Wednesday, Aug. 28, just after midnight

No entries for this date.

---

Previously:

The moment Voldemort-in-Dumbledore's-body turned to look at his captive, Harry met his gaze and smiled. Before the wizard could do more than lift his wand, Harry unleashed a sharp stream of memory and power meant to slice right through the bonds holding Voldemort in the Headmaster's mind.

This was nothing like the first time Harry had used such a weapon. Then, he had used it to only cause harm. His intent had been to hurt Dumbledore and show him what his decisions and machinations had cost Harry. This time, his goal was much smaller, and yet, far more important. He had to separate the two Wizards occupying the same mind. And he had to make sure that Dumbledore was the one who gained control in the end.

His feelings fed into his power, making him stronger. Hate and anger, anguish over all that had befallen him, and those he cared for and loved, all of these gave him more power than he had ever felt before, and he reveled in the wash of pure energy that suffused his being. But it wasn't enough. He needed more.

Recalling what Dumbledore had told him after the fiasco in the Ministry of Magic, Harry focused his feelings for Severus, who seemed to really, honestly care about him, and Sirius, who he would always love, forever, and his friends, Hermione and Ron, who still wrote to him and worried about him even when he did not reciprocate. He focused these feelings of love and caring into a precise, razor edged tool, and sliced into the mind of the Wizard in front of him.

Voldemort could not stand love. He had no idea at all of how to deal with it. Dumbledore, however, knew love. He had admitted to caring for Harry beyond that of an ordinary student, and though Harry wasn't sure he believed it, with all that had happened to him, he knew Dumbledore could handle the emotion. Dumbledore would survive it.

Harry fed love through the connection he still shared with the Headmaster, forged in Dumbledore's office the night Harry shared his memories. His love of flying, his love for Hedwig and anguish over her death at Vernon's hand, his love for his friends, and Hagrid and Remus who wanted nothing more than to see Harry better and at peace, and at last, his love for his new guardian, who gave so much of himself that Harry might recover from all the misery his life had dealt him.

And Harry would get better, he knew that now. He would not let Voldemort, or even Lucius or Bellatrix, make him live in fear. He would not cower before them. He would survive.

Love, and hope.

Through the link between himself and the Headmaster, Harry felt something rip, something give way, and with a howl borne of years of frustration and fury, Voldemort fled.

In front of him, Dumbledore collapsed.

Panting for breath, Harry sank to the hard, stone floor. At some, he had broken the Body Bind and risen from where he'd been trussed, but now his legs were too weak now to support him. He watched the Headmaster for a long moment, unable to tear his eyes away. Voldemort no longer had him under his power, but he would return unless Harry protected Dumbledore's mind. That's what had happened before, he realized. He'd left the Headmaster's mind too open, too raw, and the Headmaster had not been able to fend off the most powerful Legilimens in the world.

Perhaps he could, however, with Harry's help.

But Harry did not have much time. Lucius was due back . . . soon, Harry imagined, not having any idea how much time had passed since the firecall. A cursory protection then, for now, and more later . . . if there was a later.

No, he shouldn't think thoughts like that. He couldn't. He had to hold on to hope, hold on to the love he knew he had the capacity for, and that others claimed to have for him. This would be easier, he knew, if he could touch the Headmaster, so he scooted over to his body, pushing himself with legs that were still too weak to stand on. His hands were trembling, too, but that was not important.

At the Headmaster's side, Harry pried the wand from the man's fingers, and pressed it to Dumbledore's temple, while he rested his hand on the man's head. Not entirely sure of what he was doing, Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and felt along their connection. He focused everything through the wand. "Protego," he murmured. He conjured the image of what this protection would mean in his mind -- some kind of golden bubble around Dumbledore's head, impenetrable and safe -- and concentrated on pressing it into being. Cracking his eyes open, he caught a brief glimpse of a light gold aura around the Headmaster, before it faded, falling back into the man's long hair and beard.

Finished, Harry slumped over, exhausted.

Wearily, with every muscle in his body screaming in protest, he eased himself backwards until his spine hit the wall next to the Headmaster. At least he would have that as a support. He had been hoping Dumbledore would be able to help him against Lucius, as he wasn't sure he could face the man without help. Alone. Like always.

But it was not to be. No sooner had he found the wall at his back than the green flame of the fireplace flared bright, and the lean, hungry-eyed form of Lucius Malfoy stepped through.

The man's expression changed immediately from one of anticipation to one of fury as he took in the scene: Harry sitting next to the body of the one he had recently called "My Lord." Harry holding a wand, and aiming it at Malfoy. Harry smiling as if he knew something that Malfoy did not.

"What is the meaning of this?" Malfoy's voice was clipped and cold and betrayed no hint of anxiety.

The very calmness of Malfoy's tone just choked Harry's cheese. How dare he be all serene like that, when Harry wanted to rage and shriek and tear down walls at the mere sight of him! "What's it look like?" he snapped. "To me, it looks like maybe your precious Voldemort is taking a nap."

"Do not dare to say his name, you impudent whelp."

"Or what? You'll fuck me again?" Harry glared at him, keeping the wand he had taken from Voldemort leveled at the bastard, though it was an effort, when what he really wanted was to throw something in the horrible man's face. "I'd like to see you try."

Malfoy smiled his hated smile. "Oh, I very much look forward to it, Harry Potter."

The sound of his name coming from those monstrous lips fanned a bright white fury inside Harry's chest. He felt hot all over, trembling with rage of an intensity he had never experienced before. All his thoughts had crystallized, however, as if he was seeing everything for the first time, like the sky had cleared and brightened after a heavy storm.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

First, he had to form the connection. "Go to hell, Malfoy," he said quietly, and then, "Legilimens."

In the instant where Malfoy's confusion should have given way to attack, Harry broke the man's mind wide open, crashed over his pitiful protective walls like seawater over a castle made of sand. He took in the sights and sounds and memories and discarded them one by one, hurling them into the abyss of obscurity. There were too many memories of viciousness and heartless violence, of furious, maddened savagery, hardly balanced by scenes of domestic tranquility and politic gentility. Harry disposed of those, too, searching deeper, wanting more.

At last, he found it, at the core of the Wizard's being. A pulse of light and sound from which everything else flowed. He would destroy that pulsing light, and destroy Lucius Malfoy from the inside.

Another word now, a whisper, reverently spoken. "Diffindo."

The bright hub of Malfoy's being rent in two, and Harry could hear screaming, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he had to destroy this man, to make sure he could not hurt anyone again. Could not hurt Harry again.

"Diffindo." Another cut, another scream. Sweat streamed down Harry's face and into his eyes, and made his hand around the wand slippery, but he held on tight, and whispered the word again. "Diffindo." No scream this time, but a grunt of pain, and the constant flow of memory abated, leaving his mind reeling with the loss.

Harry wanted to say the word again, wanted to hurt him more, more than words, more than thought, more than magic could possibly let him, and the first syllable was on his lips, when a sudden pressure on his hand, and a hand on his cheek, cupping his face, make him pause.

"Stop now, Harry." The words meant little to him, but the face that apeared in front of him, blocking his view of Malfoy, made him gasp a short breath. Dark eyes and a pale face framed with dark hair. The thin lips moved again, saying, "He can't hurt you any more. Stop now, Harry, before you kill him."

No, the voice was right. Snape was right. He did not want to kill Malfoy. He didn't want to kill anyone. He heard hard, rasping breaths, and was sure they were coming from his own mouth. His tongue seemed overlarge and drier than dirt, and he could not form the words he wanted anymore. Instead, he nodded once, sharply, and let his concentration lapse. He let Malfoy go.

Harry sagged bonelessly, and Snape gathered him in his arms, hugging him close. "Good, Harry. Well done," Snape whispered into his hair. "I thought I'd lost you," he said, but the words were far away now, and meant other things. "You . . . after Albus. I can't believe he . . ." His words were choked, and his head shook, side to side, and Harry wanted to tell him about Dumbledore, about how he hadn't meant to do those things, but Voldemort had made him, but all he could do was close his eyes as exhaustion rolled over him and pulled in deep into blackness.

---

Severus took Harry home.

The Werewolf was still lying on the rug in front of the fire, but Severus merely stepped over him, carrying Harry in his one good arm, and attempting to support him with the other nearly useless one. The feeling was starting to come back, so Severus knew the numbness must be a side effect of the potion or poison Albus had dosed him with, and one that would wear off eventually.

For now, though, as he attempted to maneuver Harry through various Floos and down to his bedroom, it was a damned inconvenience.

But he did not care even a little, beyond that, if it meant Harry was safe again.

Harry had taken on Dumbledore and Lucius both, and had prevailed. And now he was safe again.

Severus could never have imagined the scene he had come upon when he had stepped from the Floo. It was like something from a nightmare, with Dumbledore in a crumpled heap on the floor, and Lucius by the Floo, with blood streaming from his eyes and nose and ears, his pitiful gasps the best he could do after screaming himself hoarse. And Harry . . . Harry with Dumbledore's wand in a wavering hand, head lolled back against the wall, his face screwed up in pain, and weeping as he reduced Malfoy to a mere shell.

He knew the boy was at his limit, and knew, too, after what had happened in Diagon Alley, that Harry would never have forgiven himself if he had killed Malfoy, no matter how much he might want to in the moment. So he had broken the spell Harry was casting, or at least, given him the chance to break it himself, even as he marveled at the power the boy possessed.

Before leaving the Ministry, Severus had put both Dumbledore and Lucius in Full Body Binds, and checked to make sure the outer door was well secured. It was Warded for privacy and against intruders already, which was good. Severus wanted no one to stumble across these two accidentally, especially while they were alone. His first priority was getting Harry the hell out of there, and he had scooped the boy up -- he was still too light by half -- and gone back to the Floo.

Now, in Harry's bedroom, he tucked the boy into bed and made quick work of changing him into nightclothes with a swish of his wand. Harry's face was so pale, but for the violent red of the lightning bolt scar. He stared down at the boy for several long minutes, wondering again at Harry's resilience. Once more, he had faced his enemies, alone and with little more than his own will, and he had come away victorious.

The boy really was quite amazing.

Severus rolled his eyes at his own maudlin hyperbole, but he brushed a strand of the boy's perpetually messy hair away from his closed eyes, even so, and wished him sleep free of dreams. In fact . . . he summoned a vial of Dreamless Sleep and fed it to the near-unconscious boy, knowing that he would need it more tonight than usual.

Besides, this way, Severus could return to the Ministry and deal with the two men waiting there so patiently for him. It was a confrontation he both dreaded and looked forward to, and he knew he needed to have a better idea of what happened before Harry woke.

"Sleep well, Harry," he sighed, and Warded the boy's door against Werewolves before he retraced his steps to the Ministry.