AN: As I could not make up my mind about chapter titles and this chapter consists of two very distinct scenes, I've decided to upload them together as 4.1 and 4.2 instead of splitting it in two chapters last minute.

As for the formatting of the memory snippets in 4.2, the document manager of FFN was not very kind about methods I wanted to use to separate the paragraphs without using full line breaks. Multiple white lines were automatically deleted and minus signs between the paragraphs were deleted too, so I've opted for a centralised slash.

Chapter 4.1 – A foot off the path

This day had been so close to achieving perfection. The plan to outwit the old fool had landed Harry on his doorstep with nowhere else to go and more power in those perfect hands than ever. The terrible shock over discovering that Death existed was outweighed by a well of knowledge having been opened that contained wondrous miracles of the universe. One of which being Harry himself, who extended control over this creature, becoming more than human in the process.

At long last, they'd shared in Voldemort's discoveries, in violence, to the extent of his Intended committing the wonderful act of murder. Meaningful discussions had been followed by moments so tender it was difficult to believe Voldemort had been a partaker. Then, the crowning glory: his marriage proposal being accepted.

If only the day had remained on that high, he could have safely claimed it to be the most perfect one in life so far. It was not meant to be, his soul mate falling apart not once but twice over painful memories having been dug up, once right after his glorious kill and once more during the dinner Voldemort had hoped would please his fiancé more than it had. Concern over the man's mental well-being has put a damper on the elation over having Harry live with him, for should their physical closeness not mend any damage?

Clearly not, as after a distressed warning from Granger about Harry having run off in a frenzy, the Dark Lord sets out to search the manor for the other half of his soul, expecting the worst.

It isn't a terribly difficult task to locate Harry, footsteps thundering through the corridors as he tries to run Merlin-knows-where, the noise followed by pained wheezing. On the command of the master of the house, the tapestries and statues become eyes and ears, messages passed down the halls until Voldemort can pinpoint the exact location. He finds a crumpled form on the doorstep of his own study, Harry's eyes – lashes wet with tears - pressed close and hands covering both ears as if to protect from the outside world. The heartbeat he picks up on is erratic: there is no doubt that Harry's mind is once more locked away by unbridled panic.

He isn't the only one panicking, the gorgonophis hissing at her master in distress, slithering up and down his arms to no avail. If Harry can hear her, he's in no state to reply.

Lord Voldemort is used to the life and sanity of others being placed in his hands. Whether for foe or follower, he has decided many a future course. It is different with Harry, as for the first time, he stands powerless in the expectancy to be relied on. The comfort he'd attempted earlier today had clearly not been enough to keep the demons at bay, and his Intended had not wished him to remove the food that had brought distress either. If neither those tactics nor the soul bond suffice to keep Harry afloat, what is left to do?

The question is answered by memories of many a spell that can be cast to influence emotions, to force peace of mind. Yes, magic is the answer to all... Drawing his wand, Voldemort points it at the balled-up figure.

"Imperio."

The curse that had made Harry join him during the Quidditch game a few months ago would now serve well to cut through the dread. He'd only see and feel what Voldemort wanted him to: serenity.

'You will be at ease', he imbues into the spell. 'Your fears will evaporate.'

There is no resistance as Voldemort gathers his soul mate in his arms, bridal style. Be it due to the Imperius curse or sheer exhaustion after the tumultuous day, no more than an incoherent muttering manages to spill from Harry's lips on their short trip to the bedroom. On Voldemort's neck, the soul mark tingles pleasantly from the close contact, intensifying when a head lulls heavy against his shoulder.

~You take care of him?~ Hera inquires softly, having retreated to her favourite spot in Harry's hair.

~I always will.~

Carrying Harry over this threshold should have been a joyous occasion... a first that is taken from them and lost. It stings more than a simple gesture should. Refusing to focus on it, Voldemort goes through the motions, setting Harry down on the bed, carefully removing the shoes and casting a quick transfigurative charm so day robes are replaced by a comfortable black nightshirt that falls past the knees. The serpent is plucked from wild locks of hair under great protest and deposited in the coils of a grumbling Nagini and Manasa, the protest only dying down when the snake's blindfold is removed. It's not a risk with the only two humans present being immune to the petrifying gaze.

~Get along, I have important matters to attend to,~ he orders before rushing to the bedside, feeling conflicted as he silently observes the curled-up form of his Intended. The curse has removed the worst effects, but will that be enough? Is it safe to revoke it, or will that start another downward spiral?

"I didn't realise the Imperius could be used in this way," Harry croaks, red-rimmed eyes meeting his own. He'd not been instructed to speak, nor to act autonomously. It takes a stunned second before the realisation hits what this means.

"The curse had no effect on you?" Voldemort warily asks. "Why not mention that after I cast it?"

The stiff shrug he receives is unsatisfactory. "Occlumency is a wonderful skill to have, certainly when paired with a stubborn natural resistance against this spell. I wanted to see what you'd do when believing to control me so completely and have me in such a precarious state of mind."

"How manipulative."

"Says the one who used an Unforgivable mind control curse on me. Besides, it isn't quite true that it had no effect at all: I felt your intention and allowed it as long as the help was needed before breaking free from its hold. I was unaware that the Imperius curse can influence one's emotions too, not merely actions."

"From the right point of view, the creation of emotions is an action of your most complex organ. It helps that by default, victims of this curse have any strong feelings muted in order to increase the likelihood of compliance. I thus found it to suit my purpose better than cheering charms or potions to force positivity on you. Most importantly, it appears to have worked. You are in a much better state than I found you in."

As Harry does not express any resentment over having been cursed, Voldemort deems it safe enough to perch on the bedside without having his wand out to counter offensive spells. "Now, do tell me what happened. Three breakdowns on a day you took a powerful luck potion does not bode well for your future, darling." Briefly, he glances at the antique clock that hangs above the door. "Though it would seem your luck is running out soon. Felix Felicis exponentially loses its effectiveness over time, and there are only two hours left."

"I don't think the timing was the problem," his Intended mutters, the light in his eyes dimming. "Its influence was muted when clashing with more powerful forces: it could bring me to the Elder Wand yet not lead me down a path that prevented me from its wrath. Likewise, the only guidance I received from it during our conversation with Death pertained to my own carefulness of wording, nothing more. Now, too, I called upon Death for some answers. I received none that I wanted to have and one that... that-" He breaks off, choking on the words and hastily ripping his gaze away to scan the room, as if ready to bolt again. Voldemort refuses to allow it, reaching out to firmly grab Harry's chin and pull his head back to its original position.

"Face your fears with me. There is no use in running or hiding."

Many failed attempts at articulating what the matter is later, Harry finally speaks, pained: "After the second wizarding war, everyone but my closest friends placed the blame for the downfall of magical folks on me, the disgraced hero who'd killed their chance of survival. However, standing up to that other version of you had not been my decision alone. People had begged me to step in, had raised me to become a martyr for them. So, although I did feel responsible, I could somewhat live with my actions at the time, telling myself it couldn't have been avoided."

It is disconcerting to listen to accounts of the destruction of Lord Voldemort, least of all a version that had possessed even more Horcruxes. Death having claimed that other Dark Lord at such a young age for a mage makes Voldemort uneasy. Will a better protection for the fragments of his soul and increased secrecy be enough, or will he have to devise back-up plans for immortality?

"Then what changed?" he inquires, the contemplation on eternal life best left for a more productive moment, preferably alone. A scoffing laugh confirms that is the correct decision, for Harry won't be much help in this state.

"The action to blame changed. I won't take full fault for destroying Voldemort, but there's no such excuse to hide behind for the destruction of the Elder wand, which Death revealed to be half the reason why my world slid into the chaotic horrors we were subjected to. It was not Death who created the Hallows, Voldemort. Multiple higher beings were involved, one of which Magic herself. When I, the master of the Hallows, did not only kill the strongest wizard of our age but also snapped the Wand of Destiny that had been formed by Magic's own hand... she abandoned us. I had believed the Hallows to be too dangerous to exist and with that decision, doomed us all. All of this blame was mine to shoulder all along. Everything that happened... my fault alone. This terrible truth was – is - too much for me to handle. I needed to get away. There must be someplace away from this pain."

After Death had manifested in his home, Voldemort is not terribly surprised to hear it is not the only divine being. Speculations about Magic guiding them were a common enough belief. It is a comfort to have this confirmed, if anything. Also, if the snapping of the Elder Wand had been half the reason, did that mean Magic had put so much worth on Voldemort's life that his death had been a deciding factor in making her turn away? Of course, he knew to be exceptionally gifted, yet to have confirmed how favoured he was made pride swell in every fibre of his being.

He releases a sigh of relief, any remaining nagging insecurity melting away as fast as it had come. Unpleasant though it may be, Harry's instability had been caused by a new factor. His Intended had not simply slipped into the same memories as before, meaning that the earlier attempt at pulling Harry away from the madness had been successful. A tried and true method that regained its reliability.

"You should have run to me in the first place, then," he chides, changing his own clothes into nightwear before slipping under the covers, making Harry scoot over to make space. It is only for a moment until he is right back where he is supposed to be, tucked safely in Voldemort's arms.

"I don't like to impose on others," his Intended quietly admits. "Not even on you, as much as I am grateful for the patience you've had with me these past days. I swear that I'm quite stable most of the time. It's pretty embarrassing for me to have shown so many lows."

"It has not defined our time spent together," Voldemort reassures. "This vulnerability is indeed something you must work to improve lest it be used it against you. Nevertheless, you also spent the past days tricking enemies, chasing power and improving our relationship by divulging your remaining secrets to me. While I admit to being dismayed over how often it happened today, I have spent an entire year observing your moves, Harry. What I saw were not the actions of a man stuck in the past, devoured by nightmares. I saw my equal, ready to use the past as motivation to improve our future. That has not changed."

Hesitance and guilt remain painted on the face of his Intended, this raw wound too wide and new to be mended easily. That won't do. "Will you entrust your fears to me, or should I extract them from your mind through Legilimency?" the Dark Lord asks when Harry's usual sharp tongue remains silent. "I deem your excuse of not wishing to impose on me invalid. I am far more negatively affected when left unaware of what bothers you. I do not understand why Death's revelation shakes you so. Your world already burned and any actions you took that may have led to it appeared to be right in the moment. You did not deliberately deliver your own people to the knife."

The other swallows heavily. "That is true, but I... I guess that after everything, I saw myself as a victim of a war that could not have been prevented. Everyone else already turned their backs on me and pointed blame. My friends, my family... Would they have stood by me had they known I unwittingly started it? Would they still love me?"

"Yes," Voldemort aggressively hisses, seizing Harry's hands and holding them tight. "You sacrificed your very life in hopes of giving others a chance. All you did was in service of others. Was it not you who took this journey across time upon yourself as a form of atonement, when you even believed to not be fully responsible? If divine beings decide on a whim whether they feel slighted, when the rules were never laid out to humanity, the fault lays with them. You are deserving of love, Harry. If anyone retracts it from you for this, they are utter fools. Next time I see Death, I will give it a piece of its mind for daring to put these fears in your head."

The weak smile he is granted is enough of a reward, yet the tenseness of the body lying in his arms betrays that isn't the last of it, so Voldemort waits until the other is ready to lay the rest of his thoughts bare. It only takes a minute of internal mulling until Harry says: "This conversation with Death did give some more food for thought, now I can think about it with more clarity of mind. If it was honest... Does this not mean I was wrong? If Muggles overran us because we were abandoned by Magic for the destruction of the Elder Wand, then this fate won't befall us as long as I do not repeat my mistake."

That line of logic is reasonable. Voldemort will be the first to admit he much prefers selfishness over reason. The chance to choke the life out of every single Muggle, standing side by side with his soulmate, is far too tempting to give up over a technicality. Carefully, he shows none of the anger that simmers at this sudden hesitation over going through with their plans. Instead, he smiles and tightens the embrace just a tad more.

"The possibility that events would play out differently here, be it the timing or key players changing, already existed. These were risks you factored in before discarding them as irrelevant, for there would always be a chance of the same destruction happening as long as we let them live. This revelation changes nothing, darling. Nothing at all. Whether Magic abandoned you or not, the perpetrators were Muggles not influenced by it, the technology they developed designed through ordinary means and earthly materials they will already have access to. Having certainty over the truth behind the fate of your old life makes no difference for how you should live your current one. With me in every sense of the word."

The reassurance finally has its desired effect, Harry practically thawing in his arms and clinging onto his nightgown as if they're drowning on sea and Voldemort is the sole raft in sight. "Yes..." his fiancé mutters, burying his head more tightly in the crook of Voldemort's neck. It's pleasant, easy to get used to. "Thank you. I didn't know how much I needed to hear that."

"I will be here to remind you whenever you need to be pulled back onto the right path, darling," he whispers, self-satisfied at having succeeded in chasing the ridiculous notion of sparing Mugglekind away as soon as it dared worm its way into Harry's head.

No-one denies Lord Voldemort promised bloodshed. Not even Death itself.

Chapter 4.2 – Memories of Pain

"Every inch of the castle has been combed, Albus," a tetchy Minerva reports, pointedly fixing her hat to show there's nothing better to do than to mend the state of her clothes after the witch hunt that had lasted hours. "No sign of this intruder. There have been no breaches of the wards, no record of anyone passing the gates, and every hiding spot known to the staff has been thoroughly inspected. I'd say they fled through the Forbidden Forest or knew their way around any of the hidden passages. Filch does not patrol those during the holidays, and why would he? Now, do you care to enlighten us who made such a mess of your office?"

Her impatience is reflected in every other face present in the faculty room. It is nearing ten in the evening and none of them found a single clue about the mystery intruder that wrecked the Headmaster's office in the early afternoon. Even the most good-natured and cheery Professors are grumpy from fatigue and hunger. Not a pleasant state to be in during what should be a relaxing holiday. Pomona mutters wise words about staying home the next summer, whereas Filius is about to nod off in an armchair.

Severus decides to remain silent, having nothing to add to the report except for suspicions that would place blame on his own family. It cannot be a coincidence that Dumbledore was targeted so shortly after Harrison came clean about teaming up with the Dark Lord. The question is why. During their conversation, Severus deduced that Harry had wished to steal the Philosopher's Stone from the Headmaster's clutches as he claimed it would have faced certain destruction otherwise. As that plan had been executed weeks ago, the Stone stolen a day before they'd left the castle, Harrison must have been after something else, too.

During the war, there'd been a rumour that Hogwarts was never attacked because Dumbledore was the only person whom the Dark Lord had ever feared... What if Harrison is being used by his soulmate to get to the old wizard and eliminate him in Voldemort's stead? Having seen a very different side to the man Severus had only known as a heinous tyrant does not mean that he can let down his guard about Lord Voldemort's manipulative, cold-blooded tendencies. The man had committed atrocities, twisted victims around his finger before slaughtering them, made the country unsafe for all that was good and just... All that could not be swept aside to claim the Dark Lord had simply been misunderstood. Thus, it can't be put past the snake to use Harrison as a tool in the scheme of Dumbledore's demise.

"Trust me," the silver-bearded man gravely tells Minerva, holding up a frail hand before she can explode. "Please. I apologise for keeping you all at this late hour. I will inform the House-Elves to prepare a decent dinner for you all, so I implore you to return to your quarters and have a bite before tucking in. At this moment, I cannot reveal the identity of the one I quarrelled with today. Please refrain from asking any of the portraits what they have seen; they will not answer until I have sorted out a few matters."

There's no use demanding answers from their employer if he already shuts down his Deputy like this, so the rest of the staff quiets down and nods despite not truly understanding the need for this secrecy. Minerva strides out first, followed on her heel by Pomona and Trelawney. Quirrell shuffles to the door next, but when Severus gets to his feet, a thin hand placed on his shoulder stops him.

"A word in private, Severus," Dumbledore mutters lowly, peering over the rim of his half-moon spectacles with more sobriety than ever shown before, which is quite the observation to make after the sombre year they've had with the threat of Slytherin's monster hanging over their heads.

As he sinks back into the chair and waits for everyone else to leave, Severus strengthens his mental defences. However horrible Voldemort may be, promises have been made about protecting Harrison from both sides. His wish for neutrality does not apply to situations like this, where a choice must be made between aiding Harrison or the boy's enemies.

If lying for his son will damn his soul, it's a sacrifice worth making for any father worthy of the title.

"Tea?" the Headmaster offers after wandlessly beckoning another armchair closer so he faces Severus, only a round table set between them, just large enough for the tea set that appears.

"No, thank you," he declines, as it is less suspicious to do so than to check the cup for possible poisons or truth serum. "What is this about?"

"Harry," comes the expected answer. Or unexpected, as Severus thought the other would not be so straightforward about it. "How has been faring?"

"I believe I made quite clear that my children's private life is exactly that, Dumbledore," he replies, purposefully using his employer's last name to clarify they're in a professional setting. The Headmaster had been much closer to their family when Harrison had been a young child, closer even when Lily and James had been alive. As those visits have dwindled over the many busy years, it is difficult to see the man as more than a respected figure of authority nowadays, his boss as well as his children's Headmaster, who has little business being informed of holiday trips or budding romances.

"I have reason to suspect he has been in contact with dangerous individuals. Dark mages."

"At eleven?" Severus scoffs. "I wasn't aware of him hanging around any children of known or suspected Death Eaters. The few friends the little bookworm has made are all from light families. I may also remind you that he helped stop the attacks this year against the wishes of Slytherin's Heir. With his best friend – now sister at his insistence – being a Muggle-born, Harrison is far from susceptible to the typical ideology dark mages tend to uphold."

"And yet, his Intended is none other than Lord Voldemort."

"A dead man. I don't see how this is relevant, we kept the identity of his soulmate quiet as you asked us to. He does not know."

Dumbledore seems to choose his next words carefully, taking a few sips of tea, stirring thoughtfully after each one. "I've shared my suspicions about Voldemort's presumed death with you and Sirius years ago. How his body vanished was unnatural. The man was always obsessed with immortality, going so far as to brag to his followers about having found a way to survive. He has returned, Severus. Lord Voldemort is back and has contacted your godson. Harry confirmed as much to my face this afternoon, in the office that was thrashed shortly after..." The implications do not need to be voiced aloud.

The boy had confirmed what? Of all the confessions to make...

It takes much strength not to cover his face and scream. He'd believed to have raised a more intelligent child than this. The desperate rage that wells up is flicked away, Severus careful to show nothing on the surface, a skill he'd perfected as a Slytherin with political views that did not align with the majority of his peers, or later with his students.

"No," he unwaveringly denies. "Sirius or I would have noticed."

"Sirius is Harry's primary caretaker, is he not? I travelled to London shortly after giving directions for Hogwarts to be searched and found the house empty. Your House-elf was polite enough to answer the door and informed me that all had left minutes prior to a destination he could not disclose to me and that they were unlikely to return soon."

"It is summer, they take frequent educational day trips. This proves nothing besides my partner's attentiveness to the children. Or do your accusations suddenly extend to my fiancé too now, an Auror who puts dark mages behind bars for a living?" he bites, plucking at straws for logical arguments while he tries to figure out what direction to lead this conversation in.

Denial will only work so long as there is no proof. If Harry truly made a damning confession, Dumbledore won't need to search far and wide to lend credibility to his account. Memories may not hold up in court due to how easily they are tampered with, but there is certainly a level of established trust between the Headmaster and Severus that would make a dismissal of such evidence highly suspicious. Likewise, Dumbledore will be able to use it to convince the rest of the staff and quite a few influential friends. Perhaps even the Minister for Magic will give credit to it, as Cornelius Fudge and Dumbledore once got along well.

"I accuse Sirius of no such thing. The absence of the rest of your family so shortly after the incident gives rise to many theories, however. In all of them, Harry has spoken to his soulmate. It is reasonable to assume that after his flight from Hogwarts, he may have involved Sirius, either as a hostage or in hopes of finding a conspirator who knows me much better than Voldemort does."

"Again: he. is. eleven," Severus spells out slowly, in hopes of discovering whether Harry revealed his true age or anything else of importance.

"I'm aware. And most hopeful young teenagers raised to see the success stories of fated soulmates would do anything to find theirs. To be accepted. Harry may be eleven, but Voldemort is not. In fact, he is perfectly capable of planting dark ideas into an impressionable mind."

There's something about Dumbledore's tone of voice that is off, some hint of uncertainty. "You're hiding something from me," Severus points out. "Pardon my directness, but I'm aware you have a Pensieve. Let me see your conversation with my son and judge for myself."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that," the other replies with a perfectly pleasant smile, emptying the cup of tea. "Much was said that is not meant for the ears of anyone but myself and Harry. What I can show you is the confession he made, as well as..." Dumbledore trails off, frowning at the bottom of his cup as if seeing something in the ripples. "...memories that Harry entrusted to me that I admittedly cannot make sense of." With a jerk of his head, piercing blue eyes find Severus'. "Has Harry ever been plagued by visions? Or otherwise shown a talent for divination?" The teacup is turned and twisted by thin fingers, showing the residue that clings to the inside of the cup.

It does not take long to put two and two together. If Harrison left memories that raise speculations over the boy having Seer abilities, these must contain scenes of his previous life. Of a future too far away for any sensible mage to suspect time travel. Even Dumbledore would not jump to such an outlandish conclusion, so it makes sense for the man to suspect an affinity for divination.

Admittedly intrigued by these memories, Severus neglects to object to the denial of seeing the full conversation that had taken place today. It may work in Harrison's favour if subjects too touchy for Dumbledore to reveal to anyone else have been discussed. A confession taken completely out of context is not reliable proof of anything, regardless of what Harrison said.

"He is a boy of many talents," Severus diplomatically utters. "You saw how easily he picked up on any single subject taught at Hogwarts. I cannot claim to have witnessed a particular fondness for divination, but now you mention it, Harrison does oftentimes have eerily accurate predictions and a sharp perception for detail. Did I ever tell you that he was the one to discover that mine and Sirius' soul marks matched, when he was no older than eight? We questioned him about it after, but Harrison's only explanation was that it had 'felt right' and 'been logical'."

He hadn't yet asked Harrison whether this was a fact the boy truly had only figured out in this life. It could well be possible, as his son had confessed to having deliberately changed events to prevent Sirius' incarceration. With Pad in prison and Harrison raised by Muggles, there would have been few, if any, opportunities to uncover information about it. Severus dearly hopes this to be the case, for the thought of missing out on eight years of his current relationship because Harrison hadn't dared come clean before is painful.

Dumbledore pays no attention to how lost in thought his conversation partner is, muttering a monologue about how divination would make sense, how the shown future reflects other visions, though he does not mention whose.

"As pleasant as this conversation is," Severus cuts in when he has ran out of speculations. "I'm sure you understand that when it comes to my family, I need more than your word. No disrespect meant."

"Yes, yes of course, perfectly reasonable. As my office is still being redecorated: Neep!"

One of the many House-elves Hogwarts makes use of, a rather old one with pallid skin and a nose that resembles a turnip, pops into the faculty room. The elf has obviously received an order beforehand, for in his hands lies a shallow bowl, empty at the moment. Without a word, Neep places the Pensieve down on the side table that had held the tea set just a moment ago, then withdraws two tiny crystal bottles filled with a silvery substance from the blanket he wears like a toga.

"I would give an ominous speech about what you are about to witness, Severus, but it is late and you must be starving too, so I shall keep this short." It is said with a smile that fails to be either cheerful or reassuring. The bottle is tipped over, the memory pouring out. Instead of being invited to dip his head in the Pensieve, Severus watches as aged fingers stir the not-quite-liquid contents until a figure rises from the basin: Harrison, holding a wand in each hand, both aggressively pointed at the spectator. His youthful face is contorted with fury as he loudly declares:

"I am neither being controlled by Voldemort, nor will I oppose him. Our visions align."

There are a few beats of silence, perhaps when the one who left himself out of the memory replies to that bold statement. Then: "No. I will make him walk mine."

The figure dissolves in slivers of silver fog, leaving Severus to stare at the bowl. That is all Dumbledore is willing to reveal? It is circumstantial evidence at best, explained away easily by a child blinded by hope after having discovered the identity of his Intended. A proclamation of 'aligning visions' is not necessarily an admittance of sharing the Dark Lord's political ideologies. It could just as well mean that Harrison is convinced they will have similar ideas about their soul bond. Nothing in these scarce sentences is even a confession over actually meeting the man, nor of his being alive.

When carefully stating such as Dumbledore looks at him expectantly, the lines in the Headmaster's forehead deepen. "The context suggested otherwise."

"Context you refuse to give. What you have shown me is my son stating that he is his own person and determined to make a difference by attempting to change the man. Foolish and naïve considering the Dark Lord's nature, but not damning Harrison in any way. If, as you say, they were in contact and the truth behind his soul mark has been uncovered, it's only natural that he will not wish to throw this chance away by opposing You-Know-Who."

"Perhaps the following will change your mind about the possible dangers, then: the memories Harry entrusted to me. That he insisted me to view to see his side."

Impassively, refusing to show how anxious he is about said memories, Severus watches the second bottle being unstoppered. Worry coils in his gut, the scars that had littered Harrison's cadaverous body fresh on his mind. He doubts that the bottle in Dumbledore's hands contains pleasant afternoon teas with friends. At the same time, this may be a chance to truly understand the life his son had lived. A step that may close some distance at a time he feels so conflicted about the difference between the boy he has raised and the man who'd hidden behind the mask of that child.

"After you," Dumbledore speaks, gesturing to the shimmering memory deposited in the Pensieve. Severus does not hesitate for even a moment before bending over until the tip of his nose touches silver, sucking him in.

What follows is chaos. Whether Harrison's memories are muddled or whether he did not wish to give Dumbledore anything too concrete to analyse remains a guess as Severus falls from one moment to the next:

Diagon alley, all shop windows boarded shut and covered by wanted posters that do not show faces, displaying a drawing of a plain wand and a caricature of a wizard hat. On a raised platform, a young man reads out a list of what sounds like demands, though it is too far away to be clearly auible. In the shadows to the left, Harrison's face appears out of nowhere. He looks both older and younger than the versions of his son that Severus has seen, perhaps early twenties. Someone hisses a "Don't take it off, mate!" before tugging at the invisibility cloak so it covers Harrison again.

/

The backyard of the Burrow, a large group of people bickering over a fire. "Muggle-borns are safer there than here!" a young man argues. "I can register and go to my mum. So many of us have parents who'll protect us! Won't it be better for everyone if Muggle-borns work together with their parents to create a safer system? We can keep in contact. Hey, surely you agree with me!"

The woman he addresses has bushy hair, tied in a pontytail, and familiar features. It is only when she speaks that Severus recognises her as the daughter he recently adopted. Hermione scoffs and spits: "Safety? Dean, that might be the case now, but we cannot count on it. It's by the book, isn't it? Registration, isolation, deportation, extermination. Open your eyes! This has happened so often in history. It's barely been a decade since Voldemort's Muggle-born Registration Commission went from 'keeping an eye' on us to condemning us for the non-existent crime of stealing magic. If stricter laws pass and we're surrounded by Muggles, what then? Our parents cannot protect us if we become illegals from one day to the next, and neither can the friends we willingly left behind for the promise of so-called safety reach us then!"

/

The entry hall of Grimmauld place, looking much gloomier than Severus ever recalls it to have been. At the door, his son glares at a woman and two men wearing strikingly blue uniforms."Children are to be raised in risk-free environments, to be protected by the state from themselves and others," one of the men speaks, a hand on his belt where a gun is visible, ready to be drawn. "The child's grandparents resisted and have been taken into custody. Our records show you are listed at his godfather, and that there are no remaining direct relatives. Cooperate, and every mage involved gets off with a warning. If not..."

"Not," Harrison bites, attempting to slam the door in their faces. He does not get far, the stocky woman pulling a round disk with a button from her pocket and hurriedly pressing it while her colleague draws his weapon. A loud shriek comes from upstairs in the same moment that Harrison doubles over, even before the first shot into his leg is fired. In no state to stop the third Muggle from striding into the house, Harrison can only beg. It is drowned out by the voice of a kid being dragged down the stairs.

Futilely, the child reaches out when hauled through the corridor and out of the house, tears streaming down rosy cheeks as he kicks and cries: "I can't change, why can't I change? It hurts, Harry, make it stop! Let me die, please just kill me!"

/

A nondescript open field, one that explodes with noise and spraying dirt. Loud bangs come from every which way, accompanied by panicked screams and a mechanical, threatening buzzing in the background. Figures rush past, wands drawn but few spells being fired. Someone stumbles and falls, left to fend for themselves: Harrison. There's dirt on his face and he bears scratches all over, the wildness in his eyes making Severus' heart clench. "Harry, get up!" a woman cries, diving down in a whirl of flaming red hair. For a breathless moment, Severus believes it to be Lily, then notices brown eyes and far more freckles than one can count. Ginevra Weasley hauls Harrison to his feet and gives a rough shove. "I'll hold them off. Run, RUN!" she demands.

"The drones, the cancellation fields!"

"They haven't reached us yet, I'll give those bastards a show they won't forget. If I don't join you in a minute, take care of mum and avenge me!"

Harrison runs, only looking over his shoulder once as Ginevra takes her stand and conjures up an impressive storm of flames. The buzzing comes closer. The fire dies. So does she.

/

A dozen different forests and shadowy ruins, hushed whispers that grow hoarse with grief and pain.

/

Towering concrete walls, a glimpse of mages in shackles before being discovered and having to bolt.

/

A tent that holds only three occupants, Harrison's face as hollow and haggard as it had been days ago, when he'd rewarded the Dark Lord's promise to massacre every last Muggle with a kiss. Severus finally understands why with full clarity, unable to cast judgement on his son for it.

The stream of memories mercifully ends, leaving Severus gasping for air as he heavily leans back into the chair, staring at Dumbledore, who witnessed these moments once before and still believes Harry to be in the wrong for daring not to oppose Voldemort.

"Is this... You think these are visions of the future?" he breathlessly questions, needing to speak to chase away the horrors. "If that is true..."

"I once knew a man who had similar visions, believing it to mean that Muggles would bring about the end of times. The ultimate threat to magic. Certainly, many people died in the second world war, yet here we are, in times of peace. Living our lives as before. The future is never set in stone, a lesson I do not believe your godson has taken to heart, judging by his proclamation of sharing a vision with Lord Voldemort. Severus, I understand this is much to take in. However, I have always been able to count on you, on your righteous heart and strong mind. You must reach Harry and make him see reason. Convince him that divination is so open to interpretation that he cannot take this as a sign to follow in the footsteps of his soulmate. No-one can expect of the boy to shun Voldemort as an enemy, but by Merlin, if this results in two Dark Lords... Severus, if worst comes to worst and he won't listen, I will need a pair of eyes and ears that I can rely on. For the sake of your family as well as every innocent citizen of this country. In the meantime, I regret to say that I must inform Cornelius of these events. Voldemort's return is a concern of national safety. This is about more than Harry, now."

If only divination were at work. Severus' heart sinks, as heavy as the burden of knowing that all this has already happened to his son. That it's exactly what Harrison so desperately tries to prevent. They had been right not to follow the advice to involve the Headmaster of Hogwarts in their plans, who will never see Voldemort as more than an evil that needs to be rotted out.

Hiding his true feelings behind impenetrable mental walls, Severus feigns concern. It is useless to attempt to stop Dumbledore from informing the Ministry, so he dearly hopes the scant evidence and the decline of the Headmaster's reputation will keep them from believing this tale. He needs to focus on doing what he can for his son, now. "Harrison must be protected. I will find him, make him see reason. Don't be concerned, Albus. I know you only have the best intentions. You can count on me."

Upon returning to his quarters, Severus ignores how his stomach cries out for the pile of sandwiches prepared by the Elves, crouching down by the fireplace. Just as he is about to grab a pinch of Floo powder to see whether his family his returned to Grimmauld Place, the flames flare up and show the face of his fiancé, hovering in the fireplace.

"Finally! I've tried reaching you at least a dozen times. You cannot believe the day I've had!" Pad rushes to say. Then, his eyes hush through the room. "All clear?"

"All clear, and I'll do something you hate: one-up you. For my day involved signing up as a double spy."