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Where the Heart Moves the Stone
Verse IX of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
By: Vain
10.7.2003 - 09.26.2004
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Chapter Three
The Khurban

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"And when thou art spoiled, what wilst thou do?
Though thou clothest thyself with crimson,
though thou deckest thee with ornaments of gold,
though thou rentest thy face with painting,
in vain shalt thou make thyself fair;
thy lovers will despise thee, thy will seek thy life.
For I have heard a voice as of a woman in travail,
and the anguish of her that bringest forth her first child,
the voice of the daughter of Zion,
that bewaileth herself, that spreadeth her hands, saying,
Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied because of murderers."
- Jeremiah 4:30 & 31

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"Are you quite sure you're feeling well, my boy?"

Harry smiled up at his mentor, a slightly pained expression. Truth be told, he had felt rather dizzy all day and was actually looking forward to returning to the peace of the hospital wing tonight, despite all the fuss he'd made to attend classes.

One of Professor Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows lifted at the obviously false smile. "Now, Harry—" the old man began.

The green-eyed teen shook his head and pushed himself up from where he'd been leaning on the desk. "I'm alright, sir. Honest. Just let me rest a moment . . ."

Dumbledore watched him for a moment in silence, his piercing blue eyes taking in everything from the pale complexion to the shallow breathing. The old man sighed quietly, lowered his wand, and walked around to his desk. He gingerly lowered his frame into the velvet-lined high-backed seat. Harry sighed heavily at the look on the Headmaster's face. It was the "Let's Have a Talk, Child" look. After three months of Occlumency lessons, Harry knew that look well.

"Sit down, Harry."

For a moment the boy simply looked at him as though debating what to do. Albus frowned sadly. "Please?"

Harry closed his eyes and turned away as he sat.

For a long moment there was nothing but silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the dull clicking of a clock that Harry couldn't locate. Albus knew by now that tea and cookies would not assuage Harry, so he made no move to offer them.

The Headmaster sighed. Dealing with Harry Potter was something akin to grasping an ice cube: the tighter he held on, the more the boy seemed to slip through his hands. He had hoped to have a successor in the headstrong boy, but now that was looking less and less likely. Voldemort's rebirth was unanticipated, as were Cedric's and Sirius's deaths. Both had impacted his protégé much harder than he would have wished. Harry was too young for the pain that bowed his shoulders—too young to carry the burdens placed on him.

This was something Albus understood intimately, something that he himself had dealt with in his own youth. He would have spared Harry that if he could have, but such things were not to be. And now Voldemort was back and with every passing year, Harry's chance of survival seemed to lessen. Should Voldemort succeed in killing Harry, Albus did not believe he'd long outlive his Golden Boy. He did not believe he'd want to.

The old man frowned at the youth's profile. The light of the fire cast weird shadows over Harry's face and Albus felt a distinct pull at his heart.

No.

He had not lied to the boy—he loved Harry like a grandson. And he would do everything possible to see that the child survived this war. There were too many casualties in this war already; Harry would not become one as well. He wouldn't—couldn't—allow that to happen. Ever. Harry Potter would succeed him.

He had failed Tom; he would not fail another—especially not this child who had somehow managed to find a place in his heart. It had been a very long time since Albus had had anyone whom he could sincerely look upon as family and he would not give it up so easily. He would not fail Harry, or Harry Potter again. The boy could not be allowed to die. No matter what.

"Are you still angry with me, Harry?"

Avada Kedavra green eyes stared at him for a moment before looking away. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

"Really?" the boy murmured, gazing into the flames.

Albus closed his eyes sadly. "Harry . . . My dear child . . . Is there nothing I can do to make you forgive me?" It was not the first time he'd asked that question. It would not be the last.

The boy turned and frowned at the Headmaster. Something inside Albus ached at the dark smudges beneath his eyes. "Why does it matter so much to you?" He didn't sound angry—just weary. "I'm doing what you want, aren't I? I'm learning Occlumency. I've been studying more like you said I should. What more do you want?"

The old man pursed his lips unhappily. "I want you forgive me."

"Why?" Harry demanded again.

"Because I care."

This response only earned him a slightly skeptical look. Harry turned back to the fire.

Albus tried again. "I worry about you."

"You worry about the cause. Or is that merely the same thing now?"

"They're not the same thing, child," the old man replied with genuine earnestness. "They never were. I do care for you, Harry. You. Not the hero and not the legend. Just you."

Harry still did not look away from the fireplace. "Hmph." The reflection of the fire danced on the surface of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. "I'll do what you want," he said lowly after an instant. "But don't act like you're doing this for me, okay? I . . . I don't really mind . . . not if you don't act like you're doing this for me. It's for the cause. I get that. But don't keep on acting like you care about me. It's stupid."

Again, not angry—simply tired.

So tired.

For a moment the two were silent, Harry watching the flames and Albus watching Harry.

Albus settled back in his chair. He looked older than he was, more worn down by his years than even he should be. Harry did not look away from the fire. Fawkes, who had watched the entire exchange in silence, alit from his perch to settle on the back of the Headmaster's chair. An aged hand rose and stroked the bird's red plumage.

"Harry . . ." The boy stiffened and Albus broke off, looking frustrated.

"Don't," the Gryffindor said to the flames. "You've used Legumens on me. You've seen it all. You don't need to ask me these questions, do you?"

The old man leaned forward a bit, but made no other movement. "Will you not tell me what is troubling you then, child?"

Those green eyes turned back to him and watched him once more in their sad silence. Finally Harry released a huffing little sigh. "It's my problem. You can't help me with it."

Albus nodded in acceptance. Just like holding ice. He opened his mouth to say something, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a rather flustered looking McGonagall. The Head of Gryffindor was leaning heavily on her cane, a sure sign that she was distressed. It was a well-known fact that the Transfigurations professor hated the cane with a passion and she only carried it with her when it was absolutely necessary.

The woman dashed into the room breathlessly, seemingly unaware of Harry. "Albus, that idiot is at it again! I swear, if he didn't learn his lesson after that debacle at the Department of Myst—"

The Headmaster cleared his throat suddenly, interrupting her. "Now, Minerva . . . I'm sure it can't be that serious. Won't you join us for tea?"

Bluish gray eyes flickered to Harry and Professor McGonagall blushed slightly. "Potter." She smiled tensely. "I'm sorry. I forgot that this was your teatime."

Teatime. The Order's official euphemism for "Keep Potter Sane and On Our Side" time. Harry was not stupid. He knew what could happen if he failed to master Occlumency. So far, he'd learned little and was beginning to wonder if he'd ever master the damnable art. The Headmaster said that he had a block. All he knew was that the whole process just gave him migraines.

Harry offered the Deputy Headmistress a tense smile of his own in response. "It's alright, ma'am. Really."

McGonagall turned back to the Headmaster. "May I borrow you for a moment then?"

"Of course. Harry?"

The boy nodded his assent.

The old man rose with a blinding smile and made his way around his desk with surprising grace. He paused at Harry's chair and gently placed hand on the young Gryffindor's shoulder. Sterling blue eyes locked onto vivid green ones. "If you are having a difficult time, you may want to make a list."

Harry blinked in confusion. "Make a list?"

The old man smiled a small, genuine smile just for him. "Yes. A list of the good things and the bad things to help you sort matters out."

"The good things and the bad things?" Harry's lips thinned in suspicion. "Do you know what my problem is, sir?"

"We can only truly know what we see or are told, child."

"And what have you seen?"

For a moment the two simply stared at one another in silence. Then Albus gently squeezed Harry's shoulder. "I see something that could be everything. If such things are allowed."

The boy's eyes widened and his jaw went a bit slack. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "A—are . . . such things allowed?"

Albus smiled and squeezed his shoulder once more. "I should not be gone long. I trust you will not go poking about where you should not, Harry." His eyes twinkled brightly as he said this, as though attempting to brand the significance of the words onto the boy's soul.

"Albus, the Minister . . ." McGonagall prodded gently. Her sharp eyes flickered between the boy and the old man quizzically, but she said nothing. Whatever problems Albus and Potter had were theirs to iron out, and she had been told with no small amount of firmness that this was one affair in which she had no say.

Albus stood. "Of course, Professor McGonagall. Lead on, my dear."

Harry watched in silence as the old man smiled again and left, speaking to his deputy headmistress in hushed tones as he went.

A list? Green eyes narrowed as he turned the Headmaster's words over in his mind.

He still had not forgiven Dumbledore for what had happened last year and this summer. In all honesty, he didn't know if he could forgive the man. He hid too much—kept Harry in the dark too much. It was obvious though that his rejection hurt Dumbledore, even if he never said anything to that affect. Still, Harry didn't know whether that downcast look was real or an act. And he didn't much care to find out one way or another.

Every week they had "tea" and every week Dumbledore tried to regain his trust. It was enough to drive a person mad. Even if Harry had wanted to come to terms with the conniving old man before the so-called Incident at Privet Drive—which he had not—he most certainly was in no mood to do so afterwards. Harry shuddered at the memory of what had happened at his relations' house and suddenly felt cold.

He hadn't lost his temper since that day. Dumbledore said that no one would know—that it was up to him who to tell, if anyone. Dumbledore and Moody promised that everything would be okay and that there wouldn't be any uncomfortable questions. So far he'd kept his promises, but Harry wasn't stupid: one day, he'd have to pay the piper, and what then? He shuddered again and rubbed his arms through his sleeves. He wished he'd thought to ask the Headmaster to turn up the fire.

Dumbledore had promised him that everything would be alright. Dumbledore had promised him that he would never, ever, ever, have to go back there . . .

But if the old man really did know about what had happened with Snape, would he keep his word? Harry knew that he wouldn't survive very long in Azkaban . . . He'd go mad in days. Would Dumbledore really let the Ministry send his Golden Boy to prison—even if he wasn't so golden? And then there was the prophecy to contend with. He doubted that the Headmaster would be willing to relinquish him until Voldemort was dead.

Harry bit his lip and suddenly—stupidly—wished that Severus were there . . . if only to distract him from these questions.

Dumbledore had promised that everything would be okay.

But did Dumbledore know about Snape? Harry couldn't imagine the Potions Master had told him anything. Snape would have been out on his ear faster than a Malfoy could say "money." Or maybe the Headmaster wasn't willing to lose his spy so soon. Was Snape just like Harry—another pawn in this game to be pushed around by two stubborn old men until he ceased to be useful?

No. Harry would not forgive Dumbledore. If not for himself or Sirius, then for Severus. And for his parents. And for Cedric. And even for the Durselys.

The boy worried his lower lip for a few more minutes, staring blankly down at his hands.

He missed Severus.

And that was so stupid because he had never even known the man long enough to miss him. He still didn't know the man. And he didn't know if he wanted to, either.

Make a list.

The boy fidgeted in his seat and turned to stare at Fawkes. The phoenix had returned to his perch at some point in time and had tucked his magnificent head beneath a wing, asleep. The portraits on the wall dozed in both real and feigned slumber. Phineas had yet to be in his portrait when Harry was in the office. The Potter heir was fairly certain that the Headmaster had something to do with that, but he couldn't summon the energy to be angry. Anger only got him into trouble. Besides, he doubted he could handle the sharp-tongued Black patriarch right then.

A list.

What would it hurt, really?

The Headmaster had only been gone for over five minutes, and, knowing Fudge, would be gone longer still. The boy bent down and dug about in his satchel for a quill, ink, and a scroll. Instead he found a sheet of loose-leaf and a ballpoint. They'd do. He carefully cleared a space on the Headmaster's desk and scooted his chair closer so that he could write.

The good things and the bad things . . .? The boy went to tap the edge of the pen against his chin and frowned when he realized that the Muggle writing tool was too short. Suddenly uncomfortable with the ballpoint, Harry dug about in his bag once more with a growl. This time his search was much more successful and he retrieved his favorite battered eagle feather quill and an inkwell of blue ink. He opened the well, dipped the quill tip in, and hunched over the desk as he began his list.

The good and the bad. Him and Severus . . .

The invisible clock ticked loudly as he wrote.

Good
Strong
Fierce
Brave
Protective
Safe
Proud
Brilliant
Powerful
Eyes
Hands
Cheekbones
Understands?
Relentless
Honorable?
Sees me
Reformed?
Him
Me

Bad
Cruel
Arrogant
Stubborn
Secretive
Unfair
Petty
Always has to be right
Childish
Liar
Hair
Nose
Merciless
Pitiless
Unforgiving
Blind
DE
Marauders
Me?
Hides things
Age
Sarcastic
Angry
Impatient
Manipulative
Belittling
Position
Threats / Intimidation
Risk
Him

When he couldn't think of anything else, Harry sat up and stared at his list with a dark frown. The list of cons was noticeably longer than the pros. His green eyes flickered back and forth to the ends of each column.

Him. Me. Me? Him.

All the other things aside, that was what it boiled down to in the end. Snape and Harry and Harry and Snape. Those were honestly both the best and worst reasons he could find for them to . . . to . . . try.

Try what exactly, he wasn't certain, but he knew that he wanted to give it a go.

It was different with Snape. He couldn't quantify what was different, but, stupid as it was, that strange embrace . . . that press of lips, it had changed something. And it sounded so dumb when he thought of it like that, but it couldn't be avoided. Even when the man was giving him hell, there was something about it that made Harry feel more . . . alive. It was . . . fun . . . in a strange way. If something like that could be called fun.

Harry nibbled on the tip of his quill.

It was unique. It was just something that Harry wanted. He didn't need it. It wasn't like air or water or food. It was . . . a different kind of want. It was like when he wasn't hungry, but he still wanted food. Or he wasn't thirsty, but he still wanted something to drink. He had air, but it wasn't enough.

He wanted Snape.

He didn't understand it. He couldn't explain it. Even thinking about trying to figure it out was enough to give him a migraine, but he wanted Snape.

Not for sex. Not even for a shoulder to cry on. He wanted him—the whole greasy, snarky, angry, loveless package.

The quill slid out of his fingers. He didn't notice.

Snape. The greasy bastard. But that was a while other issue, wasn't it?

The man was so . . . cruel. And mean. And unfair. And bitter . . . But weren't those the things Harry liked best about him? After all, if they were going to do . . . this . . . then he had to be in it one hundred percent. He couldn't just pick and choose those parts that he liked and ignore all the rest. Snape was . . . well, he wasn't attractive. And he certainly was not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. But he was . . . safe.

Yes.

That was definitely the best word for it. Snape was safe. If he was attracted to Harry, then he was attracted to Harry, not some god-construct designed by Dumbledore and the Daily Prophet. And if he thought Harry was worth his . . . whatever . . ., then he genuinely thought that Harry was worth it. Snape was not a man for useless romantic sentiment. And Harry just liked being with Snape. The man was brilliant and funny (once you got past the snark), and strong and proud. He was not the type of person to be railroaded into doing things. Harry could no more sway Snape than he could uproot the Whomping Willow with his bare hands.

But, best of all, Snape neither needed nor wanted a savior. He seemed to be perfectly happy to dig himself out of his rut all on his own. Even with 'Mione and Ron, or in the dorms, or just sitting in class, he could feel people watching him. Waiting. Expecting. Judging. It was almost as though they thought they'd miss him killing Voldemort if they blinked. And it was obvious that they did expect him to defeat Voldemort, something that Harry found absolutely ludicrous since most of them couldn't even say the Dark Lord's name without nearly wetting themselves.

Bred in captivity.

Harry scowled down at his parchment. But wasn't that another reason not to get involved with Snape? All those eyes watching him? The world, Harry had recently decided, amounted to little more than a pack of ravenous dogs chasing him down; they would tear him apart the moment he so much as stumbled. And after Voldemort, if he survived—a very, very, very big 'if'—what would happen to him?

"Death Eater Takes Advantage of Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-You-Know-Who."

Or, better yet: "Boy-Who-Lived Replaces You-Know-Who and Takes Death Eater Professor as Lover." The story on page three!

That would look bloody marvelous on the front page.

And then there was the other thing. Severus was a man. Harry was a man . . . or at least he would be soon . . . What did that make "them"—if Severus ever let there be a "them."

Was he gay?

The boy frowned down at the unresponsive parchment.

He had never thought about that. Ever. . . . How was he supposed to know? Yes, he liked Snape sexually. He dreamt of Snape . . . a lot. But he had liked Cho Fourth Year. Not that he was worried about her—whatever they might have had was long-since gone. She still had trouble meeting his eyes the few times he saw her. Besides, even before Snape, after those awkward meetings in Hogsmead and that fight at the end of the term . . . It was simply too awkward; there was too much history there. And now there was Snape. Even though Cho still made him feel all muddled up sometimes when he saw her, what he felt for Snape was . . . different. It was like comparing a candle to a blowtorch.

Just how did the wizarding world deal with homosexuality? He had never heard anything about it . . . it was never mentioned in the dorms, or in classes. Even the dirtier insults were more likely to be based on sex with a killmoulis or something instead of gay people. Was it not talked about because it was wrong? Was Harry wrong for feeling the way he did about Snape? Or was it not talked about because it was okay? Did people even care?

He picked up his quill and began to run the end back and forth across his lips in agitation.

The more Harry thought about this, the more confused he got. He didn't feel gay . . . although he didn't exactly know if one was supposed to feel gay. Did straight feel different? And, again, what about Cho? Did that make him bi-sexual or something? How was he supposed to know what being gay was like anyway? Did just liking Snape make him gay? He wasn't attracted to any of the other boys he could think of. Seamus was kinda cute, but he was a total prat. Neville was just . . . no. The twins were alright, he supposed. Draco was gorgeous, of course, but you'd have to be blind, deaf, and a complete moron not to see that. Shame he was such a little snot. But none of them made him feel the way Snape did.

Cho came close. The memory of her smooth skin and long, silky hair still made his stomach feel like it was a Snitch that didn't want to be caught. But Snape . . . Snape made him . . . want. Snape made him—

Harry blushed and dropped his head in misery as exactly how Snape made him feel was made readily apparent by the tightening of his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably and sat back up, staring at the list while absently chewing the bedraggled end of his quill.

Harry's experience with sex was limited to the time Dean Thomas had pinched his bum last year and the wet, sloppy Christmas kiss with Cho in Room of Requirement. Though he still blushed sometimes when Dean looked at him, and he'd always cherish his first kiss, neither was anywhere close to what Snape made him feel. When Snape kissed him . . .

Harry was on fire. The world was on fire. When Snape kissed him, Harry knew that at that instant, he was all the man saw, knew, felt, and wanted. Snape could make Harry burn just by looking at him . . . And Merlin help him in Potion's Class because that voice never failed to conjure fantasies of that late night lab visit at the start of term. Only this time, Harry didn't run. Harry stayed like he should have that first night and Snape would pick him up and sweep all that stuff off the lab table in one of those big, dramatic gestures the man was so fond of and throw him down and tear at his clothes and—

Harry groaned. These thoughts were not helping . . . And while the fantasy was nice and, along with silencing charms, had kept him company almost every night since September, the reality was different. He wanted Snape to do all those things to him again, to touch him like that again, but every time he thought of it—really, truly thought of it—a cold lump seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach.

He liked it when Snape touched him, but he just couldn't get around the fact that he didn't like to be touched. People simply didn't touch him. The Dursleys had never touched him in any way that made him eager to repeat the experience and, every time they did, they immediately wiped their hands, as though he was some sort of filth to be cleaned off their nice, normal skin immediately. Mrs. Weasely hugged him sometimes, but he never quite knew what to do when it happened. Dumbledore would put an arm around his shoulder occasionally, but Harry had never felt comfortable with the camaraderie that entailed. Ron and 'Mione were the closest thing he had to siblings, but unless he was caught up in the moment, he still found himself shrugging off their embraces and hand pats. He didn't know why, he just didn't particularly like people touching him.

Snape was a man. And, if what happened in the lab was any indication, he expected certain things. He certainly would not be willing to twiddle his thumbs because Harry had hang ups.

The quill fell to the paper with a dull noise. "I am such a head case."

A sudden bark of laughter startled the boy and he jumped, his elbow hit the desk top hard and ink spilled all over his list. Harry jumped to his feet to avoid the dark liquid as it spilled over the edge of the desk and onto the floor. "Bugger!"

"Such a mouth, Mr. Potter," cackled an all too familiar voice. "Having problems, are we?"

The boy glared at the battered Sorting Hat and dug a thoroughly rumpled and poorly used handkerchief out from his robes. "Don't you ever have anything useful to say?"

If a hat could look offended, the Sorting Hat managed to look positively wounded. "Now, now," clucked the headgear. It turned the creases on its front that mimicked eyes down to the boy and 'watched' him critically. "No need to be so testy. And I always say useful things . . . for those who care to listen."

Harry harrumphed and returned to cleaning up the ink as best he could. Thankfully none of Dumbledore's papers or trinkets had been harmed.

"You know," the Hat began again after a moment, "you are supposed to be a wizard, dear child. They have spells for such things."

Harry shot the creature another glare and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "belt up" as he removed his wand. A cleaning spell later, the mess was gone.

The Sorting Hat crowed in triumph. "You see, Mr. Potter! I can be useful. Now do stop being so stubborn and come over here."

"Why?" Harry shoved his now-empty inkwell and stained quill back in his bag. "So you can spy on me for Dumbledore, too?"

"I should think not." The Hat sounded miffed. "I have kept the secrets of Hogwarts secret for over a thousand years, child. I doubt that you have anything in your pretty little head that could make me change that."

Harry rose from packing his bag and stalked over to the Hat's stand, his fists on his hips. "You told him you wanted me in Slytherin," he accused.

The Hat's reply was even more affronted than the previous one: "I did not. Albus is smarter than that. Besides, it's obvious for anyone who cares to look."

"Snape doesn't know," the boy muttered mutinously under his breath.

"Severus Snape," the enchanted Hat declared matter-of -factly, "can be quite a fool when he wants to be. One of the most frustrating First Years I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. And quite rude, too! Absolutely insisted on Ravenclaw—not that it did him a bit of good. Now stop pouting and let's have a look-see."

Harry blinked, surprised by the information. "Ravenclaw? I thought you said that you kept people's secrets."

"That's hardly a secret," the Hat replied dismissively. "Poor Flitwick actually came up and tried to convince Albus to re-Sort him. I wouldn't, of course. He needed to be in Slytherin, so Slytherin was where he stayed. Ravenclaw would not have been good for him."

The boy stared in disbelief and his mind flickered back to the ugly brand he'd seen on the man's arm at the end of fourth year. "And Slytherin was good for him?"

The Hat managed to look sickeningly smug.

"Why did he need to be in Slytherin?"

"Now that, child, is a secret. Now put me on."

Before Harry quite knew what he was doing, he reached up, pulled down the Hat and dropped it over his eyes. Immediately he felt the Hat's magic poking about in head, rooting through his mind.

Very interesting, the Hat declared at last.

What is?

This situation you've gotten yourself entangled in this time. I do fear that this will all blow up in your face.

You mean the . . . thing . . . with Sever—Snape.

You can call him Severus, you know, the Hat chuckled. After that little tryst in the lab, I'd think you'd at least call the man by his name.

Harry turned scarlet under the brim of the Hat.

But no, it continued. You've already made up your mind about that. You're just too scared to realize it. I meant everything else. Gryffindor has not been good for you. You should have been in Slytherin.

No! the boy snapped in response.

Well, there's no helping it now, in any case, the Hat said, completely ignoring his outburst. You've made your bed, now lie in it. But things are going to happen, Mr. Potter, whether you want them to or not. And you are not ready for them yet.

Harry tensed and, unbidden, the image of Sirius falling slowly backwards locked into his mind. It was like a slap in the face. Only, when he looked at it, it wasn't Sirius; it was Snape. I've been studying! he practically wailed before he could stop himself.

The Hat clamped down tighter on his head as though to chastise him. It's not an issue of studying. A wizard is the only one who can unlock his power, Potter. And you have left yours to lie fallow.

My power . . .?

Yes. It is the man who makes the wizard, Potter, not the wizard who makes the man. Why else do you think that Longbottom is in Gryffindor and not Hufflepuff? You're afraid. And your mind is too muggle. You don't think or act like a wizard. You think and act like a child. It's time for you to grow up.

I am a child, Harry snapped peevishly.

Then God have mercy on us all. If you are a child, then stop expecting to be treated as an adult. Or loved like one. And if you're not a child, then grow up. This is a war, Potter. Stop jumping at your own shadow—or Tom Riddle's, as it were. The man makes the wizard, the wizard does not make the man. You could never be Lord Voldemort. Yes, you can be cruel and hateful. There is Darkness in you. You know that now—we've both seen what you did to your uncle. But you are Harry Potter, not Tom Riddle. That will never change. I stand by my original judgment: you'd have done better in Slytherin. But we all make mistakes, don't we?

Harry removed the Hat hastily, his hand trembling. Immediately the horribly invasive feel of the Founders' magic stopped and he set the Hat back in its place. "I . . . have to go."

"Too much information?" the Hat asked. It looked almost sympathetic.

The Potter heir ignored the question and hastily gathered up his things. "You'll tell Dumbledore that I had to go? Pomfrey will want me back soon anyway."

The Hat snickered. "You may want to toss that paper of yours out first, though."

Harry stopped his hurried packing and looked at the ruined parchment for a moment. The ink hadn't come off and most of the writing was obscured by the spill. Towards the middle of the paper, though, two words were plainly visible. Him Me He picked it up gingerly so as not to stain his fingers and threw it into the fireplace. The flames consumed it instantly.

The boy turned back to the Hat, looking suddenly determined. "Tell him that I went back to the hospital wing."

"Oh? Tired?"

Harry shouldered his bag. "Something like that." He turned and walked to the door.

The Hat's voice made him pause at the entrance. "He really does care for you, Potter."

Harry's finger's tightened painfully around the knob. "He?"

"Yes. He. Either one is alright."

For a moment Harry stared at the ancient grain of the door. Finally he stepped back and opened the door. "Oh." The door boomed shut behind him.

In a corner, a gold hand slid smoothly over the face of the clock. It moved slowly forward, edging from "My Office" to "The Dungeons." Scrawled up the hand's side was only one word: Ready.

The Sorting Hat hummed happily in the silent office.


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The bathroom floor was flooded again. Ron ducked carefully into the girl's lavatory and made a face as his shoes immediately got soaked. Hermione was seated on the dais that held the sink, her long brown hair falling haphazardly into her eyes as she checked the cauldron.

"Mind the hair," Ron teased mildly as he walked over to lean against one of the sinks. "Remember what happened in Second Year."

'Mione looked up and smiled, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "Oh, hush. Besides, this is Dreamless Sleep, not Polyjuice. Human hair will only neutralize the pixie wing dust."

Ron settled against the sink and frowned down at his wet feet. "What does the dust do?"

The girl rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the potion. "Honestly, Ron! Don't you ever study?"

"No."

Hazel eyes flashed as she glared at him, but Ron only smiled cheekily. The bushy-haired Gryffindor snorted and stirred the cauldron three times counter-clockwise. "Have you talked to Harry today?"

"Not since Herbology. He looked a bit off still." The Weasely turned away from his girlfriend and began to absently finger the faucet next to him. He watched his middle finger coast over the snake that opened the gate to the Chamber of Secrets. "I dropped by the Infirmary before I came, but he wasn't there. I'm going to drop off his books tonight before dinner."

"Good. Today's his tea with Dumbledore, so he's probably still in the Headmaster's office." Hermione rose and smoothed her robes unnecessarily. "This about ready to be put into vials. Can you put them on his bed tonight? He said that he was almost out last night when I visited him."

Ron nodded and continued his absent inspection of the faucet without really seeing it. "Alright." He hesitated for a moment and allowed himself to be distracted by the sound of Hermione cleaning up the potion's ingredients and packing them away. He wondered idly when or if Harry was going to tell Dumbledore he was on Dreamless Sleep. Probably some time after hell froze over and Snape awarded Gryffindor House points. "Where's Myrtle?"

'Mione smiled over the cauldron. "Off chasing Peeves," she confided with a little laugh. "He was making fun of her glasses again."

"Better than the U-bend, I guess." The redhead watched Hermione's careful, precise movements for a moment with absent admiration. "I don't like this . . . I feel like we're sneaking around on him."

"Do you want to tell him about us? It might be better."

Ron snorted and toed the water, watching ripples spread over the floor. "Or it could make him pull away from us even more." He frowned. "I don't know. I just don't like it."

Hermione began to spoon the Potion out into little test-tube like flasks and passing them to Ron to cork. There were thirty-four in all. When they were about halfway through, she spoke: "I don't like it either. But I don't want to upset Harry anymore. And I certainly don't want to make him feel like a third wheel. He needs us right now. We're like his family." She spooned in the last of the potion and handed him the vial. "I just don't want him to be hurt."

Ron nodded. "When he's ready, then. But soon."

His girlfriend nodded, but looked no happier than he did about the situation. She collapsed the cauldron and began to pack up.

"I'll label them tonight." Ron paused and leaned back against the sink once more, resting his weight heavily against the ancient porcelain. ". . . Is it just me, 'Mione, or is something wrong with Harry?"

His girlfriend looked up from her packing, wearing a slight frown. "I don't really know . . . After Sirius . . . And he still hasn't told us what happened this summer . . ." The girl trailed off, looking uneasy. "Why? Has he said anything to you?"

Ron shrugged and straightened a bit. "You know he never says anything. He could be standing right in front of you, holding his severed arm or something, and he'd just say he needed to lie down." She glared and the Weasley flushed slightly and looked down at the still water pooled on the floor. "I just mean that he's been studying an awful lot. And he's been real quiet. He doesn't even want to fight with Malfoy or Snape." His lip curled involuntarily at the names. "And plus he's been studying constantly."

Hermione sat back on her heels and stared at the water as well. She nibbled her lower lip anxiously and Ron caught himself smiling at her reflection. She looked gorgeous when she was trying to figure things out. She looked gorgeous a lot.

The muggleborn smoothed back her hair with a rough, automatic gesture. Her eyes were shadowed and troubled. "Maybe you're right . . . Normally, I'm all for you two studying, but this just isn't like him. He's looked so pale and distant . . ."

Ron nodded and dropped down into a crouch in front of her. "Do you think it has to do with V-v-vol—You-Know-Who?" He still could not bring himself to say that name.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "He said that the potion and his Occlumency have helped a lot. If it was Voldemort," Ron winced slightly, "he'd tell us, don't you think?"

Ron watched her in unhappy silence for a moment. "So if it's not Big and Scary, what?"

"Has he spoken to Cho lately?"

"Not since last term." The was another moment of silence. Finally Ron shifted guiltily. "He left the dorms around 11:30 our first night back. He didn't come back till breakfast."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"He looked like he'd been crying," the redhead protested. He shrank back from his girlfriend's glare. "I thought that it was just fallout from Sirius, but—"

The girl frowned suddenly and her eyes grew distant. "He hasn't said anything about Sirius . . . He hasn't even cried since last year . . ."

"Harry doesn't cry," Ron said dismissively. He shifted, uncomfortable with setting his weight on his heels for so long. "I think it has something to do with Snape."

Hermione blinked. "What makes you say that?"

"Remember when Snape stayed at the house this summer? Over the full moon?"

The girl frowned again, perplexed.

"That's around the same time Harry started acting off."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Ron nodded emphatically. Hermione's eyes grew distant again a she turned the problem over in her mind.

"Do you think the greasy bastard did something to him?"

For once, she didn't admonish him for language or for disparaging a professor.

"No," she said clearly after a moment. "I don't think that Snape did anything to him per se . . . Dumbledore would know by now and he'd never let Snape hurt Harry. But you may be right. Even if he isn't directly involved, he probably knows something about what's wrong. He is a spy after all—he had to have seen or heard something."

"The ferret's been being kind of weird lately too. He keeps watching Harry—it's kind of creepy actually."

Hermione hide a smile as she drew the strings on her bag closed. "Maybe he fancies Harry."

Ron pulled a face. "That's not funny. Maybe he'd just pissed because of what happened to his daddy. Dad says that the Malfoy name isn't something held in high regard at the Ministry anymore. Fudge has been trying to distance himself and cover his fat arse since June."

"Maybe . . . But Harry would definitely tell us about Malfoy." Hermione frowned thoughfully.

"Maybe."

Ron stood and winced when his knees popped. He extended a hand to Hermione and helped her up. Her eyes were distant once again and she didn't seem to notice as he gingerly pulled her closer.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her muggle shampoo. She smelled like fruit and something sweet. "So what do we do?"

Hermione turned slightly and jumped to see Ron so close to her. When she looked up for a moment, she felt as though she were going to fall into those incredibly blue eyes. Ice blue. But they never seemed cold to her.

"'Mione?"

She smiled up at him and leaned into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. "We watch," she murmured into his robes. "And we wait. Harry will tell us when he's ready."

Ron squeezed her tight. "And until then, we watch the three of them like hawks."

"Exactly."


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The platinum-blond Slytherin sat in the far corner of the library, conspicuously alone. He spent most of his time alone now. People were beginning to notice. Whispers traveled through Hogwarts faster than angry kneazles under speed spells and the rumor mill was currently a-buzz with mutterings that all was not well in the House of the Snake. But those were only rumors.

Just rumors.

Draco turned the page, gasping as a corner of the old parchment sliced into his finger. He popped the wounded digit into his mouth before any blood could fall on the page. Pince was absolutely mental about her books. Whispering in another corner caught the boy's attention and he raised hard eyes to glare at a small cluster of Ravenclaw First Years who were pointing at him. The three boys immediately turned crimson and fled, lest the Malfoy heir take his bad temper out on them.

The pain of the paper cut aside, they had good reason to be afraid. Draco sneered at the boys' flight and turned back to his book, glaring sightlessly at the pages. It was too cold in here. He shivered. Not only was he having problems with the House because of his less than Pro-Death Eater behavior, he'd been unable to secure an interview with Professor Snape since that night in the Potions Master's chambers. The blond scowled at the memory. He'd really gone out on a limb in divulging what he knew to the man, and he had yet to see a return on the investment. After what he saw the day before yesterday in the infirmary, though, Draco was beginning to think that the spy was avoiding him. A fundamentally stupid action now, as he simply had to know that Draco knew of his dubious loyalties. And yet he risked a possible reprisal? It made no sense.

Perhaps it had something to do with Potter. That cozy little scene in the infirmary was not something that Draco ever expected to see. The way Snape had looked at the Gryffindor . . . had been something less than appropriate. Teachers were not supposed to look at their students like that. And why did Potter call Snape 'Anhur'? Draco had the distinct feeling that he was standing on the precipice of a mystery that he should stay out of, but if it got his family away from the Dark Lord and could afford his mother and father a bit of protection, he was more than willing to risk it.

If the greasy old bastard wouldn't help him out amicably, then he'd just have to resort to blackmail. He had given Snape ample opportunity to come forward and try and help him, but he had the overwhelming impression that he was running out of time. He wanted an allegiance with the co-called "Light" if that's what it took to save his family, but he wanted it on his terms. His father had told him to keep out of it. Draco refused. It was time he stepped forward and took his place as the Malfoy patriarch. His father was obviously in no condition to make the family decisions anymore. He had risked everything to come this far; he would not be stalled by some over-presumptuous Snape who thought he was equipped to dilly-dally in Malfoy affairs.

Imagine what the famous Potter would do if he knew that the Head of Slytherin was looking at him with such amorous eyes. It had been stupid of Snape to do such a thing in the open, anyway. Very un-Slytherin. The Prophet would pay big for something like that . . .

But that could very well ruin Draco's prospects with Potter. The Malfoy heir was not stupid; he knew that if he couldn't get Potter's help in extricating his family name from the Dark Lord's webs, then he may as well give up. Dumbledore could not be trusted—the man would try to use him as a spy and Draco refused to allow himself to be entangled in the same manner as his Professor. This was his choice. And Potter needed all the allies he could get. Rumor had it that all was not well between the Golden Boy and Dumbledore. Perhaps Potter had realized that the senile fool could not be trusted. Perhaps he was ready for an ally who did not pay homage to Hogwarts hierarchy. Voldemort and Dumbledore were both Lords in their own respects, Dumbledore was just more manipulative than Voldemort. And, as far as Draco was concerned, they were both totally nutters. He could suffer the existence of a few mudbloods if necessary, but a Malfoy bowed to no one. Not anymore.

Potter demanded no such homage. It was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that the boy was not the attention-loving celebrity that Draco had originally thought he was. In fact, Draco couldn't imagine anyone less suited to be a hero. But the boy was honest and brave and ridiculously Gryffindor, despite his apparent disregard for his status. Even though he was a half-blood, Draco couldn't help but admire all the prat had accomplished in the past five years. The boy was formidable, and he'd grow to into a forced to be reckoned with. Draco was sick of setting himself against the tide. It was Potter who would fight the war. It was Potter who would win it. And, regardless of what he felt for the little bastard, Draco wanted to be by Potter's side when that happened. And if Potter lost, he wanted to buried in that field.

Draco would restore the Malfoy name. He would redeem his family. And he would avenge his father. There could be no victory on Voldemort's side—it may have taken a heavy blow to get that through his skull, but he understood that now. The Malfoys were running out of time.

For almost a full week after Lucius was brought home, the Malfoy patriarch was locked in a cell in the basement with only Narcissa and a House Elf for company. Occasionally, though, the silencing charm would wear off and Draco could hear the screams. Horrible, terrible, screams. Pleas. "Forgive me, my Lord." "Spare my family, my Lord." "I will not fail again, my Lord." And on. And on. And on. Until Draco was sick with the noise and his mother's eyes burned from crying.

That had hurt more than his father's arrest: Lucius Malfoy—an idol of politics, a god amongst men. And now a screaming madman locked in the basement who clawed himself like a wild beast to escape the pain of imaginary curses.

No. His family would not live through that again. Not ever. And Potter was his way out. But how to get the boy alone? How to make him listen?

Potter had still been asleep when Pomfrey had pushed Draco out of the infirmary, but the Slytherin knew that the Boy-Who-Lived had been released right after dinner. He had seen McGonagall hustling him up to the Headmaster's office while coming to the library. Potter had looked . . . exhausted. He'd seen that same vague look in his father's eyes when the Malfoy patriarch had emerged from the basement one day in early June—it was the empty eyed stare of someone who had sunk the absolute depths of their life and been forcibly drug to the surface again. But they didn't surface—they just stayed there, just below water level, struggling to breath, never able to fully come back up. Draco shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to think about his father anymore.

The doctors said that the man would never really recover—whatever he'd been forced to endure for that month of imprisonment had wounded him indelibly. Scarred him somewhere deep, deep in his mind. The innocent were broken in Azkaban. The guilty were shattered.

"You will not be returning to Hogwarts this year."

"It's my choice what I do, Father. I am not a child—"

"You are! You are a spoiled, selfish, stupid child, and you will not return to that . . . that . . . school! It is too dangerous now! I will not allow you to involve yourself in this ridiculous war. This is no matter for a child to resolve. If you cannot make proper decisions for yourself then I will make them for you."

"I'm NOT YOU! I won't make you mistakes! I won't ruin a good name! I won't ignore my son or leave my wife to—"

CRACK!

". . . Draco . . .?"

" . . . You are a curse on our name, Father. You would have done us a better service to have died in that place."

Draco's eyes flew open and he surged to his feet, the book tumbling unnoticed to the floor. He would not think of his father anymore. Not today. He walked out of the library with undue haste. The book remained on the floor, forgotten.

The hallways seemed to pass in a blur and the blond was only aware of his progress by the jolt of every step. No one seemed to notice him as he went down to the dungeons. He wasn't aware of where his feet were taking him until he found himself standing outside the door; he'd only wanted to escape the suffocating closed-ness of the library. So how, then, did he manage to end up outside Snape's private potions lab?

For a moment he stared blankly at the door, as though surprised by it. He could still feel the tingle where his father had struck him.

The blond cast about the hallway as though debating going back. This was stupid, though, wasn't it? It was long past time to confront the man. Two weeks was enough—more than enough. But Snape might not even be in there. True this was his usual lab hour, yet . . .

Draco stiffened with a growl. He was being ridiculous. If Snape wasn't in, then he wasn't in. But his family was running out of time while he stood out in the hall like some mudblood First Year . . . And Snape would at least let him talk. Potter might very well hex first and ask questions later.

And that nosey old bastard Dumbledore would probably find a way to give the prat points for it, too.

Draco stepped forward and raised his hand to knock on the door.

He would not be put off any longer.

"Stop this now!"

Draco jerked to a halt, his hand still raised. Snape was arguing with someone? The door was very thick and it muffled the sound almost entirely, but he was sure he heard something. Perhaps this would give him the leverage he needed without alienating the Potter brat.

The blond dropped his hand and leaned forward a bit to try to catch some of the conversation, but there was only silence. Then there came on odd scuffling noise that Draco couldn't identify.

"Have you lost all reason!" Snape demanded suddenly. Draco took a step away from the door. The man sounded unhinged.

And Draco knew what someone unhinged sounded like.

But, again, there was nothing but silence. Finally, sick of standing about and unwilling to be brushed aside once more, Draco gripped the doorknob and pushed the door open and . . .

Stopped.

"We ca—"

Draco stared in stunned amazement at the sight before him. Snape was on a chair in front of his worktable, frozen. He had stopped talking, choking on his words with a strange gasping noise. The man's normally sickly color paled even further till he was gray as cheap paper, and his eyes widened as they met Draco's, a hunted expression appearing on his face.

The blond turned slightly, alarmed, to the decidedly boyish figure that was perched on the Snape's knee. Small hands gripped the man's robes, pulling him closer than was decent, and Snape's hands were pressed against the boy's sides. The boy turned with a fierce glare and Draco felt the room tilt around him.

Because there, sitting on Snape's lap, black hair eternally disheveled and his cheeks slightly flushed, was Harry James Potter . . .

Looking madder than hell.

Draco took a step back, still gaping.

"Obliviate!"

He never even saw Snape raise his wand.


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