It was cold and damp, and the darkness was so palpable, he could feel it pressing in on him.

No matter how Harry tried to look around him, his eyes couldn’t see. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, or even where here was.

He shivered.

“It’s frightening, facing the unknown, isn’t it, Harry?” spoke a voice from the darkness beside him, and Harry jumped.

A wand tip illuminated the room, bringing his surroundings into focus. A glance around revealed that he was in a large enclosed room, surrounded on all sides by stone walls. It looked to be some sort of basement. Sitting beside him, with lit wand in hand, was…himself.

“I’m dreaming again,” Harry said, not asking this time.

“Yes,” replied Other Harry, “you are.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and though Harry knew it was a dream, he still felt cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, fighting off the chill. This dream, like the last, felt so real.

“Why did you show me Hogwarts and Hogsmeade like that?” He asked accusingly, giving in to a shudder, this time not merely from the cold. “I saw my friends last night. And now, I…those images of them gone... Why do that to me?”

Other Harry answered after a moment. “Why fight wars? Why battle evil or stand up for what is right? Someone has to, Harry, or evil will win. And sometimes you must know what the evil looks like…what it will do…before you can convince yourself the war is worth fighting.”

“I already know that it is.”

“Not all ways of fighting are as straightforward or as easy as pulling out a sword,” Other Harry replied.

“You mean like…strategy?”

Other Harry gave him a small smile, then looked away. “Not exactly. You’ll know what I mean. When you are ready.”

Harry didn’t feel like arguing. “Where are we now? Another future?”

Other Harry waved an arm in silent invitation to explore.

Harry walked around the cold stone room. It was a basement, he confirmed by the stairs leading to the only door out. But he hadn’t finished his exploration when he heard the faint sound of someone breathing.

They weren’t alone.

The still, half-dressed form of an apparent prisoner lay on his back in the far corner. Harry’s pulse quickened as he bent over the prisoner, turned the head so that he could look at the face…and tripped backward in his haste to get away.

“It’s me!” he gasped, stumbling as far away as possible from his own alive, but nonetheless lifeless eyes staring back at him. “Is –” he tried hard to breathe. “Is this my future?” Breathe. “Is this what will happen to me if…or when…I fail?”

He leaned into the wall, in the spot he had occupied earlier.

Other Harry sighed next to him. “Seeing the future is a tricky thing. Some futures cannot be changed. Others are mere possibilities. Hogwarts, Hogsmeade…that was a possibility.”

“And this?” Harry asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“This will happen.”

Harry swallowed several times before he could speak. “Is it Voldemort? Is he the one who put him…me here? Did he finally get the blood he wanted?”

A slight nod was his answer.

Harry closed his eyes against his racing thoughts. “Am…am I dead? That me, I mean…is he…dead?”

“No. Not yet.”

Harry shivered, not knowing this time if it was from the cold or not. “I’m going to die, then. Is that it? This is where I die, giving my blood for Voldemort’s strength so that he can go on to murder everyone in my life that I love.”

“If you die here, in this room, as Voldemort’s prisoner, the future I showed you before will cease to be a possibility; it will become a certainty.”

Harry drew a shaky breath before latching onto the one word of hope. “If? Then I could still escape? I might live? They might live?”

“Have you asked Dumbledore about the other prophecy?” Other Harry asked, shifting the conversation.

Harry shook his head, focusing his eyes on the stone floor.

“Why not?”

He’d been so preoccupied since that last night with the Dursleys, he’d barely given it a second thought. But he knew that wasn’t the real reason. “You’re not real.” There. Saying it out loud eased his breathing. “You seem so real, it’s easy to forget while I’m here, but…you’re only a dream. It…you can’t be real.”

Other Harry scrutinized him. “You require proof?”

“Yes.”

“Not every truth in life will present you with incontrovertible proof, Harry. Sometimes you must simply trust.”

“Maybe so, but not everything that looks or feels real is real,” Harry countered. “I believed that Voldemort’s false vision was real, and look where that got Sirius. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Other Harry’s voice was soft. “You have learned a difficult lesson… Yes, you are right to question me.” He reached into a pocket and drew out something small, holding it out to offer it to Harry.

Harry took the object, recognizing it as the snitch from his other dream. Like once before, as Harry watched, colors swirled within the golden ball until a face appeared, though it wasn’t Dumbledore this time; it was Snape. The pale, dark haired man stared out of the snitch to a point over Harry’s shoulder, his face twisted into his trademark sneer. “I’d prefer moldy cabbages boiled in beetle stew.” Snape brushed his hair away from his face and crossed his arms before the image faded, presenting Harry with a plain golden snitch once more.

Other Harry took back the snitch and spoke again, as if there had been no odd interruption. “Trust is a tricky thing, Harry. Much like seeing the future. Sometimes you already have all the evidence you need to use it…or to change it.”

“Are you trying to tell me to trust Snape?”

Other Harry looked amused, for once. “You forget I am a part of you, Harry. Telling you to trust someone whom you claim to hate is something I would not presume to do.”

“Good. At least I agree with myself on that.”

“You rely heavily on your instincts. All I offer is the notion that even great instincts such as yours can be fallible if not based on correct…and complete…information.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, okay…yeah, I can agree with that.” He didn’t need to look any further than the events leading up to Sirius’ death to see the truth in that statement.

“Good. You’ll see me again.”

“When?” But when Harry turned to ask his question, the room went dark. His other self was gone, his lit wand along with him.

Harry was alone again in a dream from which he had no idea how to wake. He closed and opened his eyes, pinched himself, thought of waking…all to no avail. And so he leaned against the wall, listening to the sounds of his prisoner self breathing steadily from across the room.

At least he wasn’t the sole survivor on a battlefield this time. By comparison, the darkness he could handle. He’d gotten used to the dark: the spiders, the loneliness, the unknown ‘monsters’ lurking in his cupboard. Sometimes the darkness was even comforting.

Sometimes, however, it forced his mind to wander to things better left ignored, things he’d pushed to the back of his mind for fear he’d have no choice but to lose himself in thoughts of them...

Like his parents. And Cedric. And the very real images of what might happen to his friends if he failed – if he died in this basement.

But mostly…mostly thoughts of Sirius.

Here, in the dark, he couldn’t run from his sorrow at the loss of his godfather. His mind wouldn’t let him push it aside any longer, and the darkness provided the perfect cover for his silent tears to begin to fall. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry before, but now…it felt good.

“Sirius,” he whispered. “You were supposed to stay. You were supposed to be there for me. Why did you go?”

His tears turned to sobs.

“Why?” he demanded, anger joining his sorrow, “If you were here, I’d know what to d-do!” He was finding it hard to speak through his worsening sobs, so he stopped speaking, pouring himself into his tears of loss. It wouldn’t bring Sirius back; he knew that. It’s what had stopped him from crying before - well, that and deciding that at sixteen he was too old for tears.

But here, in the dark, in his dream...he thought maybe it was alright to cry. Just this once.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, sobs wracking his body, before he felt another presence. A hand rested on his shoulder.

He lifted his head in the darkness.

“Sirius?” Sirius was gone; he knew it. But this was a dream, not reality. Maybe Sirius could come to him in a dream…?

“Black is dead, Potter.”

Harry frowned through his sniffles. That wasn’t Sirius. It wasn’t Other Harry, either.

He looked around, trying to see through the darkness. The smell of the damp, stone basement was the only thing to meet his senses…and it was mixed with another scent, a scent he recognized from before. It was the scent of blood. He couldn’t see, but he knew another version of himself still lay in the far corner…not dead, but not quite alive. Waiting to give up more of his blood for Voldemort’s rising power.

He concentrated on breathing past his fear, his sobs giving way to an occasional shudder.

He felt the hand leave his shoulder, and the air around him shifted. His comforter was leaving.

Harry reached out blindly in the darkness. “Wait! Don’t leave me in here!” He swallowed his panic. It was like before, when he hadn’t been able to escape the battlefield. This…this wasn’t as bad, but still. The thought of being trapped forever all alone in this dark room, only his own nearly dead self for company, with no idea how to escape…

“In where, Potter?”

He recoiled. The voice was harsh; it didn’t like him. His breathing quickened.

The presence moved closer. It spoke again, softer than before, “In where? Where are you…Harry?”

Harry flinched as he felt the hand touch his shoulder again. It stayed, though, lightly…comfortingly.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

“I won’t go,” the presence promised, waiting a few seconds before again asking softly, “Where are you?”

“The – the basement. Can’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

Harry shuddered again. “It’s cold in here.”

The presence didn’t say anything for a few moments, and though the hand never left his shoulder, Harry felt something shift in the air around him. He felt warmer, though he couldn’t have explained why.

“What do you smell, P– Harry?”

“Dirt, mold…blood.” He felt his nose wrinkle his distaste.

“Blood? Whose blood?”

Harry shivered again, despite being warm. “His…I mean, mine. Voldemort’s taken it; he’s coming to take more.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, though it didn’t hurt. “How did you get to the basement, Harry?”

“I…I don’t know. It’s a dream. I think it’s the future. But it won’t let me go…” He frowned. It didn’t quite make sense when he said it like that. He forgot about it though, as the hand tightened again, this time too tight. It let up at Harry’s wince.

“What won’t let you go?”

Harry froze, and his heart started to pound. There was a sound within his dream…like someone was coming to the door to the basement. Sure enough, a moment later, the door to the basement opened and he shielded his eyes as light flooded the room.

He watched as a cloaked and masked figure descended the steps to the basement and turned toward the still prisoner.

“Potter?” A voice called to him, shaking him slightly, but as Harry looked on either side of him in the basement, he couldn’t see the presence he had been talking to. He brushed off the invisible hands, intent on finding out why the Death Eater was here.

A moment later, he wished he hadn’t watched, as the Death Eater waved a wand over the still form, and Harry saw a large vial in the man’s hands fill with red liquid.

“Blood,” he whispered. “He’s taking more of my blood.”

“Potter. You’re dreaming. Wake up.” The voice was stern, and Harry couldn’t be sure, but he thought there might be an edge of panic to it. But it was calling him Potter again…in that voice that meant it didn’t like him.

“It won’t let me go,” he repeated, backing away from the presence outside his dream, but then it spoke to him softly again, in a voice that made Harry feel calm.

“Harry, you need to tell me what won’t let you go.”

“The dream. The dream won’t let me go.” He lowered his head as the cloaked figure within his dream climbed the stairs and turned off the lights to leave him once more in darkness. “Please,” Harry whispered. “Can you make it let go?”

Harry heard a rustling in the darkness, and a sound like a door closing from far away, followed by a whoosh of air nearby.

Harry flinched away as he felt a hand touch his chin.

“Open your mouth,” spoke the presence. “I have a potion. It will help you to escape from your dream.”

Harry opened his mouth obediently, swallowing the potion given to him by the invisible hands. Hmm…it was a familiar taste – one he’d had before. As he tried to remember what it was called, he barely noticed as another darkness enveloped him, leading him away from the cold, damp blackness of the basement. But this darkness was okay…it was peaceful…

It was the darkness of dreamless sleep.

And this time, he was unaware when the presence removed its hand from his shoulder. Or when it paused to scan his sleeping form before quietly retreating into the hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Harry woke up feeling better rested than he’d been in a good long while. So rested, in fact, that until he opened his eyes completely, he’d thought that maybe he was in his bed back at Hogwarts.

He yawned, lazily stretching. This wasn’t so bad, he thought. Having a lie-in was always a nice feeling, even if he wasn’t in Gryffindor Tower.

Harry’s eyes popped open all the way. A lie-in?

He hurriedly threw off his bed covers, swinging his feet over to land on the floor. Sure enough, the light streaming in through his bedroom window testified to the fact that it was at least mid-morning, if not later.

His only thought as he scrambled out of his nightclothes and into a shirt and pair of jeans was about how angry Snape was going to be.

The professor had already been in a foul mood the night before, which had worsened after one of his potions had failed to reach an exact “milky white” consistency. But he’d been downright murderous after determining Harry’s miss-sorting of a puffer-fish eye into the tail pile as the reason for the less than perfect brew.

He’d ordered Harry in no uncertain terms to be in the lab at the break of dawn, as he would be brewing the replacement potion until he got it right.

Well, it was well past dawn, and Harry wasn’t about to chance even the extra few minutes it would take to fill his empty stomach. Running his fingers haphazardly through his hair, he bolted out of his bedroom and to the lab, pausing only a moment to catch his breath before stepping cautiously into the room.

But he needn’t have bothered to be so cautious: Snape wasn’t there.

Looking around carefully to be sure he hadn’t overlooked the professor behind some cauldrons, he shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what to do now. Should he get started on the potion or wait for Snape? Just looking around didn’t seem like such a good idea, what with how angry the man had been the other night after catching Harry outside the drawing room…

Coming to a decision, Harry left the potions lab in search of the professor. Since he’d started working in the lab, he hadn’t been outright told he couldn’t be there without Snape present, but accidentally blowing something up wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to find out about that rule.

A thorough search of the hallway and drawing room later, he discovered the object of his quest sitting quite calmly at the kitchen table, an array of books, quills, and parchment spread out in front of him. All were stacked and lined up neatly, much like Snape’s potions ingredients in his lab. Harry wondered if the structured man even knew how to let things get a little messy from time to time.

Harry cleared his throat to announce his presence.

The man continued leafing through a large book, and Harry was actually contemplating speech when Snape said without looking up, “One might assume that had you not barged loudly into the kitchen, your deafening footfalls would be sufficient to alert me to your presence.”

Harry sighed inwardly. So it was going to be one of those days. Not that he expected anything other than insults from Snape…but sometimes over the past couple days, Snape had managed not to say much of anything to him beyond potions preparation instructions. Those were Harry’s favorite times.

“If you insist on standing in the doorway all day,” Snape continued, giving him a pointed glare, “be my guest. It will be considerably more difficult, however, for you to complete your day’s assignment standing up.”

Harry sat across from Snape without speaking, a little worried about what the “day’s assignment” might be and how it involved not being in the potions laboratory. Surely Snape hadn’t changed his mind about having Harry brew that potion? Or…he felt a little worried at this thought…was the change in assignment something worse, some punishment because of his having overslept and not shown up on time?

“Dobby!” Snape’s call rang out, making Harry more nervous by not getting right to the point of his punishment. Snape’s only comment to the materialized house-elf was, “Mr. Potter will require breakfast. See to it.”

It was good to hear that he’d be able to fill his hungry stomach after all, but Harry didn’t feel very relieved. If anything, he felt his stomach knotting up. Why wouldn’t Snape just get to telling him what he’d have to do?

But Snape wasn’t cooperating with Harry’s wishes. He continued leafing through his book and making notes on parchment while Dobby delivered his food and left Harry to eat. The silence was nerve-wracking, and by the time he was finished with his food, he actually felt a little ill.

He pushed his near-empty plate aside, and it immediately vanished from the table.

He only had to wait another moment before Snape set aside his quill to give Harry his undivided attention. However, when that attention involved simply studying him for several long moments without speaking, Harry couldn’t help but feel distinctly uncomfortable.

And then, as if he wasn’t uncomfortable enough, he all at once recognized that light in Snape’s eyes. He hadn’t seen it in a few days – not since they’d been at the Dursleys last week. The “I have a puzzle to figure out” face was back, and it was directed once more at Harry. He’d hoped never to see that face again, but at least the other times he’d known what had brought it on. This time he was at a loss to figure out what he might have done to trigger Snape’s odd interest. He squirmed in his seat.

That at least served the purpose of bringing Snape back from whatever thoughts he’d been caught up in. “Have you had visions of the Dark Lord since summer began?” the professor asked crisply. Apparently the man wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

Harry blinked. Visions? He was too surprised at the question to come up with a way to dodge it. “Uh…yeah, I guess so.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “You ‘guess’ so, Potter?” His voice grew quieter, which was almost never a good sign. “You mean to say that you have been seeing into the Dark Lord’s mind and you haven’t thought to inform the headmaster?”

“Erm…” Harry tensed at the sneaking suspicion that he was about to be in an awful lot of trouble. Snape didn’t look angry, though…just calculating. Still, that didn’t put Harry at ease.

“Did you have a vision last night?” Snape asked intently.

Harry furrowed his brow as bits of a dream rushed back to him – a basement, so cold, seeing himself lying there, helplessly allowing some Death Eater to take his blood.... Harry wrapped his arms around himself as he shivered. “Um, no. I mean, I dreamed, but it wasn’t from him…” He knew that, at least – his scar hadn’t hurt last night, not even a little bit. Another thought occurred to him. He looked up warily. “You didn’t, um, hear me or anything? I mean, I didn’t…?”

Snape ignored the question. “And several nights ago – at your relatives’ home – was that a vision?”

Harry flushed and ducked his head. “No. That was a regular, um…dream.” At Snape’s narrowed gaze, he amended, “okay, nightmare.”

“How often, then?”

“How often do I have nightmares?” Harry asked guardedly, not wanting to admit that answer to Snape, of all people.

“No. How often have you had visions from the Dark Lord?”

“Oh. Only a couple times,” Harry insisted, “and it hasn’t been anything important –”

“You have no idea what is important, you foolish boy.” Snape cut in, still speaking calmly, though Harry heard the underlying danger in the man’s voice. Without further comment, Snape reached for a book sitting to the side. He handed it to Harry, watching him closely.

Harry accepted the thick tome, scanning over the title. Guarding the Mind: A Beginner’s Guide to Occlumency, by Josepia Prynne.

Occlumency.

Harry hadn’t thought before that his stomach could be any more upset; he was wrong. He looked up slowly, warily, praying that this didn’t mean what he knew it might mean. Dumbledore had promised Snape wouldn’t be made to teach Harry…right? And there was no way Snape would offer. Oh, Merlin…Harry sure hoped there was no way Snape would offer.

Still, watching Snape suspiciously, Harry felt like he was waiting for his own death sentence to be determined.

Snape studied him for another moment, then explained, “The headmaster has decided that it is in your best interest to resume the study of Occlumency. You will read this book,” Snape continued evenly, “until you have read every sentence on every page in every chapter. You will do nothing but read until you have completed the book. And each night before you sleep, you will practice the techniques outlined in this book. Do you understand?”

Harry met Snape’s eyes and nodded, not sure how else to respond. He couldn’t even identify the emotion running through him right then…was it trepidation? Anger? How dare Dumbledore even consider letting Snape teach him again?

“The headmaster would ‘consider letting me teach you again,’ as I am an expert in the fields of Occlumency and Legilimency,” Snape taunted, “a talent which you have apparently still yet to begin to grasp.”

Harry looked away from the Legilimen’s eyes. His face felt so hot at his thoughts having been read, he was sure he must be completely red. “Yes, sir,” he muttered out of embarrassment rather than out of any show of respect.

“However, your blatant distaste for a resumed tutoring relationship between the two of us is not unshared, I may assure you,” Snape sneered, “which is why we will not be entering into such an arrangement.”

Harry looked up hopefully before again averting his eyes.

“Professor Dumbledore and I have come to an agreement. You will read. You will practice. I will make certain that you read and that you practice. He will be overseeing your practical Occlumency tutelage.”

Harry let out a breath and felt his whole body relax. He didn’t even care if Snape saw how relieved he was. “I’ll have lessons with him, then? Here? Or at school? When? And how often?”

Snape gave him a long, expressionless stare before commenting, “You have an annoying habit of asking too many questions, Potter.”

Harry blinked. As insults went, that one was Snape-light. Maybe the man was losing his touch. He hadn’t even commented on the minuscule size of Harry’s brain.

To Harry’s further surprise, Snape went on to actually answer his questions - without sarcasm, even. “The headmaster will be arriving tonight to discuss your lessons with you. Before you ask at what time, allow me to tell you that I do not know. He will come after he has taken care of a few other matters of importance. He has a very demanding schedule, and you will therefore be required to be prepared for lessons at his convenience, most times with little notice, I would expect. It is due to his intermittent availability that he has assigned this book as preparatory reading.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could manage. He was mentally running through Snape’s speech for some hidden insult. He couldn’t find one, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

“One more thing, Potter,” Snape went on, “As soon as the headmaster arrives, you will relate to both of us – in detail – the visions you have had thus far. And you will relate any future visions to me immediately upon waking. Do you understand?”

Snape waited for Harry to nod his agreement before issuing a crisp, “now read,” indicating he was through with talking. He turned back to his own book.

Harry paused, hand poised to open the Occlumency text. He would probably berate himself for this later, but… “What about the potion you told me to brew? I thought…I mean, you said…”

Snape looked up from his work, his lips twisted into a familiar sneer. “You seem to be under the continuing assumption that I am incapable of remembering my own words, Potter. Allow me to assure you: in direct contrast to your own mental capabilities, mine are of adequate size and fully in tact. Now read.” He ignored Harry’s glare, returning to his own work.

And as Harry opened the thick tome to the first chapter, he at least knew all was right with the world – Snape hadn’t lost his insulting touch, after all.