Prometheus Bound

by Dius Corvus

Harry survives an unbearable summer and returns to Hogwarts to learn secrets about himself that he really could have done without. He’s lost his sight, all illusions about his parentage, and now will he lose himself? COMPLETE

15. Return

A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for the beta! She always catches those little things that make or break a story...

---

Chapter 15: Return

A silence fell. Harry stayed in his crouched position, one hand on the Mark on his father's arm, the other gripping his father's wrist, feeling the muscle and tendons tensing with pain underneath. The ground was painful under his knee. He saw through the snake's eyes the faces of so many people, all upon him, all bewildered and fearful and confused.

You are not the Heir of Slytherin! Voldemort hissed, his voice echoing through the entire Great Hall like an avalanche of sand. Harry scanned the hall, wondering who Voldemort was hiding in, or disguised as, for it had to have been someone, anyone. I claim that title. That title is mine.

"Your claims are false," Harry replied. "I—challenge them. I will break them."

Magic moved in the air, and Harry had the vague feeling that something momentous was going to happen. The others seemed to know it too, for they cowered and moved back, leaving a larger circle around Harry and his father. Harry scanned the faces of the crowd, wondering where Voldemort was, if Voldemort was among them. He found Ron easily. The redhead stood a head above the rest of the crowd, and Harry saw the fear and suspicion written clearly on the freckled face. Hermione stood next to him, and Harry read the same fear, but there was also puzzlement and concentration. And far away on the other side of the crowd stood Draco—Draco, whose face was white as fear, who was looking not at him, but at someone standing next to the Minister of Magic.

I accept your challenge, Voldemort hissed, and the voice no longer surrounded him like a blast of winter. It came from one side of the ring of speculators, spreading out like ripples in a stagnant pool. The crowd edged away, and one figure stood alone.

Harry looked. The figure's face was difficult to make out—it was as though the shadow of a hood fell over it, but when he looked more carefully, there was no hood, and there was no shadow.

That man, your father, swore allegiance to me, Voldemort began, his voice coming from the figure. He swore it and bound himself to me with the Dark Mark. Harry felt Voldemort's magic pulsing, burning his palm as he clamped his hand over his father's left forearm. He is bound to me, and only I may release him! And that I do not!

For a moment Harry knelt there speechless. But he felt emotion rising up through him, and the emotions coalesced into words. "There may have a time when he followed you," Harry said. "But that time is done." He strengthened his grip. "His will is no longer with you, as it had not been with you for many years. I claim him. You have no hold over him anymore."

Voldemort's voice rose, filling the air like the shrieking of a sandstorm. Nevertheless, the chains remain. The spells and enchantments I forged in Slytherin's name will not break until I say so! He is mine! Voldemort strode closer, seeming to grow in height, to tower above Harry and his father. The Great Hall became dimmer, and Snape's arm became colder under Harry's hand, and Harry felt his palm sizzle with pain—a pain that reminded him sharply of the scraping tree.

"It is a claim that no longer holds!" Harry shouted at the gathering dark. The Dark Lord's face was still hidden, though at any moment, it seemed, the hood would fall away, and the ghastly white flesh and burning red eyes would sear through his mind. "He broke away many years ago, and he is my father! Does that not count for anything?" There was no answer besides the screaming of a thousand gales rearing up like dead things. "And I love him!" Harry yelled hoarsely because he doubted anyone could hear him in the wind, because it was the truth and he could think of nothing else to say.

By some instinct Harry looked down. The snake followed the motion of his head, and through the snake's eyes, in what seemed to be a small puddle of light in a dome of darkness, he saw that his father's eyes were opened.

Harry's heart seized for a moment. Snape's lips moved feebly, and his face was strained; and Harry automatically bent his head closer to hear his father over the sound of the shrieking winds: "…Ha… rry?"

Harry cried out in pain: his palm burned as though he were gripping a white-hot brand. He released his father's left forearm, and—

Everything was silent. The wind had stopped; the darkness was gone. His father's eyes were closed again. Harry looked up and saw again the faces of the crowd, looking almost as though nothing had happened. Only Hermione's eyes were significantly wider, and the Minister seemed quite a bit paler, and Draco was looking at him now, his face white and unreadable. Harry felt something in his hand. He looked down: there were traces of black flakes there, and as he shifted his palm the flakes fell away, and Harry realized that his father's forearm was bare.

There was a gurgling sound nearby. Harry looked up, and saw, standing only a few steps away, the bulky figure of Gregory Goyle, clutching his chest. Goyle lifted his massive head, and it was clear: the pale face, the red eyes, the slit-like nose—

"Voldemort!" Harry blurted.

Nobody did anything for a moment, and even Goyle, with Voldemort within him, froze.

But the moment passed, and all the officials next to the Minister moved in unison to form a phalanx around Voldemort. Fudge gave a squeak and fell to the floor in a dead faint. Like a lethifold, the entire unit, with Voldemort as Goyle at the center, began gliding out the Great Hall—

"TOM RIDDLE, YOU MAY NOT LEAVE!"

Dumbledore's command echoed and reechoed like a deep bell, reverberating and tumbling through the air and the ground. For a split second, everything did halt—Voldemort and his Death Eaters stopped as though jerked by a leash, and the crowd paused for a breathless moment.

Then spells of all colors began flying into the crowd. Screams rose like in a fearful chorus. The great doors at the end of the Hall began inching close.

Harry suddenly felt a wand pointing at his neck.

"You come with us, boy," anoily voice whispered, and for a moment all Harry could think of was Vernon and the insidious voice in his ear and the loathsome touch on his skin—but Harry jerked aside with the swiftness of a shadow as some memory within him identified that voice as Lucius Malfoy.

"Don't touch me!" Harry shouted. He darted aside again, as lightly as an autumn leaf, and he felt a tingling at the ends of his fingers. He felt the snake bend its head slightly, and Harry saw the fine, thread-like needles fluttering from his fingertips.

Lucius Malfoy bent down and smirked. Harry's gaze traced down Malfoy's right arm, past the wand, and to where it was pointed at his father's throat. Harry felt his heart skip a beat.

"Will you come?" Malfoy said softly.

No! Harry screamed in his mind, in desperation, in fury. He felt the needles at his fingertips quiver and freeze into something more solid, more deadly—

He lifted his hand.

"FATHER, NO!"

Harry turned, as did Lucius Malfoy. Struggling against the stampede of fleeing students and bobbing up and down like a cork at sea was Draco Malfoy. His hair was disheveled and his robes were a mess; part of his face seemed to have suffered a blow.

"BE CAREFUL, FATHER!" he shouted, his gray eyes wide with fear.

Harry didn't wait. He let the needles dissolve in air and swooped down like a hawk, grabbing his father and disappearing like a flash of light. Behind him, he felt the heat of a spell.

"FATHER, HE—"

Draco's voice ended suddenly. Harry felt disoriented for a moment as he moved forward while the snake's head was looking behind him, looking at Draco, whose body stilled in mid-stride, absorbing the red-colored spell that had hit him. Then he slumped to the ground.

Harry turned at Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy's head snapped up, his half-wild gaze darkening when he saw the expression on Harry's face.

"You have nowhere to run, boy!" Malfoy shouted shrilly, jabbing his wand in Harry's direction.

Harry dodged Malfoy's next spell as it hurtled towards him. A chair exploded to his right, filling the air with splintered wood, and a crater blasted into the ground just steps behind. He was dimly alarmed at how powerful Malfoy was, dimly aware of how close the spells had brushed him by, of the throbbing at the edge of his fingertips, waiting to cut through the air—

But some part of him was adamantly reluctant about letting the needles fly. They stole souls; there was no taking them back after they left his hand. And Lucius Malfoy was still a human.

There was a rumbling sound and a crescendo of screams. Harry looked up to see an enormous cloud of red fog mushrooming from the entrance of the Great Hall and hurtling down its length. Harry had only a moment to dash backwards, leaping over the broken halves of a table, before the fog overtook him.

The world disappeared in reddish darkness, and his eyes began to sting fiercely.

"Close your eyes!" the snake hissed. "It is a venom, this dust. Shut them!"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His eyes seemed to be poked full of needles, and he had no tears to wash away the pain, and each breath seemed to scratch his throat. He needed to bury his face in something, to find some way to filter away the stinging, to rub or scratch at the terrible agony of his eyes—

He found himself with his face against his father's chest. As he breathed, he could smell the scent of dungeons and dried herbs and slowly brewing potions on his father's body, and slowly, it helped lessen the pain.

The angry reddish-black haze slowly faded into white, and for a moment Harry thought that the dust had cleared and pale light had flooded the Hall. But he realized that it was only his mind leaving the snake and the return of the white mist of his blindness.

"What's happened, snake?" Harry asked shakily. His body ached and his father's body lay heavily across his lap. "Where is Malfoy?"

"How would I know?" the snake retorted from around his neck. "It's not as though I can see through this—"

The air felt different, suddenly. "Ah. The dust is clearing," the snake hissed. "You can look through me now, if you wish."

The whiteness dissipated like shattered glass before Harry's eyes, and faint wisps of red lingered at the edges of everything, like the haze of a frosty morning. At the far end of the hall, sunlight streamed in through the remains of the giant double-doors. Wreckage lay all about: broken chairs, tables, huddled piles that were students, staff. Everything was strangely quiet.

Harry felt a wand touching his back. Malfoy? Harry thought.

But the voice was different. "So you are Severus's son," it said. Harry tensed, knowing that voice, but it froze him with its next words: "Don't. Move."

Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest. He was on the floor, in a sitting position, with his father unconscious in his lap, and there was a wand trained at his neck.

"I wasn't aware that Severus had a son," the voice continued. It was conversational, unhurried, so strangely high-pitched that it sounded almost like a whine.

Harry swallowed. "Now you know, then." His field of vision began to revolve, and Harry could feel the snake, with hypnotic grace, slowly turn its head.

"Quite a snake you have there, boy," Caius Cinna said, their gazes meeting. He reached down a pale, hairless arm; Harry felt the snake hiss menacingly against his neck—

"Caius!"

Dumbledore! Harry thought. Cinna looked up suddenly, as did the snake, and Harry was dizzy for a moment before the world righted itself. The old headmaster strode down upon them, weariness and irritation in every movement, but after taking a few more steps, Dumbledore stopped short. His face transformed. Harry didn't think he had never seen such joy and relief on the headmaster's face.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said, voice brimming with relief but held in check by uncertainty.

Harry managed to arrange his face into a semblance of a smile. "Professor," he croaked.

"Harry!" Dumbledore repeated, this time the relief flooding out unrestrained. "And—thank Merlin—Severus…"

As though responding to his name, Snape stirred and moaned softly in Harry's lap. Dumbledore knelt down and laid his hands on Snape's head.

"He seems quite fine," Dumbledore said, again with relief. "But he should be taken to Madam Pomfrey, just to be sure."

"I can take him," Cinna said quietly from behind Harry.

Harry shook his head once, quickly, but Dumbledore noticed with a sharp glance. "Perhaps I can take Severus to my office," Dumbledore said. He took out his wand and levitated Snape. "Harry… if you will follow me?"

Harry swallowed and nodded in acquiescence, noting how almost… deferential Dumbledore seemed. The whole situation was surreal. He could still feel the adrenaline in his veins from Malfoy's attacks and Cinna's wand. Noises still sounded more strangely vibrant than those in the portrait realm, and the air was more fresh and harsh; people—real people—surrounded him, and he could feel their closeness with the acuteness of a needle.

And his father—Snape—was floating at arm's length in front of him.

There was a storm of emotions boiling under his tightly-held exterior, feelings—fear, nervousness, apprehension—and so much more, all churning under the thrumming of his heart. Harry wished he didn't feel quite so like a frightened mouse.

Just then, hurried footsteps pounded in from the entrance of the Great Hall.

"Albus!" It was Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was at the head of a group of black-robed witches and wizards who were running in hurriedly through the doorway and breathing heavily. "Albus, we were all summoned—what happened?" He looked around, quickly taking in the destruction and bodies. His eyes paused on Harry, and Harry looked at the auror's face for any sign of recognition, but there was none.

"Through means yet unknown, Voldemort was able to infiltrate Hogwarts," Dumbledore said gravely. "His Death Eaters entered, disguised as Minister Fudge's advisors and bodyguards." There was a moan from a pile some distance away. "I see that the Minister is beginning to come around."

Kingsley wore a rather resigned look on his face as Fudge began to stir. "Well, are there still any Death Eaters on the grounds?"

"I very much doubt it," Dumbledore said, "though it would be best to make sure."

"Right," Kingsley said briskly. "Tonks, Griffith, lead your squadrons to search the grounds—be thorough, mind you both! And Harvey, you and your crew clean this mess up…"

The black-robed wizards and witches broke up efficiently, some moving into the castle's interior while others went out onto the grounds; others combed through the broken tables, dishes, bodies, still crackling with magic.

Harry looked at the bodies lying here and there, utterly still, and felt his stomach sink. Were they… dead? The thought struck him like a bucketful of ice water. He hadn't even considered the possibility of all these people dying while dodging Malfoy's spells, his father sagging heavily in his arms…

Draco's among them, Harry thought, his mind searching over his field of vision for where the Malfoy heir might be lying. His stomach clenched at the possibility of Draco—dead—at his own father's wand…

There was a clicking sound nearby. Harry looked: it was a cameraman, looking rather battered and bruised, but with his camera in hand, hurriedly taking photos of the wreckage.

"Hey, give it here," an auror said roughly. "You're disrupting the proceedings."

The cameraman hugged his camera protectively against his chest. "The public has the right to know," he said tightly, backing away a few steps.

The auror advanced menacingly, but other journalists, reporters, students had risen like ghosts from the grave. A witch stood nearby furiously writing in a little note-pad. She glanced up, saw Harry and Dumbledore, and scribbled something down.

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. He tensed—his field of vision blurred as the snake snapped around and hissed.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said, looking a bit taken aback by the snake. "Perhaps you will come with me and Professor Snape to my office?"

Harry realized that his back was to Dumbledore, even though he could see the old headmaster's gentle blue eyes and bushy white brows, and the slight form of Caius Cinna behind him. Harry turned and nodded. "Yes, Professor."

"ALBUS!"

The snake turned again, so fast that the world bled white for a moment as he teetered in disorientation. I'll need to tell it not to do that, Harry thought. When the world sharpened, he saw Fudge bearing down upon them, his bowler hat dented and face much redder than usual. Behind him trailed a blond-haired man that… looked strangely familiar. Harry frowned, puzzled, wondering where he'd seen that face.

"Yes, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked courteously, though Harry could clearly hear the impatience. A few reporters began making their way towards the Minister and the headmaster, and there was the flash of purple smoke and an uneven click of a camera shutter. I wish they'd stay away, Harry thought testily, getting the distinct impression that he was being surrounded by vultures.

"I demand an explanation for this—this—attack!" Fudge gesticulated violently as his face became increasingly purple. He looks a bit like Vernon, Harry thought, and his stomach turned to lead. He closed his eyes but the image before him did not fade. It's not Vernon, he reminded himself. You're safe. You're safe.

"The answer is very simple," Dumbledore said softly, ignoring the reporters and cameramen that drew closer around them. "Through a ritual that I suspect is closely associated with possession, Voldemort"—everyone flinched, and a camera went off rather violently—"managed to infiltrate Hogwarts by disguising himself as one of the students. He attacked a staff member through the Dark Mark. But his attack was unsuccessful, and he was forced to retreat."

Fudge drew in a deep breath. His eyes darted around for a moment, taking in the reporters and cameramen, resting on Harry briefly. "Certainly the security of Hogwarts will need to be carefully checked," Fudge said loudly. The reporters scribbled in unison. "Such an attempt on my life must never happen again, though"—he puffed out his chest—"I suffer these dangers every day."

"The best way to do that, Cornelius, may be to check your aides," Dumbledore said softly. The journalists glanced up with avid eyes.

Fudge blanched and fidgeted. "I don't know what you mean, Albus."

"I mean to say that all the aurors and officials that you brought were actually Voldemort's Death Eaters—save one." Dumbledore glanced briefly at the blond following Fudge; the blond glanced back perplexedly before blushing, and—

Harry stared. It couldn't be, could it?

"P-preposterous!" Fudge exclaimed, though his voice sounded very strained.

"Professor Dumbledore, that suggestion is utterly ludicrous," the blond said in a very officious tone, and Harry snapped his jaw shut. It seemed impossible, but that blush and voice and posture were both Percy Weasley's. "We conduct strict background checks on the Minister's aides, and all swear an oath before entering their positions." He's dyed his hair blond and gotten rid of his freckles, Harry thought blankly. He looks like… a Draco Malfoy wannabe.

"I'm afraid your background checks are not very thorough, and that your oaths are easily broken," Dumbledore said. There wasn't a hint of humor in his voice. "I do not mean to accuse anyone—falsely or truthfully—but Voldemort has forces in more places than we know." Dumbledore turned the full weight of his gaze upon the Minister. Fudge shrank noticeably. "You know your responsibilities, Cornelius."

The Minister's eyes darted around in a manner that reminded Harry strongly of Peter Pettigrew. The sound of scribbling quills rose like the chirping of a swarm of locusts. "I—Albus, you—you—" Fudge gulped. "You—"

His eyes landed on Harry.

Dumbledore moved quickly. "Caius, please take Professor Snape and his son up to my office," he said, stepping in between Harry and Fudge. "I'll be able to answer some more questions, Cornelius, if you have any…"

Harry's jaw dropped. Going alone—with Cinna? He turned his face to Dumbledore, and the snake followed his movement, but Dumbledore was too busy calming Fudge, who resembled a hyperactive frog. Harry swallowed hard. One had to do what one had to do.

"Mr. Snape," Cinna said in his high-pitched voice. "Come along."

It took Harry a few moments to realize that he was being addressed. "Sorry," he said, and hurried after Cinna. So I'm Mr. Snape now, he thought, feeling warm and restless at the thought.

They left the Great Hall and entered one of the familiar corridors, strangely empty for the time of day. Snape's body floated after them, as though borne on an invisible stretcher. Harry didn't dare take his mind off the man before him: Cinna's walk was rather curious, like the gait of a loping ape, and his hands were clasped behind his back once more. The fingernails were yellow, like the gnarled claws of a turtle.

"I don't like him," the snake whispered. "He reeks."

"Don't say that," Harry answered, though he privately agreed with the first part. He wondered if Cinna, by some twisted magic or fate, could understand Parseltongue.

"Gummy bears," Cinna intoned, and the gargoyle clambered aside. They made their way up the stairs, which Harry found rather challenging, as there hadn't been any stairs in the portrait world and the snake forgot to look down the first few steps.

Finally they reached the oak doors, and Harry noticed, a bit sheepishly, that they were wide open.

Cinna paced inside and looked the doors up and down. Harry followed, and Snape drifted in before resting gently on a couch.

"I opened them," Harry said after Cinna had bent down to sniff at the door. Cinna paused, still in his kneeling position. "I—er—forgot to close them behind me." He remembered the panic and whirling onslaught of new sensations he had experienced right after leaving the portrait world.

"You entered here," Cinna said, and his voice felt dangerous.

"I came out of—where I had been," Harry said, choosing his words carefully. He felt the snake move slightly from around his neck, creeping out a bit more.

"Indeed," Cinna said slowly, as though contemplating his next move.

Harry took a few steps to his left, all the while facing Cinna, and sat at the head of the couch on which his father lay.

"You are Harry Potter," Cinna said suddenly.

Harry sat frozen, wondering whether to confirm or deny, though, he thought, if Cinna had figured it out, it would be rather pointless to deny it. He wondered briefly if it was his scar that had given him away, and hoped it had been instead of something he wasn't aware of. "Yes," he said, and wondered if Legilimency worked on the blind.

Cinna chuckled. He sat down in Dumbledore's high-backed chair in front of the wide desk, and Harry was startled at how quickly Cinna took the upper hand.

"I never thought Severus would have a child," Cinna said, as though to himself. "And I would never have dreamed that that child would be the savior of the wizarding world."

Harry sat as still as stone. He wished Dumbledore would arrive, or that his father would wake up. But on second though, perhaps he didn't want his father to wake. He remembered the terror Cinna held over Snape, and Harry knew what shame his father would feel if he knew that anyone—whether his son or James Potter's son—had witnessed it.

He reached out a hand and put it close to, though not quite touching, his father. Cinna didn't seem to notice the movement. Harry was rather glad he could observe Cinna through the snake while his own eyes were closed: Cinna's expression seemed to settle naturally in a secretive smile, like a well-fed monkey, and his sparse blond hair was swept back over his scalp.

"And so it makes sense," Cinna said, again as though to himself. "Though Riddle knows of this power, the heirdom to Slytherin, he does not possess, and it makes the two of you more than ever equals." He looked at Harry, and Harry tried not to tense as he met the gaze of those pale eyes. "You, Dumbledore's greatest hope. His… protégé."

Harry thought he should say something. "You're… mistaken," he managed.

"Was any bit of it untrue?" Cinna said softly, concentrating the full weight of his gaze on Harry. His eyes, Harry noted, were a gray that seemed yellow, like lanterns in the fog. "But I am surprised that Harry Potter is so eager to claim Severus Snape as his father." A pause. Go away, Harry thought angrily. Just go. "The Harry Potter most people told me about seemed quite hostile towards dear Severus."

"Don't call him that!" Harry snapped. He was surprised at how vehement he was.

"And why not?" Cinna asked, coldly, as though to remind Harry who was the professor, who was the student.

"He may not appreciate it," Harry answered, equally coldly. His heart was pounding, as though he were dueling with the other wizard.

Cinna's lips curved into a smile. "The filial son, indeed. You are quite different from the golden Gryffindor boy Dumbledore gushed over. I daresay the world at large will be in for a very interesting surprise. And your—friends, as well."

Just shut up! Harry thought. He wanted to leap forth with a curse or hide behind the couch, but he did neither. Cinna was goading him, but not without truth. Harry knew he had changed, and knew that the change was drastic and irrevocable. Ron had rejected him—his stomach clenched at the memory—and Hermione, Neville, Ginny… Even if they decided to accept him, things would never go back to the way they were, because the Harry Potter they had known no longer existed.

He suddenly thought of Draco—Draco, who knew him as he was, and… He felt a prickling of panic, remembering the way Draco had fallen after being hit by Lucius Malfoy's spell. Draco hadn't died, had he? He can't have, Harry thought. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't kill his only son, and Malfoy values his own hide—his own family—above all else…

Cinna's smile grew deeper. "I'd like to see Dumbledore wriggle out of this one. He knows the current climate, the public opinion…"

Harry frowned. He opened his mouth to ask the other wizard to elaborate, but at that moment, the door opened and Dumbledore entered. Cinna, Harry noticed, immediately stood up and moved away from Dumbledore's chair.

"Ah, Harry, Caius," said the headmaster. He looked quite tired as he shut the door behind him and gave each of them a smile. "Is Severus…?" Dumbledore moved to the couch where Harry sat and Severus lay, but he paused with his wand in the air. "Caius, I believe Minerva could use your help in the Great Hall."

Cinna bowed. "Yes, Headmaster," he said solemnly. Turning only slightly, he left the office in a way that reminded Harry strongly of the way Death Eaters left Voldemort's presence.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Well, that's that," he said. He bent over slightly and tapped Snape gently with his wand. "Enervate," he murmured.

Snape stirred. Harry felt the snake swiveling around his neck. He kept very still as the eyes fluttered open.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Welcome back to the world of living."

Snape frowned. "What…" His eyes darted here and there, taking in the details of Dumbledore's office, before landing on Harry.

"Potter," Snape said in an effortlessly cool voice and sat up.

Harry felt his heart crack. "Professor," he said a moment later. He moved aside so that Snape could have more space on the couch, so that there would be no chance that they might touch.

"What happened, Albus?" Snape asked. Through the snake's eyes, Harry could see that Snape was staring intently at Dumbledore—as though I didn't exist, Harry thought. He shut that thought down quickly and wished the snake would stare ahead stonily they way he pretended to be. Usually the snake stared at whatever he faced, but sometimes, the snake peered at whatever it wanted to. "I remember thinking that I was going to die because the Dark Lord had managed to blow my cover. I remember…" Snape stopped.

"Do you remember," said Dumbledore slowly, softly, "that your son saved your life?"

Snape's face was inscrutable. He said nothing. Harry wanted to get up and shout at his father—you called me Harry, you called me that, and you let me save you! You owe me this! But he didn't. He kept numbly quiet.

The silence lasted an eternity.

Dumbledore sat back. The snake shifted slightly, and Harry saw that Dumbledore looked weary again, disappointed. "Harry," he said. He sounded almost apologetic. "Welcome back."

Harry tried to manage a smile. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore."

"You quite frightened us for—nearly a month, yes. Disappearing without a trace."

He wants me to tell him things, Harry thought. Suddenly, the warmth he had felt for the headmaster disappeared so quickly he had the overwhelming urge to cry. It was too much too soon. So Dumbledore's trying to do it again, trying to twist me into confessing it all… His thoughts stopped. The snake had settled its gaze on the deep circles under the eyes, the twinkle that was only half as bright as before, the wrinkled old hand that was whiter than snow on the vibrant robes.

"I went into the Chamber of Secrets," Harry said. He wondered if he was being manipulated. "I don't really know how I got in there. I—"

Snape snorted. Harry stopped, his throat a tightened knot.

"Severus," said Dumbledore in a very ominous voice. Snape made no other sound.

Harry continued with effort. "I—I remember…" He fell silent and thought back. Both Snape and Dumbledore waited silently. "I remember footsteps and someone running towards me. But I couldn't see. And the next thing I remember is falling, falling into the Chamber. And when I woke…" He stopped. It seemed all a dream, now, as though it had all happened in another world—and in a way it had. Saying it to Dumbledore, to Snape, made it sound so… fantastical. "When I woke, the snake"—he briefly touched the snake around his neck and shoulders—"led me to the memory of Salazar Slytherin."

"The memory of Salazar Slytherin?" Dumbledore asked, frowning. Harry thought that Snape might have straightened a bit, but he couldn't tell, for the sound was nearly imperceptible under Dumbledore's voice, and the snake kept staring at the headmaster.

"Yes. It told me that it had been… waiting for me. And then it told me a few—things, about my heritage, and after that, just before he vanished, he sent me into the world of paintings. He called it a gift of time. And earlier today I came out from…" He gestured at the walls. "One of the portraits." He knew that the way he told it made it sound as though all that had happened in the space of a morning when it had stretched over days, weeks, but he didn't want to go into details with Dumbledore there. If there was anyone he might tell his secrets to—

He stopped the thought.

Dumbledore looked quite startled. "You were sent into the world of paintings?"

Harry nodded, hoping that the apparent impossibility of the statement would distract Dumbledore from probing into the obvious blanks.

"You forget, Albus, that none knew the enchantments of Hogwarts more thoroughly than Salazar Slytherin," Snape said, a bit haughtily. For a moment Harry tried to imagine that it was pride directed at him—he was Slytherin's heir, after all; but the moment faded into futility.

Dumbledore sat back. "Most interesting," he said. "And so you emerged—just in time for Voldemort's little show at the press conference over Argus Filch's death."

Harry nodded. I can play this game, too, he thought. He wished his father would say something, anything. "I hadn't been able to… push myself to go out until I felt it, until I felt Voldemort down there." He paused, teetering on the verge of saying: and my father screaming, hurting. How could I not go then?

Dumbledore nodded slightly. "And then you managed to do what no wizard or witch alive could do: you removed the Dark Mark."

He looked towards Snape, and the snake followed his movement. Snape's left arm was still covered by his black robes, and nothing could be seen. "I think I could only manage it because it was—" He stopped, still staring at his father's arm. Then he looked up.

Snape was looking away, his face like a carving in ice, but somehow, that stillness of expression and aversion of eyes gave Harry the strength to finish his thought: "Because it was my father." Snape almost flinched.

"Ah, I see," Dumbledore said, sounding rather delighted. Harry closed his eyes and wished Dumbledore would shut up. "Would I be correct in assuming that Voldemort is a false heir?"

Harry frowned for a moment. "I think so. Actually—yes. Slytherin said so himself."

"Yes, very interesting," Dumbledore remarked. What's so interesting? Harry thought irately. It was—the realization of his intent dawned upon him—his family's business, a matter within his bloodline; and he was the Heir.

"Well, to a few, more—practical matters," Dumbledore said. He moved from the chair next to the couch to behind his desk, and Harry found himself comparing the way Dumbledore sat with the way Caius Cinna did. Dumbledore seems much more harmless, Harry thought immediately, and retracted the thought immediately. Is it because he wants people to feel that way? Is it all an act?

"Will you continue living in Gryffindor Tower?" Dumbledore asked.

"Well—yes," Harry said, though the thought filled him with dread. Where else would I sleep? he thought. Certainly not the dungeons. Certainly not where his father made his lair. He wondered what his stuff would be like in Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps Ron chucked it out a window, Harry thought.

"Excellent," Dumbledore said and stood. "Well, Harry, I'm glad you're back." Then he smiled so genuinely that Harry was confused again.

"Sir, was anyone… hurt in the attack?" Harry asked hesitantly. It was a stupid question: how could anyone not have gotten hurt? But he couldn't bring himself to say killed.

Dumbledore's face became grave and weary once again. "Yes, unfortunately. But—there have been no fatalities." He smiled. "For that we thank your ancestor for the wards and enchantments he weaved."

"Oh," said Harry. "Yes."

Dumbledore turned his attention to Snape. "Severus, will you escort Harry back to Gryffindor Tower?"

Harry froze and felt his father do the same.

"Albus, I'd much rather not be mobbed by Gryffindors," Snape said coldly. "And I have a few potions brewing in my dungeon…"

"Oh, surely you can spare a few minutes escorting your son to his house?"

A heavy silence fell. Harry could feel butterflies—or snakes, rather—writhing in his stomach. He could just imagine the scene. Snape pushing the portrait door open and marching in with Harry a few steps behind. Dead silence as all eyes glued to him, staring as though he were some mutant hippogriff. Would Snape say anything before fleeing, or would he toss out his usual barbs before leaving Harry to the lions?

"Perhaps I should make this clear, Dumbledore," Snape said through gritted teeth. "I have no intention of escorting your precious savior to his private fan-club of self-righteous Gryffindor brats!"

For the first time in a long while, Harry felt towards this man—Snape—an emotion that had slumbered fitfully in the portrait world: anger. It was an anger that made him clench his fingers together and the snake hiss from around his neck. Hadn't he saved Snape? Hadn't he put forth his claim first, and had it accepted? And it wasn't only anger, he knew. It was also the age-old hurt. He's acting as though nothing in the past few months had happened, he thought bitterly. As though he hadn't ripped me to pieces, as though I weren't his son.

"Perhaps I should make this clear, Severus," Dumbledore said coldly. "You are going to escort your son to Gryffindor Tower, and then you will come back to my office, and we shall have a quiet little chat over mint tea."

Snape stood up. He seemed ready to spit fire, and his shoulders were tense as misshapen blocks of marble. "Very well, headmaster," he said shortly. He spun around. "Up, Potter!"

Harry stood.

Snape stormed to the oak doors and pulled them open, stalking out before Harry had even left the vicinity of the couch.

"Harry!" Dumbledore called.

Harry stopped.

"I forgot, dear boy…" he muttered. Harry turned. Dumbledore had opened a drawer in his desk, and after some fumbling he took out a wand. My wand, Harry thought, his heart skipping a beat.

"Yes, your wand," Dumbledore said, smiling. He held it out, and Harry moved forward, took it. Warmth spread from his fingers over his arm and the rest of his body.

"Thank you, professor," Harry said, gripping the wand. He turned around and slipped his wand into his robes, comfortably close to his body.

"And Harry," the headmaster said, voice soft and earnest. "If there is anything at all you would ever want to tell me, my door is open to you. Always."

Harry nodded without turning and continued out the door.

He didn't feel like hobbling down any faster than he had to, so he let the spiraling staircase slowly deliver him to the bottom. Once there, he hesitantly pushed open the doors and moved to where Snape waited.

"Took you long enough, Potter," he sneered.

Harry felt the snake hiss at his neck. He ignored it, and said nothing.

Snape gave a little grunt and stalked down the hall at a furious pace. Harry hurried after, noticing dryly that keeping pace wasn't too difficult with his longer legs and the gift of lightness. The corridors and hallways seemed different from what the remembered. Perhaps it was the snake's vision, he thought, watching his father's cloak billow. Snape. His father.

They reached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Oh, hello," she said, blinking at them. She looked at one, then the other. "Are you in the wrong part of the castle, dearie?" she said, addressing Harry.

"He is not, actually," Snape snapped. "Potter, the password."

"Er…" Harry stopped. "I don't know, actually."

"You don't know," Snape repeated slowly, as though to stretch out its stupidity.

"How would I know?" Harry countered heatedly. "When I was here in the summer, there weren't any passwords, and I never went into the tower after term began. You know that—father."

Harry didn't know why he said that last bit, but he could blood flush his face at his own daring, his own anger, or perhaps his own folly.

Snape hissed. "Don't you dare call me that!"

"You have no right to deny me it!" Harry said fiercely. The snake was staring at where Snape stood, arms crossed and shadowy, eyes glinting madly. "If you don't want me to say it, why did you accept my claim against Voldemort's?"

Snape flinched at the name. "Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect towards a teacher!"

Harry went on. "Why do you hate me—even now, when I'm anything but James Potter's son? You were more—reasonable, before you knew that I was your son." Harry felt the dangerous aching at the back of his eyes, the soreness at his throat. "What have I done wrong? What did I do wrong—simply by being born to you?"

"You lived," Snape hissed dangerously. "And you are an idiot to think what happened in the Great Hall was any form of your so-called acceptance. My life was in danger, and you, Potter, presented me with the opportunity to save it. I took it. And that was all."

Harry's mouth snapped shut. "Then perhaps I never should have saved you," he said coldly, though, even through the heat of his anger, he knew those words were hollow. Even if he had known this would occur, he would have done the same. And he had known that this might—probably would—occur. And still he had done it.

Snape sneered. "Perhaps indeed. Or perhaps you should not have expected any return for your altruism."

"Considering what house my father belonged to, that's rather impossible," Harry said acidly. "But it's done, and you owe me a life debt."

The portrait door creaked open.

Snape seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but he stopped, with visible effort. He strode forth and flung the portrait open all the way. The third year, who was halfway over the threshold, stumbled back with a squeak under Snape's glower.

"Get in, Potter!" Snape barked.

Harry clambered into the common room, still fuming, making sure that he didn't stumble and make a fool of himself in front of Snape. He wondered if his father—if Snape—would come in as well, but the professor merely slammed the portrait shut. As expected, Harry thought irately.

Then he looked up and noticed the silence.

Harry gulped. His anger ebbed away, leaving him feeling small, bereft. He wished suddenly that he weren't looking through the snake's eyes, that each blank and hostile look weren't branded into his brain.

The faces were all familiar, as were the comfortable couches and glorious tapestries. He knew that giant fireplace and the scratches in the tables, the feel of the stone inlays of the window seat, but at the same time it was all alien, all strange, all an alien world.

"Who're you?" one of the students asked loudly, challengingly.

Before Harry had the chance to answer, someone moved towards him. Hermione, Harry thought. He felt himself tense but made himself relax, remember what had happened last time; but Hermione stopped a few steps away from him and didn't touch him. "Harry? Is it you, Harry?" she asked hesitantly.

Harry nodded, feeling relief wash over him. He could hear the murmurs of disbelief and puzzlement all around him, but he ignored them. "Yeah, Hermione. It's me." Their words wrapped around him like a cotton cage—Harry Potter? No, it can't be… But don't you remember at the Sorting Feast…? Down there, in the Great Hall, wasn't that him…? A Slytherin… Snape…

Someone else came towards them, and Harry saw that it was Ginny. "Harry? Harry, you've—" She stopped, as though not knowing how to complete the statement, but her eyes strayed down and she jerked back. "Harry, there's a snake 'round your neck!"

A few of the Gryffindors gasped, screamed, scrambled back. Damn it, Harry thought, one hand going up to touch the snake. I should've hidden it, or made it invisible.

"Utterly pathetic," the snake hissed drolly.

Harry tapped at it sharply, thinking that it would be a very bad idea for him to answer. "Yeah, it's a snake, but it's not hurting me, and it helps me see things," he explained quickly.

"Oh," said Ginny.

An uncomfortable silence settled. He could tell that Hermione and Ginny and the rest of the room were wishing they could ask questions, wishing they could demand answers, but Hermione and Ginny couldn't because he was Harry, and the rest of the room couldn't because neither Hermione nor Ginny could.

Someone came down from the staircase leading to the boy's dormitory. Harry felt his heart turn to ice. It was Ron.

Harry watched the redhead descend the stairs, noting that Ron's head was bowed, and his face, what little of it that could be seen, seemed sour. Ron's hardly ever like that, Harry thought, as the Gryffindors in the common room shifted to make space for Ron, as though he were a tyrant descending from his high throne.

Ron looked up.

Hermione sidled between them. "Harry's back, Ron," she said, half hesitantly, half defiantly.

"Potter," Ron said suddenly. His face twisted slightly, sullenly. "So. Have you told everyone your big secret? Oh wait, I forgot, you blurted it out in the Great Hall. Did Dumbledore send you here to say good-bye before you go to your father?"

Whispering arose, confused whispers— His father? I thought his father was dead… James Potter… But remember what had happened in the Hall?… I couldn't see!… You-Know-Who… Snape…

"Ron!" Ginny snapped. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sneered angrily. "Ask Potter—or should I say, Snape?" He crossed his arms and looked away.

Harry was reminded of a sullen, lost child. It was most unlike the Ron Harry had known, and the closest Harry could remember was that brief time in their fourth year, when Ron had been struck with jealousy over the Triwizard Tournament. But what's there to be jealous about? Harry thought in disbelief. It can't be.

Ginny had stepped forward hesitantly. "Harry…?"

"Professor Snape is my father," Harry said without preamble. The whispers stopped abruptly. "I found out from a letter I received over the summer. It was from my mother, and time-delayed."

"Well, d'you suppose Snape'll be a bit easier on me, then?" said Neville lightly. Harry smiled in Neville's direction, but there were only a few chuckles: nervous, uncertain.

Ron glared. "If your father's a bloody Death Eater and you're finally admitting it, why're you still here?"

"Ron!" Hermione snapped.

"My father being Snape doesn't make me any less of a Gryffindor," Harry snapped, though the statement sounded so full of lies to him. He—the Heir of Slytherin—in Gryffindor house. But who was it that had said that the line between Gryffindor and Slytherin was thin? "And my father is no Death Eater. Voldemort"—a collective gasp that Harry promptly ignored—"only attacked him in the Great Hall because he was our spy."

"You mean—he was a Death Eater?" someone shouted, voice full of alarm.

"Was—but no more," Harry replied. He didn't like the ensuing noise. It was low, rumbling, and ominous, and the whispers… See, I always knew it… Should be in Azkaban… My Da knew him, and he always said that Severus Snape was a rotten apple—bad to the core…

"He was our spy!" Harry shouted, but his voice was lost to the crowd. "He saved many lives!" he added, but his voice was less strong, for he couldn't help wondering—for every life Snape had saved, how many had he killed? Did this cold mathematical balance still torment his father's heart? Suddenly, everything was less clear than it had ever been, and the anger Harry felt became confused by sorrow and compassion. He remembered—a flash, strange and unbidden, seemingly from so long ago—Remus's voice reading his mother's letter: He is a good man. Give him time; be patient. Voldemort hurt him just as much as he hurt me, and you, and all the rest of us…

The crowd was restless, waiting, as though in an arena, for the next round.

Ron stayed sullen, silent.

Harry moved hesitantly. He left Hermione and Ginny where they stood and walked towards the staircase to the boys' dormitory. In a few steps he would pass Ron. Harry wondered if he should brace himself for a blow, or look down so he wouldn't trip over an outstretched foot, but the few steps passed, and nothing happened. He reached the bottom of the stairs with a feeling of relief. He made his way up.

The snake had turned its to look over his shoulder. As Harry ascended, hands brushing the walls and feet tapping the stairs, he saw the sea of people close behind him like the waves of a stormy ocean.

Well, my stuff is still here, Harry thought, surveying his bed through the snake's eyes. His trunk was there, unpacked, and his bed was bare. There was a mess in the rest of the dormitory, but the scattering of things seemed to shy away from his space. Here I am again, he thought, and wished he felt more at home.

Harry heard footsteps. Three people, Harry guessed. And none of them Ron.

Neville entered first. "There you are," he said, walking to his bed and sitting on it. Dean Thomas came in next, and Seamus Finnigan after him. Neither of them drifted from the doorway, and Harry noticed the way Seamus's gaze went over everything—the ceiling, the window, the beds, the carpet, the scattered pieces of parchment—everything, except for him. Dean seemed quite the opposite, and Harry felt himself getting uncomfortable under the other Gryffindor's stare.

"We were just… wondering," Neville said, "If you were okay." He looked pointedly at the two boys in the doorway.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah," he muttered. He looked down briefly before looking up again, and quickly looked down again when Harry turned his face so that his blind eyes met the gaze. "We just… wanted to make sure you were fine."

Seamus said nothing. His eyes darted from the window to the wall at the other side of the dorm.

Harry nodded. "I'm fine, thank you," he said and winced slightly at how formal he sounded.

"That's good," Neville said. There was a rather uncomfortable pause, and Dean and Seamus glanced at Neville, as though for some signal. "We didn't touch your things," Neville went on. He gestured at Harry's bed. "It's all there, I'm sure."

"Thank you," Harry said, noting how repetitive he sounded. He ran a hand over his coverlet. "So…" He stopped, thinking for something to say.

"You'll have to go to McGonagall for your timetable," Neville said, inspired. "We all got them the first morning. I'm in N.E.W.T.S. level Herbology and Transfiguration and—can you believe it—Defence Against the Dark Arts! I'd have failed without the D.A. last year, I'm sure."

"That's great," Harry said earnestly. "That really is. And you did it on your own, Neville." He paused, attention moving to the two boys in the doorway. "Dean, Seamus, what classes are you taking?"

"Ah—Transfiguration, Divination, and History," Dean said, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes darting up to Harry without daring to stay there long. Harry decided to take mercy and turned his face away, though the snake didn't avert its gaze. "I can't believe I didn't fail History of Magic…" He chuckled nervously, staring unswervingly at Harry once more. "I… uh… did fail Astronomy, though."

"So did I," Harry said, managing a thin smile.

Seamus cleared his throat. "Divination," he said hesitantly. "And—Herbology. Like Neville."

"I expect I'll be taking Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said when a silence threatened to fall. "And maybe Charms and Transfiguration. And Potions."

This time a silence did fall.

"Well," Neville said awkwardly. "Um. We're glad you're back, Harry." He stood. Dean and Seamus had drifted out already. "Bye, then. I'm pretty sure classes are cancelled, so you might… come down to the Common Room, I suppose."

"Thanks Neville," Harry said. "I appreciate it."

Neville left, almost reluctantly, and Harry heard the three sets of footsteps descend the stairs and disappear.

"They fear you," the snake hissed. "Those two that dawdled in the doorway like sheep. And the one on the bed didn't know quite what to expect."

Harry sighed and gently stroked the snake. "I know," he hissed back. He could feel the sun from the window falling over his arm, his face. It was quiet in the room. Harry found himself… glad that he was… alone. "Again," he whispered aloud to the air, and his hand stopped stroking the snake, and fell still.