A/N: Profuse thanks to Procyon, who betaed it not once, but twice.

A/N2: Note the new rating. And please review!


Chapter 13

The room was cold despite the fire, and Harry was inclined to wrap his cloak around him as he sat at the hearth. The dungeons really need some desks, Harry thought. And spy or no, I really wish a house-elf would come and clean the grate.

Harry opened the gray cover and dipped his quill in the ink.

The idea of writing to the book while Severus was asleep had come to him during dinner, but he hadn't spared much thought to what to actually write. He had been unexpectedly engrossed in reading Yeats. But he knew one thing: that he had what could potentially be a round-winning ace up his sleeve.

'Hello Christolph,' he wrote.

There was no response. That's not unexpected, Harry thought.

'Will you please answer me?' Harry wrote. His hand was steady and calm, and he pressed the quill into the paper firmly to form the question mark at the end. 'I would like to know why you harbor such hostilities towards me.'

The page stayed blank.

Harry dipped his quill in ink and began writing again:

'Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!

Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:'

Harry waited, hoping this would work. When the book did not respond, he began again:

'Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;

The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,'

As he was about to reach for the Yeats anthology sitting on his bed (the rest of the poem was lost from his memory), the words began to form in that firm yet spiky script: 'So you found Yeats.'

'Yes,' Harry replied. 'I like his poems. They're fascinating, really. It's rather surprising, since I find most poems beyond me.' He searched for the right words to write, the right lies and leads to tell. 'Was he also a Snape? The rose motif is most interesting.'

'No. He was a Muggle, through and through.'

Harry paused, pondering on how to draw the lure so that it would be caught. But perhaps subtlety was overrated. 'Is the Snape rose made out of a particular' He paused. 'material?'

The next words did not appear until after a long moment. 'What do you mean, material?'

Harry smirked in triumph. He had forced the book to ask a question, and if his thoughts were correct, the tide would soon turn in his favor. 'I have in my possession a wild rose carved from bone and set as a necklace upon a silver chain.'

There was a long pause before the words appeared again. Harry wrapped his cloak tighter and moved closer to the fire as he watched the script appear across the page.

'Where did you find it? Did Severus give it to you?'

The strokes, Harry noted, were not as steady as they had been.

'What did you tell Severus?' Harry wrote back.

There was a moment's pause, and then the words appeared fluidly. 'So it's quid pro quo for us?'

'Yes.'

'Then answer me first,' wrote Christolph. 'And remember, I can tell whether or not you're lying.'

Really? Harry thought skeptically. Did the book wield some sort of truth charm like the quill in the Bibliotheca Caeca? 'Go ahead,' he wrote.

'Where did you find the rose?'

'In Hogwarts,' Harry wrote.

'More specifically?'

'In one of the bookshelves in the Hogwarts library.'

'You lie.'

So perhaps it can tell a lie, Harry thought. But maybe it's bluffing. 'It's the truth.'

'It is not,' the book wrote back, its handwriting smooth and strong with the assurance of its own conviction. 'Do you expect me to tell you the truth if you lie?'

Harry hesitated. That was a good point, and there was no way he could gauge the truth of the book's words. 'Then it's unfair,' he wrote. 'I will not be able to know whether you tell the truth or not.'

'That is unfortunate,' the book wrote.

Harry snorted. 'Then perhaps you will never know the circumstances under which I came upon the bone rose.'

No words formed for some time. 'Do you have the necklace with you?'

Harry reached his hand into his robes. 'Yes,' he replied.

'Hold it in your hand.'

Harry took the necklace out by the chain. He knew it could be a trick or a trap or some malevolent spell carried over from ages past. But he could feel no ill-magic coming from the necklace. If anything, there seemed to be a purity of enchantment. He clasped the bone rose in his hand, feeling the smooth contours of the petals. 'I am.'

The words formed: 'My name is not Christolph and you are from this time.'

That's a lie, Harry thought automatically, as though the thought were waiting all along for him to discover. A moment later his blood froze from shock. How did he know I'm not from this time? Harry thought, staring at the words that had appeared on the page. How did he know?

'Interesting,' Harry wrote, hoping his handwriting wasn't more shaky than usual. He would have to ask later; first he had to answer. 'I found this necklace in a place with a mirror and five sides.'

The words appeared immediately. 'The Founders' Nest.'

'Yes,' Harry wrote. So he knows what the Founders' Nest is, he thought. And he knows that I am not from this time. He hesitated, wondering what he should next ask, weighing which question pressed more heavily in his mind. At length he made his decision with rapid strokes. 'What did you tell Severus about me?'

'That you are filled with shadow,' came the words slowly. 'That you are hiding things from him. You are half-truth, half-lie, half-soul.'

Half-soul, thought Harry with a tightening within his chest, a feeling of icy fear that settled through his body. How does he know so much? How can he know—? And then, a moment later— Now Severus knows. Severus—what if he knows I'm not from this time?—

'Was that all you said?' Harry wrote, trying to keep his handwriting neat and impenetrable, though he felt his quill nearly cracking under his grip.

'Under what conditions exactly did you find the necklace? In other words, how did it come into the Nest?'

Harry cursed silently. He paused, gathering his thoughts and considering how to answer. 'The Nest was a terrible mess, and there were parchments and scrolls everywhere. There was a thick layer of dust over everything.'

'And?'

'How do you know I'm out of my time? What do you know about me?'

'Tell me exactly how you found the necklace.'

'I told you, in the Nest—'

'That's not all the truth.'

Harry hesitated. 'On a corpse.'

No response came. Impatiently, Harry wrote: 'What else did you tell Severus? And what else do you know about me?' He waited some more. 'Hello?' he wrote.

'A man's corpse? Describe it, please.'

Harry paused before answering, and in those moments, he knew that the corpse was important in some way to Christolph. Perhaps the corpse is he, Christolph? Harry thought, and felt a humorless chuckle at the twisted irony of it all.

'The corpse was practically a skeleton, so I imagine it was for a very long time. As to the sex, I couldn't tell,' Harry replied. He hesitated. 'I think it was a man—the garments were those of a man. But tell me—'

'Was the corpse of an old man?'

Harry frowned, puzzled. 'Yes, the hair was all white—'

'Do you know what scrolls the man had been looking through?'

'What else did you tell Severus?'

There was a long pause. 'Not much else. Only that lovers are fools.'

Harry frowned. What's that supposed to mean? He held onto the bone-carved pentagonal rose, and rising up murkily to his mind was an impression of falsehood. But it was muddled and unclear. Harry dipped his quill in the inkpot. 'You're not being completely honest.'

He waited, for a clarification or a question, but no words appeared.

'What else do you know about me?'

There was no response.

Harry frowned, shivering and rubbing his forearms against the creeping cold. The heat of the fireplace felt uneven: his face was uncomfortably warm, but the backs of his upper arms were covered by goose bumps.

'Christolph? Hello? Are you there?'

Still there was no response. He's gone, thought Harry as the words slowly faded into gray, lighter and lighter until they disappeared.

Harry sighed and shut the book. How did the book know so much about him? How? What else did it know? And why was it so freaking cold? Is Severus cold? he wondered suddenly. He stood up and pointed his wand at the fire. "Concalesco!" The fire leapt up, throwing sharper shadows against the stone walls.

Gathering up the inkpot and the book, Harry crept to the side of Severus's bed. Severus was still sleeping. With a pang of regret, Harry noticed how Severus was huddled with the quilt wrapped tightly around his gaunt shoulders. It's never warm enough, he thought, smoothing a hand gently over the curve of the back. Harry shivered and withdrew his arm.

Why must you be so suspicious? Harry thought sadly. But you have every right to be. That goddamned book is right. He felt a twist of bitterness in his heart. I am half-truth, half-lie, half-soul. And Merlin knows what you've lived through already. A great sadness overcame him, a sadness that came with the indescribable yearning to smooth the lines of pain that lined Severus's face even in his sleep. Don't turn away, he thought. Don't.

He went quietly to his bed, set down the inkpot and book, and folded himself under the covers. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

qp qp qp

Alone.

He is sitting on his throne, alone in the room. Even Nagini is not there. He has sent them all away. He cannot stand them right now; he cannot stand their mindless praise, their formless fear, their empty eyes. All their eyes are the same—the same hollow fear, the same slavish adulation.

OUT! he shouted, and they scurry out. OUT! Nagini followed, bewildered and disgruntled, and he will need to feed her soft flesh to appease her, but he hardly cares.

He sits alone and broods. There is a mirror at the other end of the room, and he sees himself swathed in finery and sprawling upon a seat of gold, red eyes set upon a striking face—

He flings out his arm, five fingers apart, and the mirror shatters.

Alone.

He seems himself in the orphanage. He sees himself seated at the base of a cracked concrete wall, shivering in the damp rain. He is gray. The world is gray. The flames of hate that have enrobed his heart in a wall of fire, in a citadel of poison, are gone. There is only the rain. And he is at once alone and miserable, miserable and alone.

Why? The drug of power that he had tasted, that had lifted him above the world, seems little more than ashes. The purposeful hate that gives him direction and guides each step, each spell, each murder is gone—and he is bewildered, lost, alone. What is the purpose? What is the meaning? Why…

And then he sees it: a vision so beautiful he forgets all. It is a vision of dark hair, sharp eyes, pale skin. It is a vision of solitude, a vision of yearning. It is a vision so beautiful it hurts. He is breathless.

Breathless.

And now, now upon his golden throne, now watching the glass shards on the ground, he feels it again. The gray, misty rain. The dampness, the cold. The purposelessness, the questions, the aimless misery. Why…

And he sees the vision of beauty. He sees it for it is the only thing left in the world, the only thing worth living for.

And he hates himself for it.

It is unnatural. It is disgusting. It is dirty, it is not pure; and the fires of self-loathing burn hotter than any other hatred he can feel.

But for now, it is a secret, a secret he holds deep inside; and in his mind's eye he sees the young potion-maker—a vision of greasy hair, thin limbs, snarling temperament—and knows that he, Lord Voldemort, is a miserable boy in a gray orphanage, lost and alone, lost and alone, and it hurts so much, hurts like a scar that will never leave, even when his fortress of hate flares brighter than a thousand suns, even as he sits upon his throne in his vast throne room—

Alone.

He was drowning in a sea of red darkness, an ocean of cold and heat, warmth and ice. He clutched to something, clutched with both hands and his wet face in cloth. The world spun dizzily and he breathed too deeply too fast; he choked, and something smoothed his back, smoothed his hair, smoothed him with low, wordless murmurs.

Severus, Harry thought, and he clung to the thought like a lifeline in a dark sea. Severus. Severus. Slowly, he felt the tension trickle away. His face was buried in Severus's shoulder, and Severus had draped one arm around his back, the delicate fingers drawing soothing patterns. He could feel the deep vibration in Severus's chest as Severus made those low, wordless sounds…

His throat knotted with a fresh flood of emotions—a terrifying flood for its overwhelming strength. I love him, Harry thought suddenly, tightening his grip as his heart convulsed with the rush of emotions. I love him I love him I— His mind choked: words failed, thoughts failed, and love—only a simple four-letter word, said over and over—was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Nothing—nothing.

Severus had stopped humming. Harry took a shuddering breath and blinked blearily. A bit of Severus's nightgown and fallen away at the shoulder, showing pale skin—golden in the firelight; but Harry saw bruises there, bruises he had made with his iron grip. He ran a trembling finger over the skin, and Severus hissed—tensed.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, his voice no more than a hoarse croak, and he moved his face closer to the bruised skin. Severus didn't move, didn't speak. And Harry shut his eyes tight from the intensity that engulfed him as he pressed his lips to the warm shoulder—

I love you, Harry mouthed silently, his lips moving over the bruised skin, gently, gently, his entire body shaking like a candle flame in a dusky breeze. I love you, he said again, silently, whispering it to Severus's bruised skin, golden in the firelight.

At last, reluctantly, Harry lifted his head, and he felt Severus give a long, shuddering sigh. I love him so much, Harry thought, almost feverishly. He was shivering all over. His gaze went up the smooth column of the throat, dusted with a downy dark shadow, past the lips, deep red in the light, and to the eyes—

Severus was looking away, his eyes closed tightly. Time slowed until it became the warmth in the room, the drop of resin on the wood in the fire, the space between heartbeats.

Then Severus shifted away, and, with another shuddering breath, left the bed. His outline seemed to glow white against the firelight. Harry watched, his eyes fixed yet half-lidded, as Severus went to his bed, slid under the covers and turned his face to the wall.

Harry felt his eyelids drooping. But they would not close: the light of the flames pulsed in the stillness and his heart was beating, beating, beating… What had just happened? His mind reeled as he remembered the smooth moistness of the skin, his own words echoing soundlessly in his mind…

qp qp qp

Harry opened his eyes and blinked blearily at the canopy of the bed.

"Good morning," said Severus from where he was sitting in his bed, a book in his lap.

Harry turned his body. "G'morning," he muttered. "Is it… what time is it?"

"Quite late," Severus said. "Breakfast's long past, but I saved some for you." He indicated a plate of toast on the floor, along with a glass of orange juice.

Harry sat up slowly. His mind wasn't fully awake yet, and he wondered—he wasn't sure—had something happened in the middle of the night? Something about dreams or memories, and then… He stole a glance at Severus, who was looking at him intently.

"Thanks," Harry said, looking down and shifting his legs out from under the warmth of the blankets. It could be morning, noon, afternoon, midnight: the room was bathed in the same light, the same musky warmth. "We really need to get the house-elves to air this room," Harry said, pulling on some clothes. "And a table of sorts."

"The Romans ate lying down," Severus said as Harry sat, cross-legged, on the hearthrug and pulled the plate closer. "You might as well do the same, except on the floor."

Harry bit into the toast. "Mm," he said. "But they had loads of cushions and slaves. Today is… Sunday?"

"Yes."

Harry finished his toast quickly and washed it down with orange juice, all the while wondering what exactly had happened last night. It seemed but a dream. But… it wasn't a dream. He blinked his eyes and touched his face: there were traces of tears, and he knew he must have wept last night. But the other part, where he had kissed Severus's shoulder…

He felt his insides shiver.

"I expect the house-elves will take care of the mess?" Harry said, getting up from the floor.

"Supposedly," Severus replied, sounding very absorbed in his book.

"Right," said Harry and he left to brush his teeth and wash his face. In the bathroom he splashed his face with cold water and rubbed it harshly, annihilating any hint that he had cried. His green eyes were still rather puffy, but that couldn't be helped. He splashed his face again and wiped himself with a towel. He was thankful for Hermione for creating the glamour spell he was using: it was, quite literally, a second face. But it's not infallible, he thought, remembering how James Potter's spell had shattered the part concealing the Dark Mark and his eyes… At least the rest of it held, and Severus didn't see me as Potter's double. The thought made him shiver with dread. He looked at himself critically. No, he didn't look like a Potter—in fact, most of his features were the opposite. The boyish Potter looks were replaced by angular features; the straight, slightly upturned nose was more prominent (like Severus, he thought); his hair, still black, was much more manageable, and slightly curly. But the same closed look, the same distant air—that couldn't be changed by a second face.

He left the bathroom, pausing as he heard a few angry noises emanating from Malfoy and Lestrange's room, and then entered his own room.

"Do all Muggles brush their teeth after breakfast?" Severus said.

"Um, no, I think," said Harry, a bit surprised. "I do out of habit. I had to make breakfast right after I got out of bed."

Severus sneered.

"Why?" asked Harry. "Do wizards always brush their teeth before eating?"

"Most do," Severus replied. He set his book aside. "I talked to Christolph while you were asleep."

Harry nearly froze. "Oh," he said, sitting on his bed. "Well?"

"I asked him about what kinds of magic might be affected by dreams and aren't registered as ambient magic," Severus said. "He said soul magic—"

"Soul magic?" Harry interrupted. Soul magic. The memories came rising like the sirens of death angels—Voldemort had tied power to his soul through soul magic. He had murdered hundreds, even thousands, for his soul magic.

"Yes, it's had quite a reputation," said Severus. "But he said something about not avoiding power when others would grab it at will."

Harry nodded. "Yes. What else did he say? How does it relate to dreams?"

"Well, he doesn't know if it relates to dreams or not, but he thinks it does, and there's a way to find out." Severus's eyes became more shadowed. "Only he wouldn't tell me. He insists on talking to you, saying something about quid pro quo."

"Oh," said Harry. "Is that all he said?"

"Yes," Severus said, in a voice that revealed nothing.

All right then, thought Harry. Nothing about mashed souls and hidden Nests, I hope. If anything, Christolph had probably spouted out vague warnings; otherwise, Severus would undoubtedly be exuding more suspicion. "I'll talk to him now. Where is the book?"

"In your book-bag, where it always is," Severus said, in his why-are-you-such-an-idiot voice.

"Oh," said Harry. He reached into his bag and fished out the gray-covered book. "Right." He reached deeper into his bag to find his quill and inkpot. Quid pro quo, he thought. Probably Christolph was going to ask about the scrolls the corpse had been reading before it died, and honestly, Harry didn't know. I'll just say I'll find out, Harry thought, taking out his quill.

Severus got off his bed and moved to Harry. Harry's movements slowed. Severus doesn't know about the corpse, he thought. He doesn't know, and if Christolph demands to know outright…

"Well?" Severus demanded.

Harry opened the cover. Then he dipped his quill in the inkpot and wrote.

'Hello, Christolph. Severus, who is breathing down my neck, says you wanted to talk to me?'

"What?" Severus barked from a safe distance away. "I'm not breathing down your neck!"

"Figuratively," Harry said, hoping fervidly that Christolph would get the hint.

'What did you do with the body?'

Harry heard a sharp breath, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Severus glance at him, glance at him with an expression of incredulity in his eyes—and expression that slowly, inexorably, began to register suspicion. Harry forced his face into a mask of shock and disbelief as he muttered, "What the fuck?"

Play the part, play the part, he told himself. He lowered his hand and began writing.

'What are you talking about?'

No words appeared for a moment. Harry looked up at Severus with a lost expression and forced out a humorless laugh. "This is—I have no idea what he's talking about…"

'The body in the Nest you told me about last night. What did you do with it?'

Severus peered closer. "What Nest?"

'I have no fucking idea what you're talking about.' Harry scrawled angrily.

A pause. Then, the words forming smoothly, 'Ah, so you don't want your lover to know about your se—'

Harry slammed the book shut.

"I've no idea what the fuck it's talking about," Harry said and slipped the book in one deft motion into his book-bag. He fumbled as he plugged his inkpot and tossed it in after his quill.

He forced himself to face Severus, who had been standing next to him the entire time.

Harry barked a laugh. "It's almost funny," he said and glanced away, "how it's… coming up with the strangest things."

Severus's eyes were dark and hard: inscrutable.

Harry stood and looked desperately into Severus's eyes. "Don't tell me you believe it? I mean—a body?" Harry squeezed out another laugh, and even to his own ears, it sounded grating and harsh and fake. He let the laugh die, and silence settled. Say something. Anything. Please. Harry searched those eyes in the brief moment that they met, searched frantically, before Severus looked away.

"Of course," said Severus with half a sneer. He drew away, eyes still glinting with suspicion. "It's quite far-fetched. A body, indeed."

Harry sat down, slowly, as Severus retreated to his own bed. The fireplace threw the same orange light on the walls, the same shadows, the same enigmatic flickers—the same as last night. But Harry felt cold.

"I read Yeats yesterday," Harry blurted out. Anything, he thought—anything to break the silence.

"Yes, I noticed," Severus said acidly. "You seemed quite enamored with that Muggle's poems."

"Well, some of them are… are very good," Harry said. He reached over the side of his bed and picked up the Yeats anthology.

"Don't tell me you're going to read me poetry now," Severus said disbelievingly.

Harry slowed as he flipped through the pages. "Well," he said. "Yeah. I am. I mean, there's nothing wrong with that, is there? And I know today is Sunday and you have work, but it won't be long. And you did quite a lot of it yesterday—"

"You're rambling, Frost," Severus growled, but he turned so that he was facing Harry.

"Right," Harry said. Ramble. I can't remember the last time I did that… He found the poem, but hesitated. To hell with it, he thought, pulling out his wand and transfiguring the hearthrug into a large, comfortable chair.

"You might as well make that permanent," Severus muttered.

"Actually I'd rather have both," Harry said, getting off his bed and sitting on the chair. "A fireplace without a hearthrug is like…" Dumbledore without his sherbert lemons. Lucius Malfoy without his hair. You without your cantankerousness. "Well. A fireplace without a fire."

"Ooh," said Severus sarcastically. "How poetic."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Right. Anyway, this one is called 'Spilt Milk.'"

Severus stared. "'Spilt Milk?''

"Er—yes." Harry shifted, suddenly nervous. Relax, he told himself. Get lost in the poem. He cleared throat, and began:

"We that have done and thought,

That have thought and done,

Must ramble, and thin out

Like milk spilt on a stone."

Severus blinked. "That was… short."

"Yes. Well. I liked it. I mean, the poems that my—that I had been acquainted with were all very long-winded, with so many flowery phrases it's enough to make someone sick and confused. Not that Yeats didn't do that in some of his earlier works."

"You seem to know quite a bit about him, while yesterday you didn't even recognize his name," Severus remarked coolly.

"I didn't! I mean, I hadn't heard his name when you first mentioned it, but now I know a bit about Yeats only because I read the short biography in the book I got. But did you like it? The poem, I mean."

Severus gave him a withering glare. "It was about spilt milk. An absolutely thrilling subject."

"The poem isn't just about spilt milk," Harry said, a bit defensively. "I think it goes on about how futile everything is, how everything we think and do is just like… well, just like spilt milk."

To Harry's mild surprise, Severus didn't toss back another acerbic comment. Instead, he nodded, slowly. "Yes. That's… I suppose he was old when he wrote that?" The corner of his lip quirked wryly. "Old and bitter?"

"Old, certainly, but… I don't know about bitter." Harry let his eyes rest briefly on Severus before he looked down and began flipping again. "There's another I wanted to read; let me look…"

"I trust it isn't about spilt beverages again?"

"No," said Harry, reaching the right page. "Here it is." He glanced up at Severus, and—and suddenly he felt how utterly surreal the situation was, how utterly surreal their pretenses were: pretending that last night, fraught with dreams and nightmares and touches, did not exist; pretending that there was no cloud of suspicion, of secrets and lies and half-truths, troubling their very breaths; pretending that they were just two boys in a dormitory, one ready to read, the other ready to listen—and Harry pretending he didn't love this man, love him so much it was a fire burning him from within.

He took a deep breath and began to read.

"Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths…"

Harry could feel Severus's gaze, feel it fixed unwaveringly, those dark eyes affecting his breath, his heart.

"Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams—"

In a threatening moment, he nearly faltered. But I, being Harry Potter and Voldemort and Jonathan Frost, thought Harry. Forgive me, for I have only my dreams and lies and that which is anything but a lie—

"I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

There was a silence when Harry finished. Harry had lifted his head with the last lines—the lines he knew by heart—and Severus had looked away.

"How… sentimental," Severus sneered with effort.

Harry looked down. "Yes," he said without emotion.

Severus composed himself, mustering all the contempt that he could and letting it flash over his face. "A prime example of sentimental drivel," he spat. "Artfully done, yes. But drivel all the same."

Harry snapped the book shut. "Severus!" he said loudly. He pushed down the flood of anger, of hurt and—and all that sentimental drivel. "Well I'm glad you have your opinions." Harry tossed the book into his book-bag, his equanimity swiftly recovered. "Anyway, today is Sunday, and I've still got Transfigurations to do…"

qp qp qp

'Hello Christolph.'

It was night, and Harry was again on before the fireplace, the gray book open on his lap.

'Good evening.' Christolph wrote, the words appearing in their usual, unhurried pace. 'Did you enjoy entangling yourself in your lies?'

Harry smiled thinly. 'How much do you know about me?'

'Quid pro quo again, I see.' There was a pause. 'I trust Severus mentioned to you what I knew about soul magic in relation to dreams?'

'Yes.' Harry wrote.

'I will tell you the method of proving the connection if you do two things: tell me what you did with the body in the Nest, and swear an oath to let your lover do a certain part of the proof.'

Harry paused. Swear an oath? he thought. What part of the proof would he want Severus to do, and not me… He lowered his hand. 'That's not an equal exchange. I already know, anyway, how to make the potion, just not the theory behind it.'

'Then name a term.'

Harry sat back, for a moment struck by déjà vu: this was a duel, just like the duel with the Marauders, only in a most Slytherin manner. A term, Harry thought. He immediately thought to what Christolph had told Severus about him—but he changed his mind; it didn't matter what Christolph had already said. 'Will you swear not to' He thought of how he might phrase it. 'tell Severus things that I'm not ready for him to know?'

'No.' Christolph wrote immediately.

'Then will you tell me all you know about me?'

'That's too wide a scope. What about I tell you something I know about you, and you explain it?'

Harry looked at the words, thinking that here was a chance for him to reveal everything, to explain that he wasn't really Voldemort, a monster, that he really did love Severus… It was strangely appealing, this chance to clear his name. And Christolph might stop badgering Severus to leave me, he thought.

'Fine, but if I am to bare myself to you, you must tell me about yourself.'

'Accepted.'

'I took the body out of the Nest and into the Forbidden Forest.' Harry fingered the bone-carved pentagonal rose as he wrote. 'There I cremated it.'

'Good,' Christolph wrote a moment later. 'He'd have liked that.'

He, thought Harry. He searched his mind for that instant sense of duplicity of the necklace's truth charm, but he found none. So was the corpse not he, Christolph? Harry wondered. Of course, it was possible that Christolph referred to himself by third person, but…

'There are two parts to seeing soul magic,' Christolph wrote. 'One part is a potion. One needs a sprig of willow, harvested on a new moon near a darkling stream; one needs the dew at dawn, a breath before the sunrise…'

Harry summoned a parchment from his book-bag and hurriedly began copying the steps, word for word, onto what was apparently a page of Transfiguration notes. I hope he's merely being artfully poetic, Harry thought, wondering how on earth he was going to get 'the sound of a moth's wings, lilting in the evening.'

'…stir it beneath the sullen stars, and you will have the potion to see the magic of the soul.'

Harry quickly scribbled that down. He grasped the bone rose and felt no pang of falsity.

'Thanks.' he wrote. 'By the way, can you say a lie? I just want to make sure the truth charm works.'

'The enchantment of truth on the wild rose is not working.'

He's lying, Harry thought instantly. 'Right. Thanks.'

'The second part of the spell requires an extension of mind-magic. Before I proceed, you must swear to allocate Severus this task—and not do it yourself.'

Harry frowned. Mind magic. Memories of Legilimency and Occlumency rose to the surface, and he almost chuckled at the grim irony. 'I cannot swear that oath unless I know more specifically what it is that Severus must do.'

'Swear it first.'

Harry looked down at the page, thinking hard. It made sense, he thought, and wrote: 'Is it Legilimency?'

There was no response. So it is, Harry thought, waiting as the fire flickered and cracked gently against the backdrop of his breathing, of Severus's breathing. And it was logical: to enter the mind to see the movements of the soul.

'Swear it.'

'You have no leverage anymore,' Harry wrote. 'You shouldn't have said it was mind-magic. I know it's Legilimency.'

'Swear it if you love him.'

And Harry understood why: for Severus to let Harry run rampant through his mind was… staggering. Impossible with the Snape Harry knew. But I can't let him run through my mind, Harry thought. I'll just… have to convince him. His heart sank at the prospect. 'I can't. Not because I don't love him. I do.' He looked at what Christolph had written, and thought that it felt strange, a bit frightening—thinking the thought was quite different from seeing it set in ink. 'He can't know. Not because I don't want to tell him, because I didn't tell him. It isn't written in his future and wasn't in my past.'

No words appeared for a long moment. 'So you are from the future, and you knew him.'

'Yes.' Harry wrote.

'How did you go back in time?'

'I don't know. But I didn't want to go. Someone else sent me.' He paused. 'Do you know?'

There was a pause. 'You're not lying.'

'I'm not.' Harry wrote. 'I hope you're not disappointed.'

'You're not lying about loving Severus, either. Or at least, you don't think you are. So you do love him.'

Love. He sat back, looking at the statement. Suddenly it seemed fantastical, utterly unreal. He—Harry Potter, beleaguered leader of the light, scarred and broken and glued back together; he, who had been thrown into a time that wasn't his own; he, who didn't know himself and knew love even less—he had fallen in love, and with Severus? And only after what, a few weeks? he thought, still staring at the words that seemed to shift slightly in the firelight. It was like trying to believe Voldemort was gone. It was like trying to believe that his parents had come back to life. It was like trying to believe that he wasn't Harry Potter anymore, that he was just a regular fellow on the streets, with no more troubles and pain and stupid lightning-shaped scars than an ordinary man. Maybe this isn't love, and I'm just calling it love because it feels too beautiful and terrible to call it anything else, he thought. Maybe it's really a twisted form of Stockholm syndrome, or a backlash from Voldemort.

'But tell me about the unrest in your soul.'

Harry shook himself out of his reverie. The fire made a little cracking sound as a drop of resin sparked. 'I'm not too sure.' He reached for memories—memories of a silvery whisper and searing pain. It was fading. 'I remember attempting to kill a' He paused. 'monster. The idea was that the Killing Curse he sent my way would be reflected by a mirror made from soul magic.' He paused again, remembering. 'It succeeded, I think. I didn't die, at any rate. But then there was a silvery thing where the monster's body had been, and then the silvery thing went into me. And then I was sent back twenty years.'

'You're not telling me everything.'

'That was all that I remember happening—for some reason I was in great pain—but I think the silver wisp had been his soul, and that it fused with mine.' He looked at what he wrote and quickly added. 'But it doesn't mean that I've become that monster—only that some of his characteristics bled into me.' He cannot love, yet I can, Harry thought. Albus always said so. So I'm not a monster. I'm not Voldemort.

'You seem sure of yourself.'

'Yes. I am.' Sure? Or merely desperate? He pushed the thought away. 'What do you think?'

The response came after a long pause. 'Your hypothesis seems most plausible. A fusion of two very different souls within one body.'

Very different souls, thought Harry. How true. 'Tell me a bit about yourself.'

'First I must ask you: are you planning to go back to your previous present?'

Harry hesitated and he dipped his quill reluctantly in the inkpot. 'I must. I wish it were otherwise, but I must. And I did, because there's no trace of my current identity in my previous present.' He paused. 'I wish I didn't have to leave him.' Not that it matters what I wish. But I wish I wouldn't have to leave Severus for twenty years. For a moment, the enormity of the thought nearly overwhelmed, but he clamped it down. 'Tell me about yourself.'

'I don't really know what to say.' Christolph wrote back. There was a moment's pause. 'I was born about eight hundred years ago in a very remote part of Cornwall. My ancestors were Saxons who had fled four hundred years ago when Charlemagne destroyed the Irminsul.'

'Oh,' said Harry, finding that he knew almost nothing about Charlemagne and that he had never heard of the Irminsul. 'Did you go to Hogwarts?'

'Yes, I did. Slytherin.'

'Who is' He wondered how he might phrase this. 'or was, rather, the deceased man I found in the Nest?'

The response came without too long a pause. 'That was a man named Simon. He was a close friend I had at Hogwarts.'

'I see.' Harry wrote back. He understood what it was like, such a boundless longing for friendship. There was Ron. Ron, who was his first and closest friend; Ron, whom he had killed. And even if Ron had somehow become his enemy, there were things he'd still do, things, for the sake of the memory of that friendship, he would go any lengths to do.

'By the way, you obtained an anthology of Yeats's poetry?'

'Yes, I did.' Harry paused, a thought coming to him suddenly. 'You know Yeats?'

'I do indeed.'

'But you were born eight hundred years ago. Yeats lived was born about a century ago.' Harry cast his mind back—he had been holding the bone rose, and duplicity hadn't sprung into his mind. He was sure of that. Was the truth charm on the bone-rose a fake, an elaborate trap?

'And yet I knew him, yes.'

Harry could feel the hard edges of the bone rose digging into the palm of his hand. 'You, Christolph, or you, his memory and his diary?'

'I, Christolph.'

He's telling the truth, Harry thought. Or this pentagonal rose is a lie. He bit his bottom lip, and suddenly—it was so obvious; why hadn't he thought of it before?—the riddle was unraveled. 'You traveled forward in time.' That was the only possibility; and so did that mean that Christolph knew the secrets of time travel? Harry shivered.

'Quid pro quo. Tell me what scrolls Simon had been reading before he died.'

'I can't tell you now.' Harry wrote. He hadn't cared to look at the scrolls, being too preoccupied with other matters. 'But I can find out.'

'Very well. Until then.'

'One last thing.' Harry wrote quickly before the words on the page could fade. 'Is there anything specific about the potion and the Legilimency?'

'Only that Severus, not you, should be the Legilimens.'

'It can't be done.'

'But it should, or your love will fall apart. How can you think a love would last on lies, shadows, half-truths?'

Harry looked at the words and felt anger welling up like a bubbling poison. 'Thank you very much for your blessing. I will reply to you soon about the contents of the Nest.'

He shut the book before the ink could fade on its own accord and then stared sullenly into the fire.

qp qp qp

"So, what are you doing today?"

Severus looked up at Harry's question.

"Mainly that stubborn begonia," he said.

"I see," said Harry. He fidgeted on his bed and set aside the book he had been pretending to read. "I can help you with that."

"No thank you," Severus said, enunciating each word very clearly.

"Oh come on," said Harry. "I notice that Potter managed the transfiguration very well."

Severus sneered. "He manages every transfiguration very well." Then he sniggered. "But he looked quite… wasted today."

Harry chuckled nervously. "Yes. And Lily Evans looked like a second McGonagall."

They lapsed into silence. Harry took a deep breath. "But seriously, let me at least lend you my books. After all, your book's missing pages."

"And your book is missing ink," Severus said coolly, returning to whatever tome he was reading.

Harry hesitated. Here it was now: the perfect opening for him to mention Christolph and the method of observing soul magic. But he knew how vehemently Severus would oppose, and he could almost feel the fragility of the ice stretched over the stream of things unsaid, unpalatable.

The words came out almost by themselves. "I talked to Christolph in Arithmancy today," Harry remarked.

"Oh?" said Severus, looking up sharply.

"Yes." Harry licked his lips and averted his gaze. "He gave up about the whole body thing. Did he happen to tell you what that was all about?"

The response came after a long pause. "No."

"Well, anyway, he wanted me to tell him how I got him—the diary—and so I told him, and he told me how to observe soul magic."

A pause. Harry glanced over at Severus from his bed.

"Well?" Severus drawled, his voice flat and impatient. His eyes were glittering with unspoken suspicion.

"There was a potion he said one of us had to consume," Harry said, and reached into his book-bag. He pulled out a sheet of wrinkled parchment on which he'd copied the recipe Christolph had given him. "And then the one who drank the potion had to… do Legilimency and go into the other's mind while the other was dreaming."

Severus stared. "You're not making it up as a prank, are you? Because, I assure you Frost, I do not find it amusing."

Harry shook his head quickly. "No—no, I wouldn't. If you don't believe me, if you think I'm lying, you can ask Christolph yourself." Please don't, Harry thought. He remembered the last time the two of them had read Christolph's words at the same time… And I've got little leverage left. There was still the issue about the scrolls Simon had been reading, but what was that compared to the mess Christolph could make at any moment?

"Yes," said Severus, moving to Harry's bed.

Harry swallowed as Severus climbed up next to him. "Here," Harry said, reaching into his book-bag and pulling out the slate-colored book. "I've got a quill here, I think." He fished out a quill and an inkpot. "All yours."

Severus dipped his quill unceremoniously in the inkpot and began writing. 'Christolph, Frost here tells me that observing dreams requires a potion and then Legilimency?'

Harry waited, hardly breathing. There was no response.

'Christolph?' Severus wrote impatiently.

Harry reached for the quill. "Severus," he murmured. "Let me—please."

Severus yielded the quill, and Harry dipped it in ink. 'Tell the truth, please, Christolph.' He didn't know how much that would help, and it might even make Christolph insufferably pleased, but…

Severus took the quill from Harry's hand, their fingers brushing, but then a word appeared: 'Yes.'

Harry felt a surge of relief, but he quickly checked the rising hope. Glancing at Severus, he saw a frown. 'Yes what?' Severus scrawled.

'Observing soul magic requires the potion of Lethe and Legilimency.'

Relief—warm relief—flooded through Harry's body, but as he glanced at Severus with half a smile on his face, the warmth vanished.

"Severus?"

Severus slammed the book shut and got off the bed.

Harry clambered off his bed as well. "What is it?"

"What is it?" Severus hissed. "What is it?" Harry tried to catch the other Slytherin's eyes, but Severus was glaring at the other side of the room. One hand, Harry noticed, was clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Suddenly Severus whirled around. "You know Legilimency don't you?" he spat.

"I—well." There was no reason to deny it. "I do. Yes."

Severus made a sound of disgust and anger and contempt and snapped, "There you go! Don't pretend to be so unknowing and naïve. It sickens me."

"I'm not!" Harry countered hotly. He ran his mind over his conduct over the past few days—had he pretended to be unknowing and naïve? He couldn't really think of any instance. "But that… wait. You don't know Legilimency?"

"No, Frost," Severus said, voice soaked with sarcasm. "I'm actually the world's expert. Even Dumbledore quivers at the mere mention of my nonexistent abilities."

"Oh," said Harry. "I… didn't know that." He had been so used to Snape knowing Legilimency that it was like linking the potions master to Potions: the connection came unthinkingly. But… That makes things so much less complicated, Harry thought with some relief. Severus would be upset, he knew, and Severus would fight, but Severus would succumb, knowing he had no other choice. He always did.

Suddenly Harry felt a shadow of guilt thinking those thoughts. He knew all too well how Severus hated being left without a choice, being forced to do what was right, that nobody else wanted to do. It's almost funny that I should be the first, Harry thought grimly. Not Voldemort, not Dumbledore.

Not Voldemort. That wasn't exactly true, either.

"Well?" snapped Severus. "Give me the recipe."

Harry picked up the wrinkled sheet of parchment and handed it to Severus. Their eyes met briefly, and Harry glanced away at the hard, inscrutable look Severus was giving him. Guilt? Harry thought. That would be funny. Guilt. He hadn't felt that in the longest time.

"I suppose they think they're poetic," Severus was murmuring disdainfully, looking down the list. "It's written in the late eighteenth century style. 'A sprig of willow, harvested on a new moon near a darkling stream'—really the leaves of a gray willow tree. And 'the dew at dawn, a breath before the sunrise?' That's most likely purified water, though I'll need to verify…"

It wasn't guilt, Harry thought, letting Severus's voice wash over him with the fire's warmth. Merely apprehension. They could pretend the future wasn't creeping inexorably towards them, but Harry's heart weighed with dread at the thought of how Severus would react from someone romping through his mind.

But at the same time, Harry found himself curious. There were things he didn't know about Severus, things he wanted to know…

qp qp qp

"I can't figure out Matellan's alignment," Harry said.

Severus made a "hmm" noise and carefully added a pinch of dried althea root.

Harry gave Severus a porcelain cup of powdered marjoram. They were huddled around the fireplace in their room, and although the setup, with the cauldron floating over fire from Harry's levitation charm, was rather clumsy, it was serviceable. "And it saves us the trouble of explaining things," Severus had said when they discussed it in low voices in Defense Against Dark Arts.

Harry reached over to the tiny glass jar containing Syrup of hellebore and kept it at ready. "Last week Matellan was quite hostile to Potter and Black, but today she was beaming over Potter's Protego."

"Last week was an anomaly, probably McGonagall's doing. Matellan is Moody's cousin," Severus said, taking the essence of hellebore and pouring it carefully into the concoction.

"Moody? As in—the Auror?"

"Alastor Moody" said Severus. "One of Dumbledore's friends, I believe. He's been in the Prophet quite a few times, always catching Voldemort's supporters…"

Harry nearly dropped the dried nettles he was holding. "Uh—yeah."

Severus gave him a hard glare. "Don't tell me you're going to tremble at that name as well. Voldemort. Flight from death. It's shamefully ridiculous, and it's French."

All changed, Harry thought. Changed utterly. It was tragic that in a few years' time, this man—no, not yet a man, not yet the bitter man he would be—would quiver at that name. Even I—and most of all I— have learned to fear that name. "Of course not," Harry said as nonchalantly as he could. "Voldemort. He's quite a lunatic, don't you think?"

Severus snorted, snatching the dried nettles and crumbling them up before sprinkling them into the brew. "Among other things, yes."

A heavy silence settled. Harry wondered if he might ask whether or not the potion was finished, but quickly decided against it.

"And why are there only two Slytherins in Charms?" Harry asked.

"Charms isn't an Old Magic," Severus explained, as though it were terribly obvious. He gripped a thin, black rod with both hands and began to stir. "Potions is the oldest magic, and then Transfiguration, and enchantments and spells that don't go under Charms. Charms is a relatively new branch of magic, one that many feel is…" He stopped, lifted the rod out and ran the tip of his tongue over it. Harry gulped, feeling a shiver shoot down his spine. "They feel it's isn't dignified enough."

"But charms have gone back thousands of years," Harry said. His mouth felt a little dry. "Do you want the asphodel?"

"No," Severus said dismissively.

"But there are ancient charms," Harry said, to cover up the silence. "And there are terribly powerful ones, too."

Severus sneered as he dipped a ladle into the cauldron. "You won't understand, Frost." He held the ladle to his nose and sniffed. Then he made a satisfied sound and turned away from the fireplace.

Harry stared at the ladle. "You're drinking that?"

Severus gave him a withering look. "What would I do with it then? Use it as a bathing condiment?"

"No I mean—" so soon, Harry thought, watching rather helplessly as Severus sipped the potion with half-lidded eyes. Then the feeling of helplessness melted and Harry looked away quickly as Severus licked the underside of the ladle. "When will it come into effect?" Harry managed.

Severus's eyes were still half-lidded. "I imagine in a few minutes," he said, stumbling to his bed. He shivered. "Cold," he muttered.

"Concalesco!" Harry commanded, pointing his wand at the fireplace. The flames leapt, and Harry felt a wave of heat, uncomfortably warm, drift through the room. He was beginning to sweat. "Are you still cold?"

Severus shook his head, but he grabbed his quilt and pulled it jerkily into his lap. Harry helped, reaching over to pat the warm folds in place.

"We really need to ventilate this place," Harry muttered, taking off his robe. Already the long black sleeves were sticking to his bare arms.

Severus's eyes were still half-lidded, and his face seemed to be making an effort to sneer. But it failed, and the Slytherin wrapped his arms around his chest, huddling into a ball. "You—you know my eyes will be wide open when the potion's effects are fully manifest?"

"Yes, a waking sleep," Harry said. They had gone over this before. "Maybe it'd be more comfortable if you lie down?"

Severus complied without protest, and Harry smoothed the blanket over Severus's body.

"You know I'll try my best not to—not to go too deeply into your mind," Harry blurted out awkwardly. All day they had avoided mentioning Harry's part in penetrating Severus's mind, almost as though it didn't exist, but now—I have to say it, Harry thought. Severus just nodded. It's almost as if he's really ill, Harry thought. But it's only a potion. Yet it reminded him of the wizards and witches, shivering from malevolent magic as their lives trickled away…

Severus's voice shook. "Just—just do it."

Harry swallowed. I'm sorry, he thought.

It seemed to go on forever. Then, Severus's eyes widened, and a glassy look fell over them. If he weren't shaking, he'd look quite dead, Harry thought, feeling a bit sick. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Should I bother with a wand? he wondered, briefly, almost feverishly, but he shook aside all frivolous thoughts.

"Legilimens."