AN: I love you guys! Thanks for all of the encouraging reviews :o)

Firstly, I have a couplequestions now that I've got this fic rolling:

1.) Is there anything you guys would like to see in a Severitus fic that, despite the hundreds out there, simply hasn't been covered?

2.) Should the romance HG be more off to the side and irrelevant, or somewhat-centric? I definitely won't make it mostly centric in this story—there's already too much going on.

That's all I have—but if there's some question you want answered that I haven't mentioned, feel free to respond on my Livejournal (listed as my homepage now), PM me, or simply mention it in a review.

"Wake up, Potter we're leaving."

"What?" Harry stared blearily at the man before him, his voice rough, but obviously working again. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out and therefore had no idea what time or day it was, he had lost his glasses and his mind felt distant and fuzzy. "Who're you?"

The man sighed angrily and unlocked the chains that bound Harry to the ceiling. Harry fell unceremoniously to the ground, retched slightly, and then rested his scorching face on the cold dungeon floor.

"Up now—"

"But it feels so nice—"

The stranger hefted Harry up to his feet with an exasperated wave of his wand. Harry wavered but soon righted himself, closing his eyes rubbing his right arm irritably. Not only his arm itched—was it the Dark Mark? He couldn't remember which arm exactly—but the rest of him prickled as well. And his legs felt sore, like he had growing pains.

As Harry looked up once more, trying to blink the fuzziness from his eyes, he finally seemed to recognize the stranger with him.

"Pr'fessor Snape? But—you—I thought—"

Snape smirked. "Don't hurt yourself, Potter."

Harry frowned, and decided he didn't care enough to work out what Snape meant, and he couldn't seem to remember why he cared. He was tired and hot, and the ground certainly did look cool and inviting…

"I don't have all day. We need to apparate as soon as we get out of this blasted building—"

"Huh?"

"Are you not listening to a word I say? I'm jeopardizing my life…" Snape trailed off, muttering, and gripped Harry's arm, dragging him out of his cell. They walked past several doors, some which Harry was almost sure he heard voices come out of, before he saw a blurry dark shape stop in the hallway—another Death Eater, Harry realized after a few moments, but he didn't know who.

"Snape? What are you—" started the Death Eater. Harry couldn't see the look on his face, but he assumed by the tone of his voice that he was shocked.

"Stupefy. Come along, Potter."

"Okay," said Harry noncommittally. "Where are we going again?"

"To Hogwarts, you moronic dunderhead," the man replied, sneering at him as he sped proficiently through the meandering, maze-like hallways as though he knew them as well as his own house, seeming, oddly enough, completely unworried about the prospect of any Death Eater finding him. Harry still struggled to keep up with the man's long strides, but it seemed less hard to do than before, despite his disorientation.

"Oh…why? I thought I would go back to the Dursleys…?" Harry suddenly covered his mouth and doubled over as he coughed, sending aching sensations through his chest. Snape ignored this.

"Clearly, you're either delirious, or completely stupid. You're bleeding; you've got an infection on your head, which might damage what little intelligence you possess…"

"Oh. That's good, then." He replied nonchalantly.

Snape stared dubiously at him as they neared the door, and shook his head slowly, drawing a hand towards his temple. "Bloody idiots giving me bloody migraines—" he muttered under his breath. "—Stupid bloody Dumbledore insisting that I save the bloody idiot-who-lived…"

The guards lay on the floor, dead, and by the looks of their swollen skin and the frothy substance leaking out of their mouths, they had been poisoned. Harry stared, as though not quite understanding why anyone would kill them. He also wondered why his vision had improved so much—they still looked unrecognizable and slightly fuzzy, but just a few minutes ago, he could've sworn the Death Eater they'd encountered was a particularly large black dog.

But as Snape opened the door and shoved Harry out, Harry squinted in the sunlight that he hadn't seen for days, wavered and then collapsed unexpectedly, unconscious before he had hit the ground.

"I don't understand—he still has his magic, and your potion was supposedly infallible—"

Harry opened his eyes, discovering himself to be in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, under hot stuffy covers in a darker corner of the room. His mind feeling more acute than ever, Harry propped himself up on his elbows and watched the shadows of Madame Pomfrey, Professor Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Minerva McGonagall in a heated discussion.

"Maybe Potter just wasn't affected—he is the Boy-Who-Lived, after all."

"The potion has nothing to do with magic ability," Snape replied, then smirked. "Not that Potter has any, of course. Whether I was to give it to Neville or Dumbledore, two wizards of clearly unequal ability, the potion would affect them in the same way."

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, "it has to do with the prophecy. Maybe fate intervened."

"I doubt it." Snape scoffed.

"Then what do you suggest, Severus?"

Harry's arms were getting sore; he shifted his weight, wincing as the bed squeaked unexpectedly. Snape didn't answer McGonagall; instead, he swiveled around to glare at Harry, his cloak billowing around him like a dark cloud.

"Eavesdropping, Potter?"

"When people are talking about me, yes," Harry answered, grimacing at his rough voice, which was much deeper than he was used to. Harry blamed it on his still-sore throat, but couldn't shake the feeling that a normal person's voice wouldn't change that much, even with the worst of colds.

"Well, as long as you're awake," said Madame Pomfrey, bustling over to Harry's side. Harry suddenly remembered his Dark Mark, and, feeling ashamed, he hastily attempted to block the grotesque mark from view with a bundle of sheets. He wondered vaguely if Dumbledore saw.

"I've already fixed the worst of it, dear, but you've still got some scarring that I hope to reduce…" Madame Pomfrey sent a scowl towards Snape. "Apparently, some people can't control themselves."

Snape, again, said nothing; he merely swept out of the dungeon, an emotionless mask on his face. Harry watched him go; his thoughts about the man were still muddled. So did the man torture him just for show, or was it because Snape hated him? He knew Ron would agree with the latter while Hermione would most likely agree with the former, but Harry knew both of his friends were irrational when it came to Snape…

"So…" Harry asked with a piqued curiosity. "What, exactly, was the worst of it?"

"Obviously, that nasty cut on your head…you had an alarmingly high fever, a little internal bleeding, several gashes on your chest and back..."

"Poppy, if you please—this can wait." Said Dumbledore, sounding oddly impatient. Of course, Harry thought, he wants me to explain…

Madame Pomfrey glanced at Dumbledore then turned back towards Harry; as soon as Harry saw her eyes flicker towards his arm, Harry instantly knew what the discussion would be about. He suddenly wished he had the ability to sink into his bed, never to be seen again. He was marked by Voldemort…Harry was, whether he wanted to be or not, an official Death Eater.

Harry could recall his dream from after he'd fainted, too; the mere thought of it made Harry shiver, but there was a deep part of him—of Voldemort—that liked it.

Madame Pomfrey had already left while Harry was still lost in his thoughts. Dumbledore pulled up a chair, opened his mouth to speak, but Harry cut across him, blurting out exactly what had been on his mind at the time.

"Every time he relaxes his Occlumency, I can feel bits of him slipping through; his knowledge, his emotions, everything—I can hardly separate my thoughts from his anymore."

He wasn't quite sure why he told Dumbledore this, but the man was very…trustable. Dumbledore seemed to remind him more of a grandfather now rather than powerful figure, mostly due to the fact that Harry now knew the older man was actually fallible, sometimes.

Harry wasn't finished, however; with the combination of the need to say it to someone, anyone, and the need to understand it himself, Harry continued, "When I was asleep, I kept dreaming of killing people, torturing children, when I'm awake, I have this wide repertoire of spells and memories that I'd never had before—I can't recall ever stealing yo-yos, or even having an urge to, and yet that memory is there. What if I can't separate what's me from what's him anymore? Even before I got this," Harry gestured towards his arm, "he's always been lurking in my mind. What if I…?" The unspoken question hung in the air: what if I become like Voldemort?

"The path to darkness, Mr. Potter, is a long and treacherous journey. One does not become evil with a revelation similar to the flicking of a muggle light switch." Dumbledore smiled reassuringly. "He cannot turn you evil, unless it is what you truly want."

"I don't know what I want anymore," Harry replied. "I don't care about fame or fortune or power…"

"But you do care for your friends, Harry, which is something Voldemort has never known."

"No, he never had friends, did he?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, his pale blue eyes piercing into Harry's. "What all did you see?"

"Enough," Harry answered simply, and looked unwilling to explain further than he already had. Harry abruptly changed the subject. "Sir, what are Horcruxes?"

Dumbledore looked momentarily surprised, but adjusted his glasses and peered over at Harry. "When a wizard kills, it literally rips the soul apart—a wizard who knew what a Horcrux was could use this to his advantage and place the piece, or pieces, of his soul into an object—such as a diary."

Harry quickly caught on to the hint Dumbledore threw at him—"Tom Riddle's diary? That was a Horcrux?"

"I'm almost certain that it was. But, Harry, this is a conversation for another time." Dumbledore smiled again. "Once Madame Pomfrey decides you are good and healthy—"

"In another century or two," Harry muttered.

"—you will continue to stay here at Hogwarts. Voldemort is keeping the area where you were captured under constant supervision—it would not be safe to return you to Privet Drive."

"But I thought it was always safe?"

"It is if you want to stay boarded indoors for two months, but I supposed telling you to do so would definitely be unwise…"

Harry silently agreed—staying indoors with the Dursleys at all times was definitely not a prospect he would enjoy enduring.

"There are only a few teachers who stay here during the summer—Hagrid, Professor Sprout, Professor Snape—"

"Why do you trust him?" Asked Harry abruptly.

"I assume you mean Professor Snape?"

"Yeah. He Crucio'ed me and he enjoyed it. And it wasn't required of him to come, he just did."

"He also risked his life to remove you. What he intended, by torturing you in front of another, was to remove any and all suspicions, so that he could remove you with ease. Also, as you and I both know, he does hold grudges—and he had gotten carried away, much to my disappointment. I still trust him, however, and for a very solid reason. I know he would never betray me."

"But why?"

"With your curious nature, I'm sure you'll find out eventually—" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, "but it is not my right to tell you."

Harry sighed, but didn't really mind much. As Dumbledore said, he would find out eventually.

Once Harry was released from the hospital wing, Dumbledore told him, he would have his own room to lounge in until the term started. Harry certainly hoped he could reign in his conflicting feelings before the time came.