Author's Note: Huge thank yous to FreeDaChickens at Perfect Imagination dot co dot uk for the beta. All remaining errors are my own.

4

Perhaps he should have expected nothing to happen. The greyish tinge, he thought, ought to have been enough to alert him that something had changed within the stone.

He sat there and felt nothing: no warmth, no hope, not even regret. The aftermath was numbing.

With a great, shuddering effort, Harry heaved himself up from the ground and dropped the Resurrection Stone into his pocket. Exhaustion caught up with him, and he swayed as he stood. He had to get back to the castle: he had to clean himself up before anybody noticed he was missing. Slowly, he stumbled through the trees, wondering how he was going to manage his first full day of school.

The trek back took twenty minutes but seemed to pass in a blink of an eye. Before Harry knew it, he was tiptoeing back into the dormitory, mindful of his sleeping roommates in dreamt adventures of their own. After depositing his Invisibility Cloak in his trunk, Harry showered quickly and scrubbed away the dirt and the blood. He checked his appearance in the mirror: not too bad, though not particularly good, either. There was nothing to be done about the redness of his eyes, nor the dark circles that were beginning to take form there. He shrugged, pulled on his clothes, and headed down to breakfast.

Harry was on his third cup of coffee by the time Ron and Hermione arrived, bringing with them questions as to where he had been and why he had not waited for them. Harry mumbled something about having woken early and quickly apologized.

'Don't tell me Hermione's got to you,' said Ron, yawning widely. 'You should have heard her earlier. "Oh, I'm just so looking forward to Arithmancy, I could barely sleep at all."'

Harry could not help but smile: from the tone of excitement to the arm movements, Ron's impression had Hermione spot on.

'No shame in that,' his other friend said now, though the blush that rose to her cheeks suggested otherwise. 'I wouldn't expect you two to understand, but it really is fascinating.'

'Gotta be better than Potions, at any rate,' Harry said. He was thinking of his sixth year and the help he had received from a certain Half-Blood Prince. Harry knew he would be on his own now that his book had perished in the fire of the Room of Requirement. If only he had thought to copy down some of the instructions while it was still in his grasp...

'Slughorn's not that bad,' Ron was saying. 'Better him than Sna–'

'What about Transfiguration?' asked Hermione swiftly. 'I've heard Professor McGonagall has split the teaching with Professor Petrova. She'll be taking us – McGonagall, that is. Petrova's got the lower years.'At her words, all three of them looked up at the teacher's table. To their great surprise, Asya Petrova was immersed in conversation with none other than Rubeus Hagrid – and a serious conversation, it seemed. Where Hagrid's expression was one of puzzlement, Petrova looked nothing short of scared: she talked hurriedly with quick shakes of the head, wild hand gestures punctuating her speech.

'Looks ominous,' said Ron, before taking a great bite of toast, chewing loudly.

'S'pose we'll have to visit Hagrid,' put in Harry. 'We ought to anyway.'

The morning post came then, forestalling any further discussion on the subject. Three barn owls swooped low over the trio and deposited three identical bits of parchment in Hermione's cornflakes.

She scrunched her nose as she fished them, dripping, out of her milk. 'They're from Petrova,' she said, 'about our timetables. Here.' And she handed a sodden parchment to each Ron and Harry.

'I've got to see her at four,' said Harry, peering at his own note. 'At least I think that's what it says.' The ink had run, but he could just make out the writing.

'Lunchtime for me. Damn,' said Ron. 'Don't suppose you wanna swap, Harry?'

'I'm sure she'll give you time to eat,' said Hermione, smiling fondly.

They finished their breakfast in amicable silence, and then set off for classes.

Harry had thought that Potions would not be enjoyable. He was absolutely right. The lesson spanned two hours at the end of the day, and he had felt half-dead before it even started.

Slughorn had singled him out no sooner than he'd taken a seat (at the back of the classroom, tucked away in the corner).

'And there's our expert! Don't even know why I'm teaching you, I'm sure Harry would do a better job!'

'Kill me now,' Harry muttered as Ron snickered.

All eyes were on him as the class began collecting the ingredients for the complex Memory Potion they would be brewing. Cursing his lack of foresight to sit next to Hermione, Harry took his place to the left of Ron and started weighing the powdered moonstone as directed by his book. From his position in the corner it was impossible to see what other people were doing, so he carried out the instructions as best he could.

It was not easy: lack of sleep made even the simplest task more difficult than it should have been, and the soporific smells from the bubbling cauldrons made his eyelids droop. Hands shaking, and swaying on his feet, Harry chopped up his ingredients roughly and threw them into his potion. More than once, he forgot whether or not he had added something; each time, he decided he hadn't, knowing that a double dose was likely to do less damage overall.

When Slughorn clapped his hands for them to stop, Harry examined his potion. It was a darker, murkier blue than Ron's beside him, yet still blue – not that this was going to mollify Slughorn, he thought with distress.

The Potions professor was winding his way round the classroom. Harry heard him stop to berate several students along the way ('Oh no, Mr Malfoy, this won't do, this won't do at all'). With every step closer that Slughorn took to him, Harry's panic trebled.

Finally, Slughorn reached their table.

'Very good, Miss Granger! Precisely the forget-me-not colour I was hoping for. Won't you try it, my dear?'

Harry stared at Hermione. His friend was smiling, unconcerned, as she lifted a beaker to her lips and sipped her potion. She frowned.

'I don't feel any different,' she said, disappointed.

'Just you wait! You'll have no problems remembering details for your write-up tonight, girl.' Slughorn winked. 'You can thank me later.'

It was Ron's turn now, but Slughorn barely looked at his concoction, declaring it 'passable'. He moved over to Harry, his grin of anticipation fading as he bent over the cauldron.

'Ah.' Slughorn lifted a ladle of the potion and let it slop back down with a splatter. Disappointment was etched across his features. 'A few too many Billywig stingers, do you think?'

Harry did not know what possessed him to do it. He found himself speaking before his brain could tell him to stop.

'That was intentional,' he was saying. 'I've made Memory Charms before, but they're never strong enough.'

'Oh! Oho, ho! Built up a resistance, have we?'

Harry nodded. He gestured towards the dirty liquid in his cauldron. 'It's not pretty to look at,' he heard himself say, 'but it ought to do the job.'

'Well, if our star potion maker says so, who am I to disagree? Very clever to adjust the draught according to preference. Ten points to Gryffindor, I say. Well, Harry – drink up!'

He had no other option: the whole class had turned to face him as he scooped a glassful of the liquid and held it up. Light glinted off the beaker; the potion looked revolting, but surely it could not be lethal, surely Slughorn would know if it were...

There was nothing for it. Ignoring a murderous look from Hermione, and smiling a rather strained smile, Harry lifted his potion in cheers and knocked it back.

At first, nothing happened. Harry got through the rest of the lesson feeling no better or worse than he had earlier, and as he packed away his things, he wondered if he might have got away with it. Relief surged through him when he stepped out of the classroom and sped down the Hall. The day was nearly over: all he had to do was see Professor Petrova, and then he could head straight back to Gryffindor Tower and go to sleep. He could always catch up on homework during study periods tomorrow.

It was in a lighter mood that he knocked on the door of Petrova's office, which sat adjacent to the Transfiguration classroom.

'Enter!' she said.

Harry opened the door and looked around as he went inside. Petrova's office was small and complicated, a mismatch of different styles that clashed horribly. It seemed to have been designed by somebody who had absolutely no idea what an office was supposed to look like: the chairs were at all angles, the lighting was dark green, and the bookcases appeared to be made from black Styrofoam.

Harry took a seat in a clear, Perspex chair on the other side of Professor Petrova's marble desk. It was extraordinarily uncomfortable.

'Mr Potter, this shouldn't take long.' Petrova did not look up from the parchment on which she was writing. 'You're to repeat the whole year, I understand? No early exams or other potential problems?'

Harry shook his head before remembering, 'Oh! I was thinking about playing Quidditch, but that won't get in the way, I wouldn't have thought.'

'Quidditch?' And now Petrova did look up. 'I understand you're a competent player. You were captain in your sixth year, weren't you?' Her eyes were narrowed.

'Yeah, I mean, obviously it depends on the seventh years –'

'Hm. From what I gather, they'd be happy to have you on the team. Do you think that's a fair assumption?'

'Er – yeah,' said Harry.

'But after all, you've been Seeker since your first year, is this correct?' She did not wait for an answer. 'Whereas some of the others, however talented, haven't been given much of a chance?'

'...I suppose not,' said Harry. He hid a yawn behind the back of his hand.

'Mr Potter, it is your decision,' continued Petrova. 'You may apply for Seeker – for captain – if you wish. Certainly nobody will stop you. Doubtless, many of your Housemates would be glad to have you on the team...'

Harry had stopped listening; his attention had wandered to the window, which overlooked three of the goalposts from the Quidditch pitch. They were not what caught his interest: there was something else out there, something large and black and dancing in the wind...

He was in a corridor, huddled over, trapped under the Invisibility Cloak with Luna. Scenes flashed before his eyes: a fight between Snape and McGonagall, fire blasting from her wand tip; a large snake hissing as it slithered across the polished floor ... twenty flying daggers piercing a suit of armour ... and then, outside the window, that black shape swooping like a bat in the night sky...

He was outside the shack, crouched all small and hidden, unable to take his eyes away. Nagini reared, and then plunged; a loud crack reverberated round the room as the blood splattered. The high, cold, commanding Kill! still echoed in Harry's ears.

Snape slumped sideways, his mouth open, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

Harry surged and grasped at his robes while Snape's fingers clung to his own neck. He was trying to stem the blood flow, but the blood flowed faster.

Take it, Snape was rasping.

Memories rushed from him, swirling from eyes and ears.

Take it ... take it...

'...Mr Potter? Mr Potter, did you hear what I just said?'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry, blinking to clear his clouded vision. He was in the office in front of Petrova. His head throbbed as if someone had taken a bat to it. He was going to vomit.

'I've got to go.'

Petrova was calling after him as he stumbled out of her office, lurching wildly. He swallowed, and concentrated on breathing, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other without crumpling to the floor.

The corridor swayed and rocked as he staggered onwards, the memories he had revisited still engraved on his mind: Snape under Nagini, mouth open in a terrible grimace; the metallic stink of blood as it poured from gaping wounds; the crunch of bone as his neck shattered; the sounds of his own screaming ringing in his ears...

The reek of death itself engulfing his senses, clawing at him, intent on dragging him into the abyss...

'Harry! Harry, what's the matter?'

The fear, the fear and the stench, the blood and the screaming and the vomit, the vomit all over his shoes, all over the floor.

'Oh, God, get him in here. Excalibur's the password!'

The struggle, a helpless struggle, a helpless plea, and then the memories pouring forth from cold black eyes...

'Sit down, you have to sit down, Harry!'

'I'm going to be sick.'

'Again? Someone get a basin!'

Not Snape's voice. Not Voldemort's, either.

'Hermione?' said Harry.

'Oh, Harry, thank God, thank God you're all right.'

The scene shifted. Hermione came into view, hair tangled, face ashen.

Harry swallowed down the sick that rose from his stomach. He shut his eyes.

'Where are we?' It came out as a hoarse, gravely whisper.

'The common room. I saw you outside, you... I need to get you to Pomfrey.'

Deep breath. 'I'm okay.'

'You're not okay, Harry –'

'It was the Memory Potion. M'okay now, I promise. It's fine. It's wearing off.'

'Well ... if you're sure...'

'I'm sure. It's wearing off.'

Harry opened his eyes slowly. The surroundings of Gryffindor Tower swam into and out of focus, reds and golds spinning and merging, then separating at leisurely pace. Hermione, all concern, was sitting very close: her head was tilted and Harry could feel her breathing.

'I'm gonna ... I'm gonna go sleep it off,' managed Harry. He pushed himself up.

'Wait,' said Hermione. She was staring at him as though searching for an answer. 'You're certain – you're certain it's just the potion?'

'What?'

Instinctively, Harry's hand came to rest over his pocket. Over the Resurrection Stone that Hermione could not possibly know about. The Resurrection Stone that did not even work any longer.

'Of course it was the potion.' Harry rubbed his forehead. 'Look, if it still feels weird tomorrow, I'll get an antidote from Pomfrey, all right?'

Hermione did not answer for a moment. She opened her mouth in hesitation, then closed it, and gave a short nod.

'I'll see you in the morning,' Harry muttered.

He pushed through gawking crowds to the spiral stairway and up to the dormitory, counting his steps in an effort to keep his mind free from thought. Without distractions now, he noticed the smell of the sick and the taste in his mouth from vomiting. After thirty-four steps, he reached the bathroom, where he cleaned his teeth and stepped under the shower.

It was only five o'clock, but even after washing he felt like he couldn't stay awake for a moment longer. He pulled on his pyjamas and went straight to bed, wet hair still dripping.

Harry's dreams that night followed a confused, labyrinthine path of past realism intertwined with the impossible. First, he was in the Shrieking Shack, watching as the scene of Snape's demise replayed itself as if looped on a projector ... and the surroundings blurred then cleared, and he was not in the shack after all, but standing outside it ... and now Snape was alive, seeming different, looking younger, perhaps, but in some way just the same as he always was.

It was Snape, all right, with his curly brown hair and those red velvet robes that swept right down to long-toed buckled shoes – inappropriate in this weather, providing little defence against the inch-thick coating of snow that covered the grounds.

Harry plodded after the professor, apprehension building with every step he took: they were so close now, though to what, he could not quite remember ... and as he walked, the fear and excitement he felt told him that soon everything would become clear.

On they trod, crunching through the snow as the ground sloped steeply upwards; soon, they had scaled the top of the hill and were making their way down the other side. Snape's pace increased, and Harry had to jog to keep up. Twice, he stumbled. He called out for Snape to slow down, but the professor gave no answer.

A magpie flew past overhead to settle on the branches of an oak tree over to the right of him. It struck Harry as a portent of something bad – something unnatural. He had never liked magpies; they seemed to him in some way connected to witchcraft. The work of the devil.

He patted his sword which hung from his belt, though its touch did nothing to reassure him. The wind picked up; it chilled him to the bone.

Harry pulled his own cloak tightly around him as the magpie cawed – an awful, evil sound which made him shudder. It warned of the terrors at the end of this path. He knew that no good could come of his journey.

Harry longed to turn back, but the tug of an invisible cord seemed to pull him on further. The professor was so far ahead now that Harry wondered if he would ever catch up – when, without warning, Snape stopped. He sunk to his knees, began to dig through the snow with his hands. Something must be buried there.

Closing his mind to his deep sense of foreboding, Harry ran onwards. Each step took enormous effort; it was as if he were wading through mud, as if the very air around him were thicker.

When he reached Snape, the professor stood. He held in his hands a strange object: it looked a little like a silver jewellery box, though something about it seemed sinister. Harry leant forwards to get a closer look, but the professor quickly obscured it from his view. He turned to Harry with a gleam of fervour and spoke with urgency.

'Remember this, Harry. Remember it.'

Then he said four letters, and repeated them, and as he did so, his voice grew louder. The four letters echoed in Harry's ears, and in his bones, and in the wind. They meant nothing to him. He knew that they were supposed to mean everything.

He woke immediately and, half-asleep, reached for quill and ink to scrawl them onto a piece of parchment. Then he fell back into a light dream in which he flew after Snitches.

It would not be until morning that he would look at the parchment and puzzle over the four letters. By then, the details of his dream would have faded so that only those letters remained:

MDIU.