love them, Vincent, Gregory, and Millicent rarely bother to think any deeper thoughts than investigating the location of the next food source. As for the rest of the Slytherins . . ." She threw up her hands. "We're Slytherin! What's in it for us? Yes, there is a certain amount of loyalty involved, but when there's no proof, no clues to go on . . ."

Her expression turned sad. "Blaise would have been with me . . . then I wouldn't have had to propose a truce to you two. But as it is, I figure the next step is to catch Snape. And for that, I'm going to need access to the Survival Room--have you noticed that you never see him anywhere else for any appreciable period of time?"

"And for that," Parvati summarized, "you need us."

"A Gryffindor with a brain." Pansy observed dryly. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Matching Pansy's arid tone exactly, Parvati retorted, "I'm hardly more surprised to finally be confronted with a Slytherin possessing a heart."

Cho just rolled her eyes.
**
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**
After the initial shock of just being in the man's presence had worn off, Blaise decided, after careful reflection, that Voldemort was even uglier than he had expected him to be. And that was pretty ugly, considering that he had spent four years listening to Harry recite to him what few tales her father had been willing to tell her about the Dark Times.

Of course, the greatly increased ugliness could have something to do with the physical changes brought on by his resurrection . . . but that thought was the sort that Blaise shoved down into a corner of his mind labeled "Details, details".

"Ah, Severus, my pet." The rather demonic-looking man hissed. Blaise could have sworn he saw his red eyes glowing. "So good to see you again, and to see that you have done as I requested."

"My Lord." Severus sank gracefully to his knees. "I have done as you requested and brought to you the one who I have judged as the most likely to be loyal to your cause. It is only a pity that the young Malfoy child . . ."

"Young Draco has already entered my service." Voldemort interrupted him coldly. "Quite well educated for his age, too; I find myself favorably impressed. Of course, unlike some, my Lucius chose to enroll his child in Durmstrang, to better prepare him for my service."

"But you have a child, too, do you not?" The red-eyed man mused. "Ah, you thought I would not know, did you not? But how, when you have revealed your relationship with that mudblood to the world, could you think I would not have known?"

Voldemort paced over to stand right before Blaise, who suppressed a sudden, overpowering urge to lean away. Or run. That would be acceptable too. Here, with the man less than a foot away from him, feeling panicked like a small rodent cornered by a snake, he could quite easily understand why some people feared even to utter the man's name.

"Young . . . Zabini, is it not? Yes, Blaise Zabini." Voldemort continued immediately, to all appearances ignoring completely his somewhat jerky nod. "So, you wish to become one of my followers and keep me up to date as to what goes on in that school?"

Blaise fell to his knees, bowing his head. "That is my desire, my Lord."

"Good, good." Before he could flinch away, cold white fingers had reached down and tilted his chin upwards, so he was once more forced to look at the Dark Lord's face. "I have an assignment for you, little Blaise. Call it . . . an initiation, if you will."

"Anything I can, I will do for you, my Lord." Privately, Blaise thought he was laying it on a little thick, but perhaps not. Certainly Voldemort seemed not to have caught on, as he came as close to smiling as that snake-like face could.

"Very good. You will do well in my ranks, my young friend." Fingers released his chin, and he concentrated on refraining from shuddering, or flinching, anything that might show his true feelings towards the man in front of him. "Very well. I have discovered a traitor in my ranks, young Blaise. I wish for you to dispose of him."

All his tightly strung nerves seemed to thrum at the word 'traitor', hitting him with a burst of adrenaline. "With pleasure, my Lord. Traitors must be punished." He even strove to insert a certain amount of enthusiasm into the statement--wasn't he supposed to be playing the part of a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, Death Eater-wannabe, after all?

Voldemort pointed at Snape. "Kill him."
**
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**
She was seeing stars after landing particularly hard as she fell from . . . whatever it was that had happened. Deja vu, anyone?

Slowly, holding her head just to be certain, she sat up, peering around. Dark--so it was probably still night wherever she was. An earthy smell; a view of the sky above that seemed peculiarly blocked, in the sort of way trees do. So, she was in a . . . forest of some kind. Yet it didn't have quite the same dark feel as the Forbidden Forest, nor the familiar feel of the numerous wooded plots that studded the Malfoy estates.

She shrugged to herself. Obviously, the only way she'd find out where she was would be to walk until she found something--or someone--with that information.

Minutes passed, and she settled into a steady rhythm, to the point where walking no longer took even the smallest portion of her conscious thought. Instead, she amused herself--though 'amused' was perhaps not the best word to use--by thinking about Severus and Angelus; about Parvati and Jamie and Cho and, though she tried to shove the subject aside every time she actually caught herself, especially about Ron.

Wrestling with that particular subject matter was time- and energy-consuming enough that, in what seemed like no time at all, she found herself approaching a break in the trees. A break that opened up onto a nice little street--the sort found in residential areas, relatively well-kept but not terribly large or busy.

Turning left on a whim, she continued to walk, searching for signs of habitation other than the road. She was only beginning to descend back into her thoughts, though, when a vaguely electric-seeming shock shot through her, bringing her wide awake. Had those been . . . wards? Blinking, she looked forward, to find the road had ended . . . then started up a few yards further on, this time a simple dirt one. Well, of course . . . it would be kinda hard to get Muggle pavers through all those wards . . . if the wizarding inhabitants even know what paved roads are . . .

She shook her head. Well, wizarding was probably better than Muggle--it would be easier to find out what was going on as far as matters she actually cared about were concerned. Either way, there were still no other signs of human habitation yet.

Continuing to walk, she was taken by surprise when a motorcycle whooshed past her from behind. She brought her head up, tracking the motorcycle with her eyes. What is a motorcycle doing around here? And how on earth did it ever managed to pass through the wards that I know I felt . . .?

For a moment, she felt a flash of the strangest image . . . a flying motorcycle, one that felt strangely familiar. But from where? Given that she had grown up a Malfoy, it was rather worthy of note that she even knew what a motorcycle was; she was sure she had never been near one. And that there was one headed straight for what bore all the signs of being a wizarding town . . .

She snorted, suddenly. Here I am, nattering on to myself, as if seeing a motorcycle had some sort of deep, mystical significance. It's probably just that one of the people in town is fascinated with Muggle society--and has enough basic common sense to actually get the thing to work. Having convinced herself (even if that image still niggled at the back of her mind), she firmly shoved all thoughts about motorcycles away . . . just in time to barely avoid smacking into a sign posted on the edge of the road.

"Godric's Hollow, Pop. 300"

Lucia frowned, and not just because the sound of her voice made her even more paranoid than the dark and spookily quiet night. Godric's Hollow . . . sounds familiar. Godric Gryffindor? She shook her head. Why would an out-of-the-way town like this be named after Gryffindor?

Loud noise suddenly breaking into the night for the second time nearly gave her a heart attack, and she was able to do little more than stand and blink as she watched the motorcycle headed back in her direction.

Or perhaps it was a different motorcycle. But . . . one in a (presumably) entirely wizarding town was enough of a stretch. Two seemed utterly out of the question. The noise rose in pitch as it approached, then abruptly spluttered out as the person stopped . . . right in front of her.

"You seem a mite lost." The voice was warm, comforting . . . it somehow struck a chord in her; though she was sure she had never heard it before, it still felt familiar.

". . . I'm right outside Godric's Hollow." She replied, shaking off the shock and the unreal feeling to the entire conversation.

"Of course, of course." He replied genially. "Now, did ye know that before or after this here sign nearly took your head off?"

She blushed, and was glad the darkness hid her face. "Is it really that obvious?"

A motion that might have been a shrug. "Most people don't walk to the village. Either they floo or apparate in, or they have more Muggle-seeming devices like my baby here" he thumped the seat of his motorcycle "to travel by. So, since you were walking, I just assumed you were new."

Such straightforward reasoning . . . it reminded her of Hermione, increased her sense of kinship with the man in front of her. She almost laughed, and her voice, when she spoke again, held a far greater store of good humor. "Well, in this case your assumptions were truth. Could you tell me how much farther until I get to the actual village?"

"It's a matter of less than a minute driving. If you were to insist on walking the rest of the way . . . I'd say maybe five minutes."

Not much farther, then. Good. She was beginning to grow ever more aware of the fact that she had not slept in far too long. "Could you . . . do you know of any good, cheap inns in Godric's Hollow?"

"So you're not visiting someone? How very odd. Rarely do we get any complete strangers around here." A considering pause. "You know, I don't know that we have an inn. Godric's Hollow is pretty small, you know. People don't come out here much. I'm sure we could find someone to keep you for a night, though."

"Thanks." She yawned, and began walking again. Somehow, just knowing that the town was pretty close was enough to motivate her to begin moving once again. After a while, though, she noticed that the motorcycle had not yet started up again, and, looking to the side, found that the man was walking beside her. "What are you doing?"

"I figured if you were going to go the Gryffindor route and refuse to let me drive you back to town, the least I could do was provide you with some company on the walk back." The tone of voice was pure innocence.

"My mother told me never to accept rides from strangers." Lucia yawned again. Despite the fact that it gave her the motivation to move onward, the knowledge that her goal was so close also served to bring crashing down on her head every bit of exhaustion she had been gathering over the last . . . who knew how many hours. "Wait . . . that's a Muggle saying. Mother would never have said that . . . maybe I heard it from 'Mione . . ."

The man chuckled. "Yes . . . even being pureblooded, a certain number of Muggle expressions have made it into my vocabulary as well . . . even before I made friends with . . ." he trailed off. "No matter. It's in the past now. Anyway, I suppose it's just as well you're not accepting the ride I never quite got around to offering, since if my son ever learned that I drove a passenger around without a helmet on . . ."

The elaborate shudder in his voice was such a piece of overacting that Lucia laughed in spite of herself. "You were a class clown, weren't you."

"A mere clown?!" He sounded--again, greatly exaggerated--offended now. "I think not! I was the premier prankster to walk the halls of Hogwarts."

"Better even than the Marauders?" She asked mockingly, her eyebrows raised.

". . . I guess that answers my question as to whether you had gone to Hogwarts."

Now that was an obvious ploy to change the subject if Lucia had ever heard one. "Of course. I'm a British witch . . . where else would I have gone? Be going."

"What year are you? I thought you sounded a little young to have graduated . . ."

"Fifth-year Gryffindor." Lucia smiled, remembering with a certain amount of vindictive glee, now, the color her father's face had turned when he learned that particular bit of information.

"Really. My son's a fifth-year, too. Hufflepuff." Overly dramatic. "A disappointment to the family, I tell you!"

"Hey . . . most of the Hufflepuffs I've met have seemed nice enough." When they weren't accusing Oniisan and I of being the Demon Twin Heirs of Slytherin, or some such nonsense . . . "Besides, you can't get much more of a disappointment to the family than I am."

"Ah. One of those ancient pureblood noble stick-up-their-ass Slytherin families? I'm amazed you turned out as sane as you sound."

After first spending a few moments goggling at the fact that an adult had just cursed in front of her (which, being the age she was, she was more used to adults being annoyingly clean with their language, as if afraid to taint her. As if she hadn't heard all the words they were thinking a thousand times over), Lucia finally mustered a response. "So . . . I was wondering, where did you get that bike? If you don't mind telling me. It's just . . . such a Muggle contraption, I wouldn't think that most wizards would know which was was up, much less how to ride it as well as you seem to." So perhaps it wasn't a very good response . . .

There was a long silence. ". . . I didn't used to. It belonged to . . . a friend, who had always loved such things. He was a bit like you -- a Gryffindor from a primarily Slytherin family -- so perhaps at first his fascination with motor-driven vehicles began as a way to thumb his nose at his family." A long pause, and when the man began again, his voice was softer. "When he . . . left it to me in his will . . . I felt it was only right to learn to ride it the way it deserved to be ridden."

Left it to . . . god, Harry, you're such an idiot. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I mean . . ."

The man chuckled, just a little. "Please, don't feel guilty. It was . . . a long time ago. I don't know that I'll ever stop mourning, but I'm long past the time when I fall into a deep depression every time he's mentioned."

An odd smile. "You know, less that a month ago, I would have been absolutely certain I'd never reach that point. Yet . . . I do believe I'm getting there."

"This probably sounds unacceptably rude, but . . ."

"Who did I lose?" Lucia looked upward, remaining silent for a long moment. "My brother. Almost exactly two months ago . . . the night before we were to leave to come back to Hogwarts. Father finally returned home . . ." She shuddered, and fell silent.

". . . Why am I telling you all this? I suppose my godfather would say because I'm a foolish child who is entirely too Gryffindor for my own good . . ."

"Your godfather, I take it, is another one of those Slytherins you grew up with?" The man returned, humor in his voice.

"Oh, no." Lucia deadpanned. "He's far more bearable."

"Please don't think I'm a creepy old man for saying this . . . but I think one of the reasons I'm so comfortable talking to you is that I feel like . . . I know you from somewhere, even though I'm almost sure I've never seen you before."

Lucia nodded, then belatedly realized that gesture would not exactly be visible. "I know what you mean . . . who knows, maybe we were father and daughter in another life!" She grinned.

The man laughed. "Who knows . . . maybe you're right."

Light began infusing the area as they seemed to be approaching the main village; a couple of houses still had their lights on. "It looks like the Rustins--they're neighbors of mine, have a daughter about your age, but she's a Squib so she attends the nearest Muggle high school--are still up. I bet they'd let you stay the night with them."

Lucia continued walking in silence, knowing it was a decent suggestion so unwilling to express her objections--especially when she had no rational basis, just an unwillingness to leave this person it seemed she had known forever already.

The man looked down--now that Lucia had some light to work from, she actually caught the gesture--and seemed to slow the speed at which he was walking. "Or . . . I suppose you could stay with me. It's a pretty big house, and since my son is at Hogwarts, I'm alone in it except for our house elf . . . I'd certainly enjoy the company, but . . ."

"You don't want to make me think you really are a creepy old man." Lucia grinned. "I'd love to stay with you. I'm sure my godfather would have many scathing words to say to me about accepting an offer like this from a total stranger . . . but I have the feeling you would not betray my trust."

"Well then, consider the offer extended. Except, of course, I could never extend an invitation to such a beautiful young lady" complete bullshit, of course, as his eyes couldn't possibly be good enough to pinpoint more than height and possibly approximate length and shade of hair in this lighting "without even knowing her name, now could I?"

Yet again--or perhaps as a continuation of the previous one--Lucia grinned. There was just something about the man that did that to her, as if he was by nature just one big infectious smile. "Harry Evans." After nearly two months of being immersed in that role, the lie rolled off her tongue almost more easily than her real name would have.

"How odd." The man sounded startled. "My son's named Harry."

Perhaps on accident, perhaps by design, it was under a particularly bright street light that he decided to stop and turn to face her. "I'm--"

He's uglier than Moody. I didn't know that was possible!--that first, uncharitable thought she quickly suppressed, because upon seeing his face, awful as it looked, the niggling feeling of familiarity developed into a full-blown alarm.

He had short, salt-and-pepper hair that looked exceedingly windblown--though because it was that way naturally, or because he had, after all, just been riding a motorcycle only minutes before, she did not know. His right ear was missing a chunk off the top, an area that corresponded with one of the widest silver streaks. His face was more-or-less heart-shaped, liberally covered in scars of different lengths and seeming severity--one of which looked almost like it had been stitched the Muggle way; the worst of which was one that began near the middle of his forehead, slicing down over his left eyelid and ending near the middle of his left cheek.

This scar, unlike Lucia's own, was obviously not a curse scar, as to all appearances it had cost him the use of his left eye. The right one was still open, glittering brightly hazel in the street light with the same innate humor that had brought her to compare the man's personality to an infectious grin.

She wasn't sure exactly what it was that had tipped her off. Perhaps it was the shape of the face, the tilt of the single eye, the familiar way the hair spiked every-which-way--though, now that her Snape heritage was beginning to show through, it was mostly the shortness of her hair that kept it that out-of-control--dim memories of looking in the mirror and of the pictures Jamie had showed her, or just that personality that was just like all the stories she had heard.

Whatever it was, though, the sense of familiarity came to a point and she knew who this man was, who he had to be, despite the apparent impossibility.

"--James Potter."
**
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**
"My Lord--I--"

"You what, young Zabini?" The good humor was swiftly disappearing from Voldemort's face. "You will not obey me?"

"My Lord, your wish is my command . . . but . . ."

". . . But he is your Head of House, and evidently doing far better a job at instilling loyalty than mine ever did." Swiftly, at a pace such that it seemed almost as if he had glided instead of walked, Voldemort approached Snape and kicked him in the knee. Soundlessly, the Potion Master fell, forced off balance--yet in his fall, not once did he reach towards the limb that was probably hurting a great deal.

"Still, it is not a hard decision, young Zabini. Either you are loyal to me, in which case you will follow my order, or you are not."

"My Lord . . ." Weren't Death Eaters only supposed to face this sort of moral and ethical quandary after they were marked?

"Do it, Blaise." Snape said quietly. " 'Dream as though you'll live forever' . . ."

But how could I ever look Harry in the face again if it was with the knowledge that I had killed her father? Yet how can I not, when being in a position to spy could conceivably save thousands of lives? Surely Harry would understand that . . .

He lifted his wand reluctantly, getting a dim, obscure sense of near satisfaction at the small smile that appeared on Voldemort's face as student seemed to choose him over teacher. If only you knew . . . I may do this, but it will never be for you. I will stain my soul that others may live untainted. "Ava--"

He faltered. Seeing the encouragement in Severus' eyes was in some ways worse than if he had been looking at him in condemnation or betrayal. How would he cope when he did see such emotions in his victims' eyes, if he couldn't even do this?

Especially when so much rested on him to do the 'right thing' (and when, he wondered, had rightness begun to take on quotation marks in his mind?) . . . he steeled himself, forced his nervousness and the overwhelming feeling of betrayal of friend, teacher, and surrogate uncle away. "Avada Kedavra."
**
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**
As the days passed with no overt retribution from Dumbledore, Severus' nerves--and thus, regrettably, his temper--were becoming more and more hair-trigger. Thus, when the door to the room opened (and, it being nowhere near time for any of his classes to start, there being no real reason for said door to open), he congratulated himself for refraining from hexing the first person to come through the door.

And how convenient--it, or more exactly, she was a Gryffindor. "Go." He contented himself with growling.

The Gryffindor quailed, he was pleased to note, but did not turn around and flee, as had been his aim. Instead, she continued further into the room, revealing perhaps the reason for her courage--two companions.

"Patil. Chang. What is the meaning of this? Parkinson--you should not be here in the first place. Leave here, the three of you." In order to combat the greater numbers, he stood, bending one of his fiercer glares upon them.

The door closed with disturbing finality, and he noticed that Parvati had shifted such that she had it covered--with a sense of pride, maybe, that she had absorbed more of the lessons in Survival than he might have previously thought, but also of exasperation, that these lessons were now being used against him.

"Where is Draco, Professor Snape?" Pansy stepped forward, determination turning her eyes the shade of steel.

"Is he safe?" Cho added in much the same tone. "And Harry . . . does he know anything about Harry's disappearance?"

"Do you know anything about Harry's disappearance?" Parvati chimed in from her place near the door.

"Leave." The situation felt like it was spiraling rapidly out of control--a feeling Snape had never enjoyed.

"Not until you give us some answers." As one, the three girls folded their arms across their chests, staring defiantly.

"If Draco is in trouble, I want . . . no, I need to help him." Pansy continued, slightly more softly. "He's always been there for me, and now . . ."

"I think I know where Harry went, but I don't know for sure. And I couldn't bear it if something happened to her simply because I miscalculated . . . Cho says that Malfoy probably knows something about Harry's disappearance, and I trust her judgment. I need to know."

"Both Harrys have been my friends, and even Draco I enjoy the company of, even though I don't know him as well as I do even either of the Harrys. I don't want anything to happen to any of them . . . not if I can stop it." Cho finished. "Please, Professor Snape . . ."

Their pathetic emotional appeals actually managed to touch him--and when exactly had he managed to pick up a heart? He had thought that vestigial organ gone for good--but damned if he was going to let the three girls in on that secret.

He raised his glare a notch or two, adding a bit more stone as well. "I fail to see why this is any of my concern."

Pansy gave him the disconcerting impression of matching his glare notch for notch. "Because," she smiled sweetly, (a true Slytherin, that girl . . .) "if you had no idea what happened to Draco, you'd be nearly as frantic as me--if not more so. The fact that you aren't seems to indicate that you know exactly what's going on."

"And we want in." Parvati was definitely showing signs of the impetuosity that made her a Gryffindor.

Pansy, at least, had the sense to look briefly exasperated at the interruption but, to his surprise, just shrugged it off with a sigh and an amusement-tinged "What she said."

All right. For whatever reason, nonverbal scare tactics seemed to be failing miserably. Perhaps they had built up an immunity . . . now that was a depressing thought. So he was forced to move on to verbal--feeding them just a bit of truth (and that bit only because his conscience--bloody useless thing, that; never got him into anything but trouble--would not allow him to totally lie to these well-meaning girls. People with Draco's best interests at heart seemed to be becoming fewer and further between these days) in a way that would leave them with entirely the wrong impression.

"Malfoy is currently in hiding." He noted after a long pause. Seemingly idly, he added, "From Professor Dumbledore."

"So?" Odd enough that any of the three had voiced such a sentiment--he had thought even Pansy respected Dumbledore's power and status enough to pay heed to his opinion--far odder still that it had been the Gryffindor that spoke.

"So?" He repeated incredulously. "That's all you have to say?"

Parvati stepped forward. "Look, Professor Snape. Unlike Parkinson and Cho, I could really care less about Malfoy. But Cho seems to think that he can tell me something about Harry's whereabouts" a brief shuttered look "or, more importantly, her well-being. So as long as he is capable of telling me that information, I really couldn't care less whether he's a perfect little angel, the brat he's always been, or some sort of deranged murderer and rapist."

"No, that would be his father." Pansy muttered.

That managed to startle a laugh out of all three girls and, surprisingly enough, Snape himself (though it was more of a swiftly cut-off chuckle. Snarky, greasy ex-Death Eater bastards don't do laughter).

Still smiling slightly, though more because of the reaction she had provoked than out of any residual humour at the comment itself, Pansy continued in a more serious vein, "So what does the Headmaster think Draco's done?"

"Kidnap Harry?" Cho suggested sarcastically. Severus was pleased to note that, apparent distaste for Draco aside, even Parvati snorted disbelievingly at that idea.

Ostensibly looking down at his watch, he tapped it three times. Returning his attention to the three girls standing in front of him, waiting for an answer, he smirked. "That, I'm afraid, is not my secret to tell."

And vanished.
**
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**
Nothing happened.

Relief crashed down upon Blaise with a weight so near physical that he swayed on his feet.

Voldemort, on the other hand, turned on Snape, an angry flush suffusing his face (quite an accomplishment, as it was the first indication Blaise had seen that the man could turn any color but his 'natural' pasty white). "So, to top off your betrayal, you brought me a Squib?" He hissed.

Snape rolled his eyes--it was obvious, even before he stood (somewhat shakily, most likely as an aftereffect of the knee that Voldemort had injured), that he had given up all hope of getting out of this situation alive and was determined to enjoy his last few minutes engaging in that activity he loved best, perhaps, of all--wordplay. "Oh, sure, brilliant plan." He began, sarcasm dripping. "I'd have been discovered and branded as a traitor even more quickly than this--even had you not already known."

He straightened. "I was a spy, Voldemort. You do remember what that term means, do you not? I would never have done something to so obviously give away my true allegiance."

"It is true, even as a double agent, you were still one of my best followers . . ." Voldemort mused.

"With brilliant men like Crabbe and Goyle in your Inner Circle, it wasn't precisely hard." Snape riposted contemptuously.

Voldemort raised an--how odd, that really was an eyebrow. Somehow Blaise had been of the opinion that the monster was completely hairless. "They have their uses." He returned calmly. "Pure physical strength can be . . . useful, at times. Especially when the possessors of it have very small minds--they are so much easier to convince to do as you wish that way, after all."

Snape considered this. "True. Still, there's a Muggle saying for that sort of mentality--'Garbage in, garbage out'. If you don't order them exactly correctly, they may go off and do something entirely different."

"That's what I keep men like Lucius and Wormtail around for. They can think, but are generally well-enough trained not to do so in my presence."

Snape shook his head. "And this is why you'll lose in the end, Voldemort, you know? Dumbledore may not care for the opinions of all his followers, but he at least pretends he does--and occasionally, one of those disregarded underlings comes up with something useful."

"You were never a disregarded underling, Severus. You thought in my presence, and gifted me with those thoughts, and I listened." There was . . . Blaise could have sworn that Voldemort looked . . . sad, almost. Regretful. It was an odd moment, seeing Voldemort as something nearing human for the first time, when he almost found it in himself to . . . sympathize? . . . with the monster. "Why did you turn? I've suspected you had for more than four years now . . . but I've always wanted to know why."

"The question, I think, is more why I was foolish enough to go over to your side in the first place. I am--I was not really the Death Eating sort. I didn't want the sort of power you provide, I've never particularly enjoyed torturing anyone" a brief smile flitted across his face "except perhaps the Marauders. I don't believe any of that pureblood crap--hell, I fell in love with and married a 'mudblood'."

"I think you knew a part of that--you never tried to require me to participate in any of the bloodier aspects of being under your rule; perhaps you realized that doing that would have simply lost me that much sooner. But I still knew it was happening, knew the suggestions I gave and the potions I brewed were resulting in peoples' deaths, somewhere. I managed to hide from that knowledge for a time . . . quite a while, to tell the truth. But I have a conscience; eventually I had to do the right thing, not simply the expedient one . . . I would not have been able to live with myself otherwise."

"So you grew quiet . . . for weeks, you no longer offered suggestions, even when I solicited them . . . just brewed your potions and watched me with those keen, thoughtful eyes of yours . . . that long ago, Severus? You hid yourself from me for that long?"

Snape smiled slightly. "You fail to remember, sometimes, that you are not the only Slytherin among your followers. You may have his blood flowing through your veins, but even that is no guarantee."

Blaise backed up, slowly, quietly, until he was at least partly hidden by the surrounding trees. It was creeping him out, how Snape had gone from his cutting, sarcastic best to what he could only describe as a heart-to-heart with a man he had been sure Severus had hated more than anyone else on Earth. He most certainly did not want to be around when the confrontation erupted back into violence.

He may not have been a Squib, but that did not mean that he was any more interested in getting between two adult wizards that were almost certainly quite a bit more powerful than him.

Scarily--especially considering what the expression did to his face--Voldemort smiled back, just as slightly. "I'll take that under consideration."

"I'm afraid you won't get the chance." An entirely new voice, as a fourth person stepped into the clearing.

"You!" All three chorused.

Snape and Voldemort exchanged odd looks. "You know him?"

The stranger smirked. "Hi, Tom. Miss me?"

"Harry Potter. I had wondered what happened when you disappeared."

Had they bothered to look in each others' direction, Blaise and Severus would have seen that they each wore identical looks of puzzlement. Harry Potter?

"And I'm sure you hoped I died. Tough luck." The boy was still smirking. "I've come for you at last, Tom."

The snake-faced man laughed, long and hard. "Ah, but I will triumph, for your father, James Potter, is dead!"

The boy crossed his arms. "And when did I ever say that a Potter was my biological father?" He raised an eyebrow. "All James Potter's death did, in retrospect, was piss me off at you even further."

"You're bluffing."

The stranger huffed. "Honestly. Do I look like a Potter to you?"

Voldemort suddenly smirked. "Well, I don't know. You certainly look like a fool . . . and aren't the two terms synonymous?"

"Ouch. My pride is hurt. I will now rush you in a blinding rage like some fool Gryffindor." The black-haired boy deadpanned. "Now really . . . pissing someone off properly isn't that hard . . ." he paused "Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle~."

"Stop that!" Voldemort shrieked.

"How does it feel to be advocating the extermination of all Muggles when you're only a half-blood yourself?" He taunted.

"Shut up!"

He buffed his nails against simple black robes. "See? Not so hard at all."

"Avada Kedavra!"

As Blaise and Snape watched on in mute, horrified fascination, the green light rushed towards the stranger, who seemed oddly accepting of his fate. Suddenly he sprang into motion, though, an oddly shaped silver dagger appearing in his hand. As the curse wrapped itself around the dagger instead of killing the boy, he shook his head. "Now, that was uncalled for. Really, Tom, has it been so long that you've forgotten already?"

With a flash, the curse was thrown off the dagger in a whiplike motion, and sent heading straight back towards its originator.

"Really, Harry," Voldemort mimicked as he raised a dagger of his own, "this is the second time you've pulled that trick on me. Don't you think I've learned a few things of my own by now?"

The green light, however, was not sent shooting back towards Harry . . . but straight towards Snape.

Blaise could tell the moment the stranger realized the change had been made; his eyes opened impossibly wide and he lurched in Snape's direction, anguish contorting his face. "Noo!"

"Yees." Voldemort mocked. "Excuse me for taking my attention from you for a moment, Mr. Potter--that was just a bit of unfinished business I had to take care of."

It would have been obvious that Voldemort had now gained the upper hand in their battle of wits, had Blaise been thinking of such things instead of . . . staring.

It was un-Slytherin behaviour. Blaise knew that somewhere deep back in his mind. He also knew he really couldn't care less. He had been only barely able to stomach the idea of killing Severus in the abstract . . . the reality was too much. Far too much.

"Unfinished business?" It would have been less unsettling had he shrieked the way Voldemort did. Instead, though there was no doubt that he was burning with a cold fury, his voice was even, cool, and entirely too quiet. There were hints of Severus in that cold control, but even Severus flew into rages quite often once he was provoked to true anger. "Is that all he was to you, Riddle?"

The dagger pointed straight in his direction. "No wonder then, that you will eventually lose. Not just because I will kill you--though don't doubt that I will. No, your sort will always lose because you don't care. You don't even pretend you care. Never underestimate the power of love."

"What is this? Some cutesy little cartoon?" Voldemort sneered. "And I suppose you expect this all to end with a happily ever after?"

Harry was poised. "No, you've destroyed far too much of my life for that, Tom. But any life without you in it will be happily enough ever after for me."

"The feeling is decidedly mutual." Voldemort bared his teeth in a clear parody of a grin.

Still with that coldly furious expression on his face, dagger extended, Harry began arrowing towards Voldemort; the absolute focus displayed made it clear that that was the only thing left in his mind.

"Avada--"

Almost there . . .

"--Kedavra!"

Blaise was, if possible, in the best position to observe the situation possible. Just as the stranger came within arm's reach of the Dark Lord, he finished the curse; the trademark green light burst over them both far brighter than it had before. When his eyes cleared, the Slytherin observed a scene that, for a moment, seemed frozen outside of time.

The dagger had done its duty, driving up under the ribcage and straight into Voldemort's heart; the curse had seemingly done its job just as well. Both looked oddly . . . surprised, in that moment before the blood erupted and they both fell.

Silence.

Shakily, Blaise pushed himself to his feet from the collapsed sitting position he had fallen into as he watched his mentor die and walked over to where the two lay. Moving as if in a dream, he plucked the dagger from the strange boy's hand. For a moment, he could have sworn he had seen something move . . . but when he looked, it was only a carved snake; certainly nothing likely to move there. Even in a world where magic is real, there are generally limits.

Still feeling an unreal quality to the situation, he looked down at Voldemort. It was obvious that the man was almost certainly already dead. Holding the dagger firmly, he drew a delicate line across the monster's throat and watched with something approaching satisfaction as blood began to pour from there as well. "Take that, you bastard." He whispered.

Placing the dagger back beside the body of the strange boy--the boy who had somehow known what was going to happen; if only they had listened . . . he walked on unsteady feet over to where Snape lay dead, fell to his knees, and began to weep.

Behind him, a single finger twitched.
**
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6 September 2003
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Kateri1, amythest, Lady Cinnibar, Cassa-Andra, Arizosa, Ugly Duckling, cRazy-GIrl-3000, Tenshi-Chikyuu, GShans, Kat191, Carya, Crydwyn, Jaded Angel8, maggie, Sailor Hylia, Sen Xthein, Sele, Shadow Adams, loverwren, zetaveta, Eriee, Creamy Mimi, Ueshiba, Ghost Whisper, wog-girl, enahma, ZetaVeta, I Am The Bunny Slayer, Gingernut5000--Thanks! And sorry again for the wait . . .

Bellatrix--Yes, I rather miss the Harry/Draco interaction too. But Harry has a bit further to go before he can return, and though I didn't devote quite as much time to Draco as I would have liked this chapter, he's got his own problems to deal with. Severus is . . . dealing, too.

Ookla the Mok--Jamie's animagus form has almost come in several times--the latest being this last scene--except every time it just hasn't quite worked out and I've had to find an alternate way to circumvent the blockage. *sighs* It will come in eventually.

*grins* I dunno, Voldemort would probably taste pretty bad. It would be better to stomp on him. But then, Jamie is accustomed to being human. The Marauders, as far as he's heard, only really used their animagus forms to fool around with Remus during the full moon; add to that Jamie's inbred, almost fanatical paranoia about exposing the fact that he has a magical animagus form, and I'd bet that in a lot of cases, he just doesn't think about it.

If it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure he flew from Hogwarts to Voldemort's clearing--probably as a dragon. I just couldn't see any good way to squeeze that information into the scene. Especially once Sev and Voldemort decided they wanted to twist that baiting into an actual conversation. o.O

At first he did not know when he was, so he was examining simple apparation in Hogwarts as a possibility.

LeopardDance--*grins* I liked the paradox myself. And it was one of those odd things that just sprang on me out of nowhere. *hugs muses* Mm . . . I'd more say that the daggers are damn confused. He had only just rescued them, after all. They hadn't really had time enough to adjust to the realities of the situation . . . so when Jamie up and left one of them and Tom picked it up, the dagger saw that he was one of Slytherin's heirs and decided good enough'--because it hadn't been around him long enough to really recognize that he was definitely Slytherin reborn.

MistWalker--Yes, I do put Jamie through rather a lot, don't I? I think it's because of all those durned writing tips I heard when I was younger--about how you're supposed to torture your hero-type-character in order to make him grow and make the story more interesting. So now I can't seem to stop . . . it's habit!

@.@ I am seeing what you were saying about college. I don't even want to think about all the other stuff I'm supposed to be doing right now . . . -_-;;

Brenna8--I think it's more in the nature of the authors who write Smart!Harry/Slytherin!Harry-type stories, because the two do mesh extraordinarily well, even if they're not necessarily mutually inclusive.

Right now, canon-Harry is indisputably Gryffindor. So people who want to stick him in Slytherin feel like they have to do something in order to readjust him to recognize his Slytherin potential. One of the simplest ways to do this is to get him to start actually thinking--ergo, Smart!Harry.

Smart!Harry is generally characterized as a Harry that's somewhat more studious, that thinks before he acts . . . now, we know that that sort of behaviour and being Gryffindor are not mutually exclusive, no matter what Sev might want us to think :P--look at Hermione, for example. But, knowing that Harry has certain Slytherin traits within him already, it is not too great a stretch to say that those traits have been brought out along with his attitude readjustment.

There you go. One long-winded explanation of the frequent connection between smart!Harry and Slytherin!Harry at your service. :P

barbara--O.O You print it out? I'm torn between feeling flattered and very sorry for your printer . . . I know I stopped even trying to keep hard copies of my stories a long time ago.

Dumbledore will figure most everything out eventually . . . unless I kill him off first. And I don't think that'll happen. I certainly have no plans for it happening . . . not that that necessarily means anything . . . but yes, he should find out, and once he does, I'll do my best to make that scene suitably . . . interesting. XD

Remember, Godric's been up there for a loong time. I wouldn't be surprised if many people didn't even know he existed--Harry just assumed because he had seen the portraits of former headmasters and knew, because of his Salazar side, that Godric had once been Headmaster. Godric's probably asleep most of the time and doesn't pay that much attention to current events--there's only so much death and sorrow one can take, I think, before they either go mad or begin to try and shut it all away, and it's been a thousand years.

I'm sure, though, that when Jamie gets back to his own time he'll be sure to have a few words for Godric to wake the portrait back up again.

You'll notice that Tom did try and recruit Jamie at least at first. It's only when Jamie turned him down--in a nicely insulting fashion, too--that he lost his temper. And remember, he doesn't know that the Killing Curse doesn't exactly work on Harry the same way it does on everyone else. He thought he was getting rid of a problem the fastest and most effective way possible.

Now, telling Jamie his Nefarious Plan was definitely stupid. It guaranteed that he'd live, after all--don't tell me you've never read the Evil Villains' Handbook, Tom?

Darak--If you were searching for a reason to stop reading my story, I'm rather surprised you made it this far.

As for the blood vs. heir question--I actually happen to agree with you, and have been know to make cutting comments in the general direction of the movie(s) along those lines. However, in this story, it suits me to go along with the canon' line in this at least--and, semantically correct or no, Voldemort is canonically the Heir to Slytherin.

You'll notice Slytherin was dead for quite some time. I don't know that those rules work too well when we start getting into the subject of reincarnation. Even if they do . . . I'm certainly no expert on the subject and, though I hate to pull this card, this is my story and I'm writing it this way because it works. I'd rather have a story with a few logical inconsistencies than one that stops after only a chapter or two because I've gotten so anal about everything being right that I've given myself incontrovertible writers' block.

No, the books never mention Voldemort carrying a dagger. So? They never mention him carrying his wand unless he's using it--I doubt he casts a summoning charm on it so that it comes when he calls. J.K.'s penchant for not always being terribly detailed in her descriptions leaves a bit of room for me to slide details of my own in.

Care-Bear in a Leather Jacket--Never be afraid to ask questions. Especially not ones I actually know how to answer. :P

The thing is, all the universes I touch on in this story are fairly closely linked. They didn't break off and go in different directions until significantly after Tom Riddle's school years. Thus, something happening in that time impacts them all.