A/N: Many, many thanks to Procyon Black, whose contributions to this piece are immeasurable.
Chapter 20
"Wake up, Severus."
Severus moaned sleepily and turned his face away from the light of the fireplace. Harry felt a smile touch the corners of his lips as he bent closer.
"Severus, we've class."
Severus made an indecipherable sound and buried his face deeper into his pillow.
"Severus—"
Abruptly Severus jerked awake and shot into a sitting position, his eyes wide and disoriented. Harry stumbled back, startled.
"Jonathan—" Severus gasped, his voice hoarse and choked. Their eyes locked, and Harry felt his knees weaken, the longing surging forth in his chest with the ferocity of a desert sandstorm.
Then Severus pulled the mask back over his face, and Harry instinctively glanced away to let him gain his composure. "Frost," Severus said, his voice still somewhat unsteady, "you're back." A pause. "What time—?"
"We've fifteen minutes before class starts."
"It's morning?" Severus said irritably. He kicked back the sheets and clambered out of bed, quickly pulling off his pyjamas and donning his school robes. His back was to Harry when he spoke in an aggravated voice that belied a kind of hurt, "Why didn't you wake me when you got back?"
Harry heard the note of accusation in Severus's voice, and thought back to the first thing he had seen after entering their dormitory: Severus, lying on his desk with his head resting on a Potions periodical, his face worn with having worked sleeplessly the previous night to brew a potion for Harry that would ward off any imaginable sort of poison. Harry had not had the heart to wake him, and instead had gently carried him to bed and gazed silently at the vulnerable face.
"You were tired," Harry said softly.
"Wake me next time," Severus muttered, then paused. "Unless, of course, you have managed to avoid the necessity of visiting Voldemort?"
"Perhaps," Harry replied vaguely. Severus had finished donning his school robes, and was now stuffing various scrolls and schoolbooks into his satchel. "He knows I killed Lestrange, but he won't bother us."
Severus paused and turned around. "How did you manage that?"
Harry looked away, turning his gaze to the unmade bed. "I—convinced him."
"Convinced him?"
There was an odd catch in Severus's voice. Harry looked up and saw the worry and fear and anguish in Severus's eyes, and—albeit reluctantly—a little more, the briefest flash of an image; and he understood.
"No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "Not like that."
Severus relaxed slightly, and Harry felt his chest suddenly laced with pain. The image in Severus's mind had been that of Harry naked and defenseless, in the same position Severus had been in Harry's dreams and those unpalatable memories. How ironic—how bitterly ironic—that it would be Severus who would be forced into that position, forced because of Harry's inaction. The question floated briefly to his mind—why?—but nothing answered.
"Then… how?"
Harry looked away again, unable to meet those unwaveringly black eyes.
"You can't tell me that either, can you?" Severus asked coolly, before Harry could speak.
"Severus, I wish I could, but—" Harry began, torn and despairing at the tone of Severus's voice, but Severus interrupted once again.
"I know."
With a slow, deliberate movement, Severus brought the second and third fingers of his right hand up to Harry's lips. They touched, and Harry felt as though an enormous pressure had been taken away. He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and closed the gap between them, burying his face in Severus's neck.
"I'm sorry," Harry muttered.
"There's nothing you can do," Severus said bitterly, but his left arm was wrapped around Harry's back, and his face was pressed into Harry's hair.
Nothing? Harry thought, and squeezed his eyes tighter. Nothing?
He brought both hands up Severus's back and cupped the thin face, tracing his thumbs over the high cheekbones, the soft brush of eyelashes.
"When it's all over, I'll tell you everything," Harry whispered. "I promise."
"All over?"
"All over," Harry repeated. In the darkness of his mind, he saw the Severus of twenty years later, brooding in front of his fireplace, eyes shadowed and embittered with years of pain and hatred and loneliness…
"When what's over? Voldemort?"
…There was a bottle of firewhisky nearby, and Snape picked it up and drank. He glanced up coldly at the mantelpiece, and picked up a small silver ring, looking at it with inscrutable eyes…
"Everything—" Harry swallowed. "You'll know." He drew back and took a shuddering breath. "But I swear it to you. When it's allover, I will hide nothing from you." He looked up fiercely into the puzzled black eyes. "Nothing."
The word echoed hauntingly in his ears, whispered insidiously in the hollow of his soul: nothing…
Severus nodded, still looking bemused. "And when will it, as you say, all be over?"
Harry turned and walked across the room, picking up his satchel and looking in the mirror to straighten his robes. His reflection looked back at him, a mask that showed nothing. "I don't know," Harry said. "But it won't go on forever. It may seem like forever, but it won't be. I promise you that too."
"You seem to have a strong desire to make promises this morning," Severus said suspiciously. "One would think that you're preparing to do something particularly foolish."
"One may or may not be correct," Harry said, and flicked his wand. He glanced at the numbers that formed. "Great, now we'll be late for Potions. I was counting on you to explain Polyjuice Potion to me at breakfast…"
"Your fault," Severus said curtly, picking up his satchel and sweeping out the door, "attending dinner parties with inbred idiots instead of studying your Potions."
"Ah, but you'll most likely have to test mine," Harry said, and hurried after the other Slytherin.
.o0o.
"Jonathan."
It was lunch. Harry looked up from his plate of mashed potatoes and chicken and quickly swallowed his mouthful of food. "Lily!"
Lily smiled at him, and then turned a bit hesitantly towards Severus. "Hello, Severus."
"Hello, Miss Evans," Severus said very politely.
Lily gave a smile that was equal parts delight and relief. That, Harry thought, was amazingly cordial, considering Severus's usual tone.
"I just wanted to ask you two if you wanted to have some cake," she said. "It's my birthday."
"Your birthday!" Harry exclaimed. "I—well, happy birthday!"
"Thanks," Lily said, looking a bit bemused.
I didn't know today was her birthday, Harry thought. He wondered what James Potter's birthday was. "So what do you think, Severus? Cake?"
Severus shrugged. "Personally, I'm not very fond of cake."
"Oh, come now, my mother made the cake herself, and managed to get James's owl to bring it to Hogwarts," Lily said, gushing slightly. "Won't you try it? I don't like those terribly sweet cakes either, but you'll probably like this one."
"Are Potter and Black going to be there?" Severus demanded, voice colored by his sneer.
"Well—yes, James and Sirius will be there," Lily said, a bit defensively.
Severus opened his mouth, but shut it quickly and gave Harry a glance. "Well." He paused. "I suppose so."
Lily's face broke forth into a smile once more, and she proceeded to explain how James had made some ridiculous arrangements to get a wizarding band to sneak unnoticed to Hogwarts while leading them through the halls to an abandoned Transfiguration classroom.
"And that thing at breakfast was completely unnecessary," Lily said, blushing.
"We missed breakfast," Harry said apologetically. "Slept a bit too late last night."
"Well, you only missed James making a fool of himself," Lily said, looking every bit like McGonagall. "It wasn't exemplary Head Boy behavior, I must say…"
Severus gave Harry a hard and pointed look, as though to remind him just how painful this whole thing was. Harry smiled weakly.
"I hope you haven't eaten all the cake, Sirius Black," Lily said as she pushed open a door that had a few lilies tied in a small wreath above the doorframe.
Harry peered inside. The room had been greatly enlarged, and a quartet of strangely dressed wizards stood on a podium in the middle of the floor. The sound of their music bounced jauntily through the room, and they seemed to be singing something about American pies. Colorful streamers hung from wall to wall, and magical balloons that floated by like large jellyfishes occasionally made loud raspberry noises.
"Darn you, Evans, you came back," Black joked, and then stopped dead. "Snape?"
"Yes, I invited him here to try some cake," Lily said firmly. "Now move. You've had enough cake for five people."
Black began spluttering. "But—him! It's—he's—he's Snape! You can't invite him—"
"Good day to you, too, Black," Severus sneered.
"Here's some cake," Lily said, holding out two paper plates with squares of cake on them and soundly ignoring Black.
"Thanks," said Harry, taking one of the plates. It was some sort of chocolate cake, Harry decided, though it didn't look too rich. A brief, momentary memory of Dudley Dursley cramming his mouth full of cake crossed his mind, but it was blurred and disappeared when he tried to catch it.
"What's this?" Severus said suspiciously, looking at the fork sticking out of his slice.
"A plastic fork," Harry said, stuffing the cake into his mouth. "Very useful Muggle substance, plastic is."
"James!" Black yelled. "James!"
Potter, who was busily rearranging the presents into a large pyramid in one corner of the room with the help of Remus Lupin, looked up irritably. "What's the matter?"
"What do you mean what's the matter?" Black snarled, making jabbing motions with his hands in Harry and Severus's general direction.
Potter frowned, turning to where Black was motioning, and then blinked in surprise.
"Well, do you like it?" Lily asked, prodding Harry and Severus both in the elbows.
"Mm," Harry mumbled around a mouthful of cake. "It's great." He looked at Severus.
The other Slytherin made a small scoop with his fork, put it in his mouth, and frowned for a moment. He chewed thoughtfully. "Tell your mother," he said, after swallowing, "that she is an exceedingly good cook."
Lily smiled, but her next words were drowned out by Black's yells.
"What do you mean—so?" Black shouted. He was still waving his arms at Harry and Severus and generally looking like an idiot. "She invited them to the party we helped set up!"
"It's her party," Potter said neutrally. "Good day, Frost," he said with an expressionless voice.
"Good day, Potter," Harry said with an equivalent tone.
Potter turned slightly, and a look of dislike flashed across his face. He managed to muster a smile, however, and said, "Good day, Snape."
Snape turned a disdainful eye on the Gryffindor before saying in a vaguely condescending voice, "Good day, Potter."
This is a rather bad idea, Harry thought, glancing at Lily, who was obliviously talking to another girl. She, too, was shooting querying glances at Harry and Severus. Obviously Gryffindor, Harry thought in mild disgust.
The door swung open. Peter Pettigrew stumbled in, nearly falling over a stray balloon as he did so. "Peter, there you are," Black yelled, motioning him over and shooting a glare in Severus's direction. "I've got something to tell you."
Pettigrew, Harry thought, the old hatred coming back to him like a slowly rising tide of acid. He narrowed his eyes as the traitor looked at him and Severus in surprise—but only mild surprise, one that changed into a strange look of vindictive triumph before a balloon flew straight into his face, and he tripped on his robes and tumbled backwards.
Harry gave a loud bark of laughter.
"Enjoying the party?" Lily asked, face flushed.
"Yes, very much so," Harry said, turning away from Pettigrew and wiping away the look of hatred from his face.
Lily smiled. "Don't you love this song? I've no idea where James found wizarding band that would sing it."
"What song is it?"
Lily looked at Harry in surprise. "You don't know it?"
"No," Harry said. "My parents played nothing but opera."
"You really missed out," Lily said, moving her body to the music. "This song's from the United States, actually. It came out—nine years ago, I think."
"What's it called?"
"American Pie," said Lily, and then broke into song, swinging her hips as she did so.
"Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing, 'This'll be the day that I die,
This'll be the day that I die.'"
"Is that supposed to mean something?" Harry said.
Lily stopped dancing to explain. "There're several interpretations, actually, but the levee refers to the civil rights workers who were murdered somewhere in Mississippi, a state in the South. They were killed and then buried in the levee—that is, a dam."
"Oh," said Harry. "That's vaguely disturbing."
"Yes," said Lily, and her eyes flashed, "injustice never ends, does it?"
"I suppose not," Harry said. She's still so idealistic, he thought, and remembered that he had mended the wand that would kill her. "What's with the singing, 'This'll be the day that I die?'"
Lily shrugged. "I don't know. I think it might mean that, when those civil rights workers died, a part of the entire country of the United States died along with it. Do you get what I mean, maybe?"
Harry nodded. "Pretty deep. It's like saying—" He paused, trying to think of an example from this time, but he could not.
"I don't know, really," Lily said, "and maybe it means something completely different, but it's great to sing, isn't it? Come on, sing it with me."
"I don't know all the words—"
"Just the chorus. Come on, here it is—"
She began to sing, and Harry, hesitatingly, followed her lead.
"Bye, bye Miss American Pie
Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry
Them good ol' boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singing, 'This'll be the day that I die,
This'll be the day that I die.'"
"Wasn't too bad, was it?" Lily said, laughing, her face flushed.
Harry smiled, but the last line of the chorus ran through his head: This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die.
Severus, he thought, and looked around. He frowned, scanning the room from one end to the other. Potter was conferring quietly with Lupin and Black over something; a gaggle of Gryffindors was laughing next to the punchbowl; the band was singing passionately into a set of magical microphones. He could not see Severus.
"Strange, I saw him there just a moment ago," said Lily, following Harry's gaze.
He wouldn't just leave, would he? Harry wondered, frowning. He swept his gaze across the room again, looking in particular in the corners—and, in one corner, caught Peter Pettigrew's eyes.
He knows, Harry thought with a furious surge of hatred.
He strode through the crowd, shouldering past the guests, slapping away the balloons that came too close. His gaze remained fixed on Pettigrew, and he felt a certain spark of satisfaction as the smugness melted away into fear.
"Pettigrew," Harry said, spitting out the name with distaste. "I hope you are enjoying the party."
"It's very nice," he said stoutly, but Harry could hear the quaver in his voice.
"Very nice," Harry sneered with deadly quietness. "Tell me now, Pettigrew, if it's so nice, would it be polite to force someone to leave the party?"
Pettigrew took an unconscious step backwards. "N-no—"
"Exactly." Harry stepped closer, and he could see the fear bloom in Pettigrew's eyes. "Now tell me, and I'll know if you're lying"—his voice dropped to a whisper—"where. Is. Severus?"
For a moment, Harry thought Pettigrew was going to wet his pants. But the pudgy face managed to pull itself into the semblance of a nasty sort of smile. "Are you so c-concerned about your lover?"
Harry stepped back. He's being protected, he thought. Someone's offered him protection; there's no other way he would not be a quivering mess right now. Is it Voldemort? Harry felt a wave of coldness wash through his body, but he hid it, instead sneering, "Don't be bitter. Simply because Sirius thinks you're ugly and fat doesn't mean you need to be jealous of what Severus and I have."
Pettigrew paled. Harry smiled and leaned closer. "You needn't worry. I probably won't tell. Probably." His voice dropped again to a whisper. "Where is Severus?"
The rat swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down like a small red buoy at sea. "P-Professor Matellan asked me to t-tell him to go t-to the Headmaster's Office."
Dumbledore.
Harry pulled back. The band was singing the chorus for the last time, stretching the final lines as much as they could, motioning for the crowd to follow their lead: This'll be the day that I die. This'll be the day that I die…
Harry turned and walked through the crowd, slipping past the waving arms and shaking hips. Lily was talking to Potter, their heads bent in a tender moment when Harry reached them.
"Excuse me," Harry said to Potter, drawing Lily aside by the elbow. Potter frowned, and opened his mouth to speak, but Harry flung out a command with his mind for the fool to stay quiet, and Potter's mouth snapped shut.
"Jonathan?" said Lily, looking up bemusedly.
Harry drew them aside to a corner, and cast a web of magic about them so that they could speak in peace. "Lily, remember the rituals we did?"
She frowned at the urgency in his voice. "Yes?"
"Those were rituals of sacrifice, drawing on the Wild Magic for power. No! Listen to me." He gripped her elbows, and for the first time, Harry saw fear appear on Lily's face.
"Jonathan—"
"The basis of the sacrifice need not be a ritual. If you can channel the Wild Magic, then you need only the strength of your sacrifice to complete the magic."
"Jonathan, your eyes—"
"LISTEN!" Harry hissed, and immediately fell silent. He could hear the power of his magic distorting his voice, ringing it with the hiss of an enraged storm. He cleared his throat. "What about my eyes?"
"They're red," Lily whispered in wonderment and in fear.
Red? Harry thought, and turned away quickly. Red. He remembered how he had looked right after he had arrived at this time: the Dark Mark etched into his face, the red of Voldemort's eyes streaking his irises. But no, he thought, it's not the red of Voldemort's eyes. Voldemort was a quivering wreck on the ground, nothing more than a plaything in his hands. It's the red of what I am, he thought.
"Sleep deprivation," Harry said shortly, and kept his grip on Lily's elbows. From the edges of his vision, he could see Potter, a concentrated look on his face, his gaze slipping back and forth over the corner where Lily was.
"But Jonathan, that would make the whites of your eyes red, not your irises—"
"Please Lily," Harry interrupted softly, "listen to me. Let me give you my gift. For your birthday."
"What? But you didn't even know today was my birthday, how could you have prepared a gift?"
"Lily," Harry said, repeating her name, trying to calm her, "please, listen to me. I am going to give you the gift of being able to channel the Wild Magic."
Lily blinked in confusion. She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry grabbed the back of her head and pressed their mouths together. Lily made a noise of protest, but it was quickly muffled.
Let her be my channel, Harry thought, and he could almost see, lurking like a shadow in moonlight, the form of the Wild Magic, loping about like a large hunting cat. He could feel Lily struggling in his grasp, feel Lily's pushing ineffectually against him, but he pressed forward harder, watching the Wild Magic sniff the girl experimentally. Then the Wild Magic purred deeply, a sound that vibrated Harry's sternum, and disappeared like shapes in the fog.
Harry let go. Lily stumbled as she gasped for breath and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Sorry," Harry said. "You can feel it though, can't you? The Wild Magic."
She looked up at him dazedly. "I—you…"
"Never mind that," Harry said brusquely. "Tell me—now. Can you feel it?"
Lily frowned, still looking bewildered. I just French-kissed my mother, a distant part of Harry's mind thought with a sort of droll and exasperated amusement. He waited impatiently.
"It feels like a wind's blowing through me," Lily said, looking up in bewilderment. "But that—?"
"Good," Harry said, and broke the magic that surrounded them.
"Lily! There you are," Potter called out in relief. He hurried towards them. "I thought you'd just disappeared…"
Harry slipped away from the two Gryffindors. He shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the cries of pain or indignation, and pushed open the door.
The fresh air brushed across his face like a breeze. He had not realized how stifling the room had been with all its noise and balloons and streamers. The silence fell like an anvil, stunning his senses into alertness. It was as though the entire castle were listening to him.
He ran. The corridors were filled with a handful of students who had just finished lunch. A few looked at him curiously as he past, but the world had trickled down to the blood pounding his ears, the thud of each step against the hard flagstone floor. In his mind ran the last words of that Muggle song, as persistently as the tendrils of the Devil's Snare—this will be the day that I die, that I die, that I die…
He stopped in front of the gargoyle, resting for a moment to catch his breath. The statue stared blankly at him.
Harry took a deep breath. "Open," he hissed, the Parseltongue slithering from his lips and echoing in the empty corridor. The gargoyle shuddered, and clambered aside with slow, grinding movements. The wall split in two, and Harry plunged through. The spiral staircase began its slow ascent, but Harry took the steps in twos, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs until finally he reached the oak doors.
Open! Harry thought furiously, and the two panels of wood slammed back, thudding into the wall with a tremendous crack.
Dumbledore looked up and smiled sadly. "Mr. Frost, what an unexpected surprise."
The headmaster was sitting behind his massive desk. All the small silver instruments Harry remembered so well still cluttered the surface. The curtains were drawn, showing the white moor surrounding the castle and the snow-covered trees of the Forbidden Forest. In a corner, perched in his cage, was Fawkes, sleeping and moving his wings gently in his slumber.
Harry walked with a frown to where Severus was sitting. Severus had looked up only once, and in that brief glance, Harry had caught a look of pain or bitterness before Severus had turned away, the curtain of his hair once more obscuring his eyes.
"Severus?" Harry said softly. He moved closer, and placed a hand hesitatingly on Severus's shoulder. The bony shoulder stiffened slightly at his touch. Harry strengthened his grip, trying to communicate comfort as well as he could, and raised his gaze to look defiantly, challengingly into Dumbledore's eyes.
"I see that you have abandoned parts of your glamour," Dumbledore said.
Harry smiled thinly. "The eyes are always the first to go, for some odd reason."
Severus looked up at this, and started slightly at the sight of Harry's eyes. Then he frowned, looking from him to Dumbledore.
"Yes, he knows that I am not all that I am," Harry said, answering the unspoken question. There was a chair next to Severus, and, without waiting for an invitation, Harry drew it back and took a seat. He let go of Severus's shoulder and moved his hand further down, feeling blindly until he had Severus's hand in his. He squeezed it, wishing he could tell Severus the thought that now ran through his mind: If I could tell anyone all my wretched secrets, I would tell you Severus, tell you first and nobody else…
"Unfortunately, I know little else," Dumbledore said with a sigh.
Harry waited. Dumbledore had opened a drawer, and was fumbling through it, his head bending lower and lower until it was almost out of sight. Hurry up, old man, Harry thought coldly. Nobody in this room is going to be fooled by your sherbet lemons.
Dumbledore emerged with a small, circular tin container. "I'm afraid there is little I can say to convey my condolences, but here are some specially brewed Lemon Memory Mints," he said, addressing Severus. "They may be of help if things seem too bleak to bear."
Severus looked down expressionlessly at the proffered sweets. "No, thank you," he said.
Harry frowned. Severus's hand was stony in his grip, tense and leaden like a statue that could only mimic the life around. "What is it?"
Dumbledore gave Severus a questioning look, as though asking for permission.
"My mother is dead," Severus said flatly.
Harry sat back in surprise. Eileen Prince—dead. Out of the numbness curled a small tendril of satisfaction. He was glad, glad that the woman's ghost was the only thing that could haunt Severus now. But, Harry thought, observing the frozen features of Severus's face, sometimes the dead is far worse than the living.
"I'm sorry," Harry said.
"She died with—a picture of him in her hands," Severus said, voice colored with disgust. "Wasted away while thinking of that—" He paused, and continued in a more controlled voice. "Of him."
Harry silently squeezed Severus's hand again, knowing that words were all but useless. There could not have been any lost love among the three, Harry thought, but pain could still fester from hate and longing.
"I wish I could give you words of consolation, but—alas, for grief as deep as this, perhaps time is the only balm," Dumbledore said gravely. "Only know that my door is open to you, whenever you may need it."
A bitter sneer flashed briefly over Severus's face, but he remained silent.
The headmaster sighed, and Harry, looking at the face that had far fewer wrinkles and lines than he remembered, thought that Dumbledore seemed momentarily as old as he would be in twenty long years.
"Mr. Snape, you may leave if you wish, but I must ask Mr. Frost to remain."
So it is time, Harry thought with heavy finality. He could feel Severus stiffen, and saw, from the corner of his vision, Severus glance questioningly at Harry's eyes.
"Mr. Snape?"
"You said that I may leave if I wish," Severus said. There was a pause. "And," he snapped, "as it so happens, I lack the desire to leave your office, Professor Dumbledore."
"Very well," Dumbledore said and nodded, almost grimly. He kept his eyes fixed on Harry's face.
The silence stretched, as tense as the skin of a drum. "What do you wish to say to me, Headmaster?" Harry asked.
"A few nights ago," said Dumbledore, "I received a most unusual message. A small container appeared on my desk, bearing a note telling me that what lay before me was a memory of great importance. Naturally I was curious, and so I decided to view the memory."
He paused.
"And you saw—me," Harry said.
"Yes. I saw you, Mr. Frost," Dumbledore said.
"And my eyes were as they are now—colored by Voldemort, and my face…" Harry tightened his grasp, as though afraid Severus's hand would slip away. "My face showed Voldemort's mark, the way it was when you first found me."
"Yes," Dumbledore said. Harry felt Severus's grip on his hand tighten briefly, unexpectedly in a gesture of reassurance, and Harry felt a surge of happiness flowup from his heart. I love him, oh God, I love him— Unbidden, the memories flashed through his mind: Severus, his eyes burning, whispering, I would never judge you ill… The warm light of the fireplace, flickering warm and wrapping them in a world of their own, You are… the best thing—I have ever encountered…
"Not long after I received that message, the person who sent it died a very mysterious death," said Dumbledore.
There was a silence. "How coincidental," Harry said dryly.
"That was what I hoped, too. However, upon scanning a particular section of the Slytherin dormitory, I was…" Dumbledore paused, and the look of weariness deepened, "…disturbed to find it simply radiating Dark Magic."
Harry was aware of the note of contempt that had seeped into his voice. "Not all Dark Magic is malicious."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened. Harry felt a warning squeeze from Severus, but his mind was consumed by a turmoil of fierce, uncaring rebellion. What did it matter what he did now? There was now nothing left to lose, and whatever he did—whatever he did—
He remembered the worry that had plagued him when he first arrived, the fear that what he did would change the future. That fear had been reconciled by the belief that whatever he did was fated to occur anyway, but now he knew that, if he desired it enough, he could change the future. He could mold a world that suited his desires: no Dumbledore, no Voldemort, nothing that stood in the way between him and Severus. Nothing.
"We also found residues of Lestrange's clothing in your fireplace," Dumbledore said, looking more tired than ever.
Harry felt a touch on his wrist. Severus's thumb was prodding him slightly, and he realized he had been squeezing Severus's hand in an iron grip. He relaxed, and felt some of the anger in him fall away like withered leaves from their branches.
"Did you have a house-elf search the fireplace?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said, looking at Harry with an appraising glance. "I would venture to guess that you could sense the magical signature?"
Harry nodded. "There was no magical residue from wizards or witches."
"Ah. Incidentally, there is one house-elf whose memories of you are rather unfavorable…"
"Room too messy?" Harry quipped, and Dumbledore smiled humorlessly. Harry could almost hear, again, the thin voice quavering, Master…
It was Severus who broke the silence. "What do you want?"
"What do I want? That is a very good and very rhetorical question, Mr. Snape. If I could have my way, none of this would have happened. Tom Riddle would be using his brilliance for a good cause, Terrance Lestrange would still be alive, and I would not have calledthe two of you here." Dumbledore sighed, and the sadness returned to his eyes. "But as it is, I wish I did not need to press charges against the two of you for murder."
Harry felt Severus tense, and he tightened his grip in a gesture of reassurance. "Two of you?" Harry said slowly. "There was only one murder, and one murderer."
"That, I'm afraid, is completely untrue," Severus snapped, giving Harry a fierce look. "I would like to make a confession, Professor Dumbledore, regarding my role in the death of Terrance Lestrange."
Harry shook his head. "Please, Severus—"
"A confession?" Dumbledore interrupted softly, and Harry felt sickened at the deceptively inviting tone.
"A confession in the form of a memory—of something that happened four years ago."
Harry froze in surprise. "Severus—"
"Four years ago?" Dumbledore echoed, frowning. "I don't quite understand."
Of course you don't, you old fool, Harry thought viciously, but the anger was dampened by a hollow sorrow that formed a tight knot in his throat.
"No, Severus, don't…" he muttered, and turned and closed his eyes, the knowledge of impending departure digging into his heart like nails. He took a deep breath and pressed his face against Severus's elbow, not caring a whit that Dumbledore saw. "Please. It's not worth it—not worth it for me."
"Not worth it?" Severus demanded, and Harry could hear the embarrassment and confusion and anger in his voice. "Don't be a fool. It's just the sort of thing that can turn a jury's decision."
"It doesn't matter," Harry whispered. He took a shuddering breath. "I—haven't much time, anyway."
Severus froze. Harry could feel the black eyes boring holes in his head, but he only stared down at Severus's slender fingers, etching their every detail into his mind. "What do you mean?"
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. He raised his head to meet Dumbledore's blue gaze and sealed the barrier of his mind so that the old wizard would not hear the anguish of his soul as it wept for forgiveness. His voice was steady as he spoke. "Voldemort knows that I am responsible for Lestrange's death. He gave me two choices: to join his ranks, or…" Harry mustered a grim smile. "I would experience the full effects of having his Mark."
Harry reached up to his hairline and pulled his hand across his face. The magic rippled away as the glamour dissipated. He felt Dumbledore and Severus's eyes on his face, and he wondered what he looked like to them.
"But you said," Severus snapped, a note of desperation coloring his voice, "you said you managed to convince him—"
"I convinced him to let me decide at the next Death-Eater meeting," Harry said gently. Then, looking at no one, he continued, "I won't tell you how I received the Mark, and how my eyes became as they are, but it wasn't willingly done. This—treatment has made me—completely under the control of the Dark Lord." He looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes, and his words strangely did not feel like a lie. "In his hand, my life is nothing more than an eggshell."
"You can't be serious!" Severus shouted. Suddenly he was on his feet; his chair had fallen over with a thud. "You—you liar!"
Harry closed his eyes and felt almost with pleasure the pain of those words sinking into him, impaling his heart, worming their way into the emptiness of his soul and echoing there—liar… liar…
"Excuse us, Professor Dumbledore," Severus said roughly, and, grabbing Harry by the arm, pulled him out of the office.
"Ambio silencio," Severus barked, drawing a large arc with his wand.
They were in front of the large oak doors, at the very top of the spiral staircase. Whereas the light of Dumbledore's office had been white, suffused with reflections from the snowy ground, the stairwell was lit mostly by torches that flickered from the wall. In the reddish light, Harry could almost imagine they were back in their dormitory, away from the rest of the world.
"Can he hear us still?" Severus asked, poking his wand at the barrier he had just created.
"Probably not," Harry said.
"Good." Severus turned and Harry felt skewered by Severus's fierce, almost desperate gaze. "Listen, you idiot. Join Voldemort. Don't die. Do anything but die. Join him, kill as many people as he tells you to. Don't die."
"Severus, it's no use. He'll know I'm not loyal, and I'll be dead by mor—"
"NO!" Severus roared.
Silence followed. It was painful, too painful to look at those black eyes, usually so inscrutable, now naked with fear and anguish. A distant part of Harry's mind was murmuring like the wind through tree branches, bare and bleak: I'm sorry… But leaden emptiness gnawed him, reminding him of the hollowness and uselessness of those words, dead even before they could be born from his frozen lips.
"There's no other way," Harry said softly, looking down. "I—"
Suddenly Harry found his face pressed in Severus's neck, felt arms clutching him with a frantic desperation. Almost numbly, Harry moved his arms to return the embrace. I love you, Harry thought, and a voice inside him shrieked at him: Tell him! Speak them aloud! But like his arms, his lips felt paralyzed, and he could only shut his eyes and run his hands over the warm, quivering back, through the tangled, oily hair.
Finally Severus let go, his eyes averted.
"Severus," Harry said hesitantly. "There's something I want to give you." He reached into his pocket and fished out the small silver ring. "This is—for you."
Severus shook his head. He intercepted Harry's hand before the ring could slip onto his finger. "I don't want it," Severus muttered thickly. "Give it to me when it's all over. You promised you would tell me everything you can't tell me now. Give it to me then."
Harry swallowed painfully. "Severus, please, just—just take it." He reached for Severus's hand, but Severus shrunk away.
"I told you, I don't want it," he said, his voice rising slightly. "Give it to me when it's all over, or I won't ever take it."
"Severus—"
"I mean it," Severus said, his tone hard.
"It might never be over," Harry snapped, and immediately regretted the words, cursing his own stupidity for having said them. "Now, don't be ridiculous, give me your hand—"
"You promised," Severus hissed. "You—I hate you!"
"Don't be idiotic, come on, put this on—"
"NO!" Severus snarled. "Is this your idea of a parting gift? How long have you been planning this?" He snatched the ring from Harry's hand and threw it furiously against the wall. It bounced off with a sharp noise and disappeared down the stairwell. "I wish I had never met you," Severus said in a horribly shaky voice. "I don't ever want to see you again!"
There was a silence.
"As you wish," Harry said stonily, the ache in his chest and knot in his throat turning his voice cold and aloof. He reached for the oak doors, breaking out of the bubble of Severus's magic, and reentered Dumbledore's office.
The headmaster looked up, and Harry glanced away, unable to meet the penetrating blue gaze. He felt sick. He waited a moment, but Severus did not follow. Briefly he wished that Severus would stalk through that pair of doors, and the longing of that moment nearly consumed him, but he knew it would be easier if Severus remained outside. Harry walked across the room and took a seat opposite the headmaster.
"Professor Dumbledore," he said, "there was only one murder and only one murderer. Severus Snape is blameless. As the sole perpetrator of the deed, I intend to perform penance by killing the man who used to be Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore was quiet. Harry looked up, and immediately felt a probing against his mind. Harry pulled back his defenses and flashed images across his consciousness, images he calculated would derail the old fool—the silver ring bouncing off the stone walls; the cradle of smoky warmth, cocooning himself and Severus in a world of their own; the feel of Severus's fingers on his lips, the feel of Severus's mouth pressed against his as they kissed those two, desperate times; the first time they had touched with the intimacy of lovers, walking down the deserted corridors at night, fingers shyly touching; the intensity of hate as he stabbed Lestrange with his magic—
He felt Dumbledore cling to that memory like a burr. Harry offered only token resistance, then brought forth the memory of Lestrange's naked body, naked and pale like marble upon the hearth; the memory of Lestrange's mocking eyes, which glinted even at death.
But Dumbledore wormed for the previous memory, that of the whirlwind chase Lestrange had led through Severus's memories. Harry put up more resistance, torn between a desire to protect Severus's secrets and the craving to fling the horror of the memory into Dumbledore's face, as if to say: this is what your twinkling eyes have brought, this is the result of your stupid sherbet lemons, your idiotic reassurances of safety—
Dumbledore pushed harder.
…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?"
The face, contorted and covered with disheveled hair, but the eyes—burning darkly with a wordless anguish—eyes wide and staring, fingers fluttering weakly…
Suddenly, it was too much. Harry gave an involuntary cry, and Dumbledore was gone from his mind with an explosion of power.
"IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE?" Harry shouted. The world blurred before his eyes. "WHY MUST YOU HATE HIM WHEN I LOVE HIM?"
He swiped his eyes angrily and realized his hand became wet with tears: hot, sparse tears, burning his eyes uncomfortably. Dumbledore, Harry noticed, had been knocked onto the ground. The headmaster was now righting his chair, and a feeling of dread and grimness settled into Harry's stomach as Dumbledore took his seat with slow, deliberate movements. Harry reached into his sleeve and gripped his wand.
But when he lifted his gaze, he saw that Dumbledore's face lacked any trace of suspicion. There was only sorrow, a grief that deepened the wrinkles and turned the skin pale, as though the old headmaster had been struck by a sudden blow. He's only acting, Harry thought, it's all a façade, a mask both he and you wish to believe in. He'll attack you when you least expect it. But his hold on his wand slackened, and he felt the numbness creep back to encase his heart.
Dumbledore sighed, a deep sigh as he gazed out at the snow falling on the pines of the Forbidden Forest. He's averted his gaze, Harry thought dully. Dumbledore is never the first to look away.
"I never had even the slightest suspicion," Dumbledore said quietly. "Not even a whisper. How couldn't I have known?"
"Your track record with Slytherins is rather dismal," Harry said expressionlessly. Dumbledore shot him a pained glance, but Harry ignored it. "And I don't think you truly care." He paused, feeling the words come to him slowly, laboriously. "You probably would have twenty years ago, but not anymore. You think that you care, because it's nice to think so. But you don't. Not really."
Dumbledore sighed again. "Mr. Frost," he said in a weary tone, "I don't think there's anything I can say to convince you otherwise, is there?"
"Please don't try," Harry said dryly. Then he became grave and spoke in a grim, relentless tone. "I am leaving now. You won't be seeing me again for a long—a very long time, and neither—neither will Severus. Be kind to him. It will break him in the end, but it will be more than almost anything anyone has ever shown him."
Harry stopped. "Forgive him if he errs," he added, and realized that there was nothing more to say. He rose abruptly.
"Where are you going?" Dumbledore called, standing up as well.
"To fight," Harry answered. To die, he thought. This'll be the day that I die.
He pushed open the door and shut it behind him, waiting to see if Dumbledore would follow. The doors remained shut. The stairway revolved slowly, making almost no sound as it wound up in a lazy spiral. Harry looked down the stairwell. Severus was gone.
Numbly, Harry stepped onto the staircase and let it bear him down. He watched each carpeted step appear from around the corner, one after another in an unhurried progression. What was the last thing we said? Harry wondered. He tried to remember, but all he could see was the silver ring bouncing against the wall and disappearing down the stairway.
He blinked. Suddenly he was at the bottom, and with a frown, he bent down, looking across the ground. There was nothing; the ring was not there.
It can't have been Filch, Harry thought. And all the students are in class, and it can't have been Peeves—
He felt a strange lump in his throat, and was about to walk through the opening the gargoyle made when he felt strands of magic hanging in the air before him. He reached out a hand, but even before he could taste the signature, he knew who had left them there: Severus. The spell was a tracking charm.
"Severus!" Harry shouted, the word tearing out of his throat without conscious thought. He felt the sudden, desperate urge to see Severus once more, to look at that face, to run his hands once again over the sharp planes of the high cheekbones, the crease of the frown—
"SEVERUS!"
Down to the roots of the castle, his voice reverberated like waves moving silently through water; and Harry suddenly found his consciousness embracing the entirety of Hogwarts with that one burst of sound. In McGonagall's classroom, Potter was anxiously happy, his eyes fixed on Lily Evans, who was still in a sort of daze… Further down, in Ancient Runes, Malfoy was thinking angrily of how Bulstrode was not properly honoring the Malfoys, how to turn the Dark Lord against Frost, how he missed Lestrange… In the abandoned classroom, where Lily had had her party, Black was talking to Remus Lupin about the fissure he felt forming between himself and his closest friends… Outside the castle, near the broom shed, Severus was gripping one of the school brooms with fierce determination, pushing down the nervousness he always felt when he was around broomsticks. He could feel his tracking spell ready to spring, and when Jonathan left, he would follow—quietly, unnoticed, until it was too late for Jonathan to send him back—
Harry pulled the tracking spell and felt it snap in his hands.
He let go. The magic dissipated into nothingness, the shadow of its ashes drifting down in small eddies and vanishing.
Someone was in the corridor in front of him. When he looked up again, it was with a sense of dull surprise and weariness that he found himself staring down the length of Matellan's wand.
Matellan broke the silence. "Is there a reason why you are not in class?"
Harry shrugged. He felt tired and numb, and wished that he could lie down and let his shoulders become hills, his face a pasture, his hands and legs crags for trees to grow on.
"I asked you a question, Mr. Frost," Matellan said icily. "I would also appreciate it if you explained those… markings on your face."
"Judging from the position of your wand, I don't think you care what my answer is," Harry said. He suddenly didn't want to see anyone anymore. Turning around, he began his way down the hall.
"I am warning you, Frost," Matellan said.
Harry ignored it. Snow drifted down past the windows, and frost crept up in delicate rays from the iron bars dividing the window in blocks of glass.
He felt a surge of magic before him, and felt a rush of surprise—it was much faster than anything he had expected, and flowed with strange familiarity.
Lestrange! he thought as ropes wound about his arms and tightened painfully. Their magic… it is so similar.
Harry felt another wave of magic approaching, one that would bear him in the air and float him down the halls like a balloon. He clamped his mind down on the magic, and felt the floor meet his feet.
Matellan frowned and took out her wand. "You want to make things difficult, don't you?" she barked.
Harry looked at her curiously. "Why is your magic so similar to that of Terrance Lestrange?"
Matellan's wand was trained unwaveringly at Harry with the practiced grip of an Auror. "Lestrange?" Matellan repeated, her face carefully kept blank. "I have no idea what you mean."
"They're both cold and swift," Harry said, "like the wind upon the waves, the hawk above the cliff, the tide that drags to death, the tomb of every hope…"
Harry trailed off. Matellan's face, as pale as a frosted sheet of snow, seemed to be carved from wax, and the knuckles of her wand-hand were clenched white.
"Who told you that?" she demanded harshly. "Who?"
"Why are you so concerned?" Harry countered in a perfectly neutral voice.
Matellan stepped forward, and Harry could feel a ripple of power billowing from her form. "I asked you a question, Frost," she said on a cold, hard voice. "I command you to answer me."
"I made it up on the spot."
"Who told you that?" she shouted, voice reverberating down the corridor. "Was it Lestrange? Malfoy?" She paused before continuing. "Was it your master, Voldemort?" Harry gave no answer, and only stared at her impassively. "Was it your Se-ve-rus…"
Harry felt hatred roar through his body, turning his vision red. She had phrased the word like a taunt, framing it with the condescending leer of disgust. The ropes around his body snapped with a shrug, and he swept out his right arm in an angry, brutal gesture. Matellan flew down the hallway like a tumbleweed caught in a gale, smashed into the window, and disappeared in the snowstorm outside.
Harry walked unhurriedly to the window. Snowflakes were swirling into the corridor, forming little patches of snow on the ground. He could dimly make out the turrets, each coated with the ubiquitous whiteness, and the long, sloping roof. At the end of a rapidly vanishing smear across the roof was Matellan, struggling in the wind to right herself.
Harry took out his wand and flicked it. The snow and ice tore off the roof and formed an opaque cloud before revealing a path, black from the wet tiled roof.
He clambered out and strode leisurely down to where Matellan was crouched, her eyes narrowed like those of a cornered animal, her wand gripped tightly in both hands like a broadsword.
"No," Harry said, "I was not told that… by Severus."
It was difficult even to say the name. The spike of pain arose, and Harry flung out his hand as though to ward off memories.
Where is he? Harry wondered. Almost before he had finished the thought, an image materialized in his mind. Severus crouched in the broom shed, his nose red from the cold, his eyes set with resolve, his breath forming vapors as he huddled in a corner, waiting…
No! Harry cried, clawing away the image, trying to concentrate on anything but that—
Someone was behind him. He froze and kept his eyes on Matellan, who was pacing back and forth like a wary animal, briefly glancing over the edge of the precipice mere steps behind her. The presence he felt was familiar, though somehow distorted—
Ah, Harry thought. Pettigrew. In rat form.
Harry felt a streak of magic flying by his shoulder like a carrier pigeon. He snaked out his hand and snuffed it out, but before the magic disappeared, he caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a distress signal, flying towards Dumbledore's office.
"I would advise you not to do anything rash," Harry said pleasantly, though his gaze on Matellan was steely.
"And I would advise you to end this foolishness at once!" Matellan barked. Harry could hear the shiver in her voice, the trembling in her hands. "Return immediately to the castle before we all die of exposure."
Harry shrugged and smiled. He could feel Pettigrew's magic changing, the muffling presence of the rat slipping away as the traitor reverted to his true form. "Quite honestly, I find the weather just fine. A little snow never hurt anyone."
"Whatever you want, Frost, we can discuss it inside," Matellan said sternly. Harry smiled again, but coldly and humorlessly. He had seen the momentary flick of recognition in her eyes; she knew that Pettigrew was there.
"I merely want to enjoy the beautiful snowfall," Harry said, taking a step closer.
"Then you can enjoy it in the warmth of Dumbledore's office," Matellan snapped, shifting backwards closer to the edge. "I'm sure he can offer you some hot cocoa."
"I need the cold to say awake," Harry said, moving forward another step.
Then Matellan moved her wand in an almost unnoticeable gesture, twisting it slightly in preparation for a spell. Harry glanced up sharply, and saw the mirroring knowledge in her eyes (they were grey, Harry thought, grey as the sea, grey like Lestrange's eyes)—
He felt a hot burst brushing his shoulder, ready to sink into his flesh. Bastard! he roared in his mind. Time seemed to slow. He twisted furiously, watching the hot streak of magic soar past him like a flaming arrow, turning the unmoving snowflakes to vapor as it cut through the chilly air. Then time resumed its pace, and the spell struck Matellan in the chest. She fell backwards, and was gone.
Harry whirled around. Pettigrew was staring at the spot where Matellan had been, his mouth open in dismay, his eyes widening with increasing horror. Harry walked swiftly to the edge and looked over it. White emptiness, narrowed to a point by the endless turrets, stared back at him. Nothing can survive that, Harry thought. In fact, she might still be falling. He turned around, and felt a simmer of satisfaction.
"Well now, if it isn't Mr. Peter Pettigrew," Harry said. He clucked his tongue. "You seem to have caused a most grievous accident." He paused, watching Pettigrew pull himself into a shivering ball. Stay, Harry commanded, and Pettigrew gave a very mouse-like squeak as he collapsed in a heap on the roof.
"Are you thinking of leaving already?" Harry chided. "Aren't you going to attempt to see at least if you can rescue her, like the brave Gryffindor you surely are?"
Pettigrew was rooting through the snow for his wand, and nearly dropped it as he emerged. He glanced behind at the sloping roof, and inched backwards.
"Do you think you can run?" Harry asked coldly. He closed his hands slowly in a fist, and Pettigrew slipped and fell, his body slowly pulled towards the edge.
"Stupefy!" Pettigrew gibbered, his wand pointed at Harry.
Harry shook his head slightly, and the magic fragmented.
"Locomotor mortis! Impedimenta! Reducto!"
Harry batted the first two spells out the way, but as the third one came hurtling towards him, he paused and opened his mouth. The magic scraped against his teeth, scouring his tongue, fighting madly against the roof of his mouth. It tasted… alive and intangible, struggling and sparking, but tainted throughout with the aura of that traitor. Harry ground his teeth hard, and felt the magic wink out of existence, leaving behind only a few specks of memory that he swallowed.
"Reminds me of marmite," Harry said.
Pettigrew glared, the loathing in his eyes belying his fear. "What do you w-want, Frost?"
Harry gave a disdainful laugh. "Do you think I would need to frighten you to get what I want? I can have anything and everything I want. Anything."
But even as he said the words aloud, he heard a vast emptiness in them. If he could have anything he wanted, why did he feel so hollow? And what did he want? To be with Severus—to remove Voldemort from the world, shape the path of future to his pleasure? He reined back before his mind could reach those thoughts that were too terrible and painful to consider, thoughts that he would pretend not to exist, thoughts that would burn him like dark fire and leave him pale ashes.
"What I want," Harry snarled and clenched his hand into a fist—Pettigrew jerked as though pulled by invisible strings— "And what you can give me," Harry repeated, softly and politely this time, "is to know… How were you sorted into Gryffindor, since you were so easily induced to betray your friends? Was the Sorting Hat blind, or were you a particularly slippery student?"
"Betray my friends?" Pettigrew echoed blankly.
"Yes, your friends," Harry spat. "Potter, Black… Perhaps it has not yet happened, but it will—"
"I would never betray them!" Pettigrew shouted furiously, and he even sounded as though he meant it. "You sick Slytherin—pouf! I'd never do such a thing!"
Harry smiled indulgently. He searched Pettigrew's eyes, but they were too hotly outraged for him to see much. "Mm. You're not a bad actor, you know…"
"I would never betray my friends," Pettigrew repeated in a vehement hiss. "I would die first."
Harry smiled again, this time as coldly as the wintry air. He clenched his fist and whirled around. With a yelp, Pettigrew tumbled across the roof, his arms flaying and legs kicking helplessly as he shot off the edge in a spray of snow.
Harry walked to the edge and looked down. Pettigrew was dangling from the edge, clutching to an invisible rope that was wound around his neck. His face, already red from the cold, had a purplish tinge, and his eyes and tongue lolled grotesquely.
"Shall we reconsider?" Harry asked pleasantly, squatting at the edge and smiling downwards. "Your friends—or your life?"
Pettigrew seemed to be having trouble breathing. He kicked the air pointlessly, and pulled at the rope that encircled his neck, and Harry heard the traitor gasp before choking out two words: "My… friends…"
"Your friends!" Harry spat. He flicked his wrist. Pettigrew snapped up through the air, and made a gurgling noise as he dangled mere feet beyond the edge. Harry reached out and struck the ugly, purpling face. "Your friends—or your life?"
"F… friends—"
Harry tightened his fist and gritted his teeth in frustration. Pettigrew rattled up and down, and a few coins fell out of his pocket.
"They don't even like you!" Harry barked. "They think you're annoying, that you're a nuisance. You're nothing to them, Pettigrew. Nothing."
Even as Pettigrew struggled with both hands for air to draw half a breath, he glanced down at Harry with a look of contempt. "They'd… d-die… for me…"
Harry nearly laughed. "Yes, but would you die for them?" He continued without waiting for an answer. "Think about it, Pettigrew. What are you to them? Potter treats you like an infant, like a first-year. And Lupin only talks to you because nobody else does. And Black—" Harry smiled maliciously. "Dear Sirius. He's quite beautiful, isn't he? And sometimes, when he talks to you, he can make you feel as though you're actually someone, that he actually cares."
Pettigrew's face twisted into a rictus of hate. The helplessness of his eyes, silent in their fury, was positively delightful.
"You want him, don't you?" Harry whispered, stepping closer. "Oh yes, you want him." He edged his mind into Pettigrew's gaze; the resistance he countered was pitiful, parting before him like warm butter. He saw an early memory, that of Black defending Pettigrew against a few sullen-looking Gryffindors. Already Harry could see the worshipful light in Pettigrew's eyes. The scene changed, and now Black was soaring through the air in the Quidditch pitch, face beaming with delight. Pettigrew was clapping like an idiot in the stands, hollering and shouting with that same lovelorn gaze… Then the scene filled with steam, and the look of worship became furtive, almost shameful. They were in the locker rooms, and Black was strutting through the showers naked, his muscles glistening under his skin as he laughed and horsed around with Potter. Off to the side, hiding himself and his miserably chubby physique was Pettigrew. More scenes flashed past—Pettigrew biting his lower lip, his back to the bed curtains, as Black moaned nearby in the throes of passion with a girl; Pettigrew on the verge of tears as Black stormed away in disgust, muttering about the impossibility of teaching the skills of becoming an Animagus; Pettigrew staring in hopeless longing and jealousy as Black shared secrets with Potter, leaving him—Pettigrew—out of their chummy little world…
"Unrequited love," Harry crooned. He smiled at the tears that had now wetted the traitor's cheeks. "Touching. But hopeless. How does it feel to have your love forced into silence? How does it sicken day by day from an impossible dream? It's hopeless."
Pettigrew had shut his eyes, turning his face away resolutely. Harry leaned closer. "Your friends—or your life?"
Pettigrew smiled again, a brief grimace before he gasped again for breath, but Harry thought it might have been a pitying sort of smile. "M-my… fr—"
Harry felt a sudden surge of anger. How dare this traitor pretend to be loyal, how dare this pathetic little rat defy him! He reached forward with his magic and felt the sphere of Pettigrew's mind, and squeezed.
"Your friends—or your life?"
Pettigrew squirmed with renewed vigor. His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes rolled and stared with unfocused blankness. His lips seemed to have trouble forming the words, but after many failed attempts, Harry made out the whimpers: "M-m-myyy… f-frieeen—enn—"
Harry snarled like a beast and increased the pressure on Pettigrew's mind. He could feel it pulsing frantically in his hand, flitting with the desperation of a caught Snitch. With an instinctive certainty, Harry knew that it was on the verge of breaking.
"Your friends—or your life?"
Saliva was leaking out from the corners of Pettigrew's mouth. His limbs moved only jerked in brief spasms. His pupils had dilated to the point that the irises had become invisible.
"Well?" Harry demanded, spittle flying from his mouth, his voice a garbled hiss of power and rage. "Must I break you for you to confess?"
Pettigrew's face contorted as Harry applied more and more pressure, feeling with a fiendish satisfaction the first delicate cracks forming on the surface, increasing the force infinitesimally, waiting for that final crack—
I broke him, Harry thought suddenly. He felt as though the thin sheet of ice had given away under his feet, and he had fallen headfirst into the icy cold water. Pettigrew didn't betray them because he was a coward. He was no coward at all…
—Pettigrew abruptly stopped moving. Harry looked down into his hand, at the two separate hemispheres that had ceased to struggle.
He betrayed them because I broke him, Harry thought. I did it. I broke him.
Harry pulled gently, drawing Pettigrew away from the edge and lying him down on the snow-covered roof. Pettigrew was shivering, and his eyes were still unfocused. They darted back and forth like birds caught uncomprehendingly in a cage. His lips were white.
"Shh," Harry muttered. "You'll be all right." He pieced the two fragments together as best as he could, and let them fall lifelessly into the broken man's body.
Pettigrew began to mutter incoherently. "M-m-my… my—"
"Your life," Harry whispered. "Save yourself."
Pettigrew jerked about, but his eyes were no longer so dilated, and color was returning to his cheeks. "My l-life," he mumbled. "S-save… myself…"
"Save yourself," Harry repeated, and leaned forward, and kissed Pettigrew's forehead. The skin was clammy and cold, though a feverish head burned within. He could feel Pettigrew's finger clutch vaguely at his cloak, like a baby groping for some handle in a frightening new world. Harry met Pettgirew's grasp with his hands, and then gently disengaged himself.
"You won't remember this," Harry said softly. "Run along now, as a mouse. It'll be easier to bear in rodent form." Harry paused as Pettigrew pulled himself laboriously into a crouch, and slowly began to shrink, still trembling. "Forget that you loved Sirius!" Harry called, as the rat scurried up the roof. "Forget that love. It's better not to have loved at all."
The snow fell all around him. The castle was disappearing under a blanket of white, and no sound dared to disturb the silence. Far away, Harry could see the small black specks indicating the presence of the Forbidden Forest. Even farther off, stretching endlessly into the distance, beyond what the eye could see— Harry faltered. It all looked the same, a vast drab of grey and white. He could see no horizon.
I must leave, Harry thought. He knew he could return to the castle and sneak out invisibly, but the thought of seeing people filled him with dread. Particularly if he ran into Potter or Black or—
He shook his head and grabbed two handfuls of his hair. It was intolerable, to think of Severus. No. He couldn't bear it. It was like a hot iron blade that impaled his chest, making him feel filthy and terrible and undeserving all at once. He must not think of Severus.
I wish to be somewhere far away, Harry thought. Somewhere where I won't see anyone. Somewhere that's cold, mind-numbingly cold…
The air changed. Suddenly it swirled with ice on its edge, like the harsh streak of whips. He opened his eyes to a squint, and saw—nothing. Emptiness. The sky might have been mere inches above his head, or it might have been as far away as memories of another life. But it was grey, sloping down to the grey earth, lifting into the grey wind.
Harry stumbled to his knees and lied down, spread eagled. He turned his head so that he could stare up into the vast, vacant sky. He could no longer feel his feet, and sensation was slowly seeping out of his fingers.
He had killed people. He had tortured them before their death, then snuffed out their lives with pleasure. He had murdered others with hardly a thought. He had broken people, bent them and twisted them with joy, had sowed the seeds for a future of pain.
And he felt nothing. Nothing.
He welcomed the emptiness. He could feel the hollowness slowly take his body, and now he felt it gnawing at his mind, soon to draw the quilt of darkness over his consciousness…
But he had loved with a passion he had not dreamed was possible. He had killed for that love, for that all-consuming obsession. He had been tender, treading softly on the wondrous dream they shared. And he had betrayed that love in every way possible.
The vestiges of anguish flitted briefly over his mind. But it meant nothing now, as it had meant nothing before. This vast numbness was all that mattered. His greatest fear, his surest longing, the nothingness extinguished the last, lingering lights. All was dark.