The Army of Souls

Chapter One

One afternoon it was lunch, and Snape stayed past his lessons to speak with Molly. Harry tried to listen from the kitchen, nibbling uninterestedly on his ham sandwich, but they both spoke in hushed tones. Grumpily he sank back in his chair and quite unenthusiastically stabbed a stray fork into the center of his meal, staring uninterestedly at it until Snape came into the room. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

"You should eat, Mr. Potter."

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course not." Snape's voice was a low, derisive swoop of assertion.

Surprisingly, Snape went into the kitchen, put himself together a lunch of bread and soup, and finally sat at the other end of the table in rigid and pointed silence. He'd definitely never done that before. Harry went from watching his upright fork to watching Snape eat with bland concentration.

Snape noticed and ceased chewing. "Merlin, are you that desperate for companionship?" Snape knew that he was, that Harry was desperate not to be alone, and the question was rhetorical.

"You're the only bloody person here who can even say Sirius' name." That wasn't entirely true; Snape only alluded to Black, but it was more than anyone else did. They all acted like Harry would fracture at the mention, at the mere syllables.

Snape swallowed his bite, cocking his head with faintly bemused concurrence. "It is always Black with you."

Harry waited in silence while Snape finished his meal. After he was done he efficiently spelled his bowl and spoon clean, taking them up into one hand. He came to stand by Harry, a towering figure; unexpectedly, eyes no longer narrowed in scrutiny. "You have become more worthless than your late Godfather was. He would not have wanted that."

Snape set the bowl down on the counter as Harry fought for something to say, his mouth dropped open in rage and surprise. Nothing came to mind. Snape brushed past him, his usual scent - something like silk kept in a cold, musty drawer for too long - shocked Harry in its oddly perfumed intensity. Another useless realization; his professor used ivory soap.

---

A barn owl arrived to let Harry know there would be a delay in his next Occlumency lesson. Harry had a decent hunch Voldemort was calling a meeting. The lessons themselves were beginning to take real hold and now afforded Harry a little peace during sleep. Even his scar hurt less frequently, when he considered how often Voldemort must have experienced heightened emotions. Death Eaters were swarming the countryside, killing Muggles nearly every day, but all he felt was the occasional twinge of pain. The change was odd; his scar and his connection to Voldemort previously defined the time he spent in the Wizarding world. The scar's loss was now felt. On the other hand, people stopped looking to him as a sort of Voldemort watch-dog, which was a relief.

Harry stayed awake on Wednesday night, which was when Snape left for the meeting. He was aware of Dumbledore in the house, probably sitting off in the kitchen looking over documents, or talking with the adults during the wait. Dumbledore's presence alone confirmed Harry's suspicion of where Snape was off to; the man only came when Snape was called to Voldemort's side. Harry's cloak and the Extendable Ears were past worthless when the Headmaster was at the house, as his magic supported the usual security spells until they were virtually impenetrable. Aside from that, Dumbledore had a nasty habit of knowing everything that went on, and Harry didn't feel up to being admonished.

It was nearly three in the morning when Snape came back, waking up the portrait of Sirius' mother. Harry was reading a Quidditch magazine, and he opened the door to his room still holding it.

"Severus," Dumbledore said quietly. Remus was behind him and looking moderately anxious, which was saying a lot, considering his usual placid state.

Snape struggled to close the curtains on Mrs. Black's angry portrait (she was hissing at him now), and when he turned, Harry got a good look at him.

He was wet his hair plastered to his face, and it wasn't raining outside. He was haggard, exhausted, lines Harry had never noticed before etched deeply into his face. He started to speak but caught sight of Harry standing in the doorway to his bedroom, and his mouth flattened into a harsh line. Even the familiar displeasure on his face didn't offset his gaunt appearance. "Not here," he muttered.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said. He glanced at Harry, but Harry didn't bother to read what was in it as he already knew what it meant. Dismissal.

"Goodnight Harry," Remus said absently as the three of them passed. "Pleasant dreams."

Snape started talking, admittedly in a very low voice, before they reached the kitchen. Harry strained to hear what was being said, but the words he caught made no sense. "Souls at rest," "necromancy," and "Ministry." The last Harry caught was a tired-sounding "Fudge, that imbecile," before Dumbledore closed and warded the door behind them. Typical, Harry mused; mot enough information to give him any help but enough to tear a hole in his insides with curiosity.

The door down the hall opened and the three men come out well after two hours had passed. Harry didn't know why exactly he was still awake and waiting, but all attempts at sleeping failed him. His mind raced and he ended up drafting several letters to Hermione, asking if she knew about necromancy at the Ministry. In the end he tossed them all out; he'd have to explain why he wanted to know, and Hermione was too diligent to help him snoop in Order business. She'd easily see through any lie he concocted as well. Ron wouldn't be any help, Sirius was dead, and it wasn't like Mrs. Weasley would divulge information on ostensibly Dark Magic. She'd probably faint or send a Howler or something.

Harry punched a pillow and rolled over, trying to get comfortable.

It was a long time before sleep came.

---

For some reason Harry assumed Snape wouldn't be up to Occlumency lessons the morning after coming back from Voldemort. He should have known better, no matter how awful Snape looked and felt, he wouldn't dare give Harry the satisfaction of missing the lesson. The git made Harry's life as hellish as he could without potentially crossing Dumbledore; Harry was berated and insulted endlessly, told to heel like a bloody dog.

Fifth year's Occlumency sessions had been horrible, but some of the distastefulness was offset by Umbridge and the hectic school year. Now alone and isolated with only paltry summer homework to do--in Grimmauld Place no less--Harry was feeling every single moment of misery to its full degree. It couldn't have been worse if he'd been left at the Dursleys to starve. At least they couldn't prowl through his memories like some sort of vengeful hunter.

Snape was allowed to put memories into a Penseive, but Harry was forbidden from it. When Harry complained to Dumbledore (or "whined like a first year who'd had his candy taken away," as Snape put it) he was informed a Penseive would allow him a handicap he couldn't afford.

"But what about the Prophecy? What if Snape... er, Professor Snape finds out the whole Prophecy?"

Harry tried desperately to sway Dumbledore, but the old man shook his head. "Professor Snape knows about the contents of the Prophecy, Harry. You don't have to worry on that account."

A flash of fear hit Harry hard when he realized what that meant. Snape knew, and there was a way Voldemort could learn. Harry never gave much thought to Snape's prowess at Occlumency before, but he couldn't help praying the man's mental defenses would hold.

If Snape knew anything of Harry's worries, he didn't show it. "A Penseive will not help you in battle with the Dark Lord, Potter," was all he had to say on the subject. His own was kept under careful lock and key, silently reminding Harry of his mistake from the year before. It wasn't necessary; Harry wasn't about to unearth more of Snape's worst memories, not after what he'd seen.

Remus knocked hesitantly on his door at around eight, offering him breakfast that Harry declined. Snape was already waiting for Harry in the drawing room. It was their usual place, so stalwartly uncomfortable no one but Harry and Snape even dared use it.

"Potter, stop dallying," Snape ordered when Harry lingered in the doorway, yawning widely.

"Yeah, fine. Sir." With one last stretch of his jaw, Harry crossed the floor and stood roughly five feet from Snape, loosely holding his wand between two fingers. Snape hated the causality, he knew, and would force him to correct it, but it was a temporary distraction from the labor-intensive day ahead.

"Legilimens." Snape's yellowed mouth never seemed to move to form the spell.

Nothing like the assault of someone's mind crossing yours first thing in the morning, amplified by the spell. Harry felt himself shudder distantly, trying to work up the energy to throw Snape out of his head. There was no passiveness, no waiting, just the fierce concentration of someone who very much disliked being spied on.

Draco Malfoy bounced along in ferret form, Cho Chang eyed him resentfully across the table at Madame Puddifoots, Hermione withdrew the Time Turner from her blouse...

By now Snape had seen so much it seemed almost ridiculous to panic or get upset. Harry managed out of requirement, not out of any haste or anger, which was what only used to work. A sure sign of improvement, not that Snape would acknowledge it.

Snape, looking to be in his mid-twenties, sat in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic, staring unblinking at the starkly white wall in front of his face. "He wanted information," Snape explained, wiping at his face and wet hair with a towel. Dumbledore and Remus Lupin stared at him as he spoke; only Remus' showed a hint of emotion; unease. "Necromancy texts, execution records at the Ministry. One can only assume..."

As quickly as Harry'd fallen into the scene he was yanked out of it. Snape drew in a deep breath, but it was unclear if he was angry or dazed, possibly just still weary from the meeting the night previous.

"What was--" Harry started to ask.

Snape didn't let anything of the Order or Dumbledore slip into the sessions, carefully putting recent memories into the Penseive. Harry was suspicious after overhearing what he had the night previous, something about necromancy; it seemed to be a keyword. Harry knew without a doubt he wasn't supposed to know anything, not with the way Snape and Dumbledore were acting around him.

"Be quiet, Potter. Don't speak of it. You weren't meant to see." Snape was still obviously too drained to inject much venom into the scolding.

"Why wasn't it in the Penseive?" Harry challenged.

"I... It is not your concern."

"But..." At Harry's wheedling, annoyed voice, Snape's face started to darken. "Sir, this was just last night, wasn't it? Your hair was--"

"Potter!" Snape had evidently recovered enough energy to yell. Big surprise. "Do you want me to Obliviate you?"

Harry dourly tried to stare him down but flicked his eyes away when it was clear Snape wasn't kidding. "No, sir."

"We will continue. Don't speak of it again, do you understand?" Before waiting for an affirmative, Snape straightened his posture and raised his wand. "Legilimens."