A/N: Thanks to all of you for the reviews and especially your patience. The 'Lioness' is nearly finished, and I hope I'll be able to concentrate on this story once the other's done and progress way faster than now.

Just a little warning before this chapter starts: It's graphic. Really graphic. And dark, and violent, and quite disturbing. So if you're put off by violence and its graphic description, please do not read this. I'm serious.

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The Ceremony of Innocence

"I want to apologize," Potter said abruptly while the mists of the pensieve still surrounded them. "What you're going to see… it's awful. I shouldn't force this upon you."

"Another scene with me as protagonist?" Snape asked curtly. He had thought that they had come to an understanding of a sort, although his feelings were still too much in turmoil to evaluate even his own state of mind. But Potter seemed uneasy, and in the past week, that had only been the case when something utterly unexpected had awaited Snape, something fit to turn his world upside down and change his perspective forever.

He didn't think he was ready yet for another revelation of that kind. Or would ever be.

"No," Potter answered, clearly unhappy. "It's just… I'm not very proud of that part of my life. I don't want to relive it again and I don't want you to…" He trailed off, clearly not sure what to say, but for once Snape could read his expression easily.

Potter was worried how Snape would react to this memory. That much was true. But not because of what Snape had done or thought. Potter was… ashamed?

Snape frowned. That couldn't be right. Potter the saint, the martyr, always the victim of other, bigger forces outside of his control, was feeling ashamed of something? And not in the my-god-that-was-embarrassing sort of way, either. He was genuinely afraid Snape would think badly of him after seeing whatever was to come.

Now, Snape was truly curious.

It wasn't with glee that he turned around to survey the landscape of this new memory, rather with an ambiguous feeling of satisfaction and relief.

They were standing in a barren field, the grey sky pressing down on them and lending gloom to their otherwise harmless surroundings. No one seemed to be close, and Snape wondered whether the real memory hadn't started yet, but Potter pointed towards a slight elevation of the otherwise even ground.

"Behind it," He said, then he sat down on the ground and closed his eyes. Snape couldn't tell whether from exhaustion or because he simply refused to acknowledge this memory, but he had to admit that Potter's behaviour was starting to worry him.

Emotional trauma was a stressful to a patient as physical one, and Potter did not need another episode right now. The curve of his shoulders and the grey colour of his face told Snape all too clearly that Potter was barely hanging on as it was. A seizure could end this before any of them was prepared, and although Snape had agreed to do it in theory, he did not want to destroy Potter's soul.

"Are you alright?" He asked, earning a half hearted nod from his patient.

"I just…" Potter began, then shook his head, lost for words. That had never happened to Potter before, either.

Snape grunted to hide his growing worry and walked over to the elevation with large, steady steps. As irritating as Potter's serenity had been to him at the beginning, now he wanted it back. Quite badly.

A talking, joking Potter might be getting on his nerves, but he was easy to judge and interpret. This Potter tried hard to tune out the world, retreating deeply into himself, and Snape didn't quite know how to reach him. He didn't even know if it would be the right thing to do, or if Potter knew best how to get through this situation whole.

Then he shrugged. He had all the data he could gather at the moment, so there was no use in wondering and theorizing. Better to keep a close eye on the memory and an even closer eye on Potter himself.

With that thought, he stepped onto the elevation and looked across the field.

It took him a moment to realize that he had to lower his gaze, but then he saw three figures, huddled in a trench someone had dug behind the wall of rocks and earth. Circling the trench, he stepped closer until he could recognize individual faces. Then he sighed.

Potter, Dawlish and Burgens.

But what were they doing here, in the middle of nothing? More importantly, what was Potter doing here? From the air temperature and the sparse vegetation around them, Snape judged the time to be late autumn, and although his limited view of Potter didn't allow a close examination, Snape didn't think he was much older than in the last memory he had seen.

The middle of the school year, then. Approaching evening. And yet Potter was outside the safe walls of Hogwarts, in a region totally unknown to Snape, accompanied by two Order members.

Snape turned around, wondering whether to demand an explanation from his Potter, but one look at the small figure sitting cross-legged in the middle of the field convinced him otherwise. Potter was busy dealing with his own demons. Snape's questions could only agitate him further.

"So, how's your training going then, Potter?" Dawlish asked, obviously trying to break the uncomfortable silence between the three. "Snape whipping you around much?"

Potter nodded. "He, and Moody, and McGonagall," He answered curtly, without even bothering to look at the older man.

Snape, too, nodded. So Potter had finally stopped licking every hand that tried to pet him. That was something at least.

"I'm surprised Dumbledore let you out for this," Burgens now tried, and in the blink of an eye Potter's muscles had tightened until he was thrumming with tension.

"You mean after what happened the last time?" He demanded angrily, "Because I really don't…"

"No, Potter, that's not what I meant," Burgens tried to soothe the irate teenager, sending a cautious glance towards his partner.

Snape winced in sympathy. What a pleasant prospect – to be caught on guard duty with a moody teenager that interpreted every word as an attack. In comparison, he really had it easy with the present-day-Potter. But that still didn't answer the question why Potter was here at all.

"You don't have to worry," Dawlish now tried, obviously mistaking the reason for Potter's violent reaction. "This is just a scouting mission, just a few reported Death Eater sightings in the area, probably nothing to it. We'll lie low for a few hours, have a look around, and then it's back in the castle for you. No reason to be frightened."

Potter snorted. "Yeah," He whispered, "No reason at all."

Again, Burgens caught Dawlish's eye, and the silent communication between them confirmed to Snape what he had already known about the pair of aurors – they had been partners for a very long time. If he remembered correctly, they had even entered the Order together.

"I'm going to have a look around, see if I can find anything," Burgens declared, his forced casualness all too obvious to Snape. From the way his shoulders tightened, Potter seemed to have heard it, too. But he kept his face in the shadows, averted from the Order members, and gave no reaction at all.

Dawlish and Burgens nodded to each other, then the latter was gone, vanishing into the bushes with barely a sound. Snape raised a brow in silent respect. If the Headmaster truly wanted Potter to learn stealth and surveillance, he hardly could have chosen a better pair to teach him.

Stop buying into his logic, he then told himself firmly and shook his head, as if to banish Dumbledore's thoughts from it, He shouldn't have learned this sort of thing at all at his age. It's outrageous! Not to mention against every school legislation ever made.

"Look, Potter," Dawlish now said, his face softening somewhat. "I've got a boy your age at home, and I know that you've gotten the hard deal. It can't be easy to have that pressure put on your shoulders."

Potter stirred slightly, his face still hidden in the shadows. When he answered, his voice was harsh and very cold.

"Don't," He said.

"Don't what?" Dawlish asked, honestly confused. Snape could understand him all too well. No normal teenager son could prepare one for the madness that was Potter.

"Don't try and get close to me. If you do, you'll die, just like all the others."

Dawlish's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a hissing breath. Again, Snape could sympathize. That wasn't what you expected a rebellious teenager to say, not even one with Potter's history. And what hurt most weren't the words themselves. It was the way he spoke them – tired, resigned, and utterly convinced. Like a lesson he had learned the hard way.

"That's nonsense, Potter," Dawlish finally said, the argument weak against Potter's conviction. "This is not your fault."

Potter snorted, but there was no amusement in his face as he turned towards the auror.

"Remus said so, too," He answered without inflection. "About ten minutes before he died."

Dawlish shook his head, slightly overwhelmed by this reply. He opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden voice, high and ghastly and all too familiar, stopped him in his tracks.

"Awww," She purred, "Is baby Potter still whining about all the bad things in the world?"

Snape could see his own shock mirrored on Dawlish's and Potter's face, and before he could think, his wand was out and aimed straight at the intruder.

At Bellatrix Lestrange.

Only then did he realize that he was helpless in this plane, that he could neither help nor defend. Potter and the auror were alone.

And then he remembered, with a sinking feeling, that Dawlish and Burgens had died sometime in the autumn of '97.

"Potter," Dawlish shouted, already up and running away from the enemy that had suddenly appeared among them, "Run! Apparate away!"

"Oh, but he can't, can you, little Potter-baby?" Bellatrix asked, crazy delight dancing in her eyes, "He doesn't know how to do it yet, the little pumpkin!"

Potter's hand darted to his neck, where the emergeny-portkey would be hanging on a chain if procedures had been executed correctly, but Lestrange was quicker.

"I'll take that, thank you very much," She said sharply, and a flick of her wand had the portkey soaring out of Potter's hands, towards her.

"Hmm, I wonder where this will take me?" She mused, blocking and returning Dawlish's reducto absently. "Perhaps into your school, where all of your little friends are waiting for you with tea and cake?"

She bared her teeth, licked the tips of her canines in a gesture that was both frightening and obscene.

"I think I'd like that," She decided, blocking another attack spell and answering with a binding spell that had Dawlish twitching helplessly on the ground. "Tea and cake, always my favourites. Oh, and all the sweet little boys and girls, just waiting to play…Crucio!"

Dawlish screamed as the red light enveloped him and his limbs began to dance in the ghastly rhythm of the spell.

"Oh, he likes that, doesn't he?" Bellatrix giggled, and the light intensified, "Always the quiet ones, they say."

She flicked her wand again and the spell ended, leaving Dawlish trembling on the ground.

"How would you like to dance for me, Potty?" Bellatrix asked, and her eyes darkened in expectation.

Snape took a deep breath, knowing well what her expression meant. He had seen her face like this more times than he could count. It was the excitement of the kill.

"All your limbs twitching to my music, and your sweet little screams, just for me?" She whispered, her lips wet and dark. "Would you like that, baby Potter?"

She seemed to have forgotten about Dawlish, focusing instead on the bigger prey. But that had been Bellatrix's one flaw right from the start, even before she had gone as mad as a sadistic hatter – she fought and killed for joy, and though she was one of the most dangerous fighters Snape had ever known, she was unable to plan or control herself.

Snape glanced at Potter, who was lay pressed against the ground by a spell, his face rigid and white. But not afraid, not the slightest bit afraid, and as Snape saw his green eyes darken to the colour of the killing curse, he really began to worry.

He made it out alive, He thought franticly. I know that. He made it out alive.

"Don't you want to talk to me, little Harry?" Bellatrix now asked, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Don't you like me any more? Are you angry with me?"

She giggled again, and raised her wand. "Let's see how angry we can make you, shall we? Crucio!"

This time, the light was a dark red so intense that it illuminated the night around them, and Snape understood that Bellatrix hated the boy, hated all that he stood for. Hurting was a pleasure to her, and she had liked hurting Dawlish, but torturing Potter had to be a personal triumph.

His worry deepened.

He watched Potter twitch and writhe on the ground, more than once convinced that he was witnessing the beginning of his illness, but there were none of the other signs, just the horrible, uncoordinated movement of his limbs.

"Yes, Potter, dance for me!" Bellatrix howled in delight, "Scream for your life, my little nightingale!"

But Potter didn't scream, and he didn't break. Through the endless minutes that Bellatrix kept the curse on him, he kept his eyes on her, fixing her with a look of rage and hate. Snape could see the line of his jaw, telling him that Potter bit his teeth as hard as he could, and the blood trickling from his nose, and he was once more surprised by Potter's sheer strength of will.

But even Potter couldn't keep this up much longer.

And then, when Snape was sure they had reached the breaking point, a pale blue light slammed into Bellatrix' side from the left. She gasped in pain and sheer outrage.

"Avada Kedavra," She screeched and Dawlish, brave stubborn Dawlish, slumped to the ground, wand still in his lifeless hand.

It seemed that Potter had been right again.

Snape turned back to his charge and saw the guilt of yet another death descend on his shoulders. But he also saw that the brief respite had given him strength. Slowly, swaying dangerously, he stood up, half supported by one of the bushes.

He drew his wand and fired off a reducto, only to be blocked easily by Bellatrix, who cackled with glee when she saw her prey back on his feet.

"Ready for another round, little Harry?" She asked, and a mere flicker of her wrist had Potter disarmed and his wand in her hand. She examined it critically, then stowed it away in the pocket of her robe. Even she knew that the Dark Lord would want this price for himself.

"Kill me then," Potter shouted, helpless without his wand and still shivering from the effects of the Cruciatus. "That's what you want, isn't it? End it, Lestrange!"

"No itsy-bitsy Potter, that's not what I want," Bellatrix purred, obviously amused, "What I want is to destroy you from inside out, to see you crawl on the ground before me and beg me for death," She licked her lips, as if she could already taste his defeat.

"First, I'll take you to my Lord, bound and housebroken like a good little puppy," Again, that terrible, mad giggle.

"Then, I'll kill your friends, one after the other, starting with that stupid redhead and the dirty mudblood."

All colour drained from Potter's face, and he gave a strangled sound of horror.

"You can't," He whispered, too shocked to be defiant, "Hogwarts is safe…"

"That old pile of stones, keep us out?" Bellatrix mocked, her eyes widening dramatically. "Oh, we could kill them in a heartbeat! I could creep into the Gryffindor rooms at night and rip your little mudblood's heart out before she even woke up. Or I could take her to my master, and he would feed her to his snake."

She paused, the glint in her eyes deepening. Snape had never seen a smile as cruel as hers.

"And that's nothing compared to what we'll do with your little girlfriend… Ginny's her name, right? She looks delicious."

With a snarl of rage, Potter hurled himself directly at Bellatrix Lestrange, all caution forgotten.

The utter idiocy of the move took Bellatrix as much by surprise as it did Snape. No sane person would attack a witch with bare hands, but it seemed that Potter was fairly beyond the limits of any sanity he'd ever possessed.

His face was twisted in rage, no, more than rage: fury.

"I'll kill you!" He howled, "I'll rip you to pieces! You killed Sirius! You… killed… Sirius!"

Without even noticing, he knocked her wand aside, trapping her hand under her body as he took her down with him. Snape could hear the dry, brittle snap of bone and then Bellatrix screamed in pain.

The sound seemed to lift the red haze of fury that had fallen over the boy, and for a moment, Potter seemed to realize what he was doing, and drew back a bit.

But then Bellatrix laughed, a shrill, insane laugh that savoured pain and twisted it into lust.

"That's all you've got, you little coward?" She screamed, "You're just to good to hurt me, aren't you? You'll stand by and cry your little heart out while my master burns the world to ashes!"

And Potter was gone, lost in his rage and a deep, burning hate that turned his face into a monster's mask.

"I'll kill your master," He hissed, grabbing her by the throat and raising her head, only to smash it against the ground in the rhythm of his words, "But…first…I'll…kill…you!"

Snape stared in horror at the scene unfolding before him. Potter had warned him, he remembered vaguely, but never had he expected something like this. Never had he believed Potter able of such cruelty, such relentless violence.

Bellatrix had begun fighting back in earnest now, her hands flailing as she tried to dislodge Potter's hold on her body, but Potter seemed to feel no pain as he tore into her. He was claws and teeth now, a weapon driven by nothing but the will for revenge.

Snape shuddered as boyish fingers clawed and ripped and turned red with the blood of his enemy's skin, he choked as Potter used his knees and elbows to pound into her, no trace of fighting skill visible, only the need to hurt, to tear, to destroy.

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL! I'LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" Potter howled and drew Bellatrix' head towards him in the ghastly parody of an embrace, only to smash her back against the rocky surface. "I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT PAIN IS!"

And still Bellatrix was laughing, was gasping in high, shrill yelps of pain and amusement at the universe that had gone mad and taken them both with it, was laughing into the face of her killer, knowing that, no matter what would happen, she had won her ultimate victory.

Potter screamed on, a wordless howl of rage and misery. His fingers tore at her throat and her blood coated his hands, spattered his face.

"YOU'LL BE SORRY FOR WHAT YOU DID! I'LL MAKE ALL OF YOU SORRY!"

His fingers found her face, clawed at her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes…

Snape couldn't bear it. He turned away. He tried to close his ears against the inhuman sounds, tried to ignore the coppery stench that permeated the air.

Then, suddenly, there was a new presence at his side, and he flinched violently, his breath coming in painful, short gasps.

"I am sorry," Potter-the-man whispered, standing a few feet to the side as if he didn't dare come closer. He looked very small, and his eyes were glued to his hands, as if he could still see the blood on them.

"I am so sorry."

Snape took a deep breath, prepared himself for what he would see, and turned back.

It was over.

Bellatrix was dead, and the bloody, mangled thing that was left of her made Snape's stomach heave. Potter-the-boy, his howling muted to a pitiable whimper, still lay on top of her, collapsed in the ghastly evidence of his killing spree.

It looked obscene, the twisted imitation of an act Potter was too young to have committed.

It looked as if Bellatrix had won. Her blood on his hands, his face, his fingers buried in her hair as he rested on what was left of her chest, sobbing silently and without strength. Harry Potter, poster boy of the light, and Bellatrix Lestrange, insane servant of the greatest darkness their world had ever known, had become one in a single act of unimaginable violence.

Snape wanted to vomit.

"I am sorry," Potter-the-man whispered again, and somewhere in the back of his mind Snape wondered to whom he was talking. He wasn't sure it mattered anymore.

Snape raised a hand to brush his hair back and found that he was trembling violently. He hadn't expected this. He could never have imagined this. And to think that he had trained the boy all this time, that he had fought with him and taunted him and never known…

For a moment, he felt dizzy and wondered how he could still react this strongly to violence after all he had seen and done.

But even the torture sessions of the Dark Lord had never been like this, had never been so raw, so brutal, so… soul-twisting.

He shuddered, his eyes still on Potter and Lestrange in their unnatural embrace.

Then, with effort, he pulled himself together. He was Potter's healer, he reminded himself, here to control the situation and keep the stress to his patient to a minimum, and even though he had no idea to deal with this, no idea how to take it in, he knew Potter well enough by now to keep him together.

"Why, Potter, I never knew you had it in you," He drawled, and if his voice was a bit rougher than usual, both chose to ignore it.

Potter-the-man swallowed. He was still eyeing his hands as if they were dangerous animals, ready to attack him at any moment.

"I never told anyone," He admitted. "The aurors I called saw the burned body and thought they knew what had happened. I didn't want anyone to know."

Snape swallowed, forcing down the bile that had risen in his throat.

"I can understand that," He answered, still as dryly, then paused in surprise.

"What fire?" He asked, and Potter gestured over to the bodies, still not raising his eyes to the scene in front of him.

"That fire," He answered quietly.

With growing disbelief, Snape watched Potter stumble to his feet. The boy was crying now, sobbing so hard that his whole body shook, tears mixing with the red blood on his face. But still he stood, still he leaned down over Bellatrix' corpse and searched her pockets for his wand.

Still he cast an Incendium that engulfed her body in flames.

And Potter, his Potter, stretched out his hands until they seemed afire, too, reached into the flames and touched the mangled body of Bellatrix Lestrange, silently, his skin grey with exhaustion and his face a study of regret.

"I am so sorry," He whispered once more. There was no hint of anger in his eyes, no sense of justification. For once in this strange journey they had undertaken, his expression mirrored that of his younger self perfectly.

Right now, both Potters were tired, lost, and terribly alone.

Snape's heart ached for them, and even with the evidence of their wild cruelty right at his feet, he could only feel pity and sorrow.

He remembered the bright eyes and constantly awed face of the young Potter, the stoic bravery the boy had displayed so many times, and the quiet sense of justice that had enraged Snape time and time again.

Nothing was left of that boy right now. Young Potter's moral compass wasn't off, it had been shattered and smashed to dust.

This should never have happened, Snape thought, staring silently from Potter-the-boy to the burning corpse of Lestrange. It isn't right. He kept his innocence for so long.

But how long could innocence last in a firestorm of rage?

Potter-the-man's head was bowed, his shoulders hunched up as if he was awaiting punishment for his past deeds. There was no ready acceptance in him now, not the serenity with which he had seen his childhood memories or the clean, easy mourning that had accompanied Black's death, and Snape longed with all his heart to have that confidence back.

Suddenly, he understood why Potter had been willing to die rather than revisit his memories. It was a miracle that he had risen from this once and managed to become whole again. How could he even hope to manage it a second time?

In the silence that surrounded the funeral pyre of Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the craziest and most evil witches Snape had ever known, the Potions master's hand rose slowly, as if of its own accord, and landed silently on the shoulder of the man beside him.

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could change, Snape thought. But he could stand by Potter's side. He could be there. He could witness.

Potter didn't move, didn't even give a sign that he registered the gesture, but somehow the darkness around them seemed to lift a bit. And after a minute that seemed like an hour to Snape, he stepped away from the fire, away from his past self that was still staring numbly at his first kill, and exited the memory in silence.

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A/N: This chapter's title is from the poem The Second Coming, written by Yeats:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The Blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Review, please!