“Stop.”

Harry stilled instantly. That one word in that one voice commanded his instant attention. Snape’s voice. He felt Dobby’s grasp reassert itself. Snape’s grasp, which had never wavered, was as firm as ever.

Though Harry’s agonized screams from the night Dudley’s gang had jumped him still echoed around him, the actual images had disappeared. Harry hung his head. Voldemort had done exactly what Snape said he would; Voldemort had broken his resolve. Harry glanced over to see Snape standing beside him, tall and regal in all of his buttoned-up glory. He wanted to tell Snape he was sorry, but at that moment, Voldemort chose to show himself fully, his snake like features glinting ominously through the mist.

“So,” Voldemort crooned, “you are here to protect little Harry, are you?”

Snape stared impassively at his former master, saying nothing.

“How touching. Perhaps it’s time to tell little Harry here about all of your nasty secrets. Let’s see what he thinks of you then, Severussss.”

Harry felt Snape brace himself. Harry lifted his head and squared his shoulders too. If Snape could be there for him, then he could be there for Snape too.

The first scene to materialize was the one of the night Harry had been abducted and tortured by the circle of Death Eaters. Although the sight was not new—Voldemort had even used it before against him in a vision after Harry’s broom accident—the stench of his own blood and urine and vomit was. He leaned sideways and vomited, unable to stop himself. Voldemort hooted with laughter at this display of perceived weakness.

“If this is how your hero treats you,” Voldemort said, waving his hand to fast forward the vision to where Snape cursed Harry, “it’s no wonder you are here with me now.”

Harry wiped his mouth with his sleeve and coughed, trying to regain his composure. Using all his might, he pushed Voldemort’s vision away, replacing it with one of his own: Snape, in an uncharacteristic act of kindness, obtaining a school broom for him and and allowing him to fly around the cottage’s perimeter. It was a simple thing, really, but it showed a side of Snape that had been new to Harry and the vision grounded him. He stood up straighter and dug his heels in, ready to fight.

 Voldemort scoffed, discarding Harry’s vision with a dismissive gesture. “I wonder, Harry, if you know just how many Muggles and Mudbloods your Potions Masters has killed.”

“On your orders,” Harry snapped.

“Mmm, on my orders indeed,” Voldemort purred. Then he turned his attention to Snape. “You were a good servant, were you not, Severusss…”

Harry mentally nudged Snape as Snape had done to him. He wondered if Snape found it reassuring or simply annoying.

“Such a good a servant, in fact, that you brought me the very information that led me right to Harry’s parents.” Glancing back at Harry, Voldemort chided, “Did your esteemed Professor tell you that he is the reason I killed your mummy and daddy, dear Harry?”

Harry gritted his teeth and gave Snape’s hand a squeeze. “He told me that, yes. He overheard the Prophesy and relayed it to you.” Harry felt momentarily vindicated at the look of surprise on Voldemort’s pale features. Perhaps emboldened by this, Harry added, “He would never have spied for you if he’d have known that it would have led you to my mum.”

Snape stiffened and Harry wondered if he’d said too much.

“Ah yes. Lily,” Voldemort taunted. “Dear, precious Lily.”

Harry felt Snape’s whole demeanor tense. This, he knew, was Snape’s Achilles heel. He squeezed Snape’s hand harder, silently imploring him to stay strong.

“I wonder,” Voldemort pondered, relishing each word as if it were a particularly tasty morsel. “Has Severus told you about Heaven?”

Harry felt Snape jerk and wondered if Voldemort had cursed him. Looking over, he saw that Snape had paled visibly and his whole body had gone rigid.   

Voldemort’s smile stretched across pointed, yellow teeth. “Ah, Severusss… I see you haven’t told to the boy everything, now have you?” Delighted to be teasing out a weakness in Severus after all, Voldemort continued. “You weren’t your mum’s first child, Harry. Your mum had a child before you… with Severus.”

Harry shook his head in denial. His mum and Severus? A child? It couldn’t be. Through his shock, Harry could still hear Severus’s whispered words.

“You can’t… you couldn’t… no one knew…”

Voldemort’s sneered in triumph. “I looked into her mind before I killed her. Pathetic Mudblood, whining about not being able to lose another child.” Images of a green-eyed, black-haired infant flashed across the mist in front of them, its tiny fists clutching a toy snake.

“No,” Severus breathed.

Harry was stunned. Severus was shaking beside him, but all Harry could see was the image of Snape and his mum smiling and cooing over this black-haired child in a wooden bassinet; a girl, his half-sister.

“They called it Heaven. Short for ‘Henrietta Evan’, I believe. Henrietta Evan Snape,” Voldemort spat, relishing pain he was clearly causing Snape. Turning to Harry, he said, “How quaint, don’t you think, Harry?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “Was Heaven your idea, Severusss? A pet name for a dirty blood pet child?”

Snape bellowed in pain and rage. Harry was reminded of the pained howls he’d heard from the man as Snape had held Lily’s body after Voldemort had killed her. The noises Snape was making now, though, made that shrieks of pain from that memory sound feeble.

Voldemort’s next words made Harry jump. “It was still a baby when it died, wasn’t it. Six months old, maybe? Lily couldn’t stand the sight of you after Heaven died, could she?”

 “Severus, NO,” Harry shouted. Snape was pulling his hand out of Harry’s, likely trying to curse or strangle the Dark Lord, or both. “WAIT!”

Harry jumped in front of Severus, positioning himself between his Potion’s master and the Dark Lord, his eyes blazing with renewed purpose. Behind him, Snape struggled against the bonds that were Harry and Dobby.

“You may have killed my first family,” Harry said, staring directly into Voldemort’s glowing red eyes, “but I have a new family now. And. You. Will. Not. Hurt. Them.” Concentrating hard, Harry filled the graying mist around them with images of his family and friends, of him and Snape playing chess in the small cottage, of Hermione’s passionate embrace and Ron’s more subdued one, of Molly Weasley’s kisses good-bye, of Arthur Weasley’s handshakes and pats on the back, of Dobby and him playing exploding snap (this vision earned an even louder sigh of disgust from Voldemort), of lunches and dinners shared across scarred wooden tables, of sad year-end good-byes and joyous welcome-backs.

“Pathetic,” Voldemort sneered. “Love is nothing. Power, on the other hand, is EVERYTHING.”

And with that, Voldemort raised his arms, screaming in a high pitch voice that would have had Harry covering his ears if a burning, stabbing pain hadn’t stole his breath away and prostrated him on the ground. His head was bursting. Pain like he’d never felt before was exploding outward from his scar, tearing every fiber of him to shreds. Tortured screams echoed in his ears; his, he knew, but Snape’s too. Snape. He tried to hold onto that thought. The only way they’d get out of this alive was if he could reconnect with Snape. But the pain. Even the worst Crucio in the world couldn’t compare to this. His vision narrowed to the point of a pin, the sounds of screams around him crashing against him like jumbo waves, and then everything faded to black. A part of him welcomed the oblivion that unconsciousness promised, but another part of him knew that if he let go, he’d be dead. And if he died, they’d all die.

Chocking for breath he managed one last plea before he slipped headlong into the abyss: Dobby, help.