Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1: Of Strange Beginnings

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created  
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited  
to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner  
Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark  
infringement is intended. This is a parody, on which I am not making any  
profit.

Author notes: This is the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic. Oh. .  
. and it's a Severitus's Challenge fic. Don't run away, it wont be a  
"Snape suddenly wants to be dad/loves Harry fic".

_This story will include:_  
some angst (not a tragedy.)  
answers for many questions I had about the HP stories!  
vampires - of a type before never see.

'Is Sev a vamp' you ask? Sev isn't sure what he is; only that he is  
the product of an 'impossible' biological phenomenon. Read to learn more.

_Summery: The Dursleys do bloody battle against a severe pest problem,  
while a 15 year old Harry Potter begins to wish he'd confided in  
someone regarding his odd symptoms. Foreshadowing happens, and we  
meet someone familiar._

**Chapter 1**

**Guests at Privet Street**

Harry jerked awake, frantically scrubbing at his face. He  
sputtered and swiped as tiny legs scurried across his lips.

Suddenly aware of every suspicious itch and tickle on his body,  
Harry lurched out of bed, -and slammed painfully into the hard floor in  
a tangle of old ratty blankets. Now fully awake, he staggered towards  
the light switch, arms waving until he found it. Harry peered  
downwards with emerald eyes nearly closed against the painful glare.

"Aurgh!" he cried in absolute horror.

Two black specs were racing up his left leg. He slapped them away,  
leaving streaks of his own blood, but he knew there probably were more.  
In panic and revulsion Harry bolted down the pitch black hallway and  
into the bathroom.

He tried to spot more parasites with the mirror while squinting in  
the bathroom's harsh yellow light. When a small tickle run up, over his  
ear, and into his messy black hair, Harry yelped and changed tactics.

He stepped into the combination bath and shower and unleashed a  
loud torrent of cold water with a turn of the chipped plastic knob.  
Harry had just pulled closed the drain, with a plan to loose his  
stowaways by complete submersion, when the bathroom door was slammed  
open. (And yes, doors can be slammed open. Vernon Dursley made a  
habit of it)

Oops. Extreme oops. Dread realization froze him in place like a  
stunning spell. How could he have forgotten to keep silent at night  
after so many years in this house? Harry's heart jump and his stomach  
twinge painfully.

Vernon was going to kill him.

Vernon Dursley filled the doorway. Though his nephew was nearly 15,  
Dursley outweighed the boy several times over and loomed nearly two  
feet taller. He was obviously tired and fed-up with the nighttime  
awakenings he'd endured for various reasons throughout the hectic week.  
Vernon wore an expression that his nephew remembered with dread.

How ironic. Momentarily, Harry envisioned the Daily Prophet  
headline: 'Boy-Who-Lived Cowers before Muggle!' He would almost prefer  
being killed by Voldemort than having the wizarding world gossiping  
about his home life'. Almost.

"It's three in the morning!" fat lips sputtered, misting the air  
with saliva, "What are you doing, you freak?" Beady eyes took in  
Harry's abandoned T-shirt and socks, resting in a spreading puddle  
beneath the un-tucked, floral-printed shower curtain. "Get out here.  
Now!" Harry stepped hesitantly out of the shower. "Turn it off first,  
you little idiot," Vernon gestured wildly at the shower-head. Harry  
obeyed. As he stood before his uncle, naked and dripping, Harry wished  
he were anyplace but 'home'.

His eyes darted away from Vernon's furious gaze. His own face  
looked back at him from the mirror, pale and frightened. He looked  
tiny and fragile next to his uncle's bulk.

"What are you doing, making noise in the middle of the night when-"

"I woke up and there were fleas everywhere,-I mean they were all  
over me and I was trying to wash them off!" The furious man was not  
impressed with Harry's protests.

"I am so incredibly sick of your stupid nightmares!" Harry's uncle  
bellowed, his face reddening "There are no more fleas in this house you  
stupid-," from the corner of his eye, Harry saw the huge meaty fist  
swing towards his head.

He was too late too duck.

The impact of the fist and then the bathroom wall obliterated  
Vernon's last word, and Harry slid too the cool tile, bracing himself  
for the pain he knew was coming.

Nothing happened.

When he looked again Vernon's eyes were fixed on a familiar dark  
speck that had crept from the hall carpet and now moved boldly across  
the floor tiles. The tiny animal twitched towards Vernon and vanished.  
It reappeared, almost instantaneously on Vernon's stained white bath  
robe, and ran up, past the bulging horizon of his stomach.

"Ugh!" Vernon cried and swiped at it clumsily. Then he spotted  
another. And another.

"PETUNIA! THEY'RE STILL HERE!" Vernon bellowed, rousing the rest  
of the family.

The Dursley's flea infestation wasn't just 'still there'; it was  
now much much worse. A few mornings ago, the Dursleys and their  
reluctant nephew had left the house for their 'little vacation'.  
'Vacation' was what Petunia told the curios neighbor women. In reality  
they had spent a couple of nights in a cheap hotel while the carpet  
cleaners cleaned all the carpets and the carpets dried thoroughly.

The ill fated episode had started when Dudley spotted a flea on  
himself. Naturally, Aunt Petunia was horrified. After carefully  
removing the tiny blood drinker, Petunia commenced striping her  
precious, protesting Dudleykins right there in the kitchen, searching  
for more parasites (after drawing the drapes lest the neighbors catch  
her doing something odd). Harry, who'd been gardening when he noticed  
the curtains mysteriously close, had watched the whole hilarious scene  
through the almost microscopic crack between them.

Petunia's maternal instincts were proven accurate when several more  
fleas were found on Dudley's rotund body. Unsurprisingly, in Harry's  
mind, the pests were soon traced back to the newest member of the  
family; an enormous stray dog Dudley had joyfully dubbed ' Betsy ' a week  
previous.

Betsy appeared to be a hundred and fifty pound white pug dog, if  
such a creature were even possible. She had wolf-like yellow eyes and far  
too much skin draped loosely over her round body. She was so unlike any  
canine he had ever seen that Harry had leapt reflexively away with a  
startled shout when she first came trotting into the back yard where  
he'd been weeding, several days ago. The white dog had graced him with  
a rumbling growl and backed away. The animal clearly didn't want  
anything to do with him. Dudley had laughed hysterically and jiggled  
into the house at his fastest speed (a slow jog) to share the joke with  
his mother.

Harry still half-suspected Betsy of being some sort of little known  
and dangerous magical creature. She certainly brought enough trouble  
to number four Privet drive.

After the flea discovery the dog was bathed (by Harry of course)  
with noxious flea-killing soap. Despite this measure, fleas continued  
to show up, one a day or so, for the following week. The Dursleys were  
in quite a pickle. Neither Petunia nor Vernon were willing to announce  
their somewhat embarrassing pest problem to the neighborhood by having  
an exterminator's van parked in the driveway, like a fly in the  
jelly.

Petunia's solution was perfect; or so it seemed at the time. Since  
the fleas that hadn't been on Dudley or Betsy had all been found on the  
carpeting, carpet cleaning would surely fix the problem, by poisoning  
or sucking up all revolting fleas and flea eggs! Right? Relevantly,  
Petunia would also get the clean carpets she'd been after for years,  
ever since her horrid nephew left a big disgusting blood stain in the  
living-room. With uncharacteristic acumen, Petunia even convinced her  
husband this was all his idea.

Petunia would later be very glad she did.

Due to heavy traffic they'd arrived home late and exhaust after  
their vacation'. After nights spent sleeping on sagging mattresses in  
a shared room while the neighbors made strange noises, even Harry was  
grateful to be back. They hadn't thought to inspect the premises for  
parasites before falling into bed.

Harry and his cousin hurried to pack for the second time that week,  
while Vernon stood downstairs bellowing into the telephone at an  
unfortunate exterminator who apparently didn't work weekends.

Having far less to pack, (mostly the same unwashed clothes he'd  
packed the last time) Harry finished first.

As he passed Dudley's room, Dudley flung a pair of pajamas out the  
door, onto the blue hall carpet, before starting to throw on his  
clothes. In one second, half a dozen crawling black specks had  
converged on the pile, which was still warm from Dudley's body heat.  
Then more came. They blackened the edges of the crumpled cloth.

Harry shot down the hall, pounded down the stairs, and was out the  
door before Dudley was dressed. Harry sat on the step, investigating  
his shoes for fleas and wondering just how many little friends Dudley  
was accumulating as he stood barefoot in his carpeted room.

Harry, the Dursleys and Betsy spent the quiet hours between 4:00  
and 8:00 AM out on the lawn, watching the sun rise and feeding the  
mosquitoes. By 8:30 the tiny vampires had wisely retreated before the  
blazing heat of the August sun. Their human entrees dared not venture  
back into the house.

Harry moved as far as possible from his family without leaving the  
yard. He contemplated the situation as he watched them bicker. The  
Dursleys first had a few fleas, then they cleaned the carpets, and come  
back to a plague. Harry himself was suspicious about the origins of  
the plague, so he was astonished that the magic fearing muggles hadn't  
pinned this mess on him yet.

In the past they'd often drawn false  
parallels between his behavior and any odd or unpleasant occurrence.  
Lately, his behavior had been odd, and he was certain the Dursleys had  
noticed. Harry was devouring anything eatable he could find at an  
alarming rate, even though the Dursleys were feeding him surprisingly  
well.

That profound hunger to the point of sickness was something he  
hadn't felt since before muggle school, when it hadn't mattered how  
healthy he appeared. He had hoped never to experience in again, but at  
leased this time it wasn't forced upon him by others.

Or so he hoped. Harry also knew he'd failed to hide the strange  
hyperactivity he'd begun to feel each time he ventured outdoors during  
the day. He'd concluded that it was caused by the heat of the sun,  
though it was certainly a peculiar reaction to overheating. At the  
hotel he'd noticed that even standing by the window made his heart  
race. The effect was becoming very disconcerting.

The last thing he wanted was to go crawling to Dumbledore to have  
some insidious and rare curse lifted. He didn't what to be indebted to  
the man, to be humiliated and proven incapable of handling his own  
affairs, or to be in the news again. One could certainly live without  
the awkwardness of his friend's pity, or the embarrassment of a  
complete physical from Madam Pomphery. He winced internally at the  
thought. Not to mention the possibility of her or some other healer (a  
friend of the Headmasters of course) finding more then they'd been  
looking for and making a fuss.

It seemed to Harry that the Dursleys had been fearful of him  
recently, particularly Dudley who was being almost polite, and he  
wondered if they had been threatened by someone at school.  
If so, no one had bothered to tell him. He felt an ungrateful,  
probably irrational burst of anger at the thought. Nobody told him  
anything!

He wondered if something seriously wrong was happening to him, or  
in him. Perhaps, as much as he loathed the idea, it was time to  
consider owling someone about it.

As the sun rose, Harry's heart began to pound. Unwanted adrenaline  
was burning in his vain, as though he'd recently bashed his thumb with  
a hammer, or seen something horrific.

The exterminator from BugDestroyed arrived at #4 Privet Street at  
9:45. He was a young man no more than 20 who had Weasley orange hair  
and reminded Harry strangely of Fred (or George of course). Too  
exhausted to be hyper, Harry was now becoming lethargic. With effort,  
Harry pushed up his glasses on his sweaty nose and discerned the Weasley  
freckles as well.

Max, as he introduced himself, informed the Dudley's that carpet  
cleaning had been a mistake. The fleas had left eggs, and the  
shampooing was no detriment to these eggs at all. Rather, the moisture  
had allowed them to mature and metamorphosis.

Harry was feeling poorly. The hyperness he'd expected had come  
with sun and then abandoned him quickly, leaving a racing pulse that  
refused to go away. He had a hunger headache, too. Harry pushed  
himself to his feet, with a steadying hand on the tree's rough trunk  
until the dizziness stopped. He made a dash from the dappled shad of  
leafs to the solid shadow of the house. Max spoke on, and the Dursleys  
watched his like an asp's hypnotized pray.

"You shouldn't feel too bad about it," the young man was assuring  
the Dursleys solemnly, "We get a case like this every few years. It's  
easy to underestimate fleas and other pests. They're such durable and  
amazing creatures!" Max grinned, glancing each Dursley in the eye as  
if to share his enthusiasm. His eye's turned to Harry, and seemed too  
linger there a moment.

Harry was to far away to read the young man's face. Harry knew  
he'd become over-aware of staring since his appearance in the magical  
world, and he couldn't decide whether the ingenuous redhead had  
recognized him. Could he be a Death eater? A self-respecting death  
eater wouldn't allow himself to be seen like that, right? Even by  
muggles?

His head pounded with pain and the hunger had transformed  
into nausea. He couldn't think. He knew it was the sun. A distant  
part of him shouted 'arm yourself!' and 'send an owl to Dumbledore  
immediately!' He was too tired.

Harry tried to breathe slowly, even breaths. Could fifteen-year-old  
wizards get heart attacks? It seemed to Harry then, that he really knew

very little about the wizarding world. He knew so little . . . and might

not be around to learn more.

Max was 'thrilling' Aunt Petunia with more information on  
what was obviously one of his favorite creatures. "After hatching, the  
maggots ate dust, which is mostly dead human skin cells with plenty of  
protein in them, as well as anything else digestible that wasn't picked  
up by the carpet cleaners.

It doesn't matter how good the cleaners  
were; There'd still be plenty! With the right level of moisture,  
abundant food and no predators, most of the thousand or so eggs from  
each female survived," he explained with a touch of awe. "I'm surprised  
you didn't notice them the minute you stepped in the door!" He had the  
air of a young person who has already discovered his life's passion.

For once in his life, Harry was profoundly happy to spend summer

alone in his small uncarpeted room. The few fleas who found their way

in wakened him immediately. His family members were not so lucky.

Dudley was the worst afflicted. Harry did not look forward to sharing

a back seat with him on the way back to the hotel.

Dudley was peering at Harry strangely. The great lump wobbled towards

Harry. He reached out and seemed about to touch Harry's sweaty hair.

Dudley looked oddly concerned.

"You're not about to croak on us are you Harry, and get us in trouble with

the . . . wizards?" he asked quietly. That was rich. Dudley tortured him for

years, started the whole flea mess, and now asks how Harry's doing!

'I'm dieing,' he imagined responding, but opening his mouth would be

too much work. The sun was beating down without mercy. A lawnmower

started up across the street, and the reverberation in his head was

crusio-like. He glared at Dudley, who stepped back as if startled.

Satisfying. Dudley stared openly.

Harry suddenly realized that there was a darker place only a few feet

away. He crawled to the lush peony bushes along the house. He could

see the shady, narrow gap between their stalks and the building.

He crawled in.

Cool dark leaves rustled over him. Stalks were tight against him like arms.

It was wonderful . . . the mosquitoes found him . . . he didn't care. Harry

put his cheek to the cool earth and slipped into dreaming.

To Be Continued . . .

_Next Time: Severus isn't feeling very good ether, and we  
discover some of his best kept secrets including his belief that he is  
dying! (but we know better, because this is the beginning of a story in  
which he will be a main character) we also encounter Filch, and a  
shopkeeper who knows more than he should._

_**Please Review!**_

**Tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what you think  
will/should happen!**


	2. Chapter 2: Omens of Something New

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created  
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited  
to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner  
Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark  
infringement is intended. This is a parody, on which I am not making any  
profit.

Authors note: OK, I lied. No Argus until next chapter. This chapter became  
longer than I expected. It just kept growing so I decided to end it. After  
reading it all, I realized that this chapter is, (in places) groooooooooss and  
down right morbid. I hope you all aren't completely icked out!

_Summery: Dudley contemplates Harry and magic. Severus makes a potion,  
and thinks about some his horrific origins and (he fears) his dismal future.  
Someone's suspicions are confirmed . . ._

**Chapter 2:**

**Omens of Something New**

"Boy, get out of those bushes immediately. We're going back to the hotel."  
Vernon Dursley shouted to his nephew.

"Yes,-don't let him squish my beautiful peony bushes!" Petunia chimed in.  
The teenage legs sticking out of the bushes did not move.

"Damn you boy," Vernon raged, "listen to me." Vernon grabbed both ankles  
and yanked. Bits of mulch scattered on the grass, but Harry did not move.  
Vernon dropped the ankles, in disgust.

"Dudley, you carry him then!" he commanded. Dudley knelt down and  
gathered Harry in his arms, and with a grunt, he managed to get himself  
upright again. He carried Harry to the back seat of the family car.

At Dudley's insistence, Vernon ran through the flea-zone to lock Betsy in a  
basement room with food and water. Mean while, Dudley got in beside  
Harry and took a moment to determine whether his cousin had a pulse.

He did.

Dudley knew Harry was magical, and touching his wrist was a bit like  
touching a unicorn.

A unicorn who had made Dudley's life miserable, that is. For as far back as  
Dudley Dursley could remember, Harry had been doing special, exiting,  
frightening things. Long before Harry first said 'the M-word,' Dudley had  
known that his parents hated what Harry could do.

Which just made it that much worse, when _Dudley_ couldn't do those things,  
and when he secretly wished he could. To see things most people could  
never see, to walk down a crowded street knowing that you have a great  
secret those around you wouldn't even dream about, to never have to fear  
others,-except maybe other magical people- would be unspeakable  
wonderful.

Dudley lifted Harry's hand off the floor and laid it over his chest. He made  
sure that the pulse or breathing hadn't stopped.

As they drove, the bright sky dropped sprinkles of rain on the windows.

Dudley was the good son, not the unwanted parasite 'leaching of the family,'  
as Dudley's father might say. Dudley always tried to make Mom and Dad  
happy; and yet it was Harry-Under-The Stairswho had the power, and made  
Dudley wish to have it to.

Harry had been a bit scary lately. He looked different somehow; changed.  
Perhaps he was about ready to have revenge for how Dudley and his family  
had treated him all these years.

Dudley absently touched a tuft Harry's hair. It was definitely softer than  
Dudley's own, almost like rabbit fur, and longer than it had always been.  
Come to think of it, Dudley could not recall Harry ever getting his hair  
trimmed. Glasses were normally adjusted periodically too, weren't they?  
Dudley didn't remember his parents ever complaining about that.

Severus Snape carefully measured out fifty-seven ml. of Lake-Ness invisible  
turtle shell with rock steady, spider-like hands. He did so without looking.  
Instead, his black eyes stared unblinkingly at the viscous potion, which  
boiled in slow motion, loud pops echoing slightly with the bursting of each  
lazy bubble. With a long handled oak spoon, he steered the huge caldron  
steadily in a clockwise direction; counting.

With each breath his sensitive nose assessed the potion's progress.  
Complete concentration and controlled excitement had driven his senses to  
an excruciating, inhuman acuteness that he would only become aware of  
later, when it began to fade. For now, he thought only of the potion.

An idle corner of his mind admonished that this potion should be a task for  
at least three brewers, but Severus had never been offered an assistant,  
and would never consider welcoming such an uncomfortable intrusion  
anyway.

Seven drops solution of dragon saliva (.01), diced cat whiskers, and sea salt.  
Three drops magical bromeliad oil. The Potions Master gently turned down  
the heat.

There was a crackling sound. Momentarily, tiny white lighting moved in a  
writhing dance over the slightly mirrored surface of the potion.

Success at last! A thrill of pure joy shot all through him. Fifth times' the  
charm, definitely. This was what Severus Snape lived for.

The concoction was a deep translucent purple. The first streak of brilliant  
gold marked the circular path of his spoon. The gold quickly began to  
branch out like the veins of a living creature.

Soon, after tunneling through the whole potion, the growth slowing too a  
stop as each tendril met the caldron's black iron sides. It was now a dense  
three dimensional net of gold, suspended in a transparent violet medium.  
Severus longed to just stare in wonder or even whoop for joy, but he kept  
stirring, careful to keep an even rhythm.

Finally, something worth all his effort.

Where his wooden spoon tore through the diaphanous web, it began to  
grow rapidly again, so that the shimmering network becoming more and  
more dense with each pass. Stirring became harder as the potion neared  
complete solidification, and the Potions Master had to grasp the spoon with  
both hands, shifting his weight with each turn.

His arms burned. He wondered if a normal person would have been strong  
enough to continue. Fortunately, he'd had the foresight to spell the caldron  
itself solidly to the floor or it would have been sliding around the room.

Now the potion's surface was a textured, glistening gold and slightly  
mounded. It seemed to be pulsating a bit. He hadn't anticipated that. A  
faint, pleasant smell, not unlike fresh cut grass, filled the room, neutralizing  
the sharper odors of the potion's many ingredients. The substance had  
attained the consistency of warm breaddough.

Reluctantly, Snape drew a long serrated knife from its oak holder and  
brought the blade to rest apron the quivering gold surface.

He collected himself and set his jaw. The thing he'd created wasn't even  
alive . . . exactly. Sympathetic emotional reactions were uncalled for and  
entirely wasted on it. Besides, A 20 pound chunk would be utterly  
impractical.

He cut.

By sliding his other hand into the cut he carefully kept the moist, elastic  
substance from "Healing" the cut, and felt it squirm slightly beneath his  
palm. A reflexive reaction? Afterward,

He lifted both halves and carried them to the table, one under each arm,  
like a pair of cats. Once there, he created 12 equal pieces of soft gold and  
slipped them into the identical flasks of nutrient potion that he'd prepared  
in advance.

Perfect!

Now he could relax.

He shook out his tired arms and listened to his heart slow to normal. The  
Potions Master slid into the nearest chair with a contented sigh. It worked.  
It finally worked. Of course it worked. What he didn't know was why it  
hadn't work before, but that hardly mattered now. If even one piece lived  
there would be infinite possibilities! Snape was almost giddy with the  
feeling of relief and triumph. Now that the work was safely done his hands  
began to shake with pent up excitement, but exhaustion was also catching  
up with him. Severus pulled his chair to the table and let his head rest in his  
folded his arms.

Searing hunger woke Severus. His aching stomach seemed to be digesting  
itself, but more then that; a familiar hunger burned cold in his veins,  
making him shiver. The craving hummed disturbingly in the back of his  
mind like something important and just barely forgotten.

He'd come to associate this extreme hunger with intense potion sessions,  
particularly ones that left his senses feeling oddly dull a few hours  
afterwards. Recovering from serious injury had the same effect, as did  
sunlight falling on his skin. Normally, Severus only had to make a 'special  
trip' to alley once a week, on Thursday, but he would have to go today. He  
glanced towards the clock. Sunset would not be soon enough.

Severus turned to leave, mentally calculating how bad off he'd be on  
reaching Mr. Shmied. Shmied's Potions supply shop.

At that moment, the significance of his cat nap struck home.

Peering about in chagrin, he noted the door to his empty potions classroom  
was standing open. It taunted him. Severus, had never willingly slept outside  
of a locked door in his life that he could recall. Though Dumbledore didn't  
know it, he'd had a door with a lock as a child, if nothing else, and he'd  
always used it. Severus felt belated fear and growing alarm, like writhing  
worms in his stomach.

No, he remembered now, there were those long nights in the hospital wing,  
usually after a bad Death Eater meeting, when he succumbed to  
overwhelming exhaustion, but that was all. Even when escaping the pain  
that Madam. Pomphery couldn't relieve, he did not go willingly into sleep in  
the infirmary. The meda-witch would always protest loudly, but release him  
to his own, well worded rooms, as soon as possible,-

Except those meetings wouldn't happen any more. He'd forgotten that for a  
moment!

Mustn't forget and show up before Voldemort after betraying him, -he didn't  
wont to imagine. He wondered if his mind, too, was slipping.

Can't forget that, as a known traitor, he was almost as much of a target now  
as the Potter brat. Most of all, he must remember that his official reason for  
being permitted to exist was gone, and that he was living only by the whim  
of Dumbledore; that and the verbal guarantee of the Ministry. He winced at  
that last thought. Should Dumbledore fall, he planned to leave the country  
immediate.

Severus forced himself to his feet. His legs wobbled alarmingly.

Moments later Severus found himself opening the warded door to his own  
privet chambers, only vaguely recalling the hasty walk there. He lit one lamp

with a reflexive twitch of his wand hand, sans wand. Then he made a beeline  
for the wardrobe, but changed his mind and stopped in front of the full length  
mirror.

The outfit he wore was wrinkled, past its prime, and smelling strongly of the  
potions lab, but he couldn't bear to endure the hunger long enough to change.  
Delay was not only unpleasant, it was dangerous. He lingered only one aching  
moment to glare himself in the eye. His reflection glared right back, mocking  
but perfectly opaque.

"Still here," it murmured almost teasingly, and Severus obverted his gaze.  
With of a swish of his cloaked, he whirled, snatched his perfectly preserved  
vintage broom, and headed for Hogsheads village. He left the oil lamp  
flickering, the wards undone, and the thick oak door wide open behind him.  
Severus flew into the cold, pale sky.

For the past week Severus Snape had been in fairly good humor. Acting  
Headmastership seemed to agree with him. With the entire faculty absent,  
except for Argus who hardly counted anyway, Snape could moved freely  
about the castle and grounds, without concern for prying eyes following  
him, or talkative professors ensnaring him in unwanted conversation. He'd  
settled into a comfortable routine of waking around noon, paying a breakfast  
visit to the kitchens, where he did his best to keep the house elves on their

toes, exchanging a few sentences with Argus, and taking most of the rest of  
his hours on his potions; or, to be precise, a single potion which was now  
perfected.

Looking back he could see that he'd let his guard down frighteningly often  
since escaping Voldemort. It was a wonder nothing worse hadn't befallen him  
or the school that his too-trusting mentor abandoned to a Snape's cold  
mercies.

Severus landed on the road to Hogsheads, and began walking as briskly as  
he could towards town. The cheerily bright sunlight was affecting him more  
severely than normal, despite his thick black clothes and curtain of hair.

It was a strange thing, that the sun didn't burn him. Up to a point it felt quite  
exhilarating, and made him want to run around mindlessly and revel in the  
light. Beyond that point, it became simply sickening. By the time Severus  
slipped into the mercifully gloomy potions store, his heart was trying to beat  
itself out of his chest and he felt anything but exhilarated.

Severus had always admired this shop, with its precisely measured,  
completely unadulterated ingredients. Its endless neat rose of flasks and  
bottles put the apothecary where he got student's supplies, to shame. He  
even liked the smell of it.

Severus wanted so badly to rush to the checkout desk but made himself catch  
his breath first.

It was a good decision, because he realized, as his pulse slowed, that he felt  
two unwelcome pricks in his bottom lip.

The fangs seemed garishly huge, no doubt bulging under his upper lip.

He struggled to make them go away, but that just was not happening.

This hadn't happened since he was twelve! This loss of control was more  
evidence of his deterioration.

He just couldn't wait any longer. Severus shut his lips carefully and briskly  
approached the counter. The middle aged man behind it was the owner  
himself, who served as clerk on certain evenings.

Some costumers came when they new he would be there to request rare or  
controlled substances.

As usual, Mr. Shmied had been playing distance chess with someone before  
Severus entered. A scroll with a chessboard drawn on it was in front of him.

Mr. Shmied smiled in greeting. Severus nodded.

"A -ah, a liter of undiluted hippograph, please," Severus mumbled

uncharacteristically, not looking at Mr. Shmied. "No one but Dumbledore  
knew what Severus did with his purchases, yet he felt inexplicable  
self-consciousness, at be here so soon in the week. He face felt slightly hot.

Mr. had green eyes, a wide smile, and a look about him that was reminiscent  
of that monster Remus Lupin. Never the less, Severus did not particularly  
dislike him. They sometimes even spoke, during Severus' visits, of highly  
technical potions matters.

Mr. Shmied cleared his throat. "Well, we won't have any hippograph until  
the next shipment, Saturday, I'm sorry to say. The freshness charm broke  
on the stuff we had. It's too bad we can only use the mildest ones without  
changing its magical properties."

Severus was stunned. It had never accord to him that there might be no blood  
available, today of al days. Sweat tickled a trail down his back. Green eyes  
met his own, searching, and cautious. "We still have some human, magical,"  
Mr. Shmied said quietly, and produced abottle of mouth watering red liquid,  
from beneath the counter, instead ofbehind it, as was normal.

He didn't do human but . . . he was very hungry.

There were few, if any, potions in which human blood could substitute for  
hippograph. Clearly, Mr. knew things about Severus that he shouldn't.

The moment seemed to stretch on, until the noises from the street seemed  
deafening and Mr. Shmied's glance seemed like a stare.

"My mother would have just killed you," he blurted out.

This was not the wisest statement of his life. Severus opened his mouth to  
fix the situation, to convince Shmied that Severus, and his mother, were  
human and harmless.

"I'll take it," he said instead, jabbing his lip in the process.

Mr. Shmied slipped Severus' diner into a cloth bag stamped with the stores  
emblem.

So much for his abilities as a secret keeper or manipulator. Voldemort must  
just be very dim.

He didn't want to consider the other possibility.

Severus slipped out of the store with a nod for Mr. Shmied, and hurried  
towardshome. On the way, his thoughts slid into a familiar grove.

Severus was dieing. He was almost certain of this. The decline had lasted  
almost 15 years.

Fist there came tiredness; Slight weakness and slowness to heal.

Eventually, his blood intake increased noticeably. In the last three years the  
effect had worsened exponentially. Sometimes he could hardly crawl out of  
bed in the morning.

Worse yet, his magic had weakened significantly in the past year. What if he  
lost the ability to brew potions long before his death? It was a horrible,  
sickening thought.

Amongst the cheerful crowds in the sunlight, he felt cold.

His situation wasn't very surprising really, considering his origins. It was  
amazing he'd lasted a long as he did.

Severus remembered what little he knew about his origins.

**Warning: Icky Sev-Gets-Born Stuff (and weird biology) ahead! **

A vampire stalked the city of Chicago, leaving a trail of bloodless bodies.  
She was not a real vampire of course; those ancient dignified and  
aristocratic ones won't do anything so crude. This was a victim of strain B341,  
One of three pathetic degenerated versions of the virus by which normal  
vampires reproduce their kind.

The particular organism was said to have come about because of the  
mutagenic properties of the original version of flew powder, used in the third  
century. An infected person of this type, commonly called a 'sufferer' retained  
their memories, but lost all desire for anything but feeding.

This sufferer was -or had been - a witch of the ancient line of Snape. She  
stalked England first, then traveling to Ireland, and eventually to America.  
She was notable because most sufferers never traveled ten miles from the  
nearest source of blood. She was even more noticeable because she  
appeared,for her entire three year killing spree, to have been heavily pregnant.  
She hadnot been visibly pregnant when she was first changed, but by the  
first killingidentified conclusively as hers, she was.

This was impossible, of course.

A vampire did not get pregnant, or sire children. Ever. Vampires don't  
experience the necessary cycles to become pregnant. Even disregarding that  
fact, her new, changed body would have immediately destroyed the child as  
foreign material. Had this reaction somehow failed, the child still could never  
have developed. The hormones released by the fetus to elicit nutrients from  
the mother would have been completely foreign to Ádísa Snape's changed  
system, and would have been ignored.

Also, it is a known fact that the chemical and cellular composition of B341  
sufferers is incredibly stable. More unchanging, perhaps, that any truly living  
creature could ever be. Stretching to hold a growing child, or providing  
increasing levels of nutrients, seemed beyond a sufferer's adaptability. Of  
course, any organism inside a vampire, that was not destroyed, would have  
to be in such close contact with the B341 virus that transmission was  
inevitable.

This infection might help with the immune system rejection problem, but  
would also freeze the tiny fetus at its current stage of development, just as its  
mother, and so many other victims, had been.

What sort of creature would thrive under such conditions? A monster,  
undoubtedly, though Dumbledore had never called him such.

It was assumed, at first, that the protrusion of her abdomen was a tumor of  
some kind. Even this phenomenon was of great interest to vampire experts,  
since she hadn't had this bulge before her transportation.

A group of ambitious young men from eastern Romania set out to capture  
and study this creature. They succeeded, where others had not, in luring,  
capturing and subduing the sufferer,-with only minor injuries to themselves.

Apart from her swollen stomach they could find nothing special about her,  
not in her visible features, or her virus strain, or her body chemistry. Because  
she was by then a confirmed B341 sufferer, their work had no legal obligation  
or restraint, other than to kill Ádísa within 24 hours.

They used muggle magnifying devices to examine her tissues, but found  
nothing.

They decided to dissect the abdomen.

After being poisoned to immobility, she was removed to a basement room in  
one man's house.

There they cut her open lengthways. Little bleeding occurred, as expected.  
Inside, they discovered the cold form of a male, human-like infant. It had a  
fury scalp of black hair. It had no life signs. After dictating his findings to a  
fellow, the man doing the cutting lifted out the pale creature and plopped it  
on a steel tray. They then began heatedly discussing their next course of  
action.

None of the young men noticed Saveilky, of the line of Bildsnub, silently enter  
the room. Saveilky jumped onto the steel table, next to the mother and infant.

He'd been serving in the kitchens of the Crulut house for decades, but only for  
something to pass the time. He had no loyalty to this family or home. He lifted  
the cold infant in his arms and vanished, unhindered by the house's ancient  
and strong apperation wards.

A hot fire flickered in the old stone fireplace. Shadows danced eagerly on the  
cobwebby walls of the room. The baby, warmed by the fire, drew a dusty  
breathof air and began to cry.

"Linessta, boyn lest intai" called Salveilky, the house-elf holding him. Another  
elf entered with a baby bottle of warm milk. She handed it to Saveilky, who  
offered it to the baby. The child latched on quickly. This wasn't quit human  
milk, but it was clearly close enough.

Branches clawed at the castle's broken window pains, as the wind steered  
the forbidden forest surrounding them.

Word would travel quickly among the house-elves, that the distinguished  
and honorable line of Snape was alive again, and in need of servants. The  
first task would be to dust all of the rooms in this, the historic home of the  
Snapes.

30 years later, Harry James Potter opened his eyes, squinting in the light.  
His body ached as though he'd just been run over by a truck. The bed  
beneath him felt too soft to be his. A hospital bed? Dudley was staring down  
at him, with huge eyes and strange expression on his chubby face. Harry  
could taste the coppery tang of blood in His mouth.

**To Be Continued . . .**

**Please review: tell me if this chapter makes any sense at all!**

_Next Time: Harry's true nature will be reveled! We _will _meet Argus this time,  
and Severus will have the strangest day of his life! (And that's really saying  
something.)_


	3. Chapter 3: Something on the Wind

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created  
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited  
to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner  
Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark  
infringement is intended. This is a parody, on which I am not making any  
profit.

Authors note: holy crap it's been 3 months since I updated! My apologies to  
everyone! I have excuses though, pathetic but true excuses . . .

First I lost two weeks franticly writing term papers (one I didn't recall until  
the day it was officially due!) Then I wrote most of this chapter and lost it.  
The file name was there, but the file was empty. Undelete freeware didn't  
work. Next my whole computer died! It was too old to be worth fixing. I now  
have a brand new computer so I have no excuses for not updating!

I will be answering review questions on the review board.

_Summery: The Dursleys arrive at their hotel with an unconscious Harry in tow.  
Meanwhile, Snape puts his things in order, in preparation for his apparently  
eminent death . . . So why are house elves celebrating? _

**Chapter 3:**

**Something on the Wind**

Deep in the lush heart of the forbidden forest, rare sounds rose over the  
treetops. They were sounds Snape Castle had never heard before. Clinking  
of glasses, strange rhythmic music, and house-elf laughter filled the  
manicured courtyard. Hearing the commotion, several young centaurs had  
crashed the party early on, and were dancing wildly now, while tiny house  
elves dodged their sharp hooves. As the morning sun crept over the verdant  
horizon and spilled through the trees, more partiers arrived and others left.

Salveilky was one who left. He crept up steep flights of stone steps and  
stopped before an open arched doorway. Inside, a wooden cradle stood, its  
tiny quilt neatly folded. The mobile of stars and moon phases still revolved  
dutifully over the crib, though its driving spell work was centuries old. Salveilky  
recalled the latest Snape to lie in that cradle. Severus, who Salveilky himself  
had lifted from that horrible steel slab and carried to this place, his rightful  
ancestral home.

Many a house elf and other magical being considered Severus the final twitch  
of a dead line. His mother, who had been the last living Snape once, was  
dead several years before Severus was removed from her. Even while she  
walked and spoke in those years, she was nothing more than a mindless  
corpse fulfilling the mission of its viral guest, using both body and memory  
to feed and reproduce the disease. Severus had not yet been conceived  
when she died, so how, many asked, could the line possibly live on? Those of  
the house hold of Snape, who cared dutifully for the grounds and dusted the  
castle, were asked, 'do you serve the dead?' which is the greatest insult  
conceivable to a house-elf mind.

Despite their scorn, none who knew of 'the last Snape', be they magical  
servants or wild forest beings, questioned him on the bases of his non-human  
blood. Such fixations are common only to humans (a category including, from  
the house elf perspective, Werewolves, 'noble' elves and many others to  
whom the 'Ministry of Magic' would abject)

No one even considered harming the child, though hardly a child now, or  
making off with his inherited possessions. Such actions would show vulgar  
dependence on mundane necessity and finery and would by humanly  
warlike. Of course, the small army of house-elves (an oft underestimated  
species) guarding the property may have also had something to do with this  
too.

In no circumstance would they consider bothering to making known his  
presence and nature to humans, who would certainly strive to kill him. The  
scoffers and critics merely made bets and waited for time to call the score.  
The intrinsically magical were longer lived and so more patient. They were  
aware of long-term consequences, or so it had always seemed to Salveilky.

And they were much better at secret keeping.

Those bets would be coming due now, for even the most magically  
insensitive creature, like wizards, could surely feel the truth now! There was  
another Snape in this world, and a fairly powerful one, it seemed.

It was like the small of spring rain, roiling in on the wind. _It _was the sense  
that he was alive in the world, and of his power giving and taking with the  
web of magic that kept them all alive. For this the house elves danced. The  
_taste_ of it on the wind, -the truth of his existence- had reached out to them in

the early morning hours, and those who had waited for it so long woke right  
up in their beds.

They'd felt it once before, some 14 years previous, but the awareness faded  
cruelly away then, until it was only a trickle in the minds of the very most  
powerful and attuned. The scoffers had said, 'a child was conceived but it  
died hardly grown, proving this Snape creature incompatible with others.'  
(for a strong magic can be detected even before birth).

Now the sense was back, and it was real. To those who tied their fortuneto  
the Snape's, it was like rain to a parched dessert.

But Salveilky suspected strongly that this crib which held Severus would not  
be needed for the younger Snape. This was not a _new_ child, but the first one,  
free again from whatever sinister spell constrained his essence all through the  
years. Salveilky hoped the child would not be forever warped or stunted by  
whatever curse had held him. Even now the call wavered, as if the constricting  
spell was weakening, letting the child's power leak out, but the spell still was  
not quite broken.

Dudley Dursley laid his limp cousin on the hotel bed. The black haired boy  
was looking oddly pale. He'd hardly been in the sun all summer though, so  
this told little. He was breathing, and had a pulse.

Dudley's parents were in the room next door. They would not be interested in  
calling a hospital for their nephew, not even if Dudley pointed out  
conscientiously that this would be the most _normal_ course of action, when  
someone remained unconscious.

He ought to do something about it, maybe call the hospital himself, or call  
Harry's . . . people.

But if he called the hospital, Dudley would be in a heap of trouble and the  
doctors might find out just how concerned about their nephew's life the  
Dursley parents weren't. Dudley could remember seeing shock and uneaseon  
strangers faces from time to time, when his parents spoke callouslyabout  
Harry. The strangers would look back and forth from Harry to theDursleys,  
and sometimes nod there heads or mumble affirmatives, but froma young  
age Dudley could see when they were not quit convinced. It alwaysmade  
Dudley extremely uncomfortable, that look.

Contacting the magic people was equally impossible. The big white owl which  
Harry sent letters with was probably out hunting somewhere, and Dudley  
would be hesitant to approach it anyway. It had pecked him hard more than  
once. It might not even fly for a normal person, and who would he address it  
to?

Dudley waited, hoping Harry would recover on his own. His cousin might well  
be very sick. He'd spent the summer in his room mostly, barley coming out to  
eat and behaving subdued and awkward when he did.

Dudley's parents were glad of that, as the boy had developed a disturbing air  
around him this year. - Nothing you could pin down, just a vague unease  
whenever he was in the room. Prolonged exposure caused nervousness,  
particularly in Dad. His parents had been slow to recognize Harry as the  
source of their jumpiness, and refused to _ever_ admit to the feeling, which left  
Harry a summer almost free from the Dursley's normal accusations and nagging.

Dudley had felt _-sensed_- the disconcerting strangeness radiating from _Harry_,  
without question, the moment he stepped in the front door on the first day of  
his summer vacation.

That feeling was _not_ natural. Dudley was sure of that. It was magical, and it  
was thrilling, like petting a tarantula. Dudley had felt the _affects_ of magic on  
himself before, but this was different. It seemed he was feeling the magic _itself  
_now. Dudley felt quite addicted.

The potions master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry eagerly  
tread the castles wide front steps.

Shaking off his morbid thoughts, Severus slipped into the enormous entry  
hall with his

'Shmied's Potions Supply' Shop bag clutched in his hand. At his fastest  
walking speed, which was very fast, he tore down the dim hallways, his cape  
flapping and fluttering behind him like wings, as his footsteps echoed.

He very nearly smacked into Argus Filch, the person whose duty it was to keep  
Hogwarts clean.

"Professor," Argus greeted amicably. The short grungy man eyed the bag in  
Severus' hand with unexpected suspicion. The shorter man then intoned  
dramatically, "Oh Sir, you _know_ Dumbledore doesn't like you doing that."  
Severus was too hungry for yammering.

"Doing _what_ Argus? I'm not getting drunk on the job you know. This is _blood_,  
-for a potion- not an alcoholic beverage!" Severus slid the glass bottle out and  
waved it before Argus, sloshing its bright red contents. "_Human _actually.  
Probably _squib_." Severus sneered. His brain caught up with his mouth at  
length.

He'd gone a bit too far this time. Argus had endured ridicule and significant  
danger, from intent and accident, all his life. He hardly needed Severus to tell  
he was without magic - a squib. Indeed, the man's face flinched. He stared at  
an invisible point over Severus' shoulder. They weren't truly _friends_ of course,  
but if Severus was going to die soon (a possibility that seemed increasingly  
likely) he ought to leave a few people willing to attend the funeral.

"I know it's not wine." He squared his shoulders, "I mean you should not be  
going to _Hogsmead_. If you must go, bring someone else along."

"And who should I bring along?"

He and Argus were Hogwarts only occupants at present. _Beautiful_, Severus,  
remind the man that he's magically helpless. "Should I bring someone who  
greatly annoys me, because if I am ambushed I will only get the fool killed  
by his proximity to me," Severus tried to patch the situation.

"You are _completely_ responsible for Hogwarts, Severus. Next time just let _me  
_buy your s-supplies."

He glanced at the bottle in Severus' hand. Twice. The taller man wish he'd

put it back in the bag. Filch _wasn't_ supposed to know, but he clearly did. _No  
one_ was supposed to know what he did with the blood.

"Just give me a list and I'll get everything. No one will bother with me."

Severus sighed noisily, "Oh, all right, next time you go." Filch seemed  
appeased. Severus maneuvered past the other man before he could bring up  
some new topic. Severus was starving.

As Severus turned right down an intersecting corridor, Filch, who'd been  
watching the black cape dance away, saw a strange thing. A large cat (he  
assumed it was a cat though you couldn't always tell at first glance in the  
magical world) ran out of a classroom and vanished left down the same  
corridor. Argus knew all the permanent feline residence of Hogwarts and this  
wasn't one. Curiously, Argus followed.

After brushing past Argus, Severus headed towards his rooms. His mind  
wandered as he approached his destination. He stood frozen a moment in his  
doorway until his mind switched gears and he blatantly leapt for his wand.  
The door to his chambers was standing wide open. He cast several spells.  
Nothing detected. He sprinkled some potion before the gaping doorway. No  
sign of an intruder. Severus tried to recall leaving his rooms, not a half hour  
before.

He felt his stomach sink; Not from fear of death eater assassins, but from his  
own mind. He hadn't betrayed himself so in years. After a few more  
unsuccessful detection spells, Severus stepped into the doorway. A lamp still  
flickered -no doubt how he'd left it- and there were no invisible attackers. No  
subtle booby traps to kill him. The truth was worse than that, and more likely  
to actually kill him.

"Lion?" the horrid beast ought to be here, making him feel better.

"Here kitty" his peculiar cat did not come.

Severus turned to the open doors. Without hesitations, he pulled his wand  
and cast a point-me spell to locate the feckless beast. Disregarding his  
reputation or dignity, Severus took of at a dead run. As he'd realized in the  
first week of the cats arrival, Lion was far less curse-hardy then any wizard  
bread cat, -or nearly any feline to be brutally honest.

If the poor cat had any magical signature at all, it was too faint for normal  
detection. The cat never hunted, and Severus suspected that the poor thing  
couldn't see most of the field mice that lived in Hogwarts' crannies, for  
thousands of generations in the magical castle had endowed even them with  
mild don't-see-me glamour.

Hogwarts was known to spontaneously create, eliminate, and move not only  
the famous staircases, but rooms and hallways also. What would happen to  
the cat if he was in a room when it ceased to exist? Would Hogwarts even  
'notice' him, as distinct from the inanimate furnishings?

Severus stuck his head in a classroom. It was empty but for spider webs and  
old desks. Why did Hogwarts need so many empty classrooms?

Not only could the most benign spell harm or kill Lion, his own peculiar  
personality was against him. Should lion encounter another cat, an owl, or any  
other creature, no matter how odd or large strange smelling, the cat would no  
doubt approach fearlessly and try to rub himself all over the unsuspecting  
animal. Any self-respecting proper beast (which Lion pointedly _wasn't)_ would  
feel threatened by this peculiar stranger and would attack.

Most healing spells Severus knew used in least some of the patients own  
magic.

Severus stuck his head into another abandoned classroom. When had this  
ancient castle ever needed so many rooms? And there was Filch, holding  
Severus' smug purring cat in his arms. It was too late to hide his mission.

Filch blinked. A slow smile slid over his face, and then it was gone. "_Ohhh_,  
-is this _your _cat Severus? I didn't _know_ you had a _cat_." Filch looked right at  
him; His penetrating gaze searching, no doubt, for inner pathetic fluffiness.  
The squibs lips twitched. Why couldn't people just treat Severus normally?

Sevres's face felt hot. He didn't know whether he was ashamed or furious.  
He was tired, miserable, and hungry. So hungry. He surged forward and  
snatched the limp feline out of Filch's arms. Even as the man flinched back,  
looking startled. Severus' face must have betrayed what he felt. One more  
betrayal. The purring stopped. Severus whirled and stalked away before  
Filch could start poking fun at him.

Severus ought to be enjoying the day, meditating on the wondrous possibilities  
his new brew presented, not half paralyzed with dread of death and  
humiliation by his own cat. Argus would tell everyone. None of them would  
respond as they would if it were anyone else who had cute a pet.

No, they would create a humiliating _dramatic_ scene the next time they set  
eyes on him. After all, evil ugly Slytherin Death Eater's don't have cute kitties.  
He didn't dare slip out of his persona. Any time he was caught doing anything  
remotely human, he could count on an amused, astonished and very _loud_  
reaction. Any deviation into niceness brought on instant patronizing  
exclamations.

Severus knew he was indulging in ridicules self pity, but why not for once. He  
deserved it.

McGonagall: "did you _hear_? Severus actually _spoke_ to me at dinner, _without  
prompting_!"

Or

Albus: "Oh _Severus_, I'm _surprised_-but _pleased_-you decided to join us for lunch  
. . . _are you feeling all right_?"

They didn't even wait for him to get out of earshot!

Severus was so absorbed in muttering to himself about his unjust treatment  
he passed his own door and had to double back. Suddenly even hungrier, he  
almost stumbled in his haste to reach his sitting room table.

his Shmied's bag with the bottle of bleed wasn't there. He fell shakily to his  
knees. It wasn't there. He turned to the door, were he'd noticed lions  
disappearance, and there it was, on the flood by the door. With out memory  
of how he got there, Severus found himself guzzling the precious liquid, on  
his knees, his shoulder leaning against the cold stone wall.

He gulped it down without tasting it. He felt it mute the longing that buzze in  
the back of his mind, and restore his quivering limbs. No slow appreciative  
savoring of blood like a wineconnoisseur, (as one student artist's 'comic strip'  
suggested,) to justify hisstudent's opinions of him. Those children were _too_  
perceptive, - but for someodd reason they tended to imagine him a highly  
cultured monster when notteaching. With his bloody face and long white  
fangs, he'd have them screaming.

_Mmmm. A delicious thought_.

He drank.

After a moment, Severus almost felt as though he were choking. He  
shuttered as he slurped. The blood was on his hands. It was everywhere.  
The smell of it filled the room. Even Lupin, that mangy werewolves didn't  
experience this. This scene was the wolf's most dreaded nightmare.

Severus' lungs just weren't behaving. They shook and he breathed in a bit of  
blood. Was he dying right now? So soon?

Severus realized, with detached astonishment, that he was crying.

Dudley hoped his cosine woke up soon. Harry just lay there like a corpse, and  
that tingly disconcerting feeling seemed to grow.

When his silent sobs were stopped, Severus got stiffly to his feet. He swished  
a hand at the mess he'd made, expecting instant cleanliness. Almost nothing  
happened.

After three attempts he used his wand, and was able to banish the bag bottle  
and dark smears.

He entered the bedroom, the most well furnished room, and sat on his ancient  
carved bed.

He felt quite poorly. Worse than after crusio. He had a very bad feeling about  
the coming night. The feeling was dread.

He ought to be grateful it had lasted this long. The cross between an Indian  
elephant and Asian elephant was healthy till after puberty, and then would  
often die. The hybrid of brown rat and Norway rat rarely lived past birth. Goblin  
and wizard could often produce healthy and fertile offspring, while witch and  
goblin could not. What sort of a being could create living offspring with a  
creature like his mother, and trick her changed body into bringing it to term?  
What sort would _chose_ to? How many years had Severus been _in _her, fully  
formed, before the Hunters cut him out? She'd been visibly pregnant for three.  
What sort of a creature was _Severus himself_?

He would probably never know.

In accord with tradition he supposed should write a letter. Not one to send, but  
one to be found, incase he did not wake-up, -or, he winced,-woke unable to  
speak or write again.

To Dumbledore, he supposed. Maybe one to Voldemort too, come to think of  
it, as this might be his last and best chance to tell the man . . . _creature_,  
precisely what Severus thought about him and his 'Glorious Revolution of  
Blood' or whatever it was called now.

And if the monster chokes on his own spit and crooks while reading it, Severus'  
life will have been worth it all. Or perhaps a heart attack. The creature _was_  
getting rather old wasn't he?

He savored the beautiful irony of the thought,-Voldemort, killed by a one of his  
own-by a dead death eater. The boy who lived would end up selling 'pre-owned'  
brooms somewhere, miserable but alive. Severus Snape, the last Snape, would  
be _remembered_, if not for his amazing subterfuge as a spy then in least for his  
truly inspired insults. If you can't be infamous, be famous!

Inspired by his fantasy and given a second wind by the exhilarating freedom ,  
Severus wrote a long letter for his former master and a cutting note for each of  
the higher ranking death eaters, _(the contents of which will be disclosed later.  
_

He couldn't fathom what he should write to Dumbledore. Severus didn't know  
whether he loved the old man or hated him. After much bickering with himself  
(a habit acquired among house elves) Severus simply wrote a careful detailed  
instruction for his new potions care, and a recipe -as best he could figure it-  
without shorthand or the other intentionally confusing abbreviations he  
normallyused. The mixture in which the potion segments resided would last  
severaldays if necessary. Filch would find him by then.

Severus lay down and covered himself with all of his blankets, leaving his  
clothes on. Even his shoes. He banished the light (with his wand) after a few  
minuets in the dark and lit the lamp again. Something warm and heavy  
nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

The disturbance was not an assassin. It was Lion. The huge feline settled on  
his chest, and breathed fish breath into Severus' face. He began purring,  
advanced payment for the patting he assumed he would receive. Severus  
obliged. The potions master propped up his head and watched cat. He'd heard  
that cats whose masters died would sometimes eat the body, likely for lack of  
other food.

Severus retrieved his wand from the night stand and summoned a house elf.  
The diminutive servant appeared before Severus, eyes bulging -with fear no  
doubt. They bulged out even further at the sight of the terrible Potions Master  
recumbent and petting a cat. Probably wondering if Severus would let him live  
after seeing this sight.

Perhaps it was at the strange realization that the dreaded professor slept in a_  
bed_, and kept a cat as a _pet _apparently, and not caged as a fresh snack.

" I want you to bring the cat's meats -he was never called 'Lion' in front of  
anyone- at the normal times, with plenty of water until further notice,-  
whether I summon you or not.

"Bring them _here_ sir?" It opposed all his standing orders. No one was to enter  
his quarters without his presence, request and close observation.

"here."

"And-and your meals sir?" The creature quivered with excitement or fear.

No just the cat."

"Yes sir"

"And don't come into this room."

"Yes sir" she said faintly, with three frantic nods, and vanished into thin air.

Even the house elves feared his sinister persona. He'd never dared get to close  
to them, as that would be out of character, and he almost certainly would let  
on accidentally, that he spoke SerficTerraan Elvish fluently, not a habit of a  
normal pureblood heir. Voldemort would have got wind of it and wondered  
even more about his odd follower's origins.

Severus took up the quill; and added an amendment to his potions care letter.  
"-Albus. If I croak, you keep the cat. He is magic vulnerable and will approach  
anyone or anything without caution. You keep everything else to-except let  
Argus have all the books."

There, that should do it.

It was a rather inelegant final will and testament-but he was dying- probably  
-so this could naturally be excused.

After lying still for a few mints in the cool perfect darkness, Severus cast  
lumos again and added, "Tell the house elves I am sorry". Albus would  
understand to whom Severus was referring. In dying he would fail them all.

Perhaps that was the worst of it. Worse then the exhaustion or the fear. There  
would be no more Snapes for them to serve with their lives.

To Be Continued . . .

A/N: Things haven't happened yet that I promised in this chapter. Harry hasn't  
even woken up yet! I said that this would be the "strangest day of Severus' life"  
but the weirdest stuff hasn't happened yet. I certainly don't want to wait any  
longer to post though, so let's make it the _strangest 24 hours_ of Severus' life  
with12 hours to go. By the next chapter, interesting stuff _will_ happen, honest!

_In the next chapter:_** It**_finely happens. What is 'it'? It's the reason this fic is a  
Severitus Challenge piece, and its going to terrify everyone! Harry transforms! _

_**Please Review!**_

**Please tell me what you like, what you don't like, and what you think  
will/should happen!**


	4. Chapter 4: The Wakening

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created  
and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited  
to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner  
Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark  
infringement is intended. This is a parody, on which I am not making any  
profit.

Authors note: There has been a 5 months gap in my updates. winces with humiliation 

O.K.,

Whyyyyy don't we all just _forget_ this ever happened. I will explain,-someday in the distant future.

_Summery: Dudley has the fright of his life as a strange Harry tests his nerves. Severus' condition changes. Drastically. What will he find when Albus summons him to Harry's hotel room?_

**Chapter 4:**

**The Wakening**

With painful difficulty, Harry pulled the blanket up a little farther over his eyes, hiding him from the light. Any movement made his heart beat faster, and his head pounded with pain on each beat.

His jaw ached and throbbed with his heart so badly he could hardly hold still under the pain. It felt as though someone was slowly puling out all of his teeth at once.

Even his skin hurt. It was strangely tight, like very dry lips that would crack when he smiled. No position would relieve the tightness.

His senses had gone mad. Every time his cousin on the other bed wiggled, or even breathed, Harry could feel the vibrations through his bed and through the very air.

In . . . out . . . in . . .

He couldn't_ hear_ Dudley though, - not over the ear splitting traffic noises, like jumbo jets zooming by his window. He heard voices too. There were _people_ in this hotel room. Dozens. Hundreds. There_ had _to be, - he could hear each and every individual voice in the din if he focused on it.

He couldn't see their colorful clothing through the blanket over his eyes, but he could smell the clean crisp white, the blue, and the vibrant vicious red most of all. Oh the colors.

Could this be a dream? Dreams weren't supposed to hurt.

Severus Snape floated on the surface of The Lake, watching the stars. Quit night noises surrounded him.

His clothes and skin remained dry, though he could feel the gentle wind-born waves role coolly beneath his back and legs.

The water ran through his hair, gently pulling, never dampening. Oak leaves rustled softly in the night breeze, their dark green still distinguishable to his nonhuman eyes. The wind carried a subtle musky sent, part horse and part . . . part sopping wet _Remus Lupen_. He almost lifted his head to look for the annoying man,-beast. Such was the similarity between his smell and that of sleeping thestrals.

He couldn't recall coming out here, though he should make note to do this more often. So calm. So beautiful.

Could this be a dream? By what spell was he floating . . . this line of thought drifted off into the darkness.

Mist was rising from the lake's cool rippling surface. Wisps slid over him and swirled slowly on the dark shifting water. . .

And then he was entering Hogwarts, refusing his natural inclination to hurry _away_ from the cheerful laughter and murmur of voices inside. As he stepped though the door, a blast of social noises and human smells almost battered him back out. They were dressed in their normal attire,and there were_ hundreds_ of them. Packing every viable cranny of Hogwarts, they were sipping drinks and sampling orderves.

Futilely, he entered the crowd, heading towards his rooms. Argus intercepted him immediately.

"Severus, glad to see _you _here!" he exclaimed, his happiness clearly genus. This partiers _wasn't _dressed as usual, he was wearing a muggle suit. How odd.

"You know we could hardly have this whole mess," he gestured to the crowd, "without you here."

"I can't imagine why not," Severus said stoically.

"Oh, _Severus_!" The headmaster was now standing beside him in bright blue robes. "My dear boy," he cried "even _you _wouldn't miss your own _funeral _would you?" The old man smiled, blue eyes twinkling marry.

The crowed fell silent.

There was an ocean-like rustle of clothing on skin as everyone in the great crowed turned to stare _right at_ him.

He looked down at himself. He wasn't naked, and he wasn't a funny color. Those would have been embarrassing but acceptable reasons for people to stare. They were staring at him because of_ who_ he was.

"Its _all right_ Severus, we're not afraid of you," Argus' voice shook. Behind him, all the teachers of Hogwarts stood, staring. McGonagall watched him as sternly as ever but Trelawney looked about ready for a hysterical prophesy. Argus offered a glass of blood to him with a slightly unsteady hand. "We're not afraid, see." It was human blood.

Severus bolted for the door. His inhuman speed was quickly reduced by the need to shove partiers out of his way. He was halfway to a door now. He pushed rudely past Theodore Knot, Fudge's niece, and his own mother, glinting pale and cold.

His hand touched the door,-and he was engulfed in a wave of odiferous gas. The smell stopped his breath. Fish? Rotting fish? He was on his knees before the gaping crowd, suffocating . . .

Dudley watched his cousin, obviously out of it, wriggling and twitching and clearly having no idea Dudley was even there. He was getting worse. If Harry didn't improve soon,-no. If he wasn't _talking_ and _walking_ in the next, say, ten minutes, Dudley was calling the hospital. There was a phone in the room. He would dial the emergency number. To hell with what happened after, he wasn't going to just sit there and watch someone die.

_In . . . out . . . in . . . Harry wished his cousin would leave the room. The terrible vibration of his breathing made Harry's head hurt worse._

Dudley decided he would try to find an ice dispenser and bring some back in a plastic bag. Harry seemed to have a fever. Maybe if he was cooled down Harry would recover and Dudley wouldn't have to make the call.

Mercifully, Harry felt his cousin leave the room with movements like an earthquake. Beautiful stillness came after, if not silence. _Never _silence.

When Dudley came back, Harry was sitting up in bed staring at him. He had a funny look in his eyes.

"Say, _Dud_ley," Harry asked," How_ did _you father first learn about magic? I mean, he never seemed,-shocked or in denial about it, when I did accidental magic. You'd think your family would just pretend magic doesn't exist since they hate weirdness so much!"

Harry studied Dudley as he spoke. Technically, the Dursleys were Harry's family too, but Dudley didn't object. Dudley seemed to Harry to be in an odd mood.

"Oh, no," Dudley's voice grew quiet, almost to a whisper, "I'm pretty sure he knew about_ that_ stuff much earlier. Before he met Mom, even." Dudley turned to stare at the curtained window, rubbing his doughy chin

"He had some friend, when he was a kid. Not his age though. More his mom's age, so I guess he was grandma's friend. Dad mentioned him a few times. Not since you first went to . . . Hogywarts is it?"

"Hogwarts, School of Witch Craft and Wizardry" Harry corrected by habit.

"Ya, Dad said that at one time this guy would come around and give him cool presence, but I think this guy was some sort of magic person. Then his mother figured out that this guy was a frea-Uh-magical, and didn't want anything more to do with him. I know Dad said once that grandpa reeeeeeeeealy hated the guy. Couldn't stand him, even before they figured out about the magic. Dad said that he got his good judgment for recognizing strangeness from his father, who knew a freak when he saw one, - Sorry"

"No problem, - _Dud_," Harry said.

Harry watched Dudley fidget and stammer. His cousin must be keeping an awfully big secret to warrant all that wiggling. Harry nodded with hidden amusement. As he listened, he took note of his own psychical condition.

He still felt a bit drowsy - mentally fuzzy- as if he were recovering from a cold. It was actually a pleasant feeling. He might shut his eyes and drift off gently at any moment. He ached, yes, but much less than before. His throbbing jaw and grinding headache were almost gone, a shadow of their former angry agony. What ever germ or spell this was, he was beating it.

As he thought, Harry moved his jaw slowly back and forth.

Dudley watched Harry as though hypnotized. Harry's teeth were too long. Not pointy, or anything that dramatic, just a tad overly long. They came down farther than before, Dudley was certain. He tried to keep talking.

"Uhh . . . and he -ahum, you know that picture . . . he. Actually. "

Dudley froze. Something was definitely _not _right here.

"Soooo . . .," Harry prompted, sounding so normal and slightly annoyed. Then Harry cocked his head, not an odd mannerism but new for him, and he . . . sniffed. He was staring into Dudley's eyes.

Then he licked his lips.

Slowly, like a movie mummy rising, Harry's dark right eyebrow went up. And up. When had he learned that? "You were _saying_?" Harry quarried expectantly. He gave a delicate feline sniff.

Did Harry _know_ he was scaring the crap out of his cousin? He must notice the teeth. Was he just toying with Dudley? Should Dudley make a run for it?

Harry's bed lay between Dudley and door, with Harry sprawled out on it like a cat. Taking a deep breath, Dudley kept on talking.

"You know that orangey black and white picture on the piano bench?" Dudley asked. (The Dursleys had a piano bench but no piano, which was about the highest level of weirdness Mrs. Dursley could stomach.)

"You mean, with the three people in it. Yes. I know it's of your Grandparents. Is the skinny one by your grandmother the guy we're talking about?"

Harry had never seen these people in life, and nether had Dudley. They both died before he was born.

"No. That's_ not_ him," Dudley said sharply, glaring waspishly at the closed window curtain. To Harry he seemed very uneasy about something. "I assumed that was him to at first too, actually. Dad was_ so _mad about that."

"Mad? At you? Why?"

Dudley cleared his through noisily. "The _skinny_ one is my grandfather. That's why Dad was so mad. I didn't recognize my own grandfather. I thought he was being awfully mean at the time. I'd never _seen_ the man before after all," Dudley turned maneuvered his large self until he faced Harry and continued, "and the other guy looks _exactly_ like Dad. Exactly"

Harry wasn't sure what he should say in this situation. His head still felt like it was drifting through the clouds. "Ya, he really does. I just assumed it was him, I mean, he actually looks an awful lot like_ you, _too"

Harry tried to put a patch on the conversation, "Well, it hardly matters one way or another if he was,- really your grandfather because of some - _affair_. If you were going to ever have magic I'm sure you'd have gotten a Hogwarts invitation letter when I did!"

Dudley gave Harry the nastiest look he'd ever received, which, considering Snape, Malfoy and even Voldemort, was really saying something.

Then the look was gone, and so was Dudley. He was out of the door faster than Harry would have thought he could move. "I'm going to get some food from the vending machine." Dudley croaked out.

Harry shouted after, "Ya, bring me some -." The door slammed in the middle of his sentence.

------------------------------------------------

Fish smell overwhelmed Severus, who fell to his knees before the crowd. This was it then. This was the end . . . fish. Why did it have to be . . .?

Severus' eye's snapped open. Lion was staring at him, nose almost touching his own considerable proboscis. Severus shoved Lion and the cat's fish-stink breath away from his face.

Where had the beast gotten food already this morning?

Snape stilled, listening for the breath of the other boys to tell him whether they still slept. Hopefully he could be showered and gone before they woke so _he_ could be early to potions.

Severus had a vague thought of consulting his potions professor before the silence of his stone chamber reached his waking brain.

How odd. For a moment there he'd _actually_ thought he was a student of Hogwarts again, back in his old dorm room in Slytherin. He'd never experienced such a thing before, except as a guest of Madam Pomphry in the hospital wing after a _Meeting_, which was entirely excusable considering the useless mind altering concoctions she was want to poor down his poor throat at such times. Even then he'd forgotten _where_ he was but never _when_.

The only breathing in his underground room came from him and his cat. The realization of age was a gratifying relief. Adulthood was so much better. The forgetful and gullible idealized childhood but he knew better.

He could now brew _whatever_ potions he liked now, _whenever_ he liked, and if he became truly fed-up with his situation in life, there was the calming knowledge of his ingenious backup plan (and the backup plan for the backup plan, extra. . .) which would leave him safely in the muggle world with a new untraceable wand and _plenty_ of gillons to spend. That they would be _someone else's_ gillons would make them all the more enjoyable.

Laying in the perfect darkness, he felt safer, calmer even and, - dare he think it, - _happier _than he had for some time. Any why not? It was summer after all wasn't it? That required a moment of thought, entombed as he was in this windowless season-less room. Children were the bane of his existence, almost as annoying as _being_ a child, and with them gone he should be rejoicing!

He lay back and shut his eyes, trying to experience again the vivid memory of his dorm room, more than a decade old.

_The cool breeze that trickled under the door smelled slightly of lake, but more of forest,-oak bark and moist dirt. _

_He remembered Lucas's face as a child, his sneer and how he looked when angry, and realized he and Draco were not so much alike as people (like the boy himself) thought. There was Rudulphus's cat, a slender gray queen with black points who hated everyone but Severus, to Rudulphus's perpetual disgust. _

His own considerably larger cat, noticing that Severus did not spring instantly from slumber, jumped back up onto Severus like a fist in the gut.

Severus decided to get started on a potion,-a small fun sort of concoction that he'd imagined for years but had just never gotten around to somehow. He eagerly prepared the small laboratory in his rooms, cheerfully whipping up dust from the little green marble counter, and readying the caldron. While double checking ingredients he mentally composed a to-do list.

There was a good book he'd been meaning to read. A muggle one. He'd been meaning to alter his curriculum for several years also. He'd made a thousand mental notes on the subject, 'add this potion' 'change that explanation,'- but for some reason he'd never gotten around to it. Now whole days would be required to simply too recall all of them, but he could.

Why had he ever let things go this long?

Something itched at the back of his mind. He recognized the kind of memory that slips away like a mouse when one rummages around for it. He'd wait for it to come to him. He had plenty of time.

Severus felt wonderful. Night was coming. His floor was covered with freshly written papers. His kitchen counter was blanketed in yellowed parchment and books. His bed was worse. He was really accomplishing something here. The brats would learn this year whether they liked it or not!

---------------------------------------------------------

Assuming that he couldn't procrastinate much longer before Harry came after him, Dudley headed back towards his and Harry's room, carrying junk food from the machine.

It wasn't his cousin's reference to Dudley's lack of magic that drove him from the room. Well, not only that. Harry was putting of massive creepy-vibes. Dudley's hair stood on end just being in the same room with him. Then there were the teeth.

As Harry sat there listening to Dudley's pathetic story , asking normal sounding questions, his jaw rocked back and forth and his canines, resting on his lower lip, would seem to rock a bit as though loose.

Dudley opened the door.

"So, what did you bring me?" Harry asked as he whirled around to face the door so fast he almost blurred. . Dudley stepped back.

"I'm starving, absolutely starving. Anything with chocolate, -like mini donuts? Or cheese?" Dudley slowly crept into the room, keeping eyes glued to Harry.

-------------------------------

The red setting sun was peeking through the curtains as Dudley attempted to get to sleep. He knew this wasn't going to happen. His normal bedtime was long hours away. They were reposing now for Harry sake. Harry was the other sleep deterrent.

Dudley Dursley was not inclined to fall asleep in the same room as anything that lost its teeth and re-grew them within an hour.

Only a sliver of rosy light was visible in the darkened room. To Dudley, anyway. Harry had gotten up to turn out the lights and then maneuvered through the baggage strewn floor on the way back with the silent speed of one who could see _exactly_ where he was going.

Dudley's mind kept returning to one question; just how much Harry (who was probably blissfully sleeping, the little creep) could hear,-or small, from the bed so close to his own. Dogs could smell emotions, Dudley knew. They smelled the chemicals a body made.

Could Harry? Could Harry hear his beating heart, or even the ocean sound Dudley heard when he listened to a sea shell; an ocean of blood inside his . . . O.K. That was just too gross. Bravery was for other people, and _they_ could find _him_ sitting safely in the well lit hallway, with a door between him and his cousin.

Dudley grasped the blanket covering him, about to throw it off and run.

A rustle of fabric stopped him. Then came sloppy mouth noises. Dudley cringed violently through a vivid mental image of the re-growing teeth, oozing blood and pointed white -

A shriek, painfully high like a dying animal's, came from the other side of the room. Dudley's heart froze. More rustling and the creak of bed springs told Dudley his cousin was out of bed.

Oh God. _Oh_ God. A primitive part of Dudley's mind started screaming. He's_ coming for me, He's coming for me, and He's going to _**eat**_ me. That same primitive voice _would not_ let Dudley move, not even an inch towards the door or anywhere_.

Dudley's ears strained for any sound.

He heard the door creak minutely, and the tiniest breath of cigarette-smoke air touched Dudley's face. Then a click. Harry was gone.

-------------------------------

Albus Dumbledore snuck another chocolate into his mouth. They were delectable. He nodded and smiled as the French Headmistress spoke. She wanted a student exchange program and was encouraging Professor Dumbledore to expand and improve Hogwarts curriculum, 'So Britain can squelch this Voldemort situation before it becomes a 'severe security threat.'

Albus assured Headmistress Vincent that even Voldemort showed reasonable concern for the secrecy of the wizarding world. He must, or his followers and supporters would turn on him and rip him apart without hesitation, so ingrained was this certainty of the need for secrecy within wizarding sociaty.

He also mentioned that an improved education would yield smarter Death Eaters as well. He did not mention the mind boggling degree of censorship and restriction placed on Hogwarts by the Ministry of Magic and even by the wizarding public at large. Whenever fear increased, the ministry increased restriction, and the restrictions were approved of by a frightened populous who felt 'something' must me done.

They expected him to teach Defense against the Dark arts without specifying what the Dark Arts even were much less how they worked.

She had a point though. He had to admit though, that in the subjects of Arithmacy, Healing, and higher Herbology, there was room for improvement. He might do more for the war effort by utilizing his position as a teacher than any other way. Was that not why he first sought the position of headmaster, so long ago?

He removed another chocolate from the dish, and was about to pop it into his mouth when he felt something painfully hot through the fabric of his breast pocket. Harry was in danger. He leaned forward and quickly finished the conversation with Headmistress Vincent.

The headmistress looked a bit miffed and even more curios. Albus didn't notice because he was dashing for the fireplace, sending a chair flying and leaving his phoenix Fawkes to flap after him. He tossed in flue powder and called out, "Arabella Figg's House,"

Severus was using quill and parchment to record a startaling epiphany he'd had regarding teaching a complex potion to complete idiots when the headmaster's emergency beacon started wailing.

He should have known this day was too good to be true. He aerated right to the headmaster's side, though a harmless bit of (slightly) dark magic. As always, he had a moment of dread as he recalled Apparition blind to so many Death Eater meeting.

At the moment of apperation he was smacked in the face by a wall of scents and sound. This was an urban muggle alley, with tens of thousands of busy humans moving all around him. So many. A moment of blind panic ended when a hand fell on his shoulder.

He jerked back and whorled to face the headmaster. There was concern in the old man's eyes. Was there a moment of apprehension too? He was too sensitive to such things, from the few who knew him as he truly was.

"Is the boy here then?" He asked his voice hollow in his ears. It was dark beyond the streetlights, likely past midnight. Why was the potter boy here?

Albus's answer was lost to Severus. A sudden sensation like he'd never known stole over him. A tingling urgent need to _move _set his heart leaping, and he was drawn towards the white-washed building to his right.

A gray mettle door barred him. He later had no memory of ripping it from his path. He sped through off-smelling hallways, the humming florescent lights making fluttering shadows of his black cape. He was approaching an eating area. The smell of beef blood, fresh and strong, hung over lesser smalls of dinner hours passed. The wooden kitchen door splintered.

On a grungy tile floor, beside a freezer, crouched the reason for his hast. The boy's face and hands were slightly bloody. Half thawed raw hamburger lay in red lumps before him.

The thin small figure's face came up. The eyes met Severus'. The face and body changed. A new face, like a gargoyle with yellow piercing eyes, was only half familiar from guilty repulsed glimpses in his mirror.

He felt himself shift in respond. A deafening vibrating growl leapt from him, and he attacked.

Albus, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stepped through the ravaged door and followed his potions master through the building.

He came to an open area. From around the corner a constant din of shrieks and growls echoed insanely, making his blood run cold. He was too old for this. Wand ready, Albus stepped slowly into the doorway. He saw only darkness.

His muttered lumos revealed a horrible seen, like something from his most evil nightmares.

Red blood and gruesome pulp smeared the white walls and white tile floor. A dark form in raged black –it could only be his potions master- appeared to be mauling a small fragile form. It wore loose muggle clothes, and its legs flailed helplessly. The two wrestled, in a horribly unequal match.

The shrieking and growling stopped suddenly. Half hidden by the potions master, the small form stilled.

He was too late. Albus was stunned. _This could not be._

Then he leapt back in shock as a high shriek pierced his ears, and the snarling resumed as loud as before. Severus stood upright, and the small nearly skeletal form clung to his head and shoulders, writhing wildly. The . . . boy? . .. turned his head one way and then the other. He was struggaling, Albus realized, to reach Severus' neck! Severus fought, seizing the boy's hair as a handle, and bashing him into the walls with inhuman strength and speed. Neither face was visible.

The fighters parted and attacked several times. In a whirl Albus's eyes couldn't follow, Severus pinned the boy against the far wall, legs dangling in the air. He put his face to the smaller one's neck, and both were still. Slowly, the animal-like sounds faded to science. Severus lowered the limp form of Harry Potter to the floor.

Severus turned deliberately towards Albus as one awaiting judgment, with a face the headmaster hadn't been allowed to see for years. It had changed since he'd last seen it, maturing like his more familiar visage. Also, more and larger teeth were visible. Albus tore his eyes away.

The boy was a creature like Severus for a moment. Then, the features slid into a clearly human face but not one like Harry's at all, - almost like a young Severus. This could have been a trick of Albus's old eyes, because the change rapidly continued to reveal messy Potter hair and the boy's famous face. Abruptly, his signature thick rimed glasses popped into existence.

Odd.

There were some red smears on the boy's shirt. His arms carried livid pink scratches, but no spreading stain of blood as Albus had so feared. He watched in stunned silence as his ragged potions master stooped to gather the boy effortlessly into his arms, and swept from the room.

Albus paused a moment to examine the gruesome red lumps on the floor. They were raw ground meat with torn muggle packaging mingled in, not what he had feared at all. Relief made him light headed as he followed after Severus.

-----------------------------------------------

Severus backtracked using his own sent as he carried the boy through the dinning room, down a dim hall, and down stairs he certainly did not remember scaling. The adrenalin rush of the fight was wearing off, leaving him quivering and his lungs raw. His mind, numb like ears after a loud explosion, was beginning to ask questions.

As he turned a corner, a familiar scent gave him a momentary image of thestrals and a lake.

He ran strait into Remus Lupen. The werewolf screeched and leapt back. Predictable cowardous. His wand came out. The brown eyes were huge.

"Oh _calm down_, wolf," Severus started scathingly. He was startled to silence. The voice that had come from his throat was deep, gravelly, and inhuman. The words were oddly thick. Severus realized that he hadn't -couldn't- return to his human appearance.

There was no use hiding now. He snatched the wand away to prevent being cursed in the back. He stalked past; head high with dignity he couldn't feel. He could only hope the wolf didn't recognize him. Otherwise, his life just got a whole lot worse.

Behind him, Remus' high and frightened voice stuttered, "S-Severus?" He did not respond. Perhaps the werewolf would fear him now and be less annoyingly friendly, having seen his true nature and his inhuman face.

One could only hope.

He stepped into the darkness, glancing at the ravage mettle door. Once outside he felt calmer immediately. The rush of traffic was oddly like the ocean, and the slight night breeze brought the sent of salty fast food above all else.

He waited for the headmaster and wolf to recover and come out. He was in no state for safe apperation, certainly not with another in his arms. They would take the Knight Bus back to the school.

To Be Continued . . .

A/N: I've proof read all of my chapters and hopefully fixed all the glaring 'Argus' not 'Agnus' errors (no, Filch has _not_ had a sex-change operation). No doubt errors still abound, but this is as good as it gets without a beta.

_In the next chapter:_** Harry goes 'home' to Hogwarts. How will everyone deal will this new development? We will hear more from the house elves, Filch, and the mysterious Mr. Shmied. **

**Review if you like this chapter. Or don't.**


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Harry Potter, Drama, Horror