Piercing light. Blinding pain.

A still body. Pale skin, blue lips. Angry fingers, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” rasped a callous voice behind a soulless mask.

No.

A million shards of grief ripped through his heart. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He violently shook his head. The world tilted and he would have tilted with it, if not for the cords holding him in place.

No. Snape wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, because he’d promised. He’d promised they would live, that they’d both get out of here. He’d promised!

What he wouldn't give to wake up from this nightmare, but he was wide awake. He knew this was no dream.

The moonlight shone down on the clearing, combining with artificial lights to illuminate the Death Eater masks surrounding him. But he kept his eyes on the motionless body lying in the center of unforgiving stone. The familiar face was turned away, and yet the stillness of his chest was all that Harry’s eyes could see. The rest of the world shifted out of focus. He didn’t see the sparks of magic this time, couldn’t bring himself to look for them, or to even think beyond the pain in his chest. He barely knew when a primal scream broke through from his chest and out of his throat.

Voldemort had taken everything from him. Everything. And he’d finally gone too far.

His teeth clenched. His eyes blazed. Gasps and murmurs mingled with the faint sounds of the night as the air in the clearing began to pulse with magic.

Two hours earlier

“I’m all for living.” Now that the most difficult part of their conversation was behind them, Harry’s exhaustion was settling back over him like a heavy blanket. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to fall asleep while discussing their impending escape, so he shifted so that he was sitting up straighter against the wall. “What’s the plan?”

Snape silently rolled the vial containing the silver potion through his fingers, deep in thought.

Harry sighed. “You’re not going to tell me the plan, are you?” It was unsurprising, but still. After all the secrets the man had just shared, you’d think he’d be fine with just one more…

Snape gave him an inscrutable searching look.

“You don’t have a plan,” Harry guessed, let down after his momentary high. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the will to live is pretty important and all, but I was kind of hoping it was backed up by some sort of sneaky Slytherin plot. Maybe one involving us escaping like, right now? Because I don’t know what time it is, but we were probably asleep for a long time, and whatever You-Know-Who has planned is going to happen pretty soon here, and I highly doubt it is going to be pleasant, and I don’t really want either one of us to die-”

“I am not going to let you die,” Snape said quietly. He looked away as if he’d just awkwardly bared his soul again, and Harry knew without asking that while Snape had logically accepted his arguments for forgiveness and starting over, accepting it emotionally was going to take time.

Studying the man, he decided not to bring attention to it. They’d had enough of a heart to heart for one day. It had taken five years to get to this point, and Snape wasn’t all that great at processing emotions to begin with. Harry figured he could let his professor come around to their new understanding in his own time. “Yeah, okay. No dying. That’s good. I’m liking the plan so far…” he prodded.

Snape looked down again, his thinking face firmly in place. Along with his secretive eye pinch.

“Great,” Harry groused. “End of the world, and you’re still leaving me in the dark.”

Instead of answering, Snape asked, “Do you remember our conversation about codes, back at Grimmauld Place?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I told you then that even the most trustworthy of Order members are not given more information than they need to know at any given moment.”

“I get that. I do,” Harry insisted, “but I’d think that how we’re getting out of here is something that I need to know.”

“You have an intelligent mind,” Snape admitted, eyeing him with a head tilt, and Harry was gratified that the compliment was easily given, “but you are still impulsive and you wear your emotions - and your thoughts - on your sleeve. You have much to learn about subtlety.”

Harry frowned and opened his mouth to argue about trust-

“And before you make a case involving trust going both ways,” said Snape, “allow me to assure you that this has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with playing to your strengths and recognizing your limitations.” Harry shut his mouth with an audible snap, and Snape gave him a knowing look. “You see? Open book.”

Harry harrumphed, grudgingly accepting the truth in that statement. He was an open book. He thought he’d done alright being stoic with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and he was a decent liar when he needed to be, but that was far removed from the skillful deception that Snape was accustomed to as a spy. Although…

“I can read your face too, you know,” he pointed out. “I know what all your looks mean. Well, a lot of them, anyway. I know what you’re thinking much of the time too. Why is that so different?”

“What am I thinking now?” Snape stared at him with his best inscrutable gaze.

“No fair,” Harry complained. “You’ve got your spy face on!”

“Exactly. I have a ‘spy face,’ as you so eloquently call it,” Snape sniffed. “But even a spy cannot keep his guard up every second of every day. We are no longer at school, where you see me for short bursts in a classroom environment. We have lived in close quarters this past month, not to mention regularly seen inside each other’s minds. It is unsurprising that we have learned each other’s visual cues and tells. The difference,” he stressed, “is that I am perfectly capable of hiding my thoughts and responses when I deem it necessary to do so.”

Harry thought for a minute. He hesitated, then observed, “So you’re saying that you don’t um, deem it necessary to keep all your thoughts hidden around me anymore?”

Snape’s spy face didn’t falter.

Harry smirked. “Right. Never mind.” But he knew that he was right, that Snape had gradually been lowering his walls around Harry, feeling more comfortable, maybe without being fully conscious of the extent, and pointing it out aloud made Harry feel better about the fact that he’d been doing the same.

Snape looked back down, thoughtfully rubbing the potions vial with his fingers.

“What is it?” Harry asked, hopeful that he could be told something.

“A message,” Snape said shortly.

“Saying?”

“That if we are to receive outside aid, it will be under very specific circumstances.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot to the middle of his forehead. “Outside aid…you mean from Malfoy? He can’t possibly be on our side!”

“His allegiances are not the point.” Snape jerked his head as if irritated, though the irritation clearly wasn’t with Harry. “A good thing, too, as they are too complicated to delve into just now. Suffice it to say that what he offers is our best chance. But his solution to our predicament is not without conditions.”

“What- what conditions?” Conditions from a Malfoy couldn’t be good.

“The foremost condition is that we will not be spared the Dark Lord’s ceremony.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very good offer of help to me,” mumbled Harry, already not liking whatever plan Snape was keeping close to the vest.

“It is not precisely an offer of help,” corrected Snape. “A deal would be a more apt description.”

Harry stared, not liking the sound of that either. “What does he want?”

“Nothing that the headmaster will be unwilling to give,” assured Snape, and while the answer was more cryptic than Harry would like, it reassured him. As much as he trusted Snape, he wasn’t under any pretenses about his professor. The man had a darkness within him that would never completely go away. Even though he was one of the good guys now, Harry knew there were absolutely things that Snape would be willing do that Harry would prefer to not know about. Dumbledore may not be perfect, with his puppeteer’s strings and his ability to make the tough calls, but if both men would be willing to play Malfoy’s game, then it let Harry breathe a little bit easier.

“Why’d you tell me? You just got finished calling me out for being an open book. I assume You-Know-Who wouldn’t be happy to hear of Malfoy’s offer of a ‘deal.’ Aren’t you worried about me giving him away?”

“Your shortcomings in the art of subterfuge are not all-encompassing,” Snape waved a hand, still focused on the vial. “They lie primarily in the form of emotional responses and reactions to surprise stimuli. When given time to prepare yourself, I do believe that you have satisfactorily proven yourself able to not reveal the identity of a potential ally.”

Harry probably shouldn’t feel proud at the half-insult, half-compliment, but he did. It was as good as Snape telling him “well done” for not giving him away when had been in disguise as Crabbe. He gave Snape small grin before it fell at the thought: “What if You-Know-Who Legilimizes me again?”

“Do what you have been doing,” Snape said easily, with no visible sign that he was worried about the scenario. “Push him out. Make him fear your mind. It seems to be working.”

“But what if it doesn’t this time? He’s doing some sort of ceremony, professor. I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good, and every time he does whatever he does with more of my blood, he gets stronger. What if he gets so strong this time that he rips my mind apart?” The thought terrified him, all the more because it felt like a very real possibility. He shivered and closed his eyes at the memory of what it had felt like the last time Voldemort had rummaged through his mind.

“Look at me,” ordered Snape, and Harry did. The man’s gaze was deliberately steady, and it helped to calm Harry’s racing heart. “Think about what has happened since you arrived. You pushed the Dark Lord out of your mind - not once, but twice - and injured him both times. You successfully Legilimized Bellatrix Lestrange without any prior experience or knowledge of how to do so. You may not be aware of this, but you also sent out a pulse of magic that forced the Death Eaters restraining you to fall away. And then you claim that you saw magic, something only the Dark Lord appears able to do at present. Do you think those things random coincidence?”

Harry bit his lip. “I…don’t know. Honestly? I’m weirded out by whatever’s going on, yeah, but I’ve been a little busy. Haven’t had much time to mull over it, you know?”

“Now is the time to mull it over,” directed Snape, “because the Dark Lord does not appear to be the only one gaining something from this experiment. You are getting stronger too.”

Harry leaned back and took a deep breath. “That- that’s not possible. Is it?”

Snape waved a hand at Harry’s scar. “Many things have happened that should be impossible. You defy expectations, Potter. You always have.”

“How is it happening?”

Snape shook his head. “I do not know. Your mental connection, perhaps? What power he gains is automatically shared with you, much like the Parseltongue? After all, it is unlikely that such a gift was naturally present within you. More likely, Parseltongue was shared with you when he established your unique connection the night he gave you that scar. Perhaps powers that he gains through the physical means of your blood are shared in the same way?” He leaned back, deep in his figuring-out-a-puzzle stance, and shook his head. “I am not sold on that theory, however, as his increased powers have not appeared to affect you prior to the last few days. Perhaps it is nothing natural or automatic. It could be triggered by specific instances.” He crossed his arms and tapped his chin with the fingers of one hand. “That is more likely, in fact, as each time you’ve displayed impressive abilities has occurred immediately after either seeing into his mind or pushing him out of yours. Perhaps in pushing your way out, you inadvertently managed to siphon off some of his newfound powers into yourself.”

“Siphon off…like steal? Or like share?”

“Explain.”

“If I am getting some of his powers,” Harry said slowly, thinking it through, “am I taking them away from him? Like, is there a limited supply of powers, and every time I get them, I take some away from him and he’s not as strong as before? Or is it limitless? Like…he stays just as powerful and I just get to share in them a bit?” Which led to more questions. “And does it last forever or for a little while? I mean, do you think I get to keep them, like I could still be more powerful right now, it’s just I don’t know how to use it yet? I don’t feel any different though if that’s the case…”

“I don’t know,” Snape admitted. “This is new territory. Time will tell whether your magical core itself has been altered.”

And wasn’t that a crazy thought! Harry felt dazed at the idea, and a little bit afraid too, even if he didn’t completely understand it. What if he was more powerful, and what if his powers only manifested themselves in uncontrollable bursts, like when he was angry or afraid? He could hurt people…

“Don’t.” Snape’s stern voice drew his attention away from his inner thoughts. “I know that face. Wait until we are out of here and back at Hogwarts to engage in your worrying-about-other-people urges. Right now you are the one in danger. You have the right - the duty - to focus your energies on protecting yourself. You can worry about everyone else later.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. He tried to obey, forcing thoughts of himself as an uncontrollable menace out of his head. To distract himself, he asked, “Do you think You-Know-Who knows what’s happening?”

Snape shook his head. “I doubt it. He seems to think that what is occurring between the two of you is no more than a side effect of your mysterious connection. I doubt he has made the intellectual leap to believing that your own powers are in any way a factor. Or that they are subject to increase. He is too inclined to think himself the only truly exceptional wizard until presented with incontrovertible evidence to the contrary.”

Harry took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Too much to think about, and not enough time to do it. All this talk about Voldemort and powers was making him feel ill again. He wiped a clammy hand on his dirty trousers and cleared his throat. At least he had one more pressing need to distract himself from thoughts of potions and death, even if his face was heating up just thinking about it.

“Um, professor…” he cleared his throat again and waved at the bucket in the corner. “I, um, I need to…”

To his credit, Snape didn’t acknowledge his discomfort or say anything to compound it. He merely inclined his head and turned his back to give Harry some privacy. Thankfully, he also didn’t let Harry dwell on his embarrassment. As soon as Harry had relieved himself and settled back against the wall, Snape faced forward again and asked, “To what extent are you willing to act on your proclaimed trust in me?”

Harry opened his mouth to insist - yet again - that he would trust him, but he stopped himself. From Snape’s pointed look, he understood that the man wasn’t trying to be redundant. The question wasn’t about trust so much as of Harry’s ability to overcome his own limitations. He had a hard time acting on trust, had a hard time standing aside and letting others - adults, especially - take the reins. Even now, he was biting back the urge to wheedle more details out of the man before committing to anything. But being reminded of that, and of how trust wasn’t trust if it wasn’t accompanied by action, he was suddenly eager to prove himself to his professor.

He also had a sudden appreciation for how Slytherin Snape was. With one question, Harry had shifted from overwhelming curiosity to willing compliance.

“You’re good,” he breathed.

Snape lifted the corners of his mouth in an almost-smile, which dropped at the sound of approaching voices in the hallway.

Harry’s heart stuttered at the realization that the Death Eaters were coming for them. It’s time. “Just tell me what to do…or what not to do,” he said quickly.

“Do as you have done throughout these past few days,” Snape spoke fast. “No pretenses. But be aware that the Dark Lord is not stable, and that instability makes him unpredictable. If you push him too far, it will not help either of us. You understand?”

Harry swiftly nodded.

“You will be subject to the sleeping potion,” Snape went on. “Do not fear it. You will be rescued in due time. They will not inflict harm on you while you are under its effects, and the potion itself will not cause lasting harm. Once you are given the antidote and it is able to work its way out of your system, you will be as you were before.”

Harry jumped at a clinking sound outside the door, but he jerked another nod.

“And above all,” Snape stressed, holding his gaze, “do not lose hope. When all seems lost, you must stay strong.”

Harry tried not to show his fear as a key turned in the lock, but it was impossible to keep the anxiety out of his eyes as he looked at his teacher.

“We will survive, Harry,” said Snape fiercely. “I promise you.” He downed the silver potion and threw the vial into the corner of the cell.

The lantern went dark a second before light flooded the room from the opening door. The lantern and water pitcher were nowhere to be seen, somehow hidden by Snape from the prying eyes of the guards. Harry’s first tangible clue that things were different this time was the Death Eater robes and masks that their captors wore when they entered the room and forced Harry and Snape to their feet.

Snape managed to reach out and squeeze Harry’s arm before they were torn apart and dragged out of their cell. It wasn’t much, but it helped.

Harry squared his shoulders. He could do this.

They were in a different clearing than last time, and despite his nervousness, Harry wondered how many clearings Voldemort routinely used for his gatherings and rituals. This one was smaller than the last, and the trees on each side were more dense. The last rays of a setting sun lit the clearing until a muttered spell and the flick of a Death Eater’s wand caused small, bright lights to float above their heads.

Harry took in more Death Eaters in masks and robes. He didn’t see Voldemort, but his eyes narrowed in on a thin, tall rock jutting up from the ground in the center of the clearing. Just next to it was a flat rock, just large enough for Voldemort to use as a platform, or - Harry shivered - as some sort of sick altar on which to sacrifice a sixteen-year old Gryffindor. He looked away.

Only one Death Eater was holding him, but two were holding Snape. He wondered if they were nervous. They’d known Snape for a long time. They probably knew that he could be dangerous, that he wasn’t someone to mess with. Were they angry with him? Did they want vengeance for his betrayal? Were any of them at all sorry to be leading their old companion to what could be his death?

Lucius Malfoy, maybe. Harry had no idea what deal he and Snape had struck, or whether Malfoy could be trusted to do whatever it is that Snape thought he’d do. But from what Snape had said, it didn’t sound like it had anything to do with concern or sentiment. So what did the Death Eater want, that meant enough to him that he would be willing to betray his very vindictive master? He fought the urge to look around at the Death Eaters, to try to guess which one might be hiding an annoyingly aristocratic blond head.

Before he had time for any more thoughts, the sharp pop of Apparition sounded through the clearing, and Voldemort was there. Harry almost rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt at a grand entrance, but he was distracted by the flare of pain in his scar.

“Harry Potter,” said Voldemort in an oily voice. He smiled, though he did not look so calm or pleased as he had at their initial meeting a few days ago. Harry had obviously worn out his welcome. The dark wizard beckoned, and the Death Eater holding Harry brought him forward with an iron grip on his arms. He thought about kicking the man, but he remembered Snape’s warning. He needed to be brave, yes, but now was not the time to be stupid.

“I have long awaited this night, dear Harry,” Voldemort said as he stood directly in front of him. “You should feel honored to be not only witness, but participant, to my rise. From tonight forward, I will be the most powerful wizard ever to exist.”

Harry didn’t answer. He decided to save his impulse to fight for when he knew what Voldemort had planned for the evening.

Voldemort didn’t seem to mind his silence, turning his attention from Harry to Snape. Only, he had no desire to chat with him. With a flick of Voldemort’s wand, Snape collapsed to the ground between his Death Eater guards and writhed in silent pain. Harry tensed but resisted the urge to cry out or to try to go to Snape, knowing that there would be no point.

“Shall we get started?” Voldemort asked and turned toward the rocks, as if torturing Snape had been an inconsequential interruption to his evening.

The Death Eater holding Harry forced him forward until he was standing in front of the tall rock, then yanked him around so that his back slammed up against it.

“His clothing,” Voldemort directed, and the next instant his shirt and jumper had disappeared, leaving him shivering in the cool night air, but mercifully still clad in his trousers. Before he could register what else was happening, cords were wrapping themselves tightly around him, fastening his arms and legs to the rock so that he couldn’t move anything except for his neck - though there was little need for that, as all of the Death Eaters were forming a semicircle in front of him, Snape held up between two of them. A thicker cord wrapped itself around his mouth, gagging him, and he struggled for the first time as his ability to speak was taken away. Somehow, not having the power to defy Voldemort verbally frightened him more than losing the ability to fight physically.

“My loyal followers,” Voldemort said in a triumphant voice. “One year ago, I rose from the ashes of a half-life. You welcomed me back as your master, served me as though no time had passed. Now your loyalty will be rewarded. You will witness my rise from mortal limitations, knowing that you serve a wizard more powerful than all others combined!”

The Death Eaters lowered to their knees and bowed their heads as one. Snape was forced to his knees as well, but he refused to bow his head, looking instead at Harry, as if lending him strength through his gaze. Voldemort forced his head low with a flick of a wrist, but Harry appreciated the defiance. He was afraid, but it was manageable somehow, with Snape’s solid presence there alongside him.

“Wormtail,” Voldemort called, and a short Death Eater came forward. “You took his blood the first time. You shall have the honor of taking it again.”

Wormtail knelt again before Voldemort and simpered, “Thank you, Master.”

A cauldron was conjured before them, though Harry didn’t see who had conjured it. A thin line of steam rose from within it, the contents hidden from Harry’s view. Wormtail approached him, a knife in his hand glinting with the reflected lights from above the clearing. Harry knew he wouldn’t get away from what was coming, but his fear response kicked in and he struggled against his bonds.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will empower your foe,” Voldemort said majestically, raising his hands into the air.

The Death Eaters repeated the words, chanting as Wormtail’s dagger made contact with Harry’s skin. He made no sound as he felt the dagger pierce his arm and the blood trickle down past his wrist, but he couldn’t keep himself from trembling. Wormtail held a vial to Harry’s arm until it was full, then poured it into the cauldron. It hissed, but Harry still couldn’t see its contents. Instead of trying, he searched out Snape’s gaze. He was helpless; he needed to not feel so helpless, and Snape was the only one he could look to for help.

Snape was still kneeling, held down on either side by Death Eaters, but his head was up and his eyes were on Harry again. As soon as Harry looked at him, Snape gave him a small nod. The look on his face was one that Harry had always wished to see in Potions class - something that communicated that he was doing well and to keep it up. Harry breathed in and out a few times, trying to get a handle on his fear. A little over a year ago, when he’d been in a similar situation, he’d never have thought that having Snape present would be what helped him to get through it the next time. But those black eyes were a source of strength to him now, and he kept his eyes focused on them, not bothering to see what Voldemort or Wormtail were doing.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will empower your foe,” the Death Eaters chanted one last time, and then all was silent.

Harry’s view of Snape was blocked as Voldemort stepped forward and held a goblet of steaming white liquid to his lips. He drank its contents, then closed his eyes. After a full minute, he smiled. “I feel it, Harry,” he said softly. “I am infused with power.” He opened his eyes and turned so that he faced only Harry. His eyes were bright, his face euphoric and crazed all at once. “I can manipulate magic with a thought, wield the power of nature without even a wand to direct it.” He ran a finger along Harry’s jaw, and Harry let out a muffled cry from behind the gag. His scar hurt so badly that he wouldn’t be surprised if it burst open at any moment.

Voldemort removed his hand and turned to his followers. “Bring the traitor!” he called, and the Death Eaters rose to their feet, two of them dragging Snape to the center, throwing him bodily onto the flat rock. Harry winced at the sharp slap of flesh meeting stone. He tried not to worry, tried to have faith, to breathe. There was no question that Voldemort meant to kill Snape. But Snape had promised that they’d survive, and he had a plan. Any second now, he’d Disapparate. Or Malfoy would swoop in with a daring rescue, or the Order would show up with wands drawn.

Voldemort held out his wandless hands to Snape, and the man began to writhe, his hands shaking, his teeth clenched. His eyes remained open, seeking out Harry’s, seeming to tell him to trust, to be strong, to-

Snape’s eyes shut as he gave an involuntary shout of pain.

Harry struggled against his bonds.

“You shall die this night, Severus,” hissed Voldemort. “Your pain and suffering will be a reminder to all who witness that no one betrays Lord Voldemort!”

Harry watched as several of the Death Eaters flinched, and he gritted his teeth at the stupidity of such men, blindly following a master who didn’t think twice about causing them pain so long as he himself received the glory. What sort of man would willingly, knowingly follow such a wizard? What would compel men such as Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, or Malfoy to encourage their own sons to follow in their footsteps, knowing that they would forevermore be one bad mood away from pain and suffering, perhaps even a senseless death?

It was madness.

Snape convulsed again, the clearing silent save for the sounds of his suffering. Even the curses that were used on him were silent, Voldemort not needing so much as an incantation or a wand in order to cause him pain. Harry felt tears dangerously close to the surface, his eyes filling with wetness, knowing that he was helpless to stop Snape’s suffering. Even if he were free from his constraints, he couldn’t do much, could he? But he knew that he would try. If he could, he would rush Voldemort, attack the Death Eaters, try to get his hands on a wand, perhaps even try to call up that magic that he’d seen in the other clearing.

The magic. Grasping that thought - needing something to focus on besides the cries of his professor - he focused his eyes on the grass. He tried to call up the image of the magic he’d seen before, the beautiful sparks that had filled his vision, but nothing happened. A tear escaped in his frustration, and he huffed as he tried again to struggle free.

A commotion brought his attention back to Snape, but what he saw made his blood run cold. The man was convulsing, eyes rolled back in his head, lips tinged with blue. He watched, horrified, as the convulsions worsened and then stopped.

It wasn’t what it looked like, though. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be, because Snape had promised. Harry barely registered how his whole body was shaking. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything except for the throbbing of his arm and the pain of his lungs as they refused to expand. The world narrowed until there was only piercing light from above and a blinding pain from within.

And a still body. Pale skin, blue lips. Angry fingers, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” rasped a callous voice behind a soulless mask, pulling his hands away from Snape’s still neck.

No.

A million shards of grief ripped through his heart. He couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He violently shook his head. The world tilted and he would have tilted with it, if not for the cords holding him in place.

No. Snape wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be, because he’d promised. He’d promised they would live, that they’d both get out of here. He’d promised!

What he wouldn't give to wake up from this nightmare, but he was wide awake. He knew this was no dream.

The moonlight shone down on the clearing, combining with artificial lights to illuminate the Death Eater masks surrounding him. But he kept his eyes on the motionless body lying in the center of the unforgiving stone. The familiar face was turned away, and yet the stillness of his chest was all that Harry’s eyes could see. The rest of the world shifted out of focus. He didn’t see the sparks of magic this time, couldn’t bring himself to look for them, or to even think beyond the pain in his chest. He barely knew when a primal scream broke through from his chest and out of his throat.

Voldemort had taken everything from him. Everything. And he’d finally gone too far.

His teeth clenched. His eyes blazed. Gasps and murmurs mingled with the faint sounds of the night as the air in the clearing began to pulse with magic.

He didn’t know how the cords were ripped away, only that he was suddenly free, and he charged at Voldemort without conscious thought. Even the pain in his scar did not stop him from tackling the despicable wizard to the ground, or from pummeling him with his fists. Arms yanked him away. He screamed and they let him go with cries of pain. He fell to the grass. He couldn’t see clearly, blinded by tears, but Voldemort’s angry face wavered in his vision. Angry and afraid. Confused.

Good. Let him be afraid! Harry met Voldemort’s red eyes, and the clearing fell away. He was falling, and it was dark, so dark. Memories flowed through his mind, so fast that he could see them clearly, but they weren’t his. He knew that they weren’t his. They were Tom Riddle’s. He was Legilimizing Voldemort. He was being pushed out, but he grasped for purchase in the wizard’s mind. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to see anything in the wizard’s dark, twisted mind. He wanted to hurt, to destroy, to cause pain for all the pain that Voldemort had caused him. And he could feel that this was causing him pain.

The connection was severed with a sharp pain to his head, and he fell. He brought a hand to his scalp. He was bleeding. Someone had hit him, but nobody touched him now. He lay in the grass, panting, suddenly exhausted, coming to himself again.

He began to sob.

Snape was dead. Of course he was. He had managed to stay alive and well while they were enemies, but the second he indicated any sort of caring for Harry, the second Harry finally connected with someone who could tell him more about his parents, he was ripped from Harry’s life just like everyone else had been. He should have known it was bound to happen. And instead Snape had urged him to trust him, had promised him, and told him to be strong, to not lose hope, that when all seemed lost-

He gasped in a shuddering breath of air and crawled to his hands and knees, facing Snape. Still nobody touched him, but he registered the sounds of shouts and confirmed with a glance that Voldemort was on the ground, still conscious but in pain, paying Harry no mind.

He crawled to Snape but was finally yanked to his feet by a Death Eater. He struggled. He needed to get to Snape. His professor was the most intelligent person he knew. He was strong and brave, and above all, he was cunning. He’d known Voldemort would set out to kill him. He’d taken a potion. What had it done? Would it revive him? Was he really dead? Harry had to see for himself, damn it, and he couldn’t if this Death Eater kept dragging him backward.

He did look for the sparks that time, and he found them. They drifted up from the grass and down from the trees and he gathered them to himself, and he pushed them outward and the hands fell away. All of the Death Eaters fell away, stumbling to the ground as if by an earthquake. He lurched to his feet and over to Snape as quickly as he could, feeling for a pulse with shaking hands.

There was no pulse. Snape’s lips were tinged with blue. He was dead.

It was his nightmare all over again, only it was ten times worse. He shook his head, letting out another sob, and clutched at the man’s tattered shirt. The sparks gathered to him once more. They pulsed, and Harry wasn’t sure he could make them stop whatever they wanted to do next, even if the force of the magic killed himself and everyone in that clearing. He lowered his head to Snape’s chest. He should probably be trying to get away. He might actually be powerful enough to do so. But he couldn’t do anything for the paralyzing grief in his heart.

“The potion!” he heard faintly through his cries. “The potion, now, you fools!”

He opened his eyes, taking what he was sure would be his last look at Snape. He smoothed down the man’s greasy hair, forgetting why he’d ever been repulsed by it. He’d never call him a greasy git again as long as he lived, not if Snape would just open his eyes…

Hands grasped him roughly, and he didn’t fight. He had no fight left. Even the sparks began to dissipate, as if realizing that the one who had summoned them had lost the will to command them.

A solid body held him firmly in place, while another pair of hands forced his mouth open. He barely registered the potion sliding down his throat or the hand clamping over his mouth so that he had no choice but to swallow. His vision began to tunnel, the world fading before him.

But he wasn’t too far gone to hear Lucius Malfoy’s voice whisper in his ear, “He lives.”

His breath caught. He struggled, too late to stop the murkiness entering his brain, but he needed to ask, needed to know if that meant…

“Severus lives,” he heard and let out a breath as the world faded to black.