“Leave, Lea.” he told her, feeling truly alone for the first time.

“Just think about what I said Harry… I can’t let You-Know-Who take you from me like this.” she begged, stepping slowly towards the door. “Your room is lovely, by the way…”

How she knew, he’d probably never find out, but he dared not ask her. What she had said about the Dark Lord he couldn’t shake… somehow, on some level, he knew Voldemort would do that, if he could. He didn’t want to be used, not again, never again. He didn’t know if he could take it. Actually, he knew he couldn’t. Everything was happening so fast, so very fast, and all he really needed was somewhere that he was no longer even sure existed.

Merlin, he felt lost. How he longed to talk to his father… to Draco, to Lea. Not this Lea though. This Lea was too… something. Too knowing perhaps, too…too Gryffindor! Draco was probably a snooty, arrogant bastard, and he dared not even think about his Father. Merlin, he did not want to think about his Father. And the mirror taunted him so…

The mirror glistened with the innocent reflection of his room, the image serenely identical to the one a person would expect form any normal, full-length mirror. Ah, but such was the nature of dark objects… people too. Him for example.

Harry Potter; trusting and honest Gryffindor on the outside, Horris Snape on the inside; Perfect Slytherin. And he liked it. He liked controlling what part of himself, what portion people saw, and keeping the rest for only him (and a carefully selected few whom he had deemed worthy of the privilege).

Perhaps it was a romanticized way of doing what his father called ‘not acting like a foolish Gryffindor and allowing your strengths and weaknesses to be seen by friend or foe alike’, but he didn’t care. For now, he was sure this new duality had to deal with would leave none the wiser. Weasley and… and Hermione (whom he felt could not possibly be called Lea, and was determined to stop doing so) bought it, even if Hermione had her reservations. The only other problem might be with the Slytherins, though due to their hatred, he was sure would negate any glimpses of his Slytherin self as accidental fluke or sheer idiotic rebellion of some sort.

He did not know how long he’d have to play Potter, but he knew it was doable… he was, after all, not only a Slytherin, but a Snape.

Snape? The mirror seemed to mock; reflecting the thick glasses, the rounded features, the wild bird’s nest one might mistaken for hair… Was he a Snape?

Yes, mind and soul, he was sure of it. And yet, looking into that seemingly-innocent mirror, he could not help but wonder if the mortal and palpable part of him concurred. And even worse, he understood that he might never know if this was indeed (as he believed) somehow orchestrated by Dumbledore. If it was, gulping down the potion again wouldn’t help, he was sure. Neither would anything short of a miracle… if that man wished it to remain hidden. Flawed he was, yes, but damn meticulous when it came to covering his bases… all his bases

He sure as hell wasn’t a Potter! He mentally screamed at the enemy in the glass, who in turn attempted to feebly glare at him. Nature versus Nurture. Biology versus Love. Physical versus Spiritual. Even if Potter was his father, which he was nearly positive the man was not, he knew with certainty who his Dad was.

But the mirror would not relent, and so, with what even he would be forced to call an animalistic growl, he leaped into the offending mirror-turned-portal. He wanted to go home, touch something of his past; something real. Something palpable. He wanted to leap onto his bed, in his real home, and like a little kid pretend that nothing was wrong. Thus he activated the gateway between his dorm and his room at Snape Manor. He felt the cold of passing the Hogwarts wards, then those around the Manor itself. He saw the image in the mirror, the Potter brat, blur… but what replaced it he was sure would haunt his dreams for years to come.

Unlike the Marauder room, there was barely any dust at all, certainly not enough to cause him discomfort as he moved. No, that would have been too simple… too grand to have made so great an impact on him. No, it was the little things, instead, that scared him so. The rich colors, the high-polished wood and silver, the magnificent stained glass window; all that made up his room seemed but a ghost of itself. Everything seemed faded somehow, as if everything here had been an offering to the relentless son for decades on end. Grime enveloped the outside of the window’s seams, blurring its beautiful image. The once white flower seemed a sickly brownish cream now, as if the very flower had wilted. The snake’s eye was clouded, darkened, as was his fang. The blood, once a mesmerizing crimson, also seemed to have dried reddish-brown upon the blade, and the wand’s sparks seemed to have blended into the background. His Firebolt was not on its stand on the wall, his books were not there, and his only imprint on the room seemed to be the three imprints he had stepped into the floor, into the fine layer of dust that was there… too small to be seen unless the light hit the wood just so.

The site almost made him scream, drop to his knees and beg to wake the fuck up. It was as if his entire reality had flashed before his eyes, turning into some serene dream. This was not home… but this was real. The real Snape Manor, in any case, as he knew everything in the blasted R.O.R. worked like its real counterpart, but real places cold only be derived from memories… and he had never seen his room like this.

Which brought him to another quality of the wonderful room that Hermione had mentioned; the blasted thing disappears as soon as everyone leaves. And since the portal was not brought into his dorm till quite a while after it became his dorm…

“Damn.” He cursed himself, noting the absence of any mirrors whatsoever in the room, save the wall one near his dresser, which was no more magical than the one in the bathroom. And since Severus Snape was no longer a teacher, the only other mirror gateway from here to Hogwarts which had existed before this whole ‘look like Potter’ mess was also non-existent here. Worst of all, if he was found anywhere around here, his Dad might, quite literally, kill him… especially if all that ‘he’s gone back to his true Master’ crap was true. Even if he hadn’t, the only direct way out of the manor was out the front door and down the path past the wards so that one could apparate wherever… and he doubted Sila and Pazur would take kindly to a Potter walking past them. Floo was very restricted, hooked to only one fireplace that was guarded by stone guardians as well, though these were far less amicable than his two front statues. Hell, even as Horris the twin Vultures scared the hell out of him; no way in Hell he’d chance them now.

Still, he couldn’t very well stay here, now could he? Oh, wouldn’t that be rich… he could just imagine what the ever-proud Severus Snape would do, finding one Harry Potter in the heir suite of Snape Manor. He wasn’t naïve enough to so much as hope that his father had somehow retained the memory when not even his room was safe. Nope, he was quite certain any encounter he could have would feature the snide and snaky potions git… not his dear ol’ Dad.

“I gotta get out of here.” He half sighed, half-moaned. He really did want to stay here, close his eyes, and hope that when he opened them once more he’d be in his bed at the manor, his father looking over him worriedly. But alas, he knew this too would be a futile hope to hold on to. For now, this was the only reality… and it was enough of a headache to work around without all the tangent thoughts, hopes and fears running rampant in this thick skull he presently had. How many times had he entertained the possibility of this all being some elaborate scheme, some nightmare… hell, he’d even wondered if he had not stepped into some parallel universe or that everyone had been possessed or something.

However, all those thoughts only complicated the situation, and for now, he had to concentrate on making sense of this… not attempting to fantasize a way to make everything okay somehow. For all he knew, Hermione might be right, and all he had experienced was some plot by Voldemort to lower his defenses. He couldn’t accept that though, not yet. Because if he did, he’d have to also accept that all he has ever been is this scrawny, powerless boy onto whom the entire bloody world had placed their hopes. And that, frankly, sucked.

After twenty minutes of walking, he gave himself a moment to lean against the wall near the top of the staircase. He was almost out of here, though he was not sure if he was glad or saddened by this fact. Now, all he had to do was go down into the main entry room, get outside, passed the two guardians he had played with so many times without getting eaten or mauled, get out from under the canopy of wards that stretched to the very edge of the manor grounds and apparate back to Hogwarts… assuming his knowledge of apparation was sound and his body could match his mind. He could get passed Sila and Pazur in his animagus form, assuming that it was still as skilled as it used to be, despite how feebly his present condition compared with how he remembered himself… or thought he remembered himself. He had played with them in that form many times in the past, so he knew he had been fast enough to outrun them. He had not encountered anyone in the house on his way down (though, in all honesty, he had not used the route people normally took), so getting through the last room should not be a problem either…

Or so he thought, right before the sound of a rusty hinge being opened caught his ear. He knew that hinge… his father had to replace the entire door right after they arrived for it had bothered him so much, and the house elves seemed unable to remedy the problem with any less-drastic means. It was the door between the dungeon hallway and the dungeons proper, which was only separated from this room by the previously mentioned narrowest hallway of the entire manor, which has only two doors… that one, and the one on which he could see the handle slowly turn. Shit. Actually, shit did not even begin to describe it.

“Draco?” he gawked, unable to say anything beyond that as the said blonde threw a stunner at him.

“What the hell are you doing her Potter!” the blonde demanded, as his stunner flew passed the raven mop of hair. Thank Merlin he still had seeker reflexes, if nothing else.

“Just… leaving, actually.” he managed while dogging several more spells while cursing the fact that he had no wand, finally deciding to make a lunge for the door. Unfortunately, he must have not noticed that two more people had followed Draco’s arrival, and he was finally hit with an unidentified person’s stunner. This day was just getting better and better, wasn’t it?

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

A most annoying and semi-rhythmic tapping slowly forced him to regain consciousness. The dripping water kept hitting the stone floor as he fully regained his senses, though he had to hunt down his glasses before his vision could confirm the origins of the noise. His wrists were bound, but he still managed to twist and wiggle till the discarded lenses were more or less back on his nose. He was in a cell, somewhere in the Snape dungeons. He figured it was under the left wing, as the water that continued to give him a migraine clearly noted his proximity to the river (as the dungeons failed to stretch all the way to the waterfall). There were no windows here, so he was nearly certain he was on the second (lower) level of the maze that was the family dungeons. Few knew of the second level, for almost none of the manor dungeons went deeper than one layer below the ground. This was, of course, constructed because few homes had so deep an underground network, so prisoners kept here would be less likely to be found by an outside search party. There were only a few cells on the second level, perhaps ten in all, none of which within sight or earshot of another.

He must have been tossed onto the floor, for the arm he had used to wipe his hair back returned with a distinct tinge of red. Damn… couldn’t one thing go right today? If it even was today… for all he knew that little bump on the head could have had him lying there for quite some time. Wonderful.

The lone torch outside the cell door emitted a flickering light onto the cobbled walls, making them almost dance. He sat there, listening to the drip and watching the stones waltz about the wall in tight little circles, for he knew there was little else to do. There was a jug of water and a plain chamber pot and him in the cell, though he doubted he would be able to get to either of the clay objects with his restraints in place even if he tried. Toying with the idea of escape would prove fruitless as well, after all, he knew what getting out of here would entail. Nope, he couldn’t try to escape… at least not until he knew how many people were here, and what exactly he was dealing with.

He did not know how long he had been watching the stone wall, though he knew he had stopped actually seeing it quite a while ago. It was odd, how the eyes cease to function and allow your imagination to superimpose an image onto what they are supposedly forwarding to the brain when external stimuli become non-existent. He would have stared into space still, had a voice not knocked him back into the cold reality before him.

“Up, Potter.” A low growl ordered, the figure hidden beneath a white mask.

“You know, being nice once in a while wouldn’t hurt, my dear Mr. Malfoy.” he commented offhand, the mask doing little to keep the man’s identity hidden. He complied however, knowing the man would not be hesitant to impose his order with a side of crucio.

“Keep your trap shut Potter.” the man sneered, “now get your ass over here.”

“You know, that would be a lot easier to comply with if my legs were not tied.” he replied matter-of-factly, gaining another potent glare from the man, one that not even the stupid mask could cover. Malfoy did unbind his legs, however, to which the boy gave a cordial thank you and beamed a fake smile. He always had loved to get a rise out of the man, and since he was screwed no matter which way you cut it anyway, why not at least have a little fun?

Though he found indirect torture of the elder Malfoy amusing to no end, one must not engage in such behavior without knowing the full spectrum of possible consequences and which of said array of options seem most likely (if not certain) to be implemented, for otherwise one risks too great a possibility of facing repercussions which far outweigh the initial pleasure of said behavior. In other words, the boy knew better than to try to aggravate an unknown beast. So, wisely, he did nothing but follow when the blonde said that his presence was required. By whom, he could not be sure, but he mused over the various possibilities as they navigated the labyrinth of secret passages, narrow dungeon halls and so on. The boy could have, of course, gotten there far faster had the man simply told him the room they were to go to (being privilege to information on passageways and connection portals within the manor none bar his father possessed), but his present position did not warrant such luxuries. Malfoy led the front, wand in hand, as two other Death Eaters of inconsequential identity made sure the boy behaved himself. As outraged as he was for being escorted this way within his own walls, he had no choice but to succumb to their insistence.

In a far more refined room than the cell he had occupied, which described almost each and every room above the Snape soil, his little procession stopped. They were in the northeast lower hall, which connected to the main ballroom (which was where the boy assumed he was being led towards), where several other occupants stood or sat at leisure. He knew these others well, but forced himself to refrain from voicing his outrage. His Asps were all around him, two of which tried to blend into the shadows as much as possible without it seeming deliberate. Ah, the two Gryffindors, evidently hoping to spare Harry Potter the ‘shock’ of such ‘treachery’ within the noble house… or keep themselves hidden in case he made it out alive as usual. No matter.

“Father.” Draco greeted the elder Malfoy as he neared, “must you keep him so filthy?”

With a careless wave of the younger blonde’s hand, the raven-haired lad was left feeling as if his skin had been washed with steel wool. He was clean, at least… though painfully so.

“That’s better, isn’t it father?”

For a moment, he was half-glad that Draco was no longer struggling with the wandless magic, but the feeling was quickly replaced with worry as Draco’s hand grabbed his arm. This only meant that there was even more discrepancies between his memories and the facts before him. The grip on his arm was rough, hostile. This was not Draco, just as Hermione had not been Lea. This was Malfoy, pure and simple. Never had he longed for the power to pull an Asp’s chain… until now. And now, as he tried to do what he always knew he could, nothing happened. Though he never used the power, he knew what it did, and by all accounts D- Malfoy ought to be on the floor now, not looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

“Constipated Potter?” He must have been really out of it if they could see his effort to concentrate on the power. Damn it all.

“Shut it, Beta.” he growled back, voicing the first thing that came into his head. He must have hit a cord however, for the blonde shut his trap, and everyone else had quieted. Was it possible that the Asps were keeping the lack of their Alpha a secret?

“Our Lord will enjoy your presence…” was the final reply, which was accompanied with a sharp jerk of his arm. Never before had he felt such a looming doom before facing Him… as Potter or Horris. This was bad.

He was hauled to the spot right before the manor’s most lavish chair which he assumed was to be used as his temporary throne, almost exactly where he usually stood, with Malfoy and Blaise keeping him in check. The situation was too familiar, too ingrained into his psyche. His rational mind fought for him to see how different all this was, but as he felt the tiny change in the currents of magic his instincts won the battle with the threat of what would happen should he disobey. Pain and torture, it seemed, worked as an incentive on more levels than he had ever realized.