A/N1: Once again, Procyon Black has done a wonderful beta. To break the variation: moran taing to Procyon!

A/N2: Please bear in mind, this story is rated-MATURE for a reason. This chapter is one of those reasons. Thank you.

Chapter 17

The carriage landed with a muffled jolt.

"Step down please, my dear sirs," said Lestrange, a few moments later, as he opened the door and bowed so low that a corner of his jester's hat brushed the ground.

Harry opened his eyes and clambered out of the carriage.

The manor seemed to soar into the darkness. A grand flight of stairs swept up to the black double doors that were almost as large as Hogwarts's. Perched on either side of the doors were two misshapen statues, their forms lost in the shadows that fell over the manor's face like velvet drapes.

Lestrange had climbed up the stairs, but Harry hung back slightly. He was aware of his heart pounding like a frightened animal's as he glanced at the mask that covered Severus's face. For a terrible moment, it seemed to him that standing before him was not Severus, but another nameless Death Eater of Voldemort's fold.

But Severus tilted his head. "Go on," he said, and his tone was impatient, almost irritable. Harry jerked into action, relief crashing through his mind as he mounted the stairs. It was still Severus's voice; it was still Severus, his Severus.

Lestrange had pushed open the doors, the light spilling out like blood. Harry paused as he neared it. He felt a faint sheen of magic hovering before him, but before he could move, he felt it sweeping over him like a hostile wind.

Harry could feel Severus stiffen. He heard a faint growl, and suddenly, glancing to his side, Harry saw that the misshapen statues were two giant hounds, their eyes glowing an unearthly red and a deep, vibrating growl rumbling in their throats—

Harry flung out his hand, but even as he did so, the image seemed to waver. He blinked. The red eyes were reflections, and the growl was just the clanging of an instrument from within the manor. Ah, Harry thought, an illusion. He frowned and groped in his mind for the magic he had felt washing over him.

"It's just an illusion," Harry whispered, snaking one hand to grip Severus's tense upper arm. "It was triggered by a pureblood spell."

Severus stiffened even more. "Indeed," he murmured coldly, stepping into the manor, and Harry suddenly realized: Severus isn't a pureblood. The spell went off on him, too. He's not a pureblood.

The room they entered was carpeted with red. The walls and ceiling, however, were an inky black, and Harry had the strange feeling that they were walking on a bridge of blood over an empty void. Lestrange was waiting at the far end, standing erect with one hand laid palm-down on the door. He seemed to be smiling. Harry felt a sudden stab of hatred. You were waiting for us to fall into that little trap, weren't you? he thought.

The hatred tensed and shriveled with sudden fear as Lestrange bent slightly, ready to push the door open.

"Wizards," Lestrange said, and his voice was mocking, "I present you—the Masquerade."

Voldemort's on the other side, Harry thought, panicking, as the door slowly swung open. He'll be there, sitting on his throne…

But as the doors opened fully, the sound of chatter and music flooding out, Harry saw that there was no throne. The doors had opened to an enormous ballroom.

Severus was the first to move. "Who's playing that harpsichord?" he muttered as he stepped into the ballroom. Harry followed quickly, suddenly afraid that he might lose Severus in the sea of masks and costumes. He felt suddenly bewildered. After the hideous illusions of the pureblood spell and the sickly red and black entrance room, the hum of chatter and bath of candlelight seemed almost normal. "Whoever's playing right now ought to have his fingers chopped off," Severus added.

"Why, Terrance, are these our Lord's esteemed guests?" said a woman, her voice arrogant and touched with a vague accent Harry couldn't identify.

Lestrange turned to a woman all robed in black with an enormous frilled collar around her neck and a bloodless mask on her face. "Madam Black," he said, bowing politely. Severus did so as well, and Harry followed suit. So this is Sirius's mother, Harry thought, wondering why he felt a bit amused.

"Purebloods, of good family, I expect?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Harry and demanded, "What is your name?"

"Frost," Harry replied automatically. "Jonathan Frost, Madam."

"Frost…" Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Not one of the blood traitors of Sussex, are you?"

"Of course not," Harry said, noticing that the pattern of movement seemed to have changed. People were beginning to cluster around him and Severus, all the while pretending to be disinterested.

"Good," said Mrs. Black. "Of what line are you then?"

"We saw your son Sirius while leaving the school," Lestrange interrupted in a courteous tone. "He seemed to be very, ah, unhappy—"

"Don't you dare speak to me of him!" she screeched, her collar quivering like the feathers of a furious bird. "He is not my son! I've disowned him, do you hear?"

"Oh, auntie, don't think of that traitor," laughed a voice, one that made Harry freeze with fear. He knew that voice too well, having heard it laugh at the death of too many of his friends, heard it laugh at her own death. "I'll kill him one day for you. Now, go talk to my mother, she's wanting your company…" Bellatrix stopped. "Oh, Terrance," she said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "You're here."

"Bella," Lestrange greeted. "I see you look ravishing as ever."

"Thank you, Terrance," said Bellatrix, smiling and tilting her head so her crown of jewels caught the light of the chandeliers. Then her smile vanished as quickly as a swooping hawk, and she turned her gaze and fastened it onto Harry. Harry held her eyes steadily, though he was careening from a myriad of emotions.

"You must be the one our Lord is so eager to meet," Bellatrix murmured, her voice unusually soft and respectful.

Harry managed a faint nod. "So I am told," he said.

Bellatrix gave another smile, one that took on no pretense of being real, and turned her attention to Severus. "Snape?" she squawked. "Why is he here, Terrance?"

Harry felt Severus stiffen at his side, and he himself tensed, wanting to slash an ugly red scar over that too-beautiful face, but Lestrange intervened.

"He is very talented, my dear," he said, "and our Lord looks for talent."

Bellatrix snorted, but this time with less rancor. "He also looks for purity of blood," she sneered, but she stepped aside with a last glance at Harry. "I look forward to what you will do for our Lord," she said coldly, and swept away in a glitter of jewels.

"Well, she left before I could introduce her to you," Lestrange said, the singsong lilt of a jester's tone creeping back into his voice. "She is Bellatrix Black, soon to be Bellatrix Lestrange. She's engaged to my brother, Rodolphus."

"I see," said Harry.

"Isn't her sister Andromeda Black?" Severus said.

Lestrange's face soured only slightly. "Oh, we prefer not to consider her existence, though it is slightly difficult. She has just married—to some Muggle or another"

"Ah," said Severus, sounding somewhat smug, "I see."

They passed from one room into the next, and Harry wondered if magic was at work again, for the two rooms seemed identical. The enormous chandelier hanging from the gilt ceiling was the same, and the slowly waltzing paintings of dryads and nymphs were indistinguishable. But the people were different, each donning a different mask and conversing in variations of the same clipped tones, and the sound of the harpsichord grew louder.

"Is that where the infernal music is coming from?" Severus muttered, heading for a green-curtained room. Harry quickened his pace to keep up, trying his best not to be rude as he made his way through the sea of costumed figures.

Severus stopped suddenly. Harry wormed to the other man's side and looked at the harpsichord that stood on a raised dais towards one end of the room. A man wearing a beaked mask was pounding at it, but as Harry caught sight of the nearly bleached blond hair tied back with a silver string, he knew, with a surge of hostility, that it was Malfoy.

"He's butchering Bach," Severus muttered.

"Yeah," said Harry, with more than a little spite, "even I can tell he's playing it all wrong."

Harry saw Severus give him a look that might have been withering. "Do you even know what piece it is that he is playing?"

"Uh. I think I might've heard it somewhere," Harry said vaguely.

Before Severus could reply, a shrill voice cut in between the two of them.

"Why, hello, my dear young gentlemen!" crowed an aging woman who was stuffed in a too-tight evening gown. "Terrance, are these the Dark Lord's special guests?"

Lestrange bowed again. "Yes, indeed they are. This is Mr. Snape, and this is Mr. Frost."

The woman glanced bewilderedly from one to the other. "But I thought—which one, Terrance, does the Lord favor more? The one he wants so much to meet?"

Neither of us! Harry wanted to shout, but he could only press his lips tightly and give a strained smile.

"That would be Mr. Frost," said Lestrange, making an elaborate gesture with his right hand.

Harry felt the woman pull him away like a greedy dog. He cast a last glance at Severus, and felt his heart tear at the stiff posture of the other man's shoulders. Severus couldn't be jealous, could he? Merlin's beard, Severus was so impossible—

"Please, Mr. Frost, meet my daughter, Alecto Carrow," Mrs. Carrow simpered, nudging Harry towards a girl whose face was smeared with makeup and had an impossible halo of dark curls framing her head. Alecto, thought Harry. I know that name. "Alecto, this is—what was your name, I didn't catch it?"

"Jonathan Frost," Harry said resignedly.

"Yes, Jonathan," Mrs. Carrow said, "now, Jonathan was terribly eager to have a dance with Alecto, weren't you? And—"

She stopped and craned her neck. "Amycus!" she shrilled. "Go play the harpsichord, my dear. Play—play that one Scarlatti sonata!"

A gawky boy with a leering grin loped up to the harpsichord, and watching him, Harry suddenly realized where he had seen the two of them: Amycus and Alecto were two of the Death Eaters the Order had captured and executed. And here they were, more girl than woman, more boy than man, making curtseys and playing childhood tunes.

Harry winced. Amycus's playing (his hands as he shuddered with death had jerked like spiders, Harry remembered) was worse than Malfoy's. Before he knew it, Alecto was in his arms, smiling up at him cloyingly, and stepping on his feet as they danced.

"So, Mr. Frost," Alecto whispered in a breathy voice that Harry knew was not her own, "is it true that the Dark Lord looks to you in the highest esteem? Even more than Lestrange and Malfoy and Black?"

"Perhaps," Harry said, wondering if the girl's words were rehearsed.

"Oh, Mr. Frost, you are so handsome!"

Harry nearly burst out laughing. It was one thing to receive compliments in a faux-seductive voice, but it was another to receive them in so blatantly faked a tone.

"Thank you, Miss Carrow," Harry said solemnly, steering her away from the harpsichord, wondering how the instrument could stand such pounding. "And you, yourself, have the hallucinatory beauty and spurious grace of a molting grasshopper."

Alecto's eyes blinked a few times before she hastily masked her face with a simpering smile. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Frost!" she trilled. "I—I don't know what to say."

Harry smiled. "Please, don't trouble your verbally challenged intellect. I wouldn't want you buckling under the strain."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Frost!" she repeated. "I—I think you are so handsome!"

Harry couldn't help looking up in exasperation. It was one thing to deal with nasty Death Eaters, but it was another to deal with those who had the mental capacities of an oyster and who clung to him with the tenacity of a—

He stopped. For a moment he couldn't recognize the figure standing next to the drinks; there was only the white mask and black robe, the aloofness of a specter; but he shook himself. It was Severus, not a Death Eater. Not a Death Eater. Severus. For a moment he couldn't help wondering if Lestrange somehow knew of the future; for of all the costumes to choose—?

"Mr. Frost, I was wondering where your esteemed family came from?" Alecto simpered. "Forgive me, but I haven't heard of your glorious name before, and so I wondered if you could please enlighten me?"

"My family name?" said Harry, adopting a shocked voice as he steering them towards the drinks. "You have never heard of it? Truly?"

At least she's not deaf, Harry thought as Alecto turned to wood in his arms, a flummoxed look on her face. "I—no, I haven't— I mean, I have, I have!" Her face twisted into a smile. "Of course I've heard of your glorious name, Mr. Frost."

Harry adopted a look of relief, stealing a glance at Severus from the corner of his eyes. "Oh, that's good. You know, of course, of the importance of my family name in the pureblood circles. Obviously, I can't expect it to be known in places of… lesser standing."

"Of course," Alecto agreed quickly. "One can't expect mudbloods to know anything."

"No, though… Out of curiosity, what have you heard about my glorious name?"

"O-oh," Alecto stammered, "I—I've heard that… that you have an immense history of being one of the three—I mean, four true pureblood families, and… and that—"

"Refreshing that someone of standing knows of my illustrious heritage," Harry said. "And thank you for having this dance with me, Miss Carrow."

He tried disentangling himself, but found that Alecto was clinging to him stubbornly with a slightly dumbfounded expression on her face. So you want to be difficult, Harry thought, clenching his teeth and giving way to a slight burst of anger. Alecto let go with a little cry, and Harry quickly stepped back and bowed. Then, he slipped past a dancing couple and reached Severus's side.

"Hey," he said, smiling wanly.

"Back already?" Severus said coolly. "Was Miss Carrow not to your taste?"

I wish I could rip off that mask of yours, Harry thought. God I want to see your face. "She was ecstatic when I called her a molting grasshopper."

There might have been a smile under the mask, but Harry wasn't sure. "Then the two of you would be a perfect match. You seem delighted whenever you are called an idiot."

"No I don't."

Severus drew himself to his full height. "Jonathan Frost," he said, his cool voice rolling over Harry's skin like waves, "you. Are. An. Idiot."

Harry couldn't keep his face from splitting into a grin. "Fine, you win," he said, eyes still tracing the lines of the implacable mask, as though he were groping for the bottom of the sea. He knew what lay underneath, but he needed more; he stepped closer and turned so that he now faced the harpsichord in the middle of the room. "But it's only because it's you," Harry murmured, darting a glance to the corner of his eyes, feeling his heart skip a beat at the redness that flushed up the neck and made the mask seem ridiculous and cheap.

"Well done, Amycus!" Mrs. Carrow cried, her voice cutting sharply through the air. The daughter was at her side, Harry noticed, and he hardened his face. Alecto, glancing in his direction with a nasty sort of smile, faltered. "Now, why don't you play that other song, my dear?"

Amycus blinked stupidly. "I only know how to play this one, Mother."

"Idiot, play that other one!" Mrs. Carrow snapped. "What was it called? Goldenberg Variatons?"

"Goldberg Variations," Severus muttered. "I find it difficult to believe how many people are actually philistines masquerading as erudites."

"Mm," Harry said in a low voice, "at least I don't pretend to be an erudite."

"That," Severus answered, "is because you have no sense of honor or shame."

"Honor? Shame?" Harry said in mock indignation. "What do you think I am, a bloody Gryffindor?"

Severus's face soured. "I'll let you know, Frost, we Slytherins have an acute sense of honor, thank you very much."

Harry smiled, but then he frowned, looking out over the crowd. "There's Lestrange, at the harpsichord," he remarked. "Do all purebloods learn to play it?"

"It is a fashionable skill to have," Severus said stiffly, and Harry was reminded again of what Severus so reluctantly was not.

"Well, judging from Malfoy and Carrow's performances, skill obviously doesn't make up for talent," Harry murmured, and thought, perhaps, that under the mask Severus was smiling. It was on the tip of his tongue to add something scathing about Malfoy's proficiency when the first delicate notes swept over him like a warm stream of air.

Harry stared, transfixed, at the figure playing the notes with an almost loving grace. Even with the jester's hat and the ridiculously lurid suit, some part of his mind refused to grasp that it was Lestrange who was making this music, Lestrange…

"He's very good," Severus said, sounding surprised.

"Yes," Harry said, reluctantly, disbelievingly, almost irritably, that someone had interrupted the music. He looked away, but couldn't help glancing up again, above the crowd of masks, above the suddenly quiet murmurs, above the sea of distant people, as the music lifted in an arc, and met those eyes. They were black, Harry realized, just like Severus's. Then the notes fell, and Harry looked away to find Severus standing with arms crossed sulkily over his chest.

"Much better than Malfoy," Harry said, wishing Severus would look a little more cheerful.

"That's hardly an accomplishment," said Severus, snorting.

"So what's he playing?"

"He is playing Bach's Goldberg Variations," said a polite, mellifluous voice, "which, incidentally, is what Malfoy was playing earlier—or should I say, trying to play?"

Harry turned. The man who had spoken was very tall and, Harry thought, exceedingly handsome. His thick hair was pulled back immaculately, and the mask he wore gave him a slightly ethereal look.

"Trying and failing to gain any semblance of musical aptitude," Severus sneered, warming to the Malfoy-bashing.

The man's lips curved in a smile, but none of it reached his eyes. Harry felt a sudden roaring in his ears, like the rush of wind through a mountain hollow. He's not wearing a mask, Harry thought.

"Mr. Riddle, I presume?"

Voldemort's face remained unchanged, but Harry, who knew that face with the intimacy of a lover, saw the pupils dilate slightly, the irises chilling. "Voldemort, if you please," he said softly.

"Pardon me," Harry said, inclining his head slightly. Voldemort did the same. "I have heard much about you. I am very honored to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, Jonathan Frost." Voldemort's gaze went to Severus, and Harry felt waves of ice wash down his spine. "And this is…?"

"Severus Snape," Harry said, moving aside as little as he could while still pretending to be polite, "a good friend of mine."

"Ah, Mr. Snape," said Voldemort, his lips curling once more into that emotionless smile, "if I remember correctly, Eileen Prince is your mother, is she not?"

"Yes," said Severus. His voice was hesitant, more than slightly suspicious, wary, and Harry felt his stomach tearing itself to shreds.

"Your mother was a formidable witch," Voldemort said. "I knew her once."

"At Hogwarts?"

"And other places," Voldemort said and smiled. Harry wanted to push Voldemort aside and skewer him with a hail of curses, but he could only stand there while the dazzling costumes drifted by like flotsam after a storm.

"Well, I shall see the two of you later," Voldemort said, with another handsome curve of his lips. Harry tried returning it, but thought he probably looked as though he were baring his teeth.

Neither Severus nor Harry said anything after Voldemort left, moving like a wolf through a herd of docile sheep. Harry suppressed a shudder and noticed that the crowd was applauding. Lestrange had finished.

Just then, there was a faint, melodious ring. The dancing couples separated, and those who were seated rose, setting down their drinks with delicate clinks of glass on metal.

"Do we follow them?" Harry whispered to Severus, but saw that Lestrange was making his way towards them.

"That is our Lord's signal," Lestrange said, bowing low. A part of Harry wanted to say no, his signal is actually a bloody pain on your arm, but he found himself following Lestrange into the large central ballroom.

There was a large stage at one end, which Harry hadn't noticed before, and which he supposed might have appeared through magic; and at the back there was a set of deep green curtains that hung, suspended from nothing. A strange, very fragile-looking glass podium perched at the front of the stage. Those in the crowd, Harry noticed, had mostly taken off their masks. None was seated.

"Not one for being prompt, is he?" Severus muttered.

"No," Harry whispered back, though privately he thought that Voldemort could be as late as he liked, better if he didn't show up at all—

The curtain parted and Voldemort strode out. The chandelier dimmed abruptly, and green flames leapt up to frame the curtains and fill the glass podium. The applause was deafening.

"Thank you, my fellow wizards and witches," he said, his voice echoing through the entire room, becoming one with the air and leaving no space, no surface untouched. The applause started again, but Voldemort held up a hand, and the noise quickly ceased. "Tonight is more than a night of merriment. It is a night of celebration. We have just scored a tremendous victory for the cause of what is good and must be preserved in our wizarding society. Tonight, Abraxas Malfoy has been named as one of the members of the Governing Board of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"

The applause rose again as the green flames of the podium and around the curtains flared. Voldemort was holding his hand out at the crowd, smiling at someone, and Harry turned to see what seemed like a replica of the older Lucius Malfoy, only older and with an even haughtier look on his face. Harry turned his attention back to the stage, and briefly met those eyes—green as his, like looking in a mirror. Harry shivered and dropped his gaze to the podium.

"Though this is a great triumph, we have much yet to do," Voldemort said, after the sound of clapping had subsided. "This battle has been won, but a war still needs to be fought—a war that we must fight to preserve all that is right and good in the wizarding world, a war that we must fight to prevent the rising tide of impurity and corruption from tainting all that we and our ancestors have worked so hard to create!"

Harry joined in the applause, though he noticed that he was clapping a lot less than anybody else was. They love him, Harry thought, looking at the upturned faces. And no wonder—Voldemort oozed charisma, from every pore of his all-too-perfect face, from his unswerving eyes. Did they know what he did? what he was?

When he looked back up at the stage, Voldemort had vanished. The flames were fading, and the light of the chandelier was becoming brighter.

Lestrange was approaching. Harry turned, keeping his face emotionless. "My dear sirs," Lestrange murmured, backing away slightly and bowing, "my Lord desires to see you." He stood straight, but those eyes were downcast—like a servant's, Harry thought. "Please follow me."

Harry met Severus's eyes in a hesitant glance, but quickly followed Lestrange's retreating form to a doorway at the far end of the ballroom.

Lestrange drew aside the curtain and bowed. "Please enter."

Voldemort was standing in front of a painting of the sea. Like all magical paintings, it moved, the waves crashing magnificently against the shore, the gulls circling and crying mournfully. Standing against it, Voldemort looked aloof and removed, impossibly beautiful, almost taking away Harry's breath. Almost. Manipulative bastard, Harry thought, wishing the paintings wouldn't move so much.

"Mr. Frost, Mr. Snape," said Voldemort, smiling and indicated two chairs around a table. "Do sit."

Harry approached the chair and reached out with all the senses. Nothing. He took a seat, just as Voldemort did the same across from them. His chair, Harry noticed, was slightly taller than theirs.

"I am very glad that the two of you were willing to attend this little dance tonight," Voldemort said. He smiled.

"The pleasure is mine," Harry said, not returning the smile.

"Terrance," said Voldemort.

Lestrange appeared, eyes down and head bowed. "Yes, my Lord," he muttered.

"Bring me the gifts for our guests," Voldemort commanded.

"Yes, my Lord," said Lestrange, and left the room.

Voldemort smiled again, and Harry found himself caught in the battery of those unwavering green eyes. "I had great difficulty choosing gifts that I thought would please you, Jonathan—may I call you Jonathan?"

"Yes, by all means," Harry said, feeling his heart pounding as he maintained a level gaze. "Voldemort."

Voldemort smiled and turned—Harry felt as though a heaviness had lifted—to Severus. "And you—Severus?"

No, thought Harry, but Severus nodded cautiously.

Lestrange entered the room, two intricately carved boxes balanced on a tray of glass. His eyes were still downcast, and Harry found himself strangely wishing that Lestrange would look up.

"Do take off your mask, Severus," Voldemort said, lifting his hand to take the boxes from the tray. He has a potion-maker's hands, Harry thought, watching the slender fingers open one box and— They stopped. Harry looked up, felt his stomach turn to lead.

"This first gift is a rare object of immense value," Voldemort said, his voice as smooth as dark wood, no hint that he had faltered for a moment. "This is one of the four crowns possessed by the great seer, Nostradamus…"

He saw his face, Harry thought, a roaring sound in his ears, watching the way Voldemort's eyes strayed, just slightly, in Severus's direction; here it begins, Harry thought with a curious detachment, the Dark Lord's desire…

"…for you, Jonathan."

"Thank you," Harry said, feeling as though he were in a daze, and reached for the crown— But he felt Severus nudge him. Harry stopped for a moment, and then gave himself a tremendous mental slap. Here he was, just reaching for a gift from Voldemort without any preparations, any checking. Thank Merlin for Severus, Harry thought shakily, and thrust forth his senses—

Ah, he thought. Reminds me of Albus, really.

He picked up the crown. It looked simple, just a circlet of whitish gold, but Harry could feel the layers of magic, both ancient and subtle, woven into it. "Thank you."

"And for you, Severus," said Voldemort, and Harry stiffened at the way he said the name, "I have for you a very rare potions ingredient, having heard that you are exceptionally gifted in the art of potion-making." Voldemort opened the second box and took out a clear vial. Harry heard Severus draw in a sharp breath. "Yes," said Voldemort, "unicorn tears, an entire vial full. Take it."

Severus reached out a hand, his eyes wide with wonder, but Harry was faster.

"Unicorn tears!" Harry exclaimed, snatching the vial into his own hands and giving Severus a nudge. "Amazing! How did you obtain it?"

"Quite difficult, it was," Voldemort said, smiling as though pleased. "You know, I'm sure, that an innocent is required to lure a unicorn. But there are certain—spells that can do more than lure a unicorn…"

Harry repressed a shudder, all the while scanning the vial with his senses. "Yes. I do." Unlike his crown of white gold, he could feel nothing on the vial. Probably because they're more concerned about netting me—for the moment, Harry thought grimly. "I thank you for these gifts, Voldemort," Harry said, raising his eyes to meet the other's.

"My pleasure," said Voldemort. "Terrance?"

"Yes, my Lord," Lestrange murmured. Harry frowned. Lestrange sounded more obsequious and vacant than he had before.

"Please lead our guests back to the ballroom?"

"As you wish, my Lord," Lestrange said.

All three rose and exited the room, Voldemort saying something inconsequential and Harry answering with something inconsequential. I wish he'd disappear like he did last time, Harry thought anxiously. I want to get back.

"And Severus," Voldemort said, seeming to caress that name, "I hope you make good use of the unicorn tears. I expect great things from you."

"Thank you, sir," Severus said evenly, but Harry could catch more than a hint of a blush coloring the sharp cheekbones.

He's mine, damn you, Harry thought fiercely. "I'm afraid I'm rather tired now," Harry said loudly, "and I don't think it would be advisable to have Dumbledore suspecting."

"He may suspect, but he will be too cowardly to know," Voldemort said coldly, and Harry felt a glint of malicious satisfaction—he had almost forgotten that Dumbledore had once been the only one Voldemort ever feared.

Lestrange led them through the crowd again, and Harry, glancing back to make sure Severus was close behind, followed past the costumes, through the room that seemed to be soaked in blood, and into the crisp night air.

They clambered into the carriage, and Harry felt the tension that had clouded his chest the entire evening gradually seep away.

"Interesting, wasn't it?" Harry muttered, giving Severus a tired glance.

Severus's face, swaying gently from the rocking of the carriage, was hidden in shadow. "Unexpected."

"How so? Besides that Lestrange can play music, and that Voldemort is—" He stopped before he could continue. What did he mean to say? Handsome, good-looking, beautiful?

Severus shifted. "Did you… detect anything from his gifts?"

Harry took out the vial of unicorn tears. "This is completely harmless, though I don't want to know how he got it. The crown, on the other hand…" Harry handed Severus the vial, and held the white gold circlet under the moonlight.

"How can you tell?"

Harry put the crown back into his sleeve. "I just… can." That's an unusual thing for Severus to ask, Harry thought. But then, Severus hardly ever asked questions. He usually kept this bottled within, letting it out only as resentment or jealousy. But perhaps that's for the best, Harry mused sadly. Don't ask, don't tell.

They were silent for the rest of the flight. Malfoy, Harry noticed as they crept quietly out of the carriages and into the castle, seemed to be one for late parties. He wondered if they were the first to return, but found himself almost too tired to wonder. Lestrange said nothing even when they parted in the dormitory corridor, which, Harry thought vaguely, was surprising.

"We should begin working on the potion tomorrow," Severus said.

Harry stuck his wand under his pillow and sighed deeply. "Yeah," he said, after a moment. "We should. And we've got Defense tomorrow, don't we?"

"We do," Severus replied from the other side of the room.

Harry closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, listening to the sound of his own breathing, Severus's calm rhythm, the soft flicker of flames like the quiet lilt of harpsichord notes.

"What did you find on the crown?"

Harry opened his eyes. He had thought Severus was asleep. "A tracking and eavesdropping charm. Don't worry, though. They're not there anymore. I got rid of them."

"When?"

Harry shifted and turned away. "When you weren't looking, 'course," he replied, slurring his voice with drowsiness.

He listened to Severus turn, heard the breathing even out into sleep. Harry listened for a long time before he began to dream.

The room was a dungeon, with a fireplace at one end and a heavy table in the middle. Nagini was coiled at his side, her tongue tasting the warm air.

There was a knock.

"Enter," he called.

Snape entered. He walked forward, the hair hiding his face as he bowed low and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes.

"Rise," Voldemort said.

Snape rose, his eyes still looking at the ground. Voldemort smiled and reached out a hand, holding the chin and lifting it so that the dark eyes were locked with his. He ran a finger over the unmoving jaw.

"Severus, my servant, do you know why I have called you here?"

Snape's gaze wavered. "No, my L—"

"Look at me when you speak!" Voldemort hissed, tightening his grip.

The black eyes darted back, and he could feel the muscles of the jaw working under his fingers. He smiled, gently caressing the cheek with his thumb.

"Do you really not know, Severus?"

Snape was silent for a moment. "I can only think, my Lord," he said hesitantly, "that I have somehow displeased you—"

"Very good," Voldemort said coldly and roughly pushed the other man away. "You have displeased me, Severus. Some of the potions that were used on the raid were not up to your usual standards."

"I am sorry, my Lord, but the ingredients that Pettigrew supplied me with were defective," Snape murmured.

"Oh, is that why? Is it, Severus?"

"Yes, it is, my Lord."

"Tsk, tsk," Voldemort said, shaking his head. "Are you criticizing me for my ability to pick out potions ingredients?"

Snape was silent.

"Pettigrew didn't pick out the ingredients. I did, Severus."

The fire crackled. Snape suddenly fell to his knees, crawling forward and reaching out with both hands (they were trembling, Voldemort noticed), bringing the robes to his lips.

"Forgive me, my Lord," Snape whispered, his voice shaking, "it will not happen again, I promise, forgive me—"

"What shall your penitence be?"

"Anything you desire, my Lord—anything you desire."

"Good," Voldemort said, and parted his robes. "Go on, Severus. You have done this before."

Snape reached up one quivering hand, and then the other.

Voldemort chuckled. "Don't pretend to be so modest. Go on, my blushing bride, my beautiful little whore. Yes, like that… Have I told you? Nobody else has hands like yours, with such skill… Now use your mouth. Yes."

The snake hissed in annoyance and slithered closer to the flames. Voldemort had thrown back his head, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the shadows on the wall, a faint smile playing about his lips. The smile faded.

He reached a hand and grasped Snape's hair, pulling him away roughly. "Now get up," Voldemort commanded. "Turn around." His hands gripped the hips, digging his fingers into the pale flesh, turned red in the firelight. "Relax, whore. Relax." Voldemort threw back his head. "Yessss…"

The chair creaked. One hand swept up the body, leaving a trail of scratches over the tender, moist skin. The other held the yew wand. "You disobeyed me, Severus Snape, deliberately," Voldemort hissed, "and for that you will pay." He shut his eyes, relishing the pressure and tension that only fear could invoke. "Crucio!"

"Frost!"

Harry's eyes snapped open.

"Jonathan Frost, are you awake?"

Harry turned slightly. "Y-yeah," he said, and cleared his throat. "I am. Severus." He closed his eyes, trembling. He felt sticky all over. "What time is it?"

"Time for you to drag yourself out of bed and eat breakfast." There were rustling sounds from the other side of the room. Harry shut his eyes, and surreptitiously reached a hand under the covers. He swallowed. The sheets were slick with… Oh Merlin, Harry thought and reached under his pillow for his wand.

"Were you dreaming again?"

Harry paused, one hand clenched around his wand. "Yeah, I was," he answered, pulling his wand out and pointing it at himself. "Tergeo," he muttered, as softly as he could, and felt the stickiness peel off his skin.

"You're going to be late for Charms."

Harry muttered a curse and clambered out of bed, his limbs still shaky.

"Since when did you get me out of bed?" Harry demanded irritably, stretching but quickly huddling into a ball as the cold dungeon air attacked him. By Merlin's beard, where was his shirt?

"Since you needed it, Frost," Severus snapped.

"Yeah, sorry," Harry muttered, pulling his shirt on. Too bad there was no time to take a shower; cleaning through magic didn't make you feel clean.

He stumbled into the bathroom and made himself as awake as he could—he felt vaguely as though he were suffering from a hangover, though he'd made sure not to drink anything last night—and returned to their room, shivering.

"Why's it so cold?" Harry hissed, pulling on his robes. Usually it was warm, what with two live bodies and the fire, but this morning, it was freezing. "C'mon," Harry said, picking up his bag. "Let's go."

Severus was still stuffing some of his books into his bag. Harry paused, and then moved to the dresser next to his bed, opening the top drawer. The white gold crown was still inside, along with the concealment charms he had cast. Nobody comes in here anyway, Harry thought, not even the house-elves.

"Frost!" Severus barked.

Harry strode to the door, and the two of them hurried to the Great Hall. As Harry seated himself, toast sprouting onto his plate, Severus muttered,

"What was your dream?"

Harry bit into the toast, chewed, and swallowed. "Nothing, really," he answered. He closed his eyes and tried to dispel the memory, to dispel the heat of the images that tore through his mind— By Merlin, Harry thought shakily, what kind of monster am I? I see Severus being—used like that, and I—

"It didn't seem like nothing," Severus said coolly.

Harry looked sideways. Severus was cutting up sausages with the same precise movements that he used to slice up boomslang or knotgrass, the hands working methodically, the dark eyes focused. "You're curious now," Harry said, sadly, cautiously.

Severus speared the pieces of his sausage. "I am," he said with an edge to his voice.

Harry shrugged, though a part of him felt ill at ease. He glanced down the table, wondering who had gone to Voldemort's little party. They all seemed quite normal, grousing with the same sleepiness, eating the same food. Malfoy and Lestrange were in their usual seats on the other side of the table.

Is that why Voldemort wanted a masquerade ball? Harry wondered. So nobody could tell who was who—except for the obvious ones, Malfoy and Lestrange? His gaze wandered to the Gryffindor table, and he felt the habitual hatred clench his heart. Did Pettigrew go? No, probably not, Harry decided. I'd have sensed that traitor.

The rest of the day passed without much incident. He exchanged some meaningless pleasantries with Lily in Charms, though part of him wished he could pull her aside and tell her that he had, last night, been conversing politely with the man or monster who would later murder her and her husband. And he had received a gift from him, a gift he now had in his dresser, would she like to see it?

"The ritual was actually developed by the ancient Saxons and was rather bloody," Lily muttered, as quite a few students slammed into the ceiling from miscast self-levitation charms. "Of course, we'll have to keep the bloodiness, but we'll use lambs, instead of humans."

"Very advisable," Harry answered, watching Lily float neatly into the air.

Severus was quiet during lunch, and though Harry wished for more than just silence, he let the other man be, even through Defense Against the Dark Arts which was inexorably boring.

"Your assignment," Matellan trilled, "is eighteen inches on the progress of Dark Arts regulations through the last fifty years, especially concerning the ramifications of Grindelwald's rise to power!"

"That's history of Defense, not Defense," Harry muttered later to Severus, after they were back in their dormitory room.

"And a completely skewed version of history," Severus added, "one made up by the Ministry, even though Hogwarts is an independent entity."

"How much power does the Ministry have over Hogwarts?" Harry asked, curious. Towards the end of the second war, the two had set aside their differences and combined in desperation. But before that, Dumbledore and the string of Ministers had often been at odds with each other.

"Magically and legally none," Severus said, "but apparently enough that Hogwarts is teaching a version of the history solely to appease the Muggleborns."

There was too much of a sneer in that last comment. "Well, I don't think it's to appease the Muggleborns as much as it is to appease those who're frightened of the Dark Arts," Harry said in a reasonable tone. "That'd make sense, wouldn't it?"

"What do you know, Frost," Severus muttered, pulling a book out of his book bag. "We should enter the experimental phase of the potion soon."

"Already?" Harry said, surprised.

"Yes, already," Severus snapped. "I made a protocol potion, didn't I?"

"Oh, you did," Harry said, a bit weakly. The potion would be complete soon, and the ritual with Lily would occur in less than a week. And only yesterday he had thought he had been saved, that he had all the time in the world…

"We'd have to experiment on a sentient creature," Severus said, "a magical sentient creature."

"Not humans, I hope."

Severus gave him an irritable glance. He opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it, and paused for a moment. "What did you dream of anyway?"

"Nothing, really, I told you," Harry said, looking away. Severus's fingers were spread over the cover of a book, as slender and delicate as a musician's. Nobody else has hands like yours, with such skill…

"You won't trust me," Severus said bitterly.

Harry felt a tide of anxiousness well up within him, and he turned to face Severus, but Severus was looking down, his black hair hiding his face.

"I do," Harry said, feeling the inadequacy of those two words the moment they left his mouth. "I do—it's just… some things, I'd rather you not know."

"You'd rather I not know," Severus said, and Harry watched, entranced, as the fingers slowly clenched themselves into fists. "I don't think I had—rather let you know what you saw when you did Legilimency."

Harry felt a spark of irritation, burning through the oil of his guilt, of the little time they had left. "Look, I didn't try to see what I did, all right? You know I didn't, I wouldn't." The words echoed in his mind—he remembered how he had, in Severus's mind, pushed the dream forward, so that he had seen the milky skin bare in the firelight, the eyes wide staring.

"Didn't you?" Severus muttered.

"I didn't," Harry snapped, suddenly angry. "Look at me, Severus. Look at me!" He reached both hands and gripped Severus's shoulders, but Severus was looking down stubbornly, at his hands that had clenched into fists.

"Look at me, Severus," Harry commanded, though his voice shook. "Look at me—please." He peered into that face, trying to see through the shadows from the firelight, trying to decipher what expression there might be. "Please, Severus?"

"No, Jonathan—"

"Severus, please," Harry whispered. He moved his hands from the shoulders and brushed aside the hair and pressed his lips against Severus's lips, feeling Severus's hands push vainly at his shoulders. "I never wished to hurt you," Harry murmured, his eyes closed and feeling the ache in his chest, hurting from the knowledge of what must come, what must be. "But sometimes, I can't help it, I—" He broke off and pulled away. "I love you," He whispered, and Severus looked up at last, his head lifting almost in wonder or hope, their eyes meeting—

Those eyes—

Harry felt his heart freeze. Those eyes weren't Severus's eyes. They were dark, widened with a sort of longing he would have ached to see on Severus's face, but these were another's eyes, eyes he had seen before, above a teeming crowd of colors and sounds, as harpsichord notes dripped like rain—

"Jonathan—" whispered Severus, or the being in Severus's body, and Harry felt hands touch his shoulders, hands that quivered with raw emotion, and then the moment was broken: Harry felt, rushing through him, the undeniable truth, the reason behind Severus's strange and sudden curiosity, the jarring and maddening realization—

"Lestrange!" Harry hissed, and suddenly, Severus grew rigid in his arms, as stiff as a corpse. The eyes began to change, subtly, as though Lestrange were retreating, retreating deeper into Severus's mind, fleeing into the mind of his Severus—

"Bastard!" Harry snarled and gripped the sallow face. "Legilimens!" The world shattered in a swirl of colors—black, red, shadows, flames, raining like ashes from a tumultuous sky, searing him on all sides, but before him, a mere haze in the distance, was Lestrange—

Harry plunged ahead. The world changed; he was running down a Hogwarts corridor, the grey stones lining ceiling and walls. Lestrange turned a corner, glancing back briefly, and Harry doubled his speed, charging around the same corner—

—into the memory of a potions classroom.

"Don't forget the armadillo bile," Professor Camentum called, writing something on the board. Harry scanned the classroom; the students seemed young, perhaps third-years, their cauldrons still up to their waists. In one corner Harry saw Potter and Black sniggering while glancing at the other side of the room, and Harry saw a much younger Snape, his robes too big for him as he crouched over his ingredients and ground the bicorn with hatred.

"Lestrange!" Harry shouted, leaping at the young Lestrange, who was sprinkling something delicately into a frothing green concoction. From behind the cauldron, the older Lestrange leapt up, darting past the line of potions in a flash.

"Stupefy!" Harry roared. A jet of burning red shot from his fingers, but Lestrange threw himself out of the way, stumbling around a serene Professor Camentum before staggering out the door, Harry hot on his heels—

—they were on the Quidditch pitch, and the children were even smaller. Their hands were held above the school brooms, and they were looking nervously at Madam Hooch.

"Shout, 'up!'" Hooch commanded, as her broom leapt into her hands.

Harry ran down the line of students, looking around, from one end of the pitch to the other. Where was Lestrange, that bastard? He pushed through two Gryffindor first years and stood still for a moment, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

"UP!" the children cried in a chorus. Harry leapt aside as the brooms shot up; he could feel the whoosh of air next to him as some of the brooms brushed his skin, went through him—

He looked up and their gazes met again, Lestrange's almost dark as Severus's, Harry's more blazingly green than the Dark Lord's. Then Lestrange turned on his broom and shot towards the castle; Harry grabbed one of the brooms, felt his hand go through the wood, and forced a burst of magic through his fingers as he clenched at the broom—

A second one appeared in his hands.

"No, not like that, Snape!" shouted Hooch, as the young Snape clutched his broom at an awkward angle. "You must always hold it like this, or you'll fall off at once—"

Harry rose through the air amidst the sound of Potter and Black laughing, guffawing, rising like steam and echoing in his ears. He was flying through mist, he realized, but there, in the distance, was Lestrange. He was gaining, getting steadily closer, and he felt a fierce satisfaction— Nobody could beat him on the broom. In the air, he was the king, the hawk—

Lestrange suddenly dove, spiraling towards the earth, and Harry followed relentlessly. The mist was getting thicker, warmer, turning into a stifling fog—

—Harry could feel the wet tiles under his hands and knees. He could hear the constant drum of water splashing, and he realized, suddenly, that he knew this place: it was the dormitory showers of the Slytherin dungeons, and as he clambered to his feet, he saw a figure through the mist and water—

It was Severus. Harry felt the breath leave his lungs as though he had been struck. Severus was naked under the water, naked and utterly beautiful. Harry gulped; his knees were weak. And—Harry felt blood rushing into his face—Severus was—he was—

Severus moaned, and Harry felt an echoing moan uncoiling in his throat.

"Jonathan…" Severus sighed, his eyes rolling, the eyelids dimming half-shut as one hand trailed up the pale, moist skin…

A sudden movement—

Harry leapt forth like an animal, feeling his frustration and anger and hate and desire blaze into a ruthless savageness.

"LESTRANGE!" he roared, his voice echoing as he plunged through the steam. "Don't you dare go any deeper, you bastard! Lestrange!"

Harry tore past the line of unused showers, past the wet curtains, past the mirrors and sinks and through the door—

—they were in the Slytherin dormitory again. He knew too well the heavy green curtains, the smoldering fireplace, the shadows that swathed the walls, but on the bed—

Severus was lying naked on Malfoy's bed, naked as he had been in the shower, and Malfoy was panting over him with a mean smile on his face, gasping, and Severus was looking up with wide eyes mouth open wide, letting the hot slickness move in and out of his throat in and—

Lestrange! Harry raged, feeling the magic erupt from the darkness of his soul, sweeping through his body and snarling like an enraged beast, leaping with sharpened claws and landing on the black-haired prefect—

Harry dashed past the bed, and smiled fiercely when he saw Lestrange on the floor, bound by gnarled black ropes.

"Listen, Frost—" Lestrange gasped.

"SHUT—UP!" Harry shouted, and Lestrange's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. He reached down, grabbing Lestrange by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The eyes rolled in pain. "You wanted to bring me here so that you could escape, didn't you?" Harry whispered. "You wanted to distract me, didn't you, using my Severus as a distraction—using him, using this memory!"

The eyes focused, dim and without feeling, before the face twisted almost in mockery. Harry felt the hatred shoot through his body as he drew back his hand, clenched his fist—and smashed down on the aquiline nose.

"There," Harry snarled as Lestrange stumbled backwards and fell to the floor, "that's just the beginning—you bastard—" He lashed out his foot, and Lestrange made a muffled cry as something cracked—a rib, perhaps, Harry thought dimly, as he repeated the action, aiming at the chest, the back, the head, the groin.

"Are you liking it, Malfoy?" the young Lestrange asked courteously.

Harry whirled around. Malfoy chuckled, and his eyes were unfocused, his face a mask of vacant pleasure as his hips moved back and forth, back and forth. It's not his doing, Harry realized suddenly. He's only a puppet, a robot.

The young Lestrange smiled a knowing smile on his face, still a child's face. "And you, Severus?" he asked in a polite tone. "Are you enjoying it?"

Harry turned, almost against his will, to look at Severus. He nearly couldn't recognize the face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—darker than Lestrange's, eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly—

Lestrange moaned at Harry's feet. Harry turned and kicked again, viciously. He bent and pulled the other man to his feet. "Bastard," Harry whispered and spat into the battered, bloodied face. Lestrange's eyes opened, but there was no remorse, only spite and a mocking malevolence—

Harry pulled his hand back. He felt magic coalescing into something sharp. With a roar he plunged forward and felt warmth pour over his hand as he jerked upwards and Lestrange's mouth opened in a silent scream.

He let go. Lestrange swayed for a moment before falling forward, and Harry caught him, feeling the blood seep through his robes and warm the skin of his thigh.

Lestrange opened his mouth. Blood trickled out from a corner, but the broken lips were twisted in a smile. The eyes were dimming, but there was a spark of something, still burning relentlessly. "He can see it, you know," he whispered hoarsely, "Severus can see you, Jonathan." Then, like a cloud, his edges began to fade, melting away like a dream, and he was gone.

A/N3:
a. In HBP, Riddle's eyes were described as 'dark,' I think, but in my universe they are as green as a fresh pickled toad.
b. And just to remind people who may have forgotten, Dumbledore in TS is very much alive.
c. Please review? As a belated US Thanksgiving gift...