Chapter One

There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at King's Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forwards the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking.

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with-”

She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry's upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror's grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.

Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform, looking for an empty compartment.

“We can't, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. “Ron and I've got to go to the prefects' carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry.

He watched as Hermione and Ron hurried off, pursued by Mrs. Weasley saying her last goodbyes.

“You'd better hurry, Harry,” Mr. Weasley told him.

Harry gave him a slight smile. “Yeah, I guess I'd better. Thanks. And thanks for having me,” he remembered.

“Sure, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said. “You know you are welcome at any time.”

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said, putting an artificial warmth into his voice. Finally free to leave, Harry pulled his trunk quickly to find an empty compartment. Hopefully if he got settled quickly, and looked busy enough, nobody would bother him. It had worked so far. He'd overheard Molly admonishing Ron to 'give him some space' once, and she always made sure he ate well, but otherwise the Weasleys had left him alone for a month with only a couple of confused glances. Hermione, for her part, had been delighted with his sudden studiousness, and only bothered him in order to find him supplementary texts that might help add depth to his summer assignments. He'd finished those after only a week, but with Hermione's contributions and a trip to Diagon Alley for his sixth-year textbooks, he'd had plenty to do. Sometimes, she'd just set up her own projects next to his, and he'd found he didn't mind even as he began to suspect that she realized some of what was going on.

He was starting to hate any other contact. He understood Molly's quiet worry; Lupin's attempts to get him to talk; the good intentions of everyone in and out of the Burrow, but it only made his life harder. All he wanted to do was study, read, occupy his brain so he couldn't think. The Weasleys were sweet, but they wouldn't let him do that. And every time they talked to him, he had to smile, laugh, talk, until his jaw hurt with it. It had gotten to the point that he missed Privet Drive, where nobody gave a damn if he lived or died and he could just be himself, without pretending. Why the fuck do people expect me to be happy?

Smiling bitterly, Harry settled down in an entirely empty compartment and remembered. A Portkey made from part of the saccharine statue in the Ministry building had brought him to Dumbledore's office, and he'd settled, staring out the window at the Quiddich stadium. Sirius had appeared there, once, disguised as the shaggy black dog, so he could watch Harry play. He'd probably come to see whether Harry was as good as James had been. Harry had never asked him.

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,” Dumbledore had said to his back. “On the contrary....the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.”

He'd flipped, then, Harry remembered with a wince. Shouted and thrown things around. There was nothing strong in the way he'd felt and acted. Pain like that crippled you, and he couldn't afford it. Not with the whole wizarding world counting on him to be their 'Savior.' Dumbledore was right about one thing, though: some types of pain were good. He felt more awake, focused, after his uncle slapped him than any other time, and he found himself baiting the man. One blow, and he could settle down and work for the rest of the day. Pain kept him sharp, so maybe nobody else would die. He could cope with that. It even felt good, sometimes.

“Harry!” someone said, pushing open the door to his compartment.

Fuck. “Neville!” Harry greeted just as enthusiastically. “How was your summer?”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Come on, Ron, Harry thought in frustration, watching as his friend tried and failed to cast a wordless charm. It's about focus, not will. That tended to be Ron's problem, though – he threw his heart into a thing, but his ability to focus that will into a specific intention was limited. Like I'm so much better. It had taken him several days over the summer to master this particular skill. Then again, without his uncle around he'd been restless.

“Pathetic, Weasley,” Snape said, appearing in front of the two of them and sneering his disdain. “Here- let me show you-”

He was fast, whipping around and turning his wand on Harry before he could blink. Harry's hand had been loose on his wand, but somehow the spell went off just fine anyway, and Harry was surprised to see Snape knocked off-balance by his shield spell.

“Do you remember me telling you that we are practicing nonverbal Protego, Potter?”

Woops. Trust Snape to be angry that Harry had used a more complex shielding spell than the one designated. It was the last one Harry had practiced while at the Weasleys, and so he had more experience with it nonverbally then he did with Protego.

“Yes,” Harry said lightly, reveling in the strange and sudden realization that he did not fear Snape anymore. Hated him, quite possibly, but as he'd discovered with his uncle that summer, the man was just not scary if you didn't care what he did to you. It was kind of nice to finally have somebody to let loose with, actually. Vernon was probably better – he was far more likely to actually lose his temper than Snape was – but at least Snape was someone he didn't have to be nice to.

“Yes, sir,” Snape insisted.

Harry smiled mockingly. “There is no need to call me 'sir', Professor,” he enunciated carefully.

The class snickered. Snape's face tightened, and Harry felt his heart rate speed up just a tad, waiting for a blow that he knew wouldn't come. The man might be willing to betray him to the Dark Lord – maybe – but he wouldn't hit him in public.

“Detention, tonight, my office,” Snape said, calm despite the anger in his face. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter...not even 'the Chosen one'.”

“That's a real surprise,” Harry said, grinning recklessly as he baited the man. “I'd really thought you would make an exception for me. I have the weight of the world on my shoulders. You could be sympathetic.”

The class went from snickering to outright laughing, but Snape just sneered and turned his back to return to teaching the class.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.

“You really shouldn't have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron, then Harry. “What made you?”

“He did jinx me,” Harry pointed out. “And anyway I'm sick of kowtowing to the man all the time.”

Hermione frowned. “It's not like we've got a choice, Harry,” she pointed out. “He'd love to expel you even more than give you detention.”

“He can't expel me, Hermione,” Harry answered her. “I'd be dead in two days, the prophesy would be fulfilled, and then they'd need somebody else to kill the Dark Lord.”

“That's not-”

“It's perfectly fair, Hermione,” Harry interrupted her. “If it's fair for Dumbledore to not fire Snape because he's his spy, then it's fair for him to not expel me because I'm his cannon fodder.”

“Harry!” Hermione said, shocked.

“Harry! Hey, Harry!” someone called.

Harry looked around, and saw Jack Sloper running up to him, holding a roll of parchment.

“For you,” the other boy panted when he got to him. “Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Harry answered, hoping to put the boy off for long enough for him to talk to Katie Bell. He'd never asked to be Captain, and he didn't want it. “I'll let you know.” Opening the parchment, Harry ignored Sloper in favor of reading the parchment, which proved to be from Dumbledore.

Dear Harry, it said,

I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school. Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore.

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

Oh yeah, Harry remembered. My cannon fodder lessons. Fabulous.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

First, though, he had Potions, because he was going to be an Auror. Right. But McGonagall would've found it weird, if he hadn't gone.

He didn't have the book, of course, but slimy Slughorn had extras. The one he gave Harry had scribbles all over the margins, but Harry didn't bother to try and read them. The most interesting thing about the class was the pitched battle between Malfoy and Hermione to see who could win the coveted Felix Felicis, so-called “Bottled Luck.” Somehow luck didn't seem particularly relevant to his life, though Malfoy seemed seriously pissed when Hermione won.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harry walked up to Snape's door and knocked without hesitation. He heard Snape moving around inside before the door opened and Snape sneered out at him.

“Potter,” Snape stated with a light tone of surprise. “On time, for once.”

“Professor,” Harry answered, walking past him into his office and sitting at the school desk Snape kept there. The desk was already set up with parchment and writing supplies, and Snape just waved his wand briefly before sitting down at his own desk.

“Lines, Potter,” he said dismissively as writing appeared at the top of a sheet of parchment. “And be silent. I do not have the time to supervise a child.”

Harry grit his teeth slightly before letting it go. “How many times, sir?” he asked, perfectly polite.

“I believe you are capable of reading, Potter,” Snape answered without looking up. “It is written in small words.”

Finally Harry looked down and read what Snape had written at the top of the first sheet of parchment.

I will be polite and respectful to my betters. 500x

Harry smiled just a bit, not yet prepared to let it go. “How do you spell respectful, Professor?” he asked seriously, forcing his smile away.

Snape looked up, a look of intense irritation on his face. “Five points from Gryffindor, Potter. Write.”

Harry grinned wider, and started to write.

1. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

2. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

3. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

Dumbledore couldn't be more wrong, Harry reflected. His greatest strength was not in feeling pain, but quite the opposite. There was a lot of power in not having anything to lose. And it was fun, finally being able to blatantly defy people like Vernon and Snape. The last year or so of your life should be fun, shouldn't it? His greatest strength was in not feeling much at all.

Pain's good, too, though, he thought, as the the repetitive lines brought up memories of other lines he'd written. Nothing seemed to clear his head as well. Certainly, while writing lines in Umbrage's office, he'd never thought about anything else. Somehow the pain in his hands had led to a complete, comfortable blankness in his head.

I wonder what happened to the quills. Certainly Umbrage hadn't had the chance to pack them up.

12. I will not tell – whoops. He crossed it out. 12. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters. It was kind of hard to remember to spell it wrong, actually. His fingers wanted to write it correctly.

13. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

14. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

He couldn't ask Dobby, he realized. The little elf hated the dark arts, and he would be horrified that Harry even knew what a blood quill was. Now Kreatur, on the other hand-

18. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

19. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

Somehow the idea of writing things into his own skin was appealing. I'm a bit fucked up, he realized without dismay.

22. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

23. I will be polite and respectefull to my betters.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Snape stared down at Harry's lines, and Harry could see his jaw tighten.

“I take it, Potter,” he spat without looking up, “that you think yourself terribly clever.”

“Not really,” Harry said honestly. It was nice to be honest. “Mostly it's amusing to piss you off and know that there isn't shit you can do about it.”

Snape looked up abruptly, meeting Harry's eyes, and Harry realized he'd startled him. I'm so clever, he thought ironically. “What?” he asked the man, tone and expression cocky. “Hadn't figured it out, yet? Dumbledore can't expel me any more than he can fire you. I'm as free to be obnoxious as you are.”

Rather than yelling as Harry'd expected, though, the man simply studied him, anger showing only in his eyes. Harry just stared back, and without warning Snape waved a hand, sending what spell Harry didn't know or care. He had at least as much time to block as he had in class, but this time they were in private. Harry stood his ground and let the blow connect, unable to stifle a gasp and a wince as the powerful stinging hex took him in the chest. It hurt fully as much as any of Vernon's blows, and Harry felt something in him welcome it, take it and use it. Finally.

When he recovered, he found Snape staring at him in clear shock. “You know how to block, Potter,” he said finally.

“You were too fast for me,” Harry lied blatantly, meeting Snape's eyes without trouble. It was very unlikely that Harry actually could block fast enough if Snape didn't want him to. Snape was a master duelist. Clearly the man had actually intended him to block this time. But how fast the man was capable of casting mattered little if Harry really didn't care if his blows connected.

Harry watched with interest as a muscle twitched in Snape's jaw. “We both know that you are better than that, Potter. You demonstrated it this afternoon.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I thought I was nothing but a nasty little boy who thinks the rules beneath me,” he said, taking great satisfaction from the words. “The spell in class wasn't skill, it was sheer arrogance.”

“You allowed me to hit you, Potter,” Snape said angrily.

Harry smiled nastily. “You hit me, Professor,” he answered.

To his surprise, Snape actually seemed at a loss for words for a second, before finally speaking in a carefully controlled cadence. “You are dismissed, Potter.”

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“I said you are dismissed, Potter!” Snape told him, suddenly furious. “Are you too thick to understand the words? Get out!”

Disconcerted – he'd expected Snape to be angry, but not that angry - Harry grabbed up his bookbag and left.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...”

He'd written it down the summer before, during a brief period between him caring too much about Sirius' death to care about any prophesy, and the point where he'd stopped caring about much of anything. For some reason, his encounter with Snape and his own thoughts on “caring” had reminded him of it, and he'd pulled it out. At some point, he would need to kill the Dark Lord, or be killed himself. He snorted lightly. At least once I'm dead, somebody else'll be able to kill him. Maybe he shouldn't worry so much.

Almost startled at his own thought, Harry froze. Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. If Voldemort killed him...then he could be killed. He'd be mortal. Dumbledore could kill him. Anybody could kill him. As long as Harry and Voldemort both survived, they were immortal to any other curses. Dumbledore thought that that meant that Harry had to kill Voldemort. But that was close to impossible – Voldemort had at least fifty years of experience on him, “power the Dark Lord knew not” or no. But if Voldemort killed him...perhaps the “power he knew not” was simply the willingness to die.

Do I really not care? That much?

Did it matter? If he studied hard, learned, trained, then eventually, someday, best-case-scenario, he'd kill the Dark Lord. And in the meantime, the Dark Lord would be coming after him, and Dumbledore's people would be dropping like flies trying to protect him, and others just because they were around.

But if Voldemort could be killed by anyone? Dumbledore could stage a raid, kill him, and the Death Eaters would have no leader. He was experiencing the beginnings of the second war that the creature had caused. Two wars more than thirty years apart, and the dickhead was still alive. And countless others were dead. His mother, then his father, then Sirius, all dead because they'd tried to protect Harry. Cedric, just because he'd touched the same cup Harry had at the same time. And countless others, who died simply because they were in the way. Nearby. Voldemort or his followers were bored. Eventually, those people would be more Order members; his classmates and teachers. Dumbledore himself? What if Dumbledore died, before Voldemort did? The light would be down a leader, and Harry knew better than to think he could provide that.

No way he was worth all that. He could've loved his life and it wouldn't be worth another war. If he didn't care about dying, so much the better. Once Hermione and Ron were dead, he'd have very little to live for. And they'd die, too, if he lived much longer. They would follow him, and as such they would die. Better that he died first, wasn't it? If he died...Voldemort could die. And then maybe nobody else would.

He snorted a little. Or, alternately, I could write a letter to Voldemort explaining things, and we could both live forever while Voldemort tore the world down but left me carefully alone.

So he needed to die. At Voldemort's hands. Without Voldemort suspecting anything. He didn't know that half of the prophesy, but if Harry just showed up at his doorstep saying “kill me, please,” he might just figure it out. So...he had to make it look like he'd come by accident, or been captured.

And he couldn't let Dumbledore suspect anything, either. He was almost certain the headmaster would prevent him, rather than helping him. The almost was a painful truth. Certainly Snape could attest to the fact that Dumbledore didn't always make decisions based on sentimentality. Either that or he secretly detests the man, too.

So he needed someone who'd know how to find the Dark Lord, but wouldn't care if Harry died, and wouldn't give Voldemort reason to suspect a trick. A cooperative Order member, or a Death Eater. But even if an Order member told Harry how to find Voldemort, Harry would have a hell of a time explaining to Voldemort how he just 'wandered in' to get himself killed. Oh no sir, I'm not bait. I just really am that stupid and unlucky.

So...a Death Eater. But how to just “stumble into” a Death Eater without leaving Hogwarts? Surely Lucius Malfoy could help him out, but the man would have to drag him off the grounds to apparate, and he wasn't that stupid. And he's in prison. Right. That's a problem, too.

Lucius Malfoy, maybe Narcissa, too, Bellatrix Lestrange, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott...and a whole bunch he didn't know and didn't have any way to access. The last person in the world he wanted to capture him was Bellatrix, and he wasn't likely to just “run into” her, either. Narcissa, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott were Hogwarts parents. Presumably they'd come to the school at some point. And have the same problem Lucius would. There was no way a known Death Eater could get into the school, 'capture' him, and get out again without being caught. If there had been, they'd've done it already.Damn.

Back to Order members, then. Maybe they'd at least have some ideas.

An Order member, who won't just rat me out to Dumbledore, though? They were all either too loyal to Dumbledore not to tell him, or cared too much for Harry. Both, really, he acknowledged. And everyone who cared for him died, sooner or later. Die, trying to keep him alive, when he was going to die anyway. He needed someone who didn't care.

Suddenly Harry shook his head. I am an idiot. Snape. Of course, Snape. A Death Eater who could reasonably escape the school with Harry without Dumbledore staging a rescue, and an Order member who would be willing to see Harry die. The man's spy position would even be strengthened by it.

If he really is spying for Dumbledore, and not Voldemort, anyway. But then, if he wasn't, handing Harry over to Voldemort would go some steps towards convincing Dumbledore of that. It was a win-win.

He just needed to convince Snape. Shouldn't be hard, really. Me dead, him in good with Voldemort? What's not to like? Except, if he was for Voldemort, then how could he convince him that he'd come quietly, without convincing him that something was up?

Easy, he realized immediately. Oh, Snape, he killed my parents. He killed Cedric! I have to kill him! And once again, Snape in good with the Dark Lord, Harry dead: Death Eater or spy, that made for a very good day for Severus Snape.

No time like the present, he realized. The last thing he wanted was time to think about it further.

Agenda for the Day: Class, homework, detention, death by Snake Face. Let's do this.

“Enter,” Harry heard in response to his knock. Welcoming, he thought, opening the door and walking inside.

“Potter,” Snape said, “if it was unclear at the time, by 'get out' I meant, 'leave my office and remain out.' Leave.”

“You said 'enter',” Harry said.

“That-” Snape cut off, shaking his head. “Just get out.”

“I need to speak with you,” Harry said, closing the door behind him. “Is it safe, here?”

“It is my office and potions store, I am a Death Eater spy, and this is a school, Potter,” Snape drawled disdainfully. “Yes, I typically keep it warded.”

“I need your help,” Harry said, too distracted to be bothered by Snape's mocking. How am I going to word this? Like a rash idiot with delusions of grandeur, of course. “I want you to help me leave the school,” he said. “I want to take Voldemort by surprise. Bring the battle to him.”

For a moment, Snape just stared. When he spoke, it was with the greatest disdain, and Harry found himself bothered. He hadn't realized that he had achieved any respect from the man, but apparently Snape had seen him as something more than an insect, before, since now he clearly didn't. “You want me to...” he seemed to need a moment to process, again. “...to help you to leave the protections of the school so that you can launch a frontal assault on the Dark Lord entirely on your own.”

“Yes,” Harry said resolutely.

“No,” Snape said. At first he thought Snape was simply refusing his request, but then the man continued. “No, even you aren't quite that stupid, Potter.” He'd lost the disdainful tone, and studied Harry intently. “Perhaps it is that you think I am,” he reflected. Abruptly, he leaned forward over his desk, speaking quickly and intensely. “Do you really think me so idiotic as to expose myself in such a way to Dumbledore's simplest flunkies, if I were, in fact, loyal to the Dark Lord, Potter? Do you honestly believe that I would be alive this long, if I could be fooled by the trickery of a sixteen-year-old boy?”

Maybe not, Harry realized, tempted to lean away from the man but resisting it. This might not work. Still, the man hadn't actually correctly guessed his intentions.

Damn it, I can't act, he thought, frustrated. Remembering his tantrum in Dumbledore's office, he tried to duplicate it. “He killed my parents,” he said, trying to feel the emotion behind his farce, the desperation and anger. “He killed Cedric, too. Everyone who comes near me dies!” He bit his lip, purposefully calming. “He has to die,” he said forcefully. “I have to kill him. He's just going to keep killing, until I do.”

This time, Snape watched his face, studying him, and stayed silent for a bit after he fell silent. “No,” he said finally. “That's not it. Or at least not all of it. Try again.” He sounded coldly interested, like someone studying a machine, not a person.

Damnit. But he could tell him the half of the prophesy that Voldemort already knew. The fact that the prophesy existed, and that Harry knew about it, would probably not be news to Snape, and even if it was it wasn't new to Voldemort. The risk was minimal. And if the prophesy was correct, then nobody but Voldemort could kill Harry. He had nothing to fear.

“The prophesy,” he said, still pretending to be just barely in control of his emotions. “I'm supposed to be able to kill him.”

“True,” Snape said, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest. “But try again.”

“It's the truth!” Harry exclaimed, truly frustrated. “Why won't you believe me?!”

“Oh, I believe you that you want me to sneak you out of the school, Potter,” Snape said. “You've certainly done it before. It's why you need my help that is confusing me. And even if I believed that you simply wanted to get yourself killed attacking the Dark Lord I wouldn't be so idiotic as to help you. Give me a better reason.”

“But that's the truth,” Harry insisted again. Worded that way, it was. What if he's too loyal to Dumbledore, too? Strange thought. He'd figured maybe Snape was a Death Eater, but he hadn't thought too far on what happened if Snape was as loyal to Dumbledore as the other Order members were.

“And if you'd tried this twenty-four hours ago, I may have believed you, but now I know that in addition to exceptional arrogance and foolhardiness, you also possess enough intelligence to know that you would be simply killed attacking the Dark Lord that way. Try again.”

Shit. Now was not the time for Snape to admit that Harry wasn't entirely useless. He thought quickly, but apparently not quickly enough.

“The truth wouldn't take that much thinking,” Snape pointed out. “Even from you.”

Damnit, why did the man have to be such an ass? “I want to get myself killed attacking the Dark Lord,” Harry finally said. “That's the truth.”

Snape actually looked taken aback, and it was a moment before he spoke. “Am I to report to Dumbledore that you are suicidal, Potter?”

Shit. That time, the man did believe him. “No,” Harry said quickly. “Hear me out.”

Snape snorted lightly. “You certainly don't need to convince me that the world would be a better place without you in it, Potter. I fail to see why you feel that way, however.”

“I-” Harry started, before cutting off, frustrated. “Look, what do you know of the prophesy?”

“More than the Dark Lord does, if that's what you mean,” Snape answered. “Dumbledore trusts me that far, at least.”

“So you know the whole thing?” Harry insisted. “One at the hands of the other?”

Snape just nodded, listening.

“Well, either must die at the hands of the other. Either. You agreed with me that I'm not going to be able to kill him. I want you to “capture” me out of Hogwarts so that he can kill me. Then the prophesy would be fulfilled, and Dumbledore or someone else could kill him.”

Once again, Snape sat back to stare at him. “And that is the truth,” he said without revealing anything.

“So was all the rest,” Harry pointed out.

“Hardly,” Snape drawled. “'I have to kill him,' Potter?”

“Indirectly,” Harry amended.

“Indeed,” Snape said coldly. “In the future, I would suggest you use a more 'direct' approach to the truth, if you wish to make an ally of me.”

“I don't need you as an ally,” Harry said. “I need you to get me killed.”

“But you do need me,” Snape said. “And while I have not said that I will go along with this so-called 'plan' of yours, I certainly will not if you continue to lie to me. You either trust me or you don't, Potter. You cannot have it both ways.”

“If you're actually loyal to Voldemort, you could warn him,” Harry said.

“I could,” Snape acknowledged. “But then you chose to tell me eventually.”

“You already knew the other half of the prophesy, so I haven't really told you anything other than a different interpretation,” Harry said.

“I told you that I knew the other half, that is true,” the man said. “But have you considered what happens now, if I am a Death Eater, and I lied?”

Harry paused, closing his eyes for a moment. Then you go back and tell Voldemort my plan, and he captures me and keeps me in a box for the next few centuries, he thought. “That would be bad,” Harry admitted.

Snape sneered. “Careless as ever, Potter. If you do not trust someone, then lie to them. If you trust them, tell the truth. But it is idiotic to tell the truth to someone you distrust, only because they push you.”

There wasn't much he could say to argue that, but - “I have to trust you,” Harry said. “If you were a Death Eater, I have to think that I'd already be dead.”

“And what makes you think that if I'm loyal to Dumbledore, I won't simply tell him?” Snape asked next.

That was exactly what he was worried about. “If...if you're really a spy,” Harry said, thinking it through. “then you probably want Voldemort dead more than you want to tell Dumbledore the truth.” Or than you want me alive, he didn't say.

“Probably,” Snape countered.

“That's better than the 100% that Lupin or the Weasleys would tell him,” Harry countered.

“Moody,” Snape countered.

“Knew my parents,” Harry explained. “And warned the Dursleys off, last spring.”

Once again, that stare. “He cares for you,” Snape said finally. “Nobody you could easily access would be so cold as to sacrifice a sixteen-year-old to the cause. Particularly a late friend's son. Other than me.”

“Exactly,” Harry said grimly. Hey, Remus? Could you do me a favor and get me killed on purpose? I swear Mom and Dad won't be mad.

Snape smirked. “I am rather perfect, aren't I?” he said, sitting back in his chair. “From your perspective, anyway.”

“Only if you're not actually a Death Eater,” Harry admitted.

“I never said that I was not,” Snape said, shaking his head. “And you've pointed out multiple times that you have no real evidence that I am not, other than Dumbledore's word. Are you so trusting?”

Harry felt his heart beating hard. This might be a huge mistake. But then, why would Snape be telling him not to trust him, if he was truly not to be trusted? But then, it had worked to actually make him trust Snape more, so maybe he could have planned that? “Doesn't matter,” Harry said, interrupting his own stupid thoughts. “I need you.”

Snape gave a sadistic smile. “Indeed, you do,” he said, clearly enjoying that. “I will consider your proposal, Potter. Now once again, get out.”

Harry stared at him. “Consider-” The man was going to make him wait?

Snape smirked. “What, Potter?” he asked cruelly, “afraid you'll lose your nerve?”

Harry threw his chin up to glare at Snape. “You're a complete...git, Snape, but I have to work with you,” he said, frustrated. “The least you could do is work with me.”

“And once again you credit me with benevolence on your behalf,” Snape retorted.

“Actually, no,” Harry retorted. “I credit you with the desire to get me killed in the shortest amount of time possible. You need my cooperation.”

“You came to me, Potter,” Snape reminded him. “Have you changed your mind so quickly?”

Harry snorted. “Too late now.”

“Exactly, Potter,” Snape said, obviously satisfied. “And as such, it is my cooperation that is in doubt, and not yours.”

Touché. Defeated, Harry shut up for a moment to think. God, Snape was going to make him wait?

And the man was studying him, again. “What?” he demanded irritably.

“Are you suicidal, Potter?” Snape asked him.

“Does it matter?” Harry asked, irritated by the question. “Want to or not, I'm going to die.”

“Answer the question, Potter,” Snape demanded impatiently.

“The prophesy-” Harry started.

“No, Potter. Not the prophesy, your obligations, your need to play the hero, you. Your life. It is not a complicated question. Do you want to die? Yes or no.”

Harry stared at him. That was exactly what he was not thinking about. Why did Snape even want to know? Or was he just tormenting him? At any rate, he was not answering. He just stared back, defiantly, but Snape was unmoving, continuing to stare, and Harry couldn't not think about it.

“Yes,” Harry said finally, certain. “I want to die before my friends do.”

“Obligations, again,” Snape scoffed.

“No,” Harry said, angrily. “Realism. I would rather die than see my friends die first, and those are my choices. Either way I die eventually.” Now will you leave it alone?

Finally Snape nodded. “I dismissed you, Potter,” he said. “Leave.”

Thank you. This time, Harry just nodded and left. Asshole.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Damn you, Snape. He'd tried very hard, not to have time to think, and now he did. Did he want to live? No, damnit, don't think about that. All that mattered was what he told Snape – he wanted to die before his friends did. He couldn't go to classes, hang out with his friends, play stupid Quiddich, while people fought and died to give him the opportunity to do so. He was going to die anyway, the only question was how many people he let die on his account in the meantime. Dumbledore would no doubt tell him that it wasn't his fault, but Dumbledore, by his own admission, loved too much. He couldn't bear it for Harry to know the truth.

Only Sirius had actually died because of something Harry did, but people were still dying because of him. His parents, Cedric, various others who would die later because Voldemort was trying to get to him – it wasn't Harry's fault that they would die, but he could still prevent it. And didn't that mean, then, that if he didn't prevent it, then it was sort of his fault?

And there was no way you could interpret it that didn't make Sirius' death at least somewhat his fault. Yet again, the man had died trying to rescue him, after Harry had yet again made the decision to play the hero. This time, he needed to make damned sure that nobody tried to rescue him. Nobody must know about it this time. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, the Weasleys, Lupin – nobody could know except Snape.

Please, Snape, he thought desperately. Soon, please. Nobody could afford for him to lose his nerve.

So just don't think about it. What now, though? What did one do with one's time, while waiting to die? Don't think about that. His homework had all been trivially easy after the studies over the summer, and he'd finished it before his detention with Snape. It was nearly ten o'clock, and he had class early in the morning, but certainly sleeping now wasn't going to work.

Normally, he'd study, but he was too agitated for that to distract him sufficiently, and he was at Hogwarts, now, with all the resources Hogwarts had to provide.

Room of Requirement, it is, then. He'd used it all the previous year for the DA. Maybe if he tired himself out enough, he'd be able to sleep.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Give me something to fight, Harry thought fiercely, walking back and forth. I need something to fight.

The doors opened on a dueler's platform, one with nobody else on it. As soon as he stepped onto his side, though, a dummy appeared, and Harry grinned. The dummy had a superficial resemblance to Draco Malfoy, but was fake enough that he wouldn't be worried about actually 'killing' it. Perfect.

Giving a wizards' salute, and receiving one in return, Harry cast his first spell. “Expelliarmus!”

The thing dodged and cast back silently. Harry tried to dodge, but was hit anyway. And it hurt. “Ahh!” he shouted angrily, simultaneously casting back with a blasting curse. The dummy was thrown, but it was up fast and casting. This time Harry managed to dodge, but he didn't manage to cast back before the thing cast again, a spell that Harry recognized as the same stinging curse that Snape had used. Off balance from his previous dodge, once again Harry failed to avoid the attack, and yelled again in pain and fury as he responded with a blur of attacks. But the thing was faster than he was, and only one actually connected. And once again it was casting, and Harry had to interrupt his attack to shield.

By the time fifteen minutes was up, Harry was exhausted and beat to hell. Still he fought, as he did worse and worse against the thing and picked up more bruises. Finally, though, he lost his wand, and was reduced to dodging. Quickly after that he was driven out of the circle, and the thing stopped, giving another wizard's salute. Harry just lay back where he'd fallen, breathing hard and covered with sweat. Finally, though, he realized he needed to not fall asleep there, and rolled to a sit before dragging himself to standing and finding his wand.

“Thanks,” he said, saluting the thing.

And, wonderfully, a shower and bed were all that occupied his mind as he headed back for his dorm.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning was hell. It started when Ron woke him up, concerned because Harry had not heard his alarm. He tried to roll over, and promptly found the result of his activity the night before.

Ow. He knew the dummy hadn't hit his face, but he was grateful that his pajamas had long sleeves, or Ron would've surely said something – he was sure he was bruised from head to toe. Still, he knew from experience that a shower would help loosen him up, and he'd feel better.

He dragged himself painfully out of bed and carried his clothing with him to the showers, not undressing until he was behind the curtain.

Sure enough, the shower loosened him up enough that he could move, and he discovered that the bruises weren't actually too bad – apparently stinging hexes just hurt, without bruising. The ones he had appeared to be from where he hit the ground dodging.

Breakfast was alright, but his first class of the morning was Defense, and Snape was even more unpleasant than usual. He threw spells at Harry at random intervals, and Harry was forced to block, and block, and block, until finally he snapped.

“I can block when I want to, Snape,” he said. A sudden thought brought a defiant expression to his face. “Or would you prefer I not?”

Snape seemed almost startled, before a sneer blocked the expression. “I am fully capable of casting too fast for you to block, Potter,” he said stiffly.

“I know that, actually,” Harry told him. “Still doesn't explain why you're trying to hit me.”

“It explains that I am not!” Snape said, suddenly angry. “I intend for you to block, Potter!”

“I am blocking,” Harry said blandly. Why was Snape bringing that up, now? Surely that hardly mattered, giving everything else that had gone on the night before?

Snape only seemed to get angrier. “Detention, Potter!” he exclaimed. “You will not talk back to me!”

“Apparently, I will,” Harry said, before belatedly remembering that he needed the man's help. Still, he wasn't going to apologize to Snape. And anyway, the man was probably not petty enough to make a decision like that based on the fact that he didn't like Harry. And if he did make it based on that, he'd be more likely to help him die if he hated him, wouldn't he?

“Tonight, Potter,” Snape repeated, seeming to calm. “And five points from Gryffindor.”

“For blocking?” Harry asked him.

“For disrespect,” the man said, enunciating each syllable through clenched teeth.

Harry just smiled at him. I'm worried. He'd show up for the detention, if only to see if Snape would give him a damned answer, but he could just leave if the man wasn't going to. Yes or no, Snape? Do I live or do I die?

He gave himself a mental shake. You die, you idiot. Of course, you die.

The rest of his classes went a bit easier – immediately after Defense, he had his morning break, which he used to do his just-assigned Defense homework. It felt a little pointless doing it when it was likely that he wouldn't live to get it back, but he had to do something.

And then was History of Magic, and his homework was already done. He'd've just walked out – if his Defense homework had felt useless, this class felt retarded – but he was continuing the charade that all was normal. Instead, he worked on his wordless spells, picking up a piece of chalk and quietly drawing a simple pale blue flower on the board behind Binns' head. It drew a few snickers from his classmates, but his wand was under the desk and so nobody noticed that it was him.

After a bit, though, somebody started helping, picking up a piece of chalk and transfiguring it green before giving Harry's flower a stem and leaves, then starting the stem and leaves for what might turn into a tulip. Harry put a blue head on the tulip just as someone else commenced work on clouds with a piece of white.

Someone else promptly started work on a yellow sun, and Harry took a quick look around before starting coloring the sky with his blue.

Everyone in the class was grinning at the board. Everybody except for two that he noticed – Hermione met his eyes with a small smile, and Neville Longbottom held his lower lip between his teeth as he concentrated.

Go Neville, Harry thought, surprised. He'd know the other boy could cast after his actions the previous spring, but it was impressive to see that he'd mastered wordless magic so quickly, especially under Snape's tutelage. Damn the man, he thought once again, a stab of anxiety cutting through his gut. Why couldn't he just make up his mind?

After History was Potions, and he managed to bury himself in the work for long enough to get through. And then was lunch, and as before, he forced himself to linger over the meal, smiling and chatting like everybody else. The topic was the drawing in History of Magic, as everyone shared with the other Gryffindors what had happened and wondered loudly about who had perpetrated it.

Neville and Hermione both blushed, and Hermione once again gave him a small smile, but they seemed as reluctant as he was to share.

“I can't do it,” Dean said. “Neither could Seamus, I think.”

“Hermione could,” Ginny said, looking at her. Hermione just smiled, but didn't confirm anything.

“So could Harry,” Dean said.

“You said that there were four people, though, right?” Ginny asked. “Four colors going at once? That's only two, even if it was them.”

True, Harry realized. Who had been their fourth person? He already knew Ron couldn't do wordless magic yet, Dean had just said it couldn't be either him or Seamus, and he was pretty sure that it wouldn't have been Parvati Patil or Lavender Brown, either. Had one of the Slytherins been taking part? Strange thought. He could just picture snotty Malfoy or proud Zabini picking up a chalk to draw the sunshine while he, Hermione, and Neville worked on the flowers and clouds.

His last class of the day was Charms, and Flitwick gave Gryffindor fifteen points without saying why. To Harry's surprise, Hermione promptly raised a hand.

“Yes, Ms. Granger,” Flitwick said, sounding as surprised as Harry.

“One of the Slytherins should get points, too,” she said, apparently having come to the same conclusion as Harry had.

“Oh,” Flitwick said. “Thank you. Five points to Slytherin, then. And five more points to Gryffindor, for fair play, Ms. Granger.”

Go Hermione, Harry thought.

The rest of the class was dedicated to the Aguamenti spell, which Harry had already mastered over the summer. Hermione had, too, he realized, watching her cast it. She was talented, sure, but he'd discovered that summer that the reason she always got things the first time around was because she'd always practiced them before they were even introduced in class. Fortunately, Flitwick was quick enough to realize that the two of them got it, and allowed them to do homework if they wanted to. Harry's Defense homework was finished, but he got started on his Potions. Once again, it was something to do.

Finally, his classes were over for the day, and almost immediately Harry wished they weren't. He had a long wait until his detention. He'd talked to Katie Bell the night before, just before his detention, but Quiddich tryouts weren't until the next day. He had all the time in the world.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Practice, just practice, he told the room this time. The same room appeared, but this time the dummy looked a bit like Alastor Moody, eye and all, and it didn't go at him quite as hard as the 'Draco' dummy had. Its spells, when they did hit, didn't hurt as bad, either. It was less satisfying, but he could keep going for longer, and so it was better. He stopped once for dinner, then came back until it was time for his second detention of the week.

It's a new record, he thought irrelevantly as he knocked on Snape's door.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Snape was sitting behind his desk, the desk where Harry had sat before flush with his. “Lines, Potter,” he said as soon as Harry had entered the office. “They are on the desk.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. What?

Snape just kept doing whatever he was doing, clearly fully expecting to be obeyed. But was Harry really going to do lines? Why would he? “No,” he said finally.

“I assure you, they are, Potter,” Snape said without looking up. “I put them there myself.”

“No,” Harry said, “I meant-” he cut off. Of course Snape knew what he meant. “I'm not here to write lines,” he said instead.

“And once again I assure you, Potter, that that is exactly what you are here to do,” Snape answered, still not looking up from his work.

“I need your answer,” Harry said impatiently.

“No,” Snape said, finally looking up. “You want my answer. And so you are going to sit down and write your lines.”

Once again Harry stared, frustrated beyond words, before finally dropping into his seat.

It was the same lines - “I will be polite and respectful to my betters.” This time, though, he was to write it 750 times. He stared at the paper in shock as Snape spoke again.

“One word misspelled, Potter, and you will do them all again.”

“I'll be at it all night!” Harry protested.

Snape just sneered at him. “I was under the impression that your time wasn't worth much to you, Potter,” he said, tone just slightly mocking.

And again, Harry was struck dumb for a moment, staring at Snape as the man stared back, waiting for his reaction.

How was he supposed to react to that? Any protest would only be met by scorn. And he could hardly hope to appeal to the man's better nature.

Finally he just dropped his eyes and started in on the damned lines, humiliatingly aware that he'd lost. Snape had something to hold over him, now, and there was really nothing he could do against that.

1. I will be polite and respectful to my betters.

He stared at it for a moment, grimacing. No, damnit. He was not going jump through hoops, obeying Snape's every wish when it looked increasingly likely that the man wouldn't help him anyway. He wasn't going to just sit there, wasting his time and thinking, when the man was just stringing him along because he enjoyed watching Harry squirm. He'd have to find a way to do it himself.

Slamming the pen down, he grabbed his bag and headed out. He was gone before Snape even said anything.

Outside in the hall, he walked quickly away for a few minutes, headed for nowhere, before suddenly stopping. Damnit. He needed Snape. He really did. He knew that. The man was the only way that he was going to make his easy delivery to Voldemort's doorstep look real.

Which meant that he had to go back in and play Snape's game to the end. Admit that he'd lost.

Sitting down against the wall, Harry frustratedly tapped the back of his head on the stone, surprised when even the soft tap hurt. But it didn't hurt enough, and the next time he tapped a little harder, pulling his head from the wall to tap it back more firmly. That time it hurt, blanking his mind for an instant. That was better, and he did it again, tapping carefully on the hard stone.

His agitation faded quickly that way, leaving him with a sort of relaxed clearheadedness. Much better, he realized. Having to deal with Snape's nastiness was still galling, but no longer felt impossible.

He walked back to Snape's office, debated knocking for a moment, and finally walked right in. Snape was where he'd left him, and looked up when Harry came in. Harry thought he could read a certain satisfaction in his eyes, but he didn't comment, and Harry sat back down to his lines without further harassment.

He was roughly two and a half hours and 400 lines in when Snape finally looked up. Harry saw him move, and looked up too to find the man just watching him, that same subtle satisfaction in his gaze.

“Better, Potter,” he said. “It would appear you can learn.” The slight emphasis on can indicated clearly that he hadn't been sure.

Harry gave him a cold stare. Are you going to tell me, or not?

Snape sneered. “Very well, Potter. I'll give you your answer. No.”

He just stopped talking, and Harry was confused until he realized that that was all the answer he was going to get.

“No,” he repeated. Just, no? “Why? It could work!”

“It could,” Snape agreed. “And you are quite correct that I am the best and perhaps only option to help you to achieve it. However, as usual you rushed into things, and you made a very serious miscalculation.”

A miscalculation. Harry's brain worked fast, trying to figure it out. Maybe Snape was a Death Eater? He'd hardly tell him that – he'd just take him to Voldemort. Perhaps it was that Snape was too loyal to Dumbledore?

“You agreed with me that no one you knew would be so cold as to sacrifice their their late friend's sixteen-year-old son to the cause,” Snape said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. Where was the man going with this?

Snape watched him silently before finally speaking. “That includes me, Potter,” he said, saying it slowly, like Harry wouldn't get it otherwise.

He really didn't get it anyway, and frowned in confusion. “You hated my father,” he said finally.

Snape snorted softly. “Everyone does forget about your mother, don't they?” he said, tone once again full of contempt. “No surprise that you do, too, I suppose.”

The comment hurt, as he was sure Snape had intended, but it was so surprising that Snape would even mention his mother that once again he was reduced to staring. Snape just sneered further. “Don't tell me that you managed to forget the memory you stole from me,” he commented.

Of course he remembered. It just hadn't occurred to him. He'd been too focused on his father's actions to think much on his mother. She'd defended Snape, hadn't she? But was that really so important to Snape?

“Your mother was a friend of mine, Potter. Did no one tell you?”

No. They missed that, somehow. Snape felt enough loyalty to his mother for it to be relevant fifteen years after her death? But wait, Snape had been friends with his mother?

Oh, this could be a problem, he thought, looking up at Snape to try to read his face. But the man didn't look any different – he just stared at Harry over his desk, as usual, like Harry was some sort of unpleasant insect and he was grateful that the desk kept him at a distance.

“Get it now, do you, Potter?” Snape said, finally. “As I said, you badly miscalculated. Far from convincing me to kill you, you have just explicitly made it my job to keep you alive. Believe me, I am no more thrilled than you are.”

So he did feel that sort of loyalty. Weird. And Snape expected him to have predicted this? “My parents died in the war,” he said, trying to sound calm. “They were hardly expecting that I wouldn't, especially after the damned prophesy.”

“Lily died protecting you, Potter,” Snape said. “Not 'in the war'. I will hardly be the one to reverse her work.”

“You hate me,” Harry reminded him, starting to get angry. Now what was he going to do?

“Ironic, I know,” Snape drawled, once again mocking.

Again at a loss for words, Harry stopped for a moment to think. “I am sixteen years old. My mother is dead. Voldemort needs to be. What else would you have me do?”

“Kill him,” Snape answered, staring intensely into Harry's eyes.

“I can't,” Harry told him.

“Not yet, you can't,” Snape snapped. “But then you have not been trying.”

“Take me to Voldemort, and I'll go down fighting,” Harry said.

“No,” Snape answered.

“Why not?” Harry asked, frustrated. “I just said I'll try to kill him!”

“You'll be killed,” Snape said.

Harry nearly rolled his eyes. Of course he'd be killed. Wasn't that the point? “So now you don't want me to try.”

“No,” Snape said. “I want you to actually try. I want you to train, and when you are ready, I want you to kill him.”

“And meanwhile I watch more of my friends die,” Harry said. “No.”

Unexpectedly, Snape glared at him, anger covering his features. “Coward,” he snapped.

“What?” Harry asked, startled.

“You are a coward, Potter,” Snape repeated, furious. “Do you think that you are the only one who doesn't want to watch your loved ones die? Do you imagine, somehow, that you are the only one who would prefer to die rather than face that pain? Did you think nobody would be hurt, that you would die so willingly, when they have tried so hard to keep you living? That the people who die protecting you do so because they are under some sort of compulsion? They do it because they love their lives but they love you more. Would you so easily make their sacrifice mean nothing?”

“Enough people have died for me!” Harry snapped back savagely. “This way they'll stop!”

“And if your plan doesn't work, Potter? If you die, and still no one manages to destroy the Dark Lord?” Snape continued relentlessly. “Stupid boy. You think others aren't reading that prophesy, studying it, trying for a way to make this work? People die, Potter. You may die. But you will die fighting, or you will live. You will not simply go to the Dark Lord and spread your arms in some pathetic, misguided caricature of the crucifixion.”

“Stop me,” Harry told him, too furious to pay real attention to what Snape was saying. “Stop me.”

“Oh, I will, Potter,” Snape said, just as intense. “You're going to live, and I don't care whether that is what you want or not. I will have Dumbledore put you on suicide watch. I will ensure that everyone around you knows what you will attempt. I will personally follow you everywhere you go. And you. will. live.”

Harry stared at him, feeling his heart pounding in his chest and watching Snape's chest rise and fall in huge, rapid breaths. “I hate you,” he told the man, literally shaking in fury. “God, I hate you.”

“Good,” Snape said, just as intense but suddenly not as angry. “Now sit, and finish your lines. You're not going anywhere.”

“Like hell I'm not,” Harry said. Once again, he turned and left. Snape wasn't going to help him. That was all that mattered.

Harry broke into a run as soon as he hit the hallway, too furious to think on where he was going or what he was doing. Soon he hit the more populous areas of the school, but he kept going, out the front door of the castle and down the hill towards Hogsmead. By then, he knew what he was doing. There was a guard on the gate, but he was facing outward, and noticed too late when Harry went flying past. As soon as he was past the anti-apparition barrier, he stopped and apparated, landing in the middle of Diagon Alley. Quickly, he got out of the way of traffic, and stopped to catch his breath.

Snape was going to tell Dumbledore. Possibly immediately. That meant he had today. He had to find a Death Eater now. Which meant Knockturn Alley. Which wasn't far from here.

He was just about ready to set off when he realized. DAMNIT! Snape. Snape would alert the Order. Who would mount a rescue. Which would get more people killed. Cursing, he apparated again, landing back in Hogsmead only minutes after he'd left, just in time to meet a very angry Severus Snape coming down the path towards him.

The man didn't even say anything right away, just grabbed his ear in bony fingers and started dragging him back up the hill.

“What- let me go!” Harry protested.

The fingers only tightened, and Harry winced and pulled away.

Snape let go, startling him enough that he almost tripped. But Snape was speaking. “Fine, Potter. Walk on your own two feet. But move. I have no objections to carrying you bodily up to the castle if I have to.”

Harry turned away from him, walking fast up to the castle, but still Snape dogged his steps, and finally Harry slowed down to an amble. Immediately, Snape's hand was on his shoulder, and the man shoved him forward up the hill. After that, he kept Snape's pace, and got up to the castle quickly.

“My office, Potter,” the man demanded when Harry hesitated inside the door.

Great. At least they weren't going to Dumbledore's office right away, though. And he really didn't have a choice either way – he wouldn't put it past Snape to actually levitate him to the dungeon.

When they got to Snape's office door, Snape pulled in front of him to open it, motioning Harry inside.

Harry clenched his teeth, but entered. Snape turned towards him rapidly, and for a moment all the man did was glower, fury clear in his gaze.

“If you persist in this-” the man started finally, before stopping, and starting again. “If you continue this, Potter, you may succeed. You have proved yourself adept at avoiding those who mean to protect you. It would take only one slip up for you to leave the school and find yourself a Death Eater without anyone noticing. Therefore, we have two options.” He paused again, briefly, and Harry found himself listening intensely. “One,” the man said finally, holding up a finger. “I go to Dumbledore and tell him your intentions, and you are escorted everywhere you go by a member of the Order who could be put to much better use protecting people who actually do want to live and you go about being the determined idiot you've always been.” The man spat the last words, furiously, and stopped again, taking a deep breath.

Harry listened, tense. That Snape would actually do it was obvious. There was nothing Harry could do to prevent him. Shit.

“Two,” the man continued after a moment, staring at Harry intensely. “You swear to me that you will make no further attempts to get yourself killed. You dedicate yourself to learning what you are here to learn, and eventually you confront the Dark Lord and kill him.”

“Meanwhile more people die,” Harry said flatly.

“It is a war, Potter!” Snape spat back, losing the momentary calm he'd gained. “People are going to die! People are going to die, and you will not be able to stop it, and that is life in these times. What does it take to convince you that you cannot save everyone, Potter? Have you not yet lost enough loved ones to figure out that that is simply what happens, what will happen until Voldemort is dead?”

Harry stared at him, horrified. Even he hadn't thought of it in terms that stark. “That's why I want to kill him now,” he told him.

But Snape didn't soften. “You cannot always get what you want, Potter,” he snapped back. “Yet another thing I would have hoped you'd learn by now.”

Harry shut up, unable to speak around his anger and frustration. The man talked about this 'want' like he wanted more sweets, or something. Like he was a child.

“Your death will not automatically kill the Dark Lord, Potter,” Snape said forcefully. “Dumbledore may be able to do it, after that, but realize that he has failed to do so for nearly thirty years, and you have only been alive for sixteen of them.”

Harry swallowed. That was true.

“I want my friends to be safe,” he said.

“They won't be, Potter,” Snape said ruthlessly. “Not unless they drop out of the fighting, and letting the Dark Lord murder you is hardly a strategy that will get them to do that. If by some miracle your strategy succeeds, there will still be plenty of desperate Death Eaters, and plenty of people dying to take them out. Your only option is to live.”

“I won't live,” Harry retorted angrily. “Either way, I won't live.”

“The prophesy only requires one of you to die, Potter,” Snape said. “And it says specifically that you have the ability to make sure it's him.”

Harry shook his head. Snape really thought he could live? Yeah, right.

“Either way,” Snape continued, “people will die, before, during, and after. Some of them probably known to you.”

He paused, then slowly continued. “You can kill him, Potter, or you can roll over and die, but either path leads to death. Every path leads to death. The only choice you can make is whether to be one of the fighters, or one of the victims.”

“Or both,” Harry added aggressively.

“Or both,” Snape agreed unexpectedly. “That is the path your parents and godfather took, and certainly I would be the last to disrespect that. But you can choose to fight, and either live or die, or you can choose to not fight. But the latter is the path of complacency to the point of cowardice, and will eventually lead to death anyway.”

“I am not a coward,” Harry argued.

“Then fight,” Snape said implacably.

“I can't,” Harry said. Fighting had proven to be the stupidest thing he'd done in his life.

“You can learn,” Snape said. “You can and will learn, Potter, because your other option is that I tear your world down around your ears. I will not give you a second chance.”

“How can I learn?” Harry shot back. “How, Snape? By staying here? You want to know what I'm learning here? Today I learned to spout water, and to make a potion that makes people sleep.” He paused for a moment, pretending to think, before continuing. “Oh I know! Maybe I'll pour it into Voldi's morning pumpkin juice, and then attempt to drown him while he's snoring.”

Snape gave him a look of disdain. “Your current plan, Potter, is to walk up to him and beg for death. Trying to drown him would be preferable.”

Harry stared at him, once again at a loss for words, and Snape continued harshly.

“So which will it be, Potter? Do I alert the Order, or will you fight?”

Harry clenched his teeth. “I don't like the choices,” he bit out.

Snape's tone sharpened even further. “I do not care what you like, or don't, Potter. Those are your options. You will not get a third, and I will not ask again.”

“I hate you,” Harry told him.

“I'm hurt,” Snape said, deadpan.

Harry stared at him, and the man met his eyes soberly. “Swear, Potter. Swear to me that you will make no further attempts to end your life, and that should you be captured through accident that you will fight to survive.”

Harry swallowed. What the hell else could he do? “Damn you, Snape,” he said softly. “Damn you.”

“Swear, Potter.”

Harry stared at him, and finally looked down. “I swear.”

“Good boy,” Snape said quietly.

Harry's eyes snapped up to meet Snape's. Was that meant mockingly, or not? Snape met his eyes for a moment before his lips canted up in a smirk.

“Now finish your lines.”

He'd already lost so completely that obeying was barely painful. He dropped into his seat and got started.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Anyone we know dead?” Ron asked Hermione the next morning as she pored over the Daily Prophet.

“No,” Hermione answered. Harry looked to her quickly, something in her tone alerting him.

“Who is dead?” he asked her.

“Couple of muggles, early this morning,” she answered him. “They lived in the next neighborhood over from me, but I didn't know them.”

“Names?” he asked her.

She just handed him the paper, pointing at the article. It was a tiny section in the obituaries – Lisa and Gareth Thomas, ages 26 and 28, respectively. Dead of mysterious causes, likely Death Eater attack.

Reaching into his book bag for materials, Harry wrote down the names, with a date. Lisa and Gareth Thomas.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked him curiously.

Harry shrugged like it didn't matter. “We're alive, they're dead,” he said casually. “Somebody ought to notice, don't you think?” They're dead because I'm still alive, he reminded himself. Like he needed more things to keep him from sleeping. Getting up, he noticed Snape watching him. He turned his back on the man and headed for his dorm. Lisa and Gareth Thomas.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Lisa and Gareth Thomas, he remembered again. He wouldn't forget.

“Kreacher,” he called.

The elf popped into existence right next to him and glared. “Filthy mudblood loving master,” he started up immediately. “Kreacher will obey him, yes, but only because he is forced to.”

“Good to know, Kreacher,” Harry said indifferently. “I need you to get me something.”

“Kreacher will be ashamed to do whatever Master wishes,” Kreacher said in mock-obsequiousness.

“I need you to get me a blood quill,” Harry said.

Kreacher stared at him. “Great Master of filthy mudbloods and blood traitors wants Kreacher to get him a dark object?”

“Ironic, I know,” Harry drawled in a parody of Snape before returning to business. “Anyway there should be some that Umbridge left last year, but if not come back and I'll give you money to buy one.”

Kreacher actually smiled at him. “Kreacher is doing as Master says,” he said.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said. “Oh-” he remembered. “Don't tell anyone or let them see you, and don't approach me unless I'm in private.”

Kreacher bowed. “Master is not wanting protecting controlling wizards to know. Kreacher understands, Master.”

Protecting controlling wizards. Pretty much, yeah. “Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said again. “You're awesome.”

What he was, was totally unscrupulous, but Harry could work with that, right now. Kreacher bowed again and popped away, and Harry went to class.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>