0o0

“Is that any way to talk to yer daddy, boy?!”

The seventeen-year-old flinched, a long-conditioned response learned through intimate knowledge of the fact that a raised tone was soon followed by raised fists. Lifting his chin, he stood his ground, trembling despite himself. “I'm an adult, now,” he intoned, struggling to keep his voice even. “I don't have to listen to you anymore. I don't have to let you hur-” 

A fist swung out, backhanding him across the jaw. “What's that, now?” the man demanded nastily. Before the boy could react, he'd been grabbed by the hair and shaken. “Ye're a big man, now, is that it? Ungrateful whelp. Who's kept ye fed all these years? Put a roof over yer ungrateful hide? Ye think yer better 'n me, boy? Goin' to that fancy school with yer fancy magic, think that makes ye better? Hmm? Well, answer me!”

The boy felt paralyzed. This was not going the way he had envisioned it. He'd been determined that he wasn't going to let the man lay a hand on him again. The moment his father had raised his voice, however, it felt as though his resolve and strength had been sapped from him. Maybe that was a magic his muggle sire somehow possessed – the ability to rob him of all will.

He'd had a plan. He was gonna tell his bullying father that he was going to leave, that he was never going to let him hurt him again. If he got angry, like he'd wholly expected he would, he was going to... His wand! Terrified, clumsy fingers fumbled for his wand, only for it to be ripped from his grasp before he could bring it to bear.

“I KNEW IT!” his abuser crowed, yanking him up and back by the hair so that the teen had to stand on his toes to ease the discomfort in his scalp and neck. His father sneered in his face, yellowed teeth forever reeking of alcohol and chewing tobacco, although the man currently had neither. “You worthless little shite. What were ye gonna do, boy? Hmm? Were ye gonna curse me? Turn me into an insect? Hm? What were ye gonna do, Severus? Well, boy? ANSWER ME!”

“Let me go!” Severus cried, one hand clawing at the arm holding him while the other desperately tried to reclaim his wand. “I just want to leave! That's all, I swear!”

Tobias hurled the length of wood across the room in favor of taking his son's flailing arm into a bruising grasp. “Leave? You want to leave, boy? Where would you go, hm? To them Evanses? That Lily girl won't even talk to ye anymore. Ye got nowhere to go! I'm the only one who'll accept ye! I am yer only option!”

“You're wrong! I will find somewhere else! And it will be a hundred, no, a thousand times better than here! You can't make me stay with you – I'd rather die!” the boy shouted, anger bleeding into his terror.

Snarling, the man shoved the boy to the floor, kicking him once, then twice, and again, each kick emphasizing a single word. “Is... that... any... way... to talk... to yer... DADDY?!” Tobias raged. His son tried to scramble to his feet, but he backhanded him to keep him down, never once letting up his assault. “Well, Severus? Is it, boy? Is that any way to talk to yer daddy? Huh?? Is it?!”

Severus could only do his best to escape the kicks and blows raining upon him, moving frantically across the floor. Tobias was quicker. He was quicker and he was bigger and he was stronger – and he always had been. The boy began to question why he had risked coming back at all, why he hadn't just escaped when he had the chance. He knew Tobias wouldn't accept his decision to leave. The man had never given him any choice about anything, ever. Severus had known this would be the result, only now he wasn't entirely sure he wasn't about to die.

He had run out of space into which to retreat, his back pressed against the wall beneath the window. The teenager screamed for help, but as always, it did no good. The neighbors either couldn't hear or didn't care. Tobias was still ranting, caught in a full-blown rage. He had no way to defend himself.

Turning to avoid the worst of the latest blow, Severus' gaze caught on the floor lamp. Desperate, the boy seized hold of it and swung it around with all his might. It struck the man across the shoulder and threw him forward – straight through the upstairs window. The sound of something large hitting the ground amid a shower of glass was soon followed by disconcerting silence.

Then, Severus began to gasp, a violent trembling taking over his frame as he drew his legs to his chest. A horrified keening parted his lips as he curled in on himself. Oh, god, he had pushed his father out the window. What had he done? What had he done? He needed to go check on him. To make sure that... that... He needed to call... He had to...

He could hear the neighbors as they began to gather outside, drawn for once by the loud noises coming from the house which marked the desolate edge of Spinner's End. Someone was pounding at the door and Severus knew he had to answer it, but he couldn't... he couldn't move from where he was, couldn't stop that horrible sound from leaving his mouth. Sirens sounded in the distance, drawing nearer, and still Severus continued his frenetic rocking.

The boy had not heard a single word or sound come from his father since the man had hurtled through the window. Somehow, that terrified him more than anything else.

0o0

0o0

Halloween fell on a Monday that year. As the trio made their way into the great hall for breakfast that morning, Neville and Ginny accompanying them, Hermione was in full lecture mode. “Allhallowtide,” she was saying, “refers to the three days between October 31st and November 2nd, which are called All Hallow's Eve, All Saints' Day, and-”

“Yeah, yeah, we know, Mione,” Ron interrupted with a faint whine. “Three days that make up a tri-um-something and Halloween was originally Samhain. We know. You went on about all this last year.”

“Triduum,” the bushy-haired girl corrected blandly, shooting the redhead a reproving glare.

“But there's something different about it this year, right?” Harry spoke up, trying to maintain the peace. “About the Veil?”

Neville had started nodding. “The Veil is always thinner on Halloween. So people who died that didn't become ghosts are able to come back during that time,” the brown-haired boy spoke softly.

“Most never do, though,” Ginny contributed. “Mum always said that even when the Veil thins, only those with really strong motives make it through.”

“Right, but this year the Veil is going to be its thinnest yet,” Hermione continued, getting back into the discussion. “Which means spirits will be out this year who couldn't make it through in previous years. Starting next year, the Veil will be a bit thicker again, so it'll be the last opportunity in a while for some.”

“Bill says there's some spirits who've been trying to make it through for years – like really violent ones who're out for revenge and have just gotten angrier every time they failed to get through. I think he was just trying to scare me, though,” said Ron, casting a furtive look around at the decorations which were already making an appearance in preparation for the evening's feast.

“M-my gran always puts out fruits and sweets and stuff, and great Uncle Algie lights a bonfire in the yard, just in case,” Neville said a bit nervously.

“It's not just bad spirits that come through, though, right?” Harry asked, feeling a bit alarmed. While it was true they had talked about this in previous years, it hadn't been as big a thing as it seemed to be this year.

Ginny laid a comforting hand on his arm. “Of course not, Harry,” she reassured.

“And in any case, Hogwarts is warded against any truly malevolent spirits entering the grounds,” added Hermione. “Has been since 1798 after a – w-well, as a precaution.” The girl stammered a bit, belatedly realizing that informing her friends that a staff member had been nearly killed by an angry spirit at that time probably wasn't the best means to reassure any of them.

The group of friends were seated, each helping themselves to the platters of food as they continued talking. “So, we can expect to see more ghosts than usual tonight?” Harry questioned, spreading jam on a piece of toast. “I don't remember seeing anyone new, last year.”

“I did a couple years ago, down by the greenhouses,” offered Neville.

“And there was a spirit who came through to talk to someone in the library last year,” added Hermione. “But you're oversimplifying it. They're not really ghosts, not in the way Nearly Headless Nick or Moaning Myrtle are, anyway. Ghosts can't really interact with anything much, except on occasion. The spirits who come through on Samhain, however, are a bit more like poltergeists, in that they can move solid objects and even touch people.”

“They're also supposed to have a greater effect on their surroundings. Like, with ghosts, you have to be nearly on top of them to feel a drop in temperature, but with a spirit that's come through the Veil, I've heard they can make a whole room several degrees colder,” Ginny contributed.

Ron hurried to swallow the bite he was chewing. “They don't always make it colder,” he said. “Charlie said there was a spirit at the reserve one year who'd been burned to death by one of the dragons that made the area around him warmer when he appeared. And he smelled like char and burned flesh.” He made a bit of a face at this, hesitating before taking another bite.

“The stronger the spirit, the greater the impact it has on its surroundings,” Hermione concluded. “I've read that angry spirits tend to be surrounded by more phenomena, though.” Harry chewed thoughtfully on his toast, taking in this new information. It seemed that there was a lot more to the afterlife than he'd suspected.

The topic shifted to other things as they continued on with their meal. A general hum of conversation spread throughout the room as more and more students gathered at the house tables to fill their stomachs.

Harry was just helping himself to a second serving of bangers and mash when movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention to the head table. Trelawney had risen from her seat, as though drawn up like a puppet by its strings. Even from halfway down the Gryffindor table, the teen could tell that the woman's gaze was unfocused. Before he could start to wonder what was going on, the woman drew a loud rasping gasp that sent shivers along Harry's spine as it conjured to mind that moment in the Divination classroom the year before. The staff began to roll their eyes, McGonagall turning to mutter something sarcastic to the professor beside her.

“They approach,” Trelawney declared in a harsh voice that differed greatly from the wispy tones she favored.

“As night falls, they shall arise,

One by one,

To tread where they should not be.

Hearts black, fingers cold,

Across the Veil

They shall freely walk,

Promising hurt and violence,

Death,

And they send ahead this message:

'Is that any way to talk to yer daddy, boy?'”

Beside her, Snape suddenly froze, head shooting up as his fork slipped from nerveless fingers. What had that infernal woman just spouted?!

Harry fought back a shudder, even as he wondered at the strange expression that had crossed the Potions professor's face. The general hubbub of the great hall intensified as Trelawney sank bonelessly into her seat. Some of the students were unnerved – Harry certainly was. What was more unsettling, however, was that some of the staff seemed discomfited, too.

“What a fraud,” Hermione declared, shaking her head and scoffing. Harry stared down at his food, suddenly not hungry anymore. Merlin, he hoped Hermione was right.

0o0o0

It seemed to Harry that the Potions professor was always a bit crankier on Mondays than any other day of the week. Granted, it could have just seemed that way because he usually had little contact with the man over the weekends. Lately, however, Snape had been even worse than usual, as though he hadn't been sleeping well. If Snape actually slept, that is. The jury was still out on that one.

Whatever the case, the Potions Master had reached a level of tractability that Harry had never before seen that morning. The absurd thought that perhaps Trelawney's little episode at breakfast had set the man on edge flitted across the boy's mind before being summarily dismissed. As if anything could rattle the man. Harry was willing to bet that nightmares were afraid of having Snape – an idea that nearly made him laugh aloud.

Harry certainly didn't feel like laughing a moment later, however, when he accidentally added too much armadillo bile to his potion. He watched as the pale orange brew become a violent shade of purple with dismay. Quickly, he reached for something to counteract the bile's acidity, but he wasn't fast enough.

“Does it not read two drops of armadillo bile on the board, Mr. Potter?” Snape questioned silkily, sneering down at his assignment.

“It does, sir,” Harry answered a bit wearily, “but my hand slipped. I was just going to add-”

“Perhaps, beginning again will remind you to be more careful,” the man cut in. “Evanesco.”

His friends shot him sympathetic looks as Snape moved away. Glaring at the man's back, Harry ground his teeth together. He cut the flames under his empty cauldron and stalked to the supply cupboard. Evil, loathsome, petty old bat, the boy thought darkly as he gathered together the necessary ingredients again.

Were Severus inclined to allow his emotions to show on his face, one of his students may have noticed the twinge of regret he felt over his admittedly spiteful actions. After all, Potter had reached for the right ingredient to counteract the excess bile in his potion. Now, he would scarcely have time enough to get the potion done, which, in the long run, would mean more work for himself.

Snape suppressed a sigh. Perhaps if the boy did an adequate job, he would let him off from the usual detention he would assign for unfinished potions.

Greasy, beak-nosed, ill-tempered, the litany continued in Harry's head, no good, slimy... The boy's hand had wrapped around a jar to pull it from its shelf. Before he could safely transfer it to the counter, a face suddenly appeared in the glass.

“Snape!” a voice rasped.

Harry started, immediately releasing the jar, which then smashed to the floor. Wide-eyed, the boy turned quickly, searching for the strange face in the surrounding containers.

“Potter!” Snape hissed angrily as he arrived in the doorway, startling the teen again.

“Professor, there was-” Harry began.

“Did I not just finish chastising you for your carelessness a couple minutes ago?” the professor growled. “Detention, Potter! Tonight, six-o'clock! We'll see if missing the feast will put a thought in your head about exercising a little care.”

“But, sir, there was a – a face in the glass!” the Gryffindor protested. “I think it was a ghost.”

“Nice try, Potter, but the ghosts in the castle are very cognizant of the fact that they are not permitted in my classroom at any time, least of all during lessons. Now, go collect your belongings and leave. I don't wish to see you again before tonight.”

“Professor, you don't understand! It said-”

Snape flung an arm towards the door of the classroom. “Get out!” he gritted irritably. “Before I elect to take house points, as well!”

Frustrated at the man's refusal to listen to him, Harry stepped over the glass and spilled beetle carapaces and hurried to the table he'd been sharing with Ron. Shoving his things hurriedly into his bag, he rushed from the classroom before Snape could make good on his threat.

The students had been looking on with varying degrees of interest, but when Snape shot a glare across the room, they quickly returned to their work. Bloody Gryffindors, the man thought darkly, always some preposterous prank. As if Sybil spouting her nonsense isn't bad enough... I hate this holiday.

0o0o0

Severus Snape stepped into the hospital wing, carrying the latest batch of potions Madam Pomfrey had requested for her stock. He did not plan to remain for any length of time, intent upon getting some grading completed before his free period was over. The mediwitch had other ideas, however, for she came out from her office when she saw him pass.

“Thank you, Severus,” the woman told him graciously, awarding him a small smile.

“It is not a problem,” Snape returned, tilting his head in acknowledgment. He continued towards the doors, only to be staid by her hand on his arm.

“How are your nightmares, Severus?” she queried in concern. “Have you been able to get any rest?”

The man hesitated a brief moment. “A bit,” he prevaricated. The truth of the matter was that he had spent the greater part of a month either dreaming about the night his father died or dreading that he would. Thoughts of Tobias Snape in general were simply not conducive to peace of mind. Were it not for the fact that muggles could not become ghosts, Severus would have been half-certain the man still haunted him, at times.

Even so, the Potions Master would not have confessed to his nightmares, even to Poppy, had the woman not threatened to subject him to a hospital stay when she noticed he was not quite well. Sometimes, he regretted that the matron knew him so well.

Case in point, she was now peering at him reprovingly, the look making him feel a bit like an errant schoolboy. “Your nightmares must be rather severe if even dreamless sleep is not helping you, at all,” the woman ventured.

“I have not taken any,” Snape admitted, adding at her frown, “You are well aware that I loathe how lethargic it makes me feel the next day.”

“I am aware, Severus,” Poppy agreed. “Nevertheless, you still need your rest, lest you make yourself ill.”

The man sighed. “Tomorrow. After I have completed my duties for the night. You know this evening is not an option,” he compromised.

“Very well. Just be sure you follow through,” the woman relented.

Snape gave a faint smirk. “Yes, Madam,” he said a bit too contritely, with that note of singsong that students always seemed to adopt unconsciously. She gave him an admonishing frown and Severus nearly gave a smile. As inconvenient as it could be that the woman knew him so well, he was always rather contented by this fact, also.

Turning once more for the exit, he paused to find a thin trail of water leading a few feet in from the door. He lifted his head to look at the ceiling, not that the fine weather outside could possibly account for a nonexistent leak. There was nothing, and frowning a bit, he waved his wand to vanish the mess away.

Neither he nor the mediwitch noticed that the shadows at the corners of the ward seemed to curl after him as he swept from the room.

0o0

0o0

The Gryffindor trio made their way down from their common room. Harry had just enough time before his detention to grab a quick bite of food, so they wanted to be sure to arrive on time. Ron bemoaned what a shame it was that Harry would have to miss the 'best part of the feast' but Harry wasn't all that disappointed. After all, Halloween wasn't exactly his favorite day of the year.

Just as they had moved a few steps down one of the many staircases, the stupid thing decided to move, turning to join a different landing and rerouting them. The boys grumbled at the delay as the girl gave a put-upon sigh. Hermione loosely gripped the stone railing for balance until the staircase was closer to the wall.

“Mione, do you have to do that?” Harry complained with a grimace. He hated when she did that, always envisioning her hand being crushed between the rail and the wall. The girl gave him an amused look as Ron snorted.

“As if anyone's daft enough to let their hand get smashed,” declared the redhead. “It's not like the staircases move that quickly, mate.” Harry made a face at the both of them, showing how he felt about their dismissal of his admittedly irrational concern. He suppressed a relieved sigh when Hermione raised her hand from the banister to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Honestly, Harry. There are-” she had begun in a kind, though pedantic voice, likely about to offer up a small lecture concerning the safety measures placed upon the school's stairways.

Neither Harry nor Ron would ever know for certain, for she didn't get the chance to finish what she had to say. Halfway to its new position, the staircase abruptly jolted across the remaining distance, slamming into the wall with such force that nearby portraits rattled in place, several falling from their hangings as the three students were flung forcefully against them.

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, blue eyes wide in alarm. He cradled his right arm against him, the limb sore from his collision against the wall. Hermione had taken a similar stance, except that she was holding her right hand protectively over her heart – the very hand that would have indeed been crushed had it remained even a moment longer upon the railing.

Harry couldn't help the bubble of panic that had taken root in his stomach. Since when did any of the staircases do that?! He knew the answer, of course: never.

Without another word between them, Harry led the hasty retreat to the landing, fighting to calm his own breathing. “You two all right?” he asked, sending a wary look at the steps behind them. His left side was sore from colliding with the wall and the picture frames, but he knew he was relatively unharmed.

“Well,” Ron swallowed, gingerly palpating his shoulder with his fingers, “reckon I might have a nasty bruise, later on, but nothing feels broken. Blimey, though, Mione – it's a good job you moved your hand when you did!”

“You're telling me,” Hermione agreed, letting out a noise that was bit too hysterical to really be a laugh. “I wonder why the staircase acted like that?”

“I don't wanna know,” Harry mumbled, hurrying down the corridor. Were he honest, he really wasn't looking forward to braving another set of stairs. At least, now that they were on the third floor, they had the option of taking stationary steps the rest of the way down. With this in mind, the dark-haired boy led the way towards the armory and the stairway down from there.

If only someone had warned the trio that things were about to get weirder. Granted, had it not been for their recent experience with the stairs, none of them probably would have thought twice about the sight which greeted them as they entered the gallery of armor. After all, it was a favorite hangout for Peeves, so strangeness wasn't all that unprecedented.

Not even the strangeness of every single suit of armor having its head on backwards.

At least, that is what they each tried to tell themselves.

“I don't like this,” Hermione whispered, voicing their shared unease as they hurried down the corridor.

“We're almost there,” said Harry, picking up the pace a bit. “Probably just Peeves up to his old tricks again.”

As though mention of his name had summoned him, they could hear the poltergeist's raucous singsong as he bounced along the hall. “Gathering 'round the precious stone, the glowing stone! Here they come, one by one, the pretty stone,” Peeves was chanting until his beady eyes fixed upon the Gryffindors, and then he gave a delighted chortle. “Looky here! Looky here! A Potty, a Weasel, and a Mangy Grangy! Ickle students all alone when everyone else is gathering for the feast!”

“Did you do this to the armor?” Ron demanded of the poltergeist, jerking a thumb over one shoulder.

“Oh, my, oh, my – would Peevesy do that? Maybe they done it to themselves. Twisted their own heads right around. Round and round! Here they come! The pretty stone...”

“What on earth are you on about?” Hermione questioned the being. If anything, the poltergeist's antics were somehow more unsettling than they usually were.

Peeves gave a maniacal laugh, twirling about almost playfully in the air. “What'sa matter, don't you see it? Don't you hear? But of course you don't! It's not for you – it doesn't beckon to you! The precious stone, here they come, one by one, the pretty stone...” He continued his nonsensical singing as he bounded off down the hall once more.

Harry repressed a shudder. “Let's just get to the Great Hall. I want to grab a bite before my detention.” Murmuring agreement, the other two followed and they all but fled the long gallery. No sooner had they departed than the hall was filled with sharp, metallic scraping as one by one, the heads of each set of armor swung back around to their fronts.

0o0o0

Harry had been slow to comply with Snape's directive to retrieve the ingredients necessary to re-brew his potion from class. For once, the teen was honestly wishing the man would put him straight to work on some disgusting task rather than enter that enclosed space. It was just too soon after the staircase and the armor and the weirdness with Peeves. He knew he was being a bit ridiculous, but he was reluctant to reenter the potions supply closet for fear that the face from earlier would once again appear in one of the jars.

“Potter!” the Potions Master addressed him sharply, causing Harry to shoot him a startled look. The man sneered impatiently. “Get... to... work.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied softly. Somehow he coaxed his feet into obeying him, and soon he had gathered the items and returned to the classroom without further incident. He wondered yet again if he hadn't imagined what had happened during class. But then, if he were imagining things, why would a figment of his mind be calling Snape's name? Wouldn't it have called for him, instead?

Deciding it didn't matter, the Gryffindor set to work. The sooner he finished his potion, the sooner he could get to his real detention and the sooner he could join his friends back up in the common room. Snape had gone into his office for something or other, although Harry paid him little mind. He knew the Potions Master would be aware of anything taking place in his classroom, even if he wasn't present.

Harry reached for the beetle carapaces he had ground into a fine powder a few minutes before, only to find it clumping together, as though it had gotten damp. Frowning, the teen inspected his supplies more  closely, finding it was not only the beetle carapaces that had gotten damp. In fact, the air itself seemed to have grown moist and dank, a thin film of condensation coating ingredient vials and potions table alike.

Tensing instinctively, the teen had reached for his wand before he was consciously aware of the sound of footsteps moving up from the door at the back of the room. The steps were accompanied by a soft squishing noise, as though whoever it was walked in wet shoes. More concerning was the fact that before he'd noticed the steps, Harry had failed to hear the door open. He turned quickly, still surprised to find a person standing there even though he held his wand at the ready.

The man was soaked from head to toe and dripping water upon the flagstones. He could not have been much older than Harry himself. In fact, he looked disconcertingly familiar to the teen with his chin-length black hair and somewhat haughty features.

“Potter, what-” Snape began to chastise the Gryffindor before breaking off abruptly as his gaze fell upon the visitor. “Black.”

“Snape,” returned the dripping man. Harry recognized his voice as the one from earlier in the supply cupboard. He looked quickly between the two men, feeling more perplexed, though now that Snape had spoken the man's name, he could see the resemblance to Sirius.

“So, he did kill you for your betrayal.” There was no real inflection in the Potions Master's words as he made the statement. Part of him had hoped the rumors weren't quite true.

An almost rakish grin pulled across the spirit's features, and he really did look like his brother, then. “Is that the story that went around?” he questioned rhetorically. He grew serious. “I suppose it's not untrue, although the Dark Lord's part in my death was incidental. I was killed retrieving one of his horcruxes.”

Harry had glanced at Snape just as the man rested a hand atop one of the tables, as though suddenly in need of the support. By then, his wand had already fallen uncertainly back to his side. He wanted to ask what a horcrux was, but it seemed that neither Snape nor the spirit remembered he was there.

“Merlin's beard, Regulus!” the professor exclaimed. “Horcruxes? Plural? Why bring me this information? Why not go to Dumbledore, or your brother, for that matter?”

“Sirius is not likely to desire speaking to me, even in death,” Regulus stated dryly. “Even so, informing you is informing the Headmaster, is it not? Furthermore, I did not come to tell you that the Dark Lord made horcruxes – he made seven, by the way. But it is not why I came to you, friend.” The spirit's gaze wandered over to Harry and the teen fought the urge to fidget under those dull, gray eyes.

“Then, why? We were not so close that you'd waste your precious time on me,” Snape said, watching as Regulus studied Potter for a long moment before turning back to him.

“You always did hold others at arm's length, Severus. I came to warn you. Dumbledore brought something into this school that he shouldn't have, and now you're all in danger. Especially you.”

Snape gave a quiet scoff. “The Headmaster regularly brings dangerous objects into this school. You should have seen the havoc this caused just a few years ago. He's been lobbying to hold the Tri-Wizard Tournament, again, in fact. What could he have possibly brought that would endanger me in particular?” He raised an inquiring brow.

“It's a soul stone, and he's not even aware of what it is,” Regulus informed him in a sharp tone. “Hogwarts is already a beacon, attracting all manner of creatures to its borders. Acromantulas, thestrals, centaurs – and that's just to name a few. Now, just imagine if that beacon was specifically tuned to those who've crossed the Veil. You can only imagine how loud it is, how bright, and the wards around the castle are only magnifying it.

“Of all the nights to keep such a thing here! All kinds of spirits will be coming here, and I don't mean the kind, benevolent sort stopping in for a chat. I'm talking about the mindlessly violent, those fueled only by their hatred and rage and cruelty, the truly evil, the darkest of the dark – I'm talking about your father, Severus!” the spirit forcefully declared.

Were Snape not already impossibly pale, Harry might have sworn that the man had grown paler. As it was, the professor seemed to swallow, clearly caught off-guard. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low hiss.

“What do you know of my father?” the Potions Master demanded, advancing a bit towards the spirit.

“Enough to know you didn't trip down the stairs before returning to school every year,” retorted Regulus. “He still blames you, Snape, and he's coming to make sure you know it.”

Harry's green eyes were wide in shock, a little knot of unease and horror forming in the pit of his stomach. His gaze was fixed on his professor as he waited for the man to refute what Regulus had just implied. There was no way that Severus Snape had been mistreated by his father, that he had been – Harry always shuddered to even think the word – abused. Was there?

“My father was a muggle,” Snape declared, voice too taut to be dismissive.

“The Veil does not discriminate between magical and muggle. Not tonight.”

“Even if what you suggest is true,” the Potions professor began, tone raising, “there are wards-”

“Not all wards are fail-proof,” Regulus interrupted curtly. “He is coming, he and who knows what others. They won't care about the soul stone, but they will be drawn by it. Act now, act quickly to protect yourselves. People will die this night, old friend.” He turned to look at Harry once more. “Take care that you and young Potter here aren't among them.”

The spirit took a step back before turning towards the door. Before he could move towards it, if that were his intention, spectral arms covered in gray, rotting flesh reached up through the floor, dragging him down into the flagstones. A puddle of water on the floor was the only evidence that he had been there.

“P-professor?” Harry finally found his voice. He had so many questions that he wanted to ask, half of which he didn't dare. His expression must still have shown his surprise and unease about what had been spoken of Snape's father, for the man scowled fiercely at him.

“You are not to speak one word of what you've heard to anyone, Potter,” the professor spat. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cut the heat under your cauldron. Your potion is undoubtedly ruined by now, anyway. We're going to see the Headmaster.”

Harry did as he was told before grabbing up his belongings to follow the man from the room. As they headed for the door, he couldn't help but notice that the room didn't feel damp and musty anymore.

0o0

0o0

Dusk had fallen and was rapidly turning into night. She had appeared beyond the gates of the castle, a pale, translucent shade with eyes like obsidian orbs in her thin face. Arms stretched before her, as in supplication, she drew nearer. She could hear it, beckoning her closer and without thought or will, she obeyed.

A second later, she was dispersed by the wards protecting against spirits like her, those whose motivations were rooted in violence. She was not the first to be dispatched in such a way and on that night, she was far from the last. One by one, those from beyond the Veil approached the grand castle. Some crossed the wards without incident. Others, like the black-eyed shade, vanished upon contact. They were much like insects drawn to a muggle bug zapper.

They were no less determined.

The mindless assault had commenced for nearly an hour before the spirit of a young child finally stepped onto the grounds, dragging a doll along behind her. None who followed faced any resistance.

0o0o0

Albus Dumbledore paused in bringing his glass to his mouth. Setting it back on the table, he tilted his head up towards the enchanted ceiling, peering out through the jack-o-lanterns and the bats to the newly-fallen night's sky. The man's head canted ever-so-slightly. Something had just happened to one of the wards – not that that was necessarily unusual for that particular night.

Frowning minutely, he brought his attention to the hall in front of him. The feast more or less over, many students had already left or were now leaving for their common rooms. Hand wrapping around his cup of pumpkin juice, the headmaster took his previously aborted drink.

It was likely nothing, he told himself. If it were one of the wards vital to protecting the castle, he would have known instantly. This was undoubtedly one of the secondary wards simply needing to be reinforced soon. After all, throughout his entire tenure at Hogwarts, none of the wards had failed before. Why would that night be any different?

0o0o0

“Oh. Good morning!”

Snape narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the man standing in the hall around the corner from the Potions classroom. For his part, Harry gave him a wide berth. Neither really stopped, their pace picking up again when it was determined that the spirit was probably benign. Harry kept his wand in hand, just in case.

“Or evening, I suppose,” the spirit had continued to himself, seemingly unbothered by the lack of response he'd received. “Rather dark down here. No windows... Wonder where I am?”

“Professor,” Harry began, curiosity getting the better of him. “What are horcr-”

“Do not,” Snape cut him off with a vicious glare, “finish that query, Mr. Potter. This is hardly the venue to speak of such things, and I daresay the Headmaster will see fit to explain to you himself.”

Harry fell quiet again, focusing on keeping up with his professor's pace. The boy's eyes were fixed on the billowing black robes, which is probably why when the man abruptly slowed to a stop that he ran right into him. Snape sneered at him and Harry looked chagrined before both their gazes moved to the figure a few feet away.

It was a child in a knee-length dress, a cardigan hanging loosely from narrow shoulders, knee-length socks bearing several dark splotches. Her back was to them, allowing them to easily see that her lank hair fell halfway down her back. The fingers of her left hand were curled into the locks of a battered old doll.

A plaintive, young voice broke the stillness as she seemed to talk to herself, much like the previous spirit had. “So alone. No one to play with.”

The Potions Master was prepared to double back, not interested in confronting this particular spirit if he could help it. Apparently Potter was unable to sense the menace which surrounded her, for the idiot boy took a step closer.

“Hey,” Harry said softly.

Slowly, the spirit turned to look back at them over her shoulder, a strand of hair falling over her eye. As her gaze fixed upon Harry, a beatific smile spread across her young face. “Hi!” she greeted brightly.

“Hi,” the teen returned and – Merlin help him – the moronic child would have taken yet another step had Snape not reached out to grab him by the arm. Before the professor could berate him or the boy could protest, the spirit moved, coming round to face them in less time than it took to blink.

Now that she stood facing them, it became apparent that the splotches which stained her socks were also down her front and now that she stood even nearer, their color was also discernible. They were crimson. As they watched, her sweet smile turned virulent as the innocence in her young eyes became wickedness.

“This is great,” she continued in the same bright, friendly tone of before. She stretched out her right arm, which had been resting across her chest, and with it the bloodied butcher's knife she held in that hand. “Now, you can play with me!”

She charged forward, brandishing her weapon. But Snape was already raising his wand even as he yanked the Gryffindor behind him. “Spiritus recedemus!” he cast at her. Instantly, the spirit vanished in what looked like a cloud of silvery dust.

“Did you not detect the aura of hostility surrounding her, Potter? Even a first-year Hufflepuff would have been more wary,” Snape censured.

“She was a little girl!” Harry protested, still trying to slow his own heart rate.

“She was an angry spirit who could have very easily skewered you alive!” the Potions Master snarled. Stupid, idiot boy...

Harry gritted his teeth, not appreciating being talked down to in such a way even though he couldn't exactly disagree with the man's words. And the greasy bastard was raising a brow at him, challenging him to do just that.

“Professor!” A Slytherin sixth-year sprinted towards them from the direction of the common room, a note of relief audible in her tone. She was a bit breathless as she stopped before her head of house, her wand clasped tightly in one hand.

“What is it, Manning?” Snape asked the girl, suspecting that he had a good idea of the nature of whatever had her running through the corridors.

“Trouble, sir. It's Bulstrode. She returned a bit before most everyone else, which isn't strange for her, of course, but then we heard screaming from the girls' fourth-year dorm. She was being assaulted. Some... some spirit was beating the tar out of her. I thought they weren't allowed in the castle!” Manning's voice raised in upset.

“I assume the spirit was banished?” the professor queried.

“Yes, sir. Parkinson and I hit it at the same time.”

“Lead the way, Miss Manning. Potter, come along. It is clearly not safe to be wandering about by yourself.”

The Slytherin student darted a look over at Harry in surprise, having obviously failed to notice him. Without a word, however, she started back the way she had come, her head of house and Harry following quickly.

0o0o0

The spirit stood there, peering back at the enthralled youth as he lifted the object from around his neck up to his face. There was a flash and a click – then the spirit surged forward, shoving the boy down a staircase.

He gave a startled cry, which was cut off as he tumbled down the stone steps. Upon reaching the next landing, the spirit met him, seizing hold of him and throwing him down the next set of stairs as they began to shift position.

Rolling from the last step, the boy plummeted through the empty space in the middle of the tower until being caught by the cushioning charm at the bottom. For a moment, the small figure hung in the air before the spell released its hold and allowed its burden to settle against the flagstones.

“Colin!” one of the boy's friends gave a cry as a group of students returning from the Great Hall came upon the scene minutes later.

Hermione hurried over to the third-year. “Get Madam Pomfrey!” she commanded, feeling for a pulse although she already knew from the angle of the boy's neck that there was nothing she nor the mediwitch could possibly do for him anymore.

Colin Creevey was already dead before he'd reached the floor.

0o0o0

Upon reaching the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Snape was the one to murmur a password, which although Harry didn't quite catch, would undoubtedly be changed later. Although he had been in the Slytherin common room once before back in second year, Harry still found it to be an odd experience. Several of the students shot him suspicious glances but said nothing, almost all attention focused upon the source of the panicked sobs which filled the room.

“Don't leave me. Don't leave me, please! Please... please... she'll come back. Don't leave me – she'll come back!” the frantic, desperate pleas were coming from Millicent Bulstrode, her usual mulish expression replaced with one of terror as she trembled uncontrollably, clinging to Pansy Parkinson's forearm. One of her eyes was starting to swell while blood trickled from her nose and split lip.

“Shh, Millie, I'm not leaving!” Pansy tried to soothe her friend, sounding rather distressed herself. “It's okay. You're okay. We won't let her get to you, again. It's okay! You're safe, now.” Harry couldn't help but stare on in shock at the scene.

“Sh-she said I'm still ugly,” the girl continued to weep as one of the seventh-year prefects quickly moved over to Snape. “Still useless. That she's still a-ashamed to be my mum...”

Harry could overhear as the prefect spoke quietly to the Potions Master. “We can't get her to calm down. No one can even heal her up – if anyone so much a twitches a wand towards her, it sets her off again,” the boy told the professor. “Think it's safe to say this isn't the first time Bulstrode's mum had a go at her.”

Inclining his head in acknowledgment, Snape moved towards his distraught student, who cringed away from the movement. Cautiously, the man lowered himself to sit on the edge of the coffee table, Parkinson between him and the sobbing girl. He withdrew a vial from his robes and handed it to the calmer of the two fourth-years.

“Millie,” Pansy turned back to her friend without prompting. “Millie, I need you to take a potion for me, okay? Can you do that?”

With a shaky nod, Millicent accepted the vial Pansy pressed into her hand and brought it to her lips. As the calming draught started to kick in, she lowered her head to the other girl's shoulder. “I don't know why she hates me,” she murmured forlornly.

“Miss Parkinson,” Snape spoke up, “I am going to open the floo and I want you to accompany Miss Bulstrode to the hospital wing. Mr. Pucey, Miss Manning, you are to go with them. Inform Madam Pomfrey that the wards banishing malevolent spirits has failed. The rest of you are to remain here. No one is to leave the common room. Hana.”

Harry, and a couple others, it would seem, were at a momentary loss for what the professor meant with that last part until a house elf popped into the room a moment later. She peered up at the man with large honey-colored eyes. “Potions Master, sir?”

“Hana, I want you to see to it that all possible entrances to each of the common rooms, as well as the infirmary, are lined with salt to protect against malevolent spirits. Also, see to it that each of the other heads of house are informed this is happening due to the wards failing to keep such spirits out this year,” the man instructed.

The little elf's eyes widened in alarm. “Hana and the other elves are doing this right away!” she exclaimed, then disappeared just as she had arrived.

“I need those capable of performing the spirit banishing spell to guard the entrances, even after the salt has been laid. Hana will answer to prefects should a message need to be delivered to me before I return,” Snape informed his house. “Look after one another.” He stepped over to the floo to tap his wand against the mantle and murmur a passphrase, motioning for the students mentioned before to step through. After that, he started towards the door again. “Potter, come.”

Harry was starting to feel a bit like a trained pet, but followed nevertheless.

0o0o0

Shadows writhed like tendrils of smoke with each step he took along the dungeon corridor, the air itself seeming to burn with the heat of his rage. It was his fault – all his fault! Ungrateful wretch.

“Oh. Good morning! Or... evening, I suppose. I'm not really su-”

A hand shot out to grasp the amiable spirit by the throat. “I really don't have the time,” he sneered nastily, tightening his hold like a vice. The other struggled, kicking and scratching in vain even as his very essence seemed to drain into his attacker.

He flexed his hand, seeming to breathe deeply of the surroundings. “I gotta teach my boy a lesson, y'see,” he told the empty air. “Seems to think he can get away with killing his daddy.” He continued along his way. The shadows scurried to meet him.

0o0

0o0

The corridors seemed oddly vacant to Harry. Even the Great Hall was already void of students and it was still relatively soon after the feast would have ended. He wondered whether his schoolmates had instinctively known not to linger outside their common rooms as they usually would. Perhaps Trelawney's forewarning hadn't been as dismissed as it had seemed.

He hoped his friends were all right.

Professor and student had mounted to the third floor in record time. Harry was glad he spent so much time practicing for Quidditch, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep up with Snape's pace, otherwise. The teen nearly stumbled as his head shot in the direction of some real or imagined sound. Never had he found moving through the castle so nerve-wracking. Even the portraits seemed unnerved, most were quiet, if not entirely vacant. Where had they gone, Harry wondered, and just where were the castle's ghosts? Surely, it had to be abnormal that the resident spooks seemed so absent on this night.

“Potter,” Snape addressed the boy a bit sharply. He was impatient with the Gryffindor's need to stop to observe his surroundings so frequently, though could not fault his diligence. Nevertheless, he was in a hurry to reach the Headmaster and hopefully put an end to the madness that had begun to take place in the castle before it got worse. Before Regulus' warning could come to fruition.

The man did not wish to admit, even to himself, that the dead man's words had struck fear in his heart. It was preposterous. His father had been dead for seventeen years. Furthermore, the man had been a muggle. There were no records of muggle spirits returning from beyond the Veil. Granted, maybe that was just because wizard kind had little reason to keep tract of such phenomena. Shaking his head to banish the thoughts, he opened his mouth to continue.

“Potter?” Another voice echoed, the sound seeming to reverberate around the corridor.

Harry shifted uneasily as his name was repeated by the strange voice. “Profes-” he began.

Spectral hands seized the boy by the shoulders, dragging him off with incredible speed as the Potions Master was hit in the chest by an invisible force. Potter disappeared into a room and for a brief moment the figure of a man stood in the doorway, staring at Snape in challenge. In the blink of an eye, the figure vanished and the door slammed with the resounding crack of wood against stone.

“Potter!” he shouted, closing in on the door and grabbing for the handle. The man gave a surprised hiss and yanked his hand away as he was burned – not by heat, but by a temperature well below freezing. Pounding a fist against the door, he shouted again. “Potter!”

“Now, now, Severus, old friend,” dulcet tones arose from behind him. “I wouldn't worry about the boy, if I were you.”

Snape spun around, eyes only confirming what his ears and the strong scent of lilacs had already told him. “Lyra.”

“So you do remember me.” Lyra Wilkes – for that was who the spirit was – gave an almost genial smile before a look of utter loathing spread across her pretty features as she took a step forward. “Perhaps you'll also remember how you betrayed our Lord!” the former death eater snarled.

He lifted his wand, the spirit banishing spell already on his lips, but Wilkes had disappeared from sight. Before he could properly react to this, a sharp pain caused him to cry out as his former cohort ground an elbow into the middle of his back.

0o0o0

Dark eyes peered down upon the place where shadows butted against a salt line like a physical barrier. A blond-haired boy and an older girl pointed their wands at him from the other side, standing in front of a crowded assortment of other youth. He sneered at them, daring them to act against him.

Finally, he turned to pass back through the wall which hid the entrance. He hadn't use for any of them. The boy was elsewhere.

0o0o0

Harry had let out a startled cry when fingers dug into his shoulders, yanking him backwards so quickly, he couldn't have used his feet even if he had managed to keep them under him. The teen gasped as he was thrown down to land on his left side, which was still sore from the mishap with the staircase earlier.

“James Potter,” an oily voice seemed to seep into his brain. “We meet again.”

Wait. James Potter? Green eyes blinked rapidly as Harry tried to process just what was going on. “I'm not James,” he said.

“And I'm a mindless idiot,” the man laughed, sounding genuinely amused. He proceeded to pace back and forth, his footsteps echoing more than they ought. In fact, his voice was still reverberating oddly, like it had in the corridor. His tone fell into a singsong that reminded Harry disturbingly of Peeves. “You got me killed, auror.”

“I told you, I'm not James Potter!” Harry repeated, feeling a thrill of terror shoot through him.

“SILENCE!” the man screeched, features distorting in his rage. “I will not listen to your pathetic lies! I had a good life before you tracked me down. A bit of riches, a bit of murder... What else could a man want? But you, you had to ruin it for me. You had to meddle in matters that did not concern you! What's it to you what I did to some stinking muggles? What right did you have to RUIN MY LIFE?!”

Harry had scrambled to his feet, pressing himself against the wall as the spirit advanced towards him. He was much larger than Harry, taller and more solidly built. The boy tried to swallow back his fear to no avail, protesting in vain, “I told you, that wasn't me – it was my dad!”

The spirit abruptly stilled, face inches from Harry's own as he studied the boy's features. At that distance, Harry see that the man's entire being seemed to be flickering ever-so-slightly, the visual equivalent to what was happening with his voice and footsteps. He couldn't help but wonder how the man died that it would so affect his spirit.

“Potter the younger, is it?” the tone was very soft. Too soft. A cruel smile pulled slowly across his bloodless lips. “And what makes you think that'll stop me from taking my revenge out on you?”

Harry hadn't, not really. He'd just... reacted. A knot of panic had settled firmly into the pit of his stomach. His hand tightened around his wand, but he couldn't recall the spell he'd heard Snape cast earlier and he wasn't so sure any of the spells he did know would even work against a spirit. He supposed he could try his Patronus, but the man was standing much too close for him to attempt such a thing.

Just as Harry had concluded that he had to do something, and fast, the spirit leaned in even closer, causing his breath to catch in his throat. “Run for me, little auror's son,” he whispered in a seductive tone. When Harry didn't immediately comply, the spirit sneered furiously. “RUN!”

Harry didn't need to be told a third time.

0o0o0

“You are not welcome here!” The girl, a ghost, informed him in a shrill, reproving voice, glaring at him from behind her glasses as he reached the second floor.

He inclined his head the slightest fraction, dark eyes flicking over her in apparent boredom. “Move,” he cautioned her, “before I move ya, myself.”

“I will not!” Myrtle exclaimed, indignant, as she glowered at the shadow-enshrouded spirit. Things like him weren't supposed to be in the school. It was an affront to her, and even though few appreciated her, she was determined to stand her ground. “You aren't allowed here. You'd better leave, or I'll tell the Headmaster.”

The spirit let out a scoff. “What'll he do? Wave a stick at me?” he drawled. “I don't have time fer this.”

In an instant, the distance between spirit and ghost had closed. Myrtle began to scream in agony until his hand clasped over her mouth. As he absorbed her essence, he gave a self-satisfied smirk.

“Shoulda moved when ye had the chance.”

0o0

0o0

Harry tore out the back door of the room and into the corridor beyond. Hysterically, he thought he needed to find some way to get back to Snape. Snape knew how to banish a spirit, just as he had with the little girl. Again, the idea that maybe his Patronus would be of use occurred to him, but at that moment, Harry was too terrified to stop long enough in order to find out.

“Look at him run,” he could hear his pursuer chortle somewhere behind him. “So swift, so fleet – ah, but I love the chase. The chase is the best, after all.”

Rounding a corner, Harry stumbled a bit to maintain his footing with the sharp change of direction. If he went left up ahead, he knew the hall would lead him back towards where Snape was when they were separated. If only he-

His foot caught on the edge of a flagstone, sending him sprawling. Immediately, his palms stung and a keen ache and dampness at his right knee told him that the skin had split open at the impact. The boy hurriedly pushed himself back up onto his good knee, preparing to stand only to let out a frightened yelp as a hand suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Flailing, he fell backwards onto his posterior, wide eyes darting upwards.

“Easy, Potter,” the woman before him soothed, continuing to hold out her hand. Somehow, Harry knew this woman must also be confusing him for his father James. “You look so much like your father.”

Or maybe not. Harry accepted the proffered hand and the spirit pulled him to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. He shot a look over his shoulder as a sound drifted up the hall.

“Remember that fear can weaken even the strong.” Harry turned back to frown at her, but she did not elaborate. “Go, now. Quickly. I'll deal with him.”

With a nod, Harry started off down the corridor again, at a slightly slower pace due to his knee.

“Ananias!” the woman's voice echoed to him. His pursuer gave an answering roar. Harry didn't look back to see what was happening – he just kept running.

0o0o0

Snape had nearly forgotten, in the intervening years, that Lyra Wilkes was nearly as dangerous without her wand as she had been with it. She never had been above striking another when it suited her. Furthermore, the beautiful young woman had been gifted at inflicting damage in such a way.

Not that Snape gave the furious shade another opportunity following the blow she had dealt to his kidney. Still, it was no easy task to dispatch of her, for as soon as he aimed his wand at her, she would vanish only to re-materialize close to him and strike at him once more.

He was beginning to tire by the time he prevailed, one of his spirit banishing spells finally striking her. Merlin, he hoped she didn't reappear later in the night. Facing her once had left him sore, bruised and favoring his left ankle – and he would no doubt spend some time urinating blood. He had to remember to let Pomfrey examine him when he had the chance.

Rapidly approaching footsteps had him straightening up, wand at the ready. The one approaching was Potter, however, and upon seeing that he was not being pursued, the Potions Master allowed himself to relax the slightest bit.

“How did you get rid of him?” the man asked.

Harry shook his head. “I didn't. Another spirit came along and helped me,” the boy replied. He limped the last few steps to meet his professor, knee even more sore from having run on it.

“Not unscathed, I see,” Snape noted dryly.

“You're not exactly 'unscathed', yourself,” Harry retorted, noticing the change in the way the man carried himself. The Potions Master simply grimaced in reply.

“I ought to have taught you the spirit banishing spell,” he said in a tone that could easily have been either apology or weariness. “First, let's see to that knee, Mr. Potter. Then, we had better get to the Headmaster. His office will undoubtedly be warded, even if the rest of the school is no longer.” Crouching a bit stiffly, the movement clearly exacerbating the soreness in his back, Snape peered at the boy's knee, extending his wand to cast a quick diagnostic before healing it.

It was thus that Harry had a clear view of his professor's face as the overwhelming stench of alcohol and old tobacco permeated the air. Snape's face, already extremely pale by nature suddenly grew ashen as his dark eyes widened in obvious alarm. Straightening quickly, the man whirled around, wand stretched before him at the ready and Harry mirrored his stance without prompting.

A mass of shadow seemed to be moving towards them, like a storm cloud billowing across the sky. There was a sound which kept repeating and coming closer, never quite stopping before it started up again. It took Harry a moment to realize that it was the windows blowing out as the shadows moved along the corridor.

“S-spir-” Snape's sudden sputtering caused the teen more alarm than the phenomenon closing in upon them. “Spiritus-” The man's ebony wand was abruptly ripped from his grasp.

“Now, Severus.” The voice sent a shiver crawling up Harry's spine. He watched, transfixed, as the shadows seemed to part in order to reveal the face of a man who resembled Snape, except the hair on his head was short and brown – and he looked much, much meaner. “Is that any way to talk to yer daddy, boy?”

0o0o0

He couldn't remember how to breathe properly. It seemed that the process involved filling one's lungs to capacity before exhaling and repeating the process, but the futile gasps he was currently making seemed inadequate for the task.

“Is that any way to talk to yer daddy, boy?” Merlin, he hadn't forgotten one single detail of how that phrase was spoken. Not the words, nor the tone, nor the cruel glint in the dark, soulless eyes...

How was it that ten simple words could still leave him feeling so helplessly terrified after almost twenty years?

Beside him, Potter was waving his wand. “Expecto patr-” With a sneer, his father thrust forward a hand and the boy hurtled backwards. The spirit tread a menacing step closer.

“I – I'm an adult, now,” Snape declared shakily, unconsciously repeating his words from years prior. “I don't have to let you hurt me, anymore.”

Tobias' lips spread into a terrifying smile. “No,” he agreed, tone matter-of-fact, his cloak of shadows writhing around him, “but ye will. 'Cos adult or not, ye've always been worthless, and pathetic, and weak. That's what ye are, Severus. Nothin' but a waste of space. And ye think ye could get away with what you did? Hmm? Killin' yer own daddy, boy? Ye think ye could get away with that?!” His voice, which had risen in an intimidating crescendo, abruptly became chillingly soft.

“Don't make me laugh.”

Harry looked on in a sort of horrified daze. He lay half-sprawled in the corner into which he'd been thrown, his left hand buried in his hair as he gently cradled the bleeding gash near the back of his head. Vaguely, he wondered whether or not he had yet another concussion. It certainly wouldn't have surprised him. By some miracle or strange fluke, he had managed keep a hold on his wand. At least he had that in his favor.

Eyes wide, he watched as the spirit surged forward, backhanding the Potions Master with enough force to throw him to the ground. Why wasn't Snape giving back as good as he got? Snape was not one to be beaten down, to cower like some frightened first-year who'd just blew up his potion in the meanest teacher's classroom.

But that's just what was happening right before his eyes – and Harry knew for a fact that it wasn't just the head injury. Snape's father struck out at him with his hands and feet, cursing and belittling him. Never before had the Potions Master seemed in any way small to Harry as he did then, curling upon himself defensively, a litany of conditioned pleas parting his lips.

It was disconcertingly like watching himself with his uncle, and Harry didn't like it at all.

That was when the words of the nameless woman came back to him: Remember that fear can weaken even the strong. As absurd as the idea had been to him even a short while before, Harry knew without doubt that Snape was afraid, and in a manner than he himself could understand. It would now take no effort for him to guess what form Snape's boggart would take.

Boggart.

Fear.

“Riddikulus!” Harry shouted suddenly, struggling to sit. His heel rolled against something on the floor, and he looked down to find Snape's wand beneath his left foot. With a bit of dizzying effort, he moved up onto his hands and knees, his left hand closing over the blackened wood.

Forcing himself to his feet, Harry staggered forward. “Sir, he's your boggart!” he called out. “The more afraid you are, the stronger he is! You've got to stand up to him. Expecto patronum!” His patronus burst forth from his wand, charging at the spirit who drew back with a menacing snarl.

Snape scrambled upright, fighting the aches and pains that would have him remain recumbent. A moment later, Potter had reached his side, pressing his wand into his hand. Together, they watched as the regal stag forced the spirit back, banishing some of the darkness which accompanied him. The glowing creature made another pass-

-then Tobias swung at it with one arm, fingers curled into a furious claw, and the stag blinked from existence.

For a split second, the two wizards practically gaped, then Snape's wand was up and he cast with a surety which had previously failed him in the face of his nightmare. “Spiritus recedemus!”

It struck the spirit in the chest. Tobias didn't even flinch. “Oh, dear, oh, my – how it tickles,” he drawled.

There was a moment where a part of Snape wanted to collapse in defeat, to cry in hopeless frustration. His father was too strong. He had no hope of standing up to him. Then, movement at the corner of his eye briefly drew his attention to Potter.

The foolish boy was still standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, wand held out before him. Snape was not stupid. He could see the fear in Potter's eyes, the faintest of tremors that shook his frame. But he could also see the determination and resolve. This wasn't even the child's fight and yet he had committed himself to it. The man almost marveled at the sheer, bull-headed audacity such courage must require when he realized that Potter had had one thing absolutely right.

Tobias was his boggart. Facing him would never be as difficult for the teen as it was for himself.

“Expulso!” Snape hissed seconds after the failed banishing, although it had seemed far longer in his mind. The spell had not been directed at the spirit, but rather as the chandelier which hung from the ceiling. It wouldn't stop Tobias, of course, but as present as he was in their reality, it would slow him down, even if it was just a fraction.

The spirit was forced to dissipate and reform as the large light fixture crashed down upon him. Potter had a spell of his own ready the moment he reappeared, hitting him with a stunning spell which caused Tobias to falter in his movements even if it didn't have the same effect it would have on a living person.

Livid, the spirit flung an arm at the teen, but loathe as Snape had been to admit it in the past, Potter was quick and had managed to erect a shield. The boy skidded back a few feet rather than being thrown down the corridor like before.

While Tobias was distracted with Potter, Snape shot another spirit banishing spell immediately followed by the blasting curse. He dodged preemptively, a split-second before the chandelier was hurled at him, feeling a small sense of satisfaction when the boy had the sense to take the spirit's diversion to hurl the strongest spells he knew at him.

Back and forth they went, like some twisted three-person dance. Several times, Snape suspected that they were succeeding only in angering his father further. Then, the specter would falter, obviously being affected by the spells they cast upon him.

Only, he wasn't wearing down quickly enough. At the rate they were going, professor and student would tire long before the vengeful shade. Magic was clearly affecting him, so the trick was to successfully weaken Tobias enough to banish him, then hope he wouldn't be able to return before the night was through.

Perhaps it was time for a bit of overkill.

“Potter, after me!” Snape called out, taking the slightest bit longer to exaggerate his wand movements and hoping the boy was the quick-study Minerva often claimed. “Spiritus recedemus!” he cast.

“Spiritus recedemus,” Potter successfully repeated, although Snape hadn't paused to see if he would, for he had already began casting the next spell, fiercely focusing upon the bright smile of a little red-haired girl in his memory.

“Expecto patronum!” A doe sprung forth, charging at the spirit without hesitation. Snape could hear Potter's echo even as he himself put all he had left into repeating the first spell, a silent prayer that he had speculated correctly rising from his very being. “SPIRITUS RECEDEMUS!”

Potter's patronus struck Tobias at the same time the Potions Master's final banishment hit home. With a deafening roar, the man of Snape's nightmares seemed to explode, chunks of shadow bursting in all directions like ethereal tar.

All was silent. The smell of tobacco and liquor was suddenly gone. Then, Snape let out a relieved gasp which both of them knew to be a sob.

Bending forward, Harry rested his hands heavily on his knees, gulping in air like a man sorely deprived of that luxury. They were still alive! All he wished for, just then, was to crawl into his bed and forget that Halloween was a day that had ever existed.

With an effort, they both straightened, turning almost as one to drag themselves onward to the Headmaster's office, only to find their path obstructed.

The little girl of earlier stood before them, only her face was more akin to a demon of the deepest hell. Her left hand gripped the hair of her doll so ferociously that the dark curls were all but ripped from the porcelain head. Brandishing the knife with a white-knuckled grasp, she growled at them.

“That,” she spat in a voice like nails on a chalkboard, “wasn't nice!” She lunged at them.

“Potter, don't let-” Snape cried out in warning, but he was too late.

Harry let out a soul-rending scream.

0o0

0o0

It was still early. The castle itself seemed to be shaken following the events of the evening prior. Classes had been dismissed for the day, the staff in no better state to teach than the students were to learn.

He moved along the corridor, more slowly than was his custom, noticeably favoring his left ankle.

The majority of the trespassers in the night had been mostly harmless, benign or intent only upon minor havoc. Not all could be so described, however. Tobias may have been the darkest of the lot, but he had been intent upon his purpose. Others were not so picky.

A password was bitten out and a stone gargoyle leaped to one side.

It was the school ghosts who first noticed that something was amiss, and they had quickly come to the defense of their home and its inhabitants. A group of Hufflepuffs owed their well-being to the Grey Lady, whereas the Bloody Baron had hastened straggling Ravenclaws and Gryffindors to their towers. Nearly-Headless Nick had exercised the good sense to go for reinforcements and had returned with the Headless Hunt.

Without awaiting an answer to his sharp knock, Snape swept into Dumbledore's office, dark eyes fixing fiercely upon him. The Headmaster looked weary, even a bit distraught, but for all that, he was clearly undamaged. Snape's lip pulled back from his teeth in a sneer as his gaze slid to the large brownish crystal which sat on the edge of the man's desk.

Taking four long strides, the Potions Master lifted up the soul stone and hurled it at the nearest wall, where it shattered.

“Was that quite necessary, my boy?” Dumbledore asked mildly.

“Do not call me that!” Snape hissed. He could easily live with never being called 'boy' again.

“It was a... difficult night.”

“You are an idiot.”

The Headmaster continued as though his professor had not insulted him. “However, I do feel that you ought to have offered up an explanation before destroying a priceless artifact. I had yet to even ascertain its purpose,” he admonished without heat.

“It was a bloody open invitation for all and sundry beyond the Veil!” snarled Snape. “Don't! Don't you dare say that it's 'intriguing' or whatever other imbecilic synonym may be ready to trip off your tongue. You ought to have known better than to bring an unknown artifact into a bloody school!”

“Severus.”

“A child is dead, Albus! A dozen more are injured and traumatized. Yet another – your very own golden boy – spent the majority of the night fighting for his life. And I was nearly murdered by my father. Again!” Snape railed at the man. “So, don't you 'Severus, my boy' me. I am not inclined to listen to the excuses of a man who didn't even bother to have a contingency plan for a ward failing!”

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. The Potions Master panted quietly, slightly winded due to his ranting and half-healed injuries.

Finally, Dumbledore gave a sigh, tilting his head in concession. “I presume you did not come only to lecture me?” he surmised.

“I did not,” Snape replied, finally lowering himself into a seat. Merlin, his kidney was liable to kill him before his next dose of renal restorative. Suddenly tired, he met his employer's gaze. “I have news regarding the Dark Lord from Regulus Black.”

0o0o0

The man nearly startled right out of his chair as a hand shook his shoulder. “Professor?” Snape gave the mediwizard a nasty look. “Your Madam Pomfrey requested that I give you your next dose of potions, and to convince you to lie down, if I could.”

Not offering up a response, the professor accepted the potions vials and quickly downed them one after the other, grimacing at the taste. Then, he turned his back to the man in dismissal.

Potter still wasn't awake. It wasn't terribly surprising, considering the injury he had taken. While the spirit girl's knife had caused no damage to his physical being, it had done grievous injury to his soul. Spectral weapons could harm only spectral flesh. It was extremely fortunate that St. Mungo's had had a healer on duty capable of repairing the damage.

“I am sorry,” Snape found himself addressing the unconscious teen, “that I so long believed you to be an arrogant, self-serving brat. You showed great character last night, Mr. Potter.”

He studied the child's face. It was easier, when the boy was at rest, to see how he also resembled his mother. What a shame that it was so difficult to notice whilst he was awake.

“You made a rather keen observation concerning my regards towards my... my father. I am not certain I would have prevailed had it not been for your input. Seeing him again in such a way made it was easy to forget that things had changed.” It had been far too easy to fall back into the role of hapless victim, and a part of Snape was disgusted by this fact.

The boy's eyelids fluttered a bit, his brow furrowing slightly before smoothing out once more. Snape leaned forward slowly, something in his chest loosening as the boy finally began to rouse.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled thickly, eyes still shut.

Snape arched a brow, lips twitching. “For what are you apologizing?” he asked, truly curious.

“'m sorry your dad's like my uncle,” came the reply.

The Potions Master stilled, any hint of amusement that had touched his features completing gone as his stomach clenched. “As am I,” the man said slowly, “I was unaware they had so much in common.”

“Don't like to talk about it.” Another quiet mumble, followed by a long silence as Snape stared pensively. Was it possible? Could it truly be that Potter's upbringing was in any way similar to his own? Snape was not certain, but he would most assuredly be finding out.

Another half an hour passed and Snape had had to abandon the chair in favor of slowly pacing Potter's hospital room. He was starting to think there was some sense behind Poppy's desire to have him resting in a bed. First, he must see Potter conscious once more – and then he could leave it to the brat's friends to keep him company.

“Professor Snape?” The voice was quiet and still rather rough from potion-induced sleep. When the man turned, green eyes peered blearily up at him.

“Awake this time, Potter?” Snape queried with a small smirk.

Harry frowned confusedly at the man. He tried to sit up, hissing as pain shot up from above his right hip. Putting his hand against the spot, he was surprised to find that the area was cold to the touch, like a thread of ice beneath the surface of his skin.

“Where am I?” he asked. “What happened?”

“You are at St. Mungo's Hospital. For future reference, spirits carrying weapons can wield them against your spirit. The little girl managed to slice into your soul before either of us could stop her,” the Potions Master explained. “You were very lucky that there had been someone able to knit you back together, as it were. You could just as easily have died.” He left out the fact that Potter had nearly done just that.

“Cheery,” Harry muttered, rubbing his hand over the area. The boy frowned.

“Yes.”

“Sir?”

“You will always be able to sense where you were injured. It will always feel cold to you. Others will not be able to detect it unless they know what to look for, however,” Snape told him.

“Oh.” The boy watched for a moment while the man paced a few more steps before returning stiffly to the chair. “Professor?”

“Yes, Potter?”

“Are you... Well, are you all right, sir?”

Snape peered at the boy. Twenty-four hours earlier, he would have suspected insincerity in the question. “No,” he said, surprising himself with his honesty. “But I have every reason to expect that I will be.”

The boy nodded, letting his head fall back into the pillow. He frowned to himself as he considered how to word the next question which weighed on his mind. There were many things he wanted to ask, of course, but most he thought he could probably save for later, when he didn't feel quite so tired.

“What is it, Potter?” his professor prompted when he failed to speak.

“When I was running from the spirit who dragged me away from you, another spirit came to help me,” Harry began slowly. “Why didn't... I mean, why do you suppose my parents didn't come? They should have been able to, right? If they really wanted to?”

“Stop right there, Potter,” Snape spoke in a tone that was gentle for all that it was also stern. “Before you let your mind run wild with disappointment or insecurities, you should be aware that it is not the hallmark of happy spirits to venture beyond the Veil. Those who come to our plane cannot be numbered among the content.”

The teen had lowered his gaze, struggling with himself despite the man's words. “What does that mean?” he asked plaintively.

“Your parents failure to come to visit you or come to your aid does not mean they do not love you, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. “It means that they have found peace and are therefore far removed from the troubles of our realm.”

Green eyes bright with unshed tears rose to meet black. After a moment, Harry offered a wan smile.

Settling back again, the teen shut his eyes, once more. “Sir?” he spoke up after a minute. He was starting to mumble again, obviously on the brink of unconsciousness.

“Yes, Potter?”

“I'm sorry.”

“What for, this time?” Snape asked.

Harry cracked an eye open to look at him, frowning minutely. Clearly, he didn't not recall their earlier conversation. Just as well. Snape wanted to do a bit of investigating before broaching the subject with him.

Both of the boy's eyes were closed again and the Potions Master was starting to think that Potter wouldn't continue, after all.

“Sorry for thinking you were just a greasy old git...”

The boy missed the amused smirk which claimed his features, then. “Well, Potter,” Snape said, rising up from his seat to go find a bed of his own, “I daresay, that much, at least, is true.”

0o0