Harry Potter 1. Intruder

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter, I just play with him. Please review!_

Harry lay back on his bed with grim satisfaction, surveying the books he had just bought on his little spree to Knockturn Alley. It had been a whim, really, but everything had just got too much. He and his girlfriend Cho had broken up…

This led him again to wonder exactly what he had seen in her in the first place. So, she was pretty, but that was it. Why was that enough to date her? She was all wrong for him. He knew that now. There were plenty of other girls who were just as good-looking, though girls were just so _complicated. _He didn't really know how he felt about any. Hermione, since she'd shrunk her teeth, Parvati Patil, Ginny–

He stopped right there. _Think of what Ron would say. _Trying not to think about how seeing Ginny with Michael had made him feel, he carried on mentally listing his woes.

Sirius was dead. _Dead, and he's not coming back. _He was still desperately trying to somehow make his death unreal. It didn't happen. It couldn't have. But when he wondered about the outcome of going back in time to save him, every book that would tell him how to do it warned him that he could muck up the whole of history. It was Hermione who had stopped him doing it regardless.

"_You can't, Harry, there are some things that you just can't do. Your attitude puts far too much emphasis on individuals. You've got to think of the wider picture. You can't send all of history wonky."_

Harry acknowledged the truth of this, but his eyes burned to think that he would no longer be receiving letters from the closest thing to a parent he had known. The loss still pierced him like a physical blow, though the pain was growing dimmer. Then he felt it was dishonourable to Sirius' memory to feel less pain. He did not know what to think, so he moved on.

The Dursleys. Dudley seemed a little bit different from the boy he had known. He was quieter, and politer. Aunt Petunia – he didn't know what to think. She seemed grateful for the fact that she owed her son's soul to Harry, but she didn't appear to be able to sort out her feelings towards owing her son's life to a part of the world she so hated: a wizard; a _spell. _And Uncle Vernon. The reason Harry had gone on that wild goose-chase of a trip in the first place. His way of dealing with the fact that he owed his son's soul to the Patronas charm Harry had cast last summer was to convince himself that Dudley would have been better off dead, or soulless, than saved by a wand. And he'd said so, with plenty of salt and sugar about wizards in general, and Harry in particular. Harry had tried contacting Tonks, Mad-eye and Mr Weasley, who had promised to help if necessary last year, but nothing was forthcoming.

Which was why Harry had made a quiet little floo trip to Knockturn Alley to acquire a few rather nasty books on potion-brewery that he could use without evoking the Trace and being expelled under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Besides the expert-standard potions that needed power from the potioneer, a spell in the form of a potion was undetectable in the way ordinary charms were. So Hermione had mentioned in her latest letter, and he devoutly hoped she was right.

He opened the first of the books. No, he couldn't do _that _to Uncle Vernon, much as he might deserve it. He did not want to simulate werewolf venom, though the idea of his uncle suddenly finding himself with lycanthropy was attractive. No, not a potion to induce Alzheimer's. Not vampire venom, either. Not a substitute for dragon's blood – that was bound to be dangerous. These potions were truly evil. He wouldn't touch anything in this book.

The next seemed a little safer. Ah, this one promised to convince the victim that his loved ones kept becoming snails for a second every five minutes. Vernon would think he had gone mad. Wonderful. He had just lit the fire under the cauldron when he heard the _crack _of an apparator_. _Startled, he looked around, but not being bowled over by an excited Dobby, he dismissed it. He must have imagined it.

Soon, the green spiral fumes were rising from the cauldron. Harry concentrated. Potions wasn't his forte, and he had to get this _right_. Uncle Vernon deserved it. Yes, it smelled of coconut. Next. Three bones from a bat's wing. One sopophorous bean, whole. Two cups of desiccated beetle eyes. Excellent. His cauldron seethed violet. He bent low to examine it. Perfect. He could see snail shapes in the cauldron, just right too. Now his uncle could suffer.

He suddenly threw down the potions book, sickened with himself. He had gone to the street of the Dark Arts for the petty purpose of punishing the idiot who was his uncle? What was the matter with him? He hated the world, he was going mad, there it was again: _Sirius was dead_. He felt as though a part of Harry had died too – the good part, the part that would never torment a relatively harmless muggle. No, it wasn't that. Why was he doing this?

His mind, sharpened with mental pain, gave him the answer. He was distracting himself from his loss. And he would have to ask Dumbledore if he could leave Privet Drive. Now. Ron's house would give him a better atmosphere to get rid of his grief.

Besides, why wasn't anyone writing back to him? Not Ron, his father, Hermione, Mad-eye – not even Professor Dumbledore! He was stuck here with no way out. Despite everyone's assurances, this summer was as bad as the last. Or perhaps something had happened to everyone – no. He wasn't going to think that, just as he was slowly healing from the shock of losing Sirius. There must be another reason.

"If only you could talk, you'd tell me what's up," he said worriedly to his owl.

He heard the sound of a clearing throat.

Slowly, unwillingly, he lifted his eyes and met the cold, dead black ones of Severus Snape.


	2. Trapped

**_Disclaimer: _**_Harry Potter and all affiliates belong to J. K. Rowling._

"Ah, Potter. Why am I not surprised to see you expending all your energy on circumventing the law?"

This man was responsible for Sirius' death. He had goaded him into appearing at the ministry, and Sirius had _died. Stop thinking about that part._ Dumbledore thought otherwise; Harry didn't care. He was determined to hate him with every ounce of his being.

Meanwhile, Snape bent to examine his potion. "Snails? I see. For just whom were you intending this, Potter?"

Harry said nothing. Snape bent closer.

"This is unbelievable," the soft, silky voice of Snape continued. "You have actually made this perfectly. You certainly are a determined lawbreaker, if malpractice improves your potion-making."

Why did his voice have to be so sleek, so controlled? Control was Dumbledore's asset. It did not belong to this – _evil –_ man.

Snape gestured wordlessly to the cauldron, whereupon its contents vanished. "Now, Potter, come with me."

"Where to?" asked Harry. "_Sir_," he added contemptuously, catching Snape's eye.

"If the headmaster has not informed you of what is about to happen, I will not," Snape replied smoothly. "Take my arm."

Harry hated the idea of touching any part of him, so he demurred. "How can I know this will be safe?" he asked playing for time while his mind raced, trying to come up with a solution to the problem that stood before him in the form of his most hated teacher.

In answer, Snape merely grabbed his arm. At once, Harry felt as though he had been thrown into a wormhole. He was suffocating. Bands were tightening on his chest, pushing his eyebrows back in his sockets. Just when it became unbearable, his feet hit solid groud and it ended as suddenly as it had begun. He shuddered. So that was apparition.

"The Chosen One's not finding apparition comfortable enough?" Snape sneered – _gloated_, Harry told himself. The man really got a kick out of insulting him. He should give Uncle Vernon lessons.

He surveyed the room he had landed in. It was sparsely furnished, but the armchair there looked quite comfortable. There was a severe-looking sideboard and an austere coffee table, but the paintings hanging on the wall made in a pretty sort of place, though rather mugglish to be anything to do with Snape.

Snape's tone turned more businesslike. "I will have to make a golem of you –"

"You do that all the time," Harry interrupted.

"A _magician's golem_, Potter," Snape replied, as though speaking to a very small child. "That's a physical copy of your body but with no mind, though I doubt that will make too much difference in your case. I will control this golem, and use it for the plan that Dumbledore has devised. You will remain here until my return."

"I want to know what's happening!"

"If Professor Dumbledore wishes to contact you, he will do so. There is a magical connexion from Hogwarts to this house. Now, Potter, I am going to administer a potion to you, to remove the Trace. Nobody will know if you perform magic. However, I have your wand here, so you will not be allowed to take advantage of this fact, though doubtless you would like to. It is merely to ensure my own workings will not be registered." He removed a syringe from his pocket.

"No! What's wrong with taking it orally! You are not pushing any needles into me, _I don't trust you_!" He sensed, rather than saw, a very brief look of hurt cross Snape's face. No, he must have imagined it. Snape's face was smooth, his expression granite. This man was the hurter, never the wounded.

"I'm afraid this one is broken down by saliva," he replied curtly. "Your arm, Potter. It's nothing."

A quick prick confirmed this, Harry felt a slight twinge to his vein but that was all.

"Now, Potter…"

Snape flicked his wand at the bookcase, which sprang open to reveal a magician's workshop behind. Harry was impressed despite himself at the variety he saw in the room.

"Stand in the pentacle, please." Snape's voice was somehow taut, repressive. It had lost the taunting, sneering quality. Harry moved to the centre of the five-pointed star chalked on the workshop's floor, wondering why this should be so.

Snape drew his wand and began uttering incantations of great complexity, with a somehow musical quality. Slowly, a misty figure formed beside Harry, which hardened to form the body he always saw in the mirror, just the wrong way round. It was creepy. After a few flicks of Snape's wand, the thing was moving like a human – sort of. If you weren't looking too closely, you couldn't tell it wasn't human. He then raised his wand high.

"Stupefy," muttered Snape. The golem fell to the ground. Snape scooped it up.

"Now, Potter, I'm afraid I will have to ask you to do something contrary to your instincts. You are going to do as you are told. You are not to leave this room, use floo powder, apparate, or in any other way attempt to communicate with any other wizard or muggle. Is that clear?"

"Tell me what's going on first," Harry replied expressionlessly. His hatred was building up to the extent that he dared not let any of it show. If he did, it would boil over and he would attack the man with his bare hands.

"Potter." said Snape silkily, the sneering right back in his voice where it should be. "Does it not occur to you that others may have better plans for organising the future of the wizarding world than one young, over-emotional mediocre teenager?"

Harry was vividly reminded of the behaviour of Phineas Nigellus Black, a Slytherin professor, once the most unpopular headmaster of Hogwarts. He opened his mouth to protest, and Snape immobilized him almost lazily.

The man turned on his heel, then gripped his wand-hilt and left Harry more alone than he had ever been in his life.

_Please review! The next few chapters will be a lot longer - hope to keep your interest._


	3. Spanking

_**Disclaimer**__: I own nothing here; don't make money either. Any resemblance to other stories is purely coincidental._

_I'm going to try to update at least once a week. Please review._

For one, long, interminable second, Harry just lay. His mind was blank, his very existence was meaningless. Nothing really existed. But after that first long, long moment, things began to mean something again. He needed to get out of Snape's body-bind curse, without benefit of wand or incantation. And he had no idea how to cope with either lack.

Why, though? Why was it like this? Wasn't he the son of James Potter and Lily Evans, the two most talented wizards in their class at Hogwarts? Snape _was right about one thing,_ he couldn't help thinking._ I'm mediocre. I'm decent, which that bat of a potions master won't admit. But about the only things I'm good at are Quidditch and Defence against the Dark Arts. My mum was supposed to have had an instinct for potions. My dad was brilliant at transfiguration. I'm not that incredible at much, really. But I need to be now, to get out of this!_

Had Professor Dumbledore given him a hint as to how to access that power? The only time he'd done anything powerful magically was beating the Dark Lord's wand when they connected, stimulating Priori Incantatem–

That was it! It had to be something to do with Voldemort. What had they discussed about the connexion he shared with Harry? And then it came to him, voices out of the past…

His own voice: _Voldemort gave some of his power to me?_

And Dumbledore had replied: _it certainly seems so…_

That helped an awful lot. Why did that mean he hadn't inherited his parent's gifts? Wasn't Voldemort the most powerful wizard alive? Wouldn't he just be more powerful, with part of that dark wizard in him?

His whole psyche became incoherent with panic at the hopelessness of the position in which he still was. The world just became, again, one piece of meaningless nonsense, one interminable useless moment that could have been a day, a month, a year. He was helpless.

When he felt himself again, he started searching inside himself in a way he had never done before. He strained to remember what he had learnt, right at the beginning, in Theory of Magic lessons. They only gave them in the first term, it was just a bit of stuff about classes of magic-users, _What is a wizard?_, how a wand worked, that sort of thing. He remembered the seven centres of a wizard's power with a severe struggle. Weren't they called Chakras, or something? It didn't matter.

He started exploring his inner wizard, the core of his magical existence, in a way he had never done before. He felt around the edges of his own power, and found it surprisingly strong. This was strange. He hadn't thought of himself as that powerful, even with the talents of his parents and of Voldemort. So where was the missing link that would make him grow into himself?

In his heightened state of awareness, it was almost obvious. He was two unlinked halves. Slytherin and Gryffindor. His parents were the ultimate of good people. They had both been pure Gryffindor, and they had been aurors. They had risked their lives to aid the fight against the forces of evil and darkness. Voldemort, on the other hand, was Slytherin gone wrong. Salazar himself had been a masterful, powerful person; but despite his subversive talent, he had been good and a great friend of Godric Gryffindor. Somehow, he had to duplicate that unity in his own magical essence. How?

He probed even deeper, searching, searching, what clues could he find as to how he might use his power to get out of this curse? And then he felt it, around his – solar plexus, that professor had called it? And found some king of missing wire, or so it felt like it. He felt two, no four – loose ends which felt like broken rods no, cones, of pure power. He reached into himself with his mind, and carefully, carefully, slowly moved the four cones to meet, link and intertwine.

He was not prepared for what came next. His whole body, both his physical and magical selves, seemed to jolt violently sideways, as though every cell in his body had been harshly and separately jerked. A kind of numbness spread through him, slowly to be replaced by the strange feeling that he had been sleeping until now, and had only just awoken.

He now carefully, slowly probed at the body-bind curse, searching for its roots. He then, in one fluid motion, pulled it off himself, breaking free of his prison. He could move. Exhausted by the effort, he fell promptly and mercifully asleep.

* * *

Snape apparated out of the small house, leaving the brat behind him. James Potter the second, he told himself scathingly. He was not worthy of a mother like Lily Evans, just as his idiot friend Neville was unworthy of Alice. Why these worthless sons were born to the only women he had loved–

_Stop being sentimental. Help Dumbledore for their sake, but they are gone from your life_. The Dark Lord would be pleased indeed with him, making him honoured above all others. He would be even more useful as spy.

He also hated himself for agreeing to the plan. Dumbledore's trust was nothing in the light of the attitude of every other member of the Order. Why did everything have to be him, the disillusioned potions professor that few trusted, fewer still respected and almost nobody liked? Every other member was probably concerned about his treatment of the Potter brat already.

Let them worry! He thought savagely. If they were to give him the opportunity and the means to take revenge on James Potter, he would damn well take it! And the boy had turned out with the eyes of Lily Evans, so much the worse for him. He hated him doubly for it, with those green eyes in Potter's face, with that arrogantly tousled hair, that defiant chin…

His feet hit road. He barely felt the sensation of apparating anymore; he had grown so used to it with the many recent calls by the Dark Lord. His mind drifted, with the same sense of fascination that had prompted him to join in the first place. The freedom and power the Dark Arts afforded one, and the immense dignity and privilege in joining the one who would eventually establish the Dark Order throughout the wizarding world. One day, he would lead magic out of hiding, make it accessible to everyone, and teach the muggles and mudbloods their place.

Slowly, he continued walking. It had ended, though. He felt the same desolate loss as he had on the night of Lily's death all those years ago. Only Lily and Alice still bound him to Dumbledore, really. He wondered how Dumbledore knew that this was enough. He wondered a lot about Dumbledore – in vain. The man was strangely inapproachable from that angle. He would never discuss himself.

Snape considered whether to go back for the real Harry, instead of the golem slung over his shoulder. He felt a deep, very real desire to please the Dark Lord with genuine service. His loyalty to Dumbledore wavered. Lily, he told himself. And Alice. It was enough, for the present.

He reached the deserted field he needed. Slowly, he pulled back the fabric of his robes, and touched the skull branded on his forearm.

Sixty miles away, Harry jerked violently awake.

* * *

His scar pounded. He was terrified. This must have something to do with Snape's appearance, they had to be connected. His fright was overwhelming, as paralysing as the curse from which he had so recently freed himself. He had no weapon, besides the power he had recently grown into, which was still so fuzzy and indistinct. He opened his mouth to scream, and shut it again. What was the use?

He sat up, and looked more carefully around him. Pentacle, divining mirror, the workshop had it all. He had really had no idea that Snape was a fully trained magician as well as being a wizard and a potioneer. He refused to respect him more. He hated him still, with every ounce of his being. He lay back for a moment, allowing the hatred to wash over him, fill every particle of his being; he still couldn't hate him enough for what he had done to Sirius.

Now what could he do, whom could he turn to, now that his scar was giving him trouble again? It had stopped after the Ministry fiasco for some reason. He hadn't seen into Voldemort for a while. Strange. But neither Sirius nor Professor Dumbledore was here to help, to explain, to pacify. He was completely, utterly on his own.

Just as the perfect hopelessness of his situation struck him again, so forcefully that he felt compelled to sit down again and sob, he heard a crack and felt a mild rush of air. Snape had returned.

"Now, Potter, I'd like to know just what you think you were doing when I found you." Nothing about where he'd been, or what he'd done. Just a curt and somehow sneering reproach.

Snape looked at the boy in front of him, so defiant, so self-satisfied and something snapped inside him._ James Potter, you are about to earn your punishment. _A burst of magic grabbed the boy and he whipped him over his knees and commenced spanking him.

"You are now going to get what you have earned over the five years you have spent turning the wizarding world upside-down. In your first year, going after the stone like that was insane. And you risked your friends' lives as well as your own. But no! You know best, of course, and had to rely on sheer, unadulterated luck and Granger's talent to get out of being killed and gaining nothing.

"Then, in your second year, you have to run like an idiot to the Chamber of Secrets, facing Slytherin's monster alone.

"In your third year, you go running after a man whom you thought to be a criminal, again taking your friends with you."

Harry's backside seemed to be on fire. The man's hand must be terrifically strong. The strength of his blows was not abating in the slightest. The worst part is, in a sense he was right. Harry did rush into everything, and the mention of his risk of others' lives made his eyes water.

"Then this year, you went into the Ministry to confront, or so you thought, the Dark Lord himself! Never thinking before you act, a determined lawbreaker, relying on luck and the skill of your friends…

Harry was by now crying in earnest. Because Snape was right about the Ministry fiasco. He had risked it all for Sirius, and he was murdered anyway, and it was his fault. His, as much as Snape's. Maybe more. This was Cedric all over again: why did everyone he got close to have to die, why did it have to be _his fault_?

Snape finished spanking him. _There, James Potter. I have repaid your torment. _He had not expected it to feel this good, the inestimable power of holding Potter's son, spanking him, was greater than he had ever even desired. It was heady.

Harry rose, shakily, tears drying on his face.

"It's not that bad, Potter. This happens to most naughty children and they survive," Snape remarked, almost carelessly.

_They're not over _your _knee. Good job you have no children._

"Now, Potter, I think it is time to retire for the night. That door leads to a corridor, your room is the second on the left. All your belongings are there besides your wand and invisibility cloak. Bathroom first on the left." He rose to depart.

"Are you still not telling me what's going on? Sir?

"Not at present."

"When–"

"Potter." Snape said the word slowly. "Just trust. There are older and wiser people than you in the world." He paused. "As long as you are under my roof, you will have three decent meals a day, a bed to sleep in, a place to learn. I ask only a little patience and compliance. Surely even our _C__hosen O__ne _can cope with that. Tomorrow, I will outline the form your summer will be taking."

The long day and spanking had taken their toll and Harry had no strength to argue. He stumbled dejectedly through the doors Snape had pointed out and into bed, without bothering to remove his clothes, and fell mindlessly asleep.


	4. New servant?

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing, make nothing, etc._

Snape slipped quietly into the room. He gazed at the sleeping form of the son of his nemesis with some revulsion. _How easy would it have been_ _to hand him over_, he reflected. How simple, how _right._

How wrong.

He had never understood why Dumbledore had believed him, when he swore he had reformed. It had seemed so childish, so naïve. _Love, _that solution to all the world's problems. He had claimed it conquered death. And he had not really understood. Yet he saw that Dumbledore had been right. He could not hate the child enough to befit James' memory. His son? He could hardly hate James himself as much as he deserved.

_You've got to be past it., you disillusioned old potion-sucker, _he told himself viciously. He hardened, giving the brat a filthy look easily worthy of his arrogant bully of a father. Why on earth was he thinking how love had softened him? To the point that the man whom Lily chose over him should no longer earn his hate? The child would learn a little discipline over the summer under his charge (and over his lap) and he would not, could not stop hating him for his father's sake.

_Crack. _An apparator had arrived.

A knock at the door.

He rose fluidly, pausing a moment to charm the door on his way out. To even a wizard, it would have looked like the rest of the wall. He opened the door.

"Ah, Lucius."

"Severus." replied the man in a cold drawl.

Even only two months in Azkaban had taken their toll on Lucius Malfoy. His silvery blonde hair was ragged, his demeanour less arrogant. He had dressed himself in exquisite robes, but it would be a while before he would look the part of the Lord of Malfoy Manor. "I am going to have to ask a favour from you," he began reluctantly.

Snape's face remained calm. "Do continue, Lucius."

"I believe the Dark Lord is likely to request the service of my son over the summer. He will probably be one of our number before the week is out."

"How proud you must be."

"Well, actually… the 'mission' will probably be a death sentence… for my failure at the Ministry." His voice wavered slightly. "I do not wish to lose him. I wanted to send both Narcissa and Draco to my family in Italy. However, upon some investigation, I was horrified to discover that some of the fourth cousins are half-blood. In fact, the boy's third cousin once removed is a mudblood. I do not wish my son to have the idea that mixed marriages are acceptable in our circles."

"Can't have that." Snape agreed, his voice impassive.

"So will you take him? Secretly?"

"In possible defiance of the Dark Lord's wishes? Do you not remember what you swore at your induction to the highest honour in his retinue?"

Lucius was filled with obvious shame. He lowered his voice and shook his head as though about to divulge some secret obscene habit. He not did seem to know where to put himself. "Yes. But… I care for my son more than that."

"I see." Snape was curt. "Yes, I will do it."

Lucius composed himself, thanked Snape courteously, promised to deliver the boy the next week and left.

Snape could hardly comprehend the summer he had just let himself in for. Potter was bad enough alone, but spending the summer with his archenemy would make him intolerable. One thing was for certain. He was not telling Potter about this new development just yet.

* * *

Harry awoke. For a moment, he could not think where he was, and then the memories of yesterday whirled through his brain. What a summer he was in for. He got up.

That was when he discovered he could not move. Without thinking, he yelled "Snape!" He would have clapped a hand over his mouth the next second if he could, but it would have been too late anyway.

Snape swirled into the room in a manner as bat-like as ever. "Sorry, Potter, but I couldn't have you wondering all over the house in the morning, as doubtless you would have. Please take a shower and see me in the workshop when you've finished." He left, though not without the look of loathing Harry had learnt to recognise as especially his. But there was something else this time. A smirk? _Nothing for it_, he decided. _I'll just have to do as he says for now._

The bathroom turned out to be remarkably satisfactory. Harry was admiring the way the different taps shot out deliciously perfumed water, and he was really enjoying himself luxuriously wallowing in hot, hot, scented water, when the sponge attacked him. It began carefully scrubbing him all over, joined quickly by the soap, then a shampoo. Harry tried to beat them off, but they were too determined. He ducked underwater, but the showerhead pulled him out, and the various implements resumed their labours with renewed vigour. He decided to allow them to, which turned out to be the right way to treat the whole predatory bathroom. Once he got over the shock of each item bombarding him in turn, it was a fairly pleasant, if strange sensation. But what right did Snape think he had to ask his bathroom to attack him without telling him first, let alone asking him? Come to think of it, what did he mean by kidnapping him in the first place? Just what the _hell_ was going on?

He tried his hardest to escape the battering bathroom supplies, but to no avail. It was a full ten minutes later that a remarkably clean, neat Harry Potter strode purposefully down the corridor to confront the man who seemed to have appointed himself his guardian for the summer.

* * *

The Dark Lord had achieved the last thing he needed. He had Harry Potter.

His jubilation was too great, at present, for celebration. To be sure, he would present the boy's body at the next Death Eater meeting, but he would call that meeting only after he had killed him. He could not publicize it, not yet. It was too dangerous, and there was information he needed from the boy, information that would be for him alone. He would enjoy torturing it out of him. It would not be anger: that was for lesser beings, mere mortal, human servants or chattels. It would be purpose, rightness, the removal of the last obstacle.

How had Severus managed? Where almost all his most faithful servants had failed, where he himself had made unaccountable errors of judgement, Severus had succeeded. He had probably underestimated the usefulness and importance of having a man planted near Dumbledore. But it mattered little. All that mattered was the fact that the one who was chosen to defeat him was now in his power. He would allow him the chance to duel certainly, possibly in the presence of a select few. But he could not win, not against the greatest wizard ever to have walked the earth, who had travelled so far along that sacred path leading to immortality.

He knew also the reason he had failed, he, most important, most powerful, in the graveyard that previous year. Initially he had feared the child had magic he had not. But now he had Ollivander, and he knew it was a simple question of borrowing a wand. Prioi Incantatem would not save Potter now.

Severus was to be rewarded beyond his dreams. Not, of course, with any material reward. The honour of the Dark Lord would be enough for any that had entered his service at the highest level, to those inner elite, the Death Eaters.

And the child would suffer. He was going to endure long days of torture before he would be publically disposed of.

More pressing was the decision regarding Lucius. He would have to be punished for his errors. Mistakes were for lower people, not fitting for those aspiring to _his _honour. The best way would be through his son. He would set Draco a task that he would fail. He would take him into his service, even underage, and order him to kill Dumbledore. If he succeeded, he would be second only to Severus in esteem. If he failed, and he would, he would pay the price.

He sent a call out to Lucius Malfoy.

Three hundred miles away, Lucius' Dark Mark burned jet black. This could only mean two things. He was about to receive his punishment for his failure. Or Draco was to be recruited. He could not think which he desired less. Faced with no choice, he rose, gripped his wand and apparated to answer the summons.

"You have failed, Lucius." The Dark Lord's high, cold, clear voice rang out in reproach.

"A thousand pardons, my lord. I am my lord's ox, to do with as he wishes. Is there anything I can do for my master?"

"I do not need your sycophancy, Lucius. Yet Lord Voldemort is merciful. I do not ask for your life. I merely need a task done."

"Name it and it is done, master."

"Liar," the voice replied with cruel amusement. "You can no longer carry out the wishes of Lord Voldemort. You are unworthy. You know it."

"I can but apologise again, master," was the low reply.

"I need your son. His ambitions are high and noble, and he, unlike his father, has yet to fail. He will have the task of bringing about the death of the worst enemy of our kind, that champion of muggles and mudbloods: Albus Dumbledore."

Lucius' world turned black.


	5. Vision

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Harry Potter or any of the other characters._

Harry had just walked in to confront Snape, when a sudden white-hot pain burned in his scar.

"_You lied to Lord Voldemort! You sought to conceal your son from me!"_

"_I swear I did not! The boy is ready! Please let me bring him, milord, no, PLEASE!"_

"_Crucio!"_

_Malfoy was lying on the floor in front of him, screaming, writhing in agony. Harry heard himself say "Lord Voldemort cannot forgive this infraction. Your failure at the Ministry was nothing to this rebellion. You care for your son more than for your master!"_

_His scream went on and on…_

"Harry! Harry!"

With an effort, Harry dragged his mind into himself to see Snape looking down at him with obvious concern.

"Since when do _you_ call me _Harry_?" was the only thing he could think of saying.

Snape considered. What part of him had the brat stimulated to this absurd emotional reaction? He really could not be getting enough sleep these days, the thoughts that kept creeping into his mind. He replied smoothly, "I wished to bring you back here. Most normal people respond best to their first names if possessed or in any form of trance." He wondered who he was trying to fool. If he was trying to kid himself, he was failing miserably. Thank Heavens the boy didn't realise that somehow, for that split second, he had cared.

Harry did not, of course, see all this. _Blasted man has an answer to everything. I just wish I understood him – no. He is _evil. _I don't believe he is on our side. I don't want to understand him. I like it better the way it is now – nice and distant. A few snide remarks on both sides are okay too._

"Explain what you just saw, please." Snape tacked on the last word with obvious effort.

_He's trying to be decent. I don't get this. He never used to bother even trying to be polite to me. I am _not _going to reciprocate. He doesn't deserve it. _"Why does it matter?"

"One day you will learn that you do not, repeat not, always understand better than every other being on the planet what does or does not matter. I ask again, what did you just see?"

_All right, slimy git! _"He was torturing Lucius Malfoy. Said something about withholding his son…"

Snape merely nodded. _This will make concealing Draco even more difficult_, he realised. He really was dreading this summer. He was in danger of being killed or tortured to insanity for at least three reasons, not counting the fact that Potter alone would kill him of irritation in minutes at this rate. "Breakfast." He merely remarked noncommittally.

"Huh? Sorry, I beg your pardon? Sir?" _Stop being polite, idiot, before he rubs off on you!_

He gestured and Harry saw what being in Voldemort's mind had stopped him noticing: the table was set for breakfast. He could not help noticing it was a remarkably good one, and seated himself gingerly, wondering if it was all potion-ed.

"It's safe," the man remarked, as though reading his mind.

_Reading his mind! _That was it! Snape refused him information; he could cheat to get it. After slipping out of Snape body-bind curse the night before, he could try a little legilimency in the same way, by feeling round his own strength. However, Snape would throw him out of his mind quickly – he was a superb Occlumens. But he could get a bit – just a bit! What would he look for?

_I can just go for the reason he brought me here_, Harry reflected._ But this will be my first and last chance. He'll be on his guard if I do it once. I'll go much further. I'll try for the reason Dumbledore trusts him. If I get nothing, I won't have lost anything. He hates me anyway._

Harry concentrated hard, visualising his magic sticking out in a cone towards Snape, directing power at him like the best of wands. When his imaginary cone seemed to touch Snape, he focused on breaking into his mind. _Into his mind, into his mind, _he kept repeating to himself. When he felt he was almost there, he muttered under his breath "legilimens." _Why does Dumbledore trust him? _he thought, searching for the answer.

He did not expect to see much; Snape was very accomplished at Occlumency. But, before he was thrown forcibly out of Snape's mind, he caught two brief but distinct images, each of a woman. One was of Alice Longbottom, before she had been tortured into insanity. The other was possibly the last one he would have expected.

His mother.

* * *

Draco was annoyed. It was ridiculous. He would have been proud, so very proud, to serve the Dark Lord in any way he could. Now his father had said there was a possibility not only of that – there was actually a chance that he would be admitted to the Death Eaters' inner circle. This was an unheard-of honour for a teenager! What was wrong?

All his father would say was that it was a death sentence, not a mission, and if he had served the Dark Lord, he would understand what was at stake. Adults! He was sure he was up to whatever the Dark Lord would throw at him. He knew all about the other side to magic. Wasn't he heir to the Malfoy line?

At least he was going to his godfather's house. Severus might be a greasy old bat when he wanted, but he liked him. He respected him, as well. To be so high in the Dark Lord's esteem was a great thing in Draco's estimation. He still wondered why Dumbledore, that useless old man, thought his godfather was working for _him. _Obviously, Severus was Voldemort's. Obviously. It took a senile idiot like Dumbledore to think his 'repentance' was genuine. Never mind, he could settle down to a reasonable holiday at Severus if he put his mind to it. He just wished his father had let him serve.


	6. Dusk attack

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own anything on this page, nor do I make money from it._

_To those reviews that were wondering about plot inconsistencies, they are deliberate and will be cleared up._

Snape forced himself to remain controlled, though he was reeling. How had Potter done it? It had not escaped his noticed that he was free of the body-bind that he had placed on him, but that could have been a reflex, because of the burning of his scar when he'd pressed his Dark Mark. The boy had reacted to pressure by producing magic beyond his means; this was normal from a very young age. So he'd panicked, and suddenly broke the curse without knowing how he'd done it. But this… this was premeditated. The boy had chosen to break into his mind.

How dare he? Such a blatant disregard for another human being's privacy, the sheer cheek of doing it to his teacher, a man many years his senior! The Dark Lord, at least, had a right to do this to his minions, he was their superior in every respect, and in any case they had pledged themselves to his service. The boy was too immature, he would have to learn. But he would punish him with forethought; for once in his life Potter would _understand_ he was wrong. It was possible, surely. He would keep control. Leave his father out of it; he had hit James Potter the night before already.

"Potter." He began slowly. "You are aware that you have just, in your usual arrogant manner, conducted an unpardonable breach of another person's privacy?"

Harry was so stunned at what he had seen, he hardly registered. If he had, what followed might have gone differently.

"You knew my mother, sir?" He asked almost dreamily, inattentively.

At this barefaced question, all Snape's resolve to punish him rationally, not emotionally, vanished. He grabbed him just as he had the night before, whipped him over his lap, and commenced spanking him, hard and often.

"When, Potter, when will you ever understand when something is inappropriate? Not only have you just done something wrong. The concepts _I _taught you, for little thanks and no satisfaction, in order to help you, whatever you may have thought, you throw back in my face. On top of that, you have the cheek to act as though you have done nothing wrong, and even ask me to supplement what details your appallingly rude intrusion did not provide you with.

"How–" spank "–_dare_–" spank "–you!" Spank, spank!

Harry tried to hold back the tears, but he couldn't keep for much longer. But it wasn't the pain; he felt horribly guilty for his intrusion. _It's as bad as walking up to a fellow's front door and kicking it in, _he realised. _If he doesn't want you to know something, that's his business._

"I'm sorry!" he gasped. "I mean it, I really am!"

"The day – you – are – sorry – I – will – EAT – MY – KETTLE!"

Finally, he was released, gasping with sobs.

"Now go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out." Snape's voice was once again sneering and controlled.

_Why does he give me these baby punishments; what does _he _get out of it? _Fuming but also feeling really guilty, Harry left, leaving Snape alone.

_This didn't feel as good as the last time, _Snape reflected. _Do I have to be robbed of the pleasure of hitting James as well? _But James was not present there; he had hit Harry only. Why? Had he cared enough about the boy's ethics to hit him to show him he was wrong? He felt an uneasy feeling that this might be the case. He felt this about Neville Longbottom as well sometimes, he suspected. As though it made a difference to him that the Longbottom was useless, or that Potter had his father's arrogance. But then he saw Lily's eyes, and Alice's, reflected so perfectly in their sons'…

He couldn't shut this out now. It had been niggling at him ever since Dumbledore had told him the dual interpretation of the prophecy he had agreed to turn to good. _It could have been Neville or Harry. _No coincidence there.

The pain of what he had lost hit him again, enormously, he could not cope, and he was drowning in it. He retired to his room to deal with the past.

* * *

Night was falling.

The Dark Lord, alone, considered what to do with Lucius.

Once his most faithful servant, now he was both useless and faithless. He could not, physically, be punished any further for his misplace loyalties except by death. His son might prove a worthy servant, if he could only recruit him, and it would complete Malfoy's downfall much more amusingly than merely disposing of Lucius, though this he would doubtless do in the future, when he was sure of Draco's loyalty. When this would happen, Draco could carry out his own father's death, just as Crouch Jr had killed his father and Bellatrix her cousin. That was loyalty – beyond the bond of blood.

He would enter, without warning, Malfoy Manor, and take Draco in front of his father, out of his very arms if need be. There was no doubt that Draco was willing. If a fight should break out, he could bring his guard, the Death Eaters, to support his side. Malfoy could but lose.

Slowly, he rose into the air, without benefit of Thestral, hippogryph or broom, flying towards the Manor with the sense of rightness and purpose that accompanied such a task.

* * *

Night was falling at Malfoy Manor.

Lucius had almost finished making the arrangements for his own escape, having secured his son's life with the boy's godfather. Narcissa was miserable at the prospect of hiding for the rest of their lives, but understood it was necessary to save their lives. Only Draco could not come to terms with the change in their lives.

Draco could not understand why they were uprooting their lives over him. It was not just irritating that his parents were terrified of his being recruited by the Dark Lord. It was upsetting. He cared about his father; he was proud of him, of his devotion to the greatest wizard who ever lived. He was lowering himself in his son's eyes. He was betraying his own greatness, wasn't he? He was almost a blood traitor, in a way, renouncing his devotion to the dark side. Wasn't that the most prominent of Malfoy traits?

Draco had no idea what his stay at Snape's house would really entail, and, therefore, proceeded to indulge liberally in dreams of the fun he could have with Sev over the summer. The old bat wouldn't teach him new magic, he was all about keeping rules, but they could enjoy themselves. Sort of. They used to banter a lot, real insults, but neither went too far. Mostly, they used to talk.

Because Draco may have respected, even loved his father, but they were distant; he couldn't talk to him. He confided in Snape, both as godfather and his head of house at school. He couldn't wait to face him again in that familiar battered armchair. Only four days.

A piercing shriek rent the air as Voldemort broke through the Manor's wards.


	7. Fight and flight

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own any of the original characters or settings._

_I've been putting off writing the next two chapters because I was really worried about how they would come out. Please tell me what you think!_

Lucius knew what this meant. This was the end. He would get Draco out before he died, but he was doomed. He was in a state of such perfect resignation, he was actually keeping calm. _Get Draco out, and Narcissa too if you can manage it. Stay calm, and you'll be able to save them,_ he told himself. He had seconds, possibly minutes. He had to do so _much _in those minutes, those impossibly precious seconds.

"_Portus_!" he murmured over a pair of small stones.

He ran to his wife. "Cissy, this is the end. I failed my master, and I will pay the price. This is a portkey, it will take you away to safety in Italy. It's leaving in two minutes. Take it and go!"

"Lucius, no, you can't be serious... no!"

Strange, how just as he was about to leave her for good, he was so vividly, intensely aware of how much she meant to him. He had never thought of himself as being in love – he had dedicated his life to service of the dark, which was really incompatible with emotion. Only now, when he was about to be wrested from her, did he realise that he did love her. And now she was in danger from the Dark Lord, he wondered how he could ever have worshipped him. He had torn apart other families, other relationships, but this had not registered properly – that was the Dark Arts! But now it was _his_ wife that was in danger, so he understood what was wrong with Dark Magic. A pity he had not understood earlier.

"Narcissa..."

She took him fiercely by the hand. "Lucius!" was all she said. He kissed her for the last time, not daring to draw it out, absorb the energy flowing between them, absorb the feel of her, for the last time... the thought broke him.

"Goodbye, Narcissa... I love you." He marvelled over the perfect truth of what he was saying.

The stone glowed blue, and she vanished.

He took the other portkey and called "Draco!"

He was too late. The white, inhuman face of his master appeared over the edge of the manor just as his son arrived at his side.

_No! _Lucius shouted silently. He would have to throw the thing to Draco just before it went off, if he lasted that long. Three whole minutes duelling the Dark Lord was more than most wizards were up too.

The second Voldemort landed on the ground, the fight began.

"_Crucio_!"

"_Protego_!"

It was only seconds before the charms became silent; the duel was too fast and furious for incantations. Curse after curse shot from each wand. Draco drew his wand, using all the hexes his father had showed him, but even both of them were no match for the darkest wizard ever to walk the earth. Stunners, leg-lockers, body-bind hexes and even unforgivable curses were deflected with almost lazy skill.

Lucius threw out a binding that was supposed to be unblockable. He saw it wrap round his opponent and his heart leapt. But then Voldemort laughed coldly and the binding returned to him, a hissing snake. He tried to send it back as a series of magically guided cursed arrows, with Draco adding the curses to them, but Voldemort conjured up a strange misty shield of poisonous green colour, into which they all sank, harmless.

He then tried lifting a garden fountain and dropping it, but Voldemort's reflexes were too good and it did not even go near him, but returned as a horrible man-trap, which he was forced to blast apart with the reductor curse.

After two minutes, Draco was sweating and Lucius was beginning to flag. Lucius felt the Dark Lord brace himself to give the final blow, and readied himself to throw the portkey, due to go off in a minute to Draco. _It should take him ten miles from Severus's house: just outside the wards but close enough to register his presence. No wizards without a Dark Mark can apparate or portkey any closer to the place, even if it's just some muggle muck-heap– no. They are people too, even if it's taken me a lifetime to see it._

"_Crucio_!"

Lucius was just too slow to parry the hex and collapsed screaming on the ground.

"Dad!" screamed Draco, losing all caution.

"Should I stop hurting your daddy?" he inquired in his high, cold voice. "I think not. He has failed, he has been disloyal, and he must be punished."

Voldemort released Lucius, who fell to the ground with no colour in his face. He ignored him. "No, I do not need Lucius your father. However... there are others I might. You, for instance."

Draco was startled, hopeful and desolated all at once. "Me?"

"Yes, Draco. You show bravery and talent in defence of your father, worthless though he now is, you have the right attitude towards muggles and the usurpers of magical secrets, the mudbloods, and you come of noble stock. Heir to the Malfoy line, no less! I ask you, therefore: will you join the ranks of those elite, pushing and fighting for the establishment of the correct wizarding order?"

Draco was turned into turmoil. The choice he had been waiting for – for years! He could join, he would rise high in the esteem of some of the greatest wizards ever! He could finally carry out the missions that would prove his worth to everyone – himself included! This was the life he had chosen for himself long ago. And revenge! on all those people who richly needed it. He could rid the world of people like Dumbledore. He began imagining what killing Granger would feel like...

"I see you are thinking positively," remarked the high, cold voice opposite him. "You will make a valuable servant indeed, Malfoy."

The sound of Voldemort's voice brought Draco back to where he stood. His father's eyes pleaded with him from the ground, his head gave a tiny shake. _This is what's wrong with the Dark Arts, _Draco realised, only moments after his father had just understood the same thing. _It takes away the people you care about – or other people's close ones. I can't. It's not the way I thought. It's wrong._

Voldemort interrupted his thoughts again. "I'm afraid, Draco, if I won't have you, nobody will. _AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

Lucius threw the portkey at Draco that was due to go any second, and threw himself in the path of the curse.

"DAD!..." Draco's scream was swallowed up in the portkey's flight through space.

* * *

He landed on the grass, winded, blinded with pain.

"Dad... _Dad..._" he called hopelessly, though he knew his father had gone from where he could not call him back. The lonely moon sailed into a cloud at the horizon, as the pain washed through him, the sense of loss and shock overwhelming him, he could not breathe, this could not be happening. One day earlier, he had been looking forward to an enjoyable summer at Snape's. Now, he had seen his father die to save him, by the hand of the man he had revered above all others, and had thus been disillusioned of the principles he had believed in, even worshipped, all his life. He was left fatherless, purposeless, sent away he knew not whither, entirely and impossibly lost.

_This is the end of Draco Malfoy. Stripped of mentor and direction, abandoned, lost, devoid of hope, _he thought desolately. _Nothing is left in my life but agony, nothing matters but the pain I am in. This is the end._

The moon sank beneath the horizon, leaving the boy with nothing but his own blinding heartache, no visual distractions, just pain and darkness. It seemed like forever, an endless agonising century, before the first rays of dawn broke, lighting the tussock on which he had fallen.

He heard the _crack _of an apparator. He jumped, startled.

"Draco?"

The profile of Severus Snape stared down in austere pity.

_I know this is a bit confusing, the continual change of setting. The next chapter will be Snape up to this point, then Harry. Please bear with me – and let me know what you think._


	8. Memories

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing, make nothing, the usual. Some of this is transcribed from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows._

_This is after Harry read Snape's mind. Soon everyone will be together and I'll stop changing perspective._

Snape lay back on his bed in the dark, staring into emptiness, the pain of the memories Lily's son had brought up to agonising for tears. He felt as though his whole body, his whole spirit, was cruelly stretched across a wire frame. Each memory, the blinding, suffocating pain of the rejection he had twice suffered in Hogwarts, was a sharp bright steel stake driven through him. And he lay, enduring the pain of all his memories at once.

_Why, why, did this all have to happen? Why could I not have been different, claimed what easily could have been mine? But I know I deserved it. I earned rejection._

Exchanging one pain for another, he travelled through his school years, experiencing the pain of each steel stake of each memory, one by one, the agony that had ultimately changed the course of his life to good.

* * *

Even before Hogwarts, that's when it really started. Lily. Spinner's End, where he lived, was a short distance from the house in which Lily grew up.

He was waiting behind a tree, that was it. He had often seen her swinging in the park, obviously magically, and had wanted to get to know her. But her muggle sister had spoiled it all.

"Lily! Mummy said you mustn't, it's dangerous!"

"But I'm fine, Tuney," she giggled. "Look what else I can do." She somehow managed to make some flower's petals open and close, Petunia watching raptly.

"How do you do that?"

This was where he came in. He'd been working on himself to approach her for a while and this was the best moment.

"It's obvious, isn't it? You're a witch."

"That's not very nice!" she replied indignantly.

Snape remembered even then, struggling desperately to salvage the meeting.

"No ... really ... my mum's one too – and I'm a wizard."

Petunia interrupted here, ruining it completely. He still felt the disappointment. "Wizard, right! You're that Snape boy who lives at Spinner's End near the river!"

Almost involuntarily, he broke a tree branch above her head by magic, it hit her and she burst into tears.

"Come on Tuney, we're going!" Lily said, with an angry backward glance.

Even if he was only eleven, the sense of letdown was keen. He'd been planning that moment for ages, and it had all gone wrong...

* * *

Despite Petunia's best efforts, they were soon friends, being the only wizard children for miles around.

"Did you get your letter yet?"

"What, from Hogwarts?"

"Yes, where else?"

"No. Sev... Petunia says it's not true, about Hogwarts. She said you're making it up, it's not real."

Snape's mother was a born and bred Slytherin, and her dislike of muggles and muggle-borns had come out in Severus, her son. He could almost hear his younger self thinking _why does she care about what that muggle sister of hers says? Why does it get to her? Why does she matter? _Controlling his irritation at Petunia, he insisted "Of course it's real! Not for her. But we'll both get the letter."

He remembered the confidence with which he spoke about Hogwarts, wizardkind. It was his destiny.

"Someone will come and explain to your parents, because you're muggle-born, so they have to have it all explained."

Then she asked the question which he could not understand his own answer for another decade and a half.

"Does it matter, being a – a muggle-born?"

Of course it did. But not for her. It didn't matter that _she _was a muggle-born.

"No. It – doesn't matter." Why he said that, he didn't understand for years. _Of course_ it mattered. But somehow not for Lily.

* * *

Petunia had made her last parting shot just before they went on the Hogwarts express. She'd called the two of them freaks, and said she hated them fiercely and was glad they were going.

Lily had run into the train crying, into the carriage where James Potter and Sirius Black were sitting. Severus had run to comfort her but she told him to go away.

"Tuney says she h-hates m-me. B-because we're going … it's all y-your fault!"

_Why does she care? _"So?"

"So she's my sister!"

"She's only a -." He stopped, and tried to make her happy instead. He didn't like this. "This is it! We're off to Hogwarts!"

In spite of herself, she smiled. "What house do you think we'll be in?"

"You'd better be in Slytherin." About this he had been sure. She was too good for anything else – and he needed her to be with him.

Potter suddenly interrupted here, with the arrogance that he had hated so much, hated still, the arrogance with which he had convinced himself he was worthy of Lily. "Who would want to be in Slytherin? I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"My whole family have been in Slytherin," said Sirius, unsmiling.

"Blimey, and I thought you seemed all right! I'll be in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart!"

Ridiculous. Snape snorted a bit too loudly.

"Got a problem with that?"

"No, but if it's brains you want, not just muscle…"

"Where are you planning on, seeing as you've neither?"

"Come on Severus, let's find another compartment." Lily, to his devout relief, seemed to find Potter as obnoxious as he did.

"See ya, Snivellus!"

* * *

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The disappointment. Lily was good enough for Slytherin, she _was_, why didn't the hat see it? But what was done was done. They were in different houses, but he hoped they could be friends nonetheless. Naturally, he did not revise his low opinion of the Gryffindor House in general, but Lily was an exception. That was just the way she was. She was a muggle-born and it didn't matter, so now she was a Gryffindor, that didn't matter either. As long as she was _his_.

* * *

They grew closer over the first three years of Hogwarts. Then in their fourth year, their relationship became something more, as friendship blossomed into love…

It was in a deserted classroom. They were discussing what makes a great wizard. They kept listing attributes that were essential to a wizard, but found that they were just describing each other. Their descriptions got more and more personal, until finally Lily said "You know what?"

He caught her eyes and held them, questioning.

She met his gaze with such intensity he thought he would pass out. "I think the perfect wizard is… Severus?"

They didn't need words. Without planning or design, they just moved forward, swept by their emotions, without thinking about it he was kissing her, again and again. She was kissing him back; it was endless, blissful oblivion. Nothing mattered in those minutes – or what seemed like several beautiful summer days – but Lily, the feel of her lips on his, one hand around her back, holding her close, perfection…

When it finally ended, she said softly, "Severus, I think I… love you."

A bubble of pure, joyous laughter made its way out of his mouth. "I love you too, Lily."

Bliss.

* * *

But it didn't last long enough. The Slytherin came out in him, and Lily began objecting to his choice of friends.

"Listen, Sev, it's not as though I love you less, but really, what do you see in Mulciber? And _Rookwood_! That boy is evil!

"What's wrong with them, they just like a laugh… not as arrogant as _Potter's _lot…"

"This has nothing to do with Potter", thank_ heaven. I thought she was choosing him over me, "_but you have to choose better mates! Their idea of fun is just evil; didn't you see what Mulciber did to Mary MacDonald yesterday? That's Dark Magic, and if you think that's just _having a laugh…_"

"No, but you have to admit, better them than Potter… arrogant prat…" The words were forced out of him: "he _fancies _you, James Potter fancies you! Not what people think… big Quidditch hero…" he was so jealous he could hardly speak.

"Listen, Severus." Would his heart never stop thrilling when she said his name? "I know James Potter is an arrogant toerag, but your friends are just evil. I don't understand how you can like them."

But after she insulted Potter, he'd heard all he wanted to hear. Nothing else mattered or registered.

* * *

Then came that terrible day after the DADA OWL…

Distantly, as though separate from himself, he heard himself shout the word that ruined his life. _Mudblood._

There was no going back – and no forgiveness to be earned.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not interested."

"I really am sorry!"

"Save your breath."

"Look, Lily, I didn't mean it, it just sort of –"

"Slipped out? Listen, this is over. Most of my friends don't understand why I even talk to you; let alone why I ever loved you. You've chosen your path, I've chosen mine. They're incompatible. Finished. _I don't trust you._" He remembered that it stung when Harry said that too. He still remembered.

"But I didn't mean –"

"To call me mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth mudblood. Why should I be different?"

Why was she? _Because I love you, you impossibly amazing person._

She turned on her heel and walked out of his life.

* * *

He was sobbing like a baby, unrestrained, he didn't care. Curled up into a ball, he poured out his agonising rejection in the corner of a deserted corridor. Nothing mattered but his own broken heart. He heard footsteps, but didn't even try to calm his tears. It was Alice Smith, sixth-year Gryffindor prefect.

"Severus? Is that you?"

He did not respond.

"Listen, I heard what happened between you and Lily. If you want, you can talk about it."

How sissy and _counsellor-_ish. But it was somehow comforting, though his bitterness for Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was uppermost in his mind and heart at that moment, and that was what stimulated his reply.

"Why do you care? Haven't you lot all been taught to hate us Slytherins, that we're utter evil?"

She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Evil and real love are incompatible. Someone with that much emotional capacity over lost love cannot be inherently bad."

* * *

That began a new period of light in his life. Of course, no girl could ever have replaced Lily, but they came to love one another, and in their seventh year they were dating. Alice's patience was almost endless, she was the one who helped him get over Lily, and then put up with the lost love hanging over their relationship, but she did not seem to mind too much.

He could not help making comparisons, especially in the beginning. Naturally, he said nothing aloud, but she could usually tell when he was thinking of Lily. She just stayed with him, there for him, not interfering. She did not have the fire of Lily, but hers was a beautiful personality in its own right – quiet, perhaps, but very strong.

"So what do you think you're doing after you leave, Alice?"

"Join the aurors, definitely. I can't think of a better way to spend my life and talents than fighting evil."

"Hmmm. Do you think you'll be making a difference to the world as an auror?"

"Unequivocally. So, Sev, what are you going to do?"

This was what he dreaded. His desire to join the Death Eaters grew daily. That desire still haunted the adult Snape, today. But he couldn't tell Alice. Not after Lily.

"Probably something like that. Skills, hard work, fulfilment, making a difference." _And we'll be working on opposite sides. This is horrible. All my dreams overturn my life._

"I can't wait, really, for life to start. I can get out and do stuff!"

"That's pretty soon for you, Al," he reminded her, and lay against her shoulder after a quick kiss, though his insides were doing the strangest things.

* * *

It was Christmas holidays, and he was taking the time off to go out with her.

"How's work?"

"Not too good. We have a lead or two on Lucius Malfoy, but that's about it, really."

_Lucius? He was my prefect! Hope it goes nowhere. _"Good luck on finding more. What can I say? You aurors do the greatest job!"

"Thought about after school, then?"

"Yes. Most of the careers involved a very happy event. And you were in it." He chuckled.

"Oh, it's like that, is it, master Severus?"

"Of course, love, what else?"

"Careers-wise?"

"Not much. I'm getting careers advice from y head hof house, Slughorn, soon. Should be helpful."

"Good." She stood up. "Coming to my flat with me for a bit?"

He was startled. Surely she didn't mean…?

"Yes, I'd love to, darling."

"Come _on _with the endearments. I'm eleven months your senior!"

"No problem, baby."

She laughed. "Take my arm."

* * *

Alice had a decent flat. It was a nice size, and aurors were paid well, so it was well and tastefully furnished. She brought him up to the bedroom.

_Don't tell me she's thinking that. I'd love to, but – she can't really mean it like that._

"What do you think?"

"Nice place you have here."

"That's not the point. I meant the _bedroom._"

_So she does mean it. This is incredible. _"It's beautiful."

"You think so?" she asked, her light tone belying the intensity of her gaze, so like Lily's and so different –no. Not the time for comparisons.

They moved slowly together, about to take their love to the edge of its passionate expression. They were touching, kissing, but it was more than that – and then she stepped back.

_Why did we have to stop?_ His eyes asked her.

"It's not right… Not now… much as I want to. It will wait until after school – and until we're… engaged…"

The wonderful sound of that word on her lips. It tempered the disappointment a little.

"Until then –" he began.

"Never doubt that I love."

* * *

He was already a Death Eater when he came to ask her hand in marriage. He invited her out as usual, but prepared a nice romantic proposal, just perfectly made to suit her.

The meal was over, and they went to walk in the park together. In the middle of a glade, he turned to face her.

"Before your entry to my life, I was a wreck, a shattered vessel…" he began diffidently.

"…light of my life; its purpose, meaning and happiness. I ask you, Alice Janet Smith, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

She had opened her mouth to accept.

_That _was when the wind blew up the left sleeve of his robe. Not much and not for long. But enough for her to see the brand on his left arm. She looked at him, shocked. "Tell me it's not true."

He said nothing, and then she pleaded. "Tell me it's just a joke, please, Severus…"

His eyes betrayed his guilt; there was nothing he could say. She said slowly, through the tears coursing down her face. "I c-can-not-t acc-ep-pt."

The grabbed him and kissed him fiercely, the tears of both mingling on each face. "I loved you, Severus. I'm sorry." Through the blinding tears and pain, he saw her turn and leave.

She never looked back.

* * *

Now he lay, staring through the ceiling, stretched across the studded universe of himself, reliving his rejection again, and again, and again. The pain was too much to bear. He would have to pay tribute to Lily by telling her son they could start again. He had to be honest with himself and admit he no longer hated the boy as much as he used to. He could try to ignore they had put each other through. It would take time for friendship to grow, but for Lily he could summon up a little tolerance and respect. Maybe he could then be more at peace.

* * *

Harry suddenly felt a white-hot pain shoot across his scar yet again. He collapsed to the floor of the bedroom… listening to himself offer Draco a place with the Death Eaters… reading Draco's mind, seeing him reject the Dark Arts, surprising… then seeing Lucius die to save his son, by his hand…

"Harry! Harry!" Snape shook him out of his trance. "What did you see?" He sounded urgent.

"I saw… Voldemort kill Lucius Malfoy. He wanted to kill Draco, but Lucius jumped in the way of the curse…"

Snape left the room, agitated. His job this summer had reached epic proportions, and Draco had lost a parent. He didn't know whether this would make it easier or harder. Would Draco even be able to get to Spinner's End?

The alarm bells of the wards answered his question; he apparated instantly to meet Draco – or so he hoped.


	9. Strange offer

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing; make nothing – usual_

_The plot thickens…_

Draco was more confused and upset than ever at Snape's appearance. He was standing over him with austere pity, really seeming as though ready to comfort, to console, and to somehow make it come all right. As usual, where others might have seen Snape the overgrown bat of a potions professor, he saw Severus the human, a tower of strength to the lucky few of his acquaintance. But what could he say to him now? The man was still the Dark Lord's most faithful servant, second only to Bellatrix in rank; he just didn't understand it was all wrong. He didn't see it hurt the ones you cared about. What could he have to do with the servant of his father's murderer? But he loved him still. Oh, it was agonising.

"Draco?"

"I'm… coming, Severus." _I just hope I really want to._

"Listen, Draco, we have to talk when we get back to the house. Are you ready for it, or do you want to wait a few days?"

The pain of his father's death still pierced him like an actual physical blow each breath he took. Was he ready to talk? _Yes. I have to. I have to tip him off that I'm not for _Him_ anymore. He's not Bellatrix – he won't kill me for it. Yes. _"Yes, Severus."

He grabbed his arm and they apparated.

Harry was wandering around aimlessly, having no idea where Snape was, having nothing to do. He thought he'd make a ramble of the house. He was still preoccupied by what he'd seen in Voldemort's mind. Was Malfoy's dad really dead? It might have been a false image, he'd had that before – and he'd run off to deal with an imaginary crisis that became real and resulted in Sirius's death. _It was all my fault. _But Snape seemed to think it was real; it was as though he'd been expecting it…

BANG.

"Ouch!" shrieked Harry, colliding with a rather sulky-looking wall. "Was that your fault or mine?" He enquired angrily of the wall, rubbing his head.

"Mine", came a chuckled reply.

"Oh classic, of _course _Snape keeps a poltergeist that bashes walls around. What better ornament for a house?"

"Excuse me? I'm a wall!"

"The hell you are, idiot." Harry couldn't understand what was making him talk to the wall – literally! – but he continued. "Believe that, you'll believe anything. I've learnt how to recognise poltergeists. Come OUT!"

The creature that peeped out from behind the corner was as different from Peeves as was possible. He was long and lean, not fat; he dressed in robes and ermine, not like a court jester. A crown bobbed on his head. But those wicked little eyes were exactly the same. Oh great, what am I to do with this nutcase? Even Peeves didn't go bashing around with the walls. Now what was that mischief-stopper Lupin showed us? He slowly pulled power out of himself with great difficulty, the way he did it to read Snape's mind. When he was holding his magic in his hand, he pointed a finger at the poltergeist. Not losing an ounce of his concentration, he shouted "_Waddiwasi_!"

He grinned as the wall he was messing with rapped him smartly on the head and pushed him out of sight. But this was getting creepy. Why was he suddenly able, albeit with difficulty, to control his magic so effectively? He would have to contact Dumbledore someday; it couldn't be normal.

He continued his tour. He discovered another bathroom, but backed out quickly, remembering his treatment at the hands of the last one. He had found Snape's study, and was just opening the next door when he heard the murmur of voices from the other end of the house. Wonderingly, he followed the sound, and stopped just outside the front room with the battered armchairs…

"Draco?"

"I just can't believe he's… gone… I mean, I was one minute preparing to come here for a great summer and now it's over his body…" Draco's pain finally overwhelmed him, and finally, the blessed tears came, washing him cleaner of his grief. It felt a bit better, if only it weren't for that bit of him which said he was being a child. But he ignored it, and sobbed unrestrainedly like a baby. It was immensely comforting, too, that Snape made no remark, just placed a hand on his shoulder that seemed to say, softly, "I'm here if you need me."

Finally, after a long time, Draco regained control of himself. "Listen, Severus. I – I can't really explain but – but – it's not really like we think it is… it's wrong, all wrong, you have to see…" he burst into tears afresh.

"Snape watched silently, a hand on his shoulder still, wondering how exactly to show he echoed the sentiment. The boy had learnt what he did at Lily's death and Alice's derangement. "I know. It happened to me."

Harry watched astounded. _Snape's human. I would never have guessed it. What's Draco doing here? And his dad _is _dead. _His thoughts were a whirl of feelings. Dizzily, he stumbled back to his room. What he had just seen replayed itself over and over in his mind. He fell on his bed, still in a state of dazed shock.

_His father's dead._

_I don't care. I hate him._

_He's lost his father!_

_I still don't care. He just loves the Dark Arts. He's evil. The world is better off without his dad, anyway._

_He still lost a parent! Look at what happened to you when you lost Sirius!_

_Sirius was worth keeping._

_Everyone's worth keeping to someone! Look – you're in the same boat now. Didn't his dad die to save him?_

_Now he's as safe as I am…_

Harry shoved his fingers in his ears, but it did nothing to shut out the voices in his head.

_If he can have real grief, he's not evil. Evil people have no real emotions. Look at Voldemort._

_I really don't give a damn for his emotions. He's done his best to torment the life out of me since we first met._

_He didn't understand! Maybe he was just jealous of the attention and didn't know what it felt like!_

_I don't for a second believe that._

BANG.

"Not again!" Harry groaned as Clive popped into sight holding what appeared to be a large wad of well-chewed paper and began to plug it into the doorframe.

"O yes," chuckled the poltergeist evilly. "last meeting was a bit too brief –"

"_Waddiwasi!_" came a shout from the doorway, the pulpy mess in the frame plugging itself into Clive's mouth.

Harry turned so fast he got a crick in the neck.

"Don't I even get my room to myself?" he shot angrily at Snape.

The man seemed at a loss for words. Most out of character. And where was that sneer? He must have forgotten to paste it back on after comforting Draco, that was it. "Harry."

"Huh? Sorry, I beg your pardon, _Sir_?"

"Listen, Harry. Fro reasons I will explain later, we are both stuck in this house for the summer, Draco as well. If we are to leave without murdering each other" he chuckled grimly "then I think we'll all have to leave the past behind us. What do you say, Harry. Are you willing to start afresh?"


	10. Fire!

_**Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter and all its affiliates belong to J. K. Rowling._

_With sincere apologies, I have now included a warning of the corporal punishment this story contains in its synopsis. Thank you to the reviewer who brought this to my attention._

Harry lay back, stunned. Was this some kind of sick joke? He studied the man's face carefully. The sneer was indeed gone, though by the tensing of the muscles about his temple, it cost the other an enormous effort to keep it off. This couldn't be really happening; it was a dream, it _must _be. It was no poltergeist banging on the wall, just Uncle Vernon trying to wake him up. Draco's sobs were Dudley's, crying over his meagre grapefruit of a breakfast. No, no, it was his imagination. He had almost made himself believe it was all fake when Snape made a small encouraging noise.

"Mmm?"

"Why's Draco here?" was all he managed to get out.

Snape's jaw tightened. "He has nowhere else to go."

"Oh. Right." Harry still couldn't make any meaningful comment; his mind was still racing, trying to find a good reason why Snape was being civil. It stank of a trap, but the man in front was him was pale and upset – it was his Death Eater pal who's dead, after all! – but seemed very much in earnest. This was mind-blowing. He supposed he could agree, much as he hated him, but be doubly on his guard. Who knows what the man would do if he refused, anyhow? It was safer this way. "We can try." He said cautiously.

The man opposite him relaxed. _Now_, Snape thought, _I can get the golem's self off of him. I can take that burden. It might help Pot- Harry trust me. It'll make life a lot easier for me in the process. _"Now, Potte- Harry, there is something I have to do. It might not be comfortable, but it will help in the long run."

"What is it?"

"_Trust me, Potter._"

Harry considered this. Snape had had plenty of chance to kill him or hand him over and not done either. He supposed it would be all right to say yes. "Okay."

"Hold out your right – you are right-handed? – forefinger."

Harry held it out, wondering what on earth Snape could be up to. Did he want to use it in Polyjuice potion? No, it wasn't that, or he would just cut it off, without asking, maybe when he was asleep. The man's face took on a look of intense concentration, like when he had created the golem the night before. It felt like years ago_. _Harry felt some kind of force flowing out of him through his finger. He started to panic, but Snape said calmly, "Don't push, Pot- Harry, help me." Harry carefully aided the flow, gently, gently, pushing forward. He could feel the presence of the other man's magic pulling from opposite. After about ten minutes of this two-way encouragement, the whatever-it-was that Snape was trying for was pulsing right at the end of his finger.

Snape, not breaking the flow of his concentration for an instant, took a pair of nail scissors out of the air. "The muggle way?" Harry asked, perplexed. Not very Snapelike. Snape frowned slightly, and slowly, as though it was made of granite, cut through his fingernail. Harry felt the effort of the incision, but remained focussed on keeping that weird, pulsing whatever-it-was firmly in his nail. Then Snape detached the nail, slowly. Harry felt as though his arm was being wrenched out and he screamed, but stopped as he realised he wasn't actually in pain. Snape was gasping with the effort of pulling that nail away from his finger. "Help me." He said in a low voice, hoarse with the strain. Harry tried pushing that bit of himself _through _his nail, there was soon a gap of a foot between the nail and the end of his finger, but it was by no means separate, and both were sweating, concentrating on pushing the pieces apart, pushing and pushing. Finally, when Harry was almost groaning aloud with the effort, the connexion started to give and then snapped. The sudden release of tension was too much an Harry collapsed.

Snape himself reeled after the sudden snap, but collected himself, poured a potion down Harry's throat and left. He would have to save his energy to absorb the force he'd isolated in the nail, or the Dark Lord would catch on that the Potter he had was fake. That would be much more difficult.

* * *

Harry continued his explorations. This turned into a fierce battle every other minute with the poltergeist, whose name he found was Clive, over the position of the walls and the candelabra on the ceiling. He was fighting back harder now, and Harry was having to put more and more power behind the mischief-stopper, and each time he was worried he would not be equal to the task the next time. It wasn't that he cared if the thing destroyed the house, but he hated to lose a fight – even wandless and exhausted from the efforts of the earlier spell. He also found his scar ws beginning to trouble him a bit.

For the twelfth time, he shouted "_Waddiwasi_!" at Clive, as he tried to mangle a door into saying 'Piss off, Potter'. A splinter flew out of the keyhole, trying to lodge itself in the poltergeist's nose, but he put out a hand, pushing hard, and it returned unwillingly to the door. Harry repeated the charm, and this time, Clive somehow deflected it off his hand in such a way that the spell hit the door with a devastating crash.

"Oh." Harry couldn't think what had happened. Poltergeists didn't have this much power; it must somehow have been him. Snape came billowing, bat-like, down the passageway, asking Harry just what he thought he was up to. _Dang, that man has an instinct for trouble. _"It was Clive – Sir," he said nervously, hands behind his back.

"Potter. Can I not even leave you for one hour without you somehow making a hash of something or other? Do you want Draco to know you're here?"

"I – well, I thought it would be okay just to look around a bit… anyway, why on earth do you keep a _poltergeist_?"

"That, Potter, is neither here nor there. If you need something, ask for it. If you want a drink, ask me. If you want to explore, ask me. I you're hungry, ask me. Not all parts of this house are safe; Clive isn't the worst thing you'll find." Snape sagged against the wall, he really didn't look good. Harry's scar was seriously starting to bother him, too.

"Sorry, Sir." Harry tried hard to mean it, and almost succeeded. "Would you like me to repair the door?" Wow, he sounded quite polite. Dangerous.

"Can you?"

For answer, Harry went through the now familiar motions of drawing himself out into his hand, pointed a finger and said "_Reparo_!" The door healed itself beautifully.

"I'll have to get Professor Dumbledore to talk to you about this," said Snape vaguely, and swept painfully away. What was the matter with him?

* * *

Three hours later, Harry walked into the front room to ask for lunch, and found it ready on the table. Snape remarked "Draco's had already. I hope you intend to keep out of my mind this meal."

Harry reddened, thinking of the unpardonable breach of Snape's privacy he had conducted that morning. The man opposite him was wincing too – repeatedly. Each time he winced, Harry's scar prickled, and it was getting worse and worse. Something was seriously not right about the whole thing, but he tried to make light of it. "No, I don't think so. Not _this_ time, Sir. Snape?"

The man had slumped in his chair, unconscious. He was on _fire_! Harry screamed. And screamed again. The noise brought Draco running in, and each boy eyed his archenemy with horror over the flaming body of Severus Snape.


	11. Welcome visit

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own any of the original characters or settings used in this story._

_Meanwhile… Voldemort's POV._

Ah, the glory, the power. He had his enemy in his hands, torturing him, glorious…

Behind him stood his most trustworthy lieutenants: Bellatrix, Rudolphus, and Rabastan. The late! – Lucius had lost that position. Severus should also have been present, but he wished for his part in this triumph to be concealed. His duties as a spy would be useless if Dumbledore got to hear of his handing the boy over…

"_Crucio!_"

The boy writhed on the ground, screaming. The sense of righteous power filled him, as he raised his wand to the tortured boy to deal the final blow. No, it would be better if he allowed the boy a chance to defend himself: that would be much more amusing, and also would be a far more satisfying defeat. "Bellatrix," he said softly, not taking his eyes off the child's face, "I require your wand."

Shock showed in every part of her face. She evidently thought she was being, for some reason, reprimanded. "I would like to give him a chance," he explained. "It will be a lot more meaningful that way, and it is not as though the boy can win."

"Certainly, my Lord." She said lovingly, and handed the instrument over. He offered it to the boy, and they began duelling. It was fairly weak. He began taunting. "Harry Potter, the boy who lived. The one who survived by the blood of his mother, and now lives by the blood of his friends. No longer crouching and snivelling behind the luck and the robes of more talented assistants, now you face me like a man, and what have you to show? Nothing. _I will kill you._" Again he raised his wand to deal the final blow.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The corpse fell lifeless at his feet, as his henchmen yelled in triumph. They shot beams of light from the end of their wands, while Voldemort enjoyed cruciating the now lifeless body.

* * *

"I'm… fine…" the fiery body of Snape mumbled weakly. "Leave… me… or you'll… make… it worse." He tried to straighten in his chair, but, failing miserably, he simply waved his hand feebly at Draco, indicating for him should leave. Harry tried to leave as well, but Snape indicated to him to stay. _What on earth can he want? _Harry thought frantically, desperate to get away from the burning Snape. "Stay… I need to tell… you…"

Harry was left alone with Snape's now gently steaming body. "I think it's time… I explained why you're here." He began.

Harry's fright at what had just happened was slowly dissipating, and his anger at the man for kidnapping him surfaced. "It was time to tell me when you first carted me off," he all but snarled. He was not about to forgive nor forget the man's sudden and unwanted appearance the day before. He knew Snape wanted to leave the past behind, but there was far more wrong on Snape's side of the road, and to expect Harry to forgive five years' torment – but that wasn't the issue here.

"I can only say sorry."

"Maybe I don't like your 'sorry'."

"Let me at least try to make amends then."

"Go on." Harry almost growled, though a tiny bit of him was slightly interested.

"Dumbledore said that as well as needing to train you, we also needed you safe in order to complete that training. If you were always liable to attack from the Dark Lord's forces, it would be difficult to make of you a wizard to match him. In addition, schoolwork would get in the way.

"We therefore hit on a plan, as obvious as it was brilliant. You would make a quiet exit from society, and we would hand your virtual body over to the death eaters."

Things were beginning to fit together. "You mean that golem –" began Harry.

"Has just been killed by Voldemort, yes. Now, the trouble is that golems are obviously not human. They have no personality, no free will, and so on. However, by Tarpin's law of total septa-nodal intrinsic infusion –"

"Come again?"

"Remember the Chakras? The idea is that you can sustain a golem by absorbing the life force into it through the seven nodes of power on your psyche. This allows it to benefit from and reflect your humanity. In other words, I put a bit of you in the golem to make it human, and fool Voldemort. He couldn't possibly tell it wasn't you, because it was. This meant, of course, that when the thing was killed, the bit of you would return to you, but you would also feel its death – possibly violently."

"So what was this afternoon all about?"

"I felt guilty for subjecting you to that pain. What we did was isolate the golem's point of attachment – the bit of you that was connected to it – and cut it off. However, it still needed to be powered by a live person. What if the Dark Lord wanted it to fight, for instance? Someone needed to be backing it so it would look genuine. With that little bit of you keeping its behaviour Potter- sorry, Harry-like, I took the role of backing it until its death. During this afternoon, you have been experiencing discomfort in you scar due to the Dark Lord's anger and triumph, but it was better than it would have been had you taken the golem's death as well."

"So that's why you burst into flame? Because you bore the brunt of its death and not me?" Snape nodded.

Harry was numb with shock. "What the – why the – why did you do that for me?"

"I… don't know." He looked somehow vulnerable. Was he trying to get a message to him?

Harry had to buy time alone. "May I l-leave?" Snape waved an assenting hand, and Harry fled for the safety of 'his' room. Yet again, he had to deal with feelings he was not sure he liked.

_Look what he did for you._

_He was just trying to fool me into thinking he's on my side._

_He could have done that without setting himself on fire. This is for real._

_That's just what the damn death eater wants me to think!_

_He mentioned Dumbledore. You can verify it that way. Why would he do that if it were an opportunity to prove him fake?_

_I don't know… but I don't want to think good of him._

_Why are you so stubborn?_

_It's impossible to believe anything good of a man whom you're determined to hate!_

_Stop being determined then!_

_I WON'T!_

He heard himself shriek these last words aloud. Simply to avoid having to listen to himself, he got up and started pacing aimlessly.

BANG.

"Great. This is just what I need. A fight with Clive will get rid of my cobwebs." Harry locked eyes with the poltergeist, defying him to attack. He was not disappointed.

"! POTTER‼ What FFUUUNNNNN!" He effortlessly yanked the door off its hinges and threw. But Harry had prepared for this. Pointing his finger, directing as much power as he could hold, he cast the charm. "_Waddiwasi_!" You really had to use that spell a lot when dealing with poltergeists. The door rapped Clive smartly on the head, gave him a boot up the backside and carted him away.

"You really are getting good at this," remarked a wry voice from the doorway. Harry whirled around to see Snape standing there. "It's quite important that we understand where all this power has come from, P-Harry, so I've brought…" he swung a vague hand out and Harry's heart leapt.

Albus Dumbledore had come to visit.


	12. Answers

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other original characters, nor do I make money from anything on this page._

"Severus, if you could just…" Dumbledore began. Severus nodded, a meaningful look passed between the two men, and he left the room. Harry's eyes spoke for his indignation at the way he had been treated.

"I know, Harry. I know."

"But sir, you said last year 'No more secrets'!" Harry protested in a tone that bordered on a hint of rudeness and more that a hint of petulance.

"I am sorry, but things have changed since that time. More information has been unearthed, and it –"

"So quickly?" He interrupted sceptically.

Dumbledore continued as though he had not spoken. "It would not have been safe for you to return to school, and I had little hope of being able to reach you at your aunt's house. When school begins again, and you are not there, any houses connected to the Order will be searched. Severus was the only option, little as that might have been to your liking."

Harry got the impression he was being reprimanded, and so replied belligerently, "It was not." He was seething too hard at the way he had been kidnapped too be polite, or to express his feelings any more coherently.

"I am sorry." Dumbledore sounded tired, which was why Harry kept his temper. "The reason I didn't come to Privet Drive, or send a letter, was because the house is under surveillance and your mail is being intercepted, both owl mail and muggle post, by Death Eaters." So that was why he hadn't got any letters. "Snape could go in on the pretext of capturing you for the Dark Side – I believe he explained the plan? – but I had not intended to make an appearance; it was not necessary. However, now Snape has told me you are drawing on power he never believed you had."

"Yeah, it's freaky! I don't know what to make of it! I did this weird thing to myself after Snape body-bound me, and I can just do things now, I don't get it!"

"Relax, Harry. I did a little study, and I think I have the answer; I just need one thing from you. When you say you did something weird to yourself, would you say it was like tying loose ends together? Fusing bits of yourself into one?" Harry nodded, wondering how in earth he knew. "The answer lies in a magical concept known as the Power of Four.

"The power or four, or the power quartet, is when four people have a specific magical task to do in the world. Two men, two women. Each with his or her own unique talents and qualities, but they can do nothing alone. Only when they come together can they perform the task they were sent for.

"The Hogwarts Four is the best-known example of such a power group. A magical academy in England was exactly what we needed at that turbulent time – but you'll know all that from history of magic. As you know, the Four came together under very strange circumstances –"

"Er… not really, sir."

"Hmmm. I really must find someone a bit livelier than our resident ghost to teach history. The trouble is that nobody besides Professor Binns would want to. Only a ghost would want to teach something that people see as dull. Well, at around 1000 years C.E., a deranged female wizard named Camarie the Crazy had just almost destroyed the British magical community, and its rapport with the muggle one. People were beginning to hate the sight and sound of any magic, witchery or enchantment. Young wizards and sorcerers grew up with anger directed at them from all sides, and began to despise themselves. It looked as though England was about to lose an entire generation of magic-users. This is when the Hogwarts Four arrived on the scene, having met by complete chance because four ships were wrecked at Dover with a week of each other, each one carrying one of the group, although of course they hadn't known it yet.

To cut several long stories short, Hogwarts was set up and their task was done. It used to be an academy for all kinds of magic, though now we mainly teach wizardry. The Power of Four remains in Hogwarts, which is why we are successful as a school only when there is inter-house unity – even between Gryffindor and Slytherin," giving Harry a meaning look. "Everybody's qualities are important. Now, look at these family trees." Dumbledore laid out a few huge parchments on the table. Harry took a close look.

"Now, see here, this is Gryffindor's line. Can you see this squib, born after six generations? Now look at this muggle family tree. Can you see that same squib's muggle descendants? What do you make of that?"

Harry felt his excitement rising. "That's my mum. I thought she was muggle-born."

"She was, my dear boy. But true muggle-borns – ones with no wizarding descent – are extremely rare. I look into every student that passes through the school, and almost all the muggle-borns were descended from some wizard or another. Except Hermione Granger, nobody in your class is a true muggle-born. No look at Ravenclaw's. See that tenth-generation squib?"

Harry began to see where this was leading. After checking Hufflepuff's as well, and seeing his mother descended from her too, he asked "What about Slytherin?"

Dumbledore looked delighted. "I am glad to see you are keeping up. You indeed have a Slytherin heritage, but not from your parents. Can you guess? I think we have discussed this before."

Harry racked his brains. He remembered the sorting hat: _Are you sure? You could be great, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness... _What had Dumbledore said after the Chamber of Secrets? "Didn't Voldemort give me some of himself? And he's heir to Slytherin, isn't he?"

"Correct once again, Harry! By attempting to kill you, Voldemort gave you the backing of the power of four by adding the heritage of Slytherin which you did not yet have. Effectively, you descend from each of the Hogwarts Four. But until the parts met, until you fused them, you could not draw on the power of Four."

"I don't understand. The prophecy said that the one with the power to kill him would be born. I didn't till he tried to kill me, did I?"

"That is the point of any prophecy. It depends on the present. If, say, someone prophesied that the world would be destroyed for its sins, that wouldn't come to pass if we all repented, would it? The prophecy depended on Voldemort being Voldemort, in other words, on him instantly going to end the threat in you."

Harry attempted to straighten it all out. "You mean, sir, that if he hadn't tried to kill me, I'd never have got Slytherin and the prophecy would have been nothing?"

"Exactly. And you can still turn it to nothing."

"How?"

"Does Voldemort not think you dead? If you decide not to kill him, you will remain alive, and he will go on to conquer the world – literally."

"I would never do that. But it's awful... the whole world depends on me... it's so much responsibility."

"I know. But that is what Severus is here for. A bit of Occlumency, a lot of magicianship and you'll be ready for that responsibility."

Harry said with dawning horror "I'm stuck here? _He's_ going to teach me?"

Dumbledore looked over his glasses at Harry in a way that implied no arguing. "And our young Slytherin friend. It is quite time you got over your differences." At Harry's outraged expression, his look softened. "I know it is unfair of me. But trust me; you will thank me for it one day. Draco has much to offer you, and will help you relate better to the Slytherin part of your new power, as will Snape. In any case, you are both high on Voldemort's wanted list, even though he does think you dead. It comes to the same thing; you'll be killed if you leave."

Harry was about to ask him how long he would be stuck in Snape's house, when Dumbledore said "I have to leave. Professor Snape will be more than up to answering any questions you may have." In a demonstration of affection Harry had not believed him capable of, he drew Harry close and hugged him. "Good luck Harry. We all - well, I, your parents, Sirius... and Severus, little as you may like to believe - stand behind you. Never forget: you have friends."

Harry watched him leave with tears in his eyes. It was the last he saw of Albus Dumbledore for a long, long time.


	13. Banter

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing; make nothing – same song and dance_

Harry's head whirled as he tried to make sense of it all. He wanted so much to deny it all, to just be a normal, harmless wizard, just entering NEWT year, possibly thinking of a career on the Quidditch pitch. Why, why, did it have to be him? Why was _he_ lumped with this horrible destiny? When was he going to wake up and find it was all a dream? But somebody had to do it, someone had to be chosen. And if he had to be that chosen one, he was going to face his destiny head on. _Neither can live while the other survives… _He might die. But he was going to take Voldemort with him if he did. The evil man himself had provided the means to do so.

He whirled out of the room purposefully to address Snape, pausing only a second to disable Clive yet again, and bumped straight into Malfoy. He fought the dislike that rose in his breast on sight of the detested boy, but it wasn't too difficult. The grief he was experiencing was etched into every line of his face, and it was obvious he had been crying a lot. His silvery blond hair was limp and his pale skin blotchy. It did not take that much effort for revulsion to give way to pity.

Draco just looked at him, a long, silent look. Neither seemed to know what to say. Harry smiled slightly in welcome and Draco nodded in return. It was rather a curt nod, but it was friendly meant, and Harry appreciated it. "I am really sorry, Draco, for your loss." A little too formal, perhaps, but to Draco it was everything. He had been dreading what the _chosen one _would have to say – after all, his father was no loss as far as Harry was concerned, so it was a relief to hear some sympathy. Maybe he would understand after all, then? He was an orphan as well, after all. But Harry had never had to see his father die, and definitely didn't remember it the way he had to… He started feeling tearful again, and ran for the sanctuary of his bedroom, hardly noticing when Harry awkwardly said "Well, um, see you around," and left.

Draco really was in a state, Harry mused on his way to the mugglish front room. He wasn't Dark Arts-obsessed anymore; Harry had seen that through Voldemort's eyes. He remembered reading through his eyes, the disillusionment Draco suffered… But he couldn't just be his best friend, just as he couldn't suddenly like Snape. Too much lay behind them to just forgive and forget. On both sides, too, Harry realised, squirming with guilt. He'd hardly been any fairer to either than they had been towards him.

"Ah, Potter. Pull up a chair." Harry hadn't noticed reaching the front room.

"Hey, I thought we were over the formalities – _Severus_," Harry smirked.

"Old habits die hard," replied Snape. "Especially when you'd rather they were alive," he added slyly, after a pause.

Harry was alarmed at how easily they were bantering, but recklessly continued. "Does that mean you like the black cloak too, bat? Or you'd let the habit die, no?"

Snape made a throwing motion and Harry felt exactly as though he'd been clipped round the ear, although Snape hadn't stirred. "Cheeky little beggar."

"Better a beggar than a potion-sucking bat," Harry returned, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing and when on earth this was going to stop.

"That does it," Snape replied coolly, and yet again he was over his lap, while Snape began to harangue him about respecting his elders and betters. Both the spanks and the accompanying lecture were so half-hearted that harry was sure the man was secretly pleased. When he was released, his backside was just gently warm. "This is the only thing that works on _some people_," Snape growled as he slid back into his seat. Soon he was back to normal, his face a controlled mask, as though nothing had happened. Snape was like that, Harry was beginning to realise. He could act like a child if he wanted, but he never allowed that to stay. He could be a lot of fun, probably, but he refused to let that become his image. It would be an interesting summer, if he could only bring himself to enjoy it. But he didn't _like _him really. Not yet. It was a pity, seeing as he was stuck here, but perhaps it would come in time. Draco might help – he knew Snape an awful lot better than he did.

"So… what's going to happen now?" He asked to steer the conversation back on track.

"Well, as you know, I am going to be your trainer for the foreseeable future. I will also act as the go-between for you and Professor Dumbledore. With regards to your training, there are dozens, if not hundreds, of areas that you need to improve in –"

Horrified, Harry simply had to interrupt. "But I'm all powerful now, aren't I?"

"That is immaterial. Power does not mean skill. Miss Granger could still beat you in a duel, because of her greater skill. You have to match that power with accuracy – deadly accuracy. Moreover, you will have to undergo physical training as well, to prepare your body. In addition…"

Harry let his mind wander. He would never survive all this, so he just blocked it out and pretended it wasn't happening. He drifted off to think about Quidditch, and was just concentrating on a particularly skilled type of Snitch capture, when he heard Snape raise his voice to finish "…I make that over two hundred areas I'll have to work on."

"Two hun-" Harry's mind could not seem to work around the amount of training the man intended to put him through. Knowing Snape, each task was bound to be gruelling.

"Yes, Harry." Snape smirked. "Mind you, it's actually more like twelve when you group them together."

Harry felt relieved, but angry. "Did you really have to put me through those three seconds?" He knew that sounded ridiculous, but the terror had been real. Did he _have _to do that?

"Oh yes. Nothing like a bit of fear to keep you on your toes."

"You son of a –" Harry simply threw a paperweight at him; words were not sufficient.

"Temper, temper. Wouldn't like to teach that ass some manners again, would we?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Snape merely chuckled. He really was being infuriating today. This was not the Snape he knew, but a bit of him was left, enough to tell harry this was no changeling. This was Snape being human. It seemed as though he was trying to show him his other side. Well, two could play at that game. Snape could find out an awful lot about him that he'd never known – and he'd make sure none of it would please him.

* * *

The Dark Lord had made his decision. It was time to make his triumph more public. Severus would be honoured as the one who brought it about, naturally, in front of Death Eaters only, or he would be a rather useless spy. But the boy's body would be publicly displayed – after he'd killed the new minister, Scrimgeour, of course. Once both were out of the way, he would be free to build the new regime.

Just three days left, then Bellatrix would be ready to perform her attempt on the minister's life.


	14. Squabbling

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing here and make no money from it. Sorry about the delay._

"Harry."

"G'way." He muttered, and rolled over.

"Potter."

"Go a_way_, Dudley."

"Harry Potter, it is currently ten o'clock in the morning. It is just like your usual arrogance to expect the morning to wait on you. It does not, however, –"

"Hey!" Harry protested, sitting bolt upright in bed. "I thought we were past that stuff!"

Stupid boy, could he not see he was trying? He'd left his father out of it this time, for a start. "I had to find some way of waking you up. No personal reflection," the man lied smoothly.

"Huh. Next you'll be telling me you wear bunny rabbit pyjamas. That was real, don't fake."

"Impertinence, Pot-Harry." Snape growled warningly.

"What do you call 'usual arrogance' if not impertinence?" Harry grumbled. "_Sir_?" He added cockily.

_Control yourself_, Snape told himself. _This is what Dumbledore wants. We have to _not _kill each other. You are out of this, James; I cannot spank your son for you. _"Apologies, Harry." The words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. "I would like you to be down to breakfast in quarter of an hour. We have a lot to discuss."

"Will Draco be there?" Harry asked nervously. He was worried that when the other boy got over his grief, it would be back to the usual malicious taunts.

"Yes. You need him." Snape turned to leave.

"Wait – how do I stop the bathroom –?"

The ghost of a smirk was evident on Snape's face. "If you want to verbally override the automatic bathing spell, the password is 'Quicksand'. I thought you would love it, frankly. Shouldn't Our Hero be delighted not to have to wash himself?"

"Gah!" was all Harry could think of saying without having to throw something.

For a second he was the evil enemy Harry knew and loved. "As usual, Potter, displaying a completely untoward emotional outburst with the articulation of a four-year-old," he remarked silkily. "Just do as you are told, much as the brat-who-lived might find it difficult, or you will be very, very, sorry."

He breezed out of the room. Dumbledore might not want this, but it was the only way of getting things done with that child. And frankly, it feels a lot better than having to humour him. He might as well learn a little obedience as well as magic. To him, the magic will probably be easier. This summer… every minute was more difficult – no, more _impossible_ than the last. Potter would be lucky to leave alive, and so, quite frankly, would he.

In the meantime, Harry had decided to allow the bathroom to wash him while he wondered what to make of Snape's behaviour. One minute, he was being human, the next, he was the hateful bat of a professor. It was impossible. Well, if one could play at that, so could two. Snape was definitely going to learn a thing or two about him if he carried on like that. Not pleasant things.

Ten minutes later, he walked into the front room, his hair the only thing out of place. That bathroom was nothing if not thorough, he reflected: very typical Snapeishness. Then he saw what was at the table, and stopped short. He had never seen such a breakfast in his life.

The combination of all the delicious smells from the table was almost intoxicating. Hot, fresh toast, some of the slices buttered, scrambled eggs so fresh they were still bubbling, a tray of what might have been fried mushrooms… even the Hogwarts breakfasts couldn't touch this one. As he stood gaping, a house-elf came in with a heaped tray of bacon still sizzling from the pan, with onion and mushrooms done just exactly right. Harry's mouth began to water. Draco and Snape were both looking at him, somewhat amused.

"Did you think we would starve, you, Harry? I don't think too many people would let us get away without feeding our Famous Harry Potter properly."

Harry was so hungry he was in no mood to be diplomatic. "Shut up, Snape," he said shortly, and began heaping his plate with everything he could reach and soon made short work of a mountainous pile of heavenly food.

Harry was suddenly aware of another presence besides the food on his plate. A shadow fell across the table in front of him and he looked up to find Snape's hooked nose barely two inches from his. "What did you just say?" He inquired casually.

"I… um…"

"Oh pardon me, I thought I heard you say 'thank you for the lovely food, Severus dear,'" Snape said sarcastically, with a silvery tone that reminded Harry unpleasantly of Umbridge.

"Sorry Snape. Um, thanks. It really is, er, divine." Harry wasn't quite sure what was expected so he thought he'd be safe with an apology and thanks. The meal did deserve it, that was the truth. Snape was right. Ugh. He liked the man rather better when he was wrong. Although it made little difference when he was so close that 'breathing down his neck' was not an entirely figurative idiom. Then he heard laughter. Startled, he looked up to see Draco in fits.

Snape and Harry both turned to look at him and he completely busted up again. Snape mouth twitched. Harry could have sworn he saw a secret smile on his face, but the next second it was smooth, blank and unreadable again. Draco finally calmed down and choked, "You just – have no idea – what you looked – like, you two –"

Harry protested against this and Draco replied that he was laughing at Snape as well. "Anyway, you _did _look ridiculous." He muttered rebelliously when Snape turned a malevolent eye on him. Draco suddenly found himself lashed to his chair. "Mocking your elders and betters," Snape growled. "Honestly, Malfoy, seeing as I've half brought you up I'd expect you to behave a little more politely than our Gryffindor here."

"Hey!"

Draco exploded again at Harry's exclamation. It had produced a rather interesting sound, seeing as it was spoken through a mouthful of mushrooms. Snape sighed, snapped his fingers and Harry and Draco were somehow simultaneously laid across his lap. He commenced spanking both together, lecturing all the while.

"…both of you, I have never seen such behaviour, such rudeness, you would get six detentions if you had done it in school…"

* * *

An hour later the two boys were magically stuck to Harry's bed and locked in. Harry now had a chance to look at Draco properly. His eyes were less red; some colour had come into his cheeks. He looked altogether livelier than he had previously. All the swagger Harry had come to see as his trademark was gone; in fact, he looked somewhat awkward as he hesitantly addressed Harry. "Harry… when my father… when the Dark Lord was in our… when…"

Harry saw he was having difficulty alluding to his father's death, and said nothing, allowing the other boy to express it in his own way.

"When he killed my dad, I saw it was all wrong, Harry, what I had been living by all my life. It's just – wrong. It destroys. Until it destroyed what I cared about, I just didn't see it. I'm sorry. I understand better now." He finished softly. Harry saw what this confession cost him. It could not have been easy to admit to having been living a lie, and a sick lie, all his life. Harry nodded his understanding.

Draco's mood seemed to change. "I think it was a total overreaction at breakfast, what do you say?" He asked casually.

"Totally! He blew his top over nothing. Well, nearly nothing. Not enough to spank us; tie us to the bed and lock us in."

"Well, if he's going to be like that…" Draco said musingly.

"You bet your life he will. I haven't gone eight waking hours yet unspanked."

"That's cruel, poor little _man_," Draco guffawed. "No, seriously, we have to – I dunno – do something about it..."

"We can get our own back!" said Harry eagerly.

"You see," continued Draco in the same reflective tone, "He's acting like a over controlling _parent_, almost. And if we're a family, well… all families have their little squabbles, don't they?"

Harry could anticipate just where this was leading. Each family indeed has its quarrels and pranks. Harry considered the little pranks that Dudley used to plan, his notions of clever booby traps. He could still hear Vernon chuckling appreciatively at the waterfall at Harry's bedroom door, Aunt Petunia almost cooing, "Isn't our Diddykins _clever_?" Now Snape could understand what befell anyone who dared to think himself part of a family. If Snape had decided to be the boys' father, they, at least, could endeavour to be his sons – whatever that might entail.

And by Draco's wicked grin, he could tell that he had found himself a partner in mischief.

* * *

Bellatrix glowed with pride and vicious joy. She, of all the Dark Lord's minions, had been chosen to play the final card before the takeover. She would kill Rufus Scrimgeour; she would revel in that privilege. She took the vial of Polyjuice potion and instantly became the double of Arthur Weasley, worker in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Appropriate, was it not, that such a blood traitor should have to bear the blame for the minister's life? She grasped her wand securely, and disapparated.


	15. Terror

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own anything on this page, nor do I make any money, etc._

Nothing was as usual at the Ministry. People, instead of moving in a comfortable, leisurely or even businesslike manner, were darting, hustling through corridors, eyes fearful. Nobody felt safe, even in the very heart of the Ministry, the establishment that was working overtime to protect them all. Instead of greeting others pleasantly; on meeting someone unexpectedly, one would be more likely to draw a wand on him and ask him for some piece of personal information, by way of a password. Nobody stayed in one spot for long. Sneakoscopes, foe-glasses and the like adorned every desk. The atmosphere was tense; nobody could have missed the sense of impending doom hanging over the place like a thick, black cloud.

It had been a long day for Percy Weasley. The Minister had been looking more and more agitated with each incoming message.

"Dementor infestation in Ottery St Catchpole."

"Inferius sighting in Kensington confirmed."

"Attempted murder on Cassius Marston, Magical Law Enforcement squad member. No arrest accomplished."

It went on and on, the whole day, and Scrimgeour was getting distracted. He keenly felt the lack of fulfilment of the duties of his office as each new horrible report came to his desk. Percy himself was impossibly run down as the minister needed him to be in at least twelve places at once. He looked forward to going home and hopefully having a nice quiet evening. He could visit Penelope, if he felt like it. Spend the night. Anything sounded good; so long he didn't have to spend even more time on his feet.

He closed the file, replaced it neatly in its drawer, and was immediately again summoned by the minister to run another errand. He had to send a message down to the court room… new evidence…

He knocked on the door of Courtroom three. "Yes?" called the silvery voice of Dolores Umbridge, still working for the Ministry.

"I come on behalf of Minister Scrimgeour; new evidence has been submitted to the case."

"Oh, I don't think so, Weasley," she laughed gently. "I think everyone is quite convinced that he is guilty of murder on eight counts, muggle-baiting, and the use of the Unforgivable Curses on at least thirteen occasions. I don't think there is need for more evidence. He deserves the Kiss." Some people looked uncomfortable, and Percy was reminded of the way everyone had done whatever Lucius Malfoy had told them. He tried not to think that way. After all, didn't his loyalties lie with the Ministry now?

"There is no precedent to perform the Kiss on anybody but a man who cannot be controlled in Azkaban," Percy replied, an edge to his voice. "He would get life in Azkaban for such crimes. In any case, we have received intelligence that he was under the Imperius curse at the time."

"Oh, he was, was he? He seemed perfectly mentally normal, according to the witness." The woman in the witness box opened her mouth, and then shut it. Umbridge gave an unpleasant chuckle. "You do not seem to understand, Weasley. People who have done wrong must – be – _punished_."

"Objection." It was Amelia Bones this time.

"Yes?"

"He may not have done anything wrong. To say he must be punished while there is still evidence is a miscarriage of justice."

"Objection sustained. Weasley, present the evidence that you were called to give."

Percy stepped up to the box.

"Auror Dawlish had a lead on Dolohov. After some time, he managed to capture him and he admitted to effecting said curse."

"Thank you." Umbridge seemed crestfallen, as though she had lost her ticket to some show. She enjoyed this, Percy realised; she liked playing judge – when there was evidence to punish, where there was the possibility of a victim. Feeling sick, he waited until the man was pardoned, and left as soon as he could, leaving Umbridge to her little vicious pleasures.

He walked back into the lift, almost straight into his father. He scowled and rushed out of the lift at the next floor, muttering irritably. What was his father _doing _in the lift at that time of the day, anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be on call? Did he have to suffer more because of his father's reputation, now that he was committing blatant misconduct? Scrimgeour would probably have to tick him off, and then who knew what that would mean for his job–"

Screams.

More screams.

A horrible, insane giggle.

Percy didn't even bother waiting for the next lift; he simply darted up the stairs, taking them three, four at a time. As he ran, snatches of the action filtered down from upstairs…

"No… no… NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO‼"

"The Dark Lord is triumphant!"

"How dare –"

More screaming.

"_Crucio_!"

"_Stupefy_!"

"_Petrificus totaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA_‼"

Percy opened the minster's door on a horrifying scene. Three cloaked, hooded Death Eaters were amusing themselves torturing the minister and a couple of magical maintenance men. Percy did not receive Outstanding in half his NEWTs for nothing. He silently stunned one of the men and moved his hand over the _call in reinforcements _pad. Then one of the Death Eaters noticed him.

"_Crucio_!"

"_Protego_! _Reducto_!" He added, hoping to smash the bricks above the man's head, but he parried and deflected it to the ceiling above Percy's head.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!"

Percy ducked and lunged for his wand. The other, not expecting a non-magical attack, was startled, and Percy took advantage of his surprise to disarm him. His partner, having dealt with his victim, turned to face him, eyes dancing madly behind the slits in his mask.

The door burst open, and eight men from the Magical Law Enforcement squad and three Aurors attempted to take charge of the situation.

"_Stupefy_!"

"_Petrificus_ _totalus_!"

"_Crucio_‼"

"_Protego_!"

Curses were flying thick and fast. One of the Death Eaters had taken advantage of a single spare moment to revive the one Percy had stunned, and they found themselves battling three violent Death Eaters, aiming powerful curses with deadly accuracy. Each man was strained to his limit simply trying to keep them at bay, let alone attempting to overpower them.

A mask slipped. Percy saw the long, twisted face of Dolohov contort in sadistic rage as he took a deep breath, getting ready to speak another incantation –

"_Silencio_!"

The man grinned ghoulishly and drew back his wand. A thin streak of purple light shot from the end of it, as he drew it sideways…

_Protego_! Percy thought, desperately, as hard as he could. He reasoned that if he wordlessly shielded himself, he could fake injured and nobody would spare him a thought. He could do a lot more from that position. He felt the sensation of a knife slashing across his chest as he crumpled himself to the floor and commenced silently hexing from there.

_Stupefy_! He thought at Dolohov, and watched with satisfaction as he collapsed. The others would be impossible to hit, however, as they did not remain still for any length of time. They danced out of range of the curses of the MLE men, slowly, slowly making their way towards the door. He dared not cast a curse, as it was more likely to hit the wrong people than the right. He watched helplessly as they finally made it to the door. Just exactly then, one of the Aurors shifted slightly, moving aside so he had a perfect line on one of the Death Eaters.

_Petrificus totalus_! He thought desperately, and was relieved to see the man collapse. Two down, one to go.

One of the MLE men quickly sent a message to the halls ahead, warning them not to let the last Death Eater escape. They all burst out of the room after him, in hot pursuit. One of the men yelled "He'll apparate when he gets into an accessible room! Can anyone cast an anti-disapparition –" His call was cut off as the escaping man turned round and shot a hex in his face. His eyes met Percy's spot on.

Percy reeled and almost fell backwards. Could it really be…? With a roar, he flew after the person, shielding himself as best he could, shooting hexes. He had to see… he knew his father had his faults… they might not be on speaking terms… either way, he had to know!

He cast the anti-disapparition jinx neatly, his mind racing. "_Impedimenta_!" he howled, hoping to stop him. The man turned to face him and jeered, not attempting to move his legs against the force of Percy's jinxes. He was going to stay and fight. Adrenaline coursed through Percy's veins; finally, his family would see he was the right one, how he had saved everything…

At the other end of the hall, Bellatrix was sweating. She could fight her attacker off with absurd ease, she was sure of that, but she had only a couple of minutes before the Polyjuice potion wore off, and her master needed Arthur Weasley to take the blame. She had to capture, kill or beat a really, really hasty retreat. She chose the latter – not that she disliked killing or capturing as a rule, but she had to make it quick, and she had no idea whether the man at the other end of the hall would make for a quick or slow finish. As the impediment jinx wore off, she shielded herself and ran, shooting killing curses behind her as she did so.

Percy and the others gave chase, but the man (they thought) was too proficient. He could tell exactly where the blind spots were in the Ministry, and fled towards one of the precise points from which it was possible to apparate. Only the most senior Ministry staff still came to work that way; for security purposes, almost everyone needed to come in through the Atrium and declare themselves. One of the Aurors cast a spell to bring down the man's hood, and everyone saw it was Arthur Weasley.

Percy, having already realised this, continued running, while the other men fell back in shock. A _Weasley_… who would've guessed. Bellatrix smiled. Arthur Weasley was now ripe for incrimination, and the evidence was in place. The Dark Lord would be so pleased. Suddenly, pain coursed through her body as the potion began to wear off. She panicked. _Almost there_, she told herself. She was metres away from a point she could feel was unprotected. Her getaway. The pain left her… she must be Bellatrix again. _Nobody's in sight_, she told herself, as she grasped her wand arm, leaving Arthur Weasley to deal with the results.

But she was not entirely correct, for Percy had seen her transform. As much as he had just been through, his first feeling was crushing relief. _It wasn't him. _Despite having purposefully cut himself off from his family, it was still welcome intelligence that his father had not gone over, or been Imperiused.

Slowly, the group made its way back to the Minister's office, to find that what they had feared was true. Scrimgeour was dead.

* * *

The Ministry was thrown upside-down. If it had had an unsettled atmosphere before, that was nothing to the way it was now. People clutched each other, sobbing, terrified. Everyone knew what this murder heralded. The second war had begun in earnest.

The order had been sent down for Weasley's arrest, while Percy was still trying to convince the other men of what he had seen, when one of the Aurors said with authority.

"It was Arthur Weasley: we all saw him. Are we agreed?" Glaring. "Because we will have to give evidence, and this seems ridiculously far-fetched, so we all have to back each other up." He glanced uneasily at Percy. "It definitely wasn't Polyjuice potion; he'd been here for over an hour and he couldn't have drunk more during the fight."

"Only just. Because just before he, I mean she, apparated, I saw the effects of Polyjuice wear off. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, I am sure of it." Percy repeated his case again.

"Percy. We all understand that you want to protect your father, but yours is only one word, and you are naturally biased. I doubt he did it of his own accord in any case." Ominously.

"You mean the Imperius curse?" asked one of the MLE men.

"Yes. In any case, this will soon be cleared up when he is arrested. The effects of the curse are quite obvious."

But examination of the defendant made it quite obvious he was in his right mind, and there seemed no reason not to try him for murder.

* * *

Bellatrix summoned her master, wild with joy; never had she called him with better tidings. As he flew through the air, she could only imagine the glory of her station, having performed the final act before it was time for the takeover.

"Is everything ready?" Her master's cold voice inquired.

"Yes," she replied, breathless with passion. "They are in turmoil now. To take over the Ministry in this state will be child's play."

"We hope. Give the order, then, Bellatrix –" he looked her in the eye, considering "–most exalted of all my servants."

Her heart so swelled with pure joy, it was all she could do not to faint with delight. "It is as done, my Lord," she exulted.

It was time for the Ministry to be finished.

* * *

_Author's note: I know everything seems too horrible for words on every count but don't worry – things are going to get better._


	16. Pranks?

_**Disclaimer: **__Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling._

_So__rry about the huge wait, but my computer got very, very sick – nine Trojan horses or something, so after getting it fixed and suing my antivirus company, I present:_

"Potter, do you think jam is better, or custard?"

"Custard, I think. Snape hates it."

"Great. You're the expert here, I reckon. You sure you know what to do?"

"Oh yes, Potter," Draco smirked. "Come this time tomorrow..." He twirled his wand suggestively and then stood in an attitude of pained ecstasy, gazing reverently upwards in some parody of sun-worship. "Snape with his pockets full of custard," he continued dreamily, as though invoking the god he seemed to be serving.

"Get a _grip_, Malfoy," Harry chuckled. "We don't have all that much tyime to play around with and if Snape sees what we're up to..." Harry let the thought die unvoiced as he contemplated the many forms of hell Snape could - and would - put him through. _Arrogant as your father, determined above all things to break those rules that were set in place by those who understand that bit better that an immature teenager than how to behave -_"

"Potter? Harry? Oi!"

"Sorry 'bout that. Mind drifted."

"Undrift it then, Potter!" Draco sneered, then stopped at Harry's expression. "Sorry," he muttered awkwardly.

"S'all right. I'm sure I'll do that too in the next couple of days - sorry, minutes." Harry offered.

"Right." Draco seemed as anxious to gloss over the moment as he was. "Now, sordid details over, can you conjure a piece of green chalk for me?"

* * *

"So how does that sound? I don't think it's an unreasonable plan for the summer; certainly not if you want to stay alive. I daresay I do presume that your sense of self-preservation is stronger than your need to disobey the rules, but such is the matter."

"Sorry, sir?" Harry winced internally at the respect he was forcing himself to accord Snape, but at least kowtowing like that kept him happy. Two days ago, he had not known even one second in advance how Snape might react to the next little insult. They were learning, though, and Harry had finally managed to ensure he responded seriously when Snape was talking about serious subjects. Trouble was, it would take an awful lot longer than two days to work out what Snape considered serious. He was certain it would differ markedly from what he thought important.

It didn't make it much easier when his mind was caught up in the friendly family pranks he and Draco had spent the last two days putting in place... But Snape was waiting. The last thing he needed was for the man to start investigating – perhaps with a little legilimency – his dreamy silences. He forced himself to concentrate on the timetable.

**Wake up: 7.30  
Breakfast: 8.00  
Light study: 9.00  
Free time: 10.30  
Dinner: 12.30  
Duelling practice/ Practical defence: 2.00  
Rest: 3.00  
Physical training: 4.30  
Light study: 6.00  
Supper: 7.30  
Magical training: 8.30  
Bedtime: 10.00**

"Bedtime at _ten_? I'm not a baby, I mean –"

"Potter, I desire you to express your opinion in a manner befitting a fifteen-year-old, not a four-year-old."

"_Why_?"

"It is important for you to acquire a sense of self-restraint. Many magical battles are lost because a warrior cannot wait, and control his fury, for the right moment."

Harry almost rolled his eyes, but stopped with difficulty. "Yes, sir. What I meant to ask was – why am I going to bed at ten?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Snape with steely sarcasm. _Because I promised your father, your mother, Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. _"Possibly someone has to be concerned about your health, seeing as you, being a teenager, are constitutionally incapable of doing so." Finally, he saw a reaction. He was beginning to lose all pleasure in each insult, but it would seem that the brat still had some resilience. Good.

"You know, _Professor_," Harry remarked. "Most normal people would just say 'I care about your health.' Not you. Everything has to be wrapped in an insult. You can't say a straight sentence without slanging me in some way. Why?"

_Because I hate you. I think. __I hope. _"Potter." He said warningly, hankering down a level to impart that look of loathing that Harry was so used to.

Harry shrugged. He couldn't really afford to retaliate against every little thing the bastard said or did when he was in his house, at his mercy. "Fine. When's this programme starting?"

"Tomorrow."

"To –?"

"_Tomorrow._"

"Oh – please –"

"_Tomorrow._"

"Oh all _right_!"

"Supper will be at seven thirty, Pot – Harry. That will be all."

Harry left, steaming. Couldn't the blasted potion-sucker make his mind up? One second telling him he cared about his health, in the very same breath dishing out an insult – ok, it was half-hearted, but why could he not decide how he was going to behave and stick to it? He banged the door. Draco whirled around, startled.

"What the – oh, it's you." He breathed deeply. "If that were him..."

"What's that you're up to?"

There was a truly strange smell about the room, not unattractive, but it would take time to get used to such a scent. Draco moved aside. Harry saw what he was doing on the desk. His mouth dropped open. A careful mound of some thick, dark substance, with the consistency of jellified tar, lay in the centre of a green chalk pentacle. At each point of the star, he had placed what seemed to be a thread of black cotton, stained in many places. On the tip of the puddle, there was, impossibly, a single, greasy hair standing vertically upright.

"You're not serious, Malfoy." Harry burst out laughing.

"Oh, I so am, Potter," he smirked. "Come tomorrow, this desk will be free of any traces of this little working, and Snape will not be able to rid his pockets of marmite."

"You're using _marmite_?" Harry could hardly speak for helpless mirth. "What was wrong with custard? How long will it last?"

"Until he's rumbled it. And I didn't want to use custard when there was something so much smellier available."

"He'll know it's us straight away."

"Yes. But until he works out exactly how I've done it, he won't be able to stop it, and neither will we."

Harry shook his head in admiration as he examined it more closely. Draco had indeed thought of everything. "Won't take him that long, though, Malfoy. He's an awfully good wizard."

Draco nodded. "Magician too. Sorcery. Enchantment. Snape's got it all. It'll be fun while it lasts, though."

"You're telling me. By the way, why does Snape keep a poltergeist?"

Draco gave him a vague king of look. "Don't know, to be honest with you. Something about his magic, I think."

Harry shrugged. "Have to admit, it's typical of Snape."

Draco agreed with a roguish grin.

* * *

When the first rays of dawn broke throught the horizon, Snape billowed into the boys' room, in some intense caricature of a swooping bat, an expression of the most dangerous calm on his face. "Potter." The voice that had left him seething time and time again in horrible potions classes.

"Snape." Moaned Harry. "Some people are sleeping here."

"Potter!"

"'Morning. Tell - me when it's - time to plant the - potatoes." Draco mumbled into his pillow.

"Malfoy!"

Harry sat up in bed, convincingly bleary-eyed. "Whasamarrer, sir. Six o' clock. Sleepy time."

Draco looked sleepily at Snape. "What's that in your pockets," he asked with polite interest.

"Yeah," added Harry vaguely. "We have serviettes at table for that, you know."

"You know very well, you pair of brats! What have you been doing?" Snape advanced on Draco, looking ludicrously overbearing as he practically touched noses with the other boy. Harry now understood why Draco found it so hilarious when Snape did it to him for no particular reason. It was absurd, the way they looked, utterly absurd. Harry choked with the effort of trying not to snigger. Snape seemed so overcome, he did not even speak but simply glared for three straight minutes at Draco and left, robes sweeping behind him.

It was better than either of the two boys could have hoped for. Spontaneously, their tiredness fell from their frames as they leapt to slap each others high-fives, beofre falling back on their beds in helpless giggles. Harry's eyes swam, he choked on his laughter, but he couldn't stop. He had a feeling that this might not end so happily if the two of them couldn't get a little quieter, but he was just enjoying the moment so much, he couldn't find it in himself to stop. A slight, majestic breeze from the ddorway heralded the second arrival of the master of the house.

"I would have thought it was_ sleepy time_, young master." This was the sort of way Snape behaved before he pounced on you and vanished your potion. Both boys, trying to avoid each other's eyes so as to keep a straight face, moved warily backwards on their beds. "Clearly, some people have an a rather interesting propensity for nocturnal activities," he said silkily to Harry. "I might ask, also, why someone who has _renounced _the Dark was also so unusually active at night."

Draco's shocked gasp brought the atmosphere in the room down several degrees. Harry saw red at that. "Out of order, Snape."

"_What did you say to me?_"

"Snape, that was bang out of order. It's time to stop thinking about what you can say to get at each person best." Harry had hardly noticed he was on his feet, but he found himself anvancing towards Snape as he spoke. "When will you realise, Snape? When? When will it occur to you that helping people to grow is not to insult them at every turn?" Snape had turned slightly, but he hardly noticed.

"Snape! Don't you get it? You have to _build _people! Your approach might be the best way of getting people disciplined, and it might earn you respect, but not love! Not friends!" The whole scene seemed to have changed. Harry didn't understand what was making him so passionate, but he kept going. "When, Snape? When will you realise? That there are people in the world! _People! _They're different from you! They don't see the world your way! They might not be as much as you! But they are still people worthy of respect, worthy of being noticed, worthy of a kind word, worthy of encouragement!" Harry was crying now, all the pain of his torment by the man pouring into his speech. "_When will you realise?_" Harry, worn out, collapsed into bed, slowly regaining control of his sobs. Draco looked at him in wordless gratitude.

Slowly Snape turned to face them. Harry and Draco just looked at him, as the seconds became minutes. The three of them seemed frozen in time, one endless, intense moment of truth for all three. It seemed forever until Snape said, very quietly, to Draco, "Sorry."

He left the room, but things could never be the same again. Never.


	17. News

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing here, nor do I make money, etc._

_Sorry for the delay, coursework is building up..._

_I have a new resolution: to reply to every review. I hope that encourages them..._

Over a fairly cordial breakfast, Snape was talking to both about the training sessions he planned to start that day.

"Certainly, we will cover basic duelling. I'm not sure we'll get to it today, though. And incidentally, you still have not told me how to get rid of the – this – this malodorous material." Snape looked irritatedly at his hands, which he had once again accidentally put in his pocket.

"Can't, 'til you work out how we did it."

Snape rolled his eyes. "And am I to understand that you have something planned for the moment I do?"

Harry caught Draco's eye as the thoughts of both jumped guiltily to the booby-trap that was already in place.

"I take that to mean yes. God damn the day Dumbledore wished you on me, Potter."

"Hey, what about Draco?"

"Him too." Snape half smiled at him, as though it hurt him rather. "Carry on like this and I won't let you two sleep together."

"_Sleep together_? Snape, that was unworthy of you." Harry said with an almost-straight face.

"Yeah, I'm stick straight!" Draco agreed.

"Straight you may be, but you certainly have very sick minds. I won't let you share a room – happy? Ah, here's the paper." A new edition of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ had appeared neatly in front of Snape. "Oh, no. No. Not now."

Both boys looked their confusion. Snape held the paper silently up in front of them.

_NEW MINISTER TAKES OVER AS SCRIMGEOUR RESIGNS_

_By Cordelia Augustine_

_In a surprise move last night, Scrimgeour handed over his office last night to Gerald Cadwallader, current head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. In these troubled times, Scrimgeour felt, it would be important to have a forceful personality at the head of the ministry campaign to ensure that someone used to strong offensive magical policy is spearheading operations. He had decided to retire, while retaining advisory position in the Auror department where he once worked._

_In his statement of induction, Cadwallader remarked: 'It will be my honour and pleasure to bring home to our community the importance of traditional wizarding values. So far, we have been worryingly deficient in ensuring that those who are accepted into our circles are acceptable there. I welcome the opportunity to uphold and preserve the doctrines of the past.'_

"That means he'll kill all the mudbloods, doesn't it? If this means what I think it does..." Draco's voice trailed off as he read the remainder of the report.

_Percy Weasley, junior undersecretary to the Minister, was present at the ceremony. 'I think this is a wonderful chance for all of us here to improve the falling standards at the Ministry,' he told me. 'I hope he something in mind for Hogwarts; as long as Dumbledore's at the head it will go nowhere as it has been doing for the past ten years.'_

_However, this was not the end of the eventful day at the Ministry, nor was it the end of the day for Scrimgeour. At around 4.52 pm, when the Minister was removing his effect from his office with the help of two members of the Department for Magical Maintenance, a fierce attack was mounted on the ex-minister's life. Due to the level-headed defence of the junior undersecretary, Scrimgeour was the only casualty. Several eyewitness accounts have led to the arrest of Arthur Weasley, head of a small-scale ministerial department. Besides entering a plea of _Not Guilty_, Weasley declined comment. Dolores Umbridge said she will press for maximum penalty for Weasley's heinous crime, as she felt he may well have been behind the other recent attacks on the Ministry._

Harry stopped reading. "People won't really believe this stuff, will they?"

"They have a pretty good case against him, Potter. This plot runs deep, I think, as the remarks of Weasley Junior show clear signs of a Confundus charm. I would hazard someone used Polyjuice Potion to impersonate Arthur, another placed an Imperius Curse on Weasley, and a third was ready to perform all necessary memory modifications. Very well carried out, and they have probably taken over the newspaper as well. I have suspected this would happen soon. Not so soon, but I was ready for it. Now we must discuss what this means for you."

"For me?"

"Yes. You see, the Dark Lord believes you to be dead, and so will take more risks. The longer it is until you can face him and live, the more people will be murdered. Dumbledore is probably the only one who knows the truth, and also the only one who could stand up to the Dark Lord in even battle. He's next on the list, and he knows it. He'll probably go into hiding as soon as he can. He may already have done so."

"Couldn't you fight him?"

Snape hesitated. "Possibly. But – well, I will explain one day, but I can't, not really."

"How –"

"Mr Potter, I would prefer you accept what you cannot understand on trust."

"Like there's a great precedent for _trust_, I suppose, sir Professor Bat-cloak. Have you ever believed anything I said?"

"That is not the issue now, sir Smart-mouth. Get that straight."

"Draco, back me up!"

Draco looked rather at a loss as to how to reply, and, with an air of one trying and failing not to take sides, said in the desperate whisper of a drowning man, "I... I... well... be... I'm sure Snape knows best..."

"Great." Harry said bitterly. "I should've known this would happen soon. Slytherins pally-pally, gang up on stupid Gryffindor who can't –"

Snape cut in quietly. "This is not about Gryffindor versus Slytherin –"

"Too bloody right it isn't! It's always been about Gryffindor versus Slytherin for you, hasn't it? 'You are Gryffindor, Granger, so you may not have brains.' 'You are Gryffindor, Potter, So you –' "

"Potter."

"NO!"

"Would you like to know why I appear to despise Miss Granger? As for disliking you, Mr carbon-copy-of-your-father –"

"My dad's got nothing to do with it!"

"He has everything to do with it! You take after him in almost every possible way; it's not possible to look at you and not see him! There's nothing about him that isn't in you!"

Harry tensed, and then spoke softly, almost cruelly, hardly knowing what prompted him to speak like this – unless it was a certain, small piece of legilimency. "_Nothing_, Severus? Not even one little piece of my mother?" He gazed at Snape with his mother's green eyes, somehow aware that he was touching something forbidden. The silence stretched, taut, for minute upon minute. It was Snape who broke eye contact.

"So, Harry Potter. The only reason I appear to despise Miss Granger is because magic was not meant to be learnt that way. Magic is not something to be memorised, learnt by rote, and reproduced unquestioningly in an exam. It is something to absorb, to touch, an art; it is subtle, deep and huge. This is something that you would do well to remember, as I will be teaching you along these lines over this summer as I have taught Draco." He paused for breath.

"As you _what_?"

Snape frowned. "Draco never told you how we know each other so well?"

Draco shook his head and tried to sink backwards in his chair.

"Do you mind, then, if I tell Potter –"

Draco shook his head again. "Just make it quick."

"My job, Harry, or rather my task, is to train up the next generation of Death Eaters. You see, although the Dark Lord has the secret of immortality, it is not one he will ever share. He will therefore outlive all his followers, and will need more. I have been imparting my methods to my colleagues' children for ten years now. And Draco is my particular favourite because, well, he's my godson."

The information took some time to sink in, yet it all made sense. Why Snape got on so well with some of the Slytherins, how he seemed to know them as personally as Dumbledore knew him... Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. "Voldemort has the secret of _what_?"

Snape's faced took on an odd, closed look. "Later. For now, Harry, what is important is your training. The secrets are for later. And I'm... begging of you... keep the pranks off too..."

"Hmmm." The two boys remarked simultaneously. "Now that really _does _take thinking about." Harry added mischievously.

Snape put his head in his hands.

_Please, please, tell me what you think!_


	18. The second spanking

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing here._

_Sorry for delay, &c._

Snape walked into his room, seething, the smell of marmite still torturing his nostrils. This, he supposed, was the drawback of teaching children really advanced magic. They could use it against you so cleverly you actually had to work hard to combat it. Having used a little legilimency on Potter, he could be fairly certain the mechanism was Draco's. Damn. _Draco has a real flair for that sort of thing_, he reflected with bitter pride. He finally stood before his mirror and raised both arms.

"_This filthy reek_

_a cure I seek_

_to clean the air_

_I do declare..._" Snape began chanting. This particular form of Medieval sorcery, Mantra, he had never taught his charges, it was too slow to be useful to the Dark Lord. Besides, most had to spend hours composing the chant, which rendered it even less effective. But he, he had practised. He was different... _thanks to Dumbledore. _That inevitable thought, always on the edge of consciousness... he pushed it away.

"_A poison pass_

_a scent aghast_

_to pleasing smell_

_Thrice this spell_

_Thrice farewell_!"

Having completed the necessary sixty-four lines and ended off, Snape let his mind drift, secure in the knowledge that whatever memories came to him now, therein lay his optimal solution. _Advanced magic this_, he though lazily. Slowly, images came to him...

* * *

"Greaseball..." This seemed to be Sirius Black's voicce.

"Slimy, greasy git..." Definitely James.

_Can't James stay out of this?_

* * *

"That hair... don't you wonder if he ever washes it?" Mary MacDonald of Gryffindor. Lily's friend.

"It doesn't matter to _me_..." Lily...

* * *

"It's the hair... that greasy hair... wash it!" Not a voice he recognised.

* * *

That was the key, then, wash his hair? Snape slowly made his way to the bathroom, thinking of two small brats downstairs who were going to catch it in the neck.

* * *

"I didn't do it."

"Did too."

"Look at that pout, baby angel."

"Shut it, blonde freak."

Snape's wand emitted an explosing _bang _and the two were forced apart. Harry retched. Was this what a revulsion jinx felt like? Yuck. He made a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done if he ever got the chance to see her again. He started to imagine just what Snape's face would look like, twisted with the desire to vomit that he was feeling now. He looked at Draco, noting that he was also gazing somewhat dreamily into the distance, glancing at Snape every few seconds. He had an idea for another prank, and he turned to Harry with a mirthful grin that confirmed his delightful suspicions.

"Your mechanism was ridiculous, Harry, Draco. Since when do you build into a prank an insistence that your victim washes his hair before it goes? I've just had to do it three times to get rid of this – what did you call it – _marmite_."

"I _told _you Draco did the hair bit. How was I to know he would make you wash it?"

"Coward! I thought you had to be brave to be in Gryffindor –"

"So why the hair, Draco?" Snape cut in smoothly.

Harry and Draco looked at each other. Draco's lip twitched; he raised his wand, pointed it at Harry and his face went blank. Harry watched, puzzled, but slowly, fragments of thought reached him, disjointed, unclear... 'Now... Snape... shower...' then a mental picture of Snape washing his hair. _That _was decidedly odd, Harry couldn't help thinking. Seeing Snape's head being washed was rather like seeing Dumbledore giving Voldemort a hug. Just as unlikely. Then he remembered all that Dumbledore's hugging him, and all he had told him about his destiny... Draco's voice broke through his reverie. 'I wanted to see it cleaned. His hair.'

Harry looked up to see Draco still with his mouth shut, his wand still pointed at his head. He was stunned. Was this some kind of legilimency in reverse? "Cool!" he said with feeling. "Snape taught that one?"

"When you have quite finished showing off –" Draco smirked "– why the hair-wash?"

"Well - er - at least you finally washed it..." Draco mumbled in an unusually feeble attempt at submissive contrition; glee was etched in every line of his face.

"And now, I think, Mr Malfoy is in even worse trouble than Mr Potter, would you not think?" Snape observed. The reflective, almost pensive tone of this remark was rather offset by the expression on his face, which seemed to scream, 'I am going to hit you, hard, just keep your mouth shut and I might leave you alive.' He moved closer to Draco. "In fact," he continued, in a truly ominously calm, sleek voice, "even muggle remedies will not be too harsh for such behaviour, but since I don't have a cane..." Snape twirled his wand suggestively.

"Physical abuse!" Draco almost squeaked, backing away, as Snape continued to whip his wand about meaningly.

"Oh yes," Snape continued silkily. "Indeed so. Physical abuse. I confess I rather like the sound of that."

"You wouldn't..." Draco began uneasily and tailed off as he realised Snape certainly would.

"What do you mean, 'He wouldn't'?" Harry demanded. "He's never done it to you before?"

Draco was saved replying as Snape's arm seemed to shoot eight feet across the room to the corner Draco had backed himself into. "He'll learn to expect it," Snape remarked casually as his wand began discharging its master's bidding on Draco's unfortunate backside. Then he seemed to experience a change of mood and turned into the Snape who had administered this singular punishment to Harry just a few days ago in this very room. "One day, Draco, you will learn a few manners, whatever I have to do to get you there. Impudent, unmannerly, arrogant - I have no time to list all the qualities that went into this prank..." On and on it went, until Draco's reserve finally broke and he began pleading hysterically for release. Snape virtually threw him from his lap and rounded on Harry.

"Well, Potter? Would you like to follow him?"

"No I don't -" he began, but Snape immediately cut him off, smirking slightly.

"No, Harry, I'm not going to spank you. I shall do something much worse..."


	19. Torture

_**Disclaimer: **__This is supposed to be a legal requirement... I don't own anything on this page. I make no money off it. This publication (!) is not intended to contravene any copy write laws. No copy write infringement intended on J K Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros... Right, I think I've used every possible form of disclaimer..._

_Lovely long chapter coming up._

Harry picked his way slowly over the bog that had been a hallway, expecting every second to be attacked by some demon or evil curse. Snape had warned him he would stick at nothing, and his experience thus far had borne out that claim beyond Harry's wildest terrified fancies, even with his previous experiences in Snape's dungeon. So far, Clive the poltergeist had somehow managed to trap him inside a teapot before he'd even left the front room. Then, when he had been about to leave the room, the door handle bit his hand off. He had almost fainted form the chock and pain, but he forced himself to feel his way through his own life force to carefully attach it and regrow the tissue and connect vein, tendon and nerve. It had hurt like hell, but it was at that point that he realised that Snape had not been lying about being fully prepared to endanger his life. After wandlessly dealing with Clive's various booby traps with his mischief-stopping _Waddiwasi_, he had turned into the hallway to find that it was a swamp.

Something slopped against his foot and he cried out. Looking down, he saw the swamp boiling and frothing fiercely beneath his feet. _Spell or creature? _he wondered, almost idly. He bent down slightly in sick fascination, examining the bubbling pool of muck. Suddenly he felt it pull him in, he was beneath the surface of the muddy, probably fever-ridden water, he was being sucked down, down, there was no escape, where were his magical instincts, didn't they save you...

Harry forced himself to focus; it was the hardest thing he had ever done, while the whirlpool dragged him farther and farther down. He distinctly saw an alligator lying asleep on the swamp bed. He concentrated hard on staying alive, willing with every part of his magical core. Slowly, a measure of peace stole over him and he relaxed, alighting gently on the swamp bed, breathing air that came from nowhere, air he could not see. He had done it.

He stayed for a second too long, breathing deeply in his invisible air supply, savouring his triumph over the bog and over Snape when a sudden movement to his left caught his eye and he realised what should have been obvious to him from the beginning. The alligator was only feigning sleep. Now it rose, slowly, gracefully, several tons of packed muscle sauntering carelessly towards him, death in its small wicked eyes.

It lunged. Harry dived to the side, his perfect Quidditch reflexes somehow telling him exactly where the creature was aiming. He rolled under its mottled pale green belly, almost getting horribly crushed, and, instinctively, screamed a word of power and the thing was blown apart. Harry looked down at the scraps of alligator carefully; they struck him as only half real somehow. He concentrated hard on seeing them as they really were and laughed, the relief was almost giddy. A few scraps of black fabric lay about. It looked as though Snape had sacrificed a robe in his attempt to tear Harry apart. Harry smirked, and punched the air. Snape had tried and failed: he'd survived. He waded onward through the swamp; there was no way he would be able to rise back up through the whirlpool that had dragged him down. Finally, when the surface above him seemed calm, he allowed himself to rise slowly to the surface.

The pain when he broke through to the air was indescribable, all the little hurts he had taken in the bog combining to form he most exquisite torture of wounded limb, bruise and lost blood. If had never been Cruciated, he might have thought pain could get no worse. Yet he had known more pain, and the knowledge that worse pain existed was the only thing that kept him concentrating, through the haze of agony, on healing himself. It took at least half an hour, he was sure, though he had no sense of time after his ducking in the swamp. _I'm not doing very well_, he thought somewhat desperately, _not even finished the first hallway and I've been ages. Oh well._

He picked his way carefully across those partially dry islands that occasionally appeared in the bog, carefully levitating just above the bog when there were none. He tried to avoid the levitating; it took up too much energy and, if this bog was just the first obstacle... he had a feeling he was going to need that energy. Besides, it was dangerous to concentrate too much on only one thing at a time. Already a wall portrait had tried to strangle him, and had almost succeeded because his attention was all on staying above the mud. Harry was almost certain it had been Phineas Nigellus, the last Slytherin headmaster of Hogwarts; he thought he had recognised the portrait's snide chuckles and he doubted Phineas would mind shredding a Gryffindor.

Finally, the swamp came to an end. Harry carefully stepped down from the magical perch of levitation as he came to the end of the corridor-like hall. It branched into three new halls, one housing (Harry's eyes popped) a dragon, one another bog, green this time, which had risen to the ceiling, and the third faded into golden mist containing indistinct shapes of nameless terror. Harry swore. The dragon wasn't real, he was sure, but it would be real enough to rip him to pieces. The prospect of another swamp, which looked almost worse than the first, was less than inviting. And the mist, of course, could have been almost any spell. The last time he had entered a magical mist, ground and sky had been reverse and he had found himself hanging down from the earth while the sky waited, below, to catch him.

_At least I know where I am with the dragon_, he thought wryly. It wouldn't be the first time he had taken on one of the great lizards. And the bog... he'd just done one, hadn't he. Just hope that once you'd seen one, you'd seen them all, and he'd be all right, more or less. But the mist... that was the difficult one. So it was bound to be the correct path. Yet maybe Snape had expected him to draw that very conclusion and it was one of the slightly easier paths? Harry felt weak at the thought of battling the dragon – a Peruvian Retro, he thought – no, it was a Bolivian Manglehead, not that it helped him, it just seemed like a tribute to Hagrid to pay attention to the detail of the monster – and then, finally, finding a dead end.

He would have to search for Snape with his mind, then. He fixed the image of Snape in his mind, bat-like robes and physique, white face, dead, cold black eyes, curtains of black hair now marginally less greasy as he'd washed it... the image did not inspire as much animosity as the man deserved. Snape was beginning to get to him. After wondering vaguely if Snape also hated him less, he relaxed his mind completely and floated it gently out of his body. Snape's face blurred, then disappeared, but the golden fog in the third hallway blazed with a sudden fiery splendour. The message was plain: to get to Snape, he needed to brave the mist. He slipped carefully back into himself, and, with scarcely enough energy left to curse Snape's sadism, let alone cast a spell, he trudged into the corridor.

He picked his way carefully; knowing that just because the mist was his real enemy did not mean that there would be nothing stopping him getting even that far. Snape's parting words seemed to ring in his ears... _"I have done this to many children, some younger than yourself. Every one almost died on their first attempt. I wouldn't have done it to you so early on in your stay, but you needed a little prodding to behave yourself. Perhaps after I have forced you into countless brushes with death you will take me and my discipline marginally more seriously. You brought this on your own head..." _Snape had a point about this being effective, Harry thought; if he ever did get out, Draco could do the next prank alone, he'd done the course many times before, or so Snape had hinted. It wouldn't be a punishment for him. That would probably be a special torture after he'd finished, if he ever did, Draco and Snape jeering about how badly he'd done.

He paused at the entrance to the mist, slowly allowing his magic to flood through his body from his mind and solar plexus. He felt like a beacon, a shining figure of pure power, radiating flame. He entered the mist warily, hoping for the best.

What happened was almost, if not quite, the worst. It was no magical barrier that was going to stop him moving onwards, it was the images he saw. He shut his eyes; it didn't help. The scenes were still there, inflaming his mind, searing behind his eyelids. Who had invented this spell? Who had the single-minded cruelty you needed to invent such pure torture? He looked again at the mental picture of his mother, standing in front of his cot, screaming "_Not Harry, not Harry, please, I'll do anything..." _And he knew, with as much certainty as if Snape was standing beside him explaining, that he would have to suffer not only the worst moments in his past, but also in his imagination. The terror of both the Boggart and Dementor. Bellatrix screamed in triumph over Neville's dead body. Rookwood seemed to be in front of him, torturing Hermione. Then Cho was kissing Michael Corner. This bothered him less, but he still felt a faint twinge of jealousy, left over from their relationship. Sirius, falling backwards through the veil. Cedric Diggory, dead. Voldemort was gliding towards him, wand outstretched...

"_Crucio_!"

What was the agony that attacked him; Voldemort couldn't be here; it was impossible; it made no sense. Yet still he was being tortured...

"IT'S NOT REAL!" Harry screamed, adding all of his magical power to the roar. That yell seemed to have done it, the Cruciatus curse stopped. But he was trembling all over, and still the images came as he moved forward. Arthur Weasley, his body broken, was suspended from the ceiling. Dumbledore's head, dripping blood from its neck, leering dreadfully, grinned at him from a particularly thick patch of mist. He couldn't go on. There was more horror in this mental torture than in the most hideous curse or powerful demon. Even Dementors would be better, you could fight them off. This was a test of his emotional strength, not his magical. And he was going to fail it. He could hardly move a step. Visions clouded around him as he tried to block his eyes, his ears, anything that would shut out the pain. It made little difference; the images seemed to be forcing themselves directly on his mind, not his senses. Occlumency would help... _close your mind... close your mind..._but he had never learnt to do it properly, and it was a great deal more difficult than anything his new-found powers had been tested on. He tried to set up shields... _protect your mind..._

Slowly, the gold colour of the mist seemed to dim and the sounds receded very slightly. Harry waited for a few minutes, carefully making sure he was ready, before he moved slowly on through the now slightly thinning fog. He rounded the last corner of the hall and his heart sank. Blocking his path was a single huge patch of the golden mist, so dense and shining it seemed almost solid. No shields would be effective against this final barrier, Harry was certain. What could hide there? What terrible thing had he yet to face, nameless, that he could not imagine?

Harry stood a straight as he could. He wiped the tears and grime off his face. He was going to win. Snape was not going to beat him, whatever he was showed.

The patch of mist seemed to swallow him up, as though opening to feast on the pain that he was sure was to come. He passed the edge; he could almost hear it snap shut behind him.

He found himself rooted to the spot. Evidently whatever the final vision was, he could have no option of bowing out. He waited.

Slowly, the image of Ron formed, followed by Hermione. Harry's breath caught painfully in his throat and his eyes pricked as he saw his best friends, who, he knew, must think him dead by Voldemort's hand. They did not seem to be aware of him at all. Then Ron began speaking.

"_Harry. This does make it easier, don't you think?"_

"_For us, yes. Because he would have had to leave anyway."_

"_Oh yes."_ Ron snickered. _"Our kind of love leaves no room for others."_

"_This spares us a lot of trouble, having to tell him to bow out. This way, we are left alone without leaving him out in the cold."_

Hermione seemed to find this highly amusing. _"But he _is _out in the cold, Ron, darling! The cold sleep of death..."_

"_And now, it's just us."_

"_The way it was meant to be. If his mother had not bothered to die for him."_

"STOP!" Harry screamed.

"_Now we can restore us to the way we were meant to be..." _Hermione leaned over Ron and kissed him passionately and the scene faded with Ron and Hermione continuing their declarations of love in a thoroughly non-verbal manner.

This scene was his invention, not Snape's. How was Snape to know how Harry had dreaded this moment, when Ron and Hermione understood that everything they sought was in each other: where would that leave him? Would he be shut out, useless to either as they moved forward in life with everything – everyone – they needed? Or would they allow him to stay, a fifth wheel, needed by nobody, tolerated rather than appreciated? And Ron and Hermione need have no compunctions now; he was gone, wasn't he?

Harry roughly scrubbed his face in an attempt to clean his mind of the vision he himself had just conjured up. He was no longer magically bound, but as long as he felt the pain of what he had seen he could not summon the energy to escape. Then another image rose before him. Could it be as terrible as the first?

It was Ginny. She was looking around, obviously waiting for somebody. He noticed, vividly, how much she had changed since her first year when she had been too shy to talk to him. She had grown, and changed shape; he figure seemed closer to the woman she was about to become than the girl she had then been. Her dancing red hair reminded him irresistibly of the few photographs of his mother he had. Absorbed in these pleasant reflections, Harry hardly noticed the way she turned on the spot, as though waiting for someone, except as a vague sense of irritation that she was not waiting for him.

Then a male figure approached her. He seemed, once he was in the light, to be very generic in appearance, a nameless, faceless person who happened to be. But his effect on Ginny was electric. She twirled charmingly around to meet him, dazzlingly beautiful in her obvious desire to please. She turned to face him, striking an attitude that turned Harry's whole body hot – and cold, in the knowledge it was not meant for him. She lifted her head. Harry screamed silently as he bent her gently backwards to kiss her passionately.

His entire body contorted with fury and rage. His one desire was to lay hands on this nameless male and rip him, carefully, to pieces. As they kissed more and more deeply, Harry mentally begged Snape, make this go, I didn't do anything so terrible, make it go, I don't want to see it... But of course, the spell of gold mist was using his own deepest fears and hopes to torture him, some of which, like this one, he had never even acknowledged to himself, except in dreams, or when only half awake. It had nothing to do with Snape. With a last, desperate effort, he screamed the words that had saved him from the mist-Voldemort and his Cruciatus curse, using all the power he could command that was not trying to curse the figure now snuggling into Ginny –

"IT'S NOT REAL!"

The image faded and Harry ran past the end of the corridor, exploding instinctively the avalanche of dragon dung that Clive had thoughtfully provided and finally came to rest, sobbing with pain and fear, in a circular room covered in doors.

The Department of Mysteries.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" This must be another room that moulded itself to fit the victim's fears, he thought wildly, as he remembered the last time he was in a room like that. He felt as though he was in a time warp as the circular wall, with all its doors, began spinning round, dizzying his already befuddled head. He yelled when it stopped, putting all his power behind it:

"Show me the way to Snape!"

Nothing happened. Cursing, Harry rose to his feet and began divining Snape's whereabouts again, allowing his image to form in his mind. Again the image disappeared, but one of the doors blazed brown. He hurtled towards it, not caring what lay beyond, desiring only to put distance between himself and this place which held so many terrible memories for him. The door flew open at his touch, and he ran through it.

A violent explosion blew him off his feet. He was in a long hallway, the floor of which was insubstantial, almost gas, and steamed gently. The walls were covered in a dark reddish-brown substance that was unmistakeably dragon's blood, by its smell and its aura. The ceiling was covered in quietly flickering black flames. At the other end were two human figures. He rubbed his eyes, but they remained indistinct. He focussed on them using a type of magical sight he hardly knew he had, and it seemed they were Snape and Malfoy. He did not know which was stronger, the relief or the fury at the torment through which he had been put. He could not see the difficulty in crossing the hall, all he had to do was levitate carefully, avoiding the dangerous surroundings. Compared to what he had done so far, this was easy.

Barely had the thought formed in his head when a sudden roaring was heard. The steaming floor began smoking and spluttering violently. The material it threw up slowly formed a shape. Dragon! It was wispy and insubstantial, gleaming, rather like a patronus. The walls began boiling fiercely and the blood splashed onto the dragon's frail form, staining it red. It blazed suddenly, and became much more solid. It lifted its head to the flaming black ceiling and took a deep breath, inhaling the flames. Then it stood up, and, with a sickeningly familiar bellow, it shot a jet of flame into the air; Harry felt the heat though the fire had not reached within ten feet of him.

The dragon had not noticed him yet, so Harry took advantage of the small amount of time this left him to consider his chances. He had gotten past a dragon before, on a broomstick. That time, though, he'd had an unlimited amount of space to move around. The walls, the ceiling, the floor – all were dangerous, and he did not know how dangerous. Possibly lethal; Snape had warned him that his life would be in danger. But he had nothing with him.

A broomstick.

He needed a broom, and probably had only seconds to get one. He closed his eyes and held his hands out. He poured energy from all his centres into his hands, feeling the power he held. He visualised a broomstick in his hands. He thought _broomstick, broomstick, broomstick _at his hands and finally, after three seconds of concentrated effort, he smelt wood and felt a handle in his palms. He opened his eyes and examined the broom that he had just made of his own spirit. He saw the dragon and realised why it had not noticed him: it was examining itself, enjoying the experience of its new life before it would look around. Every so often it almost playfully breathed fire.

He mounted his broom. He felt at one with the broom, it was part of him, an extension of his own body. He had felt that occasionally before, in very intense moments on the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt. Here, however, even stationary, it felt like an extra limb. It was made of his energy; it would serve him well. He slowly began moving towards the dragon, taking care to avoid the walls. He moved slowly, carefully, past the dragon's head. It still, miraculously, had not noticed him. Gently, he trundled down its flank. Then it shifted, and Harry suddenly knew he was in terrible danger. It had moved closer to the wall, so he could not pass without touching either. Worse still, the dragon had finally noticed him. Worst of all, it turned its head to examine the new curiosity on its right flank, blocking off Harry's retreat. He was trapped between the wall, the dragon's side and its head. He could only turn upwards.

He glided towards the ceiling as the dragon's brutish face was slowly changing to an expression he had come to associate with the creatures: murder. The ceiling was probably concentrated dragon fire, or the dragon would not have breathed it in to build up its firepower. He felt the heat of it sear his face and singe his hair.

The dragon blew. Harry swerved and shrieked something he knew not what, and the dragon seemed momentarily confused. Evidently it had not been alive long enough to be a severe threat. _That's not going to help if I can't kill it before it's fully alive_, Harry thought, and faced the monster head-on. Every ounce of his being was concentrated on the beast. He had to get rid of it, destroy it, dissipate it into the forces within the room that had created it in the first place. _Destroy firepower_, Harry willed desperately. The dragon snorted violently. As he continued to focus, the ceiling flame swooped low over the dragon's head. The dragon blew a long, hot breath at him, but its fire was no longer there. Heartened by this small success, Harry moved closer to the blood-covered walls to divest the dragon of its life-force as well. The dragon seemed to sense its impending doom and dived at him, claws outstretched. Harry dived down to the floor under its curving tail. Too far. The mist swirled eagerly about him, drawing him in. It formed itself into eager, grabbing hands.

Harry swerved upwards to avoid it, unluckily, straight into the dragon's face. It seemed now to have gained its bearings, even without fire, and there was nothing confused or vague about its stance now. Its jaws swung outwards, and bit. Some stroke of genius, or flash of madness, occurred to Harry, and he pointed his broom straight down its throat. The dragon swallowed.

Harry hurtled downwards through the dragon's scorching tubes, crashing to a halt in its cavernous stomach. He held his broom tightly as he breathed in the reeking fumes of the creature's innards. _One last blast_, he told himself. He had arrived safely because he had stolen its fire. Now it was time to end it. He drew in his power slowly, until he seemed as full as he could be. He tried to collect some of the dragon's own magic, more powerful than his own. He felt as though he was swelling with power, almost to bursting. Just as he thought he could stand no longer, he released the energy in a blast of pure power.

The world exploded. Harry clung to his broom as he was thrown, scorchingly, towards the ceiling. Scraps of green flesh were flying everywhere he looked, as the energy he had released turned the hallway into a gigantic, cosmic, explosion of colour. Slowly, the hall relaxed to its previous state, the three parts of dragonhood, flesh, blood and fire, returning to the walls, floor and ceiling. He flew down the passage, disabling a long-fingered throttling wood-gnome, crushing a silver sword that tried to stab him and finally disabling Clive with "_Waddiwasi_!".

He alighted at the end of the corridor and absorbed the broomstick back into his body. Facing Snape and Malfoy, he said calmly, all he needed to say.

"_I passed._" He could say no more.

Snape knelt next to him, and expertly poured a potion down his throat, and another, and another. He then stood and pointed his wand at Harry. A white light blazed about him and then he stood up, healed.

"Why do you use _Waddiwasi_ against my poltergeist?" Snape asked.

"Mischief-stopper."

"What gave you that idea?"

"Lupin. He turned it on Peeves and the wad of gum that he'd been trying to stick in a keyhole was unblocked. I thought, mischief-stopper, maybe anti-poltergeist, something like that."

"What a pity you weren't attending when he told you what it actually did. It was the dislodging of the gum; it had nothing to do with Peeves' mischief. Using the wrong incantation in pure mind magic like you have isn't terrible, but it can slow you down a bit."

Harry had no energy to argue the point. "Right. What now?"

"Well, you've made eighty-one minor errors and three major in the course."

Draco sniggered, the first sound he had made since Harry's appearance. Snape looked at Harry with sudden humour in his usually dead eyes. "On _his_ first try, he made two-hundred-and-ninety-six minor errors and fourteen major, and that was before he had even reached halfway. I had to rescue him from a virtual manticore. It was interesting."

"Thanks, Snape," Draco muttered sourly.

"Next time, don't start bragging about how well you do it. I've been training you for over half a decade and this is his first time. He's the first person ever to finish the course on his first attempt."

"You must have made it an easy one."

"The spell of terror?"

"You didn't use that!"

"I did."

Draco whistled. "Well done, Potter dear," he laughed. "The first time I face that, I was driven to the brink of insanity."

Harry interrupted. "Which one's that? The brown bog, the gold mist, or that dragon? Or was it one of the little obstacles?"

"Gold mist. I was driven, as I said, to the brink of insanity."

"So was I," admitted Harry.

"You got out, though –"

Snape cut across Draco. "Enough small talk. After you –" he inclined his head towards the door that stood behind him. Harry took a deep breath. He had completed the obstacle course that Snape routinely set up for his pupils. Now began the real thing. He pushed open the door.

He stood on air, in the middle of the air. Nothing was there at all. When the other two followed him, it seemed they were standing in a small pocket of nowhere, around them stretching an endless expanse of nothingness.

Snape cleared his throat. "Welcome to our training room, Harry."


	20. Training

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing here, etc._

_This will be a bit of a long author's note..._

_On my supposed plagiarism:_

_I do not, ever, deliberately use plot detail, language or imagery used by any other author on this site. If I appear to have done so, it is subconscious i.e. my memory is providing me with what I think is inspiration. Please tell me when such lapses occur and I will correct them as soon as possible. To the person who told me that I seemed to have stolen a piece of chapter from elsewhere: you were right but it was not deliberate, I will change it and I thank you for pointing this out._

_If anyone has an issue, this one or any other, with what I have written, please don't hesitate to tell me. Flame me if you want; that's half the fun of this sort of writing. Please don't leave your review unsigned; if you help me improve by criticising I will only thank you._

_Anyway, now that's off my chest, here's the nest chapter._

Harry reeled and could think of nothing to say. "You – you mean – the whole thing with that course –"

"Was as a prelude to training, yes."

"I thought that was at two..."

"It was, until you cheeked me at breakfast. You can study at that point instead."

Harry nodded. It was safer not to talk; he still hadn't quite recovered.

"No comment?" Snape inquired. "I would have thought..." for some reason, he allowed his thought to go unfinished, an unheard-of action for him, especially as it sounded as though he was about to begin on an insult. He turned to Harry and looked him straight in the eyes. "In any case, Harry Potter – well done. Your first time has outperformed every one of my students'. An accomplishment to be proud of."

Draco was looking distinctly jealous. Snape turned to him, raising a sardonic eyebrow, but saying with a warmth that did not match his sarcastic look, "It was because of you that he convinced me to speak like that, if you recall." Then, murmuring to Draco under his breath, "Draco, son, relax. As my godson, you will always be first in my estimation."

"I heard that!" Harry said indignantly.

Snape and Draco broke apart. "Well, Harry, you had your turn."

"You never said to me, 'you're my son!'"

For one moment, the bantering reached a point that was almost affectionate. Harry felt for that second they had been a family.

"Would you rather I did?" asked Snape quietly, his eyes boring into Harry, the glimmer of something like emotion in his eyes gone, and the moment was lost. Snape was, once again, his teacher, if marginally less hated. Yet still, it was as though he was trying to remind Harry that their boundaries could be broken – in time. They had promised to try to get along last week, now it was time to act upon it.

"N-not yet." Harry faltered.

Snape nodded. "Now we begin. Think of a curse, hex or jinx to practice on."

"Hey! You never let us curse you so early on!" Draco protested.

Without turning his head, Snape replied curtly, "Here, time is of the essence. I repeat, P-Harry, think of a curse, hex or jinx."

"Er... stunner?"

"It will do. We are only using the spell to help you with the art of effective defensive and offensive play. Now, I'm sure this will please you..." Snape picked something out of the folds of his cloak and handed it to him.

"My wand!" Finally! He would be able to cast a spell without giving himself a headache!

Snape stood facing him, wandless. "Cast it."

"_Stupefy_!" It was something like satisfying to curse him, at least until it deflected off him without Snape's moving a muscle. Snape nearly smiled, then moved around him and took his wand hand.

"Now let me explain to you what you have done wrong. You aim well, probably your Quidditch skills –" a slight expression of distaste crossed Snape's face. Harry thought he knew why; that had been one of Snape's biggest reasons he hated his father. "– but your focus is too much on the spell itself, rather than on the target. In an OWL exam, you would have no target, and can therefore gain an 'Outstanding' without really knowing how to use defensive spells, just how to cast them."

"So what are you basically saying?" Harry asked, somewhat confused.

"Concentrate not just on casting a perfect stunning spell, but on me as your intended target. Focus on what you are actually trying to achieve – on me."

Harry thoughtfully raised his wand again. This was a different way of thinking from the one he had taught the DA, and an interesting one. It made a lot of sense. Harry concentrated on the target that Snape offered, concentrating on cursing him, the man, rather than simply casting to the air and trusting to his aim, flawless though it was. He pointed his wand very directly at Snape, who still stood wandless. His focussing on Snape as his target built a strange kind of forcefield between the two, his newfound power was telling him, a type of channel through which the curse could more effectively be cast.

"_Stupefy_!" Snape now raised an arm to defend himself, and the curse again bounded harmlessly off him.

"Better!" Snape sounded almost surprised, which somehow pleased Harry very much. Maybe it was like McGonagall's praise, so infrequently bestowed that it was extremely potent. Yet this was the second, or maybe even the third compliment the man had paid him in the room. Obviously Harry's outburst on his emotional cruelty had been bothering him more that he realised.

"Now, try that again."

Harry did so, but it was thirty-eight times more before Snape was satisfied, and decided it was time to move on to the next stage.

"Now, Potter, we add an extra level of meaning to the spell. Imagine we were on a battlefield. Why might you use this spell against me?"

"To protect myself from you?" Harry hoped he wasn't being too presumptuous, but that was the only reason he could think of.

"That will do perfectly. Now, allow yourself the luxury of a little imagination. We are on the battlefield, I am fighting you and you need to stun me to protect yourself. Without losing your focus on me as the intended target, bring in some focus on defending yourself from me as your intended purpose."

Harry pointed his wand and sighed. It was going to be a long hour indeed...

* * *

"Now, we have completed all forms of focus on the target. Next, we start working on the spell itself. You are not putting a quarter of your power into it, I am sure. Try to bring the curse from deeper within your magical core. You may still use your wand."

Harry felt as though his mind was going to break from the strains of Snape's mercilessly difficult tasks; he was still keeping up, but he was sure he was on the brink of insanity. He dutifully concentrated on Snape as a target, with all of the aspects of his target firmly entrenched in his mind. Then, he lifted his wand and drew from deep inside his fused core a bolt of strong energy and he gently channelled it into his hand; his wand could direct it from there.

"_Stupefy_!"

He then had the immense satisfaction of Snape's actually using his wand to parry the curse this time.

"Not good enough. Apply yourself!" Snape's bark reminded Harry horribly of their disastrous Occlumency lessons the previous year. Perhaps Snape also realised this, for he tried to backtrack, "You have the power, you and I both know it. Try again."

"_Stupefy_!"

"Not hard enough."

Harry concentrated as hard as he could. He imagined this spell as being the difference between life and death. All the power he could command flowed into his wand.

"_Stupefy_!"

"_Protego_!" Snape called. Finally, he had forced a verbal magical reaction out of Snape. And Snape was smiling.

"Lastly, and this is the most difficult, try to allow the spell to form from a need to curse. Let it express your desire to render me unconscious."

This gave Harry a sudden sense of déjà vu. Where had he heard that before? And then it came back to him, painfully. Bellatrix Lestrange, thrown off his inexpert Cruciatus curse. _"You need to _mean_ them, Potter!"_

"Harry, you ok there?" Draco's voice, sounding halfway between concerned and amused.

"He'd better be," Snape growled. It was almost a threat. With some effort, Harry pulled himself into the present. "Take your time," Snape said calmly. "This isn't supposed to be easy."

Harry spent a full eighty seconds on building his concentration on the spell he was about to cast. Everything Snape had told him, every bit of his power, was fighting to break free and cast the curse. Then, he allowed all the hatred for Snape he had ever felt to build up, so that the curse, indeed, seemed an expression of his very essence.

"_Stupefy_!" And Snape was out cold.

Harry's eyes met Draco's over Snape's unconscious form and they both burst out laughing. Draco walked up to him, shook his hand and pretended to ask for an autograph. Still laughing, he said, "Joking aside, that was pretty impressive. I can only just about stun him and I've been doing this stuff for years."

"Shall we revive him?"

"Hmmm..."

"I know, hard one, isn't it."

"All right, I suppose we'll have to."

"_Rennervate_."

Snape rose, his face twisted into a mask of disapproval. "I wonder how long you left me unconscious." he remarked. Then he looked at Harry and the expression slowly softened. "Wonderful. Of course, in a real-life situation you are unlikely to be allowed five minutes to prepare yourself, though. We will work on that soon. That concludes this lesson."

"Good, I'm exhausted..."

Snape turned around on his way out of the door. "And I hope you no longer need to wonder why you are to go to bed at ten."

* * *

In a cave, up in the mountain, another two men were training in magical combat. Their white faces seemed to glow in the cave's gloomy interior. Another man stood over them, silently, watching. When one's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, one realised there was something odd, unnatural, about the two silent, mentally wrestling men. Their faces were so absolutely white, they hardly seemed human. Their eyes, locked in each other's gaze, were dark in more than just colour, with a hint of red around the edges. The contours of their faces were too well defined, too perfect, too be normal, the firm line of their jaws, the graceful arch of their eyebrows, the ears smoothly swept back against their skulls. Every little feature seemed designed to inspire fear.

The third man, the observer on closer inspection, did not seem entirely at ease in their presence. His eyes darted from side to side, as though searching for someone to take him from these terrifying beings, but to no avail. Then, suddenly, he grabbed his left arm as though it had burned and then pushed his hand against his mouth as though to stop himself making any sound. He moved towards the cave's entrance, taking care to give the two others a wide a berth as possible, and then took a deep breath.

"The Dark Lord sends his most grateful thanks to you and your blood brothers, O vampires," he began huskily. The two strange men turned to face him. Obviously forcing himself not to bolt, he continued, "He requests that you continued training in the methods he has devised and to forget not the reward he has promised to give." He bowed slightly to the vampires, and with obvious relief at the ending of his task, he disapparated.


	21. Beating the maze

_**Disclaimer: **__Nothing here is mine..._

_No apology will compensate for the unpardonable lateness, but I'll say I'm sorry anyway._

Harry picked a book at random from the shelf. Not quite at random, perhaps, he had tried to allow instinct to guide him to the most useful book in the room, but still, his instincts were hazy, as Snape still occasionally gently reminded him. And, very often, not-so-gently reminded him. He looked at the title. _A guide to magical mazes and obstacle courses – how to make 'em and break 'em!_ Harry laughed. This was perfect. It might not help him in training, but it would help him survive the gruelling course towards the training room. Why was that necessary anyhow?

_Because I want my trainees to arrive in the training room as they would arrive on the battlefield. Exhausted and depleted, physically, emotionally and magically._ Snape's voice answered him from somewhere inside his head. Harry didn't think Snape had yet fed him that line, so where did it come from? He turned around and Draco stood behind him.

"Git," Harry said idly, turning towards an armchair to read. "That really sounded like him, you almost frightened me. Honestly, get some new tricks." He sat down and opened the thick volume. "Imitating Snape's mental voice is getting just as tired as copying his real one. I tell you, though, I can't wait for the next prank to be ready..." Why wasn't Draco responding? He realise something was not right. He would have felt safest simply keeping his head down and prattling on until Draco escaped, but he steeled himself to stop talking and look up. Draco's face was like a death mask. It was completely empty. It certainly did not look like the face of a boy gleeful with the success of his trick, or someone downcast at his failure to surprise. He just looked glassy-eyed and hollow. "Was it you doing –' Harry faltered.

Draco nodded curtly, and left the room. Suddenly Harry felt more cheerful, as though a shadow had left his armchair, and shaking his misgivings away, he opened the book. Right away, he saw that this was, if not Snape's torture-course-setting bible, it was at least his starting point. He skimmed through the first chapter quickly. He had studied this sort of material carefully before the third task in the Triwizard Tournament. He couldn't help admiring the way the author put the ideas so neatly, but it was familiar. Then came chapter two, and Harry could almost hear Snape reading the book aloud. He wondered if Snape had a sister, if he did, it was probably her who wrote the book. Or a cousin. The styles were just so similar.

_A complete understanding of the theory underlying magical mazes and their obstacles necessitates a return to the basic principles of wizardry. No obstacle spell can be cast unless the witch or wizard casting it has full knowledge of how to bring it forth, bind it, control it and release it. All obstacles must be bound to the area for which they are designated. To bind a spell, it must be brought forth from the deepest recesses of power and then gently disconnected from it. The power source should be transferred carefully to resonate with the destination aura. For more information on transferring spells by source, see _An understanding of power sourcing _by Cornelia Tarpin._

That was just like Snape's obsession with theory. He was right, sort of; if you really understood the principles you could cast a better spell. The trouble was that really understanding was a difficult process. Most of the time, you just ended up with applying rule-of-thumb half-truths to your spells. Snape said this was Hermione's problem. Harry didn't see that Hermione necessarily had a problem, but Snape thought most people had some problem or other. Harry couldn't really understand why, so he filed that thought away and continued reading.

He passed over the descriptions of the spells you could use. Snape had taught him that when you were learning, it was more important to learn the general principles than specific spells or techniques. He understood what Snape was doing when he set it up, but was no clearer as to what he was supposed to do when he got into the tortures. Well, perhaps _torture_ was a bit strong, call them obstacles. Then came the chapters about how to do the mazes: navigation: finding a path, navigation: through an obstacle, what to do if you get stuck...

Harry grinned. This was going to be fun.

* * *

"You may begin." Snape disapparated, as usual, and Harry was left alone in the study to navigate his way to the training room without dying. This time, however, he was armed with specialist knowledge.

The first few tasks were far too easy. Harry was certain that there was something much worse later on; these trifling obstacles were hardly Snape's usual style. A pit full of poisonous snakes – were they vipers? – simply required levitation, a falling guillotine needed to be carefully immobilised. After calmly neutralising a small group of salamanders, gently curbing their excited little flames, Harry looked up and saw something odd. He told himself that he couldn't possibly be seeing right. Look again, his eyes insisted. It's truly there.

He was in a ball. Not a large ball, either. Its diameter was no more than ten feet. Harry cursed himself for being stupid enough to have walked into the trap. How could a large empty ball have suddenly surrounded him without his noticing? He must have been really off his guard. Not very sensible. Now he was stuck inside a black beach ball with no light besides that of the salamanders. This light of course had to be dim, because if he allowed them to brighten up his gloomy sphere, they'd burn him.

He tried walking around a little, but it was like using a hamster's treadmill wheel: the ball just rolled towards him and he didn't get anywhere. He thought about what he had studied earlier. He didn't think that the _Magical Mazes_ author had included anything about being trapped inside black balls, certainly not ones with salamanders in them. There had been a chapter entitled _Trapped!_ Something like _what to do when the worst has happened._ It was all about escaping when you've somehow got imprisoned, and, judging from what he'd read, he knew it would take ages to get out.

He tried to remember. Step one – is there a specifically designated way out? He started testing the ball, running his mind over its surface, but there was nothing. This ball was not designed so that he'd be able to easily escape.

Step two – what are the defences? Can they be breached? The defences – magically enforced plastic. Without spells, it was just a big beach ball really. Harry made a virtual knife with his mind and tried to pierce the wall to burst the ball. Nothing. He tried harder. He imagined his entire life force pouring into the imaginary knife. He drew on power in the air around him. He reached deep into himself and pulled strength from the recesses that had helped break Snape's body-bind curse two weeks before. He pushed the knife into the plastic again. When the tip touched it, a wave of pure black rolled into the ball, extinguishing the salamanders' helpful little flames.

Now he was left in the dark, with seven squealing salamanders. Evidently, having your flame put out was either painful or frightening. Or possibly merely irritating; Harry had no idea what the cries meant. Step three – try to remove the spell from its source. Great. Now he was going to have to work against a spell of Snape's, which would be about as easy as passing an Arithmancy NEWT without studying. Slowly, he probed the ball, deeper and deeper, searching for the spell's point of contact with the corridor he estimated he was in.

Two hours later, he was out, gasping for breath. He'd forgotten about how much air, or rather how little air, a beach ball has inside. He thought he'd never breathe again, and he could spare no energy from destroying the ball to provide air. He then fought a manticore, which, every time you cursed it, changed shape so violently you were almost thrown backwards. Still, it was easier than the ball; Harry comforted himself as he picked himself up for the seventeenth time to battle an armchair-shaped manticore without any weapons.

When the manticore was dead and dissolved, Harry now found himself facing a new spell, one he hadn't yet seen. It seemed to be a violently pink mist, the colour irresistibly reminding him of a certain dreadful Valentine's Day organised by one Guilderoy Lockhart. He stepped tentatively forward.

"Welcome to the Circle of Love," a sweet voice announced. "The place you will never leave."

He was standing on a circular floor lit by gaudy pink spotlights. Nobody else was there, though he couldn't' help gut feel that he was waiting for something to turn up – or someone. A delicious, flowery scent assailed his nostrils, and suddenly he knew what was coming. An image entered his mind, of swinging red hair, a graceful footstep, two blazing eyes.

And he was right. Ginny, just the way he remembered her, just the way she appeared in the dreams he tried to ignore, almost danced in to the circle.

"Come dance with me," she asked. And Harry was no longer in control. Some sane part of him was warning him, telling him it wasn't real, but it wasn't telling him loudly enough, and he went down to meet her. She was so light, so graceful. He was reminded of his disastrous experience with Parvati Patil at the Yule Ball, and he marvelled over the difference. Here, he wasn't trying to stay as far from the girl as possible, but bringing her closer as they waltzed. They drew nearer and nearer as they danced, the sweet music lending atmosphere Harry could hardly believe possible. Son, he could feel her beating heart; their faces were almost touching.

"Kiss me..." Ginny murmured, almost purring. And Harry had to obey. The music, the smell, everything was numbing, blinding, he really felt as though he held Ginny Weasley in his arms. Their lips met, and then Harry's mind switched off. This was all he needed. He knew that given the choice, he would stay here for the rest of his life. An eternal kiss with the only girl that had ever really mattered to him, even while the sane part of his mind, quieter now, was telling him to run.

Then he came to his senses and remembered that Snape watched his trainees in case they were about to die. Snape was watching him snog a _animated mannequin_! He tried to break away from her, but it wasn't so simple. She held him tighter now, and she was still kissing him even while he struggled to leave, which was extremely distracting. Harry braced himself, and cast a perfect revulsion jinx. It didn't affect her too badly, since she wasn't human, but she loosened her grip slightly.

That was all Harry needed. He whirled away and ran, not allowing himself the luxury of a single backward glance. One more corridor, one battle with a ghost, and he was through.

He opened the training room the way Snape had shown him, and triumphantly entered in the knowledge that he had beaten his last record by over ten minutes. He only hoped Snape would congratulate him for it, that would be the perfect finish.


	22. Empty

_**Disclaimer: **__Being neither an original nor a profit-making organisation, this page is not in any way a contravention of copy write law._

"You and Weasley, eh?" Snape was enjoying this far too much, in Harry's personal opinion.

"You gave me that one on purpose, you –" Harry wanted to say something like _slimy, greasy, slave-driving bastard_, but he thought it was unlikely to go down particularly well. "Can't you give me something a little more challenging and less _embarrassing_?"

"Maybe you have to learn to stop embarrassing yourself..." Snape murmured suggestively, gesturing towards Draco with an exaggerated flourish. Just to make sure Harry hadn't forgotten that his roommate had also witnessed his disgrace. But Draco did not seem amused or even interested; he simply looked straight ahead of him with glassy eyes. Snape looked at Draco too, and a tiny crease between his eyebrows showed Harry that he was not the only one who was noticing Draco's reticence of late. "Is this where I tell you what happened to Draco when he first encountered that spell...?" Snape asked musingly, almost rhetorically, but even this dire threat did not produce any sort of reaction in the grey eyes.

Snape made an effort to ignore Draco's odd behaviour and concentrate on the lesson. "Today, we will be looking at the role played by mind magic in a duel and how it can be used to cow your opponent, making him or her more easily defeatable."

"You mean like psychological warfare?"

"What's that, a muggle illness?" Draco asked with languid disinterest.

Harry always found wizarding ignorance fascinating. Surely psychology still applied to wizard's minds; they were still human! Yet Draco did not even recognise the term. "No, it's the muggle version of mind magic. They can even do memory charms with it..."

"I beg your pardon?" The words were interested, Draco's manner was not.

"Well, psychologists – those are like mind magicians – can make you forget things, like '_Obliviate_'; they can force memories out of you, like legilimency," Harry began, but Snape was not prepared to listen to a long explanation of irrelevant muggle science.

"Potter. I am sure this is going to quietly spiral into a demonstration of Our Hero's superior knowledge of muggle studies, however, as pleasing as that might be to the ego of the Hero in question, I find myself required to step in, and, by avoiding both a swelling of your head and a waste of precious time, kill two Doxys with one spell."

Harry tried as hard as he could not to catch the thinly veiled insult and equally hard not to salute the man mockingly, but simply clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yes."

"Yes, _sir_."

"..."

"Go on."

"Yes, _professor_." He wasn't being rude, but he wasn't quite doing as he was told. That was the perfect balance. Snape narrowed his eyes dangerously, but made no further comment.

"Begin by making a connection with your opponent's mind as usual." Snape pushed Draco forward.

Harry almost grinned, except that Snape always reprimanded him if he thought he was doing well, and tended to give him more work and harder afterwards. _Grin when _I _have told you that you have done well_, he would say sourly. _You are hardly the best judge of your own excellence_. The ironic emphasis on the last word was more than Harry could stand, and so he had become accustomed to keeping a perfectly straight face during training. But really, this was easy. He knew how to mess with minds now. He floated his mind out of his body so that his consciousness was bound to the mental plane rather than the physical one. He turned to Draco's now shadowy, indistinct form and sent out mental feelers towards his brain. He remembered the endless torturous hours he had spent perfecting the technique, but it had paid off. His legilimency and occlumency were – well, not quite on par with Snape's own, but when he and Snape strove mentally, he was a worthy opponent and he knew it. Linking to Draco's brain took him only seconds, and he was soon once more in his body, ready for his next command.

"Now, although applying mental pressure to your prey – if you'll excuse the term – without it being obvious is far more difficult than simply performing the Imperius curse, they are similar. Do you remember how you were taught to use legilimency without the victim being aware and without even requiring eye contact?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. That's why I link."

"And do you remember how you execute a perfect Imperius curse?"

"Yes."

"Now, this is a very little bit like both, but it has its own uniqueness as well. Try beginning the way you cast an Imperius, but don't actually do so. Simply collect within yourself that sense of control. Then, imagine yourself applying pressure to Draco's mind. It should be as though you are inflating your psyche so that his must contract to allow yours more space. This is the most difficult feat I have ever asked you to perform, I understand, but just realise this: a battle can hinge on the ability to decrease an opponent's confidence and self-belief just a tiny amount. The usefulness of this skill cannot be overrated."

"You say that every time," Harry couldn't help pointing out, but Snape just looked at him with that cold, dead-eyed stare. The message was clear: shut up and do it. So Harry did.

* * *

It was after supper that Harry dared to ask his first question of Snape that was unrelated to work in days. Draco had eaten in a silence too absolute to be even morose. Snape had stared after his retreating back with a worry that was less well disguised than it had been in the training room. The unspoken question hung in the air, before Harry decided he would take the plunge and voice it.

"What's with Draco?"

Snape considered. Finally he answered quietly, with something not unlike real feeling. "I think it has finally hit him that his father is dead."

Harry simply sat. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? Draco's high spirits had only been possible in a sense of unreality. When he, Harry, had finally woken up to the realisation that he really was here, that Snape really had kidnapped him and everyone really did think he was dead, it hadn't crushed him. He'd been used to hardship. And anyway, after being at the Dursley's, feeling unwelcome was nothing new. He hadn't lost anything.

He thought about what the loss of Draco's father and his old life meant to him. Instead of scorning his previously cosseted existence, he began wondering what it felt like to be removed from it into the difficult circumstances Draco now found himself. He started to speculate over the relationship Draco had with his father. Maybe they were very close. Or maybe they had been distant, and Draco mourned the loss of the bond they could have had. People were complicated. But he couldn't think of this as though it were a difficult task in transfiguration; people didn't conform to rules or any such thing. He had to assume nothing. He had to realise he had no idea what this new bizarre life with Snape meant to Draco. He couldn't understand what the loss of his father meant to him. He couldn't even start, having never lost a parent himself –

_Yes you have. Sirius_

A little voice had awoken inside his head, telling him, reminding him, forcing him to recognise that he did know what it felt like. And he might not have felt that sense of unreality that Draco did, and he had felt that horrible hollowness almost as soon as he was gone. After that first initial grief, there had just been – nothing. A coldness that had reminded Harry of nothing as much as Dementors. That's what Draco was feeling.

This was Hermione's department, wasn't it? Feelings. He didn't know about them. He could recognise how he felt, explore the way he reacted to other people. But he did not consider the way other people worked. It was not as though he thought it didn't matter, he just felt wrong in the whole area of everyone else's feelings, it wasn't his department somehow. And now fate had forced this boy into his life and said, yes, it must be your department. You've got a grieving person shoved more or less up your nose, and you _will_ deal with it. It was probably easier than dealing with girls, Harry pointed out to himself. But what could you do to an unresponsive body such as Draco had become?


	23. Breakthrough

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing on this page. At all._

"I would like to update you on what is happening in the wizarding and wider communities. I think, perhaps, you should read this, Harry, Draco." Snape passed a newspaper over to the boys.

Harry glanced downwards. "Hang on, this is a muggle paper," he said, on recognising the logo of the _Times_.

"Read the article, somewhere in there, about politics. You'll see…"

Harry began reading the article Snape indicated; it appeared to be an extremely dull article about elections. "Why –"

"Keep going," said Snape darkly.

_Strangely enough, a relatively popular candidate for the post of Prime Minister is not affiliated with any party at all. For the first time, one of the serious contenders for leadership of the House of Commons is an independent candidate, a woman by the name of Dolores Umbridge of Upper Flagley, Yorkshire. She has so far appeared in public as a mild, sweet-tempered person, although she has a certain compelling way of speaking that has served her well in the debates so far. Her powerful calls to return to an earlier England are steadily increasing her popularity._

"_Many people feel that we are out of touch with our roots," said a strong supporter of Umbridge. "This country has had so many invasions, so many different ruling houses and nations that we don't often connect to the people who first lived here. Umbridge will revitalise the country by helping us tap into our original selves."_

Harry laid down the paper, his hands shaking. "This is a joke, right? Tell me you're joking."

"Turn the page."

Harry turned the page, and there was a picture of a small, stout woman wearing a black bow on top of dark reddish curls and a wide, toad-like grin. He glanced, almost reflexively, at his left hand, its white scars tingling: _I must not tell lies_. She looked strange in muggle attire, in this muggle photo, unmoving. "Is this the Ministry moving against muggles?"

"Yes, and Umbridge was chosen to spearhead the campaign. I do not think she is not often actually there in person; she is most probably acting through some kind of avatar. Within the Ministry, she is active in the campaigns of the new order."

"But what's all this about _returning to our roots_?"

"It is a long story, difficult to explain properly. Basically, the first religious order in this country was magical. The Druids, as they were known, were priests for the primitive people of the earliest civilisations in Western Europe. Often, they were essentially savages acting as priests for savages. They practiced human sacrifice and so on. That part of history is partly responsible for muggle wariness, animosity or even hatred of magic. The Dark Lord is preparing muggles for obeisance once more, after millennia of wizard prudence. That's the start of the campaign."

"Right… so back to Umbridge, is she advocating the murder of half-breeds?"

"Or mudbloods?" Draco added vaguely, looking down at his empty plate.

"Please do not use that term," Snape replied. "But yes, both of you are correct. All other sentient creatures are being pushed even more firmly below wizards. All the goblins at Gringotts are now personally answerable to Selwyn. Other goblins are being rounded up throughout the country to the bank, as well, so that all the goblins in the country are registered and regulated. That campaign is proving difficult to run, as goblins are hardly incapable of armed resistance. In the name of Ministry security, however, the Unforgivable curses have been officially legalised for use against enemies of the Ministry – in other words, of the Death Eaters. This is giving those in charge of the goblin hunt – how do I put it – an edge."

"Fighting goblins on that kind of scale…" Harry's voice trailed off as vague memories of how Binns's droning voice could make even the bloodiest goblin riots boring. Somehow it didn't seem at all boring now. "Isn't that somewhat suicidal? Is this some kind of punishment for Selwyn?"

Snape gave a singularly humourless laugh. "Selwyn is using an army of 'criminals' to do the actual fighting – people who were incarcerated in Azkaban for resisting new regulations and so on. If he runs out of those, he will use the Imperius curse to build a new army.

"Goblins aren't the only beings the Dark Lord is trying to control. He is also insisting on registration of house-elves. He uses them, sometimes…he likes to know exactly where and who they all are. That is proving far easier than controlling the goblins; house-elves, seeing as they are always attached to wizarding houses and are not inclined to leave, are easy to register. Jugson will probably be in charge of that division."

"What about you?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Snape looked directly at him, his face blank and cold. "I will tell you of my role if and when it ever becomes of any relevance to you, Potter. I sincerely hope that you asked before you had time to consider that question, rather than because you are so arrogant that you actually expected an answer." Harry tried to apologise, but Snape's eyes left his and the man turned away as though Harry was of supreme unimportance. Harry saw his eyes flicker over Draco's blank face. There was that little crease between the eyebrows again, that Snape seemed to wear every time he looked at his godson these days. With a barely discernible effort, he then turned back to Harry and began lecturing him on his arrogance. Harry, with the half of his mind that wasn't wondering what was going to happen to Draco, supposed he should count himself lucky that he wasn't being hit.

"And naturally, that means you are going to have a particularly gruelling training session today. Do you deny you deserve it?"

"No, I don't," Harry replied, biting back the retort that training session were all varying degrees of gruelling anyway. "I apologise," he added, just flatly enough to be rude, not flatly enough to be punished. Just the balance that generally kept him from going insane with Snape.

"No problem," Snape continued smoothly. "We shall start now." He and Draco disappeared.

* * *

When he actually arrived at the training room, Snape was ready, waiting, a smirk on his face. "I think we have done rather enough magic for the day," he remarked. "So…your wand, Pot-Harry." He held out his hand, and Harry reluctantly surrendered his wand. "Now, just in case you thought you were going to use magic anyway, I will take steps. Has your Granger friend ever told you anything about the Egyptian wizards of ancient times?"

"She said they were fascinating when Ron went to Egypt, but that was it. Oh, and she said something about Horus," said Harry, calling power to his fingertips in preparation for the wandless task he was certain was in the offing. Snape, however, had other ideas.

"Indeed. One thing they did was use demons, which is a lost art today. Lost to most, that is. Not to me. I can still call on powers greater than any human magic if I wish. Have you ever read about hieroglyphic magic?"

"Yes. Hermione said they used to use the Eye of Horus to dampen any power. It was supposed to protect you. And there were other glyphs too, but that's the most famous. Muggles put it on amulets. And there's the Ankh, but I don't remember what it does. Most modern authors don't seem to think they worked though."

"Naturally. The key lies in using the power of the demon, although the Egyptians themselves would have called him a god. They worshiped demons, you see. That was how they did magic. The secrets have been lost, so most believe it was never really done. Now –" and Snape whirled his hand through the air and Harry felt a sudden keen, icy draught. A huge glyph burned in mid-air.

"The Eye of Horus?" Harry asked.

"Yes. We will look at demonic magic in due course, do not fear, but now, I will use this symbol to ensure that the task I am about to set you is correctly completed." Harry tried, and failed, to look supremely unconcerned. Snape smirked once again. "Physical training," he remarked.

"You don't normally disarm me before physical training," Harry said. It was almost an accusation. "And it's the wrong time of day."

Snape ignored the second question. "This is because you're going to be truly tempted to use magic now. It might not be of any use when I put you on the treadmill. But I'm going to put your life in danger, and letting you escape from it magically would defeat the purpose. Turn around."

Harry turned, and saw a climbing wall that looked as though it was about a thousand feet tall. Lava poured down it, and clear liquid that could have been poison, or acid, or possibly poisonous acid. Know Snape, the latter was the most likely. "Do I get an asbestos suit?"

"What's that?" Harry jumped; he had hardly registered that Draco was there. He was looking positively ill, his face pale grey and drawn.

"Fireproof material. I think it's acidproof too."

"No you won't, now get on there and start," Snape said, almost roughly, his eyes on Draco again, his forehead creasing slightly.

Harry began. It was hot and dangerous, and Snape hadn't particularly tried to provide handholds, so he felt as though he was scrambling up bare rock. He desperately tried to use magic to make himself fireproof or invulnerable in some other way, but the Eye of Horus glared at him, and resisted anything he tried to do. Every so often, lava flowed so close he almost screamed with the heat of it, but somehow, he didn't. The physical training he'd had up to this point seemed to be helping him, enabling him to cope with the pain, empowering him to cling to the vertical rock face. It was ridiculously difficult, but doable. _Just keep going_, he told himself repeatedly, as lava and acid flowed about him, and he shifted out of the way as he doggedly moved on upwards. _Just keep going_.

* * *

At suppertime, Harry was too tired to talk much, but Draco's silence was so absolute he felt to need to do so anyway. He asked Snape about the ancient Egyptians, and got an almost animated response. Snape appeared to be positively enthusiastic about the ancient Egyptians.

"So what you had was, each demon, god, whatever, stood for a particular type of magic, whether it was combat, healing, teaching, potion-making and so on. Each temple had priests, scholars and wizards that followed that demon, and the sorcerers of each temple were usually specialists in a particular kind of magic. You might worship Shu, the air god, and then you'd be into air spells, or Anubis the god of death, and you would study necromancy. Possibly you could follow Bastet, the cat, and learn escape artistry. And so on. The secrets of Egyptian magic are mostly lost, though, and even those, like myself, who know some of them, know little compared to what was known. Dumbledore himself once considered making secrets of Egyptian magic public but decided against it – just as he chose to let many lost paths of magic remain secret. What we have left now are mostly Druidic, Greek and Roman rites of magic. Hopelessly Eurocentric, although the Landlime Academy in America teaches Incan and Aztec magic as an option for advanced students."

"The Egyptians, however, were truly in a league of their own…"

Snape continued waxing lyrical about the Egyptians, becoming animated and eloquent. Harry was almost fooled into thinking that Snape actually had an obsession with Egypt, but when he saw that Snape keeping half an eye on Draco's face, he realised that his mind wasn't on his words. At length, he grew tired of Egypt, and his brain was fed up of hearing the facts, fascinating though many of them were, about the different types of wizards in the different temples. It was a relief when supper was over.

Harry left the room, trying not too seem to eager, and he half-expected Snape to call him back, or tell him where to go to start the obstacle course before training. But nothing happened. Harry was starting to feel as though he was the only one alive in the room. Once he was out of sight of the door, he began to run, then suddenly, a strange impulse pulled him back towards the dining room. The door was now shut. Harry waited, and waited, and waited.

* * *

He heard Snape's voice.

"Draco." No answer.

"Draco." Silence.

"Draco, listen to me." There was a sort of moan.

"Draco, listen! You cannot let this destroy you! You _must not_ let this destroy you! You cannot build a wall around you to keep out the pain, Draco, because you will keep out everything else as well. Me. Everyone who cares about you. Draco, please, you're throwing out the baby with the bathwater! He was my friend! Do you think, after losing him, I can stand to see his son become like this? Empty? You owe it to him, Draco, Draco, he wouldn't want you to shut the world out! I promise! Draco, don't do this to me!"

Harry looked through the keyhole. Snape was standing half in front of Draco, half over him, holding him by the shoulders. He would not have believe that Snape could make a sound like that. Pleading. Snape was desperate but gentle and pleading too. Harry did not think he wanted to see Snape like this, but he somehow kept on watching.

"Draco, please, I love you! You're my _son_! Don't do this!"

At the words _ I love you_ Harry almost gasped, but fought his breath down. He watched as Draco's face slowly came to life, and then, with a horrible rough gasp, Draco burst into tears against Snape's chest. The worst was over.


End file.

Harry Potter, Adventure, Romance