“The wart of hebridean lipsipsip goes after the diricawl eye,” Hermione pointed out helpfully, just as Malfoy was about to add the disgusting growth. The Slytherin’s jaw tensed.

“Before,” he insisted, reaching toward the cauldron again. Hermione held his arm back.

“No, after; look,” she pointed at the directions with one hand, even as the other continued powdering alihotsy root. It took a lot less time to ready the Room of Requirement (she’d never, ever tell Ron she took Malfoy there) for the scrying ritual than it would to brew the potion, so Hermione had volunteered her services in preparing the ingredients. And a good thing, too; the blonde had almost ruined several hours of hard work!

“Thank you, Granger,” Malfoy ground out, “I know what the book says, but I also know that if we put one lipsipsip wart in first in softens the reaction of the diricawl eye and makes the cauldron rather less likely to explode, while having no negative effect on the resulting potion. Now kindly remove your filthy hand from my person.” Hermione glared at him for the slur, but the arrogant Slytherin just stared coolly back. “You’re getting alihotsy powder on my robes.”

The girl jerked her hand back, and sure enough a chalk-like handprint was left on the black cloth.

“Now, will you allow me to go on with the potion in the way I know is best, being that I, in your own words, am better at potions theory than you,” Malfoy asked primly.

Hermione felt her face flush in embarrassment. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Why wouldn’t they put something like that in the directions?”

“Because whoever invented the potion stopped dithering around as soon as he got it right,” Malfoy said while carefully adding the one wart, enunciating clearly as if speaking to a child. “It was only after the potion was invented that advancements were made.”

Hermione stayed silent after that, watching Malfoy carefully as he followed the directions from then on. Finally, all the ingredients had been added; once the potion had sat overnight to cool and thicken, it would be ready and they could find Professor Snape. She hoped her instinct that Snape and Harry were together was correct.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus tossed and turned in his sleep

In his dream, he was back at the Dursley residence watching Potter faint from pain. He had seen such abuse before, in the memories of people now in Azkaban or serving the Dark Lord.

What if Potter had followed the same route? What if the Boy-Who-Lived had become hardened by the abuse and turned dark? It would have been a disaster of monumental proportions and that horrid muggle Vernon Dursley was behind it.

Severus took hold of the fat man’s cane and ripped it from his hands.

“Monster,” he declared softly, bringing the stick down on Dursley’s arm. “Fiend, demon, slime, cur.” With each word, he brought the stick down again and again.

“You have no idea what you could have brought down upon us all.” He slammed the stick against the wall behind him and heard a latch pop open and the creak of a door. Glancing backward, Severus saw a small cupboard with an old cot inside, the fabric stained an ominous dark brown in places.

“I would kill you for this, you know,” he told the muggle casually. “I would kill you and wouldn’t even consider it murder, since I don’t consider you worthy of the title of human. But I won’t; yet. I suggest you pray to your last breath that what you have broken can be fixed.”

He hit the man one last time, hard, on the crown of his head, knocking him unconscious. Severus then gently lifted Potter and, pausing only long enough to spit on Dursley’s great lumpy form, left number 4.

The entire walk back to the edge of the anti-apparition wards and then from Hogwarts’ gate to the infirmary, the professor’s mind had been in a whirlwind. The memories returned; memories of small, twitchy students, unnaturally wary and quiet; the ones who had rarely left for home during the holidays.

Jacob Headrow, two years below Severus in school – joined Voldemort at age 17.

Melissa Yeats, a year younger than Jacob – received the Dark Mark as soon as she got out of St. Mungo’s right before sixth year.

Cassius Benton, a seventh year when Severus had first started teaching – sent to Azkaban on two counts of torture curses on unarmed victims and fourteen counts of muggle baiting.

And more, so many more, just like them. All but a very few turned Dark and either went to Voldemort for revenge or, after his temporary defeat, sought it themselves.

In every case, though, those that hadn’t turned Dark had at least one parent, besides the abuser, who honestly cared for them. Harry had nothing but the firm conviction that his parents must have loved him – not even the memory of that love was left to him. Severus knew what Voldemort had offered the boy in his first year, the chance to be with his parents again, to be away from the Dursleys. And all it would have taken would be giving up one small stone. The former spy couldn’t honestly say that, if he had been in the same position, he would have hesitated even a moment before giving the Dark Lord what he desired, just for the chance to feel a parent’s love.

The thought that Harry Potter was that much stronger than him was…unsettling.

In the dark cell of Voldemort’s dungeon, Severus tossed and turned in his sleep.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Draco waited impatiently in an alcove just outside the Great Hall. He was to help Granger draw the pentagram and set up for the ritual in the Room of Requirement today, and they had agreed to eat early breakfasts so they wouldn’t be missed. Unfortunately, just as Draco had gotten up to leave, Weasley had sauntered groggily into the Hall and plopped down next to Granger, engaging her in muffled, sleep-addled conversation.

Finally, a quarter of an hour late, Granger slipped out of the immense double doors and looked around surreptitiously. She must have seen Draco, because a moment later she turned and walked up the steps. The Slytherin followed a minute later, following her rout from memory up to that fascinating seventh floor room. Draco had thought all potion labs were in the dungeons, but he supposed Rowena Ravenclaw might have wanted one nearer her aerie.

Inside, Draco found Granger carefully testing the consistency of the potion with Draco’s own stirring spoon – one that had cost him twenty-six galleons at the apothecary because it was guaranteed to be completely non-reactive with any and all potions. A spike of annoyance went through him, but he reminded himself that Ganger would be useful to help him find his mentor and get him back, and therefore he couldn’t chop her up for ingredients just yet. He settled for mentally calling her several (admittedly rather childish) names.

“Is it ready?” he asked, keeping the scorn in his voice to a minimum.

“Almost, from what I can see,” she said, grimacing slightly as if unsure. “What do you think?”

Draco took the spoon and gently dipped it into the center of the cauldron, pulling it up and watching the potion drip off the end. “Still just a little too thin – it needs to be about the consistency of fresh blood to work. Have you found a place for us to do the ritual?”

Granger nodded, bushy hair bouncing slightly. “It’s just off the castle grounds, so there won’t be as much interference from the wards,” ‘or as much chance of getting caught’ was left unsaid. “The book said the ritual is strongest when done just before dawn, so will you meet me here at five-o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be here Granger,” Draco promised, “don’t let me down.”

The Gryffindor rolled her eyes and set the lid back on the cauldron.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

As large as the bucket of water had seemed at first, it certainly hadn’t lasted long. Harry and Snape had been left completely alone since they had first woken after the encounter with Voldemort – not even a house-elf had arrived to remove the empty container. Almost as bad as the hunger and thirst – at least in Harry’s mind – was the tense monotony of having only Snape for company. The man was clearly frustrated with their predicament, and, though he seemed to be making an effort not to, often fell into his old habit of taking his frustrations out on Harry. Verbally, of course.

They had started the day with an impromptu counseling session.

“So, Mr. Potter, what do you think of your alternate personalities?” Snape had asked.

Harry had told him about his first impressions of each of them, and how mostly he was just confused, because he couldn’t think of anything in his past that would require him to have reinforcements inside his head.

“Is your memory so poor you cannot even recall information you, yourself, were told, Potter?” the professor had sneered. “I told you before that you can’t remember because the alters themselves have taken your memories, leaving you without a single worry in your empty, famous head.”

The boy had bitten back a sharp retort that was sure to get him nowhere and started counting the stones in the wall opposite him. Snape was silent for a while, then tried to coax more information out of him, asking him if he had noticed anything else. Harry ignored him, not feeling up to being ridiculed for answering questions, but that had just angered the potions master further. The whole ‘session’ had dissolved into a shouting match unfortunately quickly and neither had attempted to start a conversation again, leaving them in aggravatingly stiff silence.

As the day wore on, the situation wore on Harry more and more. He was very hungry, the pain of it gnawing in his stomach; he was desperately thirsty, his tongue felt parched and swollen; and worst of all was the all-encompassing fear that had only recently descended as the reality of his situation sank in. He had been captured by Voldemort and was being held with no apparent chance for escape until the snake-faced, murdering megalomaniac decided what to do with them.

At random times it would be too much and he would Blank Out, waking up seconds (or maybe minutes) later, always with Snape’s eyes on him. It was aggravating, annoying, and wreaking havoc on what little peace of mind he had left.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus watched Potter carefully throughout the day. The situation was clearly outside the boy’s comfort zone, and he seemed to be wearing down rather quickly. The physical pain couldn’t be helping with that either.

Gradually, the little spot of sun that made it through their pitiful excuse for a window moved across the floor, and the professor noticed something interesting. As he watched out of the corner of his eye, Potter would put a hand on his undoubtedly aching stomach, cast his eyes around wildly, take short, gasping breaths, then switch to an alter. More often than not it was Boy who popped out, whimpering and muttering pleas for food (all of which only made Severus’ hatred of the boy’s uncle grow). Occasionally one of the others would emerge – he’d been on the receiving end of some fierce glares from ether Mike or James (he was relatively certain they both held him in the same esteem), and Foster had wished for pudding once or twice.

The more this happened, the more clear it became to Severus that the Boy-Who-Lived would not be able to fulfill his destiny without integrating his personalities.

At a time Severus guessed to be shortly after noon, he decided to break the silence.

“Potter,” he began, the boy’s head shot up and he made eye contact warily. “I have already told this to Tom, but I believe you should know it as well. You know of Trelawney’s prophecy, correct?”

“Um…yes,” Potter answered unsurely.

“Good, that makes this easier,” Severus muttered to himself. “I believe that your alternate personalities do not fall under the description in the prophecy, only you yourself do.”

Potter’s forehead creased with confusion. “Description? Description of what? All it said was that Pettigrew would go back to Voldemort, unless I completely missed a part of it.”

Severus wanted to hit his head against the wall. Or, failing that, Potter’s head. The idiot boy was, of course, referring to the prophecy made just over two years ago. When Dumbledore had first told him about it, he’d been sure it referred to Black, but later evidence showed that Pettigrew was, indeed, that ‘servant of the Dark Lord’.

“Potter,” he growled, aggravated, then rubbed his forehead in an effort to calm down. “There was another prophecy, made shortly before you were born. Dumbledore told you about it after the unfortunate events at the end of last year, but I suspect you were…not yourself at the time.”

Potter nodded thoughtfully, shuddering slightly.

“As far as I know, it says that, in the end, either you must kill the Dark Lord, or he will kill you,” Severus explained. “The description of the person in the prophecy includes your birth at the end of July, some…qualities of your parents, and being marked by the Dark Lord. Because of the specificity within the prophecy, I do not believe any of your alters would be able to fulfill it; however, as you are now, you cannot stand as yourself within the Dark Lord’s presence. It would be…fortuitous if we were to find a way to put you back together before the time comes to accomplish your destiny.”

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Harry listened as Snape explained, glad that the teacher seemed to be in a slightly calmer mood, though there had been a worrisome moment where the man had seemed about to say something harsh. He had only patchy memories of the last month or so of school, an none whatsoever of the last week, and whenever he tried to think about the sense of horror, guilt, and despair he got was almost enough to send him into a Blank Out all on its own. As the professor told him about the prophecy, he got a flash of memory: a pensieve and a ghostly voice saying “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…”

He almost didn’t hear the reasons Snape gave, but his mind focused instantly on the idea of being ‘put back together’.

“W…would I get my memories back?” he asked hesitantly, hopefully.

If he had to pick one thing he hated more than anything else about his Blank Outs – more than waking up and not knowing where he was or what he was doing, more than the panicky, drowning feeling as they came on – it was the feeling that he’d been cheated out of a good portion of his life. Harry hoped he was never obliviated, hated the whole idea of obliviation in fact, because he believed with all his heart that memories were a person’s dearest possession, and even if a memory only brought confusion or pain, it was still wrong to take it away. A part of him (his own part) hated his ‘alters’ for that, for taking away something that was meant to be his alone.

“The research I have done leads me to believe so,” Snape agreed stiffly. “Though I doubt you will enjoy the process of getting them back.”

“Well I don’t exactly enjoy not having them, either,” Harry said shortly. “They’re my memories.”

Snape sneered, and Harry fought to not shrink away from the sudden vitriol he saw in the man’s eyes.

“Where was this respect for memory last year, Potter?” he asked with deceptive calm. “I find it hard to believe you are so passionate on the personal nature of one’s recollections, based on your deplorable violation of my pensieve.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. The anger of the potions master was frightening enough, but the accusations he had leveled…Harry didn’t know how he had gotten into the pensieve, one moment Draco Malfoy was talking to Professor Snape, the next he was watching his father be unconscionably cruel, but the professor had appeared before he’d got his bearings and started shouting at him and shaking him. If Harry hadn’t been so dazed at the time, he had little doubt he would have Blanked Out.

After a day or so he had rationalized it away as something Snape had done voluntarily, but apparently that wasn’t true. The realization that he had wronged the man so badly tipped the precarious balance within he had been clinging to, and everything went Blank.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus glared at Potter as the boy went pale under his gaze. Confusion and horror warred on the young face for a moment before both emotions were wiped away. Potter slouched slightly, sighed, and turned Slytherin eyes on his professor.

“Look, Professor Snape,” Tom said quietly. “Harry was quite sincere in what he told you. He would never have gone into your pensieve. It was me.”

Severus felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, though in retrospect he supposed it should have been obvious – Tom being the one who did the ‘bad stuff’.

“In our fourth year, Harry went into Dumbledore’s pensieve before he knew what it was, and the Headmaster brushed it off, saying it was natural to be curious, so it didn’t seem like a very big deal. Also, I think we were all a little angry during fifth year that Dumbledore had seen fit to give you a pensieve, somewhere to hide what you didn’t want seen, when we were left unprotected. I guess I just wanted to see what was so bad that Dumbledore would offer you that courtesy, despite the fact that it was our mind that would be routinely broken into.” The boy rubbed the back of his neck. “I know that’s no excuse, but I hope it’s proof enough that Harry didn’t – wouldn’t – do something like that, and he’ll likely apologize for it, even though he doesn’t remember it, the moment he wakes up. Please don’t blame him for it.”

What Tom said made sense, in a way. There was still a good amount of anger at the memory, but at least Severus now knew where to direct it. Pity, really, he had actually liked Tom. Also, he and Dumbledore would be having a talk when – and if – Severus returned to school. He’d had no idea the man hadn’t given Potter a pensieve, what was he thinking? Sending the boy into private Occlumency lessons with a man who hated him and no protection for his privacy whatsoever…nothing could excuse that, especially not selfish motives like ‘protecting’ Potter by keeping him ignorant. He had been rather blunt with the headmaster on the topic of protecting the boy by keeping him ignorant, but Albus had been too emotionally tied up in the problem to see the truth: that he was only trying to protect himself from having to be the one who took away Potter’s illusions.

Tom seemed to take Severus’ silence as a reason to keep talking.

“For what it’s worth, Harry woke up about midway through the memory, and was devastated by what he saw. He lectured Sirius and Professor Lupin about it afterward, wanting some sort of explanation for what they thought they were doing, but all they said was that Dad had been fifteen at the time, and everyone was idiots at fifteen. It wasn’t then, and never will be, enough of an explanation for us, and I doubt we’ll ever again be able to think fondly of our father. The only consolation we have is that Mum tried to stop them.”

Severus winced internally. He remembered that; Lily had been a kind person, and had yelled at James Potter loudly and often for the things they did, but he had never been able to see past the added humiliation of being protected by a Mudblood. If he hadn’t been so blind during his youth, he suspected he and Potter’s mother might have become friends, as odd as that thought might be.

“Is Potter likely to wake up soon?” Severus asked shortly, dismissing the conversation for later thought, as it would take more energy and concentration than he could conjure up in a dungeon.

“I would doubt it,” Tom admitted. “With the combination of physical and emotional stress he’s under, even if he did come out, he’d probably just Blank Out again in a few minutes.”

They both fell silent again, falling into their own contemplations. Severus, morbid as always, contemplated his impending reminder of mortality. Knowing Voldemort, it would not be something painless or quick like the killing curse, but just how long it would take depended on what Voldemort decided to do with Potter. The most obvious choice would be to use Severus’ death to torture Potter further, which meant it wouldn’t drag on over days, since Voldemort would want to get to Potter’s death as quickly as possible. However, he could also be impatient enough – or worried enough about Potter’s abilities – to kill Potter first, in which case the Death Eaters would likely be given all the time in the world to torture him into insanity and eventual death.

Maybe he could convince Tom to kill him. Severus sighed heavily, breath ghosting over parched lips. Not likely.