A/N: Pretty exhausted, but I was on a roll there. And considering the cliffhanger of the last chapter, I thought you'd like me to get this up as quickly as possible.

I've a confession to make, people. I've no idea if English children are actually still learning Shakespeare by heart in school. But in my rose-tinted view of the world, they are. So forgive me if Harry seems a bit more erudite in this one than he probably is. If it irritates you, just tell yourself that Hermione made him learn it. That one's probably true.

Oh, and by the way: I'M WARNING YOU AGAIN! THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS AS DARK AS IT GETS. NOT SO MUCH WITH PHYSICAL TORTURE, BUT WITH EMOTIONAL STUFF. THERE IS LESS GRAPHIC VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE THAN IN 38. BUT STILL, IT'S CREEPING ME OUT, AND I WROTE IT (BAD BRAIN, BAD BRAIN).

A Little Red Eyed Peter Pan

„All children, except one, grow up."

„So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!"

From: Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie

Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world, lay on his back, dark blue shadows marking the outline of his ribs, the thin arms and legs, the sunken eye sockets.

He wasn't moving, not even twitching with the after effects of too many Crucioes. He looked almost peaceful, at least if one disregarded the mangled state of his body, the bruises, fading and new, or the not quite right angels where his bones hadn't grown together correctly.

He was naked, but no one in the room cared about that, least of all Potter himself.

It looked just like the beginning of another torture session, and Snape readied himself for that, but suddenly his Potter reached out and grabbed his arm, pressed it tight with the surprising and sudden strength of the very sick.

He had sunk to the ground as soon as they had fully entered the memory, just as he usually did these days, but now he was standing again, though trembling with effort.

"I remember this," he whispered, his eyes wide. "It's a good memory, Professor! An important one. You need to watch this closely!"

"And you need to sit down, Potter," answered Snape, who very much doubted that anything good could have happened to Potter in this room.

"Come over here." He led Potter to a corner of the throne room, helped him lower himself to the ground and carefully wrapped a blanket around him. He'd turned into quite a nurse this past week – keeping Potter warm and hydrated and as painless as possible had become a fulltime job.

"Are you comfortable, Potter?" he asked, only to experience the supremely unpleasant experience of having his words overlap with those of his former master.

"Harry Potter, can you hear me?" Voldemort asked from where he lounged on his throne, his skin sickly white against the marble, and his amusement palpable.

Potter didn't give the slightest reaction he had heard, and Voldemort's amusement deepened.

"Oh come now, Harry, I know you're still alive," he said jovially. "Speak to me, oh Chosen One!"

Still no reaction.

"What do you think, Harry," Voldemort now mused. "Are your little friends still crying their eyes out for you, or have they moved on with life already? It's been two months, after all. As Hamlet's uncle said so fittingly: "to persever / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness". Now if there's one thing my followers lack, it's a good grounding in the muggle classics."

He paused, and leaned forward conspiratorially, as if to prevent his guards from hearing him.

"Now Shakespeare, that's a muggle I wouldn't have killed… quickly."

He chuckled, and Snape shuddered violently. In all his time serving him, he'd never seen the madman so playful, so jovial. He was glad he hadn't – he seemed even more terrifying when amused.

"And what about you, Harry?" He now asked. "Did those muggle relatives beat the classics into you? The warden at my orphanage certainly did. We were called up in front of all the children and had to recite Shakespeare, and if we weren't word perfect, he used to give us a good thrashing. Oh, such a thrashing as you've never seen."

He chuckled again, though the hand he rested his chin on seemed a bit unsteady. "I swear, he would have made an excellent Death Eater if not for his dirty blood," he said, his eyes looking into the far away. "I let it all drain from his body, slowly, before I killed him."

Suddenly, his eyes snapped back to the present, and his voice grew hard again.

"Still got nothing to talk, Harry? You're beginning to bore me, and you know what happens when I'm bored, don't you, Potter?"

Finally, Potter opened his eyes. They were still unusually green, but there was little of Lily left in them. Little that was human, in fact.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, just let me die."

"Oh, but I can't Harry," Voldemort said apologetically. "That's not part of the game, remember? Would you like to have a lemon drop instead?"

With the abandon of a very small child, Potter began to cry, great, gulping sobs that knew no dignity, no restrain and no relief. They were probably a purely physical reaction, Snape judged, brought on by the sheer exhaustion of the boy's body.

But still it was painful to see Potter reduced to this, a fearful child, stretched out on the floor passively, without even the will to move.

Voldemort, on the other hand, watched him with relish.

"But there's no reason to cry, Harry," he said jovially. "If only you were a good boy, we could leave all this behind and be the best of friends. Would you like that, Harry? Being friends again?"

Potter choked on his tears, babbling strings of words that made no sense to Snape, 'nos' and 'yes's' and 'please, Uncle Vernons' as if having lost any sense of reality. Deep, wracking coughs interrupted him, shaking his body violently, but still he rambled on, and Voldemort just sat on his throne, letting the mad jumble drift past him as he watched his prey, ripe for the taking.

"Do try to make sense, Harry," he finally reprimanded when the boy showed no sign of stopping. "Or I'll have it beaten into you."

Potter's body froze with fear. Even the crying stopped in mid-sob, and Snape understood with a sinking heart that all defiance, all pride had been brainwashed out of Potter. He was not much more than a dog now, wanting to please his master and suffering when he failed.

"Why?" He finally managed to whisper, snot, tears and blood running down his face and coating his chin. He was past humiliation now, and perhaps it was a miracle that he was even speaking.

"Why what, my boy?" Voldemort asked lazily. "You really need to work on your language, I must tell you. When I was your age, I was expected to articulate perfectly."

"Why are you… doing this to me? Why are you keeping me alive?"

Suddenly brimming with energy, Voldemort leaned forward on his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, as if he was watching something of special interest.

"But I told you, Harry," he said softly. "I'm doing this for you. I'm doing it to free you, to help you realize your potential. I can't help it if you are a bad, stubborn boy. When all is said and done, you will thank me for this, believe me."

Potter whimpered. His one good hand crawled towards his face, rubbing at it angrily, scraping away dirt and mucus, rubbing until the skin was as red as the blood trickling from it.

"I'm… I'm…"

"You are obstinate, that is what you are, Potter. I am asking so little of you," Voldemort's voice sounded stern now. "Look at the effort I've made, and you're not even trying."

"But I don't know how," Potter whimpered. "I'm trying to… I'm trying… but…"

"No, you are NOT trying," Voldemort suddenly thundered, and Potter flinched violently, as if the words were a whip and the pain just around the corner. "You are whimpering and grovelling like an animal! You are weak, and pathetic, and you disgust me. I had high hopes for you, Harry, but now you can't even finish a sentence. Is it any wonder that I am so disappointed in you?"

Disappointed? Snape stared at his former Master in silent amazement. He had seen this side of Voldemort before, during the memories of Potter's captivity. Voldemort could behave surprisingly amiable towards Potter when the fancy struck him. Sometimes, he would lecture him on the history and pronunciation of the curses memory-Potter was being subjected to, sometimes he would paint pictures of a future under his command in glowing words.

He never called the torture by its name, terming it 'punishment' or a lesson instead. But until now, Snape had been too absorbed in caring for one Potter and watching the other to wonder about the system behind Voldemort's madness.

What was he trying to do to the boy, he now wondered as he listened to their interaction. Was he trying to teach him something? Was he trying to mould Potter into a Death Eater?

If that was his plan, Snape could understand his irritation as well as the glint in his eyes. But why wasn't he cultivating aggression in Potter, then, instead of this disgusting eagerness?

Potter was crying again, this time the silent tears of his childhood.

"What do you want me to do?" He mouthed, nearly inaudible, but the echoing stones of the throne room carried his words to his watchers from the present and the future.

"You know that very well," Voldemort answered, but his voice softened somewhat, now that the last glimpses of resistance were broken. "A good boy asks only for what he can get. Now tell me again, Harry: What do you want?"

"I want… I want…" The mere thought of imagining a want seemed too much for Potter. As his mind struggled, his eyes were darting across the throne room without taking it in, searching for something, anything he could ask for without being punished.

"Yes, Harry, tell me what you want."

Potter's face grew more panicked, the movement of his eyes more frantic. He seemed unable to comprehend what was asked of him, and the thought of angering the Dark Lord frightened him to death. But suddenly his face cleared, and he whispered one single word, tinged with longing.

"…water…?"

Voldemort's lips parted. His tongue flickered out to taste the air.

"Yes," he whispered in the sibilant tones of parseltongue, the language only he and Potter could speak in all the word. "That is a good request, my boy. I will give you water."

Potter's breath hitched, Snape couldn't say if from relief or fear. When Voldemort suddenly rose from his throne and walked over to him, however, relief turned to panic and he curled himself up into a foetal position, desperately trying to protect his body from what he expected to come.

But Voldemort just chuckled softly.

"None of that, my boy," he hissed. "I will not hurt you, Harry. Didn't I promise? I will give you what you need instead. You must be so thirsty, poor boy."

Potter's lips opened, a crack in summer-dried earth.

"… yesss…" he hissed, following Voldemort into their very own language.

Voldemort's chuckle deepened.

"Such a good boy," he said. "Here, let me help you…"

He conjured a silver goblet, decorated with writhing snakes, and carefully placed it close to Potter's head. Potter twitched towards it, but he was obviously too weak to even lift his head.

Then, there was the unbelievable, right in front of his eyes, and even while he watched it, Snape wondered whether he'd been lost in a nightmare of his own making, brought on by the stress of the past days.

For this couldn't be happening. The Dark Lord couldn't be lowering himself to the floor, black robes spreading wide like a blanket, and lift Potter's frail body up, lift him tenderly, until the boy came to rest against his chest, head lolling to one side.

It couldn't be! And yet it was.

His grey, scaly hands were gentle as they raised the boy's head, tucked him carefully in the crook of his shoulder. And his eyes… there were feelings there that his red snake-eyes had never been made for, longing, and obsession, and…

Snape shuddered, and turned his eyes towards the Potter of his time.

"What the hell is going on, Potter?" He demanded harshly. "Why is Voldemort treating you as if you were the prodigal son?"

Potter-the-man looked at him seriously, his eyes wide and shining in his grey face.

"Because I am," he said softly. "Because he wants me to be it, so very much – a companion, a student, a son. He wanted so much from me."

"Does this taste good, Harry?" Voldemort now asked, and the memory Potter gave a pathetic, pleading whimper and raised his hand feebly towards the cup.

"Do you want more?" As if of its own accord, Voldemort's left hand rose and caressed Potter's cheek. His glowing eyes were fixed on his mortal enemy as if he was the only other wizard left in his world.

"Please," Potter whispered in the voice of a small child. "Please."

"Drink. Yes, that's good, Harry. You are a very good boy, and as long as you are good, you will lack nothing. Whatever you need, my boy, I will give it to you. I will clothe you and feed you, and all you have to do is ask. I will care for you like that old fool never could."

And Potter-the-boys hand reached out to grip the black material of Voldemort's robe, to grip it as strongly as his weakened fingers could, and to bury his face in the embrace of his tormentor.

"I only want the pain to stop," he whispered. "I want to be good! I don't… I can't do it anymore, please!"

Voldemort raised his hand and cradled Potter's head, drawing him more closely to his own body.

"I know," he whispered back, still in the sibilant tones of Parseltongue. "We have endured so much, you and I, so much pain and loneliness. But it will all stop now, pet. I will make it stop, and you will never have to be alone again. All you need to be is good, my good, obedient boy. Will you do that? Will you be my good little boy?"

Again, Snape shuddered. He could see it now, with one Potter dying his by his side and another lost in the Dark Lord's arms, could see how this fragile life had been crushed between the schemes of two great and terrible wizards, between the awful mercy of a Dumbledore and the merciless obsession of a Voldemort.

How could this one boy stand against two wizards who had toyed with the world and burnt it to ashes? How could he keep his sanity with two such powers reaching for his mind, twisting and moulding it? Potter had never had a chance, Snape realized, sick to his stomach, he'd never had the freedom to rise beyond their manipulations and illusions. Who could fault him for giving up now, for breaking and collapsing into the arms of darkness, when all the light side had ever done was drive him into them?

But still, he couldn't help mourning for the mind that had been lost, mourning and wondering in a distant part of his mind however Ayda and Shadow could have brought the boy back from this oblivion and turned him into a person again.

"I am sorry," he heard himself whisper, and felt the emotion echo in his body. There was, indeed, much to be sorry for – all the many ways they had failed Potter. But his patient just shook his head, still filled with that feverish excitement.

"No, this isn't it, Professor. Wait for it, listen to me!"

Now seriously worried, Snape turned fully towards his Potter. The man had been worried about viewing these memories again – what if they had overwhelmed him in his weakened state?

"What…" he began, only to be interrupted by the memory.

"Would you be happy, then?" The voice was so totally unexpected that it took Snape a moment to realize Potter had spoken, his voice hoarse from all the shouting and crying, but with an honest, strangely detached interest, even though he was still cradled in the arms of the Dark Lord.

It seemed that Voldemort had similar problems of processing.

"What did you say, pet?" He asked, the tenderness still very present in his voice, but with a wary edge.

Slowly, the boy's fist unclenched and released the Dark Lord's robes. Slowly, his face lifted from the embrace until his green eyes met the glowing red ones. There was something new in his face, something like… understanding.

"Would you be happy if I was 'a good boy'?" Potter repeated, still in a broken whisper but growing stronger before Snape's very eyes. He paused, as if truly waiting for Voldemort to answer, and Snape found that he was holding his breath for the boy's next words. Just a moment ago, Snape had given up on memory-Potter altogether, and now this… whatever the hell this was.

"'Cause that's what you've been waiting for isn't it?" Potter continued, still gazing into Voldemort's eyes with an almost dreamy expression. "All the time. You didn't ask me questions, and you didn't try to kill me, but you wanted something, and I think I figured it out now."

Snape felt his hands tremble and his throat close at the sound of that voice, so familiar in its hoarse pain, but yet there was something new to it. Something like triumph.

Voldemort heard it, too, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Enough of this nonsense, pet," he said sharply. "Or there will be no more water for you."

Potter-the-boy half closed his eyes for a moment, an expression of deep concentration on his face, as if he was almost tasting the words. Then, he shook his head with as much decisiveness as he could manage in his weakened state.

"No, I don't think so," he said. I think that there will always be more water."

He paused, clearly thinking hard.

"'Cause you need me alive. You need me…" A cough interrupted him, shaking his frail body, but it couldn't stop the thought that had taken hold of him.

"You need me to beg for mercy so that you can give it to me," he continued, his voice rising with the excitement of this thought, rising to something like confidence. "You need to save me, 'cause you could never save yourself."

His red eyes glowing with anger, the Dark Lord reached out and struck Potter, slapped him with an open hand. It was a gesture so without authority, so utterly muggle, that Snape stared at him with open shock.

"I forbade you to speak like this," Voldemort growled.

And the unbelievable happened.

Potter looked up to the Dark Lord, green eyes meeting red, and he smiled.

"Stopping me won't make it go away, Tom," he whispered.

Voldemort's hand, extended to deliver another slap, went limp and fell back into his lap.

"Don't call me that," he whispered.

"But you called me Harry," Potter whispered back. "And you made me your equal, long ago. We should always have someone who uses our real name, don't you think? We all need that."

"I don't need anything," Voldemort was trembling now.

"Are you sure?" Potter asked. "What did you keep me alive for, then?"

He waited for an answer and got none.

"What did you kill my relatives for, then, as soon as you found out how they treated me?"

Silence.

"Why did you break me? Why did you try to make me thankful? Why did you try to make me love you?"

As total as the silence had been, as sudden was the Dark Lord's anger. Voldemort growled deep in his throat, like an animal of prey, and pushed Potter away with all his strength. He was on his feet and pacing before Potter's pliant body had slithered to a halt on the marble floor.

"How dare you," he growled. "How dare you talk to me like this? I am the Dark Lord Voldemort! I have powers you can't even imagine! I conquered death!"

And Potter chuckled brokenly.

"No one conquers death, Tom," he said. "But some are very good at hiding from it, for a while."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!" Voldemort raged, his hands twitching as if he was yearning for his wand. But Potter just calmly shook his head.

"There's no reason to be afraid of dying, Tom," he said softly.

"I am NOT AFRAID! And I will NEVER DIE!"

"Oh grow up, Tom," Potter whispered, something like actual sadness in his eyes. "We're all afraid of something. And, since you asked: ‚all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity'."

Speechlessly, Snape turned from the memory-Potter to the real one. This couldn't be! The boy had been broken! There'd been nothing left of him, and yet here he was, bandying words with Voldemort!

He turned to his Potter and saw pride glowing in his eyes, saw his whole face illuminated with satisfaction, with a knowledge Snape couldn't name.

"Good boy," the real Potter murmured. "You figured it out. Finally."

He noticed Snape's stare, and a smile bloomed on his face, full of beauty and life, oddly out of place on this dying man.

"I may be slow," he whispered. "But I always figure it out in the end. This is it, Professor, did you listen?"

Snape nodded, a sharp up and down of his head, and turned back to the memory.

„I realized that, deep down, Voldemort was nothing but a poor, twisted boy that had never known a home," Potter had told him the night after they had first met shadow, barely a week and still a lifetime ago. „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."

"Why is he talking back to me?" Voldemort now demanded, whirling around to the two Death Eaters in attendance, as if Potter's sudden change in behaviour had been their fault. "You have not worked him hard enough!"

From somewhere, Potter-the-boy took the strength to chuckle once more.

"As you said yourself, Tom," he whispered. "I am not an animal. You've broken me and I still won't follow you. You'll never train me now. Just give up."

The Dark Lord's roar of anger seemed to shake the foundations of his throne room. But it was nothing when compared to the quiet knowledge in Potter's eyes.

"I want you to break him!" Voldemort screamed, wand pointing at Potter's chest and eyes flickering wildly through the room. "I want you to slash and tear and rip him until there's not a spark left of his mind! Do it!"

As curses washed over the memory-Potter's body, rocking him back and forth, painting him all the colours of pain, Potter-the-man slowly drew himself to his feet.

"They couldn't break me," he whispered, his eyes still filled with tired pride. "For I was broken already. Again, Voldemort miscalculated. He wanted to make me his own, but he didn't understand that the freedom he promised me can be used both ways. He made me see myself, but he never realized that I would see him, too."

Snape fervently hoped that the awe he felt for Potter-the-boy didn't show on his face.

"But how could you…" he said, not knowing himself what he meant.

Potter fixed his eyes on his past self, and serenity echoed between two sets of green eyes.

"Death and pain are only a threshold," he whispered. "We are on the other side now. There's nothing to fear, here. Only understanding."

Understanding did not spare the boy. Under the Dark Lord's command, first two, then four and finally seven Death Eaters tried to cut into Potter's new clarity with their curses. And he cried, and moaned, and bled, but not once did he close his eyes or turn his head away from the Dark Lord, who sat on his dark throne, watching for signs of the thing he had tried to make.

It was in vain. Curses rained, but whenever he had them stopped and asked Potter if he had enough, if he would be a good boy now, Potter would shake his head, and call him Tom in quiet reproach, as if he was just waiting for him to quit his temper tantrum and grow up.

And Voldemort, his red eyes soft and frightened and disbelieving like those of a little child whose favourite dog had bitten him, flinched away from that look, as if there was something in it he had to fear, something that reminded him of the boy he had once been. No longer powerful despite the wands he commanded, no longer in control of everything.

And when the curses finally stopped, the last hopes of turning Potter abandoned because even the Death Eaters feared for his life, Snape's Potter slowly made his way over to the man who had tortured him for months. He was more stumbling than walking, but his hands were steady as they ghosted over the Dark Lord's bald head and his slitted nose.

"We all die," he whispered softly, cupping Voldemort's ghastly face in his hands tenderly. "Only you were too afraid to face it. And now look what you've done!"

His eyes travelled across the room slowly, resting on blood and dirt and tears, on broken hopes and bitten lips. His eyes were unbearably sad, and somehow Snape knew that he was seeing not only this throne room, but his own past, present and future, his parents and those who had died in the war, and perhaps, just perhaps, he was also seeing Snape, who stood in the shadows and watched him silently, a terrible aching pulsing through his body.

"All your dreams forgotten," his Potter whispered. "All your plans forsaken. You brought no change. Only ruin. Look what you've done! If only you'd been braver, Tom."

„to persever / In obstinate condolement is a course / Of impious stubbornness" Shakespeare, Hamlet Act I, Scene II

„all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity." Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene II

A/N: This was one of the hardest things I've ever written. This scene has been in my head pretty much since the beginning of the story, and I was terribly afraid of writing it down, because it could so easily go wrong. I'd be glad if you reviewed and told me how it turned out.