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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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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.
Warnings: SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence, & language.

This is the CUT / EDITEDversion. To view the "uncut" version, please go to either my website, Skyehawke, or Adult and click on 'Where the Heart Moves the Stone.'

Kudos and thanks must got to my beta readers: the effervescent LadyDeathFarie, sparkly Korax, and tasty Evelia.

Please review.


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Chapter Seven
The Thin Edge of the Wedge

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"The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.
For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt;
I am black; astonishment hath taken hold of me.
Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?
why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?"
- Jeremiah 8: 20-22

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The words were drawn out with Veritaserum and etched into record with a Quick Quotes Quill. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madame Pomfrey, Severus, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were the only ones in attendance. And Fawkes. Fawkes was there, too. The young, barely molting phoenix perched on Harry's knee during the interview, warbling pathetically and weeping tears for him that were of no use.

Harry had never been under Veritaserum before and was grateful for the insulation the truth serum provided. He could feel relatively little emotion as he recounted the tale, and the memories did not have the hazy, frantic feel that the events did. Everything seemed clearer. He could see where he'd lost his temper, where he'd panicked, where he'd made his mistakes. And he had made so many of them . . .

No one spoke but Dumbledore, and he looked old and paper thin as he prodded at Harry's emotional wounds. Not even the serum could hide the raw, tattered undertone in the boy's voice, though, and with every response the Headmaster seemed to get older and grayer. For his part, Harry simply sat propped up against the too-starched, stiff Hospital Wing pillows and stared with blurry eyes down at his bandaged hands. A new pair of glasses—silver rimmed, smaller, lighter, and expensive-looking—were on his night stand. His old glasses had vanished somewhere and no one could seem to find them. Even after two days, Harry refused to wear the new ones. Instead, he spent his waking hours squinting at something in the distance that only he could see.

He would only speak to Ron, Hermione, and Albus—but that could have very well been because those three were the only ones who really tried to speak with him. Part of the reason for that was because he'd been cloistered in one of the private rooms in the back of the Wing with an overly protective Dobby and Winky standing guard all day. Everyone but Ron, Hermione and the staff were booted out by the Elves. Another part of it was that no one could seem to look him in the eye without quickly looking away. Thus, other than his friends, no one else really came to visit him—at least, not when he was awake. There was, however, the time he'd woken up to see Professor McGonagall sitting by his bed and crying very, very quietly. He closed his eyes and pretended he was still asleep. There were also the times when he woke to the scent of peaches, tea, blood, and something sweet, sour, and potions-like, though the room was empty. Once, thinking he'd been dreaming, he'd reached out and rested the exposed tips of his fingers on the seat of the chair next to his bed. It was still warm.

"I found Ignis in Terrum while I was looking up spells for a project." That wasn't a lie. Killing Voldemort was a project, if ever there was one. "I never even thought about using it before—the books said it was too difficult. But when Goyle started to cast Avada Kedavra on me, I panicked. It was the first spell I thought of. I'd dropped my wand already, so I just put my hands on the ground and tried to pull at the magic down there. It startled me when it worked. It didn't take him very long at all to die."

"Self defense then," Kingsley muttered, barely audible above the scratching of the Quick Quotes Quill.

Sprout frowned at him and made a shushing motion with her hands. Minerva clutched the head of her cane and glared stonily at the back of Dumbledore's battered fuchsia hat, and Snape was uncharacteristically slouching slightly in a stiff, hardback chair with his arms crossed in front of him, stalwartly avoiding everyone's eyes. Pomfrey stood anxiously at the head of Harry's bed, minding her patient with sharp, hawkish eyes. The boy moved only his mouth.

Underneath the veil of the potion, he felt something broken and rotted inside him. "Self defense then." As though it could have been anything else. He wondered if Kingsley knew what had happened at the Durselys' house—what he'd done. Dumbledore said no one would have to know. Dumbledore's voice had sounded old that night, just like now. They wanted to know about Draco.

He answered more questions and stared down at his hands. He wanted Severus to look at him. Severus stared impassively at the floor.

"She wanted to take him home with her. I could have probably stopped her if I had wanted to, but I promised him I'd do what I could to help his family."

"And you think letting Narcissa take Draco back to Malfoy Manor helped them?"

"Yes." He stared down at the grains of the potions-soaked gauze, seeing Draco laying still and pale in his mind's eye. "She was right. He shouldn't have been just lying there like that. In the mud, I mean. He wouldn't have liked it. He didn't want to die like that—because of me. He shouldn't have been in the mud like that. Like he was a part of them." Them. The Death Eaters. "He wouldn't have liked it." The words were repetitious and tiresome and Harry blinked slowly, trying to organize and regroup his sluggish thought processes. "I'm sorry."

He had said it so many times his tongue ached from forming the words.

An old, wrinkled hand laid itself gently atop his bandaged ones and squeezed lightly, enough to make his damaged skin tingle, but not enough to hurt. No one told him that it wasn't his fault, though. Perhaps Dumbledore couldn't lie right now, either.

Severus wouldn't look at him.

"How did Avery die?" Dumbledore asked.

Memories of the angsty muggle music that Dudley had been so partial to in June suddenly flooded his mind and Harry closed his eyes in a long, slow blink, listening to dulcet phantom tones in his head. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, humming silently. His cousin's attempts to seem tortured and deep suddenly struck Harry as silly and terribly shallow

You don't . . . you don't . . . you don't see me. You don't . . . you don't . . . you don't see me . . .

"Harry?"

The boy opened his eyes. Even blurry, the hospital was too white. "Disarming spell. Malfoy sent him into a tree. He hit his head. I thought that he had passed out, but then he jumped up between Malfoy and me after I killed Goyle. He cast the Killing Curse and fell down. He didn't get back up. I don't know what happened to him after that."

Dumbledore made a contemplative noise and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his hands in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of his seat.

Harry's eyes began to ache from the strain of continually attempting to focus. You . . . don't . . . see me . . . You . . . don't . . . see me. You . . . don't . . . you don't see me.

Severus shifted for the first time since this session began and straightened a bit in his chair. His dark eyes flickered to the still form on the bed and he twitched and fidgeted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say something. Poppy leveled a fierce glare at him from her Mother Hen position at Harry's side. Her patient saw the exchange as a series of dark blurs out of the corner of his eye.

You don't . . . see me. You don't see me at all.

More questions. 'What spells did they cast?' 'Where did the others go?' 'What were they carrying onto the grounds?' 'What did you feel when the Killing Curse hit you?' 'Has your scar been tingling?'

He answered them as best he could. The Quick Quotes Quill seemed unbearably loud.

"Do you have anything else you'd like to tell us?"

"I'm sorry." He wanted to slap himself even as the words left his mouth. He wanted to scream. The potion wouldn't let him.

The hand reached forth again and rested atop his with a gentle squeeze. "I know, Harry."

The Headmaster turned and whispers were exchanged that ranged just out of Harry's hearing. They were keeping secrets from him again. Veritaserum forced him to realize that he didn't blame them—not after the way he'd ballsed up on Tuesday. He wanted to keep secrets too. He wanted to stop apologizing. He wanted . . . Out of the corner of his eye, he could seem the blurry shadow that was Severus staring at the floor again.

He wanted Severus to look at him again and not hate him.

The potion didn't even let him pretend to grieve. It was somehow disgusting that, even after all that had happened, all he could think of was Snape. He wondered if he was sick. The potion let him know that it didn't matter to him. Harry closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.

Dumbledore turned back around and sighed quietly. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

The question was rhetorical. The potion didn't care.

"Because I'll dream." Harry decided that he hated Veritaserum.

Dumbledore seemed startled at his reply and he shot Madame Pomfrey a look that Harry was incapable of deciphering without his glasses. The matronly woman gently touched the boy's shoulder, forcing him to look up at her. Something he couldn't focus on was waved in front of his face.

"Drink this now, Potter," she said in her brisk, firm voice. "It's the antidote to the serum. It also has something in it that will help you rest."

The lip of the flask was pressed against his lower lip and he tipped his head back, swallowing instinctively as something thick, cool, and unaccountably creamy slid down his throat. It tasted faintly like rosewater and Harry's eyes teared up at the cloying flavor.

The mediwitch hummed in approval and helped Harry lay back down. Though most of his wounds had healed, he still ached fiercely. His scar had also been livid and red and had been throbbing dully since Tuesday night. He settled into the cool, starched Hospital Wing sheets with a lump in his throat and a looming sense of unease. He wanted to reach out and catch someone's hand as they passed—ask them to stay—but the effort seemed to be too much when he'd already taken so much of his professors' time and energy.

As the others departed, Dumbledore paused next to his bed. Harry stared blankly at the perpetual glass of water on the nightstand as a weight settled down on the edge of his mattress and the smell of lemon drops and—oddly enough—peppermint underscored by soap and a metallic scent seemed to wrap about him. The Headmaster looked at the glass that had arrested his student's gaze for a moment in contemplation.

Harry had spent most of the past two days asleep, or with Ron and Hermione, and, between the Order, Hogwarts, the Board of Directors, and trying to stave off Fudge and the Ministry, Albus had been inundated with work. Not to mention, he had his own . . . project . . . he'd been working on since July. He hadn't really had time to visit Harry the few times the boy had been awake. Interrogating the child the moment he woke up had not been the way he wanted to start his Friday morning.

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione had been waiting in his office when he had left the infirmary on Tuesday night, and he had been able to instruct them not to ask Harry what had happened. This way, at least, he could create a cogent cover story without too many people knowing what had actually happened. Jasperstone senior had been spirited away to a safehouse until the Silence Curse wore off—some time tonight, most likely—and Mary had been unconscious since the incident and occupied a bed in the main Hospital Wing. She had yet to awaken. Thus far, he had only Narcissa Malfoy and Harry's statements to go by, but they matched practically to a tee. Damage control with the Board of Directors and Ministry could be accomplished easily enough—provided he pull the right strings—but he had no idea how he would handle the emotional impact of these events. Death Eaters were not supposed to attack on Hogwarts' very doorstep. And they most certainly were not supposed to kill one of his students and land two more in the Hospital Wing right under his very nose.

Harry shifted slightly to allow the elderly man more room and turned sluggish, slightly out of focus eyes to his mentor. There were dark rings below the boy's eyes and he had a waxen, waif-like appearance to him. It vaguely reminded Albus of the way the boy had looked when Alastor had first brought him to Headquarters from the Dursleys' that summer.

"You've not been sleeping well."

It was not a question and Harry made no move to deny it.

"He's angry." Despite the fact that the bruising on his throat had healed, the boy's voice still sounded a bit rough. "I can feel it. My shields have been holding, but it . . . aches."

Albus nodded and pursed his lips pensively, wondering what he should do or say. There was no manual on how to handle emotionally damaged children and he felt terribly ill-equipped to comfort the boy. Of course, in light of Severus's evasive behavior over the past few days, it was easy to surmise that Harry had relatively little interest in the Headmaster's comfort.

Albus reached into his robes and removed a large tome from one of his magically maintained pockets. There was something comical about seeing him reach into his thin sunshine yellow robes and remove this enormous book, but Harry didn't smile.

"Your storybook," he explained as he set the book of fairy tales down in the nightstand. "There was a school service for Draco yesterday morning. A plaque was erected in his honor."

"Ron and Hermione told me last night. They said it was nice."

The Headmaster nodded and his eyes became unfocused, as though looking elsewhere. "Yes. It was very nice. I suppose your friends have also informed you that classes are canceled until Monday?"

Harry nodded.

"If you would like to take more time, that's fine. Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, as well as Ms. Parkinson have been granted extended leaves of absence."

A small furrow appeared on Harry's forehead. "When is the funeral?"

"Tomorrow." The glimmer in the Headmaster's eyes seemed to dim a bit more. "Mrs. Malfoy has invited you to attend. I saw her on Wednesday morning. She came to make a statement to the Board of Directors in your favor. With her help, and that of Kingsley and some good friends within the Ministry and the Daily Prophet, we'll be able to have this whole mess cleared up by next week. Mrs. Malfoy said that she wants to put all of this unpleasantness behind the family . . . And that she does not blame you for anything."

His eyes narrowed shrewdly as Harry looked away. "Harry—"

"I'll go," the boy said to a wall. "I want to go. But I'll return to classes on Monday. Ron and 'Mione said that they'd help me keep up, but I don't want them to have to. I don't want to depend on them so much. If anything happened to them—"

"Then they would be proud to be standing at your side when it happened," the Headmaster interrupted. "We've talked about this, Harry. You know you cannot push them away, nor can you keep them in the dark all the time. Quite frankly, they would be most upset if you did. You do not like it when I keep things that you think are important from you. Do you think they feel any differently? They are already targets."

"I got Draco killed." The words sounded loose and rough. "I don't want them to get hurt, too."

Albus shook his head, knowing that Harry couldn't see the motion. "Draco made his own choices, Harry." His voice was unusually stern and Harry turned to him, weary green eyes widening in surprise. "He died doing exactly what he wanted to do," the Headmaster continued, "protecting his loved ones. Do not invalidate his sacrifice or his bravery by saying that it was anything less. To do so is both cruel and disrespectful . . . to both yourself and the memory of Mr. Malfoy. You owe him more than that, and I owe both of you far too much to allow you to destroy yourself over this, do you understand?"

Avada Kedavra eyes remained wide and Albus smiled sadly. "My dear child . . ." the tone was both endearing and exhausted. "You have made many poor decisions. And you have made many good ones. And, regardless of whatever choices you have made, you—not the Boy-Who-Lived—are truly and dearly loved by many people. Even those who would rather they did not care for you at all. We do not blame you for this. I do not blame you for this. Not even Mrs. Malfoy—who was there and saw the whole thing—blames you for this. If anything, this is the fault of my inattention. I became so wrapped up in my scheming that I lost sight of other things."

He shifted on the edge of the bed so that he could face the boy fully. His eyes looked terribly sad. "Sometimes, we become so distracted by the potential in front of our faces, that we can forget the realities in the periphery, child. And when that happens, people and events often fall through the cracks. I have been overly attentive to some of the wrong things . . . in love with my own cleverness, in a way . . . and this situation is in part a result of that. You made a bad decision in following Draco outside. Draco made a bad decision in going to you instead of me and in disobeying his mother by taking you to the Wards. Mary made a bad decision in listening to Mr. Jasperstone and opening the Wards. Micah made a bad decision in following Voldemort. But I am the one who is responsible for the students' safety. In the end, Harry, if anyone is responsible for what happened this past week, I am. Not you."

"You're only one man, sir," the boy whispered softly.

"And you, dear boy, are only one child. You cannot bear the weight of the world alone. You need your friends. And your professors. And your confidence. You are not alone, Harry."

Albus smiled and turned slightly to the nightstand, from which he lifted the boy's new glasses. He opened the metal arms and looked through the lenses for a moment before turning slightly back and gently sliding the silver rimmed spectacles on the boy's face. Green eyes blinked several times as everything came into painfully sharp focus for the first time in several days.

The old man smiled at him sadly. "Sometimes, we have to be willing to see the things we would rather avoid in order to bring the world into proper focus."

Harry looked up at him through the glasses in obvious consideration for a moment. Then he scooted over and curled up slightly around the Headmaster's bent form. He lay down on the pillows again and closed his eyes. "I am not a child." Somehow the statement sounded more sad than defiant. "And you're not alone either, sir."

Albus froze, unaccountably touched by the act, and then relaxed a bit. Without asking or being asked, he retrieved the book from the nightstand and opened it to the page marked by a black ribbon.

He took a deep breath and began to read aloud. "Once upon a time there was a handsome young wizard who longed to be able to communicate with hippogriffs. You see, his cousin's aunt on his mother's brother's side had accidentally transfigured herself into a hippogriff one day and she was the only one who knew where the wizard's favorite cauldron was."

Harry relaxed into the mattress, ignoring the feel of the glasses digging into his face. He was exhausted and more than ready to submit and allow the drugs to carry him into a dreamless stupor. He closed his eyes and listened to the Headmaster's voice, soaking in his mentor's warmth as the elderly man regaled him about wizards and hippogriffs and Egyptian phoenixes. In his head, though, he tallied the names of his casualties up in an unspoken list. The headmaster may not blame him for Draco, but that said nothing about Goyle. Goyle, he'd actually killed.

"The hippogriff was confused by this turn of events and demanded to be turned back into a wizard. But the phoenix . . ."

Now, two of those names were people who had actually died by his hands. The knowledge was strange—like a burn on his tongue that he couldn't help but play with. He didn't like killing people. And yet he kept doing it. He ran through the list over and over again. James. Lily. Sirius. Cedric. Draco. Goyle . . . And there were more still.

"How many more?"

His own personal victims of time and circumstance.

Eventually, he fell into an exhausted, chemical induced sleep, lulled by the Headmaster's voice and his own silent litany.


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Friday November 8th, 1996

TRAGEDY STRIKES HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY - A HERO FALLS
- Article by: Felicity Cauldron

Draco Malfoy, son of Lucuis Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, dies in an attempted attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Black banners hang in the Great Hall for the second time in three years. The students and staff are uncharacteristically somber as they once again mourn one of their own. Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, died on the evening of Tuesday November 5th, 1996, felled by a Death Eater curse. According to sources at the Ministry and at Hogwarts, the young Slytherin was struck down by the Killing Curse just outside the school's Wards, attempting to prevent three Death Eaters from entering the grounds. Mr. Malfoy successfully thwarted the efforts of two suspected Death Eaters—Richard Goyle and Michael Avery—but the third as yet unidentified suspect managed to escape.
Ministry Aurors who evaluated the scene on Tuesday night believe that Mr. Malfoy confronted the Death Eaters at the edge of the Wards and became involved in a scuffle. In the ensuing conflict, Mr. Goyle—who was also Draco Malfoy's godfather—was killed by a Hot Flash Curse and Mr. Avery cast the Killing Curse on young Mr. Malfoy. The effort of casting was thought to be too much for Mr. Avery, who was also suffering a severe contusion from the conflict, and he died from magical exhaustion.

"The Malfoy Family has long been suspected of having ties to the Dark, though these claims have yet to be substantiated," said Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt in a news conference held by the Ministry this morning. "We believe that Draco Malfoy somehow intercepted plans to send a small attack squad or surveillance squad to Hogwarts from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and wanted to intercede the Death Eaters. At this point in the investigation, all the evidence we have points to the fact that Draco Malfoy died attempting to defend Hogwarts." The Ministry is set to release an official brief of their findings at the end of next week.
It is suspected that the Death Eaters were attempting to breach Hogwarts in order to kidnap Harry Potter for You-Know-Who, but neither Mr. Potter, nor any of the staff were able to comment on the veracity of these claims. However, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore reportedly had Mr. Potter removed to a safe location until the investigation of the Wards is completed.

The Malfoy family has been believed to be involved with the business of You-Know-Who since Harry Potter survived the killing curse in October of 1981, and Lucius Malfoy was in fact arrested under suspicion of being a Death Eater last May after the attack on the Ministry. Draco Malfoy's housemates in Slytherin reported that the young Malfoy heir had been acting strangely all year.
"He wasn't himself anymore," said Blaise Zambini, a fellow Sixth Year Slytherin and heir to the Zambini Kwik Spells empire. "He didn't want to socialize with his mates anymore and seemed preoccupied all year. We tried to help him, but you can only help those who will let you. We never suspected that he was involved in You-Know-Who, though. Never. Draco just wasn't that kind of person."
A spokesman for the Malfoy family released this statement on Thursday morning:For hundreds of years the Malfoy family has stood as a pillar in our world. We have shared with you our joys and our sorrow. Now, when our sorrow surpasses all previous grief, we are particularly grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and all the letters and gifts we have received thus far. We know in our hearts that our Draco had nothing to do with the followers of You-Know-Who. He was a good and honest young man and our grief has known no depth since word of his murder reached us. Our only solace lies in that he died as he lived: a true example of heroism and loyalty, and we know that—though he is no longer here—he will live on so long as the school and the values he tried to protect still stands.'

According to Ministry sources, a scholarship is to be set up in Mr. Malfoy's memory that will help poor children attend Hogwarts. An in-school memorial service was held on Thursday morning at Hogwarts and a private funeral is scheduled to be held on Saturday morning southwest of Obdan at Malfoy Manor.


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"It was real nice."

The operant words of a funeral. "It was real nice."

Lucius did not attend. Narcissa stood at the foot of the casket as a man from the Ministry droned on about all that Draco had accomplished and how sad it was when a young life was cut so tragically short. Because, as the man had said, 'It is always tragic when a life ends, particularly that of a young man who had barely begun to live.'

The Malfoy matriarch did not weep.

It was Saturday and it was raining, large, cold, heavy drops of rain. Though magic shielded the guests from the actual rain, the coldness of it seemed to seep in through the invisible barrier the funeral director had been kind enough to erect. The whirlwind manner of the funeral preparations made the service seem abrupt and harried, though it really was nothing of the sort. Rumors and whispers started and were rapidly squelched about why Narcissa and Lucius were so desperate to inter their only son not even a week after his death, but nothing came of them. Actually, it seemed apparent that most of the guests were more interested in who was there than any sort of mourning.

The funeral was a Who's-Who of social lights, despite the Malfoy House's less than pristine reputation. After all, Draco Malfoy had died a hero. He had saved Hogwarts from a vicious attack by Death Eaters. At least, that's what the Ministry and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had told the press. Cornelius Fudge was in attendance. He delivered a stirring eulogy about honor and sacrifice and the bravery of Draco's generation. Rita Skeeter took quotes and her photographer took pictures of her next to the casket as she wore a long practiced expression of wistful grief she'd perfected just for the occasion.

Strangely enough, Harry Potter had also come to the funeral, though the two boys' rivalry had been the stuff of legend. The wizarding world's reserved little hero was dressed in slightly faded black robes and stood next to a somberly clad Professor Dumbledore. Both wizards seemed unnaturally tired and pale, but no one dared approach them. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to speak to them found themselves skillfully redirected by the aged Headmaster while Harry Potter simply stared at the closed oak coffin with empty eyes. Directly across from the two Gryffindors was Severus Snape. The Head of Slytherin wore surprisingly fancy ebony dress robes and stood with a large contingent of Slytherin upperclassmen. He looked even paler and thinner than usual—almost scarecrow-like, despite his stylish clothes . . . or perhaps it was because of them. The Slytherin children stood in respectful silence and stared, bored, into the distance when they thought no one was watching.

However, most people probably would not have noticed if the whole lot of them expired from ennui right there. Even Snape, who was obviously their chaperone, seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to them, staring instead at the casket. If anyone had taken the time to stare for longer than an instant at the Potions Master, they would have no doubt seen the beaded rosary—so red it was black—that he clutched in his hands, or noticed his lips moving faintly in an unheard prayer. His long fingers worked over the beads as he stared impassively down at his former student's casket, treading them through one dark bead at a time. As it was, no one saw, except perhaps the Headmaster and Harry Potter, who said nothing.

"Truly these are dark days," some official or another droned on.

To Snape's left, Narcissa Malfoy's face could have been carved from ice for all the coldness she emanated. Her eyes, though, seemed to burn as she stared down at her son's final resting place. Someone had the poor taste to murmur 'Where's Master Malfoy?' within the grieving woman's hearing and, for a moment, her eyes flashed with barely suppressed violence and she seemed prepared to whirl around and seek out the person, but a thin, stained hand shot out and gripped her elbow before she could move. Her eyes flickered to Snape and she looked incredulous that he would dare touch her, so he quickly withdrew his hand and returned to worrying the beads. Angered beyond words, the woman averted her eyes and her body seemed to twist for a moment, loose and string-like. Her black finery whispered around her as she swayed, pale. Standing to her left, Harry Potter looked away and Headmaster Dumbledore closed his eyes.

"So young," the man continued, sounding enamored of his own turns of phrase. "With so much strength and light inside him . . . The realization of potential—"

Harry took a careful step towards the woman, but then stopped and looked hopelessly lost for a moment.

The tired speaker finally wound up the last of his poorly constructed similes and left the foot of the casket to make room for the witch in charge of the funeral. The elderly woman, dressed in severe black robes and too much red lipstick, ordered all those present to hold hands. The crowd sorted themselves out into twelve concentric circles around the coffin with the primary mourners in the first circle. Harry's cold, chapped hands were wrapped in special gloves to help his hands heal and his skin tingled as Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Dumbledore each grabbed a hand. He studiously avoided looking at anyone or thing for very long. Looking at Draco just made him feel ill and heavy and he had a curious lump in his throat. Still, it was not enough to overpower the rush of jealousy he felt when Severus finally tucked his rosary beads away and took Narcissa's hand in one of his own.

He stared back at the coffin with a sour expression on his face.

The woman at the foot of the coffin began to chant in a language Harry had never heard and a feeling like a cold wind swept through him. His magic, not yet fully recovered, lurched heavily within him in response and he shivered. It felt like the bubbles of a fizzy drink sliding beneath his skin and it took a serious act of self control not to yank his hands back and cut himself off from the circle. Dumbledore squeezed his hand gently and the boy bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. It distracted him from the pull of magic pooling over the coffin.

The headmaster had explained before the ceremony that this would protect Draco's body from grave robbers and from being used in spells. It was also supposed to alleviate the grief that the attendants of the funeral felt. The closer one stood to the coffin, the more of their magic was used in the spell, but the first row of people also benefited the most from the soothing properties of the ceremony. The old man nudged Harry a step forward and the Gryffindor took another reluctant step towards the coffin, making sure to pull Narcissa and Dumbledore with him. The feeling moved from fizzy drink bubbles to garden slugs sliding beneath his flesh. He clenched his teeth against a surge of nausea.

Then it was over.

His hands were released so abruptly that Harry nearly fell and a wash of warmth moved through the boy, similar to the feeling he got from eating chocolate right after seeing a Dementor. He shivered at the sudden change in sensation. Across from him, Severus shuddered violently.

For a moment the Potion Master's eyes locked with his green ones and Harry looked Severus full in the face for the first time in nearly two weeks. The rosary beads slipped from the older man's hand and fell to the fading green grass silently. Around them, people began to mill about and mutter to one another. Skeeter resumed taking quotes, Narcissa stepped away from the coffin, the funeral witch began to lower the coffin into the ground—spelling the earth to accept back one of its children, and Dumbledore stepped between Harry and a reporter. Severus and Harry merely stared at one another as the coffin was absorbed by the earth. There would be nothing as low class or muggle as digging done at a Malfoy's funeral.

It was not until the coffin had vanished and someone began to herd them back through the rain towards the Manor for refreshment that Severus broke eye contact to retrieve his beads. Harry drew in a sharp breath and looked away from his Professor as the man turned to usher his Slytherins back to the reception area. The boy looked around wildly, sure that someone had seen the two of them staring at one another and was going to find out that everything they'd been told about Draco's death was a lie . . . But if anyone noticed, they didn't say anything. After all, it really was a very nice funeral.


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

His glasses are on the mantel. Cracked and dirty, they stare at me in eyeless accusation as I sit before the fire in my lounge chair. Around me lies the wreck and ruin of my life: books, potions, knickknacks, and broken glass all carelessly strewn across the floor. It is a disaster. I don't care.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Repeating it does not change the reality of the situation, yet still I find it hard to fathom. Over the arm of my chair, I have draped Potter's invisibility cloak. Atop it sit my rosary beads. I have not removed those beads from my armoire in fifteen years. I put them away the day I heard word of the Dark Lord's supposed defeat. I was twenty-two and stupid then. Thirty-seven and stupid does not seem very different at all.

No. Scratch that. Thirty-seven is very different. Thirty-seven is forced Occlumency lessons, and Lady Narcissas who won't give me the time of day, and Hogwarts funerals, and mourning Slytherins, and pale, hospitalized Harry Potters, and impetuous Draco Malfoys whom I had a hand in destroying.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

I gave him to Albus Dumbledore and now he's dead. I wonder where Lucius is and if he hates me for failing to do as he asked. I can only protect one person at a time, though, and that person is currently alive and well and ensconced in the red and gold of Gryffindor Tower. The Dark Mark on my left arm throbs in a way that is not quite painful, as though reminding me of that fact. I ignore it. One person at a time, Severus. Yet none of this changes the fact that Draco Malfoy is dead, and if I didn't feel so bloody empty and strung out, I'd be reeling from the knowledge.

My eyes fix on the glasses again and I shift, knocking the blood red rosary beads to the floor. I turn to look at them, and instead find myself looking at the cloak. The cloak. Harry Potter's cloak.

Quite a collection I have going here . . . Glasses stolen off an unconscious and wounded boy, and an irreplaceable cloak confiscated from said boy, both occupying my chambers . . . An incomplete collection.

I wonder what Potter has told people about the cloak. Everyone believes the spectacles to have been lost in the brainlessly epic battle on Tuesday. There were no questions and in all the fuss and bother of bustling Potter into the Hospital Wing and finding the Creevey girl unconscious on the lawn, no one noticed something as silly as a pair of glasses vanishing into my robes. Once Pomfrey had me on a bed and filled to the gills with numbing potions and chocolate, no one noticed me at all. Minerva apparently handles finding a hysterical, bloodied Potter lying on the ground with two corpses and an unconscious Death Eater much better than I do.

But the cloak is something different. I never told anyone I still had it . . . Though Albus knows. Albus knows everything. Bastard. Even the Dark Lord thinks Potter still has it—my little reports have taken care of that. How on earth would I explain clinging to the damn thing like a security blanket to a creature who is more snake than man? Although, if the student were anyone other than Potter, my dear mad Lord would probably laugh himself into a stupor over my questionable tactics of seduction.

But what did Potter tell everyone?

He lost it?

He dropped it?

He forgot it when he was fleeing his Potions Master after being sexually assaulted?

Does it even matter?

I have it and it's mine now and I have never once in my life willingly relinquished what is mine.

Why do I still have this thing, though?

I lower my water filled brandy snifter to the ground and then straighten and run my now free hand over the cool, liquid-like fabric.

Potter . . . My wide-eyed, flawed, battered Harry Potter . . .

Surely, this cloak has as many lives as that impetuous, thrice-damned Gryffindor. It miraculously survived my tantrums last week . . . And this week . . . And tonight. I would blame it on Albus, or Potter—Harry—or Merlin himself if I could, but I cannot. Neither Albus, nor Harry—POTTER!—nor Merlin made me cherish this silly bit of silky silver. They do not know I treasure this stupid thing—touch it because he touched it . . . Feel it because I can feel him in the very thread.

What have I become?

I bite my lip and shift uncomfortably, slouching in my seat. My breath quickens and the feel of the cloak overwhelms my shame.

I tell myself I am not seriously considering sitting alone in my quarters and wanking off while fondling Potter's cloak. James Potter's cloak. Whatever. Never mind that it smells like Harry . . . feels like Harry—

POTTER!

I need a drink.

Instead, I take a sip of water, remove a butterscotch from an inner pocket in my robes, and pop it into my mouth. The candy was a gift from Albus, one of an immense bag that now sits on the corner of my desk. For some reason, the old git's been experimenting with new candies. I've seen neither hair nor hide of a single lemon drop since before I left for the Manor. That has to be a record of some sort.

Of course, I try not to think about why the old man felt the need to unload this particular sweet off on me. Even imagining the possibilities makes me vaguely ill . . . and obscenely jealous. Which is so very wrong.

Because it tastes like just like him. His kisses. His breath as I pressed him hard against the stone wall and entangled my legs between his. Felt that wonderful hardness growing and heard those breathy little pants and groans . . . I could grow fond of muggle sweets, I think.

Fuck you, Albus.

I spit the candy into my palm and toss it into the fireplace. The remaining offending stickiness is wiped onto my dress robes.

Funeral robes.

Gods above, I need a drink.

I need to not be thinking about pressing Harry Potter against my wall and tearing off his clothes and—

I lick my lips and taste butterscotch.

My legs spread of their own volition and the folds of the cloak feel like silk in my hand. Green eyes on my skin. I lift my hips in a subtle thrust and my lips part soundlessly. Silk in my hand. I wipe my other hand, still sticky from the candy, on my robes again and the scent of butterscotch permeates the air.

Merlin.

He would beg. Twist and whimper and try to force my hands to go where he wanted them. But I am in control and he is mine to do with as I see fit.

MINE.

My right hand clutches at the cloak, trying to grab at something solid—something to keep me grounded—and my treacherous left hand drifts towards my inner thigh. I tip my head back, stare at a distant ceiling, and slip my left hand between the wide spaces of my buttons and into my robes. The buttons on my pants slide out from their holes with ease and at last, at last, I feel the achingly familiar feel of hardened flesh. The cloak feels cool between my fingers and I feel so overwhelmingly hot and Harry felt like petals and smelling like dusty places and power and butterscotch.

My eyes close, the cloak slips from between my fingers, and there a quiet moan that isn't his, but could have been because he trembled so perfectly and looked so scared. I could have caught up those bird-thin wrists and pinned him against the wall and torn off those stupid pants and those thin, schoolboy briefs and felt that heat in my hand while he writhed and panted like a two knut whore.

'Professor—Severus!'

God . . .

He'd be loud. Those soft little pants would become moans and then cries while I pressed and took and claimed because he's mine and no one else will take him or have him because no one else can keep him and dear Merlin, I want—

"Harry!"

And he's mine . . .

The pleasure is vulgar and I shudder as it washes through me, accepting what I can take. But the reality of masturbation is sticky, sweaty, and pungent. And cold. Opening my eyes and remembering that I'm alone and Harry's not here and Draco is dead, and there is a bag of uneaten butterscotches on my desk and it is cold. I am cold.

And alone.

My left hand slides out of my pants and I look away from the slime congealing there. It is an effort to ignore the cooling clamminess sliding down my thigh and staining my pants with heavy wetness. Unstained, my right hand flies up to cover my nose and mouth and block the stench, forcing back the wave of sickness that washes through me.

The pleasure is vulgar.

And my lower jaw is trembling.

And I want Harry.

I push myself to my feet and walk with uneasy steps to my shower, shedding robes and shirt and undershirt along the way. The light in the bathroom flares on as I enter and I kick my shoes off towards the wall. They hit the toilet instead and roll clumsily in opposite directions. I jerk off my socks and toss them behind me towards my bedroom and my pants hit the ground next. I step naked into the shower and shiver.

"This pleasure is vulgar."

The words echo off of the marble and bounce back at me in accusation. I close my eyes and water bursts from the ceiling of the shower chamber with a muttered spell. Hot water runs through greasy hair and slides down my face as I close my eyes and drop my head. I lean forward, resting one forearm against the wall to support myself, and feel the tension of the day and the commingled scents of semen and post-funeral buffet biscuits run off my skin and down the drain. Again, my free hand drifts up to my gradually reawakening erection and I see a vivid green gaze in my mind's eye. My hand tightens and I gasp as water flows down over my closed eyes and the bridge of my nose.

This pleasure is vulgar. My hips thrust into my own hand and I bite down on my fist. This pleasure is vulgar, but remembering how green his eyes were this morning, and how pale he looked against the white sheets of the Hospital Wing, I cannot for the life of me recall why.


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

"As you requested. I have not told your parents or your brothers what has happened, Mary. They believe you to be here due to a Potions accident."

The girl looked up from where she was drumming her fingers on her thigh. Albus looked back at her with sad blue eyes. There was long, uncomfortable moment of silence, then youngest Creevey child turned away from the headmaster and stared back at her hand. Her eyes had an unnaturally glazed look to them and her movements seemed wooden and marionette-like, as though she couldn't quite control her own body: the aftereffects of Veritaserum.

"Mary, tell me why you opened the Wards."

She did not look up, but when she spoke her voice was whispery and thin. "He left the first night of term. I was in the Common Room . . . there was no one there when I looked up, but the Portrait hole opened and closed. I don't think he knew I was there." Her eyes grew distant as she stared downwards, as though watching the events play out on her skin. "I followed him out. Dennis always said that he had an invisibility cloak, but I wanted to see it for myself . . . I got lost though. Peeves chased me into the dungeons with dung bombs yelling about Filch." Her dark brown eyes, red rimmed and swollen, flickered up to the man by her bedside. "I was wandering around when I heard them talking. I snuck up to the door and saw him and Snape . . . they were ki—"

"What did you do then?" Dumbledore interrupted gently.

A shudder wracked the girl's small frame and for a moment it looked as through she was going to expel the Veritaserum. Then she leaned back, limp and perspiring.

"She's not ready for this, Headmaster," Poppy snapped, looking agitated. "I told you—"

"We must resolve this as soon as possible, Poppy," Albus responded with an exhausted sigh. He sat back in his seat, looking old and tired. "So long as Harry's guardianship is in the air, we cannot afford to have too much inquiry into Harry's behavior. If the Board discovers his involvement in yet another disruption—particularly the death of another student—he will be expelled. If that happens, he will surely become a ward of the Ministry. We cannot give Fudge any opportunities to fight my application." He paused to rub the bridge of his nose tiredly, craving a lemon drop. "In fact the less he knows, the better," he resumed quietly. "If the Minster gains unlimited access to Harry, we may as well hand the world over to Voldemort on a platter."

The matronly woman looked up from where she was monitoring the child's pulse. Her stern features were set in an unhappy frown. "Still, she is only a child . . ."

"Who could destroy everything we have worked for over the past fifteen years if she is not brought to heel," the old man countered.

The mediwitch looked away, still disquieted, but unable to argue with him.

Albus watched the child's pinched face in somber silence for a long moment. "Is she well?"

Poppy stood, looking deeply unhappy. "Well enough to continue. But not for too much longer. She's very delicate; her body has received a nasty shock."

Albus nodded and leaned forward, carefully watching Mary. The very last thing he ever wanted to do was endanger one of the children under his care, but if Mary said the wrong thing to the wrong people, she could endanger them all. "Mary, what did you do then?"

A pained gasp left Mary's lips as the potion forced her to answer him and she slowly sat upright again. It broke the Headmaster's heart to see her suffering so.

"I ran," the girl whispered. "I was headed out of the dungeon when he came running up behind me. He knocked me down—didn't even see me there. Micah found me in the hallway the next morning. He said he was out for a 'constitutional.'" A slow, sad smile spread over Mary's lips and a single, heavy tear slid down her cheek. "He said I was pretty."

"Micah Jasperstone?"

Mary nodded slowly. "Yes. I was crying when he found me. I didn't know he was a Slytherin, but he was nice and asked me what was wrong. I told him everything. He said that he wanted to help me."

Albus tugged at his beard, looking disturbed. "And this all happened the first night of term?"

"Yes. He told me to keep an eye on Harry—that we had to protect him. He said—he said that Harry needed us . . . We were going to be heroes."

Albus nodded and stood, turning to the mediwitch. "I believe that I have enough now. But, until we know everything that she saw, I may need to speak with her again."

Poppy nodded and made no effort to hide her relief at being able purge the potion from the tiny girl's system. "There are gentler ways than Obliviate, anyway. I doubt her mind could handle something like that right now."

He watched the child for a long moment. "It really is for the best this way. She does not need to deal with this pain on top of everything else. And if anyone ever knew what she'd done, she would be tossed into Azkaban." Part of Fudge's election platform had been a hard line against crime—even juvenile crime. Azkaban was open to everyone now, not just adults.

The Headmaster nodded as though affirming the words to himself and cast the child one more somber look before turning to go. A small hand, however, gently touched his wrist and he turned back, arrested by the motion.

Large, doe-like eyes looked up at him and Mary's lower lip trembled delicately. "I only wanted him to like me."

Albus patted the girl's hand and gently disengaged himself. He looked back up at Poppy, his eyes weary. "I've no doubt I can fully trust your discretion regarding these matters."

The woman snorted and waved him off tiredly as she bent to administer the serum antidote. "Been cleaning up your messes for years now, Albus. Don't know what else I can do anymore."

His lips quirked towards a wry smile and he turned and left, somber black funeral robes swaying gently with the motion of his body.


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

It was too late at night to be worrying about this sort of thing. Still, as Minerva rubbed her eyes and frowned down the notes she'd copied, she felt no desire to go to bed. Perhaps she was too tired to sleep.

It was a whim that had set her to looking it up. An offhand comment from Poppy: "Anhur? That's odd. He called Severus that once before—when he was in here for his Blue Lotus allergy at the end of September."

So she had gone to the Library and set about doing some research of her own. It had been in the Ancient Myths and Magic section under 'Egyptian Culture.' Even now, looking down at the scroll of information she'd copied down, she couldn't totally squelch the ominous feeling in her stomach.

Anhur -

"He who brings back the Distant One." "The Slayer of Enemies." "Sky Bearer." "He who leads that which has gone away." Sky god. God of the dead. God of War. The divine huntsman of This in Upper Egypt. The Champion of Egypt. The beloved one of Mehit (Mekhit). Said to be the violent side of the Sun God, Ra. More commonly known as Onouris in the Greek—identified by the Greeks with Aries. His consort was the lioness goddess Mehit (Mekhit; also later identified with Hathor, Sekhmet, and Bastet). He stands in the prow of the sun god Ra's boat as "Slayer of Enemies." Usually manifested as a human male (though he has been depicted as having a lion's head), Anhur is shown as a warrior wearing a headdress with four plumes. He wears a long embroidered robe and carries a spear. Sometimes he holds a cord leading the sun.

In the earlier legend of the Distant Goddess, Anhur was credited with returning the Eye of Ra to Egypt after the Ra and the goddess quarreled. The goddess—in the form of Mehit—fled to the Nubia. Anhur was sent to retrieve her and acted as her protector, returning the prodigal goddess to Heliopolis and saving her from a serpent of chaos sent to assassinate her as she slept. After this, Anhur took Mehit as his consort. Later legends replace Mehit with Hathor and Anhur with Thoth.

Minerva worried her lower lip for a moment, staring at the parchment. Where Potter would have heard the word 'Anhur' or why he would called Severus that was a mystery, but it left a peculiar taste in her mouth. There was something about the whole situation that just settled wrong with her, though she couldn't place her finger on it.

The Transfiguration Professor ran a finger over the words on the parchment, the not-quite-dried ink smudging lightly beneath her touch. She was bloody tired of being too little too late. Never, in all the years she'd known Severus, had she ever seen him react as he had when they found Potter lying on the Forest floor. He'd seemed more agitated about Potter than he was over Mr. Malfoy's disappearance . . . at least he had, until Albus had appeared and informed them all that Mr. Malfoy was dead. Then the Potions Master had simply shut down, gone completely white, and gotten out of the bed Poppy'd assigned him and staggered off to the dungeons.

Albus's refusal to hear anything on the subject of Severus's increasingly bizarre behavior only made her more curious . . . and more agitated. And she could swear that she'd caught the man leaving Potter's room in the Hospital Wing more than once during the boy's confinement. Something was obviously going on with their resident spy and it seemed that no one even cared that the man was falling apart at the seams.

Perhaps it was time she did a bit of spying of her own. When Severus had first returned to teach, she'd sworn to herself that she'd look out for him this time. She'd always felt at least somewhat responsible that she'd never been able to fully reign in Sirius and James—especially when Sirius was sent to Azkaban. Maybe she could have prevented that if she'd been a bit firmer with the boys . . . or maybe not. Regrets could only go so far, and in the end they really accomplished nothing.

But now she had a new mystery on her hands—one involving her two biggest headaches: Severus Snape and Harry Potter. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.

A slight cough made the woman start and she jerked her hand off the scroll. On the corner of her desk, Albus Dumbledore's chocolate frog card looked at her in slight reprove, bushy eyebrows lowered sharply.

"Curiosity killed the cat, my dear," the portrait chided.

Minerva sniffed at the presumptuous candy card and picked it up as she opened the top drawer of her desk. "Satisfaction brought her back," she retorted airily before dropping the card face down into the drawer.

Albus's portrait let out a muffled squeak of indignation and Minerva tossed her scroll of notes in atop him. She closed the drawer and locked it with a powerful spell and then stood to return to her quarters, quietly muttering "Nox" as she left to go to bed.


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

'ARTICLE FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY THREE, PROVISION TWO

Never, in any circumstance, shall it be lawful for any professor, staff, or faculty member under the employ of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to engage in any sexual or other otherwise inappropriate interpersonal congress with any Hogwarts student. Such relationships are grossly unequal and against all interest of fairness and education. In the event of such occurrences, the staff member is to be immediately relieved of their post and given over to the justice of the Ministry, or the comparable governmental body in power, and the student is to be expelled and returned to their guardian. There will be no exceptions to this rule.'

Harry slammed the book closed and stared fixedly at the fire. No matter how hot or cold it was, there was always a fire burning in here now. Dobby's work, no doubt. He'd mentioned a week and a half ago how much he enjoyed looking at the flames and since then the Elf had kept the fire burning almost constantly. It seemed unreal that he had only a week and a half ago been laying in bed, an emotional wreck over Severus.

Now . . . Well, now he was sitting in the Common Room, an exhausted wreck. Though this time it was no one's fault but his own.

The clock on the Common Room wall read 1:15 in the morning, but Harry was not the least bit tired. He'd tried to sleep, but had only tossed and turned, feeling alternately too hot or too cold. Once two hours had passed, he'd simply pulled on a school night robe he'd tossed onto his night stand and trudged down to the Common Room in just his robe and pajama bottoms. After sleeping for almost two days straight, he didn't much think he'd be sleeping again for a while. Besides, if he went to sleep he'd only have nightmares. Madame Pomfrey had nearly had kittens when she found out he'd been taking Dreamless Sleep for most of the term.

"But I only take it when I need it!"

"You shouldn't need it at all, Potter! I don't know what sorts of things those relatives of yours have told you, but puberty is a very important time for a wizard. Your body is trying to find a balance right now to help you cultivate your full potential. Taking a potion constantly without professional supervision can throw that balance off very easily. Not to mention that wizarding potions are very different than muggle medicines: a body can become dependant on them very easily—even those that are not addictive. Potions change the magical distribution in the body. You're lucky you haven't managed to do permanent damage to yourself! Now hush and let me check to see if those hands of your hands are healing properly. You'll be after that snitch again in no time!"

His hands were sheathed in black gloves, the insides of which were coated in a special healing potion that would help his skin grow back. Magical burns were more like chemical burns than fire burns and simple spells and potions were not enough to heal them. His hands would require time. Like his other remaining wounds, the burns had originated from within and thus would have to heal slowly. Still, Madame Pomfrey had worked wonders and, though it was still pink and untried, new skin had already grown to replace the ruined, burnt skin he'd damaged.

One black-sheathed forefinger ran over the golden lettering on the cover of the book: Hogwarts: A History. He'd taken it from Sirius's house before he'd left. On the inside cover the words 'To Regulus from Mummy. Congratulations.' were written in faded green ink. Before he'd opened it, the spine had never even been cracked. He'd genuinely intended to read it when he took it—Hermione never stopped praising the book—but somehow, after reading the rules in the back index, he could never quite bring himself to go through the whole book.

'In the event of such occurrences, the staff member is to be immediately relieved of their post and given over to the justice of the Ministry, or the comparable governmental body in power, and the student is to be expelled and returned to their guardian. There will be no exceptions to this rule.'

The letters shined dully in the reddish fire light for a long moment, and then Harry stood, walked calmly over to the hearth, and tossed the book into the flames. The oily smell of burning leather immediately filled the room as the enormous volume was consumed. Harry leaned heavily against the mantel and watched in silence. His head ached.

Harry slipped into the workroom, his robes swirling around his ankles as he turned to close the door. Snape looked up and froze. "Get out."

The boy paused and turned. "We need to talk."

"We have nothing to say to one another, Potter." The man looked down at whatever potion he was brewing, obviously considering the conversation over. "Leave."

Harry balled his hands into fists and stalked over to the table to stand in font of the professor. He reached out and gripped the hand stirring the potion, forcing Snape to look up at him. The man's mouth twisted into a sneer, and there was a curiously wild light in his eyes. "Pott—"

"My name is Harry," the Gryffindor ground out evenly. "And we need to talk."

Snape jerked his hand out from beneath Harry's and rubbed his fingers as though burnt. "Fine. Do you want me to apologize? To say I led you astray? I apologize then. Go to Professor McGonagall or the Headmaster and confess to them my sins—"

"Leave off the tired martyrdom already! Do you really enjoy being the victim that much?"

Snape leaned over the cauldron slightly, looming over Harry, and gripped the metal edge with white-knuckled fists. "How dare—"

"We both know that you didn't lead me anywhere," the youth snapped before he could get going. "If I had wanted to tell anyone I would have. I didn't, though. All I want is you."

"I feel all fluttery," the man snarled in response. He whirled around, his back to Harry, and stalked determinedly around the table towards the fire. "I am not discussing this."

Harry growled in frustration. "Stop running away from me!"

The Potions Master spun to face him again, his robes swirling about his ankles as he did so. "Then stop hounding me! We will not do this!"

"We already have! I want—"

"It doesn't matter what you want, you dunderhead!"

"It does!" Harry snapped back, sounding terribly petulant.

"Oh?" Snape all but hissed. "And I get no choice in this?"

"You've made your choice," the Gryffindor replied in a surprisingly level voice. "Now it's my turn and I know what I want." He walked forward towards the man, arms raised as though preparing to grab the professor. "Why are you fighting this so much?"

Snape recoiled, plainly horrified. "Stop this now!"

Harry halted his advance, startled by the action, but his mouth remained set in a grim line. "No. Not this time. You don't get to tell me what to do this time. I'm not running away. Not anymore."

For a moment it looked like Snape wanted hit him, or strangle him, or something and an angry red flush crept up the man's neck and stained his cheeks. He made a growling noise low in the back of his throat and shuddered as though trying to collect himself. "Don't you understand anything?" His voice was a rough whisper. "This has nothing to do with you or with me. This is WRONG, Potter. Wrong in every sense of the word."

Harry's eyes narrowed and he planted his feet on the ground, as though the act could help him maintain his position. "I don't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what you believe." Snape turned away then and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired. The fire crackled. "It doesn't matter in the least . . ."

"It does," Harry whispered, staring fixedly at the man's back. "It does because I can't sleep at night and I can't eat and I can't bloody think because you're in my head and that has to mean something!" He ended with a gasp and looked down, startled to see his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

"It means that you are an obsessive drama queen and I want nothing to do with you," the man sneered coldly.

Anger danced across the boy's face and he took a step forward, grabbed Snape's upper arm and attempted to pull the man around to face him. "I'll not be chased away just because you've gotten in over your head!"

Snape spun about under his own power, nearly knocking Harry down with the motion. His eyes seemed to glow and something like rage twisted his features. "I cannot do this!"

"You will! You can't just do this to me and walk away!"

"Stupid child!" Snape snarled, advancing on him. Harry stepped back in a hasty retreat and felt his backs of knees hit the chair in the center of the room.

"Idiot boy," the Potions Master raged, "do you have any idea what you are getting into? Any idea at all? I am 37 years old. I am a Death Eater. I am your bloody Professor! And I will not be browbeaten by some silly, hormonal child!"

Harry froze, staring into the man's eyes. Despite his tone, the look in Snape's eyes was the exact same one the man had given him before he'd kissed him: hunger. The memory calmed the Gryffindor and he licked his lips unconsciously. Snape's gaze flickered then, darting towards the sight of Harry's tongue darting back into his mouth. His pupils dilated.

Harry's spine stiffened and he gave the man a level look. "Then throw me out." His eyes glittered challengingly. "Throw me out. Or better yet, look me in the eye and tell me that this was all some kind of dream, or daymare, or fantasy, and I'll leave and never come back." He took a slow step forward and gently reached out and pressed his palm against Snape's chest. "Tell me you don't want me here."

The man's body was hotter than a furnace and beneath Harry's palm his heart thundered like that of a trapped animal.

Snape looked down at the hand pressed against his chest and closed his eyes wearily. ". . . I don't want you here, Mr. Potter."

"My name is Harry." The teen dropped his hand heavily. "And you didn't look me in the eye."

Snape sagged in defeat. "What do you want of me?"

"I told you that I wasn't leaving until you listened to me," Harry said softly. He looked down at the floor, feeling sick with frustration. "And I'm not going to let you just throw me out." A deep shuddering breath. He turned back to the work table, unable to look at the man as he spoke. "So listen: I . . . I want things. And I don't always understand it, but I want them. And I do stupid thing and don't think things through. And I've hurt you and I'm not really sure what I'm getting into . . . But I've thought about this—really thought about it—and I want this." He watched the firelight play dully off the curves of the cauldron as he spoke, and felt Snape's heat behind him. "I want you. And every single instinct I have inside me tells me that this is right and that this is the way things are supposed to be. I know I leap before I look. And I'm too curious. And I can't let go of something once I have it. But this isn't like that. This is something . . . different. And I want to see what it is. So stop arguing with me and stop condemning yourself over things that I've already decided on."

The Potter heir turned slightly, expecting see Snape relent . . . look contrite . . . anything . . . Instead, the man just looked furious.

"Do you have any idea what you are asking me? Any idea at all? This is not some game! This is my job! My life! Are you trying to kill me as well?"

Harry froze and all the blood drained from his face. "Is that really what you think of me?"

For a moment Snape didn't answer. Then his eyes hardened into dark, frozen chips. "Don't do this, Harry."

"Why did you start this?" the boy demanded, looking utterly bewildered.

There was no response. The fire wheezed and crackled loudly.

"Severus?"

Silence.

Harry's eyes narrowed, suspiciously bright, and his hands balled into fists again. "Sirius was right about you; you're such a fucking coward."

Snape moved so fast, Harry wasn't even aware of what had happened until he hit the floor, the wind knocked out of him. His glasses skittered across the uneven dungeon stones and a hand flew to cover his burning cheek, the loud ringing 'crack' resonating in his ears.

For a moment, the two stared at one another, frozen. Snape's sallow face was utterly white and his hand was still raised from when he'd slapped the boy. A bit of wetness tracked its way down Harry's cheek.

And then Snape scooped him up, trembling arms wrapped 'round him, suffocating him under the sweet, sour, chemical smell of potions. Arms holding him tight—painfully tight—but holding him and not letting him go.

"Why did you make me do that?" The words were whispered in his hair and Harry buried his face into the slope of the man's throat and clutched at his lapels as Snape all but collapsed into a chair. "Can't you see that this isn't going to work? Can't you—"

One of Harry's hands suddenly snaked up to Snape's thick, greasy hair and jerked the man's head down towards him, clumsily pressing their lips together.

Snape jerked his head away, but his arms tightened. Harry opened his eyes and made a little whimper of protest, pulling Snape's lips back down to his. If he could just kiss him, just make him feel—

And it was painfully obvious that he had no clue what he was doing, but then Snape's mouth moved over his and teeth caught his lower lip gently and someone's lips (his?) parted in a quiet gasp.

Snape jerked away again, and his body twisted as though trying to stand and dump Harry on the ground and not quite making it.

"Have you lost all reason! We cannot—"

And then the door had opened. Then Draco had walked in. Then absolutely everything had gone wrong.

"Was that my first mistake?" he murmured to the flames. "Pushing him like that? If I had never gone down there, would Draco still be alive?"

The fire did not reply.

Was it really only a few weeks ago that they had shared those kisses. That Draco had been alive. That he had thought

"Out, you sodding fool! Never speak of this again!"

Afterwards Severus had been so bitter . . . So cruel and hateful to everyone—Harry especially. It was all so messed up. Severus blamed Harry for Draco. Harry blamed Draco for Severus. And Draco had just wanted to help his family.

If he hadn't been so stupid—! If he hadn't lost his temper when he'd seen Jasperstone using the Cruciatus Curse. If he hadn't—

"Harry?"

The brunet started and whirled around to see Hermione and Ron standing at the foot of their respective dormitory stairs. "What are you two doing up?"

Hermione flushed. "I . . . ah . . . smelled a book burning . . ."

Green eye blinked owlishly behind new glasses. "You smelled a book burning?"

"The leather . . ." She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. "It has a distinctive smell because of the way they cure it."

The two boys eyed her with incredulity, prompting Hermione to blush even darker. She huffed, wrapping her robe tighter around her body, and flounced over to sit in the arm chair Harry had just vacated. "Oh, shut it." Her hazel eyes flashed as she turned to Ron. "And what are you doing up?"

He shrugged and sauntered over to the chair next to Hermione's, stretching as he went. "I woke up and Harry was gone." He said it as though the response was entirely self-explanatory . . . and maybe it was.

Ron's concern, which probably would have been galling from anyone else, made Harry smile and he eyed the redhead appraisingly. His friend had grown up a lot over the past few years—especially now that he and Hermione were a couple. She seemed to bring out the best in him and make him a lot more mature, while he mellowed her harsh, uncompromising edges. Harry's sharp gaze was met by an equally measuring blue-eyed look from his best friend and the brunet rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and looked away, wondering what the other teen saw. He stepped over to the side of the fireplace and slid to the floor, back against the wall. He crossed his legs underneath him, Indian-style, and found himself staring at Hermione's slightly worn white slippers.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Harry stuck his hand in his robe pocket. Even through the glove, he could feel the warmth of his wand. It reminded him of Fawkes's song somehow—like coming home. He flicked it in his pocket. "Silencio." He took his hand out of his pocket and scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish. "I couldn't sleep," he murmured.

Hermione crossed her ankles and the red flannel sweep of her nightgown fell over the tops of her slippers. "Your potion?"

Harry shrugged, feeling the stone scratch his back lightly through his thin night robe. He pulled the robe closed over his bare chest, but it fell back open again. "Pomfrey found out I was on Dreamless Sleep and gave me an earful over it." He smiled wryly. "I think she's getting tired of my company. This was, after all, the third time I've been in there since the start of term."

Ron snorted softly. "We told you not to take it every night, you prat."

Hermione made a clicking noise with her tongue that seemed to have preceded every single lecture she'd given them this year and Harry interrupted her before she could get going. The last thing he wanted right now was a lecture. "It was either take the potion every night, or spend the day walking around like a Dementor."

"You could have really messed yourself up, Harry," Hermione snapped, still ruffled. "You need to take better care of yourself than this."

He waved away her concern. "I'm fine. Anyway, Pomfrey says it will be a few days yet before my body and magic rebounds and my sleeping patterns correct themselves." He shrugged again. "I'm okay."

Ron was still staring at him. "You really okay, mate? With everything, I mean . . ."

Harry looked away. "Yeah . . . I'm okay. The funeral was today. It was . . . nice." He nibbled on his lower lip for a moment and stared down. The fire crackled next him and his left side felt suddenly hot, thought the right remained cold. He rubbed his arms through his sleeves. "I spoke to Mrs. Malfoy afterwards . . . She's doing . . . alright, I guess . . . all things considered."

Hermione shifted in her seat, toed off her slippers, and tucked her legs beneath her. The motion displayed a long, pale expanse of leg that Ron eyed appreciatively without seeming to even notice. The girl pushed a few fly away strands of hair out of her eyes. "What really happened? Dumbledore said that he wanted to keep it all mum . . . We couldn't even tell anyone else that you were in the Hospital Wing."

Ron's gaze flickered to Harry from where he'd been eyeing a sliver of ankle showing beneath Hermione's gown. "If we hadn't been waiting for him in his office, he probably would have brushed us off. As it was, we already got the run around." There was a strange undertone to his voice—something flat—but only Hermione noticed.

Harry simply continued studying the ground. For just an instant . . . one split instant . . . he almost told them everything. The Prophecy. The fight in the woods. Severus. The funeral. All of it.

But then the moment passed and the silence had stretched for far too long, and the he was still hot and cold and it was getting late. His eyes turned to the clock on the wall. Getting later.

He sighed heavily and untucked his legs, switching so that he was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest. "I'm not supposed to—"

"Talk about it," Ron finished, sounding put out.

"Ron," Hermione warned.

Harry looked up in irritation and felt a little sliver of anger worm its way through the core of him. "Can we not do this tonight? Please Ron?"

Ron glared at the smaller boy for a moment before pushing himself out of his chair in disgust. "We were worried about you, Harry. Hermione was practically in tears when we realized that you still hadn't come up after an hour."

Hermione flushed dusky rose. "Ron, knock it off!"

Harry pushed himself up off the ground. Ron already towered over him, even when he wasn't angry. Pissed, the redhead seemed to be twice as big. It galled Harry that he had to tip his head back to stare Ron in the eyes.

An hour? A whole hour? After you said half an hour? What were you doing before that? He bit the inside of his cheek to keep back the words. He didn't need a goddamn minder—he'd never had one, never wanted one, and never needed one.

So why did it sting so badly?

He looked away from Ron and felt that awful lump in his throat return to his throat. Hermione was standing behind the taller boy now, one hand on his forearm as though restraining him. Harry's eyes met hers and he looked back up at Ron. He wanted someone standing behind him, too.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Why are you so upset?"

Ron's ears turned red—never a good sign. "What? My best bloody friend—who's shut up tighter than a clam, by the way—lands himself in the Hospital Wing for three days and then shows up looking like a necromancer's chew toy and I'm not supposed to worry? Merlin's blood, Harry, you could have died—don't you get that? And now you come back and barely even speak to us? Okay, so you can't tell us what happened to land you in the Infirmary. Okay, so you don't want to talk about Sirius." Harry flinched, but Ron continued undeterred. "Okay, so you won't tell us what happened at the muggles, but you have to tell us something!"

Harry squeezed his fists tight, his tender skin grating against the gloves with the motion, and used the resulting discomfort to ground himself. "What do you want me to say?" The firelight reflected weirdly off his lenses, totally obscuring his eyes.

"I want you stop bloody hiding from us!" Ron exploded. He jerked his arm out of Hermione's grip and advanced on the smaller teen, who retreated despite himself.

Hermione made as though to step between him and Harry, but a sharp look from her boyfriend seemed to quell her. Still, she gripped the front of her robes closed with white knuckled fists. "We discussed this!" she snapped at the youngest Weasley son. "We said that we wouldn't do this to him! He's tired!"

The Keeper spun to face her. "He's always tired! And you're always sad! And I—I'm—" A low growl slid out of his throat and he turned back to Harry. "Do you have any idea how bloody hard we're trying? Any idea at all how hard it is to be Harry Potter's best friends?"

Do you have any idea how hard it is to be Harry Potter? But the words would not leave Harry's throat. His hands opened, finger's slack, and he found that if he looked straight ahead, he was actually staring at Ron's throat. The Keeper would probably have a whole head on him come summer.

The ragged hero looked at his friend's Adam's apple for a moment, Hermione's pale face and flushed cheeks floating in the nighttime shadows that the fire could not hold at bay just out of the corner of his eye.

"Ask me then." His voice sounded thin and tired. "Ask." Something. Anything. Ask.

The fire popped.

It was Hermione who finally broke the silence. Her voice sounded steady and clear and it occurred to him that she was always steady and clear when he needed it the most.

"Snape."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry countered darkly, withdrawing slightly and crossing his arms over his exposed chest.

"Yes, you do." Her voice remained level. "Last year, you hated him. This year, your world comes tumbling down if he insults you in class. At the end of last term you looked at him like you might kill him. This year, you look at him as though he were the Holy Grail."

The teen shook his head slightly and took a step back. His lips were parted, but he remained silent.

Hermione took a slow step forward, stepping between Ron's thunderous scowl and Harry. "And he's different, too. He doesn't meet your eyes. He actively avoids you in the halls. He comes to see you—"

Harry's head shot up.

Hermione set her jaw, knowing she'd won something, but not sure quite what. "Snape was there to see you while you were . . . asleep. He looked awful."

A shooting pain shot up Harry's nose. No, not this! Not tonight! He closed his eyes against a blurriness he refused to acknowledge.

Hermione plunged onward, unable to decipher the tight look on his face. "He spoke to you sometimes when he thought no one was there. It was in a different language."

The scent of parchment and gingerbread and ink and old, moldy books and Hermione suddenly flooded Harry's senses as the girl stepped closer. He turned away. A cold hand brushed his left cheek in an achingly familiar gesture. "Why won't you let us help you?"

The frustration in her voice made him ache inside.

Harry looked up again and suddenly Hermione understood the expression 'deer in the headlights.'

"I don't need anyone's help." He remained trapped by her bewildered gaze for a moment and blurted out the only thing he could think of: "I'm sorry."

Ron's eyes narrowed.

Harry whirled, turning towards the portal that led out of the Common Room, but Hermione grabbed his arm. Ron was right: they were all an absolute mess and she wasn't about to let Harry leave until they got this fixed. "Stop running!"

"Let me go," Harry snapped in response, trying to jerk his arm. Something like rage sprang up in him. He made no attempt to rein it in. He was so bloody tired of trying to rein in his temper. "I told you everything I have to say! Just stay the bloody hell out of it!"

"That's enough, mate," Ron hollered, seeing Harry's struggle against Hermione increase. Harry may have been small, but he was strong as hell when he started fighting for something. Stronger than he probably realized. One did not spend six years whipping about on brooms and getting into various wrestling matches in the dorms without developing some kind of physique. Ron had seen Harry do things on a broom that took a lot of muscle and he had no desire to see that muscle used against his girlfriend.

He reached out and gripped the back of Harry's open robes, practically hiking the boy off the ground. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea. His brothers had been forever picking him up by the back of his jumper when he was younger and he'd hated it. He did not, however, expect Harry to whirl around as though bitten. Clothe ripped, Ron stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and Hermione fell to the floor. Her shoulder glanced off the corner of one of the chairs and she cried out in pain. The sound froze both Ron and Harry in their tracks.

Harry took a step towards her, a frantic look on his face. "'Mi—"

Ron gripped his forearm hard and tossed the boy backward, nearly throwing him down. He dropped down beside Hermione, his eyes running a cursory check over the girl before he whirled to Harry, his face a mask of anger. He wanted to shake him, to throttle him, to hurt him worse that he had hurt them.

"What are you on about—"

But when Ron looked up, the only the only thing he could see was the back of the Fat Lady's portrait as it silently swung closed. For a moment he stood, trembling with anger and the overwhelmingly helpless frustration that had seemed to have been growing inside him since September. A sniffle arrested his attention and he immediately crouched down, gathering Hermione's comparatively tiny frame into his arms. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his throat.

"I pushed too hard," she murmured.

"I didn't push enough," he countered.

She laughed then, the tempo of her shuddering shoulders changing. "Must you always disagree with me?"

He kissed the top of her head and rocked her slightly. "Just trying to keep you on your toes, 'Mione," he murmured into that eternally busy hair he loved so much.

The arms around his neck tightened in a painful hug and he held his girlfriend close by the firelight, rocking her back and forth and silently cursing the day Severus Snape was born.


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

"WHAT PART OF SUBTLE ESCAPES YOU!"

The shriek echoed off the rotted walls of the ballroom and the candles flickered ominously. Lord Voldemort was so mad, he couldn't even hiss. Instead he sputtered and spat like a too-full teakettle past its boiling point. To her credit, Narcissa did not flinch as she knelt before her husband's master. She was just lucky to have avoided Voldemort's rage on Tuesday night and Wednesday. No one was quite sure whether or not Micah Jasperstone would ever regain full usage of the left side of his body and Crabbe senior had been entered into St. Mungo's suffering from the affects of an as yet unknown Dark Curse.

Nagini shifted at Voldemort's feet, bits of flaky skin peeling off as she shed. Somehow the snake managed to look positively sulky and she hissed in discontent at the noise. Voldemort ignored her.

"BE GRATEFUL THAT JASPERSTONE MANAGED TO DRAG THE MIRROR ONTO THE GROUNDS, ELSE I'D HAVE DESTROYED THE LOT OF YOU! I SHOULD KILL YOU THIS VERY INSTANT! YOUR SON—YOUR ACCURSED BRAT COULD HAVE RUINED MY PLANS—"

"My son is dead," Narcissa interrupted in a cold voice, her forehead pressed against the ground, still kneeling. "My son is dead and Lucius has gone mad." She slowly sat upright, but remained on her knees. "I have come to request a favor, my Lord."

Voldemort stood from his throne, the expression on his reptilian face indecipherable. He walked slowly down from the dais, descending with preternatural grace, to loom over Narcissa. Her red rimmed blue eyes met his assessing gaze calmly. A long fingered hand extended and cupped Narcissa's chin. The powerful digits squeezed her pale skin painfully.

"Your impetuous spawn nearly ruins me and you come to me begging a favor?" His low, cruel hiss was all the more disturbing for the previously violent noise he'd been making.

Still, Narcissa did not relent.

"Yes, my Lord."

A low, rough hiss crawled from out of the Dark Lord's gullet and it took her a moment to recognize it as low key laughter. Voldemort's free hand traced the line of her throat, and slipped down past her jeweled necklace to delve into her low-cut bodice. Long, cold fingers slipped in between her cleavage and slid over the smooth rise of her flesh till it happened upon its goal. A brilliant red flush of shame stained Narcissa's face while the rest of her face paled dramatically as the Dark Lord rolled and twisted her right nipple beneath the confines of her gown. He watched her expression hungrily, but there was no lust in his eyes, merely a desire to humiliate her.

A breathy cry worked its way out of her throat after a few moments, then a moan. Her face flushed entirely with mortification as the sensations running through her and she dropped her gaze, even as her legs spread open a bit against her will.

Voldemort withdrew his hand with another hissing laugh and smirked down at the woman at his feet, his many sharp teeth on prominent display. "Sssspeak, whore. Asssk me your . . . 'favor.'"

It took all of Narcissa's willpower not to just Apparate out of there, propriety be damned. Except that she could still feel the weight of her son's corpse in her arms. Tears sprang to her eyes and she forced them back. She had cried rivers this week. No mother should ever have to bury her child. She bowed again, pressing her forehead against the floor again in supplication.

"Revenge, my Lord."

The hem of the black robes swaying just out of the corner of her eyes halted. "Revenge, Lady Naccissa . . .? Against who?"

The words staggered out of her throat like a wounded animal: "Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore."

For a long moment there was silence. Then the robes began to sway again as Voldemort resumed his pacing in front of her. "Exssplain . . ." he hissed softly, sounding almost contemplative.

"Harry Potter bounced back the Curse that killed my son and Albus Dumbledore failed to protect him!" Her voice sounded crazed and raw and she bit her lip to hold back the flood of rage brewing in her.

"Sssit up, Lady." One of those awful hands gently rested on her hair, smoothing back a few strands that had come undone. Then the same hand slid down and cupped her chin again, gently this time. He tipped her head back and met her gaze. "Are you truly willing to do anything to accomplish this?"

She swallowed heavily. "It is all I have, my Lord."

He eyed her speculatively a moment and then whirled around, turning towards his makeshift throne again. "Bellatrix! Wormtail!"

The doors behind the dais opened after a moment, revealing the two Death Eaters. They immediately bowed as Voldemort approached them and then stood as the three of them held conference for a moment. Narcissa dropped her head and stared at the rotted carpeting, exhausted. A drop of sweat slid down her back, clinging to the heavy ribs of her corset.

Voldemort returned after a moment, holding a vial of thick gold liquid in his hand. Pettigrew and Bellatrix were walked behind him. Nagini snapped lazily at the rat as he passed. The two Death Eaters silently took up stations just behind Narcissa as the Dark Lord stopped in front of her.

"Blood," he hissed fingering the vial almost lovingly, "is the ultimate seal. It bindss parent and child, loverss, and is used in the most powerful of spellss." His red-eyed gaze flickered to the woman kneeling at his feet. "I require this seal from you, Lady Narcissa. As the blood of your sson bound you to Potter, so now will the blood of your husssband bind you to me."

Narcissa made no move.

Voldemort held out the vial and smiled coldly. "You hussband is of no use to either of uss anymore, my Lady. Kill him, and I promise that you will have your revenge. Pity . . . He was an excellent servant . . ." For a moment he looked lost in thought, then he seemed to shake himself and turned back to Narcissa. "Wormtail and Bellatrix will accompany you in this. They will sstand as my witnessss." His eyes narrowed and he waggled the vial in warning. "If you should fail me in this as well, there will be no more second chances for the Malfoy House."

Cold, but steady, a fine-boned hand reached out and accepted the poison. "Yes . . . Master."

Voldemort smiled and his wand suddenly appeared in his right hand. Narcissa extended her left arm and clenched her jaw as the expensive black silk of her gown was ripped away. The cold, tapered tip of the wand was pressed against her exposed flesh near the bend of her elbow.

"Do you accccept this Mark freely and with your whole heart?" The formal words sounded awkward and ungainly in that voice.

Darkness, writhing like cold black tentacles, gathered at the tip of the wand.

"I do." Narcissa's voice remained strong and clear.

Behind her, Pettigrew and Bellatrix knelt behind Narcissa, bowing low to the ground. Their voice, also awkward with formality sounded in unison: "We here bear witness."

The Malfoy matriarch squeezed her eyes shut tightly and prayed to gods she had never believed in that she was making the right choice.

"Morsmordre!"

And then she screamed.


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

The knock on my door startles me out of an uneasy, shadow-filled sleep and for a moment I don't know where I am. My hand clutches convulsively around the glass I fell asleep holding after I'd finally cleaned up, barely saving it from an abrupt end. It's been too long since I truly slept and I feel as though I'm wrapped in a strange fog when I stagger to my feet and somehow stumble to the door, nearly getting tangled in my night robe on the way. When I open the door, it takes a long moment before I understand what I'm seeing. The fact that it doesn't disturb me should worry me more than it does.

Children, after all, have a curious kind of beauty: silent eyes, round-cheeked, and unjaded, they have a look to them that brings to mind only the future, not the cruel, spotty past. Harry Potter is beautiful too, but he is not a child. He is not round-cheeked or wide-eyed, or unjaded. My poor Harry Potter. But he's beautiful and tonight that is reason enough for me to open wide my door to him when he appears, ragged, torn, and eyes red-rimmed at my chambers at 2 in the morning.

My poor Harry Potter.

So I open my door and watch him for a brief moment, the brandy snifter filled with water in my right hand and the doorknob cool and metal in my left.

"You shouldn't be here," I whisper wearily, too tired to fight him. Too tired to remember why I want to fight him. Or at least should want to fight with him.

Draco Malfoy is dead, I have only water to fill my brandy glass, and Harry Potter is standing in my doorframe, torn robes hanging off him like a portrait of the Passion of the Christ. When did this become my life?

When did I cease to care?

He stares up at me for a moment, perfect lips parted enticingly, and then literally throws himself into my arms. Supple, wiry boy arms wind themselves around my neck and pull me down closer to his height and the glass in my hand slides out from between my fingers, shattering on the stone floors of the dungeon with a short-lived crash. My own arms wrap obligingly around his too thin waist, memorizing his plains and curves, the boney angles of his prominent pelvic bones pressing into the top of my thighs.

"Harry, Harry . . ." I whisper into his wild black hair, because he's here and mine and alive and I cannot stop touching him. This must be a dream.

That's it. I fell down while I was cleaning up my quarters, dashed my head against the stone, and am in a coma.

His mouth drifts along the line of my throat as he raises his head and whispers words I can barely make out. "Please . . . Please don't let me go . . ."

And then he kisses me.

It feels real.

My hands tangling in that black bird nest, one leg sliding between his, tongue pushing past those reddened lips, messy and without a moment's hesitation, I kiss him. He knees trembled as though in a swoon and he presses down against me, supported only by my hand and knee and those skinny, surprisingly strong arms wrapped 'round my neck. He tastes like salt water and copper, but the remnants of butterscotch are strong in my own mouth and the combination fills my senses better than any brandy or cognac ever could. Teeth and tongues and hot moisture slipping down his cheeks to stain both our faces.

He pulls away panting and buries his face in the crook of neck. He has to stand on his toes to do so comfortably, but he fits there perfectly. I drag him into my rooms and the door slams shut behind us.

He presses forward, pushing his body into mine as though afraid I'll vanish if every possible inch of him isn't touching me. Perhaps I will.

I tug down his night robes, practically tearing at them until they pool in a puddle of worn fabric at his ankles.

"Severus—" He's muttering things into my neck that I can't hear and pressing clumsy awkward kisses against me. He arches against me when my hand ghosts down his back and gasps. "Touch me."

So I kiss him again, pulling him closer as his lips open, once more drawing me in. My hands travel down his back, slide into the loose, too large band of his pants, gripping and pulling at every inch of his flesh that I can touch. And it's not enough. So I grip his hair and pull his head back and claim and claim and claim his mouth with the slide of my tongue and the soft clatter of teeth until he trembles against me. And it's not enough. So I slide my free hand down his sweat slicked back (so smooth! so easy!) to tug at the top of his pants. It takes no effort to pull them off (so easy!), and jerk down the band of his underpants, (so good!) down to touch him, down, down, down . . .

A rogue finger follows the natural curve of his body to press hard against the puckered curve of muscle his body hides and his arse clenches convulsively around the intrusion. He tears his lips from mine. "Severus!" Green eyes stare up at me in panic, but those hips are undulating against me, hardness pressed against me—

And, oh God! How did I deny myself this?

Mine, mine, mine. This is all mine and no one will have it, no one will touch it because it's mine and I'll kill them first. MINE.

"Severus . . . Severus . . . Severus."

So I kiss him. There is an air of frenzy about it all—all sweat, and panting, and the crush of bodies . . . And, oh Merlin, he smells like grass, and dust and sunlight. He feels like damp silk, hot and clinging. Oh, Merlin . . .

Not this way! Not this way!

I didn't want it to be this way—this banal, but I can't stop.

"Severus . . ." he whimpers.

And I can't stop.

I kiss and bite at him—his cheeks, his throat, anything my mouth can touch—and gently press my finger against his entrance again, massaging, nothing more. He bucks and writhes and whimpers in frustration.

Beautiful.

One of those hands slips free of my neck, fumbling around for my wrist. "Not yet! Not—oh!—tonight! Can't—"

Something ugly rears up in my at the denial, something that wants to throw him down and take what he came in here and threw at my feet. Something that—

Shrivels and fades away at the sight of green eyes.

My hand withdraws and I press him against me: holding him, nothing more.

Nothing more.

He shudders in my arms, trembling as he gasps for air. I keep one hand pressed against his lower back, stilling his hips until his erection softens against my thigh as he calms. My free hand runs through his messy hair. Somehow his hands have latched onto my lapels and his knuckles are white. He burrows impossibly closer to me and a ghost of sensation whispers over the erection I didn't know I had.

I pull away, needing the space, and he stiffens at the swell of cold air that rushes between us.

I close my eyes, try to think of particularly vile potions ingredients, and look up at him. "Are you a vir—"

The words die in my throat.

He's naked.

I can feel my eyes widen to what has to be comical proportions, but he's naked.

Harry Potter . . . is naked. In my rooms.

How did I let that little detail slip my mind?

But there he is . . . flushed, awkward, and . . . naked.

Wide green eyes stare at me through those classy new glasses above a flush of lust and shame and small hands twitch as though longing to cover himself. His throat is long, a prominent Adam's apple softened by the light of the fire and his nipples are two soft, flat pink-colored things that I can almost feel my mouth watering to bite. His ribs show and he's almost unappealingly skinny and unfinished, like a pale clay Adonis that some a lazy Michelangelo just didn't want to put all the effort into. Almost no dark hair swirls on his chest or sunken stomach, but a perfect thatch of black, wiry curls is nestled between his legs. Uncircumcised and unremarkable, his cock lays languid against his barely parted thighs, hiding everything but the barest glance of flushed testicles. There's nothing particularly special about him, but I can literally feel my mouth begin to water. It seems like the best thing I've ever seen. The shine of a small smear goes from the very tip of his semi-erect penis to his leg and I force my gaze down to muscular legs and flat, broad feet that don't seem nearly as important.

"You're a virgin?" It sounds like I'm choking rather than speaking, but he understand me perfectly and responds with a flush that goes clear down to his nipples, which perk right up in response.

Holy God.

Of course he is. Who would dare corrupt Harry Potter?

The idea of being the first person to touch all that perfect, unclaimed skin is even more of an aphrodisiac than that blushing cock, though. I swallow and tear my eyes away, thanking whatever demon that haunts me that I indulged earlier today or I'd have surely fallen down dead by now. I stagger to a chair and sit down before I fall down and gesture for him to follow me. He does so with no hesitation and again my eyes fly to his wilted erection, swaying—

I grab him the moment he's within reach, jerking him down into my lap, his legs perpendicular to my own. He knows nothing—absolutely nothing—and I remind myself of that as he drops down on me. Nothing too fast. Nothing too rough. Nothing too harsh. He needs to learn . . .

And so I teach him.


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She knew before she entered that he would be huddled in the corner. It was only the magic of the House Elves that kept him clean and fed. Diggle—the Elf who normally kept the basement—sat guard by the door. No one was allowed in or out of the room except for Narcissa, and she rarely came by at all anymore.

The man that she had married was dead, a casualty of fanaticism and idealism.

Narcissa stopped in front of the large circular door that led to the room where her husband was kept. Behind her, Wormtail shifted anxiously and Bellatrix muttered a steady stream of profanities almost absently.

Hard blue eyes turned to the shoddily clad Elf by the door. He looked up at her with mournful yellowish-green eyes.

"Open the door." Her voice was rough and throaty from screaming.

The House Elf hopped to obey, using the magic particular to his species to remove the heavy Wards that kept the former Master of the House locked in. The Malfoy matriarch set her jaw as the door creaked outward with terrible slowness.

Bellatrix chuckled at nothing. "Have so missed your dear, dear husband,Sisssster . . ." the former beauty hissed spitefully.

Narcissa turned, ignoring the agony the motion sent through her inflamed left arm, and stared coldly at the remnants of her cousin. She and Bella had been close once . . . before Azkaban had twisted the woman into . . . this. Narcissa, Regulus, and Bellatrix . . . Those had been the days. Lucius by her side and every woman in the room simultaneously loathing them and wishing they were them. And perfect, angelic Draco swaddled in green silk in her arms. She looked at her sister with empty eyes before turning away.

Three of the greatest families in the Wizarding world brought to ruin . . . It was enough to make one wish she was born a squib.

"Can we get on with this, please!" Pettigrew squeaked, looking as perpetually terrified as ever.

"Come," Narcissa murmured, the vial cold and solid in her right hand. She stepped through the door, and Diggle shut it behind them.

A House Elf named Quipple popped into appearance as the door boomed shut. Quipple was charged with looking after Master Malfoy. There was a second pop as Skiff—the Head Steward—appeared. The two both bore grim expression, both prepared to protect the Mistress and her guests. Narcissa ignored them.

It took only a few moments for her eyes to adjust (Lucius couldn't bear any significant amount of light anymore), but it was nothing but iron willpower that kept her on her feet at the sight of her husband. True to form, Lucius was curled in a fetal ball in a corner, what little clothing he wore torn and mangled by his own struggles against imaginary demons. Self inflicted cuts adorned his body. The Elves had taken to cutting his nails once a day to prevent them from growing to any length that he could use to damage himself further. When he had begun to dash his head against the walls it was also the Elves who stopped him. The Elves stopped him from trying to strangle himself with his clothing. The Elves stopped him from trying to eat his own filth. The Elves stopped him from gnawing at his arms

The only thing keeping him alive was the Elves.

That was no way for a Malfoy to live. He would have hated it. He would have destroyed himself.

"Stay here," the blonde whispered to her companions. Once she was certain they'd obey, she slowly approached her husband, still shadowed by the wary Skiff and Quipple.

"Luc?"

The man stirred at the sound of his wife's voice.

Narcissa slowly knelt beside him, but didn't dare reach out to touch him yet. "Luc? Are you awake?"

He rolled over and she braced herself, trying to prepare for the screaming madness that had greeted her during her previous visit. Instead, child-like grey eyes stared up her blurrily. She closed her eyes in pain and felt something hot, wet, and damning slide down her cheek.

A bitten-at, red knuckled hand rose unsteadily to push away the tear. Lucius smiled at her, but the expression in his eyes was wild and terrified, giving him the shine of madness. " Lo,'Ciss," he greeted in a droll, grating sort of voice.

Narcissa caught his hand and squeezed it. The pain in her arm had nothing on this. "'Lo, Luc," she whispered huskily. She didn't fight the tears anymore.

"Is it Christmas yet?" he asked her solemnly, watching the dim magical lights of the room shine off her tears. "Draco will be home at Christmas and I'm going to get him a new broom so that he's not angry with me anymore." He blinked tiredly. "You know I hate it when you cry."

Narcissa forced a small smile. "Draco's not cross with you anymore, love. He said . . . he misses you and can't wait to come home."

Lucius smiled that unnerving smile once more. "He's such a good boy."

Narcissa looked away. "I need you to drink something, Luc. It will make you feel better." She uncorked the vial with shaking hands, narrowly avoiding spilling the contents, and held it out to his lips.

A surprisingly strong hand rose to steady her and her breath caught painfully in her chest as theirs eyes met. He tipped back the contents of the vial and swallowed it without hesitation.

The effect was immediate. A violent shudder wracked the man's body and for a moment it looked as though he was going to vomit. Then Lucius's eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth as though preparing to scream, but instead viscous greenish gray bubble slowly rose out of his throat and hovered for an instant on his lips. It popped loudly, smelling of bile and blood, and he went abruptly still.

Narcissa stared for a moment, unable to believe that it had happened so quickly. The cork of the vial rolled out of her hand and she stared down at the Seal atop it.

Snape.

The man was nothing if not efficient. She turned away and found herself staring at her two watchers. She'd almost forgotten they were there.

She eyes narrowed and she couldn't stop her face from twisting hatefully. "Satisfied?" she spat, desperately wishing that they couldn't see the tears on her cheeks.

Bellatrix was grinning. She pointed her wand at Lucius's body, still grinning. "Crucio."

Nothing happened.

The woman's smile dropped abruptly and she looked suddenly petulant. "Crucio!"

Still there was no reaction. Dead men cannot, after all, be tortured.

"Fine," Bella sniffed, looking like a child deprived of a treat.

"Good," Narcissa hissed. "Now get the hell out of my house."

A tic jumped below Bellatrix right eye, but she spun around sharply and stalked out, Wormtail scampering after.

Narcissa turned back to her husband, ignoring the sound of the door opening and closing. She swallowed roughly and brushed the tears from her eyes and then set about closing his eyes and mouth. There was a spell to ease the faces of the dead, but she could not recall it and instead tried to soothe that awful look of anguished surprise off his face with trembling fingers before his flesh stiffened and froze. She tucked his hair, usually pristine but now in wild disarray, behind his ears in a futile effort to bring him some dignity.

Then she was still, unable to do anything more, but unable to leave him either.

Her left arm ached fiercely.

The woman brushed her husband's cheek tenderly and felt her face crumble. "I have loved you my entire life . . ."

The words sounded weak and thin in the small, dim room.

From the shadows, the Elves watched in tearful silence.


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