Disclaimer: I still do not own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the awesome reviews. I'm so glad you enjoyed that chapter. Everyone is leaving such great comments, they are very much appreciated.

I hope you enjoy this next chapter as things spiral away from canon even more.

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Severus Snape snarled as the moving staircase took him down another flight. Of all times, why did it have to be now that the damned staircases had to be difficult? He could swear they were laughing at him as they continuously took him to the wrong place. And it seemed to him that they always did this at the most inopportune times.

He had to get back down to the dungeons in order to conduct another detention for Potter. The sainted savior, Harry Potter. Just thinking about him put a foul taste in his mouth. The boy showed him so much disrespect it was unbelievable. The fact that he had seen his mother in him for just that one moment - it had all been a fluke, hadn't it? It had been proven to him again that the boy was nothing more than a clone of James Potter. Right in the middle of class, the little snotrag thought he could just spit out whatever he wanted?

"I'm not him!" Had the boy really possessed the unmitigated gall to bring up his feud with James Potter right in front of everyone? The boy showed no decency at all. "I'm not him!" The words echoed over and over in Snape's mind, taunting him as he stalked towards his destination. Snape begged to differ; Harry Potter was his father in miniature, flouting rules and mocking Snape just by his very existence. And the fact that he had those green eyes - that was cruel and unusual punishment. He didn't deserve those eyes. They belonged to a woman with kindness and compassion, not to a boy who was a foul-mouthed, imbecillic, spoiled brat.

Snape snarled again as he thought about all the time the staircases were making him waste. He should already be in the dungeons, scrutinizing the clock to see how late the little fool was. The last thing he wanted to do was arrive at his office and see the boy waiting for him there. Well, at least my reason is ligitimate, he thought venomously. Dumbledore wanted to talk to me. Potter has no such reason to be late.

Indeed, Dumbledore had needed to discuss the blasted Triwizard Tournament with him. Specifically, he wanted to have a conversation about Igor Karkaroff. Snape's lip curled in derision as his mind replayed the discussion. Dumbledore had coached him on exactly what he should say to the exDeath Eater. As if I don't know how to behave properly around him, he thought, his blood boiling. The cowardly man was nothing to stress over. Why did the Headmaster feel the need to treat him like a child? He'd been in plenty of life-and-death situations as a spy, and knew exactly how to conduct himself. Dumbledore said it was because he cared for him, but Snape sincerely doubted that. The man needed a spy, and Severus was the perfect blend of ingredients for it.

But along with the anger he felt, dread coiled like a beast in his stomach. His Dark Mark had been growing more pronounced by the day, and he loathed to think about what it might mean. The Dark Lord was becoming more powerful, and Snape knew he would stop at nothing to acquire another body. And once he had done so, another war would begin in earnest. And Snape would be counted on to help save the wizarding world from itself.

And I'll be relied upon to protect Potter, he thought with a sneer. Potter, who never lost an opportunity to poke his nose into affairs that were none of his concern, the Philosopher's Stone and the Chamber of Secrets prime examples. The stupid little idiot had almost gotten himself killed twice. He'd never forget how, at the end of the brat's first year, he'd lain in the hospital wing for three days, on the edge of death while his little friends fawned over him. "Will Harry be all right?" Granger's sobs reentered his mind, Weasley's ashen face going even whiter as they knelt at Potter's bedside, the only other sound in the room being Potter's ragged breathing. Madam Pomfrey had demanded Snape's help in order to save the twit's life. The Potions Master had wanted nothing more than to spout verbal venom at Potter's two sycophants, but one look at Pomfrey told him he'd have hell to pay if he did so. So instead, he'd made potions for the whelp and watched dispassionately as the mediwitch poured them down Potter's throat.

And of course, the boy had survived. Only a few days later he was in the Great Hall, grinning like a cheshire cat while his Slytherins sat with hunched shoulders, some of the first-years in tears as their hard-earned victory was snatched away from them by the sainted Headmaster, just to make the idiot boy smile. The acrid taste of bitterness had been on his tongue as the majority of the Great Hall cheered and applauded Dumbledore's move. The fact that the ten points that had won the Golden Gryffindors the House Cup had been awarded to Neville Longbottom had rankled so much that he wanted to strangle that smiling, twinkly-eyed old fool. If looks could kill, the glare that he shot at the Headmaster would have ended him right there.

Suddenly, Snape was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of running footsteps. He whirled around, his black robes billowing, only to see the subject of his bitter thoughts running down the corridor, his face pale and terrified-looking. Red-hot rage roiled through Snape; what was the boy doing here? Why wasn't he down in the dungeons where he belonged? Did the boy have no shame? He was breaking the rules in his usual uncaring, brutish manner.

But a tiny, barely-heard voice in the back of his mind warned him that things weren't as they should be. Harry Potter never looked terrified, and yet, here he was, running down the hallway so fast that he was almost a blur. Snape pushed the annoying voice aside; what was the stupid boy ever afraid of? Nothing. He was brash, foolhardy, and had no brain cells to rub together, just like his damnable father.

"POTTER!" Snape bellowed, fury pulsing through his veins. The boy screeched to a halt, his breath still coming in gasps and his face, if at all possible, growing paler at the sight of him. "What do you think you're doing, boy? Avoiding detention again?"

He hated how his conscience, who spoke in Lily's voice, had told him not to reprimand the boy for missing detention the night before. Moody had told the teachers about the Unforgivables lesson, and how it had affected both Potter and Longbottom. Many of the staff had looked at him with deep disapproval, and Dumbledore had just looked sorrowful. Apparently, the old man had said it was okay for Moody to demonstrate the curses. Many of the staff agreed with his actions a majority of the time, but in this case, most of them were not very happy at this development. Snape himself had not been the slightest bit amused; the students who were hungering for power would see those curses and be intrigued by them, not disgusted. What in Merlin's name were Moody and Dumbledore trying to do - create more supporters for the Dark Lord?

And so, against Snape's better judgment, he had listened to his conscience and not done what he wished to do, which was show all the vindictiveness he felt towards Potter. But now he could, couldn't he? It was a new day, and the boy couldn't now use the excuse that he was torn up after that blasted lesson. "Answer me, Potter!" Snape snarled, continuing his diatribe. "You are always feeling the need to open your mouth. Surely you can give me an answer now, or are you too much of a celebrity to grant us lowly mortals any respect?"

Potter glared at him, his green eyes sparking with equal anger. "My friend's in danger!" he said loudly, his face still ashen. "Neville's having tea with Professor Moody, but it's not Professor Moody in the office! It's Barty Crouch!"

"What on Earth are you babbling about, you insolent child?" Snape sneered, but his mind was buzzing with what the boy had just said. He knew this, how? Had he been spying on Neville?

And then, Snape remembered how Potter's bloody father and his goons had constantly known where he was, never losing an opportunity to find and torment him. Was Potter somehow following in their footsteps with that uncanny ability? Did he somehow know a tracking spell to find out where everyone was at all times?

Severus, focus, the man told himself sternly. You can deal with that later. The substance of the information Potter had just spewed out filtered through his mind. "Neville's in trouble!" the boy repeated, his anger mixed with fear.

"And you thought to check out the situation yourself?" Snape roared, rage hitting him anew. Did the boy not care for his own safety at all? It was just like him, wasn't it, to rush headlong into an unknown situation, not caring about the danger it might put him or those in his vicinity in? "Do you not know how to use your brain, you stupid child? Are you determined to get yourself killed?" Snape loomed over Potter, and after a few seconds he walked closer, grabbing his shoulders and shaking them.

"Stop it!" Harry roared back at him, trying to get out of Snape's iron grip. "I'm afraid for my friend! I'm not surprised you don't know what that's like. I bet you've never had any friends, have you?"

Snape grew even more enraged; he put his face so close to Potter's that they were nose to nose. "Do not speak to me in that tone, Potter," he growled in his lowest, most dangerous voice. "You are the most disrespectful, self-centered child I have ever had the displeasure of teaching."

"What is going on here?" a new voice demanded. Minerva McGonagall walked down the corridor towards them, her lips pursed in disapproval. "Is there a reason you are manhandling one of my Gryffindors, Severus?"

"Professor McGonagall! Snape doesn't understand! We're wasting time!" Potter shouted, still struggling against Snape. "It's not Moody who's having tea with Neville, it's Barty Crouch! Why is someone who works at the Ministry pretending to be Moody?"

"You have no idea of what you speak!" Snape growled, completely ignoring his colleague. "You cannot assume anything about this situation!" He finally acknowledged Minerva as he snarled, "Professor McGonagall and I will check, do you understand me? You have no business getting involved!"

"You can't do that!" Harry yelled. "I'm coming too!"

"What is this?" Minerva's temper was rising, too, and her Scottish brogue was more pronounced than ever. "What is the problem here?"

"Apparently, Potter saw something he shouldn't have, as usual," Snape drawled. "And in true Potter fashion, he is desperate to be lauded for his heroics by running headfirst into the situation all by himself."

"Is this true, Potter?" Minerva asked, looking at the boy closely. "Let go of him, Severus," she said sternly to the Potions Master.

"Yes, but it's not like Snape says!" Potter said, his voice growing hysterical. "Something's going on with Moody, and I'm worried about Neville!"

Minerva's no-nonsense, brisk attitude asserted itself at once. "Then let's go," she stated, appearing to trust Potter instinctively.

"Stay put, Potter," Snape drawled. "If you know what's good for you, you won't move a muscle."

"You can't make me do anything," Potter said mutinously. "I'm the one who found this out, so I have every right to see what's going on."

Before Snape could snarl back, McGonagall interrupted the argument. "We don't have time for this," she snapped. "Potter, if you are this adamant to join us, you will stay with us at all times and you will do as you are told. You will not do anything rash or reckless. Is this understood?"

Potter calmed slightly at this. "Yes, Professor," he said.

Snape's face screwed up in fury. Trust Minerva to give Potter what he wanted. Was he the only person in this whole Godforsaken school who didn't pander to that boy's every whim?

But Lily's voice, that damned conscience of his, spoke to him again. "You can deal with this later. Minerva's right - there is no time right now."

So, his blood still boiling but unable to say anything more on the subject, Snape, Minerva, and Potter bolted down many corridors until they reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. Snape's mind replayed all the conversations he'd had with Alastor Mad-Eye Moody as they got closer. Merlin almighty, he despised the man. And Dumbledore hired him - why? Was it his sole goal in life to trust people that Snape hated? Their history was filled with spiteful insults - it was plain to see that even though Snape had defected from the Dark Lord, Moody did not trust him in the slightest.

Once they arrived, Snape was quick to blast the door open. It was a good way, after all, of taking an unsuspecting person by surprise. He, Minerva, and Potter ran into the office.

Neville sat on one side of Moody's desk, a cup of tea in front of him. When the trio had unexpectedly stormed into the office, he'd dropped it, spilling tea all over himself and the table. At the same moment, Moody jumped out of his chair, his wand out immediately. Oh, but he was very, very quick.

"What is going on here?" Moody roared, spit flying from his mouth. "Snape, is this your doing?" His sinister magical eye swept around the room, his wand still raised threateningly at the Potions Master.

"I think it is you who needs to reveal some important information," Snape growled in a deadly voice. "And you will do so, whether you like it or not. Stupefy!"

Moody effortlessly dodged the spell, his face contorted into a vicious snarl. He sent his own Stunning spell back at Snape, who also dodged it easily.

And after the first round of hexes, the duel continued in earnest. Minerva and Potter shot their own spells, and even Longbottom tried to get a Jelly-legs Jinx in. His wandwork was very poor, so it missed Moody by a mile. The boy was sweating, his face full of profound shock at the sudden turn the evening had taken.

Finally, a combined effort on Snape and Minerva's part had Moody, or the man who looked like Moody, Stunned on the ground. Minerva didn't miss a beat; she sent her cat Patronus to Albus, stating that the situation was urgent and that he should report to the DADA office.

And it was then that Snape stormed out of the room, and as he returned to his own office and grabbed a vial of Veritaserum, he tried to prepare himself for what he might hear. After all, there was no Barty Crouch anywhere in sight now, unless he'd left the office in between the time Potter had found out this information and the time he'd arrived there. But his instincts told him this wasn't the case. What, exactly, was going on here?

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Harry and Neville sat in stunned silence as the whole, sordid, ghastly plot was revealed. Once again, Snape had argued that he was not to stay while the Veritaserum was administered, and Neville should leave, too. Harry was ready to open his mouth to argue again, but Dumbledore's quiet, authoratative voice had stopped him. "Harry and Neville have the right to stay, Severus," he'd said softly. "They deserve to know what's happened."

And now, Harry was appalled at what he was hearing. The man who had been teaching them was not Alastor Mad-Eye Moody, although he still looked like him. And it wasn't Barty Crouch, Sr., the Ministry worker who Percy was always prattling on about. No, it was much worse than that; it was his son, who'd escaped Azkaban due to a combined effort by his father and dying mother. He'd been the one who'd cast the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup; he'd broken out of the hold of the Imperius Curse his own father had placed on him.

"I was to put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Potter," the vile man smirked, as if he was proud of it. "That's what chooses the champions for the Triwizard Tournament. Once you were chosen, you'd have been unable to say no. Binding magical contracts work wonders, do they not?" He looked more unhinged than Harry had ever seen him. "And I would have made sure that you made it every step of the way. I'm aware you don't trust me; my little display on Draco turned you off. You are way too soft-hearted, Potter, and I would have used it to my advantage. If you continued not to trust me, I would have used someone else to achieve my goal. Like you, Longbottom." His face wore a look of such insanity when he looked at Neville that it caused cold chills to rush down Harry's spine. "Professor Sprout tells me you are very, very good in Herbology," he drawled. "And certain ... information would have been needed for young Mr. Potter to get through the second task. And you would have been the perfect candidate to give that information to him on a silver platter."

Neville was shaking, and Harry had never seen such a look of rage on the young boy's face. He didn't think that kind, gentle Neville possessed such anger. "I'd have never given it to him," he snarled out, his fists clenched so hard that Harry thought it must hurt.

Crouch smirked. "Oh yes, you would, Longbottom. If only your parents could see you now, eh? I did have a great amount of ... fun ... with them, you know."

Both Harry and Neville jumped out of their seats, and Harry felt horror beyond imagination. Barty Crouch, Jr. was one of the Death Eaters responsible for torturing his friend's parents into insanity. "Your name's Longbottom?" The way in which he'd scrutinized Neville during the Unforgivables lesson, that unnatural light in his eyes ... it all made sense now. Inviting Neville to tea - attempting to gain his trust - Harry thought he might vomit again. The pure filth who was cackling and looking completely deranged ... Harry didn't think he'd hated anyone more in his entire life.

"Sit down, boys." Dumbledore's voice seemed very far away; it came to Harry through a haze. He had to repeat it several times for Harry to pay it any heed; his heart was racing so fast he thought it would burst out of his chest any minute now. Neville was breathing hard, his entire body coiled like a spring, ready to lunge at Crouch and beat him to within an inch of his pathetic life.

It took Dumbledore casting a Cheering Charm on both boys to get them to calm down, but even that wasn't very effective. The anger was still there, ready to erupt like a volcano as Barty continued the tale of how the third task was only a few days after the summer solstice, and how this was the best time of year for the rebirthing ritual to be performed in order for Lord Voldemort to regain his body. "Your blood, Potter, was the perfect ingredient," he said, still cackling maniacally. "And you, the unsuspecting fool that you are, would have walked right into my trap. The Triwizard Cup is a Portkey, and whoever touches it first is supposed to be transported to the entrance of the maze, which is what the third task entails. But I, without anyone knowing it, would have rerouted the portkey, and it would have brought you straight to my Lord, Potter. And you," he glowered viciously at Snape, "are nothing but a traitorous, low-life piece of scum. How dare you betray the Dark Lord! Don't you remember all those wonderful deeds you performed in his service? Reformed, have you? There are some spots that don't come off, and you ... I can guess that no one in your pathetic Order trusts you, do they? You'd have gone back to your old ways soon enough."

Harry's mind had gone sluggish; he couldn't process everything he'd just been told. Snape had been a Death Eater ... Barty Crouch had been posing as Moody ... and if this plot hadn't been stopped, he'd have been forced into the role of Hogwarts champion, even though he was underage ... and at the end of it all, he'd be nothing more than a pawn to be used and then discarded by Lord Voldemort.

And it was at that moment that betrayal, sharper than a knife's blade, stole over him. He could only sit in silence as the real Mad-Eye Moody was found in his own magical trunk, and a furious Snape levitated the unconscious man out of the room, saying he was taking him to Pomfrey. He could only watch, numb, as Barty Crouch, Jr., who had now turned back into himself, was Stunned for extra protection. He had already been tied up with magical ropes before his confession. Aurors were soon to come, and he would be escorted straight back to Azkaban. He could only stare with glazed green eyes as a trembling, almost catatonic Neville was guided out of the room by Professor McGonagall.

Then, the moment of truth came. He and Dumbledore faced one another, and the old man began to speak. The words were soft, filled with sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry, Harry," he whispered. "There are no words to convey how much I wish I had suspected this."

And Harry, without a word, got up and walked out, closing the door behind him. He didn't glare at the Headmaster, he didn't slam the door, and he didn't run down the corridor.

No, he didn't do any of that. Instead, he was totally silent as the Defense Against the Dark Arts office door closed with a quiet click.

It was the sound of pure and utter betrayal, because Harry Potter had once again been let down by someone he trusted. Dumbledore was supposed to have been great friends with Moody, wasn't he? And wasn't he supposed to be the most powerful wizard in the world? Wasn't he known for defeating Grindelwald, for surviving attacks by Voldemort?

And yet, he hadn't known a friend from an enemy, and Harry and Neville had paid the price.

The sheer brutality of it all began to sink in, and the numbness started to wear off. Suddenly, Harry couldn't take another step. He collapsed against the wall, his face in his hands, shivers racking his body. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop them.

And that was how Severus Snape found him several minutes later: Harry Potter, his most despised student, the Golden Boy, nothing more than a quivering, broken ball of fear, anger, and betrayal.