Despite the questions still raging through his mind, Snape was on the verge of surrendering to his exhaustion. He slumped into one of the armchairs, reluctant to leave the ailing teenager's side, but unwilling to summon a rejuvenation draught for himself. He was debating the merits of levitating Harry back up to his own room when his thoughts began to blur with sleep.

And then Harry began to laugh.

He raised his head wearily when the first dry, rasping chuckle issued from the boy's throat, and at last forced himself to his feet as the laughter grew high and cold.

"Potter?" Snape called, wondering if he'd underestimated the dosage of the sleeping draught.

Harry's face was still slack with unconsciousness, but his lips began to move in a smooth intonation almost as though they belonged to a separate body. "That pathetic display will get you nowhere, my slippery friend. I would think it beneath your ancient dignity to beg…"

Snape froze, knowing that voice.

"You make no similar appeal to your sister-in-law. Why is that, I wonder? Crucio."

There was something horrific about hearing the Dark Lord's familiar tones and cadences from the lips of a sleeping sixteen-year-old. Snape stood stock still, almost fearing to move any closer to the inert form.

"She does seem to be enjoying herself, doesn't she? Would you like your turn, Bella?-- You see, I reward loyalty. Competence. Two qualities you've been conspicuously lacking of late. Cru-"

As though waking up from a trance, Snape vaulted forward and grasped him by the shoulders.

"Potter!"

The Dark Lord's words died from Harry's lips when Snape shook him harshly, but the draught kept him steadfastly unconscious. Severus's furious heartbeat pounded in his ears, and it took him several moments to catch his breath and pry his fingers from the teenager's shoulders.

He staggered back a step from the now-mute form, utterly shocked. The Headmaster had explained to him the severity of Harry's visions, the extent to which the Dark Lord penetrated the boy's mind, but until now, Snape had not had the chance to witness one of those visions in progress.

It was one thing to hear of it, it was an entirely different matter to see first-hand the Dark Lord's influence over him.

Snape scrubbed his fingers over his lips, feeling cold and shaken by the spectacle. It only registered now, the full extent of Harry's vulnerability. He could see easily how the Dark Lord had torn straight into the boy's mind.

And now that Harry knew the details of his spying… now that he knew Severus was his father… the danger was greater than ever before.

They needed to work on Occlumency. He needed to figure out why exactly Harry's mind was eased by that cupboard… The question nagged relentlessly just outside the scope of his comprehension. It was frustrating, confusing, because even with his new insight into the workings of Harry's mind, it was the one element that refused to factor into the Slytherin persona he was constructing for him.

Why why why was Harry comforted by the image of being locked in a bloody cupboard?

And if he could simply figure that out, he could understand the morning's events. He would know Harry's motive for drawing Lucius into a violent confrontation that could only have one terrible result.

His eyes, straying over the unconscious form, halted abruptly upon catching sight of the blood crusted beneath his fingernails.

Snape's brow furrowed. He'd already cast several cleansing charms on Harry, trying to sear the events of the day from the boy's awareness at least in some measure. It was surprising he'd overlooked that detail.

With a quick glance to verify Harry still slumbered, he tentatively grasped one of his thin hands and raised it into the light. The scourgify charm worked quickly enough, but as Severus moved to release his grip, Harry's fingers clamped around his, curtailing his retreat.

Snape stilled. Even in his sleep, Harry's face had twisted into something resembling anguish. The grip tightened on his fingers as Harry murmured something unintelligible, pulling him closer. It took Snape a long moment to realize his physical presence was comforting for the boy.

He smirked. Harry would be mortified if he knew…

The thought of it amused Snape enough for him to permit Harry to continue clinging to him.

The fingers tightened again, the troubled expression on Harry's face growing outright distraught. He was murmuring something unintelligible over and over, and Snape leaned closer to hear it.

"… Sirius…"

With a disgusted snort, he wrenched himself from the weak grip.

"Sirius!" Harry's voice was anguished, his flailing hand closing on thin air.

Snape cursed Black silently, and gathered his empty potions vials into his hand. He didn't look up as Harry called the name several more times.

Then Harry's hand dropped, dangling off the side of the couch. "I'm sorry, Sirius…" he moaned. "… I'm so sorry…"

Snape did look up then, staring intently at the unconscious boy.

"So sorry…" Harry mumbled. "Didn't mean to… I'm sorry…"

And suddenly Snape understood all too well why Harry needed that cupboard.

This was it right here... the legacy of being raised by those Muggles.

Snape rubbed his hand as though Harry's touch had seared his skin, staring at the prone form. He was aware of a vague regret that he'd pulled away from his son's grip.

Well… He watched Harry curl in on himself and roll to his other side. He supposed it was too late to change that now.

* * *

Harry's head was pounding, his entire body throbbing with remembered pain. It took him several attempts to force his gummy eyelids open, and he winced at the onslaught of light.

At some point, Snape must have moved him. His last memory was of Snape healing him in the parlor, although he had some vague recollection of rousing and asking Snape how long he'd been out.

"Not nearly long enough. Go back to sleep, you foolish boy."

The memory now crawled sluggishly through his brain. The sleeping draught had left him slow and rather disoriented. How long had it been? Days? Hours?

His gaze traveled slowly about the bedroom, and then halted when he caught sight of a pensieve, resting on the table by his bed.

Harry stared at it in confusion for a long moment, trying to figure out just how it had arrived there.

Snape must have left it. Why? Is this some sort of test?

Harry gazed at it for a few cautious moments more, before deciding not to touch it.

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knew, Snape was standing above him, running a diagnostic spell. His professor looked exhausted, his hair greasier than usual, dark shadows under his eyes.

"How long..?" Harry asked, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, but it did nothing to dispel the sore feeling.

"Almost two days," Snape replied. He tucked his wand back into his pocket and surveyed Harry critically. "You'll be pleased to know you've suffered no permanent nerve damage."

"Oh." Harry rubbed at his throat, trying to sort out his memories of the last several days.

Snape's lips thinned into a grim, irritated line. "Another twenty seconds, Potter, and your mobility would have been permanently impaired. You were exceedingly fortunate."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that, so he remained silent.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "I hope you'll remember how narrowly you escaped that fate, the next time you choose to embark upon such a foolhardy venture."

Harry turned his gaze up to the ceiling, wishing Snape would just leave already. He was starting to feel a bit sick again.

The weight of Snape's gaze rested upon him for a long moment, before his professor backed off a step.

"The pensieve. Have you had a chance to look at it?"

Harry's gaze snapped up. "No"

Snape sent him a dour look.

"I… I wouldn't do that again," he added quickly.

Snape's eyes rolled heavenward. "Naturally, this is the one time you exhibit the remotest sense of decorum." He swept around the bed, and with a curt gesture, beckoned Harry over to the pensieve. "Come, Potter, take a look. I wouldn't have been so foolish as to leave it here if I didn't wish you to see it."

"Really?" Harry said bitterly, remembering the last pensieve he'd viewed.

Snape shot him an unfriendly look, and Harry fell silent. After a moment, he inched across the bed, ignoring the sharp protest of his sore joints. The older wizard retreated to allow him some space.

"This may be disconcerting," Snape noted, watching Harry adjust to his new position on the side of the bed. "This is a recollection from my mind, extracted from Lucius's mind, from a moment during which he was penetrating your mind. Be warned."

Harry shot Snape a dubious look, suddenly a bit nervous about just what he was going to see. He bit the side of his cheek and gazed into the depths of the pensieve, reluctant to proceed.

"Sometime today would be nice," noted Snape dryly.

Harry took a deep breath and prodded the pensieve, his heart thudding in his chest. Just what would he see? Did he have to re-live what happened with Minky? He didn't think he could stand to see that. Maybe this was some form of punishment..?

* * *

It took Harry a long moment to connect the pale, skinny boy half-slumped in Malfoy's arms with himself. He felt himself shudder at the sight of the aristocrat, memories of Malfoy torturing him and Malfoy screaming under Snape's Cruciatus Curse, dancing through his mind.

Lucius supported the other Harry easily; the boy's legs still refused to hold his weight.

"Kill the house-elf," Lucius instructed, gray eyes glittering intently. He appeared entirely confident in his ability to bend the younger wizard's will to his.

Harry shrank from the sight. He didn't want to watch Lucius turn him into a killer.

Lucius's eyes were misty, his attention entirely focused upon controlling Harry's mind. "Kill her."

The other Harry's misty green eyes rose, confusion blossoming in their depths. Harry felt sick watching himself.

Malfoy's grip tightened under the boy's arms, frustration stealing over his face.

"Kill her!" he insisted, his voice a harsh rasp.

The other Harry blinked, as though unable to tear his gaze from the house-elf, yet unable to comprehend just what he was being asked to do. His brow furrowed, and with what seemed like an effort, he opened his hand and dropped his wand to the ground.

Dismay and confusion stole over Lucius's expression. He stared at Harry for a long moment with an expression that slowly shifted into anger and… something like betrayal?

He shoved Harry roughly to the ground.

Lucius turned hard, angry eyes to the house-elf, still trembling fearfully before him on the lawn.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light streaked from his wand, hitting Minky in the chest. She slumped, dead, to the ground.

Lucius's furious gaze turned from the dead house-elf to the fallen boy. He surveyed the disoriented Harry with a cold, calculating glint in his eyes.

Harry saw the exact moment he forced a smile to his lips, although his eyes remained cold and furious. On the lawn before him, the skinny boy seemed to rouse out of his stupor, almost tumbling from where he crouched on his knees. He watched his expression change to one of shock and dismay upon spotting Minky's body.

Lucius was smiling viciously. "Well done, Septimus."

* * *

Harry was vaguely aware of Snape nudging him back onto the bed where he threatened to tumble off, and prying the pensieve from Harry's grip.

I didn't kill her…

The thought rang hollowly through Harry's mind. He knew he should be relieved, but there was a sick, tight feeling in his chest that refused to disperse.

It wasn't my fault.

But he couldn't tear his mind from that dead body.

Harry curled his knees up to his chest and hugged them with an arm. He felt his scar twinge, and it made him feel sick and vaguely unclean. He scratched at it.

"Well?" Snape asked lazily, removing the memory from the pensieve and placing the delicate white strands back into his head.

"Well?" Harry echoed numbly.

"You're not responsible for her death. Do you feel adequately consoled?"

Harry briefly wondered why it made a difference one way or another to

Snape how he felt about Minky's death, but the thought was eclipsed by that cold, dreadful feeling inside him.

I have to do that…

This hadn't been the first time he'd witnessed death. But it was the first time he'd been thoroughly convinced, at least for a while, that he perpetrated it himself. This was the first time he'd tangibly felt the blood on his hands.

He'd killed Sirius, it was true. He might as well have shoved him through that veil himself. But never had he confronted the reality of being a murderer.

And he would be a murderer. He would murder with his own hands, or die himself.

Harry curled in on himself tighter, wanting to be sick, wanting to scream. Something, anything, to dispel the horrible truth.

his scar BURNED-

There was no way out of it. He couldn't escape his destiny. He was going to kill someone. And he hadn't understood, not really, how terrible a thing that was until he'd seen Minky's body…

Or would he kill Voldemort? Was he strong enough? Was he even capable of it?

He scratched his forehead harder. So much depended upon him. So many lives. He just wished he could crawl out of his skin, lose his memory, forget, forget-

"Will you stop that?" Snape bellowed, yanking Harry's hand from where he raked his fingernails convulsively at his forehead.

"Sorry!" Harry gasped, trying to pull away.

Snape's grip tightened, forestalling his retreat. His black eyes seemed transfixed, and it took Harry a minute to see just what he was looking at.

There was blood under his fingernails.

Snape glared intently at his hand for a long moment, then his black eyes found their way to Harry's forehead, comprehension flickering in their depths.

"Of course!" he snarled. "Finite incantatem glamourie."

Harry felt a tingle over his forehead as the glamour Snape had employed to conceal his scar from Lucius quickly dissolved. Anger stole over Snape's face. The iron grasp on his wrist tightened, and his professor yanked him closer, clamping his fingers over Harry's chin and tilting his head back into the light.

"What is this, Potter?" Snape demanded.

"What is what?"

Snape's grip bruised his chin, and he turned Harry's head towards the wall mirror. "This!"

Harry was surprised, and then morbidly intrigued, by the sight of his bloody forehead where he'd clawed at his scar. Funny how even now, he couldn't seem to feel the injury, despite how he'd raked at the skin until it bled.

"What. Is. This?"

Harry stared at his shredded skin for a long moment more before forcing his attention back to Snape. "I didn't realize… My scar, it's been hurting a bit, but I didn't..."

"How long?" Snape sounded irritated.

With good reason, Harry supposed.

He turned from his own reflection, and almost rubbed at his forehead again before freezing under Snape's withering glare.

"Uh- I wasn't really thinking about it. I think after Mi- Minky." This time he did rub at his scar, caught in the unsettling memory. "Malfoy said he was proud. He-" Harry abruptly stopped speaking, suddenly overcome with humiliation at the memory of Malfoy's fatherly kiss to his forehead. He had a sudden urge to claw the skin out again.

There were so many awful things Snape could say about that. He didn't want to risk hearing them.

"And why does it hurt now?" Snape asked impatiently. "I just absolved you of your guilt. You have no reason to feel distressed."

Harry shrugged, disliking Snape's intense scrutiny.

"Do you need…" Snape gestured to the closet.

Harry gaze crawled over in its direction, and he was overcome with a sense of helpless despair.

He still longed for it; he wished he'd never left the oppressive simplicity of the Dursleys, that he'd never left his cupboard, never been the savior of the wizarding world, never been forced to assume such a terrible degree of responsibility.

But there was no fooling himself any longer.

Murderer or victim. Those were the only possibilities left for him now.

Harry shook his head. He clamped his hand over his eyes, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

His scar throbbed relentlessly, but he was painfully aware that nothing in this world would dispel the image of death from his mind… He could no longer ignore the reality of his glorious destiny.

Snape still loomed over him. Harry waited for him to leave.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt his hands pulled from his face. He stared up at Snape in confusion as the man pulled out a vial, and with a gentle swipe of his thumb, set about applying salve to Harry's bleeding forehead. Harry stared at him for a long moment, trying to reconcile this stranger with the Death Eater he'd watched enjoy another man's screams.

He simply couldn't. This was… this felt all wrong. This was some sort of trick; it had to be. What did Snape want from him?

"I can do it myself," Harry said loudly, sending him a challenging look.

Snape's black eyes snapped to his. His professor stared at him with an unfathomable expression for a long moment, and then his lip curled. He brusquely shoved the vial into Harry's hand.

"Fine. Do it yourself, then."

Snape stalked out of the room.

Harry stared after him. He would never understand how that greasy git's mind worked.

His hand shook as he rubbed the salve onto his forehead. His skin quickly healed, but his scar burned on.