A/N: Many thanks to Procyon Black for the excellent beta! Go read her fics -- they're good.
He stepped back then, and watched his reflection take a step back as well. Just as the light in the mirror began to absorb the edges of his image into a sea of glowing white, the fiery letters rearranged themselves languidly, moving in perfect accord:
"I am Lord Voldemort."
Chapter 9
He staggered back, shrinking from the light as though it scalded him. He peered through squinted eyelids and saw himself there, cowering, the slits of his red eyes regarding him with cool disdain.
With a cry, he lunged and clawed at the mirror; his fingers touched something above it, and with the fall of a cloth heavy with dust, the light went out.
Darkness.
He could feel the grime coat his face like a sick sheen of magic; he could hear the dust whistling in and out his heaving chest; he could feel his heart slamming inside him, echoing off the grimly silent walls; he could hear the clamor of panic, screaming no no nonono—
He stumbled backwards—something smashed his shin, and he hissed from the pain—red eyes, they were red—His—he tasted the age-old dust, the unstirred layers of grime and dirt—the mirror is lying; it never lies, but it's lying, because it can't be, I—just—can't be—he tried to gain footing, tried to hoist himself back onto his feet, but the thing he had been touching toppled over and he fell with it—
His body ached. The sound of his breath seemed to echo. His legs were tangled in an invisible mess, and something had fallen on top of him in the darkness.
Trembling, he lifted a hand and whispered, voice as dry as ancient parchment, 'Lumos.'
The skeleton's face peered back at him. Harry felt his breath rattling in his chest, feeling the dried flesh on the corpse's ribs press against him. The black holes where the eyes had been peered back darkly, and Harry caught himself staring at the shriveled lips, the encroachment of ancient hair falling over its desiccated face.
But something dangled above Harry's face, something… something fine and small that swung from around the skeleton's neck. Harry reached up a hand and caught. A necklace, he thought, staring at the fine silver chain and the thing at the end—it's not a jewel, Harry realized. It's a bone. A bone, carved in the shape of a pentagonal rose.
He shivered, wondering for a fleeting moment who the skeleton might have been. He shifted and the skeleton slid off with a rustle of dry parchment.
Harry stood, the wavering ball of light still in his hands. I don't understand, he thought, somewhat calmer now, though still shaking and feeling sick. How can I be Voldemort? But the memories of the strange memory-dreams, the flashes of hate and anger… Suddenly, it all made sense, terrible sense.
But how? he wondered stubbornly. When had a part of Voldemort somehow got into him? How?
He turned to one of the corners. The Masters. I'll ask them, they're bound to know. He hesitated: Rowena, Helga, Godric, or Salazar? He cast his mind about. Salazar, he decided reluctantly. Salazar would know the most about the secret and deadly art of soul magic.
He cut through the marsh of parchments, broken furniture, scattered scrolls, and dust, remembering the feel of each of the Masters. Rowena's had been stern and cool, Godric's warm and noisy, Helga's patient and firm, and Salazar's— Harry paused, letting the waves of memory enter his mind. Salazar's had been dark—dark and shadowy, full of welcoming hints and nuances, whispering of secrets and power, always masking a flash of cruelty…
His hands were on the edge of the basin, and he was looking into the clear pool. Thankfully there was no reflection.
"Salazar," he whispered. His voice sounded very loud, as though the Nest had hushed to hear him speak. "I ask for your help."
The clear pool rippled from his breath. An instant later, Harry felt air rushing through him, howling as though he didn't exist—
Darkness. A blaze of silver light. The moon, pouring itself into the chilled room through a window. The ring of masked figures standing in a circle. In the center, a man—a triumphant man, a jubilant man, a man with red eyes and more power than any other being in the world. Before him knelt his beaten opponent.
I remember this, Harry realized. This is my memory, my memory of the final night… It all came back to him: the preparations with Dumbledore, the ploy to get himself captured, the nights of torture during which he'd suspended his mind, and finally… the last night, the night he would die…
But it worked, Harry told himself. He watched himself writhe in agony on the floor. The memory was strangely silent. But he realized that he did not wish for the sounds. That would have made it all too real. It worked; I did reflect the Avada Kedavra.
He watched Voldemort point his wand—saw the Dark Lord's eyes narrow the way they always did before he was ready to cast the Killing Curse—
Everything slowed. The light burst from the end of the yew wand, and it traveled lazily through the air. Harry stared, transfixed. He saw himself—a barely recognizable and bloody mess—stare up at the light, watched the green of the spell reflect in the green of his eyes, watched the spell finally hit him—
A moment. Another. And a starburst of power, and the green light returned with the intensity of the sun. Time sped, and the light had blown through Voldemort like a wind to steal one's soul, and in a frozen moment, Harry saw Tom Riddle's expression—shock, infinite shock, just enough time to turn to dismay and fury, and then…
The light was too bright. When it finally faded, so abruptly that Harry felt himself gasp for breath, time was still dripping slowly, sluggishly, and Harry saw the thing that he had only glimpsed for a moment and then forgotten.
What is that? Harry wondered, staring as though fascinated. Silvery, shimmering and moving so quickly it seemed not to belong to that time… It's hovering exactly where Voldemort was. His mind sped through a thousand thoughts. Can it be… but it can't, surely? I…
The world was still locked in unmoving stillness when Harry saw the wisps of silver fall like a curtain over the Harry in the memory. I don't remember this, Harry thought, his thoughts unable to coalesce into anything more complicated as he watched the wisps drain into his eyes, mold into his skin. It reminded him of worms burrowing into the soil.
And suddenly, time accelerated. Harry watched his own face contort with pain, and in a blur of movement, he was on the floor, thrashing and screaming—he remembered, white-hot, the pain of those moments, the pain that made him forget everything afterwards—
He gasped in air with great gulps. Dust motes danced in the dim light that was rapidly fading from the surface of the Master. He was on the floor. His knees were as weak as jelly, and his stomach was revolting, ready to throw its contents in his agony of nausea.
He knew what had happened. He understood, though he did not—could not comprehend it yet. That silvery thing had been Voldemort's soul, Harry thought shakily. And it is in me. It is in me now. I have that monster's soul—in me.
He knew he was dreaming as he hurried through the halls of Hogwarts. He said it aloud, too. I am dreaming. This is a dream. He wondered dimly if this was a Voldemort-memory dream, or just a regular dream, but he thought it could be either. The air was cold in the dream, and he was trying to find something. It was something important. Maybe this is a memory dream, he thought. But he didn't know what he was trying to find.
He turned the corner and saw Dumbledore. Dumbledore's hair was not as white as he remembered, and his eyes were stern, as though the headmaster had forgotten to mask his misgivings and suspicion, but that hardly mattered. There was something he needed to find, and Dumbledore was in the way.
It's for your own good, said Dumbledore. It's for your own good.
That's right, said Harry. He moved on and found himself still in a corridor. There were a thousand corridors in Hogwarts, and suddenly they were all the same. He hurried on, knowing he needed to find something, knowing that it was terribly urgent. The urgency crawled up around his neck and clung there like a dark spell.
Dumbledore again in front of him. Harry quashed a spike of irritation, and he burst into the Great Hall. As he ran through it, faces flashed by: Hermione, who looked worried and was flipping unseeingly through a book; Ron, who sat like a dummy and had the glazed eyes of a dummy; Terrance Lestrange, the black-eyed prefect whose unwavering gaze was fixed on him. Harry hurried on, not pausing to look anymore, though he knew that the loud whispers were James Potter and Sirius Black, and the scuttling, scurrying sounds were of that traitor, Pettigrew—
He bent like a whip and slammed down on the rat, feeling the crunch of bones, the brief flash of cruel satisfaction, but when he lifted his fist, there was nothing there.
It's for your own good, said Dumbledore. It's for your own—
Shut up! Harry screamed. Dumbledore appeared before him, and the face was still the same—stern, forbidding, suspicious, but the eyes were gone, there were holes where the penetrating blue eyes had been, black holes, skeletal holes, like the holes in the skeleton's skull.
But Dumbledore kept talking. It's for your own good. It's for your own good. So Harry noisily ripped off Dumbledore's head and the entire corridor splattered red with blood as though Dumbledore's body had exploded, but that had never happened, it was Bill Weasley who had exploded when hit by Bellatrix's curse. But Dumbledore had stopped talking, his tongue stuck somewhere on the ceiling.
He hurried along.
The hall was empty now, empty and quiet. He hated the quiet. He wished he had Nagini with him. He wished that Nagini were here now, hissing lovingly and with the blind idiocy of a faithful pet. There was a sound that might indeed have been Nagini, but she was unimportant; there was something far more important, and he had to find it, he had to, he—
The corridor turned sharply, and he raced down into the dank darkness of the dungeons. The narrow hall burst into a large room, and he strode in confidently, surrounded by all his servants. They parted before him in a swish of black robes and white masks, and he saw what was in front of him.
Pale skin. Black hair. Broken, beaten, beautiful. But he had to hide it. He couldn't let them know about this disgusting weakness that remained no matter how many transformations he went through, no matter how hard he had tried with the mudblood bitches before killing them.
Leave, he shouted, and his servants left, roughly pushing the naked figure onto the ground. They were alone, and he knew spells to make the mind disappear, to turn the quick-witted into a zombie—
The world shifted as the figure on the ground stirred. The hair clung to a sweaty face; the eyelids parted slowly. The black eyes locked onto his.
All of a sudden he was on the floor too, and there were tears running down his face. Severus, he said, rocking back and forth, feeling remorse and regret as bitter and sharp as Crucio. Severus. But Severus's eyes were empty, and they looked past him, and he felt his heart clench and turn to ice, and it hurt, hurt more than he could ever remember it hurting—
Later, after he was awake and staring up stonily at the canopy, there was only one thought in his head: that it wasn't real, that it was only a nightmare. Images flashed through his head: Dumbledore with gaping holes where his eyes had been; Ron staring ahead listlessly; the flawless manner in which the Death Eaters parted before him; the strange and unidentifiable feeling of heat and sickliness that clawed him when he saw Severus, naked and bloody on the floor; the anguish as their eyes met—
He knew it wasn't just a nightmare. The nightmare was real. He was Lord Voldemort.
He had no appetite whatsoever for breakfast. The scrambled eggs might as well have been frogspawn and the sausages salamander entrails.
He wondered what Voldemort usually ate for breakfast.
Dealing with the house-elf had been painful, but he'd managed to calm it down (hopefully) and send it on its way. By then, the blush of dawn had faded into the warmth of the morning sun. He hadn't wanted to go among people yet, but neither had he wanted to stay alone, there in the dungeons. So now, he was slouching at the Slytherin table, staring dazedly at the food on his plate.
At least I'm not madly massacring Muggle-borns, Harry thought broodingly. Yet. Several more students streamed into the Great Hall. Thoughts had been slow coming to his head. Everything had been overwhelmed and broken like a hut beneath a tidal wave. He shook his head ruefully. What kind of fighter am I? Even in the worst of situations, a fighter must retain his calm and must not panic. I panicked worse than a first year in front of a dragon.
He sighed and forced himself to eat some of the eggs. I hold no hatred for Muggle-borns, meaning that I'm not Voldemort, he thought. He felt somewhat heartened, and the eggs tasted better. Yes, be rational, he encouraged himself. Be sensible. Apply logic. He resolutely ate some more eggs. I might have his soul, but I'm still in control. He paused. That didn't really make sense. Can a person have two souls? he wondered. Or have our souls… merged. He shuddered. It was as if he had to walk around with Voldemort joined to his hip.
He looked up from his half-eaten breakfast and caught sight of Dumbledore. Immediately the image sprang forth of Dumbledore with gaping holes where his eyes had been, of the white-bearded head ripped off, blood splattering the ceiling—
The blue eyes turned towards him. Harry looked down right away. Too quickly, he thought. He knows you're hiding something. But he couldn't help feeling that the hideous grin and Dark Mark he had seen in the mirror were still branded on his face, clear for all the world to see. Calm down, he chided himself. You're losing it.
Voices floated towards him.
"Did you chop off your tail, Snape?" Black called out.
Potter snickered under his breath, but glanced uneasily at Lily and immediately quieted.
"It was a great tail," Black continued. A few students laughed. "A perfect snake tail for a slimy little snake."
Harry looked up. Severus had come into the Great Hall. He snarled in Black's direction, but, with an eye towards the staff table, sulked to the Slytherin table.
"Good morning," Harry said. He expected no response and got none. I suppose that's what those Ravenclaws were talking about yesterday, Harry thought. He wondered how Severus had undone the human transfiguration. Probably with the Revert Transfigurito potion, he thought.
Severus gave him a glare. "What?"
Harry quickly turned away. He hadn't realized he was staring. "Nothing," he said. He couldn't help remembering his dream last night—the strange urgency, the revelation that it had been Severus that he'd been searching for, and then, the memory of Snape, naked and beaten, on the floor before him…
The image disturbed him. He lifted a forkful of eggs to his mouth—
And then it clicked, so suddenly that he dropped his fork with a loud clatter and splattered ketchup all over the tablecloth.
A few Slytherins glared at him.
"Sorry," Harry croaked. It was difficult to breathe. He stood up and, without daring to glance once in Severus's direction, fled the hall.
His footsteps were even and his face calm, but his mind was raging as he remembered—the warmth of the nights as Severus comforted him—the realization that Severus was beautiful to him, beautiful—the ease and pleasure he found in simply staring, staring at Severus—the swell of happiness, the surge of anguish and heat he felt—and, most damning of all, the dream last night, the dream of Snape's naked body and the lust he had felt.
Because that was what it was—lust.
He suddenly felt like an old pedophile. He felt disgusted, repulsed by himself.
He lusted after Severus. Ever since he'd come here, he'd fallen in lust. Voldemort had lusted over Severus, and now he, because he was Voldemort and Voldemort was he—he, too, lusted after Severus.
He stopped suddenly, staring vacantly down the hall. For a moment, his mind was blank—blank as an empty slate, blank as the sky on a desert day.
But then he heard footsteps behind him, and he immediately started walking again. His next class. Charms. And then there would be Defense and Merlin… he'd see Severus again. He felt a moment of paralyzing fear. Severus.
"Jonathan? Jonathan, are you all right?"
Harry blinked and smiled smoothly. "Yes, of course," he lied.
Lily gave him a harsh look. "You're pale," she said. She stretched out a hand for his forehead; he flinched. "Are you sure you're not sick?"
"I'm fine," he said. You're touching Voldemort, will you ever know that? he thought. The monster who will later murder you. He shook himself imperceptibly. Stop that! he barked at himself, steeling his nerves. Be sensible. He felt sick.
"You don't look good," Lily continued musingly.
"Look, really, I just had a sleepless night," Harry said, smiling as disarmingly as he could. He knew it came out strained.
"Mm. Maybe you should go visit Madam Pomfrey."
Harry felt a spike of hot anger. "I'm f… I'm fine." God, I'm losing it. I'm losing it. He stared down at the table, the silence between them heavy as death. I wonder how Voldemort managed it. He snorted inwardly. Probably by killing a few Muggle-borns and half bloods. Or maybe by fucking one of his Death-Eater servants, maybe fucking S—
He looked up, drawing in a sharp breath.
"Jonathan?" She sounded worried.
"I'm sorry, Lily," he said, trying to project his exhaustion into his voice, hoping it covered whatever madness lurked beneath the surface. "I'm just… tired." He mustered a smile. Lily didn't return it. He let his smile fade.
"Is it Severus?" she asked suddenly.
Harry started violently. "Wh—Se—" He swallowed. "No, of course not."
She continued staring at him, and he felt the blood that had drained from his face returning. Damn it, was Voldemort this volatile? Or, he thought, maybe it's just you, and you're trying to push all the blame on poor old Tom. The thought perturbed him. How much is Tom and how much is me?
"All right," she said delicately. She turned to face the front of the classroom, where Flitwick was demonstrating for the tenth time how to properly cast a Joaquin Charm, and Harry caught her lips forming a slight smile at the last moment.
Does she know something? he wondered, bewildered. Why is she smiling? Is she hiding something? He peered at Lily from the corner of his eyes. She didn't seem to be the type to hide things—she was a Gryffindor, after all, and from what he knew, an exemplary one. But— Why are you so suspicious?
"All right!" Flitwick shouted from atop a pile of books. "Eighteen inches on the usage and application of the Joaquin Charm! You're excused!"
Harry felt his blood turn to ice. Defense. Severus. Merlin help me.
He got up, but before he was carried by the tide of students into the hallway, he heard Lily calling his name.
"Jonathan!" She looked rather flushed. "I really hate asking you, knowing how you're really tired today and everything, but…" She took a deep breath. Harry felt his heart clench—does she know something? he wondered wildly. "Tonight's the full moon, and I found in the book a ritual that might work the way it's supposed to. Under a full moon, that is, and I'd not ask you, seeing how badly you feel, but tonight's the full moon, so…"
Harry stopped and stared. Out—under the full moon? Merlin knows how Tom will react. He knew that Voldemort had done something that had made him the most powerful being in the world. It was an insidious ritual, to be sure, that involved the killing of many people, but no one knew much about it…
What if I am that powerful now? Harry thought abruptly. It was a possibility he hadn't considered. His mind went to how he had effortlessly removed Dumbledore's tracking spell—But I couldn't do that before that ritual, he thought. The ritual. The one that shouldn't have worked. It had awakened something in him—something that had made the nightmare that night particularly vicious, that had put him in a coma—
It had awakened Voldemort.
"Jonathan?"
But you must help her, he thought, because of what she did later. Because of what had already happened.
"I'm fine with it," he said. Lily looked both pleased and surprised. "Where will I meet you, and when?"
"Actually, what we're doing isn't really with the rules…" She gave him a hesitant glance.
"Oh," said Harry, pretending to contemplate. When have rules ever stopped the great Harry Potter? he thought. Severus had said that. Oh Merlin.
"I'll talk to you after dinner," she said. "Will that be fine?"
Harry nodded, spotting the Marauders approaching. He was in no mood to deal with them. "Sure," he said, and left.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, he thought, approaching the Defense classroom with his heart beating madly in his throat. He ambled in and found a seat near the back of the class. He glanced up at the clock—just a few seconds before Severus would be late…
"Almost late!" trilled Professor Matellan.
"Sorry, Professor," Severus muttered, breathing hard and looking around for an empty seat. Harry looked away, determined not to catch the other Slytherin's gaze. But he could feel it, moving over him—
There was a rustling of cloth, and Harry turned to see Severus slouching into the seat next to him. Harry looked away again. He didn't know what to feel, what to think; he felt Severus's gaze, but when he turned to look, Severus was glaring at the front of the class.
"…Headmaster wants you to polish your skills in combat," Matellan was saying. Her voice, metallic and harsh, bounced jarringly in the room. "Name some of the spells we've been learning, class…"
Severus was looking bored. Harry tried concentrating on the list that was writing itself on the blackboard in front of the class… Stupefy, Aedifico Aegis, Intercipio…
The pale neck, the tangle of hair clinging to the sallow skin… Harry licked his lips unconsciously and quickly turned aside, squeezing his eyes shut for control as the thought, having laid latent for so long, finally surfaced: In two, three years, he will be tortured, raped. You—Voldemort—will rape him, and take pleasure from it. The thought hung in balance before he stretched his mind, wondering desperately if he had any memory of it.
There was none.
"Now, find a partner!" Matellan shrilled. "Practice these spells! They will be on your practical next week!"
Harry stood up, his legs weak from relief. I am not Voldemort, he thought. I am not he. I do not have his memories. I do not have his mind. I do not have his passions. He may be a part of me, but he's always been a part of me. He took a deep breath, feeling exhilarated by this beautiful piece of logic. I'm not Voldemort. He paused. My new mantra.
"Ready, Frost?" Severus barked.
Harry nodded.
They dueled—or methodically shot spells at each other, rather—until Severus had worked up a good sweat. Harry, on the other hand, looked completely unperturbed. He looks good like that, Harry thought, and felt disturbed again. I'm not Voldemort.
"Excellent!" Matellan cried, swooping upon them. "Frost, Snape! Fabulous job at applying what we've learned! Class! Look here!"
Harry bit back a sigh of annoyance and maintained a rather sheepish look on his face. He glanced at Severus and caught the other Slytherin scowling. For a moment, their eyes met, and Harry quirked his lips in a smile in Matellan's direction. Severus's scowl softened reluctantly, infinitesimally, before he quickly looked away.
"Go on!" Matellan encouraged, sailing aside as though introducing celebrities on stage. "Don't be shy!"
A few people laughed from the crowd. "Yeah, Snivellus," Harry heard a distinctly Black-like voice jeer. "Don't be shy."
The scowl morphed into a look of stony tightness. Severus turned, and their eyes met again. This time, neither of them looked away. Severus nodded his head, doing a half-bow, and Harry, eyes not leaving the other Slytherin's face, copied the gesture. He was aware of the rest of the class, the teachers, the room, but all of that suddenly faded, seemed insignificant.
Severus lifted his wand. I'm sure Matellan didn't ask for a duel, Harry thought just before Severus shouted, "Confodio!"
Harry stepped back and waved his wand in a smooth gesture. "Aedifico Aegis!"
Severus didn't wait. "Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus!"
"Intercipio!" Harry shouted. But he looked down, noticing a ripple of magic coming from the downstroke of Severus's wand. Sneaky, Harry thought, bringing his wand down silently and catching the magic on his wand.
Then he jabbed his wand out like a rapier. "Stupefy!" Flowing behind the jet of purple light was that cascade of unknown magic. Harry watched Severus's eyes, at first narrowed with suspicion, widen with surprise and grudging respect.
Severus ducked (hypocrite, Harry thought cheerfully, always telling me not to dodge the spells) and waved his wand; sparks danced on the floor as the unknown spell dissolved.
Ah, thought Harry, so it's a silent spell of weakening. He looked up from the floor and their eyes met again. Harry felt his lips twisting into a wolfish grin, and felt a thrill of exhilaration when Severus replied with an arrogant thrust of his wand.
"Adlido! Retardare!"
"Frost, Snape! Stop!"
Harry waved his wand. "Remeare!"
"Intercipio! St—"
"STOP!"
Harry waved his wand. "Deliquesco!" The last of the magic dissipated, but his eyes were still fixed unwaveringly on Severus's. This time, both of them were breathing hard. It had been so long—too long—since Harry had seen anything other than that dull, closed look in those eyes. Speaking, maybe not, Harry thought triumphantly, but ignore me—no more.
And then, like a storm wave crashing onto the shore, he remembered who he was, what he was, and the smile on his face vanished. He looked away, self-loathing and disgust filling him as he remembered the heat and sickliness from the dream. He slipped into his seat, feeling, more than ever, Severus's gaze. It burned.
"This is a demonstration, not a duel," Matellan said. Harry barely heard her. "But—excellent job, the both of you! Ten points each to Slytherin."
Harry saw, from the corner of his eye, Severus nod, his face expressionless once more. "Thank you, Professor," Harry said. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears.
Class ended mercifully soon after that. Harry spent the rest of it sitting in something of a daze, repeating again and again—I am not Lord Voldemort, and reminding himself why. Then he would chide himself for being so stupid and for losing it—he was supposed to have nerves of steel—and he'd manage to ignore the whole thing for a few blessed moments.
Then he'd see Severus, or Peter Pettigrew laughing with the other Marauders, and he'd start all over again.
The air was cold and dewy. Moonlight streamed down from the enchanted ceiling, basking everything in an eerie light. Harry gazed blankly at empty House tables as he leaned in the shadows against the wall.
Severus had pretended once again at dinner that Harry didn't exist. Harry felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment and—he clenched his teeth—longing. He closed his eyes in an attempt to suppress the mixture of horror and self-loathing, but saw again Severus's eyes, their stare so intense that they burned more than a Death Eater's brand…
There was a movement coming from the entrance of the Hall. Harry straightened, and relaxed again when he recognized the slightly upturned nose, the hair that seemed black under the moonlight.
Does she want to get caught? Harry wondered, creeping up behind her. She was standing full view in a puddle of moonlight.
"Lily?"
Lily jumped and whirled around, and Harry lunged forward, clapping a hand over her mouth, muffling her shriek.
He let go. "Sorry," he whispered, "but do you want Filch to find us?"
"Sorry, I didn't see you," Lily replied, sighing in relief. "Did you wait long?"
Harry shook his head. "No. The sooner we leave, the less likely we'll be caught."
"You're right," Lily said. She shifted a wrapped basket from her left hand to her right hand. "Follow me. I know a… passage outside the castle that isn't the main entrance."
"Right," Harry whispered, following the Gryffindor's lead. "That's not another lamb, is it?"
"What?—oh, the basket? No. It's only some absinthe, I read that it was—"
"Shh," Harry hissed. He thought he heard Mrs. Norris. "Tell me later."
Lily nodded, looking around in curiosity, her eyes, silver in the moonlight, widened with excitement. A true Gryffindor, through and through, Harry thought dryly.
The passage Lily had decided to use was hidden behind a tapestry of Selena the Salacious, one that Harry remembered having been filled in. Something must've caused the tunnel to collapse in the next decade, Harry thought. I wonder what it was.
"This is a passage?" he asked, blinking in feigned astonishment.
Lily flashed a mischievous smile. "Yeah. It leads to a spot behind the man-eating mistletoes in Greenhouse Five."
"Doesn't Sprout know about it?" Harry asked as Lily stroked the wall in front of her. It sunk in slightly before shifting aside. "That's amazing…"
"Yeah, isn't it?" Lily replied in hushed tones. "I love this castle," she said with a sudden, fierce conviction that surprised Harry for a moment. But I do too, Harry thought, realizing it was true after the thought had formed. Hogwarts castle was… not really home, but what he imagined a real family might be like. Quiet, but there. Lily went on, "And I doubt anyone, not even Sprout, goes behind the man-eating mistletoe bushes. Donovan might've known."
Harry stopped short. "Who?"
"Donovan?" Lily's voice echoed from further down the passage. They were descending a long, musty flight of stairs, and in the dim wandlight, the passage was claustrophobic. "He was the Herbology Professor two—no, three years ago, before Sprout came. He just left one day, they think he was eaten by the mistletoes…"
The stone walls and ceiling turned suddenly to earth. Harry felt something brush his hair; looking up, he saw a tangle of roots. "They?"
"The Gryffindors," Lily replied, her voice muffled now. "Well. I am a Gryffindor, too, but sometimes I wonder if the Sorting Hat meant to put me in Ravenclaw…"
"Ravenclaw?"
"Yes. You sound surprised."
"Sorry. It's just… only a Gryffindor would be sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to attempt unorthodox rituals in the middle of the night."
Lily laughed brightly. "Yes. Or a Slytherin."
Harry smiled briefly. She has a point. Then he wondered how much of a Slytherin he was. I was half-and-half—before, he thought. What was he now—three-fourths Slytherin with the addition of Voldemort? He shivered slightly and clenched his teeth. Don't think about that.
"This is it," Lily whispered. The passageway came to an end. Lily reached up but her hands barely brushed the ceiling. "Can you—um—"
"Magic," Harry said, pointing his wand at the ceiling. There were no enchantments here, only the slumbering power of the earth and its plants. He could feel it. Rise, he commanded in his mind. The patch of earth above their heads shifted up, and moonlight poured in.
"What?" Harry asked, noticing the look Lily gave him and wondering what he'd d— oh. He'd forgotten to say an incantation.
"How did you do that?" Lily asked. Harry was relieved that she didn't sound awed or frightened, merely impressed.
"Magic theory," Harry explained. "It's the will, not the words. Read Kriesberg or Lao Tzu."
Lily had a puzzled look on her face. "Why don't they teach that to us? It's so much more useful than having to learn the incantations for everything."
Harry shrugged. "Institutionalization," he replied. He glanced up through the opening. The chill of the night air had descended into the tunnel. "We'd better hurry, or the moon might set before we can get it done…"
"Right," Lily said. She hesitated. "Levitate me out?"
Harry flicked his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." Lily rose into the air, basket in hand, and landed lightly outside.
Harry moved under the opening and looked up expectantly.
"Well?" Lily called, looking down. Her face was cast in shadow, but her voice betrayed a smile. "Can't you do some magic theory and levitate yourself out?"
"I see how it is," Harry replied, grinning slightly in return. "You'd better move aside then."
As soon as Lily had shifted aside, Harry bent down and jumped. He gripped the edge and swiftly pulled himself out.
"That wasn't magic theory!" Lily exclaimed.
"It wasn't," Harry replied, brushing himself and looking around. They seemed to be in a corner of the greenhouse, with towering hedges on all sides. "Levitation is one of the most imprecise magics, especially self-levitation. Sometimes it's much easier to jump. And have you any idea how we're going to get out?"
"Oh—yeah," Lily said, whipping out her wand and creating a bluebell flame. Just like Hermione, Harry thought, staring at the writhing coil of warmth. He wondered what Hermione's reaction might be, if he told her that he had Voldemort's soul in him. He tried to picture her face, but all he could see was that look of doubt in her warm brown eyes, that hesitant look, as though she wasn't sure who it was she saw. It was that look that he had grown used to, that he had taught himself to expect.
The mistletoes shivered. Lily flicked her wand, and the bluebell flame snaked forward, clearing a path through the hedge.
"C'mon," Lily said, still in a whisper. "I was thinking of going down by the lake. Water should help."
They hurried across the frost-covered ground. The castle loomed in the distance, its many windows dark and shuttered, like the eyes of a slumbering giant.
"Here we are," Lily said, rubbing her arms. She was wearing a fleecy but inadequate-looking sweater. "It's almost moonset, but not quite. Want some absinthe?"
"Sure," said Harry. He remembered Lily having mentioning it earlier, at dinner. He also remembered Hermione mentioning it, but he hadn't really paid attention. "Is it supposed to do something?"
"Of course—it's different from Muggle absinthe," Lily said animatedly, pulling out a bottle of poisonously green liquid. She took out also two classes, and two strange looking spoons. "An absinthe spoon," she explained. "You have to strain it over sugar, or it'll taste like the Polyjuice Potion."
"Ah," he said, shuddering. Then: "you know what Polyjuice tastes like?"
Lily glanced up, startled. "Only theoretically, of course." She looked down quickly and poured a shot of absinthe in the two glasses.
"I see," Harry said, watching the emerald liquid swirl. "Theoretically."
Lily might have blushed, but in the darkness it was hard to tell. Harry stared at the two glasses. While everything else in the world had sunken into shades of black and white, the absinthe seemed to sparkle and gain luster and brilliance.
"Is it glowing?" Harry breathed.
"It's a magical reaction between the moonlight and the wormwood," Lily explained, handing Harry one of the spoons. "So yes, it is glowing. Now"—she rummaged in the basket—"some sugar." She opened a jar and put a cube of sugar on both of their perforated spoons.
"You really know what you're doing, don't you?" Harry remarked.
"I—um—tried it out a few times in the kitchens," she said, and added quickly, "It's brilliant, it really is." Her eyes sparkled. Harry realized he hadn't ever seen her so cheerful, except for when she had finally accomplished the Patronus Charm. Thinking back, he realized that she seemed most unhappy with the Gryffindors; she seemed always to be huddling with a book, alternately arguing with the Marauders or concentrating on some difficult passage. What must it have been like for six years? Harry wondered. He would have been crushed back then, naïve and vulnerable, without Hermione and Ron—
Don't think about Ron. Don't think about Voldemort and what he did he did to him. What you did to him.
"Right," Lily said. "Hold my spoon for me, will you? I need to get some water."
Harry obliged. Lily took out a pitcher and dipped it into the lake. She returned, taking back her spoon and pouring a glistening stream of water over the sugar cube. To Harry's surprise, the sugar melted almost instantly, as though the water from the lake was insistently pulling apart the cube of sugar.
"La Fée Verte," Lily said, lifting her glass and smiling. The absinthe had changed color from a sparkling green to a murky white. "Why don't you do yours?"
Harry took the pitcher of moonlit water and poured it over the sugar on the absinthe spoon. The sparkle and luster immediately vanished, leaving behind a rather opaque concoction.
"Muggles feel the first effects of absinthe," Lily explained, lifting her glass and holding it up before the moon. Silvery light glittered through. "It's a bit of a buzz, somewhat like those drugs Muggle teens are always on nowadays… And then the magic part starts, and it lasts about an hour. Things become… clearer."
She glanced at Harry expectantly. "Ready? It's still really bitter."
"Polyjuice with sugar cubes," Harry muttered. "Right." He saw Lily lift the glass to her lips and take a sip, and he followed suit. Here goes nothing, he thought. Alcohol and drugs—at least the non-magical, non-sleeping kinds—weren't substances he had ever—in fact, could have afforded to ever—indulge in. True, there was coffee, and lots of it, but—
"Aggh," Harry gasped. "This is disgusting! I—you—"
Lily laughed, so hard that Harry saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. Harry let a small smile find its way to his lips. "I hadn't seriously expected it to taste so much like Polyjuice. It's worse, I think. The absinthe."
"Oh come on! It's only the first sip! C'mon, take another." She lifted the glass and Harry watched in horrified fascination as the ghastly liquid drained into her mouth. She made a face and then sighed explosively. "Oh hell," she said. Harry thought that her eyes were a bit unfocused. "Go on, Jonathan—it gets better, really."
Harry looked down apprehensively. Might as well, he thought, and followed the Gryffindor's example.
The liquid burned its way down his throat and stomach, scalding his taste buds until he was sure he had none left. He squeezed his eyes shut—Polyjuice was bad, this was bad, but he'd had worse, a lot worse, including what fares the Death Eaters had given him, locked up in their dungeons—
"Jonathan?"
He opened his eyes. There was a buzzing his head, shivering through the rest of his body, his soul. The moon's so bright, he thought. He could almost touch it, almost bring it down from the sky… It's really beautiful, he thought idly. I wish Severus were here, next to me, to see it…
"Hello? Jonathan?"
"Yeah?" Harry replied. He turned—the whole world spun a bit—to face Lily. Her face seemed to flash with all sorts of color… "Maybe not quite as bad as Polyjuice."
"Ah," said Lily, a rather silly smile spreading across her face, "so you know what Polyjuice tastes like too, eh?"
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Only theoretically."
Lily laughed. Harry let a smile bloom on his face, and wondered at how he felt—hollow, but not as though his insides were dead. Instead, it felt as though he had a universe in his throat, all the clear sky and air in his chest… "So how are you going about this… ritual?" I'm slurring my words, Harry thought. I'm a terrible drunk. Even my mum can drink me under the table. "Y'know, I feel really bad that you're doing everything. I ought to… do something." Like save the world from Voldemort—from myself. The happy feeling diminished at the thought, retracting into a shell of sobriety. From myself, he repeated morosely. Myself.
"You're out here risking expulsion with me," Lily pointed out. "You're indulging in my intellectual pursuits."
"You wouldn't really get expelled," Harry grumbled, still feeling markedly depressed. Get a grip, he thought from somewhere far away, but he didn't feel like paying attention to that voice. "Dumbledore's monstrously biased towards Gryffindors. Everyone knows that."
"He is not," Lily said stoutly. "I swear he knew what Severus and I were doing, but he didn't say a thing."
Harry blinked. "Severus?" he hissed coldly. Severus? Severus—with Lily? He felt an insane flare of jealousy. How dare she try to take what was his! how dare she—he should kill her right now and dump her body in the lake, and let it bloat up and then everyone would know not to touch what was his—
"Snape, I mean," Lily said, a shuttered look coming to her eyes, the look that Harry remembered would linger on her face whenever she was in that mob of Gryffindors. "Your friend."
"My friend," Harry whispered, feeling the night air crawl over his skin. His voice, he knew, was sharp enough to cut through class, cold enough to freeze an ocean. "What, pray, were you doing with him?"
Lily's eyes focused on him with difficulty. She frowned, a bit bewildered, a bit concerned. "It was… a couple years ago. It was actually an Arithmancy thing. See, I'd always been fascinated with rituals and stuff, so…" She knitted her brows. "It was a class assignment, I think. Anyway, we did it together, and he always came up with these books from the Restricted Section that he wasn't supposed to have…" Her face darkened, and her eyes saddened. "That was before—" She stopped.
A pause. "Before what?" Harry urged. He felt a sudden need to know, even though the terrible jealously had evaporated. "That was before what?"
She took a shuddering breath. "I still think he's a good person, somewhere," she said stubbornly. "But he hurt me—a lot. He started calling me—calling me names, calling me 'mudblood,' and—" She suddenly stopped. Harry realized that she was on the verge of tears. They were silent for a moment, and Lily hurriedly wiped her eyes. "It's the absinthe," she mumbled. "Quite a bit of alcohol in there."
"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out. He was mad—mad to have been so crazily jealous—it wasn't the absinthe, either, he knew—it was him—it was Voldemort. "I'm sorry. I'm like this sometimes, and I hate it." He swallowed with difficulty. Why did I say that? he wondered. It doesn't matter that it's true. Nobody can know that their Golden Boy hates it— There came, echoing through the ethereal clarity of the absinthe, an answering voice—nobody can know that their Master hates it—
He hiccupped. Lily was looking at him. He glanced away. "Moon's almost set," he muttered. "Maybe a few more minutes, I reckon."
"Don't apologize," Lily entreated. She doesn't sound really drunk, Harry thought dazedly. I wonder how she does it… "It's all right. I understand."
"You do?" Harry asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
"Yeah, I—well, when I first saw you, seemed so—cautious, and—lonely—and I thought you must be, since you just transferred here, but…" She seemed to struggle for words. "But you seemed more than just a bit lost at being somewhere new. It's like you'd been through something really sad, all your life, or that you've never had a chance to be happy…" She stopped. "Oh hell. I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?"
No, Harry thought, no, you're right, Mum, you're right, oh Merlin, you are right— He took a shuddering breath. Severus, he thought suddenly, irrationally. And then, with a snap of clarity, it became clear. This is why I wanted him close—this is why I want him near me. He sees me, and more than that, he understands, and he touched me, he— He choked back his thoughts. "I must've seemed really pathetic, huh?"
"No, no! Not like that—God, that's not what I meant. I meant that—that you were—you were just—"
"When I first saw you," Harry interrupted dryly, deciding to rescue her, "I thought you were half of a dream couple. Lily and James."
"Potter!? James Potter? He's such an arrogant, stuck-up, lying, bullying toerag! He and his friend, Sirius Black, strutting around as though they own the school—it's enough to make me sick! It does make me sick. You won't believe—"
Harry gave an involuntary chuckle. "All right, I get your point." He glanced up. "It's moonset."
Lily glanced up as well, and the look of intellectual excitement returned to her eyes. "It is," she agreed. She reached into her basket and took out a piece of parchment and a quill. "I basically wanted you to take notes on what happened, and rescue me in case I started convulsing, or something," she said apologetically. "Sorry I—er—took the exciting part—"
"That's all right," Harry said, though somewhere inside he felt a bit guilty again. "You'll be in awe of my notes, don't worry."
Lily laughed, clear and silvery in the night. I told a joke, thought Harry. I told a joke. He fully expected the moon to explode with fireworks. It's the absinthe, he decided. Can't be anything else.
"Moon, water, sap of the earth," Lily murmured, putting her hands into the lake water. "We have everything that is needed…"
"Lumos," Harry whispered, copying down what Lily said on the parchment. She wanted notes, I'll give her notes.
"I open myself to the magic of the air, the water, the earth…" Lily continued quietly. It's almost as if she's singing, Harry thought. "I empty myself for the air and water and earth…"
Harry felt it then, the pulse of magic rising from the lake and coalescing from the air, the earth. The bottom edge of the moon was just brushing the horizon, and the rosy light from the coming sunrise had bathed the sky in hues of soft blue and pink.
"Is mise árthach do chumhachta. Tar isteach ionam" Lily's voice rose in a crescendo, flowing from her mouth like a moonlit brook. "Osclaím mé féin do dhraíocht an aeir, an uisce agus an talaimh! Folmhaim mé féin don aer, don uisce agus don talamh!" It worked, Harry thought, breath catching. She's been called. The buzz from the absinthe had faded into a kind of hyperawareness. He could feel the air touching every pore of his skin, each blade of grass prickling, the faintest breath of breeze from over the lake…
Lily turned suddenly. Her eyes, once green, were now the white of the moon, the pale shades of the dawn sky—
Harry froze.
The girl at the waterside fell to her knees. He was standing. He watched her take his robes and kiss them, watched her look up with a blank face and flickering eyes. It was a gesture of servant to master, and Harry found himself lifting his hand slightly, benevolently, in a gesture of master to slave, from him to the powers of the earth, air, water…
Suddenly, the spell was broken.
Lily blinked, her eyes green again. She moaned and looked around groggily. "Jonathan? What the hell just happened…" Her eyes fell on his face, and she stopped short.
Harry stepped back, his mouth dry.
"Jonathan? What happened, Jonathan? You look like you've seen a ghost, or—"
"No, nothing," Harry said quickly. "I'm fine. It just surprised me, that's all. I wasn't expecting it." He swallowed hard. What did you do, Voldemort? he screamed. It must've been something truly terrible, to bend the untamable powers of the air and earth and water—to him—
From far off in the distance, a wolf howled.
"Shit!" Harry hissed. "Werewolf!"
Lily turned to look at the Forbidden Forest. "Werewolf?" she said bemusedly. "The moon has set, there aren't—"
"No, it's not that," Harry snapped. Damn it, how could I forget? Remus! He'd be out here tonight, with Prongs, Padfoot and Wormtail— Calm down, he snarled at himself. I'm losing it, he thought; I'm losing it. Just because you heard Remus howling doesn't mean any one of the Marauders saw you, or smelt you. And it doesn't matter if they did, because you can handle it later.
"Let's get back, before we're missed," Harry said. He stood up and hurriedly put the quill and parchment, the pitcher, the—
"Scourgify," said Lily. "Versum." The spoons shot out of Harry's hand into the basket, and the glasses dived in after.
"Right. Magic," Harry muttered, lifting the basket and glancing around quickly. Not a soul in sight. "Let's go. Same way?"
"Um… okay," said Lily, looking rather uncertain.
Harry stopped momentarily. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "But I just—" He stopped himself before he turned to glance at the forest another time. That would seem suspicious, and he'd already messed up enough. "Never mind. Sorry."
"It's all right," said Lily. "Seriously, get some sleep. You look a wreck."
I probably do, Harry thought, but then he remembered the dream he had had last night, and shuddered.
In the end, he did take a nap—a twenty-minute one, blissfully devoid of dreams. The way back into the castle had been quick and silent, and they had separated immediately upon exiting the passageway. Quite a few students were in the Great Hall already, but Harry felt too knackered to even attempt to appear normal. Fortunately, Snape had been asleep when Harry had crept inside to take back Dumbledore's tracking spell, and he had only stared for a moment—or two—before he had managed to wrench himself away.
Then he had flopped onto his bed and fallen asleep before he could dread dreams. Even a two-minute nap can do wonders, Harry thought, yawning and quickly getting ready for the day. That, and coffee.
He was late by the time he reached the Great Hall. The empty seats were of those who had finished breakfast, not those who hadn't yet begun. He saw Lily staggering in from the Gryffindor entrance and flashed her a smile. He was relieved when she returned it.
"Good morning, S—nape," Harry said, slipping into his customary seat. I nearly called him Severus, he thought, a bit shaken. Not good. He glanced at Severus, and was surprised to see him glaring with unmasked loathing over Harry's shoulder.
Harry turned, and felt his stomach sink to his feet. Oh please, no…
James Potter, with Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew in tow, was storming towards the end of the Slytherin table. All three Marauders looked rather worse for wear, as though none of them had slept a wink, but Potter looked by far the worst. His messy hair resembled an Afro gone wrong, and his pale face was twisted in fury.
"Frost!" he snarled, voice ringing over the sudden hush. "I've a word or two to say to you!"
Harry was aware of the attention of the entire Hall, of the whispers that were rustling down each of the four tables, of Dumbledore's keen gaze, of Severus's surprise.
He stood up, keeping his face a mask of ice. "You can say them here, Potter."
There was the sound of quickened footsteps. "James! Sirius, what's—" Harry glanced over Potter's shoulder. Lily was hurrying towards them, her face a mixture of consternation and apprehension.
Black shifted so that he was in the way. "Stay out of this, Lily," Black intoned.
Lily frowned. "Don't be ridiculous, Sirius, I—"
A high-pitched voice rang out: "Traitor!"
Harry felt his blood boil as Lily gaped at Peter Pettigrew. How dare you say such a thing!—you, you who betrayed them! Harry seethed. He felt wave after wave of loathing and disgust as he glared at the short, floppy-haired rat—instantly he imagined those fierce eyes being reduced to a glazed dullness by a thousand crucios—he saw the hale face shriveled with fear and age; he—
"Peter," Potter snapped. "Shut up."
Lily looked up at Potter, a frown on her forehead and worry in her eyes. "James, what do you think you're doing?"
"Me? What did you think you were doing? Don't deny it, Lily! Out of bounds, at night—" Potter choked with anger.
Lily's eyes flashed. "Don't be a hypocrite, Potter. Now stop this nonsense right away, and—"
"Please," interrupted a cool, mellifluous voice that sent shivers down Harry's spine. "Do take this lovers' spat somewhere else. It is curdling my appetite."
Sirius Black's face contorted in anger. "Shut up, Snivellus."
Harry felt an instant leap of fury. "Shut your trap, dog," he snarled, and felt a surge of satisfaction when Black's face blanked out in shock. Harry let a knowing grin form on his face. Got you there, he thought fiercely.
"What is the meaning of this?"
All six of them froze and turned to see Professor McGonagall staring at them with very pinched lips.
"Nothing," Black and Potter replied in an expressionless monotone. Lily, Severus, and Pettigrew kept silent.
Harry smiled thinly. "We were merely having a discussion about the merits of inter-House academic partnerships," he said.
McGonagall treated him with an acidic stare. He weathered it. She was nothing to Snape or Dumbledore or even her future self.
"Isn't that so, James?" Harry added, not breaking eye contact with the Transfiguration professor.
Harry thought he heard the sound teeth being ground to dust. "Yes, that's right," Potter finally made out.
"I see," McGonagall said at last, turning her gaze to the others. "Be that it may, I must remind you that there are to be no brawls or fights while you are at this institution."
Various forms of, "Yes, Professor," were drowned by the swell of conversations that had risen once more.
McGonagall nodded and then swept off towards the staff table.
Harry watched her leave. He let his eyes wander until they met Dumbledore's. The Headmaster gifted him with an indulgent sort of smile, and Harry returned it with a rather apologetic shrug. So he does not yet suspect, Harry thought, relieved. The old fool.
"Don't think this is over, Frost," Potter growled.
"Let me tell you this, James Potter," Harry said coldly, turning the weight of his gaze to the Gryffindor's face. "If you believe that there is anything romantic going on between Lily Evans and me, then you are sorely mistaken." Harry could help glancing at Severus. The other Slytherin's eyes were averted. "We work together on the Charms project. We may be…" He stopped and searched for the right word. He found it, disbelievingly. "We may be friends, but that is all."
Black snorted. "Likely story. Friends don't go sneak out of the castle at four in the morning."
"Really?" Harry replied, arching an eyebrow. Black blinked and snapped his mouth shut.
Potter crossed his arms. His face was still stony. "I don't buy that," he said flatly. "I know what you're trying to do, Jonathan Frost. I know you and your slimy, Slytherin mind." He sucked in a breath. "I, James Potter, challenge you to a duel."
There was a silence.
"No," Harry said flatly.
"Are you crazy, J—Potter?" Lily demanded. "I swear, if you go through with this, then I'm telling McGonagall—"
"Then I'll tell her you've been prancing about with a Slytherin at night!" Potter hissed. He turned back to Harry. "Jonathan Frost," he said, "I challenge you to a magically binding duel, and if you refuse this duel, you will be magically obligated to concede to the demands I make."
Magically binding. The phrase echoed in Harry's mind. He racked his brains for how he might worm his way out of this one, but a part of him, still seeing Pettigrew's indignantly triumphant face and hearing Black's voice sneering "Snivellus," wanted nothing more than to draw his wand…
Severus stood up. "In this duel, I, Severus Alexander Snape, bind myself to Jonathan Frost as his Second."
Harry whirled around, his heart pounding in his throat. He sought out Severus's eyes, but the other Slytherin was staring straight ahead, fixing a look of disdain and hatred at Sirius Black.
"NO!" Lily shouted.
Black crossed his arms, adopting an arrogant pose. "And I, Sirius Terebellum Black, bind myself to James Earl Potter as his Second."
Harry felt something struggling to free itself. He let it come out, and realized that it was a smile. So be it. He turned his full attention to James Potter, ignoring Lily's pleading gaze. "Very well. I accept."
Is mise árthach do chumhachta. Tar isteach ionam! -- I am the vessel for your power. Enter me!
Osclaím mé féin do dhraíocht an aeir, an uisce agus an talaimh. -- I open myself to the magic of the air, the water, the earth.
Folmhaim mé féin don aer, don uisce agus don talamh. -- I empty myself for the air and water and earth.
Thanks tothe wonderful Procyon Black for these translations!