Harry Potter and the Psychic Serpent

Harry turned to speak to Hermione, but the world was changing in a swirl of grey smoke once more; Harry almost felt like it was routine, now.

They were on the Quidditch pitch. There was a game going on; Harry could see from the colors of the robes that it was Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. He and Hermione were standing by the bases of the goal hoops for the Slytherin side. He searched for Snape, squinting at the crowd of people in the stands waving Slytherin banners; none of them looked like him.

“Do you see him?” he asked Hermione. She too scanned the crowd.

“No. But wait--if he were watching, wouldn’t we probably be in the stands? Maybe he’s playing.”

They both examined the Slytherin Chasers, whizzing about on their brooms, trying to intercept the Quaffle from the Gryffindor Chasers, including a serious-looking boy with messy black hair and glasses who looked very familiar...

“There he is!” she cried triumphantly.

“Where?” Harry whipped his head around.

“Look up.”

Harry shuddered, remembering when she’d said that in the forest, when they’d met Hagrid’s mother. He tipped his head back and discovered that Snape was the Slytherin Keeper. That’s why they were standing where they were. He was having a bad time of it. James Potter came flying down the field with the Quaffle and in a matter of seconds, it seemed, he had flung it past Snape through the center hoop, prompting the student who was doing the announcing to cry, “SCORE! And Gryffindor gets ANOTHER ten points, again thanks to POTTER! That’s Gryffindor one-forty, Ssssssssslytherin ZERO!”

Harry gazed in rapture at his father; he’d always wished he could have seen him in action as a Quidditch player; he’d heard so much about him. And now, here he was, flying effortlessly, flinging the Quaffle through the hoop with a casualness that belied the work involved, his red robes flying out behind him, the crowd chanting, “POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!”

Harry could see that the Gryffindor Seeker--a slight girl with hair the color of a mourning dove--was marking the Slytherin Seeker--a skinny wisp of a boy with brown hair cut too short for his prominent forehead. Both Seekers looked no older than thirteen, small and agile, but the Slytherin Seeker in particular looked around the field sharply; nothing would miss his gaze, it seemed.

Harry saw it first; the Snitch was near the Gryffindor goal posts, not a foot off the ground. As usual when he saw a Snitch, his hand started itching to grab it. A roar went up from the crowd, and Harry looked up; his dad had scored on Snape again. The Slytherin Seeker didn’t seem to be aware of this, inasmuch as he now saw the Snitch and was clearly focused on reaching it first. He didn’t know that if he caught it now, the game would be a tie. The announcer started to give the score: “THAT’S GRYFFINDOR ONE-FIF---OH!” He no sooner started his announcement than his dad had scored again, and the Slytherin Seeker was still oblivious, still on his way to catch the Snitch. In a second, he had it in his hand, looking triumphant, flying past the Slytherins he expected to be cheering him, and looking baffled that they weren’t. Then the announcer gave the final score: “THE GAME IS OVER AND GRYFFINDOR WINS, ONE-SIXTY TO ONE-FIFTY! GRYFFINDOR HAS WON THE QUIDDITCH CUP!”

His dad had scored twice in the amount of time it took the Slytherin Seeker to see the Snitch and grab it! Harry found himself grinning, having to work very hard to restrain himself from whooping gleefully, watching his dad come to a landing with the rest of the team as the entire school, it seemed (except for the Slytherins) converged on the Gryffindor team in joy.

A shadow passed over where Harry and Hermione were standing, and they saw Snape descending to the grassy pitch not five feet from where they stood, looking stony-faced. He was the one who had lost the game for Slytherin; he had let James Potter score those last two goals before the Snitch was caught.

In the throng of people surrounding the Gryffindor team, Harry could see his dad being hugged by his fellow red-robed teammates, and then he saw Lily making her way through the crowd, grinning at him and finally throwing her arms around his neck, as he gathered her to him and kissed her thoroughly, while people continued to pat him on the back. Harry heard one or two shouts of, “Get a room!” as their kiss continued. His mother resurfaced then, turning red, still unable to stop smiling, and she and his father walked back to the castle with their arms around each other, jostled by the crowd, and yet somehow, carving their own private space out of it. Harry looked at their departing forms with satisfaction, also unable to stop grinning. They were now a couple, he thought. All was well with the world.

He felt a hand on his arm; it was Hermione. Her face was so sad, he didn’t know what had happened. “Are you all right, Hermione?” he said with concern. She drew her mouth into a line.

“Not me. Snape. Look at him, Harry.”

Harry turned to Snape, walked around him and looked up at his face. Although only eighteen, he now looked like the man he was accustomed to seeing in Potions class; he had shaved his beard, but there was a slight shadow on his face as though he’d forgotten that day. His hair hung in his face, lank and greasy, and his eyes were filled with a combination of contempt and sadness. He was miles away from the sixteen-year-old boy who’d declared his love for Harry’s mother in the Potions Dungeon. He already looked like his life was over, like he was just biding time until some gruesome end. That, Harry thought, is the face of someone who has nothing to live for.

Snape didn’t include his break-up with my mum in the Pensieve, Harry thought. But it had clearly already occurred. That morning in the infirmary must have been the beginning of the end...

Snape looked down at his hand; there were red blisters on the back. “Damn,” he muttered softly to himself. “Missed a spot...” He took a small tube out of a pocket in his robes and rubbed a salve onto the inflamed skin. He watched the throng of Gryffindor supporters making their way to the castle; there were still some subdued Slytherin supporters on the pitch, but they were avoiding Snape. His eyes slid furtively over his teammates, then he picked up his broom and walked toward the greenhouses. Harry and Hermione followed him, as there was no swirling greyness yet. He reached the shelter of the oaks and after walking a few yards away from the entrance to the corridor of trees, stopped and leaned against one of them, staring into space. Perhaps he’s remembering being here with my mum, Harry thought. Then he heard a step on the path, twigs and fallen leaves being trod on, and Harry and Hermione turned to see a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, walking into the oak allee toward Snape. He looked familiar, somehow...

“Tough luck, Snape,” the young man drawled. He had cornsilk-light hair and a pointed face, grey eyes that betrayed no emotion. Snape looked toward him, silent, as though he were willing him to disappear; he did not seem to want company just now. But the man either couldn’t tell or didn’t care.

“Remember me?” he asked, as though anyone could ever forget him. Snape spoke with almost no inflection in his voice.

“Malfoy. Seventh year when I was in first. Sorry you wasted your time coming today.”

The young Lucius Malfoy smiled ominously. “Oh, it would have been nice to see a Slytherin victory, that’s true. But I definitely did not waste my time coming.”

Snape was not looking at him. He had taken out his tube of salve and was rubbing some into the back of his hand again. Malfoy smirked. “Is that what you do? To stay out in the sun? I wondered. It’s pretty bright today; you must be glad to get away from it again.” Snape looked at him now with narrowed eyes; the vampire thing again. Malfoy approached him and was now standing about a foot away from Snape, who was looking like this was making him very uncomfortable.

“Careful,” he said softly to Malfoy. “Better not come too close. I get rather peaked after a match.” Harry smiled; well, if people are going to think you’re a vampire, might as well use it to intimate them.

Except that Malfoy wasn’t. Not in the slightest. Instead, he laughed. “I brought insurance,” he informed Snape, pulling a necklace with a head of garlic out of his robes. Snape immediately recoiled, backing up and putting his hand over his mouth and nose. Malfoy laughed again. “I wondered whether people were putting me on about that. I can see now they weren’t. Of course, I should have known; you obviously haven’t looked in a mirror in quite a while.” Snape flinched at the insult, but said nothing. “I just want to talk to you. Can I talk to you?”

Snape looked doubtful that it would be that simple. “About what?”

“What are your plans for when you’re done school?”

Snape looked like he didn’t want to tell him, but he said in a flat voice, “Working in my uncle’s apothecary in Dunoon.”

Harry made a face. “Where’s Dunoon?” he asked Hermione.

“West coast of Scotland. Just north of the Isle of Arran.”

Harry refrained from asking where that was as Malfoy spoke again.

“Ah, Dunoon. The Firth of Clyde is quite beautiful, isn’t it? Of course, I like Dunoon because of its bloody history....So. Uncle in Dunoon. Is he Scottish?”

Snape nodded. “My mother’s brother.”

“Mother’s side. Hmmm. Dunoon. What’s your uncle’s name?”

“MacDermid.”

“Ah, Clan Campbell. Good. Not Clan Lamont. Weaklings. Of course, in Dunoon, chances are you’re going to be one or the other. In all of Argyllshire, for that matter. Although anyone with sense agrees that the Campbells had it all over the Lamonts centuries ago; they let the Muggles in their clan take over much sooner than the Campbells. I’m Clan Campbell as well, on my mother’s side. She’s a Bannatyne. Glorious, bloody history, Clan Campbell. My father’s French family has almost as bloody a history--always managed to be on the winning side, whether it was the revolution, or the reversals that followed, or the Vichy regime...but no one can really touch the Scots for bloodiness, eh?”

Snape stared at him, looking like he was wondering where this was going. He did not answer. Malfoy continued, clearly enjoying hearing the sound of his own voice.

“You know what my favorite bloody story is? Takes place in Dunoon; you made me remember. The Massacre of 1646. After the Campbells hit the Lamont castles of Towart and Ascog with all they had, and the Lamonts surrendered. Our clan gave them a written guarantee of liberty. Of course the idiots believed that. They were taken to Dunoon in boats and sentenced to death in the church. Only a little over a hundred survivors. The histories say they were all shot or stabbed to death, but we wizards know it was really the killing curse did them in, except for the thirty-six “special gentlemen” who were hanged from a tree in the churchyard--I think they were half-wizard and half-Muggle. And then there was the Chief and his brothers. They were prisoners for a number of years; why they didn’t kill them, I don’t know. Of course, at that time, the Chief was still a wizard. Might have been because of that. The almost-dead were buried in the same pits as the dead. Think of it! Wish I’d have been there...”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think we’re kindred spirits, Snape. Same house. Same Clan. And I’m hoping--same desire to serve the Dark Lord.”

Snape’s eyes widened only a little, as though he were trying to hide his surprise. “Is that what this is about?”

Malfoy stepped toward him again; Snape cringed back against a tree. “I have a job to offer you.”

“I told you; I have a job lined up,” Snape said, voice shaking ever so slightly.

Malfoy stepped back, his smile in place again. “It’s not a full-time job, although it’s an important one. You’ll still have plenty of time to--work in your uncle’s apothecary,” he said, as though he were patting a small child on the head. It was a verbal pat on the head, a patronizing sneer at Snape’s choice of job.

“What is it?”

“Do you know the boy who’s the fifth-year prefect in Ravenclaw?”

Snape looked like he was thinking about this. “I don’t really know him. I know what he looks like. Blond boy.”

“Yes. Do you know who his father is?” Snape shook his head. “Well, his father is a very important man. His father works very hard. He puts dark wizards in Azkaban. He’s always working. And his son hates him for that, among other things. His son is just looking for a way to get back at his father. But he’s only in fifth year; he’s young, doesn’t know any of the right people. That’s where you come in.”

“How?”

“You will get to know him, before school is out for the summer. Become his friend. Write letters to each other, invite him to visit you in Dunoon during holidays. I want you to become the big brother he never had. A father figure, for a boy whose father has written him off. He needs someone like you, and you can be there for him. And you have time; it will be two years before he’s done school. I expect by that time, he will be ready.”

“Ready? For what?”

“For one of these.” And Malfoy pulled up his sleeve, showing Snape the Dark Mark on his arm. Snape drew in his breath between his teeth. “You won’t get yours until then, also. Don’t want to tip off young Mr. Crouch too early. Until then you’ll be strictly an unofficial Death Eater...”

“Crouch? Do you mean--Barty Crouch’s son?”

“Yes. Barty Crouch, Jr. We fully expect him to be very useful. But we need you to--cultivate him. Make him ripe for the picking. You have two years. Should be enough, don’t you think?”

“But--his father! If I approach Barty Crouch’s son and suggest that he become a Death Eater, what makes you think he won’t report me to his father?”

Malfoy smiled. “He won’t. Not if you do your job and make him trust you completely. He’s looking for a way to get back at his father as much as we are; and we’ve decided that using his own son will work very nicely.”

Snape swallowed. “What if I refuse?”

Malfoy stepped toward him with his wand out now; Harry had not seen him remove it from his robes. “Then I will have to kill you. Fortunately, wands happen to be little pointy sticks made of wood,” he said bringing it ominously close to Snape’s heart, then pulling back. “Of course, I could just alter your memory, but that’s no fun. You’d still be walking around. I thought that a dark creature like yourself would welcome the opportunity to serve the Dark Lord.”

Snape swallowed. Harry thought, vampire or no, being stabbed in the heart is being stabbed in the heart. Fatal. He almost forgot that Snape had of course survived this encounter. Snape swallowed again, never taking his eyes off Malfoy.

“All right.” His voice was quiet and no longer shaking. And, to Harry’s eyes, he seemed to have an expression of purpose now. He had a mission, a reason to go on living, even if he couldn’t be with Lily. So, Harry thought, Lucius Malfoy recruited Snape to be a Death Eater, and then Snape recruited Crouch...Malfoy removed a stoppered vial from a pocket in his robes. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Snape.

Snape caught it reflexively, stared at the viscous red liquid inside, then looked back at Lucius Malfoy’s face.

“A gift,” Malfoy told him. He turned and walked out of the grove. Snape held the vial of blood, looking at it intently. Harry wondered whether he might actually be considering drinking it...

But as Snape walked back to the school under the oaks, he threw the vial so that it broke against one of the larger tree trunks, shattering, splattering the blood. Snape’s green robes billowed out behind him, and Harry wondered what else he would be required to do as a Death Eater...

Then the swirling greyness returned and Harry tried to find Hermione in the maelstrom, failing. When they felt their feet on solid ground again they were outside a stone cottage with a thatched roof, diamond-paned leaded windows with flowered curtains, red-painted flower boxes overflowing with plantings. A cottage garden was laid out in a complicated pattern before the house, flagstones leading from the garden gate to the red-painted front door. The lane was a dirt path, and outside of the fenced-in garden there was only green grass--very, very green grass, like Mum’s eyes, Harry thought. Like mine. There were no nearby neighbors.

Something about it felt familiar to him. Something in the back of his mind recognized this place...

Snape was standing next to them, also looking at the cottage. They followed him to the door and waited with him while he knocked. When it opened, Harry felt his jaw drop, not because his mother was standing there, but because she was holding a baby on her hip, a baby with a tuft of black hair and large green eyes, and--no scar on the forehead.

“Aw!” said Hermione. “Baby Harry--so cute!”

Harry grimaced and colored. “Please--”

She laughed. Lily looked surprised to see Snape.

“Severus! I--what are you doing here?”

His face was very serious. “I need to speak to you Lily. It’s very important.”

She stood silently, bouncing baby Harry up and down to pacify him. He was waving his arms about and gurgling, then started struggling.

“Down!” he said, still struggling. “Down down down down...”

She gave in, placing him carefully on the smooth tiled floor, on his bare feet, and he went running into the cottage, wobbling back and forth. His mother was wearing a summery dress. I must have just learned to walk, thought Harry. It must be near my first birthday.

“Severus, I don’t think you should be here.”

“Please, Lily; hear me out. May I come in?”

She looked reluctant, but finally stepped aside and allowed him to enter. Harry and Hermione followed. They were in one half of the cottage, the public space. Through a doorway in the rear Harry could see an addition holding a kitchen with a large, well-scrubbed wooden table, solid-looking wooden chairs gathered around it. Through two doors leading to the other half of the cottage he could see a large bed covered with a quilt, and, in the smaller room, a cot with a mobile hanging over it, stars and planets, sun and moon. He felt a strange sensation, a familiarity. This had been his home, where he lived with his parents. His home. He had come home.

His mother sat on a couch that was perpendicular to the empty fireplace. Snape sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, while baby Harry climbed up onto the couch next to Lily and starting flicking at her earring with his fingers.

“Ouch! Harry, stop. Go play; Mummy has to talk to her friend.”

But the one-year-old did not get down from the couch. He sat back next to his mother, sticking his lower lip out, pouting. Hermione laughed. Harry grunted. Your girlfriend should never be allowed to see you as a baby, he thought. Under no circumstances.

But then, there was the sound of a car, followed after half a minute by another knock at the door. Lily sighed and rose to answer it, saying, “Excuse me for a minute, Severus.”

Snape looked nervous about being left alone with little Harry. Although he was only twenty-one now, he looked like the man Harry saw day in and day out in the Potions Dungeon. Well, Harry thought, if he’s here to try to win my mother back, he could have fixed himself up a bit.

Then there was another bit of familiarity; a voice that cut through Harry’s heart, a voice he had hoped not to hear again until late June.

“Lily, Mum needs you to do this! I don’t care if it’s illegal! Isn’t it enough that Daddy died in that traffic accident last year? She’s all we have left!”

His Aunt Petunia was at the door. She was only a half-dozen years older than his mother, but she also looked very similar to the way he was accustomed to seeing her. She not only has not aged well, he thought, she did it early.

“Petunia, there’s a reason why the magical community tries to keep Muggles from knowing about what we can do. And I’m not even sure that I could help mother, even if I didn’t care about breaking the law! When witches and wizards get cancer, they usually immediately remove the cancerous cells by magic, or transfigure them, but you said mum has it all through her! How could I remove it without killing her? And I’m not permitted to anyway. Petunia, we can only prepare ourselves for the inevitable...”

Harry’s aunt’s voice shook; he’d never heard her like this. “I will prepare. You can stay here. Don’t bother coming to the funeral. You won’t be welcome. Not when you could have saved her and refused. What’s the point of you being a witch if you won’t save her? You know what you are, and that husband of yours? Unnatural. Abnormal. How can you not save your own mother? It’s just--” But Harry’s aunt couldn’t continue; she buried her face in a handkerchief and turned away from the cottage door.

“Petunia--” Lily pleaded, but he heard his aunt’s retreating footsteps, the garden gate slamming shut, a car starting up again, wheels straining to find purchase in the rutted dirt road.

His mother returned to the couch after closing the door quietly. She raised her eyes to Snape as he said, “I’m sorry if this is a bad time, Lily, but--”

“My mother is dying and I can’t do a damn thing about it and my sister hates me because of it. Is that your definition of a bad time, Severus? Because that is my definition of an absolutely shitty time, thank you very much.” Harry was shocked to hear his mother cursing, watching the tears flowing silently down her cheeks, finally understanding better the enmity between his mother and her sister. Little Harry had gone into his room, was playing on the floor with some blocks and stuffed toys. Hermione was looking in at him wistfully.

Lily and Snape sat opposite each other, looking down, not speaking. Finally, Snape said softly, “I came here to--to warn you that the Dark Lord will be coming for you. Well, actually, for Harry...”

She looked up at him, perplexed. “What are you talking about? Harry? What could he possibly want with Harry?”

Snape glanced toward Harry’s nursery, frowning; the one-year-old was arranging some stuffed toys in a row, an impromptu parade. He looked back at Lily.

“The Dark Lord keeps careful track of omens and signs. A seeress has predicted his downfall--she gave a prophecy which some centaurs helped interpret. The centaurs have pinpointed two of the three people involved...”

“Severus! You’re not making any sense. What is this prophecy?”

He frowned. “Let me see if I remember all of it: The Dark Lord will be defeated by a triangle: a lion, a moonchild and a flame-haired daughter of war...”

“And Harry is--?”

“Evidently, he is the lion. He is a Leo, correct?”

“Yes, but so is James. Harry was born a week before his birthday; James called it his early birthday present,” she smiled feebly. “Who is the moonchild supposed to be?”

“A family named Malfoy had a son last year a few weeks before Harry was born. July seventh. Which makes him a Cancer. Those born under that sign are also called moonchildren. I know because I’m also a Cancer.”

“And the flame-haired daughter of war?”

“The centaurs are still working on that one. The confusing thing is, some of the centaurs think that there are doppelgangers for each of the people in the prophecy. They think that the Dark Lord will be defeated twice, that there are two sets of people who fulfill the prophecy...”

“Defeated twice? Defeated means defeated, doesn’t it?”

“That’s why it’s confusing...But the Malfoys have struck a deal. They are promising to raise their son to be a servant of the Dark Lord. He has promised not to kill the child, for now. I came to plead with you, Lily. Strike a deal. Save yourselves and Harry. Don’t try to fight--you can’t win.”

“What? That’s why you came here? To tell me to raise my son to be Voldemort’s servant?” Harry was impressed; Snape wasn’t saying Voldemort’s name. “How do you know all of these things, Severus? I thought you were working at an apothecary in Dunoon. How do you know about prophecies, and Voldemort coming after us? How?” She had stood and was pacing around the room nervously. She glanced into the nursery; small Harry had fallen asleep on the rug, his head pillowed on a stuffed bear. She went to him and picked him up so she could put him in his cot, but the movement woke him and he fussed. She shushed him, setting him down, giving him his bear. And then she sang to him.

It was the lullaby from the music box...

Harry listened to his mother’s singing, a lump in his throat. Hermione laced her fingers through his, putting her head on his shoulder. When the lullaby was over, the baby’s fussing was history; they could hear him breathing peacefully. She closed the door quietly, turned to face Snape with blazing eyes.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re a Death Eater.” Her voice was cold and assured. He gave her a look that told her she had spoken the truth. It was quickly replaced with an expression of desperation.

“I was--but I’m not now, Lily. You must believe me! I was recruited at the end of my seventh year at Hogwarts, and for two years I was--cultivating a son of an official who is very high up in the Ministry of Magic...” She looked shocked by this. “But then I heard about this prophecy, and you and James and Harry being targeted. I went to see Dumbledore, and he--he understood why I did what I did, and promised me I would not be punished, that I could be a spy, I could be useful. I haven’t hurt anyone, Lily. I recruited one young man who was angry with his father, and if it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else who recruited him. Please--promise me you’ll say that you’ll raise Harry to serve the Dark Lord. You don’t have to mean it! Just say it! Save your life--Harry’s life--James’ life. Do whatever is necessary...”

She glared at him with complete and utter hatred in her eyes.

“Get out.”

“Lily--”

“Get out now! Before I seriously hurt you...”

He swallowed. “If you won’t cooperate, at least promise me you’ll go into hiding. Find a safe place.”

“Oh, we’ll go into hiding, all right. Do you think we’d stay here, where you know where to find us? I can’t believe you and I ever--ever--” she trailed off, looking sickened.

Snape swallowed, seeing her so repulsed by him. “Please, Lily. Don’t push me away. I want to help.”

But now she had her wand in her hand; she looked angry enough to do the killing curse. “I said get out. While you still only have two arms and two legs.” Looking at her face, Harry doubted this was an idle threat. She was, if possible, even scarier at twenty-one than at sixteen, and she’d been formidable then. Harry turned and looked at Hermione, yet another Muggle-born witch. Did she and his mother try overcompensate for their births? He looked back at his mother; her hair was pulled up in a messy bun at the back of her head, loose tendrils resting on her neck, her blue summer dress reminding him of the one Ginny had worn at the Burrow. She was beautiful and impressive and powerful, and no one in their right mind would cross her.

Snape left reluctantly. She never lowered her wand.

The grey storm surrounded them once more, and when he could see again, Harry and Hermione were in a familiar place. The Leaky Cauldron. Snape sat at the bar, holding a glass with a very small amount of amber liquid in the bottom. He looked like there might have been quite a lot of it not too long ago. His eyes were hooded, his hair hanging in his face became a kind of mask, to hide behind. Harry couldn’t believe how he’d gone downhill.

“Look!” Hermione touched his arm. She pointed toward the door to Diagon Alley. Albus Dumbledore was entering; but he was much more subdued in his facial expression and clothes than they’d ever seen him. He wore a grey traveling cloak over black robes; the cloak’s hood was up, so that all they could see of his head was a sliver of his face, nonetheless recognizable. His spectacles glinted in the flickering candlelight and firelight in the pub; Harry could not see his eyes.

Dumbledore’s nod to old Tom behind the bar was almost imperceptible. Tom gave an infinitesimal nod in return, and Dumbledore quietly proceeded down a corridor to one of the private dining rooms. Harry had not seen whether Snape had noticed any of this, but he now put a silver Sickle on the bar and, carrying his glass, walked quietly down the same corridor. He went to the same room as Dumbledore, Harry and Hermione following.

Dumbledore was seated at the dining table; he had taken down his hood and looked more like the headmaster they were accustomed to seeing--but even though Harry had only seen that grim look on his face a few times, he knew it wasn’t a good sign.

Snape sat next to him but did not look at him. He contemplated his glass for a moment before downing the rest of the liquid, giving a small gasp and pulling his lips back from his teeth. Harry saw his Adam’s apple bob twice. Snape put his glass down with a thunk, still not looking at Dumbledore. Another silence followed.

“Should you be drinking that?” Dumbledore suddenly asked him, in what was surprisingly close to his normal voice, despite the evidence that they were not in a normal situation at all.

Snape moved only his eyes toward Dumbledore. “No. Bad for my liver.” He traced the rim of the empty glass with one long, pale finger.

Harry was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the silence. He turned to Hermione, who was watching the two men, so familiar and yet not, a perplexed expression on her face. He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. Dumbledore had finally broken his silence.

“How did it go?”

Snape tilted the glass, gazing into it, looking like he wished it were full again. “Not well.” He stared at a spot on the wall; Harry was now standing in front of that spot, so it felt uncomfortably like he was boring his eyes right through him, as though he could see him. Somehow, it was worse than when he was wearing the Invisibility Cloak.

Snape spoke again, quietly. “I told her about the prophecy. She didn’t believe me. But she understands that the Dark Lord believes it, that they’re in danger. I think they’re going into hiding. She--knows that I was recruited. I tried to tell her I wasn’t Dark anymore, but she kicked me out...”

Dumbledore put his hand on Snape’s arm. “I know you’re fine, Severus. I will vouch for you before anyone who doubts that. There is a charm that will help them hide--the Fidelius Charm. I’ll contact Sirius Black about it. He’ll need to be in on it. They’re closer to him than to Pettigrew. And Remus...”

“He’s a werewolf! Do you know how many werewolves are serving him now? They’re flocking to him.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I’d like to believe Remus wouldn’t do that--” he began, but he looked doubtful. “You go back to Dunoon, Severus. You’ve done what you can. If you hear anything, you know where to find me.”

Snape nodded, looking miserable. The greyness swirled around Harry and Hermione. When will it end? Harry wondered. But he needn’t have; when the fog dissipated, they were on a grassy knoll looking down into a valley; it was night, and there was only a half-moon. Starlight did very little to illuminate their surroundings. They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

Snape was standing nearby with a young man with a short fringe of blond hair around his face, a round, pale, rather innocent-looking face. But Harry knew he was not so innocent; he recognized Barty Crouch, Jr. Snape was looking around him, apparently as confused as Harry and Hermione about where they were and why.

“Why did you have us Apparate here?” he asked Crouch, who smiled sunnily.

“So we could watch the show. Any minute now, right over there.” He pointed down into the valley at a clump of trees that had smoke emerging from them; there must be a house in their midst, Harry thought. But then Crouch took in the confusion on Snape’s face. “Oh, hadn’t you heard? The Potters tried to hide using the Fidelius Charm, but it turned out their Secret Keeper was a Death Eater! How’s that for luck? Plus, I heard that the same Death Eater got this centaur to figure out who the girl in the prophecy is; you know, the ‘daughter of war.’ So she’ll be next. Just wait for it; should be any time now.”

Snape looked wild. “You mean, they didn’t move? They just used the charm? Damn! I told her to run, to go into hiding...” He seemed completely unmindful of who he was speaking to.

Crouch eyed him suspiciously. “What are you saying? You tried to tip them off? They refused to capitulate! They still don’t have to die, if they agree to the Dark Lord’s demands! But they’ll probably be stupid and fight...”

Snape wasn’t going to listen to this any longer. He began to run down the moor toward the valley. Harry and Hermione ran too, following him. Suddenly from behind them, they heard young Crouch cry, “CRUCIO!” and the curse hit Snape full force from behind, sending him down onto the ground. He flipped over, his face contorted in pain, a scream torn from deep within him, where Harry knew the torment lived, the complete and utter agony of it...

Crouch walked to where Snape was, still holding his wand on him. Finally, he flipped it up, breaking the spell, and Snape struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, panting, hatred for the boy he’d recruited showing in his black eyes as he worked to get his breath back.

Harry must have blinked then, because suddenly Snape was whipping out his wand and pointing it at Crouch, crying, “Expelliarmus!” causing Crouch to fly backwards, striking a large boulder, while his wand went flying into the air and into Snape’s waiting hand. Crouch lay on the boulder, inert.

“He must be knocked out,” Hermione whispered to Harry. He nodded, his heart in his throat.

Snape rose a little shakily, still obviously feeling the pain from the curse. He ran more slowly than before down into Godric’s Hollow. But before he had gotten twenty more feet, there was an explosion. It distracted Snape and he twisted his ankle on the hill, falling. On the ground again, he raised his eyes to the heavens, and to Harry, his face was terrible to behold.

The Dark Mark hovered over the hollow. Harry went to his knees; his legs simply could no longer hold him up. Hermione joined him on the ground, putting her arms around him. Silent tears ran down her face. Snape stayed where he was on the ground as though paralyzed; then another explosion was heard from the hollow, and an unearthly cry. It was a death rattle taken to its ultimate degree, a cry from the abyss, the roar of either an angel or a devil suffering and dying.

Snape was on his feet running again, clearly operating on pure adrenaline. They followed him down into the valley and through the garden gate. It seemed to take forever to get there. Lily lay across the flower beds before the cottage in her nightgown, that look on her face Harry remembered from seeing Cedric right after he’d been killed. Harry didn’t see his father; he must have been killed inside the house...

Little Harry was wandering around the garden, his finger in his mouth, crying piteously. The scar on the forehead was bleeding, dripping down onto his nose. Snape did not show any sign of surprise that Harry was alive; he seemed to care for one thing only. Snape sank to his knees beside Lily, gathering her body to him, cradling her, as his anguished sobs competed with the baby’s bawling.

“Harry,” Hermione said, choking on his name. Tears were still streaming down her face. “How do we get out of here?”

He wanted nothing more than that too. He tried to remember what Dumbledore had done; he put his hand under her elbow and tried to think about rising into the air; the cottage dissolved and then there was nothing but blackness; he had the feeling again of doing a slow-motion somersault, and he and Hermione landed on their feet in Snape’s cold office. But Harry didn’t stay on his feet for long; he immediately collapsed onto the floor, and Hermione fell with him, holding his head while he cried for his mother, his father, even for Snape...

It felt like he had cried for a very long time. He felt drained afterward, as though he had no more tears left to use for the rest of his life. He wiped his face and put his glasses back on. He looked at Hermione; her eyes were red, her face blotchy. He assumed he didn’t look any better.

“What time is it?” he asked in a small voice.

She moved the sleeve of his robe, uncovered his watch.

“After ten o’clock.”

“We missed dinner.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. Someone else seemed to be speaking for him, saying stupid mundane things about time and dinner, as though any of that mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing could ever be as real to him as what he had seen in the Pensieve, Snape holding his mother’s dead body, his mother singing to him as a baby, his father pulling Snape away from the werewolf that was also Remus Lupin, the look in Sirius’ eyes when he invited Snape into the tunnel under the Whomping Willow...

He felt like his life would never be the same again.

Harry stood shakily, and then could not remember doing it.

Nothing was real.

They walked up to the entrance hall. Harry couldn’t feel his feet on the steps, the railing under his hand.

Nothing was real.

“I’ll go find Dumbledore or McGonagall,” Hermione was saying. She was like a television show he was watching in the house on Privet Drive. She was as real to him as that. “Since there are so few of us here, I’m sure they missed us. I’ll tell whichever one of them I find first that we were working on potions and didn’t notice the time. Then I’ll see if there’s anything I can get to eat in the kitchens. Do you want me to get you something?”

Nothing was real.

She was trying to be helpful, trying so hard. How could she know? Harry thought. How could she know that she wasn’t even here, that she wasn’t even real? She probably thought she was real. She couldn’t know. People who weren’t real couldn’t have that kind of self-knowledge...

“No,” came the hollow voice again. “I couldn’t eat. I’m going to bed.”

Nothing was real.

“All right,” she was saying. “I’ll see you up in the tower.”

Harry couldn’t remember climbing to Gryffindor Tower, speaking a meaningless password.

Nothing was real.

He went up the stairs to his room and undressed for bed. When he put his head down on the pillow, he immediately fell asleep.

Nothing was real.

Harry woke up. He had been having a dream. He thought it was about something he’d seen in the Pensieve, but he couldn’t remember now. He didn’t remember Hermione coming to bed, but she was curled beside him, breathing peacefully, as though the Pensieve hadn’t happened, as though she wasn’t the least bit affected by it. He momentarily hated her for that; then he remembered how he had lain down and immediately gone to sleep, and he undid that thought. He didn’t hate her, couldn’t hate her...

His mind felt like it was slowly recovering from the Pensieve experience. Even the little sleep he’d had had helped. They had been in there for a very long time; much longer than when he was in Dumbledore’s. He thought about what he’d seen. About his mother and Snape.

Harry looked at Hermione sleeping peacefully. The clouds had lifted and moonlight spilled in through the window; the moon was full. Remus Lupin would be changing...Sirius could transfigure himself into a dog, for safety. Perhaps since Snape was staying with them, he could make some Wolfsbane Potion for Lupin. After all, Snape had to brew Porphyry Potion for himself (which was another use for all that spleenwort Sprout had given Pomfrey).

Snape had porphyria. Some things were falling into place now. Not the least of which was Snape’s mental instability, his temper. And his impatience with people assuming they knew what he was all about. When he was young, rumors of his being a vampire. Now that he was older, persistent rumblings that he was a Death Eater. He couldn’t win, thought Harry. And yet--here he was, working for Dumbledore as a spy.

He turned onto his back, staring up at some shadows being cast on the ceiling by the moonlight. Hermione was curled up, facing away from him. But when he changed position, she mumbled in her sleep, then rolled over, pillowing her head on his chest, throwing her right arm and leg over his body. Her nightshirt seemed very thin; he could feel her chest squashed against him, her hand brushed agonizingly over his left nipple for a split second, her knee was dangerously close to his crotch....

She was suddenly very, very real to him. Too real.

Suddenly, Snape was the last thing on his mind. Harry began to feel warmer, began to have thoughts about touching her, caressing her--no. That would be wrong. She was asleep, peaceful...

She moaned in her sleep, mumbled something. He looked down and saw her eyes moving behind her eyelids. He thought about what he’d be likely to be dreaming about if he sounded like that, and became even warmer. Not touching her became the most difficult thing in the world for Harry. He shook with the effort of just lying still, closing his eyes, trying to will sleep to return. Sleep did not cooperate.

Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. This is stupid, he thought. There are four other beds in this room. I don’t have to torture myself like this. He crept out of bed carefully, lifting her arm and leg from him gingerly and placing them back on the mattress. He walked over to Ron’s bed and parted the curtains, pulled back the covers and climbed under them. An improvement, but his body had not yet forgotten what his mind had been thinking a few minutes earlier.

Sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep became his brain’s litany. He tried an old trick of his when he was having trouble sleeping third year, when he couldn’t stop hearing the sounds of his parents’ deaths: he stared as hard as he could at an object--he chose the silver pitcher near the window--and tried very hard not to blink, to tire out his eyes, force them to close once and for all. He stared at it for a good minute (he counted in his head). Finally, he was starting to feel the effects of the staring; his eyes were beginning to feel like they must close or he would go insane. It probably would have worked if it weren’t for one thing.

Hermione was standing now between him and the pitcher, blocking his view. The moonlight behind her made her nightshirt appear diaphanous, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut after seeing that, determined to pretend that he was asleep. He heard her approach the bed, then felt the mattress dip to one side momentarily as she climbed onto it. Go away, he thought sternly, trying to mean it. He felt the fabric of her nightshirt brush his arm. He opened his eyes; the contact had produced goose pimples all over his body. He could no longer pretend to be asleep.

“Harry?” she said softly. “Are you all right? Why did you move over here?”

“Hermione,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“I checked the clock. It’s after midnight. Happy new year, Harry.” She leaned over him and kissed his lips, and it would have been a quick kiss, done and over with, if he hadn’t lost all pretense of control at that point and put his hands in her hair and opened his mouth under hers.

That was all it took. He gave up, he surrendered. He kissed her like he was afraid he’d never kiss her again, with a desperation that was shattering. He felt like he was clutching at life after experiencing far too much death. He pulled her onto him, and now she was lying on top of him, kissing him back, knowing why he had moved. He could no longer hide from her what his body wanted; he could tell she could feel it when she broke the kiss and looked down at him with wide surprised eyes. But it did not faze her; she moaned and leaned down to kiss his chest. He shook, trying to stabilize his breathing, wanting to slow things down a little, wanting to make her happy. He pulled her face up to his again, kissing her, then moving his lips down her neck. She knelt over him, sighing, while his fingers unbuttoned her night shirt. She gasped when he continued kissing down her body, when he took the tip of one breast in his mouth, when he moved his hand up her thigh...

But then, for some reason, he heard unbidden in his head a voice, a voice that almost brought him crashing down to earth.

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD.

She was hovering above him, her breathing matching his while his hands and mouth worshipped her, and he could feel her starting to shake in a different way. Harry felt like he was losing his concentration, though, as the voice in his head shouted again.

JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD.

Harry froze. His heart seemed to be beating loud enough to be heard by the entire castle, by the entire countryside. GET OUT OF MY HEAD, Harry commanded the voice. LEAVE ME ALONE.

But then another voice was heard; a hissing voice. This voice was harder to ignore.

Sandy.

Damn damn damn damn damn damn, became the new litany in Harry’s brain. He took a deep breath, looking up at her. He had never seen such a beautiful expression on her face, the abandonment and expectation there. If only--

But they had to stop. It wasn’t safe. She looked down at him, her expression starting to return to normal inasmuch as he was no longer doing anything with his mouth or hands. “What’s wrong, Harry?” she whispered.

He pulled himself to a sitting position and reached out to button her shirt for her, if possible aching for her even more than before. “We--we have to stop.”

“Why?” She almost sounded near tears.

“Believe me; I don’t want to,” he said with a catch in his voice, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Sandy said. There isn’t much time. Do everything I tell you to do, please. No questions.”

She nodded and rose, standing next to the bed, waiting for her instructions. Good girl, thought Harry. He was glad he’d told her about Sandy; Hermione knew to take her predictions seriously. It wasn’t like Trelawney; there was no doubt that Sandy knew what she was talking about.

“Close all the curtains on all the beds. Hurry.” They ran around the room doing this; then Harry went to his trunk and took out his Invisibility Cloak. He had her put it on and stand in the corner near the wardrobe; someone entering the room would have her behind him after taking only two steps into the room.

“Get your wand,” he told her.

“Oh, Harry--I don’t have it! It’s in my dorm...”

“Damn!” He ran his hand through his hair. “All right, all right. Just stand in the corner there where I told you to. I’m going to get under Dean’s bed with my wand and wait. That’ll give me a clear shot. Okay? Are you in the corner?”

“Yes,” her voice came from the right direction.

“All right. I’m getting under the bed. We don’t talk any more now. Try not to make noise of any kind.”

Her answer was no answer, which was fine with him. He crawled under Dean Thomas’ bed, holding his wand in front of him. He lifted the hem of the coverlet up a few inches where it met the floor, giving him a view of the lower half of the door to the room. His wand was pointing toward it. He was ready.

But his brain was still playing over what had happened on the bed, on--he suddenly realized--Ron’s bed. Damn! he thought yet again. Ron’s bed!

But he found himself wishing, in spite of that realization, that they’d had more time, that they’d brought the activity to completion, so that he would have experienced that just once before dying. Would he see more than a few minutes of the new year before being killed? Would Hermione? He saw his mother again, dead, Snape cradling her in his arms. He thought about how young his parents had died, the things they’d left undone--like raising their son...

He watched the door in anticipation, wondering just how he would die, whether it would be painful. But then he shook himself; STOP THAT. I am not going to die, he told himself. I am not going to die. But as much as he would have liked that mantra to take over his brain, he found that he was unable to stop playing Sandy’s words over and over in his head again...

“A dark wizard is coming.”

Note: To folks who want to chide me for making James a Chaser, rather than a Seeker: The scene in which Harry, Ron and Hermione find James' name (labeled as a Seeker) on a Quidditch trophy is in the first film, which I do not consider to be canon. This does not appear in the first book. In fact, a reference to James' Quidditch position does not appear in any of the first four books, and may not, ultimately, appear in any of them. (Although he is playing with a Snitch in the fifth book, which came out nearly two years after I wrote this, his position is also not definitively identified in that one either.) Long before the first film was released, JK Rowling said in an interview that James was a Chaser. This is why you will find many, many fics in which James is a Chaser. In fact, you could probably judge whether something was written before or after the first film by the position James plays (if this info is included in the fic at all). I really disliked the scene in the film, especially as it goes against the series' theme of choices versus blood. However, as JKR allowed it, I can only assume that she felt James' position was of no importance, that the screenwriter could do what he liked with this. I much prefer the idea that his dad played a different position, and as that was JKR's original idea, I'm sticking with that (also because I wrote this in the summer of 2001 and it's all over the web in its current form).