A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! Click the link to my forums on my profile page, I have answered many of your questions there!

0o0

The Sort of Leader

Dinner that night was a quiet affair.

The moment they had returned to the lab, Snape had told Potter that it was enough for the day, that he should go and do whatever heroes in mortal peril did for the evening. They would meet again tomorrow at six o'clock.

"Yes, Professor," Potter had answered with an amused smile. "Dinner in about an hour?"

"I don't need dinner, Potter," Snape had grumbled, wanting to be nothing but alone and in peace. "And I don't want you to… Oh, go away!"

And away he went. When Snape crossed the living room to reach the stairs, he heard him bustling in the kitchen. A man with no more than two weeks left of his life, a man who had just re-met his greatest foe, and he was preparing dinner for his most hated Professor!

Though, for the looks at it, Snape had to compete with Dumbledore for this title.

That thought really gave him the creeps.

But he couldn't chase the thought away while he took a shower and changed clothes in his room that was pleasant and well furnished, in a wild mixture of muggle and magic like the floor below.

Snape had to admit that he preferred his bathroom the muggle way. The talking mirrors had always made him aggressive.

But when he looked into the silent muggle equivalent, all he saw was a bearded figure, crouching behind a column, ready to enter the scene when the time was right.

"What were you waiting for, Albus," Snape whispered, touching the mirror with a slender, calloused hand. "And why didn't you tell me?"

For that was what had shocked him the most, down in the chamber of Potter's memories. He had discussed the events of that night with Albus for hours on end, had studied the information Dumbledore had extracted from Potter, had tired himself over the possible implications of Voldemort's reappearance and defeat.

And all the time, Albus had lied to him, telling him that he had rushed to Potter the moment he had reached the chamber, that all he had seen was a heap of dust and a vanishing spirit. And a collapsing Potter. Had lied to him.

It was on the stairs, on the way back to the living room, that Snape finally realized what had unhinged him so.

The balance had been disturbed. Badly.

Snape had always seen himself as a creature of shadows, a twilight man, standing between two worlds, that of the darkness and its master, Lord Voldemort, and that of the light and its wise, twinkling guardian, Albus Dumbledore.

Albus. The white.

But he wasn't so white anymore. Snape had always known that Albus was a powerful wizard, and willing to unleash these powers should it be necessary. He wasn't so naïve to believe that a wizard in Albus' position could do without manipulation, deception and pulling strings. But he had always thought that Albus was doing these things only hesitatingly, that he thought twice whether he lied to someone or controlled their lives from afar. That he would never sacrifice a person or cause harm when there was any, any other way at all.

Now it seemed that he had been wrong in that, quite spectacularly, just as he had been wrong in so many things.

Albus had chosen to wait in the shadows while the boy had suffered, he had let Potter fight against a foe too mighty to be vanquished by a mere child, and had lied about it afterwards, even to his most trusted companions. That Potter had survived, and had returned from the fight with more strength, was a lucky outcome, but it didn't change or justify Albus' behaviour.

Snape scowled, but it seemed that these thought were not banished as easily as noisy students. They clung to him, without mercy, tainting the very air he breathed.

If Albus Dumbledore himself had fallen into the shadows, where was he standing now? What was his role in a game so changed? Where did his loyalties lie, now that the original battle had ended and good and evil were mingling? What were his duties? And how to meet Albus again with this knowledge, how to look into his eyes and talk to him as if nothing had changed?

He heard Potter call that dinner was ready and crossed into the kitchen, only to be greeted by an assault of looks and smells that made his mouth water. Obviously, Potter had fixed his mind on curry this evening.

Next to his plate, he found a letter. Albus, He cursed inwardly. Perfect timing again.

He took his place and opened the envelope, forcing himself to keep his self control, while Potter filled his plate with the Indian dish.

"Greetings from the Headmaster," He finally said and offered the open letter to Potter, who ignored it. Snape snorted, folded the parchment and put it on the table between them. "He wants us to come to Hogwarts tomorrow, to discuss your 'progress'."

Potter just shrugged. If he had noticed the sarcastic undertones of the last word, he chose to ignore it. "Fine with me, Professor. Perhaps at midday so that we can work on another memory before we leave? Second and third year should be quite tiring, so we might be glad to have part of the day off."

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine with you," He whispered, then straightened himself and took his fork. "I seem to recall that you were quite hesitant last time you were confronted with Hogwarts," He said mildly and began to eat. The curry was excellent, and he nodded with appreciation. "Is there reasoning behind your changed attitude?"

"I had an idea that needs to be cross-checked," Potter answered. "And I have to say my goodbyes to some people. Last time I didn't have the chance to do it properly, but it must be done, and soon. I weaken, and I don't know how long I will have the strength to do more than the most necessary."

The offhanded way in which the man spoke of his state still unnerved Snape. For a moment, he wondered how Potter would have dealt with the advancing illness on his own, had not Snape been forced to come to the rescue, and, as it seemed to happen more often to him these days, he spoke before he could check himself.

"How did you plan to survive on your own originally, weak like that?"

Potter just shrugged. "Oh, I would have managed somehow. And Ayda checks for me every other week. She'd have probably helped me finishing this before it got too bad."

Snape went cold inside. "I really hope this doesn't mean what I think it does, Potter, or I won't let that druid woman near you ever again."

Potter grinned. "Careful Professor, or I could get the impression you are as protective towards me as Shadow. Hoping seems the better alternative to me."

Slowly, Snape let his fork sink to his plate. For the first time since they had entered the Firechamber in the pensieve today, he looked at Potter, or rather examined him critically.

Although his movements still seemed swift and elegant, there was a greyish tinge to his skin, and his eyes were bloodshot in a way that reminded Snape of drunkards or the very ill.

Potter was hiding it well, he realized, but he was weakening, and quickly. He was most likely in continual pain by now, and Snape would have been surprised if even the serene Potter slept well under the constant pressure of his worst memories.

Yet for all his obvious needs, Potter didn't rest. Instead, he prepared dinner or tidied the house. The muggle way, Snape understood, because he was probably worried that even the slightest use of magic would bring on another attack.

And his friends, or those he called his friends, weren't here with him. They had left him to the mercy of an unwilling old teacher, generally known for his sharp tongue. If Snape had any choice, he would certainly spent his last weeks a better way, and he seriously wondered for the first time why Potter hadn't chosen another place, and person, for dying. Or for living, now that he thought about this.

"I wonder why you are doing this to yourself, Potter."

"What, Professor?" The younger man had barely touched his meal, Snape saw, and raised his eyebrow in silent request. He was delighted when Potter took up his fork again, and, hesitatingly started eating again. It seemed that his teacher attitude was still good for something after all. If only for making the Man Who Would Die eat his dinner.

"Living alone, without anyone near you that knows about your true identity," He answered with short delay. "Without any nearer relationship, I couldn't help noticing."

"I have my friends," Potter answered simply. "They are quite enough for me."

Snape snorted. "A centuries-old vampire and a druidic hag. Not the sorts of friends people your age have, Potter. You are living alone, and from the lack of irate females storming your house, I don't believe that you have changed your habits much over the last month. Unless you have a tragic, unrequited love hidden away somewhere, of course. Why not live with the druids?"

"May I ask where exactly this interrogation is going, Professor?" Potter inquired mildly. "You didn't seem too interested in my private life before."

As if he was now, Snape snorted inwardly. But if the silence grew to heavy, the thoughts would return, and with them all the old, unanswered questions about his past and his future, those questions that had returned this afternoon with full force.

"I'm trying hard not to ask you about Dumbledore here, Potter," Snape confessed, wondering at the same time why the hell he had admitted that. "So indulge me, will you?"

Potter smiled understandingly, and it itched Snape to spit out some degrading remark, but he found that he couldn't. He was still thinking about Dumbledore and the coordinates of his life that had fallen into chaos this evening.

"Being among too many people makes me nervous," Potter told him. "And there were a few "nearer relationships", as you call them. Among the druids and elsewhere. But living with one of them would be rather awkward. I'm a bit too high in their hierarchy to let that work."

If Dumbledore had lied to him about that night and the Philosopher's Stone, Snape was wondering while listening with half an ear, what else hadn't he told Snape? What else had been hidden in the shadows? And how could he be sure that he hadn't been manipulated, like Potter?

Oh, for god's sake, Snape, get a grip on yourself!

"What do you mean by hierarchy?" He asked absently, if only to quiet the voices in his mind. "You are not even a druid, Potter, how can you be included in their hierarchy, for goodness sake?"

Potter shrugged again. Snape thought about unsocketing his arms.

"Well, technically, I am a druid. It is a prerequisite of my position, and thus…"

"You are a wizard, Potter. They hate wizards… Wait. What do you mean when you say position?"

He didn't want to hear it, really. He had seen enough of that special Potter madness over the last days. Whatever Potter touched seemed to turn into total chaos, the annihilation of all order, that somehow nevertheless always ended in harmony and general happiness.

Snape had always hated tales like that. And he wasn't going to start liking them just because he had stumbled into the middle of one.

But at least his mind had been taken off Dumbledore.

Potter cringed again, the same way he had cringed when he had told Snape about the existence of those bloody Druids.

He didn't want to hear it. Really.

"Potter?"

"Well I am… kind of… you know…" Potter stammered, only to break off in mid-sentence. "Do you know the story of Percival and the Grail?" He suddenly asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Snape sighed. Of course. Handing him something that would even closely resemble understandable information just wasn't Potter. He always had to do it the hard way.

"I'm afraid I will soon. But make it short, will you?"

"Well, Percival was a medieval knight, and one day, he stumbled onto an ill man, sitting in a fisher boat on a lake. Percival asked him where he might spend the night, and the ill man directed him towards a castle…"

Snape groaned, loudly and in obvious frustration, and the small wonder happened. Potter hurried up.

"Anyway, Percival had just one job: Ask the ill man, who was in fact the king, what was wrong with him. If he had done that, all would have been fine, and Percival would have become king and guardian of the Holy Grail. Only he didn't ask, and was kicked out of the castle the next morning."

Silence. Snape waited, but somehow he knew already that no explanation would come.

"Do humble yourself so far as to enlighten me," He finally said, his silky voice expressing his irritation only too well.

"Well, with me it was basically the same, only the other way round."

Silence.

"Yes."

Potter cringed again. "I… sort of… became their leader."

If Potter had expected him to shout again, or faint in shock, he was mistaken. Of course Snape wanted to do all this, quite badly, actually. But he was Snape, stony faced spy for more than ten years, and the hard lessons with the Dark Lord himself had paid off.

"Fascinating," Was all he said. "And how did you manage that? Ride in on a flying horse and challenge their Leader to a duel?"

"Well," Potter cringed again and Snape had to stop himself from hitting the younger man. "A flying horse wasn't involved, though the vampires had quite a good breed of Thestrals – Hagrid would have loved to see that…"

"Potter."

"Yes, well," Potter seemed to have realized that he was babbling again. Unfortunately, this wasn't stopping him from babbling on. "Shadow asked me to help them in their conflict with the druids. I found out later that it was just meant as some kind of strange therapy for me, but at the time I took it seriously. They had been tolerating me for months, and I was quite… eager… to help them. So I sought and found Ayda, who was already the Leader of the druids, and asked her what it would take them to stop their war against the vampires."

Potter stopped, and then, seeing the absolute lack of expression on his former Professor's face, decided quite incorrectly that a longer explanation was in order.

"You see, a vampire – a new one, they are always too eager to prove themselves – had been dumb enough to kill a druid, and that meant war. Shadow agreed to enforce the safety of all druids from vampires, but to Ayda that wasn't enough. The druids are rather… pragmatic, and since they had already gathered their army, they decided to get rid of the vampires forever."

"So I asked Ayda what would stop their fight against the vampires," Potter continued his original storyline after a moment of confusion, and Snape had to fight the sudden urge to roll his eyes back into his skull. "And Ayda just said: 'Duel me'. So I did. And I won."

Potter sighed, "Problem was, nobody had told me before hand that winning against their leader would automatically make me the new leader. They have this weird system, a mixture of democracy and monarchy – every third month, the current leader can be challenged to duel, and whoever wins that duel is the new leader. And there I was," He shrugged again, grinning sheepishly. "All I wanted was them to stop killing vampires. What I actually got was the command of their army and a few other things."

"A few other things."

"Yes."

Snape waited for more than a minute. He even raised a brow to prompt some further explanation.

But the only thing Potter offered, after he had stood up and removed the empty plates, were poppy-seed muffins.

They were irritatingly good.

So much for the further use of the teacher attitude.

After dinner, Potter buried himself behind a large tome in the living room. There was no title imprinted on the leather binding, but it looked magical to Snape.

He sent a short answer to Dumbledore… Albus… telling him that they would arrive sometime around noon. Then he resumed staring into space, thinking about the thing that would later become Voldemort, about an old wizard in the shadows and a small boy, too young to understand what was done to him.

The older counterpart of that child raised him some time later from his thoughts with wishes for a good night.

"I'd better get as much sleep as I can," He told his former Professor. "Tomorrow will be… difficult."

When no answer came, he smiled again that soft, understanding smile of his, and turned around to leave.

„Potter," Snape called out to the retreating form, and Potter turned back to him, his hand already on the railing. „Voldemort. What made you stop hating him? What happened there, down in his dungeons?"

Potter simply smiled, all traces of exhaustion and illness fading from his face. It was the smile of a child on Christmas Eve, the smile of a man who was holding his son for the first time.

"I realized that, deep down, Voldemort was nothing but a poor, twisted boy that had never known a home. I discovered Tom Riddle. A human being, so much like me, whom I couldn't hate. I understood him too well. So I stopped hating him."

Potter smiled again, but something in the way he bared his teeth made Snape back away, raising one hand instinctively to where his wand rested. It was the smile of a predator, of a dark angel.

"And then I killed him. You see, hate isn't necessary to destroy a person. It is quite often in the way," Potter simply said. "Goodnight, Professor. Sweet dreams to you."

0o0o0o0

Review!