Calm, sweet death had sang to him like a siren; and as the countless Greek sailors of legend, he too had ran to her call. She was beautiful, and she promised him what he could not attain in life; peace. Endless peace. He had so longed to be with her, and he had accepted him with open arms. In her eyes he could see understanding, acceptance, wisdom. In her touch he felt safety, stability, warmth. In her voice he heard compassion, gratitude, love. He could smell a billion hopes and dreams tangled in her hair, each like an atom of the most luxurious perfume. Merlin, was she lovely. And she was taking him to be with her. She had a soft, velvety arm wrapped around his shoulders, slowly leading him away from all the pain he had ever known.

But something was against it. Something jerked him back like a chain around his neck, a chain that was slowly winding back upon its reel. The beautiful Death lost her gentle grip upon him as the crimson chain tightened, toppling him onto his back. The rough metal rings choked him, and he panicked, digging at his throat in a crazed attempt to rid himself of the thing. He had to get free… had to return to her… His hails scooped out trails of flesh as they dug at the chain, staining his hands and chest. Why couldn’t she help? Why? Why couldn’t he just go with her? Why was the entire world against him?

Suddenly, the angle of pull changed, letting him stand erect for a moment, letting him catch a glimpse of her helplessly watching. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t call out to her as the chain continued to pull him. He was being pulled up, hanging like a criminal on the gallows; and she was crying tiny diamonds.

And then, just as he thought his head would separate from his neck under the weight of his body, the chain was gone. The chain was gone and he suddenly found himself floating inside a glass cell, and the world outside had turned red. No, he realized, not the world… the glass was red. Blood red. He called to her, he screamed, but she was already fading, everything was fading, and he was trapped as always. And then there was pain again.

The glass cell he was in was filling slowly with silver liquid, a liquid that felt like liquid fire wherever it touched him. In a last, panicked attempt he plastered his palms to the glass, screaming at the speck of a figure, though in his heart he knew it was too late. He was lost to her, and she couldn’t possibly hear his screams. All that was left was his little cell of crimson glass and the mercury-like liquid that now reached to his waist. His chest. His shoulders. His chin…

.∞.

The sheer lack of any sort of feeling overwhelmed him. He could not see, could not smell, could not feel… as if there was just… nothing. Nothing in the whole wide world. And then the pain came back. It felt like the silvery substance; coursing, burning… but it was deeper this time. It was inside him. In his very veins. But this time, he could not move. His body felt like a large lump of coal, and served him just as well as he tried desperately to move.

“Mr… I insist y… this ins… Why I… n all my ye… will you… Mr…” A voice spoke briskly, fading in and out of the painful emptiness. “…r wounds… reopen if… at onc.. do you undr.. Mr…”

People, person, whatever… he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t on fire and he wasn’t dying… he stopped fighting, suddenly feeling totally exhausted. Even the burning in his veins died down to a dull tingle. He must be in a hospital, Hogwarts probably. Everything was going to be all right. They were all going to be all right. His father was probably right beside him, probably had already given him a numbing potion… or dreamless sleep.

The air smelled of cleaning products and medicinal potions when he woke, a faint chirping calling him back to the waking world. He tried to open his eyes, but could only get a slight glimpse of the good old infirmary before he had to snap them shut again.

“Too bright?”

He nodded, already hearing the rustling of curtains being drawn.

“Better?”

One eye cautiously drifted open, analyzing the new light intensity before the other followed suit.

“Feeling better Harry?”

“You’re mad at me.” he said hoarsely, instead of the accusation that had threatened to escape him. Couldn’t she of all people realize that he was not Harry? Though, in all honesty, how could she not be mad? “Look Lea, I’m sorry for putting you through that, honest I am, but please don’t-”

“Lea? Who’s Lea, Harry?” Lea interrupted, suddenly sounding quite edgy.

“You want me to call you Hermione again?” he sighed, throat soar, dejectedly noticing that she had cast off her necklace.

“That is my name, Harry…” the girl answered in a most unfamiliar tone, making him flinch slightly.

“Horris.” he insisted. If she wanted to use her real name, fine. Horris was his.

“Who?”

“Hor-ris. Call me Horris,” he repeated slowly, speaking to her as he would a small child (an action he knew annoyed her to no end), “I can’t stand ‘Harry’.”

“Erm…” she made the uncharacteristically un-Hermione-ish noise, “Just how hard did you hit your head?” she asked in utter seriousness.

“I hit my head?”

The morning proved despicably bright and painful. His skin felt extremely tender, underscored with a pulsating ache he could not pin down, while the bright sun burned at his uncovered face and arms. It took him three tries to sit up, ignoring the pain and annoying muscle spasms. Merlin, he hadn’t felt this miserable since the time Voldemort became displeased with his breadth of knowledge when it came to Dark Curses and had found it necessary to discipline him in the Madman’s sick techniques. And if it wasn’t for the bright whites of the infirmary, he would have been tempted to believe such a tutoring session was what had in fact occurred.

His vision was still blurry too, he noticed, as he peered around for anyone in his vicinity. He had ignored it yesterday (was it yesterday?), as he even found the short conversation with Lea draining, but his sight should have kicked in by now. He did find a single black blur next to what he knew was the water cup on his bedside table, picking it up in hopes of getting some rational explanation for the situation. What he did find, were glasses, and after arguing with himself for a good long while, he put the blasted things on before sliding off the hospital bed. These weren’t just any old glasses, either, but the despicable rims that had plagued his youth. Upon putting them on however, seemingly for the sole purpose of adding insult to injury, the world slid back into an acceptable level of focus, though still a far cry from the honed Asp sight he was used to.

“Hello?” he experimentally called out, checking if anyone was near, though nearly feinting at the sound of his voice. Merlin, what the hell was going on? He had never thought his voice overly deep, but this… this was ridiculous! He sounded twelve for Merlin’s sake!

Okay, don’t panic. he thought to himself, in his soothingly familiar mental voice. Probably just a side effect of some potion… not that he knew of any healing potion with such side effects, and his father had taught him most of the bloody things, but there might be one, and he might have taken it… And that was bloody well enough for him to cling on to so as not to fall into a full panic attack. Not that his theory helped when he looked into the lavatory mirror. And that’s where his twelve-year-old voice released an awfully girl-like scream. For there, in that damned mirror, the scrawny face of one Harry Potter stared right back at him.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

The boy heard people rush in, either scared by the scream or the loud crash the mirror made shortly after. He, however, didn’t so much as look up. He had slumped against the wall as soon as his back had come in contact with it, and that was where he wanted to remain indefinitely. There were large shards in his left hand, he knew, but he made no effort to remove them. Their added pain simply melded with the ongoing ache, both of which were being ignored in favor of the unadulterated horror that threatened to overtake him.

The people were talking now, asking him things, but he didn’t hear them. Didn’t want to hear them. He wanted to disappear, wanted for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be himself again. He wanted, no, he needed his dad. Where was his dad? Why wasn’t he here? Why!

Someone had levitated him over to the bed, probably realizing there was no point in trying to get him to move of his own accord. He hadn’t heard the spell being cast, he hadn’t felt the looseness of levitation, and he hadn’t noticed himself floating from the bathroom to his bed. Or maybe he had… and simply didn’t care. Funny, how he felt so detached all of a sudden, how he hadn’t even noticed that there was no more glass in his hand and that all the cuts had been healed.

“Are you all right?” a familiar voice asked him some time later, though he hadn’t a clue just how much time had elapsed. “Please, please say something.”

“How?” he asked her, how did all this happen?

“Oh Harry!” she cried with relief, hugging him tightly. “You’ve no idea how worried we’ve all been!”

How could she? He asked himself for the second time in just as many days. How could she of all people not realize how not all right he was! How could she of all people insist on calling him that and expect him to be happy? Didn’t she understand that Potter was the reason he was in such a state? He was in pain, he was emotionally spent and none of the people he needed were by his side but her, and she had the gall to twist the knife!

She must have felt his annoyance and anger, for she loosened the embrace enough to look at his glaring eyes, giving him enough room to pull the rest of the way out of her touch.

“Harry?” she asked uneasily,

“NO.” he snapped, ignoring how it ignited his throat, “Not Harry. Never Harry! Damn it Lea, I thought you, at least, would understand!”

“Understand what?” she asked, shocked.

“How can I be okay when I look like this!?” he growled at her. She must have seen that he was serious by now… it was impossible for her not to!

“Like what?”

“Like POTTER!” Damn it, didn’t she understand anything? Hadn’t he told her almost the same thing yesterday?

“Harry,” she said softly, after a long silence, “who else would you look like?”

“Like me, damn it!” he growled in frustration, “and for the last time, don’t call me Potter!”

“You… you’re not making any sense Ha-” she cut herself off, taking a deep breath, as if collecting herself, “you’re not making any sense. I’m going to go get Pomfrey, okay?”

He glared at her, having only felt this betrayed the night Weasley switched sides. She could jump off the North Tower for all he currently cared. Damn it, he had thought he could at least trust her not to leave him once she found out. What was she doing anyway, pretending he wasn’t Horris? Why did he look like Potter, anyway?

“I do believe that will prove unnecessary, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore’s voice calmed, stepping into their line of vision. “Though I do remember you promising a certain old man to come and notify him as soon as Harry’s condition changed…”

“Oh! Merlin, Headmaster. I’m sorry! I was going to, honest I was, but… when he… and then …”

“Quite all right, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore appeased, both thoroughly ignoring the fact that he was still very much in the room. “If you could kindly leave me to speak with Harry however…”

“Oh, of course, Headmaster.” she nodded, still flushed from having failed to do as Dumbledore had told her, before walking briskly out and leaving him alone with the Headmaster. Damn her. Since when was Lea such a teacher’s pet?

“Now, Harry my bo-”

“Oh cut the crap old man.” he cut the Headmaster off, not in the mood for any of his crap. “Just tell me what the hell’s been going on.”

“I beg your pardon, Harry?” the old man asked incredulously.

“You heard me. And for the last time, will everyone stop with all the Potter shit? Where’s dad?”

“Harry, are you feeling all right?”

“No. I’m in pain, everyone is trying to piss me off, and I need to see my dad!”

“Harry, I insist you calm yourself. I realize you have yet to be given all the pain potions but as you ought to know, they would interfere with the regrowth of your tendons. Now, though I understand your discomfort and would honestly like nothing less than to have to restrain you, I will do so for your own safety if you cannot control yourself.” Dumbledore warned, which the boy translated into something closer to ‘behave or I’ll have to punish you’, but figured against voicing his interpretation. “Now, what do you remember before you woke up in the hospital wing?”

He took a moment to weigh his options, deciding that complying might just be his best option, at least for now.

“Fighting Voldemort.”

“Excuse me? I thought you said you were fighting Voldemort.”

“That’s what I said.”

“In… the Department of Mysteries?”

“The what?” he cried in outrage, he had never fought the bastard there.

“Oh dear… the situation might be more serious than I thought… you must have… ” Dumbledore was muttering, looking quite old. He seemed to actually fall into a daze for a while, looking at a certain spot on the wall for what felt like an hour to the boy.

“Sir?” he finally spoke in frustration, annoyance clear in his voice, “would you mind, terribly, if I asked you to explain just what you think has happened to me?”

“I suppose you are in the right to know. Yes… yes of course you do..” the old man sighed, looking even older than before. “Now, during Voldemort’s first reign, before you were even a fleeing thought in your parents’ mind, Tom found a way to make himself a group of followers that would become his-”

“Asps.” he finished for the old coot, annoyed. He had wanted answers, not a day of watching the Headmaster dance around the matter. “ I know.” he added for good measure, seeing the look on Dumbledore’s face before pressing the matter. “Could you please get to the point?”

“You are aware of the Asps?” The headmaster asked, baffled, while switching topics completely. How thick the old man could get, the boy wondered with an exhausted sigh. How could he not know about his own charges! “But, my boy, you said that you did not even remember fighting Voldemortat the Ministry.”

“I’ve never fought him there.” he repeated blandly… what was with these people and their lack of input absorption? His father would have flocked them by now!

“Do you remember Fighting him at the Graveyard then? His resurrection?”

He nodded, annoyed at the old coot for stirring up such memories.

“Do you remember Umbrige? Auror Tonks even?”

He shook his head. Either the Headmaster was jumping topics like an Atlantic Ice frog, or the world on the whole had just adopted the old man’s crumpling psyche.

“Then, I fear,” the old coot continued, seemingly flipping the subject matter once more, “that the death of your Godfather has pushed you into a state that forced you to suppress events surrounding the unfortunate occurrence.”

The death of his-

“Sirius’ Death!” he nearly screamed at the Headmaster, as soon as he caught onto the man’s latest leap, “Sirius died?”

“Yes my boy…” the man nodded, speaking softly, “the anniversary is already approaching.”

“How could he have died months ago when he was here, not more than a few weeks ago?”

“As I’ve said Harry, you’ve suppressed a good amount of time it would seem. Almost two years, perhaps.”

“If all this is some case of suppressed memories,” which he severely doubted, but held his urge to say so, “then why can’t I simply receive the counter potion?”

“You must understand my boy, if such a thing existed-”

“Existed. Existed! By Merlin Dumbledore, what kind of mindless imbecile do you take me for?” he demanded, unable to hold it in any longer. “You know there is a counterpotion, you know I known about the Asps, and you damn well know I know of the antidote!” he growled, “So why in Hades, by Pluto’s call, are you standing there trying to tell me there isn’t?”

Well, the boy mused absently, that certainly shut him up…If the man thought a thin lie like that would allow his ass to be covered, he obviously bit too deep into the Potter features that were unwelcome but now present on the boy’s face. Big mistake

“Harry,” the Headmaster started when he had finally regained his vocal capacities, “I do realize you have not trusted me for the last year or two-”

year or two?

“- but I assure you that even if I have kept some things from you in the past, I would never outright lie.”

Yeah, right.

“Furthermore, I know not how you found out about the Asps, or how the concept of such a counterpotion materialized in your mind as a reality, but I must inform you it is in fact not a reality. If it was, I would not have kept you in pain and confusion for even a moment before administering it.”

“If that is the case, sir, then there is nothing further the hospital ward can offer me, and thus there is absolutely no point in me staying here.” he stated flatly, forcing himself to stand. Dumbledore wanted to be difficult? Fine. He only hoped the old man remembered which of them was the Snape.

Wisely, the old man didn’t protest.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

A painfully long half hour later found the boy in what could only be called a sorry excuse for his father’s tertiary potions lab. The location and the room were the same, in either case, thought the similarities seemed to end there. Filth, the kind of filth his father would have killed a first year for, seemed to stick to everything; the walls, the desks, the cauldrons and even the damn door.He wondered how his father had allowed it to fall to such a state (or what had forced him to ignore the lab); it was despicable. Still, he needed the blasted potion.

About half way to the storeroom he felt another’s presence in the room, but as it was neither his father’s nor Dumbledore’s, he chose to ignore it until he could deal with it without the pain. He pulled out the wombat toes and the freshest pint of a goat’s stomach acid he could find.

“Damn it, where are the bloody Whomping Willow seeds?” he cursed in frustration, not seeing the horned orbs anywhere. “There they are! Who in Merlin’s name puts Whomping Willow seeds behind Adder Forks?!” This was not, in any way, his father’s lab. It was a mess, pure and simple. Merlin, his dad was going to curse whomever was using this lab into the next coming!

The other ingredients, thankfully, were at least close to where they were supposed to be, and with most of the jars, he made his way back towards where his cauldron had been set up. The flame was set to a quarter’s way between ‘medium high’ and ‘high high’ (favoring the ‘medium high’) and the pint of goat’s stomach acid was poured in a figure eight along the pewter walls as they heated. When the first sound of sizzling happened, he started his hum while pulverizing the wombat toes. It was a trick his father had taught him a while back, a way to get the timing just right (far more enjoyable and precise that counting in one’s head, especially when trying to ignore an ailment). Depending on the desired time allotted and the number of turns the potion was to be mixed in said time, a certain tune was to be hummed. At present, he was humming away the two and a quarter minutes before the heat was to be turned down and the toes added in a counterclockwise circle.

The boy smirked, despite himself, humming to the tune of ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ as he mixed in several more ingredients. Who would have thought that he of all people would need to know how to brew Asp venoms? Thank Merlin his dad had insisted he know them! After all, after the way Dumbledore had acted (and the fact that he was almost sure it was an Asp venom that was hurting him), he didn’t quite fancy asking Draco to inject him directly. He looked over at the other cauldron, where he had dumped the ingredients that would change a portion of the synthetic healing venom into a modified version of his lost truth venom, which undid all sorts of mental barriers; voluntary or subconscious. He was thankful that the venoms had only two core recipes, and the last ingredient or two was what changed it from one to the other. He had to only work on the base venom, and use a bit to make a dose of the memory retriever by adding mermaid hair with crushed elephant tusk to it.

He was now quite glad that he had been so keen on watching his father brew, as the memory potion was a very recent invention. His presence in his father’s lab had taught him how to make a lot of the potions, though his real reason for wanting to watch him was to listen to his father hum. It was the only time Severus Snape would allow himself to hum, and as the best tunes to keep time were nursery tunes…

Thankfully, thinking about his father was calming him. Otherwise, he was sure he’d probably smash something by now. The pain and spasms were barely allowing him to force the cuts to be regular enough or the turns to remain more circular than oval. His father had demanded perfection, and would probably sneer at his current progress, but now more than ever the boy saw the need for it. If you can do the motions flawlessly and without needing to put great thought into it normally, it becomes far easier to do them well enough while in an emergency situation or while not at your best. With an extra groan, he knew which potion he’d have to concentrate the most on, if the other had any chance of working.

The base potion was turning the familiar milky white now, thankfully, which gave him exactly half an hour to let it simmer before he had to take it off the flame (now set a notch below ‘low’) completely and split it into two concoctions. He had noticed another presence walk in a bit back, but as it was not the best moment during the brewing to confront the Headmaster for annoyingly checking in on him, he had once again ignored it. Now however, he was quite ready to hear what the two onlookers were up to.

“-ve never seen anything like it, Headmaster.” he heard as he stretched his hearing, pretending to be cutting some of the left over lizard scales into tiny triangles.

“Are you sure, Fergal?” Fergal? Ferguson McWhirr? What the hell was he doing watching him?

“Positive Headmaster, in all my years of potions brewing, I’ve never come across any such concoction. Unless, of course,” McWhirr added, “the boy had simply botched his attempt to a degree from which the original cannot even be deduced.”

Or, the boy countered mentally, perhaps you simply know as much about potions as I do about keeping those exotic fish you seem so fond of…

“Do you think it is safe to allow him to use it?” the Headmaster asked, making the boy glare at the damn scales in order not to whip around and tell him exactly how much he needed the man’s permission to ingest said potion.

“I cannot say sir, as I’ve never come across this brew.” McWhirr answered, proving to the boy that the man’s potions skills truly were abysmal. Damn it, even at his age, the boy knew that all the toxic properties were counteracted in the potion by their most common counters! What would McWhirr do when faced with a recipe for an unknown potion? Brew it and ingest it? How thick could he get? “Though if I would be allowed to test the potion on a rat first, for the boy’s safety… and perhaps be given a written recipe?”

No, no, NO! There was no way he’d give the recipe to the idiot if the guy was not even smart enough to have attempted to write the recipe from watching him brew it! And testing it on rats? Despicable! Anyone with half a brain could see how different rat reactions were to human ones! Why, he wouldn’t be surprised if the potion did kill the blasted rodents in its present concentration!

He took the potion off the flame, careful not to be noticed, and decided to end McWhirr’s annoying presence in the lab after pocketing three vials, one with the simmered mermaid hair and ivory, the other two with chamomile and ground beaver teeth.

As soon as this is over, he vowed, I am putting repelling charms on me against a certain Headmaster and his pet professor.

He walked, fuming, out of the dungeons. How dare they? How dare they! McWhirr as potions master… as if! The concept was bloody laughable! The man could barely teach defense, let alone potions! And all this about his dad not working at the school anymore? Honestly! Even if their little story certainly explained why the Potions lab was so bloody dirty, there was no way in hell that his dad would ever truly serve Voldemort again. No. Way. In. Hell. Clear and simple.

He was extremely glad that he had pocketed more than enough of the potion before confronting them, as the remainder of his concoction was presently allowing him his chance to ditch the old fools. It was McWhirr’s own fault, really, keeping the lab so filthy. It was only the boy’s luck that there was enough essence of anteater and powdered goat hoof on the floor to cause the Whomping Willow seeds (now dissolved, making them more reactive) in the potion to activate. The result? Thick, blue-gray smoke that was known to cause confusion (or so every third year ought know… not his fault the supposed ‘Potions Master’ didn’t), but was otherwise completely harmless.

Okay, so his chosen course of action might not have been the most prudent, but hell, the old geezer was going on about mind alteration and Voldemort possessing him for crying out loud! Dumbledore must have gone bonkers! And the boy just knew that if he had allowed it, he’d be spending the next… Merlin knows how long… in the hospital wing. No way was he going to allow anyone to toss him back there. Not him, nope, not unless the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse dragged him there themselves. So he had had to have ‘accidentally’ knocked over his potion… a small price to pay. It was better than stunning them or something, at any rate, even if he had wanted to curse them… a lot.

Concentrate, he told himself, trying to get his anger under control. He couldn’t fume about the damn Headmaster, not now, even if said idiot was trying to get him to believe in some warped tale of his. He had to figure everything out, first and foremost, and for that he needed a place where they wouldn’t find him.

His room? Too obvious, and he had already walked away from the dungeons. He didn’t know what the Slytherins’ reaction to one Harry Potter stepping into their inner sanctum would be, either, which just made the location that much less accessible. The same rang true for his father’s office, especially if the old goon truly had tossed his dad out.

The Gryffindor dorms then? He did look like a Gryffindor, after all.

No, the choice was crossed off immediately. Unlike the Slytherins, the Gryffindors didn’t know how to keep out of a person’s business… and the common room was nearly never empty. No individual rooms, either, and getting the people out of the dorm would prove fruitless. Unlike a prominent Slytherin’s order, that of a Gryffindor was quite readily ignored. Damn Gryffindors!

Where then? The Marauders’ room? He’d hate to have to go back there. After all, that’s where the man he presently looked the ‘spitting image’ of conspired with his buds to humiliate his father! But, as annoying as it was to accept, the room was probably the safest place for him right now. Lea, Weasley, Sirius and Remus knew of it… maybe Dumbledore, but he knew that the place could be locked from all of them. He had used it to think before, and it certainly had the luxuries one needed for a somewhat prolonged stay (as he imagined this might turn into), not to mention the way it wouldn’t betray his actions or locations to anyone… even on the map.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

The state of the room was more shocking than that of the Potions lab, and the boy found himself wondering how many more such shocks it would take for him to go completely insane. There was dust everywhere, thick and dry, the kind that instantly took to the air at the lightest shift or movement. It hit his face dead on, too, when he pulled the door open with quite some force. Merlin above it was thick! He coughed and wheezed as it invaded his lungs, his struggle to regain his breath only spurring more dust into the air. No one must have been here in decades… a thought as comforting as disturbing. It should have been clean, after all the charms Lea and himself (and Weasley…) had dast after finding it. Either it never happen, or someone was trying to make it seem that it hadn’t; and the boy had far too great a headache to figure out which he’d prefer to assume at this point. Taking things at face value was dangerous, and being overly paranoid was proving taxing both mentally and physically.

He was half considering going to the damn Chamber, as he was at least sure any dust there would have only gathered naturally, and not out of some old Headmaster’s wand. The entrance was blocked though, and at present he needed somewhere not so filled with bad memories. It reeked of Voldemort, after all, and that was one man the boy did not want to think about right now. He was still standing in the entryway of the Marauders’ room, dreading walking in any further. But was there anywhere else? No, he supposed not. Not unless he went to the Forbidden Forest, but that would be dangerous on even more levels unless he remained in his animal form… and he couldn’t do what he wanted in that state. It would have to be here, then… dust and all.

He closed the door behind him ever-so-lightly, as not to entice the dust into a second assault on his lungs, and sat gingerly on one of the seats there.

“First thing’s first…” he mumbled, “let’s see what I’m dealing with.” He had to find out what abilities he could count on and which had been wiped away… by the loss of his venoms, by his sudden Potter-ish appearance, by the meddling of a certain Headmaster or some other inhibiting factor.

He shifted to the floor, careful not to stir the dust too much, and concentrated. He focused on the wisps of passive protective magic which he had always used to erect the wards. The strands were there, he was sure, but it was as if his attempts passed right through them instead of molding them into the wards he needed. Hell, he could barely sense the damn things. Shit. He tried banishing the dust, hoping that if he was to rely on his internal magic, it would work… that it was a problem with the room, not him.

Nothing.

And he hadn’t seen his wand since Merlin knew when. Perfect.

The boy panicked, pushing his reserves into the spell; any spell. Hell, even a burst of childish, uncontrolled magic would be welcomed. Still nothing. It had to be the room… but all the colors were the same. The walls still had the motley blue patches on them, the different hues merging and fading from one to the next. The paintings stood out as bright yellow squares, contrasting sharply with the pale blue walls. And the dust, seemingly devoid of all magic, glistened an unearthly white. Not made by Dumbledore then.

But… if he could see that it was natural dust… he still had his aura sight!

“The skills of your mind are eternal; while the skills of the body can wither right before your eyes.” he seemed to hear the words echo in the room around him, far more haunting than when his father had truly spoken them. And with each tested ability, they rang all the truer. The spells he remembered; even those he wish he could suppress and never think of again. But the power to focus those spells, he lacked. He could explain any combat move in perfect detail, but his body would reject his command. Potter’s muscles lacked precision and power. His reflexes seemed surprisingly slow for one who was acclaimed a great Seeker, and his hand-eye coordination was pitiful. No wonder Potter had been so much of a klutz at potions! Merlin, with this body, the boy was amazed that his potions turned out as well as they did.

Potter’s magic levels, too, seemed substantially weakened. Where once he could see bright violet wisps of energy, of power, now swam thin orangeish-red ones. Wandless magic was out of the question here. Permanently. Unless he could somehow overload Potter’s body with enough raw magic to flare his aura into green at least.

It was like being stuck in the body of a ten-year-old again. The body of a child; defenseless. He could barely see through the cloud of dust his movements had stirred up, though the piece of old tablecloth he had ripped off and tied around his face helped him breath. His eyes still stung, a lot, as the bulky frames offered almost no protection.

But at least he had checked most of his powers, he appeased, and that was what he had set out to do. That most didn’t work anymore could not be helped, at least not at present. And as he checked one last thing, hoping beyond hope that at least it would work, he was rewarded with the feel of his tail flicking cautiously before changing back. He had this, at least.

The potions, taken on his way to the room, should have already run their course. The pain had slowly faded, falling from his attention while he checked what level he was on. Now, as he realized that the pain had stopped, he also realized he gained no new memories… so he hadn’t suppressed them. He knew it! But that meant…

What did it mean? Was Dumbledore lying? It would certainly explain why the old coot had insisted that there was no potion to restore him… but if the Headmaster had altered so much in order to keep the illusion real, why had he not simply altered his memories too?

But if Dumbledore was telling the truth, an option the boy placed next to no faith in, how could his Animagus form still be intact?

The answers would not come to him in this room, however, that much was certain. Answers were annoying like that… they always made you look for them. But outside this room, apparently, Horatius Snape had never existed… and answers are weary of non-existent inquirers. No, outside this room he would have to be what everyone took him for; the idiotic Gryffindor brat known as Harry Potter. He had his Animagus form and his aura sight, however, perfect tools for finding fickle truths…

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

He walked the halls, as silent and unnoticeable as possible without the aid of his venoms or his old cloak. He tried to find out what the hell he had gotten himself into, trying to get any information he could without having to outright ask anyone for it. He found an odd date on a bulletin near the room he had left behind, one which announced him to have missed almost a year of his life. According to it, something called the ‘DA’ was now an ‘officially recognized club’, and was accepting new members. The acronym gave him an eerie flashback to SPEW, and he passively wondered if the sorry excuse for Lea he had earlier encountered was perhaps behind this DA thing, but he didn’t think much of it. Later, he heard several younger years talking about it rather excitedly, which made him wonder what it was, though he gathered it was some sort of student-run dueling club… terrible idea, in his opinion, he could just see one of the little third years (who, from his experience, knew just enough to let them think they knew everything, and thus were quite dangerous) landing in the hospital wind after a show-off session or two. Good luck to whomever ran the damn thing…

The next moment however, his thoughts wandered to his own sessions with his Asps. Those sessions, however, weren’t games, and every last one of his subordinates knew just what failure meant. They would have, also, never have been approved by the school… had Dumbledore had any inkling as to what truly went on. Oh yes, he could just see the old coot’s face if he had found their syllabus. This though, sent a pang of longing to his heart. Merlin, if he would pretend to be insufferable Potter of all people, getting in touch with his Asps would be far out of the question.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” he heard from beyond a near-by door, the voice almost too familiar, “Dumbledore said so!”

“But Herm…” another painfully familiar voice protested, and he had to count to a hundred before he could control himself enough not to barge in there and kill the offender who had caused him so much pain.

Proof, a little voice inside him seemed to note, proof for which is real.

He nodded, though quite aware of the voice’s internal nature, and took several calming breaths before twisting the knob and pulling the door open. There, two figures stood before him, and it took a continuous chant to keep him from cursing one of the said figures.

‘Not gonna rush in like a bloody Gryffindor, not gonna rush in like a bloody Gryffindor, Not gonna rush in…’ played over and over in his head, a crack of his fist the only outward sign of the inner struggle. Seeing Weasley within reach of Lea was truly a hard sight to see. Hell, seeing the bugger within cursing distance was a hard temptation to overcome… it was pure torture to stand by and not do something. He was perfectly aware that he would eventually have to announce his presence, have to do something beyond the tense and seemingly frozen stance he now displayed, but any chance to execute the next move on his terms was wiped away when Lea caught sight of him.

“Harry?” she asked attentively, making him twitch slightly. He was not Potter, regardless of how he presently looked.

“Um, yeah?” he asked nevertheless, trying to sound as ‘Potterish’ as possible. Judging by the way she relaxed slightly, it worked.

“Don’t mind her Harry,” Weasley suddenly interrupted whatever Lea was about to say, “she’s been strung tighter than McGonnagall’s bun ever since ‘the broom incident’.”

“…right. Um, W- Ron… do you happen to know the time?” he asked, forcing himself not to spit the name out. The question was stupid and not very Snape-worthy, he knew, but it was the best he could come up with at the moment that would still serve his purpose.

“Uh, sure. It’s-” the idiot redhead never got a chance to tell him, not that the hour was important. As soon as Weasley had brought his arm up so that he could see the time (his left), the raven-haired boy had grabbed the offered hand just above where the leather band sat, not paying any heed to the surprised (and slightly pained)‘Hey!’ from the shocked owner of the limb.

“Damnit Harry, that hurts!” Weasley growled, trying to yank his arm free from the other boy’s grip.

“No, it doesn’t.” he insisted however, and that was the problem.

Death Eaters were protectively discreet about their mark for a reason. All Death Eaters. And the reason, as he knew first hand and on the word of his father, was that the mirror spell was bloody painful and extremely sensitive. Even under light pressure, it could make even men like his father cringe. For Weasley, his vice-like pinch ought have been unbearable.

Few knew of the Death Eater weakness, of course, which is precisely why Voldemort never made any attempt to hide it. Even undercover Death Eaters, who’s mark was deactivated and rendered invisible, retained the mirror spell. In this way (Voldemort had once practically bragged) , they looked unmarked, but since the brand was never actually lifted, could be called back (or ‘discovered’) at the Dark Lord’s whim. His father’s mark had not been hidden so, since his presence was always required at the meetings, and he was (first and foremost) a Snape.

“Harry, let him go!” Lea insisted, slapping his shoulder. “I swear Harry, your damn mood swings and Quidditch stunts are going to be the end of me!” she sighed when he forced himself to let Weasley scoot away. The idiot seemed scared enough… in any case, and Merlin knew he needed concrete information.

“Sorry, Ron.” he apologized, hoping it sounded sincere as he reminded himself to act like bloody Potter.

“Just… just don’t do it again, mate.” Weasley smiled, “You must of really hit your head…”

“Dumbledore told us… you… don’t remember things…” Lea prompted, always to the point.

“And apparently, remember too much.” he mumbled, though Lea seemed to take that as a clear-cut ‘yes’.

“You don’t think He possessed you again, do you?” she whispered, sounding far more worried than the moment before. Perhaps she had heard his mumble? But what the hell was she on about… Possesed? Again?

“I, ermm, don’t think so L-Hermione.”

“You don’t remember, do ya Harry?” Weasley asked, having apparently forgotten his earlier fear as quickly as he had forsaken his alliances.

“No.” he answered nevertheless, finding it an opportune moment to milk the two for facts. “Something tells me you’ll need to remind me of quite a lot of things…”

“Not here.” Lea nodded, clearly debating something with herself. “Do you remember the DA?”

DA? What the…

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” she sighed, turning to Weasley. “ Better cancel it, we’ll need the R.O.R.”

“R.O.R.?” he asked them skeptically. Why the sudden secrecy?

“You’ll see.” she insisted, giving him no further explanation. “We’ll go there right after dinner… seeing as Ron’s stomach is already screaming for sustenance.”

The boy had picked at his food, not sure if any of it had ever actually ventured into his mouth. Pretending to be Potter was proving quite hard, and he wanted nothing more than to finally find out what was going on with everyone.

“Now what?” he asked, Lea and the weasel having led him to an obvious dead end.

“Now we think of the safe, secure place we need.”

“As opposed to… finding one?” he asked her skeptically, wishing they could have just gone to his room in the Slytherin dungeons.

“This way’s faster.” Lea insisted, pulling him into the pacing after tossing Weasley a quick look that seemed to hold a bit too much meaning. “Ah, see?” she asked, just as a door appeared in the previously vacant wall.

“What the-”

“For Merlin’s sake Harry, you’ll see. Do try to remember…”

“Alright, which of you associate safety with snakes and Slytherin?” Weasley huffed half-humorously, to which the raven-haired boy had to fight back a snide remark.

“Oh honestly Ron,” Lea dismissed his comment tiredly, “the room rarely focuses on such specifics.”

“Explain the green, silver, the snake-covered furniture and the huge ‘S’ on the covers!” Weasley countered hotly, “And while we’re on it, explain it providing a bed!”

As he stepped in to see what Weasley was going on about for himself, the boy could not help but smile contently for a moment at the site of his room, even if he knew he wasn’t standing in the real thing.

“Something you’d like to share Harry?”

Think… THINK!

“Erm… it’s just… the irony of the logic, I guess.” he finally answered.

“Huh?”

“Who has more secrets to keep than a Slytherin?” he asked honestly, “Who’s rooms would be most heavily warded against spying?”

“You don’t think think this is an actual Slytherin’s room, do you?” Weasley suddenly grinned, “Think of all the dirt we could find… what if it’s Malfoy’s!”

‘Nope, try the next room over’ didn’t sound like the most prudent response, especially since he didn’t want to give away any more information than absolutely necessary. Lea not recognizing this room sent warning bells off in his mind, which when added to the ones that have been ringing from the first time he had woken up in this Twilights-Zone of a Hogwarts, gave him a hell of a migraine. In all honesty, he couldn’t help but feel as if all this was some ploy to gain information from him. He had almost, at one point, bought into the ‘suppressed memory’ bit, but it had a fundamental problem; they did not remember what he remembered. What if that was in hope that he would fill them in, thus revealing things to his enemy? Some skilled Legillimentists could create a world in which the subject would think he was speaking with friends, or going over battle plans with allies…

“Oh Ron, one would need extensive knowledge for the room to recreate an exact place. If I remember correctly, you were even shocked that they got private rooms, and I doubt Malfoy would let even other Slytherins into his.”

Only you, me, Pansy and Blaise the boy mused, smiling privately. Yes, Draco was quite protective of his privacy.

“I still say we snoop around…” Weasley grumbled, making the other boy thank the deities on high for his extensive locking charms, saluting the anti-Slytherin (and thus, anti-all) safety measures. He wasn’t lying when he noted that Slytherins harbored the most secrets and thus their rooms were warded far more than most other rooms at the school, and he was what most would consider the epitome of Slytherin, after all. “Who knows when we’ll get another shot!”

I do; Never. he vowed, sighing as Weasley went on all fours to peek under the bed. Honestly, why would he have hidden anything there? Still, this gave him the perfect excuse to ‘drown his sorrows’, as it were.

“Anyone thirsty?” he asked, opening what Lea had once dubbed the ‘mini bar’.

“Jackpot!” Weasley squealed, “there any Firewhiskey Harry?” Well, if the weasel got so intoxicated he keeled over… would that count as poisoning the bastard?

“Erm…” he pretended to search, before pulling out a flask, “here’s some!”

After pouring Weasley what Draco, who was practically the only one who drank the stuff, would call ‘a disdainfully large amount’, he pulled a far more slender glass to make Lea’s ever-so-slightly spiked Pumpkin juice.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t think it’s poisoned, do you?”

“Will you stop Ron? Honestly!” Lea sighed once more, taking the drink with a thankful nod, “You ask the stupidest things… even if this was a real room, with a real Slytherin’s stash of liquor, the owner would not be far inclined to poison his own drinks… now would he?” She took a sip, “Merlin Harry, what is this?”

“You’ve never had that before?” he asked, mystified. She’d always ask for what Draco had started to call the ‘Kitten’s Claw’ if the boys were having anything themselves. “It’s Pumpkin juice with a few drops of Vodka… half the alcohol of a good old Butterbeer, really.” Thus the ‘kitten’ jab, not that she had ever disliked the name. “You like it?”

“Yes, actually,” she acknowledged after a moment of silence, “though I’d rather know what I’m drinking before I do so.”

“Sorry.” Oops. Normally, her wanting it was almost taken as a given… Just like Draco’s preference for Merlin’s Mirage (a concoction Lea and he could barely stomach a stronger whiff of, let alone stomach).

“Now, why don’t we all finally get around to what we are supposed to be here for…” Lea stated, waving his apology off as a given as she set her glass down, “what do you remember Harry? Just start at the beginning, it’ll be easier.” she insisted after he had taken a moment too long to answer.

“Beginning of what?” Weasley snipped in,

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Lea rephrased kindly, most likely noting his soured look.

That was the question, wasn’t it? What would he tell them? How far back would he have to go?

“End of fourth year.” he decided after a moment of consideration, remembering Dumbledore asking about the time he had ‘fought’ Voldemort at his resurrection. “After that, there’s a few out of place stuff and that’s it.” he added for good measure.

Weasley nearly choked on his liquor… so close. “Merlin!” he gasped out after a hardy coughing fit, “That’s nearly two years!”

“How will you re-learn all the spells!” Lea quipped,

“I… I think I remember the spells.” He assured her, “It’s the events that are hard to piece together.” Hell, he probably knew seventh year spells, the way the Asps had been drilled… not to mention the Dark Arts floating around up there.

“You remember where Sirius lived?”

Sirius? He put on a questioning look, hadn’t the Ministry confiscated all his assets when he went to Azkaban?

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then…” Lea continued, “guess it’s as good a place to start as any. We might miss the stuff you did while you were back with your relatives, but you probably don’t want those memories anyway.”

Yup, got that right.

“You came to Sirius’ house before term started, there’s a real nasty portrait of his mother there… horrid woman. Anyway, that’s where the headquarters are… Sirius was part of the original Order like your parents, Order of the Phoenix that is, it’s a…”

The Order was involved; lovely. That’s how Sirius died too, wasn’t it? Damn Order. One of these days, he’d really give Dumbledore a piece of his-

“…Umbridge.”

Oops, he’d best pay attention.

“Horrid Woman, worse than Sirius’ deranged mom, honestly! Gave the worst detentions, too, you’re lucky that damn quill didn’t leave any permanent scars on you. You can still read the one Dean had to write!”

Read a scar?

“Now this room we’re in, the Room of Requirement, was Dobby’s idea. Didn’t I tell you elves were smarter than they are given credit for? We needed a room for D.A. meetings, defense lessons that is… you were a really great teacher, by the way.”

And so it began, what he could hopefully dub the longest day in his life. Merlin could Lea talk! Not that he understood all of it, but he figured he got the gist at least, and that would do for now. For some reason, according to Lea , McWhirr had not taught defense last year, though he was their present potions teacher. Weasley liked him, though the green-eyed boy figured it was because McWhirr knew less than they did due to the years of having his father teach them potions, so it was an easy grade for the procrastinating redhead. But McWhirr had detested him, more so than the man had any of the other Slytherins… unless…well, if he had not become Horris, that would mean the he wasn’t a Slytherin, right? At least, not on his uniform… once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin. So did that mean that all of a sudden, McWhirr favored him? The thought was disgusting, disturbing and annoying. Whatever this twisted excuse for Hogwarts was, entering it as a snake in cat’s clothing had its advantages.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

“Could you leave us Ron? Harry and I need to talk for a bit.”

“Yeah, talk.” Weasley snorted in amusement, though thankfully leaving at Lea’s request.

“What’s he on about?” he asked once the door closed,

“Oh, Merlin. Sorry Harry. A lot of… couples formed at the start of sixth year… he thought… Merlin! Just, don’t worry about it Harry, I really do need to talk to you.” she dismissed the weasel’s behavior as quickly as she could, blushing furiously.

“Coupled up?” he asked, sounding a bit more skeptical than might have been prudent.

“Don’t worry about it, you two always tease each other about it. I’ll tell him to stop.” she assured, composing herself a bit before asking “Now, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Ever since you woke you’ve acted… off. First the strange names, than that thing with Ron… you act as if he was Malfoy or something Harry. This isn’t normal.”

He wondered what he should, could, tell her. This was Lea, but she wasn’t. She might even be Ron’s girl from the way the redhead had huffed about leaving the two of them alone…

“Harry, please.”

See? Not Lea. And too many possibilities existed to explain. Way too many possible explanations.

“You’re acting like you did when you saw Dumbledore… remember, you almost attacked him once!”

Huh? Not that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind or anything, but it’s one of those things you savor as a fantasy of your imagination, not do in real life (especially not in an office seemingly full of people)!

“And now when you attacked Ron… I, I thought…”

It wasn’t much of an ‘attack’, really, and he had had to do it… hadn’t he, for her protection if nothing more.

“Oh Harry, what if Voldemort is setting you against us now? First Dumbledore, now Ron, then me… what if he’s hoping you’ll kill us by your own hand, or become so sure you will that you’ll push everyone who can possibly care about you away?”

“Too many ‘what if’s’ Lea.” He sighed, wincing as he realized his damn slip.

“There you go with the ‘Lea’ again!” Lea huffed angrily, the tone that usually sent Draco packing. “Explain Harry, now.”

“I… I wish I could… especially to you, but-”

“But what! Harry James Potter, you tell me-”

That was it though, wasn’t it?

“Too complicated.” he told her, this time with more resolve.

“Simplify it then.” she prompted, calming down a bit, apparently.

“I can’t.”

“Fine.” she growled, the anger flaring once more, “then I’ll simplify it, and you’re telling me if I’m right or wrong.”

And all he could do was nod, knowing full well where anything less would land him. She could be bloody scary at times… perhaps she should have a go at the Dark Lord.

“You called me ‘Lea’ when you first woke up, and when you forget yourself, so you seem more used to calling me that than Hermione…”

“It’s a nickname.” he supplied,

“Yes, one with which you are far too familiar to have just thought it up. You sounded almost, wounded, when I first didn’t answer to it, so you remember me acknowledging it in the past… or at least you think you remember it.” She paused, “Right?”

He could do nothing but watch her, unmoving.

“You poured the spiked juice as if you’d have made it a million times, for me, most likely. You’re terribly closed, emotionless even, though I know you cannot possibly be so cold. You even look different.”

To this he raised a brow, knowing its effect was probably lost on the Potteresq face.

“Not physically, perhaps,” she amended, “but the way you carry yourself. You… you seem to have this royal air about you all of a sudden, something about your manor simply demands respect, you know? As if nothing in the world could hold you back besides yourself.”

“You think me arrogant and overbearing?” he asked in skeptically,

“Oh, not at all!” she insisted, “that’s what’s so enchanting about it all… the reluctant hero.”

Suddenly, he’d have preferred to be called the arrogant prick.

“That I’ve been called all my life.” he groaned,

“That’s just it! You’ve always been passively-hating it till now!”

“And now?” he could not help but ask,

“Now you act as if it’s all personal… as if you wouldn’t allow anyone but you to defeat You-Know-Who.”

“It is personal.” he insisted; very personal. My life, my Asps, my father… I’m responsible for each and every one of them.

“You acted like that before you found out about Sirius’ death, and you certainly didn’t act like this before you got bumped on the head.” she insisted, “What changed?”

“Is there a point to this?” he asked, knowing that, of course, there was. Lea rarely babbled pointlessly.

“Something happened while you were unconscious, something that changed you, and something almost certainly done by Voldemort.”

He let his bushy brow rise again, an honest longing to be back to his true form.

“He implanted memories in you… or more likely, seeds form which your imagination spun memories you would believe. There’s this one spe-”

“No.” he cut her off, not willing to hear her out. Not when she was attempting to disprove… him.

“Do you, or do you not remember events that didn’t happen?” she pressed on,

“They happened.” he told her, pulling away, “this is the illusion.”

“Harry…” she sighed, “Think about this. Even if you’re unwilling to tell me what you remember, I can see you hate Ron now; distrust him at least, you’re weary about speaking with Dumbledore about things and you’re fending off help tooth and nail… wouldn’t Voldemort want that? Wouldn’t he want to make you so desperate and alone that you’d do anything to see which is real? Can’t you tell me what happened Harry? Anything at all?”

“Everything happened.” he finally told her, fully honest for the first time, “The best and worst year in my life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s better, isn’t it father?”

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

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

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

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

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

With a swift jerk to dislodge the arm, he fell to his knee as he did so often before, sparing a quick glare at the others. Why did they not kneel? Were they asking to be punished? Dragon made half a grabbing motion, but stopped as Voldemort appeared with the usual ostentatious display. The blonde-haired boy bowed now as well, though the raven-haired boy felt the anger-filled gray orbs watch him for any sign of trickery.

“Alpha…” Voldemort hissed, to which both boys answered with a unanimous

“My Lord.”

He glared at the blonde through his emerald orbs. How dare he claim to be Alpha! He was Alpha, the son of Voldemort’s Ammodytus, not Malfoy! Never Malfoy! His green eyes blazed at the blonde, who returned the sentiment with his own stormy gray.

Voldemort, on the other hand, laughed. Making both sets of eyes snap back to the owner of the crimson orbs that so haunted the boy’s dreams. Voldemort laughed almost as often as his father had… and on the odd occasion the monster did so, it was never a good thing.

“Releassse your spell my Dragon, I wish him to be in control whiles I conquer him at lassst.”

Spell? What- oh. His rational side acknowledged that Voldemort had never expected obedience from Potter. Still, maybe he could-

“He is not under any spell my Lord, I know not what has happened, but a moment before you arrived, he dropped to his knee as if he could sense your imminent arrival.”

“I sssssee.” The Dark Lord hissed thoughtfully. “And how isssssss it that he came to be captured, my little Dragon?”

“I-”

“He does not know, my Lord.” he interrupted against his better judgment, his instincts winning once more. He had the information, Dr-Malfoy didn’t, and he could not bring himself to have his Asps punished… obedient or not.

“Oh, how long had I wished you to call me that, young Potter.” Voldemort hissed at him in Parseltongue, the red eyes fixed upon his kneeling form. “And just as I had given up the dream, here you are, on your knees before me of your own accord.”

“I am yours to order as you please my lord,” came the well-rehearsed response, “born and bred.”

The crimson orbs narrowed into calculating slits, and the boy was spared having to deny his identity.

“Who are you, boy?” the creature before him demanded, and he could do nothing but answer.

“Your Viper, my Lord, your Alpha.”

The red eyes became fixed upon his, and once again, his instincts took over. This time, however, they were the instincts his father had drilled into him. Almost before he realized what he was doing, all the incriminating memories that could link him, his Asps, or his father to the light were tucked into the ‘trap door’. He felt Voldemort probe his mind, and pretended to allow him unhindered access. His father always emphasized the importance of seeming not to know how to shield your mind. It made the intruder overestimate the superiority of his skill to encounter only the weak shield everyone was born with, and made it almost impossible for a person to find the trap door while being assaulted by memories no matter what topic they picked. That was why the trick was thought to be foolproof, after all.

So, here he was, watching the memories fly through his consciousness as the creature before him raced from one to the next. True, the greater one’s skill, the faster the person can absorb the information contained within any given memory, but the rate at which Voldemort used seemed to indicate he was browsing rather than actually viewing each one. The creature had assaulted him prior to this, after all, and his proficiency was nowhere near this level. But enough of that… he needed to concentrate on maintaining his façade; if Voldemort suddenly picked up on his analysis of the man, he didn’t know what would happen.

“Curious.”

“What is, my lord?” he asked, head lowered once more.

“Very curioussss.” repeated the creature, with what the boy deciphered as a grin.

He could feel the unrest of the Asps about him, all of whom had been stealing glances towards the younger Malfoy. Foolish, really. His Asps knew not to be so open with their uncertainties.

Without another word, Voldemort cursed him, and all he knew was pain. However, despite his feeble body, he was able to endure the brief exposure without screaming out, or withering on the ground. He did fall to his knees, an act that had been greeted with annoyance in the past (though the curse of choice had been the Killing Curse at the time), but he was not reprimanded for it on this occasion. Again functioning on autopilot, he rose without any comment, acting for all intents and purposes as if the curse had not occurred.

“Very curious indeed.” The Parseltongue washed over him, the tone bearing an undiluted curiosity that brought goose bumps to the boy’s skin.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

He was in a daze the rest of the meeting -though quite aware of the several eyes that begged him to so much as breathe the wrong way, thank you very much. As his body hit the dank dungeon floor once more, however, he could not help but wonder if the daze had not begun long before he had been cursed. After Voldemort had dismissed them with the promise he would see him in private come morning, he had been escorted back into the same cell by the boy he once considered his most loyal Asp. He remembered bowing in near-unison with the Beta, turning, and making it three steps passed the door before the blonde forcefully grabbed him like a pesky prisoner once more. Merlin, what had happened? Was he truly so far gone that he could not resist what the monster had once drilled into him? Sure, he had obeyed the instincts before, but he had always been so sure he could stop the fake submission at any time. Had the creature broken him, after all? A part of him argued that it was only because of his prolonged sense of confusion and weariness… that it was only caused by his need for something familiar, something that was not a surprise, as everything else had seemed to be, ever since he had woken up. He could count on Voldemort, if nothing else… he could count on him to be cruel and calculating, he could count on him to hurt and threaten, he could count on him to be the monster he always was. The rest of him hoped and prayed for this to be true, for him to have simply succumbed to the promise of familiarity than a true fear of displeasing the creature.

“You think you’re one of us, Potter?” a voice disturbed his musings,

“Dragon.” he acknowledged the blonde, unable to force himself to call him Draco.

“I could kill you where you lie, you filth.” the other snarled, “how dare you pretend to be an Asp!”

“You had best calm yourself, Beta,” he cautioned the youth emotionlessly, making sure to underline his rank, “even if I was lying through my teeth, Voldemort will make you wish for him to kill you for second-guessing him.”

“My Lord would never kill me, Potter.”

“I never said he would. That, would be too benevolent.” he answered once more, realizing that his eyes had become slightly unfocused. Benevolent and wasteful, not to mention boring for the monster. “You have no idea of what horrors he would force you to face.”

The blonde did not say anything, but the prisoner somehow felt no inclination to turn back towards the cell door where the Beta stood. On the face of the mold-encrusted wall, he could almost see the memories of which he spoke as if it was an old Muggle movie.

A distinct mumble caught his attention after what seemed like only a minute or two later, though he could not be certain how long he had been watching the wall.

“It worked better than we thought.” was followed by slow, steady footsteps as the intruder left the brunette boy to his memories once more. This time, it seemed, the silent show before him was not limited to the painful events he had experienced in the Dark Lord’s presence. Instead, he saw a condensed version of his entire life, starting from the time he had found out about his father. Though anyone who might have passed would have surely thought him insane, him sitting there, staring at the wall as if it was the most interesting thing in the whole wide world, he attempted to place everything where it belonged. He was sure that somewhere in there lay the answer, the key that would make everything make perfect sense. There were no gaps, no lapses he could not account for from the moment he found out who his true father was to the moment he finally allowed himself to fall asleep in the short break Voldemort had allotted his Asps. It had to be real, it just had to be.

And yet, here were hundreds of solid contradictions to what he was positive was true. The logical side of him was sure that it was not possible for him to be right and the world to be wrong… that was what five year olds believed when someone tried to tell them their logic was flawed. If this were some elaborate hoax by Dumbledore to lure him back into his Order, Voldemort would have recognized his Alpha. If this was Voldemort’s doing, he would not have alienated him from his supporters so… he would have used the boy’s confusion to lure him wholly to his side or at least attempt to coax some sensitive information out of him before he went in for the kill; he was a Slytherin, after all. And if this was how twisted his dream had become, Draco had damn well better wake him up… NOW. Not that he allowed himself to even consider this option. Too simple, and in his life, nothing could ever be simple. What he needed to do now was figure out what he was going to do about it all. Would it be better to attempt an escape, or should he play the perfect Alpha who is confused beyond all hope? If he chose the former and this was some sort of mental probe by the ruler of the Dark, he’d screw over not only him, but his Asps and his father… not to mention the entire Light by dying and having all his mental safeguards brutally destroyed. If the opposite occurred, he wasn’t sure if even the Lemondrop-sucking Dumbledore would spare him; he’d be their greatest liability, after all. The last thing the Order needed was another traitor, after all, and he knew how thin the old Headmaster’s patience had been wearing when it came to his two Snape men as of late.

Yup, it was official, he was screwed either way.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

He was not sure at what point he fell asleep, nor was he aware how long said sleep lasted, or even what the present time of day was. What he did know, was that there was a painfully unrelenting foot jabbing itself into his ribs at a regular interval that clashed terribly with that damned dripping.

“Finally awake, are you?” a clearly annoyed voice drawled, making the boy’s green eyes snap open immediately. Could it be?

“Please, please tell me you are mad at me because I had gone exploring the Manor dungeons without a guide again and had simply hit my head or passed out down here…” he begged, knowing how unlikely the situation was. True, he had done that once, and his father had been quite angered when he found him the next day (and punished him by allowing the cold he had caught by sleeping down in the bowels of the dungeons in only his summer outer robes run its course the Muggle way), but he seriously could not be so lucky. Nope, Fate hated him, of that he was certain, thus so simple an explanation was simply impossible and unattainable for the raven-haired lad.

“I had not lied to please you when I was on your side, Potter, I will certainly not do so now.” the answer came, squashing the tiny hope that, by all accounts, had had no place in the boy’s heart in the first place. “Now, I want to know exactly how a cretin such as yourself managed to enter my place of residence, what you came here to accomplish, and why in the name of Merlin had the senile old fool thought you would be able to do so. And,” his father added, as if as an after though, “where in hell did you manage to lose your wand.”

“Um…” Okay, either he didn’t say anything beyond that little vocalization of pure intelligence, he attempted to lie to his father, or he cut out a lot of bull and simply told him the truth… and prayed the man somehow held the answer as he had so often in the past. Aw, screw it.

“I needed to come home.”

His father said nothing, which translated into the man demanding further explanation before he so much as acknowledged a word having been spoken.

“Look, Dad, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but the old coot certainly didn’t send me here. All of a sudden, I look like Potter again,” he nearly spat the name, “and everyone is acting as if I was Potter, and everyone is different, and-”

“What,” his father cut him off, growling, “in Merlin’s name, did you CALL ME?”

“Um… er…” why was it always so hard to remember what you had just said (or heard) when under pressure? “Dad?” he half-guessed, knowing that it would be worse if he had not said anything at all.

The man before him was madder than the boy had ever seen him… including that incident with Lupin. This was BAD… and worst of all, it took him till that instant to realize just what he had said wrong.

He looked like Potter…

Everyone thought he was Potter…

Harry Potter had just called Severus Snape ‘Dad’.

Oh Hades, he was dead.

He was quite aware of the fact that his face had gone as white as his ghost would soon be. He was also quite aware that his f- that Snape was red as a tomato (which, with the Snape complexion, was not an easy feat). Moreover, and perhaps most of all, he was quite glad that the man before him was on the opposite side of bars of his cell door.

“You, POTTER, are lucky my Lord does not wish you dead before he sees you.”

Thank Merlin for small favors endowed upon him by senile Dark Lords… and for his father’s famed self-control. The extra ten seconds between the time he had called the man that and the time said man had cut him off, only underlined the wizard’s level of anger.

“Call me that however, and I will chance death at my Master’s hand for torturing you to death myself.” the glint in the older man’s eyes, even if the boy had not known him well enough to tell he was serious, screamed of an unbreakable promise. “Now, how did you manage to enter my Manor.”

“Narcis portal, sir.” he answered without hesitation. He knew what his- what the man was capable of when angered.

“Preposterous.”

Oh hell no. He was not about to contradict him.

“You would not know how to identify a Narcis Portal… much less activate one which led to this manor. Now, I want the truth, or I shall rip each and every answer from your mind!”

“I- I’m telling the truth sir.” he stammered, still not keen on contradicting the man in his present state. “I… I so wanted to go home.” he added in the lowest whisper he could manage.

And suddenly the man he trusted beyond all others had forced himself into his mind. If he had warned him, the boy would have allowed him unhindered entry. As the man gave him no warning, however, and since the boy had not kept any buffer blocks up while speaking with his father, his mind was entered with such force that he could not help but cry out. He could have fought the man’s entry, but he could not bring himself to put up any of his defenses against his sire. And, true to the man’s word, he pulled at the information so hard and continued his assault with such force, that the boy was sure he’d go insane.

Never had he experienced anything like this. Either a person did not know how to block his mind, so any attacks had to pass through the feeble shields everyone is born with (which a person had to shatter himself before building any new blocks) and his awareness of the intrusion is so dulled that he feels but a fraction of the pain, or his shields are up so that only a fraction (if any) of the power behind the invading presence penetrates the defenses, or the outside party is ‘invited’ and thus does so gently and with the utmost care. The boy knew the man was capable of changing the power behind his attack in a fraction of a second, and he knew that the man (anyone capable of actively attacking a mind, actually) could tell the difference between weak (natural) shields, strong created shields, or the lack there of. Hell, even he could do it, and his father had only just begun to teach him how to actually attack! And still, the man he had trusted beyond all others kept pushing himself in with all his might. In that moment, the boy knew he could not possibly endure much more of this. He was going to die… by the hand of his own father.

The pain still made his head spin; even this long after the relentless attack upon his open mind had finally been brought to a halt. He was, for all purposes, dead to the world. Not because of any damage suffered during what he could call nothing but mental rape, for he could not even attempt to assess what ill that had caused, but because it was Severus Snape who had done so. And so he lay there, curled into as small a ball as was physically possible, shivering from far more than the physical lack of warmth. What made it worse was that he could actually hear and feel his Dad try to comfort him. His imagination must have snapped, or he had, for the hushed tones and light caresses were just a shade too ghostly to be connected to a physical being. And yet, the light pressure as a hand petted his hair was just a bit too real to allot to simple imagination.

‘Oh Horris…child,’ he seemed to feel, as well as hear, ‘I can not do this son. I cannot lose you… please.’

It felt so real, that he almost allowed himself the hope that it was.

“Dad?” he even chanced to ask, but only the dripping answered as his ears attempted to focus once more.

The hand had left, too, which made the boy feel twice as lonely as before. Twice as lonely, twice as scared, twice as hurt… thrice as betrayed and ten times as sure that no one could be counted upon to act the way they were supposed to.

He was a child again, foolishly attempting to fill the sieve of hope with the sharp sand of reality. His reality was seeping through so quickly, and he feared that soon all that would be left of it were a few memories in his heart while the pebble-like grains of… of this existence seemed intent on bombarding his fragile sieve until it was no more. The urge to attempt every Dark Curse Voldemort had ever taught him overwhelmed him suddenly, needing to perform them if only to force himself to accept the knowledge as true… to gain any reason why his memories could be true. But he couldn’t, could he? He was locked in the deepest dungeon and his wand was Merlin-knows-where… and, on top of it all, he wasn’t even sure if the wand Dumbledore had (at least, he figured the Headmaster had it) would work anymore. It certainly caused him enough trouble the last time he tried, right before he gave it to Sirius.

Then there were the snippets of conversation he’d heard… the odd comment from Dragon -- from Malfoy. Whatever this was, Voldemort was ultimately behind it, one way or another. The monster had to be. Hermione’s words now haunted him so. It was true… a lot of crap had happened to him as Horatius Snape.

He was the son of the man whom he had hated and by whom he had been hated from the time the two met. The idea of a perfect parent, of a loving family, being ripped from him and taunted in front of his nose all in one go.

He lost his other family -- his house. His past friends hated him, tried to hurt him, or feared him. He had to start all over in a new house, one in which most were too fearful of him to become true friends.

He was the soldier of his archrival, sworn into his service and his to hurt any way he saw fit. He had to learn what he despised, force himself to acquire skills simply in order to survive. Skills that went against everything he believed in. He faced pain, he was harmed without wrongdoing, and he was forced to accept it all without retaliation.

He was taught to distrust those in whom he had utter faith before, shown how all were only out to use him as a tool.

Yeah, it was amazing that he hadn’t gone off the deep end, yet… but what about all the good memories? All the new friendships and family, the powers and triumphs? What about him finally finding his place?

Then again… all those had been squished now, as well.

If Horatius Snape had been all a hoax created by Voldemort, it being false did not change the bad. He had still suffered the pain, both mental and physical. He still felt weary around Dumbledore, and most of the other Professors. He hated Ron. He still knew the filthy curses he had mostly taught himself. He still feared showing weakness to pain; his actions at the meeting had proven that much beyond a doubt. Oh… oh but the good memories were certainly gone. He was a scrawny, ugly kid again, forced to bear the weight of the world. His new friends wished nothing more than to see him humiliated and dead.

And his father; the man he had loved so much had damn well nearly killed him… and had only spared him for he knew Voldemort had ordered that the boy was kept alive and (at least, mostly) sane. Of that he was sure.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

The question of which he saw himself as became increasingly harder to answer… to himself, or Snape, or Voldemort. And they did ask, often. Actually, it had become a sort of game to them, he’d assumed… to Voldemort, at least. They asked each time he was brought before them, and it seemed no matter what he said, one of them would curse him. If he said Horatius, Snape would curse him, not lifting his assault until he had run out of snide remarks and profanities. If he answered Potter, Voldemort would curse him instead, though the lunatic would laugh instead of bellowing snide remarks. The worst was when he had once refused to answer at all, and had both tormented him. The Dark Lord was more powerful… more painful, but the added physical pain seemed dull compared to the detestation he would hear in his… in Snape’s voice as the man growled out his denials of anyone being stupid enough to name him an heir… let alone a family so great as his.

The times he was confused on what to answer while alone had begun to increase in length and number as well, though he knew that no great deal of time had passed. It was all because of their sick game, he knew, and he was disgusted with himself for succumbing to it. How could he not, though? How-

His inner musings were cut short by a sharp clearing of the thought, which the boy insisted on stubbornly ignoring… outwardly, at least.

“Let me speak to him alone.” The voice of one Draco Malfoy ordered from behind the raven-haired boy. Ah yes, that insufferable guard they had taken to posting outside his door of late… couldn’t have him left alone to his devices, after all.

“But-”

“Now.” repeated the voice in the patented drawl, the one that left no room for any argument (to mindless fools and other such lowly beings, anyway… he was quite immune to it, thank you very much), though it sounded strange somehow, as if it lacked some unidentifiable essence. Odd…

The raven-haired boy, still with his back to the bars, reeled through the possible explanations for this situation. The facts, first…. Always a good place to start analyzing probabilities. Sounds like Malfoy, but has a defined feminine feel to his (…her?) aura. As the guard hasn’t called bloody murder yet, this intruder to his musings looks like Dragon too. The aura feels stressed… not supposed to be here then, and is apparently quite intent on getting the boy alone with him… her… whatever.

Well, it’s either another attempt to mess with his mind (courtesy of dear old Voldy), an attempt to rescue him (courtesy of and manipulative intrusion of dear old Dumbly), or some third party.

“Potter!” apparently, the guard had believed the imposter and left. “Turn around, Potter”

Sighing, and being deliberately slow in his motions, the boy turned. Her aura (yes, it was definitely a she, now that he saw the colors rather than simply felt the currents) fully dispelled the Polyjuice-induced appearance. Shockingly, however, it proved her to be the one person he could not categorize as friend or foe as Horris, let alone Potter. It was time to try to unsettle her, it seemed.

“Ah, Mrs. McGonagall… a tad far from the Willow, are we not?” he would have laughed at the shock on her face (which still looked like Dragon, only serving to make it all the more comical) had he not been so concentrated on reading her and finding out why the hell she was here.

His Dad had warned him about this woman, his sister, and he had yet to disregard the man’s advice on anything, let alone family politics. The woman may have sounded quite amicable and seemingly harmless, but she had been a Snape; born and bred. That, and that alone, proved that she was almost certainly not as simple as she made herself out to be. Hell, even if he had had no inkling that she had been a Snape, his conversation with her would have warned him to be cautious. She wasn’t with Voldemort though, of that he was sure… he didn’t know if she had been on Dumbledore’s side, but then again, Snapes had been known for sticking to their side, and that alone.

Yet, so many things in this… this nightmare… have turned on their heads. So could she be on Voldemort’s side then? Just like his father? Or perhaps… No. No, he could not just assume such tendencies. Assuming was dangerous.

“Amazing, Potter,” she responded lazily, still mimicking Dragon’s voice, “you cannot distinguish between aura and essence, yet you can tell Polyjuice from the real thing without so much as a second glance.” He looked at her as if she’d grown another head. Aura and essence; was she joking? An aura consisted of a person’s magic and the soul while magic essence was simply a magical imprint on non-sentient objects. True, they were both looked similar when looking through aura sight, and magical essence was sometimes referred to as aura by the lazy or ignorant… but…

Well, now was hardly the time for refreshing his aura training principles, now was it? The only thing he had to ask himself was whether it was worth it to correct her on the point or simply let it be and insult the woman instead. One can never be too careful, right?

“Or, perhaps,” he taunted, “you are a terrible actor.” Snapes relied on their acting skills, he knew… hell, he had. She would not take the insult lightly. “You know, you’re lucky it was only a Death Eater and not an Asp that was guarding me…” he added, honestly, “if it were an Asp, you’d already be dead.” The woman should have known Polyjuice only disguises the physical, not magical, qualities of a person.

“And you, Potter, would do well to learn not to insult those trying to help you.” Dragon’s voice all but growled (wasn’t far from it… actually), eyes glaring openly.

He stared back at her for a full minute before setting an indifferent mask in place. He couldn’t let anything slip, not with her, not when he was set on making the woman eat her words. He wasn’t stupid. He knew no one could save him, not from this cell. His only option was to reach one of the main escape tunnels or make a run outside. The dungeon cells were inescapable, even for a person of Snape blood. The main tunnels were too far away to attempt to gain access to, and the outside was farther still.

“I cannot be helped Mrs. McGonagall,” he stated calmly, “Not even Dumbledore can weasel me out of this one, I fear. Frankly, I am surprised you would not have acknowledged this from the start, having grown up here.”

“And you ask why people treat you like a child, Potter.” the woman sighed, surprising him. “Part of growing up, you see, is realizing that not everything will be handed to you on a shiny little platter. I was years younger than you were when I had to learn that… not all of us can be as lucky as the great Harry Potter.

“But you are right,” she continued, her eyes darkening somewhat, “we cannot rescue you, but there are always other, more practical options.”

“Such as?”

“Somehow, you already know that I come from the line of Snape… this will allow me certain advantages while within these walls.”

“Look, just tell me what Dumbledore has planned and leave the how as unimportant for now. May I remind you, Polyjuice does not last long.”

“Very well, Potter, the Order has decided to wake your birthright prematurely so that you can face Voldemort successfully.”

He figured that was about the last thing he had expected her to say. First, his head raced with the question of what this ‘birthright’ could possibly be. Did they know he was Horatius, the Alpha? Had they been able to somehow capture all his powers and alter the memories of everyone around him? Or, was what he had experienced some sort of power pulse from his captive powers, as they struggled to find some channel to seep out of? Such things had been documented in some of the tomes he had read at Snape Manor; of suppressed abilities becoming so compressed that they relieve the pressure by forcing their carrier to use them, if only in his dreams. Merlin, what he wouldn’t give to know what the hell was going on. Perhaps that was why he could still turn into his animagus form, and why he could see auras and occlude his mind so well…

Then, he felt as if he’d just been hit with a rogue bludger. What the woman said finally soaked in fully, and what he saw written so clearly between the lines forced a shudder down his spine. No, it wasn’t possible. Dumbledore wouldn’t… he… he couldn’t. Could he? Oh Merlin, he was fucked.

“Are… are you saying… that…that Dumbledore expects me to… to…” By Merlin, he couldn’t even say it!

“Calm down, P- Harry.” The woman whispered calmly. “I’m sorry, I should have explained it all more gently, I… I should have curbed my temper… you shouldn’t have been told like that.”

“It’s true then, Dumbledore really expects me to do it?”

“He expects you to survive,” she said calmly. “He wants you to have every advantage possible since we don’t know how you even got here, much less how to get you out unnoticed.”

“Look, Harry, I need you to drink this potion- all of it. Without it the unlocking spell won’t have any effect, and as you’ve said, I am running short on time.”

“You didn’t bring an extra dose?” he asked, reaching for the vial she held on his side of the bars. She had been here for a good half hour, at least.

“I do, but this will take a while, and I can’t exactly run out of here once we’re done,” she answered tiredly, watching him smell the purple potion. It didn’t help, he had never learned of anything like this. Finally, knowing that not taking it was not really an option, he gulped it down. He had felt the undertone of disbelief in her voice throughout the conversation, and as much as he had tried to ignore it, it was slowly pecking away at his calm. He had sensed that she didn’t believe this would work… well, not the power transfer, but his actual ability to use it once he had it. It was a rational fear though, body and mind needed to adjust before he would be ready to utilize new powers or far higher levels of power. That’s what the potion was for, he figured, to force his body to acclimate faster, though how they expected him to be able to actually use the new powers he couldn’t fathom. He only hoped that the skills he had learned as Horris would serve him now. Wandless magic would prove to be his best bet in this, it seemed.

“This spell will increase my energy levels, right?” he asked her, a collected mask back in place as he tried to rid himself of the horrid aftertaste. “How are we going to keep the others from noticing the power flux?”

“I am going to cast protective wards; no one will sense anything from this cell until I pull them down.”

“No, they’ll realize something is going on then.”

“Potter-”

“Will the power surge be gradual, or one big burst?” he interrupted her, already formulating a different plan.

“It should be quite rapid, but it will not come all at once, no.”

“Then I’d be better off just suppressing more and more of my aura as power accumulates.” he told her flatly, his very pores pulsing with the promise of being filled with magic once more. “The minor fluxes will simply look like emotional bursts, and seeing as everyone thinks you’re Malfoy, they’ll accept it quite easily.” Moreover, if she’s as good as a Snape should be, she’ll make the fluxes in her aura disguised as well.

“The process is quite painful; I’d rather have the sound wards, at least.”

“I can hold my own.” was the flat rebuttal, “Besides, if they think you’re torturing me, it’ll just make them all the more likely to leave you be.”

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

The woman had left long ago, leaving him to recover from the onslaught of energy rushing back into him like a breath of fresh air. Oh, each cell within him throbbed with the new fullness, as if trying its hardest not to explode. The difference was so great from the feeble abilities he had had when he woke as Potter once more, that he could not rightly tell if the surge had left him with more or less power than he commanded as Horris. It was somewhere around there, in any case… or so he hoped. Any small difference his mind could adjust to, be it positive or negative, and his feeble excuse for a body would be taken care of by that strange concoction. He could only hope that whatever it was had been created by someone other than that Lockheart wannabe currently pretending to be the oh-so-wonderful Potions Professor. If it had, there was no telling what damage it may do… As his body had yet to explode, however, he assumed someone slightly more qualified must have brewed whatever it was he took.

Not one to sit and dawdle while time was ticking away to his doom, the boy tried to remember wandless healing charms. He was not stupid enough to get his hopes up where his venoms were concerned, but the amount of power he was actively suppressing should allow for wandless magic to be possible. He wished he could see how much he was actually working with, but that would require him to flare his aura, which would in turn alert everyone of his little power boost. No, he could not afford to let them in on this just yet, and he did have to take care of at least the worst of the injuries and hope the potion had not changed his physical self too much.

Oh, how he wished he had listened to his father when the man told him to memorize all those healing spells, instead of just brushing over it. Wandless magic didn’t require a certain word or wand movement, but it did require the caster to know exactly what magics he wanted to influence and how, instead of simply what he wanted the outcome to be. He really should have gone and asked Madame Pomfrey to let him watch her heal as his father had suggested… He had several bones that he wouldn’t have minded having popped back into place.

He had just run out of time. He could feel a presence coming towards his cell, and this time it was the real Draco Malfoy. And he felt almost overly smug… damn.

The look in Dragon’s eyes was unknown to the raven-haired child, no matter how much he attempted to discern it. There was hatred, of course, but it did not seem to be directed at the cell’s occupant. There was also the boast of smugness, but now the boy could tell it was only to hide the conflict within. There was fear, too, also directed at some third party. Finally, and most shockingly, there was blank helplessness that seemed to call out from the stormy-gray eyes as if the scrawny boy on the other side of the cage-like cell was his last and only hope… not that Dragon would ever admit it, of course.

“Scourgify!” the blonde yelled, the spell whizzing through the bars. Immediately, the unpleasant feeling of the spell coursed through the sitting boy, making him fight a groan. The spell was never pleasant, not by a long shot. Why the captor wanted him cleaned now of all times was discomforting, too. Had they seen through his attempt to hide his present abilities? Did they know what he was now capable of… more so than he, perhaps?

“Get up, Potter.” was the sharp command, though somehow, the look in those eyes stayed irreparably the same.

“Dragon-” he couldn’t help but murmur in question.

“Don’t call me that.” the blonde snapped quicker than one would think possible, “Don’t ever call me that.”

The reaction only confirmed the blonde’s agitated state… something that worried his one-time-friend to no end. Frivolous things never worried the Malfoy heir, and to do so to such an extent, could only hint at a profound problem. What it was, he could not guess… nor could he overlook it. He wished he could simply ask as he had before this warp had occurred, but seeing how his earlier attempt was nearly greeted with a curse, he didn’t think it a possibility now. Still, this was getting more and more problematic with each passing moment.

The next thing he knew, he was hit with a harsh binding spell, with thick ropes yanking his wrists behind him. Only then did the blonde open the cell door, and roughly pull him out.

“You’re going to be on your best behavior today, Potter, or you won’t live to see tomorrow.” The way Dragon said that held a tint of worry, too, though nearly impossible to hear. “I know not why my Master wishes to humor your misconception of being an Asp, but frankly, it may give me the best opportunity to be rid of you once and for all. Just take a toe out of line, Potter, and I shall be more than pleased to kill you myself.

The walk through the corridors passed in the relative calm of silence, during which the blond generally ignored him altogether. Once outside on the grounds, however, such a luxury could not be retained much longer. As soon as the two came into Voldemort’s line of sight, actually, all of the jade-eyed boy’s tranquility left him. Though he now realized Voldemort himself was quite a way from being his worst fear, the man who came damn close stood right next to the deformed snakeman, the long strands of dead straight hair falling around the pearl-white mask revealing his identity without any doubt.

“Not bowing before me anymore, Potter? I must say this turn of events disappoints me.”

“You have made it quite clear I am not one of your Asps, Voldemort.” he answered flatly, glaring strait at the man, if one could call him that. “To continue and act as such would be both useless and foolhardy.”

“Amazing. The Potter heir has seemingly had a half-logical thought.” The sneer from the man to Voldemort’s right, sending a chill running rampant down the boy’s spine. Until that very moment, truly, he had not known just how deeply the man could cut him. He had learned to fear him long before, somehow their previous bond allowed the man to affect him the way no one else (Voldemort included) could, with far less effort than others, but until that very moment, the boy had tirelessly forced himself into an unfathomable pit of denial where this man was concerned. “Or are you still maintaining that audacious claim of being mine?”

That, he didn’t even think of answering… mostly because he didn’t rightly know himself.

Both men, if one chose to term them such, laughed when it became apparent he was not going to answer at all. The monster then jerked him so he stood at his left, the claw-like nails digging into his arm.

“Bring her.”

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

He had been staring at her for a good five minutes or more, with her staring right back at him, and everything else seeming to disappear. She had a look of resigned acceptance in her eyes, seeming to demand that he only make sure her sacrifice not be in vain. He could barely take it, seeing her like that, knowing in every fiber of his being that she had never planned on making it out, after all. ‘Why?’ he longed to ask, but could not bring himself to question her apparent sacrifice in fear of hearing the same drabble Dumbledore always spoke about him. He would break if he heard all that shit now, from her, the one woman he, at one point, honestly believed beyond Dumbledore’s realm of influence as well as Voldemort’s.

“You should not have run when Father so graciously deemed you worthy for Regulus, Abdicattera… you could have been a powerful figure on our side.” The monster broke the silence, though the boy was too wrapped up in what had happened to pay attention to which of the men had spoke.

“I’d have been dead as soon as a male child had been birthed, and you know it, Snape.” she spat, apparently unwilling to say Severus.

“Instead you shall die a Muggle, with no child to bury you or weep at your passing.” Snape countered calmly, and Voldemort’s grip on the boy tightened slightly.

It was as if he was seeing it all in slow motion; Snape raising his wand, nearly smirking, and beginning to chant in flawless Latin. He saw her eyes close with the first syllables, only to snap back open seconds later… overfilling with pain, shock, and regret; of what he could not fathom to guess. The room erupted in her screams, though Snape’s chanting was still unmistakably in the background.

“Beautiful, isssn’t it,” a voice hissed into his ear, somehow making the whisper prevail over all the other noise, “a dying woman’s screamssss?” The elated tone nearly made the boy lose what little food he had been given, but Voldemort was far from done with his little commentary. “What mosssst fail to realize, young Potter, isss that Crucio is not the most painful cursssse known to uss… not by far, actually. This, however, comesss quite clossse, if I may say ssssso myself. I’m actually quite sssurprised she hass not yet died, actually.”

She was on the ground now, convulsing frantically, her screams now hoarse and labored. The curse, like most dark curses, prevented her from fainting, her glossed-over eyes attested quite plainly to her conscience status. She would not last much longer, he knew instinctively from having seen Muggles die of the Crucatious from much the same vantage point, though at a far different location. Something in him snapped as soon as that thought was fully processed in his brain, something unfathomable changed and his previously shock-frozen body burst into action.

“Let her go!” he heard himself scream, his mind caught in a daze, though far different from the Frenzies he had to endure… the ones he remembered at least. Before he knew it he was away from Voldemort, and positioned between Snape and the now unconscious woman.

“You know not how tempting this is, Potter.” Snape growled, but thankfully didn’t act on his threat.

“I won’t let you kill her.”

“She’ssss a Muggle by now, boy, there’ss nothing you can do.” Voldemort countered, content with watching what the boy knew was an array of emotions playing over his face. Apparently, the monster saw no danger to himself or his precious Ammodytus. “Sssshe probably wantssss to die, now, come to think of it.”

As if in response or some third-party confirmation, Snape’s wand rose once more, and the magic that had been bubbling within the boy suddenly redoubled its effort to get out. As the first syllables of the killing curse left Snape’s lips, the boy saw red, then white, heard a chilling scream and felt a wand roughly jabbed between his shoulder blades.

“You’ll pay for that, Boy.” sounded in his ear, followed by a barrage of distinct ‘pop’ noises and an animalistic growl behind him. With that, the boy’s mind eased, and he knew no more.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

“Uh,” he groaned as the whiteness of the hospital wing overwhelmed his vision, praying to any deity he could that this was not some new ‘reality’ he’d have to tug through again. He heard unintelligible voices somewhere near him hush at his labored sigh, accompanied by some random shuffling of Merlin knew what. Someone held his glasses within easy reach, and he gratefully pushed them up onto his nose, finally able to identify the figures in the room.

“You had us worried, Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore told him honestly, placing his withered hand on the boy’s shoulder, merrily adding “Miss Granger was most worried for your person.”

A flash in his mind accompanied that comment, and suddenly he understood what the Headmaster meant… but… how? More mental flashes followed, as if a part of his mind had broken through some dam, and pushed to have itself known. Suddenly, he knew exactly why he had a faint scar on his hand, which looked as if someone had written on him with a razor. He could now tell what Umbridge’s ugly mug looked like, beyond what Hermione and Ron had supplied. He remembered going out on a date with a Ravenclaw, Cho, and how wrong it had felt… just how different from when he’d done the same with-

He shook his head slightly, as if the act would settle the bombardment of memories that he just had, all of a sudden. Did he really go out with her? Yes… yes he had, is. Is! And oh how he’d treated her! Merlin, if the others weren’t here, he’d go up and kiss her right now. The sight of her, waiting oh-so-calmly at the end of his bed, clearly concerned, made him feel better all on its own. He loved her, he realized, and knew the same was true for her.

“Mrs. Abdicattera McGonagall asked me to thank you on her behalf, Harry, you saved her life.” Dumbledore continued, as if the grand revelation he had just had had taken no time at all.

“She’s alright then, sir?” he asked, pulling himself away from the butterflies in his stomach, which seemed to stir each time he stole a glance at Hermione.

“Thanks to you, yes. And I must say, my boy, you did a fine job that day…” the old man praised, “Not only did you save her life, but you deleted the largest threat short of Voldemort himself!”

“I… I did, sir?”

“Of course, though most of the Order doubted you could use the new weapon Abby gave you so soon after attaining it. It was well worth her sacrifice.”

“Her- She’s a Squib now, then?” he questioned regretfully, feeling as if he’d betrayed her by letting them take her magic.

“She knew the odds of her escaping with her life were slim, Harry, and escaping with her magic was virtually inconceivable.”

“Then-”

“Why did she go?” the Headmaster finished for him, “Why, she would not have it any other way. Abby is a very loving soul, Harry, with a heavy grudge against the Snapes. Beyond the latter, she simply refused to sit by while she could help you, somehow. The tracking spell I had cast on her allowed Aurors to find the manor, after she sabotaged the main security spells, which is how we retrieved both of you.”

The security wards could only be altered by a member of the family line… a Snape. That’s why she didn’t leave as soon as she had woken his wandless magic. She was the only one who could crack the fortress that was Snape Manor… But-

“You said I ‘deleted a threat’?” what the hell had that been about?

“Don’t you remember, Harry?” Dumbledore asked uncertainly, “Your wandless magic exploded, all of which directed at-”

“Oh. Oh Merlin. Oh-” he was hyperventilating and he knew it. He felt Hermione spring to the other side of his bed and grab his hand, trying to calm him… he saw the slight panic rise in Dumbledore’s twinkle-less eyes, “I… Oh Merlin. I killed him. I-” he couldn’t take it.

“Harry, calm down. Please, you’re magic still has not stabilized enough and it may-”

The boy wasn’t listening. He could keep the damn magic under control. He knew he could. It wasn’t important.

“I killed him…” was all that mattered. “I murdered him. I-”

“Stop it, Harry,” Dumbledore ordered firmly, “You did not murder anyone. You saved Abby by getting rid of the man who has killed thousands and would have killed thousands more had you not. I know you knew him, but you must understand that it was not your professor out there. It was Ammodytus; a man feared during Voldemort’s first reign like no other, who was quickly returning to what he would call his former glory.”

Ammodytus. He killed Ammodytus. The man who nearly killed him many times over…

Still, his heart clenched as his brain could not deny that Ammodytus and his father are- were one and the same. He killed his father. What did that make him?

“May I be left alone, sir?” he asked, forcing himself to calm down, at least outwardly, “I’m exhausted all of a sudden.”

He wasn’t sleepy at all, and he was almost certain even a Dreamless Sleep potion would not be able to force him to bed, but he faked a yawn all the same. He needed to be alone. Now.

“Of course, Harry. I’m sure Poppy would have my head if I kept her patient from recuperation…” The Headmaster acquiesced, stroking the raven locks in a calming manner, “Just remember, you did not murder anyone that day. Neither you nor Abby could have survived any other way.”

“Yes, sir…” and for some reason, he actually half believed it.

.∞ . ∞ . ∞.

The death of his Ammodytus, as Harry’s scar told him, pissed Voldemort off more than anything else in the past. And, less than a week after Harry woke up, the bastard decided to do more than make the boy’s scar throb. At first, Dumbledore and the other members of the ‘Old Crowd’ were wary of telling him or his friends about the unusual activity. When they found out that Harry still knew more about Asps than anyone else (and that what he knew was correct and very useful), they started allowing him into their meetings. They also started training him in the abilities Abdicattera unleashed, which like the still-lingering ‘recollections’ of his Asp training, left him drained and without a moment to himself.

Those ‘recollections’, which he could now easily distinguish form his true memories, started to bother him less and less. While he seemingly retained the knowledge, the specific events became increasingly harder to piece together. Core truths that he had felt worth dying for within the recollections now seemed mostly crazed and irrefutably false. The phantom touches also stopped sometime ago, and he wasn’t quite sure what he felt about this particular deficiency. They had felt right, for some reason, and their lack seemed to leave a lingering emptiness within him.

Now, however, he would have no more time to contemplate such things, for just moments ago, only two months after he had so foolishly gone to the now destroyed Snape Manor, Dumbledore finally decided that he was ready to do what he had wanted since his true memories returned. Tonight, he would finally fulfill his predestined role as the warrior of the Light, and put a stop to the great threat the Asps had become. He would destroy those who attempted to manipulate him into being what he was not, and the flame they had helped ignite would turn on them, turning his enemies to ashes. He was the Phoenix, and the Asps would fall before him.