A/N: Once more, immense thanks to Procyon Black.

Chapter 22: Prometheus Unbound

The thought ran through his mind and tumbled through his body, tingling every part of his being like a whispered hallelujah: he called me Harry. He called me Harry. Then, after taking a deep, shuddering breath, he said in a hard, brisk voice, "We don't have very much time. What happened? Where am I?"

"You are in Hogwarts castle," Snape said, slipping back into his typical cool tone. "More specifically, you are the castle's prisoner, and Caius Cinna, who is now headmaster, is your warden." Hogwarts, thought Harry. At least I'm not in Azkaban. It could be worse. "Many things happened that night, but first, how did you know that there was a Death-Eater attack?"

"The castle was groaning," Harry replied. "Didn't you feel it?"

"Groaning?"

"Yes—trembling, almost, as though it were in pain."

"I see," Snape murmured. His voice was unfathomable. "And so you went to Dumbledore's office?"

Harry stiffened. "Where else would I have gone?"

"It was a wise choice, given the circumstances," Snape said in what might have been a conciliatory tone. "And—" He paused.

"He was dead when I found him," said Harry. "He was—slumped over his desk, and his lips were purple. The snake said… said that Dumbledore must've been poisoned." Harry beat down the memories of stark moonlight and waxen skin and cold, unmoving lips. Later, not now; he had less than half an hour, and time was ticking away. "So I tried to take Dumbledore to the hospital wing, just in case—you know. Just in case he was still alive."

"But on the way, you met Death Eaters?"

"Yes," said Harry. "And I heard them go towards the dungeons, and I saw the flashes of green." He paused. "You know the rest."

"Yes," Snape said slowly, "I do. After you retrieved me, I went back to find Draco, but he was—gone. And then I saw you fall, and I… went to where you were." He took a deep breath, and Harry knew that that simple act was more of a display of vulnerability than Snape had ever allowed. "But by then, the Death Eaters had begun to retreat, for Cinna had come, and—"

"He must have felt that Dumbledore was dead," Harry broke in. There was a momentary pause. "Sorry."

"No, but what did you mean by that, that he felt Dumbledore was dead?"

"Dumbledore told me, the day before—the attack, that Cinna had bet his soul to him. But Dumbledore didn't think he really owned Cinna's soul, only that Cinna believed Dumbledore owned it, and that everything was a result of that belief. So after Dumbledore died, Cinna must've believed that he'd got his soul back, and so could do anything he wished."

Snape was silent for a moment as he took in what Harry had said. "Indeed… So that is the story of Caius Cinna…" His voice faded into thought, and Harry fidgeted, his chains clinking gently.

"The trial, sir," Harry blurted out. "Did you—were you there?"

Snape sounded reluctant when he answered, and Harry, too, was unsure if he wanted to hear. "I was."

"But you didn't say anything."

"No, I—"

"You couldn't have," Harry finished. "Nobody would have believed you." He took a deep breath. "I'm—just glad that you were there, sir." Harry wasn't sure if that was truthful or not, and wasn't sure if Snape could hear the hesitation.

"Don't call me sir. I am not your professor anymore."

Harry felt at first a slight but not unpleasant bewilderment, but then his heart plummeted. "Have I been expelled?"

"Yes. I'm afraid you have."

At least I'm still alive, thought Harry, trying to ease the leaden feeling in his chest. At least I'm not in Azkaban, or some equally terrible place. I'm still at Hogwarts. Still at Hogwarts.

"Hermione wasn't herself," Harry said, pushing himself on, reminding himself that time was short. "She was being controlled, or Confunded—"

"As much as I agree with you, the Ministry does not," said Snape in his usual tone. "Cinna has been very clever with her."

"But will she—has she got herself back?" Harry asked desperately. It sickened him that Cinna was doing something to Hermione, perhaps trapping her in a terrible place, rendering her helpless as he took over her mind. "And what did he do with the Veritaserum? I…" He felt his mouth go dry at the memory. He remembered, also, after having forgotten it safely for months, the hot breath against his skin and the sharp pain of his shame as he'd fallen helplessly into darkness in that prison, as he had been— It was still difficult, putting a name to the act: as he had been—raped.

"I do not know if Miss Granger is herself yet, but I think it very unlikely. Surely she would not be so silent if she had her will back. But as for the Veritaserum—" He broke off. "I do not understand all of Cinna's powers." Snape began suddenly to pace. "Even less do I understand his motives. Caius Cinna is—" Once again he broke off, though he continued to move agitatedly.

"Has he—done anything to you?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"No, no he hasn't, nothing besides a few taunts," Snape dismissed. "But his motives—he bet his soul, did you say?"

"Yes."

"Then, perhaps, his motives might be based in pride, though I can hardly believe a person with such a big-head could exist in this world."

"So he wants to defeat Voldemort alone?" Harry asked slowly, as comprehension came. "He wants to manage what Dumbledore never managed?"

"Perhaps," Snape said.

"But the Prophecy—" Harry began, and stopped.

Just as suddenly as he began pacing, Snape ceased all movement. "The Prophecy…?"

"It was broken in the Department of Mysteries," said Harry. "But Dumbledore remembered it in full. It said that the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to—"

"—those who have thrice defied him," Snape continued, his voice no more than a whisper, "born as the seventh month dies…"

"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power that the Dark Lord knows not—supposedly. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Harry finished. "Did Dumbledore tell it to you?"

"No," Snape said softly.

"Then how did you—" Harry stopped. Then, he almost staggered as realization dawned. "It was you! You who overheard Trelawney when she made it, you who told Voldemort!"

"Yes," said Snape in that same, uncharacteristically soft voice; but now it seemed to quiver. "It was I."

"You…"

"I HAD NO CHOICE!" Snape snarled, and Harry stumbled back. He froze and stiffened when hands reached out to grab his shoulders, but then he realized they were only there to steady him.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Snape was saying, his voice sounding brokenly uncertain, "I—I did not mean to do that. I—" He stopped, as though searching for words, and Harry thought that this was the only time his father had been so speechless. "I am a—very—sorry man, Harry. I am sorry for so many things, and you're involved in more than half of them." Harry was rather glad Snape's hands didn't leave his shoulders, and that—perhaps it was only his wishful imagination—those last words sounded more dryly affectionate than bitter. "I don't ask for forgiveness, but I—and I will not try to justify myself or the hatred that drove me to do these things, but I—"

"It's okay," Harry interrupted, part of his mind wandering into the past and remembering what Dumbledore, his weary old head bent, had said about regret. Vaguely, almost as though he didn't dare name it, he felt a childlike wonderment: that Snape would say such words to him, would speak to him as though… He stopped the thought. "It doesn't matter now," said Harry, "it's all in the past. And I—do—forgive you." Otherwise, I wouldn't want so badly for you to be my father, Harry added in his mind. He asked, before the delicate silence could become awkward, "Where's Draco?"

Harry felt the hands on his shoulders tense, and Snape said nothing for a moment.

"Is he—" Harry stopped, waited. His mind froze like a frightened bird, and his heartbeat sounded unnaturally loud in his ears.

"I would have lied to you," Snape said softly. "But…" He took a breath, one that shuddered strangely. "Draco is dead."

Harry licked his suddenly dry lips. "Dead?" he said, and his voice sounded very small and very far away. "Dead? How? Is he really dead—do you"—he swallowed—"do you know for sure?"

"Yes," Snape said in a strangely gentle voice, though Harry was dimly aware of how close it was to breaking. "Two days after he was taken, I received a parcel with his… head in it."

Head? Harry thought confusedly, and he felt hands on his shoulders again, holding him steady; head? "No," Harry whimpered, "he—he wouldn't, it's impossible, Lucius Malfoy wouldn't—"

"Lucius Malfoy is also dead," said Snape in that same, gentle tone. "I found his body close to where you had fallen. Your snake was next to him."

"My snake," said Harry, feeling almost against his will a desperate rush of hope, "is it still—"

"It seemed still alive after I found it, but also as though it had been Kissed."

Kissed…? Then Harry shuddered, remembering the last thing he had seen before everything had been swallowed by whiteness. "By a Dementor?"

"Yes. But by the time you had awakened, it was no longer alive."

Harry felt the hands on his shoulders leave, as slowly and tentatively as a repentant sinner. But Harry could think of only Draco—dead. The snake—dead. Dead. Gone. Forever. Dumbledore, too, was dead, and Hermione was no more than a living doll, her brilliant mind dulled by Cinna's power. The Hermione he had loved, the Hermione that had guided him through the darkness of his first days back—was dead. He was alone once more. Alone.

He felt a hand return and touch his shoulder with great hesitation. "I am… sorry, Harry."

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. "I—" He swallowed. The words died on his tongue, and he asked instead, "How much… how much time is left?"

"Not long."

His mind worked feverishly, both to gather what he knew and to suppress those unbearable things for later. "Voldemort will come for me," he said urgently. "He will come for me because I am the only one who can destroy him, and he who can destroy me—"

"In what he left me, Dumbledore wrote of how he thought Voldemort must be destroyed," Snape interrupted.

"How?" Harry demanded quickly, but he could not help noticing that there was a hesitation to Snape's voice.

"Horcruxes," Snape replied in a low tone, "or the splitting of a soul. The Dark Lord made six horcruxes, which is to say that he split his soul into seven parts, and to utterly destroy him, each part must in turn be destroyed."

"Horcruxes?" said Harry, tasting the word as it echoed through his mind. He thought that it sounded somehow familiar. "But—six? And each must be very well guarded…"

"Yes," Snape said heavily, "But it is not so simple after this ritual that he performed, the ritual that took the lives and souls of ten magical children. He has become an ieiunita."

"Ieiunita," Harry breathed, and he remembered with a terrible pang that that was the word the snake has hissed with boundless fury before it had met its death. What else had it said? That its time had come? It knew it was going to die, Harry realized. And it faced its death with the power of a thousand wintry storms. He shuddered: shuddered at the keenness of loss, shuddered at the memory of that gaping hole before sight too died, and shuddered with a terrible determination that the snake would not have died in vain, that Draco, who had stood pale and proud and made him promise to kill Voldemort, and Dumbledore, in his infinite yet world-weary compassion, would not have died in vain.

"They are creatures that are halfway between wizards and Dementors," Snape explained. "They do not fear death or magic as Dementors do, but instead of fleeing from the Patronus, they merely have no reckoning of the emotions that could make one."

"How would I kill one?"

"A very good question," Snape replied dryly, "one that I'm afraid is unanswerable."

"You mean—he is immortal? That he can't be killed, that there isn't a way?"

"No," Snape said irritably, "that is not what I said—"

"YES IT IS!" Harry snapped, breathing hard. "That is what you said, you said that there isn't a way to kill him, that any sort of fighting would be in vain, that we have lost before we have begun, that—"

"Harry," said Snape in a voice that took away all the ire from Harry's mind. He felt the hands again, gripping his shoulders firmly. The voice came from a slightly greater height, and Harry thought suddenly, This must be what it's like to have a father, this…

"We do not have very much time left," Snape continued with a quiet urgency. "There are certain things of… personal nature that I felt best to inform you." The urgency quivered, and suddenly Snape paused. "I must tell you that—" He took a deep breath, and Harry was once again too much aware of his heartbeat. The silence stretched. Harry felt that they were teetering on the edge of a cliff, their breathing the wind and his heartbeat the dropping of sand in the hourglass. "Dumbledore wrote in his will that we should not mourn overmuch for him," Snape said at last, letting out the words with the breath he had been holding.

"Oh," said Harry, not knowing quite what to say. "He… he was prepared, then."

"Yes," said Snape, his voice sounding like an echo. "He was prepared." Harry felt the hands on his shoulder slowly decrease their pressure, and then slip away like dead leaves from branches.

"How much time is there?" Harry asked, after a pause.

"A minute," Snape said. "Two at most."

Harry swallowed. I have to say something, he thought desperately. He thought hard, furiously, for something to say, but he found nothing. His mind seemed to be a desert, bleak and bare and lonely, cracking under the heat of things he didn't know how to put into words.

"Neville testified against me," Harry said at last. He felt Snape stiffening, so he continued quickly, "Don't hold it against him, it's just as terrible for him. He—he's very lonely, and he—"

"Don't make excuses for that dimwit."

"No!" Harry insisted. "You understand, too, what it must feel like for him, to be all alone…" He trailed off, uncertain how to continue, once again feeling as though he had stumbled into forbidden territory he had not dared enter before. Still Snape said nothing, and so he continued, hesitantly, "That's—Neville's situation, really. He's—stuck." Harry took a deep breath. "And that's what everyone wants… isn't it? To be loved. Not to be alone."

He waited, though for what he didn't know. He held his breath, and then shifted, the silence making him feel awkward and uncomfortable. He felt… ashamed, as though he had peeled away all the anger and strength and determination to reveal the frightened and lonely child still at his core. Why'd I have to say something so stupid? he thought irritably. Why'd I have to say that?

"How much time's left?" he asked, just so the silence wouldn't continue.

But before Snape could reply, there was a clanking outside, and Harry heard footsteps approaching. Snape stiffened, and Harry reluctantly stepped back, feeling a terrible sense of loss as he thought of all the things he might have said and would never say. I never even called him 'Father,' Harry realized with a dreadful pang. Not even once…

"Done with your little chat?" Cinna asked in a solicitous voice. "Hmm?"

"We are quite done," Harry said in a hard, brittle voice. "Thank you very much, Mr. Cinna."

"Ah… so your father told you about your most unfortunate expulsion," said Cinna. "Well, it saves me the trouble, then. Come along Severus. I don't think you'd want to stay here in this nasty little room, no matter how sentimental you feel about your son…"

Snape stirred, as though he had suddenly come to life. "Sentimental?" he sneered. Harry heard movement of footsteps, the loud clanking of the closing of the door, the pause as his father stopped.

"Harry," said Snape in his usual, cool tone, "do keep in mind that your claims of loneliness are rather exaggerated. There are yet two Snapes in this world. You and I."

And then, without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hall and in Harry's mind until Harry knew the sounds that resonated with his heart could only be his wistful imagination.

"But I wonder," Cinna murmured, and Harry jumped, for he had nearly forgotten that Cinna was still there, "how long before there is only one Snape left in this world."

Harry stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Cinna moved closer to the bars, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to fill the room the same way it had in the courtroom. "Tell me, what did Dumbledore say about me before he died?"

"That you bet your soul to him," Harry said stiffly.

"But he didn't really believe he had my soul, did he?" Cinna sighed. "Ah, what a disappointment, that the 'greatest wizard of our age' would be so blind as not to see what power he really held in his hands…"

Harry laughed harshly. "Maybe he was blind, for he didn't see what a treacherous—monster you were."

Cinna made a noncommittal sound. "I never swore any allegiance to him, you know. He wanted the best in everyone, and I daresay he was too frightened of me to imagine that I would betray him. But don't worry. I didn't poison him."

Harry moved closer to the bars. "Then who did?"

"Voldemort, of course!" Cinna exclaimed as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You can't imagine our fledgling Dark Lord would waltz into the castle in another's body and simply do nothing…"

"But he can't have, Dumbledore was poisoned weeks after Voldemort fled the castle—"

Harry stopped as Cinna made a tsk-tsking sound. "Time activated poisons work wonderfully well," Cinna said, "especially those activated by the full moon. It was the sherbet lemons, you know. Good thing you didn't eat any, or you'd have died as well."

Harry remembered with terrible clarity those innocent little sweets Dumbledore had been so fond of. If he, Harry, had felt only a bit hungrier, or the guilt in his heart slightly less hampered by his bitterness and pride, he might have taken one and ended up as yet another still, waxen corpse…

"But don't worry about vengeance," Cinna murmured. "Just be a good little boy and stay here quietly without making trouble…"

"You can't defeat him," Harry said coolly. "Only I have that power. It was spoken in the Prophecy."

"Oh, Trelawney's Prophecy," Cinna said in a bored tone. "Prophecies apply only if you let them apply to you, silly boy. Anyway," his voice became brisk, "I heard you have a particular aversion to Dementors."

Harry tensed. "Really?"

"You should be thanking me, you know, for saving you from Azkaban—"

"That was my father, not you," Harry snapped.

"—but considering how stubborn you are, I think you'll need a bit of company," Cinna finished coldly.

Harry swallowed hard and felt a chill wrap around his spine like a clammy hand. He was aware suddenly of something hovering in front of his face, and he darted aside, his chains clinking piercingly.

Cinna laughed. "I'm not going to harm you," he said. "I'm just waiting for you to harm yourself. And you'll have no one to rescue you this time, I assure you. The only one who might have has been dealt with."

Harry shivered, but he steeled himself and demanded, "What do you mean?"

Harry could hear the smile in Cinna's voice as strongly as he could feel the pain from his fingernails pressed sharply into his palms. "Why, that rogue house-elf, Dobby… House-elves have much more power than wizards like to think, but you needn't worry about his fate either, Mr. Potter."

"You—what did you do to him?"

"It doesn't matter," said Cinna in a bored, dismissive tone. "Anyway… it is a rather cold cell you have here." He stopped, pausing for a moment, and then turned around, and was gone.

qpqpqp

Harry stood absolutely still for a moment, keeping his face an iron mask until he was sure the silence was complete, and Cinna had truly left. Then he let out a shuddering breath and slid to the ground.

Here he was, alone in a cell, and in the world outside… He rubbed his face and felt his throat ache. Outside, Hermione was under a spell as terrible as the Imperius, and Dumbledore was laid to rest and mourned and as lifeless as a wax statue, and the snake was without a soul and now without a body, and Draco was a rotting corpse somewhere in the world. Was his body buried, or laid out for the dogs and crows? At least give him a proper burial, Harry thought feverishly. At least grant him that, at least grant him that…

And my father, Harry thought, a shiver running down his spine. He would be alone, too. The world would think he corrupted me, and they would make him miserable for it. Harry shuddered again as a wave of guilt overwhelmed him—it was his fault again, they were both alone, but Snape was suffering the terrified hatred of the rest of the world, while Cinna watched on with that loathsome smile…

But he doesn't hate me, Harry reminded himself. He said that I, too, am a Snape. I am his son. He doesn't hate me. He doesn't hate me.

Harry rubbed as much of his arms as he could reach with his manacled hands. Cinna was right; the cell was cold. And it was getting colder.

Perhaps the coldness was coming from the corridor outside, Harry thought as he got to his feet. He wished he had worn shoes—socks, at least—for the ground felt like ice. But the thought led him to that of the snake, and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suppress the terrible hollow feeling in his chest. I mustn't let them have died in vain, thought Harry as he shuffled to the back of the cell.

He felt something brush his face.

He jumped back, hands stretching in front of him with the silent thieves quivering at his fingertips.

"Who's there?" Harry demanded harshly. Silence answered him. "Caius Cinna," Harry shouted, "I know it's you!"

He shifted so that his back was to one of the walls.

"Show yourself!" Harry snarled.

The sound of his fear, of his pounding heart and rapid breathing, seemed to twist and bend in the silence into something seething. Swallowing hard, he edged towards the back of the cell.

His fingers touched cloth. He stiffened and withdrew his hand, but, as he held himself as still as air before the storm, no other movement greeted him. Slowly, he reached out again, and once more touched the cloth. It felt rough and cold, and when he took his hands away and hesitantly sniffed them, he felt an overwhelming urge to retch.

What is this? he thought, sweeping his hand up to where the face would have been. There was nothing, except a peg holding the cloth at what had to be a hood. But the peg hadn't been there before, thought Harry. This must be Cinna's doing…

He wrinkled his nose. The stench was stronger than ever, and as it crept through his body, reminding him of the dankness of coffins and their long-rotting bodies, he shivered uncontrollably. The air was cold, and it seemed to creep deep under his skin and clench his heart. What was this thing that Cinna had hung in the cell; what was this—

Then, as Harry felt at the empty sleeves, he realized where he had felt this coldness and smelt this smell. This was a Dementor's cloak.

Just as the thought passed into his mind, Harry felt a movement in front of him, and he jumped back. But even as he did so, the stench seemed to sear his brain with its intensity, and he felt the sleeves fit around his arms, the back against his back, the hood enshrouding his face like a Dementor's clammy and skeletal hands—

He tore desperately at the cloak, ripping it off and flinging it down at the ground before darting to the opposite corner. His breaths came in deep, terrified gulps, and he shivered, not only from the fear that stabbed his heart, but also from the relentless cold.

I'm going to freeze to death, thought Harry. He had never been this cold before, not when he had been younger and huddling in his cupboard, his blanket too thin and small to cover his skinny legs. Cinna's making this cell get colder and colder until I freeze… But he can't kill me, Harry thought desperately. Only Voldemort can. The Prophecy said so. But Cinna said that Prophecies apply only to those who allow it, a voice whispered in Harry's mind. And it wouldn't be him killing me, it would be myself. He shivered uncontrollably. It's so—very cold—

He forced himself into as small a ball as he could. He couldn't feel the ends of his fingers, and there was a low, throbbing pain in his ears. But that pain, too, was getting weaker and weaker as numbness seeped through his being.

Let me out, Harry pleaded. Let me out.

He shifted so that the palms of his hands and his face were pressed against the cold stone floor. I am the last Heir, I am Slytherin's Heir. Let me out, please. Hogwarts, hear me now in my time of need. Let me out. He squeezed his eyes tight together, so tightly that he was trembling not only from the cold but from the force of his command. Let me out.

But when he opened his eyes, the cold was still gnawing his bones, the hands he could no longer feel were still pressed against the floor, and the world was still an endless field of white. I can't, thought Harry, I can't escape. He must—he must mean for me to wear the cloak. That's what he wants me to do. To wear the cloak.

He huddled into a tighter ball. Then, as slowly as an old man moving from his deathbed, he reached out a hand and crept towards the Dementor's cloak. The sound of his chains was like metal over ice, and finally, with the cold pressing down on him like a tremendous weight, he vaguely felt the cloak touch his forearms.

His fingers could not obey him anymore, so he fumbled for a long time, wondering which end was the top and which was the bottom. But as he pulled himself closer into himself and nearer to the ground, he felt the coldness ebb, and as he lifted his face in wonder, he felt the coarse edge of the cloak touch his cheek and smelt the reek of death.

I mustn't fall asleep, he thought. I won't die—he can't kill me, only Voldemort can. I will live. And I won't let him turn me into a Dementor. I just mustn't fall asleep. He shut his mouth tight and squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly so that his hair fell over his ears, as though to prevent the Dementor's breath from entering his body. I just mustn't fall asleep, that's all… I just mustn't fall asleep…

He was in one of the hallways of Hogwarts, though the world was still a shimmering expanse of white. The sound of voices and footsteps swirled around him, but certain voices leapt out…

"Loony Lovegood! Loony, Loony!"

"Still think that Potter's innocent? Still think that neither the Veritaserum nor the Priori Incantatem were enough?"

"Maybe she's a traitor. Maybe she's a Death Eater in disguise."

"Naw, she's too crazy for that. She's loony, Loony Lovegood!"

"Loony Luna!"

The whiteness tore itself apart, and suddenly there was light: reddish light of a fireplace, shadows from people whose faces could not be seen, a strange haze that seeped sluggishly around the outlines of all the people. The haze dissolved like fog under the sun, and he was looking into eyes, eyes that were achingly familiar: Hermione's eyes.

"So do you still think he's innocent?" asked a low voice, so close it must have been next to her ear. "Do you still think he didn't do it?"

"No," Hermione whispered emotionlessly. "I was wrong. He's guilty."

"You were wrong all along, weren't you? I was right. You should have listened to me."

"Yes," said Hermione, and a head full of flaming red hair obscured one of Hermione's blank, lifeless eyes.

"I was right," Ron murmured, his face against her face, his eyes shut and face expressionless. "I was right all along, I was right…"

"Yes…" Hermione whimpered, and tears pooled in her empty eyes, flickering with white, roaring like a fire, drowning out voices, noises, words, until all that could be heard was a sound like a dry and mournful wind whispering across a desert.

"Harry…"

A shape like a dying animal reared and strained behind a curtain. It moaned, arching its back and flinging itself about. Then the blanket came off and Neville sat up and stared ahead glassily, his face as pale as a glacier, his thin body trembling like a reed in the wind.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he whispered. "I—I didn't mean to, I didn't… please forgive me…"

Something flashed silver, and then red bled across the sheets, two full drops like blossoms on a tree at the end of winter. The redness bloomed as a stunned voice quavered unseen and Neville stuttered with shame, shame and misery, intertwining like the hollow under ribs, a mouth open wide in silent agony.

"Father…"

Red light, sickly bright in the darkness, then instantly fading back into the eeriness of the world under the full moon.

"Your father died, boy! Your friend killed him with his snake!"

Draco's eyelids lifted and shut like the wings of a dying moth. "Father…"

"Too late!" snarled the voice, or voices, a chorus of masked and hooded figures driven mad by fear and the full moon. "Too late!"

But Draco's eyes, so large and clear they seemed to shimmer like a shadow at the bottom of a lake, moved slightly as the eyelids slid half-shut, and the cracked and bloodied lips moved wearily, mouthed, "Harry…?"

The lifeless body on the dark grass, the pale, bruised limbs ripped from each other, red splattering the bloodless skin, entrails and organs scattered pitifully across the ground, the boy utterly destroyed and no longer recognizable as a pile of broken bone peering from the mass of torn flesh and lacerated skin, but the head, eyes still half-open and lips as pale as skin, face-down in the dirt—

A table. Parchments everywhere. A chair, bare ceilings, hopelessly disorganized bookcases. A cauldron bubbling. Crouched before it was a man in a black cloak, hunched over the fire and gazing unseeingly into the frothing liquid.

He suddenly shut his eyes tight, as though seized by an inexorable nightmare from the past, and rocked back and forth, back and forth, trembling uncontrollably. He ran a hand absently through his hair, stirred the concoction vaguely, blinked without seeing.

"Hold on, Harry," he muttered. "Hold on, you're not alone…" He trembled again and cringed, as though some unseen person before him was preparing to strike. "I w-won't lose you too. You—must—live." He shuddered. "Hold on, Harry, hold on… Hold on…"

Snape lifted his face as though to glare fiercely at his tormenter. "You won't have him, Cinna! Nor you, V-Voldemort! He is mine—my flesh, my kin, my son!"

Harry jerked violently.

Immediately the coldness attacked his exposed limbs, and he curled himself back into the ball, still under the Dementor's cloak.

Had he fallen asleep? He must have. Then—had he dreamed? Were those things his dreams? Nightmares? But they didn't feel like dreams. They felt too terribly real.

Hermione, thought Harry, seeing again the images like flashes of color. Neville. Draco. Ron. Father.

The castle groaned.

Abruptly, he flung the cloak off his shoulders. The cold blasted him, but he ignored it. He bit his right pinky fiercely, then felt at it, making sure that it was bleeding. Then, flattening a section of the Dementor's cloak as best he could with manacled hands, he drew a vague rectangle.

There, he thought, mind numb with the cold. A frame.

He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, and he couldn't tell how much blood he had lost, or if his finger was still bleeding. The castle groaned again, rumbling like it had the night of the attack. I need to draw a picture now, he thought. Any picture—anything. But his mind was blank, too exhausted and cold to think.

A tree, he thought at last as the castle shuddered under his knees. I can always manage a tree.

His hand was trembling so badly he didn't think he was touching the cloth half the time, and he had forgotten where the edges of the frame were; but he traced the vague outlines of the top of a tree, the horizon, the trunk, roots.

Now to put this on a wall, he thought, and tore fiercely at the cloak. It ripped with surprising ease, but his arm was shaking so bad that in the end, he had to use his teeth. He spat after he finished, and couldn't help retching: the reek seemed to coat his mouth like mold.

Just… just to enter it now, he thought, crawling and groping to the wall. He clenched his jaw so that his teeth would no longer chatter like the rattling of pebbles in an empty skull. Let this work, he thought with as much concentration as he could muster. Please let this work. As the castle groaned torturously, he reached up his good hand and held the cloth as best he could against the wall.

He licked his dry, cracked lips. "L-Let me i-i-in—n," he mumbled, pushing his other hand against the middle of the picture. "I'm th-the H-Heirrr, le—t m-meee inn—" He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed with the effort, shaking uncontrollably—

He fell forward. For a moment he was too stunned to anything, too paralyzed by the shock of warm air. Then he scrambled forward, crawling over the frame with clumsy, ungainly movements—

There was a loud tearing sound behind him. He froze, heart slamming against his ribcage. Nothing happened. He continued, his mind and limbs thawing as he moved cautiously—

The tearing noise came again, an unearthly scream. Harry sped up, stumbling as fast as he could into the portrait, and then, after feeling the tinge of magic, hurled himself against it as the ripping sound screeched deafeningly behind him—

He was lying on… grass. The feeling was gradually returning to his legs and hands and face. I made it, he thought, listening to his breathing slowly even out. I made it. I'm out. He relaxed and let himself go limp as relief flooded through his exhausted body. I'm alive…

He turned onto his side—and felt something touch his face.

He jerked back, but he knew what it was the moment the reek filled his nostrils. It's followed me into the world of paintings, Harry thought. The Dementor's cloak.

He got unsteadily to his feet. It hasn't turned me into a Dementor yet, Harry thought. Maybe the only real thing about it was the fear and the despair. He hesitated, remembering still the terrible stench and the cold that cleaved through flesh and froze his bones. But the castle groaned again, an excruciating tremble, and he quickly grabbed the cloak with his unwounded hand and darted into another painting.

The corridors were utterly silent, and Harry wondered briefly if it was day or night, if Voldemort was launching another attack in the darkness. He didn't know where he was going, but his feet carried him as surely as if they were guided by another hand. As he raced from painting to painting, it dawned on his mind that he was heading towards the Great Hall—

He froze.

"…impressive, how you dispatched Donovan. I couldn't have done better myself."

It was Voldemort's voice, but the realization registered only numbly in Harry's mind. He could see things—not humans, colors, shapes, but shimmering ripples in the whiteness, the same as he had seen on the night of the attack, moments before he had lost consciousness. But now, the world outside seemed to teem with them, waving gently as the veil in the Department of Mysteries.

"Dumbledore himself could not have done better…"

"Indeed," Cinna murmured in reply. "And certainly you know how to flatter better than he did."

"I thought you might enjoy it before your death," said Voldemort, and as he spoke, the ripples seemed to stir like branches shivering in an icy wind.

"Do you really think you can kill me?" Cinna said in a soft voice. "Do you think you can even come close to me…?"

Voldemort laughed, a sound that swelled until Harry had to stifle the urge to cover his ears and curl into a ball once more. "How close do you consider 'close,' Caius Cinna?"

Harry could hear the smile in Cinna's voice. "Past this line, Mr. Riddle…"

The disturbances in the whiteness shivered, as though from anger that rippled out from the center. Harry frowned as the shimmer in the middle moved closer. Is that Voldemort? Harry wondered, edging away from the center of the portrait. If that is he, what are those shimmering things flanking him…?

Voldemort's laughter swelled again, screaming like a dusty tornado. "A pity, Cinna, that your tricks fail against me. You may have all the magic in the world, but against me it is useless."

"Really," Cinna said coldly, but the smile was gone from his voice.

The shimmer in the middle—the one that was Voldemort—moved closer, and Harry could now see that behind the ripples, beyond the flickering expanse of whiteness, was a darkness so deep he moved one hand unconsciously to hold the frame of the portrait. He remembered instantly where he had seen that unending darkness: the empty mouths of the Dementors, the gaping blackness beneath their tattered cloaks, the same that he had seen moments before his mind had left the snake in Lucius Malfoy's mouth…

Harry heard a sudden shout and heard what might have been a small explosion, and Voldemort drew back and spat in fury. The shimmers around him moved, descending like clouds from a mountaintop onto something Harry could not see.

"Snape…" Voldemort hissed, and Harry's heart clenched with horror. A knot of shimmers rippled as though something were struggling, writhing silently against their grasp, but the thrashing seemed to weaken, and before long Harry heard a faint moan.

Without even thinking, Harry lunged at the boundary between the worlds. Let me out! he thought furiously. LET ME OUT! He shifted so that both hands, one still holding the Dementor's cloak, were pushing with all his strength against the boundary. LET—ME—

He tumbled out and fell to the floor, the hard stones thudding painfully against his elbows and knees. But the pain was numbed by the sudden cold he felt, and for a moment he was utterly bewildered, wondering if he had somehow returned to his cell; but the air was open, different, full of frightened whispers and the rattling breathing of—

He looked up. The shimmers loomed above him, rippling in unison with their hissing breaths, and Harry knew that they were Dementors.

"Potter…" Voldemort whispered, and Harry felt a momentary satisfaction at the surprise in Voldemort's voice. "So, you have come to join us…"

Without waiting, Harry flung out his hand and felt the silver needles leave his fingertips. A brief flash lit up the Dementors suddenly, like lightning in a ransacked graveyard, but brilliance died as quickly as it came, and the shimmers continued to ripple as gently as the ocean waves.

"Your needles are useless against me, boy," Voldemort hissed, but Harry heard an undercurrent of resentment. "Slytherin might have mistakenly given you what should have been mine, but no matter… There is more to his inheritance than your little thieves…"

Harry tuned out Voldemort's voice. The Dementors were gathered in a vague circle, rippling delicately to an invisible wind, cornering him like an impenetrable forest. Where's Snape? Harry wondered desperately, looking at the periphery of the circle. They haven't—Kissed him, have they? Please no, please—

Then he saw a small clump of Dementors drifting at one side like a knot in the grain. Harry darted forward, but before he had taken more than a few steps, he felt clammy hands grip his arms painfully, and coldness and despair took him like a blast of death. Voldemort laughed, his words like shards of glass whipped about in the furious storm, but Harry heard only the sound of screaming, begging… The white was tinged with green, pounding down at him like sheets of ice, and hands crawled over his body, hissing with loathing, forcing into him and making him sick with shame. But at the core of it, crushing his heart like the executioner's axe, were those words and that voice, venomous with hate, telling him no, freezing the hope that had bloomed timidly in his heart, destroying everything and leaving him alone again, alone…

But there was a slight lull in the despair, like the pause before an even more terrible onslaught, and Harry thought laboriously, No, that's not true. I'm not alone. He said so, and he's right here, right next to me.

"…you think that you really were the Heir, when he has given me spells to such power?"

Harry concentrated on the present, on the memory of his father's last words to him, clinging even at Voldemort's voice, and the storm of despair ebbed enough for him to hear the words that echoed like the roaring of a ghostly sea. "I have become an ieiunita, Potter… I am unreachable, truly immortal…"

I wish he knew what he looked like with the Water of Sight, thought Harry wearily. He looks like a very dirty towel someone dropped into a cauldron of tar… So he's an ieiunita, just like Malfoy was. But the snake managed to kill Malfoy. How? By being Kissed. Harry felt his heart sink even as he steeled himself with determination. Was that it, then? to be Kissed…?

"And though your needles can steal souls, so can I," Voldemort whispered. "Of course, you will not be the first, Potter. I think you would enjoy it if you could see your father go first…"

Harry's heart clenched. "NO!" he shouted. "DON'T TOUCH HIM YOU—PATHETIC—" He struggled, but the clammy hands pulled him back, and despair clutched gleefully at his heart, choking him with the futility of his efforts. "Don't… touch him… you—" Voldemort approached, moving at a tauntingly slow pace. "You halfblood!" Harry snarled, hawking up his phlegm and spitting it furiously in Voldemort's direction.

"Crucio."

Harry screamed and writhed, falling in a heap to the ground as pain overwhelmed him, smashing aside all his defenses, crushing his mind as his muscles contracted uncontrollably. Then the agony disappeared, and Harry panted weakly, a trembling heap on the ground. Clammy hands gripped his head. He felt them turning his face so that he was staring unseeingly at his father.

"You may be blind, Potter," Voldemort whispered, his shimmering form slowly bending, "but I know that you drank the Water of Sight…" Harry heard a faint gasp from his father as Voldemort drew closer. "I know that you can see this…"

With a sudden surge of strength, Harry wrenched free and stumbled forward. He slammed one fist as hard as he could into Voldemort's direction, but the chains around his wrists curtailed his movement, and he stumbled and fell from exhaustion as Voldemort's laughter echoed in his ears. Then, as his consciousness wavered, as he felt his father's body shivering at his side and heard the low keening sound of his father's despair, he gripped the Dementor's cloak in both hands and haphazardly flung it into the air—

And Voldemort screamed.

The scream cut across all his senses like an explosion of ice. Harry clutched his head and curled himself tightly into a ball, vaguely aware of his father's body next to him. The scream continued, rattling his skull, piercing his brain and tunneling down his spine, scraping desperately over his skin like memories he could not forget.

Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Harry lifted his head, not knowing what had happened, not knowing what to think. His heard thudded deafeningly in his ears, but above his pounding heartbeat, he could hear, louder than ever, the rattling hiss of the Dementor's breath.

The shimmering figures were so close he could see behind them, could almost feel himself falling into the endless darkness. The ripple closest to him seemed to writhe, half-formed, and Harry tried in vain to pull his father out of the way. It's Voldemort, Harry realized, only he's become— he's become—

The shimmer that had been Voldemort trembled, shuddered like a dead tree caught in a bitter wind, and Harry heard the almost inaudible clatter of a wand dropping to the floor. Voldemort's wand, Harry realized, still staring at the ripples in the air. He dropped it because he doesn't need it anymore. He's become a Dementor…

The cold and despair deepened, bearing down on him until his hands were icy and sweaty with fear, his heart pounding with terror, his entire being weighed down with utter hopelessness. But beneath all the memories that crawled over his skin, beneath all the overwhelming misery and desolation, he felt his father's trembling body. They can't make me feel alone—not anymore, he thought fiercely. Clenching his teeth, he lunged forward and groped at where he had heard Voldemort's wand fall—and quickly took the length of wood just as he felt the hem of a ragged cloak brush his arm.

This is it, he thought. This is the last lunge, the last battle. Curiously, the despair didn't seem as heavy as it did before, nor the coldness as sharp. It's because I'm not alone, he thought. It's because I've felt pain before, pain and loneliness and despair, and I've survived. And now I'm not alone. Father's here, right next to me, and Draco—Draco's dead, but I'll never forget him, he won't have lost his life in vain, and Hermione, she's trapped by Cinna's spell, but there's hope, there will always be hope, and Luna, brave Luna, and Neville, poor Neville, I forgive him, I wish I could tell him that, and Ron—not just the old Ron, not just the Ron who was my best friend, but even this Ron, for I never stopped loving him, and Dumbledore who loved me but was lonelier than I, and Sirius, who's with James and Mum and Slytherin now, though they never really left me… I'm not alone…

I'm not alone.

He raised his wand in the air, right into the swirling of cloaks and past the clammy hands and rattling breaths, breaking through the memories of hate and loathing and pain and misery like the sun bursting through clouds.

"Expecto Patronum!" he shouted, his throat so ravaged by his earlier screams he could barely hear his own voice above the rattling hiss of the Dementor's breaths. "EXPECTO—PATRONUM!"

He felt the magic exploding from the end of the wand, and saw a burst of—something against the blank whiteness of his vision. The shimmers fluttered like bits of cloth in a mighty gale, and the Dementors screamed, the chorus of their voices a terrible echo of Voldemort's scream, but this time, Harry felt his entire being caught up in emotions so strong he barely registered the Dementor's last shriek. I'm not afraid, or cold, or miserable, he realized with wonderment as his vision seared with brilliance. I'm not afraid anymore… I might almost be… happy…

He felt himself falling, falling through voices shouting, yelling, past all sensation. He thought he heard Neville hollering something, thought he could hear his father's voice; but then he felt a curious sensation pooling through his body, and finally, darkness fell.