Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

From the end of this chapter forward, the climax of the book begins, and runs through Chapter 42. I know there is a cliffhanger on the end of this chapter, but I promise I will update every day. I promise. 'Kay?

Chapter Thirty-Six: You Cannot Afford Not to Listen

Snape closed his eyes, ground his right front teeth into his right bottom teeth, and tried to think of something he could say that would make an impression on the irritating child in front of him.

"Harry," he said finally.

Harry glanced up from brewing Wolfsbane, his eyes wide and attentive. His hands never stopped selecting, stirring, and mixing. He had done it so often now that he might be able to do it in his sleep. Snape didn't understand why Harry wouldn't brew some of his own and sell it to other werewolves who wanted it. Dumbledore would pay for the ingredients gladly, since he would take it to mean that Lupin had definitely committed to staying with them for the next year. Meanwhile, Harry could be making some money of his own, independent of the Potter fortune that he might never see.

But Harry had said he wouldn't steal from Dumbledore or Snape, and that he would prefer to give the potion away. Give it away! Snape sometimes wished that the boy's inner Slytherin had sucked a bit more of the Gryffindor out of him.

But that is not what you are supposed to be worrying about, he reminded himself, and looked sternly back at Harry. He suspected that the boy's magic might have begun to reach out and wind his thoughts in vines, turning them away from any greater source of irritation towards a lesser. They would have to work on that. Snape did not intend to be subject to any form of compulsion, no matter how minor, largely because of how it would devastate Harry when he found out.

"You left the school," he said, this time keeping his voice free of inflection. "You promised me you would ask me for permission before doing that."

Harry froze for a moment, then carefully added the demiguise hairs to the portion of the potion he was working on and stepped away from the cauldron before turning to face Snape. "I'm sorry about that, sir," he said. "I forgot."

Snape drew in another breath of air. This was something else he had been meaning to address, but it had to wait for the proper time. Being beside himself with rage when he'd first heard about Harry's little jaunt in the company of the purebloods for Walpurgis Night would only have led to something unfortunate. So he'd waited until he thought he could be calm.

And now he was. He was, he assured himself. But he was also disturbed, and by something far more important than the fact that Harry had been outside Hogwarts for an unspecified period of time.

"Harry," he said, "you still do not think twice about risking your life."

Harry flushed. Snape wondered, narrow-eyed, exactly what had happened at the celebration. Millicent had refused to let Harry tell either Draco or Snape, saying it was a private matter between those who'd attended. Harry had seized on that excuse a little too eagerly for Snape to think it meant anything good.

"I'm not as reckless as I was earlier in the year," Harry protested. "Really. I sensed a bunch of webs in myself when I lost the phoenix web, but I didn't cut at them. Only the one, to release my magic-feeding ability."

Snape shook his head slowly. "It is not the recklessness I am speaking of. It is the thoughtlessness." He heard his voice descend, becoming icy, and realized he was angry after all. Well, Harry will just have to deal with it. This should have been solved long since. "You do not risk your life or your sanity quite as often or quite as suddenly. You think about it first. But you still do not think about the danger."

"I do so!" Harry's eyes flashed, and Snape felt the first faint beginnings of a headache. "I weighed what you would think of me dashing into my own mind the way I had into Remus's. And I do consider what you and Draco would feel if I died."

"That is not what I meant." Snape rubbed his forehead. His own emotions were back to weary resignation. He didn't think it was Harry's mind influencing him after all, but the simple fact that he was trying to be a guardian to the third most powerful wizard in Britain, who also happened to be a child recovering from abuse.

Harry stared at him.

"I mean," said Snape, "thinking about your own life. You have no self-preservation instinct, Harry."

More puzzled silence.

"Staying alive for yourself," Snape clarified. "You think of what would happen to me or Draco or Lupin or your brother if you died." And that was progress. Snape had to admit he preferred being on Harry's list of "people who might be hurt if Harry Potter were to meet a sudden demise" to Connor Potter being the only entrant. "But you do not think of your own life as worth anything unless you can spend it serving or defending or protecting others."

Harry sighed. "You know that's the way my mother raised me, sir—"

"I fear that you will never overcome it if you do not begin to see it as a problem," Snape interrupted him. He knew his ward's patient tone. Harry would manage a reasonable explanation that would make Snape think the problem had been solved until five minutes after he walked out of the room, whereupon Snape would realize the explanation solved nothing at all. That tendency had only become worse in the few days since he returned from Walpurgis Night. Sometimes, Harry could not be allowed to be as mature as Snape knew he was. "You must begin to value yourself for yourself, Harry. Not just for what you can do for others, not just as someone whom anyone else would be sorry to see die, but for yourself."

Harry blinked at him. Snape fought down the temptation to simply snarl insults until they broke through the mask of indifference. It wasn't a mask, and if he wasn't good at this, then at least he'd known what kinds of things he was letting himself in for when he agreed to be Harry's guardian.

"I do, sir," said Harry at last, just as Snape was about to speak again.

"Do you?"

Harry nodded. "Of course, sir. I like being alive. I take pride in what I can do. I would much rather be alive than dead." He paused, his head tilting slightly to one side. "Isn't that what you mean, sir?"

"Yes, and no." Snape wished irritably that Dumbledore had not turned into a complete fool where the Potter twins were concerned. He would have been able to frame the issue with words that made sense and taught Harry to see exactly what he wanted him to see. Which is the problem. Harry would not like that. At least I know he prefers my stumbling honesty. "Is there any cause you would not risk your life for, Harry?"

"Dumbledore's," said Harry at once.

"But he wishes to protect your brother and defeat Voldemort," said Snape. "What other cause does he have?"

"The cause of enslaving me." For a moment, there was enough bitterness in Harry's voice that Snape felt himself relax. If Harry could only hang onto it… But then it was gone again, and Harry was shaking his head. "I have to remain free."

"Why?"

"So I can teach Connor, and brew the Wolfsbane Potion, and figure out some way to fight the Death Eaters, and—"

"Harry." Snape strode over until he stood in front of Harry, and compelled the boy to pay attention to him by the simple expedient of staring him down until he did. "You need not do everything. Trained Aurors cannot find Bellatrix and her companions." And if he had private nightmares about them catching Harry or himself, those were no one's business. "You can take some of your life to do other things."

"Such as?" Harry folded his arms.

Snape hated that damn mature look, at least when Harry was using it to fight him. And this wasn't even fighting; it was Harry assuming the attitude of a parent. That made Snape doubly hate it. "Whatever you like to do," he said. "Play Quidditch."

Harry shrugged. "I don't enjoy it as much anymore. It takes time away from my training Connor and planning."

Snape ground his left teeth together. Much as he had to admit the bargain of teaching Connor was good since it placated Dumbledore, he still thought Harry's brother a lost cause. "Not that, then. Cast spells for fun."

Harry gave him that impossibly gentle and impossibly infuriating look. "I don't have time, professor. I can't afford to use my magic for frivolous things. I might get addicted to the power. Besides, I'm busy learning spells that can be useful in the war."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

Harry let the mask slip a bit, let his bewilderment peek through. "Advanced defensive and offensive spells, sir. I told you I was going to start studying them. And medical magic. I can heal broken bones now," he added with a hint of pride. "Wouldn't that be useful on the battlefield?"

"Why would you not leave that up to Madam Pomfrey?" Snape demanded.

Harry cocked his head. "Why, sir? She'd be in Hogwarts, and probably far from any battle scene. The Death Eaters aren't going to make attacking the castle their first priority. The wards are too strong. They'll be fighting further away. I'm more mobile than she is, and I'm stronger."

Snape slowly shook his head, unable to find words to express his dismay. What did Harry do for fun? He realized he didn't know. He would have studied all during his childhood; he didn't appear to know how to read for pleasure. Quidditch was something Snape and Draco had forced him into, much as he loved flying. Magic was always to be used for something else. It didn't help that most of Snape's childhood leisure time had been spent inventing nasty intrigues and even nastier potions or spells. He didn't have any idea what normal children did for fun. And Harry was not a normal child.

At the same time, he thought it sad beyond the words he didn't have that Harry was the one thinking calmly of battle tactics, and training as though he fully expected to go out and die the day after tomorrow.

This summer, he thought, suddenly seized by inspiration. The end of the term is only a few weeks away. He will spend the summer here with me—I would not dare take him to Spinner's End, not with the Death Eaters abroad—and perhaps Draco, if that can be arranged with Lucius and Narcissa. His brother will be gone back to his Mudblood of a mother. We can teach Harry how to have fun.

It was appalling, really, how much that thought pleased him.

"Make sure that you rest," was all he could say to Harry now. "Make sure that you take some time to relax."

Harry blinked once, and then his face lit up. "Of course! Because I have to be rested and have a relaxed mind to fully understand my training," he said. "Of course, sir. I understand. Thank you for the reminder." He smiled at Snape and all but bounced out of the office.

Snape made a grumbling noise in his throat and turned to the pile of books that he had acquired from the Department of Magical Family and Child Services. He had wanted them for another purpose, but they should serve this one: teaching him what children raised pureblood did beyond dance and watch each other like hawks.

"All right," said Connor suddenly. His lip was bitten from trying to stay silent in the face of Draco's taunts, and his cheeks were red, and his eyes looked as though he hadn't got enough sleep lately to do anything more than shamble around, for all that he was glaring at Harry. Harry reminded himself again that some of those things were the inevitable consequences of having his brother and his best friend in the same room. "Say that I do believe you, and not all Slytherins are evil."

Harry blinked and licked his own lips. He had been giving Connor another lecture for an hour already, and to break through Sirius's training so suddenly was not what he had expected. "Yes?" he said.

"Then tell me why Salazar Slytherin left a Chamber of Secrets in the middle of the school, and a monster who could kill Muggleborn students!" Connor said triumphantly. "He must have been evil. He could actually condone the murder of students, and he helped found the school. Why would anyone who comes out of his House be good?"

Harry shook his head slowly. "Connor. Do you really think like that? Or do you have a mad gnome in your head who starts yelling whenever you hear the word Slytherin in any form?"

Connor flushed further, but said, "Answer the question, Harry."

Harry knew he shouldn't. It was only an hour. It was only a display of the same kind of stubbornness that Connor had shown before. And he had apologized last time. He'd come to the lesson without prompting this time. He'd ignored most of Draco's insults. They were making progress.

But Harry did it anyway, and lost his temper.

"Slytherin may have been evil," he snapped, leaning forward. He felt Draco jump and look at him in what was probably excitement. Harry didn't care. "But that doesn't mean that everyone who comes out of his House is. Fuck, Connor, don't you get it? If you really think that a founder's character is passed down to everyone in his or her House, then you can't explain Gryffindor Death Eaters. Because how could they be evil, if Godric Gryffindor was so pure and good?" He was yelling by now, halfway across the abandoned classroom to his brother.

Connor folded his arms. "I didn't say Gryffindor was perfect," he said. "But he was good. And most of the House is good, with just a few bad apples. But Slytherins are all evil."

"You great git." Harry felt his magic stir around him and reach out towards Connor in interest. He tried to clamp down on it, but his temper flared again when he saw Connor just smirking at him, as if to say that Harry's little display proved his inane theory. "I gave you a list of Slytherins who weren't evil earlier, and you agreed with me!"

"They aren't perfectly evil," said Connor. "But they're still evil."

"You said they weren't!"

Connor shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Harry, Harry, Harry. You don't understand. You can judge someone's general character by their House. That means that Gryffindors are generally good and Slytherins are generally evil. So sometimes you get a few Gryffindors who falter. It happens."

"Then you should get some Slytherins who shine, too," Harry said. He barely recognized his own voice. "That's the outcome of this supposed logic of yours. Say it, Connor!"

"I'm not going to lie," Connor said, his face turning closed. "You can't make me."

Harry flung out one hand, and his magic lashed and grabbed Connor, lifting him off the ground and pinning him to the wall. Connor's eyes promptly went wide, but he held still. Harry wondered if he thought it would be a good idea not to anger Harry further, or if the weight of the power on his limbs simply wouldn't permit him to move.

"I don't care what Sirius told you," Harry said. "Sirius isn't Merlin. He isn't even Dumbledore. He's not right all the time—half the time—a quarter of the time. Slytherins aren't evil. Gryffindors aren't good. What the fuck do I have to say to get this through to you?"

Connor's face went pale, but he simply hung there for long seconds. He seemed to be thinking. Harry glared up at him, and kept the hope out of the glare. Perhaps his brother was, after all, changing his mind.

Connor looked directly at him. And Harry saw the flash of understanding there. Connor knew he was telling the truth.

But his face closed again in the next instant, and he began what Harry knew was a lie. "Sirius didn't tell me anything like that. He just hinted, and I came to the understanding on my own. I told you what I think about Slytherins, and about Gryffindors. Those are my own opinions."

Oh, no you don't, brother mine, Harry thought. "Sirius did tell you those things," he said, and Connor's face could have been made of milk.

"He did not," he said, with an undertone of desperation bubbling in his voice. "I came to them on my own. I told you. I'm the stupid one. Isn't that what you always think about Gryffindors?"

"I do," said Draco.

"Draco," said Harry, his magic curling around him like the mad tentacles of the Squid, "could you please do me a favor, and shut up right now?"

Draco shrugged and shut up. That didn't dim the expression of enjoyment on his face when he watched Connor held in mid-air, but Harry supposed he couldn't ask him to stop smiling.

Harry turned back to Connor. I should have suspected this before. Connor's never this stubborn on his own. He's only this stubborn when he's protecting someone…

Just like me.

"Connor," he said, "I promise I'm not going to hurt Sirius. Just tell me what he said to you. And tell me why you think I would hurt him," he added.

"No," said Connor, and he was sweating, his eyes glazed and wild. Harry felt him straining against the weight of magic on his limbs, and it was now obvious that he couldn't move. "He told me. And it—" He slammed his mouth abruptly.

"Connor—"

"No!"

Connor's magic turned wandless and fought against his own, and Harry knew he couldn't hold his brother much longer without damaging him. He relaxed his grip, and Connor slid gently down the wall and landed on his feet. He immediately stood up and ran to the door, his eyes on Harry as he opened it.

"I'm going to Dumbledore," he said. "I'm going to tell him what you did. He won't make me have lessons with you now."

He slipped out and shut the door behind him.

Harry made himself relax by degrees, and glanced at Draco. Draco's face was somewhere between smug and concerned.

"That went well," he said, when he caught Harry's gaze.

Harry shook his head and put his head in his hands. One bad side effect of Walpurgis Night was that he saw Connor from more of a distance than ever. He kept seeing more and more of his brother's faults—the stubbornness, the blind trust in everyone who was Gryffindor unless they "turned against him" the way Hermione had, the refusal to apologize or admit he was wrong even when he knew he was, and the clinging to his own status as the Boy-Who-Lived.

He'd felt uneasy about that all week, but for the first time, the idea really formed in his mind, in so many words:

If Connor's the Boy-Who-Lived, then Voldemort's already won.

"Go to bed, Harry," said Hermione, pausing behind him in the library.

Harry blinked and looked up from the book he was reading. He scowled at her. "Listen to your own advice," he said, nodding to the enormous pile of books in her arms.

"I am going to bed," Hermione retorted. "I just have a bit of light reading to do first. But you look half-asleep on your feet, Harry."

"I'm sitting down."

"Harry."

Harry rubbed his face. It was true that he was tired, and if one of the other Slytherins had been with him, he would have been hustled and poked and prodded and taunted into going to bed already. But he had created an illusion of himself and left it in the common room again. He simply had to have some time to research the phoenix web, and try other methods of getting it out of Peter's head. Draco and Millicent and the rest seemed to think that because Dumbledore had called a halt to Connor's lessons for a week to "cool everyone's head" and find out why Connor had thought Harry would hurt Sirius, Harry would have more time to rest. Harry knew better. He wanted to use the time for productive things.

On the other hand, if he was tired enough, he would probably miss some vital thing in the books.

"Just one more hour, Hermione," he muttered. "Please."

Hermione sighed at him, shook her head, and made her way out of the library. Harry dived back into the book. It was a more general one, containing hints on Occlumency and Legilimency as well as mind-webs. If Snape or Draco came and chided him for reading it, Harry could say that he was just striving to understand his own thoughts.

He flipped the page, the text blurring before his eyes, and took off his glasses. Surely the text wasn't blurring because he was tired. That was silly. He hadn't reached the stage of exhaustion where he felt like a wet rag yet, and that was the one where his eyes burned. It was just a smudge on his glasses. He wrapped and rubbed them in his shirt, then put them back on and peered at the page.

…common myth that Legilimency can be used this way, just as it is a common myth that the Soul Strength Spell can be used on a child…

Harry sat straight up, his heart pounding. He suddenly wasn't tired anymore. He leaned forward and read the passage three times, until he was absolutely sure he was seeing what he had thought he had seen.

It is a common myth that Legilimency can be used this way, just as it is a common myth that the Soul Strength Spell can be used on a child. In truth, Legilimency on a truly unconscious person is impossible, though it can sometimes be used with those who have gone into comas with magical causes. In the case of ordinary unconsciousness, however, the thoughts shut down and are too malformed for the Legilimens to tell what they are. She will find herself caught in a web of dreams, and is likely to stumble unless she has experience in one of the dream-reading arts.

Similarly, the Soul Strength Spell, commonly used to test the strength of character that may let a person endure a certain specified task, cannot be used successfully on any child younger than twelve, and there have been arguments for not using it on anyone younger than fifteen. A child's character is too unformed, full of drifting thoughts and influences that the spell is unable to recognize. Sometimes, it will return a false answer. Most often, the spell simply does not work.

Harry leaned back and stared at the ceiling, catching the book automatically when it tried to slip from the table. He didn't want it to thump and alert Madam Pince that he was still here.

Peter had claimed that Dumbledore had used the Soul Strength Spell on Harry and Connor before he made Peter into Sirius's sacrifice, and determined from its answer that Harry could better stand being the sacrifice than his brother. According to this book, that was impossible, since Harry and Connor hadn't even been two years old yet.

So Harry was left with two possibilities, neither of which he liked.

First, that the spell had returned a false answer, and Harry was not actually stronger of soul than Connor was—or, in the case of the question that Dumbledore had asked, not actually meant as a sacrifice.

Harry backed quickly away from the gulf he could sense opening in his thoughts with that answer, and looked at the second one.

The second one was that Peter had been lying.

But why? Harry thought, closing his eyes. What would he gain from it?

He snorted to himself a moment later. Can you ask? My belief, my trust. He's an escaped Azkaban prisoner, Harry, and one I'd been told all my life was evil. He had to have something to tell me in order to get me to trust him.

That didn't mean that everything he'd told Harry was false, of course. But it did send a shiver of unease across Harry's mind.

He took a deep breath and stood. Everything else in Peter's story had sounded true; Dumbledore certainly hadn't denied it. And Peter had risked his life for Harry several times. Until Harry found another piece of evidence, he would not let himself think that Peter was false.

But that meant he needed to confront the other possibility—that the spell had returned a false answer.

The suspicion raced through his mind like a jagged crack, and joined with his thoughts about Connor from earlier in the week. Harry shuddered once, and then cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself so he could slip past Madam Pince.

He had to see Snape, right away.

Snape groaned as a sharp rap sounded on his office door. That someone was bothering him near—he glanced at his clock—eleven at night was insane. And he knew it couldn't be Harry, because he'd checked on Harry just half an hour ago, and found him peacefully asleep in his bed.

Snape called, "Enter," braced for it to be Dumbledore with word of some emergency, or Minerva wanting to discuss the Slytherin-Gryffindor scuffle that had happened earlier in the Great Hall, evolving into a full-blown food fight.

It was Harry, becoming visible as he opened the door. From his face, he hadn't been to bed at all. Snape discovered he wasn't too tired to feel rage.

"What have you done?" he hissed, rising from behind his desk. "If you tell me that you cast another illusion of yourself—"

"I cast another illusion of myself," Harry said.

Snape narrowed his eyes, pondering if he were actually angry enough to ban Harry from playing in the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff this weekend. It might cost them the Quidditch Cup if he did, but Harry would certainly know how seriously Snape took his crime.

"But we don't have time for that right now," said Harry, and came a step forward. His eyes were wide, his face pale, and when he turned his head, his fringe swished aside enough for Snape to see that the lightning bolt scar on his face was brilliant. "I just found out something that made me worry."

Snape let his anger retreat to the back of his mind, inside one of the quicksilver pools he usually used to contain his magic. He gestured Harry to a chair and sat down opposite him. He hadn't forgotten Harry's punishment, but it could wait, and be all the more devastating when his ward had forgotten about it.

"What was it?" he asked.

Harry swallowed. "I found out—or thought I did—from Peter that Dumbledore cast the Soul Strength Spell on me and Connor when we were babies, and that was how he knew who would be the best sacrifice. That was how he knew for certain that Connor would be the Boy-Who-Lived, too. I was the stronger of soul, and I wouldn't crack if I was asked to protect my brother."

"That is impossible," Snape interrupted, unable to keep silent any longer. "The Soul Strength Spell does not work on infants."

"I know," Harry whispered. "I just read that." Snape quelled the urge to say something about Slytherins who not only lied to their Head of House about where they had been at night, but also used that time to read more than was necessary. "But, Professor Snape, that means a few things." He took a deep, dragging breath, and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Peter was lying, maybe, and if so, I don't think I should be alone with him any more."

"I never thought you should," Snape could not resist pointing out.

Harry gave him a distracted nod. "Or Dumbledore lied about casting the spell," he whispered. "Or the spell returned a false result. And if either of those two things are true, then…" He trailed off and stared past Snape.

Snape followed the course of his mind easily enough. Two leaps and a jump, and one was there.

Dumbledore had no guarantee outside the prophecy that Connor and Harry were meant to play the roles he said they were.

No one had actually been at Godric's Hollow the night of the attack—except Voldemort, whom they certainly couldn't ask.

That meant that Harry could, possibly, be the Boy-Who-Lived.

Snape watched his ward's face grow paler and paler, and suppressed his triumph. Harry would misunderstand a smile now. "What makes you think this?" he asked. "Surely one lie is not enough to bring down something you have believed in your entire conscious life."

"Because," said Harry, and choked for a moment. Then he looked up. "Because Connor's an idiot."

Snape told himself he could smirk later, and only nodded gravely, imploring Harry to continue.

Harry sprang to his feet and started pacing in front of the chair. "Because he isn't that magically powerful," he said. "Oh, I know the Boy-Who-Lived isn't going to kill Voldemort that way, but at the moment, I don't see how he could survive a duel with him long enough to kill him any other way. I've tested his power, and it's at its strongest when he's most frantic—which isn't going to work in a battle. And he's not very compassionate, either. He demands absolute loyalty and love from others, but if they do something that he thinks of as a betrayal, he turns on them without further compunction. He doesn't forgive. He doesn't think of the future. He isn't interested in doing all sorts of things, like learn history and the pureblood dances, that would make him a better Boy-Who-Lived." Harry turned and glanced sidelong at Snape. "He doesn't love people very often."

The smirk would not be restrained. Snape was only thankful that Harry was too distracted to take it personally. "And because of that…" he prompted.

"Because of that," Harry muttered, "I don't know how he could be someone whose innocence and purity are essential to bringing down Voldemort. I was the sacrifice to make sure he stayed pure, but all kinds of impurities were apparently there already." He laughed, and it was the laugh that Snape always hoped he would never have to hear again.

"Surely you do not blame yourself for that," Snape said.

Harry gave him an odd look. "Of course not. Not even I can be responsible for what got mixed into his character when he had the happiest and most peaceful upbringing we could conceive of." He sighed. "I should have told him the truth, yes, and I wish I knew just how much I love him, but I don't think that would have necessarily made him more loving. He's known all his life that he's the Boy-Who-Lived, and the past few years that he would have to work harder, and he still doesn't."

Snape nodded, and felt triumph irradiate him. "And what other signs are there?" he asked. He could give them to Harry, but he knew Harry learned best when he came up with them for himself. Besides, that would make it harder for him to hide from them later, if he started regretting that he'd ever thought this.

Harry sighed and swept back his fringe on purpose this time, to touch his scar. "This bleeds," he said. "And I have prophetic dreams that are usually connected with Voldemort somehow—I think," he added. "I never did find out what the dreams I was having this year were about. But I dreamed about Quirrell. And Tom—Tom Riddle said there was a connection between us." Harry closed his eyes. "I always thought it meant that I had a bond to my brother, and Riddle was connected to me through his connection to Connor. But…maybe not."

Snape cleared his throat. He did have a bit of information to offer, something Harry could not have known. "There is one person who might be able to tell you the truth, Harry."

"Who?" Harry whispered, his eyes flaring open.

"Pettigrew," said Snape. "Dumbledore told me once that there were two people who could have told us for certain what happened when the Dark Lord attacked you: the Dark Lord himself, and Pettigrew, who was with him. At the time Dumbledore told me this, he claimed Pettigrew was insane, and only grew more so with every passing year. But that is obviously not true."

Harry stood stock-still for a moment. Then he whispered, "Of course. He told me that once before. But I think he assumed I already knew what happened, that I knew I could have been—could have defeated Voldemort and didn't care, since I was under the influence of the phoenix web." He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. "But how can I know for certain that he's telling the truth? He could have been lying about the Soul Strength Spell. I don't know if I can trust anything that he says." He hesitated for a long moment. "And he told me that the phoenix web Dumbledore had cast on him was trying to return. That might make him even more untrustworthy."

"Do you what you can to meet with him in a setting where I may attend you," Snape suggested. "This weekend, perhaps. I am a Legilimens. I should be able to tell you for certain whether he is lying."

"And remove his phoenix web?" Harry looked up at him in hope.

Snape ground his teeth. When did 'defend Harry' turn into 'help Harry's friends?' But he knew that it would make Harry happy and ease any worry that he had about going into the meeting, so he nodded. "If it comes to that," he said.

"Thank you, thank you!" Harry abruptly darted forward and caught Snape around the waist in a spontaneous hug. He pulled back before Snape could say anything about it, and grinned at him. "I feel much better about everyone potentially being wrong about Connor, now," he announced.

Snape caught his eyes. "I hope so," he said. "I have thought for two years now that you were the true Boy-Who-Lived, Harry." He saw Harry wince, and realized his ward hadn't once used the title to refer to himself. "And I hope for the wizarding world's sake that you are. We are doomed if we have that idiot leading us."

Harry laughed softly at him, and slipped out of the room. Five minutes passed, in which Snape basked in his triumph.

Then he realized that he hadn't managed to assign Harry a punishment for leaving an illusion of himself asleep in Slytherin, and his curses shook the walls.

Harry opened his eyes quickly and let out a long, slow breath, forcing himself to relax. Everything had gone well. He'd slipped back into Slytherin and into his bed, taking the place of his illusion, before anyone had realized he was missing. And then he really had fallen asleep. He'd hate to ruin that by screaming now, just because he'd had the dream of a ring of dark figures closing in around him again.

He raised his hand to his scar, and felt it come away bloody. He sighed and sat up, looking at the blood in the faint light from the slumbering Fawkes's feathers.

He had a lot to think about concerning his dreams and his scar, if…

Harry let out another sigh and flopped back. There were still things that his new interpretation didn't explain, of course, like why Connor had a heart-shaped scar if he really hadn't played any part in Voldemort's defeat, but he thought he was close to getting definite answers, and that heartened him.

He closed his eyes, and tried to figure out what the dream meant. His scar hurt too badly to go back to sleep right away.

Death Eaters.

Harry's eyes shot open, and his heart began to beat very fast. That thought had not been his own. It had been another voice in his head, low and sorrowful and definitely male. Harry thought he ought to recognize other voices in his head by now, after having Sylarana and Tom Riddle in there.

Who are you? He carefully formed and cast the thought.

The answer came at once, somewhere from the back of his mind. Don't remember that. I never remember. But I know what you're dreaming about. Death Eaters. They're free, aren't they? The voice was wistful.

Harry shook his head slightly from side to side. He strained for a visual, the way he always had with Tom Riddle, but could see nothing, only utter darkness. At least that made it easier to concentrate on the voice. They are. But why do you think the figures in my dream are Death Eaters?

I can feel them, said the voice. I can feel anyone with a connection to Voldemort. I think I was his, once. Or him? Maybe. I don't know. But I drift around and look out through people's eyes every so often, people who have a connection with Voldemort. You. Snape. Your brother. Pettigrew.

Harry shuddered. That was beyond frightening, that someone had been watching through his eyes and sharing his memories and he hadn't known. How long have you been here?

Months.

What were you doing before that?

I can't tell you that. The voice was sad again. Memories are gone.

Harry swallowed. Are you sure you can't tell me who you are? You can't remember your name or anything else that might let me identify you?

Oh! The voice sounded delighted for the first time. There is one thing. I can't tell you, but I can show you.

Pain abruptly exploded in Harry's scar, then his hands, then his feet, then all through his body. He writhed as it ran like fire down his sides. This was worse than Crucio, worse than his dream in February of the rat and the dog.

Fawkes began trilling urgently. He felt hands shaking him, but he couldn't respond. So much pain thudded through him that he couldn't unclench his jaw. He heard distant shouts, one of his name and one of "Get Snape!"

Pain turned the world behind his eyes red, and then yellow, and then blue, slowly blooming into black.