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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 Five
The Lion Bound Come Dawn

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"So the priests and the prophets and all the people heard Jeremiah speaking these words in the house of the Lord.
"Now it came to pass, when Jeremiah had made an end of speaking all that the Lord had commanded him to speak
unto all the people, that the priests and the prophets and all the people took him, saying,
Thou shalt surely die.
"Why hast thou prophesied in the name of the Lord, saying,
This house shall be like that Shiloh, and this city shall be desolate without an inhabitant?
And all people were gathered against Jeremiah in the house of the Lord.
"When the princes if Judah heard these things, then they came up from the king's house unto the house of the Lord,
and sat down in the entry of the new gate of the Lord's house.
"Then spake the prophets unto the princes and to all the people, saying,
This man is worthy to die, for he hath prophesied against this city all the words that ye have heard."
- Jeremiah 26: 7-11

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His palms were sweating. His head ached and his back hurt a bit, but his palms were sweating and that was a problem. That was also why the vial slipped from his fingers. He saw it fall—really he did—but he couldn't seem to make himself move to catch it. When it hit the floor, it exploded with a loud popping noise, sending bits of glass and pungent oil everywhere. Every one in the room froze.

A pair of deep black eyes set above a large, hooked nose narrowed dangerously. Heavy, oily hair moved slightly as the man turned, venom in his eyes and hot, blistering hatred in his voice as he hissed, "Twenty points from Gryffindor for sheer stupidity!"

The boy looked up from the shattered vial on the floor and stared blankly at his Professor from behind thick, coke-bottle lenses.

The girl at his right side stiffened indignantly. "But, sir, he—"

"And twenty five from you, Granger, for condoning stupidity and another fifty from Finnegan for failing to recognize said stupidity and stop both of you from acting like idiots! Now clean up that glass, Potter!"

Severus's robes belled out around him as he turned back to the board, oblivious the outraged mutter that spread out among the students in the classroom. Not even the Slytherins were willing to risk the ire their Head of House lately, particularly during or after Sixth Year Advanced Potions. For the past two weeks, Snape's famously incendiary temper had been stoked to new, never-before-seen heights. At first the phenomenon had seemed localized around Harry Potter, the Potions Master's usual source of rage, but then the mood started to spread to all of Gryffindor, then to Hufflepuff, then to Slytherin, and finally to Ravenclaw.

It was the inclusion of Ravenclaw that caught everyone's attention. Although it was well known that Snape favored Slytherin outrageously, he had always been nothing short of painfully even handed when it came to the House of the Raven. By the end of three weeks, all the Houses were down a record 1150 points total (210 of which Snape had actually docked from his own House), Gryffindor alone had received a record breaking 127 detentions, half of the Hufflepuff First Years literally burst into tears when Snape entered the room, a Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw prefect had both been stripped of their badges by the enraged man, and most of the faculty looked like they would keel over if Snape said "boo" to them over tea. But of course, saying "boo" would require that the prickly man actually spoke to them, which he did not.

What was even stranger, though, was that Harry Potter—who was more often than not the recipient of insults that had driven Padma out of the Potions classroom in tears from simply hearing them—remained uncharacteristically silent. In fact, he seemed to be flat out ignoring the man, which only served to incense the prickly Professor further. In retaliation a variety of colorful adjectives and adverbs were used to describe everything from Harry's hygiene to his to his ability to think—or the lack thereof—regardless of whether or not Potter was present to hear them. The more astute students noticed however that Snape remained silent on the subjects of both Harry's parents and Sirius Black—omissions that no one could quite puzzle out.

The fact that most of Snape's temper seemed to be turned against his Sixth and Seventh Year classes—both of which had students from all four Houses because they were the Advanced courses—only served to spread Snape's latest insults around the school even faster. Theories about Snape's behavior seemed to become fixed conversation topic, raining down in the four Common Rooms like post owls on Christmas Eve. Everything from Snape was in trouble with the Dark Lord, to Snape was pregnant (the latter assertion being the only working theory the Third Year Hufflepuffs were willing to contribute) were tossed about with relish. Colin Creevey had put forth the novel idea that Harry and Snape were involved in a tempestuous affair and had broken up—unfortunately he did this in Harry's earshot and he learned firsthand just how strong the slight Seeker was when a camera was flung at the muggleborn's head. The incident quickly put to rest any further rumors about the Potter Heir, if only within the confines of Gryffindor Tower.

The Camera Incident also became Potter's only real statement on the Snape's behavior; snarling and profanities that made the underclassmen squeal were not considered statements. Ron and Hermione also remained silent on the subject. Hermione, because if Harry was not going to stick up for himself in the face of Snape's wrath, there was little she could do, and Ron remained silent simply because he was not there for the majority of the conflicts.

Though Harry's OWLs (and some coaxing from the Headmaster) were barely enough for him to scrape into Advanced Potions with, Ron only received an Acceptable. The youngest Weasley son was actually pleased with the result though. He'd had more than enough of Snape to last a lifetime. Unfortunately, without his explosive temper, and in the face of Harry's sudden passivity, the tension in Potions simply seemed to rise and rise, spilling out into the hallways, classroom, meals, and Common Rooms. Dumbledore either didn't notice or didn't care, because he had yet to step in, so Hogwarts was simply left to stew in the juices of Snape's discontent.

The entire school was a pressure cooker waiting—desperate—to blow. And then, the day before Halloween, it did.

Harry walked around the worktable, knelt, and waved his wand above the mess of glass and swine educe on the floor of the dungeon. Hermione watched him with worried eyes while Snape scrawled more directions on the board in a jagged, angry hand. From his seat across the aisle, Seamus also watched his friend. Harry's behavior had been queer enough without Snape tormenting the poor boy even further. Though he'd not quite had the nerve to say anything, Seamus rather fancied Harry—just a teeniest, tiniest bit—and he was beginning to really worry about his Housemate.

His sea-green eyes flickered up from Harry and he was surprised to find himself staring into Hermione's hazel gaze across the aisle. He frowned at her and mouthed 'What's wrong with him?', careful to keep his back to the girl beside him, Hannah Abbot. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she looked over at her Housemate in blatant consideration. He bristled in response, frustrated that one of the infamous Trio would consider him so beneath their secrets. He could feel his upper right lip twitch towards a sneer and would have turned away if Hermione had not mouthed the word 'Lunch' to him before turning back to the Vision Potion they were brewing. Seamus turned back to Harry with a dark frown.

Hannah poked him in the side and he scowled at her.

"Snape's watching us," the petite ash-blonde girl murmured as she stirred her cauldron. "We don't need anymore attention from him. Anyway, it's almost time for you to add the acromantula eyes to your potion."

The Irish boy nodded grudgingly and reached out to get the dish of large black orbs Snape had provided each student with at the start of class. He nearly dropped it in startlement when Harry suddenly gasped in pain. Hannah rescued the eyes from the Gryffindor's carelessness as the boy blanched at the hunched over form to his right. There was blood on the floor. Seamus dropped to Harry's side and wrapped an arm around the other's shoulder as he tried to get a good look at the boy's wounded hand. Harry pulled away, drawing the injury in towards his stomach defensively.

Green eyes latched onto Seamus and Harry smiled shakily. "It's just a scratch. Really, I'm—"

And then Snape was there. Seamus yelped in protest as a strong hand seized him by the back of his neck and jerked him roughly away from Harry, literally throwing him back to his table. "Don't you touch him!"

The Irish boy cried out in pain as his hip slammed into the corner of the table. Hannah squeaked in fear and Hermione's spoon fell from her hand in shock as everyone else turned their attention to Round Two of the bi-weekly Snape-Potter Brawl.

Seamus had hit the edge of the table hard, and had to grab it to stay on his feet. Still breathless, he wheeled on Snape, but the older man was no longer paying attention to him, his gaze locked onto Harry with a terrible intensity.

"You stupid child!"

Harry flinched uncharacteristically and looked up from his position on the floor to the man looming over him menacingly. The action revealed a large bloody gash running across his palm. Seamus winced and Snape leaned over, more than slightly reminiscent of an enormous vulture eyeing still-twitching prey. The Potions Master sneered as blood pooled in Potter's palm and spilled down to stain the dungeon floor.

"You stupid, idiot child!" the man hissed again venomously, eyes burning with a nameless emotion.

Harry drew his wounded hand closer to his body, hunching over it protectively, and remained silent. His face seemed very pale and his eyes looked far too large through his glasses as he stared at the professor in silence. The cow-eyed, empty expression only seemed to make Snape even angrier.

The professor reared back like an angry serpent and sneered in contempt at the boy. "Not simply content to go spilling everyone else's blood, I see you now feel the need to be so careless with your own, Mr. Potter. Fifteen points from Gryffindor for your ever-astounding inability to learn from you plethora of past mistakes. One would imagine that by this point in time, you would be more careful around sharp objects—even you should now how valuable blood can be to wizard. Why you have not yet died is beyond me."

Harry's jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. Two vividly red spots appeared on his cheeks as his uninjured right hand clenched slowly into a fist. For a moment it seemed like the explosion was imminent—Snape had never gone so far before, never. But then the teenager simply let out a sudden huffing breath, closed his eyes, and carefully unclenched his fist. He opened his eyes again and stared at the man expressionlessly. "I apologize for disturbing class, sir. May I go to Madame Pomfrey?"

Seamus imagined he could have heard a pin drop in the silence.

Both the Professor's hands clenched into fists and it looked for an instant at though he were going to throttle the boy. Instead he spun sharply on his heel and stalked to his desk. His voice was a guttural growl: "Clean up your mess and get out of my sight, you pathetic waste of magic. To think that Lily Evans wasted her life on you. And back to work, you lot, before I dock even more points!"

The boy rose to his feet, looking shaken and far too pale. He seemed to be trembling slightly. He gathered his books and packed up his ingredients as best he could one-handed so that they weren't in Hermione's way. As he lifted the last vial, he paused suddenly and turned to frown at Snape's back where the man was shuffling papers. Hermione tugged on his sleeve nervously when she saw the shadows flickering in Harry's eyes. He pulled his arm away.

"Harry, no—!" she hissed, trying to mind her own potion and keep hold of him at the same time.

The boy ignored her. "I didn't ask to survive, you know," he said softly to Snape's back.

Hannah froze in the act of adding centaur hair to her potion and Seamus took an involuntary step away from Harry, completely forgetting about adding anything more to his own cauldron. Snape froze in the midst of his sorting and abruptly stood up straight. He turned with exaggerated slowness and smiled, a horrible parody of expression, as he settled back against his desk. Harry's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he maintained eye contact with the older man.

Snape watched the boy in careful consideration and tilted his head ever so slightly to the left. "Then you'd have done us all a greater service if you had died."

The class watched with a detached kind of horror as all the blood literally seemed to drain from Harry's face.

Snape leaned forward slightly, obviously enjoying the boy's duress, as he continued. "Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of value to the world instead of sucking the life out of those around her."

Everything stopped.

The entire vial of goat's blood in Harry's hand fell into his cauldron as he froze, slack jawed and face unnaturally white as he stared in stunned disbelief at his professor. The potion immediately solidified, but no one seemed to notice. The glassware on Harry and Hermione's table began to tremble and shiver before exploding with loud pops, immediately followed by the destruction of the glassware at the neighboring workstations as a wave of uncontrolled magic rolled off the Boy Who Lived.

Blood, swine educe, and a number of unpleasant things flew as the students ducked down beneath their tables. No one seemed to quite be able to believe what they had heard Snape say. He'd gone too far. Potter's body began to tremble violently and Hermione, Seamus, and Hannah scrambled to get away from the impending destruction. Power leaked out of the boy like a sieve.

Snape had finally gone too far.

The two stared one another in the eyes, seemingly unaware of their audience. No emotion flickered in Snape's eyes when Potter took a step forward, nor did the man retreat. He just looked . . . cold. The teenager stared up at him for a moment longer before whirling around with a strangled shriek and fleeing. The door to the classroom exploded when his hand touched it, sending bits of wood and debris everywhere and making the people in the back of the room scream in fear and pain when they were hit, and the air physically rippled as the boy ran, knocking down portraits and shaking the castle with every footfall. Snape—the only person still standing in the room—stared at the hole where his door had been blankly, seemingly unaware of the blood that slid down from the cut on his cheek.

Less than three minutes later, the Headmaster appeared in the doorframe, eyes devoid of any twinkle, and ordered the students out of the classroom. Potions was canceled for the rest of the day.

The incident spread through the school like wildfire. Seven students were in the hospital wing to have bits of glass, wood, or metal removed from them, but no one was seriously hurt, and Harry . . . Harry was not seen for the rest of the day. Whatever Dumbledore had said to Snape also seemed to have thoroughly cowed the man because he did not appear for dinner and that evening Dumbledore awarded every House five hundred and seventy points each for "tolerance in the face of great adversity," the old man had explained with a smile. Seamus tried, and somehow failed, to accost Hermione at every possible moment of the day, and none of the Trio attended meals.

The next day—Halloween—passed in relative quiet. The pumpkin juice was just as cold, and the décor just as ostentatious, but there was a muted energy in the air. Potter skipped all his meals, including the Feast, and Snape remained holed up in the dungeons for the evening.

In fact, he stayed down there for three days straight after the "explosion" and none of the Gryffindors were willing to account for Potter's whereabouts with anyone outside of their House all weekend. It was a strange thing to see Gryffindor closing ranks so fiercely and abruptly. Any and all muttering about Snape was quickly squelched by McGonagall, who seemed to have taken to hovering over her House like a dragon with one egg. Her own anger was plainly evident, though, and Slytherins—who were wisely keeping their own council on the situation—actually took to hiding from the irate witch when they saw her coming. Seeing the normally impulsive Gryffindor temper held on such a tenuous leash was alarming, but the rest of the faculty simply seemed to be giving the whole incident a wide berth.

Perhaps McGonagall's temper was also why Snape was hiding in the dungeons. Some people even whispered that he'd been sacked, but no one really believed it was true. For the most part, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs simply talked (albeit quietly, and away from the professors) about what a close call that had been—though no one was sure exactly for whom it had been so close. Dumbledore acted as though nothing untoward had occurred at all, Professor Kettleburn took over Potions on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and McGonagall looked ready to hex anyone at a moment's notice. Despite the explosion in Potions, the tension in the school had gotten worse, not better. And so everyone simply sat back and waited for the other shoe to drop.


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Old Ogden's finest. Finest indeed.

I have been smashed for three days straight. This morning I woke up to find that Tuesday had somehow become Saturday and all my liquor had mysteriously vanished in the night. Dear old Albus Dumbledore. Bloody Lord Albus Fucking Dumbledore. I will poison that man's food one day, I swear it. Or better yet, those damned sticky, potion-laced lemon drops.

I hate him.

And I also hate the fact that all my headache and hangover potions are mysteriously missing as well. And that I can no longer seem to move without immediately collapsing again. Bloody fucking sadist. Giving me a taste of my own medicine, no doubt.

There is nothing like waking up in a pool of one's own vomit and being forced to remain like that for an hour to promote introspection.

I am not proud of myself. Nor am I proud of my actions over the past three weeks. Nor am I proud of how pale his face went when I wished him dead.

Nor am I proud of the fact that I meant every word.

I. Meant. Every. Word.

Because it is true. Without Harry Potter, the Dark Lord would not have been resurrected. Without Harry Potter, I would not be feeling this . . . this . . . this disgusting desire. Without Harry Potter . . .

The world would be exceedingly dull without Harry Potter.

. . . Merlin's beard . . . I've become a Gryffindor.

That thought alone is sufficient enough for me to force my body up and into the shower. The room swims sickeningly and a few bouts of uncomfortable dry heaves accompany me across my chambers to the loo. It takes me much longer to make the journey than it rightfully should. I cannot find my wand and buttons have moved from being a stately fashion statement to an insidious device of bondage and torture. And if I am not mistaken, the vile scent of semen and urine clings sickeningly to my person.

I retch again at the smell and tear frantically at my collar in frustration, scratching my throat as painful dry heaves shake me. I'm lucky I didn't suffocate last night. Or this morning. Or whenever it was that I managed to pass out. And I am never ever again going to wear buttons.

I rest my head uselessly on the toilet seat and wonder why my mirror has yet to make any snide comments. A closer inspection of the floor makes it evident that I have smashed my mirror. It probably deserved it anyway. But now my arms suddenly ache fiercely and I notice blood in my cuffs and that my nails are torn. Suddenly, I'm rather glad that I don't remember the past two days—they cannot have been exceedingly pleasant.

To hell with the buttons then. Goddamn, bloody fucking buttons. I loathe buttons. Why did I ever think buttons were a good idea? I push myself off the toilet and the room sways again, driving me to my knees. Not standing up again, then.

Fucking Albus Dumbledore.

Fucking buttons.

Fucking green eyes.

Stupid Severus Snape.

Glass cuts into my knees and hands as I crawl across the bathroom and somehow clamber into the tub. I turn the water on—all hot, no cold—and curl into a miserable ball in the corner, directly beneath the spray. My stomach roils at the noise and my head begins to throb so painfully it feels as though my eyes are actually bulging out with every pulse. The noise is painful, but it cannot drown out the noise in my head.

"What have you done, Severus?"

A snort. Derisive laughter. "I've merely done as you asked, Headmaster . . . Did you not want me to be there for him? To talk to him? Well, now I have." More laughter. Out of control laughter. Hurts.

"You will calm yourself, Severus." Cold. So cold. "Now."

Albus could be so cold when he wanted to.

Never mind that the disappointment in the old man's voice was a knife through Severus's gut. Never mind that the expression on Harry's face was a brand on his soul even worse than the one on his arm. Never mind that he bloody well ached all over and only wanted to go find the boy and—

Never mind all that.

Never mind how Potter looked so perfect curled up in his doorway, or fit so delicately in his arms. Or pouted beautifully. Or tasted like butterscotch. Or had the audacity to miss him. Never mind how exquisite it felt to whisper 'Harry' when he was alone at night and hold the word close to him like a secret. Never mind all that.

Never mind.

"Two weeks suspension, Severus."

Oh, shut up, Albus, shut up. Shut up and leave me to my deviance.

Contempt in those blue eyes. Disappointment. So much disappointment. Merlin, and the class was a mess. Blood on the floor. Glass everywhere. Quite a mess.

"Get a hold of yourself, man."

Ah, but contempt and disappoint in those blue eyes was better than pain and rage in the green ones.

Green eyes.

Damn them all to hell.

I shiver beneath the painfully hot water. What a pathetic, miserable wretch I am. What a fool. And the memories will not let me be. But that is alright—I deserve this.

Pedophile.

Murderer.

Monster.

Hot water. Hotter, and hotter, and hotter. I wish it could scald me away, or at least make me feel clean.

I was right, though; it would have been better if he had died as a baby. If he had died, I would not be sitting, reeking, hung over, and fully clothed in the bottom of my shower, desperately missing him.


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Fawkes cooed melodiously as a murmur of discontent rippled through the office. Albus ignored the noise of the portraits and phoenix in favor of crunching up a cockroach cluster. He rolled the chocolate coated confection about in his mouth as he watched his deputy headmistress, amusement sparkling his eyes despite the solemn expression on his face.

Minerva frowned. "I beg you pardon, Albus?"

"I said I would like you to . . . nudge our young Mr. Potter in Severus's direction."

The woman's lips drew into a thin, sour line and she set her teacup back in its saucer and on his desk with a loud click. "Out of the question."

Albus popped another cockroach cluster into his mouth. "Now, my dear—"

"No, Albus! Absolutely not." Her eyes flashed menacingly behind her glasses, a lioness defending her cub. "He's been nothing but ghastly toward that poor child for years. Potter has enough to deal with without Severus adding to the pile. He still is not himself after that . . . that incident in Potions on Tuesday. He won't even leave his bed!"

Albus sighed heavily and his eyes ceased to twinkle. "Mr. Potter has not been himself all term, Minerva." He leaned back and suddenly looked incredibly old and frail, as though the proper weight of his years had finally gotten the better of him. "Though his grades have improved and he is growing into his power by leaps and bounds, he moves about like one who is asleep. Not even Quidditch has roused him from his melancholia."

"And you believe that Severus will?" the witch demanded, making no effort to hide her derision.

Albus steepled his hands in front of himself pensively. "Severus's behavior—"

"Severus's behavior is atrocious! He is awful to the boy!" Minerva rose and began to pace, her skirts whispering silkily about her ankles as she walked. "Awful!" she reiterated emphatically. The tight bun on the back of her head shivered with the violence of her pacing and her hands fluttered about like two snared birds trying to escape. "Pott—Harry is in pain, Albus! He'll not talk to me! And Granger and Weasley are keeping mum too. I am at my wit's end! I can hardly penalize them when all of their grades are going up—as if it was possible for Granger's to go higher—and it's not as though they've done anything bad, but it is clear that something is very wrong! Even Granger and Weasley seem to be going along with it now. The three of them barely talk to anyone outside of each other and Potter's been in his bed ever since Tuesday afternoon. The only ones he'll say more than two words to are Granger and Weasley and they will not tell anyone anything! I need—I need . . ." She stopped pacing abruptly, her skirts swirling lightly with momentum, and her fluttering hands suddenly flew in to cover her face.

She stood still for a long moment and Albus rose slowly, a look of deep sorrow and concern etched starkly on his face. He reached out tentatively. "Minerva . . ."

And she released a shuddered breath that would have been a sob from any other woman. "I do not know what to do . . ." she whispered miserably behind her hands.

Albus dropped his hands and looked down at the clutter on his desk.

The Deputy Headmistress lowered her own hands and turned, sharp eyes uncharacteristically imploring behind her small, wire-rimmed glasses. "What point is there in defeating You-Know-Who, Albus, if there is nothing left for the boy afterwards?"

He remained silent and Minerva shook her head. "I will not entrust that boy to Severus Snape, Albus. You may trust Severus with your life, but I will not trust him with Harry's. No."

The old man looked up at her and met her eyes evenly. "Then entrust him to me, Minerva. Trust me."

The woman's lips thinned unhappily as she stared at him for a long moment. Finally she looked away and smoothed her skirts anxiously, seemingly thinking over his words. Eventually she sighed, a tired sound. When she looked up, the conflict she felt was clear in her eyes. "Very well, Albus." She took a step forward and pointed a finger menacingly at her old friend. "But if you break that boy's heart again, Albus Dumbledore, I will never forgive you." She whirled around, dress swelling around her with the motion.

"Minerva?"

She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned to face the Headmaster. "Yes?"

He looked back at her, twinkle noticeably absent. "Thank you."

She sniffed and stalked out of the room, the door closing loudly behind her and her heels clicking on the grinding stone steps as she descended.

Albus sat down heavily and stared into the fire for a moment. In all honesty, he was both furious at Severus and bitterly disappointed in the man. When he had first discovered the Severus was . . . involved with Harry, he knee-jerk reaction had been to toss the man out on his ear, if only so that he wouldn't have to feel such a keen sense of failure every time he saw the Potions Master. But it was so out of character for both of them and they were both so terribly miserable, and they were both dying, bit by bit, in their own way, and nothing he had done was helping . . .

Albus squeezed his eyes closed in pain and weariness. So many failures . . . Tom, Severus, Peter, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Harry . . . How many more could he bear? Was it so selfish of him to think that he could foster just this little bit of happiness before he died? And if it ensured Severus's loyalty beyond any doubt . . . And if it made sure that Harry was loved and didn't turn out like Tom and was just a bit more malleable . . . Then so much the better. Everyone would benefit, especially two of the people who were most important to him. Harry and Severus would be happy, if only for a little bit. That was not such a terrible thing, was it?

The old man turned away from the fire in disgust. This was why Harry did not trust him—why Severus kept him at arm's length . . . This was why the two men he considered to be his own children would not look him in the eye. How long had it been since he had last looked at a person without simply seeing a chess piece?

Blue eyes opened again. But sacrifices had to be made. He trusted Severus and Harry as much as he trusted everyone, but that simply was not enough. He needed more. He needed to know without question that Severus would not return to Voldemort should the situation so warrant.

He knew that Severus resented him, just as the Potions Master resented himself. The Snape heir was proud man—he did not bow to anyone unless he felt he had a damn good reason to do so. Bowing to two masters chafed the man's ego badly and was beginning to wear thin. It was easier before Voldemort's first defeat. Then, the taste of Severus's disgust with the Death Eater business was fresh enough in his mind to distract him from Albus's machinations. Then, while Voldemort was gone, Severus's pride was not so strained; he could breathe a bit easier and his debt to Albus seemed less severe. Now, though, both Voldemort and Albus were pulling him in opposite directions and it would not take much to tip the tenuous balance Severus kept one way or the other. Albus was sick of having a middle man. He wanted a bona fide spy, and the only way to get that was to find something to bind the man to him definitively.

Harry was the only vulnerability Severus had ever shown in all these long years. He'd be a fool if he didn't take it. Though he was loathe to use the boy in such a callous fashion, it was really the best course of action available. Originally, he had brushed Severus's preoccupation with Harry off as a Life Debt. Then he just thought it was genuine dislike. Third year, he had thought that Severus's zeal to capture Sirius and keep Harry in the dark about the whole thing was bred simply from a hatred for Sirius. But then he'd been so frantic—almost panicked—when Harry had vanished at the Tri-Wizard Tournament that Albus had begun to suspect there was a bit more to Severus's preoccupation with Harry Potter. A preoccupation that, in retrospect, was rather alarmingly close to fanatical obsession masked as hatred. If he ever really did manage to get Harry expelled, Severus would probably be beside himself after the initial glow wore off.

And then there was Harry. Harry had never seemed to give the other man any sort of notice until the end of Fourth Year, and even then it was only cursory interest. But Severus was a stabilizing force for him, and the only thing besides Quidditch and Voldemort that the boy seemed to pay any heed to anymore. And the indications of the Scaccarium and carunculous were concrete and absolute: without Severus the Light would fail, and, if deprived of Severus, Harry would die. They might be able to win if Severus's and Harry's . . . 'interactions' ceased, but Harry would not survive the final battle. No matter how he arranged the pieces of changed the boards, without Severus Harry would die, and, in most of the arrangements, Severus died soon after.

And he was not going to let that happen. To either of them. He was going to save them even if it killed them.

It was rapidly becoming clear to him that Severus would accomplish nothing with Harry if left to his own devices. So then a little push was necessary. Albus had hoped that, by telling Severus he was on his own in this, the Potions Master would take some initiative and not do everything humanly possible to sabotage this relationship. Apparently, though, he had underestimated Severus's curiously paradoxical self-destructive urges. Though the man might balk at anyone else "ruining" or threatening his life, the former Death Eater seemed to have no qualms about doing so himself. Or perhaps it was possible that his concern for Harry was such that it outweighed him normal admittedly self-involved first responses. Given the two people he was dealing with, Albus was willing to believe anything was possible. But whatever the reason, it was creating an unnecessary stumbling block.
It was time to put an end to this childishness. He may not be able to force the Severus into the boy's arms, but he could certainly give the man a good, hard shove in the proper direction.

Albus straightened up and arranged his robes about himself more neatly before removing one of his ever-present tins of lemon drops. He really could not get enough of them. The fact that this particular tin was laced with Calming Potion also helped, though. Setting the tin on the desk beside him, the old man removed two scrolls from a drawer in his desk. The First scroll had arrived by way of a post owl this morning. The creature had looked rather irate when it flew into his open office window and dropped its burden on his desk. It hadn't even stopped for payment before leaving in an irritated rush of feathers that had made the molting Fawkes squawk in protest.

The paper of the scroll was thick and expensive and the heavily spelled large wax seal of the Snape Family stood prominently on the front, the heavy tome, crossed rapiers, and the circle of the serpent biting its own tail in the backdrop showing in sharp, brilliant emerald relief. There was no addressee, but the Crest made it obvious for whom it was intended.

He set that scroll aside with a sad look and took out a Phoenix feather quill, dipped it in his inkwell, and turned to the second scroll. This was merely a blank general scroll that students used for lessons. He scrawled out the words "Come and see me immediately. - A.D." and muttered an incantation. The scroll vanished in a puff of gold smoke, leaving only the lingering scent of caramel in the air.

Albus settled back in his chair, ignoring Fawkes's soft, supportive croon and muttered another incantation. A steaming cup of tea appeared next to him with a pop, but he did not touch it beyond charming it to stay hot. He had a feeling he'd be needing it by the time he was done.

"Dobby?"

The House Elf appeared with a loud crack. His normally bright eyes seemed watery and his ears dropped pitifully. Even his Hogwarts tea towel, almost lost beneath the bright gaudy swirl of his mismatched additions, looked a bit less crisp and smart. He shuffled forward, apparently unaware of the sock on his left ear, his tennis-ball eyes swimming in unshed tears. "Yes, Master Dumbledore, sir?"

The old man smiled at the Elf and held out his tin of candies. "Would you like a lemon drop?"

The Elf shook his head and the Headmaster retracted the proffered tin of candies. "What have our boys been up to then?" he asked, gesturing for the little creature to take the seat Minerva had just vacated.

Dobby pulled his tiny frame up into the chair and squeaked in surprise when the seat resized itself to fit his proportions and rose so that he was at a reasonable height with his employer's desk. He fidgeted with his tea towel for a moment, wringing the fabric nervously in his hands. "Winky is watching Professor Snape like Headmaster Dumbledore is asking, sir. She is telling Dobby that Professor Snape is waking up at today at two o'clock, sir, and is then going into the bathroom and taking a shower in his clothes, sir." The Elf gave a sigh so low it seemed to have risen up from the floor. "He is being in a foul mood all yesterday, sir. There was screaming and crashing about, sir. And much glass breaking. Tinkle, from the pantry, is going in to ask if Professor Snape is needing help and he is hexing her twice last night, sir. Winky is having to take Professor Snape's wand and is hiding it in his study. Now none of the Elves is wanting to go clean up the mess he was making. We is afraid that the Professor is being cross with us, sir." He shivered. "Dobby is not being scolded by Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape, sir, but Winky says she is not minding because Master Barty used to be having him his fits too. Winky is saying that this is the mark of a passionate man, sir. But Dobby . . . Dobby is thinking that Professor Snape is just being wicked, sir—"

Suddenly the Elf's already large eye widened impossibly and he blinked stupidly as though drugged. "What a positively horrid thing to say."

He immediately surged forward, and it was only the intervention of Dumbledore's aged hand pressing firmly against his forehead that stopped the Elf from smashing his face into the edge of the desk as punishment.

"None of that now," the human admonished firmly before Dobby could injure himself.

The Elf pushed against Dumbledore's hand in protest, his yellow-green eyes rolling in distress. "Dobby is not to be saying such things about Hogwarts Professors! Even if they is being wicked and is hurting the Master Harry Potter sir!"

Albus blinked and wondered if the Elf was calling him 'sir' or if 'The Master Harry Potter Sir' was Harry's actual title to the little creature. Dobby strained forward again, reminding Dumbledore once more of his self-abusive tendencies. He held his hand firmly against the pressure and smiled faintly. "Well, little one, perhaps you should not, but in this case we'll overlook your indiscretion, hmm?"

Dobby hesitated for a moment and then pulled back to sit in his chair, shame coloring his papery skin. "You is very good to Dobby Professor Dumbledore, sir," he murmured, looking down. He looked up at Dumbledore, earnestness shining in his eyes. "But Dobby is getting better, sir! You and Master Harry Potter sir is helping Dobby. Dobby is not punishing himself as much. Even if he thinking wicked things sometimes . . . Dobby is getting better, he is, sir."

The man smiled sadly at the desperate need shining in his employee's eyes and could not help but curse Lucius Malfoy for hurting this poor creature so. In general, House Elves were naturally subservient, but they were not as . . . pathetically needful of validation as Dobby. That was a product of his former Master, not his natural magical inclination. He leaned forward and patted the nervous creature's hands gently, smiling proudly. "Yes, Dobby. You have gotten much better. I am very, very proud of you."

Dobby beamed joyously and Albus settled back in his chair. "Now what of our Harry Potter?"

The Elf immediately drooped again. "Dobby is keeping him company while he is being in bed for the past two days, wrapped up in a great black cloak. Dobby is cleaning Gryffindor Tower and then making sure Master Harry Potter sir is well. Dobby is staying as long as he can, but Master Harry Potter sir is knowing that you is asking Dobby to sit with him." The tears reappeared but did not fall. "But Master Harry Potter sir is not talking to anyone but Ms. Spew and his Wheezy, and when they is talking, his Wheezy is asking Dobby to be getting food or something to drink, or parchment, so Dobby is not hearing what they is saying. When Dobby is coming back, they is talking about school."

The Elf seemed to wilt in his chair as he continued. "Master Harry Potter sir is asking Dobby many questions about House Elves and sometimes about Professor Snape, but he is not saying much when Dobby is asking him questions. Sometimes Dobby is hearing him whisper Professor Snape's name or cursing, and sometimes . . . at night, when Dobby is bypassing the silencing charms to check on Master Harry Potter sir, he is …" the Elf turned an intense shade of scarlet and he looked at anything but Albus, "calling for Professor Snape to . . . Err . . . asking him to . . ."

The Elf fidgeted and the Headmaster watched him curiously before understanding bloomed on the human's face. A faint blush stained the old man's cheeks, clashing with his lavender robes. "Ahh . . . I see . . ." He cleared his throat to push down his laughter at the Elf's obvious discomfort. "Continue please."

The little creature looked absurdly grateful and seemed to leap forward in the conversation, unable to fully banish his blush. "But Dobby does not know anything but that. This morning before Ms. Spew and the Wheezy is leaving, Master Harry Potter sir is getting out of bed though and taking a shower. He is seeming much better after that, sir, and was smiling and laughing with his Wheezy. They is not mentioning Professor Snape, but Dobby thinks Ms. Spew and the Wheezy is knowing something. Now he is being on the pitch, sir, flying. That is all Dobby is knowing."

Albus nodded and smiled congenially at the still-blushing Elf and ate another lemon drop. "Thank you, Dobby." A chime suddenly sounded, alerting Albus that someone was approaching the Gargoyle, and his eyes flickered to his clock. Severus's hand was pointing to "My Office" and the words "Miserable wreck" were scrawled in a bruised-looking color up the hand. Harry's hand was at "On the Pitch" and the words "Being obstinate" were scrawled on it in blazing red and gold lettering.

Albus heaved a long-suffering sigh and popped two more lemon drops in his mouth. "If you will excuse me, Dobby?"

The Elf nodded, not the least bit offended by being so suddenly dismissed, and vanished with a crack. The chime sounded again and Albus reached out a hand to stroke Fawkes's breast as the slightly bedraggled bird came to rest on the back of his chair. "Please excuse me as well, Lamia, Phineas?"

The two portraits started, each shooting him separate looks of annoyance, but both remained silent as they vanished from their frames. He was more grateful than he cared to admit, even to himself. Fawkes cooed one last time and took off, flying out of the open and leaving a few coppery-crimson feathers in his wake. It would be his Burning Day soon enough.

"Come in, Severus."

The door swung open and Albus schooled his features into a stern mask. It took much less effort than he would have liked. The younger man shuffled in and the Headmaster almost had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Severus looked . . . simply awful.

There were dark circles under his haunted, sunken eyes and his still-damp hair was lifeless. His left hand was twitching almost incessantly and he was staring at the floor. The typical ebony robes, though clean, looked ill fitting, the buttons done up all wrong. His pale skin also had a distinctive greenish tint and there were scratches on both his hands and his throat.

"Oh, Severus . . ."

The other man stopped nervously in front of his desk, shifting about like a First Year. He looked up, his dark eyes surprisingly bloodshot, and licked his dry, cracked lips. "I . . ." His voice cracked painfully and his winced, lowering his tone to a harsh, grating whisper. "I could not find my wand . . ."

And there was simply so much shame in his voice that Albus felt his heart breaking. But he didn't dare show it. Instead he reached into a drawer, removed one of the hangover potions he'd taken from the man's quarters last night, and pushed it into his hands.

"Sit," the old man ordered.

Severus sat and fumbled with the cork with shaking hands before opening the vial and downing the draught. With only slightly steadier hands the empty vial was placed on his desk and the man settled back in the chair Dobby had so recently vacated, now resized for humans.

Albus watched him with uncharacteristically hard eyes for several long moments. The desk seemed to have become more than a simple bit of furniture; it was a separation of power and privilege, an expanse that neither man could surmount. And neither particularly wanted to.

Severus, because he was ashamed and Albus because he really was furious. He had entrusted Harry to Severus—not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment was the same. He had entrusted Harry to Severus and the man had completely and utterly failed him.

Severus was a difficult man, and really ultimately a selfish man. Albus held no illusions about his Potions Master. But what happened Tuesday was unconscionable. And worse, Albus had allowed it to occur. Minerva had warned him. Filius had warned him. Even Hagrid had said that something unpleasant was brewing. And yet he had done nothing. He had hoped that they would work their difficulties out themselves. He had hoped that Severus would display a level of maturity comparable to that which Harry—a sixteen year old—was displaying. He had hoped that, just once, Severus would not do anything to shoot himself in the foot.

And he had been bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

So now, he would fix this mess. Before it got any more out of hand.

Severus began to fidget on the other side of the desk. His left hand had latched onto the arm of his chair with a death grip; it was the only way to make the spasms that shook his fingers stop. His right knee swayed from side to side in agitation.

"Severus . . ."

The man started at the sound of his employer's voice and found himself looking up at Albus despite himself. He swallowed, but remained silent as the Headmaster's eyes bored into him.

"What happened last week?"

For a moment Severus lips twitched silently, as though sounding the words out to see if they would fit. Finally, he turned away from Albus to stare into the fire with dead eyes. "I cannot bear to be near that child."

Albus pursed his lips sternly. "And why ever not?"

"Don't ask this of me, Albus," the Potions Master muttered in a hoarse, agitated tone. His right hand clenched and unclenched convulsively. "Please . . . Do not ask this of me."

"Then explain yourself. If you cannot do so, Severus, I will have no choice but to take harsh action against you. I do not wish to take punitive measures."

Severus froze like a rabbit and his head whipped around to stare at Albus, dark eyes wide. "All for Potter!" he hissed, both angry and stricken.

Albus leaned forward in his seat and his voice fell over the room with the same abrupt flatness as a crack of thunder. "NOT just for Harry!"

Severus's eyes narrowed and a spasm jerked through his left hand. "He—" He choked on the words as Albus rose suddenly.

"You threw a student across the room! Mr. Finnegan went to Pomfrey with bruises on his neck and side, Severus. Bruises from where you grabbed him and tossed him into a lab table." His eyes seemed to burn as he loomed over the desk. "You are out of control. You snap at the staff, you snarl at the students, all of the Houses are down near negative points because of your temper. I have tried to be patient in the hopes that you would overcome your issues with Harry, but you have continually disappointed me in this regard."

Severus flinched.

Albus sat down heavily and gave the other man a level look. "No more, Severus. We do not have time for this inane bickering. I do not have time for it. Nor does Harry. This must end."

Severus pulled himself up in his seat stiffly, grappling with both his aching body and shattered pride. "Oh? And only I am to be held accountable for this? What of Potter?" He spat the word 'Potter' like a curse. "I cannot abide the child's presence. I cannot—" He choked off the words, snarling, and wiped a heavy hand over his mouth to clean away the froth he could feel gathering there.

I cannot be without him.

"Harry," the Headmaster said sharply, emphasizing the name heavily, "has not voiced any complaint against you this year, Severus. None at all. Not even on Tuesday. The only reason I came to see you was because he ran into me on the way out of the dungeons. He told me nothing. He was far too upset at the time anyway. But, in light of the past few weeks, the state of your classroom, and the fact that magic was rising off the boy in waves, it seemed clear to me that something had happened. It was only when I found Mr. Finnegan in the Infirmary on Wednesday that I finally got the whole story. Harry did not even come to his tea last weekend."

Severus's thin lips peeled back in a nasty snarl. "The whole story!" Contempt and rage coiled thick in his tone. "You know nothing of the whole story—"

"Nor do I wish to," Albus retorted sharply with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You are the one who has mucked this up. You will now be the one to fix it. And you will fix it," the old man declared, his eyes glittering coldly. "I told you this before. You will no longer be able to run to me with your problems. Not for this. You are smarter than this, Severus."

The Potions Master clenched his fists so tightly that his short nails bit into the flesh of his palms. "Albus . . ." His voice came out as a painful croak and he squeezed his eyes shut as though the act could make this all go away. "Albus . . . Please do not make me do this."

"You are the one who has created this situation."

"You started it."

"It is your responsibility."

Severus twisted in his chair, practically writhing in the seat, something close to hysteria shining eerily in his eyes. His voice was absolutely anguished. "I CANNOT do this!"

Albus pursed his lips at his student's obvious plight as his heart broke. "You will resume your Occlumency lessons with the boy."

Severus blanched and dropped his head so low it seemed as though he was trying to curl into himself and emitted a strange, strangled shrieking noise.

"Control yourself." Albus's voice could have frozen a lit torch.

Severus snarled viciously and his head snapped up. His eyes glowed like trapped animal and he forced his body upright with obvious effort. "So that's just it? Your Golden Boy snaps his fingers and the whole bloody world just prostrates itself at his fucking feet, doesn't it?"

Albus's eyes narrowed. "Your two weeks suspension holds. You have until next Tuesday to collect yourself. Wednesday the Occlumency lessons will resume and you will work with him. It is imperative that he master it. That is all I have to say, Severus."

The man gaped at him. He could not seem to believe what he was hearing. The fists clenched tighter and blood oozed out Severus's palms onto rumpled black robes. "Have I not served you well! Why are you doing this to me?"

Albus sighed heavily and a look of infinite sorrow creased his heavily lined face. He stood again and walked slowly around the desk to stand by Severus's side and gently laid a strong, but frail hand on the younger man's shoulder. He squeezed hard until Severus looked up at him and tried desperately to display all the love, the pride and compassion, he felt for this man in his eyes. "My dear boy . . . I am doing this for you."

"Why?"

The sound was so broken, Albus longed to take the man into his arms as though he were a child and simply try to hold him together. But Severus would never have tolerated that, so he merely squeezed his shoulder again, hoping what little strength he still had could pass through that tenuous link. Severus maintained eye contact and Albus smiled.

"Because I love you," the old man said sincerely.

Severus turned away. His voice was still rough. "You are a fool."

"Yes, I am," he agreed amiably. He pulled a lemon drop out of one of his innumerable pockets and gave it to Severus. "Eat this."

As the younger man obediently put the Calming Potion-laced treat in his mouth, Albus returned to the desk and presented him with the Snape Family scroll that had arrived. Severus took it wordlessly and tucked it away with mechanical motions.

"Have another lemon drop," Albus said, gesturing to the tin on his desk, "and then go downstairs and rest, Severus. Your wand will be back in the morning."

The man nodded numbly and stood, taking another candy as he went. He swayed when he was upright and had to grip the chair for balance. The Headmaster could only watch in silent sorrow as the young man left, looking half bent over with a curious kind of grief. When he was gone, Albus stared at the closed door silently as he took a sip of his tea. The hot liquid spread through him rapidly, but it did little to quell the churning in his stomach and self-loathing tearing at his heart.


o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Harry felt his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose as he stared at the ground. His feet swung idly a good seventy feet above the pitch as he pushed the spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose. The air was heavy with the tang of unshed rain and the earth seemed to throb and pulse below him. He could feel it inside him.

It was a Saturday, a Hogsmead weekend, and he was the only Gryffindor above third year left in the castle. Though the Headmaster had happily returned his broom with a flourish at the start of the Quidditch season, Harry was still barred from Hogsmead; it was too much of a security risk. This year, however, Harry did not rail against the ban—in fact, he rather welcomed it.

August had been spent concocting stupid fantasies of him and Snape spending these free hours ensconced in some dungeon room somewhere doing rather improper things to one another. After their last confrontation, though, Harry did not see that happening any time soon—if ever. He rubbed his cheek absently and wondered if Seamus was alright. Now, it seemed, he would be spending most of his time on the pitch. Anyway, after spending three days bed-ridden and wallowing in misery, the cool air and exercise felt good. He was more than a little bit tempted to go poke around the Chamber of Secrets, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore had put some sort of tracking spell on him. Besides, though Voldemort had been surprisingly silent in regards to their bond so far this term, Harry didn't exactly want to invite trouble.

He had strange dreams some nights. He saw himself walking down to the Chamber and kneeling by a puddle on the floor. He would stare into it and his reflection would morph into a giant basilisk that would then leap through the puddle and snap at him. He always woke up then, though, so he never got to see what happened next. Memories of the vision that had lead to Sirius's death kept him from wandering down to the hidden chamber, but sometimes when it was very quiet and he was very lonely, temptation was hard to resist.

Snape made him want to do that. Run away. Escape. Throw caution to the wind and simply do what he felt like. The man had a gift for inspiring Harry to do immensely stupid things. Before Snape had just ignored him, as though he wasn't even worth the Potions Master's time. Now though, the man was more hateful than ever before. Harry didn't know which was more mortifying—the fact that he had to sit through Potions with the slimy bastard every week and be insulted steadily for three hours, or the fact that, despite Harry's growing desire to hex the man, Snape still aroused him. Even after the debacle of Tuesday's lesson—even though the memory of what Snape had said to him burned him up and made his eyes sting suspiciously, he was still absolutely fixated.

He was beginning to worry that what had started out as mere fancy on his part was turning into an obsession. He couldn't go through a single day without watching the man—staring, wanting . . . so much . . . And he couldn't go a single night without dreams of those eyes on him, those hands holding him down, that voice whispering obscenities in his ear while talented fingers tugged open his pants and slid into the slit in his Y-fronts and wrapped tight around his—

Harry yelped suddenly as he found himself slipping off his broom. His hands latched tightly around the broomstick's handle and he abruptly dropped about fifteen feet before he got a hold on himself. He blushed crimson and looked around furtively; worried that someone had seen him. Harry Potter, Seeker Extraordinaire . . . falling off of his broom whilst having wet dreams about a teacher who wouldn't touch him with a twenty meter stick . . . His cheeks burned so much that he couldn't help but laugh.

"Smooth, Potter," he muttered to himself as he rose a bit higher. He started a slow lap around the pitch in an effort to rid his mind of naughty thoughts. Really, between Voldemort, the weird puddle in the Chamber, and Snape, he was amazed that he ever got any sleep at all. And poor Dobby, who—thanks to Hermione's ongoing SPEW Crusade—was still the only Elf who'd clean Gryffindor Tower, blushed every single time he saw him. This, naturally, made Harry blush. The poor little Elf's face had been glowing like a light bulb for the past four days now and Harry just couldn't bring himself to meet those enormous, adoring eyes anymore. It was getting to the point where he'd actually considered asking Hermione to help him find a spell or potion that would prevent him from ejaculating in his sleep. The only one he'd managed to find was an unpleasant draught that had a fifty percent chance of turning the drinker into a hermaphrodite. A fully functioning hermaphrodite. Harry wasn't that desperate—yet.

Not to mention the fact that he felt no need to stoke Ron and Hermione's growing curiosity. He'd pumped them endlessly for information about Snape over the past few days, but neither of them had anything to report. However, they were beginning to ask him questions that made him rather uncomfortable in regards to their Potions Master. It was their endless questioning that finally prompted him to arise and go out. Had he spent another day in bed sulking, he had no doubt that the two of them would force feed him Veritaserum to get the information they wanted. He couldn't help but wonder if they were starting to suspect something. How, he didn't know—he had been careful—but if they went nosing about in this he didn't know what would happen. Snape had Obliviated Malfoy, his supposed pet student. What would he do to Ron and Hermione, whom he openly disliked?

He couldn't let his friends do anything to hurt Snape, no matter how much of a heartless, spiteful bastard the man was. But he most certainly would not allow Snape to hurt his friends, either. The position made him painfully uncomfortable and he didn't dare let Ron and Hermione know just how much Snape had hurt him. He'd known that this would be difficult, but what would he do if it pitted him against his friends?

Harry sighed heavily and loosened his grip a bit and swung upside down, reveling in the strange rush of hot and cold that flashed through his body as he flew suspended from the broom, barely keeping his grip. Blood rushed to his head.

These thought weren't helping anything.

As he made a lap upside down, he found himself thinking of Sirius. It wasn't often that he thought about his godfather intentionally because those thoughts led inevitably to the memory of That Night and his culpability in Sirius's death. Harry was unable to separate the good memories from the bad memories most of the time. But today he was so uncharacteristically relaxed—so tired, tired of himself, tired of sleeping, tired of dreaming, and tired of Snape—that the memories seemed to be more of a balm than an irritant. Oddly enough, the one that came back to him most often was when Snape had come to headquarters to talk about Occlumency and he and Sirius had gotten into that fight. Harry remembered standing between the two, one hand pressed against each of their chests in a futile effort to keep them apart, while waves of power inundated him, rolling off the two men like thunder before a storm. They'd both been trembling, they were so mad.

He remembered the uneasiness he'd sometimes feel around Sirius—the trepidation. But there was also love. Love and admiration and respect and a desperate need to know this man. He didn't know how to describe it. He'd wanted Sirius to teach him, to tell him everything, to be there. He'd wanted Sirius to know everything about him, because Sirius would have listened, he was sure. Sirius would have let him say his piece and then done everything he could to comfort him. Even if it wasn't the right thing, he would have tried.

Sirius . . .

He really was the only family Harry had had. They had only known one another for a year, maybe two and somehow he'd become so much to Harry.

And now he was dead.

The word was a heavy weight inside him: dead. It seemed like it should sound so much more significant than it did. It should have been a strong, long word, not something so small and tame sounding. Dead. There was something almost disarming about it.

The Gryffindor swung himself upright on his broom, dipping a bit in altitude to help him pull up. He lay down flat against the broom handle to cut down the wind sheer and began to speed up, pulling back with his thighs so that he'd gradually gain altitude. The wind shrieked in his ears as he began to go faster and faster.

Harry firmly believed that people got to see each other again when they died. He didn't know about heaven or hell, but there was a place were people got to see each other afterwards. There had to be. There had to be a place where Sirius and his parents and Cedric, Bertha Jenkins, that old man, and all the others who'd died were getting all the happiness they'd missed in life. They had all deserved so much more . . .

He was going to go there when he died, the boy had decided. He was going to get to see them all when it was all over and Voldemort was really and truly dead. The key was somewhere in the library and he was going to find it and kill Voldemort and then . . .

And then . . .

What?

Harry peaked in the air, perfectly frozen in space and hesitating for one marvelous moment as he opened his eyes to an endlessly blue sky.

What then?

He leaned forward, resting his chest against the broomstick and tipping the broom forward. The moment was over, perfection destroyed, and he plummeted to the ground, clinging halfheartedly to the broom handle. This was not flying—this was falling. One hundred percent, nose to the ground, no holding back falling. He felt absolutely alive. The wind screamed in his ears and the earth, a tiny scrap of green beneath him ringed by a minuscule stadium, rose to meet him.

What then?

He could feel his glasses sliding up his forehead.

Then, he supposed, he'd die. After all, everything dies.

The breath left his body in a sudden gasp as he forced himself to pull up and his broom handle bent and buckled beneath him with the strain. The boy leveled off with barely a moment to spare. In nearly the same motion he leaned hard to the side, forcing his broom to move with him and turning his forward momentum into a smooth circle, so that he wouldn't crash into a wall. He was still going much too fast to stop, so he flew on momentum. Controlled momentum—he could do that. Sometimes it felt like that was all he was doing.

"Then you'd have done us all a greater service if you had died."

One lap. Momentum.

Dying really couldn't be such an awful thing, could it? Snape was right—it probably would have been better if he'd died. Died and never ever had to meet Severus Snape, or watch everyone he loved be taken from him one by one. So much better. But it can't be too terrible to die, right? Because then it would all be over. It should have been a comfort, really; no matter what happened, he'd die and it would be over.

But he didn't want to die.

And it was all so terribly unfair.

Two laps. He was starting to slow down now. Again. He could feel a familiar lump rising in his throat.

"Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of value to the world instead of sucking the life out of those around her."

He would not start this again! He wouldn't. Not after he promised Ron and Hermione he'd be okay. And they worried about him so much, and he wasn't nearly as good a friend to them as they were to him.

". . . Sucking the life out of those around her."

Harry felt himself slow to a stop and squeezed his eyes closed, clenching his jaw tight.

The bastard . . . He hated him. He absolutely hated him.

And he didn't really hate him at all.

It was so unfair.

"Who died, Potter?"

Harry started at the familiar shout and pulled his broom around sharply to face the Hufflepuff stands. Trotting out towards the pitch in front of the black and yellow and banners was Draco Malfoy. The ice blond Slytherin was dressed in plain, almost dull, black robes that whispered over the top of the painstakingly maintained grass as he approached. Harry's eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses as he lowered himself down to earth. The battered tips of his worn out shoes grazed the ground. Malfoy stopped a good thirty feet away and watched the other boy with thinly veiled wariness. Harry settled back on his broom, stretching out his legs.

Malfoy broke eye contact first. His silvery grey eyes watched Harry's feet swing just above the green. "We need to talk."

A muscle tensed in Harry's jaw as he readjusted his grip on the Firebolt. "Really? Well, that's going to be rather difficult because I have nothing to say to you and it takes two to have a conversation." He pushed up off the ground with his toes, ready to head back to the locker room. The pitch suddenly seemed too small. Or maybe he somehow felt too large.

Malfoy made a strange noise in his throat. "Then just listen."

Harry closed his eyes as he moved upwards. No, it was the company that was all wrong, not him or the pitch.

"Harry!"

The Gryffindor paused, struck painfully by something in the other boy's voice. Maybe it was the plea he thought he heard there. But that couldn't be right—a Malfoy never pleaded for anything. Despite himself, the brunet turned to frown back at his classmate.

Sensing an opening, Draco quickly strode across the space between, trying desperately to organize his thoughts. He took a deep breath and was hard pressed to suppress a scowl when he realized he'd be forced to look up at Potter for this conversation. "Just listen to me, okay?"

Potter tilted his head to the side quizzically. "Why? And shouldn't you be at Hogsmead with the rest of your entourage?"

The blond forced himself to maintain eye contact with the brunet. "I don't seem to have one anymore. How's yours?"

"I never had one," Harry growled in response. "I have friends. You should try it some time."

Draco pressed his lips into a pained line. "Show me."

The broom dipped in midair. "What?"

"Show me," the Slytherin repeated.

Harry pulled up on the broom a bit as he stared down at Malfoy. "What are you playing at, Malfoy?"

"I need your help," the blond responded levelly. "I'm offering you an alliance, Potter. You'd be wise to accept it."

"And why should I trust you?" The smaller Seeker lowered his broom to the ground until he was just a little bit above Draco's eye level. "When have you ever given me a reason to trust you, Malfoy? And when have I ever given you a reason to trust me?"

"The political climate has changed." He pursed his lips again in frustration and seized hold of the broom so Potter couldn't just fly off when it suited him. The other boy balked, looking affronted, but Draco overran him before he could protest. "My father is mad, Potter. And my mother is not equipped to lead the family." His grip on the broom tightened in an effort to keep the tremor out of his voice. "I am not asking for your friendship. I'm not even asking for your trust me." His knuckles were white and his voice dropped to a strained whisper. "But I am asking you to help me."

Potter settled back on his broom, biting his lower lip, Avada Kedavra green eyes dark with consideration.

Draco swallowed heavily. "I will not watch idly as my family is swallowed by the Dark Lord."

Harry's broom rose a bit and the blond pulled it back down, still maintaining eye contact. The Gryffindor pulled up again. "His name is Voldemort."

The Malfoy heir opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. For a moment Harry stared at him with burning emerald eyes and jerked the broom handle out of his hand. The blond tried again, but he simply could not bring himself to say the name.

Harry stared down at the boy and was suddenly struck by the helplessness he saw in those gray eyes. Anger, frustration, and . . . helplessness. Perhaps he would have been more sympathetic in September, but September was long past and now all he could think was the Malfoy had worn the exact same expression when he'd burst into the Lab that night.

When he'd ruined everything.

Everything.

The eternal ball of anger, so carefully coiled and bound in his stomach, lurched and writhed. Anger. And blame. Because it really was Malfoy's fault. MALFOY. Severus was listening to him before that. Severus was holding him. Touching him. Begging him to listen to so-called reason, but those hands were on him, sliding and touching and promising and Malfoy had ruined it all.

Everything.

He pulled up sharply and glared down at this hate-filled little rodent who poisoned everything he touched—everything—and it took all his control not to hex him to bits. The whole damn Malfoy clan could tumble into the ocean for all he cared. Then at least, he'd be free of them.

Control and memory. Memory and control.

And he would not lose his temper. Not for a Malfoy.

The look on his face must have been fearsome because Malfoy recoiled as though he'd been bitten. Harry sneered in contempt at the act and rose so that he was staring down his nose at the blond.

"I need your help!" the Slytherin cried with obvious anguish.

Harry could feel nothing for the boy's plight. "You want my help, Malfoy? Then take my advice." He pulled up to head back to the locker room, pausing only to glance at the boy he left behind. "Go to hell!"

He turned back and lay flat against the broom, desperate to put distance between himself and Malfoy, and told himself that he was not running away. If Malfoy said anything, he didn't hear him. He didn't want to.

He didn't want to think of Malfoy. He didn't want to think of Severus. He didn't want to think of Sirius. He didn't want to think at all. He just wanted . . . He wanted . . . to be safe. Just for a little while. Just for a moment.

. . . Which was probably why, an hour and a shower later, he found himself with one hand poised to knock on a heavy maple door and shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Come in, child."

Harry hesitated an instant—how did the man do that?—before cautiously opening the door. He shyly stuck his head around the corner and peered in. "Sir?" His glasses caught the glare of the fire, temporarily blinding him. He shuffled into the office and closed the door behind him. "Sir?"

Albus looked up from the paperwork spread before him, concern shining in his eyes. He put down his quill and beckoned the boy into the office. "Is everything alright, my dear boy? Do you need something? Has Professor Snape done anything?"

For once being called 'boy' did not irritate Harry. Instead it made him feel . . . calmer. He came into the room slowly, looking a bit sheepish. He looked away from the Headmaster's eyes and to the fire. "You, um . . ." He cleared his throat and hated himself for sounding so stupid. "You said that your door was always open. Even if I just needed a place to be . . ." He trailed off and suddenly wished he hadn't come here at all.

Albus smiled at the boy's awkwardness. "Harry . . . You are always welcome here." He made to push his work aside. "Did you want to talk or—"

"No, no!" the boy interrupted with a blush and shake of his head. "I just . . . May I just sit by the fire and read?"

Albus beamed. "Have you a book?"

Harry blushed again, spreading his empty hands in embarrassment, and shook his head. "Um . . . Should—"

The Headmaster waved his wand and a book appeared on his desk with an odd suction noise. It was leather-bound, heavy and black with golden letters embossed on the cover that read 'Wizarding Tales for Every Child.' Harry shot him a quizzical look at the title.

"It's one of my favorites," the old man explained, still looking absolutely thrilled with Harry's presence.

The teen accepted the enormous book with a crooked smile and retreated to the chair he usually sat in for tea. He opened the book to the first story, "The Midwife and the Scarab," and curled up in the heavy seat, occasionally peaking over the top of the pages at the Headmaster as the old man shuffled his papers about. The fourth or fifth time he'd done this, he found himself looking into a shining pair of sapphire eyes. They stared at one another for a moment before Harry shifted in his seat.

"Was he terribly cross with me?" he asked after a minute.

The Headmaster knew it was pointless to feign ignorance and his smile became a bit sadder. "No. Not at you. Himself maybe. And me. But not at you."

Harry nodded and turned back to the book. A slight wrinkle appeared in his brow. "This doesn't mean that we're square, you know. I haven't forgiven you yet."

Although Harry couldn't see it, Albus smiled again. "I know, child." But it's a start.

They said nothing else to one another for the remainder of the afternoon and the only sounds to be heard in the office was the rustle of paper and the absent, even scratching of a quill.


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Voldemort sat on the dais and frowned slightly at the women in front of him. Bellatrix was seated his feet in Nagini's usual post, enraptured by a game of Cat's Cradle as she hummed brokenly to herself. Kneeling gracefully in the audience area was Narcissa Malfoy. Her regal carriage irritated him to no end. It made the Dark Lord even more acutely aware of his own shabby surroundings: a rotted, empty ballroom with a busted easy chair as a throne and a humming madwoman as his court and concubine.

He sneered, but the expression was directed at himself. And now this worthless nothing of a woman dared to come into his presence unmasked? Regardless of whether or not she was a Death Eater, she should have known better. To love something is to truly fear it. This women did not fear him. He would remember that and kill her when the time came. Slowly. A fitting task for his ambitious Dragon, perhaps. Nothing cemented the Dark Mark like the selfish spilling of blood. Even that treacherous Severus had been initiated with blood.

The reminder of Severus's betrayal made the reptilian man taste bile. He felt flush with a sudden and intense hatred for everyone and everything. It took more control than he liked to admit not summon Severus here and kill him just as a simple means of catharsis.

Soon . . .

Yes. Soon. Soon Potter would either be bound or he would be dead. Soon Severus would be brought to heel. Soon everything would be his—his—as it could have been before. As it should have been before. Oh, he'd spout the pureblood rhetoric for as long as necessary, but he knew better than anyone that when it came down to the wire, it was he—poor, despised, filthy Tom Riddle the half-blood orphan—who would rule this world. This world and all others. Soon.

But for now, he would have to be patient.

Even though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and squeeze this frigid blue-blooded bitch's neck until her eyes bulged and her tongue protruded and her flesh popped beneath his fingers like rotten fruit and blood stained those perfect, pristine sapphire robes and she died knowing that he was her Master . . .

Voldemort closed his red eyes and sighed, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands as he did so.

Soon.

He opened his eyes. Soon he would make this queenly woman a Death Eater whore and violate her in every way conceivable until she went mad from begging both for mercy and for more.

But not today.

He tilted his hairless head to the side and allowed a hint of displeasure to show. "He is . . . illllllll?" He drew the last word out in a sibilant hiss and was pleased to see a minuscule shiver run through the Lady Malfoy.

She dipped her head and the weak, indelicate torch light shone brightly off of the jeweled hair piece that held back her magnificent locks. "Yes, My Lord. I am afraid that my husband has taken ill once more and will not be able to attend you for several weeks."

He sneered at her perfectly brushed hair and absently reached out his free hand to pet Bellatrix. Narcissa's eyes locked on the other woman at his feet and her expressionless face cracked for a moment in contempt. Voldemort tightened his grip on Bellatrix's hair in anger.

How dare this weak, willful girl look with distain on what was his! Bellatrix looked up at him, adoring madness flashing in her velvety eyes.

"Patterns, Master," she cooed sweetly, holding up her string to show him what she'd made. She giggled, a curiously shattered sound. "So much to see . . . I see the itty-bitty Potter. I see a treacherous black snake. I see the prey falling. I see the pretty painted woman—" here her midnight blue eyes flashed to Narcissa, alight with pure, unadulterated hatred, and her saccharine voice changing to rough, animalistic snarl, "—burning!"

Voldemort watched his servant—his poor, mad, faithful Bellatrix—with expressionless eyes. All he could see in the weave she'd made was the start of a great knot.

He looked back at Narcissa—Bellatrix could be punished for speaking out of turn once Malfoy's woman had left. "I ssssee," he hissed quietly to the other witch. He seemed to think for a moment before shaking his head. "You, I assssume, have taken on the duties as the Head of Houssse?"

She dipped her head again in acknowledgement. "Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed. This was not acceptable. "Then you sshall take over all of his duties as the Head of Housssse." He shifted and Bellatrix jerked violently at the Cat's Cradle she was trying to weave, whispering to herself and rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Voldemort hissed irritably at her before turning back to the Malfoy matriarch. "You are to tell Draco that the Mirror is set to arrive at Hogwartssss thiss week by way of the Ssssslytherin dungeons. He is not to interfere. There are otherss in Hogwartssss who can do my bidding far better than the Malfoy family hass been doing of late." He paused and looked at her in consideration. "Should I suspect that there was any interferenccce . . ." he drew the 'c' out slowly, "I would be most disappointed, Lady Narcccissa." The title made his stomach roil and he looked away in disgust. "I will summon you when I have need of you."

Narcissa seemed to pale a bit at these words and looked up sharply in protest. "My Lord—" The words died on her lips as he slowly turned back to face her again. She swallowed visibly, the shallow arc of her throat sliding back and forth with the motion.

Voldemort leaned forward as though taking a closer look at her. His pupils seemed to flare open and he inhaled deeply, as though he could smell her. She shuddered, a delicate motion that made her dress whisper.

"You are a very beautiful woman, Lady Malfoy," the wizard murmured after a moment. His hand buried itself in Bellatrix's tangled ebony hair again. "But true beauty can only be appreciated in its destruction, wouldn't you concur? Does not even the loveliest rosse in its prime ssseem all the more beautiful when compared to its inevitable decay?"

She stared up at him, cold and pale and expressionless, and he smiled. Soon. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and watched as she executed a perfect curtsey and slowly backed out of his presence. Bellatrix giggled psychotically and pulled the strings wrapped between her fingers taut again; forming a pattern only she could see. Narcissa glided regally to the door.

Voldemort raised his wand when her marble hand touched the tarnished door handle. "Oh . . . And Lady Narcissa?"

She turned slowly and even from the distance between them he could see the steel in her gaze. Her perfect flowerbud lips parted and Voldemort pointed his wand at her with a smile. "Crucio."

Her screams sounded like the rush of blood in his veins.

At his feet, Bellatrix continued humming and playing her game, unaware of anything but the knot she had created.


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Severus sat at his desk in the midst of his devastated quarters and stared blankly down at the scroll in his hand. He had read the letter several times, but the words didn't seem to sink in. It was not as though this was unexpected . . . he simply hadn't expected it now of all times . . .

But perhaps it was for the best. It would give him time, at least. Time away from the boy's hurt-filled green eyes. Time away from Albus's disappointment. Time away from Draco and Lucius's impossible demands . . . Time.

November 1st, 1996
Severus,
I will not mince words. You are, always have been, and always will be a failure. If you hadn't ruined your wretched mother's womb, I would have drowned you an hour after your birth. You should consider it your supreme triumph that you will outlive me—your only victory in this life is that you are the only heir I have produced, despite my efforts to the contrary.
However, there is nothing that can be done for the situation now. It has come to my attention that I am dying. If you are so inclined, returned to Snape Manor on Tuesday November 5th, 1996 at exactly 12:30 to discuss your inheritance. The wards barring your return will be lifted at that time and at that time only. If you are late or do not attend, then you will be disinherited. Do try to make time in your busy schedule, lest I be forced set the wards to burn the Manor to the ground upon my death.
Aigris Désunis Snape

He rolled the scroll closed and pressed the ends shut so that the shattered Snape family seal looked whole again. The fifth . . . That was in three days. Albus had given Severus three more days before he had to face Potter again and Tuesday was the Headmaster's weekly tea session with the boy . . . And he hadn't seen his ancestral home in over 20 years now . . .

Yes. Perhaps some time away was just the thing. Even if it was only to Snape Manor. His hands clenched around the scroll. What was that Muggle saying again? Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

So be it then.

Severus pushed himself to his feet and staggered slightly to his shower once more. His wand still had not reappeared. He turned the spray all the way to hot and stepped in the shower fully clothed, still holding the scroll. It was actually rather interesting to watch the water bounce off the Impervious Charm on the parchment.

"I didn't ask to survive, you know."

What had he been thinking?

What . . .

Dear Professor Snape,
I miss you.
H.P.

Severus closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his forehead against the tiles and closed his eyes wearily.

Yes.

It was long past time for him to return home.


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