He was alone and he was playing chess. Out of all the numerous things that he could be doing, he was playing chess, by himself. I hadn’t followed the arrogant boy to the Forbidden Forest to find him playing a game, that, if I recall correctly, was a two player game; he needed to be getting himself into a spot of trouble so I could take points off of his pitiful and ridiculous house. For goodness sake, he wasn’t even breaking curfew, as it was broad daylight.

Something rustled in the back of my mind; I could have slapped myself, of course, that would be quite ridiculous for the Head of Slytherin to be slapping himself because he was almost thwarted by the Bloody-Boy-Who-Lived, the damnable Potter brat, a Gryffindor nonetheless. I began to take a step forward until I heard him begin to speak. His voice was harsh and grating, a rasping as if he had screamed himself hoarse; I wondered what he had done to him to make it sound so peculiar.

“Let him come,” the boy said tiredly. “I don’t care anymore, Morgan.”

Snape scrutinized the boy with interest; the boy’s face was pale and peaky, his eyes were forlorn and distant, (it was hard to tell for the brat hadn’t even bothered to turn towards him, but he hadn’t been a spy for nothing), and his body was placed unceremoniously upon the ground. I looked at the pieces on the chess table; Potter was black and…damn! I thought ferociously. Potter was most definitely both and has obviously lost it; Skeeter’s poisoned quill may have finally gotten something right, because now it seemed as if the boy had found himself an imaginary friend…named Morgan.

I looked at the white pieces and watched as a knight moved; I lifted my gaze to Potter; he was scrutinizing the knight closely but a word had not come out of his mouth. I gazed at the chess set and saw that many of the pieces were broken or looked as if they had been glued back together. I quickly gathered that this was most certainly not Wizard’s Chess, but muggle chess. I watched as potter moved a pawn forward, of which, was taken by the queen. I felt like rubbing my eyes; the white queen had moved on its own whilst Potter picked up the pieces to move them, as any muggle would do.

I stepped out at this time. “Potter,” I began. He didn’t turn, didn’t move to show that he had heard me; instead he moved a rook.

“Stalemate,” he said quietly. “Always is isn’t it? No matter how many sacrifices either side makes, it always ends the same. The Taoists got it right.”

I sighed. “Potter, might I ask who you are playing against?” I asked, sneering at him.

“Morgan,” he answered, his voice rasping slightly.

I curled my lip. “I’m afraid Mr. Potter, that there is no one there.”

“Just because you cannot see, does not mean you cannot believe.” His voice was smooth and low, barely above a whisper. Perhaps I had just imagined his raspy voice.

“I do not have times for riddles and imaginary friends,” I said dangerously.

“You have time enough for a war that will not be one by either side, for a war that cannot be won. It does not matter which side we’re on, no matter what we’re fighting for. It will end the same, in a stalemate after huge destruction,” he said his voice as smooth as it was before.

I tried desperately to reign in my patience, of which, was quickly leaving me. “I will ask you one more time, who are you playing with?”

“I already did. Her name is Morgan,” he rasped out. Now I was sure I wasn’t imagining things.

“What are you playing at?” I spat.

“Nothing that I’m going to win,” he answered. There it was; his voice was smooth, but then he began to once again speak in that rasping tone. “Perhaps you know her as the Queen of Phantoms, the Specter Queen, or maybe The Morrigan.”

I stifled a threatening gasp. “The Morrigan,” I said carefully.

“The dead will outnumber the living,” Potter said, his voice reverting back into the smooth tone. “Morgan has told me that, but I’ve known for a long time. She has merely confirmed my beliefs.”

“Nothing like an imaginary friend to help you along, although I must say I had expected your fame to take care of everything,” I said scowling at the ignorant boy, waiting for him to jump to his own defense; his eyes never left the chess table.

The raspy voice spoke once again. “Perhaps we are all imaginary. But even if we are that does not stop us from being real. He knows that there is no hope left, but he’ll fight anyway. He will fight because he has been given no other choice. This war is not about cunning or bravery. It is a hopeless war being waged between to forsaken boys who had fallen through the cracks. I do not regret him his certain death, nor does he. In fact, he looks forward to it as one would look forward to his birthday; he has been bound to this world for far too long. I will be happy to see his death.”

“Why,” I asked, trying to fixate my thoughts.

The raspy voice continued. “He hates this life, he wants to start over, and in this world, he knows only stalemate, where sacrifices are made and end up being in vain.”

“How do I know that Potter isn’t just pretending?” I asked, finally voicing my disbelief. Potter turned for the first time and I caught a full look at his face, which was most certainly Potter’s, but his eyes were no longer the brilliant green but blood red with a sliver of silver crescent moon.

“You know,” the raspy voice said. “Just as he knows.”

I nodded and left the brat to his game. I knew full well that I would take points and give him detention, later. Right now, I needed a stiff drink.