A/N: Many thanks to Procyon for preventing my grammar from falling apart.

Chapter 16: Changed and Unchanged

He lay still for a long time after he awoke. He had woken up too early, judging from the stillness that shadowed the entire tower, and the snake was gone. Where was it? Why did it have to go now, when he needed it? He felt apprehensive about getting up without the snake. He had managed to make his way around before entering the Chamber, and he supposed he'd done it in years past, in those chilly mornings when he'd crawled out of bed, eyes half shut and mind half asleep; but now, as he bent his thoughts on swinging his legs out of bed, walking to the bathroom, opening the door, feeling for his toothbrush (he remembered that he had put it in the corner last night before going to bed), and brushing his teeth, he was confronted with terrifying unknowns. Worst of all was having to relieve his bladder. He was blind. How was he supposed to aim? He would have to sit, as he had done while convalescing in the hospital, and he'd have to be careful not to trip over the toilet. In the portrait, bodily functions seemed to have ceased. But now, once again in the world of the living, the smallest of problems took on colossal proportions.

Someone stirred. It would be best to be finished before the others awoke, he thought.

He clambered quietly out of bed, listening intently the entire while. The chorus of breathing was as familiar to him as the texture of his palm. He shuffled slowly across the room with arms extended, feet taking cautious half steps. Halfway across his big toe stubbed something; he edged around it, wondering what on earth it was; then he stepped on an inkwell and broke it with a loud crack.

Someone mumbled, sighed, and sat up with a rustle of sheets. Harry mentally cursed himself: why did he have to be clumsy?—

"Harry…?"

It was Neville. "I stepped on something," Harry whispered, keeping his voice as low as possible.

"Oh, Ron's inkwell."

Great, Harry thought, flapping his hands around to keep his balance as he kept his ink-stained foot in the air.

There was the sound of Neville stumbling out of bed. "Here, let me help…"

A hand took his upper arm, and Harry tensed.

"Go ahead and put your foot on the carpet. We'll get the house-elves to clean it later…"

Relax. Relax. He managed to obey without doing anything particularly embarrassing. "Am I going to step on something?"

"No, no, it's pretty much clear all the way to the loo—wait, let me move my Herbology book. There, it's all clear."

Harry walked hesitantly, his hands in front of him, until they touched the doorframe. "Thanks, Neville," Harry said sincerely.

"Don't mention it. D'you need me to get you your toothbrush, anything like that…?"

"No, I'm fine. Go get some more sleep. What time is it?"

"It's… I don't know. Just call me if you need anything. I'll be lying in bed."

Neville left, closing the door behind him, and moments later Harry heard the sound of a softly murmured cleaning spell.

Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He'd have to work on that. This wasn't the portrait world anymore; he'd have to learn, or relearn, how to live with other humans—learn to touch and be touched, and to listen to words both kind and terrible and answer them with the cautiousness of a Slytherin and the earnestness of a Gryffindor.

He moved away from the door, keeping one hand on the counter as he headed for the stalls. As he took his little shuffle-steps, he hoped that nobody's robes were still on the floor. How had he been able to move so smoothly before, when he had been flying down the corridors to the Great Hall, or darting from portrait to portrait like a shadow? Maybe it was an unconscious thing. There was nothing that was unconscious about his trek right now: he could feel acutely the cold tiles and the slightly moist air and the smooth countertop under his fingers; he could hear the drip from some leaky tap and sense the moving water of some pipe under his feet. When he finally reached a stall, his heart gave a massive sigh of triumph and relief as he slipped inside and shut the door firmly behind.

The bathroom door slammed open. Footsteps and grumbling, both terribly familiar, and briefly Harry could see in his mind's eye the gangly redhead running a freckled hand through the shock of crimson hair. The shuffling continued close to his stall, and then he heard the sound from the urinal.

"Potter!" Ron barked in a rather slurred voice, sounding delightfully surprised, like a dog that had found a piece of meat lying unattended. Harry said nothing. Ron chuckled. "Sitting down like a little sissy? I didn't know little Slytherin traitors were like that."

Silence. Please leave, Harry thought. Just leave.

Then something hit the wall of the stall like a furious hammer—once, twice, a kick.

From outside came an angered voice, Neville's voice, "Ron! What are you doing?"

A pause. "Nothing," Ron yelled back.

I wish I'd brought my wand, Harry thought. He waited a moment longer, wishing fiercely that Ron would just leave. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, he heard the shuffling steps, moving at a surly, sullen pace out of the bathroom and over the carpet; then there was the sound of covers sliding aside and the low mumblings of voices.

Harry let out a sigh and buried his face in his hands, hands that were already wet with sweat. I had better come out soon, he thought. The bathroom was unusually empty: it was, he thought, because they knew he was in there. The thought was depressing.

Some time later, he left the bathroom, managing not to bump into anything as he crept into his dormitory. The noises were reassuringly familiar: Seamus, who was a very morning person, was talking animatedly to Dean, who grunted replies every so often. Neville was humming quietly under his breath, and—

Silence swept before him like the radius of a deadly spell.

Harry cleared his throat. "Good morning," he said as normally as he could.

"G'morning," Neville replied.

"Good morning," Seamus said cautiously.

Harry attempted a smile before making his way back to his bed. His heart was pounding inside him—he'd never felt like this before, in the very place where he used to feel safest, where he used to feel home—

Something was thrust in front of him. He instinctively leapt into the air, just as Neville snapped, "Ron!"—

Harry landed lightly in front of his bed, his mind slowly, painfully making the connection: Ron had tried to trip him. Ron. His best friend. His best friend. He told himself that he had expected this—had known this would happen; but hope was a traitorous thing, and as he felt his way back to his bed, he grimly cursed himself for his stupidity.

"How could you try to trip him? He can't see!"

"He didn't fall," Ron replied sullenly. Then, nastily, "And anyway, he doesn't belong here."

"Stop talking bullshit. And don't forget, Ron." Neville paused a moment, and Harry understood why with his next words. "I'm a prefect, Weasley."

That means… Harry frowned, hardly able to believe it. But it's impossible! Why would Dumbledore would take the prefect badge from Ron—and give it to Neville? Not that Neville was incapable, but…

Harry moved into a squatting position, hands outstretched and patting at the area around him. He found his battered suitcase and fumbled with the latch, his train of thought broken. He'd think about it later, or maybe ask… ask someone about it. He opened his suitcase and felt for his school robes. He found the Hogwarts badge at length, and pulled it out.

"Harry, d'you need me to…?"

"I'm fine, Neville," Harry said. He'd need to get all his parchment and textbooks and quill and inkpot in his satchel, and then he'd have to find his shoes… Where did he put them last night? "I'll manage. Go on to breakfast."

"All right," said Neville. Harry was shoving his Potions book into his bag when he heard Neville say sharply, "Weasley, you go down first."

"Bastard," Ron muttered under his breath—too quietly, Harry thought, for Neville to hear—but he strode across the floor and down the stairs.

"See you, Harry," Neville said, and left.

Harry found his shoes under his bed (why had he stuck his shoes under his bed?) and pulled them on. He could hear Dean and Seamus's movements, their breathing and their rustling parchments, but they were silent. They were never silent. They were always talking, about the latest broom or the hottest Quidditch star, about living Muggle or living wizard—they were never silent.

"I'll see you all later," Harry said, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.

"Yeah," Dean said in a clipped tone.

Harry felt his way to the staircase and began to descend. As he went down the first few steps, he could hear Seamus and Dean's voices rising again, an indistinct murmur that seemed to bear him ill will, to whisper in satisfaction that he was gone. He shook his head, trying to dispel that strange and illogical notion. Why am I thinking such things? he thought, moving as quickly as he could through the Common Room. It was like wading through a pool of icy water. It wasn't the absolute silence of emptiness that confronted him: it was the unnatural quiet of whispers, whispers that he could hear, every word as distinctly as a drop of water in a well… "…he had a snake with him, did you see?" "Snape's his father! He was never a Potter…" "Death Eater's son, that's what my father says…"

He shut the portrait of the fat lady behind and leaned against it for a brief moment before making his way down the corridor, his back ramrod straight. The thundering of his heart gave way to the bumble of voices from the Great Hall long before he thought it would. It made him sick in the stomach, listening to the voices grow louder and louder, louder than he'd thought possible. How had the Great Hall become such a howling, shrieking storm?

He was in it now, and the tempest raged about him. The Gryffindor table was right before him, but he couldn't tell which seats were taken. After a moment's hesitation, he moved resolutely up to the table.

"Excuse me—"

The girl next to him screamed shrilly. Harry winced as he listened to the spreading ring of excited babble like a shockwave from her scream. He waited, for some response from her, perhaps "sorry, you shocked me," or "I didn't see you," but none came.

"Excuse me, but could you tell me where there's an empty seat?"

"I… I…"

Another voice, hostile but quivering with fear: "Don't threaten her, Death Eater!"

Harry drew back. The voices swirled around him, trying to sweep him away like the wind tearing at a pale green leaf. He didn't know what to do, where to go; he was paralyzed with helplessness; where was the snake, where was Snape, where was his f— He cut himself off before the thought could be finished. What a childish thing to do, to wish for his father in the face of difficulty; his father hated him. He was alone.

"Harry!" It was Neville. Harry turned to the other boy, noting that there were other footsteps coming. "Really, Harry," said Neville in a fussy voice, "you should've let me help you down…"

"Hermione?" Harry said as Neville took his wrist.

The footsteps stopped. "Yes, how did you know?"

"It sounded like your walking," Harry said. "I…" he said and stopped. Neville's hand on his wrist felt like a manacle, a clammy palm with ruthless fingers.

"Harry, are you all right?"

"He's fine. Are you, Harry? Here, sit," said Neville and mercifully let go. Harry felt for the empty spot on the bench and seated himself shakily.

He flinched when a voice nearby shouted his name: "Harry!"

"Hey, Ginny," Harry said, hoping he sounded at least a bit glad to hear her.

"You're back!"

"Yeah." Harry picked up his fork and wondered what he might say. "Um. I am back."

"That's great!"

Harry winced internally at the artificial enthusiasm of her voice. "Yeah, uh, I missed all of you too."

The conversation was extremely strained—if it could be called a conversation at all. There was a wall between him and them, Harry thought sadly. They had asked, as politely as possible and consequently in a manner as awkward and embarrassed as possible, where he had been, and he had replied, skipping so many things that he was sure it made him sound guilty and flustered, something vaguely about being in the Chamber of Secrets—which was enough to send another shockwave of silence and excited whispers throughout the Hall.

"I think it's terrible," said Ginny in a forceful tone, interrupting Hermione's ramblings about what they had been learning in Transfiguration, "that Snape is your father now."

"Really?" Harry said mildly. "Why?"

"I know he's in the—old crowd and all, but like the Prophet said—"

"Ginny!" Hermione snapped.

Harry sat up straight. The Prophet. He winced: while in the world of portraits, he'd forgotten about the press. "They wrote something today, didn't they?" he said grimly. "Can one of you read it for me?"

None of them replied for a moment. "Harry," said Neville in a careful sort of voice, "it's a really bad article—there's no point in reading it."

"I'd like to see what they're saying about me," said Harry. And my father.

"Well, I'll summarize it," Hermione said apprehensively. "Um. It was written by"—she sounded very strained—"Rita Skeeter—"

"What! I thought—"

"Yeah, but she registered," Hermione said morosely. "Anyway, the first paragraph is, you know, a recap about how everyone thought you'd gone over to the dark side since you disappeared. Then it talks about how you suddenly appeared and, um, went traitor on You-Know-Who and attacked your—attacked the Death Eaters you'd managed to smuggle in. And then it goes on about how you're actually Snape's son, and then it talks about Snape being a Death Eaters, and at the bottom, it quotes Dumbledore saying that Snape was a spy, but right afterwards it quotes"—she hesitated—"quotes Ron saying that Snape is… saying bad things about Snape. That, followed by Ron's little rant about you."

Harry swallowed his mouthful of toast. "That's…"

"A load of shit," Neville growled.

"It's interesting," Harry said neutrally. It was what he might have expected. "How much do the students believe it?"

"I think we're the only ones who don't," said Hermione dryly.

"Does Ron—?" He stopped himself before finishing the question and said quickly, "It'll wear off in a few weeks once they realize I'm not about to kill them."

"Yes," said Ginny enthusiastically, "and if you let them know how you never wanted Snape as your father, it'll help. I mean, you're still Harry, even though you look—er—really different."

"Yeah," Harry said carefully. "Of course."

"You could make a statement to the Prophet like you did to The Quibbler last year. I could—"

She fell silent, and Harry identified the approaching footsteps as belonging to McGonagall.

"Mr. Potter," she said. "I have here your timetable." She paused. "Professor Snape informed me that you had an animal with which you could see…?"

"Oh—er—it's not here right now," Harry said apologetically. Where is that stupid snake?

Harry felt a movement in the air as Neville took the sheet of parchment. "I'll read it to him," he said in a way that reminded Harry very strongly of Percy Weasley.

"If you would be so kind, Mr. Longbottom. And Mr. Potter, I advise you find your familiar right away."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you."

After McGonagall left, Harry turned to Neville. He was relieved McGonagall had stopped by; it derailed Ginny's train of thought and, anyway, he was curious as to what his timetable was.

"I'm sorry Harry," Neville said, suddenly sounding like the old Neville, trembling in the dungeons behind the twisted remains of a melted cauldron.

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You've got double Potions today. Then you get to have lunch with Dumbledore in his office."

"Oh." Harry felt his heart wilt. Snape. His father. Then Dumbledore. But mainly, Snape. He swallowed hard. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to have to go. "Well, does anyone else have double Potions with me?"

"I do," Hermione said briskly. "We'd better get going now, or else Snape'll dock points for being late."

Harry nodded mutely. He gathered his satchel and stood up. He was about to go when Ginny stepped up to him—too close; he flinched, but she didn't notice—and said fiercely,

"Don't let that slimehead get at you, Harry!"

Harry nodded, though he wished she'd step aside. "Yeah—I'd better go now." He took a few shaky steps in the direction of the dungeons. "Hermione?"

"I'm here," she said next to him.

He moved closer to her voice. He could hardly hear his own footsteps in this whirlwind of noises. "Am I heading in the right direction?"

"Yeah. Do you—mind if I hold your wrist?"

Harry hesitated. She's observant, he thought. "No," he lied firmly. He held out his hand and felt her take it after a moment's pause. "At least, I won't," he added quietly.

They were in the corridor heading down to the dungeons when he stopped.

"Can you lead me somewhere where there's nobody around?" he said, the sound of footsteps rustling at the periphery of his hearing. The footsteps lingered there, as though too afraid to get any closer but too morbidly fascinated to leave.

"Okay," said Hermione. "Here, I suppose." She pulled him into a smaller corridor that felt much more empty. "What do you need?"

"I need to call my snake," Harry said apologetically. "Um. Do you mind if I speak in Parseltongue?"

"Oh—no, not at all. Actually, I'd like to see—or hear it again. It's fascinating, really." She stepped aside. "Go ahead."

Harry reached out a hand and felt the wall. It was rather embarrassing, actually, and he wished Hermione weren't watching him, but he dropped to the floor anyway, lowering his face until he felt his hair brush the ground. He wasn't sure this would work, but it was worth a try.

"Snake!" he hissed."Where are you?"

He felt the echoes of his call spread out in the walls of the castle, like the vibrations of a magical chord deep within the castle.

"Snake—?"

He heard someone from outside the corridor scream. Harry leapt to his feet and nearly lost his balance. He heard Hermione call his name, but he avoided her hands and darted to the entrance of the corridor.

He could hear only a confusing squabble of screams and shuffling feet, falling books and shattering inkpots, but he could feel the magic. Someone had just cast a spell, and another was on the verge of forming—

"Stupefy!" a male bellowed. A spell splashed over the Hogwarts walls.

"Snake?" Harry hissed. It's not hurt, is it? he wondered.

A moment later Harry felt a familiar coolness against his shin. "I'm here," said the snake in a lazy sort of way. "Did you want to see?"

"Look! It's the Death Eater's son!"

Harry froze. He took a step backwards, all too aware of the whispers sprung up like a bitter wind. More and more people were coming and the whispers were increasing, and Harry knew that there was a crowd before him, a crowd as he could only half-remember, half-imagine—cast in shadow, eyes shifting and sparking with suspicion, lips twisted in murmurs, hands gripping wands tightly—

Harry heard footsteps behind him, and whirled around before he realized it was Hermione.

"What are all of you standing here for?" she demanded.

There was no reply, only silence, but silence could speak more terribly than words.

"Go to class!" Hermione snapped. "There's nothing to look at. You'll all be late, and you'll lose points. All of you, go!"

Gradually, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed.

"Honestly," Hermione said disgustedly. "Did you find—? Oh!" She started. "That's—er—your familiar, isn't it?"

The snake was coiled around Harry's shoulders now, and Harry reached up a hand to touch its head. "Yeah," he said with a fondness that surprised even him. "It is." He frowned reproachfully. "Where were you? It was a nightmare waking up today."

"I was exploring the castle. I'll stay with you from now on if you like, arglwydd."

"Please do," said Harry.

"It's… beautiful, almost," Hermione said in a hushed and slightly nervous voice.

"Thank you, though you don't need to compliment for the sake of complimenting," the snake said silkily.

"It can understand English, too," said Harry. "Really, I shouldn't speak Parseltongue to it—it'll only make them hate me." He pushed his mind into the snake, moving through the haze of whiteness until colors solidified. The familiar gray walls of Hogwarts appeared; the tapestries and paintings, the narrow windows and suits of armors, all rose again like ghosts. "We'd… best be going, I think."

"Yes."

He turned to her—and stopped. She was silhouetted against the brilliant light of the window, her features cast in darkness, and her hair seemed to form a shimmering halo around her face. There was a little breeze dusking from outside, stirring her hair and the edges of her robes.

Then she moved out of the light and looked up at him, smiling but looking rather bewildered. "Aren't you going?"

Harry nodded and cleared his throat. "Yeah." He shifted his satchel and followed her down the hallway.

qpqpqp

They were almost the last to enter the dungeons. Harry turned his head around anxiously, and the snake copied his movements; Snape was nowhere in sight.

"Over here," Hermione whispered.

Harry followed her down the aisle between the cauldrons. He noticed the glances and half-hidden looks, which seemed somehow to block out the sound of their whispers; it was better, he thought, to be actually able to see. Imagination tended to make this worse.

"There's your friend," the snake whispered, and Harry was glad it had the sense to pitch its voice so that it could easily be mistaken for someone's shoe scraping the floor.

"Who?" Harry whispered back.

His field of view swiveled: suspicious glances directed towards him from Terry Boot and Ernie Macmillan, who were whispering to each other behind their hands; Mandy Brocklehurst pretending to be unconcerned by his existence; and behind her—

Draco! Harry thought, and his first reaction was relief. So Draco wasn't too badly hurt after all. Evidently he was well enough to attend classes, and he wasn't encased in bandages either.

"Harry, how—much can you—I mean, obviously you can see with your familiar, but…"

"I am—er—fully functional, if that's what you mean," Harry said.

"Oh," said Hermione. She sounded slightly troubled. "That's great, but Snape is having us work individually, and I don't think you studied the potion last night, so…"

The door banged open (Harry nearly jumped out of his seat) and the familiar footsteps echoed through the dungeon, moving swiftly to the center aisle—close, too close to where he was seated.

"So, let's see how many of you have decided to cause potion accidents today."

Harry sat very still and very straight. He kept his head down, and was glad that the snake did the same, its eyes fixing its gaze on the cauldron on front of him.

"Hannah Abbott?"

"Here…"

The cool voice rolled off the names one by one. It was like all the other Potions classes he'd had in the past: Snape would layer the names with vague contempt, softening it with the name of a Slytherin, and sharpening it with a sneer at the name of a Gryffindor.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Here." Malfoy sounded strangely subdued, Harry thought.

"Theodore Nott."

"Here."

Harry waited with baited breath ("Padma Patil." "Here."); any moment now…

"Zacharias Smith."

"Here."

There was a pause. Harry glanced up. There was a strange look on Snape's face, one that was a cross between disgust and fear. The black eyes flickered to him briefly—so briefly it might've been his imagination—and in a flash, Harry understood. Almost he had the desire to laugh at the terrible irony of it all. Harry Snape? Dumbledore, he decided, was most impressive.

"Harry Potter."

Harry paused. He wasn't Harry Potter anymore. A year ago he had been, and a month ago he might have been, but no longer.

"Potter!"

"Here," Harry blurted out.

"Two points from Gyffindor for not paying attention," Snape sneered. He made a mark on the roll call. "So, you have finally decided to join us, Potter. Rest assured that your sojourn will make no difference at all in how I run this class, although I'm sure we're simply ecstatic at your presence."

Harry could hear a few tentative sniggers.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Lisa Turpin."

"Here…"

"So we're working on the Invisibility Potion?" Harry whispered to Hermione after Snape had given a short lecture reminding them of the gruesome ways he was expecting them to be killed.

"Yeah," she answered, just as quietly. "Just—do everything I do and read the instructions; I looked it over, it's not too complicated, but Snape told us yesterday we had to—"

"Five points"—Harry froze: the cool, contemptuous voice was a mere breath away—"for disturbing the class with your incessant whispering," said Snape. "Granger, move next to Turpin."

Hermione gave Harry a look of helpless anguish. "Yes, sir," she said reluctantly, and gathered her books. As she passed him, she muttered under her breath, "Just remember to…"

"GRANGER!"

Harry jumped, and Hermione dropped her cauldron with a clang. She snatched it up and hurried to the opposite end of the room.

Hermione said it wasn't too hard, Harry thought, as all the other students rose to the supply cabinet. He was the only one still seated. Relax. Read the instructions. The ingredients were familiar to him: monkshood extract, mandrake essence, leech juice, fluxweed… There were quite a few parts that required him to wait, but… This step, where he had to add slowly a handful of fluxweed over a two-minute period while stirring under a shadow, seemed rather difficult… And the last step…

He got up. Hopefully there were enough ingredients that he wouldn't be left with the worst. As he crossed to the supply cabinets, he glanced across the room, at Draco, who was bent over his cauldron, seemingly unaware of those around him. The shoulders, usually held straight, were slumped, and the hair, most unusually, was less than perfect. And no wonder, thought Harry. To be attacked by the one he loved and admired most…

The fluxweed looked a bit too dried, but it would have to do. He went back to his cauldron.

"This is disgusting," the snake hissed quietly, sounding a bit sickly.

"Why?" Harry muttered in surprise.

"Potions. Do you realize just how many disgusting things you're planning to boil together?"

"I do, actually," Harry replied, lapsing into Parseltongue. He looked around; thankfully, nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him. "Really, though, Potions can be interesting." And I am Snape's son, he thought. He felt a surge of confidence. Even if his father hated him, he was still his father's son, the son of one of the most skilled Potion Masters alive.

Hermione was right: the potion wasn't very difficult. It was easy to get lost in the stirring, the cutting, the gentle addition of each ingredient… He didn't even notice Zacharias Smith's cauldron melting until the stinging scent of a smoking cauldron became particularly strong. But he seemed to have a sixth sense telling him whenever Snape was nearby. At those times Harry found it difficult to breathe, to concentrate, to think, to do anything besides turn stiff with dread and an anticipation of hurt.

He was at the last step now. He was almost done, and this would be first successful potion he'd completed by himself…

"So, how is Dumbledore's Golden Boy doing? Really, I'm surprised. No melted cauldron yet?"

Sorry to disappoint, Harry thought, concentrating on the frothing mixture. Five… six… He felt a moment of panic as he wondered if he'd lost count—did he count five twice?—but it was too late, and at the eighth rotation, he tossed in the fluxweed.

For a moment nothing happened. But then, the potion began to turn a sickly brown. Harry looked frantically at the instructions—even if he hadn't stirred the right amount of times, it wasn't supposed to turn this color—

He felt Snape take a step closer; he swallowed and ran his mind over what could have gone wrong— He'd added the monkshood extract, the mandrake essence—

Then, like some kind of ghost rising from a forgotten grave, he remembered a conversation, so long ago… "But, professor, doesn't the effect of the fluxweed negate the leech juice?… Not if you dilute the fluxweed in monkshood extract…"

In one swift motion, he grabbed the leech juice and tossed it—into an empty cauldron.

Snape was making a tsk-tsk-ing sound. "Pitiful, Potter," he said, mockingly sympathetic. "Even Longbottom's efforts exhibited a hint of intelligence. Clean out the leech juice. You're wasting supplies. Or, should I say, you are a waste of supplies?" The remark was made loudly enough that a few Slytherins chuckled. Snape's lips curved in a satisfied smirk as he made a mark on his grade sheet and moved on.

"Did he just make your potion disappear?" the snake hissed.

Harry nodded.

"I should bite him."

"Don't," Harry said sharply. He moved automatically, cleaning the leech juice that had collected in an opaque pool at the bottom of his cauldron. The sides of the cauldron were still warm, and, as he pressed his hands against them, even a little hot.

"Arglwydd…"

"I know," said Harry, taking his hands away. He straightened. "You don't have to worry. I won't ever do anything like that again."

"On the whole, pathetic," Snape announced. "There were, of course, a few stellar examples of said pathetic efforts"—his eyes went to Harry and his lips curled in a deliberate sneer—"and a few that were… acceptable." He glanced at Malfoy, but Malfoy didn't seem to notice. "Review the Age-Detection Potion. Class dismissed."

The other students rose as one and swarmed to the door. Harry watched the crowd apprehensively and decided to wait until it dissipated.

"Harry, did Snape—?"

Hermione was at his side, a worried look on her face.

"He hates me," Harry said simply, gathering his things. They headed towards the exit, and Harry realized that there was one other student who hadn't flooded out with the rest: Draco.

"Oh Harry. You were really close, too; I caught a glimpse of your potion before he went past, and it was really good."

"Yeah, thanks." Draco, walking a few steps ahead of them, glanced up briefly at their approach, and the gray eyes barely darting in Harry's direction before averting back to the ground. Then he sped his steps and quickly disappeared. Harry decided he'd talk to the Malfoy heir later.

"Why do you suppose Snape…?" Hermione stopped, suddenly awkward.

"Why do you suppose he hates me? Come on, Hermione. Just because I'm suddenly his son doesn't mean he has to like me one bit. Look at—look at Tom Riddle. He cast away his son without blinking an eye." Look at my own relatives, he thought, but he couldn't say it aloud. "This blood and kin thing is overrated."

"You sound sort of… bitter."

"Really," he snapped acidly. "Do I?"

"Yes you do," Hermione replied coldly. "In fact, you don't sound like Harry anymore. You sound like Snape."

"Hmm, I wonder why. Could it possibly be that we're related?"

Hermione stopped walking. "Good-bye, Harry," she said. "I'll see you in Gryffindor Tower." She turned without making any eye contact, and left.

"You were kind of rude," the snake commented after she had left and the echoes of her footsteps had faded to nothingness.

Harry leaned back against the wall. "I—am—an—idiot." He sighed and buried his face in his hands, taking two handfuls of his hair and clenching them into fists, fists that shook as his face contorted with self-loathing and anger. Then he let go and sighed. This was great, really great. Now he had managed to drive off one of the only two people that had been nice to him after he'd returned—the one who had understood, better than anyone else, how hurt he was, and who had protected him when the crowd had surrounded him; with a few brilliantly chosen words, he had hurt one whom he had hurt already. He remembered with a sinking heart the blast of magic that had flung Hermione like a rag doll against the wall, remembered that she had forgiven him even as she awoke, even as Ron had condemned him.

"I'm so stupid," he moaned. "Stupid—stupid. So this is why my father's so popular. What a wonderful set of genes I've inherited."

"Hmm, yes. You've certainly got the Slytherin looks."

Harry snorted with laughter. Then he laughed again, in spasms that shook him like sobs. The fit passed, and he slumped back against the wall. "I'd better go see Dumbledore, find out why he wants me," he muttered. "Oh, hell. Good old Dumbledore."

qpqpqp

Fortunately he met nobody on the way up to the headmaster's office. He stopped in front of the ugly gargoyle and vaguely remembered that he had heard the password yesterday, when he had come up to the headmaster's office with Caius Cinna; what was it—?

"Awake, door-watcher," the snake hissed in a very regal tone.

The gargoyle did nothing. "I don't think it knows Parseltongue," Harry said skeptically.

Suddenly the gargoyle turned its head so that its eyes were staring right at the snake around Harry's neck. So maybe it does, Harry thought, rather unnerved by the gargoyle's stare.

"This is the Heir, Slytherin's heir, to whom you owe more allegiance than any other living being," the snake hissed. "Open."

The gargoyle continued staring for a moment before it clambered aside and did something Harry had never seen it do—put its front claws on the ground and lower its head to the floor.

"Go on," the snake whispered.

Harry went in. "What was it doing?" he asked as the staircase spiraled upwards.

"Kowtowing. It's a show of respect. What's this Dumbledore fellow like?"

"Old and crafty," Harry replied. They had reached the top, and Harry paused in front of the door. "Why?"

"He's quite famous among the portraits," the snake murmured. "I should like to meet him."

Harry decided not to say anything uncharitable about Dumbledore—and, after all, what might he have said? The things he had been angry at Dumbledore for doing, the cloaking of the Prophecy, had been done with love, and, at the end of all things, what could he say to that?

He knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Dumbledore called cheerfully from within.

Harry opened the door and stepped inside. He froze when he saw the person sitting at a table laden with mashed potatoes, sandwiches, and a jug of pumpkin juice.

"Potter," Snape said, narrowing his eyes in distaste.

Harry looked away, and the snake followed his movement. Dumbledore was sitting at his table, unwrapping a Muggle sweet with a look of anticipation on his face. There was only one chair unoccupied in the entire room, Harry realized, and that was across from Snape.

"Good day, Professor," Harry said to Dumbledore. He moved to the chair. "Father," he said and sat inside.

Snape set down his utensils with a clank. "Five points from Gryffindor for this blatant show of disrespect—"

"Ten points to Gryffindor for addressing the truth."

Dumbledore's tone was steely, and his blue eyes held no warmth. Harry wished the snake would stop staring at the headmaster.

"Since you've tricked me here so that I might suffer this brat's presence, please say what you've been planning, Dumbledore, so that I may leave as soon as possible." Snape wiped his mouth with a napkin and crossed his arms over his chest. "Rest assured that I've anticipated all your emotional tactics."

"There will be few emotional assaults today," Dumbledore replied. "Or, at least, they're not the main course. Do eat, Harry. You're looking awfully thin."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry. He reached a hand up to the snake's head and turned it so that it was looking down at the utensils. "He's not that fascinating," Harry muttered, picking up his fork and beginning to attack his mashed potatoes. He was, he discovered, naggingly hungry, but under Snape's glare, he found his appetite shriveled to nothingness.

"So, Albus, what is the order of business for today?"

Harry heard the sound of rustling parchment. "As you know, we managed to locate and bring to the headquarters the Dursleys. Through a channel of communication that I do not know yet—though I have my suspicions—the Ministry was able to gain this piece of information." Dumbledore's voice grew grave. "Fudge has made an ultimatum on me: to turn the Dursleys in to them, or to hold a trial with you, Harry, as the main witness."

Trial, Harry thought. Me—witness.

Snape snorted in disgust. "More glory for Potter, then," he muttered.

Harry concentrated on the texture of the mashed potatoes in his mouth. He swallowed it and focused his mind on the feeling of the bolus moving down his esophagus, the feeling of the silverware in his hand as he numbly scooped up another forkful of potatoes.

"Severus," Dumbledore was saying quietly, "I have made many, many allowances for you. But sometimes you go too far."

Snape was silent, though Harry was sure he could feel the hatred radiating from the man sitting across from him.

"Harry?" Dumbledore said gently.

"Is there—no other way?" he said, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Once again, Snape made a sound of disgust.

"I'm afraid there's not," the headmaster replied. "Fudge is hoping to use this as a propaganda piece. If, Harry, you should refuse, which is what Fudge is hoping, he's going to manipulate the Dursleys' words to his advantage. I understand that the Dursleys don't have a very favorable opinion of you, Harry. If you do go to trial, I expect that Fudge is going to try to portray you as… shall we say, a more serious version of Skeeter's article in your fourth year."

"A psychotic nutcase?" Harry suggested. He could hear the bitterness in his voice, sharp as thorns and pungent as bile. Hermione is right, he thought. I do sound like Snape. I wonder if he realizes. He cut down that chain of thought before it became unbearable.

"Harry?"

Harry took a deep breath. It was going to be hell, dragging out all the memories. Just casting his mind upon them, he could remember the feel of the sun, baking his skin, the gravelly voice whispering poisonous words in his ear, the hands raking his flesh…

"Potter!"

Harry jumped. "Yes," he said, looking up, straight into Snape's eyes. "I'll go to the trial."

Snape gave him a scornful glance. "Another grab at glory, Potter? Your current fame and fortune not good enough? Dear me, what a clever move to regain your disenchanted audience's pity."

"Severus!" Dumbledore cried in a voice that was at once angry and incredulous and upset—painfully upset in a way that Harry had never heard before. The outburst vanished with the iciness of his next words. "It pains me to say this, but your behavior is on a level comparable to your father's." The snake turned to Dumbledore, whose blue eyes were blazing like cold fire, but Harry hardly noticed. He felt a pain in his chest that rattled with every breath. "This boy is your son. And he is a son to be proud of and to love. But you have shown him only hate—hate stemming from your own cowardice."

The silence reverberated, like the dying knell of an enormous bell.

"Albus," said Snape, at length. His voice was slow and deliberate, quivering with—with what? hate? anger? fury? "This… brat is not my son. And he will never be."

"SEVERUS—"

The pain exploded, and Harry tasted something coppery at the back of his mouth. His stomach rebelled, and he spat it out. The world whirled as the snake turned its head, and Harry saw that it was blood.

"Harry—!"

Hands—more hands— The pain ebbed, but he felt a cage tightening around him, drawn closer by the storm of emotions and the hands that wouldn't go—

"Don't touch me!" he choked, giving a tremendous push with his feet.

He found himself crouching next to a slender metal pole. He reached up a hand and suddenly heard a swoop of music, just as his fingers touched a long, graceful feather. "Fawkes," he murmured. His voice was hoarse.

He heard footsteps approaching, Dumbledore's footsteps. "Harry…?"

"I'm fine, Professor," he said, and his voice was clear. He looked up, and the snake followed his gaze. Snape was still in his chair, but he tense and leaning forward, as though he were about to spring out of his seat but was held down by an invisible force. His face was ashen, and his eyes were wild with some unnamable emotion; but the moment he met Harry's gaze, the eyes became shuttered once more, and the thin lips twisted themselves into a sneer.

Harry averted his gaze and said, "Professor, do you mind if you complete the business you called Professor Snape here for?"

"Very well," Dumbledore said reluctantly. "I summoned Professor Snape here to inform him that, being Harry's last living and closest relative, he will be legally taking Harry in his custody as soon as the trial ends. In fact, I have already filed a tentative claim so that, during the trial, Professor Snape will take the place of Harry's guardian."

Snape let out a hiss-like breath. "So you have dictated my life once more, Headmaster," he said in a low, trembling voice. "I absolutely refuse. After the trial, I will give that brat up for adoption—and being his legal guardian, there is nothing you can do about it. After all, I am 'dangerous,' according to the Ministry, and Potter's legion of fans will be most eager to fawn over him."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "Harry, would you mind letting me talk to Professor Snape alone for a while?"

Harry got to his feet. "No, of course not." His voice was a bit unsteady.

"If there's anything at all…"

"I understand," he said, and fled.

He had a headache once he reached the bottom of the stairs. He knew what it was: the wretched pounding of suppressed tears, tears that had nowhere to go but to dissipate with time. He nearly tripped as he went past the gargoyle—and almost bumped into a man heading up the stairs.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Professor Cinna!" he gasped, recognizing the pale, hairless features and the self-satisfied smile.

The yellowish eyes ran over him with surgical precision. "Why the rush, Potter?" Caius Cinna remarked. "Or, should I say, Snape?"

"Uh—lunch," Harry lied, wishing to leave as quickly as possible. "Good-bye, sir," he said, and continued hurrying down the corridor. He didn't know where his feet were taking him—certainly not to the Great Hall, or to Gryffindor Tower. Fleetingly he wondered if he could hide in the Chamber of Secrets, but he knew that the temptation to keep hiding down there, deep in the dark and dank and utter stillness, would be too strong.

He stopped in the middle of a long corridor, lit only by a narrow window at the very center. The light fell across a door, and Harry, by some instinct, reached over and opened it.

He stood stock still when he looked inside. It was empty, but he knew the bed, the window, the portrait on the opposite wall. This was the room in which Draco Malfoy had hidden and talked to him, the room that was mirrored in the world of portraits.

He went inside, moving as slowly as a man at the threshold of death, and shut the door.

"Looks familiar," the snake murmured.

"Yes," Harry replied wearily. He moved slowly to the bed and slumped onto it. "Why?" he muttered. He took a deep breath. "WHY?"

Harry let the world fade to whiteness and felt the snake slide from his shoulders. "Not everything can have a reason or an explanation," it murmured.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "Why did he send me back—why? Why did he give me the strength to stand it?" He choked, swallowed, and continued. If he hadn't been speaking in Parseltongue, the words would have been caught in his throat, mixing with the tears, never to emerge."Why couldn't he just have left me there in the Chamber—and let me break?"

"Because you don't have that luxury," the snake answered with surprising firmness. "You don't luxury to escape into madness, arglwydd. It isn't your fate. You are the Heir."

"But why—why me, WHY?" It was difficult to breathe; he had to gasp for breaths, forcing them past the dry convulsions. More than anything he wished he could cry—here, alone, engulfed by the numbing whiteness…"When might this stop? When might I live like anyone else? I don't want much, just—just a place I can call home, friends, family…"

"You know the answer, arglwydd. You know it."

Did he know it? Did he know the answer? He felt his breathing calm, the racking sobs even out and fade. Then he chuckled bitterly, laughing without sound, without humor. "You're right. I do know." The laughter careened hysterically, like a boat tossed by a raging sea."The answer is—that there is no answer! There is none! There will never be a resolution—never."

He felt the snake wrap comfortingly around his leg. Strange that this touch, so much more intimate, awakened no memories from the summer. "There may be an ending to your story, but true, there will never be a resolution. And perhaps you can learn to take strength in that."

Take strength? he wondered. How could he ever take strength from this—this endlessness, this loneliness, this vast indifference? All I ever really wanted, he thought— All I ever wanted— All I ever— He clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. All I—

Slowly but surely, with cold determination, he beat the thought to death.